[Closed] [Closed, Mature] Loose Threads (Ava)

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Woven Delights

The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719 - Nineteen Minutes past the Seventeeth Hour

A

man will tell his mistress what he will not even tell himself.

Is there any truth in that? Is it just another lie told by men desperate to excuse their own behavior, desperate to make explain their dalliances? Why should it matter, the reasons, the excuses? Paramours are common enough. Expected. Indulged. Some known far and wide, some celebrated. A century ago, Artimessia Tassos, the conmon mistress of Giacamo Porsenna, was much celebrated for her wit, her dash, and, at least in private, for her wise council. Her low birth had mattered very little. She had been an asset, not a liability.

Well, that had been in Florne, and Florne is not Vienda. A Gonfaloniere is not the same as an Incumbent.

“What about Gwendolyn Nealing?” He has said nothing. There is no need. Bailey, lounging, carefree and comfortable has stretched himself out, taking up most of one side of the damned carriage. The boy can read his thoughts, at least on this occasion. No sense in trying to hide them.

“Nealing? I cannot recall the name.”

“Last century, the 2660s I think it was. Pretty, witty Gwen, the mistress of some toff or other. Lionel Marbury! Whoever he was when he’d be at home.”

The boy is a font of information. Useful.

“Chancellor of the Exchequer from 2655 through 2679. Before my time. A celebrated career. Treasury Reform Act of 2662, created the post of the Inspectors General to keep an official eye on monetary expenditures. Currency Protection Act of 2686. I am obliged to dislike him, on account of his attempts to abolish the Legislative Council and the Parliamentary Research Service.”

“Very right and proper, sir. A terrible man to be sure.” Bailey is trying to suppress a laugh. At one of them is able to smile. When was the last time he smiled? Not the devious quirk of the lip, but a proper smile? What does it matter? Good humor is another luxury he can no longer afford. The machine can do without it. The machine is what matters, the turning gears of his thoughts.

“Still, I do not recall the whiff of scandal emanating from the annals of his career.”

“Well, there you are sir. And it’s not like he could keep Gwen a secret. Always was quite flash, driving her own coach with never a care, if my old granny’s got it right.”

“One could do worse than trusting in old grannies.”

“Right you are sir. And no use in saying otherwise. Least-ways, not with my granny.” The boy grows silent for a while, the carriage rattles along. Over the bridge and north, and north. North to the Dives, to answers. Or, at least new questions. “Anyway, this Gwen, always full of dash and energy, making smart remarks, and being invited everywhere to decorate parties and such like. Surprised you’d not heard of her, being a politico.”

“I am not a politician.” By narrow definitions, true. By any reasonable definition? Well, that was a murkier area. Policy had passed through his hands, had been shaped. The ink is still on his fingers, the words still turning, over and over, in his head. “I am merely a tool of such.”

“Whatever you say, Mr Shrike.”

He falls silent now, tries not to notice the rocking and racing of the carriage. Tries to imagine going on foot. Walking is better, more natural. It is too far to walk. Too far. Too dangerous. The air is different here, smoke and ash, soot and sulphur. This is not his city, not any longer. Some other place, some alien country.

The question still nags. Why hide a mistress? Why hide her in such a fashion? It is almost a denial of her existence. Denial suggests either guilt or some other secret. What do you know, Little Bird, what are you hiding?

“You found the necklace?” A repetition, a need for certanty. Bailey is more or less trustworthy. He has never proved otherwise. There are too many variables here, more than he can calculate. Too many gaps. Too many opportunities for failure.

“Well, yes and no Mr Shrike. I found the shop what bought it. Well, not quite.” Bailey is squirming now uncertain, shifty. “I found the man who tried to buy it, found the shop where he tried and failed. It ain’t there now sir. I don’t have any idea where it went.” He holds up his hands, deflecting any wrath. No wrath is forthcoming. What would be the point? “But I do know where it came from. Found the first buyer, and that weren’t easy. Little shop just outside the Ladies. Nothing much to look at, and the nat who passes for the fence ain’t any good, but he bought the necklace. Bought it from a pretty lady with dark hair. A lady who deals in fabrics sir. Her shop were easy enough to find. Lovely fabric sir, very lovely. Fine close cotton weaves, brushed wool, even silk sir. Popped in for a moment you understand. Not long, but long enough. I even saw the lady. The lady with the oblong case.”

A nod. The lady with the oblong case again. The go-between? A messenger? A merchant who might deal with any number of ladies, no matter their station, without raising an eyebrow. A useful agent? Such people are valuable. Their discretion is to be commended. Their discretion cane be an obstacle.

There is truth in the boy’s face. That is currency enough. It might be a false lead, it may be nothing at all. It may be everything. It is all there is to follow. A single thread, tenuous at best. It is better than nothing. A thread, and a cloth merchant.

Carriages are an unfortunate necessity. Too far to go in too little time. Unfortunate, unlovely. No stones beneath his feet, no feel of the city, only the turning of wheels that are not his own. There is no sense of place, no flow, no continuity. The carriage slows. That at least he can feel. Outside, the place is strange, like and yet unlike the city he knows. Houses in too many colors, garish yet faded. The streets at least are properly narrow. More Smike’s End than Uptown proper. Narrow, twisting, old as the city itself. Old as its bones.

