[Closed] Just the Way You Were Bred

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

s

trange – strange and horrible – how it all fell apart like this. He couldn’t count on both hands the parties he’d glided through Uptown, nothing but a thin smile and a glass of champagne; he’d learned to speak, to move, to waltz like Anatole Vauquelin. And now he felt as if his facade were transparent as glass, despite wearing the man’s flesh and blood like a…

Tatiana’s laugh reached through the tangle of his thoughts; so did Cerise’s little smile, and the gold rustle of Sish’s wings.

His smile twisted again, inexplicably. Something about the thought of her at fourteen, going on about miraan. It wasn’t something he’d’ve thought about, but now he could picture it, and he couldn’t seem to stop picturing it.

Yes, Cerise said, a little too quickly.

He glanced over sharply, but he said nothing. He felt a funny lurch and twist in his stomach. What was wrong with him? It was a damned awkward reunion, and it wasn’t as if she had a problem with the stuff; it wasn’t as if she were actually his –

Tatiana took a glass, the liquid inside lapping milky pale against the bulb, and passed it to Cerise. “Date palm wine, I am told; Felix says it is something of a national beverage. Anatole?”

“No, thank you,” he heard himself say, smiling, before he’d decided to say anything at all.

Her dark eyebrows were raised, but she was still smiling. “Your health,” she said slowly, elegantly, as if sorry she had not considered it; “of course.”

He inclined his head. He really did need a drink; a drink would’ve helped him, he felt sure, with all of this. So what the hell was he doing?

Again, that expression: her eyes moved from his face to Cerise’s, and then narrowed slightly with what he thought was concern. For her? From - him?

But she was smiling again, a spark of good-natured amusement in her dark eyes at Ellie, though that concern still prickled at the edges, one dark brow twitching at I think. “I see,” she said.

Again, he wanted to say something, anything. Eleanor is quite well, he wanted to insist – or so Diana had told him – he scraped at the edges of his mind, scrambled to find something to say of her. Bugs, he thought, with the faint unpleasant tickle of a memory, a grasshopper jumping against glass, a sick churning in an unfamiliar stomach. Faces he didn’t know. He curled his toes into his sandals, worried that if he spoke, he’d only make things worse.

But Cerise had gone on, and now there was an expression of surprise on Tatiana’s soft face. “The team – oh, you must mean – inter-kingdom dueling! Diana did say you were still quite enamored of the lawn, in her last letter.” There was a small furrow in her brow.

“Cerise just made Brunnhold’s varsity team,” he was blurting out – again – before he could seem to help himself. “I had the chance to watch her practice on the three. She’ll be dueling at the Thul’amat Exhibition, first thing in Hamis; if you and Felix have the chance…”

Tatiana’s perceptive caprise probed curiously deeper into Cerise’s field. “We should be able to find the time,” she said.

She paused.

“You really are Maria’s daughter,” she said, smiling a little sadly. “Forgive me. We should find Mother and Felix, but – Cerise, Anatole, how should I say…” Her lips pressed together for a moment, then came apart. “Cerise, your grandmother is in… delicate health, and she has borne through a great deal of grief. Perhaps it would be best to avoid mention of your dueling pastime to Mother, if only for tonight.”

Her voice was very low, and there was still a trace of a smile about her lips, and a pleading look in her eye. She looked at Cerise, not him; he blinked.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

The amount of willpower it took not to make some sort of face back at her father was truly monumental, but Cerise managed. This was, at least, a sort of familiar ground, steady under her feet. Cerise was very used to her actions drawing his disapproval. (Although, this one surprised her anyway—she wasn't a child, what did it matter?)

It took very nearly the same amount of willpower to not look sharply at him in turn; she wasn't entirely certain it was his health that was the concern—unless the museum party was ill-advised in more ways than one. The spike of worry was irritating; she squashed it down. He seemed fine.

Aside from some minor details of course. The brush of that field was still there. Minor details.

She focused her energy instead on regarding the wine itself, which looked... Distinctly dubious, if she were being honest. The milky whiteness of it was not reassuring in the least. A cautious sip punctuated the end of her mention of the team, and she grimaced. It was sweet—very sweet. She had never truly been much for sweets of any kind. Alcohol was no exception; she strongly preferred the dry or bitter. Still. Something to tell Em about, at least. Maybe she could bring back a souvenir; she wanted to see his face after trying it. Her own face was attempting to do something dreadfully soppy. Losing her mind, she had to be. In a blink it was gone. Mostly.

