Shelby says something rude
Mar. 23rd, 2010 10:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelbyrouIt is currently 15:54 Pacific Time on Tue Mar 23 2010.
Firdaws
Firdaws is a converted former barn with thick stone walls and pale wood floorboards, painted white throughout. The front door in the north wall opens straight onto the main room, a rectangular area roofed by thick wooden beams high overhead. Either side of the door, against the wall, is a pair of dark wood bookshelves formed of several open-fronted cubes. Large windows have been knocked into the south wall, catching the sun during the day and making the place appear light and spacious. A white couch the size of a small bus faces these, with a thick sheepskin rug on the floor in front of it and a low table nearby. A spiral staircase offset towards the eastern side leads to a raised area set against the east wall.
To the west is a kitchen range open to the room with pleasant light oak cupboards, green marble worktops and an island with tall stools, an as-yet-unfurnished area that may be intended for dining, and a second floor above with doors either side of a central hallway. The hallway extends on out into a traditionally-constructed wooden flying walkway that sweeps overhead, through the open central area, to the east side. Here on the ground floor level is an office, a bathroom, and a relaxation area with large television, DVDs and games consoles. Above these is a balconied hallway leading to more doors, that is met by the flying walkway.
Various items of art have been placed around the walls and on the shelves, +view for more details.
Obvious exits:
Front Door Back Door
Shelby's been in town for only a few days, but for all intents and purposes she's settled in easily. She hasn't called to beg for help or more money, and there hasn't been any screaming, so really, her arrival has to be counted a success, right? "...So I'm going to see if I can get enrolled for the summer session," she finishes explaining over a mug of mint tea. "I think if I can do that, then I can move into one of the residence halls in late May or June, instead of August."
"Yes, sooner would be good," Zosia says without thinking, listening carefully while not listening at all. Almost immediately catching her fauxpas, she adds, "Since it would best to get settled into a routine."
Shelby glances over quickly but says nothing. Only her lips twist, just a bit. "Routine. Right. I was thinking it would be best to get as many credits as possible, as soon as possible, to get my degrees as quickly as possible." There's a certain stiffness in the kin's shoulders - but then again, she was nearly this tense around Zosia a few days ago, and the moon was smaller then.
Zosia was known for being rather unstable, if one is being honest, and thus is rather used to responses such as these. "Yes. That would certainly help but you do have to get used to the setting. A summer class would help you get used to how that..." She looks vague and waves a hand dismissively, "That learning...method...I don't know. It always looks different in the movies, college."
Shelby says, "Mmn," and has more tea. "I don't think you can really trust TV and movies to tell you what school is like. I mean, come on. Have you seen Gossip Girl?"
"No," Zosia says far too quickly. There's a slightly furtive nature to her demeanor as she does. "I don't even know what finishing school is like," she points out in an attempt to change the subject.
Shelby glances over again, this time with eyebrows raised and a smile fighting to be seen. "Neither do I," she points out with half of a shrug. "Anyway, it's not like you missed anything, not having a junior or senior year. Even the dances weren't... well, they made them out to be some huge deal, but really, they weren't."
"The dances they allowed us to attend," Zosia points out in a dry voice. "As tests." She broke a young man's arm after one once, after all. A-hem-. "But school was boring. Too much...sitting still."
"Really?" Shelby asks. "I never saw you there." She shrugs again, after a few seconds, and lets the subject drop. "Well, it's not like you're going to get a desk job as a Garou. Not like lawyers are known for their physical prowess, anyway."
"I never made it in the door," Zosia says absently, toying with her mug and kicking one leg. "Just on campus long enough for the chaperones to see me and then we'd go somewhere else. Desk job." She snorts. "Not a lot of use for a desk in the umbra," she grumbles in a low voice.
A fine-boned young woman, Zosia stands at about five foot three inches. Her frame is petite but shaped by the gentle curves that come with growing maturity. With pale blonde hair that tumbles to mid-back and large ice blue eyes, Zosia has classically attractive features: finely-shaped nose, well-placed cheekbones, a full-mouth, a strong chin, and pale creamy skin. If her right shoulder is bared, there is a scar of three falcon talons upon it (that will glow, faintly, when the moon is dark). There's something about her energy that demands the eye and attention, from her confident demeanor to some -force- that she seems to barely contain.
She also manages to be one of those infuriating people with a natural sense of style. Her usual clothing choices tend to be long-sleeved cashmere sweaters in a deep jewel shades that cling to the lines of her body, the necks cut in deep vee styles. A pair of carefully cut but tough khaki pants are a nod to the cold of winter, as are the sturdy but very high end hiking boots on her feet. She wears a large diamond engagement ring against a gold wedding band on her left hand.
The kin shifts in her chair, turning ever so faintly more toward the Theurge, and keeping her mug between them. "No, and there isn't much use for a Theurge in corporate law," she returns. "Or property. Or where ever it is I decide to focus."
"That's boring," Zosia says, her fingers drumming on the mug. "But so is staring off into space listening to things other people can't here. At least, for the other people," she admits with a sudden smile, sighing. "Sorry. I've a lot on my mind at the moment."
"Boring, but necessary to making sure Caerns aren't bought out and subdivided," says Shelby in a tone that suggests she'd really rather be sarcastic but isn't that dumb. Another sip of tea and she adds, "Right. You said. I'm probably just going to get snapped at again, but if there's anything I can do. I was raised right, after all."
There's a silence and then Zosia looks at Shelby--really looks at her. Possibly for the first time. "Dancers, all around us. Attacking the caern, attacking us. Taking positions in the city. Building places that have turned into breeding grounds for banes in the umbra which is horrific for people in the realm," she points down to emphasize that she means this world. "All of this stacking against us and never ending."
Shelby looks back at the other girl - or at her chin, really. "What sort of places are they building? Do they have permits and things? I mean," she adds, impatient at herself, "are they doing it legally? If they are, then they have kin or somebody doing it. If not... well, if not, then there's other ways to attack them. Maybe not as effective as tooth and claw, but. Depends on how sneaky they're trying to be."
"They do have kin doing it," Zosia says slowly, after a breath to keep her from snapping. "The kin own the construction companies and the lawyer is a Dancer kin. Tristan's working on the human side of things, as are the Walkers. Maritza and her people. They're sloppy enough we've found them out as kin but that's it."
Shelby looks away again with a wry snort and fusses with her teacup. "Protests, maybe? Do you - do we need to slow them down? Would it help?"
"Protests are possible, we could get some Gaians in and others." Zosia starts to drum her fingers again. "We can get some flood and other problems going. And work on the umbral side but there's only so much we can do with that."
"If you have anyone - the Glass Walkers, maybe? - who knows about construction, they could, I don't know, go in and vandalize the place?" Shelby purses her lips and frowns at the floor. "They do that out here, don't they? Blow up car dealers and such?" Where 'out here' means the uncivilized West, and everyone is two heartbeats from being scalped by Indians.
