The chandelier successfully hung, as yet unlit over the last evening or so since the several days of work putting the contraption up, Victoria put the word out through the house inviting those in residence for whatever duration that she would be lighting it for the first time this evening after full dark.
     Leif spared no expense arranging the sidebar with the best of the offerings of the house, as well as some enticing snacks to accompany them to celebrate the event. Landry lit the fireplace, warding off the chill coming down from the Alps with the first series of Spring melts off the foothills. And the lamps around the room have been lit to provide for the light until the magic moment arrives.
     Victoria is already down in the great hall, a springy silk cocktail dress in green and mauve just dressy enough to mark the occasion without going overboard. She leans against the back of the leather couch slightly, ankles crossing as she takes a sip of her coffee, looking curiously at the guest of honor for the evening. Still dark, but catching the flickering firelight in small rainbows even without its inner neon illumination.

     There are reasons, he thinks as smoke curls cloven from a full mouth, that we left Switzerland. Left it -- it was a blip upon our universe that never lingered long. Perhaps if Bismarck had not been Bismarck and Hitler had not been born....
     No, William thinks, still we would not have been in Switzerland for long. It was too strange in its neutrality, to German to be French and yet not truly its own. A land of mercenaries, assassins and fence-sitters -- sitting only until they heard a price they liked.
     No, William smokes, there was nothing for us in Switzerland. But the house was nice, wasn't it. A lake castle, somewhere between defensibility and fairytales, as if it couldn't make up its mind whether to wage war or tell a good story...
     Much like the Swiss themselves...
     It is strange to reacquaint oneself with a place one barely was at all. It's something less of deja-vu. More like deja-almost. Deja-never.
     William's mouth holds a smirk and alternatively the blue-brown body of a cigarette made in Turkey and shipped from Afghanistan, smoke curling up dark, scented. He is clothed in layers of chocolate brown, his eyes looking down hallways until he gets to the great hall itself, poking his head in like a tourist.
     "Excuse... me?" he says in English so heavily laden with French that it sounds like a bad movie already. And then William grins. "I ...think there is supposed to be... something happening here, like...ah..." his English really does need practice, he's not playing, "... something being set on fire. No, no, that is not it... lit...I am in the right place?" And then he laughs, smoothening his way in with an equally olive-oily grin. "Bonsoir..."

     Behind William walks Ian, whose grey gaze is lifted around the great room. His looks do not last long, as if walking through a museum. "Set alight," Ian clears up, shaking his head as he follows his other's lead. "It looks lovely," Ian notes for the record, bobbing his head. If there's any lingering strangeness about the chateau and some staff once being his, it's not evident at all. In fact, he's quite dispassionate and lacking any connection.
     "A lot of work in a short amount of time. Budget?" Ian wonders, looking at a tapestry. "Well handled," he answers for himself.
     "A chateau is much to care for," Ian goes on, hand slipping into a dark blue trouser pocket. Other hand touches his turtlenecked throat, covered in beige. As he turns about, tortoise shell buttons on his dark blue blazer reflect light. "Think you're up to it?" he wonders, moving towards a seat.

     "Bonsoir." Victoria says easily, dropping into French herself as though there wasn't English being spoken to begin with. d'Angevin may not have had occasion to use his multi-lingual skills, but she is so used now to switching from one to the other she has to watch not to drop words into the middle of sentences. "And yes, you're in the right place."
     Her smile is warm and natural as William and Ian come into the hall, obviously glad that they're going to be able to join in the minor festivities. She tilts her cup towards the glass sculpture hanging over the dining table, "I haven't gotten to see it yet, the workmen tested it while I was out in the garden." She's like a child with a Christmas present under the tree patiently waiting to tear the ribbon off and toss it in a pile of papers. Patient on the surface but if she were less polished she'd probably be sitting on her hands so she didn't touch anything.
     She nods a bit with Ian's observation, pleased at the compliment, see-sawing back into English again, "Thanks." She doesn't go into detail about how she arranged the budget. Perhaps she's past feeling as though she has to justify her decisions. For the evening anyway. "I do. There are still kinks I'm working out, it's more different than the house in New York than I expected in some ways. But similar in others. So generally I don't feel like I'm floundering. You both have everything you need in your suite?"
     And just beside the door as William and Ian enter, Joshua Landry stands, cutting quite the butlerish figure. His smile is quietly pleasant as William voices his halting question to the room. At last, someone with a touch of the continent.
     "Pas du tout monsieur, veuillez entrer. Nous sommes sur le point justes d'allumer le lustre. Y a-t-il quelque chose que je peux obtenir pour vous tandis que vous attendez?" he asks quietly. In one hand he holds a small ashcan to be used by those smokers amongst the guests. And the other impeccably gloved hand lies straight at his side.
     Now THIS is what he's been waiting for. Guests and propriety and pomp and circumstance. And frankly, though he is careful to not allow such to show on his face. He is quite a bit more relaxed than he was.

     Ian turns about, hearing the voice. "Yes," he replies to Victoria, "...things are fine, thank you." Not that he'd say otherwise...well, that's a lie. Especially as his own valet's in tow, things must be fine. It's Stephen who gets the task of making any corrections, invisibly.
     "And no," Ian says to the servant, "...thank you...Mr..." Ian spins about with pale brows raised, expecting Victoria to actually reply.
     The young man -- in truth, ostensibly a teenager -- takes another couple of steps before allowing his hand to light upon the edge of a sofa.

