Language is infinitely more complicated than just saying words. It’s how you say them - the tone, the lilt, the emphasis - and why you say them - why say great instead of gargantuan, or why say Oh, so good to meet you, instead of You were one of the women who helped murder me - and when you say them - whether you just come out with it, or whether you leave a pause.
Pauses are a language all of their own, you know. A goodly-placed pause can make all the difference, can add such a layer of intrigue, really make the next word punch when you get to it.
You do have to be careful with pauses, though; the timing can really make or break your intention. Replying over the top of someone comes across as far too eager, while a pause of four seconds or more is often taken as a rejection.
Well, five seconds - going on six - have passed since Laudna stuck her hand out to the other Lady de Rolo, and the longer she stands, smiling unflappably, the more the pause rots her cheerful introduction - exposing the ribs and seams of it, pulling apart to reveal a carcass of double meanings - and, indeed, seems to be doing the same to the poor woman staring at her, who appears to be using all her willpower to keep her nicely-gloved hands from trembling outright and not remotely thinking of shaking Laudna’s.
It’s hard to tell what she is thinking, actually.
Well. Well, the specifics are hard. It’s fairly obvious the gist is that she recognises Laudna.
There’s only one reason someone who lives here would recognise Laudna.
The woman, at eight seconds, finally seems to take agency of herself again and tilts her chin up, agape jaw shutting into a rigid, stately expression. She inhales like the air is punched into her by an arrow.
“Quite.” She almost blurts. Her voice is thin and soft in a way that pairs oddly with her affectation; like watered down wine at an otherwise impressive banquet. “Laudna. Of course. It’s…”
She appears to cycle through acceptable greetings rapidly, finding any one containing variations of the words nice or good to be inappropriate. She goes without.
“I am Lady Cassandra de Rolo.” The name shudders, a threadbare comfort. She finally extends her hand.
Lady Cassandra trembles visibly. And then all of a sudden can’t seem to stop.
It takes over her whole body; her face, pallid with horror, twists into something tragic, tight lines pulling at the corners of her warm brown eyes.
“I’m sorry.” She breathes. “I’m so sorry, I-”
“We were children.” Laudna says, in the carefree tone you’d use to absolve a schoolmate of having pushed you in the yard. She pauses. It changes the meaning utterly when she continues, “We were just girls.”
She still hasn’t let go of the Lady’s hand. Cassandra doesn’t seem to be attempting to take it back. She stares at Laudna, tracing the planes and crevices of her face, the hinge of her jaw, the roots of her hair - anything but her eyes, if she can help it.
Laudna’s gaze doesn’t waver. Her smile is small, and steady, sure as sunlight.
“I’m sorry, too.” She says. “At least I got away - you… I like to think we would’ve tried to save each other, if we could have.”
Cassandra’s other hand moves to grip Launda’s and a gasp shivers from her. Her eyes shine, helpless.
Darling Laudna, indomitably cheerful, smiles more, though it’s a motherly thing with sloped brows. Her free hand comes up as well, gently steadying Cassandra by the wrist.
“I remember thinking you had the most beautiful dress I had ever seen.” She says, a girlish giggle lilting through even though her eyes are earnest and somber. “I wanted so badly to catch your eye, thought maybe we could be friends, somehow.”
Cassandra makes a weak noise. Laudna smooths her thumb over the back of the Lady’s glove.
“Could we? If it’s not too forward.” Laudna chuckles. “Just - leave all of that other stuff - we’re much too old to keep dwelling on it, wouldn’t you think?”
Her gaze, her tone, turn the simple words into an absolution. Cassandra de Rolo hangs in disbelief, searching Laudna’s face for deception. Their hands remain joined.
“How can you…?” Cassandra breathes. She can’t finish. She can’t find the words she needs to explain it any more than she can find the hatred she needs in Laudna.
Laudna lets out a quiet roll of a laugh.
“Us Whitestone girls are tough,” She says, “you did what you had to. But you aren’t a Briarwood. You didn’t do this to me. What do I have to hold against you?”
The breath that trembles out of Cassandra is quiet, but takes with it something immense that has been hanging on her shoulders since she saw Laudna lingering in her entryway - and, likely, much, much longer. Her posture settles, freed of the mantle of something.
“It’s so good to see you, Laudna.” She says.
“And you, Lady Cassandra.”
