[Closed] So Much to Pay For

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

I
t was too quick coming through the door to see anything of her expression, and most of it was hidden by the flopping edge of that damn hat, anyway. The Hat, she said, like it was a proper name. Well, maybe it was.

“I see,” he said, squinting in the new dark. These damned eyes. “Well,” he pronounced gravely, if a bit absently, “I dare say it is of great importance that a young lady’s hat match both her complexion and her temperament.” That, he thought wryly, would explain the holes. The poor thing.

Behind him, in the corner of his eye, he saw the curl and lash of Sish’s tail.

The counter was unattended for now, bell glinting in the light from the windows. He breathed in deep. He wasn’t sure when the smell of fabric stores – of bolts and bolts of silk and cotton and wool – had become so familiar. The arrangement of rolls and swatches and was always different; but the smell and the soft muffling of it, and the way the light leaked around the aisles and between the shelves, was achingly familiar.

He caught a whiff of kofi, too.

The rich brocades were at the front of the shop, along with the mannequins. They were draped to approximate Thul Ka fashions – loose, long shirts and narrow pants; wide-armed blouses and loose-wrapped skirts, lengths of cloth draped over the shoulder like scarves. Most of the cloth was draped to give the impression of asymmetrical hems.

“Ada’xa Jima must be taking kofi with a client,” he said, glancing back at Cerise when his poor eyes had adjusted. “We won’t be here for too long, just to look through and let him know we’re working with ada’na Ebele.” The mention of Ebele again made him pause. He thought to say – but what would he say now? The look on Cerise’s narrow face stopped him; he doubted there was any need, anyway.

He could see Sish’s muscles working underneath her golden scales, her long sharp snout tilted, the pupils of her beady eyes a little bigger. A few more of Cerise’s dark curls had come loose, and some of the braid was sagging.

He glanced down at the great hat, smiling. “I suppose it is an improvement,” he admitted. “I bet it was heavy, with all those ribbons and flowers.”

He moved past the heavy silks, first, toward the bulk of the cloth. Some of it was a light, plain cream color, or crisp white; others were colorful and intricately dyed.

“This is afúr’oho,” he said, “the, uh – a lot of what Thul Ka arati wear is made from this. It’s light but it’s sturdy, and woven from cotton and silk, depending. It’s less…” He looked at her, then looked back. Sweaty, he thought. “It’s easier for this weather than Anaxi cotton, by far. The tans and whites are good for formal – professional – things. Ada’na Ebele can explain it better, but the point is, you’re not meant to be drowning in layers of cotton and wool.”

He broke off, feeling a little foolish. Doubtless she could tell most of this by looking; he wasn’t sure he’d ever yammered so in his life – about this, anyway. He shuddered to think of Risha taking Silk’s place at the counter for even half an hour, golly face aside.

“Interested, are we, Sish?” He peered over at the little drake, lifting an eyebrow.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

Something about the array of fabrics invited you to reach out and touch them. Cerise drifted a little towards the brocades but stopped herself, feeling the shifting of Sish's bulk on her shoulders. That could only end in disaster, she thought. At the very least another rather large bill, and even Cerise had her limits.

Fabric stores, she thought, were very quiet. Nobody was at the counter when they walked in, and nobody appeared at the jingling of the bell either. There must have been someone recently, she thought, as she assumed the young man who held the door for her had been a customer. The bolts muffled sound, perhaps; Cerise had many classes on the subject of sound as part of her concentration, but they rarely stuck with her. She was really rather lousy with anything that involved sound waves, even when it came to the Physical conversation. The subject was something she supposed she should study harder at. But then, Cerise always did struggle with things she didn't find particularly interesting.

She moved further into the shop. Not too far, not down the aisles of silk and cotton and linen themselves, but a little further inside. Her hands were folded behind her back at the base of her spine. That made it easier to keep from reaching out to touch anything, which in turn made it more difficult for Sish to do the same. She could smell kofi as she got more inside.

