The sanctity of a promise was secured by the ringing of a bell. A painting finished. A portfolio delivered. A call placed. A week's respite assured in a whispered departure. There would be no breaking of this promise, no wrestling with Jacob's angels or his own lust. There would be no temptation.
William was to go to Scotland.
Alone.
A corporate plane was ordered, LionCorp Ltd., and a painting handled by professional hands from Chinon to Lyon, from Lyon to Scotland. From there, two cars were waiting -- a lorrie for the Caravaggio (and its security) and a limousine for William Plantagenet. The number to Siddhane Gael dialed and across the way, coming in clear as Scottish rain, the sound of his voice.
So, how can the sound at the gallery's door be unexpected?
The sight of the large crate beside the larger man. The sight of black hair that blends in with the night air around him, impossible to tell where Evening ends and William begins these nights. That ...feeling... moving beneath the doors, between the cracks where insulation fails, easing within the gallery. The touch of Him upon the elbow of the mind...
I am here...
Siddhane Gael is lit up, despite being closed to the public. It's past hours, but things are busy in the New and Old Galleries in preparation for an arrival and delivery.
The delivery alley expected lorrie and car, and the service doors were already opened at the appointed time. Jezebel herself waits in the open metal doorway, dressed warmly for the summer evening. A green coat wraps around her, and she wears black gloves.
"Ah, there," she says, encouraging her staff to surround the vehicles and see to the visitors' arrival. "Quickly...I don't want anything happening to it," she reminds everyone.
Hands clasped demurely behind her back, Dr. Victoria Gifford waits out of the path of traffic, though obviously interested in the way in which these things are done. Curiosity never having been something she was lacking. A heavy wool turtleneck sweater covers her to just past her waist. The natural color is complimentary to her complexion under the heavy brown leather coat reaching down to brush the tops of the matching boots and dune slacks. A hand lifts in a brief wave, not wishing to distract but ever polite to the hostess of the gallery, "Evening."
"Ah.." Jezebel says, turning around from the working staff to the greeting voice. "Victoria, yea? Dr. Gifford," she recalls. "Nice t' see you again," the Toreador smiles, she resplendent even when working. Chestnut hair flows in waves around her face and shoulders, greeting the green of her coat. She's wearing a dress beneath that -- her heels and silk stockings are visible below the coat's three-quarter line.
"Exciting 'tis?" she asks, having waited for this moment for more than two years. Almost three. Jezebel looks around Victoria to see William and the team, but soon returns her attention to the doctor. "How's Lothian for you?" she asks, using the older name of the region Edinburgh sits within.
The lorrie is quite nice, Benz that... and out of it, the handlers with their usual care and precision. It is unloaded under corporate auspices. It's not every day that they are accompanied thus. Long black car, Man of Importance at hand.
The painting is quickly, but carefully moved within, the exchange happening at the door. From LionCorp to Siddhane Gael. From William to Jezebel. There is no signature to be made here. There is only the concert of moving hands and feet and eyes.
There is a smile, slight but deep, and William moves toward her voice. The smile grows by measures both subtle and blatant, bearing a black leather portfolio in his hand. With his other, he reaches out to her, not for a shake but to balance the Continental kiss that follows. "I come bearing Italians," William murmurs there.
He is clothed in a suit, of all things. Very fine, very black, with a blue silk tie, a silver blue in the lorrie light, a shirt of something similar, something silk as well. In truth, so is the suit. It seems to unfold from the surrounding air and to settle on his form. Summer though it is, it is still Scotland. The overcoat is long, to his calves.
Now here's a look that's priceless. As priceless (perhaps more so) than the painting in the crate. A look taken aback. Indigo momentarily startled. Victoria? For a moment, William is speechless. And half looking as if he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "This is a bit unexpected," he says in English, if that is English, with a quite-heavy drawl of southern French. A dark eyebrow lifts and he looks between the two women. "I am glad I brought plenty of pictures, suddenly. I had no idea there was going to be a party."
The slight smile that was measures deep now becomes measures wide. And warm. Mon Dieu, such a look as that, with that smile, it is a wonder he has trusting friends...
Nodding, the American smiles, "Right, but Victoria's fine." She looks back over to the transfer taking place, hands properlly out of the way and not touching that which she ought not touch. Automatically, but... naturally casual. Surveying. Looking back she nods, her own ruddy-brown locks twisted up into a loose knot, terribly casual for the old doctor, but oddly fitting the new casual Ventrue.
