And still it was she who stood accused. She hid behind her veil, her one shield, though she despised such cowardice in others, and told herself it was only the wind, only the dust, that stung her eyes. What did they know of sacrifice? Of absence? Of survival? Their very faces seemed to condemn her, pressing guilt upon her as though it were hers to claim, when in truth she had none -- none that she would acknowledge, at least. It was not her sin she felt, but their insistence that she should feel it. But still... was she not the one wronged, the one forgotten, the one abandoned?

Leave? The word struck her with a hollow clatter. She supposed she could -- she had left before, hadn’t she? -- but where would that leave her now? Thin, invisible, erased. Teodósio had never chosen his father; he had been an accident, a presence thrust into their lives, and though her husband had loved him fiercely, it was not the same. Giulia hadn’t been a choice of Emilio’s either; their closeness was decided at birth, written into the family, inevitable and unchosen. But Grace… Emilio had chosen her. Of all the people in the world, he had picked her, invited her in, let her step across the threshold of his world, and in that choice lay her claim. That claim to the grave, to this moment, to memory itself, was unassailable because it was hers by right, by desire, by love, not by accident, not by obligation, not by inherited closeness.

Of course she did not speak this aloud. She never spoke the full weight of her mind; she only thought it, composing a grand, furious soliloquy in the theatre of her head, as though the whole stage were hers.

“I am not leaving,” she said. “I have as much claim here as anyone.”

She let the words hang in the air, then turned away, moving with slow deliberation toward the grand stone where she had left a candle the last time she had visited. Her fingers retrieved a long match, slender and black, the kind she always used to light her cigarettes -- Aurevia, thin and pale as ivory with a glinting tip that caught the light like a shard of polished bone. The flame leapt, hungry and bright, licking the candle’s wick until it blazed steadily, throwing her shadow long and quivering across the grave.

'Will you be leaving soon?'

One corner of his mouth lifts. Bless his aunt for her directness. He watches a helicopter rattling faintly into their portion of the sky, before he lowers his head and finds himself staring directly at his mother. Or so he thinks, given the shades they are both wearing obscure her eyes from his vision as much as they do his from hers. More, because of her ridiculous Bride Of The Dead veil. Not that he'll give her the satisfaction of having taken any notice; his body remains stock-still, his expression as blank as marble.

... That is, until his mother starts singing.

Everything in the graveyard seems to go still just then. The wind is suddenly absent, the helicopter gone, even the insects seem to have stopped buzzing in sheer terror. If he were to dig up a burial plot this very instant, he has little doubt the deceased would be in the midst of dying a second death. Grace's voice rises to a keening.

His own voice is a low, disbelieving rasp – a discordant note in Grace's performance – as he addresses his aunt who's standing a few feet ahead, nearer to the tombstone.

But somehow, none of these have managed to truly freeze Giulia in disbielief the way it did as Grace started singing without preambule. It takes two seconds for Giulia's insides to churn when she recognizes the music, and at least twenty more seconds for the shock to dissipate as her nephew interrupts the show.

Teodósio's words have barely finished leaving his mouth that Giulia looks away from the spectacle and anchors her own thunderstruck hazel eyes in his. Of course the little brat would want to flee, she understands him oh so well but ah. Not today. Please. Not today. She looks up over the rim of her sunglasses, making it sure that Teodósio catches the full seriousness of the situation. If you leave me here alone I will make sure these are your last minutes on earth. "Do not. Leave." She commands implores him, and if it were in her vocabulary, she would have said please. Still. She keeps her gaze on him a moment, trying to convey the myriad of emotions she can barely process and even less express, until a shudder of familiar agony writhers out of her entrails and she has to shake it off with a spasmic shrug of her shoulders, neck cracking, unwillingly turning back to the disaster at hand. She's too sober for this entire fucking day.

A spider crawling off her frozen prison, Giulia's legs find their ingrained tune, as she finally takes the steps towards the grave and breaches the distance, standing a few closer steps away from Grace. Smoke from the candles manages to penetrate her nostrils, makes itself home within the cavernous emptiness that defines a del Bosque elder. Giulia welcomes it with firm bitterness, angles herself towards her former... Friend? Faw? Another shudder, she clenches her hands, clears her throat filled with 25 year old inaudible grief.

