[Closed] Some Like It Bitter (Nicco)

[Drezda Ecks]

Yaris 49, 2719 | Afternoon
Darcy House and Grounds, Uptown

.

There had never been any question that she could decline. Drezda had been dropping too many invitations, declining to show her face, always coming up with some excuse or another. It had been going on for months but every now and then she had to put in an appearance. In the days preceding it, she had known that the weather was going to continue to be exceptionally hot — unbearably hot — so she had known in advance that it would undoubtedly be insufferable, but even then she hadn’t cancelled. In many ways, she couldn’t.

She knew that she had every intention of resigning from her position by the year’s end and yet the diplomat couldn’t face the prospect of returning to Hox to reside there. A visit, she could just about stomach, even though she was particularly anxious about returning since she’d started to let her rhakor fall by the wayside. But going back there permanently? No, she couldn’t do it. While there were plenty of things about Anaxas that she disliked, she fit here better now than she would at home but once she was out of the world of politics, she had no idea what she was going to do. However, she needed connections, she needed prospects and that meant that she needed to network.

The woman had lost so much time this year, so many opportunities had been allowed to slip through her fingers because she couldn’t control herself. Couldn’t cope with, well, everything. Funnily enough, she was doing better at the moment, not simply because she’d had her mother with her until a few weeks ago — the woman could make her worse in some respects but things between them were improving — but also she couldn’t really drink when it was hot. Oh of course she could still physically imbibe alcohol but it made the Dry Season so much worse to experience.

This particular invitation would be perfect for her needs and frankly, if she turned it down, she probably wouldn’t have a chance quite as good as it before she returned to Hox this winter. Unfortunately, she needed every good opportunity that she could get and didn’t have the luxury of choice. Furthermore, if her father wasn’t already in business with the hosts — she had no idea about all his various business dealings and was probably better off that way — then he might appreciate any information that she could provide.

Drezda hadn’t been to the Darcy home in Vienda before but she had seen it. It was in Uptown — obviously — situated not far from the Zoological Gardens with some land leading to the riverside. It was hardly a sprawling estate compared with rural ones but considering that land in the city was limited and what they possessed was premium real estate, it was really quite impressive, providing them with enough space to host a sizable garden party. Today was another scorcher, insufferable and yet it would be considered a ‘waste’ to spend such a day indoors, making it a perfect day for a garden party — provided that you didn’t mind risking sunstroke.

As industrialists, the Darcys had money to burn and it showed. There were elaborately sculpted topiary hedges dotting the space, flowers woven through them to provide colour; a large fountain with a womanly representation of Alioe pouring the sands of time held pride of place; a glass aviary filled with many different kinds of colourful birds including whice, stood near the house with seating around it; and peacocks with their bright, colourful plumage strutting around the grounds along with plainer peahens.

It seemed that in addition to those casual extravagances that might be common fixtures or new imports — Drezda hadn’t been here before so she couldn’t say for sure — the Darcys had had many tiny tables set out on the grass that guests could stand around. There were some areas with seating, some areas with large parasols. There were also a multitude of human servants dressed in various vibrant hues in the garden, feathers added to their uniforms so that they were like birds flitting between guests. They were ludicrous, providing much amusement to the guests but they were also quite distinctive, even among the various ensembles of the galdori so that no matter how small, no human could blend into the crowd. Each human server carried platters bearing dainty sandwiches and cakes, pots of teas and coffee, and glasses of rosé and flutes of champagne. There were also just as many servers running around picking up after their magical masters, whisking away an army of cups and glasses, dishes with crumbs and smears of icing.

A large block of ice, rapidly melting under the intensity of the sun’s rays, had been placed in what appeared to be a giant metal dish that stopped the meltwater from seeping away. A ridiculously extravagant way of keeping things cool — there were bottles in the dish — and presumably providing ice and cold water for drinking purposes. Some people had chosen to hover beside it, no doubt gaining some relief in the relentless heat and they’d certainly want it; all the Anaxi were wearing far too many layers, far too buttoned up.

While the Hoxian surveyed the veritable circus of the party and its wide variety of guests — politicians, artists, businesspeople, some Brunnhold faculty — she found herself being eyed right back. It wasn’t surprising that she earned stares because everyone else was conforming to prudish Anaxi ideals and the diplomat was showing quite a bit of skin. She had planned to wear something more appropriate for the squeamish, little-minded people at the party, even before today, even when she’d had some idea of what the temperatures would be like.

The Yaris heat had bled through her windows, settling on her skin before melting through it. It seesawed in and out of her lungs, flooding them, scorching them. It filled her up so completely that her own essence was forced out, the woman left to wilt under its onslaught. It had refused to leave her no matter how far into the house she attempted to crawl, no matter how much cool water she splashed on herself and fans she swept in front of her and she had honestly considered trying to cram herself into the icebox like a cat might try to squeeze itself into a box that was much too small for it.

Faced with that, the outfit she had been considering had seemed laughable. She had looked at it and almost been moved to tears. Instead, she had said ‘fuck it’ and quite forcefully at that.

So the galdor had had Rosmilda pile her hair up on her head, twirling it upwards and pinning it in place so that the dark strands wouldn’t stick to her skin, leaving the ivory expanse of her back utterly bare to the waist. Saffron cotton looped around her throat, leaving a small degree of breathing room in the neckline but still reasonably tight, clinging to her chest because it needed to stop the sides from gaping. It was hardly a concern for the Hoxian, there not being a lot of figure to disrupt the close hugging fabric before it reached her waist, and the tightness along with the bare back didn’t really detract from modesty, even though she obviously wasn’t wearing a corset or anything that might be considered standard upper undergarments. The material at the top was subtly doubled to facilitate the masking of anything scandalous in relation to her chest. It was cinched at the waist, the fabric slightly ruffled as it continued its way down to the hem which fell to the knee.

Her shins and calves were bare! Her back and shoulders were bare! And she clearly wasn’t wearing a corset or any decent sort of underwear! She could almost hear them saying it behind fans and hands, murmured over teacups and glasses. They were attempting to judge her but it was fine. She was Hoxian, what she was — or wasn’t — wearing wasn’t a concern to her. Perhaps after all these years in Anaxas, she was a little self-conscious but it could have been worse. She didn’t mind having what she did on display, even though there was freckling on her back, even though she’d had to resist powdering her face to death because her own sweat would end up sliding it off. Her skin being bared to the sun worried her far more than the burning stares, even though an off-white parasol had accompanied her, her little bag’s strap looped around the wrist of the same hand that held the handle.

Drezda allowed her attention to flow over the many bodies, choosing not to acknowledge any eyes that she met which were directed at her and twirled her parasol lightly, considering where to put herself. It had been too long since she’d been to a gathering like this and she wasn’t too sure of herself. Oh she wasn’t bleeding that uncertainty and vulnerability everywhere — at least she hoped she wasn’t — because she thought that she was reasonably blank and her field was close and controlled. After all, she wasn’t stupid. Anybody here who had it out for her or wanted something from her would be able to sense such weakness, descending on her to take their fill as carrion birds sometimes preyed on creatures that were not yet quite dead.

