Misdirected

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Tom Cooke
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Mon Jun 17, 2019 11:58 am

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
The mornings were coming ever earlier. For the past few days, they’d had a break from the Loshis rain; the watery, pale sun had peeped out of the clouds, sparkling in the dew on the window-panes and lighting the city fog on fire. That was how it’d been this morning, humid and chilly and quiet, growing louder with the clop of hooves and the rattle of cabs, the shouting of newsboys and the low murmur of the market setting up. It was a good morning, Tom had thought, to get out of the house for a change. Stretch his legs someplace that wasn’t Uptown, have a drink in some tiny tavern where nobody’d recognize him.

That’d been before the sky opened up and hurled down more rain than they’d seen since the beginning of the week. Distant thunder crackled; the bustling crowd took refuge under awnings and in shops and watering holes. Carriage wheels sprayed muddy water on irate passersby.

For whatever reason, Tom’s steps had taken him toward the Painted Ladies. By now, he felt like a drenched weasel. Glances of mild pity – and amusement – from passersby told him he didn’t look much better. Once, he’d loved walking in the rain, but now, he found himself itching to get inside and get warm. Pulling his coat tighter around him and wincing as he sloshed through a puddle, he cast about the street, looking for some shop to dive inside just long enough to dry off. Wasn’t like he didn’t have the extra shills to patronize a couple, anyway.

He saw the big window first, slick with the rain. He was right up underneath it before he could make sense of what was inside, and when he did, he swallowed sorely. Colorful textiles. The sign out front read Woven Delights, confirming his suspicions.

This was the place.

He hadn’t forgotten about Ava Weaver. In fact, the woman and her silks had gnawed at the back of his mind for half a week, now, ever since she’d come by to show those fabrics to Diana, and he’d had the misfortune of wandering downstairs. The more he thought about her, the more confused he got. He kept thinking about that green silk, too, about how she’d known just what color he meant, like she’d seen the sea in it, too. And that look she’d given him when he met her eye. It’d cut him to the bone with foreboding, and while most of him didn’t want to know, some part of him felt like he needed to.

As he passed through the door, he heard the jingle of a bell and frowned deeply. Still, it was warm and dry inside, and he couldn’t help but sigh with relief. He stood on the threshold for a few moments, dripping water everywhere from the hem of his coat to the tip of his nose. After a moment, he took off his wet coat and then his hat, red hair damp and messy with cowlicks.

He was dressed for the Dives today, all sturdy wool and earth tones; it was more comfortable for him, and it showed in the ease of his steps. There was a few days’ coppery stubble on his face, and he looked a little wan and tired. Moving about the shelves and bolts of fabric, the dizzying jewel tones and floral-patterned cotton and airy gauze, he felt diminutive.

Dizzying, it all was. Reminded him of Basin Court on a summer evening, the market busy with imported goods from everywhere the Vein could take you on its warm blood. Fabrics flapping in the salty breeze, the smell of spices. Looking round curiously, he didn’t see the green he remembered, but he saw a deep brown the color of kofi har. It took his attention immediately; he found himself wandering over, running a hesitant hand over the cloth.

It was hard to creep up on a man like Tom Cooke, but when he felt a stirring at the back of the shop, he didn’t immediately turn. His heart hopped up to his throat. In such close, dark quarters, with the rain tapping insistent fingers at the window, he felt like he was winding himself up for a fight.

He’d thought of a spiel. Madam, you might not remember me, he’d thought to say, but you sold some silk to my wife recently, and I expressed interest… It was all mixed up in his head, though. If he started now, it’d all come out in the wrong order.

So he just said, “Madam?” soft and querulous. He did not turn, but his fingers trembled slightly against the satin.

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Ava Weaver
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Mon Jun 17, 2019 12:18 pm

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
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Ava was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, doubled over, one hand pressed firmly into her ribs. “No! Please tell me he didn’t truly say such a thing,” she gasped, looking up, dark eyes glistening.

“He did! He did, he said it,” the other woman insisted, sitting on the opposite end of the couch. She was several inches taller than Ava, with straw-colored hair pulled back with a headband, wearing in a sensible blue dress. Her hands were rough and chapped from hard work, and there were lines on her face, trailing out from the sides of her eyes and mouth. She was laughing as hard as Ava was.

“Oh good lady,” Ava giggled. “Oh, you must tell me what you did, I truly can’t imagine -“

“Well,” a mischievous glint entered the other woman’s eyes. “I thought to myself - Rosie, you’ve a choice here. Now, of course you can correct him, but that’s a bit mean, isn’t it? And so...” She paused, meaningfully.

“No,” Ava gasped.

“Tocks, I clocking had to!” Rosie was laughing again, so hard that for a moment she could barely speak. “I felt so bad for the jent! It was clear he had no idea what was going on, I couldn’t make it worse!”

“So then -“ Ava was laughing too hard to get the question out, gripping the cushion with one slender hand. The bell at the door tinkled, audible even in the back room. It cut through the conversation, and Ava looked up with a smile. “Oh, just a moment, Rosie.” She rose, smoothing out her skirts, still half-laughing as she stepped to the back door into the shop, and looking out.

Her laughter stopped as abruptly as if a tap had been shut off, Ava’s breath hitching abruptly in her throat as she looked at the front of the store, at the soaking wet man standing there.

