The Garden, the Richelieu Residence, Uptown
“Isla Dzum,” Niccolette said with a smile, sitting a little more upright to look at Lilliana once more. She took the bottle of champagne again, and drank from it once more, although more in the vein of a toast than anything, this time. “One of the smaller islands,” Niccolette said with a grin. “We have a plantation there, a wedding gift from my husband’s family.” Gold-clad shoulders shrugged lightly; her hand waved through the words, as if the plantation lay somewhere just beyond the fountain.
The situation had, naturally, been somewhat more complicated; the wedding, naturally, had been somewhat more complicated. But she doubted Lilliana was terribly interested in the drama of their wedding; she had noticed the other woman’s lack of interest in the subject of matrimony. Naturally, a discussion of the intricacies of her happy marriage would have been utterly taboo in Florne; no one wanted to hear about one’s devotion to one’s husband, of all things.
She was, Niccolette thought, a fool. For a moment the thought was bitter on her tongue; another sip of champagne washed it away, and thoughts of the island were pleasant enough to banish any lingering doubts.
“I am afraid it is terribly pastoral,” Niccolette said with a broad, amused grin; there was no mistaking the look on her face for anything but thoughts of home. “We grow all manner of crops. My husband can talk of nothing but kofi strains for hours,” her smile widened a little more at the thought. “It is quite lovely. Red dirt, white sand, crisp blue waves.” She ran her fingers over the pale, smooth skin of her face. “Rather a chore to keep from freckling, but,” Niccolette grinned. “Worth it, I should say.”
Niccolette could not but think longingly of the plantation, then, of the wooden house on the cliffside, the Eqe Aqawe tethered behind and drifting in the breeze, and the bedroom with its billowing white curtains. There were no distractions there, no temptations, nothing to come between them. More than any other place in the world that Niccolette had ever known, it was home; more than any other place in the world that Niccolette had ever known, it was hers.
“Have you spent much time in Mugroba?” Niccolette asked, curiously, smiling at Lilliana once more. “I am quite fond of Thul Ka, myself. It does not compare to Florne, naturally,” she grinned a little wider, “but, then, what city does? It can hardly be blamed in that regard.”