for i have sinned;

All gods who receive homage are cruel. All gods dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they would not be worshipped. Through indiscriminate suffering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood. vivianne sloane. thirty-six. capulet-bound underboss. a bullet of a woman.

[viviannesloane-blog]

hea.

Perhaps the Montagues would have their place in Hea’s mind, but it is not so now. It is not the supposed friends of the errant card deck that evaded suffering, but rather the seemingly mortal enemy. And such traitorous behaviour should make the citizens of Verona be very afraid. It is a foul concept to be able to betray such loyalties, it is against all of the rules of both neutrality and the striking-up of deals, and so it could be said that one of the fates, for this moment, had gone and turned their backs on one side of the war. 

Would it remain this way? That is not to be said, that is not to be slighted. And their focus must keep to the task at hand, and that means this makeshift confrontation with all those who’d fallen victim to the betrayal. And Juliana – well, she had somehow managed to finagle her way into a chamber of Hea’s heart, despite how they refused to listen to that telltale heartbeat. Between her mirror-vision coming true to her, despite all of their precautions, and then the efforts given to ensure that they did not suffer – then the words echo. Those words that they’d heard, when the man named Priam had rushed for air, had rushed to get them out. 

                                  You must watch them all suffer first. 

Black spades would turn to black dust in crushed palms. This need flows within them. Vivianne speaking to them is extended as an invitation, and so they enter, two fingers pressed into the corners of their eyes to pull up the delicate skin. As if those efforts can keep it from sagging. As if there is any disguising the manner in which all of this drained them.

The stark whiteness of the hospital room cannot be brushed against even with their darkness. Even with the approach to the bed, Hea and Vivianne are two splotches on an otherwise clean surface. The nurses wouldn’t like Hea staining and corrupting what is clean. 

Hea would do it anyway, because it is necessary. “Find the hole in which the cobra dwells and take a blade to its head.” The terrible thread of its promise fills the room. It doesn’t cleanse it. It dirties it. It rots it. “Though the one who claims the loudest to be the threat might not be so. We both know it is much more complicated than that. We must look deeper. We must prevent this from happening worse.”

The Witches of Verona are a mystery that is often idly pondered upon, yet not to be engaged with too often. That is the strategy that Vivianne has maintained in reference to the three since her very first glimpse of them. Without argument, she has accepted them to be keepers of a balance -- and though there has never been, just as there could never be, any doubt of the underboss’ unfaltering allegiance to the Capulets, she has never been a woman unwise enough to wish to cause disarray in matters of neutrality. Not out of fear, but with the knowledge that the balance was a paramount necessity in this city of art and war.

            Thus, the presence of Hea Min at the door of her hospital room brimming with wrathful misery is not precisely the most stupefying turn of events. She does not question their appearance --- a cursory glance at the witch’s uncharacteristically haggard countenance dismantles any need for that, had she been in possession with the energy it would take to formulate the catalyst to that conversation to begin with. 

In Vivianne’s mind, there is a single mission; and it reeks of the metallic tanginess of freshly-spilt blood. It burns viciously with the same death that stands out on Hea Min’s face. And it is a mystery she does not care enough to solve whose character it speaks more to, that the look on the witch’s face rouses within Vivianne a surge of acrimonious vindication. The rotting thing that are her insides ooze venom that stings her tender innards in a manner that feels right.

“Yes,” she agrees. Her mouth is dry. Vivianne pays it no heed. The witch’s words satiate a more potent thirst than that which water might help. “There is not one snake, but many. The snake charmer must be gotten rid of -- but the charmer does not his own work.” There is a question in her eyes for them.

[viviannesloane-blog]

catherine.

She’s relieved that the Sloane woman already knows what happened, though a part of her wishes that she didn’t. Catherine has no idea what Vivianne has heard; she has no idea of if the information relayed was completely accurate or filled with falsehoods. Either way, she’s sure that the underboss got the gist of it all: she, after being tossed into the corral by her own flesh and blood, was battered by horses that started because of her bloodcurdling screams.

“Bunny?” Cat echoes. “Will she be alright?” She doesn’t know the Du Pont girl considerably well, but she is an ally, a Capulet. The least Catherine can do is ask about her well-being before she queries, “She’s the only one of us here?” She sorely hopes so; she wishes to take comfort in the fact that only two Capulets have been hospitalized instead of more.

Her face falls at the sight of the glass of water and she has half a mind to decline; it hurts to swallow, but she’s sure it hurts more to receive a stinging reprimand from the underboss for such a simple reason. So, though she doesn’t necessarily want to, Catherine plucks the water from Vivianne’s hand and takes a drink–a sip, really, but it’s better than nothing. It aches. She winces. Cat knows it’s for the best, that she needs the fluids to ensure a speedy recovery, but she’s in no mood to continue to drink–not now, at least. She gingerly places the cup on the tray beside her. 

“I’m sorry about Grace,” she says. “I can’t help but feel responsible somehow… She’s my sister, after all.” And it would be the hands of Grace Daly that would have ended her life, had it not been for the woman who saved her. Catherine debates on if she should disclose that it was a Montague that pulled her from the paths of the horses, or if she should let it go; in the end, she decides that secrets, no matter how small and useless they may seem, will do her no good.

Akin to a pious woman offering her deity a gift, she murmurs, “I’m not sure what good it’ll do, but a Montague saved me.”

In a way, Vivianne cares about them all. It was not to say that she harbours any nature of tenderness for a single one, as one might a loved one, but in a detached manner one does for pawns on a chessboard. Each one that fell, after all, is a step closer to losing the game that the Capulets have been made to engage in since the death of Alvise --- and with the inexplicable entrance of the Spades and this baffling addition of circus-freaks, each pawn lost is a move closer to a defeat that is absolutely unacceptable. 

Which meant that mistakes and shenanigans, by extension, were just as forbidden to the underboss’ eye. What use did she have for Catherine’s apology? None at all. She wonders if there is any use for Catherine, in fact. “She is in critical condition,” she informs. She does not miss the girl’s strained gulping, nor does she blink when a sip of the water is all that is had. It is not as though her visit was to dote upon her; she says nothing of it, just as she says nothing of the useless apology. Nothing could be done of it, regardless, and Vivianne herself had never had any interest in much considering of retrospective matters.

Still, unarguably, it stings the woman’s pride to see her once-prodigy to score a point after her abandonment of the Capulets. Her mouth purses in response to the sour taste in her mouth, so potently that it is a wonder that it doesn’t perfume her words with some intense odour: “Which one?”