As she thought this, she heard her father's voice behind her. She turned. Cerise moved a few steps back towards the front of the store, away from the majority of the fabrics. Being as they were indoors, she decided to take off the Hat and hold it in front of her. She followed her father's glance down to it.

Heavy? "It might have been," she said with a frown, considering. "I didn't put it on until I fixed it. At least there weren't, oh, full partridges on it or whatever bird is the fashion now. Whice." Cerise grinned. Her distaste for whole taxidermy birds on hats was very clearly not out of concern for the birds themselves, lives cut short for the sake of sartorial excellence.

Cerise had been determined to keep out of the aisles, but her father was determined to go further in. For a moment she thought she would just stand there at the front of the store, but that seemed pointless. If he wanted to take the risk, well. It was his bill to pay, after all. Cerise listened with a frown on her face as he went on about the fabric to her.

Liked the fabric stores, but not the tailors. Liked the materials, and not the results? The experience? Cerise's disinterest in clothing extended by and large to what they were made from; she could not imagine caring for only part of it. She had no interest now, but there was something odd about the whole experience. Her father, going on about the benefits of... whatever he had called it, as compared to Anaxi cotton. Cerise didn't understand it one bit, and was annoyed that she didn't want to interrupt.

"Someone really should inform the school administration," she put in when he'd reached the end, talking about drowning in layers. "Then again, perhaps they would never notice--the boys' uniform certainly has less of them, layers, than mine." Cerise made a sour face. She had this complaint every Yaris, and had done since she had started Upper Form.

Sish had been sitting quietly while her father went on about cotton/silk blends. The length of her body seemed melted around Cerise's shoulders--even Sish had too much of the heat eventually. But her sharp face picked up at the sound of her name and the feeling of someone paying attention to her. She squirmed again, claws catching in Cerise's skin and blouse both.

"Oh yes, a real--oww, Sish, cut it out--clotheshorse, our Destroyer of Hours." Cerise caught one of her forelegs and picked it carefully out of her clothing. She got a mouthful of tail feathers for her trouble. Really, where had Sish learned her manners from. It was a mystery.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

H
mph,” he grunted. His fingertips hovered over a roll of deep crimson-dyed afúr’oho, edged and lined with black; they dropped, and he half-turned, his brow furrowing. Cerise was scowling something laoso, her thin sharp face a pale twist underneath the messy halo of her hair. “It does,” he said, thinking of the way Isu’fo’s jacket’d come open to reveal nothing but a sweaty undershirt. He frowned, not sure what else to say.

He had, of course, worn petticoats. Among other things.

You didn’t grow up in a tumble hut without knowing a thing or two kov weren’t supposed to know. But – being honest – he’d never thought hard enough to think it unfair, or something to scowl about.

He remembered all the corsets and fine lacy things, each layer a twinge of guilt, with more than a little fondness; he remembered thinking of them with something like envy, too, when he’d no longer suited them so well as he’d wanted them to suit him. He thought, too, of every fold and layer of all the dresses Silk wore, tailored to her so neatly and finely; he’d never meant to envy them, but maybe he had anyway. They were lovely, nevertheless.

He had never really considered how an Anaxi lady might feel after noontime in Roalis, even Anaxi summer, hard at work or in the middle of a clocking duel. I meant in Mugroba, he thought at first, but – Cerise didn’t look like she meant just the Mugrobi heat.

There had be some kind of reason they did ladies up in all those layers. He’d always just assumed it was because – he didn’t rightly know. He’d always just left it at some reason.

His eyes went a little wide when Sish sank her claws into Cerise’s shoulder. He blinked, watching her work it out like a cat’s claw, that feathered tail lashing all in her face. Are you all right? he thought to ask, and that seemed even less wise than trying to help.