"Tristan's company has, among other things, a construction side." Zosia gives her a very strange look. "Uh. What are they teaching you in history class now? Anyway," she adds more briskly, "there's enough dark and gruesome things there. Performing violent acts on them won't do much but get sympathy for the company involved. I've been told."
Shelby echoes, "History?" but seems to Get It after a few seconds and dismisses the topic with another shrug. "Well, it's not like I've blown up so many car dealerships anyway."
"Yes, well. Fine way to shred the veil," Zosia says. The baby and guards are elsewhere and the pair sits at a table. The theurge looks fetching in a fabulous little spring top and nice pants, radiating a certain amount of restlessness but apparently speaking seriously. She holds a mug of something. The mint scent suggests tea.
"I don't see how blowing something up would shred the Veil," Shelby retorts, still firmly Not Looking at Zosia. "It's not like I suggested half the Sept charge in there in Crinos." The eye roll is visible in her voice, even if she manages to keep it from her face. She has tea as well, and lovely posture, though her clothes aren't as obviously fabulous as the Theurge's.
"And," Zosia says with exasperation in her own voice, "how are you going to set the explosions up?"
Shelby can do exasperated too! "I won't. That's what the Glass Walkers are for. Or," she adds with a little flick of one hand, "someone from Tristan's construction company. Someone who knows how to deal with explosives, and buildings, and someone else to spin the publicity."
Al drives up in the usual unremarkable grey sedan, wearing the usual not-rumpled, perfectly clean, yet somehow vaguely seedy black suit and necktie. He stops outside the front gate, squinting through it at the house. He spots the cameras -- both of them -- stares up at one of them with a contemplative expression just for a moment, then looks for an intercom.
The buzz comes just as Zosia is staring at Shelby with a mix of wonder and disgust. It is quite the expression. Looking down at a remote that sits at her side, she squints then grumbles to herself. "Oh great." The button is pressed and a voice comes over the intercom. "Hurry up, hurry up."
This time both of Shelby's eyebrows go up, but rather than ask she contents herself with settling back into her chair, tucking feet crossed at the ankles under her chair, and with more tea. She doesn't offer to leave.
Al mutters, "Yeah, yeah..." He's through, and in, and rapping on the front door in no time at all.
Zosia gives Shelby a sour look before pushing to her feet. "Come on in," she says as she opens the door. "You might as well meet our new kinfolk too." She moves across the living room, waving for the older man to follow her. "Would you like some tea?"
Shelby waits, perfectly posed, for Al to enter, blue eyes fastened on the door. "It's peppermint." She gives the newcomer a polite smile before looking back to Zosia; sets down her mug and stands, lips pressing together briefly.
Al
This guy's not much to look at on first glance; he's in his early thirties, about five-foot-nine with an average build and an aggressive case of male pattern baldness that puts his hairline somewhere just past the crown of his head. What hair he does have is stringy and blond and shoulder-length. Between his hair, his long sideburns, and his bushy goatee, he wouldn't seem much out of place in a gritty 1970s crime drama. His pale blue eyes sport an impressive set of bags underneath them and are sheltered underneath thick eyebrows. His hands are broad and calloused, the backs covered in a layer of coarse blond hair. His accent's pure New York City, thick as they come.
In his black suit, white shirt, and loosely-knotted black necktie, he looks less like a businessman and more like a Reservoir Dog; he's just not the kind of guy who makes a suit look good. His feet are clad in heavy black workmen's shoes, the kind with treaded soles and steel in the toes. He wears a plain gold ring on his left ring finger, along with another gold ring -- this one heavier, more ornate, and set with several small diamonds -- on his left index finger. Another gold ring, this with one sizeable onyx stone, decorates his right ring finger.
"I'd rather have a beer," says Al, his heavy shoes making an ungraceful 'clump clump clump' on Zosia's nice floor. He eyeballs Shelby, then gives her a nod.
"I'm sure!" Zosia says in a cheerfully polite voice as she pours him a cup of tea and hands it over. "Shelby, this is Al. He's from New York City," she adds as if that is supposed to explain....well. Everything. "This is Shelby. She's from Sunlit Waters as well."
"Hello, Al," Shelby says, shifting her mug to free a hand for shaking. "Shelby Zaleski-Laveque, if you wanted to find me in the phone book, which you can't because I've only been here a few days." Babbling? Just a touch. "It's very nice to meet you."
Al takes the cup of tea with a sour expression and shifts it to his left hand. The right grasps Shelby's briefly; his skin is rough and calloused. "Yeah, likewise, I guess. Al Strek. AKA Glass Breaker. Ragabash."
"She's going to be attending school at the local university. Pre-law." Zosia sips her own tea, hming contentedly as she does. "We were just talking over some of the problems, since she's in town now." Her eyes cut toward Al. "She should be under the radar but I'd rather she knew the tribe in town."
"Kin," Shelby agrees, as though it needed saying. Since it obviously doesn't, her lips press together again before she abruptly sits. And has more tea. And glances between the two Garou.
Al nods, still holding his tea like he doesn't really know what to do with it. (Or what to do with it that'd still be considered polite.) "You gonna be a lawyer?"
Zosia studies Shelby over her cup, a line between her brows. She at least doesn't -answer- for the girl. Yet.
Shelby says, "Um," and hesitates like she does expect Zosia to answer. But the silence stretches on and Shelby retucks her feet in an effort to regain her composure. "Yes, that's right. I'm planning on SCCU for pre-law, and then hopefully George Washington or Georgetown for law. With Washington in Saint Louis as my safe school."
Al grunts. He lifts the cup to his lips, sips, and makes a face. After wiping his mouth with his free hand, he notes, "Yeah, my father-in-law's a lawyer. Corporate law."
"I believe that's what Shelby wants to go into," Zosia says neutrally before adding, "My uncle went into finance, alas. Can't give you advice there."
"Corporate," Shelby agrees, keeping her mug between herself and the Garou, "or property. I figure I have a few years before I have to decide though." Still, she gives Al a more thoughtful look. "Do you think he'd be interested in an intern? New York City, right?"
Al squints like thinking hurts his head. Then he shrugs. "Probably. You're family." He looks down at his tea, then sets the cup on the table and shoves his hands into his pants pockets.
"Should get a year or two of school under your belt first," Zosia says mildly, leaning back. "That's your emphasis right now?" she asks in a not-subtle manner.
Al said the magic words! Shelby's face lights in a smile, however brief, and she actually lifts her eyes to meet Al's face... for a second, anyway. Then Zosia chimes in, and Shelby scuttles back into her protective shell. "School, yes, that's right." To the Ragabash, "I'm accepted to SCCU for the fall, but I was thinking I want to start my enrollment in the summer session."
