[Mature] My Color Comes Back

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Too much, too fast. Aurelie knew better than Ana that her sister's warning hadn't, quite, been in vain. It had irked her, so she had done it anyway. But Aurelie was no drinker, not even when the rare illicit opportunity arose, and she had eaten very little that day besides. She was just--it made her feel like a child, being warned about her own limits. Finding them so near didn't make her feel any better at all.

Aurelie slumped against the bed, or tried. She had come to apologize to her sister, to beg her to understand. If she wanted to. She thought--Aurelie didn't know what she thought. There was no room for the apology now, no matter what Ana said. Not with Niccolette there, at least, her presence feeling bigger than the little room. Aurelie wasn't quite sure why the Bastian woman made her so nervous. She hadn't done or said anything in particular in this moment to set Aurelie's nerves on edge. Yet they had been, the moment she had walked into the room and saw her there.

Perhaps, Aurelie thought dourly to herself, her face scrunching up without her notice or permission, it was just that proximity to two ladies--real ladies, real people--made her too keenly aware of what she wasn't. Ana was quite enough to deal with; Aurelie was well-practiced in feeling inferior to her. Niccolette was not her sister. The very idea made her want to laugh; she restrained herself.

Ana had gone to light the fire with a pat to her head some time ago. Getting up to help would probably be wise. Aurelie remained where she was. Her eyes almost drifted closed. She was very, very tired. More than she had been in a few days, if not longer.

What she really wanted, she thought, was to have someone to talk to. To spill out all the thoughts about her sister, the fight, everything--dump them out onto the ground so she could neaten them back up again. Ground herself. It was an idle wish; there wasn't anyone like that for her. Not her roommates, certainly--she wasn't close enough to either of them. Fionn, maybe, but it was too hard to... It was difficult to arrange, and it seemed a waste of his time besides. No, she would just have to... to figure something else out. Carry on as she had been, really, since childhood.

Aurelie hadn't been watching Niccolette or her sister while she lost herself in her own small misery. The sound of her voice startled her into sitting up. The motion was too quick; Aurelie's head swam just a little. Oh this was just tremendously embarrassing, to be so wobbly from barely a glass.

Aurelie thought to nod, not trusting her voice, but remembered--no, she didn't want to do that again. "Oh! Uhm, yes, I--well not exclusively, sometimes they need--I do other things, too but... Erm. Yes ma'am, I do." She wasn't quite sure what Niccolette was looking at on her face--it wasn't, she felt, her eyes. Her hand mirrored Niccolette's gesture and she grimaced, feeling powder under her fingertips. Flour. What an absolute mess she must be.

...And on the bed. Aurelie sat up straighter then and continued to come back to a stand. She turned around, dismayed to find she had indeed tracked flour onto the linens. She'd only caught a flash if Niccolette's expression before she turned away; she wasn't quite sure what to do with the information.

What was she doing? Why had she even come, in such a state? Was she hoping to prove she was exactly as hopeless as Ana already thought her to be? Dismayed, Aurelie brushed at the flour. The floor was at least a better place for it than the bed. All she seemed to accomplish was driving it further into the weave.

"I like it," Aurelie continued, her neck heating up again. She wasn't sure if Niccolette was still looking at her. That seemed likely--she was making rather a spectacle of herself, wasn't she? "Er, cooking, that is--it's. Uhm. It's nice. Not all the time," she added and though she knew she was babbling now she seemed unable to stop, "there was the accident, of course, when I--oh. Erm. Nevermind."

"There, all done. See, I'm not so completely helpless, hmm?" Ana returned, slightly more disheveled than before. But still pretty, Aurelie thought. It just seemed to soften the controlled edges of Ana's appearance. How she managed that trick, Aurelie wasn't quite sure. If it was in their blood, that particular ability had skipped her. Aurelie just looked--looked a slattern. Still she smiled at Ana, who brushed what Aurelie could only assume was more flour off of her shoulder. How she managed to get so much on herself today was a mystery--normally, she thought, she kept a little tidier. She had been out of sorts during dinner service, she supposed. After... well. After.

