Isabel Giovanni

Disclaimers: I am neither Isabel Giovanni nor Isabelle Adjani. This is a role-playing and a creative writing journal. No profit is made and no copyright infringement of White Wolf is intended.

This journal will contain material that is suitable for mature audiences only.

Clan Summary: The Giovanni have always been one of the most, if not the most, insular of the thirteen clans. Whilst they do have dealings with others, they do not serve or trust outsiders. If anything, as some would whisper, the Giovanni are a little too tightly knit: Even death doesn't mean an escape as they are masters of summoning the spirits of the dead and animating corpses. Most of the other clans believe that the Giovanni are just filthy rich crime bosses with interests in material power. What they don't know is that the Giovanni have much larger designs in mind that deal with the spirit world and their eventual place as the rulers of it.

Disciplines & Traits A brief WoD Lexicon. Timeline

Need to contact me? You may do so here with a comment, via email [muse.singer at gmail dot com], &/or via AIM [amusedreams].

Nothing.

I think that you will not be inclined to believe me, and that is not surprising given that most of you are products of your age. And lesser ages they are to be sure; they are cold and filled more with steel than the white-hot fires of passion that fuelled the age I came of age in. An age of heat, blood, and the unquenchable thirst for all that life could give. But there you have it, and I shall try to illuminate you.

There are two words that sum up the philosophy of my age: bella figura. Yes, yes, these days it means more the beautiful figure as regards fashion and décor more than it did in the Renaissance, more is the pity. Now we just have beautifully clothed clowns catching the public eye, allowing themselves to be mocked as much as admired. Yet, there are still a few who understand the way of thinking behind the physical manifestation of bella figura. They will understand why I have never done anything embarrassing whilst sober or even inebriated. It goes against my upbringing of comportment, etiquette, and even ceremony. The proper face presented to the proper company, lest you find yourself the subject of mockery when the Commedia dell'arte trouped through.

All of this is not to say that I have never cut loose and enjoyed entertainments and amusements. Nor even to say that I have not been mortified and felt the brush of humiliation on the rare occasion. But as you did not ask about those, I shall save discussion of them for another night.

September, A.D. 1805
The Kingdom of Italy

Strange times oft required entertaining strange bedfellows. While the Clan elders were discussing their options with the Ventrue princes of Great Britain in denying the little toad that was styling himself the Emperor of France the spoils of his war, Isabel had spent a season in Haiti amongst the decaying Samedi. There was no love lost between the estranged branches of the extended Cappadocian bloodlines, to this night Augustus would not speak the name of Baron Samedi nor tolerate hearing it in his presence, and yet a few of the more pragmatic elders were willing to send younger Cainites to treat with their Caribbean cousins. The walking corpses not only shed chunks of their deteriorating flesh with alarming regularity, but offered new insights into the necromantic applications of disease upon the kine.

The make-shift tent city was hardly anything like the mouldering huts of Haiti where the Samedi rotted happily in the eternal night, but the smell... Isabel lowered the bundle of fragrant herbs and spices that she was carrying and sniffed the air... the smell here was comparable. The angel of death had moved through the camp and touched the cooks, smiths, and strumpets that made life bearable for the soldiers of the Austrian king. As the sun darkened and was consumed by the darkness, so too was the spark of their small lives. While Isabel hardly cared about the lives of these simple camp followers, she did care deeply about the message that it would send to the commanders of this particular finger of the army that was feinting into Giovanni territory. She could smell them now, the Dogs of Adam, as they stood on the far slope of the hill overlooking this valley. She burnt with curiosity to know what they thought of her handiwork and she focused almost all of her attention to hearing what words she could grab from the night air.

"Still there... the stink of disease..." She smiled as the words came to her hearing. Carefully Isabel threaded her way between the bodies that littered the ground; putrid masses strewn in the grass, slumped to the sides of still smouldering cook-fires, or rotting in the heat of the coarse tents. Dark nodes covered all exposed surfaces of their skin, thick with sponge and blood where the pustules hadn't burst, or crusted with ichor where they had burst. Fat, black flies seemed unperturbed by the condition of their feast and could barely take to the skies from the heaviness of death's bounty in their bodies. Caution whispered in her ears as the voices of the werewolves began to sound closer.

