[Closed] Now And Then, Here And There

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

B eing who he is, what he is--not a whole lot of options were available to him to try what he had in mind. Niccolette had given no indication that she enjoyed food, quite the opposite in fact. If anything, Yazad worried that she was not eating well enough. Knowing where she resides now, he could try to cook a number of easily transferable items and give the galdor woman a visit. Or, if he was willing to deal with having two odd galdori in close proximity to one another.

Yazad wasted no time to follow Niccolette into the bookshop, after returning her barely-there motion. The door closed behind him with a soft chime. Once there, the lulling warmth made Yazad exhale a relieved breath, the man feeling his fingertips almost tingling pleasantly with the increased temperature. The bookshop’s interior was hardly the most sumptuous that he had seen, but also well far away from being the blandest. The stylish green curtains were especially lovely, and a touch that the owner is to be complimented for. The bookshelves were a sight that reminded him of Sophronios’ study at home, only these books proved far more successful at drawing his interest. At least two book covers that he could spot mentioned something about Hesse, and that alone was enough to warrant Yazad’s attention, though he made no attempt to move and examine the books up close.

While Yazad lingered behind to -internally- assess the decor and attempt to read words from a distance, Niccolette went ahead with the bearings of someone who had been here before enough times to not look at anything and know where they were going. A voice, unfamiliar and yet not unwelcoming, called her by name, solidifying the passive’s assumption that Niccolette was a frequent patron, and effectively redirecting his gaze to the person who was standing behind the counter. With amusement mostly aimed at himself, Yazad smiled at how the man instantly brought Aurelie to mind. It was the vibrant if gradually fading color of his hair, no doubt.

Standing a few paces behind Niccolette--close enough to hear her and the man she had called Mr. Quintrell but far enough to not be a nuisance, the raven-haired man assumed his standard pose when in the company of those he knew were his social superiors. Back held straight, eyes looking ahead, and hands folded neatly over his midsection. Pleasantries of greeting were exchanged, briefly, and much to his further amusement, they included him as well. "A good day to you, sir." Yazad responded with ease, bowing gracefully at the waist before straightening and giving the older man a polite smile. "I am merely here to accompany the good madam, although I could not help but notice that a few of the books here mention Hesse." Poor as he was at pretense, the passive’s interest was hardly difficult to miss. It tended to twinkle in his pale green eyes, somewhere behind the polite exterior and the conditional reservation.

"Do you happen to carry anything in regards to Hessean dancing? Or a Hessean cookery book, perhaps?"

The coins he carried in his pocketbook were meant for flowers when he had left the house this morning, but that was not meant to be. Still, he might be able to spend them on an equally worthy purchase if he can get his hands on something relating to that distant, nostalgic part of his life.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

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

Quintrell’s gaze skimmed over Yazad; his face tightened in a brief frown. He shifted against the counter, and took a few steps around the edge of it, close enough that Yazad would feel the faint brush of a slippery, strange quantitative field. His lips pursed together, lightly.

Niccolette did not take her gaze off him; she was smiling, though only just. For the briefest moment, there was a sense of pressure in the air, bright and sharp, and then it was gone, and had never been more than a flicker. Quintrell shifted, and ran the tip of his tongue over thin, pale lips. The feeling of his thin field grew fiantly thinner, tucked in against his skin.

“I have several books on Hessean dancing,” Quintrell said after a moment, turning to Yazad and inclining his head in a faint nod. “One on cookery – a rather interesting study of the food made by the Hill Tribes of Ele’Ur. I assume – ” he came up short after a moment, and turned towards Niccolette instead. “And you, madam?” He asked, not quite bowing a second time, but inclining his torso towards Niccolette once more.

“The latest of Journal Eltehabee,” Niccolette said, “if you have it. As well – do you have anything of Efene He’foula?”

The little fool, she thought, almost fondly; there was something faintly hopeful on Yazad’s face, not that she had spent much time in the studying of it. He was standing very straight, with his hands clasped before him still.

“There is a new issue of Journal Eltehabee, indeed madam. As for the other – Efene He’foula,” Quintrell’s eyebrows lifted, and he stroked his chin for a moment, tugging thoughtfully against it. “A living conversationalist?” He asked, looking at Niccolette.

