Yaris 79, 2717 - After Dinner
The days between that promise in the alley and now had passed too quick and too slow at once. As if the hours stretched out when she thought about the nine, and contracted when she managed to stop. She had not gone to class the next day, as had been her plan all along, and instead devoted her time and attention to seeing what she could do about the damage done to the book she had taken back with her. The bag she had indeed thrown out; a replacement would have to be purchased later. She had other bags, if none of them quite so nice for carrying books. The next one would be leather, she thought. Something sturdier and more difficult to tear, if pulled on. If grabbed--not, of course, that she planned to be in such a situation ever again.
What she should do was throw away The City of Restless Ghosts. At least, this copy--many of the pages were too scuffed for reading. More to the point, she had read it several times over and there was no purpose to keeping it on her shelf. She enjoyed it, to be sure. It was a strange tale of horror and adventure, the first set in a city of perpetual darkness inhabited by malevolent undead; Cerise did dearly love the way he had brought the grim detail of his crime novels to lend terrible weight to the fantastical narrative. But she could replace the copy easily enough--Fahren was unpopular, but if she was patient she knew she could find another. If not in one of the many stores around Brunnhold, then surely when she returned home to Vienda for the break. Something in her held back, lingering on the copy that had been so sorely abused.
In the end, she had done what she could to repair the volume and slid it back into its place on her shelf, with two gaps beside it. She would have to fill them with something else, she thought. After all, even if Emiel did show up on the nine there was no way he would have read the books she had given him so quickly--even she would have found that a struggle. And there would be no more after this one evening. She had called it lending, but she'd never get them back--so they were a gift, she supposed. To make up for having lashed out at him in the store, perhaps. (Thought still, still she didn't feel sorry for that.)
The day had arrived at last. Cerise had dueling practice in the afternoon, and found herself unaccountably distracted. To the point that even her teammates had noticed, and she had gotten into a fight with one of the boys who chose to point out her sloppiness to her. Her choice of language had been overheard by their faculty advisor, and earned her yet another demerit. Her mood should have been foul. It wasn't. She had breezed through the admonishments, ate her dinner at a respectable pace, and returned to her room before the hour was up.
Cerise had never been so glad to have a room to herself in all of her life. Being alone meant there was no one to bear witness to the absolute absurdity of her fretting over what to wear. Not that it mattered, not that she cared what he thought of the way she looked. She hadn't cared the other day, and she didn't care now. Maybe she had been flirting, a little--but that didn't mean she had to dress nicely for this. Yet still had had gone through five outfits before choosing one at last, the most fashionable she had. Just to prove to herself, and not at all to anyone else, that she could clean up nicely if she chose. The dark grey silk was cut into strong, sharp lines that Diana had always despaired of being far too harsh on a young lady, hardly softened by the red underskirt. The bodice was, frankly, perhaps a bit low for propriety without a blouse underneath. A necklace might have balanced it out, but Cerise had none that suited. Her neckline was hardly the most scandalous choice of the evening, she reasoned, and left it as it was.
Standing before her mirror, she gave herself a critical eye. She looked every inch what she was. There was, she decided, no avoiding it. She could do very little about that fact, even if she had wanted to. At least the whole getup was easy enough to move in. Her hair she could also do very little about, though she had tried. Just a simple tail held it back, aided by a series of pins she knew would be gone by the end of the house. She wore no cosmetics at all; she didn't own any to have put on, in any case.
And so she had left, a strange mix of giddiness and what she would rather have died than admit was anticipation swirling in her head. Much as she tried to tamp it down, it grew stronger the closer she drew to the Beetle. He wouldn't be there, Cerise reminded herself. Emiel had asked but there was no way he'd show. Why would he expect her to do so herself? He probably wasn't even interested. In talking about the books, she reminded herself. Just that.
The Golden Beetle was smaller than the Badger, and quieter. As she pushed open the door, Cerise felt immediately conspicuous. She squared her shoulders off and brushed the feeling away, as she always did. None of it mattered, it was just a game. And it would be fine. To her surprise, Emiel had not only shown up, but he was already there. Now was her only chance to turn back, before he'd seen her. Before she'd committed to this ridiculous course of action that all sense, common and otherwise, told her was a bad idea.
"You came after all, Just Emiel," Cerise said with no little surprise as she drew close enough to do so. She hovered a moment, looking at him. Circle but it was unfair, that face. Playing at casual, Cerise looked away and to the drink in front of him, already partially gone. How long had he been here? She had come as fast as--she had come at a reasonable time, at a reasonable pace, that in no way reflected any eagerness on her part. Cerise knew she should sit and was only drawing attention to herself, but she remained standing--close, but not too close. He could still tell her to leave, if he had changed his mind.