all sorts of unnecessary flourishes

"Father wants me in Stormwind for Winter Veil," Tess says, her fingers gathered in Vanessa's hair. She gives it a gentle tug and Vanessa rears up from between her legs. Presumably she hadn't heard clearly with Tess' thighs pressed against her ears, or she hadn't been listening fully. Certainly her attention hadn't been divided.

"Huh?" Vanessa says, flush-faced and frowning, her expression growing surlier. Ah, there it is: Tess' beautiful thing for the day always happens to be Vanessa, no matter her mood. "Don't tell me you agreed. You already promised to spend it with me!"

"I didn't say that, did I?"

The window lies ajar despite the wintry night, fogged with moisture. A breeze slinks in and kisses the sweat on Tess' stomach. Beneath their small room, the Legerdemain is loud with merrymaking. It all sounds very civilised, but the evening is young.

Vanessa snorts and settles back down on her elbows. "You told me with my mouth busy. You're not half as subtle as you think, princess."

Tess laughs, breaking off into a soft harsh sound as Vanessa mouths at her inner thigh, kisses it, licks a warm soft trail upward.

"All right. I did say yes, but only because it wasn't worth the fight. You know how father is."

She manages to keep her voice steady as Vanessa's tongue laps over her and her long strong fingers slide inside. She is always exhilarating, but a little rougher when she's annoyed, her minimal pretenses at decorum tossed aside—and if Tess happens to benefit, that is nobody's business. As Vanessa thrusts her fingers, Tess braces her foot on the narrow mattress and grinds down onto them, her breath sharp in her throat.

"But I want you to come with me," she says, substantially less steadily, and groans when Vanessa stops doing that wonderful thing with her mouth to lift her head again. Her heart pounds hard in her chest. "Dance with me at the ball."

"Not funny and not fair." Vanessa pouts, her lips red and wet. "Want me strung up like a Winter Veil wreath? I thought you cared."

"It wasn't supposed to be a joke." She hauls Vanessa up over her, one lean thigh coming to rest at the juncture of Tess' legs. Vanessa wriggles to get herself comfortable and Tess feels herself slick and sliding against Vanessa's soft skin. It sends a throb of heat through her, and she rolls her hips, seeking friction, more delicious pressure.

"What then," Vanessa says, catching her lower lip between gleaming white teeth as Tess rolls a thumb over her nipple. She runs her hands over Tess' breasts in return, over the curve of her stomach, and rocks her leg slowly against her. "I can run rings around any of those SI:7 dolts, but Shaw will be there. He's more of a challenge."

"I know a way to distract him."

"Oh, do tell me what trick little miss wolf princess has up her sleeve. Shaw's a bastard, but he's not stupid."

"You'd be surprised—" Tess hisses as Vanessa picks up the pace, her thumb finding Tess' clit. "There's a fellow came back from Boralus with the fleet. Mouthy. Unruly. You can see Shaw's blood pressure rocket whenever he's around."

Vanessa lets out a low, warm laugh. "Ahah. Let me guess. Handsome?"

"If you like that kind of thing," Tess says with genteel disdain, and comes with a long soaring shudder when Vanessa grinds hard against her and tries her teeth in her neck.

"Mmm." Vanessa's fingertips brush against Tess as she pants, dipping inside so that she can feel her clench and release. "So, what's the plan?"

"I'd like to hear your thoughts," Tess says, the last of her orgasm ebbing away in lovely pulsing shivers. She catches Vanessa in a sumptuous kiss and murmurs into her mouth, "Why don't you sit on my face and talk me through some ideas? I'll let you know when you're onto something."

Due to past indiscretion, Lord and Lady Rushford should be seated a substantial distance from Lord Hadson, who in turn must be kept out of Lady Winifred's direct eyeline. Should she encounter Lord Raymond, that will also not make for a pretty scene. Ideally, he ought to be placed with Lord Favell and Lady Ryers on the east side of the ballroom. They, at least, seem to have reached an agreement that works for all of them.

