The Dollhouse discussion
Ground Floor
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Sitting Room
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Flannel sat lounging in an armchair with her bare feet propped up on one of the coffee tables. In her hand she had a ballpoint pen, and in her other hand she had some papers of all different colors and sizes. She was looking through her notes on the inventory she'd just finished doing. Apparently, if she left the ordering of all the supplies to anyone else, it wouldn't get done right, so she'd taken on the job herself. Her master list was mostly comprised of food items, but there were other things too, such as replacement light bulbs, soaps, detergents, new candles, seeds for the spring gardens that would be planted soon, assorted toiletries, yards of both simple and ornate fabrics, threads, yarns, sewing needles to replace all the ones she'd lost over the past couple weeks (hopefully one of the dolls would accidentally step on a couple), new filters for the ac vents that she was not looking forward to installing, batteries, stylish shoes for the upper castes, a new set of wrenches, leather bound novels Alistair wanted for the library and his loyal slaves, and on and on and on.Sighing as her hand started to cramp up, she took a break and placidly looked around the room, noting the subtleness of the layout. That was probably why the sitting room looked so elegant and refined, but it wasn't really her taste. She looked up at the gilded mirror, staring down the disfigured and scarred doll who gazed back at her. After four years of seeing a monstrosity in every mirror, she had forgotten what she used to look like. Alistair had her portrait painted once, but she didn't know what had become of it. He'd probably burned it or gotten rid of it in some other, grossly symbolic way.
Just like always she had a strong urge to punch the glass until her hands bled. It's not like she could damage her right hand much further. The only thing it was good for now was to do things that otherwise would have damaged it beyond repair, but since it was already irreparably destroyed, it didn't matter what she did with it. Her nerves seemed to be very damaged in her hand as well; she once set it on a hot stove in the kitchen and barely felt a thing. She didn't even notice until one of the dolls screeched in fright.
Still, she forced herself to absorb her monstrous appearance in every detail. Maybe she would break the mirror. Again. She'd broken several mirrors her first year as a broken doll, and Alistair had been furious. Perhaps it was time to invoke his wrath. After all, she had absolutely nothing to lose, and it had been that way for four years now. Shaking her head, she turned back to her list, double checking that each item and the quantities were all correct.
Eilonwy tugged at the straps of the uncomfortable blue dress she’d put on for today. Like most of the gowns that appeared in her closet, it was itchy, stiff, and irritating. She couldn’t see how anyone could enjoy wearing these clothes, and she could only imagine how impractical they’d prove to be when working on a farm like she used to. She especially couldn’t envision how awkward it would be to ride a horse in one of these things. Dresses were like the torture device that only afflicted women. She scowled.With one final tug at the ridiculous outfit, Eilonwy stepped into the sitting room. When she wasn’t in her room or sneaking outdoors in the latest pair of pants that she’d created, Eilonwy spent much of her time in one of the chairs. She mostly read her old books or sometimes sewed to keep herself from going crazy from the boredom of being cooped up indoors all the time, and today she was hoping to achieve the same goal. I don’t see why Alistair keeps us all locked up here. She sighed drearily, but decided she’d better stop thinking about it before she went off on another tangent about the oppressions of living here.
At the doorway of the sitting room, Eilonwy paused abruptly. One of the disfigured, broken dolls was lounging in an armchair. She toyed anxiously with her straps again, not sure what the girl was doing here. Eilonwy wasn’t exactly clear on what to think. On one hand, it appeared she was breaking a rule, so good for her. On the other, she’d never interacted with any of the broken dolls here, and she didn’t know what they’d be like. Eilonwy stepped into the room, figuring she was just letting time waste away by standing there like a dumb barn pigeon on its nighttime perch. Her lips quirked up into a small grin at the thought of their own, old barn pigeon. Her father, being the great animal-namer he was, had named it Stupid, and that had been its name forever. She wondered where it’d be now. Was it still there as the new pet of whoever owned the land now? Eilonwy frowned, moving her thoughts on as quickly as they came. With a tug first at her braid and then at the inconvenient nuisance of a dress, she forced a smile. “Hi, my name’s Eilonwy Masters. What’s yours?” She made sure to put extra emphasis on the Masters part of her name. She refused to take on the last name Graceling. Eilonwy would never be Alistair’s daughter, thus she would never use his name. “Or I suppose my name is Roxanna, kind of.” She muttered after a moment. Like always, she felt the familiar pang of grief that came every time she uttered that name. While she loved the way ‘Roxanna’ rolled off her tongue and the sense of loyalty she felt to her mother whenever she used it, she still couldn’t erase the fact that it had been her mother’s first name. Every time she used it, it brought back all the memories of her mother, especially the one she hated most. She squeezed her eyes shut for just a moment.
