[Closed] Now And Then, Here And There

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

T he subject of happiness was something that Yazad slipped into as easily and effortlessly as one did a favorite and particularly comfortable nightgown. He found it everywhere, in bits and pieces too small for others to seemingly care about. It was in waking up to see the sun rise and wash the world in golden warmth. It was to pull out a sweet-scented tray of buns from the oven and find them the perfect shade of brown. It was hearing the birds sing their carefree songs and looking out of the window to see leaves swaying with the breeze. It was looking at the mirror and seeing a smiling face there. And deep down within the less-frequented corners of his mind, Yazad knew that if he desired more out of life, then he would be robbed of the contentment he found joy in. Grander indulgences were not meant for people like him.

Such might be the thinking of a simpleton, but Yazad was fine with being that if it meant peace of mind and ease of heart.

In friends? Yazad’s eyes softened at the utterance. So even someone as aloof as Niccolette had their circle of friends, which was a good thing. The passive wondered, silently, if the woman’s friends were anything like her, or if the rule of ‘opposites attract’ applied in this case. He himself cannot say that he has any, or that he knows what that kind of connection is about.

A face adorned with freckles and jewel-like eyes came to mind. The Brunnhold passive was not a friend--not likely. He had only spoken to her a couple of times, and the man felt that the title warranted more closeness than that, but he still enjoyed her company quite a bit.

"With...the mona?" The man repeated Niccolette’s words, eyes blinking slowly. He knew of the mona and the bond galdori have with them, but the way Niccolette spoke of it--it indicated something more intimate than the simple possession of magical abilities. An explanation would most likely be a waste on him, for he knew nothing of magic and the mona beyond the simple, basic fact of them being the force that makes magic possible.

Friends and a relationship with the mona--both things that Yazad could not say that he has much of.

And back to watching Niccolette’s profile he went, thoughtfully. It was not what she had said that made the passive wonder, but rather what she did not say. Silently, but without bothering with subtlety, Yazad’s eyes redirected their focus from the galdor woman’s face to her gloved left hand, and the band that he knew was beyond that. Was her marriage not a source of joy to her? Had it been a compulsory union? That was not entirely unheard of, but he could not see someone like Niccolette get forced into anything she did not want. But life was not always -Yazad knew- about what one wants.

There was a soft clearing of Yazad’s throat and a moment of lingering silence before he asked his question. "If I may ask, madam...Is your matrimony, ahem, going well?" That sounded like a more polite thing to ask rather than ‘Were you forcibly married?’ or ‘Have you married an unfitting spouse?’. Even if one of these was true, even if she was unhappy in her marriage, there really was nothing that he could do about it except, perhaps, pray for a change in her fortune.

Whether Niccolette wanted to answer or not, the lively voices filling the air of the street they had entered were enough of a distraction to divert Yazad’s attention. The smell of coffee, the scent of baked sugar and flour, the words being merrily exchanged by well-dressed patrons: it all brought to mind a conversation that he had not too long ago, about dream cafes and wishes that are doomed to stay just that.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
Various Streets, The Stacks

The mona, Yazad asked.

Niccolette did not answer; she did not think, in any case, he was truly asking. There was little she could do to explain in any case; whether Yazad was clever or not, such a thing could not be understood by anyone other than a galdor.

Even many galdori, Niccolette knew, did not understand. There were those among them who viewed the mona as a tool; there were those among them who viewed the mona as unknowable. There were those who did not seek to know them, who turned away and cast only casually or mechanically, for they had no need for the noble uses.

She was none of these. Something flicked through her field, a soft subtle pulse; it was not as strong as a flex, and no color disturbed the calm, indectal mona which held, bright, in the air around her. Even now, some time after her meditation had finished, they were charged by it, as sharp as if she had just finished casting.

It was not Yazad’s fault he could not understood, but no more could he. It was, Niccolette thought, a shame; all the same it simply was.

There was a moment of silence, and then -politely - Yazad asked about her marriage, his breath curling in the air.

Niccolette touched gloved fingers to the ring on her left hand, unthinkingly; she lowered them. She did not need to answer; it was a thoroughly impertinent question, for all its politeness. She remembered calling him such a thing before; his impertinence had pleased her then, and it did no less now.

