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It should be an art form of some sort, Cipher thinks, the way Aglaea elegantly glides about while performing her daily duties. Her feet move as though to a silent rhythm, her words flow as though to a tuneless song, her radiant countenance shines as though undeterred by the beating light high up in the sky.
And it’s not something common to people of noble birth and upbringing, not in the slightest—Cipher has seen her fair share of sloppy bourgeoisie and their horrid, janky ways of bustling about. Funnier still is the way they’d always tried to chase after her after having something stolen from them, tripping over their own feet while croaking to their servants to come to their aid and catch this wretched thief.
It’s so evident in the way her ivory dress flares up at the bottom with each twirl like springtime petals, her careful movements like water flowing from the regal baths. Yes, this carefully-refined daintiness is something unique to Agy, a perfected craft only she commands utmost mastery over.
When the decorous woman holds a long stretch of fabric, fingers travelling along the silky length to discern how best to make use of it, Cipher’s attention is drawn to the lustrous gold sheen coating Aglaea’s perfectly-manicured and shaped nails. It shimmers in the light with every flourish of her fingers, more dazzling than any sun might deign to offer. Cipher notes keenly that it’s the same shade as the gilded undertones of the Goldweaver’s luscious hair, too.
It’s mesmerising. It’s…beautiful.
“Has something caught your eye, Cifera?”
The young woman in question startles and looks up, blinking as Aglaea watches her keenly, waiting for a response. “Your nails,” she answers after a pause, choosing a bout of honesty this time. “I, uh, I really like the colour. It…suits you, Agy.”
At this, her dear Goldweaver smiles, twirling her fingers. “Thank you,” she says, and is that a faint hint of pink tinging her cheeks? No, that cannot be; Cipher has never seen anything sway Aglaea—a mere compliment on something innocuous as her nails would do little to shake her. “I always make sure I take good care of them. Good nails translate to fanciful deeds of the hands.”
“Yeah, clearly.” Cipher looks down at her own nails, a crass juxtaposition. Bitten, chipped, uneven. Unpainted. Her nails have definitely ever led to any fanciful deeds; quite the opposite. Not that she had ever any interest in painting them. What’s the point? As long as her hands are functional, as long as she can swipe whatever she needs and make a swift escape, there is little reason to fret over her appearance.
But then Aglaea asks, “Would you like me to paint yours?”
Cipher’s eyes widen. “Um…” She bites her lip, then holds her hands up. “I don’t know if it will look any good on these sorry excuses for nails.”
Aglaea hums, and gently takes her hand. At this, every strand of fur on Cipher’s tail stands on edge (that goes unnoticed by Aglaea, but surely not to her threads). “With a little care, they will look rather darling,” she says in earnest, those apple-green eyes crinkling in sincerity. “May I, Cifera? The colour will offer you a complementary contrast.”
It’s almost unnerving how easily this woman can get Cipher to fold like a house of cards, when she’s always been so sure she had fortified herself to the world. Naturally, she acquiesces with an all-too-eager nod, and Aglaea is more than happy to go about caring for her nails.
First, she dips Cipher’s hands into a bowl of warm water, explaining that it will soften the cuticles and make her nails easier to shape and care for. It smells of roses and jasmine, a scent Cipher often smells on Aglaea after she’s emerged from a particularly long bath. Self-care, she thinks, must revolve purely around smelling like a dream.
Then, Aglaea tenderly pushes back her cuticles and files her nails. It’s a strange sensation that has Cipher clenching her teeth, slightly unpleasant vibrations lancing up her fingers and sending every hair on her body standing on edge, but Aglaea assures her it will never hurt. “Just a little more,” she says softly, filing them with the careful precision of a surgeon. “See, your nails already appear quite a bit sunnier.”
It’s true. They now have a more distinct and level oval shape, even the ones that had been chipped beyond saving—while these ones in particular are a lot shorter than the rest, they still achieve a string of coherency.
Even without the gold to come, they look very nice.
