Beltane Rites | Normand & Melisenda
Normand glanced around himself. The night was splendid, filled with lights and laughter and dancing and drink. It was just the sort of night Normand liked best. He also liked the sight of a pretty lady in a red dress approaching him...that is, until he recognized her. Melisenda had the great misfortune of reminding Normand of one of the most humiliating episodes of his life: his short-lived betrothal to Amia Wystan.
Scowling, he looked away, hoping in vain to make a mistake, but someone was talking to him, putting a drink in his hand and then she was there. “What do you want?” he asked, dispiritedly, regarding her closely.
Normand’s instinct was to say something cruel and storm off to prove he could conquer the situation, but sadly, tonight he could not. Tonight was, as much as anything, about convincing the West that he could make a viable candidate as Warden and even Normand knew that pouncing at the first sign of hurt would damage the image he meant to conjure. No, tonight he’d have to wait her out.
He took a long quaff and smiled at her rather reluctantly. “I don’t suppose you’ve any news of your errant sister?” he added, dismissively, smiling brightly at someone who passed to pretend that this was not bothering him. It would not do to expose a weakness. He’d seen a legion of sharks pounce at a single drop of blood. He didn’t mean to be a feast. “Has she changed her mind and come crawling back to beg me to take her? I’ll not have her, you should know. She is ruined already, I suspect, and I’ll not take any man’s leavings.”
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