[Closed] So Much to Pay For

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Afternoon on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

Y
es, Mr. Vauquelin.

It wasn’t pleasure he felt; it was a damned familiar feeling, though, and it might’ve been just west of satisfaction. You give me a job, some part of him whispered.

For a second, he didn’t think Roumanille’d fallen for it; even with all he knew, a little dirty laundry wasn’t a death sentence, and he’d not a single clocking clue about the judge’s other connections. He might’ve been a King’s man, for all he knew. He wasn’t sure what in hell he’d’ve done if the lass had pushed harder, or worse, thrown a fit and gone to get her da.

She didn’t, though. Her eyes flicked shocked and sullen from him to Cerise, and she relented, in the end. And so it wasn’t quite satisfaction, though it was somewhere to the west of it; and it wasn’t at all pleasure, though there was an edge to it like the sanding of a thing smooth, like the tying of a knot.

When he looked over, Cerise was grinning, her face – so much like his – drake-sharp with it. The sight of it made him feel like maybe he’d made a mistake; the sight of it warmed him through.

That, he wanted to say when Cerise spoke again, one red eyebrow shooting up, was wholly unnecessary. Shall we, Father? she asked, and even if he’d had the will, he hadn’t the time to reply.

Cerise took a last drink of water. Then she was pulling Sish out, clawfuls of dirt and leaf and all, and turning on her heel, and going. Roumanille muttered something, and he looked after Cerise with her clipped-sharp gait and Sish in her arms.

He didn’t waste a moment more there; he couldn’t’ve, because Cerise was already halfway down the street, and he might’ve lost her. He didn’t even look at Roumanille. He brushed by, and if he heard the door to the cafe open behind him, he didn’t look over his shoulder. He just went.

He was a little breathless before he was halfway to catching up with her. You’re going in the wrong direction, he wanted to call after her. The street was snaking down, the breezes carrying stronger river-smells. Cerise walked like somebody in a fever, and he half-stumbled after her, down onto an even narrower street.

Are you all right? he wanted to ask again. He didn’t dare.

He remembered her grin; he remembered the blanch of her face, too, and the way she’d begun to look like all that held her up was invisible strings. Polluting the family line, he remembered. His head was a whirl.

His pulse was thundering in his ears. He knew he oughtn’t’ve stepped in, now; the memory of it felt like it had come from somebody else’s mind. He still felt it – that not-quite-satisfaction – and something about the strength of it turned his stomach, now; that he could still feel it made it almost worse. His throat felt dry, like he hadn’t spoken in months. He couldn’t even think of the Roumanilles back at Ato’gow. It felt like a dream he’d just woken up from, except the knowledge that it was real kept sinking through him like concrete, its sharp edges snagging and tearing as it went down.

And Cerise –

“Cerise,” he said, as soon as he had drawn even with her. He reached out, but he faltered; he knew better than to try and catch her by the shoulder. He didn’t have to.

I’m sorry, he got the oddest urge to say. I didn’t know it was that bad. Are you all right? There was nothing he could say that didn’t seem to him patronizing.

He caught his breath a moment, putting out a hand to lean against the wall. “You –” He coughed, and then something like a smile twitched across his face; it was tentative, and his brow was knit. “That was a damn good throw,” he blurted out, before he could say anything else. “I’m surprised you didn’t break Miss Roumanille’s jaw.”

She had asked him, he thought with a pang. She had asked him what she already knew. “I was,” he started, softer, the smile breaking. “Long enough to…” His fingers curled against the stucco; he swallowed.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Afternoon

Where was she going? Cerise had no idea. No clear path, other than away. Away from Roumanille, all the vile things that came out of that smug mouth. Away from the cafe and its little shady tables. Away from her own smile, the stinging across her knuckles. She still had her father's handkerchief clutched in her hands. She'd give it back, eventually. Away—just, away.

All the same, she kept her shoulders straight and her head held high. Ato'gow disappeared behind her. She didn't turn back to see if her father was following after. Either he was, or he wasn't. She couldn't look, not yet. Downhill, her feet were carrying her downhill. Towards the river, maybe, or that was something she imagined. She honestly couldn't tell.

Sish, at least, behaved herself. Aside from a few unhappy little chitters, which were soothed away by an absent-minded touch or two, the miraan stayed in place, curled up on Cerise's thin, stiff shoulders. When Cerise finally stopped walking, she was in a narrow little street. Residential, maybe. There didn't seem to be any businesses that she could see, anyway. The whole of it was quiet and empty.

