2020-10-10 - Blowing More Than The Joint

2007 -- a year of which the main claim to fame is that it was the year before 2008 and the financial crisis. Some might say, 2007 was the last good year. Those would be the somebodies who took severe financial hits from that crisis. Often, they would be the somebodies who lost more than most people had in the first place. One could get the idea that if you have a million bucks, losing half a million is a disaster. To a great deal of people, having half a million bucks left would be a substantial improvement of their status quo. The Abildgaards are not those people.

In 2007, the future is bright. Bulgaria and Romania join the European Union. Slovenia joins the Eurozone. Russia and Georgia fight their own private little war and no one in Western Europe seems to notice. Madeleine McCann disappears from a resort in Portugal. The tabloids speculate on her whereabouts for months, even years ahead. The first iPhone is introduced. Live Earth concerts are held in nine major cities around the world, in order to raise environmental awareness.

In 2007, Ravn Abildgaard is seventeen years old. He is a gangly teenager, the kind of boy who seems to consist of arms and legs and knees. His natural hair colour is a light brown that the sun burns to copper or even gold, depending on how much time he spends outdoors. He has dyed it a strange shade of black with purple-ish undertones because he doesn't feel it. Brown is boring. Blond is stupid. He wishes that his mother would let him do green or purple stripes but that's where she draws the line. He can dye his hair black if he must. But he'll bloody well look presentable in a suit, and neon skunk hair is not an option.

Neither are earrings or nose studs. That's why he puts them in every morning when he leaves for school, and takes them back out every afternoon when he comes home. He argues with Elisabeth Abildgaard. No one else does. Not even his father. Ravn and his mother have screaming matches that come to one of two inevitable endings every time.

Wouldn't be the first time the teen stole somebody's car keys (and affiliated car) to drive off somewhere, abandoning it when the gas runs out. Each time, he's been picked up a few days later by the police. Three times because some responsible employee of whatever travelling band of carnies or little circus he tried to join turned him in to social services. The fourth time he turned himself in after hitching a ride with a guy in a BMW who got handsy. The BMW guy ended up in the ER, with a fork stuck in a very personal area because Ravn can do things when he gets mad. Things he doesn't talk about because no one else makes cutlery fly just by looking at it. BMW guy never told anyone how the 'accident' happened. Neither did Ravn.

The usual outcome of these arguments is compromise, though. Ravn doesn't get his eyebrows pierced. In return, he gets to bloody well dress in black all the way if he wants to. He doesn't use his magic to trip the soup bowl when the maid is serving his mother, though he has made it clear to her that he could and he could send her to hospital that way if he wanted to. In return, he gets to go to a normal school for normal people's children. It's blackmail of the highest order, and the teen is somewhat proud every time he feels that he comes out on top.

He's privileged and bored and he is the only person living in this old manor house who moves things and sees dead people.

Engelsholm Castle was built sometime before the 15th century. It has a lot of dead people to see. It's not really a castle, though. Ravn is adamant about that. It's a big, white manor house with onion turrets and a moat and a pond full of carps. It's old, full of antiques and stuffy rich people's things and he would rather die than bring a friend over because it's all so bloody embarrassing.

2007 is also the year in which Elisabeth Abildgaard -- and by extension, her husband, Peter Abildgaard -- host some family affair or other. They host a number of them, but this one is special insofar that Blixenskiold and his new Russian wife are in attendance. Blixenskiold is an old Norwegian noble line, connected to the line of Abildgaard through the centuries. Peter Abildgaard is rather big on genealogy, and if he could get a word in for his wife, the Count could no doubt tell you exactly which Abildgaard married what Blixenskiold in 1483.

The Blixenskiolds are probably no different to other people of society. What worries Ravn about them is that the newly minted Lyudmila Blixenskiold nee Whatever has a ward. She's seventeen years old too. He knows how this setup works. Elisabeth Abildgaard couldn't care less about the house of Blixenskiold or the dynastic future of the Counts Abildgaard. She just wants to prove to herself and the world that her son isn't a faggot.

Ravn hasn't met Jeanette Blixenskiold yet, but he already dislikes her.

Engelsholm translates to 'islet of angels'. Ravn has yet to meet anything here with large white wings that wasn't a goose. The islet part rings true, though, because the <s>castle</s> mansion does sit on a small, artificial island in one edge of a pond or lake that feeds from the various rivers winding their way towards the ocean nearby. A moat surrounds the three sides that the lake does not, creating an atmosphere that is at once very classic and elegant, and ridiculously time-lost.

Ravn has no idea when the original buildings were erected. He's listened to enough of his father's lectures to know that Engelsholm passed to the Rosenkrantzes in 1452. The current look of the place is from the mid-1700s. He will never admit it if you ask him, but he's got a keen mind for historical details like that, and he absolutely, definitely intends to pursue a PhD in history eventually. Unless his mother somehow wins the argument and gets him into the banking world or politics instead. The Rosenkrantzes are in politics these days, she points out every so often. Their candidate represents the most leftwing socialist party, Ravn's father tends to observe, and then leave the room quickly.

All Ravn wants is to be left alone. The best way to achieve this is to not be at the mansion when the cars begin to arrive and people start milling about. He's sought refuge, instead, down by the pond. There is a bench there, a white garden bench under a weeping willow -- the latter which conveniently shelters anyone sitting on the bench from view from the manor. (He will never call it a castle. It is definitely a castle). The teen often goes there when he wants to stay the hell out of sight and still be able to say, but mother, I was in the park, do you want me to sit indoors and play Civilization IV all day?