“Place is called Woven Delights. Bit of a silly name, if you ask me. And the lady with the oblong case, well, I have it on almost reliable authority that her name is Weaver.” A contortion passes along Bailey’s face. He feels it echoed in his own.

“That’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

“My thoughts exactly. Though, could be long tradition. Passed down through the generations. Stranger things have happened.” The boy shrugs, dismissing it all. Names are meaningless, mere designations. Bailey pays the fee for passage, and dismisses the carriage. There is no longer any need for the conveyance. “I knew a dentist, a proper one sir, went by the name of Rencher. Damned good at his profession, but an unfortunate name.”

Stranger things have indeed happened.

He walks now, feels the stones beneath his feet, the familiar pulse of the city, his city. A small thing. A correct thing. A sound thing.

The bells jangle at last when he enters the shop. Slightly off key. A well appointed space and expertly laid out. Why should it be otherwise? Pride knows no bounds. Should not.

“Good afternoon,” he says, addressing no one. Addressing whoever may be there. A customer like any other. A guise and not a guise. In this place, amidst the threads he must follow, the fabric of a conspiracy he does not understand, there is more mundane business he can find. The fabrics alone are enough. All fine and elegant as Bailey has said.

A curious thing, unexpected. A new cravat would be most acceptable.

[Ava Weaver]

Afternoon, 33 Vortas, 2719
Woven Delights, The Painted Ladies

T
here is a knack to not thinking of something. Ava doesn’t know if it’s something that can be taught; that particular art has never come up, in all her lessons with him. It’s easy to think of nothing at all, but that doesn’t work if one needs to behave normally: to smile, and laugh, and stay up late doing the books, to behave as if one is seen, at all times, even in one’s quietest moments.

Not thinking of anything is about stillness, about putting it all aside and easing away. Sometimes there’s no way not to think about one thing without putting away all the rest, but it doesn’t work for long. It can’t work for long, as useful as it might be.

But the trick to not thinking of something - one particular something - is to fill the mind with other things. She used to memorize books, passages of the ones she wasn’t supposed to read, and recite them in her head again and again, because there wasn’t enough, otherwise, to fill all the moments, even with as much care as she paid to herself then. Having something to do helps as well - painting one’s face, rubbing in lotion, brushing out one’s hair and braiding it, these help fill in the quiet moments before bed, which are otherwise so dangerous.

The trick now is to work. There are so many things to think of at the shop; Ava spends hours considering how to rearrange the shelves. She watches the light, and thinks about the flow of it during the day, and rearranges the order of the silks so they don’t lose their shine in the afternoon. She thinks of new customers, and proposes a new arrangement to one of the tailors who comes by once or twice a week, one with a dab hand for embroidery, and sets up a display of his work dangling over the edge of the counter, fabric samples arranged atop of one another. The silk do not buckle at the pull of the thread; it remains perfect and smooth, when stitched by graceful hands.

There’s Grais to teach, too. Ava secures Grais’s license first - perfectly, painstakingly legally, with all the attendant fees and pretty smiling. When Grais tells her she already knows something of reading, Ava shakes her head delicately and raises her eyebrows, and she knows she has chosen well when Grais grins at her, and nods, and says nothing more of it.

Ava does not quite dare to go to the places where she knows primers are sold, and so instead she makes one herself, slowly and carefully, with the letters one by one, with simple sentences and more complex ones. They drill arithmetic too, which is neither forbidden nor taught, until Grais is ready to copy the order slips into the ledger, one by one, slow and questioning but as neat as Ava knew better than to hope for, in the end.

All this fills hours and hours more, and still there are unbearably many. Her thoughts are not her own; she knows she must behave as if this is so. She has too many secrets to do otherwise; she is woven on them, scraps of embroidery laid on the top, and sometimes it is all she can do not to pull. She cooks; she never cooked, before, but she goes out to the market when she cannot sleep, in the early hours, and comes back with carrots, potatoes, celery, herbs and a rough cut of meat, and makes a rough stew on the small stove upstairs. She stirs the pot with her wooden spoon, standing before it in her nightgown, and thinks of nothing but whether the vegetables have cooked through. She can’t remember the taste, afterwards.

She smiles; every day, she smiles. A fine mood you’re in, Ms. Weaver, Annie Leigh says, and Ava laughs. How could she not be, when the shop is doing so well? She says, and Annie laughs too, and praises the new embroidery display.

She knows him, when the door opens. She has been waiting, and she knows him. There is no sign of it on her face; there is the same welcoming smile with which she greets every galdor, bright and with the faintest hint of eagerness, because she knows they would know the lack, even if they don’t realize it.

She sells mostly wool, this season; the biggest displays are thick weaves, in a range of darker colors. The silks are still there, too, and the cottons, more vivid, a reminder of color and life tucked amidst the encroaching winter.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Ava says, coming out from around the counter at the opposite end of the store. She curtsies deeply. Her hair is loose, dark ringlets down her back; her eyes are lined in a sweep of kohl. Her lips are painted pale pink, and she wears a dress of umber wool, pleated around the waist and embroidered to create a mock bodice, with a soft scoop neck and pointed hems, just high enough to reveal a hint of ankles and dark gray slippers.

