(2023-05-04) A Lady's Ladylike Tea for Ladies Who Are Friends!

Details

Author:	inkie
Summary:	Lady Sintha Fallon has Lady Ismene Hazan round to tea, and manages to arrange -- can you count them? -- some pieces on her game board.
Rating:	T for Teen

Arc: Ringside Seats

Around the outside edge of Stormwind's Park District, curving away to the left and overlooking the harbor below, is a row of white stone townhouses. All are tidily kept in a way that declares (but politely, because otherwise it would be gauche): Money.

Immaculately-groomed potted topiary stands sentry on one or two of the porches; on others, it's mounds of red geranium. There are wrought-iron banisters crowned with brass lion-heads. Everything is impeccable, and everything much the same.

Except for the house on the end of the row. This one has windowboxes rather than sedate porch-plants, and they are overflowing in a waterfall tumble of deep blue morning glories, brighter blue waves of lobelia, and frothy white clouds of alyssum. The door of the house is also blue, a night-deep shade, and there is a silver knocker in the polished, elaborately-scrolled shape of a kraken.

It is surely very hard to guess which of these houses belongs to the Fallons.

Somehow, perhaps because she's psychic, Mrs. Ismene Hazan has no problem picking out the correct door. She lifts gloved hands to straighten the little straw hat with its one layer of green tulle over her eyes, then gives the skirts of her prettiest green tea dress a shake just to make sure they're settled from the walk over. For a moment, she looks unhappy, and her eyes turn north.

But the moment passes, and she steps up to the house to take the knocker in hand and tap it thrice. Company!

The door opens briskly, precise seconds after the third knock has finished, presumably so that the knocker is not caught with his or her hand awkwardly upraised.

The butler appears to have stepped from a merchant vessel and been stuffed into livery; he is a muscled barrel of a man, florid-faced, and his gray hair is long enough to have been gathered in a neat sailor’s queue at the back. It seems extremely likely he has tattoos. None of them is apparent in his high-necked formal uniform; his navy blue tailcoat and high, white collar are impeccable, his hands white-gloved. He wears neat, steel-rimmed spectacles.

He smiles at Ismene, perhaps slightly more twinkly than is Correct in a butler. "Her ladyship is in the drawing room. This way, my lady." His voice is resonant, the accent a little disconcertingly polished emerging from this particular person. He steps aside to bow her into the house.

The foyer is made bright and airy by the semi-circular window above the door. The walls are painted a dove gray, the almost-blue of a morning fog, above spotless board-and-batten wainscoting. The airy sense of the hall is emphasized by the fact that the floorboards have been whitewashed; a pale blue and ivory flatweave rug runs the length of the hall. The whole vibe is much more summer-cottage-on-the-coast than Stormind City townhouse.

"Thank you," Ismene says, giving him her prettiest smile. She removes her hat from her head, discreetly using the same motion to smooth down any flyaways. Her gloves are the same green tulle as the hat's veil, tied at the wrist with a darker green thread. Little apple blossoms have been stitched on the back, a match to the ones on the pale green silk of her slippers. While the butler closes the door, Ismene tugs off her gloves and tucks them into her hat.

Her brown eyes tick over the furnishings and the decorations with a polite interest that belies the pounding of her pulse.

The butler leads her down the hallway. Framed portraits hang in a gallery row along the walls. Can paintings of ships be called "portraits?" Because they are. Portraits of ships. Every one of them.

Partway along the Ship Parade, two doors open off to either side of the hall. The open double door on the right reveals a masculine study or office of some kind: a dark wood, leather armchairs, and brandy vibe. The one wall of the room that isn't occupied by window or bookcases is taken up entirely by a painted mural map of Azeroth.

It is a very busy map. There are things on that map that probably do not appear on any schoolchildren's textbook maps of Azeroth. Not in the Eastern Kingdoms, at least.

The butler ushers her in the opposite direction, however, from the study and the peculiar map, to the room on the left. This one is flooded by sunlight, awash across an expanse of more pale walls and white wainscoting, blue-and-cream striped damask couches and chairs, and a wall of white bookcases containing a jumble of everything from clothbound atlases and academic texts to cheap, paperback popular fiction.

Are there ships in bottles? There is one ship in a bottle. Maybe it's ironic.

A young woman rises from the striped couch, aglow with delight. Her long, dark hair has been gathered loosely at her neck, flyaway wisps framing her heart-shaped face; her dark-lashed eyes are wide and whiskey-brown. She's wearing a deeply scoop-necked, layered blue day dress in a rather bohemian style. "Lady Ismene!" she rhapsodizes in a tone that implies that Mizzy is her long-lost twin sister from whom she was cruelly separated in girlhood and they are only now blessedly reunited after many long and taxing years and can you absolutely believe it? "Oh, gosh, I'm so thrilled you're here! Please, please, come and sit, thank you awfully, Barbour, will you have them bring in the tea?"

