[Closed] Don't Need My Blood

[Tom Cooke]

Oti’úqaq • Dejai Point

Evening on the 33rd of Loshis, 2720

T
he only thing missing, he thought wistfully, was gin.

The hell do you think I’m doing? he halfway wanted to retort, watching the lime foam softly in the tonic water. She was frowning again. Godsdamn, but he knew that expression; it was like looking in the mirror. Except he was absolutely certain he didn’t scowl and sulk that much. He supposed, adding another wedge of lime and sucking at a tooth, it was rather appropriate for her age.

A few bubbles drifted about in the water. “Suppose you will,” he murmured, watching her hands. Somehow he couldn’t help another smile twitching at his lips, watching her tip in a few pattering droplets of syrup and add more than a little lime. It wasn’t the kind of amused smile he’d had before; there were lines at his brow he couldn’t get rid of.

He listened, nodding. His smile spread into a grin – brief – when she shrugged.

He took a sip as she went on; he’d made his a little too sweet, he thought. His smile faded, and he nodded again, slowly. His eyebrow twitched at the mention of the sacrifices of love, at the words tripping and tangling over themselves. He took another sip as she fell silent; there was a pause. Cerise was fussing with the coaster, rumpling it underneath the glass, and he frowned.

Who’s sacrificing her love? he almost asked. Which one? “I see, I think,” he said instead, knitting his fingers over the carved calypt. He looked out over the distant lights and shadows of Dejai Point, breathing in deep the night air and the smell of cooking. “Anaxi female – political agency, that is,” he said.

Coward. He didn’t know much at all about Anaxi female political agency – Anaxi galdor female political agency, he thought – other than that it existed; for all that he tried to tug at that string in his mind, he couldn’t unravel it into something worth saying.

Love, he thought to say, then stopped. Sacrifice, he thought to say – that seemed even less wise.

Why me? he wanted to ask suddenly. Why’d you lend it to me? He remembered blinking, wide-eyed, at passages (... with gloating eyes she drew me to her, and her hot lips travelled along my cheek in kisses …), disturbed by others still more. He’d half-wondered, from time to time, if Cerise meant it as another jab about that tekaa lad.

But he’d traced familiar thumbprints in the old paper, pages worn from the turning. The thing didn’t feel like a jab in his hands; or else it felt like the worst jab of all, and it dug into him worse than a riff in the gut, and he thought it must’ve dug into her, too.

It was the arata lad again, dragging him out of his head. He looked up, this time, and caught a grin as he set down the bowls of lemon water.

As he washed his hands off, the lad set down a tiny saucer of what looked like minced, smoked fish. “Perch,” he said brightly to Cerise. “Caught a day ago,” he said, juggling one of the metal tins off his shoulder. “If ada’na Uloma finds out, I’ll be deep in trouble.”

It was mostly as he remembered. Both tins had the same array of stews and greens he remembered from before – one with cabbage and potatoes and carrots; another a dollop of glistening yellow lentils, garnished; greens tangled about onions – but the meat looked like fish this time, pale between drizzled, hot-smelling orange sauce. The last thing the lad set down was a basket with several layers of soft, spongy flatbread, folded almost like cloth.

“So, the miraan,” he was saying, still grinning, with eyes only for Cerise. He set a fork and a spoon and a knife in front of them, him first and then Cerise, matter-of-fact. “Is she –”

“Iki’roh!”

“I’ll – ah – enjoy, please,” he said, dipping his head and shoulders. “A guest,” he added, “is like a…” The shout came again from the stairs, this time louder; one of the other lads, carrying out a basket of bread, was laughing. Iki’roh grinned at Cerise and took his leave.

He grinned, watching him go. After a few moments, his grin faded; he looked back at Cerise and cleared his throat. He glanced down at the forks and spoons; he almost said something, but couldn’t quite bring himself to it.

Very slowly, wordlessly, he reached for the flatbread. It was still warm, and he tore off some with his fingers, glancing at Cerise.

“You said,” he began again, “in the letter – you wondered what she might’ve chosen. Elizabeth, that is. If she’d had a choice.”

