Bain inclined his head towards Mr. Luccullis, acknowledging his point and accepting his suggestions for their future embarkation into the Dives. Whether he'd remember such sage advice, however, remains to be seen... such information had a tendency to escape him at times.

A passing glance of curiosity at the small book that was handed to the dusty fellow, Bain quelled the irrational desire to rescind his offer to investigate what was sure to be an interesting compilation of sketches with practiced ease. He had them often.

Bain smiled largely at her playful statement, raising an eyebrow in answering challenge as, taking her hand with an arm about her waist, they swept off into the small gathering of revelers in cadence with the beat.

If there was any singular thing that his parents had agreed on, it was that Bain should to learn to dance. His mother had enjoyed the beauty and grace of it,as well as its versatility, whereas his father would expound upon its physicality for stamina, endurance, timing and strength. Suffice to say, Bain is a very good dancer.

And now that Ms. Anatine has thrown down the gauntlet... he intended to prove it.

The music started and Campion got out of Bain and Tallulah’s way, not letting his long thin limbs anywhere near a dance floor, but he took the book as Ms Anatine instructed and began to flick through the book. And the more he flicked, the more Campion felt himself in the grip of a rather horrible idea,

Campion wasn’t sure what he was doing. No, no that was a downright lie- he certainly did know exactly what it was he was doing. It was those pictures, in her book. Cruder perhaps than some of the finer portraits ( though as sketches they would be) Campion saw them as inordinatley better. He was impressed at the depth, impressed at the subject matter and the style. But he was also so painfully and imeasurabley dissapointed with her.

Not with the art, no, no. But with the artist. He looked up to watch Tallulah dancing with Bain, a well dressed well put together handsome young man. A good prospect by any means, there would be no nasty gossip, no looks of revulsion if she were to step out with him. He couldn’t find the woman who’d dawn what Campion was looking at now, she certainly couldn’t be in this room, with all the falseness. Nothing real about the art on display.

Dancing with nice young golly men at parties like this, hiding the truth. Her claim that the world wasn’t ready, that it was the world’s fault that kept these subjects away from the public. She was frightened. She liked the money her pretty portraits brought in and dancing with nice golly men and she was scared she might jeopardize that just because there were people starving and mangled and downtroddon.

Tallulah might have learned to play the game where Campion had failed so dismally but at this point he didn’t care, skewed as his moral compass might be, Campion genuinely felt this was the right thing to do. Those pictures were like a spark in his hand, in a room filled with gun powder. He separated them carefully from the spine of the book, taking care not to rip anything Campion begun.

Tucking a sheet of paper holding a sketch into the frame of a picture, doing as much as he could to obscure the painting underneath Campion moved around the room repeating the motion. Luckily for Campion, dancing kept a lot of people preoccupied, but of course it wasn’t long before a handful of guests had noticed.

“Dear goddess, what is that?” asked one sociaite peering at a sketch, “ How vulgar!”

Standing back Campion admired his handiwork. It really wasn’t a malicious display, or at least Campion liked to hope so. It was just a reminder to Tallulah that art had to push boundaries sometimes or else what was the point?

Though, biting his lip, Campion wondered if he had once again acted with his characteristic immoderartion, that this may have been a step too far. A gamble with someone else’s career made him far more nervous than his own. He didn’t want Tallulah to end up like him did he? Of course not.

Alioe’s sake, Campion, do you not think you could have thought about this before you put the pictures up?

Tallulah was impressed. Actually, she was more than impressed- she was having fun. Sweeping the way they were across the dance floor, twirling in her dress . . . it was all too much. A life she'd never imagined for herself. There she was, in the arms of a well-to-do man, on a well-to-do dance floor, with well-to-do people. Tallulah guessed that, besides Campion, she was the only stain in on the whole well-to-do tablecloth that was this damned art show.

But no- Lu figured she was more of a discolored spot, more of the off-white stain left by light wine or champagne or maybe custard. Maybe Bain was a stain, too. Maybe he was secretly rebellious, secretly more than a good looking man and a very fine dancer. It made her curious.