More fraying curls slipped out of the braid. “I suppose she is,” he said, scratching his jaw. “Isn’t that a thought? The Destroyer of Hours, done up in some little – some…”

He didn’t much want to finish the thought. Sish, swaddled in the most fashionable dresses, nibbling at the ribbons draped from her hat with her pointy fish-breath mouth.

Or worse, eying a whice stuck to the brim. He shook his head again, eyes skimming the bolts. “Dead clocking birds on hats,” he muttered, then caught himself. “Excuse the language.” He quirked an eyebrow over his shoulder, but he remembered her miraan-sharp grin. “Incumbent Chaumette’s wife just wore a terrible one to a ball last seven, covered in green parrots. I think it made dzehúh Ayomide ill.”

Uptown flooders. He couldn’t quite match her grin on the subject; there was a twist of disdain in his voice that he couldn’t shake.

Another bolt was deep grey with a tangle of white designs; another was deep, rich brown, the color of kofi. There were more than he could count.

“Aren’t there Brunnhold cyclist ladies wearing trousers now, and all?” he asked. “I heard there was some fuss about that, from fellows like Burbridge and his ilk.” There weren’t many chip Brothers, but he’d had them, and he’d known plenty who dressed however they damn well pleased. Men, too, if they could get away with it.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

Cerise didn't know why she'd let the complaint slip. It was true, of course. And it was a source of practical vexation. Each layer had purpose, too, for all that she'd left off plenty of them today. The socks were her only real regret, and that was more because of the boots. That was the trouble, she found. The purpose of each bit depended on one wanting the bit that came before.

What had she expected her father to say though? She supposed if he had commiserated she would have been angry; she was irritated now at his agreeing with her. And if he had argued, that would have been irritating too. Her scowl twitched upwards into the suggestion of a smile, thinking on how all roads led to the same place. Even that much slipped as she unhooked Sish from her flesh, but it had been there for a moment.

"I will not," Cerise said, immediately after pulling a feather off the tip of her tongue with her fingers. "Such language is inappropriate in front of a lady of breeding and sophistication, and I am, quite frankly, absolutely scandalized." She shook her hand and the slightly damp feather drifted down to the floor. Cerise wiped her hand dry on her skirt, making a face at the aftertaste of her own hands in her mouth. It certainly combined interestingly with spiced, buttered tail feather.

The hat did sound absolutely dreadful. Worse than her own Hat, even prior to her substantial improvements. Still, one of those dark, heavy eyebrows pulled upwards at the tone of his voice. Was the disdain because the hat was hideous, or because it was covered in dead animals? She would have thought the former, if they had not been complaining of the whims of fashion all day today; the latter, if she were speaking to someone other than Anatole Vauquelin. Even this stranger, rougher version.

"Luckily, I don't think Sish can wear hats. They give her a headache." Now her hands were no longer folded behind her back, now they were already in the aisles. Cerise reached out a hand to slide it over a soft bolt in a bright violet, shot through with veins of gold. A little smile crossed her face before she could stop it. She wiped it off her face when her father started to speak again. Clocking hell, she was getting more foolish by the hour.

The one next to it was a rich blue. Cerise touched that too, but paused halfway down to fix her father with a hard stare. He didn't know, she reminded herself; and even if he did, he couldn't remember her short-lived interest in cycling. And the appropriate attire for the sport. "There are," she said as if talking to someone rather dim.

"They are not, generally speaking, also in uniform for the activity. One is permitted to wear sporting costume for sport," she continued, turning away to look at the bolts again. She could hear voices from the back, but only barely. "Although I have heard this, yes. Some fuss has been made." She thought back to the strange feeling the other day when she had off-handedly mentioned the part of her essay on Anaxi female political agency, or whatever clocking chroveshit rubbish way she'd phrased it. Cerise bit her tongue on a joke about about the subject so hard she imagined she could taste the copper tang of blood in her mouth.

"Why? Are you proposing I go home with a cycling costume?"

