Priorities

The Pigeon was tired and rowdy, just as the small group of friends were getting more tired and more restless. Kenna had been harassed once again downstairs and Remy was currently sporting a bloody nose from his drunken attempt to defend her honor. Turned out, she was much better and a kick to the groin had managed to incapacitate the annoying man. But, for his valor, Kenna had been trying to attend to the manic Frenchman all night, blotting at his nose with a bloodied handkerchief and refusing to hear a word about how stupid he felt, her own Long Island Ice Tea shrinking with every minute.

Yuri had been on the other side of the room when it had all happened, so it had been completely out of control. And from the little Kip had been allowed to enter Yuri's mind, Yuri still felt out of control. But Yuri promptly put up his barriers, blocking Kip out of his mind, unlike their usual nights of complete openness between them. Rory had been cranking up his own horrible music, his nose getting more and more red - his week had not been great either. He had met the man who had been seeing the woman he had been seeing. Yuri, usually the one to settle everything, began drinking, his head twitching as he worked to keep his anger in check.

And before long, there was an argument. Once... and only once... had Kip ever seen Yuri lose his cool. And he was beginning to now. Once more, as Kenna rubbed Remy's arm and smiled at him, Yuri turned and asked, "Kenna, I was just wondering... Are you at all okay? We've all been so concerned with Remy, I just was wondering if anyone bothered to check in with you?"

It seemed it was only Kip and Katarina who did not seem ready to fight. Remy began challenging Yuri, and Kenna, pissed, left to begin making another drink, while Rory began writing his anger out in a letter to his soon-to-be-ex. Kip looked hard at Yuri but his Russian friend seemed unwilling to allow the younger man get away with it anymore. Kenna was muttering angrily to Rory, who finally turned and snapped at her, demanding she shut up and care about his own problems. Kip blinked - this was too much.

He turned to look at Katarina, a little miserable to have made her suffer through this. "Let's go somewhere?"


The apparation and short walk to the museum was nice. They didn't speak much, but there was so much to be seen and heard that it didn't seem to matter. He didn't tell her where they were going but paid for her admission. They walked in, surrounded by white walls, modern art, and wonderful exhibits. Much better than screaming, hooting, and hollering.

*

Winter was always a little bit sadder in the city. Snow turned to slush as cars passed, people curled away into their scarves, and there was a certain emptiness to the streets as everyone hid in the warmth of homes and coffee shops. The countryside was more barren but still more pleasant with fields of spotless white fluff and trees ornamented with ice.  Katarina had been spending most of her winter there, huddled up in Rookwood Manor, keeping to the rooms in the heart of the home and lingering about fireplaces.

Christmas had come and gone with little ceremony, as had New Years. Most years, winter got harder after the promise of twinkle lights and gingerbread was gone but Katarina was tired of pretending the holidays were something special. She was more than content to just enjoy the snow for what it was - incredibly beautiful, if not a little imprisoning. Katarina spent most of her time alone for weeks on end, painting and reading and thinking. Then her simple life would be punctuated with a trip into London that was filled with more life and company than she could barely handle.

Although she had come to care for every member of the oddball group that met above the bar, Katarina still wasn't completely at ease among them. Her small role was to bring whatever art she was working on for a couple interested parties to glance at, maybe speak a few words about, which would then branch them off in to a more fruitful and stimulating subject while Katarina listened in comfortable silence. Every once in awhile Kip would startle her with a question, reminding her that she wasn't just listening and that she had her own mass in the space.

Today there was an argument. Katarina hadn't seen too many real fights among the group and feared when they did happen. If they weren't loud enough already a mix of drinks and raised tempers certainly did the trick. When Kip offered an out Katarina simply nodded.

