@rhedact : shall we take a leisurely stroll through the garden, just you & me? [ from aline. ]
down the rabbit hole 𓇢𓆸 accepting ;;
She lifts her gaze, her hands stopping the nervous brushing of her gown, its delicate white linen smoothed to near perfection, except for the creases created by the red satin sash tied around her waist. There she is, Aline, her head tilted to one side and sincere eyes scrutinizing her own — unfazed by the heat of the summer day, the insistent sunlight streaming through the open front door of the manor, and the crowd. Oh, how Clea loathes occasions like these — her house and its halls turning into a chaotic gallery, drinks, too many sounds. In her heart of hearts, she is silently grateful that one such event is coming to a close now, the guests already leaving after brief exchanges of courtesies
Clea ponders for a moment, suspicion creeping like resilient ivy through her mind at the unexpected request. But she agrees that she would do anything to avoid the agonizing roundup of handshakes and clumsy hand kisses, the well-wishes coming from faces or voices barely memorized of fellow Painters in the Council, people the girl has never been interested in getting to know further. She imagines her father worrying about such formalities in her mother's stead
❛ Yes... yes, I think I'm in need of fresh air, ❜ she lets out, hoarse voice promptly corrected by a subtle clearing of the throat, legs barely stretching under the fabric, ankles rotating out of their stiffness. Ready. She rises from the elegant chaise that she has made her own for the past hour or so, and calmly follows her outside.
Were she younger, she would probably have leaned closer, hooking her hands in the crook of Aline's arm, strolling side by side. It has happened too many times — this ritual as old as time itself for Clea, performed almost to the letter; she'd have been led to her mother's greenhouse and kept her company, she'd have told Clea this and that about flowers and plants that piqued her interest, the spontaneous wildflowers overlooked by the gardener would be plucked and treaded in their tresses. Nowadays, on the cusp of turning twenty, she feels it's right to simply walk by her side, the ruckus of their guests left behind them,
Though one thing hasn't changed, since then; that old, old habit her mother has never abandoned. ❛ By the way, I've seen your new bouquet of marigolds in my room, ❜ she smiles, taking in the gentle breeze of the approaching sunset. It breaks the silence if nothing else, yet she doesn't sound awkward. There is no flowerpot in the entire house devoid of fresh buds or blooming with the prettiest of Aline's flowers. Clea's chamber is no exception, never has been since she can remember.
She glances back at her mother, her low heels tapping softly on the stone. The faint smell of flowers already reaches her carried by the wind, and it somehow calms her; but still that lingering shadow of past suspicion prompts her to a question, one she does not immediately regret, for once — ❛ Maman. Everything is in order, non ? ❜