Eilonwy snapped her head up a second later and quickly sat down in another one of the armchairs in the room, setting the old, worn book she’d been holding in one hand on the side table next to her.
Flannery eyed the newcomer warily, not having seen this particular doll before. She must be new. Her suspicions were confirmed when the younger girl introduced herself as Eilonwy Masters, using her former name. While Eilonwy was a beautiful name, she had a feeling that Alistair hadn't picked it. He seemed to prefer to give people names that fit their nature, and elegant Eilonwy was not a good fit for a doll who looked as uncomfortable in a dress as she would be in a straitjacket. When Eilonwy asked her for her name, she simply shrugged. "Flannery, but most everyone calls me Flannel." She answered, sounding as disinterested as possible and returning to her work.
It kind of stung a little to be so dismissive of a doll that reminded her of herself four years ago before her demotion and "death," but just like all the others, Eilonwy Masters would eventually become just another willing slave of Alistair, shedding her former name and spirit to don satin lies and taffeta, unquestioning submission just like a snake sheds its old skin.
She raised an eyebrow at Roxanna. So that's her new name... I suppose it fits. She set down her list on the coffee table and eyed the cover of the book. "What's the title?" She asked abruptly, going from disregarding the girl to taking an interest in her faster than she could snap her fingers. Such mood swings were common occurrences throughout the day, and while it could be very off-putting and disorienting, most of the other dolls had just learned to live with it or ignore her entirely. The latter was the most popular reaction.
Eilonwy was a little bit surprised at the dismissive response at first, but she shrugged it off a second later. Back when she’d gone to public school for her seventh grade year, all the girls were just about as dismissive as this girl, Flannel, had been just now. Of course, in most respects, those girls had about every right to not care about a raggedy old farm girl, whereas Flannery had only introduced herself and then proceeded to ignore her. Flannel was a broken doll however, so that most likely explained her response. Eilonwy wasn’t hardly confounded when her dress and clean hair didn’t make any difference to her though. Looks aren’t everything, she smirked. Her grin dropped a second later at Flannel’s next question. Eilonwy fidgeted with the tear on the front cover of the book. “The Hobbit,” She answered. “My father gave it to me.” Her last sentence was considerably quieter, and the words just seemed to pop out of her mouth before she could take them back. “My real father, not the impersonator.” Eilonwy added. Silas Masters had brought her home these old books as soon as she could read well enough. She only wished she could’ve taken them all with her instead of just her favorites.
Flannel bit the inside of her cheek and shrugged with one shoulder, her mangled, useless hand hanging over the arm of her chair. "Good book." Was all she said, eyeing the tear Eilonwy was playing with. Clearly the book had been well-loved, so it must not be from Alistair if the girl was new here. There wouldn't have been enough time to wear out the book like that. She must have had it on her at the time she was abducted or convinced to come to the dollhouse, but Flannery was almost one hundred percent sure that Eilonwy had been abducted like she had been four years ago. Someone with that air of defiance would never come here willingly given the choice. Her thoughts were confirmed when Eilonwy added that the book had been a gift from her father -or, her real father as she made a point of saying. Maybe this one would last longer than the others. Or maybe she'd fall victim to Alistair's faux charm just like every other damned doll in this hellhole. It happened to every single girl without fail. The luxurious lifestyle and lavish gifts that Alistair presented to each doll won each of them over in the end. All except one. Katyushka Vanya Graceling. Flannel almost didn't even recognize the name or that it had once belonged to her. No, she wasn't Katja anymore. She was Flannel. Just Flannel. No Celtic middle name. No surname of a fictional prince. Just a disfigured doll with the burden of mythical Atlas: holding up this entire world on her shoulders, and her shoulders alone.
"So you just got here?" She asked, trying to make conversation for some reason unbeknownst to her.
