Private A Return

[George Vitalis]

HYPERSPACE
Reima Vitalis

It had taken some time for them to gather up the time and needs for the trip. Sadly they weren't kids anymore with no responsibilities. They couldn't just drop everything there was, jump in a ship and see where Hyperspace would take them. That loss was felt even more keenly by George. Sometimes he felt like that time in the Netherworld had robbed him of those quintessential experiences. He didn't get to see some of the most formative years of his younger sister, he didn't get to fool around and enjoy himself either, instead he was being tugged between the two worlds.

One, where his mother needed him and above her, the nation itself. Another where he was doing his best to make up for lost time. Partying (within reason), having girlfriends (even more reason), going out and explore (in a reasonable fashion).

Sometimes he just wanted to jump in that ship and fly away. Other times George felt the responsibility on his shoulders, the way his mother relied on him, and he couldn't help but feel proud that he didn't crack under the pressure. It was a tough balance, but he was happy to have his sister for it now. The droid was humming away quietly in the cockpit, they'd be leaving hyperspace soon enough and arrive in the Galidraan system.

He was searching around for Reima and found her in the mess hall of their luxury freighter.

"There you are, I have been looking all over." George teased as he plopped himself down in one of the chairs. "Have you been back to Galidraan, since... you know?"

 

[Reima Vitalis]

George would find his sister in the galley, buttering some toast, a kettle for tea bubbling but not quite whistling on the nearby hob. "Here I am," she agreed in a distracted voice as she finished off one of the pieces of toast. "Making toast and tea. You want?"

When the kettle went, she took it off the hob and poured the boiling liquid into the efficient little square teapot that she had already placed on an efficient little tray next to two teacups, the plate bearing a stack of toast, and efficient little square jugs for milk and sugar. She dropped a teabag into the teapot -- one concession to modern life on a starship -- and placed the lid back on, then carried the whole works over to where George sat.

"No," she said. "I used to go to Foxfield on leave, before you... came back." Reima nudged the teapot, as if she could will the tea to brew faster. "Auntie Petra was usually good fun, but then Grandmama died and she moved to the city. It was too dangerous in those days, so I stopped coming. By then the New Imperials had all but died off, but their particularly rabid anti-Vitalis sentiments stayed as strong as ever among those who held the reigns in Calavar. Of course, Auntie Petra was a special case because she was part of the resistance."

She frowned and reached for a slice of toast, a faraway look in her eyes. Breaking off a corner for a nibble. "I can't believe it's been three years since she died. Where does the time go? While we're -- home, I guess -- we ought to stop by the crypt to pay our respects to them. To Uncle Thad and Father as well." She ate the toast corner and settled back into her chair to let the tea steep, arms folding around her slender middle. "What about you? I would think you'd go back to check on things at Foxfield every so often, no?"

George Vitalis​

 

[George Vitalis]

Reima Vitalis

"Reima's famous toast and tea combo? How could I decline?" George teased her lightly and stretched a little on the chair. It wasn't as comfortable as the pilot one or some of the more opulent chairs they had at home, but it would do in a pinch otherwise. He listened as he nibbled on one of the pieces of toasts offered up by his sister.

It was difficult to really... understand.

The fact that Petra was gone, grandmother was gone. So much had happened while he was stuck in the Netherworld. It would hurt, if his heart didn't already feel scabbed over a thousand times.

Maybe it was for the best.

Mother would say that as nobility they had to have a heart of iron. They couldn't let these things get them down. After all, the famous Iron Lady had had her share of heartache and suffering, she didn't let that drag her down. Natasi was the best of them. Strongest, fierce. Reima and him were reflections of that, put together they matched, but separate? George wasn't sure they'd ever reach her heights.

"I... have not been as often as I'd like. The memories. I feel sometimes like I am a stranger in my own home. I don't know if that makes a lot of sense." He offered a grimace that doubled as a smile.

"But, yes, I'd like to pay respects. Thanks again... for accompanying me. It means a lot, I am not sure I'd be able to be there alone."

 

[Reima Vitalis]

"It's nothing," she said, but when her eyes met his she smiled uncomfortably. "It's not nothing."