     There is a word or two of soft Italian, a glance back to Ian, and then it is all French, a pleasant expression resting upon his face, cigarette extinguished in the ashcan and left there. It's not good for the tapestries, he suddenly reminds himself, blue-violet eyes holding the edge of humor there. "Eau-de-vie fine... Je n'ai besoin de rien autrement," he says to the man, smiling to him. "Merci..."
     Hands free of the cigarette are wanting of something else to hold, the mouth wanting of something else to occupy it. So it goes, there are reasons why he enables such addictions in himself. For the world should not wish to see what he would make of it were his hands and his mouth not kept to more innocent hobbies.
     William tilts his head back, indigo eyes looking to the ceiling and to the monstrosity of the chandelier. It is horrific, in some ways, surreal and disturbing. Beautiful. Ghastly. Fragile. Formidable. But the colors are nice.
     "Oui," William says, hands going into his pockets for a moment, pivoting to see another part of the chandelier. "The suites are fine. We thank you for the big room," his mouth makes the smile and he looks to Ian. "A chateau is much to care for. Three?" He shakes his head. Why do we do it? Because ... who would love them if not you or I? "Do not ever buy three chateau, Victoria... you will feel guilty for all the time you cannot spend in them." He grins, like he does not mean it. "Hmm, amours?" turning his attention from the Big Glass Thing, William fastens his attention on Ian.

     "Ian, William, this is Mr. Landry." Victoria says, standing up from her poised post at the back of the couch, gesturing between for introductions. "He took the post as head of the staff when I received the chateau, and my personal assistant now that I'm here permanently."
     "Landry, this is Mr. Dunross and Mr. d'Angevin." Yes, she remembered the name change this time. Bully for her. And while it isn't as though he likely doesn't already know who they are, it is the polite thing to do.
     She chuckles at William's warning, "I'll be sure and keep that in mind. One is more than enough for the moment." She glances to Ian, "I kept the putting green on the other side of the courtyard wall, by the by. I had Bergren level it out for your visit since it's turned green again with the snow gone."

     "Naturellement monsieur, un moment." he says simply to William. And again the thought occurs to him, that although Victoria may not be the MOST uncouth American he has ever met, there are certain nuances of behavior and expectation that can only be met by a distinguished, and decidedly european, guest.
     As Victoria makes introductions he bows politely, "A pleasure good sirs. I am at your service." Another nod to Ian who was the first to wish introductions, and even in his apparent youth, is refreshing in his expectation of service. "Shall I bring anything for the young master?"

     "Mr. Landry," Ian acknowledges, turning about to face the butler. The young man is 5'10 or so and lithe, though he perhaps has spent sometime out-of-doors. The hand that touched the sofa is joined by the other as Ian leans back and sits on the arm. "I thank you," the well-breed teenager says, "...but..."
      A stop. Ian's pale brows lift against his Nordic complexion.
     "Actually, yes...scotch," Ian says, clearly changing his mind. "A double." In that, Ian's stormcloud eyes seem to twinkle.

     Landry is given a blink. It's quiet and subtle. And clearly says, Remember how I told you about the guests we were having and a particular Mr. Dunross that was the lord of the manor before I was given it after he'd had it for several generations? At least, it should, to him.
     "Leif was so excited to have the two of you back at the chateau that he put together some of the things he remembered you requesting on your visits." She smiles, "He keeps trying to replicate a New York cheesecake. I don't have the heart to tell him that I prefer the French style just yet, I think he'd be crushed."
     Once Joshua has retrieved the drinks for her friends, Victoria smiles politely to him, "Thank you, Landry, everything looks perfect, I'll send for you if we need anything else." You can go on about your evening. She isn't quite used to having someone hovering behind her shoulder waiting to hand her things yet.

     Double-scotch was perched on his mouth and when the order is given the unspoken words transform to a grin. William glances back at the introduction, there was a nod, but in European aristocratic fashion, there was little else. What does one say, apart from Thank you or Hello or Where's my glass?
     William Plantagenet, sic Guillaume d'Angevin, is taking a seat on the sofa in the very next moment, looking to those around him, wondering...
     Why did I extinguish a perfectly good cigarette?
     His hand reaches into his jacket inside pocket, removing the cigarette pack, the lighter, ah... good... brandy. The delight lights in his face, turning that iconic visage, something beyond Michelangelic, momentarily incandescent. How emotion registers easily there, comfortably. He is in very, very fine spirits.
     "The house looks good, you have done much in a short time," William offers her, sitting up and taking the brandy. The cigarette may now wait, but the pack is close at hand, resting on the side table. Easily accessible if needed. "In a year, your fingerprints will be all over it," he says in heavily-accented English, "...and it will cease to remember us. This is how it should be..."

     "Absolutely," Ian agrees, taking his scotch without another word to the servant. He turns about slightly, though he remains on the sofa's arm, so he might face the same direction as William, to look at the hostess. "By the by, how is Leif?" Ian wonders, looking down at William and half-expecting him to go ahead and prepare another cigarette.

