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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Hana is invited to perform at a party held by Count Amerith as a harpist. Finley uses it as a way to set a terrible plan in motion, with consequences. He makes an unexpected potential ally of some sort along the way. 8585 words. Intentional conflict/unhappiness. Romance Plot RP. Please see CWs. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Count Amerith’s ballroom is awash in a blinding array of pink and red. Everything from curtains, tablecloths, and chair cushions, to napkins, vases, and roses. And trust the Count to have found winter-blooming roses. Their sweet scent fills the ballroom with a calming fragrance, even as the atmosphere is anything but. There is even an elevated platform in the center of the ballroom for a single couple to dance upon, if any two are searching for a spotlight.
The Count’s female staff are wearing dresses with short, exaggerated skirts and a heart shaped bodice with a bow at the waist, red and pink and black layers overlapping and reaching down the sides. Their left eyes have a pink heart painted over them, and each wears a bow in her hair, either black, pink, or red in color. His male staff are dressed similarly, with pink or red suits, a black waistcoat, and a pink or red high collared shirt, (the opposite of their suit coat.) Each of them has their right eye painted over with a black heart.
Most notable among the maids present are Adrien Velart and Ilanya Ravendusk, each circulating with a tray of drinks. Adrien wears a bubbly smile, looking nearly ten years younger — another act, perhaps — and Ilanya has her signature, mischievous smile, putting out a slightly dangerous allure. There are probably places where the girls have hidden knives, but, they are just that: hidden.
The Count himself wears his usual grey and black, the only notable difference on his person being the red heart painted over his right eye. A man with dusty blond hair attends him, wearing a black suit of his own and looking entirely too uncomfortable — nervous, even — with this entire affair.
Amongst the cloud of eager guests are the Wylons, though missing their younger sister Misia. Out with a cold, or so Dessa and Willie claim, with all the dismissive energy of two who would rather discuss anything else. Dessa is dressed in a stunning blue close-fitting gown that accentuates her curves, and the smoky eyeshadow makes a reappearance, or maybe it’s her go-to. Willie, for his part, has chosen black for his suit. Simple, understated, and his bright orange hair helps him stand out regardless.
At the back of the room, between the dance floor and the tables, sits Hana, the heart of her honey brown dress that brings out her eyes, her fingers plucking away at her harp in a gentle tune as she gauges the energy in the room with searching eyes. Maybe she’s waiting for someone in particular. Maybe she’s out of her depth. Or maybe it’s none of those, and this is simply her warm-up.
On the later side of on-time, Finley Boutille arrives, striding into the gathering, adjusting his right cufflink with a hint of a sly smile. The artist gentleman is in his usual fine form for a thematic party where he blends in by keeping with it just enough, and not too much to stand out. His suit jacket is an unusual, exceptionally soft and sleek brown velvet, with threads of maroon on the stitching of the lapel, and maroon buttons. The waistcoat is of dark brown diagonal twill, offset with tiny splashes of red woven through, barely visible except up close, the shirt a deeper red silk so soft and lavish that it clings to his body almost scandalously beneath the formal layers. His maroon cravat has been tied into the suggestion of a heart struck through by a golden pin, and there’s something about the arch of the pin that does seem to suggest a harp. Meaningful, perhaps? Or is it just a curved pin?
Finley’s hair has been swept back rakishly from his face, several small pieces falling over his forehead, and the rest left to wave and curl slightly around the edges of his ears and over his collar. His complexion has his usual natural ruddy cheeks, and the darkened brown liner that accentuates his eyes for an artistic roguish appearance.
When he enters the room, he makes a cursory glance at the space. He does look over at the harpist, but it’s with a vague, uninterested scan, unsurprised to see her there, and not lingering even momentarily in the awareness, and not drawing attention by avoiding the area of a type of music he’s purported to have an interest in. He allows his attention instead to be snagged by another familiar face of Dessa, tipping a pleasant smile at the Wylon, and then Adrien among the maids, while he makes his way purposefully to greet the host of the gathering.
Dessa hides her return smile behind her fan, and Adrien dips into a perfectly balanced curtsy, despite the tray of drinks she carries. Ilanya, catching Adrien’s curtsy, eyes Finley up and down, and a smug smile comes to her face. What exactly she is thinking, however, remains a mystery.
When Hana catches sight of Finley, she doesn’t obviously react, but something in her posture eases at the familiar face, and her movements grow more fluid at the harp. Her pleasant smile takes on a glow of warmth, even while she is not looking at him, and the music slowly starts to reflect it.
Count Amerith has made himself available at the edge of the dance floor, his companion, recognizable as Lloyd Lowynn, shifting restlessly beside him. The worgen does not want to be here. And yet.
Finley swipes up a passing drink from a server, downing a quarter of it quickly enough that if someone were watching his face exceptionally closely, it would easily explain the very faint flush of extra red that appears on his cheeks, confusing the timing of precisely when it begins expertly. It was the alcohol. It was not the perception of the change in the music from when he entered, and an awareness of what might have caused it. Nope. (Get it together, Boutille.)
