The whole situation felt just a little bit off. Chiaro loved parties, but this simply felt... odd. In a way it put her on edge. It had been three weeks ago that Miss Tallulah Anatine had invited her, of all people, to an art show which she was hosting, and it was all very strange to Chiaro. The very woman to whom, no more than two weeks prior to said event, Chiaro had clearly expressed a distinct disdain for consorting with halfbreeds and other such ilk- the very woman who clearly had been partaking in such scandalous activities. And just as clear to Chiaro was the dislike she and aforementioned woman had for one another, which was why it was so out of place- perhaps even a little uncouth- that Miss Tallulah Anatine would even stoop to invite Chiaro Viverti to such an event.

But in this strange turn of events, Chiaro saw an opportunity. An opportunity to prove, if only to herself, that Miss Tallulah Anatine was indeed the sort to indulge in scandalous affairs with mutts. An opportunity to then quash such disgusting scandal beneath her heels by sending someone to apprehend which ever law-breaking mutt it was that had so captured Miss Anatine's interest and slap them in irons.

So she had feigned an interest in the event and graciously offered Miss Tallulah Anatine a place in which she could hold the event, safely sheltered from the rain. It would be at the Viverti Estate, in the rather sizable greenhouse they had just off the East Wing. She would send the invitations with required attire, befitting of their theme- muted colors, lots of gray, black, or white- simple but formal. The greenhouse was fully prepared, the main doors and tables draped in banners of black and white, silvery-gray ribbons accenting the theme, which in and of itself elegantly contrasted with the soft organic shapes of the bright, colorful flowers and bushes which filled the greenhouse. There was plenty of room on the cobblestone path to walk around the garden and view each piece of art, the lighting perfectly showing off the delicate brush strokes in every piece. It was, in Chiaro's opinion, perfect.

After ordering her servants to ready the food and drink they had prepared- delicate finger foods and fine wines- and stationing two at the entrance as greeters with perfectly scripted, polite greetings for the guests, Chiaro made her way to Tallulah, who had been adding last-minute touches to the decorations. "Your guests will be arriving any moment now. I do hope the guests you've invited are of a respectable nature?" An obvious jab, but one she masked behind an heir of humor and a laughing smile.

Everything was ready, but Lu was so nervous she could nearly faint. This was the first time her art had been out in public, really. It was so . . . strange, that vulnerability. Tallulah had been circling all day- making sure everything was perfect for their would-be guests. Really, she'd managed to remain aloof, and conduct her instructions quietly, but she still had this overwhelming feeling that she wasn't really supposed to be there. But what the hell. It was her art, after all.

She'd secretly made friends with most of the serving staff- mostly because it just seemed appropriate to crack rather rude jokes behind Chiaro's back, but also because they could tell how nervous she was, even when how in-control she was of her field. But she had to hand it to Miss Viverti- the place was stunning, and her portraits stood out vividly. The woman had made some rather snide comments about her choice of subjects, but she'd also complemented the more socially acceptable ones.

She'd left out her portrait of Artemis, but that was mostly because she still wasn't getting the eyes right- a fact which bothered her to absolutely no end. But she'd also left it out for more personal reasons. One: she was wearing a dress. It may have been a deep, grayish red dress, but it was a dress none the less. It simply didn't feel right wearing a dress around him- not any more. Two: she was apt to make an absolute fool of herself, and she didn't want him witnessing either of those things any way, shape, or form.

Tallulah wasn't really focusing on the decorations, so when Chiaro spoke, she was given a rather honest answer- but also a jab, and joking in its own, cold, special way. "None but yourself, Miss Viverti- but then again, you aren't really a guest, are you?"

Tallulah laughed kindly, as if to say, 'I did mean it, but there's nothing you can do about that, is there?' And then the laugh softened into an actual smile. "For which I must thank you. Without your help, I'd certainly be lost by now."

Chiaro narrowed her eyes, but only for a brief moment before smoothing her features into that fake, plastered smile again. The nerve of that woman to insult the very one who had made everything so perfect. "Oh, you're most welcome." She shifted her weight, her muted forest-green dress slipping over her curves, the silver undertones accentuating every one of them as she leaned into a more comfortable stance. "I fancy myself a bit of a professional when it comes to preparing and hosting large social events. I was happy to help." That part was actually true- she had enjoyed herself, prettying up the place for this most grand of parties. What she did not enjoy was the fact that it would go completely unappreciated by the woman for whom she was doing it. Ah, well. She would make up for that problem soon enough.

"Oh, it looks like some people are arriving on time, for once!" She turned her attention to the door, through which a small group of galdori arrived, handing their overcoats to the servants to hang up somewhere dry. Immediately the servants Chiaro had placed in charge of serving food made their way to the new arrivals, displaying trays full of food and drink. Yes. All was proceeding smoothly, and if her servants kept up this fine work she might have to give them the morrow off.

And she was. Chiaro had even though of music- the string quartet which played softly in the corner was divine, their position unobtrusive and their attire immaculate. The Viverti manor was perfectly groomed, and the greenhouse seemed almost magical with the light pouring in as it was. Everything was perfect- even if Tallulah did feel like quite the spectacle.



On time. Speaking of time, she was running out. Leaving with Artemis . . . and they hadn't even said it. And she wasn't even sure if she could, and she'd have to leave Lilly, and there was just so much. but that didn't belong here. Not now. So she took a deep breath, and readied herself for the impending doom that was social obligation, hoping the thing would be over soon.