"I have kin here who are amongst the dead, I mean to bury them. Dear Christ, but the stink is unbearable," a strong voice spoke, cracking with emotion near the end.

A low growl was his answer. "Can you not smell it?" The second voice was older, a veteran of wars, Isabel thought. "This death is ignoble. It is not the honourable smell of battle-slain bodies on the crimson field of war. This is the stink of plague and your kin bear only the fruit of sickness now."

"Impossible," the first hissed into the night. "They were well this morning and this place filled with life. This," his voice trailed off as the footsteps changed from the heavy tread of booted human feet to the click-clack of nails on rock, "this is not natural."

Retreat was slow and steady. Any of Adam's dogs in human form she could best easily, but one of them walking in fur without benefit of the moon's influence was a different story, even with the last remnants of the death-magic born plague upon her hands. It took all of her self-control to keep from hissing her hatred of them to Mother Night. The moon, a silver crescent in the sky, seemed herself torn by the presence of the feuding children of the ancient ones in such close proximity and hid herself behind a passing cloud. Isabel took advantage of the deepening dark to fade into the shadows of the trees that stretched across the valley floor.

New sounds caught her awareness and Isabel started to realise that the abominations were quarrelling amongst themselves. "...misplaced allegiance to the hairless children of Adam. This is all that comes of their efforts. Gaia knows that they are unruly children and need stronger masters guiding them our of their perpetual cub-hood. Their ignorance is a far greater illness than what felled them here."

"We have had this conversation before, and unless you wish another scar to match, hold your tongue," the first dog spoke in a low growl. "This is not natural."

Isabel almost leant forward to hear what she thought was being whispered. It didn't sound like either of the damned dogs and with another start it dawned upon her that the one was speaking with one of the spiriti. A shiver of apprehension rushed through her when the two dogs threw their heads up to the hidden moon and howled their outrage and bitter grief. Dare she stay longer? Isabel debated that question in the velvet cloak of night and shadow. To do so might require measures of desperation should she need to make a quick get away, but the rewards from the elders would surely make up for her inconvenience and discomfort.

Heavy sniffs sounded in the night as the werewolves tried to uncover her presence. Thankfully the stench from the cracked and dripping flesh of the dead was stronger than her own scent. "You must go to the moot, let the allied Tribes know that the Corsican treats with the unholy spawn of Caine. I will return to my commanders and tell them that there is plague in the nearby towns. Fire will cleanse the land of this taint while the unholy ones sleep. We can leave it to God to take care of His innocent children."

There. That was worth staying for, even as she knew reporting this would mean forays into the north to spread the supernatural plague through Austrian villages and towns. It was a small price to pay to drive the werewolves and their filth from her native soil. With a satisfied smile, Isabel faded into a mist and drifted slowly into the waiting sanctuary of the forest.

for whilst my Dominator was very thorough in my education as a Giovanni ghoul, there were lessons that were held back. What internal familial politics that involves, I know not, for the urge to sire my own childe has not yet driven me to plumb those unfathomable depths. Thus it fell to my sire, Fortunato, to complete my education as both Cainite and Giovanni clan member.

I knew that there were thirteen clans, of which we are but one, but had only the barest knowledge of our place within that world. I could not, and do not, blame my Dominator for overlooking that aspect of my education, for how does one begin to condense an eternity of Cainite politics into a few scant decades of instruction? One simply does not, especially when the lure of nigrimancy and other thaumaturgy is irresistible to a young ghoul.

My sire, wise in his years, began directly with these words:

"Who rules the night? The childer of Caine. Whether by mandate of God, Lucifer, common weal or the simple right of strength, we are the undisputed lords in darkness. Tempt not the fickle whims of a ruler in Blood, for our wrath is as boundless as our immortal unlives."

