[Closed] Go Press that Dissonance

[Ava Weaver]

Late Afternoon, 12 Dentis, 2719
Goretti's Boarding House, West-and-Long

Ava’s first step back on land was more of a stumble. She had managed the smooth plank from the steamship to the dock, well enough, one gloved hand tight on the high railing and the other tight around the handle of her small, fabric-clad case. The railing ended, and she stepped onto the dock, intending to look up and breathe in the familiar, fishy scent of the Rose –

And instead, the ground failed to rock beneath her, and Ava found she could not quite manage to stand straight; she pitched half to the side.

“Easy, miss,” The man who caught her had a warm, friendly smile on his face, to go with the broad brogue of his accent; his hand settled gently around her upper arm, and he helped her upright, and then let go immediately. “A bit of river-legs, is it?”

Ava’s cheeks pinked; it was not difficult, given that she did feel rather embarrassed. “I suppose so,” she said, smiling faintly at him. “Thank you, sir,” she took another uncertain step, looking down at the dock as if the boards might, unexpectedly, shift beneath her feet again.

“No trouble, miss,” The man touched his fingers to his cap, smiled, and went back to the off-loading of the luggage.

Ava made it a few more careful steps, out of the way. She settled herself still, although she was conscious of a strange feeling as if the world were still swaying around her. Both hands settled onto the handle of her case, and she held it in front of herself; the chill autumn breeze whisked at her skirts, and the long line of her cloak. Ava took a deep breath, looking around slowly. It was afternoon, but it was the sort of fall afternoon when the light was already beginning to slant, slowly, pale and crisp through the crates and bustling crowds.

It did, Ava thought, smell as she remembered. Nothing showed on her face; she wore a smooth, pleasant smile, which brightened when one of the steamship attendants gestured one of the men offloading luggage to her. He carried the heavy trunk over as if it weighed nothing, towering several inches above her. “This yours, miss?” He asked.

“Yes,” Ava said, smiling. “Thank you.”

Before long, Ava was sitting in the back of a small carriage, pulled by two kenser; the trunk was settled next to her. “West-and-Long, please,” Ava had said to the driver; she knew the street as well, and so had he. The carriage shuddered beneath her; there was the stamping of hooves, outside, and then they began to move. The curtain over coach's small window fluttered, softly, but held shut; a trickle of cool breeze drifted inside.

Ava sat back against the seat for a long moment; she ran a gloved hand over the soft, worn material of it, feeling a spring just beneath one hand. It had been a long journey, for only three days, though not as long as the week that had proceeded it in Vienda. She felt a taut, longing ache for the shop in the Painted Ladies – for the rows of fabric, and the counter, for the small, silken room in the back; for the place of privacy upstairs, which was hers and only hers, and where she could lay aside whatever she did not wish to wear. She understood that there was no such place here, not even for a moment; it had, Ava thought, been a long time. The last place she had been homesick for was the Rose, but those feelings had passed, long ago; she was not sure whether she could claim them, anymore. She was not sure whether she wanted to.

The driver was there at the door to help Ava from the carriage; she smiled at him, and accepted his hand down. He carried her trunk to the boarding house gate, and set it down, and she set an extra coin into his hand with a ready smile. “Would you wait a moment?” Ava asked. “I sent ahead, but I’m not sure if they received my letter.”

Ava turned, then; she still held the small fabric-covered case in her hand, the pattern one of roses blooming on a background of green. It was a crisp day, but she kept the hood of her warm cloak down against her back. The dress she wore beneath was a simple one, crisp brown cotton with a tan lining, a soft scoop neck and tan buttons to give it some texture across the bodice, and long sleeves beneath her gray cloak. The cloak itself was simple, well-cut, with a neat darn just on the inside of the lining; it was, rather carefully, visible when Ava turned this way or that. Her gloves, too, were just a little worn; one of the seams had been patched with a thread which was only a shade different in color from the rest.

Ava’s hair was set in ringlets, as it had been the entire voyage, still neatly curled despite the wind on the river; she wore only a trace of pale pink lip color, and a little trace too of black kohl around her eyes, just enough to set them off. She took a deep breath, and made her way forward towards the warm smell of bread drifting from the quiet house; she knocked, gently, on the door, and she waited, both hands folded over the handle of her case once more.

“Good afternoon,” Ava said, with a warm, friendly smile, as the door opened. “My name is Ava Weaver,” she paused, and let the faintest uncertainty drift into her eyes, her lips only just pressing together before smoothing out. Her accent was staunchly Viendan, delicate and careful. “I hope you might be expecting me?”

[Clark Cooke]

Goretti’s Boarding House, West-and-Long

late afternoon on the 12th of dentis, 2719

P
apa’s darnin’ his sock, love,” murmured Clark, intent on the misshapen scrap of wool in his lap.

The tug came at his trouser leg again, more insistent. Clark didn’t look up, at first. The whole room could’ve narrowed down to the sock stretched over the hollowed-out squash, the needle in his fingers, glinting in the warm oil light. It was bigger than the kind of needles Claudia used for her sewing, but it was still so small in his fingers, and the wool was so slippery. He wondered if he’d ever be good at it.

When she tugged at his hem again, he had to set the sock and the needle aside on the rickety end table. A pair of serious, dark brown eyes peered up at him from the floor. There was still a small chubby fist balled in the fabric of his trousers; the other was in her mouth.

The rest of the world swam in, slow but sure. It was toasty-warm, the kind of autumn-warm Clark knew to be grateful for. The kind where the air was thick with the smells of burning wood, but if you put the bare soles of your feet down on the hardwood, it’d be chilly. Sleepy-warm, though it wasn’t halfway to time to sleep yet.

