[Closed] Someone Reaching Back for Me

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown
Bethas 29, 2720 - Afternoon Teatime

Diana smiled at Cerise after the question tumbled out of her mouth; Cerise knew that smile. She was on the receiving end of it quite a lot. It usually meant she had done something displeasing, but it would be even worse to say so to her directly in the moment. Because Diana would never dream of being ruffled with company, even in her own parlor, would she?

Unfortunately, being on the receiving end of it so often had slightly inoculated Cerise against the effects. She frowned and furrowed her brows in confusion; she knew Diana hated it. She had been glaring at it all day, in fact--Cerise had seen her doing so every time she'd slunk by the parlor. Cerise did like it, which was why she was so certain Diana did not. Cerise resettled her hand on her lap, which was when she noticed the splashes on her skirt. She patted ineffectually at them with a napkin, and then gave it up as a lost cause.

There was silence all throughout the parlor, broken only by an occasional chitter from Sish, still perched on what was apparently a piously gruesome sculpture, and Phileander's miwaan from next to Eleanor. The glittering gold of Sish's scales and feathers made the thing look darker by contrast. Cerise had thought to call her down, but she did look very pleased with herself up there. Who was she to deny the miraan the pleasure of such a ostentatious perch?

"Ellie, I don't think he knows what 'connective' means," Cerise decided to say instead of commenting on the sculpture any further. She had meant to smile at her sister when she said it, but had not quite managed to do so before she spoke. Ah, well. Amaryllis intervened, and then got up to leave the room. Cerise watched her go; her color hadn't been very good. She wondered if Diana's cousin was at all well. Surely, if she wasn't, she wouldn't have come, or... or someone else would have said something, if it was concerning?

At least this was proving to be a more interesting tea than she had expected, even if Diana kept looking at her like she would cheerfully sink her to the bottom of the Arova if she thought it was socially acceptable to do so. This, too, Cerise was too often on the receiving end of to pay it much mind. It was wasn't like Cerise tried to needle her stepmother, not usually. That she managed to as often as she did was just her natural tendencies shining through, she supposed. Chrysanthe very diplomatically declared the piece "a statement", and Cerise felt rather disappointingly certain she was the only one in the room who liked it.

Go on, her stepmother encouraged, and Cerise was happy enough to set aside the discussion of the merits of art and thoughts about Amaryllis' health in favor of hearing more about Gior. Cerise found she couldn't contain her curiosity any better than she had before at the off-handed mention. It straightened her posture and spilled out into her field. Cerise had never been to Gior; this seemed a mistake she would very much like to correct. The student said nothing, not wishing to interrupt Chrysanthe and potentially derail her train of thought.

Echo casting to weave spells within spells! She knew it could be done, she had read about it fairly extensively in her personal time--or during her less interesting classes, which she thought was really the same--but it was one thing to know and another entirely to have seen it done. Cerise favored force and gravity, when casting for duels; it did very little good to try to hide from sight when one had a designated area in which to stand. But sound was something she found utterly fascinating and entirely more difficult to master. She could only imagine how breathtaking that must have been, arched off of the walls of a great cavern...

"I have read a little on the use of echo casting in duels recently," she offered excitedly. "By Helke Vanhanne. She wrote mostly about theory and observation, unfortunately, but it was a delightful read. The skill to use it well seems rather difficult to master--it could so easily be misjudged. I would love to see it for myself someday." Privately she thought--if she did not make a professional League team after graduation, perhaps it would be worth it to go on to graduate studies in Qrieth. Siordanti had just recently returned from Gior, as well--it might be worth it to ask him about it. If he would tell her.

She tore her attention away from thoughts of Gior when Phileander broke in asking after his mother. Cerise looked around; Amaryllis hadn't yet returned. Perhaps she was unwell, after all. Cerise turned back to Diana and raised her eyebrows; it was likely that Diana knew something that she did not.

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

A
weight of dignity. She did not think she had looked at the statue a single time since Sish had found a perch on it; she had been rather embarrassed to have every other pair of eyes in the room fixed on it. But now, as Chrysanthe spoke, she forced herself to lift her eyes to the mantle, where the afternoon light glistened in all its curves and smooth contours.

She thought the dignity rather spoiled by the scaly, feathery little thing perched in the middle of it, but she smiled at her cousin nonetheless.

“Of course, Amaryllis,” said Eleanor quietly, after a pause. Diana watched her, sitting stiff in her chair with little Phil. She smiled once at her older cousin, though she did not let her gaze linger as the woman disappeared down the hall.

Eleanor was pouting back at Cerise, looking faintly hurt.

Diana looked at her, her lips pressed in a slight frown. Whatever she had said, judging by the recalcitrant look on her face, it had been nothing kind; she always had a way – Diana had always thought so, in any case – of making Ellie feel poorly. Had Sish’s bizarre display not been enough attention?

Chrysanthe had stepped into the moment rather admirably, by then. Without another thought about it, Diana turned all of her attention to her younger cousin, shifting again so that her posture was straight. She smiled, listening, tilting her head slightly.

