[Memory] All the Frills and the Fine Stuff

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

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

Chrysanthe cut the top off of her soft-boiled egg with a firm, decisive motion of her butterknife, lifting the bit of shell and soft-white off and setting it to the side. She set the knife carefully back down on her plate, and took the first of the buttered toast strips in two delicate fingers.

“Oh, how did you get it off so nicely?” Priscilla frowned down at hers; she was absorbed in the careful wriggling of her spoon through the cracked bits of the egg, easing it slowly up. “Go on, don’t wait up.”

Chrysanthe dipped the buttered toast into the soft yellow of the yolk, and took a bite. “Delicious,” she said, setting it down. She reached for her tea, taking a small sip, and sat back, glancing around the elegant little café, with white trim and yellow curtains. She smiled across the table at Priscilla, who, with a frown beneath soft red curls, was carefully easing the last of the shell out of the way, practically holding her breath.

“There,” Priscilla sighed. She set the top away, and delicately dipped her bread into the end; a little bit of yolk spilled down the side. She nibbled at the toast finger, her other hand carefully covering her mouth, and set the bread down with a smile. “This is fun. I haven’t had soft-boiled eggs since I was a girl,” she giggled. “I can’t imagine doing it in the cafeteria.”

“No,” Chrysanthe smiled, “what a mess!”

“I’m so glad you decided to come for the weekend,” Priscilla said, smiling still. “Will you come dress shopping today, or have you had your fill?”

“I’d love to,” Chrysanthe said, “but I’ve promised to run an errand for the Ladies’ Society of Static Conversation; our last printer was quite dreadful, and apparently we’ve a referral here in Muffey. I said I’d take a look.”

“Oh, how fun,” Priscilla said; her field was all static as well, and mingled warmly, politely, with Chrysanthe’s. “Is there to be another lecture series?”

“Of course,” Chrysanthe grinned, sitting forward. “Ms. Marielle Wilkinson will start it off; she is to give a talk during the Gala of Physics on The Dynamics of Condensation in Upkeeping Phase Spells. She recently published her second spell on a related subject, and it promises to be most interesting.”

“I’m sure,” Priscilla said with a giggle. “I do love the Gala.” She picked her bread up again, dipping it into the yolk once more. “Our last term already,” she said, sighing, hiding the ungainly biting motion behind her hand once more. “Doesn’t it seem like just yesterday we were first formers? Or, well, at least sixth formers.”

“Sixth formers, perhaps,” Chrysanthe allowed; she dipped her buttered toast in the egg as well, taking another bite.

“And soon, graduation – and who knows what next!” Priscilla giggled. “Our whole lives, just waiting.”

“Yes,” Chrysanthe thought of the acceptance letter folded even now amidst her things; she knew she ought to have shown it to Amaryllis before she had left Vienda, that it would have been a conversation easier had in person. She had not responded yet; she had told herself there was little need to tell her sister before she had formally accepted the offer to go to Qrieth for graduate studies. She looked at Priscilla, now, sitting across the table; she drew in breath.

“Do you think Dagwood Henderson would be interested in the lecture?” Priscilla asked.

“Dagwood?” Chrysanthe’s eyebrows lifted. “With the spots?”

“Oh, he’s cleared up quite a bit,” Priscilla giggled. “He’s really rather cute. Perhaps I can convince him to escort me.”

Chrysanthe blinked. “Well, as you like. I imagine it would make it rather hard to concentrate on Ms. Wilksinson.”

Priscilla giggled again. “Oh, Chrysanthe, you’re so funny.”

They parted ways outside the shop; Chrysanthe promised to come and find Priscilla at the dressmaker’s after her errand was over, and fished the small card from her reticule. Jenkins Printing and Engraving, she read, and the address as well. She made her way from LeSade’s, walking with firm, deliberate strides down the small, fashionable streets; her pale green walking dress was, if not precisely fashionable, neat and well-tailored, and her waist-length blonde hair was pulled back into two neat braids with a part down the crown of her head; only a few wispy stragglers had escaped, at this hour.

The printer’s shop was, Chrysanthe had to admit, rather a disappointment. The flower boxes all around the front door and on the upstairs window sills were rather spoiled by the straggling weeds which hung, limply, in every direction; a bit of paint was peeling, Chrysanthe noticed as well, on the second story.

Nonetheless, Chrysanthe went inside; a bell chimed softly overhead. She glanced around, lips pursing. There were spots on the glass, which looked rather like fingerprints, above the chaise lounge; it had a little spot on it as well, which she could only hope as tea. A low table in front of it held a scatter of pamphlets and sheets, in no discernible order, sort of haphazardly heaped atop one another.

Chrysanthe sighed, coming into the middle of the shop. She waited a few moments, glancing around; the scuffed wood counter off to the side was equally messy, the glass display case set in it all marred with fingerprints, such that it was oddly difficult to see inside.

Chrysanthe took a deep breath. I’m sure someone recommended him, Adelaide Thureau-Dangin had said, when she handed Chrysanthe the small card.

Chrysanthe made her way to the counter; she nudged several papers aside, to reveal the faint metal gleam she had hoped was a bell. After a deep breath, Chrysanthe brought her hand down solidly against the bell, letting the chime echo through the shop. "Hello?" Chrysanthe called, politely, a moment later. "Is anyone here?"

[PJ Jenkins]

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

.

Any new business was bound to have teething problems. Perhaps ‘new’ was a bit of a stretch but words were good for wiggling around and bending to your purpose. Words could mean what you wanted and context meant everything. As far as PJ was concerned, ‘new’ could mean ‘one that hadn’t quite gotten off the ground properly’.

It turned out that managing a business was actually rather difficult work, almost more effort than it was worth but the man stubbornly wanted to make it succeed. Fuck it, if his parents had managed to keep their stupid little café going for all those years and do well enough to put enough by to leave him with the stipend that they had then he could make his thing work. Obviously, if they hadn’t been so tight-ersed, everything would have been a lot easier for him. If they’d left him all of his fucking inheritance at once instead of being so godsdamned sensible — so typical of them and he’d have said as much to their faces if they hadn’t both clocked it! — then he could have bought everything that he needed. He could have employed people to keep things ticking over, printed whatever he clocking wanted according to his whims, and had his name slapped all over the place.

He wouldn’t have blown all of it on booze or anything. Lady’s sake, he could only drink so much in one sitting! He might have bought some rounds and okay, maybe he would have landed a few fines that he had to pay off but he wouldn’t have pissed all of it down the drain — not all at once anyway. But fuck it, what was the point of being alive if he wasn’t going to enjoy himself? If he wasn’t allowed that then he might as well toss himself into the Arova! He wasn’t like his parents — thank the Circle! — and he had no intention of playing things safe — PJ didn’t rightly know what safe was to be honest.

