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Everest Vienna Grey was not a nervous person. She simply took precautions. This is precisely what she told herself as she drove up a short driveway while gazing up at a looming cliff. She glanced at a pathetic bag full of superstitious crap. Her new friend, Sadie, had insisted that she stop by the witch store to pick a few precautionary supplies. It was better to be safe than sorry, said Sadie. It was bitterly cold and despite being bundled up in her P.O.S. Honda Prelude, Evy could see her breath blossom in front of her reddened nose. Her frozen fingers jabbed at the closest air vent, only disappointed when no improvement was shown. Getting up this tedious driveway of hers in a stick shift had proven to be a challenge in the past, and she anticipated that a few inches of snow on the ground wouldn't improve the outcome. The young woman parked at the bottom of the hill, gazing at the black asphalt it in a sort of determination. There was a fair chance that this hill would, once again, kick her tiny car's a**, roll back to the bottom, and require her father's assistance. "Not today," Everest said defiantly. It was a balmy three degrees Fahrenheit, and Evy would be damned before she dashed up the icy driveway to fetch her father. It was eight o'clock in the evening, and it was long past dark. The star flecked sky could be seen through the barren branches above. Oh, Evy hated Colorado winters. For the most part, they were synonymous with bad roads, bad drivers, and abundant amounts of snow. An element that the girl had a rocky love-hate relationship with.
Evy pressed her foot on the gas tenderly, not wanting to give it too much of a lurch, in case she was stuck in the snow. The car slowly moved forward forward, and Everest pressed harder as the hill began. "Come on, baby," she murmured under her breath. It must have been a good day for the Honda. The car chugged up the hill with minor problems. Only one, really, which occurred halfway through the ascent. There was a lull in the engine and it slid back a few feet before somehow finding the strength to go on. That was what was referred to as a Christmas miracle. Amidst her apparent joy, Evy failed to notice the figure of her father standing at the top and clapping half-jokingly. After parking her car in the former carriage house, Everest climbed out with the bag of 'supplies' and joined her dad outside, not before lovingly patting the car's rusting trunk, making her father roll his dark eyes and cross his arms. "You're taking the Land Cruiser tomorrow," he informed his daughter as they walked up the stone steps of the manor. "Honestly Evy, I don't know why you insist upon taking that piece of s**t out everyday. It's almost dangerous-- no, it is dangerous." Everest glanced back at the pathetic red vehicle with a look of sympathy. Sure, it was old and didn't do great with snow, but to get from school and back again it was far more than acceptable. One didn't have to go very long distances, living in this town. "Oh, it's fine, dad," she insisted as he lazily slung his arm around her shoulder. "Besides, Papa meant for me to have it. It was his trusty steed," Everest reminded him of the sentimental value and Atticus sighed lightly. Her grandfather always said he's leave the car to Everest. The Honda was fine, in Everest's modest opinion, and she enjoyed the challenge of a stick shift.
They stopped in front of the front door, and Atticus Grey quickly reached to open it. As per usual, it took an exorbitant amount of force, seeing as the carved wooden doors were original and very heavy. The pair quickly made their way in and shut the door, but not before Mr. Grey noticed Evy's bag of goodies. "Tell me that isn't a Ouija board. You know that will only piss them off even more, right, sweetie?" Atticus held his fingers up to his face and waved them in her direction, making 'oooohhh' noises. Mocking her. Everest cocked a brow and crossed her arms as her father dug through her bag. "What is this?" He brought it up to his noises as they both kicked off their shoes. Everest pulled of her black suede boots and purple coat and hung it up in the hall closet. "It's called white sage," Everest explained as she snatched up the bag. "The Native Americans believed it got rid of bad spirits." Atticus rested an arm on his daughter's shoulder. "How do I say this lightly... You got ripped off, Evs." Everest glanced back at her dad as she climbed up the stairs. They creaked loudly, but the plush pale red carpet felt nice on her cold feet. "We'll see about that. Ten bucks says I don't hear any creepy noises tonight." Atticus stood at the bottom of their castle's grand stair case, looking up at Everest and shaking his head in disbelief. The man didn't believe in such things in the slightest, but Everest knew that the Victorian abode sent a chill up his spine from time to time. You'd have to be mad not to be slightly unsettled by the manor. "Old houses make noise, Everest. It's a fact."
Briarhust Castle was an eerily beautiful example of the wealth of Manitou Springs during the 1800s. The beautiful castle was passed down through generations of Francolon's, Abbott's, Daniel's, and even the Evangelical church at one point, when a group of nun's had inhabited it. It had only ever been a privately owned estate, off limits to townies and tourists alike. In the 60's it fell into the hands of Jackson Grey, Everest's grandfather, though he for some reason never lived in it. Despite the town council's incessant pleading, he refused the acquiesce the request to hand it over to the historical society, even when he was forced to live in a home for the elderly twleve years before. After his death, he left Briarhurst to his only child. Which is where Atticus and Everest came in to the castle's lonesome picture, the only owners who considered selling the place to the historical society. The two moved from Las Vegas to Atticus' home state of Colorado when the manor fell into their laps about two months ago. If only they knew. It took a month before the castle was move in ready. The floors had to be restored, the walls repainted, electricity rewired, and the plumbing fixed. It was a back breaking task, and even now the castle gave everyone (except, apparently Atticus, so he claimed) the creeps.
Evy's room was on the third floor, up a second flight of stairs and at the end of the hall to the right. It was on the farthest side of the house, and a level about Atticus' room. Had she known of the mysterious happenings, she may have picked a room closer to her father. But it was a simple sort of beautiful, with high ceilings and tall and wide windows. The walls were painted an earthy green and her queen bed was smack in the middle of the wide panels of windows. Aside from an antique wardrobe, a large Persian rug, a trunk, and two night stands, her room was more or less empty. Almost pathetically empty, really. The room was far too big for her small amount of belongings and trinkets. The floor creaked absurdly as she strode over to her bed and dumped out the bag she'd been carrying. Out spilled a Ouija board, a dream catcher, white sage, and various trinkets and candles. The young woman walked over to the trunk to a record player and placed a Liszt vinyl on the track, then adjusted the needle. It drove her mad to be in her room at night without music or any sort of noise. Without is she was always waiting for the sound of footsteps of a whisper. Classical music both soothed and relaxed her, to the point were being alone in her room wasn't too terribly unbearable. After stuffing the Ouija board under her bad (there was no use in using it now), hanging the dream catcher up in the window, lighting a candle, and burning some white sage, Everest had positively convinced herself that she would hear no noises tonight. Nope. Nothing. And so she turned out her light, removed the needle from the record players and crawled into her bed. She could hear the sound of Atticus shutting his bedroom door and going to bed downstairs, though the noise made her jump at first.