Simple, direct, and with that practical layer of caution that so many of his

Tripoli, Libya, A.D. 1771

Once more Isabel was reminded that merchants and mercenaries were but two sides of the same coin. Under a canopy of stars and the light of the moon, the water of the Mediterranean danced around the hull of her boat. On another night, she would have let the lapping waves lull her mind into relaxation, but tonight she wanted her wits about her. Silently the ghouls moored her craft quayside by their warehouses whilst strong hands reached out to assist her from the boat. It was not necessary, but she did appreciate the sentiment behind the gesture all the same.

"You have it." Her voice held more statement then question and she was hardly surprised when a nod answered her. Two women came forward. They were dressed identically in rose pink silk chirudaars, in the eastern manner. Yellow diamonds and emeralds had been sewn onto the tight ankles to resemble daffodils, a flower that she had heard was a favourite of the Brujah prince she would be meeting this night. Their tunics were sheer over the cholis and decorated with blue and red threads sewn to resemble iridescent butterflies. Each woman bore a carved ivory box; one with precious ambergris and the other with diamonds and rubies the size of a small child's thumb. "Bene," her voice was almost lavish with praise when she saw the near-perfection of the gifts meant for her host.

Two of her ghouls stood behind them in the royal blue and white of the family's heraldic colours. For herself, Isabel was dressed in midnight-blue silk with silver chrysanthemums, with matching sleeves tied on with silver rope. Her thick, black hair was braided and piled upon her head, sewn into place with silver tape and ropes of pearls. Four men in Giovanni livery stood ready by the carved ivory palkhi that would bear her gifts to Hayreddin Barbarossa. Three Arabian geldings were saddled for Isabel and her ghouls, trimmed in scarlet and gilt horse furniture and shod with gold shoes. When making a show, she thought, it was best to err on the side of too-much rather than too-little; especially when trying to show that it would be, for these mercenary princes of Tripoli, prudent and wildly profitable to side with the merchant princes of Venice.

"Come along, then," she commanded the entourage. "The night will not wait. Not even for me."

Would I what? Make a good spy? Now you are just being silly. I am hardly a cloak-and-dagger, code phrase passing, shadow skulking mole. Nor am I a Martini swilling, sun-and-tropic seeking, race car driving, cat-suited high flier. Thank Caine and Christ. I am content to leave such games to the Nosferatu and the Torreador. In any event, should I ever require information from the kine, I would simply dominate them with my will, extract the information that I wished, and then erase the knowledge from their memory. Or drain them if I'm feeling a bit peckish.

( Private thoughts )

A mess? Pick a century. Pick a decade. Pick a year. A mess. If only my unlife were so pedestrian that I had only a mess to tidy up after.

Oddly enough, Anno Domini 1999 was an unusually busy year. Granted, the Sabbat and Camarilla were engaged in open warfare along the Eastern seaboard of the United States of America. While new world politics are often amusing, they sometimes bleed over into the old world and then situations get a bit sticky. I had thought that the close of the year would have seen the last of any unpleasantness requiring my personal attentions. I thought wrong.

The Giovanni are resourceful, competitive, and ambitious. We always have been and always will be. We are bred to it. At some point earlier in the year when I was discussing the results of my meetings with the Camarilla in Cuba, one of the mortal family must have overheard our plans for further expanding the family's triangle trade after the war burnt itself [and the involved parties] out. Normally such ambition would have been rewarded, lauded, and praised. In this case, it was something to be crushed and then rerouted to one more deserving of such a lucrative operation.

Biagio Giovanni was a financial genius. He knew enough of American and Italian laws to find a way to avoid those pesky tariffs and taxes on tobacco products imported from the States. The family would have turned a happy, blind eye to this little side enterprise... who knows, they might even have held up his inspired methods of setting up blinds and exchanges as an example to others if he had only gotten permission from his don and paid-off the local gabelotti. He didn't. I was tasked with clearing up the mess whilst the elders decided who to reward with this inspired operation.

