#shadoll

"Enough." Her tongue clicks with unmasked annoyance. "Who has caught your interest? I'd like to be informed so I may at least know if I should take offense."

Tina's eyes sparkle with mischief. She's been waiting to gush about the answer to this specific question the entire night. The entire night!!!

She whirls Sara around to point him out because of course she knows exactly where he is. And of course that's a totally normal thing to just know and it isn't like she's been trying to follow him or anything. Totally a coincidence!

[ Mint ] + [ Spill ]

For the record, Sara is not actually following her. What Sara follows is instinct, a sixth sense which tells her they might be able to become friends. She has nothing to show to back that claim, of course, but everyone from Leif to Miranda had warmed up to her eventually. The only obstacle seems to be that neither of them happen to tarry in the same place, making it difficult for her to strike up a conversation.

This time, however, she wants be more proactive. When the flutter of pink ribbons hitches in her vision, Sara spins with an outstretched arm to seize the opportunity, knocking over a bowl of mints in the process.

Glass loudly crashes to the floor, shattering in all directions, and a not insignificant number of heads to observe the scene. Her eyes dart away from the mess to the other girl standing there along with the crowd, inadvertently implicating her.

To be honest, Marni still doesn't understand why Brodia's second prince had given her the stink eye. Honestly, her behavior tonight could be described as nothing short of saint-like. There's nothing she'd done tonight that would warrant nagging from one of Abyss' guards or worse, Mauvier. If they were giving out awards for ballgoers on their best behavior tonight, she would surely be among the recipients.

CRASH!

.......?

Was that the sound of breaking glass or her losing that imagined good behavior award?

Her sleeves were pretty big, but they definitely weren't big enough to take out an entire glass bowl without her noticing. No, she hadn't been reaching for a mint in the first place, so it definitely wasn't her. It wasn't her, but when she's standing next to the shattered remains of what had once been a bowl, it's hard for onlookers not to jump to conclusions.

Marni waves her arms hastily, "No, no, no, it wasn't me!"

But it's too late. The whispering has already begun.

A glutton...!

Scum of the earth, trying to take too many mints at once...!!

The Mint Man was right...!!

Even though the only other person here clearly looks away from the carnage of broken glass and floor mints like a guilty dog???

Respectfully, it was kind of hard not to notice. It might've taken her some time to catch sight of it, having wanted to give Sara the space she not so subtly demanded every time they spoke, but the painted on moon stood out against Sara's pale skin, almost as brightly as the real thing in the night sky.

(She's glad that she hadn't heard about how she'd rushed out of the room to squeal about how cute it was though, that would've been embarrassing.)

"It suits you." It goes without saying that she's being sincere. Yunaka accepts her champagne glass and watches how the starlight within dances under the lights, and gives Sara a smile. "Wanna know a secret?"

Yunaka reaches up and taps her own cheek, right where her star sits. "I started wearing them as a promise, y'know? To myself, mostly, but also to the final thing that the man who raised me ever asked."

This will be my last job. I’m not killing anyone else after this.

"The one on the face is for him specifically." A stupid little distraction she'd started doing on the run that she'd carried with her until this very day. "So I hope the person the moon guides you to be is someone who you're proud of."

Sara talks about a childhood that doesn't sound like it held a lot of joy, and Yunaka's still not really sure whether or not she's realized that yet. But that's okay. She can just be around for now, standing side by side.

[ PHOTO IN MOTION ] - Sara has never been compared to a flower by anyone that knew her well. Nanna knows it is as rare to see her shrink as it is for her to turn towards the sun. She deflects the light Nanna reflects and the mirror fractures, revealing two girls uprooted from a young age, neither fitting in the structure of Grannvale's garden. Their differences make them alike even when their steps fall out of sync and paths diverge only to bring them to the same fateful crossroad in the end time and again. "Do you miss the sea? A shame the Viscount did not offer to host again this year." The remastered Photo-Artifex whirs, internal mechanisms thrumming while Sara plays with the settings, turning its additional knobs and peering through the small window at her friend awash by grey tides. "It's too late now however," she tries to at least sound sympathetic. "That reminds me, I lost the pictures we took," Though the people in them may as well have been statues removed from reality. "Have you seen these new models yet? Come here, I think you'd like them."