Food or drink seemed good places to start, the former not appealing to and the latter… well, she wouldn’t be drinking alcohol and many of the beverages she saw were hot ones. At home, it made sense to drink tea because it warmed you but here and in these temperatures? Admittedly, the Mugrobi drank kofi and their kingdom must be like this a great deal of the time, if not worse.

Still debating the matter of who to speak to or what refreshments to take, the woman drifted towards the fountain in the hopes of gaining some relief from its cool spray, taking in and analysing a great deal with quick sweeps of her dark eyes. Even so, it didn’t allow her to spot him before he was upon her, field close to her own, her hesitation possibly having marked her as prey and how he loved to taunt her if he had the chance!

“Miss Ecks! What a surprise to see you here! It’s been quite some time since I saw you last.”

The Perceptive mona in her field warmed subtly in recognition of their kin in the man’s own, heedless of how much she detested its owner.

“Incumbent Madden. Indeed. A pleasure as always,” she greeted coolly, inclining her head as the man sketched a bow so shallow that she might have missed it if she’d blinked. Still, she could take some pleasure in her careful response. There had certainly been pleasure for her… in that their paths hadn’t crossed for quite some time.

“Delectable weather for such an occasion as I’m sure you agree. No better way to experience these lovely climes than out of doors with such… varied company, wouldn’t you agree?”

His smile was fixed, friendly but for a show of a tad too much tooth so that he was more reminiscent of one of her father’s precious huthah. No doubt he could see the sweat that glistened on her neck, sticky heat building unbearably where her chin curved to her throat. How terribly drole of him to coax a Hoxian to praise this hellish atmosphere! Of course, wasn’t the joke on him as well?

A silk cravat was tight at his throat, carefully held in place with a pin topped with what might have been pearl. The collar was high, the man mercilessly throttled by his layers and yet he avoided tugging it back despite the fact that he was clearly sweating. And how it must itch! It was no surprise that he shifted his neck subtly from side to side, sometimes seeming to suck it in as if hoping to circulate air that way. If he’d loosen the damn thing himself then he wouldn’t have to suffer so!

Damned masochist!

“Oh I’m sure! Not to mention how well provided for we all are. One wouldn’t expect anything less, of course. The Darcys have the money to host parties that are truly exceptional. Really they’d put other people to shame.”

Her smile was a wan one but there, a small outward display of her own glee at seeing that subtle falter in his own, the way the muscles grew slightly taut in annoyance as his mouth fought to pull into a discontented line.

Yes, that’s right, you ersehole. I am referring to your party last Ophus.

Her attention didn’t quite leave him but she did begin to search about for some means of escape, some excuse for moving out of his reach. If she could only find someone who would respond favourably towards her and perhaps even someone that the Madden prick wouldn’t want to approach. Gods, she wished that Tom was here but she also realised that such public interaction couldn’t be good for either of them, moreso for him as he had a political career to maintain. She hadn’t had a chance to see him since their day in the Stacks and this was hardly her preferred place to encounter him but right now, she didn’t have much room to be choosy.

Frankly, the Perceptive would take anyone right now.

Her eyes found Niccolette and skittered away, the woman barely able to suppress the uneasiness that threatened to disperse through her monic aura as she recalled the manner in which they’d parted company the last time. Perhaps not a total suppression either because the man seemed suddenly keen to be less opaque.

“Ah yes, the whole thing really is quite... intoxicating but I’m sure that you’d considered that yourself, Miss Ecks. I see that you haven’t had any drinks that are on offer though. Alcoholic?”

Even as he said it, he gestured for a server to approach — a dark-haired creature in magenta who could never have gotten away with it if he was ginger — the Hoxian’s gaze suddenly intent on Toibin. There was that knowing, smug little smile perched on his lips as the human with flutes of champagne approached. Drezda wasn’t quite able to contain the fire that must be jumping across the space between them as it blazed in her onyx glare. Her field sigiled, a dull red-shift quickly edging towards a brighter orange-shift like iron heated in the forge as her temper flared. She quenched the response although it was a wonder that stream didn’t rise from her skin.

Fuck it. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought it today so why not now as well?

“Oh yes, intoxicating, I understand. I’m sure that you’ll have plenty of opportunities to bask in such exuberant wealth once your daughter marries into the family. That’s the purpose, isn’t it?”

She waited a beat while shock slackened his features and sent a buzz through his features before adding sweetly, “To forge strong connections.”

Her smile was brighter than before, certainly not a massive display by Anaxi standards but on her rhakor-confined features it was clocking close to a grin.

“It really has been a pleasure speaking with you, Incumbent Madden, but I simply must speak with Niccolette. I’m sure that our paths will cross later if you fancy a chance to talk further. Perhaps then we might speak more candidly?”

The politician had been caught off-guard but he had mastered himself, his field too calm now, his face too rigid for him to be truly unaffected but she still wanted to move away as swiftly as possible before he chose to retaliate.

Turning away from Toibin Madden and past the human who he’d summoned, she paused for a moment, taking a step back to address him instead of simply breezing past.

“My companion mistakenly thought that I’d like some alcohol but what I actually want is tea. Bitter.”

With that said, assuming that the magenta human would find her to provide her request, she moved purposely towards the Bastian who was in conversation with a man occupied with the Sisyphean task of keeping his glasses on the bridge of his nose while he talked, pushing them back up twice in the timespan it took for to reach the pair.

The man was a Living Conversationalist, nowhere near as powerful as the widow with whom he spoke, but the belike particles in her aura hummed in the presence of both Living-heavy fields. The man was inconsequential, not seeming to be particularly threatening but she didn’t want to reveal too much in front of him. She had no idea who he was or who he might be connected with but she didn’t want to risk a—justifiably—chilly reception from the other woman. She might be further displeased at being interrupted, it being unclear whether she wanted to be in this man’s company or not.

“Niccolette! I do apologise for the interruption but I was talking to Incumbent Madden,” her gaze cut briefly but meaningfully back to the politician, “and he reminded me that I needed to speak about the situation we discussed the last time we met — you and I. A situation with another Incumbent. I believe that was at a party as well, a dinner party. There were some striking similarities and I thought that it pertinent that I speak with you about it.”

She looked to Niccolette’s companion, apologetic before shifting back to the sorceress. “Do you recall? I know that this probably isn’t the best time to discuss it, especially as it’s a somewhat personal matter but I thought that you… might wish to be informed. I understand if you’d rather speak about it another time.”

Was she being too cryptic? Would Niccolette recall the discussion they’d had about that lecherous Incumbent who had bothered her that night before she’d come to the Lycat? Of course, there had been another man there who wished to try his luck as well, but she didn’t think she could make reference to that without being too transparent. Perhaps she could broadcast ‘help me’ through her eyes alone without any other part of her face giving her away. Without the other man intercepting it.

Gods, she hoped that Niccolette understood and would talk to her. At the very least, she hoped that ‘personal’ would prompt her to part ways with her current companion.

