[Closed] So Much to Pay For

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

Y
ou kn – He glanced over sharply, but Cerise’s pale face was a sour twist, again in the shadow of that hat. He glanced away, pushing down a strange feeling. It threatened to send a shiver through him; he didn’t let it. They passed under an awning, and he eased the parasol back a little, squinting in the shade. It nearly bumped into the brim of Cerise’s hat.

The question caught him unaware. He looked over again, quirking an eyebrow. “Well, I –” Yes, he thought of lying. Not much, he thought of lying.

He glanced away, caught the eye and the caprise of a brightly-dressed arata weaving by. She smiled; the man with her, neatly-dressed in a white amel’iwe, looked over and smiled too.

These looks were new to him; he couldn’t quite place them. They tickled at something in his memory – the way people’d looked at him, once, when he’d taken her out in West-and-Long or else – he didn’t linger long on the thought. It made him feel strangely self-conscious; he found himself wondering if they could see the resemblance. He thought it would be rather hard not to, in spite of all the freckles, and that made him feel even more self-conscious.

“No,” he said, frowning. “Well, being honest, I can’t remember. I know I had kofi at the hotel, at least. That has to count for something.” He reached up and scratched his jaw, grunting. Thank you, he almost said. Why the hell do you care? he almost asked. He breathed in a now-familiar scent, wafting from somewhere, across the smells of traffic and dust and animals – something cool and tangy, and fresh-baked bread – and felt his stomach rumble.

Must run in the family, he thought to say, and the thought brought a little smile to his face, one that flickered out as his hand dropped back to his side. “Thank you,” he added, in the end. The words were almost swallowed up by a coach that rattled by, drawn by a couple of skinny-legged moa. Almost, but not quite; he spoke up over the sound.

He turned onto Tsiyi’tsota, away from the main thoroughfare.

“Oh.” Cerise’s voice was light enough. There was movement in the corner of his eye; he glanced over, watching Sish squirm, tail lashing, and catching a wicked bright look in Cerise’s cool grey eyes, even in the shadow of her hat. “Uh – no,” he murmured. “I don’t think – Diana…”

He was silent for a few moments, looking back down at his sandaled feet. Tsiyi’tsota was a quiet back street connecting Uduqaper with a tangle of fabric streets, bright and busy. It was a swirl of browns and deep reds, with mostly back doors and small side balconies stacked up with plants on either side.

The smell of baking bread and spices was louder, here, for all its quietness, and the roasting of kofi drifted out of several open windows. There was a bakery tucked into Tsiyi’tsota a little ways down.

He kicked himself, then looked up again. “What,” he said, only a little dampened, “don’t you think I look rather fetching with it?” Managing a grin, he twirled the parasol on his shoulder, watching what he could see of Cerise’s face hopefully. “She isn’t the arbiter of all things fashionable, is she?”

“Good morning,” called a voice.

“Morning, ada’na,” he said, raising a hand.

Efemena was a slight young galdor a little older than Cerise; she was outside the bakery, sweeping around the tables. She raised two fingers, smiling from him to Cerise with a faintly surprised look. He nodded, and she leaned the broom up against the steps and darted inside.

“Godsdamn, I need to sit down.” He laughed, easing into one of the outdoor seats and folding up his parasol. “Kofi always helps with that not-a-morning-person business, doesn’t it? Unless you’ve had too much already,” he added, smiling. If there was still something pinched about his smile, he did his damnedest to push it aside. “Sish seems in a mood this morning.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

Being honest, he said, talking about breakfast. Something funny about the phrase coming from him, even though she didn't think he had lied to her much. At least not in a way she could identify easily, not anything direct. If he were to lie to her, breakfast seemed a strange place to do it. Cerise could think of several key junctures where a lie would have been more prudent, possibly even more kind.

Cerise moved a little away, to stay out of the range of that clocking parasol. Luckily for him, for both of them, she didn't want his kindness. "No, I really don't think it does," she disagreed, cheerful and stern both. "I would know."