Tallulah did one last brush over her skirts, making sure the angular Hoxian design sat on her shoulders just so, and her belt was snugly hugging her slim waist. She'd had to let the seems out a bit- apparently, eating and exercise would give a woman this amazing thing known as a figure. Doing one last mental sweep of the place, she prepared her warmest smile and a kind greeting, taking her nerves and stuffing them in some foreign part of her mind.

It had been with great perturbation that Bain had found the sudden and unexpected arrival of his mother to his humble abode. A whirling dervish, Ellenora had swept in, taken one look at him and with a gasp of dismay and a tut of reproach she summoned the servants to prepare him a bath.

“Honestly Oliver,” She had said as he had expressed his bafflement at this sudden takeover of his appearance, “I had told you about this party ten days ago. You're quite fortunate that I decided to take this precaution and arrive a full house early.”

Now clean, preened, and in his best dapper suit of blue-gray, Bain sulked in his mothers carriage. He had been in the midst of an experiment of trying to capture a certain shade of mauve when she had interrupted him and trussed him up to go to this social gathering. Normally he would be eager to go to an art-showing of any sort, but he had been stopped prematurely in his art for one, and the theme was of muted colors and dull grays, blacks and whites. Such a thing suggesting that this was to be a rather drab affair.

However, he was cleaner than he had been in days, the only paint upon his person that he could find being a slight tinge of cadmium yellow upon his cheek that had stubbornly refused removal, and a smudge of aquamarine blue upon the back of his left hand which was hidden by his stark white gloves at the moment. His hair, also was kempt and free of any unnatural color... His hands itched to run through it, though his mother's watching eye had quite stilled that urge for the meantime

Arriving at their destination, Bain exited first and held the door open for his mother like a proper gentleman. To which she bestowed upon him a dazzling smile, kissed his cheek and swiftly departed for the small cluster of other patrons that had arrived, abandoning the young man to his own devices.

Shaking his head with a fond smile at this quite typical behavior, Bain ambled his way towards the greenhouse, the array of subdued streamers and other such sundry decorations verifying that the exhibition was to be within.

He clung to the hope that this would not be as much of the ordeal as he had predicted it to be. He was not familiar with the artist, nor with their hostess for the evening, so he supposed he should give them the benefit of the doubt for the time being. Still, he was quite fond of far brighter and bolder colors than the prescribed theme had allowed...

Walking into the greenhouse was like walking into another world entirely. Brilliant flowers and greenery unlike any he had ever seen, the muted decorations and displays providing a most unexpected contrast that was simultaneously striking and exquisite... And the artwork....

The artwork was simply breathtaking, almost literally so as Bain felt himself grow lightheaded as he gravitated to the exceptionally beautiful works. The vibrant colors made the subjects seem almost more alive and real than the people that drifted about, like gray specters ghosting by in this brilliant utopia. But the works themselves, there was movement within them that could not fully be claimed by the medium of paints...

Finding that his dazed wanderings had brought him in proximity of two women, he gleaned from what scraps of conversation he had overheard that he was in the presence of the esteemed hostesses of the evening.

Approaching the young woman in an elegant subdued green dress, Bain bowed his head and presented a smile that was positively dazzling with his delight.

“Please pardon my intrusion,” He began as he waved a hand at their surroundings, “But I could not deny myself the pleasure of greeting the lady whom had arranged this incomparable exhibition of true artistic talent. It has surpassed beyond my wildest anticipation of my humble conception and is sure to be a resounding success.”

Growing so bold as to take her hand in his enthusiasm, Bain bowed, stopping inches from kissing the redheaded woman's delicate fingers, “You have a gift, Madam Anatine.”

Chiaro, though flattered by the gesture which had come from a very handsome man (despite the faint splotch of yellow coloring his cheek), cleared her throat in embarrassed dismissal of the complement, knowing full well it had not been intended for her, but for her 'esteemed' guest. She delicately pulled her hand from the man's grasp and smiled softly, "Thank you, kind sir, but I simply cannot lay claim to the most brilliant artwork herein- I am simply the host- the one who set up this affair." She waved absently in Tallulah's direction, "This fine lady, Miss Tallulah Anatine, is the guest of honor, here, and the real mastermind behind the paintings you see before you. All praise goes to her." There was a slight twinge of bitterness behind her words. While Miss Anatine was a fine artist indeed, her life style left much to be desired. Ah, well. At least Chiaro was doing something worthwhile with her life.

Campion tugged the collar of his shirt carefully and adjusted his old belt. He’d reached the first notch in the thing and his trousers still felt loose- but they were the smartest thing he owned, that was clean and of a good condition. The prospect Being around Galdori peacocks again after so long, some of them probably even more ornate than Ana and Percy had been. Campion almost felt like he belonged going in the servant entrance of this home.

He didn’t make a habit of attending golly parties any more, but this was a special circumstance. For one, there was no chance of his mother popping up at such a thing, the thought of which sent a nasty chill down his spine; it was an art show and Hyzenthlay Luccullis had no time for the arts. Also, Campion knew a little of Tallulah, once upon a time they could have moved in circles that overlapped. Modern young artistic types, with liberal views and a love of liberal arts. Tallulah had done what Campion hadn’t though, veered a safer course, not fallen into rough waters and into bed with the lower races. He was proud of her for that, it showed that not every liberal was a degenerate.

