"I feel bare. I didn't realize I wore my secrets as armour until they were gone and now everyone sees me as I really am."--- Veronica Roth, "Insurgent"

18 septembre 1803
Roma, Italie

Dearest Journal-Friend,

Two weeks have passed since I last wrote about the joys of marriage, and although others warned me this might not be the case, I am happy. However, it is the time when we are being summoned back to Court. My husband is meant to work, and I--well, I suppose I am to resume the part of the proper and pious Frenchwoman meant to be advantageous to the Pope and his followers.

It is not just the aristocrats of France ruined by le Diable and his followers and now the falsely imperious Bonaparte. He fancies himself a soldier, a leader, a royal. The reality is that he is not any of those things, and were times different and power in rightful hands, he should be executed as a treasonous rebel and pretender not just to a throne but a country. Instead, he is the loudest voice amongst those who believe they can rule yet demean themselves by fighting over scraps of a dismantled legacy, like dogs in the street. Those who behave as such shall ultimately be seen as such.

Of all people, it is my husband who encourages me to learn of diplomacy and politics. Even my father, who loved me dearly, claimed such pursuits were not those of women and certainly not me. I did not have the mind for such serious study and I can't imagine that changed. Maman fought so I should be better educated than most ladies of my position in the world, and she did succeed. Still, I can lay no great claim to a brilliant mind or fancy myself a political strategist.

It is my husband, in a world where men are meant to discourage women still from becoming too learned or too much of anything at all, who says I do myself a disservice in thinking I am not bright. He tells me there are many different types of intelligence and I have gifts that cannot be taught, but flourish in the world of politics. This is a compliment, indeed, for I remember our beloved la Reine often sitting in the midst of such a world, nodding, and signing things she did not understand. Yet, she is not solely to blame for that, as her advisors purposely complicated things so no average person might follow along. The fact that Antonio sees in me the ability to learn and persuade as some of the highest minds in the land have had to do keeps me focused. I have never had anyone other than Maman believe in me so.

I know there are other motives aside from my self-esteem that keep him pushing me forward as he does. There are many whispers that if an alliance can be formed between those loyal to the Pope and the devoted Royalists and their descendants, all in exile, we can take back the rightful throne of France in the name of the Capets. Of course, it is Madame Royale and her husband who desire this most of all. None of us wish exile to be forever, and each day France is without a monarchy by right of blood and divine rule, the Church and the citisens of Rome diminish in power. This can only stand for so long.

The Marquesse de Roussel has arrived to Court, and if Lucretia is a woman who is shocking to the sensibilities, the Marquesse is downright scandalous. I did not look forward to her arrival upon hearing her described as France's greatest beauty, for this offended me much. It offended me, too, that I should be found less beautiful than a woman who chose to live independently.

She has no husband, has forsaken her title, and lived among the artists and bohemians. It is said her beauty and charm make her in demand as a muse. She poses for artists, accomplished or not, often without the decency of covering herself with anything but her hair. Many find her hair stunning, as it is long and a reddish-blonde hue not often seen in France and most certainly never in Italy. Her figure is voluptuous but not petite, not in the fashion of the old aristocrats.

I feel like a plain child beside her, which is why I feel like erupting in fits of rage when I see the way Antonio treats her. He says Evienne was brought here much as I was, that beyond her wild escapades she is a firm Royalist who will be a supporter until the very end. She is to marry Antonio's brother, and yet my husband's eyes watch her as if he is recounting the details of her stories and liaisons every time he looks at her or touches her. How am I to compete with that, to know how to please men the way a woman such as that would know? It is not as if anyone ever taught me or gave me an instructional book. There are no lessons in such things.

I do not just feel like a plain child beside her, I am, and I am terrified my husband sees it. No matter how pious the world pretends to be, it both judges and desires women such as the Marquesse Evienne. In comparison, I am not just a child, but one who belongs in the nunnery. What is the use of being made from the bloodline of Astarte if I shall end up just as untouchable. Men shall grow bored with me and find my beauty unappealing if it is only to view.

She is to be married to Orlando, my husband's brother, and even her station shall be almost equal to mine. It would all be so much more bearable if the whole city were not fascinated by her lurid tales.

