It began with Venice.
An introduction. A nod and smile. Glances as the ball extended deep into the night. He had not asked for a dance then, nor even kept a long conversation. But then he returned unexpectedly another night, with a velvet box with golden ribbon. Inside? A sweet collection of convection, handpicked at the Via Grimani. Chocolate, liquor, fruit, and magic.
Perhaps the invitation, quietly offered, to see his cathedral, was not unexpected. Nor the peonies wrapped in Venetian lace, left in the Harpy of Amsterdam's private quarters. Something to compare to the laces of Bruges or the embroidery of her own city.
Raymond Marillet, Prince of Tours, had left a calling card. Now, the rest was up to her.
In the city of Canals... not her Amsterdam, but Venice... she had worn such trappings of an Age long lost to her, with memories of the Spice Trade, of lovers and husbands, of the decadence of tulips. Perfectly manicured hands had lifted the chocolates with a small smile, had at a later date traced along the edges of lace and she began to concoct a fragrance as heady as the peony, but with something delicate, like her own subtle nature, that nature of vampiric politics, of your position and her own...
And in answer to an invitation...
A card would arrive before she did, through informal channels, private channels very like canals, until it formally arrived at your office. Her answer.
Her answer was not in words, there was not script upon the card. The envelope bore the hint of her fragrance. Upon opening it, only this. A single, ivory ribbon (if your memory is good or your powers are better, you might recall its former life as a single lace in the ornamental architecture that was her corset), scented with something that could only be described as the soul of France.
Backed by an enfleurage of peony...
It could be no surprise when you receive a second message an evening after, that indeed the Chief Harpy of Amsterdam is in Tours, and... as all must be... written into your schedule.
Miss Miranda Olivette does indeed have an appointment on her Prince's schedule, at the conclusion of business for the night. Once his meeting with the tourism cross-clan constituency, she's sending her prince home for a moment of quiet. With that done, he's off in a car to a maison in the shadow of the cathedral, for his final meeting of the night.
The white-washed home has a series of dark wood gates that matches the dark wood of the roof and exposed beams. Behind the gates, an internal courtyard where several cars sit parked. One of them is the dark limousine afforded to one of the rarely seen businessmen of the city of Tours.
"Miranda," Raymond's voice comes, he followed by faithful Sebastian. The house appears to be empty, locked for the night. Dressed in a dark suit, the Prince exhales as he approaches his secretary, his hand extended. He's expecting something.
At the bottom of the staircase, Miranda turns about, having heard the doors opening. Sebastian had called, but now her prince has arrived. She nods stiffly as she moves to greet him, extending her hand as well, though it's filled with a small handheld device. That, she gives to him.
"I thought it was seen to, Your Excellence, and so it was. I will have the final documents sent to your offices tomorrow," Miranda explains. There's not much business now, she's seen to that, and once she clarifies something from earlier in the evening, there's nods all around and a smile upon the young (old) woman's face. "I believe that concludes this evening's business, Mr. Marillet."
With that, Miranda looks up at the top of the staircase. She expects to see someone, and her brown eyes return to her prince to see his reaction.
At the top of the staircase, there is a vision in pink. First, the shoes, like a pastel enamel, or perhaps the pink swirl of art glass, they appear. Descending, they lead the eyes to the legs, thinnest silk there, such that only a vampire could recognize the sheen. The sheath dress, a soft, tulip pastel, with a matching wide coat that meet at the thigh length hem. Couture and in simplicity, Old Imperial Class. Three strands of pink pearls, a treasure of the Orient only, drip from a around her slender neck.
There are few of any Time that may blend so well into the fashions of the day as one who was so astute in blending fragrances as she...
Constanz deWitt is a living tulip, the very face of the best of her city. Her blonde hair, orchestrated into a modern French curl. Her high forehead, her apple cheekbones, her square jaw, her delicate mouth. It is perhaps that her French heritage may only be seen in her carriage and in her dress, for all else seems resolutely Dutch.
The same fragrance that was found upon the ribbon in the card may be sensed again, only as she is midway down the stairs. Only, it seems, as pink lips form a slight and greeting smile, plucked white-blonde eyebrows making their gossamer sweep. Like the streak of high clouds over her sky blue eyes.
Miranda nods, picking up a thin briefcase. She moves around her prince, and walks past Sebastian, who says nothing, gives a bow, and follows Miranda out for the night. He will take her home, then find a place to perch himself until he's called.
Raymond's eyes remain transfixed to the top of the stairs, even as his most faithful of servants depart. He inhales and his chest swells, deflating only when he uproots himself and walks to the bottom of the steps. Raymond smiles, hands sliding into his pockets. He opens his mouth to speak, but then blushes faintly as he shakes his head and begins to walk upstairs, languid stride, to greet his appointment.
