DATE: 1 september, 1944 LOCATION: outside the great hall @caiusmulciber
She had smiled the last time she saw him, lips painted pink and shiny, and purred to her father, ‘I’ve been dying to see him’, but stood in front of him now, her nose crinkled with disgust as she glanced down the length of his body: Calla wanted Mulciber to feel small, and she had learned long ago that a lingering gaze and complete silence were weapons.
“Come quickly,” she called down the corridor, as if she had caught him and caged him and was holding him on trial, for show. Calla cut him off, walking a straight line to bring her close enough to sing her intentions in his ear if she so chose. She kept her distance, slinking across the worn grey stone with her heels clicking and the hem of her robes held off the floor with one hand. Vile, inbred Sacred bloods like Mulciber tended to spit poison like pit vipers when they felt oh-so threatened, indiscriminately and nastily. She revelled in threats. Her robes were new, her father’s present for her seventh year — and an engagement — the navy silk lighter than the thick, tailored wool she had worn for so many years.
“Nostro principino is here.” She was almost pretty when she smiled, except — there were kinds of beauty that could not be survived.