Chapter Text
North America — April 20, 2024
—Clorinde, New York
“Clorinde! Get down here it’s your turn!” A voice bellows from downstairs. The purple-eyed girl rolls her eyes and shakes her head, staring at herself in the mirror as she pulls her hair into a messy, low ponytail before stepping out of her room.
“Or what?” She calls back, unabashedly, from the top of the stairs, “Are you going to fire me? I’d really like to see you try.”
She descends down the steps, and as soon as she reaches the foot of the stairs her aunt appears by her side. She reaches up and snatches the Rossignol’s cap off of her head, tousling her hair in the process.
She puts her hands on her hips expectantly, and frowns.
“You’re five minutes late for your shift.” Petronilla chastises, pointing to the clock behind the counter.
Clorinde gives her an unfazed look before reaching in her back pocket to hold her phone screen up at her. “Clock’s five minutes ahead,” she bites back, turning her phone on.
8:00am. Saturday morning, it reads. Bingo.
“Just in time,” she continues, pulling the black cap on and then walking over to station herself behind the counter. She opens a cabinet and grabs her name tag out of it to latch it onto her t-shirt, as she’s done countless times in the past.
Her aunt scoffs, dumbfounded, and sighs.
“Right,” she chuckles to herself before turning to head upstairs, finally being able to rest from her overnight shift. “5 minutes behind what do you know…kid’s definitely playing tricks on me….” Clorinde hears her mumble to herself as she walks away, leaving the currently empty shop to her.
She glances around and sighs before deciding to pull the stool from behind her forward so she can sit. Their white cat, Sunny, approaches from the counter top and leaps onto her lap, and from there they wait for customers to arrive, together.
About the Rossignols and this shop...
Right now, Clorinde is twenty-one years old. But before she was born, her mother and her father had this dream of opening up a small shop together after they got married, in the town where they met: Bronxville, New York. They wanted to create a place that people could always come back to. A shop and a community of people that would never leave. Or more so, if they did, they’d always be able to find their way back. At least, that's what her aunt told her. Clorinde never got to meet her parents. They disappeared after she was born and Petronilla took her in.
Clorinde can still recall when she was four and her aunt had taught her how to brew coffees for their customers. She was so small, she couldn’t even reach over the counter back then.
Now, she recognizes all the familiar faces that come through the door. She also notices unfamiliar faces as well. Sometimes they get customers that are just passing by, tourists and what not, then they have regulars. Around this time on weekends, Ei and her wife, Miko, usually show up.
As if on cue, two figures with purple and pink hair appear outside. The door chimes as they open it, a cold breeze blowing in following suit, and their eyes land on the cashier. They give her a wave, and Clorinde offers them a small, awkward smile back.
To Clorinde, they’re kind of like that meme that goes: “Your rich lesbian aunt and her roommate of 10 years she always brings to family gatherings.”
Is that how that saying goes? Clorinde can’t remember. (Her best friend, Furina, usually calls her a hag because of this-her terrible ability to keep up with the memes she sends her.)
Anyways, Ei’s 29 now and Miko 28. They had started dating in high school; Clorinde met them 3 years ago when they moved to Bronxville, and ever since then they always come in and ask her about how she’s doing and how college is. They’ve already graduated, both got their masters, are now employed in careers they’re happy with, and they live together just a few blocks down from Rossignol’s in their own little, adorable house.
Part of Clorinde wished she knew what having all of that would feel like.
A new customer strolls in after them a few moments later, a blonde girl with bright, gold eyes, dressed in red, and Clorinde gives her a curt nod.
She has to steel herself from looking taken aback when the girl quickly bounds over to her eagerly.
“Do you sell lighters here?” she quips.
“Yeah, it’s just down the ais-“
“OH and also explosives. I need them for a friend. A small friend.”
“Your small friend needs a license for that,” the cashier replies flatly.
(She doesn’t like being interrupted.)
Fortunately for Clorinde, the girl doesn’t argue or anything, and simply turns away to go look at the lighters, leaving the indigo-haired girl by herself with Sunny now nipping at her shoes.
A few hours and several people later, Clorinde’s favorite customer finally arrives, clad in his black and orange trench coat with his arms folded behind his back. That thoughtful expression on his face that made him radiate the energy of a sixty year-old man despite barely looking a day over thirty-five.
“Miss Rossignol,” he greets her, with a small smile.
She tips her head, her hat covering her eyes from view for a brief moment, “Mr. Zhongli.”