Eilonwy nodded. “It’s one of my favorites. I’ve had it since I was ten, I think.” She glanced at the cover. Most of the title was completely worn away, and almost all the edges were peeling up. She was lucky she’d had her backpack on her when she was taken, otherwise she would’ve lost all her books forever. It was true she could’ve asked Alistair for the same stories, but she hated the idea of relying on him for anything. He would never be able to replace her parents, and she didn’t want him to. The books her father had given her were special. They were the only thing she had left from the farm, now that all her old cargo pants and her horse, Alcatraz, were gone. Of course, that didn’t stop Alistair from buying her several, much nicer copies than the ones she actually owned. “Alistair gave me leatherbound versions of my books when I got here, but I’ve never used them. I hate snotty, rich people.” She added after a second. At Flannel’s question, Eilonwy forced her hands into her lap. “Yeah, a few weeks ago. I just really miss my old barn though.” She lingered on the thought of the abandoned, makeshift home she’d been living in for the past month, or at least the month before she arrived here. She sighed frustratedly. “And I don’t even get why I’m here. I’m not some pretentious, petty girl like all the others here.” That’s right. I’m just a raggedy old farm girl. But I’d much rather be a farm girl than a swellhead. Eilonwy frowned. “I’m sorry. Just never mind that.” She waved off her previous comment, the ache in her heart making her want to move off the topic again. “What about you? Have you been here a long time?”
Flannery had to try hard not to chuckle at Eilonwy's comment. "Well, now you're surrounded by 'em." She said wryly, making a disgusted face. "Trust me. The levels of lavishness and luxury and expenses that go on in this whore house are colossal and unending." She spat on the coffee table, scowling at it. "We could have fed all of Nigeria for years with the money he wastes." Glaring at the coffee table, she sat back in the armchair and started tugging on a thread that was coming loose, sitting in silence for a moment to rein her temper back in. Everyone had always said she had searing hot fire running through her veins in place of viscous blood before... everything. When Eilonwy - or Roxanna, she supposed - said that she didn't understand why she'd been taken, Flannery shrugged. "There are a few of us who feel the pain of being a decent person even at the most basic levels every day, though close association with us is punished severely. I wouldn't recommend making a habit of talking to us lower castes. Alistair's loyal slaves are notorious tattle-tales, even including many of the servants. I'd tread lightly if I were you; you're probably already walking on thin ice. It's only a matter of time before Alistair is fed up with you going by your former name, and you don't want to reach that point." She replied, motioning to her own disfigured face. You don't want to see a monstrosity so grotesque that it couldn't possibly be human in any way, shape, or form every time you look in a mirror, and trust me, it's impossible to avoid mirrors in this dungeon. Every time I walk through that mirrored corridor on the second floor, it's like walking on swords. You don't want to get to the point where you can't even remember that you were once human.
Flannel sighed at Eilonwy's next question. "Too long." She answered vaguely, not wanting to get into her past right now, especially not with someone she barely knew. She'd relived the past enough times at two or three in the morning. She wasn't going to willingly submerge herself into a whirlpool of torment and agony just for some newcomer who was too curious for her own good.
“Unfortunately.” Eilonwy flatly responded to Flannel’s first sentence, the fact that she had to agree with Flannery only annoying her more. The thought of spending another second with these elitists made her want to puke. If she had to hear another word about how someone’s complexion was absolutely terrible, yet that girl looked as pale, clean, and rich as ever...“And I bet all the people here are the laziest snobs ever,” She continued. “Someone should teach them the meaning of hard work, and it does not involve dresses, cosmetics, looking nice, being snobby, being rich, or living in mansions. I’d like to throw them all out on a farm and see what they do. At least I’d actually be entertained,” She added, slightly amused at the idea of the self-obsessed women getting their hands into the dirt that she used to live on.
Eilonwy sighed dejectedly. “I hate all the rules here. They don’t make any sense, especially the one where we have to change our names and address him as our father. I might start going by Roxie eventually, but I will never, ever call him my father. I don’t care how annoyed with me he gets. I would rather toil at the most unfertile farm all through the night for as long as I could than call him that.” She answered, her sunburnt face looking a little redder than it already was. He will never, ever replace my own father. If he tries to, I’m pretty sure I’ll blow up. Making me choose a new name, removing me from my barn, separating me from my horse, trying to buy me off with nice, fancy things, dressing me up in the stupidest type of clothing on the universe. That’s one thing. Forcing me to address him as I would my own, dead father? Entirely different. She clenched her fists.
“Well, that stinks,” Eilonwy’s voice was a little more serious this time. “I’ve not even been here a month, and I already feel like I’m going crazy.” She couldn’t imagine what Flannel had been through. It didn’t seem like she wanted to talk about it though, so she just moved off the subject. “Anyway, I should probably stop talking about how much I hate it here before I start getting more annoyed.” She snorted. Knowing her, she might just march up to Alistair and tell him what she thought about him if she dwelled on the subject much longer. And based on what Flannel said, that would be about the worst thing to do.
