[Closed] Unrepentant [Memory]

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Behind the Singing Badger
Yaris 75, 2717 - Evening

The worst part, she thought, was the disappointment she felt. That stupid, stupid disappointment, because Emiel had answered exactly as he should have. What else had she wanted? Nothing, she thought. It was just book talk. That's what she'd come here for, books in hand, the thin pretext of paying an imaginary debt laid over it so she'd have reason to start the conversation. A conversation about Fahren--because it was rare to meet someone else who had read him; not a conversation in general, because something had lingered in her mind for all these weeks since.

Well, she supposed she had hit him full in the face. That was not usually the most appealing introduction, even with all the other details left out of it. So she'd been disappointed, and that had irritated her. Interrupted, and that irritated her. And the young wick had been crass, which had irritated her even more. For all that Cerise pretended at reform, her temper did have a way of getting away from her. Hence, the bag.

Adrenaline--that was what this was, wasn't it? Cerise paid only mild attention in her introductory Living classes in lower form, but she thought that had come up. Adrenaline that burned clear and bright when she swung the bag, that gave her such a feeling of satisfaction when it connected with the younger wick's skull with a heavy thud.

Watch yerself, jent.

"Come put your money where your mouth is and make me." Cerise probably should have let sense intervene then, but she didn't. The taunt was stupid, and so was the animal growl that went with it. But there it was.

He pulled on the strap of her bag he'd managed to grasp, and she pulled back, intending to surprise him into losing his footing. The seams groaned and strained--the bag was old, and had seen better days. Cerise had not been kind to it either, weighing it down with armloads of heavy books on a regular basis. So it was no wonder that they gave up and the material tore apart. It was Cerise who lost her footing, stumbling back slightly with a snarl, still, on her face.

He raised his hand. She bared her teeth. He could hit her if he wanted--she had taken blows to the face often enough on the field. They had been accidents, and magical instead of physical, but she had taken them before and would gladly take this one if it meant she could strike back. There was no time to cast and she didn't need or want it--hell, she'd bite him if she needed to.

At some point, between the swing and the grab and the snap, Cerise had stopped paying attention to Emiel and the taller, darker wick she'd seen before. Her focus had narrowed to just the one she thought must not be much older than her, if not slightly younger. The sound of Emiel's voice made her turn her head, and he stepped between her and the hand that was coming for her face. Just a little too slow, and his shoulder jostled into her but he grabbed the wrist anyway. Hard, it sounded like.

With Emiel between her and the young delinquent, Cerise found that her momentum was broken enough for her to think. She was still agitated, her posture tense and expression sharp and wild. But Emiel said go, shoving the other one on the shoulder, and he went. A sharp spike of frustration went through her, which was stupid. She did not need to get knocked around by a willowy juvenile delinquent in an alley today, or ever. But all her energy was still coiled up and had nowhere to go now.

She heard the sound of paper being crumpled and looked down to see that when Emiel had stepped in to intervene, he'd also placed his foot on one of the books she had brought. More than the bag being torn--it was old and not particularly fashionable or even very nice--that made her angry. Not at Emiel, precisely, who had not deliberately done so, but at the situation. And at herself, for being upset that it was ruined because she had, stupidly, brought them in case he hadn't read them and wanted to. To lend. Or give, really--she didn't need them back.

It was hard to see what she was most angry at when she looked up, dark hair in an even more wild tangle now from all the commotion. Her grey eyes were bright, the edge of a knife. And then he mumbled an apology, turning towards her. Cerise blinked; the anger remained, but the adrenaline drained away. Her shoulders fell.

"I'm fine," she snapped, tone sharp. She took a breath and looked at him--there was blood on his face. When had that gotten there? The irritation shifted to concern. Cerise didn't reach out, but her fingers itched at her side. "Are--Are you?" There was a stiffness to the question, as if she wasn't used to asking that sort of thing. Which, Cerise supposed, she wasn't.

