#vaerdante

            business dinners, as it seemed to rosamond, were nothing more than a way to tastefully display procured wealth in such a manner that everyone who sat at the large bocote wood table should do nothing but smile and nod when appropriate. sitting across from her father’s peculiar company gave her the sensation of wearing a corset that was pulled tight by the cream colored ribbons until breathing became a chore — uncomfortable. she made little eye contact and took to fiddle the silver spoon around a bowl of soup in front of her while the man at the head of the table with a lawyer’s grin and a nice navy blue dinner suit told the tale of his origin story. both he thought to be rather impressive, both memories, despite how many times the former had been shared to present company alike. under her breath rosamond would recite the words along with him, the same tedious pauses to build up to the climax of a story which everyone sat in the outcome of. a grand house. 

‘ don’t play with your food, ’ reached rosamond’s ear in a whisper-shout, the sort that all mothers specialized in through gritted teeth and a smile. 

her mother, a rather friendly woman, held much of the same physical display of wealth that her husband, mr. irons, did. she was the sort who ran off to powder her nose in the bathroom by the hour and come back with something about the physical perfected that otherwise would have gone unnoticed throughout the evening. mrs. irons was also the sort to move perfectly polished silver just an inch to the right, less it be imperfectly aligned with the rest of the cutlery.