[Closed] Just the Way You Were Bred

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

c

erise was staring at him.

He couldn’t tell if she was angry. Mad as hell, he reckoned, but he’d told her he’d back her, and he’d told her truthfully, liar as he was. There was little he could do, now that the miraan had torn a hole in the proverbial bag and was clawing its way out. Lucrezia and Tatiana were both looking at him, too: Lucrezia with a pleased, warm look, and Tatiana with warning and worry. But he only looked at Cerise.

Once again, he’d’ve sworn there was a touch of warmth in her pale cheeks. He lifted his chin a little higher, bracing himself with a deep breath. The dress really was damned good, with the sharp flare of the shoulders and all that deep, blood-red velvet, all the black braided embroidery. And Sish draped over her shoulders like some funny acrobat, one foreleg stretched out to its utmost with a gleaming claw caught in her dress – one back leg caught up against her shoulder, the other draped lazily, the head at rest but one lively eye peering curiously about. (He was grateful she hadn’t left Sish with him to go with Tatiana, and not just because he was worried about Cerise.)

She did match the chignon pin. And the braid, which was holding damned well after all. And the slit in the glove, which – well – but he thought it could’ve been dashing on a duelist at a party.

Whatever it was that had compelled him to say that, it was filling him up so that he ached in his bones; it was a sharp pain caught underneath his ribs, pressing and twisting. It made him smile, one of his own crooked, messy smiles.

He looked away when she did, shifting his weight and raising his brows at Tatiana. Tatiana looked away from both of them, and Cerise went on.

Lucrezia’s eyebrows rose, and her lips parted slightly. I’m very good, Cerise added.

“Something to behold,” he put in after her, still feeling so full up with something that he might float off his feet and out through the open doors. “I watched her practice on the three; I’m looking forward to the Exhibition.” A grin slipped out.

Lucrezia’s eyes were wide on Cerise, and bright. “Dueling,” she said. “Why – oh – Maria would be so proud.”

Tatiana shifted from foot to foot; her expression soured slightly. He glanced at Cerise, trying not to study her face too closely.

“D’Alessi women are meant to take the spotlight,” Lucrezia said, lifting her chin and drawing in a great breath, “with their beauty and their talent. To shine brightly. When Mariuccia was at Anastou, it was quite improper for women to participate in duels – though of course, she was beside you on the lawn a great many times, was she not, Volpacchiotto?”

“Ah –” He kicked himself, jerking his eyes away from Cerise.

Lucrezia did not seem much to care. “Improper, for a woman’s display of arcane prowess to take a performance duel. Pah! You all must think me terribly old-fashioned.” She shook her head.

Tatiana still looked on-edge.

“Of course, I can hardly approve of combative dueling,” she said with a slight frown. “It is all – quite safe, is it not, Ciliegietta? I have not heard that the physical conversation is widely-used in performance duels.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

"Something to behold" was laying it on a bit thick, Cerise thought. He looked puffed-up with something Cerise couldn't recognize, that made her feel a way she couldn't recognize, either. Something that wasn't embarrassed quite, or annoyed, or fully pleased. Whatever it was, she wasn't sure she liked it.

Cerise grinned back, and there was a wash of gold through her heavy field. There was only a small swirl of sickly anticipation in with it.

"Maria would be so proud."

The gold was not a wash, then. It was a flood, bright and dazzling. Even Sish could tell, and made a happy noise from her shoulder. Aunt Tati's face looked like she'd swallowed something bitter; Cerise didn't care. She didn't even care if it was true. There was no way to know, after all—it was hardly like Cerise could call on Mama to verify. Grandmother seemed to think so, and that was good enough. The smile that spread across her face then had no sharpness in it at all.

Cerise had never felt much like a D'Alessi woman, no matter how you sliced what that meant. She never felt much like a Vauquelin either, but that was somewhat harder to ignore with the way it followed her everywhere. Being a Vauquelin was, in many ways, the bane of her life. But a D'Alessi? Since she'd been old enough to consider herself any kind of woman at all, she'd known she was nothing like Mama and never would be. She'd hardly considered it.

Mama, proud of her. And her father at her elbow, making some kind of terrible face that she thought meant he was proud of her, too. What a strange feeling; it wasn't altogether unpleasant.

It was also very short-lived.

