xfcliffords-blog

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henrisx‌:

« Like bloody hell you aren’t one! » The exclamation leapt out before Henri gave due process to it. He rarely swore in her presence, not out of deference as much as because he’d had no need to: there was the world, and then there was them. In the span of their lifetime together, she must’ve heard him profane this saint or the next, damn this lordling or the next, call Eleanor a she-devil, at that, when it went arseways, but he seldom did so in good conscience. Despite reasonably aware that it must’ve been no staggering shock for Rosa to hear him blurt such curses, he still carried some uneasiness about it. The fact that she was not clueless was one way, but being faced with anything brutal — and on his account no less — was another. 

« What I mean is this », he began, confident tone in rhythm with the posture he’d taken on, even before seeing her outline come to life on the road, « is that we’ve tailed round here long enough to know the course of things. The chief and his pallbearer are men of sense, men of the old blood, and they recall the laws of chivalry well enough. Without me ordering them about, they know what ought to come first: the shelter for the living or the pursuit of the threat. »

But even as the words took shape between them, manifesting solid in the thin, unquiet air, Henri already abandoned the thought. His eyes turned gimlet instead, narrowing on his lover’s face. Rosamund was flushed with the crossing, bright and straight-backed, ready to laugh up an argument. Her clothes — timeless, gauzy, bespoken — were held with a sash, but it seemed it was rather more her own volition keeping them together. Devoid of point and purpose, and well ahead of reining himself in, the once-king murmured: « By God, you are beautiful. »

Her eyebrows went up; to hear swearing was not a surprise (she had been raised with two elder brothers, after-all, both of whom were fighting men with little idea of how to handle their delicate pretty rose of a sister), and Henri had occasionally lost his temper in her presence, though he would never direct such language at her. But it was a sign of his growing concern with regards to the beast, and that was more interesting than the words he used. Rosamund had never been stupid, whatever people said of her, and she was especially intelligent when she came to Henri - she knew, in that moment, that she wasn’t likely to win this fight.

Still. She would try. She liked their little home; she had made it comfortable, and sometimes she loved it more than any of the palaces; it was theirs, with the unmistakable stamp of them on it, and he came home to her at the end of every day as though he were an ordinary man and she his wife. But she was not his wife, and he was not ordinary, he never would be, never could be. He did not do well in confinement. She felt his soul, restless, fluttering against the windowpanes. She did not wish to return to whatever abyss they had been dragged from (the thought filled her with fear and grief, so much so that she shied away from the thought and would not contemplate it in depth), and if the only way out was through, she would let him take it, but would not be left behind.

He was settling into a familiar tone; that of a King, explaining his wishes to one beneath him. She was beneath him, she supposed, but she did not mean to stand still and be lectured. “To remain in the village is as safe as things can be,” she pointed out, flushing a little with irritation, finally riled. “I would not ask those men to take time from their hunts in the forest to stand guard by my door - it would be ridiculous, and arrogant, and insulting to think I cannot manage to walk on my own.” She drew herself up, just a little. This was about as fierce as she got with him, and the closest she could get to putting her foot down - but she was taken unawares by the softening in him, and subsided, truly flushing now.

“Oh,” she said, uselessly, flustered. “Oh, well - you think to flatter me, I see.” But she had never been capable of true anger - at least, not on her own behalf. Thinking of his poor treatment by others made her furious, but it felt entirely separate to her own. She looked away, abashed at the glint in his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You would think that a month would be long enough to recover from a lover’s desire for reunion, my Lord.” This was not true; he had always been like this, and she too - their time apart had hardly heightened anything, for the tension between them had never receded.

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boleyn-eternal‌:

Anne listened to sweet Rosamund’s words, tilting her head as ears perked with every phrase. She observed the young woman without straying away, eyes locked on the lighter pair as she held back an amused little smirk. Rosamund could read Anne well, and though she was not laughing from Rosamund’s stubborn display of firmly planting herself on the tree trunk, the bob of her head and a rushed little sigh was communication enough of Anne’s enjoyment. 

During her time in this odd Purgatory they were forced to remain in, Anne enjoyed working alongside the fairer creature. Brought back a softness to Anne, who seemed to feel all the more crystalline rock since tragedy overtook her during her mortal life. Together at Arsenic and Lace, they could seem as young as they looked. Before their fates dangled such awful woes before them and forced them to take it. If she distracted herself enough, hands brushing against the slippery silk fabrics, Anne could almost trick herself into believing she was with one of her fellow giddy ladies-in-waiting at court, before the heavy crown rested perched on her raven hair. A friend. A friend Anne needed to protect, all whilst searching for a way to escape this topsy turvy realm. 

