look, fresh meat.

[una_persson]

[Are you an habitué of music halls? Then over the last fortnight, you might have noticed a new featured vocalist at the Alhambra, performing in the spot before the ballet dancers and again for a few more songs after the interval—a pretty woman with chestnut hair, grey eyes, a sweet mezzo-soprano voice, a witty, elegant affect on stage, and the somewhat odd name of Una Persson. She seems to have come more or less out of nowhere. And that's almost literally true. A month ago, subjective time, she was knocking around early twenty-first century America. Now she's here. And luckily her theatrical training is a good backup career for a time-traveller trying to get her bearings.

The evening show's just ended and the lady in question is leaving through the stage door, chatting with one of the ballet dancers and running the gauntlet of admirers and well-to-do young men looking for a good time. Maybe you'll see her there. Or perhaps later at the little café across the way where several of the Alhambra's performers go after the show for a drink and a quiet assignation away from the hubbub of the theatre (and, hopefully, away from any bad insanity going on at the moment, though you never know what might come oozing by).

OOC: Also, hi! I'm Karin, and I'm new here. Thanks to Farrah and Kisha for the invite and briefing. If you want to know more about Una and are a glutton for punishment there is info here and here]

Comments

[depicted]

[Dorian isn't surprised to see new faces (after a year on the continent, a good portion of the music halls has changed) and this Una Persson could have easily slipped him by. Or perhaps she couldn't have. He has heard of the beautiful face and voice new to the Alhamra, has heard of her appearance from nowhere ("Probably a country girl just moved in," he's been told, but that strikes Dorian as spectacularly inaccurate), has been unable to resist the siren call of a pretty new diversion. So he came to see what newness London has given over to him.]

[This woman, though, has a certain manner. She is no naif. He has seen how she handles her admirers. She doesn't look like she falls for any of those tricks, doesn't act easily flattered or charmed. Dorian is interested in her, but he thinks that if he is to pursue that interest, he will have to earn her interest in return.]

[He sent her an anonymous gift on Wednesday: an ancient kithara from his collection, wrapped in plain brown paper. The next Wednesday, he sent her a pandoura. The third Wednesday, an æolian harp. But the next week, he sent her a teponaztli on Monday. The Thursday after, yotl-bells of the Aztecs. He never signed to anything nor gave any clue of his identity, except the instruments themselves, for there was no person in London but Dorian Gray who had such a collection. She could find him only if she sought him out.]

[una_persson]

[Someone, Una thought as she regarded the aeolian harp, has either been raiding the British Museum or else they've got a collection that one of the curators would commit murder for.

She'd seen strange things since she'd washed up in this London, become possessed of a sense of dread that she never quite seemed to shake—but the anonymous gifts were in their quiet way the strangest. She'd had to go to the museum to even find out what a teponaztli was, Meso-America not being her strongest area.

She made discreet inquiries. By Wednesday she had a name—Dorian Gray. By the time the yotl-bells arrived on Thursday, she'd noticed that the name was sometimes answered with averted eyes or uncomfortable silence or, in one case, a sigh of longing, quickly suppressed.

Which, of course, only interested her more.

On Friday, she veiled and cloaked herself and spent an all-too-thrilling morning that cost her a bullet (fired in self-defence) and rewarded her with an antique kagura suzu, which she had delivered with great speed and urgency to Mr Gray's Mayfair abode.

She made it to the Alhambra with time to spare for dressing and warming up, and she put Mr Gray out of her mind to concentrate on the night's performance. On stage that night, she wore a choker necklace that had earned puzzled looks from the other girls—a scarlet ribbon with a small, unassuming bronze object attached. It was a bell very carefully removed from the kagura suzu—it could be replaced with careful hands and no one would be the wiser for it having been briefly missing. She expected he'd understand the message; leaving through the stage door, she looked for him amidst the other admirers gathering around.

You'll know him when you see him, she'd been told, for there's not a prettier man in London, nor a greater hazard. Watch yourself, Miss P.]

[depicted]

[It was with surprised delight that Dorian returned to Mayfair to find an instrument waiting for him. He admired it a moment, trying to recall if he had any in his collection. No, he didn't think so. He couldn't even recall the name of this one. It was only after a few inquiries among his old music friends that he understood what he had been given. What they told him also helped him recognize the missing bell and notice it around her neck.]

[After the show, she would find him if she looked, but not quite among the admirers. He was leaning back against a building in a dark coat, hands in his pockets, waiting a moment until he had eye contact over the crowd.]

[He smiled and touched a hand to his neck, where the bell rested around her throat. He mouthed, "Something of mine?"]

[But he didn't wait for her. If the hook didn't work, well, they knew each other's addresses, so he took the gamble that she would not let it go at this point. He pushed away from the wall and walked away from the gaggle towards a pleasant café very close to her usual choice across the Alhambra.]

[una_persson]

[As she looked past the shoulder of a young viscount who was himself trying to impose himself on Claire, one of her friends in the corps de ballet, she saw him—outside of the pack, as it were. She almost gasped; the Southwark black-market antiquities dealer had not been lying about Mr Gray's looks. But she smiled when he caught her eye and brushed her lace-gloved fingers against the ribbon on her throat in acknowledgement of his question.

