𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐒.
thirty four years old. she/her. jeweler and merchant. portrayed by lee sung kyung. → penned by julie (twenty five, she/her, est).
— application // pinterest board // skeleton

No title available

@theartofmadeline
Acquired Stardust

oozey mess
No title available
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Not today Justin

blake kathryn

JVL

titsay
taylor price
Claire Keane

★

izzy's playlists!
sheepfilms

⁂

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

roma★
Show & Tell
AnasAbdin

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@ofrosalind
𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐒.
thirty four years old. she/her. jeweler and merchant. portrayed by lee sung kyung. → penned by julie (twenty five, she/her, est).
— application // pinterest board // skeleton
THE TWENTY FIRST OF AUDE AT THE IMPERIAL OPERA HOUSE. open to @lafaille
the box she’s been assigned is different from her usual, but even rosalind has to admit it’s a clear improvement. the view is spectacular, encompassing the whole opera house and stage, a perfect bird’s-eye view of the show. the satisfied purr of a cat pouncing on its prey creeps up her throat, and rosalind lets it loose as her lips curl proudly. finally, her value is being recognized with a seat worthy of her station. her talent has been noticed, her efforts have not been in vain and the empress will eventually admit that she made the wrong choice. if this gets back to alain, then perhaps rosalind can leverage it somehow — another estate, perhaps, or a seat at the table that will certainly spread across and beyond celestine.
her fantasies consume her, devour her in one greedy swallow before rosalind realizes she is being swept away. she imagines jewels around her neck, rings that weigh more than a sack of dor on every finger, her lips pink and coiled as her lost twin sister returns at last. she imagines a different lover for every night and a feast that goes half-consumed before gallons of ale and wine are emptied. her stomach turns and turns and turns in anticipation, in a hot rush of want like a fever.
rosalind’s fantasies snap shut when she walks in, and rosalind can’t help the immediate twist of scorn and envy and the lingering smoke of desire on her features. “have you no decency?” she snaps at cecile, eyes traveling across her rival’s elegant attire and choice of jewels. “you must ruin my night with your horrible taste and company?”
lafaille:
Rosalind’s intrusion isn’t exactly unexpected, but it is far from welcome. Cecile has long since abandoned any hope of smoothing over whatever quarrel Rosalind imagines between them. Rosalind can burst into her shop with all the subtlety of a rock thrown through the glass windows as many times as she likes, but Cecile is not an easy woman to shatter.
“My apologies,” she says softly to her bristling patrons - a polite couple looking for a birthday gift for a wealthy aunt they’d very much like to impress and an anxious young man trying to pick out a gift for his paramour - and turns to Rosalind. She smiles as if she bears a salacious secret, every word a barb. They might have pricked Cecile’s skin, had she not spent the past week fending off more difficult questions than these. Instead, they barely leave a scratch.
“Always a pleasure, Lady de Villiers,” she responds placidly. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that cleanup and repair near the Tomb is coming along very well, and I hear Sylvain Amaury’s work is splendid.”
She doesn’t bother to address Rosalind’s reports of Calandre’s mood. Cecile knows worrying little of the troubles her dear friend is facing, but there is perhaps no source she trusts less to give an accurate account than Rosalind de Villiers. Besides, it is hardly either of their places to discuss such matters in public, but even if was not, Rosalind has made Cecile an expert in brushing off such conversations. “I’d be happy to further discuss the matter later if you wish, but unless there’s anything else I can help you with,” she says with an apologetic glance to her clientele, “I must attend to my patrons.”
Something curdles in her stomach at the sound of Cecile’s voice, its lovely and mild-mannered dips and falls. Even the way Cecile dismisses her attempts at coaxing some bite from the woman infuriates Rosalind. How can she — how can anyone — tuck away every emotion under their sleeve, as if Cecile doesn’t have them or Rosalind is unworthy of seeing them at all? For all the years they have circled one another in Calandre’s court, the ancient rivalry of their very names pulling them together, Rosalind has not for a moment understood Cecile.
So if Rosalind burns down all of the city to incite a reaction from Cecile, can she be blamed? No one who grew up in the belly of Val Faim’s nobility survives without a heart that bares teeth. Cecile — beautiful as she is, talented as Calandre may find her to be — is no exception. Still, Rosalind can’t help but bristle at the image of Cecile being entrusted with cleaning the Tomb. How close are her and Calandre really?
