𝕃𝕀𝕋𝕋𝕃𝔼 𝔻𝔸ℝ𝕂 𝔸𝔾𝔼

The sea-green hues stayed on hers as she spoke, but upon her first statement, his eyebrows both raised curiously. Most wouldn’t have the confidence to say such a thing. “I was afraid it would be too obvious - what would people insinuate if my attention on you never wavered?” He pointed out, trying to tease her back a bit. “Perhaps I should - but how do you know I don’t?”

He left his question open ended for a moment, before leaning in towards her ear. He was constantly speaking in questions. It was part of what made Phillip - the riddles, the questions, the intrigue… the mystery. He answered nearly anything anyone would ask, he would not shy away from the question, but hardly ever would he give a clear answer. It was how he kept up conversations, when he first began performing, and it just became a habit. He even found it slipping into his conversations in his day to day life, and he was sure it was infuriating during a normal conversation. “Those urges, as you call them, could easily come out somewhere less… crowded.”

He leaned back just in time for the bartender to place his drink on the bar, and he lifted the glass to take a sip. She wanted something from him, he assumed - she wasn’t spewing on about his music, but she was clearly interested. And that had to mean something. At her question, he paused and swallowed the liquid in his mouth, quickly determining if she meant what he thought she meant. “Tempted, maybe… but temptation is finicky,” he lowered his voice slightly, and despite his words, he was confident no one around them could hear, “and I’m afraid my answer might excite the eavesdroppers.”

Only she speaks in riddles. It is something marvelled by conversationalists of hers, or perhaps not marvelled, but disdained. Either way, it’s hers, so Elsie finds a deep annoyance prodding her stomach as she speaks to the charismatic young lad with his voice and skin like silk. He combats her twisted speech with indirect answers, backfiring questions, adding unwanted lines to the riddles she is so used to dictating. She barely has the patience for it, though she simultaneously feels excited by it - he’s pandering to her, hurrying with rapid steps to stay hot on her slow paced heels. Though not so much as a compliment has been paid, she’s flattered, so much so that a tight smile strains her lips upwards.

“So show me.” She says assertively, wide eyes unblinking and dark as ever. She likes that he’s leaned in so close to her, for it shows his attempt to woo her, displays his desire to wind her around his finger just as she plans to do with him. It alerts her to a challenge. She has found with her constant toying of the public that there are four types of prey; the reluctant, the submissive, the malleable and the opponents. Reluctants shy away from her, or resist her for some kind of moral direction while Submissives will do whatever she wants with barely any coaxing at all. Malleables are the most common, showing a normal amount of interest that she can mould and manipulate, but it’s the Opponents she has the most fun with, for they always have their own ideas of where the game is going, their own tactics of power play. Elsie didn’t have Phillip down as the latter kind, and yet, that’s how he’s acting now. She looks at him intently, twisting a coil of chin-length ringlets around her finger as her black eyes delve to discover whether his manner is skin deep. What would he be like out of the public, away from the facade, void of his on stage persona? She has to find out.

The things she said her mother had taught her, Seb knew as well, of course, but they were things he’d had to teach himself. Though that would likely have been seen as a good thing, by most people. To most people, a good mother was the type who taught you not to play with fire and knives, but he had learned in his years in the city that there were not as many good or bad people in the world as one might think.

He watched her take a swig, and then took one of his own, as the bottle was slid his way. “May be cheap but it gets you drunk just as fast as what you dropped.” Usually, he was one to talk up liquor, his, at least, and say that the pricier stuff was truly better, that anyone would taste a difference. But he’d never really thought so himself, especially not if you were drinking with the express purpose of getting intoxicated. Which he usually was. And plus, it didn’t matter with her - He wasn’t trying to sell her anything. “If I’m being honest,” He said, leaning in like he was telling her a secret. In a way, he was, really. “It all tastes similar enough.”

