A flash of triumph, as Victoire got up first – true, she had called for tea and taken her time to do it, nonchalantly, but at least Estelle had made sure she moved eventually, ha – that she had to swallow, lest her sister see.
And it was followed by her sister’s obvious surprise, as if this was an unbelievable and unexpected turn of events (in fairness, it was), which Estelle had expected – and yet which rankled her all the same. So it took some schooling of her expression to settle herself into a slightly-disbelieving frown and letting a slight flush of indignation bloom on her cheeks without looking smug about it. “Very funny,” Estelle said, in her best imitation of unaffected modesty, but stood slightly off the stool to snatch the card from Victoire as soon as she was within reach of it, as if she were desperate to see what it contained.
“Oh,” Estelle said, imagining that the warmth of her flushed cheeks might come across as a spark of pleasure now, “they are for me.” She couldn’t resist darting her eyes towards Victoire with just a slight dagger of competitiveness in them, because even pulling off a schemed plot was a win, when wins were this rare.
Estelle cleared her throat, conscious that Victoire would probably be left quite unruffled and perfectly unenvious by one bouquet not being for her; but Estelle discovered now that she was also perfectly happy to make a routine of this if she had to, to really bury the knife in her sister’s innards and watch her bleed out of jealousy. “To Miss Estelle Malfoy, with admiration,” she quoted, keeping her eyes on the card for a moment to sell her own shock here. “But no name,” she said, as she narrowed them, as if she were torn between a dreamy, wondering look and of suspecting Victoire of simply having set her up. “I wonder who they could be from?” Not that Victoire could possibly know (– she hoped –) but it would entertain Estelle to make her awful, arrogant sister run through all the bachelors in society and think one or two of them much taken by her instead.
And it was followed by her sister’s obvious surprise, as if this was an unbelievable and unexpected turn of events (in fairness, it was), which Estelle had expected – and yet which rankled her all the same. So it took some schooling of her expression to settle herself into a slightly-disbelieving frown and letting a slight flush of indignation bloom on her cheeks without looking smug about it. “Very funny,” Estelle said, in her best imitation of unaffected modesty, but stood slightly off the stool to snatch the card from Victoire as soon as she was within reach of it, as if she were desperate to see what it contained.
“Oh,” Estelle said, imagining that the warmth of her flushed cheeks might come across as a spark of pleasure now, “they are for me.” She couldn’t resist darting her eyes towards Victoire with just a slight dagger of competitiveness in them, because even pulling off a schemed plot was a win, when wins were this rare.
Estelle cleared her throat, conscious that Victoire would probably be left quite unruffled and perfectly unenvious by one bouquet not being for her; but Estelle discovered now that she was also perfectly happy to make a routine of this if she had to, to really bury the knife in her sister’s innards and watch her bleed out of jealousy. “To Miss Estelle Malfoy, with admiration,” she quoted, keeping her eyes on the card for a moment to sell her own shock here. “But no name,” she said, as she narrowed them, as if she were torn between a dreamy, wondering look and of suspecting Victoire of simply having set her up. “I wonder who they could be from?” Not that Victoire could possibly know (– she hoped –) but it would entertain Estelle to make her awful, arrogant sister run through all the bachelors in society and think one or two of them much taken by her instead.