Rosie was still laughing, but something in the look on Ava’s face made her stop, abruptly. “Everything all right?” She asked, low and quiet.

Ava flashed a half-smile back at her, twisting out of the door way. She gestured with her hands rather than speaking out loud, the movements quick and graceful: a galdor customer. Rosie nodded, and began to pack up her things, taking the parcels of fabric she had brought, wrapped in oilskin to keep them dry in the rain outside.

Anatole’s voice drifted through the shop, soft and questioning, and Ava knew she had delayed too long.

“Good morning, Incumbent Vauquelin,” Ava stepped forward from the back room, crossing to the front of the counter. If Anatole turned, Ava would drop into a deep and elegant curtsy, lowering her head.

Ava wore a dress of peach-colored cloth, with straight slim sleeves that started with a a rounded cap at her shoulders and ended in a tiny hint of white lace at her wrists. The neckline was low, a deep v that stretched several inches down her front. White lace beneath covered every inch of skin, not see through but suggestive nonetheless. The dress tapered in to her narrow waist, tucked in tightly enough to emphasize the slenderness of her, then flared out over her hips and beyond in a bell shape over her legs, ending in shallow points at the front and back, the hemline just revealing trim ankles encased in white stockings and simple black slippers. She wore the same style of kohl as she had before, and a darker lipstick, better suited to the dress. The broader skirt puffed out with the curtsy, as smooth and graceful as Ava was as she sank and rose without a quiver, hair loose over her shoulders, a few of the dark curly strands presenting a pleasant contrast against the pale color of the dress.

“I didn’t expect to see you again, sir,” Ava set a delicate hand on the counter, as if overwhelmed and seeking support again - not so far from the truth, really. Her gaze was lowered still, but slowly lifted to look directly at Anatole. Her face was soft, almost neutral, if she weren’t sure how to feel. Ava let some of her confusion peek through her eyes, a faint hint of a smile flickering over her lips to soften the expression and lend it a sense of warmth. The smile faded then, hesitant, her eyes wide, dark pools.

The words were true and untrue at once. Since that day in the Vauquelin house, Ava had expected to see Anatole again. It had been nerve-wracking; Ava had woken up two mornings ago shaking and sweating from a dream of him, in which some strange force held her paralyzed and still while he whispered harsh, unfamiliar syllables in her ear. She had wondered if there might be another letter, but then Anatole had never liked to commit himself on paper. A message runner, perhaps, with something subtle. That had seemed likeliest to Ava, but she had held on to a small, nagging fear that he might come in person, that she might one day look up to see him stepping across the threshold into her shop.

And here he was – unshaven and dripping wet, his hair messier than Ava had ever seen it. He looked oddly comfortable despite it; Ava couldn’t understand it. She had never known Anatole to look like this, and she truly hadn’t thought he would come all the way to the Dives. It wasn’t like him. Not understanding him frightened Ava more than she wanted it to, much more. If she couldn’t understand him, couldn’t predict what he might do – how would she ever survive? And so she stood, gripping the counter, and waited, in the hope that he might reveal himself to her again.

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Tom Cooke
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Mon Jun 17, 2019 3:19 pm

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
The faint sound of women’s laughter trickled out from behind the counter, and Tom found himself relaxing, just by a hair. One voice was familiar, soft and cultured; the other was warm and broad, accent tinged with the soot of the Dives. Rough, like Meggie’s had been.

He’d grown up with that sound. He’d grown up with quite a few sounds, being honest, but that had been one he loved to hear: the echo of women laughing together from another room, just above the creak of the floorboards. That private ceremony among the ladies of Greene’s at off hours, Hattie and Rosalind and Tawnie squeaking at some far-fetched story Deirdre’d told; he remembered Deirdre’s laugh, too, deep and rasping, punctuated by coughing. Always accompanied by the whistle of a teakettle.

The laughter ebbed not long after he came in, though. He knew Weaver was in the room with him, silence settling between them like snow. When she spoke, her voice was polite and controlled, as usual.

Turning, he watched her curtsy in a graceful motion. Now, without any eyes on him, he returned the gesture by bending in a deep, proper bow. When he came up, he tried to keep his expression neutral, but this business’d thoroughly broken him. As he studied her, meeting her wide, dark eyes, his brow furrowed with open concern. He saw her hand on the desk, soft and delicate. Suddenly, he wished he had something to lean on, too. Underneath the folds of his coat, he knotted his fingers in the wool until they were white to the knuckle.

He started to take a step toward her, then stopped. “I thought you might not remember me,” he said, knowing full well it was a lie. “Sorry for dripping on your floor, eh? And for the short notice. I came in to get out of the rain, but I’d been meaning to drop by.”

He’d caught the faint confusion in her eyes, the softening quirk of her lip – something inviting about it. Maybe intentionally, maybe not. He knew that kind of look fair well, though, or something like it. He’d’ve put it off to business – whatever that meant for her – if it hadn’t been for that flicker of familiarity he’d seen in her eyes a few days ago.

Tom wove around a shelf, boots creaking on the floorboards. For a moment, the woman passed out of view; then, as he came round and closer to the counter, he saw her again. Her dress, he noticed for the second time, was a careful choice, simple and modest and deeply human, but simultaneously well-made and, despite all the lace, suggestively-cut, if you swung that way. Again, he found himself wondering about her background. He entertained the thought that she might be connected, and the more he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed; if she were, that would explain a lot of things.

