Real irritation wells up inside Marcellin, fixedly smiling at Docteur Strange as he so graciously extends a hand to gesture them to the dancefloor, of course, he’s heard they dance and all. His sister and her temperament — mercurial and mean — are a familiar element. The presumptuousness of her acquired academic, some rifter nobody, either to dismiss him or to take precedence over him with her—
He involuntarily rolls his eyes when she sets her hand in Stephen’s, diverted from her own irritation by being visibly pleased.
Gwenaëlle’s singular regret is that the closeness of her gown doesn’t exactly allow her to sweep away with all the drama that the moment deserves, but she gives it a haughty chin and it’s nearly as good, leaving Marcellin in their wake. He will not, she knows, be that easily put off. This isn’t going to be the last she hears of whatever this is. But for now...
“The fucking audacity,” she mutters, “as if he didn’t forget how to hold a fucking quill the instant I lost my inheritance—”
The nature of the game. She’d tucked that wound away, spoken of it never, to no one, but it had stung. It stings, now, Marc’s thumb digging salt in with his presumption.
no subject
He involuntarily rolls his eyes when she sets her hand in Stephen’s, diverted from her own irritation by being visibly pleased.
Gwenaëlle’s singular regret is that the closeness of her gown doesn’t exactly allow her to sweep away with all the drama that the moment deserves, but she gives it a haughty chin and it’s nearly as good, leaving Marcellin in their wake. He will not, she knows, be that easily put off. This isn’t going to be the last she hears of whatever this is. But for now...
“The fucking audacity,” she mutters, “as if he didn’t forget how to hold a fucking quill the instant I lost my inheritance—”
The nature of the game. She’d tucked that wound away, spoken of it never, to no one, but it had stung. It stings, now, Marc’s thumb digging salt in with his presumption.