The young lady giggled softly, extending an arm sleekly covered by a black satin glove. The only ring she wore was a very modest silver band with a moonstone, inherited from her mother who had departed this world ten years ago. "Shakhmaty Killian," she said by way of introduction. "Glad to meet you."
She sat down in a stately armchair, crafted from the same dark and rosy wood as her dresser in the Plum Room. Privately wishing that there were more attendants around than the melancholy Henrietta, especially a butler or footman to serve drinks, Shakhmaty took off her hat and placed it on the top of the chair, leaving it dangling. "You are?" She was instantly intrigued by this fellow guest of hers, although there was something--shifty?--about him.