"Oh, it's divine, of course." How else could Scotland possibly be? Even in the cold. At William's look she laughs lightly, easily. "Sorry. I heard a rumor that someone fitting your description might be coming by." She gestures to the proper areas of the gallery, still smiling, "If I'm intruding I can go back out front."
"No, no!" Jezebel says, hand extending to shake William's formally. Despite knowing each other for a couple-hundred years, business is still being done here. "Please stay. And," the green-eyed lass says to William, "I like Italians," kissing him on each cheek, "...my favorites, other than Frenchmen."
"Come in," Jezebel says to you both, though she glances occasionally at William, "...a bit of tea might do th' trick. We can talk of th' work," she says. "They'll see to 't...." the transfer, that is.
A gloved hand pats the leather porfolio. "There is enough of 'M' to go around," M Caravaggio that is. "And you are kind," William whispers to Jezebel. A thanks for the compliment on behalf of all Frenchmen everywhere. "Enjoying Scotland?" he asks of Victoria as he turns, bringing up the rear and like a gentleman proper, making sure that no doors need to be held out et cetera. He grins. "Heard a rumor?" William pauses, the smile slanting. I wonder from whom. "I was a little concerned for the weather, mais oui, what with paintings melting in London..."
Oh, that. Do try not to gloat so much Plantagenet. Humility is so much more attractive...
William looks to you both. "Tea would be grand. I am not used to the chill, already. Silly me, I thought it was June," indigo sparkles in a wink. "It is good I have the love of a Scot. He was kind enough to warn me on the prevailing breeze." And may have even picked out the suit. In it, William is something more than resplendant. "I have the papers, the provenance description, the usual vows and promises and... something a little new. Something you will like. And you," he says to Victoria, "... will finally see what I do for a living, other than sit around and smoke, drink and make wise commentary..."
"Thank you, tea would be lovely." Victoria says. She follows Jez through the doors and looks over to William with a chuckle, "Oh, I'm aware that there is much more to your day than simply being ornamental no matter how good at it you are. I still manage some of Ian's business holdings in the States, as a matter of fact. And while I quickly realized that looking after the gallery, even peripherally, was going to be too much for me, I gave it the old college try for a good few years before realizing my dabbling knowledge wasn't going to cut it."
She smiles as her hands find their place at her sides, "But it would be enlightening to see how it's done properly."
Ahead of you both, the Toreador chuckles. Her feet tap on the royal mosaic on the floor. She leads you both behind the great staircase that centers the older portion of the gallery to a small elevator.
"Ornamental," Jezebel smiles, liking that. "Ah, a girl needs a bauble like y', William. Where do I get one?" she coos, as the elevator door slides open.
Ornamental. There is delight found in that. Is that what I am? I suppose there is something to that. He follows with a stride slower than you both, his legs with a longer stride. "I would start in France and work your way southward," he murmurs. "Or ask Ian for permission to borrow his best brooch."
Soft and deep, his laughter is held in his chest and in his throat. Yes, that is funny. And Ian himself would be amused. William Plantagenet, ornament...
"Managing galleries is one thing," he murmurs to Victoria. "In truth, I do not do this as directly as I once did. The Abbey has a competent and creative staff. Non, what this is..." the hush in his voice conveys it, "... is far more personal. Far more ... me. It is... what I do best."
Copy others work, once for profit. Now, those same skills are being applied to fixing and restoring works that would otherwise be lost. It is a noble enterprise. It is perhaps his most unselfish act.
Laughing, Victoria steps easily into the elevator, giving William a grin and a wink. She obviously has never believed that he was only decorative, but it's always good to get a little rub in. She smiles and nods, "I remember the vault." There were some 'reproductions' there. Noteable ones at that.
"Though I think the ones that I saw there were older. And I've always liked Carravagio. You know me and crazy people." Psychiatrist humor even. She looks over to Jez with a smile, "We should test that theory though. If there were a crop of them lounging about in the Pyranies we could make a fortune."
"I need a brooch from th' Dunross?" Jezebel winces at the thought that she might need help. Her red-brown brows arch and Jezebel reaches out to push '3' on the elevator panel. The doors close quietly.
"I've ne'er been one for th' sunnier climes," she confesses. That plan out the window. A sigh, and Jezebel thinks a moment as the elevator rises.
