The chamber is ringed completely by those in fabulous costumes, ladies and lords with fans, and in the center of the chamber, a gloriously painted man finishing a modern rendition of 'Nessun Dorma', his hands moving upon the ivory keys of the old piano. Upon the violin, the Doge himself, Vicenzo Cantato, his face hidden behind a 15th Century mask of a lion, dressed as one of the winged sentries of Venice, no accident that he chose the guardian symbol of the city. His hair is a riot of smooth curls, dark brown and behind the mask, black eyes.
     Those who have gathered are quiet for this most rare concert, and when you enter, no one turns to look at you as Girault's voice lifts...
     Vincero...
     Vincero...
     Vincero...

     Indeed, Raymond's already here, as are a few other titled ones. They stand together, watching and listening to Girault with rapt attention. Arms remain folded across his chest, as they oft are when he stands for long periods, and the fur-trimmed jaguar mask remains upon his face.

     "Well, I guess he's busy," Ian barely breathes, his grey eyes on the scene before him.

     The Doge of Venice, a most unusual man, and the leader of a most unusual city. Unlike most immortal princes, he is a native of his own city. Born in Venice on the day that Titian died, the son of a ruling family, his mortal line sat upon the very Council that he now leads. He was believed to have died at sea, on a rough night on the Adriatic. The story and the ship was a sacrifice...
     Of him it is said that he takes his civic responsibility very seriously and expects the same. His clan? He calls himself of no clan and of all clans, as the Doge he allies himself with none, but those who may recall such before his election recall that he was created a Toreador...

     William steps in quietly, eyes on the scene of the sound, and there is a calm that settles over him. Maybe he just needed to get out of the hallway. To the sight of the Doge, William smiles. This is something not likely to be seen again. The virtuosi in concert. He glances to Ian and Victoria as the aria begins its slow decline into ending...

     The song ends with the softest punctuation of jeweled fingers upon keys, notes from the keys and the unisoned trill of the Doge's violin. The violin is lowered and Girault's hands raise, Scheherezade's face upon them both -- ah, the work of your William, Ian, you can tell. "Bella! Magnifico! We do another!" he laughs, knowing what Vicenzo will say... and do...
     Vicenzo sets the violin down and waves it off. He will wave off that encore for another hour before he gives in. "That is enough from me, no, amici," he protest genially, moving back to join the other spectators. He is horribly, horribly shy when it comes to performance. Some say he is worse than Virgil ever thought of being.

     Staying with her companions, Victoria remains silent as they enter the room, the sounds filling it truly a spectacle even more artful than the costumes of the evening. Hands fold elegantly in front of herself as she allows her senses to experience the music itself, even more than simply audibly as only true appreciation can be.
     Still enough next to Ian, she herself could be a statue on the Piazza of the goddess rather than a breathing individual. For, indeed, for now she ceases to do even that. As though the simple brushes of air from lungs in the room could disrupt the quality of the sound as it rises up.

     Raymond and his companions clap, he unfolding his arms to create raucous noise with the others. Only then does he cease being a statue, and he turns his head over, almost instinctively, towards the arriving trio.

     Girault rises from the piano bench, starting the applause. "Alright, alright, enough monopolizing from me. Go dance! Why is everyone sitting here! Is it my costume?" he teases. "You all want to know where the lamp is, yes?" As if. Winking, he closes the lid over the keys.

     Laughter arises around the room, and the milling audience begins to break up once more into differing configurations.

     The Doge is among the first to begin milling about again. He isn't a man who knows how to take a compliment, but he tries as he moves around the room, smiling again to Raymond and pausing to take his hand briefly. "So good to see you, and congratulations," he says in French, "We will talk tomorrow, you and I. I want to hear about Touraine."

     "Of course, Sir," Raymond says of his Elder. A prince to a prince, to be sure, but that does not necessarily make one a Peer. The shake is firm and slow, and Raymond releases the Doge's hand while taking a step back, out of the Doge's path.

     Breathing once again, Aurora beams momentarily to applaud the performance with verve along with the others. Briefly disappointed at having missed the rest of the song and coming in only for the finale.
     There's a grin at the address to the crowd from the host, perhaps also recognizing the hand of the artist that created the most unique costume of the evening. Raymond is given a brief smile as he looks over to the group before he is engaged in conversation with the Doge.
     Turning to William, she says, "I'm sorry we missed the rest of that, it was marvelous."

     Though at William's side, Ian speaks softly to the woman in the orange and white dress. Kisses are placed on Ashleigh's lips, and after a wink at William, she strides off in Persephone's direction.

