Misdirected

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Tom Cooke
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Sun Jun 23, 2019 9:34 am

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
For whatever else he was, Tom had never been a poor hand at reading people. He knew immediately that something had happened, but he wasn’t sure what. She was good – fair good – but there was still something effortful about the way she was meeting his eye, something oddly withdrawn about her body language. He went over what he’d said. Wondered if he should’ve made that mung little comment after all. Thought again, carefully, about what he’d been doing with his face. Tried and failed to picture it.

When the life crept back into her eyes, he found himself forgetting about it. Now, he was perched on the edge of the seat, leaning in to listen despite himself. To have something to do with his hands, if nothing else, he took his teacup back from the table; he ran one fingertip around the rim absently.

At the news that they’d parted ways two years ago, his eyes widened faintly. A few of the pieces slid together in his head. As he rose to your – position – Tom suddenly thought about D’Arthe and Azmus and all those other faces sitting around the table, reminded again of the looming threat of Hamis; he felt the pulse of somebody else’s heart in his throat. In what circles had he suddenly risen? What did all this mean? It was like a tapestry full of holes, but he was starting to make out the shadow of an image.

A guilty –

“Oh,” he breathed without meaning to, a timid little noise. She didn’t finish that phrase. He nearly fumbled his teacup.

Suddenly, Ava got up. Out of instinct – forgetting himself entirely – Tom rose, too, setting the cup back on the table with an awkward clatter and starting to move. Then he froze. He stayed quiet as he watched her turn and take a few steps away. The sight of her fingers curled tight around the fabric of her skirts, the bowed line of her shoulders – he opened his mouth as if to say something, then clamped it shut.

Her breath caught, and so did his. To his surprise, he realized she’d let out a sob. He stood silently, fingertips trembling on the arm of the chair, as if he couldn’t decide whether he was sitting or standing. Then he sank back down. Tears prickled at the edges of his own eyes; there was wetness down both of his cheeks, and though he burned with embarrassment, he knew it was pointless to wipe them away. His fingers curled tightly around the upholstery on the arm of the chair.

“’Course, ’course.” He tried to sound light and easy, but his voice came out shaky, too-high. “If you want me t’ go an’ come back another time,” he offered, “or –” Tom broke off, looking down at the teapot and milk and sugar situated neatly on the tray, at the two half-full cups opposite each other on either side. Finally, he wiped at his face with a palm, sniffing and wincing at the sound. He shook his head. “I been goin’ so long, I forgot. A stranger askin’ you all these questions, when – hell, maybe you had questions for me. We don’t got to do nothin’ right now, nothin’ you don’t want to. Nothin’ but sit an’ drink tea.”

The bitterness of the tea clung to his mouth with its faint, pleasant twist of spices. Their names swirled around in his head; he found himself repeating them like a mantra to calm himself: cinnamon, cardamom, orange peel... It was a little on the bitter side, but he didn’t mind. He couldn’t help but feel like his life had carved him into a blunt weapon, and here, damn him, he needed to be anything but. He’d got so swept up in the news that he’d forgot the two of them had not long ago been standing opposite each other at the counter, trembling like brittle branches in the wind, just on the verge of breaking.

No, he thought. This wasn’t the time for clocking reconnaissance. For right now, this business was for the hatchers. In the surreal, warm space of the back room, Uptown Vienda might as well have been Anhau. Right now, he wasn’t much in the mood to hear about what Anatole’d been up to, either; there’d be time for all that rubbish later, when both of them felt more up to it. Even getting used to it – what she’d so elegantly called this – either of them – was going to be an uphill battle, if it was one that could be won at all. Start small, he thought, taking a deep breath.

“It’s a clockin’ mess, I know,” he said softly. “Let it be a mess. It’s all right, rosh. Feel whatever you’re feelin’.”

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Ava Weaver
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Sun Jun 23, 2019 3:30 pm

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
T
here was a moment - just a moment - when Ava thought Tom was going to come and try to comfort her. The wave of revulsion that swept through her hurt like a blow, and she shuddered, keeping her face turned away from him. He held himself back at the couch, and Ava was grateful for it.

Tom spoke, Anatole’s voice high and trembling in a way it had never been in life, and Ava heard him sniffle. She didn’t turn to look; she wasn’t sure if she could bear the sight of tears on Anatole’s face, and she thought, for Tom’s sake, it was best not to acknowledge them anyway. Was he crying for her? For himself? Ava didn’t know and wouldn’t ask, if she even could have through the series of soft sobs throbbing against the hand pressed into her mouth.

Tom walked back his questions, gracefully, offering Ava an out, or at the very least a postponement. Ava sniffled, hating the sound, and realized her handkerchief was still out in the main shop. She thought enviously of the elegant single tear that had rolled down her cheek earlier; what was happening now was not delicate, shaky feminine tears, but ugly weeping, the sort that echoed from deep inside her chest. Ava wasn’t sure when she had last wept like this, before today. She thought it best not to try and remember.