I employed my two favourite methods: Joseph and poison. Joseph, I feel that I must confess, is an enthusiastic watch dog. He enjoys the swathes of blood he leaves in his wake, as much as he enjoys dreaming up creative ways to shed the blood of his targets. Once he had mopped up the strays in Havana, Miami, and Ombrosa, I had him meet me at Biagio's villa. Subtly there was preferred. I wished Biagio time to feast fully upon why his business was being so savagely disrupted and to eventually come to realise that I was there not to bail him out with the family, but to usher him into the next world.

I brewed the poison myself. Arsenic sprinkled over the bowels of a slaughtered pig, left to ferment until such time as was optimal to squeeze out the putrid matter that yields a tasteless and deadly dose. As Biagio gorged himself at his supper table, Joseph was in the kitchen adding doses of my poison to each dish. While Joseph's methods are creative and amusing, mine are subtle and do not require further clean-up. Biagio's death was written off as an excess of gluttony by the coroners, and everyone was happy.

Well, everyone except Biagio.

As one to whom diplomacy comes, more or less, naturally, there still are points to bear in mind when negotiating. Some are dependant upon the times whilst others are truly timeless.

1. Always be aware of your strengths and your opposition's weaknesses. Indeed, if you are able, allow your opposition to feel that they have the upper hand in the negotiations until the last moment. Then leave them to rethink their position in uncomfortable silence after you have delivered your parting volley.

Di Zagreb turned his shoulder away from Isabel, remaining silent.

"As I said, though, Justicar, we are willing to deal with the side that wins. We have no illusions as to your superior numbers, and in truth, we would prefer to deal with the Camarilla, as it is almost universally more civil and urbane than those cackling lunatics of the Sabbat. But don’t think for a minute that you have any influence that we don’t allow you to have. It would be a bitter fight between us, and one that you would almost certainly win. But at what cost?

"Keep that in mind, Justicar. For the time being, the Giovanni side with no one, but our sympathies lie with the Camarilla. And also keep in mind that we offer our sympathies by choice."

With that, Isabel turned and walked away. The Tremere justicar thought on the meaning of her words. Perhaps he still had much to learn, after all.

( Amid these tales, Isabel simply smiles and goes about her business. )

I thought it time to use the small amount of canon given for Isabel in a prompt answer. The text in the blockquotes is from Clan Novel: Giovanni.

"No, I don't need an ambulance. But perhaps you can tell me where I am." Roberto rehearsed the line again striving for the correct tone of innocence and apology. Perhaps, he thought, if he emphasised that it would not be himself that would be in need of the ambulance he would nail it the next time he tried out the phrase. Leave it to one of the Milliners to ruin his day. "No, I don't need an ambulance," he took a large, healthy bite of Nona's lasagne and waved the empty fork in the air, "but perhaps you can tell me where I am." So that I may keep my promise to Nona to drop Stewart off a pier and blunt the edge of Donna Isabel's anger, he thought with a resigned sigh. Not quite the right sound, but the taste of the fresh coffee washed the worry away. He still had the better part of an hour to practise getting a suitable tone of chagrin into his voice. Who knew, by the time he sorted Primo out and gave Kay a piece of his mind, he'd have the phrase perfect sounding for when he went to track Stewart down. Breaking off another piece of the bread, he mopped up the last of the sauce on his plate before settling back into his seat to watch the ground and clouds as they passed by.

~*~

The private plane was back in the air, albeit with two extra passengers. Roberto's eyes were hard as he looked at them both. Signorina Kay was fidgiting, her eyes downcast while she slumped in her seat. She briefly looked up and back down again when she met Roberto's eyes. "I'm sorry, signorina, I didn't quite catch that," he replied to the mumbled excuse the girl had given him.

"I said that it seemed like a good idea at the time," she repeated a bit more clearly. "Stewart thought that if Aunt Isabel was so worried about her cousin that it might be a good idea if he went ahead and did a quick recon." Her cheeks coloured when she realised how childish those words sounded now.

Roberto didn't answer with words. He carefully cut another piece of the fruit that Nona had packed in the basket and popped it into his mouth. The silence hung heavily while he chewed. His gaze fell onto Primo. "This seemed a good plan to you?" He watched as the gangly youth shook his head in denial. "So you kept silent. If your great-great-grandfather were here he'd box your ears as quick as look at you."

