[PM to Join] Every Stumble and Each Misfire

[Tom Cooke]

The Long Gallery • The Vauquelin House

Late Evening on the 39th of Ophus, 2719

T
he acoustics in this place,” breathes Mrs. Jaquemoud, looking up at the high paneled ceilings of the long gallery. “Always enchanting. You’ve so seldom thrown parties this year, Diana; it’s so terribly sad, to think of this place empty.”

“We thank the Circle for the opportunity,” Diana puts in, quickly. He can feel her arm looped round his, her fingers patting his sleeve lightly. Her wedding ring glitters. “It’s been a rather difficult few seasons…”

Mr. Jaquemoud clears his throat. “Understandably so,” he snips. “I heard – that business with the Mugrobi ambassador, was it? In Achtus, or so.”

“A misunderstanding, but a time-consuming one.” He takes a long drink of brandy, and a long deep breath. He smiles thinly at Mr. and Mrs. Jaquemoud.

“I should say there will be more,” chimes in Etienne, with his sharp Bastian accent.

The matter of his health has not come up once tonight. It has, all in all, been a glittering, beaming end to the last year of the Anaxi Symvouli cycle. They had lost him, at the start; now they have found him, and they are happy, indeed, to have him back.

The long gallery is on the second floor of the Vauquelin house, a broad long corridor spanning one side to the other, vaulted up to what of the third floor isn’t taken up by the study. It’s the pride, he understands, of the house: its rich, lovely wood paneling, smooth to the touch, hung with paintings in hearth-warm colors; its glossy, Hessean-patterned floors, which yesterday still filled the room with the smell of polish. The room now smells most strongly of perfume and cologne and champagne.

A row of tall, narrow windows gives out on the street. Usually, the curtains are drawn; now, they are drawn back. The view they give on Vienda is as glittering as the ball. Above distant rooftops, shadows against the cloudy night sky, little clusters of fireworks – celebrations here, there, everywhere – pop and scatter through the velvet dark. Even the house opposite, sleepy Judge Laflèche’s, is lit with festive colors.

Diana Vauquelin has been nothing but a wide white smile; she’s splendorous in black and white, ensconced in lace and white satin, a trail of embroidered roses spiraling from one shoulder and down to her asymmetric-cut skirt. The long gallery is full of white dresses for Clock’s Eve, black and white swirls, delicate lace and silk and taffeta.

He has noticed them all; he has noticed the cut, the fabric. Every lady he has bowed to, every lady he waltzed with earlier, when there was still a brush of color in the sky.

“Later,” Diana is saying. He pulls himself back to the present; he’s been skimming the faces on the floor since they started spilling in, but he hasn’t found the one he’s waiting for yet. No matter. He turns: Diana is looking at him with the same wide smile, happy little lines round her wide gold eyes. “I shall see you later, my dear,” she says, touching his shoulder. Mrs. Jaquemoud’s arm is looped through hers.

“Of course,” he says lightly, pretending there will be no fight, later, when she discovers that the lights have not brought her husband back.

They whirl away.

Laughter. He’s tired of the brandy, but he takes another drink anyway; it will get him through. He turns to look for the source of the laughter – Etienne is laughing, pulling at his little mustache; a red-haired woman, the red in her cheeks more than just her blush, is laughing, too. Amabilia Demachy, he thinks. Has he spoken to her tonight? He thinks so.

“Well, Anatole?” says Etienne brightly, but with a sharp edge in his eyes.

“Come again?” he says. It’s easy enough; smiling more widely, he takes Mrs. Demachy by the shoulder with a fatherly hand. “Forgive me,” he says, “perhaps I shall need the waters myself, soon.”

He laughs; Mrs. Demachy laughs. Newly-married, he remembers; she’s young, twenty-four, twenty-five or so. Barely older than – others he knows. He thinks she must’ve known Anatole for some time. “No, no,” she says, with an embarrassed look toward Etienne.

He exchanges a look with the Bastian. “Go on, my dear?”

“It’s only, we haven’t heard you sing, Mr. Vauquelin, in such a long time.”

His head swims. “Ah,” he says, his hand flickering away from her shoulder. Etienne is looking at him keenly. He recovers himself, smiling thinly again. “Perhaps you’ve a request, Miss Jauff– ah, Mrs. Demachy?”

It wins another giggle from her, but it doesn’t get him off the hook. “Why, I’m not sure.”

“It’s the new year,” Etienne says lightly. “It’s been the Lady of Sielan lately, hasn’t it?”

“Ah, yes – Marsilius to his daughter, on the night before the new year?” Yes, he thinks, because you’ve had me practicing it in my sleep.

Mrs. Demachy giggles again, though she looks no less embarrassed.

There is no way out, only through. With a keen smile at Mrs. Demachy, then a knowing smile at Etienne, he takes another drink to wet the whistle.

It’s not easy, but the lungs are there, and so are the vocal chords. His back is straight; he breathes through his diaphragm. He used to sing to his lass, he remembers, off-tune but loving, during those nights she’d never admit to. You are good at hitting a note, Etienne said in Roalis, the first day of practice.

