Vienda - The Pendulum Club
The 67th of Roalis 2719 - Approximately 19 minutes the 26th hour
The 67th of Roalis 2719 - Approximately 19 minutes the 26th hour
B
eginner’s luck. Now there's a lark. Does she always tell such obvious, such bald-faced lies? Perhaps she does. It would fit one of her station. Always given the benefit of the doubt, the cloak of position. Faults in others are airy nothings in her. Does she ever strive for anything? Work late into the night on some matter of importance? Importance not to her, not to her position, but some larger importance? He thinks not. This is a woman of leisure. Even her work, her plots, will be leisurely; steeped in the brine her private mirth. And who are you, he asks in the quiet of his mind, are you when you are home? Are you the same woman, so practiced and careful that you forget to unwind and putter about in carpet slippers? One needs separations if one is to function. Doubly so if one is to function on behalf of another.
It is clear she knows this game. It is clear she knows all the games being played here. She is practiced, well taught, but a touch too bold. A touch too convinced of her substance, and, by tokens, the formlessness of her rivals.
Wainscotting, chiding him now, goodnatured and smiling broad as a cat. Of course he knows Shrikeweed can jest, can tell a joke, can even laugh. They have done much of that together. They have not done enough of it of late. Where has the time gone? “Certainly,” he says, with the barest of smiles, “were I to collapse at the opera, I would take some comfort in having at least enjoyed the moments up to my affliction. But then again, fortune rarely smiles on us in such a manner.” He turns to Trevisani, still taking in the elements of her expressions, the tones of her voice. “Do you happen to know what he had gone to see? It is a subject I should like to avoid with him. So, it seems rather insensitive to ask.” A simple enough means of getting the timeline in order. The chains of cause and effect are vital.
“And I agree, madame, that it does seem rather like something out of a novel.” He turns a mocking glance at Wainscotting. “And yes, I have been known to read the odd novel.”
“I never said you didn’t! Perish the thought.” Wainscotting suppresses a laugh. This is just like old times. It is their perpetual double act. The facetious man and the serious man. And it is an act, neither of them is quite so far towards their public character as it appears. Wainscotting is a man of serious professional interests, a man rising by abilities in the law. Shrikeweed has his own curious humor, his orchids, his decadent poetry. His boxing. He will need a round or two tonight, something to knock his scattered thought back into order.
And here, now, out of the blue comes a blow he is not expecting. It is expertly delivered. It is meant to shock and discombobulate. All the better. She cannot know that shock, that pain, even pain of thought, sets the wheels of his mind in motion as sure as coffee and coca tea. The wheels are turning well and free now.
She is speaking of the Incumbent’s bird? The man has never mentioned the keeping of a bird. It is hard to imagine the man tending to a parakeet, cockatoo, or even something so simple has a house sparrow. The man does not seem the sort to try and quiet a squawking creature, to spend his leisure hours covered in millet seed or trying to track down just the right cuttlebone. He sets aside the feathered meaning, and takes up another.
Well, men do have affairs. It is not uncommon, even expected in some circles. Circles such as those in which Incumbent moves. Yet, why the derision, the barbs? An affair is the most acceptable of scandals. It lends color to colorless men. For many, it is a requirement. He does not understand the appeal. Then again, he cannot see the appeal of much of anything in that sphere. It is an alien province to him. Perhaps that is a strength. It gives him more hours to devote to his work. Perhaps that is a weakness. It obscures a whole aspect of motivation from his direct apprehension.
She rises now. Only after her victory. That is expected, both the victory and her departure in the aftermath. Dunderton-Hughling is still spouting useless fawning pleasantries at Trevisani, as though he is some menial of hers, or some supplicant before a new and just emerging divinity. How she must love that adulation, that devotion. No, she would not. She would expect it, find it as natural and proper as the air.