The brightness in her field dimmed; Cerise tried to smooth it all over. She'd lost control of herself somewhere, she realized, and had spread out to fill more of the air than was polite. Of course, she thought, feeling like she'd spun around too quickly and couldn't get her bearings. Aunt Tati's expression made much more sense now.

"Student matches can't go above third tier," she managed, only slightly evasively. This was true. The fact that this only applied to deliberate injury was neither here nor there, at least in her opinion. "The, uh, the Exhibition matches are outside of regular tournament season."

Just lie! She didn't know why it was so hard. She lied all the time for lesser things—getting out of classes, sneaking out around overly-attentive Matrons. Explaining what happened to the upholstery, and exactly what her role was in the whole process. Cerise didn't know why this was so different. So much more difficult. It shouldn't be.

If they came to the match, they'd find out anyway, wouldn't they? (That was a big "if", and it got bigger every minute.) And if—when—she'd made a name for herself, as a professional...? Everyone would know then. That was the point.

"I've never been seriously injured," she put in a little desperately. Not from this, she could have added. Somehow, she didn't think that would help.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

t

he gold phosphor lamps seemed to him a little brighter. He grinned like it was catching; the warmth bubbled up in him like he’d had some of the date wine after all, only he knew he was sober as a stone. Damn, but she’d a strong field for a golly her age – it’d slipped the bounds of indectal suppression now, and that feeling that was usually like a thrown fist was an updraft.

Her smile hadn’t even an edge. It squeezed his heart; he felt like he was looking at something he shouldn’t be. Lucrezia’d glowed back for a few moments, dark eyes deep and warm. He wasn’t sure whose bastly was whose, or how to separate them – physical, clairvoyant, perceptive – only he knew who was at the center of it.

And then –

Lucrezia’s eyes went wider. She blinked. Tatiana looked at him first, desperate – why him? – and then back at Cerise.

“Tier,” Lucrezia repeated, and then she looked at him, too.

He stood stiffly, the smile long since drained off his face, twitching like a ghost about his lips. I’ve never been seriously injured, Cerise added, Circle bless. At that, Tatiana actually winced behind Lucrezia; her fingers tightened around the frame of the wheelchair. “Mama,” she said, pressing a smile back to her face.

Lucrezia was looking back at Cerise. She waved Tatiana away sharply, and Tatiana looked as if she’d been slapped. “Did you know about this, Tatiana?”

“Felix and I only just learned, Mama,” Tatiana said.

You said you were going to the flooding match, he thought, his lips pressing so thin they were white. Can’t you –

“Anatole,” Lucrezia said.

“Lucrezia,” he began. He slid back into his mask imperfectly; Anatole’s voice did not sound as pleasant as he was sure it would, and the thin smile felt wrong on his face. He felt empty-handed. How did you fake your way through this?

And why the hell was everybody looking at him?

“You have permitted this?” The angry set of her brow was beginning to break into something altogether more terrible; her lips had a very slight wobble. “If you care for Maria’s memory, it will stop at once.”

He blinked, frozen. He wasn’t even trying to smile, now. I’ll back you warred with everything in him. Save your thrice-damned face before you lose it, he thought; lie, tell her you don’t approve.

And with Maria–? He remembered all that gold in the air and his stomach twisted.

He thought it must’ve shown on his face; he had no idea how he looked. There was warmth in his cheeks. He felt distinctly blotchy.

“That isn’t my place, even if I wanted to, even if I weren’t as proud as I am,” he said, more sharply than he meant to. He couldn’t seem to cram himself into Anatole’s skin, no matter which way he tried; the face didn’t feel right, the voice didn’t sound right –

“Oh, ma che peccato,” Lucrezia murmured, shaking her head and pressing two fingers to one temple.

“She’s well-prepared. She knows the risks she’s taking.” She’s right there!

“Do you, Cerise? I have heard what happens in these duels,” Lucrezia said, looking at her. “Simply because the injuries are not intended, does not mean they do not happen. You are young – think of the toll that this may take on your body. Think of your future.” Her voice was soft, soft enough that they weren’t attracting any attention, but her eyes were beginning to gleam.

“Oh, Mama,” Tatiana said, leaning down to lay a hand on her shoulder, no longer looking at Cerise. “Please, Mama, I am certain she will forget all about this foolishness.”

Very quietly: “I cannot – I cannot lose another.” Lucrezia took out a kerchief.

