[PM to Join] You Don't Own Me

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Late Afternoon, 2 Loshis, 2720
Stanthorpe Hall, Uptown

Rosalinde stood at the edge of the row of gray columns, a cigarette holder between two fingers. She blew a loose cloud of smoke into the air, a paler white than the grim, early Loshis miasma overhead. As Chrysanthe walked over, she straightened up and ashed the last of the cigarette onto the ground, letting the papered remains slip out of the holder.

“I thought you’d quit,” Chrysanthe said, smiling.

Rosalinde grinned. “These last weeks we’ve been scrambling about like miraan trying to get Haverling all the reports he needed for Mugroba. Cigarettes were an absolute lifeline. This is my last,” she paused, raising sharp, slim red eyebrows. “Or second to last.”

Chrysanthe grinned, thinking of cigarettes shared on cold and rainy evenings, standing in the back gardens of one meeting house or another, and thinking, too, of her own various and varied resolutions to do the same. The breeze ruffled her hair, tugging the short locks, and she resisted the urge to reach up and run her fingers through them.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to come,” Rosalinde said, after a moment.

Chrysanthe raised her own eyebrows in response.

“Oh, come, darling, I didn’t mean it like that,” Rosalinde said. “I just assumed there’d be some to do at the factory.”

“There was,” Chrysanthe said, smiling, a little wry. “This was a good excuse to get out of it,” she glanced at the drab courtyard, and then back at the squat, rather depressing lines of Stanthorpe.

“Blast,” Rosalinde sighed. “It seemed such a good idea to get myself on this Shrikeweed fellow’s calendar last week, when I was drowning in policy memos and looking forward to time to work on anything else. Now…” She pulled a small silver pocketwatch from her coat, and checked the time. “Let’s walk and talk, else we’ll be late.”

Chrysanthe smiled. “I’m here for moral support, then, I take it?” The two women moved between the columns, heading for the door, two sets of low heels clicking steadily against the stone.

“Moral and content,” Rosalinde grinned, her perceptive field nudging warmly at the end of Chrysanthe's static mona. “Come on, I’ve read Janthering’s depositions; you’ve made rather a study of suffrage, at least as it pertains to guardianship.”

Chrysanthe stopped, looking at Roselinde, her field withdrawing just perceptibly. After a moment, she kept on. “I was under the impression the names were kept confidential,” Chrysanthe said, after a moment, her tone slightly cool.

“I inferred,” Rosalinde shot a grin sideways at her. “Oh come on, don’t be cross! It’s nothing to be ashamed of, and not in the least your fault. Did you read the summary?”

“I skimmed it,” Chrysanthe kept on, following Rosalinde; the other woman held the door, and Chrysanthe made her way inside, glancing around. Even with the political season having started in Thul Ka, the hall was still busy, or at least seemed so to Chrysanthe. The rust red of Rosalinde’s skirt rather stood out – the swish of their two skirts, Chrysanthe thought, stood out as well, rather stark against a sea of pants. She resumed the caprise, in the end, yielding slightly her barriers.

“It’s all a bit technical for me, I’m afraid,” Chrysanthe added.

“That’s where I come in, darling,” Rosalinde said with a wave of her hand. “Though – should you be asked to share the particulars of your situation…?”

“Do you think this man Shrikeweed likely to be swayed by such considerations?” Chrysanthe asked.

Rosalinde shrugged. “He’s got little enough in the way of reputation – rather a cipher, that one, by all accounts. Still, one wants to be prepared.”

Chrysanthe’s lips folded together for a moment, but she didn’t slow her stride again.

“The goal is nominally to clarify several points of the brief,” Rosalinde went on, “and to see – well, how seriously he espouses the views he outlines. Allies of the suffrage cause are few enough in Stanthorpe; too many here are content to hew to the ways things have been done, simply because they are familiar, or else old. Whether it’s moral or pure pragmatism, I’d be glad enough for any support. I doubt I'll find it.”

“At least he took the meeting,” Chrysanthe pointed out. They turned the corner onto a quieter hall; Rosalinde didn’t slow her stride. Chrysanthe, two inches taller than the other woman, found it easy enough to keep up all the same.

Rosalinde stopped, then, turning to Chrysanthe. “Thank you for coming,” she said, quietly, looking at the other woman.

In the next moment, she turned back, opening the exterior doors; Chrysanthe followed her into a set of offices, and to another door – this one, she supposed, belonging to Shrikeweed.

