‘I’m marrying the man, not his taste in jewelry,’ Daphne informs her with blushing forbearance, and Vivianne has to resist rolling her eyes to the very back of her skull. “You’re marrying his reputation,” She snorts, gaze scanning the room to keep tabs on her social targets. The woman’s voice drops lower still, a cynical hum under her breath. “Or at least you would be, if you’re half as smart as you look.”
And she is — smart, that is, in ways la Capobastone had grudgingly not expected of her childhood acquaintance. “Dis-lui de le retourner.” She suggests offhandedly, slipping into their native tongue; tell him to take it back. For the life of her, Vivianne doesn’t know whether she means the ring, or the proposal. “It isn’t too late.”
‘Does Cosimo know you?’...
It’s bold, especially for Daphne. Vivianne lets the question complete a circuit in her mind, thinking back to the last year or two since she and Cosimo crossed over that staunchly political line and invited a far more intimate relationship between themselves. Does he know you, she wonders, recalling the way he’s learned to read the turns of her expression and the subtlest inflections of her tone. He knows how to speak when she’s listening, and how to listen when she speaks. He knows how to command attention and how to return it; how to steer the more mercurial of her moods into directions profitable for him; like a ship through stormy waters. He knows where to touch her, knows never to ask for more.
“He knows what I want him to know.” She answers at last, and thinks therein lies the truth of it for all women. All lovers, more broadly, who know exactly what it is you want them to know, until you decide to give them more. Others claim more before you’ve given it, she thinks, mind traveling to the ex-fiancé she almost married before he learned that little bit more she wasn’t ready to part with, and dashed it all to smithereens. But then Vivianne drowns the thought in more alcohol, feeling it slide to the back of her mouth and numb its way down her throat.
Better to control all the pieces, she’s long since decided, and wonders now whether pretty, whimsical, Daphne Allard’s come to the same conclusion on love.
Vivianne is only a little wrong. She’s not really marrying Beau’s reputation. She’s marrying the Renaud family reputation...if you want to be technical about it. He presented other benefits as a future husband, as well. His fondness for throwing extravent parties and galas were beneficial for getting secrets from champagne-losened lips. Moreover, he most likely knew not to embarrass her and to keep his indiscretions discreet.
And, of course –– “L’Arena is a plus,” she quips, a little more bite in her voice than usual., and she lets Vivianne make her own conclusions about that.
Daphne raises an eyebrow when Vivianne calls her half-smart, remembering their little...performance at her parent’s funeral. She knew Vivianne didn’t think too much of her, but Daphne had given her little cause for complaint during the course of her time with the Capulet’s. And she had come to appreciate her childhood acquaintance’s maturity; for whatever else she may be Vivianne was not a fool and too busy to be whatever monster people whispered about.
“C’est trop tard. It’ll grow on me,” Daphne says. “The ring.” Jewelry is easier to become fond of. Easier than a human being, at least. She looks at the ring again, wiling herself to have some kind of deeper sentiment that apathy towards it. She can’t. This is new to her. Daphne Allard has always been one to feel, always been given towards sentiment.
He knows what I want him to know, Vivianne says, and Daphne’s first thought is: Oh, what a sorry state, but beggars can’t be chosers. They were both in the same boat, Vivianne and Daphne –– and it would be a cold day in hell before either them of them went around begging for love. And for better or for worse, they had chosen their arrangements. Vivianne with Cosimo and Daphne with Beau.
Maybe there are more similarities between their arrangements than Daphne would prefer there to be. Beau knew what Daphne wanted him to know about her – which was, for the record, about as little as possible. He didn’t know about the broken hearts, the schoolyard taunts. He didn’t know that she could pickpocket half the persons in at this party and no one would be the wiser. He didn’t know she was a Capulet.
But perhaps to his credit, Beau was not the don of a criminal syndicate. Do you know Cosimo, Vivianne? She wonders, but doesn’t ask. Can’t push too much, and if she knew anything about Vivianne, it was that the woman didn’t take kindly to concern or innocent questions from her.
She raises her drink. “To love...and to arrangements that work, then?”
“Merda,” She breathes, nary a greeting in response as Daphne approaches her. One sweeping glance to the ring on the younger woman’s finger; one pointed look back up, “ — Well, if that isn’t the tackiest rock I’ve seen in all my life…” Her voice trails off as the flute of champagne rises up to meet her lips, which is undoubtedly a small mercy for the newly minted fiancée who already looks uncomfortable beside her.
