Post by genevieve on Oct 13, 2007 7:36:45 GMT -5
The table was cool beneath my body, the air flowing over my back warmer, scented with the dry dust of the street outside and the faint freshness of spring. I closed my eyes and the memory of my first visit rose in my mind; I’d been nervous, but excited, clutching the design of my marque on a well pored over sheet of paper, folded and crumpled but with the vivid inking of softly entwined vines framing five-pointed, star-like shapes of the Jasmine flower, the teardrop shaped leaves resting upright on arching tendrils. I remembered my first wait on that table- it was colder then, goosepimples roamed my skin. His hands had been firm, a craftsman’s hands, an artist’s hands and I’d relaxed into his preparatory massage, almost dozing when the needle first pierced my skin. Such pain I had never even imagined, my scream soaring to heights my Eglantine teachers had never coaxed out of me, but though I begged for it to stop, he must have heard it all before a thousand times, and carried on for what seemed like an age. Weak and tottering I staggered home after my ordeal was over and vowed to myself I’d never do it again.
This time I waited without trepidation -now he gives me a balm to numb my skin, I hardly feel the pain- and greeted him with a ready smile as he advanced on me, mock-menacingly with a vial of emerald green ink. He worked maybe for an hour, painstakingly filling in the colour of one of two vines that form the knot-work of my design and, when complete, will stretch from the base of my spine to my shoulder blades. I paid him, exchanged a warm handshake and assured him his work was beautiful -truly, it is, and I long for the day when the blossoming yellow stars of my Winter Jasmine scatter my back, like the twinkling gems studding a night sky. The marque of my house I have always thought exquisite, the delicate intricacies of vine, the fine, teardrop shaped leaves and the starlike, five-pointed flowers nestling in between, but I longed for a little more, something a little special, and the white of the flowers had always seemed odd, to me, on skin. Cassander had been firm- alterations must be compensated for- and I had been petulant- the white would look ridiculous on my skin. Cassander had triumphed and Jasmine holds a contract for two years of my service after I complete my marque. No matter, it will be worth it to sport gold rather than silver.
A saunter around the Mont Nuit and the soft chink of my newly-arrived allowance became too tempting (Naamah bless guilt-ridden parents for their indulgences); always a sucker for luxury I made a beeline for the Clothiers’ District. I had a crude sketch tucked into my bodice, the shadow of an idea for a new gown- it would need drawing up, filling out, making practical (Eglantine had never succeeded on my artistic skills either) but it was a spark. Meandering through the stalls, the colours almost seemed to blur together, no hue capturing my eye above another, until suddenly, from between a bile green chiffon and a cheap black gauze, I spied a glint of blue. Not sky blue, it had more depth than that, nor a midnight, for it was too pure. Jasper- it reminded me of jasper and, gathering the bolt in my arms, I sought the stallholder and handed over what seemed to me an extortionate amount of fat gold coins. Walking back though, occasionally I stole a smug glance down at the swathes of half-teal, half-pastel blue satin and longed for its soft, cool touch against my skin.
Back home, I spread it on my bed, fingering the cloth, allowing it to slip over my bare arms, half-ideas of pictures fleeting in front of my eyes of golden stars peeping from beneath a low cut, strapless horizon of jasper blue.
This time I waited without trepidation -now he gives me a balm to numb my skin, I hardly feel the pain- and greeted him with a ready smile as he advanced on me, mock-menacingly with a vial of emerald green ink. He worked maybe for an hour, painstakingly filling in the colour of one of two vines that form the knot-work of my design and, when complete, will stretch from the base of my spine to my shoulder blades. I paid him, exchanged a warm handshake and assured him his work was beautiful -truly, it is, and I long for the day when the blossoming yellow stars of my Winter Jasmine scatter my back, like the twinkling gems studding a night sky. The marque of my house I have always thought exquisite, the delicate intricacies of vine, the fine, teardrop shaped leaves and the starlike, five-pointed flowers nestling in between, but I longed for a little more, something a little special, and the white of the flowers had always seemed odd, to me, on skin. Cassander had been firm- alterations must be compensated for- and I had been petulant- the white would look ridiculous on my skin. Cassander had triumphed and Jasmine holds a contract for two years of my service after I complete my marque. No matter, it will be worth it to sport gold rather than silver.
A saunter around the Mont Nuit and the soft chink of my newly-arrived allowance became too tempting (Naamah bless guilt-ridden parents for their indulgences); always a sucker for luxury I made a beeline for the Clothiers’ District. I had a crude sketch tucked into my bodice, the shadow of an idea for a new gown- it would need drawing up, filling out, making practical (Eglantine had never succeeded on my artistic skills either) but it was a spark. Meandering through the stalls, the colours almost seemed to blur together, no hue capturing my eye above another, until suddenly, from between a bile green chiffon and a cheap black gauze, I spied a glint of blue. Not sky blue, it had more depth than that, nor a midnight, for it was too pure. Jasper- it reminded me of jasper and, gathering the bolt in my arms, I sought the stallholder and handed over what seemed to me an extortionate amount of fat gold coins. Walking back though, occasionally I stole a smug glance down at the swathes of half-teal, half-pastel blue satin and longed for its soft, cool touch against my skin.
Back home, I spread it on my bed, fingering the cloth, allowing it to slip over my bare arms, half-ideas of pictures fleeting in front of my eyes of golden stars peeping from beneath a low cut, strapless horizon of jasper blue.