“It’s a cause which matters to me,” Chrysanthe said, quietly. She adjusted the fall of her heavy wool coat, her neat gray skirt suit beneath still slightly damp with the chill of the air outside.

Rosalinde glanced over her shoulder at Chrysanthe, and she grinned. "As it should us all." She turned back, lifted her hand, and knocked.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Stainthorpe Hall

The Second of Loshis, Three minutes past the twenty-first hour

H

e has agreed to take the meeting in Stainthorpe Hall. The dull gravity of the structure, its eminence and its housing of so many of the Assembly and the Council lends the matter a dignity that the cramped and anonymous offices of the Chancery cannot afford. It is not a day he should be in Stainthorpe Hall. The Incumbent is not here, and matters of policy, matters of grave importance, are better carried out in the safety and security of his old office. There is no need for secrecy today. A weighty matter, yes, but nothing dangerous, nothing secretive.

Nothing like the usual course of work.

A respite then, and a chance to discuss policy of an entirely different nature. It is nearly four years since he wrote the policy analysis. He had thought it all but forgotten; languishing is some subcommittee's filing cabinet, never to be consulted. The suffrage of women has never much concerned him as a matter of morality. He takes pride in his lack of moral consideration. Good policy speaks for itself. What is the use of morality when pragmatics, financial analyses, and legal projections provide an inevitable conclusion? Best to give women all proper and legal rights as soon as is practicable. One hundred years ago would have already been too late. By all useful metrics, projecting back into history and forward into the future, at no point has the legal infirmity of women made the slightest sense.

His own mother is fully emancipated. That is sound. He cannot imagine her being otherwise. His sister remains in guardianship. A legal dodge. Nothing more. A means of preserving her independent rights should she choose to marry. She has not so chosen. Their father extends no control over Imogen. Well, no control beyond such as a sarcastic and legalistic father exerts over all his children. She may do as she pleases without issue. A benignant influence; authoritative rather than authoritarian. Imogen is her own woman. Anything to the contrary is unthinkable.

All the other ladies of his small acquaintance are in similar states, either emancipated or guarded only against the deprivations of unsuitable husbands. A parasitic class, such men, and all too common. If any class of persons, galdori persons that is, should suffer legal infirmity it is such useless men. Bailey would say they should be thrown into the Arova, with the rest of the shit of the nation. He cannot but agree.

Abstracted, reviewing his notes, he almost misses the knock at his door, almost misses Daphne as she enters with her beautiful coffee. A slight on the young lady. Good coffee should always be recognized.

“It’s been three hours since you last had a cup Mr S. Thought you could use another, what with your meeting coming up.”

“Daphne,” he says, giving the girl a genuine smile, “you have a preternatural sense of timing. Coffee is the very thing.” Daphne is a treasure. A coffee wizard second only to Sebele of The Elephant herself. Not a hint of Mugroba to the pale, blue-eyed girl, but she has been well taught. Even in Thul Ka Daphne might hold her own. “Will you hang about? The ladies on the docket may wish coffee, or tea if that is their fancy.”

“Got nothing else to do, Mr S. Happy to wait in readiness, at least for the next hour.”

“Will I own you overtime then?”

“Anything more than ten hours and I am due additional funds. Sebele insists upon it Mr S. And there’s no sense crossing her.”

“A most formidable lady.”

Daphne is a shrewd operator. She speaks the truth. The girl is on loan to him, to this office. For that he pays a not inconsiderable fee. The quality of the coffee, the quality of the relationship with the Elephant, is a bargain at twice the price. Not that he will ever let Sebele know. His funds are limited. His funds are stretched more than is quite proper. No extraordinary debts. Plenty of ordinary ones.

“When the ladies arrive, please show them in.”

“Me sir?” The girl looks flustered. A mere human coffee girl showing in a pair of fine galdori ladies is no ordinary thing.

“It is either you or the empty air. Don’t concern yourself Daphne. This is your place. So long as you are polite and efficient, there will be no issue.” Daphne is always polite and efficient.

A knock, and a start of Daphne. Quick enough, she composes herself, mistress of her own emotions. For a girl of not more than seventeen, it is a commendable effort. She opens the door. Two ladies, elegant, well composed, determined, are framed by the doorframe. Ladies such as he expects. Young, full of purpose, perhaps sprightly. He has some experience with sprightly young ladies. There is nothing to fear. There is everything for which to watch.