Grais is out on an errand, and Ava is beyond grateful.

“How might I be of assistance?” Ava asks, smiling. “Are you looking for fabric some particular purpose?”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Woven Delights

The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719 - Twenty-two Minutes past the Seventeeth Hour

I

s there any virtue in disguising his intent? Disguise, no. Amelioration, that is another matter. No threat is meant, no threat will be given. Data, facts, are what he has come for, what he needs. Let others worry about propriety, about scandal. Scandal is an asset. A politician without scandal is no politician at all. It shows the proper foibles, the proper naturalness. And to claim it, and then discard, and rise above it? The dividends there cannot be counted. A politico needs a narrative, a story to tell. Scandal is the surest means. The easiest. Tragedy is the other. More difficult, and much harder to ensure.

And yet. The Incumbent has his illness, his shattered self. ‘He’ and ‘I’. ‘I’ and ‘He’. A tale unlike any other. It cannot be told. Not here, and not now. It is too dangerous, too much a threat. The conspiracy of the unsound cannot know this, cannot know of ‘I’. They must know only ‘He’. The Incumbent has only a tenuous grasp on the man that came before, the man he is no longer. Who are you, sir? Who were you? Who have you become?

There are answers. Answers he lacks. The mistress, the Little Bird, she belongs to both men. Belongs to ‘He’ as much as ‘I’. She will know the man who was, will know the shapes of his old masks. The masks the Incumbent must continue to wear. The man has stumbled into the moment. He is the man of the hour, and the hour is growing late.

It is against reason, against sense. It cannot be denied. The wrong man in the right place, at the hour appointed for another. There is a fault in the flow of events, a fault that must be exploited. The fault is a man. A man he cannot, even now, comprehend. ‘He’ and ‘I’. ‘I’ and ‘He’.

Does the Weaver know what he needs to know? Is she his opposite number? The agent with an agenda all her own? Even now he can see something in her face, some spark he cannot name. A woman of parts. Intelligence behind those dark eyes. All to the good. That will make this more comfortable. It will make it harder.

“Your shop was recommended to me by a mutual friend. I can see he was right to do so.” The fabrics alone, all of fine quality, recommend the place. Under different circumstances, he would request his tailor look to these fabrics. He has no private tailor. Cannot afford one. He makes do with modifications, alterations, and good fortune. Yet the silks alone are worth the cost. Fine patterns and well made, neckcloths and cravats could be made in bewildering varieties. He is not here to acquire new fashion. What does he know of fashion? Slight botanical patterns on the odd waistcoat hardly qualify. The occasional eccentric cravat means nothing. No. He is a dull man in dull clothing; greys and blacks, russets and browns. No sartorial splendor. There would be little point.

The woman, Weaver, is no fool. That at least is written on her face, in the placid smile and mechanical helpfulness. A merchant who knows what is expected, who plays the part out of long habit.

Long habit. His own is to delay, to obfuscate, to weigh this and that, to send for interdepartmental review. There are no departments here, no process, no forms or customary documentation. At sea then, and uncharted waters. “It is, in point of fact, that mutual friend I hope to discuss.” It needs to be said, broached. What can be done by avoidance? “The Incumbent, Anatole Vauquelin. I am his acting chief of staff, his legislative councilor. I consider the man to be under my aegis. My name, madame, is Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed.” The name should mean nothing to the Weaver, yet is that some slight twinge of recognition? A danger if so. A knife for which he cannot account. “You, I am led to understand by reliable sources, are familiar with him, may be familiar with a significant friend of his.” Hands held out, an attempt at consolation. Will it work? That cannot be known. “I have been seeking this friend for some time. I believe she has information that I require. Information about the Incumbent. Who he was, and who he has become.”

He picks up a fine silken cloth, one with subtle weavings, tone upon tone of swirling botanical lines. Lines like his own formal cravats, lines like the necklace. “Forgive my bluntness, madame, but I am pressed for time. I am happy to purchase several yards of this cloth, should that make any conversation worth your time.”

[Ava Weaver]

Afternoon, 33 Vortas, 2719
Woven Delights, The Painted Ladies

She wonders how he will do it, what - whether - he will ask. He looks around the shop; Ava, who is used to looking for such things, sees his gaze linger around the patterned silks. His clothing is drab, but expensive, by the standards of many of her customers. If the cut and color are not particularly fashionable or exciting, the cloth itself is good quality, and the tailoring too.

Ava blinks softly when he speaks of discussing a mutual friend; surprise is written across her face, and her eyebrows lift, delicately. He names the incumbent, and she bows her head, lightly, looking down. “Sir?” Ava murmurs, a faint half-protest, when he introduces himself, although not loudly enough to interrupt.

Are familiar with him, Ava thinks, mind racing; may be familiar with a significant friend of his. It is better than she expected; it is better than she dared to hope for. She doesn’t know what to do with it.

My time, sir, is not for sale, and neither am I. These are the words which Ava wishes to speak, though she knows better. Perhaps she would have, if he’d understood, if he’d guessed. The sheer implausibility of it, Ava understands, is the reason why he did not. Even if he did, Ava supposed, there would be little point in lying so; it is nothing but a balm to soothe her ego, and she knows better than to need such.