In 2007, Jeanette Blixenskiold is seventeen years old. She's a strong girl, if one is to put it politely, iron-spined and confident beyond her years. She is darker skinned, her paternal origins unknown, with an average build that leans towards toned, gentle muscle. Her hair is currently swept up in an updo that ends in loose curls, save for the long, layered bangs that cover one side of her face. It is also a deep midnight blue, full of chunky highlights in neon green, purple, and that specific color of dyed red the late 2000 USA emo scene loved so much. Lyudmila, poor woman, could not bear to stop her from dyeing it: she does, after all, owe too much to Jeanette's mysterious mother, a traveling entertainer she suspects had romani blood, who could see all kinds of mysterious things, and helped Lyudmila escape the grasp of her tyrannical husband that brought her birth family to ruins.

Jeanette fought hard to stop her legitimate genetic birth mother, that self-same Lyudmila, from sounding like an idiot by using gypsy caravans. It was passé fifty years ago and passé now. But she didn't argue the set-up as a whole, or fight against it. The more rebellious she seemed, the more pitiful and in need of help Lyudmila would seem-- and the more altruistic. The more well-behaved Jeanette was, the more ideal a mother figure her mother would be. If she acted like a cold, defensive bitch to others, no doubt Lyudmila would painfully and proudly justify it by saying dear Jeanette had spent too long watching her adopted mother struggle at the hands of greedy, selfish men and cruel women. It was all enough that Jeanette begrudgingly but sincerely admired her mother's ability to turn everything into a bonus in her schemes with that 'delicate female' act of hers. May as well just bloody act as she pleased and ignore the bullshit coming from Blitzencold or whatever her new surname was supposed to be.

There was no point in learning it. Her mother would earn her a new one soon enough.

She had listened to her mother and dressed up for the event held by Brick'n'Scold's noble whatever. And was not too unhappy to have found a chunky, ruffled tiered skirt, short and alternating black and grey, worn with capri black leggings and a chunky belt with a gold, bird-in-flight clasp. An off-shoulder, fuzzy lavender cropped sweater, black pumps, and hair clips of dice with jewels for pips completed the look.

If proving her son straight isn't worth another bad influence encouraging Ravn's behavior, Elisabeth may well regret her choice in introducing the teens to one another. But, perhaps the cosmopolitan almost-daughter of an estwhile relation, who has lived in Russia and attended boarding school in Spain and the United States, is enough to compensate for the troubled teen's looks and confidence. And, after all, she seems to get along with her adopted mother.

Jeanette's mother has also made vague suggestions regarding the young Abildgaard heir, but was still far too busy pulling the hooks she stabbed into her current husband to bother with her daughter's lack of interest. And Jeanette, having even interest in standing around with old people awkwardly asking too many questions or some spoiled, clueless rich boy with an uncle dumb enough to fall for her mother, chose to disappear, giving her mother free reign to make up all the shit she needs to.

The castle is old, however, old enough she doesn't explore it right away, be seen by the staff rushing around preparing for the party. No, she's chosen to wait -- there, by the pond that reminds her of the one back home, sprawled on the garden bench, back on the seat, legs up against the back of the bench, her hands at her stomach, fingers loosely knit over a fuzzy black diary-sized book and her head dangling down as she stares at the water, upside down, with unblinking eyes.

The water ripples in the wind. Quietly, gently. Deeply.

The Danish language does not have enough words to describe just how annoyed the lanky teen is as he finds himself standing on the garden path leading towards the willow. That is his bench. His hiding spot. For a moment he considers just surrendering the scene. Turning around, walking away. Going to his room, fire up the computer, read a book, watch a movie. Lock the door from the inside, ignore any summons to dinner, just wait for everyone to go away. Leave me alone.

Elisabeth knows better than to insist on her son attending anything social when he's in one of his moods. She'll give him hell later, and he usually does go and pretend to be part of the furniture just to keep her off his back. Not today, though. If the bloody girl had not been there, then maybe --

The penny drops. And she gets to dye her fucking hair blue.

Ravn takes a few deep breaths. If he needs to deal with some spoiled Russian heiress, he can at least not be doing it while coughing his lungs out. He should have brought his inhaler, heaven knows he's supposed to keep it on him at all times -- and that he never does, because he hates that thing and everything it represents.

Then he walks on, determinedly, until he stands next to the offending female -- a tall, lanky kid with a questionable dye job, hands buried deep in the pockets of a black windbreaker. Everything he wears is black. Most of it is expensive in the way that tries to pass for not -- casual, a fashionista would say. He wears a turtleneck sweater and gloves even on a warm day. The only thing that's missing is eyeliner.

"Du sidder på min bænk."

He realises that the girl will not speak Danish. She's Russian. He doesn't speak Russian. So much for trying to sound nonchalant and chase her off; a blush creeps up his collar at his embarrassing mistake. "You sit on my bench," he repeats in an accent that may once have seen an Englishman in the distance but quickly ran away before anything that sounds vaguely Anglophonic might stick.