Good.
She hadn’t invited the company, and if Daphne Allard finds her a preferable choice to the clucking hens that flock around the blushing-bride-to-be, a lesser of two evils, so to speak — then that’s Daphne’s misfortune.
And Vivianne’s misfortune that she’s here at all; forced to attend the flamboyant Valentine’s Day luncheon masquerading as a charity benefit for the city. But Cosimo had practically implored her to do so; convinced as he was that she could charm her way into the good graces of several of the guests in attendance, turning them into eventual songbirds for the Capulet cause. What he doesn’t know, is just how much alcohol it’s taken her to do exactly that.
She steals another glance at the ring. It isn’t quite so bad as she makes it out to be, but one thing is clear, at least to Vivianne — “He doesn’t know you at all, does he?”
Merda is right, but Daphne cannot bring herself to agree with Vivianne out loud out of deference to decorum. Rumors would flow as readily as this city would spill blood, and any measure she could take to ease their spread, Daphne would take. In addition, the ring was hers, for better or worse, and Daphne supposed she could get used to the sight of it.
However, she doesn’t disagree with Vivianne, her silence louder than her words. “I’m marrying the man, not his taste in jewelry,” she replies airily. “But I don’t think I’ll let him decorate our future house unsupervised.” Not that he’s likely to even care. Daphne knew what the consequences would be of a glorified political marriage, and the effort it would take on both their parts to pretend it was a love match. She knew, but that doesn’t lessen the frustration of Beau’s personality tarnishing an otherwise handsome face and spectacular resume.
He wasn’t that bad, really. If he was, then Daphne would’ve never agreed to start seeing him or agreed to marry him. There was just something cold, something entirely without feeling, about him. She could like him more if she knew him, or if he gave her any indication other than the ring on the finger that he gave a shit about her.
It wasn’t that she wanted the fairytale – well, she wanted the fairytale wedding, but no one would expect anything less from la famiglia Allard. She wanted love, the real and enduring and beautiful kind her parents have. Enduring. She wished for enduring love, and she was granted a marriage of endurance. Be careful what you wish for.
He doesn’t know you at all, does he? Ah, there it is – the quiet part said aloud. “I don’t think he knows my taste in jewelry. Besides, who can know anyone at all, really?” Daphne takes a sip of her drink and lets it make her bolder. “Does Cosimo know you?”
Katarina’s eyes flick to her rearview mirror, spying the car that’s stayed just far enough away the past few minutes, but after driving for nearly twenty now, it’s more than obvious to her that she’s being followed. She takes a nonsensical left turn, and after a few heartbeats, there the same car is again. “The south side of the city,” Kat answers, “A few kilometers south of the business district. “And, no, I can’t see them. They’ve kept their distance, and it’s too dark.”
She has to have imagined hearing the tightness in her own voice, right? There’s no way she’s scared after a successful hit— that would be completely unreasonable, especially for someone like her. Katarina forces herself to hold her breath for a long moment before letting out a slow exhale as she waits for Daphne’s answer. Understandably, her friend hesitates, and Kat won’t fault her if her eventual answer is ‘no’. All she can hope is that she trusts her to not bring a fight to her door. It’s the last thing Daphne, Beau, L’Arena, or herself needs.
“Thank you.” Tired warmth seeps into her voice, and Kat visibly sags into her seat. “I’ll be there in no longer than a half an hour.” It won’t take her that long to get there, but she’ll stop somewhere else to take care of whoever’s following her and then hide out at Daphne’s before figuring out where to head next. “I owe you one.”
Thank you. I owe you one. “Careful; there might come a day when I’ll hold you to that,” Daphne says with a smile. It is, however, very true. Daphne Allard was fond of favors, of the power you could hold over someone when they owed you something. She was also, typically but not always, fond of the people who were in her debt, as there was a certain amount of trust required for it. Daphne wouldn’t trust certain Capulet’s to follow through with a favor, but she’d trust Katarina with that much at least. It was almost a love language to her.
With half an hour to Katarina’s arrival, Daphne has time to clean up. There’s not much out of place in her townhouse – there rarely is – but giving the kitchen a dust and putting a kettle on the stove gives her something to do other than worry about trouble. There’s a jacket draped over one of the chairs that catches her eye – Maeve’s. Daphne frowns. When did that get here?
