IN WHICH DOMITILLE IS INDUCED TO RUIN HER MAKE-UP, BUT NOT HER NIGHT

[little_lady_d]

Domitille sat in the interrogation room like a queen upon a throne, shoulders back to bear the weight of her realm, eyes far-seeing and implacable. Her wrists flicked in handcuffs as though they were no more than modish jewelry — one of the inevitable sacrifices of mobility for fashion — and she studied her nails for any unseemly chips or cracks. She, of course, found none.

( A mirrored wall stretched before her, reflecting her in her cool perfection ... )