Nona.

[Imogen] The flower shop is small and closed in, warm, the thermostat up too high for the beginnings of Spring.

In accommodation, the doctor has removed her coat, slinging it over one arm, both bare in a short-sleeved blouse. She moves among the aisles of plants, potted and cut, somewhat absently, her attention abstract and not quite focused.

The shop owner has already offered her his kind-hearted assistance, to be rebuffed by an absent 'just looking' and then further rebuffed with the same phrase again after he had offered advice on the particular plant she had stood before, only for a few seconds. He now sits, sullen on his stool behind the counter.

She is well dressed, her slacks expensive, her shoes understated but pricey. Her hair is a particularly vibrant shade of red, brilliant against her pale skin. It is swept back, out of the way from her eyes, held in place by a clip, several looser strands tucked back with bobby pins. Even so, a tendril or two have snaked free, brushing her cheekbone as she turns her head.

The air inside is humid, warm as mentioned, and laced with the smell of flora.

[Nona Veksler] The bell over the door to the small flower shop fills the air with a jangle of sound. A sound that surely brings the shop keeper out of his sullen broodings behind the counter. He looks up to greet the new arrival with a smile and a welcome, and perhaps an offer of aid that is just slightly louder than is necessary. For Imogen's benefit. You're not the only customer in the shop lady. Only to be, as he was before, rebuked with a soft spoken 'just looking' from the young woman who enters.

Like Imogen, she is well dressed in a dark blue dress with white piping. It's 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' style perhaps a little out dated for the young blond who sports it, though it is flattering on her slender form and accented by a thin white cardigan. Over one arm she has shopping bags and a purse slung. A black bag from a dress shop. A white bag from a pharmacy. A small red bag from a perfume store.

Her nostrils flare after denying the shop keeper the opportunity to aid her, and a small smile slips onto her lips as she starts toward the cooler of displayed flowers against the wall. She is tall and lean, and as such she wears sensible flats of the same white as her cardigan. The shopping bags she carries whisper against one another as she moves, her wide pale blue eyes, innocent and bright taking in the roses, carnation and tulips.

[Imogen] Both women are slender, lean and well dressed, but that is where the comparison ends. Imogen is slight - petite, even in her heels. Her skin is fine, her hair is red. The other is blonde, tall, even a bombshell.

The shopkeeper sits moodily behind his counter, deliberately rearranging his receipts. He prides himself on being personable. In helping his customers find the exact right set of blooms for their moods, their decor. The women's (both of them! the nerve!) refusal of assistance seems to be personal affront and he does not take it well.

The air is cooler near the wall, a soft hum of refrigeration. A few of the plants stamens stir with a rush of air, and something clicks before the hum shuts off, some equilibrium reached.

"Excuse me," the phrase is absent, completely automatic as Imogen reaches for the door of a nearby cooler, the opening of which will disturb Nona's posture. When she reaches, the cuff of her blouse slides back, showing the black ink of a tattoo out of place on her pale skin, her elegant attire. More out of place: the sight of a glyph on one previously thought of to be human, the curve of a tribal mark twisting Imogen's bicep.

She plucks a bouquet from it's fellows, lilies mixed with green.

[Nona Veksler] Mutely, Nona steps to one side as Imogen reaches for the door to the cooler. Her unnervingly wide gaze easing over the red head in passing. The briefest glimpse of the tattoo on the pale flesh of Imogen's arm draws her gaze in and holds it for a moment, before it flickers upward with purpose to the woman's face. She is stricken by Imogen's contrasting beauty. The deep red of her hair, and the soft paleness of her skin. When she speaks it is with a faintly Russian accent. Mingled broadly with other inflections. A language expert might be able to pinpoint still the place of her birth, and perhaps even what other languages she speaks. "Pardon me..." She pauses, briefly, without a thought for the more than willing shop keeper at their backs. "...but do you know, what is the best way to get to The Brotherhood of Theives from here?"

There is something false in her tone. Conspiratorial, though she is not good at such things. Her pale blue gaze flickering pointedly to the tattoo on the red head's arm and back again. A pleasant, shy seeming smile on her pursed lips.

[Imogen] Imogen had begun to half turn toward Nona, but she stops as the sentence completes. There is no need for the trappings of human interaction here. The red-headed kinwoman exhales her breath sharply, perhaps amusement, perhaps a scoff, as she finishes shutting the door behind her.

With that, she turns her head to face the other. Her eyes are dark - a blue that must seem black in some lights. She very deliberately reaches over, tugging the cuff of her sleeve further down her arm, until only the edge of the tattoo peeks out, the shadow visible, only if one knows to look.

