[PM to Join] Of the Visages of Things

[moralhazard]

Evening, 32 Intas, 2720
The Fasquelle's Ballroom, Uptown

Diana laughed, and Amaryllis found she laughed too, a soft, glad moment. “Oh, yes,” she said, smiling, thinking of the worm on the path, and thinking of the wonder in her son’s eyes as they had sat a few days earlier, him nestled in her lap, and watched a spider spin its web. “Very much so!”

She had gasped at the sight of it, and nearly shouted for Horace - absurdly - although she had thought better of that, and started to go to fetch the footman. But Phileander had started to reach for it, just as the thing had let loose a length of a gleaming line like silk, and Amaryllis had found that she could balance different fears quite effectively.

She had scooped him up - she had not quite wanted to shout and disturb the house, and Phileander had started to struggle and whine, stabbing a chubby little finger at the spider. So - her arms around him, they had sat together and watched, just as Amaryllis sorted out what to do.

To her surprise it had been - almost lovely. She had started out thinking of how difficult it was to keep the house clear of cobwebs, staring ruefully at the little interloper, but something about Phileander’s quiet absorption had seeped into her too. They were oddly creepy little things, with those gleaming bodies and so many legs, and she knew some were said to have tiny, poisonous fangs; she would not have let Phileander touch it. But she had watched, too, as it climbed back up the gleaming length it had let down, gathered it up, and she had taught Phileander the word spiderweb.

All the same, it had been a relief that the maid had dusted it away, later, when Phileander was not there to see.

Amaryllis smiled, too, soft and polite, at Diana’s warning, and flickered into a brief bright grin at the thought of an enormous Mugrobi beetle in the cellar. “Giant beetles! I’ve never heard of it, I’m sure.” She imagined something the size of an osta; she tried to picture some of the small, elegant Mugrobi she had met in Vienda walking about with a beetle on a leash, and found her imagination quite failed her.

Amaryllis‘s smile glowed. “If you’ve time - and the girls can make it - Chrysanthe works, often, on nines, but she is generally free on tens. I’ve some engagements, but not too many in the afternoons.” She did not say they had declined rather more parties than usual, of late, those which had required answers in particular but also others which had, at the time, seemed less pressing. She had a feeling, somehow, that it did not need to be said.

“I have never asked Chrysanthe what sort of insects she saw in Gior,” Amaryllis said, thoughtfully, as if the idea had ever once occurred to her before now, and as if she were not once more on the verge of giggling. It was an unexpected delight. “None the less, I’m sure she should be glad to discuss them with Eleanor.”

She found that she could picture; Chrysanthe, sitting very straight with a cup of tea, neutrally describing some sort of bizarre glowing worms from the caverns of Gior, and Eleanor - she could fill in a somewhat more grown, perhaps less spotty girl with lovely curly hair, bright eyed, listening eagerly and putting in notes about habitats or subspecies.

Your friends, Diana had suggested, and Amaryllis was still thinking rapidly. There were the wives of the men Horace did business with - most of them a bit older than her, and many of them a bit older than Diana. They were the ladies who had been split, that afternoon a few years ago when Mrs. Pike had not been able to come and the small tea Amaryllis had hosted had involved Phileander crawling about on the floor: Mrs. Jothering had been scandalized, and all the rest had been delighted, and the conversation had devolved into a great deal of discussion of the intricacies of children and grandchildren and the sort of fondly remembered private moments one never heard discussed. Mrs. Jothering had not even snubbed Amaryllis an invitation to her next luncheon, although she had had something of a pinched face at their greetings.

She tried, and failed, to think of Mrs. Silverstone sitting with her lovely bright wig beneath the painting of Anatole’s mother, or Diana smiling at her - let alone, Amaryllis thought wryly, bug talk.

But - Amaryllis smiled. “There are some school friends I should like very much to see,” she suggested, lightly. “I think they would be good company for your girls, as well, and I’m sure Chrysanthe would be glad of the chance. You know Francoise Rochambeaux, I think?” She knew Francoise was still not accepting many invitations, of course; but she understood that her health was well enough to permit a tea, and she rather thought Francoise would jump at the chance to attend something a bit quiet. Horace and Aurelien had never quite had anything to discuss, but as far as Amaryllis knew neither had ever objected to the friendship.

