t-t-try out for Blair Woods (I may make another one w/ different character, but I'm not sure.)
Always one of old glamour, Cream always has on a layer of red lipstick and heels on her pedicured feet. Originally from London, she started going to Blair Woods when she was fourteen, and is friendly with almost everyone. While she loves it here, she's always dreaming of something more, like a duke to sweep her off her feet and into the sunset. During long classes she often lets out exasperated sighs and gets annoyed with things she can't understand. To blow off steam, she goes out almost every night, not exactly hard partying, but maybe she'll have a smoke while reading classics in the library. She doesn't really care much about the rules, and when teachers question her she just sort of waves them away, always looking into the future and not the present. She's the number one fashion source at Blair Woods, and last year when McQueen passes away she cried in her room for over a week. Will she learn to focus a bit more on reality, or just float on in her bubble of couture?
Model: Jessica Stam
The night is cold and silent. The party is over, the lights are already turned off, and luxurious dressed couples have gone into The Maze behind the castle. Corridors with tapestries along the castle is deserted, as if each and every life that have been dwelled there absorb out, like the sound that muffled by the thick fabrics and cushion sofa in every room at Blair Woods. At the end of the hall on the third floor, a small, dusky light flickering behind the tiny window that juts out.
A cream-haired girl is smoking an expensive cigarette and reading one of Edgar Allan Poe's volumes in it.
Her followers have been dissipated, sleeping under their chunky duvets and are protected behind their bedroom walls that are covered with floral painted, marble wallpaper. Her boring date asked her to go to The Maze after the party, but she refused and told him that she needs to sleep well to maintain her beauty.
Which, basically, was a lie.
The books seemed to whisper to her. There is something about words that could ensnare her mind and make her awake until early morning. It’s nearly alike to her curiosity towards fashion. Besides her infatuation with extravagant clothes, satin shoes and sumptuous clutches, these books are her favourites. And, the library is pretty much her most-liked place in Blair Woods.
The murkier fire crackles softly in the marble fireplace in the corner. She breathes through the end of her cigarette; the intense smoke draws in her chest; and it relaxes her nerves. Line by line on the poem she has read loosens her up. It convinces her that there are many others in this world who also feel shackled, as she is.
When she’s reading the lines about the vines that surround the tumbledown and silent castles in England, the sound of footsteps in the corridor interrupts her concentration. ‘There is someone coming,’ she thinks. ‘I better watch out for it.’
She stops reading and starts to sharpen her hearing.
Those steps are soft-sounded. As if the person’s walking with dragging her paces above the dark mats. According to Cream’s analysis, that person must have been wearing furry slippers at the moment. And maybe she wears a lacy sleep gown. When the footsteps stopped sounding, the library door’s knob revolves. Cream stares at the door as the person behind the door makes the three-foot-tall door opens slowly with a familiar creak.
The person who is behind that door – she’s a girl! – Peeks in surprise when she realises that Cream is paying attention.
‘Oh,’ Cream murmurs softly.
‘Hello,’ says Fleur, cautiously.
Cream doesn’t return her salutation, but she smiles briefly, very faintly, to the extent Fleur doesn’t notice that Cream is smiling at her.
‘I wish I'm not disturbing you,’ Fleur politely utters.
‘Of course you don’t, dear,’ she replies soothingly.
Fleur walks past books shelves, running her fingertips on every cover of the book in its path like playing a music, stops at one of the shelves and picks up a book written by one of the Greek philosopher who were not important and forgotten by time. She dawdles to a table across Fleur and finally sits in front of her.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Fleur tells her. ‘So I come here to see if I could kill the time.’
‘You didn’t go to the party?’ asks Cream, watching Fleur’s face and gown. Clearly, Cream tells herself, this girl didn’t go to the party a few hours ago. She might only play cards with her friends at The Conservatory.
‘No,’ Fleur shakes her head. ‘And you…?’
Actually, Fleur already knows for sure that Cream had gone to the party. She’s almost always there, every day and every night.
‘As a Londonette, it’s my pleasure to cherish The Ball,’ she smiles.
‘A Londonette,’ she repeats, emphasising her pronunciation.
How beautiful it is, thinks Fleur while watching Cream quietly from the corner of her doe eyes, to live a dreamy life. She’s tremendously gorgeous; she goes to balls and parties; and she's an English. She’s a Londonette too! – Oh, whatever that means.
Cream chortles and starts reading her book all over again.
Life is a dream within a dream, Edgar Allan Poe wrote once.
He’s right. Life is a real dream.
Cream must admits to herself that she’s living the flawless one.