the woman

you do not know her, but she has a soul of steel.

[herlevel]

HERLEVEL ; a private & selective irene adler of arthur conan doyle’s sherlock holmes. not bbc sherlock compliant. written by BEE (24, she/they, est). re-established 2022.  carrd. 

[herlevel]

foxenhund​:

she wears her marriage well and it keeps her in a certain esteem.   there has always been something appealing in the throes of romance     (     it is all the more sweet for its quietness,   a single band of gold wrapped around a dainty finger,   a wrist that smells well - kept and perfumed with the comforts of a marriage      –       he can see the appeal,  if only faintly      ).     there has never been a question on if sherlock would settle down   :         he would be in his very peculiar business until his bones were brittle enough to snap upon every investigation.    john had even written a rather damning piece about it in his funny little journals.      besides,  marriages tended to slow down the inquisitive spirit,   as he’s seen before with his mother,  with john,  with a thousand other vague names that held no currency with him anymore.    or perhaps it was that people were far less interested in him once they had entangled themselves in romance     –      he was best viewed through the eyes of the singleton     (       because his allure was a romantic mystique that hung around him,   an almost captured in his starlight eyes     ).      but he was as unobtainable as any other love story.         ‘‘     he seems to be a wise man,   which i recognise is a rare find.   wise men often don’t make very good husbands.      ’’

her laughter draws his attention again.    there is a lightness to the noise     –     his smile is tight and quick over his lips,   before it melts away into the bland curl of worried lips.      it’s not that he has anything to worry about,   but he lives in anticipation   :        smiles do not last long for men like sherlock holmes.        ‘‘       people sympathize most closely with the old and the young.   i could not quite pass for a young boy,    so i chose what was the only other option available to me.   a little bit of flair always improves an investigation     …      remind me to tell you of the time i passed for a princess in a court of nobles     –     john says the tale wasn’t worthy of being publishable,   but i quite disagree.     ’’     there is plain coyness on his face.   it could be a joke and it could be the truth   :       he brings his chesire talk with him.       ‘‘     you have no need to offer me anything,   least of all your help.     ’’

“you know i would be unhappy with anything less than a WISE MAN.” there’s no doubt of that fact in her mind ; sherlock is the sort who can figure all manner of strange little details from someone from what others would deem nothing, and it doesn’t take a GREAT MIND to put together the fact that irene would grow bored in a marriage with anyone less APT than her. oh, silly types have been noted as FINE for FLINGS, for a bit of easy fun, but THIS? living with someone, sharing space with them all times of the day, spending quiet and terrible and loud and lovely moments together? irene had waited until someone she could see never growing monotonous. godfrey is just that. “i think you two would get along ; THOUGH he would have to get over the trickery. he’s more of a grudge holder than i am.” irene’s still smiling, head tipped, and it’s only HALF a lie. a grudge from godfrey norton is a slightly too tight handshake and looking at you over the rims of his glasses and talking about you while getting ready for bed. it’s part of what irene loves about him.

“i’ll keep it in mind. is john in the states too? i think i would like to hear it from his mouth as well.” irene is a smiling face and a warm voice - - - she doesn’t KNOW john watson, but sometimes it feels perhaps she does. “so you’ll be staying long enough for me to remind you at another time,” she half-inquires as she finishes her cup of coffee. “did you want to order anything, or would you like to walk and talk? central park is lovely this time of year and i want to hit a step allotment.” her head tips towards the door and she uncrosses her legs. “i didn’t know i needed to have NEED to offer help. maybe i just WANT TO help an old friend.” and maybe she has nothing to do for the rest of the week until friday night ; helping sherlock with whatever it is he’s in new york to do would be a worthy enough way to spend the week. 