A little dying light crept in through the panes of the small kitchen window – just enough to limn a halo of dark grey hair wisping round Claudia’s head as she moved about the kitchen, her skinny, bent frame full of motion, the bracelets on her wrists jangling. She was laughing; Clark could see the flash of her teeth from here, for just a moment, through the doorway. He could hear Teresa’s sharp, high laughter, too, somewhere out of sight.

The Goretti house never got much sun; the light inside was warm and low and wavering. As he turned back to Renata, still sitting wobbly at his feet, he could see it reflected in her eyes. Like river stones, they were, calm and intent. Clark thought it was funny, how wrinkled-up her forehead got.

He was still aching from his last shift; he hadn’t been home long. But it wasn’t nothing to bend over, grunting, and pick her up off the floor. The surprised rush of her breath when she came off the ground tickled him more every time. The giggle, too, as she came to rest on his knee, brief as it was.

Renata was quiet, listening, watching. Always listening, watching.

It’d been a hard week. Maybe that was ’cause it’d been a hard Yaris. Clark didn’t know; he thought he might’ve known what had Teresa so wrung out, but he didn’t much like to think about it.

He thought the strain would pass. He didn’t know. The smell of just-starting-to-bake bread was drifting round, out of the kitchen, and Renata was happy in his lap, and they had boarders for a while. Orso, for one; Teresa’d won that argument. Mr. Welkin, the funny little tsat as mostly kept to himself, which was fine with Clark.

And they had one coming, Clark knew, though he hadn’t read the letter himself – he couldn’t, not all the way; he was still abashed, and didn’t much like to think about it, ‘cause Teresa’s lessons weren’t coming along too well – a real fancy one, by the sounds of it. A lady-guest, traveling by herself. Some kind of cloth person, like Mr. Linetti in Cantile, only bennier. He couldn’t’ve said what was on Teresa’s face, when she read the letter, and it wasn’t his place to try and figure it out. But what with that fine script, and such words as highly recommended, he didn’t think she could be anything but pleased.

Clark just hoped she was all right, coming all the way from Vienda all by herself. Clark had never been to Vienda, but he’d been thinking about it, the past week. What such a place would be like.

He bounced Renata on his knee and got a giggle. He smiled, too, just a little, and this time, Renata kept smiling. Just a little.

“You should talk to her,” came Teresa’s voice, matter-of-fact. Clark hadn’t seen her come out of the kitchen, but he’d seen nothing but Renata for a while.

He looked up at her as she settled herself on the arm of the chair. Her cheeks were flushed, and there was a sheen of sweat at her forehead. She wasn’t looking at his face, so it was easier to look at hers. It was still hard to look in her eyes; it was easy to get lost in all the tiny details. But not a bad kind of lost, with Teresa.

She reached across him to brush the hair from Renata’s eyes, graceful. “So serious, passerotta,” she said, much more softly. There was a smile on her lips, but a line between her brows. “How’s my girl?”

She was a strongly-built woman, as stocky and plump as her mother was rail-thin, and tall, though she did not always seem so; then again, nobody seemed tall to Clark. Her hands were dusted with flour, and a few wisps of straight black hair had come out of the pile of braids on her head. There was a spot of something dark on her apron, and her hands were dusted with flour.

Renata watched her and continued sucking contemplatively at her hand. Clark waited for it – say mama for me? Ma, ma, ma? – but it didn’t come, this time.

When the knock came at the door, the three of them looked up. Teresa brushed her hand through Renata’s hair again, then got up and went to the door. Clark smiled at Renata again; Renata smiled back.

When Teresa answered the door, Clark could hear a woman’s voice on the other side. Soft, with an accent he had only heard a few times. Mr. Boudin-the-younger had an accent like it, though his father hadn’t. Ava Weaver, came the voice, sounding a little uncertain. Clark wasn’t sure why, but he felt a little twinge of discomfort.

“Miss Weaver!” Teresa said.

Renata made a tiny noise. He looked down to see her forehead even more wrinkled-up. She was pouting down at the floor, and the hand that had been in her mouth, still glistening, was pulling at the fabric of his trousers again. Sighing, Clark put her back down on the carpet, wincing at a tweaking pain in his shoulders.

Teresa sounded like she was smiling, but more than a little out of breath. “But of course – we received your letter. You flatter us with your praise,” she laughed. Clark looked up to see her curtsying, a stray thread on her apron just brushing the floor. “I am Teresa Cooke; it’s a pleasure to welcome you to the Goretti house.”

Just past her, Clark could see a woman, though he couldn’t see her face. Just the edge of a cloak, bobbing dark ringlets in the late afternoon light.

“You must be tired, Miss Weaver; come –”

“Teresa!” came Claudia’s voice, deep and rasping, from the kitchen.

Teresa half-turned, giving Clark a better view of the woman. He felt another tug of discomfort. “I’ll come in a moment, mama! I –”

Claudia shouted again, “Teresa!” this time more firmly.

Teresa’s eyes swept from the kitchen to Clark, sitting alone in his chair, with no toddler in his lap and no sock to darn and nothing to cook or bake. Her eyebrows rose halfway up her forehead. She turned back around, and Clark heard her saying, “Excuse me. Never a quiet moment. My husband will see to your things, and show you to your room.”

Clark stood up, clearing his throat into a big fist. Teresa was already halfway to the kitchen, and she shot one last sharp look at him before she rounded the corner. Clark thought he could smell something burnt, but he wasn’t sure.

