He had sent an owl, but he'd neglected to advise time or place - a hastily scrawled "portrait - Sunday?" was all her notice. Rabastan's timing is fortuitous, because it forces Narcissa to stop dithering over gowns and come downstairs to meet him at the elf's behest.

The first sign of her arrival is the sound of her shoes on the staircase. She's dressed relatively casually; cashmere shift dress, simple flats, her hair in its natural waves pulled back into a low bun. Several stunning gowns are floating behind her, though.

"Rabastan," she greets him, smiling hesitantly. An elegant hand waves at the hovering wardrobe. "You didn't tell me what to wear. And did you have a room in mind? The parlor, or the library, perhaps?"

She hasn't had her portrait painted in years, as she'd told him, and is oddly nervous about having this one go well.