The petulant and exasperated noise that whispers from the brunette at her back and the subtle defiance of her words has a smile pull its fine stitches into the softened flesh at the edges of Rowena's lips. There were some individuals who might have scoffed at such tactfully sizzling banter, unabashedly unsettled by anything as presumptuous as defiance to their own crumbling sense of authority. Rowena's sense of such things, however, was ironclad, unaffected by the fragile flame of insolence that was kindled so meekly within the hearts of her peers. And so it was an admittedly refreshing occurrence when the domineering blonde was met with something besides outright submission. She spins about effortlessly upon treacherous heels to face her merchant guest, green eyes imparting their scrupulous glances first to the woman in question and then to the parcel she clutches so passionately. "His affairs became mine when he checked into one of my suites, so the imposition is as much his as it is mine," she responds almost idly as a delicate hand reaches up to flip the lid containing whatever curious item her guest has deemed suitable to have delivered to her establishment.

There, nestled into an expertly crafted bed of twine was a beautiful and ornately-decorated cylindrical vessel. Rowena rolled the item about within her fingers, seeming to study with some interest every swirl of the external filigree before flipping the top off to view the internal chamber. The fragrance of sage was cloying, billowing in an invisible smog to choke the cleanliness of their immediate area; Rowena's plump upper lip curled into the momentary shadow of a truly loathesome snarl... sage had always been one of her less-preferred herbs, and thusly having the stench of a generous bundle of it did not bode well for a pleasant demeanor. The fractious blonde moves to discard the seemingly worthless article back into its bed of twine before a minute incision, so minimal as to almost escape the absolute scrutiny of her practiced eye, wholly captures her attention. A single, expertly-manicured brow pitches skyward, silent homage to the inkling of curiosity that now burns within as slender fingers twist at the opposite end of the cylinder. Her efforts and curiosity are dutifully rewarded with the swift removal of the vessel's bottom... and the extraction of a narrow glass vial, boasting no more length or girth than that of her little finger. Ever the curious creature, Rowena uncorks the vial, arcing the slender tube in a few slow, deliberate passes beneath her perfectly curved nose; immediately her eyes are given to narrow, a pointed, pregnant glance slicing towards the brunette before her.

Then, with salacious care that is a fallacy in every way that it could have been, the blonde matron slips the cylindrical container, sans its rather perilous cargo, back unto its earthen cushion. Whispering not another syllable Rowena turns, leading her would-be charge to a winding staircase and ever further into the remotest appendage of her oasis, pausing at the pristinely adorned door of the Turret, the oak slab solid and steadfast so that even her gentlest knock is amplified. It is but a matter of silent moments before the door eases open upon well-oiled hinges revealing a tall, broad gentlemen, clearly having long been introduced to his later years and yet still hinting at the handsome man that had once been. He boasts a strong few inches over the daunting blonde and yet this does naught to intimidate or deter her. "Mr. Malone," she coos, her syllables injected with a sinisterly sweet inflection of honey, "May I come in?" "Of course, Ms. Metcalf," he offers in a brusque tone before flourishing his arm to the gothic innards of the suite in a gesture that is sorely overstated, letting his muddied brown eyes rove wantonly over each woman in turn.

His glances, though not unnoticed, are quickly noted and then discarded, failing to perturb Rowena as it might have a lesser woman. Instead, she merely inclines her regal head towards the brunette in her wake. "I do believe that your parcel has arrived, Mr. Malone. How kind of this young woman to bring it all this way, mmm?" Her last words hum through pursed crimson lips, a pointed glance searing into the eyes of this man, the Dark Hunter. She had disposed of the rampant personal prejudice against this race of glorified butchers in favor of an alliance of sorts that, albeit fragile, might have proven beneficial to her already-thriving business. And though the decision to allow this vermin to reside, even temporarily, within her establishment might have appeared a blunder forged in ambitious naivety... the fool in this game was not Rowena. It never was.

"Ah yes," he stammers, pulling the extravagant leather wallet from the confines of his trousers and extending a generous wad of bills to the young messenger girl. "Your assistance is greatly appreciated." Rowena no longer cares for what funds or banter they might exchange, her back having been turned, her deft hands already working to pour a sampling of her finest wine from the decanter resting upon the bar. The emptying of the vial's contents into the most ornate of the glasses is an expertly subtle thing, the movement impeccably executed. The smile that perches itself upon her sharp and beautiful features is a devilish and ferocious thing, never once tainting her gaze with evidence of its fallacy as she extends the bejeweled goblet to the unfortunate Mr. Malone. He had presumed himself clever enough to fool her in her own territory, to make a mockery of her intellect and thwart her authority; and so she would provide him a taste of his own medicine, as it were. A short few syllables purr from betwixt crimson lips as she raises her own glass in a toast. "To your health."