Evening sun blanketed the island in orange and gold, painting shadows of palm trees on whitewashed walls. Miss Privisham's was, perhaps, not the establishment where one might expect to find the Governor's daughter, but small island had a way of bringing people together. Solport, the capital and only city really worth mentioning, was home to fewer than fourteen thousand people. There were few parlors and tea houses, really only five that met Venatora's demanding standards. Of them, two closed at sunset and one more wasn't even open on Thursdays. That left Miss Privisham's Parlor and Madame Turri's Patio- the latter of which she had been at just last night. The only thing she disliked more than staying home was going the same place too often. After all, she would need the support of the wealthy, landowning patrons of all of these places if she was going to become governor. It was unfortunate Beatrice wasn't white, male, or landowning- she would have had a guaranteed supporter in her. It was the smile of a crocodile that Beatrice showed mistress Montressor, every time. Oh, she bought it easy enough, but it was getting hard to fake. The young woman was a parrot who fancied herself an eagle. She was pretty enough, and liked the sound of her own voice, but lacked the power and respect she would need to get anywhere, the fool. But as long as she spent money and hooked Beatrice up with the right circles, she would continue to play her little game. "Your usual champagne, Venni?" She asked with a knowing smile as the heiress took her usual seat in the center of the room. "You know I can't resist, Bettie," The redhead replied with a little smirk. The smirk was met by Asani's own, even as he chafed at the collar around his neck. It would have been suspicious for freemen to suddenly show up, after all, but not for a new batch of slaves to show up to help with the cooking and cleaning. He hated the ruse, hated sweeping and washing dishes, hated having to show respect to the white-skinned cravens who were so smug in their abuses. The men who sat there, nearly salivating at the sight of the young girls, somehow didn't make his hackles rise quite like the sight of that mahogany-haired bitch. There was a look on her face, the look of a woman who had never been taught her place. He imagined what it would be like to see her on her knees, that kohl around her eyes smeared with tears... "Whore," He snapped, calling Jauhar over. "Who's the bitch?" With a glare, the older man shushed him. "You fool, you could be beaten just for using our tongue," He whispered, tone full of anger. "And the bitch is the Governor's own daughter. She'll have your head sooner tolerate you eyeing her." Gods be good, this man meant to be king? At this rate he would be just another body dancing the dead man's jig in the noose by the end of the week. He couldn't pretend to be a slave if his life depended on it... and, unfortunately, his life did depend on it.