The Sixth

The envelope weighs heavy in Isabelle’s hand.

It has been a long time since Isabelle felt so estranged from her husband, who celebrates the arrival of the invitation with Cara and Hanson.

It was like she wasn’t even in the room. They’re actors in a play, and she’s shadowed within the audience.

All of a sudden, Isabelle is sucked into the act when Howard wraps his arms around her and spins.

Forced to act without knowing her lines, all Isabelle can manage is a stiff smile.

Her feet touch the floor and Isabelle almost grimaces when Cara says, “Is this not wonderful news, my Lady?”

Maybe I’m being paranoid. Isabelle hopes. This is what Flora has wanted for years, and the only way her reputation will see the slightest recovery!

Flora Rayne, that uniquely kind and loving child should only lay her feet on a path of flowers. For all Flora’s done for her and others, Isabelle firmly believes this is the least Flora deserves.

With Darlin’s help, the indomitable fist of Felicity Fritz yielded into a reluctant handshake— something that should have been impossible.

Knowing all this, Isabelle is still not free of dread’s claws.

She was compelled to fling the envelope out the window when Flora came through the parlor’s doors.

Pink eyes take in the celebratory scene with a questioning furrow. “What’s going on here?”

Howard snatches the envelope from Isabelle and strides towards Flora. “The invite…!” His breaths are ragged with excitement. “This, my dear, is the invitation to your wedding!”

“It just arrived!” Marin said.

“By now,” Howard put a hand on Flora’s shoulder, the excitement in his eyes blinding the reluctance on her face. “the whole capital must be aware my daughter will be the Fritz’s Duchess Apparent!”

“Oh, you must be positively thrilled, Lady Flora!” The butler beams over Howard’s shoulder.

Before Flora can think, Cara is chiming, “You’ll be the most gorgeous bride Taivaria has ever seen!”

Flora’s mouth opens and closes without any words being said. Her eyes bounce so fast between three elated faces her stomach begins to turn. 

Between their joy, her worries, and everything that’s happened since the graduation, her thoughts are caught in a whirlpool.

A tightness clogs her heart, and while Flora knows her father and the rest expect her to be even happier than them, she’s already doing her best not to scream her head off.

In terrible timing, the parlor’s doors open once more to reveal the one person Flora least wants to see.

“Ah,” It doesn’t take Darlin long to comprehend the situation. “So we are finally here.” 

Flora could hear the smile in Darlin’s voice. She sounded like the sister Flora knows, and probably looks like her too. Nevertheless, Flora would not confirm with her own eyes, still fearful of the ghoul that said those cryptic words; “Your love, your hope— my effort, my sacrifice. Let us talk about these things at a later time...” 

Howard ordered the exit of the Head Maid and Butler before handing the invite to Darlin for scrutiny. 

It’s not the same. Is the first thing those bright red eyes observe. 

Darlin’s wedding invites were an arrogant royal red accompanied by gladioluses bound up in a gold ribbon. Every invitee received the flowers which were a physical show of Fritz’s wealth, strength, and confidence. 

It was that ostentatious for a reason; Darlin and Heinrich’s wedding represented the aristocratic faction officially throwing down the gauntlet.

This time the invite is an unassertive ivory envelope with gold swirls. Lovely as it is quaint. The words as well are short and just polite enough.

“So?” Howard is almost shaking his clothes off with his jittering. “Do you notice anything?

“Nothing of concern, father.” Except that the Fritz couple are not pleased. A lack of glamor and finery implies either an inability to afford it, or an unwillingness to place it. Enough subtle jabs like this and it will be over for Flora before long. 

Howard claps his hands. “That settles it! My daughter’s getting married! HAHA!” 

Vincent had very rudely disallowed Howard entry to “Silken”— Vincent’s Parlour. At the end, it was just a mindless tantrum because he didn’t want to acknowledge his son’s shortcomings!

Her husband’s mood is finally lifted, and Isabelle regrets her misgivings with no way to put them down permanently. Damn Gretchen and her serpent’s tongue!

Isabelle’s social circle has fallen apart, and though Howard refuses to talk about it, she knows the same has been the cause for his sour mood these past days.

Now, he can’t stop smiling in joy of the future to come.

