le jour viendra.

I'll be all-out lonely If you all outgrow me To know with all of this potential, should’ve raised up, but I never did Scared the stars won't show me If you all outgrow me I know every road I run down has a sundown That's the way it is

At his words, Maelie’s smile grew. “I appreciate you saying that, thank you.” She told him modestly. Typically, she hesitated to accept a compliment. Rather, she would insist that it was all the clients, and that she was only there to pull it all together. There was some truth to that, of course… but she had certainly grown some pride in her work since she had started. What had once started out as a hobby, a distraction, had turned into a career for herself.

A career. Her mother would be horrified at the idea of it.

“Yes, of course.” She was happy to make small talk, for the most part. It was nice seeing him again, and they certainly couldn’t talk openly at an event like this, not about the time after she left. It was rude, it wasn’t done. No, if he had questions… they would have to figure out somewhere else to discuss it. And she doubted he thought any differently. “I’m sure the embassy keeps you extremely busy.” Or perhaps they didn’t, and he kept himself busy. She didn’t want to assume he hadn’t been to Paris before, and suggest some sights for him to see in spare time… she truly couldn’t assume anything about his life anymore. Just hope that he was some sort of happy. 

It was strange seeing people that had known her as a child. First Jack, now Cam. All this time, ever since her arrival in Paris, no one had any prior knowledge of her. She was a stranger; there was no always, no assumptions on her character. She wasn’t sure if she had really always been so terribly generous, but it was nice to hear something of the sort. “I appreciate that.” She told him softly, accepting the champagne glass as he offered it to her. She typically didn’t drink at events, but one glass of champagne couldn’t hurt. “Yes, that would be lovely.” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of one of her staff trying to get her attention - subtly, but with a hint of frantic energy. With a sigh, she met her companion’s eyes again. “My apologies, it seems I am needed. My information is on the card, to set up lunch, please excuse my hasty exit.” Her expression was truly apologetic, and, after handing off her glass of champagne to one of the servers, she hurried over towards the concerned member of her staff.

She appreciated it. Why did that strike so - sadly? Not in how she’d said it, really, but... but did she appreciate his rather feeble gesture only because she’d expected different? Like her family once had, for her. Like they all did, for everything, once upon a time. Those children they’d been, God, none of them could have fathomed any of the turns their world had taken. Could they? Not even Jack, with that endless imagination. Not Cam, certainly. Yes; it had all seemed so certain, then. 

He’d overthought the thing already. Cam folded the fretting away behind that faded smile, pinned up like an old lithograph. Work. Such a sallow subject, really. Then again - Mae had seemed so genuinely proud. Wasn’t he, once? Uniform pressed, buttons shined. That was... pride, he’d thought. Had a tarnish, looking back. Whatever that was, he’d known it then. Now, now he was, yes, simply busy with it. “Enough, I suppose.” An anemic sort of thing to say. In every sense. But hadn’t they all seen entirely enough blood, anyway?

(Good Lord. He’d spent too much time with that damnable draft.) 

It was awfully difficult, somehow, to settle into the starched sort of comfort found in small talk; so much appreciation. Sad before, sad now, just. Heavier. It was such a simple thing he’d proposed to do. A card into the right hands. A word in the right ear. This was how they made their way, those whose business was in following the tastes of the time. (Didn’t they all, to some degree or other?) And yet, it felt... well, he didn’t want her to think of it as any kind of favour, of course. Implying some sort of debt, that is. But what Mae thought was hardly within his power to manage.

“Oh, yes. I’ll - yes.” Cam started, stopped, for he had nothing, truly, to say; nothing that seemed enough, that is, without being entirely too much. Mae had her livelihood to attend to, after all. And he was so strangely exhausted - with this lovely, over-full occasion, with surprises, with... so very many things. Most, perhaps. “Do take care,” he added, almost-belatedly, as she trailed away. Whatever went unsaid was swallowed, quickly, with the rest of his champagne. For the best, really. 

Fleur startled backwards and nearly lost her balance but neatly caught herself – with the practiced ease of someone who had, after all, always gotten herself and her equally tipsy dates home more or less upright after innumerable debauched nights – with an arm around the statue’s waist.  “Oh!” she sputtered and then paused infinitesimally to take the measure of the situation. There weren’t any guards in the vicinity and the scandalized whisper that emerged from the stranger was certainly not enough to call one. And he’d prefaced his horrified admonishment with “good evening” – how absolutely posh and also clearly the reflex of someone with a profound aversion to causing any kind of scene. She relaxed into a smile, at the end of that calculation, but quickly modified it to something approximating embarrassed contrition. “Oh no!” she said, still a little breathless and leaning into it, “I’m so sorry, sir. You’re absolutely, right. I just couldn’t resist a closer look and I’m afraid you startled me just as much as I startled you.” She hopped down. “Are you alright?” she asked, quickly slipping her shoes back on, just in case a quick getaway would be warranted after all.  

Good God. Cam stared, frankly, more flustered than he’d like to be - certainly more than he’d admit. How ridiculous. A lady loose on the statuary. Barefoot! A bizarre sight. And on its heels, now; was he alright. Who’d ask such a thing? “Oh, yes,” Cam assured, shortly. With as much grace as one might hope for, given how obvious the answer ought to be. “Of course. Thank you.” That was tacked on after; polite, but ever-so-slightly sharp. Just, just a little. Softened, for the most part, by a peculiar, sudden sort of... wistfulness, perhaps. 