He withdrew his hand slowly, then hesitated, then – nudged the basket of bread a little closer to Cerise. “Did you write about that?” he asked. “What might’ve been?”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Oti’úqaq, Dejai Point
Loshis 33, 2720 - Evening

There was something unsettling about discussing her schoolwork with her father, and Cerise didn't know what it was. Inexperience more than likely. Cerise tried to remember and failed the last time they had done so. Oh, she'd certainly had conversations with both her father and Diana about her marks (and many more about her attendance, or lack thereof), but she could not summon a single memory of a time when they had talked about what she had actually done for a class. For something that she didn't consider particularly delicate, it felt oddly personal.

The subject matter of her essay didn't help, or that she had somehow built this book into some kind of strange point of tension between them. Not bad, she thought, frowning to herself as she destroyed the edges of her coaster. Tension may not have been the correct word. What was it then, if not that? Cerise bit the inside of her cheek; she didn't know. Sish squirmed in her lap, and Cerise put her hand on top of her flank to settle her.

"Do you? I very much doubt that," she snorted, looking up at last after the pause. Her father looked away from her, through the night air and into the city. Her brow creased, pondering what the thought that meant. If it was true. For all that she was the daughter of an Incumbent, she had only a loose awareness of what positions her father held on any particular issue. At least, for the last few years.

Well wasn't that a strange thing to think about. Could she really be upset that he knew nothing about the details of her life, when she did the same? No. He had started it. And, she reminded herself, he had started it before he forgot all of the details. That strange lunch at the Golden Rose was the longest conversation they'd had in... Years, as far as she could recall. Reflecting on it was making her itch.

She should never have offered to give him the damn book.

Luckily, Cerise was saved from having to do too much more self-reflection by the return of their server. The bowl he set down first was small and full of a fish--perch, he said. Cerise raised her eyebrows and permitted a small smile when he went on to say he'd be in trouble for it, should anyone find out.

"I'm sure she is appreciative of your devotion," she said and made a gesture towards the miraan. Sish had brought her head up from Cerise's lap, keenly interested in the bowl and the smoked contents. Her delicate claws came to rest on the edge of the table, her slender neck arched as she tilted her head. Her eyes glittered, and she fell on it with enthusiasm. "See?" Cerise laughed and ran her fingers along the feathers where wing met body.

The food--the food for the two non-reptiles, that is--was set out while Sish investigated her offering of perch. Cerise looked at it a little curiously from the corner of her eye. The laugh, she found, hovered a little in her face as she watched their server--Iki'roh, if the shouting from the stairs was to be trusted--get called away. Hassled away, really. He had started to ask her a question, framed as being about Sish. Had he asked anything else, Cerise thought, she could have turned it aside properly. No matter; he left, back to work. When she looked towards the table again, her father was looking after Iki'roh with a smile that faded not long after it was back to just the two of them. Her own fell too, then.

If her company was so uncomfortable, Cerise thought, suddenly irritated, why had he come to practice? Why had he even asked? He could have given her the book and then left. Or, perhaps, why take the book at all? Why bother to write? She wouldn't have expected it. Her hand moved to the silverware set in front of her, stopping only when she noticed that her father did not do the same. In fact, she noticed he looked at them quite deliberately and then away again. Just as deliberately, he looked at her and tore off a piece of the spongy flatbread set in front of them.

It was like he was trying to beam whatever it was he wanted to say into her mind, without actually having to come out and say it. Cerise wondered a little peevishly if this was a runoff effect from his new adventures in the Clairvoyant conversation. No matter the source, it didn't work very well. He started talking about her paper again, but he pushed the basked of bread closer to her.

"No, not for this--we are generally restricted to analyzing the text that we're presented with, and I did at least attempt to keep my speculation controlled, I have some sense of... What are you trying to communicate to me?" Cerise cut herself off, demanding explanation. A little of her annoyance flared bright in her field. It was too hot, even in the relative cool of the rooftop, and her head hurt too much to guess at this sort of vague gesturing.

[Tom Cooke]

Oti’úqaq • Dejai Point

Evening on the 33rd of Loshis, 2720

I
’d know lots of shit about female Anaxi political agency, he wanted to say. Plenty. Plenty of shit. I’m Anaxi, and I know plenty about politics, and about agency, and about – women.

