The arrival of a mysterious invitation had not been an especially welcome one, from Izola's perspective. It wasn't so much the fact itself, more the tone of the invitation and the associations it brought. "An advisable invitation," had been inked carefully onto high quality card, with just the words "The Haywood Gallery, 5:30, 25th October" to accompany it. Charmingly blunt, it was not. Bluntness was not charming, it was rude.

Izola looked at the card in her hand, turning it over and reading the note again. Pursing her lips, she slipped it back into her clutch and looked up at the building in front of her. It was, along with the deliberately mysterious card, the only clue she had about the author of the note. Overly mysterious habits were a feature of criminal life, and Izola was curious about exactly what the individual she was meeting knew, and what they could prove. And why they'd contacted her, of course, but that was secondary to her other concerns.

 She'd done a little research of her own- enough to know that refusing to accept the invitation was extremely inadvisable, potential exposure notwithstanding. The whole scenario made Izola feel slightly nostalgic, and she wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing or not. Not quite enough so that she would refuse, because Izola enjoyed being alive. It appealed to her in a way that being dead couldn't match.

Enough coins to pay for excellent, if over priced, coffee, were placed on the table, and Izola shut her clutch with a snap, flicking her hair over one shoulder before walking serenely over to the doors of the Gallery. Her client at least had taste when it came to venues, while Izola preferred to have food readily available when discussing anything important, galleries were classy. Izola liked classy, it made things more enjoyable.

Ignoring the man at the door, Izola walked confidently into gallery, intending to enjoy herself looking at art before she met the sender of her invitation.

The Haywood Gallery was largely defined by the blunt, seemingly harsh hush that forced itself down the plain walls- a silence that dominated the patrons with the force of its own refined elegance. You did not speak here. You whispered, lest the paints peel from their frames or the muted lights force their glare into the white of your eyes. On the ocean of murmurs, words blended into one another indistinctly, sentences moving over sentences in the same manner in which the portraits themselves moved.

Fundamentally.... an ideal setting to lose a conversation.

Ira Almasy stood before a large portrait, staring straight into the inky eyes of the bedouin wizard who looked back from his place within the frame. He appeared to be miming- drawing glowing, arabic letters into the air. The exhibition had come in to London from abroad... some desert artist or another, making their annual emblazon in the metropolis.

It was all rather uninteresting but it was hardly the craft that lured her here- Ira broke off contact with the portraiture, drifting slowly to the next piece. Very few others lingered in the same area; some had progressed further, others behind. The spindly witch was strikingly, pointedly, alone- a tower. She folded her arms and paused at the next painting, which was a series of shifting designs etched into a mirror. Her indifferent reflection, altered from its typical coloration, watched neither itself or the etchings, but the figures that moved in the space behind.

Bellamane's timing was fortunate. The woman could be seen turning into this aspect of the arcade, unmistakable by appearance and also, evidently solitary. Ira looked away from her likeness and towards her invitee who was now not so distant as to make the communication cumbersome.

"Why, Miss Bellamane." Ira's smile made no attempt to reach her eyes as she addressed the other. "I hardly expected to see you here, my dear..." Feigning recognition, by far, was the most elementary method of drawing in an acquaintance.

Izola wandered calmly through the gallery, glad for the silence of the other visitors. Although the atmosphere was hardly welcoming, it left her to her thoughts, which she tried to focus on the paintings that lined the walls of the gallery. Passing through a section lined with paintings that seemed to be painted on glass, Izola reached a slightly more quiet area and started to examine the art displayed there.

 She repressed the urge to flinch at the mention of her name, realising that she was more nervous than she had previously thought as she turned. Izola's smile was a little warmer than mere politeness as she took in the somewhat intimidating stature of the woman in front of her, admiring her unusual appearance. While her clothes weren't to Izola's tastes, they suited her excellently, and all in all, she cut a very striking figure. And that was without taking into account that even in her heels, Izola was only a few inches taller than the woman- without them, she would be shorter.

She knew Izola's name, and Izola had never met her- she would certainly remember someone as striking as the woman in front of her- which suggested that either she was the sender of mysterious invitations, or that she was connected in some way to the sender. Izola hoped it was the former, because the fewer the number of people involved in this… business transaction, if that was what would take place, the better. Regardless of that, Izola needed to talk to her if she was to discover why she had been... summoned, and the simplest way to do that would be to continue as though she was indeed an acquaintance of the woman.

Izola laughed quietly, "I hadn't planned to visit, but nor am I one to refuse an invitation." For all her attempts at lightness, there was still a hint of the unease she felt in her voice, much to her disdain. She forced it out as she continued, "And yourself? Are you here purely for pleasure, or with an eye to purchase?"

Nerves. This woman hid hers very well. Impassively, Ira observed the guarded gestures and graceful pretences of Izola Bellamane. There would be no subterfuge here but it was clear that neither could speak bluntly of their intentions- which was how she typically expected such arrangements to be. Details could and would come later.

"I always come with an eye to purchase," the older witch met her companion's gaze coolly; the meaning obvious. "Although one must admit that not all... artists are willing to sell." Ira motioned that the pair of them move ahead through the gallery, conscious of other patrons who would eventually trickle into this section. Pesky cretins.

There was a time when contacting the lawless had been less nettlesome, when slaughtering a target didn't have to be a chore and finding a fitting felon did not involve social posturing. A plainer time. Ira's brow frowned elegiacally at the thought and she turned her cold, appraising gaze to Izola before persisting.

"There are those who argue that such an exchange is little more than a matter of setting a suitable price," thin lips twisted into a smirk. "Do you have an opinion on the subject, Miss Bellamane? Or perhaps you are not so versed in it as I have been led to believe..." a subtle, inquiring tilt of the head.