Releasing another huff from pursed, plush lips, Anne leaned near Rosamund and paused, “Would you rather have me escort you back, Rosamund?” She asked, offering her arm nearly sarcastically - though the offer was genuine. “Either way, I am treading into the wood. But if you fear you do not have the same curiosity as I as to what could be out there… What great things could be out there that no soul has discovered, despite this unknown creature… I shall not permit you to be by my side. No, I’d rather you back somewhere safe. Quiet.”

The feelings twisted inside Rosamund were so complex she felt she could barely unpick them. Anne reminded her of Eleanor in some ways - but that was no insult. The Queen had been astonishingly determined, intelligent, and fierce, qualities Ros sometimes felt she lacked. To be beside her was to be bleached of colour, and despite the love that tied them together she knew full-well how Henri felt about her, and the passion that continued to lay between them. In an odd reversal of fortune, she felt that Anne, the mistress, had captured her Henry in the same wall - there was fierce passion behind her dark eyes too, and her sharp tongue could make Ros feel as small as a fingernail beside her. However, Anne did not seem to bear the same kind of viciousness as Eleanor. She was someone to lean on, but she would not kill a person as if they were simply an obstacle in her path.

Still. This comparison made Rosamund stubborn. She did not want to be seen as weak, as she always was; she thought with pain and derision of some of Eleanor’s choice remarks - she was simply milk and butter, a pale imitation of what a true queen should be, and felt herself redden. The offer of Anne’s arm was meant in kindness, but Ros did not want to be sent away as Henri had sometimes done, nor seen as some delicate flower to protect. Oh - she threw out an arm in frustration at herself and the boxes that appeared to contain her. To be brave and strong! To be able to rid herself of these ridiculous practicalities that held her back! Where was that woman inside her now?

“I do not know!” she exclaimed. “You are right in some ways, my friend - how else can we discover what lies outside the boundaries of this place? I would so dearly love to be home, to have a life that wasn’t just confined to this village. When I think of the places I used to live, the beautiful gardens I had, the possibility of a future that wasn’t simply day after day of the same thing...but you must see how dangerous this is. We are barely armed, and this thing tore a man to pieces.”

She was surprised at her volubility; this was perhaps the most non-positive emotion she had ever shown in front of Anne, but she felt that all the frustration and grief she had felt since arriving here was rushing to the surface and she could not contain it. With a visible effort she attempted to crush it down, and assumed her more regular amused smile. “Besides,” she said, catching her breath, “Henri would kill me, and likely you, if I accompanied you. But I do not wish you to go alone.”

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bonnicparker‌:

“I don’t know. I reckon it seems scary, but if you get used to it and you’re doing it just for the kicks, it ain’t so bad.” She found herself trying to reassure the other woman for no real reason - there wasn’t even a stretch of road worth speeding on around here, and with all the weird scenery, she wasn’t sure that if you drove somewhere a sinkhole wouldn’t just open up the ground and swallow you whole. The comment about the nuns made her giggle and she shrugged her shoulders a little bit. “That’s what nuns always say. They don’t like anything. Least that’s what I heard. I ain’t Catholic.”

Her smile faded off, though, at Rosamund’s next question - the warmth of their conversation tapering away as she raised a brow in return, fixing her own skirt. “Habit makes it sound bad.” She said after a moment, almost thoughtfully - as if a robbery wasn’t bad no matter what. “I reckon Clyde - well. He doesn’t mean anybody no harm, he never did. He’s just not the kind who’s very good at changing. You work at Arsenic?”

“For kicks?” Ros repeated, a little sceptically. She had never heard such a phrase - from context she thought she could figure out its meaning, but that did not make things any clearer; doing anything just for fun was very unusual for her. Oh, she supposed she had once been that way, but those days of carefree past-times were long gone, and had never involved cars. “I should think I’d like to ride in one, if I ever got the chance, but I haven’t seen any around this...place.” She frowned. The village seemed an odd mixture of the ancient and the modern; Ros had read about many seemingly magical advances in technology, yet few appeared. She laughed a little. “You’re right, they don’t like much,” she said, smiling, “but they are always kind.”

Rosamund regretted bringing up Clyde immediately; she had always had a tendency to let her tongue run away from her. She liked Bonnie - she liked the way she didn’t seem to care what anyone thought - and to be honest, she didn’t hold too much of a grudge against Clyde either; he had been quite polite, apart from the whole gun-wielding thing. “Yes,” she said, “I think he might’ve given you a dress I made.” She smiled, a little wryly. “I sold it to him at the cost of all the money in the store, helped on its way by a fair bit of extortion.”

