[Closed] Someone Reaching Back for Me

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

S
he held quite still in the hall and listened – to all of it. She could not see, and from here, she could not feel even the brush of that bright, sharp field; somehow, nevertheless, she could feel the settling of Mrs. Ibutatu’s attention, the centering of it, as if the room had gone sigiled.

She found that she could picture it vividly, for all that she had never participated in anything quite like it. She remembered nevertheless her awkward, cramped tangle of limbs on the lawn, her cheek pressed to the short-cropped grass, breathing in the smell of dew and dirt. It seemed as if it might have been a hundred years ago; she had gotten mud all over her uniform dress, all in her hair. The remembrance made her ache for something she felt she had nearly forgotten, and she was surprised at the jolt of excitement all through her; she thought she had forgotten that, too.

He backlashed, Mrs. Ibutatu said, in her sharp, decisive accent. Her hand went from her mouth to her chest; she breathed in deep. And then, she thought, he forfeited –

She might have known better. Her eyes went wide.

There was near silence, after. Anesthesia, and then weals. Anesthesia, and then – she turned them over in her head, one after another. If she had been a braver woman, a less graceful woman, she might have asked: why anesthesia first, and then weals? Why numb him, when he is only to feel the pain – later?

It shuddered through her. She breathed in, carefully, and then out; she breathed her field quite indectal. She passed a hand over her brow and straightened her shoulders. It nearly frightened her, how badly she wished to ask the question, and more, how badly she wished to hear an answer, any answer at all. She did not know what had gotten into her, this afternoon; she was increasingly glad that Amaryllis had left before they had begun discussing such ghastly subject matter.

Amaryllis. She centered herself, smoothed her dress, and crossed to the other hall silently. She heard a hushed murmur of Cerise’s voice behind her; it was all she could do to hope that it had nothing to do with Sish, whatever it was.

The hall was empty. She walked along the broad, tall windows that gave out on the atrium, squinting at the bright winter sun reflected through the glass. A maid, crossing from one room to another, gave her a curtsy; she nodded her head, smiling a warm, easy smile, and moved briskly by.

It was the ladies’ retiring room she checked first, which was not so far from the parlor. Amaryllis had been gone some time; Diana was not quite sure what she expected, tapping softly at the retiring room door. There were no sounds of weeping from within. When she opened it, as quiet as a mouse on cotton – dear Lady, she realized she was quite concerned – there was nothing but the long, empty room, cool light shivering in through the high fogged windows.

She shut that door behind her and thought a moment. She thought to go back to the parlor, in the hopes that Amaryllis had perhaps resumed her seat, that whatever had troubled her about the tea –

She turned and moved swiftly, purposefully, back down the hall. This time, she turned, picking up her hems to climb the stair-step down to another, dimmer hall. It was even quieter here, though she thought she might have heard a sound, as of running water, when she turned the corner.

The door to the lavatory was shut, as she thought it might have been. She held outside for just a moment, breathing in deep; she was not quite sure what she meant to do. She heard no weeping, but she feared, perhaps…

She tapped twice, delicate, upon the door. “Amaryllis?” she called, very softly. “My dear cousin?”

*

There was irony enough in the way Eleanor had felt this afternoon, rather like a beetle under a spyglass. She had done nearly everything Mother usually encouraged her not to. She felt reprimanded enough after the earlier debacle with the magnificent web – left, regrettably, by the arachnid she had just missed – and she’d thought her face might turn purple when she brought up young master Harrowbottom.

And in front of cousin Chrysanthe, no less. “He is – he is quite insistent,” she laughed, sharply aware of her stammer and her terribly deep voice.

Which seemed to her only deeper when she laughed. But she couldn’t help it; cousin Chrysanthe was shaking with laughter, now, her strange short hair shivering just above her shoulders. She couldn’t help it any more than Mother seemed to be able to help it when Mrs. Ibutatu told that dreadfully exciting story, which was strange enough to begin with.

Everything was quite strange, this afternoon.

Her Mother’s teas usually left her feeling like the gray, fuzzy duckling in the room, or perhaps the awkward caterpillar that has yet to enter its chrysalis; that was, at any rate, how the ladies all treated her. At least she had had her glasses fixed. After the soiree where she had been introduced to Mrs. Leblanc and Mrs. Trellisani, she had nearly sworn them off. Mother had been keeping her away from home, anyway, the past year, no doubt to keep her away from all the fine and terrifying ladies whose company she seemed so keen on; she had determined that the only company she needed was that of hexapod invertebrates.

But she had been so excited to see cousin Chrysanthe, after all. And Cerise couldn’t even have ruined that; nor could Chrysanthe’s strange haircut, though Eleanor missed her long, beautiful braids terribly.

Mrs. Ibutatu and Mrs. Rochambeaux, though she knew the latter a little, were proving to be an exciting surprise all their own. She had not thought herself very welcome in the conversation – it was, after all, more Cerise’s sort of thing – but Mrs. Ibutatu had turned to her and fixed her with those sharp green eyes, no less sharp than the living field which had given her quite a fright.

A reminder, she had pronounced, in that strange accent. She was grateful for Mr. Phileander’s interruption; she did not think this was the sort of living magic she wanted to practice.

Mr. Phileander was a surprise of his own. A surprise which was, now, pressing the absolute wrong part of his thorax and making the most ridiculous noises. “I shall tell you more in a moment, Mr. Phileander,” she said, when she had exhausted herself laughing. “The gland is higher – think of the thorax as closer to the ribs and lungs…”

She reached out a finger and poked Mr. Phileander where she meant. She had not meant for this to result in Mr. Phileander dissolving into giggles, and more silly noises.

