She could hear the click clack of horses’ hooves on the cobblestone as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Player’s Den, not that it was known as such to people outside of the small circle of thespians and artists that lived and gathered there. To passersby it was merely a two-story town home of average wealth and size. Inside, however, it was a decadent den of artistry and indulgence. Participation was by invitation only. An invitation was granted only to the exceptionally talented or exceptionally beautiful. In most cases, it was both.

 

Margurite Lucia was the latter. Hair of the highest copper fell in waves down her back, a stark contrast to the porcelian of her skin. Margurite was classical. They type immortalized by painters and molded by sculptors. Eyes of the brightest blue could speak volumes with a single look, skin soft and milky hugged full, soft curves with nary a flaw. Some would say perfection, Maggie would say ghastly. She was aware that men found her appealing, but she prefered to use her wits and charm than a full bosom and rosy lips. She would gladly trade it all for more wits and skin that didn't resemble death warmed over.

 

Snapping the fan closed, she awaited her footman before stepping regally from the well-appointed carriage and onto the uneven cobbles. The door of the Den opened in a flash. “Maggie.” Norton purred. “How lovely to see you this evening. Is that a new gown? Ooh red velvet.” He gushed as his hand ran across her full hip.

 

“Why Norton," Maggie grinned cat-like and winked before kissing him on each cheek, “how good of you to notice. You do wish you could get away with wearing my dresses, do you not?”

 

Norton tossed his head back and laughed effeminately, “I do have my own, but none are as rich as yours, Maggie darling.”

 

Maggie watched Norton sway hurriedly down the hallway thinking how the Creator had played the cruelest trick on her good friend for he had mistakenly been made a boy. He would have made quite a beautiful woman as he made a beautiful man who preferred beautiful men. It was unfortunate that several of the most handsome men at the Den would rather wear her dresses than get her out of them, but she loved them all the same no matter for Margurite Lucia never lacked for beautiful company.

 

The main room was draped in golds and rich reds. Not an inch of the room had been left barren or devoid of beauty. Fine crystal lined the cabinetry while busts, figurines and any other knick-knack that wasn’t nailed down was gilded. It was opulent, rich and once again….decadent. Reclining upon the divan, Maggie blew kisses to her favorites and made note of several new faces.

 

One caught her attention immediately. A young man that had certainly seen no more than twenty years was of interest with honey brown hair that curled down around his ears, pale skin with rosy cheeks and the sweetest bow mouth she had ever seen. When she caught his eyes, she smiled deviously for as angelic as he appeared his eyes held less than the angelic. They held knowing mischief and Maggie was a sucker for mischief.

 

 

Margurite Lucia

Retro

~Dilora~

 

She looked at the little piece of paper in her hands. Someone had pressed it onto her in a tavern a few days ago when Dilora had got up to do her usual trick of performing a song after a few drinks. Again, as normal, she had not a single hint of what she was going to sing before she took to the stage and started, but somehow it had all come together, and it had even rhymed! The handwriting was elegant and flowing, and the paper itself somehow gave a message to the reader. Cream and finely woven, it had the faintest hint of a luscious scent to it: appealing and musky, yet not overpowering - the sort that you would not notice, but found yourself seeking the source of. No idea of who had pushed the note onto her, Dilora examined it for traces of anything that might tell her more about the source of it.

 

The arts encompass many areas, and arias. I invite you to join me for a few days for an opportunity I know you would not want to miss.

 

The address was listed as being in town, in one of the ordinary areas only slightly removed from the bustle. Having left her wagon with an innkeeper that owed her a favour – he had promised Altie would receive the best in care while she was under his roof and that the wagon would not be safer if the Creator sat on it. Dilora had smiled at his assurances and hoped that no one would sit on her wagon, figure of goodness or otherwise. She had taken a long time to get the seat into a comfortable position for travelling long distances and anyone that disturbed that would feel the back of her hand! She had chosen clothing that was not too dissimilar from that she had worn to the tavern the other night when performing that song about the lovelorn maid and the soldier; a simple red skirt made of a relatively thin material so it clung but did not hinder her, and a loose white blouse with tiny pearl buttons that finished in such a place so as to display a hint of cleavage. Her usually omnipresent belt pouch had been left in the wagon and what she needed she carried in a small bundle of cloth, the small piece of paper held in one hand. A length of deep red ribbon held her long dark hair back with a few strands floating in front of her ears, as she’d always been conscious of them. Brown eyes danced to an inner music, lively and sparkling in her pale face that was home to a smile that was mischievous at times and pursing and thoughtful at others. A brown leather belt accentuated her slim build and she wore minimal jewellery except for a strip of red ribbon around her neck to set off the simple elegance of her outfit. She looked good, even Dilora had to admit that.