[herlevel]

foxenhund​:

he is still thinking of her callouses   –   not hers,  in their exact form,   but the very nature of them   :      the way supple flesh is rearranged into a more interesting design,    the imprint of hard work and repetition working itself into the very structure of knitted skin     (     he has callouses at the edge of one foot from a particularly memorable incident where he’d spent the entire night stuffed away in a closet with his foot resting at an odd angle…       and the pictures on his fingertips which spoke to a true passion,    an artist’s rendition of a violinist’s fingers:     he has practiced so long and so hard that he has forgotten that music can take other forms     ).       she flashes a wedding ring at him and he thinks of the single strip of golden jewelry   –   of everything she had risked to slip that ring onto her finger.     marriage was a confusing subject for sherlock.      it was a mediocre affair   –   dotted lines and a few names scribbled towards the bottom of a certificate.     THERE WERE LITTLE REASONS FOR IT BEYOND A SEARCH FOR SENTIMENTALITY.      it was mere decoration that meant less than the callouses sewn into the bedrock of her hands,    the jagged rocks she had let her body cling to.       ‘‘       did you pick the ring?       ’’

but his mind already fidgets away from the ring and back to the strings.        ‘‘     we should play together some time.    i’d like to see if you’re as interesting off stage as you are on stage   –   and i am counting you previous deceptions as an on - stage performance.     ’’         her eyes close in on his and he blinks away,   to the side,   looking at her from a distance     (     better the devil that you know   :         he thinks of how her brain must be filled with inky callouses and golden bands,    how she is a patchwork of herself     …      she makes one of the more interesting studies     ).        ‘‘      i hadn’t stopped by to ask for your help.     ’’

her head tilts at him and she regards sherlock for a LONG AND QUIET MOMENT, in thought. THOUGHT reads easy on her face, the glitter of her dark eyes curious and mercurial as she looks at him in silence, though what she thinks is harder to divine. irene isn’t sure what she thinks of SHERLOCK HOLMES, really. it is not as though she ever truly met the man - - - the real one, not the strange figure plucked off the street to witness her wedding, or the old and injured man sitting on her sofa with a teacup on the table before him, or the half-figure she had watched through windows and across streets. none of those count. there is so much more to a man than his exterior, and the interior of the one before her is far more labyrinthine than most. “no,” she replies, hands folding on the table before her, “i told godfrey what i liked and he found it on his own.” irene was never the sort to have IMAGE BOARDS of her wedding - as evidenced by the empty room, the simple dress, the pointedly not elaborate vows. her instruction had been SIMPLE, GOLD, and godfrey had found just that. there had been no engagement ring, not while there were shadowed men tracing her, lingering in the back of theatres and on the corners of streets.

sherlock’s next words get a LAUGH and one dark brow arches at him. “i beg to differ, mr. holmes,” his last name is used TEASINGLY and she shakes her head, “if any of us was putting on a performance that day it was you. a rather impressive one, but i was only concerned for the POOR OLD GENTLEMEN that had been assaulted just outside my door. pretty good cover story, actually, pulling at my heartstrings like that.” she hadn’t thought him CURIOUSLY SIMILIAR to the witness and then VERY MUCH LIKE how sherlock holmes had been described until she had moved towards the pictures hiding place ; anything before that moment had been genuine. “and yet here i am, offering it.”

[lucyliued-deactivated20210528]

Irene’s photograph?

[herlevel]

gentsleuth​:

❝   not at all.  ❞   maintaining his air of calm in the eye of a storm, benoit merely smiles upon his response.  there was no need to elaborate further   ––   and if there was to her, he would simply not oblige.  if she had not realised what close attention he was paying until now, the explanation would surely be in vain.

he continues to demonstrate such by listening to her most intently, registering each and every word as they come and filing them away in his mind.  then, as she reaches a conclusion, he smiles in unabashed amusement.   ❝  that’s funny.  ❞   benoit notes, inappropriately.   ❝  you are the only one so far who has given me an honest version of daniel. people get awfully forgiving when someone dies.  ❞  the detective shifts in  his seat, joining his hands together above the table that separates them.  ❝  was he really disruptive enough to prompt a murder? i can’t imagine someone wanting to kill over a few late rehearsals.  ❞  no, he very much could. he’d seen people kill for less.      

