belin doesn’t smile, but there’s a softening in her posture, a gentle tilt of her head toward vasilisa that suggests something close to understanding. “i used to say the same thing,” she murmurs, eyes suddenly alight with remembrance. “that i liked a good party. a drink, a dance, the hum of voices not asking too much of you.” she glances toward the doorway as if it might spill over with more guests at any moment, then back out into the dark. “but somewhere along the way, they started to feel like performances. not just mine, necessarily. everyone’s. the rehearsed laughter. the careful anecdotes. the costume of it all.” the scenes drift across her memory like a faded reel, all graceless and worn — champagne glasses clicking under chandeliers, silk hems brushing marble floors, the sound of someone else's joy draped like perfume. but it's vasilisa's question that brings her out of her trance, her lips forming to generate a tsk noise as she shakes her head slyly. “now, i'm going to need a lot more of these if you want me to spill my secrets.” she gestures to the flute clasped in her grasp, lifting it just slightly, the bubbles catching faint starlight as if they too, might be listening in. it's a practiced deflection, polished smooth with use. “still, i can't fault anyone for needing the smoke and mirrors. some of us just prefer the quieter corners.” a pause, and then more dryly: “and better conversation. sometimes i find myself thinking i would rather talk to a brick wall than some of the other guests.” the words slip out with a low breath of laughter, a rare moment of honesty. “and what about you ? what would you rather be spending your evening doing ?”
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