He thanked her, and she didn't know what to say to that. "You're welcome"? That seemed wrong and strange, so she just shrugged. Swatted at a curl that slipped out from under the brim of her hat and felt like the brush of an insect across her skin. He'd made sure she could hear it, even over the thunder of traffic. Like it mattered, like he really meant it. Being honest.

Maybe that had been too far, bringing up Diana. Cerise had the thought, and it made her itch. Since when was there a "too far"? She inhaled sharply, thinking of both of her weekends at home. Those had been too far--but that was different, Diana was... She had been... Cerise bit the inside of her cheek, hard. Didn't matter anyway, she'd already said it. He could take it as he wanted to.

It was only too much if she thought about what she knew of things between them, and she found she didn't much like to think on it. Diana wasn't her mother, but they were her parents, and she just... just didn't want to. Because it was none of her business. And for no other reason.

The street they'd turned down was narrower and less busy. It felt more like an alley than a street to Cerise, a series of back doors. She relaxed a little in it; she liked back streets more than main thoroughfares. What an absurd thing to have a preference on, but even though she thought so there was nothing she could do to change it. The whole thing smelled like bread, and Cerise was hungry again. So maybe she hadn't asked her father out of concern for him, and the rather uncertain status of his health.

Sure. That worked.

Cerise snorted, shaking her head and quirking up an eyebrow. "I don't think I have ever described any incumbent as 'fetching', and I certainly won't start today." They walked on, and he twirled the ridiculous thing. It was too hot and too early for her to control the laugh that pried out of her.

"If she is, I think we're both in trouble anyway." Cerise shook her wrists meaningfully. It didn't seem necessary to point out the Hat again; they could both see it. It was at least accomplishing the goal of keeping the clocking sun off of her face.

They had arrived at a bakery without her much noticing until the young woman outside of it called out to greet them. She smiled stiffly back. The young woman seemed to both know her father, and be confused by Cerise. She didn't know what to make of that. Yet another thing to ignore, she supposed. Cerise took a seat as well, only raising her eyebrows a little at her father's language. She had started to adjust to the change, and it surprised her less now.

"I don't think there is such a thing as too much," Cerise said as she sat, waving her hand dismissively. As if reminded by the mere mention of her name, Sish squirmed off of her shoulders and onto the table, chittering. Cerise pet the top of her head absently, fondly.

"She is, rather. I think she's upset I won't let her roam about as much today. She shall recover from the torment. I think." Cerise shrugged as if it didn't matter, but she did look at the golden drakelet with traces of concern in her habitual frown. "It's just, uh, more difficult to keep track of her with the--this thing. And if she went too far I--"

Being honest. That was too much honesty, too much concern. Cerise shrugged again. Sish seemed happier now at least, wandering over the table before coming to settle awkwardly in the middle of it. Her tail seemed somehow to be twice as long as the rest of her, and twice as in the way.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

T
he laugh had brightened the tentative smile on his face. It curled a little, satisfied, and he’d glanced back down at the stones as they went steadily by. He’d watched her shake her pale wrists – the rumpled folds of her pushed-up sleeves – sidelong. He’d watched her swat at a curl her cheek, and it’d reminded him of a handful of bumps he’d been trying not to itch.

I don’t give a damn what Diana thinks, he’d thought to say; he’d almost said it, too, thoughtless with the heat and the ache in his hip. Diana isn’t here, he’d thought, too, and that wasn’t much better.

He couldn’t help it, the sharp spur of anger that came with thinking about her. It didn’t shake the smile off his face or leak out into his field; he knew better than that. He knew better, he thought, than to be angry. It wasn’t her fault, thinking he was –

“What? We’re a fashionable set.” The metal was cool in the shade; he sagged against the chair, leaning the parasol up against the wall. “You wouldn’t describe Incumbent Burbridge as fetching, in that…” He’d shut his eyes, tired; his brow furrowed with the recollection. “In the same sort of, uh, tuxedo we were all wearing?” he added with a shrug, opening his eyes.

Sish’d wriggled herself off onto the table, tiny claws clacking the metal. He smiled.

