Back Ways to Blessings of Hulali's, The Stacks
The laughter trickled off with the last of the adrenaline, leaving Niccolette dizzier than before, but smiling, too, soft golden joy seeping from her into the air for a few moments. When Jean came close, Niccolette knew, he would be able to feel it, the living mona of her field mingling comfortably and easily with the mona of his. She laughed one last time, and straightened herself a little, brushing at her cobwebbed skirts with a little sulking pout, although it did not last.
“Yes, you may, Mr. De Silver,” Niccolette lifted her chin, and settled her arm through Jean’s, for all the world as if she did not have a crown of cobwebs and a smear of dirt across her cheek, a line like a dab of fire along the high curve of her cheekbone. Her field settled back down, the golden shift flickering softly away, leaving her indectal once more, but that sense of friendly mingling never faded, Niccolette’s field comfortably and companionably intertwined with Jean’s own.
It was almost harder to walk with her arm threaded through Jean’s, but Niccolette thought she managed quite admirably. They made their way back through the narrow twisting streets, weaving from side to side, stumbling each of them more than once, but never quite falling. Niccolette did not mind letting Jean lead; she had long since left behind the streets she knew, and even when they returned to a familiar, bustling area, Niccolette did not force it.
The only time she hesitated was at the door of the shop, looking up at the flowing script above the door. Niccolette looked down, fixed her gaze on Jean. She grimaced, and brushed the cobwebs from herself with a flick of her hands, pushed her hand back up, and off her shoulders, straightened her back, setting her chin. Then she made her way into the shop.
“Sana’hulali, Niccolette!” The man behind the counter was a Mugrobi galdor, short and slender, and he leaned forward against it, grinning at her, soft clairvoyant mona thrumming through his field. “Dom’bali?”
“Sana’hulali, Erhue,” Niccolette said, cheerfully. She added something in Mugrobi, pleasant and lilting, a snatch of a phrase like a bit of music.
Erhue responded in the same language, gesturing to the door behind her, the name ‘Uzoji’ tucked amidst the syllables that flowed from his tongue.
“No,” Niccolette said, switching abruptly to Estuan, and glancing back over her shoulder at Jean. “No, he is flying this weekend,” she shrugged. “This is a friend of mine, Jean De Silver,” Niccolette gestured at him with one hand. “Jean, this is Erhue pez Eserove.”
“Ma’ralio, Jean,” Erhue grinned at Jean as well, revealing slightly small white teeth, gleaming in his dark face. His head, like that of so many Mugrobi, was shaved bare; Niccolette thought it was not so handsome a shape as Uzoji’s. “Pleased to meet you, that is,” he explained, cheerfully. “Kofi, then?”
“Ea, domea domea,” Niccolette grinned at him. "For two."
Erhue chuckled and grinned back, affectionately.
Niccolette went to a seat at the side window, not thinking to let Jean lead; she tucked herself back against the wall, settling into a cushion, her eyes closing for a long moment. It was a table half-hidden from the counter and the rest of the shop, set distant enough to be comfortably, private; it was almost more like a ledge against a window into the alley with a table between than a table itself, with space for either occupant to sit cross-legged – if, of course, they were not in skirts.
Niccolette settled now faintly-dirty hands onto the table, and sighed, looking back at Jean with the faintest hint of a challenge on her face. “You may ask, if you like,” she said, drumming her fingers against the table. She still felt rather drunk, but some of the pleasantness had worn off, and her field had withdrawn a little from his – not disengaged totally, still maintaining a gentle caprision between them, but not quite so friendly as it had been. She did not look at him long, turning instead to study the window – the reflect of their faces and the warm lights of the coffee shop in the glass, the faint glimmer of life streaming past beyond.