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

I
just can’t help it,” he growled, shaking his head piteously, “with my – my rough, uncivilized ways. It’s a wonder you put up with me at all.” He couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face. It was still quiet, but there was a burst of laughter from a side room hidden by the tangle of aisles; there was a man’s voice, one he recognized as ada’xa Jima, and another man with a reedier voice, and a woman. Snatches of Mugrobi lilted out and dissipated amid all the rich fabric.

There was a bright gold feather at their feet, vane clumped together with something sticky. “Poor Sish,” he murmured, thinking of the droop of her head over Cerise’s shoulder.

Sidelong, he could see Cerise running her fingers over a bolt, something he’d’ve sworn was a tiny smile on her face. It was a rich, vivid purple, with veins of gold that caught the light from the bay windows, bright as Sish’s tail feathers. The smile was off Cerise’s face in half a second, but he remembered it, even as she moved to look at a roll of deep blue. It surprised him; he’d thought of red or dark grey, thinking of her, but he filed away that little smile. It made sense, and that warmed him, too, in a strange sort of way.

He thought he could feel her eyes fix on him, hard, before he turned to meet them. When he did, he just raised both brows, frowning a little apologetically.

I’m not a flooding mung, he got the urge to snap, peering up at her. But he felt like one; he found his eyebrows creeping higher and higher up his forehead, and his frown fading to a confused expression. One is permitted to wear sporting costume for sport, she enunciated. Even as long as he’d spent like this, it took him a few moments to parse each word and put them together in his head.

Sporting costume, he thought. He thought of his old raggedy coat he’d worn everywhere in the winter, once, and the shirts he’d stitched up after they’d seen the edge of a riff. He’d liked to clean up nice, sometimes. Back then, that had meant that there were some shirts he wore on the job – the ones that were already stained with blood, for the most part – and some shirts he would’ve been terribly sorry to see get caught in the crossfire. Like an artist, he’d joked once. He’d known a couple of men who’d worn smocks on the job, but they mostly worked in the basement of the King’s palace, and they were even more laoso than his sort.

Now, he had shoes for the opera, and special suits, too. He supposed it wouldn’t much do to wear the sorts of suits he wore in Stainthorpe Hall while on a bicycle. Not that he ever planned on climbing on one of those things; his balance was poor enough as it was.

Cerise was explaining it to him haltingly; she knew he didn’t know, he thought, and he felt a pang. Some fuss. Was this an old argument, too? Trousers for cycling?

“A cycling costume? Maybe,” he said a little half-heartedly. He scratched his jaw, sucking at a tooth. “I meant more, uh – It’s still not the fashionable thing in Mugroba, for women to wear trousers everywhere, but – it’s done, and often enough.” He shifted on his feet a little, sheepish. “Would it be more comfortable?”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

What was it about her, she wondered, that made her turn everything into an argument? Was the flaw with her, or was it with him? Both, she thought; she had always thought it was both of them. Oil and water, for all that she had a copy of his face. That had been before; it was different, now. Her father a different man, who didn't remember anything about her—about much of anything.

And her? She couldn't say she wasn't different; they were here at all. So it was just her nature, after all. Some core piece of her that turned everything it could into a fight. Maybe it always had been. Cerise dragged her finger to the bottom of the bolt and the bottom of the thought. When she drew away her hand, she left the idea there too. Her dark head turned back to look at him when she asked her non-question.

She wasn't even that keen on the cycling, attire or otherwise. It wasn't the skirt that was the problem, and she thought that was rather obvious. Cerise even liked to look nice if the spirit moved her. As nice as she could manage; she never could keep it up for very long. There was the kind of satisfaction with making some people uncomfortable, of course. Fashion as confrontation—she liked that quite a bit. Sometimes. And sometimes, she just wanted to do what she wanted and be left alone about it.

