Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka
Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720
C
erise was frowning, grey eyes chill.
She’s a boch, he wanted to insist; they don’t even manifest until they’re – but he smiled at Isu’wu, and the little lass was smiling too, just a pina, though all the small lines of her were tense. There was an awkward pause. Sish puttered a little snore in his lap, and he looked down and stroked his fingertips over her neck, scratching behind one feather-tufted ear.
When he looked back up, Cerise was smiling a little, too. He glanced between her and the lass; when Cerise spoke, some of the tension went out of him, too.
If Isu’wu had aught to say about Cerise’s adherence to fashion – the wide dark eyes flicked over the blouse and the skirt and Hat, drooping on the arm of the chair – she said nothing. She bowed again, her smile brightening a little. “Of course, madam,” she said brightly. “My juela – my mother…”
It wasn’t too long.
He sat stroking Sish, who’d melted against him rather like a cat; he lifted up one sharp-clawed paw once with his finger, to see if she’d noticed, and she only drew it back and used it to cover up her eyes. He caught Cerise’s glance once or twice, and his smile never faltered, though he met her eyes squarely every single time.
If Cerise lacked enthusiasm, Isu’wu’s barrel was overflowing. It’d been so last time, though before the Anaxi’d come, there’d been nothing to stop her one foot over the threshold. She’d pulled down what must’ve been a dozen tunics and suits and amel’iwe for him, bubbling excitedly against the stone wall of his awkwardness. He hadn’t known a thing about the asymmetric emuh cut of a man’s suit as opposed to the eyederep cut, or tzusiq-pattern amel’iwe, or any of it. He still didn’t, but it’d pleased him to hear Isu’wu go on.
He wasn’t sure it pleased Cerise, being honest. But she was polite, as the little lass brought out clotheshangers draping gowns almost taller than her, some embroidered at the collar and the hems, some not, some with asymmetric-cut skirts that would’ve been scandalous in Anaxas. Her bright chatter filled the room up, undeterred.
Ebele came back with the tea tray, wafting steam and the smell of mint. The pot was embossed, and the silver caught the low light; he thought it was just a swirl of flowers and river-water at first, almost abstract, and then he caught the edge of a turtle’s shell in the pattern. She set it down on the table, then took a few of the hangers from her daughter, laughing as she hung them back up.
Ebele passed undeterred through their fields, when she came back to pour the tea. He glanced at Cerise once over the imbala’s shoulders, though he didn’t meet her eye.
“Do you take sugar?” Ebele asked, and then left off, smiling as she passed the delicate gold-black teacup to Cerise. “Go fetch Isiri, my dear,” she said smoothly to Isu’wu, a cheerful spiderweb of lines around her eyes. “Would you like to pick up where I left off on ada’xa Uqasah’s amel’iwe?”
“Ea, juela.” Isu’wu bowed her head and went.
The imbala took a seat in the third place at the table, a little further from either of them than he was from Cerise. His own cup of tea sat at the edge of the table on its saucer; he was still occupied with Sish.
Ebele held hers in her lap. She waited until Isu’wu was fully out of the room. “Before we begin to work out details,” she said, smiling at Cerise, “I should ask if you would like to have the fitting done here. Ada’xa Dzapir is only a few houses down the street; he is a good and honorable man” – she put emphasis on both words – “and has agreed to send us the measurements, if a client should not wish for us to do the fitting.” She took a small sip of tea.
erise was frowning, grey eyes chill.
She’s a boch, he wanted to insist; they don’t even manifest until they’re – but he smiled at Isu’wu, and the little lass was smiling too, just a pina, though all the small lines of her were tense. There was an awkward pause. Sish puttered a little snore in his lap, and he looked down and stroked his fingertips over her neck, scratching behind one feather-tufted ear.
When he looked back up, Cerise was smiling a little, too. He glanced between her and the lass; when Cerise spoke, some of the tension went out of him, too.
If Isu’wu had aught to say about Cerise’s adherence to fashion – the wide dark eyes flicked over the blouse and the skirt and Hat, drooping on the arm of the chair – she said nothing. She bowed again, her smile brightening a little. “Of course, madam,” she said brightly. “My juela – my mother…”
It wasn’t too long.
He sat stroking Sish, who’d melted against him rather like a cat; he lifted up one sharp-clawed paw once with his finger, to see if she’d noticed, and she only drew it back and used it to cover up her eyes. He caught Cerise’s glance once or twice, and his smile never faltered, though he met her eyes squarely every single time.
If Cerise lacked enthusiasm, Isu’wu’s barrel was overflowing. It’d been so last time, though before the Anaxi’d come, there’d been nothing to stop her one foot over the threshold. She’d pulled down what must’ve been a dozen tunics and suits and amel’iwe for him, bubbling excitedly against the stone wall of his awkwardness. He hadn’t known a thing about the asymmetric emuh cut of a man’s suit as opposed to the eyederep cut, or tzusiq-pattern amel’iwe, or any of it. He still didn’t, but it’d pleased him to hear Isu’wu go on.
He wasn’t sure it pleased Cerise, being honest. But she was polite, as the little lass brought out clotheshangers draping gowns almost taller than her, some embroidered at the collar and the hems, some not, some with asymmetric-cut skirts that would’ve been scandalous in Anaxas. Her bright chatter filled the room up, undeterred.
Ebele came back with the tea tray, wafting steam and the smell of mint. The pot was embossed, and the silver caught the low light; he thought it was just a swirl of flowers and river-water at first, almost abstract, and then he caught the edge of a turtle’s shell in the pattern. She set it down on the table, then took a few of the hangers from her daughter, laughing as she hung them back up.
Ebele passed undeterred through their fields, when she came back to pour the tea. He glanced at Cerise once over the imbala’s shoulders, though he didn’t meet her eye.
“Do you take sugar?” Ebele asked, and then left off, smiling as she passed the delicate gold-black teacup to Cerise. “Go fetch Isiri, my dear,” she said smoothly to Isu’wu, a cheerful spiderweb of lines around her eyes. “Would you like to pick up where I left off on ada’xa Uqasah’s amel’iwe?”
“Ea, juela.” Isu’wu bowed her head and went.
The imbala took a seat in the third place at the table, a little further from either of them than he was from Cerise. His own cup of tea sat at the edge of the table on its saucer; he was still occupied with Sish.
Ebele held hers in her lap. She waited until Isu’wu was fully out of the room. “Before we begin to work out details,” she said, smiling at Cerise, “I should ask if you would like to have the fitting done here. Ada’xa Dzapir is only a few houses down the street; he is a good and honorable man” – she put emphasis on both words – “and has agreed to send us the measurements, if a client should not wish for us to do the fitting.” She took a small sip of tea.