Will… Will everything really be alright? …Just like that? Isabelle would give an arm and a leg to make things blow over that easily, but when she regards Flora’s hunched shoulders and far off stare… “Go ahead and smother little Flora all you want. The love you’ve showered her with might just be her only comfort when she’s left all alone~!” 

“Is… Is it alright to proceed like this?”

The look Howard gives Isabelle is as if she just sprouted a second head. 

“I- I mean… this is all so short notice for us. We haven’t heard anything about the preparations, and as the bride’s family we should—!”

“The Fritz’s wedding traditions are for them to handle, mother.” Darlin wished she hadn’t spoken so hurriedly, but it’s already taking a mountain of patience to keep the edge out of her voice. “As the bride’s family we only need to make sure Flora learns her role well.” 

“What… What about my dress? Shouldn’t there at least be a fitting?” Flora mumbles.

“Flora, I told you already; it will all be taken care of by the Fritzs. And mother,” Isabelle jolts. Darlin’s call is like a cane cracking over her knuckles. “please try not to feed the bride’s anxiety.”

“I’m not anxious!” Even Flora was surprised by how defensive she got.

Darlin calling Flora “the bride”, combined with Flora’s obvious attempt to hide her nervousness stirred Howard’s protectiveness towards his daughter and his ambitions. 

“Don’t worry, my dear.” Howard hugs Flora and promises, “You and no one else are Heinrich’s heart. Just focus on walking down the aisle, on your future with him.”

Flora’s lips finally pull into a smile. Heinrich… Gods how she wishes it were him holding her right now. If it were you, you wouldn’t let that vile woman abuse me! 

Howard spoke the truth, but as of recent, his hugs have become too cheap to give Flora an ounce of security. She felt more relief separating from him, “I should get back to my lessons now.”

Darlin woke up with a fever the day she fell asleep with Ludovik’s letter in hand and is yet to recover her full health. That won’t do if she wants to enjoy her only sister’s wedding.

To keep Howard out of her hair, “Father, mother, do not forget to prepare your clothes for the wedding. You are the parents of the bride, after all~!”

Her words have the Earl flaunting metaphorical feathers, and the Countess shrinking.

…Hmm… Darlin deliberately crossed the hall in slow steps, and soon enough she hears someone leave the parlor, their footfalls a rush.

“Darlin!”

“Yes, mother?”

For all Isabelle bears in her heart, she is speechless before Darlin. She squirms and stammers in place until Darlin takes the lead, “How about some tea?”

Darlin shoos the maid before her cup can be filled after Isabelle’s. It is Isabelle that needs to become a melted puddle of confessions, not her.

A sip has Isabelle’s tense posture relaxing, and when her lashes flutter, Darlin pounces. “It was not easy convincing the Duke and Duchess. One might say it is a miracle we ever reached this point.” 

Isabelle’s winces at slightly, guilty dark brown irises seeking a distraction in her teacup.

Guilt? Good. “You know it as well, mother; This is not the time to drag your feet!”

Isabelle’s surprised eyes involuntarily turn to Darlin, wide as saucers. There isn’t a drop of the scorn Isabelle heard… thought she heard. “B-But… Will Flora be alright… after the wedding?”

Darlin cocks her head. “Do you have reason to think she will not?”

“You saw how opposed the Duke and Duchess were that day!”

“You knew they would oppose from the very start. Why is it a problem now?”

“Because—!” “You doted a bastard into a person with no merit…” Isabelle caught herself, appalled she would even think of Flora as inadequate. “They might treat her badly once she’s in a place we can’t reach?”

“But Sir Heinrich loves her.” Darlin’s retort is guileless with the faintest tint of sarcasm. “That is why you jumped at the idea of being able to help her marry him, no?”

“A-At the time, I…”

Darlin finishes for her in a gentle lilt, “You wanted Flora to get what she wanted. Why has that changed?”

“…Darlin, are you… are you upset about something?”

The light from the window casts on only half of Darlin’s face, the red in one eye dim, whilst the other is molten. “Whatever do I have to be upset about, mother?”

Leaving Isabelle no room to answer, Darlin warns, “You understand there will be no shortage of consequences to call off the wedding at this point, do you not?” She makes certain she has Isabelle’s full attention before continuing, “And what becomes of Flora, hm? The Duke and Duchess already set their pride aside by accepting this marriage. Do you think Flora will even have the option to be Sir Heinrich’s mistress if we call off the wedding without a cogent reason? We can send her to the countryside to live quietly for however long it takes society to pardon her. Or, we keep Flora here and give her to whomever will have a salacious woman for a wife or mistress. We will probably settle for whichever we can get at that point.”