To whom, though? If she’d known Anatole, then – he blinked, trying not to show his sudden realization on his face. That’s got to be it, he thought. Gods damn me. It’d be perfect, wouldn’t it, this forest of silk from Mugroba, from Hox, from everywhere along the Vein – or the Drain?

Much as he was capable of survival, he’d never liked Rooks, and at the end of the day, he’d never been much good at it. He bled his feelings, and hiding them was like hell. Out of all the people to slip out of the Cycle, he didn’t know why it had to be him: times like this most of all, he missed when things were nice and direct, when he at least knew he’d earned the chroveshit he was tangled up in himself. Just pretend like nothing’s happening. Just see how things go, Tom, you kenser’s erse.

As he came up to the counter, he cleared his throat, resting a thin hand on the wood. At this range, he knew even a human would be able to feel his field; he didn’t try to – couldn’t – hide its weakness, its buzzing disturbance, but he did his best to act like everything else was normal. Not that he knew what normal was for Anatole.

“Maybe you remember,” he began, cautiously, “I asked about some green silk. Like a stormy sea. I liked what you came up with a lot. I’d like to buy, uh – enough for a silk scarf. Half a yard, I’d guess.” He was nervy, and he knew he sounded rough. Rude, maybe. To try and offset it, he smiled at her – another warm, genuine smile, but nonetheless a short-lived one. He remembered where a smile like that’d gotten him last time, and he stiffened, looking away as if distracted by a nearby bolt of crimson, dark as blood in the shadow of an emerald green neighbor.
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Ava Weaver
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Mon Jun 17, 2019 6:11 pm

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
Anatole bowed in response to her, deeply, properly. Ava watched, eyes widening slightly for a moment before coming back to neutral again. He was frowning at her, and he shifted towards her, then stopped, and spoke, a little too loudly, before starting his way towards her across the shop.

He thought she might not remember him? For a moment Ava’s mind went blank, utterly blank. Training, and training alone caught and held her, and her knees stayed locked and her body upright. The dress was tight, too tight, and the lace over her chest itched, painfully, as if it was searing itself into her skin.

“I’m grateful, sir,” Ava said, as much as to reply as anything. She lowered her gaze, eyes soft and demure as her mind slowly re-ignited, racing frantically. What could he mean? Did he think – had he expected her to contact him? Was he berating her for not sending a message or otherwise staying in touch? She couldn’t imagine he had wanted that; but, then, so much of what had happened the last five days had been beyond Ava’s imaginings.

There was a soft cough from the back room, and Ava realized – Rosie. Perhaps he had heard them laughing before, he knew there was someone else in the shop. That made sense; the pieces fitted together again. He had his own cover, after all; it could be anyone back there, even another galdor. Why risk saying anything beyond the obvious? Ava relaxed, fractionally, a softening of muscles she hadn’t realized were tight.

Then Anatole stepped closer.

Ava flinched at the feeling of his field. Her act burned away, and her eyes went wide in shock at the rough feeling of it. For a moment, she stared at him with no pretense and no artifice on her face, only bald, undisguised shock. And it passed, then, and Ava dropped her gaze once more, hand tightening on the counter, listening to his request for green silk, looking up to see another warm, gentle smile.

Ava knew more than many about the mona. During her time with Anatole, she had had the luxury of reading as much as she wished, and so she understood quite a bit. Not only that, but it was Anatole; if she knew the feeling of any galdor’s field, it was his. She wasn’t particularly skilled at reading them, but she knew how his ought to feel, and she had others to compare it against. With her eyes closed, she would never have known it was Anatole; it felt utterly different, scattered and pulling where it had always given off a sense of organization and tight control.

Ava caught her breath and tried to smile back at him. It took a moment, but her face smoothed out into a pleaant smile, with no heat in her eyes, but soft and pleased, showing just how flattered she was by the request. The silk; he had asked about the silk. “Of course,” Ava promised. “It would be my pleasure.” She couldn’t manage quite the intonation she wanted, still shaken, but it was a credible enough attempt.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Rosie, evidently, felt that she had hidden long enough. She emerged from the back room just as Ava had, and bobbed an awkward curtsy, much less elegant than Ava’s own. She glanced at Ava as if she wished to say something else, fingers twitching towards the other woman’s arm. But her fingers didn’t reach Ava, and no words emerged. Ava shifted and gave her a quick, half-smile, and Rosie’s lips quirked as well, hinting at an expression of her own.

“Beg pardon, sir,” Rosie ducked her head, gripped her parcel, and left the shop, not hurrying but not dawdling either. The bell tinkled again as the door shut behind her, the sound of heavy rain audible thick and heavy through the door.

Ava exhaled again, Rosie’s interruption oddly reassuring. She smiled at Anatole again, still standing at the counter. With Rosie gone, perhaps he wouldn’t need to feel the need to put up such a front anymore. “My apologies for the interruption, sir,” Ava said, her shopkeeper’s smile back in place, with a softer warmth to it for him. Anatole. She would be just as happy not to say his name again – no, that was a lie. She would prefer never to say his name again. “There’s no one else here.”

