Well, he had been the more mature person when it came to the matter of stepping on toes; but he had not outwardly chided her for it, either, so she would take that as a win.
She laughed long and hard at his bagpipe answer, amazed that she was actually having a decent time at this party after all, and that her entertainment was coming from Atticus Foxwood, of all people. “Truly, I would pay good money – the full worth of all my sisters’ dowries – to see that man of talent play,” Phyri assured him, once she had enough breath to speak again. (In actual truth, the fact was more like Phyri would never uproot from Ireland, not if she had her way – but if she had to listen to Atticus playing the bagpipes all over the place, it might be safer to leave the country.)
“I have heard that Porphyria Foxwood, on the other hand,” Porphyria said, lowering her tone so no one heard that nightmare of a name and misconstrued it, “is a creation by the devil’s own hand. They say she is a most committed socialite –” she took a breath, paused for dramatic effect, shuddered – “but that when she is suitably impressed by her invited company she refuses to let a party end, and locks her guests up instead just to keep them there; so that the Foxwood Estate rather resembles the hallways of a lunatic asylum. Lots of screaming.”
This alter ego of extremes, Porphyria Foxwood, sounded like the name of a most unstable woman, indeed. Phyri grinned again, finding herself very much in the spirit of this little game. At least they could agree on sheer ludicrousness. She took another draught of her drink and another thought sparked. (She was always a little too enthusiastic about the potential of a gothic story; if Mr. Foxwood knew what was good for him, he ought not let her get too carried away.) “And oh, the unspeakable things she serves at her dinners... Come on, that poor hag who’s after your hand tonight is beginning to sound like a better option for your wife now, isn’t she?” Phyri teased.
She laughed long and hard at his bagpipe answer, amazed that she was actually having a decent time at this party after all, and that her entertainment was coming from Atticus Foxwood, of all people. “Truly, I would pay good money – the full worth of all my sisters’ dowries – to see that man of talent play,” Phyri assured him, once she had enough breath to speak again. (In actual truth, the fact was more like Phyri would never uproot from Ireland, not if she had her way – but if she had to listen to Atticus playing the bagpipes all over the place, it might be safer to leave the country.)
“I have heard that Porphyria Foxwood, on the other hand,” Porphyria said, lowering her tone so no one heard that nightmare of a name and misconstrued it, “is a creation by the devil’s own hand. They say she is a most committed socialite –” she took a breath, paused for dramatic effect, shuddered – “but that when she is suitably impressed by her invited company she refuses to let a party end, and locks her guests up instead just to keep them there; so that the Foxwood Estate rather resembles the hallways of a lunatic asylum. Lots of screaming.”
This alter ego of extremes, Porphyria Foxwood, sounded like the name of a most unstable woman, indeed. Phyri grinned again, finding herself very much in the spirit of this little game. At least they could agree on sheer ludicrousness. She took another draught of her drink and another thought sparked. (She was always a little too enthusiastic about the potential of a gothic story; if Mr. Foxwood knew what was good for him, he ought not let her get too carried away.) “And oh, the unspeakable things she serves at her dinners... Come on, that poor hag who’s after your hand tonight is beginning to sound like a better option for your wife now, isn’t she?” Phyri teased.
a sublime set by Lady! <3