Drawing his shoulders up a little, he moved to the doorway himself. “Miss Weaver,” he mumbled, clearing his throat again. The autumn breeze blew in, making him shiver underneath his old wool sweater. He managed to make eye contact with her once –

– large, dark eyes, full of reflections; thick eyelashes, too many to count, that blurred seamlessly into the little touch of dark paint on the upper lid – the way the eyebrows arced, he couldn’t tell; at first, all he’d thought was she was pretty and seemed shy, but now he looked, he couldn’t tell if she was angry, he could never tell –

“Ma’am,” he said a little louder, through the ringing in his ears. He found it easier to look down, past her plain dress, to the case she held in her gloved hands. He liked it, the case. He liked looking at the flowers. He liked the colors, too. “Clark Cooke,” he grunted, bowing stiffly, though there wasn’t a lot of room. “Can I get your things, ma’am?”

[Ava Weaver]

Late Afternoon, 12 Dentis, 2719
Goretti's Boarding House, West-and-Long

Ava curtsied, gently, back towards Mrs. Cooke. She was a pretty woman, even with her face still flushed red from the heat of the kitchen, and wisps of dark hair curling out of the coiled braids on her hair, but it was as much in the bright sharpness of her eyes and the eager smile on her face.

“It’s a pleasure to finally be here,” Ava said, easy and warm, relaxing into it. She smiled a little wider then, as if between friends. Nothing was less than perfectly straight in the line of her back, in her careful, elegant posture, but she let something just on the edge of tiredness creep into the lines of her shoulder, weighing them down. She felt it; she could not but feel it, after three days shipside, and the first day and a half spent a terribly unnatural shade of green.

“Of course, please,” Ava’s smile didn’t change; it was still warm and friendly as Teresa was called away. She did understand, and, too, she understood well the effect of her carriage, her accent and her dress; it was a careful balance, all of it together. She ached, already, just a little, with the strain; and then she set that aside, too, and settled more comfortably into herself.

Teresa’s husband was even taller than she had been, although his shoulders were tucked up, or perhaps his head was tucked down, as if it might make him a little smaller. He had thick hair pulled back behind his head, and the shadow of a beard on his face. Dark eyes met Ava’s for just a moment, and then looked down and away. Ava smiled through it, although she felt anxious – something she couldn’t quite name. She had an odd sudden sense of –

Clark, Ava heard. Then, slowly, trickling through her awareness, Clark Cooke. It prickled on the back of her neck, and tingled down her spine. Clark Cooke of the Rose.

Still livin’ with Meggie an’ Clark, Ava heard, clear in her mind, in a low, familiar voice broadened with the accent of the Rose, an’ we were on the second floor. The year of the flood, she had called it; the year of the hat, he had called it. Just one of them, Ava thought, that nicked a spot where you bleed. She thought of scars, of thick dark hair, of a man who’d thought himself the tallest in the Rose. Her eyes flicked for a moment to the recent-looking scar on Clark’s cheek, although she did not stare.

Surely, she thought – surely not a Brother. The Gorettis had come highly recommended; she had not told even the slightest of lies in her letter. Surely not, she thought, worried; not even in the Rose.

It was a common name, Ava told herself, and there were plenty of tall, dark-haired men in the Rose. These thoughts had gone through her in a moment, drained and emptied her out, but she knew that nothing had changed on her face, in the angle of her smile or the polite crinkling at the edges of her eyes.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Cooke,” Ava pushed it aside again, that strange prickle; she dipped in a second, elegant curtsy, the narrow skirts with their pointed hem moving with her, never wrinkling. “Thank you – I should appreciate that very much.”

Ava led him back to the trunk. She smiled at the carriage driver, and thanked him again, and held, polite, as Clark settled himself around the trunk and heaved it up to carry back inside. The kenser shifted on the street behind them; the carriage rolled away towards the sun setting over the horizon. Ava watched it for a moment, then looked back at the guest house. Careful, she half-wanted to say, as Clark began to lift; it’s heavy. She did not. Ava breathed in one last hint of the familiar, slanted golden light, and turned, her skirt whisking softly against her ankles. She followed Clark back towards the door, back towards the warm room inside with the rising scent of bread, and stepped carefully across the threshold, with a faint, just audible, sigh of relief.

[Clark Cooke]

Goretti’s Boarding House, West-and-Long

late afternoon on the 12th of dentis, 2719

I
t was an accident at work. He wanted to say so, but then he always wanted to say so. It was true, ’cause Clark Cooke wasn’t a liar. Big heavy crate. Back when he hurt his back, couple years ago, trying to pick it up by himself. Happened when they was short on men. Fell under it, caught the corner, just about broke his jaw. Caught it just right; split even, like the stroke of a knife. Better a deep cruel scar than a broken jaw. Easy to stitch. Just left a big old scar, was all.

And the other ones, he’d’ve sworn on his ma. Not a bad man. Got a little girl. Never raised a finger against nobody. That’s why he had them. Never fought back.

He reckoned Miss Weaver was politer than most. He wasn’t looking at her face – hadn’t, since he’d tried to the first time – but he didn’t think she’d looked at it much. She must’ve noticed it, though. Everybody noticed it. He didn’t have to see their faces to know they was looking. And Miss Weaver was so small next to him and so pretty-like, and sounded so – so Vienda. He wondered what kind of Rose ruffian she thought he was.

She curtsied for him. No reason to think that right off, he reminded himself. And she looked tired, now he wasn’t looking at her face, and he reckoned it was a ways to Vienda, and he felt bad. He kept looking at her case, because he liked the flowers very much.

He wondered if he might tell her how much he liked the flowers, but he wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. Most folks laughed at that sort of thing, coming from him.