"I'm not a healer." Stating the obvious--there was no one who had ever met Cerise Vauquelin who would have thought so. She fished around in the pocket of her skirt, pulling out her handkerchief. It was not in the best of conditions, either. Cerise frowned at it--there were faded stains, here and there, from nursing her own wounds, washing it herself rather than putting it in the laundry with her other things. But it was better than nothing, and she held it out anyway. For the moment, she chose to ignore the remaining wick on the ground--that was not her problem to sort, and she didn't care in the least what happened to his face.

[Emiel Emmerson]

behind the bar

evening of the 75th of yaris, 2717

Emiel hadn't entirely been listening, his hearing drown out by the sound of his own pulse and the ringing of frustration, but he didn't miss the dark-haired galdor's taunting. Had the situation been different, had he not been wrestling with his own brother over his laoso mouth an' how Rohan's words 'd burn when he'd not wanted them to, the purple-haired wick would've snorted about it, would've had a good laugh at the thought of a lithe lil' jent chip takin' on a handful of wicks in an alley with a bag full o—

Books.

"Shit." He would've muttered a few more curses after that, too, but he ran his tongue over his upper lip instead, feeling for cracks in it and tasting the blood that dribbled from one nostril thanks to the knuckles of Ro. Suddenly aware of what he'd done to the volumes in Cerise's now-ruined satchel, Em bent to pick them up when the dark-haired young woman's voice stabbed at him, the timing almost looking as though he crumpled at her tone.

Dusting off the books (or, more precisely, accidentally smearing the covers more), his fingers traced over each of their titles in turn as he stacked them, one dark brow arching in a flicker of curiosity before it came together to meet the other one, suddenly very aware that she'd brought these novels of Fahren to the Singing Badger along with her apology. Had she wanted to share them? Discuss them? Pawn them off on him?

He grimaced as he straightened and stood up again, side sore now, annoyed. Miss Cerise Vauquelin stood there, kerchief in hand, some surprising hint of genuine concern carving itself into her aquiline features despite her own disapproving glance at the cloth square she held. Since she wasn't wiping her face with it, he realized that maybe it was for his face instead. Still, for a few awkward moments, Emiel hovered there with the books and the young student stood there with the handkerchief. Offering them to her in some kind of exchange, the purple-haired wick smirked, bloodied and roguish,

"Oes, I ent hurt that bad. Nothin' that won't heal on it's own, muj-thank you. Jus' goin' to make steppin' back into work a lil' awkward, I suppose, lookin' kinda different than how I went out. Epaemo-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

Start a fight. Get you almost hurt. Ruin your bag. Damage your books. Need your hanky.

None of those things left his mouth, all of them stuck against the back of his red-stained teeth as he, too, ignored the groans of his ersehole brother Rohan, letting the kenserface roll on the grimy alleyway cobblestones while he struggled to get up. He'd been on break too long now. Eventually someone would notice, but what would they think when they saw the scene?

"—did you—did y'bring these for me, Cerise?"

Don't shout for the Collies, he should've said. You shouldn't 've come here, he could've said. But, she'd already told him he was right and here they were.

Amber eyes drifted with reluctance from her face, taking the cloth should she give it to him to dab under his nose and at least make some effort at not looking like he'd just punched half the Stacks instead of having a smoke while still on shift,

"I mean. To look at. 'Course you wouldn't be givin' away your stuff. Well, maybe now—I read that one," His smile was quick, indicating the top book with a nod, "But ne th'other ones. Some stuff jus' doesn't show up at the used bookstores when new, an' sometimes th' folks workin' are a lil' suspicious of the spitch I want to buy. Like it's any 'f their business."

Ro was sitting up now, glaring at Emiel's back. He felt it like the ovens in the kitchen, heat crawling over his shoulders, reaching for his skull,

"Listen, if you don't want to, if you'd rather not—I get it. Apparently, we jus' need to work on your swing instead 'f drink anyway, eh?" It was a way out, a way to escape, should the dark-haired galdor want nothing more than to do the proper thing and go. For good this time, books and all. He couldn't help it, however, adding in that coy invitation, that subtle compliment smooth like First Light poured into a fluted glass.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Behind the Singing Badger
Yaris 75, 2717 - Evening

Cerise couldn't see if the books were still readable or not. Emiel had bent to pick them up and wiped rather ineffectually at the covers, mostly managing to move the dirt around rather than actually remove any of it. She felt that little spike of irritation again, and she couldn't tell which one of them she was more upset with. It didn't really matter to her what happened to them--she could replace them with new copies, if she wanted. So the actual state of them in the end wasn't what mattered. What did matter, then, was her intentions with having brought them at all.

