party post ✶ now i'm ready for the last hurrah, dying like a shooting star

[mightyfallen]

Who: EVERYONE.
What: A swanky party.
When: Sukkardi, 8 PM to the wee hours of the morning.
Where: Gibeah, Jack's new house in Syriac Well.
Warnings: None! Please place warnings in your subject lines as needed and I will edit them in.

Jack wasn't kidding about inviting half of Syriac Well. He may in fact have invited all of Syriac well but is only expecting half to show up. Still, it's his first chance to impress the people who will, with any luck, someday become his constituents. That goes for Syriac Well and the new cohort. (He doesn't plan to stop at city councilor, after all.) But, one step at a time. He hasn't even announced his candidacy yet; first, he has to meet the neighbors.

And so the house is done up with no expense spared, although care has been taken not to look too over the top. Syriac Well is upper middle class, and that means appreciating the finer things but perhaps not appreciating snobbery. There are servants, but not too many, and guests in fabulous gowns, but no shortage of cocktail-length dresses either. No one is turned away. The lights are hung, the food is served, and music wafts through the building. It's time for a party.

Comments

[diogenesis]

Mycroft sees her tension (and its recession), her slightly submerged recognition; it carries echoes of that ever-strange familiarity that lingers around Ilde like a nostalgic perfume. She should be in sepia, he thinks. She should be a lullaby. She should be an alma mater. She should be written in Latin.

He shoos the thoughts away, unwanted birds on a wire, before greeting her back with a quiet good humor that shows in his eyes. “I've been told I can be elusive. Good evening, Miss Decima.”

[rhinemaid]

“Ivan and I were looking to see who came,” she says, sitting a little straighter, letting her hand fall down to her lap so she can fold it over her knees with the other one; she's slipped one foot out of her high heel, resting her toes on it, painted a pearl color that looks as if it's swirling, still liquid. Little things. “I thought it might be interesting.”

It hasn't been uninteresting.

[diogenesis]

“It seems we've attended with similar goals, then,” Mycroft replies, resting his side against the railing's bannister and the tip of his umbrella on the stair.

At a glance, it seems Ilde hasn't been up to much: a couple games of pool, nothing else noteworthy. It's the lack of activity that's meaningful. She's still not drinking and she hasn't been outside. At this distance he can't be completely certain, but the trace of men's cologne (Ivan's) that has followed Ilde lately seems to remain present. Her nail polish is behaving itself, though.

One could leap to conclusions, but that would be foolish.

[rhinemaid]

“Curiosity.” Her laugh is watery as ever, that unusual sound that one becomes accustomed to; she presses her hand to her sternum, briefly, like she's reminding herself where the sound comes from. “Have you seen anyone interesting?” A beat. “Besides me.”

Which is a little more on-point playful. Yes; good.

[diogenesis]

That earns a subdued smile. It's good to hear a joke out of her. He does worry. (Lately he's begun to wonder if he might crave this kind of worry, the filial kind—an uncomfortable comfort zone.)

“There are a few noteworthy individuals present, yes,” he says. “Unfortunately, they're of interest primarily for business reasons, which I realize can be the most tedious kind of interest. Perhaps you've run into someone more worthy of our conversation?”