Though, in all honesty, Campion wasn’t blown away by the pieces. Turning his head this way and that he surveyed a canvas, unable to supress the look of a man who wasn’t totally convinced .

Technically they were good, far better than his own inky charachitures- she had perspective and excellent use of colour but…something was missing for him. It was the lower raced subjets that bothered him the most. Perhaps it was the time spent in the dives, among the smog and the dirty faced, bare foot children, toothless old humans and whores twisting dirty hair between their fingers. Perhaps he couldn’t understand true beauty among all of that filfth…but some part of him longed for this artist to truly see the dives as more than just some subject for golly artwork. He felt sure her work would gain a smidge more perspective.

But then what did Campion know about classical art? He was jealous that Tallulah had the drive to create an entire show, that she had the ability to live the kind of life he’d once dreamed of, doodling into textbooks.

And he was here to steal snacks.

Avoiding most of the other guests Campion moved like a bullet fired from a barrel towards the servants, ping ponging between them first eating and then subtley cramming cucumber sandwhiches into a satchel. A human flashed him a surprised look, and Campion simply winked conspiratorialy at him- hoping he wasn't about to get ratted on.

As the woman withdrew her hand, Bain's eyes flickered with first confusion, then with rueful understanding.

“Ah, my sincere apologies,” Bain straitened immediately as he realized his error, “The fault is mine in not inquiring after your name before conveying my favor. It was quite foolish of me...”

Tilting his head as he gazed back at the wonderful arrangement he had left he spoke again, “However, I pride myself on giving praise where it is due... So I must refuse to recant all of what I had spoken. The arrangements themselves show a sensitivity to form and color that I cannot dismiss.”

Smiling once more at his hostess, Ms. Viverti if he remembered correctly, he inclined his head respectfully, “A lesser hostess would not have put as much effort into such a divine gathering as you apparently have, madam. And if such is considered art, then you are to be considered an adept artist. And I shall consider you such, unless you would wish me not to.”

Turning his bright smile to the woman he had mistaken, Bain bowed his head contritely, “And if you would accept my apology, Ms. Anatine, I would like to properly acknowledge your abilities. Your artwork is, if I may humbly state, the works of an ingenious and skilled artisan. The honored guest you may be here, but, if I may be so bold, I would claim that the honor is mine to have delighted in it.”

'Madame Anatine' Tallulah's pale erse. But she remained silent, as was her way. At least he wasn't talking to her. Yet. But the poor attitude was all Tallulah's nerves, and no fault of the young man's. She was feeling rather off. The twisting which had begun in her stomach two nights ago had suddenly returned, and was trying to make the evening more painful than it had to be. Once she recognized the problem, Tallulah set about fixing it; she tried to look at their guest through the eyes of an artist and not an overly anxious woman.

He was eccentric, kind, and looked to be an artist himself (either that or a very talented wall painter) but the smudge on his cheek which gave his trade away seemed so out of place, so ill-matched to his person, that it made Tallulah curious. He was so well kept, so clean. Rather hansom in a fluid, constantly moving sort of way- in the way of a dancer. Everything about him bespoke a kind of jovial ease, a sort of wistfulness that edged on absentmindedness. 'He would do well in teal', she thought, already picking out the colors in her mind's eye. It certainly would contrast the yellow nicely.



It gave Tallulah a strange sort of satisfaction to know Chiaro must have been choking on those words, even as she spoke them. The woman was doing a very good job of being civil, though, and Tallulah supposed she must do the same.

But as Bain was talking about the decorations, Tallulah was looking past the pair, and to her other guests. 'What must they be thinking? Perhaps the requirement for muted dress was too much. The music- is it of the correct style? Should they have left more room for dancing? And who is that nervous-looking blond man?'



Oh! She was being talked to. Right. What was it she had to do . . . ? Smile, and such. Yes. No punch on shoes. No lecturing about the use of servants. No needless insults. She could do this- she hoped. And so she readjusted her very most kindest smile, and turned to the young man, a small blush coloring her cheeks.

"There is no need, for the fault is mine. I am afraid my hostess does outshine me- she is the true mastermind behind this grand affair. Without her careful planning, my works would be nothing- in fact, there would be nothing to delight in."

Hah! There. She'd payed her dues, and all with a smile and a laugh and a shy display of modesty, besides. And now . . . Charm. How did one manage charm? Oh, yes. Be interested in other people.

"And what is it you do, Mister . . . ?"

She let the question hang as she looked at him from behind a bashful smile, her ruby eyes flickering to his and then away in an act of playful modesty. She was rather proud of herself. It'd been five minutes, and nothing was on fire.

She blushed, swallowing what felt like a very large lump in her throat, most appreciative of the kind remarks. "No, that is just fine- if you see in my work and artist's touch, that might very well make me an artist." She smiled pleasantly, even more so when Tallulah complemented her work as a hostess, pleased with the remarks and acts of civility- though she wasn't fooled. She knew very well the arts of diplomacy. "Why thank you, Miss Anatine. Well, I shall leave you two to talk, I must be off to attend to the other guests." She bowed and took her leave, sauntering off to meet the new arrivals. She was curious as to where her sister might be, wondering if she had even remembered about the party, or was too caught up in her books and finalizing their spells to even bother attending. She sighed, then put on one of her best smiles and slipped into the crowd.

Acknowledging, Ms. Chiaro's departure with a short bow, Bain returned his attention to the demure lady artist before him... only to blink with surprise at her inquiring tone, at first baffled as to why she had not completed her sentence before realization dawned.