It was all so, so stupid. She shouldn't have done it, any of it. Nobody in their right might would have expected Cerise Vauquelin to read the book she had so casually smashed into the side of Emiel's smug face, let alone come all the way here to admit her error. To have brought more books on top of it? Expecting what--a book club? No matter how rare it was for her to meet someone else who wanted to discuss Fahren at all, this was inappropriate. And see what happened: her bag ruined and the books likely with it.

So what did she do, instead of-- of calling for the Seventen, or just leaving in all the commotion, or anything she should have done? She had snarled and she had fretted and now she stood here like an idiot holding her handkerchief out to Emiel as if he would take it. I'm just concerned about the state of your face, you see, was a tempting joke to make--but even that felt like a dangerous admission. No wonder he just stood there staring at her like she'd grown a second head, before that dissolved into a smirk that just made him look like seven different kinds of trouble.

"It's--" Fine. Not your fault, entirely. Not a big deal. "...Don't worry about it," was her aggravated mumble instead. She took the books with one hand and kept holding out the handkerchief with her other. It really had seen better days, she thought. Not precisely the sort of thing a proper young woman would have in their pocket. What he thought about it, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

The damage to the books, she thought, was not so great that they couldn't be read. Mostly the covers were ruined. The one he had stepped on was the most worse for wear--a few of the pages had been crumpled under Emiel's weight. Cerise inspected the books carefully, happier to look at them than she was willing to look at Emiel's gold-and-violet face. Or at the other wick still on the ground, though she kept a fragment of her attention on him. Just in case.

Her head snapped up at the question, attention dragged away from her too-careful inspection of the cover. She frowned and shifted her weight, not quite able to meet his eyes. How was she supposed to answer that? Truthfully? The truthful answer was too absolutely absurd to say out loud. But lying felt like running away, and something pricked at the back of her neck at that.

Thankfully he took the square of cloth and continued, giving Cerise some time to get her thoughts in order. To rally the ones that had skittered away because he had said her name, just like she'd asked. No "miss" and no "Vauquelin". Because he wanted to, or felt obligated? The line between her eyebrows creased.

"I did," she admitted at last. Still not quite looking at him, and fighting to keep her tone casual. "I wasn't sure if--these are the ones I happen to actually like and I was--" She was starting to ramble. Since when did she ramble? She had never been so reluctant to admit she had brought a book to lend in her life. This was getting ridiculous--as if it mattered what he thought of her, or her actions. If he thought anything at all. Maybe young women brought him unasked for stacks of novels all the time.

"They are not so dear to me that I can't bear to part with them--to lend them. If I so choose. If..." She looked at him properly now, steeling herself. She would not be embarrassed by this. It was just a simple offer: if Emiel wanted to read them, she was happy to lend them. There was no law against it; they were just novels. Just fiction. Unusual, maybe, for this dark-haired politician's daughter to want to lend anything of hers to some wick bartender she'd only just met (and had immediately assaulted). But Cerise was not particularly interested in doing anything just because it was expected of her, or not doing something because it wasn't. "...If you wanted to read them. The ones you haven't, that is."

The darker wick had sat up now; Cerise let her grey eyes look at him for just a moment. His expression was dark--she got the distinct impression he was unhappy with her continued presence. Well that made two of them, didn't it? Whatever strange universe Cerise and Emiel had been in before the arrival of this interloper and his charming friends was shattered now.

Cerise looked back at Emiel. He had offered her an escape--a way to back down. Sense told her to take it; look what had already happened just from her coming this far. Satchel torn, books ruined, dignity rather bruised. But he hadn't quite retracted the offer entirely, and she foolishly smiled her feral smile at the compliment.