Why did he look so clocking confused, though? The frown she had understood. The confusion? He had brought up the subject—so what was there to be confused about? Even if he couldn't remember, surely he could guess. Or had his opinions on what she should and shouldn't do changed here, too? Cerise thought of Diana's neatly painted face, and the two things together bothered her. She didn't know, it irritated her, and her irritation as always made her more annoyed in turn. She knew it was obvious in everything about her now, from her posture to her face to her field.

"Does it matter?" she snapped, leaving off her prodding of the fabric. For a moment all the angry lines of her face held. Then she looked away and shook her head, the tension in her spine coming undone. What was wrong with her? A flaw in her nature, indeed.

"I'm—" Her narrow face screwed up, sour. She made some sharp noise of irritation with herself that didn't sound too unlike Sish in a mood. "Maybe, I don't know. It hardly matters. Dueling isn't that kind of sport." Cerise didn't smile, but she raised her eyebrows a little. She wasn't, at least, frowning quite so hard.

"It's the heat," she carried on, more lightly that before. The voices she had only half-heard before were clearer now; she thought they might be closer, or it could be her imagination. Two men, she could hear now, and a woman. Maybe. The sounds still got lost somewhere in all the fabric that surrounded them. Absorbed and faded away until there was only scraps of it to reach her ears.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

N
o, I suppose it isn’t,” he said slowly.

His hand came away from the vivid green bolt he’d been looking at. The quiet seemed rather loud, after that funny choked noise from Cerise’s throat; he’d almost’ve thought it was Sish, if he hadn’t known any better. He supposed he shouldn’t’ve brought it up to begin with – he must’ve been embarrassing the hell out of her, or something like that.

She was raising her dark brows at him, her frown a little lighter. The heat, she said. The heat. “Well, this is – lighter,” he repeated dumbly, as if he hadn’t said it earlier. Less layers, at least, he thought to add, equally dumbly.

Does it matter?

He felt a funny kick of a feeling; his face settled deeper into a frown, and his eyes narrowed slightly. He couldn’t’ve said why it pissed him off so badly, and that only made the feeling worse. He glanced over that lopsided braid, and he found himself thinking of her red, clenched face in the practice field, the sheen of sweat on her forehead.

I’m not a mung, he half wanted to say, though with none of the fervor he’d wanted to snap it before. I haven’t a godsdamn clue what I – what he – what your father must’ve said or did about this rubbish, but I can guess. Cerise’s field had smoothed over its crackling red shift, and her posture had loosened, with Sish still draped over her shoulders. But their caprise was deep enough he could still tell; a little of his own frustration trickled out into the clairvoyant mona.

There was a pause, and a sound of shuffling from the back room. “It does matter,” he said suddenly, quiet and firm. “Whether you’re comfortable. It’s the only thing that matters –”

“Sana’hulali, ada’xa Jima,” came the woman’s voice. Two brightly-dressed arati spilled into the gap between the aisles, a brush of two soft clairvoyant fields. The man, wearing a cap and a long, wide robe with a dizzying pattern of oranges and browns, was bowing with his arm linked in his wife’s; her earrings tinkled and glittered in the sunlight from the window.

“I shall speak to ada’xa Afed about it shortly,” said the third voice, the deepest of the three.

The two arati smiled at him and Cerise, inclining in brief bows; they moved for the door, and the bell rang.

Jima pez Jinwe was a tall, broad human, thick-necked and thick-bearded, with close-cropped dark hair starting to go bald at the temples. He must’ve stood at six feet if not more, towering over both him and Cerise. His shirt and trousers were as fine-spun and elaborate as the arati’s clothing, nevertheless; he wore several rings and a bracelet on one arm, and his Estuan was impeccably Thul Ka, if not Thul’amat.

“Incumbent Vauquelin,” he said, lowering in a deep bow.

He didn’t hesitate, or look toward Cerise; he dipped low in a bow himself, and clasped his hands behind his back when he rose. “Good afternoon, ada’xa Jima,” he said. “This is my daughter, Cerise Vauquelin.”

Jima looked up and down her, raising one bushy eyebrow. “Will you take kofi, Incumbent, young madam?”

