Late fall in Scotland comes windy and wet. Traffic along Princes Street is full as people begin their holiday shopping. Slick roads shine like mirrors, reflecting metal and the red of parking lights.
Not so far from Waverly, west of the Highland Prince Hotel, is the Siddhane Gael Gallery. Nestled in the New City, it is surrounded by parkland, little wire fences, and beautiful Georgian homes.
This is where Jezebel can be found. Not so far from the Royal Mile, she can deal with her work, but respond if Nilsson or some other might venture to look for her.
A car issued forth from highland roads. When it was seen in rounded, streamlined form, sheep scattered...
And not a single one was lost...
And in the paved streets of Edinburgh, rounding the old city, a brief tour was taken before this metallic wonder turned toward the heart of the New City. Moving like the reflection of the rain on the streets, brought to life...
It could be heard, set apart from the others. And the one within it...
Large form in black leather unfolded. Black leather overcoat, long and suited for this weather, moving in the turn. A computerized beeping, from the pressing of his thumb on a hand-held device. And he moves between the rain. Smiling smoothly, for when the door is opened, his black hair is dry.
How long has it been since you have seen Plantagenet...
Long enough to forget and be shocked when the eyes meet that face and form?
His hair is shorn short, even the longer portions of it have been tamed, cut away to leave no impediment to seeing indigo eyes. And the grey turtleneck is a soft wool, maybe cashmere. Conquered by the very form it covers.
Hands tuck the keys into a pocket of his coat, as he turns to close the door. And as he turns, already his eyes are wandering...
Siddhane Gael is lit, her white walls swooping in waving curves. The gallery is not much bigger than two of the Georgian houses nearby, but its modernity rests in familiar arches and squares that mimic the residential architecture.
Glass doors mark the opening, silver in line with the white stucco. There are no tourists wandering about -- Siddhane Gael is closed -- but lights indicate that perhaps others are inside.
As he was called, he was expecting the door to be open...
At least for him...
But even as he is wont to do with his own galleries, the doors are only truly locked when he is gone or within one of the upstairs studios. Then, one might call his gallery closed. And perhaps it is the nature of the beast, for he finds yours is the same.
William's hand withdraws and he moves forward. Slowly. His eyes following the lines and curves of the walls until they lead him to the various works within. The body of the gallery leads as it should -- to that which it contains...
Gloves are removed, so shall his longcoat be. Shortly. But he doesn't rush you, Jezebel...
For you have to know that he is here...
Or certainly Someone. There's that hum upon the air. There's a subtle scent of cinnamon. There is an even more subtle scent of something smoked. There is the flash of indigo when his glance moves.
"Oh!" comes a voice, a young woman leaning over the railing at the second floor. "You're here already!" she bobs her head and disappears from the landing, calling, "Jezebel! He's here!"
"He is?" The sound of tapping heels quickly follows the girl's announcement. She was already in motion, Jezebel was, and her steps quicken in pace.
Soon, she appears at the railing, auburn hair glinting bright red. Dressed in a green suit, she is the very image of the modern banshee.
"Gwilym!" she beams, hands curled at the rail, "You're here! Ach, lad, it's been a long while!"
Waving at the girl to make herself scarce, Jezebel tripples down the stairs, knowing the fastest line. "Welcome," she says, opening her hands.
He turned at the first woman's voice, a smile starting but holding at his mouth -- she disappeared before she could see it. But as you appear at the railing in your green, the smile is quite perched. Arms outspread, "I took the high road, as they say..." his English comes strangely. So buried beneath layers of slower-pulling French, it sounds not like it should. The smile is warm, lingering as much in the dark eyes. "I don't even know how long it has been, I can't put a number to it, so...that long, you look wonderful. Lovely place," indigo flickers briefly at his surroundings, but then William turns to you. Dark tower that he is.