Tom was still speaking, or speaking again, telling her it was okay, telling her to let herself feel. Ava took the best breath she could, shaky and uncertain, and then, when she could, took another one. Before too long she had stopped sobbing, and lowered her hand, slowly. Ava reached inside herself, looking for the burning ember of anger that lived there. Slowly, slowly, Ava fed her pain to that anger like kindling, building it up into a steady blaze that warmed her throughout and helped her find a place of calm. She straightened up, slowly. There was nothing shaky about her breathing now; she was as still and calm as if she hadn’t been sobbing raggedly just a few minutes ago.

Ava touched her fingers to her cheeks and they came away smeared with kohl. She let out a little sigh, wishing she’d wiped the make up off rather than tried to touch it up. The anger was still hot beneath her breastbone, and it gave her the strength she needed to turn back towards Tom.

“Excuse me,” Ava‘s voice was little more than a whisper. She stepped past him, out into the main shop, and came back with the handkerchief in hand, dabbing at her cheeks. She couldn’t quite clean her face with just a handkerchief, but she could - and did - wipe the worst of the mess away, leaving just a few black smears and clumps clinging to swollen and red-rimmed eyes. She looked at Tom again, sitting in Anatole’s body wrapped in her robe, and summoned a smile, soft and wan - but it reached her eyes.

“I am sorry,” Ava said, ruefully. She took her seat again, slowly, folding the black-smeared handkerchief and setting it on the table. “It is too much, at least for - for today.” She was quiet, picking up the tea again and taking another small sip. It didn’t taste as bad now, even though, cooler, it should have. Perhaps it was only that she was thirsty, her throat aching from the tears.

“But,” Ava said, firmly, holding the tea cup gently in her hands once more. She looked at Tom, face set. “There are things I want to tell you, about - him. And I will, when I can.” It was the best she could do; Ava knew better than to push herself further today. It was somehow still morning, and she felt exhausted already.

“Would you -“ Ava hesitated slightly. She had no real right to ask, none at all, but then, at what point would they move past that, the two of them? “I’d like to hear about you, if it isn’t too painful. Tom Cooke of Old Rose Harbor,” Ava smiled again, slow and soft. “Lover of the not-so-fair sex,” her lips curled up a little more, a teasing sort of smile. “Now,” Ava continued, “or whenever you feel ready, if you ever do.”

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Tom Cooke
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Sun Jun 23, 2019 8:34 pm

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
After he’d spoken, he sat quietly, looking down at the tea tray between them. He knew that kind of weeping, knew how it made him feel; the silence that followed was shaky and awkward, but he wasn’t going to be the one to say nothin’. Felt like he’d seen something he shouldn’t’ve, though she’d seen more than enough of the same from him. Wouldn’t’ve known what to say, anyway. They were tough enough in their separate ways, and he felt like there was an understanding. If you didn’t see it, then neither did I.

Still, when she excused herself and left the room, he sighed silently with relief. He felt like he’d deflated. To be honest, he mostly just wanted space, if only for a second or two. Wanted eyes off him, wanted not to have to worry about what the lines on Anatole’s face were doing with his – his, rightfully his – expressions.

She came back in, then, swabbing imperfectly at her face with the kerchief, and he didn’t look at her. Couldn’t say the sight of those puffy eyes, kohl-smeared, the mascara that still clumped on her lashes – couldn’t say it didn’t surprise him. But this game of Rooks, at least, he’d been playing for a long time; his eyes didn’t widen a fraction, and his face was carefully blank.

When she sat down, he settled back himself, taking his cup of tea off the table. This time, he drew his legs up with him, shifting around and crossing them underneath him. Slouched, he watched her intently from across the table, listening as she started speaking again. He didn’t say anything, but he shook his head gently when she apologized. He met her eye steadily when she said and I will, when I can, and nodded – once, firmly.

He wasn’t ready, himself, not yet. He hoped that he’d be ready by the time she was, if either of them ever were.

Tom hadn’t been expecting her next request, and his eyebrows shot up. Then she named him, with that quirk of her lip – Tom Cooke of Old Rose Harbor, lover of the not-so-fair sex – an honest description if he’d ever heard one, though maybe not the one he’d’ve picked for himself way back when – and he couldn’t help but smile. It was a slightly embarrassed smile: he blushed.

But if he ever hoped to paint himself over Anatole’s canvas, he had to make himself visible.

“’Course,” he said again. “Ain’t much to tell, is there? But I don’t mind talkin’ about it.” He frowned, sitting up suddenly and meeting her eye with an earnest look. “Would you do somethin’ for me, madam, while I tell you? Somethin’ small. Would you close your eyes? I want you to see me.”

To show her he meant what he said, he closed his own eyes; he knew it meant he wouldn’t see if she closed hers, but he didn’t care. He took a deep breath, then another long sip of his cooling tea, cradling the cup in his lap in one hand and covering the top with his other. It was as if he wanted to borrow all the warmth he could from it before it was as cold as him, to give him the strength to know where to start. His brow knit in concentration.