     Indigo lowers to the smaller woman at his side. "His voice is one of the wonders of the world," he murmurs. "And rarely heard these nights. The Dignitary has been too busy for song. And the Doge," he whispers, "...an expert, and a man most humble about everything but his city." He smiles. He knows he will be heard. William turns, smiling warmly and broadly to Ashleigh and in her departure he mouths: What about my kiss? Wretch...

     Girault, unlike the Doge, is moving to greet the tall armored one and his companions. "d'Angevin," he says as if cross with him. "You have been avoiding me all night. Look, it is marvelous, oui?" he gestures to himself as he turns to Ian, the costume of paint that he wears. One of William's most vibrant works, in fact. "Thankfully he tells me I will have to employ the gentle hands of a thousand young and beautiful servants to remove it, and with this oil, he promises..." And then he is turning toward Dawn. He holds out his hands to her, wonderfully painted and jeweled. "And you, Aurora?" Eyebrows lift and he smiles, his veil removed some time ago for singing. "I had heard that Dawn Herself arrived for my party. I began to worry that perhaps I left my windows uncovered...."

     Ian misses the exchange, turning back to the two immediately with him. The host has arrived. "You were marvelous, Dignitary," Ian says as his hands curl around William's arms. A politeness, but genuinely meant.

     "Ah, bless you, signore," Girault says in reply, head turning to address Ian directly, genuinely, but with a politeness rather than the oily 'I want to sleep with you now' tone of recent years. He is looking back to the unknown beauteous creature.

      Offering out her hands as they are requested, Victoria chuckles at the remarks, shaking her head lightly in a bounce of curls, "Not at all, Dignitary, your voice called me down from the heavens in invitation and I couldn't allow my sisters to hear it without being included." The other goddesses across the room glanced at briefly.
     "But there's nothing to fear about your windows. I simply thought that while my brother is sleeping and Diana has her turn through the skies I would allow myself a vacation from duty. But only for a little while."

     Ian pulls gently at William's arm. "I cannot recall, Dignitary, but we hope you have met Victoria Gifford before. If not, then she is so introduced. Victoria, Girault di Medici." Simple and direct.

     Her hands yet in his, a kissed greeting inevitable, the figure smiles beautifically. Scheherezade's Dream, indeed. "Bella Signora Aurora, I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance," nor does he impolitely stare into her karmic fate to find out why not! "Please, call me Antonio," he continues warmly, "...It is a pleasure to meet you Victoria Gifford, and welcome to Venice and to Palazzo Barbaro, the house of inspiration." Girault looks to Ian. "A protege?" he wonders. If so, why have I not heard of her name?
     And there it is, the kiss. He smells of oils and spices, citrus and cinnamon as he kisses each cheek. "I believe... si...si... I saw you at Gui's art show in Scotland. But, we did not have the occasion to meet." Again he stage-glances to Ian and murmurs, "I was babysitting Villon. You know how he can be..."

     The continental greeting returned easily, now coming second hand with so much occasion for it over the last few months, Victoria smiles. "The pleasure is mine, of course. Tori's mentioned how good you've been to her on more than one occasion, which means a great deal to me, I've been looking forward to this party for some time."
     Glancing over at Ian briefly at the question, she answers the second herself with a nod, "I was, and I don't believe we had the chance, no. You were pointed out to me, of course, but there was only so much time. I believe you know my sire, though, Constantine wanted me to be sure and convey his regards and regret at not being able to attend. Unfortunately his duties keep him in New York more than he'd like." Which is to say, always. One could, perhaps, argue that if he wanted to come as much as he tells people he does through Victoria, he'd make an effort of sorts. Or an effort period. But, niceties are what they are.

     Ian ahs and nods, strangely enough, getting the point. But Ian continues to bob his masked face, folding his hands comfortably over William's forearm. "Not a protege," Ian smiles. "Just a friend from America. Now, forgive my rudeness, but..." Ian looks at William. He cannot be comfortable. "We need to put William into another costume for the night." Change is good.

     "I kept my promise," William speaks to Girault in beautiful Venetian, a dialect still used despite the insistence of a unified Italian, and the language could have no better spokesperson. "...to the Guild and now, I am putting this back upstairs... never to be worn again. You can sell pieces of it: Guillaume hung here," he wryly remarks, "...but it is coming off, si...and now you cannot say I don't do anything for you, amice," he teases. "I suffered under this as much, if not more than you under my airbrush..." He looks to Ian. Merci, amours...
     Merci and Mercy...