The Painter Gentleman recognizes the worgen antique seller, and notes the proximity to Count Amerith with a pleasant smile, a slight guarded edge briefly clouding over his eyes before he makes sure it's better hidden as he approaches, cutting his courtier's bow to Lester. "Count Amerith, House Esprit Fallon is most pleased by your invitation. Her Grace sends her best, of course," he says smoothly, and turns a flirtatious evaluating glance at Lloyd. "And Mr. Lowynn, what a delight to find an unexpected curio at this party."
Count Amerith’s eyebrows rise and he sends an appraising glance between Finley and Lloyd. “Mr. Boutille,” he says in greeting. “I am myself most pleased by your attendance, and hope you will give my regards to Her Grace. You are acquainted with Mr. Lowynn? I was unaware.”
Lloyd’s eyes dart around, as if he expects Isla to pop out of the crowd and rush him. Finally, he remembers to bow. “A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Boutille,” he says.
"Isla purchased a most enchanting mirror from him during the Paws for Pumpkin event. She hasn't managed to break it. I can only conclude that Mr. Lowynn's wrapping prowess and skillful handling imbued it with magical properties," Finley says with a pleasant smile to Lloyd, and a tip of his head. "I've been meaning to stop into his shop. But, haven't had the right opportunity. Soon, though, I trust."
Finley lifts his glass in a toast before downing another sip. "Shall I leave you connoisseur collectors of the unique and classic treasures to your gimlet eye appraisals? You have quite the view from here after all, and I'd hate to obscure it."
“Indeed,” says the Count with an acknowledging tilt of his head. Then, in an almost dismissive manner, “I hope the music is to your taste.”
Lloyd, who is downright terrible at the Game, immediately looks in Hana’s direction, visibly considering why the man would have mentioned the music specifically at such a time and to such a person.
Finley half glances over his shoulder in the general direction of Hana, not even fully making it completely before his gaze is already sliding off the harpist as if bored.
"She is tolerable, I suppose, but not captivating enough to tempt me to distraction," Finley lies, and lies well, probably not aware of his quotation of another work of literature. "I was glad to hear though of her occupation, as she has needed the employment. A common dependent must sing for their supper, after all. If you'll excuse me." He makes another courtier's bow, skillfully not spilling a single drop of his drink, accepting his dismissal, starting his circulation of the party.
Lloyd frowns a little at the assessment, possibly because he recognizes the harpist who played at the Paws for Pumpkins event. He doesn’t dare challenge an opinion, however, especially since this man and his family may become repeat customers. Instead, he inches closer to where Hana plays, as if trying to hear her better over the sounds of the ballroom.
Elsewhere in the ballroom, Willie Wylon is gathered with his typical crew of men, many of them young bachelors with an eye for the unattached young women at the party, discussing amongst themselves their merits and downfalls, and who is likely to marry whom. Willie himself, however, seems distracted this evening, his gaze constantly wandering towards the worgen antique dealer as if he would like nothing more than to excuse himself and speak with the man, but something is holding him back.
Dessa is lingering near the food tables, blushing as a male admirer fawns over her.
Adrien has been halted in her circulation, forced to set down her tray of drinks on a table to engage with a group of fans.
Ilanya has found herself in the company of a persistent man, and something about her smile suggests she would rather stab him than endure another second of his presence.
Hana continues playing, fully unaware of what is being said of her, something close to her genuine smile lighting her face, even as she avoids deliberately seeking Finley in the room.
Finley has time to burn, as his actual intentions are not currently in play, and he catches sight of that particular smile. Finley ditches his mostly full drink to another passing male server. It doesn't take him long to find himself next to Ilanya and her persistent man, a pleasant smile on Finley's face as he steps in to swipe up a drink, making direct eye contact with the man, using his height to seem even taller than usual, an extremely subtle cling of ineffable shadows adding a bit of a loom to the artist that's hard to place exactly where the sensation is coming from.
"Cheers," Finley says agreeably, and yet he doesn't move off.
There is a sudden and visible irritation to the man’s expression at Finley’s arrival, but he nods a polite greeting regardless and attempts to ignore him.
“I will pay you double,” he tells Ilanya. “You’ll barely have to work.”
Ilanya shifts subtly closer to Finley, just within his personal space. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” she says, tilting her head up to gaze at Finley, as if for confirmation.
Finley nods back without taking his eyes off the man, his pleasant smile remaining fixed on his face. "I'm afraid I have to side with the lady on principle. I'm sorry, I don't think I know you. Finley Boutille, of House Esprit Fallon," he introduces, not needing to add any inflection on the name of the House to let the weight of it stand in the air. "You are?"
There is a slight tremor that runs through the man at the familiar name. The affiliation of that House with Count Amerith’s own. But it’s too late. He’s come this far. “Perdain Rafilia, of Rafilia’s Candles,” he answers in a rush, his focus still on Ilanya.
Rafilia’s Candles was once a big player in the candle industry, and one of the top competitors in providing reagents to the Church and various shops across the Eastern Kingdoms. Now, with the decline of candles as a reagent and the integration of gnomish and draenic lighting in modern housing, the industry has suffered, and the competition has pivoted into the production of scented candles to remain afloat. Rafilia’s Candles remains behind the times, one might say, being one of the few remaining producers of the traditional candle.