She did not have, Niccolette thought, to be the widow. She was tired of it; she was tired of the label, of the name, of the pity.

And yet she was. The Bastian did not quite sigh; it was a small exhale through her nose, perhaps, just shy of it. She was the widow; it was a part of her now, and should always be. She was not only the widow, she knew, but she would never lose the title, so long as she lived.

How dare you, she thought, not for the first time, a familiar refrain; how dare you leave me to this.

She did not owe him an answer, but silence would change nothing. It did not matter that she was tired of it; it did not matter that she wore other than black, these days, and wept sometimes no more than once a day, and sometimes less.

“My husband died,” Niccolette said, evenly, not slowing her walk down the street or turning to look at Yazad; there was nothing of punishment in her tone, no intent to shock or scold him for asking, only a matter-of-fact tone. “earlier this year.”

It was a shame, she thought, but all the same, it simply was.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

T here it was again.

The sensation washing over him took Yazad back to the time he was standing in a small room not too far away from the ballroom, with a galdor girl looking outwardly composed but filling their space with something that he could barely pick up.

He had changed since then. Eight years is a long enough time for a boy to grow into a man, and for a clueless passive to be far less clueless. It no longer scared him to feel the force of another’s presence rubbing against him. If anything, hers felt rather...familiar. It did not take Yazad much to know why. Niccolette was, in more ways than one, similar to the man he lived with.

Theirs was an existence that he could not comprehend. Comparable enough to his, but not quite.

There was no immediate answer, or reaction, to the question Yazad asked. And so he stood, breathing slowly, in and out, in quiet anticipation. Perhaps there was reassurance in the fact that Niccolette had not told him off outright, but her silence, her facial stillness, did little to make the passive hopeful about her answer. Normally, people do not pause like this if they have good things to say.

My husband died.

Died.

Cold Vortas days often came with the unpleasant addition of wind and snowfall, but this particular day had neither, and Yazad could not attribute the crippling chill he felt to the weather. His already pale complexion was instantly drained, leaving a face that froze in an expression of thunderstruck disbelief. Not even his legs could function for the following moment, causing the man’s pace to gradually slow down into a halt. Rose-colored lips parted, pale green eyes widened, and yet Yazad could do and say nothing. The wrapped corn cob he held into slipped through his slacking fingers and was left to roll on the street for nearby critters to peck on.

Her husband had died earlier this year.

Yazad knew nothing of Niccolette’s deceased spouse. Not his story, not what he looked like, not even his name. So why, then, did this hit him so strongly? It was no doubt because of Niccolette herself, rather than the actual death of the one she was married to. He had been chattering so casually, so thoughtlessly, about her happiness. How was he to know that she, beneath the stoic mask that is her face, suffered that kind of pain? She showed nothing--nothing at all. That would not be the kind of face he wears if he were to be in her shoes. Not a few months after, not even a few years after. Yazad knew himself well to be certain that he would never be able to keep a face as straight as Niccolette’s when speaking such words.

My condolences, I am sorry for your loss.

Oh, how hollow and empty such words felt when Yazad considered saying them. They were what he was supposed to say, he knew that. He was expected to lower his head in a display of sympathy, and then utter the words with as much solemnity as he could manage. It was the polite and proper thing to do, it was the common thing to do.

But it did not feel like the right thing to do.

"Madam--"

When Yazad’s feet began moving again, they did so in wide strides and a steady gait that was full of purpose. The clicking of heels against stone preceded his arrival to Niccolette’s side, where he had stopped his motion for a few seconds; enough to reach down with a gloved hand, wanting to hold on to the woman’s own in a grip that was more careful than strong. "Come with me." Gently, the passive tugged at Niccolette’s hand, urging her to follow him as he took off at an increasing pace down the road--not quite running, but no longer languidly moseying as he had been before.

Yazad was not sure where he should be going. He knew what he needed, but not how to get there. The situation did not allow for him to stop and ask, so he did the next best thing and simply...improvised. A side street and several random turns into eerily empty alleyways later, the raven-haired man -now on the verge of panting- stopped.

Truly, there was nothing to be said about Niccolette’s answer. Nothing that would be of any value, nothing that would even remotely mean anything coming from a stranger whom she just happened to meet twice in her life. And so, his tongue held back, and his arms did the wordless talking as they made the gingerly-executed attempt to pull Niccolette’s form into a hug.

