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She’s laughing and leaning forward and her chin’s almost touching Nicholas’ cheek and she’s so, so pretty. Long-sleeved blouse that accentuates her slim waist, sailor skirt that swishes invitingly around her legs as she sits, one leg crossed over the other. Hair wavy and styled to perfection, eyeliner sharp and blush soft, leashes whisker-long. She draws her fingers over Nicholas’ arm, drums them on his thigh. Leans in closer to whisper something into his ear. Makes him laugh, weave an arm around her.
Delancy, standing behind her princess’ loveseat, stilettos aligned perfectly, hands clasped behind her back, can merely watch it play out. Can practically hear the snapshots caught through fisheye lenses, gawking through the windows of the small café they’re currently occupying, entirely too obsessed with princess Sophia’s private life.
Smiles and smiles and Delancy doesn’t lose it even when Nicholas’ kisses princess Sophia’s cheek, short and sweet and loving, and princess Sophia blushes on command, draws two fingers over the spot he kissed.
When princess Sophia gives the command, head inclined and eyes slanted in her direction, Delancy pours them more tea. First princess Sophia, then Nicholas. Darjeeling from the north-east, a bit of milk, a finishing touch of honey. Princess Sophia stirs it with her spoon once Delancy’s done. Dismisses her with a careless wave of her hand.
Delancy retreats with an indicated curtsy.
Princess Sophia inclines her head, draws closer to Nicholas. Lets her fingers climb up his shirt, his cravat. He takes the hint, cocks his head. To better retaliate, to better meet—to kiss princess Sohipa, the crowd outside going wild, candids for tomorrow’s b-rated tabloids going snapsnapsnap.
No, Delancy reminds herself. Princess Sophia is not hers. Not hers to have, not hers to keep.
Au contraire; If anything, Delancy is all princess Sophia’s.
Pearly-white undergarments, bride-innocence caught in soft cotton. Blair breathes heavily as Delancy tightens the corset. What a pretty thing, all lace stitchings over the breasts, frills lining the hemline, white bow decorating the front of her décolletage. The newest hype in Fran Cesia.
“Is everything alright, princess?”
“I think people in Fran Cesia must have learned how not to breathe.”
Behind Blair, out of sight, Delancy smiles as she tightens the cords again, carefully binding them.
“Don’t exaggerate, princess Sophia. It fits you like a glove; you have the perfect figure for this style, for these types of clothes. Striking, really.”
Blair whirls around, pushes Delancy against the door of the closed closet. Draws close, breath of hers hot on Delancy’s lips. It smells like toothpaste. Delancy can’t help herself but to smirk. Blair’s always been too easy to rile up.
“How often do I have to tell you to call me Blair when we’re alone?”
“At least once more, princess Sophia.” Blair rolls her eyes, pushes herself against Delancy, rests her head on her shoulder. The cotton of her corset is surprisingly soft.
“I hate this,” Blair says. Delancy doesn’t say anything. Lets Blair have this moment. “I never wanted this. I only wanted to have a good doctor for my mom, have Emily keep smiling. I’m not good at these games of politics. The presentation of my image to the public.” She raises her head, cups Delancy’s cheek. Says, “Let’s run away. Just you and me and mom and Emily. I bet we can take enough money from the royal funds to make ends meet until I’ve found another job.”
Sighing heavily, Delancy leans her forehead against Blair’s, winds her arm around her back. “You know it’s not that easy, Blair.”
Blair pushes herself off of Delancy, falls down in an angry mess on the loveseat in front of the mirror. “It should be. It’s unfair. So unfair. I just—I just want to—” She looks Delancy straight in the eyes. Has her fidget, that all-seeing gaze of Blair’s. “I just want to be happy. With mom. With Emily.” She pauses, but just for a second, before she desperately says, “With you.”
Delancy keeps mum, and Blair lowers her head in defeat. Delancy draws close. Raises Blair’s chin. “Me too,” she whispers, a secret just for two, before she plants a butterfly-kiss on Blair’s lips.
Me too, indeed.