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Second’s Office — Le Lis d’Or
White boiseries, discreetly gilded with a pattern of lilies in which a sharp eye might discern the occasional camellia or dahlia, cereus or eglantine, panel the walls of this airy and well-proportioned chamber in which the business of the Lis d'Or is carried out in an atmosphere of impeccable elegance.
Long gilt looking-glasses mirror the positions of long windows framed by lavender silk drapes: each revealed and reflected prospect upon the salon's gardens seems more ideal than the last. Dainty mahogany or gilt furnishings are arranged in perfect harmony about a porphyry hearth, the tables topped with alabaster and the chairs and sofas upholstered some in white silk and others in lavender and white stripes. Flower-woven Akkadian carpets soften footsteps and lend the warmth of their own rich hues. Gentle light comes when needed from curvaceous glass oil lamps upheld by bronze-doré figures of beautiful nude youths of various sexes, for which some of the salon's earliest adepts are said to have posed.
In the corner farthest from the double doors leading out toward the salon proper stands a desk, in an unavoidable nod towards the chamber's more official purposes. The top of it is never cluttered, but laid out with fine parchment and a tray of pristine white quills, and a statuette of a golden lily from which one may draw violet ink like nectar. Above it shelves set in an arched recess hold ledgers leatherbound in soft shades of blue and lavender and yellow and rose.
Fresh seasonal or hothouse flowers bloom in a rotating array of priceless vases and bowls, scenting the air just sweetly enough.
Inflicting his society upon the lovely Susanne, and vice versa, has become to Andrei Anghelescu enough of a ritual in these last weeks that, now he’s squaring up once more to face it like a man, his last-minute reprieve comes perhaps as a curious delight. The novice stationed to await him shows him not to the left and up the stairs toward the usual rendezvous, but to the right, through doors left ajar into Émilie Perigeux’s sitting-room of white and lavender and gilt. The doors are discreetly shut behind him; but her windows upon the salon’s garden are all open to admit the golden light and the fragrant air of an early summer evening in Marsilikos.
The flowers themselves have come inside, too, to repose in shallow crystal bowls. A single oil lamp is burning already, a precaution against the final lowering of the sun; warriors of malachite and ivory face off against one another in neat rows upon a costly chess board; a decanter of white wine is waiting upon a low table next to a pair of the Lis d’Or’s elegantly engraved goblets, one empty, one half-filled for the Second’s refreshment. She herself sits before a rectangular tambour frame raised and tilted by a gilded stand, calmly stitching— drawing a thread of leaf-green silk through white linen she looks up to Andrei and greets him first with a deliberately luminous Camellia smile. Then she tucks her silver needle through the edge of the fabric outside the frame, just so, and rises. Her light and summery silk gown is dyed a blue very like the colour of the sky earlier in the day, its skirts embroidered with the rays of the sun in thread-of-gold; it leaves her shoulders half-bare and her arms fully so, though across the back of her chair a fringed silk shawl in a midnight shade of blue awaits a more advanced hour. Her hair is in perfect dark strawberry-blonde ringlets, arranged low about her shoulders and a considerable swathe of curved and creamy décolletage, glowing against her fine skin.
But despite her feminine plumage the tone of her voice is smooth and professional, not at all coquettish or languishing or seductive or wheedling, as she suggests: “My lord comte, good evening. I wondered if you might indulge me with a little of your time.”
—
"You most certainly may, Mademoiselle. I trust that everything is in order?" The foreigner, impeccably dressed in the fashion of a well-off merchant that he prefers, leans on his walking stick a moment and studies Émilie's face for obvious signs of concern or worry. He does not expect to actually find them on a face so well trained and studied in concealing its true emotions, but never let it be said of Andrei Anghelescu that he does not try to tell which way the wind is blowing before the manure goes flying.
"Please lead the way," he says with a polite smile and follows the courtesan's lead willingly enough. For a man who supposedly is expecting to spend time with his favourite mistress, he does not appear to be in any particular hurry, nor particularly annoyed at the idea of his visit to her bed being delayed.
—
“Shall we sit?” is Émilie’s next suggestion, uttered with a lift of her long and shapely white arm. She indicates a sofa.