“I’m not sure whether you would have meet Niccolette Ibutatu,” Amaryllis continued. “Both of them were a year behind me at Brunnhold. She has taken rather an unusual path since graduation, I think, and recently lost her husband, I’m sorry to say. But I think she would be a congenial addition as well.”

[Graf]

Evening, 32 Intas, 2720
The Fasquelles’ Ballroom

G
ioran insects. “I can scarce imagine the manner of flora and fauna to which the Giorans are accustomed.” Something wry pinched at her smile; she took a sip of her Blue and found herself, perhaps most inelegantly, peering down at it, holding it up a little so all the gold phosphor light glanced down through it. It seemed as if it were glowing. She met Amaryllis’ eye again and smiled, somewhat sheepish.

Perhaps even less could she imagine little Chrysanthe in such a place. Though, she supposed – if anyone were suited for those strange climes, it would be Chrysanthe.

“Why, I don’t believe I’ve seen her since she returned,” Diana added, as if it had only just occurred to her, as if she had not long rued the fact and felt helpless to do anything about it. “Working on a nine.”

She mused, taking another sip. It occurred to her then – with an unpleasant sinking feeling – that Amaryllis might take it poorly, her saying so; she almost wanted to add that she took no umbrage with it, that she did not mean…

But she thought Amaryllis likely understood. It was, after all, remarkable. Of course, her own father had worked in the dye industry in Brayde County, which in those days was itself rife with innovation. If she shut her eyes, she thought she might smell it, so strong was the memory; she remembered him even now, coming home from late work evenings with indigo smudges on his hands, squinting weary eyes behind his thick spectacles.

Her mother had not much liked them, but she had loved the smell. Her mother had not much liked anything about it. She had asked questions as a girl about the Molyneux family, who owned the factory, and her mother had responded in clipped tones; she had once said, in a moment of passion, that they were working her father and his ley lines half to death. She remembered how he would get up mid-dinner to jot down an idea or a formula in his little book.

But Diana had never thought for the splinter of a second about following in her father’s footsteps; it simply was not done. It had not been women’s work, at the time, and she supposed – well, she supposed all sorts of things were all right for women, now. She still remembered that dreadful constable inspector they’d had for dinner last Ophus; she’d rather liked the trousers, to be perfectly honest, but to shake hands with the men like some sort of AAF soldier.

She wondered what on Vita Chrysanthe was like, now, having spent one year among those tall pale Gioran matriarchs, and two in the factory. “I am certain,” she said instead, “she will be a wonderful influence on young Eleanor.”

Diana knew the name Rochambeaux rather more than she knew the name Francoise. Aurelien had not been around much, of late, though he had been quite civil at the Low Judge’s dinner in Dentis; she had long felt, with more than a little anxiety, that there was more at play there than she knew. But she remembered his wife, a positively lovely creature.

My dear, she nearly said, is Francoise quite well enough? She had opened her mouth when Amaryllis mentioned a familiar name, and she shut it, pressing her lips together thoughtfully, though she did well to hide her surprise.

Niccolette Ibutatu.

Rather an unusual path, Amaryllis said. Diana nodded, smiling again. “I would be delighted to have both Francoise and Mrs. Ibutatu. We haven’t had many chances to see Aurelien of late – he is a friend of Anatole’s – but I have been thinking of Francoise and her little one,” she added, inclining her head.

Rather an unusual path. Diana had, perhaps, spoken too soon; she was not altogether sure. But she had admittedly hoped for the opportunity to speak to the woman again, and she thought – tea could not possibly hurt. Still, she studied her cousin.

“Would you know, I had the opportunity to meet Mrs. Ibutatu quite recently. She attended our Clock’s Eve party, and with the most fascinating conversation.” She arced one delicate fair eyebrow in what was not – exactly – a question. Her smile warmed. “I’ve heard she’s quite the duelist, since. If I can tempt Cerise away from her studies,” her expression changed not even slightly, “I think she will be most interested to meet her.”