Reima had always been uneasy at Herevan. She had spent a lot of time there, and at the neighboring estate of Foxfield Park, and she infinitely preferred the latter to the former. Herevan was firmly Natasi's domain, with portraits of grandparents she would never know glowering down from half the walls, great-grandparents even further removed looking terribly dignified. What struck her most was that there was nothing of her father there. No favorite armchair, no box of cigars, no shirts in wardrobes, nothing but his handsome face peering out of a platinum-framed printed photograph on her mother's desk. That was also where the only trace of Reima and George were, in the opposite frame of the hinged, two-paneled platinum frame. In one side, Natasi and Talbot, each with an enigmatic half-smile, in a portrait from their wedding. In the other, a very solemn-looking, sandy-haired toddler boy clutching a bundle of lace that was the newborn Reima Vitalis.

There was also very little of her grandmother and namesake, other than pictures. She had been painted alone as a young woman, with the namana orchards of Bakura behind her, from before her marriage; she had been painted as a newlywed, a blushing bride, and as a young mother proudly presenting her eldest, Mathes. Another painting, with Reima standing next to a taller Mathes, both looking down at a swaddled infant Natasi. There were only two more, one with both her children in their childhood and the last with her alone, her thirtieth birthday, weeks before her death.

Reima had come from away, from Bakura, with a fortune to rescue the Fortan holdings and especially Herevan Hold after a series of disastrous harvests. And for her trouble, she became completely subsumed by the Fortan name, the Fortan legacy, her final reward a place of honor in a frozen mausoleum lightyears from Bakura, never having learned of her part in the dynasty that has settled the vast tumult that was the Unknown Regions, turning a backwater like Dosuun into the capital of a galactic superpower. The mythology of Fortan didn't leave room for Reima Esperell.

Or Reima Vitalis.

"Chalk it up to guilt," she told her brother, surfacing from the ruminations with a subtle shake of her head. "It's my fault we have to buy the place back, after all. I hope you know it wasn't about the money, George," Reima said, suddenly quite stoic. "I didn't sell Herevan Hold because I wanted money. It was -- a different time. The powers that ran Galidraan were looking to exact vengeance on Fortans because of what mother did with the Sith Imperials. I'm sure her aunt ran roughshod over the place, which didn't help. She was always so eager to trade on the family name."

She swirled the teapot and peeked inside the lid, then -- apparently satsified with the strength of the brew -- poured out George's cup, then her own. "Not to mention it was terrifying to be there on my own. After you and mother simply vanished." She shuddered violently. "I hope you'll have the place checked out before you go into the attics again. It could still be dangerous."

George Vitalis​

 

[George Vitalis]

He realized that Reima was lost in thought and far away in that moment. It reminded George of himself, when he slipped for a moment and his thoughts were back in the Netherworld. It would take someone to tug at his elbow or shake his shoulder to get him out of it. But George didn't dare to do it now, her expression wasn't pained... it was just thoughtful. And he certainly didn't like it, being reminded when his thoughts didn't align with the moment they were supposed to serve.

Reima wouldn't like it either.

She came back to him eventually and George blinked at what she said next.

"Of course not." He said sharply, firm in a way that might surprise them both. His expression immediately softened and there he reached out to pat her hand gently. "Of course not." A bit softer now. "You were all alone, without us, I can't imagine having an estate with even more ancient memories of family list would help you."

Would George have preferred if Reima Vitalis hadn't done it? Certainly, it would have made things easier now.

"And yes, you had to do what you needed to do to keep yourself safe. I understand that." His expression a bit pained. "Your big brother wasn't there to help you, protect you like he should." Then pain turned into a bit of an amused sheepish look. "And now I am not even your big brother anymore, I didn't even get to see you grow up further."

A soft sigh there, squeezing her hand.

"All that is to say, is that I don't blame you at all and I don't want you to carry around the fear that I might. I love you... I support you. And I am grateful you are here with me now." The ship shuddered and George blinked as he glanced over to the terminal. "Oh, looks like we are almost there. I am gonna go steady the reversal. We will be planet-side in about half an hour."