"Oh, it's so small compar'd y' Abbey," Jezebel grins, the very picture of Toreador. She laughs and embraces you, as warm and soft as any. The stories still persist that she is really a Siren, but no one's cheeky enough to answer.
"It has been a while, aye?" her accented English comes. But say, don't you speak Scots Gaelic?
"Come sit," she murmurs, motioning to a side door. It stands open, and an office is safely ensconced within. Away from the glares of Scots Impressionists or Abstracts. "Want a cuppa? It's raining out, eh?"
Arms enfold you, warmth held in cashmere and leather. "It has," comes the murmur, and English is dropped for the Gaelic that is far more familiar. There may come a time, he can see, when he dispenses with English altogether. "And a cuppa would suit me well, it's quite a gale moving from the northwest country..."
The hold has slipped away and he turns with you toward the opening of the door, the shine of light, the office within. "As for the quick trip, well... it was only six months in the making..."
And he'll let you lead him in. His long strides held in languid check. Even with the Gaelic lilting from his lips, he can't help being the very definition of an Angevin duke...
"I dunno how you an' the Prince live in th' Highlands," Jezebel shudders. How she enjoys being close to you. But once in the room, she moves away to find a seat, motioning the other to you.
On a table, an electric kettle sits at the ready.
"An' don't worry on th' time," dismissing the delay. "I know yer busy. I just wanted to get on your schedule." A miss, and it could be two years before she could get some of your time.
Crossing her legs, Jezebel grins, green eyes bright. "So, tell meh...how are things? Everyone talks about you an' the Dunross bein' back at Strathfayr..."
Are they...
The smile is the bearer of secrets held. Knowledge tasted and known. Love and affection that are readily at hand and apparent to the gaze. Tangible joy. Palpable amusement. William chuckles, the sound lingering in chest, in throat, and he crosses to the available chair. But first...
The coat must go...
He gives it a tug and with the practice and precision that can only come with nearly a thousand years. Motion understood so well it is only barely performed. Rather, it seems more to perform Itself...
William takes up the seat, settling in it, claiming it, large form making languid conquest. And so he is a northern lord in all but name, in his leather, in his black, in his grey. The smile lifts to that mouth again, "Ah good... and my schedule is remarkably clear these days. I am enjoying it. Things," he pauses for a moment, expression warming, the smile beautifying -- if such is possible, "... are quite well. Wonderful actually...And with you? How is Edinburgh these days?"
Well, well. She'll have to report that to the curious throng. Jezebel meeps and jumps from her seat, sliding over to the credenza to push the button on the kettle. "It's good t' hear, y'know. So nice t' have the Dunross back...an' y' with him." She siddles across to her seat, sighing as she slumps in it. A long evening already. "Edinburgh...ach...it is as it is," she grins. "Quiet. As we like it." A long standing story of the city. "All is well...an older, aye."
So the reports should go out...
It would content him for Europe to know that he is home and he is happy. That he is with Dunross, and he is happy. That they shall not see him where once they hoped to, in private rooms or salons or chambers. It would content him for Europe to see what he is, not what they have expected him to be, or heard from other sources...
So, let them know, Jezebel...
The essential mouth curves upward, a spreading smile. "Aye, well it is. A long time in coming. But, I've settled in now," the Gaelic lilts and lifts from him, though his voice is deep and quiet, and as he speaks he spreads in that lordly way of his. "You're all stuck with Plantagenet now. So... we'll see how long the quiet'll last, aye?"
Indigo flickers at that, brightness of stars held in dark sky. You know the look. You know the anxiety that some will have for it. Joke or no...
Jezebel chuckles, hands folding at her laps. "We don't mind," she says finally. "An' so. I guess y' wanna hear why I got ye t' come off the mountain, hmm?"
Reaching behind herself, she pulls a glossy from the table. "This is it. Private, o' course. Needs some work." In a nutshell. Of course, you'll ask for details, but she'll wait to respond as you need.
The glossy holds a familiar image, but perhaps one not seen in a very long time...