"There are no such things as ghosts," Everest told herself aloud quietly as she closed her eyes. If only she believed it.
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His American-honey voice forced a smile upon her rosy lips. She smothered it quickly with the back of her gloved hand before Sayid paced over to him. Oh, she hated the formalities. In Willa's word, everyone would simply say what was on their mind, even if it meant getting the other person's knickers in a twist. What a world that would be. Regardless, Jayce seemed to be well on his way to figuring her out. As mind bottling as her family found her to be, Willa considered herself a very simple person, with very simple needs. Was it so bizarre to say what you mean, instead of putting on a fine show everyday? Willa thought not. But here they were, about to put on a grand show for Mr. Weston. Funny, how the world works, is it not? She managed to look very deep in thought momentarily. "I'm afraid I haven't learned my lesson. After all, here I am, very much alive," Willa retorted seriously. Some would say that Willa Bradshaw would never learn her lesson. Willa firmly agreed with those people, for it was all too fun to push buttons. His next comment surprised her slightly. In fact, some people might have said it crossed 'the line,' were it not said in a humorous fashion. Few people had the nerve to comment on her attitude. In fact, most simply sipped their brandy and called her a gem, with the faintest bit of hesitance on their tongue. Thankfully for him, it seemed to be a chore to stay angry with this Jayce Grant. She let out a simple, 'ha' and pressed a lock of fiery brown hair out of her eyes. "My dislike for guns and chaperones is shockingly equal. But if it helps you sleep at night, Mr. Grant, I suppose I could humor you." The statement was made somewhat halfheartedly, and it was quite obvious Willa wasn't anticipating the little lesson he continued to mention. Such an awful ruckus, the cracking of a gun.
Willa noted that the Kikuyu children were still on their heels, giggling and speaking their native tongues. She admired them as she admired Jayce's wit. A strange sort of excitement settled inside her as she looked up at him and listened to his teasing. It made her realize her thirst for conversation and how truly isolated she was on that teeny farm of theirs. It was natural for people in colonized Africa to crave good conversation, but only then Willa realized how much she truly desired it. She stared at him every so curiously, without a smile, as he teased her. She didn't look annoyed by his gentle taunts-- just dauntingly curious. As if she were trying to pick him apart and figure out what made him tick. He seemed like a distant sort of person. One who more enjoyed the company of his rifle and the breeze of the Serengeti than an evening with a group of successful gentlemen in a smoky bar. Jayce struck her as independent, so it intrigued her slightly that he seemed so interested in her bitter banter. He spoke more now, as if eager to smirk at her replies. This made Willa clam up ever so slightly, as a specimen under a microscope crossed her mind. It was difficult to say who the specimen was here. She stiffened ever so slightly though, almost involuntarily. "The favor, here, would be you resisting the rather amusing look Mr. Weston gets on his face when he hears of something that flusters him. In this case, me skipping our breakfast to tango with a lioness," Willa informed Jayce rather properly and politely, despite the shocking words that had just flown freely out of her mouth. There-- she'd done it again. Failed to truly care that Mr. Grant was exposed to her annoyance with Brady (and perhaps the world). Willa tried to convince herself that what she said wasn't all that bad-- and for comic effect, really. Awkwardly though, she shifted her weight as Sayid scrambled in their direction. Honestly, who would this man tell? The baboons? Let them talk.
And there were the formalities, thrust upon them just as soon as Sayid was. Willa was all too good at the formality game. A gentle, over-kill laugh seemed appropriate here. Miss Bradshaw had watched her mother and other high class ladies partake in it many-a-time. Like nails to a chalk board. "Ah, Sayid, you are a saint to put up with my absent-mindedness. I'm so sorry, but informing my mother of my walk had completely slipped my mind," Willa laughed with gleaming eyes. It was almost a joke to her, but one she took part in very convincingly. She glanced to Jayce with curious eyes before continuing. He, too, seemed to play the part well. A pity, really. "I hadn't gotten to the coffee orchard before I bumped into Mr. Grant. He insisted upon a tour." She failed to brush up upon the lion bit. Brady wouldn't like to hear about it, one bit. Sayid glanced calmly between the two of them. Willa couldn't tell if he bought the story or not (not that it truly mattered, Brady was the one they needed to fool). His dark eyes glanced back at the house, where Willa could hear the ever so muffled voices of Brady and her mother. She rolled her eyes ever so slightly when Sayid was preoccupied with straightening his turban. So worried, and yet they hadn't even left the house? Oh, Will would have a hay day with this one. "Oh, Mr. Grant, you're far too kind," Willa said, slightly unconvincingly as he commented on her 'loveliness.' Her 'acid tongue' must have leveled out the playing field.
The three slowly began walking towards the house, Willa being the most hesitant of them all. Sayid seemed slightly caught off guard that someone might ask how his day is going. His dark eyes wandered over to Jayce. "My day, sir...? Better, now. Thank you," Sayid replied simply, with a slight bitterness. No doubt Brady had given him hell, sending him dashing all over the plantation. Willa was under the impression, though, that he didn't hold a grudge. She seemed distracted now, as her eyes were fixed on the back door of the wrap around porch. She anticipated the door swinging open and Brady marching out, ready to give her an earful. She let out a nervous laugh. The kind people give when they're only half paying attention, and the timing isn't quite right. Finally, the moment came. A pang of nervous anticipation hit Willa, though she hid is quite well. The back porch door swung open, and out stepped Brady Weston, near red in the face. He paused slightly, realizing that Willa wasn't alone. His steps slowed and her smothered his anger. As much as a man like Brady could smother anger, that is. He stepped off the porch and onto the patchy grass, arms crossed and a smile forced upon his lips. He gave Jayce a polite waved before stopping in his tracks as they walked towards him. "There you are, love. I have been looking everywhere for you," Brady greeted with a slight awkwardness. "Really, darling? I'm so comforted-- you must have been looking between the floorboards and under rugs for me. Did you check in the cupboards? Behind the curtains?" Willa replied with what one would assume (had they not known her) was a good-natured laugh. She played it off quite well, actually, with the tone of her voice. It almost sounded like she truly was joking with him. Without the strategically placed laugh, however, the comment would have been extremely awkward. Well... more awkward. Miss Bradshaw wasn't what one would call subtle.