     "Thank you. I've enjoyed it a great deal. It's been a good project. I'm not nearly finished with everything I'd like to do yet, but it's nice for the first stage." She says easily, moving to sit on the chaise lounge in the manner of a sofa rather than across the conversation area with just the three of you. "Have you seen the library yet? That's the room that's had the most changes, I combined the tower all into one area rather than the rooms on the separate floors." The girl does have a lot of books after all.
     "It's also nice to have it finished though, well, the construction done. I'm still getting a feel for most of the house. I haven't even gotten to poke through all of the third floor yet." She takes a drink from her mug, continuing easily, "The smaller tweaking bits will have to come after living here a while to see what works and what doesn't."
     There's a smile to Ian, "He's doing well. I got him a new kitchen, he thinks I'm an angel from on high. He's been looking forward to you both being here, though. I think all three of them have been feeling rather at loose ends the last few years, they're just as excited as I am about having things happen here."

     "Well," the word is a murmur, mouth moving around something else -- ah yes, the cigarette. William cannot have brandy without it. The brandy is held by a hand, an expert balance. The cigarette is grasped and controlled by a dexterous mouth, fire burning at the end of it, clove laying its own fingerprints on the air, smoke issuing in an exhale as his other hand comes up to rescue the clove cig, if only momentarily.
     "You have time, yes? This is going to be your home, your base. You build your empire here, it is to say... you... find a place to call your own and then you make it so..." William leans in to tap the ash in the waiting ashcan. "You have less to do than I did when I was building mine," he continues with a grin, glancing to Ian. "When I was able to take my Chinon back, there were only a few towers standing, the walls, the bridge, Boissy. The windmill tower, the Logis, all of this I rebuilt. It took me many years and..." he chuckles as he lifts his glass to drink, condensation captured for an explosive, flavored moment in the bowl of the snifter, "...a lot of money..."
     Sitting back, glass lowering again to his thigh, William takes another breath of the cigarette. "They said I was crazy, crazy William up there in his crazy, ruined chateau. That I could not build it to be what it was. It is true, I did not do that. I built it better than it was. You can make this your place. So... your story has a beginning here. You make a home, and then you tell the world: you should be here..."

     While William discourses, Ian lifts his scotch and sniffs it. He exhales and looks at William in the momentary listen, then finally decides to dive into his glass.

     "I do. On both counts. Plenty of time and a great deal to work with. And several ideas on things I might do in the future it's just... odd I suppose." Victoria shrugs, not seeming melancholy about it just not entirely sure what adjective describes her state of mind, "I haven't ever had someplace to invest in before. Which I think is why it took me so long to do it." The fact that she has had it for years and never visited not lost on her, apparently.
     "But, it's something new? Which is good, I think. Kind of the point, really." There's another drink from her coffee before she gets up and goes to the server to pour herself more from the silver set polished to glowing on the dark wood surface, turning to Ian this time after she's done, "And I do adore it, I don't think I'm ever going to be able to say 'thank you' enough for giving it to me."

     "Say that when the stipend stops," Ian drolls into his glass, turning it up again. He grins, mostly at himself, and downs a large portion of his scotch.

     "We will let you know when you have said it enough," William quips, humor lighting in dark eyes, echoing on the upturn of his mouth, deep though slight. "Won't we," he murmurs, looking to Ian. There is an immediacy. The look is as much as the touch of a hand...
     He tips the glass, regarding the liquid, chuckling at Ian's own humor, the laughter rich as the brandy, and as warm. "This is not a bad way to end our trip to the Italies," William notes. "A chalet in Switzerland, good brandy, a big blue thing on the ceiling. So...what does it do?" he suddenly wonders, looking to Victoria with a growing smile. "Does it pipe out music or turn around...how did they put it together?"

     "I was surprised it hadn't stopped already, actually. I figured it was only intended for the first few years anyway. So I've been investing half of it annually in a series of accounts to endow the maintenance on the building. So whenever you're tired of giving it to me, just let me know and I'll write you a nice thank you note." Victoria says with a slightly teasing arched eyebrow, taking one of the treats Lief prepared to eat on her way back to sit down again with her coffee.
     "And thank you again, then." She directs it to Ian with a grin to William before she laughs with genuine amusement and shakes her head, "No, it doesn't pipe out music or turn around. What kind of tacky American do you think I am? It lights up, I'm sure, with a lovely glow."
     At the question about how it was constructed, she perks up even more, leaning forward slightly as she points at the contraption where it hangs, "Under the glass there's a titanium frame. It gives the whole thing its shape as a base, and they attached the individual pieces by bending rods that were sticking out of the pipes over after sliding the loops at the end of the glass over them. Starting from the bottom and working their way up." She grins, gesturing over towards the dining table, "I took pictures if you're terribly curious."

     "Non," William slides a grin, "... I do not need to see the pictures." He studies it with his eyes and his mind makes calculations, hypotheses, theories, can envision it quite easily. "It is very American," he finally says, and maybe that's not a bad thing. "To have such a thing as this put together with the same basic principles as an aluminum Christmas tree. It is sublime efficiency."
     He tilts his head, brown seen in the black of his hair by some grace of the suit he wears, as he looks at it from a slightly different angle. An angle that lets him look at Ian at the same time. "How long did it take to put together?" He grins, looking to Ian, mouth forming a kiss that does not land. If they were in Venice or Scotland or France, William would be pulling him in for a hold, and to keep him on his lap. But this is not his home now, well, it never was really. They landed here once or twice, or so. But that was the extent of it.
     "It is very disturbing in its way." Indigo eyes narrow at it suddenly, mouth parting to free brandied smoke, his hand swirling the glass in meditative thought. "What do you see, Victoria, in such a thing? What does the glass say to you..."