Just in time to watch Aunt Tati's face shift to surprise at her mention of the team. No, not the Lawn; Cerise had to wrestle back an irritated and well-worn sort of protest. It wasn't the same. Similar, of course, but—this was a sport, not formalized score-settling. Before she could wrangle a suitable sort of tone for the correction, her father jumped in with one of his own.

"I was already on Varsity," she corrected, stunned into grinning. He had come to watch her practice, and listened to her talk about it a little—and the conversation on the way over—but she was pleased, still, and surprised. It warmed her in a way she thought was distinctly repulsive. She really hadn't thought she was so easy to win over. "The inter-kingdom team is different." The horrible smile remained.

She couldn't help thinking it was—sort of nice, though. Maybe she had been wrong about their disapproval, his and Diana's both. Either that, or they had simply gotten tired of trying to talk her around to a more ladylike occupation and were resigned to it instead. The latter struck her as more likely, and worked just as well.

Cerise smiled a little less horribly at her aunt. She didn't think that she was truly that interested, or Uncle Felix either. But she hadn't thought her father was either, so maybe... "It's not part of the proper tournament season, so the matches should be interesting."

There was a deeper press into Cerise's field, followed by a pause. She was trying to keep it dampened. She really was. Despite it being, honestly, a terrible hassle for very little reward. Any control she'd had dissipated at the sound of Mama's name. The strangest mix of feeling, just then—how did she...? She didn't think she was much Mama's daughter at all, as far as she could tell.

Something pressed at her throat; she washed it down with more of the wine, which had not grown any more appealing in the last few moments. Her free hand drifted towards Sish, who obligingly wrapped her talons around one of Cerise's thin fingers.

"Oh—sure. I mean, er. Of course, I can..." They wouldn't come to the Exhibition; why would they? What was she thinking? "I—we—can find... Plenty of other things to talk about." Maybe.

Or Cerise would keep her mouth shut; that seemed safer. She was unaccountably hurt, and angry on the heels of it. If you think my "pastime" is bad, you should hear what else I've been up to lately! If Grandmother wasn't in poor health already, why, just the other day I...

The feeling was brief, fading almost as quickly as it had come. Aunt Tati looked relieved, she thought. And she didn't want to upset Grandmother, not really. Annoying Diana and her father was one thing; this was something else entirely. A softly laughing group drifted passed them. Cerise was, at least, frowning no more than usual.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

h

e’d grinned back, despite himself, despite everything every part of him told him to do. Varsity, inter-kingdom – how was a human supposed to know this shit? But that grin made it worth it to remember which was which, and what was what; it made just about everything worth it.

And on the heels of it, Tatiana spoke, and he watched Cerise take another long draught of wine.

He didn’t know when she’d suppressed her field; he knew from experience she’d been holding it in against the brush of others, mostly clairvoyant and soft perceptive, under the verandah and in the gallery. But he hadn’t noticed it, not really, ‘til he felt it come unraveled – ‘til he felt the physical mona spill and spread in the air around them, a shift he couldn’t name shivering through them at Maria.

If Tatiana had felt it, she gave no indication. The perceptive mona were a little more curious, but they pressed no deeper, now; she was smiling the same as she had been. She looked toward him, raising both of her dark brows. “You understand, Anatole,” she said. “It has been difficult for Mother over the years, seeing so much of…” She trailed off.

It was a moment before he could speak. “Ah,” he fumbled, “yes, of – of course.” In the corner of his eye, he watched Cerise reach up; he watched one small, sharp set of gold claws reach down and curl around one of her fingers. There was a lump in his throat, growing in size.

Damn him, but he didn’t understand at all. He clawed back his composure; he stood as rigid-straight as he had all night. He clasped both of his hands in the small of his back, that old, comfortable stance of Anatole’s.

Godsdamn him, but he wouldn’t embarrass Cerise. But Cerise was frowning, now, too; there was something strangely disappointing about it.

“Plenty of other things, I am quite certain,” she added brightly, taking a delicate sip of her own wine. There was a newfound twinkle in her eye as she looked back toward Cerise, as if she meant to exchange a knowing look.

“Oh!” came a high, soft, even more thickly Bastian voice; “oh, by Her terrible loveliness, what is that?”

Tatiana was laughing and turning. “Ciliegietta has gotten herself a miraan!”

“At last!”

