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[Tom Cooke]

Royal Opera House • Uptown

Evening on the 18th of Yaris, 2719

Come now,” came Diana’s voice, as if heard through layers of glass. He felt her fingers on his arm, through the fabric of his jacket, through the shirtsleeves underneath; it was nearly the only thing he could feel. “You can’t really say that, Arthur, that’s — I’m aghast.” He felt her lean against him with laughter; her shoulder brushing his, lingering, a loose strand of her hair tickling his cheek. “Anatole, tell him.”

Tell him what? He blinked. He had eyes only for the ceiling, dripping glass and lights. The chandeliers seemed to turn and move, if he looked at them long enough, like whirling skirts made out of stars. Diana’s slender fingers anchored him back down to the rich-carpeted floor, but he found he couldn’t remember what they were talking about.

His eyes came into focus. Towhead, was his first thought. A man, laughing through a shower of deep freckles — his laughter at odds with how he was pawing uneasily at the part of his hair. Like he expected it to jump aside in a sudden draft.

He knew he was smiling Anatole’s thin smile, and had been for some time, because his face hurt. He barely knew the words that came out of his mouth; he heard them like they were someone else’s. That was fine — they were. “Circle, you and your Bastians,” said Anatole, with a humming little laugh.

“I wouldn’t say that to Mrs. Madison, when she arrives,” snorted Dr. Levesque.

“‘Variety is the very spice of life,’” hummed Anatole, “and I am firm in my opinion: there is no language for opera like Heshath. You cannot argue,” he found his voice rising over Levesque’s beginning protests, “you cannot argue; Heshath is the language for opera; not even Deftung comes close, and especially not Estuan, not even Bastian Estuan –”

“But what about Cavalcanti? What about The Gondolier?”

“All fine works, yes; I can enjoy the Bastians, Arthur, I’m not a chrove –”

Diana was laughing, now, real laughter, and Anatole – he – whoever he was – he couldn’t seem to keep from laughing himself, and it came out of him deep and rich and smooth, and if he spent a second listening to it, it might’ve terrified him; but he didn’t have any thought to spare. It was early in this evening, and he hadn’t had a drop to drink – he’d promised Ava, without words – Ava, who was – he couldn’t think of Ava. Tonight, he was Anatole Vauquelin; he could be who he wanted when he got home, “home”, if he could figure out who that was.

Diana patted his arm gently. “I can enjoy both,” she said, finally. He looked over at her. There was a warm smile on her red-painted lips, and a flush in her cheek, and one blond hair out of place, because it was the windiest day in Yaris so far. She was looking at him with eyes that told him she was looking at Anatole, and he didn’t like it, but it made him feel like he’d succeeded at something.

They all stood in the foyer of the Royal Opera House, in the scattered crowds; you could hear the distant hum of an orchestra warming up, the chatter and laughter, smell the cloying cloud of cigar smoke and cologne. Every few moments another, new field brushed his and went, and he got the urge — budding, and growing, ever since he’d started casting — to pull his field in against his skin, jealous of the few clairvoyant mona that now drifted comfortably in the buzzing mess of his porven. He was grateful for the porven, too; he was afraid he’d’ve been sweating his discomfort if his field were any more his own. Diana’s perceptive field was calm against his, warm and bastly, and Levesque’s static mona danced with his amusement.

“Besides,” Diana went on, “Milo will undoubtedly take his side. I’ve heard he’s distantly related to the librettist, Lucretius Savatier.”

He didn’t know who Lucretius Savatier was; Anatole would have. Instead, he put in, “I shall be so pleased to see Milo again. It’s been such a long time.”

“The two of you were so close,” said Levesque, picking up the thread he left with enthusiasm, to his relief. “And you’re looking so much more yourself, Anatole; we knew you’d pull through. I’m certain Milo and Linnea will be more than pleased to see you in such good health.”