“Flora is still—“

“Society does not know that, and short of watching her bleed the proof, they will not believe otherwise.”

“…You are upset.” 

Darlin almost laughs cruelly. Leave it to you to become insightful at this most crucial time. “I suppose my mood is a little off because my fever has not gone down.”

“Fever?” Now that it’s been mentioned, Isabelle notices Darlin still wears her nightgown with a shawl wrapped around her. “Fever… Since when?”

Playing her memories back, Isabelle finds she has not seen her daughter lately— not in the halls, at the dining table, or… or… Are these the only times we see each other? 

Darlin doesn’t deign that question worth answering.

Isabelle doesn’t recognize the disrespect. Her mind is preoccupied with the prompt realization that her independent, genius daughter has quite a small back. 

Actually, Darlin gets her frame from Isabelle— a generally slender build save for their flared hips, full thighs and bottom. She’s also still an inch or so shorter than Isabelle, whereas, until now, Isabelle truly believed Darlin were bigger than her.

 “…while the one raised outside of your care turned into the only good thing in your miserable life!”

“Darlin… what’s your favorite flower?”

Darlin ought to have said whatever comes to mind, but hearing the same question Ludovik asked made her freeze with one foot out the door.

Honestly, she’s been wondering that as well, among other things; Why does it matter? Why does he care? To flatter me? If that’s his reason, She looked over her shoulder, why is she curious?

Against her better judgment, despite telling herself the time to gloat will come, she answers, “I… I liked the pink camellias we used to have.”

*****

Dutifully awaiting Darlin outside the bedroom door, Collette exclaims, “My Lady!” as soon as Darlin rounds the corner.

She welcomes Darlin by throwing an even thicker shawl over her shoulders. “Are you alright? You said you wouldn’t be long!”

For a person who is never the cause of anyone’s fretting, Darlin finds Collette’s dotage as invasive and insipid as the whining of the dumb maid she drags on her excursions, and yet she fails to even ward off Ludovik’s spy with as much as a glare. 

She merely sidesteps Collette and heads into her room. “I am expecting a visit from a designer, Sir Raymond. Until then I would like to be alone.”

Darlin shut the door and let out a low, frustrated groan. How pathetic… She couldn’t even look Collette in the eye. 

It’s not Collette’s fault Darlin let herself get rattled up by Flora— nor does she get to be upset she was caught in such a lowly state.

Darlin felt sick just thinking of Collette reporting to Ludovik.

She enters her closet and gets to work taking a painting off her wall, nearly falling on her butt more than a few times in the process.

As she sets it down, Darlin awards herself some praise for not slapping herself in the face with the painting like she did when she was fourteen.

The secret compartment Darlin accidentally uncovered in her fourth life has become something she’s overly familiar with. She effortlessly finds the hollow spot no bigger than an eye and presses down until a series of low clicks sound in the closet. 

Mechanisms within the wall are set in motion to trigger a narrow section to part down the middle and reveal a hidden room containing a bottle of perfume, and a thick diary on an otherwise empty shelf. The rest of the space is occupied by a gorgeous wedding dress arranged over a headless mannequin. 

It’s a ballgown has a drop waist and is sleeveless. Delicate tulle is arranged around the bust in a way that makes it seem like the wearer were emerging from a flower bud, the skirt of the dress is covered in fine glitter that will shimmer like starlight with every step the bride takes. 

When Darlin first saw this dress in her first life, she wanted to crumple to the floor and cry like a child.

That day, Darlin’s wedding day, Flora attended in such a dress, pink eyes misty with tears she was barely holding back. 

Darlin remembered how Heinrich could barely take his eyes off Flora, the whispers that filled the hall as the priest droned on about love and commitment.

Narcisse did not neglect to praise Flora’s beauty all through the ceremony, and Darlin had no rebuttal. 

When Flora caught the bouquet, she looked so beautiful fairytale princesses would bite their thumbs in envy. Narcisse mocked to Darlin’s hearing alone, “You can barely tell who’s the bride here.”

