[Closed] To Meet the Hours

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Cass left them, and then it was just Aurelie, Shadow and the man who was sometimes Desiderio and sometimes...

Talk, she'd said. She wanted to talk to him, very badly. The space Cass had left behind seemed rather deliberate; work, Aurelie knew, could wait. Normally, Aurelie would liked to have helped—she was learning how, and she liked doing it. She liked, most of all, just sitting with her and enjoying the other woman's company. A kindness, Aurelie thought. A more subtle one, to be sure, than letting Desiderio stay here with the two of them—the thought made something in her flutter not entirely unpleasantly—but no less of a kindness for the subtlety.

There was the space, and she had the desire—and she sat there at the table mute as a stone. Shadow's sloppy consumption of the leftover stew Cass had given him was the only sound in the room after the door clicked shut. Talk. And what about?

She had seen how he looked at her when she came in through the door. Like someone looking at a stranger. Aurelie had been overwhelmingly conscious of the pointed hem of her skirt, of all the strongly human designs at the cuffs and collar of the blouse. Green and brown, with small touches of yellow—the colors of growing things. Aurelie liked this dress best, and under the golden weight of his eyes, she felt like a child in a costume.

"Cass is really very kind," she offered, folding her hands in her lap and trying not to chew on her lip. It was chapped, and there was a small bit of dead skin she had been gently worrying at with her teeth. "You'll... uhm, you'll see. She's been very good to me."

She ought to go to her room, to her trunk, where there was a bit of clear pomade she used now to discourage the habit and promote healing. But she might have had to ask Desiderio to help her, and she didn't know if she was ready for that just now.

Aurelie fell silent again. One thing she had always noticed about the plantation and the bakery both was the lack of... of the ticking of clocks. At Brunnhold, it was a constant sound—measuring out every sacred moment, on and on. She hadn't realized just how much she would miss it until she left. Like the hum of the other girls in the kitchen, like the soft sound of her roommates' breathing. (Even Bernie, whose breathing was less soft at some times than at others. She had more than once woken Aurelie up in the night.)

The lamplight was soft, dimmer and kinder to her eyes than phosphor would have been. It softened Desiderio's face, too. Aurelie studied it without meaning to. It was so different than it had been when they were children. Not just because of the glasses, which he hadn't needed before. Nor the scars, though they were strong and deep enough to change the landscape of his face, raised along the edges of his jaw. Aurelie clasped her hands more tightly against a desire to reach out— To run a finger along—

Aurelie looked away, swallowing something hot and jagged.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out instead. "For the... I doubt this is where you really want to... to be." She wondered what he made of it—Cass, the bakery, the little flat. Aurelie liked it. More, if she were pressed to honesty, than she had like the Ibutatu house. Not that it wasn't very lovely, she thought, and not that... But this felt more like someone's home to her, and she liked being here. Small as it was, simple as it was.

"...But I'm glad you're here," she said softly, before she could stop herself. And she smiled, just a little.

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

W

hy she had left them alone together upstairs, after all – Morandi could not understand it, other than that it gave him some idea of Elwes’ trust in Aurelie, and there was something solidly comforting about this. Even if he felt mildly concerned that she would allow a young woman to spend time unchaperoned with a young man. Then again, he supposed humans had different mores with regard to that sort of thing; and he was, after all, who and what he was – he scarcely counted as a young man. Not in that way, and certainly not to her.

It spoke, too, to Aurelie’s trust in him. That was altogether more puzzling: he tried and failed to imagine what Aurelie had said to her downstairs.

The door had clicked shut a few moments ago. Elwes’ absence was almost palpable.

The room felt smaller and larger all at once. He had been glancing about it, though more than anything to put off looking at the young woman sitting opposite him.

Elwes had set a pillow and a blanket on the sofa, which looked mercifully large enough for him, for once. The screen cast a deep, latticed shadow over the other corner; he could see the edge of a bed, and he frowned. He did not look at the other door, which seemed to him worryingly close to the sofa. Everything was worryingly close to everything else, it seemed to him just now. Including…

Aurelie’s voice nearly startled him. Hurte’s jaws, but he was very tired. He glanced back over at her, eyes coming back into focus, and took a deep breath. Kind, she was saying. Really very.