“Indeed,” Niccolette murmured. It was, she supposed, rather unlikely; He’foula was scarcely known in Hesse, let alone outside. She had come across the name in looking for those who had developed early spells to draw the poison from the body; He’foula had been mentioned in passing in several different sources, but she had not yet found a copy of the spell in question.

Budget did not trouble her, not in this search.

Quintrell shook his head after a moment; Niccolette’s lips flattened. “An obscure name, if so,” Quintrell said, reluctantly. “I hate to be a disappointment, madam – perhaps in one of the anthologies…? Which century was – ah,”

“She,” Niccolette answered, a thin smile on her lips once more, the faintest hint of a smirk. “And the sixteenth.”

Quintrell smiled, now, looking considerably more pleased. “Then it is possible, madam, indeed – I have three – no, four – anthologies drawing from diableries written in the sixteenth century.”

Niccolette inclined her head, lightly. “Take us to the dancing books, first,” she said, after a moment, not quite turning to look at Yazad, but more than a little aware of him in the corner of her eye. “I shall look at the anthologies afterward.”

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

Ah, here it comes. The sort of look Quintrell gave Yazad was something that the passive had already gotten used to. People assessing him, trying to place him on the social spectrum so that they may treat him accordingly. He did not quite like the sensation of a field brushing against his skin--he never did no matter who that field belonged to, but he remained standing there; steady and smiling all the same.

"Truly? I shall make a note of this, then." The glimmer in Yazad’s eyes complimented his brightening smile, though it was never a smile that was allowed to be a grin that exposes his teeth. The man had no idea what the Hill Tribes of Ele’Ur even are, but that was all the more reason for him to be curious about them as he was about all things relating to Hesse. It was a piece of home, a piece of his mother. And by extension, a piece of him as well. When Quintrell’s words were cut before the man could express his assumption, whatever it was, Yazad could only blink and tilt his head slightly. Niccolette was whom the shopkeeper’s attention was directed towards now.

Journal Eltehabee? Efene He’foula? Everything that followed merely passed through the passive’s ears, in one and out the other. The two galdori might as well be speaking Monic as far as Yazad was concerned. He knew nothing of these names or what sort of publications they were, but they certainly did not sound like the names of tally dreadfuls or those novels Sophronios disliked so. Their world, intriguing as it is for a curious soul, was so far removed from his own. And yet he listened attentively as if the subject even remotely concerned him.

At first, it looked as though Niccolette could be disappointed, but that quickly changed when the shopkeeper announced the presence of anthologies drawn from diableries. Fine brows furrowed only slightly, as Yazad looked between Quintrell and Niccolette. Questions about why Niccolette, a still-heartbroken widow, was looking into such things bubbled forth inside his head. This could be her way of keeping her mind busy, off of the devastation and the misery, but--

"Ah, thank you madam, sir." Yazad slowly slipped out of his puzzlement to bow his head towards the two. He could have waited for Niccolette to be done with her purchase before looking at the books he asked about, but since she had made the decision to instruct Quintrell otherwise, Yazad had no say in the matter. Perhaps she was also a lover of dancing? From looks alone, she did not seem to be the type, but Yazad told himself to not be so shallow as to judge a person’s interests based on appearances alone. Respectfully, he waited for the older man to lead the way before following closely after Niccolette.

"I was not aware that you also harbored an interest in the art of dancing, madam. Ah, Hessean dancing, that is." Yazad chimed, keeping his eagerness tempered and his voice low yet audible to both of his companions. He should not forget that the first time he had met Niccolette was in a ballroom, and dancing was an integral part of a galdor’s social life, but ballroom dancing and Hessean dancing were anything but similar.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

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

Quintrell led them through the bookshelves on the first floor, past shelves of modern novels and poetry, of history books and natural science. The winding wooden staircase creaked lightly underfoot. Niccolette’s hands settled into her skirts, lifting them just high enough to let her make the climb; the steps were set close enough together that it was not so difficult a task, and she had the ease of considerable practice.

