The things Tilda says appeal to the pragmatic part of her and embarrassingly enough, the part of her that is still very much a child holding out some hope that someone might care about any of this. But paranoia has, and likely always will color her view of the world no matter how good intentions may sound. It intermingles with her logic and she is careful and resentful enough to ask a very important question.
"I'm waiting for the part where you tell me we'll get a divorce once my bastard of a father is off my back." Now she's looking at Tilda, hands balled into frustrated little fists. Her engagement ring: modern in style, simple in its design and bezels but indicative of wealth in how big the stone was (but not so big it might be gauche). At first she hadn't wanted to wear it at all, but it sent a message to her other suitors that only made Miorine's life more frustrating. Some took the active choice of not wearing her engagement ring as an invitation: men always assumed they were more charming, more handsome, more inviting than they actually were- and so they'd made advances, thinking Miorine might prefer a younger man, or just a man altogether. After all, her father hadn't been happy about the winner of this archaic tournament either. If they could curry her favor maybe there'd be a chance.
"If it's really about my well-being you'd get me out of this and leave me alone."
Tilda looks unsurprised by the question, which isn't all that unusual — she was difficult to surprise. Her career relied on discretion and adaption. Her existence relied on the preservation of self above all other things. She'd learned early on that being a few steps ahead of everyone else was the only thing that guaranteed this.
For a time she doesn't answer — or rather, she takes her time in answering.
She wants to ask Miorine how she could be so naive. Instead she softens this unkind thought and spins it into something else. "You'll be waiting a while for that — your father getting off of your back, that is. Divorce or no." Her voice is maddeningly calm. She's smoked her cigarette almost down to the filter — she lets it drop, grinds it under the heel of her boot. "Unless we had a very different discussion. One I'd prefer to have away from any areas his guards may have bugged."
She lets the implication stick there, then continues. "I have a question for you. What would you do with the freedom that I grant you? I don't intend to touch you, for what it's worth. I have no interest in some tawdry affair with a girl more than half my age." Her own barb now, an indicator that she too had lost something in this. Whether or not that was actually true was irrelevant.
"You'll be able to travel, to learn, to build away from your father's influence. Would you like a garden? I'll build one. It's only money. A man? A woman?" She pins her with her gaze, eyebrows raised in a question. "As long as you're discreet, I take no offense."
Miorine wonders if one day she'll be old enough to win in these sorts of conversations. What was it about the way adults spoke that made you feel so stupid, so small? Were they actually so much smarter? Had years of life experience really cultivated some grand truth that only someone with a fully developed frontal lobe could understand?
Her jab hurts only because of how insignificant it makes her feel in the world of fully grown giants.
The shame is there, just like when she speaks to her father or one of his interchangeable goons. But this time there's a drop of guilt there too, feeling ungrateful in the eyes of someone who may earnestly care for her well-being. It didn't feel right, but it sounded right.
Miorine's shoulders shake and she can't do anything but stare at her own feet, like a reprimanded child trying to save face it takes everything in her power not to cry. The only argument she can draw from was that it wasn't fair, but Tilda had already acknowledged that much; it was a moot point.
At last pity and empathy moves her. The spirit of charity even affected her. The Ice Queen, Elisabet used to call her when she was in one of her moods. I know you're better than that. It was funny. Whenever Lis said it, she would always believe it, let it soften her features.
She removes her coat and settles it over Miorine's shoulders. Smooths out the fabric to afford her a bit of human warmth.
A beat. She turns away, seemingly unbothered by the cold despite the blouse she's wearing offering no protection from the chill. "You can be upset if you'd like. You can cry. I won't judge you. But after this, you mustn't let them see how hurt you are."
Her own band is simple and unadorned. She holds it up to the fading light. "Things will change for you."
Miorine realizes just how cold she is when Tilda hangs her jacket around her shoulders- it is too long and hits the backs of her knees. She's only just defrosting when Tilda guides her to meet her gaze; her eyes are already shimmering with the tell-tale beginning of tears but she holds them behind a dam built by pride and willpower alone.
She can't remember a time anyone has ever offered her empathy like this, tried in earnest to not let her feel so alone. Even after Tilda has stepped back she's stuck here frozen, staring with her jaw forcibly clamped shut.