“Oh, yes, how thoughtless of me.I am Bain Oliver Aquin, Madam. And a humble artist like unto yourself,” Bain spoke gazing up as he took Tallulah's hand much like he had mistakenly done with Chiaro before, “So you can take it with full confidence, that I mean it when I say that you are far to modest.”

With slight smile, Bain kissed her fingertips, a mere ghosting of breath before he straitened, her hand still in his.

“Your artwork is mesmerizing,” He said, his gaze returning to the fascinating pieces, “Take this piece for example: the careful balance of color and line quality... It does not overpower the subject, nor the viewer, for all its bold statement in form and arrangement.”

Moving to gesture at the painting, Bain realized that he was in fact, holding Ms. Anatine's hand and released it. Bain laughed sheepishly as his hand raked through his hair out of habit, destroying his mother's careful work, “Ah, forgive me. I do tend to forget myself at times.”

Beetcakes and canapés, some caviar too sandwiches and...and something strange and pink and wibbly. Campion had been brought up on a refine pallette but did not stop to savour one bite- it could have been meat onnastick for the interest he paid in it. All though meat would have not gone amiss, all this golly finger food lacked the sustenance of something coarse and basic like a good stew. What on Vita was happening to Campion?

He'd sunken so very low, stealing snacks from parties, avoiding people's gazes who in turn avoided his. No, no. It wasn't right. If anything, the entire mess with Triston should have taught him that he was going to have to be a better galdor, that no good ever came of canoodling along the poverty line. Ms Steerpike and Snoddy had been his first encounter with gollies in as many weeks and that had ended terribly and, alas, not wholly unsurpisingly with Campion getting hit in the face.

But really, he ought to make at least some form of effort with the rest of his race. Especially artists. He knew artists, had the same sensibilities. So what if his trousers could barely stay up, so what if he’d spent day before drinking enough gin to power a small engine? So what if he coud still taste thingamy from Cook’s place on his tongue? A Blonde again. Always blonde. Campion could do this…he’d spent so much of his life doing nothing but this. Because in spite of everything he was still a Luccullis dammit.

He found the artist fairly easily, as one did with a Gioran, her hair stood out like a beacon among the muted dress. Abandoning his canapes, though his bag was full with enough food to last a while Campion made his way towards Ms Anatine, ignoring a hiss of “Is that the youngest Luccullis boy? Gracious, I thought he’d died or something.”



Campion stopped and listened to the the opinions of the gentleman besides her. He knew his stuff of course, wonderful.

“Bold yes. But perhaps it could do with being a little bolder,” he said with a grin. “I’ve always found myself a need to provoke…but that’s perhaps a personal taste. Tell me, sir and madam…I was wondering what the pieces provoked in you?”

He smiled at Tallulah and the gentleman, determined not to make a fool of himself or say anything crass and be just…galdori. Bowing low he started, “Am I interrupting? I just wanted to offer a few compliments to the lovely Artist on her work…”

Chiaro had reminded her that morning of the party in the greenhouse, and so she had dressed in a fine grey dress suit; she then promptly forgot all about it and delved into working on her hibernation spell, staining her sleeves with ink and ruining her usually immaculate hair. Scuro had left the library in dismay. She was on the brink of a breakthrough with nothing upon which to test the damnable spell.

Reaching this roadblock, she realized she had no idea what sorts of facilities were available in Vienda in which one might find live rats for the testing of early-draft spells.

She fled from the Library, seeking her sister. When no one (not even servants) appeared in the house proper, she recalled something about a party in the Greenhouse.

Thus, armed with a pencil behind her ear, a sheaf of papers, ink-stained fingertips and sleeves, and mussed hair, Scuro burst unceremoniously into the greenhouse. She cared little for formalities at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.

Unfortunately, both she and her twin were... how do you say?... Short. So, when walking into a crowd, if they weren't cowed by her mere presence and didn't back down at first sight, she was forced to the indignity of rising to her tiptoes and hopping to see over the taller guests.

Therefore, when she spotted her sister, she held nothing back in her desire to reach her. Squeezing between conversational partners, pushing past art admirers, and shoving anyone and everyone out of her way, she headed toward Chiaro.

It was in this mad dash that she first encountered a well-milliner-ed (if shabbily dressed) blond fellow. He appeared to be conversing with two others over a painting. A passing servant bearing crab puffs (garnished with chives, of course) on a tray was, quite simply, in her way. Chiaro was so close, Scuro simply planted her forearm against the small of his back and shoved past, pushing him violently into the hatted one.

Scuro caught this out of the corner of her eye and actually spared him a passing thought, if you can't keep your balance, you deserve to fall, weakling, before bursting in on whatever conversation Chiaro was having with whomever, "I need rats!"

Chiaro was just in the middle of sharing one of her favorite jokes with a group of friends when she was interrupted. Rats. What? Rats- Oh! Rats. Of course. Scruo had been busying herself with spells and now found herself in need of test subjects. "Er, excuse me, please." She smiled and politely dismissed her company who, after a few confused glances at Scuro and one or two off-color comments on the manner of her dress (which irritated Chiaro- nobody should speak of her sister in such a manner), sidled off in two separate groups and began surveying the pieces of art.

