Felicity Worthington would have died before renting an actual garret. She'd bought a huge flat in a fashionable district instead. And of course her conversational French was excellent but she found herself missing the occasional slang term or cultural reference, leaving her a bit lost when conversations got too deep or complicated. And artists and bohemians were much cruder than she'd realized when dreaming of the artist's life. She also found herself defending her country's food, culture and language.
Felicity had nothing to contribute to the artist's life. She wasn't that great of a painter and didn't necessarily fancy being a model, and dancing, well, that was not for her either. She was good at designing dresses but knew nothing about actually sewing them. She might write, but had no idea what to write about. Mostly, she lived the same life of the idle rich she'd lived in England, only without the burden of chaperones, rules and mandatory uncomfortable clothing. But it really hurt her back to go without a corset for too long.
Felicity watched as the sugar on its slotted spoon dissolved into the green liquid and ran her fingertip around the rim of her drinking glass. They were all feteing a new and spectacular playwright whose name she couldn't remember, the party drifted from bar to bar and finally lighted at this little hole in the wall, a dark, red wallpapered place where most of the hangers on couldn't fit in the door. Low lighting and leather chairs set the stage for a sleepy crush of starving artists and the young, fabulous and wealthy rebelling by running away to the City of Lights.
"Do you smell flowers?" Felicity demanded of the can-can dancer slumped next to her at the table. "Because I do." Sweet smelling smoke puffed in her face as a nattily dressed young man let out a harsh bark of laughter at a joke that was no longer funny. "It's like in the Realms," Felicity said, leaning back in her chair with her legs splayed.
"Oh, do tell us more about them," the playwright urged and Felicity launched into another tale, her tongue loosened by the Green Fairy. As she talked, it was almost as if she could make the Realms appear right there, she could almost feel the earth and hear the twittering of birds. And if some of that was the remnants of her gift from Gemma leaking out, well…
Later, as they wandered out the door through a field of glowing daisies, Felicity forgot where she was, stumbling and reaching for Pippa. Her hand groped blindly and found a stranger.
"Oh, Felicity, wait!" Pippa cried breathlessly, hurrying after her friend with that kind of awkward –walkrunning on her toes while trying to keep her hat from blowing away-that girls did when they needed to run but it wouldn't be seemly to. "Fee!" But when Felicity meant to run, she ran.
"Excuse moi!" Felicity cried, shoving a gentleman out of the way. She could barely see through her anger and humiliation.
"But I thought your mother was taking us to Maison Paquin?" Pippa gasped as she caught up. Her chest rose up and down rapidly (and distractingly) while she struggled for breath.
"Mother is too busy," Felicity snapped. "She and Monsieur Grope would like some time alone." Is that what being an artist's muse consisted of? It seemed as if her mother was nothing more than a kept woman! Felicity flopped onto the iron bench in the garden of Mrs. Worthington's Paris townhouse and bit back tears.
"Shh," Pippa said, brushing back Felicity's blond curls. "What's wrong?"
"Merde, merde, merde!" Felicity said, stamping her boots and curling away from Pippa.
"Fee, please…" Pippa kissed her cheek and draped an arm around her waist. "Come, do let's get out of this sun."
A dark haired woman in a white dress brushed Felicity's shoulder in the fog, disappearing like a ghost in the crowds of late night drinkers. Felicity shuddered and steadied herself against the wall. She let herself into her cavernous flat, stumbling slightly on the threshold. Her maid was asleep, not bothering to turn on a lamp, Felicity cursed her as she struggled out of her clothes and practically fell on the bed. She thought about waking the maid and engaging in a bit of drunken shouting about shirking responsibilities but that would require…getting up. Her window was open and long white curtains glowed with moonlight.
"Felicity," a soft voice whispered. The curtains- a woman grew out of the curtains and slid towards her.
"You're not really here," Felicity said. "You're a halu-halo-haluci-something." Pippa spun around in her diaphanous white dress and laughed.
"Of course I am, silly."
"You'll feel better if you get out of these sweaty clothes," Pippa said. Felicity let Pippa undress her, too miserable to care, except to point out that her dress was brand new and Pippa had best not wrinkle it or she wouldn't get to borrow Felicity's Japanese fan for the Midsummer Ball. Pippa shut her up with a heated kiss, pressing her against the wall. They made love standing up, Felicity in her corset and petticoats, and Pippa still in her full clothes, Pippa's fingers between her legs. Felicity remembered coming loudly, fully aware that her mother had just come home and was only one floor below. It served Mother right, she could never lecture about morality again.
"How could I be anything else?" Pippa From the Curtains asked. "You killed me. You stuck that sword in me like-" Felicity turned her head and wept into the pillows.