Al grunts again. "I'll talk to my wife about it, next time I call her."
Zosia does her best to hide the quirk of her lips--an amused quirk, alas--behind her mug. She mostly succeeds. "Yes, that'll be good," she murmurs once more.
Shelby asks, "You're married?" like this is some sort of mysterious and unexpected thing. She gives Al another once-over before leaning ever so slightly forward, head tilting to the side. "What are her bloodlines?"
"Shelby," Zosia snaps out in a sharp voice, the mug getting placed down. She doesn't say more, staring at the girl intently.
Shelby, in the time-honored tradition of teenagers everywhere, turns to gape at Zosia like the other girl's just dumped grape juice on her prom dress. "What? It's a perfectly valid question!" Back to Al, and slightly sullen, "Sorry," she isn't, "but I can't believe people in New York don't care about bloodlines. Sunlit Waters does." She drinks some tea aggressively.
Maritza comes in from outside, shutting her cellphone and pokceting it just as she opens the front door. Her eyes move between the other Silver Fangs in a quick reconaissance once she's inside, then return to Zosia. "Senora," she murmurs, dipping her head a fraction.
"They fuckin' care plenty," Al says, still glowery. "Some people care about other shit more, yanno?" His eyes cut sideways toward the new arrival, and he dials back the aggressive surliness a notch.
"And those who are -really- well-bred," Zosia says, now seated with an aggressively straight posture, "are too well-mannered to ask questions so -crass-." Those sorts of discussions are for -behind- closed doors. "We from Sunlit Waters know that we've more important things to discuss." Her eyes cut toward Maritza and she offers the woman a small tight smile. "It would do, for example, for you to properly meet Maritza, Shelby. I've mentioned Maritza Arroyo de Mercado before. Maritza, this is Shelby Zaleski-Laveque, kin from my home Sept."
Maritza is an exceptionally tall woman, standing close to six feet in height, and if one walks away with only a single impression of her it would be that. Crow's feet at her eyes and competing smile and frowning lines put her roughly in her late thirties, and although an air of quiet confidence and strength surrounds her she seems to restrict herself to acting in an otherwise unremarkable fashion. Her cocoa-colored skin is at odds with her bone-white, platinum blonde hair, cut in a boyishly short but elegant fashion, and her eyebrows suggest this is its natural shade. Muddy, hazel-green eyes watch everything with keen awareness from an angular and proud face that's too severe to be conventionally pretty, though it does all-together speak of an ancestry that could be European in part.
Her clothes are casual and functional, and not very flashy. A simple, white, button-up shirt, plain black slacks, and well-made leather boots are accompanied by a modest sportcoat in maroon, and a stylish leather jacket completes the outfit. Her left ear is pierced four times with white gold hoops, and she wears a single, engraved ring in rose gold on her right ring finger.
"Well excuse me for being curious," Shelby mutters mutinously. "Around family." Still quite obviously irked, still she stands and holds out her hand for Maritza. "How do you do. It's very nice to meet you." She has some manners to use, anyway.
"Martiza Arroyo de Mercado," the tall Kinswoman says, her tone marking it an introduction given from one family member to another. The nod she gives Shelby and Al isn't as defferential as the one offered to Zosia, but the implication they're her betters is clear. Her grip, when she takes Shelby's hand, is firm and friendly, and her hands are calloused from hard work.
Al squints at Zosia, looking bemused, then turns his attention to Maritza. "Al Strek, AKA Glass Breaker. Ragabash."
Zosia just watches the interaction intently, her jaw working slightly before she sits back in her seat once more. "Shelby," Zosia informs Maritza calmly, "is considering the idea of summer class and early entrance to the dorms. I told her it was an excellent idea.'
"And Al's married," Shelby puts in, rather snippily, before reclaiming both her seat and her tea.
Al just kind of looks at Shelby, his brow furrowed with confusion and anger. Mostly the former.
Maritza looks at Shelby with raised eyebrows and a faint smile. Casting a sideways glance at Al, she assures her, "He's more Lucien's type, maybe." Without waiting for the implications there-in to settle, she asks, "Eager to get going with school?"
Zosia, far more familiar with whatever might be implied, looks away. This time, she doesn't bother to hide the faint smirk. Shaking her head, she returns to the conversation, eyeing Shelby sharply as she does.
"Who's Lucien?" Shelby would like to know, thank you, some of her teenager surliness slipping away again under the onslaught of curiosity. "I am, yes. The sooner I start, the sooner I end, right?" She tacks a pretty little laugh onto its end, and manages an equally pretty smile for Al. Oh, and Zosia.
Al catches the comment and scowls. "Oh, fuck this. I got work to do." He turns toward the door. "You ladies" -- he says it to make it rhyme with 'bitches' or maybe something even less savory -- "enjoy your fucking tea."
Maritza blinks at Al's reaction, the only betrayal of surprise she offers, and dips her head as he gets up to go. "Apologies, Senor," she says in a low voice. Whatever her answer for Shelby might have been, it seems to be on hold.
There's a shattering sound from Zosia's seat. She's currently looking down at her hand, bleeding from the mug that has been shattered by her hand. For a long moment, she doesn't move, just staring at it. Then: "Fuck this." Pushing to her feet, she heads toward the door to the back side of the property, not looking back.
Shelby flinches away from the sudden crash, pulling back and in on herself like it would do the slightest amount of good. She doesn't say anything, not a single word, but tips her chin up and back in a movement that has to be well-drilled.
The Glock seems to have just materialized in Al's hand, summoned by the sudden sharp noise. For a heartbeat, it's pointed in the direction of that sound, but in the next moment it's been lowered. His voice careful, his eyes a little too wide, and his voice low and rough, Al says, "I wanna make it absolutely fuckin' clear, is all. I've been married for almost ten fucking years, I have three kids, and anyone even fucking suggests I'm a faggot is gonna get the back of my fucking hand, woman or not."
"Understood, Senor," Maritza says, her eyes averted from either Garou (though somehow she is managing to steal glances towards Zosia at the same time, and seems to have noted the weapon as well). A calm of long practice settles around her, and she remains poised with her head tipped.
"My. Newborn. Baby. Is. Upstairs," Zosia growls as she suddenly bulks up into glabro. "Did you pull...a fucking..." And she suddenly slips over into Mother's Tongue, ~...gun in the same fucking house as my newborn baby?~
Shelby is working very hard at being Miss Not Appearing In This Story: not moving (except for the trembling), not saying a word, not looking at anyone, and if she could manage it, probably not breathing, either. Her tea will just have to get cold without her.
"Oh Jesus fucking Christ, Zosia!" Al spreads his arms. "It's a fucking nine millimeter, it's not gonna go through the fucking ceiling!"