Very good to me, she said, and at that, he inclined his head, frowning deeply. “She seems to me a woman who knows what she is about,” he agreed.

I will not hurt her, he had the useless urge to say. He knew she had seen, must have seen…

She was silent. Pup snored softly.

They had made up their minds to talk. This was that talk. But he felt as if someone had emptied out his skull – too much to think about, and so he could think about nothing at all.

In lieu of thinking, he was certainly looking. He could not seem to look away, now. The oil lamp shed a merry light from inside the glass; it darkened Aurelie’s hair to gleaming copper, and cast uneven, wispy shadows from her bangs. And her eyelashes, when she blinked. They were very long, he noticed for the first time.

His eyes wandered down; for a moment he forgot himself, thoughtlessly studying her face. He had not had the chance, really, even in the farmhouse. He had been rather avoiding it before then. The full, expressive set of her lips still surprised him, in that part of him that was strangely preoccupied with it. They were a little pale now; he could make out the texture of them in the lamplight. His eyes lingered on them, then he remembered himself and snatched them away.

He found her eyes on his face, and not on his eyes. A prickling discomfort crept up from his jaw, along the left side of his face. His frown deepened, and he was aware of it pulling at the scars, wrinkling the skin where it had not six years ago.

Or at the bruise, which was rather more pressingly unpleasant. Aurelie looked away suddenly, her hands clasped tightly on the table, uncomfortable.

I’m sorry, she said.

His brow furrowed. His frown deepened. “I hardly know –” His voice came out coarse and harsh; he cleared his throat. What I want.

There was a little smile tugging at her lips now, cautious.

Glad that he was here? After–? “I am grateful and glad,” he offered. He looked down at his hands, still folded; he had not moved them since Elwes had come in. “To be – to have –”

He broke off with a sharp tut. “Not to have hurt you. But for the chance to see you again,” he went on, his voice sounding to him awkward and cold, “however that… chance –”

He broke off again, taking a deep breath. Careful to hold his field indectal and suppressed; a little of his frustration grasping for words had wanted to creep out into it, but if there was any shift, it was only a wisp of red.

“You like it here,” he said finally, more quietly. His eyes wandered back up the embroidery on her dress, at her throat, back up to her eyes which were that same lovely color. Among these people, he thought to say, but even he knew how it would have sounded. “Miss Elwes certainly likes you. You are a part of this place?”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Aurelie had tried to look away. She knew it was rude of her to stare so much, and strange besides. It was just so... Not just his face that was different now, a man's face and not a boy's, but the expressions on it. Aurelie hadn't been able to look at him before. Before the... incident, because she hadn't known how. And after, at the farmhouse, of course, she hadn't been able to look at anything at all.

He agreed with her when she spoke of Cass (which she found encouraging), but frowned as he did so (which she did not). He frowned, generally speaking, quite a lot. Aurelie had trouble picturing him making any other kind of face at all, or at least one that wasn't frowning. There were differences, though, in the sorts of frowning he was doing. Aurelie didn't know what the differences meant, but she could see them. It was almost dizzying, to think that she could come to know.

No, she told herself firmly, as he went on with a furrowed brow and a half-said refusal of her apology. She didn't think... It would not be that long. It couldn't be that long. A little time, it seemed. More time than she'd ever thought she would have with Desiderio Morandi's company again in her life. But it couldn't be much. He had a life, and he needed to return to it. The sooner, the better.

Perhaps if she could truly convince herself of this, to know it in her bones, she wouldn't waste whatever little time they had with her own foolishness. Aurelie had smiled, or tried. Desiderio looked down at his hands, answering her. Aurelie felt the color rise in her face; it had been a silly thing to say. True—of course it was true. Hadn't she said it before just that morning? She was glad, selfishly and unreasonably. That didn't mean she had to have said it. Making him uncomfortable was proving to be a talent.

Yet he'd said it too. Grateful and glad. That did nothing for the color in her face, which didn't even subside as he went on. The chance to you see you again. Aurelie's heart skipped a beat or two, hearing him say it. She ought to focus on the first part, but she found she could only fixate on the second.