He had asked for the green silk. If he didn’t want it, he could tell her so himself; in the meantime, Ava would fetch it for him. Perhaps he really had liked it. Odd, Ava supposed, but she would let him break this strange constraint between them first. What else could she do.

Ava stepped from the counter, over to the wall. The dark sea-green; she remembered the exact shade, and knew just where she had put it, along a wall of silks spanning the spectrum from gray to green to blue. Carefully, Ava reached up and eased the bolt of soft silk from its shelf, holding it across her front in both hands. She made her way back across the room to Anatole, standing just in front of him, and met his eyes again, extending the silk ever so slightly towards him, still holding the bolt in both hands, dark-capped nails a pleasant contrast to the rich color.

“Is this what you want?” Ava asked. There was a warmth to her eyes again, and her shoulders seemed to shift and pull back, somehow drawing the dress a little together across her front. She held there, looking up at Anatole, not hesitating to meet his gaze again. There was a world of meaning in the soft, cultured tones of her voice, a richness that promised something more than mere sensuality.

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Tom Cooke
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Mon Jun 17, 2019 8:16 pm

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
As the other woman emerged from the back, Tom brightened; he met her curtsy with a little bob of his own. “Afternoon,” he murmured, making to tip a hat that wasn’t there anymore. He half-turned to watch her leave.

A little of the tension’d gone out of the room, it seemed to him, while the other woman was still there. As soon as he heard the bell tinkle, he felt himself get rigid again. Weaver had looked shocked when he’d come into range, as, he reckoned, she should’ve; at this point, he was itching just to get out, and he hoped his frazzled porven had put an end to whatever game the merchant was playing. He tempered his impatience with the knowledge that he ought to traverse an unfamiliar landscape with careful feet.

As she apologized, he smiled tightly, waving a hand. “My apologies,” he returned. “It seems to me that I’m the one who interrupted the two of you.” The smile bled off his face just in time for her to turn away in search of the silk. He stared hard at her back.

What had that meant? Great clockin’ Lady, what had she meant by that? No one else here, no one else here – and she’d said it with such warmth in her smile, such tender tones. Was it a threat, well-veiled and saccharine? Mocking? He swept the room quickly through narrowed eyes, the back of his neck prickling, as if somebody might be hiding in amongst the textiles.

The other option swam back into his head. Now that they were alone, what was supposed to happen? He was soaking wet and swaddled in wool, for the Circle’s sakes, and he wasn’t the best at handling situations like this delicately. Wasn’t the best at handling much of anything with delicacy, being honest. While she had her back turned, he was tempted to dart for the door in spite of the rain. Take off down the street and never give the place another thought.

Soon as he’d started seriously considering it, Weaver turned around again. The color of that silk momentarily stole the proverbial rug from beneath his feet. The tension in his face melted; he looked sad. Moving a little closer, he reached out a hesitant hand—

Then she spoke again in that tone that made one word stand for a thousand, and he froze as if slapped.

“Ne. Ne, ne. Ne.” He took a neat step back, inhaling deeply. “Well, since we’re alone,” he breathed, “what’n the ever-lovin’, stopclockin’ fuck’s goin’ on? Listen, Ms. Weaver, I don’t—” He fumbled for words; his mouth moved, but nothing came out. Sure as it rained in rainy season, Tom could feel his eyelid flinching again, and he reached up and pressed two fingertips to it. “You know me – hell, that’s clear – but I don’t know the first thing about you. Maybe we’d best get this sorted, before one of us makes a damn mung mistake.” Despite the blustering words, his voice trembled, betraying his panic.

He took his hand away from his eye, wincing as a nerve jumped in his cheek. For a few seconds, he glanced from Ava to the silk and then back to Ava, looking somewhere between aghast deeply frightened. He bit his lip. Shit. Now he’d done it: he couldn’t take back that rush of words, and he couldn’t piece back together a cover he’d blown. If this woman was dangerous, he’d just have to deal with it, come what may. Either way, he didn’t think himself capable of enduring all that gazing for long enough even just to buy his silk and dart out the door.

Tom took a deep breath, seeming to master himself. His expression softened. Then, he raised his hands, showing her his palms all peaceful-like. In lower tones, he continued, “Please believe me when I say I don’t know what you’ve come to expect from me. I can try to explain, but you’re going to have to help me out, hey?”
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Ava Weaver
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Tue Jun 18, 2019 12:42 am

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
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The look on Anatole’s face as Ava approached with the silk wasn’t one she’d seen before. On someone else, she’d have called it sadness, maybe. It was something about his eyes, something soft and longing. Ava didn’t quite know what to make of it; was it directed at her? At the silk?

For what matter, why had he apologized to her? Never in her life had Anatole apologized, for anything. He had – there were times when she thought she had read something like an apology in his eyes, when he had given her a gift that was clearly intended to make up for something, and he had never said it. Why would he? Did he see things as so different between them, now?

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps Ava could find a way to use that to her advantage. But she couldn’t understand why that would have changed, and it left her uneasy.

And then Anatole froze, and spoke, and for a moment Ava thought she was hallucinating. She just – stared at him, the soft, warm expression sliding off her face and replaced by something that mingled confusion and, perhaps, horror. His eyelid was twitching; that wasn’t new, but the way he was pressing his fingers to it. He should be asking her for a warm cloth, she’d fetched a thousand of them for him. Anatole always -

Ava was shaking so hard that she could barely hold onto the silk. She turned away from Anatole, knowing she had no hope of controlling herself. She took two quick steps away, happy to put some distance between them, and carefully set the bolt of silk down on the counter, breath coming fast and shallow. Her hands drew together at her front, gripping one another tightly. Her head was light and swimming, and Ava couldn’t think, couldn’t process any of it.

