[Closed] Just the Way You Were Bred

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

a

miraan on every lady and gentleman’s shoulder, this summer.” He tutted, shifting on the seat and crossing his arms. “Miraan breeding’ll be a hell of a lucrative occupation, in that case. Put Bastia ahead of the rest of us.”

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.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Dzeqar’ameh Hotel, Dejai Point
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

The miraan parks had probably been the best part of a fairly miserable summer, once. It was her first time getting to spend much time in them—when she had been little, there was the concern that either she or the animals would do each other harm. And then, of course, they left.

When Cerise went back to Bastia again, it was by herself; an angry, unsettled child. No doubt thinking the time away might do her good, whoever had decided she ought to go. At the time, she had only thought her father and Diana both just wanted her very much out of the way. Now? She didn't think; she knew.

Whatever else she had felt about the visit—the portraits of Mama, more than were at home, her younger in them, too; all the familiar/unfamiliar sights and sounds and people—the parks were an uncomplicated sort of joy. She must have spent, oh, hours in them, just watching the glimmer of scales and colorful feathers in the sun. Miraan were the only topic of conversation she would discuss when she got home again. One day she would breed them, and enter them in shows. One day she would have her very own private miraan park, and only a chosen few would be allowed in. Yet somehow she'd forgotten all about it, until now.

Diana—had Diana remembered? Cerise dismissed the thought, but the knot in her chest remained. Clocking rainy season, driving one to idle sentiment.

That was all in the past, anyway. Cerise had no real ambition to become a miraan breeder now or in the future, any more than she had ambition to become an opera singer or a writer or any of the other things she thought she might want to be when she grew up. She had grown, and she knew what she wanted to be now. Her standing here in her stocking feet rolling her eyes at her father's flourished bow was proof of it.

A roll of the eyes he was very clearly ignoring. Now she knew she was being teased. It should irritate her more than it did. She retrieved her boots from the floor of the bedroom, one on each side somehow. Cerise never did remember to put them on before her corset, despite her best efforts.

The sound had been more or less as ominous as Cerise had feared. Sish had conquered the chair, and had clearly set to work on disembowling it. One day she really ought to try and train her out of such habits. The miraan just always looked so pleased with herself, Cerise ended up smiling instead of scolding. It was just that she was distressed, anyway. From being left alone all day, with so few familiar things around her.

"Hearts, undoubtedly." She finished buttoning her shoes and straightened once more. Her father had moved to the door. She whistled once, a soft little sound, and Sish had come to settle in her customary place on Cerise's shoulders. The other reason she liked this dress was that the stiff shaping of the shoulders meant the fabric of the jacket was sturdier than what she was usually wearing. She didn't glance back into her room as they left, but held herself up straight and went out into the hall.

"Of course. This isn't a vacation for me, you know." Cerise raised her eyebrows, but her words were sharper than her voice. "We're not exempt from our studies, either. In case you were curious." She had been hopeful—she had asked, even. Her professors had not looked pleased with the question. Except Mr. Bassington-Smythe, who had said something about data that Cerise hadn't quite caught and didn't care enough about to follow up on.

The field was still strange, clairvoyant-soft and nothing like it had been; reaching out for it was disturbingly less so. Cerise hadn't even thought about it, this time. Not until she'd already done it. "Practice is—exhausting. But good," she added, honest. They were going down the stairs now, and this time she hardly looked at the front desk on their way out. At this point, she knew how they felt about seeing the back of her and Sish, anyway. Some things crossed international borders.

"More intense than regular varsity." She continued on as they came out into the street. She wasn't entirely certain where they were going, once again. Not a feeling she enjoyed. "This isn't a tournament, not really, but I think we'll do well. At least, I think I will." Cerise didn't think it counted as arrogance if it was true.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

h

ow long ‘til she destroys mine? he wanted to quip back, but something – some little tickle of an unsettled feeling – stopped him.

In any case, Cerise’s whistle cut across his thoughts; he turned, as ever, to watch it happen, that flurry of gold wings. Sish seemed to find easy footing on those sharp-cut shoulders, and he reckoned the dress was appropriate in more ways than one. He was grinning by the time they were out in the hall, though he was still conscious of his niggling unease. He was more and more conscious of it as they took the stairs, conscious of it in the lobby with all that merry noise drifting in surreally from the bar behind. He didn’t look back, only took his umbrella from the rack by the doors.

