[Closed] Fetch the Bolt Cutters

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Just After Dawn, 7 Bethas, 2720
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor

Something else, Ewing demanded, with all the force of her three years old nephew wanting another story or to look at a particularly exciting bug of some sort, and rather less charm. Chrsyanthe hoped for more in the way of emotional control, and she supposed he had that, at least, if one assumed his mix of sardonic remarks and self-adoration deliberate.

“Not a novel,” Chrysanthe repeated. She swept up the last of the cigarette ash into the dustpan, scooping it up to take to the bin. Her legs protested; her arms protested; her back protested. She was not even entirely sure whether she had muscles there, although she supposed she must have.

Her mind felt oddly blank. She wasn’t sure she could have summoned up another novel, even if he had requested one. The effort had been unexpectedly draining, not nearly as soothing and pleasant as it was to read a book. Her throat still hurt, Chrsyanthe thought irritably, and she had very little desire to keep performing for him like some sort of trained miraan.

She glanced up at Ewing, on the ladder, as grimy and greasy as she was, balancing himself and the tools at once as he reattached the last of the rollers. There was not even the sound of the morning shift entering, yet. Soon, Chrysanthe knew, they would begin to heat the furnace to prepare the pit; soon, glass would flow down the canal into it, molten hot; soon, the rollers would begin to turn, and thin sheets of it would be drawn up from the pit, cooling as they stretched upwards. Today, for the first time, her contraption would deliver sulfur dioxide to the surface of the glass as it cooled.

She owed Ewing her gratitude, Chrsyanthe knew, whatever she might think of him.

“Let’s see,” Chrsyanthe said. She didn’t think she had been silent for more than a few breaths; it was hard to keep track. “I want to cut my hair,” she said, after a moment; she couldn’t have said why. She didn’t think Ewing would care in the least; it was only noise he wanted, wasn’t it? She had never said it aloud before.

“I’ve grown it since I was eight years old,” Chrsyanthe leaned against the table, watching him on the ladder. “Two braids - all through Brunnhold, all since.” She glanced down at them; she took the end of one in a filthy hand. “It’s heavy,” Chrysanthe said with a sigh. ”I’ve a headache even now from the pulling weight of it.”

“I’d like to cut it short,” Chrysanthe said quietly. “Shoulder lengths or less - short enough that I should only have to run a brush through it a few times, that I can pull it back in a tail and be done. I’ve had it so long; I feel as if it would be to cut away a part of myself, but I - perhaps it is a part which I don’t need. Perhaps I only want to prove to myself I’m more than just my hair.”

Chrsyanthe let go of the hair; the braid swished down, softly, through the air. She felt as if in a dream; she almost wondered if she had imagined the words. “Shall I go on about haircuts? Or have I cured your desire for conversation?”

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 8, 2720 - Just After Dawn
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, ORH

Was it inconsiderate of him to have asked her to continue? She had sounded particularly hoarse, so, yes, probably it was. He'd asked anyway, and couldn't find much regret in him for having done so. She could very easily have refused, and he would have whinged about it slightly, and that would have mostly accomplished the goal anyway really. It wasn't as if he had any authority over what Ms. Palmifer did or did not do with the remaining time they were obligated to spend in each other's company. So, he reasoned, it was fine to ask no matter how inconsiderate it was.

Haircuts were not the topic he expected. If he'd had his pick, something a bit more salacious would probably have been preferable. Charlie was a fairly private man, but he did enjoy hearing about other people's problems. As long as those problems were interesting and he didn't know (or at least didn't like) anyone involved. There was a certain irony in his love of tales of other people's misfortunes. He was certainly not unaware. Man contains multitudes and so on. And yet, the question of his enjoyment of gossip was moot, because Ms. Palmifer had chosen to discuss her hair and the quantity thereof.