So much more himself, Anatole thought. There were mirrors set along the walls, interspersed with wood paneling; he couldn’t see himself in them, and it relieved him, and he didn’t know why. He looked down at his feet, at the sheen of the distant light on his shoes. The carpet spread out beneath them, a landscape of its own, a dizzying network of vines and flowers. Deep red and brown and gold. The sickly scent of his own cologne. The distant breath of strings. The weight of the watch in his waistcoat pocket, the tickets in the inside pocket of his jacket, against his chest. The silk necktie like a noose.

It was hot out there, and hot in here, too. He tugged at his collar, silent for a moment; sweat prickled at the back of his neck. It felt strangely cold.

“Ah, speak of the hatcher,” breathed Diana, touching his arm, “and with Linnea, too.”

He looked up at two approaching galdori, and didn’t have to fit Anatole’s smile on his face; it was already there. Diana was dipping low in a bow, and he followed, smoothly. “Good evening to the both of you,” he called, suffusing his voice with a pleasure he could almost taste; and it tasted as cloying and chemical as the perfume.

[Linnea Madison]

Royal Opera House
Yaris 18, 2719 in the evening

Milo had been in Vienda for a couple of weeks, at most, but she'd felt it coming from the first few hours of his visit; she'd felt the irritation building within both husband and wife, though neither cared yet to admit it or do anything about the snowballing resentment. That was how it always was, when he visited - Linnea stuck to herself as much as she could at home, and avoided him as much as possible when forced to attend gatherings and other events, while Milo suppressed the snarky comments and jokes about his wife, and both let the negativity fester until it was but an avalanche crashing down upon them, inescapable.

Inescapable - that was an excellent word for Milo Armelle Savatier. At first glance, he was like anyone else in good, proper company; reddish brown hair was typically worn slicked back and away from his square face, his slightly mischievous, ever-amused gaze matching in hue, and could always be found with dark stubble covering the lower half of his face. He had a taste for fine Bastian-tailored suits in reds and golds and greens, and had a habit of requesting his wife to match whichever color he chose for any particular outing.

He was a decent man, Linnea could give him that, but he was like any other low-ranking but high-reaching politician. Behind closed doors, or in the company of his companions, she knew that Milo was far more corrupt and perhaps even depraved than she often cared to admit. It was none of her business what he got up to, or what came out of his mouth, and it suited her just fine to ignore it. Milo was aware, perhaps more than anyone, that he would have nothing - be nothing - if it weren't for his marriage to the Bastian ambassador, and rather than any sense of gratitude, Linnea had never felt anything but resentment from the Hessean. The man could barely even handle the fact that she'd kept her own name - that his wife was not referred to as Ambassador Savatier, despite the numerous attempts he'd made to get her to change it in their (almost) ten years of marriage.

When dear Milo had mentioned their invitation to attend at the Royal Opera along with a few of his favorite companions, Linnea had almost built up the courage to refuse. It had been right there; the words had sat at the tip of her tongue, but denied her the ability to vocalize them. She had never had an easy time declining such things, for she was far too polite to do so and cared too much to keep her image as ambassador clear and well-liked, but it didn't mean that she enjoyed it.

She loved the opera, and would jump at the chance to attend on any other occasion, but she had no love for Milo and his friends. Or, more suited to the occasion - she held no love for Milo with his friends, as the man tended to vocalize far more of his grievances with his wife when in comfortable company, and it left the Bastian floundering for a way to steer the conversation away from herself, often to no avail.

She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, staring into the mirror one last time while Milo stood behind her, adjusting his jacket, dark eyes focused only on his own reflection. He reached up to do the same with his deep red cravat, tightening it slightly about his neck, before stepping away from Linnea and the mirror, "surely the carriage is ready by now. Shall we?"

The Bastian didn't reply, smoothing a hand down the front of her dress to straighten out the lines, and gave her face a quick glance again, before leaving the mirror and following after her husband. He led them out of the bedroom, into the hall, down the stairway, and finally through the main room and outside. Linnea offered a nod to her assistant as she passed, a Gioran passive by the name of Keanek that had served her for the better half of her residence in Anaxas. The girl's pale face was marred only by a slight scrape to her cheekbone, but it was too much for the Bastian's preference, and she was fully aware that her husband had had something to do with the girl's tumble in the kitchen earlier in the evening.

