Music is in the air, every cafe (including Starbucks) is crowded, busy. The end of summer frenzy has continued to the first flush of autumn. Everyone's showing off their new fall wardrobes, some in couture, Stella McCartney, jumpers, suede, leather, wool. Hipsters and Young Elite commingle with artists and weekend rabble. Unlike some places, London has a festival every night, darlin'...
     He's not in Black Jack Davy's, though he has a set there at half-past ten, and he's not got a pint in front of him. He's a bit polished, really, a hand knitted white jumper of the best Welsh wool from Powys sheep, knitted by lovely Scandinavian hands just for him -- that woman! -- is covered over with a leather coat, coupled with black wool trousers. He looks like he stepped off a page of Haversham's Gentleman's Quarterly. Fiery bronze-copper hair is cut short, wave only hinted at. And the man shaves! Just a little stubble seems to be creeping its way back in. It's a look, for certes.
     Davydd ap Owain, called Llywelyn, is a shiny copper penny in a bleak town, ain't he? He sits in the middle of the bustling, hustling, with a large saucer of fancy, French coffee that makes him doubt his manhood and his fourth cigarette. Fiery eyebrows are cocked up as he half reads some story.
     Mostly, he's people watching...
     Green eyes peep over the edge of his paper and he watches humanity stream by. Like a golden sentry, he watches them come and go. There's not hunting on his mind -- far from it. It's just like watching the sea. It's calming, ceaseless.

     She's not really much into the night life anymore. It's not that she's given it up entirely, but to be Fiona, there had to be some sacrifices. After all, not all sacrifices are blood and fire and sex - even if some folks think they should be. Still, there comes a point in everyone's routine that routine begs to be broken; no matter how busy and eventful rather than humdrum, footsteps turn to new directions.
     Fiona's moving through the arena, scouting out fashions with a critical eye, garbed in her own fashionable skin - lovely stuff, a long navy blue coat lined with merino, over a tailored shirt that emphasizes delicacy of wrists without any flounces or ribbons to it. It's not a poet's shirt, but it is silk - a shade deeper than burgundy, a shade lighter than cranberry, paired with fitted trousers the colour of toast. Her hair's pulled back into a tight cornsilk braid, unadorned with any baubles or beads, and her sole piece of jewelry is an undeniably expensive, but functional watch.
     That's not to say she doesn't travel accessorized. Laptop and case, cellphone, lightly tinted sunglasses, they all contribute to her at the moment. Lady Fiona Arundel is back in London, and on the move, prowling restlessly in search of - inspiration? respite? someone in particular? no one at all?
     Well. At the moment, she'd settle for a drink...

     In the bustle of the evening, of course there are shoppers. Stores staying open later now for holiday hours which seem to come earlier and earlier now. And for some people, this makes winter a particularly wonderful season.
     Rosamund Caermichael steps out of one of the boutiques, two bags in hand on either side. Labels that speak of the kinds of stores one has to have an appointment to be waited on in. And she looks it. Blonde hair swept up under a wool hat that speaks of elegance and refinement. A matching jacket and suit skirt heavy enough to suit the England evening weather. The blouse underneath a contrasting navy to the tan, though it ties in with the piping that hems the jacket to define it from the skirt. Some people would argue that the woman had never seen a mud puddle much less accidentally stepped in one. And the shoes she wares are not ones that a window shopper would bother with, though she doesn't seem to have any trouble.
     Checking her watch easily she glances at the crowds working through the area, definitely looking for a particular individual. And from her expression, that particular individual is most likely late. And is going to hear about it.

     Coffee was lifted, sipped, and thank god was swallowed because as Davydd looks up, another surveying look tossed to the great swath of frolicking humanity, he goes pale, then a bit pinkish -- particularly at his ears and at the edge of his cheeks, freckles appearing where they were mostly hidden before...
     And to the faeries in the neighborhood, that popping feeling on the air isn't Davydd's head exploding. Yet. But the very SIGHT of the woman makes him go off like a Roman candle.
     And even Rosamund Clifford Caermichael can feel it. To her, it'd feel like majesty really, the calling card of the Old. And there he is, an Old Man with Coffee. Her Old Flame. The man she couldn't live with or without for fifty years, or was it a century? Sommat like that. It's probably too late to leave. Setting his cup down, he gives his paper a snap and smoothes it out from the wind.
     Yeah, that's the reason...
     "He's going to have a hell of a time parking," Mortimer. That great ass. To think of that man... and ...well, just to think of it. Of course he's heard of it. He can't walk around this town without someone saying: Happy to see you, Davy boy. You know, Mortimer's fucking Rose.
     Davydd clears his throat and goes back to reading his paper. As if.