[moralhazard]

Evening, 32 Intas, 2720
The Fasquelle's Ballroom, Uptown

Yes,” Amaryllis said, more casually than she felt, “she is quite the duelist.”

Niccolette had vanished, more or less, for three years after graduation – for three years after her wedding, Amaryllis thought with a fond sort of pinch in her heart – and returned with a living field so unusual even Amaryllis could tell it apart.

“It feels,” Chrysanthe had said, once, thoughtful, “like staring into this sun.”

There were moments that could not be undone. Amaryllis knew from her girlhood that even the most stubborn blistleberry stains, when new, could be lifted from cloth with the careful application of lemon juice and sunlight, and bleach if one was careful. Reputations were harder to clean, and so, too, was one’s heart.

It was a relief that Raymond Kearsley had not shown his face in Vienda since; as best as Amaryllis understood, for no one spoke of it to her directly, he was these days living in Tiv. She tried very hard not to think about it.

Amaryllis did think Chrysanthe could have made a good marriage – she thought Chrysanthe still could, if she wished to. She was so very fond of Phileander, of course, and quite good with him.

Amaryllis had cried, when Chrysanthe’s airship had lifted out of sight to Gior; she had felt as if she had forced her beloved sister from Anaxas with her carelessness. Chrysanthe had promised her it wasn’t so – had promised that she had applied for the post-graduate work before the incident had ever occurred – but Amaryllis wondered if, really, she would have gone. She wondered if, really, Chrysanthe would be working on nines, if not for that fateful day now nearly five years past.

She enjoys it, she had wanted to say, at Diana’s comment. She knew how defensive it would sound; it would have been hard to sound self-righteous when she, too, worried. But Chrysanthe did enjoy it; Amaryllis had tried to push, once or twice, gently, and Chrysanthe’s response had been that she found it interesting and challenging both. She had added, eyebrows lifted, that she even enjoyed seeing something of the Dives.

Amaryllis wondered how much Diana knew; she wondered what she had asked, and what might have been answered. They were cousins on their mothers’ sides; they did not even have between them a shared maiden name. She knew Diana better than to think she would refuse to claim them, even in casual conversation, but she could not help but wonder how it might be discussed, before. They had not, between them, discussed it.

She would not ask, of course; not here, certainly, and not in front of Chrysanthe, either. This was not Brunnhold, where once she had confessed some tearful, heartfelt classroom embarrassment to Diana; these were not the sort of hurts which could be fixed by their airing out and a loving reception. Perhaps, if it had been only the two of them, in some quiet place, where Amaryllis would not need her make up shortly in order; perhaps if there had not been quite so much tinkling, all around, and so many careful fields and faces both.

“Niccolette is someone,” Amaryllis said, carefully, smiling politely still, “for whom friendship is much more than a word,” she paused. She had, naturally, heard about the Clock’s Eve duel; it had been all over Vienda rather rapidly, and of course she paid attention to anything which took place at the Vauquelin house. “I should vouch for her without hesitation,” Amaryllis said, quietly, evenly, “in those things which truly matter.”

“Is Cerise interested in dueling?” Amaryllis asked, smiling; she took a small sip of her half-forgotten starfly, bright red in the golden phosphor light. She had a memory of a physical conversation – she was fairly sure that was what Diana had said some years earlier – and she could not quite imagine her young cousin-by-marriage a healer. Then again, Amaryllis thought ruefully, she was not entirely certain she could imagine Niccolette healing, either, although she knew she was volunteering her time these days at Grand Mercy. "She must be in her last year at Brunnhold now, or very nearly?"

[Graf]

Evening, 32 Intas, 2720
The Fasquelles’ Ballroom

F
or whom friendship is more than a word.

A most curious way to describe someone. Diana thought she understood, trying to imagine again the sight of her all swathed in silver on Clock’s Eve, when snow began to dust down from the clouds. Speaking of shame, and of what one brought – or did not bring – to the mona, of difficult decisions and cowardice. Here, in the caprise of Amaryllis’ warm static field, having brushed a dozen mild perceptivists already today, it was hard to even recall what that living ramscott felt like; it wasn’t quite a ramscott, she would say, but she did not know what else to call it.

