Sample: A Literary Attempt at Impressionistic Writing

The Dowager

Even from a distance, the lady was impressive. Delicately boned but straight beneath her iron crown, Alicia felt the slice of her steel gaze from across the hall. Through the light of candelabra, the spice-laden air and the rustle of once-a-year gowns the intensity of those eyes mesmerised her, and she found herself unable to demurely look away. She could only stare back.

Eyes widening, the Dowager held herself even more alert. The clean lines of of her shoulders drew further back and she lifted her chin, imperious.

“Like a dancer,” Alicia thought, and winced, remembering spotlights and glitter and stiff tulle.

Across the hall, the lady raised one finger and a subtley-dressed guard removed himself from the background to loom by the figure in pearl-grey, who, Alicia suspected, became the foreground wherever she went.

A half-sized servant brushed against her sleeve, recalling Alicia to her more immediate surroundings. She took a goblet from the offered tray, noting that the wine inside matched the claret colour of her borrowed dress, and drank – only a little – to settle her nerves.
She’d never been one for parties, with or without intimidating hostesses, even Before. Her rooms above the apothecary shop with good light, steady, absorbing work and few interruptions were a haven to her, as the lab had been. She wished she was there now. But the Dowager had learned of her work, and desired a meeting.

An invitation in calligraphy came by messenger. A carriage carried her to the Manor House, past the townsfolk and peasants making their way to the annual party, and past the glare of Rosie Lifswish who, at her mother’s insistence, had come to the party in her second-best dress.
Another new world, it seemed, was revealed when she entered the elegant manor house and marvelled at the finery that went unused for so much of the year.

The wine warmed her throat. Jewels on throats and fingers reflected the fire of the chandeliers, making her blink. Breathing deeply the mulling spices that filled her cup, Alicia lifted her head to look back towards the hostess, but a floating cluster of chattering town girls obstructed the view. She took a few steps across the stone floor to get around them, and watched the Dowager give a sharp nod to a liveried attendant, who signalled his twin at the door, who appeared at Alicia’s elbow a moment later. The soft brown velvet of his long vest matched his eyes.
“The Dowager wishes a private audience,” he informed her. A quick look affirmed that the Dowager had left her position. Alicia nodded and followed him from the hall, down a few short steps to a gleaming corridor, and an arched wooden door bound in fanciful wrought iron.
It occurred to Alicia to be distressed. She was a stranger living on the Dowager’s property, contributing to the town of course, but should she cause offence during this interview, she well might be sent away, to begin again. Again. And after nearly a year in this place, she was still causing offence without meaning to, though Mistress Lifswish was very forgiving.
Alicia gulped nervously while her guide stood patiently by the door until, propelled by some imperceptible stimulus, he opened it and stepped aside.
“Come,” a firm voice intoned, and Alicia, stumbling over he own feet, blundered through the door.

The room inside was circular, dominated by a a throne-like chair on a patterned rug. The Dowager was seated, several candelabra behind her making the room bright, but the Dowager herself difficult to see clearly.
There was no other chair, so Alicia stood,blinking.
A grave silence through which Alicia felt herself being minutely analysed stretched for several minutes. Then the Dowager spoke.
“I had intended to ask questions,” she began, smoothing her skirt over her knees. Her voice was firm, but betrayed the strain of age. She studied her hands in her lap. “I’ve considered such a moment for a very long time, of course. Always wondering. Never imagining it would come so…late. But come it has, and it seems, questions won’t be necessary.”
The delicate head came up again, sharp eyes glittered at her intently, but to Alicia’s amazement the voice softened to an awed whisper.
“Sweet Jesus. You’re just as I remember you.”