Eventually, she comes back to life, stepping away so she can cry in peace. It's silent, no hiccups, no gasping, no turning until every tear has dried up. She's had years of practice.
Only when her voice is steady does she finally speak.
"I'm going to college. I already got into all the Ivys. I'm majoring in biochemistry and then I'm getting my MBA. My father still lives in the 1800's- he didn't want me to do either."
While Miorine cries and subsequently gathers herself, the cold seeps into Tilda's pores. She can't remember the last time she cried. Over Lis, surely. Before that, her clearest memories of weeping were those lonely boarding school days, curled in on herself at night and missimg her mother and father. In the present, she feels a lurch in her stomach — a feeling she associates with falling. She wraps her arms around herself and rubs the goosebumps away.
She's grateful the girl is composed enough to keep her tears to herself, although it makes her feel discontent too. The signs of her father stripping away her humanity. No matter. She would be a better guardian. A better family. She'd thought this for the past two years, and this new arrangement only cemented her resolve.
Miorine's proclamation makes her smile. It's still there when she looks over her shoulder at her — drowning in her coat, flushed with cold and grief. So small, so young! She'd forgotten herself for a moment and now remembered — this was to protect her. It would be such a waste of talent to have her wither away as some unhappy housewife.
If her own hatred of loneliness factored into it, her desire for an equal to have all to herself... she certainly wouldn't reveal as much.
"I would expect no less. College it is, then. Good. It's good to see that you haven't lost your drive. That fire —" She makes a rousing gesture with her fist, like she's rallying a group into battle, "Your mother had it too. Would you like to go? Your father's little victory lap has exhausted me, and I despise corporate schmoozing. I can call a car and we can be done with it."
She is only distantly aware of Tilda's praise, it echoes against her eardrums like she's underwater— the sound is incapable of reaching her fully, but she hears it.
Miorine tugs the coat around her and nods in agreement at Tilda's offering. The coat smells of her perfume: clean and rich all at once. She pulls the collar of it up, hiding in it. The smell circles her almost like some kind of protection from the world outside of the coat.
When they leave she hardly notices anyone else: torn between grief for own life and that of her mother's. Would she be okay with any of this, she wonders. There is a part of her that wants to ask Tilda but she's afraid of the answer.
For some time after, Tilda gives her "bride" her space. She has her own room — almost a wing, really — on Tilda's estate, and save her brief daily correspondence, she rarely bothers Miorine.
... There is the occasional meal together. Breakfast most days, where Tilda keeps her questions light and usually focused on Miorine's pending studies. It's in part due to the very real unease that she won't eat otherwise. She tries to keep her father away from her, though it's challenging work even for someone who could hide almost anyone or anything. She manages to keep their wedding quiet and out of tabloids — career and social suicide if someone found out she was wed to a young woman she'd essentially paid for. With that, her side of Delling's bargain was done. He could try to interfere if he liked, but now he would be the one with challenges.
Around the time a normal couple would have a honeymoon, Tilda says, "I don't want you to feel like a prisoner. Let's go on a trip." And so on a trip they had gone, a flight booked to France in the span of a heartbeat. Years ago, she would've flown private, but Elisabet had created a sense of shame in her. She'd sold the jet to some eccentric with an aviation hobby a few years before her death.
Similarly, Tilda keeps her promise to Miorine — separate suites, plenty of time in their itinerary for Miorine to explore on her own.
Paris in spring was truly a sight to behold after all. It would be a waste for her to be looming about the entire time.
"How does it feel?" Tilda asks her one evening. Her gift to Miorine this morning had been a bouquet of pale pink roses. She is surprised and touched to see that they've been placed in a vase and neatly pruned. "Do you feel connected to it? Whenever I visit home, I find myself feeling nostalgic."
The days pass soundless and slow; she's hardly present for most of what follows, throwing herself into preparations for school. She foregoes dorms for a private apartment near campus- cohabitating with her peers feels like torture, what would they even talk about?
The wedding is devoid of any romance because after all, why would it be? This was a transaction, a shelter afforded to her for the sake of her father's financial goals. It was the best case scenario in a situation that was never meant to work in her benefit. Her gratefulness is practiced, and when she feels resentful because even Tilda fairs better than she does in all of this she remembers that even with these tipped scales Tilda still has to bear Miorine's weight all the same.
