[Closed] Do You Hold a Heavy Heart

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
The Kaleidoscope, King's Court

It could have been a perfectly lovely moment; Adelaide had looked very charming as she said it, all smiles, and it had been quite pleasant. Ewing had not helped with his snorting laugh, and an eye roll so overblown Chrsyanthe had seen it in the corner of her gaze. Something went faintly hard on Adelaide’s face, but her gaze stayed on Chrysanthe and she had held her smile, just a moment longer.

Even despite Ewing, Chrysanthe might have enjoyed the compliment, although his raw amusement could well have dampened things. It didn’t really matter, in the end; Chrysanthe remembered Adelaide using precisely the same line on another girl at a party five years ago after mixing her some other red cocktail. She supposed now she understood that she had remembered it out of a wish not yet understood to be the girl receiving the cocktail.

Strange, Chrysanthe thought, to find it so unpleasant now, then. If she hadn’t known - if Ewing hasn’t laughed - if not for the almost brittle look to Adelaide’s smile.

Charlie had pulled an absolute face when she looked at him. Funny; without the smirk, he looked much younger, and rather more likeable. It was, Chrsyanthe decided, some kind of very faint resemblance to the faces her nephew came up with - not that they looked in the least alike, but it was there, nonetheless. It must have been.

“Women with short hair?” Adelaide repeated. She sort of stirred her drink with the cherry, fingertips perched on the stem. “Naturally, women may wear their hair however they like.” Her own hair was as long as it had been in school, pulled up into elegant curls that Chrysanthe was fairly sure owed mostly to nature, and less to artifice than, perhaps, careful cultivation.

There was a pause; Chrsyanthe took another little sip of her gin fizz.

Adelaide held for just a moment; then she smirked. “Of course - speaking personally, and not of society as a general rule - I think of it rather like long hair on men.” She smiled at Ewing. “So very hard to pull off well.”

“You’ve never thought of cutting yours?” Chrysanthe asked, smiling, putting in before this got any worse, though she doubted she could really stop it. “Don’t you get tired of putting it up for work?”

“Oh, no,” Adelaide laughed; she touched a gentle hand to her thick curls, almost caressingly. “It’s well worth it. A woman has every right to do with her hair as she pleases, of course, but I do rather like mine feminine. Your braids are so lovely, Chrysanthe; I remember admiring how long your hair was even in school.”

Chrysanthe knew better than to touch her own hair; even a hovering hand seemed to inevitably lead to wisping.

Adelaide took another sip of her cocktail, smaller and more delicate, holding the cherry stem in place with an elegant fingertip.

“I’ve thought of cutting mine,” Chrysanthe said, rather suddenly; she hadn’t the least notion why. No, she knew; it was because she had expected Adelaide to understand that subtext - to ask - from her bringing it up. She smiled, as if that might excuse the abruptness of it.

“Oh, no, darling, don’t!” Adelaide laughed. “It’s not everyone who can grow theirs out so well, and you simply can’t know how it will look afterwards. I’m sure you’d regret it.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Evening
The Kaleidoscope, King's Court

"Naturally," Charlie repeated dryly. He pointedly had not asked if it was socially acceptable for a woman to do whatever she wanted with her hair; he asked what she thought of it. She paused, and then made a fatal error.

Charlie grinned. If she thought to unbalance him by attacking his appearance, she had misread him more badly than he thought. Charlie did, in fact, own a mirror. He knew exactly what he looked like, which was an unparalleled vision of beauty. And he did not have to do anything with his eyebrows at all--they were perfect on their own.

Ms. Palmifer spoke then, perhaps seeking to intervene. Which was rather sweet of her, he thought, even if she were doing it for Ms. Eyebrows. He hoped she was doing it for her own sake, which is the only reason anyone should do anything. His smile stayed easy and light, and his posture relaxed somewhat. What was he doing, sniping at this dreadfully dull woman in this lovely but not particularly interesting cocktail bar?

