[Memory] All the Frills and the Fine Stuff

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Morning, 70 Roalis, 2715
Jenkins Printing and Engraving, Muffey

Coarseness, Chrysanthe had wanted to snap, is not sufficient in and of itself for a personality. She thought she could pull it off; enunciation was paramount for such a set-down. Stumbling over any of the words would entirely ruin it. She would have to sit up very straight as well; she couldn’t have said why, but she was sure it was essential.

Except, of course, he’d sounded pretty reasonable as he’d argued – apologetic, almost – and even laughed. Chrysanthe didn’t know what to make of it. She was sure she’d offended him. She didn’t feel entirely to blame – he’d made some awful jokes downstairs, and he’d really frightened her – but she thought he’d have been within his rights to be offended. Nitpicking at his polite dismissal of her criticism of his character seemed rather ungrateful, all told.

She’d meant it constructively, Chrysanthe insisted to herself, and wasn’t sure why she felt a bit badly. Either way – whatever way – she kept quiet, and didn’t press the point any further.

“Not short for,” Chrysanthe said, evenly. She was grateful for that, at least; being burdened with the entirety of Chrysanthemum, she felt, would be considerably worse than Chrysanthe. Her lips twitched, faintly. He looked amused, though, and she felt rather charitable, so Chrysanthe went on. “Deliberately evocative of, though, certainly,” she offered him a tentative little smile. “My father liked names with something of a, um, floral disposition. My sister’s named Amaryllis.”

A woman should be as lovely as a flower, Chrysanthe remembered her father saying, probably while pouring liquor and writing a note to invest in some poorly thought out venture to regain the family fortune, and equally decorative. It had been a long time before Chrysanthe had sorted out that by that she felt he rather meant quiet and obedient; fortunately, he hadn’t spent enough time with her for such exhortations to settled in to any significant degree.

Chrysanthe wasn’t, really, stupid. She was, she would allow, perhaps anxious of late. She wouldn’t have gone so far as to say fearful; she didn’t jump at spiders or cry at the drop of a hat. She felt her reaction had been reasonable, given her own circumstances, the lamentable mistake of looking at the manuscripts which he had left out – entirely his own fault – and his general demeanor, and he had certainly indicated he thought so as well.

Sure, his manners were abominable, but did hers need to be as well? Rigid adherence to manners could, in fact, become rude, in certain circumstances; insisting on calling Priscilla Ms. Dundright-Heathton, for example. She felt she could make a reasonable accommodation, given the circumstances; as well, something about the fact that he hadn’t actually come out and asked was somewhat endearing. She felt she should have been less charitably inclined if he’d been forthright in his request.

“PJ,” Chrysanthe said, and she nodded slightly. Mr. PJ, she thought to ask, a bit hopefully, but even she could tell that sounded absurd.

He didn’t seem keen on actually pouring the tea, so Chrysanthe took the teapot herself, and did it for both of them. She put a cube of sugar in hers, stirred it around a bit, and sat back with the cup. She didn’t think the offer of tea had expired, and if so, he ought to have rescinded it properly.

He looked a bit more – serious, sort of, or at least less absurd, when he started going on about the actual business of printing. Chrysanthe nodded along through his explanation about the setting of type.

“I’m empowered by the society to make a final determination,” Chrysanthe put in. She wasn’t sure she’d realized until he kept on that he wanted her to come and watch him do it. She had to admit the idea rather interested her, although there was a part of her which still very much wanted to go outside and never, ever return.

“Larger copies?” Chrysanthe’s eyes went a bit wide. “Oh, I see! That’s quite a nice idea,” she leaned forward. “We could give one to the speaker, and perhaps – keep a little store of them, if we did them for each talk, and put them up in the rooms where the events are held to show just how much the society does. I think everyone would really like it,” She was smiling, now, a little wider than before, bright-eyed.

No extra cost was, also, Chrysanthe felt, quite a reasonable sort of pricing. She inclined her head. “All right. We need the smaller ones as soon as possible, really. Having them by the eight would really excellent, if they can be in Brunnhold by then. Over the weekend’s all right as well, though, if that’s what can be managed.”

“I should want to see the example,” Chrysanthe said, carefully, “but I have some time to stay and see it get started, at least. I should need a final price also, for the whole job. But it all sounds very reasonable – um – PJ.”