Just as it should be.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he says, in as neutral a tone as can be mustered. This is policy, and policy requires detachment. “Please, do take a seat. If you require coffee or tea, Daphne here can fulfill your requirements with the utmost skill.” The coffee girl blushes. It is understandable in one so young. In time it will fade, when she better understands her value. “I have taken the liberty of preparing three copies of the full report of UAC 7:16 § 34.A. That, I am led to understand, is the purpose of this meeting.” That is already known. It is best still to ask the question, to give the petitioners the feel of the upper hand.

He passes his colorless eyes over the pair, measuring their features, familiarizing himself with their first expressions. These are determined young ladies. He can think of no better kind. “I am somewhat surprised that the report has come into your sights. I thought it squirreled away in some forgotten bureau. Gods know there are enough of those. If you have new data to support, or indeed contradict the conclusions, I would be most gratified to receive it. Facts may have changed in the intervening years.”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Late Afternoon, 2 Loshis, 2720
Shrikeweed's Office, Stainthorpe Hall

The door opened, after a moment, to a young-looking human girl, who looked at them somewhat wide-eyed. Chrysanthe was rather more familiar with the type than she had been before she worked at the Dives; Rosalinde moved past, largely without acknowledgement, but she offered the girl a faint smile, and a slight nod of their head.

It was warm in the office, or at least warm enough, and considerably closer to comfortable than it had been in the drafty halls. Rosalinde was already taking off her coat, and so Chrysanthe did the same. The other woman’s rust red skirt turned out to part of a longer dress, elegant, with some buttons at the waist. Chrysanthe herself wore a skirt and jacket over a plain but serviceable white blouse; she found a two part outfit much easier to manage at the factory, and easier to keep clean as well.

“Thank you, Mr. Shrikeweed,” Rosalinde said; she sat, chin lifted, sleek red hair pulled back into a chignon. “I appreciate your taking the time to meet with us. As I wrote, my name is Rosalinde Haviland; my companion is Chrysanthe Palmifer.”

Chrysanthe smiled politely at Shrikeweed; she sat as well, legs crossed at the ankles, back straight and hands folded together in her lap. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Shrikeweed,” she added, politely.

“Some coffee would be excellent,” Rosalinde added, turning to look up at the girl.

“For me as well, thank you,” Chrysanthe put in; something about the thought of it made her stifle a yawn. She held her jaw politely shut, not needing to lift her hand to cover it. She had worked rather a long day; to accommodate the meeting with Rosalinde, she’d gone in to the factory before Dawn that morning. The omnibuses ran across the bridge from her lodgings to the factory at all hours, though Chrysanthe found the waiting outside in the pre-dawn gray as dreadful still as she had the first time she’d done it.

“By way of introduction, I should be happy to explain further our purpose in seeking out your report,” Rosalinde said, looking at Shrikeweed. Chrysanthe turned her gaze back to the man as well, sitting attentively.

“Are you familiar with Mrs. Desdemona Jethering?” Rosalinde asked. “She was the secondary attorney in Etheridge and Yallaton, though in the intervening years she has been more active outside of the courtroom as well.”

Chrysanthe shifted slightly on the edge of the chair, caught herself, and held still once more. She had sought out Mrs. Jethering herself – not when she had graduated from Brunnhold, for she had already then decided to go to Gior, and the issue of guardianship was therefore rather remote, since the Giorans did not abide by Anaxi law on the subject, and would have found the notion of Chrysanthe needing permission from any man to attend university in Qrieth too absurd for words. That had been, Chrysanthe thought wryly, one of the most appealing parts of Gior.

Upon her return, of course, was when she had meet Mrs. Jethering; the family solicitor had been of little assistance, and even the lawyers that Amaryllis had referred her to, the ones who had helped her sort out the estate in the wake of their parents’ death, had told her that there was little recourse, given that the money was unentailed, and so proving financial hardship would be difficult.

Chrysanthe blinked away such thoughts, focusing instead on the conversation here and now. She glanced at Rosalinde, and then back at Shrikeweed; she had never had much skill at the reading of faces, and she found his to be unusually impenetrable, even so.

“I wonder, sir,” Rosalinde went on, having discussed, Chrysanthe thought, a little more of the history. “If I understand correctly your report, your conclusions are that the laws regarding entailment, guardianship and suffrage should be applied equally to both sexes. Do you view this as a matter which falls under the discretion of the courts or the legislature?”