For a moment, all he could look at was the old woman. Her hair, a massive pile of curls on the top of her head, was still black; only a little grey ran through it. She must have been Cerise’s height or even taller, once, but now she was draped over an ornate wheelchair. In spite of her black hair, her face was a deep spider’s web of lines. But every inch of her was swathed with dazzling gold, from her gown to her earrings to the ornaments in her hair.

“Anatole. Cerise.” The man behind the wheelchair was a little taller than Anatole, and a little younger; he was stocky, with a thin mustache on his upper lip and greying black hair. Felix (he hazarded) bowed to him and Cerise, and Tatiana smiled at him; he did not quite smile back.

Lucrezia, for it had to be her, held out one plump, gloved hand. It was an elegant, formal gesture, and he immediately went to bow and kiss it.

But then he found himself drawn into an embrace, a surprisingly damp kiss pressed to either cheek. “Oh, my volpacchiotto,” she breathed, “how long has it been?”

Frankly, he didn’t know. “Too long,” he fumbled, smiling. “Altogether too long.”

“And Cerise…” He drew back; she was extending both her arms toward Cerise. “Come here, please, come closer. You must tell grandmama everything that has happened to you since I have seen you last.”

Tatiana laughed. “Before you found us, I was just about to ask her if there was a young man, perhaps…”

“There always is! She is a d’Alessi, after all, and nearly in full bloom.” Lucrezia laughed, her teeth brilliant-white, her arms still outstretched and beckoning.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

Did he understand? Cerise didn't. And she hated not understanding, especially when it felt like she wasn't supposed to.

Whatever her understanding was or wasn't, now wasn't the time to dwell on it. Or it was the time to dwell, and she didn't want to anyway. This was all fine; she didn't have to talk about dueling. Even if the subject was somewhat hard to avoid considering it was the only reason she was in this soggy, overly-warm country at all. She certainly wasn't here for the weather. And even if she wasn't sure she liked the look on Aunt Tati's face at the mention of other things.

For all her sourness, her face dissolved into a smile hearing Grandmother's heavily-accented voice. Even the nickname didn't bother her—too terribly much. Nobody else was allowed to call her that, of course. Nobody else would even try. Nobody else would look quite so splendid in all of that gold, either. Except maybe Sish, who didn't count.

"Grandmother! Uncle Felix." Her uncle still had that mustache; Cerise remembered it very vividly from her last visit. Maybe it was in fashion now, in Bastia. Cerise didn't know what was in fashion in Anaxas, let alone abroad, so it was entirely possible. Regardless, it looked dreadful. She didn't quite bow, so much as incline her head; Sish did always make that hard. There was an irritated little chitter in her ear when Cerise leaned into it slightly. Spoiled little thing had no manners whatsoever.

Volpacchiotto. Cerise looked away and tried not to laugh or grimace. Was this better or worse than Aunt Tati's snipe outside? Both were deeply awkward to witness. A draw, perhaps. At least it was a little funny to watch him take her hand, for all that it pinched something inside of her, too. She caught Aunt Tati out of the corner of her eye. She didn't seem to find it funny. Cerise took another sip of the terrible wine.

"Not since I was eleven I think," she offered, not knowing why. A spiteful little part of herself thought she shouldn't, that this was what he deserved for forgetting any of it. But she didn't want him to upset Grandmother or even her aunt and uncle. So it wasn't for him, it was out of consideration for the d'Alessi contingent of their little party.

Now it was her turn. "Well, it's been a little longer than usual. That might take a while." The embrace would be hard to manage with Sish on her shoulders. She turned to her father, gesturing at the miraan and raising her eyebrows. She'd already dug a few holes in his scarf. What were a few more?

Cerise smiled, despite the strange sort of stiffness that came into her spine at the prospect of—of hugging her grandmother. She wasn't, really, the hugging sort. Generally speaking. The smile froze at young man tripping out of her aunt's laughing mouth. Sish was being lifted, squirming, off of her shoulders to be passed over to her father, conveniently providing cover while Cerise gathered her thoughts together.

Speaking of topics which they weren't going to cover. She should have known, really; she was graduating this year. Diana had asked her once or twice about her debut, but she'd managed to avoid the subject by being deeply unpleasant. That tactic was moderately less applicable here. Or rather, she could certainly employ it, but for once didn't want to.

"Oh, well." She nearly fumbled handing Sish over. There certainly was, and that was high on the list of subjects to be avoided. Even if she were inclined to discuss her romantic life with her family—and she most decidedly was not—if dueling was off-limits, this was...