Cerise looked more comfortable here, at least. He’d thought it was that they were natt, at first; she’d glared something tsuter when they’d jostled her on the car. But he’d watched her expression ease a little in time, between stops, gazing about at the mix of bright wraps and workman’s clothes with a settled sort of look on her face. The Dejai and Cinnamon Hill crowd had dissipated, thinned out into the river of duri, and her expression hadn’t changed; she’d watched.

What do you see, when you look at them? he’d wondered.

Uduqaper might’ve been a bit much for the both of them, he thought. He wondered if it ever got that busy in Brunnhold. He didn’t dislike crowds, but he remembered what Vienda had been like for the first time, after a lifetime in the Rose; there’d been a mant manna more to worry about then, but – he supposed there was for her, too.

Cerise shrugged, a passable impression at nonchalance to somebody who didn’t know any better.

He glanced down at Sish, watching that feathered tail lash the length of the table. None of his surprise registered on his face; he just tapped the edge with a fingertip, frowning. “I’m assuming a –“

Leash. The word withered on his tongue. He thought of bright gold tangling through the trees. He thought of other things, too.

“Out of the question,” he murmured, scratching his jaw. “Ah, Sish,” he said, spreading a hand, “it’s for your own good, isn’t it?” He frowned deeply, watching her ruffle her feathers happily.

Efemena poked her head out the door, smiling at him brightly and then at Cerise. He stood up with some effort, excusing himself.

He came back up with two cups, sending out steam in the bright, hot late morning air, and full of the smell of kofi. With them he brought two small plates, each with a wedge of spotted, charred flatbread, thicker and flakier than what she must’ve had at places like Oti’uqaq. The smells of cumin and coriander were tangled up with cardamom and other faintly sweet things; they were drizzled with ochy’efaq, spiced ghee.

“Ah, would you – help me?” The asking was mindless; it was either that or try to hold something in his teeth. Efemena was flitting round the back, and presumably old Aafe was busy sweating at the ovens, and he’d thought himself up to the task besides.

But his thumb ached on one of the plates, and the kofi cups were hot and rather full. Should’ve made two trips, probably, but there was no going back now.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

The metal of the chair was cool against her back where it was shaded, even now. While Sish clambered up onto the table, her father closed his eyes. She looked for a moment, weighing what she saw. She looked away before they opened again.

This quiet little back street was comfortable. Cerise turned over the thought in her mind, not having noticed until this moment how little she cared for crowds. When had that started? She didn't remember always being so--but maybe she had been. It was one thing to be before a crowd for a match; that was glorious, thrilling. Then the thrill of competition sang in her veins and she could lose herself to it. Carve out the words that would carry her will to the mona and they could work together, in concert. It just wasn't the same in a way she couldn't quantify.

Well, that hardly mattered. It was what it was, and Cerise didn't want to dwell on that any more than she had wanted to dwell on the slight tension she'd thought had hovered when she mentioned Diana. Maybe she had imagined it, maybe things weren't so dire. No; she knew they were--she knew.

"There are many words I might use to describe Incumbent Burbridge," Cerise said carefully, tapping on the edge of the table with a fingernail, "and none of them are 'fetching'." Cerise's mouth pulled into the ghost of a sneer, thinking on him. No, her adjectives were less flattering. She had been trying to scandalize the other Incumbent, this was true. It had been easy, too easy. A challenge issued and failed without seemingly any resistance at all. Oh she remembered--she remember his talk of Brunnhold boys. Cerise never did forget a thing like that, and she rarely forgave.

Cerise looked up from the curve of Sish's tail on the table when her father started to speak. She didn't know how that sentence would end. What was out of the question? He was frowning, and she couldn't make out why. Of little concern then; there was certainly nothing she could do about it. "That's probably what she hates about it the most--contrary little thing."

She seemed to have forgiven the insult of having to stay under the hat now, at least. The golden flash of her feathered wings flicked out as her father stood, summoned by the young woman at the door. There was a happy rustling, and then she folded them back against her body. Cerise didn't bother to move the miraan out of the way. It wouldn't work, anyway--she would just go right back to where she was. Sish took too strongly after her for either of their sakes, Cerise thought with only some small trace of bitterness in it. They were more fetching qualities on the drake, even in her estimation.

