A soft chuckle escapes the painted lips of a woman sitting by the wall. Her bowler hat is tilted forwards, leaving her eyes in shadow, their presence only betrayed by her head’s slight turns to look at whoever is taking the moment to speak. Her dress and corset are a startling red, while her gloves are snow white and spotless, almost glowing in the dim atmosphere of the dining hall lanterns. Her bat has left it’s usual shoulder perch to hang under the stool she’s taken up, gratefully letting the blood rush back to it’s head.
My, such extravagant ventures you all have, she says breathily, I myself can only speak of frivolous things for my time of the festival was spent in a more scandalous than productive ways. My festival was one of romance, conquest and satisfaction. Sinning Jenny herself would be jealous, if I may be so bold. But my, I shall not regret the delicious time spent supping with the Affetionate Devil, though he might when he gets my answer. Nor will that sumptuous night with that charming tattooed beauty be ever forgotten. I found my missionary is fond of the theatre, and my theif and my heiress have met each other and there may have been a spark, but I snuffed it. Both will be mine. Such balances to keep, I nearly missed my jewel delivery to the constant visitor of that lovely dark woman who preyed so many times on my glim.
She swirls her wine in her glass slowly, and sniffs it, before smiling and taking a slow sip. Such fine Morelways, this is.