“Ilanya, please,” Perdain presses. “You’ll want for nothing. He’s treating you poorly, isn’t he? Replacing you with Adrien to attend all the parties like he’s discarded you entirely. But that won’t happen with me! I appreciate you.”
There is a flash of terrible anger in Ilanya’s eyes, and for a moment it looks like she might forgo the knife and strangle him on the spot instead.
"She's not a candle to acquire. And she's given you an answer," Finley says with a deceptive lightness, moving his drink in a way that simultaneously lifts it up to sip and put in front of Ilanya. His own energy has shifted to an aggressive sort of flirtatiousness. "But I understand appreciating something someone's not. Tell me, Mr. Rafilia, you ever done any figure modeling? Nude, of course. I'm an artist, you might know. There's something so inherently stunning about the human form." He rakes an invasive look over Perdain's body, like he's stripping the other man right there. Finley's smile is pointed and sly. "Tell me, what would it cost to have you in my studio?"
Perdain stares at him and takes a step back. Then another. “I-I uh,” he stammers. “My wife wouldn’t… She’s… around, I should… see to her?”
"Should you?" Finley watches him with murky eyes. "I'd love to meet her. I'm sure I'd appreciate her as well." There's a subtle inflection on appreciate. "Or perhaps I might stay and enjoy this drink a bit longer. I thought to take a moment to listen to the music. I'll keep an eye out for you Mr. Rafilia. Do keep my offer in mind. Close in mind." The pleasant smile grows wider.
Perdain begins to backpedal, nearly running into another guest as he makes his wide-eyed escape.
Ilanya lets out a peal of laughter at his hasty retreat, and removes herself from Finley’s space, turning to face him with her mischievous grin out in full force. “Masterfully done, Mr. Boutille,” she says appreciatively. “I will admit I had an inkling of your reputation already, but to see it up close was a treat. Ilanya Ravendusk at your service.” She curtsies expertly, if not a touch dramatic.
Finley can't quite bow to a servant in full view of Society, but he nods his head back, lifting his glass again to take a brief drink. "Miss Ravendusk. That's a name I haven't heard in a spell. How do you know I wasn't here to rescue him?" The question is belied by the warm guile still swirling in those eyes and the tilt of his smile, as he leans down to even out their heights. "I thought I might have caught a glint of a dagger hidden in that eyeliner," he teases in a conspiratorial, lower voice.
“Oh? Is that the only place?” Ilanya teases back in her own casually flirtatious manner. “But I see my reputation precedes me as well, and I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in Mister Joelle Ebek. It’s about time the two of us met directly.”
"Ah, 'acquaintance' is a good, polite word. Covers all manner of potentials," Finley says, holding that Gentleman's Pleasant smile perfectly in place, his eyes steady on Ilanya, giving nothing away. "But Elle's a friend of mine." The emphasis on the word is just a smidgen above subtle enough to be noticeable.
“How fortunate for you that you can admit such a thing so openly,” Ilanya says, and there might be just the slightest hint of jealousy in her voice. “I assume that has to do with why his dear cousin is here? And yet, there is something that feels off about that line of thinking. Surely you of all people would realize she doesn’t belong in a place like this, and yet you drew my lord’s attention to her all the same.”
Finley's expression doesn't alter. "Oh, I may be a painter, Miss Ravendusk. But you give me too much credit if you think I have the power to draw your lord's attention anywhere," he says lightly with a cultured laugh. He sips at his drink. "His acquaintance with the family far exceeds my own."
“So you say,” Ilanya says, leaning conspiratorially close, “But did you know that until just recently, none of us knew that he was familiar with Miss Levesworth’s mother? Not even his closest confidants?” Not even me, says something bitter in her eyes. “In my opinion, either it’s fake, or he felt something for Miss Kaede Levesworth. He never did investigate her disappearance, and surely you know how much my lord loves information.”
Is that… spite? Is she spiting Lester right now?
Something in those murky eyes softens briefly, before he blinks, and there's only the Painter. "Not all information is worth loving," he answers, still leaning in. He tilts his head, gesturing with his other hand near Ilanya's cheek with a touch of a tease, and a stronger hint of Lordaeron in his voice. "Was that another flash of a dagger on the edge of that pretty smile I saw just now? Should I be worried? Or flattered I was allowed to catch sight of it?"
“Worried? Our Houses have a favorable rapport,” Ilanya says smoothly. “I wouldn’t dare jeopardize that. One might say I have thoroughly learned my lesson.” She lets her gaze drift towards Hana, then back. “I suppose if you have no plans to keep the hounds off her heels for this event, I could see to it, for Elle’s sanity, at least.”
Hana’s brow has furrowed, either from concentration, or because she has by now seen Finley with Ilanya and become concerned. She is not directly looking at either of them, of course.
Finley doesn't glance at all, and he furrows his brow as if in mild confusion over this sort of concern, with a dismissive scoff just about perfectly on beat, and the expression might distract enough from a slight tightening of his fingers on his glass. "Miss Levesworth works in bars, and taverns. A common street performer. She can handle the hounds. She'll be fine."
