The moon overhead and the swirling stars. These tell of midnight skies. In stories of pictures. Constellations. It is the rise of some, the setting of others. And here at the pinnacle of the world -- or so it seems -- on this clear night the stars are all the brighter. Suffering not from the moon's reflection upon the world of white below...
     And whose arrival could be foretold out of the points of stars? With the firmament at his back like attending servants? Up the winding road, it is slow going for a white land rover along this stretch of private road. This particular mountain is one of the higher mountains in this area of Swiss Alps -- it boasts of such pleasures and beauty. Of low-lying forests that thin as altitude stretches seemingly ever upward. It is like a spire of snow and ice. God's Cathedral. And nestled on this mountain, on several of her plateaus, are chalets. Homes of those most fortunate and blessed by some portents created by stars long ago. The chalets are quite some distance apart -- as neighbors should be...
     It is to one such chalet that this white land rover turns, up a winding and ascending road through a thinning forest. The evergreens stretch to the sky, and then upon a rise of snow... a plateau upon the mountainside... there is an edifice carved as from the mountain itself. With vaulted and near spire-like points to its scalloped roof, the chalet seems like a miniature of Mad Ludwig's castle. Something out of fantasy. In whites and blues, it seems made of ice itself. Or glass. Or gems. And under these constellations and under this moon, it seems to glow with a light all its own.
     There are occupants. Windows are lit, smoke billows out of the several chimneys, and another land rover is within site. And there follows the barking of dogs. And yes... the howling of several wolves...
     "My dear," speaks Girault, in the shadows of the car -- driven of course by another -- and a gloved hand... the gloves of finest ermine... reaches out for hers. "... we are here..."

     Within the chalet, rum is being poured. Hot buttered rum. Laughter sounds. And curious eyes peer past curtains and windows. Now who could be arriving unexpected here?

     Eyes of the purest jade look out through the window of the land rover, wide with wonder. No, she's never been this far north before. Seated next to Girault, she says with a mildly accented voice, "It is magnificent!" The sound of the Orient within her accent. It is breath-taking to see, yes...especially for the first time. A smile begins to spread across her white-painted lips... one of pure and honest delight. "Who do we visit?" she asks, looking back at him as the land rover pulls up to the chalet.
     Laughter sounds warmly... smoothly. "I think it should be as much a surprise for you... as it shall be for them..."

     Within the rustic confines of the chalet, in the sunken main parlor before the rounded great hearth of stone, the laughter is echoed. Unknowingly. Golden the liquid that fills a clear cup. Golden like honey the color of his hair. And his skin in the glow of the nearby fire. It is not the first cup of rum he has taken. It will not be the last. Valan pours a cup for himself and one for Edward. He is a handsome young man, of the continent, clothed in brown suede and a shirt of crimson linen. Tall, well-built -- he leads an active life and a life of privilege. And in his hands, an offering. A cup held out to another. "Ami," he murmurs. French. Ah, that explains it. "Por vous..." Another glass for you. We will see who is left standing and who shall have to carry whom up the stairs tonight...

     It is perhaps the barking of the dogs and the howling of the wolves that is noticed -- this before the sound of an approaching motor. But... there is that as well. And a man in his seeming late 20s moves from the kitchens to the front door. "I think maybe Georg has returned early..." he says. Though, by the tone of his voice -- he is not so sure...
     Outside a door is opening, held out by one for another. A motor is cut off. Fur is pulled inward to combat the sudden chill...

     "Fair enough," Mariko says, laughing. She will not question his reasons...no, she is better behaved than that. Stepping out of the vehicle and allowing herself to be lead by Girault, she pulls her furs about her more tightly, not being used to the cold weather. It's beautiful, yes, but so uncomfortable if one is not acclimatized to it. She shivers, keeping close to him..

     He heard it too, the man accepting the cup. A look askance and he motions for Valan to keep the cup, he suddenly pushing off the sofa they share to follow the servant to the front door. No one is expected, which immediately raises Edward's hackles. Well, and the dog and wolf complement that gave it all away.
     "If not Georg," he says evenly, "...then whom?" Hmph. The robe around him is pulled tighter, the black boxers disappearing from view. He takes a perch near a window, leaving the door for the expectant servant, watching the vehicle with narrowing eyes. You handle there, I will serve as backup.
     Ah, but the feelings...those are familiar. Edward's brow furrows. "That's...not Georg," he murmurs, but not offering much else. A glance to Valan, and then Edward's brows arch open, widening. Realizing as persons step from the vehicle.
     "Oh, God!" he calls, an open, aching lament. "What in the fucking hell," English now, "...is he doing here...." Edward's head rolls in disgust, hands coming up to cover his eyes. What is with the last two nights ...