When Andrei has seated himself she sinks down gracefully upon the edge of it, beside him. During their previous meetings she occupied a chair opposite — but this is a more confidential kind of chat. Her own scent reaches out to enfold him, as her hands reach in turn for the goblets and the decanter to pour his wine. An Eisandine white, crisp and fruity and fresh, ideally chilled and raising beads of condensation upon crystal. He has his libation — she reclaims hers — she sits back on the sofa, leaning slightly upon one hip, her body oriented towards his in subtle ways and the attention of her warm brown eyes devoted to his face.
“My lord,” she says gently, “I fear I overestimated Susanne.”
—
Anghelescu arches one eyebrow though for some reason or other he does not actually look very surprised. "I think the young lady perhaps overestimated me." He samples the wine and lets the taste linger a moment before nodding his approval. "Did I place too great demands on her, pray tell?"
—
“No, no,” Émilie assures him, and gives a slight shake of her head as she lowers her eyes to her goblet and takes a refreshing sip of that rather peachy white wine.
“When I chose her for you, my lord,” she says slowly, looking up again to Andrei’s face, “I reflected that Susanne is one of our most popular and accomplished young Dahlias, thoroughly educated in the customs and manners of our d’Angeline nobility, and known already for a year now in the highest Marsilikos society. A fit companion to shine by your side at the ducal court — a fit tutor, too, for a stranger in our land,” she explains, her smile shaped by an apology for presuming he might require one. “I have not know her long, but I’ve seen her hold patrons spellbound with her vivacity, and our Dowayne spoke to me of the goodness of her heart… she keeps, she will continue to keep, the secret of your assignations as faithfully as a servant of Naamah must. But, my lord,” and her expression turns rueful, “you don’t like her.” She pauses for a fraction of a moment. “It is not the way of our Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, to bind two people together without affinity and without happiness.”
(In her memory there echoes a frustrated exclamation: “All he does is read!”)
—
The Carpathian offers a small, wry smile; it's not entirely impossible that he expected for the beautiful young courtesan to eventually go running to her superior with a complaint. "I do not dislike her. But no — I do not desire her. Nor did I ask for a woman to desire, as I recall. If I wanted to fall in love — perhaps that would be another matter. What I want, though, is to meet the demands placed on me by your customs, in a fashion for gossiping tongues to look elsewhere. I thought I had made this quite clear, as it were?"
—
Émilie inclines her head toward him. “Certainly, my lord,” she agrees smoothly, “the Lis d’Or understands the need you’ve expressed to us, and we have undertaken to meet it. I might add, though, that even in a house such as ours there is more than one kind of affinity,” and now she sounds a little wry, “and more than one way for mutual respect and affection to grow between two people. Susanne is justly proud of her accomplishments, and the hard work she has devoted to improving herself and becoming a credit to the Lis d’Or. She understood that you had no use for her as a lover, but I think it rankles with her,” again she’s a tad apologetic, “that you have no interest either in her skills outside the bedchamber, and no taste for her conversation or her companionship. She’s young, my lord,” she says softly, “and she wants to do her best to please her patrons, but she feels she has nothing to offer you that you might value in her.
“And that’s why I thought you and I might discuss whether we might perhaps see you better suited with another of our courtesans — perhaps someone a little more mature…?”
—
Anghelescu taps a finger to his lower lip and then laughs softly. "Goodness, that poor girl. I must have been such a disappointment to her. I'll admit, I have been ignoring her — it became clear to me fairly early that her pride smarts. I thought it best to simply ignore it; after all, she is a professional. But you are quite right — I find her inexperienced and vapid as a conversationalist. She certainly knows how to listen and tell me what I want to hear. But what I want to hear is not always what I need to hear, and if I wanted to hear my own words, I'd talk to myself. Someone more mature and perhaps a little less afraid to disagree?"
—
<FS3> Émilie rolls Empathy: Good Success. (1 1 7 2 7 2 7 1 2 4 3 4 1 2)
As Andrei speaks Émilie’s smile returns, in its wry variation. The only asymmetry about her — and a fleeting one. “Dahlias are all proud creatures,” she agrees, and takes another sip of her wine, “though to do them justice, they usually have good reason to believe themselves worthy of note… My lord,” and she studies him, albeit taking care as a Camellia must not to furrow her brow in thought, “I gather that whilst ignoring Susanne you’ve had leisure to give further consideration to what it is you do desire in such a companion, and I suspect that none of our adepts would suit you. They’ll all tell you what you want to hear,” she explains, “because that is what they are trained to do; and they are trained to do it because, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, it is their wisest course.” She shrugs elegantly. Her gown doesn’t quite slip from her pale shoulders. “One might even call it their duty, to think as well as they can of their patrons, and to express themselves so, and to keep dark clouds from spoiling their hours of pleasure together. You understand, even a patron who insists that he wishes their honesty above all things, that they must be at their ease with him and speak as frankly as they like, that they are safe with him and need fear no repercussions… What he really wants,” she confides, “is to be reassured of the truth of their compliments and their acquiescence, and then get on with thinking highly of himself and pursuing his desires, safe in the knowledge that his adept is bedding him for passion as well as for coin. Not deceit— no,” she lifts her hand, “but reassurance of that evening’s greater truths, and a peace of mind that conduces to pleasure.”