The jealousy settles when Rosalind remembers her own mission from Alain. Cecile has her mistress, the Empress who can’t even control a madman before he’s grown a following; so, too, does Rosalind have her guidepost. She will drown Alain in fine jewels if that’s what it takes, and she will laugh as Cecile begs for her favor.
“How fitting for you,” Rosalind purrs, “I cannot imagine a place where your charm shines more, Cecile. Among the rubble of a failed explosion, you must look stunning.” Irritation flashes dangerously across her features when Cecile’s attention strays, and she takes the chance to aim a smile of her own at Cecile’s patrons. With eyes narrowed and only disdain on her voice, it’s more grimace than grin. “You may come back at another time. She has better things to do with her time than deal with you. She’s the Empress’ chosen jeweler.”
Only when the store has cleared out does Rosalind turn to Cecile again. “Anyways, where were we? Oh, right, I wanted to make sure that the Empress was doing alright. I hear she threw quite the temper tantrum. But if you don’t believe me,” she trails a finger along a line of necklaces on display, enjoying the delicate sound of them brushing against one another, “you can always ask Cyril or Zhenya.”
etiennemarais:
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: the 24th of maccius 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: terre noire 𝐖𝐇𝐎: open
𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 a person’s efforts were best dedicated to something aligned with their strengths, something, Nella, Etienne’s only employee at Terra Noire, assured him several days ago, but that did not change her decision to take the week off, and leave him to run the shop, and most dreadfully, interact with customers. A bonus, nor a raise would sway her either, though Nella still welcomed the idea of either in the near future, she’d assured him. Perhaps this was when having multiple employees would have come in handy— but he knew the odds of stumbling across another person he could tolerate long term were slim to nothing.
Every moment spent above the surface meant another moment spent away from the lab, and Etienne progressively grew more irritable in its absence, busying himself with straightening several enchanting fragrances displayed on the shop counter and opting not to look up at whoever entered the store. He could only hope his performance of obliviousness was convincing enough. Only several moments pass before he decides identifying the customer would be in his best interest, perchance he fell victim to another assassination attempt. “Have you come here with a purchase in mind, or are you just browsing, as they say?” Etienne asks point blankly, for this would determine the remainder of their interaction. “If you are here to browse, consider arriving more prepared next time. There are only so many options to be had with a perpetually unchanging inventory.” Every customer meant a new opportunity to break the record for least amount of time spent with him in the store.
—
𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒, to find what you are looking for on the first try. Etienne’s annoyance charms Rosalind thoroughly, as it may so completely deter any other customer from entering his store ever again. She has always liked him best like this: the poison come to the surface, every thought laid bare. When Etienne bares his teeth, there are no secrets between them. His unpleasantness — that rancid and unlikable quality Etienne has mastered — is all the opening Rosalind needs to swoop in and make herself at home. She knows his anger, his petulance and spite which might sting anyone else. But Rosalind and Etienne know the trick of survival is to learn the taste of venom. They know how to tend to their gardens of bitter and deadly things; she just hadn’t expected him to use it against others.
But it all seems so far away, now. Without an engagement to tether her future to his, it’s easy for Rosalind to turn a blind eye to the labs beneath Terre Noire. She does so now, smiling at Etienne with all the warmth in the world to sway his heart, black and rotted with greed. He wants for the world, everything in it; it’s in his nature to hunger, and to crave for the taste of what was taken from him. Enter, Rosalind. Enter, what might have been if she had walked with him to the lowest lands of Val Faim. Enter, the marriage she denied him.
For a price.
Fickle and flighty Yvon is more stubborn than even Rosalind, as it turns out. Rosalind cannot seem to get a grip on the younger girl, much less turn her eye toward Alain’s direction. If she cannot deliver one fine prize for Alain, then she will settle on another. Enter, Etienne. Enter, what might have been if he had walked with her to Val Faim’s elite nobility, in a world that knew only glitter and gossip and the wine he loved. Enter, the marriage he denied her.