When he reappeared, his hands were full of dishes--two cups and two plates, both of them sending steam and the smell of kofi and spices and sweetness into the air. Two trips would have made more sense, she thought sourly--two trips, or the help of the people who actually ran the place. She frowned, debating getting up and--

"Father, you have to say the magic word, or I'm powerless. You should know better," She stood anyway, scolding enough to satisfy her ego. Then it didn't feel too much like volunteering to help or doing what she was told, at least. And if he dropped one of them it might startle Sish enough to send her flying off. Maybe. She was at least somewhat used to the sound of breaking dishes.

"Here, give me that," she grumbled, reaching for one of plate and cup each. "What are you trying to prove, carrying all of this?" She looked down her sharp nose at him, and then was away back to the table. Some people needed to know their limits. Not her, of course, she knew very well what they were. But other people, to whom she bore a strong resemblance. She held the kofi cup in her hand as she sat, setting the plate down with a loud clatter in what space there was around the whippet of Sish's body.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

P
lease,” he grated through his teeth, but he was smiling. It was a smile he couldn’t seem to help; it wasn’t an easy – or a wicked – grin. It was a begrudging lip curl of a smile. It softened a little as he figured out how to disentangle himself from the pastry and kofi. He was afraid he’d drop one of the cups, and kofi jumped to the rim and splashed back on itself. Cerise took it, finally, and a plate too, and there was just one plate and cup in his aching hands.

He snorted. By the time he looked up at her, she’d already turned on her heel back toward the table. Steam drifted over her shoulder from the kofi, catching the sunlight that trickled in beyond the awning. The back of her head was a halo of dark wisps; he’d not a single damned clue what expression she had on her face.

When she set the plate down, it made a loud clatter. He went to join her. “What am I ever trying to prove,” he muttered, setting his plate down. “I could’ve made two trips,” he said, shrugging, “but where’s the challenge in that?”

He went to set his cup down on the table and nearly caught a lash of Sish’s tail. Her bright gold feathers waved over his pastry, catching the sunlight. Her claws were clacking on the metal, and her pointed snout was snuffling at the ghee on it, then, beady eyes blinking. The long, skinny red tongue came out, lapping over the snout.

“Now you see why I break so much dishware.” Sish had turned to inspect Cerise’s plate, and the tail was back around on his side. The tips of a few feathers whisked over his face and he blinked, wrinkling his nose.

Father, he realized belatedly. Father, she’d called him.

Father.

His thin, freckled hands were a little shaky on his kofi cup; he blinked down at them, and then back up at Cerise across from him. He caught sight of her narrow sharp face over the arch of Sish’s spine, the remembered whiff of a sneer still hanging about her thin lips, her high cheekbones.

Many words, he remembered. His expression softened to a frown. That afternoon at the Museum of Antiquities was a champagne-drowned dream. Everything after it, he remembered more sharply – the chill of the rain settling into his cheeks and his bones, the Golden Rose, the musky Hoxian tea. But the Museum still felt like a meeting between strangers – one of them drunk, besides.

One of Sish’s golden legs cleared the way. He set his kofi down and took up his plate, settling back with it. Sish looked as if she was settling herself, too, or well enough; you could never quite tell.

There were no excuses. I wasn’t thinking, he thought. When was he? I didn’t know you, he thought; I didn’t know you, and I was madder than a wounded banderwolf. Scareder, he thought. The thought was still tender, and he didn’t much want to go poking it. If he thought how scared he’d been then, he’d get scared, now.

He took a bite of flatbread, then set his plate back on the table. “Sish isn’t the only contrary thing,” he admitted with a reluctant sort of grin. “I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that.”

He paused.

“Ada’na Ebele, the tailor, is on Dzitoxo street,” he said, “with a lot of clothiers. You’ll see –” He paused, thinking of the look on her face on the cable car, when she’d been jostled; he paused, thinking of the look on her face when he’d taken her over to Burbridge, and the look on her face when the flatbread had come at Oti’uqaq. “It’s bright,” he said. “Dizzying bright. It’s a lot to take in. I thought we could – start with ada’xa Jima’s, for the fabric, and go from there. But if you see anything you want to take a look at, on the way…”

Speaking of contrarianism. He picked his kofi cup back up, clearing his throat. I’ve never done this, he thought to say. Take anybody to a clothier. Least of all a daughter. As if that wasn’t clear enough to both of them.