A rebellious flash brightened Primo's eyes momentarily before he quelled under Roberto's look. "I think we all know who to thank that he isn't here," he grumbled.

"Shut up," Kay elbowed Primo in the ribs. "You can't prove that Aunt Isabel had him staked and left for the sun's rays."

"With your aunt's temper, I don't need proof."

"Shut up, both of you," Roberto nipped the argument in the bud. "You're both overgrown spoiled children. I will hold your hands if you force me to." The glowers he got from them was almost entertaining. "We're going to listen to your aunt's orders and wait for her in Florence. If you give me trouble," he pulled out his mobile and flipped it open, "you can explain yourselves to Donna Isabel right now."

"But what about Stewart?" Kay's face looked stricken.

"There's a phrase that comes to mind, signorina," Roberto was unmoved by the girl's expression. "He's made his bed and now must sleep in it."

Does your muse intimidate you, imitate you, irritate you or illustrate you?

With Isabel, it's certainly a combination of factors when I'm writing her, or not. There are times when she does intimidate me, and probably other muses. Her self-control is admirable and she's able to keep a cool head in situations where I'd be blowing my top or high-tailing it out of there. She can also be quite a snotty, snobby, arrogant, etc. voice and that can be off-putting at times, but also amusing; especially when put into very modern situations which she's not used to. Thankfully, unlike the rest of the elders mouldering away in the Mausoleum, Isabel does move more in the world and is [more or less] aware of many modern trends.

There are times, too, when she irritates me. Generally when I want to focus on different things or work more on my own original ideas. She is a very selfish muse and quite content to dictate what goes on in my spare creative time. I am quite content to ignore her when necessary. We do share some interests, and again, I think that many writers do have a few common bonds with their characters/muses else they wouldn't write them. There's always a spark that ingnites our imagination in the first place. The fun and joy is in nurturing it and seeing how the flame continues to burn in our minds. At least it's that way for me; your mileage may vary, and that's okay, too.

Ignoring the debris of Don Ambrogino's rampage, Roberto headed down to his makeshift office. He had a few more choice phrases regarding Ambrogino's parentage seeing the books on the floor and files strewn about. Thankfully his notebook was intact and he carefully packed it into a travel case. "I want one of the planes held for me. Tentative flight plans filed for," he thought for a moment about the cities Donna Isabel had told the three children to visit, "Milan, Pisa, and Florence. Subject to change, of course."

Hanging up the phone, he headed to the kitchens to see if all was well. If he were honest, he added with a grin, he'd also admit to wanting to get a basket filled with decent food and a thermos of real coffee. Aeroplane food was aeroplane, even on the family jets.

I hate to do this so soon on the heels of my holiday [which I'm still getting caught up for] but patience is asked for if you RP and otherwise interact with Isabel. I had a slight accident on Saturday and am very sore at the moment. Priority will be given to continuing SL's with George, Ambrogino, and Cesare, as well as to prompt comms that have an activity minimum requirement, for this week at least, and possibly into next week.

Sera~

When I reached my thirteenth birthday, my mother and my grandmother took upon themselves, as their mothers and grandmothers before them back into time immemorial, to begin my education into the deeper mysteries of the Streghe. Near to our villa is a Roman temple dedicated to Venus. We did not take the old, abandoned Roman way to the temple, rather an old witch's path that hugged too close to the mountain in some areas and veered uncomfortably close to the cliff edge in other areas.

The first thing that I remember thinking whilst on that trek was that the idea this path had been laid down by witches was nothing but foolishness. A witch would have made a better road. My mother and grandmother must have sensed my thoughts, for no sooner than the thought moved through my mind, they both broke out into amused laughter. At a nod from my grandmother, my mother pulled out her silver bodkin and pricked my finger, squeezing until a fat red drop of blood was quivering upon my finger tip. With infinite slowness, or so it seemed in that liminal time, she turned my hand over and the crimson drop fell to the path. The moment the red drop touched the baked earth of the path, a burst of golden light washed over my eyes. I blinked, and like Saul, the scales fell from my eyes. Stretching before me was a golden brown path, broad and more direct than its ordinary world counterpoint led to believe.