The Kul Tiran houses are thankfully more well-behaved, and Shaw rearranges the table plan for the Winter Veil Feast with less interpersonal logic-puzzle issues forthwith. Truly, it would have been simpler if he'd been the one to set it out to begin with instead of leaving it to the caterers, but he only decided it was in his remit once he'd cast his eye over it and it became apparent the knives were going to come out in record time if it remained as it was.

He sets the last RSVP aside only for a messenger to bustle into his office, red-cheeked and dusted in snow, and with one more letter for him. Shaw tosses the messenger a couple of gold coins as he leaves, and slices the envelope open with a dagger from his belt.

The message is in Fairwind's ragged handwriting, or close enough. He must have been a few bottles in as it's uncertain in places, wobbly in others. Shaw sighs and shakes his head, battling through a string of niceties Fairwind must have cobbled together from an etiquette book for some Light-bedamned reason, and wonders why he didn't just barge in and offload his unfiltered thoughts like he usually does.

And then he hits the crux of the message.

Shaw slaps the letter face-down onto his desk. Well, if he can forgive Fairwind his liquid courage in this instance, he can be grateful for his unusual circumspection as well. He feels heat rise in his face and prickle across the back of his neck, and, in places he really doesn't have time to contend with, a low sweet rush of blood.

He picks the letter up again, thoroughly commits its contents to memory, and then throws it onto the fire.

"For me?" Flynn says, setting down his flagon.

The messenger smiles a sharp curved smile from beneath her hood and lays the tight-wound scroll into his palm. Flynn is not accustomed to being delivered letters by dark and beautiful strangers while loitering an evening away in his tavern of choice, but perhaps that's how they do it in Stormwind.

"Drink for your trouble?" Flynn offers with his best charming grin and a lift of his eyebrows. The messenger squares up her shoulders and sighs tolerantly.

"No," she says with so much barely-disguised scorn slathered over those two little letters that Flynn has no choice but to be impressed. By the time he's done laughing she's already gone.

The scroll is sealed with Alliance-blue wax, but there's no crest pressed into it. Flynn frowns, breaking the seal and unwinding the message. He skips to the end to see who it's from.

Regards, Master Mathias Shaw.

Flynn's frown deepens, and his eyes jump up the page, skimming it haphazardly, and—oh. Yes. Well, this certainly isn't official business. Regards, indeed. "Shaw, you saucy dog," Flynn murmurs to himself, a warmth blooming in his gut that has very little to do with the amount he's drunk. He can't stop grinning. "Didn't know you had it in you."

He carefully tucks the letter inside his coat and then buys a round for everyone in the bar.

It begins to snow some hours before the Winter Veil Ball, and Stormwind's nobles take full advantage of this. They arrive in dramatic fur-trimmed capes and gloves up to their elbows, and in truly absurd hats the likes of which would get them shot if they were to venture out wearing them during hunting season.

"Look at this gratuitous flaunting," Vanessa mutters, burying her fingers in the plush furs that are hung on the racks in the Keep's expansive cloak room. "All this to keep their tender buttocks warm. If I hawked just one of these it'd bring enough gold to feed a Westfall family for half a year."

Tess considers that she could have found a better place for Vanessa to lay low, but if anyone were to miss a coat tonight, they would only complain loudly for a little while and then likely forget about it by the time they arrived home.

"If not more," she agrees, and Vanessa makes disgusted noises until Tess kisses her on the cheek. "Lady Ryers is unlikely to end the night sober enough to remember she had a stole with her. Now—I have to go. I'm expected to be there when the guests are formally greeted."

Vanessa drops into a deep curtsy with all sorts of unnecessary flourishes, and suggests politely, "Spit on their shoes."

The ballroom is aswirl with glitter and streamers and sparkling jewels, and over the merry bright music of the band and the clink of wine glasses, the guests chatter and laugh. King Anduin laughs along with them with perfectly curated manners, though his consort seems less at ease. His sharp-toothed smile grows more strained with every new noble that approaches.