“Quite unusual,” Diana agreed, smiling at Francoise, “but beautiful indeed. I cannot quite imagine it.”

She could not, though she tried – more than anything, more than the duel itself, to see Chrysanthe standing in a crowd of tall, pale Giorans; to see the lights, phosphor vibrant, flashing over her face, glittering in her eyes. Strange, to picture her there, so far away from home. She had seldom visited that great old house in the Tors, after her marriage and the move to Vienda; still, this Chrysanthe seemed so far from the Chrysanthe she had known then, a little girl with long blonde braids, deeper in her books than in the world outside.

She had seen many beautiful duels in her time at Anastou – it had been at one, in fact, that she had met Anatole – but echo casting had not yet reached Bastia, if anywhere outside Gior. She wondered if she would ever get a chance to see it; she thought, perhaps, if the Symvoulio shifted to Gior – if, she thought bitterly, he was still in office a decade from now. She should not begrudge him for any of it, she knew.

There was something else, she thought, as she described the second duel, for all her calm, careful voice and smile. Supports – Diana shivered. “All that rock overhead,” she murmured, taking a sip of tea. She glanced at Mrs. Ibutatu, who seemed even brighter and sharper with attention.

“Oh – Amaryllis?” Eleanor asked, as if it had taken her a moment to think of who mama might be. “She’s – she’ll be back soon, I’m sure, Mr. Phileander – I ah –”

Diana looked at Cerise, her smile carefully neutral, though she felt a spark of curiosity. It wasn’t, of course, that she didn’t think Cerise an intelligent young lady; but the letters that came home from Brunnhold were not exactly reflective of the sort of student who read such books, much less remembered names like Helke Vanhannen.

Her smile warmed. “Would you, Cerise?” she asked, with a careful note of surprise. She smiled at Chrysanthe, meeting her younger cousin’s eye, then looked back at Cerise. “Have you considered – perhaps – pursuing a postgraduate education at the temple in Qrieth? I’ve heard they have a magnificent physical program; I know cousin Chrysanthe, at least, can speak to the static department.”

Cerise, however, was watching the doorway to the hall. When she met Diana’s gaze, there was something like curiosity or perhaps even concern in the knit of her dark brows. Diana glanced only once to Amaryllis’ empty chair, and to the steaming cup of tea sitting on the small table nearby. She looked at Cerise again, and barely-perceptibly shook her head.

“...perhaps, Mr. Phileander, you’d like to hear about the greater Wakesho silk-walker? They’re arachnids usually found in lower Hox and northern Mugroba, in the steppe, although they have recently, quite excitingly, been migrating down. They’re known for a signature, ah, weaving pattern – their webs are quite complex and beautiful, and distinctive…”

“I can’t say I have seen anything quite like that, but I certainly saw some marvelous exhibition duels at Anastou.” Diana took a delicate sip of tea, then smiled at Mrs. Ibutatu, no longer attempting to hide the curiosity in her face. “May I ask, Mrs. Ibutatu, if you have dueled in Bastia as well as in Anaxas?”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

Phileander shifted against Eleanor’s lap, and made a little whining noise. “I want mama,” he said, sulkily. He pouted, but looked up at her with wide eyes when she began to discuss the greater Wakesho silk-walker.

”I’d be glad to tell you more about Qrieth,” Chrysathe glanced at Phileander and smiled at Cerise, wishing at least to make her offer. ”There’s no place better for sound spells; I read Vanhanne before I left, actually, although more for her descriptions of the caverns than her writings on physical conversation.”

Phileander whined again, a little louder this time; his little face was screwed up, his cheeks red and his eyes beginning to glimmer with tears.

Chrysanthe moved decisively, setting her tea cup aside and taking a cucumber sandwich as she went. ”What’s this, stinkbug?” She sat in the chair Amaryllis had vacated, looking at Phileander; she set the sandwich down on the edge of her sister’s saucer. She thought wryly that dealing with Phileander was perhaps the best she could do for Amaryllis, just now.

”Don’t you like spiders any more?” Chrysanthe raised her eyebrows.

“Pidews?” Phileander sniffled. He reached for Chrysanthe. “Not stinkbug,” he said, his little lips trembling.

”Yes, silly, spiders,” Chrysanthe reached over and scooped him up from Eleanor’s lap. She let out a little oof, Phileander dangling with her hands grasping beneath his arms. ”Good lady, you’ve gotten so big!”

Phileander giggled, somewhat wetly, kicking his legs. Chrysanthe settled him into her lap, and raised her eyebrows at him. ”Don’t you want to hear about spiders from your cousin Eleanor?”

“Mowe pidews, pwease Ewanor,” Phileander said, looking up at Eleanor. Chrysanthe offered him the sandwich quarter, and he set about happily mashing it in his fingers, opening it up to peer inside, and eventually shoving a smushed up bit of bread into his mouth, and eating it with slightly parted lips. He was smiling up at Eleanor again, good cheer renewed.

