1505 hours, Edinburgh. The Balmoral Hotel: Palm Court


Ira Almasy nursed a fine, cool champagne as the waitress set their table.

It was one of Gordon's insufferable fundraisers that she helped arrange: High Tea and drinks for a fee beyond its typical worth. Regardless: guests appeared to be enjoying themselves, basking by the glamour of polished silverware and the late winter rays coming in through the skylight.

A pair of old, greying witches were sat at the table.

They appeared absorbed in critically eyeing the dessert cart and were fortunately not much in the way of conversation. Ira partook in her champagne, visibly bored, until she noted maitre'd bringing over the last of their party.

"Your table, Mr. Rosier~" he indicated the empty seat.

And it was the sane Rosier, to be sure. The witch smiled benevolently and with little warmth. "Cameron," she lowered the drink prudently. "Privyet. Always a pleasure."

Her preference for his company was pronounced.