"As always, this was superbly adequate Grace, but what is this farce?" Giulia asks, when the lament seems to be finished. A beat. The helicopter is omnipresent above their heads, and it ticks so many boxes in Giulia's accustomed brain. "I hope you understand how crucial it is that you had nothing to do about these reporters playing vultures above our heads, for a lot of reasons even you can grasp." Threat, as always in Giulia's voice, her sole language, but also implicit reminder that scheming that kind of sham will only lead to disasters. Would Grace truly orchestrate her grief in such way as to tip the local news about her procession? Would Grace truly keep her role in spite of her own son's comfort?

Her mind circled Emiliano as though he still waited in the wings -- sharp-tongued, careless, dazzling. She loathed him for leaving her, yet the loathing trembled into ache. He had been hers, wholly, maddeningly, and now he was only stone and memory. She pressed a hand to the cold marble, feeling how stagecraft faltered before death’s finality.

“Why did you leave me,” she whispered, the words slipping out as though meant for no one but him.

The crunch of tires jolted her head up. A car, too close to ignore, creeping along the gravel. With a small, precise gesture she raised her hands, parting the veil just enough. But the figures were blurred, indistinct. Too far. Damn her for refusing the prescription glasses. She would not wear them -- glasses belonged to the meek, to those who accepted their frailty. Instead she squinted through her non-corrected shades, willing detail out of haze, straining to make out who had come to interrupt her scene.

It is nothing.

Because this anniversary means nothing to him, Emiliano's death means nothing to him. It's a waste of an afternoon better spent doing practically anything else. It's a waste of his temperance, a mask he doesn't feel like erecting for this purpose.

A waste, even, of the tread of his tires, which roll over the uneven gravel in the graveyard's expansive parking lot, creating microtears along the way.

He kills the engine, plunging the car into abrupt silence. There's a pause as he steels his patience, and then he's yanking the keys from the ignition and pushing the door open to get out. Giulia isn't so quick to follow. She's still sitting in the car, her fingers working anxiously over the handle of her purse. Teodósio rounds to the passenger's side of the vehicle, tugging the door open for her. He gives her a minute. "Ready?"

Soon enough, it's their shoes crunching gravel as they make their way down the path leading to neat rows of marble gravestones, each one more ornate than the next. His arm's extended to her, should her high heels get stuck on the uneven ground. But for all her hesitation a few minutes ago, Giulia's steps are determined as they weave their way towards— Fuck.

Kneeling in front of his father's grave, shrouded in a long, black veil, is his mother.

What kind of ridiculous-... Why is she here? Why does she look like Death incarnate?

"Grace." Giulia finally mutters in transparent distate. What to say? The distance between them is greater than the few steps that separate their bodies, it measures in years, decades... Betrayals.

Silence stretches a bit.

The stillness in Teodósio's form is louder than words, and Giulia lets herself miss the feeling of his arm against hers, a testament of the love she bears for him that she allowes him such closeness. Still, in the moment, there's no way for them to turn around. Del Bosques don't let others fill their spots, don't offer time, don't propose to step away, don't do acts of services. It is a harsh world for outsiders, which Grace is, now. She made her choice.

"Will you be leaving soon?" Giulia asks skipping pleasantries, because frankly she doesn't give a flying fuck how the other woman has been, she just wishes for this forced coexistence to stop as soon as possible.

The fabric, so smooth and soft, glides in-between her touch as she fiddles a bit with it. A sharp collarbone appears from the movement, glowing under the room's faint lights. "At least, I for one could very easily find you some use." She offers, words low and deliberate, as silky as the dress's material. Giulia couldn't make a clearer innuendo, and she revels in the game, as always having the most fun playing with others and making them squirm. It's too easy with this one, she notices, as she lets the fabric go, listens to her words, basks in the discreet smell of Tatiana's perfume, takes in the glistening of her moving lips. She just can't stop herself. "I see, I'll have to make sure your expectations are met during the next event then. Maybe we could share a table, this time, no?" She can just as well lace warnings in sweet nothings, she learned how to manipulate before taking her first steps.

Playing with Tatiana's dress did make Giulia take a step closer to the other woman, was it the intention? Maybe, but now that she's here there's no stepping back. "Did you want another drink, Tatiana? I can call you Tatiana, of course." A question has rarely been more rethorical. She feels movement in the room, people milling around, but at the moment, none of it matters. Nothing matters but the ghost of Tatiana's dress against Giulia's palm, the amber eyes in front of her, the electricity of a lingering touch.