[viviannesloane-blog]

cyrus.

“Shame,” he said and took another sip of the champagne.

Everything was about indulgence these days, whether Vivianne realized it or not. If it wasn’t, he would have walked away by now. But instead, he drank his fill– of experience, of champagne and, less satisfyingly, of her.

Surely, she was telling a joke. Kai could punctuate nearly every word she said with a laugh without it sounding out of place. 

Protecting, ha! Our, ha! Duty, ha!

The sentiment itself was laughable. After all, for example, wasn’t it a Mother’s duty to protect her own child? To not leave them to fend for themselves, hungry, hurt and hating? And just judging from the complete lack of care in her eyes as she looked at him, well one could just see how that turned out. 

It was just ridiculous. 

Time had changed him, even if it had frozen her features. He was no more the child she had left behind than she was. And so it had been too long since Vivianne and Kai had shared anything that could be claimed with an “our”, let alone any type of so-called duty. 

Kai did as he pleased. He always did. 

“And who is that?” he said finally, the champagne sliding down his throat at a torturously slow pace, “for me?”

It was a rhetorical question, but he continued anyways. His upper lip curled as he said it, but the casual smile was otherwise unperturbed, “If I was a soldier, I’d be looking out for you.”

There was plenty about her son that made the woman blink twice --- only in theory, of course, for it was improbable that the underboss would lose composure so thoroughly in any circumstance. Vivianne was unimpressed by his actions. And when her features darkened, it was as though the previously blank slate became eclipsed by her lack of amusement. 

                                “You will keep an eye on Cosimo.” There was no nonchalance; her words were a cold reflection of the metallic taste on her tongue.

Not for the first time since Cyrus’ reappearance in Verona, her intuition wriggled. It was not a squirming, to be sure, yet there was a restlessness about the feeling. Within her, where that finely honed self-preservation resided and thrived, there was a thing that insistently tattled that there was something off about him. 

                      What? What was it? 

It irked her, this lack of clarity. How she had no succinct answer for the question in her mind when she watched Cyrus out of the corner of her eye. And that flimsy tendril of sentimentality that was kept in the back of the dark room of her mind, not exterminated as of yet and not for lack of trying, was tugged upon with a fleshy, dimpled fist that eerily resembled what had once been her child’s hand when tugging at the hem of her blouse, demanding her attention. 

Something taunted: You do not know, because you did not raise him. He is a stranger to you.

Vivianne’s hold around the flute tightened for an infinitesimal moment in time, before the hold on the reins of her control was tightened instead. It hardly mattered that he was acting a peacock that she did not raise him to be. She had not raised him entirely, and that was a fact, and because she had no right to feel regret over a decision that had not been made thoughtlessly, she refused to feel anything about it at all. 

“You are not a soldier.” It was a reminder. A callous tug on a leash. “You are an emissary, and I did not ask for your opinion on the matter,” the underboss said. Only then did she turn her cheek to slant him a look, certain that it was not one of admonishment that a displeased mother shot her misbehaving child.

[viviannesloane-blog]

hea.

name: final warning. date: 09/04. time: 19:23. location: hospital. status: closed @viviannesloane

When a witch walks amongst other mortals, no one dares to question their presence. So when Hea Min walks amongst the hospital halls, roams between them as one might alternate cards in a deck, no one questions it. And if questions are to be thrown at them, those are to be silenced with a single, unfathomable look. There is not one soul that shall not be watched over to some degree, and Cinead – the shard of them, the beginning of what had created them, almost taken out of their sight forever. One moment longer, for each of them, one sallow moment longer and the damage might have been irreversible. The damage is for some. 

But despite their constant pacing, it still is not without purpose. Cinead is quiet, Juliana is small and asleep; and so it is to Vivianne Sloane’s room that Hea appeared, stood in the threshold of the door, their tall figure perhaps not intimidating so much as it is seeking something. And there are no stilettos to empower them; there are no boundaries that have not been crossed. It is an exaggeration to say that Hea Min feels broken, but it might be close. 

                       ( It might be close. Too close for their comfort. ) 

Their sigh more so resembles a hiss; Yo had gone into hibernation after the stress of the dinner he had attended with them, and they wish that they could do the same. Momentarily; and then, a more eruptive, terrible force clouded inside of them, murky and unforeseeable. The Spades had been mucking about the streets like urchins for long enough. And it is to the Capulets, the ones who had been betrayed by their own alliance, that Hea turns for now. 

“Vivianne Sloane.” They do not like the sound of the bells, but their voice is far more fell, and it remains quiet now, a small peal as opposed to the grandiose announcement. The breach of the alliance has stifled them, has shocked them; their face drawn as pale as those poisoned. “I think that you and I now have more in common than ever before.” 

                        Thump, thump, thump --- there is a spot at the base of her skull that throbs. Rapidly, furiously, pulsating. It aches, of course it does, and the sensation of it pours hotly down the length of her spine, attempting to melt the cold steel of it with sheer potency of its essence. Though the poison is no longer in her system, the consequences wrack through her body with a vengeance that incites the black-fire wrath that chars her squirming, irksomely tender innards. 

Yet Vivianne is a seasoned soldier, to the core of her, and this is not the first time she has ached; in fact, it is nowhere close to it. Thus, though perhaps not as fortunately, is left to fester in the caustic amalgamation of her blood-thirst and obloquy. It refuses to be stifled, contained; there is no telling whether what coats her pallid-hued face is the cold sweat she has yet to cease to break into, or simply venom oozing from her pores. It is a wonder she hasn’t managed to grind her teeth to a fistful of white dust at this point -- they have certainly been ground together enough times. She grinds them now. Not as a mechanism to persevere through the pain humming its savage song within her, for she barely pays any heed to that to begin with, but against the emotions rioting louder and stomping-out a thorny-soled rhythm atop her tar-stained lungs.

The rise and fall of her own chest stammers every now and again. All that she can think of at the disgusting sight of her own weakness is the choked sound spilt past Juliana’s mouth. The sound Cosimo’s body made when it hit the ground, how he writhed at the mercy of Faron’s turpitude, at the mercy of poison she had not fathomed the possibility of. She is plagued with undeniable truths: how it was unsurprising, all of it; how it was expected, and she had known it would come, and how she had promised Juliana a thing her instincts had been screaming the opposite of for weeks.

