Early Evening, 5th Yaris, 2719
Saffron Skies, Over Old Rose Harbor
Saffron Skies, Over Old Rose Harbor
Niccolette held at the window, feeling the faint thrum of the airship through her bones. When it got too much – when the desire to rise and seek out some distraction felt as if it overwhelmed her, when the thought of the bar and the smoke chamber and all the rest – she focused on the clouds beyond, the light shining through them, the slanted golden tilt of it, pink rising up at all the edges. At one end of the sky it was nearly day still; at the other, the stars were beginning to creep out of the night sky, glittering faintly against the growing dark over the Tincta Basta.
Niccolette wept, once, but it did not soften her resolve, and the sun was still journeying slowly over the horizon by the time she had stopped.
Vienda, Niccolette thought. When the tears had run their course, she folded her hands in her lap and leaned against the window, feeling the cold shock of the glass against her cheek. Vienda, and a new mission for Hawke: to root out the perpetrators of the King’s Crop, and conquer them, teach them what happened when one went against the King. To find the source of the drugs being passed around at high-society parties, prescribed at Grand Mercy Hospital, whispered about in the streets. Get this done, he had promised, and you may try for your revenge.
Get this done, Niccolette thought, and he would not hold her back. She closed her eyes, and she strained against her skin, yearning to be free. Get this done, and the Drain would know fear. Get this done; she could not bring Uzoji back, not with all the bloody vengeance in the world, but she would take it nonetheless. She had already wasted too much time.
At this angle, as the last of the light faded outside, leaving sparkling darkness behind, Niccolette could just make out the hazy reflection of her face against the glass. She blinked at it, once, and held her own gaze for a long moment, taking a deep breath. She was Niccolette Ibutatu still, Niccolette promised herself. She still could be.
Niccolette stepped into the room at the Hotel Belleverie. She did not bother with the large, four poster bed draped with pale yellow, the cluster of summery flowers in a small pale green bowl on the center table, the matching green-upholstered chairs; instead, the Bastian went straight to the side door into the dressing room, opened it, and stepped inside.
After a moment, Niccolette came back into the main room of the suite, and nodded. “Yes,” she said, casually, stripping off her white lacy gloves and laying them over the back of one of the chairs. “This shall suffice.”
The concierge at the door bowed; Niccolette did not look at him, and his words washed over her like so much noise. His voice trailed off upwards into a question, and the Bastian nodded. She made her way over to the window, and opened it, letting the hot Yaris sunlight fall onto her face – just for a moment, a soft wash of light and heat.
Niccolette sat at the writing desk as her trunks were brought up. She looked up only once, when the maid began to carry armfuls of dresses to the side room, and cleared her throat. “No,” The Bastian said. “Use the wardrobe.” She turned her attention back to her notes, then, copying the pattern from the text onto a large piece of smooth, creamy paper, her brow wrinkled softly.
Finally, the door closed; the maids and bellmen were gone. Niccolette did not look up even then, not until she had finished sketching the pattern one last time. She rose, then, and lifted the only bag she had carried herself; a leather bag, with designs like the flowing of a river etched across it – masculine, a little large for the Bastian. Her hand tightened on the handle, and she brought it with her to the side room.
First, Niccolette stripped off her dress; she undid the fastenings at the side, and left the soft pink thing slung over a chair in the main room. Her corset laced at the front, for travel, and that too she left behind, and her skirts as well, and all the rest, until she was barefoot in a long white shift, the edges brushing her calves. She pinned her hair up against the back of her head, coiling up the heavy strands, and washed her face clean of kohl and lipcolor.
Niccolette started with the chalk; she traced long smooth lines around the edges of the room, outlining the whole thing in double border, every bit of each line flawlessly crisp. Between the borders she wrote, crisp symbols of monite. The sun dipped low beneath the horizon as she worked; there was a knock on the door outside, a voice calling to ask if she wished something to eat; Niccolette ignored it, a smudge of chalk on her cheek, the dust crawling up her arms and legs. She finished, finally, and rose; she went and washed herself clean, dried her feet, and came back to the dressing room, stepping over the edges of the border.
Niccolette opened the bag that had been her husband’s once more, and took out the candles. One at a time, she placed them, easing the fat, squat bottoms into position. Here and there, she cleaned away a bit of wax with a penknife, shaping them. They spiraled out from a perfectly round circle at the center of the room, an opening left wide enough for a slender Bastian to kneel comfortably.
