a magician never tells

[Delphi Renaud]

"Another martini, but this time I want it pinker, and rimmed with sugar! -- and then I think I'll want something with lime. You know, like, two limes. Six limes? How about a bowl of limes?" She was beside herself with a light-headed giddiness, leaned atop the bar counter with elbows supporting a beaming expression that met an increasingly overwhelmed server. The airport's bartender was not instructed on how to manage off-duty flight attendants who seemed to drink their weight through the entire available menu and then begin 'experimenting.' Now, Delphi wasn't officially a legally employed flight attendant, however much that mattered, but she was dressed the part and did recently land off her first & last stint playing at one. It was surprisingly refreshing. She kept a dozen baggies of airplane snack mixes in her purse. 

There was a line of tension threatening the edges of those pursed red lips, fighting to keep the grin she flashed all-too-eagerly at the man now scuffling to throw together her potion of choice. She wasn't going back to being Cinderella tonight. The ball doesn't end if you never take off the slipper. With the little purser hat atop her head, crowning her for the evening, she would tilt it too and fro while swirling down another drink until all the colors in her mind began to blend. Pink, pink, purple, pur -- pink! Ahaha. Ahhhaa.

Her feet began to kick through the air, hanging from a stool too high for her to touch the floor. A hand, nervous only in the twitch of her fingers, would smooth out a lock of hair behind her ear from instinct before immediately seizing and replacing it over the five-petaled earring it covered. She laughed along with the TV screen above, the bobbing of her throat swilling down another drink - she had lost count - and sliding it between her hands on the countertop, scanning the handsome enough creature reaching to serve her a new one. She traced the curve of his jaw, the stubble of his chin, the tan of his neck... She hummed from her nose as if she was buzzing. 

Another noise, a new bustle of late-night patrons. Her teeth were going to chatter. She could feel the incisors gnash down in her mouth. An olive between them. Another. She could see herself sitting there, dangling, fingers tapping against her glass in a rhythm that couldn't have been intentional. The tightness of her eyes intensified, pricked up the edges, reddened the ring until she'd flick it away with a splayed hand and 'oooh' & 'aaah' with the meandering bargoers invested in a game she couldn't even place the name of. Was this American television? What a waste in Paris. She was in Paris, right? Still? She tried to look down at her feet and saw the top of her head instead.

She was floating outside of her body, intangible, immaterial, so easy to wave her away, disperse her into finite atoms that would burn to nothing but empty space in her image -- and she was back inside of her own head, a place she had never left, cheering with a group of men. And there was another drink. Pinker. 

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

Her boots made nary a sound as Lyra walked over the carpeted flooring. Why someone chose to put down carpeting in a VIP lounge she couldn’t fathom – perhaps it was expensive, or the labor involved in keeping it clean indicated some sort of wealth to the patrons passing through.

She tilted her head, curls tickling her cheeks, and reassessed. The little symbol on her ticket said she had access to the VIP lounge but the stretch of men in cheap polyester suits and the tinny echo of the television (football; the Saints were down 8 points and wasn’t that an odd choice of entertainment in a Parisian airport?) was just as underwhelming as the public waiting area she had passed to get here.

Lost in translation. That was a joke, right? Or a media reference. Maybe Lyra could bring it up in conversation and see what reaction arose – random strangers were useful like that.

Smoothing her blazer, Lyra stepped towards the bar and found her attention drawn inexorably like gravity towards the molten core of earth itself. There was one person here who fit her mental image of a VIP. She couldn’t begin to place the shampoo brand that had been used to get such a luscious cascade of hair, but it must have been exorbitant.

Female flight attendants, Lyra had learned, often moonlighted as runway models – it was a hypothesis she had yet to finalize but she was fairly certain. There was an intimidation factor to their perfect make-up and sleek silhouette that kept people like Lyra from speaking up when such an exalted presence passed down the aisle of an otherwise mundane cramped plane setting. She admired the efficiency involved behind their friendly smiles.