For a minute, her heart stupidly hopes that the past month has all been some kind of horrible misunderstanding. That she’d turn around and Maeve would be putting some pink roses from the shop into a vase, blissfully unaware of what a fright she’d given all of them. No, she’d left it here last time Maeve came by for dinner, she remembers. Her heart quietly breaks again when she hears the knock by the back door. It’s Katarina.
Daphne lets her friend in, still holding Maeve’s jacket. She locks the door behind her and double checks that her security system is in place, before pulling Katarina into a hug. “You’re not hurt, are you?” Then: “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”
date: 21 giugno 2019
location: en route to…?
status: closed, for @daphneallard
“I could be wrong, but I think I’m being followed.” Katarina doesn’t greet her friend before those words flow from her lips in a smooth exhale, French not Italian as is her way with the woman. She isn’t quite sure if she would prefer to be wrong and considered paranoid (something that would raise more than just a few questions) or if she wants to be right. “I’m going to take the long way home, but could I stay at your place for a few hours tonight?” To her credit, she sounds calm as she speaks, but the white-knuckle grip she has on her steering wheel and from visible just for a second as she raises her gaze to the rear view mirror says otherwise.
It’s afterwards she finally speaks a greeting. “Hello, Daphne. I’m sorry to disturb you so late.” A beat. “Nothing is going to happen, I’m not bringing any fight or any danger to you. I just need to make sure. I’ll even park a few minutes walk away… Just in case.” Katarina glances down to her sweater, her pants, and thankful she’s wearing all black she lets out an audible sigh of relief. There’s no chance the other woman will be able to spot any stray splatters of blood, but to be sure she intends on changing into the beige cardigan stowed away under her seat. Her gun sits in her middle console, and another in her door side. She’ll bring one with her to Daphne’s if she’ll let her stop by, though if not she might just have to get creative about where she’ll be driving to.
I could be wrong, but I think I’m being followed. Daphne’s blood runs; she didn’t know all of particulars of Katarina’s situation, but between her apartment being broken into and everything else with the war in the city, it wasn’t out of the question that the senior Du Pont sister would be followed. “Où es-tu?” Daphne asks, keeping her voice level. “Can you see who you think is following you?”
When Katarina asks if she can stay for a few hours, Daphne hesitates. It’s not that she distrusts Katarina, but Daphne wouldn’t be terribly surprised if some kind of danger followed her to Daphne’s townhouse. The last thing either of them needed was a mob-related shootout at a villa. Daphne could only imagine what the papers would say, and not even she could keep something like that from the pages of L’Arena.
But if something were to happen to her tonight, Daphne would never be able to forgive herself – and she couldn’t handle another tidal wave of grief caused by a death she could’ve prevented. “Of course, Kat. Do you still remember how to get to the back door?”
date: june 14, 2019
time: early morning, prior to sunrise
place: capulet safe house in amsterdam
availability: closed for @theodoramoreaus
Daphne is not quick to express her anger; it was an unseemly emotion, and people didn’t like it when she got angry. They didn’t know what to do with her. For clients, it was contrary to the good-nature emissary. Saints and saviors were rarely noted for their wrath, unless it was righteous –– and since Daphne happened to be in the mafia, she was in short supply of righteous rage.
So she bites her tongue and thanks Dr. Bakker, a Capulet-affiliated doctor in the city, for patching up her and Theodora up. The démon the pair travelled to Amsterdam to meet with was not as advertised. A routine mission. Simple. We should have had time to handle this and have some time for ourselves. The simple, routine mission their don had advertised had led to a broken wrist and a body covered in scrapes and bruises.
The démon hadn’t spared Daphne’s face either. Bruises, scrapes, split lip, black eye –– nothing too imaginative, nothing that enough makeup couldn’t disguise, and nothing permanent, the doctor had assured her. That doesn’t stop the emissary from wanting to wring Don Cosimo’s neck.
She looks at her old friend softly, almost apologetic for not being able to get them out of this mess. “How are you feeling, Theo?”
date: february 14, 2018
time: early evening
place: villa
availability: @lavolumnia
The whiskey burns in her throat and she wrinkles her nose. Daphne doesn’t like whiskey – she prefers champagne or a good cabernet sauvignon, but supposed a party is a good a time as any to try it. No time like the present, she thinks, glancing at the diamond ring adorning her finger. It’s a beautiful ring. It suits her. It’s perfectly perfect. It’s fine.