So occupied was she that Cerise’s voice came as something of a surprise. “Hm?” She shot Chrysanthe a worried look, first, and then turned to Cerise. “Of course they’re not poisonous,” she said, rather loudly than she’d meant to. “They’re venomous. Nearly every arachnid has venom glands.”

Rather belatedly, she realized Mrs. Ibutatu and Mrs. Rochambeaux, and her cousin, were still very much present. Attempting to imitate Mother’s glowing smile, she turned back. “Cerise was asking me about a spider we found in the atrium earlier,” she lied easily. “Much, much earlier.”

“Whewe’s pidew?”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

My husband, Niccolette wanted to say, would have agreed with you completely. She had wanted to say it from the moment Cerise had said that absurd things out it being like hitting with one’s fists. More absurdly, it had put her in mind of nothing so much as Uzoji as he had been then - scarcely, she thought, a year younger than Cerise was now - taunting Rhys into a fight with all deliberateness.

Having his nose broken, Niccolette understood, though she had not now, flailing out with voice and fists, in the hopes of making her see sense. She supposed his bet had not so much been that she loved him - she had not known it then, but she rather thought he had, or he had felt it, in that way he had - as that seeing them so would make her realize it.

Conviction, Niccolette might have said, is every bit as important with your fists as as casting. It was an easy, pleasant memory; it was the sort she could smile over, that when he was alive they had, in fact, laughed about. It was treasured, even; the absurd fight and the healing she had done afterwards of his broken nose, and how he had grimaced and then laughed.

She knew something of the reaction it would get, here. She wondered if Diana would have told Cerise and Eleanor; she had no sense of the woman and her children. Niccolette doubted it, for all that she wore the moniker draped around her neck like a scarf, or else a noose. But she could imagine the sharp inhalation - from Francoise, if no one else, and it tired her.

Uzoji, she wanted to say; she wanted to look at Francoise and Amaryllis and even Chrysanthe. You knew him, she wanted to say; don’t you remember? If it is not too painful for me, how can it be too painful for you?

But for all the weeping and carrying on in which she had engaged this last year, Niccolette did not think she had ever spoken of him to Francoise. She had spoken of him; she would speak of him.

In that moment, of course, she spoke instead of dashing wine all over Ekain Da Huane - thoroughly satisfied - and was rewarded with not only the sharp laughter of Cerise, but a surprising peal of it from Diana, entirely unexpected and unexpectedly delightful.

The question of how the duel had ended, too, she had been glad to answer. She knew she could have offered only a few words: I won. She had; particularly on a duel in which one of the combatants backlashed, the victory was honor-ordained. Gods-blessed, it was sometimes called. Mona-blessed, Niccolette would have said; she found the thought of the gods personally adjudicating duels absurd, and she always had. But her will and her words had triumphed over Ekain’s.

She had told the fullness of it instead, looking at them both: Cerise, all dark hair and flashing bright eyes, and Eleanor, blonde and serious faced with her deep, dramatic voice rather like her father’s. Good, Niccolette wanted to say, to the both of them; listen, and know well.

Amaryllis’s baby was making the sort of noises which were a reminder of why children were most often kept in the nursery; Niccolette found herself smiling, and promptly controlled herself. Eleanor poked him, and he exploded into a veritable cascade of them; Chrysanthe and Eleanor’s laughter was pleasant, at least. Francoise was smiling, rather indulgently.

The mention of a spider was unexpected; Eleanor’s answer was not entirely reassuring. Niccolette was not afraid of the things, although nor was she entirely fond of them. Generally, she managed a sort of indifference.

”Good lady,” Francoise said, with a little shiver; she glanced around, as if the spider might still be waiting.

Amaryllis’s baby was doing much the same, although with a rather different expression on his face. Niccolette turned back to Cerise, and raised her eyebrows. She did not think the question in the least idle.

”Cerise, I think your miraan has gone,” Francoise said. She smiled at Cerise, her gaze flickering again to the mantle place, then settling back on the girl. She took a sip of her tea, which was somewhat unconvincingly light.

Niccolette glanced over at the statue. ”It looks rather more elegant without your - ah - Sish.” She said, and took another sip of her strong smoky tea.

Later, Niccolette thought; later. She would say it; she meant to say it. Not, of course, that Uzoji would have been invited to this tea - that would have been absurd - but she wanted him there with her, very badly, as more than a phantom.

Amaryllis had made her way down the hallway quickly and very evenly, and then rather more slowly and still evenly. She would not have forgiven herself for an unseemly display; it was so lovely to have reconnected with Cousin Diana, and all wonderful for her to have met Phileander, to have seen Chrysanthe - and wonderful, too, to see Cerise and Eleanor, and the lovely, interesting ladies they were becoming.

She did not really think Diana would hold it against her - it was notoriously unavoidable - but all the same, it was important. She had wanted to ask one of the servants to call Mrs. Pike from the kitchen, but opening her mouth to speak had produced the most unnerving tingling in her jaw, and she had promptly shut it again and smiled to dismiss the woman, and kept going.

Phileander had been occupied enough on Eleanor’s lap - what a delightful picture, her blonde head bent over his little one - and Chrysanthe was there as well. It had been such a pleasure as Chrysanthe came to get to know Phileander; he had brought out a silly side of her sister which Amaryllis remembered like a dream from childhood, from those years before she had left for Brunnhold, and then steadily diminishing ever since. Stinkbug was not, of course, the most proper sort of nickname, and Amaryllis would not have traded it for anything in all the world.