     Who else could it be! In such glorious arctic fox, full length. With such a mane of dark curls past his shoulders and in spirals of black. In the light, just a touch of burgundy. And yes, the entire mountain surely must know that it is I, Girault-Antonio di Medici, who has arrived! Even before the knock is landed. Which it does... now...
     Smooth the smile upon the near porcelain features. Beautiful. Too beautiful. And Girault smiles. It is like the pull of silk or velvet to the skin. An arm, ensconced in white and silver fur, reaches for his companion. "It is magnificent and you... my snowflake... are the jewel in the crown, si... so..." He half turns toward her after lowering his walking stick -- a silver lion's head upon it. The smooth smile spreads into a grin.

     The outburst stills the motion in the chalet. At the front door, Stefan pauses, then looks to Edward. An understanding nod. The ghoul gives a call, however: "Just a moment!" Even as a head peeks out from the kitchen down the hall. A woman. Older, blushed cheeks and apron covered in flour. The smell of baking forever follows her. "Is it Georg, Stefan?"

     "It is not your grandmother is it?" Valan asks suddenly, lifting his cup for a sip, even as he sets Edward's aside. A chagrined smile suddenly perched upon his mouth. "If so... ami... I should go get undressed, hmm? And greet her as she expects to find me?" So quick, your Valan, Edward. But he looks to you curiously, golden brows lifting in an arch even as he settles. His shirt undone. His shoes long gone. His feet warmed by the furs at the hearthside.

     As the door is opened, Girault's smile is full and broad. His arms come open and outward, as if to hug you all. "Greeting on the Lord's Birthday... a bit early!"

     He'd managed to wipe the pained look from his face before Stefan opened the door. But he's sure Girault heard. Appearing behind Stefan, Edward says to Ylsa in returned French, "Um, no. Something far more chilly..." shaking his head the entire time.
     "I didn't know you were such a religious man," Edward chides the new guest, then stares at the accompanying young woman. "But, I guess," he still focused on the other beauty, "...anyone can get holy, really quickly." Stepping aside, Edward pulls at his robe, "Come on..." motioning the group inside, "...it's cold out there. But then again, you must have known that, being out in it," said for emphasis. Read: Why? "What are you doing here, mate?" Edward says, taking a pause out of the immediate passageway.

     Mariko stands by Girault's side silently, smiling beautifully after the compliment he paid her. Her birth was definitely within the Orient somewhere, showing in her slightly slanted eyes and smooth features. She is one of the true beauties of her country, no doubt. For now, she remains silent, smiling pleasantly to the one at the door.
     She will move when Girault moves and not before. And she will not make introductions of herself. Girault will see to that, too. For now, she is just the accessory to his wardrobe, it might seen...albeit an exotic one.

     A hand returns to the back of his female companion. Go in, my dear -- such a whisper in Italian and a touch of his hand to guide her. A slight press, even as he himself moves forward. A glance to the ghoul he knows -- a smile and nod to Stefan -- as he closes the door. "Nessuno verrebbero a Firenze, in modo da ho portato Firenze voi..." Lilting. Flowing. Rapid with laughter like a rush of flame licking the side of a glass. So he says: No one would come to Florence, so I have brought Florence to you. "Mio caro, Mariko...this is Edward, my very surprised friend. Very surprised," with a tilt of his head, Girault grins. Curls lying against his shoulder. "Edward, this is Mariko... the flower of the Orient. I stole her from the king of Siam..." Cinnamon eyes drift over Edward to the other in the room. The golden one.

     Valan rises, his own rum left behind. And he holds there for a moment, before taking a first step toward the congregation. Both are briefly studied. So stunning. Too stunning. But he waits for introductions. Upon his features, golden light... and a golden kind of curiosity.

     White and lush the fur drips back over his shoulders as it is shrugged off, leaving a white turtleneck of Egyptian cotton, lustrous cloth, behind. His pants... these are white leather. Yes... he is shown off by them is he not? A form well suited for such texture. Grinning, Girault reaches forward to lay a touch upon Edward's upper arm. "Amico," he says, his French as flawless as his Italian, "... I have come to bring joy and peace on this the Lord's birthday..."

