[Closed] So Much to Pay For

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Afternoon on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

S
uffer?”

The word fell out of his open mouth before he could stop it. Cerise stopped so fast he nearly tripped on the slope; he caught himself, and so did Sish, one wing braced out and glinting gold in the sun. He shifted his weight, turned to look at her. The drakelet was nudging her cheek gently with her snout, a funny little noise bubbling up from her golden throat.

He glanced down – once – to where her fists were balled white-knuckled at her sides, but he met her grey eyes then. He didn’t look away as her clipped, sharp voice spilled out between them. At the word passive, he glanced sharply up and down the street, though there was nobody in sight.

“Exactly what – what?” Exactly what they’re capable of? Exactly what they are? His brow furrowed deeper. She’d growled passive, he thought, like it was scrap. Like hell. He stared at her a moment, hard.

So what, is that it after all? You’re offended by her? Offended by what, her audacity to be a tailor? She’d said it wasn’t the woman’s profession; she hadn’t seemed ready to chrove about it then. She hadn’t thrown this kind of godsdamn fit in the shop, either. But what was it? The fact that she came near you, he wanted to ask, boiling hotter, the fact that she served you tea? Shouldn’t you be used to that by now, or do you want them to hide themselves better after –

With upsetting anyone who comes near me, she’d said. Now she was standing with her fingertips pressed to her eyes. Wherever she’d been going with that, she broke off and swerved down a different path.

He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, willing himself not to yank out a fistful of it. His head ached.

“Cerise,” was all he said after a moment of quiet. I don’t know how to do this, he wanted to plead.

He should’ve gone further to keep this from happening. He didn’t know how; Diana had tried to keep her away for a year, and that had only made her angrier. Maybe he could’ve acted more like him, but he didn’t think he could’ve fooled her completely, in the end, and that wouldn’t’ve driven her off any more easily. You don’t care, my erse, he thought.

And the thought of brushing her off over and over made something in his chest ache. He didn’t know how the old incumbent had managed it.

Sish nudged Cerise’s jaw again, and he felt a pang of relief when she reached up to stroke her this time. At least she had the drakelet, he thought. And even then, she couldn’t bear to leash her, to hold on too tight.

“Listen,” he said quietly. He felt the knot sinking lower and lower, tangled up with more and more of him. “I know I’m acting strange enough nowadays. It’s not enough if I tell you I wouldn’t do that, because you don’t know – what the hell I’d do or not do.” It felt strange to speak those words aloud; he swallowed bile. “I know that.”

He studied her; he tried to take the pieces and put them back together. “It’s not that ada’na Ebele is imbala, is it? It’s that I didn’t tell you, and it seemed like I was making a test of it. I understand how it must’ve come off that way, even if I don’t understand – everything.” Or anything else.

He looked up and down the quiet, winding street, and he frowned when he looked back at her.

She had the high ground – just a bit – and so he was lifting his chin even more. “I upset things everywhere I go,” he said, lifting an eyebrow. “If I gave a damn about a little upset, I’d be a hypocrite and an ass. And I’m both of those things, but – it wouldn't be your fault, even if I were - offended.” He frowned deeper, pinched. I said hurt, he wanted to say. Not offended.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Late Afternoon

There it was, that hard stare when she said "passive", like she'd said something else. After checking to be sure nobody on the street could hear them, because clearly it was the opinions of everyone except her that mattered most. She wasn't surprised, really. Or she shouldn't have been, but things had been so strange—she had forgotten. It had been a long time since she'd last felt the full weight of it. Even at the museum it hadn't been quite the same.

The look stung, and she hated that it did. She was going to graduate this year, she should be beyond this. Only children cared about how their parents looked at them, felt about them. How many years had she spent plastering over all the bits of her that might come to harm by a look like that? Her whole godsdamn clocking life. Yet there were still gaps and holes she'd missed. It was galling, needling at her, pulling through her and twisting the weight of her field even though she did her best to reign it in.

No more of this. It was pointless, and it was stupid; she tried to cut it off. Just give in, let him win; there wasn't really a way for her to be victorious here anyway. She didn't even really know what she wanted, other than to eat lunch and get out of the sun. Take off her shoes, maybe. She'd have to figure out what to do about the backs of her heels; her first aid kit was in her room. She hadn't thought about bringing it. Washing the places that were rubbed raw and letting them dry would have to do. The idea of asking anyone for bandages made her skin crawl.

He kept talking, though. Stop, she wanted to say, just stop. You won. Leave me alone. Didn't I already concede? Isn't that enough? Does it need to be so complete a win? She snorted at the "acting strange"; it was a bitter sound, and it was something else too. Strange. Yes, that was certainly true.

Cerise had taken her hands away from her eyes, but she was looking at the shaded stones at their feet. A breeze swept through, smelling like river water and nearby restaurants and that sort of dry, dusty smell that the whole city had under it all the time, even when it rained. If she started walking, would he keep talking, or would he stop? Her boots felt rooted to the ground.