One last squeeze and then George let go and rose up.

"It will be like it was supposed to be, Rei. Two of us together, we weren't meant to be separate." Then he turned to take his leave towards the cockpit.

 

[Reima Vitalis]

"Lucky you," Reima quipped. "There were times -- years, really -- when you wouldn't have liked what you saw. I don't particularly like to think of it now," she said, voice matter of fact. Reima had been something of a wild child after her brother's disappearance. Some part of her convinced that he was dead and gone, and that the only way to see him again would be to die herself. What use, then, a long life of propriety? Live fast, die young, and boy had she taken that motto to heart. Men -- boys, mostly, but a rather daring fling with a professor of hers did stand out -- and speeder bike races, which had graduated into very fast and highly illegal podraces, which had turned to her former career as a fighter pilot.

Lots of drinking along the way. A little drugs.

Live fast. Die young.

But it had never come off. Despite her best efforts, she had survived every encounter. Found a way to get into the Netherworld that didn't require her to sacrifice her life and dragged her brother out. And now she had a lifetime to remember and regret every bad decision, every ill-planned romance. She could cringe just thinking about it, and often did. "But... nevermind. Things to do." She forced a smile and drained her tea. "I'll tidy up in here while you get us squared away. You know me, I hate to fly anything slower than an X-Wing."

Reima stood up and watcher her brother go, then cleared away the tea and rinsed the pot and the crumbs. It was a few minutes before she joined George in the cockpit. Herevan loomed large in the viewport, rising from below like a sun, somehow. Decades of Fortan history dotted the terrain as much as lakes and trees. "By God, I am feeling melodramatic," she informed George cheerfully as she settled into the copilot's chair, draping her legs over one of the armrests, putting her back against the other. "I almost asked you do you suppose we will ever stop putting scars on this world? like a goddamned -- I don't even know what."

She glanced at the planet again, ever larger. "I meant to ask whether you'd been back," she said, nodding toward the viewscreen. "Just -- here. Not Herevan, necessarily."

George Vitalis​

 

[George Vitalis]

"There were times -- years, really -- when you wouldn't have liked what you saw."

He paused at the doorstep and turned slightly.

"You saved my life, Rei-Rei. Nothing else you have done will ever erase it and you have my undying loyalty until the end of time."

Having declared a lifelong pact to Reima as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, he took his leave finally and left her to her devices. It didn't take a long time for the ship to settle in the right transit routes. Say whatever you want about Galidraan and the mess the Sith had left, but it was still an orderly planet that had its chit together.

For the most part anyway.

By the time they were approaching the space port proper Reima Vitalis joined him and he shifted slightly, so he could turn to her when she began to speak.

"I meant to ask whether you'd been back," she said, nodding toward the viewscreen. "Just -- here. Not Herevan, necessarily."

"No, I haven't." He said softly as he watched the docking bay come closer and closer. "Too many memories. Same stuff as you, I imagine. I get the weekly correspondence and give any orders that need giving, but that's about it." The ship started to slow and automated protocols took over, allowing George to take his hands off of the steering wheel.

"We are here anyway, after the auction, would you like to visit the other estate? I don't know if you have been there... recently or otherwise?"

Standing up and offering his hand to Reima, to help her up to her feet.

"Let's go and join the chaos, shall we? I imagine we are going to draw quite some eyes."

 

[Reima Vitalis]

"We should," Reima agreed with her brother's proposition that they visit Foxfield Park. She rose as the ship settled onto the landing pad. The village had never had one until after the First Order's death. Natasi had enjoyed the leisure of a train from Calavar -- the little luxuries in a sleeper car, the unique taste of a cocktail on rails -- and her own stealth corvette was small enough to land on the grounds of Herevan Hold in a pinch. But with the security demands of the little lordling and his little sister, something had had to give, and so the facility had been built outside of the outskirts, hopefully far enough to leave the place some peace and quiet, some historic charm.

"I'd hate for the Duchy to get the idea that the Young Lord is too big for his britches and moved on to bigger and better things," she said, half-teasing. "Besides which, I left a few good jewels there last time I came and I'd rather like them back for the Season."