[PJ Jenkins]

Roalis 70, 2715 | Morning
Jenkins Printing and Engraving, Muffey

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Funny that he should be relieved to learn that her name wasn’t short for Chrysanthemum. After all, it wasn’t PJ’s name and certainly wasn’t any of his business but he was relieved all the same — glad. Better that it was only suggestive of flowers rather than a truly floral name like Amaryllis. He wondered if her sister was like her and therefore stuck with an incongruous name or if the name suited her. Monikers were strange things and while people were willing to bestow them with little thought, it was astounding just how important they could be. There could be a great deal in a name and PJ certainly knew that; there was a reason that he wrote under so many different ones.

When she used his name — his chosen name — he felt the knot of tension within him relax. The printer might have to conduct the necessary charade for the sake of their business deal, put on airs and graces that didn’t come naturally to him — okay, not proper ones, not by galdori standards — but it was nice to have that little accommodation from her. Honestly, the man hadn’t expected her to concede, especially when he hadn’t actually gone so far as to ask for it.

The galdor considered his tea, bitter and dark, barely coloured by milk, taking a long and contemplative sip as he allowed her to contemplate his words, particularly that little sweetener he’d offered to her.

Having her here with the ability to make final determinations made everything so much easier for him — for both of them. There would be less back and forth, less delay and uncertainty and waste. If she gave him a decision today then he could deliver the full order in less time than if he had to communicate back and forth with this society in Brunnhold before he even started on the work. There was no sense in being so inefficient and it’d allow him to show his worth, which was what he needed if he wanted to keep money coming in.

PJ liked money, even if he liked to see how quickly he could get rid of it — it was something of a talent.

“Larger as in scaled up,” he clarified, eyeballing the sample leaflet that she’d brought as he considered how large he could scale it up and what size might be preferable to her. Obviously she’d never considered such a thing but then she wasn’t used to thinking about paper sizes and the different applications of printwork. Apparently, he’d captured her imagination, the student considering the opportunities if they had larger versions of the leaflets.

Good, that’s what he’d been hoping for. Maybe she’d wish to buy some more of them than the freebies that he was offering. Maybe she’d go back to her society and make those larger versions a staple of their future orders. The hack might have been getting a bit ahead of himself, dining on hingles before the little buggers had even been fattened and slaughtered but PJ really felt that if he cinched this today then he was in the money.

The printer certainly wasn’t in the money yet and it was stupid to banquet on fattened hingles when someone could steal them out from under him — he had competition after all — but the golly was in the habit of spending money before he’d even earned it. Really the man had to calm himself down.

Pushing his spectacles back up his nose, he nodded along with her eager suggestions, taking another sip of his tea; it was still quite hot.

“Aye, they’d be posters that I’m talking about so perfect for hanging about the place — not unlike the kind you see advertising shows and the like,” PJ explained, setting his teacup down as his eyes roved around for his pen, already well aware what must come next.

There was sure to be a useful scrap of paper around here— ah there, and then his pen—

The ageing golly carefully uncapped his fountain pen and checked for leakage before he began scribbling figures on a page he’d drawn from the stack of erotica in progress. While there were words on it already, he merely flipped it over and wrote on the virgin side, noting down a few numbers as he mentally ticked off items. The amount of paper, the ink — factoring in poor prints — that would be required, the labour…

He added it and made the necessary deductions, the printer taking delivery into account as she spoke, unaware how like his own father he was in that moment as he worked over the numbers. He wrote a final figure, writ larger than the rest and circled it. The little man’s smirk returned, even though he was aware that he was making something of a loss here, turning the page around so that Chrysanthe wouldn’t have to look at the cost upside down.

“That’d be the cost there with a, uh… somewhat loose delivery date. Could be that it’ll be done and delivered for the eight but ain’t a guarantee, you understand. Definitely delivered by the end of the week though. Now if you wanted it for the eight specifically, I’d add a bit ‘cos I’d have to prioritise it, see, on account of it being urgent, maybe work some extra hours but you ain’t too picky on that,” the writer reasoned placidly, taking up his tea again.

“Now, I’d be taking a wee loss on the bigger ones as the paper for one could make... ohhh, about eight of these leaflets you want. See, I was thinking fairly big posters. Might be you want them a bit smaller but even then that’s a fair whack of paper and ink. Course, the larger ones allow me to do a bit more self-promotion. Enough that I can stick the same thing on my business card into the corner — not massive, you understand but certainly a bit more visible. I assume that you’re all right with that? Of course, I’d stick my name at the bottom of the leaflets. Discreet like. Ain’t that different from a jeweller leaving their maker’s mark on a piece or an artist’s signature.”

Taking a proper gulp of tea, he peered at her over the teacup’s rim, his glasses fogging up a little in its steam as they slid down his nose again. Pushing them back up, he snuffled loudly as he forgot his good manners once again. If the woman who had once made this room her domain had still been around, she might have been on the verge of tears; poor Elladora had raised him better than this.