.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Afternoon, Yaris 49, 2719
Darcy House and Grounds, Uptown

Niccolette settled both hands on the handle of the parasol and turned it, slowly, lightly. The edges were trimmed with lace, delicate, and the Yaris sun cast strange patterns through them and they glinted the grounds below.

“The Darcys,” Sy’rien was saying, smiling, “are some of the hospitals biggest donors.” He had put his arm out in front of the chair of the hospital, and so Niccolette had taken it, as lightly as she dared.

It was brutally hot; it was all the heat of island summers, and none of the wind skimming off the water. It was all the heat of Thul Ka, and none of the sense which kept Mugrobis indoors. Instead today – of all days – the Darcys had thought to thrown a lawn party. Whatever she thought, Niccolette’s face was smooth and even, her carriage upright, and her make-up minimal and delicate enough not to be sweated off. Whatever she looked like – or felt – beneath the layers of pale green fabric was her business alone. She had worn the highest, most open collar she dared; it was ironed stiff on the back and sides, and gaped open in the front of the neck, letting at least some air brush against the column of her throat; all the rest of her was covered, though the sheerness of her sleeves, again, took some of the worst of the heat.

She had thought it would be worse; she found the heat more tolerable than she had expected. This, Niccolette put aside to think about another time.

“Do you have plans tonight?” The orthopaedic surgeon asked, smiling.

Niccolette lifted her eyebrows at him, and said nothing; she had an unpleasant feeling she had missed a remark or two. Her hair was piled up on her head, pinned in place; she turned, so a few of the strands brushed his cheek.

Sy’rien cleared his throat, shifting away. “A friend offered me tickets to Maiden’s Folly – if you’re interested? A private box, I believe.”

“No,” Niccolette said, casually. “I am not fond of Caravaggiani.”

Sy’rien paused. “Of course,” he said, after a moment. “Listen, Nicco –”

“Mrs. Ibutatu! Dr. Palevi,” Dr. Hoeffler, the head of anesthesiology, came up with a bright smile. “I had hoped very much to see you both here. Mrs. Ibutatu – I know it’s quite irregular to discuss the mundane at such a delightful party – but I’d hoped to chat just briefly with you, if you have a moment?”

“Of course,” Niccolette eased her arm away from Sy’rien’s without looking; she bowed, lightly, holding loosely to the parasol so it covered her still; she returned his caprise, undampening her field effortlessly for the length of it, then returning to her usual polite, social holding in.

Dr. Hoeffler beamed, and bowed back, catching his glasses as they began to slide down his nose and pushing them back up. “Dr. Palevi, you are more than welcome to join us, of course.”

“I wish that I could, Dr. Hoeffler,” Sy’rien bowed as well. “Unfortunately, I really must speak with Ms. Darcy. I look forward to catching up with you at the symposium next week.”

“Ah, yes, indeed,” Hoeffler said, beaming. He scarcely let Sy’rien get away before he turned to Niccolette. “Come, to the shade!” The man was about her head; sweat was already rolling down his mostly bald head. “Would you like a drink?” He waved at a waiter glad in bright, ludicrous green, who bowed glasses to them.

Niccolette took something with ice cubes floating in it, clear liquor, faintly bubbly. She took a sip, and grimaced at the sweetness.

“It is, I must admit, most irregular to have a volunteer casting in the hospital,” Dr. Hoeffler said, lightly. He looked at her. “Naturally – we had not entirely anticipated… of course, the occasional quantitative spell is one thing, although we do not generally,” he paused. “I understand you went to Brunnhold?”

“Yes,” Niccolette took another little sip of her drink; she held back her grimace.

Dr. Hoeffler nodded. “And, of course – you must have completed a practicuum?”

“At Brunnhold Public Hospital,” Niccolette said. “Under Dr. Artemisia Karembeu,” she paused, glancing away across the party for a moment, then back at Hoeffler. She had known this conversation would come eventually; she had not expected it at this party, but it did not much matter. “I married very shortly after graduation,” she murmured. She glanced down at her drink again, grimaced, and set it to the side in a planterbox.

“I see,” Dr. Hoeffler smiled. “Well, you’ve proven most capable. I think – from the perspective of the department, if you’re to be casting anesthesiology spells more regularly, we should need to think of a – a certification, you understand, for liability purposes.”

“Of course,” NIccolette smiled; this too came as no surprise.

“Excellent,” Dr. Hoeffler beamed. “It’s a new situation for us as well, but I must say – not – well, legal standards being what they are, naturally we do require a certain standard to call someone a doctor, and of course for the casting to be in accordance with the regulations of the Medical Practices Act. Dr. Palevi – strictly – perhaps should not have let you, but of course with an injured Seventen, one understands his and your enthusiasm quite well – and I must say, I am given to understand it was an excellent bit of spellwork.” He grinned, pushing his glasses up once more.

Dr. Hoeffler went on; Niccolette found it increasingly hard to pay attention, although she kept her eyes on his face, and smiled. She twirled the parasol in the one hand which held it still, very lightly; there was enough sun through the screen of leaves to dapple light through the lace once more, casting it against the ground.

The brush of a perceptive field – a familiar perceptive field – was wholly unexpected. Niccolette turned, slowly, glancing over her shoulder at Drezda Ecks. She had last seen the woman in Hamis – seen her, so far as Niccolette recalled, first, too, in Hamis – and she had no particular desire to ever see her again. Niccolette followed the flicker of Drezda’s gaze to Incumbent Madden – a particularly loathsome worm whom Niccolette had had the occasion to dislike only once – and back to the Hoxian’s face; she did not glance down at the broad expanse of bare skin the other woman displayed, although she could hardly have helped from noticing it.

Dr. Hoeffler was, rather, staring.

“Of course,” Niccolette said coolly, greeting the Hoxian with a polite caprise. “It is rather an urgent matter,” she glanced back at the doctor, raising her eyebrows. “Dr. Hoeffler, have you met Drezda Ecks? She is with the Hoxian embassy."

"Ah, charmed, I’m sure,” Dr. Hoeffler bowed, catching his glasses on his fingertips and sliding them back up. “Perhaps – Mrs. Ibutatu – if you might find me in my office next week to discuss further…?"

"Of course,” Niccolette said, easily. “I shall try to find a time you are available on the two.”

“Excellent! Excellent. Lovely to meet you, Ms. Ecks,” Dr. Hoeffler bowed again, to the both of them, and made his way back onto the grass, wiping his head with an already-damp looking handkerchief.

“This way,” Niccolette said, glancing back at Drezda. She led the other woman around the edge of the trees at the edge of the pavilion; there, tucked against them, was a thin, winding path, shaded over. Niccolette did not lower her parasol, but she tucked it down against her shoulder as she set onto the path, feeling the difference in coolness already.

Within a few steps, at least, they were out of sight of the party. Niccolette did not say anything, nor stop and turn to Drezda expectantly; she looked forward, instead, her hand settled on the handle of her parasol. She turned it, slowly and delicately, back and forth, and she walked a few more steps down the path.

[Drezda Ecks]

Yaris 49, 2719 | Afternoon
Darcy House and Grounds, Uptown

.