Sish, leastways, was enjoying herself a great deal. He smiled down at her little paws briefly, clutched at the edge of the table, sharp claws digging into the calypt. He made note of it, though he made no effort to stop it; he suspected there’d be another bill coming, if ada’na Uloma was as persnickety about her tables as she was perch missing from the kitchens.

He’d almost forgotten the snapping, rasping sound of Sish eating. Her long golden neck was craned, her pointy snout stuck in the fish. There was a shred of fish and a little oil on the tip of her nose, and he watched a long tongue flip out to lap it off. When Iki’roh left, he watched Cerise run a hand along her wing-feathers, wondering what it might feel like. Sish had climbed up on his shoulders, he remembered; he couldn’t remember ever having pet her.

Right now, with those razor jaws snapping open and shut and flinging tiny bits of fish on the table, he wasn’t sure he fancied trying.

He wasn’t looking at Cerise anymore, once he’d torn off a wedge of flatbread and nudged the basket closer. Cerise went on, and he felt relieved. Not that he knew much about analyzing text, and godsdamn, but he knew even less about keeping speculation controlled.

He was folding over his bread – almost comfortable – when she cut herself off. He glanced up sharply.

She watched him, he knew, but she wasn’t reaching for the flatbread; one of her hands had hovered over the fork and knife, but it wasn’t there now.

There was a pause; behind him, he could hear the Thul’amat lasses chattering on, and another arata lad bringing out a platter of gourd for them. The wind picked up, humid and warm with its faint tinge of coolness. “Oh,” he said.

The shift flared out across the physical mona, too bright to be plain redshift; he felt it like a sudden crack of sunlight against a hungover head. He blinked, frowning. “It’s –”

He felt silly, with a handful of flatbread, one of his forearms resting on the edge of the table. He couldn’t quite bring himself to it, for all he’d blithely suggested the venue.

He wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe it was that Sish had just gone right on, snapping up more fish, lapping the oil from round the saucer. Maybe it was the small dark line in-between her brows, and the familiar lines about her mouth, and the way the question had cut right through him like a riff to the bone. Maybe it all just felt ridiculous, being honest.

Regardless, he laughed suddenly. “You can, uh – you can use the fork and knife, if you want,” he said, “but it’s meant to be eaten with the bread. He brought them out because we’re Anaxi, but…”

He gestured with a twitch of his head to the table behind.

Slowly, he scooped up some greens, folding them in the bread. “I, uh,” he said, “I like it better, this way.” His hands shook a little on the bread, but not so much as they’d’ve done on the fork. He thought about saying it aloud; he wasn’t sure why he wanted to. He looked up and met her chill grey eyes and balked.

He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. The greens were as he remembered; it was an oddly bittersweet feeling, that remembering.

“D’you…” he began after a moment, then hesitated, thinking how to bring it up. “There’s no meat in the greens or the stew, or the lentils,” he said. “Do you eat fish?” He paused. “There are a lot of places in Thul Ka where they don’t even serve meat; I thought you might like those, too, if you like this sort of thing.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Oti’úqaq, Dejai Point
Loshis 33, 2720 - Evening

No response, at first. She barely contained another flare of irritation then, too. What could this possibly be, what he was hedging around? Cerise couldn't stand that kind of circular way of communicating. Trying to send out signal flares and hope that whoever saw them knew how to interpret them instead of just speaking plainly. Not like literature or even poetry, when there was an art to it--this was just annoying. She was put in mind of nothing so much as working on group projects for class, everyone unwilling to share a straightforward idea for fear of being rude. Ridiculous. She looked, eyebrows lifted and lines carved in her face as she waited.

In the waiting she could hear Sish and the rather loud smacking of her jaws. It was, frankly, revolting; Cerise felt the most absurd surge of affection go through her as she thought so. She heard also the other patrons, snatches of conversation carried to them on the night breeze. She did not hear an answer. A syllable, yes, and then a single word.

Then she heard a laugh, and her the sharp edges of her frown gave way to surprise again. Meant to be--oh. Oh. Cerise blinked, and then she smiled. Not quite a laugh, but it was heading that direction. So this had been, in the end, nothing more than an incredibly convoluted way of... getting her to eat properly. Or what was proper here. Several things made sense at once, and she shook her dark head, disbelieving.

