Chapter Text
She wakes with a ghastly yellow chiffon curtain above her, with horrendous and large bedazzled flowers winking down in the faint light.
Her first, uninspired thought is that a glitter canon went off .
Her second is that she sort of wants to burn the curtains, glitter, and all. Because that is an affront to good fucking taste. It wasn't Demure. Or Mindful. Even if the fumes would certainly be toxic and dangerous to be near, she sits up in that ghastly bed, what feels like silk beneath her hands, and her head swims. The room is a very distinct color of Chartreuse. Penelope Abaroa has always hated Chartreuse. It’s always looked off on her skin. It was… Just not her color. Even now, with a hand as pale as a ghost, it looked ugly. When the hell did I buy such a horrible- Penelope shakes her head, and reaches, squinting, eyes squinted at the painful amount of light, for the face mask she usually keeps in her nightstand.
She misses, empty air. Miscalculated somehow, and brings the horrible glitter canon canopy with her, down in a crash. She swears. Stars blink, ears ring. Hands on hardwood. Knees aching, head swimming at the horrendous jolt.
My apartment is carpeted? I feel like throwing up.
A faint sound like running footsteps. Heels on hardwood. The fancy, curious door bursts open, and Polly Walker’s pale face looks at her like she’s seen a ghost as Penelope looks up. Or maybe, it's the fact that she's pushed her breasts nearly to her chin, in a gown that is a vibrant, gaudy, and metallic lurid pink. Floral.
Normally, Penelope liked florals.
What was Polly Walker wearing?
Hideous.
“Um, hello,” she mumbles, her voice not her own. She blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Why was Polly Walker here? Is her unhelpful thought.
A lot of her thoughts were unhelpful at the moment. Penelope had a whopper of a migraine. Light felt too sharp. And she couldn't properly focus. The actress is wearing the metallic monstrosity of flowers and is staring at her helplessly. Her face is pale, drawn, and tear-streaked.
“Penelope,” the actress says.
Penelope blinks. How did she know her name? That was alright, she supposed. Didn't explain why an actress in my room? Is it my room? Did I go color blind? Or get hardwood? I can't afford that.
“Yes? Yes, I’m sorry, what is it, Ma’am?”
And then Polly Walker bursts into furious, helpless tears.
Penelope winces. She never did well with someone else’s tears.
“Oh!” she tries to stand, and she feels her head swim even more as she does. But she has to get up, the poor woman is-
“Do not move, child! ” the woman says, furiously.
Penelope freezes. She looks up. The woman's face is angry. But from her position, Penelope could see her hands shake. Her lip quivered.
The woman-
She was sad.
Penelope hated it when people were sad.
“But you’re crying,” she says, simply, eyes widening at her, “Do you not feel well? Are you hurt-”
“Am I hurt?” Polly Walker returns, voice nearly shrieking, “Is that your first thought?!”
“You’re crying,” Penelope repeats, voice going softer.
Polly Walker takes a helpless, sobbing breath.
“Be that as it may,” she whips furiously at her eyes, “You stupid, stupid child! You are hurt!”
Penelope blinks. She's thirty for heaven's sake.
“That’s rude of you to say,” she says, plainly. Calling her stupid and a child.
I mean, I still like stuffed animals, still, but I blame Beanie Babies and Pokémon for that! Come to think of it, where was my Bulbasaur plush?
The stuffed animal usually kept her company. She looks to the bed.
That is not my bed. Wait. Is that real silk?!
“Do you have any idea the worry you have caused , s hoving me out of the way like some hooligan-”
Penelope shakes her head.
“Um, Ma’am, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Polly Walker’s eyes are brilliant and vivid eyes are blue and piercing.
“You nearly died, Penelope Featherington, you foolish child. You should have never endangered yourself. I- How could a mother live with herself if her child just- ”
She stares at Polly Walker. Or, well, not Polly Walker. The red curls on her head should have clued her in. And the lurid pink. And the glitter. So much freaking glitter.
She blinks again.
“Penelope what?” she asks, eyes going wider.
Lady Featherington's eyes are wide as well. She goes very, very still. And Penelope realizes the woman isn't breathing.
“Ma'am?”
The woman lets out a helpless, gasping sort of breath.
“Penelope, child, do you not remember your own surname? ”
She stares at her. Because what?
She looks around the room. This really isn't my studio apartment, there. She looks in the mirror above a vanity that looks more like a desk, and Nicola Coughlan’s gorgeous face looks back at her. Pale and drawn face, red curls disheveled. Gauze wrapped around her head. She blinks. Once, twice at the pretty image. Except for the explosion of yellow and yellow-green around her. It washes Nicola out, most horrendously. Even more than it did Penelope's own tanned skin. She moves her hand, and yes, Nicola’s hand moves with her. She touches at the gauze and has to wince at the pain in her head.
“Um,” she says. It is Nicola’s voice. Or well, not really. It doesn’t have her amazing Irish accent. It’s English. What Penelope understands is quite posh. Thanks Doctor Who.
It's Penelope Featherington’s voice, she realizes. Not Nicola. She’s-
“Oh dear,” she murmurs, realizing what is happening.
She’s gone and izekaied.
Into Bridgerton.
She totally justified in fainting. Or well, swooning as it was. Because she's now a Regency Lady and that's more than allowed.
Marianne Dashwood would be so proud. But also.
What
?!