i don't pull strings; i weave threads

"When one is well informed, the final discussions often hold very little surprise or excitement. The death of our good Fia Palmgren however, leaves much yet to be uncovered." Aoife responded with her trademark knowing smile. The tips of her lips tipping upward, a sparkle in her green eyes. It wouldn't do to be seen as anything less than in control. "I will admit I do find the silence around this murder is much more intriguing than the conceited spectacle that proceeded last years' slaughter."

Aoife knew how the game was played, no one ever gave anything for free. "Before the meeting I did hear Fia speaking to the head of the Pembrooke Clan, about how they were to be rid of Nsilo so Fia could take her vampiric power for herself. If she had ambitions so grand I am not surprised she had enemies enough for someone to commit this act."

Cordelia considers asking her right away about how Laure comported herself on behalf of Pretorius during the proceedings, but she holds her tongue for now. Aoife knows where the seamstress stands on the matter, though she's woefully curious about where Stephens placed their clan in the talks. Cordelia admittedly has her own qualms about the daylight jewelry and the notion of being indebted to witches -- her sire did raise her to be quite traditional in some respects.

"I do somewhat envy your lack of surprise," she says, "but I find this sort of public spectacle a bit... grotesque." Of course, Aoife's wife pulled a somewhat similar stunt at the art gallery last fall, and there was the masquerade ball before that... Murder tableaux seem quite en vogue as of late. "It amuses me to no end, however, how quickly tongues were set loose at the notion of a mystery. I've simply been trying to listen and learn."

Tressa's at a crossroads, where she needs to decide how deep her annoyance with hunters goes. She hasn't seen hide nor hair of the creepy old asshole who'd stuffed her in a freezer, and the boss-man is pushing up daisies in Orlando by now, probably. There's at least one more unknown hunter kicking around her territory now, though, and she needs to route that out before resting on any laurels.

"I just want to keep you up to date - if there's one here there's a dozen here."

"Do be careful -- and Tressa, you are welcome to enjoy yourself, you know."

The girl is studious and curious, Cordelia knows this. She hopes, though, that she has not instilled in her fledgling a sense of political paranoia or preoccupation with the general tensions within Pretorius. If -- or rather, when -- the seamstress takes Stephens' seat, she does not intend to drag Tressa into the overall machinations of the council. Not because she doesn't trust her, but because she'd rather the girl live her unlife before becoming mired in what truly keeps them all living so long.

But her connection to the hunters is somewhat personal, and Cordelia won't begrudge her that.

And then, just like that, leering at Cordelia from across the ballroom, snapped out of a delusion of grandeur as she tries to scramble instead for something to talk about that isn't boring day in, day out rigamarole.

"I think I've spotted a few more hunters in the Morgue's network," she leads with when she does finally make her way over to her sire. "Not at the actual morgue, but in the vicinity." She searches the room, finds Finlay. "That one, Fin Hall, he's a forensic photographer, and then there's another one, I don't know his name yet, something of a freelancer. That one's still just a theory."

Cordelia has noticed that Tressa seems to be staring at her, or in her general direction at least. But the girl does tend to do that, likely lost in her own world or somesuch. Not that the vampire would ever admit it, but she herself has been hawkishly watching Laure Stephens as she conducts her representative business, just waiting for some evidence or ammunition she can use against her. And if nothing else, while she plays the hostess well, there is a tiredness to the elder vampire's manner. Maybe Cordelia won't have to do much at all.

"Tressa," she greets calmly. She isn't exactly surprised to hear there are others, even after her fledgling had dispensed with the most immediate and pressing of issues within the morgue's network. "Hm. It does make sense they would have more in their employ. Do you think this Hall gentleman will prove to be a concern?"

With that steadiness, the tremor settles and something brighter slips through the cracks to reach for the light: curiosity.

