badge of honor

yasmine stepped into the manor with a few bags in tow. she couldn't even argue about not needing help from the bellmen at the door before they quickly retrieved the items and placed them on a cart to be whisked away. her tote, which doubled as a laptop bag, was held close to her. there was nothing more important in this home than the research she's done, nearly finishing her dissertation on multilingualism across cultures, and graduating with a phd within the year. the brunette took a small walk around the large entrance, taking in every detail she could, just in case she had to detail it on a trial in the future. after all, there is still no sign of who invited the woman (or anyone, for that matter). in no time, she found herself in the room everyone else occupied. with a thirst for knowledge that couldn't quite ever be quenched, she walked up to the first person that held her fascination like the home did. "wow, you're here too. talk about being in good company," a friendly grin spread across her face.

perhaps,  she thinks,  her next post can be captionless.  proseless.  this picture of her,  newly arrived,  her skin covered with a thin sheen of  (very glittery,  of course)  sweat,  looking breathless,  but still put together,  will do numbers.  she’ll get paid an entire three hundred euros for it  (#nonspons #notanad). lucrezia lifts her chin when she lowers the camera,  coming back to herself when she’s approached.  the other is pretty,  of course  (as it feels,  so far,  that everyone is quite pretty   —   which is quite unfair,  as lucrezia is often the prettiest one in any room she’s in,  but her therapist  (see:  her astrologist)  has informed her that it’s a time of being less self absorbed).  enough that lucrezia turns her phone off entirely for the moment.  “you really think so?”  she asks,  sounding more flattered than she feels.  “i’m lucrezia,  my company is good.”

𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘,  with VIVIEN FAWKES — open for one reply.

sue her,  she prefers other modes of transportation.  her own car,  for example,  with her own driver and a bottle of saratoga spring water freshly chilled in the drink holder.  or,  a fucking plane.  a helicopter that lands on the front lawn.  anything except a train.  whatever.  beggars can’t be choosers  (not that she’s a beggar,  or has ever been a beggar,  but the invitation is so   …   hmph,  she needs to stop fretting over it,  this is an honor,  even if she was stuffed onto a train that gave her motion sickness and the company of others when she’s mostly traveled privately for the past decade). she laughs,  delightfully  (because she can’t laugh derisively in the presence of others) and responds,  “oh,  much better,  i’d reckon.”  makes a show of taking a sip,  not too ginger,  not too gulp-y,  goldilocks perfect.  “quite perfect,  actually.” she’d offer to switch for a sip,  if she hadn’t read the ten dangers of switching drinks with your friends at the bar  (they are neither in a bar or   …   friends,  per se),  and because she likes her wine.  deep red,  wonderfully aged,  a hint too bitter.  “how’s the tea?”  she offers instead.

Kira drapes over the sofa by the fire, defeated. She wanted to handle her several luggages herself, and make sure they all reached her room without a scratch. But the staff insisted... All guests were to remain and enjoy the recreational spaces until dinner. She makes a sour face, and diverts it to the nearest person who dares disturb her rest. Would they comment on her tall tightly strung boots upon crushed velvet cushions? Or bother her with tales of their journey so far and the pictures they've taken. She has a mind to bite her fellow guest's head off, and the daydream breaks her mood into better spirits.

it has been said by numerous reporters and fan accounts that lucrezia is easy to get along with.  she’s got a gift,  after all.  lights up rooms and bends over so the sun can shine out of her ass.  god,  she’s just so wonderful to have around. which,  isn’t synonymous with extroverted.  so yes,  she can hold a conversation and make a reporter’s knee bounce half a second slower than its usual speed,  it isn’t an indicator of her own want or desire.  maybe,  she wonders if anyone has ever though,  lucrezia doesn’t want to be around anyone else.  perhaps,  though the thought may be difficult to muster for many such people,  she likes having time to herself. or,  not.  she’s tapping away on her phone,  of course.  taking notes  (of important things,  like everyone’s ages,  the color of their hair,  whether their outfits are coordinated or not   —   she’ll want to remember when she writes about it later).  lifting her head,  she takes in the other and tilts her head just so,  smiling sweetly.  easily.  “good god,  if there’s no wifi,  i’m sure i’ll just die.”  she waves her phone.  “my whole life is on here,  did you know?  if there’s no wifi,  i’d might as well   …   perish.”

teymour stepped over the threshold of the manor with his jaw set hard enough to ache. warm light washed over stone that felt far older than it should've been. despite its company, it was quiet, occupied in the way a room feels when conversations have abruptly stopped. his instincts stirred at that. his camera remained stowed and secured against his hip, a worn notebook tucked where muscle memory could find it without thought. he scanned postures, micro-expressions, noting who looked relieved to arrive versus those who looked unsettled by the realization of who else now stood under the same roof. internally, he marked tension, familiarity, avoidance... indeed, people revealed themselves in their silence. offers of whiskey, wine, tea all came easily alongside promises of warmth and rest. teymour merely registered them all and filed them away. after all, he'd learned early that hospitality never came free; it was a language with a price. his mouth remained stretched into a firm line, suspicion etched deep, but there was no fear in him, only readiness. whatever this place believe it had buried, he knew better. someone wanted it to be found. someone shifted near him, close enough to temporarily pull his attention from the rest of the room. he turned just enough to face them, eyes steady and assessing. he gave a small nod and a brief softening at the edge of his expression, a courtesy offered without concession. he didn't speak first, but instead just waited: everyone who approaches anyone has a reason, and he was content to wait long enough to learn what theirs was.

the face is familiar,  but familiar doesn’t always mean good.  like,  if lucrezia had walked in and seen her mother resting on the stairs,  stretched out like some perverted version of an exotic rug,  she might have taken to stepping all over her to get to her room.  luckily,  teymour’s face doesn’t invoke anything quite as choleric.  something more nostalgic,  she’ll later type up on her typewriter,  like getting a whiff of something that makes her think of an ordinary,  particular day that she wouldn’t remember otherwise. he reminds her of camera flashes  (she thinks with an amused quirk of her lips,  of course he reminds her that)  and bubbly champagne.  gossip bouncing off of her hair and landing somewhere in the gossamer fields of silk opera gloves and manhattan high society.  something,  something,  she did it all for a reason,  something,  something. lucrezia always approaches first.  she comes with an air of nutmeg and sandalwood,  a mix of vanilla,  a spritz of amber.  a la bise kiss.  no offer of a drink despite already holding a too - shiny glass in one hand.  no,  her other hand rests momentarily on his forearm before she pulls away entirely,  pieces of her,  of course.  to give herself is to bare herself,  which she knows better than to do.  “oh,  my love,”  she greets,  with all the comfort of someone far more intimate than she is with him  (or anyone,  it is nobody’s fault).  “a familiar face.”  lucrezia smiles up at him,  the same as she has given to everyone else.  award - winning,  by the way.  people give thousands when she smiles at them.  “how are you feeling?”