[Closed] Just the Way You Were Bred

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

c

erise’s other hand came to rest on his shoulder, and Sish’s talons joined it, like the closing of a spell circle. Wretchedly endearing.

There was something about this – having a front-row seat to all the little wet clacking noises a miraan’s jaw made, and that funny inexplicable tuna smell, and the proximity of those razor sharp teeth – that made it harder than usual to focus. Or maybe it was the proximity of other razor sharp things, or maybe it was the fact that he’d nearly laughed when Cerise had replied, nearly laughed more than once.

Only he wasn’t laughing now, and neither was she. And worse, she seemed resigned, rather than the angry he had wanted, expected.

But they slid into the rhythm before he knew it, before he even knew he’d taken a step; and he wasn’t sure about middling scores, but they both must’ve been middling, because nobody stepped on anybody’s toes.

“I suppose it is,” he murmured. “A little too late.” You already know they’re like strangers to me, he couldn’t bring himself to say. You’ve already –

I’m sorry, he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Forward, right, close. Back, left, close. In the corner of his eye, Sish’s golden tail swept through the air. He saw talons curl on Cerise’s hand, and he straightened his back and steadied himself, trying not to dip or jar either of them as he led.

He saw Sish’s long curling tongue flicking over Cerise’s hand, too, over and over. He felt a horrible pang.

He shut his eyes, breathing in deep. “This is a rather new experience,” he said, the smile falling from his face as he turned his back to Lucrezia and Tatiana. But it twitched back, even then. “Maybe we should put Sish on my head. I don’t think she’d like it very much, though. Or maybe I should invest in a corset, after all. What do you think?”

It was easy to tease. It was too godsdamned easy, in fact; he barely knew what had come out of his mouth ‘til it was out in the air, and then it was out, and there was little he could do to draw it back in.

“Ah,” he sighed, “I, ah – I should’ve asked when the last time you saw them was, and if they knew about the… dueling. And I should’ve asked about –” He swallowed, closing his step and opening his eyes.

They turned, and he forced a thin smile to his face again, Lucrezia in the corner of his eye.

He said, “About your mother,” and he was relieved when the smile could fall away again. I’m sorry, he wanted to say, and couldn’t quite seem to. The most beautiful woman in the world, he didn’t want to say at all. “But, uh – most of all, I – do you want to tell her? Lucrezia. She’s your grandmother, not Tatiana’s. If you do, I’ll back you, for whatever that’s worth.”

He’d been looking somewhere around Cerise’s pointed nose. They turned again, and he smiled thinly again.

But the smile tilted a little, gone crooked – horribly, strangely crooked, as if he couldn’t control it at all – and he met her eye, though he had to lift his chin a little to do it. “I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to, but if you want her to know, I… I’m damned proud. Of you. It’s hard not to talk about it.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

A little too late was understating things. Not just today—a lot of things were "a little too late" about all of this. Cerise wanted to say the whole affair was too late—that she'd long, long since stopped wanting... something, anything.

"I'm a lot taller than I was," she agreed, as if that were the "new" bit. As if he even remembered when she was shorter than this. Sish distracted her with an indignant little chitter when they turned. "Sish would be much more difficult to balance than an apple. Pointier." She was not going to dignify the corset question with an answer. If her desire to talk about her own unmentionables here was low, her desire to talk about her father's, in any context or setting, was leagues and away lower than that.

Or maybe she should have. Kept up the banter, or whatever it was, because he sighed, and kept on talking. "You should have," she agreed, letting herself be as irritated as she wanted. It was easy, considering how annoyed she truly was. Of course she hadn't thought to volunteer the information; he should have known.

He should have known about Mama, too, and she knew he didn't. "What about her? It's not like I remember that much—" She broke off with an irritated huff, keeping her eye on Sish and not looking anywhere else. Like at his face, which she thought was visible enough in the corner of her vision. Sish was being remarkably well-behaved. For now, anyway. After the fabric store, she wasn't entirely certain she trusted the miraan to say so. Cerise blamed the foreign air, and the long hours of confinement.