If Yazad thought it would be relevant to say anything in defense of his actions, he would have said that he had never lost anyone to death, but after his forced removal from the Logarchon manor in Florne, he might as well have. Back in those wretched, desolate days of his life, he needed this kind of comforting far more than his childish comprehension and limited words could possibly convey, but he was never given it. This woman was not a ten-year-old child, nor is she in any way someone whom he was close to, but none of that really mattered. The voice that came out of his lips was a strained whisper; struggling to be heard with him fighting back the shaking in his tone.

"How you are able to just stand there and say that with a face of strength, I do not even know."

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
Another Alleyway, The Stacks

Yazad had been visible in the corner of her eye - not his face, but the hint of color which told her where he was. He stopped, Niccolette knew, when she spoke; she did not. There was a quiet thunk from behind, and she did not turn to look.

He called out to her, and half ran over the street, heels clicking quickly against it. He took her hand in his, tugging firmly. Niccolette looked down at Yazad’s hand in her own; her jaw tensed, her lips pressing lightly together. She did not pull back; nor did she lean at all into the grip, merely standing.

There was a moment, when he began to walk, when Niccolette held - as if she would stay still, and let his own motion wrench her hand from his grasp. He tugged a little again.

After that moment - reluctant and a little slow, her lips still pursed, Niccolette began to follow. Yazad seemed to hurry, and she followed along. They turned and turned again, and Yazad was breathing hard, looking around. They had stopped in a small alleyway; not so different, Niccolette thought, from where they had met.

Niccolette was not afraid. “Well,” she began.

Yazad turned and hugged her. Niccolette went stiff in his arms; there was impertinence, she thought, and there was this. She barely knew him. A warning pulse ran through her field.

There were no apologies, no condolences for her loss, none of the meaningless pleasantries she hated so. Yazad did not let go, either, and his voice was strained and aching.

Niccolette swallowed; she looked away. “I have done enough crying in the street,” she said, quietly; her voice was not as smooth as it had been earlier, not as even and unaffected. She did not reach back to hug him, did not put her arms around him even in the slightest. Perhaps - perhaps - something in the rigidity of her posture softened. She let go of the last of the tension in her field; her eyes closed, for just a moment, against the heat behind them.

It was true - she had cried everyone one could imagine crying. In her rooms, in airships, in the street, in the midst of Hawke’s court, in friend’s houses, in carriages, in retiring rooms at parties. She had done enough, and yet she knew it was not over, and perhaps never would be. She did not, all the same, wish to cry today - at least not just now, standing here in an alleyway with the arms of a man she barely knew wrapped around her.

She was not so sure she had a choice. If the tears were to come, they had not come yet; it was no more than a heat and wetness behind her eyes still, no more than an ache in her chest. They did not always lead to tears, not every time, not anymore. She breathed steadily through it, and found she was shaking, just a little.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

T here was nothing but silence. There could be nothing but silence. Even though he had made a comment, even though Niccoellet had responded to it--there was nothing that Yazad had said to that.

It did not matter that Yazad was a man and Niccolette a woman, it did not matter that he was a passive and her a galdor, it did not matter that she was several years his elder. It was his desire to offer sympathy in a way that was not a flavorless recital of consolation done only out of politeness. Niccolette’s husband was her family, and she had lost that. Is this why he felt as strongly as he did about the grim confession? It could be, it could be not. Either way, he was still standing there, a woman in his arms and a familiar prickling sensation poking at his skin.

"I can imagine." Finally, something managed to come out of him, his voice still barely lingering at a volume above a whisper. He could imagine because he was never put through the ordeal that is a loved one’s death, and never had a spouse to lose. If anything, the knowledge that Niccolette had cried enough to no longer want to do so was a piece of good news. Her unmoving body; stiff within his arms, had eased up slightly. Not much, but still noticeable by the man who was anything but tense. His embrace, unapologetic as it was, still maintained a certain degree of demure tenderness. This was not among things that Yazad did often, or at all. Propriety was something that had been ingrained in him, and the casual touching of ladies goes against the most basic of decorum’s rules.