“What kind of books do you like to read?” Eilonwy asked after a second. If there was one thing Eilonwy never minded talking about, it would be her favorite books. It was still hard for her to imagine though that the man who had handed them to her wouldn’t ever be there to give her another one. And all because she wasn’t there to persuade that foolish boy from killing them. She couldn’t decide who she hated more: the father imposter who forced her into the most irritating dresses in the universe and tried to buy her off or the orphaned, former farmhand with her parents’ blood on his hands. The only difference was one had ruined her life first, then the other came along and ruined it twice over. She felt her face burning again, her teeth biting into her bottom lip. She hated both of them, but it wasn’t hard to decide which one she hated most. At least Alistair wasn’t responsible for her parents’ death, even though it seemed like he wanted to erase every bit of her life. A tear spilled down Eilonwy’s face, but she quickly wiped up her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. It was not worth getting upset over again, especially not in front of other people. Stupid Eilonwy. You should be named Stupid, not the barn pigeon. Maybe that’s what name you should’ve chosen. It perfectly describes my life, doesn’t it? She sighed, forcing her jaw to clamp shut, her eyes to stop watering, and her mind to stop thinking about her parents. No use getting upset. She repeated silently.
Flannery almost laughed. Almost. A couple years ago she would have thrown her head backwards and died laughing. Now, she just snorted in amusement. She'd imagined on more than one occasion the other dolls having to live like normal people or being dirt poor."Just don't call him anything at all." Flannel responded to Eilonwy. "Outright refusing to call him 'Father' or any other appropriate synonym to his face is one of the worst things you could do..." She sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Have you... Do you know what happened to Katja Graceling?" She asked, her face dead serious.
Flannel sighed wistfully at the mention of books. "I used to devour books like people inhale air; I wish I had the time to read again... Nowadays I hardly ever get a minute to myself. I don't even remember what I used to read anymore. I think I liked adventures and mysteries. I think..."
“I suppose,” Eilonwy shrugged. “It’s still irritating how much of my old life he wants me to disregard, though. Don’t even get me started on these stupid dresses. I used to go around in my favorite green cargo pants and this shirt with torn sleeves, and he took them all away from me when I first got here.” She particularly wished for the familiar fabric that actually covered her legs. In dresses, she felt much more naked and out of place than she did in her own clothing. Even if the fabric was a little thin and the patches she’d sewn on hardly matched, at least they clothed most of her legs. Dresses just sat around one’s legs, and it was hardly the same thing. Eilonwy frowned, tugging at the skirt of her gown.At Flannel’s question, she leaned back in the armchair and tilted her head. “Mm, no, I don’t think so. Why?” She asked, curious as to what a broken doll who had apparently been here a long time had to do with someone named Katja. “I don’t really talk much with the other women here. They get on my nerves too much. I don’t really even know many of their names,” she said. If there was gossip circling about this Katja person, Eilonwy was probably the least likely in the whole house to know about it. She hated gossip. She even hated the word gossip. It just reminded her of all the high-and-mighty snobs she used to attend school with.
“I don’t know what I’d do without my books.” She responded. “They’re really the only thing I have patience for. They’re especially useful in this fancy dungeon. Since I’m trapped here and forced to wear dresses, my days of running outside or riding horses are pretty much over.” Eilonwy sighed dismally. She’d been so used to her freedom that she never really appreciated it as much as she did now. Being forced to live in this prison of a life sure as changed my opinion of things. Another scowl flitted over her face. “Well, if you ever do have time to read, feel free to borrow one of my books. I’ve read them all so many times, I could probably recite them.”