Children, Chrysanthe thought, were quite a good deal of work, assuming one cared about them. She rubbed Phileander’s back with her hand, and ruffled his hair, prompting a little giggle. The stinkbug wasn’t such a bad sort, she thought, his small warm body rather uncomfortably heavy on her lap. She thought perhaps she had loved him for Amaryllis’s sake at first; anyone so beloved of her sister could not but be beloved of her too.

But it was not only for Amaryllis’s sake that Chrysanthe had left the conversation on dueling behind; she would freely admit seeing Phileander’s face pinched and red tugged at her heart, for all that she knew he was rather overprone to crying. She supposed he would grow out of it; she supposed most boys did. She couldn’t have said why that, too, made her feel just a bit sorry.

Niccolette turned to look at Diana as Chrysanthe rose and made her way to the upset little boy. She wondered at Chrysanthe’s careful response; she knew something of how duels in Gior often ended.

”Not more than casually,” Niccolette said. ”When I was still in school.” She took another sip of the tea, noiseless, and set the cup down. She smiled. ”And you?”

There had been duels; mostly, Niccolette thought wryly, when she was sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, half the time with a bottle of wine she had not thought her parents would miss, or else one she had been pleased to think they would miss very much indeed. The anger she had felt then seemed strange to remember now; she knew it as her own, but it did not burn, anymore, as it once had.

Those duels had been mostly against perceptivists, all of them drunk and angry and rather overdressed. Niccolette remembered, more than anything, golden eyes beneath dark hair, the feeling of her cheek pressed into grass, the taste of vomit somewhere bitter on the back of her tongue. She remembered shame pressed upon her, and refusing it utterly.

She had not, of course, been to Bastia since some time before graduation. She had nonetheless fought a number of Bastians in the time since; she understood the distinction quite well. Those had not been duels, in any case. Niccolette had been glad to shed the restrictions of the dueling club circles and the dueling grounds. Conquest burned with whatever kindling one desired to offer; there were no laws there but will, Niccolette knew, and words. She remembered the stinging slap of a hand against her cheek, the taste of lip color and blood, and a man lying paralyzed on a rather over-expensive set of china, stained with blood and wine.

Francoise took another sip of her pale, sweetened tea; she glanced down at the sandwiches, and then looked away. ”The duel with Heye Da Huane was quite exciting,” she said; she offered Diana the faintest of apologetic smiles - in her eyes more than her moth - and turned her gaze to Cerise

”Perhaps while watching,” Niccolette said dryly. She thought of the rain, the distant flashing of lightning - the sharp throbbing pain in her ear, and the feeling of the ground coming up to swallow her whole. She thought of weeping on the Pawley’s lawn, and she felt no shame.

Francoise was looking at her, eyebrows lifted slightly.

Niccolette smiled at her, fondly; she set the cup aside. ”Heye Da Huane,” she said Ekain’s name rather neutrally, thinking of him lying slumped on the side in the mud, ”is a physical conversationalist, although not, I would say, an experienced duelist. We dueled in the rain last Hamis.”

Niccolette met Cerise’s eyes, evenly. She smiled. ”What would you like to know?”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown
Bethas 29, 2720 - Afternoon Teatime

Eleanor had pouted back at her; Cerise was sorry she hadn't been faster on the smile. That might not have softened it, she supposed--she seemed to have a knack for making Eleanor upset. Apologizing for accidental hurts was not a skill she had yet developed, so Cerise said nothing but instead looked away back to the conversation.

It was almost convenient that she had Amaryllis to think about, really. Diana had asked her about postgraduate studies in Qrieth. That she had been considering it just moments before didn't mean she wanted to admit to it; to say it out loud and to Diana, especially, seemed like admitting she would never qualify for a professional League team. Cerise didn't think her stepmother quite approved of her desires.

For some moony moment, Cerise was seized by a desire to say they should go together--herself, Eleanor and Diana--to Gior, on a vacation. She couldn't remember the last time they had gone on a trip together like that as a family. At least not since before her father's stroke; longer than that, she thought. Gior had all kinds of strange insect life, she was sure--Ellie would have a field day. Cerise didn't know where the impulse came from, quite. Probably some kind of brain rot brought on by that very strange lunch with her father a few weeks before. The more she thought about it, the more she could picture the only result being frowns and subtle disapproval.

She said nothing at all about that, and instead muttered something about how she would love to hear more about Qrieth from Chrysanthe.

But where was Amaryllis? The baby had started to fuss properly now, and not even Eleanor's talk of Wakesho silk-walkers (whatever those were) seemed to distract him from his desire for his mother. Diana had shaken her head, just a little--Cerise hadn't asked anything more out loud.

It was good Chrysanthe was here, Cerise thought. She had quite handily swooped in just as Phileander began to cry in earnest with an ease Cerise could only wonder at. Cerise herself barely knew how to talk to happy children--quieting ones that had started to fuss seemed a mysterious power she didn't think herself capable of obtaining. Another thing to add to the list of her failures as a young lady.