"Was that really all? You could have just said." She didn't know what else it could have been, really, but it was all so absurd. Privately Cerise thought to herself that if he had tried to tell her how to eat straight off, she might have been annoyed as well. Or not; this had all been deeply foolish.

She watched him fold whatever sort of greens there was up in the bread, which rather made sense seeing it. Looking around now, she caught sight of what others were here doing the same. A small laugh escaped her, and she shook her head again. Now she did tear off some of the bread, as she saw no reason not to. She had done stranger things for worse reasons, really.

"I eat fish," she said slowly, blinking. Had she ever mentioned it, that she wasn't eating other kinds of meat, beyond fish? It had, after all, started as something of a whim. And she wasn't too terribly strict about it, even if Sish ended up eating large portions of her meals when they featured meat more than she cared for. She couldn't even quite remember why it had started--a way to pick a fight, perhaps, or some kind of inane personal challenge to see if she could.

No, she hadn't mentioned it to him directly, not even in any of her letters. In fact, the only time it had come up was at the Golden Rose. Alain had said it, she thought. Had mentioned one of the bowls was hers, and was meatless. That had been the one and only mention of it, and he hadn't commented on it then.

"Maybe--I... I do. Like it. I think." Cerise frowned, looking at the holes in her sleeve again.

He couldn't remember who she was, he couldn't remember Mama. More than a year and he hadn't even written a note in his own hand until she came charging into that museum party, fury radiating out of every line of her. But he remembered, from a single lunch a month ago, that she hadn't eaten meat that day. Cerise scooped up some of the food in front of them--she wasn't cautious about what, precisely, she grabbed--and then crammed it viciously in her mouth.

[Tom Cooke]

Oti’úqaq • Dejai Point

Evening on the 33rd of Loshis, 2720

B
ut you would’ve gotten all – he didn’t say it; he wasn’t even sure he could finish thinking it, without laughing. She was laughing, shaking her head, dark curls bobbing. He was laughing, too, working his bread round his bite of greens; he’d still been stifling his laughter as he’d taken a bite, watching her tear off a bit of spongy bread easy as he had.

He wiped his hands off on his cloth, looking up at her.

She was looking at him again. He wasn’t sure what kind of look it was. It wasn’t just another frown; nor was she laughing at him, though he still felt the last echoes of the laughter between them, like runoff from a spell curling through the air. The smile clung to his lips, though it was draining from him steadily. She blinked, then looked down at her sleeve.

You and your godsdamn mouth, he thought. He supposed he shouldn’t’ve brought it up, though he couldn’t figure out why. He tried to remember if she’d ever told him outright; he’d thought, before he’d spoken, that she had, but –

It had been the Alain fellow at the Golden Rose, he supposed, bringing out the soup. They’d not said a word about it, between the two of them.

Sish’s jaws were still smacking in the fish, her tongue still lapping at the edges of the saucer. He followed Cerise’s eyes down to the patchy holes at her sleeve, and he blinked, and he almost winced; he glanced away quickly, down at his own tin.

“Really,” he said, “you’d be surprised how – funny – people get about it. Anaxi, I mean, eating with hands. Even though it’s...”

She was cramming a mant bite of stew in her mouth, and he trailed off, clearing his throat. He reached tentatively to pull off another wedge of flatbread, still warm.

He shouldn’t’ve brought it up. He felt a twinge of irritation, all the same. She seemed proud to hell and back about everything else – she took her losses, seemed to him, just like she took her wins, and he’d seen her with her head high and her teeth grit across from that Isu’fo lad – so why not this, this vegetables thing? Even if it wasn’t about ideals, like some of the Vitanists he’d known; even if it was just a preference, just a – personal preference.

He mopped up some fish with his bread.

He raised his brows, turning it over in his head. “It’s easier, for me,” he offered, after a moment. “Eating with my hands. Ever since. I’ve dropped so many forks, busted so many plates – I can tell they’re snickering at me at dinner parties, in Anaxas,” his voice was steady, and he didn’t glance at her sleeve, though it was in the corner of his eye, “but nobody’s said a word about it, here.”

He took a bite of fish, then mopped up another bite. He wasn’t smiling anymore; there was a frown on his face, but he was shrugging, eating intently.