He gestures with his drink to Ilanya. "But, of course, if I see something untoward, a gentleman's honor bound to do something. Even if it's to protect the hounds from themselves when they don't realize they're about to be stabbed." He flashes Ilanya a wink, and drains half his drink.
He looks as if he might say something more for a moment, and then changes his mind.
Whatever he might have said is lost because now, on the very edge of Fashionably Late, another harpist finally arrives. Lady Julissa Noonin steps into the ballroom in a splash of vibrant purple, ripples and gathers of expensive fabric that must have taken months to put together, draping and folding over the woman in seductive and alluring ways. There's an artistic element of the suggestion of a flower, and an explosion, and a cresting wave — the themes are a bit scattered, as if in youthful desire to be so many things, she hasn't quite managed to settle on a singular one and embolden it singularly, and the effect is one of being a bit much.
Her red hair is swept up, making her seem taller, and her feet are lifted in delicate sandal heels, mostly hidden by her dress, obscuring the size.
At her entrance, Finley's attention seizes on her, and you could think of it as romantic interest. That it is interest of some sort is in no doubt, at least. His focus has sharpened and narrowed, and there is something resolved about his entire body language as he straightens up from his bend. He does look back to Ilanya though with a pleasant smile. "But I've got an interest in harp music, myself, like your lord. A very particular type, in fact. And there's really no comparison now that I've heard her. And she's the only one I'd like to listen to. So, you'll excuse me." He nods his head, setting off toward Julissa.
Ilanya curtsies again as he takes his leave, and it isn’t until after he’s gone that she shoots a sour look over at Adrien, still surrounded by fans. But, she picks up her smile soon enough, and resumes her dutiful circulation with the drink tray. If she spares a glance at Julissa, it’s a subtle one. Ultimately, why should she care what happens to Hana? After all, Ilanya Ravendusk does not have friends.
Finley's circulation with Julissa is one of solicitous flirtation on both sides. Her father greets Lord Amerith as the representative of the House, and Finley takes up the escorting of the daughter, moving from group to group as a pair.
Julissa takes several coquettish liberties periodically, leaning in closer, brushing a hand over his suit like she's petting a favored dog, which Finley does nothing to discourage.
Eventually, Finley and Julissa pass briefly near the range of the music area, though not close enough for any acknowledgement yet.
It is, however, enough to get a small ripple of gossip going among several young women, the speakers tittle-tattling amongst themselves quietly, but within range of the harpist, with the lack of concern of people who don't think that servants or musicians really exist with ears or minds to comprehend.
“Will you look at that? The rumors are true. Finley Boutille is chasing after Lady Julissa,” one young woman says in confidence to her friend with a delighted scandalous tone.
“Please. Everyone knows he’s a common flirt. He’ll have found a new one by the next party. He’s like those cheap chocolates. You can eat a dozen of them, but all you’ll do is give yourself a stomach ache,” another drawls in boredom that doesn’t mask a personal scorn.
“You’re just saying that because you tried to eat the chocolate,” a woman teases mercilessly. It gets a put out hmph! in reply.
“I don’t see the appeal. He used to be a servant. Common stock. He was a terrible flirt even then, and he never meant it. He's just good at making you think he does,” sniffs another primly. “Not that he has the looks to pull it off.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I like him. He’s so tall,” another pipes up.
“That’s it? He’s tall? Everyone’s tall,” the prim one counters scathingly.
“They do make a handsome couple though, don’t you think?” The first one comments, still watching said couple in a group. “And if he really was going to move on, he would have already. He was interested in her at the last party. This is the second. I’d start putting down a bet that he's been caught.”
“There’s no bet,” counters another. She pauses. “Is there?”
“I think there must be, after that Milady Moth, don’t you think? Do you think it’s true that he’s really a pet of Lord Fallon’s?” The question is asked with pure gossip mongering glee.
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s married,” the prim voice says.
“Like that stops anyone,” the first one says in a sing-song. “I think it’d be perfect timing if the elusive painter bachelor finally got snatched up right in the middle of Love Is In The Air.”
“Well, I’m waiting for more than a second party before I put money on anything,” says another. “I’ve already probably lost my entire pin money trying to predict when the Roberts-Howard wedding is going to be.”
The mention of it sends up a collective groan.
“Now, I think – “ Starts the prim voice, as the gossip shifts from relevancy.
Spotting Lady Julissa placing her hands on Finley causes Hana to stare for a moment, but it’s not until the gossip begins, and harsh words about Finley’s birth and appearance are said that Hana truly stumbles, her fingers missing several important strings as fury overtakes her. She recovers quickly, but it’s enough of an interruption that Count Amerith turns in her direction, his expression on the stern side of unreadable.
Lloyd flinches at his side, ducking his head as if from some unseen wrath, imperceptible to those around them.
Then, the music takes on an abrupt change, speeding up in volume and tempo, and Hana begins cutting off notes into short bursts instead of allowing them to fully resonate. The result is akin to fury on strings, something the harp is not typically used to portray, all signs of a soft or soothing melody vanishing from the ballroom.
Those closest to Hana begin to stare at the oddity, and many of the couples dancing come to a stop, but the harpist presses on undeterred. They want something to talk about? She’ll give them something to talk about.