Does Jeanette sense someone approaching? Perhaps. But she just continues to stare out into the water. Her eyes only flick towards him when he starts talking that weird language-- but luckily, he also speaks English. Terribly. Both her brows rise (lower? She's upside down) before she slides the diary off her stomach and holds up her hands out and straight, wiggling her fingers as she glances over at the sour looking Ravn and smiles. A sort of cheshire smile that may or may not make Ravn feel he's being teased. Momentarily, there's that mental debate while she considers - to go with her mother's story, or not? Years of her mother's conditioning spring in, however, and she replies, "If you are kind enough to help me up, maybe I'll move." In American English, kissed with a soft Russian accent and a sly tone.

"And if I unload to the bench you smoke in the water," is the boy's grumpy response. It probably makes sense in Danish.

Maybe even he can hear it. That those are words, yes. English words, absolutely. Words that make sense individually. Words that make no sense whatsoever in that particular constellation.

Ravn's blush deepens. "Sit aside or something," he mumbles in defeat.

Pfft--

It's probably a little mean, but Jeanette totally suppresses a laugh, shoulders shaking, but some still escapes. She doesn't lower her hands, however, "Sorry, Very sorry. Are you sure you will not help me get rightside up?" Fingers wiggle again, "I just need a pull." In fact, her legs are already lowering, the arch of her foot resting on the bench's back edge in preparation to move. "If I say please? I can teach you to say please in spanish, as payment."

"I don't touch people." This kid is definitely trying to keep his cool. Or at least pretend that he is -- he's actually doing a quite impressive job of simply ignoring his own blush, willing it right back out of existence. The game of cool is lost, though, and Ravn at least has enough self awareness to acknowledge that.

"My name is Ravn," he mumbles, hands still in pockets. It's a sound combination that definitely doesn't exist in English, either. Raown or roun, something along those lines. "I don't want to quarrel. I just want to be at peace."

That gurgle, that tug at her center, finally resolved. Jeanette giggles at Ravn's confession, and her hands fall, even as she grabs the edge of the bench's seat and attempts to push herself sideways, kicking off from the back as she does, trying to twirl herself to lay down on the bench and then into a seated position - managing it eventually, one hand going to cover her eyes - black nails, of course - as she waits for the blood to rush back out of her head, slumping back in the seat, legs stretched out before her. There's an exhale as she settles, before dropping her hand and glancing at Ravn, amused, then looking beyond him, back towards the house. "Living here, I can see why you wouldn't. Old places are loud, yes?" She slides to the side, giving Ravn plenty of room, and one leg rises so her foot rests on the edge of the bench seat. Good thing she has leggings on under that skirt. "Roan? No, Raaaa-uuun. Raa-ohh-uun?" She is at least attempting to get the pronunciation, but shrugs. "I am Jeanette. But not french, just the victim of a pretentious mother who thought it sounded elegant." She says, leaning in slightly to say it sotto-voiced.

"Jeanette." Ravn pronounces the name cha-nett-uh. The Danish have an odd relationship with foreign languages, one which becomes clear to international travellers in short time. Danes love speaking English. They're taught the language from seventh grade (sometimes earlier) and a substantial part of the Danish entertainment sphere originates from the US (and to some degree, the UK). Danes read and listen to English, a lot. But unless they work with international speakers on a daily level or otherwise have some reason to actually speak the language, Danes often have little experience constructing sentences quickly on the fly. This often leads to a strange kind of half-fluency where they understand you perfectly well but struggle to make themselves understood in return. Passive fluency, some people call it.

Ravn manages this time. "Tell your mother that Jeanette is a common and very boring Danish name." Abrasive as the actual words might look on paper, there is a trace of mutual suffering in the youth's voice. Pretentious mothers he can relate to, so very much. His own name is not pretentious but it's old-fashioned and don't you forget your heritage. Ravn is the last name of a couple of well known families as well -- actors, artists. He wishes he was either, but all he's got is a first name that swaggers in with all of its Nordic heritage and reminds you, nose in air, that some people can trace their ancestry back to the 13th century, and a last name that can indeed be traced back to the 13th century.

He sits on the bench. Tentatively, keeping his distance, making sure to not accidentally brush as much as a knee against the girl's. "We can just stay here. No one cares if we are there for dinner as long as they can blend in for each other."

Yeah, his English needs work.

Jeanette remains leaning towards Ravn, apparently entertained by his avoidance of hers-- does she lean even closer, just a bit? Perhaps, but soon she leans back and instead returns to the sprawl, comfortably so, one hand reaching up to flick her bangs off her face in an impatient gesture - they almost immediately return back to where they were, but somehow, less annoying. And, after all. It's not about the hair- it's the gesture, drawing attention to her face, eyes up here. So maybe he won't notice her kicking the pumps off and letting them fall beneath the bench. Her toenails are, unsurprisingly, also painted black. "It will give them plenty of time to bitch about us. Or plan our wedding." There is a soft noise of disgust, before Jeanette's eyes flick towards Ravn, and the look of distaste turns into more of a teasing smile, even as she reaches over to wave a hand in front of his face, "Tell me, my new friend - do you want two children or three? And how do you feel about a spring wedding? I'd prefer a summer one if we can get away with it, but your mother mentioned I'm exactly your type." Her hand goes to her heart, pressing there as she tilts her head back and flutters her lashes towards Ravn, the smirk-smile still on her face, mocking and teasing. "You aren't usually my type, but. I can lower my expectations for the sake of our dear parents."

"Can't we just get off and join a traveling juggler group?"

No one can pun this badly and not look at least slightly guilty about it. Odds are that the lanky teen is genuinely unaware of what he is suggesting(1). His blue-grey gaze isn't following Jeanette's gesture either -- because eyes up here implies that he might be looking at other parts of her, and he is absolutely not. Ravn is clearly one of those people who do not do eye contact. He's looking at the ground, the lake, the reeds -- anything but the person he's talking to.