He roams over to her after giving the shop a once-over. “Would you perhaps still happen to have that same brand of wine I purchased the last time I was here?”
“Finished it already, old-man?” she remarks, leaning down and opening a cabinet to pull the bottle out from inside.
She says it with no emotion, and yet the light poke at fun doesn’t fly over Zhongli’s head. She’s always admired that every time they interact. Despite how plain and short their conversations are, he always seems like he knows everything already.
Petronilla had nudged her just last week and told her how she thought it was weird that Mr. Zhongli was the only one buying that wine. Well according to her it tasted horrible, but really who was Clorinde to judge? She only ever drank tea and coffee anyway.
Zhongli doesn’t respond to her question, instead pulling out his wallet from his coat pocket and taking out a gold credit card.
(Clorinde’s convinced he’s secretly rich despite the fact that he literally only ever buys one bottle of wine at their shop every time he comes in.)
She scans the wine as she feels his sturdy, gold gaze land on her again.
“How is your portfolio coming along?” he asks.
The question stops Clorinde in her tracks. She forgot she told him about it last month. She had been trying so hard not to think about it.
About her.
Before her mind can torture her any further Zhongli hands his card over to her, which she takes and swipes through the card reader. She hands it back to him.
A beat passes before he continues on, despite clearly noticing the uneasy look on Clorinde’s face, “The art program ends next month, no?”
“Yup.” She presses a button and the receipt prints out. She rips it off the machine and holds it out to him.
He doesn’t take the receipt at first, and instead eyes her curiously. “You said this was the only way for you to make it onto the showcasing auction so you could………..what was the phrase your friend Furina said…….’make it big?’”
Clorinde just hummed, not eager to find out where the conversation was heading.
Her instructors had given her an extension to turn in one more art piece because all her other artworks had been ‘showing promise’ and the talent 'was there' but………but apparently they were missing ‘heart.’
They said they'd give her one more chance, but if she couldn’t show more ‘heart’ or whatever it was they were looking for in this next piece……then they’d have to give her spot to someone else.
No pressure at all. As if what Clorinde thought was her ‘heart’ didn’t dump her six months ago to go pursue something else.
And now she hadn’t been able to draw since.
A year ago, it was quite literally impossible to rip her away from her sketchbook. She’d been drawing constantly, so much that at some point her grades had almost begun to slip but then…….well her ex helped knock some sense into her.
They had both been the top students in their classes; straight A’s, studious, unwavering, the same shear determination. Only-childs. They might as well had been mirrors of each other.
And well now she can't draw. Literally. All she can draw are little circles, stick figures, and maybe a rectangular prism when she's having a good day.
Now she can’t do what she loves the most and she hates the color yellow. So yeah.
The silence between Clorinde and Mr. Zhongli stretches on for what feels like hours, before he finally takes the receipt from her hand. His other hand comes up, and at first she thinks he’s going to grab the wine from the counter, but then he places something down. Two blue Mermonia pens. Her favorites.
He offers her another small smile.
“Keep your head up, Miss Clorinde. I think you’ll find what you’re looking for soon enough.”
And then he clutches the neck of the wine bottle and walks out of Rossignol’s, leaving Clorinde alone with her thoughts.
She takes the pens and puts them in her pocket.
Europe — June 15, 1824
—Navia, London
Her father’s gaze wasn’t always as cold as it is right now, staring at her from his seat across the dinner table.
Navia doesn’t look up, out of fear, instead choosing to keep her eyes trained on her plate in front of her. But still, she can feel her father’s eyes burning holes into the front of her skull, almost as if taunting her to glance up.
They eat supper in painful, suffocating silence, and Navia wishes more than anything that their butlers—Silver and Melus—hadn’t already retired to their rooms for the night. They would have been able to help ease the tension in the room, especially since……well, her father seemed to favor them more than her.
Again—no it hadn’t always been like this.
When her mother was still alive, things had been better.
Close to perfect, even.
The three of them would often partake in trips down to the lake near their estate to watch the fishermen row by, or to simply just bask in the sunlight beneath the trees whenever they felt like it. They’d have picnics occasionally, and since they lived towards the outskirts of town, they were surrounded by several open fields and meadows of various plants and flowers that they could admire. Navia loved them.
Her mother had taught her a number of dances that she’d learned when she had been growing up in France; from the waltz to the quadrille, the cotillion, polka, to several country dances, there were so many little Navia learned from her by heart. Sometimes, they would go and dance together in the fields as the sun set. The blonde recalls how they had made flower crowns afterward a handful of times. Once, her mother had braided her hair and adorned it with lilies.