"What accident, Birdie?" Ah. So Ana had heard. Those gold eyes looked at her with concern. Aurelie couldn't meet them. She looked from her sister and back to Niccolette, then to the floor. She shook her head. It was, she thought despairingly, not really a story worth telling.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 15 Dentis, 2719
Ana's Room, Brunnhold Campus

Aurelie had sat up rather quickly from where she had been flopped out onto the bed, and then wobbled faintly. Niccolette had not quite smiled at the gesture; she gauged the girl thoroughly tipsy, and without the long experience in such endeavors which told one how to behave. Her hand followed Niccolette's gaze and hand, and she made a face, brushing somewhat effectively at the flour on her cheek.

Her gaze went down to the bed, and then she brushed at the flour smeared there, although really the pale white stain only seemed to get worse.

Niccolette took another sip of wine, watching.

I like it, Aurelie said.

NIccolette lifted her eyebrows at that. There was a splotch of red creeping up along the back of the girl’s neck once more, faint patches of it on her cheeks; she was blushing. She clarified, and then doubled back, just a bit, as if to try and explain.

Good for you, Niccolette thought, rather unexpectedly. She could not have said where it came from, that thought; she could not have said why she felt it. She drank the last of her wine, and settled it back on the table. She lifted the bottle with both hands, her left emerging from the blanket once more, and poured herself another half-glass. She set the bottle back down, glancing back over at Aurelie at the word accident.

There, Ana said; there was a glow in the fireplace now, warm soft light. Niccolette rose; she crossed the room, and settled down opposite the grate that Ana had tugged into place, sitting on the floor. She had the blanket with her, draped over one arm, and she settled it over her legs. The Bastian breathed deep, feeling the warmth of the flames; she closed her eyes, for a moment, letting it lap against pale cheeks. Her lips, too, had lost a bit of color; she ran her tongue over them lightly.

The wine she set down next to her on the floor next to the carpet. Her legs were tucked next to her side now, although still covered; the firelight gleamed in her hair, and her eyes, when she looked back up at the bed. She breathed in once more, deeply, and exhaled carefully. Her fingers tingled, at the ends, and Niccolette clasped them together, one of top of the other, in the folds of the blanket.

What accident, Ana asked; Niccolette looked at the two sisters sitting on the bed. She would not, she thought, have said there was much of a resemblance. Perhaps she did see it, looking up; perhaps she had heard it, Niccolette thought, in the quiet pronouncement from Aurelie.

“You saw my scar, I think,” Niccolette said, casually, as comfortable discussing it as she had been when it had first been uncovered. She unclasped her hands; she picked up her wine glass again. The firelight filtered through the dark red liquid, glinted. She glanced down at it, and at the light on the edge of her ring. “It was not quite an accident, but we can make a trade, if you like, all the same,” she looked back up at Aurelie, sitting on the bed next to Ana; she raised her eyebrows, lightly, and took a sip of wine.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

What had even made her mention that? Aurelie resisted the urge to clutch at the front of her uniform. Wine was not really something she should have. Ana had been right, just not for the reasons she likely had assumed. Aurelie already talked too much when she was nervous. Alcohol loosening her tongue did nobody any favors.

Ana was still looking at her. Niccolette got up and crossed to the fireplace. The room should have felt warmer. It didn't. No more than her sister's hand placed on her arm felt like much of a comfort. This was--nobody ever asked about it. Only the very smallest of them had nothing to show for all their years here. Besides, it was a boring story.

Aurelie found that she didn't know what to make of Niccolette's offer of a trade. So casual, so comfortable. As if they would be discussing the weather, or an interesting summer holiday. She wavered. If she were pressed, she would have to admit that it was less out of interest in sharing her own story--especially not with her sister--than it was because she wanted know about Niccolette's. A strange sort of anxiousness crept over her.

"It--it really isn't a very... It's not a very i-interesting story, or... or anything like that." Something made her straighten her spine, a flash of black humor. "No l-lurid tales of abuse or anything, if that's what you..." Just as suddenly as it had come, the mood left her. She looked to Ana, but her face was unreadable and strange.

"F-fine then. Yes, a... a trade." Aurelie hesitated. Was she meant to speak first? She didn't think so. Still, she stepped just a bit away from her sister, towards the table. Outside of the comfort of her touch, afraid that if she leaned into it too much she might get carried away. Niccolette may very well have been as comfortable with the discussion as she seemed to be, but Aurelie was firmly not. At least she could comfort herself with the knowledge that neither of them would have to see it. Ana wouldn't have to see it. Aurelie found herself desperate to convince her sister that life here had not been so terrible as all that, after all. Lonely, surely, but not too terrible.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 15 Dentis, 2719
Ana's Room, Brunnhold Campus

Niccolette took a sip of her wine as she waited for Aurelie’s answer. She glanced up at Ana; she could not quite tell what to make of the other woman’s face.

