[Closed] So Much to Pay For

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

S
he wasn’t looking at either of them, but for a moment, both of them were looking at her. Her pointed profile was set, despite the heavy dark hair that was falling out of her braid. There were a few tangles stuck to her neck and fraying out about her face. Her blouse was full of pinprick holes at the shoulders. He frowned, blinking, and he wanted to say again, Cerise – he could feel Jima fuming at his back, and he wasn’t sure what he could feel in Cerise’s field, but it wasn’t anger – Cerise, it’s all right.

Father, she said, and he blinked again, back at Sish. He didn’t know what he wanted to say.

Cerise’s arm was a long line like a tree branch; in the corner of his eye, he saw Jima flinch when she whistled. Brat, he thought, his brow furrowing, smiling just a little. Pop, pop, pop, went Sish’s claws, and then paused, still caught and digging in. Chrrrp? Little eyes fixed on Cerise.

She whistled yet again, and Sish scrambled down. Behind him, he saw Jima’s chest rise and fall in a very deep breath. Every line in Cerise was rigid-sharp as she turned to them, bundling up Sish in her arms like a scaly boch. I’m sorry, she said, after some stumbling. She bowed to ada’xa Jima finally, and he felt a pang. Her eyes were sharp and cold when she rose, and that faint twist of a sneer was on her face, but there was a soft brush of pink across her narrow pale cheeks.

He nodded when she spoke again. He couldn’t quite smile; it was almost more than he could bear. He swallowed thickly, watching her swing out the door with a jangle of the bell. He took a deep breath and mastered himself.

He wasn’t sure what in the gods’ names he was feeling, but now wasn’t the time for it. He smoothed his politician’s smile out; he turned to Jima. “Ada’xa –”

“I can make no demands, Incumbent, sir,” Jima said, his deep voice smooth and polite. He inclined his head and shoulders again; every line of him was deferential, but his face was dark. “The Clothiers’ Guild, and thereby the Brotherhood of the Crocus, can.”

“I shall be happy to pay for the velvet,” he said softly. “And for the afúr’oho, ada’xa, which she mentioned, when we have the measurements from ada’na Ebele.”

Jima frowned at the velvet over his shoulder. “The Guild, sir, may find future damages – or their potentiality – objectionable.”

“We won’t bring Sish in again, ada’xa.” He smiled, and kept smiling; his face was stiff and painful, but his smile was smooth.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, he came out through the door, the Hat under one arm with his parasol. He didn’t see her at first; there wasn’t much room between the shopfront – with its glassy bay windows – and the curb, bustling with carts and coaches and pullers and foot traffic. He found her eventually still cradling Sish in a nook a couple of buildings over, in the shade of an awning, a support and a few hanging plants between her and the busy street.

He wasn’t sure how he’d expected to feel at the sight of her pale, narrow face, thin lips faintly twisted. However it was, it wasn’t what he felt, in the end. He didn’t glance up at the braid, but he saw it; the bulk of it’d slipped a little lower, and it looked like it must’ve pinched. Sish was peering up from her arms, squirming a little, and she chirruped when she saw him.

His brow furrowed, at first, then smoothed out; he tried something like a wry smile. “We’ve had a day already, haven’t we, Sish?” His field brushed hers and settled into a caprise; he slid into the shade of the alcove and leaned against the wall.

He held his tongue for a moment; he swallowed it, almost. Almost. Is she all right? he thought to ask instead, casual-like.

And damn him, he couldn’t.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

At least Sish seemed pleased with herself. She squirmed in Cerise's arms, but in a high-spirited sort of way. Not the restless, unhappy sort of squirming she had done before. Cerise looked at her and sighed; she couldn't be angry. Sish was just an animal, in the end. An animal that Cerise loved very much, but she didn't know expensive velvet from Cerise's dorm curtains from a paper napkin at a cheap restaurant in the Stacks.

The error in judgement came, as it usually did, from her. Cerise couldn't even really claim that she didn't know this would happen. She had warned of it specifically, and that she had been right in the end was of little comfort or satisfaction. She had thought only that Sish would like the outing. There was, unfortunately, more than that. Cerise had to swallow this truth, hard as it was—her father, or this version, seemed to like Sish. And Cerise liked that he did, because she was soft in the head.