The stipend helped but even then, it only went so far, a dribble of liquid assets that he could use. Sure, he’d been able to sell off some shit because he didn’t need all of that café stuff and he had the building already, but things were always tight and he felt the pinch. The printer had managed to keep things going for over a year thus far without running his fledgling enterprise into the ground so imagine what it would be like when he had some real money to put into it.

When he had good money, he could afford to employ someone to look after the damn shop, someone who could give it a professional touch. The galdor wasn’t good at that sort of thing and he knew it. Oh he could pay plenty of attention to detail when it came to print but that was different, wasn’t it? Gods, he didn’t want to be pissing about taking weeds out of the flowerpots and watering the plants but it made the place more inviting or something.

The man hadn’t actually watered the plants out the front in a bit, had he? Aside from that tea he’d dumped on top of one that hardier one a few days ago, he thought they were probably feeling the Dry Season, ahaha!

Perhaps that was why he hadn’t had many customers in the last week — more than a week if he wanted to be honest with himself, which he didn’t — but how could he be expected to spend time tending to the poxy plants? The shop could do with a proper clean and he hadn’t gotten around to that either but his work was the important bit if people would just pay attention to that!

Yeah, the place’s appearance was probably as off-putting as its owner’s when he went on a boozer and crawled out of the gutter with a black eye and a bunch of bruises from being banged off the bar one too many times. Although, the printing shop probably fared better than he did; nobody had shrieked at it or threatened to set the Seventen on it. There was no point having a neat and pretty shop if what he produced was worthless, and there were certain areas that he needed more practice in if he was going to produce some of the things that he wanted at a high calibre. He had an idea for doing personalised stationery for people and that would be lucrative but time-consuming, not to mention requiring a great degree of skill.

The galdor was working carefully at his new printing plate, hoping to make up for his lack of proficiency with slow diligence. There were probably better ways of doing it such as etching with acid but for now, the man was engraving it directly with a drypoint. He was intent, squinting into a magnifying lens as he worked. There was no cigarette jammed in his mouth for a change so that he wouldn’t be distracted by it or have the smoke obscuring his vision, although he could feel the craving wearing at him, scratching in his airways. The mere thought of jamming one in his mouth made him salivate so he’d have to take a break sooner rather than later but once PJ stopped, it’d be so difficult to get back into the swing of things again.

The soft jingle of the bell decided things for him though. Thankfully the thing was quiet and he wasn’t of a nervous disposition or else he could have made a serious fuck up of things and while the pattern he was engraving was somewhat abstract, it was meant to be organic. Some clocking great scratch across the surface wouldn’t have fit and it probably would have been irritatingly deep at that.

Small mercies.

The young student cleaning type for him in his slow, plodding way mumbled something about going to check but PJ grunted at him to leave it. The lad tried his best, he really did and he was helpful with bits and bobs when the shop’s owner was otherwise engaged but he seemed to be struck with an unimaginable shyness when it came to speaking, which didn’t make him ideal for dealing with customers. At least, he assumed that shyness was what made him hardly open his mouth when he spoke. Fucking awkward teenagers! He hadn’t been like that at the lad’s age or any age really, but some of them seemed to take the awkward shifting phase from childhood to adulthood rather hard. PJ’s solution had been to laugh at everything; you couldn’t be mocked if you beat others to it. In many ways, he wouldn’t miss the lad when the new Brunnhold term started and it might convince him to go looking for someone more permanent — and competent.

He took a few moments to finish the last bit of the pattern, pressing hard and then easing the pressure as he moved the drypoint across the plate, before swinging the glass out of the way and setting his glasses back into their customary position while blinking rapidly to restore normal focus to the world around him.

Ding!

His visitor had obviously found the bell on the counter — well done to them — and hit it rather smartly. There was no note of hesitation or uncertainty there but the directness of someone who had come here for a purpose. The echoes hadn’t entirely died away when a woman’s voice called out.

“With you in a few ticks, sweetheart!” PJ called back through the door that stood ajar, separating the front of the shop from the backroom. He could have gone straight away but gods, he needed a fag and while a pat down of his pockets turned up a rumpled specimen, there was no sign of the fucking matches. Where had he left them the last time? Fuck if he knew and he could hardly afford to go hunting for them now.

“Ah well… ‘spose I’m helping someone in need,” the writer muttered to himself, sticking the cigarette in his mouth as he drew on his dasher field, running over Monite phrasing in his head. Just a little flame, just to start it without burning it down more than necessary. The fag bobbed up and down as he shifted it with his teeth into the corner of his mouth, enunciating clearly enough but phrasing his monic request in a casual manner, not as informal as what wicks used but certainly enough that it would have made his old professors despair.

The mona around him buzzed, almost annoyed, but complying nonetheless. Just about. The air moved and produced a spark that flashed larger for a moment and then disappeared, leaving half of the tip smouldering. He drew on it, realised that it wasn’t burning fully and took it out, blowing softly on the tip to spread the burn as he headed out front. He caught the edge of the door with his elbow, pulling it towards himself and moved through the gap as he stuck the cigarette back in his mouth and pulled the portal shut behind him.

“Sorry ‘bout that, I was engraving a plate. Wasn’t expecting anyone in just yet,” the galdor explained jovially, the side of his mouth not occupied with the fag turning up in a smile, a sliver of teeth showing between his lips.

He probably presented an interesting sight but one that made sense when one considered the state of the establishment. He was down to his shirt sleeves, the collar wilting from lack of starch and yellowing slightly. His jowls were shadowed with stubble, the short hairs that were visible a mix of silver and dark brown. Despite the heat, he was also wearing a pair of dark cotton gloves, albeit without the fingers. He made no attempt to hide the fact that he was weighing her up, his gaze flicking up and down in a casually calculating way. He drew deeply on his cigarette, taking it out so he could savour the smoke before exhaling slowly, eyes rolling up slightly in his head.

“Good Lady, there’s nothing like the first fag in awhile,” he intoned, gazing at it like a sacred object before sticking it back and wiping his hands absently on his trousers, which while dark still had a grubby look to them.

“So what can I do for you? Do you have an idea of what you want or did you want to uh…”

His gaze was roving along the counter, his squinting green eyes magnified as he tried to find his samples among the scattered papers.

“... look at some samples? Oh d’you mind if I smoke by the way? Doesn’t bother you, does it? Only I’m desperate for a fag, haven’t had one while I’ve been engraving.”

MagicShow

Lighting a cigarette:

SidekickBOTToday at 22:34
@Maximus: 1d6 = (2) = 2

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

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

Sweetheart, Chrysanthe thought, was perhaps her very least favorite term. She had rather loathed it from elderly relations as a girl, particularly when accompanied by a cheek pinch and the scent of mothballs; from men, as an adult, she liked it even less. It was inevitably condescending; she doubted very much there was any way to even say it which was not, perhaps because it did, so, invoke one’s elderly relatives and strange, stale hard candies with sharp fake-blistleberry flavor.

