Things have changed.She should have expected as much. Part of her did. She is not all fool, not all bleach-blonde ridiculousness. Things have changed. Of course they have; it’s the nature of the universe. Even Bexley cannot argue with the nature of the universe.
(Or at least, she can’t argue and win.)
(Or at least—she can’t argue and win yet.)
She should have expected as much. Part of her did. Part of her didn't, and this is the part making its appearance now, an untimely anxiety settled in her chest like a rock as she wonders what her world will look like now.
The Ieshans throw at least one party every year. Bexley has ducked into a few during her time in Solterra, and even the ones she’s missed out on attending made appearances in the back of her mind—the invitations shown coyly off in public as markers of station, then stories exchanged for weeks after with the same goal, their house’s name alone enough to sustain excitement. She’s spent enough time drinking and gossiping on their property to know how to navigate it alone, and more than once slipped into a curtsy in front of the princes, close enough to tease; and still, as Bexley comes up on the gates, a brief feeling of anxiety flashes through her, gnawing with dull teeth at the pit of her stomach.
Things have changed. Things have changed. Bexley draws a steely inhale as she walks in and reminds herself of this: things have changed, but it could be for the better.
Whoever was in charge of decorating the estate has outdone themselves. Bexley glances around the rooms and halls in muted admiration. Everywhere she looks there is something to be impressed by—a long, bare white oak tree strung with baubles, frosted in enchanted snow; wreaths of luscious dark-green holly leaves, studded with deep red berries; sharply sparkling chandeliers hang from the ceilings, cast the white halls and marble floors in shards of glittering light. The air is scented with pine and cider. A violin suite floats in from outdoors, sweet and melancholic: without thinking, Bexley drifts after it.
A few pairs of eyes follow her through the door. Their weight transforms her instantly from uncomfortable to at-home; if there is one thing Bexley has known all her life, it is the subtle, sparkling joy of being eyed up. (And besides—she knows she looks good. After returning from the island, cleanup was her first priority. She’s bathed the shine back into her coat, anointed herself at every pulse point with sweet-smelling oils; her hair is a long, rippling wave of platinum, coated in an extraterrestrial level of shine, and the necklace seated snugly against the curve of her throat has also been polished to gleaming.)
A few pairs of eyes follow her through the door, and Bexley grins, even without knowing one of them is Florentine.
