What not to do with a Bird of Desire...
You accept the Trump contact from Emma.
To the image of Emma, Jaymesin is somewhere dark, very dark, with just enough light to give his eyes a glint. "Hello?"
The image of Emma is somewhere less dark - her kitchen. Her expression is somewhere between amused and puzzled, and she says, "I got a note." Indeed, her free hand holds a piece of paper.
To the image of Emma, Jaymesin's tone turns wary. "Evening, Emma. I - um - which one? Because it wasn't the one that was supposed to go to you."
The image of Emma allows a corner of her mouth to lift into a smile. "I wondered if that was the case, or if you were trying a coy way of asking me out to dinner, Thursday next."
To the image of Emma, Jaymesin coughs. "Ah - no. I was going to ask you out to dinner Thursday next, but only when I had confirmation. I, um, sent you something else. Or tried to." By the tone of his voice, he's blushing. "It seems Prince Benedict got that one instead."
The image of Emma's expression is sympathetic, though mirth shines in her eyes. "Oh, dear. Just what did that note -say-?"
To the image of Emma, Jaymesin coughs again. "Ah - not so much what it said, as what it was wrapped around..."
The image of Emma presses her lips together for a moment. Finally, she manages, "And what was that?"
To the image of Emma, Jaymesin is turning bright pink, by the sound of it. "I managed to send my uncle some lacy black underwear, in your size," he replies, the words a little too fast to manage the nonchalance he's aiming for.
The image of Emma, by some great act of willpower, only manages to make a single, choked little noise instead of bursting into laughter. She clears her throat, and offers, "Would you like me to collect it and offer apologies?"
To the image of Emma, Jaymesin coughs. "Nono, he sent it back," he replies. "That's how I knew the note you'd got wasn't yours..."
The image of Emma lifts a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking with her effort not to laugh outright, at that.
To the image of Emma, Jaymesin sounds glum for a few moments, but there's suddenly amusement lurking beneath his own voice. "Could have been worse," he says thoughtfully. "Could have gone to Father. But I should go, before we start laughing out loud and I blow my cover. See you when I see you, lover?"
The image of Emma lifts her hand, and wipes at the corner of one eye. "Indeed," she replies. "Would you like me to see about that reservation, in the meanwhile?"
To the image of Emma, Jaymesin's smile is audible. "If you could, I'd be obliged," he replies. "And thank you for trying not to laugh in my face."
The image of Emma points out, "You realize I'm not laughing at you - I'm laughing at what I think Benedict's expression must've looked like. And of course; I'm glad to - where?"
To the image of Emma, Jaymesin's smile is, again, audible. "I've been trying not to think about his expression," he says. "I quite like my spleen, whatever it is. You know that little Jadean place just off West Vine, in the courtyard above Lamplighter's and not far from the Craven Heifer?"
The image of Emma hesitates a moment, her brow furrowing. "Yes, I think I do. There? Thursday? You'll bring the lingerie?" She lets a hint of teasing into her alto.
To the image of Emma, Jaymesin sounds more confident. "There, Thursday," he agrees. "And yes - it seems safer than trying to send a feathery courier, for the moment at least." The glint of eyes moves suggesting the turning of his head, the connection weakening as it does. "Gotta go, luv. Somethin's movin'."
The image of Emma flashes him a brief, warm smile, even through the weakening connection. "Don't get yourself killed too often between now and then - love you." That said, she lets the connection fade.
To the image of Emma, Jaymesin grins, the briefest flash of teeth, and then he's on the move, his concentration going elsewhere.