I’m not your sweetheart, Chrysanthe wanted to shout, sometimes. She had said it, once, as politely as she could manage, to a man at a party in Vienda; he had started laughing, and everyone else around them had laughed as well. She had not quite worked up the courage to try it again; she could nearly have blushed just thinking of it. Thankfully, she did not.

The door opened with what looked like the edge of a grubby elbow in a shirtsleeves. That was a poor start; it got rather worse from there. There was a sliver of unfortunately yellow-looking teeth glimpsed between thin lips, with a cigarette sticking out from them; his collar was a disaster, yellowed from age and oddly crumpled around his neck. There was an odd sort of scrape of stubble on his face, not as if he were growing a beard, but as if he had simply forgotten to shave for some period of time. Chrysanthe wasn’t, entirely, sure how long it took a man to grow a beard, but this one looked as if he had worked at ignoring it.

He wiped his hands on his pants, and invoked Alioe, Goddess of Time, to discuss his cigarette, eyes rolling oddly up into his head. Chrysanthe knew she was staring. He, too, seemed to be starting; he had not bothered to hide looking her up and down. Chrysanthe barely caught herself from taking a step back; all her skin crawled.

“Um,” Chrysanthe looked down at the papers on the counter, then back up at the man after a moment. How on Vita was she meant to answer if his smoking bothered her? Of course it did; it was really an awful sort of smell. She had never had a cigarette; she could not imagine she would ever even try one. “No, I suppose not? Are you…” she still held the card, and she looked down at it once more, as if the information might change; she glanced out at the door, wondering if somehow she had misread the sign outside. “This is Jenkin’s Printing and Engraving, is it not?”

Chrysanthe nodded, slowly, through the man’s confirmation. She looked down at the counter again, tucking the card away. The samples weren’t nearly as offensive as the man; her gaze crept back up to him, and then back down rather quickly once more.

“All right,” Chrysanthe took a deep breath. For a moment, she thought of making up some wild lie – yes, I need business cards printed – which would allow her to look at some samples, say she needed to go deliberate, and then from there promptly leave, with him none the wiser. But Adelaide had asked this of her only a few days ago, and there was scarcely even a week until the Gala began; they really did need the flyers rather quickly, and Chrysanthe had not the slightest idea if there was another printer in Muffey she could try. Somehow, she suspected Priscilla would not be of assistance.

“I’m here on behalf of the Ladies’ Society of Static Conversation,” Chrysanthe said, raising her chin and looking down her nose at the small man; she could see quite clearly the thinning hair on the top of his head, which was looked rather greasy. Everything about him, in fact, looked rather greasy, “of Brunnhold,” Chrysanthe added, for good measure.

“We routinely host events on campus for which we hand out and paste up flyers,” Chrysanthe went on, “and we are in search of a new printer – reliable, skilled, and competitively priced – for not only an event upcoming at the beginning of Yaris, but for the rest of the year, and perhaps beyond.” She had discussed the pitch at length with Adelaide; they had agreed it absolutely best to mention that the work might not be limited to this one job.

Chrysanthe glanced at the scuffed wood counter; she did not really want to set her reticule onto it. Instead, she held it in one hand, opened it without the other, and drew out an envelope. Then she tucked it away, and took the mock flyer they had made out, unfolding it. The name of the talk was writ large across the front, with the speaker’s name of equal size below. After that, they had put down the time and location of the talk. That it was sponsored by the LSSC was also made clear, and notes at the bottom gave some additional details.

“This is a first draft, of course,” Chrysanthe said. “We are open to changes in design, but all this information must be contained.”

Chrysanthe glanced down at the counter; she hesitated. After a moment, gingerly, she laid the flyer down on the mess of papers, then lifted her gaze back up to the odd, awful little man, and waited.

[PJ Jenkins]

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

.

PJ didn’t know quite what to make of his new customer. She was no shrinking violet certainly, having strode in here with that upright carriage and stayed in spite of everything around her and he couldn’t mistake the tone of voice that had greeted him. Still, she gave signs that she didn’t want to be here. She was young and relatively good at keeping her emotions but he knew that look in her eye, had seen that particular look aimed his way on more than one occasion. Hers was the look of one who had been confronted by she knew not what. That he was galdor had puzzled many people over the years and that he should present himself in such a manner. Even humans who grubbed in the dirt made more effort. They took some pride in their appearance.

The printer didn’t believe in judging anything by outward appearances. He knew all too well that perfect, pretty binding could hide a multitude of sins so it didn’t really tell you anything. Besides, some of his favourite things came in very dodgy packages and it was why he happened to write, publish or trade in such things. Honestly, if people wanted to judge him or his shop by its look without giving it a chance then they could fuck right off. Although, it was difficult to think that when that also meant waving goodbye to money. He might not like such people but he really did like their coin.

Would he like this young woman? He couldn’t know for sure yet but the fact that she hadn’t backed out of the shop thus far definitely boded well for their future working relationship. He appreciated that she’d held her ground.

She glanced from the card — he recognised his handiwork — in her hand to the door, that one look conveying a great deal of uncertainty and skepticism mixed together. That she went so far as to actually seek confirmation drew a wheezy snigger from the proprietor who took another drag of his cigarette before his airways were ready for it. The fag took refuge between his fingertips as he coughed, turning his head away and thumping the fist of his free hand into his chest.

“Aye, lass, you’re in the right place, shabby though it be. The press though? That’s a beauty and it’s far more important to look after that,” he pointed out once he’d cleared his throat. The thin grin returned and an accompanying wink probably didn’t ease his customer’s discomfort. She didn’t seem comfortable with looking at him but that was all right, he knew he wasn’t the easiest on the eyes, he’d come to terms with that long ago.

The man flicked ash into the ashtray just under the counter before jamming his cigarette back between his lips. His hands busied themselves in the scattered papers, one eye squinting as he sorted them into their respective piles by type. He’d printed them in the first place and knew them apart with barely a glance making it an easy matter to tidy them up. It wasn’t his fault that people came in here and threw them every which way. He glanced up at her while he worked, wanting her to be aware that he was paying attention, something confirmed by the most cursory of caprises.

His typically oily grin might have become a touch softer, the way the skin around his eyes crinkled a little warmer as she straightened up and adopted a manner of haughty authority. It might well look as if he mocked her, the dancing glimmer in his eyes certainly a sign of humour but he wasn’t laughing at her, no. The girl had a serious bit of backbone and he liked to see it. There were so many women who seemed to think that they were supposed to be demure and who spent a great deal of time doing things that would ensure good opinions of them. This one had the bearing of an older matriarch who had shrugged off a great deal of that societal nonsense and had come into the fullness of her power because fuck if anybody was going to tell her what to do, what to say, what to think. It was just a shame that so many women had to marry and pop out children and wait for them to grow up before they felt as if they could dredge up the will that had always resided in them — assuming it didn’t get broken before that point.