Count Amerith murmurs something to a male server in passing, and the man in question hurries from the room to obey whatever order he was just given.
Ilanya sneaks a glass of wine for herself. This is not her trainwreck.
At the first discordant notes, Finley's body language stiffens, and Lady Julissa takes notice — but not of Finley. She's also preoccupied by the harpist, in a professional way, frowning as she looks over at Hana with not even remotely concealed scorn, and she whispers something to Finley.
The painter's smile is mechanically separated into an expression of brief concern, and then sly, conspiratorial flirtation, as he seems to pay little attention to the furor happening on the harpist bench.
But his companion will not be distracted away from it. She's watching Hana closely, with open, petty dislike, and she pouts up at Finley, who leans closer, obediently to converse. She makes movements of her other hand that are distinctive — harpist hand movements, as she seems to be explaining to him and the others what Hana is doing.
Finley doesn't seem to be watching the room, or watching Hana, his attention supposedly on Lady Julissa with her proprietary hold on his arm, but there is a tension in his hand holding his glass that makes his knuckles and tendons stand out, and his awareness may be much greater than it appears.
The gossiping young women turn to stare at the harpist, suddenly aware that she exists, as Hana has broken The Code of Rules, and now Society has taken notice, as Finley warned Hana would happen. After a moment, the leader stands up, moving away from the sound with annoyance, as this is no longer a place where it's easy to gossip with all this noise.
That is surely not a smug smile on Hana’s face as the leader of the gossips takes her leave and the harpist enjoys what may be a small, short-lived victory at the risk of her own reputation. Still, she might as well finish the song she’s started. As she continues to play, some of the notes start to ease out and lengthen, and soon more music joins in from across the room, perfectly complimenting Hana’s song.
But where is it coming from?
The crowd begins to part, making way for a small troupe of five gnomes, sporting a trumpet, a tuba, a saxophone, a flute, and a snare drum, as they march towards Hana to join her. While another musician might be upset by this intrusion, Hana appears delighted, and gradually begins to match their playing, until it sounds like they’ve practiced together for months beforehand, creating a complete and coherent performance.
Count Amerith continues to observe, stroking his mustache in silent thought, his hazel eyes focused sharply on Hana. At the end of the song, the gnome with the trumpet murmurs something to Hana, who nods and flashes a grateful smile, covering and excusing herself from her instrument to allow the gnomes to take over. She is met promptly by the Count himself, and after a few words, she is guided from the room.
Ilanya seems to have vanished from sight, her serving duties taken over by another maid, possibly involuntarily.
Finley makes conversation through the new marching band music, but his damage control of the reputation of the harpist is hampered significantly by his companion, who seems to have a strong opinion about the professionalism and technique. It isn't positive.
Meanwhile, reviews are mixed, but attention is sure, as many seem to think Hana's performance was simply part of the entire Count Amerith experience.
About three minutes after departing, Count Amerith returns to the ballroom with… a cane. Typical of Amerith canes, this one, too, is thematic, sporting a pink heart at the top of it. Clearly the man doesn’t need a cane, and yet here it is, custom made for the event. He begins making rounds, leaving poor Lloyd to fend for himself, until…
Willie Wylon makes his move, sweeping across the ballroom to engage in conversation with Lloyd, and if his cheeks are flushed it is surely from the haste in which he made his way over. Lloyd looks intimidated by the taller man, but Willie’s gentle politeness soon starts to win the worgen over, until he is at least no longer cowering where he stands.
Hana does not return until two minutes after the Count, a quiet wallflower sneaking in, keeping to the edges where she can. The gnomish marching band has made its way onto the opposite side of the room, as evidenced by the retreat of noble personages from the area, leaving Hana’s harp unattended. As if seeking some measure of comfort, Hana returns to the side of her musical companion, removing its cover and examining the strings, checking it over for signs of wear and damage.
Once she sees that the Strange Harpist has returned, it takes only the slightest word for Julissa to believe that it's her idea to go speak to this performer, dragging Finley along with her.
The painter doesn't seem even remotely eager to do this, his expression somewhere between bored and reluctant, and his gaze skimming over the other harpist only in brief passing, as he focuses instead on Julissa.
Once Julissa is in earshot, she conjures up a false social smile, and a flutter of lashes with a coquettish tilt of her head, her hand still wrapped possessively around Finley's velvet suited arm. "Oh, no, didn't I say it couldn't be a Lyon and Healy, Mr. Boutille? With that sort of sound, it couldn't possibly be a high quality instrument," she says in a stage whisper meant to carry.
"I did say Miss Levesworth is a common street performer," Finley says in a low voice back, also with enough pitch to carry to Hana, his Stormwind accent flawless but for those grace notes of Lordaeron in some of the vowels. His smile is pleasant and directed at Julissa. "You can't expect certain brands."
"I certainly can," Julissa counters with a bell-like laugh. "I can just be disappointed."
Finley's own laugh is a cultivated one in return.
If there is a hitch in Hana’s fingers along the rim of her harp, she smooths the movement quickly, putting on one of her brightest smiles, turning in their direction and… waiting. Technically their words were directed towards her, rather than to, and so she does not immediately engage, in case they would rather not speak directly with a common harpist. There is, however, the slightest question in her eyes as she looks to Finley in particular.