She made it to the water closet in time. It was unpleasant - she remembered just how unpleasant from the early days with Phileander, and had not been surprised by its reemergence, which had been the last confirmation. It was a joyous yet unpleasant sort of moment; Amaryllis was grateful to be able to appreciate it, as miserable as the happening was.

She had thought that would be it, and she should be able to wash out her mouth and return downstairs; as she stood at the sink, delicately swishing water around, she had understood abruptly that she was not to be so fortunate. The sickness in the first trimester, Amaryllis reminded herself, kneeling before the toilet, is a sign of the healthy growing of the baby within; she had read it in Mrs. Williamworthe’s treatise on the subject of expectation, and had carried it with her ever since.

Diana’s quiet, dignified voice floated through the door, but it was by then already too late, and if it had not been, there would still have been no avoiding it.

Amaryllis held on to the rim of the toilet, eyes closed, when she had finished; wisps of hair floated about her face. She rose, and flushed it carefully. She felt entirely well now, as was generally the case afterwards, as if it had never happened. She remembered that too, from Phileander.

”I’m all right,” Amaryllis called. She went and washed her mouth out once more, this time with no lingering trace of ill feelings, and grimaced faintly at her hair in the mirror. It did not generally take her in the afternoon, but - this, like children themselves, could not be predicted or controlled, Amaryllis reminded herself. That was the joy of them.

Amaryllis thought it over; it was early, still. She was not in the least ready to tell anyone, but Diana was family; she always had been, and after the last month she felt it once more, very keenly.

So it was that Amaryllis opened the door with one hand settled over her still-flat stomach - in a corset, at least, she thought joyfully. ”I’m feeling quite all right,” she promised, softly, and then she smiled; she smiled with all the joy in her heart, and did not try in the least to tame it.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

Cerise had been trying to be quiet; she really hadn't wanted Mrs. Ibutatu and Mrs. Rochambeaux to hear her. As much enjoyment as she got out of playing the scandalous politician's daughter, she really didn't think letting everyone know there was a spider loose in the parlor really counted.

So of course Eleanor had responded as loudly as possible. Normally, Cerise would have been glad to encourage that kind of volume from her sister. She was too quiet by half, and Cerise was of the opinion that it would do her good to be more forthright with her voice and her thoughts. This was not normally, this was spiders loose in their home.

Too late now. Cerise huffed a sigh and kept one eye on Sish. The miraan still had not noticed the spider. Cerise's mind began to churn, trying to decide how best to approach this very specific problem.

"Hmm? Has she?" Cerise's smile froze in place; her eyes darted to the mantle and the rather nice statue. Her glance flicked back to Mrs. Ibutatu and her smile slid into a slight frown. "Sish, Destroyer of Hours, yes." Cerise rather thought the opposite; Sish's presence had improved the look of the thing. Now that Sish had left it, in fact, she thought it looked just a bit more dull. The contrast had added charm.

That, however, was not the point. Cerise tore her attention away from defending Sish's honor, and back to defending her... stomach, most likely. Her frown deepened and turned itself on Eleanor. She tried rather unsuccessfully to turn it into a smile. Her mouth twisted into something very similar to the shape of one, but more stiff and sneering than smiles usually were.

"Ellie, uh, yes. Venomous, I'm sorry. That's what I meant to say. How, uhm. How venomous would you say they are? Especially to something that were to, perhaps, eat one...?"

Sish had moved and so had the spider. Cerise went a little green around the edges. She didn't think the two things were coincidence at all. The question was, had Sish already eaten the thing, or was she biding her time? Sometimes Sish could stalk an insect for the better part of an hour, tracking it with her eyes and staying just out of range of detection until bam! She sprang on the poor unsuspecting insect in a blur of motion. Cerise actually normally found it very amusing, but it was harder to take any delight in it when it might very well make her miraan sick. Oh, and there was the matter of Eleanor as well.

Cerise moved her eyes carefully away from the curio cabinet where last they had both been spotted. From slightly behind her, she heard the sound of scrabbling little claws; Cerise turned towards the noise. There was on the wall a shelf, and on the shelf were a number of rather expensive pieces of fine porcelain. She knew they were expensive, because there had been one more of them many years ago, until Cerise had thrown a small rubber ball at the floor so hard it had bounced back up, hit her in the forehead, and then knocked one of the pieces to the floor whereupon it shattered. She had never quite gotten over how much more concerned for the porcelain collectible everyone had seemed than her forehead.

Sish was on the edge of this shelf now. The spider was just on the other side. There was no doubt about it; the miraan had seen the arachnid. Her haunches had started to bunch in a way that Cerise knew was precipitous to her launching her golden self bodily at the spider and almost certainly catching it in her sharp, delicate jaws.

There was quite simply no time. Cerise rose up and whirled around; tea went rather everywhere, as she hadn't thought to set her cup down yet. She called out for the miraan, a sharp, loud sound, just as the scaled creature was about to launch herself at the spider. While she didn't manage to catch Sish before she had started, she did startle her into stumbling. Sish screeched her displeasure and launched herself from the shelf in a different direction than she had been going before. Her long, feathered tail lashed out in surprise and caught one of the porcelain objects--a plate, Cerise thought, a decorative one--that wobbled precariously for a moment and then it tumbled to the floor.