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a'sibylla bint khaled bin asad zalaykha ♦ sibylla ♦ twenty-two ♦ #9ac0cd ♦ the fake
self-centered ♦ graceful ♦ ambitious ♦ loyal ♦ impulsive
- My name is rather awkward on your tongue, is it not? It translates to A'Sibylla, Daughter of Khaled, Son of Asad; of the family Zalaykha. Well, perhaps that isn't entirely correct. True-- my name is Sibylla-- but the rest of that lengthy tongue-twister belongs to Princess Reemelia of Al-Saruna. My given name is much more simple, but now irrelevant. I grew up as a lady in waiting for the Princess, as my father is one of the Sultan's most trusted knights. My father, Sayyid, began questioning the Sultan around the time my mother was pregnant with me. Our rich and beautiful kingdom has so much potential, but the royal family's rigid traditions prevent our progress in the modern world. My father formed a rebellion, which carefully infiltrated the Sultan's royal court. Since the day I was born, I have been groomed to eventually take over the La-Saruna crown, when the time is right. The Princess and I grew up together in the palace, though I could never truly say that we were friends (our personalities clash, and I find her to be very disagreeable). Reemelia suffers from a type of epilepsy, making her at times incapable of greeting the public and seeing as the Sultan isn't capable of making another heir, La-Saruna is doomed to have a sickly queen who likely won't see past thirty. The Princess and I share a striking resemblance, so on days when she regretfully couldn't lift her head out of bed, the Sultan asked that I take her place, mindlessly waving to the public and attending political events in her stead. This made it all too easy to step in after the Princess'... accident. And did you hear about the Sultan's sudden death? Very tragic, indeed. Lately, though, I've noticed myself questioning the rebellion. As I watch the kingdom mourn the death of the Sultan Khaled, I can't help but feel a tinge of guilt. It's every girl's dream to become a princess, but at what price? And am I nothing more than a puppet, molded in my father's image of a fitting queen? These are the questions that keep me preoccupied before I fall asleep at night. I push these meddlesome thoughts aside.
My country is in shambles, and I'm afraid I'm the only who can pick up the pieces. A marriage to the Prince of the powerful kingdom of Arcandus would be all too politically savvy for Al-Saruna, and progress would indeed be made. Assuming that conniving twerp, The Rouge, doesn't open his mouth, all should go as planned. But you'll find that my father and I are more than willing to dispose of anyone who stands in my way.
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It almost felt like being home again. Sibylla Zulaykha was convinced that if she closed her eyes tight enough and disregarded the foreign smells and sounds, then concentrated on nothing but Mamoun's trunk brushing against her shoulder, she could almost trick herself into thinking that she was home in Al-Saruna. Almost. There was a lack of dryness in the air. It didn't parch your tongue, like she was accustomed to. Instead it was sweet like a perfume and made her noise curl on occasion. The young woman yearned for the mountainous golden dunes of her home, the parrots with long and intricate tails and their songs that woke you in the morning. She often dreamed of rolling around the sandy banks of the Ahara river before she fell asleep at night, between unfamiliar sheets in an unfamiliar bed. Sibylla and Mamoun found themselves in the castle's lofty stable, on the edge of one of Arcandus's green forests. Mamoun was a burly thing, with dark intelligent eyes and rough ash colored skin. A royal elephant, yes, with elegant tusks that jutted out and then curved in. When in public, Mamoun was adorned in lavish textiles and hand painted from head to toe with vines and colorful flowers. When the royal family paraded through the streets of their kingdom, little brass bells were tied to his feet, as thick as tree trunks. His brilliantly white tusks were capped in gold, set with rubies, sapphires, emeralds and the finest pearls from Mytera. But it had been some time since Sibylla sat upon the wide expanse of his back, masquerading as the princess as a favor for the king, as the true Princess lay ill in her bed. Mamoun was near naked now, with only a few traces of paint left from when the Al-Sarunan royals had rode up to the gates of Arcandus.
'Princess' Sibylla stood on a short step ladder, a soapy brush gripped in her tiny dark hands. She stood on the tip of her toes to reach up to his back, singing softly with each wide stroke of her arm. It was early morning, and the pink clouds of an Arcandus sunrise still streaked the horizon. The impostor was lost in her own little world as Mamoun scooped up miscellaneous bits of hay from the marble floor. Sibylla failed to notice as the elephant dipped his trunk in a bucket of water, plucked out a sponge and prepared to throw it at the horses in the stalls surrounding them. Her head shot up and she stopped short of brushing and singing as the sponge hit a wooden wall with a wet slap, inches from one of the King's stallions. "Mamoun!" Bylla scolded as she hopped off the ladder (with ease seeing as she had left her tight dresses behind and wore tight riding pants and an elegant blouse). She dipped under his head in time to see the graceful thing spook ever so slightly. It let out an unattractive short, just in time for the elephant to swing his trunk up towards the heavens, knock over the bucket on Sibylla's feet and let out a trumpet that echoed across the land. The sort-of-princess couldn't help but let out one of her rare good-natured laughs as the horses retreated into the dark corners of their stalls, Mamoun gleaming in triumph. "Careful, sweets, or I'll be the one forced to apologize to the King for scarring one of his irreplaceable steads," she chided in her native tongue, patting his trunk lightly before bending over to snatch up the bucket that still rocked on it's side. An elongated shadow across the marble caught her eye as she stood up. Judging from the lack of flounce in the figure's skirts and the long train, Sibylla assumed it was one of her people and payed little attention as she strolled over to a shelf and placed the wooden bucket atop it. Royals duties were to be attended to, presumably. "Good morning. What royal pains await me today?"
The figure in the doorway had turned out to be one of her lady's in waiting, fetching her for the others who were to help her prepare for the Prince's engagement brunch. Sibylla had bitterly obliged. This 'swooping the Prince off his feet' bit was a slow process, and one that left her more or less frustrated after her attempts. In a perfect world, this celebration brunch would be nonexistent-- or better yet, her engagement brunch. This was precisely why she looked subtly annoyed she made her way from her quarters to the little spiel for Prince Niko and Princess Alessandra she wore a traditional chiffon dress, blood red with gold detailing. It ruffled ever so slightly in the morning breeze as she made her was down a short slight of stairs leading to the party. Not a cloud in the sky. A smile was mustered up across her face as her dark eyes scanned a glamorous crowd of noblemen and noblewomen. She rested a hand on the elegant railing to her right and began to step out on the royal families' stone patio. Her leg was in mid-stride, but she froze as a familiar noise echoed throughout the palace's grounds. Mamoun's familiar trumpet erupted through the quiet chattering, shattering the peaceful silence like the clash of a sword. Sibylla glanced up and watched as a few birds retreated from their places in the treetops in attempts to find a safer place to bask in the morning sun. The young woman was positive that dozens of pairs of eyes were boring holes in her skin, but she was much too embarrassed to look up at the faces. No doubt it was simply Mamoun picking on the stable boy, who to his disdain, had not the faintest clue as to what to two with a large elephant bull. Hence Sibylla's earlier visit. If you wanted something done, you simple had to do them yourself. After a few seconds she completed her step and traipsed over to a butler holding a silver tray with three full glasses of wine. She snatched one up and took a sip before stopping once again in time to see Winnie fall a few feet in front of her. It was almost laughable, how clumsy the princess was-- and Sibylla had a cruel sense of humor. Bylla smothers a smirk and firmly bit the inside of her lip, as if to keep one from slipping out. In way though, it was sort of sadly-pathetic, the way Winnie always managed to bruise her seemingly fragile body. After taking a sip of her wine, she looked over at Winnie and Juan with what one would mistake as a genuine look of concern.