Something of how she’d been clambering around, so utterly undignified, heedless - like Jack, and the girls, and him, decades ago. In the priory ruins, above the Wear. It hadn’t felt irreverent, then; to climb the crumbling walls, once he ran short of tales of St. Godric to keep the lot of them entertained with. (Such a well-traveled saint. And gentle, hiding stags from the hunt, welcoming snakes to his fireside. The children hadn’t been so enthralled by stories of living on acorns and crab-apples, though. Understandably.) No, they’d only wanted a closer look, like she said. And Nike, with her wings outstretched, did make for a more fascinating view than some broken down abbey. The impulse wasn’t so hard to grasp. Truly.

The surprise was evident on his face. Perhaps he hadn’t been serious when he’d invited her that day in the park- not that she could blame him. People often offered things and promised things but did not mean them. Throw away invitations and goodwill wishes. But he accepted the bouquet all the same. She was glad of that. 

When he smiled, she felt a massive weight come off her chest that she had not even realized was sitting there. Nadja smiled wide in some mix of relief and joy, happy that he seemed to like the flowers. “Of course- I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you something more-” The flowers had been costly, but in her opinion, gifts were well worth any price. She seemed to stand a little taller with the relief of the situation settling upon her. 

Tea… now that was not something she had expected. In her mind, she had seen the entire encounter play out: she would give him the flowers, he would likely be confused as to why she was there but hopefully accept them, and then she would scurry away as quickly as she’d arrived. Her eyes went a little wide at his invitation, wondering for a moment if he was hoping she would say she had some sort of rehearsal to go to, somewhere else to be. But she didn’t- only a performance later in the evening, one she had hours before she had to be at the opera house by. And so, Nadja Babineaux did something she did not think she would have been doing. She said yes. 

“If I’m not being a bother, and you’d like a bit of company, I would love a cup of tea.”

More? From a ballerina, to a viscount? The thought sat uneasily, like most talk of rank and class did; there were reasons his usual milieu didn’t discuss such things. Not openly, anyway - they were always so oddly oblique about money matters, the English aristocracy. Wearing it, living in it, gesturing in its general direction with talk of holidays and country homes and racehorses and so on. But to properly talk costs, to measure worth... they’d rather swallow their cigars. Just wasn’t done. Then along came people like Nadja, fretting that her present wasn’t enough. Cam waved that aside, as cleanly as he could. “No, no. Please. It’s beautiful. You know, I can’t think of the last time anyone brought me flowers?” Not like this, certainly. As a general, he’d been handed plenty of ribbons and roses. A strangely unsettling gesture, Cam had always found. Like he’d just put on some grand show. Or died. He adjusted the bouquet, tucked neatly in the crook of his elbow, all warm reds and golden-yellows, spotted with white, streaked with green. Beautiful, yes. It was. 

(In the hospital. The last time he’d been given flowers, from someone who actually knew him, presumably. Only - he couldn’t remember half of his days in Sidcup, or nine-tenths of the months in Roehampton, before. All that, he was glad of. But he’d woken to a basin of lilacs at his bedside, once, and they’d been the most strangely wonderful thing he’d seen in years.) 

“A bother? Not at all.” Just - unexpected. As for company... did he? Want any? Hardly, in this state. But Nadja was here, and, in a way, it was good to see her. It was. In a way. A way he couldn’t quite word. So he didn’t. “Have a seat, go on.” Waving the ballerina to her choice of chaise-lounges and velveteen armchairs, Cam turned to their butler, who’d slipped in, as they did. “A pot of tea, please. And something for the flowers?” Mr. Morrowes nodded, with only the faintest glance in Nadja’s direction. “That’ll be all.” With an uneven step around, Cam  sat himself down and laid the bouquet against the sofa’s arm, as delicately as he could. On both counts. “The production’s going well, I’m sure? The reviews seem to be quite favorable. Much mention of a rather brilliant Aurora.” Her, of course. All eyes on the prima; wasn’t it funny, to imagine he might understand a little of that? The terror of being on display, judged to exacting standard. Though his uniform, while not nearly so artistic, had to be rather easier to hide behind. 

She knew she was a day late.

Nadja sat in the Salon, flowers in her arms, pulling nervously at her fingers as she waited in the glittering gold and blues. She felt as though she probably didn’t belong here, within this gold encrusted jewelry box of a room- though, to be fair, it wasn’t very different from the Palais Garnier in style. No, it was more of the thought of who was here rather than the room itself. The who and the why, if she was being completely honest.

Cam’s birthday had been the day before- she knew that. The girl had a memory for those sorts of things- dates and birthdays, favorite bottles of wine and favorite flowers… She was observant. She had to be- had to be good at little details. She hadn’t wanted to bother the poor man on the day of- why in the world would he have wanted to put up with the likes of her on a day of celebration. Nadja had decided to pay a call the day after so as not to sour the mood on the day of. She knew well enough that the man probably had far better things to do than to entertain the likes of her, and the ballerina did not want to be the source of any interruption or discomfort. She knew her situation was precarious enough as it was.

When Cam walked in, she stood up from the chair she’d been perched on like a little bird about to take flight. A smile crawled across her face- perhaps a nervous one, but a smile nonetheless. “Lord Lambton,” She dipped into the slightest curtsy before straightening up as he approached. It was something ingrained in the fiber of her very being. From the time she was very little, she was to curtsy to those in higher power than she: the instructor of the ballet class, the choreographer, the accompanist, the conductor, the abonnes… it only felt natural for her to curtsy to him as well. 

