cracking lips | Van

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[attr="class","title-marguerite"] I GAVE MY LOVER FRUIT TO EAT

[attr="class","subtitle-marguerite"] But she left it at her feet.
She is always doing that
(DOING THAT)
She is always doing that

[attr="class","wordz-marguerite"] CW: love potion uses mentioned
Marguerite had rarely been one to underestimate her prey, save when she'd been comfortably secure in position. Of course, it had been then that she had been caught, had she not? She had been fully on dear Rotte's side when the family had hunted down the man who had her drink her drink Amortentia, yet she had assumed Daniel would not take her with another man's get rounding out her belly. More than that, she had thought Sarotte would have wanted time to heal by herself before any relationship, not spring into marriage with their Heir.

Cold of her perhaps, but she had counted it as good luck when her cousin was kidnapped. Better luck when they had found out she was wed, as her competition grew into smaller circles, though she'd admitted defeat when Sarotte accepted Daniel's proposal. She would have done the same, she liked to think. Did Sarotte love Daniel? She highly doubted it, but then again, their arguments had always had a different air than Isabelle's railing against Aldric. Had one thing or the other not happened, she might have still been safe in France, secure in her magic, but. . . 

This had brought an odd sort of peace. Marguerite could not quite explain and she doubted she ever would, but it was a strange sort of relaxing. Away from the strangling arm of her family much as she might be, in the sheltered sort of disgrace they had left her in. She still had the name, the blood, the prestige with her name when with the outer family, her rank secure there as eighteenth presently, born eighth. It mattered only at home, with family, and wasn't she lucky for that? 

She still doubted Julienne was her brother's, but as the months wore on, she felt it mattering less and less. Doubtless if she was at home, this would eat her up, but as it was, it was only. . .exhausting. She didn't want to think of it, she wanted to let it go. Perhaps it was only the day it was, or her upcoming birthday, but Marguerite felt in the mood to move on, to let herself tamper the focus down. Flirt at Astrid Travers when not at work, have a drink with Monroe, talk with the other delegates, and. . .meet people, of course. Starting, perhaps, with that lovely-looking head of curls over there. Her own waves would never, and the person's hair was truly quite beautiful.

Now, it looked familiar. Marguerite knew hair, after all, and that head had graced more than a few magazine covers that she'd glanced through while waiting for her water to boil, or trying to ignore the overly-friendly Muggle neighbors. "Monsieur Parkinson!" They had a good amount in common, did they not? Siblings, in disgrace with their families--or so the papers had claimed. Marguerite really did need to start paying attention to non-romantic gossip, but they had just changed their name, no? The singer or the. . bassist, or whatever the short-haired man did was working with his ex-wife, which had started a band. Or restarted? Marguerite placed her bets on it to last as long as that sorry excuse for a denial of a relationship. 

"I have no intentions of annoying you, I do promise. You have not seen any. . spirit of camphre, have you? My mind cannot remember the English word for it."  

[attr="class","tags-marguerite"]☆ @van , 568 words ☆