#untaimedtempest

SEND 💭+ MEMORY + (OPTIONAL) A WORD

To see a glimpse into my muses past! Multimuses please specify!

The party is in full swing behind him. The band is playing some nice swing number that Logan's pretty sure he's heard somewhere before, but he can't place the name. It's got some rhythm to it. There's a din of chatter and laughter floating over it all, weaving between the notes and sparkling with the tink of champagne flutes. Boots scuff and heels click on the marble floors. The scent of alcohol and sweat mingles with hors d'oeuvres and fancy perfumes. Some people are wearing real furs - mink, ermine, rabbit - while others carry the squeakier rustle and artificial scent of something fake. The breeze from out on the balcony brushes away the powdery after-taste in the air from too many faces in too much makeup, too many coifs with too much hairspray. Down below in the garden, around the bubbling fountain, there's a more relaxed atmosphere. Logan watches them from where he's leaning on the railing. He takes a sip of his drink, swishing it around his mouth and swallowing. The bubbles dance and pop down his tongue. He crosses his arms over the solid stone and waits. It's a nice spot to pass the time - away from the main chaos, and with just enough vines growing over the windows that, here, nobody can see him from inside, and they'd only see him from below if they bothered looking up. Nobody does. With how dark it's getting out here, he doubts anyone would be able to spot him even if they did.

It's a good spot.

He's idly watching the people milling below when he hearts it.

Footsteps.

These are different from the ones inside, because they're a bit heavier - she's tired - and coming towards him. He pretends not to notice. Even when worn out, she's a pretty fast walker, and takes decent-length strides, so she should be here in just a moment. He times his next sip just as she rounds the corner. Three, two, one...

He glances over and chokes in surprise, champagne dripping from his mouth back into the glass.

"Oh!" The suddenness of the noise made her jump, too, spilling champagne down the front of her gown. Logan turns, eyes wide in sympathy. It was at least partially genuine; the booze and the dress were each worth a small fortune.

"Gosh, I'm sorry, miss." He said. He pulled his kerchief from his breast pocket, shook it out, offered it to her. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"No, no, it's my fault." She shakes her head, but accepts the offered hankie with a smile. "I didn't think anyone was out here. I was just trying-"

"Trying to get away from it all?" Logan asked, a gentle smile on his face as he tilted his head. She blinked, then smiled a bit wider.

"Yeah." She nodded. She finished wiping herself down and moved to lean against the railing next to Logan. She offered the handkerchief back; he accepts. He tucks it into the pockets of his slacks. As he glances down, he scrunches his face as if he just noticed the state of his jacket. He leans back enough to take it off, hanging it over his arm.

"Oh, your poor jacket." She tutted sympathetically. Her glossy lower lip jutted out in a pout. "I hope it's not ruined."

"Aw. this old thing?" He scoffed and shook his head as he waved his hand through the air to shoo the thought away. "Nah. It's nothing. More of a pity about your dress." He indicates it with a nod. She glances down again and smooths the skirt with one hand. "What is that? A Bassanelli?" Her dark, perfectly-sculpted brows raised in surprise. Logan didn't need the confirmation; He knew he was right already.

"Oh, someone knows their designers." She grins. He shrugs with a chuckle. He knew a bit about fashion, sure, but not enough to name a dress off the bat, usually. He'd just done his research. That was from- "-the most recent spring collection, and it was originally worn by-" Paula Monet. He knows. It had cost upwards of five figures. A lot to spend on a scrap of cloth. He smiles regardless.

"That was a good season." He says. Her heartbeat slows down, her shoulders relax, her scent shifts as she gets more comfortable.

"It was." She agrees, watching him more closely. Bingo. "Are you very into fashion?"

"You could say that." He nodded, dropping his eyes for just a moment. "How about you?" She laughs quietly, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, that's putting it mildly. I grew up in the industry." She shakes her head, then lets it drop with a sigh. "I shouldn't complain about it. I love fashion, I love design. Always have. And God himself knows it hasn't been a hard life, but... Having to dress up all the time? Always having to look good for the media? It's exhausting! And it's just..." She blinks and looks briefly confused, then scrunches her face in apparent discomfort. "It's just that I've probably had too much champagne, because I'm complaining at you." She closed her eyes, and they shared a small chuckle. When she looks over at him, her eyes shine blue-green in the faint light from the windows. She smiles shyly, pink lips and rosy cheeks. "I haven't even introduced myself yet, have I?" Logan smiled back and shook his head. She doesn't need to. She doesn't know that, so she goes ahead with it anyway.

"I'm Carlotta," she says. Carlotta Roquefort, age 26, eldest child and only daughter of Emile Roquefort. He knows. Next she'll say that her friends call her "-Carla." She's still smiling at him. He lets his smile turn into a bit more of a grin.