     There's a certain nicety to not being the center of Davydd Llewellyn's discomfort, for once - or, possibly, even having been noticed by him for her to avoid her. So far. Fiona's oblivious to even that nicety, though - but not to Davydd, having spotted the copper as it emerged, then descended once again, behind his paper. Of course, even if she'd missed the hair, there's that sudden sheet of static that makes her instinctively check her blouse for wrinkles - or spontaneous nudity; when that feeling's cropping up, either is possible, and neither desirable. So she thinks.
     Altering her course, Fiona moves towards the locus point of firecracker-ness, waiting until she's just a bit behind and to one side of him before she addresses him in a mild tone of voice, "Good evening, Davydd. We're both back on our usual stamping grounds, I see. I do hope you're doing well?" She's groomed and manicured almost to the point of retired racing greyhound, isn't she? At least it's not 'pampered lap dog'...
     And at least the first words out of her mouth are not followed up by You know, Mortimer's fucking Rose.

     And as if she wouldn't know who it was from the second it emitted from its epicenter. There's a breath that's taken and let out, and a tight smile sets itself on her features. Society, darling, it's all around us. Or, for some of us, ingrained in our very being. And for those of you who were counting, it was one and a quarter centuries, off and on. Some people apparently weren't.
     "Davydd. Lovely to see you too, of course." Which, from her tone, it isn't. If there were any emotion there at all the one to guess it could probably win some of those prizes on the walk from guessing the numbers of marbles in a jar. Which would probably end up being a better prize. You'd avoid having your eyebrows iced over at least.
     At the greeting from the other woman approaching through the crowd, Rose nods. Polite to the nines. She gets a smile too. Without much of a thaw. "Please, don't let me interrupt at all."

     He hadn't had the chance to notice Fiona -- she might thank her lucky stars -- until, of course, she speaks and then she gets to see that look, that priceless Cymri I'm-just-three-steps-from-the-12th-fucking-century-and-liable-to-go-Medieval look. The other woman, the beautiful, pristine, blonde, well-packaged, ice-cold, well-mannered, and did I say ice-cold? has just set him off.
     Welsh Roman candle, indeed...
     But he keeps it all in, he tosses his paper down, he smiles just as prettily as the sunrise. "Well, hello there, Miss ...Caermichael, is it?" Ha! "I don't believe you've met Fiona Arundel, Fiona Arundel, this is Rose Caermichael, my ex who..." he chuckles now, "...I was just hearing about earlier tonight. Well, you know what they say. Small world." And he glowers, the smile failing in between moments. "Fancy running into you here, you know... in a city of millions," Davydd casually notes.
     And he reaches for a cigarette. Rose always hated his smoking. He takes in a good breath and lets it ease from his nostrils like a proper dragon. The air is positively electric.

     Fiona's expression would be that of 'politely taken aback but of too good breeding to show it directly'. She shifts gears from Davydd to Rose, offering a hand. "How do you do?"
     Dilemma : Fiona and Davydd haven't got a relationship, and haven't had one in the past; any 'relationship' between them has been so scattered, so very infused with strong emotion and utter chaos, that it's impossible for the young lady to know exactly how to react just to him. And now... she's meeting his ex. With whom there are apparently a great many acrimonious feelings floating around. What does one say or do?
     "Actually, I work near here," Fiona chooses to answer Davydd's annotation, rather than risk too large a gaffe. She's playing it cool. This is distinctly Fiona, not Drancy. "I needed a bit of a break from my office, lovely though the view may be. Do you live in town as well, Miss Caermichael?"
     Ah, innocence. May it get her through this one as well as past.