“Do we have ourselves a deal… Miss Palmifer? On condition that the sample is to your liking — and you don’t have any issues, ‘course. If we do then we'll head down once we've put this tea away.”

A nice night out in the Stacks, somewhere with decent drink instead of watered down piss — possibly literally — and he could probably still have a tidy bit left over.

Yes, he was already spending it even though she hadn’t agreed yet. His green eyes were overly bright, eager at thoughts of what was ahead of him.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Morning, 70 Roalis, 2715
Jenkins Printing and Engraving, Muffey

Chrysanthe nodded enthusiastically as the printer – PJ, she reminded herself – went on about the posters. She took a sip of her tea and set it to the side, leaning just a little forward to watch intently as PJ began to write down figures on the other side. She couldn’t quite track what he was doing, but he seemed to be quite sure in the numbers he was writing down, tallying it up.

Her face reddened just a little, thinking – it wasn’t, she thought, the same set of papers as she had been looking at when he entered. Now that the immediate uncertainty as regards to his intentions was clear, Chrysanthe couldn’t believe she had read even a word of such things. She had no interest in that, none at all; she never had. She had kissed a boy or two, even before last spring – Chrysanthe utterly refused to count that, and the thought made her feel rather sick, coming as it did on the heels of her fright.

But even before, she had just found it… uninteresting, she supposed. Everyone liked to talk about kisses melting them, and being swept away on tides of desire and all the sort of stuff; it was in loads of books, even ones she’d read as a girl, and over the last years one friend after another had sighed over how wonderful some man or other’s kisses were. Chrysanthe had found herself mostly thinking about how quickly she could end a kiss, or how bad someone’s breath was, or the awkward, ungainly way one classmate had kissed, which had made her feel as if she were suffocating beneath his lips – that was, she thought disgustedly, before he had tried to force his tongue between her lips, which had been truly appalling.

And yet, Chrysanthe thought, uneasily, reading about –

It was an enormous relief when PJ began again. She looked sharply down at the paper, and her eyebrows lifted. “Hmmm,” Chrysanthe said, thoughtfully, studying the paper. It was within the sum she’d agreed on with Adelaide, and that was without counting the extra of the larger posters. “A guarantee by the end of the week should be sufficient,” Chrysanthe said. She smiled up at PJ, very politely, straightening up once more. “Naturally,” she went on, “we would take an early delivery into account when thinking about the placement of future orders, but so long as they arrive on time I expect we would be most pleased.”

“I shall need to approve the design of the larger poster, with your business information as you intend to include it,” Chrysanthe pointed out. “At least a mock-up. If we do ending up hanging them in a room and giving copies to the speakers, they may be very good advertisements indeed; our speakers are ladies who hold excellent positions in industry, government, and academia, and if they chose to display the poster, your name would be in a position to be seen by all sorts who might have need for printing services.”

“Given that,” Chrysanthe went on, taking another little sip of her tea and setting the cup aside, “and the quantity of the order...” her gaze flickered down to the paper, and she studied the columns of numbers carefully. Chrysanthe had done her homework, and seen the invoices from past printers. She looked at it once more, and then back up at PJ.

“I believe we have a deal, PJ,” Chrysanthe agreed, and smiled at him. “On the conditions that the sample and the mock-up are to my liking, and that you agree to produce the posters by the end of the week. I shall also need a proper invoice – for our records, you understand. On the issue of a deposit, would twenty percent be acceptable?” Chrysanthe took another small sip of her tea.

In fact, she thought it was rather appealing to get to see the set up of the printing press; Chrysanthe found herself a little excited at the idea. She was, naturally, more of a chemical engineer than a mechanical one, but machines and their design still held no small fascination for her. She found, very unexpectedly, that she was rather looking forward to seeing it, even with her somewhat mixed feelings about the short, balding galdor beaming at her from across the table.

[PJ Jenkins]

Roalis 70, 2715 | Morning
Jenkins Printing and Engraving, Muffey

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The girl was willing to strike a deal and that was good — very good. PJ couldn’t be blamed for letting his mind drift, some part of it thinking about what he could do with that lovely sum he’d jotted down — he did need to cover costs, make some headway on debts but this wasn’t the time for thinking of such sensible things — but most of him was already downstairs in spirit. The galdor had drifted down to his printing workshop, in the midst of that aroma of oil and ink, rich and clean and, to him, incredibly soothing. The middle-aged man could remember the measurements of the paper that he’d wanted to use and he was mentally sorting through the type, choosing a larger point size for the header and thinking about the space pieces he’d have to use to centre it. The same paper that had been used for his cost calculations a few moments before became a canvas for his thoughts on the metal-cast letters he’d be slotting together downstairs and working out some rough calculations for spacing.

