[mp] [draben] beautiful people, beautiful problems [genevieve]

Mayfair | October 2002

“Ah, Miss Bertinelli. Yes, Miss Grosvenor did sign you in, please, this way.”

The maître d' took Luciana’s cloak, revealing a figure-hugging, midi-length velvet wrap dress in deep emerald green, and took her into the club proper. The walls in the hall were lined with the portraits of ugly (obviously English) old men, who turned their noses up as she was led inside, heels clacking against the herringbone floor. The booths themselves also appeared to be filled predominantly with elderly men (one coughing rather vehemently as she passed), and the Italian found herself wondering why on earth Genevieve had picked this particular establishment to meet. Exclusivity, darling.

Luciana was presented to her host with British efficiency and politeness, and the younger witch got to her feet to greet her guest. “So good to see you again, Genevieve,” Luciana smiled warmly, kissing the younger brunette on each cheek delicately. As she pulled back, Lucia glanced over the Englishwoman’s outfit. “Bellissimo,” the smile shifted, a harsher sort of look coming over her expression; the slightest hint of jealousy. Younger, taller, slimmer. The elemental took her seat and pushed her thick, dark hair over her shoulders.

“It was so fortunate to bump into you this morning,” she lied, still smiling, as she was handed a wine list. Her hazel eyes scanned the page quickly and she turned to look at the other side – blank. She recoiled slightly, “Excuse me, I believe my menu has been misprinted,” she addressed the sommelier standing by – well, she presumed that was his position. One never really knew in these foreign establishments.

"That is the full list, ma’am."

“Oh.” Luciana blinked and read the list again (it didn’t take long). “The Marchesi Antinori Tignanello, then, per favore.” She handed the card back and glanced around the room. Draben was stuffier than the bars and restaurants Luciana was accustomed to back in Neroli, but it had its own sort of charm, she supposed. She would never admit as much to Genevieve, however, as that would be tantamount to praising the younger witch and her choices, and Luciana was only interested in giving Miss Grosvenor false compliments, if any at all. The things she could find to complain about, she was going to do so.

“They need more wines,” she said, not bothering to keep her voice down, “good, Italian wines. Most of that list was French, and they had a Californian wine on there. You ought to put in a complaint.”

“Anyway,” she folded her hands in her lap. “How have you been? It’s been a short while, hasn’t it?” Some months, at least, since they had last crossed paths. “According to your English papers, still chasing after Hefin Howell.” She rolled her eyes lightly, “Or have you decided to find yourself a – what do they call it? A sugar daddy? Not how I’d do it but even so, I thought you might pick someone a little closer to kicking the bucket and a little further from being thrown back in a prison cell. You can’t inherit while they’re still alive, you know.” She was teasing. Whether Genevieve knew it or not, Luciana knew more about @Gaius Purcell than the average Italian. Her father and the (former?) Death Eater had done business in the past. Enzo Bertinelli considered the man a ‘friend’, as much as one could be a friend with the mafia. Luciana wouldn’t pretend to know the man well, or at all – but she knew enough about him to wonder why the young witch across from her would dare to be seen in public with him.

“Tell me the truth, what was that all about? In Singapore.”

Genevieve had taken to entertaining at the Draben ever since she received her membership. The establishment seemed to cater to a particular crowd and was renowned for hosting distinguished but older Englishmen with a penchant for expensive whisky, cigars, and secretive conversation. Though it was in direct contrast to the chic, more modern bars the young witch often found herself at when looking for a man to bestow with her time, it was the very fact that it was so inordinately difficult to join and expensive that grabbed her attention.  Oh yes the clubs in London are all very well but have you ever been to the Draben? she would tell her friends with a fabricated look of curiosity on her face as if she did not know that none of their names were on the very limited list of members. It was all about showing off, exclusivity; being invited there was one thing but being an actual member meant something completely different, it showed status. It was with this intention that she took guests there, particularly those she could exhibit to.

By the time Luciana was finally presented to her, she was already finishing her first drink, a delightfully spicy whisky that made her feel warm, ideal for the particularly cold weather. She stood to her feet with a smile on her face, taking a quick look at the woman before her as if to size her up. “Likewise,” she responded in turn, greeting her companion with affection, though mostly for show, as if they had been lifelong friends meeting again after years of separation. Genevieve had always been particularly jealous of beautiful brunettes, especially when they wore figure-hugging clothing and made it look as if it has been practically painted on.

Nevertheless in her own burgundy dress, one that accentuated her elegant collarbone and tapered waist, Genevieve felt a vision on her own, only confirmed by the woman’s compliment. “I love this dress on you, it fits you perfectly, you’ll have to introduce me to this wonderful seamstress of yours,” she added. Of course, the young witch could only assume that it was made especially for her, Genevieve could not remember the last time she had purchased a dress and did not expect Luciana to ever have to do so. But one never knew what things were like in the Italian woman’s family.

