The Shape of Things to Come --{Ira}--

Ivan stepped into the main hall of Zimapokrova and began pulling his gloves and scarf off.  He handed them and his coat to the hall servant with a nod and took to the stairs, hopping lithely up them, not quite able to hide the urgency in his gait.  He had good news.  Wonderful news, actually.  Future-altering news and Lev had given him permission to finally let Ira in on the ‘plan’. 

It had been in discussion for the last week or so between he and his father, but he imagined Lev had been pondering the idea for longer.  Mavros Monopṓlion was suddenly in the business for a new investment firm that Ivan had practically run to his father’s office with the news.  Of course, the old man already knew, but they had spoken long about the possibilities.  And now the head of the industry himself, Antonio (or Tony as he was known in the business) Mavros had discussed a possible arrangement with the Ilyins. 

He skipped the last step and made his way to Ira’s room.  He felt positively euphoric.  If Ilyin Investments could get their hands on Mavros and its affiliates… the very thought almost made him salivate.  If they thought they were rich now, they knew nothing of the wealth of the Mavros industry had – the wealth that was now just waiting to be tapped. For months they’d been without an investment group and Ivan knew that it must be hurting them.  Rivers of gold that were constantly flowing with little ebb were suddenly running dry.  There were markets out there that the greedy and successful Mavros were itching to get their fingers into, and they needed help.  He, Lev and the other board members had been concerned that they would go internal, and then all would be lost.  And why wouldn’t they?  After the scandal they’d had with their ex-investing partners, it was a wonder they were coming back into the market after all.  But Ivan wasn’t going to question a miracle.  It seems old Tony Mavros needed investing as much as investing needed him… and his money.  Securing their business (and keeping it) would drive the Ilyin’s to success – it would make them filthy fucking rich. 

The last few days, Ilyin Investments had been courting Tony Mavros, pulling out all the stops and doing everything they could to seduce that Greek tight-ass.  To be completely fair, the man was an enterprise genius – a tycoon in his field.  If he had the time to do his own investments, surely he wouldn’t need a firm to do it for him, but he didn’t have the time, and none of his children seemed remotely interested in helping the business tyrant with his burden, which was damned fine with Ivan.  The courting was going perfectly; Ivan and Lev were both working their ass off between dinners, expensive gifts, figures and the conversation – oh the conversation!  Ivan believed that if nothing else, Tony would want to do business with Lev because the two were like oil and vinegar, different enough that they didn’t seem to mesh on the surface but made a fantastic combination.  Antonio was a short yet robust man, compared to Lev’s lean height.  Tony was dark, sarcastic and crude, while Lev was clean, polite and blunt.  Both were witty and business talk seemed to always deviate to old anecdotes of times past and proverbial battlefields conquered.  Tony loved conquest, that was no secret; he liked to dominate everything, from business to women and Lev intended to capitalize on that.  The whole ordeal was like a game of chess, or better yet a dance.  The two would offer, counteroffer, argue, debate, laugh, plan and hypothesize.  There was enough tension in the air when they met that Ivan sometimes didn’t think he could handle it, but he was there right alongside his father, verbally jousting with Tony and his business advisors. 

Tony had to admit that the Ilyin’s knew what they were doing, but something was keeping him from sealing the deal and it wasn’t until just this morning that both Lev and Ivan found out exactly what it was.  Tony’s oldest son, Kristoff Mavros, a widower and heir to the empire had just announced that he was planning to ‘move on’ after his wife’s death (untimely as it was). Both Lev and Ivan took this to mean exactly what it did.  Kristoff was looking for a wife, which really meant that Tony was looking for more than one type of partnership with the Ilyins.  Tony was advancing his pieces.  He had made his move and was waiting for the Ilyin’s to respond with theirs.

And that was where Iraida came in.

Tony was surely no fool, Ivan had said.  He and Lev were discussing how to respond to this subtle proposition.  It was time to crawl into bed with the Mavros, in more than one way.  It was likely Tony would take their business over others, but it was no secret that Mavros was still observing the investment market.  If the Ilyin’s wanted to guarantee his business, they had to jump on this opportunity and they had to do it now. 

Lev worried it was too subtle.  He considered bringing it up on conversation with Tony, bringing Ira forward as another perk to doing business with them, but Ivan protested. Tony hadn’t brought Kristoff to a single meeting.  It was clear Tony wanted them to play his subtle game.  Drawing it out and making it a sure thing would only spoil it.  It had taken an hour of sound arguing, but in the end, Lev agreed.  Ivan had yet to let him down and he was trusting him with this.  Ivan knew that if they lost Mavros, it would likely be his head own on a platter.  He couldn’t let his father down, and now, Ira couldn’t let either of them down. 

He walked the distance to her bedroom and knocked lightly on the door.  He imagined she was home.  It was just past four in the afternoon, and Ira was likely preparing for dinner. 