The Hoxian knew that a particular sort of code existed amongst women. To her knowledge, she had never had a conversation about it with anyone, but yet she knew that it existed. Being a woman in Anaxas — and Bastia too, no doubt — meant that you came to certain understandings with your fellow women where men were concerned.

There was no such thing as a united state of womanhood, no true commonality that linked them all, and she had no doubt that what might seem like a consolidating factor to women in Anaxas wouldn’t be viewed that way in Hox, and where racial barriers were concerned, they didn’t melt away simply because of a similar gender. In fact, the unspoken code that the diplomat was relying upon when she approached Niccolette probably didn’t exist in her own kingdom but she was far from home and she was reminded of that with incredible frequency, especially when meeting with men in the political sphere.

There were probably other areas where support existed but she had never done more than glimpse them at best. However, Drezda knew that a woman in fear or discomfort because of a man could seek refuge with another woman. Total strangers could have their paths cross simply because they were in proximity when the need arose, ‘recognition’ arising between them that meant that a woman alone and vulnerable suddenly had an ally and a means of escape. In some ways, it could be viewed as something of a conspiracy, but it was more of a survival mechanism. There were far too many dangers for a woman alone in a world where men had greater power and freedoms, and the fairer sex were left to bear the burden of reputation, accusations of ‘unladylike’ behaviour and thoughts, and an apparent propensity for overreaction.

Incumbent Madden hadn’t been doing anything strictly deplorable or making her uncomfortable for the usual sort of reasons, but he had undoubtedly been causing her distress, loathe though she’d be to admit such a thing to another. That the widow would realise the depths of her discomfort was a necessary part of this and she had hoped that her very approach would suffice to convey how unfortunate a situation she’d found herself in. After all, in any other circumstance, the Hoxian would have happily looked through the other woman and ideally endeavoured not to be in her immediate proximity so that they’d never have reason to interact.

To see the direction of her gaze followed and hear the urgency reiterated was an immeasurable relief. Even before the other politely disengaged herself, the Perceptive realised that her meaning had been grasped, some of the rigidity leaving her muscles although her demeanour still remained outwardly strong and controlled — she hoped. The corners of her mouth flirted with the prospect of smiling, a flicker of movement the closest she came while she returned the polite greeting caprise and turned to bow at the woman’s companion. The Hoxian was suddenly glad of the heat because of the excuse it provided for colour in her face, despite her recent encounter and this new one being the true cause of the flush of embarrassment; this man seemed intent on gawking at her. Alas, he’d have a far less thrilling sight when she bowed than he might have done if she’d been more top-heavy, but in any case the woman hadn’t dressed for the sake of his pleasure. She really wished he wouldn’t gawk so, but alas, it was only to be expected in a kingdom as narrow-minded as Anaxas.

Being examined wasn’t a new experience for her but his intense scrutiny was quite a lot to endure and while she didn’t have to deal with it for a long duration, it felt as if Niccolette would never excuse them properly. It was exceptionally difficult to keep her field calm instead of allowing her emotions — including disgust now — to seep out. It took concentration and the sensation that her skin was about to melt off didn’t help her focus.

The Perceptive had never been happier to be out of the sight of others, the Bastian choosing to lead her along a shaded path. The change in temperature was delicious, the canopy diffusing the sun with cool, dappled shadows and one could actually appreciate the way the air stirred here. Here the breeze actually alleviated the oppressive atmosphere of the day and there might have been a pleasant dampness to it as well, possibly supplied by the foliage or carried from the nearby river.

The diplomat relinquished the tight hold she’d been maintaining on her monic aura, permitting it to expand more than courtesy dictated but she also ensured that there were a few steps of physical distance between them, enough to ensure that there was no chance of inadvertently brushing parasols. Whether such distance could be maintained if they continued on this course remained to be seen but for the time being, the woman was content to relax somewhat while doing her best not to encroach on the other’s space too much. If Niccolette was to do the same, she’d have to put considerably more distance between them, but the Hoxian suspected that the other probably wasn’t quite as distressed as she was right now.

The muscles that had been taut in her face relaxed into a more natural neutral expression, the woman touching the back of her fingers to it to gauge the heat and moisture on her skin, buying herself time.

Would it be too much to enjoy the relative peace for a few moments? Obviously it was an illusion given the undulating hum of voices not far off, the relative uniformity broken occasionally by a raised voice or a shriek of unstrained laughter. If she remained quiet and allowed the party to fade into an unimportant backdrop and the other woman didn’t say anything either then she could almost pretend that what was between them was companionable, each content to be in the other’s company without the need to speak.
Unfortunately, the Hoxian had lost a great deal of her talent for self-delusion and could feel awkwardness and uncertainty creeping into the back of her mind as well as guilt.

“Thank you.”

Her voice was soft, hardly louder than the quiet rustle of leaves overhead. Her dark gaze focused on the path ahead of her as if examining the ground for obstacles or hazards. The Perceptive fished a cotton handkerchief from her tiny bag and made a surreptitious effort to wipe the handle of her parasol without jostling it up and down, angling it so that the shaft rested comfortably against her shoulder.

“You would have been well within your rights to ignore me or pretend that you didn’t understand. It wouldn’t have been any less than I deserved,” the Hoxian continued after a few moments, a little louder this time, but with a weariness to her voice that put one in mind of something that had been wrung out and didn’t have much left to give.

“I had no right to impose either. There are far worse situations to be caught in and Incumbent Madden certainly isn’t- He isn’t like Incumbent Vauq-”

She blinked. Gosh, she knew that she considered them to be two separate people but she couldn’t believe that she’d been about to remark on the behaviour of Tom’s predecessor. The ersehole was almost a year dead and she knew it, but she had still gone to draw the comparison. It was only natural she supposed, Anatole and Toibin having been friendly, but she still surprised herself.

That she had almost voiced such an opinion felt like an injustice to the body’s current inhabitant. After all, it was the raen who had to bear Anatole’s reputation.

“He has a particular dislike of me. He was rude—”

Cruel, she thought.

“—but not indecent. That’s all. I thank you but I also apologise for the inconvenience.”

She tried to dry her palms but it seemed a pointless endeavour, fresh perspiration breaking out almost as soon as bent her fingers inwards in anything approaching a grip. She sighed and tucked the ‘kerchief away again.

.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Afternoon, Yaris 49, 2719
Darcy House and Grounds, Uptown

The harsh Yaris sun was filtered by the screen of leaves; where it passed through, it was cooler, overlapping overlaps. Here, the lace trim of Niccolette’s umbrella was only a blur at the edges of her shadow; even the shadow itself was softer, not as harsh against the ground as it had been before.

Drezda’s indectal field swept over them both, belike living mona and not-so-dissimilar perceptive mona bright and slippery all at once. Niccolette did not release her own polite dampening; she was not especially dampened, but she made no particular effort to caprise Drezda beyond the bare minimum, beyond what was largely unavoidable without special effort.

Niccolette did not break the silence, as cool and comfortable as the shaded path.