She heard her name and she turned. So he had followed her after all. Her jaw ached from holding it so, from carving the lines of her frown so deep in she didn't know how she'd ever get them out. A feeling something like guilt stabbed her. She had been walking too fast. That "after all" was ridiculous; she knew he had come after her, and she hadn't waited or slowed down or even looked.

Why did you do that? She didn't think she could ask. She didn't think she could bear the answer, any more than she could bear asking all of the other questions she wanted to. Like why take Mama's book from her, when he didn't remember either of them. (Oh, she tried to forget that part, but it came into the back of her mind over and over. Stronger than Diana's voice, louder than her own.) Or write her letters, or take her out now at all. None of it added up to anything she understood.

Her mouth opened. Cerise closed it again with a huff. She didn't know what needed saying, now. She stood still, but all her muscles tensed as if they were prepared to run. You, he started to say, and Cerise expected the question to come then, or the answer.

"I'm not strong enough," Cerise said automatically, honestly, too stunned to give a sharper answer. A damn good throw? It was at that, actually. She had remembered how it was done, and had the scuffs on her knuckles to prove it. Cerise flexed that hand, feeling the way the tense skin stretched over her bones and reminded her exactly which parts had made contact with Miss Antoinette Roumanille. "To generate enough... force. But, uh, thank you."

Cerise shifted her weight onto one foot, lifting the opposite one slightly off the street. Trying to find a way of standing that pulled her feet away from her boots. The brisk walk had really done her no good at all. Her eyes made their way back to her father's face, to the way he leaned against the wall. He had been smiling, in a weird sort of way. He wasn't now.

"Ah," she said. Long enough, was it. She sighed, heavily. Long enough to what? To hear—? Which parts? She felt a little ill. "Well, I did mention I'm not precisely well-liked. Antoinette is a particularly egregious example."

You've met her, she wanted to say. There were meetings, when I was younger. Lots of them. Until they gave up on calling you in for them, and Diana too. They wouldn't listen to just Diana by herself, anyway. Something about explaining all of that exhausted her. It would only have been a distraction anyway.

"It's not all true, what she said," Cerise added after a tense moment's pause. "So don't go expecting any McAllister son-in-laws." She looked down at him, not sure what her face was doing. Not sneering or quite frowning; she thought she might have looked a little afraid. Not all of it was true; some of it was close enough.

You said you wouldn't interfere, before. It hadn't mattered then. Did you mean it? Because it matters, now. Cerise wanted to beg, but she couldn't. Wouldn't. I can't do that to Em, not again. There wouldn't be any picking back up after that—he couldn't ever have loved her enough for that. Nobody could.

Cerise shifted her weight again, sliding it all to the other side. The question held in her face. An insect buzzed near her ear, louder than anything. Sish turned her head and caught it in her mouth with a loud snap.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Afternoon on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

N
ot strong enough, Cerise said, after a moment. He blinked, raising his brows. To generate enough force, she said, and a smile twitched at his lips – for a second. He couldn’t seem to help it, watching her flex her hand. It didn’t ease any of the other lines on his face, or the pinch around his eyes. Thank you, she said, shifting her weight stiffly. She wasn’t looking at him; he watched her, and she glanced back up at him. He met her eye, glinting in the shadow of Hat.

Ah.

He saw the air go out of her, Sish’s little claws shifting on her shoulders. “Egregious is one word for her,” he grated, easing off the wall a bit. The soles of his feet ached against his sandals, but he’d caught his breath, and the twinging in his hip was easing off. Cerise had set a hell of a pace; he didn’t blame her, but he’d wondered for a little while whether it was Ato’gow or him she was trying to get away from.

Now, studying her face, he didn’t think he knew any better. His head ached – he was still fuzzy with the heat – but something about the last hour had woken him up; every line of her face was sharp, and there was enough shade here that neither the sun nor Hat drowned out her expression.

Perhaps he’d’ve rather it done. This expression he couldn’t put a name to. He had thought, at first, she looked angry; he’d expected her to whirl on him with curled lip and bared teeth, riff’s-edge sharp. But this look was watchful, he thought, as watchful as his on her.