(She no longer wore the shining red satin gown that she wore on stage, nor the feathers and beads in her hair, but had changed into a dark blue dress suitable for an evening out, with a neckline that was low but wouldn't expose so much décolletage as to encourage someone to form a wrong opinion about the nature of her work. Over it she wore a dark half-length cloak, a more fashionable and decorative affair than what she'd worn for the morning's adventure. Lace gloves and a beaded reticule completed the look of a fashionable bohemian artiste. Without the greasepaint and the limelight, her face seemed softer and more youthful but also more ageless, something not unlike a classical statue.)

She followed him with her eyes as he moved away and resolved to follow—had resolved to do so on hatching the plan, really; she was glad that it had worked. She made her excuses to Claire and urged her to be careful, escaped the grasping hands of a middle-aged banker who everyone knew had a consumptive wife and five children, wrapped her cloak a little more closely around her shoulders, and slipped away from the fuss and bother, following in Mr Gray's steps.

Inside the café, she spotted him instantly and walked up to his table, bold as brass. She stopped with her hand on the back of the chair opposite him and smiled.]

May I join you, Mr Gray?

[depicted]

[He hadn't acquired anything for himself yet; he'd been waiting. He smiled broadly at her boldness.] I would be honoured, Miss Persson, if you would.

[It had played out nicely, he thought, a good opening scene of two performers improvising without script. He could only hope the rest of the act would be just as enjoyable.]

Can I get you anything?

[una_persson]

You're most kind. Thank you.

[She settled gracefully into her seat. The bronze bell at her throat made a soft, muted sound as the chime within echoed her movements.]

Would a glass of champagne be too terribly extravagant?

[Said just a little coquettishly, with the awareness that the request was probably not, by Mr Gray's standards, all that extravagant at all.]

[depicted]

[Oh, he recognized that. He didn't resist the answering wryness.]

I think I can manage.

[His eyes flickered to her necklace.]

The Gods thirst for music must be unfulfilled, missing the piece you have now.

[una_persson]

[She traced the red ribbon around her slim neck lightly with a fingertip but made no offer to give it to him.]

Surely one tiny bell makes little difference when there are so many other musical riches to be found. As you've amply demonstrated, and for which, thank you.

[depicted]

[His eyes followed her finger and flickered back up to her face.] Oh, to see it set on your neck, I'm sure they wouldn't mind.

[He smiled, Prince Charming, and made her order, choosing the same for himself. He chose against playing ignorant about her second comment, instead curious about her opinion.]

Did you have a favourite among them? I'd hoped that one or two of them would be of some interest to you.

[una_persson]

[She considered, wondering if the question was a test. Perhaps not in the sense of being something one passed or failed, but through which one revealed one's character. She decided to play it more or less straight.]

The kithara is delightfully classical, of course. Sappho's favourite, wasn't it? Though the teponaztli is extraordinary. I've never seen one before. It's a pity there isn't enough wind in Cleveland Street to stir the strings of the aeolian harp.

[depicted]

[Dorian laughed at that last.] That sums up much of Cleveland Street. [She knew or was as resourceful as he had suspected. His interest already caught, he happily took in the detail.] There are places about town where the wind picks up, but to tell the truth, I doubt it would play well anywhere in the city. Dagon and Hydra's disappearance seems to have only left us with a calm waiting on a greater force.

[Distantly, he hoped it wouldn't be anything too tiresome settling in in their place. He'd have to have to abandon London so soon after getting back.]

[una_persson]

[Her small flat was, in fact, at the corner of Cleveland Street and Howland—the address was Howland, but she had a good view of the comings and goings along Cleveland. She'd chosen the flat deliberately on her arrival, and dropped the name with equal deliberateness. His reaction earned a knowing grin, though the mention of the gods of London sobered her a bit.]

The calm before the storm, or that within the eye of a hurricane? You can't get the girls at the theatre to talk about any of that much, I have to say. I can't say I blame them; mostly one wants to get through the day as peacefully as possible and get home safely—but I'm afraid I'm still catching up with current events.

[Should he decide to ask about what she was doing here and where she'd come from, she wasn't worried. She had a story—and in the usual manner, had settled into it so well that she practically believed it herself.]

[depicted]

[It was a curious statement. He wasn't going to push or pry, not out of manners but out of interest. He wanted a bit of a picture painted of this woman before he started looking into the points of curiosity. Things tended to become more interesting when there was some patience exercised in their pursuit.]

[Not too much, of course. Dorian didn't like to wait overlong for pleasure.]

You can't get them to talk about it much, but you're interested?

[una_persson]

[She nodded.]

Just so. One hears things, of course, but sometimes it's hard to tell where truth begins and rumour ends. Or vice versa, for that matter.

One of the dancers, for instance, is quite distraught over the loss of her chief benefactor in the relatively recent past. But precisely what occasioned that loss, or how it came to pass— [A graceful shrug.] Only the darkest whispers, quickly hushed, in which the name "Dagon" recurs, without elaboration.