The Ladies’ Society of Static Conversation of Brunnhold…

He paused in his sorting, making use of the ashtray again and tugging thoughtfully at his bottom lip. Was it new or had it existed while he was in school? Fuck if he knew, there had been all manner of societies at Brunnhold but he’d never paid much attention, especially where academia or the arcane were concerned. That he’d never been particularly focused on magic in school wouldn’t be difficult for her to determine given that over three decades since his graduation, his field was still small and indecisive with no clear Conversation dominance compared to her own Static heavy, disciplined and orderly one. His dasher field did currently possess the recent charge of Static mona from his ignition spell, but it set up a rather feeble belikeness between their monic auras.

His gaze sharpened, fixing on her and narrowing slightly from behind his spectacles as she gave her pitch, mentally calculating, especially in light of that near deadline. He knew he had the skill and he knew that he could be reliable with steady work but he suspected that he might have to undercut himself in order to undercut his competition. Competitively priced indeed.

“Ladies’ Society of Static… never heard of it but I’m hardly academic,” he commented with a chuckle, causing a quick little flex of his dasher field to draw attention to it. She could hardly have missed sensing it but it was a comical way of underlining it, a lighthearted joke at his own expense, the kind of humour he’d been employing for years.

He took a few more short, sharp draws on his cigarette before he stubbed it out in his hidden ashtray, absently wiping his fingers on his trousers. He watched as she drew a flyer from her bag, watching expectantly. She commented that it was only a first draft and he nodded in acknowledgment, a hand hovering near his lip again, ready to start plucking at it once more.

“I ‘spose it’s a ladies’ society ‘cos the men don’t want you joining their one?” he questioned pensively, head cocking to the side as she hesitated with the paper in her hand. “I suppose men need exclusive clubs or you’d show them up,” he added with a bark of laughter, picking up the flyer she’d laid down on the still disorganised pile of papers.

Holding the flyer out in front of him, PJ started plucking at his lip again, humming to himself as his gaze skimmed back and forth across the page. After a few moments, he began to nod.

“It’s pretty good, whoever did it has an eye, I’ll give ‘em that. Credit where credit’s due. Early Yaris, you say? How early are we talking? Actually, don’t answer that, not yet.”

He held a finger aloft, waving it vaguely in the air, gaze still fixed on the flyer mockup.

“No, we’ll take this upstairs. We’ll be more comfortable there. We’ll get to know each other better, work out how to make it good for us both… Yeah, I’ll leave Jemmy in charge. Rather not but…”

As he spoke, he folded the flyer, gripping it between two fingers as he hinged up a section of the counter. Some papers drifted to the floor in the artificial breeze. He gestured for her to follow but didn’t wait, clearly assuming that she’d comply. Instead, he was throwing open the door to the back room.

“Oi, Jemmy! Shop’s yours, sweetheart. I’ll be upstairs entertainin’. Don’t need me, I’ll be busy,” he yelled out, turning to throw another wink in Chrysanthe’s direction before effectively bounding up the stairs in the backroom to the upper storey. He left the young teenager to slouch his way towards the front, turning crimson at the sight of the customer and mumbling something that could have been a greeting, an apology or a plea to a higher power. PJ wasn’t in any position to be witnessing such a thing, not only having gone around the bend in the staircase but also having had to stop to lean on the rail near the top to pant and have a minor coughing fit.

There had been far too much enthusiasm in that ascent and he had a few too many years, too many pounds and too much daily lung pollution on his poor little golly body to manage it without some payback. If she caught up to him, blocking the way as he was, he’d stagger up an additional step to the narrow landing and gesture her into the little sitting room. Once he had his breath back, his mind actually turned to cigarettes and how he could use one to steady that excitable beat in his chest. And now that he thought about it, he must have left his matches in the kitchen when he last made himself some tea!

“Make yourself at home. Will you take tea?” he called as he slipped into the little upstairs kitchen, grinning broadly at the sight of the matchbook on the counter by the stove. It never occurred to him that he’d left the young woman to settle in a room that still bore the hallmarks of his mother from the over-the-top frill and lace decorations to the old scent of something floral, but which he had been using as an office of sorts. In fact, something that never would have been present in his mother’s day were the array of handwritten pages loosely stacked in bundles, each representing a different piece of writing he was working on. That he’d left such things lying around for her to throw her eye over didn’t occur to him as he happily lit himself a fresh cigarette.

It was all below the lofty title of Literature but it wasn’t all obscene. There were bits where there was nothing lurid at all and there was at least one work there that didn’t have a primary focus on salacious content. This was getting to know him better!

… unfortunately.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

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

He had not, Chrysanthe noticed, introduced himself. He had confirmed that this was, in fact, Jenkins Printing and Engraving, but he had not confirmed whether he was, in fact, the eponymous Jenkins of the establishment. He had, however, winked; Chrysanthe was not in the least sure what to make of that, and was fairly sure she had briefly stared, although she didn’t know that he would likely be able to differentiate between that and the other staring she had engaged in.

It was very strange, and frankly somewhat awful.

He was smiling as she went on, and Chrysanthe had the strangest feeling he was laughing at her. She swallowed through it and pressed on, because this was an important commission – she had promised Adelaide she would get these flyers made, and she really didn’t want to let the other girl down.

Chrysanthe’s chin came up, sharply, when the small man raised the issue of a men’s club. She shifted, not in the least sure how to take the second half of his remark. “There is a general Society of Static Conversation,” Chrysanthe said, less sharply than she’d intended and with the faintest hint of confusion to her voice. “However, it is not in the habit of being concerned, generally, with the welfare of all who would be its members.” That was a more familiar line, at least, and Chrysanthe delivered it more easily.

“Well – ” Chrysanthe began when the small man asked about the date of the event. He waved a stubby, sort of dirty finger at her and went on.

“Ah,” Chrysanthe said, inelegantly. She stepped back slightly from the counter. He folded the paper, taking it in his hand. There was a fingerprint smudge on the back of it already. Chrysanthe grimaced. Part of the counter came out; papers swirled around to the floor. Chrysanthe watched them scatter down, and looked up just in time to see the small man wink at her once more from a staircase back in the room behind.

Chrysanthe stood in the midst of the shop. He’d taken the flyer, she realized. Chrysanthe looked down at the counter, then rather longingly over at the door. She took a deep breath.

The young man, red-faced, standing off to the side behind the counter, mumbled something that Chrysanthe supposed might have been a greeting.

Chrysanthe did not want to go upstairs; she did not want to go upstairs in the least. There was an awful ache coiling in the pit of her stomach, and a tightness in her chest that it was rather hard to breathe through. But he’d taken the flyer upstairs, and she did not have another copy, and she had not done the designing – she didn’t have much of an eye for such things; Ermengilda had, and Chrysanthe wasn’t even sure she could reproduce the other committee member’s lovely work.

