ZEPHORA VILLIERS
“ALL LOVELY THINGS REQUIRE SACRIFICE, дорогой.”
occupation: head of nightlife at the victorian & lusitania
criminal occupation: coodinator & partner-in-crime
She was beautiful in the way that nightshade is mesmerizing, or poison is sweet. Born to a prominent family in St. Petersburg, there was never a time in which Zephora Orlovskaya was anything but lovely, with her dark eyes and demure glances, the drape of furs across slim, pale shoulders. There were the dolls, the flowers, the dresses of silk and lace, but more so — the dance, the opera, all that which made Russia unique, all that which had built her empires. Zephora’s early life was a series of quick sketches, days spent training her craft, perfecting her physique and mind to morph into that which she admired. She saw Giselle in Chelyabinsk when she was five, and was struck by the fact that it felt just like a fairytale: something refined, elegant and distant; something untouchable — and she wished to be that untouchable figure upon the stage, a ghost of impressions and techniques, modern goddess of blood and snow. It was in those moments of decision that her childhood fled from her before it had even begun and her cheeks lost their rosiness, beginning instead to frost like ice — like a girl who would rise, and rise, until she was so high that nothing else mattered.
Her choices pleased her parents. Sergei and Nataliya tossed their heads triumphantly at having produced such a wonderful spirit, calm and demure, graceful in all things. Zephora, true to the Orlovsky tradition, did not ever act as other children did: there was never an instance in which she was completely ordinary. To be a dancer, a ballerina, a weaver of dreams, one must sacrifice all: and she understood the word well. Sacrifice, to trade one valuable thing (her childhood) for something more precious (her ambitions). She endured it all with dignity, a degree of careful humility innate only to the best ballerinas, and as the hours of dancing alone before the television became the sole priority of her waking hours, her parents piled their wealth behind her, an initiative for greatness. And so she became a ballerina in training attending an academy for the most gifted. While the worker’s children ran laughing through the streets, red hats and black shoes, she sat in the backseat of her father’s chauffeured cars, watching the world pass by, her aching, bleeding feet resting…waiting for another day at the bars, small face staring into her own eyes in the mirror. Arabesque, plié , grande jeté — repeat and repeat, until perfection shone in the sweat of your brow and the bruises on your feet.
Triumf, malenkaya koroleva.
Those years are a blur. Every great dancer remembers most vividly not the pain, but the glory, and when she was picked up by the Mariinsky Ballet immediately after her graceful reign at Vaganova, every moment of blood, sweat, and tears was worth it. One year, two years, five years — she was a prima ballerina of the world’s greatest stage; half queen and half goddess, fully ethereal in her allegros, her pirouettes. She commanded the stage in a manner that very few had ever before…bold yet delicate, striking yet subtle…and from all over the world her admirers flocked, to see her another time on that imperial stage framed in gold and ash. She was Juliette dancing to die, Odette dancing to live, every dream that men could have had, she could capture for them in a series of adagios. And so she did, and as she became more famous and more beautiful, her ambition only grew, and grew, until she believed that she could go down in history as Russia’s most prolific prima ballerina. Do you want to perform in America? they asked, and she would reply: Nyet. Ni nada. There is no need to visit the world when it comes to her, flocking at her feet. She was in love with her art, with the stage, with the pain and pleasure of dancing from dawn to dusk, always pushing further and further. She would never break, not like the others. She was going to shine forever.
Zephora, prim Russian beauty, never could have fathomed that one day, her quick feet and ballet skill would be put to use in lifting a Vermeer from the Louvre — or for that matter, that she would walk into her bedroom one night and see a handsome young man shouldering her mother’s Faberge egg out the window. Her involvement in the heist began with Francis, the flash of his eyes in the dark, her silence as he stole one of her family’s most prized possessions. She still believed in fate then, and fate had delivered, because he was back another night, not at the mansion but the theatre, dark eyes tracing the slim curves of her body as she leapt and touched the stars. And that is when their courtship began. It was another dance, much like hers but filled with more fire and risk. Her Englishman, as she called him; was a man of mystery, but where he was darkness and she was an angel was an accord unparalleled. For two years they met beneath fountains and in castles, a punctuated love, and for two years, he asked her if she would ever leave the ballet. He promised her a better life, but she only laughed. Ballet was her life, and even if she loved Francis, she would always love her life more. And so they existed in a twilight zone of innuendos and “may-be”s.