Diana smiled. “Mrs. Ibutatu had a rather magnificent carriage,” she said, daring the tiniest of verbal steps closer; “I must admit, I had rather hoped for the opportunity to speak with her again.”

She had not been sure that such sentiments were marks in Mrs. Ibutatu’s favor, for all that she had enjoyed the younger woman’s company. Anatole had told her something once which she had carried with her ever since: the more fascinating I find a lady, the less I am wont to trust her with my affections. She did not think he had extended this piece of veritable wisdom to his gentleman-friends, and she did not think he followed it very well himself, considering they had gotten married less than a year later. He had always loved his sharp words, for all he had melted at the batting of an eyelash.

She thought of him as he was now, sipping brandy and laughing his new snorting laugh, chatting with Mrs. Ibutatu. Nor was that a mark in the young Bastian’s favor, though it fascinated Diana all the more.

What was curious, however, was the way her dear cousin spoke of the lady, quietly and without hesitation, as if she trusted her with life and limb.

She wondered what made Amaryllis so sure of her. If she cast back, she thought she could remember something – the smallest morsel of a detail, irrelevant except that she was beginning to think that it was, in fact, very, very relevant.

Diana did not like to think of what had happened to poor Chrysanthe; she knew no details other than the whispers that had reached her, passed among the Pendulum ladies for as long as it was fashionable to gossip about a person of the Palmifers’ status. Still, the matter of that family’s union to the Braithwaites made the situation rather more conspicuous, and it had seemed that the story was building itself up to a crescendo.

Diana had thought, herself, of stepping in; she had not believed for a second that cousin Chrysanthe would do any such thing as was being talked about. And even if the girl had, Diana knew firsthand that the consequences of a tiny slip could be wretchedly disproportionate.

Before the talk got out of hand, it seemed to dissolve, as if thrown to the wind; in its place was talk of a duel. She remembered distinctly sipping tea with Mrs. Burbridge: I heard the tart slapped poor Kearsley, the old woman had said, pinched with the scandal; ladies these days are simply not as they were. Diana had never, she realized, thought to ask of the tart in question; she thought it had been merely one of Chrysanthe’s school-friends, or some other lady with an excess of sense and a dearth of restraint.

She knew Mrs. Ibutatu now as a widow, definitively, but it suited the pattern rather well, thinking of the duel she had heard about in Roalis of last year; she had heard of it then as the duel between the da Huane and the widow. In twenty-seven fifteen, Diana supposed, she had not been Mrs. Ibutatu the widow.

It fit the pattern quite well, though she knew better than to ask.

She had been concerned about Chrysanthe since, of course; she wondered even now if this sudden interest in men’s work – well, she’d had her own trousers-wearing moment in Tiv, all those years ago, running with the foul-mouthed, handsy artists as if she were one of them. But she thought perhaps that to take off to Gior must have been a breath of fresh air, though she had worried a great deal about her little cousin in the winter.

Is Cerise interested in dueling? The question brought her back to herself; she hesitated. It was not exactly that she often lied – it was not exactly the most realistic career choice, and Anatole had often said she would grow out of it as he had – but something in Amaryllis’ smile stopped her, and she smiled in return. “Interested is one way to put it. I should say – she is quite obsessed.”

She laughed, then. Not all of the letters from the school were about destruction of property or battering some poor judge or assembly member’s daughter; some of them were, in fact, quite glowing. Of late, she wasn’t quite sure what to think of it, only that she would prefer that her stepdaughter took an interest in her classes as well.

“She’ll be graduating this year.” Diana watched Amaryllis take a sip of her bright red Starfly; she took a sip of her own Blue. “It is her ardent wish to pursue dueling at a professional level, I believe; she is quite stubborn about it. Gracious, me,” she added, tilting her head, “just wait until little Phil is her age – they really do have minds of their own.” Her smile softened. “She is so much father’s daughter.”