Chrysanthe swallowed, hard, girding her field around her like a wall – she tried to imagine it a firm presence between her and the rest of the world – and strode off through the counter, into the back room, and up the stairs. The man who surely must have been Jenkins was coughing at the top of the stairs; he staggered ahead when she reached him, waving her in to a small, oddly floral sort of sitting room.

“N-no,” Chrysanthe said, uncertainly. He’d vanished already – she hadn’t caught through which door – and she had no idea where the draft of the flyer had gone.

Chrysanthe stood for a moment. Her chest ached, still; she didn’t know what to do. She took a couple steps towards the papers on the table, rather expecting them to be more mock posters. Carefully, Chrysanthe reached out and brushed a hand over them, thinking – she would get a head start, perhaps, on the design, and then – the sooner this was sorted, the sooner she could get out of here. The smell was awful and floral and making her head ache, and she felt all her lovely breakfast churning busily in her stomach.

Chrysanthe’s gaze dropped to the words on the paper.

It seemed – she frowned slightly – to be a story, of sorts…? Chrysanthe skimmed it over, turning the pages a bit quickly, and stopped abruptly. Quivering, she read; her eyes skimmed onwards: thrusting rather leapt off the page.

Chrysanthe gasped; she pulled back. Her whole body was trembling. There was, she decided, something wrong with her; these could not possibly be what she thought. This could not possibly be what she feared.

Carefully, Chrysanthe came forward again. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the same set of pages; she went to another one instead, frowning down at it.

“Oh, Penelope!” Delilah panted, quivering beneath the other woman’s tender -

Chrysanthe stared, wide-eyed, unable to believe what she was seeing, and somehow quite unable to move away once more.

[PJ Jenkins]

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

.

With a fresh fag in his mouth, the printer was the picture of contentment, puttering about while waiting for the water on the hob to boil. He fished the second best teapot out from the cupboard, on account of the best one currently being worse for wear — he couldn’t recall what he’d been doing with the sodding thing but it needed a good scrub — and set to scrubbing it in the sink.

His gloves had been stripped off, skin shiny from where the cotton had clung and noticeably paler than his tanned fingers, as he delved his hand into the teapot to make sure that it was freshened up inside and out. As PJ worked, he whistled a half-remembered ballad with a distinctly wickish air to it, cigarette bobbing from the side of his mouth as he did so, a lengthy bit of ash dropping into the sink before swirling darkly down the drain as the water caught it. Once it was clean, he set it upside down on the sideboard, flicked droplets from his hands and dried them haphazardly on a tea towel before moving to dry the porcelain with it after a generous drag on his fag.

As he rubbed the cloth over the faded floral pattern, he wondered if it was possible to get bone china repainted and if it would be worthwhile getting it down if that was the case. Honestly, the soft dusk pink looked better than how gaudy the colour had looked in the teapot’s heyday but he had to admit that it was well-worn.

“Like myself,” the galdor murmured, nodding to it as if he was acknowledging something the inanimate object had said. “But we both get the job done and that’s all that matters.”

The teapot went back on the sideboard while he fished out a tray, cups and saucers. The true advantage of having parents that had spent many years running a tea shop was that he had all the relevant paraphernalia. They’d cared for them for years and they’d made them last but unfortunately, their son was nowhere near as considerate of them so in truth, he was lucky to find cups that were reasonably clean — leastways, they only needed a quick wash — and unchipped and therefore, it was too much to hope for that he’d have a properly matching set. Plain saucers were better than mismatched patterned ones and honestly, violet flowers on one cup and a mix of white, lilac and pink flowers on the other was close enough. They were flowers after all so a mix was best, right?

Oh had he used the best teapot as an ashtray that time he’d had someone over? Yes, that was right and some things had spilled in it too and been left to sit before the liquid had been drained away. Yes, he’d done that more than once and hadn’t washed it in a bit — no wonder it looked as if something had been set on fire in it! Although… that might have happened as well…

He’d been known to be careless with matches and alcohol when he was on a bender.

At any rate, the other good one would do, not that he could be certain that it would meet with his customer’s approval. She seemed to be the sort with exacting standards and he highly doubted that anything he’d done or was going to do would live up to them. It didn’t mean that this had to go poorly, of course.

He spooned tea leaves into the teapot and flicked ash off into the sink before it ended up adding a unique flavour to the brew as the kettle began to whistle shrilly. Shoving the cigarette back into this gob, he used the tea towel to grab the kettle’s handle and dump the water in, cleaning up the inevitable spillage before clattering it onto the tray. He poured sugar into a bowl and carefully spooned out the discoloured lumps that had formed from the dipping of wet spoons. Once it looked somewhat decent, he tucked his matches into his pocket — he wasn’t losing track of them this time — and carried the tray into the sitting room.

The printer was concerned with manoeuvring into the room with the tray, an activity that required some concentration, especially while preventing his fag from dropping out of his mouth, and so he was uncharacteristically quiet. It’d be a serious whoopsie if he sent the tea flying, all that hot liquid would be rather hazardous to the health of the papers he had lying around the room…

Papers that he’d forgotten about. Papers that Chrysanthe was reading.

Well shit...

“Tea’s up!” he hollered, setting the tray down a mite too roughly on a clear spot on the table. “Leastways, it’s brewing. I don’t know how strong you take it but the strainer’s there for you,” he explained, pointing to the silver-plated strainer sitting on its own little plate, somewhat tarnished in colour. Yes, he’d just act as if there was nothing amiss here, that’d be fine. She’d seemed pretty engrossed so perhaps she was interested — she wouldn’t be the first student customer that he had for such material.

The golly straightened, grunting as something made an audible cracking sound somewhere in his back. Grimacing, he reached back absently to try to rub at it, thinking better of it when he felt a twinge for attempting such an exercise. Instead, he moved to tidy up the piles of papers in her immediate vicinity, turning each one’s starkly printed cover page obliquely so that it would be easy to tell them apart within a large stack. The covers weren’t obscene or anything but the heavy strokes of the blocky letters did convey something of the subject matter; the titles were supposed to be evocative.

“Sorry, there’s more room for paper in here than people. I’m not used to guests and this room is… well, it’s got this awful floral scent and I’ve tried airing it but it’s off-putting, innit? I don’t know how my mother managed it but it’s a bit like- You know if you have something die somewhere and it’s left there until it goes a bit runny and- well, anyway, dead things leave a lingering stench even if you scrub every-fucking-thing. No dead flowers in here but it sure as Lady seems like all the ones in Vita have departed in here. Gets worse in the heat.”

PJ tucked a stack under his arm, keeping it wedged there awkwardly while he flicked ash into an almost overflowing ashtray on the table. He took a long drag, shuffling across to more papers on another chair to add to mounds there instead. Once the pages had been deposited, he thrust open the window and made a show of breathing in deeply, the cigarette held out to the side for a moment.

