The Home of Dhimitrios Kalogeropolous, the Wharf, King's Court
Niccolette has exhaled out the last of her dampening; here, in the quiet privacy of the corner, she does not trouble to hold it. It is the full brightness of her field that caprises Norton as she rises – not in the least aggressive, but deep enough to be friendly.
Terrence has come back with a brocade shawl, rich dark blue glinting with silver thread. He hovers, just out of sight, looking between them all; his field of strange, thin quantitative mona is drawn back, ever so slightly, doetoed.
“Mr. Collingwood,” Niccolette says, warmly, with a smile; she bows as well. She rises, running her fingers through her hair to shift it back off her forehead, and shrugs. Her gaze lingers briefly, professionally, on the cane, and lifts to his chest, for just a moment. “He found me within minutes. I could almost think he had a watch set,” the Bastian says with a little grimace. Her gaze flickers around the room once more; it catches on the glint of Dhimitriou’s hair, halfway distant. She does not quite relax, but she does look away.
“Norton, this is Incumbent Anatole Vauquelin,” Niccolette glances to Anatole, gesturing; he has bowed and risen already. “Anatole, please let me introduce Norton Collingwood, rather an esteemed producer of aetherium." There is a brief smile – not quite private, but rather shared with Collingwood, and if it does not quite fill her eyes, it at least reaches them.
There is space for them all in the soft, well-lit corner, although only just. Terrence waits until the others have sat, and comes forward, draping the shawl around Violetta’s shoulders. “Thank you,” Violetta says. “Please, Terrence, join us.” Terrence brightens, smiling, and takes the last seat in the little cluster, looking somewhat eagerly between all the rest.
“Terrence Farthington,” he says, brightly, perched very straight on the edge of his seat; a flop of strawberry-blond hair has tumbled over his eyes, and he shakes his head to toss it back.
“Has Dhimitriou been back to Bastia, lately?” Niccolette asks, turning to Violetta, in the brief hum of introductions which follows. She has misjudged the moment; she can feel it in the faint, lingering pause through the conversation. She ignores it; she does not look away.
Violetta turns to her; white eyebrows arch, delicately, a question in them. “Not as far as I’m aware.” Her tone leaves little doubt that this means the answer is no; if he had gone, something in her smile says, she would know. Her eyebrows do not lower, not quite yet.
Niccolette nods faintly; she glances away once more. It is nothing particular that she looks at, this time; her gaze lingers on the warm wash of light through the window. It is beginning to dim, now; the clouds in the distance are painted not pale pink, but a deep, rich red, glowing all through. Distant canvases snap and billow in the sharp breeze; ships sway in the harbor, and it is easy to imagine the creak of heavy wood.
“But I must disagree with you, I think, Incumbent,” Violetta says, turning back to Anatole with a smile, letting Niccolette escape for now. “I do not think one gets lost in the Rose, not quite. It is, rather, that a different part of oneself is found.” She turns to Norton, and smiles once more. “The sword in the cane, so to speak.”
“My father had a sword cane,” Terrence puts in, eagerly. “Nearly took my finger off as a boy, trying to wave the thing around.”
Niccolette glances at him, and then away. She shifts in her chair; her hands fold in her lap. She sighs, and breathes her field back in, slowly, pulling it once more against her skin, dampened. Her head throbs, lightly, and she closes her eyes for a moment; she opens them again, reaching for the wine, and takes a small sip.