When Drezda did, the Bastian’s gaze flickered briefly over to her, then went forward once more; she titled her head back, ever so slightly, studying the lace edges of her parasol and the soft screen of leaves above, then kept walking, scarcely even having paused. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye, a flash of cotton like a handkerchief, but didn’t especially look at it.

Drezda kept on; Niccolette kept her face smooth, for all that she should have liked to grimace. She turned her head, slightly, as the Hoxian kept on; a few dark curls shifted over, spilling into the space between them. She glanced away once more, as Drezda kept on.

Like an apology without apologizing, at first. Niccolette turned the handle of her umbrella, lightly, back and forth, making the blurred shadows shiver. She had not asked for an explanation; she would not have asked for one. She was not particularly sure this one interested her, very much. Rude, but not indecent, Drezda said.

Niccolette shrugged, lightly, when the Hoxian eventually wound her way around to a thanks somewhat tempered by the apology, and an apology equally tempered by the thanks. It was a polite splitting of the difference; Niccolette cared for neither.

“Do you wish I had not done it?” Niccolette asked, with no hint of sharpness to her tone. She glanced back over her shoulder at Drezda; she raised her eyebrows. “You are welcome, at any time, to return to the party.” She looked forward once more.

Niccolette sighed, softly; her breath was slightly warm, even against the warm air, brushing over her lips and tongue. She licked her lips, lightly, and grimaced at the faint taste of bitter lip color.

“I doubted that you would have sought me out,” Niccolette went on, evenly, “if you were not rather in need.”

Niccolette did not bother to say that they had not parted in the most pleasant of circumstances; she did not wish, particularly, to dwell on the thoughts on last Hamis. Loshis, Hamis, and even the beginning of Roalis were like a dream; they felt as if they had happened to another woman. Niccolette knew they were hers; she was not ashamed. She had felt what she had felt; grief had swamped her and overflowed, and she had forgotten to swim in the currents of it, and instead let herself drown.

But what good did shame do? She could not go back and change having shouted at Drezda, and nor did she particularly regret having done so. She would challenge Ekain Da Huane again, a thousand times, knowing all that would come; she would, still, step into the barfight where Incumbent Vauquelin had nearly-but-not-quite broken his fist on another man’s nose and fire a shot into the leg of a filthy thief, even with the sharp ache of remembered pain in her eardrum.

And, too, Niccolette thought, she would cry every last tear and more; regretting them, she felt, was to say Uzoji did not deserve them. Perhaps, she thought, it was because there had not been any weeping at his funeral; perhaps the tears that his death owed to Hurte had followed her, all these months, denied their rightful offering.

It was an absurd thought, and Niccolette set it aside as quickly as it had come.

“You are,” Niccolette added, nonchalantly, not looking as Drezda, “also welcome to stay here; I should not mind to walk a bit more time in the shade.”

[Drezda Ecks]

Yaris 49, 2719 | Afternoon
Darcy House and Grounds, Uptown

.

Drezda spoke and Niccolette said nothing. The Hoxian was keenly aware of the total lack of speech from her companion as she carried on and yet she carried on all the same, possibly saying more into the sucking silence between them because of it. That silence felt greedy, ready to devour any words that it was given, seeming to demand it. If it wasn’t fed then it would eat at one or both of them, it had that quality to it but it seemed that the diplomat was the only one with something pressing to say, leastwise, the other woman made no attempt to interject.

Being Hoxian did not mean that she was one prone to silence. Oh, she could have her spells of it certainly, the times when she could be stony and staring, daring another to speak first but there were times like this when the woman had many thoughts to articulate, times when the accusation of being ‘chatty’ could be levelled at her. Sometimes there was just a great deal to articulate and other times, metaphors chased each other in her speech, the poetic side of her nature rearing its head. In this case, she felt that there was much to be said, largely because so much hadn’t been discussed when they’d last met while other things had been said all too clearly. Even now, it felt as if the Bastian’s words still echoed in her mind, persisting despite the intervening months since the woman had stayed with her.

The other’s question drew a sigh, eyes fluttering shut as she walked, cool light growing through the lids.

Had her amalgamation of apology and thanks so thoroughly muddied the waters that the Living Conversationalist has been left unsure if it had been truly appreciated? She supposed that she had chopped words in such a fashion that there was plenty of room for doubt. However, she wasn’t ungrateful, merely awkward and embarrassed. The question didn’t have any bite to it though, she hadn’t aroused irritation but mere curiosity. That was good at least. The diplomat highly doubted that they’d be on truly friendly terms after the way their relationship had begun but at the very least, she would appreciate it if she did nothing to sour it further.

“No. I am immensely grateful to you. I don’t know what I would have done if you had not gone along with it.”

That was the truth. She didn’t want to imagine it either, being turned away from the Bastian as she feigned incomprehension or flat out refused to speak with her. It was all too easy to think of herself deflected, face carefully set in as good a facsimile of neutrality as she could muster only to find herself meeting the watchful gaze of Toibin Madden. It hardly required a colourful imagination to envision the smug, knowing expression that he would have worn on account of his unexpected victory.

The raven-haired woman twirled her parasol slowly and shifted its position on her shoulder, channeling her energy into something other than a shudder. The crawling sensation across her skin occurred nonetheless, worsened perhaps by not attempting to dislodge the feeling properly.

Her eyes opened as slits, dark gaze flicking to the other as she sucked a breath in between her teeth, feeling saliva build beneath her tongue.

“I will return when I feel I can bear it. Here at least, the air feels breathable. I have spent so many years in Anaxas, I should be used to the warmer months and yet…”

The heat was probably more bearable than the party, or at least, she was more willing to weather it; she could not say the same for the Darcys and their guests. She would rather the Bastian believe that this pleasant shade was behind her reluctance to return rather than a sense of dread at re-encountering Madden or one of the other unpleasant political figures. It wasn’t something that could be deferred indefinitely but for the moment, she could take a chance to catch her breath, albeit it would have been easier had she been truly alone. With Niccolette here, she could not entirely relax, albeit the woman had seen her mask slip quite a bit — what mask she was able to maintain these days.

This was different though. For one thing, she was far from at her ease with her companion, she wasn’t lacking in sobriety this time and she wouldn’t be attempting to get closer to her. No, their relationship was now sufficiently chilly that it could probably stop that ice block back there from melting.

“I doubted that you would have sought me out if you were not rather in need,” Niccolette continued, Drezda’s head dipping lower, the closest she would come to appearance chagrined. Her painted lips pursed as she contemplated a suitable response. She wasn’t madly keen on digging up old ground, especially not when it had had something of a chance to settle.

“I would not have considered it right to approach you in any other circumstance, no…” she responded diplomatically, speaking slowly and slurring her words a little, the strength of her voice fading as she lightly fanned her face.

The Hoxian could not imagine remaining here in silence with the other woman. She could not walk with her in silence, it would not be companionable but awkward enough to drive her back out into the sun.

Her field was dampened once more, not allowing it to encroach on the other’s space. That initial flood of freedom had passed and she was gradually becoming more restrained.

“I’d prefer to stay. At least, for a little while,” the diplomat conceded, folding up her parasol and allowing it to hang loosely from her hand, pointing downwards.