None of those figures had carried themselves quite like this woman did, with a fluidity that called to mind the panther mid-leap. Perfectly confident in its own prowess, not an iota of doubt, grace as effortless as breathing. There was something to those eyes that completed the comparison, a sort of languid certainty. Taking everything in at a distance and allowing those below to think it a comfortable one.

A creature both beautiful and terribly dangerous. Yes, Lyra nodded to herself, wandering towards the bar and nearly tripping over a chair that some inconsiderate soul had failed to push back in, the hallmarks of a VIP.

She caught herself with a hand on the barstool, not expecting the thing to move under her touch which brought about a bout of dizziness and called a healthy flush to her face. Lyra straightened, clearing her throat awkwardly and avoiding the gaze of those around her. Clumsiness was a common trait – as was a deep personal embarrassment over one’s own lack of physical prowess.

Just as deeply ingrained was the social nicety of ignoring such pedestrian foibles.

Setting her briefcase down, balanced against the backwall of the bar itself, Lyra pulled herself atop the barstool and brushed her hair away from her face. She cast a discreet glance to her right, letting the stare linger, a crystallization of awe as was appropriate when any normal human found themselves beside one of the beautiful ones.

Lyra then nodded at the bartender as he approached from further back, her thoughts stuttering to a swift and screeching halt when she realized she had failed to utilize the distance from the door to her seat for planning what she was going to say.

Her eyes roved the bar for some menu, a listing of options, any sort of depiction of the normal range of drinks one might order in a VIP lounge in a Parisian airport. The bartender had nearly closed the gap when Lyra squeaked out, preempting his opening spiel, “Ah, hello! May I have what she’s having!”

[Delphi Renaud]

The dizziness clouding Delphi's head all but cleared the moment her wandering eyes caught on the new entry. She watched her from the corner of an eye, fingers curled around the spine of a glass emptied save for the cherry forsaken at the bottom of its funnel. Her main attention was on toying with the fruit, swishing it around... and around... red and red it goes, stalling just long enough to watch it roll back and forth on its own before it settled, presumably exhausted. Her main attention, yes, but not all of it -- not with the way her smile would perk at watching the girl stumble. Women, she preferred. They were easier. There were less incidents; this was a night without incident. This was to be a ball, and she had found her dance partner.

A throat cleared in chorus to the first, her smile so genuine and beside herself even while her tongue would swipe to clean it. She tasted of cherry and lime, pink, so very pink. Her head was titled just a wink to a tip over, her gaze still sidelong but centered, observing. "Oooh, bonsoir." Her beam was conspiratorial, sheltered beneath lashes that flitted across a teal trap and a smoothness to her voice that was almost a purr. The way her back muscles arched and her spine leveled her in her stool, threatening a swivel as her legs would cross over another, she was a cat, prowling. She couldn't help an arm stretching over the countertop, waving the bartender away to complete the girl's order. "Make that two, darling. It's a girl's night now. Well, aren't we going to have fun." She didn't look up at him while she spoke; her eyes didn't leave the woman.

"Vix." She retracted her arm to offer it, silk and smooth and almost noble if it wasn't for the little giggle bubbled on her lips. "And you, my dear...?" These introductions were her favorite part. The way they looked back at her, stuttering to collect the words they knew they should have planned in advance. After all, you don't wander into a den without a plan for how to approach the beast that lie there. Now, Delphi was the furthest thing from beastly ... but she was surely a predator all the same. It almost made her feel like one of those manthings, this game.

To differentiate herself she'd tilt her emptied glass to guide the cherry into lips that were competing in shade, sucking down the berry while leaving the stem hanging from her natural pout to toy with it while she spoke. "On business?" She'd glance towards the briefcase, the woman's attire, the way she held & composed herself -- what a vision. "Me too." Guiding eyes to the purser where she'd right it from the displacement her playful tilting had caused, nestled securely within lavish pink once more. A clandestine rise of her eyebrows, as if sharing a joke with the other.

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

Oh, Lyra thought to herself, in the quiet space between one heartbeat and the next. Her shoulders dropped, tension draining off as if she had poured it straight from a broken gutter. Predators were understandable. But that was not precisely what she had wandered past, the common soul, forgetting to look up – never seeing in time that danger came from all directions. No, though, this flight attendant wasn’t just a predator.

