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Ianthe cannot take her eyes off the Ninth-House nun. It’s kismet that her assigned seat is nearby. Up until the seating arrangements, she could care less about the anniversary dinner of that mawkish Fifth House couple. She’s been busing herself with looking around the room, in an attempt to at least seem like she’s interested in anything other than the Lugubrious Lady in Black.
This did lead her to follow Harrowhark the Ninth’s eyeline to where she was watching Dulcinea the Seventh put some of the most blatant moves on the Ninth cav Ianthe has ever seen. The hand kiss was very bold, and in front of everyone who’d want to look, too. Ianthe didn’t realize that Dulcinea had that sort of thing in her. Maybe it’s one of those things where she’s desperate to have one last roll in the sack before she dies from whatever disease is ravaging her. It’s rare to not see Septimus coughing up phlegm-wads of blood.
Though, there are moments that she seems more alive than anyone in the room when she’s making unsubtle eyes at the Ninth cavalier. Dulcinea Septimus seems to be ready to jump Gideon the Ninth’s metaphorical and literal bones. Her constant lash-fluttering gazes remind Ianthe of a particularly desperate animal.
A few other people have seemed to notice the Seventh-Ninth budding romance. The pair from the Sixth have done an admirable job of maintaining a level front, but Ianthe has seen these little, fleeting flashes of hurt from the Sixth necromancer as his attempts of conversation toward Dulcinea Septimus seem to be completely ignored in favor of a good eyeful of Gideon the Ninth. Camilla the Sixth is even better at maintaining control of her plain face than her necromancer, but Ianthe sees the subtle, short waves of indignation on behalf of that anorak Sextus.
Ianthe would wonder if there was a history there, if she gave a damn. She really doesn’t. It’s more so the experience at picking up on subtleties that’ve gotten her this far in inferring the dynamic of this little group anyhow. Keeping a secret since birth has made her quite adept in picking up subtle cues. She should be able to tell when someone eyes her or Coronabeth with suspicion.
So far, it hasn’t happened yet. People look at shiny, beautiful Corona and are content to believe the lie. A necro who doesn’t blood-sweat, who’s proficient with a sword, and who is a picture of health and beauty. A wonderful, perfect little miracle who takes pity on the sister who looks like a version of her that was the result of an ink-jam in the genetic photocopier of life.
Ianthe is a little pale and rail-thin sure (not as drained of pigment as Octakiseron, mind you), but she is, perhaps, the greatest necromancer of her generation. The only one, so far, who has ever seemed to even begin to catch onto this, is the wet-cat nunlet who’s currently staring a hole into Dulcinea Septimus’ head, despite being sat next to her corpse-like cavalier. It does take nerve to eye Septimus like that when her behemoth cavalier is right next to her.
Ianthe bites her lip. She likes that. Little nervy nun. Ianthe wonders how she’d respond if Ianthe called her out. Maybe she’d get snippy. Ianthe doubts it, based on her current, terse way of barely talking. Yet, the possibility of banter with Harrowhark the Ninth excites her. She imagines calling Harrowhark out for the blatant insecurity of watching her cavalier be swayed by another. Then, maybe, just maybe, Harrowhark would bring up that she isn’t the only one with a secret.
I know who you are, Ianthe. You’re the powerful one, and yet here you sit, just part of a set.
Then, they’d have a fight, bones and fat and blood flying around, leaving the Fifth’s anniversary dinner an absolute wreck. Everyone would see her power. She’d see just what she was working with when it came to Harrowhark the Ninth, who must be quite strong if she sees Ianthe.
After their fight, maybe they’d make out for a bit, and Ianthe would see just what’s under those long robes. She imagines a nesting doll of dark, drab robes, each with its own little embellishment.
One would be bedazzled with black diamonds. Another would have fringe running down the sides.
They’d be nestled in-between seas of mostly-black and plain clothes that Ianthe would tear off like layers of fat, just to get to the skin and bones underneath. Ianthe imagines the aftermath of a fight, with that nun looking upon her with the appropriate amount of awe, of course, wrapped up in that angry, stoic little package of hers, before Ianthe devoured the awe from her face and her body with tongue and teeth.
The thought makes gooseflesh pimple on Ianthe’s arm.
It’s rare that Ianthe meets someone who recognizes her power. Very rare. By design, Corona is a glorious smokescreen. People want to believe in Corona, and look past the gaunt twin. Wouldn’t one rather have a small, clean-cut diamond rather than a lump of unrealized coal. Nevermind that the coal houses potential for a diamond five-times the size of the little, carved one on display.
