Closer to the Vest solo fin

This is part of Aly's Cast the Bronze storyline. You can find other portions here: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

Would it be wise to play this closer to the vest?

Well, now Aly had gone and done it.

It was not the hardest thing to do - mucking up one's reputation and, therefore, the family reputation. Not nowadays, when there seemed to be a paparazzo around every corner with a camera and an evil grin, just awaiting a slip-up. Aly Salinger had not grown up in the fold, had not been raised with all the practice and poise of a youth under the world's spotlight, but in the last six to eight months had been rather forced into learning it all in a sort of speedrun. Maybe that was why she had messed up. Or maybe, deep down, it had been somewhat on purpose.

She had learned, in November officially but also having probably known in her heart of hearts before that, that her Livingston family was not one to stand up to injustice. In fact, they were more prone to creating it. The utilisation of their vast funds to build a jewel empire and stock their too-large manor with art and fineries instead of aiding any proper cause. The constant looking down their noses at anyone who was not a perfect pureblood, and the ever-present chatter of which 'pure' prick would be the one to take Aly's hand in eventuality. And then, during the exeat weekend, that moment in which Aly's grandmother Darcy had hexed a young servant who had dared to stand up to her - no, to do his job, even though it did not please her - and then stepped over his frozen body like he was naught but a crumpled piece of rubbish on her cobblestoned path. Aly had followed, dutifully, silently, then. But conversations with her mates and common-room debates in the month and a half since then had radicalised her, of a sort.

Even if she couldn't stand up to her family, couldn't stand up for that boy, there were folks she cared about who were suffering. People she could stand up for. Unfairness she could confront.

Writing letters to the Ministry demanding the release of her former Head of House, @Marcus Iwasaki, was not enough. And so Aly had, upon arriving 'home' to the Livingston mansion in England the previous Saturday after a long train ride back to King's Cross, begun to plant the seeds.

"I'm not yet done with my Christmas shopping," said casually to the dinner table that evening. The next morning whilst embroidering quietly in the solar with her grandmother and aunt: "I've been thinking about a trip down to Gringotts. We could make a day out of it, even." And then, the final blow on the 22^nd, the day before the nogtail dung was to hit the fan, during a dress fitting for her new gown for the Christmas ball that the family was going to host: "You know, Great-Grandfather, I heard that Florean Fortescue's is bringing back that peppermint flavour you like for the holidays."

That was all that needed to be said. Keithen Priestly, much like his great-granddaughter, had a sweet tooth for the ages. And so on the morning of the 23^rd, the entire Livingston clan set out for Diagon Alley on a trip they had no idea had been carefully arranged by one of the lone non-Slytherins amongst them. Truly, Aly was sure that if Darcy and Caelum Livingston - not to mention her mother Hesper - knew of just how great of an amount of Slytherin-esque planning and plotting and cunning had gone into setting up this very journey for this very day, they all would have been quite proud of her.

That is to say, they would have been proud if it hadn't been for the exact reason Aly wanted to go.

To say that they were pleased, when they found her at the protest, was... not even an overstatement, nor an understatement, but much more of a complete lie. Darcy had almost gone purple in the face, a rather unpleasant colouring for her normal paleness and greying blonde hair. Caelum had not even spoken, for Hesper did much of it for him. Of the clan, only Keithen looked almost proud of her - not that he would have said anything if he had been. Aly had been sent to bed unceremoniously and without supper that night immediately upon returning from London, with the promise that the Lady Prudence would be there in the morning to 'sort things right'. Lovely.

When Aly awoke on the morning of the twenty-fourth, Christmas Eve itself, it was indeed not to a serene birdsong or the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops on her windowsill. No, it was to the cold snapping of her warm knit blanket off of her body. She bolted upright in bed, the physical and metaphorical chill in the air both hitting her at once like twin duelling spells; Aly hugged the collar of her silky pajamas, pear green and with a thread count higher than many Gringotts vaults', to her chest. The culprit of the snatch was none other than her tutor, who peered down at her over a long, sloped nose and pursed lips. "Your family most graciously allows you just several months at school without me, and you toss every lesson we have ever had into the very fireplace," the incorrigible Lady Prudence Byrne sneered, her slender fingers expertly folding the blanket into a square that was then placed at the foot of Aly's four-poster guest bed. "It is your grandmother's opinion, Alyssa, and mine as well, that your entire family is most fortunate that I was kept on retainer and had not yet taken a new client. She was quite right to retain my services once more, from what I have heard. Your behaviour yesterday was despicable and simply unbecoming of an heiress." The lady's clawed fingers snapped into Aly's face, pointing at an outfit that had been hung on the pole of the window; Aly's emerald eyes turned to regard it. Green again: a belted jade-coloured blazer and matching trousers, complete with heeled boots that were far from her usual combat style. It seemed that everything that wasn't in the Livingston family colour palette had been removed from her closet here before the family had even gotten back from Diagon Alley. Word travelled fast in this sort of circle. "Do ready yourself post-haste. I shall be waiting for you outside, for we have a great many things to address before the day's end."