She was something else. The bitter-sweet undertone to a fancy cookie, a fleeting conundrum – was that dark chocolate or fenugreek? Subtle, easy to overlook when the other flavors were so rich.

Lyra made it a habit to never peer too deeply at the people around her. She couldn’t be trusted to handle sensitive material. It was always best not to notice to begin with.

“Bonjour,” she returned, eyes fractionally too wide. Lyra didn’t acknowledge the bartender. Not now that this Vix had dismissed him. He had been demoted from a background character to a set-piece and she would never be so rude as to break on a ruling so explicit.

Watching the hand drift closer, Lyra stared as a mouse eyes the snake, transfixed and yet surprised when the arc completed itself. Twitching, not moving away from Vix – you never move away – Lyra swallowed once and then followed through on the charade. Her fingers curled as she reached for the hand, almost-but-not-quite touching while Lyra guided it upwards, brushing an air kiss against knuckles.

If Vix meant to embarrass her that was easy enough to provide. Just a touch, cheeks burnished red under copper tones, pulse fluttering at her throat – one shouldn’t oversell before you were sure. Humiliation or devotion; there was a fine line and Lyra straddled it expertly.

“Lyra,” she said softly on the exhale. And then with more strength (for what would the world come to if everyone forgot their manners), “Lyra d’Aiglemort. It’s nice to meet you.”

And it was. She had been on this trip for nearly two days and only now did she know what to do. Yes. Lyra enjoyed her work. She was lucky to have business trips.

[Delphi Renaud]

There was regularly a tightness in her chest, uncured but staved off by the vaccine of another's touch; the gentlest brush of skin on skin placed its hand against her ever-encroaching void and then, just then, could she breathe. Just for now, she thought, it was fine to indulge. She thought this every time, and every time was she punished. The consequences of actions are rarely a compass for how to navigate your vices... the nature of some matters were simple persistence. "Lyra," she echoed, "count me under your spell already."

Her blush was both real and warm, a dusting of pink that wasn't out of place in her candy-coated presentation. She felt it served to humanize her for the game of the sheep she herded, while frankly being difficult to avoid in situations like this -- with women like her. She would always luxuriate in this amount of attention and those that gave her free reign, par example, sustained her figure more than any amount of food. The moment Lyra's face made distance between the offered hand and her lips, Delphi would curl her digits inward and watch the other with the look of a fox in the reeds. She wanted to touch her again - she was poised to grip her chin - but she relented. She relaxed. She smiled so, so sharply.

"Ms. d'Aiglemort, whatever has Paris done to deserve you this evening?" Her tone was lurid, low, rumbled past sharp teeth and the stem of a cherry she only now remembered to remove. Deft fingers clutched it by the end and pried it loose from the plush of her lips, grinding it between her middle and pointer fingers while they discussed. Their drinks arrived moments later - confections of fruits, all pink yellow and red, bleeding their colors into the elixir. "Whatever executive meeting you're on your way to can surely wait a bit, no? Because, you know, it's important to balance both business and pleasure."

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

The slimmest moment of contact, a feather-light graze of nails, and Lyra went utterly still. People threw casual touches about like it meant nothing; a co-worker brushing past in the hall, a hand on the arm as they spoke, the forward lean when passing over paperwork. It had startled Lyra who had assumed the contact meant more – recognition beneath each touch when for others there was no such revelatory experience. An everyday banality and not something precious to covet.

Those first few weeks had left her jumpy and uncomfortable. Skin crawling until she’d learned to smile and pretend nothing had happened. That was what everyone else did.

Vix threw off a heat that had little to do with body temperature. It radiated from the woman, scalding the air, searing into Lyra’s flesh at the fleeting connection. Those eyes never left Lyra and it was difficult to return such intensity.

“I am… actually returning now. I completed my assignment earlier today.”

She cleared her throat delicately, breaking away only to immediately reconnect like a ribbon pulled tight from one woman’s eyes to the other’s. Looking anywhere else seemed a crime even if Vix could so easily pin Lyra in place.