"Can I call you Carla?" He asks, and she grins right back, a bit of pink rising to her cheeks.

"Maybe." She tugs a lock of hair free of her meticulous up-do and winds it around her finger. "What do I call you?"

"Andrei." An easy lie. She blinks, squints, then stands a bit straighter.

"Wait a moment." She wags her index finger at him. He pretends to be confused. Wide-eyed, standing up himself, head tilted to one side.

"Did I...?" He blinks, pointing to himself.

"Andrei as in... As in Andrei Swift? The director?" She sounds excited now. Logan sighs and nods, holding his hands up as though he's under arrest.

"Guilty as charged." He says. Of course, that's another lie - the real Andrei is drunk off his ass in a club somewhere. Easier to make sure he never got his invitation than kill him; if he was found dead or vanished, this could raise even more suspicion. He wouldn't remember a damn thing about tonight.

"No way!" She turns to face him fully. "I didn't think you came to these parties! Or... Any parties." She frowns, and her brow furrows. "Sorry, this is probably rude, but- I heard you were kind of a recluse." Logan chuckles and nods again, swirling his champagne in his glass.

"I tend to be, but after Commoners flopped, and everything with Pattie-" He cut himself off and let the humor drain from his face. Concern filled hers.

"Is Mrs. Swift okay?" She asked, reaching to put her manicured hand on his arm. Logan looked away.

"It's Ms. Turcotte now." He said, then took another swig from his glass. She gasped softly, placing a gloved hand over her heart.

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry, I- I didn't know." She stammers. Of course she didn't know. Nobody did. It happened just yesterday, hence why the real Mr. Swift was shitfaced right now. Logan says nothing, just nods. He stares down at the glass in his hands as if he could bore a hole through it with his eyes. Carla shifts closer to him and puts her hand on his back. He sniffs; her perfume is pretty strong. Well- Strong to him. Lotus, with a bit of jasmine, peach- Fuck, it burned his nose. At least it just made him sound more upset. He sniffed one more time and scrubbed at his face with his free hand.

"Are you okay?" God, she sounds so genuinely concerned. Were they wrong? Was she innocent? He was starting to hope so.

"No." He shook his head. "But I will be." One way to find out. "I thought coming to this party, getting outta my shell, that'd help, but..." he polishes off his glass and shakes his head again. "I'm trying to turn it into inspiration for a new project." That had her perking up.

"Would it help to talk about it?" He can hear the eager curiosity in her voice. Please let him be wrong about this. He pretends to think about it for a moment, then shoots her an apologetic glance.

"I'd have to get you to sign an NDA first." He sets his glass down on the railing. He lets her be disappointed for a moment, then furrows his brow in thought. "Actually... I've been looking for someone to do some line readings for one of the main characters. I can't guarantee anything, but if it goes well..."

"Me?" She puts a hand on her chest as her eyes go wide. He can hear her pulse elevate. "Oh, I don't know about that..." She's giggling, though, even as she tucks an imaginary lock of hair behind her ear. He imagines the alcohol has something to do with how easy that was. He leaned on the railing and propped his other hand on his hip - a relaxed, open posture.

"C'mon, what's the harm? Fly out for a few days, we can see how it goes." Fall into the trap, girl. Make it easy for him.

"Fly? Where are you reading?" She does.

"We're staring out in Kosovo." It's always Kosovo. If she gives the stock response, she's one of them. C'mon, say something different.

"Oh, I wouldn't be able to go to Kosovo." She replies.

Fuck.

"No?" He asks with a frown. "Why not?" Say something else. Don't follow the script. Don't say that your father's business-

"-Had some bad dealings with a company there. Ever since then, there's been-" -A lot of tension in the area. So it's really best if I- "Avoid the country entirely, for political reasons." She offers an apologetic smile. His jaw tightens, but aside from that, his expression remains unchanged. One last chance.

"There's been rumors about that sort of thing." He shrugs. "Something about bad metals, I heard." She beams at him.

"I had no idea you were part of things!" She reaches out to take his hands; he lets her. "I thought I'd be the only one here!"

"So did I." He returned the smile. He glanced back to the door, then to her. "Well, Miss Carla, I've taken up so much of your time - I should let you go. But before I do, can I trouble you for one dance?" She steps closer.

"I'd love to."

It really is too easy. He guides her into a waltz, classic, simple, gliding around the balcony until they're past the ivy, out of view again. His hand slides up her back to rest on the back of her neck,

and he crushes the vertebrae like straw.

The gasp she makes is strangled, gurgling, terrified. His stone-faced expression doesn't shift when he pushes her over the balcony. He's already collected his jacket and made it to the roof when he hears the dull thud of her body hitting the stone walkway, the shrieks of the party-goers below.

Tomorrow, the news will talk about how Ms. Carlotta Roquefort, age 26, fell off a balcony at a party and broke her neck.