But enough of all this beating around the bushes of detente... [rp for littleilona]

[sarkraticmethod]

The evening, in Sark's opinion, was looking to be a total waste. He'd been given strict instructions to eliminate Alexander Molokov and the intel he had received indicated that he'd be at a performance of the Russian ballet in Moscow tonight, because Ilona was performing and he rarely, if ever, missed her performances- never mind that he was a

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[littleilona]

The ballet tonight is a new one, based on Lewis Caroll's "Alice in Wonderland". Ilona is a lovely, dark-haired Alice, curious and playful and whimsical and wicked, and she dances as if there is nothing but this night and this dance.

There is a reason that mousey little Ilona Sergievsky caught the eye of Alexander Molokov, the directors of her corps, and most of the Russian-speaking, ballet-loving world. She loves dance with everything in her, and that makes her radiant when she dances.

Enjoy, Julian.

[sarkraticmethod]

Well, it's clear to see why Molokov keeps coming back to see her- she is rather brilliant- but Sark's not here for pleasure and he's doing his best to focus on Ilona's value as an asset than as a performer, but after an hour or so, he almost forgets, getting far more caught up in the performance than he intended to, so by the time it's over and the haze has faded, he's more than a little cross with himself

[littleilona]

Ilona is out of her costume and brushing her hair out when he knocks. She had noticed the roses, without a card, and had assumed that they were from Sascha. That is the sort of thing he does often, after all. And since he began courting her, there was hardly anyone else who came to her dressing room after a show.

When she hears the knock, she calls out "Come in!" (in Russian, of course), smiling a bit. It's not a precisely happy smile, but it's a smile, the kind she puts on for Sascha every night, as she hears the door open. "I didn't think you were coming tonight, Sa--" She sees Sark's reflection in her mirror and turns around quickly, her hair fanning over her shoulders. "Oh! I... I am sorry, I thought you were... Who are you?"

[sarkraticmethod]

Sark gives her a polite little bow. "Julian Sark," he responds, not even bothering with an alias. He's not a known entity and that name isn't even real anyway (well, the last name isn't). "Forgive my forwardness," he continues in flawless Russian, because despite been in England and Ireland most of his life, he's still a native-born Russian, taught and trained by native-born Russians. "I had heard of your talents from a close, personal friend whose judgement I deeply trust. I... Sent the flowers ahead of time, prior to the performance