“And if ever you want me to, uh –” Dust, he almost said. “Beat it, just let me know, and I’ll wait outside.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

"See, you know it after all." None of the kofi sloshed out of either cup, though it made an admirable attempt, and neither plate nor pastry went sliding to the ground. As far as Cerise was concerned, that was a triumph. She didn't give him any chance to respond beyond that, moving on as soon as she'd taken what was hers back to the table.

"You're right, nothing like the thrill of trying to carry too many dishes." She frowned, sharp and judgmental, but it softened quickly enough. Because Sish was licking at the pastry, of course, after nearly hitting her father in the face with her tail feathers. Not because she saw anything of herself in that stubbornness. She, as she already insisted, knew her own limits. Most of the time.

Cerise took a sip of her kofi, still hot. Why she wanted a hot drink on a hot day she didn't know, but she wasn't about to complain. Sish had come over to her side of the table, and she didn't leave much room for something as beneath her concern as whether or not Cerise could set down a coffee cup.

"You can't have any, greedy goose," she chided gently, pushing her sharp snout away from the plate. It didn't do much good, but Cerise would keep doing it anyway. Maybe she could lick it a little--it wouldn't be the first meal they ended up sharing, or the last. She took the hint after a couple more gentle pushes, and settled herself on the edge of the table, sitting back on her haunches. She had her glittering eyes turned to the street, and her tail flopped back and forth slowly.

Cerise set her cup down and laughed. The path it left on her face was twisted, but she had laughed. "I might have a little experience." Which of them she meant, Cerise didn't specify. She thought it was obvious; she meant herself. Stubborn to the last. Her face caught in a strange middle place between bitter and amused.

In the pause between that statement and whatever else her father wanted to say, she ripped off a piece of the pastry and ate it. It was sweet, and spiced--everything here was spiced, it seemed. Cerise thought she liked it, but she wasn't sure. It was hard to evaluate when there was just so much of it. She chased down the bite with a swallow of kofi. The bitterness chased out the sweet. She liked that better.

"That'll be quite the change; all of Thul Ka has proven so muted and colorless, after all." Cerise shrugged, unconcerned. He had paused, and she didn't know on what. It had the annoying effect of making it difficult for her to decide whether she should laugh or frown. Frowning was, of course, the path of least resistance, so that was what she went with.

"I'm not much of a--shopper," she admitted with a slight edge of confusion to her frown. A finger traced the lattice of the table. The lashing of Sish's tail put it squarely on her plate. She shoved it off again without a second thought, and kept eating anyway. If she didn't want things that Sish had put her tail into, she would eat even less than she already did. "But I will, I suppose, keep you informed."

This was your idea, she wanted to say. I don't need this--I could have just continued on boiling alive. She didn't, without knowing why the idea was so distasteful. She tapped a nail on the edge of the table again.

"Where did you get the parasol, anyway? I can't imagine that was standard-issue." Cerise had more of her kofi, letting the warmth settle through her. Her dark eyebrows pulled upwards, waiting.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

S
he laughed. It was a funny, puckered sort of laugh toward the end; it was the sort of laugh that wasn’t sure it wanted to be a laugh – but, he thought, the sort of laugh that’d damn well made up its mind to be. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d started smiling, too. He hadn’t quite expected her to admit it.

Maybe she didn’t have such a hard face to read, after all.

Funny, that. He’d thought Sish’s claws curled tight as tree roots round the lattice, but after some nudging – and reluctant swaying – the miraan had crept off to settle on the edge of the table. She was there, and her feathered tail too; but mostly it was him and Cerise opposite each other, and nothing to block the view.

He’d half wanted Sish to stay between them, all ruffling feathers and lashing tail; it was always easier, without looking, walking beside her or hiding behind an umbrella or a parasol. It was easier in writing, easiest, perhaps. He knew what the word Father looked like, trussed up in glistening red ink, strangely safe – just one word in a sea of them, and it not even the most important, technically. He could hear her voice in his head, and he couldn’t see her face; he could hear her laughter, but he couldn’t see the faint lines that traced her thin cheek when she grinned or laughed.