The conversation had flowed around Chrysanthe and the baby, curling back around to the duel with Heye Da Huane that Mrs. Ibutatu had been in last Hamis. Mrs. Rochambeaux had looked to her, and then Mrs. Ibutatu had as well, meeting her eyes. There was something thrilling, Cerise thought, in being looked at so directly by Mrs. Ibutatu. Cerise couldn't quite put her finger on it.

What did she want to know? Was "everything" an acceptable answer? Cerise thought, doing her best to come up with something more intelligent to say. She didn't want to seem entirely foolish in front of Mrs. Ibutatu; that feeling, too, was odd. Cerise chose not to examine it any more closely than that. Why would someone who had been described as an inexperienced duelist think to challenge Mrs. Ibutatu? She could not imagine doing so unless the slight was grave, but the different rule set of social dueling rather eluded Cerise.

"I'm afraid I don't even know where to begin asking. I've never dueled socially. Easier to just--er." Cerise admitted at last, chagrined. She hadn't meant to come so close to talking about getting into proper brawls; that, she thought, even Diana would be forced to say something about. Cerise lapsed into thoughtful silence again, then ventured a carefully-spoken question. "What would you do differently, if you could do it again?"

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

E
leanor grunted with the effort of helping her cousin lift little Phil off her lap, his long legs dangling. “Here, cousin Chrysanthe,” she said, “he is – he is all elbows and knees,” and laughed, a little breathless. “Aren’t you, Mr. Phileander?”

Of course, now that she had suggested it, Cerise looked quite as sullen as she did at nearly everything else. Diana suppressed a sigh, and with it the urge to tell her to speak more loudly; instead, she smiled warmly – knowingly, she thought – at Chrysanthe, though her younger cousin was now engaged with Phil, who was molding and investigating a sandwich.

She turned her attention back to Mrs. Ibutatu. “Once,” she said, meeting the Bastian’s smile with one of her own. “When I was still in school.” There was a tilt to her smile like a secret; she took a sip of her own tea, a mirror, soundless.

She paused; she had thought to let the conversation wind on without her, as any hostess should. She glanced at Cerise, then back at Mrs. Ibutatu.

“I did not much enjoy exhibition duels, as they were held in Anastou in my day,” she said, “which would have been – oh – around the start of the twenty-sevens, I believe. I do not know if they have changed much.” She pressed her lips together thin, but only for a moment. “From spectating, I much preferred spell-counterspell exhibitions; however, I never had the chance to participate.”

Satisfied, she sat back, taking another contemplative sip of tea.

“P-P-Piders – I mean – ah, yes. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to hear about stinkbugs, Mr. Phileander?” Eleanor didn’t seem particularly perturbed by all Phil’s smacking and munching, or the mashed mess he’d made of the cucumber sandwiches Mrs. Wheelwright and Miss Potter had so carefully made.

Diana smiled at them for a moment, wondering at the explorations of young minds. She had found the care of children terribly distasteful, as a young woman. Not that Anatole’s delicate handling of Cerise’s little fusses had made him any less attractive to her – but she had been little older than Phil when they had married, and suddenly he had taken such an interest in nearly everything else…

She smiled at Cerise now, and then at Francoise. If there was something apologetic in the young woman’s smile, Diana merely smiled back; she took a cucumber sandwich delicately herself, and turned attentively to Mrs. Ibutatu.

She had never met the Da Huanes’ disgraced son; she knew only what strange details she had recently learned. She remembered hearing of the Swan from her visit to Florne in ‘09, but she never would have paired that sensation with the softspoken, condescending diplomat whose political career had begun and seemed quickly to end a year ago. She had not thought much of him, from what she had heard.

That the widow – the widow who sat before her, she knew now – had initiated the duel had been one of those enticing little morsels the ladies pass around for the purpose of group speculation. An affair, perhaps? Studying her, Diana did not think so. A spat the Gioran had had with her husband, unresolved at the time of his death, left only to be avenged by his recent widow?

Who, then, was this late ada’xa Ibutatu? A man of some means, she had heard; a plantation-owner, though she had heard he stayed out of politics rather purposefully.

“You were there, Mrs. Rochambeaux?” she asked, smiling, slightly surprised. She knew that Aurelien’s wife and the mysterious Bastian had been friends since they were girls – and friends with her cousin – but it seemed to her now that half of Vienda had witnessed the duel.

At Cerise’s question, though, she felt a sort of giddy irony rise up in her, remembering all the strangeness of Clock’s Eve.

She took a small sip of tea to hide her burgeoning smile. This one was not remotely appropriate for polite company, she knew, but she could not seem to help it. Her lips were an amused purse behind her teacup, and her eyebrows stayed where they were by force of will.

She waited, quite patiently. She wished to go and check on Amaryllis, but she very much wanted to hear what Mrs. Ibutatu had to say to that question in particular.