She would never give up on what had shaped her — and she never did. No, she wasn’t the one to leave it. It left her, broken and bleeding, disgraced before thousands. The higher you climb, the harder you fall, and oh, did she plummet. Zephora Orlovskaya, black swan of the east, thrown twenty feet into the air by silk ribbons — soaring, until she slammed against the cold ground that had once embraced her. A crack, a scream in the audience. And it was over.
Ballerinas do not heal. Their wounds are unforgiving, and can take from them their positions, their careers, their allure — but no one could possibly have understand what it was to feel your life disintegrate before you, to have your heartstrings ripped from your chest. She had lived for ballet, bled and wept and suffered and triumphed for its sake. She had undermined her competition, done devious things to be at the top. Her heels bore scars and her back would forever hold its arch: but Zephora would never dance again, not like she had on that grand stage, Not with a shattered hip and a surgery that took her wings from her. That day took more than her talent, it took her identity, her spirit, her hope and dreams and all those things which had made her soft. There was iron in her blood: now it was time to wear it in her features.
As an individual who has always valued structure and tradition, one would be surprised to see the transformation that has taken place in thirty years: prima ballerina to matriarch of Europe’s greatest heist society and a head of the illicit activities which support it. These years of crime have corrupted her well. Loose morals, loose tongues; when everything is loose, it’s very easy to pluck the truth from its midst. She married Francis in her terror of what was to come, and he had nursed her back to health, back to livelihood. With him, she wasn’t a disgrace or a broken toy, but a queen, empress of a new generation: and she finally knew what he had been so eager to show her. The world of the heist. The jewels! The infamy! The euphoria, never the same as that of ballet, but euphoria nonetheless. Francis forbade her from Lorenzo’s vices, so the heist became her drug, and then her children arrived, and she had no more need for such high stake thrills to fill the aching hole in her chest. Zephora was young and beautiful once, and she is still beautiful, still sharp, having shed her rabbit heart for a wolf’s bite. In the wake of her tragedy, she had lost her compassion, her sympathy, and had become as cold as Francis was — for a time, they were the most ideal match, blade against blade, one scorned lover kissing another: and now, there could be no other pair to reign as supremely as they. One dark as night, one a fluctuating phantom between who she used to be and who she is now. Kindness has its limits, but all thieves learn first how to pretend.
Matriarchs of great empires must see reality and treat it according to how it will treat them. So she loves her children, tests them, does terrible things for their good. So she caresses her dancers and her nightingales, promises them better days, puts them to work at the chime of midnight. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for her family, or the family business, and that’s what makes her truly terrifying.
✕. Zephora runs the clubs when she is not helping Francis with the society, and as a highly respected member of both; she holds considerable power. The Victorian and Lusitania are great prides of hers, and she treasures her night birds — sometimes, if she is feeling particularly indulgent, she will even treat them as if they are her own. The night is run by the queen mother herself: nights are for black swans, dawns are for fledglings.
✕. She learnt English from Francis, and he had already learnt Russian in school, so they converse fluently in both languages. Though her vernacular English holds a purring Russian accent, she can feign many accents, including the “posh” British one that her children were born into. It’s ridiculous, but she loves it as much as she loves the people who hold it.
✕. As a child who had spent most of her time away from home, Zephora had never considered herself one to ever hold motherly tendencies. But when Alistair was born and she held him to her breast, considerations fell to naught, and she knew that there would never be a mother who would protect her cubs more fiercely.
✕. Twice a year, she returns to Russia. Once to visit her family in St. Petersburg, and once to see a ballet at the Mariinsky Theatre. It’s a ritualistic affair: she always goes alone or with Francis, and she always stops herself from lingering too long. She is still half in love with her homeland and that knowledge scares her.
THIS CHARACTER HAS A FLEXIBLE FACECLAIM ONLY TO MONICA BELLUCI
& IS TAKEN BY ELLEN
FRANCIS VILLIERS ⇢ Husband & love of her life.