He grunted when she thanked him; he wasn’t sure what to say. Behind him, he could hear Teresa burst into another cascade of laughter, and it was joined by Claudia’s deep, husky chortling, and it made some kind of warmth bloom in his chest. There was still the trace of a burnt smell in the air, burnt onions maybe, but he could smell everything else, too. The bread, getting stronger and stronger, and tomato, and garlic.

The Dentis chill still cut straight through his sweater, but it wasn’t so hard to follow Miss Weaver’s soft grey cloak into it. Not with all that warmth at his back. He couldn’t look at the driver, though he knew the man was looking at him.

The kenser, though, brought a little tiny smile to his lips, while Miss Weaver’s back was turned. Scuffing her cloven hoof – he knew it was a lady kenser – through the dirt of the road. Clark thought he might go over stroke one of her long ears, but he had to get Miss Weaver’s things, and he reckoned he didn’t ought to leave her waiting, not even to stroke a kenser’s ears.

Wasn’t so heavy, though he was all tired out. The kenser was whickering and then the carriage was rattling away, toward the main street, toward Cantile, as Clark got his arms round the trunk and shifted his weight to his legs and picked it up.

It was a relief, getting back to the warm sitting room. He minded his feet, but Renata was still sitting over by the chair he’d been in. He looked at her, but she wasn’t looking at him; she was looking behind him, wide-eyed.

He heard the door shut behind him against the autumn chill; he thought he heard something else, a little breath, but he couldn’t be sure. He paused, gathering himself, then made for the stairs, tucked away in the little corridor that led to the kitchen.

It was not easy, but he wouldn’t’ve broke Claudia’s mama’s porcelain for nothing. And he’d been doing it a while, carrying up the luggage. He’d been doing it since before he’d married Teresa; the man they’d had doing it then, he wasn’t good for much, and he hadn’t been doing it long. Hard to pay somebody outside the family. And he hadn’t been big as Clark, or strong. Or willing to mind the porcelain.

Still carrying the trunk, he led Miss Weaver up the narrow steep stairs, keeping his grip on it awkwardly as he hunched his shoulders to duck the low ceiling. “Watch your step, ma’am,” he rasped quietly, throwing a glance back.

Upstairs was another narrow hallway, with nothing but a few doors. Most were shut; one was open. Clark carried the trunk through it, into a small room with a made-up bed, a bureau, and a little table and chairs under a little window. Grunting, he set the trunk down carefully as he could just by the door, then rose. His back ached, but not too bad.

He knew he should’ve looked her in the eye by now, but he didn’t think he could manage it, today. He kept his eyes on the roses, on the small worn gloves round the handle. “This room’s yours,” he said, and he tried to raise his voice up a little, but it still sounded like a mumble to him. “My wife, she takes care of all the money, but she’s busy wi’ supper. I reckon the stew’ll be done in an hour. Welcome to come down an’ join us, or we can send some up, if you want to rest.”

He paused. That was a lot more words than he was used to saying. His eyes flicked up, just briefly, then back down.

“Good to meet you, Miss Weaver. I like them roses,” he added, even more quietly.

[Ava Weaver]

Late Afternoon, 12 Dentis, 2719
Goretti's Boarding House, West-and-Long

T
he house smelled warm, garlic and onion and tomato beneath the bread. Food had turned her stomach, the last few days, but Ava was pleased to find the ground had settled beneath her feet, and she felt something approaching hunger, just at the edge of it. It was pleasant, too, to think of settling down to a meal cooked and eaten at a table; it was not something Ava did, often. She had settled into the comfortable habit of eating a little thin soup or a bit of bread and cheese, sitting with the small gray cat curled at her feet or perhaps in her lap, before returning to her account books and orders for the night; she had settled into the ease of loneliness, and to her chagrin it was comfortable enough to stay.

Clark was carrying the trunk; to Ava, he managed it as if it weighed nothing at all. She wondered; she didn’t think him the type of man to sit at home helping with the boarding house. She imagined he worked, at one of the factories on the outskirts of the Rose, or on the docks, or any of the other places a man could barter his strength for bread.

The house was comfortable; it was old, and the furniture worn, and kept as neatly as Ava might have hoped. There was a small babe sitting on the floor by a chair; she stared at Ava with large, dark eyes, one fist tucked half into her mouth. Ava smiled; she half-wanted to stop, and she nearly did, holding just a moment, but Clark was carrying the trunk, and Ava did not wish to make him wait.

“Hello, little one,” Ava said, very softly; she knelt, just a moment, and smiled down at the little girl. And then she rose, evenly and gracefully, and waited at the foot of the stairs for Clark to finish climbing them; and then she went up them, slow and even, one at a time. She had watched, she thought, as he navigated carefully, past the bits of porcelain on old lace doilies, never so much as brushing them with the traces of his passage, and up the walls too, never bumping the edge of the luggage against them.

“Thank you,” Ava said, politely; she bent forward, delicately, obligingly, although the top of her head was not close to brushing the low ceiling. She followed him into the small room, and stepped out of her way, her hands still on the handle of her case. He was staring at her gloves, or perhaps the case, and Ava held them still, somewhat surprised.

The words tumbled out of him with an odd creak to them; Ava felt rust on the edges of them. She had meant to tell him she would be down for dinner; she had the words ready and waiting, when he kept speaking. She looked down at the case, surprised; she looked back up at him, then, and she smiled. A little something crumbled away at the edges of the smooth mask of her face; something crept out from beneath, and it was friendly, and almost sheepish. “Thank you,” Ava said. “I like them too.”

Clark closed the door behind him when he went, gentle and easy. Ava hung the cloak up by the door; she set the case down on the little table, her gloves beside it and herself down on the bed, slowly. It was comfortable and firm beneath her; she did not like to think about whether she would sleep, or what her dreams would be like. It had not been as bad as she feared, on the boat, after the first long, dreadful night.