“Ah! Fresh air!” he exclaimed, wisps of smoke swirling on his breath. He shuffled back over to her. “That’s one improvement anyway. I’ll just get a few more of these out of your way — give you a little breathing room, ahaha.”

The oily smirk had returned, worsened by the smouldering stub that he clamped in his teeth, his lips moving strangely around it in something like a snarl.

“Truth be told, I forgot I had all this in here and like as not, you didn’t know what to expect but I’m glad that you managed to keep yourself entertained in my absence,” the man chortled, winking at her once more before leaning past her to stub his cigarette out.

“It’s fair useless spitch, mind but it sells well ‘round about the university and I ain’t one to choose art over money, specially when young ones are clamouring for it. I do have better stuff though. … if you’re interested.”

The galdor paused significantly, tilting his head down so that his glasses slid a little way down his nose, leaving him nearly regarding her over their rims. His eyebrows cocked up his forehead as he considered her with interest, wondering what she’d say.

Maybe she’d get all offended and storm out. It wouldn’t be good for business but it would be entertaining.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

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

Having recently turned twenty, Chrysanthe had a fairly good understanding of what it was that occurred in bedrooms. Amaryllis had gently sat her down a few years earlier and explained, simultaneously direct and indirect in her discussion of the subject. Chrysanthe had, naturally, understood a good deal already by then; she had been a rather voracious reader since girlhood, and had never shied away from a book just because she had been told it was inappropriate.

In the intervening years, of course, Chrysanthe had had a variety of friends have their own intimate experiences, which fell into something of a vast range. She knew enough to say it didn’t interest her; the few kisses she’d had had been either dry and unpleasant or wet and even more unpleasant, and not at all like the melting descriptions she’d read in novels or the overwhelming sensations discussed by friends.

But while many of the novels she’d read had discussed bedroom matters in general, metaphorical or melting terms, she’d never come across anything that addressed it quite – quite so –

She was aware that such books existed, in a vague sort of way, but she had certainly never – there was inappropriate and there was inappropriate, and Chrysanthe was quite well aware of the difference.

Chrysanthe was also still staring. It wasn’t that she was interested, of course, only that it was very shocking. Delilah and Penelope were engaging in something she had never once read about. Chrysanthe stared; her fingertips were resting on the edge of the page, and she jerked as if to move them off, but couldn’t quite manage it. She reached up to the corner of it, trembling, a faint frown creasing her brow. She held there for quite a long moment, her breath caught in her chest, thinking that – thinking to –

She wasn’t interested, she was just -

Jenkins’ voice emerged shockingly loud from the doorway. Chrysanthe jerked back, taking two steps away reflexively; her gaze dropped to the tray as it dropped to the table, then lifted back up to the printer, staring in horror. He was chattering on about brewing and strainers, and then reached for the papers. Chrysanthe edged further away; her heart was pounding in her chest.

He started chattering on about floral scents and dead things; Chrysanthe watched him, wide-eyed, edging another half-step back into the corner of the room. She swallowed. He went over to the window and opened it vigorously, and came back. Chrysanthe edged further back, and found herself with both shoulders pressing against the wall.

He came closer again; he fairly leered at her. Chrysanthe’s face went thoroughly pink; she was staring at him. Keep yourself entertained, he said, still smirking. He winked. Chrysanthe had no idea what spitch was, and she didn’t want to know either. She drew herself up; she was taller than he was. Her breath was coming a little more quickly now, but she did her best to pretend she wasn’t in the least disconcerted by him or his interruptions.

“I am not,” Chrysanthe said, very firmly “in the least interested. I was – I was merely – shocked by the utter depravity of it,” her gaze flickered down to the papers, and then back up to the printer, who was staring curiously at her. She set her jaw and stared firmly back at him. She couldn’t remember ever feeling as she had looking at the papers before, but this – this awful fear – was very familiar.

“If you come any closer,” Chrysanthe said, “I shall – I shall scream.” She was vaguely aware of a burning tightness in her chest, and of a heat behind her eyes. “And I shall – you’ll regret it,” she said. Her voice wavered, but she meant it; she absolutely mean it. Chrysanthe was still pressed back into the corner; her gaze flickered to the door, and then back to Jenkins, who was rather between her and her escape.

[PJ Jenkins]

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

.

For as long as he could remember, PJ had used laughter to weather a great many situations. Sometimes it was about making others laugh, other times about making himself laugh so that he didn’t seem ill-affected by whatever discomfort a situation might bring him. Sarcasm had come easily to him since his early youth and flippancy had been something he’d gained fluency in before he was midway through his Brunnhold years. He’d been known to lighten otherwise tense situations, drawing an unexpected snigger from his audience but more often than not, laughter was his own personal armour. It was amazing how many bullies became uneasy and impotent when faced with mirth or mockery instead of fear or tears.

He’d been so busy being caught up in his own almost perverse enjoyment at her expense that he had been slow to read her response correctly. The way she had recoiled and shrunk had made him think that she was simply scandalised to have been caught in such a manner, utterly transfixed by literary eroticism. The declaration that she was actually shocked rather than interested was predictable, drawing an incredulous snort from him. Really, he hadn’t entered the Cycle the previous day, he’d seen and heard enough to know that the loudest dissenters were often intrigued by the very thing they condemned.

It would have been all too easy to come up with some quick quip about how mesmerised she’d been by the apparent ‘depravity’ and how she has leaped as guiltily as a maid caught with a lover betwixt her nethers. His tongue could taste the shape of the words, the no doubt bawdy and highly inappropriate retort that he could inflict on her but then she threatened to scream and that together with her body language sent a message that he regrettably understood.

The amused configuration of his face collapsed slowly, a gradual slide of destruction like a magically aided demolition.

“Ah.”

One syllable, hardly a response at all and yet carrying the clear note of comprehension and the sharp edge of something bitter. The printer wasn’t an idiot and he knew what some members of society — of his own sex in particular — could get up to in the right circumstances. At its worst, that was depravity and even at its best, it was indecency.

The galdor had had nasty bits of magic thrown at him, drinks splashed in his face, small knees connecting sharply with precious anatomy, and other means of physical assault upon his person as well as all manner of verbal abuse. He couldn’t blame anyone for thinking that he might be a bad sort of man; PJ knew that he had that kind of face and the manner to match at times.

“I can see how you’ve got the wrong idea, lass but look… Here are my hands, you can see I ain’t up to anything and see, I’m stepping back. Now I’m gonna sit and you can see that I’m at the disadvantage here, all right?”

