The fluffy down comforter and linen sheets rustled quietly as Yolande Cartier slid from beneath them, well-pedicured feet slipping into bedroom shoes nestled just next to the bed. The quietest of yawns escaped her lips as birds chirped and sang opposite the windows of her room. A few graceful movements later and a deep purple robe found itself tied around her waist, sash-tails hanging towards the floor.
Clairvaux Prison Complex on New Paris barely qualified for the name, previously a château of a disgraced Gallic nobleman, and the Complex was instated following their beheading for corruption. Little had changed in the years since then, though. That same corruption ran rampant, and that same corruption served Yolande well. "Imprisoned" at the château for a minor case of tax evasion, Clairvaux had become her home away from home. Rather than remain on Marseille, where her family had resided since time immemorial, and risk the ever-present danger of attack and assassination, the Cartier matriarch had chosen another path. Here on New Paris she benefited from the ever-present security patrols and guards that blanketed the planet, finding safe haven in the arms of the Royal Police and Navy. Convicted of such a minor crime, and with most of the Royal Police guards on her payroll, Yolande controlled the machinations of her family in the utmost comfort and safety.
The bars covering the château windows glistened in the early morning light, a yellow-orange glow streaming through the glass. Yolande sleepily strolled toward the bathroom attached to her "cell," in actuality the slightly-modified master accommodations of the grounds. The finest hardwood floors transitioned to solid marble as she stepped through the threshold into the bathroom, gold inlay set in carefully-created cracks in the stone. The style was almost Kusarian, in a manner she'd come to know as "Kintsugi." Nimble fingers untied the sash at her waist, the silken robe falling to the floor with a gentle flutter. Stepping into the shower with a sigh, she slowly turned the dials on the wall, jets of steaming-hot spring water erupting from nozzles in the ceiling. The droplets cascaded like miniature waterfalls down her nude form, swirling around and down the drain with a muffled gurgle. It was a difficult thing, maintaining her figure in such a place, though Yolande made her best effort. The mirrors lining the room confirmed it, reflecting the image of her petite frame throughout the bathroom.
Currents of steam carried the scent of lavender through the bathroom as she began to shampoo her hair, tainting the original clear waterfalls running down her body with luscious purple lather. It was a relaxing feeling, being massaged by the water splashing against her skin, and she very nearly fell asleep on her feet multiple times.
"Café." She muttered, hands running over her silken locks, squeezing the last of the shampoo from it before turning off the stream of water. Yolande stepped from the shower stall onto one of the mats outside it, wrapping her glistening body in a fluffy towel, and her hair in another. Sliding her feet into the slippers once more, she padded out into her bedroom, then into the attached kitchenette. Resting on the granite countertop was a silver apparatus, a small screen adorning one side. The device beeped as she pressed against the buttons outlining the display, a high-pitched whine echoing through the room. Moments later, a deep brown liquid was dispensed into a small cup placed in the receptacle near the bottom of the device. She retrieved the cup, as well as a croissant from a basket on the countertop, trotting through the kitchenette into another room. This one was the foyer of her "cell," bars set across the center of the space, wall-to-wall.
"Guard." Cartier said quietly, settling into a plush loveseat along one of the walls, sipping her coffee. A well-maintained officer of the Royal Police rounded the corner and stood before her, medals clinking against one another. "Bonjour, Arnaud. How are you this morning?" Yolande had always been fond of the guard standing across from her, separated by a heavy steel grate. It had become part of her morning routine to speak with him, and she sorely missed his company when the officer was on another assignment.
"Très bien, madame Cartier. I trust you and the family are doing well?" Arnaud replied huskily, shooting a roguish smile towards the matriarch of the Cartier family.
"Most certainly. I wouldn't have it any other way." A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth, exposing dove-white teeth. Arnaud had always been a faithful friend to her family, and she made sure to reward him accordingly. The pay for a prison guard in Gallic space was nothing close to that of a patrol pilot, causing many to seek alternate postings regularly. Lacking such "supplemental income" from levying vaguely-legitimate fines certainly hurt, and Yolande ensured that the friendly guard had no reason to depart her company. "Arnaud, if you would be so kind as to put me in contact with my daught..." She didn't even have to finish the sentence as the guard passed a datapad with attached comms-link through the bars. Displayed on the screen was a Franc transfer form, and with practiced precision she transferred a healthy amount of currency from her own accounts to Arnaud's. After a quick sip from her cup, she closed the transfer screen and flipped to another, monitoring additional credit transfers and reports from her daughters regarding the family business. All seemed to be in order, and she laid her head against the backrest of the couch, eyes fluttering shut. "You have my gratitude, Arnaud. Do tell me if you need anything, anything at all."