"Circumstances could have, uhm, been better," she agreed. The joke had sounded less harsh in her head, but when it left her tongue she thought it too... Oh, bells and chimes. Could she say anything to make it better? "I hurt you too" was hardly appropriate. She didn't want to talk about that, and she didn't think he did either. It was what it was, and had gone as they had gone. What was the point in...? "But, uhm. Beggars can't be... Er. You know."

Would she know better what each frown meant if she were whole? Or at least better at... She knew a few others who could read the fields of those around them much better than Aurelie. Not as well as they ought to, but Aurelie had come to realize over the years that she was particularly poor at it. Would she have been better, if...? That, too, was pointless speculation—but she couldn't help but feel she was missing something.

When he spoke again, he surprised her. He was looking at her once more; Aurelie wanted to look down, but found she couldn't. Her face softened into a different kind of smile. "I do like it here." That was oddly easy to say. Just as simple as anything: she liked it here. Aurelie didn't think she'd said it out loud before, at least not that she could recall. Something about it was grounding, reassuring.

"I don't know about... a part," Aurelie admitted with a shrug. She tucked some of her hair behind one ear. She had been a part of a place before, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come. In many ways she missed it, despite how hard she fought to stay away. "It's a little lonely, but... Ah." She cut herself off, embarrassed. That was not what she had meant to say.

"B-But, ah, the people here are... are kind to me, uhm, mostly. Not just Cass, there's the customers and the children, and... It's nice." The smile brightened a little. Not everyone was kind to her, or to anyone else for that matter, but enough were. With time, she hoped... she might feel a little less... Well. Less.

"Where are you, ah, living... now...? Vienda, or...?" That was a simple, safe question, wasn't it? A normal question.

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

T

here was a little redness in her cheeks now that had not been there before. He was not sure what to make of it; he could not remember if she had reddened so often, as a girl. Certainly she had not seemed this uncomfortable.

(He had a talent for it, he supposed. He had had a recruit once, a young lady who had seemed so frightened of him that she had stumbled over her words and gone furiously red whenever he caprised her. He had felt rather badly about it, but the friendlier he had tried to be, the worse he had seemed to make it, beyond all logic.)

Beggars indeed.

He let out a cough – a little huh, which might almost have been a laugh. He was not sure himself if it was very funny; she was better at levity, at least, than he.

If he had not been sent here for this purpose, would he ever have seen her again? He supposed not. It was an uncomfortable thought. If he had become an artist, as he had told her he would once, he supposed he never would have seen her again.

He remembered reading to her that Bastian tale as a boy, about the prince and the white cat – he had not thought of it in a very long time, but he kept turning it over in his head, now. Back then, she had had far more of a stomach for those endings he had thought terribly sad or cruel. He had tried to stop reading, after the cat plead with the prince for him to behead her; even if he knew how it really ended, he had nearly cried to keep from reading it.

His hands came apart on the table, then back together again, fingers neatly knit. He was still sitting very straight and still.

And watching her, now, as she smiled again, softer but stronger. He liked it very much; he had not seen it at all, before the farmhouse. He could see flashes of familiarity here and there, but it was not very much like the smiles she had had as a girl. There was a warm depth in her eyes that never seemed to go away.

She sounded very certain, saying that. Subject, he might have jotted down on his pad, is telling the truth. Less so, as she went on thoughtfully; he watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

Lonely, she said, then broke off. He felt strange.

But his brow furrowed at children, curious again. Before he could ask, she spoke again; he raised his brows, glancing away, lips pressing together.

“Ah. Yes. I have a flat in Vienda.” Matter-of-fact as if he were delivering a report. “In Oldgate. A long walk from headquarters, but I hardly mind the exercise. Besides,” he said dryly, “rumor has it among the recruits that I live in my office and have no need for sleep. I do little to discourage the sentiment.”

He paused, feeling rather less amusing than he wanted to.

To make up for it – he paused, stiffening abruptly as if suddenly struck. “A moment,” he said, rising to his feet.

A wave of dizziness washed over him; he closed his eyes for a moment, lips twisting. But – determined, he set his jaw and began to work his way over to the bag he had left by the front door. Pup stirred, snorting and looking lazily up.

“I shall show you something. If I have it, and I believe I do.” He spoke more brusquely now. He could not help a tickle of excitement, having remembered; he had known, of course, that she would regain her sight, but – well – best not to think about that.