Following his lead was strange, but not particularly difficult. All those hours of instruction hadn't been for nothing, she supposed. At least the basics were drilled into her head, even if the last time she'd used them had been years ago. Unfortunately, between Sish being so well-behaved and the steps being so easy to follow, her mind was free to think about all sorts of things she would rather not have.

"No, she's Aunt Tati's mother." She didn't know how to feel about this show of support. Because that's what it was, and for the life of her she couldn't figure out anything else it could be. "I think that trumps grandmother."

The song seemed like it would never end. And the party might as well be eternal, too—they'd only just arrived. What had made her think this would be nice? She could have suggested they get lunch, or... Something shorter, and less. Less this. But she'd just agreed without thinking, like she always did. Which always worked out so very well.

Did she want to say anything? She didn't know. She was proud of it—she worked hard, after all, and she could say without bragging that she was good. Any other time and she would have ignored Aunt Tati and said whatever she wanted. Just... the thought of Grandmother's face, when she realized just how unlike Mama she really was and always would be... It made her feel a coward and a child at once.

They turned and she hazarded a look down; he was smiling. He met her eye, even, and she smiled a little back at how funny it was to watch him have to lift his chin to do it. The smile gave way to a stranger sort of look and Cerise stumbled, stepping on his foot at last. Sish was jostled and her tail lashed out to balance her; she made a thoroughly angry sort of noised and dug her claws in a little harder into the skin on the back of Cerise's hand.

"Oww! Sish, stop that!" She'd drawn blood, Cerise was sure of it. She couldn't be too angry—the pain kept her grounded, and her face from getting too warm. She recovered her footing quickly enough, but she still felt somewhat like she'd been it on the back of the head.

Proud? Of her? Of... Of that? She didn't think... Had he ever said that to her, about anything, even once in her entire life? Was he having another stroke?

"I— Ahem. I don't know if I want... Maybe. If it comes up again." Ticks. Proud. It played back in her mind over and over, a funny little refrain over the rhythm of the waltz.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

o

ne, two, three; one, two –

“Ah, shit!” Her foot came down on his, and he lost the rhythm entirely. He caught a sharp look from over one of Cerise’s pointed shoulders, and a flash of a bemused grin from somewhere behind. He’d already lost the thin smile; he wasn’t sure what his face was doing now, but his nose was wrinkled, and his eyes were burning.

Worse was the sudden prick and sink of claws into his shoulders, right through the amel’iwe. If he’d some brain to spare about the poor silk, the rest of it was taken up with pain.

It wrangled a hiss from between his teeth, and then a breathless laugh.

Serves me right for saying something mung like that, he wanted to say. He blinked a few beads of moisture out of his eyes only to meet Cerise’s again, pale grey on pale grey, all too close. Steady against the whirl of bodies, of lights glancing off glass display cases, of Mugrobi-patterned fabric a-swish and swirl.

He wasn’t sure what was moving and what wasn’t. His head was a little dizzy. He realized he was still moving – they both were – though which of the two of them had caught up the waltz again first, he didn’t know. Anatole’s ghost in his legs, maybe, where Etienne’d put it. They certainly didn’t feel like his. Nor did the hand in Cerise’s slim, gloved fingers, nor the face he wore, nor the bones underneath it, nor the mind underneath that, which was making him think and do the strangest of things.

If he’d been a betting man, he’d’ve said there was a little color underneath Cerise’s high cheekbones. Unfortunately, he was a life-long gambler – among a wealth of other sins – and he did indeed think there was.

Wasn’t his face at all, all the angles of which felt like they’d fallen to soft putty, a funny little smile twitching at his lip. My sharp lass, he got the strangest urge to say.

Her voice, and the sight of the d’Alessis sliding into view over her shoulder, Lucrezia sitting in her voluminous black skirts, brought him back.

He must have embarrassed the hell out of her.

“If it comes up again,” he agreed mildly – one, two, three, one, two, three; there it was again, the step – lifting his red brows.