"You don't get out of it that easily, Just Emiel. I don't go back on my promises if I can help it." Cerise was keenly aware of the third presence in the alley, though she didn't look at him again. Two glamours, hovered at the edge of her field. One strangely welcome, one firmly not. It seemed best to not specify what she meant; it was clear enough to the two of them.

She kept her eyes and her knife-edged grin on Emiel's face, ignoring how her own felt a little warm. "And my swing, as you put it, worked just fine on your face. Are you sure you want me to be any better at it?" Yes, that was definitely it. She just had made a promise, however flimsy, and didn't want to break it. Besides, he'd read one of the books she'd brought already. Now was hardly the time to ask about his opinions on it, was it? So, later then.

"...But it is your victory. So if you'd rather I not..." Cerise shrugged her shoulders, looking for all the world like she didn't care one way or the other. Like she wouldn't be at all crushed if he decided it was all mistake and more trouble than it was worth, after all.

[Emiel Emmerson]

behind the bar

evening of the 75th of yaris, 2717

The purple-haired wick was there under the weight of her field in the last of the late Yaris light, picking up books and bleeding while his brother stared riffs into his spine. The galdor didn't shout for help, didn't turn and walk away, and didn't clockin' back down, neither.

Ne, she took the books back, letting Emiel step all close, right up into that buzzing cloud of a taut, angry field. He juggled the exchange with all the smoothness he was known for behind the bar, and if his fingers brushed her hand while pouring the poor, abused volumes in her direction, it wasn't necessarily on purpose. Full of the rush of adrenaline and the sharp bravado that tended to goad him into all the kinds of trouble similar to what he knew he was in now, he hovered there, scandalously near, to pluck the kerchief from her delicate fingers while she frowned at scuffed covers instead of at his scuffed face.

They were books she liked.

Books she'd brought for him.

To read.

The purple-haired wick blinked at her admission, her handkerchief in his hands bloodied now. He looked down at it, suddenly shy, feeling a heat that wasn't the last of Yaris' warmth tickle down his spine. Suddenly self-aware and flustered by the realization that she'd not just come to tell him he was right about that damn other book but also to come socialize with him as a person, Em began to nervously fold the square of fabric and tuck it into his vest, quite sure she couldn't possibly want it back now that he'd made a bigger mess of it.

"Oes, I'd read them." He grunted, feeling Ro's stare dig deeper under his sweaty skin from behind him, smiling a lopsided, shy sort of smile because his brother couldn't see his face, only Cerise could.

This wouldn't be the first time he'd flirted with a galdor before, and while it probably wouldn't be the last, there wasn't any sense in denying that this wasn't just friendly banter. Books and grins aside, though, it wasn't like it could go anywhere, it wasn't like it mattered. She could be pretty and she could think his interest in Fahren strangely interesting, but he'd never be anything but her lesser, never anything other than entertainment for the moment.

Maybe in this moment, he didn't mind entertaining her.

Emiel laughed at her denying his offer to get them both untangled from this—whatever this was—this game. His laughter was as bright as his amber eyes, honeyed and smooth in its honesty.

He heard the scrape of Rohan's body on the cobblestones of the alley, scrambling to his feet. He ignored it, almost leaning closer still to make sure he heard every word from the dark-haired woman's lips. He even held his hands out again, pointing first toward the books, asking for them back,

"Your swing only worked on m' face 'cause there were a book in 't. If you get better 'cause I helped you, you'd better ne have a reason t' hit me." He practically purred.

Victory, indeed.

"I'd rather. I ent gonna finish both 'f these by the ninth, though—" Already asking for more of her time, was he? What a dumberse, Em chided himself, opening his mouth to keep going with much more obvious interest, only to feel the brush of a familiar glamour from the threshold of the back door he'd exited the bar from.