“When I was young, I did praise Her beauty;
My heart I did follow, wherever it led me,
In every port from Tiv to Mestigia, Tessalon
To frigid Qrieth! O, the pale ladies of Gior…”

A cascade of laughter. He holds the note, then the pause; he gestures with one hand, languid. Mrs. Demachy’s giggling tumbles out into it, and he can hear her even when he picks up the thread, even when he drags Marsilius’ attention back, rippling stern and dour. Staccato, like some AAF march.

“A happy woman’s soul is one
Where heart and duty do agree –
Indeed, indeed! If eyes do wander,
Heart shall follow; if heart does wander
Duty flounders – then, my daughter, where are we?
No, no, I cannot bless this match;
Put your heart back in its place,
Or I shall fix it for you…”

His duty and his heart both wander. The chandeliers glitter above like stars, like fire, like broken glass.

Etienne Merenniano is beaming. Another gentleman has wandered over, Mr. Nibley – of Nibley and Hazelton packers, he remembers suddenly, though it is an absent, watery remembrance, paint on the side of a rendering house in another life. Mr. Hazelton – or is it Nibley? – Hazelton and Nibley twitches his whiskers, swirling his brandy, and mouths something like, I say.

He breathes in deep for the last of it. He looks over Etienne’s shoulder, then, toward the great windows. They are dark, now; he sees a blur in the dark mirror, a coppery shimmer of hair, a pale face half-hid as a ballgown drifts by.

His heart wanders; he doesn’t know about his duty, but his heart wanders, and aches.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 40 Ophus, 2719
The Long Gallery, The Vauquelin House

Niccolette wears white for the church, of course; there is little choice. It is not the best color for her, although Francoise looks very well. The baby is rather another matter; earlier, screaming her head off waiting for the carriage, Niccolette thought she looked quite absurd, red-faced against a paean of white lace and bows. Now - with the baby asleep - she has decided to reserve her judgment.

”Oh,” Francoise sighs. ”These ribbons,” she looks down at her own white gown and grimaces. She is holding Jacqueline herself - the human nurse waits outside, of course. She glances around, but Aurelien is deep in respectful conversation with the Everine.

”Nicco, would you?” Francoise lifts her arms slightly, not quite jostling the baby.

“What?” Niccolette asks. She grimaces, faintly.

”Yes - just - like this,” Francoise gestures down with her chin to her own arms.

Niccolette grimaces again; she settles her arms slowly into place.

”Good,” Francoise says. Abruptly there is a small soft weight settled in her hands, against her forearms. Niccolette holds very, very still, stiff and rigid, unsure what will happen if she moves. She looks down at the small sleeping face; Jacqueline’s eyelids flutter, and Niccolette scarcely dares breathe.

There is a small ripping sound, and Francoise, triumphant, flushed and breathing hard, holds the errant white ribbon in one hand. ”There,” she says.

Niccolette does not look up.

”Nicco?” Francoise raises her eyebrows; she is smiling.

“Yes,” Niccolette says. “Of course.” She extends her goddaughter back to Francoise. “Here,” she takes the ribbon; she smooths it with her fingers, and ties a careful bow around the baby’s downy, bald head. “Rather less unbalanced that way, I think,” Niccolette said, crisply. “At least she has grown a bit less wrinkled.” She finds her lips seem to be smiling of their own accord.

Aurelien glances over at the three of them and smiles, beckoning; they move forward, Niccolette trailing behind, towards the Everine priest with his gleaming silver bowl of moonwater.

In the carriage, Niccolette is furious. ”An absurd, barbaric custom,” she snaps, sitting straight-backed. “Dumping water over a baby! And what if she had caught cold?” She glances over at Jacqueline, who is sleeping quite soundly in the nurse’s arms, bundled up in a soft blanket, utterly unaffected by her ordeal.

Niccolette lowers her voice ”Unhygienic as well; who knows what this blessing process entails?”

Francoise is laughing helplessly; Aurelien has his arm around her, and his face is twitching at a smile.

The carriage rocks to a stop. The baby shifts - they all hold their breath, but for the nurse, who continues her easy competent rocking. The baby stays asleep.

”Thank you for coming, darling,” Francoise leans forward; she kisses Niccolette’s cheek and squeezes her hand.

“Of course,” Niccolette says with a little wave, kissing Francoise’s cheek back. She glances up at Aurelien; he smiles at her, and gives her a small, slight nod. Niccolette clears her throat, and glances back at Jacqueline; unaccountably, she is smiling once more.

“Bright blessings for a bright year,” Niccolette says; she climbs from the carriage to the quiet choruses of farewells. The door closes; the carriage begins to move. She hears a small sharp wail, and grins to herself, standing there at the entrance to the Hotel Belleverie. “Absurd,” Niccolette says, quietly, oddly proud.

Niccolette wears silver for the party; there is a choice, and she has made it. The dress is all silver satin; there is a big swoop of fabric layered atop itself over each shoulder, an off shoulder bodice which folds in in over the chest; the thinner fabric beneath covers her neck and the sleeves sweep down her arms, all the way to the delicate pearl buttons at the sleeves, echoed also in a neat line down her spine. The waist tucks in; the skirt is a riot of close folds, one atop the other, and they whisper as she moves. Her hair is lifted and pinned in gleaming coils, studded with pearls; one hangs from each ear in a silver-backed setting.