“And if I came here prepared to buy nothing and browse for the day, what shall you do?” Rosalind teases, her rings clinking against the vials on a shelf as she runs her hand along them. His creations. His life’s work. The prize she will give to Alain on a platter. “Is Nella out? I promised to bring her a trinket for how long she’s had to deal with you. I know better than anyone how cruel you are.”
giseleduval:
Where: Le Quartier D'Argent
When: The Ninth Of Maccius.
Who: @ofrosalind
Whether by nature or by nurture, Gisele has long since been possessed by a disinterest with the gaudiness of jewels. As she understands it, there were those who could drown in gemstones and die happy, but for her, there’s always been a fundamental disconnect. Sure, certain pieces of jewelry had a lovely glimmer, but her mind compulsively measured their value against more practical things and consistently came up wanting. Her indulgences were few and far between, the minimum required to keep her succumbing to the brutal consequences of lagging behind the times, but this reluctance to buy in left her with dor to burn– well, dor for Yvon to burn, as more often than not Gisele’s personal savings were quietly allotted directly to keep her sister entertained, wherever she was. Not that she had ever particularly minded, but the current disorganization of the natural order meant Gisele had, for once, no impetus to account for her sister’s spending and no incentive for moderation. Might as well purchase something she actually wanted: Though Rosalind’s friendship was unlikely to be for sale, the woman’s time most certainly was.
Gisele typically makes a point of avoiding the hustle and bustle of le Quartier d'argent, but all good things require sacrifice. Before she even enters the store, she has worked herself up into an energy that more closely resembles the energy of Rosalind’s own instead of her usual measured frost. She sweeps into the store in a swish of skirts and makes directly for the jeweler without so much as casting a glance at the trinkets twinkling around her. “Mademoiselle de Villiers, I pray you don’t mind me dropping by without notice, but I’m in rather dire need of your services. As I understand it, you’re the only one who can help me.” It’s a sufficiently droll performance of need, but she commits to it fully, an animated sincerity injected into each word. “There isn’t one single decent thing in this city worth purchasing - a pity, no? - and I suspect there won’t be until you create one for me. Nobody else in the city has the capacity to excite, save, perhaps, for you.” Brute force flattery was not a tool Gisele often reached for, but something told her that of everyone in the city to try it on, Rosalind would be the most likely to exhibit receptiveness. “I’m unfamiliar with the process, but I expect you do commissions? At least for a friend in need?”
Of all the nobles who have had the fortune of meeting her, Gisele is perhaps Rosalind’s least favorite. She resembles the worst of Rochelle; proper and cold, every formal gesture encased in a thin layer of frost. When rumors of the eldest Duval first scurried through court, Rochelle had been intrigued; another heiress, so talented that her birth must be predestined, was the perfect complement to her own renown. So Rosalind fell to the wayside. So Rosalind lost her twin, once to Gisele and then to lands beyond Celestine, where rolling hills hid Rochelle and her coward’s freedom.
If not for the recent rumors that followed in Gisele’s wake, Rosalind might have become fond of Gisele, searching for a taste of Rochelle in the shadows of Gisele’s eyes. But if the gossip is to be believed — and Rosalind is strangely confident in the court’s whispers despite the way they have shunned her own name — then Gisele is worse than a mere murderer; she is a traitor to her own blood. She has committed a monstrosity of a scale that Rosalind cannot fathom, and therefore disdains with all the vehemence she has.
Rosalind is ready to say as much until Gisele opts for flattery and eases her temper. For someone who recognizes Rosalind’s brilliance, it’s the least she can do: to bedeck Gisele’s pretty neck in her finery while coaxing dor from her hands. “How wise you are to say so,” she coos, crooked heart devouring all the praise Gisele has to offer. You’re the only one who can help me, Gisele claims; and she’s right, profoundly so. Who else might Gisele turn to — Cecile? Rosalind chokes back a laugh. Perhaps, if Gisele wants to bore the crowd and lull them to a snore.
Even so, flattery can only get you so far. You can cloak a toad in rubies and sapphires, but it still croaks in your hand. “Friend is going a bit far, don’t you think?” Rosalind presses. “We share a few mutual friends, perhaps even an ally between us, but you’re hardly a friend. Why, Mademoiselle Duval, I hardly know you. And what I do know isn’t very flattering at all.” She grabs a thread and glides across the room to Gisele as she speaks. Each sentence rambles together in one steady stream as Rosalind measures Gisele’s slender neck, her dainty fingers.
