Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor
She understood what it was he was about. Chrysanthe was not unfamiliar with bullies; she had faced her fair share of them in Brunnhold, who derived enjoyment from needling her, dipping her hair in ink or various other unpleasant substances, knocking her books down or tripping her. She had learned, in time, to deal with them, though it had not been easy.
This was rather a different situation in some ways – he was a mechanic, in her employ – but not in others. She was unpleasantly at his mercy; he would, Chrysanthe thought, be paid for his time whether he succeeded in his task or not. She was the one who had much staked on this; it had not escaped her that she might, yet, be fired, when she returned to Vienda.
What he wanted, Chrysanthe told herself, was her reaction. She had become perfectly good, in Gior, at ignoring the stares of the albino Giorans at any foreigner; they had not been in the least about her. Neither was this, Chrysanthe understood; he was a thoroughly unpleasant man, and that he was choosing to be repugnant in her direction reflected on her not in the least.
Chrysanthe took another sip of her tea, then set the cup down. She said nothing; she made no objections. That was even worse than the phrasing; that struck her all the more deeply.
Finally, Ewing lit a cigarette and began the work she had hired him for. Chrysanthe watched; she had little else to do. The rollers were large; where he needed it, she would come and – as offered – hold them for his adjustments. The first time she came close to him she flinched, though she very much had not wished to. It grew easier, in time.
The night wore on, steadily; there was more tea, some drunk while hot and some left to grow bitter and cold. There were what seemed rather an endless stream of cigarettes.
It was one of these which caught her attention. Ewing had paused in his adjustments, squinting in an ungraceful way down at the machine, to fetch out another cigarette and light it. The smoke was wretched – awful – and Chrysanthe’s nerves were beyond strained. She had not smoked in some months, but rather abruptly nothing could possibly have smelled as good as the tobacco.
“May I have a cigarette, please?” Chrysanthe asked. She extended a filthy hand to the mechanic, perhaps the closest she had come when not in urgent need; the grease was well onto the cuff of her jacket by now, though she could not bring herself to care. It would come out or else she would replace the cuffs – perhaps the entire arms – in the same color. The skirt, at least, was shielded by the apron.