that’s what she had figured. there’s something about the energy of certain people, the OVERWHELMINGLY INTELLIGENT SORT, that she has noticed. something about the way he carries himself, about the calm sort of smile and the seeming refusal to be terse in the way some interrogators are. irene nods her head just once and pauses to readjust a loose pin in her hair, put in hastily to keep dark waves out of her face during the interview, especially unruly from being haphazardly taken out of the pin curls beneath the wig-cap she had been wearing during the show. “clever.” irene thinks it must make people easier to talk when you aren’t raptly writing down their every word - - - it’s easy enough to forget you are being QUESTIONED and instead slip into the easy way of conversation. irene is used to treating them as one and the same.

“they’re probably worried if they speak ill of the dead you’ll jump to suspecting them,” irene gives a mild shrug as she watches him watching her, “it’s not FORGIVING so much as not wanting to be the one to bring up a grudge and offer you a possible motive of their own.” she shifts, tucking her legs beneath her and letting her hands rest on her bent knees. “i don’t know. that sort of thing ANNOYS me, but one bad show because another actor doesn’t want to do his job isn’t enough to tank my career at this point. i didn’t worry about it too much. i’m sure some other people were more irate than i ever got with him. people’s careers do ride on this show and i don’t think it would be outside the realm of possibility that someone got fed up with him toying with their livelihood. he was only half-rehearsed and, with the size of his part, his performance could have closed the show pretty quickly.” irene isn’t LOYAL enough to anyone within this theatre to keep herself from speaking freely with the sleuth - - - and it’s not as though she has anything related to THIS MESS to hide. “though i don’t know who would care enough to kill over it.”

[herlevel]

foxenhund​:

he wonders how well she plays     –     the violin,  that is.    her fingers look as if they have been through quite some training     (     sherlock is the master of mess,  too   :       his own apartment,  currently shared with a dear bachelor,    was a altar to exaggeration     …     acid stains scarred the world around him,   yellow and white and darkened spots blooming like half - forgotten flowers against wherever he had decided to rest his test tubes and beakers     …      there were books spread across every inch,   newspaper articles clipped to the walls,    comfortable blankets and pillows spanning random surfaces     ).     THE HOME WAS THE SECOND MOST IMPORTANT INNER SANCTUM.     the first was,  of course,   the mind   :      his was far neater than the house,   but most would have a hard time fumbling through the bare essentials that tangled around his synapses.         ‘‘       how long have you been working with string instruments?       ’’       a thought that is all tangent,    his tongue curling absently in the rough gem of his mouth.    there is little a to b when it came to sherlock     …     the normal flow of human conversation was too slow for him.    BETTER TO GET TO THE POINT AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE   :       if he wanted to ask something,   why shouldn’t he?

he knows her eyes are on him     –     and he still holds an old vanity with him,   which makes him puff out his chest and smooth out his shoulders     (     to be looked at was a ruthless thing   :     no one was ever really prepared for the ways a single gaze could devour a person     ).       if she is to stare at him,   he hopes to shine himself in the best possible light.        ‘‘       may i not come by and check in with an old friend?     …     you did just offer me free tickets to a viewing,  after all     –     these must be perks of having friends that my brother tried to warn me about.        ’’       sherlock had never been so considerate,   however.       ‘‘       something here caught my interest.      ’’

it’s an easy enough path to follow when you know what to expect - - - at least irene thinks so. perfume at the wrist to fingers to callouses to what would cause them. there must be some nuance in the pattern at which her fingers have worn, or perhaps it is just the leap from vocalist to music to musician that sherlock noted and charted instead. not that irene would truly name herself MUSICIAN in the face of the talented sort she consorts with regularly after rehearsals and shows - NO, she dabbles at most, at least on violin. perhaps she is a blooming pianist. “a year and a half, give or take.” irene replies, flipping a hand so it rests palm-up on the table, calloused fingers wiggling just once before she flips it back over. her wedding band ( simple gold band, no engagement ring ) glints in the afternoon light and she leans back in her chair and crosses her leg as she looks at him.