“But if I can be of assistance…”

Lyra couldn’t say what Vix might want from her, but it never mattered. When someone burned this brightly the only appropriate response was to fold.

[Delphi Renaud]

"Oh? Did it go well?" Delphi couldn't help the gravitational pull she both exerted and indulged in others. She had this magnetizing effect, taking the lead in latching on to another until it felt like they had no choice but to cling back. There was static in the air, in every word she spoke, and the lightning of her gaze rarely needed to strike twice. That seemed, at least, to be the effect she was having now. She set the trap for Lyra and now she was just as ensnared, aching to reach out and just ... just ... "With you at the helm, darling, I can't imagine you didn't blow them all away. There's no way you aren't the centre of attention in every room you enter."

She purred, not bothering to look over at the bartender or patrons bustling by for one reason or another. She heard more chatter from the television; more whooping from the gnarled, middle-aged rich deadbeats; the clink of glass and plates on wooden tables; a whisper in her ear, persistent, growing. The sharpness of her own teeth in her mouth, dredging blood diluted by the juice of a cherry. None of these sensations met the force of her ionization with Lyra. She brought her drink to her lips, the rim smooth and dusted with sugar, steering the path of her mouth along its edges until she held the drink above her cheek with head tilted to catch the liquid pouring over her tongue. "I'm right, aren't I? I totally am. You have to be the life of every party. I couldn't imagine one here without you."

She nodded along to her own musing, validating the saccharine words she spoke with every sip adding fuel. Her gums were coated with the poison, lips a stark shade, another candied confection on the way. "Oh, my god, love, you absolutely can. Save me from this wearisome existence, lost in a colorless sea with these attestations of society's tedium. Please, please, tell me something interesting."

"Tell me about you." She popped her lips, setting the glass down to swivel the rest of her form like a compass now pointing north. The arrow settled on Lyra, bringing the vixen's full attention to bear.

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

“Ah…” Lyra did not have to massage her lack of words. She stopped blinking entirely as if that would matter should Vix decide to pounce.

Heat crawled up her neck, like ivy up a trellis, choking her into a stunned silence. She could barely speak past the tight collar. But Vix had asked her a question – it was important to answer when someone spoke to you.

“Uhm, it went well, yes. T-thank you for asking.”

Heat turned to fire and Lyra wondered if Vix was going to burn her up like so much ash. Her eyes dropped – a near flinch suppressed to a wince – the compliment twisting as if Vix had slid a blade home between her ribs, angling for the heart.

Panic was quick on the heels of pain and Lyra snatched at her glass, taking a sip of overly sweet poison and chasing it down with another, as she realized she had missed a step in this dance. It burned toxic and bright – tasting, oddly, like Lyra imagined secret candy given out only under the shadow of a clubhouse on the playground might taste.

She blinked and responded automatically, her words painfully honest, and gilt with a flagrant yearning. “What would you like me to be?”

[Delphi Renaud]

It took every iota of control to hold herself paralyzed in place, electricity coursing through her limbs, her blood, her heart her lungs her bones her hands -- she swallowed, hiding the reaction behind a ravenous grin that dimpled as if to direct attention to the sharpness of her bared canines. There was hunger in her eyes. Tensed, coiled, ready. They twinkled: stop & go, stop & go, do not yield. She slid another seat, closing the distance entirely between them, her movement both as fast and direct as a signaled flare. There was little subtlety, giddiness perhaps. Light-headed. She leaned onto the countertop with her elbow as a stopper, head on her palm, eyes scanning from Lyra's own, lower, up again. "My dear." The sound of her own voice was criminal, a carnivorous rumble.

It was a statement and a command. The absolute authority of this presence Delphi carries with her. It was, in its own sense, akin to her reaitsu, purely mortal in making and centered on the teal of her eyes. She could almost melt away like this, just watching her, just a gaze. Held in place. Her own body meant nothing in the scheme of her predating. She wasn't even inside of it; wasn't she, wasn't she, was she? It was enough to see, enough to taste, enough to bask. "It's so very dangerous, leaving your fate in other's hands. What if I were to just eat you up? Swallow you whole?"