     Feeling the press from Girault and the whisper, Mariko nods and steps inside to the warmth. The poor thing is shivering, but she attempts to hide it. She is usually one of great discipline, but this cold is something she is unaccustomed to.
     As she is introduced to Edward, she turns to him fully and does a quick, yet respectful curtsey... no, it's more of just a quick bob of the entire body... down in a vertical motion and then back up, only bending her knees slightly. It probably took her years to master such a precise motion. "Pleased to meet you, sir," she says in that accented voice, jade eyes examining Edward. Her own furs are slowly removed now, as it is rapidly getting warm.

     The King of Siam? Edward grimaces, but decides to leave that one alone. Bobbing his head, the dark-haired man's robe shimmers, defining what is underneath. A fighter. "Well," Edward gives a pursed smile, "Hey and welcome -- a pleasure," he murmurs to Mariko, refusing to speak Italian.
     But as he's touched, Edward angles, taken now to Girault's side. A glance is given to the woman, and he waves at Ylsa and Stefan. Don't worry on it.
     "You coulda called," Edward says softly, his eyes now on the other in the room. I am trying to enjoy a holiday. Steps are taken further into the room, he anticipating Girault's attendance as he heads back towards the larger seating area. "Did you bring bags ?" Are you staying? Brown eyes look back, find Mariko, smile, then looks further to the door to see if there were any ... accouterments. "And peace and joy to you too, Girault," he tacks onto the end, halfway meaning it.
     But nevermind. He is quiet a moment, eyes upon Valan. A moment, and an introduction will be made.

     "Is she not a delight and a treasure? Ah... the lord gives... and he gives... and he gives," Girault murmurs upon the end of a breath. And then... a look to the golden young man in the red and the brown -- just a glance before returning his gaze to Edward and his hands to the woman. "Hmmm... ah si... a call was made...But," hands go up and he smiles easily. "Let us not speak of it before enjoying the company... shocking... as it may be, yes?" He laughs to this -- but you see it in his eyes. He is waiting for a proper introduction to the golden youth.
     As he waits, Girault waves off Stefan. No bags. But a drink... yes... we will have this. Bring us something warm. Georg's finest. Stefan nods and smiles, turning toward the kitchen. And now it is just the four of you. What a cozy gathering! Girault sets his fur aside upon a nearby hook, and he takes Mariko's coat. "Come, come... I need a chair to go with the forthcoming drinks. It is such a wonder, the view from here, si?" With a guiding arm around Mariko's waist, Girault steps into the parlor -- where the handsome golden youth is standing.
     The parlor is a sunken area in the main room, of soft and comfortable sofas and chairs, furs and blankets, all positioned strategically around the huge stone hearth. The stones of the fireplace are carved and each contain some sparkling stones, like geodes. They shimmer with every flicker motion of the fire held within. Otherworldly. High above, the interior of stone and wood leads to a second and third floor and lastly into large beams and rafters.

     Well, at least there are no bags. But a call? Edward was about to pipe in for that, mouth open, but instead, he once more lets it pass. Girault will insist upon a production, so...let's have it.
     But as the invisible boundary to the parlor is transgressed, Edward seems to stand a little straighter, to glide a little easier as his hand extends towards Valan. Now this...is a beauty. He departs Girault's side to take up the young man's, a smile coiling on his face. Beatific pride.
     "Girault..." no last names here, "...this is...Valan Montague." Mine. He's so brilliant, and I am so...happy.
     Angling left and right, Edward goes on, "Valan, ami, my longtime friend Girault...and his friend, Mariko..." said with a rise in his voice. That is correct isn't it? Hand softly comes to rest at the small of Valan's back, Edward damned near brimming with color and energy.
     Edward motions to a seat for Mariko, now able to give her his attention. "Please, have a seat, someone will bring something warm," he smiles, whatever was making him grumpy suddenly...dissipated...

     Allowing herself to be lead about like a trophy, Mariko's smile never fades. It is a pleasant, quiet smile. She matches her pace to Girault's, moving almost in synch with him. She grins slightly as Girault mentions needing a chair to go with the drinks that are apparently coming. Like they were accessories that just went hand-in-hand. But, ah, she is used to this.
     Hearing the introduction of Valan, she nods politely in his direction, but otherwise remains silent for now. She seems to be one of few words, this one. Her arms are placed before her, bent at the elbows, her hands resting on opposite elbows...the arms are not quite in a 'crossed' position, but merely resting there, it seems.