"Stupid," she muttered to herself, and let the back of her head smack against the wall she stood in front of. At least she'd found a shady spot to feel sorry for herself in, considering she'd left the Hat on the shop floor. She wondered if her father would bring it with him. She wondered if he'd send her back to the hotel. That would be smart of him, really. Cerise didn't think she could even be mad if he did. Rather, she corrected herself with a twist of her mouth, she would find it difficult to defend—she could be mad about anything, it seemed.

How long had passed with her standing there, Cerise couldn't have said. All she knew was that at some point, Sish called out a little greeting kind of trill, and Cerise felt a soft clairvoyant field brush against her own. The color had retreated from her face, and her field was smooth and as indectal as she could ever make it. Only her mouth gave her away, a thin slash in a sharp-jawed face that pulled down at the corners.

Now, she thought; now would come a lecture, or a fight. At the least she'd go back to the hotel. She would have to ask how to get back; she had only paid minimal attention on the way over. She didn't know the cableways, or the streets. What she got instead was something that looked like an attempt at a smile, and her father coming to stand next to her. Cerise looked away.

"Every day is an adventure for Sish, Destroyer of Textiles," Cerise snorted, looking down at the miraan still cradled in her arms. She seemed almost sleepy. All that destruction and excitement had taken it out of her, Cerise supposed. A bit of hair slipped forward to tickle her cheek, and she awkwardly brushed it away with a scrunched shoulder.

Then they just stood there. Maybe she should apologize, but she knew she wouldn't. She was sorry for the damage Sish had caused, however unwittingly. But she couldn't apologize for it. The words just weren't there, and if they had been she couldn't have given them breath and voice to shape them. What could she have said, anyway? She wouldn't leave Sish behind, no matter that it might have been the more intelligent choice. They were a pair, her and her miraan—that was just how it was.

"Me?" Her voice pitched a little in surprise. Cerise looked down, not sure she had heard correctly. No, he hadn't been looking at Sish—the question had been directed at her. The surprise was plain on her face, honest and open.

"My dignity can withstand such an assault; it's not so fragile as to be too damaged by chasing a wayward lizard around a store. It's a good thing I'm only visiting, though. I get the feeling we are banned for life." Cerise tried a grin, and she thought she found a good one after all. It was at least a little funny, now that she was standing outside and not back there. Her father chasing after the miraan and swearing—that had been something to see, at least. "I'm fine."

Cerise shrugged. Something caught at the edge of her vision and she looked down. There, tucked under his arm with that ridiculous godsdamn Gioran parasol, was her hideous clocking monstrosity of a Hat. There were holes in it. She could see them more clearly now. It should be burned, or pitched into the Turga. But he'd picked it up off the floor and brought it back out.

"You rescued my Hat," she said, looking up. The amusement in her voice dissolved into laughter, sharp as the edge of a knife. It wasn't funny, she hadn't intended any of this; but it was, at the same time, hilarious.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

H
e snorted at Destroyer of Textiles, though he couldn’t quite help thinking of Sish loose in Woven Delights, and that idea amused him a mant manna less. Not that he’d been much amused in there, sorting the details with ada’xa Jima. For all his fine clothes, he was a human tradesman; something about Jima standing amid his qalqa, his lovely vivid velvets pinprick-torn by an Anaxi golly lass’ miraan, had curled and twisted inside him.

But there was something, too, about Cerise holding all the limp coils of Sish in her arms, the miraan’s beady eyes blinking almost sleepily.

Maybe he should’ve – he didn’t know what he should’ve done. What would Anatole’ve done? Scolded her? Was that what a father ought to do? He wasn’t her father, he reminded himself; he wasn’t a father. He’d never been, and he never would be, and he’d never known – his. The thought had a bitter taste. Somewhere underneath the bright press of the sun, his burgeoning headache, a memory threatened to swirl up, a ragged harsh voice and the brush of a glamour.

Cerise fidgeted a loose hair out of her face with her shoulder, and it dissipated; he smiled a little, looking away at the hanging plants.

Even as it was, he couldn’t much see himself calling her down for a decision he had made. He hadn’t thought Sish would tear through ada’xa Jima’s shop like a gold whirlwind, but given all the letters about shredded drapes, he might’ve known. Perhaps the problem was that he hadn’t thought at all, about any of this.

She looked down and then up at him, her sharp grey eyes wide. He’d expected an angry snap – for a crackle of red to shiver through the mona – maybe even for her to try and storm back to the cable car and find her way back to Dejai on her own. But the look on her face was more like surprise; and as she went on, it spread out into a funny sort of grin, and he found himself smiling, too.