"If you're so understanding, then why are we having this conversation?" The question escaped through gritted teeth. Sish made an unhappy little noise, shifting her weight. The places where the soft scales of her shining body made contact with Cerise's skin were slick with sweat, and she couldn't bear to move her away. Even though it was hideously unpleasant. She looked up then, in time to see him look back at her and frown.

"No? That'd be a real first." Her mouth was twisted into a sneer when she said it, but she hadn't meant to. It had just slipped out, like the question before it. Like all of the things she'd said. The frown deepened, pinched all through, and she didn't know what to make of it. "What do you give a damn about, then? If it isn't 'a little upset', and it sure as ticks isn't my feelings—" Cerise stopped herself again, choking on it.

There was, she thought tiredly, nothing for it. She'd already come this far. She might as well just barrel through, and come out the other side. Give in to the totality of her defeat.

"I have no idea what you expected my reaction to be. I am sorry if I upset Ms. Ebele, or the child, I didn't..." She dredged out every word like she was scraping them over hot coals. Cerise wanted to run her hands through her hair, but it was all tied in that great clocking knot at the back of her head. She only made it so far, though she did pull out some stray locks in the process. "Contrary to popular belief, I am not actually a monster on purpose. That's why I would have liked— That's why you should have— I was at the school, you do recall, when— Nngh."

She didn't know what else to say; she couldn't quite bring herself to admit the source of her momentary—momentary!—discomfort. Or put so fine a point on the rest of it. He should know. Even if he didn't, he should. Why should she have to say it? All of it dissolved into a wordless, frustrated growl. Cerise crossed her arms in front of her, and she didn't quite look her father in the eye.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Afternoon on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

I
don’t know! he wanted to plead, halfway to losing his godsdamn mind. I don’t know why we’re having this conversation! Because I don’t understand, he thought to say; I understand that much, but I don’t understand a godsdamn thing more, other than this afternoon’s gone sideways faster than a ship running hot –

Sish’s claws pricked more holes in Cerise’s poor shirt, curling in. The miraan’s muscles were twitching; her beady little eyes blinked, and a noise came up from her throat, barely a chitter. Cerise’s shirt was plastered to her with sweat, the collar dark.

He was sweating himself, and tired. He shifted again off his damn hip, staring into the sour twist of her pale face.

That’d be a first, she flung at him.

It sunk in his stomach. It didn’t land, because it couldn’t; it felt like an insulting telegram sent to the wrong address. He frowned deeper, not sure what to reach for, what to hold onto. It sure as ticks isn’t my feelings, she said, and a little twitch shuddered across his face. He blinked and looked down and away, his own lip twisting.

Cerise’s voice was thick when she went on, like every word had gotten stuck halfway up. He hadn’t expected her to apologize, much less for Ebele and Isu’wu; he shut his eyes.

“It’s not,” he said, then, “You didn’t…” He let out a little huff in his throat.

Monster, he heard Cerise say. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. The word went through him like an arrow, snagging on everything it passed. Nothing much before then had hurt, not like that; the inside of him felt raw and bloody, now.

He thought perhaps it would’ve been easier if he could’ve peeled off his face right here and now, and all this sweating skin, and showed her what he was. Would she have felt better, knowing the real monster was standing across from her? He didn’t know; he didn’t think so.

He couldn’t make sense of the rest of it, either. School, she said, and he opened his eyes, watching her lower her hand from the tangled mess of her hair. It must’ve been pulling laoso by now; there were tangled curls falling all about her face, and one coil plastered firmly to her forehead. Sish crouched in what might’ve been a dozen little wispy waterfalls, watching.

Which school? he wanted to ask. Did something happen at Thul’amat, with the imbali there? He felt a tug of fear, first; then he thought, No, no –

His mouth opened slightly, then shut.

Cerise broke off with an exasperated snarl. He thought she sounded almost – embarrassed, he realized, with a sinking feeling. She wasn’t looking him in the eye.

It felt like a long time before he could speak; he didn’t know what his face was doing. “You’re not a monster,” he said. “You’re not a monster.”

He looked at her a moment, swallowing tightly. He felt dizzy with the heat; he didn’t think she felt much better, least of all after that.

“Damn me, I didn’t think.” It had been Intas; he’d barely known a thing about Brunnhold then, though he’d heard about it in the aftermath at Bethas. He paused. He thought the last thing Cerise would want now was his pity, or his excuses, or his questions. Were you there? he wanted to ask, still. Even if she hadn’t been –

He shook his head, running a hand through his own sweaty hair. “You didn’t upset ada’na Ebele or Isu’wu,” he said, a little rough. “You should’ve seen the way Isu’wu looked at you when you left. If she was afraid at first, it was probably because she saw me, with my clocking red hair – it’s been a hard Loshis for them, but that has everything to do with politicians like me. Ada’na Ebele said you made the fitting easier than most; she liked you.”