After the nail shavings are dusted away, Cipher stares at her hands, having seemingly been given a new life of their own. “Pretty, like yours,” she whispers, and when Aglaea gives her a little smile of approval, she realises with a flush that she’s said it aloud.
Next comes the main event: the nail polish. It glitters so beautifully, and Cipher finds herself practically vibrating with anticipation when Aglaea brings it over. “Now, make sure you stay very still.” She unscrews the top, a thick and shiny golden drop of the liquid falling back into the little bottle. “Understood?”
“Mhm. You got it, Agy.”
The base coat and the nail polish are almost cool as they’re applied, certainly far more pleasant than having her nails filed. Aglaea holds the hand she’s working on as she does it, and it’s an innocuous gesture, but Cipher cannot help but focus on the warmth radiating off her like the sun personified. Aglaea’s hands are always very, very soft. Cipher’s are rough in comparison, but Agy never seemed to mind it. Once, she had even told her that rough hands are a sign of one who pursues diligent toils.
Not that Cipher has ever toiled for anything, but perhaps the meaning has long been lost on her.
One by one, her pale pink nails dotted hints of white (due to an untended deficiency of calcium) turn a consistent, shiny gold. Honestly, Cipher feels like a new woman already.
She watches Aglaea paint. She does it very meticulously, ensuring not even a drop out of the confines of her nail pads. She looks focused, lips slightly pursed, long lashes downcast as she carries on with the task at hand. She only stirs to re-dip the thin brush into the bottle, only once looking up to meet Cipher’s eyes. She smiles as she does so.
As she continues, a bit of her fringe falls over her eyes. Cipher wants to brush it delicately away, but…both her hands are occupied. And attempting to blow it away may also sweep aside this tender moment.
Finally, Aglaea lets go of her, setting aside the nail polish. “I have finished. Please take care not to touch anything for a few minutes. It must dry.”
”Wow,” Cipher breathes, lifting her hands up skyward, catching the sunlight in thin rays between her fingers. Still her golden nails shine brighter. “I love it.”
Aglaea smiles serenely, setting aside the bottle of nail polish. “I knew they would suit you.” She stands beside Cipher, raising her hands to the sky as well, side-by-side with Cipher’s hands, long and elegant fingers threading through more rays of light. “See, now we match.”
Grinning, Cipher looks over at her. “Yeah. We do.” She loves it, she thinks, as she gives her fingers a little wiggle.
Then, in a moment born of cheekiness, she takes Aglaea’s hands, interlacing their fingers together so the tips look like little droplets of captured light. At this she expects to receive a light admonishing from the woman, citing that she needs to wait a little longer for it to dry, but she receives nothing of the sort.
Instead, Aglaea squeezes her hands, smiling brighter, accommodating her touch willingly.
Cipher loves the way her hands glitter in the light. She loves the way they complement the next shiny trinket she snatches away from the purse of an unsuspecting shopper at the market (but she hides it from Agy of course). She loves the way they offer her a thread of imitation of the perfect tapestry that is Aglaea.
She loves the way they’re the exact same shade as Aglaea’s hair, a gallant gold more precious than anything Cipher could ever purloin.
When time plays its part in jostling their story forward after a long period of feigned tranquility, Cipher leaves her all alone, taking the unspoken reason for it along with her. Aglaea stands, listless, in her room after it’s all unfolded. Their last conversation before the sudden parting replays in her mind like a cracked euphonium device, a fraying golden thread. Where had it all gone wrong? What had transpired for this of all things to come to pass? Aglaea had tried her best to do right by her, just as she’d been certain Cipher had been doing the same for her.
Her threads quiver with a memory she had overlooked in her despondency. When she follows it, glancing over at her vanity table with a pang, her heart sinks into the depths of her stomach.
All her nail polish bottles are perfectly in-line, arranged in order of rainbow hues, as they always have been. But the bottle between the lemon yellow and the chartreuse green—the gleaming golden one—is an inch out of line in a haphazard angle, as though it were meant to be taken somewhere…but then left behind as an afterthought.