Andi knows the optics and has come dressed to be the perfect guest — an attentive shadow who bolsters Cordelia while learning Port Leiry’s supernatural politics. If needed, she can dispatch any rival with saccharine precision — kill them with a holy amount of kindness — but Cordelia seems unlikely to require rescuing; the vampire navigates the room like a needle through silk, and she is stunning. More than once, Andi must stop herself from leaning her chin in her palm just to watch her move.

"Rumors of godhood tend to be greatly exaggerated by those with sufficient money and means to plaster over their deficiencies. The monstrousness, though, I won't deny."

That word has such a nasty connotation in human society, although the centuries of fantasy media have dulled its sharper edges. Their greatest folly, though, tends to be forgetting that humans have the capacity to be monsters without taking the curse of fangs or fur.

Cordelia watches Andi and listens to her pulse, impressed by her quietude, but wondering how much of that too is just a fancy dress she's slipped into for the night. But the question turned on her is a truth both inevitable and one she'd rather not get into -- it's almost as if uttering his name might make her husband appear. Still, it's not something she can pretend to avoid forever. And it's not as if the human can leverage the vampire's history against her.

Her hand's gentle around Cordelia's arm as she pulls her away from the main thoroughfare of the evening; the flash of teeth that is her smile is something tight-lipped now, like the joy of mingling's gone passé and it's been replaced by something conspiratorial and devilish, like she's got something to say that she just can't wait to unleash.

Tressa searches around, to make sure nobody she recognizes is in earshot, and then in a whisper so low that it only barely clears the ambience around them, she speaks to her sire in a whisper.

"The Phial Witch, the coven leader? I've news on that. Enough poison in that man's system to kill a fucking elephant. Don't ask me how I know." There's a pause there, like she's waiting, and then she shakes her head. "You're supposed to ask me how i know!"

Cordelia has felt comfortable not having to keep too close a watch on her fledgling during the evening's proceedings. While hers is a more a realm of science, Tressa still manages to take easily to the social aspect of the gala. It's perhaps easier given her distance from the general politics of the vampire clans and broader factions within Port Leiry's walls. But the quiet urgency of her touch is intriguing.

She has heard briefly of the newest coven leaders in Leiry, surprised by their general shared youth and oft-sudden installments in their prestigious roles. The turnover is rarely so fast in vampire ruling seats, though Cordelia perhaps wishes there would be a little more expediency to the matter with so many outside eyes turned inwards.

"Interesting," the seamstress muses. Cordelia doesn't ask, much to Tressa's minor frustration. "I simply assumed this was a routine part of your work at the morgue." Then again, to identify a witch -- the murder of a witch, at that.

where: Seam Queens, 7:00pm

The brass bell above the door jingles like a charm bracelet announcing her arrival. Andi Waneoft—black jeans, soft ivory blouse, sunglasses hooked in loose dark waves of hair —slips into Seam Queens with a garment bag looped over one shoulder, the plastic whispering secrets of satin and mothballs. Lavender starch, clean steam, and the faint metallic tang of sewing needles wrap her in memory before the city noise has even finished closing the door behind her.

Rows of bolts fan out like coral reefs, every hue competing for daylight. She drifts through them, free hand skimming textures—peony-pink silk, oyster-grey wool, a jacquard loud enough to start rumors—while the other clutches the hanger’s hooked neck as if it were a pulse. Somewhere between the satins and the lace remnants she loses track of time, hearing her mother’s laughter echo: twirl, my little star—let the fabric choose you.

At the counter she eases the bag onto polished wood and peels it open. A blush-pink sheath unfurls; its designer label winks in silver thread, but it’s the ghost of her mother’s perfume that catches in her throat. Fourteen years of attic dust haven’t dulled that blush.

“Hi,” she says, smoothing the dress with reverence. “I’m hoping to have this tailored.” Her gaze flicks to the gilded sign above the register. “Seam Queens is a cute name. Makes me think of crown-stealing debutantes and sewing-circle dynasties,” she muses, laughter soft as organza. “Anyway—do you take sentimental salvage jobs?"

When they're at least somewhat decently preserved, Cordelia loves the smell of older clothes. Not unwashed, filthy, truly musty things, but the garments that have gone unworn but still reverently loved for years.

