The Tulip-Cheeked, the Peach-Lipped, the Dust-Stained [Abadan/Public]

Darya opened the door to the abandoned car with a creak, holding a handkerchief to her mouth, just in case. The last one had smelled unpleasantly of smoke, and the soot still inside had sent her into a fit of coughing. In a pile of ashes, there were remains of what seemed to be books--their leafy remains were too charred to read. Then there was the car with the piano-that-didn't-sound-like-a-piano inside. The quarters clearly had belonged to a woman (she guessed the fortune-teller, whom she'd seen once or twice before, prior to her disappearance), so she took it for herself. The rugs were being laid down, at that very moment, as she explored the other unused cars.

Here, was another one that had been abandoned. But she'd been expecting it, this time; she was told it belonged to the last leader. And that soon, it would belong to the new one.

She didn't know who he would be, just that she wouldn't allow him to fail, like his predecessors. Her new family had put funds into this, at her bequest, and she would have been ashamed if it was all for naught. The money itself wasn't the issue--they had plenty of that--it was that they'd trusted her with it. She would not allow her own decisions to look bad because of someone else's lack of leadership ability.

Wondering vaguely about the competence of the next manager, she looked around at what remained of the old one. Dust hadn't even yet begun to settle on his things, and yet, they already had the disquieting look of having been left behind. Perhaps the fact that their owner had run off to the woods, never to be seen again, didn't help.

Maybe this place was cursed. She made a mental note to smoke out at least her own car with espand, later.

Drawing her coat more closely to her (at least this place wasn't quite as cold as England--there, she had to wear furs practically year-round), she inspected a sizable collection of wine. Selecting a bottle, she attempted to read the label, but it was all in French. Nevertheless, she could guess that it hadn't all been cheap. Had the previous owner brought this with him, or...?

Feeling slightly disgusted, she put it back. Alcohol was vile stuff, in her opinion--Shirazi had been fond of wine, too. He claimed the Persians had invented it, but she didn't think it was something to brag about.

Turning away (as much from her past as from the racks of dark bottles), she lead herself over to a nearby settee and allowed herself to sink into it tiredly. The all-too-familiar pins and needles feeling was beginning to aggravate her toes, and she wondered if she'd overdone it, that day. Before, she had a maid-like escort, to assist her when her condition flared up. But when she'd decided to stay in this country longer than planned, her escort went back to England, being unprepared to stay away from her family for who knew how many months. Consequently, Darya had to be all the more careful not to collapse or suddenly drop things, by mistake, or be caught unawares in a loud environment.

At the moment, her earplugs were in her handbag; she didn't anticipate needing them until later, when the guests started arriving and the music and sounds of performing began. If not for that, she would have loved the carnival in it's entirety.

The freaks and the brothel both frightened her equally, but everything else...the exotic animals, the breathtaking acts, and the subtle hints of something transcendental. To a girl that had spent most of her life around donkeys, doing hard labor, and going to bed each night more and more in pain than the day before, it seemed to suggest that magic and delight beyond reality truly did exist. For all the education and refinement she'd gotten in her recent years, she was still not the worldliest person in the world, inside.

Waiting for the pain to pass (Wasn't she always?), she fingered, through her velvet purse, the outline of the little gold key she carried. The key to heaven. She smiled; it was such a cheap little thing. Something about that made her happy--and sad. 

Thinking to rest her eyes, she laid her head sideways against the corner of the couch, breathing evening out.

It had been a terrible loss, the disappearance of his cousin. It'd been told no one had found him yet-- but Amador realized that most likely no one was looking. "In any case," He told the porters as he brushed the dust off his jacket, disturbed by the climate (it was better than staying in Spain, at any rate.). "I think I'll run this place with better integrity." He was a better catholic, after all. But... That's where their differences stopped.

Amador might as well have been a carbon copy with a different accent. He was raised in a rich household and placed in a seat of power before he could even hoist himself to sit on it alone. But then of course... Spain went out of control (that is to say-- under the control of someone else) and he had to leave for this wasteland. At least he would still be in charge of something.

Finally he found his car, thinking it wasn't the right one the first few go-arounds because it was open a crack, he opened the door all the way... And found himself in a goldilocks scene. Stepping back out to the porters, it was confirmed that she was neither a maid nor prostitute, nor both.

Quietly (so that she wouldn't wake up and think someone was in her car, but he would wake her up to tell her she was in *his* car) he stepped in, making sure the floor wouldn't creak so much when he walked. Leaning down, he tapped her shoulder impatiently. "Señora Goldilocks," He muttered. "I think you fell asleep in the wrong bed."

She'd been dreaming just vaguely, of a field of rubble, and a horrible ringing in her ears. Right when a strange feeling of disbelief was overcoming her, she was shaken awake and brought back dizzily to the land of the living.

Eyelashes fluttering as she came to, it took a moment to recall where she was. And a moment longer to register who was addressing her.

He said something strange at first, but the rest of it, she understood. A corner of her lips tugged upwards as she stretched her wrists and fingers, gloves muffling the tinkling of her bangles. "Yes, I have, haven't I? You'll have to excuse me: I've been waiting so long, I was beginning to wonder if no one would ever come."

As if he'd somehow inconvenienced her. Typical Persian behavior, to come to a new place with the attitude that everyone there owed you something. Of course, in this case, they did owe her something.

Offering her hand, thumb-down, knuckles-up, she introduced herself, "Darya D'Arcy." She doubted he'd heard of her specifically, but the oil-tycoon surname was well-known enough. "My family helps quite a lot with the funding for this place... I assume you're our new manager?" She smiled sweetly, but with a serious warning: Don't you dare disappoint me.

He leaned down (contrary to his cousin's method of raising a woman's hand to meet him-- that wasn't much of a Casanova move, to Amador) and almost touched his lips to her glove before straightening up. "Ah, but does a king wait for his subjects or is it the other way around?"

With another (slightly condescending) grin, he straightened his suit and informed her, "I've heard the name but forgive me-- I don't usually listen to the affairs of the English." He loathed them. For not entirely reasonable reasons. "But... You don't look exactly English."

As if he had forgot (really he was making sure it stuck) he added, gesturing to himself, "Amador Fernándo Cesar Gualtiero de Castillo. And it seems I have alot to explore... So if you're rested enough..." Why would someone just sleep, wherever they wanted?