Drab: Tell it to me
[Takes place the 22nd of February]
"--your gown was exactly as you said it would be - I can't pretend in any way that I'm not impressed with your detailing," the blonde offers, finally drawing herself up off the arm of the plush gold-and-purple settee. She blinks, slow and languid, over at her wild-haired companion for the day and evening's entertainments, twisting the fallen bottle that once held the honey-liquor of dreams-stuff between her bony fingers. "Is that what you were in when he asked, then?"
A belt of laughter rips from Soph's lips as she shifts her elaborate skirts around, laying her head with its raven-dark halo of hair atop Olive's ankles. She watches the light bead in the droplets of honey crystallizing around the neck of the bottle in her friend's hand. "It was, but don't get exicted just yet, I sent him packing. Turns out he was running rather roughshod over several of the drapery misses from the Garden's finer streets, and I wasn't about to become first fiddle to a host of seconds." It's an impressive contortion of neckwork that she manages to look up at Olive from this angle, yet she manages.
There's a flame on Olive's cheeks already, indignant for her friend far more than it seems even Soph could manage. "Why -- what a -- that cad," she spits.
"Yes, yes, he's a cad," Soph agrees, entirely unperturbed. "But what of your Feast?" A leading question if ever there were one, it's clear she's seeking a very specific answer.
And Olive isn't about to disappoint - once she's done her best to scrutinize her friend's eyes for traces of tears, or her lower lip for trembling (tell-tale signs Miss Flemmigan truly wishes to be given some sort of comfort), she produces a well-contained smile. The angry flush fades from a vermilion to a soft rose, and here she leans in, folding herself over her reclining friend. "We--ll, I suppose I do have some news, and--"
"I knew it," accuses Sophronia, nearly sitting up before she reconsiders the course of action that would likely bring her forehead into a sudden meeting with Olive's nose, "I had to hear about it from the society rags, I mean, really Olive, how could you do this to me, and I've been so good to you, me, your--"
"--yes, yes," Olive cuts her off with a press of a finger to Soph's lips, "But -- when did you read about the good news? It's only happened--"
"--two weeks past, and you've kept it from --"
"It only happened yesterday!" Olive protests, blinking, eyes wide and cheeks red, holding both hands up so that she might better point to the recent metallic left-hand-disease she's acquired.
"Oh." Soph doesn't even pretend to look sheepish, but she does look at the ring. "Don't keep us waiting, love, go on - so he didn't come riding in on a tiger with the entirely of St. Fiacre's chorale?"
Olive couldn't possibly sputter in protest more than she is, looking down at her confusingly enthusiastic friend. "Wh--goodness, no, is that what they've said? It wasn't like that at all, he'd procured --" her eyes narrow, fingers reaching to bat a lock of curly black hair from her own knee. "You're trying to goad me. Let me tell it my own way, won't you?"
It's an expression Soph has had great success using on the gentlemen (and, sometimes, ladies) whose eye she catches - a half-pout, a widening of her eyes, a lowering of her brows. It's a shame Olive is entirely immune to that look from anyone save her recently-minted fiance.
"Leave off," the blonde snaps, her own lips transforming her face into a mask of amused displeasure. "If you'll allow me-" she pauses - when no further objections are forthcoming, she continues. "He'd asked me - that is, the Commander had requested that I meet him at the Silver Tree - as I'm certain you'll recall, he had seen fit to bring me there, on one of our first excursions-- You were currently enraptured with that particular composer, and I recall it well because I'd only just met you when you'd had a falling out with him, just then. So, I'd dressed well to meet him..."
"--your gown was exactly as you said it would be - I can't pretend in any way that I'm not impressed with your detailing," the blonde offers, finally drawing herself up off the arm of the plush gold-and-purple settee. She blinks, slow and languid, over at her wild-haired companion for the day and evening's entertainments, twisting the fallen bottle that once held the honey-liquor of dreams-stuff between her bony fingers. "Is that what you were in when he asked, then?"
A belt of laughter rips from Soph's lips as she shifts her elaborate skirts around, laying her head with its raven-dark halo of hair atop Olive's ankles. She watches the light bead in the droplets of honey crystallizing around the neck of the bottle in her friend's hand. "It was, but don't get exicted just yet, I sent him packing. Turns out he was running rather roughshod over several of the drapery misses from the Garden's finer streets, and I wasn't about to become first fiddle to a host of seconds." It's an impressive contortion of neckwork that she manages to look up at Olive from this angle, yet she manages.
There's a flame on Olive's cheeks already, indignant for her friend far more than it seems even Soph could manage. "Why -- what a -- that cad," she spits.
"Yes, yes, he's a cad," Soph agrees, entirely unperturbed. "But what of your Feast?" A leading question if ever there were one, it's clear she's seeking a very specific answer.
And Olive isn't about to disappoint - once she's done her best to scrutinize her friend's eyes for traces of tears, or her lower lip for trembling (tell-tale signs Miss Flemmigan truly wishes to be given some sort of comfort), she produces a well-contained smile. The angry flush fades from a vermilion to a soft rose, and here she leans in, folding herself over her reclining friend. "We--ll, I suppose I do have some news, and--"
"I knew it," accuses Sophronia, nearly sitting up before she reconsiders the course of action that would likely bring her forehead into a sudden meeting with Olive's nose, "I had to hear about it from the society rags, I mean, really Olive, how could you do this to me, and I've been so good to you, me, your--"
"--yes, yes," Olive cuts her off with a press of a finger to Soph's lips, "But -- when did you read about the good news? It's only happened--"
"--two weeks past, and you've kept it from --"
"It only happened yesterday!" Olive protests, blinking, eyes wide and cheeks red, holding both hands up so that she might better point to the recent metallic left-hand-disease she's acquired.
"Oh." Soph doesn't even pretend to look sheepish, but she does look at the ring. "Don't keep us waiting, love, go on - so he didn't come riding in on a tiger with the entirely of St. Fiacre's chorale?"
Olive couldn't possibly sputter in protest more than she is, looking down at her confusingly enthusiastic friend. "Wh--goodness, no, is that what they've said? It wasn't like that at all, he'd procured --" her eyes narrow, fingers reaching to bat a lock of curly black hair from her own knee. "You're trying to goad me. Let me tell it my own way, won't you?"
It's an expression Soph has had great success using on the gentlemen (and, sometimes, ladies) whose eye she catches - a half-pout, a widening of her eyes, a lowering of her brows. It's a shame Olive is entirely immune to that look from anyone save her recently-minted fiance.
"Leave off," the blonde snaps, her own lips transforming her face into a mask of amused displeasure. "If you'll allow me-" she pauses - when no further objections are forthcoming, she continues. "He'd asked me - that is, the Commander had requested that I meet him at the Silver Tree - as I'm certain you'll recall, he had seen fit to bring me there, on one of our first excursions-- You were currently enraptured with that particular composer, and I recall it well because I'd only just met you when you'd had a falling out with him, just then. So, I'd dressed well to meet him..."