"So," to the subject at hand, "...tell meh, Will...how's it?" A weak smile. "'S everything you thought?" The restorative work, that is. "It's amazing... this work. I'd ne'er let anyone touch 't, if 'twere mine. Well," Jezebel grins, acknowledging, "...save mebbe you." And even she'd have to think about letting the work remain as it was. "He's one of th' best, Victoria. An' I know them all..."
Only if you want to wear William, Jezebel...
"It was better than I thought it would be. It is in amazing condition. With the varnish as it is now," his own, a special recipe at that, "... it should not need to be touched for three hundred years. Unless the owners are careless," he softly notes. Indigo eyes glance to the portfolio held closed in his hands. "It was amazing," he breathes. "To have survived what it survived, to be in such hands," yours, "... I am...was... very fortunate to have been able to spend time with it. I am more convinced of his genius now than I ever was in the past. There is pain in every stroke, and love and desire so intense, you can see where the hand trembled to put it down." He looks between the two women. He understands a love and a desire like that. "It needed a cleaning. Someone tried to do a little home repair, mais oui, around the 1780s, it looked like. But not so bad. It could have been much worse. It could have been lost for all time, considering where it has been."
I could see the evidence of its own journey. It is as much about tracing the steps as it is repairing the marks of Time and misuse. You know the entire story of a work when you look at it through a magnifying lens.
"I am one of a very small company," William notes to Victoria. "And the number of those trustworthy is smaller still," he grins. "Ah, and I have an affadavit for you as well, my dear," William says as he leans in toward Jezebel. "In blood, no less. The devil himself could not write a more eloquent statement of innocence..."
A guarantee. No forgery made.
She watches keenly, more the expression and man than necessarily the artist One could ask if William does anything that he doesn't excell at, or if it's that in anything he does there is excellence. Blue bloods through and through.
"I may not be an expert in the field in any sense, but neither am I unversed."
Humility is wasted on Victoria when it comes to William and art, she knows better. "But it's wonderful that you've found an area that perks your interest so keenly." Those kinds of devotions are hard to come by for some, even without having hundreds of years to gain and loose them. "It sounds positively lovely, though."
Jezebel's eyes open slightly to reveal further her green irises, but her lips press and thin. "It...Will," the doors opening on '3' as the bell rings, "...that....'tweren't necessary," she gets out, looking up and stepping out of the elevator to a large office.
The room is a single large area, as if it were an attic once. Rafters angle here and there, but if they are support, they're rather helter-skelter. More than likely, artistic effect. Works to be shown, parceled out, reviewed, restored, or considered are here, as if waiting some final stage of judgement by Jezebel herself.
It is not a studio, however. It is business through and through. If Genevieve does any work still, it is not here in this room.
"So, please," she motions to a comfortable sitting area. "I'll have tea brought," Jezebel says, beginning to remove her gloves finger by finger.
"Are you a collector, Doctor," Jezebel asks idly, considering Victoria's last comment.
"Ah, I know it," comes a roll of Gaelic. "But for you, I only do the best." Including a letter of promise in his own blood that no reproductions were made during the contracted repair. He chuckles then, for in truth it is something of a joke.
As it is Victoria who is questioned, William takes that moment to remove his overcoat, setting it across one of the gathered chairs. The portfolio is large, larger than 11" x 14". It is set upon the seating area's table, still closed.
Fingers come out of his gloves, one by one, like restless lovers anxious to be unclothed, and he stows them in his suit's jacket, in an inside pocket. He looks between the two women. He will answer Victoria's question by and by. In the meantime he settles in to listen, fingers lacing across his silken middle.
"Only as a hobby, nothing speculative or professional. My most extensive interest is in glass, actually." Victoria answers as she takes a seat, legs crossing easily with a light grace, "I know enough about painting and sculpture to get me into trouble. I'm always interested in learning more, though. I have absolutely no talent artistically, so it's pure voyeurism."
She lets her fingers lace together over her knee, looking over to William as he settles in, "Ui's actually more advanced in classical art than I am now. Though I've done pretty well with the history angles. Maximillian wouldn't have it any other way when I was younger."
"I am a wretched voyeur," comes the roll of French-heavy English, coupled as it is with a slow pulling smile. Oh, sorry. We are talking about art, yes?
