Lycoris, either by her age or purely her, arguably... tamer, disposition, seemed to factor things into her life that Porphyria could not fluently feign an understanding of. Imagine seriously considering a life wherein one limited oneself to what was allowed of you! Imagine, Phyri thought, a life wherein one wouldn't mind spending time in society.
She suspected this sister of hers felt that way, at least a little, but she would not begrudge her her choices - and was not wholly convinced the prison that the School of Young Roses was (with or without the late Mrs. Pendergast at its helm) would not serve to whet Cori's disposition down to more of a blade edge. Tamper with that patience of hers, a little.
Porphyria lifted her feet up into the air behind her from her position on the bed, crossing her ankles so she could knock the protuding bit of bone together aimlessly. "You could never be anything so prosaic as a rose, Lycoris," Phyri said, with the haughty, affected tone of a sermon, and a twinkle in her eye that suggested her true aim here was merely the wordplay. "Not in name or in character. Roses are so tediously overrated." She grinned at her sister now; Cori, grâce à her own name, knew more of herbology and botany than Porphyria professed to (as, she supposed could be argued, she considered herself a little more well-versed in murder). But even their mother, exasperated woman that she was in having reached the point of sending her daughters to be finished in the first place, would agree that the Dempsey girls were all more inventive and individual than that. A rose had no personality!
She suspected this sister of hers felt that way, at least a little, but she would not begrudge her her choices - and was not wholly convinced the prison that the School of Young Roses was (with or without the late Mrs. Pendergast at its helm) would not serve to whet Cori's disposition down to more of a blade edge. Tamper with that patience of hers, a little.
Porphyria lifted her feet up into the air behind her from her position on the bed, crossing her ankles so she could knock the protuding bit of bone together aimlessly. "You could never be anything so prosaic as a rose, Lycoris," Phyri said, with the haughty, affected tone of a sermon, and a twinkle in her eye that suggested her true aim here was merely the wordplay. "Not in name or in character. Roses are so tediously overrated." She grinned at her sister now; Cori, grâce à her own name, knew more of herbology and botany than Porphyria professed to (as, she supposed could be argued, she considered herself a little more well-versed in murder). But even their mother, exasperated woman that she was in having reached the point of sending her daughters to be finished in the first place, would agree that the Dempsey girls were all more inventive and individual than that. A rose had no personality!
a sublime set by Lady! <3