It turned out he didn't need to say anything at all. The woman dug her own grave. He raised his eyebrows again, astonished she had not rather worked out that he had been referring to Ms. Palmifer. At the very least, when she interjected asking if she had ever thought of cutting it herself. He thought of Ms. Palmifer complaining in the factory the other night about the weight of it, and how much of a hassle it was for her to deal with. They didn't seem very close, Ms. Palmifer and her date--and yet she seemed awfully sure.

Charlie turned to look at Ms. Palmifer, shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands as if this had been what he expected from the start. As if they both had been in on it. "So you see, Ms. Palmifer, like I said--it may well be that only men like myself would find that such a haircut suits you." He paused and looked at Ms. Eyebrows out of the corner of his eye, not quite turning to look at her properly.

"I still think the risk is worth the potential reward, if you want to do it. Not everyone is interesting enough to make the attempt. And," he declared, "It is only hair. It will grow back." He gestured vaguely at his own hair and his smile was just a touch more genuine. If only because Ms. Palmifer was certainly more interesting a person than this absolute drip she had decided to come to the bar with. He took another sip of his drink, which was very nearly finished. Soon he would get up to leave this bar, and not let it darken his life again for quite a while. And not just because it was massively outside of his usual budget, either.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
The Kaleidoscope, King's Court

Chrysanthe wasn’t entirely sure what to say. Twice, now, she had said it aloud - that she wished to cut her hair. The first time, she had had the excuse of exhaustion; being up all night brought one to a state of unreality, as if you had drifted into another Ever.

Ewing, of course, had brought it up tonight, in a way that ought to have been obvious. But Adelaide had not realized where he was going with it - even with Chrysanthe’s prompting - and there had really been no reason to say anything at all. Except, Chrysanthe thought, that she wanted to.

Had she wanted encouragement? Had she wanted Adelaide to say she thought Chrysanthe would be just as lovely with short hair - lovelier, perhaps? She had known better, really, or at least how very unlikely it was.

Chrysanthe supposed she should have felt cowed, or stung; it was much simpler than that. She did not, really, care in the least what Adelaide Thureau-Dangin thought of her hair. She didn’t care much for the other woman’s company, and she was not particularly enjoying sitting here in the bar as she and Charlie sniped at one another with Chrysanthe as bait. Worse, she was rather dreading the moment when Charlie left. She thought rather regretfully of the pleasant moment when Adelaide’s fingers had trailed over her wrist, but in truth - if she were as considerate a lover as she was a conversationalist, Chrysanthe rather suspected she was not missing much.

There was a pinched look on Adelaide’s face, and she looked between them, rather sourly. “Of course,” she said, trying on an uneasy smile. She turned back to Chrysanthe. “I mean - I’m sure you should look lovely, however your hair.”

“Thank you,” Chrysanthe said, somewhat dryly. She glanced down at the pale red drink on the table, and the gin fizz before her, now with only an inch or two or watered down cocktail remaining, and none of the foam which gave the drink its name.

“Do you know,” Chrysanthe smiled, faintly. “I’m really feeling rather tired, Adelaide. It’s work, I suppose; it’s all caught up to me at once. It has been lovely catching up with you.”

Adelaide shifted; her eyes were wide. “What,” she said, slowly. “Oh, Chrysanthe, you can’t go! We’ve scarcely had a moment to ourselves,” she glanced sideways at Ewing.

“No, I know, I’m terribly sorry,” Chrysanthe said. “I’ve a few more days in the Rose; perhaps we’ll find another time. It’s just - it’s come on suddenly, I guess, very unexpected. I should hate to keep you from having fun.”

Adelaide frowned, looking at her. “I hope you’re not getting ill,” she said slowly, easing back.

“I hope so too,” Chrysanthe said, regretfully. “I did feel a bit under the weather earlier; perhaps that’s it. Thank you for showing me this lovely place - what do I owe you for the drinks...?”

“No, they’re on me,” Adelaide said. She smiled, faintly; it was something like the smile Chrysanthe remembered from school. Even if it had been more like it, Chrysanthe thought, she was not the girl she had been then. She supposed that, as much as anything, was the trouble.