“You’ve nothing to apologize for. It’s me who should be apologizing, really. I’m sure you’re busy… I didn’t want to be a bother, but I know yesterday was your birthday, and…” She held out the flowers a bit sheepishly. “Happy Birthday.”  

She’d seemed so awfully uncomfortable. They hadn’t been indecent to her at the desk, had they? Then again, an unescorted woman, walking into an embassy, without any appointment - he’d have to explain that. Could seem rather sordid. He truly hadn’t thought Nadja would take him up on the offer, though. Ever.

And certainly not like this. For his birthday? “Oh,” Cam stammered, frankly, the surprise plain on his face. That slid away into a softer sort of amazement as he accepted the bouquet, very, very carefully. “You shouldn’t have, really...” But she had. With a care that was, in all honesty, astonishing: larkspur and lily of the valley, camellia, dahlias. Flowers he’d always been fond of. Not loudly enough that he ever would’ve imagined her, or anyone at all, to take note. Just favourites from the greenhouse, the gardens. Such a little thing, to notice. To care about.

“So terribly kind,” he half-murmured, smiling over her gift. “They’re lovely. Thank you.” Needed to get those in water. Only, to have her up to his office; how might that look? Leaning aside into the back of one of the salon sofas - he’d left his cane upstairs, the hubris of the hungover, the anxious vanity of being unsure who he was about to see - Cam tried to recall the day’s itinerary. Nothing stood out. The Marquess wouldn’t need him. (Hardly ever did.) The salon wouldn’t be hosting anything. They could tarry about in here, for the time being. “Would you - could I offer you tea? At the very least. Lunch, if you’d like?” Was that too much? To ask of her, such a stay. Perhaps. But he’d gone and done it. Blame the shock. “Unless you’re in a hurry, of course,” he retreated, neatly, politely. Couldn’t be too much, after all. 

Well, that had been an entire waste of another morning at the embassy. (Or, perhaps more rightly, another entire waste of another morning at the embassy.) The Foreign Secretary, freshly sunburnt from an Italian holiday and as over-dressed and faintly delusional as ever, was far from the most objectionable of Cam’s diplomatic acquaintances. Still, he was no joy. Only less so, the morning after a bottle of champagne. That, of course, was Cam’s own damn fault. He’d been entirely immoderate. And, in fact, intended to be a little more so - with no other appointments to see to, his designs on the afternoon looked rather like attempting to sleep through most of it. Or, at the very least, drawing the curtains and relishing the dark. A headache had been shoving, rudely, at the back of his eyes since he woke; by the time Chamberlain finally took his leave, the hangover was downright blinding. 

But there was, of course, more to see to. His secretary had caught the door before it closed, even, and reported that a young lady had arrived unannounced, to see him. Some time ago. Cam, frankly, stared. In utter incomprehension. It would have been easy enough to have her dismissed, whoever she was. Who, though? 

It was, in fact, something of a relief - for a moment, anyway - to find it was Nadja. With an armful of flowers; must have stopped in on her way someplace. “Miss Babineaux,” he limped across the heavy rug with a smile, and an apology. "I’m so very sorry. My eleven o’clock just, ah...” Cam fluttered a hand, trying to capture something of the vaguely circular conversation he’d suffered through for the past three and a quarter hours. “Went on. I do hope you haven’t been waiting too terribly long.” Not that the Salon Bleu was such a dreadful place to while away your time, but. That confusion was creeping in, like a fog up the Thames. Yes, he’d invited her to come around. Hadn’t expected her to actually do it, obviously. “Is - is everything quite alright?” Oh, almost certainly not. There were only so many reasons he could think of for Nadja to be here. Almost all involving Jack, somehow. None of them good. 

Wasn’t forty off to a smashing start, already? 

Ah so either he was bad at dropping hints or really did want to eat the birds. 

Lucienne had always understood the appeal of the concept rather than the experience itself. She’d enjoyed game meat at home, from nutria to gator, but the wildfowl of France had been a whole other experience, and the little Ortolans most of all. They were tiny things, even shorter than her admittedly long thumb. 

Once cooked, they looked remarkably human, their small rib cages puffed and little legs extended cartoonishly upward the way a dog might play dead. The wings folded in like tiny arms, leaving only the long neck and tiny head to indicate the little creature’s avian nature. It was the humanity that made the preparation process so jarring. The birds were kept in darkness by her supplier, gorged on grains and grapes until they were adorably fat little balls. They were delivered to their eponymous kitchen alive, so Ray could drown them in a vat of brandy. This and a quick bit of roasting resulted in a crunchy yet buttery mouthful with small notes of hazelnut. But one didn’t consume an ortolan for the taste. It was the delicate savagery that appealed, the sensation of eating a small living thing whole, brittle bones and all. It was no surprise that the elite flocked (ah, they did deserve the pun, didn’t they?) to obtain the canapé.

It was fascinating to her, as the bird was also technically a peasant dish in Landes. But there was no hope of reminding the usual set of that. Exclusive was the name of the game. She knew that with certainty. 

