A fairyworld. That's what this patently was, down to the sparkling, flitting imps, the glittering guests, the feast on the table. It looked like something out of a child's book, the world delicate and perfect, crafted from fancies and utterly delightful.
Claire can't help but trace back to the roots of the fairytales you told children, back to original stories where virgin princesses were taken away, trapped and lost in a foreign world forever.
Her smile widens, just barely, long fingers clasped around the goblet of wine in her hand, more prop than anything as she scans the crowd. Her expression is cool and pleasant, not repelling, but not inviting, her armor solidly in place.
It almost cracks when she sees a familiar figure, neat suit and bland tie and for a moment, she doesn't believe. But there is no such thing as luck, only opportunities that are taken or lost, and Claire was never one to let such a thing slip away.
The click of her heels is calm, her pace measured and calm as she slips through the crowd, murmuring soft apologies as she slides through, but never deterred from her target.
She slips in close to him and she can see the tension in the tight set of of shoulders so she lets one hand lightly rest at one for just a spare moment before sliding her hand through his elbow, the left one, as always, sliding into her customary place.
"Francis." Her voice is as cool as ever, but her hand tightens ever-so-slightly on his elbow, and the faintest hint of relief flashes in her blue eyes.
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Claire can't help but trace back to the roots of the fairytales you told children, back to original stories where virgin princesses were taken away, trapped and lost in a foreign world forever.
Her smile widens, just barely, long fingers clasped around the goblet of wine in her hand, more prop than anything as she scans the crowd. Her expression is cool and pleasant, not repelling, but not inviting, her armor solidly in place.
It almost cracks when she sees a familiar figure, neat suit and bland tie and for a moment, she doesn't believe. But there is no such thing as luck, only opportunities that are taken or lost, and Claire was never one to let such a thing slip away.
The click of her heels is calm, her pace measured and calm as she slips through the crowd, murmuring soft apologies as she slides through, but never deterred from her target.
She slips in close to him and she can see the tension in the tight set of of shoulders so she lets one hand lightly rest at one for just a spare moment before sliding her hand through his elbow, the left one, as always, sliding into her customary place.
"Francis." Her voice is as cool as ever, but her hand tightens ever-so-slightly on his elbow, and the faintest hint of relief flashes in her blue eyes.