Her shame is greater than any agony she may experience. What significance does any of her pain hold when Cosimo might be felled? When Juliana --- When her little bird lays in a similar bed as herself, with tubes and needles protruding in and out of her tiny body. Her rage is not only for the turncoat, nor his soldiers. Yes, she would see their blood colouring the cobblestone of the Castelvecchio bridge when she dropped their severed heads in the water, sinking like stones tossed absentmindedly. But it would not undo what contempt was inverted. It would not undo that she had failed her Capulets.

Vivianne is not sure whether it is splayed across her features when their attention is summoned to the doorway of the too-white room. Then again, she cannot summon a damn to give, either way. Regardless, her response is grit and shadow; there is jagged edge and blood in her mouth. “What shall we do about it, Witch?”  

[viviannesloane-blog]

regina.

They inhaled at the same time, and Vivianne held it in longer, enjoying the taste at the back of her throat, the rough rub of it rendering it somewhat raw upon her exhalation, as she zeroed in on Regina’s meandering fingertips out of the corner of her eye. Her exhaustion continued to wear on her a little more, with every single second that ran past the two of them; more time was spent, and it prickled at her, when she thought about it with great intensity, how it was not being spent but was being lost. This fickle time that trickled away whimsically, unaffected by and thoroughly uncaring of the ire of some jaded woman standing on a bridge in Verona, stewing in the suppressed rage that bubbled dangerously, closer to the shell of her person with every fresh, agitating second. Time did not give a damn. And here Vivianne was: turning wrathful gaze to it all the same.

“Expectations, perhaps. Not caution.” The difference between the two had the potential to be the balance between life and death – the way just about everything was in this city, nowadays. Capulet turncoats, Montagues, Spades and, as if it were not crowded enough in this fucking place, some deranged clan of clowns. A sigh slipped past her lips in her wearied state, and her shoulders almost found themselves slumping down from their stiff stance. Unsurprisingly, the underboss wasn’t at all willing to allow the latter to be witnessed. That meant it was time to dismiss the girl. “Good,” she nodded to Regina. “Go to Catherine, first. She might still be awake.”

Regina didn’t need the smoke to itch in her lungs or the embers to lick at the skin on her fingers to feel something – really, she didn’t care to feel anything. It was no secret the middle Daly was void of emotions, and she never tried to hide the fact that she did not care about feeling them, nor did she care enough to put on an act and falsify the emotional expressions and tones people would come to expect of others. She did not feel anything and she did not care about that which she did not feel, and those who expected otherwise would be surely disappointed when their cries and exclamations were met with nothing but a monotonous reply and a neutral expression. She was even apathetic to Father Time himself, simply waited for him to approach her, instead of chasing after him in haste. It was why she was barely motivated to visit her own sister in the hospital.

“Of course,” she agreed with Vivianne, nodding her head slightly. For as much as she did not feel, Regina could at least acknowledge common sense, an offspring of mechanical thought rather than fickle feelings. She must watch her trigger finger around their enemies for fear of starting a new war, must not spill secrets she is privy to in order to avoid the downfall of the empire who gave her purpose in the first place; it was an easy enough task. Regina could not imagine what concerns were running through Vivianne’s mind. “I will.” And with that, she turned to walk away, only turning her head slightly to give a final statement. “You know how to reach me.”

fin.

[luthienne]

I guess I’m full of furies today —

Georgia O’Keeffe, in a letter to Sherwood Anderson, from Georgia O’Keeffe: Art and Letters (via inkstainedmadgirl)

[viviannesloane-blog]

cyrus.

She would not dare deny him, he thought to himself, before repeating it in his mind just to reassure himself.

Cigarettes and champagne hardly settled a stomach— he should know— but he offered the flute regardless, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, more as a test than a favor. If she would take it, if she would drink it, then she was willing to humor him, at least for now. 

And in public, in this flimsy armistice where it was so important to demonstrate how everyone stood together, she would not dare deny him of that.

He didn’t pretend it meant anything more. 

In the rocky waters where their relationship found itself home, he had always been the one pushing and pulling and begging and pleading while she never even moved. If he was poison, then he was sugar sweet and everyone drank him down freely, offering words of praise as they choked. But she- no matter how much he fed her- somehow, she remained immune.

It was twice as hard to convince her of anything than anyone else, if, in fact, he was able to convince her of anything at all. He had long since stopped trying.

“Thank you,“ he replied finally, his voice as benign and cordial as it came, “but I’m here to tell the same thing to you. You look lovely tonight, Mother. As always.”

The cigarette smoke that she had blown in his face had made his jaw clench imperceptibly, but he was thankful for it. He turned his back to her, though he was still standing at her side. As his eyes passed over the crowd, his smile didn’t flag. When he next spoke, his voice was barely perceptible over the hum of the crowd.

“So tell me,” he brought the flute of champagne up to his lips, “why are we here, Viv?”

It was some sort of a game, that was what what the two of them were caught up in; Vivianne knew that much, though she knew not the name of it. This was not poker, but here was a poker-face set in place; here was unaffected features, relaxed and frozen in that ease. It was not chess, but they went move for move and knocked each others pawns out. Did it really even matter that there was no name found for what the two of them remained engaged in? Sure, and unsure, and sure that unsureness was not intended to be revealed to the other.

         ( What did it mean to lose? What would it be to win? Did she even want to? )

Vivianne swilled the drink in the flute, but did not sip from it. She despised that saccharine-sticky grin his mouth stretched into, for it was more grotesque to her than the bullet-wound cauterised by her own hand at her side, and it was that because its nature remained every bit farcical as this debacle at the back of which her son had chosen to grant her his company. Cyrus had not been a part of her life as long as Juliana been --- and all the same, she could see through him just as she could her. She had no use pearlescently gleaming niceties. They were a waste of time.

She did not look at him when he blew pretty words her way, all stardust glimmer and serving as no more than a sparkling annoyance to her. Needless to say, she only barely granted him an imperceptible dip of her head, before she moved on from the matter, without hesitation. How uncertain she could be of this boy, who was her boy, except for how he was not that --- it grated terrifically on the woman.

Of course, she was glad to hear him move on to business. Her own internalised warring over the precarious minefield that their relationship was aside, Vivianne still persisted to be a true professional, in every manner of the word. Perhaps callously so, but there was no hardship in compartmentalising the tender, bewildering convolution of sentiments roused in her kin’s presence. When she looked at him as this, she did not berate him for using her given name instead of calling her Mother. 