"Rats? You mean as test subjects?" She pursed her lips in thought, "You could use hingles. I suppose that is the one thing wicks are actually good for- their animal stores. They'd have plenty of hingles there." She smirked, "In any case, I am sure you could obtain rats from Brunnhold." She blinked, a strange sight catching her eye as she glanced over Scuro's shoulder. It seemed one of the servants had clumsily fallen into one of her guests, and gotten food everywhere. Oh, gods, she would have his head for this. But right now it would be best to keep a calm demeanor. "Excuse me, let me take care of something and I will get right back to you on that..." She made her way to the group, preparing an apology on her bumbling servant's behalf.

The poor thing looked confused. How completely strange, and yet- how utterly endearing.

“Well, Mr. Aquin, I can assure you that I am anything but modest. In fact, I-”

And then he was reaching out to take her hand, and Tallulah stiffened automatically. But then he was kissing her fingertips, and Tallulah had the oddest sensation . . . A real blush graced her cheeks, and the rest of her sentence came in a rush.

“I am quite the glutton for complements.”

She was glad she hadn’t hung Artemis’s picture. She was acting completely and utterly foolish, just as she’d predicted. And Bain Oliver Aquin was still holding her hand. What was a girl to do? Focus, damn it.

Bain was looking at the closest painting- one of a young human girl. Her name was Nancy, she had been five. Her mother had grey eyes, the same as her child, and her father had died in a factory. Her brother, who stayed hidden in Tallulah’s sketchbook (which was hidden on her person), had been badly injured in the fire which had killed their father. His mutilated body was too much for a fine place like this- too good and dirty and real for such eyes as the ones around her.

Bain knew what he was talking about. And though he still had her hand, Tallulah was able to listen. She was just about to ask him what medium he worked with, when suddenly they were joined by the slight blond man who had been zipping from table to table with all the gusto of a hungry child. Hmmm . . . She knew him, from school, she was sure.

Where Bain (who had just as suddenly dropped her hand with a rather strange apology) had focused on technique, this man- who’s name she couldn’t quite recall- was focused on the subject.

Oh, goodness! This party was quite the success, after all.

And so, with a smile to mach his grin, she answered.

“Not at all. And I think I must agree- these portraits aren’t to my taste, really, but one must fill her cupboards-”

But her joke was interrupted by a little thing with quite an arm, who sent a servant flying in to the scraggly blond. With a surprised exclamation, Tallulah stretched out to steady the blond by placing her delicate hand across his forearm. He'd not bared the brunt of the human's fall, but there was enough force to at least make him stumble. Her careful hand probably wouldn’t do much, but it was worth the try.

Next she'd have to tend to the servant- which would create even more of a scene. The poor man had sent crab puffs flying everywhere (luckily none hit the painting) and, with a loud clatter, his tray was sent to the ground.

And out of the corner of her eye, she saw the mighty mouse heading in Miss Viverti’s direction. Hah! No wonder she had such a poor attitude- they seemed to be related.

Finding two large things (his feet) compromising his balance somewhat, Campion wobbled, the damn bag at his hip doing nothing to aid his endeavor to stay upright making Campion do a strange sort of dance. And he’d been doing so well! He’d spoken about art and made a golly smile, because he’d said something of interest and not done something stupid like drink an inordinate amount of vinegar.

But it was to no avail. Campion fell. Of course he fell. He always fell, couldn’t make it a week without falling through or into something (thankfully not a fist this time- the bruising around his eye from Percy’s punch had only just begun to fade).

On his journey down, he grabbed Tallulah’s wrist tight, not nearly as bad as social suicide but at least a social splinter. Of course, this barely occurred to Campion, mostly because he had hit the ground with no small amount of pain to his hip- the tallest men always had the furthest to fall- and because he’d spent a lot of time with human women paid to do nothing but pretend that the grabbing of wrists and other areas was socially acceptable.

There was a splat as his satchel hit the ground beneath him, for Campion had gone above and beyond in terms of snack stealing and shoved an entire lemon meringue pie in there. Light fluffy meringue and tart lemon curd made contact with satchel and spittled out of the bag onto the floor, along with half a dozen cucumber sandwiches, beet cakes, canapés and some odd pink wibbly things.

Campion had never wanted to die more than at that moment.
He blinked at the cucumber sandwich by his elbow wondering if he could pull off, “my gods, how did they get in there?” probably not.

Was stealing snacks at a party a criminal offence? He sincerely hoped not as he recognised a guest or two as members of the seventen.

Instead he stood up, great white stain of sticky meringue dancing up the back of his last remaining good trousers making a rather unfortunate stain . “I…I…” he fumbled quickly, hoping that this was a contained incident. That no one had noticed.

It was a big ask, admittedly.

Bain merely smiled at Tallulah's somewhat flustered admittance, “Are not we all?”

Any further exchange was interrupted by a particularly disreputable looking fellow, to put it in all kindness. The man's suit was scruffy and disheveled, complete with dusty bowler hat and exuded a faint sort of pungent odor. Bain was even quite sure that he could see the marks of a fading bruise... Still, if the man desired to speak of art who was he to deny him?

“Not at all,” Bain chimed with Tallulah, waving away the interruption. As he turned to observe Ms. Anatine's response to the man's critique, the young Aquin was unaware of the passing of Ms. Viverti 's sister and the resultant aftermath until the sounds of the crashing servant were well upon them.

Eyes widening as he saw Tallulah being pulled down by the wrist as the other man fell, Bain reacted without thought as he stepped forward and caught the woman from crashing to the floor, staggering back as the force of her still being pulled transferred onto him.

