DeMontmancy Tailoring, Uptown
“The cut’s a little - masculine, don’t you think?” Francoise was almost frowning, her brow just shy of wrinkled. “I quite liked the pale green gown, Nicco, why don’t you -“
“I like it,” Niccolette said. She fixed her gaze on her face in the mirror, the words easy to speak amidst her breaths. When she dared, she looked over the silhouette of the dress again, the high neck like a collar. She traced her hands along the small buttons marching down both sides of the front of the saffron silk before it shaded subtly into a richer orange at the skirt, almost red at the hem, the detailing along the front, the cut in the shoulders, and the faintest of lines at the waist giving it a look nearly like a coat and skirt. The Bastian turned to the tailor. “I shall have other buttons sent over. Larger ones, in gold.”
The tailor bowed, and Niccolette let the noise of his conversation with Francoise sweep over her; she did not listen to their discussion of what time the dinner would be, when the dress needed to arrive. And, too, she did not look again; if her hand trembled on her side, it was her business and hers alone.
Dining Room, The Rochambeaux Residence, Uptown
There was the clatter of spoons against bowls, the soft clink of beringed fingers against glasses, soft low laughter and a sharp high snort from across the table. Niccolette kept the spoon in her hand, as if at any moment she might take another sip of soup, her gaze fixed politely on the man sitting next to her.
“You have been in all our thoughts, Niccolette,” Incumbent Desverdes was saying. “It’s all right, isn’t it, if I call you Niccolette? I remember your husband so fondly. He was always a breath of fresh air at those interminable political affairs.”
“Yes,” Niccolette murmured.
“You seem to be - recovered?” The Incumbent set his spoon down, a little bit of pale gray green spoon clinging to the edge of it, the light of the chandelier overhead glinting off the metal. Niccolette’s gaze traced it down and lifted back to his face.
“Recovered?” Niccolette asked. Something fluttered in her chest, and she smiled through it. She lowered her spoon as well, her hand resting lightly on the table.
“After that duel!” Desverdes chuckled, and patted her hand. “Terribly exciting, my dear. It must have fatigued you something dreadful.”
“Yes,” Niccolette said. Her lips felt too dry, but she could not bring herself to lick them. “Quite recovered.” She held, still, and when Desverdes released her hand she tugged it off the table, hid it down in her lap.
There was a burst of noise from the other end of the table. Niccolette was sure she must have smiled before she looked away again, conscious abruptly of the heavy weight of her updo, the weight the pinned up curls seemed to throb through her head. Why had she let Francoise suggest she wear it up? The collar; the collar of the dress. Yes, Niccolette remembered now.
Desverdes was speaking again, leaning in a little close; Niccolette thought she could feel his warm, slightly damp breath brushing her cheek. She turned back and found it in herself to smile again.
The Rochambeaux Residence to The Lycat, Uptown
"I shall retire early,” Niccolette found Francoise in the hallway between dinner and the retiring rooms. Her hands were shaking, and she tucked them against her stomach, smiled, and found the rhythm of her breath, feeling the heavy gold buttons beneath her fingers.
“All right, darling,” Francoise was frowning again, and she reached for Niccolette - then turned, glancing over her shoulder at the sound of laughter from the room behind. “You’re all right?” She asked, turning back to Niccolette.
“Yes,” Niccolette said. “Of course.”
Francoise hesitated - she stared at Niccolette a long moment - and then she nodded. She reached forward and squeezed Niccolette’s hand, then turned and went into the retiring room; Niccolette could hear her laughter over the distant echo of conversation.
Niccolette stood in the phosphor lit hall a moment longer. She glanced right, up at the sweeping staircase that led to the room where she had stayed this last week. Then, with a deep breath, she turned and went left, before she could think any more about it; she took one of Francoise’s cloaks from the stand, eased it on, and nodded once, firmly, to her friend’s doorman when he opened his mouth. He shut it, opened the door, and Niccolette made her way out into the night.
It had rained earlier in the day, and the streets were still slick with it; Niccolette drew up the red hem of the dress, grasping it in one hand, and made her way over the cobblestones, the small heels of her low boots clicking steadily against the ground. She had to stop and catch her breath, once, resting against a pole, but it wasn’t the walk so much as the sudden, urgent need to weep. Niccolette shuddered, pulling the hood of her cloak up a little more, and kept her chin firmly down.
She had gone away from the bright lights and busy streets, into a quieter corner of Uptown; she did not know the area so well, this place where Francoise now lived, and she was not sure if she could find her way back. It did not seem to matter; all Niccolette could think about was getting away from the house, away from the crushing weight of it all.
The urge to weep passed, like the drifting of clouds in the sky overhead. Niccolette shuddered, her chest heaving with the weight of a few too heavy breaths, and kept walking. She walked until her still weak legs ached, until her whole body ached, and then when she could bear it no longer, she found a place to sit – a bar, quiet, a little corner of something that felt almost peaceful amidst all the glamour. The Lycat, Niccolette read on the sign outside, carved into the shape of the wild hunters.
Niccolette made her way over the clean wooden floor, and rested silk-clad arms against the heavy polished wood of the counter. She shoved her hood back, heavy coils of pinned up dark hair gleaming above the brightly colored dress. She took a deep breath, and realized, abruptly, that she had left Francoise’s without a single coin – no concords, not even a shill or a tally.
“Can I buy you a drink?” An Anaxi galdor perched on a nearby stool leaned over, grinning, his eyes flicking over her.
Niccolette held, stiffly, her red painted lips pressed together, her gaze flickering over him – the faint red blotch on his cheeks, the upturned collar, the smirk as he took her in – all of her.
“Just one drink,” The Anaxi offered, grinning a little wider. His curly blonde hair was thinning at the top, and Niccolette could see the faint greasy sweat against his skin, could feel the heavy physical mona of his field, pressing against her.
The Bastian exhaled, and released the subtle, polite dampening she had held all through the evening; sharp, bright living energy flooded from her, washing over the bar – seven, nearly eight feet from her, and strong enough that the galdor sitting there flinched back.
“No,” Niccolette said, coldly, her accent, as ever, distinctly Bastian. “I should rather die of thirst.”
“Bitch,” the Anaxi grumbled, glancing at her again, and turning away.
Niccolette shrugged, and propped her face in her hands for a long moment, not quite sure what it was she meant to do. It had all been so easy once, she thought, more than a little miserable – she could name the emotion for self-pity, she was practiced enough at it these days, but recognizing it hardly seemed to help. At least Niccolette knew it did not show in her field; she was no child, to bleed forth so at the slightest provocation. Whatever else, at least her ramscott was still crisp and indectal around her; she could take comfort in that.