By the time Niccolette finished, it was no longer even early evening, but the fullness of the night; she had lit the lamp by the door herself, although she scarcely remembered pausing in her work. She placed the last candle, and picked up the leather bag, carrying it out, leaving behind only a box of matches in the center of the ring.
Niccolette returned, then. She knelt, and she found the smooth, even rhythm of her breath, the rhythm that called the mona to her; she breathed in the world around her, let herself become one with it, and exhaled back out a little bit of herself into the air beyond. Niccolette lit the candles with the matches, one by one, murmuring soft words of monite over them like a prayer, like a benediction, until the room was flooded with heat and light, with her at the heart of it. Niccolette knelt then, in the center of it all, and held the smooth steadiness of her breath until she was ready to speak.
Niccolette began to chant, then, soft, even monite; she knew the words like she knew herself, or perhaps even better. She spoke them again and again and again, linking herself to the mona with each steady repetition; a thousand times, and it was still not enough. She spoke until the thread of her voice guttered out, until she could not speak again, and still then she kept the rhythm of her breath. She poured all that she had into the meditations, and she let it be enough.
Faint pink dawn was edging in through the high window when Niccolette began to put the candles out, one by one, blowing a little of her breath onto each. She knelt, shaking, in the center of it all, for a long moment – and then began to clean the candles, one at a time, carrying trimming the wax off of each. She gathered it all up, and brought it with herself out of the room, stepping with bare feet over the threshold once more. She left the white wax in a small woven basket, ran herself a bath, and scrubbed the sweat from her skin.
Niccolette drew the pale yellow curtains over the window, and the thicker white ones inside, shutting out the early light of the day. She crawled into the four-poster bed, too tired even to pull back the covers. She curled herself around the pillows there, rested her cheek on one and clutched the second tightly to her chest, and she slept; and, blessedly, she did not dream.
The red-headed Anaxi knocked sharply on the office door. "Mrs. Niccolette Ibutatu, sir,” He glanced at Niccolette, glanced inside at the Hessean sitting behind his desk, and took himself sharply away, his field soft and warm with perceptive mona.
Sy’rien glanced up from his desk; his crisp white doctor’s coat hung from a stand by his chair, and he wore a well-cut suit beneath it, gleaming dark gray. His eyes widened. “Nicco?” He asked.
Niccolette stepped into the room, glancing around. She turned her attention to the Hessean behind the desk, and smiled, faintly. “Sy’rien,” Niccolette said, casually. “It has been a long time. Or shall I call you Dr. Palevi now?” She raised an eyebrow.
Sy’rien’s mouth opened, slightly, and then closed again. He cleared his throat, and rose, and bowed, politely. Something glittered in his golden eyes. “Sy’rien, of course, so long as I can still call you Nicco.”
“Naturally,” Niccolette smiled, and returned his bow. “We may have had our differences at Brunnhold, but surely that is all in the past? I was quite impressed to hear of your work with orthopaedics here.”
“… Naturally,” Sy’rien said. He stepped around the desk, and froze, halfway; Niccolette knew the moment he held, because it was when the sweep of her field began to mingle with his, the two of them still nearly eight feet apart. Sy’rien stared at her; she felt his caprise, the probing of his mona into her field, and she flexed back in response, caprising him just as deeply.
Sy’rien cleared his throat. “Naturally,” he said, with a faint tone of forced casualness. He drew the chair before his desk out, bowed lightly again, and took his seat behind it. “A terrible shame about Uzoji’s accident,” he said, studying her over his papers.
Niccolette stepped forward, staying comfortably in his range, and settled herself into the seat. Her legs crossed at the ankle, the long straight skirt of her dark gold dress draping over the edge of the chair. “Yes,” Niccolette agreed, her hands coming together lightly in her lap.
There was silence between them for a moment, hovering in the air.
“What have you been up to?” Sy’rien asked, curiously. “I heard about that affair at the Pawley’s, naturally. You’re -” He probed her field again, reaching out into it, caprising her a little more deeply. There was no sense of intimacy to it, nothing quite welcoming; his push was, Niccolette thought, more than a little aggressive. She met it with ease. “Were you at one of the hospitals in Thul Ka?”
“Oh, no,” Niccolette said, casually. “We had a small plantation in the Muluku Islands. You would be surprised how busy such a life can keep you.” She flexed, and forced him back out of her field.
Sy’rien’s eyebrows lifted again.
