→ take me to wonderland.

[thedominatrix]

Who: Irene & guests.
What: Birthday drinks.
Where: Syriac Well.
When: 24th Shadri.
Notes: An outfit.

Birthdays are busy when you maintain a variety of different social circles. There's the enormous, lavish, exclusive party she throws, where she stays stone cold sober and pushes drinks on everyone else, to fascinating results- there are numerous private one on one dinners for the people who all need to feel like they're her favourite, like they're getting the special treatment, poor things, and that's almost fun just because of how dishonest it is except the boredom tends to negate that. But then there's this, which is play and not work, Irene inviting people because she likes them rather than because they need to feel invited, and because when she likes people she has to insert herself into their lives and demand as much of their attention as possible.

The surroundings are incredibly sumptuous, of course, stirred by a slight breeze from the open balcony doors. The atmosphere is intimate, private, slightly heady and unreal, urged on by some excellent wine (far from the only thing on offer, of course, but particularly notable) and Irene's languid charm, her usual society persona toned down ever so slightly as if to say well, you all know the truth, which is a very insidious sort of lie that she can still have fun telling. She's being very attentive to her guests- an uncharitable observer might suggest, in fact, that she pounces on them as they arrive.

But they wouldn't get an invite.

Comments

[heardmermaids]

Assuming he survives the evening, Sebastian makes a mental note to be grateful for this time with the Malfoys. He's reasonably sure that without their comparatively constant companionship for the last year and a half, he'd be uncomfortably nervous about this evening. As it is, he's a little fluttery, but is sure that the gift he brought will be amusing enough to please and distract without bringing too much attention on his head.

In one hand, he holds a thin, softcover book wrapped in plain, but good quality paper.

[thedominatrix]

"Hullo, dear."

Well done, those Malfoys; Irene's quite impressed by how he's holding up. This might be a surprise, considering the fact that she does rather enjoy taking people out of their comfort zone- but then she likes watching people manage to find their feet, it's heartwarming.

"Well, now. Can I offer a drink?" She grins at him, and grins at the present in his hand, sly and wicked. "What've you got for me- is it rude to ask, or charmingly direct, in your opinion? People can be so funny about presents."

There's a glow emanating from the balcony doors; Irene had considered candles, but Beatrice is somehow more stylish- and she'd been struck by the strange idea that the snake might enjoy showing off.

(She rolled her eyes at herself when the thought occured to her, but Beatrice actually seems to be proving her right; she winds in shining circles when approached).

[heardmermaids]

"Hullo," he replies with a bright smile for her and then another for Beatrice. While she may be just a construct, Sebastian is pleased to see that she's doing so well and shows signs of adapting to her owner's personality.

"I'll go with necessary, because it comes with instructions that I suspect you won't want others to hear." Under the paper is a plain, used copy of Shakespeare's sonnets with a simple, uninspired dedication on the flyleaf. The cover is nice enough looking that it wouldn't be entirely out of place among Irene's belongings, but there's an odd sense of disuse to it. If one didn't intend to pick it up, it's quite possible that the eye would just slide right over it.

[thedominatrix]

"Oh?" That's drawn out as Irene slowly unfolds the paper, eyebrows up and smile eager. She runs her hand over the cover of the book, looking at it with great interest for a moment before returning her gaze to him, her curiosity obviously piqued.

"You are a secretive one. Go on," she says, her voice a low, excited murmur.

[rhinemaid]

Ilde is among the first to arrive, in black and gold and carrying a small black box tied with gold ribbon because the effort it would've taken to resist matching gift to outfit would have also involved going out and buying different ribbon, when she already had this gold one at home. The gift itself is something she's slightly anxious about; she thinks Irene will appreciate it, but she's never given Irene a present before, how can she know? Maybe it's too sentimental, for all its artistic value, and she should've just--

Well, she's here, anyway, so it's a bit late to flee and buy something else.

“Happy birthday,” she says, beaming.

[thedominatrix]

Matching wrapping to outfit seems perfectly sensible in Irene's opinion, and really, she'd be far more surprised if Ilde hadn't.