She leaned in, conspiratorial once more, the heat and sweetness of her breath mere inches from Lyra's own. "Where are your preservation instincts, chérie?"

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

Sadness.

That was the taste of fenugreek she had detected earlier. The subtle undertone. Dominance is what had drawn Lyra to this woman; an inevitability - as if an atom could do anything but flow towards a black hole.

It was sadness that she had fought not to see – too naked an emotion, too real. That wasn’t the game they were playing, wasn’t any configuration out of the pieces that had been provided.

But there it was. Lyra’s gift lay in twisting and turning a thought like Vix played with cherry stems, spinning and contorting until it settled comfortably, safely, at rest. She could do nothing once the momentum was spent and the realization made.

Lyra couldn’t lie. Couldn’t make this anything other than dark chocolate undercutting the sour pink.

Her eyes softened. No less reverential but tinged with a terribly gentle care.

A human might worship at the altar of a god, might give up everything to a higher power, but it was the individual who gazed heavenward expecting someone to be looking back.

“Would that help you?” Lyra asked, voice barely stirring.

[Delphi Renaud]

Delphi almost choked. She tasted blood. Smelt it. Blood and lilacs, an encroaching darkness threatening the glittering of her eyes. They were dimming, no longer lit; the candlelight was flickering out. She fought hard to keep it alight, fostering the flame back up with a tremble of that stepford smile. She was hungry. Always so hungry. It made her want to cry. "Now, Ms. d'Aiglemort, please don't play with my heart so." She sung, the lilt of her tone remaining even, a bard's tale. "You're a tease! Don't make me take you up on your offer, darling. You smell just delicious." A playful tease, wagging her tongue like the tail of a dog. She wanted to cry.

She wants you. No, she doesn't. She wishes to be eaten. She doesn't know what she's saying, sweet flower. She wants to take you! She's just playing along. She wants to take you from ME. No, sweet flower, never. She can't have you! Of course, my love. You're mine! Of course, doux destin. I'm never letting you go! No, no, no! Please, doux destin, she -- she doesn't understand the game! We're just having fun, okay? It's just for fun. More fun with her? More fun with the girl? Than me? Me, little deerling? Oh no no no. No! Never, sweet flower. She'll leave when we're done. I promise. You eat? I prepare the meal! She won't look at you again. I'll look. I'll watch. I can see you. You can see me! Yes, yes, you won't like her more w-- She's young, doux destin. She wouldn't offer much. We're just playing. Let's play along, okay? Then we'll get something to eat. A-anyone you want. Just not here, okay? Just a little longer. For me?

For you, deerling, for you, I wait. I watch. If she gets closer, closer, closer, I will bite. You will bite. I'll feed you. Yes? I look after you. Won't let you get stolen, deerling, no no.

Yes, doux destin. I'm sorry, doux destin. Thank you, doux destin. Her eyes were dull, practically lifeless. No amount of candy could make up for the lack of color behind them. Her hand gripped the edge of the countertop, trembling behind her shoulder, pushed forward to hide the way she'd anchor herself from view. She crushed it, slowly, between her fingers. It wasn't her strength behind the grip. It never was. She wanted to cry. She could barely fit inside her body. She could barely focus. She hurriedly swatted another drink up to her lips with her other hand, downing it in mere seconds.

"You were telling me what you were going to do next? What are your plans for your evening, darling? Looking at you, I have to imagine you have your pick of dates lined up. Tell me of your suitors, mm? Some girl talk will ease the skip you've made my heart take. Really, I'd almost think you're trying to sweep me up." It's just a joke, sweet flower. We're laughing. We're playing along. "What kind of business are you into? Let's get more drinks. Over here, bartender. Another round for me and my darling new friend."

Pinker. Anything pinker.

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

Lyra flinched – watching the fire drain from Vix’s limbs was terrifying in a way she couldn’t name. There was this game she played often, where the other player was a knife, hiding their edges behind a smile; and it had a particular tempo. One step back, pause, and then two forward directly into the blade. The trick was in the pause, the moment upon which the entire game hinged – if you made it too obvious there was no fun to be had.

