Viola grimaced from the back seat of the car, her brow furrowing deeply. "Damn." She passed her hand over her eyes, not touching her face but letting it hover there. If Beau had been more committed to his art in Belailles, where his temperament, had already been vaguely depressed and nervous, the fact that he was doing even less of it here spoke volumes to how well he'd adjusted over the past two years. Which was, apparently, not at all.
She exhaled slowly, cold fear thrumming low in her gut. "Well," she murmured. "I suppose I'll have to see what I can do." She didn't really mean to sound magnanimous. Really, it was the opposite -- when she arrived, he'd be sheltering her. But it wasn't just that, really. Viola suspected that now that she'd fled, the good graces of their parents would turn, rather suddenly, back to Beau.
Not that she knew it for a fact. But maybe. Maybe.
"And what about you, Brig?" she asked, her voice a little lighter now. "How are you adjusting?" A small smile. "I'm sure you've got a small army of friends and lovers by now."