Dread formed a ball in her chest, looking at her father's face over Sish's wings. Had it really only been two days ago that she'd found her fist connecting so satisfyingly to Antoinette's smug mouth? Another thing to not bring up right now. He wouldn't. Would he? Surely not. Right?

"I think I'm as bloomed as I'm getting," she joked as she leaned in to her grandmother's arms. She smelled like lilies and something medicinal underneath of it; Cerise felt the most dizzying wave of homesickness. When she straightened, she was very nearly smiling again. Just as long as they could, perhaps, discuss literally any other subject on the face of the planet.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

I

t was a small, even comment; he might not have noticed it, had he not been listening – listening keenly, listening for anything. He glanced over once at Cerise, a little surprised as he drew back from Lucrezia’s embrace, then smiled. It was a warmer, stranger smile than the one he had worn so far.

“She’s grown a great deal, hasn’t she?” He smiled at Lucrezia then, finding his footing a little more. “And I suppose I have a bit more grey in with the red, since you've seen me.” He managed to laugh.

“And white,” Lucrezia said, “my goodness, it suits you. If only she could see you now.”

He moved in hastily to help with the transfer; he should’ve been more worried about Sish’s claws, but he found himself oddly pleased with the distraction, to scoop up the squirming ball of scale and feather and lean muscle from Cerise’s arms.

She nearly fumbled. He watched the question hit her; he met her eye, for just a moment – just long enough. He nodded very slightly.

He eased back with Sish, who’d now gotten a clawful of his amel’iwe and was climbing up before he could lift her.

He felt a strange sort of pang as Cerise moved in to hug her grandmother – he hadn’t thought, somehow – he couldn’t’ve pictured it, Cerise hugging anyone. He watched Lucrezia fold her up warmly in her arms, laying a kiss on each sharp-sloped cheek. One of her hands rubbed Cerise’s back just a little. Then a sheaf of gold feathers obscured all of them from him, as Sish was getting settled.

I think I’m as bloomed as I’m getting, Cerise joked, and he found himself smiling again, just a little.

“Nonsense,” Tatiana and Lucrezia said at once, as Lucrezia let go.

“Come now, Ciliegietta, you were blessed from your Makarios di Hurte. You must not give up hope.” Lucrezia shifted in her wheelchair, sitting up very straightly; she lifted her small round chin, and there was a smile in every line of her face. “It was not for no reason that they called your mother the most beautiful woman in the Six Kingdoms.”

The most beautiful – He couldn’t seem to stop it; his eyes went wide for a half-second, and his lips parted slightly before clamping shut.

Tatiana’s lips twisted, and a shadow seemed to pass over her face.

But then she was smiling once more, soft and charming. “Mama, please!” she laughed, waving an elegant hand. Her laugh was a little thin. “There must be someone,” and she looked at him narrowly, and then at Cerise, a spark that was not altogether kind in her round dark eyes. “But we must not tease the poor girl.”

“Yes, we must not,” put in Felix, nasally and a little mumbling. He pulled at his mustache. “That reminds me. Anatole, that little, ah –” Felix began to work his way round the wheelchair. “That little matter we discussed back in ‘eighteen, was it not? I have been meaning to ask you about it.”

His own eyes jerked away from Cerise and toward the other galdor, and he forced himself to caprise the bland, fishscale-slick brush of his perceptive field. “Come again? Felix.” This, he somehow doubted Cerise could help him with.

He glanced back over, feeling torn. Sish had already climbed up to his shoulders. By now, he shouldn’t’ve been surprised by her persistence, but he still reckoned she ought to win something for it; she was trying to stick her snout in his ear again. As Felix came closer, he felt a small wet tongue, and smelled something distinctly terrible underneath all the honey wine and perfume.

Tatiana was smiling, but there was some strain in her face. Lucrezia was still sitting very straightly in her wheelchair, gesturing with one hand. “We have been thinking about your future, my dearest girl,” she said, smiling at Cerise. “You need not be shy, not with your grandmama and your Aunt Tati and Uncle Felix. In fact –”

“The rails, Anatole,” Felix was saying. “I heard you were acquainted with Mr. Benoit Dumaurier –”

“Erm.” Most beautiful woman…

“In fact,” Lucrezia was saying, “if you should like, you are welcome to come to Bastia after graduation – for your debut.”