[moralhazard]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

Yes,” Francoise said with a smile, turning to Diana. “Aurelien and I both were at the Pawleys' that night.” She settled her hands on the cup of tea, looking at Niccolette once more, and then back at Cerise; she wondered what the girl would ask.

“I want to hear about stinkbugs, pwease!” Phileander was giggling around a mouthful of half-chewed sandwich. He beamed up at Chrysanthe, who grinned down at him, and then turned his bright smile on Eleanor once more. Francoise rather hoped Amaryllis was all right; she had not looked at all well, before she left, though since she had not called attention to it, Francoise had not wished to do so.

Francoise took another small sip of the tea. Strangely enough, it reminded her a bit of coffee, made up so. She had liked coffee at cafes in Brunnhold, all frothed milk and delicate flavored syrups with a hint of bitterness to give it depth. Here, she supposed, it was a sort of smokiness, but much the same principle still applied.

She did not think she could have drank a cup of it plain, as Niccolette was doing, but it did not surprise her in the least – having known the Bastian for the better part now of a dozen year – to see the other woman doing so. Aurelien, of course, had been practicing taking kofi in the Mugrobi way, with spices and only a pinch of sugar, perhaps, stirred lightly in. He had been disciplined in doing so – as he was in so many things – carefully having a cup every few days, sitting through it from the first sip to the last drop. Francoise had joined him, of course, although she had generally taken a cup of tea, or else one of much paler kofi.

He had said to her this last week, smiling, that he felt it was getting much easier to drink.

Francoise had smiled back, and said how glad she was, and been rather relieved when he changed the subject. What else could she have done? She was bitterly aware of the passing of the days; she half wanted to ask Diana whether Anatole had left already; she knew some of the incumbents and the rest of the delegation had. Aurelien’s ticket was for the thirty seventh, just in time to make the opening ceremonies.

Then, he had said, there would be very little of importance for at least two weeks; he had looked at her, and frowned, and Francoise had smiled back at him, and said lightly how glad she was that he would have the chance to explore something of Thul Ka. She had changed the subject herself, that time.

Francoise nearly had asked, of course; but she had known that it would very naturally invite the return of the same question, and she thought Diana Vauquelin would very likely see through any casual nonchalance she attempted to respond with. Besides, her daughters were lovely; the eldest was a bit spirited, that was clear – Francoise could not have imagined bringing a miraan to tea with her mother’s friends – and the younger girl rather intellectually inclined, it would seem. But Francoise looked back on her own years at Brunnhold – the second half, particularly – with fondness and sympathy both, and she trusted that both girls would grow out of it in time. Or perhaps, she thought, looking at Niccolette again, in to it.

Cerise asked her question.

Niccolette lifted her eyebrows lightly.

There was a moment in which Francoise wondered. She could not recall every moment of the duel; she had not been there for the start, although she and everyone else had seen the stain of wine on Ekain Da Huane’s white robes, and she knew Niccolette too well to think there any chance of it being accidental. She remembered the crack of lightning, and Niccolette dropping to the lawn, all the lovely silk of her dress dripping wet, her hair tumbling over her face. She remembered, too, the other woman sobbing against her shoulder after it was done.

“Nothing, I think,” Niccolette said, setting her cup down once more. She smiled at Cerise, and set the cup and the platter to the side once more. Her hands folded in her lap, the right on top of the left.

Francoise smiled; it caught her unawares, and she failed utterly to suppress it. She had noticed the quirk of Diana’s lips behind her teacup, and she had raised her own well enough in time to hide it, but she felt it, nonetheless, and she could have laughed.

“I do not mean to say that it was a perfect duel,” Niccolette went on, thoughtful. “One’s spellwork can always be improved; I have done some reading since on the tempering of certain spells in inclement weather, and I know now some clauses which might have strengthened my work. Naturally as well – one always chooses between many spells which may achieve the same result, and sometimes in retrospect a better choice could have been made.”

“But rather,” Niccolette’s finger tapped lightly against her left hand; she stilled it, and did not look down, “I should challenge him again,” she said, with a smile. “Even if I had lost, that I would not regret.” She sat straight upright, her chin lifted.

Francoise had asked; she had not thought it unreasonable to ask. Niccolette had never said more than that the duel had been a matter of honor. She knew it had not been the first time Niccolette and the Da Huane had met; she knew Niccolette had let Enofe and the Pawleys and all the rest believe it was to do with Uzoji, but she knew, too, that Niccolette had never confirmed it either.

“Nor…” Niccolette looked thoughtful. “Difficult to say, I think, if I should change anything, knowing now that the injury would come as it did. I think not; the spell which I cast the turn before was well-spent.” She shrugged her shoulders, lightly; Francoise saw her meet Cerise’s eyes once more. “Any duelist – any caster – who shies from the paying of debt they incur does not deserve to call upon the mona; to fear pain or your own weakness is to fear casting itself.”

