Bruised eyes. Broken bones. Faces acting like they do not care.
It's a performance.
Blood and cuts. Gaping wounds. Faces acting like they do not care.
It's for Sareena, you can't look away.
Lashes. Scars. Faces acting like they do not care.
She is freeing herself. Focus on that.
The newspaper clippings helped. She knew what this was and what this meant to Cardinal. It was well-crafted. Brilliant really. Peg finally managed to release her grip on Aloysius' arm. The singed shape of her fingers on his jacket could stay. The thought made her smile a little. She looked over at her husband, calm, steady, ready for a fight if one was required. She was glad he could enjoy the spectacle for what it was. She wanted to cheer for her friend and revel in this sweet taste of justice. But she couldn't.
A flash of anger. Breathe.
People gasped, shocked and horrified. Sounds of murmured outrage filled the room.
Would they feel the same way if it were only one? Would I want them to? Would they be right to? Would the scars matter more than the deception?
Her head swam, thoughts crashing into one another. She was too aware of her skin. Her left shoulder, her throat, her stomach. Her hands. Always her hands. She thought she might be sick. Aloysius shifted subtly next to her and the reminder of his presence stilled her.
And then Baron Johannes Windermere was punched squarely in the face and for one brief, beautiful moment everything quieted and Peg smiled. It wouldn't last, she could already feel her mind filling back up with questions and doubts, anger and pain at years of bruised eyes and broken bones, of blood and cuts and gaping wounds, of lashes and scars and her own face pretending she did not care.
That steadying hand around her and a glass of champagne in her hand. She managed to raise it to Sareena, proud, victorious, free in a new and profound way.
And then she was in the one place she knew everything was okay, in her husband's arms. Dancing.