She likes the sound of that, and shows her pleasure in the curve of her lips despite the expression going to waste in the darkness. How she yearns to throw her eager body into the heated ocean of thrill, and convulse in it’s enveloping waves of ecstatic energy. What she is beginning to feel she craves, is perhaps something quite unknown to her, and such is the craving itself. Day by day she wades through knee deep tepid water, never caring to climb out, never wishing to dive deeper. It is only this monotonous marsh of nothingness that stakes it’s claim over the emotional landscape in Elsie’s brain, but perhaps, tonight, she might set off a few fireworks within it.

“I’m keen to see if you’re right about that. It’s been much too long since I’ve spent an evening on the receiving side of a bar.” She knocks back another drink of it and hisses against it’s caustic burn. “If we’re getting each other drunk, we might like to swap names.” Leaning closer to him while her ankles swing, her ears tickle with the anticipation of learning a new word. “Mine’s Dotty.” With the telling of that name, Elsie submits to her charming counterpart and shrinks to dwell in one corner, crouched and ready for trouble.

“To Hell and back again.” There was truly no need for the type of secrecy he was compelled to keep those days, and he realized that as he looked into her big eyes. It was almost comforting being in the presence of someone so innocent looking. He was not so foolish as to believe she was such; it was nice to pretend, however. Fine. He would give in, but he would need another round for afterwards. “India, if you must know,” he said dryly and flagged a waiter. “Where has the wind taken you?”

She reacts with no surprise, as if a holiday to Hell is as achievable as it might be to procure a train ticket. Elsie wonders fleetingly if she might like it better somewhere hot than in this unchanging city of faux grandeur and hedonism. When he admits to his true destination, she is disappointed and uninterested. His question to her only vexes her patience. “The wind in my life is a pathetic force. It has not whisked me anywhere, and neither has it blown anything of interest in my path. I’m desperate for something.”  She stiffly requests another drink from the waiter he has summoned, but knows it’ll take a few gallons of her chosen liquor to loosen her bones tonight. To the man she pivots, dark eyes shadowed beneath an angled brow, her sharp top lip sculpting an assassins smile. “’Your name will ease my desperation for now.”

Phillip had gone through most of the performance without noticing specific people. He was particularly into the music tonight… something he had been finding less and less. However, it was a good night, and he’d been enjoying the time with the other musicians he was performing with. That was, of course, until he caught the eye of a particular woman sitting in the audience. He didn’t think it particularly strange, at first, and gave her a small smile and a nod, before continuing.

It wasn’t for a while that he noticed that she was not like the other members of the audience. Most had quiet conversations, or were eating, or otherwise distracted… but she didn’t seem to be. She seemed to only be watching him, and it was peculiar. It had peaked his interest. 

He did his best to distract himself, quite aware that he couldn’t spend the rest of a song staring at one woman in the audience. If any members of the press were in the audience, they would have a field day with such a thing, if they figured it out. Besides, other girls were there, fawning, and they needed a bit of attention too… if he wanted them to keep coming, that is, and he most certainly wanted them to keep coming. 

After singing an encore, Phillip gave the audience a small bow, before leaving the stage. It was some minutes later before he re-emerged, heading straight for the bar. He said some Hellos and answered a few quick questions along the way, but after he ordered his drink, he turned only to find the woman that had been so captivated. “My gaze struggled to leave yours as well, Mademoiselle. So I’m afraid I must forgive you, lest I be hypocritical.”

Her hooks make such delicious marks in his skin, and while she expects the intensity of her gaze to be noticed, she certainly doesn’t expect it to be returned. Elsie hides the plume of triumph that blooms in her chest, maintaining the expression that doesn’t say much at all, but clearly holds a presence too good to resist. Every clandestine look from the crooner folds her smirk tighter. Throughout his performance, she does not care to mimic the swoons, the squeals and the smiles blistering like some vile pox in the audience around her. The girlish effect he has on his crowd causes her to feel queasy, but then, as soon as it’s over, her stomach settles with the dissipation of the audience. He’s hers at last, and it seems he’s content to be so.

“I noticed.” she says with arrogance, chin inclined and brow tweaked with a self assured appearance. Beside him she leans against the bar, her head turned to continue that fervid stare. “But you fought it better than I. Perhaps you should take a lesson from me and take things as you please. Submit to that struggle; living submissively to your primitive urges is really quite-” she pauses, tasting the syllables she spills on her tongue. “-divine.”