Taller, he remembered. Had they danced before? Strange to picture, Cerise as a little lass. (Not that he’d ever pictured it before, and not that the picturing ever made him feel anything.)

It made him feel distinctly strange in this skin, still. It always did, thinking of somebody else in it, and somebody else in it recently. Like sitting down in a warm chair, except the chair was you, and all that you was breathing and beating and most definitely not you.

And all that you was somebody who’d had a thing for – Gracious Lady, how had Anatole managed that one?

It’s not like I remember that much, she’d said – and let out that sort of huff he was beginning to think meant he’d prodded at an old, well-covered cut.

He remembered the question she’d almost asked, and he felt a tight ache. “Do you want to see them more often? In Bastia. I know, you’re grown and can do as you please, but –”

His hand twitched. He didn’t realize how much he talked with them until they were both tied up.

“That debut business aside, we could, ah… go together sometime, just see Lucrezia. Sometime soon. This doesn’t have to be the last. Ah, damn me.” And why the hell had he thought that would be a good idea? Stick with levity, Thomas Cooke, he thought acidly; it’s what you’re good at. It was hardly as if she’d want –

He was a stranger, he reminded himself, then: he was her father. He was a stranger; he was her father. He was a stranger –

Sish’s feathered tail lashed, but she was settling herself again.

As she reached out for Cerise’s hand again, he glanced down. “She’s scratched you,” he tutted, frowning slightly. “Damn, everything’s at the hotel, or I’d have something to put on it.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

The swearing was so dramatic. She hadn't come down on his foot that hard. Well, maybe she had actually—but it was his fault for saying something like that. Sish was the real victim here, startled by Cerise's fumbling and likely her father's swearing both. Sish has delicate sensibilities, Cerise almost joked, you're going to shock her with that sort of language. Not used to hearing words like "proud" directed at Cerise's person.

Cerise never thought she would be grateful for mandatory ballroom lessons, and yet here she was. Putting her well-rounded education to good use. All those hours of instruction, of holding the uncomfortably warm hands of sweaty-faced young gentlemen of breeding, had saved her from making too much of an ass out of herself in public. There was nothing she could for the color in her face or the small gash in one silk glove, but that didn't mean she had to acknowledge it either.

There was a step and a turn, and Cerise could see Uncle Felix leaning in to say something to Aunt Tati, whose eyes seemed to catch hers every time she looked that direction. Aunt Tati didn't seem any more thrilled about it than Cerise was. The dance continued, and they were out of sight again. She tried not to think about it.

Cerise narrowed her eyes suspiciously at such even-toned agreement. The eyebrows were not reassuring. Volpacchiotto, she almost said— Father, she could have said more sternly, if you bring it up on your own, I will never forgive you. Now, where had she heard that line before? Ugh. She was losing her edge; worse, she didn't know if she minded.

If they could just escape this one stupid dance unscathed, she would be delighted. The song couldn't be going on for much longer, could it? She couldn't seem to decide which was worse: this, or what waiting for her when they went back to Grandmother and Aunt Tati and Uncle Felix. And all of it was—there was a stupid piece of her that wanted it, too. Despite the rest of her knowing better.

But of course they couldn't. Cerise's frown sharpened again; her father's hand twitched against hers. She didn't understand the question, at first. It was because of him that they didn't... Then he just went on and on in this new habit of his, saying things like... This doesn't have to be the last. She felt like she'd been struck; it took too much effort not to turn to look at Grandmother again, sitting there swathed in black.

"I don't know," she said in a voice more brittle than she'd intended. She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. She ought to step on his foot again. He was lucky that would likely upset Sish. She had only just settled with a few more lashes of her bright-feathered tail. "You're the one who—" Cerise cut herself off with another growl.

The song was coming to an end at last. Cerise thought she could hear the change in the music, anyway. What did she know? There was something in his face, or in the way the light glittered around them, or perhaps this damp foreign air, that made Cerise open her mouth again. "...I would like that. Maybe. I don't know. Ask me again when we're not—" Cerise raised her eyebrows and made a face that she thought encompassed the whole situation. As best as she could manage with her hands occupied, anyway.

