Etymology

| AllAmericanSpirit ; Thank you for letting me rummage through your created universe :3|

Details; -This takes place in the Mafia-universe created by AllAmericanSpirit, -an attempt at, both, correct characterization and plausible interaction between UK and Belgium.

Warning(s); ... I swear, it's just conversation. Oh and human name for Belgium is Belle (obviously).

Inspired by: Mafia, Alice in Wonderland, NCIS...

Summary: Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea – Henry Fielding. Mafia-universe : UK and Belgium interaction. Mentions of SpaBel

I hereby disclaim any rights.

Arthur insists on tea- an iron wrought circular table accompanied by a pair of equally woven-wire chairs, Meissen porcelain, the faint scent of apples and marigold intertwined with the soft late-spring breeze. As centre-piece; a tower of petits fours, an ensemble of cantarella bricks in diverse flavours and colours, the tableware evenly distributed over the available spotless surface and the climbing roses, attached to the trellis, act as a floral ceiling above their heads. Her mascara-coated lashes batter against the sensitive irritable skin beneath her peridot-like eyes as she blinks at this breathtaking scenery. His garden, behind the luxurious Victorian manor recently purchased, was a myriad of fruit trees, poplars, flowers and neatly trimmed bushes; one could reach the patio, where they were currently seated, by a cobblestone trail, with hawthorns, daylilies and hyacinths serving as boundaries.

She raises her white with golden rimmed cup and brings it to her plump slightly-parted lips; her fingertips splayed over the glossed-over printed petals, her gaze lowered and before she sips, she compliments, "You have outdone yourself... You really shouldn't have."

He waves his hand in dismissal and offers her a nonchalant, genuine smile, "For you, my dear Belle," she swallows at her name, -how long had she masqueraded as a stranger during her flight?, "not even the best would suffice." He shoves a rectangular cake, raspberry red and laced with chocolate, in her general direction.

"Still..." He hushes her by chinking his spoon against the china, she recommences with a different topic, "I do not wish to impose on you, but I am in dire need of a favour..."

His thick bushy eyebrows knit together, forming a furrowed line, "I've been apprised about your –erm- current travelling arrangements and the reason behind them.." His maxillas tinge garnet, he diverts his gaze for a moment and gulps down his tea.

"You knew?" Crumbles of love-me-not red sweep down her chin, the surprise evident on her features and she quickly dabs the crème-coloured napkin against her pursed lips. "Arthur... Christ, it's been two weeks since I've arrived in London and you just knew I was looking for you?"

He scrapes his throat, uncomfortably and allows a persuasive apologetic smile to mask his features in self-defence, "Belle, I implore you to listen to my explanation although I, perhaps, should've handle things a tad differently, but alas..." He trails off under her cool gaze and scrapes his throat. "Listen," his hand darts out in reflex, enveloping the back of hers, "I've been arranging a false identity for you; a new beginning in the States... I mislead your pursuers, mislead him, assuring your anonymity and safety..."

Frumpish golden curls bounce as she throws her head back and she murmurs, "I'm sorry, Arthur." He squeezes her frail hand in reassurance.

"Nothing is as emollient as a cup of tea, my darling..." Nodding in a daze, she takes a gulp of the lukewarm beverage and swallows it down, "Now, before I hand out any details, I think some distraction is at order." His forest-green eyes twinkle, causing her to produce a simper.

Leaning on faded white-paper knuckles with her chin, she stares attentively at the grinning Englishman in front of her, "You didn't hire a ventriloquist, now did you?" One eyebrow flexes, arching in a perfect golden-spun arc, her spidery fingers pressing against her swan-like neck.

"How about I pretend to be a dictionary?" Another eyebrow is raised, "With a lot of imagination," he adds after her display of scepticism. "And you are the one who seeks." He finishes by taking a bite from a lemon-yellow rectangular pastry.

She contemplates, perhaps if she squints Arthur would resemble a figure from the land of wonders, and opens her mouth to speak, "How about mask?"

"Oh, the options! Very well, it could be derived from the Occitan masco, which means witch." His tea-green eyes notice how she blinks slowly, "but commonly, one sees the word as a derivation from mascarar, also translated as to blacken."

His fingers weave together to form a bridge and he takes the liberty to propose a term himself, "Would you like to know the story behind 'red herring'? It's personally one of my favourites."

"For a crime lord, you certainly have a lot of strange quirks." She teases with a sly smirk; the wind ruffles her hair, her fringe is plastered against her forehead and wisps of wheat are sprawled over her cheeks.

"Some prostitute women, some buy expensive yachts, I prefer digging out books in my library.. Anyways," he inhales, his chest, hidden underneath his silken button up, heaves, "back in the 1680s, fugitives used smoked herring to mislead bloodhounds and get them off their tracks. Others claim that the term originates from fox and hounds, whereas the dogs were trained in distinguishing the scent of a fox from a fake track, also covered by the smell of red herring."

The late-spring breeze becomes more violent, bending and snapping gristle-like branches from the large willow; blossoms bow in response to the current, long grass blades form waves and specks of coal black earth float into the air. Belle smiles, sorrowfully, and she reminds Arthur of the Amechina, a stone anthropomorphic stature of the Greek concept helplessness located in his personal study.

"Belle," She shakes from her thoughts and shudders lightly, "beautiful woman, well-dressed, reigning beauty.. I could go on." The porcelain rattles and clatters, "Also the French name of the beauty, in the Beauty and the Beast."

"Arthur..." His lips curl, transforming into a grimace and she has a growing suspicion, nay a growing dread of where this conversation is headed.

"Beast is, aside from wild creature, also figuratively utilized as fool or idiot." Eyelids half-cover her saddened peridots and she sighs deeply when he asks, a question as inevitable as dusk, "Despite Antonio being, -uhum- himself, do you still love him?"

His ebony tie skips around his ears, "I understand if you don't wish to respond," he brushes his knuckles against another in an act of nervousness, uneasiness at her deafening silence, "Let us concentrate on the task at hand then, I've arranged a hiding place in the States."

"Thank you..." And he isn't exactly sure whether she's grateful for not pressing the matter about her (ex-?)lover or for his assistance.

However, he continues for her sake, "Tomorrow morning you will fly from London to New York, I have a plane ticket with your name on it and a good confidant of mine has a fake ID with your picture." She nods slowly.

"A silver BMW will pick you up, the car will drop you off at a flower-stand near Stansted and you will inquire for Sadiq. He'll give you your new passport. Your flight leaves at nine forty-five, once in Newark, a blonde U.S. Marshall will search for you." Arthur takes a sip from his, now cold, beverage and recommences, "His name is Alfred F. Jones. He's a bit eccentric but don't underestimate him. I wouldn't trust just anyone with your safety. I've already given him the details; all you have to do is pick up the passport and ID at the drop off point and get to the airport and he shall tell you the rest."

She rises abruptly, pushing her iron-wrought chair backwards, strides over towards him and moves so her lips nearly graze his cheek, "I owe you too much, my dear friend." He freezes as her breath cascades over his mandible and his face reddens due to the impact.

"Ah.." He stammers, "my darling Belle, you know I'd just about do everything for you." She leans in closer and her mouth flutters against the corner of his. She glances at him expectantly, with doe-like green orbs and he nods in confirmation, "I will show you out. Just promise me.. Promise me," he repeats, "you won't get caught."

She smiles, as sorrowfully as his cold Amechina, "Thanks, Arthur." Her arms rigidly by her sides; and they can both hear the antique clock striking sunset from inside the manor.

I hope I didn't fall in melodramatics; because that wouldn't do the Mafia-verse justice.

Anyways, penny for your thoughts..