[depicted]

[Their champaign arrived. Dorian drank before answering.] Mm, the Order of Dagon did often patron the arts. [There were other interpretations of 'benefactor' you could make, of course, but the case wasn't particularly relevant. Dorian could hazard a guess about what Una was interested in, and with the mild dispassion of one who was aware of the politics but had no stakes in them, Dorian conjured up that incident he had not been in London to witness but had heard about even on the continent.] It's a shame they were all slaughtered like that, high priests and choir boys alike. And not a reason given for it, even after all this time.

[una_persson]

["Benefactor" had exactly the meanings you might think, but that was somewhat beside the point. She sipped at the champagne and her eyes widened.]

Worse than I realised, then. I feel a bit foolish for not knowing more, but apparently news does not travel as quickly across the ocean as one might think, even on that scale.

[depicted]

[That did explain it, and Dorian didn't question it further.] You were in the Americas? Not raised there, I would think. [He meant, of course, her accent.]

[Of course, there had been those rumours about the Order of Dagon restructuring itself in certain small American towns. He wondered if she knew anything of that.]

[una_persson]

No, not at all. A few years ago, I was invited by a dear friend to accompany her and her brother—it's a long story and not especially interesting, but he was moving to Galveston in Texas for business. At the time I had few prospects and was desirous of a change of scenery, so I accepted, and luckily for me the good people of Galveston were quite hungry for a performer from abroad. Quite the exotic sight. But one gets homesick after a while, and so here I am.

[Like any good lie, there were fragments of truth in it, as well as enough lacunae to be interesting but not so many as to invite excessive intrusion. She had indeed spent quite a bit of time recently in Texas, even if twenty-first century Galveston was a sad, pale echo of the city it was now—the Victorian seaside glamour of which would be put paid by the great hurricane in 1900, give or take a year or two depending on the time-stream. She had done enough homework to know that there we recent reports of strangeness along the Texas coast, but not so much as to put a crimp in her story.]

[depicted]

[At that, he smiled.] I quite understand. I was recently on the continent myself, but there is no escaping London for long. The city's tendrils get under your skin. [Literally, in some cases. The mutation of mammal into sea creature was one thing in particular Dorian was happy to never need worry about.] And how refreshing it is to come home to new beauty in the music halls.

[una_persson]

Tired of London, tired of life, as what's his name wrote.

[She lowered her eyes and made a small, modest gesture with her hand—a theatrical pretence at humility.]

You're very kind. Though clearly there's beauty to be found without the music halls as well.

[Bold as brass, again. Her grey eyes were bright and mischievous, watching him over the rim of her champagne glass as she took another sip.]

[depicted]

[Dorian didn't stop his own smile. Vanity was a weakness, he knew; he might not ever get bored with the compliments of others, particularly not those he was himself interested in.]

There is something about you that has a way of surprising. It's refreshing.

[una_persson]

[Flattery, she thought, would get you all kinds of places with this one. Though it couldn't be boring, predictable flattery, clearly. Her own interest in him, high to begin with, was growing no less.]

Do you like surprises, Mr Gray? Not everyone does, I find; understandably perhaps. And yet I fancy you have a taste for the [a pause that might be no more than a brief inhaled breath] unexpected.

[depicted]

[He leaned forward as if to catch that last word that might be held back. She had had that effect on him when she sang as well, and he liked it a great deal.]

Surprises, yes. The unexpected, mysteries. It's one of London's better features: turn your back on it for a moment and something beautifully strange will appear.

[But there were other surprises, and Dorian smiled, falling back into his recline.] Though that's dependent on luck in this particular city. I hear the frequency is down since Dagon's fall, but there is still some chance of an old friend suddenly sprouting tentacles. It is never an easy look to carry off.

[una_persson]

That sounds singularly inconvenient, to say the very least. Thankfully something I've yet to witness—or experience firsthand, for that matter.

[She adjusted the fall of her skirt, and in doing so leaned forward slightly, without appearing to have done so deliberately.]

May I ask what it is that you do, Mr Gray? Apart, that is, from amassing what I hear is one of the finest collections of antique and exotic musical instruments outside of the British Museum?

[depicted]

[Oh, she was good. Whether it was deliberate or a natural and unconscious talent, she made every movement count.] Oh, I don't do much of anything. A little piano, now and again, and I travel. But nothing of substance.

[Indolence and indulgence: the ideal gentleman's life. Dorian was sure Harry must have had an epigram of it. He had something to say about everything. Something wonderful about not doing anything useful, perhaps even something about work being as vulgar as crime. Though Harry wouldn't have been able turn that one inside out--all work might be vulgar, but vulgarity was far from work, if certain French poets were to be believed--and Harry never did say anything he couldn't say beautifully. It was one of Dorian's favourite things about him.]

[Either way, Dorian was beautiful. And he knew what Harry had said about that. Surface and symbol, Dorian drank, fingers curling around the stem of his glass.]

In a sense, pursuing works similar to those in my instrument collection is what I do, or at least what I like to do. Though presently, I'm not chasing anything at all.

[He smiled at her. His statement wasn't entirely true, that smile meant to say.]