You had to look away for a moment to give plausibility to the sleight of hand and then take up the dance as if nothing had happened, relaxing into the moment, because your partner was silk and honey.

This was nothing like that game.

There was no amusement to Vix’s smile, no joy behind the flurry of words. They were missing the set-up before the reveal as if they had built a basement in their home only to forget the stairs. The most important part. That was where the trick lurked. Without it, you could shove a body into darkness and watch them fall but there was no art to the event.

Nothing but the power of gravity.

So Lyra flinched, frightened by the change in music, the frenetic tempo leading to a crescendo she couldn’t predict. Still, enough was there to follow along, and if Lyra had hurt Vix – had caused her to pull away, to abandon her fun – then the least Lyra could do was show her manners.

Her smile was plasticine, a perfect approximation of a fake emotion. She was the doll in the shop window, half her body pared away because it served no purpose here, expression never wavering from the pleasant and vacant. Something you might walk by all the time without considering. A set-piece, useful for its placement and the wares it could display, interchangeable with any other model. Human enough without that spark of humanity. Just a doll in the window.

“Oh no! I didn’t mean to tease you.” Lyra ducked her head, hands releasing her drink to press at her cheeks as if they had gotten too hot from all the blood. She curved unsure but hopeful eyes into a glance upward through her lashes and then brought her hands outwards to wave vigorously, shaking her head in a flurry of curls and chagrin.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Vix! Please accept my apology. That was quite cruel of me.”

Lyra went from abashed to sheepish with a few adjustments of her fingers, peering across at Vix from over her curled hands, like a child hiding behind a fence. “Well, ah… I actually did meet someone. We don’t have any immediate plans, but I gave her my number. Hmm, this is really too much to share with a stranger but you’re right. When else would we get the chance for some girl talk?”

She released a burst of laughter, uncertain as birds taking flight before the falcons were freed.

Lyra lowered her voice, thready and nervous. “She said that she might call me. Of course, I don’t know. Maybe she’ll lose my number, or forget! This is why traveling is so difficult!”

There wasn't space to feel bad about twisting her meeting with Meridi into fodder for this exchange -- it was what it was. Just another game.

[Delphi Renaud]

She fell back in the motions. Laughing, chatting, three drinks down. The alcohol didn't do anything for her, really - it was no more or less effective than the candy she devoured - but it helped to clean her mouth. The taste of lavender and the taste of blood, the scent of lilacs and copper, the crawling of her skin and the cavity rotting her soul; the sip of something more sugar than substance was a shock to the system that left a bright coat over everything inside. Gum didn't leave your body, right? Her insides were gum and her mouth was cotton candy, sweet and slow and stuck together. A kid at the carnival, too happy to speak. She couldn't speak.

"Oh, darling, please." Her teeth were too sticky. "You know I'd always forgive you." Her tongue fought to pull from the roof of her mouth. "After all, how could I blame you?" No matter how much air she got she wasn't breathing. "It isn't entirely your fault that you're this delectable." Her heart was glazed over, heavy and dripping its licorice syrup -- it'd explain the pit in her stomach. How densely it turned. "Oh my god, really?" She could hear her own voice with every word she spoke, felt the way it stumbled as if drunken from her cloying jaw. She was flooding, pouring out. Better the emptiness of conversation over the brightness of her eyes. She wouldn't allow bitterness to be the flavor of the night. "Please, dove, we're hardly strangers." A grin, thick with her glacé.

"Look, Lyra, sweetheart. Let me tell you a fact of life. You are very pretty." She was already nodding, head bobbing up and down, her hair tousled around cheeks reflecting the dimmed light of the barroom. "That's a fact. And pretty girls always get called back. I mean, honestly, forget you?" There was taffy squeezing at her chest, threatening to drown her in the bile it was pushing up her throat. She waved the bartender down, another drink. Her tab was approaching four digits. "No soul on this planet could forget meeting you, Ms. d'Aiglemort. You leave an impression, you know? A little piece of you in everyone you meet. We all do, of course, but hot girls do it better." A resolute shake of her head, her next glass already in hand. Already between her lips, a new cherry's fate near. "She'll call you back. I promise. I mean, if it was me --" Of course, it wouldn't be. There was the hint of perfume, the earring she wore exhibiting four petals. She knew there were five. Weren't there? Oh, sweet fate. My doux destin. Just one more song.

