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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Admonishing him to call her Irene, and yet she'd tacked on Mister; it was gratifying to see that he wasn't the only one with a hypocritical bent when it came to formality of address. She had a point about the venue, of course. No one at a party like this was going to clutch their pearls. This was the sort of affair where if you saw something scandalous, the only correct response was to pretend you hadn't, or risk losing your invitation to all future events. The company around them in the studio was still dressed in this case (or mostly, anyway; he hadn't taken a proper inventory), but that was far from a guarantee as the night went on and the liquor ran more freely.

"Go on, then," he said as he leaned in to see some of the sketches. "Why don't you display?" He asked the question more or less as banter, an easy compliment to volley, and before he'd had a chance to actually take in any of her art. As he gave it a more appraising glance, however, he noted that it was actually quite good. Had she always been this skilled, or was that the European training paying off? Don Juan had never engaged in any sort of formal art training of any kind; he could write passably well by virtue of his upbringing. Being surrounded by authors for so much of his life meant some of it was bound to soak in through his pores even without conscious effort. Could art be trained? Improved, perhaps, but probably not skill created from nothing, he decided. There would have to be at least a seed of talent to start with. Which was why for all the osmosis in the world, he would never actually be a great writer.

"This one," he said, tapping one of the sketches (and being careful to right his cocktail glass before the gesture unbalanced it enough to spill on another piece of parchment). "Was that an early piece or a late one? It doesn't look like the rest."

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MJ made this <3

His question wasn’t unfamiliar; in fact it was one Irene had asked herself on repeat multiple times in the past. Originally it was because she didn’t see herself as a true artist; perhaps because she was in the business of conservation, repairing that which was broken and already claimed by another artist. It had been her job to make her work invisible and indistinguishable from the artist whose work she was repairing. But then she’d started to experiment on her own, and given herself a voice; a distinct style.

It was Europe that changed everything, however. Perhaps it was the confidence she’d gained, the heartbreak that fueled her drive, or the encouragement she’d both given to her friends and received by them. Either way, there was a change to her strokes now: they were more decisive. She’d been able to find the pockets of her uncertainty in her previous movements and bend them to her will now. There was both discipline and freedom to Irene’s movements whereas before, she knew she had felt lost.

“I suppose it hadn’t occurred to me until your question just now,” She mused, taking each sketch and tossing them up into the air, bidding them to hover there peacefully while she sifted through them. “In a way my work has always been on display, but no one has ever been able to see it. It’s always a mirror to the artist whose work I’ve been repairing.” Her voice trailed off thoughtfully. “It’s always been my job to remain invisible.” This part she said quietly, as if it had just occurred to her now the meaning of it and how much she’d taken it to heart.

Now that the array of sketches were hovering in the air, she crossed her arms under her chest, nibbling at her bottom lip as she surveyed her work. Her gaze landed on the sketch that Dempsey had pointed out. She’d frankly forgotten about it until now. “I did that a few years ago.” She murmured. “When I witnessed Mr. Hunt’s death.” It was a raw sketch; all jagged lines, harsh strokes and dark pools of lead. She’d used an eraser to further bring out the contrast, the agony she’d witnessed, the horror she’d felt cling to her long after she’d left the park. It lay in stark contrast to the rest of the sketches, which featured a lot more flourishing, a lot more whimsy.

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Don Juan vaguely recalled the death of a young man named Hunt, not because he'd had any dealings with the fellow whatsoever but because of the sensational nature of the death. There had been other suspicious deaths at the time, but like so many whispered rumors nothing had ever come of it. Probably any connections that were implied by the rumors were only imagined in the end. Regardless, being present at something so violent must have been deeply affecting for her, as this sketch suggested.

"It's very striking," he commented, which was not to say it was good or enjoyable to look at. It seemed to be a piece not concerned with such labels; transcending them in its visceral emotion. It didn't fit the rest of her portfolio at all, and he didn't know whether it was the sort of piece that would ever be shown, but the fact remained that it was the first one his eye was drawn to. "Did you know him?"

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MJ made this <3

Staring at it just brought back buried memories; ones Irene had tried to forget. She would have banished it with a wave of her hand, but she caught the expression on his face as he looked at it. Irene had always liked people watching at the art galleries. Half the experience of creating art was validated by the emotion it conjured up in other people. She watched him with a small smile on her face as she read his expression.

She didn’t respond to his comment on her drawing. It was what it was; she’d never meant for it to see the light of day, much less receive any sort of commentary on it. It didn’t feel right to capitalize upon Mr. Hunt’s death even if she did consider it one of her better sketches.

“No,” She sighed, leaning back in her seat. “I just witnessed him carving himself to pieces.” She’d had insomnia after that for days. Unable to sleep or get a moments rest without seeing remnants of Mr. Hunt splattered all over the ground wherever she went.

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