He didn’t think Ebele had been lying then, either; Ebele’s lies, he knew, were usually of a more sartorial nature. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “You don’t have to believe me, but I’ll keep it in mind, for the future. Let’s get out of this clocking sun, all right? The cafe’s not too far.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Afternoon

She had spat it out there in the shaded, empty street, and she didn't know what she thought would come back. There was no precedent here; Cerise didn't think she'd had a conversation like this with her father once in her entire life. No, that wasn't true. She knew that wasn't true, though she couldn't think of the others. Rare, though. Too rare for any kind of pattern, and that had been before—

That had been with the Perceptivist, and not the Clairvoyant. It was an unsettlingly different kind of conversation. Like she was trying to find her way through Thul Ka with a map for Vienda in her hands. She crossed her arms, as if she could push off the shame of having spoken at all with the gesture. Reject shame. Wasn't that what Mrs. Ibutatu had said, on that day that felt like it might as well have happened a thousand years ago or just that morning?

There was a long pause. Cerise didn't think she could be the one to break it; she'd used all the words she could say, now. Her arms pulled in tighter, and she wouldn't look up. Not for all the world. You're not a monster, he said after a while. She wasn't looking at him still and she clocking well wasn't going to now. There was some kind of horrible pressure in her eyes—the weather, the heat. He repeated it, and she knew she was lying to herself.

Cerise thought then, absurdly, of the plate in the parlor. Repaired, just as Mrs. Ibutatu had suggested, and put back out on display. Like it wasn't smashed up, or like it was worth keeping anyway.

She did look up when he spoke again. Looked up and snorted, arms relaxing not even a fraction. She couldn't tell what to make of his face, in the wake of those words, that phrase. Repeated twice. She swallowed, and blinked. "That seems abundantly clear."

She didn't know what to do with any of it. Did Ms. Ebele's approval mean anything to her? She didn't think so, or at least she wouldn't have said so before this moment. But she found herself oddly pleased, somewhere in the tangle of other things. Mostly she just felt like she'd been sunburned inside and out. Raw and peeling. Too clocking sensitive to the touch.

"All right," she grunted. It was the most she could manage. It was too hot, and after all of that too dry and too humid at the same time. Cerise uncrossed her arms. She fussed with Hat a little, resettling it on her head after having tried unsuccessfully to run her hand through her hair.

They kept walking, and she tried to sort out what had just happened. Was it really so simple? Had she really just—had it been a mistake? No, she told herself fiercely. Maybe he didn't know why she would have wanted to know, why it mattered. But that didn't change any part of the rest. The parts that had really... had hurt. She could admit that, now, in the privacy of her mind. It had hurt, and it still hurt.

She just kept thinking of that plate, over and over again, shining on the shelf.

The cafe, when they came to it, was more or less the same as every other cafe in the whole city. At least to Cerise's eyes; all of them that she had ever seen seemed to be of a similar type. The nature of the business, she supposed. There was an outdoor seating area, bordered by a sort of rope fence. Mostly her father had been correct: there were several small tables outside with bright umbrellas in the middle to shade them from the worst of the sun, and all were unoccupied but for two of them. Voices drifted out softly from the open door, and she thought she could see a few more people inside. At one table by the window there was an elderly man sitting alone, his clothes crisp and white, finishing the last of his lunch and reading a newspaper.

The other occupied table had two faces she knew rather better. Unfortunately. Cerise grimaced. Of all the cafes in the entire city, of all the times, why was Antoinette Roumanille at this one? She almost suggested they go somewhere else. The last thing she wanted was to deal with Roumanille in this clocking heat. She was starting to nurse a headache, and she had clenched her jaw so hard the muscles still hurt.

But the seating area was shady, and there were plants in bright pots for Sish to destroy happily, and her feet hurt. Roumanille wasn't stupid enough to pick a fight with her in front of her father; her own would never allow it. Unlike Cerise, Roumanille actually cared. Cerise slid into a seat with an exhausted huff. With any luck, Roumanille would say nothing to her at all and they could pretend they never saw each other.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Afternoon on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

A
to’gow was as sparse as he’d thought it might be, this time of day. The empty tables were a relief. He thought he recognized the arata sitting just this side of the rope fence, his face a map of deeply-carved grooves, his lips curved down as he studied the paper through silver-rimmed spectacles. The remains of a scramble of eggs with tomatoes and onions, and a few slices of fried plantain, sat on a plate nearby. A tall glass of water sweated on a coaster.

He didn’t look up as they made their way around, though he saw Sish glinting bright gold in the corner of his eye, underneath Hat, which Cerise had put back over the mess of her braid.

He was almost delirious with the heat. With everything. He wiped a thick film of sweat from his forehead as he closed his parasol; he shook his hand of a few droplets, grunting irritatedly. The air was thick, and he felt itchy.

He heard a huff and turned to look as Cerise took a seat.

He had looked over at her once or twice, since. If he’d shut his eyes, it would’ve been printed on the backs of his eyelids: Cerise’s eyes, looking just barely red-rimmed. The tight, hunched cross of her arms. He wasn’t sure if he’d eased anything or just made it worse, with all his fumbling insistence; he thought the latter rather more likely. She must’ve been hungry, and that, at least, he could do something about.