“Most of those places are in Nutmeg Hill,” he said after a bite, wiping his hands off again and settling back. “There’s a big Heshath-Mugrobi neighborhood there, Bevårue, and a place where they serve Hessean food with Mugrobi ingredients. Mostly vegetables.”

He smiled tentatively again; he took a sip, the heat from the fish still prickling his tongue. “I’ve spent a lot of time in Nutmeg Hill – a tailor there was recommended to me,” he added, shrugged, and then set about the flatbread again.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Oti’úqaq, Dejai Point
Loshis 33, 2720 - Evening

Cerise raised her eyebrows, chewing her food while her father spoke. You'd be surprised, he said, and if her mouth hadn't been full of bread and stew she thought she would have laughed at that. As it was she made a choked kind of chuckling noise, leveling a look at him with grey eyes. She finished chewing and swallowed, licking the corner of her mouth before she spoke.

"I think you might be surprised at how not surprised I am by the things Anaxi are 'funny' about," she drawled, wiping her hands. Over and over again, she wondered--he had forgotten her, he'd said as much. Did he forget, also, the spaces through which they both moved? Had she not demonstrated enough times her remarkable lack of suitability to them in ways both big and small?

Anaxi, she wanted to say, are funny about many more things than eating with their hands. You, personally, have been awfully "funny" about plenty of them. She hadn't meant to be quite so prickly, about the remembering. It was just strange, to have him think of her--her dietary habits at all. Better to forget that and remember other things. Not even about her, just about--Cerise felt that pricking at her thumb, and she shoved the thought to the side. She ripped off another piece of bread instead.

Easier, he said. Cerise felt concern flash across her face before she could cram it back down. He didn't want her concern, she reminded herself. She hadn't understood why, or at least she'd been wrong in her understanding, that day at the beginning of Bethas. Now she did--he was her father, but she was not his daughter. She was just herself, and there were very few people indeed who wanted her sympathies. It was difficult, besides, for her to say anything in a way that didn't have the edge of a knife to it.

"Dinner parties must be more interesting here then," she said lightly, ignoring the twinge of feeling underneath it. "And more adequately able to give their attendees something worthwhile to talk about."

Cerise tried, then, to feel some kind of satisfaction at her father's misfortune. That would have made it all easier, if she could manage the trick of it. Of course, if she could do that, she likely wouldn't have come hurtling through the museum door to demand an explanation. Cerise found anger easily enough, but it was hard to direct at him now. Nothing has changed, she reminded herself. Nothing has been undone, or--her heart couldn't settle on a feeling. Sish had finished with her perch, and was now industriously rubbing the grease of it onto the inside of her elbow. As the blouse was already ruined, she didn't do much to stop her.

"I haven't gone to that part of the city, yet. Should I?" A bit of the bread mopped up some of the food. She sniffed, but she thought it was spices and not emotion. It was, she thought, rather a lot. A lot that she quite liked, but she was grateful for the water all the same. Somehow she hadn't expected it to be so--like this. Even if had been too much, which it wasn't, she rather thought there was nothing to be done except continue on. The idea of expressing any physical discomfort with the food was deeply horrible. If he was fine with it, and he did seem to be as she watched him sitting across from her, then she would be also. Cerise sniffed again, and had some more of her water.

"The same tailor who seems to have such a poor eye for color?" Cerise grinned. In truth the color wasn't so terrible, but she was getting great satisfaction from needling him about it. "Or was that your doing, despite best efforts?"

[Tom Cooke]

Oti’úqaq • Dejai Point

Evening on the 33rd of Loshis, 2720

I
suppose you have a point,” he said, pausing as he mopped at his stew with another wedge of flatbread. He couldn’t muster a smile; he looked down at his tin, and his lip twitched.

He found himself thinking of her in the middle of the museum, when he’d dragged her over to talk with Burbridge. Lately, the thought of that afternoon tugged at him, needled him; he wasn’t sure why. Or maybe he was, and that was the problem.

Thinking of it now, it was hard not to wince. In the corner of his eye, Cerise bent to take another bite with the flatbread; he watched a curl slip out of the braid, wisping and coiling out over her forehead. Sish was rubbing a smear of dark grease on the elbow of her blouse. He thought of the lad and lass he’d seen strolling out of the practice field, laughing, coppery hair catching the phosphor light.