     "Three evenings. The first to put in the frame and the neon, the second and third to hang all the glass. It weighs over 500 pounds now that it's finished, there are 97 individual pieces combined to make the entire work." She looks more at the chandelier now than her conversation partner. Perhaps not even noticing Ian's silent pause in his contribution to the discussion.
     "There were three artisans from the designer's school who came to hang it, each of the pieces are numbered individually and then they assemble them aesthetically when they see the space."
     Her brow creases slightly as she considers the question carefully, still looking at the object as she lets her eyes move over the myriad of shapes, "Discovery. Every time I look at it I see something new." She stands up now, leaving her coffee behind as she goes over to the table itself to stand under the piece and point up, "Here in the underlayer there is a small spiral that has a cherub sitting on the base nestled in with the spheres." She walks a few paces down, pointing to another tube as it swirls forth from the white and gold riot of movement, "And this one has a line of gold that spirals all the way from the base to the tip with perfect symmetry where they turned the glass in the kiln."
     She turns back, to William again with a little nod, "That's what it is about it, I think. It's always changing even though it stays the same. You never see the same thing twice if you take the time to really look. All the pieces are individual works of art that come together to make the whole, but they still retain their own cohesion as a masterpiece."

     Ian's comfortable in his seat, at least. He crosses his legs and takes another swallow of scotch as he rapidly moves towards the end of his glass.
     "Any other changes?" he suddenly wonders aloud.

     William blinks. It is a languid, thoughtful blink. For vampires, there would be an entire progression of motion. And he stares at it a while, placid expression of thought turning to something of perplexion.
     To me, it looks like a mass of twisting entrails....
     I cannot tell her that...
     He wants to look away -- no, he really does -- but for a few more moments he finds himself staring. "It is... like chaos," he says finally. "A chaos and a monstrosity, twisting forms like the interior of a human or animal. As if, if you stared at it long enough, you might approach augury..."
     That was a nicer way, certainly, of stating that it looks like entrails.
     Well, you can take a man out of the 12th Century, but perhaps you cannot fully take the 12th Century from the man.
     "This would have hung perfectly in the hall of the Giovanni..." The very dead Giovanni. It is definitely something Marco would have owned and displayed.
     And now William is done. He looks away from the artwork, looking to Victoria directly as Ian makes his first true query of the night.

     Ian gives a lingering look to William, then to Victoria. "I think, Victoria, that we cannot see and appreciate what you do. That is all," Ian says, recasting William's comment and perhaps his own quiet. He smiles slightly, "While the chandelier is a nice thing for you, it is not the reason we are here. I will just say that."
     His empty glass is set down on the coffeetable.
     "And, I'll also add that you should not be surprised at my observation."

     Looking back to the piece again, Victoria nods, not seeming insulted at all by the comparison. "There is a visceral quality to it, really. I can see how you could pick that up from the movement of the forms." She tilts her head to the side a little, "Or a squid. Or a mermaid underwater."
     She grins a little, coming back over, "I'm starting to think you don't like it very much."
     But then, art discussion closed.
     "Changes?" She turns to Ian again as she comes back to her seat, picking up her mug again when she sits, "To the chateau, you mean?"

     There's a nod from Ian. "Yes. Other projects?"

     "There's the mural in the chapel to have restored. I've stopped some of the other smaller things I was working on in favor of finding out how extensive it actually needs to be when Hansl looks at it." William gave it a pass, she's not going to take advantage if he doesn't offer.
     "I've got a score of rooms I don't know what to do with yet, but I'm imagining uses will present themselves as time goes on. I have a third floor of my tower that is currently being used as a glorified store room that will probably have something more substantial to do with it in the future." She says easily, continuing on.
     "And I've thought of putting in an observatory in the fourth floor of the northwest tower. But that's something that will have to wait some time until I have a great deal more money to do it and some idea of what type of telescope I want." She takes a sip of her coffee, pondering. "Those are the big ones."
     "I had an idea the other day for a non-home improvement related project when I was unpacking boxes, though, that I thought I might run by you while I've got you hear. I haven't worked all of it out in my head yet, though."

     "What is that?" Ian goes ahead and vocalizes. He shifts his legs, though they remain crossed. His right hand settles upon William's knee.

     Dark eyebrows lift, one after the other, and in slow fashion, as if to keep his eyes from drifting upward again. William does not answer her question about liking or not liking the work. Art isn't about liking something or being liked. He leaves that there.
     The hand upon his knee, however...
     It seems to settle something, what is not expressed, but the lightness that had been missing from his demeanor returns. William leans in, stamping out his second cigarette and transferring his brandy to his recently freed hand, so that his other might rest upon its partner, resting upon his knee. Fingers move idly there. He doesn't parrot Ian's question, but his expression echoes it...
     What is the project?