It wasn’t so bad after all, somehow. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see it; he could, he could, he could. He could see it in the pull of her lip when she shrugged her shoulders and slid another snide comment into the gap. He could see it in the way her face settled into its customary frown, even tearing off a piece of sweet flatbread. Like the ghost of –

Like her, too. They were hers, too; it wasn’t him, sitting there across the table. It wasn’t a mirror, not exactly. Even if she’d looked exactly like him, it still would’ve been hers, all of it.

“Ah,” he grunted, scratching his head. “I, uh…”

Wasn’t much of a shopper. Sish’s tail batted onto her pastry, the flat edge of a feather sweeping through the butter. He took a sip of kofi, watching her dig in and take another bite anyway; his brow was furrowed, but another little lopsided smile crept into his expression.

Click click click. Cerise tapped her nail on the edge of the table. Her dark eyebrows were arched up.

He snorted, setting the kofi cup down. “No,” he said. “It’s Gioran. You can tell by the embroidery if you look closely, when it’s open.” He twitched his chin toward where he’d leaned it. “I borrowed this one from Ethyal Keylath da Fintaine, who had a few spare, but they’re a ha’penny a dozen in the Gioran delegation. And popular among those of us who are, ah, easily-burned. Why, d’you want one?”

He flashed her a grin, taking another sip of kofi. It was a good, strong brew; no spices, just the kofi, roasted a little darker than most places. Bitter and smoky.

“I, uh,” and he set the cup down carefully, “I’m not, uh – much of a shopper, either.” Isn’t this, he thought, just what gollies do with their children? What do golly lasses like, anyway?

He looked down at the lattice, then back up at her. “I like cloth merchants, at least. Tailors, less so.” His smile cracked again, a little sad, a little bitter. “Like, uh – getting a tooth pulled. I hate trips to the tailor, here or in Anaxas, or anywhere else on Vita. Fussing and mirrors.”

Sish’s tail brushed happily over his plate.

It didn’t stay there long; he wasn’t sure what he’d’ve done, if it had, because he sure as hell wasn’t laying a finger on the drakelet. His hand hovered awkwardly above the last of his pastry, waiting, and then moved in after Sish’s tail twitched away.

“I am selling this outing to you, aren’t I?” He washed down the bite with another warm drink of kofi. “The question is, do you think Sish can handle a fabric store?” He was smiling wryly again.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

Cerise was going to have to give Sish a bath later, the way she kept putting her tail feathers in the butter and then dragging them across the table. The table seemed clean enough, but it was still a table in an alley in a city. Any public table could only be so clean at any given time. That was going to be a whole production. Sish didn't avoid baths--on the contrary, she seemed to like them a little too much. She wasn't sure that the hotel bathroom was prepared for that level of bathing enthusiasm.

Well, she would find out. Prepared or not, it wasn't like Sish, Destroyer of Hours could go around smelling like ghee and cinnamon and Thul Ka dust for the next two weeks. Not when she put those feathers so close to Cerise's face on a daily basis.

"You vastly overestimate my familiarity with Gioran embroidery," she put in dryly, a smile worming onto her face. Honestly. She wouldn't know Gioran embroidery from Anaxi from clocking Naulanese. If such a thing even existed, she really had no clue. She thought it might, although given the rather lurid tales one seemed to be obligated to take as fact about the lost Kingdoms... Well, it was possible. Maybe.

Her eyebrows went up when he asked if she wanted one. He grinned and took another sip of his kofi; good, because if that hadn't been a joke she would have been horrified. As it was, she did a rather convincing impression of the feeling. Betrayed mostly by the twitch of amusement in her field and the light of it in her eyes.

"And be rid of such a fetching headpiece? Perish the thought." Cerise gestured to the Hat with a flourish. It was over most of her lap and spilled out over the boundaries of the chair as well. She had considered setting it on the table, but the clocking thing was too godsdamn wide. That was what made it so functional as a shade-providing device, but it did make it inconvenient as headgear. She set down her kofi and picked up the hat instead, inspecting it carefully.