(1). In another universe, Google Translate is having a field day.

If Ravn was ten years older, Lyudmila Blixenskiold nee Half a Dozen Other Names would probably try to scoop him up for herself. Not because he is attractive -- though he kind of is, in a sort of little bit too feminine way, with heavy eyelashes -- but because he is clearly awkward as hell. The kind of boy who grows into the kind of man who will likely be flattered into submission by even the smallest bits of attention. The kind of man who is easy prey to an attractive woman without an ounce of guilt or shame about taking advantage of the insecurities of others. And conveniently, the kind of man who probably signs any nuptial because surely the light of his life would never leave him or take advantage of him, and boy, is he in for a couple of rough life lessons.

At seventeen, though, someone in his position is either an entitled (literally) asshole or an awkward pile of self loathing, or in Ravn's case, both. "You're not going to like it here. Vejle is a deadly city to live in. Nothing ever happens here. When something happens, it's just embarrassing," he says and probably (hopefully!) means that the city is mind numbingly dull, not literally lethal.

Jeanette's eyes actually widen when Ravn makes his counter-demand, a light of of respect sparking in her eyes-- one that quickly dies out when it's clear Ravn has no idea what he's suggesting. But for a second, she was seconds from praising him for calling out both the bullshit history her mother invented AND her own marriage jokes. Instead, Jeanette breaks out into giggles, finally deciding to stop messing with Ravn and rise from the bench, stretching with her arms high in the sky, back arching before she takes a barefoot step or two towards the lake water. Ravn "You've got balls to suggest that kind of thing to me, you know that my friend?" Jeanette says, tossing the comment over her shoulder. "But it's nothing. Besides. I wouldn't leave here. I go to school in the United States, so I wouldn't have to live here."

She would burn this place and any other place to the ground of Lyudmila tried to force her to leave her life in with her papi. That's the agreement, after all. She lives with her father in the US; she summers with her mother, wherever her mother may be. It's one of the lines she won't let Lyudmila coax her into crossing, as liberal as the pair are with one another, and it's the source of the only actual screaming match they've had. So perhaps Ravn might hear a slight sharpness in the words Jeanette is not able to suppress, even knowing Ravn's just another dumb, ignorant teenage boy just... unaware.

Even if he perhaps isn't? But, she can't be sure....

"Does seem like a shitty place to live with nothing nearby. What do you do for fun?" Jeanette asks, looking back towards the water. Her feet are going to get muddy, this close to the bank. "And please don't say long walks or reading, that's so lame."

The crimson was just subsiding and then she called reading lame. Colour creeps back up Ravn's collar as he murmurs, "I only read non-fiction."

Is she laughing at him? She is laughing at him. A bit of temper flares up; just because he thinks the ancestral home is stupid and boring and oldfashioned and embarrassing doesn't mean some girl from god only knows where gets to diss it. With a grey glare the youth says, "Smoking a few fat ones, stealing a car, smashing some windows, pissing my mom off, you know, such an ordinary Wednesday."

He tries to sound nonchalant about it. Like, one out of you and me are cool. You're not it. Except, he's pretty sure that 'a couple of joints' is not actually 'a few fat ones' in English and for fuck's sake, why does this have to be so hard, all he wanted was to be left in peace to feel sorry for himself about idiot parents and idiot uncles marrying idiot women with idiot daughters.

"Cute." Jeanette says, at his comment about Ravn only reading nonfiction, rolling her eyes. He probably can't see, her back is to him-- but maybe he can tell, the body language is there, the tone is there-- some things are universal, and the language of teen derision is a global language.

She's so laughing at him. She doesn't even try to hide it. Everything about her is confident and arrogant, not in the rock-steady way of the wealthy and landed, but the brash and open way of youth and scrappers and people who know they can because they have. She's brash in the way total strangers are, if they know they'll never have to see you again, after a time.

Because if she's lucky, she won't. She's just a prop in a temporary game she's wasting time playing, just waiting for the summer to be over and she can go home. Nothing she does will change the outcome, not with her mother pulling the strings, so why bother?

But-- some things do help all that time past, and she looks over her shoulder, both brows raising and a smile forming at his list of delinquencies, "Really?" She says, before starting to walk back towards the bench, "Then what are we wasting time here for? Let's go, Ravn!" She gets the name fairly close, so at least she... really tried. Crouching, she finds one shoe, then looks beneath the bench to try and locate the other. It's actually rolled a bit to the side of the bench when she kicked it off. "If I knew someone in Denmark I would have brought my own weed. But I've only ever purchased it in Russia and Bulgaria-- and Amsterdam, but they sell it openly there. If I have to deal with my mother later, I would rather be relaxed about it."

"We cannot smoke in the room, you can totally smell it. I've been dirty in the greenhouse, okay?" Ravn speaks in a condescending tone. This girl is being stupid (very girl thing to do, really). But from the look on her face -- she's not the only one. In fact, he's pretty certain that he's the one making a complete idiot out of himself and it's all because he doesn't have time to look up words.

And because Jeanette is a girl and a pretty one at that, but most of all that she is in his space. Girls are not supposed to even notice him. Never mind goddamn talking to him.