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hcnryviii‌:

    “ My lady, may I steal a brief moment of your time? ” Henry had come to a stop outside of the town’s florist, admiring the display of floral options outside whilst a woman loomed near the doorway almost impatiently for the man to come to a decision; that was when he spoke up to a passing stranger in the hopes of getting a second opinion and potentially frustrating the shop keeper further. “ I wish to purchase flowers for a most beautiful woman but I am afraid that it is not my area of expertise, there are more kinds of flowers than I have ever seen in my life. Which would you most like to receive? You appear a woman of great taste and knowledge when it comes to things of beauty, your opinion would be invaluable to me and I would be eternally grateful. ”

@xfcliffords

The market was one of Rosamund’s favourite places in the village - it was uncompromisingly familiar, the stalls all so common-place and familiar no matter what they sold. Humanity did not change, and it appeared there would always be a man seeking a feminine opinion on what flowers to give a lover. She paused, basket on her hip, and couldn’t help but blink up at the man, one she had never met before; he was so vividly a Plantagenet that she had no doubt as to his identity. His name she was uncertain of; his role when he lived was certainly royalty, and royalty of England. “Your flattery,” she said, with a smile, “is rather more elegant than your choice in flowers - perhaps it is word you should stick to, rather than such a gift.” She reached out a hand almost without thought to brush the beautiful petals of the roses in front of her. “If you were to continue down this path, however, you can never go wrong with roses. Even an unconventional woman, in my experience, is softened by their beauty.”

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boleyn-eternal‌:

Anne’s dark eyes seemed to flash wild from the chaos this mysterious beast sparked amongst Purgatory’s inhabitants, her gaze roamed over the woman beside her like the nearby forest’s mist- teasingly hard to read, dangerously charming.  Dark jetted brow raised and crinkled with short patience, and as she stuck out a mock pout and leaned over her seated companion with her long midnight locks swaying, Anne’s low honeyed laugh rang through, cocking her head to the side almost playfully. “Oh, Rosamund, dear one,” she drawled slow, “Rightfully so- you wouldn’t be following, I would never think you to be a mere follower!  What’s another rule of hunting, hmm? You target your prey before it targets you.” She reasoned, fingertips strummed on the sword at her side. A weapon she only carried as a wooden plaything in youth, or when admiring Henry’s armour. The weapon that swiftly killed her, one graceful swipe from a Frenchman.

At times, the Queen wondered how much her life would have differed were she born a Boleyn son. An expert tradesman, profiting from a restless urge to push for only the best, the greatest. Unwavering, commanding, with a vibrant finesse earned from cutthroat tactics and an eye for beneficial business. Far from expected to remain safe and sound, and praised when accomplishing ambitious feats. No, Anne would not sit still, and submissive in Purgatory, a trait she failed to obey in life  “You and I, Rosamund, are far from sitting ducks nowadays. We do not let anything have the upper hand on our fate but ourselves.” Of course, Anne had once read stories of Rosamund, her tragic love story. Henry II’s envious wife hunted the beauty, forced Rosamund’s life to halt all too soon. Now, this tale made Anne’s hot temper boil. Here, in this odd state of existence, she felt protective over Rosamund, and despite the fact that Anne secretly thought of discovering a journey out of this Purgatory, she would welcome the chance to face this foreboding beast.  “Whoever has made progress from not acting when a threat taunted them just beyond their reach?”

Anne frightened and enticed Ros in equal measure - in many ways she was exactly the sort of woman she had been taught to avoid, flashing dark eyes, almost leonine in her movements, a Queen before she was ever a queen - even the dark raven of her locks seemed witch-like, and it was that that she had been accused of, was it not? But it was this hint of danger that cloaked her that made Ros desperate to be liked by her, as if by being just as daring, just as dangerous, she could somehow achieve a height of excitement she had never previously known. She had also, of course, achieved something Rosamund never had - she had married her lover, and though that was not something Ros had sought, she regretted it occasionally. perhaps if she, like Anne, had had the bravery to ask Henri for something, they could have beaten Eleanor together - and she might have lived. So there was a layer of embarrassed reluctance to her when she said, “it is not the following that bothers me, my lady, but the uselessness of such an endeavour. What on earth could we achieve against a beast like....well, like that.”

Anne undermined what Rosamund thought she had always known. What should she be addressed as? She was not born a Queen, and in Rosamund’s world one could not simply become royalty; you were ordained as such by God. But then again, she had been crowned, and looking at her like this fearsome, unashamed, Ros could almost see it, the holy oil on her forehead, the great sweeping robes of state. She was right about not making progress by avoiding a threat, but Ros bit her tongue against what she wanted to say - Anne had hardly been successful in eliminating her threat before it sent her to the tower. Reluctant, a little irritated, and frightened, Ros gathered her skirts and planted herself more firmly on the tree trunk. “I appreciate what you say, Lady Anne, but putting ourselves in unnecessary danger is no guarantee of success - wouldn’t you agree?”