If the gold of her wedding band clashes with the dress, Niccolette thinks, no one has seen fit to mention it.

The gallery of the Vauquelin house is as lovely as one would expect; the not-so-distant lights of Vienda gleam out the window.

“Thul Ka is a lovely city,” Niccolette says, with a delicate shrug of her shoulders. “So long as one does not mind the dust and the heat.” She takes a sip of her champagne, bubbles rising endlessly to the surface.

“But what does one wear?” Roselinda Montemarcy is plucking at her necklace with one elegantly manicured hand, her face set in a frown. Her white lace gown is practically frothing. “One hears things about Mugrobi fashion; the amount of bare arms at last year’s closing ball alone! Quite shocking.”

“Utterly de rigueur,” Niccolette says, nonchalant. “You shall become quite accustomed to all manner of -“

A rich baritone sweeps out over the crowd. There is a pause; Mrs. Montemarcy smiles. “Would you believe Anatole Vauquelin can sing like that?” She murmurs, voice lowered.

Niccolette’s eyebrows lift. “That is Incumbent Vauquelin?”

“I know!” Mrs. Montemarcy giggles.

“Such a lovely meeting,” Niccolette murmurs; she smiles at the other woman, and she turns and goes.

The crush is not so bad, and neither has too much of a crowd gathered around the incumbent. Niccolette slips amongst them, watching. She folds her field carefully close to her skin, the sort of easy dampening one learns as a matter of necessity even at Brunnhold.

”Come my daughter, stop your tears
Lift your gaze to Alioe’s bright face
The new year dawns and with it joy
Indeed, indeed! If eyes do wander,
Heart shall follow; if heart does wander
Duty flounders – then, my daughter, where are we?”

She knows the song, of course; Marsilius to his unnamed daughter on Clock’s Eve. She has never much cared for it; neither has she ever much bothered to dislike it.

There is a polite burst of applause. Niccolette, still holding her champagne glass, taps her hand lightly against it. She does not rush to offer murmured congratulations, but waits, and takes another sip of champagne.

[Tom Cooke]

The Long Gallery • The Vauquelin House

Late Evening on the 39th of Ophus, 2719

T
hen, my daughter,” he sings, taking one last deep breath, “where are we?” He gestures again, the stormy, passionate father; the brandy jumps in the snifter, but does not dash over the side. Mrs. Demachy yips a little laugh, as intended.

He takes a deep breath, feeling strangely hollow and wrung. He feels as starched as his shirt. “I say,” says Hazelton, plucking and twirling at his mustache.

He catches a spark of something, like light off steel. It’s over Etienne’s shoulder, at first, a bunch of silvery fabric at a shoulder, a ripple of light in swirls of silky dark hair. He tries to follow it, loses it; he finds it again in a waterfall of silvery skirts, just past the white-lily trumpet flare of Mrs. Demachy’s skirt round her heels.

“Oh, delightful, Mr. Vauquelin.” Amabilia is still blushing, but she’s grinning through the little flurry of applause.

“Thank you, my dear,” he drawls, already lifting his chin to see over Mr. Nibleyton’s head.

He sees her face, then, or a glimpse of it, before the old man shifts. Clapping delicately with her champagne glass, some expression he can’t quite read on her face. His smile tilts sideways; he glances over his shoulder at Etienne, the tips of his ears a little red, his own smile looking oddly forced. Raising his brows, he smiles neatly again at Mrs. Demachy and steps through the press.

The old man and a couple of ladies, delighted faces he doesn’t recognize, slide out of his way. He doesn’t have to caprise them; it’s less a caprise and more a brush, a faint pulse at the edges. He is breathing his field indectal always – if he didn’t, he thinks it would be a riot of red and mottled green – and he can hold it rigid and brace himself in its midst, like walking a pack of dogs through a crowded ballroom.

At his back, he can still feel the warm static caprise of Amabilia, tagging along as if invited. Etienne he doesn’t miss; he hears the Bastian’s laughter, soaking up some of the gathered gawkers. A fine student, he hears behind him – found it most surprising, the letter, but the Incumbent has long wished to pursue…

“Niccolette,” he says. It is the same voice he used to sing, the same aged basso with the same accent; it surprises him – it feels strangely ghoulish, to use it now – but he shakes it off.

As soon as he feels the sharp-bright living field, carefully suppressed, he caprises it. If she’ll permit, he takes one hand and bows over it, with a light flourish of his other. Etienne’s taught him how you bow in Bastia, this season; he’s done it a few times already tonight.

She’s swathed in mirror-like charmeuse; if he didn’t know it was satin, each fold might’ve been the edge of a blade, and her lips are blood-bright in the glittering light of the long gallery. Pearl at her ears.

He can picture her well enough in black, if not white. He’s never seen her in silver.

His head is swimming from the drink, but all this sharpness brings a little more mischief to his smile. “That embarrassing display aside –”

Mrs. Demachy giggles again. He pauses, and the lass’ giggling turns uncertain. Still smiling, he pats her gently on the shoulder.

