don’t doubt that she does,” he conceded, inclining his head. He kept his voice neutral; he met her eye, but then he took a sip of tea. He heard the taut twist underneath her airy tone. The ground beneath his feet was still slipping – everything he grabbed hold of was a raw nerve. It was these hands, this face, chewing up everything he said and spitting it out wrong. They’d got him into this mess to begin with.
He’d got to the bottom of his teacup, and the grainy, bitter dregs were cool. The teapot’s spout still coughed up a thin string of steam. Since you don’t remember, she said aloof-like, and his lips twitched into an unbidden smile. He looked at it head on, without looking away.
As Cerise went on, he bent to pour himself another cup; the effort of steadying his hand steadied the rest.
The set of her lips was the edge of a riff; the dreamy look – so out of place on her face – drained right off, and he met her chilly flat eyes again.
It should’ve been more unnerving. It was the smile of every time he’d ever looked in the mirror, watching the well-worn muscles and lines of this face pull his old smile into a different shape. But it wasn’t like looking in the mirror now, not with the cloud of thick dark hair about her head. Every inch of it was her smile, too, all riff-sharp, gleaming passion and sardonic twist. He could see the subtle differences, and what wasn’t different was – shared.
That funny butterfly-flutter again. It made him want to laugh, or maybe cry.
The curl of this spell was another point. He raised his brows, but he was smiling, a sad crooked tilt to his lips. He inclined his head again, settling back with his tea. “Reformed, my erse,” he shot back, then sighed. “I don’t know that she wants you to go into law, Cerise. Maybe –” He. He paused. “Maybe I did,” he said, “I don’t know. I think she’ll come around, and if she doesn’t…”
He shrugged, shaking his head. This sip of tea was almost too hot; he half-coughed, and his lip twisted, but he swallowed the burning tea. Talk downstairs ebbed, and there was the sound of a jingle again. The fluffy thing on the chair got to its feet, arcing its back in an indulgent stretch. Its jaws opened wide, then clicked shut. It hopped down, collar jingling, and wandered over to sit by Cerise’s feet.
“You could say it’s more challenging than fighting?” He thought, watching her. “Winning without, well – wrecking somebody. Breaking somebody’s face is easy, as long as he’s smaller than you and you know what you’re doing,” he tapped his fingernail against the rim of the cup, “but putting him down without laying a hand on him? Following all those rules? No, I can see why you like it.”
The cat sniffed at Cerise’s shoe.
I was always, he thought to say, too much a bully to be a good duelist. Not that his kind’d had dueling; the closest thing was the Rose Arena, and those weren’t rules so much as general guidelines to prevent one kov from getting scragged.
He thought, then smiled. “My chief of staff’s –” He broke off. Thinking how she’d talked earlier of him being back at work. He swallowed, wondering if he should go ahead and stuff his cravat down his throat before she did it for him. “A pugilist,” he finished, clearing his throat. “Have you ever been to a – bareknuckle match?”