“Thirteen is a much larger party than we usually host for the ortolans. It takes a month to prepare the animals, and I will have to take great pains to acquire them in so short a time. I presume you and your guests are familiar with the measures taken both in the kitchen and the dining room?” The “putting your napkin over your head to hide from God” thing was utterly ridiculous to Lucienne, but she also had to stifle a chortle when people smelled wine before they drank it. Good food and good drink filled the whole place with pleasant aromas. You didn’t have to force it and look foolish as well. “It can be done but at a very high price.” She liked to collect favors rather than owe them, but this was an important part of keeping up appearances. Not to mention finding people who liked the practice helped her feel better about their misfortunes in the back rooms. 

Soldiers. She’d seen those British soldiers at the clubs around town. Were they connected beyond this clear veteran? If so, this was another potential to move the significant product she’d demanded of her newest ally/employee. Offering foreign diplomats access to a highly illegal casino seemed like a bit of a risk even for her but other forms of contraband could work. 

“As you might imagine, we partially specialize in securing these more out-of-the-way goods. If your guests have any interest in consumable rarities, do let me know.”

A month? Good God. What a ridiculous amount of rigmarole, for the seemingly questionable pleasure of eating songbirds. “Not especially. I’ve never partaken, myself. Merely investigating, on behalf of a, ah, curious colleague.” Cam sipped at that wine, already designing an explanation for said colleague. In the negative. Awfully sorry, old chap. Such a shame. She’d made it easy, bless her. And the boys would survive quite well without this particular taste of Paris. 

But they’d need occupying, all the same. And might have other business, here. “The price isn’t any concern.” None at all; Cam hand-waved the issue aside, thoroughly dismissed. If he’d needed to know the cost, he would have asked. “However, this hardly seems the sort of thing to rush.” Or go to great pains for. The occasion would’ve been pain enough, already. “Perhaps another time. With proper notice. As for the reservation, though,” he set aside his glass, finished, and... forged ahead. Might as well, really. The worst that could possibly happen, if he’d been misinformed, was a bit of embarrassing confusion. And this American, here, hardly seemed the type to prolong any of that, should it come to pass. “We’d certainly make the most of a bit of private dining. I hear you stock an Abita Pinot noir?” He had to appreciate the neatness of the idea; a few not-at-all out of place phrases strung together, a ring of keys. To a casino, he’d been told. Rather illegal, around here. Which, of course, would only make it all the more attractive to the men he was meant to entertain. “That would do nicely, I think. As rarities go.” 

Nadja couldn’t tell if it was an open invitation to stop by or merely a pleasantry. A ‘do come by but please don’t actually’ sort of situation. It wouldn’t have surprised the young woman in the least if that were the case- after all, on her two Christmastime experience with the Lambton family, there seemed to be a lot happening beneath the surface that she couldn’t quite make out. Perhaps it was an outside (and unwanted) opinion, but she believed them all to be quite good at wearing masks. Maintaining appearances and facades. But Cam had always been kind to her… “I’ll keep that in mind- thank you, Cam…”

She had to hope that he truly meant it. And that he only wanted her to be comfortable… all things considered. 

She mustered a smile as he started to back away into the path- her own little mask. She’d had to learn to join their masquerade over the years, just enough to make herself look like she was at the very least okay rather than wishing she could cry or be sick all at once. 

“Take care of yourself, Lord Lambton. It was good to see you,”

Well, that was - that was the most he could do. Really. Given the situation. The awfully unfortunate, shameful situation they were in, as nearly-in-laws. A mystery he could hardly prod, now. As if questions, of which he had many, would do any good at all. For any of them. Best to just let it lie. Even if he’d never understood the whys, the hows of whatever had crumbled, between them. They’d always seemed so... so keenly at peace, Jack and Nadja. Bright with the stuff, enough that it had 

Then again, what did Cam know about any of that? Perhaps he’d misunderstood, all along - had wished so very hard it was as wondrous as it seemed, for Jack’s sake, for hers, and failed to recognize that the whole display was simply too good to be true. Maybe that was it. Maybe. 

He’d hope not. Or would have, if such sentiments mattered at all, now. Except, they didn’t. Cam waved her gratitude aside, faintly. “Don’t, please. Thank me. There’s no need to. Thank you.” For... what? He stalled out, there, unsure, options flickering by, none a proper fit. None proper, yes. You didn’t go and thank someone for nearly marrying your brother. For being good to Jack. For loving him. As if Jack wasn’t worthy of that, of love - as if he were so hard to care for. Sometimes, maybe. But only - only from here, perhaps. Only from where they were meant to be standing, together. What a wretched precipice it was, these days. A house too damn divided. 

None of which was Nadja’s concern. Wasn’t she lucky, in that? Wasn’t she, just. Cam slid away, at last, with a thin farewell. “Lovely, really.” The pleasantries sloughed off, like a misfit skin, he started back to the office. He’d pick another park, tomorrow. Paris had plenty. There was simply no need to risk imposing, if he could help it. If. 

Fleur lingered in the Louvre, despite the tourists and their stuffed wallets having largely emptied out. For once she didn’t have any pressing dinner engagements – personal or professional – and she rarely got the chance to actually pay attention to the art, instead of paying attention to taking advantage of those who were paying attention to the art. She wandered idly, well aware that she was entirely ignorant of art and but perfectly happy to make her own internal pronouncements. The portraits she deemed stuffy and the religious iconography overwrought but she was willing to admit that at least some of these artistes did appreciate the female form almost as much as she did.

