Come at her Helena, embrace your inner Hunter, go little a apeshit, as a treat.
~We shall see. I am...what were the words of the Hermit...considering him an outlier, at this time. Your poisonous Painter has at least set a precedent for the idea that I have beauty but I am well aware that I am not a thing like the Barmaid, or you, or the Queen.~
Helena doesn't laugh, but she does move away, having rejected all the clothing there for...what are these, she's trying to discern.
"Now you are the flatterer, Miss Grace. I'm certain that Miss Bourbon, Her Majesty, and you all outstrip me by far in that department. Visual beauty is a realm I cannot cross into, but if even Edgar must bow his head and acknowledge it, there is some pride for you there."
It's fascinating, how one name can be filled with utter flippancy and disdain, but it can be!
There's a world of difference between caring about your appearance in the sense of wearing neat clothes and looking put together and mature so no one pities you and being aware of your looks. Grace is being flattering though, she's sure of it.
~Helena, the Manor was full of people of great beauty, and you are among them. You're right, you are not the same as the Barmaid or the Queen and certainly not the same sort of beauty as that aggravating Prisoner or the gentleman Jack, but you are still a beauty. Not a lure, the way the Barmaid is, no glittering thing that draws others to chase it; yours is more like the stars, or the entrancement of candle flame, but it exists and I will not hear you deny it. The world of sight may not be yours but you move through the worlds in the eyes of others and brighten them, not solely through what your creator has given you but because your gentleness and care brightens your glory and welcomes others to bask in it. Tell me you understand what I have said.~
That's...a lot for Helena to take in. She knows Grace hates insincere words, but they can't feel like anything else to her, because it's too much. Like it's recited from some book instead of meant, because she only knows how stars and candle flames are supposed to be, and how they've been explained in the past. It all feels like a too stiff, too big dress, meant for a true lady who was stronger and witty and better in company than Helena would ever be, someone who actually has glory and holds her head up high. Not her, not on the path she's headed. Even if she becomes the project manager that Lord Raven spoke of, that feels like too much.
She doesn't want to accuse the woman of speaking false, but neither can she feel comfortable accepting it. So, she stays quiet, letting the turmoil of her mind be hers alone.
Slowly, very slowly, Grace boops Helena on the head like she does with the ruler during their...ship-in-a-bottle session. ~I did say to the boy Shouji that you would not want to hear such from me. I am not the one to use these words for you, however true they might be. I am sorry, but...silence is difficult, now.~
"Whether it was you or anyone else, I think I would feel the same way that I do right now. They would still be words I had no answer for."
Words that she's going to have to figure out how to bury, because how is she supposed to talk to others to sort this one out? No, it'll be better if she can put them somewhere and forget, so that the strange self consciousness they bring can also be forgotten in the process.
~They are not a question that needs an answer, simply a true thing. No better or worse than the truth that you are blind or the truth of your skill with machines. But it is as you say, you can hardly check for yourself.~
"Sometimes things ask for answers, questions or not."
But at the least, how much they have shaken her mind can remain her own private secret. Instead, her fingers land on a light fabric, somewhat floaty, a dress certainly too long for herself, but...
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"May it not be the first such occasion. Not to be disrespected, of course, but to feel flattery in that way."
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~We shall see. I am...what were the words of the Hermit...considering him an outlier, at this time. Your poisonous Painter has at least set a precedent for the idea that I have beauty but I am well aware that I am not a thing like the Barmaid, or you, or the Queen.~
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"Now you are the flatterer, Miss Grace. I'm certain that Miss Bourbon, Her Majesty, and you all outstrip me by far in that department. Visual beauty is a realm I cannot cross into, but if even Edgar must bow his head and acknowledge it, there is some pride for you there."
It's fascinating, how one name can be filled with utter flippancy and disdain, but it can be!
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There's a world of difference between caring about your appearance in the sense of wearing neat clothes and looking put together and mature so no one pities you and being aware of your looks. Grace is being flattering though, she's sure of it.
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She doesn't want to accuse the woman of speaking false, but neither can she feel comfortable accepting it. So, she stays quiet, letting the turmoil of her mind be hers alone.
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That much, she can bring herself to say.
"Whether it was you or anyone else, I think I would feel the same way that I do right now. They would still be words I had no answer for."
Words that she's going to have to figure out how to bury, because how is she supposed to talk to others to sort this one out? No, it'll be better if she can put them somewhere and forget, so that the strange self consciousness they bring can also be forgotten in the process.
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But at the least, how much they have shaken her mind can remain her own private secret. Instead, her fingers land on a light fabric, somewhat floaty, a dress certainly too long for herself, but...
"...Would this fit you?"
Lighter fabrics are probably welcome for this eternal weather.