Daphne looked up at her mother, eyes filled with a bitter mixture of worry and anticipation. The quick-sighted maid did not miss a simple movement between the two ladies; Mrs. Winters passed a silver glittering object to Daphne, under the table quickly to her so that it caught the attention of no-one else.
The scream echoed round the table like ice, cutting through the warm atmosphere inside. Daphne sobbed, her acting as perfectly hysterical as the rest of the afternoon, clutching at the knife that was protruding from her stomach (though it actually was, for terms of comfort, tucked into Daphne’s armpit) and running red stains down her plain white dress. She gasped, make-up running as her eyes welled up, pools of lies and the dark secrets she hid from everyone.
“No… I know…” Daphne’s eyes grew wide as she whispered and she let her fingers smear down ‘blood’ trails onto the tablecloth.
With a tearful- but forced- wail, Mrs. Winters collapsed onto the body of her child.
“The ‘killer’ strikes again,” remarked Azura with much sarcasm.
Rhaïd cleared his throat.
“Well then, it seems we should discover this killer before he strikes for a third or forth time.”
“How astute, old chap…” grumbled Joshua.
From her place standing and observing the game, Alexandra frowned. A thought niggled at her brain, protesting to escape her lips, and flow out like a river of truth… Or a river of gold, but, in her opinion, they were the same.
“But… Could she have known…?” Cynthia voiced Alexandra’s concerns. The former peered down at Daphne, eyes wide, but Alexandra had the feeling that it was not because of concern for the girl, but more for fear of her own life being taken. She whipped out the innocent invite, scanned it with deep concentration, but then Cynthia’s features relaxed.
Well, it seems she doesn’t partake in any death, chided Alexandra, while Cynthia tucked the invite back into the golden closet that was her little clutch bag.
The high-society girl glanced back down at her acquaintance, and her magpie eyes caught sight of the ruby necklace hanging loosely around Daphne’s neck. Every ruby was an individual shape, each told its own story of how it became set into the silver-ringed band, which shone of its own accord- even in the room where every illusion glittered. Illusion had a tendency to do that: glitter and tempt with its falseness.
Cynthia was used to fine jewels and to getting her hands on whatever she felt was necessary to pursue her glamorous lifestyle. So, when jealousy overtook the girl’s mind that afternoon, as she could not bear to see such a beautiful piece of jewellery clashing with her rival’s horrid ginger curls, Cynthia dared to reach out reach out and tug at the clasp peeping out from the tight neck-line of the dress.
Instantly, Daphne’s head and eyes snapped up. Fuming, she took off the necklace herself and, making sure that the eyes of some of the other guests weren’t centred on her, pushed the jewels down the front of her dress. All the time, neither girl said a word, merely displaying their uncertain dislike (were they not supposed to be friends?) through the series of dark-mannered looks they were throwing to each other.