At Yazad’s comment, in the midst of the bookshelves, Niccolette had glanced back over her shoulder at him. Her eyebrows had lifted, very lightly; her lips had twitched at the faintest of smiles. “Naturally,” she had said, evenly, and nothing further.

The set of the roof made the second story of the bookstore look as if it should be narrow and cramped. Quite the opposite was true; the roof was slanted overhead, but nevertheless high enough for comfort at even the lowest point. Cloudy sunlight filtered in through a high, narrow window set in the front of the shop, trailing dust motes through the air above the bookshelves.

Up here, the books were more tailored. Heshath gleamed down the spine of various books throughout; even among those in Estuan, Hessean names were much more common than amongst the books down below, or than one would find in the average bookstore in Anaxas or Bastia.

“The cultural section, Mrs. Ibutatu,” Quintrell murmured with a bow. “The books on dancing are here,” he set one hand on a shelf at about stomach height, where a handful of larger volumes sat.

Niccolette inclined her head. She did not look at Yazad, not at Quintrell, her gaze fixed idly on the bookshelf.

Niccolette had never cared much for social conventions. Laws, perhaps, were much the same; she would have said that she understood the purpose of them, and yet did not see why she should be obligated to follow them.

But this was not Mugroba, where such foolish laws did not exist, nor the Rose, where they could be ignored with impunity.

“We shall look ourselves,” Niccolette murmured, after a moment, turning to Quintrell. “The grimoires – they are also to be found up here?”

Quintrell had bowed his head lightly at Niccolette’s answer; he shook his head at her second question. “No, madam,” he said, “they are kept in one of my back rooms.”

Niccolette nodded, turning absently back to the bookshelf. “I should like to see them at the counter, when we are done here.” She said, politely enough, though with an air of expectation to her tone.

Quintrell bowed once more. “Of course, madam.” He inclined his head to Yazad as well, and turned and left. Niccolette did not know whether he had understood; nonetheless, she thought it the most elegant solution to their respective problems. His footsteps sounded gently on the stairs, tapping out of sight.

Niccolette turned to Yazad, raised her eyebrows, and shifted out of the way of the shelves. She went, instead, nearby, studying rows of names and titles with little real interest.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

Y azad caught glimpses of names written in gilded letters at the spines of rather thick books, and a few that were considerably slimmer and less grand. Those names meant nothing to him, he knew neither the authors nor the subjects they wrote about. Wooden steps whined their protest as the three made their ascent, led by Quintrell who was followed by Niccolette, and lastly, Yazad.

There was a soft exhale of air as the amused passive looked at Niccolette’s back. Naturally, she said, as if anything about her indicated that. Yazad smiled and shook his head slightly. He had thought that Sophronios was the absolute worst when it comes to self-expression, but he was starting to think that this might be simply a common galdor trait.

The second story had an atmosphere that is quite different from the one below. It gave the impression of peaceful seclusion, of isolation yet coziness. A small amount of sunlight shyly made its way through the tall window, adding a touch of dim melancholy to the still scenery. Briefly, Yazad wondered if the galdor shopkeeper tended to this entire place all by himself. The bookshelves filling most of the floor’s space were not unlike the ones they had at home in Sophronios’ study, but the raven-haired man assumed that the contents of the shelves were perhaps the most notable difference.

Despite being cut off from Hessean heritage -and quite literally everything else in the world- at the age of ten, Yazad could still recognize a Hessean name when he saw one. Amusement tinted his face as he walked past the lined volumes, most of which carried names that he no longer heard the likes of in Anaxas. More than once, the passive had to suppress a passing urge to curiously pick up a book with an intriguing title, or run his fingertips along the beautiful letterings on leather book spines.

Something grim passed through Yazad’s mind when Quintrell, no doubt with all the good intentions of a proper gentleman, called Niccolette ‘Mrs Ibutatu’. The passive’s smile fell, but only slightly. This was not her last name, it was her husband’s. She carries it now even when the man himself is gone--a reminder of who she had and what she had lost. Death was simply a natural progression of life, it was the expected end of anyone who had ever been born. Yes, death was itself a part of existence, but factual knowledge changed very little when hearts are involved. Those who were left behind after a loved one’s death were still, in Yazad’s firm belief, the ones who suffer the most.