Francoise shivered; she took another sip of her tea, and she set the cup down, looking away. She could not but think of Niccolette lying in bed for the better part of two weeks after the duel, scarcely able to rise for the weakness in her muscles and bones. Shy on my behalf, she wanted to say, then – on the behalf of those who love you. But she had known ever since she first met Niccolette that she would not; she could not but be grateful, sitting here today, for the other woman’s skill and dedication.

“Ah,” Niccolette smiled. “I did, in fact, throw a glass of wine on him shortly before issuing the challenge,” she said. “I would that it had been rather more full.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown
Bethas 29, 2720 - Afternoon Teatime

Her question had made Mrs. Ibutatu raise her eyebrows. It seemed a normal enough question to her; there were always missteps, spells one might have timed better or phrased more accurately. Even in victory there was room for improvement. To be firm in your actions was not to be without reflection.

Nothing, the Bastian with the Mugrobi name had said, and smiled at her. Cerise colored a little; Diana and Mrs. Rochambeaux both smiled. She couldn't see Chrysanthe, but she thought her rather occupied with the baby and thus unlikely to be paying attention. Cerise straightened, thinking at first she had been misunderstood--but no, Mrs. Ibutatu continued thoughtfully, and Cerise knew she had not.

Yes, Cerise thought. That was the sort of answer she had hoped to hear. Her delight in hearing such a firm resolution, that she would challenge him again rather than regret even a loss--yes. Cerise hung on her every word now as she continued. Niccolette's eyes met hers once more and Cerise felt a shiver in her bones. Not of fear or discomfort; Cerise was thrilled. That was, just precisely, how she wanted to be able to approach it, forever and always.

"The same as swinging a fist, I should think," she agreed without thinking. Too pleased to hear words of such conviction and star-struck besides to have considered what she said before it left her mouth. Even after she didn't reflect on it at all; her mind had already moved on.

Then Mrs. Ibutatu continued, and Cerise couldn't help it--she laughed out loud, sharp and bright and entirely too big for the room and the occasion. They don't let you do that in sporting matches, she almost said, but was too busy laughing to form the words. Sometimes Cerise wished you could; but that kind of pettiness was hard to bring to the mona, too, so she did her best to let it go when it came time. She could always pick it back up again later. She thought of some of her pettier revenges and her laughter stopped, but a smile remained.

As her laughter subsided, Cerise went to feel for Sish, only to remember that the miraan had flown up to perch on the sculpture on the mantle. The secretly-pious statue, that she was absolutely positive Diana hated and mysteriously refused to admit as much. Cerise shifted in her seat and turned to look: the miraan was gone. Nor was she anywhere in Cerise's immediate sight.

She was allowed to wander the house, of course; Cerise had never stopped her. (She had a feeling others in the household might disagree.) It was just that Sish tended to stay closer to her than further away, and not being able to find her made her suddenly uneasy. She looked about the room, but without getting up and wandering around it was difficult to tell if she was truly not in it or merely behind a piece of furniture.

Cerise really, really hoped she hadn't found Ellie's spider--for one thing, because she wasn't entirely certain it wasn't venomous, and for another, because she rather thought Sish might try to eat it and that it would break poor Ellie's heart.

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

H
ave you ever seen a stinkbug, Mr. Phileander?” asked Eleanor in her low, wavering voice, her wide blue eyes for little Phil and nobody else. “They look like harmless little beasts, don’t they? Like little knights with leafy shields on their backs – of course, the gland that produces the ‘stink’, on the insect’s underbelly, is what we call a defense mechanism…”

It was difficult to focus on Eleanor and Phileander, just now, but Diana rather thought they were in good hands, with Chrysanthe sitting by so patiently. “Why?” the voice piped up, every now and then, and –

“Well – p...p-perhaps, Mr. Phileander – to us, they destroy many stonefruit crops in a year; why, Mr. Gilliam Harrowbottom, that’s a boy in my Insects of Lower Hox course” – Eleanor’s voice just wavered on boy, and Diana saw her straighten her spectacles – “his father’s orchards have been wretchedly affected by the migration patterns, you see, of…”

“Why?”

She smiled at Francoise, rather wondering that she had never known Aurelien’s wife had such a passion for spectating a duel – or spectating Mrs. Ibutatu’s duels, at any rate. Rather wondering, too, that in all the time she had known the young lady – nearly since he had married her; why, Anatole had been one of the first to hear of it, in those days – she had been the picture of feminine grace, and utterly unmarked by any sort of scandal.

That was not to say that Mrs. Ibutatu was a scandalous presence, or particularly lacking in feminine grace. Taking another sip of tea, altogether unable to hide her smile now, Diana studied the woman.

She had expected the immediate response, and she had half wondered if Mrs. Ibutatu would leave it there. At times, she seemed quite laconic. But she went on, thoughtful, and Diana found herself kindling with a little pride – though she dared not smile at Cerise, for fear of breaking the spell.

