[Closed] Someone Reaching Back for Me

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

Cerise whistled sharply at the miraan. Francoise caught her breath, and Niccolette felt the flutter in her pulse.

The Bastian breathed, steadily and evenly; she let the rhythm of it flood out into her field, and lap against Francoise’s. The living mona were comfortably intertwined, belike fields made familiar after so many years of friendship. She passed the rhythm of her breath through her field, and she felt the response in Francoise’s.

After a moment, her friend’s breathing steadied out; she felt her pulse even out, following steadily behind. Niccolette shifted her fingers away from Francoise’s wrist, delicately, although did not let go of her hand – mostly because Francoise was squeezing hers, rather hard. She raised her eyebrows at the other woman.

Francoise smiled back and let go; she took a deeper breath, then fell into the rhythm once more. She reached up to pat the fall of hair tumbling over her shoulder, although did not touch the careful updo on the other side of her head.

“More of a fly, I am given to understand,” Chrysanthe was saying, quietly and calmly, smiling at her cousin, “when fully grown. In their infancy, they glow a sort of cool blue color, and produce enormous amounts of long, silk-like thread. When one sees them, it is quite hard to differentiate between the glowworm and its nest; the silk threads catch up the light quite well. Infestations are, in fact, quite common in parts of Qrieth…”

Amaryllis’s footsteps were fading down the hall, slow and even. What, Niccolette had wanted to ask, absurdly, do you do when the crying no longer helps?

“Wait,” Niccolette said, not sharply, but with a competent, commanding tone. Diana was coming to sit on the couch; Cerise was huddled by the window, glowering darkly, the faintest hint of gold in her hair. She turned to look at the human behind the door. “Before it is thrown out.” Niccolette said.

Niccolette turned back to look at Diana; she smiled at her. Her gaze lifted, as well, to Cerise, her face pale and pinched beneath the tangle of dark hair. She took the last sip of her tea, and set the cup down, carefully.

“There is a Hoxian technique of pottery repair,” Niccolette said, “in which the broken pieces are fused back together with gold- or silver-dusted lacquer. The end result is to produce a piece in which the breaks can be seen,” Niccolette smiled; it was a soft look, almost tender, “but which is – often – even more beautiful than what came before.”

“I shall say that I have something of a temper,” Niccolette went on, her hands together in her lap; her fingers settled on her wedding ring, “and have broken… several plates,” she smiled; next to her Francoise smiled too, a brief twitch of it which she hid with a careful turning of her head.

“One some years ago was… a gift,” Niccolette thought perhaps she would hesitate there, though she did not, “from my husband, which – in a moment of anger,” Niccolette shrugged lightly. She heard Francoise’s breath catch beside her at the word husband; she felt her friend’s utter stillness, and then the gentle touch of fingers on her arm.

“He had it restored,” Niccolette said, “and gave it to me once more.” She looked down at her hands; she smoothed them gently over her lap once more. She had spent some time in the Islands the month before, where the plate was, even now, framed on the wall of their bedroom there; Uzoji had hung it where it would catch the morning light. She lifted her gaze to Diana and Cerise, and smiled once more, evenly; there was no constraint in her voice, nor even the faintest glimmer of tears in her eyes.

“I should be glad to recommend a craftsman in the Rose known for such work,” Niccolette said. She turned, and picked up her empty cup and saucer, and set them down next to the pot, noiselessly. “I would, as well, appreciate another cup of tea; it is excellent.”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown
Bethas 29, 2720 - Afternoon Teatime

Mrs. Wheelwright came in to sweep up the broken bits of the former plate, and Cerise felt even more foolish than she had before. She had only thought, in the moment--first, to stop Sish from eating Ellie's spider, and then to keep the baby from escaping Chrysanthe's hold and picking up a piece. Of course it made more sense to sweep the pieces up than to pick them up with your hands, like she had been. She had just thought--she hadn't thought. That was always where she went wrong; she moved to action before thought had properly entered into her consideration.

Cerise looked at Diana with some surprise as her stepmother commanded her to come and sit. She didn't know quite why. Mrs. Wheelwright sounded alarmed--it wasn't such a terrible wound as that. At least she didn't think so. Cerise hadn't paused to look at it, really. It didn't hurt, but it had bled a decent amount. It was very possible that she had just cut herself too sharply to feel much, regardless of depth. That, at least, was something she understood.

Chrysanthe was still talking to Eleanor. About glowing worms from Gior, Cerise realized. Good. Eleanor would like that. That was better than anything Cerise could have said to her sister. She wondered at Chrysanthe's easy steadiness, the solid way she seemed to respond to both Eleanor and Phileander. All of it, really. Was it something one could learn, or was it innate? She thought it was probably the latter. Cerise very carefully did not look to the hall where Amaryllis had stepped away.