He thought she might’ve left it there, though they both knew there was a great deal more in that long enough. He thought they’d’ve both been grateful for it, if she had.

She looked younger and tireder all at once, he thought, with that little frown on her thin lips, and none of the usual scowling lines. And there was something else, too, written in the tension around her eyes, and even in the way Sish was sitting on her rigid-tight shoulders. It wasn’t anger, and it sure as clocking hell wasn’t shame; it wasn’t anything he had ever seen her look at him with before, not even when he had brought up the bail. He thought it might be fear.

“I wasn’t,” he said, and his voice came out a little rough. “Not that I know who in the hells McAllister is.” He raised an eyebrow.

But? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask. Not all true, she’d said. There was something about the way she’d said it – or the fact that she’d said it at all. The fact that she’d wanted to make that much clear to him, regardless of everything else.

Did he – He wouldn’t ask that. This McAllister, whoever he is, had he laid hands on her? He knew better than to ask that, for all he ached with wondering.

And Emiel, then?

She was still looking at him like she expected something. He wasn’t sure what to say, and the snap of Sish’s jaws jerked his eyes away; he looked toward the drakelet for a moment, noisily gnashing up whatever it was she’d caught, then back to Cerise.

“Was that it, then? The bail,” he said quietly. “Cerise, if you or Emiel are in any trouble, I’d – you don’t have to – I know that’s…” He let out a huff, scratching his jaw. “I know it doesn’t make much sense coming from me, but please.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Afternoon

If her head hadn't been emptied of everything in it but the persistent sound of insects in her ears, Cerise thought she might have laughed. Or smiled, at least a little bit. There were a lot of words for Antoinette Roumanille, she agreed. Egregious was probably the most polite she could think of.

She could have stopped there. Both of them knew he'd heard more than enough. There wasn't much need to elaborate. He looked at her in a way she thought might have been measuring, but she couldn't find the result written there. She stared from under the shade of the Hat, and Cerise weighed what she should say against what she thought she might want to.

Cerise, honestly, couldn't tell if he were lying or telling the truth, when he said he didn't know who the McAllisters were. The idea that he was being honest almost brought a smile to her face; that was a thing to forget, given how much money they had to throw around. She could believe it, though. That made as much sense as the rest of it did, between the things he remembered and what he'd forgotten, and all the other changes besides. The difference, she supposed, between the Perceptivist and the Clairvoyant.

And still she looked, a question written somewhere on her face. She didn't want to ask, or maybe she did and she just couldn't tell. It held, anyway, through the snap of Sish's jaws, over the sound of her loud gnashing. He'd heard enough; he'd heard plenty. She just wanted to know if she had to be worried, she thought stubbornly. If it was better if she backed off now. Cerise thought of giving that extra key back, slipping it under the door or leaving it somewhere. She could even just—walk right into the bar, probably, and press it back into his hand, and... She didn't want to, oh gods did she not want to. But she would rather that than do more damage than she already had.

Her father began to answer, quietly. Something about hearing Em's name again in his voice made her wobble a little. Cerise curled one hand into a fist, letting the pain of the sharp edge of her nails steady her. If they were any trouble, he would...? What, she wanted to know. What would he do, what didn't she have to? Please, but she didn't know what was being asked of her.

"Please what?" Her voice was thin in her ears. "You're right, it doesn't make any sense at all." She wanted an accusation, but she didn't think that's how it came out. Diana is afraid of you, she wanted to say. I think she thinks I should be too, or something like it.

What did she think she should do? Cerise didn't know. She felt tired; she was tired. And hot, and her head hurt, and her shoulders hurt. The strangest one here wasn't him, wasn't her father. The strange one here was her, because she wanted to think that the man she was looking at was someone she could trust. That was such a childish thing to want, Cerise knew it was. And she wanted it anyway. Trust him not to hurt Sish, or Em, or... or her, not on purpose.

Her shoulders fell. Cerise moved Sish off of her shoulders and into her arms. The Hat was knocked slightly askew. The miraan squirmed, but then lay her forelegs and head down over Cerise's shoulder. Comfortable. Trust, Cerise thought again, and she she frowned.

"They're not unrelated," she relented. Damn her. "I'm not in trouble. Yet. I don't think. Just..." She jerked her chin in the direction she thought they'd come from; a corner of her mouth curled into part of an involuntary snarl, thinking of it. "That's not anything new. More specific, I suppose. But not new."