The complaints she aired to her parents were met with rebuke— Flora only wanted a single chance to wear her dream wedding dress, could Darlin not afford some compassion? 

If Darlin weren’t so repulsed by the idea of people thinking she’s trying to spite Flora over Heinrich, she’d wear the dress to the wedding as it is— stark white— throw Flora’s shamelessness right back in her face.

Darlin rolls the mannequin out of the secret room and into her bedroom. 

She eyes the chest full of riches with a frown. The magic on the lock has faded since some days ago, and to that end Darlin has only permitted Collette to clean her room— with her present, of course.

Darlin often thought of asking the maid’s help to move the chest into the secret room, but distrust kept her from doing so. Now, shame over her mania reinforces the invisible clamps on her mouth.

Arms crossed, Darlin decides to try moving the chest herself. By the time Collette knocks to inform her of Raymond’s arrival, Darlin is sweaty and has pushed the chest half a foot closer to the closet. 

She quickly fixes her appearance before calling out through her heavy lungs, “Come in!”

Raymond’s humming morphs into a screech. “Gods above!” He skitters around Darlin at a speed that leaves her dizzy. “What’s happened to my Darlin?!” He cups her cheeks and gasps at how cold her skin is. “You’re sick!” He turns to Collette, “Why is she sick?” then back to Darlin. “Have you seen the doctor yet? Have you taken your medicine? What’s with all those books? Goodness, you are my muse, but also the worst patient!”

Darlin can’t stop from smiling even if she tried, so she gives up and lets herself laugh at Raymond’s puffed up face. 

The designer has his hands on his hips, huffing like a winded old woman. It didn’t help Darlin was still while trying to appease him.

Their interaction entrances Collette. There is more familiarity between them than between Darlin and her own blood related family. 

At the sight of his muse’s smile, Raymond finds his concerns were unnecessary. With talk of the upcoming wedding staining the streets, he expected Darlin to be in despair. Never has he been so grateful to be wrong. 

Nonetheless, Raymond assumes the cause of Darlin’s poor health to be heartbreak. You try to be stronger than anyone else, but at the end, you’re also a young girl…

He chatters on before and after they sit down with tea and snacks between them.

To Darlin’s surprise, the tough Henrietta has started raising a kitten. She makes a mental note to send some ribbons for it.

Apparently, Mason has become utterly immersed in designing— almost obsessively. “He looks like a raccoon!” Raymond gripes, but the way he squares his shoulders reveals some pride in his protégé.

Darlin’s laugh is Raymond’s joy…which is why he regrets having to ask, “My darling girl, what is that?” 

Raymond need not motion or even look to the wedding dress for Darlin to know he is referring to it. She put down her teacup. “Collette, please leave us.”

The maid frowned and looked between Darlin and Raymond until the former insists in a tone not open for arguments, “Now.”

Despite her misgivings, Collette obeys.

Conversation with Raymond has always been light and without intent. It is a spring bursting open, and the sprinkles of water fall wherever they may. 

Raymond is passionate in a way that sweeps a person off their feet before they can help themselves. He laughs without scheme, and his contagious glee is inescapable.

What a shame Darlin only just realized he is the only one in her life she can be so unconstrained with.

Raymond is precious to her, more than Darlin should have let him be, still her hunger for vengeance outweighs the whimpers of her shriveled heart.

“You recognize it?”

“How could I not?” At first, Raymond hadn’t believed his eyes. 

Viviona Ferris’ last collection was not well received until three decades after her death. 

Raymond was actually present when this very dress was being auctioned. The bids went way above what he could afford, and so he’d sadly watched the dress fall into the ownership of a masked individual. 

How did it end up with my Darlin…? Raymond wonders. She would have barely entered her teen years when the dress was auctioned. And the money!? If memory serves right, this dress had sold for fifty thousand in silver! 

Now, Raymond knows well enough that Darlin has a secret fund. He didn’t know her reasons, but once he sniffed out her little trick he’d willingly faked reservations, given her rebates, and falsified receipts, among other means. 

He also knows that she knows he knows, but they never spoke about it, and Raymond has been fine with that.

An impressed smirk tugs at Raymond’s lips. As expected of my muse. This is exactly why Mason’s childishness upset him so. Such a beguiling Lady cannot be captured in a boy’s half-baked imagination. If Darlin is ever to bloom as magnificently as Raymond knows she can, her poison must not be avoided, but consumed gratefully. 