From where she stood by the window, Cerise could see Mrs. Ibutatu and Mrs. Rochambeaux. They were close together still, and Mrs. Ibutatu held her friend's hand. Diana gestured again. Cerise hovered, a stormcloud in grey. Then she came to sit, too aware of how much of a spectacle she would make of herself if she resisted. Especially for no reason she could have properly articulated, just a recalcitrant instinct to not do as she was told. Cerise was about to look away and back to some point in the middle distance when the Bastian began to speak.

To hear such a lady, and lady was the proper word for it she thought, talk casually of breaking plates in a fit of temper was strange. And comforting, in an even stranger way. Whatever that meant struggled to show itself on her face, warring against the more natural tendencies of her thin mouth and dark eyebrows. Cerise looked down then to the chair.

The tea stain was a little unfortunate. The chair was really not terrible, and Diana had only just gotten it. Sish was still sitting heavily across her shoulders. When she sat, Cerise had come to perch on the edge of the chair, stiff-backed and uncomfortable. She did her best to spread her skirt surreptitiously, so that it covered the worst of the splotch.

Nevermind that the skirt itself was similarly afflicted; that was a lesser concern. She had made it worse by touching it with her wounded hand. A smear of red joined the dark blotches of tea. This was the last day she could wear this skirt, she thought a little sadly. She had liked it. It wasn't in fashion anymore; she didn't think she could get another like it.

She wasn't so sure that discussion of pottery repair was supposed to make her feel so heavy and strange. How, she wondered, could it be more beautiful than it was before if you could see all the places where it had cracked and needed putting back together? Better the illusion that nothing had happened than to always look at it and remember--wasn't it? Her hand tightened into a fist that she tried to hide behind her skirt. Mrs. Ibutatu smiled at herself and Diana both. Cerise let her fist uncurl just a little.

"It's not so bad," she mumbled, holding her cut hand on her lap. "I've had worse."

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

I
t was not, perhaps, always good form to command someone else’s servant, with the master or mistress indubitably present – if it had been Amaryllis or Chrysanthe, relations, the situation would have been different. Mrs. Ibutatu had been only one other time in the Vauquelin house; and if she were a friend of Anatole’s, as Diana’s bewildered suspicions whispered, even then, the Vauquelins’ social set was rather far removed from her own.

Once or twice, others had tried. Incumbent Proulx, a dear old friend of Anatole’s who’d had a bit too much to drink one evening, had slurred at Mr. Morris; Mr. Morris had rather ignored him until Anatole had put him on point.

But Mrs. Ibutatu spoke carefully and evenly in her sharp Bastian accent; she did not snap, but spoke as someone making a strong, competent suggestion which ought not be ignored. Mrs. Wheelwright stopped for her, looking up abruptly with the broom and dustpan. She looked to Diana, who was moving back toward the couch; Diana paused, one pale eyebrow sharply arced, and nodded.

But both Mrs. Wheelwright and Diana were quite still. Diana paused, looking down at Mrs. Ibutatu, her face thoughtfully blank.

Diana had never seen quite such a smile on Mrs. Ibutatu’s face; she had not, either, considered doing such a strange thing with a plate. One hardly wished to have visible cracks in one’s dining ware, regardless of whether they were dusted with gold or silver. To adorn the cracks themselves seemed almost – hubris. As if one did not care what one broke; as if one was proud of it.

Mrs. Ibutatu went on, and Diana smiled, first, quizzical and surprised – a lady hurling plates! – and glanced toward Cerise, who was drifting ragged and tea-stained, finally, toward her chair.

Diana wondered how much of it had to do with what Mrs. Ibutatu had said; she felt faintly dizzy, as if the whole room were under a spell. There was a hush, as if of a held breath, at the word husband, which did not, in Mrs. Ibutatu’s voice, ring with the weight of the word widow.

Cerise was sitting and arranging her skirt sullenly. Even Chrysanthe and Eleanor were quiet; Eleanor watched Mrs. Ibutatu with even blue eyes.

“What shall I do with the pieces, Mrs. Vauquelin?” came the human’s voice, finally.

“Bring them up to the study, Mrs. Wheelwright, along with – Cerise, my dear, give up your handkerchief with the large pieces.” Diana’s voice was slow and decisive; when she was finished, she pressed her lips thin. She felt strangely and could not have said why.

But Mrs. Ibutatu had asked for more tea, politely and helpfully. Breathing in and out as steadily as she had, Diana moved to take the teapot once more. She made Francoise’s, first, dear lady – she looked as if she were evening out; the color so well-hidden by her foundation had nevertheless receded – and brought over the milk and sugar. She filled Mrs. Ibutatu’s teacup, noting with a smile that she had added nothing. When she moved to pour more for Chrysanthe and Eleanor, the two were talking again.