     Girault pauses discussion of Constantine and Aurora to look to William and Ian. He smiles wonderfully. "They have been buzzing about it all night. I will be sure to rave about it, and maybe I will donate it to the auction, amice," he laughs, and he blushes a bit beneath the paint. "You do a favor for Antonio, and you know he is generous in repayment. Please," he gestures, freeing one of Victoria's hands. "The Browning Suites are reserved for you. You will find Felipe there," remember him? "He will provide another costume."

     "Thank you," Ian says to Girault. "And...we shall return." Ian's head bobs again as he pulls William away more earnestly this time around, expecting him to follow.

     It is not that he is failing beneath the weight of the armor, he barely feels the weight. But the heat! Mon Dieu, the heat. Taking Ian's hand and bringing it to his mouth, Guillaume disappears with him to adjourn upstairs.
     It may be a while...

     Victoria gives a little wave with her now available hand, American as anything, but not terribly concerning to her it seems. Sometimes being foreign is enough to keep you from being expected to know too much. No point in hiding it, everyone will know when they hear her talk anyway, "I'll catch up with you later, I'm sure." Though, she doesn't seem to actually believe it. There's a chance that William might get Ian to come down a second time in the evening, but it's not a very good chance. Either way, she's still got presents held hostage for the future.

     "Maximilian," Girault purrs, offering Victoria his arm and turning toward the other music chambers and ultimately, perhaps the ballroom. "I have not been to New York since the events in ...Germany," he does not say the word 'Saarbrucken' on such a night of revelry for the mourning and business that might ensue. "This is an event of its own, a childe of Constantine's in Italy."
     He focuses on you, not Tori, the Bella in Training. And as he begins to cross the room, he sees Raymond of Tours, and he smiles brightly, "Amice.... look what I have. An export from America..." spoken as if she were a unicorn. But Americans are still a thing of wonder to old Europeans.

     Chuckling, Victoria nods, "It's changed, of course, but he hasn't to speak of." Still speaking nearly exclusively in Latin, much to the dismay of the council at times. Some people think it's to try and keep the blood as blue as possible. If you can't speak The language of the Empire, you aren't really educated, now are you? Or, at least that's his theory.
     Other people just think he might be too lazy to learn much else.
     "I'm in Europe now permanently, actually. Switzerland, specifically." Perhaps even more of a wonder than simply a visit to Italy. Or more rare than the sun at a gathering of vampires.
     Raymond is granted another of the radiant smiles as they approach, nodding in greeting again. To Girault she says, "We've been introduced."

     The jaguar turns about, expecting Girault, but not quite the companion. Raymond half-pauses in his spin, then finishes it slowly as he faces the two approaching him. "Export?" Raymond shakes his head, "We have been introduced, Dignitary, indeed. Miss Gifford has been here a while. I should think she is an export no more. Remember Edinburgh?" The infamous art show.
     "I see you have found our host," Raymond goes on, blue eyes on Victoria. "Not that it was so difficult to find him. The challenge was in getting a moment of his time," Raymond tips towards Girault. "You, indeed, have friends in high places."

     "A man cannot joke in his own house?" the Italian inflection lifts and then he winks. "So, you have met. I will take her somewhere else then," he murmurs. A look to Victoria, "Do you want to follow me all night? I can have the sun at my back as in the old days when I played cards with Plutarch."
     "How is it that I am the last to know about this. I am the last to receive such news of relocating beauties? I must be too long in Germany, and too much in Paris," he croons, nearly musically. Girault smiles, "But not enough in Tours, I promise, amice, as soon as I may I will pay you the visit that I long over-owe you, si?" You have been in your position for a while and without an official visit by the Dignitary!

     "I'm moved over, now, actually. I just settled everything in Oregon and am getting the chateau renovations finished. So, ex-patriot perhaps." Which Raymond may or may not have been aware of, depending on who he's talked to. She smiles, "And the Dignitary and I have only just been introduced."
     Chuckling at the offer of introductions in such a fashion she nods, "And that would be very kind of you, though I wouldn't wish to distract you from your guests if it would be an inconvenience. I only know most of the people here by reputation, and some of the guests from London and Edinburgh. And, of course, Tours." Through William and Ian goes without explanation.

     "Though I am sure you will rectify that quickly," Raymond says assuredly. "It is nice to hear that you have chosen Europe," Raymond reflects. "I can imagine that being here and in America was difficult for you." To Girault, "We all know that Europe is far superior," the humor clear, despite the masking of his face.