She was the underboss first. That was what she had chosen -- chosen over him, if semantics were touched upon. She would not take that back. “Protecting those it is our duty to,” she informed him. Feeling did not bleed into Vivianne’s words. It was not her son she spoke to, but her emissary; and her emissary’s flute of champagne that was shot a pointed look. “Not for indulgence, Cyrus.” 

[viviannesloane-blog]

nikolai.

An exit? That was her solution? Just leave? It seemed so simple, so logical. It was almost too easy. He leaned back, contemplating the option before finally shaking his head. “Can’t. If I left every time I got bored of something, well…” Then it would just be business as usual. If he was going to be at a strange circus, he might as well try something different. Or settle. He knew what the other tents held, so why leave his last resort? Especially when the ghost of Christmas future was sitting right beside him. “What made you come to a Burlesque show?” he asked, leaning forward with his arms crossed on the table. He leaned back again when he got another whiff of the death stick. “Doesn’t seem like your kinda place.”

Whilst people did not precisely baffle Vivianne, for such a claim spoke of a higher status than humanity, and she had not quite reached that level of desecration just yet --- she would not deny that she found them extremely trying, more often than not. It was most fortunate, then, that patience was a virtue that she possessed plentifully, and had honed into a refined skill over the decades. She was able to allow the man’s absurdness pass her by, and simply answer his question: “It is an underrated art-form.” And it was not a lie, hilariously enough.

[viviannesloane-blog]

regina.

For Vivianne, time was not to be wasted, but it served the exact opposite to Regina. Time was, instead, something she had in abundance, something she could so easily bide. As a child, it was all she needed to get her way – wait long enough, lurk long enough, hint long enough if need be, and everything was placed at her feet. There was no need to demand or cry for such things, greedy as she could be. Of course, even associating her name with the Capulets brought the ever-looming threat that she did not have as much time as she believed she did; such a concept one (including Regina) takes for granted could be easily stolen from them in the course of a mere night, especially when an uncertain and ever-shifting war was afoot. She could not even imagine the different thought Vivianne gave to time, could not even bring herself to care about such nuances. In the grand scheme of things, they were nothing more than tidbits of information she would only waste her breath trying to speak of.

Taking another drag from her cigarette, Regina’s fingers lazily traced the cement between the bricks that formed the symbolic bridge. “This is true – perhaps we should just cease expectations altogether.” It wasn’t a difficult concept for Regina, if she tried it. She didn’t care enough about someone to expect something personal or grand, but, like all humans, she could not help but lay out basic anticipations of a night or a person she encountered. It was the human mind’s way of trying to get ahead, trying to formulate plans to secure one’s own advantage, or at least to ensure their own safety should the worst possible scenario come true. “She has made herself an enemy of even the Witches; either she knows nothing about Verona and what she has truly done, or she knows all too well and we’re left to play catch-up. I’ll see what I can do.”

They inhaled at the same time, and Vivianne held it in longer, enjoying the taste at the back of her throat, the rough rub of it rendering it somewhat raw upon her exhalation, as she zeroed in on Regina’s meandering fingertips out of the corner of her eye. Her exhaustion continued to wear on her a little more, with every single second that ran past the two of them; more time was spent, and it prickled at her, when she thought about it with great intensity, how it was not being spent but was being lost. This fickle time that trickled away whimsically, unaffected by and thoroughly uncaring of the ire of some jaded woman standing on a bridge in Verona, stewing in the suppressed rage that bubbled dangerously, closer to the shell of her person with every fresh, agitating second. Time did not give a damn. And here Vivianne was: turning wrathful gaze to it all the same.

“Expectations, perhaps. Not caution.” The difference between the two had the potential to be the balance between life and death -- the way just about everything was in this city, nowadays. Capulet turncoats, Montagues, Spades and, as if it were not crowded enough in this fucking place, some deranged clan of clowns. A sigh slipped past her lips in her wearied state, and her shoulders almost found themselves slumping down from their stiff stance. Unsurprisingly, the underboss wasn’t at all willing to allow the latter to be witnessed. That meant it was time to dismiss the girl. “Good,” she nodded to Regina. “Go to Catherine, first. She might still be awake.”

[viviannesloane-blog]

calina.

It’s funny to think about; whether Vivianne was lucky for having her vision impaired, remaining somewhat ignorant to her predicament, or if it is Calina who was lucky for being more aware of the situation. Funny. She shakes her head.  “Your appearance is of no concern. I’m just not in the right mood to watch you fall. Will you accept it more easily if it’s a selfish gesture?” She’s still holding out her hand, scarcely able to predict if Vivianne will accept it or bat it away. It shouldn’t matter all that much, but an excuse can be found in how they’re meant to appear as allies these days. Capulet and Spade, presumed to be the same by Montague at least. Of course the opinions of the Montagues seem to matter very little to the two women. 

“It’s a better vantage point down here, easier to see the levels of things.” She huffs out a sigh, usual composure lost somewhere in the battle against chemicals both synthetic and natural. Fear, adrenaline, hallucinogens. If Valentina were here they might roll right off the platform, but the Capulet in her place is in a very different state. Whether that’s fortuitous or not remains to be seen, particularly when Calina is the one behaving as though she understands the gravity of their position. 

Even in her foggy state she has scanned the immediate area for some solution; there’s silk curtains draping down from the ceiling, but they seem too far out of reach, another platform with no access from theirs. She can’t see past Vivianne, and certainly can’t remember what’s there even if she had looked previously.  It isn’t clarity that keeps her rooted to the spot; with mind ambling so dangerously off the ledge already; but a weight of dread that somehow overcomes her less helpful attempts at movement. “You should push me off now, because we’re going to be trapped here if we don’t work together.” 

It is not the first time she has had some sort of substance in her system, astonishingly enough. Thus, even with her receptors disconcertingly clouded, were it to come down to it, and had it been of her own accord that Vivianne had consumed that lingered pungently within herself, she was certain that it was quite likely that she would have dealt with the fact of the consumption better. But that was not the case, was it – and that was a problem. For a woman such as herself, one who values control as deeply as this Sloane woman does, as only one who has spent an entire lifetime without much at all in her possession on the best days, and there were not a lot of those --- well, this was a circumstance of nightmaresque proportions.

And to find herself trapped with an audience? 

             One that will not stop talking to her? 