Experience had its advantages but sometimes it helped to break things down rather than doing them on the fly. After all, he had an impression to make — and he wanted it to be a good one!

It was easy to nod along, showing that he was following her words even though his face had taken on a dreamy quality, his pupils seeming larger but maybe that was just a trick of his glasses as they magnified those dark pools at the centre of the pond-murk of his eyes. He sketched lines for width and height and scribbled a number here and there.

“So long as they arrive on time, I should think you’d be happy. Be unreasonable not to be,” the printer commented before jamming the end of his pen between his teeth as he thought. While he ruminated, his hands automatically sought and retrieved his cigarettes, one finding its way between his fingers and then replacing the pen in his mouth. Fingers had found his matchbook and struck the phosphorus head against its surface with one hand — the other had gone back to wielding the pen — without him even having to think about it.

Touching the flaming head to the end of the fag and waiting for it to catch as he puffed air delicately along its length, PJ’s gaze found his guest over the table and he showed his teeth, lips twisting at the corners as he conveyed embarrassment and apology in varying measures. He hadn’t meant to smoke in front of her, hadn’t intended to smoke up this room again but here he was doing it automatically.

“Sorry, habit,” he squeezed out between clamped teeth, the cigarette held firmly between them. He puffed on it in short bursts before taking a long draw, trying to suck as much toxicity into his body as possible before he plucked it from his mouth and stubbed it out with care.

“I have some casts of different sizes for the business information — it’s something that you know you’ll reuse rather than having to set it all out by hand every time. I can show you the one I’d use for the poster and I can show you some similar size samples. I might have to make a few other minor editions that you’d have to sign off on — small decorative touches to make the spacing seem less vast and that kind of thing. No sense in having the text look as if its swimming but it’s also about the best use of the paper.”

As he spoke, PJ drew out a rectangle in portrait and used a series of straight lines to signify where lettering would go, blocking out the space for the different sorts of text before drawing some feathery curves at various points as a means of separating sections. He sucked on the end of the pen, well aware that his drawing skills left much to be desired.

The golly turned the paper so she could see it using the pen to gesture at different areas.

“This is meant to be filigree but this is why I let metal mark the paper for me; ain’t much of an artist but I think you get the idea and you’ll see all that kind of thing afore I set anything in — afore I set anything in print! Ahahaha,” he chortled, interrupting himself to have a short coughing fit.

Apparently his lungs didn’t want to hold onto that precious toxicity that he’d inhaled!

“Anyway, we put a bit of fanciness at the top here under the heading and then a few little bits here and here and then my information at the bottom about here. Should give it a classy look. I ain’t classy m’self but I can sure as shit make my work seem that way.”

The little man thrust his gloved hand out for her to shake, heedless of the grimy look to the skin that was on show and looking particularly filthy in the calloused portions of his fingertips so that damn near every ridge and whorl was on display.

“Twenty percent sounds more’n fair, ta!” he exclaimed, the oily grin sliding back into place despite his promises to be on his best behaviour.
“You can finish your tea and we’ll get to it, eh?”

For the first time, he seemed to notice the state of his offered hand and snorted.

“You won’t catch anything by shaking, Miss Palmifer, don’t worry. Anything on my hands is from the press. Oils and ink, good healthy stuff. Can’t go wrong with a bit of press grime!”

The galdor almost sounded proud and in an odd way, he sort of was; he had something of an affinity for the machines below and their various accoutrements. It was far more straightforward than a great many people and put far less stock in manners; sharp edges certainly weren’t a disadvantage where the presses were concerned.

He wiggled his fingers in a manner that perhaps meant to make them more inviting to clasp but together with the giddy movement in his field and the dancing glint in his eye, it probably appeared more mocking than anything else.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Morning, 70 Roalis, 2715
Jenkins Printing and Engraving, Muffey

PJ had struck up another cigarette; Chrysanthe’s nose wrinkled, just a little. They smelled so strong – terribly strong – and rather awful. Of course she had been around cigarettes before – at parties, in the Stacks, at restaurants and the like – but there was still something sort of dreadful about a man just lighting up a cigarette at tea. That, Chrysanthe decided, was the oddest part about it; cigarettes and tea just seemed to her a very odd combination.

Also, his teeth were really quite yellow. Chrysanthe was struck by the sudden urge to go and check hers in the mirror, just to be sure she hadn’t somehow picked up the color from looking at the odd little printer.