Holding onto the wall, he knelt by the bag. Perhaps with his back to her, it was easier, because he asked as he unbuckled it, “The children?”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Had that been a laugh? Aurelie couldn't tell. It seemed less like one than the others, and she hadn't been entirely sure about those either. Thinking of the joke, Aurelie felt certain it was more cough than laughter. Especially as he grew very slightly restless. Only in his hands; the movement of his fingers (which Aurelie followed only at the edges of her vision) made the utter stillness of the rest of him more prominent.

It was Desiderio's face that she was watching. That, too, was quite still and impassive, until he frowned again and it wasn't. What part had he caught on? Her mention of the children? He looked almost like he wanted to ask her a question, but she had barreled straight ahead without giving him the chance. Chimes. Conversations, she reminded herself sternly, required two participants. A back-and-forth. Which meant she couldn't just... babble on.

So he lived in the city proper now. Aurelie had thought for a moment he might say he lived here, in the Rose, although she couldn't have said why. Wishful thinking, she supposed. Not that it mattered where he lived. Desiderio could live across the street from the bakery, and Aurelie knew it wasn't as if he could visit or... No, this was going to be all. She'd have to make it count.

"Rumor has it among the recruits that I live in my office and have no need for sleep."

There was a pause. He had said it so dryly, Aurelie wasn't entirely certain she was meant to laugh. But that was—oh, he could be entirely serious, she could hardly help herself. She smiled, thinking to head herself off, but the smile gave way to a small laugh that she very nearly tried to smother with her hand. But why? She could think of no good reason, so her hands stayed where they were.

"I-is that so? I suppose I have, uhm, no real evidence to the contrary." She hoped that wasn't too mean, but she didn't think so. He'd said it first and—she could almost picture it. A machine, the other one had called him. Well, Aurelie didn't think he was that, but he was certainly... Stiffer than he had been, in most ways.

(It was easy to picture the rumor of the man at the table with her, but impossible of the child he had been. Was this, truly, the same person who hadn't wanted to read her the end of any stories that were too sad? Who had nearly cried at the story of the white cat and the prince, even though he knew how it ended already? Aurelie knew it was, and still she couldn't quite believe it.)

Oh, chimes! Maybe it had been too far. Desiderio stiffened like someone had hit him, then rose to his feet. Aurelie's brow furrowed in concern; he seemed much more unwell than she had thought. His color, now that she could see him properly, was really quite poor. She wasn't sure he ought to be... doing whatever it was he was about to do. But he was already walking towards the door by the time she'd made up her mind to ask him to sit down again.

No, not the door—his bag. Shadow had gone back to sleep, now that he'd gotten yet more stew and there was no more excitement to be had at the moment. He stirred when Desiderio walked by, but didn't fully wake. "Show me something?" Aurelie asked, surprised. She twisted slightly in her chair to watch him.

The way he leaned into the wall as he knelt down was concerning. Show me later, she almost scolded, but he was already over there. She supposed it was too late for that. She would never have pictured him with a back so— So. Like that. Gracious Lady.

"Hmm? Oh! Y-yes. There are some, ah, neighborhood children who come by the bakery after we close. Uhm, orphans mostly... They take anything we have left over. Cass has been... taking care of them, after a fashion." There was something for them even on days when the bakery wasn't open. Cass made sure of it, and Aurelie was happy to help. They were all so terribly, heartbreakingly young. That was the way of things sometimes, but it... Aurelie had grown fond of them rather quickly. "They're sweet children."

He would very likely be able to—well, likely not meet them, actually. Aurelie frowned, thinking about that. The picture was not quite right. Desiderio, surrounded by that mix of lower-race children, all of them so very... But it wasn't terribly wrong, either, if she only just twisted it slightly. They were likely less keen to meet him than they had been to meet her. The idea made her sad, even if it was understandable and even fair.

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

H

e was smiling the tiniest smile as he knelt. He had not expected her to laugh. Then again, she had laughed at him before, but – never when he had intended her to. And then, when her voice had stuttered out again… The smile grew as he opened the bag, crooked and uncomfortable and out of place on his face. This quiet but surprisingly cheeky sense of humor was also not something he remembered from when they had been children.