“I’m glad you could make it,” he says to his Brother, honest and blunt. Mrs. Demachy is watching Niccolette, her blue eyes slightly wide. Her field bubbles out for a tentative caprise. “Mrs. Demachy,” he says, gesturing, “please allow me to introduce Niccolette Ibutatu. Niccolette, Mrs. Amabilia Demachy.”

“A pleasure!” Amabilia bows deeply.

“How are the Rochambeaux?” he asks. Another little prick of guilt under his heart. He takes it up; his brow knits, troubled.

“Rochambeaux?” Mrs. Demachy brightens. “Henri - my husband - worked with Incumbent Rochambeaux quite recently. Not the same?”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 40 Ophus, 2719
The Long Gallery, The Vauquelin House

There is a knack to caprising properly with one’s field suppressed. It’s a careful balance; too eager into the caprise, and one runs the risk of losing hold of the suppression. To keep one’s grasp too tight, however, is to forbid anything more than the lightest, gentlest of brushes of another’s field. This, too, is a line Niccolette is used to walking.

She sees a gleam of gray eyes through a tangle of faces and black and white clothing, set beneath red hair. Niccolette does not come any closer, but waits; she does not need to wait long; he emerges through the tangle, with the faintest edge of determination to him. His tuxedo is indistinguishable from all the rest, an expertly white silk cravat completing the look. “Incumbent Vauquelin,” Niccolette says with a polite, pleased smile.

Anatole offers a caprise with the clairvoyant mona of his field; Niccolette is ready for him. She does not slip the control of her field, but, briefly, she meets him – a dizzying bright flash, there and gone, and she holds herself in once more. It is brighter more than sharp, tonight; bastly underneath, for all that she keeps herself indectal on the surface. No one else will feel it; no one else will know it is there. But she greets him, properly, her Brother, strange as he is.

She bows; he takes her hand, and bows over it with a little flourish of his other hand, thoroughly Bastian in style. Niccolette’s nostrils flare with amusement at the gesture; she grins, and does not bother to hide it. Etienne’s influence, she supposes; she’s glad he dared to try it on her. He is smiling too, rather different from the awkward pinched look he wore brushing through his audience.

“Thank you for the invitation,” Niccolette says, simply, in response.

Niccolette glances to the side at the woman in white taffeta, her bright red hair worn all down. She feels the faintest brush of a static field, tentative; her caprise is equally polite and brief. It is not quite dismissive, but perhaps not so far from it either, if one is paying close attention. “Mrs. Demachy,” Niccolette bows as well.

“The same,” Niccolette says, lightly. The glass of champagne, more than half full, is in her left hand. She glances back at Anatole, and raises her eyebrows, lightly. “Both well,” Niccolette says. Suddenly, it is a struggle not to smile; she cannot seem to help thinking of a large, uneven bow tied in white ribbon, and a froth of other white ribbons spilling out over Francoise’s hands. She clears her throat, carefully, and settles herself, her lips smoothing out into something more socially acceptable.

“The baby, also,” Niccolette adds, very carefully even-voiced. She takes another slight sip of champagne, and finds a more wry humor in the quirk of her mouth and brow. “Still rather unsightly, poor thing.”

Mrs. Demachy makes an odd, uncertain sort of squeak, her eyes wide. Her field eases back from the edges of Niccolette’s, as if startled by the unexpected flushing of a bird from the bush – or, perhaps, as if she has heard the rattle of a snake’s tail in the grass.

Niccolette glances at her; bright red lips curve up, just a little more. “I have insisted on a Makarios di Hurte,” Jacqueline’s godmother says, nonchalantly; she does not need to be unkind, Niccolette tells herself. “I am increasingly certain she shall need it.”

Mrs. Demachy’s lips move, following the phrase; her brow knits in the faintest of frowns. It relaxes; she giggles, suddenly, as if in on the joke.

“Luckily we shall not have to bring the child all the way to Florne,” Niccolette continues. “Quite a long flight, and she can be rather loud,” now, again, she finds herself half-unable to control her face; she presses her lips firmly together, but the smile finds her eyes, and crinkles them deeply and unexpectedly warm. Niccolette huffs, faintly, with frustration, and swirls the champagne in her glass. “There are a few suitable temples here in Vienda.” She manages to bring her face under control with another sip of the champagne.

[Tom Cooke]

The Long Gallery • The Vauquelin House

Late Evening on the 39th of Ophus, 2719

S
hould he explain it, Makarios di Hurte? Niccolette hasn’t; he’s surprised she’s deigned to explain as much as she has. He can see Mrs. Demachy struggling with it in the corner of his eye; he heard her little squeak, before that.

She giggles, then, though he can’t tell if it’s because she’s caught the updraft or because she’s given up and tried a different tact.

Maybe he remembers times enough when he’s had to force laughter out of an unfamiliar throat; maybe he remembers laughter at the expense of shaky hands that still don’t feel like his. But he’s tired; he can feel it in him, the redshift that wants to spill out among the whirling skirts and bastly gold lights of the Clock’s Eve party. Mrs. Demachy’s static field bubbles at the edges of theirs.

