barefoot in paris


Maison Valentino | Couture Spring 2016 | Paris Couture Week

Timeless & Timely

Bare feet, snake headpieces, and floor length flowing gowns all add to a sense of wood nymphs modeling Valentino’s collection.  The length and movement to the skirts are classic Valentino, while the earthy tones and imagery is relevant to 2016 trends. 

It is a challenge for all designers to create pieces that fit with the times and also create a timeless image of their brand, and as Vogue notes, Valentino has accomplished this seamlessly this season.  


anonymous asked:

Excuse me I have a little question! You said " He even lays on the cold floor beside her casket the night before her funeral." In which book we know that? This is so sad 😭 poor Jamie he feels so guilty about her death.. and he is a very clever man, he thinks that he could have find a way.. he never let anyone choose his path, he always had his own reason. . Except with Geneva.. I think this is the only time in his life he gave up the fight a little bit.. then let his body take his pleasure...

Hi! Sorry for the delay I had to remember what book it was in. It’s in Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade. Lord John visits Helwater for Geneva’s funeral and is thinking of Geneva. He goes to see her body in the chapel and finds Jamie.

Lord John also attends Geneva’s funeral and we learn that Jamie was one of her pallbearers too.

Blessed Michael defend us. The words came to him suddenly, though he was neither Catholic nor even religious. It was a common saying among the Scottish prisoners at Ardsmuir, though. He had heard it in the Gaelic, many times, and finally had asked Jamie Fraser for the English meaning, one night when they had dined together. 

Plainly he had found the right place. A small oil lamp burned in the passage, throwing the archangel’s visage into stern relief, and the flicker of candlelight was visible through the crack between the wooden doors under the archway. Wondering anew just what he was doing here, he hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and murmured “Blessed Michael defend us.” He passed beneath the arch. 

The chapel was tiny, and dark save the tall white candles that burned at head and foot of the closed coffin. It was draped in white silk, and glimmered like water. 

He took a step toward it. Something large stirred in the darkness at his feet. 


He dropped the taper, clapping a hand to his belt— where, alas, he had not placed his dagger. 

A dark figure rose immense, very slowly, from the flags at his feet. 

Every hair on his body stood erect and his heart thundered in his ears, as recognition tried vainly to overcome shock. The taper had gone out, and the man was visible only as a dark silhouette, haloed with the fire of the candles behind him. 

He swallowed hard, trying to force his heart from his throat, and groped for words that were not altogether blasphemous. 

“Bloody … Christ,” he managed, after several incoherent tries. “What in the name of God Himself are you doing here?” 

“Praying,” said a soft Scots voice, its softness no disguise for the shock in it— and an even more patent anger. “What are you doing here?” 

“Praying?” Grey echoed, disbelief in his voice. “Lying on the floor?” 

He couldn’t see Fraser’s face, but heard the hiss of air through his teeth. They stood close enough to each other that he felt the cold emanating from Fraser’s body, as though the other had been carved from ice. Christ, how long had the man been pressed to the freezing flags? And why? His eyes adjusting, he saw that the Scot wore nothing but his shirt; his long body was a shadow, the candlelight glowing dim through threadbare fabric. 

“It is a Catholic custom,” Fraser said, his voice as stiff as his posture. “Of respect.” 

“Indeed.” The shock of the encounter was fading, and Grey found his voice come easier. “You will pardon me, Mr. Fraser, if I find that suggestion somewhat peculiar— as is your presence here.” He was growing angry now himself, feeling absurdly practiced upon— though logic told him that Fraser had risen as he did only because Grey would have stepped on him in another moment, and not with the intent of taking him at a disadvantage. 

“It is immaterial to me, Major, what you find peculiar and what ye do not,” Fraser said, his voice still low. “If ye wish to suppose that I have chosen to sleep in a freezing chapel in company with a corpse, rather than in my own bed, you may think as ye like.” He made a motion as though to pass, obviously intending to leave the chapel— but the aisle was narrow, and Grey was not moving. 

“Did you know the— the countess well?” Curiosity was overcoming shock and anger. 

“The countess … oh.” Fraser glanced involuntarily over his shoulder at the coffin. Grey saw him draw breath, the mist of it briefly white. “I suppose she was. A countess. And, yes, I kent her well enough. I was her groom.” 

There was something peculiar about that remark, Grey noted with interest. There was a wealth of feeling in that statement, “I was her groom,” but damned if he could tell what sort of feeling it was. 

He wondered for an instant whether Fraser had been in love with Geneva— and felt a surprising sear of jealousy at the thought. Knowing Fraser’s feeling for his dead wife, he would suppose … but why in God’s name would he come at night to pray by Geneva’s coffin, if not— but no. That “I was her groom” had been spoken with a tone of … hostility? Bitterness? It wasn’t the respectful statement of a loyal and grieving servant, he’d swear that on a stack of Bibles. 

Grey dismissed this confusion and took a breath of cold air and candle wax, imagining for an instant that he smelt the hint of corruption on the frigid air. 

Fraser stood like a stone angel, no more than a foot from him; he could hear the Scot’s breathing, faintly hoarse, congested. My God, had he been weeping? He dismissed the thought; the weather was enough to give anyone the catarrh, let alone anyone mad enough to lie half naked on freezing stones. 

“I was her friend,” Grey said quietly. 

Fraser said nothing in reply, but continued to stand between Grey and the coffin. Grey saw him turn his head, the candle glow sparking red from brows and sprouting beard, limning the lines of his face in gold. The long throat moved once, swallowing. Then Fraser turned toward him, his face disappearing once more into shadow. 

“Then I leave her in your hands ’til dawn.” 

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