He was grinning, though he was watching her, too, curious and a little sheepish.
I’m going to have to change my jewelry, she said right off, matter-of-fact, instead of answering.
He couldn’t help it; it started out as an irritated huff, but it turned into a snort instead. Well excuse the hell out of me, miss, he wanted to say, I didn’t think the silver went with the red anyway. He eased away on the chair, giving her some space. The bracelets came off in the end, which was well enough, and if the earrings were a little mismatched to the chignon pin, well – he didn’t know. He didn’t think either of them knew, really, and there was some funny sort of comfort in that, if he’d been pressed to call it that.
“Well, then,” he said at her pronunciation, both eyebrows shooting up. She turned to look down at him, a sharp little smile on her lips.
He wasn’t sure what possessed him, other than himself. He stood up from the chair and bowed, complete with a little Bastian flourish of one bony hand.
If he heard or saw any exasperation, he was heedless; he matter-of-factly took the chair back over to the desk, then turned. By the time they came back out into the sitting room, Sish had made headway on the upholstery. Both of her skinny golden arms were stretched up, her wings ruffling, claws spread and gleaming; there was a loud pop as she stuck another hole in the rich green fabric. Of the tearing sound from earlier, he now saw the source: there was a slit about a thumb’s length now in the midst of all the holes, a bit of stuffing spilling out.
“There she is,” he said. “Destroyer of Hours and Upholstery. And hearts, hopefully.” Her new audience, Cerise had said. “She certainly does look ready for her spec session.”
He was about to go on, to make some crack about how it was a good thing you didn’t have to sit so long for them anymore, but something stopped him. He turned to look at Cerise again, and – maybe it was the sight of her from the back and a little to the side, her face just hidden by her braid, a glint of red dangling at her ears. A glint of red like he’d seen somewhere before. He thought of audiences, of specs, and something struck him terribly familiar, just out of sight, like two lines about to converge.
It passed like a spell of ipi’wu; it was Cerise, after all, when she turned. He found himself hoping the braid didn’t look too natt, when it came to it. He had just taken off his glasses and tucked them into his satchel, and in the mirror that hung over the small table, he re-folded his amel’iwe about his shoulders, hiding the worst of the pinpricks. Then he went and held the door open, casting one last glance over the corner suite with its fabrics on the way to ruin.
He wondered if he ought to ask what to expect. The questions buzzed against each other like wasps. Who the hell are these people? would’ve been the most apt question, and maybe even the wisest; but – he found himself unwilling, still, to take off the bandage. Maybe they wouldn’t be there long, he told himself; maybe he could pretend for just long enough. He was fair good at pretending, after all.
Underneath the buzzing of those questions was that strange familiar feeling, like he hadn’t caught onto something he ought to have.
“I imagine they’ve kept you busy?” he asked instead as they came out into the hall. “How’s practice?” She had been wearing her uniform at the door; so close to the tournament, they must’ve been practicing on the weekends.