The smile is a pleased one. Perhaps at the blush. Perhaps at the stride. Perhaps at simply seeing you. As you reach her, she offers her hand to you. French manicure for the occasion. And the air around her is fragrant. Not overpowering, but she can be tasted. A scent that is a flavor that rests upon the tongue.
And the mind...
"Your Excellency," she gives respect where respect is due, to the prince of the city, such a city is Tours. Such a prince for such a city. She is graced with the time to take in your arrival. She smiles, a curl of pink lips, like the petals of flowers. "I stand at the head of your stairs," she teases, her voice smooth and soft, "... as if you have traveled to Amsterdam to see me..." Plucked blonde eyebrows lift slightly again.
At the top of the stairs, Raymond leaves the Dutch beauty. She is the crowning jewel upon this house. He comes to a stop a step below, and Raymond takes the hand offered to him no less delicately than it is offered. He is a man who knows how to handle precious things, and with a bow of his head, he places a soft, open-mouthed kiss upon sweet skin. His lips close there, as if enjoying the taste upon his tongue.
"I would have travelled to your Amsterdam," Raymond whispers, "...and far beyond, just for this..." He looks up, blue eyes smiling. "But welcome to my Tours..."
"I like your Tours. The cathedral is stunning. The city is modern. The prince is a lover of beauty. And an excellent judge of chocolate," she murmurs that. "How am I to say no to that?" The flavor on her skin, hand selected for you, is a mixture of all things Touraine. In fact, were you to sample various areas, it would be like touring your own region.
On the wrist, there is the delicate primrose of the valley, the honeysuckle that grows so well, with a slight undercurrent of the currant that flavors the reds of this region. "Sometime," Constanz says, "I shall only see you if you come to my Amsterdam..."
But when that Sometime shall be, she does not say. It is not tonight, so what does it matter.
"I took the liberty of preparing you a glass of cognac. A special reserve, not from France, though I hope you do not find such indelicate," as some might, "...but as France is now the world's source for vodka, how strange could it be that such cognac could come from The Netherlands..."
This vision of pink and gold, Aphrodite herself could not ask for a better vision on earth, turns, her hand lightly gracing your cheek. She turns toward the upstairs drawing room, where she has been waiting for you.
Raymond lingers, indeed caught in the scent of his own home. Fascinating, how you can do that. The surprise and amazement in his gaze as he looks up at the departing goddess who caresses his cheek.
"I do not mind," Raymond manages, lifting to trail behind, "...the liberties. Am I not of France?" We who coined liberte. Or maybe it has another meaning. "Have you been waiting long? If so, I apologize," Raymond says, the floor familiar with his weight. "I trust the surroundings are to your liking...Constanz. If you do not mind me using your given name..."
"Not long," she assures with a smile to you, moving into the private drawing room, a comfortable, intimate gathering place for those personal visitors of the prince. His personal business. Clan business perhaps, if anything political. Perhaps if he had a personal cabinet, as they call it in America, they would conduct business here, she could well imagine.
To her, it is a place for a man and a woman to sit, to drink, to speak softly...
The cognac is in a pink, crystal bottle. Not its packaging most likely, but something of a gift within a gift. "I hope you do not mind the cognac," her tone grins, her eyes warm. She gestures to the settee, where the two glasses hold the drinks already poured, the pink glass bottle resting in between, a lead crystal container.
"I would prefer you to call me Constanz.... Raymond..." she says.
At the sofa, she turns, a simple, unspoken request, signal more like, for you to help her remove the coat portion of her ensemble. The fabric is weighted silk. As delicate to the touch as a flower...
The maison is fit for business and guests alike. As desired, Raymond reaches out and delicately holds the shoulders of the coat, allowing freedom to move within. "Raymond," he agrees, smiling now. "And I happen to like cognac, so..." it works out well.
"Tell me," Raymond asks, "...did you have a good week in Venice? I had not been there in a while and in truth, I found the city more beautiful than I remember. And the shops," he confesses, twisting his lips at his admission. Wonderful for a harpy to know, yes?
There is a final look of the Harpy. A moment she gives you, perhaps a moment she cannot help. And then she laughs softly, both at herself and at you. "Spending money in Venice, as Ilario says... think of it as a contribution. He calls it the beauty tax. It is the price one has to pay. I had a lovely week," she says, turning out of her coat and in the grace of that same motion sits upon the sofa, her legs not crossing but turned in a cant, her hands resting upon her skirted lap. She will wait for you to join her before lifting her own glass.
"The city has made so many strides. I only hope for its sake that the water makes less of a stride than they fear. Still, it is amazing what they have been able to do. It is a credit to Us," the larger vampiric family perhaps, the smaller family of Toreador to be sure. "But being there, I am reminded of my own city of canals. If I am to be so surrounded by water, I prefer The Netherlands..."