“Dear gods, are you quite alright sir?” Bain asked as he looked towards the felled man. For a moment, Bain thought the man had been violently sick, as he took in the sticky runny glop that had spread about the once pristine floor, only to see that the mess had come from the mouth of the bag that had broken the fellow's fall.

Turning his attention to the woman he suddenly found in very close proximity, he asked her as well, “Are you at all hurt Ms. Anatine?”

He . . . He was very close. Too close. My- what an odd sensation. The only other man who'd been this close was Artemis- but Bain was a stranger. A guest. A prospective colleague, maybe even friend. So why on earth was Tallulah blushing?

"I'm . . . I'm perfectly fine, thank you."

'Quite fine indeed.'

And suddenly a deep seeded guilt tackled her mind, betrayal weighing down the smile on her face as she delicately found her footing once more and gently unwound herself from Bain's hold. She was about to check on the felled guest, when she realized the majority of the room was staring at something- oh, my.

Tallulah's first impulse was to say something dry, and then perhaps laugh. But she was on her best behavior- no matter how it compromised her pride.

The blond was on his back in- or, rather, scrambling away from- a pile of lemon meringue pie and an array of sandwiches, the round, pink little beet cakes, little savory canapes, as well as those pink woblies that looked so much like translucent, fat, ballerinas.

Well, at least he was an artist . . . Artists were always odd.

He looked so embarrassed that Tallulah simply had to do something. He was an outsider, after all. One much like herself- although Lu was just a bit more graceful. But her heart went out to him (and his stomach) none the less.

So with a smile and a gracious laugh,Tallulah bent and swept up the bag, shaking her head.

"Oh, dear- well, that's the last time I let someone hold my things."

It was quite obviously not her "thing," so it could either be taken as a little joke or a hostess's kind attempts to cover up a guest's blunder- either of which Tallulah was perfectly fine with. At least saving his scrawny erse kept her mind off of . . . Well. Things. And it looked good on her social record. Hopefully.

The servant the other Viverti had pushed was on his feet, rubbing his elbow and (rather discreetly) his backside. And so, Tallulah handed the bag off to him, her smile still in place, kindly asking him to take it and have it washed. She also muttered a few, unheard instructions- that it should be filled with food of a more sustaining nature, and that it should be brought directly back to her.

She turned to her the array of guests, and shook her head in mock-disappointment.

"Floors these days."

She realized she was excusing the human, but she was also excusing Ms. Viverti's sister- a thing which she did not do lightly.

Oh, bother, the floor was covered in a vast array of food, all of which appeared to have spilled from Mr. Luccullis' satchel. It was a mess, and yet a strangely adorable one. The poor dear. As Chiaro recalled, he was an artist as well- just... a down-and-out artist. She was about to go and kindly inform him that the food was, in fact, free to all the guests and that if he wished he could take as much as he liked home with him, but then Tallulah stepped in and the whole matter seemed to have resolved itself. So, in spite of herself, Chiaro caught Tallulah's eye and gave her a thankful nod, and a simple acknowledgment that Miss Anatine had done a fine job of smoothing things over. The guests, who all had stopped to stare, were now for the most part returning to their business, some laughing graciously at the joke on Tallulah's part; The tension that had previously built up all but vanquished.

That taken care of, she returned her attention to Scuro, who looked rather irked over something, and had a strangely crazed look in her eye. Chiaro sighed in dismay, "You really should get more sleep, dear, you look positively exhausted from your research." Of course it was also Chiaro's research, but Scuro had delved into more and more of it, with far more vigor than Chiaro really thought necessary. It seemed at this point all Scuro cared about was success- and, of course, ever more painful ways of squashing plow-foots, half-breeds, and scraps beneath her feet. Chiaro had noticed rather crazed looks in her sister's eye on several occasions and she feared Scuro was gettign worse.

If he was not greated with anger, or laughter, it was usually pity. Ms. Steerpike he’d thought had been the worst of it but here he was among a crowd of people, some of them laughed cruelly- and he was thankful for that- but some, he could see the looks on their faces. Poor wretch. Poor wretch indeed. It made him feel sick and strange, all these people looking down on him. They pitied him, thought him strange and pathetic, thought him not one of them. An outsider.

He stood up best he coud flashing a grin and taking a bow, as though his fall and concequent humiliation was some kind of theatrical act. “Don’t mind me, “ he laughed saying in a loud clear voice, “I enjoyed my trip greatly.”

He stood closer to Tallulah and leaned in beside her ear, speaking quietly so only she could hear. She would be able to feel his light breath tickling the back of her neck and would cause a few to mumble that artists had no sense of propiety and personal space.

“You didn’t need to do that,” he said in a low voice. “Thank you.”
Campion desperatley wanted to do something to prove his gratitude. Something to repay her- to show he wasn’t some strange beggar in to the feast.

He smiled and then bowed at both Miss Anatine and her guest, “Campion Luccullis. Pleased to make your aquaintance. I know you must be Miss Anatine since your name is on every painting in the place. But your gentleman guest I am not aware of.”

He fished in his pocket for two soggy, inky business cards. Those same sleek, elegant cards his father had made for him but with his own personal touches, Campion Luccullis, paralegal replaced with Campion Luccullis, artist, tow headed liberal and social deviant whilst the address in Uptown had been replaced with the one in the Dives- 'the crapheap'written under it.

Staring at his card and his adress, an idea struck Campion as to how he, the biggest loser in all Anaxas could pay back a successful artist and he smiled again.