"No embroidery though. Which may be one of its chief assets, beyond not being transparent." It did have one or two holes more than she remembered. If she wore it again, she would perhaps need to patch them up.

Funny, Cerise thought. She had always thought her father liked tailors. Liked clothing, at least. Cerise had it on good authority that Diana and her father were a reasonably fashionable set. Certainly not trendsetters, she supposed. That would be inappropriate, for a politician and his wife. Fussing, he said, and mirrors. Cerise picked some more at her pastry while she thought about it. That smile had gone off again, and this time she didn't so much think it was her that had caused it.

"Well I supposed we agree, then. I am told--" by Diana, she didn't say, feeling like that was wrong in a way she didn't want to think about, "that I should make more of an effort to keep up with the fashion. Although not quite why." Cerise shrugged, cramming a massive bite of sweet bread in her mouth and washing it down with dark, bitter kofi.

While she spoke, she watched her father do battle with Sish's tail over the last of his pastry. She laughed a little when he dove in for that piece while her tail moved away. That was a very good question, to which Cerise had no answer. She had never actually tried taking her in one. The more she thought about it, the worse the idea sounded. She hummed, looking at Sish's golden back. It gleamed where it caught the sun. Her tail made a hollow clanking sound when it collided with the lattice table and not either of their plates.

"Not in the slightest," she announced cheerfully after some consideration. "To either part. I suppose we'll find out, because sold or not, that's where we're going." With that declaration, she finished off the last of her kofi in quick, steady gulps. It was too hot for drinking so quickly, and Cerise didn't care. She set the cup back down heavily, breathing out.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Early Morning on the 37th of Loshis, 2720

N
ot transparent yet, anyway; he thought of the curl he’d seen escaping out through the tear in the straw. The damn thing spilled over the sides of her lap, drooping sadly.

She’d at least looked appropriately mortified at the suggestion of the parasol, which pleased him in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It made him grin more broadly anyway, blowing a whirl of steam up from his kofi and taking another mant drink. It was bracing-bitter and strong; he already felt less fuzzy-headed than he had, and the dregs of the dream were draining down somewhere out of the bright sun and all the colors.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, telling her that. He’d half regretted it, like sticking his fingers in Sish’s pointy snout. But the jaws didn’t close; he wasn’t sure why, but they didn’t. It wasn’t soft, her voice – her agreement – but it wasn’t sharp, either.

His frown faded to something else. There was nothing wry about this smile; it was half a grimace, a little embarrassed, but it warmed when he met her eye. “Well, I don’t know why, either. I don’t know that the fashion’s ever made much of an effort to keep up with us.” His voice came out a little rougher than he’d meant it to.

He smiled a moment longer; it didn’t flicker out to a frown this time, but it didn’t stay, all the same. Sish perked up her long golden neck, chittering like she knew just what Cerise was saying. There was nothing but crumbs on their plates; he finished off the last sip of his kofi, then reached to take –

Cerise knocked back the steaming cup and gulped audibly. He blinked, both eyebrows raising slightly. When she set it back down on the table, she heaved a deep breath, like she’d just chugged a beer. Not just like she’d chugged a beer; like she’d done it a dozen times before, and had it rather down to a science.

“I, uh,” he said, blinking, “I suspect we will.” He grinned, taking his plate out from under Sish’s swishing tail. If she let him, he’d take hers, too, stacking them this time, and the cups too.

They weren’t so hard to carry, this time. Aafe was at the counter this time, wiping sweat off his brow with his apron. “Efemena says you brought your daughter this time,” he said with a polite caprise, grinning, glancing over his shoulder through the doorway.

He was fishing out his wallet. “That I did,” he replied without a second thought. “She’s in Thul Ka for dueling,” he added after a moment’s hesitation, a little brightness creeping into his voice. “Varsity.”

“Oho!” Aafe laughed. “May Hulali’s currents move in her favor.”

Back outside, he opened up his Gioran parasol, and led the way back down the quiet avenue.