But Nanna has always been better with flowers. It should suffice like a half-breath does when you break from the surface of water, or a half-step does when you accidentally toe your partner's shoe. Describing Sara like one feels like a crutch—or the truth, or a balm, or an excuse—and Nanna's warm laughter pretends to forget—or forgive, or forgo. Usually, Sara is described by scraping the light off the rim of the moon, like one could spoon enough light to give it a taste. But Nanna has always been better with flowers...

Didn’t Sara think she resembled irises at all? Or the red bough of lillies that had been tastefully displaced for the moment? Wouldn't she let someone take care of her?

"Hahaha, do I...?" The Viscount's manor had a warm mist resting over their heads like a veil, disguising the Ethereal Moon's usual chill with an illusion of sun. Sara had always deflected whole bars of light to play a sufficient shadow. And yet, to Nanna, she still had that effervescent sheen more befitting of the underbelly of a purple shell or bubbles that erupted from the sea. "Yes, maybe I do...!" She clasped her hands to her chest, dipping her chin down, with an endeared glimmer dancing over her irises. "I made it too obvious this year, didn't I..."

Nanna blinked for a second, head tilted curiously. Subtly, her shell earrings clattered as she attempted to collect herself. "You thought to keep them?" It's lighter than air, the shock, but it does still play on her features before shifting into intoxication—the kind of mischief that bridged her closer to Sara than kindness itself. "So you mean to replace them for a new set, hmm? You see~ perhaps I kept mine from last year and would be willing to share..."

Nanna swung up closer, freer than poetry and the polished etiquette that aligned her with the crown. Careful not to clip her winged pin against Sara's curls, she leaned in closely to observe the model for herself. "...Hmmm."

A gray coastline overlayed in the small square display, and Nanna's heart swelled for a home that laid in limbo. "Do you hear my heart?" She whispered—low, into her ear— the proximity enough for Sara to listen to something deeper than her physical voice.

A shoreline scattered and roared a distance away, but the ache of it was not a sorrowful one. The hiss and fizzle of it was not a lonely one. The breeze of it sounded almost like a bells, and a circle of friends ribbing each other with elbows that were only so long. Nanna exhaled slowly, and wondered if Sara heard how her heart had learned to continue the story. With a splash from a small hand (smaller than Sara would like to admit), and a click from a photo-artiflex from yesteryear.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

Nanna reached out to take the device into her own hands, and turned it over gracefully. "Here."

Nanna held onto Sara. Nanna always holds onto Sara.

(Merry) Occasionally Finn looks at her in a way that reminds Sara of the former caretakers assigned to watch her every move and restrict the already limited avenues of fun that were available to her. When that happens, she cannot help wanting to taunt and tease him to make up for it. He owes her this time after their last exchange. While making eye contact with him, Sara scales the stationary horse, climbing on top of the wooden saddle and standing on its painted back rather than sitting in the designated seat. With a single hand clutched around the support beam piercing its midsection, she removes her fingers one by one and lets go as the carousel starts, carefully watching his face for a reaction. There's a brief wobble as a foot is lifted off the horse, shifting Sara's center of balance, but not managing to throw her altogether. She continues to wait, eyes narrowed in challenge. "Nothing to say?"

Why did everyone seem to think he was some kind of glorified babysitter?

It was much less endearing when Sara did it, holding no claim to any of the loyalty that Leif or Altena or any of their family had over him. With Sara, it comes across as little more than an undisciplined child throwing a tantrum for attention. A bold approach to take, considering the circumstances of her existence following the end of the wars that had brought her presence to his lord's life in the first place.

If she expects concern or worry or any other kind of outward display, she will not find it on his face. The attendant running the booth seems far more concerned about it than him, unmoving in the faux carriage seat he claimed for himself at the start of this nonsense, watching her with the same impassivity as always.

She wobbles and his eyes briefly flick downwards to her stance before looking back to her again.

Her lips curl into a slight frown as she sifts through her now distant memories of the dream.

"Mind your volume if you plan on traveling to the markets. Someone might recognize you. Don't be stubborn. If you encounter trouble, there's nothing wrong with running."

Caspar matches Sara’s frown. The name of the lord is more faded in his memories than the deeds he’d done, but the mention of him brings back the feelings of the time like a sharp press of a finger to a bruise.

Another press, on a duller bruise, comes when he’s lectured on his behavior. “I know how to handle myself in public, y’know.” He says, stubbornly. His hand reaches for Sara’s wrist, giving it a little squeeze before removing her hand from his arm.