     Electric is right. Lightning could shoot out of her eyes at Davydd and fry him like a crisp. 'Miss... Caermichael, is it?' Smug bastard.
     A gloved hand is extended to Fiona after her bags are set on the cement next to her, "Pleasure." Whose isn't specified. "Kensington, yes. Sometimes it's good to make a change in your day. Don't want things settling into anything too stagnant after all."
     If this is how we're going to do things, fine.
     Turning back to Davydd again she arches a perfect eyebrow into an exact rise, "Small world indeed. I'd really expected you to see at Edward's boy's coming out. You know, having friends around to make things go more easily and all. It was too bad he didn't have a hand there. The boy's wonderful though, just the thing I think. You know how fond I've always been of Edward."

     He wasn't actually told of the coming out. He's only heard about it as he passes through. Funny that. All sorts of people wanting to talk to the would-be prince of London -- remember that? Ha! Well, you know...when you live in the country, folks suppose that you're not told of anything.
     "Yeah," Davydd rumbles slowly, "... I heard it was a great party," his Welsh voice lifts, inflection soaring a bit as it does when the Welsh are either upset or excited, "He had Edward's hand. Besides, as everyone's so eager to point out," Davydd grins now, a pretty expression on a handsome face, his forest green eyes smoldering like the Welsh woods on fire, "...I don't live in London. Montague does. It was for London's benefit."
     Whoever this Montague is, he sounds important for all the talk of London, name dropping, et cetera...
     Davydd sits back, hands folding at his stomach. "Yes, I do remember how well you liked Edward. Edward is a good man. William sends his regards I'm sure," lips curl at a smile. "I just saw him. Pity you couldn't attend the festival. I have never seen the castle lovelier. Dignitaries from Rome and Athens, Tours and Poitiers. It was quite the fete. Your kind of party." Davydd clears his throat and looks to Fiona. "So many parties, so little time, wot?" He exhales, mouth pursing a moment and he watches his cigarette burn without him. "Why don't you both have a seat," he rises. "And I will buy a coffee for you both. God knows when Mortimer is going to show up." Yes, he knows, Rose. "No need to have you standing out in the street, cold..." Was that... gentlemanly? Really? Actually, it was. Despite himself. Davydd even sighs at it, then smirks at himself. You can't even help it, boyo.

     Reclaiming her hand after the polite exchange, the quasi-faerie mortal in the party nods pleasantly to Rose. "I'm over by Pashmina's - I'd moved to a newer place, but I ended up moving back, just to a larger apartment. I missed the neighbourhood, with all its vitality and charm." She cants her head to the Welshman, then, hands falling to the back of a chair, resting there - will she stay or will she go?
     "It was a working engagement, for me, actually," Fiona tells Davydd, though smiling. "I didn't even stop to say hello to William; I didn't figure he'd be too crushed, he ... had enough attention on him." And his killing manhood. "Thank you, that's very kind of you, though are you sure it wouldn't be imposing? I wouldn't want to be ... in the way."
     After all ... she's not averse to rescuing Davydd if he really and truly needs it - but he hasn't seemed so enthused by the prospect of her company before. She cocks an eyebrow in his direction, the faint, quizzical smile perched on her lips as she glances from him to Rose.

     "My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail." As if. William isn't sending her anything unless it's a flaming arrow across the channel. "It's good that all of you had such a lovely time though. Sometimes getting away is just the thing."
     Eyebrow retreating back to it's perfect position on her brow once more she seems about to decline, but some kind of perverse quality overtakes her better senses and she nods instead, picking up her bags and bringing them over to set all four next to one of the seats, "That would be just the thing, you're right."
     Turning to Fiona she smiles, "Oh, don't run off on my account, I'm not likely to be here very long at all. I'm expecting someone and we'll have to leave when he gets here. Pressing business around town and everything. You should enjoy your break."
     Gloves are literally taken off now that they've proverbially been shed, laid over her lap neatly after she's taken her place, "And I do know what you mean about neighborhoods. I've practically grown up in Kensington, I can think of hardly any other place I'd live."