He caught Cerise looking at one of the other tables briefly; her face was even sourer than it’d been. He followed her eyes just long enough to see a couple of coppery-red heads under the umbrella.

One of them was a lass Cerise’s age, must’ve been, with a delicate cast of features and high color in her cheeks; the other – shit on it, he thought. Judge flooding Roumanille. He frowned slightly, pinched, but glanced away when Cerise did.

Cerise hadn’t looked at him. With Hat off, she wasn’t looking so benny herself. The splotches of red didn’t look well on her stark-pale skin, and there was a sheen of sweat on her face; she looked like she was holding her jaw so tight it had gotten stuck. Sish had nevertheless stretched to examine a leafy plant in a bright pot just behind them, snuffling and chittering, balancing on Cerise’s shoulders to reach out one clawed paw to the dirt.

He couldn’t seem to think of anything that had just passed between them; he felt dizzy, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

It was a bizarre, quiet meal.

Ato’gow was an arata place; it doubled as a kofi har’aq, and the smells and sounds of roasting kofi and conversation drifted out one of the low, open windows near the hearth and the calypt tables. Most of the late afternoon crowd were there. Their server was an ada’xa Dzúru, a quiet, pimply young man of Thul’amat age who mumbled more than spoke, which seemed to suit the mood of their table just fine.

The eggs and plantains, the flatbread and chutney, went by in a whirl. He could hear the soft clack of the Roumanilles’ forks and spoons; eating with his shaky hands, he thanked the gods neither of them had seen him. The cool water was a balm, and he’d recovered himself a little by the time they finished – Cerise looked a little better, too, by her colouring, and Sish had only done a little damage.

The umbrella’s shadow had shifted only a little by the time he got up to pay. He shifted on his aching legs, stretching, and moved to go inside.

“Anatole,” said Judge Roumanille brightly, and he froze as if he had been shot.

“How – good to see you here!” It wasn’t hard, all the same, bending his voice back into the shape of the Incumbent’s; he smiled Anatole’s thin smile. “What a pleasant surprise,” he intoned. He couldn’t for the life of him remember the other man’s name; perhaps that was the impetus.

“And young Cerise, too! A pleasant surprise indeed.”

He was already making his way to the door; after a cursory bow to Cerise, the judge was following him, polished Anaxi shoes clicking on the patio. He glanced back once, at Cerise at the redheaded lass – just a glimpse, his brow knitting – but then he was inside, and Roumanille was on him like a hound.

He wasn’t sure how long the judge kept him before he ambled off to the water closet. Feeling wrung out and sagging like a wet towel, he paid at the counter, then made to come back.

He heard it before he saw it – the lass’ voice, with a sharp, sneering curl, quiet but damned clearly-enunciated. He frowned, lingering, hesitating; then he pushed the door open, coming back out into the light, squinting just in time to see –

“Gracious Lady,” he said, both eyebrows shooting up.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Afternoon

Their lunch was the most quiet meal Cerise thought she'd had in a long time. She couldn't decide if she was grateful or upset. Indifferent would be ideal, but she knew she wasn't that.

It was too clocking hot to think about what she was or wasn't. Before the sat, she saw her father's eyes travel to the other table, two deeply Anaxi diners seated at it. They both knew, regretfully, exactly who was seated at it. Cerise wondered, suddenly, what her father made of Judge Roumanille; they had to be at least passingly familiar. If not from work, than from the scattered handful of times Cerise had launched herself at the man's daughter. Each one of them deserved, she thought stubbornly; each and every one. She had never thought about it before, and she didn't like thinking about it now.

Cerise thought of the warning her father had given her back at Ms. Ebele's, about the heat, and making sure to have enough water. She had hardly touched it then, and regretted her own stubbornness now. She hadn't precisely disbelieved him; she had been here seven days already now. But the morning had taken so much out of her she felt dizzy, and no matter how she was dressed it wasn't light enough to keep a thin sheen of sweat from coating every inch of her skin. She felt, quite frankly, absolutely vile. Inside and out.

At least Sish seemed to be back to her own cheerful self again, happily engaged in some light destruction of property. Cerise kept only half an eye on it; she hadn't the energy, just now, to do anything to stop the miraan from whatever she wanted to be doing. Perhaps Sish knew this, and took pity on her mistress. The plant was left largely intact, with only a few leaves destroyed here and there.

She hadn't the energy, either, to stop herself from the concerned frown that flickered across her face watching her father's hands shake. She shouldn't feel so, she reminded herself, but it was a kind of dull, hollow sentiment. She shouldn't, and she did, and that was all there was for it. Her own hands weren't so steady anyway, muscles strangely exhausted by how tightly she'd held her fists for so long. She wasn't conservative about water as they ate their eggs and whatever else. By the time her father rose to pay, she thought she might feel a little better. Physically, at any rate, which was the only part of her she could do anything about.