“Yes, I wasn’t aware that you were in town, next time please do send an owl, I would have loved to have you for dinner. We’ve gotten a new chef and the pâtissier, he’s French,” she announced, perfectly enunciating the foreign word again, in an effort to show off. “The dessert he makes, absolutely divine,” she continued, looking at the exchange between the sommelier and Luciana with much interest but was amused by her response and could not help but to giggle at Luciana’s complaint.

“The Draben isn’t well—that sort of bar, darling, but it does have its own charm, very traditional and proper, very British as you probably noticed on your way in. I don’t think any of those…guests…would care for wine and the like. This is a whisky and cigar sort of place, you should try this whisky, it’s new and quite good,” she offered, pointing at her glass briefly as if to offer it to her.

However, it was obvious that the two young women would not focus their evenings on the merits of whisky or old British establishments. Instead, it was the Prophet, and the gossip that they had been publishing over the last month or two that was the topic of conversation. Genevieve could not help the amusement that tugged at her lips. “I’ve been well, I don’t think I’ve seen you since…I suppose right before the summer there was that one event, you look like you’re doing well,” she complimented again, never wanting to assume too much. “Ah yes, Singapore, what a great time that was. Well you know, Mr. Purcell and I have always had a very…intimate relationship,” she started. The word was meant to be used out of context; the last thing she wanted was for people to continue to assume that she was seeking Hefin Howell’s attention, no matter how true and how very obvious that was.

“I haven’t any need for a sugar daddy but he does teach me a great deal, and we find much pleasure in each other’s company,” she added. “Nothing out of the ordinary, I suppose,” she added as if to nonchalanty insinuate that there was nothing odd about it. In fact, it was a little thrilling to assume that he might help establish her reputation as a rebel. “But no, Hefin is great, lovely as usual, still quite handsome but with all those blondes,” she said wrinkling her nose at the thought, “all over him all the time it’s a bit…eh, I suppose like my aunt always says, men like the easy ones, at least for the fun bit,” she added. “And you? How have you been?”

The Italian smiled at the return compliment; she was assuming Genevieve was being sincere because Luciana knew how she looked in this dress – she’d worn it intentionally because she refused to be outdone by an Englishwoman. “Thank you. Of course.” Her smile shifted from genuine to fake, her eyes crinkling at the edges. Seamstress? These English and their ridiculous pomp and ceremony. What was wrong with buying a dress from a shop? Admittedly, Luciana preferred to buy her clothes from nicer-than-average stores, but she didn’t see the need to have things created from scratch. Regardless, she was sure Genevieve would never follow up on this request – it was something these society women said to solidify compliments.

“Oh, that would have been wonderful.” Luciana did love dessert – perhaps it was where those curves of hers had come from. “I shall be sure to send ahead next time.” Would she? Probably not, though a free dinner cooked by a French chef was not to be sniffed at. Maybe if she was desperate or due to dine alone. It really sort of depended if Evie was going to be spending more time with the sort of people even Luciana’s family didn’t really want to be associated to closely with.

The brunette’s jaw tensed at being referred to as ‘darling’. She forced a smile, “Yes, I did notice the proper old men on my way in.” Disgusting, with their beer bellies protruding through their waistcoats. She could still feel the inquisitive gaze of at least one such patron in their direction. Luciana had the loudest and least inoffensive accent in the place; she had been raised with money and power, but not on the same scale as the British so-called ‘elite’, or indeed not in the same style.  Things were different on the continent – and furthermore, different when your money and you power came from fear and extortion. Luciana didn’t know which fork to use first or have a seamstress, however, she was accustomed to being able to offer her opinions, wanted or not. Besides, everyone knew Italian wine was the best – it wasn’t like she was delivering some groundbreaking news.

Luciana eyed Genevieve’s whisky suspiciously. “I better stick with il vino,” she said politely, plastering another fake smile across her full lips, “next time, perhaps.”

She nodded demurely, “Grazie.” She had been doing well, though she was sure her dinner companion wasn’t really interested in the workings of Luciana’s family affairs, nor did Luciana desire to share them with someone she knew so extraneously.

The Italian leaned in ever so slightly, listening intently. Her doe eyes bulged when Genevieve described her relationship with Gaius Purcell as ‘intimate’. She was unable, and unwilling, to hide her distaste. Luci’s features contorted into mild disgust. She had seen this man, met him. He was charming in a slimy sort of way, but mostly she remembered that he was old. “Genevieve,” she began, pulling a sympathetic expression and placing her hand on the table between them in a gesture of trying to be friendly, “You could do so much better than a man… old enough to be your father.” Perhaps Evie had daddy issues, given the circumstances it seemed entirely probable. "Trust me, I know how they treat us," she confided, referring to men in general and how they expected pureblooded young women to marry the first eligible (or not so eligible) bachelor, "the world is changing, we don't have to be carted around like our mothers and grandmothers were."

That little moment over, Luciana drew back. Hefin was territory that she found much easier to wade through – she didn't hate the girl sat across the table from her, but she also didn't want to hold her hand and play friends. She sat back up straighter in her seat, in time for her wine to be brought to the table by their waiter. “You seem him often?” the brunette queried, wondering how far she could push the envelope – so to speak. “I’ve heard you exchange owls.” She was unable to hide her smirk as she lifted the glass to her lips, sipping politely.