Through all of her thoughts, through all of- well- everything, they were still twirling. Still spinning. She tossed her head back, emitting another one of those vulgar laughs- and then she heard it. The music slowed. The music slowed, and there was a gasp of, "oh, my!" And she'd stopped the spinning- she'd stopped and she was staring at Campion. At that man. At that wretch.

How could he? She didn't even know him, and she'd stuck up for him. Saved him. Gods damn it all. Barely-contained rage was rolling off of her in waves. It echoed in her field, made her burn like a white-hot flame. But only for a second.

It was like a spark. There, contained, gone.

Tallulah was stalking towards the waif-like blond, slipping daintily through the crowd. It took all she had not to snatch the remnants of her sketchbook from his hand, and punch him square in the jaw.

Because being hit by a woman was so much more degrading than being cast on by one.

“I do not take kindly to practical jokes, Mr. Luccullis.”

Nodding to a nearby servant, who seemed to be inspecting the drawings, Tallulah deliberately turned her back on the man in a show of disapproval she was sure would be insulting. Facing a servant instead of a golly? Gasp!

“Please bring this man his bag, and fetch someone to take down these . . . sketches.”

She turned back to Campion, albeit slowly, her features as smooth and still as alabaster. When his bag had been taken, she’d ask the man to put food and as many coins as he could find into the thing. Although she was angry at him, she wouldn’t retract that generosity. Despite what she’d tricked herself (and everyone else) into believing, she did care. At least, she cared about headcases.

When she next spoke, her voice was low- nearly a whisper, anger shining brightly in her eyes but steering clear of her field.

“When you collect your things, kindly remove yourself from the premises.”

She then turned to face her guests, fixing a smile into her features, and shaking her silvery head. Gods, she hoped the music would start back up. Even though Tallulah’s evening was ruined, she might as well be able to finish her dance.

“Artists- we’re always making a ruckus, are we not?”

It seems he had impressed her, or at least she was having a good time. Sweeping across the floor to the simple waltz made more complex by their dancing, they graced across the floor with an effortless ease. Turns and spins, her smile ever grew until she tossed her head back with a full, joyous laugh of enjoyment. Bain beamed with pleasure as a few soft chuckles escaped himself as well; her happiness was practically infectious.

But as suddenly she laughed, it faded with the fading of the music, and as she spun out of his arms she stopped sharply, a dawning look of outrage and anger upon her face.

The sketches were indisputably hers, he could tell, although he did not believe any of the casual viewers that made up the socialistic crowd would be able to discern such a subtle thing as her style. They were also indisputably good. Perhaps even more so than the vibrant, colorful paintings that they covered. They certainly did capture that 'raw' quality they had been discussing: stark, bold lines of charcoal black and gray over crisp parchment white.

However, that was not part of the show. Mr. Luccillis had apparently taken liberties with the sketchbook Tallulah had so generously allowed him to see, and that was a grievous sin.

She was furious, he could tell, and not just in her facial expression, for her field had been near crackling with its intensity... but now it was intensely gone. Her control was spectacular, and impressed, a half thought notion buried itself in his subconscious of the fact; of which he would remember long after the party was over. As it was, his attention was captured as Ms. Anatine stalked over to the erring Mr. Luccillis.

Her confrontation was sharp and to the point... Degrading him as he had humiliated her however unintentionally. He found no error in her approach, but Bain's sense of honor would not allow him to simply stand aside and merely observe as Ms. Anatine avenged herself... He had his own score to settle.

As Tallulah turned away to address her scandalized audience, Bain slipped away in the crowd unnoticed to Campion's side. Halting the man momentarily by a strong, firm grip upon his shoulder, he spoke in a controlled tone without looking at the shunned man.

"For all that I believe that you had all good intentions in mind, Mr. Luccullis, it seems Ms. Anatine has not appreciated your help in the matter of her presentation,” Bain's voice was level and sure without projecting farther than their hearing, and his expression coldly unreadable for one so open.