"You like her, right? Then she'll find her way back to you. Annnnd if she doesn't, cross my heart, I will wrangle her back for you. Or find you someone new! The sea is endless for the biggest fish, like us, dear Lyra. You'll have your pick."

[Lyra d'Aiglemort]

"Do you think so?" Lyra didn't have to feign her wide-eyed hopefulness. She wasn't sure herself -- the offer so novel; would Meridi call her? Why? The Quincy kept bringing up that Lyra had saved her life but so too would have any person on legs. Besides, what would they talk about?

They had nothing in common -- commonalities were how you built friendships, so very different from the give-give-give of associations. That was the nature of her work. Traveling, talking to a coworker she would never see again, pretending to be colleagues and not asking about their job. Discretionary politeness. Why would Meridi be any different?

She drank more, heedless of the taste. Her fingertips were numb but Lyra didn't need to hold a blade so that was probably fine. She was fine.

"I hope you're right," she sighed, allowing Vix's constant stream of conversation buoy her up and up and into the clouds. Clouds were good; they were like fog, obscuring, distant.

"But what about you, Ms. Vix? Here I am talking your head off about my problems - please, allow me to lend an ear."

Her expression scrunched. A fleeting doubt. People said that, right? Lyra was having a hard time remembering the dialogue in the trashy dramas Yael's friend was always watching.

[Delphi Renaud]

It became easier to ignore the time passing and the petals falling. The scent that picked up and about them, seeming to glaze over the teal of her eyes until streaks of lavender snuck their way in. She was dizzy. So dizzy. The sound of Lyra speaking to her, so earnest and honest, a branch she dearly needed to keep herself above the confectionary. She would pull herself onto it with great effort, settle in the sturdiness of a discussion. It was like white noise; you would lay in bed at night, reminiscing every anxiety you've ever had, but the TV would be crackling in the background. If you just focused on the noise, repeated it in your mind, you'd have no room left to think, and to your dreams you'd slip away. Delphi adored dreaming.

"Wow, you're like, actually worried?" It wasn't as difficult when Lyra matched her tempo. She still had time enough to enjoy. Pull the night back into her hands; she was still the one in control here. Atropo Wisteria would wait until she could get Lyra to leave. An empty glass passed from hand to hand, tilting back and forth, before she replaced it with a full one to press into Lyra's hands. "Oh no, no, no, darling. First trick of the book -- never, ever show how much you actually want them to call you back. I'll let you in on a secret. We are all scared," she lifted a cherry to her lips, opened her mouth, and dropped it in, "and nervous, and we all want very much to get that call back. She is just as worried as you are, and the only reason she'd be slow in reaching out to you is because of the same exact reason right now that you think she won't!" She motioned for Lyra to drink, already getting another glass for herself. She was barely between swallows when she spoke. "Dove. Darling. Light of my life." The hissing of a kettle bit into her throat, threatening to burn her from the inside out. She pushed on, every new rush of sugar smoldering it for the next time it would flare again.

"I am always right about everything, always, ever, and you have nothing to worry about. If you like her, she definitely likes you, and no matter what either of you think, you'll talk again. Got it?" She was unstoppable when dishing out the truths she knew as such; despite everything, she was still the Vixen of Lyon, and that title was not one Vix would leave behind. "Now, me? Honestly, Lyra, you are just adorable."

She popped her lips, drying the candied veneer. "You should know better. I am the wisest, most put-together, most sage-like and all-powerful woman that is... probably currently in Paris, or at least this airport? So, like, I'm all good." Three petals remained. She felt tense in her neck. "If there's anyone to worry about here, it's yourself. I almost don't want to let you go back out there without me."