Vivienne sat on the chaise in the small parlour of the cottage, staring up at the ceiling like a woman who had officially lost her mind. Her arms dangled at her sides, her eyes unfocused, and for a moment she looked like some tragic painting of despair. Then, without warning, she sat upright with the speed of someone possessed, reached for the cup of coffee on the table, and grabbed it like it was her birthright. She tucked her legs under her, cross-legged like a child, and took a deep sip.
Delphine scoffed. "That's mine."
Vivienne didn't even blink. She didn't look at her. She didn't acknowledge her existence. She sat there drinking like a queen sipping holy nectar, as though Delphine was nothing more than a fly buzzing around her head.
Her eyes slid lazily to Mireille instead, who was watching her with that particular expression only Mireille had — equal parts judgment, pity, and quiet disgust. Vivienne narrowed her eyes.