With slender, porcelain finger tips she circles images on the bar’s surface. It’s an absent minded, fidgety thing, her hands excited and desperate to busy themselves - she wonders to what extent she can manipulate the honey-voiced boy, whether he’ll submit to the reddened scratches her glass sharp nails urge to produce upon his perfect skin. He’d take some work, but Elsie does adore a challenge. She blinks down, and then up at him, a sinister doe.  “You could take anyone in this room, if you wanted. Are you tempted to?”

Arturo couldn’t help but laugh at himself. There’s been a recurring pattern as of late, of him being reintroduced to his old self, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was being haunted by Adagio. At times it made him miserable, and then others, like this encounter with Elsie, they amused him to no end. “The offer still stands if you are truly interested. I will bash yours if you will return the favor and bash mine.” 

The man, clearly amused, is rather irritatingly still a mystery to her. Their last meeting had her belligerently arguing against introductions, denouncing the need for a name; and yet, he knows hers, but she remains none the wiser. It isn’t a very fair advantage that he has, and Elsie finds herself twitching just a little between her usual plastic facade. “It does, does it?” she speaks with a tone of near annoyance, the brat within her showing it’s true colours. “Well, like I said before, I’d prefer to drag the torture out, but I suppose I’d be a fool to turn it down.” She softens then, regaining a jovial twinkle in her eyes, as if she’s in the company of an old friend. “I have not seen you for a little while. Where have you been?”

Elsie’s really not picky with the array of men she sinks her teeth into. Young or old, rich or poor, the assets they display are, on the most part, of equal treasure to her. There’s always something to manipulate out of the male of the species, though despite of successfully finding one thing or another, she’s always more triumphant if her prizes are pretty and/or valuable.  Now that she thinks of it, her victims are of a certain ilk on the most part - she likes men, so why is the boy on the stage fascinating her so? Elsie watches him as if he’s singing to save the souls of everyone in the room, and she makes her intense eye contact upon him no secret either. He’s an anomaly - an angelic hybrid of innocence and charisma, seemingly gentile, but with a determined grip on the life he wishes to secure for himself using the perfect, honey smooth voice he controls and projects so effortlessly. 

What could she get from him? What is it that he could possibly give to her? She works it out, maps out a sinister plan while he sings his heart out, and by the time he’s finished, she’s spun an idea so simple, yet so wicked, she can barely wait. 

She approaches him with no hint of timidness, unlike the other girls swooning in his presence, and delivers an air of mystery with her striking, crooked smile.  “I could not take my eyes off of you, Monsieur,” she begins, her head tilted to an angle and her vision focusing purely on him. “Forgive me if I struggle even now.”

@orelsie​ ❃ closed

     A life devoid of substances—or at least a much fewer quantity of substances—was an insufferable one. A clear head allowed his misery to sit and stew, but it also allowed him the type of attentiveness he had missed for years. He recognized her face. They’d met before, but briefly. 

     "Cafe Étoile?” It’s a question despite not being framed as one. “You were always the quiet one.“

Their last meeting had been a strange one, and it had served it’s purpose in heightening a curiosity over a man she knew so little about. Elsie had parted his company with tingling taste buds, craving more, desperate for some similar bitter sting - but had received nothing. She never saw him again, and though she would hate to admit it, she was always dolefully disappointed. There were plenty of things to do, plenty of people to play with, so she mostly paid the disappointment no mind. She’s reminded of it now that he has appeared before her.

“The last I remember of you was that you suggested...hm. How did you put it?” She teasingly sucks her lip, before lifting her finger to acknowledge that memory being bought to the front of her brain. “Bashing my head in! But you never did. So you’re a man of false promises and I don’t have much time for that.”

As the young woman began to flutter about, offering a flurry of apologies and attempts at compensation, Vivienne felt unable to do much more than stand back and watch. Surely the one thing that such a bravura performance demanded was a bit of appreciative attention.

