She had been right about that: Mrs. Malfoy was evidently horror-struck. Porphyria might have made a joke that her freezing like that was entertainment enough in itself, if she hadn’t thought Mrs. Malfoy would take being made fun of as a mortal wound.
Still, supposing she had the measure of the other woman, Phyri was fully expecting a near-whispered protestation of some kind or another, some elegant demurral or a question of poetry – not that, the standing and the staring. Had she been too cruel? What had she done, had she somehow broken her?
Porphyria’s bewilderment reached a peak when Mrs. Malfoy swooned – not in intended dramatic fashion, she could only imagine; but out of sheer offense to the demand, or because she was one of those ladies who wore too tight-fitting a corset – but she pushed out of her chair and dropped to her knees.
Now close at her side, she touched a hand to the other’s woman’s temples and then her cheek, waiting for her to come around with a faint pang of concern. She supposed she would do so naturally; though the line of verse Mrs. Malfoy had half-uttered was sparking something in Phyri’s brain as she observed her there, as perfectly made to be a pretty corpse as any specimen she’d ever seen. She could not remember the whole poem, but a dash of it came to her here and there – and it yellow’d the strings of thy tangled hair – and then aloud, when she seemed to be rousing, offered half in humour and half apology: “The moon made thy lips pale, beloved; / The wind made thy bosom chill. Well, I daresay you exceeded my expectations,” Phyri added lightly: Mrs. Malfoy had caught her by surprise again, after all. “How do you feel?”
Still, supposing she had the measure of the other woman, Phyri was fully expecting a near-whispered protestation of some kind or another, some elegant demurral or a question of poetry – not that, the standing and the staring. Had she been too cruel? What had she done, had she somehow broken her?
Porphyria’s bewilderment reached a peak when Mrs. Malfoy swooned – not in intended dramatic fashion, she could only imagine; but out of sheer offense to the demand, or because she was one of those ladies who wore too tight-fitting a corset – but she pushed out of her chair and dropped to her knees.
Now close at her side, she touched a hand to the other’s woman’s temples and then her cheek, waiting for her to come around with a faint pang of concern. She supposed she would do so naturally; though the line of verse Mrs. Malfoy had half-uttered was sparking something in Phyri’s brain as she observed her there, as perfectly made to be a pretty corpse as any specimen she’d ever seen. She could not remember the whole poem, but a dash of it came to her here and there – and it yellow’d the strings of thy tangled hair – and then aloud, when she seemed to be rousing, offered half in humour and half apology: “The moon made thy lips pale, beloved; / The wind made thy bosom chill. Well, I daresay you exceeded my expectations,” Phyri added lightly: Mrs. Malfoy had caught her by surprise again, after all. “How do you feel?”
a sublime set by Lady! <3