“Infestations, cousin?” breathed Eleanor, smiling broadly and with wonder, as if infestation was a word one smiled excitedly at.

It was her cup and Cerise’s she filled last. She smiled at Cerise, as best she could, fetching another teacup from the set. Enough had spilled from the cup, she thought, that it was as if Cerise had hardly drunk any.

Perhaps it was that he was Mugrobi, Diana had kept on thinking, with a bitterness she could not help. Or perhaps – they all had strange ways, in the Isles; stranger yet, in the Rose. She could not picture Anatole rewarding her in such a way for hurling a plate. She had never been permitted to hurl a plate, not even at her angriest. She would have branded herself – she did not even know what. Not even a lady, for all the woman sitting on the couch with Francoise, her living field breathing wide and indectal around her, was a lady, and one of decent standing.

She moved back to the couch, then; she did not take a seat, but sat on the edge of the arm, nearest Cerise’s chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Ibutatu,” she said finally. “I should be grateful of your recommendation.”

The door reopened; Mrs. Wheelwright entered with a small purse, and went to kneel by Cerise, before Diana shooed her away.

“Nonsense. A little cut may be infected,” she said, with a crisp smile. “Show me your hand, dear.” She began to open the bag. “A man most cultured and graceful, I take it,” she added softly, not looking over her shoulder; if Cerise did not show her, she would reach for the girl’s hand anyway, firm and matter-of-fact.

[moralhazard]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

Husband, Niccolette had said, evenly.

Francoise had not known what she expected; for all that her friend’s voice had been calm and even, she knew Niccolette well – she knew what the rainy season and the beginning of summer had been like, and when she had caught her breath it had been half-afraid that the next moment would find Niccolette dissolving into tears, weeping breathlessly, for all that it had been the better part of a year since Francoise had last seen her cry.

Francoise absolutely could picture it; she knew something of the fights Niccolette and Uzoji had had, and what had sent her friend to Vienda on an airship, alone, in the middle of 2714. She could guess the sort of fight it might have been, although it didn’t surprise her that Niccolette could talk about that part of it calmly.

Of course Uzoji had been mentioned, since; she remembered all too well the dreadful night in Roalis with Incumbent Vauquelin, with all his then-strangeness (according to Aurelien, he was quite recovered, but they had not regained their former closeness; that her husband had not, quite, said, but Francoise had understood it from his tone). But Francoise was very sure she had not heard Niccolette bring him up, unprompted, since – well, Francoise thought, with a heavy heart, since.

How very like Uzoji, though, to have put the plate back together and offered it to her once more.

Diana ordered for the pieces of the plate to be brought up to the study.

Chrysanthe had gone rather quiet, as had Eleanor, as Niccolette spoke. Francoise glanced over with a smile as Chrysanthe went on, in response to Eleanor's prompting.

“Yes – I understand that the eggs are in fact quite small, and very difficult to see, so it’s rather common for them to be laid without anyone being the wiser, particularly in caverns with quite high ceilings. As such, one might find themselves coming into class in one of the rooms in the Temple, and what looked like a bare ceiling the day before is suddenly covered in glowing strands. It was quite strange to me, the first day! The Giorans are entirely nonchalant about it – they react as you would to a dust bunny, or something equally innocuous.”

It was, Francoise thought, rather a funny topic of conversation, but Eleanor seemed enthralled, the sweet girl.

Francoise was, herself, feeling rather steady once more. She was tired of this strange weakness that had plagued her for so many months; she understood perfectly well that the doctor had said it would take time. But every interruption, every startlement, seemed to set her back; she could not understand why in Alioe’s name the nursery in the Rochambeaux house had been built so close to the master bedroom; Francoise would have liked it all the way across the house, or perhaps in another wing or out back in the garden. The nurses were quite diligent, but one heard Jacqueline squalling at all sorts of odd hours; Francoise could not think of when last she had had a proper night of sleep.

“Thank you,” Francoise smiled at Diana as the other woman poured her a second cup of tea. She would not, she thought, have mentioned it; it was better to let the conversation flow evenly past such things, rather than to gawk at them. She did not mention it, still; that Niccolette could do such things, could evenly and nonchalantly talk of breaking plates – Francoise was somewhat glad she had not specifically mentioned hurling them into walls – did not mean she could. Not that she had ever broken a plate, of course; she could not quite picture it, and she doubted it would have helped, really.

Francoise poured a bit of milk into the bitter black liquid; she took a spoonful of sugar, and stirred that in as well.