Well, that's not entirely true. The daughters of the people his parents associate with do talk to him. Because their parents make them, it is the polite thing to do, and one might as well get it over with. At school, though, at least he's safe -- it didn't take much effort on his behalf to convince the entire student body that he's an asshole who thinks he's a mile better than them. Barring the occasional catfight they leave him alone because honestly, no one likes a sullen jerk who's got more money to blow on weed than your entire extended family -- and then keeps it to himself.

Being popular isn't difficult when you're loaded. Elisabeth Abildgaard is a fine example of how that works. It's just that Ravn is smart enough to tell that no one actually likes her very much.

He sighs and tries again. "Greenhouse." He points. "Joints. Okay?"

Because maybe the Me Tarzan You Jane approach really is the safest approach here.

If it helps, Jeanette clearly finds nothing wrong with boys acting like idiots: in facts, she seems to accept it as a norm. But she does roll her eyes SO HARD at him when he mentions the smell in his room - of course she knows that. Aaaand then he's talking about getting dirty in the green house and she can't repress the pfft-- and following laugh that escapes. "I bet you have." she replies, all cheek, finally finding the other pump and, instead of wearing them, holds her shoes in hand.

A distraction. A little time. She's sure she can get rid of this spoiled as fuck nobody once she has the weed - just leave him in the greenhouse, or plant pictures of his mother naked in his head. That gets rid of boys effectively. But first, the weed. She smiles at Ravn-- something that doesn't quite reach her eyes, but has any of it? - and walks the way he's pointing.

She seems to have no problems moving barefoot, though she does attempt to brush grass and dirt from her knees and behind as she walks. "Finally, we are speaking the same language, my friend." She says, and as she passes him-- a hand rises, as if she might pat him on the shoulder -

At the last minute, she instead makes a "gun" of her hand, "shooting" him from far too close.

That last change was probably for the better, though Jeanette may wonder why the Danish kid flinches away as if he actually thought she was going to hit him. Quickening is pace to put at least some space between them he leads the way across a lawn the size of a golf course, past a boat house and various other low houses with straw thatch that probably house groundskeepers or -- other people affiliated with the estate. The place is luxurious. If Blixenskiold has half the money his Danish cousin does, then Lyudmila picked herself a golden goose to pluck this time around. Again.

What Ravn calls a greenhouse turns out to be a sizeable glass building. It technically is a greenhouse, although it is the kind that the French refer to as an orangerie, whether it contains oranges or not. It contains a luxurious seating arrangement in sweeping art nouveau style, cushioned chairs around a table, sheltered from view by flowering bushes and vines, all carefully tended to by some gardener who currently glimmers by his absence. The Danish kid walks in and heads directly for the tool shelf at the far end; because to maintain the illusion of some French cider house, of course there is a shelf of tools, a line of large glass bottles, things you would find in a cider house. It's just that none of them have ever actually been used.

One of the pots turns out to hold not dirt but a small cigarette box. And that, in turn, holds a box of matches and a number of home rolled cigarettes. "The gardener smokes pot. He doesn't say anything to me to do the same. He works for my mom, he needs it and so do I," Ravn murmurs. For once, he actually finds words that make sense in their constellation. A little awkward, but, understandable at least.

The flinch is enough that Jeanette breaks out into laughter - but there's a wildness to the laugh, as if there was something far funnier that happened, but Ravn doesn't know. The laugh continues into chuckles even as Ravn hurries his pace, Jeanette following behind. Perhaps it's the fact that she's shoeless, but she's rather quiet except for her laugh. She does look around as they walk, however, once her laughter has settled into a cocky amusement that settles over her like a blanket, some new certainty of one kind or another.

Eventually, the greenhouse, and Gina... hesitates a moment, at the door of the building, one hand resting gently against the frame as she glances inside. Her gaze sweeps over the orangerie, the table and carefully cultivated vines, one ankle tucked behind a calf. There's a brief flicker of-- something-- in her face, before she pushes herself in. That confidence, cocky amusement? It's as if it's dropped at the door as she takes her sweet time following in after Ravn. One hand across the back of one of the seats while she approaches the weed - fingertips skimming, barely touching - "Your mother is difficult, then? What's her damage?" The phrase is absent-minded, perhaps something she says often, the russian accent barely felt in the previous. "I hope you at least toss him a few bills to make up for his trouble." Offhand, but with a serious, half-biting undertone, as if not entirely confident the danish prince will consider the cost of the weed for the gardener.

"I buy it, he hides it out of the way." The Danish prince -- who would no doubt die of embarrassment if he knew that Jeanette has designated him thus in her mind -- apparently struggles a little less with making himself understood now; perhaps he's relaxing his guard a little. Then he flops down ungracefully on one of the chairs under a flowering bougainvillea and tosses the box on to the table almost as if daring the girl to explore its contents of joints and weed. "The only thing that matters to Elisabeth is how people perceive her. I can do whatever suits me as long as I don't ruin her outward image. I'm so much moved as soon as I turn eighteen."

A confession of a sorts, or perhaps just a statement -- this is how stuff works here. Whether one likes it or not.

He would, perhaps, be a little less embarrassed if he knew how fairytales really worked. At least in Jeanette's world. Dangerous things, fairy tales. But useful things.

Either way, she shrugs and looks away from him when he's outed as not being ENTIRELY a dick to his weed supplier. Her eyes still glance around at the glass greenhouse, the flowering plants - she tugs on her sweater a little. After all, it's far warmer in here. But she only flips her bangs away from her face (they settle, as usual, about a fifth of a millimeter off from where they were before) and moves towards the table, perching to sit right atop the table as she reaches for the box, bringing it to her lap so she can explore the contents - fiddle with the cigarettes, give a smell to make sure he's not smoking oregano.