“I was just a tough,” he admitted, though he carefully omitted for whom he’d been working. “I was livin’ until last year, I don’t know when – sometime in the summer, ’cause I’d just turned thirty. On the nineteenth of Hamis, which is comin’ up, I reckon, though nobody knows it’s my day. I was born in the rain, see? So this season’s my favorite. All its blue-green, madam, like that silk. That was the color of my hama’s eyes, too,” he added, cautious; still, the mention of Taufiq suffused his voice with warmth. “Man I loved the most in the world had green eyes.

“Bah, well. I grew up with the tumbles in Sharkswell, bein’ the son of one”
– there wasn’t an ounce of shame in his voice – “an’ I was a pickpocket ’til I found my, ah – callin’.” The word had a wry twist; again, he declined to unpack it. “Qalqa’s qalqa. Put food on the table for ma an’ my brother. Let’s see, ah… Loved cats, I did, an’ fed all the strays in Sharkswell an’ the Fords. Had a hell of a temper an’ loved a fight – got tossed out of half the bars in the Rose, I reckon – an’ didn’t often lose, bein’ six an’ a half feet tall. Bet you can’t believe that, now.”

It was a slight exaggeration about his height, maybe, possibly, by just a couple inches, but who’d blame him for it? He paused for a little while, thinking.

Suddenly he asked, “Ms. Weaver, do you like the rain? You knew what color I meant soon as I said it, you did.” Again, it was full of warmth, if a little embarrassment at himself, at the almost childish sincerity with which he’d asked.
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Ava Weaver
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Mon Jun 24, 2019 7:18 am

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
Ava was pleased - very pleased - with the wave of oddly delicate color that washed up in Anatole’s cheeks, Tom’s blush everything she had hoped for from her little tease. It wasn’t quite as fun as the burst of snort-capped laughter their conversation had elicited from him earlier, but she hadn’t been as ready to appreciate it - him - then. For Ava, it wasn’t so much that she was unwilling to laugh at life’s oddities as that there was no one, really, she could joke about them with, not without exposing far too much of herself.

At least, there hadn’t been anyone. Now, maybe, there was one, and he was utterly unexpected. Perhaps his knack of it was something she could learn; sitting on her own couch, drained and empty from weeping, Ava thought - maybe.

Tom met her eyes again for perhaps the first time since she’d come back into the room - and asked her to close them. Ava blinked once, and then she understood. Tom’s eyes closed, an oddly fragile sign of trust, and Ava found herself struck still for a moment, breath catching in her throat. She studied him for a long moment, watching him lift the tea and take an easy, comfortable sip, wondering how long it had taken him to learn the contours of a new body, wondered if the knowledge of how far to lift the cup was instinctual or painstakingly self-taught.

Ava’s eyes fluttered closed as well. She lifted her own cup to her lips, as if checking how easily it came, and took a small, silent sip of her tea. Anatole’s voice came slowly - Tom’s voice, Tom had made it his own, with his broad accent and the casual Tek. With her eyes closed, it was easier to see.

Ava let go of the thinking, and just - listened. He deserved at least that. She smiled at the soft echo of warmth as Tom touched at the edges of the man he’d loved, skirting the issue with too much delicacy not to be hiding pain. She smiled again, a little self-satisfied, when Tom insisted he’d been tall, extremely tall, and seemed to stop just a little bit short of calling himself the toughest man in the Rose.

The silence between them didn’t feel so strained anymore.

“I was born in the Rose too,” Ava said simply. It was easier now. She didn’t know if it was having her eyes closed or Tom’s own admissions, but words made unfamiliar by the passage of too much time and too many layers of disguise flowed easily. “Yes, I knew the color you meant, even if I couldn’t understand why he would ask for it. I used to -“ a faint catch of breath, smoothed out almost in the same instance that it had stopped, “sit and watch the rain in Vienda. It’s not the same, is it?”

Born in the Rose. Ava went over her own unguarded words in her mind, trying to think them through. As a girl she would have said grown up in the Rose; by twelve she had considered herself fully grown, although the harsh years that had followed had taught her how untrue that was. In some ways, most ways - for a time she would have said all ways - Ava Weaver was a creation of Vienda. But the Rose was still in her, and, perhaps for the first time since she had had her freedom, Ava wondered if she ought to visit. It couldn’t be more than a visit, not anymore, but - perhaps.

Ava had questions, many questions, if she were honest. Why Anatole? Why his body? How? What had Tom been doing, these last six, seven months? Had he taken up Anatole’s life straight away or had he tried to find his old one again? How was he managing with Diana? Ava had a feeling she knew the answer to that last one, looking back on her fabric showing in the Vauquelin’s home. But in this moment Ava wanted to talk about Tom Cooke the man, not all the rest of it. Let them save that for another time; it would come, of that Ava was sure. With her eyes closed, at least she could hold it off a little longer.

“Do you remember that flood in 2705?” Ava smiled, something soft stirring in her chest, the long lost memory rising unbidden to her lips. Perhaps it was thinking of Caina that had brought it back. She felt calm and cool, as if nothing could touch her anymore. “There was that awful, wonderful storm in Loshis. I was a little girl then, and the waters were as tall as I was,” There was a faint longing in her voice, barely perceptible, tucked beneath the broad sound of her smile. “I loved watching them rush along. We made little boats from - whatever we could find, twigs and leaves and bits of cloth and string, and set them racing down the street.”