Standing at the top of the staircase, she surveyed a marble sculpture of a winged woman, powerful and proud but inexplicably missing her head. Was it some kind of intentional statement? Or was it damaged? Grinning to herself, she decided to indulge her curiosity and take a closer look. She darted a look around – the landing appeared entirely abandoned but as a little precaution she removed her shoes to avoid clattering down the staircase and drawing attention. Perhaps if she clambered up onto the plinth it would be clear whether the missing head was intentional or not. And besides, she rather wanted a closer look at those wings too – an idea for a costume for the opening of the Bal season had been percolating as she’d roamed through the cherubs and angels and here was a three dimensional model of the concept! 

Perhaps he ought to head back. Draw a bath, call it a day. Just another day. Well, maybe he’d do a spot of celebrating; there was champagne in the house. An office-warming gift of sorts, from the the embassy’s chief translator. Probably less out of genuine welcome than appreciation for the fact that their newest attache was unusually fluent - blame Apollinaire, and Lamartine, and a little Verlaine, which he’d confiscated as a captain and dipped into after Alistair insisted on introducing him to la fée verte - and would have little need of his services. Cam turned a few more pages, then closed up his guide. Yes, a bath of Epsom salts, and too much champagne. A fine plan. He could probably manage a bit of sabrage, still. For old times’ sake. Fine use for that Anson sword. 

Sliding that book into his jacket, he reached back, up the stony prow, to leverage himself. And lurched forward instead, snapping around, wide-eyed, at the shock of having his fingers stepped on. Not heavily, at all - she was a little thing, the girl standing over him, staring down from her perch at Nike’s back. But stepped on. By a young woman who’d decided to climb an exhibit at the Louvre. “Good evening,” Cam managed, painfully tense from the shock, tight-jawed. “I’m quite certain you’re not meant to be up there, at all.” Really. Entirely out of order. 

The Louvre always remained one of Cora’s favorite places. No matter how many times she walked it - which was surely enough by now to have completely memorized every step, to know every guard’s name and enough of them to make polite conversation - there was always something new to see, some new piece of information, perspective, or detail that stood out. Sometimes it was the different angle of light that brought a new revelation or even the person admiring a piece that might bring new inspiration, but there was always something. 

Cora’s favorite times were almost always very early, just after opening, or right before closing. Most often it meant she had time to make notes herself, but it was also the most common time to find interesting people admiring the art as well - anyone from artists such as herself, to researchers and historians, to patrons and the elite. There was something about art, after all, that put them all on equal footing - perhaps it was in the face of art that they all were equally small, but Cora rather suspected there was something else to it. Not that she could quite put her finger on it, but that didn’t particularly bother her. 

She was an artist and a forger, after all, not a philosopher. It wasn’t up to her to answer the question - if it came to her, it would come to her. Otherwise, well, it was enough to ponder it. 

Paintings were usually her preference, but Cora found herself going more towards the statues, following along and thinking that perhaps she could try her hand at this sometime as well - seemed like it’d be much harder to hide that beneath the floorboards, however. It would almost be worth it to try as a joke, though, just to see what Thomas’s reaction would be. He put up with so much from her, really, but Cora found herself grinning at the thought all the same. 

She ambled along rather aimlessly, notebook and pen still in hand but forgotten, as she got lost in her own thoughts and imagination while she walked. It was quiet, more so than usual, that she hadn’t run across anyone for a while - until the Winged Victory. A man was sitting there, on its base - must be rich, she thought wryly, to sit there without worrying about being caught. 

It wasn’t like she was trying to sneak up on him, or anything, but Cora did attempt to keep her footsteps rather quiet out of respect. Maybe he was enjoying the art in his own way or - no, never mind, that was a book he was holding. She huffed a quiet laugh, deciding that she’d done enough at this point to give him his space. 

“You know, I don’t believe that counts respectful distance for the art. I think they have rules against touching it, much less sitting on it.” Cora leaned against the railing of the stairs nearby, laughter clearly in her voice rather than any sort of reproach. “Lucky for you, René is still about 15 minutes from here, so you have some time still. Though, I must say, keeping your nose in a book seems like a waste of getting to admire the art at such a close angle.”

Cam had hoped those footsteps would carry on, soft as they were. No such luck. But the Louvre was dreadfully short of benches, and he’d been in need of a moment’s peace, off his feet, but, but, but. That was none of her concern, nor business. And who was this woman, anyway - young, insouciant, quite at home. A bohemian, he could only presume. Splendid. "Ah, well - I do hope I’m not impeding the view too terribly.” He wasn’t. “You needn’t fret for mine. We’re well acquainted.” Cam glanced upward, to the furl of those great wings, the ripple of sea-blasted robes. The truncated legs, the stumped arms, sanded smoother than many an amputation. He would know. Seen enough of them. 

Clearing his throat, softly, Cam shunted his attention back towards this... characteristically direct American. And tipped that book against his chest, the title on display: A Guide to the Louvre. The most recent edition. “Wouldn’t want to miss any of the new acquisitions. I’m afraid it’s been some time since I last stopped by.” Then, with a sigh, Cam tucked his reading away again, knelt into his better leg, and pushed up. Because it’d be rude, intolerably so - intolerable for him, anyway - to stay as he was, now that he’d been interrupted, and upbraided, like a child. Respectful distance. Really. As if she’d kept hers, from him. Did Americans usually presume so much? To strike up conversation in public, between utterly unfamiliar people, and with a scolding, too? How horrible. Nothing like home, where judgement - constant, abiding - tended to come like cyanide: poisonous, but quiet, at least. And, usually, from those you were closest to. 