Tatiana was smiling. “It is beyond time, and I am certain Anatole will agree, you become reacquainted with the Bastian side of your heritage. And what better place to blossom, as a lady of prospects?”

He rolled his shoulders as Sish flared one wing; he reached up to stroke Sish’s feathered neck. “Cerise is a young lady of many prospects,” he put in, “with a promising career; she’s made us very proud at Brunnhold.”

Felix huffed at his elbow, frowning.

“Have you given much thought to your debut, Cerise?” Lucrezia asked, not looking at him, her greying dark brows drawing together.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

Just a nod, a tiny clocking gesture, that shouldn't have meant anything at all. And it didn't. She was only mildly relieved; he could change his mind. About all of it.

It really had been a long time. Since she'd seen her family, since she'd hugged her grandmother. Since she'd really hugged much of anyone, with a very specific exception, who she didn't think really counted in the same way. Cerise wasn't sure she was lacking it; the whole thing was unspeakably awkward, especially the hand on her back.

Ah. And then, it continued.

She couldn't help it; her eyebrows shot up somewhere closer to her hairline at the mention of giving up hope. She knew she wasn't—she wasn't Mama. They looked barely alike, aside from the dark curling chaos that Cerise never had quite learned the trick of. Cerise swallowed, and the smile froze in place. Her father's eyes widened, and she almost snorted. Didn't realize you'd forgotten the most beautiful woman in the Six Kingdoms, did you?

Not for nothing, indeed. Cerise was strongly, inescapably aware of it. Every portrait told her. Every story about her, her charm, her beauty, what she brought to a room. That she heard them so often without anyone considering who they were saying this to spoke volumes, she felt, about just how much like Mama she really was.

Unfortunately, I look much more like Volpacchiotto over here; she couldn't bring herself to say it. Not even Hurte could change that. She didn't think her face was so terrible, obvious resemblance aside. Good enough, she supposed, where it mattered. She liked to think she had a sort of unique charm, to the discerning eye. Somewhere. "Mm, it's true. One mustn't... give up hope."

Aunt Tati intervened; somehow, Cerise didn't feel any better. She laughed, too brittle and a touch too loud. Uncle Felix had started in on something—Cerise hadn't any idea what. For this one, her father was on his own. As it should be, and she wasn't the slightest bit sorry.

There was, there was someone. A beautiful idiot, except—he wasn't an idiot at all, not really. Smarter in so many ways than her puffed-up peers. Who liked to talk to her, for some reason she still couldn't quite fathom, about books and beer and whatever else. Who was funny, and charming, and arrogant, and somehow found her worth the trouble—for now. They wouldn't like him, but she did. Had. No, still did. More than liked him. Wasn't that what counted?

She knew it wasn't. "No there's... No one in particular, I'm afraid." The lie was ash in her mouth, and sank through her like a stone.

Sish had been rather industriously working her way up to her father's shoulders. Cerise had meant to recollect her, after. Now she wasn't sure if she should; all of that turquoise fabric, right there underneath of her talons. And she looked so striking against it. A little tongue darted out; Cerise stifled a laugh, badly. She knew from experience exactly how unpleasant that was. Unpleasant, and unaccountably charming.

"Future? Ah." Cerise tore her eyes away from Sish and turned back to her aunt and grandmother. Another sip of her wine, which was half gone now. Faster than she had thought, and also possibly not fast enough. "My—debut. Yes."

Gracious Lady, her debut. Just the thought of it made her skin try to crawl off and escape to greener pastures, without this conversation. To be trussed up and—and trotted out, in front of... Of a sea of McAllisters, an ocean of the types she'd gone to school with all her life. As if a good match—any match—was the most important thing she could... She already...

"Well, after graduation, I—" No, she'd agreed not to talk about that. This was already difficult. Why couldn't she mention it? Wasn't that her future, too, just as much as anything else? The effort of keeping her tongue in her mouth was making her irritable. This, this exact thing, was why she so rarely bothered. More wine, maybe. Lady, it got no less cloying, did it?

“Cerise is a young lady of many prospects, with a promising career; she’s made us very proud at Brunnhold.”

She nearly choked on her mouthful of palm wine. Cerise didn't turn, but her eyes slid to her father's face, stunned. A promising career. It felt different, somehow, to say it in front of family like that. Oh, he'd shown interest, even if he couldn't remember that Varsity and the inter-kingdom team were two different things. But that was student-level. A career was something else. Cerise smiled, and it troubled her.