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henrisx‌:

He was taken aback for the briefest of moments, then, a scolded boy. But judgement was never far to stray from Henri — not unless you counted Rosamund herself among the missteps — and he quickly cropped up a rejoinder. « Woman, I’m carrying it like a weapon ought to be carried! » His tone was defensive in the slightest, because she’d always had this gift, equal parts wonderful and grating, of making his war room endeavors seem a plaything.

It had been like this when he was in the prime of his years ( maybe a few campaigns short of it, his veins alight and incessantly seeking novelty ) and it endured something fierce. Rosa, braided tresses, circlet askew on the top of her head, sparse and unassuming, barely a jewel at all. He forced his eyes to slide off the past, like a whetstone off the blade. Rosa, smiling at him as he galloped off to war, as he defied the French and laughed up a storm through the mainland. It remained so enough to cast an echo here, million leagues away. Her beautiful derision at danger, and him, and the world of men. « Where are you off about? », the hunter asked instead, adamant on not being fooled this time, somehow lured by both past and present into letting her meander off. Heaven’s, what with some rabid wolf on the prowl?! I’d have to be God’s fool. 

His eyes narrowed in a careful inspection, already rounding up ammunition, arguments and cautions to be thrown her way. Henri motioned for his lover’s basket in tacit determination. He hoisted it up on his own shoulder, habitual roughness all over the gesture; still, the look he grazed Rosamund with was gentle, enamored, embers only scarcely present near its edges. « Alright, wiseacre, lighter on the wit. The vegetables might not lunge for your pretty head, but I will, if you don’t head over to the police and wait for me there. »

Rosamund smiled at his attempt at gruffness; he always started out that way, but she knew full well that underneath the bluster was a man who could be generous and thoughtful - and even, though he might be loathe to admit it, gentle. She held out one arm as he examined her, clearly uncomfortable with her wandering about, as if to present herself, unharmed and confident and comfortable, for his inspection. “You talk as if I have never before left the walls of the castle,” she said, laughter bubbling up. “Do you forget, my Lord, the years we spent on progress. Did we not have to escape many a scrape - and I always kept up, didn’t I?”

This was different, as Ros was very well aware. This was not the attack of bandits, quickly dealt with by the guards and Henry himself; the closest they had really come to danger had been when they were but a small party, mistaken for simple travellers, and even then a word from the king, the slash of his great broadsword, had put the fear of God into any robbers. Then, she had only had to ride, hard and fast, and she could do that, she had always had excellent control of a horse. She didn’t think even her favourite mare, dead three years before herself, could have outrun whatever beast it was that killed that poor man. She handed her basket over reluctantly; it made her smile, seeing him holding it.

“I don’t think the police will be happy to leave a man behind to watch me,” she pointed out practically. “I am not the priority, as you very well know; and I don’t know if you could order them otherwise, whatever your determination.” She left the rest unsaid: you are not King here. It was not something even she would dare to say to him; he had been unchallenged in his power his whole life, and she was just surprised that he hadn’t lost his temper at this...confinement they were in earlier. “If I promise you that I will stay in the centre and run in the opposite direction of any growling, will that suffice?”

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henrisx‌:

         He would not pause to learn what they discovered. In Henri’s mind, imminent danger had only one target, a sure-fire association he had never weaned himself off making. Rosa. All her reassuring, all of his own strategies to secure the pathway from Whatever Lace shop to their lodgings, could not hold a candle against his worrying. Granted, it relied at the back of his head, in long stretches of silence between one hunting party and a gathering at the pub, but it was always there, the underlining to each conscious thoughts. The scalding need to make sure he would not lose her again; not in this place, which had neither God nor foreign armies for comfort, for distraction from the hollows his heart would open to. The hunter suspected, sometimes amused, sometimes brooding, that his once-concubine found him silly for indulging in apprehension. Which is why he felt almost gratified now, seeing how reality awarded him his due. As soon as the body’s contents were shaken off the ground, Henri had already set off, intent on killing the bear before it plucked up more scents or courage. He unbuckled his sword as he walked, dangling it on one shoulder with the scabbard only half tied off, when a villager interposed in his way. The readiness he felt each time when tracking down a prey was now only heightened, made larger by the present danger his duty implied. The former king had to retort to an almost diplomatic effort before he could keep bloodlust off his face. His head stood straighter, his voice leveled its gravity. « Not the time for politesse, so here it is: if you wish to join me, I have no need for trackers. I know my work well enough. If you want to be escorted to safety, the police must’ve organized a patrol, and they’re not long in coming around these parts as well. »

Every time Ros thought she got used to living in this strange little village, she saw something that entirely changed her mind. Her perspective kept being skewed, as though someone was hooking threads into her vision and tugging; one moment her feet were on cobbled stone and her basket was heavy on her hip and she could be home again, picking flowers in the gardens of Godstow, and the next she would see someone entirely unfamiliar, with objects in their hands that she could not parse, smoke curling out of their mouths or heavy boots on their feet, and it would be like she was about to faint.