Oh, how Vivianne seethes under the spotlight of this scalding humiliation. At this vile helplessness she has been reduced to, as though she were not herself at all, and instead a miserable clone, come to creation only to be gazed upon for the sake of amusement. 

“Do not speak to me.” The words are hissed, viciously; the manner in which she conducts herself begs the question of whether this clone, or reflection, or -- something -- is more serpentine than woman. Venom drips from the teeth bared, as it does from the words spewed in the imbecile’s direction. 

How ironic for her to be debased like this, only to be rendered to more ruthless form, or perhaps merely one that is truer and kept suppressed, kept stifled, beneath human’s flesh. And now? Vivianne exudes darkness without hindrance. The wickedness her parents had once bound her with, as one does with shackles, bled from her pores now. “Do not tempt me,” it is warned. “For if I do feel like it, push you I will.”

[viviannesloane-blog]

juliana.

The combination of the length of their relationship (strained as it has been since it began, though the Capulet heiress was pleased with herself that she had, in time, eased with her unjustified crusade against the woman), the determination with which the underboss had attempted time and time again to get to know her better despite being stubbornly shut down at every opportunity, learning more through the unsaid and the undone than anything concrete; and the unique and natural aura that surrounded the enigmatic Vivianne Sloane made it so that Juliana was, in all her finite wisdom, convinced that she could sense the other’s intent to approach even when she was still steps away, an instinct learned and honed. When it came to events like these, protocol seemed to dictate that she hover more than her usual, a habit that set the younger on edge but did nothing to stop in respect of the hierarchy of the group, though it did make her wonder if it was a rule imposed by her father to his right hand woman or an initiative all on her own; the shadow that always lurked behind her, disappearing at the turn of her head and under the shine of light. 

(A guardian angel, one could even say, though that would be imposing a terrible responsibility on the Sloane woman’s shoulders.)

From the point Juliana stepped out of Cosimo’s line of sight and reach, there was already anticipation building up inside her that in a matter of minutes, Vivianne would come lessen the distance between them from where she’d been standing on the opposite side of the room, lingering now just in her periphery, the sharp contrast of snow white skin against shining black cloth a spectacle impossible to ignore. Usually it only stopped there because Juliana made clear there were boundaries to be kept and maintained, but since they had gotten along better and had stuck closer than ever before against all the misfortunes of recent months, it was more than welcome that Vivianne was now stepping up to her, moving as though she was practically gliding on air. Not that Juliana was naive to believe that though: in their newfound proximity, there was little difficulty in noticing the slight frown of her lips, the tension in her arms, the stiffness of her moves and words that told her she would rather be anywhere but here. And, adding another in a growing list of rare occurrences for this night, the two agreed on that.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think the only pretense you could be perceiving here, Viv, is that there’s any pretense at all,” she tried to speak with a dismissiveness that would support her words, but as soon as the previous idea slipped from her lips did she start entertaining it. If it was a necessity, Juliana could run a conversation to the ends of the world, keep someone distracted by going into tangents that kept their interest, and Cosimo usually had use for that until he didn’t, which explained why she stood here now, attributing her nerves to a fashion walk she didn’t really pay any mind to instead of the reality that she wanted nothing more than to grab her father by the hand and keep him out of the public eye. Clearly the images of the mirror still haunted her, notwithstanding the fact that she had also been part of that demise; that could go forgotten for the moment. 

“Thank you, though. This did take me a while, it’s nice to hear the effort paid off.” There wasn’t any need to mention that the difficulty lay within the fact that she hadn’t wanted to go, that she had put off preparing until it was too late, thinking it would be enough to convince them that she shouldn’t go but not being spared any mercy on the matter. Simple elegance, truly: her black dress hugging her body, slit higher than usual as were her heels, make up and jewelry bare yet striking… but this was her comfort zone and it showed with the ease that she carried herself. 

One quick sip of her drink later and she was moving closer to the underboss, speaking now in hushed whispers and far from the nonchalance of mere seconds ago: “What’s your assessment? Are we-… is he safe? I feel like we’ve set ourselves up for a trap, being here and with all these people. I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she took another drink, this time to calm her worsening nerves. “Or maybe it’s just whatever this is but still…”

As though the woman had entirely forgotten herself, a corner of Vivianne’s ruthlessly stained mouth found itself twitching into an amused quirk at Juliana’s rambling in circles. Yet she had done no such thing, for such an action in itself would be the most uncharacteristic blunder of them all. The truth, rather, was that the nearly imperceptible admission of feeling, unheard of when it came to the underboss, was a manifestation of her marrow-deep, unconditional affection for the Capulet heir. It was an admittance that might be evident to the eyes of one who knew Vivianne Sloane --- but another truth was this: no one did, except for herself, as it should be. And thus, the gesture was no slip, and instead merely an allowance made for her girl; one made for herself to know of, and Juliana, too, whenever she might be inclined to recognise it, though any lack of recognition made no difference to her either.

It could not be claimed ( not truthfully, at least ) that Vivianne had expected Juliana to relent and admit to wanting nothing more to escape from this shindig. No more than it could be claimed that she had expected Juliana to do the exact opposite of it. When it came to Juliana, perhaps it was her ability to be continually unpredictable and obstinate in the most unexpected of ways that Vivianne found marvellous – and so, she remained unbothered by the circles that the girl tried to talk around her, for it was representative of Juliana’s particular brand of moxie, was it not? Frankly, if her girl was any easier to handle, if she had ever been remotely that, then maybe she would not have been as keen to urge Cosimo into allowing his darling principessa into the fold in the first place. There was a ferocity to Juliana Capulet, and Vivianne commended her a great deal because of it, not in spite of it. How was she to survive the world without it? She didn’t wish to find out.

“Nice try,” came a wry remark, and a sip of champagne before the still nearly half-full flute was placed on the bar-top. No matter how convincing she could be, it was still: “Not nice enough.” After all, just because she could enjoy the attempt to divert her attention off the obvious lack of candid enthusiasm did not mean she was any more likely to humour it. Vivianne disliked pretension deeply, even if she did it hypocritically so, considering how many façades ( no matter the slivers of truth to them all ) she lived out her own life under the cover of. She disliked it especially when it came from her little bird, for she had no use for saccharine where there was no need for any, and when Juliana was well-aware that there was no need for it.

