[Closed] With Fresh Eyes

[Clark Cooke]

A Market at the Edge of the Waterfront

late morning of the 19th of loshis, 2720

C
lark was no great judge of such things, so he might have been mistaken. But he thought Miss Palmifer looked right pleased, which was strange enough to him. He wasn’t sure why such a golly would like to take a picture of the little miss, much less insist so that the taking of the picture was itself payment. Though, he thought with a rare flash of indignation, anybody ought to want to take a picture of the little miss, because she was the brightest and loveliest thing in the whole of the Harbor.

He watched her for a few moments, clicking the button with her little thumb, the fresh bay wind ruffling her curls out of all those fine little braids Tess had put them in so painstakingly. He liked that noise, click click click.

He supposed it made sense, with this being a newfangled sort of thing, and with Miss Palmifer being so young. He didn’t often think of gollykind in those terms; he felt like all of them, with their fancy school full of magic, were apart – wizened by all that strange learning, even the ones as looked so fresh and young. It was certainly strange, crouching here in the midst of her woobley, having her seem so pleased to show the little miss all about her camera spectra and even snap a picture of her. It was a smooth, calm sort of woobley too, one you almost might’ve got used to, if it hadn’t been so funny and ticklish-alive against your skin, like the air full of things you couldn’t see.

Clark watched her drift away from the button, disinterested. He missed the rhythmic click of it immediately. She was playing with the seam of that compartment again, trying to pull it loose, and he felt another wave of antsy prickles, thinking what might happen if she broke it by accident; he was ready, still, for the worst.

He looked up at Miss Palmifer’s face as she began to explain to Renata – Renata, she had called her, using her name – not too long, just long enough to see the crinkles of a warm smile around those eyes that had seemed so cold. Miss Palmifer didn’t talk to the little miss like some ladies did; she was explaining it matter-of-fact, like she understood, which was the right way to talk to the little miss, he figured.

He felt another prickle at the thought of her bringing her golly self round the Goretti house, especially with whatever business…

Well. They were good, upstanding people, his folk, all of them that were alive now. He wouldn’t have married Tess if they hadn’t been. If there was any reason a golly oughtn’t come round, Clark hadn’t been told, and what Clark hadn’t been told, he couldn’t do much about.

Miss Palmifer looked at him, and he looked down and away sharp. Down to the camera spectra, which had small smeary prints of little fingers on the case now.

But his eyes softened on Renata, as they always did. Renata had been looking at Miss Palmifer, wide-eyed; now she was looking at him. “Like nonno,” he said, shifting on his haunches, twisting his hat in his hand. “You never met nonno, but you see him every day above the fireplace.”

Renata watched, and he looked into those big dark eyes. He felt sure she understood. “It’ll be like the one of nonno,” he went on, “but of you. Mama an’ me would be real happy to have one, but you got to stand real still. You’re good at that, ain’t you? Like papa.”

Renata looked back down at the camera her fingers were still on, intent. Then, reluctantly, she let go, and of Miss Palmifer’s skirt too. Then, to his surprise, she wobbled over to him and took hold of his coat sleeve.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Palmifer wants to take a picture of you, Renata.” he explained after a moment. “Not papa.” But Renata stood insistently by, her little fingers bunched in the sleeve of his coat. She looked at Miss Palmifer, and Clark would have sworn her dark eyebrows rose a little.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Late Morning, 19 Loshis, 2720
A Market at the Edge of the Waterfront

Little Renata had watched her very solemnly as Chrysanthe explained, all dark eyes and curls, very darling in her red coat. Chrysanthe was still learning what colors looked like shaped through the gray scale of the spectrograph, but she thought the contrast of the bright red wool would work nicely.

The taking of the spec was, of course, contingent on the girl understanding her well enough to do what was necessary. It was quite hard to tell the extent to which someone who could not speak understood - well, Chrysanthe thought, that wasn’t wholly fair. They’d had a man in the factory who’d never said a word - something wrong with his tongue, the foreman had said once - and yet he had been quite diligent about nodding and hand signals, and not a bad worker, as it went. One understood whether he understood; and besides, sometimes no one could easily be heard over the roar of the machines. The drawing component of the Foucault process could be quite loud, standing close by, and had a tendency to create odd, unfortunate echoes through the factory.