But was this seemingly impolite method still considered inappropriate if his intentions were not so? Niccolette had not pushed him away or expressed any discomfort on her part, so perhaps...not.

Despite the doubt gnawing at his mind about the acceptability of his actions, despite the rising heat in his face as he considered the possibility of Niccolette -rightfully- assuming that he was a man lacking in decency, Yazad’s arms did not move just yet. Not until he felt the other’s body trembling, slightly. After a final, gentle squeeze to Niccolette’s form, the passive released her and stepped back a pace. His gloved hand ran down the front of his cloak, then moved up to press slightly against his misting eyes. "Pardon me, madam. This, no doubt, is a rather shameless thing for a man to do, but I could not simply utter some shallow words of comfort and pretend that all is well after." Yazad’s eyes met the woman’s, and this time, his smile was dimmer yet still steady. Whatever Niccolette has to say about what he has done, he will have to take and accept it as the consequence of his deed.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
Another Alleyway, The Stacks

Yazad’s arms squeezed lightly against her, and he let go and stepped back. Niccolette shuddered out a breath which was not as steady as she should have liked, looking away from Yazad and at the grimy walls of the alley around them.

For a moment, she teetered on the edge of the precipice; tears burned behind her eyes, but did not quite yet threaten to overwhelm her. She knew much of tears, of crying; sometimes they swept over her like a storm, and she was helpless to do anything but let them batter at her, to hold down the hatches and try to stay upright.

Sometimes - now - it was more like a feeling, a distant tickle of moisture in the air. Later, these tears promised, but Niccolette was not made afraid; there had been a later for her many - most - days this last year, and it had lost its power over her by way of that repetition.

Yazad spoke again, and Niccolette looked over at his apology, raising her eyebrows. He looked, she thought with a spark of amusement, very brave, as if he were steeling himself for what would come. For all that he had apologized, she did not think him sorry; it was not that kind of apology.

Niccolette shrugged a little. She had not wanted the hug; she was not sure whether she had found it comforting. She had not cried, and the urge was passing now; perhaps she felt better, and perhaps not.

She looked at Yazad, somewhat critically, studying the soft sad smile on his lips. Niccolette grinned, then, not some wide bright thing, but a little genuine hint of a smile, which curled over her lips.

“I do not care much for shallow words of comfort,” Niccolette said, still almost smirking. “I never have, and as well I have had my fill of them, of late.”

Come, Niccolette started to say, and the words were lost in her throat. She was not so hasty as she should have been to leave the alley and begin to walk again. Instead, she ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back off her forehead and making some adjustments to the fall of it; she ran her hand over her cloak, adjusting it too. She pressed once finger against the corner of each eye, blinking, to clear the last of the strangeness from them.

She was, Niccolette thought, sick of condolences. She had been since the first one ever offered; they had felt then like people shoving their hands into the raw wound of pain. In time she had come to stand them; if they hurt, still, it was a manageable sort of pain, or else she had become inured to it.

She was, however, quite sure that she did not wish to switch to hugs - inappropriate was the least of it, and shameless was a good term for his actions - but they had at least been a contrast. Niccolette found she was still smiling - a little more softly - when she looked back at Yazad.

“Shameless,” Niccolette added, quietly, “is the only way to be.”

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

E empathy, Yazad mused inwardly, was a rather strange thing. In his mind, it justified the breach of propriety that he had committed, but the stricter part of him still insisted, sternly, that he had been offensive to the lady. With the deed already done, it was simple to see which part of him had the most influence, for better or for worse.

People often spoke of treating others the way one wants to be treated, and applying that concept, Yazad admitted to himself that if he were in Niccolette's place, he would find the gesture quite shocking, but not unacceptable. Still--this was him, and that was Niccolette.

The passive had to force himself to keep looking at Niccolette, in spite of passing urges to look at the grey sky, at his nails, at the uneven tiles making up the cobbled ground--at anything but the face of the woman whom he was awaiting disapproval from. But he kept looking, steadily, at the very thing he did not want to look at. This was what a man had to do--accept responsibility for what he chose to do. But what had greeted him was not a scowl; instead, a smile that was faint, yet surely there. "I assumed as much. You do not strike me as someone who enjoys banalities, generally." Yazad found himself smiling a little easier as he made his remark. The man laced his fingers and brought his hands over his stomach. "Perhaps a change of pace would do you good." He suggested, fingers toying with the edge of the black ribbon at his collar.