     "Si, si... you should mingle, dance... let people who have been talking about you all night meet you. Most of all, you should dance, in such a dress to not do so would be a waste of fabric," and this is how he gets William to do things for him. He is most persuasive. At the very least, he seldom takes 'No' for an answer. "Europe is happy to have some new conquest. It has been so long," he murrs, looking to Raymond with a smile. "The next time I am in Switzerland, perhaps you would take in this...vagabond to the world," he teases upon his well-reputed predilection for traveling. A Dignitary's work is never done.
     And he seems poised to depart, his arm lowering, his hands taking up one of Victoria's again. "Find me in an hour or so, and perhaps I will even dance. Though it has been years, I have probably forgotten... It was a pleasure meeting you, Bella Aurora..."

     "It would be my honor to." Victoria says with a smile at the request for invitation, "I'm going to be having a gathering to show the castle once I've gotten everything settled. I'll be sure and let you know about it. I'm hoping to have Tori out frequently, and I'm sure all of us would love to have your company in any case."
     As the hand is lowered, she gives it a friendly squeeze, leaning in for a parting kiss on the cheek with a chuckle, "I would be delighted too. Somehow I'm sure that you would manage quite well on the dance floor. I look forward to it."

     That stops him. It stops the party right there. Girault becomes sudden Business and eyebrows arch upward. "Victoria Whitethorne has a very busy, very dedicated schedule," his tone is the utmost of even. But between the syllables one could almost hear: And no one has asked my permission. "While she is in my care," he smiles politely, "...I fear that many of her nights are in study." He smiles warmly again. It is a party afterall. "But we will look forward to seeing you again...in Switzerland." At some point of his choosing it would seem.
     Girault looks to Raymond then and the aspect is once again beatific. "My dear man, tomorrow we dine with Doge Cantato. Prior to that dinner, I should like a moment of your time. I believe the subject of his curiosity is the renovation of the Cathedral in Tours." And to see how things are going after the Hoopla.
     Girault looks to Victoria again and tilts his head, "Signora, enjoy the rest of your evening..."

     Raymond has stood as unobtrusively as a jaguar-masked Prince can. But once he's addressed, his Presence is once more felt and he takes a half-step forward as if to reinforce that point. "Of course, Dignitary," is his reply, along with a half-bow to Girault's departure. "I look forward to it." Even once Girault begins to recede, the half-tilt of Raymond's face continues.

     Nodding congenially at the response to the mention of her friend, she smiles again, seeming to be without dismay at the response, "Her studies are, of course, much more important than any socializing, Dignitary. I wouldn't want to detract her from them in any way." And from her ease of use with the word, she at least seems to be familiar with what those studies are. Her hand is removed easily to allow departure as wished, "And at your convenience."
     The dinner arrangements between the other parties are left for them to arrange with her silence, hands easily left at her sides while she pays polite attention.

     Of course not...
     Girault's voice lifts again as he moves on to yet another crowd and the momentary rise of Business dissipates. He is soon swallowed up in costumed admirers and disappears into the ballroom...

     From Raymond, a low-tsk beneath most mortal hearing. "I hope Rossini, Castlevetro and Gisela are nowhere around," he murmurs, mask turning left and right. Only then does he let out an unneeded exhale.
     "And so, we meet again," the prince of Tours offers. The beginning.

      If one were to be paying attention only to her eyes, one might see for the briefest of seconds a flickering annoyment not unlike the tiny petulant stomping of a foot. Though it is so terribly fleeting that one would then most likely assure themselves that they were mistaken, for nothing else about her posture changes in the least, not pleasant expression nor stance of form. Or even position of hands in their gentile drape at her sides.
     Turning with a tiny blink of adjustment to change in conversation, Victoria says in the same low tone, "I'm sorry, I don't believe I know them." But, then, perhaps it wasn't for her to hear.
     "Indeed." She smiles, now truly back to her earlier pleased and shining gold self again, "If you're not through with your introductions yet I don't mean to interrupt. Though, it's good to have the chance to see you."

     Oh. Raymond doesn't appear to be keeping secrets, mostly talking to himself. "Who they are? They are the harpies I have seen this evening," he informs, expecting such to mean something. No? The expression worries him. "You have Harpies in America, yes?" Of course you must. The mask hides any surprise.
     "One is from...your Washington. Devon is, I believe."
     Breathe.
     He purses his lips. Curious girl. "A pleasure to see you too," Raymond adds, leaving his thinking behind. Nevermind on that. "I am never through with my introductions, and so, it is best that if we are to have a moment to speak, it should come as it comes. Now."
     "You...have chosen to move then. I guess then you have been quite busy."