That's when I knew that witches had, indeed, made this road.

I can understand that some would not believe it of me, but I have always enjoyed happy endings. That is, happy endings in my personal dealings. Do not disappoint me by expecting me to discuss how and why I would buy full stock into the sugar-coated world of 'happily ever after' for all. If it is not a happy, or even satisfying conclusion, for the benefit of me or those I hold dear, then I have little interest in it. Nor am not likely to develop such interests no matter how many more centuries I exist.

There have been quite a few of them over the centuries, yet two remain the most vivid and fond for me. The first was when I poisoned my sister-in-law. Dear god her death was gloriously painful, or so it looked. If only video recording devices had existed I could enjoy the echoes of warmth the memories of the night engender in my heart. The second happy ending, I am fortunate enough to have captured on DVD, as I was unable to personally witness the culmination of my triumph over Accorri. How thoughtful it was for my ghouls to record with the sun at their backs so that I could view my hated cousin burning away to ash in the comfort of my own home.

Ah... such happy, happy endings. I think that I'll go re-view Accorri's Final Death now and savour my triumph.

Isabel's scribe is once more dragging her away to the shore for holiday. Once settled in, the scribe hopes to tag back, post, etc. in the evenings. This is 100% dependent upon the WiFi networks, but we're going to continue to be optimistic.

Thank you,
( mirror_queen )

Your mother and these hounds of hers, Giulia tutted to her great-grandson. Move! Her voice was sharp as she pushed past the three-headed spectral dog set to protect the shadow of Isabel's haven.

They do serve their purpose, bisnonna. Marcus followed his great-grandmother onto the grounds of the estate. Can't we move into the Skinlands? It's more colourful there.

Giulia laughed. Tired of grey and green? Green and blue to your liking better? It is to mine as well, but I would prefer to stay here and ensure that we will not be spied on.

As you prefer. He gave the ghostly equivalent of a sigh and continued walking. Or to see who will try to spy upon us, Marcus indicated a shadowy figure following them, trying to get into the bounds of the garden where they were walking. An angry baying sounded and the three-headed hound surged past them toward the unauthorised spirit.

Burke, Giulia spoke flatly. He's always eager to do Ambrogino's bidding when it involves the suffering of others. Your father in this case.

Marcus frowned. Can I shove him into the hounds way?

Another laugh greeted his question. After we speak. She led the way into the villa where Burke wouldn't be able follow their conversation if he managed to distract the hell hound. She didn't think it possible, but better safe than sorry. Ambrogino wanted the vile toad to chase after your father. God alone knows why and I'd hate to see something that petty goad Antonio into losing any chance of regaining himself. You haven't seen him of late, have you?

No. The others have been talking, though. I'll watch for him on the pathways through and around the Tempest if you will have others watch the Necropoli. Marcus answered seriously.

Turning into a Ferryman, are you Marcus? That's a surprising turn. Giulia looked at him in a new light.

Marcus shrugged. My travels serve me well and taught me much. If we can find my father, there is a place I know where he can rest and regain his balance. There are also a few places that you might enjoy, bisnonna. They touch onto the Elysian Fields... from there, who knows.

Giulia took his arm and moved into the Skinlands with him. I'll look forward to wandering with you after we've settled these matters. Your mother needs to know that Ambrogino is looking for something, though I suspect that she already knows this. Watch them as best you can when you can.

Them. Si. I had heard something like that from the others. It explains how a bone bag like Ambrogino could goad him into rashness. Will you tell her? He wasn't sure how his presence would be taken by his mother.

I cannot reach her. I know how to reach her, but the way is blocked. You, my fond traveller beneath the worlds, might be able to do what I cannot. Giulia looked at Marcus with open candour in her eyes.

He laughed softly and shook his head. Alright. How do I get there?