Her eyes flit towards Ravn at his last statement, "What?" She asks, the first time she's needed clarification, despite his questionable english, "You mean you, you do not give a fuck about her feelings, or that you're moving at eighteen?" Jeanette wonders, "Well. Both sound like they are true, but which did you intend?" One rolled joint is chosen, her fingers rubbing along it to make sure it's still sealed, before she puts it to her lips and cups one hand around it - there's an... an odd zip, or was it a click, a hint of light, and she puffs a few times, being sure it's fully and well lit before she pulls, holds, exhales out.

"I will probably stay in America once I turn eighteen. I've already applied for college there."

"I'm moving out. I'm going to start at the University of Copenhagen. Humanities. My mother wants me to stay in some penthouse apartment in Frederiksberg but I move into a dorm at Vesterbro," Ravn clarifies. Frederiksberg could be anywhere; and it's not clear from the context what Vesterbro is either, but from his tone of voice it's not the sort of neighbourhood where you'd expect people of his social class to take up residence. From his looks and his attitude, he's probably one of those rich kids who like to slum it, safe in the knowledge that daddy and daddy's lawyers will bail them out of any trouble. And, compared at least with Jeanette, someone who is not quite cosmopolitan enough to consider that not everyone might know or care about the geographical layout of the city of Copenhagen.

Danes are often a little myopic like that. It probably has something to do with their steadfast cultural belief that Denmark is in fact the happiest, richest, and safest country on the planet.

"I was supposed to read to the economist but I said I'd rather break an arm along. Or break my mother's arm longitudinally." Words are hard, but the intent is fairly clear: I do what I want. Becoming a banker or finances expert is not what I want. Ravn picks out a joint for himself and, unlike Jeanette, uses a match to light it.

He doesn't seem to register her little trick. Maybe his attention was elsewhere; maybe it was too subtle; maybe it's just how this thing often works -- you do something that should have people staring at you blankly but somehow, reality edits itself and their little minds provide a perfectly rational explanation for the inexplicable.

It's what Jeanette banks on, herself: people don't notice the small tricks. A little oddity, a bit of discomfort as they rationalize it, but the little things, they're safe out here. And if caught? If someone doesn't rationalize? She's a teenaged girl with blue hair, rainbow highlights, and a special cocky smirk a nun would have to restrain themselves from slapping off her face, if she chooses to bust it out. It's a minor enough parlor trick.

Another puff, a breath, a cloud of smoke blown upward, head tilted back, before Jeanette hops off the table and towards one of the cushioned seats instead, draping herself onto one near Ravn - but not too close - dangling her legs from the armrest and tugging on her sweater. So she pays attention with only half an ear to Ravn's grand plans. "I couldn't ever stay in one country too long." Jeanette muses, "The world is too big. There's too much out there." Too much to run from, too much to chase-- too much calling. Nowhere fits. But that oddly honest confession is soon followed by another grin as she looks at Ravn, gesturing at him with her cigarette, "I'm going to be an accountant. It's good money, done properly." An accountant? This girl? That hair, that attitude?

"My mother does not care what I do, so she doesn't mind. I had a very liberal upbringing, my friend." Does he know the full story of the runaway definitelynotgypsy mother who died tragically, leaving only the woman Jeanette calls mother (who is her legitimate birth mother, shhh)? Either way, another puff. "My mother, she cared more about the now and whatever future she is dreaming, instead of facts, you know? I was supposed to think like that as well, but I, I think too much for her lifestyle."

"One day I travel out into the world. Just myself and what I can wear. I step away from it all." If Ravn ever brings that plan to fruitition maybe he'll even learn to speak a passable English. The worst of it is almost that he's the kind of speaker who can probably write a perfect essay in the language -- because then he has time to look up the proper words and grammar. It's just that putting together letters and words in writing is one thing -- having to put words together and sort out pronounciations and grammar at once, is actually a lot harder. Apparently he's not one of those foreign speakers smart enough -- or horrible enough, your choice -- to default to lines ripped off from TV and song lyrics.

He watches the girl on the other chair, still not quite sure what to make of her. She's certainly not what he expected -- some vague notion stirs, about a blonde girl with a too-perfect nose wearing a summer dress, someone who giggles too much and keeps talking about the boys she met at the Riviera last summer. He's not quite certain why he had pictured the Blixenskiold girl that way. Maybe it's just because that's how he remembers at least two other East European girls his mother insisted on introducing him to. Millionaire class mail order brides, is how he thinks of them.

Jeanette is not like that. Ravn is not convinced that she is necessarily better -- just different. For one, she doesn't seem to care one bit whether he is impressed by her or not. He tests his gut feeling on that and finds that he likes it. Most people -- who have been told who he is, or at least who he's supposed to be -- respond to him with endless fawning or disdainful scorn.

The former because for some reason that Ravn still hasn't managed to grasp, a certain kind of people fall on their asses in awe over the antiquated relic of feudal society that a noble title is. The latter because that scorn of one's supposed betters is a core tenet of Danish culture: Don't think you're somebody: The Law of Jante -- this cultural phenomenon even has a name, from the novel that first described it. You're not special, you're not better than us, you're not smarter than us -- the list goes on for a while but essentially boils down to don't stick your head out or we will kick you back down to size. Or, in other words, it's a really bad idea to walk in and announce yourself the younger Count de lah de dah unless you want to spend the rest of the college year having the lunch hall table all to yourself.