Her gaze is still slightly lowered. She lifts it, not enough to look him directly in the eyes. She is a human, just a little awed by a galdor. For all he has introduced himself, for all the things she knows she isn’t meant to, that let her understand what a legislative counselor is.

Ava dips another curtsy, as deeply and smoothly as before. “My name is Ava Weaver, sir. Incumbent Vauquelin and his wife have both been kind enough to purchase some fabric from me,” she looks at him; she smiles.

“If you like the silk, I would be happy to sell you several yards,” her tone is - very slightly - confused, the faintest edge of hesitation to it. Ava blinks; she lowers her gaze, just a little more. She has still not been bold enough to meet his gaze directly.

It is, Ava thinks, a lovely silk. The design is delicate, pale embroidery in a color not so dissimilar from the fabric itself. The similarity makes it subtle, though the work is excellent; it is a good choice, for a man who does not care to look more than drab, but wants something he likes nonetheless. Or?

“As for the rest of it,” Ava says, quietly; he has addressed it, and she must too. What does she want? She knows now what he thinks; she knows something of what he knows. He has found her. She does not think it can be only the visit to the Vauquelin house. What, then?

The weakest link was always the jewelry. It’s perhaps the only thing he can know about, to think her an agent on another’s behalf.

“I’m not sure I understand, sir,” Ava says. Time, she thinks; more time. Who he was, and who he has become. Something squeezes in his chest, and she is afraid, genuinely afraid, and it isn’t in her own behalf. “Not really.” She looks up at him; the fear and the confusion are genuine enough. She has no need to feign them. She doesn’t go so far as tears; she knows he isn’t that sort of man. But she lets a little of the smiling mask come down, for just a moment, as if she’s too overwhelmed to hide.

Ava’s gaze lowers back to the fabric in his hands. The avaricious shopkeeper, she thinks, would ask again. Shall I cut the silk for you now, sir? Where shall I send it? But if she plays the part - the fool - too well, he may form suspicions where he now has none. Better to wait here; better to see what more he might offer.

She fixes each word in her mind; she remembers them, the words he chooses, their order, the look on his face with each one, the emphasis. There is a knack to this too; this, too, she has practiced many times. It is hard, always, to know which words she will need; it is better to remember them all.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Woven Delights

The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719 - Twenty-nine Minutes past the Seventeeth Hour

A

nd so it proceeds by slow degrees.

She has admitted to the connexion. Confusion, mistaken identity, false leads, these can all be discarded. Let them pass. A swing of the pendulum, a turn of the gears in the mental machine, settings locked into place. A new ground state is created, the foundations, now solid. There are new turns to make.

“Your fabrics, Miss Weaver, are very fine.” Fingers run, light and considering, over the slate-grey silk. Very fine indeed. “I can see why persons of quality would wish to purchase from you.” He is no man of quality, cannot pretend otherwise. His people have done well, there is no mistaking it, but they are city people, ink-stained scriveners, bureaucratic functionaries, and tied to law. Tied to custom. Custom, propriety, demands he purchase something. A few yards of silk, and his purse is spent. Does Weaver take credit? It is his usual way. Debts upon debts, small, spread thin, tended to as carefully as any of his orchids.

The Weaver puts on a good show of incredulity. Perhaps it is genuine. No, that does not track, not with the sequence of events, not with the necklace. Still, her face is not without genuine emotion. The curve of her mouth, its set, the slight furrowing of the brows, the looking, always away. What does she not want him to see? Some glimmer of deeper familiarity? Or is this and older habit, the way so many humans look away and down, performing the demeaning ritual of deference. Demeaning for the performer, demeaning for the recipient. A custom without a purpose save to instill by mechanical practice the hierarchies that should be more natural. The rituals of deference, of obedience are long-standing and in that there may be some virtue. Here, in this place? This is her place, her time, her fabrics. Her secrets. They are not his to take, only to bargain for. She will give them up, or some fragment of them, the conversation alone will ensure that. And if she lies? What are lies but indications, evidence of where to look, and where to avoid. She will lie, obfuscate. It is right and proper that she does so. It is right and proper that he will listen, and seek the points that the lies are meant to hide. He has seen stage magicians, sleight of hand. Note the flamboyance, the colorful scarves and puffs of smoke, but watch more closely the places the magician does not want you to look.

“However, what I find curious, is why a piece of custom jewelry, and a very fine one at that, was entrusted to your care.” The silk falls from his hands, pooling upon the table. “That is a most unusual commission for a fabric merchant.” Not unusual behavior for an agent. He might have dispatched Bailey to do much the same thing. A wick boy is as invisible here as a human woman. They will elicit only slight comment. Enough comment to leave a trail, but only if one is looking for it. He is looking now. “It has not been easy to trace, but I have managed it.” Bailey has managed it, but there is no need to draw him in further. Not yet. Let him remain a non-entity. He will be of greater use. “It was sold to a pawnbroker, who sold it along and down a chain, to what end I cannot say. I only cared to know the first transaction. The transaction you engaged in.”