“Are you looking for anything specific? Any colors you fancy? Or perhaps a gemstone you’re drawn to — bloodstone might be one you like, based on the stories.” Rosalind’s smile is a double-edged sword, an accusation and an aggressive prodding at the rumors trailing Gisele.
“Look at her. Tell me that girl is not a song of burning. Look at her & tell me her eyes are not a housefire waiting to happen.”
— Topaz Winters, from Portrait of My Body as a Crime I’m Still Commiting; Infernal / Inferno. (via xshayarsha)
literally
tigersniper:
The Excessively Detailed Headcanon Tumblr Meme
Send me some numbers, and I will tell you:
What does their bedroom look like?
Do they have any daily rituals?
Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?
What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?
Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)
Eating habits and sample daily menu
Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time
Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging
Makeup?
Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?
Intellectual pursuits?
Favorite book genre?
Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?
Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)
Biggest and smallest short term goal?
Biggest and smallest long term goal?
Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress
Favorite beverage?
What do they think about before falling asleep at night?
Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?
Turn-ons? Turn-offs?
Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?
How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?
Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?
How do they see themselves 5 years from today?
Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?
What is their biggest regret?
Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?
Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)
Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)
Most prized possession?
Thoughts on material possessions in general?
Concept of home and family?
Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)
What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?
What makes them feel guilty?
Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?
Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?
What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?
Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?
How misanthropic are they?
Hobbies?
How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?
Religion?
Superstitions or views on the occult?
Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?
If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?
How do they express love?
If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?
Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?
Lee Sung Kyung for Ceci China ‘19/10
chevalicr:
𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐎 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 , which are stifled by the glass dome and sent scattering back like shrapnel. The press of bodies branched and teemed around them, and the rumble kept breaking overhead. If it were any other voice, Matthieu could’ve hardly located it in the din. But this was no stray court bird, was it? He could pick Rosalind from far worse crowds than the Opera. He had, too, plenty of times back when they ran together. No—ran implies a certain verticality. It went over differently with them, with bruised lips and limbs lying down.
In their whatever-the-blight, in that thing of bitter highs and titanic lows they’ve held up until their hands bled, her voice became a tell. He knows that singsong rage it draws from, the slight hitch it gives when it runs away from under her. When the parade of her own designs swells on an emotion she could not control—which is, incidentally, all but the barest of them.
A long way back, eight years. It still seemingly gave her the right of it: cornering him with a snide gotcha, a switchblade smile carving her pretty mask. She needn’t have bothered. If she’d known him at all, she would’ve gleaned as much. He’d never take point on such easy bait. Matthieu turns to her, and his brow knits a moment too long. His tongue prods his cheek like trying to recognize her, pin down the place of this lovely mouth and coming up short. It’s a lie, sure enough, and an unfair one at that. Foul sportsmanship, maybe, but no less than deserved.
It’s more effective than the sting she just tried on him. Cracks at his ancestry, which is to say, the lack of it, were run of the mill. They’ve always been, in fact, ever since his first standing in court. It’s what seeded his legend, ten fathoms and five graves deep: the Chevalier from nowhere, the man of the rabble, vulgar and carnal and always on the prowl. A man perhaps too much like the beasts he cuts down. They gorged on it, of course; each courtier to the last. After all, it’s why Rosalind spread her legs for him. It’s why most of them did. Perversity had a lure of its own, he reckoned, and the dirtier the fuel, the harder the fire spread.