And yet vacuous exchanges are what society deemed ‘proper’. His own social interactions were few and far between, and he wanted for them to have more substance than a casual conversation about the weather.

For some reason, the lack of reprimand coming from Niccolette did not really surprise the passive. The sight of her softening grin was all he needed to breathe out that last bit of concern he felt.

Shameless is the only way to be.

An odd statement to hear a lady make, but he was starting to understand that this particular one was not to be put in the same category as many others. Not, the man almost chuckled to himself, that he himself knew many. "Oh, kindly do not encourage me, or I might just make a habit out of this." He commented, shaking his head softly. The giggle Yazad let out was nothing if not playful and light. The man who was on the brink of tearing up a moment ago was nowhere to be seen. "Or is that the voice of experience talking?" He teased further, his placid smile never leaving his lips. They had both already established that he was impertinent. Shameless. A man whose manners did not necessarily mean that he will be perfectly obsequious.

Eventually, Yazad turned around to eye the end of the alleyway, thoughtfully. He had not been looking at where he was going, in his haste to find a place that is secluded. And now that he was looking at the narrow path and the forking end, he could not tell which way it was that would take them back to the street they had been in. "Ahem...I am not certain how to navigate our way back. Goodness gracious, they should invent something for this."

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
Back to Main Streets, The Stacks

Yazad had stood quite straight as he waited for her response; not quite, Niccolette had thought amusedly, with the solemn face of one awaiting the executioner, but perhaps neither so far off. He looked steadily at her throughout, not fiddling with his hands or looking down and away

He said she did not strike him as one who enjoyed banalities and Niccolette lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug. Yazad went on, advising a change of pace; Niccolette tilted her head down, slightly, managing to look down her nose at the passive who shared her height. Her lips pressed together, as if considering a reproving look, but she let it go.

A change of pace, Niccolette thought, more amused, in truth, than reproachful. He was, if nothing else, amusing; she remembered not so much the details of their conversation as having found the boy odd, but in rather an appealing of way: impertinent, but in a way which Niccolette found quite charming, all told.

He giggled, when she went on; Niccolette’s smile twitched, and deepened slightly. “Of course,” she said, smiling, when he asked if she spoke with the voice of experience. “I never feel shame,” Niccolette said, looking at Yazad across the small, dark alley. She meant every word, fully honest, even as she thought of the times this last year when she had wept in public, even in the King’s Court – when she had been sick on the street, or on herself, from drink or illness – when she had yelled and thrown things.

Shame served no purpose; none of that could she go back and undo. She saw no point in feeling it; it seemed, as it always had to her, a wholly useless emotion, one which asked a person to subjugate themselves to society’s whims. “I do nothing which I think shall shame me,” Niccolette added, looking at Yazad, “and I see no reason to ever let the actions of another make me feel it.”

She did not owe him the explanation; far from it, in fact. She gave it, nonetheless, and thought no more of it than that she wished to.

Niccolette glanced around; she shrugged. “This way,” she said, leading them back out of the alleyway. She was not herself entirely sure, but she had spent time enough in the Stacks that she expected to be able to find her way before long. She turned, once, the way she thought he had drawn her by the hand in his mad dash for privacy, and sure enough, on a street corner ahead, Niccolette saw a shop she recognized.

In fact, Niccolette thought, it was one on the same street as the bookshop. She glanced around; it seemed, she thought, faintly amused, that they had taken a shortcut.

“This is my destination,” Niccolette said, lightly, as they turned the corner; the awning of the bookshop, pale faded green, stretched out over the sidewalk. There were passer-bys once more, humans and wicks mostly, with the occasional student or academic wandering through.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

I f Niccolette’s answer came as anything else, then and only then would Yazad have been surprised. ‘Of course’, ‘I never feel shame’ she said, with a smile that was displayed with confident conviction. Not hesitant, not apologetic. Ah, she was being such a terrible influence. The often polite man found himself more inclined to not be bashful about his supposed impudence. "Yes, I can see that. This answer in itself is telling enough." The way he hid his giggling mouth behind his hands was not unlike a child who was so amused by the sight of something that he had previously thought to be impossible happening before him.