Freed from Sish's weight, Cerise shrugged her shoulders. She smiled, too, a twisted slash on her face. But her eyes slid down to the ground, and she held Sish protectively against her chest. Bracing herself.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Afternoon on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

T
he insects were loud; there was a headache beginning to pinch the back of his neck, and with all his talk of water, his throat was damned dry. The sun was loud, too, even in the shade of the narrow winding street – the heat might’ve had a sound, for all he wanted to shut his eyes against it and sag against the stucco.

The words didn’t make sense with the way Cerise said them. He’d expected them sharper-edged. She’d not laughed at egregious, or even at his raised brow, and she still wasn’t scowling. One of her hands was curled into a tight fist, but it wasn’t the sort of fist you’d use to hit somebody. She still had that look on her face he was afraid to find a word for, and the words came to him paper-thin.

It doesn’t make any sense at all, she’d said. She hadn’t spat it; she’d just said it, like she was stating the truth.

He saw Cerise’s posture shift, sagging more than loosening. The pile of long golden limbs came off her shoulders; he saw one back leg pedal like a cat’s, long toes splaying against her chest. The tail swung and curled once, but then she settled Sish on her shoulder – like a cat, he thought again, and he might’ve smiled, if it hadn’t struck him with such a strange sadness – and the miraan clung there happily, her golden flank glittering with the rise and fall of her breath.

She’s magnificent, he got the funny urge to say. Sish. You’re both… He swallowed thickly, watching her as she watched him. He wasn’t sure how to answer the question after all; he didn’t know what he’d had in mind when he’d said please. Trust me, maybe, as if he had any right to ask that.

Now her mouth did settle into a frown, drawing up all those familiar faint lines. It was a relief, even if what she said – that she said anything at all – was more of a surprise than he was prepared for. Her lip curled into an even more familiar expression, and then a familiar sort of smile, a split wound of a smile. She shrugged her shoulders.

He didn’t look over his shoulder at Ato’gow; he didn’t have to. “I see,” he said quietly.

He should’ve known. Maybe it was that he’d never thought of gollies like that, though he knew well enough the kinds of shit the ladies Uptown spread round; maybe it was just that he’d never thought of Cerise like that, or never – thought of Cerise.

It’s flooding awful, he wanted to say. I know what it’s like.

It hadn’t exactly been a secret back then, but it’d come out slowly, fair slowly, like a dye in the wash. The first and bitterest taste had been with the other lads, but he’d heard it plenty of times, in plenty of ways. There were a lot of words natt had for it, and he’d thrown his fists over it often enough.

He thought it always hurt worse with an audience. I didn’t mean to be that, he wanted to say. He took a deep breath instead and looked at her; she was looking at the ground, her pale hands – one with red knuckles – holding Sish. “You said you’re not in trouble,” he said quietly. “Is he?” He watched her. “Was that his bail?”

It was the only thing that made sense. Cerise wouldn’t’ve been in Mugroba for the team if she’d gotten arrested in Bethas; it was ridiculous. And he would’ve gotten word, more word than just the expense – he would’ve been sent for, even in Mugroba.

“It’s not that –” He frowned, his lip twisting; he let out a little noise and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “It’s not that I don’t think you can’t do this yourself,” he said, “it’s not that I think you’re not capable, and independent, and all that other… I just don’t want to be in the dark about it, if you’re – having trouble. I don’t want to just sit and do nothing.”

He sighed, his hand dropping. “Maybe that doesn’t make sense, either,” he muttered. “Is he all right, at least? Whatever the hell happened.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Afternoon

Cerise spoke, more the fool her. She spoke and she snarled and she shrugged. Afterwards, she waited. Braced herself, with Sish curled up comfortably against her shoulder, one wing splayed out to the side, half under the protective shadow of the Hat. The other half glittered in the sun, despite the shade on the street where they stood.

All he said at first was that "I see". Cerise looked up from the street then, and her face was less stricken than it had been. She looked up and she looked at him, at that strange mirror of her own face. And it was so much like hers, for all that she had Mama's color. No propensity to freckle, she thought; she just burned, and peeled horribly after. But they had the same jaw, the same sharp nose. The same sneer, too, or they did. She thought it looked a little different, now.

