[Mature] Look What You Made Me Do
Posted: Sun Nov 17, 2019 7:07 pm
Early Evening, 14 Roalis, 2717
The Winged Fish, the Wharf
The Winged Fish, the Wharf
Niccolette had run herself a bath, the hottest water she could stand. She had climbed in, adding a dab of scent to the water so it curled up through the steam-filled room. She had lain back, with her back against the curve of the heavy tub, and settled her head onto a thick wad of towel against the rim, her hair tumbling down over her shoulders.
She had stayed there for a long time; she had let the heat soak into her, reddening her skin. It had hurt, at least - not so badly that she would be scalded, but enough that she had needed to force herself to relax, to consciously loosen all the muscles in her body which tried to clench against the pain. And she had relaxed, and either she had grown accustomed or else the water had cooled. Really, Niccolette thought, and bitterly, there was no difference.
Eventually, Niccolette felt ready. She took the cake of soap and the roughest of her wash clothes, and scrubbed herself clean, every inch of her, from her face to the spaces between her toes. Last she washed her hair, held her head beneath the water and scrubbed her fingers against her scalp. She massaged in the soaps used to clean it, rinsed them out. By the time she emerged, she was glowing with cleanliness, and she was no happier than she had been, but even more resolute.
Niccolette wrapped her hair up in a towel. She reached for her bathrobe, and then she stopped. She took a hand towel to the mirror instead, and she wiped the steam from it in smooth, steady circles. She studied herself in the mirror, intently, as she might never have looked as a girl. She traced her fingers over the scar on her side, her husband’s handprint seared forever into her skin. No, she thought; even now, she did not mind it.
And then Niccolette shrugged her bathrobe on, tying it at her waist, and made her way back to the bedroom she had shared with her husband for more than three years, not so different from any of those she had shared him now five and a half years. She rubbed her hair dry, and sat at her vanity, brushing it until the long strands shone. She put on slippers and went to the kitchen, and poured herself a half-glass of wine, the Bastian vintage they had been drinking two nights ago. It was as excellent as it had been then, and Niccolette refused to let it by soured by the throbbing pulse of fury and misery those thoughts rose in her chest.
Niccolette wandered back to the bedroom, and took another sip of the wine, and set it down on the vanity. She combed her hair back off through her face, and slipped the robe back onto its hook. Carefully, slow and deliberate, she massaged a palmful of lotion into her skin, not skimping, but with a precise amount of what was required for her own familiar contours.
Then, Niccolette began her work. She took another sip of wine, and painted kohl around her eyes, careful and slow, and blackened her long lashes. She took her powder and a brush, and studied herself, carefully, and then left it bare. She finished the wine with a last swallow, and painted dark red lip color on her lips, filling in all that skin. She pressed them together, once, smoothly, then pressed blotting paper to them, wiping away the excesses.
Niccolette went to her closet then. She brushed past the navy and the brown and the gray she favored in the Rose, and found a gown of simple design, but rich in fabric and color, a rich maroon silk. She rang for the maid, and had her put on one of the fuller corsets, pulling it tight.
The laces groaned, and ached, and Niccolette held taut. How dare he, she thought, and she met her own gaze without the faintest hesitation. How dare he.
She knew Uzoji too well by now to think him a liar when he told her he was sorry. She knew he would not lie, not willingly, but she knew too that he was not sorry - that no man who was sorry behaved as he did. Well, Niccolette thought grimly, she would teach him the meaning of the word.
Niccolette stepped into the dress, and let the maid do the buttons up the back, the long line of them, small and neat and fabric-covered. It was not daring in cut, but it was silk, and not many layers, and it draped, and Niccolette felt powerful, wearing it - as if it hovered in the air around her with all the strength of her field, as if it were another way in which her will was made tangible.
Niccolette did up her boots herself, and she swept a dark waterproof cloak around her shoulders. She took a small clutch with her, a match to the color of her cloak, and she strode forth from Quarter Fords. It had rained earlier that day, but the sky was clear now with the last of the sunset, and the world glowed unusually bright, the greens almost golden, the browns almost red, as if the sunset was setting the entire Rose on fire.
Niccolette smiled then, slow and deliberate and vicious, and breathed deep the rain-soaked air, and never doubted. She made her way down to the Waterfront, and if the sharp maroon silk glittering beneath the cloak drew eyes, the sharp brightness of her field turned them back away. Niccolette walked, as ever, without any indication she saw any of it, her path never faltering.
