OLD ROSE | MORNING
She, Tristaan and Linora.
It had been a month since the birth of their daughter, and whilst it was amazing and wonderful and exciting it was also not. The brunette dancer had experience with boch, not her own obviously but she had grown up with children around the kints or part of the Festival, and now she had her own there were more things to learn. How to feed her, dress her, bathe her. Her habits and needs, her cries and her quiet times. Was she still breathing when she was so deeply asleep? Would it ever not feel like razor blades every time she nursed?
Was there a magical solution to diapers?
The passive of course helped with everything he possibly could, and the man’s love for his small fami was visible in his care and his actions. He adored Nora, taking to wearing her in a cleverly tied long shawl designed for carrying babies when he was home and awake or if he took her out and about to give the dancer a breather. Sarinah was adamantly certain she could not have ever done this on her own, and was grateful each and every day that Alioe had put Tristaan in her path and rescued her from the Queen before it was too late.
“Pokers and vice, say the Surwood whice. Kettles and pans, say the Mumbrey lambs.” She continued the nonsense rhyme, turning and bouncing in time with the words, delighting in the precious smiles and half-laughs that escaped her daughter. It was all so new, both to her and the boch, and it was heartwarming to see Nora learning how she herself worked. Her skin was a warmer tone than Tristaan’s, reflecting some of Sarinah’s olive tones, and her hair was dark rich brown to match deep dark eyes. In certain light they looked like they might be slate, but in others they just looked brown. The man had explained to the brunette that their boch’s eyes could change color as she grew, and may become lighter like his own. It didn’t particularly matter to the witch, she loved Linora with more of her heart then she could ever think was possible. It was warming, a strong sensation that could not be ignored even if she wanted to, a biological safeguard.
“Such a pretty song, my sweet birdy.” A sultry, rich voice spoke softly from within the house, shocking Sarinah so much she gasped and reeled her glamour close to her sharply. Turning rapidly, Linora bursting into startled cries, the dark eyed dancer backed away with disbelief and anger.
“Scarlett. What the clocking hell are ye doing in my house?” She growled, holding Nora closer and placing a hand behind her tiny little head as though to protect her from the golden eyed woman. Dressed in a crimson dress that hugged all the wrong places, the ex-pirate-come-madame continued to walk into the living area, not at all perturbed by the fact she had entered the home uninvited.
“Tristaan?!” Sarinah called out loudly for the man in a panicky tone, knowing he was probably still deep within the realms of sleep at this moment in time, having worked in the Arena the night before. With Linora’s birth, the dancer had to adjust her timings with Boriand, so that someone could be home with the boch. It meant Tristaan worked more often than not, much to the wick’s frustration, and there was no solution in sight.
They both knew this day was going to come, but was it really so soon?
Scarlett tsked, pouting at the dancer’s call for the passive, slowing hard red heels on the wooden floor. Her thick tresses were curled up on her head in a neat and tidy up-do, away from the lit end of her long thin cigarette which she proceeded to withdraw from her cleavage and light with a gentle Static spell.
“Oh come now Dove, I’d never hurt you my sweet girl. You should know that by now.” She said with a tone of mock offense, drawing on the cigarette and resting one elbow on her crossed arm. Sarinah’s lip curled and she hissed a curse.
“Don’t call me that.” The dancer growled, moving to put the kitchen table between herself and the red head. Scarlett pressed her fingertips to her lips, a false ‘oops’ at the comment, before raising them in a sign of surrender.
“Forgive me, Sarinah. A soft sound escaped her throat, and she smiled through the smoke, looking at the upset bundle in the witch’s arms.
“That’s her then? Your little forbidden bundle of joy? Got to admit, you and that scrap make adorable runts.” Slowly, she walked towards the brunette, to which Sarinah moved equal steps away. Scarlett stopped at the table, drawing a chair from the setting and sweeping into it with crossed legs and straight back. Her field was barely more than a brush of sensation, weak as it had always been, wickish in its aura. There were times where Sarinah was sure she felt a surge from the woman who had owned her for five years, but it was so brief that it could have been another magister passing by. Regardless, the brunette was more confident in her magic than she was in the red head madame.
“What do ye want Scarlett?“ The wick said sharply, keeping her distance from the woman who seemed content to stay seated for now. The Madame smiled slowly, dragging another breath from the cigarette and sighing theatrically.
“Ah, ah, ah. Patience my little Dove. I need your lover for this conversation. Both of you actually. I think you’ll want to hear me out.” Her golden gaze held the brunettes for a moment, before looking away with an air of casual nonchalance. There was no fear or sense of caution from the woman, beautiful if she wasn’t so ugly inside. Sarinah had never really understood the woman. She hated her, for everything she had forced her to do and to be, for everything she did to her and Tristaan and the other girls. Yet, the red haired mistress was never outwardly cruel. She never personally hit the witch, and there wasn’t anyone Sarinah could recall that Scarlett had hurt that didn’t instigate the problem.
It didn’t mean however she trusted her. Not at all.