To Self
Anatole sat on a velvet throw that was folded neatly at the edge of Helene's bed. He watched her emerge from the bathroom with a dress that somehow managed to embody everything she as a Kuragin was expected to be. It was one of her newest addition to her growing collection from Paris, designed by someone with a name she now knew by heart from all the times she'd been asked where to buy ones like them. The material was tight and clung to her body in lace and crushed velvet. It was hard not to admire, above all, the smile on her face, “What do you think?” She asked him harmlessly, spinning around, and resting her hands at her side.
“What if you fall over?” Was all he could come up with at the moment, eyes on a metallic neckline that was low even by Helene's standards, “Or bend over?” Helene laughed at that, although Anatole tried to look like he didn’t find it funny. "I think the ladies-" He gestured vaguely over the top of her dress before breaking out into a snicker. "-are in danger, sister," When Helene didn't laugh, he paused. There was a part of him that forced himself to stop and look at her again, because he knew his sister well. He knew that flash in her eyes.
“Papa picked it out,” She said absent-mindedly, moving to practice her smile in the mirror.
“Doesn’t it hurt your cheeks to smile so much?” Anatole asked once heard their father beginning to talk to the chauffeur. They didn't like being around the man when he was stressed. And so Anatole's attempt to avoid it came in the form of a question, watching as she shrugged, moving to the mascara wand so she didn't have to meet his eyes when she spoke the answer.
“It makes him happy,”
“You’re good at that,” Helene froze, wand hovering over her lashes. She said nothing, but they made eye contact through the mirror, and something in Helene changed. “I shouldn’t have said that,” Anatole stated automatically, although he wasn’t sure why he couldn’t. It felt hours before she cleared her throat and continued getting ready.
“Are you okay?” He asked meekly, and she sighed. A clear sign she wasn’t. Both of them knew that, but neither of them confronted it. Doing so would only make it real, and legitimizing it meant Helene would think on it. If there was one thing they learned through their years it was that some things were not affordable, and emotions were at the top of the list. feelings meant mistakes, and mistakes meant consequences.
“Do I look hot?” Anatole asked, breaking the silence as he stood up, blue eyes flitting to his sister then back towards the full length mirror that hung from her private bathroom door, lined in gold that whirled around all its edges. He'd never done well with quiet. His ego and need for her to cut this tension became achingly clear in that moment.
“Yes, Toly,” She told him simply and without a moment's hesitation, although she hadn’t even glanced in his direction.
“You didn’t even look!” He whined, turning to look at his sister with a pout. Still, she never looked away from the small makeup mirror on her desk.
“We’re Kuragins. We’re always hot,” Anatole shrugged, her tone so confident it offered no choice but to agree. He looked once more into the mirror, a small smile. He gave another look, and Helene was right; he looked good. Even with her back to him, he knew by the cutouts and experience alone Helene was going to make everyone at the Dubestroy's gala drool. The two of them, stellar as always, and just a little bit intoxicated from the handle of vodka stashed underneath her desk, were still going to be as show-stopping as they always had been.
The Kuragins were the rulers of reputation, anyway, and they would bear the weight of the crown as heavy as their burdens all the same.
-----
Marya had always been something of an honest woman. Feelings were low on her list of priorities; Marya was a woman whose words may have stung like daggers when you asked for them, yet the pain was a worthy exchange for honest advice. In a world as superficial as one of gowns, champagne, and chandeliers, it had been a comfort to many abroad to have a raven in the night to whisper all your dirty secrets to. Marya came swooping in when she was needed, receding to the background and never speaking a word of whatever had been told to her. While she was not much of the secretive type, the redhead found value in this role to those who confided in her. No one dared to pry, for her eyes were cold as steel the moment she detected a question too close to the forbidden words in her ear. She'd known all of Moscow's secrets, and not one of them had been spilled, taking the flight with her abroad.
It was something she acknowledged yet never truly understood until the phone call with her parents. Until she was telling them of a woman she'd met-she had always been honest, about her sexuality too-and yet to them, the infamous Helene was now a refined woman who had recently moved from France. A woman she had an intriguing, flirtacious encounter with her first night ever at the Kuragin's estate. They'd never heard the name before, asked a few questions, but as in line with family values as ever, respected her request to leave the mystery woman's business name out of it. There was nothing suspicious in it; Marya had not lied to them since she were no more than ten years old. Marya did not think this would be where it all began. If Marya were asked why, the answer would be a simple one: she did not like being told the obvious. She knew of Helene’s reputation, because really, who didn’t? She did not need the lecture or the stories to know Miss Kuragina was a dangerous, dangerous woman.
She looked no less so walking through across the dance floor with her brother hooked around her elbow, a train of green crushed velvet trailing behind her. It was a richer color than the dress she had been seen in the last time they'd witnessed one another face to face, yet with less crystals and shine. Something more elegant rather than eye catching for the times she was not meant to be the center of attention, she supposed.
Marya suspected that was the impression she was meant to be giving, yet when it came to Helene Kuragin, it seemed there was no such thing as isolated eyes. They were on her, following her and the suited blonde striding beside her, looking equally as striking. Marya only saw the side profile of the pair as they passed by, speaking into each other's ears with expressions of glittering delight. Their father parted from them quickly, but not before pointing them in the direction of the party's host and only then turning to find company of his own. And the moment Vasily was gone, Aline out of sight since the beginning, people began to whisper or call for their attention. It was startling, almost, for Marya to see what the Queen of Society truly meant. Helene had yet to even turn her way, seek her out, and Marya was once again left wondering if she'd been put under the same exact spell as the friend she hadn't spoken to since their argument.