“But…” Niccolette said, and shrugged. “Now – of course – it is different. I have decided to spend some time in Vienda, and naturally I wish to keep myself occupied.” She raised her eyebrows at Sy’rien.
“You’re not a physician,” Sy’rien said; she felt him at the edges of her field again, searching for a way in.
“No, of course,” Niccolette shrugged, and held him out. “I do not have the training, but I have… picked up a few useful things, over the years. Perhaps I may be of some assistance? In whatever capacity. I am glad to volunteer.”
Sy’rien studied her again, sitting back in his chair. “As a widow, I’m sure you do have a lot of time.” He said. Niccolette felt as if he had stretched out the word widow forever, as if it hung in the air between them; as if he had etched each syllable onto her skin.
Niccolette smiled. “Yes,” she agreed; the edges of her control softened, ever so slightly, and their fields were mingling once again. “It is one of the challenges of – widowhood.” Her voice was smooth on the word, even, but she could not quite sustain her smile.
“It is rather unorthodox,” Sy’rien said, slowly.
“Of course,” Niccolette agreed. She found her smile again, tilting her head slightly to the side. “I should consider it a great favor.”
“Of course,” Sy’rien said, and he smiled too. “… I’ll see what I can do, Nicco.” He rose again, and bowed. “Good to see you again.”
Niccolette rose as well, and bowed. She smiled at Sy’rien Palevi, who she could already tell was not one whit less an ersehole than he had been at Brunnhold a decade ago, picked up her umbrella and her reticule, and took herself back out of his office, altogether too conscious of the way his gaze lingered on her back. She held herself straight and upright, and she held herself together, and she let her right hand slide across her front and wrap around her side and hold, tightly.
Just a moment, Niccolette thought to herself. And then she was through the lobby, out onto the street beyond. She lifted her face to the bright Yaris sun and let it wash over her – just a moment – and then she lifted her umbrella with both hands, a riot of golden flowers and green vines shielding her from the sun, rimmed with dark lace. She took a deep breath, tossed her head, and marched forward.
"Tell him it goes well,” Niccolette said. She sat perched on the edge of the high stool at the bar, her arms resting on the wood, the long skirt of her gray dress sweeping towards the ground.
“Y’wan’ me t’ jus’ say that?” The gap-tooth human asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or, uh…”
Niccolette pursed her lips. She had a glass of beer in front of her – foul stuff – and she made as it to pick it up. Instead, with a grimace, she shoved it away; a bit of the liquid slopped over the edge of the glass, pooling on the filthy bar. “Tell him,” The Bastian said, her teeth clenched, “that I shall secure a position at Grand Mercy. Tell him that I shall root out this drug ring. Tell him,” Niccolette spat, furious, “that I do not need to be watched like some incompetent child!”
The Bastian grabbed the glass from the counter and hurled it to the floor; the glass cracked apart, and beer flooded over the wood.
The bartender behind the small, cramped bar froze; the human held very still too. Niccolette took a deep breath, and the red drained from her field; the hot tension in the air eased away. She glanced down at the glass, glanced back at the human and the bartender. The Bastian pressed her lips together, took out her wallet, and left a shill on the counter. She eased herself off the stool, stepped around the puddle, and made her way out of the room.
“I don’ think I should say tha’ last part,” She heard the human mutter.
Niccolette slammed the door to the small room behind her; she went along the hallway, down through the trap door – down, step by step, the tiny hidden staircase that wove around the pillar, out into the back of the largest bar below. She ignored the sounds of raucous laughter, of drinking; she went out onto the street, crossed two blocks away, and hailed the first cab she saw.
“The Belleverie,” Niccolette said, coldly. She sat in the back of the cab, her hands gripped tightly together in her lap, and stared out the window at the passing buildings, the steady shift from the Dives to Uptown, until finally they pulled to a stop in front of the Belleverie.
“Good evening, Mrs. Ibutatu,” the bellman bowed, opening the door; Niccolette did not so much as look at him. She made her way through the hotel to her door; her hands were shaking too hard to use the key, and she took a deep breath, stilled them and unlocked it. She set her things down; she stripped off the long gray dress, and left it behind in a pile, left with it all the rest of her things, until she wore only her white shift.
Niccolette stood still in the midst of it for a moment, trembling. She relaxed; she let herself breath, and she waited for the tears. They did not come; she had thought they would, but – Niccolette exhaled, slowly, and turned, making her way past the bottle of wine on the dresser and into the dressing room. She knelt at the center of her pattern, and found the rhythm of her breath, in and out. Get this done, she told herself. You are Niccolette Ibutatu, and you shall not fail.