 

It was only a few streets away from the inn she had left Altie and her wagon at, this town house marked on her note, and after traversing the streets in her usual confident pace with her skirt floating a little behind her. Dilora hoped that it was not going to be windy, or else she would find herself with a red face. Her curiosity had been piqued by the note, and reading into it lead her down many trains of though, although it did not seem like a trap. She had a knife strapped to her thigh if it came to that. Hmm. To look at the exterior of the place was not entirely inspirational, Dilora had to admit, but appearances could be deceptive. Her twenty-second naming day was not far away, but that did not mean she was completely naïve. Taking a deep breath, Dilora knocked on the simple front door sharply, and stood back to await whatever was going to happen next.

Securing the crystal tumbler of brandy, Maggie smiled sensuously at the young servant and offered him a conspiratorial wink. The handsome youth that had seen maybe seventeen summers with sandy blonde hair and warm brown eyes was making his way around the drawing room ensuring that each member, guest or patron had whatever libations they so desired. There was no questioning the why of his employment, handsome, tight-lipped and efficient. Not that she was particularly experienced in the matter of hiring help or at least not prior to the last couple of years. Growing up an innkeep’s daughter in Tar Valon had not really prepared her for such things, but she had learned quickly. Tizzy’s monthly allowance had afforded her a bit of luxury. That allowance also afforded her a bit of privacy. There were things that Tizzy simply did not need to know and a tight-lipped servant knew what those things were.

 

The door chimes interrupted her thoughts when Norton hopped to his feet and clapped his hands gleefully like a child with a new toy. Before she could even blink, the exuberant door attendant fled down the hallway, out of sight and to the entrance. Magurite could just imagine Norton now. If it were a regular, he would greet them much as he had greeted her, but if the arrival were new, he would stand back, look them over very carefully and arrogantly hold out his hand for the invitation. Norton was a bit of a parvenu, high-hat without the wealth or prestige to back it up and he thoroughly enjoyed lording it over anyone he felt did not measure up.

 

A few minutes later, Norton re-entered the room ahead of the newest guest. Brown eyes danced and eyebrows flashed in her direction, which typically mean that the new arrival did, indeed, meet his standards. Shortly thereafter, Maggie saw the reason for Norton’s behavior. The newest guest was simply lovely. Long dark hair fell down her back tied back by an unpretentious red ribbon. Her clothing was understated, but flattering to her slender frame. There was no doubt that she had met with Norton’s approval.

 

The self-imposed master of ceremonies clapped his hands to garner everyone’s attention. With a grand flourish, he presented the pretty, brown-eyed lady in red, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Dilora Fashelle. Please make her welcome and hopefully she will honor us with a song later on.” The others members greeted her with polite kisses, handshakes or smiles and accolades of greeting. Maggie caught the younger woman’s eyes, smiling, she nodded her head in welcome.

 

Margurite Lucia

~Dilora~

 

She did not know what to think. Dilora had never seen a room filled with more beautiful men or women, particularly not ones that seemed to come to her and greet her as some sort of lady. She felt … special, and a little strange. Her eyes caught on an impossibly attractive woman to one side, obviously the owner of this highly unusual property in Mayene. At the inclination of her head, Dilora could not help but take in the grandeur of her costume; sumptuous red velvet that must have cost as much as Dilora’s wagon draped over every sculpted inch of statuesque curve, the pale snow-like skin that shone as fair as any maiden’s, and those eyes, so deep, like a summer sky over Baerlon, that knew far more than they let on.

 

What was this place? It had the uninspiring appearance of a simple town house on the outside, yet inside it was a veritably palatial! Gilded shelves, ornaments and in some places, even the furniture, lay around a room draped in reds and golds, and figurines and busts were dotted about. Half the back wall seemed to be covered in fine cut-glass crystal. Each person in the room had a drink of their own tastes – different colours, scents and viscosities of liquids appeared in a range of goblets and tankards, which indicated that a well-stocked cellar was also a part of this place. Dilora noted that with some enthusiasm, as it might well mean a possible new customer if she could find some delicacy on the continent not yet tried. There was a market for everything if one looked in the right place.

 

The range of faces around her stared encouragingly, and waited for her to speak. What had that announcer told them? That she might honour them with a song later, that was it. Well, anything was possible, under the Light. She’d have to make up a song though, as she doubted any song she knew that was in general circulation would be good enough for this crowd. To each person that greeted her with a kiss, Dilora uttered a few words of greeting in return and noted their height and grip. Hands that briefly caressed her face were smooth, so they were no labourers, and although she detected a few calluses, Dilora doubted they were from swords but were more likely to be from harp strings. Had she stumbled across a den of musicians? Time to introduce herself to the owner.

 

“Greetings, my lady. My name is Dilora Fashelle, as well you know. I am going to assume that the elegant handwriting on the note passed to me belongs to you. If that is the case, how may I be of assistance?”