The older man places his elbows on the table and braces his face between his palms. “We’ll dye it.”

Surprise wipes away Darlin’s thoughts for a moment, leaving her gaping at Raymond.

Where she expected judgment, maybe even disappointment, Raymond gives fellowship without question.

She tries to speak but he holds up a hand. “I won’t stand for my muse catfighting over that motherfu— Ahem!— boy.” Leaning back in the chair, Raymond swings his fan in a swatting motion. “”Slap a dirty bitch with a fan not your hand”, I always say. Let’s make it red.”

Darlin almost chokes as she burst out laughing. “Red?” She gasps in between giggles. The taboo wedding color that denotes; “I slept with the bride/groom”. Only Raymond would raise such an idea to her.

“But that won’t do either, absolutely not! I die a little just imagining such rumors about you and that… person…”

Darlin is almost in tears from laughing so much. What a shame she didn’t meet Raymond until this life, but at least now she knows when the seventh, and eighth, and ninth lives come, she can look forward to finding him and Henrietta again. 

Perhaps out of guilt from doubting him, or because Raymond’s jokes have stirred up her ego, Darlin signals Raymond closer with a crook of her finger. She whispers to him the significance of the dress, and Raymond shoots out of his seat with cheshire cat grin behind his fan. “No!”

“But yes.” Darlin laughs.

“No!”

“Yes!”

“You do me proud, my wicked, darling girl!”

Raymond rings the service bell and instructs Collette to bring in two of his workers.

Under Raymond’s barking they tenderly pack the dress and mannequin into a long chest. 

Raymond faces Darlin. “What do you think of black?” He pouts.

“They do not deserve my grieving.”

“Rightly said.” He takes Darlin’s hands in his and searches her eyes. “My darling girl, you grow more beautiful than the day.” He said this now, so seriously, because in this moment the wall between them has thinned. There’s no telling when their hearts will be this close again. 

“…It makes me happy you see me that way, Sir Ray.” Darlin knows he can only say that because he’s not glimpsed even the surface of her twisted and marred nature, but her words were honest. Raymond still looks at her with a joyful expectation, like she were something he’s awaited for the longest time.

They part and Darlin remains by her chest until Collette’s return. “Sir Raymond said your dress will be complete in three days. He also said this work is free on account of your loyal patronage.”

“Did he?” Darlin chortles. Sweet Raymond is giving her an avenue to skim more money from under her parents’ nose.

Finally, she said, “Can you help me with something?”

Collette perks up. “Anything, my Lady.”

Darlin raises a hand to gesture at the chest, but redirects it towards the closet at the last second. “Help me change, I am going to visit an associate.”

*****

Jorge Adolf isn’t someone Darlin recommends as an associate. Having said that, he remains her closest associate.

Undeterred by Jorge’s flaws, the commoners have patronized “The Clear Eye” since Baron Adolf started his agency dumbing down news for the less educated and showing support during heated talks about freedom of speech. They regard him as their voice, and the nobles line his pockets when they want to look good to the lower class. 

“Welcome, my Lady.” Jorge’s Head Maid, Twila, greets. “I already sent word of your presence to his Lordship.” 

“Long time not see, Twila. And thank you.” Darlin makes her way to the library, the place she knows best in Jorge’s home. She juts her chin at a couch near a shelf. “Did the Baron redecorate? I do not remember this place being so accommodating?”

“Work has had Lord Jorge spending more time in the library.” The dutiful maid easily lies and changes the subject, “Can I interest my Lady in a cup of tea?”

“I would love some.”

After Twila leaves, Darlin removes her hat with a sigh as her hair tumbles free. She was growing tired of needing to hide herself whenever she goes out because Flora and Heinrich went and got themselves publicly disgraced. 

Darlin skims the books whose spines are yet to be cracked. Jorge would sooner track down a source and rend the facts from their mouth than open a book. His impressive collection is for no more than ego.

Her eyes halt on a book. It is one that every noble child must have read at least once in their lifetime. And even the illiterate will know the story. 

It is a black, leather bound book with gold inscriptions that have cracked and faded with time. Annos Cinere— The Age of Ash.

It is a rather dreary name for the era that began the great Empire of Taivaria, but is no less accurate for a time when corpses were always burning.