Chrysanthe nodded, a little primly, when he apologized and called it a habit. She thought it would have been polite and gracious to say it was all right, and she supposed, really, that it was. She didn’t think, at least, that it was the sort of thing she should need to discourage. “Quite all right,” she added, a little uncertainly, still sitting up very straight and looking at PJ over the table.

He puffed on it rapidly and oddly, then stubbed it out. Chrysanthe didn’t let her mouth hang open, as that would be terribly ill-bred, but she did decide that he might be the strangest person she’d ever met. Her gaze lowered, politely, to the paper as he drew on it, and then she watched more curiously, leaning forward. It reminded her quite a lot of engineering diagrams and spell plots, both of which she was very interested in. It wasn’t as messy as she’d have expected, really, given the – all of – well, given him.

It was still a bit messy.

Sure as shit, he said, cheerfully. Chrysanthe’s eyes widened a bit; she glanced back up at him, and then down at the paper once more. The diagram, such as it was, made sense at least, and she nodded.

Chrysanthe’s gaze dropped to his hand; she looked back up at him, and then – the static conversationalist nodded, and reached out and shook his hand. “Agreed.” Chrysanthe said, letting go of his hand. She looked at him a long moment, more than a little uncertain; her gaze dropped to his wiggling fingers, and then went back up to his face, and she frowned a little; then, as if making up her mind, she smiled. “I like machines,” she added. “That is – I don’t mind a bit of oil.”

Chrysanthe did wipe her hand clean before picking up her tea again, though that was more habit than anything. She took another little sip of it, politely, and then looked down at the cup for a moment, thinking. She didn’t really want to sit here taking tea, if she were honest; she wanted to go and see the printing press, because it would get them closer to having something that she could approve and, because, if she were honest, she wanted to see the printing press.

“After I graduate I should like to work with machines,” Chrysanthe added, after a moment, glancing back up at PJ. “Most of the manufacturing processes I’m interested in are more chemical than mechanical, but everything done at scale these days uses machines, and any – any engineer worth her salt,” her voice didn’t quiver on the pronoun, and a hint of pride flexed through her field, “has to be comfortable getting her hands a bit dirty.” She drank the last of her tea in a larger, swifter gulp, relatively unladylike, and set the cup firmly down on the table.

Chrysanthe rose, refusing to yield to the temptation to look at the many pages of content she should absolutely have been appalled by – especially the one she had rather unfortunately been looking at when he entered, and nodded crisply. “Let’s,” she said, quite ready to follow him downstairs, having decided – at least for now – to set her various misgivings aside.

[PJ Jenkins]

Roalis 70, 2715 | Morning
Jenkins Printing and Engraving, Muffey

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They shook on it and PJ's grin only broadened as she talked about liking machines. Excellent, excellent! He'd known that he liked this girl for a reason, something about her that struck his fancy. She might appear a bit particular in some ways, a bit prim, but he wouldn't hold that against her; after all, she didn't mind a bit of oil. All the same, he didn't miss the way that she wiped her hand, perhaps made all the more cautious by his proclamation that she wouldn't catch anything from him, as if that statement had been prompted by some guilty knowledge on his part. Never mind, the printer wouldn't take offence at it. She hadn't shrank from shaking his hand, and she hadn't offered him some limp excuse for a handshake either, but a good, firm one.

While she continued her polite sipping of tea, the middle-aged galdor slurped down the last of his own, sounding all the world like a drain sucking down water after a blockage had been cleared. It was an awful thing to have done in truth, perhaps made worse by the way he smacked his lips together in satisfaction. It honestly didn't matter how polite he attempted to be, or how much he talked about being on his best behaviour, the printer had always behaved like someone without an iota of good breeding and it wouldn't change in the space of an afternoon—not even for a lady.

“You want to work with machines after graduation, eh? It's good that you know your mind, lovely. You know more'n I did at your age. I didn't have any ideas for a few years, not until after I got out of prison, but—” the man flapped his hand dismissively, "—that's a story for another time."

The man sucked at his teeth, regarding her thoughtfully.

Manufacturing, how interesting. It made sense why she was a part of the Brunnhold society that she was. That probably wouldn't be an easy path for her, not that he was going to mention it aloud, but he wished her all the best—and believed that she'd make it work whether the men in the industry liked it or not. The girl was a force to be reckoned with, that was for sure, and now that she'd risen to her feet, the printer realised that she had every intention of pulling him along in the wake of her desire to get downstairs. He chuckled at her eagerness, standing with a groan, and sliding the sample leaflet and his hands into his pockets as he sidled around the table, leading her back out onto the landing.