The first tiny snowflakes were just starting to fall as the pair walked out of the bar. Katarina's hands slipped into her pockets to hide from the cold and they began to stroll at a pleasant pace. There was almost no wind, leaving the flakes to flutter down gently, pushed to and fro in the wake of pedestrians in more of a hurry than they were. Katarina paid little attention to where they were going, content to let the older man lead as her eyes wandered about. It wasn't until they stopped at a flight of steps that she registered where they were and a soft smile touched the corners of her mouth. Kip paid and within minutes the pair were standing still before a painting.

Katarina never felt more at ease than amid an art gallery. Only the sounds of a couple mumbled conversations and the squeak of wet shoes broke the silence as an entire building of people took in what was in front of them. And it was easy to stand here next to Kip. She remembered a weekend in Paris with Elijah. They had gone to an art event and she had been so self conscious, always glancing up at her companion to gauge his reactions and take his social cues for the scene. Now, she let herself get absorbed by the painting. It was obscure and certainly not her normal style but Katarina found herself engaging anyway.

Katarina's eyes dragged over the lines and shapes, the composition and movement that the artist had to deliberately laid out. She willingly let her gaze swoop and curve until it dropped off the edge of the frame. From there her eyes rose up for the first time to glance at Kip. As she looked up at him Katarina felt a sudden gratitude that he had chosen this place that echoed the familiar stillness of her home but had a whole different warmth.

Kip glanced at Katarina when they approached the art gallery, and could see, even from a profile view, the small twinkle in her eyes, the smile playing at her lips. Of the group that hung out at the Pigeon, half of them preferred the quiet to the ruckus, and two of them had managed to escape. Kip felt a little bad that Yuri was left back at the bar to fend for himself, but Kip was a little willing to be selfish. Yuri had gotten into the fight because of his own desire to pursue a connection - it seemed fair that Kip could use the same reason to escape the argument.

He had to admit, though he would not aloud, that Katarina had become a topic of interest in his head. She was an enigma, certainly. The extent of her relationship amongst his group seemed to be the quiet listener. It took her a good half hour typically to relax, and she seemed to thrive when it seemed that she was forgotten.

Not that she was forgettable. Oh no.

Kip marveled that she could be so young and so attentive. She would patiently sit in her nook with Kenna, sometimes with a sketchpad, sometimes with folded hands, and would listen to the flow of conversation. The few times she spoke were the few times she was addressed. Kenna would speak on occasion to her, mostly to comment, and Yuri liked to inform her of the names of classical songs that came on over his record player. Remy sometimes said "Hey, Kat-" before he went on his long-winded stories, and then there was Rory who seemed to think it best to leave the young girl alone.

But Kip couldn't help but ask for her perspective - because she was quiet, and repressed, and shy, and her opinions should have been as meek as she was, as timid and average as she appeared. But she had prolific thoughts, spoken gently and efficiently, and Kip did not think she knew how brilliant she truly was.

So he could not help but seek some time to better understand the quiet enigma of their group.

She moved more slowly than he, but he continued to allow her as much space as she needed. He could not help but pause, however, at a particular painting that had some of the flavor of a Katarina Rookwood original, though he preferred the artist that had just taken up residence next to him. He glanced down and found their eyes meeting. The corner of his lips lifted and he turned his head back, tilting his head. "What do you think of this one?"

Kip was being kind to her. He was allowing her to set the pace, one that was much slower and more deliberate that most people could bear. Katarina knew she was a pain to go to museums with - it was one of the only places that she allowed her presence to be truly imposing on a group dynamic. She had gotten used to viewing artwork on her own, her company normally either sending her in solo or leaving her behind within minutes of arriving. Katarina had nearly forgotten how pleasant it could be to wander along with a partner.

Katarina came to a stop in front of the next piece and had just begun to ponder it when Kip's voice broke her out of her bubble. She didn't speak for a long moment, barely glancing over at him, and to the untrained eye it almost appeared if she hadn't heard him.