Ana had not asked; Niccolette should have been rather offended if she had, if that had sufficiently occupied her mind in the moment to do so. She wondered if she might have, later. Niccolette knew it was striking; Uzoji’s fingers had been loosely apart against her side, not splayed wide but not tight together either. His smallest finger had rested close to her hip bone; his thumb, pointed slightly away from the rest, curled up and over her lower ribs.

She could have traced his life line in that hand; she wondered if the truth of what would become of him had been there, in the scar, all along, and dismissed it in the next moment as superstition.

All the same, Niccolette looked solidly at Ana. There had been a time when she had fought against being the widow; when she had pushed back again it, rebelled, lost herself in whatever was at hand, and shoved it away until it caught her – like a wave, drawing back only to crest and break over her once more, and drown her in its depths. Now, it felt more like an uneasy truce; she knew what she was, Niccolette thought, feeling oddly tired, whatever else she was too.

Did Ana?

But Aurelie was the one who had asked. Niccolette raised her eyebrows once more at the phrase lurid tales of abuse, and took another sip of wine. When Aurelie agreed, she nodded; she set the wine glass aside once more.

Niccolette shifted; she set her feet into the rug, and draw her knees up, resting her arms atop them, still well-covered by the blanket. She waited, a moment, in case Aurelie felt inclined to begin, but the girl was staring at her, wide-eyed, and Niccolette could take her cue well enough, when she chose to do.

“It was just shy of four years ago,” Niccolette said. Her thumb traced, slowly, over the ring on left hand, sliding back and forth over the smooth metal. “It should have been like any other night,” the Bastian said with a faint grimace. “I was with my husband; we were attacked.”

“He was stabbed,” Niccolette said. “Twice, in the chest.” The fire crackled next to her; a log popped behind the grate, and a shower of sparks scattered and hissed against the grate. “I am a living conversationalist,” she looked at Aurelie. “Do you know what that means?”

Niccolette nodded. She breathed in deep; she went on. The fire crackled once more; something in it shifted. She found her breaths coming evenly; she found them coming in a familiar rhythm. She spoke, carefully, in the spaces between; the words shifted out through her field, her ramscott brighter and sharper than ever in the air around them.

“I kept him alive,” Niccolette said, quietly. “I held him to me – his hand to my chest. When my hands went numb, I caught his arm with mine, and pressed it against my side. This,” she shifted; her legs settled down, and shifted to the side again, and her hand settled onto her side through the nightgown, finding the contours of the scar without needing to look, “I carry with me from that night.” She looked at Ana now, for a moment, and then away. Niccolette’s lips pressed together, tightly, and softened.

Niccolette looked back at Aurelie; she smiled, or close enough. “Your turn,” she said, and let go of herself. She picked up her wine once more, and took another drink.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Niccolette looked to Ana first, even though it had been Aurelie who had asked. Aurelie who had the story to bargain with. A strange kind of bargain, trading tales of scars. Once again Aurelie wondered at just what the nature of her sister's friendship was with Niccolette, and how long it had been this way. It sat uneasy in her mind.

Aurelie didn't know what to say, if she were to go first. Luckily Niccolette didn't seem to expect her to. She shifted in her chair and set her glass to one side and began. Aurelie didn't know what she had expected--she didn't know either of them, really, very well at all. She sucked her breath in a little; beside her Ana did the same. Aurelie didn't look at her sister's face; it seemed rude to look away from Niccolette now.

Twice? Stabbed? She wasn't sure, not fully, if she had the right person, if this was Uzoji's wife. Fairly certain, of course. There were only so many Bastian women named Niccolette her sister could possibly know, really. Aurelie wished, suddenly, that she was less sure than she was. The story was terrible enough. She liked it even less about someone she knew, who had been a strange sort of friend. And yet--and yet he had to have lived, she knew, because she had met him after. It took a little of the horror out of the story when she already knew something of the ending.

