2 April, 1895 — Someone's In-Home Studio, London

Since January Don Juan had been largely avoiding these sorts of parties, though he'd been a regular on this scene before. Everyone lounging around the downstairs floor of the London townhouse was ostensibly here for the sake of art, but in reality Don Juan's motivation before had usually been his drug habit. It was the right sort of place to find a new substance if you had run out, or to find a partner if you had something to share. He was sober now, and dreading the conversation that might come up if someone asked if he wanted something stronger than liquor and he had to come up with an explanation for why he didn't. It was safer to make an excuse not to go at all. No one raised an eyebrow at that; he had been an unreliable guest for years by now. But tonight he had bigger things to run from: his mother had made it her latest mission to set up a bedroom for Kaatjie, in case this preemptive care served as a mark in their favor when they went to court, which was beginning to seem inevitable. This would have been fine if she hadn't wanted him to consult on the project (surely you know something about the girl, Don Juan?) Being stuck in a confined space with his mother while he thought about and talked about Kaatjie for a prolonged period was a nightmare scenario. He had made it his mission not to be found at the Dempsey house for the next three days, assuming that by then she would have grown impatient and completed the project without him. Dean's house was a solid refuge, but he couldn't stay there three days straight; eventually Hudson needed his housekeeper to come through the place. So he'd been in need of a place to kill time, and this was as likely a venue as any other.

The gathering was one part celebration for the host's latest gallery showing, one part workshop — subtly fueled, at least in some cases, by the kinds of substances Don Juan was hoping to avoid. He had spent half an hour loitering in the kitchen and making a performance of mixing himself a cocktail, allowing himself to be liberally distracted by conversation along the way; he suspected that while he was actively involved with drinking no one would proposition him with anything else. When he had exhausted this avenue, he drifted towards the studio space and tried to pick out an artist least likely to be high, or interested in getting high.

"Miss Crawley," he said in greeting as he dropped into an armchair near her. She was sitting on a stool, presumably so her posture would be better while she worked; Don Juan seldom had patience for any task that required good posture. He draped himself over the arm of the chair and fussed with the skewer at the top of his drink, on which a cherry and a grape had been impaled. "Let's see it, then. You've gone and gotten exotically educated, isn't that right? So my expectations are high."

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Irene Crawley

  

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MJ made this <3

It was the kind of environment that Irene thrived in. She hadn’t thought to attend many of these parties for the longest time, always finding one excuse or another to give her co-workers. But then Italy had changed everything. Her introduction had been what some might have called a baptism of fire, one that she surprisingly made through completely sober. It was Matteo who made sure of that, and Irene had been extremely grateful.

Tonight however, Irene was flying solo — well, the others were off in their preferred rooms at least, and Irene felt content to keep to the studio and work on restoring a landscape piece for a client. It might have been an odd thing to bring a landscape painting of all things to a bacchanal, but the witch found the juxtaposition to be an interesting experience: having to work on a peaceful, serene landscape whilst every form of potential chaos served as a soundtrack to her work.

Sometimes people would stop by to observe her work; some would demand a quick sketch or portrait done, which she was always happy to oblige because there was no shortage of inspiration to be found in places like these. One such source happened to appear in the armchair next to her nursing a delicious looking cocktail. She huffed out a laugh. “Mr. Dempsey, I’ve told you to call me Irene in these kinds of settings,” She admonished in an amused sort of tone. “If any such place is an excuse to be overly casual it’s this one, don’t you think?”

As for his demands, she put down her brush and shifted in her seat to grab her sketches. “If I’d known you’d be so demanding I’d have put them all on display where you can see them easily.”

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