his PREENING - - - he truly does look like a bird ruffling feathers - - - has her smiling bemused and tipping her head at him. “if you only came to try and get free tickets for broadway shows i think you would have simply said so.” her leg swings idly over the other, the heel of her shoe bouncing off the opposite leg as she leans closer again to look him in the eye directly. “and what would that be?” BETTER THE DEVIL YOU KNOW, she thinks, looking at sherlock holmes full on and thinking about her hair tucked up into a baseball cap and her feet nimble on the sidewalk as she tailed him. “i know the city pretty damn well, i might be able to help you find out more about whatever it is.” it’s TRUE, childhood spent taking the hour long train ride to manhattan from paterson every weekend to see shows and visit friends and explore have paid off well.

[herlevel]

foxenhund​:

her skin is not silk sipped from her bones.     there are callouses rising against her delicate fingertips,   which intrigues him   :      what hard work had these hands suffered through?    there is always more information to be scraped free from the bone,   leaving the spun cocoon behind as the creature seeps free     (     she thinks of this as a fun game   …    sherlock understands the way his art is regarded   –   there is a tentative belief that everything sherlock does is make - believe,   akin to the stories that children once spun from nothing to appease their parents or their otherwise lonely minds     ).        how amusing,  considering that sherlock’s parents had never cared much about his tall tales   :     his detective stories and the mediocre deductions of his youth had been little more than friendly chatter to them.    AT LEAST HE HAD BEEN SUBJECT TO QUIETER MOMENTS WHEN HE WAS CAUGHT UP IN CHILDHOOD CRIMES   …   life was made up of clues that were meant to be observed.   all the information was there,   ready to be picked apart and rearranged into a logical order.

‘‘     it has never been a question of afford.     ’’     money held a relative importance.     he dumps it up and down a certain established hierarchy based on the person that he assesses   :      there is no denying,  however,  that the need for it is universal     (     he has seen men riled to madness over something so material   –   he recounts a man who made a poor lady sit in a chair for hours on end,   her hair cut short,   each beautiful lock wrapped vainly away at the base of a suitcase     ).       there is a scrutiny in irene’s eyes as she looks at him   :      he’s not used to someone staring back.     he is the disillusioned eye that stands above the worlds that slice around his shoulders,     a cold vision of nothingness forming theories from whatever concrete that laid below him.         ‘‘     john watched that.   he said it was boring   …   which i’m sure is not a reflection of your performance.   he and i tend to veer away from the arts.     ’’

STRING INSTRUMENTS ; the brownstone she shares with godfrey is a place one can find a whole arrange of the things, tucked in corners and laid on tables, depending. she has never been the sort of creature who lives in perfect order and godfrey is much the same - - - irene has picked up a vague interest in VIOLIN and the resulting callouses don’t bother her. vanity isn’t the chief of her sins. irene tips her head at sherlock and a LAUGH - - - a real one, this side of loud - - - lifts from her lips and she shakes her head. “tell john i’ll give him a comp ticket for the next show i’m in. hopefully something a little faster paced.” she rolls the shirtsleeve back down over her wrist and continues on looking at him. she never did get a good look at him the first time, not the REAL him. oh, she’d got quite enough of the POOR ELDERLY MAN, the one she had sat down on her sofa and offered to make a cup of tea for. this, thought the same being, is not the same man. not really. following him in disguise of her own had meant only glimpses from a distant, the vague form of his shoulders and silhouette.

there’s a lot one can learn from a face. irene is good with faces, uncannily so, and she dedicates this one to memory. “what brings you to new york, sherlock?” there might be the vaguest hint of SUSPICION - - - there is still a certain photograph in her possession, well-hidden, where she does not doubt it won’t be found. irene hasn’t seen any of the king’s men in their plain clothes with their wolfish eyes, but that doesn’t mean the chase has been entirely given up. who knows. this doesn’t seem the way sherlock holmes would come up to her so boldly if he were seeking out a mark, though, and if he is hoping to throw her enough to reveal the same thing twice he is sorely mistaken.