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Tom Cooke
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Mon Jun 24, 2019 10:44 pm

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
At first, it was a little awkward. Tom’d never been too good at letting his guard down – at least not physically, and in such a simple, all-encompassing way as keeping his eyes shut around a near-stranger. It was like wandering through Voedale without a knife at your belt, he reckoned; it was like backing into a dark room. His words’d come fair slow at first, and his neck’d prickled, not knowing if her eyes were on him, not knowing where she was, not knowing what expression she had on her face. More than once, he’d been tempted to steal a look.

But a promise was a promise. When he’d done speaking, he swallowed tightly, wondering, waiting. Couldn’t help the spasm of nerves across the left side of his face, the flutter of his eyelid as he fought to keep it squeezed shut. Then Ava spoke, and he couldn’t help the simple, open grin that tore across his face.

It was like the storm had broken, pelting them with warm rain. They were talking.

“I knew you was from the Rose, I did! I knew you was.” His tone was suffused with a sort of self-satisfied pleasure, but also with the relieved familiarity of somebody who’s just realized they have something very dear in common with a stranger.

As she continued, his smile flickered just a hair. Who’d talk about the flood in 2705 with that kind of voice? “Wasn’t such a good, uh, time for me,” he admitted cautiously – there wasn’t any anger in his tone, but it was confused, reserved. He’d been sixteen, and the whirl of memories it brought up from the mist! The flooded tenement hall, the damned hardship of running messages to and fro from Berret Park – and that old fish smell everywhere, even in Marcus’ shop, when Carlisle’d sent him to shake down the… First time I ever killed a man was that year. Wasn’t something to dwell on, that memory.

Still, the image Ava’s words had painted, little ramshackle boats bobbing on the skin of the water, the streets lost beneath the muddy grey tide, had brought something to the front of his mind. Something that’d just about slipped away from him in-between two lives, like so many things had. But it hadn’t, after all.

“Ah, shit. That was the year o’ the hat.” The smile crept back into his voice. His hands fidgeted a little around his teacup, and he shifted in his seat, leaning on the arm. Curling up, almost, like he might’ve at the house in the Fords, talking to Caina or Ish late into the night. He found himself gesturing with a hand as he spoke, even though he knew she couldn’t see him. More loose, more comfortable in his skin, because he knew she couldn’t see him. “Uh – I was still livin’ with Meggie an’ Clarke, an’ we were on the second floor. Shared a little flat with a couple o’ families from Bastia. Most o’ the buildin’ was Bastians, see, some of ’em that used to be farmers – hell, I knew an old man remembered Edelagne – but the important thing is, this moony Bastian kov named Morandi lived downstairs, a little ways down the hall.

“Now, most of us had kin, but he was by himself. Kept to himself, too. I think he worked in one o’ the factories. He wore this hat, though – I think it’d been some kind o’ cap sometime, but by then, it was less of a hat an’ more of a fuckin’ shape.”
At the word, his voice broke with stifled laughter, but he moved on swiftly: “Don’t know why, but he loved that thing. One year, as a joke, half of us took up a little collection fund to get him a new one – an’ he didn’t want it!

“Well, I woke up one mornin’ durin’ Loshis, when the waters were highest – everybody downstairs’d been yellin’ their fuckin’ heads off, like they was watchin’ a race. Heard it even above the rains. So we all creep over to the window an’ look out, an’ down there, where the water’s lappin’ at the brick, this rumpled brown thing just goes floatin’ by.”
A little snort. “An’ we hear somebody yell, ‘My cap!’ But, see, down on the first floor, folks’re leaned out their windows, tryin’ to get Morandi’s cap with whatever they’d got – I think somebody’d even got out a godsdamn shepherd’s hook…

“Never got it back, though,” he finished, voice getting almost contemplative. “Morandi had to get a new cap. Wonder where it is now.” For awhile, he was quiet; then his brow knit. Something’d just sunk in. “With your little boats o’ cloth an’ twigs an’ twine,” he said softly, “you really were jus’ a boch, weren’t you?” He propped his head up on a hand.

For some reason, he’d thought she was his age. His real age, that was – maybe a little younger, granted, maybe just a couple maw, but not by much. It took a hell of a lot of restraint not to open his eyes for just a half-second, just long enough to see that face again, even with its smudged kohl. When he thought of her, he thought of the way she did her face up – even, symmetrical eyeliner; meticulous – the way she held herself, all poise and grace. He’d just thought—

When he’d been a lad of sixteen, when he’d bloodied his hands, when he’d found Hawke, she’d been – how old? Captivated by the rain. A little girl, the waters as tall as her. He tried to chart the time between then and now, tried to find an Ava between the present and the distant past. Picturing her as a little girl was hard enough, but picturing the time in-between was still harder. He wanted to know, and at the same time, he didn’t.