Somehow, behind Shelby, another woman has appeared out of a doorway. She's a matronly battle-axe, short and blocky where Martiza is tall and angular, though her features suggest she must be related. She says to the young Kinswoman in a very soft voice, "Senorita, come with me." Her eyes are on Al and Zosia, watching for the slightest indication of danger though for a second they flick to Maritza, who gives an almost imperceptible nod. Maritza, for her part, stays put. The older woman adds, "Now," turning the request in a gentle demand.
~That's not the point!~ Zosia shouts in a snarl before visibly exerting willpower--what little she has--to shift back down into her birth form. "It isn't," she adds stiffly. Which makes no sense to anyone but Al.
Al grunts, flicks the safety back on, and holsters the weapon. "You really need to learn to fuckin' relax. Jesus Christ." He shakes his head, clomps for the door.
Shelby does not, does NOT move, and it's debatable whether she heard either offer or demand. It's not until Maritza lays a hand on her shoulder that Shelby startles and, eyes darting wildly, scrambles out of the chair and toward Joaquine.
Joaquine gestures into another room, saying something under her breath in Spanish that might be an encouragement to Shelby or a joke about the situation. Maritza remains in the room with Zosia, waiting for any indication from the Elder as to what she'll do next.
"Yeah. I'm the only one here that needs to relax. It's just me." Zosia's voice drips with sarcasm. "Get out, Al. Now." She glances toward the trio of kinfolk, her mouth tight, before heading out the back door and wrenching it open. Her pretty clothes are shredded as she bolts out the door in a flash, heading across the grounds in her lupus form.
Al is already leaving, fortunately. His car heads down the drive and onto the street rather aggressively fast.
Maritza eyes the torn clothes, and turns to lock the front door. Then she begins cleaning up the mug and the clothes, murmuring softly in Spanish as she does so.
Shelby can't relax, not with all the homicidal crazy in the other room, but she does manage a smile for the older woman. It may be a shaky smile, but she's trying. Only after one, two doors bang closed does she exhale and sag back against the wall, face tipped to the ceiling. "Well that was stupid." She sniffs, then, and looks back to the main room, hurries out to help Maritza tidy.
Maritza doesn't seem to mind the help in the least, and Joaquine joins in after another minute or two in the back room. "Such is life with the lobos," Joaquine says, and Maritza laughs quietly. "We'll have to be careful around that one though," the older woman goes on. Her eyes indicate the front door, and Al. "A Dark Moon with no sense of humor! These are the End Times."
Cleaning is relaxing, really. "Well," Shelby can manage a bit of a laugh now, "Zosia doesn't have much of a sense of humor either. She never did." She mutters something nasty-sounding in a guttural language but doesn't translate, only stands to stretch her shoulders. "I can't wait until school starts."
"Senora doesn't seem to mind our jokes about Lucien," Joaquine mutters, and Maritza gives her a sharp look. The older woman shrugs in a classic 'well, she doesn't!' manner, and rises to take the broken mug to the trash. Maritza angles towards the laundry with blood-stained handtowels and the shredded dress. "What are you studying?" she asks Shelby ove rher shoulder.
"I still don't know who Lucien is," Shelby complains mildly, setting the couch cushions to rights and looking around for any other casualties of the little fracas. Oh! There's her mug! She hurries to fetch it, then to join Maritza, falling into step beside the other woman. "Pre-law. I want to go to George Washington though, for my actual law degree. I came out here because." She cuts off with a rueful twist of her lips and glances at the door through which Zosia disappeared. "I really want them to accept me early, for summer session."
"Lucien's our cousin. He's maybe," Maritza gauges Shelby with a glance, "seven or eight years older than you. You'll see him around here, he's an employee like Joaquine and myself." There's nothing of the dress to salvage, so Maritza puts it aside into a pile. She gets to scrubbing the handtowels in a utility sink. "Trying to get going as early as possible? Set up your own practice?"
Shelby blows out her breath in a laugh that isn't. "I doubt it. Zosia doesn't want me here. She only invited me here to keep an eye on me." Truth, or is that aggravated teenager talking? Either way, the girl with an accent so like Zosia's looks around the room before moving to lean on the counter near Maritza. "Something like that, yeah. I am so tired of accepting charity. And you just have to smile and nod and take it. Especially from them."
Maritza makes a soft sound of understanding and nods. She scrubs at a stubborn spot, then tosses the towels into the washer and gets out some bleach. "They see you as sacrificing a great deal for them. So they think they have to make it up to you by giving you whatever you want. That you'd rather forge your own way and prove yourself like they do, doesn't always occur to them." She shrugs helplessly. "If you keep at it, though, you'll achieve status of your own. I've seen plenty of Kin do it." Another of those assessing looks. "You have the same drive."
Shelby hahs again, bitter. "Hardly. My parents." She considers Maritza for a long moment. "My parents," she says again, rolling each word in her mouth, "died a long time ago. They left me what they could, but it's barely enough for a semester at community college, even if I could get at it now. All they left me was this." She gestures at herself, chin lifting in a move that looks both lovely and practiced. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for Piotyr Sulkowski, and Zosia Sulkowski-Steele intends that I never forget it."
"Ah--that kind of charity," Martiza says, and a small note of sympathy enters her voice. "In that case, I understand how you feel a little more directly." Her tone turns wry. "My family is bound to the Arroyo by blood and marriage, but we've nothing of our own. They might endow me with something if I left, but I'd otherwise have nothing." She glances out at the main part of the house, momentarily wary that anyone other than her cousins might overhear that, but relaxes after a moment.
That kind of charity, yes, and Shelby's thin-lipped smile signifies her agreement without words. "If my parents hadn't been Robert Leveque and Teresa Zaleski, I'd probably be right where you are." Instead of about three feet to the side. "Sometimes I think my life would be easier, but they weren't, and I'm not, and if all they could leave me is bloodlines to make men drool, then by Gaia I'm going to use them, and I'm going to do what I want to do. I will not be a beggar forever."
Maritza nods her approval. "I know a Kinswoman from Luna's Claws in California." the word gains a good deal of fluidity when she says it, making any English pronunciation clunky and awkward by comparison. "She's done very well for herself as a lawyer. If you want some advice from someone in a similar position, I can have her call you some time." She sets the washer to running, which fills the laundry room with the scent of bleach, then nods towards the kitchen. "Tea?" she asks.
"That," Shelby says sincerely, "would be lovely. I need to talk to Al, too - his father's a corporate lawyer." She moves out of Maritza's way as the other woman does chores, keeping an eye on where things are but not trying to help or otherwise get in the way. The offer of tea causes her to giggle, but the edge of hysteria is long gone. "I'd love some. Thank you, Maritza. And your... sister? If I don't see her, thank her for me too, please."
"Cousin," Martiza says, making the correction gently. "And I certainly will. This is old hat for us." She leads Shelby into the kitchen, and prepares to brew tea for the two of them as the exciting evening comes to an end.