Cerise still sat, looking nothing so much as sulky.

Francoise could not help it; she stilled again, when Diana spoke, and it was a struggle not to tense her shoulders.

“Yes,” Niccolette said, quite evenly, taking a sip of her tea. “He was.” She set the cup back down on its saucer.

Francoise felt rather oddly as if she wished to cry, which was not in the least helpful. She took a deep breath, coming unstuck once more, and took a sip of her tea. Bitter, she thought, but rather sustaining.

“I suppose,” Francoise began; she faltered, but Niccolette turned and looked at her – not sharp, but with an odd – as if, Francoise thought, she were holding her breath. She smiled, and went on as if there had been no hesitation, “that he knew what he was in for, with you.” Francoise grinned at her. “I remember your first meeting quite well.”

Niccolette smiled; she sat back, pushing her fingers through her long hair, lifting it back off her forehead. “Was I so bad as that?”

“You were brutal,” Francoise giggled, unexpectedly; she set her cup down as well, smiling. “The future Mr. Ibutatu came up to offer her a handkerchief after a particularly, ah, messy try-outs match for the dueling club,” she said, half to the room, and turned back to Niccolette, “and you cut him direct!”

Niccolette was grinning, now, rather sharply. “I had other things on my mind,” she said with a little shrug. “It was only my second match of the day.”

Francoise grinned; it was rather impossible to remember how young they had all been. Her poor hair, Francoise thought wryly; she had subjected it to rather a lot in such days. She had, of course, found Uzoji very handsome herself; he had only had eyes for Niccolette, then. And – really, in the ways that counted – always, since. Her smile softened; she reached out and took Niccolette’s hand.

Niccolette squeezed hers, quite firmly, let go and picked up her tea once more, taking a sip.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown
Bethas 29, 2720 - Afternoon Teatime

Cerise passed the handkerchief to Mrs. Wheelwright without much protest. There didn't seem much other option, and even she had her limits in how much trouble she was willing to cause in one afternoon. Especially in the wake of her stepmother's voice and the thin press of her mouth. She was a little at a loss of what she was supposed to do now. The pieces clinked against each other softly as she handed the little bundle up and returned her hands to her lap.

Why Diana wanted to keep the pieces, she didn't know. It was a nice story about Mr. Ibutatu, she supposed. But Diana wouldn't put the plate out again, she thought. Or she would, but she would just glare at it every day the same way she had been glaring at the sculpture on the mantle. Not even Cerise could enjoy the broken plate in that case, because she was the one who broke it. Maybe she was just humoring the other woman and would throw them out later. Nobody wanted to keep broken things.

What was perhaps the most shocking was that nobody had made their excuses and left yet. In fact, Mrs. Ibutatu had asked quite evenly for more tea. Diana went around the room refilling cups as needed. Even a new one for her, because Cerise had managed to get most of it on her skirt and chair. There was a smile on her face, or what was supposed to be one--that was not like the smile before, that was a smile she was more accustomed to.

Mrs. Wheelwright had returned with a little purse; Cerise had already managed to forget the cut on her hand and was reminded again of it when the bag appeared. She could have bandaged it herself. She'd patched herself up plenty, with varying degrees of competence, over the past few years. Better to learn some basic first aid than to subject herself to the glances at the infirmary after getting into a fight. There was a moment where she hesitated to take out her hand, and Diana took it anyway with a no-nonsense touch.

The antiseptic stung but not quite as much as the story. It was sweet; Cerise listened with distant interest. It was nice to see Mrs. Rochambeaux smiling, she thought. She had been quiet all afternoon. There was something here, between the lines of the story, that Cerise could see but didn't understand. Almost everyone else knew, she thought; probably only her and Ellie didn't. Or just her--maybe Ellie did know. Nothing made her feel quite as prickly as when she felt like she was in the dark about something, and her alone.

She couldn't say why the story made her want to scream. It seemed rather nice. Probably just because it made her think of Emiel, a wound she kept open and bright so she could draw up the anger from it whenever she needed it. It didn't matter anymore, but she was angry about it still all the same.

I'm sorry about your spider, it's disappeared again, she thought to say to Ellie, but didn't. He sounds nice, she almost said, but she bit that back too. They weren't talking about anything she knew how to talk about, so she didn't say anything at all. See? The afternoon got there, in the end.

"Thank you," was her only comment, a quiet mumble directed more at her hand than at her stepmother. When her hand had been taken care of, she would withdraw it to sit and have some of her tea. She would stay stubbornly quiet for the rest of the afternoon, probably. It was easiest that way.