Silence wouldn’t do, thus she’d have to consider topics of conversations. Divert things away from herself, from the pair of them in combination. The party itself should be a neutral topic in theory. There were obvious choices for small talk, exceedingly dull and obviously shallow. They were the sorts of things that you said simply to say words, except that really you ended up saying nothing at all. The Hoxian wanted to fill the silence, certainly but she didn’t want to waste air doing it. It wasn’t thin here like the mountainous air in Frecks but the heat did make it feel strangely scarce. It could fill one up like a balloon but there was nothing of substance to it, the oxygen lacking — or so it seemed.

“Did I pull you away from a conversation of consequence or had you been hoping for something of a reprieve?” Drezda asked, genuinely curious. She had thought that the Bastian might have been somewhat bored when she’d approached but she hadn’t been certain. It would be interesting to see if she had been correct.

.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Afternoon, Yaris 49, 2719
Darcy House and Grounds, Uptown

It was hot.

Niccolette did not feel it as unbearable this year as she had in years past, but all the same Yaris had rarely found her in Vienda – before. Even in the Rose, she thought, lingering in the shade, there was something of a breeze. In Vienda the air was stifling, thick and still; as if the weight of the city trapped the heat and held it down, reached out to pour it down your throat.

The islands were sunnier by far, but there the houses were built for it, with shade and open windows. In Vienda the city seemed to feel one could ignore the dry season – let it pass them by – and simply continue on in Dentis.

Niccolette walked, slowly, parasol in her hands. The warmer months, she thought. She breathed the heat in, inhaling slowly and steadily as if to let it fill her. Her gaze held on the dappling shadows beyond.

Drezda said, in the end, that she would prefer to stay. She folded up her parasol; the shade flickered over her bare skin, echoing in the dips and hollows of her shoulders and back. Niccolette did not quite look at her, although she was certainly aware. She inclined her head, lightly, seeing little enough reason to acknowledge the statement; she had, already, said what she thought.

They wandered slowly through the shade in silence; Niccolette felt the faintest trickle of sweat down her spine. She did not mind it; she sweated enough. It brought to mind candle flames and the burning heat of the mona around her – life was warm, bright and sharp, and the living mona contained it all. When she reached to them, it was with heat washing through her, candle flames dancing and the air thick with moisture. It was her sweat that she poured out, as much as her breath; she did not begrudge it.

Niccolette shrugged lightly in response to Drezda’s question. “It was a conversation that I knew would come,” she said. She straightened her umbrella; she drew it closed, and lowered her hand, letting it dangle beside her leg. “But there was little more to be said here, and yet I expect Dr. Hoeffler would have found a great many words.”

Of consequence, Niccolette thought. It was a better phrasing than Drezda could have known. She was not at Grand Mercy because she wished to be; she was not there only to occupy her hours, although it did occupy them. It was not because she was fond of him that she let Sy’rien Palevi put his arm through hers, and let him invite her to the opera.

Hoeffler, if he so chose, could have her access to Grand Mercy revoked. Nothing showed on Niccolette’s face; nothing, either, showed in her field. If the grip of her palm tightened, lightly, against the handle of her parasol, no one could see it – not even Drezda. There would, Niccolette knew, be no more second chances from Hawke, if this even could be said to be a second chance. A third, perhaps, a fourth – a fifth –

Niccolette turned her gaze away, a faint darkness past the edge of her hair all she could see of Drezda on the shady path. She studied the thickly planted trees around them. Here and there, sunlight seeped through the canopy, a ray or two lighting on the edges of a bush or the leaves of a tree. Niccolette stopped in a patch of it, tilting her chin up for a moment, and breathed it in deep.

She went on, then, undaunted by the heat. Let them try to drown her, Niccolette thought, the parasol swinging lightly back and forth with her steps. Let the heat pour down her throat and fill her from within; she could stand it. She had little enough choice.

“Is it conversations of consequence which bring you here?” Niccolette asked, idly; she glanced over her shoulder at Drezda, but did not hold the look overlong.

[Drezda Ecks]

Yaris 49, 2719 | Afternoon
Darcy House and Grounds, Uptown

.

While she felt as if suffocation was close, she would not suffer such a fate here, not even under the more direct focus of the sun. She could endure this as she had endured every other summer and dry season in Anaxas over the years. She knew that she should count herself lucky, not only for being in the shade at present with the cool moisture of foliage in the air, but for wearing so little in comparison to those around her. Her onyx eyes hadn’t failed to register Niccolette’s high collar, the way that it encased her neck and the impression it gave of constriction. Oh there was a gap and so there must be some air circulating but she couldn’t imagine that it was enough — anywhere near enough.

Given the state of her own dress, she wondered what the Bastian thought of her. Did she envy her for the amount of skin she had on show? It afforded her greater opportunity for relief, the breeze able to better catch and evaporate the perspiration that moistened her skin. She wondered if she thought her little better than a harlot to have herself on show in such a manner, lacking the dignity that would be expected of any self-respecting young galdor lady, especially one of Drezda’s standing. Then again, she was Hoxian so Niccolette might simply view her as different.

In spite of her state of dress, the diplomat felt as if her companion was weathering the heat far better than she was. Her skin might have been slick with sweat but it was harder to see, a glimmer of it on her face made her appear to glow. Niccolette seemed as sharp as her field, whereas the diplomat felt as if she was wilting and probably looked like it. Her wits were no doubt sharper and she was probably less prone to rash judgment. The same could not be said for her reluctant companion who had the intellect of one with fever. An instant’s lapse in concentration made the world shimmer at the edge of her vision, unfocused and ready to slip away, each moment stretching out further and further until it felt as if time would never progress again, just the diplomat enveloped in this abominable heat forever.

Wilted and dreamy, that was probably how she looked but she couldn’t think of such things, not when the heat pressed so closely around her and warmed her lungs with each scorching breath. She didn’t particularly care how she seemed either, being past such concerns. The same sense of ‘fuck it’ that had driven her to dress in this fashion without any care for the consequences drove her now as well.

The other woman phrased things in a manner that suggested that it had been a necessary but unwanted conversation, something that the Hoxian could sympathise with, especially as the reasons for her own presence had everything to do with necessity and nothing to do with desire. She hummed her comprehension.

“Yes, I know what those conversations are like. Alas, I believe that I’m someone liable to say very little in a great many words. I could call it a hazard of my occupation but that would almost certainly be chroveshit,” the woman explained, her tongue far looser than it ought to have been, her tone wry as a small, humourless smile found its way to her lips.

“Although I hardly need to tell you that about myself. I believe you’ve experienced enough of my verbosity to make such a deduction.”

Ordinarily, she was only prone to talking in this fashion when she was with someone with whom she was close, or when she was drunk. Niccolette didn’t fit the former and well… she wasn’t drunk but perhaps the sun had a somewhat similar effect, at least in terms of her social inhibition. It took so much effort to keep the appropriate walls up and don the appropriate mask when it felt as if her brain might be melting inside her cranium.

It was probably somewhat inevitable that idle and non-consequential chatter should slip all too readily into revealing more than she should have and almost certainly more than the Bastian had bargained for.