He’d raised his brows right back at Cerise. I don’t, he’d wanted to say, know shit about any of this; you know – but then, he supposed she’d not a clue what he knew. “Not exempt from your studies?” he tutted. “That doesn’t seem fair. I mean, ah – I hope you’re keeping at them,” he amended more grimly, and he found his brows actually drew together.

Not that he much liked the prickle of concern, thinking about whether she was or wasn’t doing her assignments. It was her business, he told himself, long as she stayed on the team.

For what must’ve been the hundredth time, that didn’t feel good enough. But she went on, and he listened, a smile twitching at his face.

The rain was still coming down. It was shaping up to be the kind of storm you only got in the deepest part of the rainy season in Anaxas; the streets were already starting to stream with it, all the awnings ruffling in the humid breeze.

He’d done his level best with the braid, at least. He opened up the umbrella in the shadow of Dzeq’arameh, just in the vague patterned light from the stained glass behind. The sky was getting proper dark now; they’d been longer in there than he’d thought. The gallery opening, he suspected, had started already. If they weren’t a little late, then they were a lot; they were late by now, either way.

He offered her half the umbrella with an ease that might’ve disturbed him – an ease that did disturb him, except for how easy it was. Their fields were well mingled at the edges, too, the clairvoyant utterly unlike and still curious, as if drawn.

The rain battered hard against the umbrella as they came out from under Dzeq’arameh, sloughing off the side in a stream. He’d fixed his own hair well enough before he’d left the Crocus’ Stem, but it didn’t seem likely to stay fixed, especially not with Sish having just crawled about his shoulders and tried to stuff her face into his ear.

Light and laughter spilled out of cafes and student bars, again with a swirl of students and faculty and visitors – mostly Mugrobi, but Anaxi, Bastian, Heshath, even Hoxian – a swirl of languages, a swirl of smells, a swirl he was just beginning to get used to. Last year in Vienda it’d been strange, but not this strange; it was as if they’d pulled out all the stops for the first year of the Mugrobi cycle. It was as stifling as it was fascinating.

He was trying not to turn over thoughts of that box and of red gems and of the name Maria, its familiarity or lack thereof, in his head. He turned them onto another rainswept street, comfortable now with the walk to campus.

“A bird tells me it’s the Drekkur team you’ve got to worry about. Living conversationalists scare the hell out of me,” he said, his lip twitching. “How’ve you found them so far, the other duelists? Have you had the chance to duel a clairvoyantist yet?”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Dzeqar’ameh Hotel, Dejai Point
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

The rain must have started coming down harder sometime between her getting in and now—Cerise had hardly noticed. Busy, she thought sourly, ripping her own hair out of her head and getting wrapped up in nonsensical concerns. Like when her father learned to braid hair, and why he was doing it for her now. Good he had; the damp was doing awful things to her hair and she didn't like contemplating the state it might have been in if she'd given up and left it down. Grandmother's health was fragile.

Cerise didn't laugh, but she did grin at the look on his face as he enquired about her studies, a state of affairs she was finding at least less dubious than the braid on her head. Which was sitting as comfortably as it could, and not sliding around or tilting to one side. She would rather die than tell him that, of course, but it was more comfortable than her own handiwork. What it looked like in sartorial terms, she was more dubious about—she supposed someone would find some way to tell her at this thing they were headed towards. They usually did.

Sish was less fond. Poor poppet, nothing to hide in. Her father offered her half his umbrella, and she fell into disturbingly easy stride. For Sish, she told herself, and because she had left her own cherry-red umbrella upstairs somewhere by her suit door. Wherever she had dropped it when she came in.

All this clocking rain was going to do her in, eventually. Getting ready had taken long enough that the rivulets of it on the street were just gleams in the dark where they caught streetlamps or what spilled over from buildings. Each inky pit could be shallow, or it could soak her through to her socks. She was not, she had decided, overly fond of flood season.