They're seated at a cafe after a long day of shopping and exploring. They'd gone to a museum and Tilda had pointed out her favorites of the paintings, walking her through the details and the artists intentions. Miorine's appreciation of art was distant and not nearly as involved as Tilda's but she'd been taught enough art history to not make a fool of herself. She found herself less fascinated by the works themselves and more the theories and technical practices that needed to be understood to create within the confines of a certain movement. It was a reprieve from her own misery to discuss the math and physics involved in it all.
Miorine has ordered french fries, a tray of petit fours and her third diet Coke since they've been sat.
"I thought I would." She picks up one of the tiny cakes with her fingers and shoves the entirety of it into her mouth. There's a brief spark of happiness when she swallows it. Her manners return when she gently dabs at the corners of her lips with her napkin.
"But it just showed me how much I don't know about her. That asshole never wanted to talk about her- all I have is her research. I don't know anything about where she lived or what she liked to do when she lived here. I don't even know if my grandparents are alive."
Because it is a special occasion, Tilda watches this consumption of something only remotely resembling a meal without comment. It's a little funny, actually — she certainly can't eat like that anymore. Her personal trainer would have her head on a platter.
More importantly, she listens between demure sips of wine. It's not much of a surprise to hear this from Miorine, though it is a shame. But she does have something of importance to give her — Tilda leans back in her seat, hands folded under her chin. Contemplating.
"Finding people is easy enough, if one has the resources. I can't give you all the details, but if it's background you want... filling a family tree is within my skill set. Given enough time, I'm sure you'll be able to find any living relatives. Your father can withhold information, but I assure you — he can't scrub it."
There's a twinkle in her eye. "As for her interests... that can't be so. You seem to share some of them, after all. She had a natural ear for piano if I recall. And a green thumb — a talent I regrettably lack. And she loved this city, of course, though most tend to."
A pause. It's rare for her to share personal details, but she does now.
"It isn't quite the same, but I lost my parents when I was eight. For a time, I felt as you must feel. Adrift, disconnected. Eventually I remembered my father had a great love of fine art, which in turn led me to beginning my collection. It isn't quite the same." Her mouth thins. Something unfamiliar enters her expression — she looks lost. Melancholy. "However, it's something. A link where there was none before. Give it time. You'll get to know her in ways that may surprise you."
She sits up just a bit straighter when Tilda ties together the similarities between herself and her mother, some ever present gap inside of her filled at least momentarily. And then she just listens; Tilda rarely spoke of the things that preceded the version of herself that Miorine knows- in fact it was almost impossible to imagine her as some scared, abandoned child, searching for something to connect her to who she was and who she wanted to be.
Childish as it was, she had only ever existed in Miorine's mind like this: confident, graceful, so acutely aware of what she wanted from herself and others. Her brow furrows as she tries to imagine what this other version of her may have looked like- struggles to imagine Tilda as a teenager like her.
"I didn't know that. It's not on your Wikipedia page." There's a note of sarcasm there, some rueful humor.
"It is the same. All the horticulture and bio-engineering.. I only got into it because of my mom. I was lucky that I liked it, and that it was the one thing he didn't take from me." She pops another tiny treat into her mouth, chewing aggressively.
"He gave my piano away to some charity and got a fat tax break. I bought a keyboard once and hid it in my room but his goons found it and smashed it." She sounds little more than annoyed but it's a painful memory, one that cemented in her mind that she was a prisoner and not a daughter. He was little more than a horrifically cruel warden.
"Quite a few things aren't, to my immense relief." The quip makes her smile. "My college days were particularly fraught. I'm grateful to whomever is editing the page that they've kept it short."
Tilda listens in turn, though at Miorine's confession of Delling's cruelty her expression shifts just so — something sharp and displeased hardening the relaxed line of her mouth, making her turn a little in her seat until her profile is all that faces Miorine, all angles, like cold white stone.
"I see," is all she says at first, her posture haughty and remote. It becomes clear, or perhaps it will be, later — that she is angry. This is so rare that it's almost unheard of. Tilda was never angry, at least not in ways that could be easily figured out. The moment crests over her like a wave now, making her throat feel locked and her hand tighten into a white knuckled fist in her lap where it can't be seen. Gradually, her composure, barely rattled by most people's standards, rights itself.