There is one that says she entertained as a brothel-girl for well-to-do men, and each of the women wore a masque so that all that was visible were her hair, eyes, and body. It is a blatant way of spitting at the tradition of the lavish masquerades and balls we once had, and yet Evienne simply saw it as an opportunity. The unmasquing of a courtesan to see her true identity is apparently expensive as far as secrets go, especially since many were former aristocrats who chose this new life. Rumour has it that one man paid the equivalent of a year's salary for the unmasquing of Evienne, and was so stunned by her beauty and how she carried herself, he said he would gladly pay for the experience again.

I dislike that my husband ever sets eyes on her, and I cannot wait for her to be married and with child, and dressed in the unflattering gowns of a reformed Marie Magdalene. It is an insult that they say she was brought here for me, to be my friend. 

I should have wanted a friend. Instead, I have merely a rival, and one I cannot defeat. 

Your disheartened and small beloved one,

Eleni

November 20th, 2015
Aubrey Parish, Louisiana

For once in her life, Eleni is not the centre of anyone's world, not even her own. As she sits on her stool in Mudbugs, eyes idly watching figures move by as she sips her drink, she reflects on how small she's become in such a small town. Strangely, she doesn't mind. Eleni is aware of the way one eye keeps an eye on the open-air entrance to the pub in the same way Keegan does, waiting for someone who will not return.

She has not spoken to either Marius or Scott in weeks. Eleni can't help but chuckle at the difference between the men. One has too many messes to clean up to be able to live with any sense of freedom. The other has nothing but liberty, and yet she is always cleaning up his messes. Eleni knows when it came down to it the reaction was one she could always expect, from both of them. When the difficult times came along and demanded confrontation, she was the one who'd do it.

In the face of uncertainty, it is women who are strong. 

A smirk dances across Eleni's lips, thinking of Marius' feeble attempts at making things right without any apology. She thinks of Scott, holed up in the hotel room where Eleni instinctively knows he must be. If he were less cowardly, he'd see the only thing he had to run from was his conscience. She thinks of Keegan, so lost in his grief that he despises her for not doing the same.

Even after enough time had passed for her to call the place home truly, people still ask Eleni what made her choose to live in the Parish and if she's visiting. She doesn't know if the town is anxiously awaiting her departure or they merely don't trust the fact she's been there for months. She doesn't seem in any hurry to go back. Eleni knows they assume she's got to have plenty to miss and wonder why she is not at home.

The answer was involved, but it was also simple. Eleni came here looking to meet a man and to give him a message that would change his life. Instead, she met a boy ill-equipped to handle the truths she held inside. She would wait for him. Eleni knew better than anyone what it was like to stand in front of a firing squad that shot overwhelming truths and secrets instead of bullets.

She knew what it was like to doubt not only yourself but everything you ever thought you knew about life.

It was then that Eleni decided to live her days in Aubrey Parish for herself. She didn't have anyone else who needed her or anyone else who depended upon her. She certainly didn't have anyone who was strong enough or cared enough to look after her.

In the face of uncertainty, it is women who are strong.

"You're in a rare mood today, Miss Eleni. It's not often I see you so quiet as you are now. Got somethin' on your mind worth speakin' ? If you're feelin' low on energy, got a special drink to help perk you right back up, too."  She could see the concern on Chance's face. He was one of the wisest and most genuine people she knew.

Before she can reply, a man walks into the bar, saying little. He was one of the tallest men Eleni had ever seen in her life, and she'd seen mostly everyone. "Pardon, Signorina."  His words stumble over themselves, but unlike what comes from many, his nervousness is not flirtation. Instead, he seems to have less than an impressive grasp of the English language, and his face has a faint blush to it on this account.

"I am sorry. Usually, disturbing others, I never do this. I have become very thirsty. Hungering. Outdoors is place of great heat and little food." The man is large but he is gentle, and when he puts a twenty-dollar bill on the table, he looks between Chance and Eleni with pleading eyes. "I would like.." The man pauses, obviously frustrated. "Things. Eating and drinking. I keep out of way and then go."

Eleni sees Chance surveying the man the same way she does. The man has long blonde hair that seems natural, an unusual feature amongst those who dwell in Aubrey Parish, and bright green eyes that sparkle. There is an almost childlike sense of hope on his face, and Eleni feels her heart lurch in a way it hadn't in some time.