Her father rose, and shortly after so too did Cerise's eyebrows. Judge Roumanille called out to him, and her father looked like he'd been punched in the gut. Not a positive relationship then, to address her idle curiosity from earlier. He smiled, but it was that kind of thin, professional look she'd seen on his face often enough. Directed at her, even, if she was proving particularly difficult to manage. She didn't snort when he said "pleasant surprise", thought it was an effort.

Cerise inclined her head from her seat, not bothering to get up. She smiled, and it was even thinner than her father's expression had been; she was not nearly so professional a liar. If the Judge was irritated by it, she couldn't tell and she certainly didn't care. Both men disappeared inside, and Cerise was left alone with her thoughts and Sish, in a quiet broken mostly by the sounds of the city and the buzzing of insects.

One large, particularly loathsome insect made her way over to the table where Cerise sat. Cerise looked up, feeling more exhausted already. There had been some measure of hope in her breast that with their respective fathers due back at any moment, Antoinette would leave her alone. She should have known better than to hope. That was the theme of the day, after all.

"Vauquelin," she purred, leaning forward to rest her hand on the table, "how lovely to see you here. And how unexpected! You look... Well, that outfit is certainly very you, isn't it?" Cerise rolled her eyes. Antoinette had never quite grown into her face, but she certainly carried herself like she had. Cerise could grudgingly admit that of the two of them, Antoinette likely seemed the better daughter. She was dressed neatly and in the Anaxi style, even in this heat. Cerise noted with some cruel amusement that sweat had pooled where one expected it might; she looked somewhat more wilted than she usually did.

"Yes, it is truly shocking, to see me in the city to which we came for the same purpose, when you have seen me nearly every day. Lovely to see you, great catching up, so on and so forth. Go away, Roumanille." Cerise looked away, disinterested. She didn't want to fight with Antoinette, even if the very brush of her field made every hair on the back of her neck stand on end in disgust. She had never wanted her father to come back quite so much in her whole life—at least, not since she started school.

Roumanille the younger did not, alas, go away. She had come over for a purpose, Cerise could see it on that soft Anaxi face. Not just some passing needling in the guise of keeping good relations with the Vauquelin family; Antoinette was on a mission. Cerise felt the chutney sour in her stomach.

"Now, there's no need to be that way! You'd think we weren't dear friends, the way you go on." Cerise snorted. This was a new tactic; she thought both of their fathers being inside had something to do with it. "I just haven't had a chance to catch up with you. You've been so occupied, since the Arts Fair."

The Arts Fair—so that was what she wanted. She should have known. There was no way Roumanille would miss her chance to be repulsive when Cerise had practically handed her the opportunity with a signed note. Wrapped up with a bow. This was not the day for it. Any other day, maybe. Literally any other time, she could have brushed off the persistent buzzing of Antoinette Roumanille in her ears. She did, in fact, do just that. They had been going to school together for a long, long time.

"Don't," Cerise warned; it was a mistake. Those washed-out blue eyes lit up. Cerise grit her teeth and came to a stand. She had a solid three inches on Antoinette; she thought it best to remind her of it now. Antoinette, damn her to every hellish Ever that existed, wasn't deterred. Likely feeling secure in the fact that both of their fathers were just inside, and would return at any moment.

"Don't? Don't what, Vauquelin? I just wanted to ask you—is everything I heard about that night true? To hear Langley tell it, you threw yourself at McAllister and that halfbreed both. And poor Raquelle, half out of her mind with fright." That cultivated Brunnhold drawl poured into Cerise's ears and ran down all her spine, like vinegar over skin raw and peeling already from the sun. Anger sprang up then, pure and clean. Her hands clenched, and her teeth ground together.

She saw the shadow in the doorway out of the corner of her eye. Her father, returning at last. She thought Antoinette would leave off then, and Cerise was disappointed. The clear, quiet sneer that came next was unexpected, then. Antoinette looked at her, a mask of disdain, and she spoke. "Does your father know that you're looking to pollute the family line, Vauquelin? Maybe I should tell—"

Cerise didn't hear the rest. She didn't need to. It didn't matter what was coming out of Antoinette's mouth. All of it was disgusting, and it always had been. That some of it was, in a way, true didn't make that much of a difference.

Damn it all, anyway. This city, this day, this whole clocking last couple of months. Damn her father and his letters and his tailors and his questions. Diana and her tear-stained face, looking at her in the reflection of the mirror. The way Ellie had looked at her, when the plate broke. The plate on the shelf, cracks all lined with gold. Em, hers again—and that sick feeling in the back of her mind where she was waiting to ruin it all over again. Cerise thought too of that black image of Naulus on the mantle, watching over everything. At least Cerise Vauquelin knew exactly how to feel about the things coming out of Antoinette Roumanille's mouth. Rage, simple and perfect.