The loggia. There's a door they went through. Come, I'll show you. She smiled when the sounds of renewed furious bays sounded outside. We'll also be free from prying eyes.

In a few flashes of thought, the two Giovanni ghosts were back in Venice. Giulia led Marcus into the vault and to the shimmering outline of a door that they could see but not quite reach. There. They went through that door.

Marcus looked at his great-grandmother. When did that get there? He watched as she shrugged and tried to reach it. Odd, he thought. Moving into the Shadowlands, the door lost even more definition but he could move a bit closer to it. Wish me luck.

Stretching out his hand, Marcus opened the door. It looked like the Tempest within, he could make out swirls of colour and misty images, but couldn't move forward much more. He moved back into the Skinlands and looked at Giulia. The world paths touch, but it's not perfect. Looking through from this realm, he could see things more clearly but still felt as if he was wading against the tides of the world.

Mother? he called into the open door. Mother? Can you hear me?

Life was often compared to a pageant. A rich and vibrant tapestry that celebrated each pass of the weaver's shuttle as it passed through the loom of life, adding to or detracting from the warp of the loom that the Fates gave to each man or woman. Therefore, it was a small stretch that such pageantry was accorded to those who joined the ranks of the deceased. Or not, in certain cases. Paupers and the nameless masses were accorded little more than contempt and a kick of foot to roll them out of the way of passers-by. Sadly, Isabel thought with more than her fair share of rebellion, such was not the case with her detested sister-in-law. Why her family was making such an issue of her murder and burial; and please it God that when she was finally in the ground she would stayed unmourned and forgotten, was beyond her ken.

Even worse were the restrictions that she was expected to observe as a sign of her grief. Her face clouded as she looked into her crystallo looking glass. She hadn't an ounce of grief to spare for Sylvana, the cow. Isabel cocked her head at her reflected visage. She truly did not need vermilion to red her cheeks, nature had gifted her with the blush of pink roses on creamy skin; nor did she need it to redden her lips when a wash of berry juice served to highlight the natural redness of her lips. In that she was yards ahead of the unlamented Sylvana, whose body was even now little more than glorified worm food. It would be, she thought with a questionable flash of piety, a sin to desecrate what God had given her, so Isabel shunned the ashes she was expected to darken her visage with whilst the family mourned. It was bad enough the she was expected to forego slashed sleeves and bright colours, to eschew laughter and singing, and to limit her enjoyment of sweetly honeyed fruits and spiced wines.

"Straighten your head, chick," her woman scolded gently and set Isabel's head upright whilst she continued to weave a black silk ribbon through her hair. It didn't look the same with out the bright red coral beads or pearls, and Isabel tapped her foot in annoyance. The maid clucked in amusement before pausing and leaning down, "There, lamb, it will be hidden by the veil, so have some patience."

Isabel nodded. She would be wearing one of her grandmother's veils. It was still perfumed with herbs and the lingering scent of orris root, comforting smells of her childhood. Wrapped in this silk lace, it would be tolerable to try and express the expected level of grief at the family's loss. Isabel tapped her foot in impatience as the rest of her hair was piled onto her head and sewn into place with the ribbon.

"No!" she finally put her foot down when her woman held out a pair of coarse black stockings for her to wear. "No, and three times no! I will not!" It was one thing to wear a drab black overdress bereft of any gilt threads to relieve the plainness and to suffer unadorned sleeves without even a black pearl to relieve the starkness, but she would not capitulate to this. "I will have my red stockings and blue garter, or I will wear none."

"What would your mother say?" the maid clucked. "Be reasonable, my chick."

"No," Francesca said from the doorway. "Let her wear her colours. I will not have my daughter be a liar." Isabel's mother moved into the room and closed the door. "No one of us misses Sylvana and we only go through this farce to keep the peace with the Ianzito family. Here, Isabel," she held out a small phial for her daughter, "it is violet water. Perfume yourself with this."

"Yes, mother. Thank you," she answered as her woman rolled the first red stocking up over her calf and secured it with a blue garter.