“Fantastic,” she replied, a more genuine smile coming over her features now. “You really should come to Neroli some time, things are... improving. You’d certainly have somewhere to stay, not that you can’t afford it,” another knowing smile. “Maybe if you want to escape your dreary English winter you can come visit.”

Genevieve could not help the beguiled expression on her face; her eyes were twinkling with mirth as she leaned forward, resting her jaw on her arm, palm pressed firmly on the underside of her chin as she noticed how the woman reacted to her comments. It was apparent that the word proper had meant something entirely different from what the establishment might have thought of their guests. The Draben, after all, attracted the sort of company one would rarely desire to keep on an evening that was supposed to be entertaining. Nevertheless, Genevieve, having been raised in an environment where she was often expected to speak to these sorts, had grown accustomed to the lewd manner in which some of them looked upon her, their eyes dragging down her body like wandering hands she would never want close. Something that should have been demeaning had somehow transformed itself into feelings of empowerment. Not only was she a sight to behold but she had been accepted on, what she believed to be, her ability to keep up with the sort of conversation that happened inside of the smoky walls of the establishment.

Nevertheless, she had to admit that even though Luciana's company was certainly unexpected, it was not unwelcomed in this sort of environment. "Don't mind them, I can only assume that their wives at home are not nearly as fascinating as we are, goddesses in a room full of pigs," she giggled, dropping her voice just slightly as if she felt guilty for making such assumptions about the men in the room. Genevieve did not. Nodding politely at Luciana's rejection, Genevieve took another sip from the honeyed whisky, the sound of the ice clinking against the crystal glass pleasant against her ears. "Of course, I hope to one day convince you of the merits of a good whisky," she added with a charming smile, glancing over at the waiter as she set her glass down, expecting her to refill her glass immediately. It seemed that he, too, had been captivated by the brunette before her causing her to tighten her jaw just slightly at the realization that she was no longer the prettiest woman in the room. Of course, Luciana did not need to know of the sorts of angry feelings Genevieve experienced when she was not the center of attention. In her universe, she was the one and only center, after all. Placing her hands on the table, she forced a smile.

Before her inner thoughts became apparent to the woman before her, however, Genevieve allowed herself to laugh out loud at the way in which the woman looked at her with sympathy, Luciana's hands over her own in a symbol of what the young heiress believed to be the sort of fabricated friendship and goodwill expected of them. It was an exciting thing, the types of superficiality that they had been forced to acquire in place of substantial, meaningful relationships. "Men my age are simply such a bore, Luciana," she said, the tone of her voice rising and falling at an uneven pace; it was evident that she did not believe such words herself. "Of course, there's the fiancé, and I do have an occasional night here and here of fun however Mr. Purcell—well he's seen and done interesting things, he has so much to talk about apart from galas and recent purchases. Can you blame me for wanting to have a little interesting conversation every once and a while?" she asked, finally reaching for her glass once more. "My family is not expecting a marriage but were my father out of Azkaban, I'm certain he would say there is no better company that Mr. Purcell, I've known him since I was a child," she added, thinking little of how particularly harrowing that sentence was.

Her gaze became suspicious at the sudden mentioning of the exchanging of owls before the realization that Hefin probably shared such information with Luciana seemed like the obvious explanation. Though she was unsure of the sort of relationship the two shared, the thought that someone had seen such a personal (not particularly) message was slightly embarrassing. Waving it off, she smiled slightly, "We do not meet often, just when we are forced by social expectation," she said cryptically. Such was not true. "I must say that one does silly things when drunk, I blame the Limoncello, it's the culprit of many a terrible decision of mine," she continued.

"I've recently acquired a property in Capri for my birthday," she announced, eager to change the topic. "But I haven't had the pleasure of spending time in Neroli, so I would love to visit. Do tell, what brings you to dreary old England?"

A wicked smile spread across Luciana’s lips. She didn’t think Genevieve was wrong – if the wives of these gentlemen (if they could be called that) were more interesting, surely they would be home with them and not here.  “I should hope that, if I marry, he would rather my company than that of other men.”

She shrugged, eyeing the younger girl’s drink suspiciously. “Perhaps one day.” Luciana had tried whisky once, but had not liked it at all. The fact Genevieve did like it, this old man’s drink, made the Italian witch wonder if her English companion simply liked how it made her look – like one of the men. Luciana could understand that sentiment; she too craved to be accepted as an equal among her peers back home, but perhaps she was fortunate that Italian men preferred wine. Speaking of, the waiter returned at this moment and presented the red Luciana had selected to her. The brunette nodded, he poured, their eyes met, she smiled and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Thank you.”

Genevieve’s laughter caught Luciana off guard; her first thought was that Genevieve was brushing her off, that her advice was so ludicrous – or that she was stupid to think Genevieve would ever take advice from her. Turned out it was somewhere in the middle. The Italian took a long sip of her wine, keeping her eyes focused on her tablemate. She lowered the glass. “Well I can agree with that much,” she said. Men their age were a bore. Unreliable and too busy chasing their tails to capture her attention for long.