Ava exhaled, and went to her trunk. She opened it, and took out the dresses which would need hanging; she had done her best to bring fabrics which would not wrinkle too badly, though of course a voyage on a riverboat was asking a good deal of any fabric. She set a wool dress out on the bed, already aware of the sharp chill drifting in through the window as the last of the sun sank out of sight. She would need to iron, Ava thought, either after dinner or early in the morning; steam would be best, of course. Just hanging in the wardrobe would do for some, and she unpacked what needed it carefully and diligently.

Ava went to the washroom, then; she splashed a bit of water on her face, and brushed wet fingers over the back of her neck. She did not quite bathe, but she freshened herself up, and by the time she went back to the little room, she felt quite restored. She changed out of the brown travel dress, then, hanging it up as well, and put on the wool instead; it was thick and warm, a rich russet red, tailored neatly to her waist. It had no adornment; it needed, Ava thought, no adornment. She freshened her make-up; she did not add to it, keeping only the subtle touch of darkness at her eyes, and the pale pink lip color, using a small mirror she had brought for her own purposes on the top of the bureau. The cosmetics and such things she had, she tucked carefully away into a drawer.

The sun had sunk out of sight by the time she finished; the autumn wind ruffled softly through the branches outside. Ava sat at the little table, and checked her reflection in the little mirror; she tucked a curl back over her shoulder. Then, crisply, she closed the mirror and set it aside; then, crisply, she rose and shook out the wool skirt, and made her way out of the room and back down the stairs. The smells were even stronger now, and Ava felt a tight ache in the center of her stomach.

The room was empty, still, quieter than she had expected; Ava wondered if perhaps she was early. Not empty, she realized, coming to the bottom of the steps; there was a small little figure sitting on the floor, and dark, luminous eyes watching her once more. Ava smiled, and swallowed an ache she had not felt in a long time.

“Hello,” Ava said. She went over; she crouched, her skirts wrinkling gently at the waist. She smiled; she did not go so far as to touch the little girl, nor quite so close as to make it easy, but she admired the soft dark hair on her head, the faint fuzzy down on her cheeks. The little girl did not come closer, but stared at her, wide-eyed and contemplative.

Ava settled her face into something serious, and stared back. “What do you think, then?” She asked, raising her eyebrows.

[Clark Cooke]

Goretti’s Boarding House, West-and-Long

late afternoon on the 12th of dentis, 2719

W
hat do you think, then?

Clark smiled – just a bit – from where he stood in the kitchen door.

He felt a funny fluttery tightening in his chest. He couldn’t not. Not with Miss Weaver kneeling down, so close to the little miss.

Miss Weaver had changed dresses, Clark saw. This one was plainer, and the color was nice in the lamplight – a deep dark brownish red, almost like the old sofa under the mantle. Renata’s dark eyes were looking over Miss Weaver, and Clark thought he could tell she liked that color.

Renata was usually shyer around guests. She always hid from Mr. Welkin, though he reckoned that was because of his field; they didn’t have many vroo boarders, and Renata wasn’t around a lot of them anyway. It’d taken her a long time to get comfortable with Uncle Orso, though, such that Clark could still remember how she’d hidden her face in his sweater whenever the old sailor had come in.

He still felt that funny fluttery tightening; he always did. But it was some kind of wonderful, too, to watch Renata sitting on the carpet by his chair, just watching her with those big calm eyes. If Renata’d seen him, she hadn’t spared him a glance; all of her was tilted toward Miss Weaver.

Clark knew that look better than he knew the backs of his own hands. Renata was turning over Miss Weaver’s question, behind her silence and her eyes, as the pause stretched out long between them. One chubby hand was holding her up against the floor; the other was in the shadows of her lap.

Slow and wobbly, Renata scooted a little closer to Miss Weaver, then half-crawled a step. Her hand was still hidden in her lap. Clark might’ve moved in, now, might’ve broken up the moment. He was thinking about it; everything in him was telling him to. But he found himself waiting, his breath all caught in his chest, quiet as a mouse. He found himself moving a little closer in the doorway to see over Miss Weaver’s shoulder, her bobbing dark curls.

The stew was almost done, giving off smells of tomato and fish and capers and other fine things Clark didn’t rightly know the names of. The bread’d just come out and sat radiant on the table, cooling in the way that bread must. Teresa’d lain down with a headache not long after Clark had come back down, and he’d replaced her in the kitchen, ’til the stew had started looking as it should and Claudia had gone up to wake Orso. Clark had only left Renata in the sitting room for a moment, to go and get the bread out; he was good at knowing when to do that.

Miss Weaver must’ve come down while he was still in there. He still didn’t half know what to think of her. He wasn’t sure why he’d said that, when he’d left her upstairs in her room. She had seemed surprised; he hadn’t looked at her face, but he heard it in her voice, and he thought she might’ve been laughing at him. He knew he oughtn’t’ve said that, not to such a lady, not when he was such a big brute.

There was something about the way she talked to Renata. He’d thought she might kneel and grab for the little miss, like the lady boarders always did. She didn’t. And the way she said it, like she knew – like Clark did – that Renata understood every word she said. What do you think, then? Clark smiled, though he felt a painful tug someplace deep; it reminded him of somebody else, too.

Renata was still looking at Miss Weaver, still sitting where she’d crawled a half foot closer. And slowly, her hand came out of her lap, and there was something in it.

She hesitated, staring at Miss Weaver – into her eyes, Clark thought, must’ve been – as if daring her to keep a promise, to keep a secret, to be worthy of what she was about to do. Her lips were still pursed serious-like. Clark’s breath was all still in his chest.