Tess has a certain amount of sympathy, though he's not the only one in the room who'd rather be glowering. She has her eye on Spymaster Shaw, stone-faced and outfitted in a dress uniform that is somehow less decorative than his usual. He's casting his watchful gaze over the gathering, and to Tess' amusement, is trying not to look as though he is checking his pocketwatch every five minutes.

He is, in fact, checking every three minutes.

It is a minute before nine when she sees his resolve break. He approaches the king to murmur in his ear, and with subtle gestures indicates to him the position of his agents. Tess' mouth curls in a smile.

"What are you up to, young lady," a voice says in her ear.

She smooths down the front of her dress and turns. "Nothing, father," she sweetly says.

Father raises both of his grey brows and looks pointedly over at Shaw, who has discharged himself of his duties and is striding towards the gardens.

"Exercising some professional curiosity," Tess allows. "He seems distracted tonight, don't you think?" Father harrumphs at that. A smirk appears at the corner of his mouth, and Tess intercepts briskly before he can say something awful. "He's not my type, so don't bloody start. And I'm just as certainly not his."

"Well, thank the Light for that," Father says, and sniffs. Then frowns, and sniffs again. He glances around. "You would do well to catch somebody's eye tonight."

Tess delicately stifles her grimace. "No doubt," she says, detecting the faint scent of Vanessa's perfume nearby. She pats his arm. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to get a breath of air before the dancing starts."

"Very well." Father leans in to buss her on the cheek, but his attention is already elsewhere, some deduction or other going on behind his sharp eyes. He is as good as Tess when it comes to sniffing out when someone is hiding something, and—well, he will have his suspicions confirmed soon enough, but for now Tess is content to leave him to it.

The garden is quiet and largely unoccupied, swathed in fae-lights and strands of tinsel that will no doubt upset the royal topiarists a great deal when it comes to extracting it from the privet hedges. Shaw signals to an operative positioned near a shrub shaped like a fat whelpling: relieved, fifteen minutes. They slip away with an affirmative hand gesture.

Shaw checks his watch again. Two minutes past. Of course Fairwind is late. He clenches his jaw and tries not to overthink the impending… soiree, or what it would mean if he were left standing here alone with his heart shaking in his ribcage.

There's a crunch and rustle near a hedge that has been painstakingly trimmed into precise right angles. Fairwind stumbles into view, and Shaw spares a moment to wonder how he got past both the guards and his agents without apparent incident, only to decide it would be unfair to assume he hasn't an ounce of subtlety even if it's rarely in evidence.

There's certainly no subtlety in the way Fairwind is advancing on him, nor in the expression on his face. Shaw opens his mouth to say something but he isn't given the chance; Fairwind walks him back against a tree, slaps a hand under his ass and lifts him clean off the ground.

"Save it for later, yeah?" he says.

"Unbelievable—" Shaw manages to get out in the instant before Fairwind kisses him. He clutches at his shoulders to keep his balance, attempting to finish his admonishment, then gives up and kisses him back. He may just spend the rest of the evening kissing him, and probably the rest of his life calling him to his office for disciplinary purposes.

Fairwind is surprisingly restrained considering the suggestions he'd outlined in his letter, right until he slides a hand down the front of Shaw's ceremonial leather breeches and unapologetically gropes for his cock. Shaw hisses and hoofs him with the heel of his boot until Fairwind stops wedging him against the tree, beams adoringly and puts him down.

"Was that necessary?" Shaw says.

"Yes."

"Is it going to continue being necessary?"

"Absolutely," Fairwind says, grinning.

"In that case," Shaw says, grabbing him by the lapels and dragging him deeper into the gardens, away from the warm light spilling out from the ballroom. "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

"I can't believe that actually worked." Vanessa slips through the tall glass double-doors that lead from the keep to the garden, snug as anything with fur draped over her crimson bodice. Why call it a stole, if it isn't to be stolen? She leans on Tess' arm, grinning, then gives her a nudge and glances up until she follows her gaze.

Tess brightens into a toothy smile when she sees the mistletoe.