"Mm," her mother answered. Francesca licked her thumb and pressed it into the ashes. Rubbing her thumbs together, she took the liberty of lightly brushing under Isabel's eyes to give her the false appearance of dark circles. "There, that is acceptable. As is this, daughter mine," Francesca pulled out a braided rope of black pearls to secure about Isabel's neck. "It is not improper to appear to mourn even as we are celebrating. We go to church in the span of a glass. Be ready," Francesca gave Isabel a kiss on the cheek.

"I will be," she answered. One hour, she thought to herself. One hour to prepare to mourn a woman she hated, or at least prepare herself not to celebrate as the mass was sung for Sylvana's soul. That was time enough. Or, at least, she hoped it would be.

The scribe is back from pitting her somewhat lacking wits against the elements. I am not sure which one won, as she is sun and wind burnt, but the smug bubbling of smugness at zipping about in the Laser on the river seems to indicate that she, at least, thinks she won.

I am allowing her the time to slap more aloe on her face and then will be tagging back.

Balmy. Isabel was beginning to detest the word, used universally to describe the nights of the city surrounding her by the insipid and artificial television 'personalities' that smiled and read off idiotic snippets of 'news' from teleprompters each night. Illusions all of it, and delusions, as well. "I am surrounded by delusions and fools content to feed their illusions," she snapped at the ghouls. "Turn that thing off and go see if the rumours of a cabaret are true." Isabel didn't wait for her ears to confirm that her orders were being obeyed and went out onto the balcony, into the balmy night air.

Miasmal, more like, she thought whilst leaning on the balcony rail. At least for those poor wretches not elevated above the smog of the streets, the heat radiating up from the tarmac that criss-crossed the city like cancerous veins, or the hot winds that blew in from the burning scrub land surrounding the city. Her eyes were drawn toward the resort areas, the enclaves of multi-million dollar house. Even if she couldn't see them through the steel-and-glass skyscrapers of the district, rising up like pleading fingers of a dying man to a cold and unanswering God, Isabel could imagine that they sat fat and content in their climate controlled homes listening to the sounds of nature piped in on their Bose sound systems, fooling themselves that they were exotic blossoms in a desert oasis. Cainites included.

Isabel sat and drew over the carved rosewood box that had been patiently awaiting her attentions. She pulled out a crisp light cream coloured sheet of parchment and her favourite fountain pen. It was the Aura by Ferarri da Varese, for those who cared about such things, although she was sure that amongst the plastic population, such a detail would be lost. With a sigh, she began to write.

( Letter home. )

Venice, Italy, 1847

They had been back from Cairo for a few weeks. It was a trip that Isabel was glad to put out of her mind as quickly as she could, for the Ghiberti were being ass stubborn [as usual] and she'd cracked more than a few skulls open to find the one who had been trying to traffic with the Setites. In the end, however, she did and sent the traitor to the Prince of Cairo to punish as he saw fit. She frowned in annoyance. It was a grand gesture do have done that, but she knew that she'd still owe Muktar Bey a favour that he could call in any night.

She hated the fact that he could hold this over her. That he could, should he choose, let slip to all of Cairo how the Giovanni needed his help to deal with their own. Oh, he'd been clever in how he had alerted her. The snake charmer and his cobra were very discreet, up until the point where the snake had bitten her. The flurry of distress and concern was very convincing to the gathered ghouls, although she did wish that he hadn't over done the spices in his evening's poor supper the moment his pungent breath invaded her nostrils. A whispered name and location were given to her ears alone, and the assurance that the Caitiff prince's men would fully back her up when she went to confront the treacherous ghoul.

Isabel looked at the message in the small velvet clad box. It was at once a reminder that she acknowledged his right of calling in a favour and a warning that the Giovanni were as treacherous as the asp enclosed. "Fitting, really, for a prince of Egypt," she remarked to the one chosen to deliver her message, "And woven from my most beloved servant's hair by my own fingers. I expect it to be presented back to me when any favours are called in. Make sure that you tell him that upon delivery."

The messenger nodded and tucked the small box into his coat to leave the lady to her evening thoughts.

( Victorian Hair Bracelet )