One of her favorite memories was when her mother had taken her to look at the sea of yellow roses once they had fully bloomed at the peak of the spring season nine years prior, back when she was twelve years old. Navia really loved those yellow roses.
But then again, they never really came close to her love for lavender, if she were being honest.
Then her mother died a year later, and suddenly her father became hellbent on making the blonde the picture perfect image of an Englishwoman that he clearly wanted to get rid of as soon as possible.
When her mother was still alive, her and Navia would mess around on the piano after Navia’s lessons with her piano instructor finished, and even then her father just opted for sitting off to the side quietly, reading through the mail, working through papers, and what not.
If she did something as simple, no, scandalous, like that now? She’d never hear the end of it from her father.
He regarded her now with so much disdain it was hard for her to believe he ever looked at her any differently. One glance over and it felt like chills were running down her spine from his stoic, icy stare.
She’d actually began to enjoy the comfortable silence that came with his absence whenever he had to leave on business meetings. When she’d finally have the house to herself to do whatever she pleased without him breathing down her neck at her every movement. When she’d be able to wander outside and even possibly go horseback riding with help from her friend down at the stables, Sir Alberich, and not have to worry about her father berating her for ruining her shoes or dirtying her dress as soon as she returned.
Do not do that, Navia. It’s not ladylike.
What would your suitors think?
Sit up straighter.
Stop messing around.
Mistakes aren’t allowed.
Just then, she hears her father set down his cutlery onto his empty plate, and she already knows what he’s about to say.
“Monsieur Arlecchino is holding her renowned annual ball next week in Paris.”
Navia feels her heart drop to her stomach, and prays for the Earth to just swallow her whole at that moment, to hell with how unladylike that thought is, she doesn’t care.
“An invitation from Monsieur Pierro arrived this morning, asking you to accompany him. I informed him that you will be attending, as I assume he will be using this as an opportunity to finally secure his marriage proposal. Which you will accept this time.”
At the sound of his name, Navia clenches her jaw so hard she fears it might shatter. She tries imagining herself walking down the aisle to Monsieur Pierro. She tries imagining being married off to him. She tries imagining what it would be like-spending the rest of her life with that fool of a man.
The thought makes Navia’s stomach churn, and she clutches the fork and spoon in her hands so hard her knuckles turn white.
And then there’s the fact that Monsieur Pierro is without a doubt older than the man sitting across from her right now. He probably is. He looks like it.
But that doesn’t matter to her father. Not when Monsieur Pierro is currently the wealthiest person in this part of London.
Marrying him would do the Caspar name a great deal in terms of status and money. Yes, with the money they already had, Navia and her father would be set for five lifetimes, supported by the riches passed down generations through Pierro's family.
But somehow, none of that made it any better. Navia had been making her best efforts to try to evade him and any large gatherings he had been taking part in for the last three months since her father had introduced him to her. She purposefully tried messing up on etudes while performing on the piano for him in their home, she'd stepped on his shoes when she danced with him at a ball two months ago, she tried interrupting him several times during the few times they'd talked, she'd tried everything to try to make him change his mind about her. Nothing worked.
All it got her was scolding and punishment from her father. Hours upon hours of extra piano practice, dancing practice. Even 'drinking tea like a lady' practice. Walking like a lady practice. More harsh scolding.
She had run out of options.
She looks up, and their eyes finally meet for the first time that day.
She wants to scream at the top of her lungs. She wants to argue with her father. To tell him that no, she won't do it. She doesn't want to accept Pierro's proposal, and she never will. That she'll never marry a man for as long as her soul resides in her body.
But she does not. For there is no place for a woman like her in this society without the help of a man to give her worth. She has no purpose for anything else but this inevitable future.
Perhaps love no longer exists within the walls of the Caspar estate, Navia thinks. It's no longer an option for her. Maybe it never was.
She thinks about all the romance novels her mother used to read to her before bed. She thinks about her mother telling her how she'd find her own "one true love" someday. How it would change her life. How she'd be happy with them.
But Navia is sure that person does not exist in this lifetime.
So she nods her head, because no one is coming to save her.
She nods her head like she will when Monsieur Pierro offers her his marriage proposal. She nods her head like she will for the rest of her days, forever a passenger in the story of her life, while someone else mans the carriage for her.