“Well played madame, well played indeed. And I shall convey your greetings to the Incumbent and his bird.” A witticism rises, he cannot escape it any more than the ocean may escape the tides. “Does it prefer suet blocks, or millet seeds, I wonder.” He rises himself, making a motion to quite another part of the club. “Enjoy your concert madame. Perhaps we shall cross paths again.”
He does not wish it. It cannot be helped. The woman, for all her pretensions, is useful. It remains to be seen just how much use she may be.
It is clear she knows this game. It is clear she knows all the games being played here. She is practiced, well taught, but a touch too bold. A touch too convinced of her substance, and, by tokens, the formlessness of her rivals.
Wainscotting, chiding him now, goodnatured and smiling broad as a cat. Of course he knows Shrikeweed can jest, can tell a joke, can even laugh. They have done much of that together. They have not done enough of it of late. Where has the time gone? “Certainly,” he says, with the barest of smiles, “were I to collapse at the opera, I would take some comfort in having at least enjoyed the moments up to my affliction. But then again, fortune rarely smiles on us in such a manner.” He turns to Trevisani, still taking in the elements of her expressions, the tones of her voice. “Do you happen to know what he had gone to see? It is a subject I should like to avoid with him. So, it seems rather insensitive to ask.” A simple enough means of getting the timeline in order. The chains of cause and effect are vital.
“And I agree, madame, that it does seem rather like something out of a novel.” He turns a mocking glance at Wainscotting. “And yes, I have been known to read the odd novel.”
“I never said you didn’t! Perish the thought.” Wainscotting suppresses a laugh. This is just like old times. It is their perpetual double act. The facetious man and the serious man. And it is an act, neither of them is quite so far towards their public character as it appears. Wainscotting is a man of serious professional interests, a man rising by abilities in the law. Shrikeweed has his own curious humor, his orchids, his decadent poetry. His boxing. He will need a round or two tonight, something to knock his scattered thought back into order.
And here, now, out of the blue comes a blow he is not expecting. It is expertly delivered. It is meant to shock and discombobulate. All the better. She cannot know that shock, that pain, even pain of thought, sets the wheels of his mind in motion as sure as coffee and coca tea. The wheels are turning well and free now.
She is speaking of the Incumbent’s bird? The man has never mentioned the keeping of a bird. It is hard to imagine the man tending to a parakeet, cockatoo, or even something so simple has a house sparrow. The man does not seem the sort to try and quiet a squawking creature, to spend his leisure hours covered in millet seed or trying to track down just the right cuttlebone. He sets aside the feathered meaning, and takes up another.
- Bird: Informal: a woman
- Tone of voice: derisive
- Inference the first: This Trevisani is less fond of the Incumbent’s wife than she pretends. Dismisses her a flighty creature
- Inference the second: The bird, the woman, is not the wife.
Well, men do have affairs. It is not uncommon, even expected in some circles. Circles such as those in which Incumbent moves. Yet, why the derision, the barbs? An affair is the most acceptable of scandals. It lends color to colorless men. For many, it is a requirement. He does not understand the appeal. Then again, he cannot see the appeal of much of anything in that sphere. It is an alien province to him. Perhaps that is a strength. It gives him more hours to devote to his work. Perhaps that is a weakness. It obscures a whole aspect of motivation from his direct apprehension.
She rises now. Only after her victory. That is expected, both the victory and her departure in the aftermath. Dunderton-Hughling is still spouting useless fawning pleasantries at Trevisani, as though he is some menial of hers, or some supplicant before a new and just emerging divinity. How she must love that adulation, that devotion. No, she would not. She would expect it, find it as natural and proper as the air.
“Well played madame, well played indeed. And I shall convey your greetings to the Incumbent and his bird.” A witticism rises, he cannot escape it any more than the ocean may escape the tides. “Does it prefer suet blocks, or millet seeds, I wonder.” He rises himself, making a motion to quite another part of the club. “Enjoy your concert madame. Perhaps we shall cross paths again.”
He does not wish it. It cannot be helped. The woman, for all her pretensions, is useful. It remains to be seen just how much use she may be.
