Compliments used to turn her either red or green. On the road with Sir Guy, she'd turned red. In Paris, she mostly turned green. But lately, she'd been receiving a lot of compliments. The effect was beginning to wear off. When Mssr. de Lioncourt complimented her, Beauty merely smiled, dropped her chin in demure and grateful acceptance, and then lifted her head again. There was a faint pink in her cheeks, but nothing quite so bright as the red that used to paint her skin. Less a girl. More a lady. This was just one of the many things that the City had changed in Beauty. No one knew it. No one could, except -- perhaps -- Errol Partridge. But Errol was not here anymore.
Errol wasn't here. Her eyes lost focus. She missed him. She missed him a lot. But before she could lose her footing, she pulled herself away from the feeling that felt surprisingly like loss. Pulled herself away. Turned her gaze back on her dance partner. Smiled -- forced. Re-engaged.
"What do you find yourself doing? When you aren't dancing with clumsy strangers, that is..?" The City had made her a bookseller. No. No, Errol had done that. She smiled again, but it wasn't for Mssr. de Lioncourt. He couldn't have known that, though.