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And he follows the yellow silk in which his saviour is clothed. His gaze fixed on her, he does not miss a single movement and sway of the fabrics. The way she strides along the balconies, the way she traverses the steps and holds up her hem with her hand, the way she stops on one of the flights and gazes absent-mindedly into the hall, and the way she throws back her skirt slightly to draw a small pistol, as her slender fingers screw the silencer to the muzzle and she moves again towards the Austrian chancellor’s box.
His mind a jumble of a thousand thoughts, Ethan wonders how someone so merciful to him is able to go about killing an innocent man with such grace and fervour. There's confidence and calm in her every step, and the gun rests in her hand like an everyday thing... He tries to keep his eyes on her as he draws his gun and...
At this very second, he loses sight of her and the heart in his chest beats out a rhythm of three short — three long — three short. Something is going to happen. Anxiety runs through his veins, spreading throughout his body. For some reason he cares about her well-being, something he's unable to put into words. It's not like with Benji, but it's like with William or any of his other allies; the only question is that she's not his ally. Yet... Or she may not be at all if a noble is carried out of the hall headfirst tonight...
In a moment, Ilsa should appear and fire. A moment, and everything drags on, because it doesn't happen...
"What is she waiting for?" With his breath still held, Ethan speaks aloud.
A moment, and his gaze is caught by movement above the box of nobles. At first, he does not understand who sits on the very first row, he does not guess easily, does not recognise the features, but something clicks and in the end the image of a woman shrouded in white is formed into White Widow — one of the most important persons of the criminal world. Next to her is the second heir to the house of Mitsopolis, whispering something that makes her face transform. Her eyelashes flutter like butterfly wings, her lips curve in a half-smile, and her skin, which covers the pronounced bones of her cheekbones, is covered with a delicate blush.
She replies something; he walks away. And Hunt is just about ready to lose sight of them and go in search of the woman in yellow, when the same woman enters the criminal's box. The widow's entire entourage quickly converges on the exit, leaving them alone — or almost, given Ethan's stare.
He recalls his ancient skills, which he's barely used since retraining in the army, and tries to lip-read their dialogue. It comes out badly at first, so he misses the part that probably contained an exchange of pleasantries. The woman moves closer, allowing him to get a better look at her. She does not look scared (her shoulders are relaxed), nor threatening — the weapon is no longer in her hands and she doesn't make a motion to hurt the woman in front of her.
The widow says "Sit down," which he easily understands, if only by the inviting movement of her hand. And what he least expected happens. Because no matter what, he didn't expect to see the White Widow here, nor did he expect Ilsa to prefer killing the chancellor to meeting her. That was something he couldn't have even guessed...
The girl, smiling slightly, climbs right into the criminal's lap, looking too pleased for him to think she was coerced and too free to think she'd never do such a thing.
He lets the air out, examining the painting with his mouth ajar as if it were some artistic creation of antiquity. Something that is so mesmerising to the spirit that you can't take your eyes off it.
He had met the widow a couple of times before. Indirectly, of course, or he wouldn't be alive — he's sure of that. Ethan has had the misfortune to watch the 'white queen' deal with several double agents with her own hands.
He thinks it's suicide to go on such a mission, and in his heart, he hopes his saviour won't be carried out under the white sheets... His saviour...
...who shakes her head, emitting a loud laugh that he can catch for a second. Some turn around, outraged at this behaviour; some just smile at it. It seems that all people at once became a part of this painting by an insane artist.
"...beautiful. Did you like it?" he sees lips forming into words, hoping from the answer to guess what it's about.
The brunette folds her face into something with notes of seduction and some piquant amusement. "Of course." Her lips want to stretch into a smile, but she holds it back, putting on a personal performance in a theatre with which no stage can compete. "I'm always happy to receive gifts from y..." The rest of the sentence is lost in the offender's lips.
The pale hands that — he knows for a fact — had killed so many suddenly slid down the thigh of his personal St Mary. With each movement higher and higher on her bare skin, the music grew louder and louder; sure enough, the Mass was accompanying everything that was happening (he hadn't noticed the play had begun).
They broke the kiss, cautiously shifting their gaze to the stage, watching without interest the beginning of the performance, which was probably too loud for them to ignore. But by the end of the music, they turned their attention back to each other, relieved, which he noted by their slumped shoulders.
"Ilsa," the widow whispered, and the girl in her lap stirred, responding to her own name. Ilsa. Perhaps in another situation, knowing his saviour's name would have pleased him, but here Ethan could only note how responsive and relaxed Ilsa seemed in a situation in which no one (except her, probably) should have been acting like this.
"Mmhm?" The woman looked at the blonde triumphantly, as one would normally look at evidence of achievement, as one wouldn't normally look at one so badly soiled their hands in blood.
This Ilsa is so ready to give herself and chant to the killer that Hunt feels his chest stiffen with something heavy.
The widow says something, her lips moving in slow motion, but he can't read her words, so all he gets is "...things..." and "...Syndicate..." Ilsa winces at this, as if the question is vulgar and out of place for her, but answers what Hunt recognises as "It's fine, Lanna." He wants to believe that it's not an affectionate reference to the broker, but just a mistake in his perception, but he can't... She really is being affectionate with her, especially considering Lanna's hand has long since been lost under her dress.
For a second, the women just stare at each other, one with a mischievous smirk, the other with a voluptuous look. Both are worthy of each other. With the edge of his eye, Ethan had long ago noticed the movement under the dress, had long ago caught the frequently heaving breasts of his saviour, but he just didn't want to pay attention to it. For some reason, he didn't want to believe it, even though everything was obvious.
He scrutinised Ilsa's face once more, trying to remember her like this. To banish the image of the saintly saviour from his mind. The Devil's hands were giving her pleasure and he suddenly turned away, unable to bear the sight. He looked at the stage — the real stage — and sure enough he saw the reflection of the box. There Judas was kissing Christ, handing him over to be tortured, destined to die. He suppressed the urge to cross himself and finally left the auditorium.