“Good night, then,” Chrysanthe said after a few more moments, a few more gentle compliments and equally firm insistences. “Adelaide, Mr. Ewing,” she eased herself out of the booth and took her coat from the wall; she did not look back, but went steadily towards the door and the bracing cold air beyond.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Evening
Outside the Kaleidoscope, King's Court

The warm glow of his victory didn't last long. It was, in fact, irritatingly brief. Charlie wasn't quite sure what he had expected Ms. Palmifer to do. He had, he supposed, rather thought that once it became clear that Ms. Thureau-Dangin was deeply unpleasant, she would realize that being here was a waste of time. He had not thought she would beg an illness and leave the bar entirely.

He should have left first. That would have saved him from this absolutely dreadful moment after Ms. Palmifer left where he sat there feeling distinctly less pleased than he had expected to. He stood after she slid out of the booth, although he lingered for a moment. Charlie had a nearly overwhelming urge to stick his tongue out at Ms. Eyebrows, which was childish even for him. Instead he looked her up and down a moment and shrugged his shoulders. His not-quite-finished glass he left at the table, and the chair he had pulled up besides.

Charlie retrieved his coat from the rack and headed out into the night. He would go home, he thought. He was still pleasantly tipsy, and the idea of a long night of tinkering was actually quite appealing. There was just this itch he couldn't quite shake. He was unfortunately rather certain he knew what it was. Even though it was absurd. Instead of turning towards home, he found himself lightly jogging after Ms. Palmifer's back.

"Ms. Palmifer!" he called out. He didn't expect her to stop or turn towards him, so he didn't wait for her to do so. Merely caught up so he was walking alongside her. Of course, once he got that far, he wasn't sure why he'd done it.

He wasn't guilty, because Ms. Thureau-Dangin was an unpleasant if moderately attractive woman. As far as Charlie could tell, anyway, and he did have a keen eye for beauty even if he was not, personally, interested in women of any kind. She was boring to boot, he could tell that too. So Charlie didn't feel in the least bit bad about ruining their date. He just thought that perhaps Ms. Palmifer did, and that she might want company after all.

"Well wasn't she dreadful." He decided to start with that. The statement was, after all, perfectly true. "I'm sorry you were wasting your time with her and her terrible taste." That absolutely ridiculous prickling, which was not guilt in any way, hadn't quite left him. He wasn't sorry, he told himself. Charlie shivered in his coat and looked at Ms. Palmifer out of the corner of his eye. There was something else he needed to say, most likely.

"Did it, er... Did it work? The canisters? Not," he emphasized, "the mechanical aspect. That was flawless, because I did that part. But... Did it have the effect you wanted?" Charlie kept his hands in his pockets and didn't reach to scratch at the back of his neck at all, because that was a nervous gesture and he didn't feel nervous or awkward or even sorry.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
Outside the Kaleidoscope, King's Court

Once, on her way to the door, Chrysanthe had thought of looking back. She did not; she did not, because she knew that it was not, in fact, Adelaide Thureau-Dangin that she had wished to see. Instead, it had been something of her past, Chrysanthe supposed; as if she could go back and undo the years she had spent in ignorance. She would have been content to recapture something of it in the present.

Perhaps she would have, if Ewing hadn’t interfered. For a moment, Chrysanthe considered thinking of it that way. But – no; she thought at most he had sped the realization up. She suspected she would have realized, one way or another, how impossible it was to hold the past in your hands. She might have done so at a time when it was much more difficult to slip away.

Chrysante did not much fancy the idea of strolling around the Rose alone; she thought perhaps she might like the city, sort of as she liked the Dives – but like the Dives, one did not wander around unfamiliar parts, and one certainly did not do so after dark and alone. It was back to her room, then, Chrysanthe thought. There was a lovely novel exchange, at least; she’d thought carefully about her collection, and left one of her paperbacks in favor of something from the shelves. All the same, she did not think she was in the mood to read something new tonight; there was something wonderful and comforting about rereading an old book, a familiarity like putting on one’s favorite suit; you knew just how it would fit in the ways which mattered.