Niccolette wept, once, but it did not soften her resolve, and the sun was still journeying slowly over the horizon by the time she had stopped.
Vienda, Niccolette thought. When the tears had run their course, she folded her hands in her lap and leaned against the window, feeling the cold shock of the glass against her cheek. Vienda, and a new mission for Hawke: to root out the perpetrators of the King’s Crop, and conquer them, teach them what happened when one went against the King. To find the source of the drugs being passed around at high-society parties, prescribed at Grand Mercy Hospital, whispered about in the streets. Get this done, he had promised, and you may try for your revenge.
Get this done, Niccolette thought, and he would not hold her back. She closed her eyes, and she strained against her skin, yearning to be free. Get this done, and the Drain would know fear. Get this done; she could not bring Uzoji back, not with all the bloody vengeance in the world, but she would take it nonetheless. She had already wasted too much time.
At this angle, as the last of the light faded outside, leaving sparkling darkness behind, Niccolette could just make out the hazy reflection of her face against the glass. She blinked at it, once, and held her own gaze for a long moment, taking a deep breath. She was Niccolette Ibutatu still, Niccolette promised herself. She still could be.
Early Evening, 8th Yaris, 2719
Hotel Belleverie, Uptown Vienda
Hotel Belleverie, Uptown Vienda
Niccolette stepped into the room at the Hotel Belleverie. She did not bother with the large, four poster bed draped with pale yellow, the cluster of summery flowers in a small pale green bowl on the center table, the matching green-upholstered chairs; instead, the Bastian went straight to the side door into the dressing room, opened it, and stepped inside.
After a moment, Niccolette came back into the main room of the suite, and nodded. “Yes,” she said, casually, stripping off her white lacy gloves and laying them over the back of one of the chairs. “This shall suffice.”
The concierge at the door bowed; Niccolette did not look at him, and his words washed over her like so much noise. His voice trailed off upwards into a question, and the Bastian nodded. She made her way over to the window, and opened it, letting the hot Yaris sunlight fall onto her face – just for a moment, a soft wash of light and heat.
Niccolette sat at the writing desk as her trunks were brought up. She looked up only once, when the maid began to carry armfuls of dresses to the side room, and cleared her throat. “No,” The Bastian said. “Use the wardrobe.” She turned her attention back to her notes, then, copying the pattern from the text onto a large piece of smooth, creamy paper, her brow wrinkled softly.
Finally, the door closed; the maids and bellmen were gone. Niccolette did not look up even then, not until she had finished sketching the pattern one last time. She rose, then, and lifted the only bag she had carried herself; a leather bag, with designs like the flowing of a river etched across it – masculine, a little large for the Bastian. Her hand tightened on the handle, and she brought it with her to the side room.
First, Niccolette stripped off her dress; she undid the fastenings at the side, and left the soft pink thing slung over a chair in the main room. Her corset laced at the front, for travel, and that too she left behind, and her skirts as well, and all the rest, until she was barefoot in a long white shift, the edges brushing her calves. She pinned her hair up against the back of her head, coiling up the heavy strands, and washed her face clean of kohl and lipcolor.
Niccolette started with the chalk; she traced long smooth lines around the edges of the room, outlining the whole thing in double border, every bit of each line flawlessly crisp. Between the borders she wrote, crisp symbols of monite. The sun dipped low beneath the horizon as she worked; there was a knock on the door outside, a voice calling to ask if she wished something to eat; Niccolette ignored it, a smudge of chalk on her cheek, the dust crawling up her arms and legs. She finished, finally, and rose; she went and washed herself clean, dried her feet, and came back to the dressing room, stepping over the edges of the border.
Niccolette opened the bag that had been her husband’s once more, and took out the candles. One at a time, she placed them, easing the fat, squat bottoms into position. Here and there, she cleaned away a bit of wax with a penknife, shaping them. They spiraled out from a perfectly round circle at the center of the room, an opening left wide enough for a slender Bastian to kneel comfortably.
By the time Niccolette finished, it was no longer even early evening, but the fullness of the night; she had lit the lamp by the door herself, although she scarcely remembered pausing in her work. She placed the last candle, and picked up the leather bag, carrying it out, leaving behind only a box of matches in the center of the ring.