“Her artwork is talented, as you well have seen, and her sketches more so...” The hand upon the man's shoulder tightened perceptively, betraying the controlled tone with bruising force as the pinched nerves sent sharp cold pins and needles down the held arm, “But be that as it may, you were out of line and it would be remiss for it to be repeated in any fashion. I trust that it shall not happen again when we meet again."

And then he was gone as quickly as he had appeared, disappearing into the crowd to return to Ms. Anatine's side as if he had never left. His face creased with concern as he observed the still distressed artist.

“How are you fairing Ms. Anatine?” Bain asked gently as he gazed upon her searchingly, “That must have been quite distressing, I know.”

A joke? No. He wasn’t…Campion blinked as Tallulah stormed his way, flinging harsh words in his face. He wanted to explain, to explain that surely everyone had the right to see these pictures? She’d been more than willing to part with her sketchbook and show Campion, a man she’d just met, the pictures. She knew him as well as any body else in the room. Unless of course, Campion gripped his knuckles, unless she thought he was lower. Wretched ruined man, he belonged tucked away in a sketchbook too. Another embarrassment. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t a second class citizen, or even third class citizen, he wasn’t. Godsdammit all.

But there was something in the way that they treated him that made Campion realise. That field kept him separated from the humans and the wicks and the passives. But no golly would ever accept him. Not if he didn’t insult his friends to cover his own stinking passive loving behind, not if didn’t lie, not if he wasn’t himself. Tallulah faced the servant over him, worse than a human. And what could Campion do but accept it? He’d made his choice long ago. No, the students at Brunnhold had made it for him, carved it into his arm.

What place had he had this party? He was probably making it drity. And that man, Bain, who Tallulah was talking with approached him. Bain’s firm grip on his shoulder was made all the more painful by Campions complete and utter lack of flesh to absorb some of the pressure, the Aquin man pressed right into bone and Campion looked at him, jaw firm. Golly men. Those grips. Alioe, it took him back to school. Always doing the wrong thing, saying the wrong thing, making a hash of his school work- annoying the teachers and the students and anyone around. Bain could have been one of those boys, stuffed him in a bin for some off colour joke. Shoved his head down a latrine for passing a picture around the class.

Bain saw no problem with the pictures, from what he could tell. And yet, he was still here. Hoping that Miss Anatine could see him, speaking firmly to the villain at the party probably. Hah, some villain, who only wanted the guests to see the truth. It was what she’d wanted, deep down, Campion knew that if he didn’t know anything else.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he said, determind to hold his gaze. He was not eleven year old Campion, on the floor of that bathroom, sharp compass dragging against his skin. But if he wasn’t then why did his arm hurt so? But this gesture was lost on Bain who had already returned to Miss Anatine.

Godsdammit it all. Godsdamm his clothes, with that fake hole in the notch of his belt. Godsdamm that hole in his head where a brain should be and the hole in his pocket where his family’s money should have been resting comfortably. And godsdamn this food and this bag that a human passed into his hand without a word. A human who stuck around to make sure that the blonde idiot was safely removed from the party without causing a scene.

“I’m going, I’m going,” muttered Campion, stalking out into the Hamis rain.

It would be a grand gesture of course to throw that bag of food against the wall of the house and rage up at the sky like some gret operatic hero. But well, Campion was tired- one did need a lot of energy to go off into a fit of screaming abdabs if you would and Campion really didn’t think he could summon enough up to do it justice. Plus, he would have been an idiot (well, more of an idiot) to throw some decent food against a wall just because he liked to pretend he still had pride.

The past few months had seen the young Luccullis boy change so dramatically and he’d realised he would rather not starve to death over an awful lot of things. Dignity be dammned when there were cucumber sandwiches.

