@nicawlette
At first he thinks, what a pity, because a scar like that wouldn't work for subterfuge at all. Perhaps one might get away with slipping in amongst the help, or listening in from the street corners—but that wasn't where the Chorus lurked, or the info that its spies sought out.
The ladies of the sitting room and the gentlemen of the study were the tools for his organization; they would take one look at her eye and recoil, scandalized.
Still, she carries herself with the easy grace of a queen.
Cecil lounges across the table in pretty silks in a bar at Archimedes, staring at a woman who sweeps past staff and patrons alike. She's holding a glass of something—half-full in the dim light, though hard to tell its contents. As she passes by his seat, he raises his own cup of wine and smartly clinks it against her own.
❛ À votre santé, ❜ To your health, the marquis says brightly.
❛ Quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boire. ❜ When the wine is poured, it must be drunk. It was an idiom to remind others not to waste the moment. ❛ So I say—it is good to meet mademoiselle, no? ❜