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

A
dust bunny!” It was good to hear Eleanor giggling, the poor, serious girl. Diana could not quite keep the smile from her face at the sound of her daughter’s voice bubbling on: “I should simply love to see it; I have learned so little of Gioran insect life. There is a professor visiting from Gior next year to teach a course on Gioran arachnids, but I am told that is quite a different…”

She had half-worried she had misstepped with her idle comment, which was not – but perhaps held the shadow of – a question. It had been at least a year, but she had known well the expression on Francoise’s face at the word husband. She had known less well the expression on Mrs. Ibutatu’s, which was why, in the end, she had spoken; that, and she had thought there was something in the way Mrs. Ibutatu had looked at Anatole's daughter, when she had suggested the repair of the plate.

She had not decided, herself, if she was angry. She had been more startled at the sight of the broken plate than anything, and at the mess, and at Francoise’s startlement. Now that things had calmed somewhat, she felt very little at the thought of losing or repairing the porcelain; she could not remember who it was had given it to them, and she thought perhaps it had been Anatole’s mother’s.

There were, in any case, other things to think about. Cerise was sullen and silent as she set about the cut, tching quietly through her teeth at the sight of more blood welling along the thin line of it. That was, no doubt, how the handkerchief had come to be stained; she imagined Cerise slinking upstairs, sulky-faced and alone, with her handkerchief pressed to her hand, muttering about how it was not so bad.

She heard nothing in Mrs. Ibutatu’s quiet, even response, but it was Francoise who stepped in to fill the quiet, to her surprise.

Was I so bad as that? came the sharp, Bastian voice, as nonchalant as one liked. Diana found herself smiling, though her back was still turned, and she still worked at pressing the pad of cotton to Cerise’s palm.

She looked up at the girl’s face, then, and tried to share her smile, like a secret. She was dismayed to find herself looking at the same sullen, downcast frown. Those lovely grey eyes, so much like her father’s, were fixed firmly on her lap.

She had thought Francoise’s story would cheer her. She took a deep breath and held the upkeep of her hope, still smiling down as she wrapped Cerise’s hand. You cut him direct, Francoise said, and Diana looked over her shoulder with raised brows. Mrs. Ibutatu was grinning that magnificent grin, as sharp and bright as the field that hung in the air around them. The next thing she knew, Diana was laughing softly with pleasant surprise, pausing to cover her mouth with a hand.

Cerise murmured gratitude. She looked back, touching the girl’s hand, and tried to find her eyes. Come now, she wanted to say, my dear, you were so fascinated with Mrs. Ibutatu’s dueling before – what in Vita is the matter?

But Cerise was withdrawing to take more tea. Diana settled herself back on the couch, taking her own cup into her lap. “He often came to your duels?” she asked, her face finding its social smile with a little more warmth.

Mr. Ibutatu was steadily taking shape in her mind, though she could not have said she could picture him, any more than she could picture – her. The smile softened, and she took a sip of tea.

Most of the time, he could not have stood to speak of her, but sometimes, it had seemed her name came as readily and evenly to his tongue as it had before. She knew nothing of mourning, herself, or so she imagined, but she thought she recognized this.

She smiled at Cerise, still. Perhaps more talk would draw her out; perhaps it would not. There was a hint of a tea stain peeking out from a fold in her dress. She was not sure if what she saw on Cerise’s face was shame, but she thought of Mrs. Ibutatu’s grin, and her earlier admission, uttered without the faintest hint of embarrassment, and – for once, she thought there was something more important at hand than a lady’s comportment at tea. She held onto the upkeep of her hope, still.

[moralhazard]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

He’s properly asleep, he is, madam,” Mrs. Pike said, smiling. Phileander was curled up on a chaise lounge in one of Diana’s other rooms; Mrs. Pike had fetched a soft blanket for him from the coach, and he was curled underneath it. “He’s growing out of them naps, though; he didn’t want a wink of sleep all day yesterday.”

“No,” Amaryllis said, softly; she was still settled behind Phileander, her hand lightly stroking his soft curls. She smiled at Mrs. Pike. “He had most of a sandwich quarter, but I suspect he’ll want something else when he wakes. Perhaps give him something to eat and clean him up a bit, and see if you think he's up to rejoining us.”

“Of course, madam,” Mrs. Pike said, smiling. “You go on and enjoy your tea.”

Amaryllis smiled. “Yes,” she knelt gently beside the lounge and brushed Phileander’s forehead with her lips. He stirred, but didn’t wake, curling up into his blanket.

Amaryllis rose, then, leaving Phileander behind under Mrs. Pike’s watchful eye. She heard the rhythmic click of knitting needles as she went, and smiled, reassured. The shoulders of her dress were clean and dry once more; Amaryllis knew better than to wear any dress which could not be so cleaned for an outing with her son.