The spider, Cerise quite lost track of.

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

O
h, dear – Diana stifled a small gasp, covering her mouth with her hand.

She held by the door, though she took two silent steps back, and pretended not to listen. She looked behind her, down the hall, her brows drawn together, her mouth the smallest of pouts. There was another paroxysm from the lavatory, and Diana stood very still as her mind worked through it. When a silence finally came, she took a deep breath and shut her eyes.

It was followed by the swirling whoosh of the flush, which melted into the running of water. Diana stood still in the dim, short hall, though her eyes were shut against the faint light from the atrium windows. She could not seem to help the smile that crept across her face.

She did not know, she reminded herself; she did not know in the least. She opened her eyes and smoothed her face out, neutral and polite. It could mean many things – some of which, she reminded herself, were deeply unfortunate.

I’m all right, Amaryllis called. It was like the curling of a spell, and Diana waited a moment more, as if caught in the upkeep, or perhaps the runoff. I’m all right, too, could mean many things. There was a wan, hoarse quality about her voice, despite what Diana was sure were her best efforts – she knew it well – and all of it could mean many, many things.

It was with a dignified expression that she turned, as she heard the door open.

Amaryllis was smiling, beaming with every bit of warmth in her, in her static field. One hand was pressed against her stomach, nestled in the lovely florals.

Diana’s dignified expression did not last. Perhaps it was the afternoon’s stresses – perhaps it was all of it, quite all of it, combined. Her heart turned over and leapt; the smile that broke out across her face was not a polite, social smile. It was full of concern, full of thin lines. Her eyes prickled.

“Are you quite sure, Amaryllis?” she asked, reaching for her cousin as she hadn’t since they were girls. This was no soiree; no deputy whip’s wife was in sight. She took her by the shoulder and the arm, took her by the hand. “Is it–?” The line of her smile wobbled.

She knew herself for a fool. She had seen Amaryllis crouched on the floor with Phileander, more naturally than Diana had ever dealt with Eleanor. She had seen Amaryllis’ smile as she had come out.

There had still been something in the thought of losing a thing so newly precious to her. She did not, could not, say how she had spent all morning – absurdly – imagining all manner of coach accidents in pristine Uptown streets, or sudden illnesses. Or perhaps, more selfishly, a note in hand-writing familiar from what must have been at least a hundred cards, telling her in the white space between the lines that whatever this was, it could not be.

“They say it grows easier after the first weeks, but Ellie was – simply – there was no end to it,” she said, cracking a tiny laugh. She wiped a tear from one eye. If Amaryllis permitted, she would loop her arm through her cousin’s.

“Sish!” came a voice, or more a noise, really, as guttural and harsh as a dog’s bark. Diana started, looking down the hall in the direction of the parlor.

*

“Cerise!” cried Eleanor.

Venom didn’t work that way, she might have explained to Cerise. It simply didn’t! Not unless the thing bit you on the way down, at least, and Eleanor rather doubted that would happen. Her roommate in fifth form, Priscilla, had had a cat, and Priscilla’s cat had eaten all manner of things Eleanor would’ve said it oughtn’t. Nothing had happened to Priscilla’s cat, other than it had thrown the offending objects up posthaste, along with a hairball or two.

It was plants one had to worry about, with animals – plants, she might have said, could be poisonous; snakes and spiders were venomous –

Francoise had said, Good lady, and shivered, as if the poor arachnid were something to be frightened of. Eleanor just knew – she knew! – she knew that if given the chance, any one of these ladies would have the poor thing put to death, as if it weren’t a living thing like Sish or any of them. Even Mrs. Ibutatu, terrifying as she was. Despite her comment about Father’s strange new sculpture on the mantle, she didn’t think Mrs. Ibutatu was the sort of lady who would have compassion for a spider, even if she weren’t in the least frightened of it.

She had always been very careful to put them outside rather than kill them.

There were all sorts of insects and arachnids and bugs in the atrium, and sometimes they got into the house. Father, she gathered, for all he had loved the idea of the atrium, had never been the sort of gentleman who enjoyed the outdoors. One memory from years ago remained clear in her mind; it had been rather silly to watch him, hiding behind his desk while Mother stood on a step-stool in his study and smashed one spider or another. She had begged Mother, even then, to put it outside.

Even now, she’d hoped she’d be able to find her later, when she had a cup and a paper – something stiff; some sort of card, she supposed – either to put her outside or to take her up to her room and have a look at her.

Now, there was a golden blur, and then a shout – Eleanor flinched, and found herself reaching for her cousin – and then a crash, as of porcelain.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasped. Tea had splattered on the carpet, on Diana’s new chair. One of the plates atop the curio cabinet had tumbled to the floor and shattered.

Not, she thought, for the first time, looking back at Cerise with a furrowed brow.

[moralhazard]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

Quite sure,” Amaryllis said, smiling. Diana took her by the arm, by the hand, and she squeezed her cousin’s hand lightly; she had not known what reaction she expected, but this – the mix of concern and what she could only call love – touched her more deeply than she could say.

“Horace was beside himself,” Amaryllis said, something like a giggle bubbling up in her throat. They had only just decided to try, but Phileander had come about much the same way. She had not dared to hope for such a blessing again. “It’s not yet ten weeks; we haven’t told Phileander, of course, just in case.” She knew she did not need to tell Diana to keep it quiet; she knew, the moment she had seen the look on Diana’s face, that she could trust her with this.