Ms. Palmifer!

Ewing’s voice from behind her was a surprise. Chrysanthe did not glance back, but she slowed – perhaps – slightly – her pace. Ewing caught her a moment later; he must have been running, Chrysanthe realized, and walked beside her.

Chrysanthe raised her eyebrows lightly at his comment. Her lips pressed together. “That you thought so was, in fact, quite clear,” she said, neutrally; she glanced away. What she thought or didn’t think on the subject was none of his business; Chrysanthe had no intention of indulging his cattiness further.

What he asked instead surprised her. Chrysanthe slowed another half-step; she glanced over and down at him once more. He looked – he wasn’t quite smirking. There was something eager and sort of keen in his eyes, or at least she’d have called it that on anyone else. Chrysanthe waited, a moment, as if he’d laugh and toss the expression aside – burst out from within the mask, as it were, shouting: Haha! You only thought I was serious.

“Yes,” Chrysanthe said. She smiled; she hadn’t quite meant to. “Or, at least, it seems to have. I spent most of the morning taking measurements and doing some tests for clarity and durability. By all indications,” her voice warmed, “the same improvements in both which we had found in our experimentation are there.”

Chrysanthe paused a moment; her hands were in her pockets as well, from the cold. His ego did not need stroking, she told herself, not in the least. “The mechanical aspect has been quite satisfactory as well,” Chrysanthe said, as lightly as she could manage, as if she was not still smiling.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Evening
Outside the Kaleidoscope, King's Court

Well, he did earn that one. He perhaps should have been a little less obvious with his dislike for Ms. Palmifer's date, even though she deserved it and everything he said was both funny and true. Charlie had the distinct and uncomfortable impression that Ms. Palmifer would rather have discovered that her over-sculpted companion was unpleasant on her own. That was ridiculous--why waste her time when Charlie was there to assist with his keen insight and judge of character?

He was, actually, terribly, genuinely curious to hear how the addition to the Fourcault machine ended up working out. Only because he had stayed up all night and given himself a hideous crick in his neck working on it, of course. He would hate to hear all his efforts were for nothing, even though he'd been paid quite handsomely. He did, despite all appearances, take quite a bit of pride in his work. Or the results of the work, at least.

Ms. Palmifer smiled as she started to answer his question, and Charlie grinned. It wasn't quite the self-satisfied smirk that usually adorned his rather lovely face, but it was pleased nonetheless. He didn't think she'd get much credit for it; he was flippant, not naive. But he knew there was some satisfaction to having one's own ideas pan out the way one hoped they might. Ugh, which sounded disgustingly like he was pleased on her behalf. Dreadful.

Now his smile did tilt to smug. He removed his hands from his pockets and clasped them together over his heart, looking to the sky as he walked. "Ms. Palmifer! I am simply beside myself--that was very nearly a compliment." He grinned with all of his charmingly crooked teeth, and glanced up at her. Ms. Palmifer was still smiling and he felt the itch under his skin ease somewhat. He had been right, to be so magnanimous as to grace her with his continued attention. He thought for a moment and kept pace as she kept walking through the dark.

"If you are not as ill as you led Ms. Thoroughly Average Eyebrows to believe," Charlie started, his voice deeply casual, "I happen to know of a bar that might be a little more interesting than the Kaleidoscope. Although a bit less..." Charlie wave a hand, as if to encompass everything about it: atmosphere, price range, clientele. He hesitated and glanced over at her with a frown. "Not the Black Dove--that place is a hole. This one is to but a bit more, ah, how do you say--"

Well, how did one say it? "The sort of bar one went to, so as not to be alone, even just in the crowd"? This did not, in their situation, apply equally across the whole of the Rose. Especially the sorts of bars Charlie frequented, which were cheap, rowdy, and catered to a distinctly lower-race crowd. Which was the appeal for him, with no interest in brushing up against another conversational field or being on the receiving end of yet another polite caprise. He wasn't sure, suddenly, if Ms. Palmifer would be comfortable in such a place, and didn't want to find out the hard way. Still, he couldn't quite figure out how to say it, and shrugged his shoulders.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
Outside the Kaleidoscope, King's Court

Ewing smiled when she told him the device was working - actually, genuinely smiled. Chrysanthe blinked and it was gone, replaced by his usual sort of self-satisfied smirk. She rather felt as if she had imagined it.