Settling onto his cane, stiffly, Cam pulled away from Nike. Couldn’t quite help a last look, though; yes, his last for a while, he suspected. The shine had thoroughly worn off this particular sculpture, anyway. “She really is something, isn’t she? Most of an angel,” Cam sighed, wondering, suddenly, if that’s what she was at all, technically speaking. The old Greeks hadn’t believed in that sort of thing, had they? Of all the things they did believe in. Jack would know. Jack with all his frivolous little facts and fables. “A bit grim,” he tacked on, with a faint wince - for the state of something, anyway. Could be the statue, could be him. Art. History. Respect, yes - as in, leaving strangers entirely alone, to their untroublesome business. Or, perhaps, the gradual decay of his classical education. Any of the aforementioned could be worth a little lamenting, at least.  

jacklambton​:

“I do, yes.” Jack gloated, his voice taking the tone of a cat rolling in a patch of sun. It had been important to him, that small measure of independence. It made the tiny slights, the slippery slope of familial shame, more bearable. Freddie used to call his siphoning of the Kerr-Lambton estate’s funds when he was at Oxford the Gentry Arsehole Tax, and he wasn’t wrong. Jack was quite good at living frugally (even if he’d never learned to clean up after himself) and so almost a third of his Lambton dividends had gone to Odette back then. An investment in her and Le Ciel. He couldn’t have been more proud of her now. She was a partial owner and thoroughly independent woman. (He’d told her she didn’t need to pay him back as the money wasn’t technically his but she wouldn’t listen, stubborn, beautiful thing.) 

“The work is escorting that mess to a very lovely show. Even this Heaven’s witty angels aren’t enough compensation. My apologies.” Though Dear God, Ali was pretty after all these years. Absolutely criminal. 

“That does sound like the War Office’s usual level of perception and cognizance.” Jack laughed. “As they have very little means of reaching me or the book here beyond the pathetic use of…” he considered Cam for a moment “…blustering pressure and bribes in an attempt to stop publication. If by some miracle they do succeed, there’s always America. They do love us so over there.” He sighed dramatically, not apologizing for going the full queen. “But I do get so very seasick.”

An ugly little book. It was ugly, wasn’t it? If not little. War was ugly. Loss was ugly. Violence was a monster, and it fed on shame. He’d put that in the foreword, yes. Thank you for picking up this ugly little book… 

Jack had gotten so lost in plotting his literary revenge that he hadn’t actually uttered a response. And Cam was already nearly gone, having gotten the last word, tall bastard. But then it clicked for him. Cam was still on his way into the club. Into the dark. He was still on his way to Odette. 

Jack really should have been writing. He had that anger in him again, that anger that had fueled the first draft. But still.

“Oh, I’ve got to see this.” He said to himself. Or maybe Reg. Either way he followed behind, giving the hostess a little wink as he lurked in the shadows. 

You’re very cruel, love. 

Yes, Reg. Jack replied. 

@odettealarie

The times right before or during a show were something very… cleansing, for Odette, much as the thought was amusingly paradoxical. She could be wearing incredibly revealing clothes, barely more than lace, feathers, and silk, but the routine of it was what she always found so comforting. They were performances, something she practiced and perfected without audiences. Choreographed, prepared, decorated - every aspect, every piece, was entirely within her control. Even the audience, during a performance, was something of a controlled element - they were predictable, almost always. The whole point was to enthrall them, to catch attention and hold it. 

The stage, then, was where she thrived. Was all the control she craved, for these bits of time that she had it - any more might get to her head, after all. But for these minutes of time, the hours she entertained at Le Ciel, her own territory and claimed space, she was in control. It wasn’t often that something managed to surprise her, after all this time. 

Jack was always one of the few, but his breaks in her concentration were welcome - he made it more fun, she enjoyed showing off her skill for his benefit, as he was in a rare position to know just how much work she put into that final product. He was always so proud, which she thrived in. He saw the performance, past the feathers and skin to see her. To see the work and the artistry of it. Rare, that, which made him all the more valuable. 

There were, of course, others who didn’t see it - who didn’t pay attention, for boredom or being uncomfortable, but even that was predictable in its way. Odette was almost always able to take note of those individuals, work out post-performance if it’s shyness or shame, something she should coax them from, or something best left alone. 

She was already mid-performance, following long memorized steps and stretches that were similar enough to actual ballet to be recognizable, but stretched and twisted until they were hers when she caught sight of him. New entry, not too important in and of itself, but - the face. Oddly familiar, tugging at her memory enough to be mildly distracting. She knew her routine well enough that Odette didn’t falter, didn’t miss a step or movement, but - during a time where she liked to not have to think, she was stuck on it. 

Took her a little longer to see Jack lingering in the background, confusion increasing as she did. Not that she let it reach her face, of course, but that feeling of familiarity increased along with the confusion. He was supposed to have left and looked far too determined - ah. Cam. Well, that threw a bit of a wrench in things. And took away that sense of peace from performing, unfortunately. 

Odette had always been proud of her body, proud of the way she could get the eyes of others drawn to her no matter how much or how little she chose to wear. She didn’t feel shame, being seen by Cam now - though, if she were honest, she would have preferred to avoid it. She had long been used to him being the minder for her and Jack. Having him see her perform was not as bad as having one of their parents watch, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable either. 