Amaryllis grinned, rueful. “If Phileander was any guide, it should calm itself in another few weeks,” she said, smiling. “I’m not sure yet how to explain to him where my lap will go!” Diana’s laugh surprised her and warmed her too; Amaryllis settled her arm through her cousin’s.

The noise which came from the parlor was a surprise. “Oh,” Amaryllis said, wide-eyed, glancing at Diana. “I hope Phileander hasn’t – he was looking with such interest at Cerise’s lovely pet.” She set off, quickly, but for all her concern, she could not quite bring herself to unloop her arm from her cousin’s. The wisps of pale hair around her face did rather pale in importance; she had thought of fetching a bobby pin or two to adjust them, but those thoughts fled from her mind at once.

Chrysanthe couldn’t have said what she had expected; things seemed to have gone rather quickly. One moment Phileander was snorting with giggles at the sounds he was making with his mouth – thankfully, Chrysanthe thought, only with his mouth – and the next Eleanor’s head had snapped up, and her voice had emerged rather loudly in a discussion of poisonous versus venomous, with something that Chrysanthe thought sounded much like hurt beneath the surface.

Chrysanthe frowned, softly. “The pidew,” she made the slightest of faces, more amused than anything, and did her best to catch Eleanor’s eye with it, “the spider,” she began again, thinking to tell Phileander that it had gone outside, or was having a nap, or really any sort of harmless lie which would keep him from trying to look for the thing.

There was something about the miraan then, and Cerise was speaking once more, a bit louder. Chrysanthe glanced up at her, eyebrows raised – before Eleanor could have answered, there was rather a burst of motion, Cerise’s soft gray skirt flying about, tea splattering against the chair.

“Swish!” Phileander crowed from Chrysanthe’s lap, struggling and reaching small, somehow sticky hands in the air towards the miraan. “I wanna pet Swish!”

“Perhaps later,” Chrysanthe said, breathlessly, keeping a rather tight hold on Phileander with one arm; she felt the very last thing the situation needed was an eager toddler blundering about and cutting himself on what looked as if it had been a lovely plate.

Francoise gasped, pressing back into her chair as the miraan took flight once more, one hand covering her mouth and her eyes wide. Niccolette looked unperturbed, taking another sip of her tea.

Neither of their reactions surprised Chrysanthe; what did, perhaps, was Eleanor reaching out for her, and the younger girl’s surprisingly strong grip on her arm. Chrysanthe didn’t hesitate; she took her cousin’s hand in hers, and gave what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

Chrysanthe remember Eleanor, of course, but it had been something like four years since she’d last seen her, and she hadn’t thought – there had been a good deal to consider, when the note had come from Amaryllis regarding the tea, even before the matter of her newly short hair had come into the equation. She had thought mostly about Diana, and all her elegance, and feelings that had rather swamped her as a girl, for all that she had felt at the time she had had them under control.

She hadn’t thought particularly about Eleanor, other than in a vague abstract way; my cousin, she had thought, rather than about the girl herself. She didn’t know Eleanor terribly well, but she had a sense of the girl as rather self-possessed. She didn’t let go of Eleanor’s hand; she didn’t know what impulse had led her cousin to reach for her, but she found she was all too pleased to reach back.

Phileander squirmed all the more vigorously; he landed a rather effective elbow against Chrysanthe’s ribs. She coughed, turning her head to the side, and kept her grip on him. “Oof! Easy, stinkbug,” Chrysanthe said, breathlessly.

“I wanna pet the miwaan!” Phileander wailed, squirming.

There was a sudden, sharp gasp of breath from the doorway; Chrysanthe didn’t have to look to recognize it as from Amaryllis. She felt relief wash all through her, startling her with its intensity, and kept her grip on Phileander rather firm.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

The plate had fallen from the shelf and shattered into what Cerise thought might be approximately a thousand pieces. Diana had not returned to the room yet; she didn't think that was long off now, given her shouting.

Sish had settled herself on the drapes that covered the parlor window, and she was clearly still very furious. Cerise would have to coax her down; another sandwich might do it. That should be easy enough. Really, this all should be terribly easy. Cerise looked at the broken bits of plate on the floor as if looking at something in a dream. After a moment, she realized too that she had gotten tea not just on her grey skirt but also on Diana's new chair. So, she thought, that brought the full list of what she had ruined today to: her skirt, Diana's new chair, the expensive decorative porcelain something or other, Eleanor's mood, and likely the rest of this tea and whatever good esteem she might have had in anyone's eyes present.

All in a day's work, she supposed. Cerise swallowed.

Eleanor had called her name. Cerise tore her eyes away from all the broken little pieces on the floor and the stains on the chair to look at her sister. For a moment she was all pale and bloodless, her dark hair making a stark frame against paper-white skin. Then her jaw set and all her features settled into their familiar lines.

"I didn't want her to eat your spider," she muttered sullenly. One hand balled into a fist. Cerise couldn't quite make herself look at Mrs. Rochambeaux or Mrs. Ibutatu. She had heard the gasp from one, and nothing from the other. It was quite easy to guess which was which. The baby, at least, seemed mostly concerned with how pretty Sish was. Good for you, she thought faintly. Maybe you can, later.

Sish wasn't coming down from the drapes, at least, and seemed quite stable where she was. The spider had of course disappeared again, and that was for the best. Cerise thought she would have to keep Sish with her until Eleanor found it and set it outside or took it to her room or whatever it was that she would do with the Wakesho silk-walker. Sish just couldn't eat it; Cerise didn't know why it seemed so important. She had squashed many spiders before and would likely squash more in the future, but it always made Ellie so sad. Of late, she had taken more care with putting them outside or into the atrium, at least, even when Ellie wasn't around.

