"Khh..."

Bella's heart pounds frantically in her chest. Be calm. Be calm. Her tail lashes angrily behind her, and no amount of willpower can make it stop. Be calm, damn it! Her arm starts trembling by its own traitorous will. She uses it to pull the length of leash between her and the seneschal. 

There's no accompanying rush this time. His undignified croak doesn't even reach her ears. Every step she takes gets more exaggerated and deliberate. Her hips swing powerfully from side to side. The layers of her skirt bounce up and down in lacy waves. Her bells sing a song of challenge and determination. Her blue-black hair cascades behind her. Her back is straight and stiff and proud.

And none of it slows the beating of her heart. None of it fights off the sense of panic, the animal instinct telling her to run away, and even worse, the servitor instinct telling her to beg forgiveness. Aphrodite, God of Unsolicited Advice and Terrible Timing, has forced her to consider for the first time since she stood up from her table that her path now might not lead her home. There's a type of dread that comes only from knowing that you're locked into a mistake, and it's spreading through her body like needles tipped with ice. To fight a Codexia directly is to die. Of course she knew that already. Of course she did! But she didn't... she hadn't counted on Athena standing [i]against[/i] her. She hadn't bothered to augur at all. 

And now without warning she's suddenly playing the wrong game. Princess...

Bella's thoughts are a rapid jumble, impossible to comb through or pay attention to. Her ears strain, and her eyes flit about. Her fur bristles. Her tongue runs across her teeth, again and again. She is dimly aware that she is still moving forward. Her head keeps dipping meekly, and then forcing itself straight again. She pivots... before the ramp? At the bar? She says something to the servitor there.

She has no idea what. It could be anything. She's asking for a drink, probably. She gets one. The glass feels brittle between her fingers. The liquid is redder than blood, and smells like syrup swimming in wine: overly aggressive fruitiness trying to smother the acrid sting of alcohol like very thick perfume. She is delaying here. Buying time.

Looking for the shape of the board.

[Look Closely: [b]4[/b]. "What is going on here? What do my senses tell me?"]