The man retreated slowly with his hands raised and sunk gradually into one of the overstuffed armchairs in a puff of stale perfume, his field dampening almost at once as he tried to reduce any sense of threat. If he’d been a beast, he might have rolled over and exposed his belly but he didn’t believe that his companion would take too kindly to that. He might not be a beast but he could make himself small and vulnerable in other ways. His field wasn’t much of anything really, especially beside her own, hardly threatening to begin with but he dampened it anyway, making it doe-toed if their auras had reason to interact.

“Now we’ve got ourselves a misunderstanding and I should’ve seen that, I’ve got that kind of… well… I’m too coarse for a lot of gollies, it’s not news to me and I understand how that might make me seem… lecherous.”

The printer paused, the last word having come out softer, almost a whisper. The man was trying to minimise the potential disquiet that such a word might cause. He didn’t think that he could start her screaming with that word alone but he didn’t want to take chances either by blundering on in his typical cavalier way. The screaming bit could be more than a little uncomfortable, likely to leave his ears ringing although it was preferable than some of the responses he’d gotten in the past.

For most people who’d had dealings with him, it’d probably come as a shock to see him this sombre and serious now, the age in his features a little more apparent as weariness added depth to the lines and shadows of his face.

“S’pose my manner’s the like of which’ll put a young lady on her guard but uh… no offence, I wouldn’t be interested in you, lass, no matter how fine,” PJ explained slowly and deliberately, keeping his hands before him with fingers spread so she could see them, a placating gesture.

Let her think him gay if that’d suit her. It wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate and it’d allow her to assume and draw her own conclusions about his threat level, which hopefully would be that he was benign. Assumptions of that sort would be good on account of it saving him from having to explain what frankly wasn’t any of her concern.

“Ain’t your fault, you’re looking after yourself. Regrettable that you have to but you’d be the first, if not the only one, blamed for anything untoward occurring.”

Clearing his throat, the galdor lowered his hands slowly, setting them down on his thighs and gradually allowing his posture to relax. He didn’t want to look tense as if ready to spring. He just wanted them to be friends and he prayed to the whole Circle that his body language said the same. If she hurled objects that’d be one thing but he had a horrible feeling that she’d be more likely to throw a spell at him if she felt endangered and his imagination could provide all sorts of creative applications that her Static proficiency could take.

“Now… shall we start again and hope that my behaviour isn’t too much for you this time?”

The man had recalled the sample flyer she’d given him and PJ had to move slowly to retrieve it from his trouser pocket, keen not to set her off with his cautious movements. Mind you, she should be able to tell that he wasn’t going to pull anything menacing out of it. Couldn’t she see that it didn’t really hold anything?

If Chrysanthe didn’t stop him then he’d take out the paper and flatten it on the table.

“Let me see if I can pretend to be civil on account of present company,” the printer told her, hazarding a smile that still had some oiliness to it. Unfortunately, he didn’t know how to make any other smile fit on his face after all these years.

The man cleared his throat.

“Hello, I’m PJ Jenkins. Percival — Percy — if you want to insist on being especially formal. How can I be of best service to your Static Conversation Society, Miss uh… Miss?”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

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

He was smirking at her - sneering, really - and then, slowly, he wasn’t. Chrysanthe’s shoulders were pressed back into the wall, and she was trembling, although she didn’t want to be. Anger was sharp and easy but fear was even stronger.

Chrysanthe couldn’t think about it; she didn’t want to think about it. The wrong idea, he said, and she shook a little more; he settled slowly into a chair, his hands raised, and Chrysanthe stared at him from the corner. There was a heat behind her eyes, and an awful tightness in her chest, but she did not cry; she did not wish to give him the satisfaction.

Jenkins went on. He talked, and Chrysanthe watched him from the corner. Her gaze flicked away at the word lecherous, and settled back on him in time. When he said he wasn’t interested, something held very tight relaxed in her shoulders, slowly.

It wasn’t that Chrysanthe didn’t think he could be lying, but if he was, she didn’t see it. He looked almost earnest now, or he sounded it at least, and she wasn’t as sure as she had been a few minutes ago. One hand trembled tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear.

When he spoke of blame her whole face twisted; Chrysanthe blinked back tears she did not wish to shed and turned towards the light, her shoulders tensing up once more. Yes, she thought, yes; and how bitterly unfair it was.

He asked if they could start again. “Perhaps you could try being -“ Chrysanthe tried; her voice caught and quivered, and that was enough to push her over the edge into anger, “less coarse,” she pushed her hair off her face again, both long braids hanging down her back still.

He offered more civil instead; Chrysanthe watched him a moment longer. She nodded, then, slowly; she came forward a little, out of the corner, and perched herself on the edge of one of the chairs. The anger had gone; it always seemed to drain away just when she wanted it most, and what it left behind was always shame.

Chrysanthe folded her hands on her lap; she sat very straight, firmly upright, and blinked away the last of the tears not shed, looking across the room at the strange, small man, who was introducing himself now as he ought to have from the start.

“Palmifer,” Chrysanthe supplied, quietly; she looked away, and then thought better of it, and she looked squarely at him once more. “Chrysanthe Palmifer,” she added, filling in the rest of the name.

“Mr. Jenkins, I -“ Chrysanthe took a deep breath, not sure what she meant to say. He was looking at her rather earnestly, she thought. He wasn’t leering or smirking anymore, and if he hadn’t quite apologized, he’d said that he hadn’t meant it that way, and that he understood, she supposed. Was that better? Chrysanthe thought maybe it was. Her chest was still very tight, and her throat too.

Perhaps she’d meant to tell him she would find another printer, one whose behavior didn’t come across so - lecherous. But Chrysanthe knew that lechery could lurk beneath the surface. It was like some kind of horrid riddle: what was worse, the appearance of lechery or the truth of it? Except that Chrysanthe did not need to puzzle it out, anymore; she knew the answer.

Her gaze dropped to the bit of paper on the table, now more creased than it had been, but still legible. Chrysanthe glanced back up at the printer, who was still gazing at her rather steadily. It didn’t seem fair to have to give a man credit for being understanding, but then - many weren’t. Chrysanthe took a deep breath.

The world wasn’t fair, she thought grimly, looking at it head on. At least they both seemed to know it.

“Mr. Jenkins,” Chrysanthe began again, because long enough had passed that she thought it appropriate. “In the past, we have printed two hundred copies, which has proved suitable for the purposes of hanging and handing out to targeted audiences. If you,” her gaze did flicker down now, and then back up, and she met squarely, too, her own behavior, “should still like to take on the commission,” Chrysanthe said evenly, “then we should be glad for you to arrange the flyer as a proof, and to proceed with the printing. It would be best if the copies can be delivered to Brunnhold, but we would understand the necessity of a surcharge to cover such costs, and have budgeted such that it could be managed.”

She had gotten through all of it without her voice quivering. It had not been so bad, once she started. Now, Chrysanthe thought, came the hard part. She looked directly at Mr. Jenkins once more, and went on. “I’m sorry that I misjudged you,” Chrysanthe said, quietly but firmly. She didn’t stumble or stutter there, either. She didn’t offer explanations or a defense; she thought she might rather die, and certainly that she would rather go elsewhere.