[moralhazard]

Evening, 32 Intas, 2720
The Fasquelle's Ballroom, Uptown

Amaryllis half-wondered how Niccolette had ended up at the Vauquelin’s Clock Eve party, if she did not know Diana. She could not in the least imagine Niccolette liking Anatole; she could not have said why. Nor, in truth, could she imagine Anatole liking Niccolette, and certainly not sufficiently to extend her an invitation.

That left, Amaryllis supposed, attending with someone – she had heard no particular gossip, but Niccolette was not so widely talked about – she was, Amaryllis thought wryly, a bit too obviously Bastian for that, and not quite fully enmeshed in the Vienda scene. She was aware of some of Francoise’s quick and decisive work during the rainy season, her rerouting gossip with a delicate touch. Francoise herself had always managed to stay entirely above reproach, so far as Amaryllis knew.

It was just hard to imagine an entanglement, Amaryllis thought, with anyone but Uzoji. It was, abruptly, a struggle not to look over at Horace, just to make sure he was still there. She yielded; her gaze lifted, and her smile softened at the sight of her husband, face slightly creased in the moments between his smiles, deep into conversation with Mr. Dannunzio and another gentleman with a similarly Bastian mustache.

She had known Niccolette before Uzoji, just as she had known Diana before Anatole. And yet – of the two – she could have pictured Diana without Anatole, Amaryllis thought, although she was very glad not to need to, yet. But even in their last year of school, Niccolette and Uzoji had drifted closer together; seeing her in the rainy season, Amaryllis had not been able to shake the thought of her torn apart.

Amaryllis had seen her in the winter, and she had seemed much recovered, of course. She put the thought away; she was glad she had thought of Francoise and Niccolette as well. She looked forward, very much, to seeing the both of them, if Francoise was indeed well enough to attend. She looked forward, too, to hearing whatever Francoise might wish to share of her dear little girl.

“Good Lady,” Amaryllis said, eyes widening, although she smiled with Diana’s laughter. “A professional duelist,” she thought it over.

Dueling had never appealed to Amaryllis; she had not fought on the lawn, herself, at Brunnhold. She had watched her fair share, naturally. Of course they could be exciting, but she was not entirely sure she had liked them even as a spectator, not particularly. Before five years ago, she might well have said it was generally more about vanity than honor; honor was, surely, important, but she had been hard-pressed to imagine a case in which it truly merited a duel. Amaryllis took another slight sip of her drink.

“Are there many?” Amaryllis asked, carefully, looking at Diana. She paused; she titled her head slightly to the side, and found without knowing why the faintest of troubled lines at her brow. “Who are women,” Amaryllis added, smoothing it out. She paused; she thought it over.

Her father’s daughter, Diana had said, with such tenderness. Amaryllis had not been old enough, then, to understand what it meant to have the small, dark-haired girl – surely no more than her son’s age, then, she thought, abruptly – at Diana’s wedding.

“I suppose I can’t quite think what to make of it,” Amaryllis admitted, smiling. “It seems rather a dangerous occupation; but, even more so, it seems to me dangerous to hold her back from what she might be. I wouldn’t know what to do, I think; most of my disagreements with Phileander so far are about what he wishes to put in his mouth,” she smiled a little wider, fondly; she missed him, abruptly, once more, through the sudden lump in her throat.

Amaryllis wondered what he would be, when he grew up; she tried to imagine him, a little boy with her cheekbones and Horace’s eyes, going off to Brunnhold – her heart squeezed – and coming back, and wishing to be – she couldn’t quite imagine what. When was it love, to hold a person back? When was it love, to let them go? She thought again of Chrysanthe’s stick straight back as she marched up the gangway to leave for Gior; she thought again of the heat of her sister’s field, when she returned.

“I do hope she’ll come,” Amaryllis said. In moments, she thought, the idea of seeing Diana again, and soon, had gone from an idle dream to something she held unexpectedly close. She did not know; she would not have held it against her cousin if, in the end, other matters had intruded. But she would, Amaryllis thought, have been very disappointed, all the same.