Chrysanthe did not give him the satisfaction of responding once more; she was fully aware that it has been rather near a compliment, and she was back at the feeling that he did not need it in the least, and in fact that she might rather be doing harm by encouraging him so. Even the sturdiest of balloons could be filled out with hot air only so far before they burst. She comforted herself with the knowledge that she had not said anything untrue, not even slightly. And perhaps - perhaps - she thought ever so briefly of Ewing slumped over in the chair at the break table, filthy and grinning as the sun rose at their backs.

Chrsyanthe thought Adelaide had rather nice eyebrows, but she saw little point in arguing with Charlie, or in responding to (all of) his provocations. This was even more unexpected than him catching up at all had been - frankly, she had rather thought he would apologize - but not, she supposed, unwelcome. She didn’t really want to spend every night in the Rose reading; there were plenty of nights in Vienda for that.

Ewing trailed off without quite finishing his sentence; he looked somewhat uncertain, and shrugged rather than continue to produce actual words, looking once again thoroughly boyish. It was somewhere around then that Chrysanthe realized this was his form of an apology.

“Yes,” Chrysanthe said. “I think I know what you mean.”

She supposed she did, too, in the way he had meant it. She did not expect it to be that different from the Dives and the bars she knew there - not well, because one did always have to be careful in Vienda, but well enough to have been pleasantly surprised. She supposed it really wasn’t entirely Adelaide’s fault; the Chrysanthe of even tenth form had never touched a cigarette, never kissed a woman, and had certainly never been to a bar which had humans in it.

“I suppose I feel up to it,” Chrysanthe said, searching for a neutral tone once more. She suspected it was somewhat undone by the smile on her face; it was not a bright broad grin, nor a smirk, but just a small, pleased sort of smile.

She had not, entirely, been lying. The thought of staying in the Kaleidoscope - of searching between Adelaide and herself for something which was not there - had made her feel very tired indeed. That same tiredness had rather haunted her first few steps - all right, she could name it disappointment - but, rather to her surprise, she really did feel better now.

It was tempting - very tempting - to call him out on apologizing, but Chrysanthe had the oddest feeling that he was being genuine, and she simply could not find it in herself to likely spoil both of their moods. “Lead the way,” she added.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Evening
Outside the Kaleidoscope, King's Court

Ms. Palmifer didn't need to agree with his assessment of Ms. Thureau-Dangin; he knew he was correct. Naturally. He supposed he could allow that she had some appeal, otherwise his opinion of Ms. Palmifer would have to drop accordingly. Clearly the charm hadn't been in her personality.

She said she knew what he meant as they walked along, and he peered up at her again. Trying to see in the dark if he could figure out if she really did. Something told him that she wasn't lying or mistaken. Charlie relaxed. He hadn't quite thought far enough ahead to know what he would do if Ms. Palmifer had been uncomfortable with his suggestion. Leave her to it, he supposed. He could certainly say he tried, and that was more than most got from him. But she hadn't been, at least not in that way, so it didn't matter. Effort of thinking about it: saved.

Charlie turned to her more fully then, walking backwards as he looked at her. For all that her tone was decidedly neutral, he could still see her smiling. At last, whatever that ridiculous feeling had been subsided. It was not, absolutely not, that he had felt sorry for ruining her evening, or that he was glad to see her smiling now. He was just drunk, and the last bit of his last drink didn't quite agree with him.

"That's the spirit!" He laughed, and there was, for once, nothing mocking in it. Charlie stumbled, the effort of walking backwards colliding with his really very strong cocktails from the Kaleidoscope and a small rock in the path. That wasn't enough to dim his enthusiasm, but he did turn back around and started walking properly. He fell back into step with Ms. Palmifer.