"You're in high society now, Roxy." Flannery shrugged. "A very civilized, esteemed society... where people are still abused and taken advantage of." At this, her right eye twitched a bit, but she offered Eilonwy a very wry smirk. "Imagine that. All of you live in a luxurious pocket in the world high above everyone else, yet though you claim to be so advanced and cultured, you're as backwards as the "heathen" parts of the world, you know where they still treat women as property and enslave others like you do here." She scoffed and propped her bare, grimy feet on the coffee table, not caring that she was dirtying the sitting room. She wasn't even supposed to be here in the first place, but here she was. She figured if she was already breaking one rule there was no reason not to break a few more. Flannel actually had to try not to grin too much. She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands like she was about to retell an epic narrative. Although, really, there wasn't enough to tell to warrant the exaggerated preparation. "Well, it certainly took me a while to learn everyone's names and such, but it's not very useful knowledge other than for pranks. As for talking to them, it's a waste of time." She threw her hands up in the air, dramatically rolling her eyes. "I had never before had the misfortune of meeting so many air heads in one place before I got here." With one final sigh, she shook her head once to clear out interfering thoughts and put her mind back on the train track of Katja's story. It was almost sad, in a way, that she always referred to Katyushka as if she was another person entirely, but maybe that's just how she'd survived this long without completely losing her mind. Of course, other dolls would argue that she already had lost any sanity she once had for so boldly defying Alistair, but she highly doubted the master of the dollhouse's princesses and their cushioned behinds had any experience with true insanity. Some of the dolls had lost their minds, but those were always already broken dolls, except perhaps for one... But now was not the time to delve into all that. Let Eilonwy find that out for herself.
One more time she sighed and folded her hands again on top, getting her mind back on the right path. "Katja Graceling... She was once a favorite of Alistair's, one of his mistresses, as I recall. She had the alabaster complexion of a china doll, white gold locks in wild curls, and fierce, icy blue eyes. She was... different than all the other dolls. She never let anyone push her around, not even Alistair, and she said what she thought, no matter the consequences. Suffice to say, she wasn't the most popular with the other dolls. Only Alistair and a select few liked or loved her. Most of the dolls now say she just cracked one night, but I suspect it didn't happen overnight like that. However, she defied Alistair at every turn and eventually drew a knife on him. There are varying rumors as to why she did that - you'd have to ask some of the other dolls - but Alistair punished her. Harshly. Essentially, he crucified her, which I always thought was a bit ironic. He lashed her with a cat o' nine tails that also had sharp bone fragments attached while she was manacled in iron chains with barely enough clothing to cover her. He cut up her entire body, beat her to a pulp, and then left her there to die on the ground like an animal. He made every doll watch until he unchained her and then ordered everyone back inside as she bled out alone in the frost of coming winter..." Flannel drew in a shaky breath and had to force herself to exhale and breathe in again. Even after four years, she could remember her humiliation like it was just yesterday. She'd heard others say that she'd never truly come back from it, but she gave such whispers no time. "Sometimes I wonder... wonder if as the blood loss pushed her into delirium, she saw anyone from her old life to comfort her into the darkness. A friend or family member, perhaps. I wonder how long she suffered..."
Flannel nodded at Eilonwy's comments about her books, too exhausted from retelling her story to do much more than nod along and offer faint smiles. "I'd borrow one if I could, but I don't know where I'd find the time to read it."
Eilonwy wrinkled her nose at Flannel’s comment about the other dolls. I can’t believe I have to leave with these ridiculous fluff heads. Their nonsense is making me crazy. She instinctively reached for her book again, tracing the worn cover. “The only air head I’ve ever really met was Stupid, but then again, I don’t think he really counts since he’s a pigeon. I bet there’s enough fluff brains here to drive the sane people out of their minds and off the planet,” she remarked. “It’s really quite unfortunate.”After Flannel started her story, Eilonwy finally stopped fidgeting and started absorbing every word. It wasn’t that she cared about whatever entitled brat the story was about, but she hadn’t had a new story to listen to other than her own for a long time. She felt like she did back when she had to drop out of school and her father stopped bringing her books: restless and bored out of her mind from reading the same tales over and over again. There were some adventures she could read several times without ever tiring of them, but she had a feeling that those books wouldn’t last much longer. That normal stir-crazy sensation crept back into her mind again. I hate being cooped up... Eilonwy tried to shake the thought out of her head, forcing her brain to hang on to every last word. Her eyes widened as Flannel recounted the girl, Katja’s, harsh punishment. Torture, more like it. Alistair, the man who’d locked her up here along with all these other girls, was capable of being so cruel? She knew how insistent he was with his rules, but “punishment” in her mind had been being sent to her room, maybe taking away his stupid, frilly gifts, not... that. “That’s... that’s awful.” Eilonwy’s eyes drifted to the floor as soon as the story was over. The image of Katja lying on the ground was ingrained into her head now, and her thoughts flashed to the memory of her own self lying on the ground, crying her eyes out. Unlike Katja’s story though, there had been no one around and it had been the beginning of her favorite season, summer. The other difference was that she hadn’t been bleeding out to her death like Katja had been. The delirium thing... well, Eilonwy hadn’t been able to - and still couldn’t - decipher what she’d dreamed and what she’d actually done in reality on that night, or even the next week for that matter. Sometimes she’d dream that her father had given her another book, that he was actually alive, then awake to find that book nonexistent and the crushing truth of her life weighing down on her. But the only way she could tell what was dreamt and what was real was based off of what she owned, and that forever-clear picture of her parents’ bodies. She didn’t realize how short her breathing had become, how tense her legs, arms, and jaw were until Flannel changed the subject back to books. Eilonwy forced her muscles to relax, focusing on slowing her breathing. “Well, if you ever do find an hour or two, my offer still stands.” She nodded slightly. “Did-did you ever have any pets before coming here?” She asked, eager to think about something else that didn’t directly remind her of her parents. Back on her farm, eight cats had found their way to her family’s barn. For some reason, the barn had just been a cat magnet. Eilonwy had always loved having a warm presence at the end of her bed too, even if her parents didn’t necessarily allow the cats indoors. But what had the house rules mattered to her back then? Here, it seemed breaking the rules once too often could bring even death. She’d never had to fear that punishment in her old life. Or at least, that’s what she’d thought.
