being attracted to someone's lips


Her lady's facade is starting to fade. Blanche notices it in passing at first; it's been then in the whole time they've known one another. Agnes, while kind, was as cold as the castle in Wales in which she grew up. As poised as properly as a lady at all times. Posture and poise and coldness was Agnes. She couldn't help it, it was just who she was.

But.

Blanche is starting to see it. Something else. Emerging. Like the sun rising on a new day and boiling the morning dew off. Warmer. She's becoming warmer. More flexible, as if ice had schlepped off her back and for the first time Agnes was finding out she could bend for something and no one would look at her crossly.

She starts to wander. First around their back gardens for lack of anywhere else to go, and then the house at times most would call inappropriate. And then it was the little things. Her eyes. She'd mouth the words silently when she read her letters or hummed to herself in the mornings as she walked passed Blanche in the hall. But her eyes. Her eyes.

Her eyes.

They have a late night tete-a-tete over snifters of Hallam's left over brandy and in the firelight Blanche sees it.

Her eyes.

Staring.

Agnes does not stare. It's impolite and very common but there she is unblinking watching Blanche's every move. Catches her off guard. She slows her speech. Wanting the moment to last, perhaps, or just to study what a strange creature Agnes has become.

"Blanche?" she says after a moment.

"Yes?"

"You stopped. In the middle of your sentence." the corner of Agnes' lip quirks up gently.

Who's watching who now.