“I’m sure she’s – quite – ah,” she says, then pauses. “The poor girl,” she goes on after a moment; “I’ve heard that being so far up in the air troubles their sensitive ears. Would you know, Mrs. Dewitt says that it is best not to fly baby until at least a year of age…”

He is watching Niccolette, one red eyebrow perked – only as far as he dares.

He’s growing used to it, the sensation of that field suppressed. As a man, he’d not’ve recognized it, but now – in these places – he knows it is the polite way of dealing with something that can’t quite even be called a ramscott. It is indectal, tonight, politely and pleasantly bright; except when she caprised him, he felt a curl of vibrance through all the mona around him, shivering brimming-bastly, like the smile that’s wriggling just behind the irritated press of her lips as she takes another businesslike sip of champagne.

Maybe it’s all the brandy, but he feels a tickle of something himself. Behind him, another voice ripples out above the chatter and clink of glasses, a daring tenor.

“She has moved me like a current;
I struggle to keep my feet!
Had yet I ever lived,
‘Fore my Lady of Sielan?
In all the ports in all the kingdoms,
Beauties have offered me their hands;
Not concords nor jewels, nor broken hearts
Have parted me from Hurte’s skies.
But o, Gianis! She has moved me;
I struggle to keep my feet!
Had yet I ever lived –”

“I should think that I would make a great deal of noise, myself,” he says, “having just been born into this strange and exciting world. I am glad to know baby is in good hands.”

It surprises him how easy it is to let his smile widen, to let it crinkle the edges of his eyes.

The Makarios di Hurte he knows enough of; it brings up a cloudy memory, no less fond for its fog. Sitting at Deirdre’s knee, asking when it’d be his turn to hold Angeletta’s baby. He’d thought the little thing beautiful, for all its wrinkles and soft fuzzy head, and when he’d said so, he’d got a cuff on the ears – not ‘til the unveiling, Deirdre had said, Angeletta practically crying.

So delicate. The whistle of the teapot had set the little boy to wailing; when Angeletta had finally settled him in his arms, he’d been frightened he’d do something wrong. But the baby had gone right to sleep, as if his head were made for the crook of his forearm.

He remembers Francoise and Niccolette arm in arm in Roalis. He never knew, he thinks, back then. He tries to remember the brisk-cold wind, the night of that job, following her fully-flexed living field through the dark streets. He tries to imagine, then, Francoise settling a baby in her arms, just like that.

He wonders if she was there for the Clock’s Eve ceremony; he tries to keep the curiosity out of his voice. It’s not a human practice, to dip a baby in special water for the new year; he’s never seen it done, and he’s not sure how he feels about it.

“Oh! I know of a lovely temple to Hurte, Mrs. Ibutatu, a stone’s throw from Ro Hill.” Mrs. Demachy is beaming. “My good friend Laetitia Giannopoulos – her husband, Agnolo, is a diplomat from Bastia, a friend of Henri’s of course – sings the Archev’s praise. I should be very glad to recommend him, and to send the Incumbent and his wife our congratulations,” she says, before he can finish clearing his throat.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 40 Ophus, 2719
The Long Gallery, The Vauquelin House

Niccolette considers another sip of champagne. It is tempting – quite tempting – but the level of pale, bubbly liquid has lowered, already, to well below halfway in the tall, slender glass. She swirls it instead, looking at Mrs. Demachy with an even gaze; there is something very much like a smile on her lips as the woman goes on.

Niccolette’s glance drifts over Anatole’s shoulder at the burst of noise, to where Etienne’s reedy mustache bobs over his upper lip, his open mouth dark in the pale gold light of the gallery.

Anatole speaks again, and Niccolette smiles at him, then clears her throat and settles her face back under control.

Perhaps she has thought about it – just a bit. Aurelien’s hair is blonde, unremarkable, a bit brownish and lightening with age. Francoise has lovely hair, thick and wavy and red, as much as she had tormented it during their school days. Jacqueline had been born with the oddest little tuft of pale red hair; she looked rather like a rooster, Niccolette remembered saying, idly, as Francoise had cried over the losing of it. There had been an impressive confusion of sobs and giggles then; sleep had won out in the end.

Francoise was rather insistent that Jacqueline had Aurelien’s eyes. Niccolette had been enticed to bend over the cradle and examine the child, and she did agree that they looked somewhat golden in color. It was, really, quite hard to tell. Niccolette glances down at the champagne; in the light, it is very nearly the color of Jacqueline’s eyes, she thinks, although far bubblier. Most irritatingly, she finds herself smiling again.

She does not quite know what either will look like as Jacqueline grows, although she trusts her hair will return, eventually, as she reassured Francoise it must. She finds she cannot quite picture the girl; she cannot see what shape she will take, as she grows. She wonders if it is decided, now, already, written in to the cycle.

“How thoughtful,” Niccolette says, glancing at Mrs. Demachy, “If only I had not already made arrangements,” she cannot quite resist another small sip of champagne; her smile is faint and polite now, although not quite thin. “But of course Francoise and Aurelien should never be sorry to receive an expression of congratulations.” She does not look at Anatole; it is, frankly, none of her business, and does not interest her much either.