Who in the clocking hell was he?

Anatole had never in his life used the word mung. Stopclocker, fine, and she didn’t think he’d say fuck on a regular basis, not in that way, but – dropping into Tek with ne and mung? Claiming he didn’t know her? Relief was the first thing that swept through her, as if that part might somehow be true, followed immediately by fear sharp enough to slice deep inside her. Ava wanted no part of this; she wanted no part of him.

This was not Anatole Vauquelin. Ava couldn’t shake that overwhelming feeling, and yet she knew there was no way to ask such a question, no way to demand answers of him. Six years had taught her better, even if the man talking to her felt like a stranger. The offer to explain was nearly as odd as the apology had been, and she would have bet all she’d owned, all this shop that she’d scraped together piece by piece and everything beside it that she’d built, that there had been fear on his face. On Anatole’s face.

What could she show? Ava tried to think. Confusion, sadness, fear – yes. Those were fine. The strange burning anger in her chest, the feeling of fury slowly warming her and steadying her hands? No, absolutely not. It was a remarkably comforting feeling, anger, and Ava fed it as she stood there, taking a long, deep breath and letting herself feel as angry as she wanted. How dare he come into her life again? How dare he bring her into whatever this was?

With the anger burning beneath her, Ava found her control once more. Her trembling had stopped, and her hands loosened their tight grip on each other. She unclenched them, carefully, and ran her fingers over the crescent she’d dug into her palms, taking a deep and careful breath, and letting it catch at the end and send a shudder through her, this one not as natural as her previous shakes.

“I don’t understand,” Ava’s voice was small and strained when she spoke again. Slowly, trusting herself now, Ava turned back to Anatole. Her eyes were wide and dark, her lips pressed together and trembling slightly. She blinked at him, knowing fear and confusion both were writ large across her face, and then blinked again, summoning a sheen of moisture that glistened in the bottom of her eyes. Crying on demand wasn’t hard, if you knew the trick.

A single, solitary tear trailed down Ava’s cheek, streaking over the eyeliner without smearing it. Ava pulled a small handkerchief from her pocket, pressing it to her face. If she pressed and held, and didn’t move it, she could dry her eyes without smearing the kohl that rimmed them; it was a delicate operation, but one Ava had managed before and would manage again. It was one she knew how to handle – unlike whatever this was.

No demands. Ava swallowed back the angry, frightened questions, the one that kept threatening to tear itself out of her lips, the demand to know who this was, who it was standing before her with Anatole’s face and someone else’s words and field. It had to be Anatole, but this wasn’t his type of game. Could it be something from magic, some type of backlash? Would he remember later whatever it was he’d forgotten now, and this conversation besides? Ava didn’t see how she could take that risk.

“Please explain, I -” Ava’s hand tightened on the lowered handkerchief, and she dropped her gaze, letting herself tremble a little once more. It wasn’t hard to turn it back on. “I don’t understand.” It was a helpful, neutral sort of sentence, easy to infuse with a catch of fear, and besides it was true. Ava didn't understand, not at all, and she was deeply, dreadfully afraid.

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Tom Cooke
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Tue Jun 18, 2019 5:38 pm

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
Tom was aware, this time, that something had happened. Some exchange had taken place – somehow. That was the damnable thing. One moment, he’d been recoiling and demanding answers; it’d been her turn to show him her hand, before he did anything with his. To clarify the situation, to give him some window into the landscape of their relationship, to put him on equal footing with her. Instead, through some mystical power, without even asking any proper questions, she’d gracefully sidestepped her turn. Now, it was his turn to bare his mind. He felt mounting confusion, and then a prick of irritation—

That was about as far as Tom’s insight was permitted to go. The moment Ava Weaver shed a tear, all shaky-like but graceful and dignified, he was gone. That perfect mix of frightened and confused – he felt it himself, just looking at her!

“Uh.”

He took a step forward, reaching to touch her shoulder with a hesitant hand, but then withdrew as if burned. He took a couple of steps back himself, not wanting to put her in range of his field for too long. “Epaemo, uh – bad at this, I am. Fair bad. I didn’t, uh,” he fumbled gruffly, “didn’t mean t’ be loud, an’, uh…”

He felt small and twitchy and confused, like a rat that’d just been rescued from drowning and put down in an unfamiliar place. He looked toward the door, half-hoping, but the streets were practically barren. The heavens were pouring.

Explain? How in the hell was he going to explain, seeing as he barely knew what was going on himself? “If I told you the truth, I don’t think you’d believe me, so that’s right out,” he muttered, letting out a threadbare laugh. “I’m not who you think I am, Ms. Weaver. Before a few days ago, I’d never seen you in my life. Listen, I’m fair good at toffin talk, at pretendin’, I am, but that’s all it is – I just gave you a friendly look, that day. Friendly-like.” He put special emphasis on the word. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Didn’t understand what was goin’ on. Still don’t. I came back because—”

Tom hesitated, looking down and away. He couldn’t stand to look up into those big, sad doe’s eyes, all full of meaning he couldn’t guess. Hidden meanings, maybe. Danger. Just because she’d pulled at his heartstrings didn’t mean he’d dispensed with the idea she was dangerous. He’d met wily types in his life, types that could fool you good by dabbing their tears away all neat like she had, barely even smudging that kohl.

