(Untitled)

[diamndcourtesan]

Satine wakes up gasping, her whole body convulsing with shivers. Several moments pass before she can reorient herself -- in her bedroom, tangled in the sheets of her own bed, alone. There is a dent on the pillow beside her, and a note. She grabs at it, smudging the pencil with sweaty palms. It's from Christian; he's returned to the garret to write

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[true_desire]

That thin breeze seems to have found somewhere from which to carry the faint fragrance of summer peaches and the more pronounced and pungent scent of tobacco burning.

She isn't alone anymore.

[diamndcourtesan]

The presence is impossible to ignore. Satine stiffens, running through a list of people who would possibly be in her private space at this hour. Not Christian, not Zidler, certainly not the Duke.

She turns toward the scent of smoke. "Hello?"

[true_desire]

"Good evening, Satine." The voice's source steps out of the shadows, face momentarily lit by the glow of a cigarette. He is neither her lover, nor her boss, nor the Duke -- but there's something perhaps faintly nagging and familiar about him.
He bows, catching her hand and sweeping it to his lips in a fever-warm hand. "Enchanté, mademoiselle."

[diamndcourtesan]

Satine sees so many faces every day and every night that all of them are faintly nagging. She knows enough not to draw the hand away, but the intrusion still leaves her flustered.

"Sir, I don't know how you got in here, but I think there's been a mistake. I'm not entertaining this evening."