     "Oh, it'll be fine I'm sure. I'll smooth it over." She says easily at the mention of the harpies, and the exchange. Lightly waving a hand dismissively. Water under the bridge for the moment, no point in pondering over it after the fact. She does recognize the title with a slightly self depreciating quirk of her mouth, "And yes, we do. Though I don't believe I know Devon."
     "I have to say, it's rather pleasant to be at something again where I'm not obligated to know everyone on sight and have some kind of business to discuss with them." She shifts her posture so that her attentions are directed to the Prince, with a glance around the gathering briefly as she mentions it. Smiling again as it returns, "I can't say I envy you that at all."
     There's a nod, "Indeed. I went back, sold off the things that needed selling, shifted my position over, and packed everything up. The rest of the crates are supposed to be here in the week or so."

     Music starts again in the ballroom, and there is a coordinated clapping of hands, regular, happening at precise intervals. Ah! A group dance!

     Raymond shrugs slightly, causing his layers of coats to rustle. "Good. There is little to envy." If you believe that. "Change is good," Raymond says consideringly, "...it ensures that we do not become comfortable, lazy, and too..." the grin is palpable, "...self-indulgent." Oh, yes. Witness this.
     "And what, may I ask," Raymond goes on, "...made you decide to leave your successful enterprises in America? You told me of wineries, yes? Other projects. To choose...where shall you be again?"

     There's a returned grin at the mention of self-indulgence, particularly considering a portion of their conversation at the inn in Lasceaux, "It is."
     "Primarily? A... discussion Ian and I had while I was here. As you say, change is good." She smiles, "And yes, a winery specifically, among other things. Which belongs to my childe now instead. He enjoyed it more than I did for the most part."
     "And Switzerland. Lake Geneva, specifically. I think I mentioned at one point that I already had a chateau there." No, Raymond, I didn't sell everything in America and follow over to Europe just because of three encounters. Hopefully William didn't paint me as quite that naive. "I wasn't terribly fond of Oregon to begin with."

     There is the delicate rise of vanilla in the air, with a hint behind it of something more exotic, Eastern. Ceylon Vanilla, it is called, and distilled by the hands of only one woman in Europe, Constanz deWitt. A Toreador embraced in 1675, her art is the art of Fragrance, Perfumerie. Her work lingers on the necks of mortal and immortal royalty and aristocracy and artists. Why, she alone keeps the Halls of Harpydom well-scented, even as Rossini keeps it well oiled.
     Ceylon vanilla is her calling card, a chemical combination that many have tried to copy but none have succeeded to steal.
     She enters in full Golden Age regalia, her blonde hair upswept into an architecture of curls held together by delicate and tiny combs. A mask of shaped and stiffened lace from The Netherlands covers her half her face, vertically. One side of her face completely uncovered. She is a vision in cream yellow and white silk.
     Constanz deWitt smiles to those she passes, tipping her head most ladylike. But it is to one in particular that she is looking. Her slender white hands unfold her silk and damask fan, perfectly coordinating with her outfit. And she is approaching, perhaps to give her greetings to the Prince of Tours.

     There's a nod from Raymond, recalling such a notion. "Still, it is difficult to leave family," he continues. "So I congratulate you," Raymond lifting his mask and smiling, "...on such a momentous feat." His free hand comes to take Victoria's, to lift it to his lips.

      Victoria smiles as her hand is lifted, dipping into a gracefully natural curtsey in response to the formal gesture from Tours. Perfectly matched in elegance to the gathering of the evening and the old flavor of the air of Venice itself, "Thank you."
     "Things have been well with you, also, though I hope? I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to find out anything that I missed while I was gone. If there was anything to miss, really." All the way on the other side of a continent on the other side of an ocean small events don't get as much attention it seems.
     She glances up at the approaching of the scent and the woman who bears it, politely smiling below the break of her mask before glancing back to Raymond again.

     "I doubt that you have missed much, nor was there much to miss," Raymond says blithely. He laughs a little, perhaps circumspect about his own comment. "Tours is as it was, organizing itself. But we have made much progress." Of that, the Prince seems confident.