It's definitely him. There's no way there's another man of that particular shape, going by that name, who isn't Finley. And yet.
The glimmers of the pleasant gentleman she's seen are out in full, as opaque as a wall. There is no trace of anything else whatsoever, and up close it's even clearer. There is no guard in his eyes, no seriousness that lingers over any part of his expression, not even the slightest trace of anger in any tiniest spec of this genial young man who has mellowed with his rise into the gentility from his youthful ways of many years ago.
And then there is the way he is looking at Julissa.
She has captivated his complete attention, and softened those murky eyes as if he can hardly bear to look away from her for a moment. He cannot stop smiling at her, a wistful curl, as if he wants something he thinks he can't have, and all he can do is slowly try to get her to look back at him. It's as if he's thinking of someone he's fallen in love with when he looks at her, and it reads as true.
Julissa is basking in the attention like a cat in a sunbeam, and with as little return affection. She doesn't care about the painter personally, but his attention is very welcome, and flattering, and it emboldens her as she notices Hana looking over at them. She steps forward, pulling Finley with her. "Well, I want to ask her about it. Introduce us then," she demands, staring right at Hana.
Finley represses a sigh visibly, and reluctantly takes his eyes off Julissa. And when he looks at Hana, it's with an emptiness of barely there awareness, his gaze almost sliding off her as if she's hardly worth notice, except for what his lady has made him see. There is no winking, no secret acknowledgment, no conspiracy between them in his eyes; there's nothing at all. "Lady Julissa Noonin, this is Miss Hana Levesworth," he says obediently, Hana's name coming out dull and inflectionless.
Hana dips into a curtsy, and it’s clear she has been practicing in front of a mirror; her posture is flawless, and she holds it for an appropriate amount of time. “Lady Julissa, a pleasure I’m sure,” Hana says, using her smile as her mask. It’s a wider smile than usual, and now she is deliberately not looking at Finley. “You share an interest in the harp?”
Julissa laughs as if Hana's said something funny, looking over at Finley, and rubbing her other hand down his arm. "An interest, no. No, Mr. Boutille has an interest in the harp. I am a Harpist," Julissa says with a flutter of her lashes. "Maybe that's part of the problem you've having? A little advice from a harpist who has played at events like these to someone with an 'interest' in harping: you play to the theme. It's a Love party. You should be playing with love and working to inspire it in your listeners who should be looking on you with it, not abusing the instrument, and disrupting the guests. Don't you agree, Mr. Boutille?"
"I must," Finley says without hesitation. "It's a generous sense of insight from such a captivating lady who knows how to play to her audience. And catch the attention she wants."
Julissa's smile curls triumphantly.
“Your advice is noted of course,” Hana says, “but I believe I accomplished everything I meant to with that piece.” Everything from her tone to the upward tilt of her chin is completely unrepentant. “And, in case you need reassurance, my harp is just fine. No abuse was taking place at all. If it seemed that way, maybe the Lyon and Healy harps just aren’t as durable? I've worked with this harp for years, and know better than anyone what it's capable of.”
Julissa puts a hand up to her lips as if Hana's said something scandalous. "Oh. Oh, I see. You don't even know of Lyons and Healy, let alone played one," she says with a false note of sympathy, like Hana's confessed to something tragic. "That's so sad. Are you self taught as well? No, no, never mind, I think I already know the answer, and I don't want to make you feel even worse to need to admit it. Count Amerith will have his little jokes, won't he?"
Finley's smile doesn't falter. "The Count does love to play against expectations," he agrees. "But it does have one other benefit."
"What's that?" Julissa says, leaving her attention off Hana as she tilts her gaze back up at Finley.
He bends down closer to her, to even out their heights more. "It means I have the benefit of you on my arm. And not need share you with Lyons and Healy," he says with a conspiratorial tease.
Julissa laughs brightly, and reaches up to brush a hand intimately at his cheek where last party there was a smudge of paint. "Oh — I forgot. You don't have any paint there this time," she says, lying obviously, as she pretends she didn't mean to do exactly what she did.
"I could alter that, if it would mean you'd do that again," Finley says, his voice lower, acting as though Hana isn't there at all, like she's part of the background of the party, a servant who doesn't really exist.
Hana’s smile is gone now, and she turns away from the pair, back to her harp. It is clear she does not want to remain where she is, witnessing what she is being forced to witness, but she also can’t bring herself to leave her harp, the one familiar comfort in this new world she’s found herself in.
Julissa laughs again, playfully pushing at Finley's arm, the other harpist no longer interesting compared to the Painter.
"Mr. Boutille, how bold," Julissa chastises.
"Should I apologize, or shall I go see I can charm one of the Count's fine servers to part with a bit of their paint?" Finley offers with a sly smile, moving his arm to suggest going off and away.
Julissa shifts her shoulders in a coquettish twist that rustles her dress. "Get me another drink, and I'll consider it," she commands, allowing him to start escorting her away.
Finley doesn't so much as direct even a single backwards glance at Hana. It's as if she ceased to exist the moment Julissa stopped paying attention to her.
