Another costume ball.  The one that happened previously was a nexus for jealousy and the worst sort of nostalgia.  This was no different.  Maggie had been attired in one of Angelique’s gowns, and Quentin did what he does best in any era; he flew into a drunken and irrational rage.

If it were not a greater evil, I would bite the man, arm him with the safety of being under my command, and then end this charade once and for all.  Earlier, “Alexis” and I had a game of chess by a fire (what an image that was… oh, for David’s camera), and her insinuations regarding her role in the current chaos and tragedy were so ham-fisted that I was tempted to carve them up and serve them on the first day of Spring.

It is a terrifying reminder of the Angelique of old, and it makes me vaguely nostalgic for the unpredictability and adventure she once created.  Excluding her constant assaults on life, love, self-determination, and dignity, the old Angelique I knew was a lively woman of impossibly diverting charm.



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