"Do you really want to know," she enquires mildly, "Or is it just yer test question?"

Her gaze moves slightly toward the shopkeeper, then back again. He is ignoring them studiously.

[Nona Veksler] Nona blinks at the red head's reply, her cheeks flushing slightly with color as she averts her eyes to the cooler before them. Her slender throat works in a swallow and after a moment of silence she breaths a soft sigh and turns a slightly shamed smile Imogen's way. "The later of the two." Blushing, she sweeps a strand of blond away from her smooth cheek, clearing her throat softly as she looks at the lillies in the red head's hand.

"They're lovely." Her profile is regal, for she comes from a long line of royalty. Her smile demure, fragile. "Is it someones birthday?"

[Imogen] Nona adroitly shifts the subject away from Imogen's direct (let's face it - confrontational) question and her embarrassed reply. It is a smooth response that speaks of etiquette, of a skilled conversationalist.

"No," the kinswoman replies, absently tilting the flowers to glance at them, before turning her attention back to the other, "S'just spring."

She steps a little farther from the cooler, permitting the other woman access, should she want it.

"Just recently arrived, have you?"

[Nona Veksler] She does peer through the glass at the arranged flowers, her eyes straying to a vase filled with spring colors. Blushes, mauves, creamy whites. With the same hesitant smile, she nods her reply Imogen's way before looking back at her petite companion. "Yes." A skilled conversationalist might broaden her reply, if only to insight further conversation.

Nona does not.

She opens the cooler door with a slight whooshing of sound as the vaccum seal on the door is opened and cool air spills out around them. Reaching a slender arm inside to pull out the vase she'd been admiring. "You..." She replies, turning back to Imogen with another demure smile. Her breeding lending itself to her words, offering up a strength and pride that she seems not to possess on her own. "...I would guess. Have been here for awhile."

[Imogen] Her eyebrow arches a little as Nona makes her observation. "What makes you say that?" the question is genuine curiosity. Not confrontation.

As Nona steps away from the flowers, Imogen steps back in, returning her bouquet to their bucket, shifting the other bunches about until she can fit hers back in. Her actions are strange - she acknowledges it with a vague, mirthless smirk.

"Lilies are fer funerals, anyways."

[Nona Veksler] "You seem... comfortable here." Is her reply, again spoken softly as her wide blue gaze traces Imogen's actions. She returns the Lilies to their previous place, and Nona simply nods in acceptance of Imogen's offhand explanation. "As though it were your place."

Her throat works again in a faint swallow, a blush in her cheeks again. "Something in the way you answered my question about The Brotherhood. As though, perhaps you'd been asked before."

[Imogen] A line deepens in her brow at Nona's reply, then smooths away as Imogen compels it too.

"I see," she says, neutrally.

A pause before her chin lifts to the floors, indicative. "Do you want to pay fer those?"

[Nona Veksler] She nods, politely stepping around Imogen and approaching the counter to pay for the spring blooms. While the shop keep is wrapping the flowers and telling her how to best care for them, Nona glances over her shoulder once at Imogen, then digs out her wallet and pays for the floral arrangement. Tucking it all under her arm and thanking the man behind the counter, she moves toward the door, pausing to smile in the red heads direction again. "Are you busy?"

Her pale cheeks are stained with her previous blush, but she is no longer blushing. A calm having drifted across her features as her breeding imposes itself upon her. "There is a coffee shop..." She nods toward the door, wide blue eyes regarding the Fianna kinswoman. "...on the corner?"

[Imogen] Imogen does not follow Nona, but walks among the flowers again, slowly heading toward the door. By the time the other has paid, she is nearly at the threshold.

At Nona's invitation, the kinwoman pauses, regarding the blonde evenly. Her head inclines and she pushes the door open with a chime of bells. The shopkeeper studiously returns to his receipts.

"I know the place," she says simply. "C'mon."

[Nona Veksler] She follows Imogen out into the street, pausing briefly to adjust her bags, and bundle of flowers. "Have you then?" She calls after Imogen before long fragile seeming legs spur into motion to catch her up to the red headed kin. "Been here in Chicago for awhile?" When she has joined Imogen, her pace slows and she looks less like a gazelle and more like a stork. Awkwardly tall, but magically graceful. A side long glance at Imogen has their gazes meeting, briefly, before Nona's flicker away onto other things.

She moves with the poise of one who has been trained to move with poise, there is stiffness where the shouldn't be, false ease to contrast it at times. While she is beautiful. Majestic. She is also uncomfortable in her own skin. A fact that one doesn't have to be astute to make note of.