Amaryllis came back into the tea room, smiling.

Chrysanthe was still bent in conversation with Eleanor, sitting in the seat where Amaryllis had been before she had first left.

“I think due to the caves in Qrieth,” Chrysanthe was saying, “the insects are really quite different. I suppose the arachnids would be as well; one imagines the sort of insect which survives comfortably in the trees or city might not be as well-suited for the caverns, although I suppose you would know much more about that than I do.”

“I did not make much of a study of arachnids myself, but I should mention the crickets,” Chrysanthe went on. “There are several caverns well-known for them, although they can appear anywhere in the city. They are quite large, actually – they can jump an incredible distance – and rather intimidating, although I believe they’re completely harmless.”

Amaryllis’s smile widened; Eleanor looked rapt, the sweet girl, and there was a smile on her face like Amaryllis could not quite recall seeing.

“Yes,” Niccolette was smiling; there was something soft at the edges of it. “Nearly all of them, in fact.”

Amaryllis sank into a seat by the rest of them. Cerise’s face was hidden beneath a curtain of dark curls; Francoise was smiling, too, softly, her fingertips resting on Niccolette’s arm, then skimmed away; her gaze lifted to Amaryllis, and she smiled at her as well.

“He was not a duelist himself,” Niccolette said, her hands holding the teacup and saucer in her lap. “His arcane inclinations ran more towards piloting.”

It was with a shock of surprise that Amaryllis realized what – who – they were speaking of. Diana was smiling, politely, with a soft warmth about it. Amaryllis looked from her and back to Niccolette; for a moment, she could not but worry.

But Niccolette was smiling, still; she went on rather easily. “He was always…” she shifted, delicately, “quite supportive.”

“He enjoyed it, I think,” Amaryllis said, with a soft smile. She wanted very badly to reach out and take Niccolette’s hand; she was close enough that she could, and after a moment she did, offering a light squeeze.

Niccolette grinned again; there was something sharp at the edges of it once more. “Yes,” she agreed; she squeezed Amaryllis’s hand lightly in response, and let go.

Amaryllis sat back as well, smiling.

“He did,” Francoise’s smile brightened. “Amaryllis, weren’t you at that tournament towards the end of ninth year – your tenth – the one where Nicco was matched up against that awful pompous perceptivist? The one who, I think, thought he could have beaten the professors themselves.”

“The team match?” Niccolette raised her eyebrows. “I remember the match, of course. He was rather over-confident,” there was a wicked edge to the smirk now.

“I remember,” Amaryllis smiled, soft and even. “I thought Uzoji would burst, he was so pleased when you won, though I don’t think he ever thought you could lose.”

“He did not,” Niccolette said; her gaze lowered to the rim of the cup. Her finger traced it lightly; something tightened in the smile on her face.

Amaryllis shifted; she turned to Cerise. “Cerise, you must have had some exciting duels,” she said, lightly. “Would you care to tell us about any of them?”

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown
Bethas 29, 2720 - Afternoon Teatime

With her head bent in concentration on being miserable, Cerise didn't notice when Amaryllis had returned from the hall. It was the question about Mr. Ibutatu--or she supposed, the man who would become so--that drew her head up from her cup. The answer didn't surprise her. Somehow Cerise couldn't picture Mrs. Ibutatu having settled for a man who would do otherwise.

There was a distance in Cerise's face. She thought again of him, and wondered if he would have come to any of her duels if he could have. She liked to think so. They had not quite discussed it, but had carefully tiptoed around all the ways in which they didn't work. Until there was no room for it anymore. Maybe Emiel would never have come, maybe it would have bothered him. She tried to convince herself of it, and couldn't quite manage.

Diana was smiling politely, but with more warmth than Cerise would have expected. The smile turned back to her; Cerise smiled back on reflex. It dropped from her face quickly enough, but it had been there long enough that it couldn't have been missed. Wasn't she angry? The presence of the other women in the room kept Cerise from asking, which was probably for the best. She didn't think the smile would have survived the examination.

Cerise snuck a glance at Eleanor and Chrysanthe out of the corner of her eye. They were still talking about Gioran bugs, although Cerise was having trouble following the thread of both conversations at once. Eleanor looked absolutely rapt; the brightness in her little sister's eyes loosened a knot in Cerise's upright posture. She didn't smile, but her attention wandered back to the other conversation with more lightness than she'd had before.

They had gotten about halfway through this topic before all the past tense clicked in Cerise's mind. That was the piece she had been missing, or it seemed reasonable for it to be so. Mrs. Ibutatu was a widow. That certainly explained the careful way everyone seemed to speak of the man, the way it felt like a breath was being held any time he came up.