The feeling is distracting enough she almost doesn't notice the rest of the ensemble. The stranger wears leather pants, heavy boots, and a black t-shirt with a black leather jacket. If he wanted to be inconspicuous about his ability to frighten the hell out of people, he was failing miserably. It was also no small wonder he was dehydrated. Even approaching the end of November, it was in the mid-80's without the humidity.

Feeling a sense of pity for the man, Eleni takes an educated guess. "Devi essere nuovo. Come ti chiami?" She asks the question politely, but her demeanour is unusually soft, and she is exceptionally invested in a stranger who is one of the strangest the bar has seen.

The man smiles broadly and stands up to bow. A look of relief washes over his face. "Grazie, signorina. Parli Italiano? Mi chiamo Albireo."  He blushes before looking at the ground awkwardly. "Sei una bella donna, come Afrodite."

It isn't hard to win Eleni over, and a European with a habit of blushing and gift for flattery has many points in his favour. It didn't hurt that the man looks to be in his twenties, but has a physique usually reserved for statues. At least from a physical standpoint, Eleni had finally met her match.

"Mi chiamo Eleni. Sono una donna francese, ma ho vissuto a Firenze."  Eleni offers, though she doesn't extend her hand to him. She can tell he is weak, and she doesn't want to harm or confuse him. She simply makes introductions, sensing he's the type who prefers to be left alone.

Albireo's smile widens. "Vengo da Venezia, città del romanticismo."  He winks at Eleni, and she chuckles to herself. Perhaps he wasn't that weak, after all.

Eleni turns to Chance, and says softly, "Maybe set him up at a table with a little privacy, and just give him some of everything the kitchen is making at this hour. I don't think he's eaten in some time, but is polite. He is very far from threatening."  Eleni stands, and watches as Albireo blatantly admires her. "I'll pick up the tab for whatever he wants, but I wouldn't give him alcohol."

Chance comes around from behind the bar, leading Albireo to a small cafe table. The man is so large, he looks like he is sitting in furniture made for children. "What were you saying to him, and how?"

She laughs merrily, her eyes still subconsciously batting, sending pheromones ricocheting around the bar. "He is Italian. I guessed from the accent. He told me I had the beauty of Aphrodite." She grins at this, and Chance shakes his head.

"I asked him if he was new, and he said he comes from Venice, the city of romance. His name is Albireo." It was not a word-for-word translation, but Eleni shares the key points. She is never coy or deceptive with Chance, even though she is by nature a secretive, closed-off person who wore charm like a masque.

"Eleni, you don't remember the whole story. Aphrodite, she ain't the happiest goddess around. Always sufferin' one trial or another.  Beauty didn't protect her from pain any. It brought her more."

Eleni grins at Chance, and stays put on her bar stool while the owner gets the young Italian man settled. "Really, you should just let a lady take a compliment every now and again, you know."

Chance clicks his tongue, head shaking in mock disapproval of Eleni. "You get plenty of compliments, Miss Eleni. That's why someone's got to tell you time to time that even though Aphrodite was never alone, I'm pretty sure she was the loneliest of all of them."

He moves back behind the bar, on the way to the kitchen. "I ain't sure why, Miss Eleni, but I think of you like my own daughter. I want you to have better than just bein' admired and left behind."

Her face breaks out into a genuine smile, eyes blinking as if they are filling with tears, even though they are not. "That's perhaps one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me."

Chance winks and says flippantly. "It's because you know I meant it. The way your heart came alive just then, that's what you deserve. Ain't as flashy as comparisons to Goddesses or love poems or songs and whatever the boys bring in here, but love ain't flashy. Most honest things are real simple."

With that, he goes off to throw together breakfast for a starving Italian, wondering how life will work out for all of them in the end.

Not far from the popular bar, Scott Feila returns from the hospital gift shop. He isn't that well-acquainted with the idea of visiting a sick girlfriend, and he is in the unenviable position of visiting two women who would like to pin him down while the one he'd actually consider marrying saved him from serving a decade or two in jail. Of course, it's not anything he hadn't done for her before. It is why he has no doubt it's Eleni who came to his rescue.