She was only grateful that she was no longer alone. Before they had found each other, she had been so isolated - she had barely liked to think of Henri; she had sometimes even felt that she didn’t want to see him. She tormented herself. What would he think of her now? In the darkest of nights in her small cottage she wondered if he had ever loved her. She had made the brutal and much regretted error of struggling through one of the lighter history books in the library (the strange modern type, as opposed to handwriting, was easier on her eyes, but she had never been a skilled reader), and her own mention had been part of a brief debate: had she been a useful political ploy; had she even existed? Could Henry had ever loved anyone but his Eleanor? The thought had made her sick; it made her lose sleep, and how pathetic was that, a woman grown. But then - well, then. How foolish she felt, looking back on that frightened girl now, as if she was another person.

He called her wife, though she was not. No one seemed to care here; Rosamund was starting to not care, at least not so much. At night he held her close, and they did not have to rush out of bed in the mornings to save the shreds of her honour. In public he put his hands on her waist to better peer over her shoulder at the flowers she was running her fingers over, fingers almost spanning it, and she pressed back against him and no one blinked an eye, and he said, “those ones,” clearly pointing at random, just to make her smile.

Life went on. She slept badly, but Ros had always been good at pushing through. To the dress shop in the morning, with its soothing soft lighting and the absorbing embroidery and, apparently, the occasional extortion; to the market in the evening, where she was heading now, basket wedged on her hip. Things felt familiar again. Her step was swaying; her eyes were bright. The sun stayed high in the sky late here. The town was quiet, but she couldn’t find herself to be frightened - not even for Henri. He had always had the glimmer of immortality about him. It was ironic that she was lost in thoughts of this when she nearly had her head taken off by him.

“Good G-” She narrowly clipped off the oath, nearly taking the Lord’s name in vain - that was the true corruption of her spirit by him, she thought, amused. “Must you carry it like that? Are you trying to frighten me out of my wits?” With some dignity, though clearly hiding a smile,s he readjusted her basket and her skirts and shook her head at him mournfully. “I think I am quite safe going to the market - such as it will be,” she said consideringly, suddenly thinking that perhaps no one would set their stalls out, not when most people were in the woods. “The vegetables won’t attack me, of that I’m certain.”

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@victcrianqueen

The town was quiet - not quite deserted, but enough people had trickled into the woods that the usual bustling sense of purpose had entirely vanished. Ros had not been sleeping well, waking to imagined howls, tossing and turning, and so she had taken to long walks in the early mornings, winding her way through the abandoned alleyways, pleased not to meet anyone at all there. Her heart bled for the poor soul who had been so attacked, but she worried more for those she knew who lived, who seemed so fixated on solving some mystery that she wanted no part of. Oh, she wanted to see justice brought, absolutely - justice was the only way their small, closed-off part of the world could keep turning - but not at the expense of the living; and she certainly had no interest in discovering what lay beyond the forest.

There was nothing for her to return to, if on the other side were the torn up shreds of their old lives; Eleanor had made sure of that. It wasn’t like she and Henri had been blessed with children for her to mourn, or to look after the ancestors of; for a long time she had thought that such tragedy was brought on by the lives they lived, by the sinful nature of their love for each other, but since coming to Purgatory she had been confronted by far worse sinners who had had babes in arms, so that couldn’t be it. Guiltily, she was starting to wonder whether God played a part in it at all. Scuffing her feet along the cobbles, she wrapped her cloak tighter around her against the early-morning mist, then glanced up, shocked into stillness when she heard a figure making its way towards her. “I thought everyone had gone,” she said, surprised to find herself in the company of another.