For all of the walking on eggshells, Mrs. Ibutatu seemed to speak of him easily enough. Cerise wondered if this was normal. She had never mourned anyone properly. Mama, she thought, but she had lost Mama so long ago. That couldn't be considered mourning, not really. Did her father...? Sometimes Cerise could have sworn the only reason she hadn't been disinherited was because he could see something of Mama in her face. Was that more normal, or was this?

Amaryllis shifted to look at her; Cerise was surprised. Many of her duels had been exciting in their own way. Cerise actually was often hard-pressed to find one she considered truly dull. Even the easy victories or the solid losses had something in them for her, if only knowledge for the next match. Cerise thought. She didn't think most of the ladies present would like her match against Antoinette; it had not been her best moment, although she had been very pleased with the results. She thought of the plate, and the smiling, and all that had been mentioned so far.

"Well, there was one I quite liked the other year..." Cerise's grey eyes flicked to her stepmother's smiling face. She didn't think it would remain that way for long, and was almost sorry for it. "I was paired off against someone who I had--er. We didn't get along. She is actually quite good, if an absolute coward. We were at a tie; the last point would have decided things." It did not help that Cerise hated Antoinette quite passionately, which had been difficult to set aside.

"I thought I might well lose," she continued, warming up to her story. She smiled at the memory, and ran her fingers lightly over Sish's tail. It had come to curl around her neck once more; Cerise was forgiven for being sharp with her, it seemed. "She'd managed an unfortunately excellent light spell, and I couldn't see her well enough to focus--not invisibility, but rather... She was quite, er, bright. Very literally. But I thought to--I made her, well I made her underclothes rather heavier than they should have been. She couldn't draw breath well enough to cast, and I got the point."

Oh how Antoinette had hated that! She had even contested the point, when Cerise had let her breath properly again. But no permanent damage had been done to her person and the victory had stood. A week later one of Cerise's books had been thrown in a pond, but that was just further evidence of Antoinette's cowardice.

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

W
hen Amaryllis returned from the hall, it was without little Phil in her arms. She supposed he had gone to sleep after all; if she had not, she thought wryly, they would all be hearing him. She wondered at a creature who could sleep so well and so soundly, and after such a surprise, and found herself envying him. She tried to remember if Eleanor had been so and could not; Cerise certainly had not. She supposed the skill of the mother had more than a little to do with it.

Diana was listening to Mrs. Ibutatu and Francoise. She met Amaryllis’ eye for a moment with her soft smile, and saw what she thought might have been the slightest of pauses. She held her smile on her face and returned her gaze to Mrs. Ibutatu nevertheless, who was still smiling herself.

“Most perceptivists,” she agreed with a twinkle in her eye, sitting with her ankles crossed in the midst of her indectal field, “are terribly pompous. That is, at least, if the duelists in Anastou serve to indicate.”

Towards piloting. How charming, Diana had thought at first, and then – she hid the spark of interest in her eyes behind a studious sip of tea, and if she felt the first prick of misgivings, she hid those well, too.

Was he a pilot? She might have asked, and on its heels the most innocuous question, with the same polite, well-meaning smile on her face: For which of the aeroship liners did he fly? Bellington-Antonacchio, she might have added, has a magnificent reputation for serving both its pilots and its passengers well. But how silly of me to assume that he flew with a Bastian-Anaxi liner; my husband was booked with Eyo’tsasúk, and while I doubt I shall ever hear back from him without threatening to reorganize his study, I am sure he had a wonderful experience.

Or perhaps he was an independent pilot; it would fit with the plantation and with his independent wealth. An independent pilot for private clientele. Perhaps even one who simply flies for joy.

She had never meant to ask, but even if she had, something in Mrs. Ibutatu’s expression stopped her. She saw her cousin reach for her hand and squeeze, though she had looked away, toward Chrysanthe and Eleanor, the latter of which was utterly wrapped up in Chrysanthe’s words. In the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Ibutatu squeeze back.

She took another sip of tea and chid herself.

At Amaryllis’ question, Diana looked toward Cerise, keeping the tightening sensation of her worry safely inside her chest. She had not tried to meet Cerise’s eye since she had turned to Francoise and Mrs. Ibutatu, and certainly not since Amaryllis had entered. She had thought, with enough talk, the girl might enter the conversation of her own accord; she had thought to let her.

There had been a sort of distant expression on Cerise’s face, and Diana made an effort not to hold her breath. There was still a hint of a stain creeping out from a fold of her dress, though her gaze had lifted somewhat blankly to Amaryllis’ face.

