what one requires is good staff.

[pridegoesbefore.livejournal.com]

Who: Narcissa Black and anyone who feels like it
What: A place of her own, finally
Where: Syriac Well
When: About a week after the celebration at The Apache
Notes: Um.
Warnings: None?

A slightly unusual sight, but not for one of Narcissa's world (unless one knew Narcissa), there is a line of floating, dropcloth-covered items trailing neatly behind the elegant blonde as she walks confidently through the quiet streets of Syriac Well.

Not one to spurn an opportunity when she finds it, she's well aware that there were victims of this most recent... troubles whose symptoms developed to a more permanent status. In other words, there were several stately homes standing empty in this part of Baedal, and the judicious sale of the crowpearls she'd been hoarding had been enough to secure her ownership rights to one of the smaller manses on the Rue Sainte-Catherine. There was no need for a full manor house, but she'd had more than enough of the Inn, and cared not for the smaller apartment-style homes available.

Finding an agent of sale had been a little difficult, but a few words here and there located one she felt reasonably certain was reasonably honest, and after carefully checking the contract of sale and title, she was satisfied that this home was hers for the taking. All she had to do now was get the few new items of furniture arranged inside. Tables and chairs were one thing, but she flatly refused to sleep on a mattress someone had died on - and there were linens, tableware, a chaise... rather a lot for one person, really.

Comments

[pridegoesbefore.livejournal.com]

She's rather used to being the focal point of her group of friends, if not in an obvious way, and it's probably safe to say her attitude is borne of habit. Narcissa is well-bred and her society's equivalent of high born, and it shows in almost every nuance of her behaviour.

"Oh? A great harp, or a lap harp?" Over her shoulder as she leads the way out of the kitchen and towards the grand staircase. The room she'd found the piano in was well insulated with lovely acoustics, and she found it easier to simply leave it there... "it" being a grand piano in the traditional sense. "Here she is... and she's imported; her maker's mark is Pleyel."

Which might have convinced her to take this particular abandoned manse over any other; her own piano is a Pleyel.

[rhinemaid]

"A great harp," she says, as she approaches the instrument with a familiar eye. "Some of the pieces my father wrote for me just don't sound exactly right on instruments other than the ones they were meant for." Her own music lessons, once upon a time, were fairly memorable. Her father, for that matter, is a fairly memorable man; a good name and old money and forgiveable eccentricities. This is where Ilde came from, but the fact she makes note of the layout of the house and exit routes is a more recently learned habit and arguably more practical.

The piano looks a little like one she remembers from her terribly impractical home, on that note. "Is it badly out of tune?"