Outside the Jail, Uptown, Vienda
Arion took his time, and Niccolette, slowly, crossed her arms over her chest, shifting her weight from side to side. She raised an eyebrow at him again, not that he noticed that either. Finally – finally, he began to stride off, with barely a word to her. Niccolette held for a few moments, expectant, but when he refused to yield she gritted her jaw and followed.
The walk was not long, but Niccolette’s head was pounding, and the shoes that had been comfortable last night seemed unexpectedly difficult to manage. She had held her composure together for the time to took to leave the jail cell, but Arion seemed intent on moving quickly, as if he was not aware of the height difference between them. Niccolette did not rush, not on his behalf; she walked at the pace that was comfortable for her, and if that meant he needed to stop more than once for her to catch up – well, let him.
They stopped at a tailor’s establishment, and Niccolette frowned. What, did he think she could simply order new clothing? Did he expect her to – what – hose off in the backyard like a human? Arion took out a key and opened the door. Niccolette followed him inside, followed him to the stairway, and held there at the bottom, waiting for a few moments. It had occurred to her that this was, perhaps, not a tailor’s shop and – instead – that Arion had taken her to his home, which happened to be located above a tailor’s shop.
Niccolette held at the bottom of the stairs, and considered her options. She could go back out onto the street in her filthy pink dress. She had some money; she could pay a taxi driver to take her somewhere. Francoise’s home, perhaps – a cheap hotel, even in the Dives, where she as unlikely to be recognized. There were certain risks to either, socially; Francoise would be discrete, but Niccolette did not yet have the measure of her new husband, and she did not wish to trust herself to him. A cheap hotel would be uncomfortable, and to ask Francoise to bring her something there was a risk as well. Certainly, she could not go back to the Belleverie.
Fine, Niccolette thought. What was the worst that could happen? She would be believed to be having an affair with this prim, superior lawyer? Well, she had not had the best reputation for her choices at Brunnhold; perhaps it would not be such a surprise to her friends after all to learn that she had equally poor choice in her affairs. Grinning with actual amusement, Niccolette followed Arion up the stairs, into the apartment, through the waiting room, and into the plus lapis lazuli room. This one, at least, she approved of, and she looked around, nodding faintly.
Arion went to the desk and picked up a letter opener. Niccolette watched him, arms crossing over her chest again. She ran through a few spells in her mind, thinking. If he came at her with it, meaning her harm – severing the tendon in his thumb would be an easy enough spell. That would force him to drop it. There was always a pain spell for quick incapacitation, but it could be risky; he might spasm and cut her, if he was too close when she cast. Novices always thought of spells for paralysis, and – well. Perhaps those worked well on the dueling field, but they simply took too long to cast in a true fight.
Severing the tendon, Niccolette decided. And then, when he had dropped the letter opener, perhaps something a little more painful.
Instead, Arion walked away to the far wall, dropped to a knee, and used the letter opener to take the doorknob off the door, leaving only the one on the inside. Niccolette watched him, silent, and stayed still and straight as he – presented her with the doorknob. Niccolette looked down at it, and did not reach to take it. Arion shifted, almost hesitant for the first time, and explained.
Niccolette nodded, slowly, once, and took the doorknob from Arion’s hand. She did not touch him, nor did she thank him. She nodded again at his proposed plan of action. “Very well,” Niccolette said, coolly. She took a deep breath. “If you have the facilities,” something in her voice suggested she doubted he did, made it sound like a challenge, “I will take a cup of tea.”
Niccolette swept past him, as elegantly as she could in the smeared pink dress, and shut the door to the bathroom firmly. Inside, she did not hesitate; she crossed to the bath, turning on the taps, checking the temperature of the water with a dirty hand until it felt right. She went to Arion’s cupboards next, ruthlessly pillaging them until she found a proper comb. If soap wasn’t out and easily available, Niccolette would look for that as well, displaying absolutely no respect for anyone else’s privacy. Last, if he had it, she would take his shampoo.
Last, Niccolette took a straight razor from Arion’s things.
Once the tub was reasonably filled and Niccolette had everything she needed, she went to the center of the room and stripped off the filthy outermost layer of the dress, and the first layer beneath. Below that was a corset, delicately tied in the back by the Belleverie’s maid the night before, over the rest of her underthings. Before she could finish, however, Arion knocked on the door, announcing the tea. Finally, Niccolette thought.
Niccolette opened the door, raising an eyebrow. She wore her corset still, petticoats and shift. Somehow despite the full dress of the night before, her arms and neck were still faintly grimy. His mirror sat propped at a new angle, his straight razor in front of it. “You may go,” Niccolette said, taking the tea if he hesitated, and shutting the door in his face promptly.
Niccolette set the tea down, and angled herself with her back to Arion’s mirror, glancing back at her reflection over her shoulder. She grimaced, faintly, then cut the laces of the corset with a single, unhesitating stroke of the razor, letting it tumble to the ground with a thud. Last she stripped off the layers still remaining beneath, leaving them in a filthy heap. Somehow, despite all that clothing, every inch of her skin seemed to feel grimy. She would burn this clothing later, Niccolette decided. Even the underthings.
By now the tub had run enough. Niccolette turned the water off, and climbed in, the scalding heat blissful against her skin. She picked up Arion’s soap, rinsed it off once, and began, diligently, to scrub the filth of the jail cell from her skin.
Arion called from outside the room to ask if she needed anything else.
“No,” Niccolette called back, and went back to scrubbing, soaping her arms and legs, her torso, every inch of herself with a wet washcloth, working it against her skin until the pale flesh glowed red from the friction. Her hair next; shampoo or soap, whatever she had found. Niccolette rinsed, and rinsed, and rinsed again, dragging the comb through it with brutal efficiency.
At last – long last – Niccolette began to feel clean. The tub was filthy, the water too, and she rose from it, standing, and let it drain to nothing around her feet, still working on her hair, teasing out the last of the knots. She let the last of the water drain, then ran the taps again, filling the tub a second time. The first had been for cleaning; the second, Niccolette decided, was for enjoyment. She settled back into the second tub full of hot water, eased her now-much-soothed head back against the rim of the tub, and sighed contentedly.
“Why so many bathrobes?” She called to Arion through the door, more than a little amusement tinging her voice. The tea was lukewarm now, but Niccolette picked the cup up anyway, taking a long, contented sip.