     There's a momentary frown before she takes another drink. Either she's not sure it's a good idea, or she's not sure that someone is going to like the idea. But, in for a penny and all.
     "I was unpacking my medical textbooks." She says evenly, "And I realized that I hadn't really heard of anybody who specializes in medical treatments for us." Vampires, us. "There aren't as many things that are dangerous, but in some ways that means that when something is it's even more so, because we can't necessarily use conventional methods of treatment. Much less go to a hospital or something like that. So..." She pauses a moment, "I thought I'd look into that?"
     Or, you know, not.

     "There isn't anyone specializing in medical treatments for us," Ian's chin dips as he stares, "...because we have no bodies that need medicine?"
     Did he miss something?
     "Maybe you are trying to say...what, Victoria? You wish to study...vampiric afflictions? All of which are caused by magic? What other kinds of maladies are there that afflict vampires?"

     Indigo merely watches, blue-violet colors sliding along the bulbous glass now tilted at his mouth, liquid moving past his lips in a long, I'm Staying Out Of This One, swallow...

     "Except for times when extreme things happen like William needing a sedative in the middle of the night because he's hallucinating." Victoria says, "That Ui and I were called in to administer without having a real idea of what we were getting into except for the reference of a once human body that we had medical training for."
     "Or the chance that we could figure out a methodology to prevent frenzies when someone is being brought out of torpor." She continues, "And there are things that do us physical harm besides the mystical. Fire, which I've seen survival from in some cases though it was severely damaging. Or attacks from other supernatural creatures that prevent us from being able to heal mystically."
     "And the physical component of mystical maladies that could have the potential to be tempered until the root of the issue was found and dealt with." She continues, "And I'm not against learning about mystically damaging elements, it wouldn't necessarily be unhelpful to have someone unaffiliated with a Chantry to approach at times for at least some kind of opinion. It's just not an area that I'm familiar with."

     "So," Ian goes on, "...if that is the case..."
     "Then why are you asking me, Victoria?"
     Ian shakes his head and stands, "Is this how it will be every time we visit? I would sincerely like to know. For our conversations are about chateaux, your confusion on what you will do with yourself, or some variant discussion of medicine, a topic I have, for years now, have not enjoyed discussing with you."
     "You do not need my permission to do anything," Ian goes on, "...and I cannot explain to you...again...that I am not interested in your asking."

     The brandy is done -- that may go down as one of the longest glasses of brandy ever held by the hand of Plantagenet -- and now, at its ending, with servants nowhere in sight, he suddenly desires another glass...
     But perhaps it is for the best that it is empty...
     Glass set aside, William takes up the pack of cigarettes, takes one more from it and then tucks the rest back into his possession, the confines of a dark inner pocket. Methodical the thousand motions inherent in the lighting of one cigarette.
     Fire... breath... smoke... release...
     "Actually, it was the fact that I was sedated that caused the greatest amount of problems," William murmurs. "Had I been left to ... recover from my Regression as usual, the matter may have been dealt with more immediately." There is a brief pause as he knocks the first ash from the third cigarette into the waiting tray. "But I do not care to discuss it past that point." He exhales smoke. "And we have had this conversation before. When we first met, I believe," an indigo glance to Ian. William peers at the woman as strangely as he peered at the artwork before.
     "Like I wished to know how that...creature of glass above you was constructed, perhaps I am curious... as to your composition as well. For so much has happened in the past ten years.... could you yet be where you were then...?" he wonders it academically, not expecting an answer.

     "Then why do you keep bringing it back to that?" Victoria finally asks with a good deal of frustration in her voice, "We were having a perfectly lovely discussion about art a moment ago, actually. Which while it was winding to its own conclusion was not on the list."
     "I brought up golf specifically because I know you like it, which completely seemed to uninterested you. I could give a rat's ass honestly, but I thought it might actually be something you enjoyed while you were here. Other than discussing my life, at least for a little while."
     She turns to look to William, "I was in a different position, actually, a Primogen seat in Portland which while I didn't particularly like it was more along the lines of what seems to pass for what I'm supposed to be doing, as far as I can tell. But that wasn't good enough either. I needed to stop and come here and figure out what I'm doing. But pretend to do something else while I'm at it."
     She looks to Ian again, "Do you know how -hard- it was for me to get through medical school? I was one of three girls in the entire program, two of whom dropped out before graduation because they got married. But, why in the world should I keep coming back to it, I wonder?" She stands up, going to take her coffee cup to the server.
     "Since you dislike talking to me so much, I am constantly confused as to why you continue to do it. It's not a conversation I enjoy having over and over again either." She picks up the brandy bottle, bringing it over to William so he can do whatever he likes with it, "Thank you for coming, I think I'll retire for the evening."

     "Perhaps you should retire," Ian observes, still sitting in his seat. "You are becoming more fragile, apparently, in your young age. Maybe you need more sleep."
     No, not really. But Ian stands quickly, suddenly. William's hand is an afterthought.
     "And I did not say you could leave. Not yet," Ian states coolly.