     "Oh no, my treat," Davydd offers up as Fiona leave wiggle room to exit. No, lass, I'm afraid not. You're going to stay here and keep me civilized. "What would you both like," he says as Rose takes a seat. He looks to Fiona, eyebrows lifting. He smiles, he will go for coffee, but what he really wants is whiskey.
     Pivoting toward the seated Rose, Davydd smiles warmly. All wine and roses charming. It's completely fake, of course. He really wants to let it all hang out -- and she remembers what that was like. "William was a bit busy," he says to both Fiona and Rose, "... and you know how French mail can be," and French males for that matter. "Hardly the most reliable. But I'll be sure to tell him I saw you." Oh, both William and Edward will be getting phone calls.
     His ears start going pink again, both women might know what that means (temper, temper, Davydd), but he shrugs it off (or makes the attempt). "Kensington was all right, but ...ultimately...not for me," he looks from Fiona to Rose and settles a look on his ex. "Neighborhood's not what it used to be. Oh sure... it's fashionable enough... if that's your bag. Manicured hedges. Neighbors all named Reginald, Bernard or Steve. But... still... to each his... or her own...wot?"
     Can you tell these two have never had "closure"?

     "Picadilly South," Fiona answers Victoria, still in that pleasantly sociable, polite tone of voice. "My parents do still maintain a residence at Kensington, though they've been spending most of their time in the country, these days. Mother's been trying to get me up for a shooting weekend they're hosting soon." Note the lack of answer as to whether or not their only child shall be in attendance.
     Glancing to Davydd, she agrees, "He did seem a bit busy. Quite all right - I was working, as I said. I opted to tour the village instead of renew old acquaintance." And we all know how that ended up. "The article should be seeing daylight soon, though."
     Ah, middle ground. About the last place which Fiona ever imagined she'd find herself - playing obscure peacemaker between Davydd and ... well, anyone else, really. "How are the dogs doing, by the way?" And a twist to Rose - "Have you seen the new fountain they're apparently planning on erecting? I'm not sure it's entirely tasteful. Father's having a minor fit - it'll keep him in the country for another two weeks, at least."

     Rose smiles a dazzling smile. It really isn't hard to see why the two of them were a pair. Even when she's being an ice princess she still looks absolutely stunning. "Oh, do. That'd be fabulous."
     "Cappuccino please, extra foam, half fat, with some nutmeg." Half fat. That's just in there to see if he'll order the right thing at the cafe. See if he's nice after this. Right.
     "Reginald asked about you, by the way. He thought it was too bad that you weren't going to be around anymore. Misses seeing the boys out front. He so wanted to take you over to his club." From the way she says club, it doesn't sound like it's one that she'd get invited to.
     "Oh, yes, and he's entirely correct." Fountains. That's safe. "Some things that people think are art just baffle me." She turns to Davydd, "You... have a friend now that does something with that, don't you?" Or... not...

     Davydd peers at Rose like she's lost her mind and she's babbling nonsense. What are you on about, woman? He pauses, a hand gripping the back of his bistro table chair and he damn near gawks at her -- like one does subconsciously when staring at insane people muttering to themselves. Art? What? Fountain? Davydd just simply shakes his head, "You know me, Rose. I never had a head for art. That was always your particular interest. Art. Artists." Fucking artists on my leather chair. Making paintings of my belongings as you chucked them out into the street.
     "Cappuccino, extra foam, half fat with nutmeg. Sure you don't want a lemon twist?" He smirks, looking over to Fiona, "How about cappuccino all around, oes," a touch of Welsh, he rubs his hands together, "...that sounds good. Talk amongst yourselves..." Shouldn't be difficult. Both of you like to talk for the sake of talking. Women. If I were smart I would have joined Reginald's "club"...
     Davydd steps away from the table and heads to the cafe's bar, beneath the shelter of the awning. As he waits in line, you can visibly see him counting to ten, his eyes looking up at the awning's sheltering canopy.

     "I get the feeling that somehow, I said the wrong thing," Fiona murmurs, a bit acerbically - a touch of Drancy rousing, perhaps, then subsiding. Certainly, there's a brief flare of energy from her, rippling the air and shading her eyes from cornflower to sea-green. She shrugs, though, choosing to be philosophical, and the ripple fades away, contained once more in its fragile shell.
     "So should we talk amongst ourselves," Fiona drawls to Rose, "or should I just take his newspaper and do the crossword, filling in rude words for all of the answers?" Alright. Maybe Drancy's not that far below the surface, at times.