William grins, from eyes to mouth to the energy around him. "And, oui, repairing old things makes me happy. I am an old thing myself. We go together, Caravaggio and I. I restored him. He restored me. It is an old story of old men." A pause. "And sometimes, yes, I like to watch." A soft chuckle, a quiet exhale.
I slay me.
Jezebel nods, but looks a little confused. "Oh, right. Maxie," she nods, recalling. Yes. The connection. A known Sire. "U-i?" she asks, green eyes darting between you both. Enlighten me, here.
"Virginia, tea for three, if y'don't mind," Jezebel suddenly pipes, touching a button on her desk. A click, and her hand is hers once more. She crosses the room to take a seat near William's things. A smile crosses her lips as she shakes her head at William's commentary.
Chuckling at William, Victoria shakes her head, turning instead to Jezebel with a grin, "Nobody's called him that for a while." Perhaps there's more there than she knows about. Wouldn't necessarily be a surprise, even if it was more recent. She's never fallen back in with her sire terribly well after the incidents in New Port.
"Ui's my husband. He's back in the States keeping things under control." Another one of those wacky Ventrue and their marriages. "He's also my childe, I sired him when I was with William and Ian in Oregon."
Jezebel nods. Yes...marriages. Strange things...immortal, undead creatures, needing such archaic institutions to give themselves the ability to stay with another immortal for...well, all eternity. Why not just...say you're together and be done with it?
"Childe marriages," Jezebel actually says. "Seems t' be a disease..." she smirks.
"Can you believe I allowed such a thing?" William murmurs, casting a wayward smile from Jezebel to Victoria. His hands unfold and he sits forward, taking the portfolio. He unzips it to reveal a thick portfolio presentation. "I will interrupt this for business, only for a moment," he continues quietly. "Just to tell you what I have provided..."
He lets the childe marriage thing go. Afterall, is he...was he not such to Ian, and is it not so?
"You have a statement of provenance, last known locations, and the locations where the painting was seen both before and after the war," that would be world war the second. "I have also provided images before work was done," he turns pages, revealing slides, photographs, imaging maps made from equipment that is, as it would be, top of the line. "...detailing the areas of concern. I have also provided images along the way, to show the progression of the repair, and then... finally... the ending images and the painting itself. There is the letter," lips quirk, "...for your files. The rest is for your client. He traveled...quite a road to get to you and I, mais oui."
From Rome to the Rhine, from confiscation to liberation, from parlor to cave to studio. It is all described, with the forensic details to support the story. All part of the service.
"The varnish.. just for your information... is a private mix. As I said before... if it is held in good climate and no one smokes cigarettes around it, the painting should not need another facelift for some time. Structurally, it is sound. Amazingly so..."
He turns over the materials, professional to the point of artistry, and settles back in the chair. "Sometimes marriages happen," William simply says. "Oh, speaking of... The Dunross sends his love and greetings. He is sorry he is missing you, but I was getting underfoot, you know. He needed a break from Plantagenet..."
As all would...
"You were quite the softy." Victoria teases lightly. Those who were there of course remember that the transition was not an easy one. Anarch threats of war and all that. But, much better than it could have been, certainly.
She watches and listens in silence, not having anything of value to contribute to this portion of the discussion since it isn't her area at all. Victoria glances from slide to image to document as they are shown, watching the journey of the painting unfold with obvious interest as things move along.
The elevator opens and a woman appears with a large tray in her hand. She quietly comes over, and sets the tray at the edge of the table, once Jezebel's hand makes space.
"Thank ye," is all Jezebel says, letting the girl depart without much fanfare.
Jezebel nods her head, eyes focused on the wealth of materials provided. One slide grabs her attention, and she picks up to look through it. "I can see where some'ne tried a wee bit of home restoration," she notes, squinting her gaze. "Hmph," she says, setting that slide down and rifling through others. "Amazing..." another slide chosen. "Do you have the x-rays? Anything beneath?" she asks. "Once I had th' work in hand...I questioned one o' th' fruits in the bowl.."
More quiet. Jezebel picks up another and another, soon going double-fisted with slides.
A murmur. "Nothing about William is soft." Thankfully.
A glance to Victoria, a held chuckle that creates a humored sound in the nose. Yes, that was an interesting two weeks, was it not? The table, the Ventrue, the sword, the judgement. All the while, he not even the prince to give it. Well, needs must when the opportunity presents itself...