Ismene smiles brightly at Sintha. "Lady Sintha!" she says, just pleased as punch which must be a pretty pleased drink since everyone always uses that phrase. "How kind of you to invite me, and so early in the season. You must be simply swamped! I'm flattered you found time for me in your schedule, and it was my pleasure to come."

Lady Ismene is not so crass as to extend a hand (or two, or air kisses) when they've not been offered, so she stands there with her pretty hat and gloves held in both hands, in front of her against her skirt. Nor is Lady Ismene willing to gape around like a country miss, but she does her best to look around without looking like she's looking around. Which maybe is something a country missus can do.

Sintha relieves the hand uncertainty by extending both of her own and coming forward to take one of Mizzy’s between them; she also leans in to do the air-kissing. The air around Sintha is fragranced lightly with jasmine and some darker, sweeter note.

She straightens and smiles. "Aren't you the most perfect? Well, honestly, I had to see you at my soonest" — she's leading Mizzy firmly by the hand toward the couches as she talks — "because gosh, Shay was just raving yesterday about how the orchards have done this past year, he's so impressed, and I realized that we were absolutely horrid in not sending our condolences properly when — well, you know." She takes one of her hands from Mizzy's to flap it in vague distress, and then tugs Mizzy down beside her on the couch as she sits with a sort of emphatic flop.

"The plague was on and we were managing our tenants here and our ships, because of course the crates and the harbors, everyone was just — gosh, you remember of course, you're a priestess and I hear that Cobalt Company did such valiant work with — anyway I'm absolutely distraught that we were so inconsiderate of your loss."

She pauses, possibly so that she can breathe, and her expression creases sorrowfully. "That I was so inconsiderate, honestly. You know. It's so kind of you even to come!" She pats Mizzy's hand a little frantically.

Mizzy does the airkisses (and smells like apples, of course), but does not flop. She could, but she does not. Flopping is simply not something the social inferior does. She does sort of floompf down so her skirts swish out a little — after all, one must match one's host's tone — but she sits neatly on the edge of the couch, then twists to set her hat and gloves on a nearby side table. She turns three-quarters to face Sintha, crossing her ankles and tucking them safely to one side.

"I was positive you must've sent something because I distinctly remember thinking to myself that it was so kind of you not to press for a visit or ask about arrangements, when of course everything had to be so hasty. It was such a relief to be able to focus on Mama [Ed. note: Yes, she says it maMAH] and all the tangles that come with taking over where someone else has left off.

"And you say that Lord Fallon is pleased? Oh, I cannot wait to tell everyone back at The Orchards! They'll all be so pleased; they so wanted to prove themselves, you know, and all the new innovations they've worked so hard to implement."

Sintha's eyes widen like twin moons of delight. "Oh, gosh, you must know I dabble in engineering, and Shay is an absolute fiend for innovation. We'll have to come and visit, when — oh, well, you'll have to tell us when, I wouldn't like to put you out even a bit. I can't imagine how much more pleased he'll be to hear — oh, it's a shame he's out just now! Perhaps dinner, another time, with your husband? The four of us?"

Just then, a maid enters bearing a tea tray; she's followed by two footmen — each as impeccable as the butler, but each also with the same slightly off-kilter former-sailor look — carrying tiered silver serving dishes. They arrange these on the low table before the couch as the maid sets the tea-tray on the end table nearest Sintha.

The footmen bow their way out. The maid stands poised, and Sintha asks Mizzy brightly, "How do you take your tea, Lady Ismene?"

FOUR SUGARS FOUR CREAMS. But no. "One sugar, please," she says to Sintha. "Ben would be thrilled to meet you and the Baron, both. Though of course we could expect them to go on about battles and there I'd be talking about how to fix all the havoc they wreak on living bodies."

She laughs a little. "I bought Ben a series of books about a pirate boy, oh, years ago. They were his favorites, until he took up writing his own books. But if I told him he'd get to meet an actual, real life privateer, he'd be so excited I'd never get him to sit still long enough to get him into anything tailored! You'd show up and wouldn't be able to tell farmer from Lord Bennarin, and that's the truth of the matter."

Sintha laughs musically even as she lifts a loose-wristed hand to the maid, who bends to obediently pour tea. (One sugar.) "Gosh, that's charming. Oh, Shay's just a big boy at heart, they'd probably get on famously. And your husband — Lord Bennarin's still in Northrend at the moment, yes? Honestly it might be Shay who'd be a little star-struck, you should hear him go on about Cobalt Company."

The maid comes silently around the couch to offer Ismene her tea in a delicate porcelain cup: it is ivory with a blue pattern of waves and ships. This place has a fucken theme and is not afraid to lean hard.

