(no subject)
In a tavern in Fulkeston, Tristran gained great renown by reciting from memory Coleridge's "Kubla Khan," the Twenty-Third Psalm, the "Quality of Mercy" speech from The Merchant of Venice, and a poem about a boy who stood on the burning deck where all be he had fled, each of which he had been obliged to commit to memory in his school days. He blessed Mrs. Cherry for her efforts in making him memorize verse, until it became apparent that the townsfolk of Fulkeston had decided that he would stay with them forever and become the next bard of the town ...
-- Stardust, p.247-248
The village girls sit impossibly close, ruining the pleasant lull of his voice with cooing and girlish laughter and the none-too-careful slide of hands and she feels the irrational urge to tell them not to touch what is hers. Only, really, it's not hers and she feels rather disgustingly inclined toward feeling bad for Victoria Forrester - or at least doing the job of being jealous angry for her.
It only seems fair. Someone has to do it - and seeing as Tristran doesn't even seem to realize, she's the only one available at such short notice.
It reminds her, quite suddenly, that this isn't what her life is going to be. Not for very much longer, at any rate. They are getting closer - she can see it in the way that Tristran looks more, as if waiting for something to appear. As if knowing that it will.
She's purposefully obstinate - refusing offers for supper with an icy glare and giving the same unpleasant reception to the young man that continues to smile at her in the stupid way she knows that she looks at him sometimes. The very similarity of the gesture irritates her.
She's sulking and she knows it. She just can't bring herself to honestly care.
The sulk slowly becomes a simmering sort of anger - bubbling somewhere low in her stomach by the time the simpering band of females formerly fawning over her moron cart her off with them to bed.
__
"I think," the star proclaims (somewhere around the thirtieth time she is prodded for information regarding 'Master Thorn' and his 'tastes') tugging herself upward and hobbling forward grandly. "That we will be taking our leave."
A short brunet - beautifully curled and primped and seated with a great deal more care than Yvaine generally bothers with - pipes up, voice dripping with a saccharine sort of concern that makes the star's lips curl distastefully.
"There are dogs out there, you know. They will gladly tear you to pieces."
Yvaine remembers, distinctly, playing games far more impressively plotted than these with her sisters.
Stupid humans.
A lazy tilt of her head, "You'd like that, wouldn't you? No guilt for you if I do it all myself."
The girl's shrug nearly makes her laugh.
"Do comfort Prince Charming for me in the morning," she grins and it's not an altogether pleasant one, fingers curling around the doorknob. "Providing that you can still find him, of course."
-- Stardust, p.247-248
The village girls sit impossibly close, ruining the pleasant lull of his voice with cooing and girlish laughter and the none-too-careful slide of hands and she feels the irrational urge to tell them not to touch what is hers. Only, really, it's not hers and she feels rather disgustingly inclined toward feeling bad for Victoria Forrester - or at least doing the job of being jealous angry for her.
It only seems fair. Someone has to do it - and seeing as Tristran doesn't even seem to realize, she's the only one available at such short notice.
It reminds her, quite suddenly, that this isn't what her life is going to be. Not for very much longer, at any rate. They are getting closer - she can see it in the way that Tristran looks more, as if waiting for something to appear. As if knowing that it will.
She's purposefully obstinate - refusing offers for supper with an icy glare and giving the same unpleasant reception to the young man that continues to smile at her in the stupid way she knows that she looks at him sometimes. The very similarity of the gesture irritates her.
She's sulking and she knows it. She just can't bring herself to honestly care.
The sulk slowly becomes a simmering sort of anger - bubbling somewhere low in her stomach by the time the simpering band of females formerly fawning over her moron cart her off with them to bed.
__
"I think," the star proclaims (somewhere around the thirtieth time she is prodded for information regarding 'Master Thorn' and his 'tastes') tugging herself upward and hobbling forward grandly. "That we will be taking our leave."
A short brunet - beautifully curled and primped and seated with a great deal more care than Yvaine generally bothers with - pipes up, voice dripping with a saccharine sort of concern that makes the star's lips curl distastefully.
"There are dogs out there, you know. They will gladly tear you to pieces."
Yvaine remembers, distinctly, playing games far more impressively plotted than these with her sisters.
Stupid humans.
A lazy tilt of her head, "You'd like that, wouldn't you? No guilt for you if I do it all myself."
The girl's shrug nearly makes her laugh.
"Do comfort Prince Charming for me in the morning," she grins and it's not an altogether pleasant one, fingers curling around the doorknob. "Providing that you can still find him, of course."