"You've got birds that take odds on school matches now?" She wasn't sure if he could see the slant of her eyebrows or the hook of her mouth—just so—in the rain or the dark, but she did both of them anyway. She stepped in a puddle slightly deeper than she had expected, just enough to splash up onto her skirt hem. Why had she fussed so much with her hair, again? The walk over would do her in anyway. Absurd, to hold a party at this time of year where one was expected to arrive dry.

Absurd, she supposed, to walk over rather than take a carriage. But Cerise was in no particular hurry to arrive, even if she did want to see her family. Sort of. She thought she did, anyway. It had been so long.

"Do they now?" she went on, brushing off the tangle of feeling that came with thinking about seeing her mother's family again after so many years. "More than the ones who twiddle about with the basic building blocks of the universe?" That made her grin and look over, teeth flashing even in the dark. That was a fairly dramatic way to describe the physical conversation, but it was also true.

"The other duelists are—well they're very good. I haven't gone up against any of them yet, of course, but I managed to find my way into the stands for a few practice sessions." And had nearly gotten in serious trouble for it, but it had been worth it. It was exciting, seeing all of these duelists she hadn't been going to school with all these years. "Not as good as we are though," she added. Most of them—even, she was loathe to admit, Roumanille. Being a repulsive person and a poor duelist didn't always go hand-in-hand, alas.

"No clairvoyants—yet. I don't know if..." Cerise frowned, thoughtful. It was an odd match, clairvoyant and physical. But perhaps—perhaps not terrible? She supposed she might find out, given Thul'Amat's reputation. She couldn't quite decide if she liked the prospect. Better than being up against more perceptivists. That, she could safely say she had little interest in.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

b

irds like to gamble,” he shot back, “hadn’t you heard? That’s why they make terrible pets; empty your pockets before you know it.” He grimaced slightly, thinking of his last kofi har’aq with ada’xa Tsofo. Looking back, he wasn’t sure how much stock to put in his words; he wasn’t sure if it much mattered, given how little he knew about dueling.

There was a little splash of a sound at Cerise’s foot, but he didn’t look, though he could imagine. He thought belatedly they should’ve caught a coach or a puller; it was too close for the cableways, but given the occasion, it would’ve been wise. This wasn’t the Stacks, and they weren’t on their way to lunch or the bookstore.

Would it matter if he asked questions? Would she know the answers to them, or would it just tell her he didn’t? Would it just let her know there wasn’t any help from his corner, either, here?

(Maria Vauquelin, Maria Vauquelin… The name didn’t ring any bells, or leastways the second part of it didn’t; but somehow –)

Her sharp voice brought him back, and he looked over. That grin again, a flash of white in the dark, the twitch of along gold tail round her high red collar. Always a little frightening, that look, and the cool flash of those grey eyes.

Much scarier was what it tugged at inside him.

He snorted, then rolled his eyes. They broke out into Tsed’tsa, where some of the peddlers were beginning to pack up, folding up their great slick umbrellas. “Listen,” he started, and almost said, All of this magic shit frightens me, all right? and stopped, wondering what had gotten into him. Too loose with his tongue; too careless.

“That,” he said instead after a moment, twirling the umbrella-stem, “scares me the regular way; don’t worry. But it’s different from tampering with your head, or withering you. Working at something inside you without your permission.” He shivered. “I’d take a good bone-breaking blow any day. Not that,” and he grinned again sharply, “you weren’t damned creative on the three.”

They were on campus proper, now; blue phosphor lamps glowed softly through the rain, and as they passed underneath a window, the muffled sound of an evening lecture drifted through. He caught a whiff of bitter kofi. They weren’t too far from Tsu’un, now.

“Found your way into the stands?” Both of his eyebrows shot up, but there was still a smile twitching at his lips, like he couldn’t even help it.

When he looked over again, there was that familiar line between her dark eyebrows. Funny, how each frown was different; funny, how he knew this one meant thinking now. She trailed off, and the patter of rain came in to fill the silence.

“Not especially good duelists, clairvoyantists. Usually. There’s – one, though, I’m told, a lad who likes to distract his opponents with ley channels verging on cognomancy. Unusually divinipotent.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not that I’ve been asking round, mind you. This is just what the birds tell me; you open up your window and they’re singing all day long. About varsity dueling, for some reason. Who knew?”