     "Davydd, you know I've never liked lemon in my coffee." Rose says easily, smiling still. Whatever seems to have struck the gentleman retrieving refreshments as insanity doesn't bother her in the slightest. Her attentions moving easily back to Fiona as he goes up to wait in line and compose himself.
     "Oh, not really. Your father's right though, the fountain doesn't really suit the neighborhood I don't think. If he wants to give me a call we can see about getting some of the quality together in the neighborhood to find an alternative." Was that... congeniality? Or... what? It seemed like it...
     At the mention of Davydd's crossword she chuckles a little, shaking her head, "What is it you do?"

     Cappuccino...fuck...what was that? Oh... extra foam, half fat with fucking nutmeg. Ha. I remembered. So there. Two cappuccino, extra foam, plain. Thanks. He orders, hand coming up to rub the bridge of his nose and he collects himself and sighs. He's a good looking guy with a table full of good looking women. What's his problem?
     He smiles as the ordering's done, he tips well and they tell him they'll bring it by. Damn. He almost looks disappointed when they tell him he can rejoin his party.
     But when he comes back, he's all casual stride and warm expression. He deserves an Oscar. "It's on its way," he settles in his seat. "And the dogs are fine," Davydd notes, looking to Fiona, eyes crinkling in the corner. "Fat, jolly, digging up the prize petunias as usual."
     When Davydd looks at Rose, it's almost like he's reminding himself of something. He divides his time equally, looking between the two of you, the world at-large, as he leans back waiting on his coffee. His hands fold at flat, sweatered stomach, and his mouth is tilted midway between a smile and a frown.

     "I'll tell him, certainly. Mother might stop him - she's worried about his heart, even though the doctor says he's sound as a bell." Fiona smiles with the faintest hint of exasperation at her parents' 'antics'. "He should be back in London in about two weeks - something he said he wanted to look into. I'll call him, though - I've got to ring them up about whether or not I'm attending their weekend, anyway. Have you got a card?"
     So very bloody civilized, isn't it? Fiona's glance strays off in the direction of the bar, and the returning Davydd. Ah. So he didn't make his escape, after all...
     "Thank you, Davydd, it looks admirable. And yes, dogs do have a tendency to do that, don't they? I'm about ready to give up on cats, myself..." Between Huw and cats which flicker in and out of shadows...
     She turns back to Rose, smiling. "Oh, I'm a journalist. I was with M for a while," The Magazine, "and now I'm with a production company. Print and television media. It's interesting stuff, I get to travel, and people seem to like my work. All illusion, of course, but I've given up on figuring out what's real, anyway. And yourself?" Nothing to frown at here. Really. She arches an eyebrow at Davydd again, quizzically rather than condemning, and lifts her cappuccino in a faint salute before taking a sip.

     Rose reaches into her handbag and pulls out an old fashioned calling card. Nothing but her name on the front of it. A silver pen follows, twisted, and used to write a phone number on the back of it before she hands it with two fingers over to Fiona. "Well, only if it's not going to upset him. I know how important these things can be."
     Davydd gets another ice smile as he comes back to the table, "Lovely." The dogs don't get any remarks at all.
     Fiona instead receives her attention once more as she chuckles a bit, "Oh, I don't work." The blood might actually show indigo through her skin with the way that statement's made. She considers a moment at the mention of the magazine though, "M... M... Can't say that I've read it. But that's a lovely profession, and it sounds like you enjoy it."