Encountering a galdor woman whom he had met eight years ago by chance at a back alley, hugging her, and then proceeding to talk about shamelessness which she so openly admits to was not how Yazad imagined his morning going, but now that it had come to this, he found himself not minding at all.

"This seems like a rather convenient life philosophy, if only it were easy." The passive commented smilingly, and rather briefly, at the woman’s remark of not letting the actions of others shame her. It looked to be working rather well for Niccolette, but Yazad himself found that both intriguing and difficult to practice. How would one refuse to be ashamed if he was constantly rebuked and deprecated by an inner voice that sounded identical to his own? A voice that never quite went away ever since the bygone days of him trying his hardest to be a good boy who would make his mother proud.

When Niccolette called out the way to go, the raven-haired man did not waste much time to follow. Now that the moment and the need had passed, he was more than eager to not linger at a place in which other critters of the unpleasant variety could assault him again. His earlier thoughtless dash did not seem to take them too far, as they soon enough exited the smaller cluster of paths into a wider street housing a shop at its corner.

Once more they were no longer the only ones occupying the road, and that was when Niccolette announced that this is her destination. Yazad paused for a second, eyes lifting up to take in the shop’s front. An unfamiliar one, as expected. And one he probably would not have found on his own.

Hastening his pace slightly to overtake Niccolette, the passive made his way towards the shop’s door where he stood in waiting for his companion, a gloved hand readily resting on the brass handle so he could open and hold the door for the lady. "Madam." The man stated formally, out of sheer habit. As he stood there, inhaling cold air and exhaling tiny clouds, Yazad’s mind wandered.

He had suggested a change of pace for Niccolette to get out of her -understandable- heartbreak, but he knew that he could not expect her, or anyone, to simply cease feeling something or another. Such things are a process, and a process is a series of steps taken in progression. And maybe, just maybe, he can assist with that in a small way.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
Cornerstone Book Shop, The Stacks

If only it were easy, Yazad had said, a little wistfully, when Niccolette spoke of shame.

It is easy, Niccolette might have replied, once, or at least might have thought to herself and perhaps not bothered to say. She had found it easy once, or easy enough at least, to reject shame when it came upon her, to push it away and think no more of it. Perhaps she had struggled with it some as a girl, for things had happened them which she supposed should have made her feel ashamed; the night she had met Yazad was one such example. All she could do then was to stand tall in the face of them, and to tell herself the truth: that she was not the one shamed by such actions.

Whatever of it she had not known then, she had learned in the years since. Then, perhaps, she would have said it easy: when she knew she had Uzoji’s love, whatever of his fidelity she had not called her own. When she had the Eqe Aqawe, and a place to call home.

And now?

Now, Niccolette thought, she still rejected shame. She had no choice, these last months, or else she would have buckled beneath the weight of grief. She had Uzoji’s love, for all that he was returned to the cycle.

And, she thought, almost grimly, she was far from purposeless.

Niccolette swept past Yazad into the shop, acknowledging him with the faintest incline of her chin. It was warm in the shop, or at least well warmer than outside, with curtains in a richer green covering the windows. There were bookshelves spread across the floor and lining the wall, and a neat winding wooden staircase which led up to a smaller second story.

“Mrs. Ibutatu,” the thin, reedy galdor behind the shop’s counter shifted, and bowed; he was dressed in a brown tweed suit, and his bright red hair was graying at the temples. He removed a monocle from one eye, tucking it into his pocket, and smoothing closed the ledger which had sat out on his desk. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

Niccolette bowed in response. “Mr. Quintrell.” She had first come to the shop several years ago, when they had stopped going as often to Mestigia and Drekkur; Quintrell had evidently good contacts with Hesse, and carried a number of Hessean living conversation journals in Estuan, as well as the occasional rare Hessean volume of one bent or another. Strictly, Niccolete thought, legal; but then, the market for rare books was tighter in Hesse than Anaxas, and certainly much tighter than in Mugroba.

“Sir,” Mr. Quintrell said, turning to Yazad and bowing to him as well. “How may I help you, madam? Sir?” He smiled at the both of them, his usual thin, closed-lipped smiles.