Suddenly, he felt like it might be best to change the subject. He took another long sip of tea, and sighed. “No, it ain’t the same in Vienda. I never came here, when I was alive – never left the Rose, bein’ honest. It’s all so – different – new. Everythin’. He wrinkled his nose.
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Ava Weaver
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Tue Jun 25, 2019 4:50 am

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
At first, it was easy. There was clear happiness in Tom’s voice, mingled with the wondering tone of relief, and Ava was glad she’d told him. Her next offer – the first, tentative beginnings of a cherished memory, the first good one she had made in their new home in those last years before things had changed in a way that couldn’t fail to spoil what had come before – was met with reluctance. Ava stiffened, setting her cup down on the table she had to fumble to find, as softly as she could. One hand reached down to the couch, fingers digging softly, silently into the cushion beside her.

She couldn’t see his face. She never would – not Tom’s – but even on Anatole’s there were cues, enough to let her read something into the hesitation. With only his voice, Ava couldn’t tell… was he upset? Angry? Had he lost someone in the flood? Ava realized, with a jarring little shock of perspective, that she knew very little about what the flood had been like in the Rose overall. She had only been a little girl, and her life had been strange and confusing enough, at least relative to what she knew. She hadn’t thought much about the world beyond her home and neighbors, and there, though the waters were high, no one had been…

Ava’s fingers tightened a little more on the cushion, and the silence that beat between them felt to her hot and tight. Without even Anatole’s face, she couldn’t hope to know if it was the same for Tom. Her eyes flickered, once, the urge to open them almost irresistible.

And then Tom spoke again, and Ava – if she stopped and let herself just listen – could tell he was smiling again. She relaxed as well, with a soft, tiny exhalation of breath she hoped would go unnoticed, eyes still closed. He was a pleasure to listen to; the more he spoke, the less she could hear Anatole. There was a faint rustling of fabric, but Ava didn’t think he was getting up; she didn’t think it was enough for that. She folded her hands back into her lap. Meggie and Clarke – Tom had mentioned a mother and a brother, and Ava filed the names away. Meggie Cooke, and her sons Tom and Clarke – from what Tom had said, then Ava doubted Tom had taken his father’s name. Ava understood; she hadn’t either, and even her mother’s name she had left behind, long ago.

Ava smiled along with the story, enjoying the broad flow of Tom’s words as much as what he was actually saying. “Oh, no,” Ava protested faintly at the news that the hat had been taken. She didn’t giggle – it wasn’t that sort of story – but, deliberately, she let something like laughter creep into her tone. It was easy enough; the story really was funny. Poor Morandi, yes, but the thought of someone reaching into the flood waters with a shepherd’s hook – and the bright note of Tom’s suppressed laughter – it wasn’t hard to make her voice light.

Ava shifted a little at the question that wasn’t a question, wondering what Tom meant. They were both from the Rose, but – well – they had had different lives, back then too. “Yes,” Ava admitted. Just a boch; a little child, ignorant of the world around her. “The flood wasn’t anything more to me than the streets outside being full of water. We stayed indoors – we played – some of the men in the neighborhood rigged lines between the windows, so that we could send a basket to the shop and get food back. The bochs across the street saw our boats,” there was a faint thread of laughter in her voice, “and sent a basket for me to come show them how to fix theirs up. We had fabric – I went, they pulled me over the flood waters on those lines, tucked in a basket with my handful of scraps. It was like flying! It was wonderful,” Ava sighed, a soft, wistful noise. “I got such a tanning, and by the time I was allowed out again, the waters had – receded,” something else crept into her voice, beneath the surface, at the thought of her uncle – his switch – curled up alone on her little cot – her mother’s disappointment – mixing with memories of years to come that hadn’t been a part of her then. The word receded felt odd and foreign on her tongue.

Ava held herself still, held her eyes closed, trembling on the couch. She reached for the tea cup and nearly missed; it clattered against the table, and then she picked it up and lifted it to her mouth, taking a small sip. The silence seemed sharper for the noise, even swallowed up as it was by the soft fabrics that lined the walls.

It seemed Tom felt it too, maybe sensed it or heard it, the quiet that had come over her. There was another tone she couldn’t place in his voice. Frustration, maybe? Ava felt like she was guessing, fumbling in the self-imposed dark, but she was oddly reluctant to break the fragile moment. She felt less embarrassed than she might have expected by how much of herself she had shown already. What was worse was how much she still felt for that little girl, how much joy there was in the memory of sailing over the floodwaters, and the aching hurt of the punishment that had followed.

“It is different,” Ava said, “but I think it’s the Rose that’s different, not Vienda. I’ve never been to Brunnhold or – well, anywhere other than Vienda and the Rose, but I imagine…” she was quiet, gauging how far to go. There were still secrets she wouldn’t share, nor even hint at if she could help it. It hadn’t escaped her notice either how reluctant Tom was to name who he’d been a tough for, which meant either it was something deeply shameful or else he’d been a Bad Brother. Drain didn’t seem likely, not if he’d been thirty when he – died. “Even in the Dives, Vienda is a city for galdori,” Ava said and left it there, taking another small sip of tea.