He couldn’t stand the alternative, either. What if there’d been an affair? Did she love him? That didn’t seem likely; he couldn’t see anybody loving Anatole, much less a human. The way she carried herself hinted at other things, and he liked those things even less.

Outside, the rain picked up, lashing the windows. A cool breeze wafted through the shop, making him shiver. Tom frowned deeply in concentration. Then, his eyes alighted on the fabric. He moved toward the counter again. The bolt lay there where she’d set it down, those delicate hands with their pretty, dark nails all a-tremble.

He reached to run a hand over the bolt of fabric, then patted it. He smiled sadly at her. “I don’t know much about silk – that’s your qalqa, I reckon – but this one reminds me of the Tincta Basta in the rain, tossed an’ foamy an’ green. Reminds me of when I was a lad in the Rose, sittin’ on a pier an’ gettin’ pelted by rain an’ saltwater spray. So I came back for it.

“All that, an’ I was – curious,”
he admitted reluctantly. “Seein’ as you were lookin’ at me like you knew me. Selfish curiosity, that. Kind that killed the cat. An’ I’m sorry for it; I know now I shouldn’t’ve come.”

For either of our sakes. Most days, he’d learned, life would throw a whole mant manna confusing chroveshit at him, and he’d have to deal with it best as he could. That meant a lot of smiling and nodding, pretending to be a politician by the skin of his teeth. He drawled empty nothings in his dreams, at this point. This was out of his league, though, intimate and strange; it seemed more to do with Anatole-the-soul than Anatole-the-public-face. Tom – the real Tom, the one hiding under Anatole’s skin, piss-terrified from sunup ’til sunset he’d get caught somehow and burned at the stake, or experimented-on like Ezre’d done but worse – was mortified.

Despite himself, he’d started shaking real bad, shaking like a leaf. He held onto the counter tightly, looking more wan than ever. His eye twitched. “I don’t understand, either. I don’t know nothin’, madam.” His voice was soft. “I don’t want trouble. Please.”
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Ava Weaver
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Wed Jun 19, 2019 6:27 am

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
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Anatole’s face reflected Ava’s confusion back at her, like a strange mirror. Emotions she’d never seen were flickering behind his steely eyes. It was strange and intimate, and oddly uncomfortable for Ava to look at him, much less meet his eyes. When had she ever seen anything beneath the surface of them? Amusement, pleasure, frustration; nothing had reached deep. This felt as if he was bearing his soul, whoever he was, and it didn’t look anything like Ava had imagined.

Anatole stepped forward, and the swirling morass of confusion that was his field brushed against Ava again. She flinched, shying back away from him; maybe she could have controlled the reaction, but she didn’t try, letting her eyes flicker down and her body tense. Anatole pulled back; More tek, then, and more apologies. Ava wasn’t sure which was stranger, her breath hitching softly in her throat as she watched him. His eyes flickered over her, out to the door and back; he was shifting and twitching, with none of the confidence that should have filled his spare frame.

Ava held her face still as he began to speak again, watching him with wide dark eyes. Not who she thought he was. Ava let out a careful, shaky breath, trying to understand. Anatole Vauquelin was not who she thought he was. Anatole Vauquelin didn’t know her. If she closed her eyes, she could have believed it wasn’t him. The voice was familiar, but the words and intonations so different that it was almost - almost like -

Funny, Ava thought in a faint, pinched way, but this Anatole reminded her of home, of Old Rose Harbor and the men there, rough and friendly, not battened down and smoothed over like the humans of Vienda. She felt an odd, dizzying wave of homesickness sweep through her beneath the surface, and it was hard work to keep it entirely off her face. She tried to leave only soft confusion in the depths of her dark eyes, still faintly glistening in the muted light of the shop. The howling storm outside were swallowing whatever bright light would usually pass through the windows, leaving behind a dark space, escaping gloominess only by the bright colors of her fabrics.

Anatole approached her again, reaching out to touch the silk with one hand. Ava looked down at it, his fingers nearly as familiar as her own, if less well-kept than usual. The temptation to set her hand on top of it was instinctual, a reflex of long practice, and Ava’s elegant fingers twitched, then held, still gripping her handkerchief, her other hand loose at her side. The brush of his field wasn’t as painful this time, not new and shocking any more.

Anatole had never been a lad in the Rose. But, then, hadn’t she crossed that bridge a few moments ago? Did she need more proof from him? It wasn’t Anatole now; that didn’t mean it wouldn’t – couldn’t – be again, or that Anatole wasn’t somewhere buried underneath. There was much the mona could do that Ava didn’t understand; why not this? She needed to know more.

At the same time, Ava felt – whoever that lad had been, sitting on the dock in the Rose as the rain drove in hard off the harbor – Ava didn’t think often of her own days in the Rose, young and rough and carefree, humans living like the world was nearly fair. She hadn’t known any better, back then, than to enjoy it. There was a familiarity there, memories of being caught in the storms with her cousins. Once the driving rain had soaked their clothing through, there was no point in trying to stay dry anymore, and they had gloried in it, splashing and whooping through the busy streets come alive with water.