Harrowhark Nonagesiumus, necromancer of the Ninth House and Priestess to All Things Drab, does seem partial to the color black. Makes sense she’d know to look at the lump of coal rather than the shiny, distracting diamond. Harrowhark knew power.
She knew Ianthe. From the moment they met, Harrowhark’s furtive, paranoid glances landed on Ianthe. Those dark, beady eyes looked her over with a knowingness that set Ianthe on fire.
What a fascinating, fascinating woman. Ianthe wants to eat her alive and savor the taste of her bones.
Too bad she seems preoccupied with her rocks-for-brains cavalier. Once again, something shiny and muscular can make fools out of the most respectable of people.
Out of the corner of her eye, Ianthe sees Harrowhark meet her gaze. Ianthe offers a brief wink, to which Harrowhark the Ninth does nothing.
Oh, Harry. I could just devour you, if you’d let me.
Harrowhark turns away, and Ianthe, to maintain some level of professionalism, turns back to her little configuration. It’s unfortunate, really, to be stuck with Babs and the Eighth House. Babs seems to have entertained himself with the Eighth’s cavalier, with his barely-concealed thirst for the sentient wall of muscle being contained by talk of sword anatomy.
Honestly. Is it the muscles? Is that what makes sensible people lose all rational thought? Corona, the Ninth cavalier, and now this Eighth cavalier (who ESPECIALLY, is unremarkable, Ianthe can’t think of anything remotely interesting about this man’s appearance or name or identity. He is a wall of breathing meat.). All they have to do is exist and people flock to them, losing all ability for reason in face of something big and strong.
Well, sort of. Babs and the word sensible aren’t friends. Babs would make eyes at a rock if it seemed to be showing interest in anything he had to say. (The Eighth cavalier might as well BE a rock, with the engagement he has in his conversation with Babs.)
Poor, desperate Babs. Always wants more than he’s wanted.
The Eight cavalier is clearly using years of religious repression to make sure none of the displeasure that's an inevitable symptom of a conversation with Babs shows on his face. He’s doing a really admirable job. Makes the pair from the Sixth look like loose cannons, honestly.
Babs catches Ianthe’s eye and raises a brow. He looks from her, to Harrowhark the Ninth, and back, with his lips catching in a knowing but almost-incredulous smirk.
Her, really?
There he goes, having absolutely no fucking taste. Being distracted by the nearest shiny thing. Ianthe naturally replies, raising her brow and looking to the utterly unmemorable slab of flesh next to Babs.
Him, really?
Bab’s face heats up, as it tends to do whenever his ill-thought out barbs are thrown right back in his chiseled face. Spending a lifetime with this man has led Ianthe to come to the conclusion that Babs is an idiot. He’s an idiot who knows how to wave a sword and keep a secret, but that’s all he is, really.
He doesn’t know what it is to be someone powerful, who’s destined for more. Babs isn’t much different than the soulless battery he’s chosen to cozy up to. Both of them are means to end, bodies to be commanded by the powerful.
That’s all they are, really. The Ninth cavalier, the Eight cavalier, Babs, even Corona.
Mostly Corona.
Sort of Corona.
Not really Corona.
It’s different, with Corona. There’s a twinge in Ianthe’s heart that tells her that putting Corona and Babs in the same sentence is an insult of the highest order.
It is one thing to know someone as your soldier, it is another to know someone before you are even born. Corona isn’t like the rest of them. She’s not powerful like Ianthe, but she isn’t just a peon.
She’s a third thing. Something Ianthe doesn’t want to dwell on. It’s something Ianthe needs to set aside, for her own sanity, and just let Corona be shiny and beautiful over in her corner of the room, with the people who want to believe it.
Ianthe would rather just sit here, thinking about Harrowhark the Ninth and how she is someone powerful. How Harrowhark knows, or at least suspects, her power.
She ignores the baleful look Babs shoots her, in favor of responding with a smile of her own.
Shut up, Babs. I don’t care about what you have to say.
Babs rolls his eyes, though there’s a degree of resignation there that Ianthe likes. He, too, knows her power.
Fine.
Babs leans back to resume talking to the dull Eighth cavalier, content to, for now, stay out of her way.
Now that Babs has been dealt with, she can get back to imagining Harrowhark in the throes of blood sweat, fighting Ianthe and her rings of flesh.
That delightful train of thought lasts until Magnus Quinn clinks a spoon against his glass and begins a toast.
Oh, well. There’d be more time later for Ianthe to get to know Harrowhark the Ninth, and slowly, consume her inch by inch.
After all, is that not what the powerful do to one another?
Harry, I can’t wait to know you better.