"Someone had tried," he mentions, including Victoria in the discussion with an indigo glance, "...as is always the case in my experience, the attempted correction of previous generations always provides the more difficult challenges. Dirt and grime? These are easy in comparison. Even smoke damage can be less devastating that Someone Who Thinks They Know Better. Fortunately, the Renaissance is my specialty," fortunately for the painting, you and the client.
"The x-rays are in the back," he notes, "...arranged chronologically. You will see the layers on the red grapes at the top, again, the pear in the center. Someone thought he knew better about Light then Caravaggio. I spent most of the past two years on the pear in the center, and the grapes. That was done in the early 18th century, I could tell by the materials, I put it around 1783. The pear had been all but recreated. It appears that there had been some damage of travel, water, and an attempt to cover it up. I was able to repair the pear. Not even Caravaggio would likely be able to tell the difference." William pauses and smiles, "...though he would certainly argue. The rest was fairly incidental. The biggest fault was, of course, the 16th century varnish. Once that was stripped it came alive. It had gone yellow and green and was cracking in the upper right hand corner. I think, over all, it was ...and is... in excellent condition. Particularly when one considers the fate of most of his works." Lost, destroyed, reviled.
The shooting. All kinds of little annoyances. Victoria listens yet, taking one of the tea cups offered and adding a little milk before taking a sip, easily done despite the fact that it's all pretense. There's a buzzing in her coat pocket and she sets down the cup on its saucer, pulling out a cellphone and glancing at the number, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to excuse myself." She stands from her seat, not answering the phone but offering a hand to Jezabel first, "Thank you for letting me come up with you, it was very interesting to be able to listen. I'll have to try and get a lesson another time."
"Popular," Jezebel smiles, lowering the slides. "Come back when y' can," she says softly, setting slides aside to make her cup of tea. "I'm here, most even's," she explains.
And though chivalry may be forgotten in most quarters, there is still threads of it extant in the world. As Victoria rises, so too William. A smile on his face, he reaches out with a hand, but that is only to brace the continental kiss farewell. "I will be here for a few nights," he explains. "We should have a drink tomorrow," whatever you prefer for beverage, "...you have my cell phone number, yes?"
She returns the kiss on his opposite cheek easily, "Of course, I'd love to." Victoria nods as she steps back, one hand still holding the silent phone as her other releases William's, "Yes, I've got it. I'll be sure and get ahold of you and we can meet up." Giving a little American wave as she goes to the elevator she dials with her thumb before getting in, "Night."
"Hm," Jezebel says, setting her freshly-made cup of tea on the side table. "Interesting girl...Dunross trusts her with some of his business?" Weird. Maybe even he is slipping in his old age. A shake of her head, and Jezebel smiles at you.
Alone at last.
"You are beautifully dressed," she comments, looking now for the photographic series. "I cannot recall when I have seen you so, William. A marvelous suit..."
"Thank you," and out of the presence of The New World, the Old World relaxes. The smile is simple, unadorned by pretence or teasing, and for its simplicity all the more striking. "It is new. For a time, I resisted this Age," the mouth upturns at the corners, "...but I am in it now. It is too late to turn back." Dark eyes shine in the low light, violet and blue, as he retakes his seat, a hand smoothing over blackness.
"Dunross is full of hope for the Young," William explains. "He wishes to teach... always. She is one of his... students, of a fashion. She handles some of the property that Ian left behind in Oregon. I sold the gallery there, my properties in the United States. My future, as my past, is here." Scotland. France. Europe. "Me, I have no students," he murmurs, smile tracing a smooth line following the smooth tone of his voice. "I am still a student myself, mais oui."
Her grin is skeptical, head slightly turned away as if to make her point. Jezebel's chin dips. "I won't ask 'bout this Age," she comments. "I think I get yer point." Though it surprises her a little. "An' th' Dunross is more generous than he should," Jezebel observes. "A good man, he is."
"As you."
The smile turns into something more radiant as she looks you up and down. "My client...he'll be grateful for yer work, William. It's amazin', truly. So, y'won't be surprised when I tell y' that I got another for y'..."
"He is generous-hearted, a trait for which I am eternally grateful." God knows, he has needed to be over the years. There is a smile for your compliment, the lifting of a brow as you continue. Such sweet words. Who could ever tire of them. "My pleasure," he says and then he stops.
And then he grins...
Another?