Anatole was shaking as hard as Ava had, gripping the counter, his face oddly pale and rough. Despite herself, Ava felt a pang of sympathy. He was afraid; he was afraid of her. She ought to have enjoyed it, gloried in it, basked in the sensation, but she found she couldn’t. Whatever was happening, this wasn’t Anatole’s fear, and she found she was more sorry than anything, sorry and confused, but still more than a little afraid.

“It’s all right, nanabo,” Ava smiled at the stranger wearing Anatole’s face, wan and pale, nothing like either the bright, professional shopkeeper’s smile she had lavished on Diana or the soft, sensual look she had given Anatole the last time they’d met. This was a tentative smile between two strangers, friendly-like, as he’d thought his look had been. The endearment wasn’t a word she’d ever have thought to say to Anatole, but she thought – perhaps – it would put him at ease more than her usually flawless Estuan. After a childhood in the Rose and two years in the Painted Ladies, the tek was as natural on her tongue as it was on his. “Ne trouble,” Ava promised, her voice quivering as well.

Ava took a deep breath herself, setting the handkerchief down. She looked at the shaking hand gripping the counter, then back at Anatole’s face, at that familiar twitching eyelid and the drawn, frightened look on his face. She gathered herself, visibly, hands coming together in front of her, clasped loosely against her front.

“You don’t know what you are to me,” Ava’s voice was barely more than a whisper, audible with Anatole close to her, but soft enough to force him to strain and focus to listen. Some undefinable emotion lurked beneath its soft tones, lending the words a deep huskiness. “I wish you hadn’t come.” A second tear slid slowly down her cheek. Ava let it tumble from her chin, not dabbing her face this time.

Ava looked down, as if to gather her strength, then back up to meet Anatole’s eyes, if he dared. “Tell me,” Ava’s voice gained a little strength. “Please,” full lips quivered and held. “Whatever it is you think I won’t believe, I - it can’t be stranger than this.” Her voice caught. She let herself try to smile and fail, one hand half-extending towards him, faltering midway and holding there against the counter.

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Tom Cooke
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Wed Jun 19, 2019 12:26 pm

woven delights 🙫 the painted ladies
in the morning on the 20th of loshis, 2719
Tom’s eyes widened a hair, and the expression drained from his face, leaving it blank and confused. Scratching his jaw, he studied her face for a long moment. Her soft, cultured tones slipping into the spokes’ tongue had been surprising enough, but now the look on her face was gentle and unfamiliar. Kindness at arm’s length. All the intimacy’d gone from her dark eyes.

It was an honest look, the face of a decent, well-meaning stranger after a misunderstanding. Despite his paranoia, it made him want to believe her when she promised there’d be no trouble. She could’ve been somebody he’d known in life, once, a long time ago. He couldn’t help but to return that smile in his own way, sickly and strained though it was.

Now she’d gathered herself, he saw, and she’d set down that kerchief with its barest smudge of kohl, but she still looked shaken. When she spoke again, it was so soft he leaned in, despite himself. There it was, then, as it’d been all along, that strange, private tone, that something he couldn’t read: the way she said what you are to me made his skin crawl, made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The way she said I wish you hadn’t come made him want to dart for the door. He could only meet her eye for a second or two, and then he saw a tear well up in it; this time, she made no effort to staunch it, and somehow, that was even worse.

Her hand reached out for him, then. Even before it faltered, he shied back from the counter like a wary stray cat. The thought of her touching him—

He stared hard at that hand on the counter. In the corner of his eye, he saw the faint glisten of the tear’s trail down her face, caught ghostly by the dim grey light that treacled in from the windows. “Epaemo,” he murmured again. “Listen, I don’t – just to be frank – I don’t know if you loved him. Vauquelin. I don’t know anythin’ about it. If you did, I’m real sorry, rosh, but I’m just the messenger, an’ I’m just about certain he ain’t goin’ t’ be around no more. I don’t see that old Tolly was a particularly lovable type, though, so forgive me if I’m a pina ’mant skeptical about that.”

His lip quirked in a faint, dry smile; he looked back up at her with one eyebrow raised. It was a look that seemed to say, I know you ain’t quite what you’re puttin’ forward, but with a sympathetic, embarrassed twinge almost like a wince. Like he knew what was going on – like he had guesses, like he was chewing through it in his head – and just couldn’t bear to bring it up first.

Then he frowned deeply. He turned again, shooting the door a furtive look. Casting about the shadows that lay thick over the shop, shifting with the rain. She’d asked him a heavy question, and he’d already dug himself in deep. Shutting his eyes momentarily, he took a deep breath. If this was the end of him, then it’d be the end of him. He was hurtling toward disaster anyway, and what he needed to know was more important.

“This is goin’ to sound moony. I warned you,” he said a little sharply. The effort of looking her in the face made him clasp his hands tightly together on the counter, wringing them, delicate knuckles white with strain. “What I know is that I ain’t the Incumbent, an’ that’s why I don’t know you. I mean, hell, this is him” – he gestured to himself vaguely – “but it’s me in here, an’ I used to be somebody different. I remember bein’ somebody different. I grew up in the Rose. My name ain’t Anatole. I never – an’ now I’m this, an’ I’m in the dark.” He swallowed a lump. “The only way I can think to explain it is that things get – where magic’s concerned – things get muddled. With people’s lives an’ souls. I never used to believe in the gods an’ the Cycle, but now… I’m a ghost, Ms. Weaver, plain an’ simple. I’m a ghost in somebody else’s body.”