Needless to say, the underboss welcomed the switch that flicked in the heiress; the gossamer-reminiscent veil of amiable simpering cast aside for something real. Vivianne did not mind in the least the newly-decided topic of conversation, nor the grim tone of it, when Juliana took the liberty of stepping closer. “Smile. Do not wear your emotions,” Vivianne warned sharply, no longer looking at Juliana. She claimed her flute between a delicate grip once more, though she did not imitate Juliana’s tipping back of it, demonstrating how it was in these moments of handling herself that she revealed glimpses of her origins, and the refined nature of her upbringing. 

“I suspect the same, yes,” she added, softer, though maintaining the nonchalance that Juliana seemed to have abandoned. Vivianne wanted to take no risks. Her arm hooked through and lay claim to Juliana’s, and she promptly tugged her through the crowd, just as her voice dropped lower, closer to inaudible. “He is surrounded by soldiers, little bird. On guard himself as well. I’ve got a gun in my garter and a direct shot at anyone who might try something with him.” The crystalline focus of her gaze, scanning the room over and over, latched onto Juliana’s for a moment. “I’ve got you.”

[viviannesloane-blog]

catherine.

For some reason, Vivianne’s one-word response is worse than what she expects. She wants the underboss to yell at her, or at least berate her for her childish and embarrassing decision–but she doesn’t. All she does is hover over her and assess the damage as if the doctors haven’t already told her what happened. It’s as if their word isn’t good enough for Vivianne and she wishes to see for herself–and really, Catherine cannot blame her for personally taking stock of her fellow Capulets. For a few moments, she’s silent.

And then, she’s not. Again, she takes it upon herself to speak, to fill the unnerving silence that fills the room. “Did someone already tell you what happened to me at the Cirque?” Do you already know the details of my mistake, or must I retell the horrors so soon? To busy herself (and appear more able-bodied than she really is, perhaps more useful), she reaches for the bed’s remote and presses a button; the top half begins to rise and force the soldier into a sitting position. A sharp pain along herself causes her to wince and stop. Through gritted teeth, she hisses, “They say I’ve got a few fractured ribs but that’s the worst of it, I think. There’s a couple more tests to run. I’ve got bruises all over and a headache from hell, but they’re confident I’ll live.” She relaxes into the bed once more. 

Worry seeps into Catherine’s mind next, and it overpowers both the shame and pain she feels. The first person she thinks of is Grace and her whereabouts, her wellbeing. She doesn’t wish to see her raven-haired sibling, but sorely hopes she’s not in the hospital for two reasons: one, it would mean that Grace is unharmed (to an extent, at least) and two, it would ensure her own safety. But she cannot ask about the traitorous woman without making herself look worse than she already does. Next, she thinks of Regina and convinces herself that, similar to how she carries herself through life, the middle Daly has escaped unscathed. Juliana’s smiling face is the next to cross her mind, and she’s actually wary to get an honest answer (if her friend is not okay, she won’t know what to do), so she settles for something more general: “Is anyone else hurt?”

Of course, the underboss does possess a versatile arsenal of skills – however, it is safe to say that they do not extend as far as those of a medical professional. Not beyond basic suturing, cauterisation, and some herbal concoctions to treat basic bodily dysfunctions. Thus, Vivianne’s thorough examination of Catherine Daly’s battered form is not likely to result in the gleaning of any information she has not already been told. It is a confirmation ( by and to herself ) that she participates in the inarguably futile exercise merely to reassure herself with something tangible to look at, and consciously focus on.

There is so much about Catherine that causes Vivianne pangs of frustration, prickling at her like a sporadically-roused, particularly incessant itch. This girl, with her potential and sense, is too soft. Relentlessly so. And what happens to softness? It finds itself ruthlessly stomped on by those who shed it for the callousness survival in this brutal world, that is what. Stomped on by horses. Stomped on by them at the hand woman with whom one shares blood, as Vivianne was debriefed of before she made her way to the hospital.

It is no secret to her soldiers that she is not a woman to waste breath on many words, and she does not like others doing so much more either. But this doesn’t stop the youngest Daly sister from doing just that, and her words only serve as a reminder to Vivianne of all the ways she is a peculiar fit in the midst of a war, with the manner in which her emotions splay baldly across her porcelain features. It is a reminder served to her every time she interacts with Catherine, though, and she cannot pretend to be surprised by the fact of them. Yet, despite how thin her patience has worn over the long exhausting hours of the circus catastrophe and its ludicrously inconvenient aftermath, she lets the girl get all of the words she wishes to get out – and one might even see this as routine between the two of them.

Vivianne pauses a breath, waiting for Catherine to ramble more if she wishes, before she responds. “Yes. I am aware of the circumstances,” she says. She leaves it at that for a moment, switching over to answer her question, lest the delicate thread between herself and her patience snap unexpectedly. “Besides yourself, Bunny Du Pont is in the hospital.” The girl’s struggling is not missed by her, but she doesn’t point it out. Instead, she pours the girl a glass of water from the plastic jug at table attached to the end of her bed and holds it out. “Drink, girl.” It is an order.

[viviannesloane-blog]

regina.

Perhaps what was most interesting about Regina and her sisters was how different they were at first glance and the web that would tie them together if one were to look further. Grace was full of wrath and envy, Catherine overflowed with goodness, and Regina was simply apathetic - one could stop the analysis here, but things may not have been so clear-cut. For it was the eldest and youngest of the Daly women that were pulled so forcefully by their emotions, though those feelings tended to be polar opposites. The eldest and the middle shared a knack and draw to violence and the chaos that filled Verona’s streets, and Regina’s quiet disposition complimented Catherine’s, as well. So unalike, yet cut from similar cloths, few thought the sisters could ever fit together - and those few would be delusional, for Regina highly doubted that there was any moment where she, Grace, and Catherine could fight side-by-side, completely in agreement.

That would have been another odd thing to add to the list. “The circus was most unusual - but then again, that is the point of one, is it not?” she mused. That was not the only unusual element of today’s Verona, of course; new players in a game only made for two teams, the three referees unusually silent, and now the halftime show was over. Glancing down at the box, Regina brought it closer to her person and slid out a cigarette, removing a lighter from her pocket with her other hand. A dull orange glow cast upon the captain’s soft features as she lit the cigarette, blowing smoke out into the night before asking a question. “So, what is our next move?”