Again that wry smile, as her hand lowers again into her lap. Her perfectly rounded fingernails sit like rose-petals upon the blue silken sky of her gown. “One doesn’t serve Naamah — or make one’s marque — by disappointing patrons, or arguing with them, or telling them all about one’s own thoughts and troubles. But a marqued courtesan,” she adds for clarity’s sake, “is in a stronger position than an adept to make her own choices and follow her own wishes, as well as possessing the confidence that comes from her experience and knowledge of the world. I think we might find amongst their number a more amusing companion for you.”
Of course one might wonder to what extent Émilie is peddling a deceit even now.
—
Anghelescu cants his head slightly, listening attentively and wearing a small smile that grows ever more wry as the lady progresses her argument. One could get the impression he sees where this is headed, and is not entirely displeased; at least he does not sound particularly disappointed when he says, "I think perhaps that you may be quite right, mademoiselle. You are certainly right about my desire to not simply have my own words thrown back to me. I have no doubt whatsoever that confirmation of their own genius is what most men desire, but most men come here to indulge themselves. I come here because I wish to keep my privacy."
—
The flawless dark arches of Émilie’s eyebrows lift at that remark. “My lord, I hardly know you,” she objects lightly; “without the opportunity to verify your genius, how in conscience could I confirm it? And how could you believe me if I did? No, you’re in no danger of that today,” in her frank but smiling opinion. “But I do find myself wondering, my lord, just how opinionated and disagreeable a companion you might enjoy… It isn’t a request we usually fulfill — but then,” and Émilie, who has been a Second just long enough to find it tedious, reverts to candour, “the unexpected nature of your desires is what makes them so refreshing a change. If the wine doesn’t suit your taste,” she adds directly, for her glass is half empty again whilst his seems barely to have been touched, “I have a red you might like better.”
—
"I have no quarrels with the wine, mademoiselle. I tend to be a light drinker — and one who prefers to keep his head clear for a conversation of some importance." Anghelescu smiles lightly and does indeed sip his wine; perhaps to indicate that there is nothing objectionable about it. "As for a companion… I am not one of those men who take pleasure in being humiliated, if that is what you are wondering. I am simply finding that what I need is a woman who will accompany me when she must and endure my presence on occasion otherwise. If she is capable of holding her own in a conversation, I consider that a bonus. If she can challenge me in one, the better."
—
“No, for humiliation you’d have to go next door,” agrees Émilie. “I hope you’’ll pardon me for keeping ahead of you,” she adds, and punctuates her sentence with another sip in mirror of Andrei’s; “I find I talk better when I do drink. I’m too shy otherwise,” she explains blandly, as if this were a natural quality in a high-ranking, Elua-trained courtesan.
She takes a deeper mouthful of her wine and then sits forward to set her nigh-empty goblet on the table next to the decanter; she settles again with her hands folded upon the golden sunburst in her lap, and regards Andrei levelly and without a trace of her vaunted timidity. “Then we’ve agreed, my lord, that you will not see Susanne again — I have a letter prepared for your signature, dissolving the contract between you,” she explains. “But if you still wish to spend the evening with us, I’ve no doubt we could find you suitable and understanding company.”
—
"Mademoiselle, you are hardly falling over in a heap to sleep in my lap. I'll admit that 'shy' is not a descriptor I'd expect to hear a courtesan use but in jest, but you are hardly the first person in the world to find that a glass of wine steadies the hand." The Carpathian smiles, a tad lopsidedly. "I am very willing to hear your proposal. One does not write off an entire racing stable as a loss because one colt goes lame."