“Tell me Miss Anatine? Do you spend much time in the dives? I’m in the middle of creating a new artistic movement,” he embellished rapidly, pretending that a notion that had occurred to him once or twice had gained life and was growing into a whole artistic movement. As though his dreams would ever achieve anything. “Raw brush strokes, Bold real life subject matter- I want to create honesty and capture new emotions using grotesque subjects- those who evoke both empathy and disgust.” Campion could certainly attest to the idea of evoking both these emotions in a person, his life had been filled with nothing but empathy and disgust.

"One armed prostitutes," he smiled, as though it were a pleasant thing, "illegitimate children thick with disease, men mangled from machines and scar...scarred passives. I want to capture them all."

“It probably won’t be too popular, so much of the art viewing public subscribes to physiognomy," he cast a disapproving eye over one of Tallulah's more light hearted commissions. "Pretty things to hang in hallways make the most money. It's very rare that I make any. But the world is changing and I think gollies will one day tire of pretty things."

He took Margaret off his head and fiddled with the brim before saying quickly. "I'm going to be horribly presumptuous- as is my way. You have natural talent. Maybe, if you entertained my notion for a few moments...maybe if you accompanied me to the dives we could see what we could create."

Chiaro just didn't understand dedication. Here Scuro was, day in and day out, delving into research, the science and art of creation that would make them magisters if it was done right, and here she was, throwing art parties.

Scuro shook her head, "I don't need sleep. I can sleep when I'm dead. I need test subjects, is what I need. I don't have time for teaparties and fools who can't stand up straight," she hardly made an attempt to lower her voice, "and you wouldn't either if you truly wanted this," she waved her papers at her sister's face, "to work."

Her voice was rising, and people were starting to, again, look in their direction, though this time Campion was off the hook.

"Quite frankly, I'm beginning to doubt your dedication," she growled. There was something twitching in her lower eyelid as she glared at her sister. Social niceties be damned, she thought, I'll say what needs saying whether you like it or not.

And Lu smiled a small smile, bowing her head slightly in return. Chiaro had class, and a keen sense of when to swallow her dislike- Tallulah would give her that much. Maybe, if they weren't from such different worlds, they could have been friends. Besides Miss Viverti's distaste for anything that was even mildly reminiscent of the "lower races," she seemed a decent person . . . almost.

But her thoughts of possible friendship were broken in two by the whisper in her ear, and the rising of the hair on her neck which followed it.



Tallulah smiled a small smile, winking discreetly. When she whispered back, she hid it well by sweeping her loose ponytail over her pale shoulder.

"And let this lot eat you alive?"

And then Campion Luccullis made a formal introduction and Tallulah gave a traditional Hoxian bow, only speaking when she lowered her hand from her chest. She glanced between the two men, her smile growing. She was honestly enjoying herself now that all of the hubbub was done with.

"This, Sir, is Mr. Bain Oliver Aquin."

As hostess (or honored guest, rather), it was her duty- or so she thought. She did hope that, by introducing Bain, she hadn't simultaneously offended him. Ah, well. What was done was done, and there was no undoing it.

She took the card Campion offered, a smile that was more of a smirk curling her lips and changing her features into something less painted and more real. More tangible. More rebellious- but only secretly so.

And then he was speaking of things. Real, raw, uncensored things. Things that she had hidden away in her own sketchbook- naked children clinging to their mother's skirts. Sadness more deeply sown than all of the hatred in Vienda- shown in the eyes of a boy no older than five. Scarred backs and missing hands and lost children and sobbing mothers and old men bending on arthritic knees and knobbed hands clutching frayed hats.

She understood what he'd meant. She understood his disapproving glance because she had given just the same look a million times before. But, as she said- one had to fill her cupboards.

But she'd never been to the Dives- or the crapheap, rather- and it seemed the opportunity for an adventure. But her pride was wounded. After all, she was not as thinly layered as all of that. So, it was with chin held high, eyebrow arched, and a smile gracing her lips that she said what she did next.

"Surely, Mr. Luccullis, you wouldn't think a fellow artist to be so superficial? As I've said- some works are done for money. Others . . . Others are done to be kept secret, hidden, until the rest of the world is ready enough to appreciate them."

And then her pride melted away and she gave a laugh that was rather light and tinkling but somehow full. Somehow nearly vulgar in it's resonance, in it's complete and total joyfulness. It wasn't the twittering or the giggling of normal, refined ladies. No. It was as raw as the paintings Campion seemed so fixated on creating.

"That aside, I've never been to the Dives. It seems like it would be an awfully wonderful adventure."

The quartet in the corner had picked up with a more jovial tune- something lively. Couples were beginning to dance, and graceful skirts bloomed as the twirling waltz was played across string and wood.

“You're quite welcome,” Bain said with a pleasant smile as Tallulah disentangled herself from him.

Standing back as the lady observed the scene that had just occurred, suddenly bent and proclaimed the now soggy bag as her own. Bain cocked his head and raised an eyebrow in puzzlement... it was quite obvious that the bag was not hers at all, for one it did not match her gown (a fact that he had picked up from years of listening to his mothers babble), and secondly, unless he was mistaken, he had observed the man stuffing little cucumber sandwiches in there just a moment before approaching them.

“But Ms. Anatine, I am quite certain that the bag belongs to- oh!” His mouth had started before full understanding of the situation befell, and once it did he realized that Ms. Anatine was trying to smooth over the situation... Oh, she is a gracious host indeed.