Her calm faltered slightly, however, when the younger woman suddenly grasped a tight hold on her wrist. Vivienne wasn’t exactly unused to being touched – far from it – but she couldn’t help feeling that such behavior was more than a little odd in a setting like this. Though supposed that people showed contrition in all sorts of ways. If they were intoxicated, then perhaps even more so.

“Oh, no need to worry about it,” she said lightly. She would’ve waved her hand to emphasize her supposedly casual feelings but her wrist was still rather occupied as she began to speak “It’s just an old thing anyway.” She attempted to smile at this remark, once she’s been let go, but she was aware that her lips were rather too stiff and fixed to come off as genuine.

“Really, don’t–!” She held up her hands in protest, “There’s no need!”  She gave a laugh and then paused slightly as she realized that the girl was suddenly lurching into yet another frenzied tangent: this time one that might have a touch of substance.

She really ought not to be paying so much attention to a random partygoer. But still. It had been a rather boring evening, and there was nothing like an unconventional person to liven things up. “Well, I’m sorry if the glittering denizens of this place have proved disappointing. They often do, you see. You probably occupy yourself with all sorts of livelier things than chatting to the likes of this place. Do you…?” Vivienne trailed off, hoping the opening might leave the other woman an opportunity to leap in.

She was sure to keep her hands folded close to herself as she spoke. “Do you have a – something to occupy yourself with, normally? Or, perhaps you’re a lucky lady of leisure, eh?”

Just as she had hoped, the insistence comes from the lady just in time for her to pause over the opening of her purse. Almost as if it were a perfectly queued section from a stage show in which the actresses read from the script engraved in their memories with unparalleled accuracy. She stifles a smirk, however an unmanageable transformation in her beady eyes subtly takes place, like an eerie cloud passing across a bright moon that had previously dictated a tidal wave of hysterics; she’s calm now, much to the woman’s likely delight. 

“If you’re sure,” she says meekly, her fingers flexing briefly around the purse as she lowers it back into it’s hiding place, back into hibernation for the night. Elsie is certain at this point that her act has stamped just the impression she intended upon the elegant socialite, and she only hopes that with the impression made comes an impenetrable pity. Where the sexual manipulation and coquettish implications rouse a curiosity most men would be unable to swallow, she hopes to have roused something alternative to curiosity in this fellow party-goer. With the fluster she stages, the vulnerability she wears as a mask, her aim is to trigger a maternal root in the other. Where a man might be unable to resist a flirtatious Catholic abiding young woman, a lady a number of years Elsie’s senior might find herself compelled to nurse an injured lamb in the form of a wide-eyed, naive little girl. 

It isn’t the libido of her victim that she puppeteers, for once, but the heart strings instead.  

“No, this isn’t the sort of event I normally frequent, it’s true.” Elsie sighs, throwing wondrous glances over the opulence that decorates the place like a copious treasure trove of glittering jewels. The look she now offers to her company is combined with an amiable smile, seemingly now settling into a state of comfort, encouraged by the softness of speech granted to her. “I like to dance. I like to dance a lot, Madame. But you see, my guardians persist to strap me to a more proper variation of social affairs where I am to stand up straight and speak only when I’m spoken to.” Eyes flicker to the ground with her words that paint a perfect picture of the identity she wishes to create, a sadness now lingering in the crease of her forced smile. “I don’t wish to, er, poo-poo your chosen methods of entertainment, if this is it. But much to my guardian’s dismay, I feel I do not belong in it.”

The light from the candles was dim but still enough to illuminate the girls face ever so slightly. He might have taken in her features, had she not been looking away from him. It was simply a habit he’d acquired, it was useful to be observant. But it was clear to him that she didn’t seem to want to be looked at - Perhaps that said just as much about her as anything he could have seen in her face. Or he was overanalyzing things. But it was better to do that than to be completely unaware of things going on around him.

She sat down next to him, and he watched as she flicked her fingers back and forth through the flames. “Doesn’t seem like you fear risk much.” He said, smirking, his tone almost teasing. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to play with fire?” His had, and he’d been a good and dutiful son, who’d always listened to her. Of course, now, it was different. There was no one to stop him from simply allowing the flames to burn his fingertips. But as though he was being scolded by his mother from beyond the grave, he found he couldn’t allow himself to do it. Instead, he focused his gaze intently on the candles, on her hand, on the things that had a dim light shed upon them.

