Ari ♫ ♪ ♬ (gracenotes) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-20 21:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, arielle chiaro, lena saint laurent |
Who: Lena & Ari
What: Dinner and catching up
Where: The Sackheim
When: A few days after this, before the attack on the Palings
Rating: PG-ish, some light insinuation
Status: Complete!
Everyone in the city could relate, especially in this day and age, with being cautious around how and when one exposed oneself. She knew her case was not unique, save in its particulars; it was largely her business to understand the common threads of fear and desire that united all humes, no matter how different in philosophy. That said, there was a special level of precariousness--and thus a special level of care--involved in being the independent director of a thriving company in an industry dominated by collective criminal interests. Even the slightest gestures had to be considered for the ripples they’d make on a very big pond. It had been that way for nearly as long as she could remember. In short, there were times to see and times to be seen. Fortunately, Lena reflected, stepping carefully out of the private hover cab into a small patch of walkway not dusted with a treacherous patina of ice and slush, this occasion was one of the latter. Her boots were a matte black calf (a bold choice in such damp and salty times), with tall heels that disappeared into the hems of her knife-pressed twill trousers, which in turn vanished into the drapery of her long black overcoat. Small hands in burnished, cognac-red leather were spirited into her pockets as soon as she'd paid the driver. At one point in her life, Lena would have gawked at the beautiful facade of the Sackheim Inn, but that habit, at least, had been buried by the years. Under the collectively beatific gaze of bronze cherubs and the frozen flutter of heavenly banners, she disappeared into the revolving door below, the rotating glass prism catching the late afternoon scarlets and golds and flashing them back out into the street. The heat under the carved lintel inside came in a welcome burst, vigorous in a way that made it clear the Sackheim wanted to impress its superior climes upon clientele before they’d even had a chance to strip off their winter clothes, utility bills be damned. She didn’t envy patrons with spectacles. As Lena walked past the grand ivory curve of reception to the restaurant entrance across the foyer, the distant champagne-cork pocks of her steps echoed against the marble tiles and surrounding walls. By the time she passed through the inner door and come face-to-face with the maître d'hôtel, both her gloves were grasped in one hand. Faint disorientation passed across the waiter’s pencil-mustachioed face, and she waited until recognition popped into place before speaking, and offering a return smile. “Saint Laurent,” she said, flicking a glance at the black book spread across the podium before him. “I expect there’s a reservation.” “Madame. It is good of you to join us again,” he said warmly, a white-gloved fingertip scrolling down a column. “Party of t---ah, but I see my companion has already arrived.” The maître d' looked up and over his shoulder, following Lena’s line of sight. A slight, auburn-haired girl with a perpetually mischievous smile was waving at them from across the room, silhouetted near the fire. Their attendant relieved Lena of her coat when she reached the table, the faintest sign of amusement on her face. A true smile from the Madam was rare, but Ari was more accustomed to seeing them than most. The younger bard was already working on an artful plate of hors d'oeuvres, but stood up to exchange kisses on either cheek, and a very small embrace. “I trust I’m not tardy,” she said, after they’d both sat down. “No,” Ari said, “not at all. It is only that I was early -- for likely the first and last time this year. I surprised even myself.” Though neither of them were the sort one would expect in such august company and surroundings, Ari, much like Lena, had long ago learned the fine bardic skill of blending. Her cocktail dress was simple but clearly well-made, her hair tucked up with a plethora of little jeweled pins. One did not have to be noble to learn the art of presentation. “Indeed! I’m glad to hear things have not changed too much since I left,” Lena said, reaching for a menu. “The sommelier was displeased with me,” she confided, picking up her glass of water and sipping at it. “I’m in the middle of rehearsals just now.” Unspoken, but clear to the woman who had known her nearly from childhood: I’m not drinking. “Perhaps you might endeavor to lift his sour mood. Though to be honest, I am uncertain whether he remembers how to smile.” “Oh,” Lena said, the amusement surfacing again in her characteristically muted way, “I expect we can attend to that.” Indeed, with a glance, their vino advisor started back across the grand hall, towel over an arm. For Lena’s part, growing into wealth, refinement, and culture was more like returning to her roots--or rather, repossessing them from the twisted toxicity of her childhood. Combining dubious morality (and dubious history) with the trappings of wealth, ironically enough, felt more honest to her. “Madame, welcome. Anything particular in mind this evening?” “An Anjou 75, if you would,” she said to their server, who, to be fair, did an admirable job of hiding his disappointment. Red wine was Lena’s general poison of choice, but with Ari she tended to prefer something a little bubblier, in keeping with her former student’s particular joie de vivre. And she’d always been fond of the cocktail: it was celebratory and elegiac at the same time, and felt appropriate. “What are you rehearsing?” Already they were casual enough to be strange, slipping easily into conversation after the better part of a year of absence. It was odd, but she didn’t think she’d enjoy this ease with many of her other associates--save, perhaps, with her security team. “I’ve been cast in the Founders Play again,” Ari said. There was no boast in her tone -- not like last year -- but it was one of the more lucrative jobs available to professionals of her sort. “Apparently they liked me year -- thanks in part to you and the skills you imparted