She hated to hear about the destruction of creativity fostered in another. It was so rare, so beautiful. That it was sullied so is heartbreaking. If he meant it to be a lesson, he'd missed the mark. When she turns back to Miorine, her express is soft and solemn.
"I'm very sorry to hear that," she says. "I'm sorry that he did such a terrible thing to you." She is quiet for a time, and then she reaches over the table to put her hand over Miorine's own.
"I play the piano as well, though I don't practice as much as I should. You're free to use mine whenever you'd like. It'd be a waste for it to sit there, collecting dust in my sitting room."
She's gotten used to moments like this: not this particular behavior in and of itself, but quiet shifts in demeanor that were difficult to decipher and often well hidden. Over time she's learned to translate some of them but this was a new shade of Tilda.
Good thing she had all the time in the world to work through whatever this meant. No doubt she'd see it again- till death do they part and all of that.
Still, when that fades away Tilda is apologetic for this act of cruelty she had nothing to do with. Miorine isn't accustomed to sympathy, empathy or apologies in any capacity so all of this is just as new as the mysterious expression Tilda had worn before this. She looks down at her lap, embarrassed because she simply doesn't know how to respond.
"I'll think about it. Thanks."
It is sincere, if her bashfulness is any indication.
For some time Miorine is quiet, content to people watch and make a dent in her fries. Finally, she gathers the courage to ask something she's been pondering for some time.
"Are you.. really okay with all of this? It means you won't get to marry anyone else."
It's a question she'd been expecting for some time. Anyone would wonder at it — especially someone as clever as Miorine was. Tilda pulls back a little, sits up straighter in her chair. She lingers over her glass of wine for a moment, taking another sip before she responds.
"Yes, that is what it means. I'd thought about it for quite some time before arriving at my decision."
It isn't an answer, not really, but she sees the need to let it be known — impulsive decisions were not something she made a habit of. "I'll tell you something that you more than likely know — aging is difficult. And I'll tell you something that you may not know, and that is dating, marriage... these things become tiresome. Discouraging. Particularly in the social and economic circle that we are in. I've seen marriages end in affairs, divorces, illegitimate children. More than you can fathom. I've seen people get married who detest one another. Men killing their spouses, women filling themselves with botox until they're unrecognizable, all to keep their partners from abandoning them at the slightest whiff of something better..."
It's rare that Tilda sounded something other than calm and unruffled. Right now something else has found its way into her voice: disdain. "I became faced with the knowledge that I would be most likely be married for my money, or else my name. Even without any arrangements my parents may or may not have made for me, had they lived."
A long pause follows this. "Love, romance. These are luxuries that can't be bought. People like to pretend, but... ah. It usually ends in tears. I found a friend in you, which was rarity enough, and I had a way to help you. Not ideal, no. Not marrying someone else... it isn't the worst thing. Not by a long shot."
When she says that, that they're friends. Miorine feels a warmth bloom in her stomach thawing a cold she didn't know was even there. She would have been stupid to not have any lingering doubts- Tilda had acknowledged her as a colleague, but to be acknowledged as a friend dispels something gloomy.
"I looked into Elisabet."
Comfortable enough to be openly spoiled she admits this: finally pouring herself a glass from the bottle Tilda had ordered. It's legal here but she still gets a bit of a rush from drinking in public. Before this trip she'd wondered if people would see them out together and think they were mother and daughter.
Right now, it felt like two adults having a conversation.
"It's weird to imagine you in love."
Another admission, only shared because some wall has been broken.
"I guess all of this is easier when you've already gotten to have that experience."
It stings in a way that she doesn't quite understand.
To have Elisabet mentioned throws her off her game, causes a near imperceptible tightening of her shoulders. She supposes it's rational — the girl was bright, curious. Willful. And to deny her all information would be suspicious and unnecessary both. Still. This was a sore spot, a wound that had not healed and perhaps never would. She turns away again to watch the crowds milling about, the other guests speaking in low voices. And at last, some real emotion crosses the even, unbroken calm of her expression, something like pain. Regret.
"You aren't the first person that's said so." She sounds sad. It's an old refrain. How surprised her small circle of close friends were upon hearing of her whirlwind romance with Dr. Sobeck. Tilda had flings, spotty instances of one night stands, noncommittal engagements. Rarely did she experience feeling to this degree, so completely and with reckless abandon. And she had paid for it, hadn't she? Dearest, beloved Lis, she'd paid for it too. She held the memory close to her, too jealous and selfish to share it.