He wants to thank her, but at the same time, he tries not to think of her. It's kept him from reaching out to her when he needs her the most. Scott isn't sure what rock bottom looks like, but it probably is something kind of like this.

It isn't fair to hold her responsible and yet he does. He knows it's the thinking of a broken man. If only she hadn't played her games with me that very first day we met, none of this ever would have happened. So much would have never happened if she could have been mine.

Theirs is a bizarre and complicated friendship.  In Scott's eyes, the pair are cut from the same cloth. Eleni understands Scott in a way none of the others ever have, or will. However, Eleni isn't in the hospital bed because he doesn't have it in him to hurt her. Scott had only ever cut Eleni once, although he didn't mean to, it had happened.

Eleni isn't normal, Scott knows that much. He hurt her and he was the one who experienced pain. She didn't just protect herself the way a woman usually would. Instead, something in her was the epitome of vengeance and destruction. Eleni knows how to make people pay a price for harming her.

Is he still paying for his mistakes, or has he simply become everything he admired?

Over the years, he became a colder and emptier man. He knows his problems and his demons are his own. Eleni may be the only one who is truly safe from him, a fact that leaves him wracked with guilt and confusion. He doesn't want to hurt people. Scott Feila can't love, but he is not a cruel villain who delights in the pain of others. He has wished many times to be that simple.

As a result. he returns from the gift shop pushing one of the carts that are used to deliver dinners. Scott is barely visible behind a cart that carries balloons, stuffed animals, singing cards, chocolates, and a variety of other relatively useless merchandise. Of course, whatever he bought, he made sure to buy two.

When the kind woman at the store told him they didn't sell flowers, he wandered the hallway until he found a room with someone being wheeled out, covered with a sheet. His natural curiosity was to stop and ask what happened. Instead, he went with his second instinct, which was to sneak into the room of the deceased person and steal their flower arrangements. He managed to add four to his cart and felt fairly confident that Ali and Lala would be pleased.

After all, just because people died, it didn't mean the flowers should have to be tossed aside as they so often were. Eleni taught him that, the way she pressed leaves and flowers and downright stupid mementoes within the pages of her books.

It turns out, they aren't so stupid after all. Eleni merely understands better than most the pain of immortality clashing with humanity. Scott was starting to see the value of what lingers long after they would all be gone.

"I think I did pretty well at the gift shop, but I'm not sure. Are these things cheerful?" The only thing that would really make him cheerful was the idea of a few drinks and seeing Ali with his own eyes, so he could reassure himself she'd be okay.

The Sheriff lets out a loud laugh when he sees Scott full of what he thought was "cheerful". "Son, I gotta tell you, two girlfriends ain't cheap. I don't envy you one bit on that front." Colton grins. "I think they'll be right pleased with the gifts. I ain't never seen two girls so happy in a hospital when they get presents. I think you spoil 'em a little. "

Scott looks at the cart, and makes a thoughtful sound. Were Ali and Lala really both his girlfriends? That wasn't something he planned for. Fuck, even one wasn't what he planned for They lived together, they watched movies together, they got drunk and high together, they fucked together. Still, he didn't love either of him the way he thought love was supposed to go. "I didn't know what kind of shit to get to cheer them up. You really think this will make them happier?"

Colton's eyes turn sympathetic, and he claps Scott on the shoulder. "I ain't sure anything can make happiness from this kind of situation or make up for what happened to those girls. I'll say I've been doin' this job too long now, and so I know how lucky they were. It could have been much worse."

Scott doesn't know if he imagines the Sheriff's eyes looking at him knowingly, his lips pressed together in a strange way. It's the face that says without a word that Colton knows a lot more than he lets on, and he'd kick Scott's ass clear across the country and back again if he were allowed.

Of course, guilt does strange things to a person. Every one of Scott's hours is spent looking over his shoulder but absolutely no one is chasing him.

Shifting his weight as he loiters a bit too long at the desk, Colton quickly turns his focus away from the contents of the briefcase and makes it look as if he hasn't a care in the world. He mouths a "thank you" to the kind and helpful Sophia. He hates visiting the hospital. He'd honestly rather have to take a trip to the morgue than this place, but it is better when crime victims end up here instead.