It broke out into Dzitoxo soon enough. It was a narrower street than the last thoroughfare, but still bustling; as they came out, their caprises brushed past a cluster of ladies in bright wraps, and a tall human in neat clothing – standing at the curb as if to catch the attention of a puller or a cab – raised his brows at Cerise’s hat as she passed.

Either side was lined with bay windows, some of which were hung with displays, some of which showed mannequins draped in fabric. A moa scratched past, drawing a coach, and its shadow rolled over the glass. There were sturdy, plain fabrics alongside jewel-colored silks and brocades. Estuan and Mugrobi script was painted on signs and on windows and doors.

“Where did you get it, anyway?” he asked, glancing over. A paddy field in Lower Hox? he almost added, but held his tongue. His eyes lingered on Sish’s claws digging into her shirt, uncomfortable, but then flicked away.

Ada’xa Jima’s was just ahead; a richly-dressed young man, slim and small but with no field, was jingling out through the door. The young man held it and he caught it, then moved inside, holding it for Cerise.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Nutmeg Hill, Thul Ka
Loshis 37, 2720 - Morning

Not only was the kofi too hot, it was far too bitter for knocking it all back like it was cheap beer and she was trying to prove a point. Maybe she was. Trying to prove something, that is. To herself, and to that "us" that had come after her silly little quip about keeping up with fashion.

Ready to cast his lot in with her, was he now? Cerise thought that made her angry, but she couldn't be sure. The difference between anger and other feelings was sometimes hard for her to find. She preferred to just lump them all in with that one anyway, because that was the one she knew how to deal with best. But anger wasn't made her grin back, consuming and knife-edged.

She very nearly didn't give him her cup or her plate, frowning sharply up as he stacked them. They were easier to carry with nothing on them, empty of what had been inside. Nothing to slide off or unbalance. She couldn't leave Sish unattended anyway, so she gave up the dishes. For a moment she watched, but his grip was steady enough. So that was fine, then. It was fine either way.

While her father was inside paying for their breakfast, Cerise stood and tried to coax Sish back into her arms. It took some doing, and one or two sharp, commanding little whistles. Alioe's grace she was stubborn today, a little golden mass of claws and wriggling, stubborn muscle. Cerise almost regretted bringing her out. But the idea of having left her in the crate all morning alone was equally loathsome. She got the miraan onto her shoulders again, but only just, by the time her father came out and grabbed that absurd parasol.

"Onwards to discovery, then?" she said, a little sweatier and hair a little more undone than it had been when he went inside. She crammed the hat back on her head and followed him back out to the street.

She was sorry to leave that quiet back avenue and move back into the crowd. She couldn't shake this strange paranoia that Sish would take off her shoulders and disappear. Cerise kept reaching up to stroke the tail that curled around her neck or touch her haunches. Cerise was to preoccupied with that to notice much else, though she kept one sharp eye on the crowd.

Almost everyone and everywhere in this city had at least a splash of bright color somewhere. It was disorienting, almost, though she felt better after all the kofi and eating a little more. Like walking through a flower shop, but you had expected to be in a--a... A library, or something quieter, more sedate. Cerise saw most of it through the reflection on shop windows, looking at mannequins here, rolled bolts on display there, and a few others in between. She thought she saw her father looking at where Sish dug into her shoulder in the dim sort of mirror of the window glass, but it was too brief a look for her to be sure.

"The Hat? A hat shop, of course." They approached their first stop, and as they did so a young man stepped through the door. She had expected to meet a caprise, looking at him; when they got all the way to the door and she didn't, Cerise paused. But only for a moment, and she didn't let herself linger in the discomfort dredged up. It kept happening, this whole week, and she was annoyed she wasn't more used to it by now. Like it actually bothered her. She murmured a polite thanks and stepped inside past him without looking.

"There was a ribbon originally, but it didn't agree with my complexion." she continued when they were both inside, looking around. Bolt after bolt of fabric lined the walls and formed aisles in the middle of it. Arranged, she thought, first by type and then by color--or so it seemed, as best as she could tell from a distance. She could feel Sish's muscles bunching on her shoulders, wanting to sink her claws into all of it. "And a great many flowers and feathers besides, which didn't agree with my disposition. I improved it."