The Elepha's Inn, Castle Hill
The continued chatter was loud enough that Niccolette could not focus; she looked back at Xonia as she continued to explain, her lips pressed together tightly, and listened without comment. She had no more reaction to the news that Xonia had killed the man than all the rest of it. When Xonia said she had every reason to tell her to shut up, Niccolette simply shrugged. “I cannot cast until you do,” she pointed out. Her tone was – not harsh, exactly, though, despite the words. If anything, it was almost gentle.
“I shall try,” The living conversationalist offered, when Xonia repeated her wish. “I cannot promise to succeed.”
Niccolette inhaled, deeply, and exhaled again. She thought for a moment, then shifted to the floor, kneeling carefully on the ground again. Niccolette poured a bit of wine into her hand, and used her fingers to trace careful monite symbols on the ground, glistening and wet, creating a small plot around herself with the sweet brandy wine. She breathed steadily as she did, always holding to the same rhythm.
Once the plot was finished, Niccolette knelt in the center of it. She wiped her hands on the second of the (several) handkerchiefs she had brought with herself that night, and tossed it to the side, out of the plot. The galdor steadied herself, grasped tight her will, and began to cast, the words falling easily between the rhythmic breaths with the ease of long practice. Lucky for Xonia, Niccolette thought, that she had had occasion to look this spell up recently; lucky for Francoise, Niccolette knew, that she had not, in the end, needed to use it. Niccolette recited the monite into the steadily warming air of the room; it was a long cast, a difficult cast, and blood trickled from her nose as she continued, sliding down over her face, dripping from her chin onto the floor in front of her. Niccolette never paused; once the spell was begun, she could not pause for even a moment, and she did not dare even to reach outside the spell circle for the handkerchief.
Finally, Niccolette curled the spell. She closed her eyes, wobbling unsteadily against the floor, and reached out, grasping the edge of the bed. Her other hand fumbled for the handkerchief. She leaned forward slightly, and pinched the soft part of her nose with the handkerchief, the already wine-stained white cloth taking on a brighter red now. Niccolette's eyes closed, and she did not move or speak for several long moments, her head throbbing painfully.
“It has worked,” Niccolette said, once she could summon the strength to speak. She rose, stiff and aching once more, and wobbled more than walked back to the chair, collapsing back into place. She did not sleep, but stared out the window instead, watching the stars beyond, the stained handkerchief clutched lightly in one hand.
When Xonia spoke once more from the bed, Niccolette turned to look at her, lips pressing together for a long moment. “No,” The Bastian said, quietly, and left it there; she did not apologize, and nor did she explain. Xonia had not asked, in truth, but Niccolette responded as if she had. The Bastian looked away again, back out the window.
“You said you have a friend here,” Niccolette inhaled, slowly, and exhaled again. She closed her eyes for a moment, her head oddly heavy against her neck. She rubbed at her face with the back of her hand, and opened her eyes again, looking at Xonia once more. “Tell me their name, and I shall send word in the morning. You shall need a good deal of rest still, to heal.”