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Tom Cooke
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Tue Jun 25, 2019 9:02 am

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
It’d pleased him once again to hear all that light in her voice. It’d been such a long time since he’d shared anything like that with anyone, being what he was. As she went on, all baskets and boats, he rose to meet her nostalgic cheer with more of his own. It wasn’t hard for him to put the dark spots in his memory aside, but they didn’t always melt away naturally; it was a conscious effort, but he knew enough about people to know that moments like these were always intentional. He got the sense that this space in time was like a growing seedling, and they were both working hard to cultivate and nurture it. Like gardeners, he reckoned.

It was like flying! It was wonderful.

Tom’s breath caught audibly, and though he flushed with embarrassment, he didn’t regret it. The story was so vivid that for a second, despite her mannered tones, the Ava in front of him melted away, replaced by a little girl he could almost picture. He almost asked, You was a little trickster when you was a boch, wasn’t you? It was on the tip of his tongue; because he couldn’t see her face, because he didn’t know, he sat smiling peacefully in the dark, wondering. Wondering if they’d’ve got on. He’d made a few messes himself, that age, but he’d been a damn sight less – supervised.

In the silence that followed, he was glad he hadn’t, though he couldn’t quite piece together why. That one word, receded, lingered between them like a bad smell. He understood, even if he didn’t know. Something’d hung about I got such a tanning.

The clatter of her cup made him flinch to alertness, and he didn’t manage to relax all the way again. In the dark, he couldn’t tell what it meant, and when she spoke, he couldn’t read her tone. It was all careful-like, somehow. Like she was edging round something, like they were both edging round something.

“Anaxas is for the gollies, except for the Rose,” he replied, with not much of anything in his tone. At first, it was carefully, practicedly nonchalant, as if he meant to suggest he was just making commentary on an immovable reality; it was as if he simply didn’t care. “Right you are. I never realized, ’cause I never left, hey? I had a – I was a free man, there, I was. Didn’t owe shit to no godsdamn galdor, neither. Wasn’t like I didn’t know the way things was, but--”

There was a lot he could’ve said, a lot he suddenly wanted to say. He got the sudden urge to tell her everything, and it frightened him, because he’d never told anyone everything: he’d always kept the pieces of his life in neat, separate piles, even with Ishma. Ishma hadn’t known half of the things he’d done for Hawke, hadn’t asked; if he’d come home dead quiet, haunted by a butcher’s smell, Ishma’d never wanted to know. He didn’t just want to tell her about his work for Hawke, either. He wanted to bring up Brunnhold, wanted to bring up the Hexxos, Kzecka. Everything he’d learned since he’d become what he was now – all the things he didn’t want to know. The unfairness of it all burned in him, and he wanted to share it, if only for this brief, beautiful space.

Despite himself, a cold, hard anger entered his voice. “Wasn’t – wasn’t always benny, ne – but – he kept the order, didn’t he? He kept shit runnin’.” Nobody from the Rose would need to ask who he was. Tom felt like he was going too far – he’d told her, now, if she hadn’t already guessed – felt like his words were getting away from him on the current of his anger. “An’ everythin’ here – I don’t understand it. Back then, I was jus’ the big mung guy – nobody told me shit, ye chen?”

Tom shifted in his seat again, adjusting her robe. He wasn’t so comfortable, now. There was still a little tea in the cup, chilly though it was now, and he raised it to take a sip. He misjudged the distance, though, and swore as he knocked himself in the jaw; for a handful of seconds, he was just focused on keeping the tea from splattering all over her benny green robe, staining that delicate lace, that he forgot about the delicate porcelain and his indelicate hands--

A startled yelp sounded, followed by a clatter. The spell broke and his eyes came open, but he wasn’t looking at her. Fast as he could kick himself into motion, he was off the sofa and crouched on the floor, brushing bits of broken porcelain together with trembling, tea-stained hands. “I’m – I’m sorry, Ms. Weaver,” he breathed, “I forgot, I wasn’t keepin’ track o’ myself no more – an’ these hands that ain’t mine, an’ your macha cup...”
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Ava Weaver
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Tue Jun 25, 2019 10:16 am

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
Ava thought, perhaps, that there had been something – some noise – in response to her story, but Tom didn’t say anything, and she couldn’t tell, and when he spoke again it was only to change the subject, back to the question she’d asked before. Ava felt oddly insecure. She had chosen the story deliberately, thinking it would amuse him; she had wanted something light between them, to combat all the heaviness. At his story about the hat, she had thought – she had thought she’d succeeded, but his silence made her second guess herself.

Was he smiling with her? Did the thought of her childish, carefree antics amuse him as much as she’d hoped? She hadn’t thought he would laugh; what hung between them was too new, too fragile, for that. Was he resentful, thinking her a spoiled little thing? She had been, then; she understood, now, why her mother had been so disappointed, that it had been fear as much as anger. Had Ava, all unknowing, said something to hurt him? Ava didn’t know Tom well enough to guess, and he had given her nothing.