Maybe she could find her way into the stands during a Thul’amat practice session. He thought he should’ve disapproved; he certainly shouldn’t have felt a surge of warmth. Whatever this was, it was grotesque.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Dzeqar’ameh Hotel, Dejai Point
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

Water scattered in every direction as her father twirled the handle of the umbrella around, talking about the terrors of magic. Of living conversation, which tampered with the body. And of perceptive, which tampered with the mind.

Was that the draw, then? She could have asked; the idea came to her and left just as swiftly. She had the sinking feeling she knew the answer, and the answer was that he didn't know. If she heard that—confession, admission, whatever it was best called—if she heard it here, now, tonight, she thought she might scream. Go running off into the rainy night, and then what was all that fuss with the dress and her hair even for?

"How good of you to notice," she agreed loftily; she was secretly pleased, and that was aggravating. It was just true—that one never did cease to surprise. "But fair enough." Cerise shrugged a little, just one shoulder; Sish shifted but didn't complain. Busy pressing herself up against the relative warmth of Cerise's body through the thin fabric of the high collar, she supposed.

"I like it better that way, too." It slipped out, along with the smile that followed on its heels, but she left it. No point in scrambling after something as simple as an admission that she enjoyed the discipline to which she planned on dedicating her life. Or as much of it as she could, anyway. Duelists had short careers.

What are you going to tell them? Mother's family? Anything? Nothing? Will you wait, like you did with me, some strange kind of mercy to pretend...? Well, that wasn't her concern. He could do whatever he liked, say or not say anything he wanted. Just—the thought of admitting to Grandmother that... that even Mama was... Cerise put it out of her mind for now. It was too much of a thought to hold while trying to step over deeper pools of dark water and the scatter of blue phosphor light they'd caught.

"There's no rule about it!" Technically. Possibly because there didn't need to be one, generally speaking; it was of course broadly understood that one didn't sidle in to observe the practice of your rivals. But the season hadn't even truly started, so it didn't count. Shouldn't have counted, anyway; it clearly did to some small minds. "Technically."

He let her think, rain and the splash of their footsteps standing in while she did so. She felt oddly pleased he should seem so invested in her answer. Maybe he'd made some kind of bet, although she'd not known him to be the type before. The logic was thin even in her own head.

"The birdsong in Mugroba is certainly different than it is at home." That was a complicated feeling, too; had he been asking around? Why? Her betting theory wasn't particularly solid; she couldn't put much stock in it. But the idea of asking for her sake was strange, even into this just-slightly-off Ever she'd somehow stumbled into. Where everything was normal, except she had Em in her life and her father asking if she wanted to watch men bloody their knuckles for money and glory.

Still. She wanted to see that—unusually divinipotent. She'd never seen a clairvoyant duel properly. The idea was oddly thrilling. "Did they have a name, these birds?" She played at nonchalance, but her interest was written clearly on her face.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

w

ell, if there’s no rule about it technically,” he murmured, with a sidelong glance, “then that’s all right.”

It tickled him. It tickled him more to be pulling for one of the duelists; an old habit, he told himself, from getting much too invested in the ring as a lad. He liked the little curl of a smile on her face, not quite like the others, when he’d snuck a glance over. He liked which fighter he was pulling for, and he liked how she fought, and he liked –

Watch yourself, he kept telling himself. It wasn’t right to start thinking you knew where you stood, when there was really nothing but empty air underneath the soles of your shoes.

Her voice was as lofty and even as it’d been, but he heard the curiosity shifting restless just under the skin of it. To his surprise, he grinned again. “Yes, actually. Funny enough, birds here have got names, too.” It was coming down heavier now, and the rattle and tap of the rain filled the quiet. There were a few distant rumbles of thunder. He paused just long enough, he hoped, to be infuriating.

Or maybe not long enough; he couldn’t help himself. “Tsaw’efo pez Dzawar is the lad’s name. He’s the only clairvoyantist on the Thul’amat team. He’s a little – strange. I suppose you’d have to be.”

