The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne
Niccolette spared a few thoughts for the oddness of it - a passive, at one of the most important balls of the season, in the midst of Florne, wandering the hallways to look for wine. She could nearly have laughed or something; it was frankly absurd.
Idly, Niccolette wondered if she ought to have refused him; he could scarcely be allowed to roam the halls. She was not afraid of him, but there were plenty of galdori skittish around his type. If he hasn’t been quite so young, she shouldn’t have thought anything of it.
It was, Niccolette thought matter-of-factly, too late. If he did not return, she would decide then whether to go after him. There was really nothing more which could be said or done now.
Whatever would come afterwards, Niccolette thought, she thought they would leave her alone tonight. It would be best to find Giovanna, Photoulla, Elisabetta, whichever other friends she might recognize from summers and winters spent here, and the tiny handful of Bastians she knew in Brunnhold. It would be best to mention nothing of the rest of it; they, none of them, needed to know. Gia knew; none of the rest.
It was not shame, Niccolette told herself fiercely. How her father behaved towards her could not make her ashamed if she did not let it. She was angry, yes. And too she felt -
It did not matter. They could do nothing with the knowing; there was no reason to tell them. There was no benefit to it being shared; there was nothing to be done but to make it through the summer, one way or another, and to get back to Brunnhold.
Always, Niccolette thought, the return was like a gift. She would be going actually first to Vienda this year, spending two weeks staying with Francoise while attending a summer spell-writing intensive. That thought was very pleasing; she would, Niccolette thought grimly, do what she needed to do to keep that and the fall semester from being taken away. They would not force a marriage on her this summer; engagements could always be broken.
Tonight, it had surprised her; she ought to have known better, Niccolette thought, clenching her jaw until she felt the thrum of pain in her cheek. No, she could not regret it, not any of it; she refused to.
This was all settled before the boy returned. Niccolette raised her eyebrows at the sight of the glass on the tray, and the flower alongside it. She inclined her head, taking the glass and swirling it lightly, watching the tears stream down the side from the flow of liquid.
Niccolette set the glass back down and studied the passive curiously. “What is your name?” She asked him. They had not exchanged such pleasantries; she had not thought to. Perhaps it was the flower; she couldn’t have said. She asked, now, for better or for worse; she wondered.