“Maybe so,” he said, “and a few others, too. Word gets around, in the Clothiers’ Guild.” Not before he’d wedged his foot in the door about the purple fabric, at least.

Only visiting, he thought. I’m only visiting, too, he wanted to say, just for a couple of months. He wasn’t sure why; he understood what she meant. And yet –

It slid into place tentatively, looking at her sharp narrow grin. He thought of her curling red script on the page. Do you think I’m never coming home? he wanted to ask suddenly, with the funny sinking feeling of having missed something that was in plain sight. He didn’t dare, all the same.

Do you even care? he might’ve thought, if he hadn’t known better for some time now.

Her eyes went down to the Hat tucked under his arm, and he was laughing before she even spoke. “I couldn’t’ve left him there, could I?” he asked, straightening his face out to something that wasn’t remotely as solemn as he wanted it to be. “All alone on ada’xa Jima’s floor.”

There was a joy to it, though, of being unable to keep from laughing. Of letting the smile spill out with only a sloppy, half-hearted effort to stop it, and pretending he was the sort of man who couldn’t help it.

For a few moments, they were laughing together; he snorted loudly, and her laughter was as sharp as a riff, and a little wild, like her grin.

With a little flourish, he handed Cerise back her hat, inclining his head and shoulders in a half-bow. “It really is something,” he laughed.

“Are you ready?” he asked. “Ada’na Ebele is, uh –” I think you’ll like her, he wanted to say; that was a good way to ensure the opposite. “A different sort,” he said, finally. “And Sish looks like she’s had her fill.” He smiled wryly.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

Word gets around, huh? Here as much as anywhere. She hadn't thought, really, until that moment that it was more than just the one shop she might have caused a problem in, bringing Sish along. Cerise felt a kind of prickling at the back of her neck, and on the heels of it a sharp spike of irritation with herself. The prickling felt very much like regret. Since when did she feel regret for causing Anatole Vauquelin trouble? she wanted to demand of herself.

The problem was, she knew the answer, and she hated it. If she were half of what her reputation made her out to be, maybe the answer would be different. Cerise bit the inside of her cheek, letting the simplicity of the pain clear away anything else more complicated in her mind. To say she hadn't meant to, to apologize, was useless and empty. Her intent didn't matter once cast, only the results.

One could only brood so much, staring down at the Hat. Gracious Lady's mercy, it was awful. She was becoming increasingly attached to it the more she pondered on its hideousness. Each and every flaw was becoming a point of endearment—given how many flaws it had, it would be a wonder if she weren't half in love with it by the time she left Thul'Amat after the Exhibition.

"You could have," she said when she took it back from him. She was grinning still, long pale fingers closing over the straw brim awkwardly. Sish was still being held in the circle of her arms; Cerise transferred the bulk of her to one arm temporarily, freeing the other to take the Hat and place it back on her head. "But it would have been a fair cruel thing to do to poor, unsuspecting Hat. Leaving it alone to take the rest of Mr. Jima's wrath, when it is only an unfortunate bystander."

She had tried, on the cable car, with that "ada'na". She couldn't bring herself to do it again now, with the sharp awareness of the shape of herself so strong in her mind. Even at the time, the syllables had seemed malformed in her voice. Like she was playacting at being someone else, foreign address tripping strangely off the end of her tongue. She had tried, and it had felt wrong. Not incorrect, but ill-fit. She would not try again.

Once the Hat was back on her head as comfortably as she could make it, Cerise looked to Sish. Her thin golden body curled against her chest, and the length of her tail draped over Cerise's arm. Her little eyes were open, but only just. Cerise kept looking a moment more, eyebrows raised. Appearances could be deceptive, and Sish was a clever little monster when she wanted to be.

"I think she has," Cerise said as she looked up. She placed a heavy emphasis on "think"—it was rather difficult to be sure. Not even with the sleepy way the golden wings had folded in, or the gentle pressure of her back feet pushed into Cerise's ribcage. "It is exhausting, to be so filled with chaos. At least I can be sure she won't bolt off on the way over."

If something happens— If I'm wrong— If she gets a second wind— Cerise didn't bring up any of these scenarios. Either they would happen, and she could apologize then (maybe), or they wouldn't. Either way, apologizing in advance wouldn't change the outcome.