Firdaws
Firdaws is a converted former barn with thick stone walls and pale wood floorboards, painted white throughout. The front door in the north wall opens straight onto the main room, a rectangular area roofed by thick wooden beams high overhead. Either side of the door, against the wall, is a pair of dark wood bookshelves formed of several open-fronted cubes. Large windows have been knocked into the south wall, catching the sun during the day and making the place appear light and spacious. A white couch the size of a small bus faces these, with a thick sheepskin rug on the floor in front of it and a low table nearby. A spiral staircase offset towards the eastern side leads to a raised area set against the east wall.
To the west is a kitchen range open to the room with pleasant light oak cupboards, green marble worktops and an island with tall stools, an as-yet-unfurnished area that may be intended for dining, and a second floor above with doors either side of a central hallway. The hallway extends on out into a traditionally-constructed wooden flying walkway that sweeps overhead, through the open central area, to the east side. Here on the ground floor level is an office, a bathroom, and a relaxation area with large television, DVDs and games consoles. Above these is a balconied hallway leading to more doors, that is met by the flying walkway.
Various items of art have been placed around the walls and on the shelves, +view for more details.
Obvious exits:
Front Door Back Door
Shelby's been in town for only a few days, but for all intents and purposes she's settled in easily. She hasn't called to beg for help or more money, and there hasn't been any screaming, so really, her arrival has to be counted a success, right? "...So I'm going to see if I can get enrolled for the summer session," she finishes explaining over a mug of mint tea. "I think if I can do that, then I can move into one of the residence halls in late May or June, instead of August."
"Yes, sooner would be good," Zosia says without thinking, listening carefully while not listening at all. Almost immediately catching her fauxpas, she adds, "Since it would best to get settled into a routine."
Shelby glances over quickly but says nothing. Only her lips twist, just a bit. "Routine. Right. I was thinking it would be best to get as many credits as possible, as soon as possible, to get my degrees as quickly as possible." There's a certain stiffness in the kin's shoulders - but then again, she was nearly this tense around Zosia a few days ago, and the moon was smaller then.
Zosia was known for being rather unstable, if one is being honest, and thus is rather used to responses such as these. "Yes. That would certainly help but you do have to get used to the setting. A summer class would help you get used to how that..." She looks vague and waves a hand dismissively, "That learning...method...I don't know. It always looks different in the movies, college."
Shelby says, "Mmn," and has more tea. "I don't think you can really trust TV and movies to tell you what school is like. I mean, come on. Have you seen Gossip Girl?"
"No," Zosia says far too quickly. There's a slightly furtive nature to her demeanor as she does. "I don't even know what finishing school is like," she points out in an attempt to change the subject.
Shelby glances over again, this time with eyebrows raised and a smile fighting to be seen. "Neither do I," she points out with half of a shrug. "Anyway, it's not like you missed anything, not having a junior or senior year. Even the dances weren't... well, they made them out to be some huge deal, but really, they weren't."
"The dances they allowed us to attend," Zosia points out in a dry voice. "As tests." She broke a young man's arm after one once, after all. A-hem-. "But school was boring. Too much...sitting still."
"Really?" Shelby asks. "I never saw you there." She shrugs again, after a few seconds, and lets the subject drop. "Well, it's not like you're going to get a desk job as a Garou. Not like lawyers are known for their physical prowess, anyway."
"I never made it in the door," Zosia says absently, toying with her mug and kicking one leg. "Just on campus long enough for the chaperones to see me and then we'd go somewhere else. Desk job." She snorts. "Not a lot of use for a desk in the umbra," she grumbles in a low voice.
A fine-boned young woman, Zosia stands at about five foot three inches. Her frame is petite but shaped by the gentle curves that come with growing maturity. With pale blonde hair that tumbles to mid-back and large ice blue eyes, Zosia has classically attractive features: finely-shaped nose, well-placed cheekbones, a full-mouth, a strong chin, and pale creamy skin. If her right shoulder is bared, there is a scar of three falcon talons upon it (that will glow, faintly, when the moon is dark). There's something about her energy that demands the eye and attention, from her confident demeanor to some -force- that she seems to barely contain.
She also manages to be one of those infuriating people with a natural sense of style. Her usual clothing choices tend to be long-sleeved cashmere sweaters in a deep jewel shades that cling to the lines of her body, the necks cut in deep vee styles. A pair of carefully cut but tough khaki pants are a nod to the cold of winter, as are the sturdy but very high end hiking boots on her feet. She wears a large diamond engagement ring against a gold wedding band on her left hand.
The kin shifts in her chair, turning ever so faintly more toward the Theurge, and keeping her mug between them. "No, and there isn't much use for a Theurge in corporate law," she returns. "Or property. Or where ever it is I decide to focus."
"That's boring," Zosia says, her fingers drumming on the mug. "But so is staring off into space listening to things other people can't here. At least, for the other people," she admits with a sudden smile, sighing. "Sorry. I've a lot on my mind at the moment."
"Boring, but necessary to making sure Caerns aren't bought out and subdivided," says Shelby in a tone that suggests she'd really rather be sarcastic but isn't that dumb. Another sip of tea and she adds, "Right. You said. I'm probably just going to get snapped at again, but if there's anything I can do. I was raised right, after all."
There's a silence and then Zosia looks at Shelby--really looks at her. Possibly for the first time. "Dancers, all around us. Attacking the caern, attacking us. Taking positions in the city. Building places that have turned into breeding grounds for banes in the umbra which is horrific for people in the realm," she points down to emphasize that she means this world. "All of this stacking against us and never ending."
Shelby looks back at the other girl - or at her chin, really. "What sort of places are they building? Do they have permits and things? I mean," she adds, impatient at herself, "are they doing it legally? If they are, then they have kin or somebody doing it. If not... well, if not, then there's other ways to attack them. Maybe not as effective as tooth and claw, but. Depends on how sneaky they're trying to be."
"They do have kin doing it," Zosia says slowly, after a breath to keep her from snapping. "The kin own the construction companies and the lawyer is a Dancer kin. Tristan's working on the human side of things, as are the Walkers. Maritza and her people. They're sloppy enough we've found them out as kin but that's it."
Shelby looks away again with a wry snort and fusses with her teacup. "Protests, maybe? Do you - do we need to slow them down? Would it help?"
"Protests are possible, we could get some Gaians in and others." Zosia starts to drum her fingers again. "We can get some flood and other problems going. And work on the umbral side but there's only so much we can do with that."
"If you have anyone - the Glass Walkers, maybe? - who knows about construction, they could, I don't know, go in and vandalize the place?" Shelby purses her lips and frowns at the floor. "They do that out here, don't they? Blow up car dealers and such?" Where 'out here' means the uncivilized West, and everyone is two heartbeats from being scalped by Indians.