The woman’s face changes, her mask slips, or it changes. One mask for another. Fear? Perhaps. Apprehension to be sure, and a hint of sorrow? Would an agent feel such things? A disinterested party? It seems unlikely. Who is this Weaver? She is too close to the matter, more connected, more invested in her person. The mistress will have needed servants, a lady’s maid. Weaver is neat, efficient, clearly clever. She could not operate such a business were she some unthinking ninny. No ninny then. Nothing like. Clever, good with fabrics, pretty, soft-spoken, sympathetic. Yes, an ideal lady’s maid. And who owns this shop? What name is on the title? It cannot be Weaver’s, the law will not accept that. A lady might well set up a trusted servant in a new business. A reward for good service.

In this, among the papers in the Archives, title deeds and tax records, bills of sale, he will be more at home. It will be the work of a long afternoon. Calming, dry, the smells of paper and ink, of beeswax and cedar oil all about him. Tonic for his nerves, balm for his thoughts.

No balm here, nothing like comfort.

“Miss Weaver, you are wrapped up in this matter, the same as I. Our connexions are different, but we are both orbiting the same questions, the same man. And I fear for him Miss. He has made enemies, and by proxy so have I. Perhaps you as well.” There are names he knows. Names he could give as surety. What good can they do? Only one seems of use. An unpleasant name. The name of one who already knows the answers. “It is a suspicion of mine, and I cannot say more than that, that some degree of blackmail, of coercion, is being applied to the Incumbent. To the man as he was. I need to know that man, in as much detail as I can.” There is little point in holding back the few cards he has, so long as they seem to imply a whole winning hand. “I believe a woman named Trevisani is at least one of the sources of the blackmail. An unpleasant woman. I cannot recommend her society. Are you familiar with her? Your principal, the Incumbent’s ‘Little Bird’, is at least known to her. ”

[Ava Weaver]

Afternoon, 33 Vortas, 2719
Woven Delights, The Painted Ladies

Dare she deny it?

Ava thinks, as fast as she has ever thought, and lets there be no sign of it on her face. If he mentions the necklace, is it best to lie and say she has no idea what he means, what he’s talking about?

She doesn’t know what he’s capable of, this galdor. At this distance, she cannot quite feel his field; that would not help her, anyway, and she is grateful not to have to contend with that too.

The stories they whisper of the Seventen talk of men who can gaze into your eyes, speak monite and make you spill your deeper secrets. Ava knows now that this is called perceptive conversation, and that it is not so easy as that - but, too, that there are men who can manage it.

And this man? Who can ask questions of the mona? If she disavows the necklace - can he ask if her hands ever touched it? Can he ask if she lies? What will he think she’s hiding, if she doesn’t give him something? How deep will he want to look? How deep can he look?

Entrusted to your care, Shrikeweed says of the jewelry. He goes on. The first transaction, he says.

No, Ava thinks, not the first. The first transaction was years earlier, and it was familiar hands that handed the necklace to her, that clasped it around her neck and lingered.

She is losing the focus of these last weeks; she is losing the ability to put it aside, to not think.

Ava is still standing at the side of the counter, where she made her curtsy. She lets something run over her face at the mention of the necklace; she isn’t sure what. There is plenty inside her, fear and old anger and hurt, and she can’t quite control what comes spilling out. She can smooth it away, at least; she blinks and looks up once more, as if it were never there.

He goes on.

He is asking, Ava realizes, with a trickle of unease. Asking first, she warns herself, even as he goes on and explains. I fear for him, he says, miss.

So do I, Ava thinks, as he is now. She keeps her gaze down; it’s easier that way. She doesn’t know if it would help him, to be able to look into her eyes.

The name Trevisani does not make her flinch, nor the term little bird. They are neither of her hers, here, between them. He distinguishes, Ava thinks; the man as he was. Not the man as he is. She supposes, from all that has been said, that a clever man would know the difference.

These things too she remembers, and she puts aside.

She watches herself through glass; it shatters, and she sees them both from a thousand angles. He comes around to a question.

If she sends him away? If she denies, frantic, if she panics - if she denies, calm but uncertain - she will have to do it carefully. Silence is safest, but safest for whom?

She cannot go on like this, Ava thinks, slowly, in a moment suspended in time.

“I’ve heard the name a few times, sir,” Ava says, quietly. It is every word of it true; she has heard her named three or four times at most. They called her Madam, then; they never spoke of Trevisani.

Ava takes a deep breath; she shivers, as if coming to a decision. “I don’t know how much help I can be to you, Mr. Shrikeweed,” confusion is easy in the faint wrinkles at her brow; she knows herself confused.

”But I shouldn’t...” Ava lifts her gaze to the door for a moment, watching the passing street outside. She lets her voice trail off, slowly, hesitant. She lets him fill in the blanks, if he wants to: shouldn’t speak? Shouldn’t be seen?

Ava looks back at the small man with his shock of red hair and his neat, drab suit. She thinks. “May I offer you some tea, sir?” Ava asks, shopkeeper smooth smile once more. “There’s a room where we can sit, if you like.” She gestures with an elegant hand, fingernails lacquered dark, to the doorway in the wall behind them.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Woven Delights

The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719 - Thirty-four Minutes past the Seventeeth Hour

F

urther now, and further still. But to what end? And there is an end here, at much at least he can sense. An end of one trail, the start of another. It is unfortunate. It is inevitable. Nothing ever neatly begins or ends, only stretches on into an endless middle. An endless muddle.

