Sea Breeze, the Waterfront
She felt, Niccolette thought bitterly, not in the least better.
The Bastian pressed her shaking hands to her eyes, then lifted them to pushed her hair back off of her face. She took a deep breath. No, she thought, no. She would not fall again. Going back to Vienda would not mean miring herself in the haze of misery which had swallowed up so many months of her life. She was not, yet, precisely sure how it would be different this time, but it would be; she would make it so.
Niccolette closed her eyes, standing with her fingers tangled in her hair, and she promised herself that. She would make it so.
The Bastian lowered her hands, slowly, and took a deep breath, and found the rhythm, steadily, in and out, that soothed the mona in the air around her; she reached deep into her field, and became one with it, and calm became a little easier to manage. Yes. She would make it so.
Niccolette ran her tongue over dry lips, the bitter tang of lip color making her grimace. She went back to her bedroom, and checked over her reflection, carefully - touched a fingertip to the black kohl lining her eyes, which had not yet smudged. She went to the bathroom, then, and washed off the pale pink she had chosen for the night. She went back to the mirror, patting her lips dry, and chose crimson instead, the brightest her skin could stand, and painted it on in smooth even strokes, gaze fixed firmly on herself in the mirror, and she did not look away until it was done.
Niccolette smoothed her hands over the deep russet red of her dress, exhaling carefully. She went to the closet, and took out one of the men’s coats hanging there - tailored, carefully - tucked in but not cut at the waist, never cut - the shoulders, still a little too wide for her frame - the sleeves, rolled up and sewn into place as well, just bulky enough to give her away, although she had never been able to bring herself to care. It was a dark golden color, one that she had always especially admired on Uzoji.
Niccolette pulled the jacket on, buttoned it over the front of her dress, and eased her thick, long hair up and over the collar, tossing her head lightly. Then, and only then, did she leave her house again.
The Bastian made her way through the streets of the Rose, long golden strands of sunlight casting deep shadows from the west. She walked, as she always did, as if the Rose was hers and hers alone; she hardly seemed to look around her, but she never had any trouble finding a path. Her field was sharp and bright to its fullest extent, and more than one human or wick flinched out of her way. If she noticed, it was without anything resembling acknowledgement. If she noticed, either, the man down the street in Quarter Fords, or the two who traded off, carefully, following her through the Rose, she did not acknowledge them either.
Niccolette went steadily through West-and-Long, down to the wharf, and walked along the edges of the piers as the lamplight flickered on, black waves crashing against slime and barnacle-crusted wood. She made her way down to where it ended, to where the waterfront met Castle Hill once more, and she stopped there; she could not have said, consciously, how she chose, but she did.
Niccolette leaned against the bar, and waited, elbows tucked back against herself. She said nothing, but her brows raised, and the barkeep came over. She ordered a Hullwen, neat, and took it with her to a table in the corner, sat, and was halfway through her first sip when they made their approach.
Niccolette set the glass down on the table, and looked up, coolly, her eyes sweeping over the now-three men. She did not hesitate; she was already casting as the first took out his knife, her eyes glittering dark in the bar. He lunged at her, but the crack that echoed through the room came from him – and his thigh bulged, outwards, sharp white bone sticking out through the leg, blood welling up to soak his pant leg. He dropped, screaming loudly enough to cut through the room, bone-chilling screams that seemed to soak into the very walls.
His two friends froze.
“You made a very poor choice of night,” Niccolette said, and took another sip of her whiskey, glancing between them. She grinned, and flexed her field, pulsing it to the fullest extent of its range, the sharp, bright force of living energy surging through the bar.