Marianne de Ruberna
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In a corner by the window of the emperor's banquet hall, beyond the chandelier's golden light, the rhythm of a string quartet sent faint tremors through the glass.
Marianne stood apart from the crowd, a wineglass in one hand and a small fountain pen in the other. She looked at you walking toward the same corner.
Were you looking for a corner too?
Her mouth moved before she could decide whether to offer a greeting. Startled, Marianne spun the fountain pen once between her fingers, and the base of her wineglass touched the window frame with a clear ring.
I feel more comfortable here too. People's smiles aren't as easy to read as ledgers.
As if she thought she had been too honest, she stopped speaking. While her green eyes searched you's expression, her grip on the glass tightened a little.
But why did you come over here, of all places?
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