He said it so quietly, those two words. Like he really did see. Cerise's frown twisted and warped until it didn't feel like a frown anymore. It felt like she was trying not to cry. That, she told herself sharply and with venom, was not going to happen. Whatever happened today, whatever was twisted up in her head—that was not part of it. She would not allow it. There were lines she still wouldn't cross. Not now, not again.

Cerise still inhaled, sharply, when he asked her the question about bail outright. For a moment she thought she should lie; no, she wanted to say. Not his. It was someone you don't know, you've never heard of, a name that's never fallen from your mouth or mine. But she couldn't think of a lie to build on that one, and it all seemed like too much. Cerise nodded, sharply.

"He's—oh, I'm sorry," she muttered, releasing a little of the pressure she'd started to put on Sish. She'd whined a little, and lashed at her with that long, whipcord tail.

She really didn't want to have this conversation. So why, then, had she clocking started it? Why was it her idea, standing here in this narrow little alley that may or may not have passed for a street proper? She got the funny feeling he would rather have let the subject drop. She didn't know that Em would have wanted her to mention it either.

It was, she thought rather miserably, too late. Antoinette had made it relevant—but she had confirmed it. Every filthy, miserable word. Thinking of Antoinette made the anger flare up in her breast again, hot and strong. It burned out some of the weakness in her, so she could stand steady while her father carried on into the pause.

Capable, independent. Cerise did laugh then. She wasn't clocking independent, and she wouldn't be for months at least. If he released her from guardianship when she came of age; they'd never discussed it. She'd always thought he would, but never really been sure. Cerise made a choking noise; didn't want to sit and do nothing, he said.

"I think you've done plenty for—" She growled and cut herself off. What was wrong with her? No, it didn't make sense. It didn't make sense, because the last time this subject had been relevant, this was a very different conversation. Last time, she'd rather thought he agreed with Antoinette. Not in quite those words, of course. That would be taking it a bit far, she thought. No matter that he agreed, as far as she had known, with the sentiment.

Now, though? Now he was looking at her with a frown on his face, asking her in a tone of voice she thought was meant to be kind. Where was that, a year and a half ago? Why had she had to waste all of this time, all of this...? Cerise let her eyes flutter to a close, breathing deep through her nose for a few breaths in and out. Then she opened her eyes again, fixing them on her father's sweating face. He looked like a mess; Cerise didn't think she looked any better.

"Maybe," she muttered. She wasn't really sure. She had paid bail, sure. And sort of helped with the glass, at least. Cerise thought she'd leave that part out. Also the rest of that night, and absolutely the morning after. The bail, she thought, was plenty. It felt strange enough, talking to her father—her father!—about someone she. Loved, past tense. Still did, presently? Or could, or... About Emiel, she settled on in her mind, like he himself was not the problem.

"I think so. Relatively. I don't... know." She had the funniest feeling he was hiding things from her, and she hadn't any idea how to ask or if she was even allowed. "It was a very eventful outing."

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Afternoon on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

T
he expression on Cerise’s face had only grown stranger, and he couldn’t’ve helped thinking he’d only made things much worse. Seemed to follow today’s pattern well enough, he thought grimly. He wasn’t sure if he should’ve let it drop, even when she’d pushed, even when she’d asked; he was beginning to think there was nothing he could say to ease whatever’d fallen on her shoulders.

His lips had quivered when she apologized to Sish, stroking her flank gently ‘til her tail stopped whipping. He’d taken a deep breath; his forehead ached from the tension of his brow.

For once, he couldn’t seem to do anything with his face. If it’d been Rooks, he’d’ve lost, and miserably.

He was frowning now; she’d laughed – sharp and hard – at what he’d said, but he’d not been sure which part. All of it, he reckoned. I think you’ve done plenty, she snarled first, then broke off. He took another deep breath, straightening up as much as he could under the weight of the headache. He expected more anger; he’d’ve known what to do with more anger. As it was, she shut her eyes, silent, and he wasn’t sure what he saw when she opened them back up.

“I see,” he repeated slowly. Relatively, she muttered, with a funny, pinched expression, like even she didn’t know.

What the hell did I do? he got the urge to ask. Just tell me, he wanted to say; you know I don’t know how badly I hurt him, how badly I hurt either of you. Did I get him arrested, back then? You know I don’t know much of anything, and you know – by now – surely –

Cerise, he thought, didn’t know anything. He felt a pang. She was still standing there with Sish, fair still. The hand she’d balled into a fist had little red crescents on it, he noticed, where she’d dug her nails in. Her face was slick and glistening with sweat, and her hair was wisping out underneath Hat. She looked flooding exhausted.

