open | well i've lost it all

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Lexie and the brave people who feel like maybe getting things thrown at them/being yelled at/cried on/some other flavor of ridiculousness.
WHAT: Breakup Drama ♫
WHEN: nowish (end of Haring)
WHERE: De La Fontaine apartments in Hightown
NOTES: if you're a melodramatic noblewoman with a sudden case of regency constitution clap your hands
[ if you want a certain flavor of ridiculousness, put it in your title or hmu on plurk (@shaestorms) or discord (shae#7274) ♥ ]



It has been three days since she returned to the apartments the Comte keeps for her and her sister in the middle of the night, and Alexandrie de la Fontaine has not emerged from her room. In fact, Alexandrie de la Fontaine has not emerged from her bed. The only mark of her continued residence is the persistent heartbroken sobbing from behind the door. It is largely quiet, muffled, a background sound to be filtered out like the ocean waves. It does on occasion become more energetic as some thought—new or revisited for the hundredth time—sets her off, or disappear entirely when the expenditure of it all sends her to sleep.

Meal after meal is brought, left, and found again untouched; the tea over-steeped, the coffee stale, and both quickly rendered cold, for she will not stand for a fire being lit in the hearth. (The first maid to find it silly and begin to kindle one in any case for her lady's own good received a thin bruise the shape of the side of an expertly aimed hairbrush and a tongue-lashing for her trouble. There have since been no other attempts.) Instead, she has wrapped herself in the covers of her bed, her attire unchanged since her return save to become rumpled, her hair slowly coming free over time as the pins vex her and are yanked out and thrown to disappear in the rug.

She is missing entirely. Silent on the network when she would usually be flip, absent from both duties and regularly kept company. Crystal messages go unanswered, and callers are turned away with the vague explanation that Lady Alexandrie has taken ill and is not receiving visitors; that they may leave a card, or a message, and she shall respond once recovered.

Some callers are, of course, slightly more insistent.

[ Here you still are! If you're not Evie and you're coming in the normal person way, Marceau is chasing after you right now in that sort of eminently austere way fourth generation lifelong butlers have. If you're a scalawag or something, she has a window. There's probably a trellis. We'll figure something out. Prose or brackets are fine! ]

Comments

[keenly]

Colin gently begins to untangle her hair with his fingers, starting at the ends. He lets her cry for a moment before speaking again.

“Say the word and I’ll dangle him from the roof by his ankles.”

[coquettish_trees]

The sheer absurdity of the idea will win him a watery chuckle.

“Do not go chasing after such grudges as he holds, cher. I prefer you unperforated.” And, despite her usual proclivities, she finds she has no stomach for vengeance. Not with what has happened. It is entirely his fault if he is alone in it, but to suddenly be what one has held in such contempt for ones entire life, lose family—such as it was desired,—ambition, grasp on self in one fell swoop? Adding to such would be cruelty she hasn’t the heart for.

Or, rather, has too much heart for.

“Stay here with me instead.”

[keenly]

A smile. He knew she wouldn’t take him up on it, though the offer wasn’t entirely insincere. Such offers are always meant to show one is taking the side of their friend, and to what degree.

“I will. Though I’d rather get you up and dressed, and come with me to market. I’d like to cook something tonight and I need ingredients. Maybe you can help.”

[coquettish_trees]

Alexandrie is altogether too much a mess for any such outing, and even if she is perhaps making slowly ready to move to a less raw and jagged grieving, she is not ready for the bare possibility of accidental acquaintance; for the barely hidden satisfaction of Hightown's peers that her throwing her lot in with Tevinter had gone poorly for her, or the novelty of forcing an Orlesian noblewoman to something approaching contrition, or whatever other petty shuffling games they wished to play with something so amusing as 'poor silly Alexandrie' had always been.

Clumsy teeth are still teeth, after all, and she has not the wit to win at it. Not now.

Or, at least, not without playing the card she now has, tucked as far away from the light as she can keep it. She realizes for the first time that even if she is nothing else to them, she will now and forever be a knife at the throat of House Asgard. It is a dire reassurance of affection, but reassurance none-the-less, that she still breathes. For the first time in days, a very small smile.

Even so, "I think not," is the quiet reply. "You may use our kitchens, however. If you wish."

[keenly]

There is not a flinch. It went quite as expected, in fact, though if she had said yes it would have been reassuring. It will make this next thing he has to suggest seem exceedingly small, thereby hopefully avoid any fight.

(Maybe, much later, he can float the idea of the outing again, but it is not the end goal here.)

“Then let’s start with a good comb. Just for ourselves, not for being seen. Where might I find a comb and oil?”

[coquettish_trees]

She waves a hand in the general direction of her vanity. It's not something she would have allowed near anyone else to do, and perhaps is allowing only now because she's distracted.

Because Alexandrie isn't listening; she's been counting her heartbeats like flower petals. Like proof.