He is muddled now, missing some vital detail, some key. Trevisani holds it. Weaver, it appears, may hold it as well. The woman is too calm, too still, too evasive. He cannot see inside her head, cannot read her thoughts. A failing on his part, but it is not the magic he knows, not the magic he has ever needed. No, her thoughts are safe enough in her head. Her state is another matter. The motion of her eyes, whatever perspiration forms to turn her hands clammy, the speed of her pulse, the patterns of her breathing, those can be measured, calculated. A proxy at best, no more than a measure of discomfort, of evasion.

Can she detect the unfurling of his magic, the field-flow of the measuring? Perhaps. The price is too high, the risk greater than any reward. Any magics must be subtler, close to himself, raking pen-sharp along the parchment of his skin. The tattoos of reason, the scars of cogitation. Invisible. Indelible. The attempt may be worth the cost. Not now. Later. Always later.

Mundane eyes, unaugmented, and enough to read the tension in the woman. Fear, sorrow. But no confusion. That is curious, unexpected. Either she is a model of composure or she has been given the nod. Either is possible. In anyone else, the latter would be all but certain. Weaver? Composure cannot be ruled out. She is well practiced in such, a weapon. A shield.

Trevisani is a gap in that armor. Larger perhaps than he has considered. Weaver keeps her eyes downcast. For her own comfort? More evasion, carefully orchestrated. Elegantly constructed.

SpoilerShow

1d6 = (5) = 5 (perception of motion)

Too elegant by half. A turn of the gears, another rotor locks into place. Familiar. The motions are not the same, but there is an echo. Weaver’s motions, her composure is more, he supposed natural. Softer, less showy. Perhaps more elegant, in their own way. Has she been that woman’s lady’s maid, if ever she had been a maid at all? Possible, but it does not track, not quite. Yet it lingers. Why does it linger? Another gap in his reasoning, a thing he knows and cannot understand. Formless knowledge, instinct without data. Dangerous to rely too heavily upon it.

She shivers. It is slight, another gap in the armor. A genuine reaction. Weaver knows the woman, or knows her reputation well enough to have no good opinion of her. Very wise. There is little enough to recommend Trevisani, certainly not as an employer. Not as a companion for a game of cards.

Another click, another rotor in place. Trevisani. A madame. A blackmailer. Is the cloth merchant her agent? It sits ill with him, it seems a wrong conclusion. And yet. A former agent? The blackmailer’s hand? Such a woman could be taught all the arts of a fine maid, enough to be installed in a house. A spy? Had she abandoned Trevisani out of loyalty to whoever had become her principal? Loyalty to the ‘Little Bird’?

“Tea?” A decent suggestion, and very polite and proper. Coffee would be better. Another time. Another place. He will haunt the Elephant later today, sit in the spice-rich air, sipping the strong thick brew, turning all this over and over. “Thank you Miss. I will take tea. And then we can discuss the matter more, like civilized people.”

[Ava Weaver]

Afternoon, 33 Vortas, 2719
Woven Delights, The Painted Ladies

Ava makes her way across the shop, and settles the sign in the window which says closed. She has not thought of a system to tell Grais what closed means; it’s not too uncommon for her to have to close a house or so during the day, to visit a client who wants a showing or to deal with something else which has arisen. She closes, sometimes, even for a galdori client who should not be disturbed. Don’t come in, she wants to write, along the edges of the sign: galdor inside.

Nothing of this shows on her face; Ava smiles at Shrikeweed; coming past him brings her close enough to feel the brush of his field. She can’t make anything of the woobly feeling if it. She doesn’t pause to try, walking past him and opening the door behind her counter.

The back room is soft; she replaces the hanging and the couch covers often enough, changes them as needed or wanted. The floor is covered in a thick rug; the couches are upholstered in a soft upholstery. The walls are hung with fabrics, silks and others, too, a soft pleasing array of colors and textures. They’re winter colors, now, to wind down the fall and create a sense of warmth: slate gray, charcoal brown, crisp white, all contrasted with warm golden yellows.

“Please, make yourself comfortable, sir,” Ava says to Shrikeweed; she gestures towards the couches. “I’ll be back in just a moment.”

This is a room of hidden things.

Ava’s heart squeezes in her chest at the thought of leaving the galdor, with his unknown magics and his unknown suspicions. Nothing of this shows either on her pleasant, even smile; the thoughts are a shadow on the surface of her mind, and she does not enumerate her secrets.

Ava brushes aside a silk hanging as if she has nothing to hide; her slippers are soft on the steps behind, leading her up towards the small apartment below. She does not invite Shrikeweed to follow. She leaves the hatch open at the top, straining; if he speaks louder than a whisper, she’ll know, just barely, over creaking of the old house and the sounds from the street outside.

She boiled water earlier; the kettle is still warm. Ava sets it to boiling once more, and sets out a tray of tea things: fresh Hessean tea leaves in the pot, a few small biscuits, sugar, wedges of lemon, her little pitcher refilled with cool milk from the icebox. She rarely drinks it herself; she offers it to customers, and the little gray cat.