"Ah, actually... I thought I'd, er, continue my studies. In the Physical Conversation." You know, in public. With dueling. That thing I'm not supposed to mention. She looked to her father, just a hint of pleading somewhere in her sharp face.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

c

erise had lifted the glass to her lips; now, she made a sort of funny choking noise. He’d been too busy with Felix to know what he was walking into, and he wondered, for a moment, if he’d stuck his foot in his mouth yet again.

Cerise’s eyes met his, wide pale grey, and he didn’t see a whit of the sardonic on her lean face; he didn’t see much except surprise. Then she smiled.

One of Tatiana’s thick, elegant dark eyebrows was raised; Lucrezia was smiling. At least it had taken their attention away from the subject of lads.

Ah, actually… I thought I’d, er, continue my studies. In the Physical Conversation. Cerise looked back at him – intently, he thought – over Sish’s rustling gold feathers.

“An aspiring academic, then?” Lucrezia was smiling warmly; she looked at him, too, curious.

He smiled with a confidence he didn’t feel. “Cerise’s – practical application of the physical conversation,” he said, surprised to find his voice smooth through the chroveshit as ever, “is really something to behold.”

Gods, but he’d take anything, any way to – he needed to regroup, to talk to Cerise alone about the half-dozen things he’d’ve brought up on the way over if he hadn’t been a godsdamned fool…

Cerise’s glass caught in the corner of his eye. Halfway, still, though it’d gone sooner than he’d – he shifted, leiraflesh skittering on his neck. He didn’t know why he was keeping track; it wasn’t as if he didn’t trust her. It wasn’t as if –

“Come now, Anatole, you shall embarrass her,” Tatiana laughed.

“Nonsense,” he said, pushing more warmth and certainty into his voice. “Besides, it’s my prerogative to brag on her, isn’t it?”

“An academic of the physical conversation!” Lucrezia sighed, smiling. “All of the d’Alessi women from my own great grandmother down have been perceptivists,” she said, “including my dear Mariuzza. Your mother was no unaccomplished sorceress, Cerise, though she burned – burned perhaps too brightly…”

Tatiana shifted on her feet; she was looking at Lucrezia with something that felt like watchfulness. “Mama,” she said, frowning a little.

The most beautiful… It was like a current in the back of his head; he could hear it in the clinks of the glasses, in the way the phosphor light glanced off the display cases. He could see it in the elegant lines of Lucrezia d’Alessi’s face.

D’Alessi. Not Maria Vauquelin – Maria d’Alessi. The last piece sliding neatly into place. He thought of that strange chill he’d got in the hotel room with Cerise’s back turned, the dark pile of curls and the two glinting ruby earrings.

Only now he was chiding himself for not having thought of it sooner. Hells, he’d been… twelve, thirteen, maybe, when he’d seen her picture in the paper Josie’d brought home, huddled round the woodstove. Her chattering to him half the night how she wanted her hair just like that for the winter solstice; for wasn’t she benny, this golly toff from all the way overseas, the one all the lads in Cantile were talking about? (You’d know, she’d said at the time: you’re a lad. No, he supposed he hadn’t, after all.)

Maybe, he thought wryly, he should’ve read those love letters after all. But there were no specs of her in the study; there’d been none in the box, either, so he knew it wasn’t only on Diana’s account. And they weren’t too terribly rare, specs of the most beautiful woman in the world.

But how the Circle-loving fuck had Anatole –

“Oh, my!” Lucrezia laughed. “Oh, Volpacchiotto, Cerise,” she said, glancing from him to Cerise, suddenly relievingly – if worryingly – cheerful, “you simply must.”

He looked up and immediately felt a knot forming in his gut.

The music, which had been a woman’s soft voice and the light dance of a mbira, had quickened; it’d shifted to a dreadfully familiar, and not very Mugrobi, rhythm. There was an open, polished wood floor where there were no display cases; the crowd was thinning to its edges, and a few couples, Mugrobi and foreign, had begun to step to a waltz.

This wasn’t what he’d meant, wishing for a reprieve. The smile was frozen on his face. “Ah,” he breathed, “ah… yes, how splendid.” His eyes lingered on Cerise’s face, pleading in return.

But – hesitantly – he extended a hand, Sish still draped and squirming on his shoulders, and took a leaden-slow step toward her.

