The money professed hung tangible in the air, livres were not a common currency. If there had been any doubt of the plump man's status, they were now laid to rest. Only the highest members of le Maison Militaire de l'Empereu would dare spend that kind of money on a girl.
Belle flushed. 'What a sum, and spent on what? A few nights with an inexperienced and unwilling putain.' The other women save Plumette backed away from her. She was bad luck, not only did she have the misfortune to be desired by Gaston, well known for his sadistic tendencies towards his bedfellows, but beauty is a cursed companion.
Belle took a moment to admire the stunned look on her would-be paramour's face. All angles, Gaston's face wasn't made for pouting, neither were his fish-like eyes. She knew he had never intended to spend more than a dozen francs on her, only her own father's desperation had caused the bidding to reach double digits.
While Gaston's wealth as a commander of a local force had cowed the rest of the villagers, he was still roturier. As common as she was, and just as disadvantaged. She sent a brief thanksgiving to whomever had been watching over her, and a prayer that her mysterious benefactor might prove a safer man. For all her heated passion, fire was a dangerous playmate.
Flashback:
Psyche burned. It felt like every inch of her burned in white-hot passion. How dare they. Her sisters cloistered in their unassuming ugliness. Plain features, plainer desires: children, a good harvest, sex, men, clothes, dull... And the priests. What did they know? Three years of bad harvest and who did they place the blame on? Oh yes, a girl.
The books she had stolen from the ruins of a Greco-Roman temple whispered to her of Helen, of golden apples, wing'd cupid in his majesty blighting the land. Perhaps the priests and diviners were right after all. The gods desired sacrifice and they coveted those rare, beautiful objects mortals might worship. Her own priests sung of golden bulls on sacred hill. 'Did her own golden tresses mark her for destruction or desire?'
As the procession rolled through town, flowers streaming from fluttering pennants, Sunday clothing barely concealing the townspeople's thinning chests, Psyche desperately hoped for the latter.
A/N I know I'm a terrible person. What can I say? Updating on time is not in my nature & goodness knows this story doesn't seem to want to go any faster.