"Tristan's company has, among other things, a construction side." Zosia gives her a very strange look. "Uh. What are they teaching you in history class now? Anyway," she adds more briskly, "there's enough dark and gruesome things there. Performing violent acts on them won't do much but get sympathy for the company involved. I've been told."
Shelby echoes, "History?" but seems to Get It after a few seconds and dismisses the topic with another shrug. "Well, it's not like I've blown up so many car dealerships anyway."
"Yes, well. Fine way to shred the veil," Zosia says. The baby and guards are elsewhere and the pair sits at a table. The theurge looks fetching in a fabulous little spring top and nice pants, radiating a certain amount of restlessness but apparently speaking seriously. She holds a mug of something. The mint scent suggests tea.
"I don't see how blowing something up would shred the Veil," Shelby retorts, still firmly Not Looking at Zosia. "It's not like I suggested half the Sept charge in there in Crinos." The eye roll is visible in her voice, even if she manages to keep it from her face. She has tea as well, and lovely posture, though her clothes aren't as obviously fabulous as the Theurge's.
"And," Zosia says with exasperation in her own voice, "how are you going to set the explosions up?"
Shelby can do exasperated too! "I won't. That's what the Glass Walkers are for. Or," she adds with a little flick of one hand, "someone from Tristan's construction company. Someone who knows how to deal with explosives, and buildings, and someone else to spin the publicity."
Al drives up in the usual unremarkable grey sedan, wearing the usual not-rumpled, perfectly clean, yet somehow vaguely seedy black suit and necktie. He stops outside the front gate, squinting through it at the house. He spots the cameras -- both of them -- stares up at one of them with a contemplative expression just for a moment, then looks for an intercom.
The buzz comes just as Zosia is staring at Shelby with a mix of wonder and disgust. It is quite the expression. Looking down at a remote that sits at her side, she squints then grumbles to herself. "Oh great." The button is pressed and a voice comes over the intercom. "Hurry up, hurry up."
This time both of Shelby's eyebrows go up, but rather than ask she contents herself with settling back into her chair, tucking feet crossed at the ankles under her chair, and with more tea. She doesn't offer to leave.
Al mutters, "Yeah, yeah..." He's through, and in, and rapping on the front door in no time at all.
Zosia gives Shelby a sour look before pushing to her feet. "Come on in," she says as she opens the door. "You might as well meet our new kinfolk too." She moves across the living room, waving for the older man to follow her. "Would you like some tea?"
Shelby waits, perfectly posed, for Al to enter, blue eyes fastened on the door. "It's peppermint." She gives the newcomer a polite smile before looking back to Zosia; sets down her mug and stands, lips pressing together briefly.
Al
This guy's not much to look at on first glance; he's in his early thirties, about five-foot-nine with an average build and an aggressive case of male pattern baldness that puts his hairline somewhere just past the crown of his head. What hair he does have is stringy and blond and shoulder-length. Between his hair, his long sideburns, and his bushy goatee, he wouldn't seem much out of place in a gritty 1970s crime drama. His pale blue eyes sport an impressive set of bags underneath them and are sheltered underneath thick eyebrows. His hands are broad and calloused, the backs covered in a layer of coarse blond hair. His accent's pure New York City, thick as they come.
In his black suit, white shirt, and loosely-knotted black necktie, he looks less like a businessman and more like a Reservoir Dog; he's just not the kind of guy who makes a suit look good. His feet are clad in heavy black workmen's shoes, the kind with treaded soles and steel in the toes. He wears a plain gold ring on his left ring finger, along with another gold ring -- this one heavier, more ornate, and set with several small diamonds -- on his left index finger. Another gold ring, this with one sizeable onyx stone, decorates his right ring finger.
"I'd rather have a beer," says Al, his heavy shoes making an ungraceful 'clump clump clump' on Zosia's nice floor. He eyeballs Shelby, then gives her a nod.
"I'm sure!" Zosia says in a cheerfully polite voice as she pours him a cup of tea and hands it over. "Shelby, this is Al. He's from New York City," she adds as if that is supposed to explain....well. Everything. "This is Shelby. She's from Sunlit Waters as well."
"Hello, Al," Shelby says, shifting her mug to free a hand for shaking. "Shelby Zaleski-Laveque, if you wanted to find me in the phone book, which you can't because I've only been here a few days." Babbling? Just a touch. "It's very nice to meet you."
Al takes the cup of tea with a sour expression and shifts it to his left hand. The right grasps Shelby's briefly; his skin is rough and calloused. "Yeah, likewise, I guess. Al Strek. AKA Glass Breaker. Ragabash."
"She's going to be attending school at the local university. Pre-law." Zosia sips her own tea, hming contentedly as she does. "We were just talking over some of the problems, since she's in town now." Her eyes cut toward Al. "She should be under the radar but I'd rather she knew the tribe in town."
"Kin," Shelby agrees, as though it needed saying. Since it obviously doesn't, her lips press together again before she abruptly sits. And has more tea. And glances between the two Garou.
Al nods, still holding his tea like he doesn't really know what to do with it. (Or what to do with it that'd still be considered polite.) "You gonna be a lawyer?"
Zosia studies Shelby over her cup, a line between her brows. She at least doesn't -answer- for the girl. Yet.
Shelby says, "Um," and hesitates like she does expect Zosia to answer. But the silence stretches on and Shelby retucks her feet in an effort to regain her composure. "Yes, that's right. I'm planning on SCCU for pre-law, and then hopefully George Washington or Georgetown for law. With Washington in Saint Louis as my safe school."
Al grunts. He lifts the cup to his lips, sips, and makes a face. After wiping his mouth with his free hand, he notes, "Yeah, my father-in-law's a lawyer. Corporate law."
"I believe that's what Shelby wants to go into," Zosia says neutrally before adding, "My uncle went into finance, alas. Can't give you advice there."
"Corporate," Shelby agrees, keeping her mug between herself and the Garou, "or property. I figure I have a few years before I have to decide though." Still, she gives Al a more thoughtful look. "Do you think he'd be interested in an intern? New York City, right?"
Al squints like thinking hurts his head. Then he shrugs. "Probably. You're family." He looks down at his tea, then sets the cup on the table and shoves his hands into his pants pockets.
"Should get a year or two of school under your belt first," Zosia says mildly, leaning back. "That's your emphasis right now?" she asks in a not-subtle manner.
Al said the magic words! Shelby's face lights in a smile, however brief, and she actually lifts her eyes to meet Al's face... for a second, anyway. Then Zosia chimes in, and Shelby scuttles back into her protective shell. "School, yes, that's right." To the Ragabash, "I'm accepted to SCCU for the fall, but I was thinking I want to start my enrollment in the summer session."
Al grunts again. "I'll talk to my wife about it, next time I call her."