Renata did not nod. When Chrysanthe mentioned her father, Renata looked other with her, though Chrysanthe couldn’t have said whether it was understanding or mimicry. Still, she had thought she’d seen understanding on the girl’s face, at least, perhaps.

Clark addressed Renata much as she had. Chrysanthe had found actually that rather an adult sort of voice worked well with Phileander; she didn’t think he much cared for the sort of baby talk he still sometimes got, even at three years of age. Naturally when he had been an infant it had been somewhat different, though Chrysanthe had never found that the high pitched sort of cooing had come naturally to her.

It wasn’t that Phileander thought the same way she, Amaryllis or Horace did - he had all sorts of funny gaps in his knowledge, or odd leaps of logic which were strange and yet sensible, if one looked at them the right way. But all the same, Chrysanthe felt nothing was gained by treating him as stupider than he was. The same, she thought, applied to humans as well.

Clark was explaining it all to his daughter quite sensibly, Chrysanthe felt, even if there was a frown on his scarred face. Renata let go of the camera spectra, at least, though she went straight to her father afterwards.

Chrysanthe would have taken it for a lack of understanding, but for something on the girl’s face when she looked back, but for her father’s attitude towards it. Yes, she thought, a moment later: Renata could communicate, even if she didn’t speak. More curious by far, Chrysanthe thought, and rather more impressive than the other way around.

“I should be glad to take the spec of the two of you together,” Chrysanthe said warmly; in fact, she thought she almost preferred it, at least for the contrast between them. She rose, adjusting her skirt, a trace of wind ruffling at her hair, smelling more than a little of salt water and harbor fish. She took a soft cloth from her bag and cleaning the lens in particular, more worried about the oils on the glass than smudges on the metal of wood. She took a few steps back, gauging the distance she would need to capture the both of them, though not so far they would not be the heart of the shot.

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr.. Clark,” Chrysanthe said in time, smiling at the two of them.

[Clark Cooke]

A Market at the Edge of the Waterfront

late morning of the 19th of loshis, 2720

C
lark grunted, inclining his head. Miss Palmifer was still smiling, and there was still that warmness in her neat voice. She rose up neatly too, even though Clark still hadn’t puzzled why she wasn’t more insistent the little miss get her picture taken alone. The little miss, even with her braids all mussed and one of her yellow ribbons askew, was a lovely sight, and Clark thought it was a right nice thing of the lass to do for him and Tess.

But trying to imagine himself in the spec made him draw his shoulders up even higher. He stared at a knot in the wood underfoot, and a crack and a scattering of sawdust. Renata was still looking up at Miss Palmifer even as she backed away, he supposed trying to get a better view of the both of them. In the corner of his eye he saw the wind tugging at the pale wisps of her hair underneath her hat, and a smile still on her lips.

Tess had at least made him get himself a new coat to go with the little miss’. There wasn’t any patches in the elbows anymore, or thin places in the hems. It was a fine thick grey thing which would serve him very well in the months to come. They weren’t well off, the Cookes and the Gorettis, but Tess said he looked smart in it, looked well-lit and smart, like the kind of man with a steady job and a family. It had seemed to him a waste of a thing to spend money on, when the little miss would need more in the years to come. He had argued he already had a steady job and a family, and no fine new coat or shoeshine would make him look any less like…

His brow furrowed. That hadn’t been a good night. Clark didn’t usually say things like that. He supposed he was grateful for the coat now, and he supposed Tess would be grateful for him in the spec. Renata tugged his sleeve again, insistent.

He was looking at Miss Palmifer’s shoes, and at her fine brown skirt. She was cleaning the part she had showed to Renata, which he supposed the little miss had smudged up. There was a small crease in her skirt even after she smoothed it.

Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Clark, said Miss Palmifer neat-like. That wasn’t like Miss Linetti or Miss Anderson would’ve called him. He wished he hadn’t noticed it; he wasn’t sure when he’d started noticing things like that.

He was as ready as he would ever be. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, darting a glance up before it went back down to the boards. She did have the camera ready; it wouldn’t do to keep her waiting, after she had been so good with the little miss. Renata was looking at him now, and was tugging again at his sleeve.

