Upstairs/Downstairs (Blanche/Portia)
“I adore these hands,” Portia says with a hint of flirtation, taking Blanche’s right hand between her own.
Portia’s hands have changed over her weeks in Egypt. They’ve lost their pale softness, become harder and stronger, but they remain obstinately delicate. Ladylike or childlike. Aristocratic.
Blanche has the hands of a woman, not of a lady. They’re calloused and golden, eternally stained with dirt and ink; deft and thick-fingered and capable. Oh, do they look capable.
Blanche flushes crimson and stammers something that could be gratitude or admonishment.
Later that afternoon Portia sees Blanche examining her own hands. She's smiling.