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@boleyn-eternal

Rosamund had seen hunts before - she was a fair huntress herself, actually. But there was a difference between riding through the New Forest with the Court behind you and flowers in your hair, the high deep vibration of the horn and the flash of dappled brown of the stag, and this - whatever this was. The sense of dread that hung in the air reminded her of her first blooding, when her father and older brothers had stood her over the body of the boar they had killed and forced her hand on the knife, had smeared the blood in a cross shape, forehead, nose. She remembered Richard - her beloved older brother, perhaps the person she had loved most in the world - pressing his thumb to her mouth until she tasted it, and how much she had hated him in that moment. It had done its job; blood did not frighten her, nor make her pale and sick like it did many women she knew. But the blood smeared on the ground was not that of a boar, nor a stag or a fox, and so Ros planted herself very firmly on a tree trunk at the edge of the forest and made her position quite clear to all and sundry.

“I’m not moving,” she announced. “I refuse to follow anyone on such a fool’s errand, and anyone with a shred of sense would do the same. We don’t know what’s out there. What’s the first rule of hunting? Don’t go running into the unknown. And what are you all doing?”

Spreading one hand in an expressive gesture of mingled irritation and fear, she crossed her arms across her chest. “Idiots,” she muttered.

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bonnicparker‌:

Bonnie couldn’t help but laugh, a little bit endeared. Cars had been new when she was a girl, but by the time she was grown and definitely while she was with Clyde, it had just been a fact of life. “It ain’t witchcraft, though I reckon it seems like it. Goin’ so fast, in this big metal box. But it’s one of the best feelings in the world, you know? And my baby Clyde is the best driver I know.” She said it as if she was monumentally proud, color in her cheeks as she looked up at the blonde. She was pretty, a little slip of a thing, the two peas in a pod. “But horses do too smell. I reckon you’re right about ‘em bein’ kinder, though.”

Bonnie shrugged, not really knowing a thing about Henry and Rosamund - just that someone had told he used to be a King and Rosamund his mistress. That didn’t really bother Bonnie too much.

“Bonnie Parker.” She was almost surprised, but she shook Ros’s hand anyway and looked around before she shrugged. “You been here a long time? You seem like you would’ve been, but who knows, really?” She shrugged. “This is some place. I’ll never be used to it.”

"I’ve never been in one,” Rosamund admitted, “so maybe I shouldn’t judge, but it seems like going so fast...” She struggled to articulate what she meant, gesturing helplessly around them. For some reason she desperately wanted the woman to like her; maybe it was because she was everything Ros was not, confident and unashamed and never beaten. Ros had absolutely no idea of what her life had been like before purgatory, nor who she was here with, if anyone, but she wanted to know. She had a sneaking suspicion that it might shock her - but she was discovering that perhaps she needed to be shocked every once in a while. “If God wanted man to go so fast, He would have given us wheels, that’s what the nuns that raised me would have said. But then again -” she shot Bonnie a slightly wicked glance; it sat well on her face, “they did not approve of much I did, or really anything.”

At the mention of Clyde, Ros’s eyebrows rose. She thought, judging by the tone, that baby did not mean the same thing to Bonnie as it did to her, and she pursed her lips. She had a sneaking suspicion that she might have met Bonnie’s baby before. She drew in a short breath. “I don’t suppose,” she began carefully, gathering the folds of her skirt in one hand, a comforting habit she had never been able to lose, “that your Mr Clyde has a bad habit of robbing dress shops, does he?”

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clydcbarrow‌:

     “Hmm…” Clyde considered this. The aspect was certainly nice–it wasn’t anything he had to fulfill immediately, and he didn’t expect that a blonde crybaby would give him any task too horrific. It wasn’t as if he was going to be chopping up body parts in the backyard. Perhaps she’d send him to the grocer for a few items, or help her carry a few heavy trunks to a final destination. Just girly things. It was a win-win situation.

     “Seems fair to me,” Clyde nodded, “You got yourself a deal, ‘lil girl. My help. Just once. Any time,” He reached out a hand, tugging on the hem of the dress, “Now, you uphold your side of the bargain, and I’ll be right out of your hair, miss…?”

     He chuckled with a pause, “That’s mighty rude of me–I didn’t even catch your name. Can’t rightly do you any favors without a name.”

Rosamund could sense him watching her - and underestimating her in his turn. Everyone did that; and perhaps they were right, in their own way. She was not a woman to twist a man’s heart in her nails, for instance, for her own gratification; nor to seek wealth and advancement for its own sake. But she was no fool. She had hurt others to keep those she loved by her side; she had committed sins against the church and man. She had never been married, but she had been willing to bear children anyway. She was not stupid, but it was easy for her to act so, and so she allowed her lashes to flick down, covering her spark of triumph.

“Thank you,” she said, and released the dress. With more of a stern expression, she eyed him. “And make sure you tell your ‘girl,’” she pronounced the term with a vague twist of confusion, “that she has to wash it by hand. The beading is delicate.”