"Good," Callas states, voice void of emotion, "Tomorrow, Miss Chiori is expecting you at her boutique to help you get fitted and find a dress worthy of Monsieur Pierro's attention. Do not be late." He stands, "I will be departing first thing in the morning for business in Canterbury, but I will try to return just before the ball. Silver and Melus can give you more details." And with that, he walks past her, opening the door of the dining hall and exiting, without even so much as a simple goodnight.
Navia's gaze doesn't follow him out. Instead, it moves down to her lap, and she squeezes her eyes shut like she does in her nightmares when she wants to wake up. She doesn't move when she hears someone clearing the plates from the table. She doesn't move when she hears someone beginning to sweep the floor. She's not sure how long she sits there, until she feels a hand on her right shoulder.
She looks up to find the Caspar's youngest yet most trusted maid, Noelle, standing beside her with a solemn look on her face. She squeezes her shoulder, stares at the blonde with her bright, determined, green eyes, and then does something Navia wasn't expecting.
She gives her a hug.
It catches her off guard at first, but then she eases into her touch, and soon enough, she also wraps her arms around Noelle in return.
"I'm sorry," she hears Noelle whisper.
The hug lasts mere seconds, before Navia is pulling away and excusing herself quickly, pushing herself out of her chair and almost running out of the dining hall.
Navia doesn't allow herself to cry until she's alone in the confines of her room.
That night, she leaves her quarters after the rest of the people at the Caspar estate have fallen asleep.
The blonde lights a candle, and then ventures down the corridor quietly. She passes by Silver's room, Melus' room, her father's bedroom, and then reaches a set of doors at the very end of the hall. She pushes them open.
The smell of dust and paper reaches her nose as she steps into the library. She looks around, before going to walk past aisles and stacks of books, all of which she's already read, until she reaches the wall at the very back. She raises the candle in her hand and lets it cast its light across the paintings hung above her.
Towards her left is a portrait of her father, towards her right is her mother, and in the center, right in front of her.....
...hangs an empty frame.
They will be painting her portrait and then hanging it in that exact spot after she's wedded to Monsieur Pierro.
She grimaces, the thought once again making her tighten her grip on the candle holder in her hand. This was it. This was what her life was to amount to.
She'd already considered running away, but where would she go? She couldn't start a life from absolutely nothing.
She thought about asking Melus and Silver for help. But they were her father's oldest friends. Despite how much they adored her, would they really go out of their way to help her escape this life? Would they go against their oldest friend's wishes for her? She wasn't sure if she wanted to find out. Not when there was the possibility of them reporting her ideas to her father.
She glances over at her father's portrait. His eyes less cold and lifeless than they are now, but still quite impassive, nonetheless.
The more she's looked at herself in the mirror these past few months, the less she sees of her mother in herself and more of him.
She turns her gaze to her mother's painting. She takes in her kind features, the blue dress she's wearing, the black bow in her blonde hair. Then her eyes fixate on the gold necklace she's wearing. The one Navia has around her neck right now.
She takes it into her hand, feeling the tiny, cold metal chains and then running her index finger over the small, blue tear-shaped gem in the center, and her mother's words ring through her mind.
You're destined for a great love, I know it, she'd said. Your future is in your hands. You'll meet someone who sweeps you off your feet, and no one else will ever compare.
What a lie that was, Navia thinks.
The delusion of her mother's words makes frustration pierce through her body just like her father's words did earlier. She feels something akin to resentment towards her mother, for filling her head with these false hopes.
She wonders what her mother would say to her now, after seeing how wrong she had been.
North America — April 21, 2024
—Clorinde, New York
“CLORINDE! SLOW DOWN.”
The taller girl comes to a halt and turns, waiting with her arms crossed as the white-haired girl catches up to her and stops, hauled over with her hands on her knees.
“Oh my god,” Furina pants, trying to stop the morning breeze from blowing her hair into her face, “I can’t……..I don’t……think…….I CAN’T FEEL MY LEGS.”
“You’re overexaggerating,” Clorinde turns back around and goes to run again. “Come o-”
“GIVE ME A MOMENT! I……just……Let me BREATHE! CLORINDE!”
Clorinde stops again, much to her own disappointment, and looks around across the street at the person jogging on the other sidewalk with their dog. Both the owner and their pet give them weird stares as they pass them. Probably judging them, without a doubt.
Clorinde turns back to her best friend before sighing, amusement in her voice:
“Furina,” she continues, “We’ve been running for 5 minutes.”
Furina shakes her head exasperatedly, before straightening her posture and putting her hands on her hips, “You know, has it ever occurred to you that maybe we don’t all have freakishly crazy stamina like you do?”