Lady Prudence was out the door in an instant, swanning out with all the grace and elegance of her status combined with the rage of a bull. Aly's curly, messy bedhead fell into her hands, a breaking morning-voice groan emanating from the pit of her throat.

This was what disobeying her family would go to show - not that she had really disobeyed them at all. The Livingstons had never forbidden her from going to protests or speaking out against wrongful imprisonment or supporting werewolf rights - at least not expressly so. But there had been certain underlying assumptions, nevertheless: do not make a scene and support the Ministry at all costs and, most importantly, never, ever, ever back someone lesser, not even privately but certainly not publicly. If someone with a Muggle in their family tree fourteen generations ago was considered to be not worth the trouble, then a werewolf accused of murder was practically a death sentence - and voicing her concern in Diagon Alley, one of the most popular and populated wizarding locations in the country, probably broke just about every unspoken Livingston rule there ever was.

Still, Aly didn't regret it. Even if they had not gotten Marcus freed, even if the Ministry would just brush over their little protest, even if no one ever said anything about it again - no matter what happened, she was proud of herself and of her Housemates. They would continue to take stands, that much was for certain. Their former Head of House would not die alone and unloved.

But for these coming few days, she would need to be on her best behaviour - the very pinnacle of a Livingston heiress. All smiles and curtsies and pearls and hors d'oeuvres. She knew what was on the line if she did not - a trip to Tenūsa in January she'd been hoping to attend for months.

And so Aly dressed herself in the blazer and trousers and pointed boots, which were uncomfortable and pinched nastily at her toes. She endured the whole day of Lady Prudence's lectures and lessons, remembered every name of every guest who would be there the next day for the ball, and utilised the correct fork for each course at dinner with nary so much as a whisper of a complaint. The following morning, she was clad again in green, this time a high sage turtleneck dress with elegantly semi-transparent black tights and strappy stilettos, and did not breathe a word even when the seamstress doing her last-minute gown adjustments pricked her four times with various needles and pins. She managed to carry two books atop her head going down the grand staircase into the ballroom without dropping either or wavering her posture and even snapped at one of the house-elves when he got in her way, and though she did feel quite horrid about that last one, it at least managed to coax a smile out of her tutor, who simply said, "I believe you are once again ready to represent your family in the public sphere. At least for one night."

Indeed, the ball was nothing short of a rousing success for those who typically attended. Aly wore her new gown - a rather plain strapless sheath with a flouncy skirt, in the same emerald green as the rest of her family, with a string of pearls around her neck and silvery hoop earrings dangling from her earlobes - and managed even not to stain it, despite the blistered tomato tartlets that had an unfortunate tendency to spurt hot juice when bitten. Her hair stayed in its perfect slicked bun, the gel seeming to turn her blondish curls a few shades darker so as to match her mother's hue. She walked with excellent posture in heels far too high without tripping once, laughed politely at anti-werewolf jokes whilst holding in more incendiary commentary, and danced with just about every young, handsome lout her family sent her way.

By the end of the night, she was more sure than ever that she wanted nothing less than this life. The jewelry was beautiful, the clothing expensive, the food delicious - all things she would have loved if they had come without strings attached. But something had switched inside of her whilst being dragged out of Diagon Alley, or perhaps before that, speaking with @Dealla Prince in the Three Broomsticks, or maybe even before that, watching a servant in his uniform hit the floor and bleed.

If a life with the Livingstons meant a life hiding her opinions, keeping herself close to the vest, then she knew she could not stay a Livingston for long.

Apologise for being green or underdressed?

Somewhere Unplottable in England | December 24^th–25^th, 2025 | outfits in banner | #C47DDB