Loath to be idle, Iraida Lvovna Ilyina was careful to keep herself occupied throughout all hours of the day.  Managing her daily activities was something of an artform to her; at times, it was difficult maintaining the careful balance that allowed her to feel productive without becoming frazzled.  Her time at Durmstrang had instilled her with a predilection for a strict daily schedule.  As such, preparation for dinner began in the early afternoon.  The evenings were easily the most eventful part of the day, and it was important that she looked her best.  Dinner was much less about eating than it was about making an appearance.

On days when they had no formal events to attend, and had not otherwise been invited out, the Ilyins would dine at Zimapokrova.  It was not uncommon for several important guests – business associates, family friends – to be in attendance.  But even when it was just the four of them (for Inna was away at school), it was never a small affair.  The Ilyins did nothing sparingly.  The dining room would be dressed elegantly, and the food would be laid out on fine silver platters and served by the house staff.  It was all part of the routine.  There was no leniency in the expectation for good behavior, no lapse in the observation of propriety.  And yet, it felt like a night off.

Still, Ira would have much preferred a night out.  She could only listen to so much of her mother’s trivial observations, or her father and brother’s wearisome discussions, which were often full of business terminology that she didn’t understand.  It was all terribly dull to her.  She would have rather spent the evening in the company of society’s finest, dancing with eligible bachelors and catching up on the latest gossip.  Ira lived to parade around in elegant gowns and sip champagne while discussing who had done what shameful, scandalous thing.  She herself was never the subject of such conversation.  As a matter of fact, she quite fancied herself as an object of admiration to her societal peers.  As a member of one of the most prominent families, with beauty and charm on her side, she considered herself one of the most enviable young ladies among the upper class.  And while arrogance wasn’t exactly a virtue, she had a lot to be proud of.  She was an Ilyin, after all.

Maintaining that kind of image wasn’t easy, but one of the great ironies of her lifetime was that nobody would ever appreciate just how hard she worked at it.  Effortlessness was the single most admirable quality when it came to being a beautiful, wealthy young woman in society.  It vexed her that, while her brother was praised for being so hard-working at what he did, Ira was forced to pretend she never lifted a finger to improve herself.  It was as if all the time and energy she spent on working towards perfection was something to be ashamed of, when, really, they ought to have congratulated her for how successful she was at what she did.  But that was simply the reality of her situation, the hand she’d been dealt in life.  Both she and Ivan had their parts to play, and this was hers.

As she peered into the vanity mirror, Ira set to work on making herself presentable.  With the help of Agata Olegovna, she had set her hair into gentle waves that fell down around her shoulders.  The dress she had selected for the evening was a simple black shift that was dangerously comfortable.  Constricting, uncomfortable clothing was always preferable, for it forced her to maintain good posture and stopped her from eating too much.  But the dress featured lovely lace accents that she adored, and she hadn’t yet had the opportunity to wear it.  She would just have to take care to be especially mindful of her behavior tonight.

While the nursemaid put the finishing touches on her hair, Ira began applying her make-up.  The two worked with a practiced cooperation, speaking very little, and the silence was not uncomfortable.  They had been doing this for too long to be bothered by that sort of thing.  Although Ira didn’t realize it, Agata Olegovna filled the role of parent more than either Lev or Dariya ever had.  She had been with Ira since her infancy, and had played a large part in her upbringing.  Strict yet nurturing, Agata Olegovna loved the three Ilyin children as if they were her own, but there was an undeniable distance between them that would never be breached.  She was a servant, and neither of them ever forgot that.

A quiet knock on the door interrupted the silence and caused the two women to exchange a quick glance.  Who could it be at this hour?  Her mother certainly wouldn’t have bothered with knocking, and her father and brother were still away at work.  Wordlessly, Agata Olegovna turned to answer the door.  Ira’s eyes flicked up to his reflection in the vanity mirror, surprised to find her brother standing in the doorway, but she continued to powder her face with a mild expression.  It was unusual for him to come directly to her door like this.  Something must have happened.  “Hello, Vanya.  You’re home early,” she remarked without turning around to face him.  Setting the powder brush aside, she shifted her gaze back at her own reflection, smoothing a flyaway hair into place.
 
 

“Hello, Agata Olegovna,” Ivan said as he smiled down at the old woman.  Agata Olegovna had been his true caretaker for as long as he could remember.  She had a very special place reserved in his heart for her, a place where not even his parents’ love could penetrate.  “Could you give us a moment?” he asked, and she responded with a wide smile and a nod.  The small woman patted him on the chest and stepped out, puttering down the hallway to her chambers.  Ivan stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him.  Typically, he didn’t think closing the door would be necessary, and in fact, closing himself in her bedroom, felt a little odd, and surely no one would possibly overhear him that shouldn’t, but he did it anyway.