Cerise curled her fist, her thumb tucked out of the way and all her knuckles aligned. There was no thought, just a brilliant burst of anger and action—the most pure and clean feeling she'd had all day, ending in the satisfying crack of Antoinette's jaw at the end of her fist.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Afternoon on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

...
heard about that night true? To hear Langley tell it, you threw yourself at McAllister and that halfbreed both. And poor Raquelle, half out of her mind with fright.

He’d frozen for a moment behind the door, another glass of cold water in his hand. He wasn’t sure what had stopped him, except that it jolted through him, that feeling he was hearing something he shouldn’t’ve been, hearing something Anatole shouldn’t’ve been. When he finally pushed through the door, he squinted at first in the light, the noonday sun blaring down between the rooftops.

He got a glimpse, before it shattered. Roumanille’s pig-nosed lass was leaned with her hand on the tabletop, her crisp Anaxi dress a slim silhouette. He could just see Cerise past her, an impression – a twist of a pale face, a few straying dark curls.

Does your father know that you’re looking to pollute the family line, Vauquelin? Maybe I should tell –

Cerise was fast, he registered somewhere, dully. She flung her skinny pale arm out like a viper; there was no flourish to it, and she didn’t reach for Roumanille’s coiffed red hair. He saw the flash of her knuckles – thumb on the outside, underneath; the sharp-edged knuckles first – and heard the crunch as they connected to the other lass’ jawline.

Miss Roumanille shrieked, first.

“Cerise!” Anatole’s deep voice snapped out, carrying well across the tables; the sound of it startled even him, and kicked him into motion.

Somehow he was still holding the glass of water, fingertips bleached white against the glass. For all he held it tight, barely a ripple went across; his hands were steady. “Cerise,” he repeated, coming closer ‘til he felt the iron wall of her physical field. He set the glass down on the table amid all the bones of lunch.

The coppery pile of Roumanille’s hair had sagged off-center, and she was holding her jaw, her face a bloodred knot. “Animal,” she spluttered thickly, and he blinked at the sight of blood between her straight white teeth. “Like a – like a w-wild animal!”

His ears were ringing. He looked from Cerise to the Roumanille lass, her pale blue eyes fixed on Cerise. Her nostrils flared; her gaze jerked over to him, and the scarlet of her cheeks deepened. “She hit me,” she said, her chest rising and falling quickly. “Mr. Vauquelin, she’s done it again,” she breathed, her field flickering redshift and blue and frightened yellow, all at once. “She hit me – I hadn’t – I wasn’t –”

She was speaking, he thought, as if she’d made this case before. As if he ought to know her.

He could feel the prickling of heat in his own cheeks; he knew his face must’ve been blotchy red, as was its wont. He could feel his spine ramrod-straight, every muscle in him tight as a deer’s at the sound of carriage-wheels, his face aching with the weight of the frown. Halfbreed. The word kept turning itself over in his mind, like a busted-up phonograph. Halfbreed…

You had something to tell me? he wanted to demand. About the family line? It flooded him, hot and thick; it went through his field – he couldn’t seem to help it, in all its strangeness – the mona shivering deep red.

But he heard Sish in the pot behind, scratching in the dirt, chittering; and he felt Cerise at his side, and he thought he saw something dark speckling her fist in the corner of his eye. “Not another word, Miss Roumanille,” he said, almost through grit teeth.

He thought her mouth had come open; he wasn’t looking at her, then. He was fumbling in his satchel, taking out his own old, stained kerchief where he had tucked it away. “Cerise,” he said, “are you all right?”

To hear Langley tell it. McAllister, he thought, Raquelle – out of her mind with fright – something slid into place in his head. The bank, sending for him in Dkanat. Was this what you got yourself arrested over? he wanted to ask. Was it – him? What the hell happened?

I didn’t hear it, he wanted to lie; I didn’t hear a word of what she said.

He supposed it was too late for that. He offered her the kerchief instead. Roumanille was staring at him, but he couldn't seem to focus anywhere but Cerise, just now.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Afternoon

Oh, it felt good to wind her arm back and smash it quick and simple into that soft round jawline. To hear her shriek, you'd think Cerise had knocked a tooth out—she knew she hadn't. She simply hadn't the muscle mass for force enough to do it, more was the pity. For just a breath, the whole world made a glorious kind of sense. Even with Antoinette's shrieking.

Then she heard her father's voice boom out from the doorway. She had known he was there when she did it of course. She just hadn't cared. In a way, she almost thought she had done it because he was there to see her do so. He had asked her, more than a month ago now, if she preferred to fight with her fists.

Witness it, she thought, and see for yourself.

He set a water glass down on the table, in the ruins of what had been that strange, silent lunch. Cerise kept her hand by her side, white-knuckled and ready—just in case. If Antoinette opened her mouth again, if she decided to keep talking about things that she knew nothing about, were none of her godsdamn business, Cerise wouldn't hesitate to see if she really could knock a tooth out of it. She didn't want to look away to her father's face; she didn't reach for his field either, to see what she could find in it. Cerise kept her eyes fixed firmly and only on Antoinette.

