There are certain principles involved with Mardi Gras-type events, and Camille Montes is well aware of them. She also has no fundamental problem with them (not to mention a sneaking suspicion that her father’s family would disown her for being so unBolivian if she did have problems with partying). No, what she has problem with is that whoever it is
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Says the rather creepy fellow sitting nearby.
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"I've seen worse."
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This is not the shock of the century.
What might be more of a surprise is that he's not looking at her specifically, as much as he is the bindrune.
(He still gives her a cursory glance, but that window? Still closing. Esfir is finally beginning to attain "like my sister" status, and Cal may not be a stranger to pseudo-incest, but that doesn't mean he approves.)
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Which means that Esfir is looking at Cal.
Pointedly.
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". . . what? I'm looking at the . . ." He gestures to the same general area on his chest.
With anyone else, he might or might not admit this, but it's Esfir. He's allowed.
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"This?"
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So, the slim (and remarkably French) woman helps herself to one of the chairs at Camille's table, bringing with her a bottle of '94 Merlot.
"Bonsoir. Mind company?"
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So, given the woman is a) attractive and b) carrying wine, Camille smiles at her.
"Not at all."
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Setting the bottle down on the table, Dominic gets the attention of the nearest waitrat by snapping her fingers.
"Two glasses, please."
This done, she turns back to Camille.
"Enjoying Mardi Gras?"
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"I'm...making the best of it," she answers. While still poised as normal, the annoyance has made the impression of sheathed claws more pronounced.
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