The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown
The Bastian breathed, steadily and evenly; she let the rhythm of it flood out into her field, and lap against Francoise’s. The living mona were comfortably intertwined, belike fields made familiar after so many years of friendship. She passed the rhythm of her breath through her field, and she felt the response in Francoise’s.
After a moment, her friend’s breathing steadied out; she felt her pulse even out, following steadily behind. Niccolette shifted her fingers away from Francoise’s wrist, delicately, although did not let go of her hand – mostly because Francoise was squeezing hers, rather hard. She raised her eyebrows at the other woman.
Francoise smiled back and let go; she took a deeper breath, then fell into the rhythm once more. She reached up to pat the fall of hair tumbling over her shoulder, although did not touch the careful updo on the other side of her head.
“More of a fly, I am given to understand,” Chrysanthe was saying, quietly and calmly, smiling at her cousin, “when fully grown. In their infancy, they glow a sort of cool blue color, and produce enormous amounts of long, silk-like thread. When one sees them, it is quite hard to differentiate between the glowworm and its nest; the silk threads catch up the light quite well. Infestations are, in fact, quite common in parts of Qrieth…”
Amaryllis’s footsteps were fading down the hall, slow and even. What, Niccolette had wanted to ask, absurdly, do you do when the crying no longer helps?
“Wait,” Niccolette said, not sharply, but with a competent, commanding tone. Diana was coming to sit on the couch; Cerise was huddled by the window, glowering darkly, the faintest hint of gold in her hair. She turned to look at the human behind the door. “Before it is thrown out.” Niccolette said.
Niccolette turned back to look at Diana; she smiled at her. Her gaze lifted, as well, to Cerise, her face pale and pinched beneath the tangle of dark hair. She took the last sip of her tea, and set the cup down, carefully.
“There is a Hoxian technique of pottery repair,” Niccolette said, “in which the broken pieces are fused back together with gold- or silver-dusted lacquer. The end result is to produce a piece in which the breaks can be seen,” Niccolette smiled; it was a soft look, almost tender, “but which is – often – even more beautiful than what came before.”
“I shall say that I have something of a temper,” Niccolette went on, her hands together in her lap; her fingers settled on her wedding ring, “and have broken… several plates,” she smiled; next to her Francoise smiled too, a brief twitch of it which she hid with a careful turning of her head.
“One some years ago was… a gift,” Niccolette thought perhaps she would hesitate there, though she did not, “from my husband, which – in a moment of anger,” Niccolette shrugged lightly. She heard Francoise’s breath catch beside her at the word husband; she felt her friend’s utter stillness, and then the gentle touch of fingers on her arm.
“He had it restored,” Niccolette said, “and gave it to me once more.” She looked down at her hands; she smoothed them gently over her lap once more. She had spent some time in the Islands the month before, where the plate was, even now, framed on the wall of their bedroom there; Uzoji had hung it where it would catch the morning light. She lifted her gaze to Diana and Cerise, and smiled once more, evenly; there was no constraint in her voice, nor even the faintest glimmer of tears in her eyes.
“I should be glad to recommend a craftsman in the Rose known for such work,” Niccolette said. She turned, and picked up her empty cup and saucer, and set them down next to the pot, noiselessly. “I would, as well, appreciate another cup of tea; it is excellent.”