B
exley takes her drink as a shot, though it comes in a champagne glass.It burns going down. It’s something strong, a deep amber color and so viciously carbonated it stings her nostrils as much as her throat; she has to shake her head as it goes down, both to quell the prickle of pain in her eyes and the noise of surprise that threatens to escape her. (She’s lost her edge. Whatever happened to her for all those months—it made her soft. When she looks in the mirror the only sharp thing left is the line of her cheekbones. Even the jagged line of her car seems sort of… muted.)
(Who is this girl?)
The servant who passed her the glass watches in mute surprise, his green eyes blown comically wide. Bexley realizes it’s not just horror, though, at her lack of manners: he doesn’t recognize her.
Somehow the embarrassment of that is far worse. She grits her teeth and sends him off.
The party is in full swing now. The vast majority of attendees are Solterran nobles, dressed in richly-colored silks and chains of pure gold; but the crowd is broken up in some places by a Benevolent here, a shed-star there, their blues and purples an awkward velvet of the night against the sand and the sun. Music floats overhead. It’s some previously-unheard violin suite seeping in from the courtyard, at once danceable and melancholic. (The combination, she thinks, seems inherently Solterran).
Properly buzzed now, electric-edged, Bexley raises her head above the crowd from her spot at the bar and watches over it.
She sees the girl coming toward her before she really arrives: gold, and white, with a star on her forehead.
@Elena speaks
bexley
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