Speaking of her hands— "What? Oh. Yes, so she has." She didn't know what to make of that, either. He was tutting. And over the injury, not the gloves or the... the anything else. "It's fine, this is hardly the worst thing she's done to my hand. She was a biter," Cerise said with a fond little smile for the miraan. "As a hatchling."

Cerise paused. "...Did she scratch you? Too much, I mean?" Not that she cared, in particular. Just returning a courtesy.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

m

ore snapping and growling than the drakelet. Warranted, he suspected, all of it. Pointing out her gitgka’s health had been ill-advised; still, it was true, and –

And he didn’t, he realized as they swept round again, the d’Alessis a blur over her shoulder, want this to be the last.

When had he started to care?

The question implied that he cared.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t known he did; it was hard not to, at this point. But the explicit realization settled through him bone-deep and surprisingly cold, like the distant impression of a deathknell. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this.

That plan had been above and beyond anything he’d dared so far. That was the sort of shit your real, actual da did. This was all the sort of shit your real, actual da did – your dabrunno could take you to lunch or to the market or even to the fighting matches, funny an idea as that was for gollyfolk. But going with you to see relatives? At a party, much less overseas. The thought made his stomach flip.

Worse, he’d been planning it before it even came out of his mouth. How bad could it be? he thought frantically. They knew he’d been ill; if he had to tell them all, every single one of them, he was some sort of amnesiac – well, that would have to do, wouldn’t it? Better than what he’d done to Cerise this last year. Better, worse? It was all wrong, all – but it had been wrong before she’d blown into that party in Bethas like a spring storm, and by the Circle counterclockwise, if he couldn’t make it right, he could at least try a different approach.

He was almost surprised when she relented, her dark eyebrows sharply-raised. “Fair enough,” he conceded himself, as mildly as he’d said if it comes up.

He’d bluff. Tom might’ve had a poor face for rooks in life, but Risha, on the other hand, was an excellent gambler. He’d hard earned it these two years; he’d manage. He’d have to.

Not that he was any good hand at all at pretending with Cerise.

He grinned back at Cerise’s smile. I’d’ve liked to see that, he almost said, forgetting himself: Sish as a bitey little hatchling. There was still a touch of concern in the set of his brows, studying the split velvet of her glove and the faint red mark he could see underneath. Look at it later, he told himself, just to be – he didn’t know what he was being. Floods.

He almost couldn’t conceal his surprise at the question, stilted and awkward. He almost stumbled himself, though managed to avoid stepping on her, thankfully.

“No such thing,” he blurted out, shifting his shoulders. The pinpricks hurt, but there was something damned charming about it. He paused. “The silk will cost me,” and he wrinkled his nose; he really was put-out about that, “but as for the scratches, that’s just one of her many charms, eh? Keep you on your toes. Not like anybody I know.”

He raised his brows. “Which, speaking of my toes. I think the musicians are getting tired, and no doubt we’ve appeased Lucrezia. Unless you think I should dip you?” There was a wicked, fox’s curl to his smile.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

Later, when he asked again, she would say no. She didn't want to go to Bastia with him, not to see Grandmother or anyone else. She didn't want to go anywhere with him. Except maybe the fight later—assuming they would go at all, which she somehow doubted.

Cerise had the most unpleasant urge to swat at her own face. Behind it there had been the awful thought that it might be fun to go to a miraan park together, since he was so taken with Sish. She had a hazy memory of going once, when she was very small, when Mama was... Mama had been there too. The kind of memory that was as much listening to someone else tell her about it as it was remembering anything herself. She couldn't recall if they'd been back since, but she doubted it.

He, of course, wouldn't remember either.

Well, none of that was important. She'd say no when he brought it up again, if he brought it up again, and that would be that. Maybe she would go by herself. The last time twisted and stuck, like she'd swallowed something she hadn't meant to. Not even his grin when she started talking about Sish's sharp baby teeth could convince her otherwise.