Enough that while she nodded in response to the question about living conversationalists, some part of her was irritated. Just a little part, and in the back of her mind. Had the story been less horrifying, Aurelie would have rolled her eyes. Just where was it did Niccolette think living conversationalists were trained in Anaxas? Did she really think that every single one of the passives who cleaned the classrooms of living conversationalists, who did the laundry and made dinner and generally looked after those living conversationalists had no ears for even the most basic of facts? Well, Fionn had asked her something similar--perhaps it wasn't fair to think particularly ill of Niccolette for the question.

Something shifted as Niccolette went on, and Aurelie forgot her irritation easily enough. Lost it in the careful words, in the sudden sharpness of the air. Aurelie's eyes went to Niccolette's hand on her side. She didn't have to look at Ana to know her sister did the same. Her field changed not at all. Aurelie wondered. Now she did look to her sister. Ana's eyes were fixed firmly on Niccolette. Whatever she felt about the story, Aurelie couldn't have said. Her expression was frozen and unreadable. Not unkind, or--Aurelie didn't know. She just didn't know.

"Your turn."

That brought her back to herself with a guilty little start. That's right--this was an exchange. A trade. Whatever her sister and Niccolette had or didn't have or wanted or--it was none of Aurelie's business. None at all.

Aurelie moved to sit next to the little table. She had no more of the wine; that had been plenty, really. She opened her mouth, then shut it again with an audible snap. There was something embarrassing about following such a story with her own little anecdote. Nervous green eyes skipped to Ana, who moved to sit on the bed once more. Now she did allow herself to fuss with the bracelet at her wrist. Whatever Ana thought, she could... could keep it to herself. Ana was no more entitled to an opinion on her private life than Aurelie was to hers, right? Yes. She chewed a corner of her lip and frowned.

"It's not--not nearly so. Uhm. I'm very sorry to hear--I'm glad you were both alright, in the end," Aurelie said softly. She couldn't look at either of the other women as she gathered her thoughts, trying to decide how much to say. The facts, she thought. Just the facts of the story.

"The--it was just. Ah. Well the thing was that. I was twelve, and uhm. Small. Smaller, rather, even than I am now," she smiled at her own thin little joke. "I tried to pick up something--a. A pot, that was full of boiling... I suppose it was water, I don't really remember. I wasn't careful enough. Splash!" One hand waved weakly for effect; she coughed and put it back down.

"Uhm, I was fine. Obviously. Er." Aurelie looked at her sister. Her fingers were gripping the sheets next to her, though her face was smooth. Concerned, but in the way Aurelie remembered was sort of a lie. Not fully, just--the prettiest version of the truth. "It wasn't... I just, ah. I went back to work, after. Just uhm." Now her hand did move to her chest, just for a moment. She shrugged her shoulders.

"Was a healer--no. Don't answer, Birdie, I think I already know." Ana wasn't looking at her, but to a space somewhere beyond her. Her eyes were bright and hard. Suddenly they snapped to her face, and the smoothness was gone. It was fire, all of it. "That should not have happened. No--don't argue with me, dearest, don't. This is why--don't you see, this is why you have to come home with me. How can I leave you here, to this--"

For a moment even Aurelie could feel the shift in her sister's field. A pulse of feeling strong enough even for someone as generally unperceptive as her to pick up on. Aurelie shrank back a little from it, more out of habit than genuine fear. That seemed to bring Ana back to herself; the fire dimmed though did not go out. Her shoulders fell. Then, to Aurelie's absolute horror, a tear slipped out of her sister's eye, soon to be joined by another. Her fierce, bright sister, crying over a silly story nearly ten years past, now. Aurelie didn't know what to do. For lack of any better ideas, she held out her arms. Ana paused just a moment before she came over and crushed Aurelie to her. Aurelie couldn't tell if the older Steerpike was still crying, but they stayed like that just the same.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 15 Dentis, 2719
Ana's Room, Brunnhold Campus

Niccolette let go of her side, in time; she settled her hands back against her thighs, resting them on the blanket. The fire was crackling steadily; there was a warm, ready blaze close enough to wash over her; the carpet was warm enough beneath her, and she was more comfortable sitting on the floor than she had been cold in the chair. The grate cast strange shadows over her white slip, over the blanket and the carpet too, and Niccolette breathed in the smell of the smoke which trickled out into the room.

