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Summary
The circlet had been hammered thin in imitation of the minimal grace of Fëanor’s own preferences. Set upon it were three stones the size and placement of something never to be imitated. They were white, or made to be. But their light wasn't quite right. It didn’t emerge; it sat there like oil. It didn’t refract; it sulked. It was the light of glass coaxed to pretend. Fëanor’s stomach, which rarely interfered with his brain, made a sound like a door shut with restraint.
In which Fëanor attends a party, is not flattered by imitation, and makes his displeasure quite known.
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