The water is still coming back to a boil by the time the tray is done.

The cat is there, a small gray pool on her bedspread, curled up in a patch of sun. Ava goes to him; she sits, slowly, beside him, and runs her hand softly over his back. He shifts; he lets out a grunting purr, and nudges his head against her hand, and then returns to ignoring her, to his deep and pleasant sleep.

The sounds of the world outside trickle in through the window. She leaves it carefully propped open, just enough for the little gray cat, and not enough for anyone, even small and clever, to reach in and open it wide. It’s open enough for Ava to hear laughter, and a shriek, and the low steady murmur of footsteps and conversation.

And from downstairs...?

The kettle whistles; it’s time. Ava carries the tray back down as the tea steeps. It has not been long.

She smiles at Shrikeweed as she emerges from the hanging. Ava makes her way to the table and sets the tray down. She sits on the couch opposite, her back perfectly straight, as if there is no other way to sit. Her hands fold delicately in her lap, one over the other, still and even.

“It needs a few minutes still to steep,” Ava offers, still smiling. She knows, now; she has made her choice. She waits, all the same; she does not think to rush it.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Woven Delights

The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719 - Thirty-six through fifty-one Minutes past the Seventeenth Hour

T

he smile is automatic, pleasant, meaningless. It is no fault of Weaver’s, an ingrained practice. That much is obvious. The ease, the liquid facility, the way no real emotion shows. Where had she learned such a trick? Perhaps. No. No sense in speculating. No need. Shopkeeper’s etiquette, nothing more. There are connections enough here, no call to see more threads and necessary. Connections need not multiply themselves beyond necessity.

Necessity. How much of this, this searching, is required, needed? All of it. It must be so. He needs it to be so. Ages of sleepless nights, too much coffee and coca tea, not enough to eat. Too much of his funds draining away on Bailey’s needs. The requirements of surveillance. And his work? The work that was all he had ever been? It fades now. Shadows in paper and ink. Documents pass through his hands, he reads them with the mechanical mind, field-thought substituting for his own. It will serve for a time, but not forever. He cannot live like this. Should he cast it all from his mind? The Symvoul, the Incumbent, the mistress, and Tervisani? Cast it all aside and slink off to Chancery, shut himself behind the indigo door and fall back into his old life? Return to how it was before?

Levesque is dead. It cannot be as it was before. He cannot be as he was before. He will go on. Go on until he frays and finally snaps. He is but one man, and one man does not matter. There will be others to follow him, to follow the threads.

A sigh, a closing of the eyes. The pressure of the lids forcing sparks of not-light to dance in the blindness. There is work before him, work that needs doing. And he could use the tea.

The Weaver’s private room is a cocoon of fabrics, bright and warm, soft and comforting. A man might sink into those soft couches and sleep for an age, never knowing, caring less, what went on around him. He is tempted. He is not fooled. Fast-sharp and sudden, he bites the inside of his lower lip. Copper and iron, slow and thin, but present, a bright burst of focused pain. Enough discomfort to keep him from falling headlong upon one of those tempting couches, from falling prey to this soft spider’s web.

The Weaver invites him to sit, to enter her trap. He will sit. It is the civil thing to do. Perhaps he can spring the trap at a time of his own choosing. And what is that trap? Unknown. Misdirection to be sure, a false lead. And beyond that? He cannot read intent in her face, cannot fathom all her plans. Fathoms only that she has them. Plans within plans.

“Thank you, Miss Weaver. Both for your time and for the tea.” He tries to keep his voice on an even keep, tries not to slip into the knife-edged tone of cross-examination. The time will come for that. The time is not now. “This is a most comfortable room. Elegantly appointed. All to your own fine taste, I should imagine.”

She goes now, a hostess without servants, without some menial to send for the teapot. In that they are alike. He employs only Bailey as runner and agent. All other domestic matters he contracts with a service. Once a month they send some human woman, he has never learned her name, to scrub the place down, to winkle the persistent dust from places he cannot find upon his own. The rest of the time, he attends to his own cleaning, his own service and kitchen. Not that he ever cooks much. An omelette here and there, a bowl of beans and whatever leafy green he can find in season. He is no great cook. He lives by cook shops and cafes. The Weaver is a better host than he. He never hosts at all.

Alone. Alone in this too-comfortable trap. How long will the Weaver be gone? How long for her private ritual of the tea? Not long. No kettle takes an age to boil. He has only short time. Words under his breath, nearly inaudible. A hiss and a whisper, nothing more. All along his skin, he feels the scratching flow of his field, the ink-dark lines only he can see, can sense. His magic will not touch her. There would be little point. No. The magic he will work upon himself, speeding his thoughts, heightening his senses.

SpoilerShow

1d6 = (3) = 3 (sensory augmentation [quantitative])

It is no great thing, no spark of genius. A spell to focus. A spell to clear away the dross of his thinking. Nothing more.

She returns now. The pot in hand, the tea fragrant. She suggests they let the tea steep. A correct suggestion. Proper. Civil. He nods ascent.