She doesn’t speak for a moment, eerie calmness placating her features like a mist upon a post-stormy sea. Her fingers persist to tease the bobbing flames, eyes still remaining glued to their amber hues, and then all of a sudden, her whole face cracks into a wild smile. In the minor light given by the candles, shadows cradle her cheekbones and blacken her iris’, and should she have been peering through a frame, one might perceive her as some sinister, ghoulish art piece. “My mother taught me where to smuggle a bottle of liquor and how to cover a bruise.” She says, light, as if it’s a comment on the weather. Her face turns to him, and she wonders what he’s thinking. 

With a sudden snap of movement, she twists to grab a bottle left upon the side, slams it down between them and unwinds the cap. “Speaking of,” she knocks back a swig, a sharp and punching sting now hinting her true London lilt with a quiver, and passes it to him. “May as well make the most of this cheap shit you asked for.” Her plan, aside from drinking with a stranger in the darkness for a bit of fun, is to mask the damage done. This bottle is full, the one smashed was two thirds empty - they just need to lower the content of this, and then she’d replace the label, changing it to the truly broken bottle’s brand, and pretend that the so called ‘cheap shit’ was the bottle to have shattered. Foolproof. Alluringly, she spins the cap of the bottle this way and that, while her fingertips curl around the neck of the liquor that she pushes his way. “What do you say?”

With a nod and zero hesitation he arched a brow towards the offending man once more. He gave a warning glare, arms crossed in warning as the other turned away from the situation altogether.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched deft fingers have their way with a shiny trinket. She was a mischievous sprite amidst all the dreary mid-morning minds in the heart of Paris and it did intrigue him so as he had been in the past. For someone so sweet and innocent looking, there was something quite favourably impish about her she would reveal of herself every time they met.

“Allow me to escort you the rest of the way, Mademoiselle Appleton - you never know the types you may bump into in a place like this.”

She spots that rugged smirk of his, it’s forming dent on the corner of his mouth posing as a mine full of mischievous wonder, hinting at his own wicked ways and admiration of hers. For such a insignificant and subtle dimple, to her, it speaks volumes; he likes her, wicked ways intact - or rather, especially. 

“It would be a delight, Monsieur,” Elsie purrs, blinking up at him beneath a tilted  brow while snaking an arm around his elbow. “I’m almost certain my claws are sharp enough to handle said types, however, your company would be most revelled in.” She’s positively quivering beneath her skirts at the prospect of Monsieur Holst volunteering his company to her, but (as always) the stab of arrogance penetrating her skin insists that such an offer from him is ultimately inevitable. 

Still, a smugness holds it’s claim of her cherry-red pout.

“First my husband, and now my market-place embodiment of chivalry?” She coos, once they’re away from the scene on the crime. Keeping her gaze confidently ahead, averted from him on purpose, she tightens her constriction of his arm linked in hers. “Perhaps one day we shall enjoy an encounter out of character. Though it is fun this way, isn’t it?”

“Ah,” the critic gave an understanding nod, picking up on the girl’s response that he may have caused some offense. And maybe he intended to, just to see what might happen. But whatever annoyance she may have felt was cleverly disguised with her loveliness.

The walk, as discussed earlier, was brief, the barmaid did live nearby, though his remark have resulted in an unwanted commitment. “Perhaps,” Gabriel answered vaguely, realizing his mistake, and the critic eased himself out of any obligations. It would be time consuming, accompanying the girl no matter how lovely, and the discontent from his colleagues was something that would just exhaust him.

“Sleep is a good start,” the critic nodded in agreement, and his eyes briefly land on the hand upon his shoulder. He was uncertain if she was telling the truth or merely trying to appeal to him, but Gabriel eased up anyway. It was late, she was tired, and he already said no to providing a critique. There was no reason to be harsh now, or so he thinks. And she was oh so lovely with her large expressive eyes and full lips. All that staring made him notice details on her face, like how her eyes were set apart farther than the usual, it made her more appealing to him. Gabriel almost wanted to reach out and touch her.