Then Renata extended her chubby arm. In her hand was a small, dry leaf, one as must’ve blown in from outdoors when Clark carried in the trunk. Maple, maybe, from the tree outside, because it had dried to a color just like Miss Weaver’s dress.

Silently, Renata reached to hand her the leaf. Both of her dark eyebrows rose up.

[Ava Weaver]

Evening, 12 Dentis, 2719
Goretti's Boarding House, West-and-Long

Ava knew something of patience. Some called it a virtue, but she knew better; it was a skill. She had cultivated it, carefully; she had spun it together from threads, and sewn it, carefully, until she could wear it at all hours, until it was as comfortable as her own skin. She knelt, and she waited, and she watched the little girl.

The little girl watched her too; the low light of the room glowed in her eyes. She did not smile; she did not frown, either, or cry. She only watched. Ava waited; she held, kneeling on the old, soft carpet. She did not move; she didn’t hold her breath, either. She was relaxed, in her posture, not anxious, but she didn’t take her gaze from the little girl’s either.

There was a shift, a small, chubby arm wobbled against the ground. The little girl came a little closer, and then a little closer again, and sat. Ava was close enough, now, to reach out and touch her, but she did not; she waited, still, and she watched too.

Slowly, a small chubby hand came out of her lap, little fingers curled around a precious treasure. She held Ava’s gaze a little while longer. Ava did not smile, or nod, but still she waited. The small chubby hand came forward; her arm was all creases, behind it, soft and plump and lovely.

“Thank you,” Ava said, very seriously. She reached out, and took the leaf, carefully, in fingers capped with dark-painted nails. She settled it against the russet red of her dress, and she smiled, looking back up at the little girl. It was a soft, warm smile; it was a smile she felt somewhere deep inside her chest. She did not know if she could have kept it from her face; she did not try.

It was Ava’s turn, now, to meet the little girl’s eyes; her gaze grew serious, too, and solemn. She knew better, she thought, then to give the little girl a gift. She could read the room well enough – the small, well-kept house, held together by love more than coin; the carpet with its thinning spots, cleaned so thoroughly that Ava doubted there was another leaf in all the house. It would be an insult to give the little one a pretty silk ribbon like this; even if Ava had had one, she would not have offered it.

Instead, Ava looked back down at the leaf, and she offered something else.

“I knew another little girl, once,” Ava said, looking back up at the baby before her. Her voice was low, and soothing, though not a sing-song; there was a gentle rhythm to it as she spoke, and she looked at the little girl as if it was only the two of them in all the world. “She lived in a home with a maple tree too,” Ava explained. “One day, a big storm came, and it blew down all the leaves.” Ava pursed her lips, and blew, softly, and waved the leaf back and forth, very gently. Carefully, she tucked it into her palm, closed her fingers over it and settled it out of sight.

“The little girl was very sad,” Ava said, and she made a sad face – not too sad, not true sadness, but a mask of it, just for a moment. “She went to the tree every day, and she asked the leaves to come back. She went through the rain, and the snow,” Ava shivered, hunching her shoulders up for a moment, as if to say how cold it was; her voice was hushed, and worried, as if the rain and snow were a terrible threat, “and one day, on the tree, she saw little green buds.” There was a faint, excited gasp in her voice, a widening of her eyes; Ava uncurled her fingers, gently, letting a hint of color peek through.

“And she went to the tree every day. She watched,” Ava said, softly, drawing the words out, her eyes widening further, “and she waited,” she uncurled her fingers a little more as she spoke, just a little, “and the leaves came back.” She smiled at the little girl, her fingers fully extended, revealing the dark red leaf on her palm. Gently, she extended her hand back to the little girl before her. “Just like that.” Ava smiled, then, wide and lovely; this one was not painted on top of her face, but written all through her; it began in her chest, and echoed in all the lines of her, and she felt it, deeper than she could name.

[Clark Cooke]

Goretti’s Boarding House, West-and-Long

late afternoon on the 12th of dentis, 2719

H
e had nearly moved into the room, then. Mostly, he thought he’d apologize. He wasn’t sure how Miss Weaver would take it, the leaf; he was about to apologize, ’cause he didn’t know it was good manners, or Vienda-manners leastways, to give a lady a dirty leaf, no matter how pretty it was. It was a pretty leaf, Clark thought, but he didn’t know Miss Weaver would think so. Clark didn’t think Teresa would want Renata playing with a dirty leaf, neither. Not knowing where it’d blew in from, and where it’d been, and all.

Miss Weaver took the leaf instead. Clark saw how her nails glistened from the oil lamp, how the paint looked almost dark as her hair in the low light. Miss Weaver was talking, then.

He knew it would’ve been rude to interrupt, now. And anyway, he didn’t want to; he didn’t think he could’ve, even if it’d been a good idea. Miss Weaver had a fine, soft voice, and Clark thought every word sounded thought-out, flowed seamless into the next, like it was words she was a weaver of.

It was less the words themselves and more the way she said them. The rise, the fall. Clark wouldn’t’ve known how to describe it; he wasn’t no good at any of that. But he could appreciate it, same as Renata, who watched Miss Weaver with every fiber of herself turned toward her, like a plant to the sunlight.

Clark was rapt, too. So vivid was it he had to shut his eyes, because he couldn’t look at the two things at once. He could picture, woven through those words, a little girl who lived in a home with a maple tree. He was picturing Renata; he couldn’t but. And he was picturing the two-story boarding house with its creaky wood, because he couldn’t but, because no place else had ever been a home, and Clark – without thinking so out loud; he didn’t need to think it – Clark knew that Miss Weaver wouldn’t’ve said home, if she meant house, and he knew to picture a home, not a house.

