The Home of Violetta Ballington, King's Court
Niccolette is abruptly aware of the buzz of the glass and a half of white wine she drank, and the champagne at Violetta’s before that, and she cannot quite recall whether she has eaten anything today.
Anatole speaks.
Niccolette looks up at him, and raises both eyebrows. She smiles. “They make a variety of Nassalans, Terenadettos and Rossiolos,” Niccolette says casually. She tilts the bottle a little more, so it catches the light from the carriage lamp. “This is a Rossiolo, from the look and the year,” Niccolette settles the bottle back into her lap, lifting her eyebrows. “Rather a rare vintage; 2709 was a difficult year for grapes.”
“Rossiolo,” Violetta says, thoughtfully. “Rather Bastian, isn’t it?” She smiles at Niccolette.
Niccolette smiles back. “Quite,” she says, crisply. “Scarcely found outside of Tessalon,” she shrugs. “Very dark, almost purple.” She settles the bottle in Violetta’s hands without the slightest hesitation. “Something of a bold flavor, fruity and spicy both,” Niccolette grins, faintly, “when made properly.” She is sitting easily, now, comfortably; her hands are loose in her lap, and her ankles crossed still. The little smile lingers on her lips when she stops speaking.
“Lovely,” Violetta says. She is not looking at the bottle; there is no need for it, between them. Niccolette smiles at her, and takes the bottle back when they are done with the pretense.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the Villamarzana winery before,” Terrence says, a little curiously, looking up from the corner.
Niccolette looks up at him; he is very still. Her smile widens, a tiny fraction, and his shoulders soften. “No,” she says, casually. “Anatole is blessed of Hurte tonight. The bottles are not sold anywhere; this wine is quite literally priceless.” The smile on her face curls a little wider.
They wind up; at first, they are busy streets all around, and there are shouts of laughter and other noises which creep through the windows and walls. King’s Court rises swiftly up from the Harbor, and descends long before Lossey is ever reached. Here the streets are smaller, narrower, quieter.
They come to a stop beneath a pool of blue phosphor light. Niccolette climbs out first, bottle in hand; she does not offer any assistance to Anatole or Norton, but politely looks away. Terrence scrambles out after them, a little ungainly, but has both hands ready as Violetta descends, smiling, and if there is a quiet grunt from him as her weight comes down, they all pretend not to have heard it.
Violetta’s home is at the edge of a cul-de-sac, very nearly at the top of the hill of King’s Court. Wrought iron gates meet a metal fence built up with ivy; it twines all through them, blowing in the breeze. The small garden behind before the door is pared back, but leaves crunch softly underfoot, and here and there they are still scattered beneath the trees. One path, and another, wind off from the main path, but the five of them head for the door.
It is colder, here, further up from the water; Ophus bites down hard, and the wind chill is more bitter than it was on the docks.
The front door opens to greet them, and a human in a neat suit hurries out. He bows, deeply. “Welcome home, madam,” he says. “Mrs. Ibutatu,” he bows next to Niccolette, “Mr. Collingwood, Mr. Farthington,” a bow, and a bow, “and sir,” he bows last to Anatole. “Please, madam, let me,” he offers Violetta his arm; with a last pat of Terrence’s, she takes it. His whole frame is bent, carefully, sideways.
“Thank you, Baker,” Violetta says with a long sigh. He helps her up the stairs at the front of the house, past the broad white porch.
They go inside, where it is glowing warm; there is a stand for coats, and a smiling maid with neat dark hair who takes each of them. “Good evening, Rue,” Violetta greets her with a smile. “Madam,” Rue says, back, with a bright smile. Baker leads Violetta down the thick cream-colored carpet to a small sitting room just off the hall, and she settles herself down into a hard-backed chair with supplanted with cushions with a soft sigh.
The room is beautifully apportioned; there is a fire crackling in the hearth already, and a rich oak table with decanters set out. There are bookshelves, one or two, a little out of place with the rest of the décor, but somehow fitted in all the same. The rug is a rich bright thing, Mugrobi, a pop of vivid purple color which spills across the floor. There are more than enough chairs for the five of them.
“Shall I decant it, madam?” Baker asks, politely.
“Yes,” Niccolette says, idly; she hands him the bottle. He takes it, and carries it to the table; priceless or not, he takes the cork out expertly, and pours the wine a wide, flat-bottomed decanter; it is as dark as Niccolette said, nearly purple in the glow of the fire and the lamps.
Niccolette crosses to Violetta, and crouches next to the edge of her chair. She raises her eyebrows.
“No, dear,” Violetta says, lightly. “I am, I’m afraid, simply old.”
Niccolette takes her hand and kisses it, and lingers, just a moment.