He managed a small smile – not for long, because he did not think a smile would look much better on his face than a frown. But he couldn’t help it when he got to his feet. He grunted, which made Renata giggle, and hauled both of them up at once. Renata was getting heavy, but his trade was heavier things, and the little miss sure did like it when papa hefted her up in his arms. And Renata didn’t laugh too often, and he liked the sound very much. He liked it even better than the sound of his knife whittling wood, or the sound of Tess sleeping.

So he stood very still with Renata in his arms. Renata had clicked the button an awful lot and nothing had happened. He knew it was magical, whatever it was the camera spectra did; he knew she would have to speak that language of theirs, and where she stood he could still feel the edges of that woobley against his skin. He didn’t know what sort of Impression that was for Renata, but he supposed it was a new one.

Renata wouldn’t stop squirming. He frowned, shaking his head, ‘til he realized she was putting her hands on his face. She was biting her lip, staring intently at him, trying to put a smile on his face.

He inclined his head at Miss Palmifer again, apologetic. He cleared his throat and smiled, because it didn’t take much more than looking at the little miss. That seemed to placate her; she wiggled comfortably against him and settled, beaming at the camera spectra.

He looked at it, too. He wasn’t sure if he ought to look at Miss Palmifer, but looking at the camera spectra seemed right enough.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Late Morning, 19 Loshis, 2720
A Market at the Edge of the Waterfront

Clark had stood, with a low, deep sort of grunt, his little daughter balanced against him. Her coat was a light, bright splash of color against his own. For a moment, looking at them – despite the solemn set of his face, the scar along his cheek, and the frown shading his brow, and little Renata’s bright giggle and wide eyes, Chrysanthe felt as if she could see an echo of the man’s face in his daughter’s.

Naturally, Chrysanthe thought; that was the nature of inheritance.

There had been spectragrams of her parents, and portraits as well – their wedding portrait, for they had been married in a time before the camera spectra. Chrysanthe had a distinct memory of looking at it, though she couldn’t have said much in the way of details, but that they’d been dressed formally and had been looking straight forward, rather than at once another. That had always stuck with her; she remembered thinking as a little girl that it wasn’t terribly romantic.

There were no spectragrams or photographs now, of course; they had burned, along with all the rest. Neither she nor Chrysanthe had had one, and such things had been too dear then to have been given out. So far as Chrysanthe knew, no images of her parents remained, not anywhere, and even if she’d had skill in drawing, she wouldn’t have trusted herself to draw them, for all she had been fourteen when they died.

If there had been any photograph or spectragraph remaining, Chrysanthe thought, she might not have known about it, but Amaryllis would have; more so, Chrysanthe was sure that her sister, or at least her sister’s husband, would have made every conceivable effort to track it down. She could, Chrysanthe thought, looking at it, have asked.

The trouble was that – naturally – she remembered the spectragraph and paintings, and her parents’ actual faces, through the lens of herself at fourteen, and she had not wanted then to see any of herself in them. It was anger, she knew now, though she hadn’t known then – especially right before they died, though more on Amaryllis’s behalf than her own. It was not so much that she wanted to see herself reflected now – she could see herself in Amaryllis’s face perfectly well – as that she wondered if she would see, if she could look.

Clark was shifting with his little daughter, and Renata’s hands were on his cheek, tugging at them. He smiled at her, and she smiled too, and Chrysanthe, standing some distance away, smiled herself. She adjusted the camera spectra, moving two steps to the left, so what was behind Clark and Renata was the wharf, distant bobbing ships and closer by the water, with a few pier posts just visible behind them. All of the center of the frame was Clark, of course, with his daughter a spot of color and a vivid smile at his side.

“Please don’t move until I tell you,” Chrysanthe said, smiling, polite but firm.

She began to cast, chanting steadily in monite; she felt the warm flex of her field around her, shifting. It was a moment, but the spell took hold, and light particles flashed between them as Chrysanthe pressed the camera’s button.

“Good, very good,” Chrysanthe lowered the camera spectra, and smiled. “Shall we take another? It's best to have more than one,” She added. If Clark were willing, Chrysanthe thought, she would be glad to take another attempt or two. It was not only the exposure – or over-exposure of the film – which was of concern, but also the processing of it; that was a wholly secular process. Chrysanthe’s education in chemical processes stood her well, naturally, when it came to film development, but there was still plenty of room for mistakes and errors both. If she meant to deliver a high quality picture, it was best to take more than one.