All the same, Ava probed a little deeper at this new topic, her own words carefully casual. There was as nothing in his tone, as there had been nothing in hers. It was a struggle not to open her eyes. More than anything, Ava wanted to see his face, wanted to see if that left eye of his was twitching with suppressed emotion, if his lips were casual or taut with tension. How could he be so strong and yet just accept that this was the way the world was? How could any of them just accept it? Ava set her cup down again and brought her hands up to her lap, pressed tightly together, a brief, bitter disappointment that she didn’t have to keep off her face welling up through her. She didn’t know, she told herself. She didn’t know. They were all of them, all humans, raised on secrecy; she wasn’t the only one, just deeper in than most. But Tom was steeped in secrets too, and her eyes were closed; she had tied her own hands.

Abruptly, Tom’s voice went hard with familiar anger. It went through her like a knife and Ava’s eyes opened, reflexively more than willfully. She couldn’t hold them shut any longer. She understood what he said and what he hadn’t said as well, what he was telling her about who he’d been. The anger was on his face too, carved into hard familiar lines and Ava squeezed her eyes shut again, wishing she could take it back – wishing she hadn’t seen – the moment of safety was gone, for her, even before she heard a quiet click and then a curse and a yelp and a crash.

Ava’s eyes flew open again and she was half off the sofa before she caught herself, the sight of Anatole crouching on the floor cleaning up shards of china with his bare hands pulling something inside her apart. The only thing that could make it worse was touching him and so she held there, shaking, half-on and half-off, hands gripping the soft fabric to keep her in place. “Stop!” Ava’s voice came out rougher than she wanted. She took a deep breath, dragging herself under control again. “Just – please stop,” Ava stared down at Tom, slowly easing herself back onto the couch, breath catching and quivering in her throat. “It’s – it’s fine, it happens, it’s fine,” she pressed her hands to her face for a moment and lowered them. There was a bit of kohl smeared on one palm, and she held it face up without thinking, not wanting the thick make up to touch her expensive dress.

“Did you cut your – your hands?” Ava asked, softly, lifting her eyes from her own hands to look at his. Not his hands, but the words were out, and Ava hadn’t been able to catch herself in time. Anatole’s hands, but she couldn’t call them that. There was a moment where she wanted to go to him, to take those hands and look at them for herself; she didn’t trust Tom to tell her if they were hurt, Ava realized. She didn’t do it; she didn’t move from the couch. She couldn’t, because they were Anatole’s hands, and she didn’t think she could bear it, kneeling on the floor with Anatole’s hands in hers. She didn’t think Tom would like it any more than she would, and so she kept her distance.

“It’s just a cup,” Ava said softly. It wasn’t true, not really. She had scraped and saved to buy those cups; they were what she used to serve tea to important customers, to the galdori she needed to impress if this little business were to succeed. These weren’t her only two, but she didn’t have many either. In truth, Ava was much less sorry about the breaking of the cup than the breaking of their moment, but – that had come first, and she couldn’t bring herself to let Tom off by telling him so, even if she knew it would be kinder.

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Tom Cooke
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Tue Jun 25, 2019 7:49 pm

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
Ava’s shout speared through his head. He froze, hands flinching away from the little pile of china shards and pale dust.

“It ain’t like it’s glass,” he protested quietly, but he didn’t see any reason to argue the point. Didn’t feel it was particularly wise, considering. As she sank back onto the sofa, he felt her eyes on him and hesitated. She’d called them his hands, though her voice’d caught, like she hadn’t wanted to; the distinction made him prickle all over, made his heart beat a little harder in his ears. He wasn’t able to respond, and he shut his eyes, taking a deep breath in through his nose.

When he opened them, he looked down at those hands. He didn’t turn them over immediately, his eyes catching on the backs of them, your hands echoing in his head. He stared at the delicate knuckles, the freckles, the veins, the light dusting of coppery-red hair. The nails clipped messily to the quick. “’S’fine, madam, no cuts, no cuts,” he muttered in a hurry, even before he’d turned them over. Even then, he could feel the prickling smart on his left palm, up between his ring and middle fingers. When he turned them over, he saw it: a thin red line was welling up.

Wasn’t nothin’ at all, nothin’ to speak of, but he still felt like a godsdamn mung. He colored again, turning his face away to hide it, and then got to his feet. After all that sitting and all that weeping, he felt stiff and bone-tired; he pushed himself up using the table, and he was surprised to glance down and see the smear of blood he left on it. Must’ve nicked himself good. More blood than he’d thought.

Tom looked away from it quickly, clearing his throat, electing to ignore it. Electing – trying with all his heart – to ignore all of what’d just happened, because the shattering of that perfect moment was almost unbearable to think about, and he knew he’d caused it with his clumsy, fumbling raen’s hands. He’d never heard her voice come out so rough, so sudden, so pained. Had he done that to her, startled her by being mung? Busting up benny china she’d probably saved for? Or maybe it’d happened before that, said a thought that flashed through his head, maybe it’d been his manner when he talked about Hawke.

Had he sounded angry? Cold? Had he sounded like—?

He wanted to hide his bloody hand, but he didn’t want to stain that springtime-green cotton, all light and crisp and clean, so he just clasped his hands together and tried to compose himself.

