There were many somesuches scattered about; women nubile, sylph-graceful, women who were not women at all but other things shaped from dreams and the stuff of men's panting fantasies gone star-shot and brilliant in reflected light from Morden's tent ceiling. She was not; she'd woven in and out of demon's dance until her nerve endings sang pleasantly of satisfaction glistening, of it beckoning just beyond corner if only she would take last few steps -- giddy, drunk on power that glittered eyes and sent her laughing, Vivi took steps, dragged fingertip-touch along the arm of the nearest, the dearest, the handsomest (oh love: love was poison seeping dark and satisfied into the creature that canted its non-existence and hoped for it like children dream of fairies with the wistfulness of growing up).
Lips cool as water on flushed skin, and Vivi smiled (magic fashioned noose, worked it steadily, plaited disparate pieces together and bound them tight) at the casually possessive possessive? there was something there, fingering at the seared edges of what was memory and separate from all this gesture that had her fit herself along his side, like instrument tucked into the grasp of musician that knows it best.
"Hullo," but cool amusement that trickled sweet as honey was robbed of throaty accent all derision-held-in-check, that bubbling note beneath that made Vivi all that she was. What was she? She couldn't recall: here now. It didn't matter.