The Sheriff can't help but think about a world someday in the future, a day where there's a quiet room filled with stuffed animals and flowers and cards for Zia while Colton sits at her side, and Brian hides his tears by glaring at Colton with the familiar "You're not my dad." face. The only way to keep from thinking about it was to think about everyone and everything else.

Fortunately, the people of Aubrey Parish gave him a lot to think about, especially the three crazy kids he has to deal with today. It's a hard lesson, looking past feeling sorry for them and letting them know they're the kind of kids who aren't kids anymore. Everyone learns it's time to grow up in a different way. Some choose a harder road than others.

Scott's eyes close, and he coughs. "The back of my throat is dry all of the sudden. Strange kind of thing. I must be allergic to something in here." The tough rocker doesn't look tough or cool or mysterious at the moment. He looks like what he is, a sad middle-aged drunk who lived in a hotel and was obsessed with a girl too good for him. He was possibly the kind of man who put the naive young women who chose to love him in the hospital.

Colton couldn't ever prove Scott had anything to do with the break-in, but that many gifts came from someone who felt an awful lot of guilt. Maybe he didn't do it, but he knew who did. Maybe he was just the kind of guy who cheated and lied and made them feel like shit. Maybe they'd all done this to each other, including the dark-haired widow who fled the hospital before anyone could touch her and the pair of men who lived down the block.

What Colton does know is there is no unknown robber, just a domestic disturbance that looks like the entire neighbourhood decided to attend. Unlike these kids, he is from the Parish, and he knows that the idea of an unknown attacker is ridiculous in a place like this one. It is a good story, but a bad lie.

Whatever Scott had done, it was a guilt Colton recognised. No one would look into the break-in on Ivy Lane much more than this, but the Sheriff had been around long enough. He didn't know how many people were in that house, what kind of drugs they were on, or who was fighting who.

Colton saw through Lala, the incessant screaming about vampires and refusing blood work. He gave her credit for being the intelligent one in the group. She was the only one who thought maybe the doctors and the cops would do a tox screen and didn't want her life ruined over a bad night.

The Sheriff would let the whole thing go because he didn't see the point in arresting two young girls who'd just had their heads bashed in. He needed Brian to keep as far from Eleni as possible if this was the kind of company she kept. Colton didn't like the classy young widow and he didn't trust her. This sort of business was why.

"Can we go see them now?" Scott's voice sounded a little anxious, and Colton realised he'd gotten lost in thought.

"Sure, son. Let's go. I'm going to take you up there and let you have some time. Got some paperwork to catch up on, but I'll come back in twenty minutes or so. Someone's got to keep an eye on y'all in there." Colton winks, feigning playfulness.

The two men walk in silence, a quiet elevator ride punctuated only by the squeaky wheels of the gift cart. The flowers don't escape Colton's attention and there's no florist on site, a severe oversight. Like many things about this situation, he doesn't ask. Sometimes, it's better not to know when not knowing brings more happiness than pain.

When they finally get to the door of the hospital room, Scott hesitates a moment. "Remember what I told you, son. Not everyone takes this stuff so well. Don't let 'em see you bein' upset or worried and they'll feel better for it."

"I know." Scott looks at Colton, a frank kind of honesty on his face. "I'm not always the best at being the strong one."

The Sheriff nods his head in understanding. "Ain't none of us much good at that, son. Part of growin' up is knowin' you got no other choice. Sometimes, life is just an asshole with a gun tryin' to shoot you and take you out. Strength is knowin' you ain't in charge of the outcome, but you damn well won't stand there for target practice."

Colton opens the door, and announces cheerfully, "Yet another visitor comes bearing gifts. You girls are maybe the most popular patients in this hospital."

Scott pushes in the cart hesitantly, a look of surprise at the appearance of the room written all over his face. Ali and Lala may not be the easiest roommates he'd ever had, but Aubrey Parish is supportive and loving. The room announces positive vibes with flowers, cards, and all sorts of gifts declaring "Get Well Soon!" and similar sentiments.

Colton clears his throat, and says, "I'm going to give y'all a bit of privacy, but I'll be in the conference room if you need me." He looks at Scott meaningfully. "Twenty minutes, and they'd better be just as peaceful as they are now." Colton avoids looking at Lala, who he knows will go on a rant about vampires wanting her blood and stealing her soul.