Weight of hair was not something he'd ever considered before. This was the longest his had ever been, of course, being as he was a man and it was not precisely the done thing for one to spend an entire lifetime growing out your hair if you fell into that category. He knew there was a great fuss made about it for women, although he didn't quite understand it. His sister's hair, he thought, was long--probably? Relatively so, surely. He tried to remember the last time he had seen it undone and couldn't; similarly he couldn't remember this about his own mother. That more or less was the full list of women with whom Charlie was intimately acquainted, and they rather set the standard for his scope of knowledge. Still, he knew in the way that one generally knows such things that a great deal of importance tended to be placed on it. It was simply that he didn't think Ms. Palmifer to be the sort of woman who cared about her hair in that way.

Charlie tightened the last bolt with an unfortunately ungainly sort of grunting noise. Were Charlie Ewing capable of shame, he might have felt it then. As it stood he was merely satisfied that the work was done, and he followed the grunt up with a joyful whoop. He raised his arms up; the weakness in his limbs and the weight of the wrench threatened to unbalance him and pitch him backwards. Charlie climbed back down the stool and turned to look at Ms. Palmifer, who asked him if she should go on about haircuts.

"Cured, completely and utterly. I may now retire to an isolated monastery and live out the rest of my days in quiet contemplation of the infinite." Sweat and grease mixed together as he grinned. He had promised he would do it by morning, and he had. And it was good work, too; quickly done, but he'd done it properly. Any complaints were simply incorrect, he felt.

"You should though, you know. Cut your hair I mean. It would suit you. Although perhaps only in the eyes of men like myself, which might do you very little good." Charlie shrugged. He wandered over to the break table and collapsed into a chair next to it. For such a short man, he managed to take up quite a bit of space when he sprawled out as he did now, all of his limbs off in different directions.

Alioe, every part of him ached tremendously. Immediately after this, he thought, he was going to go home, wash, and then drink until he passed into the sweet embrace of sleep. Maybe he would wake up for his next job, but likely not, and that was fine with him. The grin would not leave his face, no matter how much he scrubbed at it with a filthy hand. He didn't need to see it run to know it would work; he had put it together, after all.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Shortly Before Nine, 7 Bethas, 2720
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor

Ewing’s response was much as Chrysanthe had expected; she grinned as well, not in the least stung. It was the continuation which surprised her, and that he had evidently bothered to think it over. Chrysanthe shrugged as well, and did not quite look at him.

So, she thought, she had said it aloud. It had been the secret desire of her heart for some months now; during Yaris, she had very nearly snatched up scissors and done it herself, with how hot the weight of it was in the factory. She had put the thought aside, not wishing to yield the effort of so many years to a whim, and it had crept back, again and again. Once, she had nearly asked Amaryllis – what would you think if I cut my hair? – but it seemed an idle fantasy the moment after the words rose to her lips, and she had not said it, in the end.

Men like myself, Charlie said. Arrogant men with a propensity for thoughtless jokes? Men whose preferences lay with other men?

Chrysanthe set it aside. “Perhaps I will,” she said.

She went out back; she washed her hands off in the early-dawn light beneath the pump, scrubbing at them with water and soap. She washed her face, too, or at least as best as she could, the cold sting of the water unpleasant and bracing at all once. She came back in, stripping off the filthy apron and hanging it up against the wall. Her nails were still ragged and filthy, the grime she hadn’t been able to scrub off lingering; her cheeks were clean, at least, and pink with the cold.

Chrysanthe took a seat as well, next to Ewing. “There’s a pump out back, if you’d like,” she told him, tiredly. Her eyes fluttered shut, for just a moment, and opened again.

It would be not much longer until the doors of the factory opened once more. Chrysanthe rose, all of her protesting very vaguely. The morning shift workers were coming in, going about their business. Mr. Jeneway was there as well; he was a small man, perhaps an inch taller than Charlie and a good deal heavier, wearing a well-kept suit. He capised them both with a hot static field– stronger than Ewing’s, though not as strong as Chrysanthe’s ramscott. Not quite on his heels came a taller man with a worn, serious face above a thick beard, who was already tying on his apron.