"Now I'll have you know that I won't get up to much chat while I'm setting type. The fewer distractions I have, the faster I'll be able to get everything together for the example," the bespectacled man explained brightly as he clattered down the stairs. His field swam warmly around him, more ordered than it had been at other times now that he was near his press. Humming to himself, he picked up a composing stick, locking it to a certain length and keeping it in his left hand while he took out a roll of cord and set it beside the galley. He hunted for a suitably sized bodkin, sticking the handle of the pointy tool between his lips while he pulled out drawers in his type case, allowing access to the point sizes that he'd picked out upstairs. Now that they were in front of him, he felt as if he'd made a good choice, nodding to himself.

"You can ask me things if you want, I might not say much and what I do... I'll likely keep it brief. I can technically set type and work at the same time but uh... it's not the best idea when you're working with letters that are a mirrored and upside-down to boot; you'll see what I mean," the printer explained, plucking the sample out of his pocket and smoothing it out. The man's lips moved, sounding out the words in the title, narrowing his eyes as he glanced from compartment to compartment in the drawers he had open, looking between the different letters that he'd need to start off.

Holding the composing stick at an angle, he set two strips of leading into it, making two thin solid lines as a base. He set an em quad into the next line, using his thumb to hold it firmly against the side, gravity helping somewhat. With that done, he started to pick out each letter, setting them in place with the nick facing up, using his thumb to hold the line firm while he added spacing between the different capital letters of the title. Once he completed the line, adding another em quad to finish it out, he moved it with his thumb, watching the line shift as one unit. Nice and snug.

The odd little golly hummed tunelessly while he worked.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Morning, 70 Roalis, 2715
Jenkins Printing and Engraving, Muffey

PJ, Chrysanthe felt, had really a rather unfortunate grin. She thought – she really did think – that he was simply smiling, and that that was, perhaps, just the way his face was arranged. Nonetheless, despite his clear statement of intent, or lack thereof, earlier, there was something faintly leering about him.

Perhaps, Chrysanthe decided, it was that she knew he must have rather a deviant sort of mind, in order to write the sorts of things she had read earlier. Not, of course, that she had meant to read them; her attention, she was sure, had been captured only by the shock of it. She knew, for better or for worse, that such things simply did not interest her, and she had not the least interest in looking at the manuscript once more. Well, Chrysanthe thought, perhaps the least interest, but only out of an intellectual sort of curiosity that anyone could write such – such – words quite failed her.

But she didn’t think that was entirely it; even he had seemed unsurprised that she had taken him as she had, though she still felt badly for the false accusation. He slurped his tea down noisily, noisily enough that Chrysanthe, who would generally have said she was not much of one for manners, felt a vague tinge of nausea. Whatever she knew of how a lady was meant to behave, Chrysanthe supposed, she had learned by observation, and she did her best to imitate as a general rule – sitting up straight, taking small and polite sips (mostly, unless she was in a hurry), keeping her knees together and crossing her legs only at the ankles, if she felt the need.

She had had lessons in deportment, of course, like any child with a governess (or tutor, she supposed, though studying PJ they did not quite seem to have taken) and like any – most – children who attended Brunnhold, the lessons seemed to have sunk in. This was relevant, Chrysanthe decided, because PJ’s manners, or lack thereof, seemed to sort of reinforce the overall impression of his demeanor.

Chrysanthe was glad she had finished her tea by the time PJ mentioned prison; she had a terrible feeling she’d have choked in surprise. As it was, she had nothing to swallow down the wrong pipe or spit out, and so her reaction was constrained to a sharp breath and a widening of the eyes. “I see,” Chrysanthe said, blinking once, and then again. She thought it best to respond on the substance. “I do know what I want to do,” she added.

In point of fact, Chrysanthe thought, it wasn’t the worst response she’d received, though she wasn’t sure how she felt about the term lovely; there were few endearments she liked, if any at all, and lovely certainly wasn’t one of them. Oddly, it hadn’t felt dismissive, because with all the rest of his response, he’d taken her career plans quite seriously, as if she had every right to them.

Chrysanthe nodded in response to PJ’s explanation that he should have to focus while doing his work. They went down the stairs, Chrysanthe a little slower than the man, one hand lifting her skirt just enough to let her manage. She watched him take a tool, and grimaced ever so slightly when it found its way between his lips – oh Circle, she thought, what if other people touched that – and nodded again when he looked back at her.

She did watch. It was odd, Chrysanthe thought; perhaps it was just the warm, almost bastly sort of energy in his field, which mingled more cheerfully with hers than it had before. Perhaps it was something of the concentration on his face, which made it look rather less – well – unfortunate. She found herself, in fact, quite absorbed in the work, eyes skimming the lines as he went through. Mirrored and upsidedown, she thought, almost on the verge of admiringly.

