[Sweeping up the skirts of her gown, Margaery scoots on over to sit next to Colette on the pew. One doesn't leave an empty space on the presumption that it won't be filled. She comes in like water, faint light dancing over dark blue silks that wrap her in waves. With a little less distance, it's easier to lay eyes on one another. Margaery tucks a loose brown curl behind her ear, not daring to pull out a pin from her chignon to tame it back into place. The grin she offers in return is but a crescent moon, as polite and reserved as what's been presented. Do unto others, right?
Sickly sweet as Colette's smile may be, it lacks the twinkle to make it true. Not enough teeth with nary a wrinkle to line the eyes.]
Oh, I don't know. You did well enough during the dance classes. A shame no one else really paid much mind. I'd have thrown a dime or two at your feet.
[False modesty is worse than pride but the original sinners favor it all the same. Will I be wise, dear serpent? Truly? Eve was already wise. Margaery would like to think the first woman was feigning and took the charade too far. Far better to follow the snake into the unknown then languish in idyllic boredom. Why should curiosity be a crime?
Margaery keeps her blasphemy to herself out of respect for Colette's piety. She keeps much and more to herself for the sake of quiet. Rowdy suffragettes may be kicking up a storm back home but the cost is high. Women bleed enough every moon; no need to spill out onto the streets. Better to be the wind in a man's sails then the storm that rips him to pieces. After all, the wind decides where he goes and how to move him.]
My record player's still in the hothouse if you'd rather dance in the dark. I like listening to that one song about sunshine when I'm gardening. My flowers seem to like it, too.
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Sickly sweet as Colette's smile may be, it lacks the twinkle to make it true. Not enough teeth with nary a wrinkle to line the eyes.]
Oh, I don't know. You did well enough during the dance classes. A shame no one else really paid much mind. I'd have thrown a dime or two at your feet.
[False modesty is worse than pride but the original sinners favor it all the same. Will I be wise, dear serpent? Truly? Eve was already wise. Margaery would like to think the first woman was feigning and took the charade too far. Far better to follow the snake into the unknown then languish in idyllic boredom. Why should curiosity be a crime?
Margaery keeps her blasphemy to herself out of respect for Colette's piety. She keeps much and more to herself for the sake of quiet. Rowdy suffragettes may be kicking up a storm back home but the cost is high. Women bleed enough every moon; no need to spill out onto the streets. Better to be the wind in a man's sails then the storm that rips him to pieces. After all, the wind decides where he goes and how to move him.]
My record player's still in the hothouse if you'd rather dance in the dark. I like listening to that one song about sunshine when I'm gardening. My flowers seem to like it, too.