She had thought she would find it objectionable, all of it, this sharing of dueling stories in front of her girls. But none of it seemed to her bad advice; there was nothing ignoble here, just as there had been nothing ignoble on Clock’s Eve.

“Oh,” she gasped softly, a hand over her mouth. She was not sure whether to reprimand Cerise for saying such a thing. A swung fist! To embarrass her in company –

But then Mrs. Ibutatu spoke again, this time nothing less than scandalously, and Cerise was laughing the most dreadful laugh.

Diana laughed, too. It was not a soft, ladylike laugh. It was rather more like a bark; she was surprised to hear it that it had come from her.

She had been taking a sip of tea, and she narrowly avoided snorting it. The teacup clicked only slightly as she lowered it to the saucer, clearing her throat.

“I cannot but agree with the sentiment,” she reflected, her voice quite as controlled and enunciated as it had been all afternoon. “And perhaps, too, the execution.” She pressed her lips thin, thoughtful, to hide another smile.

The Bastian, she thought, was a scandalous presence – and that was precisely the issue. She did not lack feminine grace in the least; she was, perhaps, Diana thought, rather overflowing with a sort of feminine – grace. But she was quite scandalous nonetheless, and Diana could not be sure how she felt about any of it. Certainly not about the afternoon tea’s influence on her daughters, one of whom had just admitted to physical violence in polite company, only for Mrs. Ibutatu to recount dashing wine on a diplomat.

She glanced up to the mantle – the miraan’s presence rather exemplified everything that was wrong with this afternoon – only to find the black-lacquered antlers empty. She glanced away quickly; she did not think any of the other ladies had seen it.

She hoped not, at any rate. She did not dare look at Cerise.

Amaryllis’ seat was still quite empty; her teacup no longer steamed on the side-table. “Excuse me, ladies,” she said, setting her teacup to one side and rising to her feet with, she thought, an adequately elegant motion.

“How did it end?” She heard Eleanor ask, quite suddenly, as she passed into the dim hall.

There was a small noise of protest.

“A moment, Mr. Phileander,” Eleanor said. “I shall tell you all about the stink chemical in a moment. But – Mrs. Ibutatu – how did the duel end?”

Diana could not be sure if it was a rude question or not. Tucked just out of sight behind the grandfather clock, she paused in her step; covering her mouth with a hand, she listened.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

Phileander’s eyes were wide and glowing; he was all absorption.

Chrysanthe had started calling him stinkbug when he was a bit under two and old enough to understand the words, mainly on account of the rather vigorously awful smells he had produced on a variety of occasions. She could not say she had ever thought much about the bug itself.

“Auntie Chrissy caws me stinkbug,” Phileander told Eleanor, proudly. Then, as she went on about the insect’s migratory patterns, “Why?”

With half an ear, Chrysanthe could still listen to the conversation across the room. She could have sworn Cerise said something about swinging a fist, although it seemed odd in the context of dueling. Niccolette had said, thoughtfully and even-toned, that she would have liked to throw a fuller glass of wine on the Da Huane, and Chrysanthe had grinned, quite unable to hide it; she was not alone. Cerise was laughing, full-throated and vigorous, and a peek over told Chrysanthe that Diana was laughing too. Francoise was smiling, a broad, bright sort of smile.

The conversation might have gone on, then, if not for Eleanor’s question.

She won, Chrysanthe wanted to say, vigorously. Can’t you see it in every inch of her, that she must have won? She looked over too; Phileander was shifting all about in her lap, and she patted his back absently, and pressed the piece of bread he had dropped into his hands. There was half of a whine, but he absorbed himself in the careful mashing up of it, evidently no longer hungry.

Chrysanthe had heard only the barest hint of the duel, at first. It had taken her rather a long time to learn about it because she had not, then, known of Uzoji’s death; it had never occurred to her that Niccolette was a widow. A friend had mentioned it at tea on a ten, one of the girls she still kept up with from Brunnhold, and Chrysanthe had been politely interested, as one was meant to be of any sort of scandalous happening – although, of course, they had been more interested in discussing how differently duels were discussed, socially, when one of the duelists was a woman, and how, so often, men seemed inclined to think there must be some sort of a sexual motive. Even widow, she remembered her friend saying, thoughtful, brought to mind such misogynistic stereotypes.

Only later had she learned the woman in question had been Mrs. Ibutatu; she had, then, been much more desirous of knowing all the details of the duel in question.

Niccolette turned and looked at Eleanor. Chrysanthe watched her; she thought they all watched her. She was sorry Amaryllis had missed this; her sister had been gone rather long enough that Chrysanthe had no doubt what she was doing, and that was bad enough, but to have missed this discussion made it, somehow, worse.

“He had cast a sort of light bending spell,” Niccolette said, thoughtful. “I was on the ground as the result of a gravity spell in the wake of the thunderbolt; I suppose he hoped I would be unable to cast again. I was not; I stood up, and tried a night vision spell to find him, although I cannot say it was entirely successful,” Her lips came together, although there was no amusement that Chrysanthe could see on her face just now.