Blessed Lady! Did he have to—? Her father had stumbled when she'd asked if Sish's flailing had injured him as well. He always seemed so shocked, whenever she... Cerise felt stupid every time, for being concerned about him. Not stupid enough to learn from it and stop asking, apparently. He was evidently fine, anyway, if he could complain about the silk.

"Are you trying to tell me something about the state of the House Vauquelin? Should I be worried for my inheritance?" The second half she wouldn't dignify with a response. Not verbally, anyway. She did roll her eyes briefly. She thought he was teasing her again, and she didn't know what to do with it in the slightest.

Sish's claws were more charming, she could have said, if she wanted to go down that conversational alley. Cerise had absolutely no interest in discussing her own charms, or lack thereof, with anyone. Least of all with her father, who until just last month she would have sworn thought that she had none at all. Save, perhaps, a passing resemblance to Mama. She had never quite decided if she thought he felt their own similarities in any department were a point in her favor or a strike against her.

Cerise's back stiffened and she looked sharply down at him. Alioe. The very idea was horrifying, and horrifically embarrassing. She had the most awful memory of a sixth form dance class, which was the last time anyone had tried that little trick on Cerise Vauquelin. One of the young gentlemen—she hadn't known his name then and she certainly couldn't remember it now—had decided to try. Without so much as a by-your-leave, of course, and despite the fact that Cerise had already grown to be tall for a girl and he had most firmly not. It had not ended well for either of them.

"You can try—I take no responsibility for my actions. Or hers," Cerise gestured with a tilt of her head towards Sish, who was back to enjoying herself rather immensely. "One of us might decide we haven't outgrown our biting phase, after all." She was not telling which one.

"I am leaving this dance floor before you decide to press your luck, Father." She didn't think he would really do it—he had never been a man so lacking in self-preservation—but she couldn't be sure. This new version of her father did all sorts of things she would never expect him to do. That they were here at all was proof of it.

Cerise stepped back, feeling strangely—strange—as the song wound down. She bowed, exactingly polite (if one ignored the look on her face, which was anything but.) Her hair, miraculously, stayed exactly where he'd put it. It didn't even feel too heavy, or unbalanced. "I can take Sish back, if you'd like," she added as she straightened, looking at the miraan, still happily putting holes in her father's expensive foreign scarf.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

t

he state of the House Vauquelin. And what a state that was. For just a second, his mouth felt dry. Like somebody’d walked over his grave.

He was still smiling, somehow – hell if he knew. He wanted to say something clever about the inheritance, or maybe his own taste for expensive silks and all that shit. He’d forgotten his wits. But he’d made a different joke instead, thankfully, and Cerise stiffened, glowering down at him with those chill grey eyes.

That was more like it.

It was still terribly strange, being glowered down at. By a lass of nineteen, no less, and a galdor. He stood to every meagre inch of Anatole’s skinny frame, his chin high, and the wicked curl of his smile didn’t move an inch.

Couldn’t hold it long. He snorted, more messy than he meant to, not least because he believed her. Father, she said, and he felt a pang again. “Good for me,” he conceded as they broke apart, as the music wound steadily down. “I’ve an idea of whose bite’s more dangerous, Miss Building-Blocks-of-the-Universe,” he added brightly.

Cerise bowed, very correct to form. Almost like the end of a duel. He supposed she’d plenty of practice. The music rose and fell in one last cheerful flourish, and then there was a quiet swell of laughing and clapping.

He was pleased indeed to see the braided loop of her chignon stay right where he’d pinned it. The gold ornament flashed; Sish’s tail flicked. We match, he thought surreally.

He dipped low himself, as precise as he’d been taught, if a little undercut by the squirming weight on his shoulders.

Sish was trying to cram her pointy snout in his ear again. He looked at Cerise, hesitant; he opened his mouth. Almost like he wanted to protest – like he was sorry to part with her. Then he remembered how Sish had reached for Cerise’s gloved hand on his shoulder, and the claws curled around one finger earlier.

