Perhaps there's much to say about the recently installed Prince of Tours. One could easily speak of his charm and easygoing nature. Both of those are well-known. Or his penchant for administration. Or the relative absence of a large court, drama, or primogen in and out of his purview. But as with all things in Politick, what one may see as a positive, others may call a neglectful negative. Either way, His Excellency has little control over it. As a result, Raymond Marillet cannot give such evaluations much time or attention.
     Perhaps that is the way of young princedoms: those run by the youngest of the elite, or those domains that are newly created (even with older elite mayhap in charge). There is little time to give to the luxury of evaluations and observations. Only time to attend to the issues at hand that one hopes will make power easier in the long run.
     Perhaps there is much to say about the state of Toreador affairs in the city of Tours. A Toreador primogen was installed, in addition to the Toreador Prince. It's said that such was His Excellency's choice. With the primogen came a guild, structured to reward the artists and to point out the poseurs (Tours has so few, all blessings in that). Guildlords and -masters are but a handful, and they see to a coterie of youth who have decided to try their extended lives in a domain that perhaps is more generous and understanding of inexperience.
     A chance in a domain that actually still has a Guild.
     Such are becoming rarer, with Toreador living in the Modern Age. In cities of steel and glass, of mixed clans that wash away some of the ubiquities that separate the bloodlines. Not a criticism, mind you, for such blurring is often healthy for the insulated and those prone to internecine squabble. But it is a different place, this Tours, mixed of old and new, and seeming to offer, without hidden strings, real opportunity in a world sometimes too stratified.
     And why shouldn't Tours be without fear of change?
     That is what Raymond Marillet asks when he stands before the Ultimate Guildlords, those of the court of the Rose Justicar.
     They see how Tours is coming after two...what...three years of the unknown French vampire whose name bubbled to the surface. Some question such laissez faire tactics. Some question such, frankly, horribly loose tactics.
     Some smile and say: don't believe what you see.
     Glass is complex. Lines and mathematic, chaos and error abound even in the most beautiful creations from Murano and Limoges. But they are the most perfect, the most beautiful creations to the trained and untrained eye.
     And glass, with its Insanity and Imperfections, may be quite strong.
     Thus the Court of Tours grows and thrives. New faces have come to ask for new lives. And Raymond Marillet is happy to allow it.

     "When will you come back?" Raymond asks softly as he stands at the bottom of his staircase, the wide front doors doubly opened. Outside, a car idles, and a young woman is dressed as a driver. His personal guard, known as Bast, stands at the front door, waiting to accompany the departing guest, a woman of exceptional beauty and quality that he's had the pleasure of securing and the delight of watching for a week now. Raymond glances at his associate, then looks to Constanz again, sliding his hand into hers. "Tours will be less with you gone..."

     To quote the former custodian of Tours: You can't please everyone...
     For the peace that was granted, there came a stillness. To some, this placidity was welcomed. To others, it meant stagnation. Hundreds of years of stagnation. What a fetid pond. On the other hand, it was gloriously quiet, the Loire Valley benefitting as no other region, especially once the great refurbishment began, a kind of second Renaissance. In the latter half of the 20th Century, old treasures were dusted off, restoration began. The tarnish of two world wars began to be rubbed away. Chinon's restoration completed, the grand chateau rebuilt from the rubble of several kings and several iterations of revolutions and international conflict. None of this may have been possible, those others argued, without the prosperity that this stillness allowed them, and with the Benefactor, as he was called.
     You can't please everyone and you can't stop progress. With a new Age, came new desires. With another millennium, new faces, more faces, new demands. It was time for a change of leadership. A changed complexion. Youth, new energy and new ideas were needed.
     But there's just no pleasing some people...

