𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐇 𖤓 - 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧.

ÉNA.

LYSSA SOL had been just as enthusiastic towards tonight's unfolding event as she had been with her late brother's funeral.

absolutely ecstatic, you can imagine.

Except, rather than resembling a Victorian damsel in mourning attire as she had two weeks prior, she was dressed as a Phoenix.

The theme of this motive being 'A Midsummer's nights' dream' was oddly specific.

She wasn't keen on dressing like a delicate nymph waiting for a promiscuous, hormonal 'God' to charm her by whisking her off to one of the many unnecessary bathrooms -

- inviting her to do lines of their father's best cocaine they stole from his office drawer, undoubtedly kept in the same compartment as sacred documents that are the roots of their gluttony - their filthy wealth that they gruel in.

If Lyssa was ever in that situation, she definitely knew which invaluable article she'd reach for.

Hint: Not the cocaine.

Silk fairy wings and woven flower crowns aside, it seemed appropriate to go as a mythical bird whom found its origin through Greek Mythology.

Known for its ability to be reborn through ash, the symbol of immortality and renewal, she had become of a sleek silk number that was of a ripened Clementine in colour.

Vibrant red, gold, and yellow feathers ornamented her shoulders, cascading down to a gradient blaze, accumulating at the bottom of her dress that skimmed the floor.

Black stilettos proved a murderous pedestal to her feet, roughly six inches in height, the heel threadlike in width, making stability in her walk a skill to maintain.

Yet she knew she hadn't to worry, for her mother had trained her to compose herself adequately through blisters and ankle-rolling incidents due to absurdly-designed shoes that looked divine - but could qualify as a form of torture.

The colour selection - an ample black - contrasting greatly to the tropical colouring of the rest of her costume, represented the ashes in which the Phoenix was resurrected.

Was this a reference to the funeral? Lyssa was unsure. Her mother had picked her garments out after hearing her proposal of what she'd like to attend as - and it was almost impossible to know what her mother's intentions were motivated by.

Nails painted with a rich golden lacquer, shaped precisely to resemble talons, she pressed the facet of her thumb into a compacted dish of eyeshadow.

Lifting her thumb to her face, she applied the concentrated pigment across her eyelid, dragging it towards the outer corners of her eyes.

She continued to trail the product across her eyes until it dwindled and thinned further towards the edge of her face.

The girl cosmetically 'underperformed', her mother had said as she had been leaving.

Lyssa concluded that her flamboyant frock was the most effort that she was willing to flaunt cosmetically, brushing her mother's comment off as she usually had.

It was impossible to please a woman who was dissatisfied with you before you learnt to walk - handing you off to nannies like you were some chore.

Lyssa hadn't minded that, though. She was sure that if her mother had made more of an effort to raise her, she still would end up feeling discarded.

She wasn't the first child waved off, either.

Her eldest brother had also been at her disfavour, too - her neglect and the inhospitable environment she had created in their manor had been one of the many unfortunate factors that led to the nineteen year old embedding a bullet in his head.

Since this, her mother had tried to rebuild these gaping, undressed wounds that emphasised the emotional barriers between her and her living children with materialistic, costly handouts.

Although it was a vain, pointless gesture that provided more of a distraction than a solution - putting our money where our mouths were - Lyssa thought she'd take advantage of her mothers' grand expenditures.

If she wasn't deserving enough of her mother's affection, she would find herself deserving enough for her gifts. Her only source of comfort.

And, who'd complain about wearing Yves Saint Laurent Opyum sandals in patent leather.

She for sure wouldn't.

Being in one of the wealthiest social economic brackets commonly equates to having emotionally-inept parents as a result, but some of the most magnificent social circles, wardrobes, and addictive substances you'll ever converge.

"Lyssa - you're missing something, darling." Her mother uttered, disappearing into her daughters' room and reappearing with a grey gift box, secured with a white silk ribbon.

Meticulously untying the decorative ribbon and opening the box, she handed one of her two remaining children the previously boxed item.

"What's this, Mother?" Lyssa furrowed her eyebrows in slight distrust, unsure of what she could be lacking so severely in her costume that it needed to be wrapped up with ribbon and bundled in tissue paper.

"Open it, sweetheart." Her response was dismissive, as she turned her back - disappearing up the grand staircase - leaving her daughter to revel in yet another pity gift.

Sorry your brother committed suicide, darling - but here's a headband to ensure alls well.

If her mother's gifts were attached with a note, Lyssa was confident that it'd say something along those lines.

- So, surprise! that's what it was.

A headband - a halo. A crown of a sort? Lyssa was unsure.

The further she inspected the artefact that she had unravelled from the paper, the more familiar she became with realising what it resembled, and the significance it had to her outfit.

It was a headband, with thin gold beams of differing lengths twilighted across its bridge.

To Lyssa it resembled a halo of solar rays - an uncanny resemblance to her surname. Sol.

Mother was crafty.

It was beautiful, graceful and simple - yet it accentuated the remainder of her costume perfectly, as she hadn't bothered finding a headpiece.

Seeing as her mother hadn't returned to complain regarding anything else, Lyssa deemed herself prepared enough to leave.

Adjusting her new headband atop her head in the entryway mirror, she turned to one of the staff that stood frigidly by the grand entrance.

"I'm leaving to go to Saltburn. Please tell my Mother that I won't be later than three - I've arranged for one of the Catton's escorts to take me back."

He nodded curtly, unwavering his trained stare past the Sol girl, and into the abyss ahead of him.

"Yes, Miss Sol - Enjoy your night."

Muttering a 'thank you', Lyssa Sol knew that the only thing she'd be enjoying tonight is the exorbitantly-priced wine.