“She’s an important part of your ensemble,” he said gravely, stepping close and stooping to help her take the drakelet. “She goes with the chignon pin.” He was smiling, he found again. Wry and a little soft and a little worried, and a little a lot of things he wasn’t so sure about.

“Oh, bravo,” Lucrezia said; she was still clapping, Tatiana behind her pushing the wheelchair closer. “Brava.” Her wide dark eyes were on Cerise. “Bravissima. I have not seen you dance since you were a little girl, barely up to your father’s shoulder.”

Felix was no longer with them; he wondered absently where he’d gone. He’d looked bored enough. Tatiana was smiling at Cerise, reaching out for another friendly caprise.

Lucrezia was sitting up in her chair. “It might have been Mariuccia on the ballroom floor, at times – oh, me, like watching a memory. Do you still sing, my dear? You had such a sweet voice, as a little girl. You must sound just like your mother now.”

Tatiana looked over at her, her brow furrowed.

He blinked, trying very hard to mask his surprise. He didn’t dare to look at Cerise.

“Oh, Cerise, your – goodness me,” Tatiana tutted, looking down at one of Cerise’s velvet gloves. “Did your miraan do that?”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

Managing a bow that deep with Sish on his shoulders was, Cerise had to admit, the slightest bit impressive. In an irritating, fussy sort of way. Usually she just used it as an excuse not to do it at all, at least not properly. When he straightened again, Cerise was mildly tempted to clap. She picked at a loose thread from the gash in her gloves instead.

What was the protocol for when one's gloves were ruined? Was it more of a scandal to leave them on, or to be bare-handed at a social function? It seemed rather silly to keep wearing them, and yet she was reluctant to take them off. The scrape on her hand would be more visible then. And also, of course, the way she'd bashed up her knuckles the other day on Miss Roumanille's smug jaw. If discussing dueling was out of the question (a school-sanctioned sport), Cerise somehow doubted that conversation would go very well at all.

For a moment, her father had looked like he wanted to keep Sish on his shoulders. She could have let him—the idea crossed her mind for an appallingly long moment. In the end, he stepped close enough that she could unwind the scaled muscle of Sish's body from his shoulders and take her back. There was something comforting about her squirming weight settling once again on Cerise's narrow shoulders. Not that she needed comforting.

"Oh is that why you picked it?" Cerise pretended she didn't see the funny sort of smile on her father's face. It was very... There was something in it, something she didn't think she'd seen... She couldn't remember if she ever had. It made her want to snarl in the face of it, or worse, smile back. She was doing an uncomfortable amount of that lately—smiling at her father. She ought to be ashamed, really.

Cerise turned her eyes instead to Sish, who had draped herself rather dramatically over the shoulders of her dress as if in protest of all the disturbances. A delicate foreleg was extended downwards, claws catching in the material of her bodice and pulling slightly. She seemed utterly liquid, and fixed in place. Cerise trusted it not at all.

As they moved away from the dancefloor, another tune struck up behind them—something a bit more local, or so it sounded to her, which meant dance steps she didn't know and nobody would expect her to. Thank the Circle; may it continue on all night long. She loved Grandmother, which was the only reason she went out on that floor to begin with. Cerise was not at all eager to repeat the experience any time soon, if ever.

Aunt Tati and Grandmother came to meet them partway, Grandmother still clapping. (Where Uncle Felix had wandered off to, Cerise had no idea. That was quite possibly for the best.) She had the stupidest feeling that it was worth it, all that discomfort and even the scratch on her hand, if it made Grandmother that happy.

She didn't think she'd bring up the dueling after all.

"And now look," she chirped, "he's barely up to mine." She probably shouldn't have said that. She definitely shouldn't have looked at her father sidelong and flashed a grin, pleased with her own joke. It all got swept away when she turned her head, returning her aunt's caprise as politely as she could. (Yet another reason to hate these sorts of things; keeping her field smooth and dampened was a headache.)

