Penny Dreadful AU

[capturingeternity]

[It's late in the afternoon, and the grey skies above London have opened with a wintery mix of sleet and snow. It isn't a very fine day to be out and about, but those whose lives revolve around Spitalfields and its many small shops and trades have no choice but to bare the change in weather. At least those fortunate enough to work indoors are spared from the brunt of it.

Located near the East End, the area is a far cry from the artsy, exclusive district of Notting Hill, dotted with slums and cheap pubs as well as several brothels. However, it's also a crossroads of considerable trades — weavers, carpenters and furniture makers, jewellers and bookbinders. And one small shop tucked on a corner street that specializes in the brokerage of paintings.

Dorian's known the owner for a few years now. One complication to being immortal means that one has to be careful about where they do business on a regular basis. Three to five years is no problem, but frequent a place for too long and people begin to notice that while the fine lines appear and deepen on their own features, that one regular customer of yours has never seemed to change from the first day they stepped foot inside of your establishment. And with London being as big as it is, well, Dorian can give up one shop for the next. But he does have a particular fondness for this one, as he's found a few more interesting portraits sitting amongst the dozens of canvases inside.

His Hansom carriage pulls up aside the shop's front door the finely dressed man exits, raising an umbrella to shield his head as he crosses the few steps it takes him to reach the threshold. The shop's bell dings faintly as he enters, and he spends a few seconds shaking the umbrella off out the door before he closes and leans it against its frame. Glancing about, he finds himself alone (or seemingly so), though that isn't unusual. Mr. Walker is somewhat hard of hearing but he assumes he'll appear eventually, so in the meantime he simply meanders his way to one wall, checking for any new pieces that might be displayed, as well as the vertical stacks of canvases sat on the floor below.]

Comments

[magnitudes]

( Sarissa is blessed, in some regards. An employer who is well-meaning, and who is experiencing struggles enough with a sudden decline in his vision that it necessitates an assistant. Furthermore, the particular nature of his difficulties make some of her own less immediately apparent to him. Of course, she can keep much carefully covered, the fashions of the time make it possible; a high collar, buttoned, long sleeves. She has never felt especially comfortable in full skirts, but she could only push so far in terms of her requests, when she was already "interfering" with so much of Mr. Walker's business. A woman in trousers would be... unacceptable.

She seems him enter, of course. Watching as she does, from the shadows. Apparently it wasn't a desirable habit in someone meant to serve customers, but certain inclinations die hard. That he is beautiful is very apparent. It makes the necessity of speaking with him even worse, in all honesty. )

Good afternoon.

( Something in how she speaks isn't quite right for London. There's a lot of Englishness in it, but a broadness and roughness is just present enough to mark her as someone from elsewhere.

Stepping out more clearly into the room, she smooths the fabric of her dress. Dark green, reasonably well made, but a simple design. Incongruous with her present dress was, perhaps, the coarseness of her hands. Not delicate things, but ones accustomed to work for many years, even if that work had softened in months past; she is by no means a lady. The past was not always so quickly covered over. )

How can I help?

[capturingeternity]

[There's a moment of surprise in which Dorian doesn't jump, but he does stop what he's doing and blinks towards her, clearly not having expected to be greeted by... well, a young woman instead of the friendly old shopkeep he's used to. And even though he only spends a short pause gazing at her, details pop out at him that he's become skilled at noticing in another person. Once you've met thousands, maybe tens of thousands of people those small things can tell a story no lips ever could.

The dress doesn't strike him as unusual, and neither too do her hands, or at least not that he shows. But her accent is odd — he's used to all kinds from Scottish brogue to Gaelic to Welsh, especially the latter two in the East End. He can't place it as any of those though.

In the interest of not just gaping at her or staring for more than a second or two, however, he covers his surprise with a smile and a little exhale of breath that's almost a chuckle as he sets the canvas he'd been inspecting down where he'd found it.]

Forgive me, you weren't who I was expecting. [He excuses himself, then turns a bit more to face her and easily slides his hands into his coat pockets.]

I ah, was just browsing, mostly. I drop in from time to time to see if Mr Walker's procured anything new that I might be interested in. I collect paintings, you see.

[He cocks his head slightly to the side.] You're his new assistant, I suppose?

SORRY FOR THE SLOW

[magnitudes]

I do this and that.

( A flicker of a smile appears. ) Assistant'll do it, yeah. ( Wait. ) Sarissa Theron.

( Sometimes, maybe, she doesn't mind stirring the posh folk up. It's at odds with the caution she also feels like she needs to be entangled in, this desire to push buttons and be a little bit difficult. She wants to hide, but she also kinda wants to burst out into the centre of things. It's a duality she's not really comfortable with, can't map out right. )

We've had a delivery recently. Depending what kind of collection you're working on, we might have something.

( So there'll be something new. She moves forward, offering a slight smile, and rolling her shoulders as she reminds herself to fix up her posture as she goes to lead the gentleman to another room. Proper, ladylike. Not everything's unpacked and brought out yet, it seems. )