When the maid has handed off Mizzy's tea, she returns to the tray and pours a second cup, and then spoons in five (5) sugars. She offers this to Sintha, who takes it with a smile. "Thank you, Catrin. I'll see to it now."

Catrin bobs a neat little curtsey and vanishes.

Mizzy counts the sugars that go into Sintha's cup. Dammit, her expression says for one moment of fleeting frustration. She waits until Sintha has her tea before taking a sip. "Yes," she says with a sigh, "Ben's stuck in Northrend for the moment, until Lady Cressidha and our dear Gwenivene Whittle can get the portals to behave. Blue dragons, you know." Because of course everyone knows.

"I had to come back without him; I simply couldn't be away for the entire spring, not with this being the first one since I took over. There's so much to do! But I'm not entirely without company; I've been spending time with my in-laws, who are as dear to me as my own parents."

She says a mental prayer for forgiveness. Elo would be so hurt and Niris might never forgive her.

"The Ferences," Sintha says rapturously, and lifts her own cup for a sip, her eyes enormous over the rim of it. When she lowers it, she says, "Just the most remarkable people, I hear. How fortunate you are. And I understand that Lord Ference is putting his name forward for the House of Nobles, as well!"

"Which truly is remarkable," Ismene says, eyes likewise widened, big and brown. "I daresay Elohad would never even have thought of it, had Lord Westbridge not come to see him personally and suggest it. Even then, you know, Elohad turned him down." She shakes her head, then takes a sip of tea. "Can you imagine turning Lord Westbridge down for anything? The man's a positive force of nature! But that's my father-in-law. Firm when he wants to be, but so unaware of his own accomplishments. Still, Niris — his wife, the healer, you know, runs the very successful apothecary in Ironforge — and my Ben talked him into it.

"Oh, but enough of our doings," she says with a shake of her head and a faint no no really so unimportant flick of one hand. "You must tell me everything about your plans for the season! I've heard rumors of a grand ball, but not a whisper of who's planning one. Nonetheless, I've been to the modiste in Dalaran! One cannot let such things wait until the last minute."

"Well," says Sintha with relish. "I imagine the Thenedains — that's Lady Morgauna and her mother, naturally you must know — will be hosting one, and it will be spectacular as ever, but mind you don't go murmuring in corners anything that you wouldn't want the Lady Evelaine to know in minutes." She gleams conspiratorially. "She is the wickedest woman in Stormwind for secrets" — this sounds admiring rather than dire, an impression which is perhaps confirmed when she goes on — "and I would adore to have her for our family, but Shay and Lady Morgauna will insist on circling each other endlessly in public for their own amusement, and never simply announcing what everyone knows." She pouts.

Does everyone know this? Do Siamus and Morgauna know this? Sintha seems very certain.

"And I was thinking perhaps I would play the hostess myself — nothing as grand, of course, one mustn't try to outdo the Thenedains — as it would be awfully fun and I think it would reflect well, what with Siamus seeking the House himself."

She sits straight upright, struck breathless by — it sure looks like, anyway — a sudden jolt of inspiration, and turns her bright, enormous eyes on Mizzy. "Lady Ismene. Oh, gosh. We absolutely must — I mean wouldn't it be fun to host one together? For Shay and Lord Ference? Blessed stars, they must be quite aligned on so many matters, and to put forward a strong bloc — to have a unified voice on those issues, the old war hero and the young, the knight and the naval commander — gosh, can you just picture it?" She actually wiggles a little, gleefully, and blinks plaintive eyes at Mizzy. "We'll have it at our Elwynn place, of course, I know Ference hasn't got an estate nearby, and you and I could — oh, say you will!" Another wiggle.

Mizzy covers her mouth with the fingertips of her free hand. Only it's an entirely unfeigned expression this once, and not one of those oops did I just let it slip that yo mama's a ho things. "Oh my goodness," she says, finding a place to set her teacup down lest she slosh. "My lady, I couldn't possibly… I'd only be sure to disarrange things and… But of course Elohad would be so flattered… And Ben would be over the moon!"

She purses her lips, deep in thought, her head canted at just such an angle that the sun gleams briefly on the apple locket she wears. "But I must of course ask Elohad. It'd be in simply the worst taste to accept on his behalf, though naturally I'd be sure to point out all the advantages! He's a master strategist on the battlefield, and I'll just have to make him see that this is a battlefield of another kind. One doesn't wade into such things without stout allies, don't you think?"

"That is," says Sintha earnestly, leaning forward to touch her fingertips to Mizzy's knee for emphasis, "exactly what I think. And Fallon and Ference would fall together so naturally." She nods gravely and sits back again. "And you wouldn't possibly disarrange a thing. Look at you! Absolutely picturesque, oh it would be sure to be lovely."

She glances at the tiered dishes on the table as though she's only just realized they're there. "Oh, do you just love shrimp? You positively must have one of Cook's shrimp salad sandwiches!"