She stands silhouetted in the window halfway down the grand manor stairs, transfixed by something beyond the polished glass, and I wonder once more if she feels…caged. Fading sunlight streams through her hair, transfiguring the red into a burnished gold, and the golden-pink light filters through the delicate tulle of her gown, lithe and vibrant in the sober hall. But on her shoulders, which are bare and pale, the sunlight wears thin, and slumps.

I run my hands over the smooth bar, allowing them to slip out of my shaded hiding place and over the fine grain of the polished wood. Others mill about in the spacious hall, sampling hors d'oeuvre and noting the weather. It's easy to pick up the light tinkle of champagne flutes among the muted laughter of small talk, and only slightly more difficult to sense the pretension and wealth wafting through the air.

I watch as she remains above, unwavering, on the landing, as if she is in a land of her own making, aloof to this superciliousness. The twilight is less violent now that the sun has set, and the colors fade to deep blues. I notice that a flute of champagne rests on the windowsill near her gloved hand, untouched.

Her father finds her there, and his whispered words are met with anger. She snaps her head away from the window and inclines it sharply toward the party assembled in the hall, and she isn't cautious when she snatches up her drink. The sparkling beverage sloshes and threatens to mar her gown, but she doesn't give a damn. She merely glares at her father, downs the champagne with one elegant tip of her chin, and gracefully descends the stairs.

She pauses at the foot to hand me her empty glass.

"Sometimes, you know, I wish your side won," she whispers.

I stack her flute alongside the other dirty ones behind the bar.

"I never have," I murmur.


A/N: I blame the tune Vintage, by Break of Reality. (Indie group – three cellists and a drummer, and totally worth the listen – expect to see them listed here again).