The ceremony will be in a week's time. Niccolette has made no explanations and offers no excuses; Aurelien had asked if it might be pushed back, to give them a little more space after Clock's Eve. Francoise had hushed him, and thanked Niccolette for the arrangements. She had not begrudged him his concern; on the contrary, Niccolette thought, aching.

There is a scattering of applause from behind them as Etienne drags out the final note of Raffaele’s paean to his idol of beauty and womanhood. “The end of act one,” Niccolette murmurs, eyebrows lifting lightly. She looks back at Anatole once more; she smiles a little wider. “Jacqueline Rochambeaux,” she says, naming the little girl. She thinks he shall understand; if he does not, he does not merit the effort of explaining.

Niccolette has tired of Mrs. Demachy, and the rest of the subject as well. “This reminds me, Incumbent,” she says, casually, “Mrs. Ballington wished me to recommend you Eliscéba Baroid Bruning, if you have not already come across her work.” She lifts her eyebrows, lightly. “She is quite well known for her Heshath cycle, but has a number of other works.”

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love’s sake only. Do not say,

“I love her for her smile – her look – her way
Of speaking gently, - for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day”

Niccolette’s smile falters, ever so faintly; she glances away, over at the light glittering out through the windows. “Though I am loathe to do so,” she says, a little wickedly, lifting her own spirits with a glance back at Anatole, “I shall confess to a personal fondness for her work as well.” She swirls the glass of champagne in her hand, glancing down at the glinting of the ring on her finger, and then looks away, back at Anatole, her smile still comfortably, politely ensconced.

[Tom Cooke]

The Long Gallery • The Vauquelin House

Late Evening on the 39th of Ophus, 2719

J
acqueline Rochambeaux. Niccolette names the little lady, and more than a little mirth creeps into his smile before he takes another sip of his brandy. With the mirth, there’s a twist in his heart.

He would not have asked for a name; it’s a precious gift, even in Niccolette’s sharp, bright accent. Even here, among these people, in this place. He doesn’t repeat it out loud, but he turns it over in his mind, getting a feel for it. It’s a galdor’s name, each syllable, from the start to the finish. He feels that, too, in the same place that wants to shiver red out among the organized clairvoyant mona. From the start to the finish, if the lass is lucky.

He can put it aside. He has to. Not a cloud’s passed over his smile. Jacqueline, he thinks one last time, Rochambeaux.

“A – lovely – well – what a name,” says Mrs. Demachy uncertainly.

It’s the baby you’re not allowed to compliment, not the fucking name, he thinks, smiling at Amabilia.

But he’s also not sure why a name needs the punctuation of a comment; he thinks it rather stands on its own. “I’ll be sure to pass on my congratulations, then,” she adds, with a little flickering pulse of her field. She says nothing more of the recommendation, though he saw a flicker of something that was less like uncertainty and more like irritation when Niccolette took a sip of her champagne. “I’m so very happy for the Incumbent and Mrs. Rochambeaux.”

He smiles brightly at Mrs. Demachy, one last time. You made me sing for you, he thinks, aching; what more can I do?

So he makes the decision Niccolette’s already made; at the name Ballington, he shifts his posture, and the flow of his caprise with it. His Brother’s glance has moved out toward the tall narrow windows, where the press of dresses and suits and perfumes thins; she looks at him, then down toward her ring, and he thinks he understands.

But: “Bruning?” he repeats, meeting her eye, mustering up a little wickedness of his own.

Mrs. Demachy’s field doesn’t quite withdraw. Hoping she’ll excuse the gesture – it’s one of the most useful he has, in this respectable old man’s body – he turns inward, reaches out so his hand doesn’t quite brush Niccolette’s silver satin shoulder. If she’ll move with him, he’ll let himself be floated away from Mrs. Demachy, away from the edges of Etienne’s crowd.

Etienne has started up something else, after a flurry of clapping and tinkling of glasses. It’s not from the Lady of Sielan, he thinks. It winds off into the noise.

He still remembers Mrs. Ballington’s sharp, pale blue eyes. All of her was luminous – her dress, her sweep of moon-white hair – when he went to return the book; he’d felt less strange, like less of an intruder, that time, and he wasn’t sure what to think of that sense of belonging, so he hadn’t thought at all. Of anything but poetry, at least. He couldn’t remember how long he’d sat and talked, his clairvoyant field mingling with her perceptive, friendly but respectful, like sitting at Ette’s knee.

He wonders, suddenly, what Mrs. Ballington made of Uzoji. He’d’ve given much to see it, those two in the parlor together, speaking of poetry.

“Any recommendation from Violetta Ballington is a gift,” he says honestly. Away from the press, he drops his hand; he settles it in the small of his back as he’s been taught, and takes another sip of twemlaugh.

It’s still dizzying, all these lights, all this sound. He wants to get away somewhere; he’d take the frigid cold, even, he thinks, over this place, over this haze.

Through the window, Vienda is a scattering of stars; he can scarce tell the sky from the earth. He thinks of all the babies dipped in sacred water, and wonders if Jacqueline Rochambeaux sleeps easy somewhere, or if she’s crying. He wonders at birth and death, thinking of the ring still sparking on Niccolette’s finger. What blessing is time?