Despite her personal antipathy towards the ring, it was a hit with the crowd of revelers. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. Congratulations. You two are the perfect couple. You’re so lucky to have him. She smiled widely. She thanked with the right mix of pride and humility. She showed off the ring, but didn’t brag about it. Daphne Allard was the perfect blushing bride-to-be. An Oscar-worthy performance, given her secret apathy.
You wanted this, she reminds herself. You wanted a husband and marrying the man who runs L’Arena will be good for the Capulets. It’ll be good for Verona. It was a suitable arrangement, and certainly he was the best option. She chose him, for what it’s worth. But it wasn’t love, and it would most likely never be love. But maybe that was the whiskey talking.
She elegantly sidesteps a flock of married women attempting to give her marriage advice, wedding dress advice, diet advice (blegh) –– all bullshit Daphne would have the length of her engagement to figure out – and finds perhaps the one person who wouldn’t grate her about roses and diamond rings tonight.
“Bonsoir, Vivianne,” she greets. “How’s the night air treating you?”
In fair Verona, our tale begins with DAPHNE ALLARD, who is THIRTY-ONE years old. She is often called DIANA by the CAPULETS and works as a EMISSARY. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.
TW: FAT SHAMING, BULLYING
Trying to encapsulate Daphne Allard is like trying to catch lightning in a bottle, the moonlight on your eyelashes, or the ray of the sun upon your tongue. She is simply that enigmatic, so much so that there are truly those who believe her to be something otherworldly, something magical. How could they not believe it, when it seemed that SERAPHIM bowed at her feet while cherubs adorned her cheeks with sweet, rosy pink kisses? It’s not so difficult to believe since it seemed near impossible to deny anything to the apple-cheeked child that would roam up and down the grand halls of her parent’s estate. Frequently, she would pad down to the kitchen late at night to beg the patissier to grant her one or two small macarons while the glittering guests mingled in her parents’ ballroom and they were helpless to her whims, sighing begrudgingly as she plucked the treat from their palm and went merrily on her way. What they didn’t see was how she snuck out and passed her treat to the dirty, awaiting hands of those less fortunate than her, or how she stole away the blankets from her bed and placed it on the shoulders of the children who shivered on the dirty, cobbled streets day after day. All anyone would ever see is the princess whose ears were adorned with bright, glimmering diamonds – whose bright, shining smile and glittering eyes seemed better suited to the vapid day-to-day responsibilities of a DEBUTANTE. Lock her in an ivory castle and do away with the key, for she was a child far too precious to see the vileness and hardships of life.
But the Allards could not protect her forever, try as they did to shield their precious porcelain doll. Didn’t they know that children could be just as cruel as their parents? Foolishly, they had thought that sending her out of Verona to live abroad in France would spare her from the atrocities of man, but girls could be far more wicked when left to their own devices. They knew where she came from, how the city from which she proudly came was full of roaches and demons. They wondered if her spirit would be just as difficult to kill. Day after day they would ridicule her, isolate her, HOUND her like the harpies that they were – words sharp as knives, tongues lashing like whips. Gifts that her parents gave her, they would ruin, forcing her to hide it away, like a dragon hoarding gold. Though she spoke French impeccably, they mocked her for the way that her tongue curled around the words, how she gestured emphatically, and for every morsel that she ate. Little did they know the VENGEANCES that she took upon them, how she would steal away the money from their wallets, the odd earring and the errant ring. The fools didn’t even know what they were missing – for a couple of hours they would huff and puff before their parents would send them something far more expensive as a salve for their wounded hearts. But Daphne would console herself for her trespasses against them by knowing that the money she had made by pawning their jewels off would allow a widow and child to keep their shoddy apartment, or that the beggars in the city square would have something in their stomachs for that night.
It became a habit of hers, the heady warmth of bettering another’s life became the most potent drug she knew. She bettered her skills, crafting them so that slipping priceless watches from the wrist of an arrogant suitor was as easy and thoughtless as brushing a comb through her hair. By the time she returned to Verona, she was determined to never relinquish that high – though she loved her city, she did not balk from the truth: the city needed a SAVIOR. And the only way to do so was to ruthlessly weed out those that threatened to choke it; she knew that she could only do so by purging it from within. Her parents had a long-standing relationship with the Capulets, but had insisted that Daphne – their sweet, apple-cheeked child – could never be useful to them. What was more useful, though, than MONEY? Money could more or less buy you anything, and a place in the Capulet ranks was to be no exception. She had prepared for her ties to them to choke her, to smother out what there was of her light. But the deeper she delved into the world of the mafia, the more she thrived. It was an intoxicating thing, the power that came with ranking among the deified of the city, rivaled only by the rush of knowing that someone owed their life to you.