"I am surprised, but don't let that stop you..." he murmurs, fingers lacing once more across the silk. He is intrigued, quite clearly. Interested, most certainly. Staring, of course. Staring is not the best choice of words. Nor does 'studying' truly explain it. Indigo returns your look, settles like a touch and fixes lastly upon your face. The mouth curved yet into a smile.
"Why surpris'd..." Jezebel asks, standing quickly to cross to her desk. She exhales there, and turns around to bring you a photograph, twelve-by-twelve.
"Don't ask too much, Will," she simply states, handing the color photograph to you...
"Not that you would ask, but with the celerity of the request," he explains. One job done, another one so soon. But then, it will require him to stay in Chinon, perhaps. This is not a bad thing.
The last phrase seems...strange. Eyebrows lift and he looks from you to the 12" x 12" photograph, fingers outstretching to take it. You know how to dangle the carrot in front of the Plantagent, this is true. Getting better at it all the time, really.
Of course, it is not difficult. He does prefer to give into temptation rather than resist it...
There's something slightly familiar about the scene in the photograph. The painting takes up the entire field. In it, light plays upon a young man, teenaged, his curly hair given more to you than his face, which is turned to his left shoulder and downcast. His left shoulder, your right perspective, is at the front, and his classically white shirt plays gently down his shoulders, revealing his throat and upper chest in full realist glory.
Following the line from his muscled arms hidden beneath the white drape, it ends in his hand where a pear is half-peeled. The off-white flesh of the pear seems complimentary to the teenager's own skin, and the knife is angled to finish the eye's draw. White crumpled shirt continues, though it ends shortly at the boy's thigh, beneath a second pear in his lap. A seated figure, it's not really noticed until the observer comes to the line where white cloth gives way again to the flesh of the youth's semi-crossed legs...
Jezebel takes a breath. You'll know it, but only from copies and honorariums done in homage to the missing original painting, whose singular figure was reused, in part, in The Music Party.
His eyes narrow. Are you trying to tell us something, Merisi, that your works seem to be resurfacing where they lay dormant for decades. Some, for centuries.
He knows the one. You know it because the smile falls away for an expression of placid intensity. Without emotion. Keen. One of those that did not survive, not the Renaissance. Not the Enlightenment. A whisper, forgotten by the two wars -- at least, for everyone but those of us who follow Renaissance art and Caravaggio in particular.
"The boy with the basket of fruit is like the... tuning of an orchestra," William murmurs. "This... this is the symphony here." He looks up from the picture. The picture of a copy of the famed and alleged original is held yet in his hands, lightly by his fingers as if it would disappear, dissolving, with any greater touch.
"What do you wish...or need... done?"
"Your client found it," Jezebel explains. There is something in her eyes. "It...was badly damag'd an'..." you've been chosen, "...needs help, Will."
That's no copy.
Jezebel sighs. "But y'can't..." you know...ever tell anyone. "No one can know, Will." The painting is her own. Perhaps.
"Not e'en, th' Dunross. It can't be...in anyone's mind." Not even yours, perhaps, when the work's done.
That will make life interesting. But he nods. He has vaults, that is where the work is done. He is the only one with access to them. "That would not be difficult. No one has access to my vaults but me, and you ... can imagine the secrets I keep there." Originals that no one knows are ...not hanging on the walls they should be. Copies made to be held and redistributed at some point in the future perhaps. Things stolen from the Renaissance (he prefers the term 'rescued') to the second world war. Some in the name of profit. Still more in the name of ars gratis artis.
"You understand that for something of this nature... the fee will be substantial..." Indigo glimmers. "Particularly if it will require domination in addition to my usual services." Spoken humorously, meant seriously. William passes the picture back to you.
"You have it... or do you need to acquire it..." An eyebrow lifts. Yes, he can provide this too. As Vincent has found out. The hard way.
"It...will be deliver'd t' ye," Jezebel says, taking a seat across the coffeetable from you.
"And...you agree easily to...the Dominate?" Too easy. "Maybe...you should think about this. There is risk...and would y' want t' forget..." something so miraculous? A lost work, restored by your hand. "No, I would not agree to this, William," she says frankly.
No, he did not catch that straight away. No, he does not like it. You can see it wash across the otherwise placid expression. One of his ilk does not like to be on the receiving end. As it were. There is an exhale.