"It had better be. You're a darling- and you look fabulous," she adds- Ilde gets a hug and a very careful air kiss to the cheek (no point in getting lipstick all over her). She means it, even though it sounds like something easy to bat around without any significance, a social nicety; she's always liked Ilde's aesthetic- and that's an important thing in friendship. Yes?

[rhinemaid]

Silk-organza and Ilde go together like wine and bad decisions - frequently at the same time, although not tonight, not when she's waiting on news. Over the past few weeks she's discovered that social niceties are significantly more challenging without the wine, and there is a certain element of terribly earnest fluster about her manner that she'd ordinarily fix just that way.

A hug helps, in its place; a little affection has always gone a (worryingly) long way with her.

“Thank you! I was aiming for fabulous, I thought it'd be nice to complement you.” See how smoothly she made that into a compliment for Irene. Clearly she is fine at socializing sober. “I brought you this,” she adds, offering the box when they separate again. “Should I put it somewhere or do you want to open it?”

[thedominatrix]

Very smoothly. Irene accepts the compliment ("Sweet talker.") and accepts the box, adding, with a wry smile, "Gosh, you must think I'm much more patient than I am if you're giving me the choice."

She unties the ribbon carefully, and opens the box with very delicate movements, a glint in her eyes that is entirely real- she loves presents, both for the simple materialistic pleasure of new things and what they reveal about the giver, the receiver, the relationship.

[asklepios]

Having not actually bothered to notify Irene she intended to show up, Benevenuta-- shows up, in an outfit that's more about the accessories than the dress; namely the pendant that she'd acquired from Irene's own collection when they first met, being not oblivious to how much she seems to like the idea of Benevenuta in her things. Aside from being pounced on, she's a relatively unassuming arrival and indeed guest; habit.

The gift she's brought is slightly experimental, and her first concern is finding somewhere to put it that it won't get wrecked before Irene has the opportunity to properly enjoy it - a miniature tiered cake, topped off with a very carefully crafted marzipan Louboutin, complete with red sole, a detailed small replica of a shoe Benevenuta remembers seeing Irene wear. The cake itself is red velvet, iced black, and it took her hours to get right.

[thedominatrix]

Irene is actually not sure anyone's baked her a cake before. It's not really what happens in the social circles she usually moves in, and not something she was expecting at all. She never lets herself get knocked too much off-balance in any kind of social situation, but the cake makes her forget the greeting that was on the tip of her tongue.

"Oh my God," she says instead, actually laughing- delighted. "Here, come into the kitchen a moment, quickly so no one sees and gets jealous. Oh, it's beautiful."

[asklepios]

Benevenuta has even gone to the trouble of a glass dome cover over the display plate, so it's all a bit charmingly over the top - she'd found the glass at an antiques dealer in Aspic, and the small bulb-handle at the top is intricately decorated. She'd held it and her clutch on her knees in the carriage over, utterly determined not to let anything slide or break in the process.

Putting it down on the kitchen bench is actually sort of a relief-- “I was hoping to give you something, ah, unique? I hope you like red velvet.”

[thedominatrix]

"Love it," Irene assures her- true. There isn't a type of cake Irene doesn't approve of, really. And even if she didn't like it, she'd enjoy the fact that Vanessza-Benevenuta made it- whether that's sentimentality or ego is entirely up for debate. "I don't think anyone's made me a cake before- though I promise you've already made an impression."

A wicked grin and, as if to say for example-- "Nice necklace."

[diogenesis]

Mycroft arrives like clockwork precisely at 9, dressed in grey and gold and accompanied by Alan Shore.

It's unusual for Mycroft to go anywhere with company—he keeps very tight schedules and can't abide the unpredictability that traveling with others often involves—but he'd decided to try it this time, since ignoring the fact that Flyside was directly on his way to Syriac Well would have made no sense. In the end, any worries he might have had were rendered moot as Alan proved to be both on-time and, as ever, pleasant company.

Entering Irene's flat brings with it an instant curiosity. This is a place that's been closed to him for some time, now, and although no one plays the waiting game like Mycroft Holmes, he's not above feeling pleased and even excited when an opportunity to learn something new finally presents itself. It's a kind of thrill he knows Irene also enjoys, a fact that had been on his mind when he'd finally settled on a suitable gift.