She wouldn’t package it for him - she wasn’t that much of a pushover - but she folded it carefully. Money didn’t matter much in Purgatory, and she supposed time didn’t either, but this felt like it had cost her all the same. Glancing up, she hummed in acknowledgement, absorbed in the dress. “Hm? Oh, yes. Rosamund Clifford.” She was well used by now to people not recognising her name - her fame, it seemed, was rather limited to those interested in old love stories. “I was...well, does it matter?” She eyed the gun at his side somewhat sullenly. “I think I can guess your prior career.”

[xfcliffords-blog]

kleopatrasx‌:

    A mixture of books and papers scattered the floor of a corner within the history section of the library, pages were turned to reveal either old photographs or artist renditions of varying centuries and decades whilst paper and parchment displayed her own interpretation of the garments worn. Cleopatra held no claim to be an artist of any sort, the figures remained headless for she dared not to even attempt that territory, but she had a hand for sketching designs of ships and great temples which she found were not so different from the blueprints of a dress or coat - which was fortunate for those who used the services at Arsenic & Old Lace. “ Hm, what are your thoughts on these? ” With her pencil cast aside and a quiet hum, Cleopatra spoke in hushed tones to another whilst rearranging her designs to show only those which might be suited to the person being questioned. She remained in her spot upon the floor, dressed herself in a white kalasiris dress which she had cut to the knee and stitched for a more fitted shape and didn’t quite scream ‘Egyptian’ as much as she once had.

Rosamund liked her job - she was grateful beyond belief to have found a woman who would pay her to do what she loved, which was sew. She had always considered herself as a woman of little imagination, of simple tastes, and she had never been one for designing, but she had a precise nature and an enjoyment of doing things right, and there was little that calmed her like following a pattern. She loved to embroider, and her clothes, now that she had been in Purgatory long enough to settle into life here, were often elaborately decorated with flowers and birds in beautiful coloured threads. She had handkerchief samples of even more elaborate patterns of embroidery, and these she spread out before Cleopatra, fingering one of them thoughtfully as she gazed over the clear charcoal lines.

She still mostly wore the gowns she had been raised in - loose chemises of gentle linen, flowing kirtles tied with a belt around her slim waist - but as she grew more confident, the styles grew more elaborate. She couldn’t imagine ever being as comfortable as Bonnie Parker to wear what she called trousers, which showed her legs so, and as for what the Egyptian Queen wore - well, sometimes just looking at her made Ros want to cross herself, though she did not, not wanting to encourage the inevitable sharp-tongued mockery. The Queen’s designs, though, were undeniably beautiful, and Rosamund smiled to look at them.

“They are beautiful,” she said, settling herself on the dusty floor next to her. The shop was closed - they would not be disturbed. “Perhaps in a green? I think we have some of that silver-shot silk left over?”

[xfcliffords-blog]

clydcbarrow‌:

   Well, Clyde certainly saw that one coming. He did try to treat her as cordially as one could, given the situation, he thought. That always seemed to toss some sort of wrench in the operation–like when that butcher tried to assault him with a meat cleaver in Dallas. He was only inquiring as to whether they had peach pie, after all! He was a debonair, southern charm thief. Not some run-of-the-mill, no-good crook.

   This wasn’t going as smooth as he hoped, all thanks to some stubborn, snobby blonde that he was really starting not to like. He groaned, exasperated, “Don’t you know it ain’t smart to try to reason with a man with a gun? I ain’t gonna give ya somethin’ I came to take. Are you gonna ask for somethin’ else, or am I wastin’ my time?”

The fear was fading somewhat now. The loss of the money didn’t bother Rosamund that much - Cleopatra’s temper did, that was for certain sure, but the money itself was irrelevant. She wasn’t likely to starve in this town, and besides, she had never had much use for coin. In fact, she could probably count on two hands the number of times in her life she had paid for something herself, with gold - she had almost always ordered through her steward, or else swapped whatever she wanted, ribbons, a sweetmeat, for something else on her person. Once she had traded a spectacular broach Henri had had made for her for a stallion and given it to him as a gift - he had been furious, but that was usually how she liked him.

She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, frowning in contemplation. This man didn’t seem like a particularly good thief - but then again, she’d given him the money, hadn’t she? That was generally the goal. She looked him up and down, keeping a firm hand on the dress. “I’ll give it to you,” she said, slowly, “but in return, I’ll want something. A favour. Redeemable at any time. If I need your help, I get it - but only once. Does that sound fair?”

[xfcliffords-blog]

clydcbarrow‌:

     “Didn’t mean to offend ya, ma’am,” Clyde scooped up the money, sweeping it into a burlap sack, “But you were sittin’ there like a blind ol’ dog. Had to get ya up, somehow.”