He tastes the fragrant smoke again and decides that he approves. Jeanette is clearly as unimpressed with this whole setup as he is, and that at least is something. Might as well play it straight with her -- in part because what does he have to lose if she storms off in a huff? "Has anyone already told you that I am supposed to fall for you and convince my mother that I am not gay? Or did they forget that part?"

Would Jeanette survive if she were to stay here, in the cold and frozen north? Already, she's proven how little she cares for titles, but she also had that arrogance before, that cocky, selfsure attitude-- it's slumbering, now, but still... Jeanette is unworried, admiring the skies with her head tilted back as the joint between her fingertips burns. Now and then, she takes a pull from it, and gently releases the smoke skyward. She could be alone, for all the care she gives-- save that she glances over at Ravn when he speaks, giving a soft snort at his declaration he'll travel alone through the world.

Is it possible? Yes. It's even easy, for a white guy with cash. Will it do him any good? To throw a temper tantrum and run off, knowing he can come back if he wasn't proud?

No. Princeling's not that bad, but he's just like everyone else, really. Wrapped up in himself bemoaning a cage with bars large enough to slip an elephant through. He doesn't know anything about real cages, the ones with no bars, locked without a lock--

Another hit of her weed, eyes closing as she puffs the breath out, mentally swiping the cobwebbed feelings and notions from her mind. Odd, hazy thoughts that slip away when she tries to focus on them, so she lets it go-- and luckily, there is Ravn, asking her a question that makes Gina laugh-cough, covering her mouth with one hand until she gets the giggles under control. "You and me?" She asks, pointing to herself and then Ravn. A snort of amusement, before she settles back down in her seat. "Please. You know, of course, that is ridiculous. I've /met/ your mother, my friend. Nothing you say will convince your mother you are not gay. She only wishes you would have the brains to marry a pretty girl and keep a boyfriend only after you have, eh, had children already, da?"

Jeanette smirks, "I have heard how you are a troubled gentleman with a heart of gold, kind to peons and just too romantic for your own good." There's that note of mocking again in her voice, her gestures dramatic and sweeping - it's less biting, now, the weed mellowing into something more... in good fun. "But I doubt I am the woman who is to fall in love you. Or haven't they told you my story? Thanks to my mother," Not a lie, though there is a laugh to these words, honest as they are, "I am gifted gypsy orphan raised a dozen times over as a wealthy heiress."

"Guess they just wanted to look after themselves," Ravn grouses and then realises that yep, English won this round too. He tries to clarify, flailing: "Wish they would. Mind their own shop. You know?"

The amount of eyerolling he manages at being described as essentially Prince Hamlet but without the familicide is impressive. It does not get any less impressive at the story of the gypsy princess. Seriously, what kind of pot do manipulative parents smoke, and where does a seventeen-year-old get his hands on it? For a moment he looks like he might actually consider adding in the familicide after all, check every bullet point on the Shakespearean list.

"They said that you are this poor Russian girl who has lost her parents and lacks a standing in life. It's all very sad. It would be nice for me to take care of you a little." Ravn sighs and puts one foot up on the chair next to himself. He is a tall boy. If he's not into his full height yet, he's going to find himself towering over people a lot later on in life. If he fills out a bit, he might even impress people while towering. "I don't bother being here. You don't bother being here. I just want the peace and quiet to look after my violin and my books. You will be at peace with your mother's gold digging. We might as well make the most of it and just take care of ourselves."

"Does this mean I am supposed to be your mistress, do you think?" Jeanette realizes, and sounds-- a little disgusted. "It really is like some bullshit Hallmark movie. All we're missing is one of us being sexually abused or getting cancer." If Jeanette rolls her eyes any harder, they'd fall out of her head. Maybe she's worried about that, considering she covers her eyes with her hand and throws her head back a moment. Before she groans and stretches her arms forward, sitting up, turning, and pushing off her chair with her blunt to go stroll around the florals around, spotting expletives in Russian.

It's bullshit. Of course her mother would think of marrying her off - mama can't avoid it, she's a delusional sociopath, in her own way she cares - but these people - these people and their stupid fucking cushioned world here-- what the fuck did they think some emo prince boy who thought smoking weed and running off to some Danish city was some grand rebellion could do to help her? He was just a fucking child, age or no age....what trap were they trying to build here for her? They couldn't think she would settle for this? That this paper thin -- that he -- what the hell?

It's all just fleeting thoughts and considerations, nothing said aloud but russian curses, before Jeanette sighs, rubbing her eyes with the hell of her palms before she turns around and gives Ravn a mildly annoyed...smile. "I have my own legs, I can stand, yes? And you can too. So yes, besides your excellent weed. I think we're pretty good on our own. As long as you keep your mother away before I'm tempted to smack her if she tries to pimp you again."

"Heh. I really liked to see that. Can't you just say if you get enough and stab her one?" Ravn probably does not mean to suggest that Jeanette literally takes a knife to his mother (though if he does, a castle like Engelsholm is almost guaranteed to have an old weapons collection somewhere, and between them, the kids could probably manage to pick a delightfully rusty and serrated old fencing blade that would work just perfectly for the intended purpose). He wouldn't object too strongly to the idea of Elisabeth Abildgaard being taken down a notch; after all, few things are more embarrassing to a seventeen-year-old than essentially being, indeed, pimped out by his mother. He probably does mean that he'd like to be told in advance so he doesn't miss out on watching Russian Gypsy girl throw a fit Elisabeth's way.