“Good morning, Mr. Jeneway, Mr. Gage,” Chrysanthe said with a smile and a polite bow; she returned the caprise with a flicker of heat. “I’m quite pleased to report that the device is properly installed, and the machine may be used as normal for today’s operations. We owe a good deal of thanks to Mr. Ewing, a mechanic who Mr. Bolt found for me last night, who did rather exceptional work in getting it sorted.”

Chrysanthe named his fee without quite looking at Ewing, smiling still; it was twice what they generally paid for a night mechanic working the hours he had, which was already rather a comfortable fee. Mr. Jeneway’s eyes widened. Mr. Gage had already turned to the Fourcault machine, studying it with a heavyset frown.

“You may bill it to Vienda on my signature,” Chrysanthe went on; Jeneway’s face softened, his eyes darting back to Chrysanthe, though he was still frowning. She smiled. “Should Mr. Pargeter request any further explanation, please inform him that the expense was necessitated by the rather last minute nature of my trip here. I am sure he will understand.”

“Well,” Mr. Jeneway said, glancing at them, and then back up at the Fourcault machine. “If you’re quite certain, Ms. Palmifer.” He gestured to a middle-aged woman who had just come in, wearing a neat dress, her red hair pinned up in neat curls, and gave her quite instructions; the secretary went towards the office with Mr. Jeneway’s key, returning a few moments later with a heavy envelope.

“Quite,” Chrysanthe said, evenly. “I shall retire for the morning, but I look forward to seeing you and inspecting our progress in the afternoon.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 7, 2720 - Shortly Before 9:00
Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, ORH

Perhaps she would, and that was the end of that. Charlie snorted, but was too exhausted to think beyond that. He had offered his opinion idly, and she had brushed it off the same way. That was fine.

When she came back she looked distinctly less disgusting, if not completely clean. Pink-cheeked and exhausted. Charlie contemplated if he would, in fact, like. That sounded like an awful lot of getting up, and the water wasn't heated. He thought sourly of the current hour and temperature. He waved his hand lazily and shook his head. He could stand to be grubby a bit longer, if only to avoid cold water on a colder day.

They sat there, both of them quiet and tired, until the morning shift started to arrive. Charlie had one eye closed and the other opened, his cheek resting on his fist. A fat little man in an expensive suit came in first; Charlie couldn't bother himself to stand, though he felt like it was expected of him. He did, at least, politely return the caprise even if it made him grimace internally. While he hadn't the energy to stand, he did make some approximation of a bow as well from his seated position, and opened both of his eyes. That, surely, was enough to cover the unfortunate necessities of polite society.

The fee Ms. Palmifer named was deeply generous. More generous even than he would have though to ask for, although he would never admit to it. Not more than he was worth, of course, but enough that he could pay off a few of the tabs he owed. Assuming he didn't just add to them instead--there really were a lot of bars in the Rose. He could afford to be banned from some of them.

More than the fee, Charlie was pleased to hear her praise his work. He thought to give her credit for her assistance, but the thought slipped away from him before his tired mind could grasp it. Oh well. Maybe he would tell her he thought so if he saw her again. As unlikely as that was--she didn't seem like the type to turn up in any of the establishments Charlie frequented. They didn't precisely seem to run in the same social circles.

At last it seemed Charlie's cue to exit. He stood, every muscle in his back and arms seeming equally irritated with him. He accepted the envelope from the secretary, or what he assumed was the secretary, with rather more politeness than he had demonstrated thus far. He bowed to everyone present, and thought he would just leave. He stopped, and looked only at Chrysanthe.

"It was interesting working with you, Ms. Palmifer." His voice was polite enough; his expression was not. Charlie lifted his eyebrows again and grinned at her very briefly, before he turned and left. He was filthy and exhausted, but there was money in his pocket and a bath waiting for him at home.