“Come on,” he said quietly, gesturing. He took a few steps, if she’d walk with him; he kept on going down the street, away from Ato’gow.

He wasn’t sure where they were, but he thought if they could find their way back to a thoroughfare – any in Nutmeg Hill – they could find their way back to the cablecars, even if they had to ask directions. He sure as hell wasn’t leading them back by the cafe. He felt a hot spark of anger just thinking about it.

He was fair quiet for a moment; he still wasn’t sure if he should speak. But he thought of that strange, awful look on her face, that curiosity with its edge – fear, he knew – she’d looked at him with. If he said nothing–? Relatively, she’d said, as if she wasn’t sure; as if the bail hadn’t been the end of it.

And it often, he knew well enough from experience, wasn’t.

He’s one of the ones you have, he wanted to say, him and Sish. He already got taken away from you once. The thought of Cerise losing him again – of her bearing all those hingleshits at Brunnhold alone –

He needed to know, he realized. It wasn’t a fling or a duel; it wasn’t something that was hers and hers alone. A whole flooding year, he thought, a whole year, and she’d had to come after him herself, half-drunk and petulant at a party. A whole flooding year and all those ignored letters, and no thought at all to the lass who’d just lost her father, or what, if it came to pass, would be his fault. Wholly his fault, this time.

“What happened?” he asked after a moment, in the same quiet, even tone, if a little firmer.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Afternoon

Cerise didn't know what she'd wanted or expected to hear, gritting that out like she had done. Sweat gathered at the back of her neck at the collar of her shirt and at the inside of her elbows where she had rolled up her cuffs. She had the strangest feeling that the look she saw on her father's face was upset, and not... at her, but for her. Having never seen it before to her immediate memory, she couldn't be sure.

For a moment she was annoyed by it. There was little satisfaction in snarling at him when he acted so strange. Little enough to start with, actually, because she knew he didn't remember what he'd done in the first place that had hurt her so much. Giving in to anger normally made her feel good, or at least better. For a while. This? This just made her tired and sad. The irritation that he could take that satisfaction away from her felt good too, but it was just a brief flare and faded before she could even really grasp at it.

She spoke and he didn't say much of anything, really. Just another "I see", and then after a pause where they both just stared at each other, equally wretched—at least on the outside—he gestured for her to follow. Cerise squashed her natural inclination to be contrary. After a couple of steps, Cerise fell into place beside him. They went away from Ato'gow, and she was grateful. The idea of walking back the way they came, even just to get back to the cable car line, made her skin crawl.

The start of the walk, wherever they were going, was quiet. Back, she thought, but not the way they came. It was almost funny—this more or less guaranteed she would never be able to find her way back to anywhere they'd been so far today if she were to want to. Not, honestly, that she was likely to try. Somehow she didn't think she'd be as welcome anywhere they'd been on her own.

Cerise had this strange feeling at the bottom of her stomach and the back of her tongue. Like there was something she needed to say or do, and she couldn't figure out what it was. Apologize, maybe? But for what? Sorry, for punching Antoinette Roumanille in her awful mouth? No, she didn't think that was it. She wasn't sorry for that, not even a little. Maybe sorry that he'd felt that he had to step in. She hadn't asked him to, though. She could have... would have...

Would have lost her clocking place on the team, that's what. Maybe it wasn't an apology she needed to give, but gratitude. Ugh. That seemed likely, and also horrible. Didn't he owe her, anyway, for... everything? For forgetting who she was, for everything before and after? Especially before. Cerise bit her tongue on saying anything at all.

Silence was also good; if he didn't ask her anything else, she couldn't say too clocking much. Cerise tried to picture mentioning any of this, this whole godsdamn bizarre day, to Em. She couldn't manage, somehow, and she felt guilty for it. She would tell him if he needed to know. Hopefully, there would be no problem—and if there was, she would solve it. One way or another.

So much for silence; he asked, and his voice was more firm this time. Quiet, but like he really wanted to know. Cerise frowned, flicking her eyes over to her father's face. Sish was still behaving herself, for the most part. Digging new holes in the shoulder of Cerise's blouse, but she seemed content to keep most of herself under the Hat's protection. It had been a long day for her, too. It was too late, now, to try to act like he'd heard nothing. There wasn't any anger there, not where she expected it to be. Cerise looked and she couldn't find the trick in it. He was, perhaps, actually asking.