Far be if from Vivianne to waste her time contemplating it to any incredible depth, for time was a treasured thing; not one the woman was likely to waste in any situation --- yet, she could say with some amount of certainty that the middle Daly sister was the one who caused her the least amount of grief. Perhaps it was because there was a tendril of audacity that could easily be glimpsed upon when Regina was viewed. There was something about the determined but of elusive composition of her features, and that apathetic essence to her disposition, that reminded Vivianne of herself. It remained to be seen whether it was Regina’s tolerability, or her own crudely narcissistic nostalgia being roused in the wake of Cyrus’ return and the ghosts of her pasts that haunted her as her own shadow did, that acted as a catalyst for her relative amiability in the moment.

All the same, the woman exhaled smoke and canted her chin to twist and better glance at the girl next to her. “Yes. Most unusual, though in a different manner than one expects a circus to be.” It took more effort than Vivianne was pleased with to reign in the cloud of black fury that bubbled at the thought of the fiasco. She could feel her control slipping. Just as her patience was. “To collect intel on just who that woman is,” the underboss decided, referring to the ringleader. “It is no ordinary creature that can trump the witches. If they are to be an enemy, they will be one we know.”

[viviannesloane-blog]

alexander.

Wisely, she doesn’t react; doesn’t shift to accommodate his silver-tongued pricks, doesn’t bristle, doesn’t fall prey to provocation. She gives him nothing, and he’s—disappointed, acutely so. Alexander knows that Vivianne is not as susceptible to his knack for provocation as most, but he expected some sort of reaction from her—a scrunch of her nose, a mean barb, a flush of red cheeks. But she gives him none of this, and her stoicism irks him. 

He scowls, disappointment evident in the unforgiving twist of his lips. “What? Wolf got your tongue, Sloane?” he asks, voice lofty, arrogant. 

A war tactician through and through, he knows when to retreat and when to strike, and so he abandons his quest to incite Sloane’s temper in favor of a more feasible goal: information. “Rumor has it you spent some quality time with Sokolova.” The grapevine of Verona has roots in each niche and every nook of the small city, and shortly after the bedlam of Cirque tapered off, one of Alexander’s soldiers came to him with news of one Capulet and one Spade trapped atop a tall post, left by a pair of sly aerialists to rot. 

“Surprised you didn’t shove her off that perch.” He cants his head to the side thoughtfully, face pensive. “A bit disappointed, too, I must admit.” His feelings regarding Calina are complex, to say the least, and although a small, nostalgia-ridden part of him wishes her wellness and safety, another, perhaps greater (or, if not greater, more potent, more corrosive) part of him wishes her the same cruel hand her Spades dealt to Maeve and Giya. 

It occurs to him—faintly, distantly—that this might be the first (and last, likely) thing shared by a Montague and a Capulet: a mutual enemy.

But mutual enemy or not, shared persons of interest or not, Alexander does not make the mistake of thinking that his newfound grudge against the Spades will cure his ancient one against the Capulets. The Spades stole Giya from him, and the Spades stole Maeve from him, but the Capulets stole Celeste from him, and neither sin is less damning than the other; the devil he knows is no better than the devil he doesn’t.

It is entirely possible that here resides some bizarre brand of irony, where Vivianne’s black mood finds itself instantly alleviated a fraction in the face of Rallis’ displeasure. Or maybe there is no irony, and simply her vindictive nature at play in the game he seems intent coaxing her into; maybe she is just a heinously barbaric carnivore at the core of her, and the night’s events have worn a few layers of her patience ( and humanity ) away. Either way, it soothes her, in a manner of speaking, to irk the man perched at her side.

No, he does not stop speaking --- and as much as Vivianne wishes the case were progressing otherwise, she is not surprised by the fact that he carries on despite her lack of response. As she possesses a deep distaste for surprises of any sort, she does not harbor a grudge over it; it is foolish to tend to a grudge of it, anyhow, since where a Montague is concerned, there are far too many other, better ( or worse, depending on how it was looked at ) things to hold the bastards accountable for.

Wolf? Vivianne does not know whether she wants to laugh at him, or slap him across the face. Both, ideally, if she decided to stoop to such uncharacteristically childish antics. However, since his own irritation manages to rid her of some of her own, the underboss decides that she might allow him to carry on without immediate consequence, for the moment. And he chatters on without her urging, attempting to entice a response from her in what he has likely deciphered as a vulnerable state of mind.

By the woman’s standards, yes, she is in one of those; it is just not a fragile enough of a mind-set to be so easily provoked by one the likes of this prattling buffoon. Not a single emotion seeps into her tone -- not the amusement, nor the curiosity, nor her exhaustion and irritation -- when she observes, baldly: “You are grasping at straws transparently, Rallis.”

[viviannesloane-blog]

cyrus.

DATE: April 3rd TIME: 5:40 pm LOCATION: twelfth night museum CLOSED: @viviannesloane​

Aching? What did he know of aching? With a face like that, it was possible that he had never once wanted for anything in his entire life. It was such a silly little theme, faux drama– just a prelude to the storm brewing, and everyone treated it as such. He buzzed from person to person, making conversation. Everyone was acting as if they were in a good mood, as if the effervescent glamour and the ethereal glitz were more than, well, just that.

And then, of course, there was her. 

Vivianne had always a beautiful woman; sometimes, just by seeing her his breath would catch, but she was seldom anything but sullen. In the nearly ten years that had passed since he had left Verona and returned, he had shot up almost a full metre, seen a city fall and rise again, loved and lost and yes, ached, but she always looked exactly like he remembered her: sharp and cold and ever-so-lovely. When they had been reunited, he had told her as much: I would’ve recognized you anywhere, he had said. 

Quietly, he wondered if she would have been able to do the same to him. 

At this moment, from what he could see of her, she was more chimney than Capulet. Without even trying, he caught a glance of the familiar cigarette in between her fingertips and the burgeoning plume of smoke that erupted from it. He needed no second glance to know where her attention was.

Perhaps it was petulance that made him do it. He knew well enough to leave her alone when her attention was so clearly taken. Perhaps it was vindictiveness. He was such a terrible tyrannical thing; he wanted attention, devotion, adoration, hated to share it. But perhaps it was something else. Something more fitting to the theme of the night. 

He swiped two glasses of champagne, held a slender stem in each of his hands, and made his way over.

“One for you, Mother,” he said, offering a champagne flute to her, a generous smile ghosting his lips. When she didn’t reply, he could only shake his head, his cheeks aching as he continued baring his teeth.

“Oh come on,” he laughed, “don’t leave me waiting too long.”