Ravn almost wishes he was gay. Just so he could go maybe find some giant, hairy footballer of a boyfriend, someone who swears and doesn't know which fork to use for the salad. Somebody who doesn't look and sound like they're made of plastic.

He's not, though. While not all that interested in the whole concept of human relationships, he cannot deny that Jeanette is hot. Under different circumstances he'd probably have had some very private thoughts about her later on. The fact that she's a girl his own age and she's talking to him without calling him Nerdboy doesn't hurt.

Add the whole 'rich Gypsy heiress' bit, though.

First off, no one who isn't a blatant, out-of-the-closet racist, refer to Romas as Gypsies anymore. Ravn is adamant on this. He's hitched rides with Romas on his little escapes. Learned a few carnie tricks from them, picked up some life wisdom on picking safe places to sleep and not attracting unwanted attention. There's a code between people who hustle and sleep in parks, people who consider themselves to be outside of conventional society. He's only visited that world, touched it very briefly, but he's a fast learner and the resentment of being called a racial epiteth synonymous with ripping off is very real. Poor East European and Roma hustlers, thieves, and scammers are very much becoming a part of the criminal underworld of rich Scandinavia in these years, with the open EU borders and all. People don't pick up that lifestyle because it's romantic. They pick it up because they have families back home, families that need to eat. The romantic gold-earring, head scarf, romantic house wagon Gypsy stereotype is rage inducing to a lot of them.

More personally, Ravn resents the idea that he's so helpless around women that he needs his mother to start arranging dates for him. To Elisabeth Abildgaard's eye, he's either gay -- which is simply not acceptable to her, even in 2007 -- or a slow developer. She's wrong. He grew up watching his parents. Peter Abildgaard is the smart one: He avoids the hell out of his wife, distributing his time between a passionate interest in anthropology and history, and taking off to camp for weeks by some Alaskan river or climb a mountain somewhere in Nepal. Ravn's asthma keeps him from getting dragged along by his father, but he's learned the lesson all right: If you want to stay sane, avoid complications. Go somewhere on your own, do your own thing, don't get bogged down by people, or indeed, by relationships with people. Don't get attached.

Tough luck, Russian Gypsy girl. She's probably going to get dragged around all over Europe like some kind of prize dairy cow.

Perhaps Lyudmila isn't the only sociopath in the room - is it money that does it? Time? Corruption? Ahh well, it's not as if Jeanette can read the sliver of honesty in Ravn's words, and just rolls her eyes at his attempts to be edgy. Because he's a baby has he ever even... even... whisps of nightmares, half-remembered terrors, he wouldn't speak so casually of these things if he had those kinds of nightmares and thoughts. That core knowledge, cold and burning and itching in her gut and veins that she can, she could, she has, he must lack it, just like all the rest.

Another breath from her joint, a slow and lazy exhalation that sends the steam curling around her, like fog -- and just like that, a flicker of nostalgia over her face. She missed the kids back home. They were also young, also stupid, but at least she felt like they got it, a little more. Or maybe she was biased. Or maybe she wasn't, and Ravn was every bit the spoiled rich useless waste with no balls she imagined him to be. Because if he was really unhappy, he would've found a way out. Disappearing wasn't hard. It was disgustingly easy, if you had any brains. But all the good cages are always inside your head, not outside them.

She didn't know where she knew that. She just did. Probably a book. But her eyes go back to to Ravn, dark and complicated, and she gives another shrug, "All right. During dinner, da?" She says, as easily as that. "But you are not allowed to hurt my mother in retaliation. She's already out of touch with reality, I don't want to have to stay longer than I have to if she gets a concussion."

Because it's true that her mother all but chose Jeanette's latest role as a gypsy heiress - such a romantic idea! So exciting! So telling of Lyudmila's magnanimity that she would take in such a scorned child of the suspected Roma, after one saved her life! Does Lyudmila care about the feelings of the people? Of course not. It fits her narrative. Is Gina aware? Absofuckinglutely, and there is no better way to find the measure of a person than to slur herself with her false identity and see how they react.

Not that she can think of. She's not claiming them as her own. She's not even really Russian as far as she's concerned. Neither she nor "Jeanette" claims it in the slightest. So she just gives Ravn a lazy smile, "So, we are agreed? I show your mother why I am inappropriate as a bride. Deal?" She saunters a little closer towards Ravn, holding out her hand to shake.

"I have no problem with your mother. I'm not saying anything to her." For once, English doesn't stab Prince Hamlet in the back. Maybe the weed is causing Ravn to relax a little. The hand he offers Jeanette in turn is gloved in black kidskin -- which is a very odd choice for the season and the heat -- perhaps hinting of some phobia of germs or compulsive disorder. "I have no problem with you either. We can smoke some pot, kill time. Or we can look after ourselves and leave each other in peace. What suits you."

Welcome to hell. Hell is a gorgeous Renaissance castle with whitewashed turrents, a beautiful park and lake, and two ambitious, manipulative ladies of society who will probably murder each other if their respective husbands don't manage to steer them clear of confrontations. This is the good part; the Blixenskiolds aren't likely to be trapped at Engelsholm for long lest Lyudmila and Elisabeth see right through each other one of these days.

After all, even their respective kids see right through them both.