“Cerise,” he said, feeling thick-tongued and foolish; he reached out clumsily with his caprise, clairvoyant mona mottled through with worry.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

Tier, Grandmother had repeated. Cerise's stomach twisted. Both women turned to look at her father with something like despair, before they looked back at Cerise with the same. The comment about injury had, shockingly, been as unhelpful as she had thought it might be. Aunt Tati actually winced; that was rather dramatic.

The gold drained out of her field, the smile off her face. She could feel her mouth trying to pull into a sharp-edged snarl. It took more effort than it should have to keep it as a thin-pressed line, instead. She felt like a child being scolded for breaking some expensive, ugly vase. (Cerise ought to know; she'd felt that plenty enough.) All of her wanted to bristle, anger-sharp.

Cerise held her head high, at least, and her shoulders straight. She fixed her eyes on a point somewhere over her aunt's shoulder. A light glimmering near one of the windows, so bright it hurt her eyes.

Mixed in with the anger, Cerise thought she was just tired. Resigned, probably, in a bitter-flavored way. What else had she expected? It was only her father's strange behavior since Bethas—and Diana's, too—that was confusing her. This was the way this was always going to happen, no matter what. They'd have found out sooner or later—she supposed it was good to get it out of the way now.

Hard as she was trying, she couldn't stop something flinty from going through her field or a proper frown from pulling on her thin mouth when Grandmother turned to Aunt Tati. Only just found out, she said. Cerise didn't know if that was better or worse than any other part of it. From there it was easy to snort when her Grandmother asked, all Bastian-accented syllables, if her father permitted this.

Please, she wanted to say with a roll of her eyes. As if he could have prevented it. Everyone had been happy enough with her interest at the outset, anyway—of course it was only a problem now that it was something she actually loved. Something important to her. Cerise couldn't ever seem to make her love take the right shape, here or anywhere else.

"Mama's—?" Cerise choked out, sharper than she'd meant. She felt like she'd been slapped. Her blood rang in her ears. Still she didn't turn her head, but her expression darkened further. Sish had clearly picked up on her agitation—everyone had, likely, the way she couldn't keep it out of her field, or her field out of the way. The cool scales of her tail pressed up against Cerise's throat, the muscles coiling tighter. Not enough to hurt; it was comforting. Like a hug, she thought; that made everything feel worse.

It was her father who surprised her enough to turn her head at last, to look at all of it. She had thought all his lofty talking of backing her if she told Grandmother had been... well, talk. Maybe he'd meant it when he said it, maybe not. Cerise had just been so certain that if it came down to it, he would throw her to the wolves. She had never considered him a man who wanted to hold a great many inconvenient convictions.

Yet here he was.

He looked awful. All blotchy and red, not smiling at all. Not even that politician's smile that made her so angry. And Grandmother...? A pity. Her hands balled to fists at her side; she'd rather a thousand miserable waltzes than this. It is a sport, she wanted to protest; a noble sport. Glory and conquest rolled into one. She wanted to snarl. She wanted to beg. This is important to me, please try to understand. It had never worked before. She could not imagine it doing so now.

Worst of all, she thought Grandmother was starting to cry. As if she were—going to war, or... It was a dangerous sport, but she was good at it. This, and very little else.

"I am thinking of my future," she protested, her voice rising slightly. She held up a hand for Sish to clutch onto with sharp-clawed feet. "This is my future. I—" Cerise cut herself off with a scowl. Foolishness? Did they really think she'd come all this way to this country with its awful foreign weather for "foolishness"? Years of hard work, of dedication, and...

And it didn't matter. Her father's voice cut through the noise in her head; she could feel the worry in the caprise of his strange, too-airy field. She felt choked, suddenly. There was very little she could think of to say that was appropriate for the moment.

"I—I need to... I'll be back in a moment. I just... I'll be right back. Excuse me." She couldn't look at them, not any of them. She bowed, short and sharp and shallow, turned on her heels, and stalked off briskly to the nearest exit she could find.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

m

ama–?

Her surprised choke still sank through him like an arrow, snagging as it went down. That barb had been directed at him – at Anatole, at a man who wasn’t even present – but he knew where it’d really landed. It made him feel guilty and furious at once.

(Why the hell had he ever told her? So she’d know, standing right here, he’d not a shred of association with the name Maria? So she’d know how alone she was with that Circle-damned barb? That her father was a stranger who'd no stake, no reason to care, that all this shit was on her head alone?)