She followed George to the entryway, where she donned her fur coat against the perpetual winter of Herevan County. Its unique position atop a cliff mesa made the county drafty and cool almost all the year through. Summers were usually overcast, and warmish but never with the heat and sun of Southport. Even Calavar had a little more sun and summer than Herevan ever did. Reima had always preferred the cheer of Southport, but there were important matters to discuss.

"You must promise not to let them throw produce at me," Reima said, another half-joke. She doubted whether it would come to that, but she knew she was on much of the county's list for selling up. George was still their Earl, still paid attention to the needs of the county, but it had been centuries with one Fortan or another in Herevan Hall, up until Reima Vitalis dashed all that history.

They descended the ramp. Even from here, she could see that the Hold was lit up like a Life Day tree, its towers and turrets showing over the tree bathed in golden light. "He's certainly showing it to advantage," she muttered to George as she took his arm. "Remember, in addition to the bearer bonds, I've got several hundred million in the bank locally, in case someone wants to get cheeky."

 

[George Vitalis]

Reima Vitalis

"No one is throwing tomatoes at you, dear sister." Then he paused as he considered the situation while they walked down the ramp. "Well, nobody will do so without action from me, which is practically the same thing. Your attire will remain produceless, I guarantee it." He offered her a teasing grin, his eyes lighting up briefly, as George offered his elbow to Reima.

Especially with a gesture like that the message would be clear. No matter what had happened in the past, George Vitalis not only walked with his sister, in his action it said that he supported her wholeheartedly.

They might still move against her or try to embarrass her out of his view, certainly. But there was only so much George could do without setting the whole Duchy against him. There were limits to his power, a lesson every noble had to learn, lest they were put on a chopping block for overstepping for one transgression or the other.

"Do you think it will be in very high demand?" George asked quietly as they closed the distance towards the estate. Christmas tree, indeed, it almost brought tears to George's eyes. But he was his mother's son and knew better than to show too much emotion in public. Instead he straightened his back a little more, posture more pronounced. "It is a large, it hasn't seen a proper modernization and renovation project in a generation." Thoughtful there as they passed one gate, being greeted by a doorman.

He didn't look like one of the old ones they knew from their youth.

"Maintaining it as is would cost a fortune, no wonder the chap is selling it off again." Once they entered the estate proper, George would insist on helping Reima out of her coat himself rather than rely on one of the new servants.

"So they don't pinch you." George teased her in her ear as he took the coat from her. "Let's find a seat before the auction begins?"

 

[Reima Vitalis]

Every step was a memory.

The gravel underfoot reminded her of the last words she shared with George before he disappeared. A warning from him when she began to flirt with the school friend that had come to pick him up. She had been so eager to be grown up then, fifteen although she had celebrated her sixteenth birthday party the weekend before.

"It wouldn't surprise me," Reima answered uncertainly. "But I wonder how many are lookie-loos. People come to see the spectacle of the Fortan legacy. Or the torture chamber that forged Mother. But I wonder how many can afford it. The Galidraani Aristocracy lately seems to be entirely old money, which usually means there isn't any."

The broad front door, recreated in painstaking detail from the one that had been lost in the Herevan Hold fire of the last century, always answered by the ancient butler Mr. Hendersmith. Every visit. Every time. It meant she was -- if not home, then at least where she belonged.

The great hall, with its overlooking gallery, the heraldry of every earl chiseled into each column, quartering their father and their mother's arms. George's, the most recently carved and thus the sharpest, still stood out, quartering Natasi's Fortan cipher with Talbot's Vitalis one. She had been present for its creation, then a tiny poppet of a girl, wondering why these funny mustached men were defacing a perfectly good column.

She allowed her brother to help her out of her coat with a little nod of thanks. They entered the great hall proper, stepping in from the vestibule where rows of chairs had been set out, facing the fireplace at the opposite end of the room, in front of which a podium was set up. There were familiar faces: Ivor Reed stood in quiet conversation with his cousin, Hartley Finn-Camden, near the doorway to the drawing room. Hart's elder brother, the handsome Hugo -- known as Huck to his contemporaries -- was leaning glamorously against the jamb to the dining room door, chatting to one of the Preston girls, though Reima didn't know which and could only tell it was her because gingers were uncommon in the Galidraani aristocracy.