     The William of New Port, Oregon was a peace maker. A mediator. A guardian of young souls, and souls younger than they should have been. William of New Port was a man of peace, a peacemonger after a lifetime of so much war.
     But the William that is of this universe is vastly different. He is home, he makes no apology for it. Nor does he step in, ask people to set aside their disagreements and work toward a peaceful resolution. Sometimes arguments, like forest fires happen. Sometimes you must burn a forest, in order for it to grow...
     She is a child...
     Not a childe, but a child...
     He is convinced of that now...
     Maximilian has hung an infant out of a window, tossing it to the wolves of immortal politics and ambition, without even waiting first for it to properly crawl. What there was of respect has begun to dissolve.
     Fire...breath....smoke...release...
     William calmly watches for now, neither interjecting nor interfering...

     Victoria stops, as she's told to, standing quietly with her hands at her sides without saying anything else. Her expression is expectant, Ian plans on saying something, apparently, and so she is going to hear what it is.

     "I am doing nothing, but bringing up the obvious," Ian says, his blonde hair scattered about his shoulders. "It is here, it is painfully evident, and for all of the restoration, and all of the activity of a chandelier," Ian's voice says softly, "...it is all about you. You. Not the trappings around it, and the attempts to discuss much else."
     "So, I bring the conversation to the obvious point, to the painful point, to the point that you," Ian stands before the younger, "...would rather be at, anyway. I am direct and honest, Victoria."
     "What about you?"

     For one so reputedly vocal, William finds he has nothing to say. He looks between the two, lastly to Victoria. He doesn't expect some light to come on. An epiphany. She has but barely stepped out into the world. For one to have an epiphany one must first suffer a set-back, a sorrow, perhaps even a tragedy. Something, anything, to overcome. Something that challenges the senses or sensibilities.
     But what has she done? Has she suffered? Not until she breaks free from the cocoon that Maximilian has wrapped around her.
     William exhales the scented smoke from nose and mouth, a sigh given artistic form, a cloud of clove. He leans his head against his hand, thumb providing an anchor as he tilts his head into it.

     Despite the outbursts, it isn't in her nature to be petulant. That is one thing the girl has going for her, she isn't going to stand there and pout or run off to her room and slam the door so it echoes down the hall so she can sulk. But, neither does she know how exactly to answer the question sufficiently for the answer that is apparently sought.
     Still standing with her hands at her side, she turns one up slightly in an interrogative manner, "What about me, what, exactly?"
     "I've been thinking, I've been trying to come up with something constructive that isn't just a waste of time." Her tone isn't sarcastic or whining, it's just factual. It's what she's been doing for the last month, several really when it's examined. "If the medical idea isn't going to work I'll have to keep thinking of something else. Chances are if you think it's futile it probably is, you've been at this longer than I have, there's no point in throwing that information away."
     "I'm looking into things pretty broadly. Considering opening an investment firm in New York with an office in Hong Kong. I've already got two people working for me in one and a newer guy in Asia that's doing well so far." She sighs, going over the list out loud, "And I have the office space already in the building Maximilian owns where my practice was. Or I could just keep doing my own through them and roll the funds back in until I figure out something else that makes sense."

     "That's not it," Ian's voice says flatly. "I am not interested in your business," woe be to all Ventrue, "I am interested in you. For now."
     "Your business is not you -- if you ever say that I said that, I will make you wish that you'd never met me -- and frankly," Ian's nose almost to Victoria's now, "...you, as I said before, are the real subject."
     "I am not interested in chandeliers, I am not interested in business. I am interested in you. That is what I asked about and that is what I am interested in."
     "For the rest," Ian's head tilts to the left, "...you need to take that up with Maximilian, because he apparently cares about such. I do not."
     "Shall you try and answer my question again? And be honest," Ian murmurs, turning away lightly upon silent feet.

     Meanwhile, back at the Halls of Justice, Superman is wishing he were home in his bathtub, fucking Captain America, or watching television. He has so little patience once things go off on an unplanned tangental. Promise of party, good food, free drinks are nowhere to be found. His earlier warm and congenial, good-humored mood has dissolved.
     He should leave, if anyone, and get some fresh air, try to put his game face back on. But the morbidly curious duke is now stuck on the sofa, smoking a cigarette and looking bored.
     William wishes he could care. He wishes he could call it up, with a handful of compassion and empathy at least, and rejoin the conversation as a participant, even smirk at her and tell her that now is the time to be vain -- and to be real. But he's gone sour, and only one person on all the earth can turn around a Plantagenet mood.
     And he's rather busy at the moment talking to a woman...
     William leans in, his face placid, no expression rippling across it, his blue-violet gaze directed inward. He takes a moment to pour himself a brandy. At least The Help was good enough to bring a bottle and leave it nearby...

     Sometimes, she feels like she's talking to the Sphinx.
     "I suppose I don't entirely understand the question, then." Victoria replies, rather than trying to make excuses for her previous response.
     But, she continues on anyway, taking a stab at it.
     "I want to feel useful? Right now I'm so... pointless." That word she doesn't like, but does think is true, "I serve no function, I exist in a vacuum of nothing. I have a handful of relationships with other people, I have assets in all kinds of forms, and I'm apparently rather good at putting on a show of sounding like I've got something figured out to other people." The two of you being the exception. "But it doesn't serve any real purpose at the moment, it simply exists right along with me."
     Not unlike the chateau until recently. Sitting beautiful and picturesque on a lovely famous lake with prime real estate potential, gazed at longingly by people driving by or passing on the train. And serving no end other than that.