Being a heroine or peddling something quite like it – she had somehow allowed both to become her POISON. And the people of the city were none the wiser. They knew her as the socialite, as the doted-on girl who was set to inherit a fortune. Their bright star, their shining light who was perhaps the one beautiful thing unmarred and untainted by the blood that ran through the streets. In a way they were right, Daphne was shining and beautiful as ever, but so was the sun and it burned just as brightly as she. It warmed and healed, it scorched and purged. She looks in the mirror each night, lips bare and eyes wide, knowing that she too has the ability to save the city or the power to rule it as she desired. They loved her, they were devoted to her, and she loved them too. Each night she feels her throat tighten with the knowledge of the power that sits at the tip of her fingers, and though she LOATHES to admit it, she has created a drug of her own making, one that gets more potent each passing day. Before she looks away from the mirror, turns away from that Aphrodite-like creature, she can’t help the brief, barely-acknowledged wish that her parents had kept her locked away in that ivory tower. Perhaps, then, the city might be saved from those vices of hers that threatened to ruin them all.
BEAU RENARD: Husband-To-Be. He is presented like Apollo – a golden boy, a warm shining sun amidst the glittering stars of Verona. However, it would be more accurate to liken him to Hades, ruler of the dead, isolated and far too keen to wear a bone-made crown upon his head. She knows what her duty is, and she is more than happy to fulfill it. After all, marriage is nothing more than a contractual agreement between two adults and it would benefit them both. Although, it seemed like the scales were tipped a little more in his favor; he was blessed enough to be wed to the darling of Verona, after all. Still, though, there is hope that whatever frigid wall he has placed between them comes tumbling down some way or another. She looks at her parents and sees a romance more pivotal than that between the moon and the sea, so no one can blame her for the wish in her heart to have something – someone – to call her own, and for that person in turn to say the same and mean it.
RENZO CAROZZA: Achilles Heel. She isn’t a foolish girl conned by pretty faces and honey-sweet words, but there is something about Renzo that strikes a chord in her already bleeding heart. Perhaps it is because of the abyss that reflects in his eyes that she longs to cast out, longs to fill with something greater than that gaping maw of emptiness. He treats her as he does every other person – with kisses upon her cheek, words that could coax the devil into whispering a prayer, touches that could lull a raging dragon into a slumber. But there are these still moments where they catch one another’s gaze and it feels as though he holds a knife pointed at her heart, as though he is witnessing the sun dawn for the first time. Then he glances away and the world breathes once more. She cannot understand why nor does she dare too, but it is there all the same and nothing she does can get him to relinquish this hold that he has over her. Daphne cannot blame him – she can’t bring herself to either.
TAMURA CHIKO: Leverage. There are small amusements and joys that she allows herself to indulge in, and creating the mirage that is Chiko’s wealth is one of them. When she had instigated this little ploy with him, it had initially been because she thought them a better person than they were, someone who would truly make something of themselves. But, as with all things in Verona, they proved to be just as dastardly as the rest of its inhabitants – and she became all the wiser for it. The charade that they continued to pander to seemed to place them deeper and deeper into her debt, but she was far too amused by how everyone seemed to eat it up, both Montagues and Capulets alike. Their enigmatic persona was nothing more than a thinly veiled self-made man, and yet Verona seemed to whisper about them as if they were a god. She wondered, though, if they knew how she intended to use their secret. But, for now, she was all too content to watch them and let them believe that they were a puppet without strings.
PANDORA PHAN: Wildcard. She had not intended to save them – she had thought that they were another soul, caught in the crossfire that was the war between the Montagues and the Capulets. A young soldier was too keen to wave their gun about and Daphne had saved Pandora’s father just in time, rushing them to the hospital, ensuring that he would live and breathe another day. Then Pandora had stumbled into the room, seen her father’s forlorn form and that is what Daphne knew what she had done. Moreover, she realized the debt that was owed to her, one that would undoubtedly earn her power in the Capulets that none could hope to have. It had become an oddly satisfying thing, being in the same room as the great Pandora Phan and knowing the great power that she could hold over her head.
Daphne is portrayed by TARA LYNN and was written by ROSEY. She is currently TAKEN by DIANA.