Should he have been offended? He could not seem to find it in himself. He had, after all, invited it. He was just unaccustomed to the invitation being accepted. People were not particularly inclined to joke around with a machine.

Her surprise, too, had pleased him. He had given her a great many unpleasant surprises in the last few days. Nightmarishly unpleasant. The thought that he might perhaps manage a good one was very compelling indeed.

He listened now, frowning again with concentration.

Orphans. He felt a flicker of...

Well, he supposed he had known they were not hers. It had only been a month and a little more, and before that, she had been – in Brunnhold. (He tried to accustom himself to the thought, now that she was out of the blue dress.) And he supposed, had they been Elwes’, he would have seen them by now. All the same, he had wondered that they might be family. That she might have found some sort of family here, peculiar as it was among these people. He remembered again playing house with her, swaddling pillows and coming up with names; he promptly pushed it from his mind.

Orphans. Quite suddenly, he thought of Mr. and Mrs. Steerpike; he paused sliding the book out of his bag, taking a deep breath.

Her voice was very warm: They’re sweet children. He thought that he could picture it very well, Aurelie surrounded by children, helping Elwes feed them. With that stern, thoughtful tone, and still all her laughter.

Humans, he supposed. He wondered what they made of her, with her bright red hair and her freckles.

He wondered if he would see them; he supposed not. “They will doubtless be very happy to see you again,” he said. As he levered himself slowly to his feet again, he frowned, remembering Elwes. Would she be permitted to?

They had had cause to miss her because –

With a deep breath, he started back over to the table. He paused to open the slim calfskin book; he flipped through the pages and found that it was indeed the sketchbook he wanted.

He did not sit. For a moment, he almost expected to feel the caprise of another field; it was still very strange to feel nothing.

He came closer to her, stiff and tentative; he was, again, very conscious of just how far above her head he was, and another dimensions besides. He was also bizarrely conscious of the way her hair ended a little above the edge of her collar, and of a few small freckles he could see there.

Matter-of-fact as if none of it was worth notice, he set the book open on the table in front of her, leaning on the back of her chair with a hand.

“This is the view from my office window. In the midst of filing a report, I looked up and saw this line of crows on the branch just outside.” One long finger – of his left hand, ringless – hovered over the branch, drawn dark in charcoal. One of the birds was smudged to silhouette; he grimaced. Beyond it, he had sketched out the rows of windows opposite, the ivy creeping up the old brick.

He cleared his throat, suddenly very conscious of how close they were, his uniform sash brushing her shoulder. He eased back a little.

“I do not mind if –” He broke off. “In fact, I would like it if you – wished to look through. It starts in Loshis. I still try to fill up a page every day, though I do not often succeed, now.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Aurelie had thought of them more than once, while she paced her small room in Graywatch. They didn't need her, of course. They barely knew her. The life they had was not... stranger to loss. But Aurelie had thought of them, hoping they had not grown to like her too much. Polly was hardly much older than Efere, and few as old as she had been when... Too young, she thought fiercely, to need one more thing.

"Oh, I think they might be more excited by Shadow than me." Her voice was slightly thick; she did her best to ignore it and carry on. She did think they'd like Shadow—perhaps not Gregory, who was rather shy for a boy of seven. Aurelie thought that he, too, would like Shadow with time. She had meant what she said about his suitability as a family dog; that hadn't wavered, not even with full impact of his striped hide. "Which is fair," she added adoringly, looking down at the sleeping pup.

Whatever it was Desiderio was looking for, he must have found it. He came to his feet once more—Aurelie watched, sharply, to make sure he was all right. He was frowning still. In his hand was a book, slim and leather-bound. Aurelie watched rather curiously as he made his approach, flipping the pages through. She couldn't see any of them from this distance and this angle. Desiderio had really grown very tall. Cass was only a little bit larger than he was.

Desiderio didn't sit again; Aurelie struggled to bite her tongue on insistence that he do so. He wanted to show her something, and she wanted to be shown. After that, then she could tell him to sit down. If he should want—she was terribly certain that she would not phrase it as request.

Now she couldn't watch him, because between her sitting and his height, she would have had to crane her neck to do it. Something about that felt distinctly inappropriate. The obviousness of the gesture, perhaps. Besides, he set the book in front of her, and then her whole attention was fixated on that.