"No," she says at last, her tone hollow, "I'm afraid it isn't easier. It's simply something that we'll both need to weather, isn't it?"
Someone less bold and bratty would shrink under the realization that they've done wrong in Tilda's eyes. She was someone who managed to command the room without raising her voice. Miorine notes the ding in her grade but doesn't look away.
But Tilda does manage to make her feel guilty.
She feels pitiful over the fact that it's worked. Someone evenly matched with Tilda would have been self-possessed. It's difficult to hide entirely, she can't keep her lip from twitching. Miorine wonders if it will always be this way between them.
"You'll never get me to believe that." The waiter returns to fill Tilda's wine glass and this time, just before he leaves Miorine pushes her empty and untouched wine glass forward.
She tries not to look at the glass for too long when he pours.
"Hm," Tilda says in response, letting the conversation hit a lull as the waiter tops off their glasses. She plays with the bracelet on her wrist — silver and lacking in obvious adornment — and doesn't reach for her glass right away when they are left alone again. She turns the response over in her head and considers her approach to it, as always, as the sting of Elisabet's memory is buried under the surface.
Finally, she deigns to speak, turning her attention to Miorine in full again. Her hands come to fold under her chin. "Fair enough. I suppose it's too soon to tell."
The concession is given easily and gracefully, Miorine's faux pas seemingly forgiven.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2023-07-23 01:07 pm (UTC)"I'm waiting for the part where you tell me we'll get a divorce once my bastard of a father is off my back." Now she's looking at Tilda, hands balled into frustrated little fists. Her engagement ring: modern in style, simple in its design and bezels but indicative of wealth in how big the stone was (but not so big it might be gauche). At first she hadn't wanted to wear it at all, but it sent a message to her other suitors that only made Miorine's life more frustrating. Some took the active choice of not wearing her engagement ring as an invitation: men always assumed they were more charming, more handsome, more inviting than they actually were- and so they'd made advances, thinking Miorine might prefer a younger man, or just a man altogether. After all, her father hadn't been happy about the winner of this archaic tournament either. If they could curry her favor maybe there'd be a chance.
"If it's really about my well-being you'd get me out of this and leave me alone."
no subject
Date: 2023-07-23 07:23 pm (UTC)For a time she doesn't answer — or rather, she takes her time in answering.
She wants to ask Miorine how she could be so naive. Instead she softens this unkind thought and spins it into something else. "You'll be waiting a while for that — your father getting off of your back, that is. Divorce or no." Her voice is maddeningly calm. She's smoked her cigarette almost down to the filter — she lets it drop, grinds it under the heel of her boot. "Unless we had a very different discussion. One I'd prefer to have away from any areas his guards may have bugged."
She lets the implication stick there, then continues. "I have a question for you. What would you do with the freedom that I grant you? I don't intend to touch you, for what it's worth. I have no interest in some tawdry affair with a girl more than half my age." Her own barb now, an indicator that she too had lost something in this. Whether or not that was actually true was irrelevant.
"You'll be able to travel, to learn, to build away from your father's influence. Would you like a garden? I'll build one. It's only money. A man? A woman?" She pins her with her gaze, eyebrows raised in a question. "As long as you're discreet, I take no offense."
no subject
Date: 2023-07-23 08:32 pm (UTC)Her jab hurts only because of how insignificant it makes her feel in the world of fully grown giants.
The shame is there, just like when she speaks to her father or one of his interchangeable goons. But this time there's a drop of guilt there too, feeling ungrateful in the eyes of someone who may earnestly care for her well-being. It didn't feel right, but it sounded right.
Miorine's shoulders shake and she can't do anything but stare at her own feet, like a reprimanded child trying to save face it takes everything in her power not to cry. The only argument she can draw from was that it wasn't fair, but Tilda had already acknowledged that much; it was a moot point.
"Why do you care so much?"
no subject
Date: 2023-07-23 08:52 pm (UTC)She removes her coat and settles it over Miorine's shoulders. Smooths out the fabric to afford her a bit of human warmth.