Chrysanthe found she did have questions, but she held off; she didn’t really wish to spend the whole of the day here. She was quite keen to look around at the rest of the space, and to see the printing machines, but the process of setting the type was not uninteresting either. He worked rather fast, Chrysanthe thought, and that seemed to her a good sign of competence; she still felt, perhaps, somewhat uneasy about her choice and the particulars of their encounter thus far, but this was surprisingly reassuring.

[PJ Jenkins]

Roalis 70, 2715 | Morning
Jenkins Printing and Engraving, Muffey

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It was unsurprising that his casual mention of incarceration led her to breathe in sharply with enough force that it was a wonder that she didn’t succeed in inhaling her own tongue. It was probably turning out to be a far more exciting day visit than she could have anticipated, and it was probably a good thing that they’d already made a deal and that she wasn’t too nervous of a young lady. No doubt she had certain ideas about the sort of people who ended up in prison and if he’d made her uneasy before, those ideas might not be helping matters for him right about now. Really people could end up in prison for all manner of things, even gollies! Then again, it might not go down well if he told her what the charge had been, or worse again that he could explain.

To her credit, Chrysanthe didn’t ask him about him, simply allowing it to slide instead of prying, although he wished that he could have some insight into what her imagination was conjuring up. No doubt, it’d be a source of amusement and he sure wished that he had the chance to question her on it because it wasn’t often that he got into a situation like this. Well, that wasn’t strictly true— he was good at making flyaway references to things he ought to keep mum about.

Trotting down the stairs, the man was able to clear out the clutter of his mind, discarding those intrusive thoughts as he devoted himself entirely to the matter of printing. It was one of those times when he could be said to be at his most content, his most peaceful.

PJ had warned her that he wouldn’t be open to chatter, but he hadn’t expected her to remain silent. He had had people observe him at his work before and had grown somewhat used to fielding queries from them. It could vary massively from the occasional question of interest to a veritable deluge of words more fitting for an interrogation than his workspace. He could understand someone showing an interest and asking the meaning behind one action or another. He couldn’t stand an inquisitive mind, not when he was in his place of contentment, and shouldn’t have to put up with such a nuisance. The printer hadn’t expected Chrysanthe to be the overly inquisitive sort who couldn’t still her tongue, but he had anticipated something from her because of her interest in machinery and her curiosity—he assumed—in the printing process.

When he chanced a glance in her direction, peering around the edge of his glasses, he could see her intent interest, the way that she appeared to follow his every movement. She might well have questions but was keeping them to herself for now, learning what she could through observation alone.

Should the golly provide commentary? This might seem pretty straightforward to him, after all, the letters were still recognisable in spite of their unusual orientation, even if it might take her a second or two more to identify them. Sure, he had some definite advantages, not just experience but the careful layout of his drawer of type. He barely had to look at the letters, simply a glance to ascertain that it was indeed the expected character and to discern the location of the nick so they could be correctly aligned in the composing stick.

No, better to work as efficiently as possible, simply focus on setting the type so that he could speak at a more appropriate time, when he didn’t require quite as much concentration.

When he had a few lines of type set and he could move it as one unit, he carried it to the galley, unlocking the composing stick and gripping the type with his thumbs and forefingers. He set the knuckles of his middle fingers against either side of the block of type as he transferred it into the galley, pressing it into one corner so that the galley could hold it in place on two sides while he took up the cord to tie it up. He spread his fingers to the appropriate width, looping the cord loosely around it, once, twice, thrice. He looped it around once more for good measure and then used his thumb to mark the spot to cut in case more cord unravelled while he was disentangling his hand. He sliced through the twine with the neat little blade that he kept for the purpose, taking one end to press at one corner of the typeform, keeping the form firm against the sides of the galley as he began winding the string around.

“You can ask questions when I’m doing this kind of thing,” he informed her. “Not that I don’t have to concentrate, of course, don’t want to get so nonchalant about it that I get sloppy, but it’s a fair amount of muscle memory.”

The loops went around cleanly, enough of the type peeping above the galley’s sides that he didn’t have to move the form itself. The original end became trapped under a looped layer so that the binding held it instead of his thumb.

“If you didn’t have questions, I’d suspect you ain’t as interested as you seemed upstairs, and I doubt you’re ogling me like you have been on account of my good looks.”