“Do you have a recommendation?” he asks, with a fox’s smile. He thinks she must have brought Bruning up for a reason, beyond Mrs. Ballington; he wonders, and leaves it at that. But he thinks, too, of Dzih pez Utiqa, spilled out into Ballington’s parlor a week ago.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 40 Ophus, 2719
The Long Gallery, The Vauquelin House

Niccolette takes another sip of her champagne, a small one; just enough for a taste. She lowers the glass, fingers resting on the stem. She says nothing to Mrs. Demachy’s assurances of her happiness and well-wishes; she scarcely even looks in the other woman’s direction.

Bruning, Anatole asks, teasingly, and Niccolette grins, unexpectedly; she could almost have laughed. “Quite shocking, I know,” she says, smiling, and takes another sip of the champagne. She lowers her hand.

The sudden shift of Anatole’s hand towards her is unexpected; Niccolette’s lips twitch, as if she cannot decide whether to smile or frown. After a moment, she smiles, and if there is the faintest edge of discomfort to it, she says nothing; there is not even the slightest response in her field. When Anatole shifts, Niccolette shifts too – oddly, she thinks, amused, like dancing – and they drift together away from Mrs. Demachy and the not-distant-enough strains of the one of the more dramatic songs from the Tiger and the Man.

Niccolette inclines her head lightly at Anatole’s comment; she shrugs her shoulder, almost reflexively, tilting her neck slightly from side to side, as if easing some stiffness out of it. His hand did not touch her, but she cannot say she found the gesture comfortable. She has touched him – they walked through the Rose arm-in-arm, although Niccolette tries, generally, not to think too much of the first weeks of Roalis. She is not ashamed; she sees no point in it. All the same, she does not need to linger or wallow. Her ear aches, but it is a phantom, a hollow reminder of the past; it cannot harm her.

She kissed his cheek, once, when he made her laugh, unexpectedly; she looped her arm through his, and they had walked together to a dinner neither of them had wished to attend. She does not see any point in figuring out why she did not mind that, but the hovering of his hand over her shoulder troubles her; she knows, even if she cannot articulate it, and there are other things, too, not worth dwelling on.

Not, Niccolette thinks, tonight.

She has nearly finished the champagne; she drinks the last of it.

Niccolette glances sideways at Anatole when he speaks again. She raises her eyebrows; there is good humor on her face, an easy, friendly smile. “No,” Niccolette says, and smiles a little wider.

“This is the first Clock’s Eve I have passed in Vienda since my school days,” Niccolette says; she turns back towards the window, towards the glimmering lights of Vienda at all. There is a distant bright pop of color; her mind fills in the shimmering sound, although she knows full well she cannot hear it. She smiles, faintly; closer, they are reflected dully in the polished glass, and all the room behind has faded to vague drifting outlines, blotches of darkness against the light.

She isn’t sure why she has told him this. She doesn’t expect him to understand; she doesn’t expect anyone to. She doesn’t expect, either, that she can understand the first part of anyone else’s grief.

It is Francoise she thinks of, though, and the Clock’s Eve they spent leaving a party in teenaged indignation, and wandering Uptown bundled up in large fur coats with bottles of wine hidden beneath. She thinks of walking across one of the long bridges to the Dives, chin lifted, Francoise giggling, wide-eyed behind her, calling at her to come back.

Niccolette does not remember the bite of the wind against her cheeks. She thinks they must have felt it, though they were thoroughly numbed by the wine; she does remember the hangover that kept them both abed through the whole of the next day. That, too, is not so unpleasant a memory as it must have been; she remembers lying bleary-eyed in Francoise’s bed, curled beneath the covers and whispering secrets. She cannot remember what they were; she knows, now, it does not matter.

Niccolette takes a deep breath. She glances down at the empty champagne glass in her hand; she sets it aside on a small table.

“Did you enjoy your time in the Rose?” Niccolette asks, neutrally, turning back to Anatole. She lifts her eyebrows, faintly curious; she is not sure what sort of an answer she expects.

[Tom Cooke]

The Long Gallery • The Vauquelin House

Late Evening on the 40th of Ophus, 2719

I
t’s not quite as he expects, though he can’t say why. It’s in the edge of the smile as he casts a sidelong glance in her direction – is it anger? – he’s not sure how to read it, but this Brother has never been an easy read. It’s when he sees her shift her posture, stiff, his hand flickers away. He’d rather not, he thinks lightly, revisit the scar he earned in Yaris. He can’t quite hold the lightness.

His head is too slurry from the drink to make much of it, but the knot that’s been in his stomach since he took the first breath to sing tightens.

He must have thought to look out the window and into the night, dotted with bursts of light. This close, the glass between the long gallery and Vienda is more and more like a mirror. He looks out over Lafleche’s rooftop, but his eyes want to focus on the glass: he can see a ghostly sweep of silver and a blurry familiar face, just behind a man in a sharp tuxedo, starched shirt white, black coat melting into the party.

No, she says, and with only a splitsecond’s delay he turns again to look at her. He manages to grin; it’s not so hard as it might be.

Fair enough. He doesn’t linger on it now, but he thinks he’ll think of it later, when he plucks a few volumes from Anatole’s well-organized shelf. The Heshath cycle he knows he has; others, he thinks, he’s not so sure about. He can find them, regardless.