There was nothing to do, Chrysanthe thought, back still straight, but to keep going.

[PJ Jenkins]

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

.

PJ had tried to give her every assurance — verbal and paralingual — that he meant her no harm but she was slow to accept it. The printer thought he’d sounded earnest enough — not that he’d been faking it — but she was slow to trust him. Maybe she was right to be overly cautious, maybe she’d had poor experiences with this kind of thing, an avenue of thought that he couldn’t help pursuing when he saw the way her face twisted at the mention of blame.

The young woman didn’t appear to be afraid anymore, ire rising from inside her to restore her previous upright carriage. He’d hazard a guess that she used anger in much the same way that he used humour and laughter. It was easier to forge armour with that kind of fire, he imagined, but he wondered if it was as thin as what he could conjure up; probably given how rapidly it had been manufactured.

Yes, he thought they might have more in common than this one would be willing to believe. PJ had no doubt that if he made such a comparison that she’d take it very ill indeed. He refrained from pointing it out, even as something in him itched to do it so that she’d stop being quite so rigid.

The man wasn’t particularly keen on having to restrain himself, especially as he’d spent so many years pushing back against having norms imposed on him, trying to shape him into a mould that he absolutely didn’t want to fit. Not that he’d ended up his authentic self after all his rebellion, he just had fewer masks that fit well in galdori society. The only real issue was that many galdori — especially in Muffey — were too uptight rather than him being particularly noxious. After all, he got on quite well with ‘lower’ company because they didn’t tend to detest him being coarse.

The smile on his face grew a little more wooden at her sharp remark about his manner, something which felt like a chastisement. Gods, she reminded him of the fussy old maids who’d once taken tea here who always had something to nitpick about his behaviour or his appearance. It was a queer parallel to draw given that she was far younger and looked nothing like those busybodies. The faces of those harridans still put him in mind of a trout that had been made to taste lemon and even he could tell that this lass was pretty.

He forced a laugh, trying to be good-natured about her response, even if he didn’t feel that way right now.

“Ah, I can’t do that! You might as well ask me to cut off my leg! Actually, more’n likely I could part with my leg more readily ‘cuz it isn’t really important to my pers’nal’ty. Be like cutting off my nose t’ spite my face? Yeah, sounds more like it; I’d have trouble with my glasses if I had no nose!”

Undoubtedly, it wasn’t the sort of response she’d expected — or hoped for — but it had been a natural one for him, provoking a more genuine guffaw this time that also left him feeling as if he had something lodged in his throat. The printer coughed, landing another one of those hard, thumping blows to his chest and cleared his throat with the sound of a cat about to puke. After his phlegmatic rattle, the galdor smiled apologetically while thinking that this was definitely one of those times where it was better to keep it in than let it out

She’d perched herself on one of the chairs, keeping her distance and maintaining an attitude of mistrust and perhaps some disapproval — maybe the last was just her face. That sort of resting expression could be quite handy in a number of professions, especially as someone’s boss, and he mused idly on her chosen career path; he didn’t doubt that she had one picked out and planned already.

“Miss Palmifer,” he repeated, making a queer gesture with his fingers as if dipping the brim of an invisible hat. It was all the more absurd because he didn’t have a forelock to tug on account of his slicked back and receding hairline.

“Chrysanthe? It’s not short for- Nah, nevermind, even if you were named for a flower, it’s not my business and it’s not as if it has any bearing on well… anything. You shouldn’t judge anybody by their name — I ought to know, even though I don’t use my real one.”

In spite of what he’d said, he couldn’t shake thoughts of ‘Chrysanthemum’ from his mind and while he didn’t judge her, he sure as shit judged her parents. Who had decided that women should be given names associated with delicate, ephemeral beauty? Men weren’t given ‘pretty’ names but society was meant to take them seriously. Clock the Circle, even if they hadn’t named her for the flower, it was too damned close and there were probably some who got an unpleasant surprise if they’d heard the name before they met its owner.

The notion made him snigger inwardly. He’d love to see that unfold, someone discovering that instead of some simpering beauty, they had a young woman with a great deal of spine. Must have been reinforced with something with how rigidly she was sitting, ahaha!

It was nice to see that she hadn’t been bridled by an ill-chosen name as well as saddled with one.

“Really, PJ would be-” he cut off with a sigh.

Civil. Civil meant being polite and respectful, which meant some degree of formality. No doubt she wouldn’t want him calling her by her first name and probably wouldn’t like to use his in light of that. They should be on an equal footing or some bollocks. Alioe guide him, this was why he hated all this contrived chroveshit. He had no qualms calling her by her surname, even if she called him PJ but gods, how he hated the stuffy sound of ‘Mr. Jenkins.’

Just grit your teeth and sell this. Remember it’s all about the money.

Deep breath and get his priorities straight.

“Two hundred copies… not too tall of an order, especially once the type is set. Setting the type is the most time-consuming part, you understand. You’ve got to set each letter, each space, each bit of punctuation — all back-to-front of course — and make sure everything will be legible; it can’t be too cramped.”

Sucking thoughtfully on a tooth, his eyes narrowed behind his spectacles, considering the sample flyer closely as he mentally laid out the various pieces of metal.

“Obviously, it’d be handiest for me to set out the type once and print the lot but that wouldn’t be fair. No sense in printing out two hundred copies and not have you approve of it after all. If you were willing, I could set the type today and print an example for you. I don’t know if you’d be in a position to make a judgement call on behalf of your group but even if you aren’t, it’d be faster to send an example back with you.”

The flyer was set down on the table while the man scooped up his tea, sitting back a bit more comfortably and allowing one foot to rest against the calf of the other leg. He slurped some of the brew and smacked his lips appreciatively before remembering that he was supposed to be on his best behaviour.

“‘Scuse me! As I was saying, I could do it today — now — and you could get a sense of how I work — how it all works — and go from there. I’m certainly interested. All I need to know is exactly when you’d need them for and… if you’d be interested in some larger copies? For hanging purposes, maybe even commemorative — I know some societies like to keep mementoes of noteworthy events.”

Yes, this was it. This was how he’d sell it. A bit of a favour. This was how you undercut your competition.

“It’d involve setting out all the type again, albeit larger, but that’s easier in some ways because it’s less fiddly. I’d be willing to do it at no extra cost. Five copies and if you wanted more than that… well, we could negotiate something,” the galdor explained, his field warming slightly, victory seemingly at his fingertips. Maybe he was getting a bit ahead of himself but damnit, PJ could taste it. There might have been a gleam within the pond water murk of his eyes, or it might have been an odd reflection of his spectacles.

He had this.

“Your thoughts, Miss Palmifer?”