And so, on the long walk home, out of the nice houses in uptown and into that craphead they called the dives, haha- they must call it dives because of how low you had to sink to get there- Campion made a list of people and places he was now avoiding; his parent’s and brother’s and their respective friends on the veinda scene, Snoddy- so that was theatrical types out, and now the Artistic sort too. Not to mention, worst of all, anywhere in Brunnhold at all.

Wonderful. Fantastic. But hey, at least Campion had some bread from Tallulah. Really good bread actually, he thought taking a bite.

Enough bread to warrant the little tune that Campion whistled the rest of the way home

Ms. Anatine was fairing quite well, actually. The music had started back up, the guests were going back to their business, and Tallulah had caught sight of Bain and Campion talking in hushed voices. But suddenly she felt a twinge of guilt, because Campion had tried. He’d tried to show her art, tried to give the public that shock effect they had talked about. But he had betrayed her trust.

She’d given him her sketchbook- her sketchbook! Being an artist himself, he should’ve known how delicate such things were.

He simply didn’t understand that the works weren’t finished. They were sketches. That Tallulah was planning something big, something bold . . . One day. One day, she’d show the world just how similar everyone was.

One day, she’d show them all how beautifully broken their system was. And when that day came . . . Gods. She’d revel in it.

And then the crowd was dispersing but Tallulah still stood, staring at one of her portraits and the sketch that still stuck to it.

Such an odd, beautiful contrast. So strange, the colors and the lines. The way they seemed to be fighting- the brush strokes and the parchment- for control of the frame. Each one battling for the spotlight, this strange kind of tension building between the two subjects—and then it was gone, in the hands of a human, and Tallulah had the sudden urge to bring it back.

Her train of thought was interrupted yet again as Bain Oliver Aquin asked her how she was feeling. Well. What an interesting question. Seeing as her heart had just put on display for this jewel-studded room to see, she nearly felt like taking a meat cleaver to someone’s head. But other than that, she was fine. Perfectly clockin’ fine.

“It’s nothing a few glasses of wine won’t sort out, I can promise you.”

She was joking, of course. She didn’t even drink wine- not when she was aiming to get drunk. No- whiskey was much more to her liking. She allowed a smile to curve her rounded, strange lips, but it didn’t touch her eyes.

No, Tallulah’s eyes were still dark and deep and brooding over what had happened only a moment ago.

“I trust your own evening was not ruined?”

“No not at all,” Bain was quick to assure her, a kind smile on his face, “Quite the contrary, despite the fact that such a 'surprise presentation' had not been planed, I welcome the treat of seeing more of your work. From what little I saw, your skills run far deeper than these delightful colors… Perhaps it is your preference for charcoal mediums, but these seemed much more...”

Bain trailed off, searching for the words he was looking for, his eyes distance as he gazed upon his memory of the works removed, “As if through effort and form you could portray something inside out. Much more a part of you...”

“If its not to bold of me to say, of course.” His eyes focused once more on the here and now, smiling widely at Ms. Anatine as he had before the unseemly upset of the festivities, “I have quite enjoyed my time here with you this evening. Baring nothing, your show has been simply spectacular. ”

Tilting his head slightly as the resumed music caught his ear, Bain grinned, stepping out as he extended a gloved hand and slight bow, “As well as your dancing. And as our dance had been interrupted, I hope you would allow me to claim another?”

Oh, so much commotion, and all in such a brief time! She was just about to say something in response to Scuro's accusation when it all exploded at once. She saw the sketches- the charcoal lines scrawled on the white parchment- the subject matter a stain on the otherwise pristine pages, disrupting the sheer amount of skill put into the works- and knew they belonged to Tallulah. So she needn't have pushed or prodded Tallulah at all. The evidence just sort of... fell right into her hands. She knew, now. She had her proof- Tallulah was consorting with lower beings. And yet there was no satisfaction.