Outside the spring air was crisp and clean. Charlie took a deep lungful of it, then went to fish his cigarettes out from his pocket again. He held them out to Chrysanthe again with a sly sort of smile; she had declared herself trying to quit, but she had taken more than one from him the other night. He was rather curious how committed she was to quitting. Also, he was in a good mood--because of his victory over Ms. Thureau-Dangin of the Deeply Average Eyebrows, of course--and was feeling rather generous.

Whether or not she took one, he would light his own and take a deep drag. "This way," he gestured with the cigarette. "You won't regret it, I promise. Say, did I tell you about my tattoo?"

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
The Wharf, King's Court

Chrysanthe glanced down at Ewing’s cigarettes. She had nothing in the way of hope that this one would taste any less vile than the two others he had offered her, and she doubted very much that they went well with the lingering taste of top shelf gin.

Nonetheless, Chrysanthe took one of the thin paper cigarettes from Charlie. "Thank you," she said, politely. She let him light his own cigarette first, then held out her hand for the matches, taking them and lighting her own cigarette while walking. She inhaled, managing once more not to cough – it was really awful stuff, but rather bracing.

It did not count, Chrysanthe decided, as failing to quit smoking until one purchased a pack of cigarettes. Surely borrowing one, or two, or even three, was not the same as actually purchasing then. It was a careful but deliberate distinction, and a very comfortable one and, Chrysanthe decided, entirely reasonable. Besides, it hadn’t been the most pleasant evening.

Chrysanthe thought likely the only reason her hair hadn’t reeked of it last time was that she’d had to wash it, anyway – scrub it, thoroughly, with the bottle of strong wet shampoo which she had brought to the Rose in the hopes of not having to use it. Long hair held the reek of cigarette smoke as well as cloth did; she’d developed a routine in Qrieth involving dry shampoo powder which had seemed to take the worst of it out, although she’d not had to use it in some time. It was one thing to smoke socially; it was another entirely to walk around with one’s hair reeking of tobacco at all times.

If only, Chrysanthe thought, idly, it was shorter. Surely it would be easier to get the scent out – easier to dry.

Chrysanthe followed the cherry-glow of Ewing’s cigarette. She thought – much like the cigarette itself – that there was every chance this would prove unpleasant, but also that it might be enjoyable in spite of the unpleasantness or, perhaps, almost because of it. It was much too metaphorical a thought; Chrysanthe resolved to read fewer novels, then dismissed the resolve rather immediately. It was hard to regard as a bad habit one which had sustained her for over a decade and a half.

They were on the wharf, now; Chrysanthe turned to look out over the water. It was busy, bustling, well-lit – phosphor lights spaced evenly on the sidewalk – with only the faintest dusting of sand at one’s feet and the crisp snap of the salt air to remind one this was not Vienda. A moa-driven carriage rattled past on even cobblestones; a man and woman, talking low and rough, passed rather close to the two galdori, and veered away at the brush of Chrysanthe’s field.

“Your tattoo?” Chrysanthe raised her eyebrows. She was sure he was trying to shock her; she refused to be shocked. “I don’t believe so. Let me guess,” she glanced sideways at Charlie, raising her eyebrows. “A set of gears,” Chrysanthe said, pulling the guess entirely out of thin air based on the little she knew about the man. She paused, tilting her head to the side, “somewhere scandalous. That second bit, I would say I am rather more sure of.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2730 - Evening
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

The cigarette he had offered Ms. Palmifer were the same vile things he'd had at the factory. He didn't much care for them, but they were cheap and they had nicotine in them and that was what mattered to him. When he was younger, he'd sort of thought he'd be the kind of adult to carefully select his tobacco and roll them himself. Ah, the ideas of ignorant children. He'd been wrong about a lot of things, when it came to his adult self.

