some of us have gone so long hungry,
the idea of being full feels worse than the affliction.
the idea of being full feels worse than the affliction.
S
he tugs a silk of sapphire blue over her head, cursing when it catches on one of the spikes threaded through her mane. They liked to do that — catch on things. If she weren’t half as tall as everything, Aghavni’s row of golden spikes would have torn the drapes from the Scarab’s copiously curtained doorways every time she walked through one.To Charon’s (and by proxy, her father’s) imminent displeasure.
Carefully, she pulls the spikes out of her hair and sets them on top of her dresser.
The silk uniform slips on smoothly after that, and Aghavni turns in front of her mirror to examine the fit. It is a bit long — everything is always a bit long on her; the local tailor has her precious gold to thank for keeping his business afloat — but fixable with a few well-placed pins.
In her hair lies the true enemy. Frowning, she drags the flaxen curls into something that vaguely resembles a braid and then ties it quickly with a blue ribbon before her curls have a chance to contemplate escape.
She stares hard at her reflection. Something is still off. She reaches for a jar of rouge she’d shoved behind her lampshade the day she’d snagged it off of a snobby Denoctian high-born, and dabs some of it onto her too-pale cheeks. When that doesn’t seem to work, she lifts the corners of her lips into less of a scowl.
That doesn’t seem to work either.
Sighing, Aghavni slips from her room before she can reconsider.
The Floor is a riot of silk and perfume and liquor-ignited laughter. As it always is.
Green eyes drift from face to face, recognizing most and vowing to recognize the rest. Aghavni lets out a puff of relief when Charon’s hawk-nosed profile is conspicuously missing — the advisor is probably in his chambers, sifting through a tower of paperwork characterized by its ability to multiply once per hour.
If her own chambers were not suffering from the same affliction, she would pity him more.
“Aster,” she murmurs, when a coat of sapphire blue walks past. The boy turns, surprised at hearing his name. The patrons have no need to familiarize themselves with the names of their servers. Beckoning him closer, she grabs the tray of champagne flutes from his grasp with a conspiratorial smile. “You are relieved from duty for the night.”
When he continues to stare at her, desperately trying to puzzle out why the Scarab’s young director is dressed like that, talking to him, Aghavni sighs. “Your mother is sick, is she not?” She had overheard the chatter that morning, when she’d snuck into the kitchens to spirit away some freshly baked pastries.
He shifts uncomfortably under her stare, until he reaches the conclusion that the only answer she seeks is a nod. He gives it. “Then go. If you keep my secret, your pay shall not be lessened.” Not that it would have, anyways, but the boy must not think her lenient.
He bows to her before melting into the crowd.
Smoothing her lips into a server’s bland smile — which she hopes looks more convincing than it had in the mirror — Aghavni makes her way to the gambling tables, replacing half-empty glasses with full ones and drinking in conversation like wine. This — donning a server's silks — is the only way the girl is allowed to indulge.
A flash of glistening gold to her left snags her green, green eyes. Her father had said to her once, when she'd been no taller than his knee, that she was as sly-eyed as a magpie.
The woman, when Aghavni sees her perched at the next table over, is magnificent.
She has never seen anyone like her — and she has known the dazzle of luxury since birth. How she gleams, like molten gold! Purple flowers fall and fall from her Midas-touched frame, with no source in sight.
A goddess? Aghavni wonders, entranced. Has our gold attracted even a goddess?
She has to know. Even if the goddess is mortal — and in her heart, Aghavni knows she is, though she holds onto the fantasy like a plea — she might not visit again. What can the Scarab offer her when she is finer than any of its treasures?
So Aghavni edges towards her, unnoticed in sapphire silk. She lowers flutes of champagne to the table and lifts the empty ones away.
She hovers not quite near enough to be intrusive, like a server might, and watches the game begin.
@Florentine | "speaks" | notes: -shoves novel at- so excited to thread with you again <3
