Early morning, 18th June, 1892 — Malfoy house, London
After Miss Dashwood’s debut, they had piled into the carriage, everyone worn and half-asleep, the sun already coming up around them. Estelle had set her forehead against the window and tried to doze; better than reliving that dance with Atticus Foxwood in her head. Enduring him once had been bad enough.
Enduring that dance whilst Torie was off whispering the-devil-knew-what in Miss Dashwood’s ear about her was worse. (Estelle had not asked. She was not sure she wanted to know the damage.)
So she had draped her cloak back on to carry it in, it slipping half-heartedly off her shoulders from time to time, as they arrived home and she trudged up the stairs towards their bedrooms to sleep off the ball. The headache was already setting in alongside the regret, but the grimace that appeared on Estelle’s face was wholly engendered by the appearance of Victoire at the top of the stairs just behind her, looking far too pleased about something.
“What?” Estelle snapped, pausing there and rounding on her sister with narrowed eyes.
Enduring that dance whilst Torie was off whispering the-devil-knew-what in Miss Dashwood’s ear about her was worse. (Estelle had not asked. She was not sure she wanted to know the damage.)
So she had draped her cloak back on to carry it in, it slipping half-heartedly off her shoulders from time to time, as they arrived home and she trudged up the stairs towards their bedrooms to sleep off the ball. The headache was already setting in alongside the regret, but the grimace that appeared on Estelle’s face was wholly engendered by the appearance of Victoire at the top of the stairs just behind her, looking far too pleased about something.
“What?” Estelle snapped, pausing there and rounding on her sister with narrowed eyes.