Niccolette went on. Chrysanthe straightened back; she had leaned forward too much, and produced a faint irritated squeak from Phileander, who went back to busily shredding oddly wet bread crumbs all over her lap.

“He cast again; he backlashed,” Niccolette said. “It was over then, of course, though the points remained three to two. I cast on him again – an anesthesia spell, first – he was on the ground, as well, by then, and then a weals spell,” She had picked up her teacup again; one finger tapped lightly against it, “as a reminder.”

Chrysanthe shivered; she looked away. She was upright now, not bent forward. She shifted; she took a deep breath. She was not sure, anymore, that she was so sorry Amaryllis was not here. She had known how the duel with the Da Huane ended, but – to hear Niccolette saying it had struck her rather harder than she expected.

“Why do they stink?” Phileander asked again, rather loudly.

Somehow in the midst of the silence that had followed Niccolette’s comment, it made Chrysanthe giggle. She covered her mouth with her hand, swallowing, and took a deep breath. “He’s very demanding,” she said to Eleanor with a smile, looking down at Phileander once more. “Aren’t you, stinkbug?”

“I have gwands on my tummy!” Phileander pronounced. He pressed himself in the torso with crumb-covered hands, and made a rather inappropriate noise with his mouth.

Chrysanthe was laughing again, her shoulders shaking, trying desperately to stifle it in her hand.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown
Bethas 29, 2720 - Afternoon Teatime

There was the strangest sound coming from Diana's direction. It took Cerise a moment to place it, for one because she had been in the middle of laughing when she heard it, and for another because it sounded distinctly like her stepmother had also been laughing. Not a delicate titter either, although certainly she wasn't as loud or unrestrained as Cerise was being. It wasn't even the one Cerise probably heard most often, the kind of polite laugh that said "you and I will be discussing this later, young lady". A real, honest-to-Alioe laugh, at the idea of Mrs. Ibutatu regretting only that she hadn't doused Heye Da Huane with more wine than she had. Chrysanthe and Mrs. Rochambeaux were smiling too, and even Ellie had turned to pay attention to the part of the conversation that didn't pertain to bugs. For the first time that entire afternoon, Cerise found herself feeling oddly at ease.

Diana left the room then, which was almost disappointing. Cerise had been sort of hoping to see whether or not this odd streak in her stepmother would stick, or if that had been all. Still, she supposed someone should go check on Amaryllis--Cerise just assumed that's where Diana was going, although she wasn't sure.

For once, Cerise managed to keep her mouth shut. She didn't tell her sister the obvious--that Mrs. Ibutatu had won the duel. The assumedly very educational discussion of bugs with a baby was all well and good, but Cerise was privately pleased to see her sister ask something of the adults in the room. Her mouth couldn't quite find a smile to express the sentiment, and if she opened it she thought it would betray her no matter her intentions, so she just listened rather intently for the answer.

Way to go, Ellie! The question had brought up more details than Cerise had expected--more than she had known to ask for. Light bending and gravity, in the wake of the thunderbolt. Cerise made mental note of the unsuccessful night-vision spell--she wondered what about it hadn't worked, but it had set some small part of the back of her mind that was always occupied with strategy spinning into motion.

Cerise's eyebrows raised, and she thought again of the strength of Mrs. Ibutatu's field, and the sharp heat of it even though all she was doing was sitting in their parlor telling an amusing anecdote. A reminder. Cerise was dying to know just what it was that had earned such a reminder, but had the common sense not to ask. No matter how curious she was. She found that she didn't want Mrs. Ibutatu to think too poorly of her, and prying into business she had not mentioned seemed a sure enough way to accomplish that.

Of course there was one person in the room who still was not interested in hearing anything about Mrs. Ibutatu's exploits. Phileander made that fact known, and loudly--he only wanted to hear about stinkbugs, apparently. Well, she couldn't exactly blame him. There was much less interest in this story for him, after all.

Children, Cerise thought, were very strange. And possibly those who spent too much time in their company, because Chrysanthe seemed to find the noises Phileander was making far more amusing than Cerise would have expected. They were fine, she thought; maybe there was something here that she couldn't quite grasp. She was happy to see Chrysanthe laugh, though. She had seemed a little tense when she came in--likely on account of her rather drastic haircut, though possibly something else. What did Cerise know, after all? She hadn't seen her stepmother's cousins in years. It was just good to see her settling in.

A flicker of gold movement caught Cerise's eye; she had found Sish at last. The miraan was somewhere near the ceiling, on top of a particularly tall curio cabinet. Unfortunately, Cerise thought she might also have found Eleanor's spider. Sish hadn't seen it yet, she didn't think, or at the least if she had no decision as to whether or not she would try to eat it had been made. Cerise turned to her sister and lowered her voice.

"Say, Ellie, the er... The spider you mentioned, the... Wakesho silk-weaver, or whatever it was. Are they... poisonous?"