"Winnie, are you alright?" Sibylla inquired quickly. Such an actress. "Be careful-- we would hate to see anything happen to Arcandus' beautiful princess!" Perhaps to fit the part, Sibylla would have rushed to her side, but the handsome young ambassador had already dashed to pick the girl up. Needless to say, Sibylla wasn't forced to get her hands dirty. Sibylla took another sip of her wine before spotting Ranajay, or simply Jay, as she and many others called him. "Excuse me for a moment." Sibylla excused herself quickly and strode confidently up to her confidant, Jay, a young knight at the Sultan's court. Being the straight forward person she was, Sibylla had no problem looping her arm through Jay's and slowly attempt to drag him off to an obscure corner where they could talk. She greeted him with a trying smile that said, yes-I-am-here-to-nag-you-more before trying to maneuver him over to a thick pillar that they could stand behind and hopefully have a quick conference. Jay was like a brother. An older brother who frequently succeeded in getting on her nerves. They grew up together in the Sultan's royal court, both being very politically ambitious. More so, lately, Jay was turning into a sort go-to-man for her and her father's little scheme. He was willing to help her with her her dastardly deeds, which worked out very nicely. "G'morning," Bylla greeted quickly in their language, though it was a bitter hello and rushed, as if she wanted to get to business. As per usual. The princess glanced over Jay's shoulder, pausing slightly to make sure no one was within ear shot. The ambassador and Princess Alessandra, however, seemed to be the only two they needed to worry about. Sibylla wasn't sure there was a language those two couldn't speak. She fixed her dark eyes back on Jay, looking firm and thoroughly frustrated. "This isn't moving fast enough," she complained, he voice sounded cruel and if she wasn't wrapped up in the moment she might have thought that she sounded like a spoiled child. "We need to think of something... drastic. I'm sick of twiddling my thumbs." Sibylla crossed her arms defiantly and slumped against the marble pillar. Something a real and princess probably would never do in public. At least not a traditional Al-Sarunan princess.
Which-- ha-- Sibylla was definitely not.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
outfit.
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At that moment, Willa wasn't truly sure who the 'elephant in the room' was in that moment, but she was sure there was one. The tension between the four of them was as thick as the humid air, but perhaps it was only noticeable to her. Brady seemed to be playing along just fine, a trait about him that rather annoyed her. She lived to see the moments in which he snapped. Maybe perhaps she was so close to snapping herself. Or perhaps it was that she was so accustomed to the masks her mother and Mr. Weston wore for everyone, she craved to see them with an ounce of genuineness. Willa crossed her arms defiantly, watching Brady ever so carefully. She liked to believe that she could read him like a book, but at times it proved to be difficult. By then they had stood in front of Brady on the porch, Willa fiddled quietly with her gloves, watching as Sayid took a bow and began to walk away. The guilt she felt for dragging him into the mess still lingered, so she reached out to rest a hand on his forearm. It slid back to her side as he continued walking, probably off to see to lunch. She was surprised and annoyed to feel Brady's arm slide around her waste, slipping past the ribbons of her back-breaking corset. At this point her life, the contraption became an easy thing to ignore. She still itched to get into the shade. Brady pulled her towards him, laughing slightly, as if they were young and in love. Unfortunately for both of them, only one of those seemed to be true.
He planted a kiss on the corner of her mouth before looking back to Jayce. She stared up at him with a smile plastered across her lips, her brows arched in a personal curiosity. Haha. Lucky? Willa didn't believe for a minute that Brady Weston felt lucky to have a fiance that was repulsed by the sight of him, and constantly questioned his 'authority,' just because it tickled her fancy. Willa was certain that Brady would have preferred her a mute. "Ah, so you've met then," was Brady's simple and slightly curious reply. He glanced down at Willa, as if expecting a reaction. Willa never failed to deliver. "Ivory, love?" she mused, carefully not to look too annoyed by the lack of communication on the subject. Mr. Weston had only just opened his strong jaw to explain himself before a lovely young woman strolled out onto the porch. A surge of bitter annoyance over came Willa as she approached, though she hid it well. Her pale eyes, however, remained a clear representation of her mood. Blinding orange ribbons of color weaved around her vision as Miss Cole spoke up. Lyra Cole was perhaps even more intolerable than Brady himself. There was nothing Willa despised more than a bubbly, mindless, and bitching young woman. Lyra fit into all three of those categories. "Lyra, it has been all too long--" Willa said with a bright smile. "You've been well, I assume?" Convincing as her act was, it fell into shambles just as soon as Lyra reached out for her arm. The girl hated being touched by unwelcome hands, simply because she had a large personal bubble and low tolerance for those that bothered her.
Oh, Lyra. Willa remembered the first time the two had met-- at the club in Nairobi, no doubt. Miss Cole practically lived there, breathing in what little bits of gossip she could. Lord, she hated the woman. Miss Cole's family in London wrote her often. The Cole's were convinced that Willa was on the verge of insanity, and simply loved to advertise it, though it seemed Lyra had been keeping this bit of information to herself. For the time being, anyways. In private, the two fought like cats and often exchanged bitchy banter. Willa referred to her (in her mind) as Nairobi's mattress, because it seemed to her that Lyra made eyes with everything with male reproduction organs. Namely Brady, which for some reason, quite bothered her. Though she wasn't in love with Brady, she still viewed him as her property. She didn't march her happy a** to Kenya so that they could get married and then have her husband have an affair with some cheap ditz. In public, though, Willa and Lyra managed to be extremely civil to one another, almost to the point where one would think they were some sort of friends.
Willa was pulled back to reality. "Oh, Willa, really. It has been far too long. I have been missing our lovely conversations!" Lyra quickly reached forward to give Willa a hug, who hesitantly accepted. Her eyes were fixed on Jayce as she did so, and she couldn't hide the fact that her annoyance was at an all-time high with this woman. Lying b***h, Willa thought silently as Lyra pulled away. It was comical, the catty relationships that blossomed between two women. Willa only wondered where her mother was, so that she could complete the dysfunctional circle they had going. Brady's pale green voice caught her attention and she turned back to face the two men, Jayce in particular. "Why don't you join us, Jayce?" Brady offered politely. It was difficult to say if he truly wanted Jayce's company or if he was simply being polite. However, Willa couldn't think of a man who truly enjoyed a lunch without another male to balance the ticket. "You must join us," Willa said quickly. Her eyes were pleading, as if she refused to be alone with these people. Which was truly the case. She felt Brady and Lyra's suspicious eyes, so she quickly pipped up. "I mean... I did promise you a song, did I not? I'm not fond of breaking promises, Mr. Grant."