By the aid of the evil god, Jax’il, demons, once lowly beasts, gained knowledge. 

Due to a sin committed by man long before the Age of Ash, The Reaper, Kronos turned a blind eye and let mankind struggle with the demons. 

After his wrath passed and his compassion for man was recalled, Kronos sent down the fiercest god in Celestrum, the great storm, Nova.

For the sake of the universe’s balance, Nova could not wipe out every demon. Instead he tore Jax’il apart and planted his body parts in the ground. 

The evil god’s body became the veins of magic. In this way, humanity gained access to magic.

Humanity fought back the demons, and when their adversary retreated, they turned on one another.

Nova saw this was not right, so he found the most righteous of humanity, which were six siblings. From them he chose one and bestowed him a single drop of his blood.

“”A man less than a god, but greater than any other man, our reverent ancestor, Emperor Taivaria”.” Darlin reads aloud. 

…It’s like His Highness... A young boy who turns the tides of war, despairing his enemies before he can even be called a man. As expected of the bloodline blessed by a war god.

The library’s doors open, except the one pushing the tea tray in is a man in his thirties. His straight, wheat blond hair stops by his chin, and when he spots Darlin his sleepy, dark blue eyes glitter.

“Lord Adolf,” She sets the book back on the shelf and makes to curtsy, “I apologize for my sudden arrival, I—!” only to be interrupted by Jorge swooping her into a hug.

“My goddess!” Jorge Adolf exclaims. “Ah, how could you abandon your devotee for this long? You’re awfully cruel,” He drops a kiss on Darlin’s hair and lingers to enjoy her scent. “but I love even that about you. You’ve grown wonderfully, I see.” The last time Jorge saw Darlin was some months before she started at the academy. Now, her features have matured to reflect her cutting intelligence and unmatched elegance. Her hips have gotten fuller too... Darlin’s breasts might be moderate, but her hips and derrière have the power to inspire some wild fantasies. 

Darlin could almost smell his slimy thoughts and just barely withheld an exaggerated sigh of relief when Jorge ascents to her resistance and backs away. He has his arms up in a surrender mismatching his simper. 

She increases the distance by four more steps.

“Always so cold,” Jorge snickers. He waves Darlin to sit while he pours them some tea. “I’d love to believe you’re here because you missed me, but that’s never the case with you.” He hands Darlin a cup, then plops next to her on the couch. “So, what will it be?”

“I want you to write articles about Prince Ludovik.”

Jorge scoffs. “I’m sure you’re aware of the aristocratic faction’s movements as of late, ambitious sons of bitches that they are.”

“I figured you would jump at this chance, seeing as you hate them so much.”

Jorge throws his teacup aside, neither of them bothered by the shatter, and places one hand on the armrest next to Darlin, the other on backrest so he’s leaning over her. He stares deep into her red irises, the savagery of them making him burn. “…My goddess is a rascally one.”

Darlin empties her cup in three gulps and pays for Jorge’s service with a piece of information, “Prince Ludovik will return to the Capital before the summer social season begins.”

Of all the things Jorge expected to pass through those dark pink lips, it wasn’t that.

He opens his mouth to ask if she was serious but thinks better. This girl has never so much as smiled for me. And while he has no a clue where she gets her information from, she’s never led him wrong. If anything, Darlin’s words are alarmingly accurate. 

“Make it grand.” Darlin instructs, “Talk about how he went to the battlefield in Prince Lionel’s place. Mention his liberation of the Isle of Yalia, that he did not condemn the Zuthast citizens to slavery, how the spoils of war aided Princess Astoria’s charities, and so on.”

“You’re backing the Prince?” Darlin’s hate for the aristocratic faction rivals his own, however, this isn’t a jab at them. What a kick to the balls...

“I am sticking while the iron is hot.” She forces Jorge off when she stands and dusts off her skirt. “Will you do it?” 

She aims a bloody stare at him through the corner of her eyes, as if she could not be bothered to face him. 

Temptation rides Jorge hard. He praises his self control when he only allows himself curl a lock of snow white hair around his fingers and kiss it. “How could I refuse my goddess?”

Darlin nods. “I look forward to seeing your work.” As she fits her hat back on, she flippantly awards him, “By the way, your paper on the graduation ceremony was delightful.”

Jorge sputters, then collapses into a bout of maniacal laughter.