He says nothing, as she turns to look out the window.

He wonders if she’s spent the new year aboard the Eqe Aqawe; he wonders what it was like. He knows Clock’s Eve in the Rose, and it’s a different sort of affair from Vienda. The King’s truce is one that every tsuter follows. If his riff’s hovering over some kov’s gullet when the clock tolls midnight on the thirty-ninth, he doesn’t spill sap.

At least, that’s how he remembers it, though there are plenty of Clock’s Eves he doesn’t remember at all. He misses the ones where he listened to hama play until he slept, and they missed the turning of the year together.

This is my second, he might’ve said, ever. My first was terrifying; that was when I was still expecting to wake up any day, as if from a bad dream. Was it Clock’s Eve that it sank in, that he wasn’t going to wake up?

He wonders if she still expects to wake up; if she ever did. If Hawke has her in Vienda, it’s for a reason. Maybe the King’s work has kept her focused, though he remembers Roalis. He hopes it will keep her steady through Intas.

He catches her eye again, and he can’t help a crooked twist of a smile. She’s caught him out; he won’t lie. “Some of it,” he says. “Half of Mr. Kalogeropoulos’ party. Mrs. Ballington’s company was a pleasure; I’ll write to her, when I’ve had a chance at Bruning. I took a short walk in the Drought, without any bodyguards.”

There’s a spray of color in the corner of his eyes, and he’s tempted, for a moment, to look back at the window. He can’t; he sees the shape in the corner of his eye, a coppery glint of hair and a hollow-eyed face, and he turns instead to look out over the floor. He can’t find Etienne anymore, or Mrs. Demachy, though he’s afraid to look too close. Someone will catch the Incumbent’s eye.

He’s lost his smile, slowly. He finishes off his brandy, lips twisting.

“What do you think of Clock’s Eve in Vienda?” he asks, as neutrally as she did.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 40 Ophus, 2719
The Long Gallery, The Vauquelin House

Niccolette wants, perhaps, to leave the years between behind. There is a mix of pleasure and pain in the memories; she can take joy in them, still, and does, but it comes at a price. They draw her from the moment, and wind her back to a time when she did not know what it was, to be less than whole. It’s the sharp edge of coming back which hurts, and not so much the memories.

Anatole says nothing; she has not expected him to, really, and she is glad he has not tried.

She cannot.

They would pass the winter and early spring in Dzum, most years; Uzoji had never liked the cold. They did not, of course, celebrate Clock’s Eve on the Muluku Isles, but there were celebrations there, as in Florne in her youth, for the turning over of the year. If she lets herself, if she is not careful, she can think of last year in Laus Oma, of a breathless start to a year that she could never have imagined.

She thought, once, that she would give anything for another moment with him – for the briefest flickering sound of his voice, the brush of his hand, just the sight of even the slightest part of him. She knows better now; she thinks she understands something of the pain she would feel when that moment ends, when Alioe turns and she is dragged back to what he has left behind.

In the window, she is all shimmering silver, a pale oval of a face and darkness wreathing the edge of it. Anatole, next to her, dissolves into the background, crisp white shirt and cravat very nearly the only things visible beneath his face, but for the glint of buttons. Another scatter of bright, distant sparks – there and then gone, Niccolette thinks, and so brilliant in the moment they had.

She smiles, soft and genuine, when he speaks of Violetta; she nods, but it is not so much a nod of agreement as recognition, as if this is the state of the world – as if one chooses only between confirming it and denying it, and lying to oneself in so doing.

“Rather more sober than I recall,” Niccolette says easily, when he asks about Clock’s Eve; she shrugs her shoulders beneath the bodice folded over them. “I was perhaps not the most well-behaved of schoolgirls.”

Niccolette glances over her shoulder at the party behind them, whirling black and white like a clock’s face; she looks back out over the city, at another shimmer of color and light, distant. She breathes deep; the fireworks are almost regular enough to meditate against, spilling light out into the sky.

She thinks that he gave her an honest answer, and she gave him a flippant one. She is not sure why it bothers her; she thinks, too, of the way his hand recoiled away, and the tense little frown on his face. That, too, she is sure should not trouble her in the least.

Niccolette shifts; her throat is dry, and she clears it, lightly. “Lonely,” Niccolette says, very quietly. She looks out at the distant horizon; she cannot quite look at Anatole just now, and she does not try. She knows something of her limits; she has no desire to push herself, here, tonight; she has no desire to find a private place to weep at this party, on this evening. She can see ahead, perhaps, to the Makarios di Hurte; she does not try to look past it.

A whole year, Niccolette thinks, slowly, bitterly. And another, and another, and another still – or perhaps not, for there are things which matter more to her than all those years spilling out blank and empty. Is it a trickle of water into her deep spring, or a quick flow? She could not have imagined Uzoji’s filling up – running over –

It is only a foolish Anaxi superstition, Niccolette thinks. If it were truly a stream, it would be Hulali’s provenance anyway. She still does not look at Anatole; her arms cross lightly over her chest, as if she’s cold despite the warmth of the room, though her hands are but loosely settled against them.