He felt sorry for Lala and her panic about needles and refusing treatment the first time. By the 80th time, he felt sorry for the vampire.

"Feel better, ladies. I'll be back soon." Colton tries to keep his voice as cheerful as possible. He does his best to make sure he's not conspicuous about wanting to leave, but he truly does want out as quickly as possible. The envelopes in his briefcase are burning a hole in his heart he can actually feel. They are answers to mysteries, things he both wants to know and yet doesn't, in case everything is changed forever. The door clicks softly behind the Sheriff, leaving the trio alone with their particular brand of what he can only dub insanity.

It isn't that the selfish man-boy and his difficult women, or the tragedy of Ava and Keegan, or the truth about Victor Zenkova are things that are any less painful than what he'd one day endure.  It is a certain distance that years of work have given him, a perspective that allows him into the mystery. Through others, he can feel without being hurt.

Every time he thinks about Zia, his heart breaks and he feels what it is when your body stops breathing for too long. The panic and grief are suffocating. She is his air, even if he'd never told her.

A tall brunette woman walks into Mudbugs, quietly sneaking off into the corner like most new arrivals who don't care to be noticed. She has dark hair with glints of chestnut red, striking blue eyes, and tattoos that cover a good deal of her shoulders and upper back. She's the kind of woman who is inconspicuous until anyone takes a good look. Up close, she is beautiful in the way young and trendy women are nowadays. Chance chuckles to himself. He thinks so many of them are the kind of women who one day, will trade the gaudy fashion for simple elegance and the catwalk-like strut for a sophistication that is even more appealing.

He often wishes they could live enough centuries and gain enough wisdom to become future versions of the woman with onyx hair and crimson nails he affectionately called "Princess". This was the second girl like that who'd come into town. The first was the more body-conscious type, shorter, less polite, and carrying enough attitude to get the night bartender drunk with her. This one, at least, would pay for her drinks. He'd see to that.

"Aubrey Parish been seein' an influx of lovely ladies keepin' the tattoo shop in business. That Mortikai's work? Ain't much for tattoos myself, but he got some talent." Noticing the girl wasn't exactly the talkative type, he shrugs. "What can I get ya this afternoon?"

She sits quietly, keeping to herself, which Chance always respects. Eleni is so quiet today, it's unnerving. The bartender is the talkative one. "I don't know who Mortikai is, but doesn't sound like the name of someone I'd let tattoo me."  The girl laughs, and says quietly, "I'm new here and need a job. I'm a baker, just out of school, but I can do whatever you need. You know, pay dues and all."

There's a shyness, a look about her that's slightly self-deprecating. Chance's mind immediately flips to Keegan upstairs in his apartment. He wouldn't want an assistant, but they are close to the same age. There is something about her quiet defiance and apologetic self-assurance that reminded him of his chef, and Chance slips into matchmaking mode.

"Lookin' fer work? You stayin' down at the hotel?" The girl nods, and Chance considers. "Let me get you an application. I already got an executive chef, a young man with plenty of talent. We ain't got a pastry chef, though, so no harm in givin' you a little test. Whatever you make, people here will eat. Trust me, if it got sugar on it, it'll sell."

Chance treats the girl with a nonchalant air, not even asking her name. Something about her tells him it'll probably be fake anyway. It's obvious Chance immediately likes the girl, but his staff is made up of young troublemakers, rebels without a clue who are tortured by a mix of talent, emotion, family problems, and self-esteem issues. Chance is a tough guy, and so it's only natural he has a soft spot for the tough ones. It's the ones who need bail money and character witnesses, steal from the register to get laid and get engaged to mobsters that are the lifeblood of his legacy. For some reason, he wouldn't want it any other way.

"Eleni, watch the bar a minute, please? Gotta go find the paperwork for this girl." He turns to the pretty young thing in jeans and top cut too low with a hoodie attached to the back. They all wear hoodies now, the young folks. "Sure you don't want anything? I make a mean Cajun Bloody Mary, even if Eleni here doesn't appreciate them as often as she should."