Cerise straightened and pulled away from the wall. "Lead on, then."

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

H
at was back on Cerise’s head now, and she was grinning in the shade of it, and something settled inside him. Fair cruel, she said, and he almost didn’t notice; it was a familiar, comfortable sort of slip, even with her accent. Mr. Jima, he did; his smile didn’t falter, but he wondered. He hadn’t thought her the sort to back down from a challenge, even if it was linguistic.

He looked down at Sish when she did, sucking at his tooth for a quiet moment. “It is,” he agreed, “exhausting. To be filled with chaos.”

Sish looked sleepy enough, but if she was anything like a cat, she could wake and go bolting off in a second. Funny to think he’d started thinking of Sish as a strange little cat; sometimes it was all he could see, even despite the long graceful neck and the scales that caught the light and the wings. He scratched his jaw, frowning. Sish shifted, one wing flickering, to settle her head more comfortably against Cerise.

He quirked a brow.

“I suspect we’ll find out,” he said brightly enough.

It was a short enough walk to Ebele’s, though it was across the way. Alone – or without Sish, at any rate – he might’ve woven across traffic, but he didn’t trust himself to keep track, and he doubted Cerise would let him take her hand. The sun was beating down something laoso by now, thickening the air even in the shade of his parasol and her hat, with the faint fug of a coming downpour. They moved past tall humans and slim galdori, and a few bright glamours, past shopfronts hung with cloth and other things.

They crossed at an intersection, then moved on through the bustle. It was a quieter street he went down this time, the slant of the sun shading it deeply. It was beside a plain, simple-looking building. The windows were latticed, and not much could be seen through them, in contrast to the bright fabric and clothing displays of the shops all around.

In the alley, the stones were well-cleaned, if old and cracked in places; the tall stuccoed walls of the buildings were close on either side. Through an archway was a small shaded porch, with a yellow-painted door that bore a sign: “Open” in Estuan, and a swirl of Mugrobi underneath.

The door jingled as he stepped through and into the cool, holding it for Cerise and Sish.

The entry-room was quiet and dark, packed with clothing-racks, though the ceilings were high. At the other end, in the soft light that shafted from a high window, was a table covered in cloth and needles and spools. A swirl of damask caught the light, silvery-fine. A pair of spectacles sat atop a few folds of light linen.

Two quiet voices drifted from a side room.

“Are you sure?”

“Do you like it, ada’na?” Ebele’s Estuan was heavily-accented, with very faint hints of the Turtle. “What matters in this business,” came the old imbala’s voice, “is that you like it.”

“Ada’na Dzepi’s ball is in a week; I feel like a wreck.”

The voices drifted on, sometimes too muffled to hear.

He remembered the first time he’d come to Ebele’s, understated amid Dzitoxo’s vibrancy. It had been Isiri, Ebele’s eldest daughter, he had met first; she’d been sewing, and she’d looked up at the doorbell as if she’d seen a ghost. He remembered the giggles and the bright questions from her youngest.

It was her – Isú'wu – who came out first, this time, wandering in from the back room. She was very small, and young, seven or eight at most. Her large dark eyes went wide when she saw them; she glanced between him and Cerise, the smile dropping off her face, and moved quickly back into the other room. There was a loud whisper, most of it in Mugrobi, but the word Anaxi was clear.

There was a loud hush, and the quiet voices resumed.

There were a few chairs off to the side, low and cushy, positioned around a smooth, dark wooden table. “It might be a few moments,” he said, gesturing toward the seats and moving there himself. He looked at Cerise once, uncertain; the smile had fallen off his face. He cleared his throat. “That was – uh – ada’na Ebele’s daughter,” he said, trying to find the smile again.

She’s not usually so shy, he thought to say, but he didn’t think that would do Cerise much good. It’s not you, he wanted to say, and he didn’t think that’d help, either. “Here,” he said instead, pouring two glasses of water from the glass pitcher on the table and taking a seat.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Bethas 37, 2720 - Late Morning

At least the walk was blessedly short between Jima's and their next destination. Even the Hat couldn't do much about the heat, and it certainly couldn't do anything about the humidity. All it really did was keep her from getting burnt and returning to Anaxas looking like a field hand. That part Cerise would have been less concerned with if it didn't always seem to come after a week-long period of painful redness.