The smile he offered her wasn’t watery or frail; he tried to put as much warmth into it as he was capable of, as much warmth as his face could carry. “Clothes’re probably dry now, or dryer than they were. I think I should go now,” he said tentatively, but not shakily. “It ain’t my way to leave a mess, but, well – I reckon the mess might be worse if I don’t. Listen, I…”

He couldn’t read anything into how she assured him it was just a cup; he couldn’t read everything that assurance meant. So he turned away instead, bending to pick up the pile of mostly-dry clothes, then hesitating. He pawed through the pile, spattering the damp fabric with blood, but he knew he’d left his kerchief in the inside pocket of the heavier coat. “Ah, shit,” he whispered. In spite of the evenness of his earlier words, his voice was getting shakier, strained. He needed to be alone – alone proper – for awhile. A long while, he thought, picturing the window seat in Anatole’s study and that benny view of the streets and the rooftops Uptown. Except now he didn’t want to be in that study, didn’t want to feel through Anatole’s books with Anatole’s hands, didn’t want to drink the brandy he’d bought with Anatole’s wallet.

“My, uh, coat’s still upstairs,” he said, a little too quickly. “Thank you for everythin’, Ms. Weaver, but – ain’t just a cup. I’ll replace it, I will; ’s’only fair.”
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Ava Weaver
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Tue Jun 25, 2019 10:45 pm

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
T
om insisted he wasn’t hurt long before he could have actually know; Ava, watching now, could see him staring at his hands like they were unfamiliar, and say the words before he had actually turned the hands over to check the palms. She held silent, sitting on the couch, and Tom looked away, then after a few moments used the table to push himself up.

Something in Ava ached at the sight, for just a moment, thinking that it must have been terribly hard for him to get used to that, to get used to Anatole’s weaknesses and aches. Maybe not; half-remembered toughs from the Rose who had made it to thirty, or what Ava just would’ve called old then, had plenty of scars to speak of. But she thought so. Maybe by the time he had reached Anatole’s age, he would have been worse. But Tom hadn’t had that chance, had he? He would have been scarred, though, of that Ava was sure. Someone like Tom would be marked by his past, in a way Anatole wasn’t. At least - hadn’t been. She didn’t think Tom would like her to know that.

There was a wet smear on the table. Of course. Porcelain wasn’t glass, no, but it was viciously sharp.

Ava’s lips pursed, and she watched Tom put his hands together, watched him summon up a smile, drag warmth into his voice as he offered, again, to leave. Was it the shattering of the cup? Ava didn’t think so; looking at him, Ava thought it was the shattering of the moment between them, the disappointment of breaking that precious gossamer thing. Ava felt it too, a keen ache in her chest, a sense of longing for something she hadn’t known she wanted.

“Of course,” Ava said, quietly. She didn’t smile back; she didn’t summon a fake one. She could have - she could have if she needed to. She was tired, but not that tired, and smiles that she didn’t mean were something she knew how to do. Funny but... she didn’t feel like she needed to. It was a dangerous feeling, Ava knew, but there it was, and she didn’t smile.

“I’ll get your coat,” Ava rose from the couch, fighting a rush of light-headedness that seemed to race upwards with her. She held still for a moment, and let it fade. For now, she ignored the question of payment for the cup. Not like Anatole couldn’t afford it, she thought, and was surprised by the faint bitterness there. Better Tom spending it than Anatole, Ava told herself.

Ava couldn’t be sure, but she thought there was a smear of something wet on Tom’s sweater where he’d sifted through his clothing. She crossed the room to the back wall, and hesitated, holding there for a long moment. Ava was trembling, a quivering flutter that seemed to be running through her whole body; she didn’t know when it had started and she couldn’t seem to stop it. After a moment, she stepped behind the fabric on the wall, gently shifting it aside and letting it tumble back into place behind her.

There was no sound of footsteps on the stairs though; instead, there was a very different sound, a sort of quiet click, and the figure that was Ava moved to behind the next curtain. There was another rustle of movement, another quiet little click. Ava brushed the fabric out of the way as she re-emerged carrying a small carry bag, revealing a glimpse of a smooth and innocent looking wall behind her, maybe the faintest trace of a cupboard, and crossed the room back to Tom.

Ava wasn’t shaking anymore. Carefully, she sat on the couch - not the couch she had sat on before, but, slowly, deliberately, next to where Tom had perched on the cushions. Close - not so close that their legs would brush if he sat as he had, but close enough to touch all the same. If Tom didn’t sit himself, she would pat his seat gently, feeling the warmth he had left behind in it. Her other hand lifted the bag to rest in her lap and worked at the fastenings of it. Ava didn’t need to look to open it, to reveal gauze and bandages and little bottles nestled inside.

“Let me see it,” Ava lifted her gaze to Tom and, slowly, extended her hand, palm up, waiting. “The left, I believe,” she held, still and patient, but her hand never moved, never wavered, long fingers held together to make a flat surface for him. If he hesitated, Ava would take a deep breath and smile at him, soft but genuine, with a little quiver to it that smoothed out after a few moments, ignoring any arguments, any protestations of how fine he was. “Please,” Ava said, softly. “Please let me do this.”

They were Anatole’s hands, but it was Tom’s pain.

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