     For aesthetics, Girault would have to agree. And he takes a moment -- as if to decide for himself. Ahhh... so you are the friend. The Frenchman. The one who has set Maria's hair on end... merely by his very existence. Oh, you -- friend of my friend -- I like. "Valan Montague," a very nice name, one of my country at its base, French, only so far as the last two centuries perhaps. Before this, from places to the south. "It is a pleasure... Tutto l' amico di Edward e il mio amico..." Soft in cadence, warm in tone, the voice of Il Medici moves easily over both French and Italian. He reaches forward to shake the young man's hand...

     Such friends you have, ami. They burn the air they stand in. They all have your... same charisma. You are all... of the loveliest in Europe. From the dark one who smokes cinnamon and hashish, to you, to the red head, and now to this Raphael painting come to life. Amazing it is, that I am in your company at all with such friends as this. Valan turns his head to Edward as the touch lands, the smile remains. Golden hair quite nearly in his eyes. And then to the Italian and his equally beautiful companion. First... to her: "A pleasure to meet you," he says, hand extending first for her own. A kiss to be left behind, Continental. And lastly to Girault. "And ... a pleasure also, Girault. I am pleased to meet such a close friend of my ami..." Mine.

     The grin remains as Girault shakes Valan's hand. A touch there -- his gaze elsewhere. To Edward. Ah... this is... something... new... in you, amico. His other hand is yet occupied with Mariko. Constantly touching... Constantly aware of where she is... and she... aware of him...

     Mmhmm. Well, now all of that is done. You see me, I see you, we see what occupies us both these days. Edward smiles at Mariko, moving to take a seat in the circular sunken area. More than likely, his last perch. Robe is held as he settles down, ermine eyes looking to Valan.
     "So, Mariko," he begins, "...where...did you find our Girault?" Certainly not in Siam. It doesn't exist. Lucky woman. Not. He chuckles and leans forward, checking to see what is left in his cup, giving a wink at Girault for the suggested insult.

     "Pleased to meet you, also," Mariko says, directed at Valan. She retrieves her hand from the greeting, then places it about Girault's waist, taking a liberty.Turning her attention to Edward, she ponders his question. Smiling politely, she says with that accented, exotic voice, "Actually, despite what Girault would have everyone believe, we met in Tokyo many years ago." Emphasis on many.

     Oops. That gets Edward's attention. His head snaps in Girault's direction, brow furrowing. No... "Really?" he smiles, turning back to Mariko, "I am going to guess you were in uni or something?" Hand instinctively reaches out for Valan's, as if to reassure himself that he is nearby.

     Ah, now this shall be interesting. In greens and golds and browns, Valan eyes the couple -- both in white, but... one must assume that purity only exists on the Superficial level . Hazel eyes shine, only partly aided by the nearby fire, as he settles beside Edward. Both upon a sofa covered in furs. Golden brows lift, but he is content to listen. Ah, and then he remembers the rum. Handing Edward his... poured earlier. It is still warm, ami. The mouth full was made for smiling, and smile he does. He sits back, arm lying across Edward's shoulder. Fingers lifting just now and again to toy with the black hair.

     In one of the nearby chairs, Girault settles. Both fur coat and walking stick set aside. A hand lifts to Mariko, as his smile lingers upon his lips. Hand held upward. Come here. My lap is getting cold. Thighs widen and he fills the space, there is only one place for Mariko to go, no? "She is a flower, beautiful to the gaze... hmm? But... every flower has something hidden in the shadow of its petals. The rest..." Black curls shift against his shoulders. "... this is best left to mystery. She is my... prized attaché..." In other words, Edward -- ghoul. "Is that not so, my snow orchid?"

     Snow orchid? Edward's head tilts, he doing his part to look curiously interested. At some level he is, but it's so much easier to simply give Girault shit. Hand rests on Valan's thigh as he listens, fingers moving gently.

     Valan is listening. Interested. Ah, but Edward is ... such a focal point for energy and attention. Valan tilts his head, smile slanting. "The rose and the thorn philosophy..." he murmurs, his gaze redirecting toward the others. Hazel eyes glance down to the hand upon his thigh and the slant of his smile only deepens. He has had his share of rum. It is showing...

     Mariko smiles, replying, "No, I wasn't at 'uni' when we met." She assumes that means university. There is a quiet, shared smile as she looks to Girault and hears his words, sees his unspoken command. Without any hesitation, she moves over to him and seats herself in his lap, tossing an arm about his shoulders to hook herself there."He flatters me too much, but if I protest, he gets upset," the exotic woman says with an almost cat-like grin. She smiles, places a single kiss upon Girault's forehead, not caring about where she is, and then looks back at Edward. "No, we met at my father's home, actually."