If Reima didn't know any better, it looked like he owned the place.

But there were unfamiliar faces, too. Reima glanced at her brother before nodding to a pair of women who were cloistered in a corner in animated conversation. One was striking, her face angular, eyebrows sharp, but pretty, and the other was a beautiful, golden-haired girl of slender frame and tapering limb. Reima didn't know it -- they didn't travel in the same circles -- but these were Aristé Thornton and Marina Thornton .

"Who are they?" she asked him, gesturing vaguely with her chin before settling into a seat next to George. "Do you recognize them?"

George Vitalis​

 

[Marina Thornton]

The owner had thrown the doors of Herevan Hold open to the visitors coming for the auction. The entire situation was predicated on the lie that everyone there had the means and motive to put in a bid on the property. Galidraani society would call that a polite fiction, but it was really just a lie. Most of the people there were likely morbidly curious. The Fortans of old -- the last Earl, Frejrik, and his Countess Reima -- were legendary for their entertainments, but that had all fallen by the wayside after the Countess' death. The Old Earl, as he was now known, had entertained as well, but never so skillfully, nor with so much enthusiasm, and those events had largely been hunting weekends, for which wives were generally not invited. The gratitude of the Galidraani aristocratic ladies for not having to stand out in the cold covering their ears as their husbands shot at birds was matched only by the gratitude of the Earl of Herevan in not having to make smalltalk. And even those stopped when Frejrik passed away.

By then, Mathes was long dead. There had been an heir, it was said, but Maximilian Jens was a distant relation who had been seen at Herevan exactly once and never again. The house passed -- in fact, if not in name -- to one Natasi Fortan, who treated the estate as part time capsule, part private retreat. She did not entertain as her family had once done, because as her confidant and friend Charlotte Reed had once explained, only the Earl or Countess of Herevan could issue invitations to the family seat, and she was neither one.

And so a whole generation of Galidraani aristocrats had come up not knowing the place. Many of them were curious as to what they had been missing.

Of course, this wasn't Herevan as it was. Most of the furniture was gone, the rest was borrowed from the auction house to show potential bidders what might be. Even pieces that were antique weren't intended to be there. It looked rather like a third-rate bed and breakfast that thought by using real wooden furniture they could charge the prices of a five star hotel for accommodations that belonged in a hostel.

Marina Thornton was one such an aristocrat. But for her the curiosity ran deeper. She needed to see the house herself, but she was also curious who among the Fortan clan would make an appearance today. It would have been too much to hope to see Natasi herself, and the Vitalis brothers form whom she really had some choice words, were long dead. So who would they send? Surely it could not pass their notice that the Fortan seat was available for sale once more.. But when her companion's eyes went slitty and glinted with anger at something behind her shoulder, Marina knew her question was about to be answered.

Switching to study a painting on the wall, she glanced toward the entrance where the Duke of Foxfield and his sister were entering as if they owned the place. Marina found her gaze meeting Lady Reima's briefly before offering a distracted half-smile, as if they were beneath her notice and turned her attention back to the painting. "You look like you've seen a ghost," Marina told Aristé Thornton sotto voce, the smirk implicit in her voice rather than appearing on her lips. "

"If only," Aristé said through gritting teeth, before she turned to study the portrait as well, taking her eyes from the Fortan heirs with some difficulty. Voices from another time and place echoed. Words like treason and betrayal casting longer shadows over less generous terms suggesting the presence of a female dog. "I wonder what she's doing here. Isn't she the reason the House is gone?"

"That's the gossip," said Marina thoughtfully, not taking her eyes from the painting. "But you never know what's true with these kinds of people." Aristé didn't respond, only gazed more intently at the portrait. As if there was any kind of response to that.

George Vitalis | Reima Vitalis | Aristé Thornton​

 

[George Vitalis]

Reima Vitalis | Marina Thornton | Aristé Thornton

"Mm... I do recognize them, but I am not sure-"

Then his eyes brightened.

