Bound by the Blood moon

Chapter 6

"Splendid," declared Beatrice, her voice ringing with a delightful air of self-assurance. "I shall take my rightful place first, if you please. I must situate myself near the window, for the natural light there does so much to enhance my best features." With a wave of her gloved hand, she beckoned the footman with an artful impatience, exhaling audibly in mild exasperation as he failed to attend to her wishes with sufficient speed. "Position it just there, if you would be so kind," she instructed arrogantly, before she dragged her gaze to Charlotte. "I would prefer that you employ the medium of oil paint, if it is not too great a burden."

"Indeed, I shall do so," replied Charlotte, settling into her seat with the grace befitting a lady of her standing. Her talents in the realm of art were indeed prodigious, though her father, in his relentless criticism, often stated that such pursuits were of little merit, insisting instead upon her mastery of more 'useful' accomplishments.

"Pray tell, is it true that you partake in combat, akin to the gentlemen?" enquired Josephine, her eyes keenly observing Beatrice as she engaged in the ritual of pinching her own cheeks, illuminating her pale complexion with a flush of soft crimson.

"Indeed, it is true," Charlotte replied, her tone clipped, fully aware of the disapproving glances directed her way.

"Heavens above, why ever would you engage in such absurdity?" exclaimed Cecilia, her delicate features pinched with concern.

"One must be aware, dear friends, that the war has only just drawn to a close, the last of the werewolves captured, or so we are led to believe," Charlotte remarked pragmatically. "My father has always encouraged me in this endeavour. He maintains that a lady ought to be capable of defending herself, should the occasion arise."

Beatrice scoffed audibly, arching an eyebrow. "Defend ourselves from whom? Surely we shall soon find ourselves bound in matrimony, with husbands to ensure our protection. It is hardly appropriate for a lady to run about like some common ruffian engaged in battle."

"Indeed, thou art entirely correct," Charlotte responded as her gaze fell upon her canvas. "I am near completion of my work," she announced with a nod of pride.

"And she does not even employ a servant? She hunts like a commoner," Josephine sniffed, her delicate nose wrinkling in distaste, wholly ignoring Charlotte's presence.

"How very peculiar," Beatrice replied. "Her father does. In this enlightened age, it is unnecessary for us to hunt...directly. Oh, how I do adore a West Indian servant. The exotic spices in their blood..." She trailed off, her fang tracing across her lip before turning her attention back to Charlotte.

"Pray tell, thou canst not be truly finished," Beatrice announced, her tone doubtful. "I had hoped to return within the span of a week to behold the fruits of thy labour."

Charlotte's stomach sank at the very thought. "There is truly no need for that. I assure you, it is complete," she declared, weary from the two hours spent on such talk as the weather and trivialities unworthy of her time.

"I have a wish to partake in charades!" Josephine whined, her voice rising in impatience. "Cecilia, do grace us with your musical talents upon the pianoforte," she demanded.

"Hold, if you please! I beseech thee to reveal my portrait first! And then, I wish to sketch Charlotte!" Beatrice decided, her words coated with a biting sarcasm.

With an air of resilience, Charlotte stood tall, turning the easel to reveal her work, while she struggled to prevent a bemused smile from creeping upon her lips. Beatrice gasped, her face contorting with distaste as she gazed upon the portrait that, in its haste, cruelly exaggerated each feature she loathed, as though Charlotte had delved into her innermost insecurities and put them on display.