MENTIONED: Philip Petre (NPC), @deadagainmaevepetre (among others but mostly Maeve)
Daphne feels like she can’t breath when Philip tells her the news. Maeve. Dead. Maeve. Dead. Maeve is dead. Maeve is dead. She can’t wrap her head around those words strung together in that order. It just doesn’t make any sense. Maeve can’t be dead. Maeve is young, and vibrant, and kind, and loves sundresses, and loves flowers, and is everything that’s alive.
Her mind is going a million miles an hour, attempting to figure out exactly what’s happening. No, I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong, signor, she wants to say, but Daphne takes one look at the man who is clearly tattered with grief and can’t bring herself to, lest Philip Petre starts crying in her foyer.
She brings him into her kitchen and places him in his chair. Her hand trembles on top of his, and they both pretend not to notice. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Daphne asks, her voice surprisingly clear. He nods. He comes first right now, she thinks, not knowing how best to take care of this grieving man. They didn’t know each other particularly well, outside of a friendly coffee once every few months to talk about Maeve.
It had quieted some of his anxieties (was anxieties the right word? Fear? Rage? Disappointment? All of the above?) that Daphne Allard had been his daughter’s sponsor into the Capulet’s. Beautiful Daphne Allard. Kind Daphne Allard. Influential Daphne Allard. She could take care of Maeve. Well, that wasn’t the case now was it? Daphne looked like someone who could take care of Maeve. She was all smoke and no fire, and more all her poison-laced smile and honey-laden words, Maeve is dead.
Maeve is dead. It just doesn’t feel right. It’s impossible. It’s unnatural.
Daphne thinks back to the boy who asked her to help escape the Capulet’s, and how she’d betrayed him. A bullet to the head – not by her hand, of course, but with her consent. She’d paid for the funeral and looked his parents in the eyes as she paid her respects. Why is the universe so cold? I take their son, so you take my girl? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a loss for a loss...where is the justice in that?
She takes a shaky breath, putting his cup in front of him. Philip doesn’t touch it. “What is going on, Philip? What happened?”
Daphne braces herself for all manners of story –– fell into the Adige and drowned, killed in a random mugging, killed by the Capulet’s for desertion, shot by a Montague soldier who saw a little Capulet all by her lonesome and decided this would be the best way to curry favor, slaughtered by the Montague’s as revenge for what the Capulet’s did to that spy. What was her name again? Ah, Valentina Gallo. She pictures their initiates stabbing her, one by one. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a desecration for a desecration.
When he relays Maeve’s manner of death to Daphne, her heart shatters. “Oh,” she says softly, a few tears trailing down her face. She’s unable to mask the tidal wave of emotions – surprise, horror, grief, denial – on her face. “Oh.” Daphne thinks back to her most recent interactions with Maeve –– why would she call her to look for that dress if she was going to....if she was going to –– no, she can’t even think of it right now. The girl had been emotional, had clearly been hurt and confused and stunned by recent events, but ––– no, no, no. No. No. No. It doesn’t make any sense.
Why didn’t I realize? Why didn’t I catch it? Why didn’t I do more? Why couldn’t I have saved her? Daphne thinks, unable to hide from the shame. That was her strength, her ability to compartmentalize all of her emotions. Her control. Her mask. Her ability to be whatever anyone needed to be. She could be Verona’s princess. And she, Verona’s would-be savior, couldn’t even save her.
They are both crying now, father and not-quite mother. What a horrible scene, Daphne thinks. Maeve would hate to see us like this. She wipes away her tear, and takes Philip’s hand, and promises him that needn’t worry about anything. She will take care of the funeral arrangements – he must not pay a single penny. I am strong enough for this, Daphne wills herself. And if I am not, I must be.
His shoulder’s slump in relief, and Daphne’s mind goes to everyone else. Everett. Oh, poor Everett. First Lillian, and now Maeve. Her heart breaks for him. Juliana. Vivianne. Catherine. Bunny. And what of Orion in Amsterdam?
And Cosimo. On a more cynical level, this simply isn’t good for the Capulet name. Join the Capulet’s, we’ll make you want to kill yourselves isn’t the most inspiring slogan to new recruits.
“Did she talk to you about this?” Philip asks, and it takes a second for Daphne to register what he’s referring to. Did Maeve ever talk to your about what kind of funeral she wanted?
Daphne shakes her head. “No, but I think I can....I think I know....I knew her well enough to know what she might have wanted.”
How wrong this is, a parent burying their own child.
How wretched it is to think of Maeve Petre in the past tense.
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