“And you can leave the pondering for tomorrow. Maybe your companions can help you figure things out.” He glanced at the building behind her, before returning his gaze on the girl. So this was goodnight and goodbye. “Though between you and me, I don’t think you need any help at all.”

“Perhaps-?” An humorous yet insulted tone pushes through a scoff that clogs her throat, and she floats a poised claw over her chest, as if the sheer audacity of him needing to contemplate becoming her guide is nothing shy of slander. Elsie lets the pose remain for a moment or two, before a telling smirk creases the corner of her lip, and her eyes crinkle with the falling of her wrist back down to her side. “I shall let you consider it, then. Should you leave me waiting on an answer longer than a day, however, I’m afraid I’ll have to start interviewing other applicants.” Of which there are many, she doesn’t say.

“I’ve never needed much help,” breezily said, she accompanies the claim with an aloof brush of her fingertips along the straight line of his shoulder, pretending to send a spec of dust on it’s way. “But I know I could benefit from yours. You’re different from your colleagues, and,” she drifts, dish-like eyes soaking in the sight of him - she beholds him pleasant enough to watch for more than an hour, handsome enough to captivate her imagination for perhaps one night, or more. “well,” she continues, and the hand glides from his shoulder to his cheek, which she cups delicately. “I have decided I like your company, very much.”

Once Vivienne had pulled away from the woman she’d crashed into, she did her best to look her over. Despite her apparent lack of coordination at the moment, she otherwise looked like the type who remained effortlessly put together in most situations.  Vivienne had to admit, there was something slightly studied about her perfectly coiffed look and impeccable politeness.

Though, given how stuffy events like this tended to be, that may not be saying much.

“Oh, that!” Her eyes flicked down to her wrist again. “It’s just fine, miss. No need to worry.” It wasn’t fine,really. By the feel of them, she was fairly sure that one or two gems may have cracked slightly. But, what was the use in making a scene, just because some young creature had landed herself in the lap of high society and gotten a little flustered?

“. . . Lovely party, isn’t it?” she said, after a pause. It wasn’t a brilliant opening line, but she was too curious to let the conversation fade just yet. One thing she had grown used to about these society soirees was the fact that their guest lists tended to be highly resistant to change. Any additions or subtractions were the subject of a storm of fevered whispers, as the old guard huddled together in breathless speculation as to the cause of such a radical alteration to the status quo.

I would know, too, she thought. Having been such a subtraction myself.

So, how had an unfamiliar face slithered through the door?

“You must be bored out of your mind, with only us skeletons for company, dear. Unless of course you’re used to all this business with white gloves and fancy wine and talking endlessly about who’s bought a new house somewhere.”  She shot the younger woman a smile. “Are you? I can’t quite place your lovely face, you see.”

Never had it dawned on Elsie, who’s ghastly, manipulative ways resembled that of a Black Widow, and in this resemblance saw her only selecting the male of the species to constrict within her web of lies, that she might be able to extend her act to someone such as this. The well-to-do Madame standing with such poise and composure is of curiosity to the younger female, who’s eyes, though stricken with constant childlike wonder at the opulent playground she’s wriggled her way into, might detect the slightest spark of dastardly intention if one were to peer closer. That, of course, is where she begins to believe the situation might play conveniently to her winning grasp - how close was this lady likely to look?

The answer, granted secretively to Elsie’s buzzing brain, is this; not close enough.

“I can reimburse you if I have damaged it, Madame!” she splutters, and urgently grips the wrist that the bracelet circles, prising it closer to her chest for a beady eyed inspection. “I can! And I will - oh bother, look here!” she points to a scratch with digits that shake, seemingly from distress, but truly from excitement. “I have ruined it. I cannot apologise enough. Please, accept compensation.” Those same fingers now drop the wrist and move to clumsily claw at the clasp of her clutch, and from it she fetches an embellished satin purse. It’s contents are very little indeed, not that the woman need know. 