     Perhaps Paris has had her moment. Still, like a mother, she likes to advise from a distance. But there is something... interesting happening here. It is not simply the changing fragrance that comes when one replaces an old bouquet with a new cut of flowers. It is an identify. It is more a coming of age for a city that has had moments of glory long forgotten. This garden of France, the birthplace of her language, where the ground bleeds wine, flowers flourish, and beautiful men are born.
     And such a prince it has to lead her to her new identity, one who lives it as much as symbolizes it. Like the best princes, Raymond Marillet has become his city. And his city has become Him. It is good news for France. It is better news for Europe. For our family, and for the family we all make together.
     And I, Constanz deWitt, shall speak on it...
     Her blonde hair, her high forehead, her sky-grey eyes, they speak of the Netherlands, the place where she must return. She carries it with her no less than Raymond carries Tours. When she smiles, all that is beautiful of Holland and its lowlands, the grandeur of The Hague may be seen. For you, still for you, she wears the fragrance of the flowers of this valley, light, natural, speaking always of summer, her pale blue dress suit like the summer skies over Touraine. Her hands are gloved, the gloves are kid, so soft as to dissolve at the touch. You may feel her skin beneath that, and beneath that Fragrance...
     "I should like to return next month, for the dedication of the new museum," she speaks your language as a native, it is her own. "I have had a wonderful visit. Such things I have to let the Netherlands know, a flower of hope blooms in the Loire countryside." Constanz smiles. "I should not want Tours to be less with my absence, but more by your guardianship, which I can see in so short a time has had a profound effect. You should be proud. As one of your family," Toreador, "I am."
     Her smile warms by degrees. But enough of business. "I know you may not journey from her for long. But please do not be a stranger, visit us in The Hague. I should very much like to see you, your grace..."

     "Your grace," Raymond whispers, lifting hands to his lips. Face downturned, Raymond closes his eyes and presses soft gloved fingers against his parted mouth. A breath follows, and he turns the hands palms up, to give another warm kiss.
     Lowering them slowly, his blue eyes rise to meet yours. "Next month," Raymond affirms, nodding. His skin is flush, and he manages a slight smile.

     "I will be sure to call Miranda," she notes, "...and make the usual bookings," there is a smile. Naturally, for the time of a prince is precious. The car is waiting, and yet... I am happy where I am, hand held and kissed. The pleasure registers on her expression in the flicker of her eyes, the slight lifting of her lashes. "Perhaps I shall take brief residence in your city, say perhaps for the summer," there is no move to remove her hand from your grasp. "There is much, I believe, that the Netherlands can offer Tours and Touraine. I think a ... sister city," that is the term nowadays, "...relationship would be most beneficial. As the leader of the Guild of Flowers, it would be my privilege to serve as... emissary to this cause..."
     And the better to see you, my dear...
     Constanz deWitt smiles, the corners of the pink-painted mouth, painted just a blush darker than natural, a slight frosting, upturns and spreads. "We should discuss it next month. Keep it in your consideration," her voice finishes softly.

     Raymond looks left, then blushing. "I will," he murmurs, eyes sliding to front again. Now, he lowers and separates himself.
     There's a step back and a wave of his hand to Sebastian and then to the female driver, called Yolande.

     Her hand returned to her, but her offer hovering between them, Constanz turns, her hands gathering to her a small leather bag the same pale blue of her suit. In the gathering and shifting air, there is that scent of lilies again, an undertone of lavender. There is no looking back to you as she makes her way toward the car.
     It is only the half-turn of her head as she negotiates the way in her pumps, the slight downcast of golden lashes and the last echo of a smile. These are done to a rhythm and a precision, a delicacy and a beauty, that glassblowers could understand. It is crystalline for you, you who see the moments that the other two miss.
     And then she is getting in the car, assisted by Bast. Bast who, though he remains professional, is unable to deny the woman a glance. He is for a moment caught in the wake of lilies and lavender. A gloved hand lifts, fingertips brushing the glass. And perhaps it is a matter of refraction, but as she settles, there is an image for you, a gloved hand resting momentarily at her breast, as if to cup her heart...
     Such wonders of glass...
     Such a gift from an unexpected mirror...
     When Bast closes the door, the image is gone...

Posted by rowan at July 10, 2004 04:18 PM