She'd tried to apologize for Milo's little tantrum, but as always, had found herself silenced by her own inability. Keanek was a passive, sure, but she'd been a great deal of help over the years and didn't deserve unfair mistreatment.

The driver stepped down from the front of the carriage, moving to open the door and allow Milo and Linnea inside. The Hessean scooted to the far side of the bench, sitting close to the window and keeping his gaze fixed through the glass, at the darkening and windy world around them. Resigning herself to do the same, Linnea turned her head to look outside, and let her eyes be caught by leaves as they were pulled from the grounds and tossed about in the breeze.

They arrived a bit later than Milo had wished, a fact made obvious by his wordless huffs and the repeated checking of the time, but he was at least in better spirits than earlier. They could manage it easier when around others, when they had to maintain their image, but in private it was harder to conceal.

Once the carriage had come to a stop, the driver came around to open the door again, and Milo exited first. He glanced about the Royal Opera House's exterior with a growing lightness to his expression, and turned back to offer a hand out to his wife. Without hesitating, she accepted the help, her other hand holding her dress so as not to trip over it as she stepped out. It wasn't a long dress, exactly, as it reached just below her knees, but the soft, dark golden fabric was thick, and far too warm against her skin in the evening Yaris heat.

The first thing one might notice about the couple was that the ambassador was taller than her husband - quite a few inches taller, in fact, another thing that bugged Milo ceaselessly, but that Linnea herself had grown to ignore. She had always been taller than most galdori company, especially in heels, and she was more surprised to find someone that could tower over her than to find someone shorter. The second thing one might notice was that they matched quite perfectly, dressed in dark golds and blacks and reds, and from appearance alone they might even seem a good couple.

Milo was the first to react upon seeing their group, a warm, welcoming smile spreading across his face as he and Linnea approached.

"Good evening," he gave back easily, and both he and his wife dipped low to return the bows, and as he straightened up again, Milo stepped closer to pat Anatole's shoulder fondly, "so glad to see you again, Anatole, and to hear that you're doing well. And of course, it's always wonderful to see you as well, Diana," and he moved easily from the Incumbent to the man's wife, bowing again to press a light kiss to the back of her hand. It was Dr. Levesque's turn next, the Hessean looking to the galdor with a smile.

"And Arthur, I've not forgotten you either."

Linnea had always wondered if the charming demeanor came naturally to Milo, or if it was just an act he put on in front of those he wished to impress - she'd had to learn much of pleasantries herself in the last decade, but they didn't flow effortlessly from the Bastian as they seemed to from her husband. She stepped forward, offering her own smiles - even if they weren't quite as bright as Milo's - and looked to Anatole, a bit more familiar with the politician than she was with his wife or the man Milo had called Arthur, and not wishing to disturb her husband's pleasantries.

"Incumbent Vauquelin, it's a pleasure. As my husband mentioned, we're glad to hear of your recovery - you gave everyone quite a scare," it was meant to be teasing, and she supposed it sounded that way, too, even if it felt a little hollow at the moment. Her field gave little indication of her mood, a subtly confident (but not overly so) wall of static and perceptive magic, the particles almost sparkling invisibly around her as she stood.

"Have you always been a fan of the opera, Vauquelin?"

"Anatole, remind me to tell you about my trip to this little eatery outside of Brunnhold, after the show - Diana, I think you'd find it terribly amusing as well. The entire operation was run by a group of wicks in suits and hats, does that not seem strange to you? Wicks. In suits - fine suits, mind you, I thought I'd fallen asleep in the carriage over and dreamed the whole thing."

[Tom Cooke]

Royal Opera House • Uptown

Evening on the 18th of Yaris, 2719

The foyer was dim; the light the chandeliers and phosphor fixtures cast was warm and low, and it caught in the heavy, rippling dark silk of her dress like she was wearing gold leaf. The couple were dressed to compliment, and he thought the effect was damned uncanny.