     "Raymond Marillet," mellifluous French eases softly from the approaching woman. Her gloved hand, gloved in the same style of lace that has been hardened to form her mask, extends to him, her other holding the fan, expert as a woman of the 17th Century would be. She smiles to him, warmly to him, and speaks to him again, tilting her head to the prince. Again, the woman has style. "Your Grace of Tours," the smile is poised to grow as she speaks such. "Pardon the intrusion," she turns now finally to Victoria, tilting her head again in a nod of pardon, "... but I fear that if I let opportunity pass yet again, I shall not have been able to greet you again for hours." You have been so... preoccupied.
     Constanz will not make the introductions herself. That is for the man to do, yes? She is particular about such things.

     "Constanz..." Raymond says, but only after lowering the hand that was at his lips. He breathed, stood upright again, and then saw the woman approaching him. A lesser being would not have noticed the surprise in his breath. "What..." a sidelong glance at Victoria, "...are you doing here?"

     Not one to interrupt, Victoria remains quietly polite, smiling without any apparent concern at all as Raymond 'greets' the other woman. As he doesn't let her hand go, she leaves it where it is. Apparently at ease with the idea. She even manages to hide her ever present curiosity. Though, one must suspect it's there. Instead, just staying there, glowing goldly away.

     "I am here upon request of Villon, who was unable to attend himself. And such an event," she continues, grace in her speech -- only heightened by such grace as immortality lends, "... I would not miss it for the world. How happy it made me to hear that you were able to attend as well." Delicately plucked eyebrows lift -- only one of which is visible -- as her hand is yet extended for the customary greeting. She does allow him a moment or two to be shocked, however.
     "I shall be in Tours in March. I am considering an expansion of the Pomegranate and Peacock," one of the oldest and most famous perfumeries in Europe.

     "Ah, well," Raymond nods, releasing one hand to take another. "You will have to give Francois my best when you see him next. I knew he was not to come, but," the kiss is placed, and followed by, "...I thought Gisela was here in his stead. A joy to be corrected," Raymond says softly, coming to stand again.
     "Doctor Victoria Gifford, lately of Geneva," Raymond motions to each in turn, "...this is Mademoiselle Constanz deWitt, Chief Harpy of Amsterdam."

     There's another drop into a curtsey, since we're obviously working on formalities in this particular introduction she forgoes the terribly unladylike handshake option, "Lovely to meet you. I haven't had occasion to visit Amsterdam as yet, it's something I'm hoping to accomplish now that I'm here in Europe. I've heard it's a beautiful city."
     Her accent is, of course, American. If obviously cultured.

     The moment of the kiss is treasured in silence. Her laced fingers give the barest of delay upon his own before she retrieves command of it. Her dress whispers as she turns and her fan is folded in the introduction. "A pleasure, Doctor Victoria Gifford, and I do hope you are able to visit Amsterdam. I think you will find that our city is both more and less than one has heard." She smiles, "I do so hope you pardon my intrusion into your conversation. Raymond and I are... old friends," her pale blue eyes look to him again, "... who sadly do not see one another as frequently as one should wish for."
      To Raymond, Constanz smiles warmly, "Gisela is here on behalf of the Court. I am here in return of a personal request. I would not dream on stepping on Gisela's lovely and inordinately expensive footwear. You know how Villon is a fan of the multi-thread narrative," yes, he likes to have more than one or two recounts of a story, told from different angles.
     Taking you both in again, she seems rather fond of lingering given that she was just stopping by to say hello. There is a certain amount of measurement going on. "You are from America," she observes, or makes a point of pointing out. How European of her. "Is this your first time to Venice?" The name is not one she has heard of.

     Raymond's stance is rather tall suddenly, and his hands clasp behind his back. One foot extends as his weight shifts to his back foot.
     Nice. Being checked up on by Paris. Such is the burden of the youngest princedom.
     Raymond makes no noise behind his mask, and as there's no reason to be rude, he remains quiet as Constanz is allowed full access and leeway into his now.

     "Oh, of course, no apology necessary." Victoria says easily at the mention of intrusion, hands again gracefully at her sides with her light smile. While the lingering is, of course, noted, it's not remarked on.
     "Portland recently, and before that New York, yes. I haven't had occasion to visit the continent as much as I've wanted to. Until lately my trips to the area were generally limited to Scotland and London. But I had an opportunity to spend time in France a few months ago, and realized that I shouldn't limit myself to one country as I had been." There's a blithe little shrug of her shoulders, "So, I moved residence to Lake Geneva."