Paolo Emmerson stood there, greasy apron and messy, greying hair, broad shoulder pressed against the door to hold it open. His golden gaze, just as luminous but far sharper than Emiel's, took in his two sons, bloodied and dirty, before they flicked over the young student. The galdor. It was well-practiced deference that kept him from staring at the Incumbent's daughter accusingly, but the angry, sour look on his face gave him away,

"I dunno what 'n Alioe's name yer up to, but ye'd best get both yer erses in here." He growled while he finally let his attention settle heavily on Cerise. It wasn't fear in his expression, no, it was definitely very carefully held anger. Resentment. "I'm sorry, miss, but did m' boys 'cause ye trouble?"

"Ne, da—" Em began.

"—it ent his fault." Ro was frowning, aware of what was in store for them both later, but also wanting to cover his own erse since he was late and injured before he even got into it with the middle Emmerson.

"—didn't ask whose fault it was." Paolo said sternly, still looking at the galdor, hoping she wasn't going to demand restitution, "Jus' askin' if the young lady was alright."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Behind the Singing Badger, the Stacks
Yaris 75, 2717 - Evening

That had been an exceptionally embarrassing admission, even though she had told herself it wouldn't be. It was true, but being true and not being embarrassing were not the same thing in the least. She hadn't thought she felt so until she'd said it and Emiel had looked down at the handkerchief with a look she could not explain as anything other than somewhat shy. Like he was the one who had just admitted to--

--To having come here not so much to settle a score as to start a conversation. Whatever for? Clocking hell, she was being ridiculous. Standing around in this alley with two wicks with battered faces, feeling shy because she wanted to socialize. It was a struggle for Cerise to keep her face neutral and unaffected, but she did her best. Until Emiel said he'd read them and smiled at her--not a cocky, infuriating sort of grin at all. Cerise was afraid she frowned in response, but her face was warm.

Was she flirting? She thought she might be. Why was a question she was less willing to entertain, but that might, at this point, very well be what she was doing. Cerise had never been very good at it--her introductions to most people were usually less violent but no more harmonious than their previous literary discussion. That was what made it so hard to recognize even as she was doing it. Perhaps that was also what made it so hard for her to stop; she wasn't doing it on purpose, not quite. She wasn't so bored as to feel the need to court this particular kind of scandal.

Although he kept surprising her, with his reading habits and the way he kept laughing at her where so many other people tended to frown. Leaving aside the issue of his face, which she had already acknowledged to herself that she did like. That was harmless, at least--right? Talking about books was strange, but a somewhat allowable sort of strangeness. Just against the rules enough to be exciting. That was all.

Emiel laughed, and Cerise decided not to think about it any longer. What did it matter? Those concerns were the concerns of other people. They both ignored the witness coming to his feet. Cerise didn't move, although once again she knew that by any estimation she should, when the purple-and-gold wick leaned in again. Purring that little comment about reasons to hit him like some kind of self-satisfied tomcat. She laughed, short and quiet, but the smile stayed on her thin mouth.

"I wouldn't expect you to," she offered, tilting her face to one side and sending the mass of her hair tumbling over a shoulder. His hands were outstretched for her to return the books--she didn't bother to ask for the handkerchief back, it was ruined enough even before she gave it to him--and she moved to hand them back. Her hands had just brushed against his as she did it, this time more deliberately, when there was a voice from the doorway.

Cerise did jerk her hand back this time, a child caught with her hand in a jar of sweets being saved for later. The man--the wick--who stood there was older and sharper than either of the other two, looking first from them and finally settling on her. Cerise felt herself drawing up into familiar sharp-edged haughtiness at the just-barely sour look that crossed his face on sight of her. A sour look that hardened into anger when he let it linger on her face. As if any of this was her fault! Maybe some of it was, in a very roundabout sort of way, but not enough to have warranted that sort of anger. Right?

Da--she knew that one well enough, and if she hadn't the context of this whole exchange made it clear. That was, then, Emiel's father. And from the way he spoke about them both, the one who had been at the store and on the ground was likely his brother. Delightful. Cerise kept the surprise off of he face. The hostile neutrality was easier to keep, with two unwanted presences instead of just the one. Especially when both of them seemed to feel just as much hostility right back.

