eglantine bulstrode has her thorns (poisons) wrote in raveled, @ 2017-03-06 20:25:00 |
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The shop is so different to the establishment where a young boy had his school robes fitted. Airy and welcoming, concerned with comfort where Gospovha Volkova was almost militant in her approach. Still, the tug of fabric, folds and pins and turning on command feels the same. It interests Toník, the ebb and flow of little daily comparisons. His appointment today makes an oasis of sorts, a sanctuary out of an office hectic to try and meet holiday deadlines and collect sought after signatures. Let them scramble without him. He has long learned to make himself irreplaceable (no easy feat for a man so sure of his own mortality) in order to further Tom’s purposes. Such little absences tug the strings just enough; perhaps not to make him any fonder, but nonetheless to assert importance. Liaison is manipulation, when it comes down to it. Tiring of his own thoughts of the endless game, he scrubs a hand, always rougher than an office job implies, over the stubble covering his chin. For Tina, a fitting at Twilfitt and Tattings is more a duty than a pleasure. While she has long since resigned herself to the necessity of presenting herself in public as a lady of the Bulstrode family, with all the requirements of elegance and taste of membership in the Sacred Twenty-Eight and the elevated social circles that follow them. Tina has preferred her solitude and the company of her own friends--who are at least acceptable to her family--to the grandeur of the seasonal balls. But represent her family she must, and eventually, probably sooner rather than later, she must also acquire a husband. So it's off to the shops for fittings in her seasonal gowns. Madam Tatting is showing her the latest shapes and necklines and discussing which will be the most appropriate for her--and Tina can almost hear her thinking about which ones will make Tina more youthful, because she's spent a long time on the shelf, hasn't she?--when Tina stops her and makes plain her most important concern. "Which ones," she asks in her clear voice with the drawl that identifies her as one of the upper class, "have pockets?" The inquiring voice carries the resonance of privilege, and Antonin’s hand is withdrawn to reveal a grin in spite of himself. He recognises the speaker; the little blonde sister of one of the inner circle. She whose thumbs were green, that was what the other masked men and women said. Presumably not a delicate flower herself. “What is it you hope to smuggle into this gala inside of them?” he asks with a wry twist to his smile. It’s an easy assumption, that an attractive young woman of means and position is seeking a dress for the same event. His first thought is almost like reassurance, that she could be someone for Natalia to talk to. He forgets - or is it ignores? - the fact that a woman nearly 30 can seek out her own conversational partners. There are, after all, no other brothers left that can watch and worry over her; no others brothers left for him to watch and worry over in their turn. Pyotr had always loved to dance. Pytor would never dance again. Madam Tatting is horrified, which amuses Tina. "I don't quite know yet, but I'm sure I'll think of something, so I'll need a pocket to carry it. How many pockets do you have in your formal robes, sir?" Tina focuses in on him, and yes, she does know him. One of the eligible gentlemen whose names she's had pressed into her: pure, if foreign from his accent, which makes him, "Mr Dolohov, isn't it? I'm Eglantine Bulstrode; we were introduced at--was it the Parkinson garden party?, I think? A pleasure to renew the acquaintance." She offers her hand, as if they are at the ball itself. Well, when Madam Tatting lives down to her name by tattling to her mother, she won't be able to criticise Tina's manners, at least. “Six at the very least.” He doesn’t care to count too closely. Who needs to bother when he’s already won? “Shall I bring some contraband to you at the gala, Ms Bulstrode?” Antonin never minds an excuse to talk to a well bred, and thus well connected, young woman. The young Ms Bulstrode is pretty in a way that ought to be sketched; in possession of the kind of eyes that arrest rather than implore. No wonder the fastidious Madam Tatting is so flummoxed by her. Her elegant hand is taken, kissed, and held just a heartbeat longer than English manners dictate. "I should enjoy that very much, Mr Dolohov." Oh, Madam Tatting will tell her mother, and that particular phrasing, after the business at Neal's wedding, would set the cat among the pigeons. Which thought makes her smile. "I'm sure that you have something interesting to smuggle in. Perhaps something from your homeland? British contraband is passé this year. Something from the northeastern part of Europe would be all the rage." “Caviar is not made for suit pockets,” his lips twitch at something between smirk and smile. “But the motherland holds many treasures.” He does not mention that much of his land’s works of beauty have been destroyed or stolen away. It is an ugly idea that a pretty young woman need not hear. “Perhaps I have friends still in the Ukraine on the reserves.” The cruel talons of the Ironbellies, far behind a forbidding curtain, are highly prised. Ms Bullstrode seems the type to appreciate them. Toník, too, can be appreciative. “Will a gift earn for me a dance?” Tina finds her lips curling into a smile in spite of herself, both at Mr Dolohvov's open flirtation and at the reaction she imagines Madam Tatting is suppressing right now. "A gift isn't necessary, but I'll be pleased to save you a spot on my dance card, sir." If she's going to have a gentleman to flirt with her--not a first but certainly not the usual--perhaps this event will be less unendurably boring than the rest of them seem to be. Idly, she wonders what report Neal will have to make about Mr Dolohov when their mother questions him. "In fact," she adds, still smiling, the corner of her mouth quirking in amusement at the very idea, "I find I'm rather looking forward to it." |