"You have a city worth visiting in your own right. Such gardens. And more chateaux than in most of the rest of the world. France has always been one for... indulging itself. That is what I have always loved about it. The richness of life, that which the Italians themselves believe they own, France has perfected. It is as if the rivers run with honey and not the waters of the Loire, the Vienne, the Seine or the Cher..."
"You're kind to speak of my little hamlet that way," Raymond grins, not nearly so arrogant. "It is an old city, a city with honor. I'm glad that I was fortunate enough...to be given to her. But yes," Raymond agrees, moving to fold the coat neatly and setting it on a nearby footstool, "Venice is a grand, majestic place. It is good to see her doing so well. They...do much work for that. Amazing work," he notes for the record. "As for your lowland," Raymond smiles, "I will confess it's been a very long time since I was there last. But indeed, one must think of Amsterdam when one thinks of Venice. They are, in the mind, linked. Our clan," he nods, "...never ceases to amaze me. And her members...astonish me always." You, in particular.
The sofa sighs as he takes a seat beside you, leaning your direction. Once settled, he looks to the cognac. "We must drink to the Toreador," Raymond decides, feeling you would be in agreement.
She is in agreement, and leaning in with you, her hands unfold where they have lain, prepared to take the glass that you hand her. "Holland cognac in French glasses, you and I. Between us, prosperity abounds," her toast is already in progress. Constanz regards you for a moment as you turn to the glasses: "There are many things to drink to, first... Our Clan..."
And then perhaps to other things more intimately intriguing...
Constanz does not speak again until the glass is in her hand. The wide bowls of delicate glass. "Before you sip," she murmurs, turning to you, a hand laid slightly upon your own, "...close your eyes, Raymond, and breathe it in..."
There is the typical scent of warmth, the familiar resonance of cognac. Behind it, something else. It has been infused with something, there is an element of sweetness behind it. "I had this made for you." Naturally. "Can you ... tell what that other flavor is...?"
A trained nose would find lilac. A trained, French nose would also detect the presence of lavender...
"Lavender," Raymond smiles, closing his eyes with a smile. The wide snifter is held beneath his nose, a breath away. "Lavender..." he repeats, grinning at the distraction. Other scents nearby. "I think I have not the talent you have, Constanz," he murmurs. "Creating with your hands, your all-knowing nose." He has heard. "Your hands," Raymond says last, blue eyes opening to the woman across from his drink. He smiles, as if defeated.
"Lilac."
Raymond winks, gaze dropping between the two of you. He cannot help but show color at his cheeks. A boyish element still in a man rumored to be a youthful two centuries, plus some. "Tell me that I am wrong, and I will be just as happy and entranced, Constanz..."
"You are not wrong," Constanz says, chiming her glass to your own. "You are right. On all counts." And not just about the flavors in the drink. "There is no fooling the nose of a Frenchman. You can smell tones in a glass as far as a mile away. Even though it was no challenge, I trust it will delight nonetheless."
She lifts the glass. "To Toreador. Civilized Refinement and the continuation of Enlightenment..." Another chime. "But ... I am not here for Toreador," Constanz smiles, "...nor for Amsterdam and especially not for Paris. Let us toast something more interesting. This cognac and our shared company..."
She chimes her glass against your glass again and lifts it for sip.
Raymond grins. Perhaps it was no challenge - who knows his own gifts? "A toast then to...us..." he smiles, "...and our company." The cognac left along with cities and clans. The chime brings color again, and he drinks from his snifter, closing his eyes in the enjoyment of it.
When the toast is done, Raymond lowers the drink to his lap. One hand remains around the flared crystal; the other reaches across to gather your fingers in his own. He exhales and lifts your hand, bringing it to his lips again. Something to delight in. "Forgive me," Raymond whispers, kissing your hand again once, then once again.
"There is nothing to forgive," and there is no move to stop you. Her right hand and wrist smells of primroses, honeysuckle and currant. Her left, which you now hold and kiss, is a reiteration of lilac, behind it, a tone or two late arriving, vanilla. She sips of the lilac and lavender infused cognac and then sets her glass aside. Her lean brings another round of sensations: lily.
It must be on her neck...
A tribute to France, indeed...
Her other hand freed, Constanz deWitt lifts it to your face again, the gentle press of her fingertips, the slide of her skin. "Ask for forgiveness only if you fail to kiss me again..." There is a smile to the tone of her voice, a warmth. It is not unwished.
Not in the slightest...
Constanz does not fill the air with syllables, consonants, distracting vowels. She is content in the conversation of other senses. Encouraging, not with a word, but with the totality of her presence here on your sofa.
Posted by rowan at May 22, 2004 01:20 PM
