Cars and Guitars (sisters: Vania and Lianne)
"—so bloom'd the darling bud on branch-ed tree," sings the young musician, his beautifully-shaped hands plucking a mellow gold accompaniment from the wooden harp in his lap.
He's good, thinks Vania, listening to his clear, vibrant voice cut through the smoky, crowded tavern. The man has a real gift for living his songs as he sings them, drawing the hard-living commoners into respectful silence and a soft mood of enjoyment.
The musician lets the last note trail into silence and finishes with his soul-filled gaze on Vania's sister. Lianne blushes as the applause starts, but she's a Conté, so it only heightens her beauty. The natural pink of her cheeks deepens to rose and set off her delicate features, her large, vivid eyes, and the graceful line of her neck as she tilts her head towards Vania.
This was a good idea, Lianne murmurs. Vania smiles slyly back and raises one brow in a move she's copied from Mother and practiced in the mirror: Of course it was. Mother uses it as a punctuation mark in her conversation: a single perfect arch fired over the elegant bridge of her nose like a challenge, or the winning stroke of a skirmish. Another time Lianne might wrinkle her nose in disdain, but tonight her eyes sparkle conspiratorially before she turns back to the musician.
Vania leans back to rest her elbows on the rough wooden bar and tosses back her hair so that her cleavage shows and the smooth skin of her throat. The smoky air and this less-than-savoury room smell like freedom to her, and the sense crackles, heady, under her skin. She sweeps a look up under her lashes, Come hither, at the man staring across the room: travel-faded black leather, a hard stubbled jaw and wicked dark eyes.