She was aware of a remembered tightness in her chest; the scar had not, of course, been the only part of that night which had lingered. She had woken the next day, confused, terrified, breathless and fieldless; the pain on her side had been the least of it. And yet, Niccolette thought, idly, it was the only part which had lasted; four years later, and her field was stronger than ever before; four years later, and she no longer suffered from breathlessness when overcasting.

She would carry the scar forever, Niccolette thought; she had known that from the moment she felt Uzoji’s hand burning into her side. She could not read the expression on Ana’s face; she supposed it did not matter, not really.

Aurelie said that she was glad they were both all right; Niccolette glanced up at her, and said nothing. She reached for the wine glass, and curled her fingers around the stem, resting the base on her leg; she looked down at it, and twitched her fingers, swirling the liquid, gently enough that it did not jump to the rim.

Niccolette looked back up when the passive began her story. Twelve, she thought, listening. She raised her eyebrows. Boiling water splashed onto her chest; scalding, Niccolette thought, clinically. She studied the passive, thoughtfully. She saw no stiffness in the motion of the girl’s head or shoulders, no restriction in the chest. The injury must have been – nearly a decade ago? Niccolette thought. Almost certainly a second degree burn, the living conversationalist thought. If the girl was unlucky, and the damage had extended deep enough into the skin to scar, it might not have hurt – it would have, initially, of course. But deeper burns were most commonly more a sense of pressure and discomfort.

The deepest burns – the most dangerous – were often painless.

Come home with me, Ana said.

Niccolette turned her gaze from Aurelie only then. She didn’t lift her eyebrows this time, but she felt the pulse of strong emotion in Ana’s field; anger, perhaps, or else determination. There was no colorshift, no clear way to tell them apart. The two sisters were embracing, then. Niccolette said nothing; she drew no attention to herself. She stayed curled on the carpet opposite the fire; she took a small, silent sip of her wine, and looked away, into the flames.

[caporushes]

15th of Dentis, 2719 - Too Late Entirely
Ana's Room, Brunnhold Campus

Lilliana Steerpike was not a woman given to tears. Not in the normal course of things, that is. In the normal way of things, however, she was not often told in such blunt terms two stories that should upset her in this way. More Aurelie's than Niccolette's, she would admit. But that didn't seem too terribly out of place; one was clearly the more serious incident. And the other involved her own blood.

Ana hadn't known what to expect, when she asked. Not this exchange, this--Ana didn't know what. She was, really, quite out of her depth with all of this. Niccolette had glanced at her, more than once. Whatever for, Ana wasn't sure. This anecdote changed nothing. She knew Niccolette Ibutatu for a widow. Had they not agreed to not mention the topic only that morning? The knowledge that she had very nearly been a widow before Ana had ever met her changed nothing at all.

But that was small concern, wasn't it? Less than Aurelie's story, told with so little ornamentation. Twelve! Barely bigger than when Ana had seen her last. Just a child. Ana felt a failure, hearing that story. If she had argued better--if she hadn't left for Anatsou--

Was there anything she could have done? Had she failed Aurelie, in the end?

No. No, it wasn't she who had failed her sister. It was the whole rest of the world who had let her down. Mother and Father, the University. Vita itself. Ana wasn't sad then, she was only angry. And determined. This, this was what she was here for! This is why she had spent so many fruitless hours in Brunnhold's library, in law offices across Vienda before she met with Mr. Shrikeweed. The reason for the house in Muffey. Nobody else could be trusted with her sister's care. The fire of her righteousness had been what flashed through her field, showed on her face, before Aurelie had shrunk back from it and Ana had just cried instead.

She regained her composure quickly enough. It was, she thought, one thing to fall apart in front of her baby sister. It was quite another to do it with Niccolette in the room. The whole evening had gone so very sideways. Gently she drew back, straightened herself up. That sharp Steerpike chin lifted once more, and she smiled down at her sister.

"Nothing like that will ever happen to you again," she swore. Ana didn't know why Aurelie looked so troubled. Her hands were clutched to Ana's forearms. Her throat worked as if she were swallowing something bitter, and she sighed. She withdrew her hands--oh the state of her nails--to fold them on her lap, before one came to worry at that bracelet. Ana bit back the urge to frown. That might be troublesome, later. She made a note of it.