     If he were drunk -- and, God, how he wishes he were -- he would have launched into a tirade about how she never loved the dogs. But he just smiles, blithely smiles as the icicles freeze against the air and as Rose shows her classism to one of the upper class. Course, he's the only king sitting at this table, he'd like to point that out. Put that in your upper crust and bake it!
     Davydd beams (and gleams) to the waitress who brings the cappuccino. "Capp, extra foam, half fat, with nutmeg," placed in front of Rose, "...Capp, extra foam, no bells and whistles," in front of Davydd and then Fiona. She heads off without lingering for customer chit-chat.
     "Sounds brilliant," he says to Fiona, coming out of his funk when he has something to distract him from the Cold and Frigid Wind blowing at his left shoulder. He smiles at the rim. He glances to Rose as she mentions not working. He almost laughs. His face goes ruddy with humor held in, the light twinkles in his Welsh eyes, and his smile is a comet streak of warmth and mirth.
     Well, I guess you can't really qualify climbing up the ladder with pillows tied to your back as a job....
     It's more of a hobby, really...
     "That's not entirely true," Davydd offers. "There's your volunteer work, Rose. That's still .... employment."

     "I'll pass it along. I imagine he'll contact you, though - mother's got her ways, but she's never been very good at stopping my father from anything he's set on. It seems to be an Arundel trait - he's still standing up, after all," meaning in the House, of course, "and the doctors haven't got a problem with it. She's just got something to worry about - and my father's not above trying to throw me to mother to distract her." A faint smile. Shooting weekends - being paraded around, in the hopes that someone her mother likes finds her desirable as a wife. Not her cup of tea.
     Davydd gets a quick chuckle, and for a moment, Fiona looks as though she's considering something... but it passes. "I'm considering relocating, actually. Not permanently, just for the winter - it'll depend on what they say at the studio, though. And I suppose that I do enjoy it - it's ... something to do. I need to keep active." Frenetic, in fact. And back to Rose.
     "Oh? You do charity work, then?"

     Rose glances over to the waitress who brings the drinks and deigns to give her a nod. Though chances are she doesn't really mean it. The cappuccino is brought closer to her on the table and left sitting there. No drinking of it. As yet.
     "Well, keep the card as a distraction for yourself if you want one then." Rose offers, giving Fiona an insight on a hint of an advantage if she feels like taking it. "The fountain was something I'd thought about but not enough to bother with unless the rest of the neighborhood's upset as well." She does, of course, have peop... things to do.
     Davydd gets a look at the mention of charity work. She does, actually, do some. Though somehow... she doubts that's what he's talking about. "Well, you're right of course, Davydd, sometimes there is a great burden attached to that. Not so much lately as in the past though." Now she sips the cappuccino.
     Turning back to Fiona she nods a bit, "Some, mostly around town."

     Now, he laughs. Obviously, there is another conversation taking place, nestled snugly in between polite chitchat and civil inquisitions. He simply chuckles for a moment and sips his coffee, his grin slanting. It passes after another moment, and Davydd looks squarely to Fiona, a warm ease of an expression against his face, blithe, again.
     "She's being modest," he notes, "...she's always been quite active in London circles." A pause and he gestures between the two women, "... her show, you know, the new one being touted in the press ...about fashionable types in London. I wouldn't be surprised if you weren't going to run into one another at some point. Ah," Davydd grins, "... kismet..."
     He settles back sipping his coffee. "Yes...well... a burden, still... it's the giving that counts," he murmurs. Davydd exhales and twists, in his motion coming quite close to his once former lover, borrowing a bit of lamplight to read his watch. "I'd love to stay and continue this chat, ladies, but," he moves again, jacket resettling on broad shoulders. "I have to meet Sandrine at the shoppe and then head to Juliet's," The Bower, one of the premier restaurants in town, and the only real place to have true gourmet French cuisine in the City these nights. "And then I have a set at Davy's... much to do, much to do..." And he starts to rise. "Fiona, before I head back to Powis," the castle that is, "... let's have dinner, hmm? We haven't had a chance to talk in ages. Maybe knock a few back at the pub," his pub, "... and have a set."
     He stands and looks to Rose for a few minutes. "Rose..." A pause. He wants to leap into a litany. It's there in his eyes and at the tip of his tongue. But he only smiles. "Take care."
     That sounded like goodbye...

