They are waiting, their murmurs slipping around and under the door, but you won't leave until you look perfect. This is your day: there will not be an eyelash out of place when you leave the room.
The witches your mother hired have done an acceptable job, but their lines are wobbly around the edges; their curls loose. You sit before the mirror and dip a fine-tipped brush in kohl, gently (precisely) fixing their mistakes. You replace the fading red on your lips and purse them gently, watching your reflection. She stares back at you; pale and proper and unforgiving. Then, slowly, her eyes fall to the simple envelope resting inconspicuously on the edge of the dressing-table.
An expression you don't recognise flickers across her face.
You look away and pick up an ivory comb. You let down your hair, brushing and teasing and drawing it back into a practised twist. He likes it best like that, he has often said: your neck bare and his jewelled gifts on display. That day you have chosen one of the plainer sets, wanting all attention to be on your face and dress, even if cannot keep your own eyes on either.
(They trace the age-faded ink; drink in the familiar script.)
Your hands flutter down to rest in your lap, fingers clenching in the rich material there before quickly smoothing out the small creases. You stand, skirts immediately falling into place, and look to see your sister standing by the door. She is dark and beautiful, hair full and trailing down her back.
For a moment, you allow yourself to hope, but then she meets your eyes, lips twisting in a parody of a smile, and the image is ruined.
You look back to the mirror, smoothing your hands over the bodice of your dress. She does not make any allusions as to the time or express her own impatience, watching you silently under heavy lashes. You repress a shiver, eyes falling once more to the envelope.
She speaks then, as if condemning you. "They are waiting, Narcissa."
You watch the young woman before you, meeting and holding her eyes for a long moment. She says nothing, a porcelain doll, and you follow her lead. You swipe the envelope from the table, flinging it into the fireplace on your right. You don't stay to watch it burn, smoothing down your dress and leaving the room.
Pride
Rayniekinnz
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