"Bien sûr, Madame. Have a pleasant day." With a swish of his cloak, the Royal Police officer turned and marched out of the doorway, taking his post just down the hall. It was a common thing for Yolande to have visitors, but they would have to wait until she was dressed in a more decent manner.
An hour or so passed following Arnaud's departure, and Yolande found herself drifting in and out of a sleepy haze. Coffee had done little to stimulate the woman, rather the warmth of the drink simply pushed her back towards lethargy. It would take something else to fully wake the matriarch, something more exotic. Rousing her weary legs to action, Yolande trotted back towards her bedroom. Despite the fog of sleepiness clouding her mind, she took the steps of a queen, with every bit of grace that entailed. The towels slipped from her body, and she unceremoniously threw them into the chute mounted to one of the walls, the now-useless fabric tumbling down to the launderette of the château. Nude once more, Cartier dropped to one knee in front of her nightstand, pulling the handle of the bottommost drawer. Within lay a polished steel box, sealed on three sides by heavy metal clasps. Delicate fingers released the locks, brushing the symbol of a sword with a white bandanna draped over the hilt emblazoned on the lid. The slightest of hisses escaped as Yolande lifted it up and back, revealing a foam-lined interior, cradling three dozen matching silver cylinders.
The matriarch let out a sigh as she slid one of the cylinders from its perch, twirling it around in her fingers as she pondered the shape. A little more than half an inch wide and 3 inches long, the device looked more like a paperweight for an IDF executive, or perhaps a toy to leave stashed away in the lingerie drawer for a steamy night. Cartier knew better, however, tracing her fingertips along two seams in the metal, one on either end. With the flourish of a magician, the caps were twisted off, revealing an aperture covered by metal mesh on one end, and what appeared to be the tip of an aerosol dispenser on the other.
"Bonjour mon amour." Yolande exhaled the last vestiges of breath in her lungs, shutting her eyes tightly as she brought the tip of the cylinder to rest against one of her nostrils. That familiar stinging sensation invaded her sinuses with the next sharp breath, accompanied by the oh-so-distinctive scent of cinnamon, hot and fresh. Savoring the warmth, Yolande held in the breath until her chest felt fit to burst, regretfully letting it slip back out from between her lips. The hot, cloying air seemed to hover around her for a moment, bearing the slightest tinge of orange. With a flap of her hand, she fanned it away, quickly replacing the caps on the device and sliding it back into the foam, rejoining its brothers. Pushing the drawer closed once more, Yolande stood upright and looked around. The world seemed so much more... Exciting, invigorated, interesting. Every color and sound was intensified, the birds chirping outside her window morphing from a lonely song to an operatic chorus. With a vivified spring in her step, she threw the windows open entirely, feeling the hot light of the Ile-de-France sun on her skin through the bars.
A number of Royal Police guards and groundskeepers trotted about outside, none seeming to pay any mind to the bare-skinned woman leaning against the warm steel spokes of her prison. Far from the war raging on the front, far from the destruction and death raining from the sky on Marseille, in her own little paradise, life was wonderful. Yolande had made the right decision, directing the play that brought her to this place. Her eyelids fluttered closed once more, though this time it was not borne of weariness, but of quiet contemplation. She couldn't help but sway her head slowly from side to side, to the beat of some unheard rhythm accompanied by the soprano timbre of the sparrows.
It took some effort to tear her mind away from the sonorous tones just outside her prison, and minutes passed until Yolande pushed herself away from the window, turning to face her room once more. Conscious movement came to her much more easily as she strolled to the large armoire adorning one section of the room, paintings of the picturesque Marseille surface resting on the walls to either side of it. A finger came to her lips as she gazed over the subdued rainbow of hues inside, and eventually her eyes settled upon a blood-red dress resting towards one end of the rack. Wresting the cloth from its hanger, she held it in front of her frame, admiring the shade of red against her fair skin. Though the matriarch was imprisoned, she always put forth her best effort to be presentable and regal, lest an untimely visitor catch her at an awkward moment. Luckily, Arnaud had a knack for stalling any newcomers, giving ample time to prepare herself for their arrival.
