Logs:Courtly
| Courtly | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-07-10 "Case in point, tumult may be opportune for some." (Part of Lean In plot.) |
| Location
<NYC> Le Carrefour, Le Bonne Entente - Astoria, Queens | |
Above the bustle of the clerestory restaurant, tucked at the base of the bell tower, this indoor garden and library is out of the way and easily overlooked, sure to become a favored "hidden gem" of travel guides. Low bookshelves full of mythology, fairy tales, and folklore ring the central elevator shaft and the stairway spiraling around it like an easily navigable labyrinth. Beyond these are plants in a variety of tastefully whimsical containers, each with its own engraved plaque giving the common name, the scientific name, and their significance to various traditional stories and practices. The walls have been done away with so that the room extends beyond the doric columns into a surreal rooftop garden enclosed with glass stretching between the tower's massive buttresses. The arrangement of plantlife becomes less formal as one moves out into the four arms of the conservatory, visible containers giving way to beds and terraces and eventually landscapes carefully cultivated to look wild. There is plentiful seating scattered along the paths and just off of them, from proper benches to picturesque logs to surprisingly comfortable boulders. By day, myriad butterflies dance amongst the enchanted vegetation, and likewise moths by night. A shallow stream weaves throughout, feeding ponds that host plants of their own alongside fish, frogs, and turtles. Wandering the outer edges of the conservatory, one could almost feel lost in a mystical forest but for the stunning views of the cityscape beyond the glass. It's fairly early -- a reasonable time to be having breakfast in the cafe downstairs and preparing for the day. Lucien is very much not in the cafe downstairs, where he might have to do unpleasant things like be polite to his hotel guests. He's currently dressed in a gray sharkskin suit in clean modern lines, a fine white broadcloth shirt cinched with a silver-and-gray damask tie in a full Windsor knot, and black monk shoes. This conservatory will not technically be open for another quarter-hour -- he's already mostly finished his breakfast in peace and quiet. There is still a tray on his small patio table, his fuller meal cleared away -- left, now, on elegant matte black and metallic porcelain dishes, is a plain espresso and a bran muffin on one side of the tray; on the other, closer to Lucien, a cup of tea and a flaky strawberry kouign amann, which he has not yet touched. He's occupied himself catching up on his emails as he waits. A sleek black-and-tan shepherd mutt is lying, quiet, on the ground beside his chair -- no qualms for her about waiting till company arrives, she's gnawing happily on a green dental chew pinned between her paws. Mornings are a time of industry; which is to say, Zeyta awoke to start her day long before the sunrise. By the time this particular appointment reminder pops up on her calendar, she is well into a meticulously cultivated routine -- the domestic, stateside version of it, granted, given her recent return from a period of globe-trotting across the Atlantic. Punctual as ever, she arrives at the precise moment of the previously agreed upon arrangement, navigating past doorpersons and waitstaff with the well-versed confidence of one born into her wealth and elite privilege. Her face card? Never declined. As she rounds the corner into the conservatory, she cuts a pristine figure of serene composure. Her hair is coiffed into a slicked back bun with face-framing errant strands left purposefully loose, while she wears a bespoke outfit of white, sleeveless split jacket draped across her shoulders, a ribbed cotton shirt beneath matched with a high-waisted, wide-legged trouser and ensemble of accenting gold jewelry. Applications of blush in dusty rose and warm pink lips bring color to the otherwise cold, marble smile of perfunctory congeniality as she steps onto the patio, announcing herself with a soft clearing of her throat preemptive of speech. "You look lively--testament to a skilled artist, I presume? You look more fit for the stage than a funeral parlor." "Zeyta." Clearly Lucien was predicting this particular meeting to be Precisely On Time, because his greeting, soft, comes a moment before she actually speaks, his back still turned. He rises a moment later -- the dog almost rises as well, but, well-trained, she settles back down into a lie at just a gesture of his hand, tail flagging a curious welcome even if she keeps her place polite beside the chair. He pulls out the chair opposite his in invitation, and though there's no smile on his lips his vivid green eyes are warm enough. "What can I say, death becomes me. You look a picture, as ever. I don't know if New York is entirely ready for your return." "Lucien," Zeyta chimes with saccharine intonation, a baited trap for the unsuspecting. Lucien knows better, no doubt, as she circles around to the open seat, predatory keenness dropping a measured glance for the dog at his heels. "So it does." With a graceful folding of limbs she deposits herself, unslinging the matching white designer handbag from beneath her cape to hang it on the back of the proffered chair, in no rush to produce its contents. Exhaling a leisurely sigh, her fingers circle around the cup of espresso as literal