He turned toward her and forced himself himself to regain a certain level of calmness. He stepped into the room, looking about it briefly.  Her room was smaller than his, but only slightly.  He’d always liked its décor.  It was feminine but not overwhelming.  It also always smelled nice in this room.  He stood a few paces behind her vanity chair and observed her reflection, folding his arms and leaning against one of her bedposts. 

“You look nice,” he said, tilting his head in a way that communicated ‘as always’. 

As he dismissed Agata Olegovna and closed the door behind her, Ira’s curiosity piqued.  It was very unusual behavior indeed.  She watched his reflection as he turned to face her, looking about the room briefly as if unused to its surroundings.  Ira had redecorated since he had seen it last and wondered if he noticed.  It was amusing to see him surrounded by the soft colours of her room, looking utterly out-of-place and possibly a bit uncomfortable.  This room, after all, was her territory, and one of very few places in the entire world in which her authority was greater than his.  And although his visit was possibly the high point of her day so far, she maintained her bored and slightly condescending expression rather easily.

He had always been the favourite, and a part of her hated him for it.  It would be lying to say she wasn’t jealous of the time he spent with their father, of the way his life and his purpose seemed to hold so much more value than hers.  They may have grown up in the same house, but their lives were completely different.  She couldn’t remember a time without the that distinction; it had always been there, even when they’d played together as children.  It didn’t bother her as much now as it had then.  And although she didn’t often show it, a part of her did love him and was proud to call him her brother.  Even if he did vex her more than most people.

Ira lowered her eyes at the compliment, as if he was suddenly exceptionally less-interesting than her current task.  But, as she reached for her favourite lip colour, something akin to triumph flashed across her features.  She valued these little compliments more than she ever intended to let on.  “And you look like you want something,” she accused in a lazy tone as she unclasped the lid from the tiny jar.  Setting it out in front of her, she reached next for the slender black brush, looking up at him expectantly.
 
 

If you only knew, thought Ivan, but he merely raised his eyebrows at his sister’s reflection.  He paused before speaking, carefully considering his words.  He knew that this bothered her, impatient as she was.  She was like him.  He couldn’t stand not knowing something that someone else knew.  It drove him mad to think that someone had a secret – to be on the verge of knowing vital information that they were taking their sweet time divulging.  He knew it was quite bothersome to her, but he did it anyway. 

“Perhaps,” he said. He eyed her reflection once more, trying to gauge her train of thought – performing a simple check of his sister’s intellectual temperature.  He decided that he didn’t want Ira to underestimate the gravity of the situation, as she sometimes tended to do.  Ira, Ivan had come to understand, lived in her own little, perfect, undisturbed ecosystem.  Everything had a balance, an order and she had an uncanny ability to not take notice of the world around her.  The disgusting parts of it, anyway.  He didn’t want to risk pitching this idea, getting her along for the ride and having her trounce it because she wasn’t taking it seriously.  He knew, of course, that with Ira, as long as he was straightforward, serious and abandoned his usual sarcasm, she would understand. 

“I do need something.  No,” he held up a hand to correct himself.  “We, the Ilyins, need something.  And right now, we need you to deliver.” 

Growing impatient, Ira’s lips pursed slightly as she waited for him to explain.  She didn’t appreciate his reluctance, or contemplation or whatever it was.  Either he was trying to get a rise out of her, or it was something very important, and neither of these possibilities did much to put her at ease.

Finally, he started going off about her duty to her family and Ira rolled her eyes.  “Is it necessary to be so dramatic?” she asked, her polite tone gently exaggerated, but enough that he would surely be able to detect her sarcasm.  She looked away from him again, leaning in a bit closer to her reflection as she began to paint colour onto her lips.  Her hand moved deftly, working efficiently and elegantly to complete its task, while her dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she considered what her brother had said.

As he’d just come from the office, Ira guessed it had something to do with work.  Probably a client.  Yes, that must be it.  She guessed they would be having an unexpected guest at dinner tonight – somebody important, if he’d come all the way up to her bedroom just to ask her for a favor.  Ira assumed Ivan wanted her to entertain some wealthy businessman – or cozy up to his wife, if he wasn’t a bachelor – and do her part to charm him into trusting the Ilyins with his finances.
 
 

Ivan held up a hand to her, gesturing with his finger as if to say ‘one moment’.  He appreciated her remark, because certainly she’d be eating her words in a moment.  Good thing for Ira, she always made sure her words were sweet.  Smirking, he dropped his hand and brought them both together, fingertips touching as though he was plotting.

“Does the name Mavros mean anything to you?”  It probably wouldn’t, but when she said ‘no’, this would allow him to embellish the wealthy, Greek family properly.  This, in turn, would make his marriage proposal to her, on behalf of Kristoff Mavros, that much more impactful.