[Graf]

Evening, 32 Intas, 2720
The Fasquelles’ Ballroom

N
ot many. In Anaxas, at least,” she replied, pursing her lips slightly. She paused; her fingers tightened a little on her glass. “But there are more and more of them each year. And – well, I suppose there have always been women duelists in places like Gior.” There was a strange tilt to her smile, as she looked away, out across the ballroom aflock with ladies in spring-bright dresses and men in distinguished dark suits.

There was an altogether strange feeling in her soul; she was not sure why she had said that. It was a moment – a moment full of clinking glasses and slippers clicking on polished tile, of laughter that blended together into a teeming brook – before Amaryllis spoke again.

When Diana looked back at her cousin, she was no longer smiling. Amaryllis was, that lovely ballroom smile with its warm edges. But Diana could not seem to lift the edges of her lips, and certainly could not raise the smile all the way to her eyes. It seemed an impossible peak to climb, and one that she had never been terribly adept at climbing in the first place.

She listened, oddly intent. She listened like someone who cared very much what Amaryllis had to say about it. She had, for all intents and purposes, been a mother for longer than her cousin, and practically twice over; nevertheless, she held each word as if they were precious things.

She laughed, finally. “I’m grateful at least that Eleanor has gotten out of that habit,” she said lightly, thinking that it would do the girl no harm; the little embarrassing stories of babyhood, after all, were meant for elder cousins and doting aunts.

She wondered which nanny knew, which nanny remembered. Which woman, who might even now be rocking someone else’s little one, had bright, vivid memories of pulling Eleanor away from this or that creepy-crawly in the house in Scrivener’s Gate, with its draughty second floor and creaky doors. Or on the wide Hessean carpet that now sprawled in Anatole’s study. She supposed such a woman had dandled many of Uptown’s children on her knee; her thoughts scattered, and she felt oddly sad.

She felt grateful, too, suddenly and terribly grateful, that she had found Amaryllis at the Fasquelles’ ball. She caught sight of Horace again; another man had joined him, along with Dannunzio, both dark-haired and curling-moustached.

And there, a little behind him, chatting amiably with someone she could not see – oh, but it was Mrs. Demachy! She had forgotten she had meant to speak with her tonight; Mrs. Leblanc had quite insistently charged her with inviting the sweet girl into the Riboulet Ladies’ Society.

She took a deep breath. “Regardless, I think I could not hold her back if I wanted to,” she said, a bright smile springing back to her face, one that touched her eyes. “She listens to no one, I think, and least of all me.”

There was a heaviness to it; she had not quite meant it that way. It would be just the same, she wanted to add cheerfully, with Phileander – there is an age when every young galdor…

She thought of Chrysanthe the last time she had seen her, straight-backed and no-nonsense; she thought of Eleanor, who liked to do nothing more than look at a strange-looking insect under a spyglass, and who always told Mother everything – everything – even the things that Mother did not particularly wish to hear. She supposed it was not just the same; she supposed they were all quite different, in the end, and that was the trouble, or the beauty.

And they all turn out quite differently, she thought, looking back at her cousin, smiling. She could not quite banish the sadness. “I shall endeavor my best with Cerise; and I hope dear Chrysanthe can part with her work for an afternoon,” she said.

She pulsed her field gently against Amaryllis’, and then – reached out again, brushed her cousin’s hand. “I will call on you soon, my dear, and we can discuss the details.” She began to turn away, worrying she had lost Mrs. Demachy; then, she paused, turning back. “I am very glad to have had your company tonight, Amaryllis. And that gown becomes you; it brings out your eyes marvelously.”

She lingered a moment; her schedule, busy though it was, could spare a moment, a lingering, lovely moment. She took another sip of her Blue, then, smiled her politician’s wife’s smile, and turned to wade through the ballroom crowd.

[moralhazard]

Evening, 32 Intas, 2720
The Fasquelle's Ballroom, Uptown

At that age,” Amaryllis said firmly, smiling, “I should think not.” She remembered nineteen very well; she was sorry, suddenly, in a dull and somewhat distant way, not to have had any chances with her parents beyond that. She did not much trouble herself to think they would have liked to meet Phileander; perhaps they would have been more interested in a grandson than they had been in their daughters.