[Clark Cooke]

A Market at the Edge of the Waterfront

late morning of the 19th of loshis, 2720

C
lark knew he and the little miss both were good at not moving. Most of the time, Renata had no trouble sitting still. She had worried Tess and Claudia – and Clark, for a while, remembering how he’d had the falling sickness as a lad; he told Tess once the things he had been afraid of passing on. She had since surprised and delighted Orso and whatever of Claudia’s family came to visit with her quietness. Orso’d said once you wouldn’t know she hadn’t run away sometimes, which seemed ridiculous to Clark; if Renata was in the room and you weren’t paying attention, that was your own loss.

Another boarder, once, had made a comment about what they might have done to her to get her to be so quiet, and Clark supposed if he had been more like – someone else – it would not have ended well. As it was, Clark knew in each and every bone that Renata was like him. And Lorenzo’d told him once some folk were born with a knowing that comes in age, a knowing of how to sit still and listen.

Well, Clark didn’t know about that, but he supposed it all came in handy for the taking of a spec.

Miss Palmifer had stepped back and a little around, and Clark wondered what she was doing. Getting a better shot, he supposed. He couldn’t picture it. The little miss he could, but not how he would look in the picture, or what would be behind them. He wondered if there would be a seagull; he didn’t much like seagulls.

He knew it was coming, ‘course. He did, when he saw Miss Palmifer take in one breath deeper than the rest, and her lips begin to make strange shapes. The little miss didn’t, and there was no way he could’ve warned her.

Her woobley was out of range, but the air still bent, when it came to it; that was the only way he could think to describe it, if he thought at all. He didn’t think he could’ve. It wasn’t a real kind of bending, like bending a wire. It was like the air changed, turned in a new direction. It was most like a strong young branch being bent. Like when you bent over to pick something up, and you knew you could pick it up, even if it wasn’t easy: that was what the whole air was doing. It was greasy against his skin, and he resisted the urge to reach up and wipe it from his face, even though he knew it would leave nothing once it had gone.

The little miss was very good during all of it. He couldn’t see her face, but he hoped she was still smiling. He felt her gasp against him. Papa was there, his arm underneath her. It didn’t seem a frightened gasp anyway. She was rigid with excitement soon as she saw the flickering lights, and Clark wished he could feel the same excitement.

Maybe he once had. He didn’t think so. Children saw it different, he figured. Children who didn’t know what they were seeing or hearing. It was a fair bad thought, the sort of thought that could land you someplace you didn’t want to be, so he tried not to think it. But he didn’t much like the talking or the woobley or the lights, so he just stayed real still.

Miss Palmifer said they did good, very good she said, and she was smiling when she lowered the camera spectra. The sun was brighter now, higher in the sky, and the clouds had blown off it. The light flashed off the metal lining of it, this time a different and more natural sort of light.

Best, Miss Palmifer said, to have more than one. Renata giggled, already wiggling in his arms. “Uh,” he grunted. His smile had broken, but she tugged his sleeve; it broke out again, just barely.

Renata had straightened up in his arms and was raising a hand, as if to pose waving.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he mumbled, still smiling. “Only if it’s no trouble, Miss Palmifer,” he added, clearing his throat.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Late Morning, 19 Loshis, 2720
A Market at the Edge of the Waterfront

Renata had shifted in her father’s arms; she was still beaming, and had lifted one hand as if to wave to the camera. Chrysanthe felt a little prickle of amusement, and then something more like surprise; she had not, really, been sure quite how much the little girl had understood. She’d have called it mimicry, except from the conversation past, she couldn’t think what Renata might be mimicking; it did not seem as if her father had had his portrait taken before.

Whatever the explanation, Chrysanthe was rather glad, and glad too that Renata did not seem bored. Phileander, who was rather less still, had had a hard time not wriggling, though he’d had the determination to succeed in the end, clever boy that he was.

Clark had smiled during the first spec; it had sunk off his face, a little, but came back when he looked squarely at the camera once more.

“No trouble at all,” Chrysanthe said, smiling.