Part of her wanted very dearly to say that they had caused her trouble. One of them, anyway, because she was still irritated that he had interrupted at all. But she thought, suddenly, of the bookstore. Of how her wrong had become Emiel's fault so easily. Cerise didn't think she was at fault here, any more than she really regretted having hit Emiel in the first place, but she didn't know if his father would agree. Besides, she didn't think he'd want to talk to her if she got his brother in trouble with their father. That mattered to her, somehow. Cerise shook her head.

"No, no trouble at all. I just dropped my book. An old bag, you see, so the seam finally came apart." Her lie was transparent; she dared him to challenge it. That was unlikely, even if such a falsehood raised more questions than it really answered. Even if helping a young lady retrieve her book didn't usually end with bloodied faces; even if there was no explanation there for why she was in the alley at all.

"I should be on my way--I don't want to keep these fine young men from their work." She smiled; if there was any way in which she did not resemble her father the most, it was here. She had no polite politician's smile, easy and unstrained in lying. Cerise hovered, hesitant. She turned slightly to look at Emiel again, and the smile softened just a fraction before she looked away.

[Emiel Emmerson]

behind the bar

evening of the 75th of yaris, 2717

The awkward lack of surety wasn't unwelcome, though Emiel hardly had the presence of mind nor the moment to stand there and analyze the situation as it were, to fully recognize that this prolonged sort of conversation with a young galdor woman was not at all merely chance and whim.

He liked it, aware he'd been a lil' charmed the moment some dark-haired sharp creature shoved a book in his face with violent force, the moment some galdor acted out instead of just spoke down to him. Standing here, though, knowin' she'd walked all this way with books in her bag and his victory on her mind, he realized she'd not hit him because he was a wick, because he somehow deserved it for existing. She'd hit him because she was made of fire and knives, too hot inside for the Yaris heat to just waste time with words.

Em might 've appreciated that too much.

These weren't lines he'd never crossed before, fortunately or not; working a bar in the Stacks guaranteed the purple-haired wick was around attractive youths of the magical race in power every damn day of his life. Not all of them insulted him, not all of them ignored him, not all of them pretended not to notice he was (at least in his opinion) easy enough on the eyes. The same was true in opposite: some of those stuck-up, studious jent who sat at his counter to get shit-faced were damn nice to look at. Some were even, strangely enough, pretty easy to talk to. Some didn't have the same strong boundaries they'd been raised to keep. Some didn't even clockin' care, hoping to lay claim on the assumption that wicks were free an' loose with their bodies but ignorant that galdori weren't usually invited to the party.

He'd flirted with a few in the way that he often flirted with danger: always aware that his choices would eventually bite him with consequences but thrilled by the risk. No galdor 'd ever taken things too far, that practically bred-in fear of his kind bein' some sorta abomination and Anaxi folks largely prudish outside of the protective red stone walls of the university sub-culture, but he'd certainly kissed one or two in his time—

Not that he was at all thinking about kissing in this moment, ne. Certainly not. Standing there, wiping his face with Miss Cerise Vauquelin's handkerchief. Ne. Even if a smile softened those sharp features—a real one, genuinely on the heels of a soft, rebellious laugh. Maybe her cheeks were a bit flushed and there was some hint of something in the demure sort of taunt she riposted with, agreeing with his inability to read an entire novel in a handful of days. The cascade of her dark curls could have been a challenge, but the very purposeful brush of her hands?

Em knew a promise when he felt one.

And he had no idea how to feel about this—

Ah, but Paolo did.

Of course he did.

The sound of his da's voice caused the purple-haired wick to nearly wince, teeth grating, amber eyes darting from Cerise's face, from the books, from that brief touch, to the scowling old man. It was all he could do not to smirk at the lie that fell with such comfortable, scandalous ease from the well-bred lips of the galdor standing so close to him, the haughty tone of challenge almost tangible in the gravity of her field. He sniffed, metallic tang stuck to the back of his throat, and met the gaze of his father,

"It were Ro's fault." Emiel spit blood on the back alley cobblestones, calloused knuckles trailing under his lips, "An' ye know it. Late again—"

The older wick huffed, making sure his attention was on the student, tension in his voice able to cut flesh like the edge of a knife. He didn't move from the doorway, waiting there for Rohan to shamefully step forward first, head hung low, not looking back at Em or the young woman, not even meeting Paolo's stern look because he knew what he'd be hearing once they were both inside. The younger Emmerson looked back to Cerise, catching that smile without regret, grinning about it shamelessly in front of everyone while he pressed a pair of books against his chest, even as his Da cleared his throat and said loudly—purposefully too loud—

"Ye should definitely be on yer way, Miss. Ent anyone here want trouble, an' Alioe forbid anyone keep these balach kov from anythin' lookin' like work."