"It is a hefty price for a priceless work," he murmurs. "The dominate, for me," him as the target, understanding this now, "...would be superfluous." A pause. "Unnecessary. You... they... do know what I deal in, mais oui? The Unknown? The undiscovered..." William lifts his gaze to the ceiling for a moment. "I can guarantee that no one in my household, including Dunross, shall know of it. I would discuss other...collateral, if that is the word to be used here, in lieu of subjecting myself to a dominate by an unknown source. That seems extreme. Even for a lost Caravaggio..."
That is more of what she expected.
Jezebel nods, looking down at her lap. It is a little disappointment. Perhaps her options are limited.
"I understand," she says softly. "But...it's jes'...there are some who'd...kill...t'know th' owner. Where'd they get it..." her hand waves. There is contention around such a lost piece.
"It is not that I wish to remember my own glory," he assures, "I have the Sistine Chapel for that. But to give someone I do not know the access to things I hold most dear, mainly my mind and my memory, it is worth more than a Caravaggio, contested or no. I have seen how such things go. I have never seen it go well, cher." Ian springs to mind. Perhaps that may be felt. Perhaps if you went looking for it you would find it. Knights of the Blood, Henri, Alexandra. Sorrow.
William exhales, head tipping back. "I must think of it. You offer quite a temptation, amie. It is like," his eyes narrowing, "...being given Eve for a wife, but to have her, to enjoy her...first you must take a bite of the apple, mais oui?" He looks to you. But he knows you understand.
William sits forward, "I understand what would arise if this work were ever to be shone. Even its copies are safe guarded. Speaking as a man who was once a Youth who peeled pears," a small smile, "...such things as this," the painting and your request, "are rare indeed."
Close as he is, you may notice it more, the scent of cinnamon, and...yes...pears. "Is there any other assurance one may give apart from the dark recesses of the mind? What may be bargained here, Jezebel. For you know there is no better hand for this than mine."
Another sigh, this one louder.
"I don't want t' put yerself or th' Dunross into any danger," Jezebel says. "Ne'ermind," she waves off, hands no less elegant in stress than in calm. In fact, she puts a hand out, "Y' have a lighter?" she asks, prepared to burn the photograph itself. Jezebel laughs softly. "Eh, but you know now," she smirks at the irony.
There is a small smile at that. "Oui... I do know." And he is, for some, the very last who should know such. He, unlike most others, is dangerous with such knowledge. He lifts a hand. "It is not in my best interest to mention it," but he produces a lighter nonetheless. "It would not be in my best interest when the work was in progress or complete. I understand the sensitivity," he's not afraid. "But... amie... there has to be another way. Ah," he says lowly, "...now I want to smoke... I am such an addict..."
He hands the lighter to you, but not as simply as that. He takes your hand, he bends his head, a kiss and the lighter left behind. "Do not do anything... until I have thought it over."
He is still going to consider it. How could he not?
"I will be in Edinburgh all week... I will... think it over." William pauses, eyes drifting from you momentarily. "Just out of curiosity, if I were to accept this bargain, with the enormous fee," he slides in again with a slight smile, "...who would be...doing the honors..."
"Me," Jezebel says softly, tilting her head upwards. She tries to give a faint smile. "Do you think...if you know how much danger y' could be in...that th' request is too much?"
Her hand retracts and she flicks the lighter, sending flame to the corner of the photograph.
"The request is already too much," he notes with a smirk. What's a little extra danger. "I have to wonder, of course." What is going on. In a larger sense. Paintings moving. Old matters bubbling to the surface. Things lost becoming...known again. What danger you are already in...what danger you may be courting.
"At least I would finally have the pleasure of being dominated by a beautiful woman. I might consider it more seriously if I knew there might be rope or handcuffs involved." A moment of levity is chased away by a slight wink. What follows is a look of dilemma. He wants the challenge, even the danger of it. If it were that and that alone, without the domination, there is little doubt that he would accept it. Danger or no. He is not one to shrink from such.
"Pity that the more I know, the more difficult it will be to convince me that I know nothing. Well, amie... I will give you a final answer by the end of the week." Acceptable?
"It is," Jezebel finishes with a small smile. She tries to respond to the levity, but it is, in truth, rather serious. The painting needs work. But it is not any painting, and its existence would bring back old struggles.
"Thank ye, Will," Jezebel says, sitting back. Coat gone, she gleams in blue skirt and white blouse. Her brows arch as she looks at you once more, and then asks...
"Now what's this y' say about a melt'd painting?"