"Ah, that's Lady Thornton and Lady... Thornton." George smirked as he murmured that in Reima's ear. "Marina and Aristé. I haven't had the pleasure of speaking with them directly, but they have recently joined the court back home. I do believe their name is tied back to Galidraan and all the old families here."

Which meant their presence here wasn't a huge surprise.

"Shall we go say a polite hello?" It might make Reima roll her eyes, because George's attention was certainly locked onto the raven-haired woman. She only had spared them a brief glance, but... it interested George.

Unless Reima was struggling overly he'd gently guide them both towards the duo.

"Ladies Thornton, what a pleasure seeing you two in our ancestral home... even if it isn't ours currently." George smiled pleasantly, charming even, before gesturing towards Reima. "My sister, Lady Reima Vitalis... and I am George, if you didn't know yet." Modest, but false modesty. They could even try and claim they didn't know George for the advantage but he wouldn't be fooled.

His face was plastered along the RH territories and even here on Galidraan he was a known fixture.

Attention shifted to Aristé. "Are you having a pleasant time, my Lady?"

 

[Aristé Thornton]

"Now look what you've done," Aristé hissed through clenched teeth, refusing to give the Fortan spawns the satisfaction of appearing to notice them.

They turned to greet the George and Reima, a placid smile on Marina's lips that was not replicated on Aristé's own features. "Thank you," said Marina pleasantly, her voice lilting and gentle, the picture of Galidraani femininity, and she offered a delicate hand to each in turn. "Duke. Lady Reima. How do you do? I had so hoped to make your acquaintance before the Season."

As George's attention shifted to Aristé, Marina's beautiful blonde head swiveled to Reima, and the two began to converse in that quiet, stilted way that came naturally to Galidraani aristocrats -- about weather and time and horses and school. Aristé let her gaze linger on her cousin's face for a moment -- as if concerned that if she looked away Marina might lunge at the younger Fortan brat -- before she turned her head to meet George Fortan's eyes with her own, unflinching, steely dark topaz ones.

"I was," she answered simply. "It's become something of a bloodsport to show up at these drafty old mausoleums when they go up for auction. So many of the old houses have had to sell up and move into smaller accommodations with fewer servants. The ones whose homes weren't confiscated by the Sith Imperials or burned by the Resistance or looted by the New Imperials, I mean. I gather somehow Herevan and Foxfield Park escaped such fates. How interesting."

She snatched a champagne coupe from a circulating waiter's tray. "Are you hoping to get it back? Now that the danger is passed."

If George didn't catch the slightly cutting -- but entirely plausibly deniable -- tone in Aristé's voice, Reima certainly did. Her jaw turned fractionally toward the raven-haired girl, her eyes narrowing slightly, but never missing a beat in the pleasant conversation she was having with Marina... who also noticed.

George Vitalis | Reima Vitalis | Marina Thornton​

 

[George Vitalis]

Aristé Thornton

George certainly noticed a certain chill, but he couldn't quite make the connection why Lady Thornton would employ it against the two of them.

Was indeed.

He did what his years of breeding and education taught him to do in moments like these.

Smile through the pain, or in this case, awkwardness.

"Luck, I should say, my Lady." He drawled softly as George exchanged a glance with Reima. "But yes, we aim to return our ancestral estates to whom it belongs. The idea that a scion of House Fortan and Vitalis will not reside in these halls is a travesty."

Then he smiled, one of his charming ones, that usually got the job done.

"I do not think I am very aware with your family, my Lady. Where did you grow up?"

 

[Aristé Thornton]

"Yes," Aristé said flatly in response to George's acknowledgment of his family's luck being to blame for their properties going mostly unscathed during the war. "Lucky for you, indeed, that your mother -- Balance bless the name -- was so friendly with the Sith Emperor at the time. Oh, I don't believe the rumors that they were lovers. Plenty do, but I try not to trade in such... vulgarities. She's so petite," Marina said, as if it were physical and sexual logistics, not Natasi's famed propriety, that would have put the kibosh on such an alliance.

She half-turned to study the painting that the current owner had clearly placed over the great hall's hearth.