—
The moment has come. They both know it. And that second glass of wine does do its part to steady Émilie’s hand as, having made her little tests to reassure herself of Andrei’s wishes, she lays down her cards. “My lord, I think you ought to choose me,” she says frankly. “My name, my connexions, and my position in the salon, would draw more attention to you than another; against that, I set my knowledge of the secret of your assignations, which you would not then be obliged to confide to another, and the fact that I might in perfect verity tell anyone who asked — without, I hasten to add, giving any of the details,” she puts in drily, “that during our first evening together you fulfilled one of my most cherished phantasies.” This, without turning a hair.
—
The foreigner's eyebrows go up as his smile widens slightly. "I had no idea that I possessed such talent as a lover, as to fulfill a secret desire from across the room," he murmurs with obvious amusement. Then he nods slowly, considering the proposal. "I am of course a little wary — it is my understanding that a lady of such high esteem draws the public eye. On the other hand, I might indeed benefit greatly from your knowledge, and from your discretion. But I have to ask — does placing yourself on the arm of an uncultured and heathen foreigner not reflect poorly on yourself, mademoiselle?"
—
<FS3> Émilie rolls Empathy: Great Success. (3 7 1 7 7 5 5 3 3 2 4 7 8 1)
Her sally being met with such success, Émilie goes on in the same candid vein— enjoying herself now, and that old familiar sensation that a well-to-do patron is falling into the palm of her hand. “If people are distracted by me,” she points out, “they’re looking less at you. If Marsilikos society just calls you Émilie Perigeux’s new lover, they’re not even using your name. It’s another kind of camouflage, don’t you think? Perhaps approaching even nearer to your wish,” she suggests. “You may be a heathen,” she allows, “but you are not uncultured, nor uncivil. And then there’s the matter,” she lifts her eyebrows, “of my secret desire.”
—
"It seems that you have considered this well, mademoiselle." Anghelescu looks quite amused still. "But I think you shall indeed have to tell me what this secret desire that I am so apt at fulfilling is."
—
“Ah, my lord comte,” and Émilie presses a pale hand to her blue silken bosom, and closes her eyes for a moment— but in jest, as becomes clear when she opens them again and gives him a wry smile. “You can’t know how I have longed these many years,” she confides, lowering her voice, “for a wealthy man to pay me handsomely not to go to bed with him.”
—
Anghelescu blinks — and then laughs. "Mademoiselle, on that regard you are quite safe from me. I have very firm requirements for a woman to end up in my bed. For one, I want to be in love with her. And secondly, she must convince me that she is barren. I do not come here looking for a lover, have no fear."
—
“Well, there are plenty of women in Terre d’Ange who haven’t lit their candles and may never,” offers Émilie, “myself among them; but for your present purposes and mine, I think we might deal well enough together. We might at least spend an evening together and see if you leave in any better a mood than Susanne has been able to put you into,” she suggests lightly.
—
Anghelescu nods and sips his wine. "Perhaps it would indeed be wise to see if you find me as tedious as our dear Suzanne did. And indeed, let us pray she finds a patron more, shall we say, in need of hearing her adoring voice chirp his words back at him. Pray tell, did you have something in mind?"
—
“A certain amount of paperwork,” is Émilie’s immediate answer, “and then…”
She shrugs, again imperiling the slight sleeves of her gown. “The signature of a Camellia assignation is that no detail is left to chance, which depth of consideration I’m not certain I can provide for you on short notice,” she admits. “But then, each patron possesses a different definition of perfection, and I begin to suspect that for you, my lord, it has less to do with the wine pairings at supper and whether there are any loose threads on the curtains.”
—
The man cants his head slightly and nods. "Quite so. I am a soldier, mademoiselle, not a courtier. I can play my part at court if I must. I do not much enjoy it."
—
“You needn’t do anything here that you don’t enjoy, my lord. That’s rather the point.” And Émilie smooths a hand over her skirts as she rises. “Shall we—?” she suggests. And if he is so good as to accompany her, she’ll lead the way gracefully to her desk in the corner. There are more pale pink camellia blossoms on view today, between her nape and her gown.
—
The lord in question stands and inded, takes the courtesan's arm. "Let us sign what needs to be signed, and indeed, whatever else needs to be done. While dressed." He seems to find the whole idea quite amusing — and perhaps a little bit of a relief as well. After all, it's probably very likely that the dear Suzanne employed all her longing looks and lowered lashes and perhaps he did indeed find it a bit tiresome.
