The Snow white, director’s cut
A/N1 written for chainofclovers' fic-a-thon
A/N2 an answer to melanacious' prompt: Miranda/Andy "Perhaps there's room for renegotiation?"
“How DARE you? “
The massive oak door hit the wall so hard, the thick stone walls reverberated with the sound. She stood at the threshold letting her eyes adjust to light after trudging the dark halls. Finally, spotting her target, Andrea strode into the room, her skirt still bunched up in her hand.
She leaned over the heavy desk, her head only inches from the other woman’s. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Her fingers twitched with need to scratch the perfect face. She could barely speak through her rage. That impostor! That sly, conniving viper!
“A moment.” Apparently unimpressed, the woman did not even glance at Andrea’s direction. Her attention was firmly on the fine parchment filled with precise lines of numbers and writing. Obviously satisfied with the content, she reached for the quill. With an elaborate flourish, she signed her name on the parchment.
The Right Honorable Countess of Grimmborough.
Every perfectly executed stroke of that quill sliced through Andrea’s skin. She straightened away from the name as if slapped. Oh, father. Did it have to be her?
Everything about the woman was grating. Her preposterous meddling with running the manor; her vicious comments and sarcastic insults carefully disguised as motherly advice; her false smiles which charmed “even the king himself, so do pay attention to the Countess, darling” (Andrea’s aunt’s unsolicited counsel).
Carefully, the Countess placed the quill back on the heavy glass stand and leaned back in the chair. She gave Andrea a calculating look, sighed the exaggerated sigh of martyr (the bitch) and finally acknowledged, “Andrea.”
Her obnoxious arrogance.
“Do elaborate, please,” the Countess waved her hand.
“Oh, I’ll elaborate, all right!” The anger ignited once again, “You are selling my birds! What right do you have? For God’s sake, the falcon is in the crest of this house! My father’s legacy--”
The Countess exploded from the chair, “Your late father’s legacy is --”
She pressed her lips together, cutting off the rest of the sentence. For a long minute, she stared somewhere behind Andrea’s shoulder and then, with a purse of her lips, seemed to reach some sort of decision. Her eyes narrowed at Andrea, giving her a slow, unsettling once over.
“I have been lax with you, letting you grieve,” and the word sounded like an insult in the Countess’s mouth, “but there are a couple of things you need to be aware of, step daughter.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Be silent!” The Countess cut her off with such venom that Andrea could only inhale sharply in answer. “I shall call you whatever I see fit, whenever I see fit.”
She rounded the table in measured steps, never taking her eyes off Andrea’s. “Do not forget yourself, step daughter. Your birds can disappear as easily as your chambermaid did.”
Andrea gasped, “Mary? I knew it! I shall-- You can’t --” Can’t what? Speak that way, treat me that way? But yes, Andrea realized with sudden dread, yes, she could.
The Countess moved even closer, so close Andrea could smell her jasmine scented perfume (Father bought it last May, a bottle for her and a bottle for me). Andrea could not move, could not speak.
“Everybody has a role to play,” the Countess glided around her slowly, as if appraising a new bale of Ovidian muslin.
“I rule over Grimmborough,” the Countess stated flatly. “And you... You are only what you are worth to me.”
Suddenly, Andrea felt a breath on her neck. She shuddered involuntary.
“The only question is, Andrea,” the Countess whispered in her ear, “What is your worth to me?”
She tried to control her breathing, suddenly wishing she did not come up here alone and without witnesses.
“Well?” The Countess prodded, “What is it? Your cunt or your brain?”
“I- What?” She stared at the woman, in utter shock. At least, the crassness shook her out of her trance.
“Oh, don’t look so traumatized, Andrea,” the Countess smiled lightly. “You can do it, but you can’t talk about it?”
Andrea swallowed, but stayed quiet, refusing to take the bait.
“You see, in our circles, there are two ways for a woman to get ahead: either by her cunt or by her brains.”
Andrea bit on her lip, hard, to stop the insult begging to burst out. We both know which path you picked.
“Ah. Silence - such an under appreciated art,” the Countess smirked at her struggle, apparently reading her mind.
“For example, if I were using your more obvious selling points,” the Countess pointedly stared at her chest, then let her eyes drift slowly lower, ”I could simply hand you over to Count Raviz and solve quite a few problems, for all of us.”
Andrea gasped. The man was a menace, always skulking around the manor. Lately, more than ever. She had heard his crass, insinuating jokes at the dinner parties, and she had met his big-headed son. For the life of her, she could not fathom why her father kept company with such a horrible, despicable character.
“Should I do that, Andrea?”
Andrea raised her chin in defiance. There were worse fates in the world. Like staying here, for example, under the foot of this snake.
“I hear young Christian Raviz is a dashing boy. You could do worse.”
A hand gently traced her left hip. “You seem a breeding kind. You could pop out seven or eight pups without breaking a sweat.”
Suddenly an image of the cook’s daughter - so young, so tired, so dead after her fifth - drifted through her mind.
Shuddering, Andrea licked her lips, “What is my other option?”