"You surprise me, my Lord Vitalis," said Aristé, in a tone that suggested it could be true. "I suppose it should be neither surprising nor offensive. The Fortan gaze has not lingered on Galidraan since the war." Speaking of luck, she added to herself. "And even then... what is a Thornton to a Supreme Leader and her heir? We might as well have come from nowhere. But I grew up primarily in Calavar and a small sheep farm in Tellyral -- Great Yew. Our other estates did not benefit from your family's... luck. My cousin and I have let a flat in New Sterandel for the season. It seems to be all the rage with our sort of people, but I couldn't tell you why. Sterandel is bad enough."

She bristled and nodded toward the painting, which was too small for the space. "This is a crime against taste, don't you think? I didn't believe the place had been sold to a complete outsider until I came in and saw what they'd put up on the walls. God above."

George Vitalis​

 

[George Vitalis]

"Yes," Aristé said flatly in response to George's acknowledgment of his family's luck being to blame for their properties going mostly unscathed during the war. "Lucky for you, indeed, that your mother -- Balance bless the name -- was so friendly with the Sith Emperor at the time. Oh, I don't believe the rumors that they were lovers. Plenty do, but I try not to trade in such... vulgarities. She's so petite,"

George stiffened at her words and it was only Natasi's efforts to instill in him that same propriety and restraint, that kept him from grabbing her by the hair and dog-walking her right out of the estate.

Reima Vitalis would notice it. The stiffening in his shoulders, the way his hands lightly relaxed and settled behind his back.

"It must have been hard to lose so much in such a span of time, Lady Thornton." He finally said with clear neutrality, but forcing his words into remaining polite. "I share my deepest sympathies with your family and I will discuss with my mother these matters. We may have been lucky, but the responsibility of those better-off are to watch over those... less well off."

Was that a dig? It could have been a dig. It may have been most certainly a dig. However, it was one delivered with the most polite of smiles and charm, so taking offense to it would be a bigger faux-pas than George dog-walking her out of the Manor for disrespecting his mother in such an unveiled manner.

"This is a crime against taste, don't you think? I didn't believe the place had been sold to a complete outsider until I came in and saw what they'd put up on the walls. God above."

He sniffed as he spared a glance at the painting. "Expensive, I do believe, but yes. I am not a big fan of the modern artists either." His attention shifted now to the other woman, next to Aristé.

Pleasant on the eyes, voice sotto, charming. Maybe Reima was correct, his first taste in women could be truly horrible.

"I hope Reima isn't telling you any embarrassing childhood stories, my Lady." Addressing Marina Thornton instead, pointedly ignoring Aristé now.

 

[Marina Thornton]

The porcelain flesh of the Princess Marina's neck and cheeks started to grow rosy, but her demure smile would make it look like blushing rather than what it really was: the creeping onset of rage, for she had recognized the dig for what it was, and she didn't like it a bit. But it wouldn't do to make a fuss. Instead, she giggled behind her hand before setting it gently on the fabric of his jacketed forearm. "It's rare to find someone who isn't disarmed by my cousin's viper tongue. Rarer still that it's a man. Very well done," Marina said airily, fingertips not-quite-grasping in a little complimentary pat. She cast her cousin a look, then glanced to Reima, who had swooped in to take George's place talking to Aristé.

She leaned closer, the honeysuckle scent of her perfume becoming more apparent as she did, her voice lowering to a confidential whisper "I hope you'll forgive her immodesty. She remembers much of what went wrong about the Foxfield Concord, and she tends to forget the upshot." Her voice was light, as if it did not bear the weight of historical sins of the father, nor the resentments of the sins of his mother.

Mercifully, the conversation moved forward. "Embarrassing?" she echoed dubiously, as if she couldn't imagine the Prince ever doing anything embarrassing. "No -- well, she did mention hoping to be able to get a cigarette burn in the floorboard under the rug in the drawing room repaired before her mother -- that is, your mother -- comes back. Something about her sixteenth birthday party."