"Thank you, good sir." Yazad returned Quintrell’s bow nimbly from where he stood near the bookshelf they were led to. Niccolette’s words were a clear dismissal of the shopkeeper, and though he had nothing against the man himself, Yazad found it rather uncomfortably foreign to be attended by someone. That was his duty often.

"Oh, goodness." The passive instantly began to look through the rather thick books sitting between the smooth boards of wood, his gloved fingers gingerly leafing through pages and skimming through neat typeset words to get the gist of each. The first book he had picked up was one that documented the history of dancing arts in Hesse. The second, a study of dancing applications in various aspects of Hessean life. A third book contained beautiful illustrations of dancing people in intricate garb and detailed the practice itself in sufficient detail.

"Look at this, madam. Is it not gorgeous?" Yazad, with a spark in his eyes and a bright smile, carefully held the open book up so Niccolette could see what he was talking about, his index finger pointing at a drawn image of a dancing young woman wearing an outfit of flowing fabric and more jewelry than he can ever afford. "’An illustration of a wedding rite dance’, it says here. A shame that no shop that I know of in Brunnhold carries anything as charming as this." A short description sat below the picture, with a much more detailed elaboration written on the opposite page.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

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

Niccolette’s gaze swept over the books on the shelves; there were rows of titles and names she did not recognize, not even enough to find a suggestion as to the sort of books these might be: history, biology, physics, fiction, or otherwise. The names might, perhaps, have been suggestive, but she found those she could read inconclusive.

She drifted to the next set of shelves. Behind her, Yazad was absorbed, looking through the large, heavy books that Quintrell had led them to.

Poetry, Niccolette thought, her gaze settling on Ejaaz, the name written in curling script. This shelf, she thought, she knew; she had little in the way of interest in poetry, but Uzoji had loved it. She did not think – no, rather, she knew she had nothing of Ejaaz in his collection, for she knew every book of his, and could have placed them side by side on his shelf, if she needed to. It seemed to her that even the order of them was his, still – something he had left behind – and to lose that, too – to lose any of it – was more than she could bear.

Ejaaz, Niccolette thought, was a familiar name all the same. He had more than one anthology, including Hessean works, and she supposed –

Like that, Niccolette thought, she remembered.

“Listen, my stars and moon,” Uzoji had said, once, sitting smiling in their room on the Eqe Aqawe; she could see it, now, the sun setting out the window, and it must have been after a trip to Drekkur; she could picture the book, too, which was in the Rose now, large and gold leaf, “to this poem by Ejaaz.”

She had listened, Niccolette thought, looking at the spine of the book on the shelf; she had set her own book down, and she had listened.

“Leave the familiar for a while,” Uzoji had read, “let your senses and bodies stretch out like a welcomed season, onto the meadows and shores and hills. Open up to the roof –”

Yazad’s voice from behind her caught her by surprise; Niccolette’s breath caught in her chest, and she turned back to look at him, her face as neutral as it had been when she turned away. Her gaze lowered to the page he’d held up, studying the young woman in her elaborate flowing fabric and extensive jewelry. A wedding rite, she thought, idly, glancing back up to Yazad’s face for a moment.

“Too much jewelry for my taste,” Niccolette said, looking back down at the page a little longer, and then back at Yazad. Her face was still, and serious – and then, after a moment, she smiled, just a little, letting him in to the joke, or at least letting him know it was meant as a joke. She exhaled, glancing away, and put the poem from her mind, and the echo, too, of Uzoji’s voice.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

Y azad’s fascination met the cool reservation of Niccolette’s brief response, but that did not make his smile any less brighter, or the glow tinting the pale green eyes any dimmer. "Yes, I did indeed notice your penchant for austerity." The passive responded with a smile that was laced with matter-of-factly playfulness. Carefully, the man closed the book he held up and then cradled it in his arms.

"I do like this one." Yes, he liked this one the most. He liked the illustrations, the descriptions, and the fact that he can use both to experiment with new practices when time allows him the luxury of recreational activity. He would, at the very least, ask Quintrell about the book’s price to know if he is carrying enough of it or if he has to come back at a later time with more coins.