Chrysanthe adjusted herself as well, shifting her angle just a little, thinking to herself that there wasn’t so much sense in taking many specs from the exact same angle. It would be a better experiment to change another variable – her angle – and see which looked best in the end. She couldn’t, naturally, write down the angles or anything like that, but she thought she would remember something of how she’d tried to position herself, and she could always jot a few notes later.

Chrysanthe began to cast again, steady and even. She was, she thought, pleased, getting the knack of the spell; her field warmed in the air around her, steady and smooth, and she pressed the button as the light flashed. There was something satisfying in the feeling of casting, something she had always enjoyed; even such a simple spell was a thing of beauty, when cast properly and in an orderly manner. The world always seemed to make sense, laid out for the mona, as if she could glimpse something in it that otherwise hid out of sight.

She took one last spec, afterwards, her third, and by then something had creased just a little on Clark’s face. She wasn’t sure she’d have noticed, generally, but staring at someone through a camera did tend to bring a heightened sort of focus. She couldn’t quite have said what to make of it, but for the instinct that she should stop. It wasn’t fear, not even the brief sort which she would have been well-justified in feeling when he’d loomed over her earlier. It was, rather, that he looked – strained, Chrysanthe supposed she might have said, looking at the lines of tension in his forehead and around his lips.

“I hope that should do it, Lady be praised,” Chrysanthe said, cheerfully. “Thank you both, Mr. Clark, Renata." She lowered the camera, adjusting the strap around her neck, and settled her bag against her shoulder once more. She took out her notebook, and crossed the few steps to Clark and Renata; she grinned at Renata, who, in her father’s arms, just topped Chrysanthe for height.

“It should be next nine or ten that I’ll have the specs developed and be able to bring them,” Chrysanthe said, smiling. She planned to take a few more specs today, and then see about developing them the next day, or else on a weekday night, if she decided to take a few more specs tomorrow. It was strange to think about, but – she hadn’t gone to work this morning, and the world didn’t yet seem to have collapsed around her ears. Perhaps she could find a day to leave on time this week, with developing the spectragrams to take care of.

“Where can I find you?” Chrysanthe asked. She took out a slim paper volume from her bag, alongside a leaded pencil, and smiled at Clark.

[Clark Cooke]

A Market at the Edge of the Waterfront

late morning of the 19th of loshis, 2720

T
he little miss giggled again.

Clark supposed it should’ve done something to ease him. He supposed also he ought to be grateful. He’d never been sure whether it was him – a thing he’d learned from experience – or something inborn and natural to his folk, as natural as it was for one of Miss Palmifer’s kind to have those strange harsh words on hand, and stand in the midst of it without a shred of fear. A responsibility, he’d heard it said. Well, he supposed that made sense. Maybe it was his kind’s responsibility to be afraid.

Renata wasn’t, which relieved him and worried him all at once. Tess wouldn’t’ve liked it much, her tottering off through the crowd after a golly. He wondered if they ought to have a talk with her about it. He didn’t like the idea. He didn’t like talking and least of all about this.

The little miss giggled, the second time. Clark stood straight underneath his coat. His back pinched where he had knelt, and the wind was sharp and salty against his dry skin. The little miss was a welcome weight, but no longer a particularly light one. She seemed heavier now, for some reason. She wiggled and straightened herself up and went very still again, just as she had been told. He wondered why it was harder for him now to be still than the little miss. He wondered if Miss Palmifer would mind if he took another step back.

The wind ruffled that wispy light hair, strands whispering round her shoulders. They were attracting some attention now. He looked aside and caught the eyes of a very lined woman with wiry white hair that caught the sunlight. She paused, tugging at a younger woman’s – her daughter’s, maybe – arm to turn and look. The skin around her dark eyes was very crinkly, and he had never been much good at telling smiling eyes from angry ones. Her daughter laughed, and so he thought she must be smiling, but the laugh cut into him. Still he smiled when Miss Palmifer’s lips moved again, and kept smiling.

More of that language spilling out into the breeze, and then that feeling in the air. Renata was practically holding her breath. He stood still and thought of what it might be like to show the little miss the spec when she wasn’t so little. He thought then of what it might be like to give Tess the spec very soon.