He wrinkled his nose.

Chatter and laughter, louder and closer than before, drifted through the branches – echoing strangely through the rain, like a party of ghosts. A tipsy-bastly field brushed by in the opposite direction.

“I heard all this from another bird named Tsofo pez Edun,” and he tried not to grimace, “the assistant clairvoyant coach. Silver-tongued bastard; I could only get so much out of him. But there’s a Tsarah… Tsarah pezre Tsaar’úto, I think. A physical conversationalist who used to be on the team. Used to be. Might be a -”

“By Her grace and beauty,” came a voice with a sharp Bastian accent, “that cannot be little Cerise!”

He glanced up sharply, surprised. They had rounded a bend, where the walk opened up into a verandah shaded by a thatch of greenery. Behind the trellis were a row of high, narrow windows, open to glimpses of a gallery strung with lights and swimming with arati in colorful wraps and scarves. There was no rain tapping on the umbrella; slowly, he brought it down and shut it, dripping on the stones. When he looked up, there was a woman drifting toward them through the low light, past a trellis spilling out a waterfall of flowers.

She was swathed with brilliant green in Bastian styles; she reached out to both of them with a weak perceptive caprise. Her eyes slid over Cerise once, sticking on her hair, moving down her dress and lingering on a splash of something dark at the hem. She was smiling again when she looked back up at Cerise’s face.

She did not bow; she merely paused expectantly, looking with large dark eyes from Cerise to him. “And Anatole,” she said after a moment, smiling.

He remembered the Bastian fashion belatedly. “Good evening,” he fumbled, taking one of her pale hands and bowing low to kiss it. He rose with what he hoped was the right flourish, pressing the accustomed thin smile to his face. “Tatiana,” he said belatedly, hopefully.

She was around Cerise’s height, but very full-figured; there was something horribly familiar about her soft face, with its petal-shaped lips and wide dark eyes. Not at all like Cerise, except for the thick dark brows and elegantly-coiffed curls piled up on her head – but somehow he had seen –

“Oh, my dearest niece, how have you been? You are more and more striking each time I see you.” Tatiana brushed in closer with a waft of a sweet smell, leaning to kiss Cerise once on each cheek. She made to put her hands on Cerise’s shoulders, then hesitated, eyes widening at the sight of Sish’s ruffling feathers. “Is that a – a miraan?”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

He was trying to be infuriating. She knew he was, because he grinned at her first before asking her question that had clearly not been asked casually enough. Damnit. Cerise barely restrained the urge to shake him; she ran a hand along the smooth, cool scales on Sish's tail instead. He was just trying to annoy her—she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Her amusement was softer than she'd like when the pause wasn't too terribly brief. Like he couldn't contain himself, he wanted to tell her that badly. "They're all rather strange," she said pointedly with a crook of her eyebrow.

Before Bethas, before storming into that museum party because she simply couldn't stand the not knowing anymore, she would never have dreamed of speaking to her father in quite this way. Sharply, yes. She had done plenty of that, and would continue to do so as long as she drew breath. But not this strangely comfortable teasing—like she expected him to laugh most of the time. Cerise wouldn't speak to Diana this way, either; she suspected her stepmother would not be overly fond of this particular brand of disrespect.

"Tsaw'efo pez Dzawar... And—'used to be'? What w—" What, she wanted to ask, were you doing chatting up the assistant clairvoyant coach for Thul'amat? Trying to pry information out of him about this? And just what did "used to be" mean, in this context?

She wanted to ask. She might have, but for a familiar voice calling out to them both through the rain and the dark. They'd reached their destination more quickly than Cerise had realized. Just turned a corner and there was the gallery, hiding behind a trellis, windows gleaming bright against the night.

"Aunt Tati!" She had suppressed the grimace at "little Cerise" just in time; it had been instinctive, not intentional. Nobody called her "little" anything much, these days. Given that she stood a couple inches at least over most of the other girls her age and many of the boys, that particular adjective didn't figure strongly into the arsenal most employed when describing her.