Animal, Antoinette called her. Cerise rolled her eyes. That was an old stand-by, and she was well used to hearing it. The first time she had hit Miss Roumanille, they had both been thirteen and fourteen years old—barely on Junior Varsity, children. That was the first time Antoinette had called her an animal; that was the first time she had really gotten to think about how satisfying it was to break her knuckles across that loathsome little face.

She had gotten in trouble then. It had been worth it. It was, Cerise felt, worth it now. She was run ragged letting people say whatever it was they wanted about her, trying to keep herself in check, keep herself on the team. That was worth it, too. But it was exhausting.

Antoinette looked to Cerise's father; Mr. Vauquelin, in that simpering voice she used when she thought it would get her pity. Cerise looked to him also, and there was nothing of apology there. Antoinette, Cerise noted with satisfaction, was afraid. Good. If she'd thought of that earlier, maybe she wouldn't have had to cram her knuckles into that horrible mouth. Her father looked—blotchy. Frowning, drawn tight as a bowstring. He kept looking at Antoinette; Cerise felt the red in his face mirror in his field, deeper than she would have expected. Like his face, like what was splattered across her knuckles.

Cerise flicked her eyes down to Sish, to see if the little drakelet was okay. She was happily rummaging in the dirt of the plant pot, totally oblivious to the commotion. It was one of the sweetest sights she thought she had ever seen. Apart from any other time Cerise had seen Sish behave so. There was so much dirt on her feathers; she was definitely getting a bath tonight. The hotel bathroom would have to bear it for sure now.

Her eyebrows were dark, sharp arches on her face—it was Antoinette he snapped at, not her. Antoinette looked just as shocked. Her jaw fell open, the insipid blue of her eyes small in a field of white. They had both rather expected him to take Miss Roumanille's side. Or her father's, which was really more relevant. Instead he told Antoinette to stop talking—a little late on that advice, of course—and asked her if she was all right.

"I'm, uh. I'm fine." She took the handkerchief and looked down at it, confused. It was much more... used-looking than she was used to seeing anyone of their station carry. Except herself, really. When she remembered to bring one with her. She wiped off her knuckles, grimacing at where the blood had already managed to dry. Cerise licked her thumb and rubbed it over the more stubborn spots.

"Is she all right? S-she's the one who—I'm the victim here!" Antoinette squealed. Cerise couldn't help it; she looked at Antoinette and her thin lips curled back from her teeth. Hitting her had been glorious, but it hadn't been enough. She wanted to do it again, but not without provocation. She wanted to go for a run, but not in these shoes or this weather. She wanted—she wanted—

—She wanted to know how much of that her father had heard, actually. It would be too much to hope he had missed it all. As the adrenaline receded from her brain, Cerise started to think again. He hadn't asked her much, about the bail she'd paid. And he'd said, before... She couldn't put stock in it. What little color there was in her pale, narrow face started to drain out of it.

"What, uh, how long were you—" Cerise began, head starting to spin again.

"Wait until the school hears about this," Antoinette hissed, flicking those pallid blue eyes between herself and her father. "So sad about your position on the team. Guess it's Gior for you after all, Vauquelin." A smirk spread across her awful, piggish face. She had won, in the end.

Broken plate, shredded upholstery, the miserable way Paolo Emmerson had looked at her in the bar. Her stepmother's face. She tried to grab on to feeling she'd had when Antoinette's mouth split open, but it was slipping out of her grasp.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Afternoon on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

F
ine, Cerise said. Better off, he thought unbidden, than Miss Roumanille’s jawline. Damn, he wanted to blurt out, that’s going to swell. It must’ve been the dizzy heat, the surprise. He watched numbly as Cerise looked down at Anatole’s embroidered kerchief, hesitating a moment; he saw the creased dark spatter over the delicate monogram. That was, he remembered helpfully, where he’d cut himself almost a year ago on a corkscrew, trying to open up his second bottle of wine.

It would’ve been – Bethas, he thought. He’d known what raen were, then; he hadn’t known what a Cerise was.

She wiped off her knuckles with it – they weren’t too split; it’d been a damn good punch, and he thought much of the sap was Roumanille’s – and he shook the thought aside, not sure where it’d come from. The godsdamn shrill was saying something, but he watched Cerise, his brow furrowed.

The expression on her face changed suddenly. If she’d been red before, her cheeks paled slowly, ashen. He pushed the glass of water closer to her on the table, hopeful.

What, she said first, then, uh, then: how long were you…

“I –“ Gods, he didn’t want to say it. Not in front of her, either, he thought. Don’t worry about that just now, he wanted to say, but he clamped his mouth shut instead, his gaze snapping to Roumanille again.

She was all crimson edged with puce, all the way to the roots of her hair, except for the flashing whites of her eyes. There was spittle on her lips, and the set of her jaw was starting to look uneven. He blinked, stiffening. Her lips curled into a worse sneer, he thought, than Anatole’s – than his – and he glanced at Cerise, with that strange look in her grey eyes, with that strange set to her thin lips, like she was somewhere else.