"I heard it on the radio on the way from the airport," he notes, seriously, quite seriously. "That gallerie in London... the one with the bad luck," his fingers snap, as if that will help him remember its name.
It doesn't...
He gives up with a wave. You know the one I mean. "It was in the news. Seems like one of the paintings in the gallery began to dissolve today, first in flakes and then it began to decompose." Dark eyebrows open outward. "It is terrible, no? The gallery is closed... such a string of...bad luck..." As if.
Beneath the look of concern, there is the start, just the twitch, of a smile.
Jezebel blinks, trying to process. Her legs cross as she sits back. "How can a paintin' melt?" Fleck? Bad luck? You're rambling. "Did y' do somethin'?" she asks, not really aware of any of this today.
"Maybe I should see th' Post..." Jezebel twists around, looking for the newspaper from this evening.
He looks shocked that you'd suggest it. Me? Make paintings melt?
"I am telling you, it was in the news. I heard it in the car. It was the same gallery that had the vandalism last year." A pause and William frowns in concentration. Was that just last year? Or the year before.
Vandalism in a gallery. Surely Genevieve McMaster should have heard of this one. Jezebel spies the paper on her desk and stands to fetch it. But about then, a light goes on.
"Aye, is this di Marco's place? Th' one wit' th' drab, stupid name that doesn't mean anythin'...oh, what is it..." She can't remember either. A sigh and she stomps to her desk to retrieve the stacks there. Post...too Scottish. Ah, ha! A copy of the Daily Mail from London. Twisting to sit on the edge of her desk, Jezebel begins to flip through the news.
"Ala Mode?" William tries. Alle...something. "It is something like that. I only remember that I don't like the name," he chuckles. Indigo flickers in a wink. "I guess I should check the air conditions at The Abbey. Just to be on the safe side..."
"Mm," Jezebel nods, thinking the same for herself. She flips quickly, page after page, then...
"Ach, here."
Eyes read the article, Jezebel disappearing behind the folio. The paper rustles suddenly as it jerks downward to reveal her face.
"You melt'd a paintin', William?" Oh, marvelous.
"Why are y' meltin' paintings? I mean," Jezebel admits, "...I met di Marco...arrogant lad, to b' sure. But..." now she's confused. Why would you destroy someone's work?
"How do you make the leap that I did it? Do I look that guilty?" Maybe it is the fact that my eyes are watering and I can't keep a straight face...
William drops the innocent act. "He insulted his own archon, vandalized her shop. And I would never destroy a man's... original work." Original. Hint. And now he is grinning, just at the corners of his mouth. "Clever, no? It looks like the picture of Dorian Grey. Only perhaps even a little worse. If that's possible."
"Actually, I should tell the whole truth. Davydd came home one night, found Vincent coupling with Rose on Davydd's favorite chair. A few week's later, Vincent is involved in a vandalism of Sandrine Jorgensen's flower shop... Sandrine, by this time, Davydd's new lady..." A black eyebrow lifts. "I threw the melting painting in as a bonus."
Now I need a cigarette.
He doesn't explain how he got the originals or how he made the copy. It's best not mentioned really. "The little ass deserved a lesson full of mastery and subtlety..." If he does say so himself.
Jezebel looks stunned.
"He vandalized th' archon's shop? Th' bollocks he has! An'...what did Thierry say?" she wonders, shaking her head at the audacity of it all. "Ach, Christian...th' justicar!" Oh, he must be hopping mad. All this in the Toreador ranks. "I canna believe it. Someone did this t' th' archon?" And she missed it all. "No one told meh..." Not a Toreador call at all.
"Come to think of it," William chuckles. "I never asked. I don't expect Thierry did anything. Davydd was trying to take his job at the time. This was year before last," he finally decides. "The original... response," the vandalized paintings, if you add 2 and 2 together, "...was the brainchild of...well...three heads are better than one, mais oui. But... the melting..."
Now, he's laughing...
That was all his...
"One day," William chuckles, "...perhaps I will tell Vincent who got the better of him, reveal the lesson to him, that he never forgets it. But...for now...I sit back and enjoy it..."
She's not so convinced, but you seem to enjoy it well enough. Jezebel shakes her head, tossing the Daily Mail aside. Ah, that prince bit. She remembers plenty of gossip on that one. She crosses the room towards you again, retaking her seat as she picks up her cup of tea once more.
Posted by rowan at August 03, 2003 02:49 PM