Speaking of the gift, it's nowhere to be seen.

[thedominatrix]

"Oh, hello," Irene says, sounding positively rapturous- her usual promise that there's absolutely no one in the world she'd rather see than the people right in front of her. It's all so overdone that on someone else it might be embarrassingly false, tawdry even, but when she does it it works. It might be because of what lurks beneath the surface of everything she does, something predatory; it makes everything seem more real- or at least more interesting.

"Don't you look dashing- both of you."

She's got a glass of wine in her hand, and her expression suggests that she rather thinks Alan Shore would go well with it. "Mr Shore. Gosh, just look at you. What an thrill to finally meet you with all your clothes on." A glance to Mycroft, eyes wide and innocent, expression who me over her wine glass, soft and flattered--

"Though honestly, you needn't have wrapped him."

[alan_shore]

For Alan, the thrill (as if there's one, as if the evening can withstand only that solitary frisson) is in Mycroft's treating, suddenly, the world outside his library as something more than mere inconvenience. It's in arriving, with Mycroft's vaguely maniacal punctuality, at a party of all places, and in the illusive luster the word “date” (a word he's danced not around but with, as assiduous a two-step as ever there was) casts over the excursion.

Which isn't to say the woman of the hour's appearance doesn't inspire a certain anticipatory excitement; nor is it to say Alan shies from flattery at the ever-capable hands of an expert. He breaks off smiling to adopt, fleetingly, an expression of mock-chagrin at his fully clothed state, and goes on to watch, with a blend of interest and undisguised amusement that's the closest he'll come to approval, something pass between his two companions.

"It removed the temptation to play with me on the way over,” he says, his innocence false and raffish as a gold tooth. He looks—in the event there was any doubt—unspeakably pleased with himself.

[diogenesis]

Mycroft is in the middle of nodding and smiling with droll sarcasm in response to Irene's teasing when Alan decides to add his own commentary. Like an interrupted circuit, the flow of Mycroft's nonverbal dialogue is stopped short; his eyes flick over to the lawyer in two stuttering, surprised movements, as though he's not quite sure from whom the quip originated.

There's a quick, bright swirl of reactive thought upon hearing the words—a brief vision of Alan's face, relaxed and healthy, every detail burning so real (every color, every eyelash, the sound of his voice)—which momentarily flavors Mycroft's expression with a subdued (but honest) kind of astonishment. He's shortly transforming that astonishment into something perceptibly facetious in order to play along with the joke, and the transformation is smooth enough that in most other company it would go completely unnoticed.

He's aware, of course, that Irene and Alan are far from 'most other company'.

“Putting aside how tempting Mr. Shore may or may not be,” he says, allowing himself to remain vaguely scandalized, “he is unfortunately not your gift, Ms. Adler.”

[heardmermaids]

Once the party is underway and Sebastian has paid Ms Adler her fair share of attention, he follows through with his promise and goes to check up on Beatrice - the lightsnake he made for her one late night in a diner. He'd cast the containment spell in a fairly haphazard manner and while he's confident the construct is settling in well, it's only polite and proper to make sure that she's truly comfortable. (If an image created from breath and light can truly be said to ever really 'be' much of anything.)

It's a simple gesture and a couple of hissed words that allow Beatrice climb out of her glass and wind up and around his wrist.

[diogenesis]

When Mycroft makes his way out onto the balcony, he lets his steps fall a bit more heavily than he normally would. Sebastian hasn't brought Velcro with him, and that shows a certain level of comfort and confidence, but there's no need to be careless.

He's been curious about the snakelike being since he arrived; the fact that Sebastian is now in its immediate vicinity can only be considered convenience, since speaking to the young wizard has also been on his to-do list. As he approaches, he sees the other man say something—and in this case, the seeing absolutely reinforces the believing. If he hadn't watched LeMat's lips move, he'd have thought the sound came from the snake.

Very curious.

Once he's sure Sebastian must know he's watching, Mycroft speaks. “Is that a language?”