upon me -- but sadly, someone else outplayed me in this year’s auditions.” She pouted a moment -- the Bards’ Guild founder was, to her, the best role, the harp solos a nod to her usual art even if most of the play’s words were spoken, not sung. “I will be playing the mage, which means I spend a great deal of time working with machinists who are aiming look as though I can cast anything at all. I suppose I ought to be grateful for the professional development; I am not often cast to portray wisdom and serenity. More often, I play the fainting damsel or the cheeky younger sister. And speaking of reckless teenagers,” she shook her head in bemusement, admitted, “I will be starting rehearsals for Gounot’s Romulus and Juliana next month, too. Two at once; I think I must have been temporarily out of love with sleep when I agreed.” Lena raised a pair of well-groomed eyebrows, reacting at the appropriate pauses in Ari’s monologue. She was still adjusting to the amount of things she’d missed, as if some unconscious, less-rational part of her was expecting life in the city to pick up precisely where she’d left it. When the waiter returned with her cocktail, Lena ordered another small round of appetizers for them both. “I’ve been gone a long time, clearly. You’ve been busy.” She sipped her drink once, holding the long stem of her champagne glass delicately between thumb and forefinger. “Naturally, you’ll forward me the dates of the performances.” She set the flute down on the table and swirled it minutely, idly. “I don’t imagine you’re left with much time for extracurricular activities.” Her tone was impeccably weighted, but Lena was relatively sure not so much time had passed that the younger Bard would miss her meaning. True to form, Ari laughed. “I spent most of the autumn between shows, you know. And, amazingly -- I know, I know, it’s so unlikely -- I have phenomenal time management skills when I see a good enough reason to exercise them.” Her smile was sly before she took another sip from her water glass and plucked another morsel of food from the plate before her, nearly empty now. “Let’s see,” she mused, “who’s been telling you lies about me? Or truths, I suppose, though those seem the rarer of the two. Either way, I do hope they are diverting ones? For you, I may even go so far as to confirm or deny; I am the subject of much speculation these days, it seems.” “Oh? I’ve only been told truthful tales, as I far as I know. You ought to fill me in on the lies.” She offered the last line casually, and quite literally over the shoulder--the waiter was swooping in again for a smooth landing. With admirable grace, he opened a folding tray with one foot, and floated down the tray of provisions as delicately as a miniature spacecraft. Beneath the silver lid and divided among plates for sharing was was a filet of smoked salmon on a bed of watercress with sautéed haricot vert, watercress, crispy wedges of fingerling potato, and cold caperberry dill aioli. The other dishes were occupied by various warm crostini in a rainbow of colors and flavors--creamy leeks & mushroom, a curried apple-fennel slaw with pistachios, a roasted sunchoke purée, raw figs with feta and honey...the combination of aromas washed over their table like a dream, and Lena was reminded once more of the benefits of being home. "I hope I guessed correctly, dear. Naturally I'm treating, today." “A correct guess with me more or less involves food; this seems particularly fine, and along with your company, how could I possibly complain?” Ari said easily. She had never been particularly picky, eating what had been placed in front of her whether it came from the greasy spoon below her flat or Emillion’s finest restaurant. But it was certainly nice, for a change of pace, to dine at the finer end of the spectrum. She began to serve herself, a little of this and a bit of that, as she thought about how to answer the question. “I suppose I ought to ask which truthful tales you’ve heard, then; the lies are so numerous as to make even my head spin. I like the one about my insidious political plotting especially -- I barely recognize the villain of that tale, though she wears my face. The one about me quitting Emillion for a contract somewhere in Ordalia’s false, unless no one’s seen fit to inform me that I signed something one night in a drunken stupor, which seems unlikely. Which other tales shall I disprove for you?” Lena smiled at Ari’s comment about food in the weary, fond way one does when one has long since given up being exasperated with a friend. With Ari, it was like being frustrated with the wind itself. “One wonders how you have time for it all.” Lena set her glass delicately back on the linen tablecloth. “I have heard tell of keeping an unusual amount of company with a certain Fighters’ Guild councilwoman. Is that to be dispelled as well?” Ari laughed at the delicately posed question. “I keep company with several council members, and she is among them,” she answered; it wasn’t an untrue statement, though perhaps she spent slightly more time with Aspel than with some of her other friends. “I cannot deny enjoying her company -- I generally enjoy the company of clever people with an appreciation for the arts.” Her smile sparkled with false innocence. “Shall I regale you with tales of our discussions of children’s literature or the unfortunate role of women in mythology?” Lena had long since mastered the art of conversation; it made some of her inquiries sound feather-soft and discreet when they were often anything but. But then, she and Ari were also long since acquainted with sending truths through the many elaborate veils of polite society. She lifted her golden brows and put her lips together as if genuinely surprised. “The relationship is that academic, is it? Must be very stimulating.” "Oh yes," Ari said, with a poker face any gambler would be proud of, "quite stimulating, in a number of ways." Which, considering how long they had known each other, was surely answer enough. Lena’s smile in response was still sphinxian and close-lipped, but was blatant enough by her standards. “Waiter,” she said, lifting a finger from the table to hail their server, a crinkle lingering at the corners of her eyes. “Be a dear and bring us another round.” |