He thought he caught her watching him as he ate, too. He glanced up, once, briefly. He’d seen that look on her face once, he thought. He wasn’t sure what to think of it; he wasn’t sure if thinking about it was a good idea at all.

On its heels, the joke caught him unawares. A smile twisted his lip, though he didn’t laugh; he didn’t think she’d meant it as that sort of joke. More interesting, she said, and there was an edge to it he thought he knew well enough by now. But he paused, a bite of fish wrapped in flatbread halfway to his mouth, and looked up at her again. If she’d ever had that strange look on her face, it was gone now.

He smiled again, shaking his head as he took another bite. He thought she might’ve known a little more about tact than she let on.

The question, too, took him by surprise. “It’s worth a visit,” he said, lifting an eyebrow, “I think.”

Cerise’s water was half-empty; he’d busied himself about his eating, but he’d been watching, all the same. He heard a few sharp sniffs. When he looked up at her, he thought her eyes might’ve looked a pina raw.

He didn’t laugh, but he smiled, glancing back down as he took another bite of flatbread and lentils. He remembered his first breakfast on the isles, his eyes prickling with tears, and – he took a deep breath and set the memory aside, with all its fondness and strangeness. More fond than strange, for now; he was full of fresher memories, and anticipation too.

D’you like it? he thought to ask. All the spices? He remembered the way she’d stumbled over her words and knotted up, earlier, and shoved a bite in her mouth like she’d wither to speak of it a moment more.

He laughed instead, this time deep and full, oddly relieved at the distraction. “Oh, that was all me,” he shot back. He took another bite, then wiped his hands off; he plucked lightly at a bright fold of his amel’iwe. “You should see the other colors,” he added. “Bright as my Anaxi wardrobe is dull, I’m afraid. If you think I look bad in red…”

He grinned back at her.

“It’s not too far by the cable cars, from Dejai Point to Nutmeg Hill.” He took a drink himself, looking sideways over the city. He thought he might’ve been able to find the tracks by day, gleaming in the sun, but he lost them in the night. “Have you ridden them yet?” he asked, glancing back.

“Nutmeg Hill is mostly tradesmen; it’s somewhere between Cinnamon Hill and the Windward Market, where money is concerned. There are more cloth merchants and tailors there than I can name,” he said. “It might be wise – if…”

He paused, sucking at a tooth.

He thought of the spark of red in her field earlier, when he’d nudged her about the bread. “Anaxi clothes aren’t made for this kind of heat, you have to admit,” he said, “especially in the Flood Season.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Oti’úqaq, Dejai Point
Loshis 33, 2720 - Evening

Of course she had a point, she wanted to say, but she let it go. But--yes, of course she did. That's why she said it. She wondered for a moment what he thought she meant by "things". She wondered, too, if he cared that she had been needling him a little when she said it. Did it matter, when they were the words of a man he couldn't remember being? That certainly made it a little less satisfying to do, she thought. Not completely without merit, but it did lose a bit of the appeal when she contemplated that he neither knew nor cared what she was on about.

More of her hair escaped the hasty confines she'd put it it. Honestly, was it too much to ask it just stayed in place? There were days when she contemplated just cutting it all off. Short hair would be easier, she thought. Shorter even than Chrysanthe's hair--short like a man's. That would be the easiest of all. No hassle, no fuss. No need to braid anything to keep it off the back of her clocking neck in the summer. Only--she couldn't quite bring herself to. Any time she thought about it, she inexplicably thought of portraits of Mama.

"A ringing endorsement." She had chewed and swallowed before she said it, watching one eyebrow rise. It had only been half a question; the other half was lost somewhere in the thinking and the saying. Not that it mattered, she insisted to herself, angry suddenly with her strange bursts of sentiment. The heat was making her stupid, that was all.