The Bastian did not hesitate at the door of the Winged Fish, but perhaps - perhaps - she let loose a deep breath, standing in the now dark on the Waterfront, yellow light pooling around her, glistening off her boots. And then she pushed the door in, and strode in after it; she swept her gaze around the room, and made her way to the bar, her chin raised, and her gaze forward.
Yes, the Bastian thought, casually. He was not yet sorry, but he would be.
She had stayed there for a long time; she had let the heat soak into her, reddening her skin. It had hurt, at least - not so badly that she would be scalded, but enough that she had needed to force herself to relax, to consciously loosen all the muscles in her body which tried to clench against the pain. And she had relaxed, and either she had grown accustomed or else the water had cooled. Really, Niccolette thought, and bitterly, there was no difference.
Eventually, Niccolette felt ready. She took the cake of soap and the roughest of her wash clothes, and scrubbed herself clean, every inch of her, from her face to the spaces between her toes. Last she washed her hair, held her head beneath the water and scrubbed her fingers against her scalp. She massaged in the soaps used to clean it, rinsed them out. By the time she emerged, she was glowing with cleanliness, and she was no happier than she had been, but even more resolute.
Niccolette wrapped her hair up in a towel. She reached for her bathrobe, and then she stopped. She took a hand towel to the mirror instead, and she wiped the steam from it in smooth, steady circles. She studied herself in the mirror, intently, as she might never have looked as a girl. She traced her fingers over the scar on her side, her husband’s handprint seared forever into her skin. No, she thought; even now, she did not mind it.
And then Niccolette shrugged her bathrobe on, tying it at her waist, and made her way back to the bedroom she had shared with her husband for more than three years, not so different from any of those she had shared him now five and a half years. She rubbed her hair dry, and sat at her vanity, brushing it until the long strands shone. She put on slippers and went to the kitchen, and poured herself a half-glass of wine, the Bastian vintage they had been drinking two nights ago. It was as excellent as it had been then, and Niccolette refused to let it by soured by the throbbing pulse of fury and misery those thoughts rose in her chest.
Niccolette wandered back to the bedroom, and took another sip of the wine, and set it down on the vanity. She combed her hair back off through her face, and slipped the robe back onto its hook. Carefully, slow and deliberate, she massaged a palmful of lotion into her skin, not skimping, but with a precise amount of what was required for her own familiar contours.
Then, Niccolette began her work. She took another sip of wine, and painted kohl around her eyes, careful and slow, and blackened her long lashes. She took her powder and a brush, and studied herself, carefully, and then left it bare. She finished the wine with a last swallow, and painted dark red lip color on her lips, filling in all that skin. She pressed them together, once, smoothly, then pressed blotting paper to them, wiping away the excesses.
Niccolette went to her closet then. She brushed past the navy and the brown and the gray she favored in the Rose, and found a gown of simple design, but rich in fabric and color, a rich maroon silk. She rang for the maid, and had her put on one of the fuller corsets, pulling it tight.
The laces groaned, and ached, and Niccolette held taut. How dare he, she thought, and she met her own gaze without the faintest hesitation. How dare he.
She knew Uzoji too well by now to think him a liar when he told her he was sorry. She knew he would not lie, not willingly, but she knew too that he was not sorry - that no man who was sorry behaved as he did. Well, Niccolette thought grimly, she would teach him the meaning of the word.
Niccolette stepped into the dress, and let the maid do the buttons up the back, the long line of them, small and neat and fabric-covered. It was not daring in cut, but it was silk, and not many layers, and it draped, and Niccolette felt powerful, wearing it - as if it hovered in the air around her with all the strength of her field, as if it were another way in which her will was made tangible.
Niccolette did up her boots herself, and she swept a dark waterproof cloak around her shoulders. She took a small clutch with her, a match to the color of her cloak, and she strode forth from Quarter Fords. It had rained earlier that day, but the sky was clear now with the last of the sunset, and the world glowed unusually bright, the greens almost golden, the browns almost red, as if the sunset was setting the entire Rose on fire.
Niccolette smiled then, slow and deliberate and vicious, and breathed deep the rain-soaked air, and never doubted. She made her way down to the Waterfront, and if the sharp maroon silk glittering beneath the cloak drew eyes, the sharp brightness of her field turned them back away. Niccolette walked, as ever, without any indication she saw any of it, her path never faltering.
The Bastian did not hesitate at the door of the Winged Fish, but perhaps - perhaps - she let loose a deep breath, standing in the now dark on the Waterfront, yellow light pooling around her, glistening off her boots. And then she pushed the door in, and strode in after it; she swept her gaze around the room, and made her way to the bar, her chin raised, and her gaze forward.
Yes, the Bastian thought, casually. He was not yet sorry, but he would be.