Turning 'round, walking backwards back toward the bar, Emiel pointed with the two books, waggling them for emphasis, "Th' nine. Golden Beetle."

He heard his da grunt behind him. He felt the ripple of disapproval in his glamour. He knew he'd not hear the end of it. He might have even heard Ro groan, but that could've been because their daoa 'd finished her set and set eyes on his bloodied state.

No one but Cerise could see the bright, flashy wick's face—just for a moment—so he winked before turning around, roguish and coy, "After th' twenty third hour."

Don't be late, he might've said, had fingers not curled into his bicep, Paolo's anger twisting his expression, tugging him back into the Singing Badger like he was a small boch caught stealin' candy from the hat an' tally store down the street. She'd stand him up anyway, most likely. She had every right to. It was a fun lil' game, pretending to have anything in common with a wick like him, but that's all it ever could be. A tease. If this wasn't unseemly enough, surely having a drink with him would be. Pointless, too. But, at the same time, what was there to lose?

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Behind the Singing Badger, the Stacks
Yaris 75, 2717 - Evening

The moment was entirely inappropriate for laughter, Cerise knew that. She still had to bite a bark of it back at the speed with which Emiel moved to throw his brother under the kenser. It was true, she thought--Cerise had done very little to cause this, and Emiel even less. They had, after all, just been standing outside talking until his brother had shown up. Just talking. Her hand still felt a little warm where she'd brushed it up against Emiel's; Cerise chose not to pursue the line of thought about what that said about what she might have been moved to do or say without interruption.

Emiel had caught her smiling, and his answering grin--shameless and obvious--was pleasant enough she was only mildly annoyed at his father telling her what to do, as if he had any right. Something she barely tolerated from her own father, as rare as it was that he bothered to tell her to do anything directly, let alone this--this...! Cerise bristled slightly but kept as neutral a face as she ever managed. Which was to say, she looked perfectly irritated, but there was nothing she could do about that.

She wouldn't laugh. She wouldn't even smile, not even when Emiel started walking backwards towards the door waving those borrowed books at her. For a moment she forgot there was anyone else there--they were beneath her concern. An impediment at worst. Since when had she let anyone stand between her and what she felt like doing? He winked at her again and she did her best to frown, calling on every stern angle and high-bred line. The absolute cheek, the complete shamelessness--but only she could see his face, and a smile hovered enough at the corners of her mouth and in the light of her eyes to give her away.

"Don't forget," she called after him. The third book was still clutched in her hand--the one he had already read. Her bag was useless now; she would throw it out on her way back. Cerise waited, polite and patient, until everyone else was out of her sight. Somehow she didn't think sauntering back into the Badger the way she'd came was the best of ideas. It was one thing to sneak out of a building, especially with just one other person. Quite another to sneak back in, this time absolutely surrounded by company she could not keep, and two of them looking like they'd fought half the town.

Cerise had asked him not to forget, but part of her wondered if he would go through with it. Would she? The smart thing to do would be to stop this right now. It didn't really matter what he thought of the book he'd already read, or if he'd have started either of the others before the nine. What would this drink even be like, and where could it possibly lead? She had simply no idea--and it was fascinating. When everything else was so predictable and dull, Cerise found it very hard to resist a real surprise.

That it came wrapped up in such a fine package was no small part of the appeal, either. Wick package, she reminded herself. But it was just a game. There was no harm in a game. She would stop, after this drink. After the end of her pretense of settling a score. If he showed up at all--which she doubted. And she didn't care if he did or not. Because none of this mattered at all. Just a meaningless, harmless game.