Most of her attention, anyway. Some of it couldn't help but be aware of how he was leaning over the back of her chair, bracing one hand on the frame of it. Close enough that the sash on his uniform brushed her shoulder; Aurelie's breath caught a moment, but she couldn't seem to move away. She felt— somehow, very— overwhelmed, perhaps. She still wasn't used to being this close to someone's field, after all.

"Oh!" She gasped, delighted. Her eyes followed the line of his finger to the sketch of the branch. (She very briefly thought of his touch on her ankle, bandaging it up—she did her best to put it aside.) One of the crows had gotten a bit smudged, which Aurelie thought was a shame. It was all so good! Desiderio had even started to add in what must have been windows from across the street. A smile spread across her face, enraptured.

"Oh, can I really? You don't mind?" Aurelie looked up at him suddenly, only to find that he was much, much closer than she had thought before she turned. Not—it was perhaps closer than was appropriate, were she a young woman. But she wasn't. Not in the way where such things mattered, anyway. And he was just showing her his sketchbook. Her face warmed anyway, and she quickly looked back to the book in front of her.

Aurelie leaned forward, to see better. Each page was turned carefully, like she was handling something precious. Which she was, of course. She didn't want to smudge anything, or... Oh, he really had gotten so much better. Of course he had, it had been ten years after all. Still, she'd thought he was very good then. A question burned at the edge of her tongue, in between all of the delighted murmurs: why? Why had he decided to contain this to one sketchbook, to a page a day—if even? Aurelie knew she hadn't any right to ask, no matter how much she wanted to know.

"These are wonderful," she said, voice warm with sincerity. She took her time with each page, studying it carefully before moving on. Aurelie did not, admittedly, know very much about art—but she knew what she liked, and she liked these. A lot of animals, she noticed, and places—many fewer people. And those that he had drawn were often facing away, as if observed unawares.

That made sense, she supposed. She remembered him telling her that very few people knew. Not even his fiancée, he'd said. A strange lump rose in her throat. They really were wonderful. Somehow, she thought she could see more of the friend she had loved in these pages than she had expected to.

"I would show you my needlework," she began absently as she turned another page. (She had almost reached the end, somehow.) "But it isn't, ah... I'm not nearly so... t-talented at that. These are all so..." Aurelie bit her lip.

As she turned the last page, she risked looking at Desiderio again. Aurelie smiled, carefully closing the book and holding it back out to him. "Thank you. For... uhm. I really did like... You'll have a bit more time for that, at least...?"

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

S

he gasped; he held his breath.

It was absurd. Like pretending they were children again – and Morandi was not a man who pretended, who clung to pipe dreams and fond memories. There was a sharp, tight ache in his chest now, which reminded him why he did not.

And to run her down in the market, to threaten her employer and friend – to tell her nearly in so many words that she no longer meant anything to him – and then to do this?

Still he waited, all his breath cooped up inside his lungs. He was too rapt even to smile. He could not see her face, but she had sounded very pleased. In spite of the swimming in his head and his hand braced on the chair, he was rigidly straight-shouldered. When she turned to look up at him, she was smiling broadly, brilliantly, her green eyes very wide.

It was terribly familiar, that expression.

There was another lump lodged in his throat. He swallowed, but it only seemed to grow larger. He was frowning now; he nodded once sharply, because he was not sure he could have spoken.

He relaxed slightly when she looked back down, turning each page with delicate care. If he felt a fluttering self-consciousness – of the kind which he had felt as a boy, and seldom since; seldom did he show these to anyone – he swallowed it for what seemed to him much more important. Her soft, delighted murmurs, of which there were plenty, made him feel the queerest mixture of embarrassed and proud.

Some of them (particularly the squirrel he had drawn in Hamis) he thought very little of, and mostly felt embarrassed. Others – he was not sure how he felt, having her see the woman in the shawl from Kingsway Crossing, or Ensign Leclerq’s studious profile. They had been like secrets to him, at the time.

He was grateful this was not the sketchbook for figure drawing, of course.

He found himself looking at her hands again, his tired mind wandering. At her scuffed palms, but also at the pale scars on her fingers, again achingly curious. And her fingernails, red and uneven.