heat encounters metaphorical ice, gaze brimming with a faint curiosity. "Is it not? I must confess I grow weary of the expat lifestyle. I'm entirely convinced the last time those stodgy French aristocrats of the Paris circle enjoyed themselves was the 1920s." Without missing a beat, she leans over, enchanting and inviting trust. "Do tell." "Tedious, perhaps, but from what I heard, quite a profitable trip." Lucien takes his seat again once Zeyta has settled herself. He plucks up a fork to carefully break off a very small bite of the buttery pastry, not putting it yet into his mouth. "I have been working on expanding --" He is gesturing languidly with his fork around the elegant surroundings of the hotel they are in, and adds with just a touch of wryness: "-- but perhaps not to Paris." He pops the small morsel into his mouth, eyes fluttering half-closed as he savors the first small bite, and washes it down with a sip of fragrant Darjeeling. "There has been --" Lucien is picking his words delicately here, "a bit of tumult in the Court since you were last here." Zeyta foists all rapt attention on Lucien, elbow propped on the table to erect her forearm as a pale pedestal, chin nested in an open palm. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches to break off a piece of the bran muffin curated for her, diligent in not scattering crumbs along its trajectory to her mouth. "Mmm," comes her tell-tale verbal tick. "Grecian real estate. Capitalize on their failing economy and the predilections of Orthodox conservatives behind closed doors." Ever the tactician, she skirts around the topic of her ventures and their success--for now. More immediate concern elicits a batting of eyelashes, as she chases the bite of muffin with a sip of espresso. "Case in point, tumult may be opportune for some." With a raised brow, "Which some?" "I suppose that depends where you see yourself falling when this has all shaken out." Lucien's bright eyes meet Zeyta's steadily when he opens them properly again. "My mother aims to stage a coup. Take the White Court for her own jejune ambitions." There is something in the particularly points of emphasis where Lucien's quiet distaste chooses to settle more precisely that suggests it is not, really, the coup or the cupidity that has earned his scorn, but only the banality of her designs. "She has wooed several of the other Pawns to her side -- a choice I expect they will regret in the long run." Zeyta is unfazed by the implicit revelation in the information Lucien relays, her ice queen candor evident in the squaring of narrow shoulders and the quiet recollection of self as she leans back into her seat. There is no other outward reaction, really, as another morsel of bran affords her the convenience of chewing while internally assessing. "Naturally, I prefer to stay out of family matters." A pause. "But I think our interests run parallel, and I'd rather like to continue my work without the accompanying scrutiny of a regime change." Here her gaze alights on him again, studious and probing. Seemingly tangential, "I have not widely announced my return, as you know." The hint of suggestion shows in the dark glimmer of her eyes. "I assure you," Lucien's voice slips just faintly drier, here, "I have long preferred to stay out of them as well." And yet, goes quite unsaid, given the circumstances. Lucien's finger traces slow absent circles against the side of his cup before he picks up the fine porcelain in his palm. "I do know. And I would lay very strong odds that this upstart Queen knows nothing of you or your interests. She takes it somewhat as read that of course people will simply be swept along with her -- I expect she would welcome the fealty of a returning Pawn as simply her due." He turns his hand over, palm up, fingers uncurling in a graceful outward tip towards Zeyta. "I would welcome eyes in her traitor's court, and I will not take my allies for granted once it is in flames." "Mmm." Zeyta sips her espresso, a clear pattern of alternation between food and drink. This time, however, when she sets it down, she reaches for the linen napkin at her place setting to dab her lips. "I'll send you the encrypted files including a summary and business plans. I think you'll be pleased. In the meantime, do think about Greece. Deposing one's parents is practically an ancient tradition there." Her seat scoots out with a silent deftness, a silhouette of all white rising to her full short stature. "I've cheek-kissing and hand-shaking to attend to it would seem. I'll be in touch." Thus charged with her mission, she fires off a mock-salute, handbag dangling from the crook of her arm in ironic juxtaposition of luxury and duty. Once more Lucien quiets his dog, who (with no ability at all to Read the Room and certainly no consideration for the effects of dark fur on pristine white clothing) is hopefully bounding to her feet in search of pettings as Zeyta rises. Flèche lies back down, obedient but mournful, with Lucien's silent gesture. Lucien himself does not rise, just shifting slight in his seat to track Zeyta's motion. Surreptitiously, he's dropping a small flake of sweet-rich pastry in consolation for his pup's woes. It sets her tail to eager wagging, though his expression hasn't broken its quiet poise. His head inclines small and elegant in answer to this salute, a light amusement in his soft words. "I'm sure they will be glad to be the first to welcome you home." | |