The smile froze in place as Grandmother went on. No, she thought, it could not have been Mama—Mama wouldn't have been shocked into stepping on anyone's foot, at least Cerise didn't think so. If Mama had been the kind of woman who made those sorts of mistakes, nobody had seen fit to tell her only daughter.

"Ah." Cerise didn't look at her father; she could barely stand to look at Grandmother, dark eyes warm and alight as they looked at Cerise. Can't you tell? she wanted to beg. Can't you tell that I'm nothing like Mama at all?

She didn't know quite how to answer the question. She was sort of reluctant to offer the truth, which was that she had rather loudly refused voice lessons of any kind after she entered her fourth year at school. She said then it was the team, taking up too much of her time, and the difficulty of her studies. Cerise didn't care much for singing, no matter what her voice teachers said. They'd been her father's idea, anyway. For a while, Cerise had thought—it didn't matter what she thought. She'd changed her mind.

Aunt Tati caught sight of her glove before Cerise could answer Grandmother's question. The way she said her name—"Oh, Cerise"—was familiar enough to stagger her. She bristled on instinct, her eyebrows snapping together before she could stop them. "It was my fault for startling her—I stumbled on the dancefloor."

Why did she feel so ashamed? Diana said her name in just that way all the time. And professors, and faculty, and select upperclassmen. She was used to it. Just answer the question, so told herself. Get this wretched bit out of the way. "And no, I'm afraid I... I stopped taking voice lessons; there just wasn't time, between my studies and the team—"

Oh. She really hadn't meant to mention that one.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

h

e’d been ready to fit the thin, polite smile back on his face. At the joke – about his height, and Circle help, if she knew he’d once been no less than a foot taller – it’d broken. Maybe if she hadn’t looked at him, he’d’ve done better; but there was a wicked curl of a grin on her face, and he snorted and grinned back, wrinkling his nose in mock offense.

Only to look over and catch Tatiana’s eye. She and Lucrezia had both looked – surprised. There’d been a faint furrow of disapproval between Lucrezia’s snow-white brows, but mostly confusion on Tatiana’s face.

That was not, he gathered, what Anatole would have done.

Nor was – Tatiana caught his eye sharply, and he opened his mouth to say something; but Cerise began to explain, and at my fault his glance snapped over before he could stop himself. Her brow was dark, and her eyes had tightened. He would’ve expected…

“Oh, dear,” murmured Lucrezia.

He was formulating something else to say, something about how he’d stumbled himself, when she went on. He felt himself suddenly dunked into wholly unfamiliar waters. As if anything they’d said waltzing could’ve prepared him – stopped taking voice lessons – in another place, in a vacuum, he might’ve teased, trying to picture Cerise singing. Here and now, there was an awful knot in his stomach.

The team –

Cerise broke off, and it seemed to him they were all still and quiet, expectant. “The team?” Lucrezia said in her elegant Bastian accent, looking very confused indeed.

“Cerise has been very busy with her studies,” Tatiana put in, her smile slightly brittle and a little embarrassed. At the corner of his field, he felt her deepen the caprise slightly, pressing curiously into Cerise’s indectal restraint. “Come now, Cerise, do accompany me to the retiring room,” she said, lowering her voice, glancing down at Cerise’s glove. “Leave the miraan with your father –”

He stiffened.

“Really, now, Tati,” Lucrezia laughed, waving a plump hand, “be graceful. It is only a glove. Besides, all of your fussing will age you terribly.”

Tatiana stopped, glancing back at Lucrezia.

“Do relax, Ciliegietta. That sour expression hardly becomes you. Now, you were saying –” Lucrezia was sitting very straightly in her wheelchair once again, her eyes bright and warm on Cerise, her attention wholly absorbed. “Something about a team? You must not be shy, my dear girl; I had a feeling you were all keeping something from me.” There was a twinkle in her eye. “Health and beauty are sisters – with moderation, I have always believed sport to be quite essential. Your mother swam at Anastou, in fact.”