The glossy is taken by a large hand. Large but fine, and he looks at it. "Have you had it examined in detail. Any past cleanup performed, touch-ups." Indigo eyes lift from the image of the boy and the fruit basket -- the expression, one of the few, of Caravaggio's unrequited and quite carnal desire for his model -- and a dark eyebrow lifts. "...Corrective surgery or a makeover?" His mouth curves in a slant, the smooth spread of a starting grin.
To put it in a nutshell...
"It looks like it," Jezebel rises to pass to see on the kettle. She stops near you, bending and pointing, "Chromatography shows work beneath this...corner. Maybe some clean-up. But I have kept it in the vaults after initial intake." The last thing she needs is for deterioration of someone else's work.
Moving on, she begins to prepare two cups of tea. "What do you think? I have not heard about this work...in....sixty years?"
"Hmmm... something like that... I think its last home was in Rome. I forget the collector..." he murmurs, almost an afterthought. His eyes narrow. Sadly, it is not here for him to examine more closely. "Probably touched up more than once, as things go. But we'll have to see. If there's just a little here and there, it will mean a faster turnaround. They understand," he queries, his head turning toward you, "that it may be a year, perhaps two depending." He looks back to the photo. "It looks relatively healthy. I'm actually surprised. He falls so in and out of favor, nearly as ... erratically as he lived, it is amazing so many have survived."
A few of them did not survive the last war, it is true...
"So," William turns back to you, warmth easing across Michelangelic features. "...when shall you introduce us?"
The doctor to the patient...
She laughs, spinning about. "How long will you be in th' city? I can have it deliver'd t' whereever y' want...though I'd prefer t' wait till the rain stops." Humidity and all. "But I worr'd on keeping it out tonight." Hence you get a glossy.
"An' yes," she offers you a cup, "...they know full it can be two years. They understand. Good collectors these...though," she purses her lips, "...they are sketchy on th' provenance." So much was taken from families during the war too.
"The fee is standard, save since 'tis Lioncorp doing th' work...then the fee had another 50 percent tacked onto 'it..."
"I can have it professionally handled from here to Strathfayr. We've done quite a bit with the old manor. Interior rooms quite dry... you never know you're in the highlands till you step outside, it's amazing," and that's how the prince and the Prince survive it.
William trades you the photo for the cup. "Thank you," soft Gaelic and a smile for that. "Would you like me to discuss the terms of the move and handling of the painting from your care to my care? Is there anything in specific that your clients would like to know, apart from provenance issues." Artwork stolen by Nazis -- few can bear to see these hang on any wall but the descendents or a museum with the descendents leave. "I can no doubt put those fears to rest quite easily," William continues, lifting the cup for a first sip.
There's no word on the fee. You know his standard charge, and he seems content.
"If you want to handle the delivery, I'm fine with that. Enough cheescloth, tarp-wrap and securings and it should be fine. Might want to wait for this current gale to move over. Say... perhaps two nights?" A dark brow arches upward.
"Two night is good, aye, Gwilym," the Toreador nods, getting comfortable with her drink. "And I'm just as happy t' have yer staff take deliv'ry from here," she nods. "Us t' th' highlands is harder." You are better equipped to deal.
"They have not indicat'd though, that they are interest'd in anything else...save anonymity. That is th' biggest part of it. They're not Kindred, but I canna say that someone behind 'em isn't..."
There's a nod for that. "Anonymity makes my job easy." And he grins at that. "And, certes," he murmurs, "I'll have LionCorp move it. That's why I'm paying them, cheeky bastards. This is good, thank you," a word for the cuppa. He needed something warm. It's been a blustery night.
William settles in his chair, becoming one with it in fact. Immediate comfort, and long legs are stretched a bit. "I appreciate the call, you know I can't resist a good fight." The grin strays at the rim of his cup and William winks. Indigo flickers with the lift and lower.
Posted by Criseyde at May 02, 2003 05:04 PM