As introductions made their rounds, Bain nodded cordially to the now named Mr. Luccullis and then listened attentively as he elaborated more on his kind of art.

Ah, so this man was an artist as well, Bain thought to himself his smile widening slightly as he congratulated himself at finding such fine company. Perhaps the man was not 'respectable' in appearance, but he seemed to have a solid grasp of the theory and Bain could never turn away an opportunity for such rousing conversation.

Mr. Luccullis seemed quite preoccupied with the matter of effect, some kind of burning need to shock and startle his viewers with the grizzly sight of denizens of the underbelly of Vienda... such a thing had never truly sown itself into him personally, but the man's technique sounded quite fascinating. He did however spare an amused brow-lift at the mention of starting an artistic movement, not out of mockery of this man, but at the ironic coincidence... He considered himself to be a revolutionary artist as well.

Well, he was trying.. the pigments hadn't come out right yet

“I admire your dedication, Mr. Luccullis,” Bain began with an amiable smile, “To descend into the Dives to pursue your style of choice is quite the commitment. This 'rawness' you desire to capture sounds quite compelling... If it is not too presumptuous of me to seek my own invitation, I would very much like to go as well and see it at work...

However,” Bain shook off the impulsive air that had captured him and, hearing the lively music of the quartet, smiled genially, “It would be remiss of us to steal Ms. Anatine from her own gathering, lovely as it is. The Dives can wait for a more appropriate date...”

Bain Smiled now exclusively for Tallulah, “And perhaps Ms. Anatine would do me the honor of a dance?”

As Tallulah spoke, Campion considered his life and whether or not he personally found it to be an ‘awfully wonderful adventure’. Perhaps it was the part of the adventure story where things went wrong, the hero was downtrodden, perhaps captured, perhaps his crew of dashing aeronauts were starving and lost without their leader. Maybe Tallulah thought it was an adventure to wonder what food he could afford to eat this week, what would have to be sold in order to pay for whores and rent, to be spat on by his neighbours who were finally cottoning on that the golly in the dives would not and could not fight back. An ‘adventure’, perhaps. ‘Awfully wonderful’, never.

Bain had it right, when he called it a descent, but Campion wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to think less of Tallulah dear thing. She was trying which was more than the skinny blond could say of many others of his race. Trying hard to be edgy, she probably had a few drawings of wicks and humans, rustic farm types who’d probaby never even seen a galdor before, pressed a lot of coins into their hands to keep them quiet but she would talk down to them without realising it, and they frightened her all the same. And that night she had gone to bed on fine sheets. She’d never gone to the dives, never put their faces out proudly on display. They were swept nicely under the rug and she could open her notebooks in her bedroom and pretend that she was a maverick the same way little girls wore paper crowns and pretended to be princesses.

You couldn't have it both ways, as far as Campion saw it. Galdori socialite and champion of the lower races. You couldn't play both these games, one would always win out in the end.

“Oh my descent is less than admirable,” grinned Campion. “And my commitment is even worse. But by all means, of course you may join us. I think three is a sensible number. Enough to show we won’t be trifiled with, but not so many that we will draw an overwhelming amount of attention to ourselves….and it might be best to spread your coins around your person. Don’t keep them in one place. And wear sensible shoes. The kind you can run in.”

The music started and Campion grimaced. Obviously, from his gait it was apparent that Campion was not built for dancing so he was perfectly content to simply sit this one out. He could look at the paintings some more, though privately Campion wondered if he hadn't seen enough of them- he dearly wished that Tallulah would take that locked away sketchbook out of hers and let them see the light of day. And he hoped that someone came back with his bag soon.

Tallulah absolutely loved dancing. It was next in line to her love of cooking and tied for thirds with people playing with her hair. She wondered if he was any good. If he knew his footwork, if his sense of timing was keen.

She had already knew that he had an athletic physique- one could tell by the way the line of his back seemed so proud, the way his shoulders were so broad, the way his grasp on her hand had been so firm... Damn it. This was not right! Had she not promised to leave with Artemis only a day ago? Did she not l-... lo-... Damn. She couldn't even think it- not there. Not with all of these people watching.

It seemed to private a thought for such a horrid affair- Tallulah was selling bits and pieces of herself, giving them away to people who would never know the stories. People who would think nothing of the family behind that child, that woman, that man. But Tallulah knew, because they told her, and she was selling them. She suddenly nearly felt sick. This was no worse than auctioning off little pieces of the people who she kept so close to her heart- which gave her a sudden idea.

And so, reaching into a hidden pocket at the hip of her dress, she pulled out a small black book. A thing made for pocket sketches and doodles but which held so much more. There were faces there. All of the realness Campion seemed to fancy, and all of the personal experiences Tallulah craved.

She handed it to the blond, her brow arched.

"I would be extremely grateful if you could hold this for me while I danced, Mr. Luccullis."

It was then, with a kind smile to Campion, that she sweetly excused herself and took Bain's hand. She allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, among the flowering skirts and sweeping notes and bowstrings and fake smiles and laughter.

"I do hope you know what you are doing, Mr. Aquin."

As she positioned herself in front of him like any proper lady would, a light shown in her eyes that was nearly a challenge, but more of a teasing sort of glow. When most girls had been talking or gossiping in school, Tallulah had busied herself with learning- every single second of every single day she could, she would ask questions and find answers and eventually found herself becoming a rather good dancer.

She hoped he was better than many of the men she knew.

She hoped he could keep up.