She tsks at his over-the-top fondness, but a smile is still playing on her lips. She's not fooled by his words but she still appreciates the sentiment, as though not everything that's exchanged in-between her relatives are perfectly manicured sentences which forever hide deeper meanings. One gets used to it, as one does when it's the language you're taught growing up. Which is why Giulia lets it all slide with him, knowing that no matter the foolishness, she can sense nothing else but genuine tenderness at the creases cornering his eyes, at the bouts of audacity no one's ever been able to educate out of him.

Teodósio is his own little boy, they used to say, and it hasn't gone better with age. "I'll be looking forward to these two dances then," She replies honestly and can't help but wishing she had a glass of anything at the moment as she listens to his next words. Of course he knows where her daughter went to hide, as always finding excuses to escape her duties.

"I see, thank you Teodósio." She itches for a cigarette but her pack was left inside. Beginner's mistake. She itches for a cigarette as much as she itches for the need to pat his shoulder, to make sure he's real and willingly spending time at her side. Then, she lets him throw his line, surely fishing for datas to use for his own gains. As one should do. Are her and Aurélie getting along? A question for the ages.

Giulia doesn't take the bite this time. "We're good." Could be better? There's no big quest there, what's been done was done. "But I need to check a few things with her, so I might go after her, if that's ok with you?" The night will be long: so many things to say, to do, so many hands to shake, so many shoulders to brush. She's tired thinking about it all and looking at her favorite nephew, so bright against the dark starlight, doesn't help at all. But duty calls, and Giulia has never been last to reply, on the contrary. "Let's not wait until the next family dinner before crossing paths, alright?" It's more of a rethorical question, as usual with Giulia.

Sometimes he wonders whether his aunt would like him half so much if his father were still alive. If it were Emiliano standing here in his stead, bringing that doting softness to her otherwise shrewd expression.

He doesn't think so.

He's a dead man's shadow; a markdown, a compromise. And Giulia, as family treasurer, is good at holding onto things — oftentimes with little more than the sheer force of her will. But even she can't hold on to a ghost. His son is all she has; the only reminder left of a man whose gilded portrait gathers dust in Casa del Bosque.

"As you wish... In the meantime, I might go see if Beverly Shibata's up for that dance." He inclines his head as she prepares to take her leave. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

But when Giulia departs, he remains. It's Teodósio's turn to be haunted by the past, by the icy breeze that seems to lift out of nowhere, stroking his throat like the fingers of a dead man. Taking him back to years he'd rather not remember; to a boyhood he would like to pretend had never existed. One beyond Casa del Bosque, with two parents who were not Rafael and Luciana, sitting at the head of a very different table.

He's glad his father's dead.

Maybe there was only ever room for one of them — not just on the stage of his aunt's affections, but in life at large. Emiliano was a man better known by his associates than by his own son, but what little he remembers hardly inspires loyalty to his memory.

He was his father's child soldier, taking orders without voice. Acknowledged when he served some purpose, ignored if he did not. A princeling to be paraded before guests, a mechanical toy that impressed on command. Be it high scores in school or musical performances; be it by besting agemates on the playing field or the older ones at the gun range... It was never Teodósio who achieved, but always Emiliano through him.

Now Emiliano's gone, and wistful aunt Giulia is the only one who still sees her brother when she looks into her nephew's eyes. He can handle that — better yet, he can use it.

He has his father to thank for that.

Around others, Teodósio normally adopts mild, complacent mannerisms. Such as to avoid drawing attention to himself and blend easily into any backdrop at will.

He's wired differently today. Palm on the shift stick before Giulia's even raised her other leg into the car, foot on the accelerator not three second later. He regrets agreeing to it already, letting her wear him down into acquiescence. The sooner it's over, the better.

"Good, as usual. What about you, busy?" Giulia replies without much energy, words tumbling down like raindrops that must fall on the rich earth, taste of scotch strong at the back of her teeth. Liquid courage. She doesn't pay much attention to the way her nephew drives, keeps her gaze trained on the all too-familiar landscape. "Thank you for driving me," she offers simply as an olive branch, knowing she basically guilt-tripped him into this.

She can't really smoke one of her cigars in public, can she? She takes a long drag and points at his pockets. "What do you smoke then?" She imagines him smoking a long vogue, or a badly rolled joint. Or a crack pipe, no in-between.

It's not that Andrea doesn't care about Chancellor Delgado's speech; it's that he does care, he just knows he's last in the pecking order to do anything about any of it. He puts down his fork while she speaks, politeness overwhelming his desire to eat the fresh peaches on his plate. It all seems so inconsequential to him; so there's parts of the island that will be designated as heritage sites, so what? They are heritage sites, the history of their home is important, they oughtn't forget it.

