"Harlots wear red, especially with their ankles practically rouged for the world to see."
Margot tucked a strand of hair behind her older sister's ear and placed her hand on her shoulder as she turned a withering look on Nanette's smug face beyond the artist's easel. The man swirled his brush in a jar, silently eyeing the young ladies from his peripheral vision.
"That necklace looks more like a sonnaille than precious stone. You'd wear blue velvet and slippers instead of those horrid boots if your mind weren't as thick as those shamelessly flaunted calves."
Slowly blinking in her effort to remain still for the portraiture, Sylvia Minnjo traced her nails along the edge of the basket she held and considered flinging it at the other girl's head. Margot's fingers tightened faintly, indicating it was better not to move. If they had to sit one more time for this insufferably slow painting, they would both go mad. Besides, Margot hated the stifling feel of a corset and every pleat and bow that cinched her into her elaborate golden dress began to grate on her nerves.
"I hear she is engaged to Eddie Rotheschild," Margot soothed quietly.
"Bad luck," clucked Sylvia in return. "What is he? Forty years her senior?"
"Something like. I hear his family has fallen on hard times."
"Mm, that'll be the dowry then. I wonder if that mouth could fit a whole dainty slipper."
"Oh, you shouldn't speak like that. Brocade is impossible to clean. No sense ruining good footwear."
"Do you think that she knows her beauty mark has been sliding around her chin all this while?"
"Is it? I was too busy watching her neck try to hold up that massive wig in addition to that enormous head."
"That 'ostrich' is made of chicken feathers or I'm a peahen."
"The peahen is mightier than the perruquier."
"But is the quill mightier than the bill? If she paid for ostrich, she really is a goose."
"Let's leave shaking of tailfeathers to the boys."
"Just trying to give her a basket for those tulips. If the speed of delivery makes them bloom, that's just a good job done."
"Say, Nanette," Sylvia raised her voice above the quiet, nonsensical conversation she and her sister had been having, "Are those jesses in your hair? Raising hunting birds in that nest these days are you? The fleas go off to join the circus?"
"Sylvia." Margot chided sharply despite the hint of a giggle in her voice.
Sylvia batted her lashes all too sweetly. "Just inquiring after Nanette's grooming as she's been so kind to offer us her insights into our attire."
Doing her best to blank her face, Margot chuckled enough that the hat in her hand slid. She managed to catch it by the sash.
"Nanette," Sylvia continued, "What is that enchanting fragrance you're wearing? Smells a bit like... unpaid taxes and tears."
Nanette was pink, of course, by this point and, having nothing more to add she decided she had had enough of the sisters' babble. She gathered up her skirts and went on her way in a huff. That insufferable pair never took anything seriously. It was really a chore to deal with them, their constant prattling to each other almost never stopping no matter how many tips she tried to give them for improving their look or their attitudes. Couldn’t they see she was doing them a favour?
"Give the other harlots my regards when you go to collect more fashion gossip, please, darling!" Sylvia called after her.
Nanette stamped from the room in a fit to rejoin her parents where they sat at tea with the girls’ father. Heady spring air blew in from the windowed doors all standing open into the gardens. The ripple of Nanette’s pink satin gown could be seen traversing the grounds like an angry gust of taffy.
This snipping exchange was quickly forgotten by the sisters though it was not, however, lost on the painter. He decided to encapsulate them in their element: crushing the spirits of out of pocket young ladies who poked their noses where they did not belong. Their eyes looked out at the day, gowns arranged on a sofa in the same way they had posed for him at sunset to capture the scene for the painting. They had retired to the cooler interior of the estate for their other sittings.
"What's after this?" Sylvia asked her younger sister, suddenly noticing how tall she sat beside her and the hand that became a half-lean on her shoulder.
"Lunch, perhaps? A trip to the tailor? I hear he just received a fine new shipment from Paris."
"Perhaps the brick-layer first so I can stack a few on that towering head of yours."
Margot smirked, "Jealousy doesn't become you, little prawn."
"Whale, keep it up and I'll show you little."
"Now, now, don't trout."
Sylvia sighed and they both snickered softly. "You are antagonising me on porpoise."
"No!" Margot gasped, snatching a handful of flowers and flinging them at her sister. Half of them ended on the ground with the rest either draped over Sylvia's wrist or caught in the scarf about Margot's hat. Absently, Sylvia arranged them along the hat. "Oopsy-daisy."
"Forever immortalised with a hat full of poppies and weeds. How dare you."
"I'm just a bad seed, I suppose. The very carnation of evil."
"Oof, why-? Oh! Father's coming. Mum's the word."
Both girls resumed their proper portrait poses, traces of laughter still in their eyes and elbows needling each other discreetly as the man came to stand behind the painter.
A bead of sweat rolled down the artist's temple. It was always hard to tell what a patron might truly value in his subjects, but the man clapped his shoulder and gave a rare smile. "Excellent work, Noverek. I look forward to seeing it finished."
The painter smiled in relief and eyed the black boots amidst the finery of the scene with a chuckle.