There it was, just like she'd known was coming—that peculiar mix of pleasure and tension. Aunt Tati had always looked much more like Mama than she did; she had the same soft face and large eyes. Even now, so much older than Cerise remembered her being. Older, of course, than Mama had ever been. Aunt Tati's dark-eyed glance took in her hair and her hem before sliding over to her father; Cerise felt suddenly keenly aware of every sharp line and pointed angle. Maybe Diana was right, and she should have brought a different dress.

Too late now. They were here, and she was wearing it, and she was what she was no matter what dress she wore, anyway. Cerise leaned in just that little bit; she was the same height as Aunt Tati, now. She had seemed so much bigger, last time.

"I've been well, Aunt Tati," she lied, not looking at her father while she said it. She hadn't decided if having him here made it better or worse. His presence seemed to highlight exactly who it was she did take after, considering it certainly wasn't Mama. She had steeled herself, just a bit, for an embrace of some sort, but Aunt Tati hesitated. Because of...? Ah.

"Oh, yes. She certainly is. This is Sish, Destroyer of Hours." Cerise didn't hesitate to give her full name this time. If anything, she couldn't stop herself from feeling the tiniest flutter of expectation. Possibly even hopefulness that her aunt would recognize it and it would make her smile or—or something. It was absurd and childish, but it was there all the same. Sish flicked her tail then and chirped happily, hearing her name. The lower edge of Cerise's jaw was assaulted the a pleased nuzzle.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

h

e was almost sad, now. He’d had a dozen quips on the tip of his tongue when Tatiana’d cut across them; it was only that, he told himself, and not that he’d been enjoying the teasing. Except he couldn’t anymore, not and be anything approaching honest.

It was only that – he couldn’t think when she’d stopped talking to her father and started talking to him.

Whatever that ease had been, it had dissipated now. She wasn’t smiling; she wasn’t frowning, either, exactly. He wasn’t sure how to read the expression. Her pale grey eyes were fixed on Tatiana, studiously avoiding him. He glanced away.

Anatole’s thin smile was still stretched across his face. He’d the most awful urge to reach up and touch it, to make sure it was still there. He’d the most awful fear that if he did, some spell would break, and he would find scars and a beard underneath his fingertips. It was counter to every wish he’d ever had to wake up with his old body, familiar and sturdy, with his old strong hands.

He’d the most dangerous, horrible sense that if he could’ve, he’d’ve traded all that, just to be a perfect facsimile of Anatole Vauquelin for an hour – just long enough not to embarrass Cerise, not to pour salt in all these wounds he’d opened. Just long enough to…

He’d already shot that idea in the foot. Tatiana was looking him up and down whenever she could, as if she couldn’t quite believe her eyes; he shifted in his sandals, smoothed his amel’iwe, and thought it a credit to her composure that she said nothing.

Sish, Cerise said, sharp chin raised, the Destroyer of Hours. He glanced over in time to see Sish shove her sharp snout into Cerise’s jaw, and his smile went crooked.

He blinked; so did Tatiana, who looked at him and then back to Cerise. “Come – come again?” she asked, heavy dark brows drawing together.

“From Tales of Near and Far,” he blurted out hopefully, before he could stop himself. He glanced at Cerise, then back at Tatiana. These were Cerise’s folk; they were close enough, weren’t they? he kept thinking, in spite of the expressions on both their faces, in spite of everything they’d talked about before they’d left the hotel room. But shouldn’t she have known? Hadn’t it been Maria, she’d said, who–?

“Oh,” Tatiana said smoothly, “oh, yes, of course.” She didn’t look any the wiser; she didn’t ask, either. Worse, she shot a sharp glance at him, as if she just assumed it’d been his idea. Already, he chid himself, already, you ersehat.

But she smiled just as smoothly then, glancing over Sish one last time. “A lovely name for a lovely creature. You always were enamored of the miraan parks in Florne, were you not? I remember when you could say nothing of anything but miraan.”

She laughed, covering her mouth with a gloved hand.

“Oh, but come; your grandmother and Felix are inside.” She began to turn, gesturing with an elegant motion. “And Anatole? How, ah, how have you been?”