The fiancé. Luciana’s eyes widened slightly – she had forgotten, if she had ever known. The mafia daughter was hardly a welcome member of the social circles, what with where her money and status came from, so it wasn’t really a surprise when she was the last to hear of news and gossip. Perhaps it wasn’t even news; it could have been common knowledge for all she knew – obviously it hadn’t stopped the Englishwoman from exercising her single liberties. Before Luciana could ask about the man her ‘friend’ was going to be marrying, Genevieve had moved on to the old Death Eater.

“Conversation.” She looked at Genevieve suspiciously over her wine glass as she took another deep drink. The Italian licked her full lips as she set her glass down and picked up the dinner menu, pretending to read it for the briefest of seconds before fixing Genevieve with a hard stare over the top of it. “And that’s all? Just conversation?” She could see what Genevieve might want to gleam from Mr Purcell, but what on earth did she have to offer him other than her youth and good looks? Luciana busied herself with the menu once more. “I’m sure his tales of prison life are fascinating,” she deadpanned.

A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “Of course, you blue bloods have so many teas and balls, must get so tiring.” There was only the vaguest hint of jealousy in her words – Luciana didn’t truly wish to be like the aristocratic English upper class, but she certainly would have preferred not to be looked down upon by them. Hefin was one of the few who had never done so, so far as she was aware. “Oh, yes, Limoncello will do that.” She smiled fakely. “Maybe you should stick to the whisky.”

She’d recently acquired a property in Capri. For her birthday. Luciana blinked, then smiled. “How lovely,” she replied, adopting the English expression. How much money did these English socialites have? It was bordering on grotesque. The Italian witch smoothed her menu out on the table in front of her, abandoning her search for a meal for the time being. “I won’t say Neroli is better – each have their pros and cons, beach, city – but I would be happy to show you around. Perhaps I can arrange a room at the Casino for you.” She didn’t want the girl too close, after all.

“Oh, just business.” She shrugged. “Well, my father’s business. He needed some things taken care of…” she trailed off, smiling knowingly. “Sometimes a more delicate touch yields more results.” She ran a painted fingernail down the list of starters, flicking her hazel eyes up to meet Genevieve’s. “The fiancé. Do tell me about him?”

“I wouldn’t mind it too much, us girls don’t get much of a choice in marriage partners, if my husband were an absolute troll, like most of the men here,” she said, waving her hand in the direction of a group of men in corner as if to make her point, “I’d find countless reasons to keep him out of my bed and out of the house,” she added, taking another sip from the honeyed whisky as she considered why Luciana would refuse such an established beverage.

Then again, Genevieve supposed that most women did not appreciate the fine drinking culture of the men in her family and considering that she had spent most of her early life attempting to outdo her cousin Augustus in every way possible, it had only made sense that the Grosvenor drink of choice had been one of the first obstacles to tackle. Genevieve was a fair lady in every sense possible but such expectations did not deter her from wanting to be accepted in all circles, even the ones that she would naturally have a little more difficulty breaking into.

”Just conversation,” she emphasized. Sure, Genevieve had once in a while imagined how exciting life would be should someone with Gaius Purcell’s reputation take interest in her, the thought that she would be revered with a sort of respect and possible disgust at the same time was rather exciting. Nevertheless, her heart was already taken in a sense, she had been promised to the Reinhardt family long before she even understood what relationships were and how they worked. Genevieve was no one is she could not honor a promise, even if it was one that was made by her parents and not on her own.

In the meantime, the heiress revered in the fact that she would be able to live life to the fullest, knowing that the dreaded conversation of marriage or the complexity that was basic human relationships were some of the issues that she would not have to deal with. In a sense, her sexual expression was one of the very few freedoms she was allowed, though most of it was still done in secrecy. “I suppose people like Mr. Purcell do not appeal to everyone but he is rather well-educated, and we do have plenty to talk about when I have the pleasure of his company, though as you might have guessed it’s not often,” she added with a quaint smile. She did not expect the woman before her to understand, they might have been cut from very similar cloth but it was rather obvious to the young witch that the young woman had a completely different set of responsibilities to her own. In Genevieve’s world, it was a rare thing to ever meet anyone burdened by the heavy sense of duty that lay so casually at her shoulders.

“You read my mind,” she continued, sweeping her long, dark brown hair over her shoulder as she smiled politely. “It must be so nice not having to worry about all the silly happenings, at times when I am the busiest I do envy the common folk, all they worry about is silly things like work and paying bills and then like, then I realize that we must all stick to what we know best, so though it is a burden it is one I carry with pride,” she continued, a playful smirk decorating her lips as she took another small sip from her drink of choice.

