Red Hood
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Donut Look Now
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headintheclouds
Majoraa 𝓛𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝓕𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑛 𝓞𝑎𝑘𝓼 & 𝓛𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑊𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝓞𝑎𝑘𝓼
“𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑠𝑎𝑦, ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑢𝑚𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓.”
— 𝑅𝑎𝑙𝑝ℎ 𝑊𝑎𝑙𝑑𝑜 𝐸𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛
𝓛𝑒 𝓟𝑎𝑟𝑓𝑢𝑚 𝓞𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜
𝓣he day was a Saturday afternoon, and the Le Parfum Operando was closed, as it usually closed at noon on Saturdays. After the closing of Le Parfum Operando, Lord Finnegan would head down into the basement to work on his potions and alchemy that kept the foundations of his business afloat. His younger brother, Lord Walter, had recently taken up a position as his an Assisant and was learning the trade to the best of his sickly ability. The two men had been working for only a couple hours, and in all of Finnegan's attention, the powder and perfumes had caught more of his interest and less of Walter's own intrigue. In the quietest form of a tantrum, he decided to make his opinion known.
“It is that much more accurate to say that you are a mad scientist than a perfumist, my dear brother,” Lord Walter commented as he held in his hand a small glass vile of some pale liquid. His hazel eyes studied the contents as he raised it higher and closer to his face, allowing the lighting from the window to reflect through its bodice. It was most peculiar to him as he tried to spot a translucent colour turn with an amberish revelation inside the container. He thought the colour reminded him of something, but he could grasp no words to accurately describe it. Instead, he awed in a stupified manner as he allowed the mixture to mesmerize him, but all too soon, he was interrupted by his brother.
“No, no. Walter,” Lord Finnegan quickly glanced at his brother, as if a cue had prompted his sudden awareness of his brother’s remarkable clumsiness. His voice cut through the silent ambiance that had taken hold of the room hours ago, “Away from the light. It is far too acidic to be held —” his voice was reprimanding the other man as some sort of pet such as a puppy dog was opposed to as a human being.
“Ah,” Walter quickly turned away from the window and cupped the glass container in his hand, trying to shield it all too well from the sunlight. His face was flushed as his emotions exaggerated through his movements. He wearily looked towards his brother, who had pulled his attention away from his own potion making and was looking sternly.
Finnegan’s own gloved hands were fiddling with a dropper and a flask, and around his wavy, sandy blonde hair, a leather strap was looped with goggles, accentuated with various magnifying glasses. “... so closely to the light,” Finnegan’s lips parted to say something more but his demeanor softened at the pitiful sight of his younger brother, peaking under his own raspy brown hair.
The poor younger man had nothing better to do but be curiously dangerous in the most innocent manner possible. Finnegan looked to the counter and placed the flask in its rightful position. His fingers twiddled inside his gloves before he removed them. All the while, Walter was keeping watch on his brother and looking to place the vile back where he had found it. There had been so many beautiful things inside the laboratory, and here he thought this to be the most harmless thing to do.
“Let us take a break. We should sip some tea.” Finnegan pressed his bare hand into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled from it a gold locket. His thumb pressed the bow and the embroidered cover lifted to reveal the time. It was a quarter till three. He quickly closed the pocket watch and placed it back inside his slate-grey vest. If not Walter, he needed a rest. He normally could smell his brother’s intentions, but in that instance, he felt a bluntness had overcome him. His hands quickly lifted to the set of large spectacles worn over his eyes, and he removed them, slipping the straps from his head, “We shall water the plans afterwards,” he noted as he looked around the observation room.
Glass ornaments were hanging with various potions and ingredients of all various sorts. Trinkets and other thingamabobs were placed in delicate manners. The study was set up in a beautifully chaotic fashion, and if anyone were to try and rummage through it all, they might get lost even if there was an entirely rational method of organization to all the madness. It was obviously a place of research and discovery and not with which to be tampered, anyhow. The whimsical design of clean metal and reflective glass not only served as a purpose of appreciation to finer philosophy of aesthetics but as a design for security. To anyone who had the privilege of stepping foot behind the door of the alchemist’s workshop, had commonly been noted to say that the true mystery is how such a glorious room was capable of being used for such an elaborate business model.
“Sounds fair,” Walter agreed. His finger was adjusted the glass vile’s position in a brass tube holder. It was sitting in a shaded corner underneath a metallic tree with several glass ornaments and a timer that anticipated the cycles of each potion’s desire. For only a brief moment he admired the tree’s vehicles and whistles, but he thought it better to mind his brother more closely. He was about to send an apology to his brother when he was interrupted, yet again.