She looked at the sky doubtfully as they walked on. It looked like it was likely to rain; she hadn't brought an umbrella. Her mind flashed an absurd picture: her and her father, sharing that absolutely ridiculous parasol. It wasn't even an umbrella, and wasn't wide enough to do so. Cerise's mouth twitched into the smallest implication of a smile.

The bustle of the street gave way to a quieter one once more; Cerise found she could breath a little easier than she had, even with the thickness of the air. It was shadier, too, for which she was even more grateful. The Hat made a valiant effort, but it could only do so much. Here it was cooler, though each breath she took was still unpleasantly damp. Her heels struck the cracked stone of the street and bounced off the walls of the buildings on either side. Each step made her wince a little now. Running in Jima's store had certainly not helped the discomfort of her poor stocking-related decisions that morning.

Cerise looked at the windows, private and latticed—not at all like the bright, eye-catching displays on the street they'd just come from. The whole of it was more secluded, private-feeling. She glanced at her father curiously out of the side of her eyes; how had he even found this place? On his own? She tried to picture him wandering the streets of Thul Ka in search of a tailor. It didn't quite work. The place must have been recommended, then. By who, she couldn't decide either. Not another Incumbent, surely. Unless there was a greater contingent of aging Anaxi wandering the streets than she had thus far observed. Thul Ka was a big city, after all. It was possible. Somehow, she didn't think so.

Cerise sighed in relief, stepping inside. Sish squirmed a little in her arms; she looked down, sharply, but the miraan just re-settled herself with a foot more painfully digging into her arm. Cerise thought she might have fallen asleep. Like before, there was nobody at the front of the shop when they walked in. And like before, she could hear voices from another room, quiet snatches of conversation. Something about a ball, she thought; Cerise stopped listening. She looked around the shop then without shyness or focus.

It was only when someone else came out that she looked down, surprised to see the someone was a child. Small—older than the boy on the cable car she thought. But Cerise was terrible with children's ages, and couldn't tell by how much. Something about the way her dark eyes, large in that small face, grew even larger while her smile dropped away made the back of Cerise's neck itch. The child practically ran from them, into the room with the voices. Anaxi, Cerise heard, and she set her jaw. This did not promise to be much better than before.

"I see." She paused. "I'll—I'll stand," she said and frowned. It was hard to see well indoors with the Hat blocking light and her peripheral vision both. But Sish was in her hands, so it was hard to do much about it. The last thing she wanted was to shift the miraan's weight and send her rocketing off—again.

"But if you could—hold her? While I... take off the Hat." Cerise looked down at him, seated with his glass of water. Her eyebrows were raised. If he took hold of Sish—and, more doubtful still, the miraan stayed put—she could take off the great straw monstrosity. Perhaps set it on a chair; Cerise didn't think it was wise for her to get too comfortable. Just in case.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

C
erise’s jaw was a tight square. He hadn’t been able to make out much of her expression along the way, between Hat and all the bustling crowd, the sun that beat down and his own parasol. In the soft lit dark, she was frowning, but he couldn’t see much of the upper part of her face in the shade of Hat. She looked even stranger in it, in here, and the shirt with its sleeves rolled-up and the loose skirt and the stockingless boots. There were racks of flowing gowns and scarves hung on either side, slack and bodiless.

Isú’wu’s wide eyes had torn a hole in whatever peace the room’d had, he thought. It’s not you, he wanted to say. She wasn’t like this before, but it’s not you. It’s this damned Vyrdag.

And didn’t she, he thought, have a right to be afraid of their kind? Anaxi galdori, he thought bitterly. But he looked Cerise up and down, pale knuckles red from the long hot walk, skirt all rumpled and askew, and he couldn’t much hold the anger. Even with her strong physical field against his, he couldn’t hold it.

“Of course,” he said quietly, though he was frowning. Sish was still bundled up in her arms, head lolling against her chest. “You should, uh – take some water, at least,” he added, looking up at her; his brows drew together. “It’s easy to get parched here; I, uh –”

I’ve passed out once or twice, before I knew better, he almost said. He held his tongue first because he thought she’d sulk, or else laugh at him. He stayed quiet because he thought she might not. “I’ve heard it’s easy to get in a bad way,” he said instead, quirking an eyebrow and taking a sip.

Hold her?

He nearly coughed on his water, cleared his throat. When he glanced back up, Cerise was still looking at him; he couldn’t tell much about her eyes, but she looked dead clocking serious. “I, uh – yes,” he said dumbly, “of course,” already pushing himself up and setting his glass of water down on the table.