This was not the reason Yazad went out of the house to begin with, but he can imagine Sophronios actually making a comment about his purchase for once, seeing that it is a book. Yazad was supposed to be upset at the galdor for his thoughtless departure earlier, the passive remembered with a soft huff, but he really could not bring himself to be annoyed at the older man for long.

"Has the madam found anything of interest? What are the books you requested about? Eltehabee, I believe. And He’foula?" Yazad did not ask the question because he is likely to recognize Niccolette’s answer, but because he was very aware of his lack of knowledge when it comes to almost anything outside of housework. A passive has no entitlement to education; some olden galdori had decided that long before his birth, but that did nothing to prevent a curious man from seeking information about the world beyond his grasp any chase he gets.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

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

Yazad held the book to his chest, arms wrapped around it. Niccolette nodded. She was not his protector; she scarcely knew him, and felt no obligation to smooth the paths of his life. She had intervened here only because it was the law that seemed to her wrong, or at least not in the least worth enforcing. The same was true of many laws, written and unwritten.

Yazad smiled at her, and Niccolette smiled back, not quite as wide and joyful as his, but a smile nonetheless.

He asked about her books; Niccolette shifted her shoulders in a shrug.

“Journal Eltehabee is a Hessean journal of living conversation,” Niccolette explained. “Published in Estuan out of Drekkur. Mr. Quintrell is one of those who imports the journal quarterly to Brunnhold.”

“It is an applied journal,” Niccolette went on, “which publishes largely new spells and new approaches to old spells of note. I find it interesting reading, though I do not subscribe directly.”

“Efene He’foula,” Niccolette went on, “was a living conversationalist in the sixteenth century.” She looked back at the shelves once more, and her eyes skimmed over the titles of poetry.

“She has written spells which it would interest me to read,” Niccolette said evenly, “on the curing of poisonings.” Her fingers traced the line of the shelves; they lingered for a moment on the spine of a book, and then she turned away.

Niccolette went back down the curled steps with small, even steps, her skirts delicately lifted in her hands once more. Quintrell stood behind the counter, the books she had asked for spread out over it now.

The journal was little more than a sheath of elegantly wrapped paper, the edges secured together but not bound in hardback; the cover, printed, had Journal Eltehabee written in elegant script in Estuan and Heshath, one on top of the other, with Issue 289, Volume 3 beneath.

The grimoires were larger, weighty things, not dusty but with the rich smell of old books. Niccolette opened the covers and leaned forward, tracing her fingers over the cramped tables of contents, eyes skimming the narrow, curled letters.

“This one,” she said, after not too long, glancing up at Quintrell.

He bowed. “Of course.”

Niccolette closed the book; he took it and the journal, and wrapped them together in wax paper, tied with a string.

One spell, Niccolette thought, feeling a tingling of excitement through her, but it was more than she had hoped. On the drawing out of poisons and other substances from the body, He’foula had titled the spell many centuries ago. Yes, Niccolette thought; it would serve her purposes well, at least to read one new perspective on such spells. That was what she had read about He’foula: that she had not conformed, but forged ahead in her own way of casting.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

Y azad did not regret asking Niccolette a question about a subject that he knew nothing about, but he dreaded the look of foolish ignorance that must have crossed his face when she answered him. The passive already felt lost at ‘living conversation’, but still willed himself to listen attentively to the rest.

As she went on about Journal Eltehabee, Yazad’s expression shifted into thoughtfulness. He could not say much about spells, old or new, but the concept of the journal was something that he could liken to something else that he is familiar with. "So, it is a cookery book for spells." The passive chuckled. Was cooking not about taking a trusted old recipe and following it, or improving upon it? Only this was a kind of cooking that he can never practice, and which Niccolette seemed to particularly enjoy.

Yazad continued to listen, this time to an explanation of who Efene He’foula is and what she is known for. More of the world that he was far from being a part of, but he understood enough to let him know that she has earned a reputation among current-day galdori, centuries after her existence.