"Well, that depends on when you're asking about," she said with as light a tone as she could manage. "And if you want the short version, or the long one. If you mean what our charming Miss Roumanille was referring to... The short version is that I believe I have personally ensured I will never be invited to any more group dates with that set ever again, which is fine with me if they have the poor taste to set me up with someone like McAllister." Cerise stopped there, frowning. She was avoiding the point. That wasn't like her; she didn't like it. Cowardice, that's what it felt like. Cowardice disguised as caution and common sense.

"And the medium answer... I didn't— Ugh. I didn't lie, before. I really hadn't— I thought— He didn't—" Cerise looked away, feeling ashamed and not sure why. "He—McAllister, I mean—expressed. Not dissimilar sentiments. In front of... of Em. Emiel. It escalated rather quickly. It was my fault, but not my..."

She had smiled, talking about the way it had escalated—Em really had been rather charming. To her, anyway. Cerise was fairly certain nobody who witnessed the event agreed, but even after everything it still brought just the smallest smile to her face. It fell when she continued, and she couldn't find again through all of the confusion and the sick feeling at the pit of her stomach that wondered if she had made a mistake. Again.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Afternoon on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

H
e saw Cerise looking at him in the corner of his sight, her eyes a cool flash underneath her Hat. Sish was between them, her head resting on Cerise’s shoulder. He didn’t look over; he hadn’t looked over since he’d asked. He kept his chin up, his back straight, his face as neutral as he could in this clocking heat, though he felt like a wilted cabbage.

And – she spoke, after a moment. After a shorter moment than he’d expected, all told, if he’d expected her to speak at all.

When, she said first, and his eyebrow darted up, though he still didn’t look over. She might as well have said it outright, that there was more than just one time to talk about. He’d only posted bail once; if there’d been more arrests – he didn’t know how else she had to pay for them.

She went on, though, and his brow knit, not sure how to put it together. If they have the poor taste, she said lightly, almost imperiously, to set me up with someone like McAllister.

He tried not to chase down all the avenues; he tried to just listen, and let it come out of her as it would, and piece together what he could from what she gave him and nothing more. A group date? he wanted to ask, all the same. Set you up? (Is this, he wondered in some numb, detached part of his mind, half-delirious with the heat, is this what gollies do for fun? Godsdamn.)

There was a pause. He got the sense she’d told half of it; he got the sense she was winding round it, and he half wanted to say, no, you don’t have to tell me. He knew he couldn’t, this time, and he didn’t. He listened still, and she pushed through the pause, though her voice wasn’t so light this time.

I didn’t, she stumbled. I didn’t lie. I thought. He didn’t. He did look over her now, briefly; he frowned, and his eyebrows drew together. His eyes narrowed slightly. Then he blinked, watching the smallest smile twitch over her lips.

Emiel, she said, then: it escalated.

He couldn’t help the smile that came over his own face. It was slow, as the realization dawned over him. It was still pinched at the edges; he wasn’t so far from sense nowadays, thought maybe in another life he’d’ve laughed aloud.

“It doesn’t sound to me like it was your fault,” he retorted. He paused, looking at her downcast eyes. He’d said it a little loudly, maybe, with more force than he’d meant to, and a biting wry edge.

He was still smiling; the smile faded, though it wasn’t quite a frown, either. “Uh –” He paused, thinking. “I mean – it sounds like McAllister had it coming, but I’m, uh – I’m sorry he was talking that kind of rot to begin with. And I…”

There, just between the faces of two great old houses at the dead end: a flash of the sun on water, a swollen edge of the Turga.

He turned them down another quiet lane, tracing back up parallel; this one was much like the last, no wider and no less quiet. “There’ll be, uh, court fees,” he began again softly. I don’t know much about this, he got a strange urge to say, but I know a little, from being on the other end of it. Though I had friends in high places, then. Birds. “How hard is McAllister pushing?”

Emiel, she had said now for the first time today, for the first time since Bethas; he’d said it first, this time.