His eyes trailed up to her wrist, lingering on her bracelet and the way it hung from her wrist as she moved to turn a page. On the hem of her sleeve, too, a chain of embroidered leaves. He thought of drawing it, then tried to push the thought away.

He should not; he would not. It was terribly inappropriate. But there was something too in the thought of drawing her and Shadow surrounded by a flock of children; he could almost draw it without seeing it. He thought of the thickness in her voice, brief but unmistakable, when she had spoken.

He had not only threatened Elwes, he realized, in retrospect. He pushed it firmly from his head, firmly and harshly.

He had lost track of himself so that when she was nearly finished, he scarcely noticed; he had not expected her to go through the whole thing, anyway. He raised his brows, eyes jerking sharply away from her hand as she mentioned her needlework. “Hmm?”

She stumbled on, trailing off; he frowned.

Then she was smiling back up at him and handing the book back, just as careful. “Of course,” he said brusquely. He was altogether unaccustomed to the lack of gloves; he tried not to brush her hand as he took it. “I – shall,” he replied, his brow furrowing. “I had not thought of it. I confess, I –”

He broke off. With his head firmly on his shoulders and the lance elsewhere, at least for the moment, he supposed he no longer had an excuse not to think.

Of course he would draw; it was hardly as if he could keep himself from it. But time? That, he still could not imagine. It was as if he expected to wake the next morning and go for his customary run; it was as if he expected to be back in his office, writing reports. The reality was utterly foreign.

“I have never had a bander pup as a subject.” He looked down at Shadow for a moment, considering. “Do you think that he would mind?” The same sharp, cold delivery, scowling; he looked down at Aurelie and dared the slightest lift of one eyebrow.

He cleared his throat.

“I would. Like to – see your needlework. I did not know that you –” He frowned. “If you wish, I mean to say.”

He realized quite belatedly where that needlework likely was.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Late Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Aurelie handed the sketchbook back; his fingers had not brushed against hers in the slightest. Somehow, Aurelie felt that was worse than if they had. Like the absence of it drew attention to the care with which he had taken the book out of her hands, which in turn brought to mind what hadn't happened.

He hadn't thought of it, Desiderio confessed. Which part? The part where he would have the time to fill as many pages as he wished, because it wasn't as if he would be doing much else? Or just any of the parts that came after the next minute, hour, day?

Aurelie could have asked, and then she could have said: I haven't thought much either. In an abstract way, she was aware that she would not be waking up tomorrow to head down to the bakery and get to work. That irked her more than a little, but she wasn't so foolish or stubborn as to try a stunt like that, given her ankle. Cass would, of course. Maybe she could help with the counter, if she brought a chair. Or something like it—Aurelie was still not particularly good at dealing with the customers.

But she, at least, lived here. It must be so much worse for Desiderio. At least the sofa was big enough for him. That was a small sort of blessing. Aurelie hadn't looked at it since the linens and spare pillow had been set on it; she felt oddly like that would be impolite. Too much like looking at—at his bed, she supposed. Which it both was and was not. Luckily, they had a few chairs.

Then they were talking about Shadow. Desiderio had asked the question with an even more dour expression than usual, looking at the pup sprawled out and occupying most of the kitchen floor. She looked from Shadow to Desiderio. Had she said something wrong? Upset him somehow? She didn't know much about art, and even less about... about artists. It was entirely possible she had accidentally said or not said something and been insulting.

Then he lifted one eyebrow, very slightly; he was... being silly, she realized. He was not terribly good at it. And, she thought with a sort of fond tenderness, he never had been. Less dour as a child, but certainly not less serious. She had always found it oddly reassuring. Aurelie smiled; it felt strangely angled, like the sentiment had crept out into it where she didn't mean it to be. She didn't wipe it away, though. Stubborn, she supposed. A Steerpike trait. One of the few she had.

"I'm sure he would be delighted. I don't think he minds any sort of attention, really." Shadow had not proven to be a particularly shy pup. She thought about warning that he didn't seem likely to sit still, but Desiderio had spent just as much time with Shadow as she had. In fact, she really—

She really, ridiculously, thought of him not as hers, but as theirs. Aurelie cleared her throat when Desiderio did, and she looked away from his eyes. More to the region of his ears.