"It's.. contained." Her eyes drifted from the careful brushwork up to the gaze of the man beside her. "Those curves.. you would expect it to be natural but I can feel the precision there. The effort is almost overwhelming." She shifted her attention back to the artwork, tracing the lines. "Don't you think?"

It wasn't that there was anything particularly wrong with the piece. In fact, Katarina recalled several recent paintings where she had used almost an identical color palate. Some of the details were copied with incredible skill but she found herself thrown off by unnecessary additions, placed there either out of stylistic difference or the artist's desire to simply show off the aforementioned skills. When it came to her modern art, Katarina had a secret soft spot for art where things were unplanned and unpredictable. There was a distinct elegance to dripping paint or roughly torn edges that she had begun to recognize. Katarina had never been able to harness such wild forces in her own work.

He looked back at the painting, folding his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels, turning his head to get a better look at the painting. She was looking at it as well, investigating and soaking it in with inquisitive eyes that betrayed nothing of what she was feeling - which was so like her. She did the same thing in conversations above the Hobbled Pigeon pub. Just listened, observed, obviously attentive in the unfolding events, but revealed nothing of how she truly felt, of what she thought of everything.

And Kip had always been very curious.

She finally spoke and he lifted his eyes back to her, watching her as she examined the painting and gave her feelings on it. He turned back, soaking it in once more. "It has the same colors as your latest courtyard painting... but it just doesn't seem as cohesive to me."

He paused. "Ballet is beautiful because of the skill and execution. Modern dance is clunky and odd, but it portrays emotion." He blinked. "This is definitely ballet."

Katarina liked the way Kip spoke. It was even, steady, deliberate. Even when she had seen him be dragged into an argument it was still obvious that he thought before he spoke, a surprisingly uncommon trait. And while everything the man did felt purposeful, his words never felt studied. In some ways his demeanor reminded her of Augustus's politician friends - always confident that they knew the right thing to say. But when Kip spoke she rarely felt it was with the intent to impress. He tone felt genuine.

Her eyes lifted to meet his when he spoke and for a moment and she barely found herself surprised that he had remembered the painting she had shown him a couple weeks ago. He had always been observant, from the first day she had met him, she had always felt Kip's attention. It wasn't just her - it was everyone and everything. Even now Katarina watched him take in the painting in front of them again, really look, really think, and only then respond. She liked the way he paid attention. Just like the way he spoke, it was refreshing.

Katarina nodded in response to his words, taking one last glance at the painting before quietly walking towards the next painting. She moved slowly, as deliberate in her steps as he was in his speech. Katarina was silent for one step then another. After a moment she looked up at Kip again.

"We're in a hall of modern dancers. After all.. it is modern art. I'm not sure this is the right time or place for ballet."

Another step or two and they stood in front of the next painting. Katarina looked across at the piece, all blocks and color, the perfect contrast to the last frame. She was silent as she stared, no longer out of absorption into the art but simply giving her eyes something to settle on as her thoughts danced over her last words.

It was small.. minuscule even.. but Katarina could barely remember the last time she had allowed herself to even sort of disagree with someone. Obviously she was comfortable enough with her siblings to do so. (Athena would be more than willing to testify). But a near stranger? Someone older? A man? Katarina had always found it much safer to simply stick to her smiles and gentle agreements. Everything was so much easier that way, when the male opinion went unchallenged and Katarina could cultivate her thoughts in silence.

The painting was primary red. It was a good red, the kind where the warmth wasn't overwhelmed by intentions of symbolizing power, blood, or lust. This was the red of a hearth or sunset, of poppies in a field. It was soft and Katarina let herself feel soft with it.

Katarina moved away, looking at the next painting, leaving Kip to continue looking at the painting he had titled ballet. Katarina was... the strangest human being he had ever had the pleasure of getting to know. And every time he seemed to settle on who he thought she was, she said something that unsettled the whole idea. He kept trying to just let her be, without trying to understand and arrange it in his mind that would allow titles or definitions, but it was becoming harder and harder the more interesting she became to him. And there wasn't a day she didn't become more interesting.