If the d’Alessis had anything more to say to the matter of Cerise’s future, Lucrezia was caught up, her kerchief pressed to one gleaming eye and damp now with tears, and Tatiana’s attention absorbed by her mother. Cerise had reached to hold one of Sish’s gleaming talons; the drakelet’s grip was tight enough, he noticed with a pang, it must’ve been making another tear in the glove.

She looked distressed: she was curled a pina tight around Cerise’s neck, her feathered crest all ruffled.

And there it was, that all-too-familiar curl of a sneer at her lip, the ghost of a familiar line on her cheek, between her brows.

Worse was the tension in her field, contained but sharp-edged, straining at its edges. He felt it when he reached out, tasted something iron like blood, felt a prickle along his arms – felt something that wasn’t just anger caught along the clairvoyant mona and rippling back to him. Some aching, clawing want, like a hunger deeper than the stomach. He thought he saw it in her eyes, underneath her grey, flinty stare.

Her name sounded strange on his tongue. Felt strange. He expected a different voice to come out of his mouth. His face felt stiff and slack at once.

And then she was –

A short, sharp bow; Tatiana finally looked up, frowning, her dark eyes wide. Her ramscott pulled away from his field, and the thickness and tension of the air with it, like sticking a needle in a balloon.

She stalked away like a drake, sharp-shouldered.

“Cerise,” Tatiana said, but too late.

“Oh, dear.” Lucrezia’s voice was raw.

“Mama…”

He glanced at them. Lucrezia was looking at him now, pleading. Who the hell was she looking at? He glanced back at the back of Cerise’s head, the braided chignon – his stomach lurched – he bowed swift and shallow to the two of them, and then almost without thinking pushed off after her. There was a soft gasp from nearby, and a giggle.

There was a pit in his stomach. The smell of date wine was thick and cloying, and he wanted to drink more than he had all night.

She disappeared in a whirl of brightly-colored fabric; he saw the flicker of Sish’s golden tail round the side of a column, then he lost her.

The pit burned, an awful, sinking fear.

(He remembered Caina hurling the key at his feet, the pounding blood in his ears – you’re drunk – you didn’t even try to look for me, did you?

Give me my godsdamned key – )

He felt so different, so bizarre, weaving through – using Anatole’s long-fingered, delicate hands to brush by shoulders – no knife in his belt, no whisky in his mouth and his head clear enough to hurt. He tasted the bruised blue mottling of his field all about him.

The gleaming haze of the exhibit whirled away into the song of unfamiliar insects, the rustling of the leaves; the back terrace was near empty and full of shadows.

A lungful of fresh air and he knew he was being damnably stupid. His chest was too tight, his head too light; he couldn’t tell if he was being ridiculous. She’d said she’d be back. He’d probably gone the wrong way, anyway; she’d probably gone to the retiring room. It should've felt like finding her after the fabric store.

She probably needed the time alone, not –

“Cerise,” he said, surprised and irrationally relieved. Clumsy with another man’s voice - almost startled by the sound. It sounded wrong to him. Wronger and wronger, like he’d lost some of Anatole’s fine enunciation, like his head couldn’t tell his mouth what to do.

With her back turned, all he could see was the chignon pin gleaming in the phosphor lights – he felt a prickling up his spine, as if he were chasing a storm or a whirling knife, or maybe as if he had caught one inside him already. He reached out again anyway, not a damned clue what state his field or his face were in.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

Coward. The word rang through her head as she pushed her way through the crowd, stiff-shouldered and stiffer-jawed, looking for the first exit to the outside she could find. Sish was still curled tightly around her, but Cerise had put a hand up on her lithe body to keep it in place. The last thing she needed right now was for the miraan to launch herself off of her shoulders and cause havoc somewhere else at this godsbedamned party.

More than a few well-dressed ladies and gentlemen gave her looks as she passed. Some of them sidelong, but many of them open. As if they'd never seen an angry young woman before, she thought acidly. Let them look then! Happy to provide so much entertainment value. There were a few soft, scoffing titters of laughter as well that sent new anger burning through her. As she passed by a server with a tray of more of that awful sticky-sweet wine, she snatched another glass of it.

Grandmother had been crying.

Cerise didn't run, but her progress across the floor was swift. Most of the crowd parted before her, either because of her focused pace or because of the simmer in her field. She didn't know, and she hardly cared. The important thing was that they stayed out of her way, until she found herself tasting unfamiliar air on a darkened terrace. Cerise paused; she heard nothing but insects and the soft patter of rain. She took in a lungful of fresh air, and then another.