“I must admit that I allowed the celebration get the best of me, I will not be having Limoncello for some time but perhaps you can interest me in something lovely and vintage should we meet again in Italy,” she offered in a gesture of friendship. It would be silly to consider the girl a best friend but the two had plenty in common and though she would never dare to say it out loud, Genevieve could admit that she though the woman before her was much more interesting than she initially looked. The young heiress had had her fill with the mindless contemporaries she was often forced to share the company of, there was only so much praise the witch could take before it became utterly boring.

“The Casino, just the place to meet some interesting fellows I assume, unless of course, you’d do me the honor of introducing me to some of those beautiful Italian men you’re familiar with back home,” she added with a curt laugh. Her time in Italy over the summer had been spent in the company of many of those beautiful men but none of them had ever held her interest long enough, after all, there was so much on her mind. “I do understand, I do hope that things went on according to plan, you do not seem the type to take no for an answer,” she admired, gesturing towards the waiter in the corner for a refill.

Luciana’s question caught her a little off guard though it should not have, the topic of her fiancé was neither new news nor a sensitive topic however the witch felt oddly protective of her relationship with him, it was odd but rather sacred after all. “Wolfie?” she asked, shrugged lightly, unsure of where to start. “We’ve been engaged since we were around ten or so, the Reinhardts have been family friends for some time—he and I don’t spend that much time together,” she started shifting in her seat as she considered how personal she wanted to get with the woman across from her. “We have a habit of…” she started, “getting distracted when in each other’s company so find it much easier to keep a distance for the sake of maintaining a professional relationship,” she added.

Her feelings for Wolfgang were complicated at best. “I’m certain he’s absolutely smitten with me but you see, I must remain indifferent for the sake of staying in control. Love doesn’t suit me, you see,” she smiled a little sadly. “And what of you? I do not recall hearing about an engagement, surely your family has made arrangements on your behalf?”

She had a good point. “I think I’d do more than keep him out of the house,” Luciana said, before she could keep the thought in. She smiled, shrugging as if to say ‘oops’ at her slip. She might have been more careful around some of the other society girls, but she knew Genevieve was more like her than the younger witch probably cared to admit. They had both grown up in the long shadows of their parents – Luciana wondered if Evie was as ready as she was to step out and cast a shadow of her own.

Just conversation. “Mm.” Luciana wasn’t entirely sure she believed that, but she didn’t really want to spend their entire dinner talking about old men. She picked up her wine and took another sip.

Luciana’s eyes flashed dark momentarily – she thought Genevieve was suggesting that she was ‘common’. Thankfully, not. The Italian stretched a polite smile across her lips. “I will say I like having something to do.” The restaurant was but the first step in gaining her father’s trust – and that of his men, too. “I wouldn’t call it a job, more of a duty. I daresay you are familiar with that?”

She smiled more genuinely at Genevieve despite herself – were they becoming friendly? “Of course, we have a vineyard at the villa, an extensive cellar – I’m sure I can find something to your tastes.” Bland, probably. The English were not very adventurous – especially judging by this menu. Luciana glanced at it once more and found herself dismayed at the absence of any pasta dishes. She supposed she could try a salad, but they were always rather limp here.

The brunette focused on her companion again. “Oh,” she smirked. Luciana was, perhaps surprisingly, not the type to invite just anyone into her bed – much less men that were too close to home. Didn’t mean she couldn’t introduce Genevieve to a distant cousin or two. “Visit and I’ll see what I can do.” She drank again, then as Evie signalled at their waiter to top her up Luciana raised a manicured hand too, wanting her own refill. A wide smirk spread across her lips. “Absolutely. I’m a very good negotiator.” She was learning from some of the best, after all.

Wolfie. What an interesting name. The former Ombrelune listened attentively as the waiter topped up their respective glasses one after the other. The idea of being betrothed to someone boggled Luciana’s mind – of course, she knew what it was to be treated like some bargaining chip, but this was different. How would she feel growing up knowing there was a man she must one day marry? And if she was in that position, would she want to maintain distance the way Genevieve had? Surely she would rather be close – be able to mould him to suit her needs and desires. Luciana’s eyes met Genevieve’s. “Distracted?” She smirked again – she knew what that meant. “You know marriages don’t have to be business arrangements?” she asked, teasing lightly. “It’s good that he can distract you. You could be stuck with one of these…” she looked at the ghastly old men around the room, “neandertaliano.”

But the English witch was clearly not keen to keep discussing her fiancé – distracting or not. Luciana sighed, not terribly interested in discussing her lack of engagement. “Not for want of trying on my father’s behalf, I can assure you.” She sipped at her wine. “The last one had an unfortunate and very embarrassing incident with a bottle of spumante and he hasn’t come back. A great pity, he was rather handsome.” She set her glass down. “You know I am actually enjoying being an independent woman. The minute I’m married off I’ll lose my worth, so I’ve got no interest in it.”

