Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown
The tea was as bitter strong as Niccolette remembered, sharp and distinctive. It was not precisely that she thought adding milk and sugar would ruin it, though the pale color of Francoise’s was rather far from the dark clarity of her own. But it needed no adornment; whether or not the adornment would be pleasant was beside the point.
Sweet, furthermore, had never been to her liking.
Diana Vauquelin had met her gaze for a brief moment, the unexpected depths of her indectal field washing through Niccolette’s. She had smiled, and Niccolette had smiled too, before returning her attention to the tea.
“Aurelien was insistent last year that we order some of the stuff they are producing south of Brunnhold,” Francoise said with an easy smile, sitting upright on the edge of her chair. She took a small sip. “Although lately of course it has been all coffee.”
Cerise’s hand hovered and held. There was a brief moment of silence; as far as Niccolette could see Amaryllis was, still, smiling.
Whatever question there had been, the little boy answered it himself; his hand tucked neatly into Cerise’s, and he gazed adoringly down at the pile of gold scales and feathers on her lap.
“I wike her scawes,” the boy said happily. “And fweathews.”
“Go on,” Amaryllis murmured. Niccolette couldn’t have said which of them she was encouraging.
Niccolette sat very upright as well, her legs still crossed at the ankle. She took another small sip of her tea; she set the cup down to the side, and let her hand curl in her laps, holding them neatly still together. She remembered the miraan parks of Florne well; she had rather loved them as a girl.
It came to her rather unexpectedly that there had been a time when she wanted a miraan as a pet. She had been - seven, perhaps? Niccolette could not quite remember. She had visited the park around that age quite often, with one governess or the next, as long as they lasted. She had been allowed to play, and always snatched back in horror at the first sign of a thin red line on her pale skin, or the first moment when sharp jaws closed gently over her. She had never minded the rough play; it had struck her even then as a fair exchange.
She had gone to her father and asked, Niccolette remembered. She picked her tea back up, and took a small sip, and set the cup aside once more, glancing between Diana and Francoise.
“... should encourage, not discourage,” Chrysanthe said with a slight shake of her head, still smiling intent at young Eleanor. “But I’m not surprised the Brunnhold Library was unhelpful. Before my post graduate work I set out to read most of their Gioran collection; there’s rather an extensive set of grimoires in physical and static conversation, and outside of that it is rather embarrassingly thin. Much of what’s published there, as well, is written in Gioran, and efforts at translation in the secular sphere are rather rare. There were travelogues of course, but one is always skeptical.”
“I’m half afraid Aurelien will return from Thul Ka with an actual taste for the stuff in the Mugrobi style,” Francoise said; her hands were still soft on the teacup, and her face an even smile. “Of course I don’t mind a bit of coffee with milk and sugar. Have either of you been to Shifting Sands on Pewter Street? They do the most interesting things with syrup.”
Niccolette raised her eyebrows.
“Even you might like it,” Francoise told her with a delicate little laugh, her forehead crinkling in a brief, warm smile. “They aren’t all sweet.”
Sweet, furthermore, had never been to her liking.
Diana Vauquelin had met her gaze for a brief moment, the unexpected depths of her indectal field washing through Niccolette’s. She had smiled, and Niccolette had smiled too, before returning her attention to the tea.
“Aurelien was insistent last year that we order some of the stuff they are producing south of Brunnhold,” Francoise said with an easy smile, sitting upright on the edge of her chair. She took a small sip. “Although lately of course it has been all coffee.”
Cerise’s hand hovered and held. There was a brief moment of silence; as far as Niccolette could see Amaryllis was, still, smiling.
Whatever question there had been, the little boy answered it himself; his hand tucked neatly into Cerise’s, and he gazed adoringly down at the pile of gold scales and feathers on her lap.
“I wike her scawes,” the boy said happily. “And fweathews.”
“Go on,” Amaryllis murmured. Niccolette couldn’t have said which of them she was encouraging.
Niccolette sat very upright as well, her legs still crossed at the ankle. She took another small sip of her tea; she set the cup down to the side, and let her hand curl in her laps, holding them neatly still together. She remembered the miraan parks of Florne well; she had rather loved them as a girl.
It came to her rather unexpectedly that there had been a time when she wanted a miraan as a pet. She had been - seven, perhaps? Niccolette could not quite remember. She had visited the park around that age quite often, with one governess or the next, as long as they lasted. She had been allowed to play, and always snatched back in horror at the first sign of a thin red line on her pale skin, or the first moment when sharp jaws closed gently over her. She had never minded the rough play; it had struck her even then as a fair exchange.
She had gone to her father and asked, Niccolette remembered. She picked her tea back up, and took a small sip, and set the cup aside once more, glancing between Diana and Francoise.
“... should encourage, not discourage,” Chrysanthe said with a slight shake of her head, still smiling intent at young Eleanor. “But I’m not surprised the Brunnhold Library was unhelpful. Before my post graduate work I set out to read most of their Gioran collection; there’s rather an extensive set of grimoires in physical and static conversation, and outside of that it is rather embarrassingly thin. Much of what’s published there, as well, is written in Gioran, and efforts at translation in the secular sphere are rather rare. There were travelogues of course, but one is always skeptical.”
“I’m half afraid Aurelien will return from Thul Ka with an actual taste for the stuff in the Mugrobi style,” Francoise said; her hands were still soft on the teacup, and her face an even smile. “Of course I don’t mind a bit of coffee with milk and sugar. Have either of you been to Shifting Sands on Pewter Street? They do the most interesting things with syrup.”
Niccolette raised her eyebrows.
“Even you might like it,” Francoise told her with a delicate little laugh, her forehead crinkling in a brief, warm smile. “They aren’t all sweet.”