“I think not, but the offer does us honor, ada’xa,” he said, smiling. “We’re due to meet with ada’na Ebele shortly.”

Jima nodded; his eyes still lingered, something pinched around the edges, on Sish. “And have you found anything to your liking, Miss Vauquelin?” His smile stayed, nevertheless. “If you have any questions, please – the hearth is warm, but a guest is like a cool breeze. Still, I would not wish to keep you.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

"It is lighter," she allowed, and didn't even roll her eyes. That he was frowning and narrowing his eyes at her now, irritation stirring up physical and clairvoyant mona both, made more sense to her than most other things. Cerise had met herself once or twice; she was an irritating sort of person. To many people, let alone to him.

Cerise stepped back a little from the bolts, suspicious of Sish being so obedient on her shoulders. The voices in the back room had stopped, or gotten so quiet she couldn't hear them. Her father's voice was all the more clear then when he spoke, sudden and firm; it didn't make the words any more understandable. She opened her mouth, only to shut it again at the bright splash of two soft fields into the aisle.

They brush by and are gone, polite and dazzlingly colored. The longer she is here, the more Cerise starts to think her father's terrible choices somewhat restrained. The one who remains is a finely-dressed wall of a man, more than a head over her own height. Cerise resists the urge to make a face as she cranes her neck up; she has never much taken to feeling small. There was no need for her to make note of a lack of field to know the man for human; size alone would have told her that much.

Cerise didn't bow; she didn't think it particularly wise, with Sish set about her shoulders. She inclined her head instead. Surely the intent carried through enough. She was not friendly, but she did generally try not to be rude until it was warranted. Just because it was so often warranted didn't mean she had to start it.

"Good afternoon." She did, however, frown when he looked her up and down. She didn't know what to make of it, and bristled out of instinct. There was the most unaccountable flood of embarrassment on the back of her tongue, remembering that she wasn't even wearing socks. There were also, she realized, a number of small holes in the shoulders of her blouse. It was good her father had no plans to stay and take kofi in the back, as that couple had done—she had enough earlier, for one, and for another, she suddenly wanted to scream.

Sish squirmed awkwardly on her shoulders, reacting to the tensing in the muscles across her back. Another claw dug into her, from a back foot this time. Cerise bit her tongue on a sharp hiss of pain. Likely that didn't improve Jima's opinion of the miraan. Cerise could see his eyes linger on her as she thrashed around. Cerise did her best to keep her from it, but she had limited hands available with the Hat held in front of her.

"Oh, er," Cerise frowned. She always had difficulty with this deeply Mugrobi way of speaking. Instead of ever lying, everything always seemed to need to be said in as roundabout a manner as physically possible. She tried very hard to adjust, but it was like she had suddenly fallen into an entire city of—of—of literature students, or poets, or some other dreadful sort of person. The sort that could never communicate anything clearly or directly. It drove her to distraction.

"I don't really know what I'm looking at," she admitted, a pinched sort of look creeping across her face. Sish had gotten tired of being good now, Cerise could tell. "It's all very—oww, Sish, please—it's all very. Very."

Sish slithered off of Cerise's shoulders before she could catch her. For a moment her instincts hovered between grabbing the miraan and letting go of the Hat; Sish used this time to make good on her escape. There was a triumphant, happy little sound from the miraan and off she went down the aisle.

"I will just—I'll be right back." Cerise dropped the hat with a soft puff of air and took off after the scrabbling of Sish's claws. At least she had not taken flight. For whatever reason, her golden friend had remained terrestrial. Good. Cerise could catch her on the ground. Hopefully before she shredded anything.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

H
e was smiling thinly up at ada’xa Jima, and then he was smiling thinly up – up just a little – at Cerise. He’d felt a twinge of anger, at first, when he hadn’t seen Cerise bow. Now, his smile almost faltered; he kept it smooth, but he felt something more like worry. Sish’s muscles were working underneath her golden scales, her hide twitching, her beady eyes sharp and alert.