It was over then, practically before he knew it had started. The air was calm; he could feel only the faintest touch of whatever it was he had felt during.

And the little miss giggled again, and he bounced her in his arms and she giggled some more. The sun was bright and the wind was very nice. Miss Palmifer was smiling nicely too, and she thanked them in her neat but warm sort of way.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he mumbled, almost getting his tongue tied. He hesitated, then let Renata down with another grunt and reached for his basket. He kept one hand lightly on the little miss’ shoulder, but when it seemed to him she was stuck firmly to the hem of his coat, he let go and took the hat from the basket to put on his head. He smiled briefly at the apricot, a flash of orange among the other fruits.

Miss Palmifer had already taken out her little book by the time the question registered. He froze and was very still, more still than when she had taken the spec.

“Um,” he grunted, swallowing tightly. “Ain’t far from here. Ma’am. Two-an’-twenty Corbyn road, in West-and-long. The –” He ran his hand over the little miss’ shoulders. “Gorettis’ boarding house, Miss Palmifer. We’ll be lookin’ out for you next weekend.”

The nine or the ten, she had said. Maybe he could arrange it so that Tess and Claudia would be out to market. He brushed his hand over the little miss’ soft curls, holding her closer to him, then doffed his cap. “We – Renata an’ me, we – we got to go lookin’ for fiddlehead ferns. Before Mr. Thomas packs up, see,” he added apologetically, though why Miss Palmifer would know a thing about it, he didn’t know. He inclined his head, reddening.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Late Morning, 19 Loshis, 2720
A Market at the Edge of the Waterfront

There was a measure of constraint when she asked, and for a moment Chrysanthe was concerned that Clark either lacked anything like a permanent address, or else did not have anything like a street number for it. Looking at his little daughter’s clean neat coat, in bright elegant red wool, and his own neat if worn clothing, she found the first unlikely.

All the same, Chrsyanthe worried vaguely that she should get some impenetrable direction, the sort one heard tell of from old men in the Dives: just in Cantile, two streets past where Ol’ Jem used to have his bar.

Whatever his concern was, Clark unfroze after a moment. Chrysanthe listened rather intently, jotting down the words in her neat, spiky handwriting: 22 Corbyn Road, West-and-Long.

She had, as one was expected to, cultivated a more elegant curling handwriting style during her years at Brunnhold; since, it had steadily sort of collapsed back into the sharp spiky writing she had first developed as a girl. The advantage of it was that she knew quite well it should be readable while written standing, having a good deal of experience in the same.

“Of course,” Chrysanthe inclined her head at the mention of Mr. Thomas and his fiddlehead firms. “Lady bless and keep you, Mr. Clark, Renata,” she smiled at them once more. “I shall see you next week.”

Clark was gone before Chrysanthe could even put her notebook away; for a moment, he was a dark coat with a small red figure toddling alongside him, and then not even that.

Chrysanthe jotted a few more notes to herself, neatly, in the space she had left for it above the address, noting the name of Clark and his daughter, that she had taken three specs at the Old Rose Harbor wharf in the morning of the nineteenth of Loshis.

Notes settled, Chrsyanthe tucked her notebook away, wiped her camera delicately clean once more, and adjusted her things, wandering further down along the edge of the market, eyes bright to new opportunities. The faint remnants of the easy camera spectra spells still warmed faintly through her field, almost like a tingling, though nowhere yet near fatigue.

A few more specs, Chrysanthe thought, pleased, looking ahead to the day to come. Then, Chrysanthe thought, a late lunch, perhaps - breakfast had not been terribly satisfying, and she found herself already somewhat hungry - and with whatever time remained, she thought she would read - perhaps find somewhere to watch the sunset in the evening, and to see whether she might be able to capture it in a spec.

When Chrysanthe thought of work, she did her best to put it aside; there was, she thought rather firmly, no need to worry about the factory today, nor all the rest. The smells of the market drifted to her: fresh and less fresh caught fish wafting in, incense and spices wafting in from other kingdoms, and the salty tang of the Tincta Basra, just off the wharf. The sights were as bright and brilliant; the air was all chattering languages, Estuan in large part but with more than a few other drifting notes. These and more filled her quite aptly; this, Chrysanthe thought, was just what she had needed.