For example. How many times had she been drawn into a conversation where bold claims were made of the topics of art, of music, of philosophy, of life. And so many times, she would nod along, more absorbed in whatever piece she was working on. But here, in the safety of a gallery where she definitely had the intellectual upper hand, she felt more at ease to speak with certainty, boldly stating her opinion without forgiveness of apology for it.

Who was Katarina Rookwood?

She had felt comfortable bringing a slight edge into the conversation, even if the edge had been relatively soft. He wanted to test what he knew about her, so he decided to respond in kind. He followed her to the next painting and took it in, humming a bit pleasantly, enjoying this one. But he had a question that he couldn't forget about.

"So. When are we going to see your work in a gallery?"

The question caught Katarina off guard. In all of the hours she had clocked in at the Pidgen it was a rare occasion that she was called upon to speak about her personal life. Questions pertaining to her art or even her world view were not to be unexpected. To a certain extent Katarina had become comfortable with these prompted contributions to conversation - even just now it had been easy enough for her to state her opinions. 

In a way, Kip's question felt delicately crafted. Just personal enough to gain some insight while not personal enough to be considered inappropriate. 

Of course, it didn't help that Katarina had no answer to give. She pondered for a moment, using the painting before them as an excuse for a precious second or two to think before here graze back up to meet Kip's under the force of social politeness. 

"Truthfully, I've never considered it before. But I'm not sure that would be.. quite right."  

Of course that answer sounded downright silly coming out of the mouth of a girl who had the nerve to allow others to call her an "artist". Painting had never been in the plans, much less galleries, and even though art had finally become a notable part of her life she had not made the leap to taking herself seriously. 

This was the reason he did not understand her. It was a proven part of human nature that everyone wanted to be more than they were, wanted to shirk death by finding something that would make them immortal. And here was this young woman with this incredible gift who could probably cash in on it to achieve that very hidden psychological need. She could sell her paintings, could become independent, could meet the sort of people who would challenge her and fill her life with kindness and intellectual stimulation. There was a world beyond her home and the little room in the Pigeon. It was hers for the taking.

Did she not want it? He could understand if she was happy with what she had. But he saw small flickers in her eyes. Flickers of uncertainty, when she would swallow after a particularly long conversation and seem to retreat back into herself. Katarina Rookwood was many beautiful, intriguing things. But, somehow, he wouldn't list happy among them.

"What do you mean?" he asked gently.

Katarina Rookwood's life was ballet. It was elegant, carefully choreographed, and always restrained. She was endlessly vigilant with her thoughts, actions, and words, making sure to always color within the lines that had been proscribed for her. There had been no specific point in her life that Katarina remembered being told the way of things. The rules and expectations had always just.. been there. And Katarina was sure, partly due to the emptiness in her stomach, that she was already stretching her limits. 

The first time Katarina had ever voiced any interest in art had been at a sleepover with Cerelia Avery. She had spoken timidly at first but with an almost childlike excitement as she outlined her aspersions to paint, to create. Cerelia had been kind about the admission, Cerelia had always been kind to her, but there was also an unmistakeable disapproval in her eyes. 

Painting. It was a silly choice for any wizard (or muggle) to pursue. It was an especially silly choice for a girl in Katarina's position who could have the world at her fingertips if she only asked. She knew it, Cerelia knew it, her father certainly knew it. But it didn't seem like Kip did. 

Katarina crossed her arms, drawing her jacket to her torso. A door had been opened at the end of the gallery, sending a cool current through the space that echoed the weather outside. While she was certainly not relaxed, Kip's continued questioning had not gone so far as to put her on edge. She spoke her defense with only the slightest pause. 

"It's just a hobby." Galleries were for professional and Katarina had always plainly known that it wouldn't be acceptable for the eldest Rookwood daughter to be a real artist. She could only play pretend.