Cerise’s head was a halo of fraying curls. The weight of the miraan on her shoulders was pulling at her pock-marked shirt, tugging at her collar and wrinkling the fabric. It hadn’t been the neatest tuck starting out; her skirt was loose and a little uneven, he noticed now, and the blouse was pouchy around the waistband. He didn’t need to look down to see the feather they’d left on the floor by the rack of bolts, glittering in the corner of his eye.

Mostly, he looked at her face, because Jima was looking everywhere else. The set of it was calm and imperious as ever, with its faintest tug of a sneer. He thought he knew a little something about faces like that; he thought he knew better. There were a few uncertain lines around the edges of her eyes, and her lips were a little too brittle.

He looked back up at Jima, still smiling his politician’s smile, his back ramrod-straight since the human had entered the room.

However Cerise’d meant it, he thought Jima’d be used to Anaxi lasses who didn’t bow by now; that didn’t make his expression any less sharp, or – he thought, with a sinking feeling – cruelly amused. He swallowed tightly, listening to Cerise fuss with Sish.

“Very,” Jima repeated, raising two eyebrows. “An eye accustomed to landscapes and portraiture may struggle to find the truth in opiw’dzawobar painting, though the hand that paints it is skilled and honorable. Perhaps ada’na Ebele can –”

Sish slipped off Cerise’s shoulders like a snake lathered in soap. Before he knew much of anything, the miraan had shot down one of the aisles in a flash of gold, and Cerise was stumbling after her, her broad straw hat left in Jima’s immaculately-swept floor.

There was a look of alarm on the merchant’s face. “Bajea!”

“I’m, uh – I’m sorry,” he fumbled, taking off after Cerise, his politician’s grace somewhere back with the hat.

He caught sight of Sish darting between two aisles. His field reached out to meet Cerise’s, but then he slid back, stumbling down a more distant aisle on his aching hip. He’d seen Sish move in this direction, and, he thought, if he moved fast enough, they might hem her in. Aisles in a fabric store weren’t too unlike the tangle of alleyways in Voedale where he’d cornered a mant manna kov; he’d been damned agile, back then, even for all his size, but it was always good to keep one step ahead –

There was no moving fast enough; he’d overestimated himself. Sish went tangling past, and Cerise after her, and he spilled out into the aisle, following.

“Incumbent,” came Jima’s voice, firm, “this is absurd.”

At the end of the middle aisle was a shelf of jewel-colored velvet. He saw the flare of golden wings, feathers spread and glinting. Sish flew halfway up, then caught herself on a forest green bolt. He heard the prick of claws as she climbed the rest of the way up, chirping delightedly.

At the top, she found a bolt of deep purple velvet and began to sharpen her claws enthusiastically.

“Shit,” he snarled, a little more loudly than he’d meant to.

He half-turned when Jima moved in behind. He didn’t look shocked, now; he looked angry, his dark skin visibly flushed.

He looked over at Cerise. “Cerise,” he said, but anything else he’d thought to say died on his lips.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

In a way, Sish's escape was a relief. Cerise had bolted after her shining trail with only the barest hint of a second thought. Even then, it had been less about whether or not to chase Sish, and more about what to do with the hat.

She was chasing the drakelet, but even Cerise knew that she was running away. "Very very"—what was that supposed to have been? She didn't really understand what Jima had said after that—hadn't had time to parse it out and sort through the metaphor, let alone trying to guess what "opiw’dzawobar" was—but she was well used to the intent if not the specifics. Her jaw set and she shook it off; it didn't ultimately matter. Catching Sish mattered. Not the good graces of some—some foreign shopkeep, a stranger she'd never see again.

It didn't matter, and she didn't care. She knew what she was. She always knew.