The baby squirmed again, and Cerise thought: he could hurt himself if he picked these pieces up. She didn't think she cared in particular for children, but little Phileander at least had the right opinion on miraan. He seemed harmless enough, generally. Cerise didn't think her non-enjoyment of small children really translated into a desire to see them cut their hands open on broken plates. She moved around the chair, stiffly and without saying anything, and began to pick all the pieces up and gather them in her skirt. A small edge was sharper than it looked and cut her finger as she went to grab it from just the wrong angle. She ignored it and kept picking them up, one by one.

She had just gotten the bigger pieces gathered together when she heard a gasp from the doorway. Not Diana, she thought hopefully, but Amaryllis--but she looked up and it was, in fact, both of them there. It had been an accident of course, but it was her fault all the same. She thought no matter how it had happened it would have been her fault. There could have been a localized tremor just under that portion of the room and that would still have been her fault, somehow, probably.

Cerise met her stepmother's eyes with a stubborn set to her jaw and nothing like apology in her expression. She held it for a moment, and then went back to picking up the bits of plate.

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

D
iana had wanted to linger longer in that small dark hall. She was not sure what else she might have said, for all her smile seemed so wide as to prevent her from speaking. She did not have to say she wouldn’t tell a soul, of course; if her cousin had not known, her cousin would not have told her, and that her cousin had told her was a more precious gift than she had thought possible.

There were other things, of course. I only did it once, she might have said, and even if we had wanted a third – even if he had wanted a third, if I had wanted a second – I would not have wanted to go through that again.

In any other case, she might have poured out all the requisite reassurances. Baby the second will be just fine, and soon enough, little Alexander will be getting along with him or her swimmingly, she had told Mrs. Underwood only two weeks ago, in a tone of voice she now imagined had been condescending. She did not care, in retrospect, if she had condescended to Mrs. Underwood; she cared very much to avoid condescending to Amaryllis.

Instead, she squeezed her cousin’s hand and smiled. Praise to Hurte, the welling behind her eyes had not spilled over into tears, but her smile was messy for a moment more.

Praise to Hurte, for there was nonsense afoot somewhere.

“Cerise,” she was already muttering as she went with Amaryllis down the hall. “I’m quite sure Phileander is all right,” she added, looking over at her cousin, slightly breathless; she watched a few pale strands wisp around Amaryllis’ face, and thought how lovely, even if unkempt. “I thought I heard – oh, dear gods!”

Amaryllis gasped first. She let out a choked huff. Her arm disentangled from Amaryllis’; one hand went to her mouth, and the other to her hip.

The scene was more than a little difficult to parse: it was as if the curtains had come up with only half the props wheeled onto the stage, and a handful of actors standing and sitting around, looking baffled. The first thing she noticed, quite obscenely, was the teacup left on its side on the carpet, next – she could not find Cerise; Cerise’s chair was empty – Sish, she could not find –

Her eyes landed squarely on the shards and dust of porcelain in front of the curio cabinet, and they reformed themselves, in her mind, into the decorative plate they had once been. Cerise was a crouched rumple of stained grey dress, a wild fluff of black curls.

She lowered her hand slowly, breathing in through her nose sharply enough that her nostrils flared.

“I wanna pet the miwaan!”

She looked toward Chrysanthe and Eleanor, both girls tangled together – holding hands, she noticed, with the smallest squeeze of her heart – and holding Phileander back. Mrs. Ibutatu, somehow unsurprisingly, looked utterly unruffled. Francoise was pressed back in her seat; Diana thought, with a pang, after she has been in such poor health!

Her eyes darted back to Cerise, who was now looking at her. Her face had quite drained of blood. It took Diana another moment to sort through what she saw; her dress was rumpled around something – Diana could not, at least, see any of her underskirts – something Diana realized, then, were the largest shards of porcelain.

“Cerise,” she breathed, touching Amaryllis’ arm and then setting herself to motion. She went first to ring one of the bells by the door. “My deepest apologies, ladies,” she said, though she had eyes only for Cerise, and her face was very blank, “this was not…”

She could not seem to think of anything graceful to say. She could not remember the last time something like this had happened. There was a glint of gold in the corner of her eyes, right around the top of the drapes, but she did not look. Sish, she thought – never again, she thought.

But as Cerise shifted, moving to pick up more bits of porcelain – you silly girl, she wanted to shout – she saw a flash of red on one pale hand. “Cerise.” Picking up her hems, she crouched by Anatole’s daughter, putting a firm hand on her arm. “Stop. At once.”

She searched for grey eyes in the thicket of dark curls. She looked up, then, and about the room, faintly dizzy; then back to Cerise. “You’re bleeding,” she said. “At least come away from the broken porcelain.”

[moralhazard]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

Amaryllis went straight to Phileander, who was beginning to work himself up into a fit, on the verge of wailing, and reaching with both hands and all his surprising little strength for the curtains across the room.

“Oh, sweet heart, what’s this?” Amaryllis asked.

“Mama!” Phileander looked up at her and – quite as she had thought he might – burst into tears.

Chrysanthe sighed, faintly; she smiled up at Amaryllis, relaxing her grip, and stroked Phileander’s hair.

