#lepetitserge

[georgetteofvalcis]

@lepetitserge

                                Scarlet ringlets unraveled from an intricate plait as Georgette’s fingertips raked through them, relieving her scalp of pins and spangling ornaments as she moved from her vanity to greet the rasping at the door. Heartily anticipating the arrival of a basin and warm ewer, the princess’ brows rose into her hairline as she swung open the door to reveal Serge instead. His was ever a welcome call and so she grinned enthusiastically in stepping aside to permit him entrance, noting the enervation to his step as he strode into her chambers. Georgette, too, had been overwhelmed by a sudden onslaught of lethargy that seemed universal throughout court in the wake of the week’s events. Although Serge had not participated in the joust, instead remaining firmly rooted to her side until a mild complaint in her head yielded her to her chambers, she knew that he must have been reeling from the week of activities whilst juggling the duties that seemed infinite for him.  ❛  Thank you for coming,  ❜  she murmured gently,  rising upon her heels to grant each of his cheeks a chaste kiss as her hands found his.  ❛ How is my father ?  I understand he was unseated in the third round and I have awaited with bated breath for news of his wellbeing. I will not see him until the masquerade, I think.  Speaking of – you’ll give me clues so that I will be able to find you easily, yes ?  ❜

[georgetteofvalcis]

@lepetitserge​

                         In her yet brief tenure as princess, Marguerite and her retinue of attendants had been blessed with the gift of travel, granted the luxury of an immersion of culture and creed and opulence. She could speak the tongue of northern nations, the strident cry of Scandinavia, and hum the ancient melodies of the oriental church just as fluently as she could sing Te Deums in her native French and Latin. England had always been particularly high on the list of destinations she wished to travel to before exhausting her last breath ––––––––– oft her health presented an obstacle between herself and the bitterly harsh climes of the English isle yet with her father’s own infantry upon its soil his nod had allowed her the the smallest of freedoms in crossing the channel (accompanied by a lengthy cortege of courtiers, nurses and noblewomen, granted). 

The French princess loitered in the private courtyard her sumptuous apartments overlooked, and grounded her bare feet on the deadened grass ––––––– savoring the rare moment of solitude she’d been afforded in the midst of English pageantry, grandiose displays of wealth, and a ceaseless stream of gilded splendor. The cold ground set sparks of pain up and into her soles, yet utterly content Marguerite allowed her eyes to flutter close, the vibrant blue of her irises concealed behind cream-white eyelids, as the winter chill pierced at her skin. Russet lashes dusted against her cheek akin to the kiss of a mother or the caress of snow falling upon her nose bridge. 

She fisted her gelid hands into the velveteen fabric of her cloak as a shiver climbed the column of her spine, and the hoary billow of her breath began to take visible form. Just as she considered sprinting indoors to evade the chill, the sound of boots crunching against soil caught her attention, and she craned her neck to glance at the familiar head of flaxen hair. Her vision was impaired, and had been since childhood, but she could depict Serge’s features as swiftly and as clearly as could an artist his muse. “Just a few more moments in the sun,” She pleaded like a cat in the midst of a sunbathe – although the sun was nowhere to be seen in this particular corner of the earth, “what have I to look forward to inside? Needlework? Lady Ferrers’ endless match making on my behalf?”