Niccolette returned, then. She knelt, and she found the smooth, even rhythm of her breath, the rhythm that called the mona to her; she breathed in the world around her, let herself become one with it, and exhaled back out a little bit of herself into the air beyond. Niccolette lit the candles with the matches, one by one, murmuring soft words of monite over them like a prayer, like a benediction, until the room was flooded with heat and light, with her at the heart of it. Niccolette knelt then, in the center of it all, and held the smooth steadiness of her breath until she was ready to speak.
Niccolette began to chant, then, soft, even monite; she knew the words like she knew herself, or perhaps even better. She spoke them again and again and again, linking herself to the mona with each steady repetition; a thousand times, and it was still not enough. She spoke until the thread of her voice guttered out, until she could not speak again, and still then she kept the rhythm of her breath. She poured all that she had into the meditations, and she let it be enough.
Faint pink dawn was edging in through the high window when Niccolette began to put the candles out, one by one, blowing a little of her breath onto each. She knelt, shaking, in the center of it all, for a long moment – and then began to clean the candles, one at a time, carrying trimming the wax off of each. She gathered it all up, and brought it with herself out of the room, stepping with bare feet over the threshold once more. She left the white wax in a small woven basket, ran herself a bath, and scrubbed the sweat from her skin.
Niccolette drew the pale yellow curtains over the window, and the thicker white ones inside, shutting out the early light of the day. She crawled into the four-poster bed, too tired even to pull back the covers. She curled herself around the pillows there, rested her cheek on one and clutched the second tightly to her chest, and she slept; and, blessedly, she did not dream.
Morning, 10th Yaris, 2719
Dr. Sy'rien Palevi's Office, Grand Mercy Hospital
Dr. Sy'rien Palevi's Office, Grand Mercy Hospital
The red-headed Anaxi knocked sharply on the office door. "Mrs. Niccolette Ibutatu, sir,” He glanced at Niccolette, glanced inside at the Hessean sitting behind his desk, and took himself sharply away, his field soft and warm with perceptive mona.
Sy’rien glanced up from his desk; his crisp white doctor’s coat hung from a stand by his chair, and he wore a well-cut suit beneath it, gleaming dark gray. His eyes widened. “Nicco?” He asked.
Niccolette stepped into the room, glancing around. She turned her attention to the Hessean behind the desk, and smiled, faintly. “Sy’rien,” Niccolette said, casually. “It has been a long time. Or shall I call you Dr. Palevi now?” She raised an eyebrow.
Sy’rien’s mouth opened, slightly, and then closed again. He cleared his throat, and rose, and bowed, politely. Something glittered in his golden eyes. “Sy’rien, of course, so long as I can still call you Nicco.”
“Naturally,” Niccolette smiled, and returned his bow. “We may have had our differences at Brunnhold, but surely that is all in the past? I was quite impressed to hear of your work with orthopaedics here.”
“… Naturally,” Sy’rien said. He stepped around the desk, and froze, halfway; Niccolette knew the moment he held, because it was when the sweep of her field began to mingle with his, the two of them still nearly eight feet apart. Sy’rien stared at her; she felt his caprise, the probing of his mona into her field, and she flexed back in response, caprising him just as deeply.
Sy’rien cleared his throat. “Naturally,” he said, with a faint tone of forced casualness. He drew the chair before his desk out, bowed lightly again, and took his seat behind it. “A terrible shame about Uzoji’s accident,” he said, studying her over his papers.
Niccolette stepped forward, staying comfortably in his range, and settled herself into the seat. Her legs crossed at the ankle, the long straight skirt of her dark gold dress draping over the edge of the chair. “Yes,” Niccolette agreed, her hands coming together lightly in her lap.
There was silence between them for a moment, hovering in the air.
“What have you been up to?” Sy’rien asked, curiously. “I heard about that affair at the Pawley’s, naturally. You’re -” He probed her field again, reaching out into it, caprising her a little more deeply. There was no sense of intimacy to it, nothing quite welcoming; his push was, Niccolette thought, more than a little aggressive. She met it with ease. “Were you at one of the hospitals in Thul Ka?”
“Oh, no,” Niccolette said, casually. “We had a small plantation in the Muluku Islands. You would be surprised how busy such a life can keep you.” She flexed, and forced him back out of her field.
Sy’rien’s eyebrows lifted again.
“But…” Niccolette said, and shrugged. “Now – of course – it is different. I have decided to spend some time in Vienda, and naturally I wish to keep myself occupied.” She raised her eyebrows at Sy’rien.
“You’re not a physician,” Sy’rien said; she felt him at the edges of her field again, searching for a way in.