He's learned the steps, what little grace Teodósio might've had by nature whittled into something unnatural by the exigent demands of a prima ballerina mother. Even now, he remembers long afternoons being sent back to his room again and again and again and again if he made the floorboards creak even just a fraction with his toddling feet. To say nothing of the countless hours spent in children's dance classes over which he had no say, and no choice but to play his mother's marionette.

But he humours his aunt anyway, contemplating who he'd choose to dance with if he could bother with the pleasantries. "Maybe Beverly Shibata. Just to convince myself she's flesh and blood." Maybe ask her about her robot offspring while he's at it...

"Think Ryo would give me the chance?"

'Let's make a pact and promise each other we'll share a valse during the next ball...'

There's something about the way she looks at him, about the hint of gravel in her voice that betrays what his aunt is thinking about — or rather who it is she's thinking about. Teodósio doesn't share her decades-long grief, but doesn't rebuff it, either. Nostalgia makes for a strong bargaining chip, even he understands that. So if he has his father's eyes and Giulia finds her little brother looking back at her on nights like these, when the moon is full and she's had a few glasses... Well, he'll buy and trade and capitalize.

He'll use the currency of her loss to his advantage. "Of course, Tía... And if I'm rude enough to forget, find me and I'll make it two valses."

When her own daughter enters the conversation, he sees it for what it is. An attempt at distraction, a chance to pull herself together and smooth the past out of her voice. But he humours that too, half-turning to face the villa. "Yes. She was on her way out of the hall a few minutes ago. Presumably to the lady's room." It's relayed simply, matter-of-fact. He keeps tabs on them all, a moving mental map as natural to him as breathing.

She tsks at his over-the-top fondness, but a smile is still playing on her lips. She's not fooled by his words but she still appreciates the sentiment, as though not everything that's exchanged in-between her relatives are perfectly manicured sentences which forever hide deeper meanings. One gets used to it, as one does when it's the language you're taught growing up. Which is why Giulia lets it all slide with him, knowing that no matter the foolishness, she can sense nothing else but genuine tenderness at the creases cornering his eyes, at the bouts of audacity no one's ever been able to educate out of him.

Teodósio is his own little boy, they used to say, and it hasn't gone better with age. "I'll be looking forward to these two dances then," She replies honestly and can't help but wishing she had a glass of anything at the moment as she listens to his next words. Of course he knows where her daughter went to hide, as always finding excuses to escape her duties.

"I see, thank you Teodósio." She itches for a cigarette but her pack was left inside. Beginner's mistake. She itches for a cigarette as much as she itches for the need to pat his shoulder, to make sure he's real and willingly spending time at her side. Then, she lets him throw his line, surely fishing for datas to use for his own gains. As one should do. Are her and Aurélie getting along? A question for the ages.

Giulia doesn't take the bite this time. "We're good." Could be better? There's no big quest there, what's been done was done. "But I need to check a few things with her, so I might go after her, if that's ok with you?" The night will be long: so many things to say, to do, so many hands to shake, so many shoulders to brush. She's tired thinking about it all and looking at her favorite nephew, so bright against the dark starlight, doesn't help at all. But duty calls, and Giulia has never been last to reply, on the contrary. "Let's not wait until the next family dinner before crossing paths, alright?" It's more of a rethorical question, as usual with Giulia.

"Let's be careful then, or else we might start missing each other." A warning filled with mirth that leaves her curled up lips. She keeps holding that beautiful gaze even as she waives over a waiter carrying a tray and exchanges her empty glass for a filled one. Giulia has often been described as cold or closed-off, ruthless even, and she won't deny any of these, people think the years have let her grow distant and desinterested, she never married and only cared for the family business, what does she have to offer anymore? It's all too late for Giulia del Bosque, behind whom no one will stand but the shadows of her brother's crumbs. That's what they say, right? The thing is, people also seem to forget that these are nothing compared to the reality of it all, and how much these adjectives barely grasp the surface of Giulia's true nature. She still sees it all, this is still her game, and she's still a top player. And if she wants to play with Tatiana Dubois, you bet she will and you can also bet no one will stop her. "How has the night been treating you by the way," She asks, taking pleasure at the micro-expressions this particular question will provoke. "I didn't see with whom you were seating for the repas, was the seating chart to your liking?"