She glanced over her shoulder. Aristé was speaking -- pleasantly, for once -- with Lady Reima, her eyes occasionally darting to George. "What about you? Any special memories of this place? It must be wonderful to have a place to remember it all by." A wan smile, then a glance toward him. "As I recall you moved around rather a lot as a child. Dosuun and Foxfield and Herevan and elsewhere. The newspapers here used to write about you sometimes," she added by way of explanation. "I can certainly empathize," Marina said quietly, though it wasn't clear whether she was talking about the moving frequently or the newspaper gosisp.

George Vitalis​

 

[George Vitalis]

Marina Thornton

His attention to Aristé Thornton had noticeably cooled from warm interest to something more frigid. The stories must be true, then, that George Vitalis was a mother's boy after all. Just a brief sting was enough for him to set the Thornton woman aside, instead of attempting further conversation. It also spoke of something else... the man wasn't an overeager puppy.

If they wished to put their hooks in him, they'd have to be more careful about it.

"Nothing to forgive." George murmured in return, patting Marina's hand. "Sometimes we say things without thinking about it. That comes easier to some than others."

Very condescending, very airily and the greatest sin was that George said it so paternalistic. Truly a high noble scion, who didn't have to watch his words, because of the power he wielded.

But Marina was beautiful, even more so up close, and so she received a warm smile from him. Breathing her in lightly as she leaned in closer. Everything about her was measured into perfection. "Would you like to go for a stroll? I could show you the gardens, if they weren't demolished like the rest of this place."

Bemused tone mostly, he was hiding his pain well, seeing how much of it had been stripped bare.

 

[Marina Thornton]

Marina could feel the dark gaze of her cousin boring into the back of her golden locks and into the back of her head. "Some of us more than others," Marina said idly. "The gardens?" she echoed him, a note of pleasant surprise in her voice. "I'd love to see them. We were worried about getting a seat so we haven't spent much time -- prowling around," Marina added with a playful trill.

As they turned for the door, George would see his sister's glacial look at he left her with Aristé. Perhaps they would bond over their mutual apparent disdain for Natasi Fortan.

"I heard the gardens here were designed by Capability Russett, isn't that right? I recently had the privilege of taking a turn in the garden at Bantsworth, neighboring to Westleira. Oh -- you must know Jonty Monty, he's around our age. Wasn't it terrible that his grandfather passed so suddenly? Well I only ask because Capability Russet did the lawn architecture at Bantsworth. It must cost the earth to keep it all watered but it is lovely."

Jonathan Montague had come into his title rather suddenly -- and unexpectedly. Although his grandfather was old, he seemed to be in good health until, mere days after the house party which had offered the opportunity for Marina to explore the gardens with Jonty.

They wandered through the sitting room, bare of all its furnishings save a pair of stunning chandeliers that cast fragments of light around the room, across the beautiful green and white silk floral wallpapers. "This room must have been so pretty before," she mused, pausing at the French windows to allow George, ever the gentleman, to open it for them.

"I'm talking too much," Marina observed sheepishly. "Apologies. I suppose I am nervous to speak to you."

George Vitalis​

 

[George Vitalis]

Marina Thornton

"Nervous around me? What ever for, my Lady?" He said with a warm smile as he indeed opened the french window. Allowing her first entry before following suit, offering his elbow to her.

"It was a wonderful room before, I am afraid that even if we purchase the manor and estate, we will have to spend another fortune just to bring back some civility and dignity to this place." George shook his head. He did not understand why people would buy a piece of history and then end up treating it so badly.

You might as well just buy a lap of ground and build a new manor on it, that was modeled after history, but didn't have the same sort of expectations and responsibilities.

"Ah, yes, I do know dear Jonty. We played lacrosse together back in the day, a good solid chap." But he blinked there, once it settled in for him that his old friend was now a Lord himself and that a passing in the family had caused it. "Dear me, really? I will have to send him a letter, maybe I can see about visiting him to offer him some support."

He sighed and shook his head.

"As the years pass the old guard is dying out, isn't it? It will be up to our generation to pick up the pieces and make something of it." His hip gently checking hers as they walked together.

"Are you up for that, Lady Thornton? To try and make a new future when the past seems to keep dogging us?"