"You're worth more than what your father has planned for you," she says gently, and this much she believes truthfully. She puts her fingers under Miorine's chin to tilt her head up. "And it's cliché, but you remind me of myself. I was alone at your age too. Isolated. My parents had both died years before. It made me brittle and misanthropic. It was art that made me remember to be human again. And someone I met. Hush now — all will be well. In time."
A beat. She turns away, seemingly unbothered by the cold despite the blouse she's wearing offering no protection from the chill. "You can be upset if you'd like. You can cry. I won't judge you. But after this, you mustn't let them see how hurt you are."
Her own band is simple and unadorned. She holds it up to the fading light. "Things will change for you."
no subject
Date: 2023-07-23 09:38 pm (UTC)She can't remember a time anyone has ever offered her empathy like this, tried in earnest to not let her feel so alone. Even after Tilda has stepped back she's stuck here frozen, staring with her jaw forcibly clamped shut.
Eventually, she comes back to life, stepping away so she can cry in peace. It's silent, no hiccups, no gasping, no turning until every tear has dried up. She's had years of practice.
Only when her voice is steady does she finally speak.
"I'm going to college. I already got into all the Ivys. I'm majoring in biochemistry and then I'm getting my MBA. My father still lives in the 1800's- he didn't want me to do either."
no subject
Date: 2023-07-24 02:28 am (UTC)She's grateful the girl is composed enough to keep her tears to herself, although it makes her feel discontent too. The signs of her father stripping away her humanity. No matter. She would be a better guardian. A better family. She'd thought this for the past two years, and this new arrangement only cemented her resolve.
Miorine's proclamation makes her smile. It's still there when she looks over her shoulder at her — drowning in her coat, flushed with cold and grief. So small, so young! She'd forgotten herself for a moment and now remembered — this was to protect her. It would be such a waste of talent to have her wither away as some unhappy housewife.
If her own hatred of loneliness factored into it, her desire for an equal to have all to herself... she certainly wouldn't reveal as much.
"I would expect no less. College it is, then. Good. It's good to see that you haven't lost your drive. That fire —" She makes a rousing gesture with her fist, like she's rallying a group into battle, "Your mother had it too. Would you like to go? Your father's little victory lap has exhausted me, and I despise corporate schmoozing. I can call a car and we can be done with it."
no subject
Date: 2023-07-24 12:29 pm (UTC)Miorine tugs the coat around her and nods in agreement at Tilda's offering. The coat smells of her perfume: clean and rich all at once. She pulls the collar of it up, hiding in it. The smell circles her almost like some kind of protection from the world outside of the coat.
When they leave she hardly notices anyone else: torn between grief for own life and that of her mother's. Would she be okay with any of this, she wonders. There is a part of her that wants to ask Tilda but she's afraid of the answer.
no subject
Date: 2023-07-25 03:17 am (UTC)... There is the occasional meal together. Breakfast most days, where Tilda keeps her questions light and usually focused on Miorine's pending studies. It's in part due to the very real unease that she won't eat otherwise. She tries to keep her father away from her, though it's challenging work even for someone who could hide almost anyone or anything. She manages to keep their wedding quiet and out of tabloids — career and social suicide if someone found out she was wed to a young woman she'd essentially paid for. With that, her side of Delling's bargain was done. He could try to interfere if he liked, but now he would be the one with challenges.
Around the time a normal couple would have a honeymoon, Tilda says, "I don't want you to feel like a prisoner. Let's go on a trip." And so on a trip they had gone, a flight booked to France in the span of a heartbeat. Years ago, she would've flown private, but Elisabet had created a sense of shame in her. She'd sold the jet to some eccentric with an aviation hobby a few years before her death.
Similarly, Tilda keeps her promise to Miorine — separate suites, plenty of time in their itinerary for Miorine to explore on her own.
Paris in spring was truly a sight to behold after all. It would be a waste for her to be looming about the entire time.
"How does it feel?" Tilda asks her one evening. Her gift to Miorine this morning had been a bouquet of pale pink roses. She is surprised and touched to see that they've been placed in a vase and neatly pruned. "Do you feel connected to it? Whenever I visit home, I find myself feeling nostalgic."
no subject
Date: 2023-07-25 02:36 pm (UTC)The wedding is devoid of any romance because after all, why would it be? This was a transaction, a shelter afforded to her for the sake of her father's financial goals. It was the best case scenario in a situation that was never meant to work in her benefit. Her gratefulness is practiced, and when she feels resentful because even Tilda fairs better than she does in all of this she remembers that even with these tipped scales Tilda still has to bear Miorine's weight all the same.
