Hama’s Hands, The Stacks
By late evening, the streets were crowded, the bars too; eating halls were still serving, food and alcohol both. The twisted, narrow streets of the small adjunct city were teeming with laughter and other loud emotions. There was, among the students at least, a sense of expectation: the week has finished, and now we are free. The young ones had no need to look beyond, to remember that in just two days time the doors of classrooms would open to them once more, that there would be lectures and assignments and exams. Not tonight, Brunnhold cried! Not tonight.
Niccolette was no exception. Not, in truth, to any of it. The hasty goodbye she had said to Uzoji fizzed on her lips and in her veins, and the Bastian was no less antsy than she had been a few hours earlier.
“Pemberton,” Niccolette said firmly, setting her half-full glass down with a loud and deliberate thunk, just inches from the edge of her mostly full plate. The small table of students fell silent, and the Anaxi in question looked over at her, blinking owlishly.
“You are an idiot,” Niccolette said, calm and cool. “I think perhaps no one has told you before, but it is best you know now. I shall not endure another moment of your company.” Niccolette glanced down at the glass on the table in front of her. She pressed her lips together for a long moment, considering, then tilted her head back and drank it all in a long swallow, throat moving softly beneath the high neck of her dress.
Niccolette set the glass back down, rose, her chair scraping back against the floor, and shoved her way through the narrow tables that ringed the eating house’s floor, disappearing from the table in moments. She found the closing door and caught it with her hands, rushing outside, and shuddered, feeling the cool air on her face. If she had to listen to one more moment of discussion of marriages, Niccolette thought, she would truly be sick.
“Nicco!” A women’s voice came from behind her.
Niccolette did not look back, taking a few steps to the side, arms crossing over the chest of her vivid turquoise dress. She shone in the street lamps, pearl buttons glittering over the front and along the sleeves.
“Nicco,” A blonde Anaxi followed her those last steps, her eyes wide and worried. “What’s going on with you? We said we’d all go out together. If you come back and apologize -“
“You stay, Dahlia,” Niccolette shrugged. “I shall find my own entertainment.” The Bastian ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back off her face, tilting back slightly to stare up at the roofs of the building beyond.
“What’s wrong, Nicco?” Dahlia asked. “Is something -“
“No!” Niccolette snapped. “And I am sick of the question,” she spun on the blonde. She inhaled, the words bubbling up - then with a scowl, Niccolette shut them off, pursing her lips. “I shall see you at practice.” The Bastian did not give herself another chance; she began to walk again, striding quickly down the cobblestone streets, almost running to get away from the small bar.
Niccolette knew the Stacks well, after so many years at Brunnhold, but it was ever changing, unknowable, and the same path traversed twice did not always lead to the same place. Without much thought, her feet led her through twisting narrow alleys, over uneven paving stones. The liquor fizzed in her stomach, lost and a little lonely. Niccolette stopped at a small staircase leading down, a burst of music from a cracked open door at the bottom enough to call her attention.
The Bastian glanced around for a sign; the lack of one did not deter her, and she grasped the unsteady metal railing and descended the narrow steps cut into stone, stepping into the room beneath the streets.
The soft melodic strains of an oud rose up over the smoke-hued room, the crowd softly lit by dim phosphor lights along the walls and ceiling. It was busy, yes, but the music seemed to calm the worst of the conversation, lending it an odd sense of peace. Niccolette glanced around, and made her way slowly to the smooth wooden bar, heels clicking softly against the floor.
Niccolette waited, resting her cloth-covered forearms against the wood, and ordered a glass of something softly orange and fizzing. She settled in at a recently abandoned table, took a sip of her drink, then set it down and fumbled in her reticule. Finally, she found a hand rolled cigarette and drew it out.
A few more moments of exploration, and Niccolette realized she did not have matches. She sighed, glancing down at the slim white paper held between her fingers, then glanced around, red-painted lips pressed softly together, looking for a light.