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Willa's icy gaze was fixed on Brady as he stared at her, as if waiting for her revelations. Surely the young woman would have remembered Brady bringing up something like ivory. True, the girl had been known to doze off when victim to a bland conversation, but the mentioning of ivory-- East Africa's gold-- surely would have sparked some sort of an interest in the bright eyed young woman. She let out an annoyed sigh and pulled off her white leather gloves, then balled them up in her small hands. Mr. Weston slung his arm loosely around Willa's waist, making her slightly uncomfortable as she glanced to Jayce and then to Lyra. Something about Brady truly drove her mad-- made her skin crawl. It had little to do with his stiff and formal manner and greased hair, and more to do with the greedy twinkle in his eye. His cruel undertones, and things of that nature. Perhaps it was the pot calling the kettle black, but naturally Willa couldn't have cared less. She pressed her small frame against the porch railing, moving away from Brady ever so slightly. Her expression was still firm, but being out in the sweet Kenyan air that morning had served her well. In fact, some might say she was in better spirits than usual. Mrs. Bradshaw spent far too much time trying to keep Willa couped up in their home. Trying to teach her embroidery, how to be politely loquacious and things of that dreadfully painful nature. Willa spent many afternoons hungrily gazing out the window of their parlor, pricking her delicate fingers with sewing needles and cursing the day embroidery was thought up.
The color of Jayce's voice brought her back to earth once the group's conversation was revived ever so slightly. Miss Bradshaw had been looking thoughtfully out at the savanna, trying to pin out exactly where she and Jayce had bumped into one another. The watering hole was a mere fleck of brown in the distance, surrounded by a vibrant plain of golden grasses. An amber ribbon of Jayce's voice fanned out across the picturesque scene, and she turned once again to face the small group. "Funny," Willa mused very unenthusiastically. She was beating a dead horse, but Willa wasn't one to leave things alone until she had the final word. An unattractive quality, to saw the least. "You'd think I'd remember something like that, wouldn't you?" Willa would positively have to put on her best game face for the occasion. It was all of her favorite people in one room, wasn't it? Aside from Jayce, of course. The man was perhaps obnoxious in ways, but Willa didn't have the heart to say she couldn't stand him (though that could change sooner than later). Ms. Bradshaw, Brady, and Lyra however, were barely tolerable. She had spent a fair amount of time trying to decide who she'd rather be stuck on an island with. To that day the verdict was a mystery. Willa perked up slightly each time Jayce spoke, for his voice was much more tolerable than the bright and jagged edges of Lyra's and Brady's. Her anxiety waned slightly as he claimed he wouldn't be leaving, though her nose wrinkled ever so slightly at the comments that followed.
Willa clutched the chipping wood of their railing as Lyra's voice distracted her from the conversation. Something about her being good singer. Blah, blah, blah. Willa remained unconvinced and the color of Miss Cole's voice was the equivalent of staring up at the sun. Oh, how she wanted to slap that dumb and flirty smile right off her lips. "Oh, Lyra, my apologizes," Willa began tiredly. "Your modesty is overwhelming, but I'm afraid your singing would only serve to distract me from the playing I promised Mr. Grant. As would yours, Jayce." Yet another open ended comment. She watched with masked amusement as Lyra's triumphant smile fell ever so slightly. “Not to worry, Willa! There will be other opportunities for me to sing. At your wedding, perhaps!” Lyra then looked like she was deep in thought, scheming, perhaps. Willa paid little attention to her request. She let out a laugh, as if to say 'very funny' before pausing to appreciate her fiancee's request. A story was a precious thing in the middle of no where and there wasn't a doubt in her mind that Jayce had some beautiful ones to tell. His stories of the African wilderness mixed with the colors of his voice-- it would almost be like being able to reach out and touch the savanna as he spoke. Suddenly this lunch was becoming more and more appealing. “Well, I know Willa must be starving. After all, you missed a lovely breakfast this morning, my dear,” Brady said smoothly. He once again took her small hand in his, then began leading her and the group off into their 'humble' abode.
Willa wasn't sure which she despised more. When Brady was being agreeable, or when he was being a pain. At least when he was being a pain she didn't feel daft for complaining about him. If only she knew what Jayce was thinking at that moment. Regardless, she ventured ahead of the pack, pressed open her screen door and trailed into her and Brady's home. It was like walking into the belly of a beast, claimed one of the village boys, not a week before. Willa often wondered what it was like to live in the pleasant simpleness of a hut, with the stars peering down at you through patches in the roof as you slept. The house reeked of her mother's perfume and the walls were a stark white, in the classic style. Her mother-- the perfume and Jayce's question hit her at the same time and she paused ever so slightly as she walked into their dining room. She stopped slightly abruptly, cause Brady to bump into her ever so slightly. Willa could hear him stiffly exhale in annoyance. Her sporadic flitting about annoyed him to tears, but Willa paid no attention. "Is mother at the club this afternoon?" she inquired quickly after noting Jayce's curiosity. Brady opened his mouth as if he was about to speak, but not before a much older image of Miss Willa walked through the door from the next room. Willa mirrored her fiancee's stiff exhale as she looked her flustered mother over subtly. The woman was on the shorter side, as was her daughter. They both shared the same fiery auburn hair, but Willa's looked more unmanageable-- like that all the pins in the world couldn't keep little wisps from breaking free.
Today, Ms. Bradshaw looked tired and perhaps a bit annoyed. “Ms. Bradshaw, you'll never believe who we found wandering around the village with Mr. Grant,” Lyra giggled as she ran an elegant hand through her hair. Willa sat down at the end of the table, nearest to the open window. "The village, WIlla?" Evelyn repeated in slight disdain. Her stone-grey eyes trailed over to Jayce, when the expression of discomfort worsened. She could almost hear her mother's thoughts about him in her head, and it killed her. Any other lifestyle other than that of the first class was wrong. Living with the beasts? Despicable! Willa would hear of it later. Brady piped up with a cold laugh. "Evelyn, it's the Ngong hills. It wasn't as if she was wandering the savanna." Willa let out a nervous laugh and twirled a silver fork between her thumb and her index finger. If only he knew. "Thank God Mr. Grant was with you, I suppose," Evelyn added with her peppery voice as she waved in the servants with a dainty gloved hand. Willa's cheeks were burning with embarrassment. Little did she know, this was precisely how Evelyn felt when Willa was being snide. "From what I know of him, Jayce seems to be a very brave man," Willa replied quickly, in his defense. She smoothed out a corner of the white lace table cloth before looking up at him with an apologetic look hidden with a trying smile. "I should love to hear one of his stories, perhaps over lunch." The young woman seemed to be on her finest behavior. Someone had to be, when you were surrounded by the intolerable.