Zosia does her best to hide the quirk of her lips--an amused quirk, alas--behind her mug. She mostly succeeds. "Yes, that'll be good," she murmurs once more.
Shelby asks, "You're married?" like this is some sort of mysterious and unexpected thing. She gives Al another once-over before leaning ever so slightly forward, head tilting to the side. "What are her bloodlines?"
"Shelby," Zosia snaps out in a sharp voice, the mug getting placed down. She doesn't say more, staring at the girl intently.
Shelby, in the time-honored tradition of teenagers everywhere, turns to gape at Zosia like the other girl's just dumped grape juice on her prom dress. "What? It's a perfectly valid question!" Back to Al, and slightly sullen, "Sorry," she isn't, "but I can't believe people in New York don't care about bloodlines. Sunlit Waters does." She drinks some tea aggressively.
Maritza comes in from outside, shutting her cellphone and pokceting it just as she opens the front door. Her eyes move between the other Silver Fangs in a quick reconaissance once she's inside, then return to Zosia. "Senora," she murmurs, dipping her head a fraction.
"They fuckin' care plenty," Al says, still glowery. "Some people care about other shit more, yanno?" His eyes cut sideways toward the new arrival, and he dials back the aggressive surliness a notch.
"And those who are -really- well-bred," Zosia says, now seated with an aggressively straight posture, "are too well-mannered to ask questions so -crass-." Those sorts of discussions are for -behind- closed doors. "We from Sunlit Waters know that we've more important things to discuss." Her eyes cut toward Maritza and she offers the woman a small tight smile. "It would do, for example, for you to properly meet Maritza, Shelby. I've mentioned Maritza Arroyo de Mercado before. Maritza, this is Shelby Zaleski-Laveque, kin from my home Sept."
Maritza is an exceptionally tall woman, standing close to six feet in height, and if one walks away with only a single impression of her it would be that. Crow's feet at her eyes and competing smile and frowning lines put her roughly in her late thirties, and although an air of quiet confidence and strength surrounds her she seems to restrict herself to acting in an otherwise unremarkable fashion. Her cocoa-colored skin is at odds with her bone-white, platinum blonde hair, cut in a boyishly short but elegant fashion, and her eyebrows suggest this is its natural shade. Muddy, hazel-green eyes watch everything with keen awareness from an angular and proud face that's too severe to be conventionally pretty, though it does all-together speak of an ancestry that could be European in part.
Her clothes are casual and functional, and not very flashy. A simple, white, button-up shirt, plain black slacks, and well-made leather boots are accompanied by a modest sportcoat in maroon, and a stylish leather jacket completes the outfit. Her left ear is pierced four times with white gold hoops, and she wears a single, engraved ring in rose gold on her right ring finger.
"Well excuse me for being curious," Shelby mutters mutinously. "Around family." Still quite obviously irked, still she stands and holds out her hand for Maritza. "How do you do. It's very nice to meet you." She has some manners to use, anyway.
"Martiza Arroyo de Mercado," the tall Kinswoman says, her tone marking it an introduction given from one family member to another. The nod she gives Shelby and Al isn't as defferential as the one offered to Zosia, but the implication they're her betters is clear. Her grip, when she takes Shelby's hand, is firm and friendly, and her hands are calloused from hard work.
Al squints at Zosia, looking bemused, then turns his attention to Maritza. "Al Strek, AKA Glass Breaker. Ragabash."
Zosia just watches the interaction intently, her jaw working slightly before she sits back in her seat once more. "Shelby," Zosia informs Maritza calmly, "is considering the idea of summer class and early entrance to the dorms. I told her it was an excellent idea.'
"And Al's married," Shelby puts in, rather snippily, before reclaiming both her seat and her tea.
Al just kind of looks at Shelby, his brow furrowed with confusion and anger. Mostly the former.
Maritza looks at Shelby with raised eyebrows and a faint smile. Casting a sideways glance at Al, she assures her, "He's more Lucien's type, maybe." Without waiting for the implications there-in to settle, she asks, "Eager to get going with school?"
Zosia, far more familiar with whatever might be implied, looks away. This time, she doesn't bother to hide the faint smirk. Shaking her head, she returns to the conversation, eyeing Shelby sharply as she does.
"Who's Lucien?" Shelby would like to know, thank you, some of her teenager surliness slipping away again under the onslaught of curiosity. "I am, yes. The sooner I start, the sooner I end, right?" She tacks a pretty little laugh onto its end, and manages an equally pretty smile for Al. Oh, and Zosia.
Al catches the comment and scowls. "Oh, fuck this. I got work to do." He turns toward the door. "You ladies" -- he says it to make it rhyme with 'bitches' or maybe something even less savory -- "enjoy your fucking tea."
Maritza blinks at Al's reaction, the only betrayal of surprise she offers, and dips her head as he gets up to go. "Apologies, Senor," she says in a low voice. Whatever her answer for Shelby might have been, it seems to be on hold.
There's a shattering sound from Zosia's seat. She's currently looking down at her hand, bleeding from the mug that has been shattered by her hand. For a long moment, she doesn't move, just staring at it. Then: "Fuck this." Pushing to her feet, she heads toward the door to the back side of the property, not looking back.
Shelby flinches away from the sudden crash, pulling back and in on herself like it would do the slightest amount of good. She doesn't say anything, not a single word, but tips her chin up and back in a movement that has to be well-drilled.
The Glock seems to have just materialized in Al's hand, summoned by the sudden sharp noise. For a heartbeat, it's pointed in the direction of that sound, but in the next moment it's been lowered. His voice careful, his eyes a little too wide, and his voice low and rough, Al says, "I wanna make it absolutely fuckin' clear, is all. I've been married for almost ten fucking years, I have three kids, and anyone even fucking suggests I'm a faggot is gonna get the back of my fucking hand, woman or not."
"Understood, Senor," Maritza says, her eyes averted from either Garou (though somehow she is managing to steal glances towards Zosia at the same time, and seems to have noted the weapon as well). A calm of long practice settles around her, and she remains poised with her head tipped.
"My. Newborn. Baby. Is. Upstairs," Zosia growls as she suddenly bulks up into glabro. "Did you pull...a fucking..." And she suddenly slips over into Mother's Tongue, ~...gun in the same fucking house as my newborn baby?~
Shelby is working very hard at being Miss Not Appearing In This Story: not moving (except for the trembling), not saying a word, not looking at anyone, and if she could manage it, probably not breathing, either. Her tea will just have to get cold without her.
"Oh Jesus fucking Christ, Zosia!" Al spreads his arms. "It's a fucking nine millimeter, it's not gonna go through the fucking ceiling!"