“Quite well,” he replied, leaving it at that before he could embarrass them both again He left his umbrella on the rack, a twisting braid of branches teased artfully from a small tree. Through the open double-doors, the gallery was awash with light and bright-draped figures, the walls hung with paintings in what seemed a dozen styles, display cases a forest of glass that made him pay nervous heed to Sish’s twitching tail.

“You seem to have adopted the local fashions quite enthusiastically. You were always a man who took well to change.” Tatiana laughed; he laughed, too, though something pinched at the edges of him. “How is your health, since…?”

He didn’t look over at Cerise, this time, though the clairvoyant mona still mingled deeply with physical. At their edges, the perceptive mona probed curiously; if there had been a flicker of surprise in Tatiana’s field at either of theirs, it hadn’t registered on her face.

“Much improved,” he put in swiftly. “We have warmly appreciated your letters, and your concern.” He’d the awful feeling he sounded as much like he was talking to a stranger as he felt.

“It must have been a terribly difficult time, nonetheless. How is young Eleanor?” Tatiana looked back at Cerise over her shoulder, and he’d’ve sworn he’d caught a deeper, more mistrustful sort of worry in her eyes. But she was still smiling smoothly, and as she led them past a table laden with glasses, she asked, “Will you take something to drink, Cerise? Anatole?”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

She shouldn't be disappointed; she shouldn't even had thought so far as to have anything to be disappointed about. No matter that the book had been Mama's, no matter that she knew it had been well-loved in her collection, too. They were sisters, not—not the same person. Eleanor hardly knew every detail of Cerise's taste in literature. Eleanor didn't know any details, likely.

The feeling was there anyway, made worse when her father—her father!—tried to help. You hadn't known either, until I told you, she wanted to snap. On top of it, Aunt Tati didn't remember herself, or even ask. Cerise tried to contain herself, but a frown creased her face anyway, sharp with embarrassment.

"I was a child," she protested, but only weakly. There was a smile somewhere, and she found it to hold. She had loved the parks. And sometimes she thought very little had changed—Sish was so often her favorite topic of conversation. As if aware of the compliment, Sish shifted and fluttered gold-feathered wings.

That warmed her smile considerably; she followed after her aunt with her chin held high. She would not, she decided quite firmly, think about the splash on her skirt hem or the way Aunt Tati had looked at her hair. This was just a party, and—and she was used to it, really. Invited it, generally. It was just that her aunt looked so much like Mama, and it had been so long; it staggered her.

It wasn't until they were inside and she took in the glittering glass display cases all around them that Cerise realized she should have put Sish in her harness. Loathsome as she found it, the idea of Sish taking off to destroy some undoubtedly priceless something-or-another while her family looked on was more so. She could feel her father's eyes on the miraan and knew with a grim sort of certainty he was thinking the same. He had, after all, been first-hand witness the last time it had been truly destructive.

This time she would just be—more vigilant. And perhaps they wouldn't have to stay terribly long. Much as Cerise had wanted to see them, she was already tired of elbow-rubbing, stiff-faced smiles and polite caprision. Listening to her aunt and father speak improved the experience not at all. Had they always spoken to each other like this, and she had just been too young to notice? And since when did it bother her? Which, it didn't. They could snipe at each other all night if they liked. None of it affected her, she supposed.

She was a liar and she knew it, even to herself.

"Yes," Cerise said, a touch too emphatically from the depth of her train of thought. "Er, please." There had been something in Aunt Tati's face that Cerise hadn't know what to make of. Or it was just her imagination, letting her own misery get projected onto others. Cerise reached for a glass without much thinking on what was in it.

"Ellie—Eleanor is doing... well. I think." Cerise frowned; she'd been doing well enough last month, anyway. She hadn't realized until now just how little she really saw her sister anymore. That was to be expected—Ellie was still in lower form, after all, and she was so busy with the team even before now... There really was very little chance for them to run into each other at school. She'd seen her more at home—before.

When she was allowed to go home. She was now, at least she assumed so, but... A little flare of that old irritation sprang up in her and pulled a sharp frown to her face. He probably didn't know how Ellie was doing, either. And didn't want to—he hadn't wanted to know how she was doing. Cerise just hadn't given him much choice. "I haven't seen her much lately. I've been so busy—with the team."