Oh, good, they’re leaving. Hana takes in a shallow breath, and rests her forehead against her harp’s frame. Her break is almost over, and soon she will subject herself again to the stares of Society.
Ilanya has returned to visibility, and is watching Finley with an intense, deliberate stare. She does not approach either Hana or Finley, but the stare lasts long enough that she can be sure he saw it, whether he wanted to or not, even if it means Lady Julissa takes notice.
Sorry, Ilanya, but Lady Julissa pays no attention to staff at all. Ilanya and Hana both might as well be invisible.
Finley doesn't seem to notice either, his solicitous attention all for the noblewoman on his arm, and not at all on the harpist left in her birdcage behind him.
When her break ends, Hana returns to her seat and begins to play. Unlike the harsh fury of her previous piece, this one could be on theme, if it wasn’t so achingly sad. If it is a piece about love, it is also a piece about loss, and each note practically drips with sorrow. But it isn’t all pain. Subtly between the melancholic notes dances a faint tune of hope, of a light shedding its golden thread into the very pit of despair and allowing one to climb free.
All in all it is a beautiful piece, and allows for a slow and intimate dance. Some of the guests do pick up the offer, Dessa Wylon among them.
Finley finds himself unable to attend to the dance floor, kept in conversation with a dowager countess who has been trying to commission him for a painting of her cat for over a year, which Finley has politely refused all this time, and yet, for some strange reason the painter has suddenly capitulated.
It necessitates Julissa, bored of this conversation, but outranked, to find another young man willing to provide the attention she'd prefer.
Finley manages to seem distraught and forlorn, while also trying to hide it, as if he regrets something. Many people would naturally conclude it's probably both agreeing to the cat portrait and losing the immediate favor of the Lady Julissa.
Many people would be wrong.
Time Passes of a Party
At the end of the night, the party attendees trickle out onto the driveway to their carriages and conveyances, portals and personal summons. Drivers and footmen await their charges in various stages of patience and concealed impatience, and some partygoers delay their leaving a little longer, gathered around in the cold air making their servants wait while the conversations drag on.
Finley Boutille technically left the party some forty or more minutes ago, escorting the Lady Julissa out of the party, though he parted with her by the door and waited a discreet five minutes before following. However, he did not collect his horse. No, he has blended into the servants of other Houses and gentility as if he belonged there, but with a gentleman's mien to not be questioned, standing so quietly in the shadows that eventually he has been forgotten about, practically invisible, a long streak of murky smudge leaning against the building, arms crossed, and guarded eyes watching for a particular person to leave.
There's no reason for anyone to watch their words around such a person, and several uncouth conversations have gone on around him. Out here, the gentleman ignores them, to not draw attention to himself, all too familiar with the way some talk.
Until.
Three men, only one of which wears the official livery of an unimportant, minor House of Redridge affiliated with a minor titled Lady several times removed, and the other two clearly hired for the night to manage a coach, stand nearby talking amongst themselves. It's the liveried man who leads the conversation, puffing himself up with importance to the other two, his dark eyes holding a cold, cruel gleam that suggests he means what he says, to make himself feel more powerful in a world that gives him so little.
“Did you see that harpist the lord bought? That’s a fine piece.”
Finley’s head lifts.
The man keeps talking as the other two nod in agreement. “Could use something like that to slip into, night like this. That dress? She comes down this way, we could get to talking,” he suggests with a lascivious sneer, as he twists his hand up, fingers curling suggestively. “Easy to get a hand along there, and jostle a tit fre – “ He doesn’t quite finish the word, not the way it should be made. The sound that comes out of his lungs is an explosive sound of air, and punctuated by a crack as his skull hits the back of the wall.
Between one word and the next, before the man had been able to understand enough of what was happening, Finley had picked him up by his coat, and slammed the man into the wall behind him.
Finley holds the man there with a rage burning so hot that it seems to actually steam slightly in the air around him, faint blurs of shadow leaving traces around the man in the air caught by the light. How he was just there is unclear. But he is now, with his face inches away from the footman, his Lordaeron accent scalding.
“You lay a single finger on her, breathe too close to her, and I’ll jostle your teeth free and make you swallow them,” Finley snarls. “You don’t even think of her, let alone look at her or talk to her.”
“Oi,” says one of the other men, blinking rapidly.
Finley kicks out a leg, hooking a foot around the man’s calf, and sending the man sprawling unexpectedly to the ground without taking his eyes off the footman, without letting go of his hold pinning him there.
“I know who you are,” Finley tells the stunned footman still gasping for air against the wall. “You don’t want to know who I am. Am I fucking clear?”
“You’re clear,” the only man with his feet still on the ground says, his hands up in surrender.
The footman nods, wheezing with a coughing inhale, and gritting his teeth against a humiliation that he will remember.
Finley drops the footman, and takes a step back, letting his clothes fall back into place, and gestures with his head for all three. “Find somewhere else to wait,” he orders, drawing on a duality of Butler and Gentleman, infused with a rage that has nothing to do with either.
The footman and the man on the ground brush themselves off, memorizing Finley’s face, but all three obey the order, leaving the tall man standing there alone.
