04-19-2024, 08:12 PM
The evening passed, and she kept a low profile; her usual proclivity. Neither was she idle. There were other seeds to begin planting tonight, and interactions to observe. She was amused to witness the Vasilievs had invited a wolf among them: the Syndicate leader Zixin Kao. Playing both sides as he did was a dangerous game, but Nesrin had a soft spot for the audacity.
She preferred serving in the game rooms, which offered privacy away from the music and dancing, and where ignorance was joined by loose lips. No one much noticed the servers weaving like ghosts among them so long as the drinks remained flowing. Between her shifts attending the various guests, visits to the kitchens provided a predictable and steady font for gossip. She pieced together who the English gentleman must have been because of the rumours surrounding the New York socialite in the beautiful dress, though Nesrin was more curious about her reasons for being in Moscow than the puppy trailing in her wake. In other circumstances she might have tugged on the threads of that drama, just because he’d been rude. As it was, she didn’t look for him again.
She did keep half a discrete eye on Brandon, more to watch him in his environment than anything else. To see who commandeered his time, who avoided his attention, and who watched him in turn.
And when the time came, for once Nesrin did exactly as she was told.
The suite she was directed to was extravagant, restored to what she presumed was its gaudy mid-18th century glory. When the door closed softly behind her she resisted the instinct to search out the available exits, though she doubted there were cameras watching her movements – not with the sort of privacy implied in a bedroom. She considered the frilly, canopied bed with half a raised brow and a silent smirk. Funnelling her into this room had been such a smooth and discrete operation she presumed it wasn’t an unusual request for Brandon’s people to accommodate. She wondered if he did this often; if it’s what her mother had been, an appetite of a moment, soon forgotten.
Though if that was the case, how many children might he really have? And why were none of them known?
Nerves itched her skin; a wary discomfort, for she did not like the sense of being at another’s mercy, even if it was necessary now. She banished the urge to pace the polished floors and instead found a chair in which to sit.
[[Occurs at some point during the Vasiliev ball. Continued from this post]]
She preferred serving in the game rooms, which offered privacy away from the music and dancing, and where ignorance was joined by loose lips. No one much noticed the servers weaving like ghosts among them so long as the drinks remained flowing. Between her shifts attending the various guests, visits to the kitchens provided a predictable and steady font for gossip. She pieced together who the English gentleman must have been because of the rumours surrounding the New York socialite in the beautiful dress, though Nesrin was more curious about her reasons for being in Moscow than the puppy trailing in her wake. In other circumstances she might have tugged on the threads of that drama, just because he’d been rude. As it was, she didn’t look for him again.
She did keep half a discrete eye on Brandon, more to watch him in his environment than anything else. To see who commandeered his time, who avoided his attention, and who watched him in turn.
And when the time came, for once Nesrin did exactly as she was told.
The suite she was directed to was extravagant, restored to what she presumed was its gaudy mid-18th century glory. When the door closed softly behind her she resisted the instinct to search out the available exits, though she doubted there were cameras watching her movements – not with the sort of privacy implied in a bedroom. She considered the frilly, canopied bed with half a raised brow and a silent smirk. Funnelling her into this room had been such a smooth and discrete operation she presumed it wasn’t an unusual request for Brandon’s people to accommodate. She wondered if he did this often; if it’s what her mother had been, an appetite of a moment, soon forgotten.
Though if that was the case, how many children might he really have? And why were none of them known?
Nerves itched her skin; a wary discomfort, for she did not like the sense of being at another’s mercy, even if it was necessary now. She banished the urge to pace the polished floors and instead found a chair in which to sit.
[[Occurs at some point during the Vasiliev ball. Continued from this post]]
![[Image: Nesrin-Banner-.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/01/Nesrin-Banner-.jpg)