He saved her life, and she could never love him more for what he gave her in the wake of her shattered past. Even thirty years after their courtship in the snow and violet dusk, she still looks upon her husband as if it were the first time. Working besides him has given her purpose: as a coordinator, as the mother to an empire that is in many ways formidable. But he also made her cold. She’s shared his sins, his concerns, all those things that make him human, and in the process, Zephora has cast down her own morality – sometimes, kings require their queens to be just as ruthless, just as protective of what is theirs. She’s begun to notice the danger about them, but is still biding her time before sharing her concerns with him.
EVIE, ALISTAIR, & CECILY VILLIERS ⇢ Children.
Though she would go to the ends of the earth for all her children, Alistair has always been her favorite, the first son who had brought light to her first years away from her homeland. She knows of his personal ambitions and is his greatest advocate, working to coax Francis to soften. Evangeline and Cecily are more concerning. Evie, because her first daughter doesn’t understand the value of commitment, and Zephora knows that this fast life won’t last forever. Cecily, because she came from her mother’s womb lacking, and in her sneezes and many struggles, there is still a seed of innocence that must be preserved. Zephora hopes for them all to succeed in whatever they choose: business, thievery, or — well, she doesn’t quite know what Cecily will do — and disagrees with Francis when he’s too harsh with them, particularly the youngest.
VICTOR BEAUREGARD, LORENZO CAPECCHI, ALEXEI ROZANOV & RAPHAEL LEE ⇢ Original crew.
They more or less welcomed her into their ranks when she married Francis, and for it, she’s very grateful. Victor has always seemed rather afraid of her…bednyy chelovek, but she’s found a friend in Lillian, his more dominant wife. Lorenzo amuses her with his cheeky show of aggression, but she’s not blind, and can see how he bristles at Francis’ commands, a dog leashed and straining; danger hidden beneath those cheeky grins and well-timed insinuations. She urges Francis to be careful about the loose gun, but the truth is that fondness blinds them all to each other. Rafael, she doesn’t know very well…but who does? She feels for his children to have such a strict father, but all in all approves of their discipline, something that Lorenzo’s crew notably lacks. His mysterious facade is something to be wary of, yet brilliance often comes in the least amicable forms. Alexei - oh, she loves his family. Russian, steeped in tradition…they speak of ballets and tsars and the history and fables of a country which still clings to old truths. In another world, perhaps she would’ve been Mme Rozanov instead of his harlot wife.
CARMELA CAPECCHI & HELENA HAYES ⇢ Tentative enemies.
There’s something about Carmela which ignites a suspicion in Zephora: the instinct to hiss and lash out like a snake against a mongoose. She looks down upon the mafia, hates that Francis has any connection it at all through Lorenzo…but Carmela is no thief, but a daughter of a murderer: and in the woman’s newfound introduction to the duality of her husband’s power, Zephora is the one who is left on edge, far too accustomed to the subtlety of a woman’s venom. Helena, on the other hand, has always been on her nerves, something about her reptilian smile and mechanical gaze which seem to maintain that there is something that Zephora does not know.
They had been childhood friends in Russia, the only relationship that had survived her grueling entry into the world of the stage and its angels, but only because he had been in heaven too. He was always kind to her those days when she was still rising, fighting against dozens of others for supremacy, and when she saw him backstage one year when she was in St. Petersburg, she returned the favor and introduced him to the heist. Since the tragedy, he’s seemed aimless, and she wishes that she could do more to help.
CHARLES & ADELINE VILLIERS ⇢ Nephew & Niece.
With the cautious knowledge that Francis had killed their father, Charles and Adeline are touchy topics with Zephora. Charles has a darkness wreathing about him that Francis wants to take advantage of: but she sees it as it is…dangerous. Adeline, on the other hand, is equally unstable if not more, and she has an urge to provide a warm hand for the woman. Yet the other side of her maintains that some timebombs are set to explode, and if Adeline’s downfall will tear her own progeny down, then it’s better not to get close.
ESMERALDA KNIGHT, ANIKA CORMANICI, & MILO MALLORY-HAYES ⇢ Night Birds.
Many birds work for the Victorian and Lusitania — but it is only the Nightingales and Ravens who matter to her. There is something to be said for being beautiful, but there’s an entirely different vivacity of will which is required to dance and wear masks for strangers. Her Night birds are her beloved treasures, and though they would never take the place of her children in her heart (and are very much replaceable if it comes to it), they’ve all come to the clubs to fix some wound that had been leveled against them in the past, and she is the smiling, devious proprietor of their dreams.
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