"That could have gone better. What do you think?" Cerise directed her muttering to Sish, who made a distressed sort of chittering noise. She flicked her long tail and nearly dunked it straight into Cerise's wine. "Not just me then."

She hadn't even done anything, and she'd made Grandmother upset. Enough to cry. With just the dueling! Cerise groaned quietly, leaning against the railing. Her head hurt, and she couldn't even blame it on her hair. She knocked down a mouthful of milky date wine and grimaced. She hated it. She was absolutely bringing some back for Em, even if just for the fun of seeing his face when he tried it.

Now there would be a fun topic to bring up. Well, you remember how you asked me about my future? See, here's the thing about that... Ugh. What a stupid line of thought. She wished she could be angrier about it. She was angry, but the anger felt muddled up and bruised. She hated this stupid country; it was too hot, too wet, too... She wanted to go home. She sniffed.

"Cerise."

She felt the edges of that stupid strange field at the same time as she heard his voice. Something was strange in it, and she didn't know what it was. Probably just that she hadn't expected to hear it at all. Had he come after her? What for? Cerise straightened and turned, still frowning. She was always frowning; she couldn't seem to help it.

"I said I'd be back," she snapped. There was concern on his face, not anger; she didn't know what was in his field when she reached for it out of habit, but it wasn't what she'd expected either. Another strike against this whole thing: something about the whole thing seemed to make people behave in confusing, out-of-character ways.

What did he care, anyway? He didn't. Couldn't. (He'd supported her just like he'd promised, some traitorous part of her mind reminded her. But so what? He had no care for Maria's memory. He had no memory of Mama at all.)

She leaned as casually as she could against the railing, crossing one arm across her chest. The other still had wine in it, which she had a little more of to give herself something to do. "Awful," she muttered again. The crystal of the glass glittered in the low phosphor light and Cerise pretended it was deeply fascinating.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

t

he relief was disproportionate when she turned around; it flooded through him the second he saw that familiar frown, those heavy dark brows drawn together. And snapped, voice sharper than Sish’s jaws. There was something grounding about it – leastways, there should’ve been.

Maybe it was the soft burble spilling out of the open doors to the gallery, all clinking glasses and laughter and Mugrobi voices, and how dark and empty the terrace felt by contrast. Or how he still didn’t quite feel like he fit into his skin, next to somebody who didn’t seem to have much choice but to fit into hers.

Or maybe it was the way she reached out for his field automatically, even underneath the snap and the scowl and the bayonet-sharp posture. Like it was habit, like he was fami.

The posture hadn’t been so sharp, before she’d turned around. He’d heard a sniff.

She couldn’t see him, not really; she didn’t know. So he told himself, not sure whether he wished she could. His pulse hopped and thumped in his ears. He felt oddly sure that here, after all that, she’d figure him out. Something about the way the dim phosphor light struck her father’s features, or the way he shaped his words.

There was Sish, too, long feathered tail swishing ever dangerously close to the lip of her glass. Her glass – she leaned back against the railing, raising it up so it caught the light, and his eyes followed it. Followed the swirl of the milky wine in the bulb. He distinctly remembered the glass she’d left on the table inside; this wasn’t that. Had she gotten another? He swallowed dryly, in a way that felt no less mechanical than anything else.

Awful, she muttered.

He let out a soft mess of a laugh, then laughed again, because it was always so strange, what Anatole’s voice did to his laughter. “I like it well enough,” he countered. “I’ll take whisky any day, but I like it well enough. Too sweet for you?”

He hadn’t meant to say that, about whisky; it didn’t sound right – not for who he was supposed to be – and he knew it. His mind felt like a Clock’s Eve pudding placed haphazardly in a skull. There were so many lies to keep track of, he almost couldn’t keep track of any of them.

“You did say that. But that wasn’t, uh,” he squinted askance at the pattern of leaves and shadows over the railing, “that wasn’t the most – oh, godsdamn it. I’m worried, Cerise.”

He was surprised at the feeling that spilled out of him. He felt like he’d teetered over an edge and started to topple; he felt like he had in the bookstore over a month ago now, only worse. His lips twitched once, and he blinked twice, glancing back up at last at her eyes.