“Yes and no. There are no conversations which I know will come, consequential or otherwise but I am here for a reason. Not an idle one admittedly,” she explained, bouncing her parasol lightly against her leg as she walked. “I’ve been rather negligent in my appearances and I need to make an effort to make some appropriate contacts for when I no longer have a job.”

The woman lapsed into silence, a small crease appearing between her brows. Her movement halted, she leaned carefully against the trunk of a tree, fingers playing restlessly over the handle in her hand but otherwise still. A breeze stirred a few errant strands behind her ear, feeling them stick fast to her sweaty skin. She sighed.

“I suppose I did expect some unpleasant conversations by being here — there are always those prepared to fish for information — but beyond that? I haven’t a notion what sorts of meaningful conversations I wish to strike up.”

The galdor barked a short, bitter-tinged laugh, flexing her field briefly, allowing the Perceptive mona within to pulse noticeably in order to draw attention to it, its presence providing a somewhat ironic underpinning to her next words.

“Despite everything that should provide me with advantages, I’m not good with people. Even if I succeed in striking up some useful conversations, I doubt that I can produce anything beneficial from them. After all, I am myself. Regrettably.”

Her onyx eyes shifted, head tilting towards the tree as she afforded the other a weary smile.

“I’m sure that you appreciate my idea of ‘small talk’,” Drezda added wryly.

.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Afternoon, Yaris 49, 2719
Darcy House and Grounds, Uptown

Very little in a great many words, Drezda called it, and kept on going. Niccolette watched her for a few moments, and then turned away, looking back out at the thickly shaded gardens around the path.

Enough of my verbosity, Drezda called it. Niccolette shrugged slightly; she wouldn’t have said she had thought about it much. There was little in Hamis she wished to think about much; it seemed best forgotten. Not regretted, but set aside.

Niccolette’s gaze flickered over once more when Drezda spoke of no longer having a job, and then away. She did not change the swinging of her parasol, slowly and evenly.

There was Corwynn, of course; he was widely accepted in polite society in the Rose, and, as a Wynngate, able to show up where he liked in Vienda well enough, whatever his affiliations. In the Rose, naturally, they were known; in Vienda, they were known enough. When it had come up in discussion with Hawke, it had seemed natural enough that she and Uzoji would mention whatever they might have heard in passing, were it relevant. They both of them had school friends; Uzoji’s brother was in the Vrydag.

It had been easy enough, Niccolette thought, with Uzoji. He had always been better at it than she had. He had known who to talk to; he had been easy with them. They had talked it over, afterwards; sometimes they had split up at one party or another, to cover ground separately, but she had always known he would be there, in the end, to listen and talk and understand. Sometimes loneliness trickled down her neck like a drop of sweat; sometimes it washed all over her, and she sank beneath a wave of it before she could remember how to breathe.

Niccolette thought over Drezda’s remark; she thought, tiredly, of writing to Hawke. She had reports enough to write, Niccolette thought sourly. But he had not mentioned anything of the sort, in their discussion of coming here. She was here for Grand Mercy Hospital and King’s Crop; she was not here to report on Hoxian politics. It was nothing to do with Drezda; it was everything to do with Hawke. The more she gave him, Niccolette understood now, whether she had or not before, the more he would take – worse, the more he would expect.

Let Hawke ask, the Bastian thought, idly, twirling her handkerchief, if he wished her to pursue such duties once more. He certainly had not been pleased with her during the rainy season; she smiled, very faintly, though it wasn’t much of a laughing matter. On a knife’s edge, he had called her. Niccolette saw very little reason not to bare her throat.

“Why come then?” Niccolette asked as Drezda finished, ignoring the other woman’s final comment. She glanced back at Drezda, and raised her eyebrows. “You do not wish to be here,” she pointed out, “and you are not so sure you shall make appropriate contacts.”

Niccolette turned away once more; she began walking again, slow, small steps, slow enough to let Drezda realize and easily keep pace. Heat trickled down her spine, strengthening itself in the gap between fabric and skin; Niccolette welcomed it, and breathed in deep through it.

“What is it you wish to do?” Niccolette asked, more idly than anything; she had thought of the question, at first, only idly. “With your appropriate contacts.” Her voice was neutral enough.

It was only now that Niccolette wondered: what did Drezda know? What did she wonder? Few enough had ever confirmed it. It was wondered about; Niccolette knew that. If Drezda had asked, after Hamis, about her…? It was not, Niccolette thought, impossible, though she thought it perhaps unlikely. If that was what Drezda wished – Niccolette made the slightest of faces, as if smelling rather than tasting something sour. She kept her gaze away, the parasol still swinging lightly, and left the question between them.

[Drezda Ecks]

Yaris 49, 2719 | Afternoon
Darcy House and Grounds, Uptown

.

When Nicco asked her why she had bothered to attend this party in the face of such uncertainty, the diplomat regarded her through slightly narrowed eyes. Was this her idea of a joke or was there another layer to the question that she was missing? Drezda would have thought it obvious that while she had a slim chance of making the right connections here, she had no hope whatsoever of doing so from within the confines of her home. Admittedly, she wasn’t exactly making the most of her opportunity at the moment considering that she was hiding away from the rest of the partygoers with the Bastian but the day was still young; there would still be plenty of chances and perhaps when cooler night rolled on, she could be more sensible.

The Hoxian was still contemplating her in silent incredulity when the widow began walking once more, leaving her to ponder whether she’d follow or remain. If she stayed put then she had no doubt that her companion would notice but she might not decide to come back. She couldn’t say that she had an equal chance of Niccolette returning to her or continuing on because she had a feeling that the woman leaned more towards the latter; Drezda didn’t believe that she’d cultivated sufficient good feeling to ensure the former. Currently, she didn’t much fancy the possibility of rejection and with a sigh, she pushed herself away from the tree and trailed after her.

“I can’t say that I make many acquaintances in my parlour,” she remarked drolly. She raised her parasol — still closed — and sliced it through the leaves of the lower hanging branches in the canopy overhead. It rustled, cascading leaves down on her, some shredded by her casual violence. It was something that a child might have done but Drezda Ecks was no child and she couldn’t say precisely what had possessed her to do so. Frustration perhaps, the urge arising and acted upon instead of being suppressed as she was typically wont to do.

She idly brushed bits of greenery from her hair, a lazy sweep of her hand as she resumed swinging the parasol gently by her side. The diplomat made more of an effort to keep pace with her reluctant companion, neither field nor face reflecting whatever humour had made her take a bash at the trees. Her expression was one of weariness and her field had a limpness to it as if the monic aura was a leaf of lettuce wilted in this Yaris heat.

The Bad Brother’s question did nothing to diminish the weariness on her face, dark eyes becoming unfocused as they stared at nothing. A shoulder rose and fell, a noncommittal shrug that could easily have been missed while the Hoxian continued her silence and acted as if Niccolette wasn’t beside her. Given the way her field remained dampened and grew doe-toed when the pair came too close, she wasn’t as unaware of her companion as her demeanour appeared to suggest.