"It was fine, Ana. Really. Just a sc--it was fine." Ana knew what that word would have been. This, too, she didn't press on. Almost like she was afraid of talking to her sister. Absurd. Aurelie's eyes went wide, suddenly. A changeable creature, this new Aurelie.

"I should--I can't be, I can't be out too late, or missing too long, or... I'm sorry, I ruined your. Uhm. Your. Evening. Er." Those bright green eyes, just like their father's, flicked back and forth between herself and Niccolette. As if she weren't sure who to apologize to first. Ana smiled indulgently.

"It's quite alright, darling. There are always--" Ana paused, unsure if she could finish the statement in truth. She looked sideways at the Bastian then, seated in front of the fire. A shame Aurelie's timing had been so poor. Ana looked away again, back to Aurelie. "There can always be other evenings. But please, sit here a moment. I will dress and walk you back, hmm? I can't let you go by yourself in such a state. And I can explain to anyone who asks that you were with me. It will all... It will all be alright." If she meant more than this evening, she didn't say.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 15 Dentis, 2719
Ana's Room, Brunnhold Campus

Niccolette did not turn to look. There was no avoiding, really, the other half of the room; it was rather small for that. Ana and Aurelie came apart, just a little.

Just a scar, Aurelie started to say, and faltered.

Yes, she thought, idly. Common enough, through clothing; the uniform might well have trapped the heat against the skin. Deep enough into the skin not to hurt too much; deep enough into the skin to stay with her, forever.

Niccolette could not have said whether her scar had hurt. She remembered the evening very well; she could have recited the words of the spell she had cast, every one, each careful piece of tempering she had woven into the stabilization spell. She could remember the feeling of Uzoji’s blood against her hands, and the faint whuff of his breath against her palm, as he had kissed it; she remembered the odd giddiness that had overtaken her as she had cast, the urge to giggle mid-spell, and how she had borne sternly through it, and all of the mona’s other warnings signs.

She remembered; she had felt it, she supposed. She remembered it as heat, and pressure; she remembered numb hands and half-numb arms and a sudden surge of feeling on her side. But pain? She did not remember pain.

Niccolette took another drink of wine, swirling the last of what remained. She watched the firelight through the grate, light and heat dancing against the metal. When Aurelie mentioned their evening, the Bastian glanced up. Ana caught her eye for a moment, and looked away without lingering.

Niccolette smiled, faintly; she understood.

Niccolette finished the last of her wine, curled up beneath the blanket before the fire, as Ana made her plans. She glanced up once more as the other woman went into the bathroom; only then did she rise, leaving the blanket pooled behind her. Her bare calves and feet gleamed pale in the firelight; the silky fabric of her shift glinted too.

Niccolette made her way back to the table, and set her empty glass down. She glanced up at Aurelie, sitting more than a bit tipsy on the bed. Niccolette smiled; she couldn’t have said why, not quite. It wasn’t amusement, not fully, although the sight of the younger girl drunk on a glass of wine was an amusing one. It was – perhaps – friendly.

Niccolette went to her discarded dress on the floor, heaps of wrinkled dark orange silk; she smoothed it out with her hand, and found the corset which had – somehow – ended up half-beneath it. She drew it out, and settled in across one of the chairs at the small. She sat herself at the other, legs crossed at the ankle, hands in her lap, the left beneath the right. Her index finger moved, just the faintest twitch, and slid, slowly, back and forth over her wedding ring.

Niccolette thought of Ana’s glance at her, from the bed, with Aurelie curled against her; yes, the Bastian thought. She understood very well.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Ana left the room to the small bathroom once more to dress, fully. That left just Aurelie and Niccolette again. The young woman stayed where she was on the bed, grateful for a moment to collect her head. What she really wanted was a glass of water, but that didn't seem to be a reasonable thing to ask at the moment. Well, that was fine. Likely she would just go straight to sleep after she left. Dinner seemed a remote concern; she wasn't sure she could stomach it.

No talking to Ana now, that was certain. Aurelie wasn't articulate at the best of times, and she wanted to be convincing. Needed to be convincing, because she had to still hold on to the hope that Ana could be convinced. Somehow she would make her understand that she was grateful to have Ana in her life, but... Aurelie sighed, for a moment forgetting Niccolette was still in the room. The clink of her empty glass against the little side table reminded her. Aurelie's spine stiffened. And then Niccolette had smiled at her, and it wasn't unkind. That was perhaps most confusing of all.