     Girault lifts his free hand, his other disappearing around Mariko. As if to say: Where else? "He had...the loveliest silks," begins Girault, his voice deep and soft. A low tenor. And though he speaks the shared language of French, it is colored Florentine. "And I soon discovered he also had the loveliest daughters..." Yes, plural. "Mariko... the loveliest of all and so..." A shrug. She was mine. That was, of course, over a century ago. "She is now the prized flower in the palacio's garden..." Girault tilts his head, his gaze upon her. You, Mariko -- and twenty beautiful young men...

     From the kitchen returns Stefan, new batch of buttered rum in a copper pitcher, along with two new cups. He sets them down, but he does not linger. He leaves you to pour for one another...

     Golden brows arch upward slowly and the smile is wide and warm. Valan looks to Edward, fingers disappearing in the dark. His gaze half upon his lover, half upon the other pair. He is quiet. He listens. Such stories ...Valan leans in, and without delay ladles four cups full of the buttered rum. "This... now... this is a delight, Girault...Mariko... I have had so much... I shall have to be carried upstairs..." Hazel glimmers in a wink. That... to Edward... as he pours.

     Mariko's jade-colored eyes light up as she smells the buttered rum. She smiles again at the wonderful scent. What a perfect way to chase away the chill of this country! Smirking at Girault, she says, "I'm surprised you didn't spirit off one of my sisters, also... Meeka was beautiful." She's teasing him, obviously.

     A fascinating tale. Edward looks between the two visitors, breaking the reveries when Stefan arrives. "Do you like Florence?" he asks, glancing at Valan and smiling. "It is...a long way from where you were born..."

     "Oh, it is lovely in Florence, yes. And I do enjoy it there," Mariko replies, nodding at Edward. The delighted smile upon her face seems honest enough. And she seems to adore Girault.

     Brown eyes shift lazily to Girault with mock cuteness. "He is just so wonderful," Edward says, full of shit, but the smile not fading. "Thank you, ami," he says softly and quickly following, looking to Valan. There...there is no guile. He watches the young man pour, listening to the floating conversation.

     The adoration seems to be mutual. His hands are never empty -- they are full of her. No, I will drink from your cup my flower. And that thought, how it sets with him. Cinnamon eyes smolder, amber held like embers within the brown. And a low chuckle clings to his throat. "Hmmm ...your sister Meeka was lovely... but like her name, was too quiet for my tastes..." Brown eyes turn from Mariko to Edward and his friend. "And... now that you have heard the part of our tale that may be uttered in polite conversation... how is it, Edward, you have come by such a ...charming young man..." Si, man. This is the amazing part. "One with such a respected name..." Yes... who is he, Edward. Girault glances to Valan, to Edward, and then... to the flower in his lap. A look is given to her. Your cup, flower... give it to me.

     Laughter brushes Edward's ear as Valan leans in, hand offering the cup of refreshed buttered rum. He does not lean back after the offer is made, however. Non... I will stay here. Leaning against one of Edward's broad shoulders, Valan looks to Girault and to the woman in his lap. "I have not been to Florence in almost a year, it is hard to believe. I should like to return in the spring or summer..." A look to Edward. Would that not be nice?

     "Hmmm..." Girault grins, attention on Mariko, "...as luck would have it... I have come here to invite Edward to Florence in the spring... and I shall not take no for an answer... he shall bring his friend too, si?" Oh, the way he said that. Friend. Friend that is as much Lover. He knows. Ah, now, who else has uttered it thus?
     Maria...

     Mariko takes a quick little sip from her cup and then passes it to Girault as he eyes it. She knows him all to well. She can interpret his unspoken commands and wishes, so in-tune with him, it seems. As Girault mentions the invitation to Edward and Valan, her face lights up a bit. Guests in Florence... That would be lovely . Not that she tires of the company there...but new faces around the place is always exciting for a bit. Her silver-white lips form a smile as she murmurs, "That would just be fabulous , yes."