     "Of course, Davydd, that sounds lovely. Do give Sandrine my best regards, won't you? Oh, and tell her I might be in to the shop sometime this month - I've something coming up which I want to get quite a lot of flowers for." Fiona offers Davydd that faintly quizzical smile again, then reaches over and folds his newspaper neatly in half, holding it up to him. "Don't forget your reading material. If you get truly desperate, there's always paper mache."
     With her free hand, she picks up the card Rose offers her, glancing at it. "Thank you. I'll let father know this evening or tomorrow, depending when I find him in, but if you're involved, certainly, I'll be happy to get in touch - who knows, I might be able to do you a good turn, with my work." She's climbing the rungs of success, not for the money or even the competition, but ... because they're there. Joan still clings to one sword or another. Then, she begins to rise.
     "I should get back to the office, myself, to be honest - we may've put the production to bed, but I need to go over some notes for followup, and, of course, everyone gets a little twitchy until the can's been sealed. Davydd, you've my number, haven't you? Here, I should give you my cell. And Miss Caermichael, allow me to visit one of my own cards upon you," Fiona's voice has a droll note to it now, "they make me carry cards around these days, I've fallen from my lofty perch of freedom, I fear..."

     "Well, it doesn't do to go on about one's own charity, does it, Davydd?" Rose asks, turning the unsampled coffee on the table, "Even if there are projects that seem to call one back again and again with their potential. Only to disappoint."
     The smile returns, icy, clear, brilliant, beautiful. "Oh, must you?" That doesn't sound like disappointment, "Too bad."
     No dinner invitation for her, Davydd? I suppose your chivalry does know bounds. "Mmm, you too, of course. Don't overtire yourself, I know sometimes you just spread yourself around entirely too much." Surely she meant too thin.
     Turning to Fiona she reaches out for the card, "Lovely, thank you. And jobs are like that sometimes, one of the reasons I try to avoid them. Again, pleasure to meet you." And for once, she does seem to meet that. Fiona has some potential in her estimation it seems. Perhaps Davydd should really be worried.

     One...
     Two...
     Three...
     Four...
     Davydd pivots back and forth, a look given to each woman in turn. "I will be sure to let Sandrine know," he says smiling to Fiona. To Rose, eyebrows lift. Lips twitch, hands go into the pockets of his jacket...
     Five...
     Six...
     Seven...
     "You're a dear to care," Davydd says, syllables lilting from his tongue. "I know your schedule is busy..." what with your fucking Mortimer and all, "... but perhaps we can meet for a drink at Juliet's before I return to Cymru. Without Mortimer," that is said softly, but very firmly.
     Eight...
     Nine...
     Ten...
     His 'King' is showing. Davydd bows his head to both women. "Enjoy your night, ladies. I ... hope Mortimer doesn't keep you waiting too long," he says to Rose as he begins to step away. "That is no way to treat a lady."

     "Good evening, Davydd," Fiona's still polite, though still quizzical, and not feeling inclined to linger - as though the emotions suppressed might burst free and scamper back to where Davydd sat, to wreak havoc upon the site. "I hope to hear from you soon, of course."
     "And good evening to you as well, Miss Caermichael. I'll be in touch, once this project's firmly wrapped up with all the bells and whistles." Another polite, pleasant smile, and she steps back from the chair, the first step in the soundless retreat. Maybe she's worried that Rose is going to hurl her cappuccino at Davydd's retreating back. "If you don't hear from me - or, of course, my father - do feel free to give me a call." Cards are tugged out, Rose's tucked away in a pocket of the duster, the two for Lady Fiona Arundel, journalist at small placed upon the table.
     And there seems little left to be said, really. She nods politely, pleasantly, and turns, moving with brisk steps away, back in the direction of her office. Maybe she'll find a good bottle of wine and take it to bed...

     "Really, Davydd, you shouldn't worry about me." Rose says with a saccharine smile, "I wouldn't want to impose, I'm sure you've got a fairly full calendar while you're in town."
     Turning to Fiona, she nods, "Indeed, I'll look forward to it. Journalism has always fascinated me."
     Miss Clifford Caermichael remains in her seat as though she's the one holding court rather than the king himself, nodding to each of them as they go back about their business for the evening. Cappuccino still untouched on the table in front of her. Maybe she'll go out for a good stiff drink herself. Or a celebratory sacrifice of some kind since that's what ice witches do.

Posted by rowan at November 15, 2003 10:19 PM