[herlevel]

as to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. i love and am loved by a better man than he. the king may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. i keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. i leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and i remain, dear mr. sherlock holmes,

                                                                 very truly yours,                                                                  irene norton, née adler

[herlevel]

foxenhund​:

sherlock has found that the scent of perfume is stronger around the throat.     he imagines brushing irene’s hair back to get at the long,  pale column and decides that would be against some ancient law of easy conversation     (     john had been intent on teaching him the art of normalcy   :      while most of the lessons had been dismissed as errant garbage that did nothing but slow down an investigation,   he had taken one or two tips to heart     ).       instead,   he takes the wrist that’s offered to him   –   his fingers were long and elegant,   knuckles and palms growing paler,   the beds beneath his nails and the line of his wrist growing darker.    THERE WERE PATCHES CRISS-CROSSING OVER THE FLESH…     faint stabs of olive greens that spoke of acids splashed upon the skin,    stitches poking free from his thumb.    he presses his nose against her pulse,   lingering there for a beat,   two beats,   three.    CLOSENESS HAS NEVER IRRITATED HIM   :       it would be irrational to hate one of the fundamental tenants of humanity     (     but with her wrist cradled in his hands,   he is remembering how long it has been since he indulged in touch of any sort,   outside of an official case,   outside of the corpses they kept for him to experiment on   …   her skin is softer than a flower’s petals and no doubt as easily tarnished     ).

‘‘    everyone believes their unconscious choices are little more than idle nonsense…     brought on by whims,  or pushy salesmen,   or some bid for nostalgia.   it is these things that reveal much more about a person than anything conscious could.     ’’       he is still cradling her wrist,  barely pulling away enough to speak.       ‘‘   warm and sweet,  without being cloying.   floral hints.   lost cherry?    i would’ve thought forbidden lilies,   but this has a darker edge to it,   i fear.    a rather expensive brand,   mrs.  norton.   are you in the habit of taking gifts of this caliber?     ’’

the lifting of her wrist to his NOSE has a LAUGH falling from her lips, all bemused as she lets him try to divine some truth about her life or her inner self from the smell of her perfume. her own lithe, calloused fingers are limp and irene watches him only for a moment before she uses her still-free hand to lift her cup of coffee to her lips. WHAT NEXT - - - A PERSONALITY TRAIT DECIDED BY HOW MUCH CREAMER SHE PUT IN IT? it isn’t that irene thinks sherlock holmes is foolish, or that there isn’t truth to what he discovers in little moments ; no, she would not have followed him in disguise the last they met if she thought him foolish. it is only that irene thinks perhaps there is a touch too much stock put into such things.

“correct,” she replies evenly when he correctly guesses the brand but stifles another laugh at his follow up. a dark brow raises and she finally withdraws her wrist from his fingers. “i resent the implication that i can’t afford my own perfume,” the lilt of her voice and the smile still on her lips is enough to prove she does not resent it, only that she finds it AMUSING. glossy nails tap just once across the surface of the table before coming to rest as irene LOOKS at sherlock for a quiet moment - - - that insouciant smile still on her lips despite something a touch more CALCULATING lingering in dark eyes. she is more freckled now than she was in london, something exhausted that had lingered at her edges then lifted ; dark circles that had been hidden by makeup faded a dozen shades, smile a touch less harried. “i bought it for MYSELF as a celebratory gift after my tony nomination,” BEST FEATURED ACTRESS IN A MUSICAL for her role in a revival of a little night music ; irene had not won, but the payment for the awards show performance had gone towards some little things for herself.