They're seated at a cafe after a long day of shopping and exploring. They'd gone to a museum and Tilda had pointed out her favorites of the paintings, walking her through the details and the artists intentions. Miorine's appreciation of art was distant and not nearly as involved as Tilda's but she'd been taught enough art history to not make a fool of herself. She found herself less fascinated by the works themselves and more the theories and technical practices that needed to be understood to create within the confines of a certain movement. It was a reprieve from her own misery to discuss the math and physics involved in it all.
Miorine has ordered french fries, a tray of petit fours and her third diet Coke since they've been sat.
"I thought I would." She picks up one of the tiny cakes with her fingers and shoves the entirety of it into her mouth. There's a brief spark of happiness when she swallows it. Her manners return when she gently dabs at the corners of her lips with her napkin.
"But it just showed me how much I don't know about her. That asshole never wanted to talk about her- all I have is her research. I don't know anything about where she lived or what she liked to do when she lived here. I don't even know if my grandparents are alive."
no subject
Date: 2023-07-28 01:06 am (UTC)More importantly, she listens between demure sips of wine. It's not much of a surprise to hear this from Miorine, though it is a shame. But she does have something of importance to give her — Tilda leans back in her seat, hands folded under her chin. Contemplating.
"Finding people is easy enough, if one has the resources. I can't give you all the details, but if it's background you want... filling a family tree is within my skill set. Given enough time, I'm sure you'll be able to find any living relatives. Your father can withhold information, but I assure you — he can't scrub it."
There's a twinkle in her eye. "As for her interests... that can't be so. You seem to share some of them, after all. She had a natural ear for piano if I recall. And a green thumb — a talent I regrettably lack. And she loved this city, of course, though most tend to."
A pause. It's rare for her to share personal details, but she does now.
"It isn't quite the same, but I lost my parents when I was eight. For a time, I felt as you must feel. Adrift, disconnected. Eventually I remembered my father had a great love of fine art, which in turn led me to beginning my collection. It isn't quite the same." Her mouth thins. Something unfamiliar enters her expression — she looks lost. Melancholy. "However, it's something. A link where there was none before. Give it time. You'll get to know her in ways that may surprise you."
no subject
Date: 2023-07-31 04:17 pm (UTC)Childish as it was, she had only ever existed in Miorine's mind like this: confident, graceful, so acutely aware of what she wanted from herself and others. Her brow furrows as she tries to imagine what this other version of her may have looked like- struggles to imagine Tilda as a teenager like her.
"I didn't know that. It's not on your Wikipedia page." There's a note of sarcasm there, some rueful humor.
"It is the same. All the horticulture and bio-engineering.. I only got into it because of my mom. I was lucky that I liked it, and that it was the one thing he didn't take from me." She pops another tiny treat into her mouth, chewing aggressively.
"He gave my piano away to some charity and got a fat tax break. I bought a keyboard once and hid it in my room but his goons found it and smashed it." She sounds little more than annoyed but it's a painful memory, one that cemented in her mind that she was a prisoner and not a daughter. He was little more than a horrifically cruel warden.
no subject
Date: 2023-07-31 10:54 pm (UTC)Tilda listens in turn, though at Miorine's confession of Delling's cruelty her expression shifts just so — something sharp and displeased hardening the relaxed line of her mouth, making her turn a little in her seat until her profile is all that faces Miorine, all angles, like cold white stone.
"I see," is all she says at first, her posture haughty and remote. It becomes clear, or perhaps it will be, later — that she is angry. This is so rare that it's almost unheard of. Tilda was never angry, at least not in ways that could be easily figured out. The moment crests over her like a wave now, making her throat feel locked and her hand tighten into a white knuckled fist in her lap where it can't be seen. Gradually, her composure, barely rattled by most people's standards, rights itself.
She hated to hear about the destruction of creativity fostered in another. It was so rare, so beautiful. That it was sullied so is heartbreaking. If he meant it to be a lesson, he'd missed the mark. When she turns back to Miorine, her express is soft and solemn.
"I'm very sorry to hear that," she says. "I'm sorry that he did such a terrible thing to you." She is quiet for a time, and then she reaches over the table to put her hand over Miorine's own.