“Then we shall let it steep.” And still he takes hold of a cup. He turns it. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. And again. And again. “To begin at the beginning. I am here on my own direction. I am here because I have come to believe that the Incumbent has kept a mistress. I do not care that he has done so. It is no uncommon thing, or so the records tell us.” Who is he to doubt the records? “Moral questions are not my purview. They do not interest me. You know the Incumbent, and I grow more and more convinced you know this mistress. I mean her no harm whatsoever. Her identity will remain confidential. It is not my intent to expose either her or the Incumbent.” He searches the Weaver’s face, mona-augmented senses trying to probe, trying to measure every motion, every flicker of eye, every intake of breath. “The man is not himself. He is not as he once was. I only know the new man. The man, and I will be frank here, miss, the man whom I believe to be the better of the two.” ‘He’ remains an alien presence, the man who came before. The man with the same face, the same history, the same name. The man who gave assent to an atrocity. That is not the man he knows. What is it that can unmake a man? “Still, the old man lingers, casts his shadows. And one of those shadows hides the mistress. She is the only link I can find between the old man and the new. She came before the change, yet the new man remains fond of her, is protective of her. Those are the actions of a good man. I cannot help but think these would not be the actions of the man before.” Time has passed, the tea will be steeped by now. He can smell the fragrance from the pot. More comfort. More danger. “Please, miss,” It is not often he says that word. He can think of no other. Threats will do no good. What threat could he offer? Audit the Weaver’s books? Find some irregularity in her legal paperwork? Such things no doubt exist. There is no point in exploiting them. Not yet. “I need to speak with your principal, the lady for whom you are proxy. The lady who may well be in as much danger as the Incumbent.”

[Ava Weaver]

Afternoon, 33 Vortas, 2719
Woven Delights, The Painted Ladies

Ava sits upright on the couch, her back perfectly straight and not a single wrinkle in the smooth fabric of her skirt. Her hands are in her lap, one on top of the other. She is all attention; she watches Shrikeweed as he talks, and she listens as if she thinks of nothing else.

Ava is not quite so hesitant to meet his gaze now. She does not hold it - she is not so bold - but if he looks for her eyes they are there, watching his.

She sees when he turns the cup, slowly, back and forth and back again. He begins again; he has gathered his thoughts, too, Ava thinks. He does not threaten, not here, not now; he explains, and he asks.

The better of the two, Shrikeweed says, and Ava knows her gaze flickers, feels it in the movement of her eyelids before she recovers. But she keeps her face as smooth and even as she has been trained too, and her breathing too. Her hands do not tense, not even the slightest bit.

Please, he says, in the end. Ava meets his gaze again, then, weighing all these words. She has no expectation of honesty; at the same time, she does not think he lies.

I don’t know sir, Ava could say, the frightened human who doesn’t understand. I don’t know anything about it. Please, you’re frightening me. The time has passed for such denials; it passed long ago.

What will it gain me? She could smile, a little crookedly, the avaricious shopkeeper. I’m not a bad person, you understand, but there would be certain risks, you see, and I need to worry about myself. And then?

Even without it, Ava thinks, she could spin a story for him. A beautiful, lonely galdori woman - her mistress - married, then or still? A husband in an asylum, or living in the country, adult children who will threaten her, if the affair is known. A handicap, perhaps - a speech impediment. He didn’t know the man before; he won’t know how unlikely that is.

Ava doesn’t like to lie. She has no moral objection; it’s just harder. She doesn’t know what questions he’ll ask, what details he knows. Does she end the alleged affair three years ago? Does she say it went on longer? How long did she work for her? Who was she before? Where did the money for the shop come from?

Perhaps she could do it; perhaps she could find the right story, one which sends him away with new mysteries, insurmountable - Hesse, sir, to visit family; you can send a letter but I don’t know if they have mail in those mountains - but there will be no records of whatever name she invents, no marriage lines, no immigration papers. Foreign is still, she thought, upstairs, the best bet.

It is no more than idle reflection, now; she has already decided.

“I understand,” Ava says, inclining her head, the first words she has spoken since telling him the tea needs to steep, since thanking him, before, for his kind words about her shop.

She picks up the kettle and pours the tea, steaming hot liquid seeping dark into his cup first, and then hers. She leans forward to pour, never bends. How many times did she practice that? How many times did she feel the sting of punishment?

“How do you rake your tea?” Ava asks him with a smile, perfectly smooth and even. She prepares it.

She takes one lump of sugar, and a drop of milk. It isn’t her custom to take milk any longer - she saves it for the gray cat - and she knows she is stalling.

Ava settles the teacup before herself. She looks down at it; she gathers herself. She lets him see it, the deep breath, the settling of her shoulders as she lifts her chin once more. The smile fades - not entirely, but she lets him see a little of her uncertainty - a little of her vulnerability.

For she is vulnerable. What story can she tell that will have him look away? What lie can’t she spin that won’t have him digging, deeper, into her: her customers, her tax records, her imports and exports, who comes and goes from the shop. There will be trails that will lead him to a galdori mistress that doesn’t exist; so which ones will he follow? What will he find at the end of them, and how will he try to use them?

“There is no such lady,” Ava says, evenly. She meets his gaze again. She had thought to take the tea; she finds she cannot trust her hands not to shake, and so she holds them together in her lap, smooth and calm. “There is only me.”