𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 [𝐣.𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫]

12: 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔠𝔢𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔩𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔬𝔯

TW: mentions of sexual assault

Brigitte mulled the words over in her head.

Don't come home.

The implications of this message had been received. But why send an owl now, in early November? This puzzled her, her mother's desperation for an event that wouldn't occur for another two months.

Christmas was always extravagant at her house. Gold platters arranged with grandeur, skillfully overlooked by none other than Alexandre himself. Members of the Sacred 28 would be invited, of course, to feast and gorge themselves with shockingly expensive ham, wines fermented for decades, their finest chandeliers casually put on display.

The holiday didn't unearth years of sentiment, nor nostalgia, as you might've expected. The Alarie's valued those traits quite lowly. Why have love when you could have power?

Brigitte had never been one for Christmas. The idea appealed to her, glittering gowns, pearls, and makeup at your expense. It was her chance to dress up like a princess, gaze in the mirror and see her mother behind her, fastening the family jewels on her collarbone, muscles flexed taut upon making contact with the cold necklace. Her manners were flawless, her conversations impeccably smooth. It always helped that no one took in a word she said, for they were admiring her waist, or scoffing at it.

It always started out pleasant. Introductions to be made, compliments dished out like before-dinner mints, bowing to lords, ignoring their hungry looks. Austere mistresses were next, their pristine smiles laden with spite. Their husband's straying eyes were her fault, apparently, for they couldn't fathom having married a disloyal swine, fickle as the wind, changing middirection.

Then, after champagne flutes had been emptied, wine glasses stained with red lipstick, lords donning ruddy complexions, a new monster would arise.

After the sun set, the corridors of her castle inhabited by princes and princesses, kings and queens, evildoers concealed by vast amounts of wealth.

Three minutes. That was all the time Brigitte needed to determine their motives. Friendly, or possibly more sinister.

They always started out with small talk. Some well-versed in their tactics, undetected by Brigitte until the two-minute mark crawled by. Others found it hard to hide their appetite, eyes roaming hungrily as they pleased. Disgust boiled in the pit of her stomach, yet her eyes remained calm, lips stretched into the politest of smiles.

Politeness was the best concealer of disgust.

Then came the compliments, meant to charm her out of her wits. If only they knew her brainpower didn't depend on how well a man could bend words.

She was told she had cerulean blue eyes, like the sea, clear like crystalline glass held in suspension. The eyes are the window to the soul, they'd say, with their own greedy, cold pupils. And I can tell your soul is just lovely.

She was told she had exquisite lips, blossoming like tulips, lips that could scarcely hold back words not meant for such a delicate mouth. Lips they wanted to feel against their own, lips she wanted to keep to herself.

She was told she had beautiful, pale skin, like a porcelain doll. To that, she could mentally add racism to their long list of ailments. She knew they wanted theirs against hers, bruises flowering from her white, unblemished skin.

Three minutes.

Every acquaintance she met had to be evaluated by then, for once the time ran out, once the ticking calmed, and the dress-up game came to an end, she was a princess, trapped within the very palace that proved her regency.