this feeling of desertion Who: Tucker Belmont, Viola Rosier and Xavier Brigant What: "The cat, without the bird, goes hunting." When: Thursday, after dinner Where: Rosier Manor, drawing room Status: Complete, open to (and encouraged!) overhearing by nosy servants + gossip etc.
Truly, Tucker would've preferred to be in the smoking room. It was a better atmosphere there, dimmer, and slightly more male, less of this open, light-saturated Aurellian nonsense that the Rosiers had inexplicably decided to keep. No wonder the family had gone soft out here; they'd barely even bothered to redesign their home, and Tucker was already restless the aggressively cheerful space, his face locked in a permanent sneer. But the drawing room would do, for his purposes. It wasn't as if Viola Rosier was particularly welcome in the smoking room, even if the house itself bore her name. Or rather, what was once her name. He'd never gotten a satisfying answer on whether or not she'd been properly disowned yet, and dinner, sadly, had left no good avenues open for that particular thread of conversation, considering how intent Beau had been on trying to distract him, probably from that specific purpose.
Dinner at, at least, revealed other weaknesses. The butler, in particular. Beau's Aurellian pet, whom he seemed more than usually keen on protecting and, even more interesting, so did Tori. What was it about the religious ones, he wondered. Something in the way they looked, maybe. The shine of those necklaces the Rosiers let them display so proudly.
But the butler was of no consequence. Not now. Not with Viola sitting so invitingly alone in the sitting room. He pulled the door shut behind him, a faint, wolfish smile thin on his lips as he circled the couch on which the eldest Rosier child sat, straight-spined and watching him over the pages of the book she very clearly wasn't actually reading. "Viola." He drawled, still circling her, as if inspecting the room. He pulled an engraved, white-gold cigarette case from his pocket and set one between his fingers without offering the case to Viola -- he happened to know that her mother found the habit unladylike, but he probably wouldn't have even if he didn't -- and drew a lighter from his pocket.
"Not in here," Viola tried to insist, wrinkling her nose.
Tucker ignored her, flicking his lighter open and taking a deep drag. "Too late." He blew out an elegant, concentrated smoke stream, pleased at the flicker of anger such a small transgression inspired in Viola's face.
"A gentleman wouldn't display such flagrant disregard for the lady of the house," she shot at him coldly. "Particularly one whose warmth depends on her mercy."
"Is that your way of saying you want to keep me warm, Vi?" Tuck sneered back, grinning a coyote grin, enjoying her subtle signs of recoil as he stepped closer, but the paused, resting a hand casually on one of the high-backed chairs across from the settee she perched on. "It wouldn't surprise me, given your rather unfortunate circumstances."
"My circumstances?" Viola laughed, a high, grating sound Tuck found immediately unpleasant, though he didn't show this on his face. "What's worse, Tucker? Doing the leaving, or being left?"
She had expected this blow to land, clearly. And, to her credit, it was a good line, well-crafted and clearly informed by his unlucky run-in with her brother at the beginning of the week. It might've landed better, if it hadn't been so obvious. As it was, Tucker merely lifted his chin, stoic, and took another unhurried pull from his cigarette. "That depends entirely upon the circumstances." He tapped his cigarette, letting its ash fall onto the rug and met Viola's eyes. "Has he disowned you yet?"
That blow, Tucker was gratified to find, did land. So hard, in fact, that Viola tumbled through the settee in surprise. Or anger. Perhaps both. Either way, she clearly hadn't expected him to ask the question so directly, and, he had to admit, it was a rather nasty trick. Positively Aurellian. He didn't move to help her up as she rose back up through the furniture, trying hard to gain control over her Gift.
"Get out of my house, Tucker," she spat at him, advancing, and he had to admit that between the two Rosier children, Viola seemed to have inherited much of the backbone the pair seemed to share between them.
He didn't move, though neither did he lift his cigarette to his lips again, following her movements with interest, though nothing close to fear. "I would, darling," he drawled easily, as if she'd paid him a compliment. "But it's not really yours, is it? It never was. Even before you threw away your chance to be worth anything."
She'd come right up to him, now, closer than he'd expected her to, and he was genuinely shocked when she darted forward, lightning-quick, and ripped the half-spent cigarette from his hand. "You have no idea what I'm worth," she told him, low, like an incantation, like a witch casting a spell. It would've been nearly disconcerting if it hadn't been for the slight tremble in her lips, the unevenness in her stride as she drew back from him.
"But I bet your father--" he began, but she cut him off.
"And clearly you never knew what January was worth, either. We were never really friends, but I hope she's happy now. I suspect she will be, now that she's home and away from you."
This, too, should've been expected, and Tucker would later be ashamed at how quickly the rough mix of anger and grief welled through him, twisting his features, betraying him. But he righted himself soon enough, abandoning his casual lean to draw himself up to his full height and glower at this runaway woman, this heartbreaker, this pretty little piece of nothing and regard her with all the pity she deserved. "January still has a home to go back to," he said, so softly, his eyes shining and hard as obsidian. "Do you?"
He turned from the room without waiting for her reply. They both knew the answer. And that, after all, was the whole point.