Oh, Willa pitied Jayce terribly at that moment. To Willa, this was dysfunction at its finest.
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Sibylla immediately noticed Ranajay's change of expression, but not before it was too late. She knew his face practically as well as she knew her own. The young woman couldn't help but tense lightly as his dark eyes became curious, yet some how ever so distressed. After twenty-two years of lounging around the Sultan's court together, Sibylla knew that face. They would often sneak out during court, go out beyond the walls of Riyadad on the humped backs of camels and ride until they were near lost. Sibylla had fond memories of blowing off suffocating parties with the young man. However, something undeniable had caught his attention and then-- his words hung in the air, his sentence unfinished. Sibylla cocked a brow and straightened up, moving away from the cool marble ever so slightly. The afternoon sun had not yet begun to warm it with its rays. What could it be? Curiosity overcame her. "Ranajay? What is it?" Bylla demanded in their language, visibly annoyed as he failed to complete his sentence. The fact she used his full name spoke for itself at how unamused she was. However, something made her hesitate turning around to face the source of his shock. Was is Juan? Andie? Were they near enough to hear their schemes? Oh, how she hated any form of surprise or suspense. Always. A'Sibylla uncrossed her arms and prepared to turn around, but not before he had reached her.
A chill shot down Sibylla's spine as a finger wrapped around one of her big, loose curls. A line had already been crossed in that split second. Touching-- publicly, more than anything-- drove her absolutely to the point of insanity. Touching Sibylla in any way, shape, or form, without her consent, was a grave mistake and a peeve she couldn't even begin to conceal. This undesirable trait had been a kink in her previous relationships, both with friends and with men. Anger had begun to pulse through her body almost immediately. Yes. Sibylla knew exactly who it was, even before Felipe had leaned in far too close for her comfort (and sanity). A different man had made a similar mistake once, although with different intentions. Sibylla had elbowed him in the lip very subtly and it had given her a great sense of pride to do so. Felipe was simply trying to drive her mad. It was working. He leaned in from behind and whispered something in Arcandus' simpler tongue while Sibylla clamped her hands into tiny fists. Yet another chill shot down her spine as his breath traveled down near the nap of her neck. She suddenly felt completely and utterly exposed, watching Jay's expression in a look of suppressed horror. Oh, what it must have looked like. Did you miss me, darling? His words echoed through her mind, playing on a loop as she could think of hardly anything else. Felipe, although he didn't yet know it, could very easily ruin everything Sibylla was meant-- nay, created-- to do. The gentleman was one of the few people there who had actually traveled to the distant land of Al-Saruna and seen the feeble princess. Sibylla was a far cry from Princess Reemelia, not by looks, but by mannerisms. Sibylla wasn't weak.
Murderous thoughts ran through his head at the touch, the breath, and then the smirk she could see out of the corner of her eye. The sensuality of his voice and his expression was vastly inappropriate and nearly made her skin crawl with discomfort. How she wished that it was just the two of them, like their previous encounters. Sibylla's itch to push him away was a hard one not to scratch at that moment. Perhaps if they had been alone, Bylla might have given him a fierce slap across the face. She imagined it, even. The echo that it would make in the lofty castle walls and the gratification she would feel afterward when she examined the look on his face. But seeing as it was an engagement party, the occasion demanded a little more class. A little more. Within a split second of this acknowledgment, Sibylla's hand reached to slap Felipe's away. It let out a weak slap and didn't give her nearly as much satisfaction as a real slap would have, under the circumstances however, this would have to suffice. The princess glanced about once she did so, to make sure no one had grown curious of their subtle scene. "Not in the slightest," Sibylla replied, matter-o-factly, returning is amused smirk with a crueler one, and eyes that expressed how much she would have loved to have him killed right then and there. For no other reason than that he stood in her way. And no one stood in the way of Sibylla and her father's rebellion for long. Princess Reemelia's 'accident' was proof of that. Because if Sibylla didn't have this-- who was she? "A nuisance is a hard thing to miss."
Sibylla once again remembered that Jay was blissfully unaware of Felipe's knowledge of their charade. It wasn't anything against Jay, really, that had prevented her from telling him. Sibylla simply liked to handle things herself and didn't care to swap secrets. The princess had hoped that their full attention on Felipe wouldn't have been necessary. And so far, it wasn't. He hadn't made any real threats to them-- just tormented her, truly. It was a game he liked to play and Sibylla liked to think that she had it well under control. The young woman shifted her weight uncomfortably and glanced back to Ranajay with a firm, indecipherable look. Now was the time to fill him in, no doubt. Jay would be furious if she hadn't been the one to tell him. Ha. As if Jay's statement would be enough to leave them alone. It was a laughable thought. Felipe was persistent, that much was obvious. "Jay," Bylla interrupted him in Sarunan. "He knows." An apology would be a hard thing to find in Sibylla's expression. You see, everything Sibylla did, Sibylla found completely necessary. Even if that meant keeping dire secrets.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
i might still be editing this. D:
le afrique
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★ kassiopeia meridian belaqua + kassi
★ the mermaid
★ female + heterosexual
★ june 23 + three hundred and eighty-three (looks twenty)
★ positano, italy
★ bright-eyed, loving, clumsy, empathetic
★ the sea, star gazing, socializing, rain
★ singing, seafood, fire, sarcasm
★ le afrique + chanel celaya
i used to love singing-- i really did! it was my favorite thing to do, once upon a time. i was singing when i met mr. trout, even. he really loved my voice and flattered me for days. i would sit in the bay in the middle of the night and sing to the stars, and then mr. trout would ask me to be in this magnificent show he talked about so much. for some reason, i wasn't afraid of him, like i was most humans. it seemed he had thing superior understanding of me and my kind. on the third day of our meetings in the harbor he told me such magnificent stories of this 'circus' of his that i was near begging for him to take me with. he described a tent that rivaled mountains and scraped the heavens, people who took care of you like family, and oh-- the places i would go! this 'ireland' sounded like a sort of eden. he said that the beaches were made up of white pebbles and the sea was clear as crystal, with views of ivory cliffs and rolling hills. ireland itself was everything that he described, however the water was much cooler and muggier than implied. his circus has become a sort of hell. i dread singing. i dread the unfamiliar faces staring up at me (mainly the faces of men), and the suggestive things they shout after i'm finished. i bite back tears as i walk off stage. on land i have two left feet, and am constantly dropping and tripping over various objects. i miss my teal tail and i pray to swim-- but i simply cannot find the time, say for the night, when the water feels like knives on my skin. i miss my home off the coast of italy, but haven't the faintest idea how to reach it. land is so puzzling-- there isn't even a current to pull you in the right direction. i get along with most of the performers here. my father always told me that i found the beauty in everything and everyone, and in a lot of ways i think he was right. i can even see it in that fiery dragon tamer, despite the fact he taunts me with his tricks. i even find beauty in the unicorn, with eyes as hungry as lust. we've actually become a strange pair of friends. i often beg people to swim with me, but few oblige. if i live on land with these two clumsy limbs any longer, may poseidon strike me dead!