Marya had failed to notice that as the proclaimed Queen, her eyes had been quick since childhood. The moment Marya had entered, Helene knew exactly where she was.
Helene knowing this did not mean she knew the consequences were going include her brother in his friend standing beside her, huddled into a small corner of the room where the stairwell of the main hall began its spiral. It came from a routine of entering this home, and just about all of the others-they hid away until their parents grabbed at their arms and reminded them of their last name. Until that moment, they lived in the serenity of the closest thing to teenager-hood they would probably ever get.
Fedya was no business man, last name unknown to those who spoke to him, nor did he offer it when asked. He was, for all it was worth, as good at pretending at the two siblings were. He carried himself with dignity and respect to no one aside from himself. Head always up, seaglass eyes cutting through crowds to try and pick out which ones he thought were the ones he and his shorter temper would have to avoid. He had exactly one suit-one that was maintained to be in pristine condition despite the living situation he was in-though any time Anatole manage to sneak a plus one in, he'd give him a new tie just in case. Fedya was not close to what one would call a frequent flyer, but it seemed like Helene had been roped into another task and her brother left, in Anatole's words, "bored to tears". And so Fedya donned the suit once more and a turquoise tie that happened to be a lot more inviting than the looks he offered anyone who seemed to consider approaching.
Right now, however, he was leaned against the wall with his legs and arms crossed. He hadn't said anything in a good minute or so, observing Helene to the sound of Anatole complaining about the brand of white wine for the night-as if he hadn't just picked up the first bottle he saw and snuck away. "I feel tension," Fedya announced suddenly, and Helene's brown eyes landed on him sharper than a knife's blade.
Anatole snickered, cut off quickly by Helene's flat declaration, "No you don't. There is no tension,"
"There is sexual tension," The blonde, always one to play on the discomfort Helene rarely had the vulnerability to offer. Like hounds, Fedya picked up on the opportunity just as fast with a nod, lips curling into a smirk. "Very heavy sexual tension," Her younger brother continued to sing-song, nudging Fedya lightly in the side.
Helene rolled her eyes, scoffing and giving a very faint gesture somewhere across the open space of milling people. "She’s across the room, fool. How could I have tension with someone not even looking at me?" She tried to focus on the woman in question over a sea of pinned up hairdos and black suit jackets so she could pretend not to see Fedya's jaw lower.
"She?"
Helene closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose before reaching for her champagne flute; she'd never had the pallet for white wine. "Please don’t sound so surprised,"
"You've never mentioned her,"
"I know!" Anatole exclaimed louder than he probably should have, "I would have wanted to know my sister was going to shove her tongue-"
"Because I just met her, like, last week, Fedya," She huffed loudly over the youngest of the trio, favoring her glass of champagne over whatever teasing Anatole was likely feeling quite compelled to do. There was more misfortune in the fact Fedya spoke next, sounding more amused than she wished he would.
"Wow, you really just went, made out with her, and carried on?"
"That is exactly what she did,"
"I didn’t even get that far because you interrupted me," Helene pointed out with a playful bite, taking his glass as repayment for the hassle. "It was quite rude, Anatole. To think we were having a great time,"
"A 'great time', yeah," Anatole mocked with his fingers, squeaking as she reached out to slap his arm.
"Wow, I love having no context of what is going on here,"
Naturally, Fedya's side commentary was ignored completely. "It would have been a great time,"
"Just use a room next time, for god's sake," Anatole rolled his eyes, though his eyes scanned the crowd just as diligently as his sister's did. Helene brought much more havoc than people gave her credit for. The difference between Anatole and his sister was the way Helene yielded her power, buying silence with threats of a dead reputation. After all, her reputation didn't spread much past the younger collective for that reason; she was the 1% sweetheart in the eyes of whom she needed to be. Anatole was not nearly as careful, their father's efforts futile to try and quell them. It did not help that for Helene to cause mischief of her own, circumstances were specific. Her running risks like this were a rarity, but the entertainment value was too high to avoid Anatole's indulgence; he was equally as invested in Marya as Helene was. A woman, a Dmitrievna of all people, was quite a choice, but Kuragins got what they wanted.
And it was quite a thing to witness when the cards played just as Helene wanted.
"She's in red again," Anatole hummed, sounding impressed. "She's bold, Helene," Not even he was sure if it was an observation or a warning.
"Of course she is," Helene scoffed as if it were obvious: as if the two of them had known each other for years. As if she had a reason to be this confident. In Helene's eyes, she'd known everyone-had been trained to be able to in a quick glance. She'd never brag, but it went unsaid she was rarely ever wrong anymore.
Fedya began a wary hum, gaining both the siblings' attention as their heads turned to him in unison. "You said she's in red?" There was half a grimace on his face.
"Red, yes..." Helene drew out, eyes scanning a bit more urgently.
"Lace neckline?" Helene hummed. "Long sleeves?" He sounded more and more pained with each detail she nodded to. "You mean the one Aline is speaking at?" Anatole stiffened. Helene's stomach dropped out instantly.
"...What?!"