Perhaps not.

“In time,” Amaryllis continued, thinking of Cerise, and trying to imagine an older version – one who must, surely, have thought herself a woman grown – of the messy dark-haired girl, all the way from the intent little thing watching her father marry and kicking her feet against the bench, to the sullen teen Amaryllis remembered her, “she’ll know how lucky she was to have you as her mother.”

Amaryllis supposed she should have felt she was overstepping; she didn’t, quite, all the same. The light of the chandelier glistened in her eyes, reflected and refracted, and Amaryllis smiled, soft. It was Diana this time, who reached out, with her field and her hand both. Amaryllis smiled. “I shall look forward to it,” she promised.

Amaryllis smiled at the compliment; a warm, social smile. “That means a great deal,” she said, thinking of Diana at nineteen, the most elegant woman she had ever imagined already, to her ten year old mind – and a few years later, somehow even more so. Perhaps there were some such impressions which faded, in time; this, Amaryllis thought, had not been one of them, “coming from you.”

Amaryllis did not watch her cousin go; she turned, drink still in hand, and made her way back towards the edges of the party. “Mrs. Martineaux,” she said, smiling, tinkling brightly beneath the lights. “How lovely to see you – ”

Amaryllis was very nearly asleep on her feet by the time the carriage pulled around. Horace’s arm was settled around her shoulders, holding her cloak in place; if it was, perhaps, a bit intimate for public view, Amaryllis found she did not care terribly much. It was warm in the carriage, the two heating boxes nestled in the floor, and Amaryllis could settle her head on Horace’s shoulder, without needing to worry whether it would leave the elaborate braids of her hair too wispy.

“How did it go with Dannunzio?” Amaryllis asked, softly, her eyes half closed. She shifted her hand, settling it into Horace’s.

“Well,” Horace said, smiling. “We’ve set a meeting for the seven to talk further.”

“Oh, I’m glad,” Amaryllis sighed. “I knew if only you could get to him, face to face.” She lapsed into silence again, struggling to keep her eyes open.

“Was that your cousin Diana that you were talking to?” Horace asked, softly. His hand squeezed hers, lightly.

“Yes,” Amaryllis could hear the warmth in her voice; she laughed, grateful not to have to hold it in. “It was so lovely to see her. We’ve made plans to have tea – with Chrysanthe as well, and Phileander, and her girls also; it's been so long...” She thought perhaps Horace said something in response, but her eyes were drifting shut once more; that was all right. She knew, in her heart, what he had meant.

The carriage came to a stop, and Amaryllis came awake with it. She sighed; Horace and the footman helped her down, and she walked on aching feet up the short drive, and into the house. Horace steadied her as she removed the ribbon-clad heels; Amaryllis held in the gasp that threatened to emerge at the pinch of pain in her heel. The dress was too long, now, and she held up a fold of the skirt, making her way up the darkened staircase with the light of memory.

Amaryllis stepped in to the nursery. There was a shaft of moonlight sprawling across the floor; the lady, she thought, tiredly, watching over him in her absence. Mrs. Pike was dozing lightly in a rocking chair in the corner, knitting in her lap; Amaryllis did not trouble to wake her, nor begrudge her the rest.

It was strange, to look in and see a bed rather than a crib; Phileander had taken to the change straightaway, but Amaryllis missed the crib, just a little bit. He still had his crib blanket, the soft blue thing, and Amaryllis smiled to see him curled up with it, his face soft and loose in peaceful sleep. She came closer; she knelt, next to the bed, and bent forward, and brushed his forehead with her lips.

“Sweet dreams, little heart,” Amaryllis whispered, softly.

Horace helped her to her feet, carefully; Amaryllis gathered up her skirt again, and leaned on her husband as she made her way from the room. There was undressing still to be done, her face to wash, her hair to let down, all the rhythms and routines of nighttime. She let herself relax into them, the coolness of her son’s forehead and the soft, even rhythms of his breath all she needed, just then.