[rogerdeakinsdp]

Gemma Arterton as Grace Ballard in Murder Mystery (2019) dir. Kyle Newacheck

[herlevel]

foxenhund​:

you beat me,   he half - wishes to say,   at a great sacrifice to his meager pride     (     john would never describe it as meager     …     but his dear doctor had always had a greater mastery over language than sherlock could ever hope for   :       they dealt in separate businesses     ).     you beat me,  you and three others,   which makes you a rather rare creature.     but she has no doubt already realized the superiority of her position.     TENDING TO HER EGO AT THE BEHEST OF HIS OWN WOULD BE RATHER UNSATISFACTORY, SO INSTEAD —      ‘‘     of course,  mrs. norton.      ’’      which is a slight as much as it is a compliment.     he would taste irene on his lips tonight as he recounts this adventure to himself privately,    intermixing the woman into his strangled rambles,    but mrs. norton serves public appearances better.    WHAT INTIMACY IS WASTED IN IT,  THOUGH?

guessing games had never been his art,  despite what some might say,   but the offer has him springing from his seat.    he is aware of every common perfume and those preferred in every inch of the parisian high life,   which makes him something of an expert      (       the foxhound was a hunting pup before he was anything else     ).     ‘‘    you must understand there are a great many things within a scent,  mrs. norton,   and that it usually tells a greater deal about a woman’s dishonesty than her honesty.   may i take the seat beside you? ’’      already,  he clambers into it,   eliminating the little space that sits there quietly.       ‘‘     your comment does not bode well on my coming age.   there is no doubt i’ll be gray in four years.     ’’

her smile is unwavering and pretty as ever as she watches him with her reflective eyes, head tipping ever so slightly when he decides to stick with the FORMALITY of her married name ; it’s no difference to her what he calls her but there is something to be learned in the distance it affords him. CURIOUS. irene bears him no ill will, really, even if her FINAL LETTER to him ( it had been meant to be final ) was scented with a pressed red dahlia - - - betrayal, and she is sure he knew the meaning or went out in search of a book on floriography if such a thing had somehow skipped his knowing - - - he was merely DOING THE JOB HE WAS HIRED FOR. most men would look at the handsome sum being offered by royalty before thinking twice.

his words have a LAUGH falling from her lips and she sets the cup down, “i’m sorry to disappoint you, sherlock, but i think you’ll find plenty of women choose their perfume based on little more than thinking it smells pretty, or being easily swayed by a salesperson at a perfume counter.” there are several bottles chosen by irene due to the former, though she does have a much wider selection of fragrances than many - - - godfrey teases her about it, sometimes, that her dressing table looks as though she’s looking to start her own parfumerie with the number of pretty little bottles lined up, “unless you’re going to tell me the choice between floral, musk, or citrus is the key to unlocking some deeply hidden truths.” irene is relaxed in her chair and she shifts the sleeve of her blouse upward so her wrist is exposed and lies face-up on the table so that the scent of her perfume might be a little stronger. “i’ve always found true age looks better than the imitation of it.”

[herlevel]

gentsleuth​:

herlevel​,   irene adler. 

that smile of his remains well in place while listening to her version of events. benoit does not make any motion to write anything down, no need for material objects reminding him of what the woman says :  his attention on her is such that he clings to every word and commits every last one of them firmly to his memory.   he was not in the habit of forgetting.   mentally, the notes are pinned and there they stay.  stage left wing, kettle going in the dressing room, got there just a moment too late.

finally, he hums and nods, crossing one leg over the other and joining his hands together over his knee.   ❝  i see. thank you.  ❞   did he believe her? at this point, he cast no such judgement upon the witnesses. but there was something about this woman. something he couldn’t quite define yet.  ❝  how well did you know the victim?  i take it members of a theatre company must have some level of … familiarity. did you socialise?  ❞

irene has been UNDER SUSPICION before. she does not think this is quite that - - - but perhaps adjacent. she has been called INTERESTING in a way that is neither compliment nor derision many times before and irene thinks perhaps that is what she reads in his eyes ; interest. the fact he has no notebook or recording device that she can clock is enough to make him interesting, too. “do you write things down after the interview, or not at all?” it’s a question born of sheer curiosity, dark eyes keen and shiny in the odd light of an event space not being used for an event.

