There were, perhaps, few things Rowena detested with more staggeringly stinging vehemence than the veritable mountain of paperwork generated by a business as successful as the one to which she lay claim. Paperwork was a morsel of archaic terminology of course, the greatest majority of the workload displayed upon the screen of the Mac before her as it cast its luminescence against the stunning hard lines of her features. It was, by far, the most irksome detail inherent in the ever-growing notoriety of her establishment and its plethora of lavish offerings; the domineering matron vastly preferring to monitor the multitude of business operations physically rather than from on high within her lofty office quarters. It was she who knew The Witchery and all of its nuances more intimately than any other individual could have professed to; she knew every guest, every employee, and every person who had otherwise found themselves within her hotel.

And it was this knowledge, this inherent intuition for perfection and those who personified it that owed the shrewd blonde the data required to weed out any part of her operation that was lacking. Such was her present conundrum that Rowena had been prompted to demand a listing be placed... a remarkably rare occasion indeed. Then, as if heralded by some clandestine and fortuitous cue, the quiet chiming of the sleek telephone perched atop her desk purred into the silent ether. She does not coo any unnecessary greeting into the waiting receiver, merely pausing with veiled patience for the purpose of this interruption. "Well then, send her in," is but all she offers before replacing the device into its cradle and gently closing the laptop she had been so dutifully attending to.

Rising as the hefty wooden door eases ajar, Rowena rounds her massive and impeccably organized desk in but a few strides of her perfectly-tanned legs. Her attire is as perfectly fearsome as is her demeanor, the elegance of black smoothed to every feminine curve, accented beautifully with a few choice baubles. The woman's scrupulously dissecting gaze falls upon the slender young girl who glides into her office, taking no shame in scorching a sizzling line from the shoes upon her feet to the understated arrangement of the mane of hair atop her head. There could be no argument against her beauty. However, a great many young men and women who had come seeking The Witchery's employ were beautiful... and this proved a startlingly sparse portion of what Rowena was truly seeking. "Rowena Metcalf, it's a pleasure," she purred, extending a surprisingly firm hand with which to greet this newest seeker. The shrewd blonde offers only a moment to the young girl in which she might choose to introduce herself before motioning to the plush leather armchair situated strategically across from her own leather perch. "Have a seat. And do please tell me exactly why it is that you're here." It is an outwardly simplistic question, seemingly daft perhaps should it be posed to someone unfamiliar with the blonde owner and her peculiar style of communication. However, whatever answer, whatever explanation, the young girl offered would surely decide what manner of future, if any, she might have at The Witchery.