“When we’re both back in Anaxas –” He scratched his jaw, letting out a sigh. “If there’s anything I can do,” he said, “I’d rather you come to me, instead of me hearing about it from the bank. Or the university.” He looked down at the stones, then over at Cerise. “I don’t have a right to ask that, I know. I don’t have a right to ask anything.”

But I want you to know it’s there, anyway, he thought. He swallowed a lump; there was an awful sinking in his gut. He didn’t know, not really, what he was doing. This is wrong, he kept thinking, this is wrong, all of this is wrong. Wrong to even say. But the last year hadn’t been right, either; he didn’t know what right was. Maybe you got tangled up trying to fix wrongs with more wrongs, and that was the way of it.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Afternoon

Her father held his back straight and his face neutral as she looked over. She knew it must have been an effort, at least the posture. It was for her anyway, and she held herself upright mostly by virtue of the steel bones that held all of her in place. She was going to drown herself in a cold bath, when she got back to her hotel. As cold as she could stand.

The neutral face dissolved just as soon as she began. "When" was about as far as she got before his eyebrows rose, although he didn't look at her or interrupt. They knit together when she continued, like he didn't quite understand what she was saying. Didn't they have group outings in your day? she almost asked. You know, those tedious sorts of affairs, where everyone goes off in neat little pairs and you all pretend you're not unchaperoned, because there are six or eight or ten of you? Lucky you. Cerise hadn't liked them before, and she had not become much endeared by the events of last month.

Still, he'd waited until she'd made her way to the end of what she was trying to say. It was considerate, and strange, and she was glad she wasn't looking at him by then. Especially when she had smiled without meaning to, just from remembering the way Em had launched himself over that bar. Beautiful idiot. Wonderful fool. She'd lost the smile when she kept thinking past that part, to all the words that came after. To the trouble, and to how none of it would have happened if she'd just controlled herself a little better.

His retort had an edge, and she did turn to look at him after it. No? she wanted to say. I didn't give you the whole story; you can't even remember why I shouldn't have been there at all. I didn't know either, and if I had—well, she might have done it anyway, actually. Out of her selfish desire to see Em's face. She just snorted, disbelieving.

"He did, and more. If Em hadn't gotten to it before I did, I would have done more than slapped him. Coward couldn't even say most of it to my face." She said all of it with venom, with feeling; it slipped out before she could quite stop herself. Not most of it had been for her ears, just the worst of it at the end. "Oh, I, er. I did slap him. Hard," she added, helpfully.

He was sorry? That was news. Not a surprise after all the rest, or it shouldn't have been. Still. Sorry. Because McAllister was saying the sorts of things everyone said, now; if they hadn't been before last month, well. Word certainly got around. She spared a moment to give him a puzzled kind of glance. Did you think, she wanted to say, you had a problem with it when nobody else did? This was and always has been about your reputation, she wanted to say. Maybe it has my name on it, but it was about you. Not me. Not really. Except he didn't know that, didn't know any of it. Not anymore. Cerise turned back.

Cerise hoped her father knew where he was going. She had sort of been following along blindly, trusting that he had gotten at least a moderately decent grasp of how to get around in the city over the last month. There was a dead end in front of them, and she thought she could see a flash of water beyond it. The Turga? It certainly smelled that way. But they went down a different street, another quiet, narrow little lane. Nobody much out here on this one either, for which Cerise was grateful. She didn't know if she could have borne up underneath the pressure of a crowd just now.

Court fees, he said, and asked how hard McAllister was pushing. Cerise didn't answer right away; she wasn't quite sure how. When we're both back in Anaxas, he continued. She swallowed. When we're both back in Anaxas. And when is that? She couldn't have said, quite, when this feeling started. This strange, creeping premonition that the answer was "never". She'd not been able to shake it. Talking to her stepmother had firmly, resolutely, not helped. She wasn't sure she had shaken it now, even as he said that.

"You do not have a right, that is correct." She looked over and raised her eyebrows; she had found something like her usual tone, and it made her feel a bit better. Better enough to smile, in her sharp way, from under the shadow of the Hat. "But I will... try to keep that in mind. It was a lot of paperwork, the way I did it. And I suspect there will be more. McAllister's ego was almost as damaged as his face."

For a moment after that, she hesitated. With a deep breath, she plunged forward. "I didn't think I could trust you, at the time. I have changed my mind." These were statements, matter-of-fact. She felt no shame in them. Cerise turned and she waited until she caught her father's eye, firmly and without ambiguity.