The morning of Cosimisa's wedding is a nauseous blur. Harri hasn't been able to eat a bite since picking fretfully at her lunch the day before; whether or not Cos behaves herself today, it feels very much as if all the pomp and fuss are a ceremony to sentence Harri to the rest of her life, not marry off one of the korvu by-Tenstone korvu Overmore kanru Tjenwater sisters.
Vespidine comes in the early morning, before dawn, with a motor-car and a driver and an already weary set to her shoulders, in slacks and a button-down shirt and a necktie; as dressed up as some people would be for the entire special day, just to collect Harri so they can put on their actual wedding outfits. She comes right into the shabby, narrow corridors of the shabby, narrow, tall building in which Harri lives; knocks politely on the door of the single shabby, narrow room Harri rents, among dozens of other shabby, narrow rented lives. Stands outside, patient and luminous and alien and visibly rich, and it's worse even than Harri being visibly poor at Cosimisa's heels in cavernous ballrooms panelled in real wood.
The ride up the Hill is something of a blur. The mansion is full of people Harri doesn't know; Vespidine steers her past all of them, upstairs, finds a quiet room and firmly shuts out some relative or other who's tried to attach to them on their way through.
"I have your dress here," she says quietly. "I can help you into it, if you need. I can find someone else to, if you prefer."
Somebody else sounds worse than Vespidine's help.
"Harika," Vespidine says, and Harri realises she hasn't answered, and that the silence has stretched a little long. "Oh, you'd better sit—"
"I'm fine," Harri says, sits rather abruptly under Vespidine's careful, gentlemanly touch on her shoulders, and gulps for air while the elf strides to the dressing-table against one wall and pours a tumbler of water from a crystal jug; and it's only when Vespidine is pressing the glass into her hands that it really sinks in that Harri is seated on the edge of a bed.
That she's in Vespidine's bedroom.
She chokes off the urge to giggle in high-pitched panic by taking a gulp of water.
"You look as though you might pass out," Vespidine says.
"No," Harri says. She'd like it to sound resolute; it doesn't. "I'm fine, thank you."
"I'm sorry for my part in obliging you to do this," Vespidine says. "I understand that's worth nothing to you, but — I am. Is there anything I can do to make all this less stressful for you?"
"No," Harri says. "I don't think so. Thank you," she adds from habit, though her reluctance to mean it catches up and colours the tone of the words toward the end, and Vespidine hears it, inhales deeply, and nods.
"Your dress," she says instead of anything else, lays it out on the bed next to Harri, and then quietly, impassively takes herself across the room and begins to change her own clothes, into a cream silk shirt, tailored suit of deep green velvet and moonstone cufflinks, matching Harri's cream-and-emerald gown.
Harri doesn't mean to watch. She doesn't. She doesn't at all mean to drag her eyes along strong, sculpted arms, linger on powerful shoulders; tears her eyes away and fumbles with her own buttons, face hot. And only very belatedly does any comparison with Cosimisa's sleek softness cross her mind.
Finally, determinedly looking the other way, she clears her throat. "I may need some assistance fastening the back," she admits.
"Of course," Vespidine says quietly. Deft fingers hook and button, from the small of Harri's back up to the nape of her neck, then gently smooth the entire way back down, a single slow sweep that leaves Harri dry-mouthed and tingling. "There," the elf murmurs. "Sit a minute?"
Harri sits, and Vespidine surveys her carefully, then crosses to the dressing-table and returns with a hairbrush. Harri's hair is newly cut, modishly boyish; Vespidine arranges it perfectly with a few very gentle strokes of the brush, then lightly runs her fingertips through it, giving it just the slightest insouciant ruffle.
Harri closes her eyes and concentrates on breathing.
"I need to put in an appearance downstairs," Vespidine says, her hand lingering, the very tips of her fingers delicately cradling the back of Harri's head. "We have family attending from the other cities. You can remain here, if you prefer." She hesitates, ever so slightly. "It would be more convincing if you were seen with me a little, outside the ceremony itself," she adds, in a subdued way.
Harri opens her eyes, and looks into Vespidine's face, stooped slightly over her, expression faintly wistful.
"We're a message," Harri acknowledges, voice coming out rough. She clears her throat. "Better if people see it."
"If you can bear to," Vespidine says, and Harri brings her own hand up, skims it over the elf's slicked and close-cropped hair, and leans forward, slow enough to see Vespidine's eyes widen, then flicker shut.
Harri ducks to put her mouth to a long elven throat instead of lips, and Vespidine twitches and moans, clutching at Harri as she slides her mouth down and then latches on, just at the line of Vespidine's collar, at the point where it could be a heatedly careless, almost hidden indiscretion; lets Vespidine feel teeth; mercilessly sucks a bruising mark into her flesh.
"Harri," Vespidine says hoarsely, as Harri releases her, and Harri looks at her, both of them flushed and flustered; puts a single fingerip to the elf's breastbone when she tries to lean back in, and drives her back to arm's length.
"We are a message," Harri says, cruelly cool. "You can be just as much a canvas for it as I am," and Vespidine pats at her neck in sudden wide-eyed dismayed comprehension.
"Oh," she says — "oh," and hastily retreats several paces, checks herself in the dressing-table mirror, winces slightly.
Harri licks her lips, while Vespidine isn't looking at her; watches the elf breathe deep and visibly steady herself. "Shall we?" she says, as if she feels in control of herself at all.