     Oh, do not look this way, Raymond. She smiles and taps him with her fan. "I am not here for anything other than pleasure, discourse and dancing, ami. Do not look so. When I heard you were here, I simply had to find you. I hope that I might have one dance before the music stops playing."
     Constanz again turns her attention to the young woman, beautiful. Recently arrived from America and now upon the arms of a celebrated Toreador prince. "I hope you will have time to visit Venice after this event. It is truly amazing what the Doge and his Council have managed this century, in spite of the subsidence. And Raymond's work in Tours, though it was in good hands before, shall make the city a jewel of France, and not simply Touraine. It is a fortunate time for Toreador. The clan is bettered by their presence."
     Her interruption seems done for now. She but waits upon Raymond's words. Shall he take her up on a dance or no? She is not a woman, it might seem, who is denied frequently.

     In the ballroom, the dances begin anew. A full orchestral waltz. And Girault can be heard in the next room, the other chamber music...chamber, talking to Genevieve McMasters about her monopolization of his artist. Of course, he laughs. It isn't true. He doesn't own the Angevin. He only wishes he did.

     She had disappeared for a little while, being side-tracked by someone she knew from the palazzo, then by a pretty outfit...and finally, she ends up back on track. The little pixie lost track of her friend, but flits through the crowd deftly, glancing about, having a grand time examining the costumes and masks and pretty people.
     Somehow, she even managed to give the Green Man the slip, leaving him somewhere in the hallway, seeking her out. Before long, she is seen slipping into the ballroom, taking a look around...then moving onward, heading to the next room...

     Girault has been making the rounds all through the night. A host's work is never complete, nor may he linger too long here and not enough Somewhere Else. He is passing from Genevieve with two kisses left upon each of her cheeks. An offer to have a private meeting with her before she leaves Italy...
     He is wandering back in from the chamber music room returning once more to the Vocum Cantus, as this chamber is called, in his hand another golden goblet full of ...something...

     The host, her teacher, is suddenly spotted by that strange blue gaze...and in the blink of an eye, she changes course. She slips through the room, heading for Girault, sporting a wide, happy grin. The tinkling sound of little bells chime as the fae-woman glides across the floor.
     "Antonio... what a wonderful night!" she exclaims, calling out to him..

     He takes her by the hand, kissing the back of it and he smiles to her, patting the hand as he sets it free. "Si, you are enjoying it? Your first true European masque? For this," Girault smiles gently, "I am glad. Next time, perhaps you and I will perform for the Doge and the Council. I had hoped it would be this year, but..." an exhale. Germany has kept him busy. "You have been dancing? Did you catch the Toreador Song race?" He grins to her.

     Those eyes peer out at him from behind her silken mask which nearly blends in with the newly cropped, bleached-out locks. Ah, it will all grow back and right itself by tomorrow night, so she may as well have fun while she can. "It has been wonderful... Raf has been fretting over me a bit, so I managed to slip away from him a little while ago. Aren't I awful?" she giggles, her spirits being high and soaring on this mystical night.
     At the mention of performing, she tilts her head a bit and murmurs, "Yes, maybe next time... that would be nice. This evening snuck up on us fast, did it not? Ah, there is plenty of talent this evening to keep everyone entertained and having a good time, Antonio... and it's all because of you." Shaking her head, she adds, "No, I missed the race... I was speaking with friends. And I hope to dance tonight sometime... speaking of friends, I have one here you simply must meet. We knew each other in America..."

     "Another American?" Girault purrs in a tease. "Are we being invaded?" He takes her hand. "Very well, I would be happy to meet your friend." He will humor his charge, though he full-well believes he shall be taken back to Aurora. But, Antonio, you could be wrong. It does not happen often, but anything is possible....
     Especially during Carnival...

     Your teasing triggers a barrage of giggles from Tori. "Invaded.. hm... now there's an idea," she teases back, grinning widely. "Remember, though, I was an American immigrant, technically..." she says, waggling her finger at you. Ah, yes, she originally hailed from London. "Her name is Victoria Gifford. We finally managed to meet up again, once she found her way to Europe, and I'm so glad she's here!" she exclaims.

     "I have already met Victoria Gifford. Ian introduced us. She tells me that she has moved to Switzerland..." And into a chalet, a chateau to be precise. To which she would like you to visit. Seeing her excitement, Girault exhales. "She mentioned something," he waxes on, "...about you...visiting her... that she hopes you can visit her frequently. Perhaps ... I should arrange time where you, I and Ms. Gifford might discuss the matter." He pauses, turning to Tori. "When there aren't a thousand people running around in drag and doing god-knows-what in the rooms upstairs." He smiles. "But... if you want to introduce me," he murmurs, "...you may."

