[Very mysterious, this discovery of a bolt of cloth abandoned — or perhaps left too deliberately to be properly called abandoned — there on her section of the bed. It's fairly obvious where it must have come from and who must have left it there; there are exactly two likely suspects, and something so lavish isn't really Trevor's style.
The intent, probably is that she unwrap the lump and examine the contents, which she will assuredly do in another minute or two. But for the moment she's alone in the bedroom and there's no one to see (unless the castle itself is watching, which technically Alucard has promised it isn't, but one never knows), and so she indulges the whim of unwrapping the bolt a few turns and digging her hands into the fabric.
It's soft. More importantly, it's fine and well-made — a treat, in cloth form. She ducks down and rubs it along her cheek, fingertips ghosting over the woven threads, tracing the patterns and watching the way it pools when she moves it and glitters when the candlelight catches it. It's — a fantasy, almost, in tangible form. Fairy tales so often involve things like this, garments made of fabric woven from gold or silver or stars. It makes her wonder where he found it, and what he could possibly be up to.
...Well. There's always the lump, to investigate.
So carefully, she folds the bolt of cloth back up and turns her attention to the wrapped-up lump, looking for a way to get it open and see what it could be.]
no subject
The intent, probably is that she unwrap the lump and examine the contents, which she will assuredly do in another minute or two. But for the moment she's alone in the bedroom and there's no one to see (unless the castle itself is watching, which technically Alucard has promised it isn't, but one never knows), and so she indulges the whim of unwrapping the bolt a few turns and digging her hands into the fabric.
It's soft. More importantly, it's fine and well-made — a treat, in cloth form. She ducks down and rubs it along her cheek, fingertips ghosting over the woven threads, tracing the patterns and watching the way it pools when she moves it and glitters when the candlelight catches it. It's — a fantasy, almost, in tangible form. Fairy tales so often involve things like this, garments made of fabric woven from gold or silver or stars. It makes her wonder where he found it, and what he could possibly be up to.
...Well. There's always the lump, to investigate.
So carefully, she folds the bolt of cloth back up and turns her attention to the wrapped-up lump, looking for a way to get it open and see what it could be.]