“Of course it does,” Finnegan smiled under his carefully trimmed mustache and let out a small breath from his nostril in pompous amusement. Walter had an unwavering desire to validate his decisions, and in all of Finnegan’s show-and-tell, he always agreed with Walter, even if it was in some ways a snuffed position that Walter continuously enjoyed reliving, “Come. What shall we have? I shall have whatever you decide.” He raised an a thick brow as he placed his goggles on a wooden hook, nailed to the wall, and he took a fine whiff to make sure everything was in place before deciding to clock out.
“Whatever I want?” Walter felt finicky, having his own voice in the matter. It was something he often despised yet often times yearned. This sort of situation always caught him in a fight within himself. He would rather have not been asked than asked. Although, if truth be told, there were a few things, or maybe less than a few — just one thing in particular that he had a prominent opinion over and which he wished to be asked. However, such was not a time for this one peculiar thing as he had yet to make it known to barely himself. His mechanical toys and dolls had no idea he was hiding anything from them. He hid this emotion so well inside himself as someone learned from his newly ordained manhood as a strength in boldness even if feigned. “I am not sure.”
Finnegan turned towards Walter, “Very well. Perhaps, Madame Sophronia will have some recommendations, at The Papillon Tea Room.” His eyes trailed down Walter, who was standing dumbfound, but he thought nothing of the situation for the time being. Whatever was ailing his brother was often things that he learned on which to not let his mind linger for anything but a brief moment. He had more than enough on his mind. One of them had to do with one of Madame Sophronia’s youngest sister. While she was most likely not at the Tea Room this afternoon, it never hurt to make a decent conversation with the proposition’s wiser, more mature sibling, “I’ll meet you upstairs. I need to freshen up.”
Walter watched as Finnegan’s steps placed one foot in front of the other with a strange, militant pep, as he walked towards the winding staircase. A small smile grew on his face with a sigh of relief. He let Finnegan take his exit before he followed suit, not thinking once that Finnegan had noted the strangely slow pace that his brother took on his own younger drumbeat to heart.
𝓣ℎ𝑒 𝓟𝑎𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑛 𝓣𝑒𝑎 𝓡𝑜𝑜𝑚
𝓐 door chime jingled as the red painted door allowed Lord Walter and Lord Finnegan to enter The Papillon Tea Room. Carpets were strewn across a checker tiled flooring; and wooden tables of different sets and styles scattered around the room. Each table had a different patterned cloth and mismatched chairs. Even the dinnerware being used by the guests were of different brands and fashions. There was not one matching thing in the entire area, and to make things even more dizzy, the walls were mirrors. The Papillon Tea Room looked much more akin to a more sophisticated house of mirrors, and if it were not for the finely tuned violin orchestrating in the background by a decent young woman stationed in the far corner, the entire scenario might as well have been far too chaotic for comfort.
“Madame Sophrina and you have similar style,” Walter mentioned as he removed his cap upon entering the building. His palms held tightly to the cotton as he took his turn at eyeing all the intricacies. He meant the comment in the lightest way possible. The Perfumery was quite organized, but the laboratory was something of a different nature.
As Walter turned to hang his hat upon the rack that was fastened to the wall left of the doorway, Finnegan asked him what he meant by his comment. The question was rather enthusiastic sounding with no leads as to why Walter would have alluded to such a conclusion, “I meant it in the nicest way possible,” he made a small smile, sweet in its nature but stiff all the same.
“You both...” He paused as he saw a woman whose frilly collared blouse was encompassed by an enormous brooch. A brown and black pinstriped corset hugged her waist and pressed her black frills like that of a singing bird. Her skirt was equally tight and accentuated the right parts of body, clinging to her skin, and she was so sharp looking in her tight pinstripes and neutral tones that she sauntered almost unnoticed through the vicinity. The only thing that kept Walter’s attention was the glimmering charcoal brooch and ticking gadgets that hung from her girdle.
The woman extended a black satin gloved hand and instead of first giving Walter her hand, she played gently with the brown and creamy floral corsage clipped to the front of her long, curly blonde hair. A peck of a smile glistened on her bright red lips as her hand dipped and draped forward for Walter to greet the younger men, “Welcome to The Papillon Tea Room. I am Madame Sophronia Locke. I do not believe we have met, yet.” Her painted eyes made a daring whisk of a glance at Finnegan and quickly minded the attention of Walter, “I see you have brought Lord Finnegan Oaks with you...” Her mouth moved as if she was sucking on something, “And you... Are you Lord Finnegan’s most talked about brother?” Her sealed smile widened, “I say that in the nicest way possible... of course.” Her hand slipped suddenly from Walter’s reach wagged a quick finger at him before her body turned as if she was making a dance, which positioned herself right in front of Finnegan, “I have been expecting you,” her chin turned to the side and an eyebrow raised. Her carefully contoured and blushed cheek was raised slightly and ready for a tap of his lips upon her pale, powdered skin.