Amaryllis reached down and took her son with Chrysanthe’s help; he draped himself over her, arms wrapped around her shoulders, and sobbed into the crook of her neck.

“It’s all a bit much, isn’t it my love?” Amaryllis murmured. She made her way to the other side of the room, rocking Phileander, much like she had when he was even smaller and wordless, and he had had only his giggles and tears to tell her how he felt. His face was covered in crumbs, and there were a few on his lovely little velvet suit, but nothing that wouldn’t come out. She held him close, kissing his head.

It wasn’t a long cry; she hadn’t thought it would be.

“Sometimes,” Amaryllis murmured, softly, not paying the least attention to whether anyone else in the room could hear her; she did not speak loudly, but nor did she deliberately try to keep herself from being heard, “we all become overwhelmed,” she kissed his head again. “There’s much to be said for a good cry, then, sweetheart. It’s best to get it all out.”

Phileander sniffled noisily into her shoulder.

Amaryllis settled her hand on his back, the other holding beneath him, and rocked him a bit more.

“There was a pidew,” Phileander said into her neck.

“A spider? Very exciting, sweetheart,” Amaryllis said, her face carefully blank.

“And then Swish fwyed,” Phileander went on. “And her tail bwoke the pwate.”

“Oh dear,” Amaryllis glanced back at the room. She had not much tried to put the pieces together; Cerise had been crouched on the floor, all pale face and wild hair and bunched gray skirt. She had thought of the shards only as they pertained to Phileander; she had thought only of him slipping and falling in the midst of them.

Chrysanthe was sitting with Eleanor, still; she thought perhaps her sister was saying something to the younger girl, low-voiced. She heard the word Gior, and couldn’t help smiling; she remembered saying lightly to Diana that she had thought Chrysanthe would be glad to talk of the insects of Gior, if Eleanor were so inclined.

On the far couch, Niccolette had set her tea down and was lightly holding Francoise’s hand; it would have looked rather normal, but for the two slender fingers resting inside the other woman’s wrist. Francoise’s color was rather pale beneath her powder; she was quite skilled, Amaryllis knew, and it scarcely showed – only at the edges and in the high spots of her cheeks, where the red color was suddenly rather stronger. Niccolette glanced up and over at her, and she smiled; Amaryllis couldn't have said what was in it, but she smiled back all the same.

“And I wanna pet Swish,” Phileander mustered up another sob; he buried his face in her shoulder once more. He didn’t tremble with it, this time. “Destwower of Houws,” he mumbled.

Amaryllis nodded. “I know,” she murmured. “Perhaps your cousin will let you pet Sish another time. Right now, I think Sish has had too much excitement.”

“Too much?” Phileander asked.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Amaryllis said, rocking him a little more. “Just like when you’re tired, and you need a nap; perhaps Sish is tired just now.”

“Swish need a nap?” Phileander twisted, looking up at the curtain. “Swish bweak plate,” he paused, thinking, his little face screwed up in concentration, “and need nap?”

“I expect she does,” Amaryllis said, firmly.

Phileander nodded; he yawned, and curled his face against her once more.

“Just like that,” Amaryllis murmured; she kissed his head, lightly, and began to carry him from the room. His small face softened, his hands held on, quite firmly, to the lovely floral silk of her dress. By the time she made it out into the hallway, his eyes were closed, and she could feel the lovely, warm, even rhythm of his breath against her neck.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

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

Cerise.

Diana was apologizing as she moved into the room. That was fine; Cerise wasn't going to do so. She would pick up the pieces so the baby didn't hurt himself, although she didn't need to worry about that, she realized, because Amaryllis was back and she had swept him up into her arms. It was very sweet; Cerise didn't look at it.

She could hear the sound of Chrysanthe talking in a quiet voice. Likely to Eleanor--Cerise couldn't quite make out the shape of the words, just the sound of them. She heard nothing from the other two guests. They were likely shocked, she thought, at so much chaos. Cerise couldn't say she was; she had a real talent for dragging it with her everywhere she went.

Even though Amaryllis had come and picked up Phileander, Cerise kept picking up the little bits of porcelain. She just didn't know what else to do. Once she scooped them all up into her skirts--what was the plan beyond that? Nothing, really; she hadn't gotten that far. Just sullenly picking up the pieces.

Diana's hand on her arm surprised her, and she jerked away with a flinch and a glare. A few of the shards tumbled back to the floor that had been closer to the edge of the pile. Diana looked at her and she locked her jaw while she looked back. Was she angry? Cerise couldn't tell. She thought--she had to be angry. The plate was broken and she was getting blood on the floor, so of course she was angry.

"I'm fine." Her jaw was tight and the words came out rather harder than she'd intended. For a moment she thought she could--if she held her ground, maybe, there was still a way to win here. She didn't want to simply forfeit. But if there was a path to victory left, she couldn't figure out what it was. Cerise turned her face away and nodded. If she tried to speak, everything would get worse.

What a pointless effort that all had been. She thought about trying to stand with the porcelain all still in her skirts. Somehow she thought adding the indignity of flashing her underskirts to all of this chaos wouldn't win any points in her favor. Belatedly, she remembered she had a handkerchief in her pocket. It was just as rumpled as the rest of her, and there was a spot of blood that had never quite come out of it already, but it would do. Cerise shook out the remaining bits from her lap to the handkerchief. She drew the corners together and made a careful little bundle, then stood.