That wasn't to say, however, that Yolande didn't take advantage of her relative isolation for the sake of convenience. She turned to look at another angle, the hem of her dress extending just above her knees, interrupted by a split nearly to the hip on one side. A smile crept across Cartier's face as she deftly stepped into the article of clothing, drawing it slowly up her body until the top covered her pert, firm breasts. As any good Corsican would, she knew full-well the power of showing skin, and her bare shoulders and legs expressed that knowledge. It was a rare thing for her to wear underwear or a bra in her cell, relying entirely on poise, tact and grace to ensure she was never found in a compromising situation that she hadn't intended. The vast majority of the guards at the complex were more than content to avert their eyes from her activities in exchange for a few thousand Francs, but some had more carnal desires. Allowing a guard to sneak a peek following one of her showers, or gracing them with a passionate peck on the lips in exchange for some service always kept them wrapped around her finger.
A few more adjustments to her clothing were made, occasionally admiring her own body in one of the floor to ceiling mirrors dotted around the room. She strolled into the bathroom once more, the scent of lavender still lingering in the air. Again, the Corsican took stock of her appearance in the mirrors, running a hand through her midnight-black locks, gently maneuvering and corralling them into a tight bun which she secured with a golden pin, a small enamel bangle of the sword and bandanna dangling from it. Yolande had adopted the sigil after her meteoric rise to power following the surfacing of the sunken cities, the sword representing might and power, and the bandanna representing loyalty to the Corse. That loyalty was not blind, however, and there were many within l'Unione and even the Marseille syndicates that would see the matriarch stripped of her power. Unluckily for them, and luckily for her, the political tact she was taught as a young woman served her well, disguising her true intentions behind the veil of blind, unadulterated force. Yolande was considered a vindictive brute, one who was more willing to do battle with a blade than a quill, and in that false assumption the Cartier family found safety and strength. It was never Yolande that roused suspicions after a poisoning or a silent, bloody slit neck, nor was she ever noted when a smaller family simply ceased to be. It was always a Dantès, or perhaps an Etienne that caught the ire of others. Of course, those families always had their own ways of disavowing themselves from the act, leaving the Maquisards, or the Council, or the Royal Navy, and even other Corsican organizations scratching their heads. No, no, the Cartiers dealt in piracy and bloodshed and overt violence, always under just thick enough a guise to prevent their own implication of guilt.
Yolande puckered her lips as the golden tube of paint slid across them, replacing the natural pink of her flesh with a bright, vibrant red. Despite being in her mid-forties, she'd always maintained a youthful visage, though a bit of embellishment never harmed anyone. She laid the lipstick on thick, pressing her lips together a number of times to ensure the pigment was evenly distributed, before cracking a smile to herself in the mirror. Her reflection turned side to side as she did, though her deep brown eyes remained fixed as she examined her handiwork for the morning. Fingernails matching her dress slid down flawless skin, across her shoulders and chest, transitioning from flesh to fabric. The sensation was almost orgasmic, intensified tenfold by her indulgence that morning. It was no small feat, tugging her mind away from the feeling and towards the incessant beeping from the bedroom, a small blue light flashing atop her datapad. Yolande scooped up the device in one hand, tapping the screen as she sat back on the bed, one leg crossed over the other.
Yolande cast a quick glance as the clock on her nightstand. 8:49. Far too early for pleasure, so it must be business. A shame, really, she hated having to pass by most of the day for her more casual contacts to arrive, but it was no matter. She was still the head of her family, and as such, had certain responsibilities. Not least of which was ensuring a steady flow of currency from the hands of others into her own. Without that money, her stay at Clairvaux wouldn't be even half as enjoyable.
"Bring them in at your leisure, Arnaud." Cartier said softly, setting the pad back down on the bed for the moment. Her eyes wandered towards the armoire once more, an impressive array of shoes arranged at the bottom of the wooden structure. Her footsteps made nary a sound as she trotted towards the arrangement, kneeling down to run a finger along each, eventually coming to rest on a pair of gold-colored stiletto heels. It took little time for the well-practiced woman to slip them onto her feet, securing the footwear with a single strap around her middle toe, and another that looped around her ankle. It was a very minimalist design, exemplifying the current trend of fashion for every Gallic noblewoman.
This time the clack-clack of her heels against the floor was easily audible, drawing the attention of the man in a clean white suit opposite her. She paid him little mind, subtly adjusting the golden ring on her finger, encrusted with red diamonds acquired from one of her daughters trips into Rheinland. The previous owners hadn't taken kindly to Marie shipping the Corsican product to New Berlin, and Marie hadn't taken kindly to a lone Hessian bomber firing at her transport. It should have been obvious who would win that gunfight, but evidently the Hessians were not as intelligent as the Military would have her believe. Great gouts of green plasma launched by the Taureau seared gaping holes in the wayward Thor, sending the pilot to whatever heathen god he prayed to, and spilling the contents of its hold across space. Those Blood Diamonds, as they'd come to be known, proved immensely popular within Gallia, and Yolande endeavored to keep the largest and most impressive for herself.