Somehow, behind Shelby, another woman has appeared out of a doorway. She's a matronly battle-axe, short and blocky where Martiza is tall and angular, though her features suggest she must be related. She says to the young Kinswoman in a very soft voice, "Senorita, come with me." Her eyes are on Al and Zosia, watching for the slightest indication of danger though for a second they flick to Maritza, who gives an almost imperceptible nod. Maritza, for her part, stays put. The older woman adds, "Now," turning the request in a gentle demand.
~That's not the point!~ Zosia shouts in a snarl before visibly exerting willpower--what little she has--to shift back down into her birth form. "It isn't," she adds stiffly. Which makes no sense to anyone but Al.
Al grunts, flicks the safety back on, and holsters the weapon. "You really need to learn to fuckin' relax. Jesus Christ." He shakes his head, clomps for the door.
Shelby does not, does NOT move, and it's debatable whether she heard either offer or demand. It's not until Maritza lays a hand on her shoulder that Shelby startles and, eyes darting wildly, scrambles out of the chair and toward Joaquine.
Joaquine gestures into another room, saying something under her breath in Spanish that might be an encouragement to Shelby or a joke about the situation. Maritza remains in the room with Zosia, waiting for any indication from the Elder as to what she'll do next.
"Yeah. I'm the only one here that needs to relax. It's just me." Zosia's voice drips with sarcasm. "Get out, Al. Now." She glances toward the trio of kinfolk, her mouth tight, before heading out the back door and wrenching it open. Her pretty clothes are shredded as she bolts out the door in a flash, heading across the grounds in her lupus form.
Al is already leaving, fortunately. His car heads down the drive and onto the street rather aggressively fast.
Maritza eyes the torn clothes, and turns to lock the front door. Then she begins cleaning up the mug and the clothes, murmuring softly in Spanish as she does so.
Shelby can't relax, not with all the homicidal crazy in the other room, but she does manage a smile for the older woman. It may be a shaky smile, but she's trying. Only after one, two doors bang closed does she exhale and sag back against the wall, face tipped to the ceiling. "Well that was stupid." She sniffs, then, and looks back to the main room, hurries out to help Maritza tidy.
Maritza doesn't seem to mind the help in the least, and Joaquine joins in after another minute or two in the back room. "Such is life with the lobos," Joaquine says, and Maritza laughs quietly. "We'll have to be careful around that one though," the older woman goes on. Her eyes indicate the front door, and Al. "A Dark Moon with no sense of humor! These are the End Times."
Cleaning is relaxing, really. "Well," Shelby can manage a bit of a laugh now, "Zosia doesn't have much of a sense of humor either. She never did." She mutters something nasty-sounding in a guttural language but doesn't translate, only stands to stretch her shoulders. "I can't wait until school starts."
"Senora doesn't seem to mind our jokes about Lucien," Joaquine mutters, and Maritza gives her a sharp look. The older woman shrugs in a classic 'well, she doesn't!' manner, and rises to take the broken mug to the trash. Maritza angles towards the laundry with blood-stained handtowels and the shredded dress. "What are you studying?" she asks Shelby ove rher shoulder.
"I still don't know who Lucien is," Shelby complains mildly, setting the couch cushions to rights and looking around for any other casualties of the little fracas. Oh! There's her mug! She hurries to fetch it, then to join Maritza, falling into step beside the other woman. "Pre-law. I want to go to George Washington though, for my actual law degree. I came out here because." She cuts off with a rueful twist of her lips and glances at the door through which Zosia disappeared. "I really want them to accept me early, for summer session."
"Lucien's our cousin. He's maybe," Maritza gauges Shelby with a glance, "seven or eight years older than you. You'll see him around here, he's an employee like Joaquine and myself." There's nothing of the dress to salvage, so Maritza puts it aside into a pile. She gets to scrubbing the handtowels in a utility sink. "Trying to get going as early as possible? Set up your own practice?"
Shelby blows out her breath in a laugh that isn't. "I doubt it. Zosia doesn't want me here. She only invited me here to keep an eye on me." Truth, or is that aggravated teenager talking? Either way, the girl with an accent so like Zosia's looks around the room before moving to lean on the counter near Maritza. "Something like that, yeah. I am so tired of accepting charity. And you just have to smile and nod and take it. Especially from them."
Maritza makes a soft sound of understanding and nods. She scrubs at a stubborn spot, then tosses the towels into the washer and gets out some bleach. "They see you as sacrificing a great deal for them. So they think they have to make it up to you by giving you whatever you want. That you'd rather forge your own way and prove yourself like they do, doesn't always occur to them." She shrugs helplessly. "If you keep at it, though, you'll achieve status of your own. I've seen plenty of Kin do it." Another of those assessing looks. "You have the same drive."
Shelby hahs again, bitter. "Hardly. My parents." She considers Maritza for a long moment. "My parents," she says again, rolling each word in her mouth, "died a long time ago. They left me what they could, but it's barely enough for a semester at community college, even if I could get at it now. All they left me was this." She gestures at herself, chin lifting in a move that looks both lovely and practiced. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for Piotyr Sulkowski, and Zosia Sulkowski-Steele intends that I never forget it."
"Ah--that kind of charity," Martiza says, and a small note of sympathy enters her voice. "In that case, I understand how you feel a little more directly." Her tone turns wry. "My family is bound to the Arroyo by blood and marriage, but we've nothing of our own. They might endow me with something if I left, but I'd otherwise have nothing." She glances out at the main part of the house, momentarily wary that anyone other than her cousins might overhear that, but relaxes after a moment.
That kind of charity, yes, and Shelby's thin-lipped smile signifies her agreement without words. "If my parents hadn't been Robert Leveque and Teresa Zaleski, I'd probably be right where you are." Instead of about three feet to the side. "Sometimes I think my life would be easier, but they weren't, and I'm not, and if all they could leave me is bloodlines to make men drool, then by Gaia I'm going to use them, and I'm going to do what I want to do. I will not be a beggar forever."
Maritza nods her approval. "I know a Kinswoman from Luna's Claws in California." the word gains a good deal of fluidity when she says it, making any English pronunciation clunky and awkward by comparison. "She's done very well for herself as a lawyer. If you want some advice from someone in a similar position, I can have her call you some time." She sets the washer to running, which fills the laundry room with the scent of bleach, then nods towards the kitchen. "Tea?" she asks.
"That," Shelby says sincerely, "would be lovely. I need to talk to Al, too - his father's a corporate lawyer." She moves out of Maritza's way as the other woman does chores, keeping an eye on where things are but not trying to help or otherwise get in the way. The offer of tea causes her to giggle, but the edge of hysteria is long gone. "I'd love some. Thank you, Maritza. And your... sister? If I don't see her, thank her for me too, please."
"Cousin," Martiza says, making the correction gently. "And I certainly will. This is old hat for us." She leads Shelby into the kitchen, and prepares to brew tea for the two of them as the exciting evening comes to an end.