A few steps back to the rest of the ladies in the room. Cerise thought: I should sit down. But she also didn't want to, suddenly. Her jaw was locked and her face was dark. All of her posture seemed wound up tight, fixing for a brawl. This didn't have that same heady clarity of purpose that she felt when she got into a duel, though, or even a fight. Instead of taking her seat again she crossed the room to the curtains where Sish had perched herself.

Sish, Destroyer of Hours stared at her, and Cerise glared right back. She held up an arm and gave a sharp little whistle. Sish flicked her golden tail peevishly, but didn't come. Cerise took a breath; she was only a miraan, she thought. And Sish didn't do anything wrong. She whistled again, sharper this time. Sish chittered and fussed, but this time she let go of the drapes and came to drop onto Cerise's outstretched arm. She then crawled back up to Cerise's shoulders and disappeared into the thicket of her hair. Cerise turned back to face the parlor, but stayed by the window.

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

N
o, dear…” It was rather pointless to protest. Cerise had taken out a handkerchief, and was now trying to shake the porcelain shards from her skirt and into it. She was wise enough, at least, to have left off trying to handle them. Diana watched with pursed lips, her hand still in the air where it had been when Cerise had jerked away.

Behind her, somewhere, the door opened.

Her cousin was a floral shape in the corner of her eye, gathering a fidgeting Phil into her arms. She could hear Amaryllis’ voice, soft and soothing. There’s much to be said for a good cry, her cousin was saying. A little voice filled the gaps, explaining what Sish had done; Diana knew she should have looked overhead, to where the miraan was no doubt still perched at the top of the drapes and would shortly, no doubt, be up to some other mischief.

She found her eyes quite fixed on the handkerchief, as if mesmerized. There was a dark streak across it, as of blood, or perhaps merely wine.

She had been crying, she remembered, before she had learned it was quite futile. Last year, she thought, before she had given up. He had been as drunk as when he had left, and she had found him in the study, pouring more whisky. It was with that strange, slurring, impersonal tenderness that he had offered her one of his handkerchiefs, rendered foreign to her by a splattering dark stain.

Why haven’t you thrown that thing away? She wanted to ask Cerise, and then, Why on Vita is your handkerchief stained, young lady? She could hardly say if she hoped it was wine or blood. And then, even more helpless: Why on Vita, Cerise, were you trying to clean up broken porcelain with your bare hands?

She did not rise immediately when Cerise did. She still felt the heat of the girl’s glare, and was, for once, quite reprimanded. She did not dare turn around; she could still hear Amaryllis’ murmurs, calm and reasonable, drifting away toward the hall behind.

“They glow?” Eleanor had never been very good at speaking softly, Diana thought, oddly detached. Chrysanthe’s voice came next, soft and quite as reasonable as Amaryllis’; there had been a quaver in Eleanor’s, and Diana felt terribly grateful for Chrysanthe, even as she felt terribly, terribly guilty.

“Mrs. Vauquelin?” It was Mrs. Wheelwright. How these humans crept up on one; it sent a jolt through her, although the maid had kept a respectful distance.

She rose to her feet, finally, somewhat unsteadily. It was difficult to crouch in heels; she only just caught herself from twisting her ankle. She smoothed her skirts where they had bunched up about her haunches. She could not quite smooth one crease out, and to try would have only embarrassed her further. She took a few steps away from the mess, regaining something of her poise.

Mrs. Wheelwright went – presumably, to fetch a broom and dustpan; she did not even, Diana thought admiringly, need to be told – wordlessly.

For a moment, she was frightened Sish would take the drapes down with her. She landed neatly on Cerise’s shoulder and burrowed her way back into those messy curls, which had by now wholly escaped any attempt to tame them. Absurdly, Cerise hung by the window.

Diana felt rather like one of those mannequins one passes in the windows of tailors’ shops. She could not seem to move an inch, though one hand was half-raised, she did not know for what.

Mrs. Wheelwright’s return broke the spell. “Come, Cerise, please, sit,” she said firmly, “we must look at that cut, mustn’t we?” It had been Hoxian porcelain, she thought, of the kind that shatters quite finely.

“Shall I fetch a doctor, Mrs. Vauquelin?” There was alarm in the human’s voice.

“Not at the moment, I think,” she breathed absently. She did not look at the couches immediately; it was only after a moment that she dared a brief look in the direction of Aurelien’s wife. The powder she wore suited her skin very well; from a distance, if Diana had not known what to look for, one would think nothing of her coloring. Mrs. Ibutatu held her hand. “Only – a bandage, and something to clean the cut.”

Mrs. Wheelwright was not exactly disobedient, but she moved slowly. “Shall I look at it, madam?”

“I shall take care of it, Mrs. Wheelwright,” she replied, somewhat clipped, “thank you.”

The human took the broom and the dustpan, with its slush of expensive Hoxian porcelain, away.

She looked then at Chrysanthe and Eleanor, relieved. Her cousin was sitting quite close to her daughter, still talking quietly, as if she had no other concern in the world. In the hall, Amaryllis was holding Phil close to her chest. Diana remembered – she had held Cerise once, only once, in Bastia – how heavy they are, at that age. She wondered how Amaryllis bore it.

She took a deep breath in, then gestured again to Cerise. She drew herself up, despite the crease in her skirts, and straightened her back. When she looked at the couches, she smiled her smooth, polite smile at Mrs. Ibutatu and then Francoise, as if nothing the least bit upsetting had happened, or would yet. “Mrs. Ibutatu, Mrs. Rochambeaux,” she said, “can I get anything at all for the two of you? Another cup of tea?”