Maybe if we re-invent what our lives give us we find poems.
She wonders if perhaps she is moving up in the world.
The party is delightful, certainly, with its silk banners and holly wreaths and diplomacy-sharp grins. More important, however, are its attendees: nobility, nobility, nobility, and Mesnyi. (Does that make her important, too? Is she above a whore, these days? What is an invitation to entertain from an ill prince but an invitation to his bed when he is otherwise forgotten? She isn’t sure she minds.) Mesnyi passes through the crowd, curtsying to those she knows - biblically or otherwise - and those she does not, smiling softly as though each greeting were its own secret. Her violin trails just behind her, an echo of birdsong coming from its strings, hollow, almost forlorn. It is part of her entrance; after she has made her rounds she will commence with the merry tunes. She has made quite the effort to learn Solterran winter solstice music; she is familiar with those of Delumine, but the desert is oft made unappealing and she has neglected its studies. No more. If she is to endear herself to this nest of vipers - if it is possible - then she will apply herself to such cultural pursuits.
Vaguely, she wonders if Amun is here, or if any of the sovereigns’ feral children have made an appearance. Ah - but does it matter? Adonai is a pale ghost among the crowd, and he has seen her also. She looks surprised when he approaches, but she had been waiting. “Lady Mesnyi,” he greets her, and bows deeply - more so than she expected, but her expression is unchanged, delighted. “I am honored. Your presence has been eagerly awaited.” Of course - she had been fashionably late - but, she thinks, these are only formalities and it is a waste to read into them so early (or not - she has been preparing all day to memorize the veins in Adonai’s face, if nothing else.) Mesnyi dips her head and curtsies, her own draping silks and gemstones designed in a similar style to his, though they are opal and pearl. They will last her the season in Solterra, and longer elsewhere.
“The honor is mine. To entertain for your house and its guests is an unexpected pleasure.” She offers him the same secret smile she has offered everyone else, but plasters it there: just for him. “How is the tart?” She hasn’t eaten anything, herself, and wonders if perhaps they should make a pilgrimage to retrieve some hors d'oeuvres. She should be fully focused on him.
@
"You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while."
![[Image: 26y3cfu.png]](https://i.imgur.com/26y3cfu.png)
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