“No, of course,” Niccolette shrugged, and held him out. “I do not have the training, but I have… picked up a few useful things, over the years. Perhaps I may be of some assistance? In whatever capacity. I am glad to volunteer.”
Sy’rien studied her again, sitting back in his chair. “As a widow, I’m sure you do have a lot of time.” He said. Niccolette felt as if he had stretched out the word widow forever, as if it hung in the air between them; as if he had etched each syllable onto her skin.
Niccolette smiled. “Yes,” she agreed; the edges of her control softened, ever so slightly, and their fields were mingling once again. “It is one of the challenges of – widowhood.” Her voice was smooth on the word, even, but she could not quite sustain her smile.
“It is rather unorthodox,” Sy’rien said, slowly.
“Of course,” Niccolette agreed. She found her smile again, tilting her head slightly to the side. “I should consider it a great favor.”
“Of course,” Sy’rien said, and he smiled too. “… I’ll see what I can do, Nicco.” He rose again, and bowed. “Good to see you again.”
Niccolette rose as well, and bowed. She smiled at Sy’rien Palevi, who she could already tell was not one whit less an ersehole than he had been at Brunnhold a decade ago, picked up her umbrella and her reticule, and took herself back out of his office, altogether too conscious of the way his gaze lingered on her back. She held herself straight and upright, and she held herself together, and she let her right hand slide across her front and wrap around her side and hold, tightly.
Just a moment, Niccolette thought to herself. And then she was through the lobby, out onto the street beyond. She lifted her face to the bright Yaris sun and let it wash over her – just a moment – and then she lifted her umbrella with both hands, a riot of golden flowers and green vines shielding her from the sun, rimmed with dark lace. She took a deep breath, tossed her head, and marched forward.
Late Night, 11th Yaris, 2719
A Place for Brothers, The Dives
A Place for Brothers, The Dives
"Tell him it goes well,” Niccolette said. She sat perched on the edge of the high stool at the bar, her arms resting on the wood, the long skirt of her gray dress sweeping towards the ground.
“Y’wan’ me t’ jus’ say that?” The gap-tooth human asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or, uh…”
Niccolette pursed her lips. She had a glass of beer in front of her – foul stuff – and she made as it to pick it up. Instead, with a grimace, she shoved it away; a bit of the liquid slopped over the edge of the glass, pooling on the filthy bar. “Tell him,” The Bastian said, her teeth clenched, “that I shall secure a position at Grand Mercy. Tell him that I shall root out this drug ring. Tell him,” Niccolette spat, furious, “that I do not need to be watched like some incompetent child!”
The Bastian grabbed the glass from the counter and hurled it to the floor; the glass cracked apart, and beer flooded over the wood.
The bartender behind the small, cramped bar froze; the human held very still too. Niccolette took a deep breath, and the red drained from her field; the hot tension in the air eased away. She glanced down at the glass, glanced back at the human and the bartender. The Bastian pressed her lips together, took out her wallet, and left a shill on the counter. She eased herself off the stool, stepped around the puddle, and made her way out of the room.
“I don’ think I should say tha’ last part,” She heard the human mutter.
Niccolette slammed the door to the small room behind her; she went along the hallway, down through the trap door – down, step by step, the tiny hidden staircase that wove around the pillar, out into the back of the largest bar below. She ignored the sounds of raucous laughter, of drinking; she went out onto the street, crossed two blocks away, and hailed the first cab she saw.
“The Belleverie,” Niccolette said, coldly. She sat in the back of the cab, her hands gripped tightly together in her lap, and stared out the window at the passing buildings, the steady shift from the Dives to Uptown, until finally they pulled to a stop in front of the Belleverie.
“Good evening, Mrs. Ibutatu,” the bellman bowed, opening the door; Niccolette did not so much as look at him. She made her way through the hotel to her door; her hands were shaking too hard to use the key, and she took a deep breath, stilled them and unlocked it. She set her things down; she stripped off the long gray dress, and left it behind in a pile, left with it all the rest of her things, until she wore only her white shift.
Niccolette stood still in the midst of it for a moment, trembling. She relaxed; she let herself breath, and she waited for the tears. They did not come; she had thought they would, but – Niccolette exhaled, slowly, and turned, making her way past the bottle of wine on the dresser and into the dressing room. She knelt at the center of her pattern, and found the rhythm of her breath, in and out. Get this done, she told herself. You are Niccolette Ibutatu, and you shall not fail.
