THE SEAT IS UNCOMPROMISINGLY HARD, digging at the backs of her knees. She fidgets, pulls her skirt lower over her legs, inspects the dazzling array of switches and buttons before her. Diana is not at home here, under the unblinking scrutiny of the public eye — or is this perhaps closer to the public ear? She feels taut, tangled, her smile hovering like a dragonfly.
She reminds herself: you’re not here as Diana of Themyscira. You are Diana Prince. Curator for the Louvre’s Department of Antiquities; you’re a speaker on their behalf. New York City’s annual Greek festival: the taste for historical curiosities has never been higher.
Diana qualifies as one of those historical curiosities herself, she supposes. But hush; this is secret. As far as the wider world is concerned, she is a scholar. Academic. Mundane.
Her unfamiliarity with the limelight, at least, is genuine. Diana avoids attention. Eschews any kind of publicity. The only reason she is here is… sitting primly across from her. Neatly folded American legs. Perfectly coiffured hair. A warm smile.
Trish Walker was engaging in her address, firm of handshake and forthright in her proposal. A woman with ambition, and a strong set of principles: Diana can admire that. It’s as much in good faith as on the Louvre’s behest that she is sitting here now, peering at the smorgasbord of lights and toggles before her.
❛ That’s a lot of knobs. ❜ She says, without thinking, and then — oh no! — hand clapped to her mouth, wincing embarrassment! ❛ Oh, sorry! Are we in the air yet…? ❜
@savethewcrld // rubs my evil little hands