     Florence. You've got to be kidding. But as Valan speaks, so is Edward already persuaded. Ugh, comes his look, how'd I get into this one? "Yeah, Florence is pretty nice in Spring," he cedes, "...but I'll need to check the schedule and all. We can talk again as time gets closer, or whatever," Edward tosses, refusing to get cau ght there. He takes a sip from his cup, then looks at Valan.
     But it's the way that word friend is said. Almost accusingly. "As for meeting, we...met a couple of months ago ... near...home," Edward explains, not in any rush to give too much away. A glance to Valan and he smiles. "That so, yes, ami?"

     The tone of the word friend. Is that meant in the usual way or in some ...insult? No, it cannot be that. Valan is quiet a moment, but turns toward Edward as he speaks. "Hmmm... oui," he says more to Edward than to Girault. "In that grey area between Paris and the rest of Europe..." Brilliant. The grin that follows. And Valan turns his gaze toward the Oriental Beauty and the Raphael Painting. Daring. He dares with a look, though he does not speak. There is something... that stops him. We shall call it... hospitality...

     Girault raises a hand, slightly. Fingers in a wave. As if to make apology for the tone. "You asked why I had come here... I shall now tell you the truth of it, Edward..." A glance to Valan. Softened warmth there. More genuine. Genuine? Girault? "I received a call from Angelique..." Cinnamon eyes return to Edward and dark brows lift. He chuckles suddenly. "I have come to warn you..." he continues, pausing to sip at the rum and hand the cup back to Mariko, "... ah, grazie bella," he whispers to her. A hand on her thigh -- and his other not visible -- Girault leans in, grinning in a slant. "Your mama... she is on the warpath...I told her I would come to see you and to make sure you were alright." A glance to Valan. "And in good company."

     My mother? Edward almost reels at the notion. If he could, he'd preach: My mother, God Rest Her, was nothing like that woman . But he does not. There comes a nod and oddly quiet acceptance of the information. "Well," Edward says, fingering his drink, "...that...explains much." Ah, but can you all with keen eyes see the fabric of his cup starting to unravel from the pressure. The delicate matrix of solid beginning to disintegrate. He nods, taking another drink.
     "As you can see, brother Girault," Edward's eyes glimmering at Valan, "I am...quite fine, thank you," and he looks back to Girault as if he meant it. "I am...the best I have been...in a very long while." A smile is given to Mariko, and hand on Valan's leg squeezes. "You...are a good bloke to come out all this way," he says to Girault, eyeing him a long while. You're too nice to her.

     The smile upon Mariko's face slowly turns into something a little more wicked, listening to all of this bantering back and forth. And hearing about Edward's 'mama' being on a warpath and the like, curls the corners of her lips up a bit. She leans in toward Girault as he whispers to her and seems quite comfortable where she is, perched upon his lap.
     There is something in her eyes which suggests that she is very tempted to just sprawl a little in Girault's lap...but no, that would be rude in front of their hosts. She behaves and just contents herself to listen to the conversation.

     It is the love I bear you. "Well, the thought of surprising you... this was already in my mind. So rarely I see you these days..." A half pause to see that look upon Mariko's face. Shall you encourage me? "I think you avoid me," he murmurs, and then he winks. "Ah, but... knowing her as I do ..." he says upon an exhale, "... I have soothed her... comforted her... this... to buy you time..." To spend with your... young man without her meddling. A hand lifts and skims against his chest -- broad, though nothing of the build of you, Edward, or the Angevin. "...It is my gift to you..." And then he chuckles. "I shall make up what I shall tell her on the way back down the mountain. It will give me something to do..." Another wave. "I thought... out of my love for you, hmm? That I should give you... Ah, another sip, Mariko --" He calls for rum mid-sentence. "... fair warning, Eduardo..."

     "This is... Maria...I take it?" comes the slow voice of Valan, slower smile trailing after it. To the squeeze on his thigh, he leaned in toward Edward, a brush of his mouth to Edward's ear. "Ami... I will never answer your phone again..." He looks to Mariko. A smile there for her. He is nothing if not polite.
     It could be worse, Edward. She Herself could have come. And then where would your holiday be...?

     The cup of rum is given to Girault without hesitation... here... drink...Oh, yes. Edward grins at his young man and nods, fingers seeming to massage independently of each other. He tips his cup up with the other hand, and goes on, "You must have talked to her," he notes, "Eduardo?" And he sighs.
     "Do not worry on the phone, ami," Edward does say for the record. "Soon enough," one century, "...she will learn not to ask questions, if she does not want answers. But..." and he looks at Girault, "...thanks for...well...you know." Taming the shrew.

Posted by rowan at February 07, 2001 08:12 PM