"I play the piano as well, though I don't practice as much as I should. You're free to use mine whenever you'd like. It'd be a waste for it to sit there, collecting dust in my sitting room."
no subject
Date: 2023-08-02 04:48 pm (UTC)Good thing she had all the time in the world to work through whatever this meant. No doubt she'd see it again- till death do they part and all of that.
Still, when that fades away Tilda is apologetic for this act of cruelty she had nothing to do with. Miorine isn't accustomed to sympathy, empathy or apologies in any capacity so all of this is just as new as the mysterious expression Tilda had worn before this. She looks down at her lap, embarrassed because she simply doesn't know how to respond.
"I'll think about it. Thanks."
It is sincere, if her bashfulness is any indication.
For some time Miorine is quiet, content to people watch and make a dent in her fries. Finally, she gathers the courage to ask something she's been pondering for some time.
"Are you.. really okay with all of this? It means you won't get to marry anyone else."
no subject
Date: 2023-08-02 11:55 pm (UTC)"Yes, that is what it means. I'd thought about it for quite some time before arriving at my decision."
It isn't an answer, not really, but she sees the need to let it be known — impulsive decisions were not something she made a habit of. "I'll tell you something that you more than likely know — aging is difficult. And I'll tell you something that you may not know, and that is dating, marriage... these things become tiresome. Discouraging. Particularly in the social and economic circle that we are in. I've seen marriages end in affairs, divorces, illegitimate children. More than you can fathom. I've seen people get married who detest one another. Men killing their spouses, women filling themselves with botox until they're unrecognizable, all to keep their partners from abandoning them at the slightest whiff of something better..."
It's rare that Tilda sounded something other than calm and unruffled. Right now something else has found its way into her voice: disdain. "I became faced with the knowledge that I would be most likely be married for my money, or else my name. Even without any arrangements my parents may or may not have made for me, had they lived."
A long pause follows this. "Love, romance. These are luxuries that can't be bought. People like to pretend, but... ah. It usually ends in tears. I found a friend in you, which was rarity enough, and I had a way to help you. Not ideal, no. Not marrying someone else... it isn't the worst thing. Not by a long shot."
no subject
Date: 2023-08-07 03:07 am (UTC)"I looked into Elisabet."
Comfortable enough to be openly spoiled she admits this: finally pouring herself a glass from the bottle Tilda had ordered. It's legal here but she still gets a bit of a rush from drinking in public. Before this trip she'd wondered if people would see them out together and think they were mother and daughter.
Right now, it felt like two adults having a conversation.
"It's weird to imagine you in love."
Another admission, only shared because some wall has been broken.
"I guess all of this is easier when you've already gotten to have that experience."
It stings in a way that she doesn't quite understand.
no subject
Date: 2023-08-11 04:31 am (UTC)"You aren't the first person that's said so." She sounds sad. It's an old refrain. How surprised her small circle of close friends were upon hearing of her whirlwind romance with Dr. Sobeck. Tilda had flings, spotty instances of one night stands, noncommittal engagements. Rarely did she experience feeling to this degree, so completely and with reckless abandon. And she had paid for it, hadn't she? Dearest, beloved Lis, she'd paid for it too. She held the memory close to her, too jealous and selfish to share it.
"No," she says at last, her tone hollow, "I'm afraid it isn't easier. It's simply something that we'll both need to weather, isn't it?"
no subject
Date: 2023-12-29 02:12 am (UTC)But Tilda does manage to make her feel guilty.
She feels pitiful over the fact that it's worked. Someone evenly matched with Tilda would have been self-possessed. It's difficult to hide entirely, she can't keep her lip from twitching. Miorine wonders if it will always be this way between them.
"You'll never get me to believe that." The waiter returns to fill Tilda's wine glass and this time, just before he leaves Miorine pushes her empty and untouched wine glass forward.
She tries not to look at the glass for too long when he pours.
no subject
Date: 2023-12-31 06:20 pm (UTC)Finally, she deigns to speak, turning her attention to Miorine in full again. Her hands come to fold under her chin. "Fair enough. I suppose it's too soon to tell."
The concession is given easily and gracefully, Miorine's faux pas seemingly forgiven.
"What would you have chosen? I'm curious."