—
“I’ll still have to change my clothes,” Émilie mentions to her gallant escort as they walk arm-in-arm to her desk, “or it won’t look like an assignation…” She releases Andrei and, in a reversal of the courtesies, draws out her dainty gilt chair and gestures for him to be seated. A folio covered in lavender silk is waiting on the desk; she opens it and indicates the document within. “The letter I mentioned,” she explains in an undertone, leaning one hand on the desk as she watches fragrantly over his shoulder. “A quill, and ink… You’ll find it quite straightforward,” she assures him as he reviews the formal dissolution of his first contract with the Lis d’Or.
Meanwhile she pulls out a desk drawer and extracts a similar folio, this one covered in pale pink silk embroidered with delicate golden camellia blossoms, and waits.
—
Let it not be said of the Carpathian that he does not read before signing. Seeing as that he finds himself quite in agreement with the contents of the letter, however, he signs it with an easy hand. "Please convey my apologies to the young lady," he adds. "She did her best to meet my needs. She warrants no blame for lack of effort; it is simply that what I need is not what she has to offer."
—
“Certainly, my lord,” Émilie agrees, picking up the first folio and closing it upon the document within, which she herself had already signed on behalf of the Lis d’Or. (It is, happily, lined with blotting paper.) She sets down the second folio in front of them both and opens it in turn. “And this is my standard contract for a single assignation,” she explains. “If you’ll pardon me,” and she reaches past him to take up the quill he just laid down, and dip it anew in violet ink, “I’ll write in your particulars and leave you for a moment to review it…”
Andrei’s name and the day’s date are inscribed in the elegant though not florid hand he first glimpsed some weeks ago in her mathematical notebook; and then Émilie restores the quill to her golden lily inkwell and steps back with another courteous murmur, and absents herself as far as the doorway to enter into a hushed conference with the novice on duty outside.
The language of the contract differs in some details from that he signed with Susanne, none of which make a material difference. The price of Émilie’s company is, however, exorbitant by comparison— and there’s an extra charge for the use of certain chambers upstairs.
—
Anghelescu honestly doesn't seem much bothered by the idea. Then again, he's also the man who just purchased a property worthy of at least a minor native noble without batting an eyelid or asking his banker twice. He's either very willing to invest in Marsilikos and his affairs here, or backed by strong financial interests from elsewhere. He does quirk an eyebrow at that last line though and murmurs, "I am tempted to ask what those rooms are.”
—
The scent and the rustle of silk behind him suggest that Émilie has indeed returned while he was reading. “You might think of it as a sop to my reputation, my lord,” she suggests wryly, “if I am to be seen consorting with a heathen… It’s known that I only receive patrons in the best suite in the house,” she explains, receiving the quill from his hand and signing her name neatly next to his. Then she lays out the first folio next to the second and commences to light a candle and melt golden wax, her movements precise and unhurried. “There will be a little time yet before all is ready for us,” she comments softly, with a note of apology.
—
Anghelescu looks up as the courtesan returns and nods at her explanation. "Indeed, if we play this game, we might as well play it properly. And speaking of." He nods towards the chess board. "Do you play, or is that merely for show?"
—
“Do I…? Oh. Well,” muses Émilie, her eyes narrowed as she presses the stick of wax against the parchment in a slow and careful circle, because if it’s lopsided the Camellia in her will feel compelled to start over with a fresh copy, “I know how to lose at chess.”
—
Anghelescu murmurs with obvious amusement, "As do I."
—
“We can’t both lose,” the Camellia protests. She huffs upon the engraved face of the heavy golden seal of the Lis d’Or and presses it into the first circle of wax, and leaves it just long enough. Lifting it she smiles rather proudly down at her work, and moves on to the next.
—
The man's smile widens slightly. He is clearly one to find amusement in his private thoughts and perhaps not always in the habit of sharing those thoughts. "I suppose that some day we shall have to put that to the test, mademoiselle."
—
With her documents at last in proper order Émilie pauses a moment just to appreciate them, and then gracefully shuts the lavender folio and the pale pink, and tucks them away in the drawer whence the latter came. “Why not now, my lord?” she asks reasonably.
—
"On one condition," the Carpathian replies, blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "If I get the feeling that you are letting me win, I will end the game."
—
That just elicits a melodic chuckle, as Émilie leads the way to the chess board.