Eleni looks up at the mention of her name and nods her head. "Of course I can do that. And the drink is delicious, I just prefer my drinks old-fashioned. Whiskey, bourbon, cognac, brandy---you know, the sort that comes on a bit too strong for many people, until they realise the art of sipping slowly and savouring the flavour."  Eleni winks playfully, an almost automatic response to the presence of a pretty young girl entering the bar. It is her way of establishing dominance and Chance has a kind of respect for it. It is the thing that many people dislike about Eleni that earns his admiration and makes him think of her as part of the family.

He chuckles as the girl does a terrible job concealing the fact she's rolling her eyes at Eleni. Her reply has a bit of seriousness to it. "I'll take a 7-Up. My mother and grandmother always drank a little too much, at least that's what I'm told. I stay away from the hard stuff."

Chance nods his head in understanding. It is an all too common affliction in the Parish. "Sprite okay? We got Sprite here." The girl is getting a Sprite, which he pours. "On the house, darlin'.  It's the same, anyhow."

Walking toward the kitchen, he wonders why he's got the only bar that serves Sprite.

The girl swings one foot idly as she sips her drink.  It wasn't the same. Sprite was clearly not 7-Up.

She eyes the bar curiously. For a moment, hell, she just wishes she could drink. She wishes she could drink and drink and drink because that's what people did when they had problems. No, that wouldn't be happening anytime soon. She was here in a purely professional capacity.

The young woman let out an overly dramatic sigh as she begins to look around the tiny bar. Puny,  that's what it is. It is puny and dirty. All of what she's seen--the city, the bar, the too-thin woman clinging to fading remnants of beauty, the bartender who seems to have no greater ambition in life-- it is all just sad. Her azure gaze glances over toward the kitchen door and then examines the man eating his breakfast, before narrowing in on the woman by the bar. She doesn't want to be in this dump. She is used to the beauty of London's parks, Italy's fashions, France's manners. A cosmopolitan girl doesn't belong in a place like this, she tells herself. It is more than that. She refuses to belong.

She has a petulant look on her face and doesn't even try to make conversation with Eleni. The moment the overdressed woman opened her mouth, she is annoyed into silence. A little scowl stays on her face, her lips pouting as a result. This has to be the smallest town that she had ever been in. Well, at least it was one of them.

The young woman is at the age where everything annoys her, and the aging Hollywood socialite and the socially impaired bartender didn't make her think more highly of the town. She could have stayed in Paris where she finished culinary school. She could have stayed anywhere in Europe with her uptight bitch of a sister and her sister's annoying brats. No, she had to come all the way to Aubrey Parish to meet the detective who'd help her find what she wants most. She wants answers and closure.

The whole situation was absurd because he had only just arrived a few months ago. Like most men, when she looked for him, he had been nowhere to be found. The name is one vaguely familiar to her. Jebediah Harper, private investigator. Of course, it sounds more like a name from one of the boring books on her summer reading list.

The irritation of the detective being hard to find started her day off on the wrong foot. She almost stomped into the bar, muttering under her breath about crazy parents and unreliable men and their stupidity. The only thing that keeps her from stomping is a reminder that she isn't small-boned. She isn't the delicate flower like the vaguely anorexic woman at the bar. When she wears heels, they make a large stomping noise.

What was so special about this town after all? What made it so special that her mother had decided to up and leave and travel to the United States to live here? Did she even live here, or was the detective she'd been e-mailing luring her into some trap?

At the edge of the bar, Eleni raises her glance, watching the girl because she said she'd watch the bar. A man sits at a table with coffee and some hashbrowns but just stares at his phone. Neither of them is exactly a scintillating companion. Eleni has a look about her that's confusing, both approachable and intimidating at the same time. She perches against the edge of the stool in her unique way, never sitting fully upon it, just resting comfortably.

Raising her eyes to the young girl beside her, she says, "Rough day, is it? Chance makes the best drinks in town, so it helps a bit." She smiles in her typically charming, affable manner. She doesn't bother offering her hand. Chance may have been impressed by the girl, who looks only a few years younger than Eleni but has harder edges, but Eleni isn't. 

Eleni is not exactly skilled at chatting with women when she needs nothing from them. They are so much more difficult than men, but this one looks rather the way Eleni feels and she empathises, at least. Eleni has been more pissed off at the world than she's been allowed to show for a few centuries now.

