Anna is over-dressed for the place -- she wouldn't dream of being anything else -- but notably unbothered by the grime; god only knew it was no worse than some of the joints that had thought to compete with Doyle's speakeasy, back in Chicago.
Still, she can't help but be ever so slightly irked that someone as influential as Nuala claims Réjean to be couldn't be bothered to find someplace where at least her shoes wouldn't make that unpleasant sticking noise as she walked. In a moment of defiance, she pulls at the world around her, willing it to worship her.
That has to be him, in the far booth. Anna walks over (a bit of a sashay, really; she can't help herself) and slides in across from him, crossing her ankles in a fluid completion of the movement.
"Réjean Sept-Heure, I presume?" Her voice has the subtle inflection of someone who has trained herself out of an accent.
no subject
Still, she can't help but be ever so slightly irked that someone as influential as Nuala claims Réjean to be couldn't be bothered to find someplace where at least her shoes wouldn't make that unpleasant sticking noise as she walked. In a moment of defiance, she pulls at the world around her, willing it to worship her.
That has to be him, in the far booth. Anna walks over (a bit of a sashay, really; she can't help herself) and slides in across from him, crossing her ankles in a fluid completion of the movement.
"Réjean Sept-Heure, I presume?" Her voice has the subtle inflection of someone who has trained herself out of an accent.