And the thought of a storm blowing it away, and the thought of a little girl who looked like Renata being sad, was just about more than Clark Cooke could bear. He opened his eyes and nearly moved into the room just then, so he could hold the little miss in his arms. But then Miss Weaver went on, and Clark had to push down a gasp at the thought of vivid green buds after the storm had blown over. Renata gasped, too, and her mouth made a little ‘o’.

Clark knew something of waiting for the first bloom after the worst storm you’d ever seen. He didn’t need words to know he knew that, either. There was a pain in his chest.

Finally, Miss Weaver’s elegant hand unfolded to give Renata back her leaf. It did not take long for Renata to accept the gift. A smile spread across her face, and she took the leaf with a very deliberate motion. Miss Weaver’s voice was very warm, in the way Clark thought must’ve meant she was smiling.

Renata’s eyes moved behind Miss Weaver, and she shined a little of that smile on him as she returned the leaf to her lap.

Clark smiled back at her, rightaway. It wasn’t a big smile; it was a little, shy smile, as were all his smiles, but enough of one that his cheek dimpled beside the scar. He was still smiling at Renata when Miss Weaver rose and turned to him, and it was a moment before he could look at anything but the little miss.

He looked down at Miss Weaver’s shoes. Her big dark eyes were on him, and he thought she was smiling – he could see it on her face, at the top edges of his sight – but he couldn’t think how to read it. His heart tightened, but not as much as it might’ve. He wasn’t sure, for the moment, he cared. “Thank you, madam,” he murmured, dipping in another little half-bow.

Sheepishly, he moved into the sitting room; he moved his big frame past Miss Weaver’s littler one, to Renata’s littlest. Renata was looking up at him, and she was still smiling. Careful-like, he knelt, and Renata reached up for him, one of her hands still occupied with the leaf. Clark gathered her underneath the arms and lifted her up into the air, and she giggled as she came to sit against his broad chest.

He turned back to Miss Weaver, and –

Hesitantly, he took a half-step closer, hunching his shoulders and his head a little. “We call her Renata, after my wife’s grandam,” he said, very softly, looking down somewhere around Miss Weaver’s painted nails and wool skirts.

Renata was turned toward Miss Weaver again, watching her with a soft, warm smile on her plump face. He swallowed tightly, then inched a little closer. “She’s a thinker, she is. But she don’t talk much, like her papa.” She don’t talk at all, he didn’t say. “She’s just about a year,” he murmured. “She’s seen the green buds an’ the bloom once, but plenty of storms.”

If Miss Weaver hadn’t moved away, Renata would reach out inquisitively for a dark curl.

“Sorry, madam,” mumbled Clark.

[Ava Weaver]

Evening, 12 Dentis, 2719
Goretti's Boarding House, West-and-Long

Ava hadn’t known Clark Cooke was there until she saw the little girl’s smiling face look past her, back towards the stairs and the door to the kitchen. Her chubby hand was holding the leaf tight, settling it back into her lap.

Ava glanced back over her shoulder, eyes widening slightly; she rose, smooth and even, careful not to jostle the little girl sitting next to her on the carpet. Clark Cooke didn’t look at her; for a moment, Ava wondered if he even saw her. His gaze – his whole world, she thought, slowly – shone on the little girl sitting on the ground, and there was a dimple at the edge of his smile. Mr. Cooke, she had thought to say, but the words seemed an interruption.

When he looked at her, it wasn’t at her face, but down, at her shoes. For a moment, Ava wondered, feeling a prickle of unease, that same worry all down the length of her spine – and he bowed, slightly, and thanked her.

“Oh,” Ava said, softly, because she knew she had to speak, and for once she couldn’t think of anything to say. She eased back, making space for him. No, she couldn’t say, it was nothing; it was not nothing, not to him, and not to her either. You’re welcome, she thought, wasn’t right; it had been a gift to Renata, the story, not to Clark. She couldn’t manage it, or perhaps it was only that she didn’t wish to. He scooped his daughter up, and she giggled, coming to rest against his broad chest, almost of a height with Ava now.

Ava held, very still, conscious, again, of waiting, of patience. Clark hunched his shoulders, his big hands cradling his little daughter, and brought her closer. His eyes were still lowered, downcast, but his voice was warm and soft.

Renata, Ava thought. She smiled at the little girl; Renata was still smiling at her, with all the strength in her little plump cheeks. Ava smiled at Clark, too, letting a faint tinge of embarrassment creep into it when he spoke of green buds and storms. It was just a story, she wanted to say; she couldn’t. Even if she could have, Ava knew better; to excuse it, to point it out, would only bring more attention to it. If it was only a story, there was no need to defend, to explain.

Renata’s little fist came out, reaching for a dark curl. Ava eased back, just a little, raising her eyebrows lightly at the girl’s sweet, round face; she shook her head, the long curls bouncing softly against her shoulders.

“She’s lovely,” Ava said, looking at Clark. And she’s loved, Ava thought, warm against the early fall chill. She could imagine Clark Cooke taking his daughter’s hand, when she was big enough to walk, and taking her out to the tree every day to check for leaves; promising her, in his quiet voice, or maybe without any words at all, that the leaves would come back.

Renata did not, Ava thought, talk much. She had giggled, when her father came, and smiled, but there was none of the babbling Ava might have expected in a babe of just about a year. She wondered at Clark claiming the babe’s quietness as his own; she wondered at the thoughtfulness in the little girl’s dark eyes, the intent listening – the way they had widened, and her mouth made a little o, at the dramatic climax of the story – the smile, at the end, mirror Ava’s. Whether she had understood the words or not, Ava thought, she understood the story.