Clorinde narrows her eyes at her, “Maybe you would if you didn’t eat cake all the damn time.”
The shorter girl glares at her friend incredulously, “Excuse me? Ugh why are you being a hate- you are trying to stop me from doing the things that make me happy.”
“You’re the one that said you wanted to start going on my morning runs with me! Both this and the cake are your fault.”
“Literally leave the cake out of this.”
“I’ll make it about your plushies then.”
“WHAT.”
They get back to Rossignol’s around noon, and Furina sits down at one of the tables outside the front of the shop after retrieving their backpacks from Clorinde's room.
Clorinde walks out with two coffees in hand three minutes later, an iced vanilla latte in one hand and a plain black coffee for herself in the other.
She hands the iced coffee over to Furina and is met with a phone screen in her face.
“Did you see this?” the shorter girl asks.
“Furina. I don’t like social media, remem-“
And then she realizes what Furina’s showing her is her ex-girlfriend.
Ningguang.
Holding hands with a brunette Clorinde has never seen before in her life.
And then she's no longer in front of Rossignol's with Furina. No, now she’s eighteen again, asking Ningguang to be her girlfriend. She's picking Ningguang up before class and vice versa. They're studying together. Ningguang giving her ideas on what to draw. She's staring at her contact "Ning<3" in her phone. She's reading books while Ningguang works on one of her assignments. Then Ningguang's telling her maybe pursuing art isn't really worth it. Then they're arguing.
And suddenly Clorinde's back at square one.
But in all honesty……..did she ever really leave it?
Furina must notice the flood of thoughts running through Clorinde's mind because she retracts her hand quickly. "Sorry. I should've gave you a heads up."
The taller girl swallows thickly, before shaking her head. "It's fine," she manages to say, in nothing short of a squeak before sitting down across from her.
Of course Furina knows she's lying. But she doesn't press on. "Have you managed to draw anything yet?" she asks, and proceeds to try to resist the urge of wincing at her words after remembering that yes, art also still reminds her best friend of her ex.
If the question troubles Clorinde, she doesn't show it on her face. "Nope," she replies with a sigh. She reaches down to her backpack and pulls her sketchbook out of it, holding it out to the white-haired girl.
Furina takes it and begins flipping through pages of sketches. Several abstract pieces, sketches of hands, arms, people, scenery, architecture, numerous illusionistic pieces that fill entire pages. Some more elaborate than others. Furina sees a little sketch of herself on one of the pages from when her and Clorinde got locked out of their History class one day and had to sit outside. She continues turning the pages and is met with more detailed sketches.
And then nothing. Blank pages fill her vision until she reaches the end of the sketchbook.
"You tried scrolling through Pinterest for inspiration?"
"That was the first thing I did. Who do you think I am?"
The shorter girl hums. "Have you thought about switching to sculpting?"
"Not really my thing."
"What about graphic design?"
Clorinde's gaze falls. "I just love drawing. Sketching. Paint. On paper. Canvases." She takes the sketchbook back from Furina and closes it.
Deep down, she knew part of the reason why she was so adamant on getting into her college's art program was to prove Ningguang wrong. That she was wrong about art. That it was worth it. That all those hours she'd spent of ink and led and paper and canvases were worth it. She wanted to prove that art was something.
Furina sighs. "Well you just need to find something that inspires you again. That's all!"
"Is everything alright with you two?" a familiar voices chimes in a few steps away.
Clorinde and Furina's heads immediately whip to the side in surprise to find Zhongli there beside them, standing with his hands behind his back.
"Mr. Zhongli!" Furina yelps.
Clorinde just frowns. "How long have you been standing there?"
"I just arrived here mere moments ago," he replies, before taking a step forward. "I came here to buy another bottle of wine, but I couldn't help but overhear that you're looking for inspiration."
Furina stares at him. "Why are you buying wine at this time of the day?"
Clorinde looks at her incredulously.
Furina looks back at her and shrugs.
The taller girl shakes her head and then exhales, debating on whether or not she should tell Mr. Zhongli the truth.
"I am looking for inspiration, yes. I just...." she blinks, staring at her clasped hands on the table, "I don't know."
Zhongli is gazing at her, probably pitifully, Clorinde guesses. She doesn't know, she can't see his expression.
"I don't think you'll find what you're looking for by hiding in this shop," he comments, which makes Clorinde look up at him. His face is unreadable.
She doesn't say anything, so he continues on, "You're going to let one heartbreak dictate your entire future?"