I'm sorry for your loss, Aurelie wanted to say to that smile, but didn't. She didn't think Niccolette knew about the newspaper clippings or the few times that she had spoken to her husband. It wasn't as if--it was more like talking to a dog or a child, but it seemed a strange sort of thing to reveal now. And it was so silly a thing to say out loud. It had felt silly enough when talking to Aremu in the garden, and he had known already. Had come--had come because of it. He had written Niccolette's name on the envelope he had given to Aurelie, but Aurelie realized with no small discomfort that she was uncertain if the Bastian knew of that, either.

It didn't matter, in the end, did it? Because she wouldn't ever use the envelope. And she couldn't say anything about the rest of it without sounding... strange. Moony, maybe, or just very silly. So that was fine. She could just sit here in silence. That was only a little awkward. Aurelie tested her will on that front for a long time, or what felt like one. Surely she could just sit here--that was usually what she did, wasn't it? Not speak? It only felt unbearable because of the circumstances. Awkwardness won out

"Er," she started to say. "Uhm..." No, silence was the way to go after all. Aurelie tried not to close her eyes, suddenly tired. Fortunately for the both of them, Ana reappeared not long after. She had dressed, less neatly than she had been that afternoon, and in a much simpler dress. But she had pulled her long hair back into a style that was at least somewhat more restrained than just leaving it unbound and falling all around her, and seemed to have washed her face.

"Birdie, why don't you take this chance to wash up, hmm? And then I can walk you back to your room. You'll feel better if you do." Ana crossed the room as she spoke. The expression on her face was so very reminiscent of their mother, asking the both of them to leave the room so she could talk to their Aunt Annaliese or Father. "The adults need to have a conversation," that's what that expression was. Aurelie wanted to fight it, but that did mean denying herself the chance to wash up. Staying filthy for the sake of starting another fight didn't seem worth it.

"Yes, ma--Ana." Oh wasn't that just mortifying. Ana didn't seem to notice, or if she had she ignored the slip. Aurelie stood once more, a final time, and awkwardly bowed at them both as she slipped into the bathroom.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 15 Dentis, 2719
Ana's Room, Brunnhold Campus

The smile did not last, not terribly long. Aurelie had looked back at her, wide-eyed, and had swallowed, silently. There had been, then, a brief period of staring; had Niccolette cared enough to find it awkward, she was sure she would have.

It was colder than she remembered on the chair; Niccolette was sorry to have lost the warmth of the fire. She considered going back to sit by it again; she regretted, at least, not bringing the blanket with her. But she sat, hands in her lap, legs crossed at the ankles, and did not rise to fetch it. She did not, either, try to stop the slow tracing of her finger against her wedding ring.

It was nothing, Niccolette knew, to the cold outside; then, at least, she would be dressed in the rumpled orange silk, with her cloak to cover it. It would be a long, cold walk back through Brunnhold; it was late, now, although she remembered her own days as a student too well to think the campus would be entirely empty. Even then, she had never worried about wandering it alone late at night; the thought of it touched her with a faint smile.

But it stretched out before her, and Niccolette found the smile fading. The long walk, she thought, through the quiet, snowy paths, across the bridge and into the Stacks, and then a few more streets, past the bright lights and brighter noise of the student haunts, to a quieter corner of the strange little raucous sliver. Up the stairs – the maid to help her undress – the rest of the night stretched out longer and colder than the cold.

She would meditate, Niccolette knew, then. She had drunk too much to cast, but she had meditated in worse states. She found she could breathe a little easier at the thought of it, even though the cold prickled bitter over every bit of bare skin, and what was covered, too, besides. She did not have her candles, nor her plot, but she understood by now that they were not the core of the ritual, not in truth. A single candle was enough; her will alone was enough.

Ana came back out of the bathroom; Niccolette looked up at her. She could nearly have smiled, although she did not. She rose herself, as well; so did Aurelie. The younger girl bowed, awkwardly, and wobbled only a little as she went into the bathroom.

“I shall need your help with the corset,” Niccolette reached for it, taking it in both hands and turning to Ana, looking down at the delicate fastenings which would hold the back together soon enough. “The rest I can manage myself.” She did not look down at the pool of orange silk curled on the other woman’s floor, nor did she think overmuch of the disappointment; there was little to be gained from it.