The music concluded, allowing Odette the time to hold her last position suspended in the air, before lowering herself and going backstage - she didn’t soak in the applause nearly as much as she would have normally, but it wouldn’t be noticed by most. And she was inclined to forgive herself the distraction, for this instance. She needed to get herself between the brothers sooner rather than allowing enough time for them to start anything in her club. 

She still cleaned herself up, wiping away the sweat and reapplying make up in spots where she needed to before heading out onto the floor. She still smiled, the tension unreadable to anyone who did not know her well, still greeted and made brief comments as she moved towards where she’d seen Cam and Jack, making her way to Jack first. 

“You were supposed to be leaving to write,” the reproach was mild at best, the normal bemusement leeched from her tone in her worry. Odette’s eyes went to Cam next, “But I take it that you stayed for another sort of show.” That was more pointed, but her arm still curled around Jack’s waist all the same, offering comfort in her presence - something she suspected he’d want, along with the stability of having her close. She knew the level of bitterness there, between them - much as she disagreed with it, there was no mistake that it was built up by them both, at this point. That much was obvious, even only hearing one side for the past several years. 

“It is nice to see you again, Cam.” Odette let her sincerity show through in that, the use of nickname and all in it. Familiar, of course, to a point where she hoped she wouldn’t be found offensive simply for the presumption she was still allowed to be informal. But it was difficult to pretend she was not, not with the amount of memories threatened to claw up her throat. “I know it’s been a very long time, but please believe that I have missed you.” Missed the ease of what they’d all been to each other, once. But also had wished that she could have been more of a friend to him, through everything - after knowing what had happened, to both of them, wishing she could help. 

But that was always the difference between her and Jack, wasn’t it? He was the brave one, the one willing to keep in his family and stand despite knowing how different he was. He stayed in that world, for all that it might still cost him. Odette ran, allowing herself to be thought missing or dead so she did not have to be held accountable in the same way.

Just had to turn the other cheek, as they said. Simple as that. Simple. He'd picked the skill up years ago, honed it since then. A necessity, if you were to be any sort of gentleman. But Jack, as ever, had to test the limits of the thing. Never more so than lately. Than now. The pathetic use of. That smarted, a slap across a bone-deep bruise. Pathetic. Being used. That was how Jack saw him, wasn’t it? The blasted draft hadn’t been at all subtle, on that point. On any point. He should have tipped the whole folio into the river on his way home, after that useless first attempt to talk Jack out of it. Or thrown it in the fire. No idea why he hadn’t, really. Subtlety, perhaps. A gesture so ridiculous might have been worth it, though, if only to get the damn thing away from him all the faster. 

As it was, he could only get away from anything so quickly, these days. Fast enough, this time. Cheek turned, jaw clenched, Cam left his brother to whatever fresh spite he’d got to pondering. He needn’t wait to hear it; better things to do with himself. Like... well, the bar had better be at least half-decent.

It was better, actually. That he’d grant, as he made an earnest start on a bit of champagne that was pressed his way the moment he slid into that seat Ali had kept for him. “There you are, old boy,” his lieutenant-general smirked, puffing lazily through a cigar, already nearing the end of his own glass, and beckoning to the nearest waiter for another. “In just the nick of time, too. Impeccable.” No comment needed; Alistair wouldn’t ask what kept him. Which was a sort of kindness, wasn’t it? Given what usually kept him. Cam sat back with a short sigh, hooking his cane along the chair arm. And drank, tightly, as the soft-lit susurrus dimmed away, the curtains drawing up. They all struck him as more or less the same, these places - he’d been through a few dozen, over the years, with his fellow officers. Though, Le Ciel had certainly committed to its theme with stand-out gusto. Lavishly, too. Expensive, well-maintained goose feathers. But goose feathers, still. So awkwardly irreligious. Only, that wasn’t what was scrounging around in his chest, uncomfortably. No, that - that was...

A memory. Many of them, in fact. A girl, her long, dark hair gleaming in the sunshine, pirouetting and chassé-ing through the gardens. Odette. 

“Steady on,” Ali chuckled, patting his former aide-de-camp on the shoulder as he coughed champagne back into the glass, mostly, the bubbles fizzing up the back of his nose. Odette Alarie. Here, in Paris, after all - up there, in the silks and rings. “Another of those,” his superior was muttering to the waiter as he arrived; Cam shook his head, muffling another cough. “Scotch. If you have it.” He’d need something stronger, to weather this - and weather it he must. Wouldn’t do to leave early. Miss out on all the fun, as the rest of the regiment might say. Still stinging, Cam pinned himself back into his chair and fixed his eyes on some bit of stage scenery. So intently that it took another tap from Alistair for him to realize all the dreadful spectacle was finally over. 

Waving Ali off so vaguely he couldn’t quite recall having said anything at all, Cam downed what remained of his whisky and waved for more as the whistles and howls faded off and the Bays jostled away to make the most of their evening. A mortified heat had crawled up the thin walls of his chest and settled in, like a fever; it sparked again, the embarrassment positively sickly, as an entirely recognizable figure slid across the edge of his sight - two, actually. Who on her arm, but, of course. Of course. His stare cut away from Jack, to Odie, as she spoke; the steel of it turned, for her, blunted. Still, his spine was parade-ground straight, stiff. As if they were far from this awful place, this whole noxious evening. If only.  