Clorinde just frowns at the man, confused. Was Mr. Zhongli giving her life advice right now?
Based on Furina's face, she was just as confused as her.
Their eyes meet, and she can already read her friend's thoughts.
I think we should make a run for it, Furina’s eyes say.
Clorinde furrows her eyebrows. We are not.
Zhongli doesn't notice their exchange, and instead shifts his weight to his left foot. "I'm not one to speak on relationships, but based on what you've told me about your romance with Miss Ningguang, as hard-working as she sounds, I think you're meant to be with someone a little more......different."
Furina leans over the table towards Clorinde and whispers loud enough for Zhongli to hear, "I think he's trying to play Cupid."
Zhongli ignores her friend's remark. "It's time to stop hiding, Miss Clorinde," he says, and then he takes something out of his pocket and slides it across the table.
A gold coin.
"I'll come back tomorrow for the wine," he states with one of his small smiles again, and then he leaves.
"That's totally, like, not suspicious at all," Furina whispers, eyeing the coin that is now in Clorinde's hand. "What if it like, explodes in your face or something?"
Clorinde scoffs at her friend's wild imagination. "This is just a coin, Fufu, I'm pretty sure it's too small to do that. Also Mr. Zhongli would never, he's too nice."
They go quiet for a second as they both watch Mr. Zhongli disappear in the distance.
"Well, that was weird. Anyways," Furina continues, and then her eyes go so wide Clorinde can imagine a light bulb popping up above her head, "I almost forgot to tell you! When I finally turn twenty-one in October I'm thinking of throwing a little regency era type ball celebration." Furina reaches across the table, poking Clorinde's arm excitedly. "I'm also making you film a TikTok dance with me in our fancy clothes, since you never want to do it with me. It'll be your present for me so you don't have to spend any money. Heh."
Clorinde rubs her temples. Her money saved at the cost of her dignity. Who would've thought. "I don't know how you can just post videos of yourself all the time like that."
Furina giggles and shrugs.
"I'm an influencer, what can I say? The people love me!"
That night, Clorinde sits alone at the dinner table, turning the coin around in her fingers on one hand as she scrolls through paintings on Google with the other.
Her aunt had bid her goodnight around ten minutes ago. Even Sunny had surprisingly gone to sleep as well, leaving Clorinde in the dimly lit kitchen with the coin and her phone.
She continues scrolling, tapping her converse against the ground, waiting for something, anything, to give her a spark.
She scrolls past the classics that everyone knows: Van Gogh's Starry Starry Night, da Vinci's Mona Lisa. She stops for a few seconds to admire Claude Monet's work. She even reinstalls Instagram again and tries scrolling through different art accounts to look at sketches and more paintings. She goes back to Pinterest. She goes back to Google to look at more old paintings.
She's looking at a painting of a blonde woman with a gold necklace when she gets an iMessage notification from Furina with an image attached. She taps it.
Furina:
Going to bed! Goodnight Clo ! :D
IMG103.jpg
10:13pm
Clorinde clicks the image, and chuckles when she's greeted by an image of her best friend clutching her blue crab plushie. Mademoiselle Crabaletta, she remembers. Furina's tucked into her bed, making a peace sign at the camera.
Clorinde:
Goodnight Fufu.
See you tomorrow.
10:14pm.
Clorinde sighs, and then opens Google again to the painting from before. She lets out a yawn.
"Should I go to bed too now?" she mumbles to herself. She turns her attention to the coin in her other hand. She flips it around her fingers once more.
The coin looks the same as any other quarter. Heads. Tails.
Clorinde narrows her eyes at it.
Aren't quarters supposed to be, like, silver?
The girl huffs. Zhongli gave her a fake quarter.
She rolls her eyes. Guess the old man wasn't as rich as she thought. Or maybe his ass was a scammer.
Furina was right, this was suspicious.
It was already late; Furina went to bed already so she'd just have to wait until morning to tell her about it. She'd ask Mr. Zhongli about the coin the next time she saw him.
Clorinde purses her lips before turning the coin over in her hand again. She holds it close to her face to inspect it.
And then an idea pops into her head.
"So......coin," she asks it, "should I go to bed now?"
She places the small object onto her thumb, and then she flicks it into the air. She watches the light from the chandelier above her reflect off of the coin as it turns.
Heads. Tails. Heads. Tails.
It almost feels like the coin flips for a lifetime, before gravity pulls it back down.
Clorinde holds her hand out to catch it, and as soon as it touches her palm, she feels a spark.
And then the coin explodes in her face.