“I regret to say I can’t think of a good joke to follow up on that sentiment,” he said, “so it’ll have to just be a sentiment.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

At least someone was amused. Cerise wasn't sure which part of this was so hilarious, but her father started to laugh when she muttered into her awful wine. Laughed and then laughed again, like there was no more jovial moment in the entire godsdamn world. Cerise wanted to snarl, but she supposed that was better than scolding her for walking out of the conversation with Grandmother and Aunt Tati.

I'm sweet enough on my own, she could have said, lofty and unaffected. A stupid joke out of her stupid mouth; the punchline was obvious. "Cloyingly so," she muttered instead. Since when did he drink whiskey much at all, let alone prefer it to anything else? ("Since when"? As if she didn't know, or could at least make a reasonably educated guess.) The frown on her face set in even deeper.

Damn it all, had he heard her...? Ugh. She hoped not. She was quiet, and it had only been for a second. Bad enough that she's cried last month in the bookstore. The memory of that day floated up in her mind at unpredictable intervals and burned her up with the shame of it. Or the not-shame, she didn't know. Shame-adjacent, at least.

Well she wasn't doing that again. Or anything like the other day, or... What had she just thought about this horrible country making people act in out-of-character ways? Didn't have to be here long for the effects to take hold, apparently. She would just keep staring at her glass until he went away. She somehow doubted it would take long.

It worked at first. "Wasn't the most"...? Yes, it wasn't the most of a lot of things. Graceful, well-considered, effective—pick one, they all applied. She jerked her eyes away from the way the damn crystal split the phosphor when he delivered that... sentiment. There was no lie of it on his face, and nothing in his field, either. In fact, she thought that might be what...

"That's not proper party etiquette at all," she started, all edges and acid, "expressing sincere sentiment at a... About..." She lost the thread of it somewhere. Was he really that worried? Cerise scowled, lost that too, then picked it up again.

"I didn't expect much else," she lied, shrugging her shoulders and jostling Sish slightly. The miraan chittered at her, annoyed, until Cerise ran her fingers over the crest of feathers on her head. The nice thing about miraan, Cerise thought, was that they could be so easy to please. Even Cerise's attention would do.

"I'll apologize when I go back inside." She'd try, anyway. She didn't seem to be very good at those. Cerise thought of Diana crying in the mirror, and her stomach lurched.

"I can't be Mama," she blurted out, like it was the conclusion to an old argument. It was, sort of. Cerise didn't think she'd ever actually said it out loud before, that was all. Least of all to him. It was just because he couldn't remember anything that she said it. She wouldn't have to look up and know that he thought so, too. Even if he did, she told herself, it wouldn't matter, because he didn't...

Maybe she should have stopped there; that was bad enough. But when did she do anything sensible? "I wouldn't even know how to be if I wanted to. I barely remember her." Hardly more than you do, she thought, but couldn't bring herself to say. Cerise bit the inside of her mouth so hard she thought she could taste blood.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

a

nother barb, but the acid dripped off into silence. Cerise’s face was a familiar sour twist; he watched it fall, then curl itself into a scowl again. Her braid was at least holding up better than this.

His own lip twitched. He should’ve had the urge to snap back, parry with a barb of his own; he wasn’t sure where it’d gone. The party a month ago seemed a hundred years away, and he was too sober for that dance. Didn’t seem like the wine had whetted Cerise’s appetite for it much, either, though she was doing her best to offset the sweetness.

He liked that scowl very much, and all the rest too.

She upset Sish when she shrugged. The nonchalant ice in her voice held a little better, though he didn’t think she was much good at lying. There was something about the way she reached up to steady the drakelet, brushing a gloved hand gently – tenderly – over her gold feathers until she settled again.

He wasn’t sure if she’d say anything else, but he stood there holding onto the quiet. It came out in patches, sharp and stilted, like skipping steps down. I’ll apologize when I go back inside. His brow furrowed; he thought to argue, but he kept his mouth shut, waiting and listening instead.

Slowly he eased himself back against the railing; the wood was cool and a little damp underneath his fingers.

His eyes widened slightly.

He wasn’t prepared for her to go on, either – and he felt distinctly strange that she was saying this to him at all. He didn’t think this was something she’d’ve said to Anatole. So then who was she talking to–?

That old twitch of the nerves shuddered up one side of his face; his eyelid fluttered, and he pressed two fingers to it. “I –” He swallowed, blinking away.