Cerise ate rather industriously, for all that the spice to it made her eyes water and her sinuses protest. Her mouth hurt a little, too, but she went doggedly on. No stew would defeat her; especially not with her father sitting there so comfortably across the wooden table. Just because he had a head start on adjusting to--all of this--that didn't mean she would lose if she could help it. That there was no winning either didn't matter so much. And it was good too, she thought. Not just challenging, but... good. Cerise hadn't thought about how hungry she was until she had started eating. She thought she might have skipped lunch, but couldn't be sure. Either way, once she'd begun it was difficult to stop.

Cerise laughed, only barely remembered to cover her mouth with her hand as she did so. She had been in the middle of a bite when he responded; that was cheating. At least she didn't choke on any of it. Cerise finished her bite and swallowed it before she laughed again. This was really, really very weird. The grinning and the laughing and the talking about colors in his wardrobe. Cerise thought she should mind more. Hadn't Diana told her to?

Diana, she thought, told her lots of things. She ignored those too.

"There are more? A whole salad's worth?" A sip of her water, sour and a trace bitter, but it soothed her mouth and throat. Her eyes looked him up and down, trying to picture him in more, additional unfortunate colors. The image was too strange; she couldn't manage the trick of it. "And I haven't, yet. We've not--there's not really been any need, so far." She thought maybe some of the others might have. For all that they were a small team, and Cerise thought she got along well enough with most of them.

Well. She had before, anyway. News of the disaster with Raquelle and the rest had traveled quickly enough. Cerise very much doubted she would get too many invitations for the rest of the year. Which was, of course, to be expected. She didn't even mind, not really. It was just a little annoying, considering the whole thing had been McAllister's fault. Cerise shook herself, brushed the thought off. She could certainly take a cable car by herself.

The statement, almost to a suggestion, took her aback. She looked at her blouse automatically; long-sleeved, full of buttons. Deeply uncomfortable. Her fingers itched to pull at her hair, or at least to poke some of it back up into the nest of her poorly done braid.

"Oh I have to, do I?" For a moment, she tried to look irritated. She couldn't hold it for long, and she grinned again. "No, they're really not. Did I mention our uniforms are, in fact, wool? Because they are. Extremely." She thought a moment, wiping her hands before running her fingers over the feathers of Sish's bright wings. The miraan had curled up to sleep on her lap, surely dreaming of fishes now. Or whales, with the way her tail kept twitching.

"If you offering a solution, I have no reason to object--you can waste your money however you'd like. I am open to suggestions." She couldn't, quite, bring herself to accept what she thought she heard. Perhaps, if he had a recommendation, she could--oh, she didn't know. Go to Nutmeg Hill herself on her own. It really was hideously uncomfortable, even in her lighter summer skirt and blouse. A blouse that she had ruined. That would make a good starting point, at least.

[Tom Cooke]

Oti’úqaq • Dejai Point

Evening on the 33rd of Loshis, 2720

H
e’d seen her hand fly to her mouth. He’d stifled another grin of his own – a fair satisfied grin, though he couldn’t’ve said why it mattered so to him – with a mant bite of lentils, only he’d been halfway through it when she’d spoken again. It was his turn to chortle; he was mid-swallow, and he nearly choked on flatbread. He coughed and cleared his throat and took a drink.

“The whole godsdamn salad,” he grunted, palming a tear out of one eye and blinking.

She was glancing up and down him, he thought, playful-like, like she was judging his wardrobe. It was strange, after the glow of the laughter, to think what she was seeing. He forgot; he kept forgetting. He wasn’t sure which part he was forgetting, who he was or –

It was easy to forget. He took another sip of water, then set about his stew again. He’d just about finished it, and the fish too; there was still a dollop of lentils left, and some greens, but the tin had disappeared fast. They were on the last flatbread, too, and he wasn’t sure which of the two of them had eaten more.

She ate like a banderwolf, he thought.

He’d never seen a golly lass eat like that; he couldn’t’ve said he could picture it. The sight of Cerise tucking in with her hands, shoving bites in her mouth one after the other, sat uneasily with the memory of Drezda crumbling up bread in her hands. Even Nkemi, who ate well and easily, ate like she knew where her next meal was coming from, like she’d had a meal that day or else had never feared the lack. He didn’t think Cerise had ever starved, but she ate with a sort of frenetic air he couldn’t put his finger on. She ate like she couldn’t stop herself.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, either; he wasn’t sure how he felt about a lot of things. Maybe, he thought, there was no need to think too hard about any of it. He mopped up the last of his lentils.