“Such a very, very long time. Ages, Lady Alarie,” he returned, proper about it, staging a smile. A middling production at best, Cam could only imagine. Slow to start, unsteady throughout. Like his footing, here, and not for the regular reasons. Wasn’t it funny, though, to hear her talk like that - as if it was anyone’s fault but hers that he hadn’t even known, for certain, that she was alive. For all this time. No; hers and Jack’s, apparently. Cam was ignoring his brother, though, eyes on Odie. Very intentionally. “With the war, too - we’d all feared the worst,” he pressed on. If one could call it that, pressing, when he was holding the conversation at a long arm’s length. The smile tried for an encore; barely made an appearance, through the curtain. Poor show. “But, ah, I see you’ve settled in quite comfortably.” Certainly couldn’t say the same. Still. Cam raised his glass, mechanically. “Wonderful. I wish you all the best.” And he did. Truly. Even if that did sound something like a rather over-optimistic farewell. It would only be polite, really, to leave him be. Then again, in present company - well, hope springs eternal. So they always said. 

Nico wasn’t usually an insecure person. He knew he was good at he did, that was never a point of worry or anxiety for him. He could perform. He’d been doing it since he was practically a child, for god’s sake - if he wasn’t good at it by now, he was really doing something wrong with his life. And yet, despite being perfectly confident in his ability, he was uneasy at this gig. It wasn’t that he didn’t know why, either. No, he knew. He was surrounded by people who may as well live on a completely different Earth from him. Playing in clubs was similar, sure, but this was a group of British aristocrats. Was there possibly anyone he had less in common with? “I haven’t either. My parents made me learn Latin in school, but I haven’t used it much since, if I’m being honest.” He wasn’t in a field where he needed to, though. As the other agreed that Nico could stay, he nodded once. “Thank you, Sir.” 

God, how was he supposed to behave? Was he allowed to actually sit down before the other? Nico contemplated it for a moment, before finally moving further away from the doorway, towards where the general was pouring drinks for each of them. “I won’t pretend to know the sort that England goes through.” He said rather casually, not wanting to press about it. “But I thank God that France hasn’t followed suit and banned it too. Though, I’m sure the country would revolt if they tried.” He tried to joke as he obediently took the glass. He nodded at his toast and sipped at the brandy, giving him another small smile. 

Ah, business. That was a better thing to talk about, less awkward. “I perform most Fridays at Cafe Étoile. Other than that, it’s here and there. My drummer is much better with knowing the schedule, I have to have it all written down in my calendar at home.” He usually looked over a week or so at a time, and every day he would glance at it again to ensure he wouldn’t forget anything. “Sure, I would appreciate that. I’m afraid I don’t have a card… perhaps I should. I’m not sure how many musicians have them made.” He admitted, sipping at the brandy again. He honestly doubted anything would come of this anyway, though - it wasn’t that he thought the other was lying, but manners and politeness were definitely things he would expect from a British general. 

An eyebrow ticked up, there. “Mm, yes. It has its purposes, of course, but... I can’t help thinking that living languages are a rather better use of one’s time." (Which, according to certain people, rendered him coarsely practical. Among other things. Certain people who could keep all that outrageous Ovid to themselves; he’d stick with Heine and the Rossettis.) Latin, though, in an American school? Something of a surprise, honestly. But so much of America would be, to him, Cam could only presume. From the Rockies - such a quaint name, for a mountain range - to those Everglades, great grizzly bears to alligators. They’d leafed through photographs, and prints, and the like, him and Jack, poring through the family library. Cam had promised they would go, someday. See it for themselves. But he’d promised a great many things, back then. As children did.

Yes, best not to. Pretend. When one could help it, anyway. Leaning up against the mantle, Cam left England and its troubles for the dull warmth of a barely-familiar fireside. “Well, I shan’t bore you with them. But a shortage of drink certainly isn’t anywhere on the list.” He braced his way down, cigarette safe between his lips, and settled himself, sipped, and scoffed. Prohibition in France? The very thought. “They’d never manage it. Here, or at home. And they did try, during the war...” Cam trailed off, quite certain neither Nicolas, nor he, had any genuine interest in what Lord Kitchener had had to say about the deleterious effects of alcohol on national morale, and military fitness, and... so on. Lord Kitchener, after all, had never known the Front, not truly; and so, he’d never been half so in need of a rum ration as the men Cam had commanded. And been commanded by. Not that he’d trouble his guest with talk of that, either. Not at all fitting conversation for a party. 

Some people, they did smile in such a way; it was no wonder at all that Mr. Picou had wound up where he was, centre-stage, before the bright lights. No card, but. That had been a rather coarsely practical question, hadn’t it? Cam huffed aside a ring of smoke and shook his head, distantly. “Ah, no matter. Cafe Étoile - I know the place. By reputation, at least.” A good one, too. Very good. “Anyway, I’ll remember you for our concierge. I’ve precious little to do with all the... occasions,” he flapped a hand in the general direction of the door, the hall, the roiling party they couldn’t quite hear, but for the distant sliding of those strings that had replaced Nicolas and his band. “Far from my purview. After tonight’s performance, though, I’m certain you’d be welcome back. Now, how is it,” Cam started, with a flicker of genuine interest, “that you came to do what you do? If you’ll entertain my curiosity. I’m sure you’re asked often enough.” But polite conversation had never been about originality insofar as, well, politeness. And it was intriguing, wasn’t it? A career in music, of all the arts. Tragically ephemeral stuff. Unless Mr. Picou had records with his name on; in which case, how very modern, indeed.