He smirks, pondering whether she could do with a reminder. In the end, he only cocks his head, distantly amused. “That’s quite cheap, Mademoiselle de Villiers. A horrid time? Surely Her Highness’ own starling warrants more confidence.” He looms nearer, bracketing her body from the crowd. So close up, it’d be nothing to look her in the eye, but he still doesn’t do her the favor. His eyes smolder low, almost disinterested, trained on a joke just out of her reach. “I’m here on the Empress’ behalf, actually. Have a summons to deliver. Oh, don’t fuss. I know my place too well. I would not go around nobility’s essence by enjoying all your art. Hope that puts you at ease enough to watch the second act, hm? Without agonizing over me, that is.”
𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐉𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 and all else that glitters, but leave Rosalind her pride. Spare her proof that once, she conquered Matthieu as he overrules the wills of men. One sweep of his silver blade, and the fates swoon, give into the cruel slant of his mouth and decide that for Matthieu, for Matthieu alone, they will give him this: mastery over death, the final say on life. This man — this vessel filled to the brim with the Empress’ command until there is no room left for his soul, his honor — once drove Rosalind mad with desire. A single smile could send her into a frenzy, have her gasping and pushing aside all propriety for his warmth.
Eight years. It should sting less after so long, but pride is a curious thing. Most of the time, Rosalind believes the thread has fallen slack, if it hasn’t been severed completely. She thinks of him as one thinks of childhood: it fills her with whimsy and a nostalgia that holds her at an arm’s length, as if she is no longer the girl driven wild by the lash of one man’s spiked tongue. She smiles, even remembers the times Matthieu bested her or Rosalind bested him — but then he falls under her line of sight and Rosalind is feline again. She hisses. She kneads the earth with her claws. The thread is pulled taut and it tugs Rosalind back to her original sin. Her pride, a snake that swallows itself.
Matthieu denies Rosalind her due (attention which completes her, which satiates her, which redeems her), and her glare sharpens to the prick of a needle. She does not misremember the years of crawling under his skin, making a home of his arrogance and licking at the flames of his temper until he snapped to make her bleed. Once, Rosalind drove Matthieu mad; and now he stands at the side of the Empress, prestige to his name and the mark of ascension on his breast. Did he not mock her for dreaming of the same? Is she misremembering his condescension, his disinterest when she boasted of her plans, her future?
He stole it from her, as did the woman he beds now. It is illogical, but that is besides the point; Rosalind’s ego is furious, and her pride forgets nothing. He pretends to forget her, and it’s a game that Rosalind should recognize but it’s been eight years; she’s forgotten his old tricks and they smart and unstitch the wound. Rather than howl in pain, Rosalind glowers and digs her heels in.
“Cheap — wouldn’t you know?” she scoffs. A low, inconsequential blow, the kind that has never ruffled Matthieu before. If anything, he enjoys being reminded of his humble beginnings, and perhaps he does; she can’t fathom why. There are plenty of places for those who came from nothing, but there are only so few seats among Val Faim’s court; she will tear apart whoever she can to take hers back. “Her Highness’ starling sounds the same every week. Flawless, beautiful, sure,” Rosalind recites the praise of the crowd as if recalling the different names for excrement, “but hardly anything new.”
He draws close and Rosalind refuses to do him the honor of leaning away. She takes it as a challenge and responds to it in kind, chin jerking up and leaning in. He won’t meet her eyes, and it undoes her. It slices through her clean like his blade, and Rosalind snaps her jaws like a teething pup. “I wouldn’t debase myself to agonize over Her Highness’ personal errand boy,” she says through gritted teeth. “Why should my night be ruined by the likes of you?”
“You look nothing like your mother. You look everything like your mother. You desperately want to look like her. How to wear your mother’s lipstick. You must wear it like she wears disappointment on her face. Your mother is a woman and women like her cannot be contained.”
— Warsan Shire, for Lemonade, Beyonce (via legendofpooja)
etiennemarais:
𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃’𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐏 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍— she’d accepted Etienne’s invitation in the same way one accepts an offer to spar or dance, a verbal waltz that the pair grew accustomed to over the years, no matter the present state of their relationship. The phantom of a lovers’ quarrel in a relationship where love was not easily identified, but where the attachment was more than evident. For despite the inevitable collapse of their engagement, there was no restoring the place within him that Rosalind had carved out and called her own to its original state of being. The chasm she’d introduced was proof enough that love once thrived there, and to deny such an existence was no more than a delusion they perpetually indulged in. “Has it been so long that you presently mistake my well-intentioned advice for insult?” His expression is one of faux indignation. “You of all people would know when to be insulted. I’ve said and behaved far worse.”
“Deploying all your best cards so early on? Rookie mistake. Unless you’re truly out of ammo before we even begin,” he declared disappointedly. “You’ve got it all wrong, I’m afraid. I haven’t come to impress anyone. I’ve come to be impressed.” Etienne steps aside with an outstretched hand, lowering into a bow. “Shall we remind them that no matter what terms we’re on, that we’re the finest dancers to ever waltz across the summer palace?” Their skill as a dance duo was undeniable— whether or not they were the best was up for debate, but there was presently no one other than Rosalind to dispute it. She wouldn’t, for the de Villiers’ ego only rivaled his own.
“Unless you happened to be awaiting a dance from another prospect, that is,” Etienne suggests as he scans the ballroom for no one in particular.
𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐍; such is the case for Rosalind and Etienne, who circle one another forever snapping their jaws. Their engagement is severed, their love affair stomped out, and still, they find their way back to one another. Every time they collide, Rosalind congratulates herself for escaping disaster before it brought her to ruins. Every time they depart, Rosalind feels the wind whistling through her bones, wondering if there will ever be anyone who makes her feel so alive as Etienne. Sure, it often feels like being set on fire from within, every part of her crumbling to ashes — but Rosalind has only felt herself when in the throes of destruction, knocking down all in her path as she blindly races to her glory. “Not long enough,” Rosalind snorts. “I don’t want your advice. In fact, I’d rather you insult me. What could I possibly learn from you?”
“Must you always speak as if we’re holding a gun to each other’s head?” Rosalind rolls her eyes, but she steps closer to him regardless. The thrill of besting him, her heart in her throat as Etienne’s eyes draw her in the same way she’s spit him out — this is where they are each other’s best, sharpening the other’s iron against their own. Whose hunger outhungers the other? Whose desire is most ruthless, most brutal? “Typical Tienne. Wanting everyone to beg for his attention when you know damn well you’re never going to give it away. I was the closest you came, hmm?” Her smile — touched by bliss as if pressed there by the gods — is meant to taunt him. “How embarrassing for you, that I threw it away.”
Etienne holds out his hand and she is reminded of the times he’s offered it to her before. The time he helped her stumble home as a teenager, flirting with her own potential for ruination. The time he he slipped her family’s ring, marked with the de Villiers crest, onto her finger. The time he tricked her into designing her own engagement ring and laughed as she cursed at him. Rosalind feels a pang in her chest, and she ignores it as she takes his hand.
“I am, but I suppose we can make them wait.”
SEVENTH OF MACCIUS AT THE SILVER QUARTER. closed to @cyrilbeauchamp
A rumor is just a rumor until you put a witness to it. Some fresh-faced, shiny-eyed thing to open their mouth and close their lips around your hook, as if you are feeding them a delicacy and not a wildfire.
Enter: Cyril.
Gossip always finds Rosalind because gossip knows a loose cannon when it sees one. Put a secret in the hands of the wise and it becomes leverage, but the foolish devour it whole, without chewing, swallowing the gristle and the bone. Rosalind hears of Calandre’s outbursts and she is thrilled. She imagines the path to Alain. She dreams of a glimmer in his eye, his promises of reward and renown when he claims Calandre’s throne.
But first, Rosalind needs specifics. She needs the ugly and glorious details that turn a whisper into a meal. She’s sure she’ll find it at Cyril’s shop — and besides, she needs a new cape regardless.
“Cyril, mon bébé,” Rosalind calls out, pleased to see that the two are alone, “I’ve missed you, so I insist on your full and undivided attention for the rest of the day. Cancel all your appointments!"
lee sung kyung for laneige ‘layering cover cushion & concealing base’
“(…) I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again,”
— Meditations in an Emergency, ‘Mayakovsky’ by Frank O’Hara
kimbokjoo:
if eyes could kill, lee sung kyung would murder us all.
Pearl chockers by René Lalique.