Aching. It was the theme for the debacle she lurked at the back of now --- and Vivianne hadn’t a clue how draperies, whether found embellishing a body of flesh and sinew or that of an infrastructure composed of brick and cement, could signify such a thing. As it were, her inherent loathing for metaphor and all manner of poetic drivel, velveteen and decadent and a fucking farce, prevented her to being able to summon up any profound amount of enthusiasm to allow her better manage to fathom the proverbial intricacies of the symbolic notion. 

She did not know if the silken black fabric that swathed her depicted what the witches of Verona had been after. And she didn’t quite care, either.

When she scoped the crowd of folk in front of her -- allies, and soldiers, and enemies alike all blended together, as they supposedly ought to be in neutral territory -- the underboss did so, not to peruse how others had chosen to depict the absurd theme of the evening, but rather, in search of any sign of impending catastrophe. After all, at this point, any event that she accompanied her Capulets to nowadays seemed to snowball into bedlam, and Vivianne refused to be caught off-guard this time.

                       And still, despite the fact that she was very well-aware of his approaching --- well, the appearance of her son by her side struck eerily close to doing just that. Oh, Vivianne heard him coming, of course she did. She knew the song of that boy’s footsteps better than she knew the rhythm of her own rotting heart, and if she did not, in some universe, then she was still Vivianne Sloane, and he was still her son, and she watched him move about the room out of the corner of her eye, regardless. She just hadn’t -- expected him to stop next to her. Let alone offer her a flute of champagne.

“Thank-you,” she said, without feeling to the words. Vivianne blew smoke in his direction, a grey cloud obscuring the gleam of his boyish grin, though not for long enough, and took the proffered drink, even if she did not plan to actually drink it. She simply did not want to leave him waiting, for had she not already done that? And now he was here. And she could not quite do it over and over. She couldn’t. 

           ( What else could she offer him but these insignificant gestures? What had she ever been able to offer him? Nothing. She had nothing to give him -- not then, not now. ) 

Her features remained slack; she appeared undaunted, even when she was not, and the woman simultaneously required and resented the ability. “You look handsome, Cyrus.”

[viviannesloane-blog]

[viviannesloane-blog]

julianacapulet:

try to catch the deluge in a cup

date: april 3rd; 541pm location: twelfth night museum (near the bar) availability: open to anyone

Though she was, for all intents and purposes, a part of the conversation - standing within the inner circle, the topic switching every now and then to bring her further into the fold, Cosimo nudging her back into mindfulness softly with his elbow, the briefest of quizzical looks thrown her way to show how much he questioned her latest foray into dismissiveness - all Juliana could hear were soft buzzing sounds along her periphery, as though everyone had settled into whispering all their words in her presence. This was what she was good at, or at least she used to be: smiling, feigning interest, entertaining people, she could do it with the most minimal of efforts. But after what she had gone through recently, the nightmare still etched like a deep scar on her chest she couldn’t help but reach up and itch now, when eventually her father and his “friends” drifted away, the heiress released the deep breath she didn’t know she’d been holding in for as long as they were there and relished a moment to herself.

Looking down despondently at the glass of wine that she’d picked up when the night started and only took a sip off in the long time since, the Capulet frowned before stepping up to the open bar and trading in the drink for a stronger one (”whatever you want, good sir, surprise me”). There wasn’t any call for demureness or modesty, sobriety was such an aching reality to be in right now, she was glad to have something to dull the senses while also boosting her confidence for the upcoming fashion show she’d been roped to be a part of. She hadn’t wanted to, but it was the least she could do with the hell she’d put Hea through with her stint into madness.

“I’ve never really taken advantage of these things before, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything, no?” she quipped, turning to the person next to her and starting up that age-old practiced charm as the Capulet prancing pony for display, nodding her head at the open bar. “I hope Signora Fallaci doesn’t hear me say this and get offended by it, but I’m admittedly a little nervous for the show, I hope I don’t let anyone down. I’ve seen what they’re going to have me wear and at the very least they’re showing off my greatest asset.” Here, she did a little kick to draw attention to her lithe legs, wagging her eyebrows before breaking off into a playful laugh. 

Raising the glass to them though, she shrugged her shoulders and painted on her best smile, hoping to start a toast. “Here’s to a back up career as a model…?”

                   There was a thin line between grit and grace – and Vivianne kept a foot on either side of that line. It was no secret to any person in person who knew the underboss’ name, that the woman favoured neutral-hued garments; a monochrome colour scheme being the central theme of the contents of her closet. She was not a woman fond of splurging on extravagant somethings, and though age had nothing at all to do with lacking in glamour, Vivianne was not a women with any intention of glittering. On the contrary: whatever it was that best allowed her to blend into the walls or the shadows cast upon them was what she desired.

And though her profession was the obvious scapegoat, Vivianne knew that matters would have been no different if she had been an average accountant. Although, perhaps her outfit of black might have been a suit instead of the silken gown that the woman haunted the Twelfth Night Museum clad in.

Fashion was not low on her list of priorities in life. In fact, it was not on it at all, and thus, it was no great surprise that the underboss’ features ( unlike many others’, visible upon disinterested perusal ) were not alight with any profound enthusiasm, nor was she beside herself with awe and excitement. Her attendance was mandatory. Her sole purpose at the event was to protect Juliana. Truthfully? Vivianne just wanted to get this over with. Even if she were inherently a woman of champagne tastes, the circus shenanigans still fresh on the mind, that still turned her viciously irate upon the thought of them, would certainly have cured her of any such affinity for empty frivolities.

Vivianne just wanted to get through the fucking evening without any alarming, calamitous incident arising – and frankly, she was entirely prepared to be delivered no such thing. She expected bedlam, at this point. After the events scattered over the last few months, only a fool would allow themselves to be lulled into any sense of security, and Vivianne Sloane prided herself on being no such thing. She was too perceptive a creature to not have noticed the way one of the witches looked at Juliana ( & Juliana at them ) but she was still unwilling to trust the affair.

She was in no mood to humour anyone otherwise, either. Not even Juliana, who she sidled up to wordlessly when she departed for the bar on her own, with a nod to Cosimo. ( Translation: I will protect her. Always. ) Her mouth, stained the colour of an open wound, was a flat line as she listened to her girl chatter. The same flute of champagne that Vivianne had been nursing for what was coming up on an hour now was raised back in Juliana’s direction, even though the words that were served with the gesture were, “There is no need for pretence with me. I would not buy it, regardless – though you do look exquisite.”