"You're a fool if you think he doesn't know that was a setup," she says, catching Vanessa's face with both hands and kissing her fiercely. She has red lipstick smeared over her mouth when she pulls back.

Vanessa tries to wipe it off with her thumb. "Oh, who cares," she says as Tess bats her hand away to dab at her mouth with a handkerchief. Light, Tess can rough and tumble as good as the rest of the Uncrowned and her connections are worth mining at least, but Vanessa's gonna to have to break her of some of these manners. "You got what you wanted, didn't you?"

"Not yet," Tess says, tucking her handkerchief away. Across the floor, the band has started up. Vanessa lets Tess tug her into the thick of the twirling nobles, their jewels and sequins catching the golden lamplight and sparkling like a king's ransom. Vanessa's fingers itch, and perhaps if they were not caught around Tess' waist and in her hand, she would see about redistributing some of that wealth. A quick flick of her dagger, a snapped necklace...

As it is, the tight curve of Tess' hip beneath the satin of her dress may be distraction enough for now. Tess glances at her through lowered lashes, coy. She knows exactly how she looks tonight. Vanessa bites her lip and smirks at her.

Tess loses the smoulder once they get into the swing; her face is schooled into a studied innocence. It's not directed at Vanessa, though it's an invigorating contrast to the way Tess is stroking her fingers along her shoulder. No—whenever they turn with the music, she gets a glimpse of Genn. At first the old wolf gives them a prolonged, stern stare. About halfway through their first dance and after Tess' hand has made its way to the nape of Vanessa's neck, he starts rolling his eyes and sighing instead. The future of the Greymane lineage is likely going to feature in tomorrow's gossip.

The music reaches a crescendo and fades away into echoes, and Vanessa finishes the dance an inch or two closer than would probably be deemed proper.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Tess says, tucking a strand of Vanessa's hair behind her ear.

"I thought your father would have conniptions," Vanessa says, disappointed, but then there's a commotion by the double-doors, and Shaw stalks into the hall, his hair in disarray and the captain on his heels.

"I think he might be about to." Tess covers her mouth to hide whatever expression she's making.

Genn shoots them a resentful glare and tethers Shaw with a hand on his arm, which only makes him bristle. Vanessa watches in fascination as they wordlessly try to outdo each other's high dudgeon.

"That was our invitation to leave gracefully." Tess loops her arm in Vanessa's. "Walk out like you own everything you're wearing," she murmurs, and Vanessa laces their fingers and laughs. They skirt the dancefloor, weaving between the sloshed nobles and watching the old wolf's distraction as it plays out.

"—hardly a matter for concern," Shaw is saying in measured tones that only barely conceal his impatience.

"It's all right, I'll just—" the captain says, making motion to leave and clearly no wiser than Vanessa over what egregious breach of etiquette has just been, or is about to be, committed.

"There was to be no admittance without an invitation," Genn snarls. "It is your job, Spymaster, to ensure—"

"With all due respect, I know how to do my job, King Greymane. He," Shaw firmly says, and takes the captain's arm, "is my plus one."

"I am?"

"Dressed like that?" Genn says, then glances over to where Tess is insistently tugging Vanessa along. She's not being delicate about it, so it's entirely her fault if Vanessa happens to elbow some of these toffs in the process.

"Now that was just unnecessary," the captain says, but Shaw doesn't remark. He's following Genn's line of sight.

"Go," Tess laughs. "VanCleef, come on."

"Fine, ruin the show," Vanessa retorts, but she's grinning. She pulls off one shoe and then the other and breaks into a jog as they leave the keep. "It's like you don't want a spirited chase through the city."

"It's not off the cards." Tess lopes alongside her, moonlight catching her hair and the glint of her teeth. She makes a gruff sound in her throat. "I'll give you a head start."

"All right, princess, show me how to prowl," Vanessa purrs, the cobbles cold beneath her feet and the rooftops calling. Snow begins to drift from the sky, and the night is bright with festive lights that cast all sorts of interesting shadows. "Happy Winter Veil. Now—let's really dance!"