[Imogen] As Nona pauses to arrange her items, Imogen shakes out her coat, sliding back into it, adjusting its fit over her body.

When the other joins her, she begins to walk toward the corner, her hands sliding into her jacket pockets. A glance is shared, then dismissed. Both look forward.

"Six years, or so," she answers as they walk. The redhead has her own poise, her own grace, though the brand of it is different. Imogen's poise comes from self-assurance. A straight spine, unbowed shoulders. Her grace comes from the directness of her gestures. She walks without wasting a motion. She turns her head with reason.

The doctor is viscerally comfortable in her skin. It is not something which can be trained.

Her mouth twists a little, though the humour does not reach her eyes. "Long enough."

A beat.

"Have you found family here?"

[Nona Veksler] Nona nods, as though to say yes. That is long enough. A line creasing her smooth brow for a brief moment, before she turns her profile toward Imogen and replies. "Yes. The Bellamonte's." She smiles faintly, somehow certain that this kinswoman has heard of them.

Why not? Everyone else seemed to have.

"Or rather, the eldest of them." They near the coffee shop in the corner, and Nona slows politely allowing Imogen to pull the door open. The red head seems to enjoy taking the lead. While she herself is more than content to wait demurely in the background. "I have not kept in close contact with them, but they are aware that I am here, and attending school."

[Imogen] The Bellamontes. Imogen does not acknowledge it, but does not seem confused by the reference.

She, like everyone else, has heard of them.

She takes the door, pulling it open, stepping inside, one hand trailing to hold it long enough for Nona to grab it herself.

"Ah." The sound is more acknowledgement than anything else.

"What are you taking?"

Inside, the coffee shop is an urbanite's dream. The coffee is fair-trade, the flavours rich. The interior is understated, yet modern, all sharp edges and no unnecessary frills.

The sign says seat yourself, and so Imogen does, choosing a booth, taking a seat facing the bay windows, and not-so-coincidentally, the door.

[Nona Veksler] The whisp of a blond slips into the establishment in Imogen's wake, her nostrils flaring again, as they had in the flower shop. Taking in the rich aroma of coffee. With a contented smile, she follows Imogen to the booth, setting her packages to one side and sliding in after them. "I'm studying art."

Her pale blue gaze lifting across the table to settle on her companion. "Photography. Painting. Music." She elaborates briefly, with a dismissive shrug of her slender shoulders. A waitress approaches their table, taking their orders in turn. Imogen first, her eyes somehow going directly to the red head, and not bothering to flicker between the two questioningly. Nona orders something dark and bitter in flavor. Something strong and heavily caffienated. "And you?" It strikes her momentarily that she doesn't know this woman's name, the thought casting a brief shadow of a smile on her pursed lips. "What do you do?"

[Imogen] Imogen orders an earl grey tea, and when asked, opts for the tea leaves rather than the tea bag.

Nona's first language is not English. It is possible that she is not quite capable of distinguishing the nuances of accent in voices. Then again - she is good enough at the language to study in it. it is possible she can hear the Briton pronunciation to Imogen's voice. Or perhaps, she can merely identify her as "not American".

"I'm a doctor," she says, leaning back now that the waitress has gone. "Forensic Pathology." A pause before she adds, "I work in the cause and manner o' death when someone dies unexpectedly."

[Nona Veksler] If it were possible for a woman to emasculate another woman, then Imogen has done a shining job of it. Nona smiles across the table at her, her slender hands resting atop one another in a cordial and refined manner. For all the years of training she's spent, Nona could wield a scalpel, or divulge the mysterious cause of death of a perfect stranger. "Very interesting."

Mild, softly spoken, she glances toward the waitress as she veers off to retrieve their orders, and then back at Imogen. "It sounds like, what my mother would call, a mans job." There is a brief sparkle in her pale blue eyes that says she is pleased to find a woman doing it. "Is it dangerous?"

[Imogen] Imogen's mouth twists a little as Nona speaks. "It sounds like your mother might get along with a relative of mine." This time, the smirk reaches her eyes, a flicker of humour, sharp and cutting.

"Not in particular," she says. "Morbid, yes, fetid sometimes, but not particularly dangerous."

Her eyebrow lifts, her humour resuming, "They're already dead, after all."

[Nona Veksler] Nona returns the humorous smile, her pale blue eyes veiled by dark painted lashes. "Yes. I hadn't thought of that." A hand lifts to tuck a stray strand of blond behind one ear, and the waitress returns with their steaming drinks. An Earl Grey tea for Imogen. A dark, rich cup of black coffee for Nona. Her hands grip the mug lightly, seeping warmth from it's porcelain curves.

