Starlion
Smiling with glee, you lift up the gown to your shoulders and twirl about your dressing-room, furnished as though it had been pulled right out of a fairy-tale. Not extravagantly but elegantly, showing off your taste in décor… and in clothing.
Yet again you sashay up to the full-length mirror, beaming a white smile that lights up the entire room, darkened as it is by greyness outside. The image in the mirror counters the landscape outside the window. Your hair is streaked with golden sunshine, your gown is a delicate shade of blue, as though someone had torn out the sky and made it into a dress, just to match your eyes. Your poise and air have all the giddiness of a sunny spring day. Again you twirl around and laugh; your feet begin to trip about in a minuet.
“Kitla!” A shrill voice shatters your cheerfulness. “Quit your frivolity and help me dress!”
The room darkens—your sunshine is deadened, and shadow visibly envelops the room.
You slip the gown over the head of the baron’s daughter, Liva, who fusses over her reflection and pulls down at the folding of fabric about her waist.
“You made the torso too long and too tight,” Liva complains, “And I wanted the color to be slightly darker.”
Restraining a sigh, you reply, “I’ll have to tighten your corset, miss. Then the fabric shan’t bunch up at the waist. And I—”
“Are you implying that I need to have my corset tightened?” Liva swells up in her customary anger, making the “need” for tightening the corset even greater and the tightening itself far more difficult, as she is no longer concentrating on tucking in her abdomen.
Yet again you sashay up to the full-length mirror, beaming a white smile that lights up the entire room, darkened as it is by greyness outside. The image in the mirror counters the landscape outside the window. Your hair is streaked with golden sunshine, your gown is a delicate shade of blue, as though someone had torn out the sky and made it into a dress, just to match your eyes. Your poise and air have all the giddiness of a sunny spring day. Again you twirl around and laugh; your feet begin to trip about in a minuet.
“Kitla!” A shrill voice shatters your cheerfulness. “Quit your frivolity and help me dress!”
The room darkens—your sunshine is deadened, and shadow visibly envelops the room.
You slip the gown over the head of the baron’s daughter, Liva, who fusses over her reflection and pulls down at the folding of fabric about her waist.
“You made the torso too long and too tight,” Liva complains, “And I wanted the color to be slightly darker.”
Restraining a sigh, you reply, “I’ll have to tighten your corset, miss. Then the fabric shan’t bunch up at the waist. And I—”
“Are you implying that I need to have my corset tightened?” Liva swells up in her customary anger, making the “need” for tightening the corset even greater and the tightening itself far more difficult, as she is no longer concentrating on tucking in her abdomen.