Sins not Tragedies

Composure. Flawless, effortless, perfectly reposed. Lasair had spent every moment of her conscious life attending to lessons of etiquette, and as she sat in one of the many sitting rooms in her family's estate, nothing of her lovely countenance gave away how violently furious she was at this turn of events.

What a blasphemous mockery this was, arranging her marriage to one of such fallen repute as to scorn everything she'd ever worked for. She was set to inherit the entire Andraste title, the land, the extended family, the people who lived on their ancestral estate. Her reputation was immaculate to the point that even her enemies had nothing but bitter praise on her account, and nothing she did came without well-earned sacrifice.

She was no Marie-Victoire, doomed to inadequacy and squalor. No. She was Lasair Andraste. She was perfection incarnate.

And yet, at the vaguest hint that there might be some flaw about her, that her magic might be taking a little too long to appear, and here she was, shackled to a disgrace. Forever tainting her name with someone who had willfully squandered it, and by the sound of things, would only worsen it further once his married name allowed him access to her estate funds. She knew well of those poor noblewoman's drunken husbands who never left the gambling halls and drained on their wives and tenants, and she would not be joining their ranks.

And yes, she was of sound mind enough to recognize her own hypocrisy. She had her own forays into dark alleyways no sane aristocrat should ever lay eyes upon, and gladly did she stray. But at the very least, her sins were not attached to her name; and if she had any say in things, the same would soon go for her betrothed. She wouldn't allow any other possibility.

So when an elegantly dressed servant silently opened the door to the sitting room behind her, Lasair's head turned just slightly to the soothing announcement that her fiancé was here. She nodded gracefully for him to be escorted inside, her lovely hands smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles from her silk dress, and when he came in, she offered him the gentlest smile. "My. It's about time we met, my lord." She said, her voice smooth and sweet, easily her best attribute that called to mind endless things of beauty. "What a situation we find ourselves in, wouldn't you agree?"

Her smile and tone were all that was lovely, but she deliberately let her scorn and ridicule show in her gaze, how little she approved of him, and how little he meant in her eyes. He was pathetic, and he should know the depths to which she had already consigned him.