kingdomsofrain | tfln open post

1) Maybe you should start leaving anonymous bottles of booze on his doorstep with love notes attached. That always gets me.

2) I just made my bed perfectly before realizing that I'll be too drunk to appreciate it tonight.

3) What I do when I'm blackout drunk is none of my business.

4) I'm sorry I got drunk, then got really loud and bitchy at your party and judged your choice in one night stands.

Wait you know what, no I'm not. I'm not sorry. You have terrible taste.

5) I am NOT overreacting. THE COW IS STARING AT ME. I know it's up to something. If you don't hear from me again, you'll know who the culprit is.

6) Don't act as if you didn't hear every word.

Did you know, when she says my name, I feel as if— Be smug all you like, but it IS better than wine.

I shall be extremely smug, and insufferable as well. Completely intolerable for at least a week.

There will be no living with me now.

But. You really ought to send those messages to their intended recipient.

... ... ...

It's a lesson I've been slow to learn. Apparently.

I'll need to message Wallace all over again.

...

You're so certain I was speaking about you.

Perhaps you weren't.

Perhaps you might like to tell me what other woman has been warming you better than wine could manage?

Dangerous territory, my darling.

As if I'd let anybody else lay a finger on me.

Please. You know yours are the only hands I trust.

Wallace aside, of course.

Not to interfere with your relationship with your manservant, which I have already acknowledged is of great importance -

But I should hope he is not putting hands on you the way I do.

No, he isn't.

You know I haven't 'been with' anyone else since— Mm. I believe since you returned from your first visit to that farm of yours.

[ On one hand, she knows - or rather, has had her suspicions. She pays close attention to the goings-on of the house.

On the other hand. He is being rather...

'Sweet' seems like a poorly-applied word here. ]

Haven't you?

Better than wine AND alternative companions. That is quite the reputation to uphold.

~~You can say 'whores,' Katrina.~~

Yes.

'Alternative companions.'

You needn't worry; I've no doubt you'll continue to make good on that reputation of yours.

You've proven to be a singularly steadfast woman.

There is no compliment loved so well by women as hearing that one is 'steadfast'. Next, you'll call me 'sturdy'.

I might swoon.

Or -

No, no sturdy woman would ever swoon. I shall have to think of some other response to such tender words.

I can't tell whether you're being facetious; in any case, I'm only speaking the truth as I've observed it. For all that you flit from one mood to the next, for all the resemblance you bear to the most inveterate coquette, you don't shake off easily.

I might say it's an admirable quality.

It does, in any case, make me a fortunate man.

You are becoming a problem.

I can't very well explain to Venetia et al why I am so fascinated by my phone without breaching your privacy.

Nor why I am smiling.

~~What does~~

What does 'inveterate' mean, please?

Don't laugh.

I've no interest in laughing at you.

'Confirmed.' 'Established.' In this case, one for whom careless flirting and breathing go hand-in-hand.

Let Venetia et al guess at your fascination all they like. It's no business of theirs whether I find my wife charming.
Or a natural in bed. Or worthy of what little trust I'm capable of entertaining.

~~...Well, that certainly makes more sense than 'vertebrate'.~~

Do you truly think I

Am I so natur

I have no earthly idea what I'm doing in

I'm certain I -

There is always room for improvement. In any endeavor.

[...]

You are being a dreadful flirt.

Am I? From a could-be-inveterate coquette, I'll take that as a compliment.

If you'd like, once you've made your way back home, we can see about a few of those improvements.

Only 'could-be' now? Have you lost faith in my coquetry?

I shall have to show my ankles to some poor prig and then send him to tell you that I am just as much a flirt as I was five minutes ago.

[...]

As to the other.

Perfection is only achieved through dedicated practice.

[...]

And I am particularly enthusiastic about perfecting my art.

That 'poor prig' ought to count himself honored; should he die on the spot, he would meet his end knowing he's seen what most can only dream of.

I suppose the trouble comes if he doesn't instantly expire. After glimpsing what you have to offer, the poor prig will never be satisfied with any other. Flash your ankles, and you've consigned a man to a fruitless, life-long search for what he simply cannot have.

Foolish of him to focus on those ankles, when there's so much else he's missing.

[ ... ]

I'll send Johanna home.

Ah, that explains the madness men suffer from a provocatively short petticoat: they haven't expired as they ought to have done, right on the spot, and with a smile on their faces.

Living with such unquenchable desire must be dreadful.

[ ... ]

I suppose I could make my excuses - but really, Treavor. I have had four headaches already this month. And if I were to stop going out entirely, people would talk.

And come to the house.

Yes, yes, that madness makes horrors of us all.

We'll need to work on your excuses, won't we? There must be other ways of excusing yourself. Tell them Johanna has had a spill. Tell them Wallace is ill and your husband is too intoxicated to be left alone.

Mm. If you find yourself obliged to remain in the company of Venetia et al - and if you've no qualms about leaving your husband to languish - I'll ask that you at least permit your husband to continue these communications.

No one would care if Johanna took a spill; recall, so few care about the wellbeing of the 'help'. And that excuse would work only once. As for the other excuse, it would require opening my husband up to criticism, which I - steadfastly, you recall - refuse to do.

Nevermind that no one would believe Wallace is ill.

But please, do continue these communications. In the interim, I will have plenty of time to think of ways to make amends for causing you to - 'languish'.

Perhaps Johanna's a clumsy girl. And even if none of THEM care about her, they know you carry a soft heart. Borne out of country air, perhaps.

...You make a valid point regarding Wallace. You're determined to make this difficult, aren't you?

Wicked girl, toying with your husbands affections.

Not difficult. You know how I am so terribly inclined towards schemes.

I could simply tell them why I am suddenly required at home, each time I AM required at home? Honesty is an admirable quality in a woman, I hear.

[...]

I think the 'wickedness' is a result of the country air, not the soft heart.

Some of us may find it admirable. I doubt any of your companions are among them.

Besides, I doubt they'd credit your confession. It's a vast jump from 'never fucks nor looks at his wife' to 'frequently requests her artful attentions.'

Oh? And what wickedness does country air instill in such an agreeable woman as yourself?

As often as you bandy about the word 'wicked' when describing me, I'm almost offended you felt the need to ask.

However, as I am so agreeable, I will be sure to be thorough enough in demonstration of said wickedness that you need never ask again. Save to refresh your memory, of course.

But. I suppose you're correct about the 'confession'. You should look at me more often in public; perhaps I could then begin employing the excuse that my husband is languishing without my attention.

Or you could accompany me on these outings and find opportunity to -

Hm.

treavor pendleton | dishonored

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