He expected to feel dread at the prospect. The back of his neck prickled. Curiosity mingled with it.

He moved closer, a little closer, and held out his arms, almost like he was reaching out to take a baby. Not that he’d held many babies, but he shaped his arms like he thought you might, if you were holding a baby. He found it a strangely tender motion.

Sish’s gold limbs were half limp. The miraan stirred a little when Cerise passed her over. He expected a tight coil of muscles, heavy and sharp like the weight of Sish on his shoulder when he’d first met her. But this was something like a cat deep asleep, all dishrag-floppy, golden eyelids fluttering. The wings were a soft feathered bundle, and he was careful not to press them.

“Ah,” he murmured, “there we are, there we are…” He’d hardly realized how close he was to Cerise, frowning intently with the careful effort. He backed away a little when the drakelet curled against him, squirming, resting her sharp gold head in the folds of his amel’iwe.

He looked up and met Cerise’s eyes, and he felt a funny, piecemeal sort of smile on his face; it hurt, and it felt oddly nice. He smoothed some ruffled feathers with a hand and then made to sit down.

Cerise had taken her hat off by the time Ebele joined them.

It was an arata who brushed out first, a young woman in a bright red dress with an orange sash over her shoulder. She’d the puffy-faced look of having cried, though her makeup was neat and fresh. She smiled over at the two of them a little, bowing shyly, then left.

Ebele came in after her, fieldless-quiet. “Ah, Mr. Vauquelin,” she said in a soft creaking voice. “And you must be Ms. Cerise Vauquelin.” She bowed deeply, her long, richly-embroidered brown scarf rippling over one shoulder, the hem of it never brushing the ground.

She might’ve been Anatole’s age, but she wore it in every crease on her small face, from the smiling lines around her full lips to the worry lines at her delicately-arced brow. She was arata-small, wearing a long gown in deep tan, hemmed with the same fine brown brocade as her scarf. When she moved, gold threads caught the light.

When she gestured, all the same, her hands were knobbly and callused. “Please forgive my youngest daughter Isú’wu. She’s shy of late,” the imbala said, smiling. “You know how children her age can be.”

“You look very well today, ada’na,” he said, and struggled to bow.

Ebele smiled, waving a hand. “The little one must sleep. You told me there would be a miraan, Mr. Vauquelin; I’ve never seen a gold one. What is her name, madam?” She turned to Cerise. “Will you sit for tea?”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

She made some impatient, dismissive sound at her father's insistence that she have some water. She would, but she couldn't do that while wearing the Hat or holding Sish. Cerise sincerely doubted she was in imminent danger of collapse. Did he think she was so delicate a thing as to be unable to handle a little hot weather? Her glance turned sharp at the corners of her eyes with suspicion. "I've heard", was it? Well, fine.

All the more reason for him to take Sish from her. Then she could both remove the Hat and have some water both, and everyone would be satisfied. Cerise thought he might choke on his water when she asked. As if it was the most ridiculous request. As if, she wanted to say with a roll of her eyes and a tap of her foot, he hadn't let Sish crawl all over her hardly more than a month ago, at the museum. As if! As if he hadn't let Sish clean him out of dinner scraps only a few days before this!

At least he agreed, eventually. "She's not going to bite you," Cerise grumbled, handing over the sleeping, gold-scaled bundle. Silently, she added a small disclaimer: she didn't think Sish would bite. She hadn't so far. Not her father anyway; she had bitten Em. There was no accounting for taste, she supposed. If Cerise had to pick one of them to lash out at, she thought she might make a different choice. Sish, Destroyer of Hours hadn't lived too many of those hours yet. She would learn.

He held his arms out like Sish was a child. It wasn't an inappropriate motion, she supposed, but she found it unsettling. Put in mind again of that moony little picture she'd conjured up on the rooftop the other day, of Ellie's children. Blondes, every last one of them. Gold seemed close enough. Ugh—maybe she did need that water more than she thought. She didn't like the funny little feeling that came with the careful handing over.

Cerise held her breath. If Sish woke, she would thrash. If she thrashed and her father dropped her, it would all be over. Those tiny, delicate claws would destroy anything they could sink into before Cerise caught her. There would be no whistling, this time. Just a contest to see who would win: Cerise's pain tolerance, or Sish's ability to inflict it. Luckily for both of them, Sish stirred but did not wake. She poured liquid into her father's arms, and Cerise could finally take off the Hat.