Lucrezia clapped her gloved hands, delighted.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

Was she being punished for something? It wasn't as if there wasn't quite the list to choose from—it could be any number of things, she supposed. They had moved off the subject of young gentlemen, but only to her apparent future as an academic. This was some sort of special, hellish Ever designed just for her, she was certain of it. An academic. A muscle at the corner of her mouth twitched.

She had perhaps underestimated just how... Strange this would all be. What had she been expecting? That it would be like it had been when she was a little girl? Maybe it was, and that was the problem—she wasn't that little girl anymore.

Not being a child anymore wasn't the only problem here. She was grateful for the topic change. The accompanying bragging, on the other hand... How could illness and a bout of amnesia change a man's opinions so much? Cerise had hardly gotten over her father not actively disapproving of her choice of career paths. To both endorse and go so far as to brag about it was absolutely, completely surreal. Something warm crept over her face.

She was, to her utter horror, embarrassed. In a hideous, pleased sort of way. Maybe it wasn't the amnesia, maybe the desert had turned him into a boiled tomato and his mind into a fried egg. She didn't duck her head or even change expression, but she thought there might be a slight tint to her face. Awful.

"Was she?" Cerise knew—of course she'd heard a little of Mama as a sorceress. That was all, though, just a little. Sometimes she thought about how she knew so little of Mama, really. She knew more about how other people felt about her than about Mama herself. A note scribbled in the margin of a book, stories from when she was young. Specs, portraits—plenty of those. (Many fewer of any with her father in them, though she'd seen a few, and in all of them she felt as if she were looking at strangers.)

"The physical conversation is—more straightforward, I suppose. I..." Cerise trailed off, feeling absurdly like she ought to apologize to her grandmother. "You know, I don't hear much about... About Mama, as a sorceress. What was she—"

Her grandmother's face lit up, suddenly, and Cerise realized the music had changed. For a moment she blinked, uncomprehending. Must? What "must" they? She looked to her father, who was still smiling but... Oh. Oh no. She could hear it now. The music had not just changed. The music had changed, very specifically, to a waltz. Her father held out his hand and stepped closer to her.

"Splendid." Cerise repeated it dubiously. There was nothing "splendid" here, nothing at all. She opened her mouth to refuse, but... But Grandmother seemed so happy and... She saw her aunt's face out of the corner of her eye. She couldn't read it, but it didn't seem like the sort of face that encouraged her to do much of anything but what Grandmother wanted.

Somewhere she found a stiff, awkward smile to push onto her face when she looked back to her grandmother. "Of... of course. Why not?" There were, frankly, hundreds of reasons "why not", but none of them seemed as if they were sufficient. She took her father's hand, carefully, feeling very distinctly like every step towards the dancefloor was a step closer to her own execution.

Grandmother wanted a waltz, and for some reason her father actually agreed—so, she supposed, that was what they were going to do. How precious of them. "Be careful not to startle Sish," she muttered as they moved away from Grandmother and towards the waltzing couples. "I'm not entirely certain what she'll do."

At least she was better at dancing than she was polite conversation. Sort of. The bar was low, but she was almost certain she cleared it.

[Tom Cooke]

 Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720 

w

ell, she seemed about as thrilled as he felt. That godsawful smile was still plastered to his face; he felt leaden, but he moved anyway, fluidly as ever. He wasn’t sure what he saw on Tatiana’s face in the corner of his eye, but Lucrezia still seemed glowingly pleased.

Why not indeed. Cerise’s hand settled into his, thin and oddly warm through her glove. (He wasn’t sure why he’d expected it to be cold; she wasn’t the corpse, after all. But his was warm enough, too, almost as if his breath were his own and not a stranger’s.)

He wondered if Cerise should’ve finished asking her question. He had felt a creeping discomfort, head still a-whirl from Maria d’Alessi, and he had almost been glad of the reprieve. He wasn’t sure what Lucrezia would have done, either – or Tatiana, rather more worryingly. Flood him. He didn’t even know this family, and it was already making his head whirl. He didn’t think he ought to play with fire.

But he felt a pang, too, that she hadn’t.

As if he’d actually been enjoying himself there for a few moments, trying to figure out if her cheeks were coloring in the corner of his eye or if it was just the light. Or as if maybe he actually cared if Cerise got her answer, whether it made him uncomfortable or not.

“I’ll do my best,” he murmured back, shooting a glance over and raising one red brow. “It can’t be too unlike waltzing with an apple on your head.”