     There's a sigh from Ian, loud and clearing. His back to Victoria now, he would face William, if his face wasn't turned to the vaulted ceiling and his eyes weren't closed.
     "What of telling your precious Maximilian that he's full of hag shite?"
     Must be a Scottish thing.
     "What of love?"
     "What of blood, fresh and utterly delectable?'
     "What about..." Ian turns around, hands raised and opened flat, as if he's pushing against something, "...food. Money. Desire?"
     "What about a long bath, with men to sprinkle rosepetals into your water?"
     "What of traveling? Gowns and perfume?"
     "Christ," Ian's hands wave out, "...what about fucking the fucking Prince of Tours?" Ian asks, his brows arched now as he looks expectantly at Victoria, as if to say What, dammit, say something?
     The sigh comes again and the drama recedes.
     "Be honest, Victoria. Truthful." Not to him, but to yourself.
     "This is ridiculous," Ian adds, turning to see William. I said the words. There. Will that make it better? Probably not.
     And he's not expecting William to take over as he did in the last round of this, in Scotland. Oh wait, the round before the last one in Venice. William's current posture seems to say that.
     "I don't have time for this," Ian says softly, shaking his head at Victoria.

     No, he is not going to take over as he did in Chinon. As he did in Venice. And likely in Scotland too. Or in New Port. Or anywhere else the three of you have been. Instead, William stands, fingers smothering the cigarette as he does so, crushing it in the ashtray.
     "We can't keep having this same conversation, or I'm going to fucking put a bullet in my brain," the English is smooth, the intonation elongated, deep.
     "Or in someone else's..." And he doesn't specify. As he stands, he settles his jacket upon his shoulders and he looks squarely at Victoria.
     "There is nothing else I can say or I can do. But if you try to fill your life with business and things and trappings and distractions, as long as you exist shackled to those principles, then you aren't ... living this extra time that was given to you. Don't waste it. Better people than you have died without having half the chance..."
     I need some air. The sigh of a breath says as much. "It's a nice chandelier, Victoria. Too bad it means fuck all..." With that, Plantagenet is done. What else can he say? In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, he supposes.

     Sphinx.
     "I like learning. I like traveling, certainly. I like... meeting new people and finding out about them. I like history, and finding out about the people who make it." She can make lists, sure. "I like glass. I like art. I like being able to rely on myself, rather than being dependent on someone else."
     "I like experiments. I like solving puzzles. I like fencing. And helping people." She holds up her hands a little at William's outburst, "So, I can do all those things, I have all those things, I enjoy all those things. Am I doing at least something right or am I doing it wrong?"
     Looking between the both of you she arches her eyebrows, "I can't tell, on the one hand I'm not supposed to retire to my bower and sit on my laurels, but contribute. And on the other hand, I'm supposed to do what I enjoy. But none of those things seems terribly progressive in the way of not retiring to my bower and sitting on my laurels."
     "I want someone to talk about those things with, I want someone to be myself with who actually likes me. That I don't have to change into something else." Like she's had to in the past, "I want to not feel the need to justify my existence every time I turn around because it's evident that it's worth something. To me, to other people, in general."

     "Then," Ian says, "Stop asking if you're doing it right, if you don't want to justify your existence. If you don't want to..." Ian steps forward, "...then don't. And stop asking me, directly or indirectly, for my fuckin' approval, because," Ian smirks, "...you won't get it. Because I don't give it. And that's the way it should be and the way it will be."
     "I don't know if you will really understand what I am saying. I cannot say. But I am not looking for a protege, nor someone to teach. Nor do I need someone who needs my approval or wants me to say whether they are doing something wrong," his voice like Victoria's now, "...or something right. I will not do it. It will not happen."
     "So. If you know what you want," Ian's chin dips, as if he's looking over a set of glasses, "...stop checking in to see if it's acceptable."
     "I am not Maximilian, nor a substitute," Ian adds. "Nor do you want me to be."

     William isn't taking the bait -- be proud, for he could have responded in reams about the 'changing into something else' bit. But no... this is a changed William. Not a gentler, kinder William -- not by a longshot -- but a changed man. A man who is fully in control of himself...
     Particularly when he feels he is going to lose control of the tempestuous creature known as the Angevin Temper...
     It's for the best really...
     He's already reaching for another cigarette as he is exiting. Normally when Plantagenets get this testy they go kill something, conquer something, rape something or build something. Occasionally they call out for the death of their best friends (who will rid me of this turbulent priest anyone?) or send letters to the pope telling him to, in a word, sod off -- and by the way, I'm emperor...
     Out in the middle of nowhere in Switzerland, on a placid lake overlooking rolling countryside, without a pope or pulpit, battlefield or nunnery in sight, what the hell is he going to do?

     Do you feel it? Yes, that. That's...what is that? Oh, I know what it is. I'm suddenly hungry...

     There is nothing to do in this fucking country. I hate Switzerland. Let's make a pact to never return... hungry? I could eat several Swiss maids... And he isn't talking about the marshmallow sprinkled cocoa.

     graphic image, suddenly fizzling out. What? The two magic words: fucking and hungry in the same emotion...