Usually, they're family items. Occasionally, a bride is looking to relive her glory days (give or take a few pounds) or perhaps pass the gown on to the next in the family line. For Tressa, it was her grandmother's dresses that were never made with a body like hers in mind -- and yet Cordelia could restore them, alter them, transmogrify them into something the same but new. As it was, yet as it should be.

There's a perfume on this dress that doesn't match the girl in question. So Cordelia assumes it's as much a living memory as it is a fabric garment. It's beautiful, emergent like a butterfly in a white protective cocoon.

"Thank you," Cordelia hums. "I thought it was fun. And less acerbic than its cousin, Stitch Bitches."

Yes, the vampire does have a sense of humor, believe it or not.

"Sentimental salvage is half of what we do here. Proper, good garments -- not this fast fashion nonsense -- are meant to last. They carry memories. Done correctly, good weaving can bear the weight of dynasties," she says, gently reaching out to touch the dress in question, to test its constitution. "A family piece, I presume?"

He gave her a fake smile and nod, "Yes, absolutely, only the best for her." Apparently now the best was murder. Kingsley knew he was alone in this and his views were extreme to say the least, but he still couldn't believe how his own people could justify turning others for whatever reason there was, and boy had he heard them all — love, revenge, loneliness, grief, lust... not one of them good enough, Well, maybe he had almost all of them.

"Science? Cordelia, my love, you know as well as I do that there's no science to who we are, it's all magic, and blood, and horror. Don't you think the girl will be disappointed when she learns that?" It was too late and quite frankly pointless to ask her that now that the deed was done, but Kingsley needed to share his concerns; the impulse was stronger than him. "What will happen to her when she becomes disillusioned with this life? Have you thought of that? Will you watch over her when that happens."

Whatever pretense that Kingsley held of being on Cordelia's side began to dismantle the more she talked about the opportunity. His usual smile went from warm and supportive to incredulous. "Information? You traded a young woman's life for information? For control of the morgue? Are you listening to yourself, Cordelia?" His tone grew more and more serious as his voice grew louder and louder until he finally shouted, "Who cares about the brotherhood? Who cares about the death industry? We could've handled all of this ourselves, you don't give up a life for that. A life, Cordelia. Gone."

He had no doubt that the other vampire was right about the business side of it, or that they might be safer against hunters. Hell, he didn't even disagree that this might be the best decision for Pretorius in the long term. But the cost? That was one he would never be willing to pay. "I hope that you're right about this, Cordelia, and by God, I hope Tressa grows up to be the best vampire of all of us, but you know that you did was wrong. I know in my gut that you know that," he spoke in a calmer tone now, "I just pray that you don't end up regretting this even more."

Cordelia manages a laugh as Kingsley dismisses Laure. She often feels it's a dangerous position to take with other vampires, opposing her representative, but she knows she's far from the only one who has noticed the woman's erratic behaviors -- hell, the Council denied her petition to turn the Boughton girl in the first place. And for as much as the seamstress knows the value of keeping quiet, she also knows when it's her turn to speak up.

"Is a body made of flesh and blood not some part science? More than science, it's knowledge, and she is hungry for it." She understand Kingsley's concerns, and it should be worth something to the other vampire that Cordelia has shared that same sense of restraint for two centuries. And one turning does not mean she's eager for it. She'd handwritten fucking petitions, for goodness's sake. "I intend to be a guardian and a protecting force for Tressa as long as she needs it. I mean, what does any human do when they tire of their life anyhow?"

He doesn't understand -- Tressa was locked inside of her own mind by a much older vampire when she was merely a child. Cordelia spent years keeping her mouth shut by choice, but the girl had no say in the matter. She had every say in this matter, and she was given every choice to change her mind. The seamstress doesn't necessarily advocate for everyone to join the vampiric ranks, but she didn't have the choice, and look what she made of her life. Tressa, with free will? Might make a better vampire than any of them yet walking.

