She hadn’t seen November since – well, since that day at the cemetery. From afar, of course, in her occasional ventures into capital-S Society, but she had made a promise to herself to wait and see if November made any ventures to her. After all, Porphyria had been the one to kiss her, and November had been the one to leave Ophelia’s graveside in a rush. And Phyri had had more than enough time to ruminate over it, and her friend’s parting declaration please forgive me, and she had concluded she had too much pride and not enough kindness to forgive her for her departure then or her silence since.
She had gone to Tomes & Scrolls to sign the stock of her new volume of poetry; and then, because in the wake of a new publication of hers, and the inevitable consternation of the reviews (depravity, and so forth), she took herself to The Painted Lady, so as to overhear and quietly enjoy the society whispers about her. Apparently she was a werewolf, too. It was good to give the most dimwitted socialites a glimpse of her, looking appropriately dark and stormy – give them something more taboo to gossip about than their usual tat over their tea.
Only – who was sitting in the teashop now but Mrs. Malfoy? Her Galatea, as she had been musing on her for some time, as she had written her. Out of the corner of her eye, it seemed Mrs. Malfoy had abruptly flinched – Porphyria didn’t know why, or what she was holding, but she had to assume her presence had been the cause of it. Well. She wasn’t going to begrudge November a little discomfort in turn, she thought icily to herself, after all the nights lying awake November had infected her with, knowingly or not... No, and nor was she going to let someone as meek and docile as November Malfoy dictate her movements, in her own life.
Phyri pretended she had not seen her – in fact, her gaze slid over the blonde, expressionless – and sat, deliberately, at the empty table just beside hers. Feeling perverse, she chose the chair opposite, so that she was situated perfectly within November’s field of vision, facing her, but paying her no mind. Porphyria ordered a tea from the waitress, wondering just how long November could stand to be near her this time before she fled again in horror. Half a cup’s worth? A sip or two in? Not even past the steeping?
She had gone to Tomes & Scrolls to sign the stock of her new volume of poetry; and then, because in the wake of a new publication of hers, and the inevitable consternation of the reviews (depravity, and so forth), she took herself to The Painted Lady, so as to overhear and quietly enjoy the society whispers about her. Apparently she was a werewolf, too. It was good to give the most dimwitted socialites a glimpse of her, looking appropriately dark and stormy – give them something more taboo to gossip about than their usual tat over their tea.
Only – who was sitting in the teashop now but Mrs. Malfoy? Her Galatea, as she had been musing on her for some time, as she had written her. Out of the corner of her eye, it seemed Mrs. Malfoy had abruptly flinched – Porphyria didn’t know why, or what she was holding, but she had to assume her presence had been the cause of it. Well. She wasn’t going to begrudge November a little discomfort in turn, she thought icily to herself, after all the nights lying awake November had infected her with, knowingly or not... No, and nor was she going to let someone as meek and docile as November Malfoy dictate her movements, in her own life.
Phyri pretended she had not seen her – in fact, her gaze slid over the blonde, expressionless – and sat, deliberately, at the empty table just beside hers. Feeling perverse, she chose the chair opposite, so that she was situated perfectly within November’s field of vision, facing her, but paying her no mind. Porphyria ordered a tea from the waitress, wondering just how long November could stand to be near her this time before she fled again in horror. Half a cup’s worth? A sip or two in? Not even past the steeping?
a sublime set by Lady! <3