Angélique woke up early, this morning, earlier than usual. Her sleep was uneasy, but it is related to the still unfamiliar feeling of sleeping in a foreign bed, in a foreign house, in a foreign land. Perhaps her sleep is also troubled with irate concerns about the fate of a dear protector.
Her room at the Mansion, much like hers in Beaumont, is sunny, white, empty. Creational vastness for the little embroiderer, the nudity of starkly clear walls is both appeasing and food for her wild dreams, her fanciful mind, her eager hands.
Her steps take her to the kitchen. Today, she cannot draw any longer. Her hands won’t obey her, and she is still missing the material for the banner she promised. At any rate, she
promised fresh bakery to a friend, and she simply can’t hold in place after
what happened the other day.
Absently, she walks in the quiet halls, her hand reaching occasionally to touch her lips, as if recalling the fleeting caress, or summoning it back. She finds the dough she prepared the night before and rolls the croissants, prepares hot chocolate, humming to herself. The gestures are mechanical; her joy has taken her over.
When the smell rises from the over, she takes the buttery rolls out, lays them to rest. She has no need to read or to draw. Her eyes are on the window’s horizon, in another place.
She is specifically waiting for Ser Loras Tyrell, but any one should feel free to walk in. She like as much made more croissants than necessary.
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fairy_fingers's journal
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