His murky green eyes flicked up momentarily as he favoured her with one of his unfortunate grins, a brief pause in his work, before he returned to his wrapping. His tongue protruded from the corner of his mouth as he reached the end and carefully tucked the remaining loose end under a loop, tugging it firm and leaving it poking out a little long so it’d be easy to find later.

Once again, PJ took up the composing stick, his field pulsing briefly as the gold-shift deepened, the man humming to himself as he glanced from the mockup to the sort tray, mentally marking out from which sections he’d have to pluck the pieces of metal. He didn’t want to misspell any of the unfamiliar names.

The next bit of typesetting was brief, the lines short by virtue of the type of content so he was soon back to the galley, measuring and cutting cord to bind the new typeform.

“This is understandably fiddly, it isn’t very large and I have to put together a line here and a line there so it’s not as uh… as speedy as it could be if it was just a block of text. Feel free to have a look around a bit so long as you don’t get in my way. I have casts for the business in that drawer there”—a finger jabbed in the air to indicate the relevant place—“so you can see how they usually look. I’ll use one smaller than the main type size, same goes for the larger posters.”

The golly started humming tunelessly to himself as he shifted his attention to typesetting once more. He’d be able to assemble it all soon enough.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Morning, 70 Roalis, 2715
Jenkins Printing and Engraving, Muffey

The first thing Chrysanthe noticed was how odd the letters looked, mirrored and upside down as they were. Naturally any student of the sciences was familiar with the use of symbols which had particular meanings, in mathematical or chemical equations, for example. This understanding could, naturally, lead one to realize that letters, as well, were another sort of symbol, just one which was understood at a glance, without the need for even the brief thought that chemical equations necessitated.

But Chrysanthe wasn’t sure she had ever really internalized such a thing until just now, looking down at the strangeness of them. Identification took her a moment, here and then there; she supposed this element of it simply took practice, and that in time one came to know the letters no matter how distorted.

Of course, letters weren’t really her interest. The thought of them was a fascinating aside, and little more. It was the machine that Chrysanthe was curious about, and it was there that her eyes wandered, whenever PJ’s activities didn’t quite seem to hold her interest. For all he had warned her he would be quiet about it, he seemed not to like it; Chrysanthe glanced up once, and found him watching her in a way that felt almost expectant, as if she were supposed to have said something.

Chrysanthe trailed after the rather odd galdor, following up towards the galley; she watched him set it in to place with practiced motions, tying it down, sort of, using cord to hold it, so far as she could tell.

Sure enough – something in his tone rather bristled, and Chrysanthe found herself clenching her jaw at the unfairness of it. He’d told her he shouldn’t like to chat, she thought, almost petulant, and now here he was accusing her of disinterest on account of her keeping her questions to herself. She had not the least idea whether he really meant it that way or – as he’d been thus far – he was simply thoroughly ill-refined when it came to social graces of any sort. Even though she suspected the second, taking the words at their natural meaning rather stung.

Chrysanthe had had rather a quiet childhood. Her parents had been uninterested in conversation, and her beloved older sister had gone off to Brunnhold when she was only five. She’d spent winter and summer breaks with Amaryllis, who had always been happy to make conversation on any and every subject which Chrysanthe found even remotely appealing, and in the interim, she’d conversed with tutors and governesses when available, and the rest of the time kept rather to herself, avoiding the occasional cousin and thoroughly immersed in her books. When she had questions, for the most part, she had kept them to herself.

Such habits had served her well at school also; when Chrysanthe had questions about the material, her natural inclination was to read, and then read a bit more, and perhaps find another book on the subject. She did, of course, sometimes ask questions in class or of her professors, but for the most part she sought to answer her curiosities on her own.

Asking a question just for the sake of it seemed to her uncomfortable and strange, for all that PJ seemed to be challenging her to do so.

Chrysanthe glanced around, looking at the machines, then back at PJ. She straightened her back a little. He had asked, she thought to herself, somewhat fiercely. “Why is the type arranged around a cylinder?” Chrysanthe asked. “One could imagine also putting it like a sort of stamp against paper, which it seems like should be easier to arrange; the paper could move forward, and the text stamp down – or the paper stamp down - then lift and stamp again.”

She paused, thinking through the question, and went on, warming a little to the subject. “It seems like that could be achieved through a rolling gear as well, but it does seem as if it would be a bit slower? It shouldn’t waste paper, I think, although I imagine it should be – less flexible, with regards to different sizes, and perhaps require more equipment.”

Chrysanthe was studying the cylinder, now; she glanced up at PJ, chin lifted and jaw set, and waited, certain there must have been a question in the midst of all that. "Is that the rationale?" She asked, thinking perhaps not, in the end. "Or is it something else?"