irene’s smile shifts at the question and she leans back in her seat. “of course i knew him fairly well ; this isn’t the first time daniel and i had worked together. but we weren’t close. he was ... mm.” she stops to think about her next words, the best way to frame them, and wonders idly where her husband is - she had texted godfrey what had happened and she knows he will have immediately gotten on the train to come to the theatre. “in the theatre you run into all sorts. some of them aren’t easy to work with ; daniel was something of a pain for a lot of any company he was in.” hands are folded in her lap and irene shrugs her shoulders languidly, “not that he’s the only one, but he’s the sort to show up to rehearsal twenty minutes late, throw off everyone’s schedule, and get pissed if anyone calls him on it - - - AND he couldn’t be fired from this production over it ; he was friends with the producer.” the smile she gives is more RUEFUL now, “so you may have a wealth of people who wanted to, ah - find a different way to get him out of the production.”

[cheenault]

POLLY WILKINS 

[herlevel]

gentsleuth​:​

murder follows where he goes. it was a fact of nature by now, like a curse that plagued the detective. a well placed curse at that, in the sense that it had fallen precisely on the right shoulders. he was not a man who took this on as a burden, but a gift.  benoit blanc had a fascination not for death, but for the reasons behind it. the questions it left.  so, when he had decided to spend some time off at the theatre, he found it quite thrilling that his leisure time had been cut short by something more enthralling than the performance  – –   he’d already read candide. there were no questions there for him.

but with the untimely death that happened the scenes?  oh, those were plentiful.  ❝  you’re not giving yourself enough credit, miss.  ❞  the detective says, falsely encouraging.   ❝  people always see more than they think. ❞  the smile he wears is also a front, a tactic to provide comfort where there was none to be had.   ❝  say, just indulge me for a few minutes. where were you during intermission?  ❞  

it would be CALLOUS and not quite correct to call the procedure of being questioned boring ; it actually isn’t something that has happened to irene all that often, but it feels like something that has occurred before with a bit less cloak and dagger around it all. and someone is dead, so BORING would just be disrespectful. a hand passes over her face and irene can feel that she didn’t quite manage to scrub the stage makeup off her face in the quick time to get out of costume she had been offered - - - remnants of lipstick stained and eyeliner smeared. dark eyes flicker over his face as though categorizing each feature individually in quick succession. something about the set of her lips twitches.

seems this SLEUTH is more about warm voices and handsome smiles. irene offers the barest hint of her own pretty smile and tips her head to one side slightly. “that’s probably correct, but i was in my dressing room getting my kettle going until the, ah - commotion.” the sound of a sharp shriek from the house, a flurry of people moving and speaking, the sound of the stage manager - daniel - over the intercom telling the actors that the performance was over for the night and that they should get out of costume but not leave the theatre. “after which i moved to the stage - stage left wing - to try and see what was happening. i only got there in time to see people being escorted away from the...scene.”

[herlevel]

“mr. watson,” she smiles at him despite the feeling of dread that has snaked its way into her stomach at the sight of a face she had not been thinking she would ever see again - much less here, on a busy manhattan street corner in the late afternoon noise after a relatively full sunday matinee. irene is TIRED and had hoped to just catch the subway back out to brooklyn and her cozy apartment and godfrey and their abundance of houseplants, but it seems FATE has different plans. “i can’t say i thought i would meet you here.” @mourtes​

[herlevel]

you deal with ONE SLEUTH, you’ve dealt with them ALL. the only question left is why the universe sees it fit to keep placing irene in the direct path of such creatures ; it really is starting to feel POINTED at this point. “i’m sorry to say i don’t think i’ll be of any help, mr. blanc,” irene tilts her cheek into a cupped hand, elbow resting upon the cream tablecloth as gaze flickers away from the man to drift across the suddenly stalled gala - - - meant to be an OPENING NIGHT PARTY for a production of candide that has been rather abruptly interrupted by a theft and murder (rather in the spirit of the show, irene thinks but will not say). irene is - perhaps - a touch too UNFLAPPED by such things. “i didn’t see anything.” @gentsleuth​

[herlevel]

starter call! like this for a starter! might be short, might be long, might be lyric based!