"They were likely to kill her, Kingsley. After some vampire killed her father and compelled her to keep discretion. At least this route offered her a sense of autonomy," Cordelia argues. If she could feel flush with embarrassment at her clanmate's sudden turn, she would. The heat in her face would rise like a child caught spying, or someone backed against the wall with nothing but words that have no power against a man angered enough. "If she'd died nameless to us, who among our number would have given a single care? She'd be a casualty of our presence in Port Leiry no matter what."

She looks away, unable or unwilling to look Kingsley in the eye. Of course she doubted it, it's why she gave Tressa countless options to give into that shared doubt and call it off. But at the end of the day, if Tressa's mortal life was the exchange for ensuring that Laure doesn't run Pretorius into shambles, or that the hunters lose an inch of their advantage in the town? Surely it would be worth it.

After all, who wept when Chirashree died quietly in a foreign country, in the wedding dress she'd sewn by hand?

Wide eyes strike Cordelia from the side, icy blue in shock; "Quel dommage! What a pity!" She makes sure to repeat it, this time, and even the tap of tongue on teeth is just, so much.

"My sisters are busy with their own guests, I suppose." How cruel, how wrong for her to be the one invited explicitly, and to be the one without a date, with pity thrown her way by Frankie, at that. What mad world has she been hauled into? She thinks about Viktoria's little church mouse, and Svetlana's mysterious companion. She harbors little care for one and ungenerous, red-colored thoughts at the other, tempered here only by Svetlana's promise of daylight and a naive desire to actually believe what Lana says for once.

She looks up to Cordelia, brows quizzical, at first, expression curling soon after though as she tries not to assume offense is intended. "And so I asked for an arm, not a kiss, nor a bed." Maybe her tone's sharpish, and mayhaps the earlier boundary simply needed be set, but given Lana's past endeavors in making sure a reputation preceded her, she can't help but wonder. No amount of lascivious sensation can mask the cooling of her mood in that moment.

"Three Lomidze sisters out in one evening, what a marvel," Cordelia muses, sensing an unusual energy in Caska's touch, for as much as either woman lacks a pulse. "I'm sorry they've left you to your lonesome, then. Hopefully you've other friends in the rabble. For something allegedly so exclusive, it does seem about half of Port Leiry is here."

Admittedly, the seamstress has spent little time with the youngest of the clan's core family. This isn't entirely her fault, though, from what she understands of Lana's penchant for... punishing others. Kin included, apparently. Cordelia's spotted Kiri in the crowds as well and kept her distance after their tense exchange of thinly-veiled fangs at the art gallery last fall. She wonders how much the little Lomidze knows of that whole mess.

She quirks an eyebrow at Caska's sharp words, but offers a smile nonetheless. "And so you have my arm, but not to bite -- for that, they've got humans on call," Cordelia laughs easily. Whatever the girl has heard of Lana's designs, it seems the Pretorius hopeful's own ambition precedes her.

"Ah, it might as well be -- Councilwoman Laure has long let her disdain for the position be known, especially as she openly flaunts the rules and, if I'm not mistaken, flaunted the Council's denial of her request to take a fledgling. I'm simply looking to reintroduce a little order and ensure our proud clan isn't embarrassed by a woman clearly no longer fit for leadership. She, of course, has my deepest sympathies for her grief, but it's no excuse for poor conduct."

He's also not stupid, he can tell Cordelia is defensive and he knows that she knows that he's not accepting of fledglings. Good. She should feel bad. "Oh, Cordelia, please. If there's a vampire in this clan that I would trust to guide a fledgling is you," that's not a lie, "I believe you know what you're doing with her" that was.

"I suppose I was curious. You never seemed to be that interesting in having a childe and then suddenly there you are. Caught me by surprise, I have to say." It doesn't surprise him to hear how badly Tressa wanted it. He's met his fair share of the like in his life — some even got him to consider it — but at the end of the day, he still couldn't curse someone to unlife, no matter how badly they begged for it. "May I ask what kind of opportunity we're talking about? You know I can't resist a good gossip."

