Smoke billowed and curled, smelling of tobacco and alcohol, tingling with traces of magic. The smoke had no place to dissipate in the enclosed space of the speakeasy, merely wafting into a film that hung in the air. It made everything seem hazy, like a dream. And it was just as well. The Blind Pig was a haven for people best kept in veneers of smoke and shadow, a place where one wasn’t meant to look too closely or pay too close an attention. And if you did discern something or recall someone there, it was best to pretend it had all been a dream.
For Fanny, that was one of the alluring draws of The Blind Pig. What happened in these walls stayed inside. She needed that. She was still smarting over her unceremonious retirement from public service, caught and devoured in the web of politics that she herself had spun over the years. It was just that she always thought she was the spider, never imagining to become a fly.
She kept a low profile since her announcement, trying to mitigate the swirl of rumours that were as thick and hazy as the smoke-filled air she breathed. She spent the first week of being a private citizen mostly under covers, snuggled with a bottle of gin or a peculiar vial of odd potions. But Fanny wasn’t one to stay down. She was going to claw herself back up to the top, and already had her plans set in motion. In the meantime, she figured a change of scenery would do her good, and The Blind Pig was a comforting draw.
She was behind the bar, having grown used to her way in the speakeasy. Mikey was at the barman that night, and while she tolerated his weak cocktails the first few rounds, Fanny was becoming irritable at the fact that it was eleven at night and she was still sober as a convent nun. She scooted Mikey to go serve the other patrons while she busied herself with the spirits and liqueur, pausing to mutter arcane spells while her hands traced odd patterns in the air, marking the work of Alchemy.
The end result was a shaker full of an odd, iridescent liquid, which pulsed a soft glow through the lid. She strained the mixture into three brandy sifters. Despite being filled from the same mix, each sifted contained a liquid a few shades darker that the one next to it, each subtly shifting colour with every intermittent pulse. A curious patron had come over to ask what those drinks were, and Fanny arched a brow.
‘Oh honey, if you have to ask, you shouldn’t have one. Go back to Mikey and sip your fruit juice. Grown people on this side of the bar only, okay?’ Fanny shooed her away like some gadfly, bored and irritated at the other woman's presence. She looked lazily around the room, looking at the other patrons but not really caring who was actually there. They were just background noise, things to look at when you had nothing better to do.
There was supposed to be a burlesque show that night, but it wouldn’t start for another hour. Plus, Fanny wasn’t going to watch it feeling sober. Burlesque night was always best when you couldn’t remember what happened the next morning. It did away with silly things like guilt and regret, or fear of picking up something or someone unpleasant.
Fanny took the first of three sifters and took a sip. Immediately her brown eyes flashed gold, and she was frozen for a few seconds. When she broke out of her mini trance, Fanny finally allowed herself to smile. Now her night was getting good! She scanned the room again, making out a particular face. She took another sip, froze, and reanimated. She leaned against the bar, one arm resting on the counter, the other combing at her silky hair.
‘Hey Luc! Come entertain an actual lady for once.’
@Luc Bastien 