Walter turned quickly, feeling his face redden. His forehead felt heated with embarrassment, and he thought to excuse himself momentarily, but he remained with locked legs as he watched his brother gracefully lay two kisses on Madame Sophronia, one for each cheek, “Charming and witty despite your age,” Finnegan looked down at her, “I would say as a fine wine, but I think it is more suited to say a black tea considering the venue,” his eyes were reading her Cheshire smile and with his own wit, he quickly glanced at Walter who was standing like a stray puppy, pleading for his brother to make ends meet with the conversation as to allow them some sort of rest. He much preferred being in the laboratory being scolded for dumb mistakes than stand in the public's eye as a jesting misnomer.
“Ah, why thank you, M’Lord, and you,” her eyes looked down at his attire and back to the pompous style of the face he was wearing, “As playfully aware of your intentions to woo any woman you come across due to your inability to make commitment.” Her shoulders straightened as she winked at him, “I jest. Come along, now. I have a hefty conversation for the both of you to be heard... in private, of course.” She pressed her arms together and motioned in a sultry way with her upper body as she over articulated a certain word. The movement caught Walter by surprise, and Finnegan reached out a hand to hold his brother's arm, all the while, holding his own emotions as a stoic badge of blissful ignorance as to why the Madame would ever make such an idiotic commentary about his relations with disappointing women who never failed to try and bore him to death.
“This is my younger brother, Lord Walter,” Finnegan turned to him and watched as the younger man nodded to Madame Sophronia who had both of the men’s attention now, “It would only be right that I allowed him a proper introduction.”
Madame Soprhonia churned her thoughts as she tried to keep the same sarcastically sweet smile pinned on her face. Finnegan was not one of her favorite clients to remember, but in all due respect, she had an unfortunate debt that kept them in contact. The madame extended her satin gloved hand once again, and with a small tip, she bitterly allowed the younger gentleman to make his respect with her. All the while, under Finnega’s sinfully hawkish gaze that mocked her biological makeup, “The pleasure is mine,” Walter spoke with the most sincere politeness, and in all of Madame Sophronia’s humanity, she felt a softened by the boyish gentry.
“Of course,” she withdrew her hand quickly, bringing it to her chest for the blink of a second and quickly glanced at Finnegan, “Come, come. To the back room. I will order some tea to be prepared for us, at once,” she shook her head, brisking the long curls that draped almost down to her waist, “My youngest sister is out of town,” she glanced back at Finnegan, “You poor thing,” a feint of pouts with puckered lips set in a frown stared at him.
“A shame, her company would have been well suited for Walter,” he glanced at Walter, who immediately turned to stare at the closest thing of material interest. Madame Sophronia quickly turned her attention from Walter and pushed back curtains to the backroom. A living room of sorts was fashioned with plush couches and a tea table, low to the ground. A small kitchenette was to the side and had more of a bar setting than a proper bubbling nature of a tea staff.
Finnegan pushed aside the hanging cloth and let Walter go ahead of him. Walter stopped short after the entrance and looked around, marveling at the back room. It was seemingly less ornate than whatever decoration she had prescribed the Tea Room, and yet, he still felt all the more puzzled at it, “Take a seat, darling,” Madame Sophronia ushered with her hand waving briskly, “And you too, Finnegan, dear,” her smile puckered at the sour face that Finnegan made upon entering, “I take it you're not a fan of my favourite soap?” she shook her head and at once, took her seat, not in the least bit likely minding that her smell was not well fancied by one of the city's most famous (or was it infamous?) perfumists.
With a serious tone and face Finnegan replied to her comment a beat or so later, “The aroma is quite strong.” He grabbed hold of his brother's arm and guided him forward, “Sit,” he said quietly before taking his own seat, adjacent to the Madame.
Walter sat down under the belief that his brother to sound tamer under whatever scent it was, and he wondered if the scent was affecting him, as well. He wet his lips with his tongue and looked around the room once more, unable to keep his focus very clearly. Everything seemed so odd, and nothing of the afternoon had gone as planned, including the timing of their tea break. It was fifteen minutes early, not that he really cared, but it was something he had noted in all of his clumsiness.