He was oddly, if bitterly, grateful to know just which parts of his ma he’d picked up, and to have nothing at all of his da but rumors. The grief was almost easier that way, one way or the other. The most beautiful woman in the world. He didn’t know much about women; he was beginning to think he didn’t know much about the world. He tried to imagine Cerise looking in the mirror with this face, with Anatole’s cool grey eyes and thin lips and pointed features. And all that thick dark hair like the woman from the specs, beautiful as it was, that she didn’t seem to know what to do with. Didn’t seem to want to know.

And singing lessons! And dancing. All those things Etienne had been hired to teach him, all those things he seemed to take to like a bird to wings – frighteningly, loathsomely.

He should’ve lied. That, or dismissed all this. Fit the mask back to his face neatly as he could, told her to go back in and apologize. Close this door, wherever it led, as if she hadn’t slipped. (Was it a slip?)

“I wish I could remember her for you,” he said instead, dry-mouthed, his voice very soft. “I wish you could have that. But not so you could be her. Or me, or anybody else. Nobody should ever have to be somebody else.” His voice wavered low and almost broke.

He was staring down at the tiled floor scattered with leaves. Cerise’s glass still gleamed in the corner of his eye. There was a clink and a burst of laughter from indoors, muffled but close enough to seem startlingly inappropriate.

He thought about saying, Maybe she’ll come around. And then Emiel?

He wasn’t sure that was what this was about, anyway. Not at its strange, brittle heart. “I can’t quite be who everyone expects, either,” he said quietly, looking back up at her. “It’s damned strange, to have someone look at you and see someone else. Especially if there’s a lot of them to go around, and none of it answers –” He grimaced, blinking. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be the one apologizing to anyone.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

Her father was tolerating all of this with rather a lot of grace. The thought didn't make her feel better in the slightest. On the contrary, it was exceedingly annoying. She wanted someone to shout at, to be cross with. An adversary to fight. Who was she supposed to snap at, if not him? Grandmother? Aunt Tati? Absolutely not.

The only person here she could be angry with was herself.

Was that why she'd brought it up, like picking at a scab? Retreading old arguments, more explicitly than she ever had before. In deference, of course, to his illness and lack of memory. Cerise thought he might well be able to pick up the threads of it again, if she handed them to him. An old argument for an old reaction. That would make her feel better she thought, feeling stubborn.

He came to join her against the railing. There was a twitch across his face when she spoke; she wasn't so arrogant as to take credit for that one. She did her best to keep the concern out of her face, watching him press two fingers to his eyelid and stumble for words. Sish turned to look at him with great interest—in the silk at his shoulder, of course. The drakelet stayed put, and Cerise was absurdly grateful.

You? She wanted to prompt him, bitter and angry. This wasn't the reaction she'd expected; she could feel nothing in his caprise that made her think it was. Was she happy about it, or annoyed? She didn't like feeling so ignorant of herself. It was, she supposed, something to think over. He had only just learned who Mama was. Perhaps it took a moment to calculate all of the ways in which she wasn't.

She had his hands, too, all long-fingered and bony. That was all well and good for him, but she had none of the softness a woman ought to here, either. Mama, she thought, feeling absurd, couldn't you have left me some piece of you that I might know what to do with? The hair, she felt, didn't count.

When his voice came again, it was soft. Too soft, she thought desperately. Why did he have to...? They both knew she hadn't meant to say that. No joke, she remembered; just sentiment. Her mouth pressed together into a thin, unwavering line; Cerise grunted and turned away. The party inside felt both too close and a thousand miles away. She could hear conversation and music; another waltz had started up.

"I hadn't noticed," she said dryly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed fascinated by the floor tiles, face turned away from her. The joke fell flat in the moment. Cerise shifted her weight.

"I don't need you to..." she started, frowning. What the hell was she supposed to say? He couldn't remember Mama; that was a fact, cold and plain in the overly-wet air. No apologies from either of them could change that. "It's... fine."

There was no bookshelf between them, or even a coffee table. She felt like an exposed nerve. "It doesn't matter what 'should' happen," she went on stubbornly, "I do have to. But—hmm. Thank you," she said stiffly.

Are you sure you want to go to Bastia with me still? The question was on the tip of her tongue; it was an easy question, more a joke than anything. A graceful exit from this awful conversation. "Why did you take the book from me, if you don't...?" Cerise looked down, absorbed by kicking leaves with the toe of her boot. There was a small golden feather in there somewhere, gleaming in the phosphor light.