[ she did invite him, but she invites everyone to the opera. it's kind of her livelihood. not everyone actually buys a ticket and shows up.
dorothea thinks about how quick she was to discard her own promise as a flight of fancy, and wills herself not to get red. if she's honest with herself, she never expected sylvain to follow through. it's clear now that she was being unfair. which she hates - she doesn't like being wrong, and she doesn't like thinking of herself as someone who's quick to judge or assume.
and when he reveals his gift - a sparse arrangement of orange columbines - she knows he hasn't just dropped by. he's put in some sort of effort, because she makes it very clear to most people that she doesn't like flowers at all. it's only her troupe who knows that she prefers smaller bouquets, and rarer flowers, and now apparently sylvain knows too. ]
Thank you, Margrave. [ she takes the bouquet from him, shoots a glance to the dressing room - and sure enough, the door closes slightly and there's the distant sound of giggling from the other side of the wall. she presses her lips together, either fighting a smile or a grimace (she's not sure), and takes a step closer to sylvain so she can lower her voice.
she's not sure why she wants to keep this private - he's just a friend, after all - but something feels weird about having people see this. like worlds colliding, and she's not quite ready for them to yet. ]
I did invite you, that's true. You still could've sent a letter. I could've pulled out all the stops. [ she glances down at the flowers in her hands, and she can't help looking back up at him with a proper smile. ] You certainly seem to have. Have you been snooping around my theater, Sylvain?
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dorothea thinks about how quick she was to discard her own promise as a flight of fancy, and wills herself not to get red. if she's honest with herself, she never expected sylvain to follow through. it's clear now that she was being unfair. which she hates - she doesn't like being wrong, and she doesn't like thinking of herself as someone who's quick to judge or assume.
and when he reveals his gift - a sparse arrangement of orange columbines - she knows he hasn't just dropped by. he's put in some sort of effort, because she makes it very clear to most people that she doesn't like flowers at all. it's only her troupe who knows that she prefers smaller bouquets, and rarer flowers, and now apparently sylvain knows too. ]
Thank you, Margrave. [ she takes the bouquet from him, shoots a glance to the dressing room - and sure enough, the door closes slightly and there's the distant sound of giggling from the other side of the wall. she presses her lips together, either fighting a smile or a grimace (she's not sure), and takes a step closer to sylvain so she can lower her voice.
she's not sure why she wants to keep this private - he's just a friend, after all - but something feels weird about having people see this. like worlds colliding, and she's not quite ready for them to yet. ]
I did invite you, that's true. You still could've sent a letter. I could've pulled out all the stops. [ she glances down at the flowers in her hands, and she can't help looking back up at him with a proper smile. ] You certainly seem to have. Have you been snooping around my theater, Sylvain?