And, to Diana’s surprise, she spoke. Diana wondered why now; she thought, or at least told herself, that she had asked Cerise about dueling before, that she had…

At an absolute coward, she blinked, stiffening slightly. Her smile tightened. At the word underclothes, she restrained herself from glancing about her, to check for disapproving expressions on the faces of Francoise or Amaryllis or even Mrs. Ibutatu; this, she thought firmly, arguing with she knew not whom, was why she seldom asked.

Then Mrs. Ibutatu laughed, bright-sharp. Diana blinked, taking a sip of tea, as she turned the story over in her mind.

“Brilliant,” she said slowly. Her teacup made a rather unseemly click on the saucer, and she shifted on the couch. She did not look around; for a moment, only Cerise had her eye. “I think that would not have violated second tier… I think that would not have even violated first tier restrictions, would it have?”

There was genuine curiosity in her voice. She glanced toward Mrs. Ibutuatu now. Perceptivists and even living practitioners did not have such a difficult time avoiding injury as physical conversationalists; she had seen a few messy duels at Brunnhold where a physical dasher had, in the pursuit of a flashy and impressive move, misjudged the forces involved in the movement of something (or someone) and caused great injury either to herself or to her opponent.

She had never thought to ask herself what sort of duelist her daughter was; she had never thought to ask many things.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

He did not.

Niccolette studied the dark shifting tea in the small cup. Never mind that she had lost – she had lost more than a few duels, and more than a few in front of him. No one, Niccolette wanted to say, abruptly, always won. Sometimes it had not mattered; sometimes it had, very deeply indeed. Sometimes the winning had been the same, for all that conquest always honored the mona.

When she had lost, he had supported her as freely as when she had won; he had known, too, that they both each had to pick themselves up, but he had never stinted his strength. Somehow, Niccolette thought, he had never lost his belief, even those times they had stared loss in the face.

He never did think I could lose, not really; he never did think he could lose either. Niccolette thought of Uzoji, shuffling slowly and determinedly around their home in the Rose, trying to hide the clamminess of his hands and the way they shook from her – as if she could not see! – and shouting from bed until he was breathless and breathless again at the doctor who had told him he could not, too, win against this.

He had, in the end, won that battle.

They, together, had won so many battles – on the ground and in the air – and Niccolette regretted none of them. And yet – of late – sometimes – she wondered.

Niccolette traced her finger along the rim, still, slow and careful. She breathed deeply; there was very little on her face but a faint tightness around her lips, and no shakiness at all in her hands. There was nothing disturbed in the indectal ramscott of her field, washed out bright and sharp around her.

Cerise was speaking again; her miraan’s tail was curled like an odd, gold necklace around her throat. Niccolette set her tea aside, curled her hands in her lap, and lifted her gaze.

Niccolette laughed.

She hadn’t expected to; she hadn’t thought she was capable of it. Cerise was smiling, her shoulders square, the stain of her broken tea cup still spilled across her skirt. Next to her, Francoise covered her hand behind her mouth; Amaryllis’s eyes were faintly wide, although when Diana spoke, her face, too, relaxed into a smile.

Across the room, Chrysanthe looked back to Eleanor once more; Niccolette could only half hear her. “… perhaps you can tell me. In the factory, we get the most enormous spiderwebs in the rafters sometimes – I’ve never quite understood how it is they spring up in what seems like a single night – ”

“Quite good,” Niccolette agreed, smiling. “So long as you did not bruise her,” she raised her eyebrows lightly at Cerise; then, she thought to herself, lightly, thinking of the girl’s earlier statement about throwing a punch, and something of the light in her eyes as she had started to speak of the duel. “You must have judged the spell quite well indeed. Dueling requires creativity from all casters, of course, but I find the best physical duelists are often the most creative.” She smiled; it was, again, not quite nice.

“Anyway,” Niccolette shrugged slim shoulders, lightly, “shame is not damage or even grievous injury; we do not consider a duel as violating our tiers just because a spell embarrasses someone. In fact,” her eyes went back to Diana; her eyebrows lifted lightly as she looked at the perceptivist, and she smiled. “Shame can be rather a potent weapon, against the right opponent.”

Francoise shook her head. “I don’t know how you duelists do it,” she said; her smile was friendly, encompassing Cerise and Niccolette both. “I still remember backlashing in class in seventh form and wishing the ground would swallow me whole,” she smiled; for all that she spoke of embarrassment, she was neat and correct in doing so, with a look on her face that said such troubles were far behind her.

Niccolette shrugged. “I refuse it,” she said, lightly. It was Cerise she looked at once more; she smiled. “No one can make you feel shame,” Niccolette said, quietly; the rest of the room was silent, but she went on, her gaze on Cerise. She was aware of Chryasnthe’s gaze, too, although she did not turn to look at her, “if you do not let them.”