“You don’t seem particularly enthused to be here yourself,” she observed at last, choosing to respond to a question with another one as she continued. “Are you not here out of a sense of obligation as well? Or at the very least, with purpose? I doubt that anyone is here because they truly wish to be.”

The raven-haired woman considered the question about what she’d do with any contacts she made. It was less of a consideration about how honest she was willing to be and more to do her lack of an acceptable answer. Not that she feared being judged for her response, she just didn’t have anything that wouldn’t sound incredibly vague. In fact, thinking about it before she spoke aloud, she wondered why she hadn’t simply stayed at home; it didn’t feel as if there was much point after all.

“It’s by no means common knowledge and in truth, my own government doesn’t know yet but I have plans to resign at the end of the year. It’s possible that I would have been replaced when control of the Symvoulio passed to Mugroba as I’ve held the position for a number of years now but well…”

The young woman shrugged, onyx eyes flicking lazily to Niccolette.

“Regardless, it will be out of my hands and the matter of finding a replacement isn’t my concern either. What is my concern is that I… will require employment and being connected helps in that regard, especially when you’re uh… open to... multiple possibilities.”

The last phrase was picked out with awkward care, the parasol switched from one hand to the other and then back again before she hugged it to her torso. She released a tittering laugh.

“I’m sure it sounds somewhat ridiculous to be almost a decade out of Brunnhold and seeking a new career… again. I wouldn’t return to the Seventen here, not simply because I’d have to finish my training and I’m… older than the typical recruit. Law and order doesn’t- It’s not something about which I’m passionate,” she admitted quietly, gaze wandering away as pink bloomed in her cheeks. She’d come very close to saying that law and order didn’t interest her, especially given that there were plenty of laws she’d prefer to skirt rather than upholding them.

It probably wasn’t the best idea to declare a veritable abhorrence to the law.

“Someone once commented that I’m not too old to return to education so I could further my studies, but I certainly couldn’t work in academia. I’m not compatible with teaching and research isn’t-”

Her thought drifted to the last time she’d worked in research back in Frecksat and the relationship she’d carried on.

“-something I’ve had positive experiences with either.”

She’d provided a lengthy enough list of what she couldn’t or wouldn’t do but hadn’t given any hint as to what she was willing to do. There were many different forms of employment out there, plenty of variety so surely Niccolette understood that she wasn’t precluding all work. No doubt, she could see that the Hoxian was relatively aimless.

“I have nothing against using magic although my Living aptitude might be more beneficial than my Perceptive one, even if it is superior. I don’t have a preference between magical or secular career in truth but I don’t… have anything particular in mind. I don’t suppose…”

She chewed her lip, peering ahead of her. Was it her imagination or was the foliage thinning up ahead? By the looks of things, they’d land themselves back into the midst of the party soon enough unless they chose to turn around and retrace their more secluded steps.

“I don’t suppose that you… have any suggestions? You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t even know what you do or if you require- I wouldn’t necessarily have to provide myself with an income if I asked my father but I- Some occupation would be better. I’m not cut out to be a socialite,” she added with a wan smile.

.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Afternoon, Yaris 49, 2719
Darcy House and Grounds, Uptown

Drezda glared at her in silence for a brief moment, falling briefly behind on the narrow, sun-dappled path. Niccolette did not, really, care; nor did she so much as flinch when the other woman stabbed her parasol into the canopy above, sending a flutter of leaves down. A few leaves came down closer to Niccolette; one settled, lightly, on her shoulder, and the Bastian brushed it away with her fingertips.

Niccolette shrugged her shoulders at Drezda’s question. That was about as much of an answer as she gave, still walking slowly and steadily. Purpose scarcely required enthusiasm, the Bad Brother thought. There was always a choice; she had learned that from Uzoji. The faintest of smiles twitched on Niccolette’s face. Oh, yes, she had a choice; keep swimming, Niccolette thought, or begin to drown once more.

Niccolette had asked idly; she hadn’t really thought much about Drezda’s answer, for all that she had wondered, briefly, what the other woman might know. She was not even entirely sure she had expected Drezda to answer at all. She listened all the same, half attentively, still walking; her own parasol was still enough in her hand, not swinging more than demanded by her careful steps.

Career was not a word with which Niccolette had been raised. It was almost funny to think that she had found one all the same; Niccolette found she was smiling, a little. This was not a fond smile; there was something wry at the edges of it. Yes, the Bastian thought, she had enjoyed her career very much, for a time. It wasn’t only that they had needed the money; it was that she couldn’t think of anything she should rather have done, these last years.

Niccolette glanced away, into the trees. Uzoji had felt the same; that, she knew. If he could have – if they could have gone back…?

And now? All things end, Niccolette thought with a vicious stabbing feeling. She did not swipe her own parasol at the trees; she did think of it.

Drezda went on again; Niccolette had not the least idea why she was discussing the Seventen. She didn’t really bother to try and figure it out. Drezda went on, musing aloud about returning to her studies. Niccolette could not in the least fathom such a thing; she had thought for some time of studying in Drekkur, but she had no desire to be a doctor. What she had wished then to learn, they did not truly teach.

Drezda kept going. Niccolette was really only half-listening by now, contemplating the light through the canopy. She glanced back over her shoulder at Drezda’s question, her eyebrows lifting lightly. Any suggestions?

“I see little point in purposeless actions,” Niccolette said instead; she shrugged, glancing away at the trees once more. “Of late I have begun volunteering at Grand Mercy Hospital,” Niccolette added. This was public enough information; she did not see any trouble, and she was in fact here in much that capacity. “I have some facility with anesthesia spells which they have found useful.”

Niccolette did not comment on the half-implied question on whether she needed to earn a living. She did not; the plantation saw to that. The thought of the island – only a few weeks ago, the warm breeze and bright sun, the fields and trees as they had been, only a year ago, as if nothing had changed – was painful and warm at once. Niccolette did not know what to make of it; she only knew she could not stay there. She did not know when – if – she would be able to bring herself to return.

The foliage was thinning out; not so distantly, Niccolette heard the sound of glasses tinkling, and then a sharp burst of laughter, which quieted out into a burbling of voices.

Niccolette slowed, for a moment. Drezda had asked for a moment; fine, Niccolette had provided her one. She was tired of the conversation; she was tired, in fact, of the whole of the party. She was especially tired of Sy’rien Palevi. The Bastian breathed in, deeply, and straightened herself up.

She might have asked if Drezda cared to walk back the other way. The leaves before them rustled.

“Oh!” It was one of the spottiest of the Darcy daughters, who looked like she was likely still in school, and visiting for the weekend; her eyes were rather wide, her arm looped through another girl of similar age. “Pardon us, madam, madam,” the two girls said, half-together, half-apart; they both bowed, a tentative quantitative and a bolder perceptive field each reaching out for a caprise.

Niccolette returned it; she bowed as well. She glanced back over her shoulder at Drezda; the two girls stepped politely to the side, and Niccolette made her way past them. She lifted her parasol, opening it as she emerged from the foliage, settling the stick against her shoulder and casting herself in lace-lined shade once more.