     "Well then accept that if you criticize me, I'm going to ask how I can improve." Victoria says finally, "If you don't want me to ask for advice, or approval, or whatever else you don't want me to ask for, I won't. But you keep treating me like you do."
     "Yes, I look for your approval, because it seems like whenever I feel like I'm doing something right, you tell me that I'm not. 'Why am I staying in America?' Well, what should I do instead of that? 'What am I going to do now that I'm here?'"
     "Your opinion is important to me. You both made sure that it was, and I'm not arguing that it shouldn't be. It's important to a lot of people. I -like- that you give it to me. And I can't understand, I suppose, why it's so unreasonable that I want it to be a good one."
     "You asked me once why when you were in New Port I didn't seem to want to do things with you then." She turns to Ian, since it's his point that she's trying to figure out now, "It's because of this. You don't want me to rely on you as an authority figure, but you were one. You wanted me to do better because I was doing badly. And I didn't relish doing badly either. But you didn't want me to want you to. And it's fucking confusing all the time."

     Nothing... nevermind... I'm starving. I'll deal. Maybe if she saw me on my knees attending you she'd be shocked into living, like giving her the paddles. He hasn't utterly lost his sense of humor. But you know, if he had a stick in his hand right now, well it just wouldn't be a good idea.

     "Horror of horrors!" Ian mock-gasps: hard to tell his levity from condescension. "Oh, you should ask for my advice, because it strokes my ego, which is inflated due to my brilliance at avoiding death..." his hand elegantly waves.
     "And of course it's confusing. It's what Elders do," Ian drawls, wiggling his brows. Prerogative.
     "You let me know when you work it all out! I'd love to know what you come up with." Ian chirps, hand slipping into his pocket as he moves to stand near William. "And when you decide to bed the Prince too, so I can then tell you how it's a disaster waiting to happen, because he's a Prince. Though there are benefits," Ian's eyes float from William's feet to his head, "...to having a Prince in your bed."
     Ian's finger comes to rest on his chin. "Now that you mention it, it is all so terribly confusing."

     another graphic image of two in heated embrace. What? Oh, right. Paddles...

     "The chateau looks good, though,' Ian observes suddenly, looking up. "Very nicely done." And with that, he appears to be done.

     Do not smart off to the elder. Do not smart off to the elder. Do not smart off to the elder.
     Counting sometimes helps.
     "Sure. You'll be the first one I call."
     Or sometimes it doesn't.
     Victoria glances to the room as it's mentioned, "I'm glad you like it. I was going to invite you to stay while William was working in Venice if it was convenient for you since it's out of the way, but I don't think I want to anymore." She shrugs, "Maybe I'll change my mind tomorrow."

     "Now, don't be rude," Ian differentiates, one brow lifting. But he smiles afterwards.
     "I think I will take the Prince out for a walk, then we will enjoy your renovations in our room," Ian explains, his fingers curling inside the cuff of his turtleneck, as if he's preparing to pull it up over his mouth, "...and tomorrow eve, we shall leave you with your new space. We know when it is our time to depart," he grins, rather amused at his generosity. "And you have guests who do need your attention," he notes, always finding the business end of every intent.

     He remained at the doorway, not going so far as leaving forever, or heading outside -- what's outside, after all but a great deal of nothing really -- and definitely working on another cigarette. As Ian gives him the up-and-down look, the anger finds a proper outlet.
     Smoldering indigo returns the look, look for look. "Everyone knows, dukes do it better." What's a duke but a prince with an army and actual power. And what of a Prince who was Prince (and a duke) long before he was prince among these creatures. William has confidence and bearing most simply do not.
     Could not...
     A hand is at Ian's waist, arm drawing him in and though Ian is not a small man, by any means, he's swallowed in sudden Angevin. William stops just short of going for the neck, he stops at Ian's ear, and he shoots a look to Victoria, a smile that is beautiful but heated. "It will not matter to us one way or the other. Do what you like, Victoria. It is a freewoman's prerogative." His mouth is at Ian's ear afterwards, words mouthed there but not given voice.
     Yes, Prince Plantagenet seems to be in full agreement...
     Very, in fact...
     He straightens, a kiss left at his lover's neck and then he goes back to smoking his cigarette. There's a look to Victoria. Impatience, yes. Disappointment, no. He's not her father, that he should be disappointed. "Tell Maximilian we said... salve..." he smirks and turns, a look to Ian.

     "You know," Ian says, mostly at William, "She could change her mind...so be nice..."

     "I was in a perfectly good mood," William protests.

     "Stay if you want to, go if you want to." She says easily, staying standing where she is. And not, apparently, reacting to the lovey-dovey attentions passing between the two of you. "I'll have your Yule presents sent down so I don't forget to give them to you before you go." You can open them if you want, or not.
     "Enjoy the gardens, there's a nice little copse of trees off to the west side that has a private dias if you haven't found it already." She seems to be sincere, if somewhat aloof. "With a fountain and everything."
     Turning to William at his last remark she shrugs, "So was I. Anyway, have a good time."

     Ian shakes his head at William, then slides a hand in his to lead him out. There's a stop and look at Victoria, then Ian turns about, dragging the large dour Prince behind him.

     She doesn't wait to see that they get out safely. It's not a terribly dangerous garden with its high walls and mountain air. Glancing up to the as yet unlit chandelier, Victoria walks past it and the table to go to the entry hall and subsequently to her apartments to do whatever it is that she's going to do with the rest of the evening at this point.

Posted by rowan at April 05, 2004 03:48 PM