He wrinkled his nose when she frowned, momentarily irritable himself; the grin broke back out on her face, and he just about rolled his eyes. “Seems cruel, to make you duel in Anaxi wool,” he said, reaching to tear off another wedge of flatbread. “Might be something to talk to that coach of yours about. In the meantime…”

A handful of names sprang to the tip of his tongue, and then he hesitated.

If Cerise hadn’t taken the cable cars, then she hadn’t been too far outside of Thul’amat and Dejai Point in the last three days. She hadn’t, he suspected, been too far outside of Ire’dzosat and its surroundings.

“I’d be happy to introduce you to ada’na Ebele Tsade’tsúda,” he said, “if you’d – like a guide.” He raised his brows, studying her face. Did she know what the name meant? “I rather think she’s the best tailor in Nutmeg Hill,” he added, “she and her three daughters.”

She’s – he wasn’t quite sure how to say it. Should he say it? He shook off the feeling; Cerise had been around plenty of imbali, he thought, even at Thul’amat, even if only in passing. “It’s always a pleasure to see what cloth Jima pez Jinwe and Ire pezre Jinasa have on display, too,” he added brightly.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Oti’úqaq, Dejai Point
Loshis 33, 2720 - Evening

Her father didn't talk this way. Not to her, and as far as she knew not to anyone. At least, he hadn't before. Laughing and nearly choking on flatbread and lentils because she made a joke about the way he was dressed. It was a comfortable, casual way of speaking that she'd never heard him use before. Somehow she had forgotten the strangeness of it, between that visit to the bookstore and now. Hard to hold on to the shape of what she expected, looking at what was in front of her.

The food that was in front of them disappeared from sight fast enough. She couldn't have said who was eating more of it; Cerise thought it might be her. Part of her was waiting to be scolded for it. Certainly it happened often enough. It was't that she was trying to eat so quickly on purpose, or that she didn't know it was something of a horror to behold. She just did, and couldn't do much about it. The trouble with her rather erratic schedule, she supposed; Cerise knew she shouldn't do it, but it had always been hard for her to remember to eat at regular intervals, especially alone. School and the structure of her days helped, but left to her own devices she fell on food like some kind of starved animal.

Cruel, he said, and Cerise thought she agreed. She hummed an affirmative noise and nodded gravely while she pet the miraan curled up on her lap. Cerise tried to picture herself complaining about the uniforms to--well, anyone. Suggesting they wear something else. Somehow she didn't think that would go over well. Cerise waited, her hand still on Sish, expecting a name. More than one, if she were lucky--she wasn't sure she wouldn't need to go to more than one place.

"In the meantime...? Is it a state secret, where you transform from man into salad?" Cerise raised her eyebrows, unsure why he had trailed off. She had rather thought he was about to tell her, and couldn't for the life of her figure out why he'd stopped. Had he changed his mind? Did he somehow not approve of her dressing in such a manner? It was only for two weeks, she wanted to say. Although by Anaxi standards, she did think it was rather inappropriate. That made it even more appealing, but maybe enabling her was a bridge too far.

Or, it seemed, a bridge not far enough. A cable car not far enough. A guide? That sounded like he was volunteering. That sounded like, maybe, he wanted to spend time in her company. She didn't understand; this was giving her whiplash, all this back and forth. She couldn't figure out what he wanted from her--in a way that was familiar enough, but the form it took was not.

"Oh. Well, I suppose--" She frowned. He was staring at her like he was looking for something on her face. The expense, she thought. That had to be it. She had spent all that money on bail--on Emiel's bail, and she didn't understand how they'd let that go so quickly--and more bills were coming. It was likely he just wanted... oversight, when it came to her spending. That made sense. Alternatives did not. Cerise shrugged, and the motion woke up Sish. The miraan chirped sleepily, and then clambered up from her lap to the table. Cerise didn't bother to stop her.

"If you're so bored, I wouldn't mind." She wanted to smile and she tried to frown, embarrassed that she wasn't lying. She didn't mind. It was strange, and she didn't know what to make of it, any of it. Maybe she was just looking for something that would make all of this make snap into place. That had to be it.