poly_chromatic | { dance no. 4 | accidental video }

[Marguerite is sitting at her desk, curtains drawn and her bedroom lit up by a whole collection of candles in a - yes, rather expensive - candelabrum next to her. She is, apparently, attempting to write a letter, but repeatedly she seems to misspell the words or a full stop ends up being an ugly splash of ink across the paper, ruining her endeavour. Finally, she straightens up, looking wholly frustrated. And just slightly worn out, her hair hanging limply around her face and shoulders. She stands --

And in a fit of rage, she knocks everything off the desk. Papers scattered everywhere. Ink pooling on the floorboards. Candles breaking and the flames going out. In the aftermath, her breath is heaving and she reaches up to press the back of her hand to her lips. Eyes falling closed.]

How silly of you, Marguerite. To overreact so. What wouldn't Armand say?

[Opening her eyes again and turning her head, she spots the recording network device. With a small sound of affected amusement, she leans in and turns it off. Sure to say nothing more.]

((ooc: cursed.))

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Marguerite...

[Just the voice, nothing more, because the video had clearly been accidental, and maybe she doesn't want to be seen, at the moment.]

Something bothering you?

How useless I am today, when even the simple task of writing a letter has me failing horribly.

Mmhmm.

[There are plenty of questions he'd like to ask her, but she'd just flown into a rage moments before; it seems unwise to provoke her.]

Maybe your mind needs something else to entertain itself with, other than your letter-writing.

Do say you are suggesting a shopping trip, my dear.

I suppose I could be, if that'd appropriately distract you.

It is, perhaps, what one would call a bout of homesickness. How strange, to experience it now...

I don't think homesickness has ever been known to be particularly logical. I think the more important consideration at the moment is where you want to go shopping.

[Because talking about feelings can never lead to anything good, in his experience.]

[He can't see it, of course, but she is already applying makeup as it is appropriate for going out - and glancing towards her wardrobe, singling out dresses that would fit the occasion.]

There are a few boutiques near my apartment building, none of them large, but all of good quality... I could walk there. Perhaps a bit of fresh air would do me good.

And are you looking for a companion for this expedition, or just cold hard cash?

[He's not bothered, either way.]

Do you truly wish to accompany me or is your request nothing but cold hard politeness, Meyer?

[There's a laugh audible in her voice.]

I rarely make entirely meaningless offers of companionship.

[Mostly because that would mean he spent a whole lot of time doing stuff he didn't want to, and business already involves a lot of that as it is.]

There're things I need to buy, too.

In which case, the company would be much appreciated. [A pause.] Yes, very much so.

Then I'll be there soon.

[He'll give her enough time to get ready, of course. And maybe to... regain some composure after that little fit of anger. Eventually, though, there'll be a knock on her door. He has keys, of course, but it's rude to just walk into someone else's apartment, whether or not you're the technical owner.]

Miss, uhm... Marguerite. Don't get, uh... upset. There's totally a curse today.

[She still looks worn out when she replies a few hours later. Though, a small smile finds its way onto her lips at the sight of him.]

Tallendi. Let not the news be that you are affected as well!

I'm... well, uh.

[ Not so smooth today. ]

It's not. Too... bad...?

One should think... I were severely ill, with how my hands are shaking so that I drop everything. I have already lost three good vases and their beautiful contents at that expense.

Oh. Oh, uhm. That's no good.

[ She already seems kind of fragile to him, and this talk of shaking hands and broken things doesn't help that image dissipate. ]

Maybe... uh. Take a day off, or something.

Marguerite? Is everything okay?

It is a curse, it seems and I am under its influence. This letter I was writing -- makes for an altogether impossible task. Today.

Can you take a break? Maybe try writing again tomorrow?

What are you writing that causes such frustration?

A letter. One that shall never see a stamp or its intended destination, but certain words - yes, they must be uttered in some shape or other even so, Monsieur.

[He can understand that. Very well.]

It is not possible that the recipient might arrive here sometime?

Yes... what would he say?

[ Pitch doesn't have any idea who Armand is. But he knows a fear he can stir when he hears one. ]

Ah, but he would scold me! Tell me to be more cautious and think of my --

[She pauses. Sighs, letting the abruptness of her halt hang in the air.]

Go on.

{ dance no. 4 | accidental video }

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