He tapped a fingertip anxiously on the countertop, still unable to hide the shaking in his hands. He looked down at them, avoiding her eyes, but he didn’t like what he saw there, either; he winced as if the sight of his own hands were repulsive to him. He took them away from the counter and hid them underneath his folded coat, seeming to withdraw behind it as if ashamed. “If there’s anythin’ you can tell me, Ms. Weaver, any piece of honest—”

The word honest caught in his throat. Now, he did look up at her, large grey eyes almost owlish in the dimness.

He pursed his lips. “I’ve been honest with you, now,” he said softly. “But if I’m givin’ you grief, madam, I’ll go; you need only ask, an’ you’ll never see me again, insofar as I can help it.”
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Ava Weaver
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Thu Jun 20, 2019 12:27 am

Morning, 20th Loshis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
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Dead.

It was just about the hardest thing Ava had ever done to keep her face still and smooth, eyes faintly wide, gaze firmly on the man standing in front of her. There was no twitch of her lips or eyes at Anatole – at the suggestion of the man standing in front of her that she wasn’t quite what she seemed, that it was rather unlikely for a human to have loved Anatole in the way she had implied. Her hand tightened a little on the counter, and she looked away, fixing her eyes on a bolt of fabric across the store; it didn’t matter so much which one.

If it was true – if it could possibly be true – Ava felt her heart beating in her chest, fluttering, as if someone had caught a bird and trapped it beneath her ribs. Anatole was dead. Anatole was standing in front of her, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath, but he was dead.

The man standing before her began to speak again. Ava lifted her eyes back to his face, quiet and still, searching a little with her dark, liquid gaze. She held still and silent as he spoke. Another man’s soul, trapped in Anatole’s body.

Honest. Ava’s lips quirked, faintly, at the word, twitching. She couldn’t hide the reaction; she should have, but she couldn’t. She looked off to the side, then back at the man standing in front of Anatole. Giving her grief? She was trembling a little bit again; it wasn’t a choice, not this time, but another involuntary reaction, her fragile control slipping away.

Ava took a harsh, shaky breath. There was wetness in her eyes again, unfeigned now, and she reached for the handkerchief again, dabbing at them, still grateful for a moment to think. She shouldn’t believe him. Her mind warned her, cautioned her, coolly, that it was a mistake to let her guard slip. It was Anatole’s face looking at her, staring at her, and yet –

It wasn’t Anatole inside. She had known that even before he said it. Perhaps that made it easier to swallow. It was easier to believe that this – man, standing before her, was a ghost inside Anatole’s body than to believe he was Anatole.

“No grief,” Ava admitted. She swallowed, hard, shaking still, and tears began to trickle down her cheeks. These were no soft, delicate tears, managing to fall without smearing her eyeliner; they left smudges of black trailing from her eyes, smearing the mask of her face. Ava didn’t sob, but she didn’t try to force herself to stop crying either, gently dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. Her shoulders were shaking a little more, and she bowed her head.

Goddess save them both, she believed him.

Ava took another deep breath, bringing herself back under what fragile control remained. She dabbed at her eyes again with the handkerchief, patting at her cheeks to do what she could about the smeared kohl. It left her eyes large and smudged, but less of a mess than they might have been.

“He’s really gone?” Ava asked, softly. She looked at Anatole again, eyes searching the too-familiar face which looked nothing like itself. The sight of the man standing before her made her smile again, just a little, and Ava exhaled another shaky breath.

“Circle, I – ” Ava shuddered. “I’m glad he’s – ” she closed her eyes again, stopping the sentence, and took another deep breath. The shaking was stopping, slowly, leaving her drained and feeling a little hollow.

“I hated him,” Ava admitted. Her painted lips twitched. She ought not to have spoken; the man in front of her had bared his odd truth without asking it of her, without demanding anything. They were three simple words, so simple, but Ava had never before said them aloud; she had barely let herself think them. It was – it had been too dangerous.

Perhaps it still was, but the words were out now, floating in the room, and they only heightened the sense within Ava that she was – free. Free in a way she couldn’t ever be, not really, but… there were still plenty of those in Vienda who had taken part in what had happened to her. But Anatole – Anatole was gone. And that was enough for today, more than enough, like an unexpected gift that had tumbled into her lap.

There had been no need to admit to the truth, and perhaps she would regret it in time. Just now, Ava couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry for it.

Anatole, dead, or close enough as made no difference. The irony – a human from the Rose, because he simply had to be human – inhabiting Anatole’s body, making a mess of his field and his life – seemed to sing within her. Ava smiled again, not a wide, ghoulish grin, but a smile that didn’t tremble or threaten to collapse the way her others had. She patted at her eyes one last time, and took a deep breath, looking squarely at Anatole’s body.

“What should I call you?” Ava asked. She paused, thinking back a moment, and continued. There was no artifice to her now, or at least very little, just a small woman in a dress, standing across from him at the counter, eyes a little puffy, “and what was it you wanted me to tell you?”

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