“Please, Madame, please do not feel pressed to engage in small talk with such a fool as I. I am not worth the waste of oxygen!” She’s milking her flapping nature to it’s furthest corners, wide eyes darting here and then, nails fiddling with a tricky button on the purse. “My uncle insisted I come tonight - I did tell him I was out of sorts, and yet, well... Social expectations get more attention than the well being of his least favourite niece. Still, yes, how much must I give you-?”

Seb laughed, he couldn’t help himself - It was a blessing, he thought, that he’d never have to worry about his stockings. And he was plenty used to stinking of whiskey. That was, perhaps, an average night for him. Maybe a tad unusual, but not by much. 

His eyes weren’t adjusting to the dark as quickly as he’d like them to, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit anxious about the whole situation. Not enough to show it in his face, even if someone could see him, but enough that he found himself instinctively glancing over his shoulder, before turning his attention back to the voice of the barmaid. A match, a match… He dug in his pockets, and pulled out a lighter, moving to wear she seemed to be, and flicking it on. “Will this do?” He asked, holding it out to her, although not really wanting to let go of a possession he held dear so easily. 

With her soaking shoes and stockings that squelch with sticky whiskey, Elsie fumbles her way through the darkness, following the mildly comforting guide of his voice. It’s something that’s only mildly comforting for her lack of connection and absence of her own care - while it’s inconvenient that she dropped such a pricey bottle of booze, and while it’s scary to be submerged into pitch blackness, this is only a portion of this evening’s entertainment. She’s ecstatic, almost buzzing with her own source of exciting light, just at the prospect of darkness induced mischief. 

The minuscule light that now dances atop his fingertips is enough to delicately illuminate his features, and she silently remarks on his deeply denting cheekbones, his curling lips -almost as sly as her own- and his eyes that, in this light, are impossible to detect the colour of. Momentarily distracted by the issue they share, she nods, an action blind to him, and dips a candle to the flame, allowing the wick to be consumed by a crackling light. “Seems so!” She says enthusiastically, and places the candle on the bar top, then proceeding to light more and create a line of dim light. 

Now that he can see her, she purposefully denies him eye contact, instead gazing into the flicker of the candles that shiver like a line of fearful soldiers. Her brow is lowered and she pouts, fingers drumming on the brass lining of the bar, appearing ever so thoughtful. “Is it concerning, or comforting, that this darkness could conceal all manner of things?” She hops onto the vacant bar stool beside him and teases her fingers through the flames in an action like a swinging pendulum. “Should I fear the risk this might bring, or relish in the opportunity?”

Sébastien could hardly keep himself from rolling his eyes at the woman behind the counter. He knew his liquor quite well, and he knew what he wanted was cheap - That was precisely why he wanted it. Taste was the last thing from the point. But he barely had time to tell her so, when the lights cut, and at the exact moment, she dropped he bottle. Perhaps if she’d selected what he’d requested, she would have reacted differently. But Seb knew his liquor, and that meant knowing exactly what had smashed behind the bar.

He held his tongue until she seemed to actually be speaking to him, through the darkness, and grasped the hand he felt. “Are you alright?” He replied simply. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, he’d been left as child too many nights without a candle to feel that way. In fact, it was almost comforting. “You haven’t stepped on any glass, have you?”

Be it mocked or not, the grip of the hand, larger than hers, does to quell her fear quite sufficiently. Elsie breathes shakily into the dark, blinded and relying on her other senses that, while in check, simply fall short in comparison to the sharpness of her sight. She is admittedly shaken, though over all else embarrassed at having let her composure shatter as easily as the bottle dropped. 

“I’m alright, and unhurt.” To make sure, Elsie shuffles her weight from one foot to the other, holding that hand of his like a lifeline. “Although my stockings are drenched and most likely stink of whiskey!” A giggle now tumbles from her unseen lips, and she drops the hand so to move away from the mess she so clumsily made. Fumbling for the bar to trail her hands over, she very slowly begins to manoeuvre an uncertain route. There’s a point that she knows has candles beneath, so when she finds familiarity on the bars surface, it isn’t too much of a mission to locate the things that would give them a little light. “Here,” she calls, hoping to bring him to her. “Do you have a match?”