[heardmermaids]

Sebastian appreciates Mycroft's effort to be heard and there's no outburst of concern as he approaches. In general, he's been doing better about moving in public without needing Velcro always at his side - whether its just time that's helped heal him or the confidence that's returning alongside his magic is still up for debate.

"Parseltongue, yes. It's a way to talk to all snakes, but I can't tell you how it works because I don't really know." He's spent some time thinking about it, because he's sure that not all snakes are sentient and able to hold a conversation, but they seem able to when he speaks to them. Perhaps the magic of being a Parselmouth is that you can 'loan' out a bit of consciousness? "If you keep your hands cupped together, you can hold her?"

[diogenesis]

It's not that Mycroft hadn't noticed it the first time he'd seen her tonight. But each of them had other conversations to attend to first, and there'd been no reason to throw off the rhythm of either of their social interactions. Things should segue into each other properly, after all. Order in chaos.

When the proper time arrives, Vannesza Bernát is refreshing her drink and Mycroft has just finished his own. He joins her by the table that's been designated for wine, examining the bottles in the interest of trying something different (hasn't that been happening rather often lately) before letting his eyes slide over to her.

“That necklace is lovely,” he says.

[asklepios]

Benevenuta glances at him as she straightens with her glass, then settles into eye contact, smiling, once she's comfortable. Order; she likes order, too, neat things. Putting them all neatly in their place. “It is a gift of my own,” she says, touching the edge of it, allowing a hint of affection into her softening manner. “For services rendered.”

To the untrained ear, she sounds 'probably French'; the more experienced listener might realize that what it mixes with is a Hungarian accent, lingering when she speaks both French and English and not a terribly large leap to make with her surname. To the very experienced listener, on the other hand, there's something slightly off about the way that she speaks - something else about it, hard to define or put one's finger on, unidentifiable but persistently not quite aligned. About the only thing that can be absolutely sworn to beyond a shadow of doubt is that her native language couldn't be English, though the care she takes with her thoughts - the considered, unhurried way she approaches conversation - seems as if it'd be the same regardless of language, a quirk of her own and not necessarily tied to being ESL.

Scrupulously polite, on that note, she offers him her hand: “Dr Vanessza Bernát.”

[diogenesis]

Meeting Dr. Bernát in person certainly doesn't do anything to solve the mystery of her accent. Mycroft had begun to notice its inconsistencies when he'd first come across her Network posts, and no matter how many times he'd replayed them, he'd been unable to place every lingual component. It would be easy to put her in the same category as Martel—someone not from Earth, with an accent and language that are eerily similar—but she speaks French and has mentioned living in Paris. Perhaps she's from a different version of Earth? (That much must be certain.)

Five months in this place, and he still feels like all his knowledge no longer has a foundation.

(Put it aside.)

He takes her hand with equal politeness, pleased by the traditional manners if not by the touch. “Mycroft Holmes.”

His mildly pleasant expression changes a bit around the eyes, then, into something more acute. “If Ms. Adler is giving you gifts for your services, you must be quite talented.”

[selfmadman]

Don turns up about the time you'd stop waiting, as evening starts to ferment. His suit deep blue sinking into black, his appearance sharp and spare as a knife's tip. All night he'll seem to go untouched by the breeze.

The room is legible at a glance, elegant scrawl read with bemused appreciation: Irene Adler's apartment doesn't let you forget it's Irene Adler's apartment. He looks around, picks out faces from the network.

He smells of cigarettes. He's empty handed.

[thedominatrix]

Irene has a glass in her hand, amber liquid catching the light; that her immediate response to his arrival is to ply him with something alcoholic can be interpreted in numerous ways, none of which reflect well on either of them. Regardless, she offers it.

"Are you fashionably late," she murmurs- it takes her mere seconds to be close enough to murmur- "or was your decision to arrive as last minute as your actual arrival?"

[selfmadman]

He takes the drink as he might the hand of a woman he's asked to dance. Eyes on Irene, an indolent gratitude inflecting his features.

“It's your party,” he says, shrugging out of the question. “Fashionable or impulsive—take your pick, Miss Adler.”

He looks at her directly just then.