Her eyes traveled upwards, meeting those of the man standing before her, taking in his form. An executive, obviously, but none too important. Outwardly, his suit was appealing to the eye, but it wasn't that of a man with money. It was that of a man who pretended to have money. The threads weren't quite right, the hems half an inch too long or too short here and there. Yolande extended an arm through the bars, holding her hand palm-down before the man. He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, unsure of how to proceed. Evidently, this was his first time dealing with the Corse, and his first time dealing with miss Cartier. She gave a nod down towards her hand, cogs beginning to grind in the mind of the man before her. He leaned down, planting a kiss on the glistening stone adorning her delicate finger, before straightening and beginning to speak.
"Yolande, I a-..."
"Madame Cartier." Yolande despised those who would use her first name without the proper respect. She did not know this man, but he evidently believed he knew her. He was wrong.
"Of course, je m'excuse. Madame Cartier, I am Maxence Dieulafoy, corporate infrastructure architect for Ile-de-France Shipping. I've come to ask a favor of you and your family."
"A favor? Of course, monsieur Dieulafoy. Anything for you most loyal servants of the Roi." Always with requests for favors. It was a rare thing for someone to visit Yolande with a proposition for true business, and the continuous desire for favors from the Corsican was tiresome. She knew better than to turn them down, however. Being owed a debt was often more valuable than any sum of Francs, were they owed by the right person. Yolande suspected this man was not of that category, but looks could be deceiving. "How may the Cartiers of Marseille be of service?"
"It's the Brigands, Madame. They've stolen something from us, something we'd very much like returned." That was nothing new. Those smelly highwaymen, brutish and ignorant as they were, always seemed to find their way into things that they shouldn't. Things that may need to be recovered by a Cartier. Yolande held up her hand once more, examining her nails, twisting and turning it until she was satisfied everything was in order. Of course, she knew full-well everything was in order, but letting the man sweat couldn't hurt. He was obviously in very serious need, with how his eyes darted about the room, ripe with nervous energy.
"The Brigands? Surely that's the purview of the Royal Police, monsieur. What makes you think I've the capability of retrieving your lost belongings?" Yolande clasped her hands behind her back with a graceful swish, giving the jittery IDF representative an innocent stare. "Though, out of raw curiosity, what is it that they took?"
Maxence paused for a moment, as if debating in his mind whether or not he should divulge that information. "Something of great value to my company, and to the Crown itself." Hearing such a thing certainly swung Yolande from vague disinterest to rapt attention. A missing batch of cargo was hardly a critical thing, but if it was something important to a member of the royal family, or perhaps the King himself, that certainly could be valuable.
"Go on, monsieur Dieulafoy. You have my attention. If you would like for me to find a thing, I have to know what it is I'm searching for." Cartier turned her back to the representative, admiring a painting of a picturesque forest adorning one of the walls.
Again with the protracted, indecisive pause. It had been mere minutes and already Yolande was tiring of the conversation. "Wine, Madame. The Brigands raided one of our convoys, pilfering an assortment of wines bound for the personal residence of the Roi, to celebrate the anniversary of his coronation."
"And you expect me to somehow reclaim said wine before those unwashed freebooters drink it all, no? That is a great deal to ask of someone as a favor, Monsieur. However, I'm feeling generous." Yolande said through a knowing grin. The Corsican knew precisely where that wine was. She'd been the one to orchestrate the theft, after all. Organize a robbery, have the offended party come to you for help, and magic the item back out of thin air. It was all too easy a ploy, one she'd become well-versed in executing. "I will do my utmost to find your wine, monsieur Dieulafoy. Simply provide me with relevant information. Manifests, travel logs, anything you feel would be beneficial to hunting down your precious cargo. We wouldn't want to see the Roi without refreshments on such an important day, would we? Most certainly not, it would be an irreparable black mark on an illustrious career such as yours." None of that was truly necessary, after all. The wine was safely stowed away on Frejus, awaiting her call, but the Brigands would certainly like to hear of more routes traveled by the wealthy corporation.
"Merci, madame Cartier. I am in your debt." Maxence said quietly, having spent the past few minutes staring at Yolande's bare shoulders and glossy hair.
"That you are." Her tone was deeper, almost menacing, nothing like that she'd taken on Maxence's arrival. "I will dispatch a communication if and when I locate your cargo. You may go."
"Y-yes, of course. Au revoir, Madame."
It took all of Yolande's strength to stifle her laughter until the shaky corporate pawn was out of earshot.