The Home of Dhimitrios Kalogeropolous, the Wharf, King's Court
Niccolette glanced sideways at the older woman, raising her eyebrows lightly. She turned back to the mirror, and glanced down at the two little twists of paper, one dark and rich, the other sharp and bright. “It is not too much, you think?” Niccolette ran her finger over the bottom line of her lip, carefully.
The afternoon light was crisp and clear; it shone winter-bright through the polished glass windows, bright on Niccolette’s face. Violetta’s dressing room was all pale colors, white tables and mirrors edged in white painted wood, pale blues and violets the only accent colors to be found. Niccolette sat sideways, the long dark burgundy velvet skirt of her dress pooled in her lap, just a hint of stockings revealed where her ankles crossed. There was no accent on the dress, and the Bastian wore no jewelry – nothing but the pale gold wedding ring on her left hand, and a smooth hint of collarbones revealed by the keyhole neck.
“Without it,” Violetta said, firmly, “it should be too little.”
Niccolette grinned, then; she leaned back in to the mirror once more. She painted the last of the black kohl on her eyelids, drawing the line out carefully over the edge of them; she brushed her fingers over the delicate skin of her under eye.
Violetta rose with a faint wooden creak from her chair; her dress was a sharp, icy blue, edged with white, neatly tailored to create a waist where she had thickened – but thoroughly tasteful, all the same. The white-blue of her hair matched the color flawlessly; it was curled and pinned up, and glowed wintery in the light.
With a little smile, Violetta returned with a jar. “Do I need to send you more?” She asked, setting the cream down on the table.
“No,” Niccolette set her brush aside, delicately. She opened the cream, and dipped her finger in, and smoothed it carefully on her under eyes. She sat, still, hands curled together in her lap, the fingers of her right playing, slowly, back and forth over her left. The Bastian shrugged. “I did not expect to cry today. I have grown spoiled, I suppose,” she swallowed a faint taste of bitterness of her tongue. “That sometimes a day or two passes, without…” Pale, unpainted lips pressed together.
“Yes,” Violetta said, gently. Niccolette felt the brush of her field, soft perceptive mona, and then the older woman’s hand resting gently on her shoulder. Through the velvet fabric, Niccolette could just feel the thickness of her fingers, and the gentle pressure of several rings.
Niccolette’s eyes fluttered open again, a moment later. “Powder?” She asked, meeting Violetta’s eyes in the mirror with a little smile.
“No,” Violetta said, practically. “So long as you don’t think you’ll cry more later.”
Niccolette shrugged again. “Who can say,” she sighed. “Dhimitriou’s parties could bore anyone to tears.” The Bastian picked up the darker of the lip colors, and a second, small brush with a pointed tip. She pressed her lips together, and eased them apart in an expression more like a grimace than a smile, and began, carefully, to paint the color over the lines of them.
Violetta chuckled, and squeezed Niccolette’s shoulder once more. She eased back to her seat, careful, one hand trembling lightly against the wood of the vanity. “Winter in the Rose,” Violetta said with a little smile; her fingers stroked, lightly, the large pale blue beads of the necklace she wore.
Niccolette painted on the last of the color; she pressed a blotting square to her lips, and set it down. She sat back in the chair, and smiled, carefully, in the mirror.
“A brooch, dear?” Violetta asked. “I’ve something in gold.”
“No,” Niccolette said. She ran her fingertips over the pale lines of her collarbones, and lowered her hands back to her lap. “The dress does not need it,” she smiled, more genuinely this time, and rose easily from the chair, turning to Violetta.
“We had better go,” Violetta said with a grin. “I should hate to miss sunset through Kalogeropolous’s windows; it’s the only reason I bother with his parties at all.”
It was Niccolette’s turn to laugh this time; short, and a little sharp, but there was no gleam of moisture in her eyes. She settled her arm through Violetta’s, and the elderly woman leaned on her, ever so slightly, as the two made their way from the room.
It was a short trip through King’s Court, down the hill to the houses that glittered on the wharf, tucked close to the corner of Lionshead Beach. The carriage stopped just shy of the gleaming metal gates that separated the home from the wharf; a liveried man opened the carriage door, and bowed them out. Niccolette held one of Violetta’s hands, and the servant the other, as the woman lowered herself down the steps of the carriage.
Niccolette followed her out; she glanced back over her shoulder at the dark winter sea, the bobbing masts – beyond, scattered drifts of clouds on the horizon. The slanting sun glinted off an airship; Niccolette looked away, and followed Violetta’s inside, dark black cloak whispering softly over the velvet dress.
The garden was half-bare, pruned back for winter; no leaves crunched underfoot on this path. Another liveried footman bowed them in through the door. Niccolette sighed, audibly, and received a nudge of Violetta’s elbow in her ribs. The Bastian smiled, then, lifting her chin delicately, and breathing her field in to an appropriate dampening, and the two woman left their cloaks behind, and sailed into what passed for a ballroom.
They were far from early; the party had started sometime in the mid-afternoon, and by now the room was comfortably busy, all wicker furniture and neat high tables, with a handful of men and women wandering through with drinks and platters of seafood. The house was elevated, the path through the garden sloping up, the wide plate glass window which covered an entire wall filled the room with light, and revealed all of the wharf and the horizon below.
“Mrs. Ballington, Mrs. Ibutatu,” Mathieu Deaudemonte bowed and rose, his sharp shock of red hair well-mussed to hide its steady, careful recession around his temples. He grinned, gold eyes bright. “Am I the first to welcome you tonight?”
“Mr. Deaudemonte,” Violetta said; both she and Niccolette bowed, delicately. She settled her arm through the crook of his elbow. “Lovely to see you as always. I believe you had rather an exciting fall – I remember hearing something about a Hessean ship, and a journey along the southern coast…?”
Mathieu laughed, bright and cheerful, and let Violetta lead him off.
Niccolette held back; she breathed deep, looking around. She took a wineglass off a passing tray with the faintest edge of a smile, and crossed to the window, watching the light tilt and prism through the glass.