It was a brisk day, so much so his usual attire did very little to still the chill within him. He would have taken the car but he had to meet with a client discretely in his boat upon the Seine and his driver had to park a little ways away. The mobster kept an envelope upon his body, unconsciously patting his dark coat where it was held when he was stopped by one of his late mother’s friends. Whilst he was not exactly in a rush, he did so loathe being stopped and sought a way to get out of a lengthy chat about nothing in particular.

Anthony engaged in small talk, talked about business, his health, his daughter - all quite on the surface, all quite boring, yet he was polite though thankfully their attention was drawn to a ruckus behind him.

Call it serendipity but there she was, pretty and svelte as the last he saw her, Miss Elsie with her ever changing faces. Today choosing that of a sweet victim, then again the white knight role was perfect for him to break free from a particularly laborious conversation. Turning, he placed a hand out toward the agitated man.

“Now, now. Do as the lady says. You aren’t about to make a fuss here, monsieur? Right in the heart of the busiest street in Paris? What’ll everybody think?” His voice toyed and taunted before he turned to the brunette. “And are you quite alright, Mademoiselle…” He prompted, not knowing what persona she was choosing for herself that day.

Despite her operational influence, his stepping in brings a chill to the surface of her skin that could not be warmed no matter to fabric cladding her delicate frame. They’re meetings are always so fleeting, but every time, she is left with him ingrained a little deeper in her day to day. With every encounter, the imagined versions of him performing in her fantasies become a little more realistic. But, never as real as she might like. 

He even feeds her desire to flicker from one identity to the other, and Elsie is weak in the knees whether she cares to admit it or not. 

“Appleton.” She pipes up without hesitation. This alias of hers is inexperienced, but regardless of whether she allows Mademoiselle Appleton back out to play or not, she knows that deferring connection from her true identity in this case is the smartest thing to do. “I am fine, thank you, Monsieur. If a little perturbed over this mans lack of boundaries.” She indirectly scowls at the (manipulated) guilty party, who turns away in shame now. With his back turned, Elsie, with as much grace as a gliding swan, swipes a pretty spyglass from the merchants table of wares. She makes it obvious to Anthony only, and with a wink, mouths the word “compensation”.

Whatever surprise her answer may have garnered was hidden with his own indifference; it was not that he expected the girl to be in attendance of the said function (for he would be more surprised if she were indeed there), it was the haughtiness that she displayed that piqued Gabriel.

“The presumption would be more with the company you keep,” the critic hummed in response, “Madame Girardot is a pillar of Parisian high society, if they were not extended an invitation, then perhaps you should find someone more competent to guide you in proper selectivity.”

His stride was leisurely, his tone feigning concern, and the critic continued as though she was his student in dire need of said guidance. After all, wasn’t she attempting to procure his skills and more importantly, his approval, earlier?

“And anyone who hopes to… well, whatever it is that people aim to achieve here, would find it in their best interest to be acquainted with her.” He remained pleasant, this was merely a conversation after all, and her answers were promising thus far. Perhaps he should have not thought of declaring himself the winner in their chess match so early on. 

Had that been some sort of cleverly conducted trick? With this potential notion, Elsie rubs her lips together and carefully considers any answers she has yet to give; perhaps shortening their walk together might be the more forgiving option, for she’s in such an eager state to impress that her toes ache beneath his conducting, be it intentional or not. 

“I didn’t say I wasn’t invited.” She near snaps, but it’s delivered with such a blend of sweetness that it might have fallen upon his ears as pure charm. There’s an element of that, mixed in with the web of lies she is steadily weaving. 

Unbeknown to Gabriel, Elsie has never received an invitation to any of the events that she has attended, with which she has manipulated her way into the hearts of the guests.  “I would, however, not be opposed to a guide, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” she acts as though she’s struggling to swallow her pride, sheepishly blinking up at him and slowing her stride as they turn the final corner and she fiddles with the keys in her pocket, creating a telling clink from beneath the fur trim of her dress coat.