"Fluff brain?" Flannel mused, raising an eyebrow. I'll have to remember that for future use. I think it aptly describes most everyone here. She nodded solemnly in response to Eilonwy's reaction. "I'm not trying to frighten you." She said, after a moment of thought. Okay, maybe I am a little, but it's for her own good. "I just want you to know the stakes, how careful you must be. That's never happened to anyone else to my knowledge, but if it happened once..." She trailed off, trying to hold back a grimace. I hope it never happens again. God knows I don't want someone else to go through what Katja - what I - did, but if it was someone who deserved it like Tia or Angeline, I don't know that I would care. Thoughtfully, she looked back up into the mirror, this time looking at Eilonwy's face. "Beauty is currency here. Remember that." She remarked, thinking she used to look a bit like Eilonwy only with lighter hair and paler skin. She wasn't exactly sure why she was helping a doll who wasn't broken, but here she was doing just that.
Flannel shook her head at Eilonwy's question. "No." She answered simply. It had been a long time since she'd thought about her family. When she first arrived at the dollhouse, she'd thought of them often, but then once she'd become a broken doll, she'd had much more pressing things to worry about. The last time she'd really thought of Edwige had been in her delirium and the following months directly after. Now she wondered what her best friend was doing, if she had a new best friend, where she was going to school now, etc. "My parents didn't allow pets in my old home." Home...
“Sono terribilmente pigri,” she muttered in Italian, reverting to the language she’d learned a few years ago and still spoke fluently. She even taught Alcatraz to respond to verbal commands in Italian, though the large task had consumed hours a day for a year before the horse finally caught on. “They’re awfully lazy,” Eilonwy translated in case Flannel didn’t understand. “And much too big for their britches.” About ten other adequate words to describe the conceited cows flooded her brain, but she didn’t suppose the doll would like to listen to her annoyed rantings. She backtracked for a second. Actually, they’re much too big for their gowns, she corrected herself internally with a smirk. Ironically enough, every single girl here was as thin as a stick.The story of Katja Graceling was slightly disorienting. The pictures of her parents, Andreas, and Alistair kept bombarding her mind, and she couldn’t switch them off. She wished Flannel hadn’t ever surfaced the topic, distractedly nodding at her warnings. About a minute later, the blaring alarms in her head faded, and Eilonwy returned to fidgeting with her book. “If beauty is currency, then I must be quite poor,” she responded, with more pride that one would’ve thought belonged in that sentence.
Eilonwy sunk into her chair disappointedly at Flannery’s answer to her question. “I don’t think farm animals count as pets, but if they do, then we certainly had a lot. They don’t count though,” she added. She almost set off her mental list of every single farm animal and their name that she’d recited to ensure she didn’t forget to care for any of them back when she still lived at home, but she quickly tuned it out. She missed her companions too much for that.
One of the walls is covered with cream wallpaper patterned with different coloured flowers. The carpet is brown, with pretty gold patterns. There are cream camel backed sofas with gilded arms, legs and backs, and cream chairs, also with gilded arms, legs and backs, in the baruque style. The cushions on the sofa are gold and shaped like roses. There is an ornate marble fireplace with rose and thorn designs, above which hangs a gilded mirror.