"Well, our representative has been a model example of what not to do," Cordelia says with a shrug of one shoulder. Her disdain for Laure comes freely and likely without too much surprise from Kingsley. At least, she hopes. The seamstress knows she has allies in her clan and others -- and the less Laure seems to care about enforcing the politics of Pretorius, the more others take notice. "Still, I care for the girl, so I can assure you I do want what is best for her."

At the end of the day, Tressa was told the risks. She made her choice. And Cordelia could not deny her own nature. She treated the turning with the gravitas it deserved. Anyone else's opinion on the matter is irrelevant.

"It wasn't something I planned for myself either, and I am not exactly eager for more," she assures her fellow clan member. Cordelia doubts it assuages his concerns much, but at least her position is known. "Tressa is very... science-minded, and believes she ran through the necessary calculations. I don't agree fully, but she has been enjoying the new experimentational opportunities the transformation affords her."

Kingsley mentions the opportunity and, well... she hasn't really presented her entire plan to any one vampire yet -- Cordelia intends to approach the council soon, though she had alluded to it in her petition to take a fledgling in the first place. "Well, following her transformation, Tressa and I spent some time rooting out the hunters who previously had control of the city morgue. Things were growing more dangerous as the Brotherhood becomes more erratic, and the girl was in danger if they discovered how much she already knew about the underworld," she explains.

"Now Tressa heads the death business and her loyalty to me, and furthermore Pretorius, ensures we have a degree of control over the corpses that are reported on official records. We also have access to the spare parts, as it were, if needed. Given how many creatures have such a disregard for the end of life, I saw the chance to remind this city how valuable the death industry is here. It's information, as much as it is anything else."

She takes Cordelia's hand up in her own, and the soft feel of the cool skin of the undead drags across the perceptions of touch like the rolling clarion's howl on the eardrum. She nearly winces, an uninvited jolt of titillation at the touch, running her eyes over the vampire before her; tall, angular; pointed in her features. Cordelia strikes her as a living dagger, or perhaps more aptly, a needle - something exacting and specialized and precise.

It's the cup of blood, really - even with her dislike of mess, Çaska doesn't deign to drink blood from anywhere but beneath the skin. In that she's reminded of Svetlana, and in that she's almost immediately on edge.

Still, she can't help it, not with the way those slender fingers wrapped around her hand feel, so she lifts Cordelia's hand to her lips and brushes them so gently across the vampire's knuckles, splitting a thin red line of lusty shock through her like she's a struck lighening rod. It provokes a smile as she looks up to Vergers, rose-cheeked and glitter-eyed. "Ravi, j'en suis sûr!" She takes that hand and tucks it in her own. "Would you walk with me, Pretorius? I fear I've no one for my arm tonight."

This is a party of excess, both magical and mundane. Put simply, it's too much. It speaks to Frankie's own lack of self-control, aided by the abilities of her co-conspirator. There is no hint of generosity or charity to be found in the sharing of this immense overabundance -- as the name suggests, it is chaos for chaos' sake.

So Cordelia notes how the young Lomidze's eyes and actions seem to suggest the desire, or perhaps the consequence, of indulgence. Overstimulation. A vampire's very nature is hunger, but something more powerful than blood has fallen between her jaws.

Though their hands touch and lack any sort of pulse or affinity between them, Cordelia feels the tremble in her fingertips and her lips. Interesting. She's not so affected, but rather amused. It's at least a good sign that the youngest of the other clan doesn't immediately disdain her. Decades of isolation from vampiric politics had at least one advantage, then.

"Sorry, I don't speak French," Cordelia says with good humor, recalling Frankie's invitation delivered to her. She allows her free hand to be taken, curious to see what this creature has in mind, while sipping from the glass in her other hand. "I'm surprised you haven't anyone else -- not even a sister, for the evening? I'm afraid if you're looking for another sort of companion, I'm not the type... though I'm sure my clan fellow who owns the establishment might be able to provide."