Ava smiled at Renata again, a broad, beautiful smile, heartfelt, although she did not come close enough to let the little girl get a fistful of hair. The air smelled lovely, warm, like tomatoes and fish and just-baked bread. She’ll see more storms, Ava thought, aching behind the easy smile. All we can hope for is green buds, and blooms, and leaves at the end. But it was only a story; just a silly story, told by a woman to entertain a little girl.

“I imagine,” Ava said, quietly, knowing she overstepped with every word, “that she’ll have more to say when she’s ready.” She smiled again at Renata, and gently reached out her hand, an extended finger a less painful alternative to her hair. Still, she didn’t touch Renata; she held, a little distant, and let the girl come to her, again, if she would.

“Good to you meet you, Miss Renata,” Ava said, crisp and serious beneath her smile, still without a hint of the sort of sing-song voice so often used with children. She thought she should perhaps put it on; that she should reach to take the girl from her father, comfortable and competent, like so many woman would have. She did not; she could not. She let her role change, and let herself shift to fill it; it was close to the surface, Ava thought, thin-skinned, feeling her heart beating in her chest. But then, she did not see any other way; perhaps she never had.

[Clark Cooke]

Goretti’s Boarding House, West-and-Long

late afternoon on the 12th of dentis, 2719

L
ovely.” He wasn’t looking at Miss Weaver’s shoes anymore, though it’d been a while since the smile had gone from his face. His eyes were on Renata’s face, on her great dark eyes fixed on Miss Weaver, her plump arm outstretched, her small rose petal lips pressed together in solemn determination. “Lovely,” he repeated careful-like, sounding it out broad and slow, looovly, and the word bloomed in Renata, and he thought it was a fine word, and not one he thought of much.

Miss Weaver shifted back enough so Renata couldn’t get at her silky dark ringlets. Clark felt the little miss lean forward, so she could reach for them better; it would’ve sent her toppling over, if Clark hadn’t caught her and bounced her gentle-like and eased her back.

Clark felt abashed. He wasn’t sure where to put his eyes, so he kept them on the little miss. But he thought maybe he’d said too much, or the words had come out all mung, like they always did. For all Miss Weaver’s courtesy, he thought she must’ve been bearing with him. He had glanced at her face – just once – and he didn’t think she looked angry, but maybe there was something funny in her smile, like she was embarrassed at his thick tongue and crude manners. Or something like that – Clark didn’t rightly know, still didn’t rightly know. Never knew.

One hand rose, and one delicate finger came out, gentle-like. Like a – the word started with a C. Like a promise of meeting halfway.

It was one Renata seemed to like well enough. Her eyes’d fallen on the lovely dark lacquer on Miss Weaver’s fingernail, and she was rapt. She took the finger in her little hand, the one that wasn’t holding the leaf. The leaf she kept tucked close, between her and her papa’s chest.

Clark’s brow furrowed. When she was ready. It was fine of Miss Weaver to say so; Clark wasn’t sure she meant it. Most folks said such things. He was grateful, anyway, for the saying.

When she was ready; when she had something to say. Clark might’ve been mung, but his head wasn’t empty. It was just hard to get what was in it out, mostly. That didn’t mean he didn’t worry, mostly for Teresa’s sake. Wasn’t a road map for being a da, especially when you’d never had one. He’d had Marleigh, and he’d had a big brother, and neither of those had been worth much. Sometimes he did wonder why he was like he was; sometimes he wondered if Teresa would think…

Both of Renata’s dark brows came together. To the greeting, she shook Miss Weaver’s finger, like you’d shake a small hand.

“She’ll know, when she needs to say somethin’,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Miss Renata Margaret Cooke.”

“Clark,” came a voice from the stairs.

Clark looked up, in time to see Claudia ducking her head round the doorway to the kitchen and the hall. “Ah,” she breathed, a smile springing across her lined face, “you must be Ms. Weaver.” Her Estuan was much more Bastian than Teresa’s.

She was taller even than her daughter, but where Teresa was sturdily-built, she was all hard angles thin, wiry limbs, her thinning dark grey hair pulled back underneath a band. A russet shawl was draped round her shoulders; she wore a plain, dark-colored wool frock underneath it.

Clark watched the hems of her skirt whisper over the carpet as she spilled out into the sitting room, followed by a pair of sturdy, scuffed boots. Above them, he knew, was Teresa’s Uncle Orso and his magnificent beard. He was a round man, and his cheeks were always flushed – he liked to drink, Clark knew, and though he’d never had a problem with the man, he’d never liked him much, neither.

“Ah, madam,” came his reedy voice, accented, Clark reckoned, with all the places he’d been overseas. He swept down in a deep bow, the little tuft of greying hair on top of his head fluttering. “Orso Casimiro Goretti, at your service.”

He looked like he might’ve wanted to come closer, if Claudia wasn’t blocking his way. Even looking down at the carpet, Clark could tell her thin dark eyebrows were raised. “Forgive me; I could not welcome you earlier,” Claudia said, coming closer. She smiled briefly at Renata; Renata was glaring at Orso, and did not smile back. Orso yawned.

Claudia curtsied. “My attentions were needed in the kitchen. Clark –”

Renata was still glaring at Orso, and squirming. Careful-like, with a sheepish look at Miss Weaver, Clark bent to let her down.

“See if Tessa’s feelin’ up to it,” Clark mumbled, swallowing tightly. There were a lot of faces in the little room, suddenly. He fought down the awful tightening in his chest. Lot of folk to move past, too. He started past the womenfolk and Orso, then hesitated, then squeezed the rest of the way through.

Claudia smiled at Miss Weaver, dark eyes glittering. “Make yourself at home, please. Will you take some wine, my dear?”