A part of her felt genuinely sorry for the artist. Felt bad that there had been such a disruption- so horribly embarrassing for her. Her smirk at finding she had been right all along was short-lived for this reason. And the stains- the battered, broken souls who basked so thoroughly in poverty and depravity- who bathed in their filth and were as much stains on Vita as they were stains on the pages of the now-tattered sketchbook. They brought forth unexpected emotion within her. And immense pity. And a hint of remorse. She knew very well their plight. And she helped to reinforce it- took pleasure in it, even. Because they were below her- tore at her people like a festering wound.

So she remained silent as others scoffed. As her opportunities to unmask Tallulah Anatine for the human-lover she was came and slipped away unhindered. She had her proof. She needn't let any others know, if they didn't already. As the hubbub died down she turned to her sister at last.



"There must be a balance, Scuro- a balance between work and play. People- social events- are just as important as the work we're doing- as the spells we're providing them." Chiaro sighed, "I will help you when this is all over. But right now I am going to enjoy the company of upstanding citizens like myself. And you should, too. Take a break. Eat something. Relax. And then go back to work with a clear mind." She smiled hesitantly, hoping her sister would take her advice.

"N-not at all."

Shocked. Yes, that seemed to fit Tallulah quite completely. She was . . . stunned. He wasn't simply brushing aside the fact that she drew 'lesser beings,' no- he was complementing her. Complementing. Her. Lu had to force her face out of the wide-eyed expression she was sure she wore, and into the proper sort of smile.

But he wasn't complementing the way most people did. No shallow gestures, no attempts to understand. Bain seemed to just . . . know. He was looking into her drawings, and taking something out. Something elementally and completely her.

But that was silly.

Tallulah was just reading too much into things- and who could blame her? She'd just committed to running off with a man she wasn't even sure loved her. And, as Tallulah reached out to take Bain's hand, she began to wonder if Artemis ever really saw her. Saw her in that raw, elemental way.

"I would be more than delighted, Mr. Aquin."

There were ghosts in Artemis's eyes whenever he looked at Tallulah. Small, flickering shadows that made him so hard to capture on canvas. Little bits of history and complications that made it so hard for her to bring the correct amount of depth into his features.

But Bain, a man she didn't even know, had observed things she had hoped to keep secret- distant.

She found herself sweeping towards him, assuming the correct position for her part, and as she looked up at him, she looked for shadows. She looked for sorrow. But his topaz eyes were clear, his hansom face smiling down at her.

How . . . How incredibly odd.

Scuro caught a glimpse of the sketch before it was hurried away, and got a sense of something dirty being caught under that artist's fingernails. The kind of dirtiness that needed bleach to remove.

But that wasn't her concern. her sister was trying to calm her down, she knew, but she also wasn't following through on her research like she herself was. There was more that needed to be done, and if it wasn't done now, when could it be done, with all these parties and frivolities. She felt she had hardly enough time to begin with, what with work and all.

"Balance? Pah!" she huffed, "Play can come once my goals are met. I don't need to waste my time on art and dancing. I need to finish this."

She brandished the papers again. With a final glare at her sister, she stormed out, with rather less commotion than her entry had garnered, stopping only to tell one of their servants to fetch her a dozen rats or hingles as quickly as possible.

If I died tomorrow, what kind of legacy would I leave if I frittered away my time on nonsense?!

Taking Ms. Anatine into his arms, Bain led them across the dance floor with ease of familiar steps and movements. A genteel smile upon his face, Bain looked on with curiosity as Tallulah's eyes gazed upon him searchingly, although for what he could not be certain. As it was, his smile merely relaxed, a more honest form upon his face, and giving the hand captured in his a slight squeeze of reassurance swept it's owner into simple spins and twists- playing with the dance with a carefree air until his partner succumbed herself to the music and abandoned whatever thoughts where distracting her.

But all good things come must come to their end, and the music at last began winding down in the natural way. No obscene interruptions, or unwanted displays, merely the common commotion of applause as Bain bowed over the hand of Ms. Anatine that had been his willing prisoner for the dance.