Tatiana looked rooted to her spot between Lucrezia and Cerise – and somewhat admonished, a little color in her cheeks in spite of the smile on her face.

“Or the performing arts, perhaps?” Lucrezia tried, intent.

“It’s most certainly an art,” he blurted out, his head awhirl, his voice a little rougher than he expected; he felt he was listening to some other deep-voiced man speak. “I’m very proud of her,” he said again, forming the words in that strange man’s voice, with his lips and his mouth that felt clumsier than they had in two years, as if he were just learning to speak again.

No one had said it yet. He looked over at Cerise, lifting his chin slightly. As if baring his throat for something worse than a mashed toe, he thought deliriously. Or had the blow, whatever in hell it was that was happening to him, already landed?

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

The worst part of it was that she had, in fact, expected him to grin back at her when she made that crack about being taller than him now. Before Bethas, she would never have said that. Not to his face, anyway. Well. Not to his face, when she wasn't looking to pick a fight. And right now, she wasn't trying to pick a fight.

Cerise's intentions on that front very rarely mattered. This was not an exception. Her aunt and grandmother both seemed vaguely disapproving when she said it, even before her father made that face at her. She would have thought that would help—she hadn't caused any offense, see? Volpacchiotto had survive her vicious barb—but if anything it seemed to make it worse. She'd grown complacent, she supposed, with this version of her father who seemed to like her well enough to let her tease him.

She held very still, jagged shoulders and narrow jaw stiff and straight. It had been an error, but it was too late to do anything about it now. She'd mentioned the team, and she could only go forward from here. Cerise's eyes slid from Grandmother to Aunt Tati, who looked like she'd just heard Cerise declare her intent to become a street performer. Dueling, she wanted to protest to that tight, slightly embarrassed look, was an honorable and well-loved sport. (For men, but that was neither here nor there.)

"I don't think Sish should be—" Cerise started to protest. Very little good came of following one's relatives into retiring rooms, in Cerise's experience. Without Sish? No. Absolutely not. She trusted her father to hold the miraan, not control her if she decided to make a nuisance of herself. With so many people around, in strange environments? Leaving the miraan alone with Cerise's father was courting disaster. She didn't need the assistance.

Grandmother intervened, and to Cerise's mild surprise that worked immediately. She didn't seem too put off—yet. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, it was only Aunt Tati who minded after all. Cerise might have relaxed, if every bone in her body weren't straining to be contrary and make an even more sour face. The expression, she might have said, might not have been becoming, but did seem to be default. Very little about her was particularly becoming.

"Oh, uh, not that sort of team." Health and beauty. There wasn't enough water in the world to wear off her sharp edges, to make her as beautiful as Mama had been. She bit her tongue on that one, at least. Mama swam at Anastou? That almost made Cerise smile—she hadn't known that. Cerise liked swimming. Running had always been more her sport—after a fashion, anyway—but she knew better than to say that, too. Somehow she didn't think that was any more becoming than her face.

Again she looked from Grandmother to Aunt Tati; she seemed perfectly miserable. Cerise felt a small stab of guilt. She hadn't meant to cause anyone problems. Grandmother was trying to guess in the wake of a proper answer. The performing arts wasn't too far off, if you took a very broad... Maybe she could just lie. The idea made her feel grimy, but she thought she could do it. Spare them all the trouble.

“I’m very proud of her.”

Cerise turned to stare at him; she couldn't help it. Why did he say that? Why did he keep saying it? To her absolute horror, she knew she was blushing slightly. Stop it, she wanted to beg, stop saying things like that. She didn't know what to do when she heard them. She always picked the wrong thing when she didn't know. How was she supposed to lie about it now, with him looking at her like that?

"Well, it's—" Her eyes flicked to Aunt Tati, silently asking her not to from over Grandmother's shoulder. Cerise looked away. "I'm on the dueling team for Brunnhold, actually. That's why I'm here, in Thul Ka. I made the inter-Kingdom tournament team." Cerise paused. "I'm very good," she added. As if that helped anything.