To his absolute delight, she took one. Charlie was very tempted to point out that she wasn't very good at quitting, if this was anything to go by. The joke would have been both hilarious and cutting, but something stopped him. Somehow he didn't think Ms. Palmifer would appreciate it at this current moment, and perhaps would decide she didn't want to come out with him after all. To his great horror, he realized that he would be disappointed if she chose to go home after all. Like he wanted her company specifically--which was just absolutely too sentimental to bear thinking on.

He led the way rather cheerfully after she lit the cigarette, ending up on the wharf. Charlie was actually rather fond of the waterfront in general. He liked being able to see Mahogany Bay when he looked out, the way sand seemed to somehow get absolutely everywhere, the gulls, the boats--all that seaside picturesque drivel. Not that he would be caught dead saying anything so completely clock-stoppingly saccharine.

"My tattoo!" Ha! She was curious after all, as he knew she would be. He was a fascinating individual after all. He was only a little put out that Ms. Palmifer didn't seem scandalized in the least that he had one at all. He consoled himself with the fact that the story itself was entertaining. She made a guess as to what it was, and where; Charlie laughed.

"You are half right, Ms. Palmifer! But only half." He waggled his eyebrows at her just a little, to make it clear which half. Gears, he thought, was actually not a terrible idea, were he ever to get another. Charlie had no plans to do so, as having one is interesting but more becomes an interest. "I shall leave it to your admirable imagination where it is, but it is, in fact my name. A little over a year ago, you see, I was still very new to the city, and trying to get myself out and about--you know, get a real feel for the place."

As they kept walking, Charlie rather animatedly recounted a story full of debauched excess, drunkenness and depravity that culminated in having a young wick he had been hoping to become rather more intimately acquainted with permanently affix his own name to his backside. There were a few embellishments on the truth here and there, but they were all very entertaining. Truthfully, he remembered less of the night than it seemed like from the way he told the story. So all of it could have happened--he was merely filling in the gaps.

"...and now I never need to worry about forgetting it, no matter how guttered I get! Oh here we are." The telling of the story had taken them to the door of the establishment he had been leading them towards. The Ugly Duckling was, much like the name, a rather hideous building. Bits of it were falling off and never seemed to finish getting repairs, although there were tell-tale signs that someone had at least tried in patches. The outside was painted a cheerfully unattractive yellow, salt air fading it to an increasingly unpleasant shade. Noise spilled out onto the wharf even with the door closed. When it opened to spit out a pair of inebriated young women leaning on each other and whispering into each other's ears, the volume increased rather dramatically.

Charlie pushed into the bar, not bothering to hold the door for Ms. Palmifer. The inside was considerably more attractive than the outside, though no less raucous. It was full for a ten, hardly an open seat in the place. There was a band tonight, some absolutely dreadful ensemble singing what sounded like sea shanties they could only partially remember. A far cry from the elegant and upscale atmosphere of the Kaleidoscope, but it had kind of a warm-hearted feeling to the chaos.

The bartender looked up as they entered and Charlie pressed through the crowd to approach the bar. She was a sturdy woman in her middle age, dark hair turning to grey at the temples. If one were inclined to be generous, they could describe her face as handsome in a stern sort of way, but there was a vitality to her dark eyes that was magnetic. She was smiling when she saw Chrysanthe, albeit hesitant--the smile fell when she noticed Charlie with her.

"Mr. Ewing, ye best be here to pay that tab of yours, or y'ent stayin' long in my bar." He had been coming here for seven months, and just now noticed that the bartender's hair was even shorter than his own. Details.

"Now Alice," Charlie's voice was wounded as he took a seat at the bar, "what kind of ne'er-do-well do you take me for? That is no way to treat such a loyal customer." The bartender--Alice--snorted, but didn't shoo him away from his seat. "As it so happens, I have every intention of paying off my tab. But more importantly, I have a friend here who I thought just absolutely had to come while she's visiting from Vienda."

Charlie twisted in his seat, gesturing broadly to the bar at large. There was no small amount of pride in the gesture, like this was his bar and not merely a place he came to get riotously drunk. "Ms. Palmifer, welcome to The Ugly Duckling." He looked at her, expectant and eager.