credit to pink panda paw ~
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le afrique
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- Kassiopeia's firm dislike for singing, her previous fancy, had begun around and about four years prior. It had begun with a simple remark, really. One comment that had sent her spinning into a prolonged phase of uncertainty. "Ay, sweetheart, I'll give ya three pounds for a throw," a young man shouted with a fist-full of bills, his fist pumping in the air. Another man a meter away from him let out a bellowing laugh and crossed his arms. "I'd like to see what else those pretty little lips of hers could do," he snickered cruelly. Her toes that had been caressing the worn wooden stage as she sung froze and her eyes widened momentarily. A younger Kassiopeia Belaqua stood on a narrow stage with a spot light pointed directly on her small figure. Her blue eyes scanned the predominantly male crowd until they landed on the handsome young men who had made her the offers. Her voice trailed off until the words were lost inside of her. The lump forming in the back of her throat prevented her mesmerizing melody from reaching the ears of the customers, and for this, Mr. Trout was very upset. He stood lurking in the out skirts of the crowd, studying the intrigued faces of his customers (her customers, too-- if she had been getting paid). Kassi's mouth hung open in shock, and although the look on Trout's face demanded that she continue, the young mermaid could think of nothing but the satisfaction she would have felt at that moment, if only she could run off the stage, down the lush hillside and to the lovely, lovely beach. Where the air smelled so sweetly of salt that it tickled your nose and when she jumped into the rolling waves, the sea welcomed her home by engulfing her in a warm embrace and whispering age-old songs in her ear. However, Miss Kassiopeia didn't have time to dash off the stage before the thick velvet curtains closed before her, nearly nicking the tips of her toes as it wooshed past her. Kassi then felt Mr. Trout's bony hands curl around her small arm, and all very suddenly slipped out of her shock. "I'm very sorry Mr. Trout, it's just that those men were just being so very rude," Kassi explained quickly and almost pleadingly. He spent the next fifteen minutes telling her that for no reason was she ever to stop singing. The homesick mermaid had spent the next hour crying in the comfort of her humble trailer. That very moment of that very day had led her to regret ever opening her mouth to sing for anyone, particularly that Mr. Trout, so long ago in Cyprus. She much preferred her other daytime show, when she swam around in a pool, playing with the children who stared at her in awe. Their big blue eyes warmed her heart and she often laughed lovingly as they hesitantly reached out to stroke her tail.
The young woman's quaint little trailer had changed much since her first encounter with blatant rudeness on land. Kassi was what some would describe as a hoarder. Her trailer was uncomfortable and perhaps ridiculous to anyone who wasn't a merperson. It sat under the shade of a very lovely tree, surrounded by dozens of other trailers that matched it in both size and color. The first thing one noticed when attempting to walk through the narrow door was that something behind the door prevented it from swinging to its full potential. Behind the door and around the circumference of the entire room were jars, stacked upon jars, stacked upon jars of ocean water. The light from the windows shown through them and lit the room up like the center of a chandelier. Surrounding those jars were half a dozen baskets, chalk full of shells and sea glass. Kassiopeia frequently left the windows of her trailer open, in hopes of creating a faux salty breeze for her to fall asleep to. Her stomach still churned for home when she lay curled up in her bed at night. But this particular morning, however, Kassi seemed rather at ease with her surroundings. She sat legs folded to the side, 'mermaid' style on the wooden floor boards of her trailer. It was beaded with grains of sand, and people who she asked to sit with her often complained of the itch. She sat in front of a elongated mirror, with a wicker basket of shells in her lap and a gramophone at her side. Mozart's Turkish March and a fair amount of static pulsed gently through the air, her window was open and a breeze tousled her warm lock as she transitioned between running fingers through her hair and gently digging through her basket. Occasionally the young mermaid would pause, hold a shell up to the morning light and then toss it back in, or perhaps hold it tenderly up to her ear and listen to the sea's song. Her fingers danced lively to the tune of the song as she spoke quietly to her shells and herself. "Hmm, hmm, hm. No, you won't do," Kassiopeia spoke apologetically to a tiny starfish. She pressed it up against her hair, then tilted her head to see it in the mirror. Sighed. But then she saw it. A pale yellow starfish (about the size of her palm) at the bottom of the basket. Her heart fluttered lovingly as she plucked it up and tucked it into her long curly locks, hanging freely down her back. "There!" Her fingers reached to turn up the volume on the gramophone.
Kassiopeia jumped up like a triumphant child, smoothing out her yellow dress as she did so. She took a spin in front of the mirror and tapped her teal flats together. It was nearly ten in the morning, and her first show would begin once the customers arrived. Her act specifically was for the men who snuck off from the big top, away from their spouses and children to have a few drinks and enjoy her voice. The minuscule red tent was dreadfully hot and smelled of cigarette smoke so pungently that it often made her eyes water to the point where she was forced to take a break and splash a bit of salt water on her rosy cheeks, or even dab her eyes with a handkerchief. The mere thought of it made Kassiopeia's nose wrinkled in disgust as she pushed the shells to their rightful place, right next to her wall of jars. After one last glance in the mirror and an adjustment to her the starfish tucked near her ear, Kassiopeia was satisfied and left the comfort of her trailer. The girl loved to dress to impress. When she first lived on land, the feeling of men stealing glances made her cheeks flush. When she caught them she'd play with her hair, or lean her head back ever so gently and laugh. But not so often anymore. The glamor of life on land had become a shade of gray. There were few aspects that still held her interest, however. Like the way she walked through the grass in the mornings, that morning, actually, and felt the dew lick at her ankles. Or the way the petal of a flower felt when she ran it between her fingers. These were the things she loved about land. She also liked these new funny things called 'nicknames.' People who worked at the circus particularly liked to call her Kassi. Say for one young gentlemen who she had acquired a particular affection for, who insisted on calling her Peia. Troy, the most dashing unicorn she'd laid eyes on (the girl was quite fascinated by them). However, not the only unicorn she'd laid eyes on. Long, long ago in Cyprus there was a unicorn who constantly paced Petra Tou Romiou, the birthplace of Aphrodite, very near to her home. He was a hopeless unicorn, very much in love with a young woman in a nearby village. Troy was different then the unicorn she'd once known. He radiated confidence and lust for women, to the point where her heart fluttered the second he glanced in her direction. But guilt and sadness was an overwhelming mix of emotion whenever he came near.