Or so he thinks.
Ilanya emerges from the shadows with a slow clap, that mischievous smile on her face. “Wow, I half-thought I’d be on cleanup duty after that display,” she says.
Finley freezes, shoulders tightening for two seconds, before he breathes out, and tries to step into the Gentleman Painter, but it's a jagged fit, as he comes down from the real anger, and the mask doesn't quite fit, the pleasant smile sliding over guarded eyes that still burn. He turns his face to her, keeping the rest of his body in place.
"Miss Ravendusk," he says, working with each word to get himself under control, his accent still muddled, half Lordaeron, half Stormwind. "My apologies for the display. I know the sort, unfortunately. Clever words don't work. A gentleman would've had little effect. But, I've been more than a gentleman in my life. And, I promised Elle I'd look after." Yes. It was for Elle.
“Oh, please,” Ilanya says, shaking her head. “Don’t insult my intelligence. That was clearly not a ‘looking after on behalf of a friend’ level of escalation. It does make me wonder why you would allow Lady Julissa of all people near her, if this is how you really feel, but I doubt you would give me a straight answer even if I asked.”
Ilanya gazes up at him regardless, waiting for her point to be proven.
Finley continues to stuff Finley back into the Painter Gentleman box. Ignore the muffled sounds of angry tea kettle noises. "You're the one who said that Miss Levesworth didn't belong here," Finley points out, as his brows raise, and his pleasant smile evens out into his proper mask. "Lady Julissa went to offer some advice as a more experienced harpist performer of this world." Truth, hidden perhaps slightly behind what Julissa considers 'advice,' but Finley's opinion is obscured in the wording. "I thought it was important that they speak." Truth, clearly. "I only want what's best for Miss Levesworth." A strong ring of truth there, undeniable. "She is the cousin of a friend, after all." Truth, as a statement of fact, at least. "I'm sure she'll manage to turn tonight into a success." Less strong of a truth, but he does seem to want to believe it, making it true enough as a genuine belief.
"I take issue with men who treat women like pieces of property," Finley says mildly. Also true. "I had an obligation to act." True, true. He's not speaking a single lie, directly.
And yet.
“You know what I think?” Ilanya says, stalking around him as if to examine him from a different angle. “I think you’re bound by the same chains as I am. Or similar chains, at least. That’s why when you take action it’s out here, in the dark, where nobody who knows you is watching. But if you had been too late, if Miss Levesworth was here, and those men had found her, what kind of face would you have made for her, I wonder? Or would you have turned your back and let them have their way? She can handle herself, according to you.”
Ilanya pauses, then. “What are you still doing here? Lady Julissa left some time ago.”
The question might as well be rhetorical, the way Ilanya eyes him.
Not all of Finley got back in the box in time. At the mention of the men having found Hana, the suggestion that he'd have been too late, Finley's hands twitch into fists, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. His pleasant smile gets a dagger edge before he manages to sand it down.
"I'm sorry if I gave the impression that I was here for Lady Julissa," Finley says, almost on beat, his eyes guarded in the dimmer evening light. "She is a lovely young woman, I'm sure, but I am not courting her. I am not bound to her in any way."
“No, of course not,” Ilanya says, her smile widening. “I do understand the appeal, lurking around in the cold after a party. You never know what you’ll hear, who you’ll see, or how red your fingertips will get.”
There is a note of playful teasing in her voice.
Finley evaluates Ilanya for a second, and glances over his shoulder — there aren't many others even in any view at all who can even see them as anything more than dim shadows barely illuminated on the edge of the building, and so he steps closer in a single long stride, bending down.
“Fine, you want a truth? I have a temper. Unbecoming of my station in life now. Most of the time, I can convince people I’ve grown beyond it. But, honestly, s’just that I’ve better control over it. Hold it deeper down. But it’s still there. Still could get me in trouble with my betters when I lose it. There. Happy, now?” His voice is low and there's a tight truth to the words.
Ilanya evaluates him right back, then says, “Alright. In the spirit of cooperation, et cetera, I will give you a truth. I was going to kill Reniya Hartrim’s murderer before your House intervened, so I might know a thing or two about the trouble with tempers. You don’t have to trust my word, but I plan to keep your outburst here between the two of us, as someone who has ‘fallen out of favor’ let’s say, for something similar.”
There's a noticeable lack of horror or revulsion on Finley's face, which is a telling truth about the nature of Finley Boutille in itself. And then there's another tell — a lack of surprise. He already knew. That's a bit strange knowledge for a painter gentleman to have, something his lady would have had to pass along to him, but there it is, in the lack of reaction, no widened eyes, no twitch of his expression, and the fact that he doesn't even pretend to act surprised to conceal it in those murky eyes.
"I'll remember that," Finley says softly, and somewhat ambiguously, as he smiles with the Pleasant Mask, straightening. He takes a hand out of a pocket briefly to give Ilanya a small Butler's bow, from a time long past, before he turns away and starts off towards his horse, seeming to leave this time, possibly for real.
Or maybe just to linger from a different vantage point, while he waits to ensure that a certain person makes her way out of this party safely, even if he has to watch from the shadows all night.