“Might I implore you both to try a Twiggy White Needle Tea? It's the latest in the darker skinned regions of the Third World countries. The rules are the only ones allowed to have any, and with that said, they are quite stingy about how much is exported. It is thought to be a crown of high status worn in a cup,” she smiled and eyed both men, “I believe we are all of the correct social status to enjoy something so fine and delicate, yes?” Her voice was stiff with mockery at them both as she began weaving her reasoning for bringing them into the backroom.
“It sounds delightful,” Finnegan spoke sternly through the soft concern that he was exposing to the patronness.
“I agree, Madame Sophronia. The tea sounds wonderful,” Walter made a hesitant smile that almost whistled with a strange anxiety masked by a charade of the boyish glee that made her like him so much upon first meeting him.
“I believe your brother said 'delightful,' not 'wonderful,'” Madame Sophronia shook her head, “Such a—,”
“That's enough,” Finnegan barked at her, “Why have you brought us back here, again? I seem to have lost track from all the money you spend on cheap perfumes to cover up whatever is lying beneath the floorboard. Or, is it the dead body in the cupboard? I cannot cannot tell you which is worse aside from the fact that both have probably been there well over a month's time...” He shook his head, “Which is in all honesty, bad taste for a murderer even of your class. Perhaps, you should stop drinking African tea and try something a little bit more relaxing and cleanly—”
“Are you saying Madame Sophronia is a murderer?” Walter interrupted while shuffling awkwardly in his chair. His face had grown paler. His mind was trying to piece together exactly what had just been conspired around him, but he was drawing blanks.
“Oh, stop being such pansies, you both. You are acting as if I was going to put some in the tea,” she shook her head and faked a sadness, “I know you know my business, Finnegan. Please, stop flattering me. I have no dead anything worthwhile that you need to know. Besides, only someone with your keen of scents would ever notice, and not just anyone is allowed back in these quarters,” she looked around the room lovingly, admiring the oddities while taking a deep breath of the musky, sour air.
“You have the most peculiar way of going about your business, Madame Sophronia. It smells awfully wretched to say the least. I'll pass on the tea, unless Walter cares for any. We should be going back to the laboratory soon. What is it you have with us?” Finnegan had pressed his hand into his vests's pocket and taken a peak at his pocket watch during his charade. He was feeling a bit stuffy in her presence and wanted an outlet. He generally tried to be gentlemanly about these things, but his pride was wearing thin of looking at the patronness' cupid smile.
“As you wish,” from underneath her glove, she pulled a small piece of folded paper and slid it across the table to Finnegan, “All yours,” she raised both her eyebrows in anticipation for whatever was to come from any of them and then quickly minded her way to Walter, “Are you having tea, again, my dear? My memory escapes me,” a small, inaudible giggle puffed her as she opened her smile brightly.
“I am decent. Thank you for your time,” Walter ducked and quickly began collecting himself as Finnegan picked up the paper. He was about to say something about it, but Madame Sophronia interrupted him.
“Well then. Pooh on you. Close the door on your way out,” she made a bubbly giggle and waved her hands backwards. A bell had found its way nestled in between her fingers, and when she did this-and-that with her hands, it chimed several times.
Finnegan was in the middle of verbally testing her about the whole ordeal being over a simple piece of paper when she chimed the bell, and two large men stepped out from another room, “Oh, silly me!” Finnegan retorted, “And here I was mistaken in believing, this was an elaborate ordeal of overbearing sisterhood to keep me from Julianna.” His body pushed from the wood table as his hand swiftly pushed the paper into an inside pocket of his overcoat. Walter made a small gasp as he tempted to make himself follow Finnegan's silent orders.
“You best be going on your way, Sirs,” a large man in an overcoat, vest, and tie commented. His hands were held in a folded position over his burgundy high waist pants. His hair was combed over and gelled nicely. Walter thought him to have been a guest when he first saw him in the Tea Room.
“Right you are,” Finnegan looked up at the large man and attempted to pat the man but was quickly hurled a parry of a backhand that halted anything that could result in Finnegan turning a simple gesture into an assault, even if his gesture was of pompous arrogant innocence, which eventually ended with Finnegan thanking the Madame for sharing her time.
With that, the two men left the Papillon Tea Room with a chime and an ended remark spilled from Walter, which went as thus:
“You never meant for us to go to The Papillon for tea did you?”
“You never meant for us to go to The Papillon for tea did you?”