Kassiopeia was lost in a puzzle of thoughts, both about Troy and the day ahead. She possessed mixed feelings about leaving the circus. On the one hand, she missed the warm embrace of the Mediterranean and looking up at her lovely island of Cyprus. On the other hand, she had made a commitment to the Mr. Trout and his circus when she left with him. Mermaids loathed breaking agreements. It chipped away at their delicate consciences. Kassiopeia had been aimlessly wandering the grounds, passing tents, trailers and small groups of people. She'd been more or less day dreaming and admiring the smells of the Irish countryside (smell was a limited sense under the sea). Kassi had only just passed a lovely little tent on her left when something knocked her off balance. Someone-- not something-- tall. The fragile little mermaid clung to the first thing that struck her. A strong arm, with a soft button up shirt. "I'm sorry," Kassi insisted quickly. Her pale eyes wandered up the expanse of the man's chest, for he was notably taller than she. Troy. It was Troy. Her eyes met his milliseconds later and a panic surged through her, followed by a slight flutter of her heart. Immediately she released his arm, now that she had regained her footing. Kassiopeia pressed a lock of hair behind her ear and smoothed out her dress quickly. She felt her cheeks flush pink. "Troy, I'm so sorry, I wasn't paying attention. Are you alright?" Peia, as he called her, explained apologetically. She frequently caught herself being apologetic to the man. It was, after all, entirely her fault he was caught up in the circus. Forced to do something he detested, tortured, exploited, and required to sleep in a dreadful trailer. It saddened Kassi more and more each time his misfortunes crossed her mind.
. . .
music! -- outfit! -- hair!
le afrique
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- A voice cackled through a small black stereo in fast, rapid Italian. His voice was nearly completely drowned out in static, which explained why three grown men were anxiously leaning over the small device. Their fists were clenched and sitting a few inches away from the radio was a small pile of euros. Thirty or forty of them gleamed in the bright kitchen lights. The men leaned over the table, made up in their chef uniforms, pasta sauce was splattered over the white fabric. Celia Montessero sat alone at a separate table, straining to hear the the ice-breaking football game. Her legs were crossed and she wore a pale yellow sun dress that reached a little past her knees. Celia's hair fell in big brown curls past her shoulders and although her eyes were glued to the pages of a book, it was obvious she was very aware to what was going on around her.
Her foot taped gently against the floor and her eyes pulled away from the page as the results of the game were screamed excitedly over the radio. The three men slammed their hands against the table and Gabriele, Celia's brother, ripped his hat off his head. He turned around to look at his younger sister. "How do you do that?" he growled, glancing down at the pile of euros. Celia simply stood up, smiled, and weaved through the group of men, picking her money up off the metal table. "I told you, Madrid has nothing on Manchester," Celia replied with a a shrug. She counted her money carefully and reached up on her tip toes to grab a glass jar off of a tall wooden shelf. After she spoke the chefs erupted into a feud of whose fault it was that they each lost ten euros. Celia glided back over to the radio and unplugged it from the wall. "I blame you, Gabe. You told us she knew nothing of gambli--" Celia interrupted the young man on queue from her mother who was doing the dishes a few feet away from them all. "Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please. I'll be happy to settle this with you later, perhaps you'd like to discuss the up coming tournament in Milan--" Celia suggested half-jokingly. The young woman had a knack for football. She'd spent far too many afternoons out of her father's boat while he listened to the world cup or other important matches. It was near engraved into her brain.
Of course, this only caused more finger to be pointed at the Montessero siblings and their mother threw her hands up in defeat, grabbing a damp rag and hitting her son's friend with it. "That's enough! I will throw that radio into the harbor if this keeps up! And don't think I won't, Gabriele," an elderly Italian woman shouted at the feuding young adults. Celia bit her lip to keep from laughing and straightened up as her mother turned around to face her. "And you young lady... go easy on the boys, eh?" She cupped her daughter's chin in her hands and then went back to the dishes, leaving the boys giving Miss Montessero threatening glances behind her back. She gave them an angelic glance and walked over to the closet, grabbing a thin jacket and wrapping it around her small frame. "Where you think you're going?" one of the men asked with a smile. "I want my money back, Cece--" Gabriele interrupted before Celia could even manage to muster up a lie. "She's going to a party on the cliffs," Gabe laughed as he washed his hands. Celia stopped mid-step and shot Gabe a threatening glance. "Oh, there's a party on the cliffs tonight?" she asked. "As if you didn't know," Gabe said walking around to the stove. "As if you weren't planning on going yourself," Celia laughed and reached for the door handle. "But if you're not back by 1:00 a.m. sharp, I'm going to have dad come up there and kill any guy you're with--" Celia shoved her brother, a little more than playfully, of course it wasn't much of a shove. She had never been the one for fighting, physically, at least. "You will not. Quit acting like such a tough guy." She slammed the door shut before they could whine any longer.
As soon as she stepped outside, a gust of the cool night air hit her and she let out a sigh of relief. It was much too hot in that kitchen, particularly in the summer. The stars shone brightly in the sky, just as they usually did. It was a blessing that went along with the fact there were no nearby cities that could pollute the sky with their bright lights. She walked down the narrow stone steps carefully, some of them were damp as they were constantly being bathed in the sea water that splashed up against them. Celia hardly even noticed that she could fall into the water, since the stairs clung to an unforgiving cliff. No, she'd skipped down those steps much too many times to be worried by such seemingly silly matters. Instead she thought of the accordion player that was gracing the entire city with music. Probably Theo, a lonely man who only came out of his apartment to play for locals and tourists alike. She made her way through narrow alley ways and waved to faces of people she recognized as she walked past. It was a short walk to the vineyards from the restaurant, but the small alley ways and twists and turns made getting there much more complex if you weren't a local. It took Celia all of five minutes to navigate her way through the familiar nooks and crannies and before she knew it, she found herself in a picture-esque lemon orchard and wine vineyard, among everyone she'd gone to school with for the past eleven or twelve years. Since Vernazza was quite a small village, there were only about fifty or sixty people there, all of which were surrounding a bonfire and several kegs of limoncello and moonshine, which more or less tasted like rocket fuel.
Celia had sat an drank with her friends for about forty-five minutes before drifting away from the crowd alone, and heading back towards the cliff. She carefully climbed down a few feet to a wide ledge. It was a popular place for teens to relax and Celia was definitely not the only one there. On other ledges were young couples drinking, talking, among other things. Celia pressed her back against the smooth black rock and slid down, until she sat up against the boulder. Her brown eyes gazed down at her village. Lights illuminated the black water below and the pastels of the buildings, all of which were crammed together. Ah, Vernazza. It never ceased to take her breath away.