The young woman would be pretty if she got rid of all the eye makeup and the tattoo and the ring in her nose, Eleni thought. That colour hair was lovely. As if she could hear Eleni judging her, the girl swings her head around to look at Eleni, one dark brow raised as she let her gaze slide over her. She gave a little grunting sound than a shrug of her shoulders before looking to see what they might have to order on the menu. She tried to ignore the other woman's friendly nature, but she turned her gaze slowly back, watching her in an odd way. "Yes... a rough day, I suppose you could say that."

She looks back at the man with his cell phone and coffee and lets out a frustrated little sigh.  "What's your name?" she aske pointedly, noticing no one in the place that is reportedly friendly offers a greeting. 

Eleni narrows her eyes, sorely tempted to roll them a bit. The very young ones here are rudely direct and full of questions. They are not shy in asking them either. She'd have to introduce this girl to the young man who kept making her feel uncomfortable with his incessant swearing. They look and sound like kindred spirits, down to the tattoos. Though the girl hadn't cursed at anyone, her attitude did the work of all four-letter words.

"Ah, I know what that's like. It has not been all flowers and sunshine this weekend, really. Are you new to this place?" Eleni's brow lifts, asking questions of her own since that's apparently how it is done. "I am Eleni, and the bartender here is Chance. I hear you're looking for work? It's hard to do better than this place. " She bows her head as if in greeting and smiles in her charming way. She holds out a hand delicately to the girl. Eleni, of course, is focusing on her for another reason.

She behaves the way the newborns do, Eleni notes to herself. Try to show patience, just in case.

The young woman tries to pull her hand away from Eleni's, recoiling almost, but she strangely can't. Something clicks in her brain as she heard the name that was being introduced, and she doesn't know whether to bow or smile or throw things. Eleni had probably already read her with the touch of her hand.  The fight seems to go out of the young girl, her hand dropping to her side in a submissive posture. "Eleni. The name of a Princess.".

An uncomfortable look passes over Eleni's face, even if there was no one nearby. She laughs merrily. "Thank you. I am glad you like it. That's funny you say that because it's what Chance calls me, "Princess".

"It suits you, doesn't it? It's what you are. Or is it a Prince now, or still a Duchess?" The young woman's painted lips curl into a sweet smile as she turns to look at Eleni.  They are not as dramatic as Eleni's, but they are enough of a giveaway to threaten any sense of discretion.

"Yes, I am new, actually. I just came into town today," she says as she now faces Eleni directly. Her face is lovely but unwavering and unafraid. Her gaze flits lightly over to the man at his table, giving him a nod of her head in greeting before returning her attention to the dark-haired woman, one with a soul she knew to be as black as her hair.

"I am sorry. I was taken aback by your handshake. It's..something." The young woman extends her own in an approximation of what Eleni had done. When she attempts to hold her hand in a dainty manner to offer to Eleni, the raven-haired woman reached back in an expression of kindness. Looking down at Eleni's fingers, she is aware of allowing her fingers to curl around the woman's hand so tightly the delicate appendages threaten to snap. "It is my honour, Madame Eleonore Vigneron , beloved Princess." The words are the hiss of a snake.

Eleni looks confused, but her eyes are also inscrutable. "I think you have me mistaken for someone of importance. I am just Eleni. Though I must admit, I do wonder how you know my name." As the girl looks into Eleni's eyes, she gives a genuine smile at the faint spark of fear. The more people one meets and tries to charm, the less surprising it is to find an assassin in the mix. She can almost hear Eleni's thoughts focusing upon the idea the girl has been sent to murder her.

The girl laughs, not the enchanting laugh that is Eleni's, but the cruel and mocking sound of a huntress who has trapped her prey. "Don't worry, I am not here to kill you, though it would solve so many problems."

Eleni's hand is struggling to pull away, but the young woman's grip is stronger. She tightens the vice bit by bit as she leans in towards Eleni, increasing the pressure until she hears the sickly crack of beautiful and fragile bones, and finally the smallest of cries from Eleni. "I'd introduce myself, but do I have to? I've always heard you're some kind of psychic. Of course, I wouldn't know myself."

This time, the girl's lips move up into an exact replica of Eleni's beguiling, dangerous crimson smile and her blue eyes stare straight into a mirror. "Hello, Mother."