They were a little ways away from Cerise’s fami now. Behind him, he heard Lucrezia’s voice, too soft through the din to be understood; then, Tatiana’s: “... rather provincial, is it not? But perhaps that is the fashion in Anaxas…”

His lip twitched. “We hired a man to teach me how to do this sort of thing again. He had me practicing with fruit on my head.” He kept his shoulders very straight as Sish shifted on her feet; he felt her snout graze his ear, then a tongue lap up the side of his head, then a tiny snort at getting a mouthful of red curls. “It gave me a stiff neck, but I have damned good posture.”

He wasn’t sure if it was very funny; he hadn’t thought how disturbing it might be to hear that ‘til it was out of his mouth. He couldn’t seem to help talking.

Their heels clicked as they came down into the clearing; he felt pressingly self-conscious.

He – turned, finally, toward her, still very straight. Awkwardly he stepped a little closer; then, more awkwardly, a little closer, close enough to make him sharply aware of his eyes at the level of her nose.

“Uh,” he grunted. He raised their hands, clearing his throat. He wasn’t sure where to look; he had never really thought about keeping his eyes open or closed before, but now, staring directly into Cerise Vauquelin’s face, he couldn’t seem to put it out of his head. In the corner of his eye, he could see Lucrezia, leaned forward in her chair and watching raptly from across the room.

He supposed all gollies knew how to waltz; he tried not to think too hard about where, or how well, she’d learned. He’d been told he wasn’t terrible at it himself, but with the sort of patronizing praise reserved for a man whose hands shook too badly to hold a salad fork.

A Heshath couple draped brilliantly in gold swished past, fluttering a dark wisp of her hair. He resisted the urge to shiver.

“I, ah – damn,” he said very quietly, no longer smiling with his back turned to Lucrezia. He had meant to say he was sorry; he couldn’t quite dredge the word up. “I – probably – ought to’ve brought some things up on the way over, if not… much, much earlier.”

After another hesitant pause, he placed his right hand just underneath her left shoulderblade. Counting the rhythm out in his head, one, two, three, he waited for her hand on his shoulder.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Dzed’efo Gallery
Loshis 39, 2720 - Evening

An apple. An apple? Cerise couldn't help it—she made a face as they walked away. She could hear the shapes of her family's voices, but not the words. Which, given the look on Aunt Tati's face the entire night, might have been for the best. She knew, she already knew. Nobody needed to remind her.

"Sish, I think he's calling you a piece of fruit." Sish got a mouthful of hair, which Cerise decided to interpret as her being appropriately insulted. She was much more glorious and majestic than an apple. And it was much better and easier to address the lizard than think about the strange pang at the "we". Just another little reminder of all of that time she spent angry and concerned, and she knew he...

...Well, her father had thought of her not at all. But what was new about that? "And without even a corset to aid you! Congratulations." Cerise almost winced, having made the mention. Even she wasn't so bold as to think women's underwear was appropriate to discuss with one's own father. In public. At a gallery opening.

Alioe, what was wrong with her?

"I'll have you know I have gotten firmly middling marks on this in school. You are forbidden from complaining, because you agreed to it first." She held her chin straight and aloft as they took their places on the floor. It had the effect of allowing her to look down her nose at him, which made up for a lot. Circle, they really were doing this, weren't they?

Maybe. He didn't seem any more pleased about this than she was, and she rolled her eyes. You agreed to this in the first place, Volpacchiotto! Not me! She wasn't willing to allow that it was just as inescapable for him as it was to her. He didn't even remember Grandmother, so what did it matter to him? And he certainly didn't know, or likely care, that she had been significantly shorter than him when last they'd attempted this. She swallowed.

"Probably," she agreed, keeping her posture straight. They must look absolutely ridiculous. Sish really added something to the tableau, she felt. When she put her hand on his shoulder, the miraan set her clawed forelegs on it, holding her in place.

"My lessons have not, thus far, included what to do with a miraan involved—so that will be new for us both. Maybe we should put her on your head, like that apple." Cerise held out a hand; she supposed, too, he would have to lead.

They stepped out. It wasn't crowded, but it wasn't empty either. Cerise was keenly aware of her hand on her father's shoulder, and not just because Sish kept licking the back of it. She remembered his hands being a lot bigger than this; she knew that was absurd, but she couldn't help but think it either.

"Now is your chance," she said as evenly as she could, trying to make herself smile. For Grandmother, mostly. It was easier if she looked at the flick of Sish's long, feathered tail than anything else. "To 'bring some things up', I mean."