His jaw tingled. So did his fist, white-knuckled on the table. He looked at Roumanille, and his stomach flipped, and he wasn’t sure what he was going to do or say, for a few moments; he felt like he was being possessed, like he’d had too much liquor and a man had looked at him the wrong way in a Voedale dive bar.

“The school,” he said sharply, “will not hear about this, if your father’s membership in the Pendulum means anything to him. If his position means anything to you, because it was given to him by the Pendulum.”

It was falling out of his mouth, word by word, before he could put it back. It was familiar, this motion, if not the words; he leaned, and he leaned harder, and he felt like a lockjawed banderwolf. There are things I know about him, he wanted to say, things I know about all your ilk – I’m so heavy with the knowing, with what I have to do every godsdamn day – “If your position means anything to you, Miss Roumanille, you’ll be grateful she didn’t break your jaw, and you won’t say another word about it, or another word – another word to my daughter.”

His face was prickling numb; he wasn’t sure what expression was on it, but it must not’ve been pretty, by the way Roumanille was looking at him.

He shifted, starting suddenly; he felt dizzy-headed, and he wasn’t sure Cerise was much better. He darted a glance at the door, and then back at Roumanille. The judge would be back soon enough, he thought. He wasn’t sure he wanted the lass’ old man to catch Cerise with bloody knuckles, and he thought getting her away from this chroveshit – from whatever was going to spill out of Antoinette Roumanille’s mouth next, and in front of him – would be better than lingering second longer.

“Do you understand me?” He turned back to Roumanille, all the same, and he did not look away from her pale blue eyes.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Afternoon

Cerise took the glass of water while Antoinette spoke, because she couldn't just then think of anything else to do. All of the things she had thought— No, that wasn't right. She hadn't thought, not very clearly, she had just acted. Stood up and curled her fist as well as she knew how to do—better than it had been the first time, or even the time before that, it had been a few years—and acted. Wasn't that what felt so good about it? Just giving herself over to instinct and muscle and bone, none of it hard or complicated or confusing.

Not until after. Not until now, with Antoinette's sweat-slicked, red face, comfortable in her victory. I may have finally done it, she thought, and she felt a little sick. It was one thing to get in fights back home. That was bad enough. But here? Here, where they were supposed to be examples, supposed to be... Cerise had earned her place because of hard-won skill; it seemed right that she would lose it because of nature.

She took a sip of the water, mechanically. Her throat felt better, at least. Easier to swallow what was stuck in it.

There was so much white noise inside of Cerise's head, she almost missed it when her father started to speak. And the words were so strange, she stared at him anyway, not sure she'd heard right. His voice cut across the silence between her and Antoinette. The school, he started. You’ll be grateful she didn’t break your jaw, he continued, and Cerise didn't know what to feel precisely but she thought she smiled. A strange, confused kind of smile she tried to hide behind the rim of the glass.

She thought she might be—she thought it all might have made her feel a little better. Comforted, maybe, although that wasn't quite right. It wasn't like she liked having to lean into the weight of her father's position to sort out the consequences of her actions. But she hadn't done it, had she? Hadn't even had to ask. Roumanille blanched.

I didn't expect this either, Cerise almost wanted to offer to the other girl. I would never have expected it—we're both equally surprised here. It was this funny little thought underneath all the others, a strange thread that wound around and through. Had her father ever...? Some of that feeling she had been reaching for came back to her, all twisted up. No less real for it.

Even still, this situation wasn't going to get any better. His eyes darted to the door, and hers did too. Judge Roumanille wasn't going to be in the cafe forever. Antoinette struck her as the more easily intimidated of the two, no matter what her father said. If it were so easy to wreck a man, she thought, things might be different. But this wasn't like—wasn't like, came the sour memory, the way he had dealt with Emiel. The odds were not so strongly in his favor, here.

Cerise still wanted to know, did you hear? He had started to say; she almost thought he hadn't wanted to.

"I..." Antoinette's face twisted and pinched. She looked from Cerise to her father, and back again. Something hard set in her face, her hand on the side of her mouth. "Yes, Mr. Vauquelin," she muttered, her eyes still on Cerise. Her tone was dark and her color was positively dreadful. She really should get out of the sun, dressed like that. Cerise couldn't help it; she grinned at Antoinette, a toothy drake's kind of smile.

"Well, this has been lovely Antoinette, but I really think we should be moving along. So nice to catch up. Shall we, Father?" Cerise had some more of that water, and she pulled Sish out of the pot of dirt with a squealing protest. There was a moment where she looked at her father to confirm, and something else was on her face too. Only a moment, though, and then she was pushing past Antoinette to the street.

Antoinette muttered something to her as she passed; Cerise barely heard. Her head was too full and empty at once. Her pulse still felt too high, too strong. She didn't know what any of that had been. It seemed unwise to examine it just then. Cerise kept as brisk a pace as she thought she could get away with, and she didn't turn back to look at her father until the cafe was out of sight.