"You would?" she blurted out, astonished. Desiderio wanted to see her needlework? "Oh, er, it really isn't very... I only recently picked it back up, you see, so I... I needed something to occupy my hands, when I wasn't working, and it..." Oh, this was awful. He was too close to be saying things like— Well, she supposed it was a reasonable enough sentiment, it was just... Bells and chimes.

She was at least a little better than she had been as a child, but her needlework hadn't improved nearly as much as his drawing. She had, after all, had to put it aside for many years. The basics had come back to her quickly enough, but beyond that... Aurelie thought, frowning a little. The piece she was working on—a pillowcase, that she would either keep or give to Cass depending on how it turned out—was coming along reasonably nicely. She was very nearly proud of it, although she could see the flaws in it even this far and she thought some of her color choices were lacking in charm.

There was then also the problem of where she kept her projects in the first place.

"W-Well, I would be happy to show you, if you... Uhm, you did show me your sketchbook and... This isn't as good but, er. It's, ah, in my room. If you would, uhm. Help me over to...?" She pointed at her door, for a lack of anything better to do with her hands.

He would wait outside, of course. She wouldn't ask him to come into her room; she wouldn't dream of it. Even the idea of it made her feel lightly scandalized. (Despite the fact that, again, she didn't count, and it wouldn't be inviting a man into her bedroom... in that way... She would never, not Desiderio, because he was engaged and... And she wouldn't anyway! Bells and chimes!)

"Oh, b-but it's, ah. It's a gift, for Cass. Er, if it turns out well. So I must swear you to secrecy. If you'd like to see it." She raised her own eyebrows now, and smiled. (She was, however, not entirely joking.)

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

S

he had smiled this time, too – after a moment.

He felt more than a little reassured, even if there was something in her expression that gave him pause. A peculiar softness in her eyes. She did not quite seem to want to meet his eye, and in fact her gaze seemed to rove around to the left or to the right of his face. He knew what that would have meant to him during an interrogation; it was all mixed up in his mind now, and he could not seem to read anything at all.

She looked shocked, then. He nodded, hesitant, frowning even more deeply; perhaps he should not have offered.

He remembered her needlework as a girl, of course. Gracious Hurte, he had almost forgotten about that, his old fear of needles. Of what had he not been frightened, then? But specifically, in that case, of her pricking her little fingers with them; he remembered his swarming anxiety about tetanus and all manner of other fatal potentialities. A boy of thirteen, fussing over her like an ill-grown mother hen and babbling out his fears.

She had trailed off, and he was terribly conscious of the silence that had settled over the kitchen. At the mention of hands, he glanced back down at hers, as if compulsively.

Hands unaccustomed to a lack of occupation, he supposed, with that old twist of curiosity and sadness. He wondered what he would have thought as a boy, to see her with those nicks and burns.

That, he had yet to ask about. That, he had been planning on; that was his duty. And yet he still felt a creeping dread.

But she was looking at him, now; he wrenched his eyes back up to her face, a little embarrassed, frowning seriously. Why in Hurte’s name did he keep staring?

Happy, she said. And if it had been an interrogation… But it was not, and she had offered now – at length. He was about to hold out an arm awkwardly, though he hesitated. He was keenly conscious of the pleasant, soapy smell that now hung in the air around her, and her crisp clean dress. Morandi did not like to feel unwashed; orderly as his uniform might have been, and leagues more pleasant at least than Shadow, he knew he was no field of flowers.

But - “Ah!” His eyebrows went up, too, though he did not match her smile.

He considered it for a moment, still leaning on the back of the chair. He set the sketchbook back down on the table. With care, he stood back, then clasped a hand over his sternum and bowed deeply – though it was not the kneeling that Bastian tradition demanded.

Tradition also demanded the speaking of monite, and this too he forwent.

“Under the Circle, you have my word,” he said, brusque and harsh and as grimly as if he were swearing in court. He ignored the fresh wave of dizziness.

Promptly he felt ridiculous. That had been rather the point, and he still felt ridiculous.

“You – ah – I shall not tell her. In short.” He cleared his throat, then – a twist of his lips, not even resembling the smile he wanted it to be. “But I should very much like to see it.” He met her eye and held out his left hand first, then offered an arm.

He no longer had to tell her it was there. He had thought it would be less strange, now that she could see him. It was, in fact, quite the opposite.