“Thank you, Ms. Anatine, for a lovely dance.” Bain said looking up at her as he placed a chaste kiss to the back of her palm, the picture of a dapper gentleman despite his mussed hair and still lingering traces paint. As he straitened, however, a motion to the side caught his eye. His mother, surrounded by her clique, engaged in a heated battle of not so quiet whispers as she shot him a peculiar knowing look.

Bain colored slightly, a heated yet faint blush as he looked away. That look was never good, and foretold a long evening yet ahead of him as Ellenora babbled her exaggerated speculations. Clocks, what had he done now?

They were spinning once more, and Tallulah was distracted from her thoughts. Bain was making an effort to pull her out of that pit her mind had fallen into. That place where strange emotions lurked like shadows and so many memories.

But she was dancing, and those shadows were gone, and his hand was warm on the small of her back.

Tallulah was still looking into the gentleman's eyes- her own shining for the first time that evening. She felt like a girl, felt like someone else had taken her skin. It was rather strange. Really. She'd been thinking that a lot, lately . . . But words like 'strange' and 'odd' just seemed to fit.

And then they'd stopped and he was kissing her hand. But suddenly, Tallulah wasn't the only one with colored cheeks- Bain had glance to the side of the hall and then back, his face turning the most subtle shade of pink.

It was rather adorable, really.

"The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Aquin. Perhaps . . ." She paused, looking down at her hands and back again. This time, it wasn't a show. "Perhaps you could tell me a bit more about your ideas for paints."

It was then that Tallulah realized that she was interested in his theories. She really did want to hear of the things he was planning to create.

Bain's face lit up like that of a child presented sweets at her inquiry into his beloved profession, smile bright and true across his face.

Tucking Ms. Anatine's hand in the crook of his elbow as he led them in a meandering walk through the decorated greenhouse, Bain launched into the subject with vivacity. Gesturing at whatever examples he could find in their surroundings: sometimes Tallulah's art, sometimes the very people milling amongst them as he spoke animatedly and with inexhaustible enthusiasm.

Eventually, however, Bain came to the realization that the party was beginning to wind down and that he had appropriated the copious portion of Ms. Anatine's time. His mother, also, was waiting for him at the entrance of the greenhouse. Other than waving at him and smiling that unsettling, knowing smile of hers she showed no impatience to leave... which was probably a good sign that it was time for him to go.

“I have much enjoyed our conversation this evening, Ms Anatine,” Bain began as he released her hand and gave her a slight bow, “Although I feel I must apologize for monopolizing your time such as I have, I would very much like to continue our discussion another time. I have found our discourse invigorating and your advice quite enlightening...”

As he straitened, a stray thought darted across his mind, sparking the vestiges an idea. Considering it cautiously, Bain paused in his retreat, before pulling a simple embossed card from his person. It was stark white save for a smudge of blue upon its back... as if it had been resting upon partially dried paint, with a vaguely obscured the address upon it.

“Here is my address,” He began haltingly, speaking softly so as to not be overheard, “There is... as much as we have discussed this evening, there is much that I would not speak upon in such a public venue. My current work is … well, I have been keeping it strictly confidential up to this point.

"I have had some,” He paused, searching for a more delicate phrase, “Difficulties concerning the trustworthiness of some of my past colleges in regards to my work.”

Looking seriously at Tallulah, Bain extended the card to her, a slight smile upon his lips, “I trust that you understand. I do not offering this lightly.”

Stepping back, Bain offered Ms. Anatine a short, quick bow before turning away with a parting smile. Striding his way to the exit, his mother latched onto his arm tenaciously as she immediately began her interrogation, speaking far to fast for him to answer any of her questions.

Resisting the improper urge to roll his eyes at his mothers increasingly imaginative suggestions, Bain merely shook his head and smiled indulgently, ignoring the majority of the outrageous claims. As he helped his mother into the carriage, Bain allowed himself a fleeting glance back towards the still lit greenhouse.

He would be looking forward to meeting Ms. Anatine again, he realized.

What an interesting day.

(( This would be a good point to fade to black... unless anyone has anything they want to add ))