@simioso : it's nice to see two siblings who love each other so well. / said with some amused irony, probably after verso did something dumb
an offer from a gentleman 𓇢𓆸 accepting ;;
Clea decides to stay quiet for another instant, involuntarily allowing Simon's words to land more pungently, more precisely on the heart of the matter: the incident has been trivial, unimportant to anyone but the girl herself — mostly gone unnoticed by the many guests of the event too, it seems; her brother has played the fool so often, in so many harmless and even amusing variations and situations, that this one hardly stands out from the rest. Besides, the sea of memories Clea can summon at will supplies her with worse incidents, worse examples. It's perfectly normal — he remains her little brother, after all.
And yet — the past, or the triviality of it, does not cancel the flush of her cheeks, or the wet stains blooming on the left side of her chest. The wet linen of her bodice, smelling of bitter champagne. White wine on white fabric.
To think his intentions, and their moods, have all been more than positive — ! He had waltzed towards them with three glasses precariously balanced between the slender fingers of a single hand. Such a well-intentioned effort failed spectacularly the moment he had tripped on the lifted corner of a carpet beneath their feet, the contents of one or two of the flutes reversing in a playful, and graceful, arc right against his sister's new evening dress. No handkerchief, no dab or any other flustered attempt from either sibling succeeded in staunching the blooming, cold stain; instead, it seemed to smear further, in hopeless and hilarious fashion.
So much so that he had excused himself from that pitiful scene in a fit of stifled laughter when Clea had whispered, shame eating at her mind given Simon's testimony and proximity during the whole episode — "Enough, I'll fix it myself. Go do something else. You know my aim is true, so sit away from me if you ever think of joining the table in that new attire of yours."
❛ He meant well, I know it, ❜ Clea rolls her blue eyes, somehow glad their friend finds the whole skirmish between the two Dessendre's that amusing. ❛ But he shouldn't have run. Alas... ❜ she looks down at the stain again, a hand waving in defeat to point at the damage. She is not sure the servants won't tell Maman, once she hands them the modiste's latest work for the eldest child of the house — but, in the end, that will remain a problem for tomorrow morning.
❛ He's grown used to these threats, I never mean it. But he kept laughing right in my face like that— ❜ she justifies herself to the tall boy, though it feels unnecessary; perhaps he too has also had good laugh at the whole episode, while she was focused elsewhere.
Her long fingers drift to her hair as an idea takes hold of her mind — and in that moment, it feels like the best solution for a smooth rest of the soiree. Her curls are freed from the pearly hairpins that adorn them; with a deliberate sweep, she guides the long strands over her shoulder and chest, to hide the damp silk and cover the stain with quiet elegance. She smooths the auburn cascade once, orderly into place, and then she lifts her chin. Proud of her work. ❛ Acceptable enough. I should find him — want to join me ? Before he sets himself to more daring adventures with wine glasses in hand. ❜ A beat of silence, a hopeful shimmer in her eyes. And then— ❛ You're older than us, right ? Not by much but, perhaps, you could be the one to fetch us a taste of wine instead. The fool was most likely in such a hurry trying not to be discovered. The smell is... quite strong. A sip won't hurt, hm ? ❜