“I have spent most of my life becoming acquainted with the topic of duty, I guarantee you that I most certainly know what that means,” she agreed with a small smile. As much as Genevieve liked to pretend to be a rebel, the truth was that at the end of the day, it was her strong sense of duty and her very insistence of following tradition that kept her the same, defenseless little prisoner she had been all of her life. It had been ingrained in her; the belief that her family’s wishes were worth following because it was through this strict way of life that they had maintained their position in society something she simply never allowed herself to question. The heiress liked to think that eventually, her homage to family values would one day pay off in a meaningful way and indeed it had in the sense that now she had been given an in into the world she had fantasized about as a child.

Although such things were not ones that she could discuss openly with Luciana, at least not at this point in their relationship, Genevieve was pleasantly…pleasant, something that she had not felt the desire to be for quite a long time. Was it possible that this the young witch was finally opening herself up to the idea of being friendly with another human being? Better yet, a female that probably demanded as much attention from the opposite sex as she did? It was an odd thing how quickly people changed in the right company. Though Genevieve was not yet prepared to make declarations for everlasting friendship, her tight shoulders did relax just slightly and her demeanor softened ever so slightly. “I must admit that even during my time in Capri I did not find much pleasure in the wine I was served but then again, that’s probably what I get for taking along the help from home, I find that most of my family prefers French wine, but I trust that you can easily change my mind on that,” she added. “And I certainly would find myself even more convinced to try it in the company of some eye candy,” she joked half-heartedly.

Genevieve could only hope that her talk of Wolfgang had not made her seem too soft, it was a topic she avoided for good reason, particularly afraid that lengthy conversation about the man would end in a realization she did not want to come to terms with. It was frankly stupid of her to ever develop feelings for anyone and it had not been something that she had ever planned on doing, the fact that they would eventually be married made little difference. “I am well aware,” she said lightly, “but it does no good to lose one’s head over someone that may very well feel completely opposite. Anyway, how can any woman ever make proper decisions if their judgment is clouded so? The men in my life serve two purposes,” she started, “one,” she began, holding a finger up in an effort to add emphasis to her words, “to buy me whatever I desire, and two,” she added, holding an additional finger up, “to satisfy me when I have an unbearable need I simply cannot shake,” she added, laughing at Luciana’s comment as she took another sip from her whiskey.

“Marriage is one of those things that every woman dreads but must do,” she empathized with Luciana a little. Genevieve did not particularly enjoy the idea of marriage, especially since it meant that she would be forced out of the limelight and relegated to a Mrs. or someone’s mother but would never dare to disrespect the tradition. “But I suppose it serves its purpose, continues the lineage, ensures good genes and all of those important things,” she reasoned, her tone a little unconvinced by her own words. “I am simply hoping that my family allows me to wait until I’m thirty or older, by then well I should have established myself well enough to be remembered in my own right and after that, it will simply be all social calls and motherhood,” she continued.

“But let’s not talk about marriage, it is such a somber topic,” she joked, “So, independent woman,” she teased, “do share how you’ve managed to keep your father off of your back and enjoy your freedom? Have you been going out much? I daresay I do not believe I saw you at the last event, the gala in Paris at the opening of one of those new restaurants two weeks prior?” It had not been anything special just a place she had been dragged to by her aunt in her cousin’s absence. The party had been boring and filled with the more toxic part of British society but Genevieve had enjoyed the attention nonetheless, even if only one or two men had actually caught her interest. In the end, she had gone home alone.
 

“To duty, then,” Luciana smiled, lifting her wine glass to Genevieve before taking a sip.

She licked her full lips and set her glass back down on the table, her fingertips sliding down the stem to the base. “French wine is better than the American swill, but you really must try some good Italian wines. I would be happy to educate you properly,” she smiled, not unkindly. Perhaps seeing Evie again wouldn’t be the worst thing; the other society girls were so droll and naive. They seemed genuinely thrilled to take part in charity events and help out the less fortunate. Luciana had always been taught that it didn’t matter what you were born with, you could make your own way in the world if you had the drive to do so.

Of course, Luciana had been born into, if not a good position like the Genevieve Grosvenor and Hefin Howell’s of the world, then a decent one -- as had her father. But they had improved upon what they had, not sat back and let it provide for them (which it would not have done).

Luciana smirked. “Let me know what you like and I’ll see what I can find.” She was no longer talking about the wine.

It was surprising that Genevieve truly felt anything for a man -- all she had really heard of the English witch had been from Hefin, though, and Luciana was beginning to wonder how reliable a source he was (that owl had been convincing evidence that he’d been telling the truth though). “If he doesn’t lose his head around you then you need to dispose of him,” Luciana said simply, not being specific about what ‘dispose of’ meant but allowing Evie to infer her own interpretation. Luciana hadn’t yet had to do anything too drastic herself (mild poison; he had survived), but if it came down to it she thought she could do it. The Italian witch laughed at Evie’s criteria for a male companion. “I shall have to write that down,” she smiled over the rim of her wine glass; another sip.

One of those things every woman must do. “Must we?” Luciana raised an eyebrow at the woman across from her. She disagreed, though she wasn’t sure quite how vehemently yet. She supposed if she found a man worth her, or willing to adjust to her desires… “Maybe one day,” she acquiesced.