"This is a rather unique interest." Yazad commented calmly, eyes watching Niccolette’s profile as her fingers hovered along the spines of books, only to be retracted later. Such a topic would have been worrying if Niccolette did not mention her charitable work at the hospital previously. Such spells do seem to have medical applications, or so he assumed because he could not think of anything else that they could be used for.

Inwardly, Yazad noted with a growing smile that this was the most that he had heard Niccolette speak. Every self-absorbed galdor has a quirk, it seems. For some, it is genes. And for others--spells.

When Niccolette began to move, Yazad easily followed. The sound of their steps on creaking wood echoed for just a moment before they made it back to the first floor, where Mr. Quintrell awaited on the counter with a slim book of sorts and a number of hefty volumes. The raven-haired man hung behind Niccolette, leaving her to her browsing while he stood still in waiting. At first, he thought that the galdor woman was going to purchase all of them, but that was not the case as it turned out. It looked like she was searching for something specific, and that she had found it.

Respectfully, Yazad had waited until Niccolette’s business was concluded before stepping forward, the book he had chosen held up for Quintrell to see. "Pardon me, good sir. May I inquire about this book’s price?" If it is anywhere near as expensive as the books he is sent to purchase by Sophronios, then he might have to come back for it in a year or two, assuming that he did not spend all of his funds on something else.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

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

There were those to whom speaking of casting as if it bore a resemblance to cooking was profane. Niccolette was not one such.

It was not because Yazad was a passive, and could not understand, and so Niccolette could forgive the error. Rather, it was that she did not quite feel it was an error. Casting was not cooking, and they both knew it; he had not said otherwise.

Niccolette liked recipe books. When she had learned to cook, now some years ago, it had been a slow and painstaking process, in part because she had needed to take recipes known and not written down and convert them. What they had become, Niccolette supposed, was a form not unlike a spell: something which one could follow in every step, though with care to temper it appropriately, though with the ability to modify some ingredients as needed.

“Not so different,” Niccolette had answered Yazad’s comment with a little smile of her own, in the end.

Journal Eltabehee, as it had before in Quintrell’s shop, cost a shill, between the printing and the shipping. The grimoire was more expensive.

“Three concords, I think, madam,” Quintrell had said, his long face carefully neutral. “Of course your interest is primarily in one spell - but there is the rest of the book to consider, and its age and rarity.”

Niccolette studied the book, carefully. She could afford it; in the early days of her work she had regularly counted on Hawke to subsidize her searching for spells. It was not so simple as sending him a bill; rather, to do so meant finding her books through his network. That searching she had already done for this spell, though of late she knew not to ask him for much. He was displeased with her already; in the wrong mood, asking him for an extra concord was cause enough.

There had been a time in Niccolette’s life when they had not had three concords to spare at once. In the earliest days in Laus Oma, they had had the house to call their own, and the Eqe Aqawe, and those between them had drained every bit of their inheritances.

That time was not now. The last seven years had been profitable; the estate, too, ran well enough on its own now, and above board brought in income annually. She had looked at the reports Aremu had sent, these last months, even if she had not been able to bring herself to it before.

All the same, Niccolette thought. “Two concords seems a more reasonable price,” Niccolette said, evenly, looking at Quintrell. “Egrenthe was not so stingy in their printings,” she named the publisher easily, having caught sight of the seal on the inside cover, and knowing their work more than passingly.

“And yet with age, such books are lost,” Quintrell said, shaking his head. “The condition as well is excellent. I should struggle to go beneath two concords and six shills.”

Niccolette paid two concords and four shills in the end, not paying with coins but rather having Quintrell send the bill to her hotel, this time. She carried money on her, for she had little fear of pickpockets and thieves, but nothing like close to three concords.

Quintrell turned to Yazad when the passive came forward. His gaze swept over the book, and then up to Yazad’s face.

Niccolette stood still; she said and did nothing, and did not look at them - nor, quite, did she look away.

“The book is priced at two shills,” Quintrell said in the end, politely enough. He inclined his head. “Such a volume would not be rare in Hesse, but they are uncommon enough here.” He added, the edge of his gaze flicking to Niccolette, and then returning to Yazad.