     Any job was a good job, to Clyde. He didn’t discriminate. Whether that be Cleopatra’s clothing store, or the Shelley’s down the way–although, that place gave Clyde the heebie-jeebies, and he was inclined to steer clear of it.

     Conveniently ignoring her sniffling defiance–he did flinch away when she smacked his hand, however–he looked up at her, incredulously, “Well gosh, I did wash m’hands today and all. Wasn’t gonna soil it, or nothin’. Just admirin’ the handy work,” He considered this, bag of money in his hand, the other with his gun, rubbing his chin in thought, “How much is it gonna take for you to part with this pretty ‘lil dress, here?”

“It’s not you, it’s -” Rosamund stumbled over her words, her urge to be polite warring with her fury at this man’s callous treatment of her - and the gun, which still glinted dangerously, as though it was winking at her in the streaming beamsof the skylights. She shook her head. “It’s delicate,” she finished, and sniffed again, this time regaining some proper control. She glared at him and gently pulled the dress towards her. It really was beautiful - not her own design, she’d never been able to do that, but she’d lovingly hand-stitched every seam and all the miniature flowers that spanned the full skirt. It was certainly not a style she’d wear - she still blushed to think of some of the clothes women paraded around in here - but she could appreciate its beauty. Perhaps if she was a different woman.

Holding the dress possessively, if carefully, she directed her fierce blue gaze at him. “How about you give me back all the contents of the register, then I’ll sell it to you.”

[xfcliffords-blog]

clydcbarrow‌:

     “Oh, c’mon now, don’t start cryin’,” Damn it, why did Clyde have to be susceptible to pretty lady tears? Why was she just sitting there all weepy eyed? He just wanted some cash! The criminal repressed a groan, shifting his eyes this way and that, if only to avoid her watery eyes in any way possible. 

     He pulled back his gun, gently tugging her to her feet and pulling her along to the counter. He didn’t wanna hurt her, but apparently, she didn’t get the whole ‘I’m robbing you’ thing play by play, “By God, I can’t stand when a lady starts bawlin’. Just get the money out and I’ll leave ya alone, ya hear?” In the meantime, his eyes drifted to a pretty, bright sundress on the counter. He ran his fingers over it with a smile, “Gee, did you make this? That’s mighty pretty. That would sure look fine on my gal.” 

Ros sniffed and wiped her eyes on the shoulder of her simple dress, trying to blink the tears away. Sometimes they worked as a tactic, but truth be told, they were coming of their own accord now. She hated being manhandled and she jerked herself out of his grip. “I can walk on my own,” she snapped, the effect being rather ruined by her flushed cheeks and the way she kept swiping at her eyes. “What sort of job is this supposed to be? Stealing from a clothing shop.” She found that she couldn’t stop her bottom lip trembling, and in frustration she slammed the cash register open, grabbing out the notes and coins - of many currencies and variations - and dumped them with a clatter onto the old oak counter.

“If you don’t like making women cry,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster, “maybe don’t threaten to ‘blow their brains out.’“ She put false quotation marks around the phrase, then folded her arms and scowled. She couldn’t help but follow his gaze though, and automatically batted at his fingers. “Don’t touch it! Yes, I made it.” She took a hitching breath. “It’s - it took me quite a while.”

[xfcliffords-blog]

clydcbarrow‌:

     Admittedly, Clyde didn’t expect such a sweet seamstress to not be afraid of a gun–he didn’t want [and wasn’t going] to shoot her–but appearances could be deceiving. He knew that intimately.

     Walking forward, he tapped the gun against her temple, pointing it towards the counter, “C’mon now, ‘lil lady, go on to the register and get out everythin’ you can grab,” Clyde took her arm, giving it an insistent tug, “Certainly not inclined to blow your brains out, ‘specially such a pretty girl like you.” 

To her shame, Ros came over all shaky. She had been threatened before - many times, actually - but she had usually had guards around her, or a knife on her person. Besides, there was a difference between having a knife to your throat and knowing exactly what it could do, and having this blunt metal thing pressed to your skull with absolutely no knowledge of the potential damage, except that it would be bad. Swallowing, she looked up at him, allowing her eyes to fill with tears. “P-please,” she gasped, “I don’t know who you are, and - and the owner - she’s very close to the Police Chief, I promise I won’t say anything if you just go...”

She was still clutching her needle - not a very good offensive weapon, in truth. She was far more likely to just prick her finger on it, and then she’d stain the embroidery silk and Cleopatra really would be angry. For the love of God, she had survived a Channel crossing in winter, this was nothing! But she shook anyway.