But Genevieve had clearly been brainwashed into believing all that bile about women only being good to continue a bloodline. It was disappointing -- Luciana had thought Evie might be on her level. “Do you really think they will let you wait that long?” The mafiosa looked at her companion sceptically, if not sympathetically. “If you make it past twenty-five unmarried none of the men will want you. Or, none of the ones you want, at least. They will have found their young, blushing, vapid bride.” A trophy wife. Luciana had seen merit in the role once, but that was before she’d had a taste for something else. And yet. Evie wanted to be remembered in her own right, perhaps she just needed the encouragement to--

Luciana looked as though Genevieve had slapped her. “I cannot think of anything worse than childbirth, except perhaps the child that comes from it,” she said, having a rather larger swallow of wine to wash the thought away. Horrid.

“Oh.” It was sombre. She rolled her eyes; “I go on the dates he asks me to, I just make sure my potential partner doesn’t… last.” One way or another. “Having said that, it’s not like there’s a long line of men just waiting to snap me up. A Bertinelli is something to be earned, I imagine a Grosvenor is won. It’s a very different game.”

At the mention of food (restaurants were food-related, at least) Luciana beckoned the waiter over again once more. “We would like to eat,” she said simply, cutting into their conversation in favour of nourishment. “I will have the duck salad. Per favore.”

She waited for Evie to order and the man to leave them before she picked up where they had left off. “I was not there,” she admitted. “Came down with a terrible cold -- or that is what I told my father,” she smirked. “I was in London, seeing if anything here took my fancy, is that how you say it?”

The brunette straightened her fork on the napkin, focusing on that task rather than meeting Genevieve’s eye. “I think I will try attend a few more events in the coming year. I love my country and my family, but if they won’t give me what I want I will need to look elsewhere.”

“Wolfie is utterly in love with me, there is no doubt about it but not to the degree I would like,” she explained though was well aware that her explanation was not very throughout at all. Wolfgang had told her that he loved her several times, to which she had simply responded to with a distasteful laugh and some insulting words. It was her way of preventing herself from getting hurt, the way she treated everything else in life that made her afraid: by pretending it did not matter. Luciana was right, she figured, that if he did not lose his head around her then it was better that he be gone altogether. Unfortunately, such was not an option, not only was she contractually obligated to marry, most importantly, Genevieve found the thought of eliminating Wolfgang from her life a thought much too difficult to bear.

“But to be honest about from my relationship with Wolfie or whatever it is that we have, I am extremely easy to please you know,” she began, the topic of her favorite type of men had been one that the young heiress was particularly good at talking about. Genevieve had, possibly unintentionally, began her journey into understanding the intricacies of the opposite sex at a relatively young age. From a young age, expectation after expectation had been piled upon her older cousin’s shoulders while the standard to which she was held was measured more by what others thought about her rather than what she could actually do.

And Genevieve thrived with attention, a small but very satisfactory smile present upon her face every time she managed to get the attention, she had always believed she deserved. Naturally, as she became older and her hormones raged, her desire for male attention only grew. It was a game, after all, one that was only exciting for one night before the thrill of the conquest wore off. “As long as he is well-bred, well-mannered, devastatingly attractive, and of course, extremely entertaining well then, I find it hard to deny myself,” she continued, giggling girlishly at the prospect of meeting one of these men in the near future.

“The good thing about a contract, love, is that my fiancée, unfortunately, has no choice in the matter. It would be much too expensive and frankly, too much of a loss should the Reinhardt family choose another woman for him,” she explained. Taking a sip from her whiskey, she considered Luciana’s words closely. No matter how unpleasant they sounded or how much Genevieve wished that they were not true, she supposed that there was some veracity in what she said. “Any man that knows me well would know that while I may be young, I am far from vapid or blushing,” she continued, rather confidently.

“It’s like a business agreement, I have one child and I am free to do as I please, drink until sun-up, sleep well into the afternoon, take on as many lovers as I’d like, never speak to my husband again, and to sweeten the deal I even have a very nice inheritance waiting for me on several sides to keep me entertained. Naturally, I’d donate most of it and continue my research, I haven’t really much need for money at my age,” she added. Genevieve had no need for money because she had never had to pay for anything herself. Though she had never considered herself privileged, it was simply the way things were in the Grosvenor household. “I am neither won nor earned, to be quite honest, I am simply fulfilling my duty.”

Genevieve was relieved when Luciana called the waiter over as she was just thinking how she might like something to eat, the whiskey was not usually her choice of drink and it was starting to make her feel just a little dizzy. “Only a salad?” Genevieve rolled her eyes at the thought, “Are you on a diet, darling?” she teased just a little, though it was obvious the woman did not need to be on one. “I’ll have the Iberico pork cutlet with sweet potato mash, maybe a side of kale while you’re at it if the chef doesn’t mind indulging a personal request?” she asked as sweetly as she could manage. “And of course we mustn’t forget dessert, apple tarte tatin with cream, of course,” she added.