"Do you have a family here? Children?" She doesn't inquire about a mate. If only because in the circles she has been trained to run in, it is not polite to ask about ones mate, unless you have been invited to. One never knows when a mate, or loved one has been killed in battle, and as such, should never ask without an invitation to inquire.

[Imogen] The tea steams fragrantly, a small wire basket balanced on the cup. The waitress sets down a small milker, and checks to make sure they need nothing else before departing again.

Imogen lays her fingertips lightly on the cup's porcelain curves, leaning back again. She lets the tea darken as the seconds pass.

She pauses at the question, her gaze remaining fixed on the younger woman.

"No," she answers simply. "No family. I didn't come 'ere fer any o' the usual reasons."

Another beat of pause, before she speaks again. "Ha' you been told tha' the full-bloods consider themselves to be at war?" And just like that - things change from personal to business.

[Nona Veksler] Nona's eyes avert themselves at Imogen's reply, and she nods letting the subject die as the red head changes the subject. "Yes." She replies in barely more than a whisper before she lifts her coffee and takes a quick sip before setting it down again. "Katherine Bellamonte warned me."

And then of course there was the bleeding Garou in the park last night, but since they're not getting personal...

Boldly, or rather, as boldly as Nona gets, calling upon her breeding to lend her the strength of what she is lacking (or so she's been told) in character. "What... If you don't mind my asking. Are 'the usual' reasons?" Unsettlingly wide blue eyes fix on Imogen, her small mouth pursed in a faint smile.

[Imogen] "Family, the Nation, the war or duty," Imogen's hand lifts from the cup, gesturing slightly, vaguely. "Other such things."

They both have pure breeding. They both come from prestigious families. They do not know it of each other. They cannot feel it in each other.

Besides. They haven't even introduced themselves.

Still, perhaps something of their family ties seeps out through the edges. It is the way they speak, their poise - either visceral or affected.

"Whatever might possess a full or half-blood to choose a city like this."

[Nona Veksler] Nona listens, and ponders the red heads answer for a moment, finally nodding in silence. Her wide eyed stare focused on Imogen over the rim of her coffee cup as she takes another sip. Lightly, she sets it down, and again embraces it with her palms. "I'm Nona." At this revelation she extends one hot palmed hand across the table toward the other woman. "It's nice to meet you."

[Imogen] as Nona takes her sip, Imogen removes the tea basket, setting it on a nearby platter. She dresses her tea with milk only, lifting it for the first swallow.

Nona offers her hand and Imogen lowers her mug with one hand, and reaching out with the other. Her fingers are warm, but only because of the cup.

"Imogen," she says. "A pleasure."

It is one of the few times she means it. Sadly, this has little to do with Nona as the distraction she provides. Still.

"Is art a woman's work then?" she enquires, as hands release and she picks up her tea cup once more, her eyebrow lifting wryly.

[Nona Veksler] "Yes." She nods, her own smile becoming a touch wry in return. Her gaze flits out the window, watching the street for a moment before looking back at Imogen. "Women are art." There is a mockingly stern quality to her tone, and one can only imagine it is the tone of her mother. "Or so Mama says." As the spite flavored humor fades from her smile, it becomes sedate and demure once more. Her eyes again avert themselves, as though she's said, or done something rude. There is the slightest, mute shake of her head as she lifts her coffee and takes another sip.

"But Art is not really work at all in the eyes of many." Her gaze lifts again, and it is the gaze of an intelligent woman. One who is starkly aware of the opinions of others.

[Imogen] Her eyebrow quirks upward. "Are you askin' me what I think of art as a career?"

[Nona Veksler] "No." A fine blush creeps into her cheeks, and she glances down at her steaming coffee. "No... I wasn't."

[Imogen] Imogen's eyes don't falter, they linger there upon the girl, silent, her expression restrained.

"In either case," she says as if the other were not acutely embarrassed, blushing and averting her gaze, "'the eyes of many' hardly count."

[Nona Veksler] Lifting her head, she nods mutely. "So I have heard." A touch of a smile, and again she sips her coffee, glancing out the window at the growing darkness and then looking wide eyed at her watch. "Oh!"

Her gaze darts across the table at Imogen, and with an apologetic blink of her eyes and hurried gathering of her things she makes to rise. "I have to go. I...." She pauses, as though embarassed, but carries on after a moment. "... I have been given... a curfew, of sorts." Embarassed, she fishes money out of her purse and leaves it on the table. "I'm sorry."

[Imogen] The kinwoman does not smile in return, but as the younger woman makes her hurried departure, apologizing, the kinwoman moves a hand dismissive.

"Ha' a good night," is all she says.