He met her eyes, and there was the strangest kind of look on his face. Like she really had handed him a child. Ridiculous. No matter how much Cerise loved her, she knew she was just an animal. That's as close as you're likely to get from me, she almost joked. She frowned instead, and took a step back. So she wouldn't hit anyone with the brim of her Hat, of course.

The hat had just been taken off and set down on a chair and a glass of water taken up when the side room opened and the occupants came to join them. A young galdori woman in bright red and orange came out first; Cerise bowed absently back. The ball-attendant, she assumed; she wasn't wildly concerned. The woman who followed after must have been Ebele, as she spoke like she'd been expecting them.

There was something not quite right when she approached. It wasn't the way she was dressed; that was immaculate and subtle, as one might expect. It wasn't her age, either; Cerise couldn't quite place it, until she got closer. Small and slim, galdori-built—and no field at all, not even what one might expect from something that had atrophied from disuse. It was no small effort for her to not stiffen her spine; the set of her jaw did not relax.

You should have told me, she thought accusingly. Cerise didn't turn to look. She was angry, and that took her a moment to place too. It wasn't just because her father hadn't said anything. No, Cerise didn't like that she had some knee-jerk reaction that came from nothing and nowhere. Rationally, she knew what had happened the other year in the cafeteria was an unfortunate accident. She hadn't even been there. But she'd heard about it. And still she didn't like her own bristling.

"Sish, Destroyer of Hours," she said, and her voice was even. She did not smile. "I—" She looked down at Sish, still sleeping in her father's arms. She supposed there was no danger of Sish escaping too quickly for Cerise to catch her, even if she was seated. Cerise nodded, and took a seat, moving the Hat out of the way. She shot her father a look on the way. It would have been nice to know, at least.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Late Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

I
’ve never held a fucking drake! he’d wanted to retort in a huff, if only he hadn’t been wholly occupied by the four limbs and two wings and long, sloping golden neck that folded sleepily into his arms. I don’t know if she’ll bite me – hells, I don’t know if I’ll hurt one of these fine, lovely wings, being the clumsy erse that I am. Sitting, now, he found himself running the backs of his fingers along her feathery wings, watching them catch the light as they shifted and folded tighter against her flank.

I – Cerise broke off. He glanced up sharply, his eyes darting between Cerise and Ebele. Ebele met his eyes once; the smile was smooth on her face, as if it had been carved there, but he thought there was a knowing look in her eye.

“Destroyer of Hours?” Ebele pronounced the epithet carefully with her soft Turtle accent. He glanced up and saw her eyes wide; standing where she was, he couldn’t see Cerise’s face. “To destroy an hour,” the imbala mused, an almost mischievous smile in the wrinkles round her eyes. “She is sleeping rather soundly.”

Sish let out something like a puttering snore.

Ebele’s eyes were watchful. She inclined her head and shoulders, shawl rippling with the motion, when Cerise nodded and moved to sit. Then, she was off, disappearing into the back room behind the counter. There was a chatter of voices, one Isú'wu’s, a bright curious chirp, and one Ebele’s soothing drone. Even the voices disappeared, then; a breeze drifted through the shop, fluttering the hems of the garments on the racks, making the gold and silver embroidery catch the light.

Cerise took a seat and tucked Hat aside. There were faint, familiar lines round her thin lips, and her grey eyes were cool enough to cut.

He raised both his brows halfway up his forehead, once she’d settled. A part of him wanted to ask, What is it this time?, exasperated, like he didn’t already know. Like he was trying to convince himself it was stuffy in here, or he was holding Sish wrong.

It was quiet, muffled quiet, but he wasn’t sure what he might say without Ebele overhearing; he wasn’t sure, he thought again, a little defensive, he ought to’ve had to say anything. You’re staying in Dejai, he wanted to say; you’re a stone’s throw from the Turtle. What are you worried about? And there was something underneath that, a wordless hurt – something more personal. Disappointment, maybe.

He frowned back at her, his brow furrowing. He knew better than to say anything now, where Ebele might overhear. Not that she’d say a damn thing about it, if she did.

There was a rustle, and Isu’wu reappeared from around a rack, still with her dark eyes wide. He watched her curiously, his brow knitting, and didn’t glance at Cerise; he breathed in, trying to relax the muscles in his back, and smiled what he thought was an encouraging smile.

