Maybe she was a bit too harsh before, she thinks, as she listens to him -- not reprimanding her, but lecturing her, like her father would lecture her when she was a little girl and had spoken out of line, before the big boat took her father with it into the deep.
She looks at the older man, the ace lying quietly but loudly at the same time between them, and she thinks maybe it's a poor fit, in reality. Perhaps he is the type of king that her father never had time to become instead. Although, of course, England is ruled by a Queen now and she is not Lord Melbourne's wife. So, not-quite-king, then. Almost-king. Despite herself, she smiles a little; it's a welcome reminder, that before it ever was her brother's surname, it was the name of both her parents, Gallard. If she can take it from them, rather than from him, it might lead her onwards, it might be some freedom to consider.
Then, he puts down the three of diamonds, and it looks pretty next to the ace, complimentary colours, natural numbers. She'd have painted it as well, but remembers monsieur Dubois asking her whether she painted still lifes.
I paint people, she'd replied. That was before she knew, she wanted to paint true lives and that those two could be different things.
Her smile softening, she shakes her head, not to indicate no, but to lecture herself a little as well in extension of his gentle talking-to. Neither of them are out of line, really, both of them are in their perfect place here, like this, but her discomfort at Charles' continued pressuring of her shouldn't cast shadows over everything. The sun still shines, their mother would have said, Charles' and hers. Or there wouldn't be shade in the first place, shouldn't she know as an artist? Her shading has always been top-notch.
"You're right, Lord Melbourne," she tells him, smile fading slowly - it isn't said dutifully but honestly as she places a queen on top of his three of diamonds. She's a queen of hearts, this time, same colour. It matches. Sylvie swallows once, then charges onwards as is her way, she has run from France, from Charles, but when you run from something, it's really because you're running for something. Here is what she's running for, isn't it? "But you have to forgive me. What wouldn't you rid yourself of, to avoid being forced to marry someone who'll just serve as another bar in your cage?"
Wouldn't you rid yourself of your name, too, she means. Wouldn't you rid yourself of the nation that allows it to happen? She manages a wet laugh and even though she doesn't mean to, the tears finally brim over, it's not a hysteric display of emotion, or even a very evident one, it's her eyes swimming slightly, quietly, as stoicly as you can manage when you are in fact crying and on top of that, French to the bone.
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She looks at the older man, the ace lying quietly but loudly at the same time between them, and she thinks maybe it's a poor fit, in reality. Perhaps he is the type of king that her father never had time to become instead. Although, of course, England is ruled by a Queen now and she is not Lord Melbourne's wife. So, not-quite-king, then. Almost-king. Despite herself, she smiles a little; it's a welcome reminder, that before it ever was her brother's surname, it was the name of both her parents, Gallard. If she can take it from them, rather than from him, it might lead her onwards, it might be some freedom to consider.
Then, he puts down the three of diamonds, and it looks pretty next to the ace, complimentary colours, natural numbers. She'd have painted it as well, but remembers monsieur Dubois asking her whether she painted still lifes.
I paint people, she'd replied. That was before she knew, she wanted to paint true lives and that those two could be different things.
Her smile softening, she shakes her head, not to indicate no, but to lecture herself a little as well in extension of his gentle talking-to. Neither of them are out of line, really, both of them are in their perfect place here, like this, but her discomfort at Charles' continued pressuring of her shouldn't cast shadows over everything. The sun still shines, their mother would have said, Charles' and hers. Or there wouldn't be shade in the first place, shouldn't she know as an artist? Her shading has always been top-notch.
"You're right, Lord Melbourne," she tells him, smile fading slowly - it isn't said dutifully but honestly as she places a queen on top of his three of diamonds. She's a queen of hearts, this time, same colour. It matches. Sylvie swallows once, then charges onwards as is her way, she has run from France, from Charles, but when you run from something, it's really because you're running for something. Here is what she's running for, isn't it? "But you have to forgive me. What wouldn't you rid yourself of, to avoid being forced to marry someone who'll just serve as another bar in your cage?"
Wouldn't you rid yourself of your name, too, she means. Wouldn't you rid yourself of the nation that allows it to happen? She manages a wet laugh and even though she doesn't mean to, the tears finally brim over, it's not a hysteric display of emotion, or even a very evident one, it's her eyes swimming slightly, quietly, as stoicly as you can manage when you are in fact crying and on top of that, French to the bone.