gocirclegogo | look, fresh meat.

[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]

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[Something about the hand on her neck sent a shiver of fear down her spine, though it wasn't at all unpleasant (they needed almost constant adrenaline surges or they could not feel properly alive), and she gave a soft sigh as he kissed her; there was nothing like the sweetness of the first time you kissed someone, and the strong fingers at her neck only sharpened the pleasure. Maybe not many women—or men, for that matter—would have felt that way, but then Una wasn't an ordinary woman by a good long shot. Besides, if it were safety she desired, she never would have sought him to begin with. She reached up her hand to tangle her fingers in his dark hair, her nails offering a suggestion of a scratch at the nape of his neck.]

[This, this was a promise of sensation. He wanted, that was all; he wanted her and this. He didn't let the kiss go, shifting an arm so he could better position himself in the cab. But the cab hit a bump, and his eyes, briefly flickering to a window, saw the houses of Grosvenor Square.]

[Dorian realized that he was kissing a woman dressed as a man in the backseat of a cab during daylight hours. There was Hell, and then there was hanging. With reluctance, he drew away from her.]

We'll resume our conversation inside?

[His tone was apologetic, almost embarrassed. But his smile was full of promises. The cab was already slowing for a stop.]

Of course. I'd like nothing more.

[The possibility of a joke about archaic meanings of the word conversation presented itself, but she couldn't seem to find her way there; clever banter was being thoroughly subsumed by her own desire. Nevertheless she straightened her lapels and waistcoat and disembarked from the cab as the picture of composure, only a slight flush to her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes betraying her eagerness.]

[She couldn't help making a certain show of paying the driver herself, though. As if to underline to her companion her own independence, that she was not someone who wanted or needed to be kept, and who was here because she wanted to be. Some men would have been insulted, but she hazarded the possibility that Dorian might actually enjoy, even admire it.]

[She hazarded correctly. It isn't that Dorian was against the idea of playing patron to an actress. But there was something appealing in her independence. In somebody who chose to be there, in somebody, moreover, who wanted nothing of contract. Somebody who had no need to stay except or her own will.]

[Or maybe he just like girls who were a little different. It didn't really matter. It might have been daylight, but he couldn't quite keep his smile pure.] Come on, then, Jerry. [It was not a long walk to his home.]

[For the benefit of any passers-by and for her own amusement, she slipped back into Jeremy's slightly ridiculous persona for the duration of that short walk as she fell into step beside him.]

Lead on, Dorian. Must say, I'm eager to view the rest of the collection. Is it true you've got a genuine what's-it-called, salpinx? Didn't think there were any still extant.

[Dorian turned his laugh into a grin. He had to admit, he probably would have kept around this Jeremy, if the youth really existed. There was a charming candor to him that would have been appealing if it were real. He probably could have gotten at least a couple years of friendship without getting tired of him, maybe more. It was hard to tell how long these things would last.]

There are doubtless a few lying around, in the hands of some Greek merchants who don't know their value, or perhaps a handful have been won as spoils of war by ancient Persian Kings and now rest hidden in their private collections.

[For her part, Una was finding that she enjoyed being Jeremy—just as well, considering the utility of the disguise in this world. Not to mention the perversity of a woman dressing as a boy to enjoy the company of a man: well, in a hundred years or so, there'd be mildly scandalous pop songs about that kind of thing, wouldn't there?]

Amazing to think, all these treasures staring people in the face like that. Good thing they don't get used for kindling or to fill a hole in the wall of a house or whatever terrible thing it is happens to stuff like that.

Oh, Jerry, you'll bring back all the horror of the Library of Alexandria if you talk like that. On the matter of missing treasures, I prefer the comforting lie that they are unacknowledged and undamaged over the likely truth that they are lost for ever.

[It might have been a grave conversation, but Dorian wasn't taking it seriously at all. He had a fanciful tone to him, with the kind of wilfulness that takes a lovely idea over whatever positivism might try to argue.]

[On entering the house, Dorian took Una to a room where a kagura suzu lay on the table. Everything else in the room was perfectly placed (Dorian's training in aesthetics had been thorough) except that one out of place piece.]

[Dorian sought Una's eyes, and his frivolous manner from moment's ago vanished.]

Do forgive that the room isn't quite complete. I was missing something.

Well, it's a big old world. Never know what might wash up out of some vault in the Alps or whatever, eh?

[She chose to treat the matter as lightly as he, even though she'd seen Alexandria, and the memory of it still stung.]

[His aesthetics, she thought as she looked around the room, practically counted as a supernatural power. She'd give almost anything to know how he made the kagura suzu look so jarringly misplaced. She met his gaze directly, Jeremy's persona melting away entirely, replaced by the look of challenge she'd given him in the cab.]

Forgiven. After all, the means for amending it are at hand.

[Dorian Gray always did love a challenge. This one, he met eagerly.]

[And pan to the kagura suzu as anachronistic New Wave plays.]

[Something like this, maybe.]

[If he sleeps at some point, he'll wake to find her gone; otherwise she will eventually make a graceful exit. Either way she leaves a fine silk handkerchief behind, seemingly by accident. She'll be seeing you again, Dorian.]

look, fresh meat.

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