     This causes her to pause... physically. She stops in her tracks. "Oh! You've already met her? Well, then... I don't have to introduce you then," the little pixie says with a smile. There is no disappointment in her voice... the job's already been done, so everyone's been acquainted now... how nice!
     Beaming, she bobs her head a bit, causing the tinkling sound to chime again. "Oh, fabulous! But yes, you're right... this is not the place, nor time. There are guests and dances and... as you put it 'god-knows-what' going on around us.... and shouldn't we both be a part of all of that?" There is a wink beneath her mask even as the corners of her lips curl into a slanted grin. She's in a mischievous mood... perhaps it has something to do with the costume...

     He laughs quietly, patting her hand again. "You are looking very lovely. If there were a single man in my house at this moment that I trusted, I would say you should do whatever you like." Cinnamon eyes wink. "Ah well...you should do whatever you like. You are too lovely to hang upon the arm of this old man," though he doesn't look a day over thirty-five, and is iconically beautiful. "There are three palaces in all, there are parties in all. Upstairs, more private. You remember that time in Chinon, hmm? When I first told you about the parties here...?"

     The hand that is patted squeezes the one that holds it. The words spoken to her causes a small, subtle flush of colour to her cheeks, just barely visible from beneath the gold powder brushed across her cheeks. Bowing her head a little and then looking up through the mask, Tori murmurs, "You are too kind to me, Antonio. I am... I am nothing but me."
     Glancing about at the room for a second, she murmurs, "Hmm... if we could trust everyone, would there be such a thing as taking a risk? That risk is what makes life exciting... and perhaps I've missed it a little," she comments softly, still grinning though. Poking you in the ribs, she adds, "And stop.. old man... hah. You give yourself no credit, Antonio. Hm? Parties... what do you mean?" There is a pause as she thinks back... and then her eyes widen and the colour in her cheeks deepens just slightly, "Oh! Um, yes, I remember now..."

     Girault lifts the Pixie's hand to his mouth and leaves behind a kiss. "Enjoy yourself, bella. And find your friend. Tell her... I shall meet with her at twilight tomorrow. I should have time for a chat then...." His fingers leave hers and he turns to continue his host's duties....

     "Thank you," she murmurs with a smile, withdrawing her hand as he turns from her. She, too, turns... just in time to see Raf coming into the room, heading in her direction..

     A single soprano is heard from the ballroom. O Mio Babbino Caro. My darling babe, the lullaby from Puccini's 'Gianni Schicci'. In accompaniment, a section of violins...

     "A dance, then," Raymond agrees, his mask tilting to the left, "...long before the music stops. You shall have me then, Constanz." Raymond's stance mollifies slightly as his heels come together once more.
     "And thank you for the words on our Tours," Raymond offers politely. "I appreciate it very much." Indeed. And such delightful sentiments shall soon spread within the Camarilla. That, even he can appreciate.

     "Shall there not be singing in the Cathedral once more?" she says, her face showing a moment of open admiration. Her hand extending to Raymond again, Constanz deWitt, Chief Harpy of Amsterdam, curtseys to the Prince of Tours, with all the practice of several hundred years and all the bearing of a 17th Century lady.
      O, the view...
     "Then, we shall dance..." she smiles as she rises, and with the merest flick of her other wrist, she opens her fan with a flourish. "Doctor Gifford," she says. "A pleasure...enjoy your visit to Venice..."

     "I am hoping to have the opportunity. My trip here isn't a long one this time, but I should have time for seeing some of the city." Victoria answers lightly, nodding again with a smile, "Again, lovely to meet you, mademoiselle."
     She seems content to wait quietly other than that, certainly not attempting at all to engage the other woman any further than has already been executed. No good can come from being considered a boorish American after all.

     Raymond's mask follows Constanz's departure for a lingering moment, then soon returns to his immediate companion. "Perhaps you should like to see my footwork before Mademoiselle de Witt, hmm?" There's a smile behind it, as Raymond extends his hand to Victoria.

     Placing her hand in the extended one, Aurora is led off to the waltz by the jaguar, falling easily into the steps of the dance with perhaps (to some who've never seen her dance in... ever) some surprising proficiency and grace.
     Proving Girault right that the her costume, indeed, is flattered by the swirling movements across the floor. Blurring along with all the other many faceted faces and people of the evening at the most exclusive party in Venice.

Posted by rowan at February 20, 2004 12:30 AM