The end (for now)
A/N2 an answer to melanacious' prompt: Miranda/Andy "Perhaps there's room for renegotiation?"
“How DARE you? “
The massive oak door hit the wall so hard, the thick stone walls reverberated with the sound. She stood at the threshold letting her eyes adjust to light after trudging the dark halls. Finally, spotting her target, Andrea strode into the room, her skirt still bunched up in her hand.
She leaned over the heavy desk, her head only inches from the other woman’s. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Her fingers twitched with need to scratch the perfect face. She could barely speak through her rage. That impostor! That sly, conniving viper!
“A moment.” Apparently unimpressed, the woman did not even glance at Andrea’s direction. Her attention was firmly on the fine parchment filled with precise lines of numbers and writing. Obviously satisfied with the content, she reached for the quill. With an elaborate flourish, she signed her name on the parchment.
The Right Honorable Countess of Grimmborough.
Every perfectly executed stroke of that quill sliced through Andrea’s skin. She straightened away from the name as if slapped. Oh, father. Did it have to be her?
Everything about the woman was grating. Her preposterous meddling with running the manor; her vicious comments and sarcastic insults carefully disguised as motherly advice; her false smiles which charmed “even the king himself, so do pay attention to the Countess, darling” (Andrea’s aunt’s unsolicited counsel).
Carefully, the Countess placed the quill back on the heavy glass stand and leaned back in the chair. She gave Andrea a calculating look, sighed the exaggerated sigh of martyr (the bitch) and finally acknowledged, “Andrea.”
Her obnoxious arrogance.
“Do elaborate, please,” the Countess waved her hand.
“Oh, I’ll elaborate, all right!” The anger ignited once again, “You are selling my birds! What right do you have? For God’s sake, the falcon is in the crest of this house! My father’s legacy--”
The Countess exploded from the chair, “Your late father’s legacy is --”
She pressed her lips together, cutting off the rest of the sentence. For a long minute, she stared somewhere behind Andrea’s shoulder and then, with a purse of her lips, seemed to reach some sort of decision. Her eyes narrowed at Andrea, giving her a slow, unsettling once over.
“I have been lax with you, letting you grieve,” and the word sounded like an insult in the Countess’s mouth, “but there are a couple of things you need to be aware of, step daughter.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Be silent!” The Countess cut her off with such venom that Andrea could only inhale sharply in answer. “I shall call you whatever I see fit, whenever I see fit.”
She rounded the table in measured steps, never taking her eyes off Andrea’s. “Do not forget yourself, step daughter. Your birds can disappear as easily as your chambermaid did.”
Andrea gasped, “Mary? I knew it! I shall-- You can’t --” Can’t what? Speak that way, treat me that way? But yes, Andrea realized with sudden dread, yes, she could.
The Countess moved even closer, so close Andrea could smell her jasmine scented perfume (Father bought it last May, a bottle for her and a bottle for me). Andrea could not move, could not speak.
“Everybody has a role to play,” the Countess glided around her slowly, as if appraising a new bale of Ovidian muslin.
“I rule over Grimmborough,” the Countess stated flatly. “And you... You are only what you are worth to me.”
Suddenly, Andrea felt a breath on her neck. She shuddered involuntary.
“The only question is, Andrea,” the Countess whispered in her ear, “What is your worth to me?”
She tried to control her breathing, suddenly wishing she did not come up here alone and without witnesses.
“Well?” The Countess prodded, “What is it? Your cunt or your brain?”
“I- What?” She stared at the woman, in utter shock. At least, the crassness shook her out of her trance.
“Oh, don’t look so traumatized, Andrea,” the Countess smiled lightly. “You can do it, but you can’t talk about it?”
Andrea swallowed, but stayed quiet, refusing to take the bait.
“You see, in our circles, there are two ways for a woman to get ahead: either by her cunt or by her brains.”
Andrea bit on her lip, hard, to stop the insult begging to burst out. We both know which path you picked.
“Ah. Silence - such an under appreciated art,” the Countess smirked at her struggle, apparently reading her mind.
“For example, if I were using your more obvious selling points,” the Countess pointedly stared at her chest, then let her eyes drift slowly lower, ”I could simply hand you over to Count Raviz and solve quite a few problems, for all of us.”
Andrea gasped. The man was a menace, always skulking around the manor. Lately, more than ever. She had heard his crass, insinuating jokes at the dinner parties, and she had met his big-headed son. For the life of her, she could not fathom why her father kept company with such a horrible, despicable character.
“Should I do that, Andrea?”
Andrea raised her chin in defiance. There were worse fates in the world. Like staying here, for example, under the foot of this snake.
“I hear young Christian Raviz is a dashing boy. You could do worse.”
A hand gently traced her left hip. “You seem a breeding kind. You could pop out seven or eight pups without breaking a sweat.”
Suddenly an image of the cook’s daughter - so young, so tired, so dead after her fifth - drifted through her mind.
Shuddering, Andrea licked her lips, “What is my other option?”
The end (for now)