Isu’wu held onto the hem of a hanging dress with one hand, then let go, taking a few steps closer. “Hello, madam,” she said in a quiet voice, Thul Ka Estuan, and bowed deeply.

“Ada’na Isu’wu,” he said, inclining his head. He stroked Sish’s wings gently and rhythmically.

She was wearing a dress in deep brown, with tan embroidered at the hems, and a headwrap in the same color. She didn’t smile, but she came to the third empty chair round the table, resting her hand on the leather back.

She would’ve made a joke once, he thought. She’d asked him solemnly how his hair had gotten so red, once; and during the fitting – the most achingly uncomfortable part – he’d still gotten her to giggle herself silly, and maybe that had eased his own pain a little. Now, she stood and watched.

“While my mother is making tea,” she said, “she asked if Ms. Vauquelin would like to see examples of her work.” She tugged at the hem of a nearby gown. She glanced at Sish, a little tiny smile cracking her lips as the drakelet snorted and rearranged her limbs, then inclined her head and shoulders in another small bow.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

Ms. Ebele had said nothing about Cerise's obvious stiffness, and her face had been smooth and steady. Somehow Cerise didn't feel any better than she had at the open judgement before. She had found a smile at least for the comment about Sish's slumber, and the little snore the miraan had made after. As if on cue.

The passive woman had left them after Cerise had nodded. She didn't let herself watch after the tailor's back after, but sat carefully and stiffly instead. That, of all things, had been something Cerise struggled to understand. Of all the many things she knew about her upbringing to be untrue or unfair, this was a question she had little reason to confront and still didn't know what to make of. Surely, it wasn't dangerous. Not all with—the condition—were. Cerise knew that. But some were. How did you know? How could you be sure until it happened?

She had read some of the poetry in the books her father had given her, and she had been here nearly a week, and still she didn't know how she felt about it. The whole affair made her uneasy, and her uneasiness made her angry with herself. How, she wanted to demand, could he not have said anything at all? There was something else, too, in his posture or his field or his face. He looked, Cerise thought bitterly, like this had all been a test, and one she had failed. A look that felt like a sharp stabbing of her thumb. A needle pressed there to remind her that she had gotten too comfortable. The past can be forgotten, but it can never be undone. Not by all the lunches or letters in the world.

Her jaw was held so tight it hurt. There was no way to loosen it except to speak; she didn't want to do that either, just now. Cerise sat there in sullen, stiff-backed silence. Her hand came up to try to adjust the wrapped braid on her head. Likely she had just made it worse. She had some water, at least. That forced her to relax a fraction, and she really was parched.

She glanced over at the rustling of fabric. The child appeared again; Cerise couldn't remember her name. The daughter. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father not look at her and smile at the child. That annoyed her and it hurt, too, like she had all at once become below even scolding. Why, she wanted to know, were things only familiar when they hurt?

Sish wasn't in her lap, because she had never asked for the miraan back. Somehow Cerise still couldn't bring herself to; the small, quick rise and fall of that little chest was too settled. Cerise wouldn't disturb that. No matter how much her fingers itched to do what her father was doing, stroking those bright feathers. Cerise looked at the girl instead, dark eyes still so wide in her young face.

"Hello," she returned, inclining her head as well. She watched the girl come a little closer in her little brown dress, hand staying on the chair. She didn't smile, and neither did Cerise. Her father could be comforting enough for the both of them, if that's how it was going to be. Petty, she knew it was a petty thing to think. Cerise thought it all the same.

What was she meant to do here, exactly? What was she supposed to say to this dark-eyed child, staring at her so? It wasn't like she enjoyed being rude, or thought most people in the room warranted her cruelty. Cerise looked at her, watching them, and she had no idea. The girl was dressed much better than Cerise was herself, she thought. The idea amused her a little. She asked her question in a quiet little voice, and the she looked at Sish. The girl—Isu'wu, she thought she might remember now that she had heard it a few times—smiled the tiniest of smiles look at the scaled limbs resettling. Cerise smiled a little, herself. The faintest of easing in the lines around her mouth and between her eyebrows.

"I would," she said with careful politeness. "But I am afraid, Miss Isu'wu, that I'm not terribly fashionable even in Anaxas. What is your favorite of your—your mother's work?"