“Hm,” she considered the woman’s words closely. “You ought to come to stay in Cheshire at our estate during the upcoming season, I’ve plenty of people I could introduce you, someone will most definitely catch your fancy, I guarantee it, and if not you’ll be making regular appearances in the papers, which is quite important,” she continued. “We wouldn’t want the Prophet to speak ill of you, saying nasty things like you must be pregnant or disliked because you haven’t been out and about.”

“Well, you will figure it out I’m sure,” Luciana offered with a prim smile, quite content to leave the topic of Genevieve’s fiancé alone if the other girl was more interested in talking about other men. The Italian raised an eyebrow at her companion. “Easy to please, you say?” She sipped at her wine. “And is there an abundance of these men in England, then? Maybe I will need you to do some introductions,” she smirked.

Luciana kept her wine glass held aloft, the better to hide her expression behind; a contract seemed so very archaic. She had always disliked the idea of being touted like a sort of purchasable commodity, and here was Genevieve doing just that. Lucia smiled sweetly (fakely) at Evie’s statement about not being vapid -- surely agreeing to sell oneself off constituted a level of idiocy -- and drank again.

But the lovers part was unusual, wasn’t it? “And will you?” Luciana asked. “Take lovers and never speak to your husband? Is that what your mother did?” It wasn’t intended as an insult -- she was curious. It sounded more like the kind of arrangement a man would seek whilst expecting his wife to remain celibate outside of the marriage bed. Genevieve must command quite a price to be able to make such demands -- that, or she was marrying a fool. “And what is that, simply to prolong the bloodline? Or will you remain a Grosvenor even when wed?” Luciana was certainly loathe to abandon the name Bertinelli, as much as she had acquired a distaste for it in her early school years, she was rather fond -- proud -- of her name now.

Genevieve added dessert to the order and Luciana glanced quickly at the options; “I will have the lemon meringue, thank you.” They handed their menus back and Luciana waited until the server had departed before speaking again. “Only a salad,” she repeated with a less-friendly smile, “Your English food is terribly heavy.” And the Italian was yet to be truly impressed by it; the menu here was certainly extensive, and perhaps better than others she had seen in London, but it was still full of stodgy meals and a lot of potato. “And I wouldn’t want anyone mistakenly thinking I’m eating for two,” she glanced pointedly at Genevieve’s mid-section.

“That would be lovely,” Luciana replied automatically -- but, really, it might be rather nice, and a good excuse to meet men under her own steam. “Oh, does anybody really believe anything they read in the papers?” she scoffed, waving a manicured hand dismissively. “But alright,” she smirked softly, “perhaps I will.”


OUT

“There are plenty to choose from, though not as captivating as Italian men I am sure, English boys do serve their purpose,” she replied with confidence, wondering what sort of man might grab the young woman’s attention. Then again, Genevieve would surely become jealous if any of the men she introduced to Luciana focused entirely on the Italian beauty and disregarded her; she had to be selective, choose men that she herself had remotely no interest in though that would prove increasingly difficult as her hunger for attention only became more ferocious with time. However, such introductions would not have to be made today and as such, the magizoologist willed herself to relax.

Genevieve could only wonder if the woman before her truly understood the ways of her family and how such ways, no matter how odd, was the reason that they had survived for so long. But the witch was well aware that it was simply a topic many women did not feel comfortable discussing, under the impression that love and marriage was much like the fairytales young women entertained themselves within their youth. It was a conversation that she had had with @Meredith Howell  not to long ago and since then her position on the topic of marriage had not changed in the least. It was so fortuitous to be young and so out of touch with reality, at times even Genevieve wished for such ignorance.

“My mother?” she asked incredulously, taken aback by the woman’s question but unsure if Luciana was somehow turning around and reprimanding her on a point when she had already made her feelings on marriage known only earlier. “To be quite honest, I have no idea who my mother brought into her bed nor did I ever feel the need to know, she was taken away from me when I was only about six or seven years old, such conversations did not feel appropriate at the time,” she answered, partially insincerity but partially in sarcasm. It did not matter to the young witch, either way, Genevieve was traditional in a sense but still very much her own woman. “Of course,” she answered confidently, not she considered almost immediately. A small part of her could not bear the thought of ever wanting for anyone other than Wolfgang, whether they were married or not. Such was not a truth she felt comfortable revealing to anyone though.

“It is, isn’t it,” Genevieve continued on with the conversation, not wanting to revisit the topic of marriage or her mother for the rest of the evening. “The food, I mean,” she clarified, laughing at her companion’s comment. “I suppose with all the pasta and bread you must feast on every night, a salad comes as a relief, I, on the other hand, well I assure you the staff has made it their duty to help me put on weight but it simply cannot be helped, I am cursed with this thinness and will forever be made to endure it,” she added dramatically.

“There is a kernel of truth in every piece of gossip, my dear, it is only a matter of deduction,” she concluded, taking a final sip from her drink before deciding that she had had enough on an empty stomach, the thought of food much welcomed over any of the other topics that they had discussed prior. Luciana was not as bad as she had originally predicted, that much was a fantastic surprise.

[/end]