Moving quickly in her boots when they had been rubbing the back of her ankles raw all day was more difficult than she would have anticipated. She felt and heard more than saw her father chase after the both of them. There was no room to wonder at that (surely, surely, chasing after a wayward daughter and her flying lizard bent on destruction of property was beneath a politician's dignity).

He didn't follow down the same aisle she did; Cerise found herself oddly relieved by that, too. She had never had a second person to help her with this that she trusted not to value the property over the miraan. Cerise hadn't realized she had a second person like that until now, in fact. That, too, could wait for a later hour to chew on. If he moved fast enough, if he got there in time, they could head her off, and—

No such luck. Sish wound between his ankles as if he weren't even there, and Cerise had to push by him to keep in pursuit. She heard Jima's voice; she grinned, like the whole thing was suddenly unbearably funny. And wasn't it? Maybe not so much to Jima, and she did feel a little sorry for that. But it was absurd, absolutely and completely. What else could anyone do but laugh?

They could try and catch the whirlwind, that's what. Sish had grown tired of being earthbound. Her launch from the floor was a little ungainly, as she was still trying to evade Cerise's capture, but it was enough to get her halfway up a bolt of rich green velvet. She looked very well on it, Cerise thought. Above the green was a bolt of deep purple, a richer and darker tone than the one she had been admiring in another aisle. In another lifetime, it felt like. Cerise winced as she heart the sound of ripping velvet; her father snarled, loudly.

Cerise skittered to a halt in front of the velvets. She did not turn her head to look at Jima; she found she didn't quite dare. Not yet, anyway. Maybe after she'd caught her breath, and her miraan. More of her hair had slid down to stick to the back of her neck and the sides of her face. The mass of the braid had gotten knocked off-center as well; Cerise could already tell it was going to start to pull at her soon.

"Father." Her voice was remarkably calm; she was calm. Cerise hadn't turned to look at anyone but Sish. This was all—not fine, but no worse than she had predicted it might be. She had warned him. It wasn't her fault she was right. Or maybe it was, she didn't really know. It had been her decision to bring Sish with her instead of leaving the miraan in her crate, like she knew she could have. She had just thought—well, it didn't matter. This was what had happened, regardless of any thought or not-thought on her part.

Cerise paused to take a breath, and then gave a sharp whistle, piercing and angry. Sish left off her destruction then, turning to look at her. Cerise frowned. The sharp curve of the miraan's claws remained sunk into the bolt. She was just high enough that Cerise couldn't reach her to safely pull her down. She whistled again, and held up her arm.

"Come here, brat," she said firmly, though not without that small trace of affection. She whistled a third time, arm still raised. Sish made an unhappy little sound, almost like a question. Cerise kept her gaze firm and didn't put her arm down. Sish pulled her claws out of the velvet then at last and crawled back down the bolts. There were little tearing sounds the entire way.

When she reached the floor, Cerise bent over and picked up the miraan, holding her against her chest. No shoulder-riding now; she had lost that privilege for the time being. Now, the bitterness of shame came over her again. Now, Cerise turned her head. She looked first at Jima; he seemed rather furious. As was his right. Cerise had no illusions, there. Then the pale knife-grey of her eyes slid down to her father. Her mouth pressed into a thin, tight line. There was, she knew, just the palest wash of color in her cheeks. She bowed, at last; the motion was stiff and awkward. Sish squirmed against her chest.

"I'll—we'll—I'll go stand outside. I'm—" Cerise straightened her shoulders and lifted the sharp line of her chin. She would not be ashamed. Sorry, yes; ashamed, though? She thought she could at least pretend to not be that. "I'm sorry. I thought she might... behave. We'll be... outside."

"I..." The smoothness of her sneer faltered. She swallowed. "I liked the purple, with the... the gold in it." Cerise looked at her father as she said it. Then she pushed past to exit the shop, trying to find somewhere out of the way. Out of sight of the bulk of traffic, if she could. Only when she had found it did she realize she had left her hat on the shop floor. She groaned; Sish chirped happily back.