They cut a sharp figure, leastways. Heshath, he thought, looking over the husband, and something Levesque’d said slid into place. Heshath. Of course. He stood shorter than his wife, with hair the color of mahogany and dark eyes. He was younger than Anatole by a fair manna; he wondered what kind of relationship they’d had, and thought of Incumbent Rochambeaux, whom Anatole’d taken under his wing. A friendship built on political favors and Heshath opera? Which ones weren’t, Uptown?

Linnea Madison, on the other hand, was a name he knew. The Bastian ambassador. But he’d never met her. She was a few inches taller than Savatier, and more than a few taller than Anatole, and he thought her hair was black, at first, except the low warm light of the chandeliers caught in it, too, as they approached – and he saw a little golly red, like a reflection of flame.

Then the group was on them, and there wasn’t any more time for thought. Savatier was all smiles, warm and broad. The hand was on his shoulder before he could do much of anything about it, and he didn’t know what he’d’ve done, anyway. Milo was his friend, wasn’t he? Anatole’s friend. He tried to get his head straight. “As well as ever, Milo,” he returned, with another hum of a laugh.

“How is that cousin of yours, Milo, ah – Maurice? Still in good health?” started Levesque, a look of polite concern on his face, but his watery voice was promptly drowned out by the rest of the pleasantries. In the glow of Milo Savatier, he looked a bit put-out.

Gracefully Diana disentangled herself from Anatole’s arm as Savatier greeted her; she twittered, teeth flashing, when he kissed her hand, and returned a more relaxed bow. It was a gracious sort of bow, but she was flushed from the heat, and was smiling a little too brightly, and had to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear as she rose – schoolgirlish, almost. Something struck him odd about it, but he couldn’t linger.

Incumbent Vauquelin, he heard, in Madison’s clear, soft voice.

He turned, and he found himself looking up at her. If Savatier was glowing, there was something cooler about Madison, though no less friendly. The caprise of one more strange field scraped at his nerves; this one he identified as static and perceptive. It was strong, but it didn’t press him; it wasn’t a proud ramscott, but it wasn’t weak. He felt overwhelmed, and the information didn’t have anywhere to go.

He just looked up at her, at the sharp long angles of her face and her grey eyes rimmed in kohl, and he fit Anatole’s smile to the thin, sneering lines of Anatole’s face, and he bent low in a bow. As he did so, he took Madison’s hand and kissed it lightly, as he’d heard was the fashion in Bastia these days. It was reflexive, almost. Something about the motion churned his stomach, and he tried not to linger on it.

“Ambassador Madison.” He raised up, and his eyes flicked over her again, and he tried to think of something to say. Quite a scare. Her voice had a teasing air. He should laugh, he thought, or something like that.

Her question caught him off guard.

No, he wanted to shout, at the top of his lungs. I hate opera. I know more about it than I ever wanted to know, because of a man I hate, because of a man I’m scared I’m turning into. I flooding hate opera, and I don’t want to be here: not in this opera house, not in this skin, not with you, not with anyone. Let me be.

But Diana was sliding in beside Milo, a smile breaking out across her face; he spared her a glance, and noticed her teeth were very white. “In the Stacks, or in Muffey? Fine suits?” she was asking, laughing, in response to something he’d said. “How terribly quaint! It doesn’t surprise me, what with how bold they’re getting, these days. You must tell me more, Milo.”

The party was drifting down the carpet, as if somebody’d unblocked the drain. He found he was still smiling, and he was still Anatole, but he was drifting to fall into step beside Linnea. “Yes,” he replied. “I’m surprised you, ah, didn’t know.”

He found himself rustling in his waistcoat for the ticket; he found himself making brief – distressing – eye contact with one gold-eyed golly, and then another, and then he found them being ushered down a dark corridor toward their box by another head of coppery hair. He saw the shapes of them pass in the mirrors, and he tried not to look at the slight, red-haired old man walking alongside the tall Bastian.

He was still trying to think of what to say about opera. He was so tired of trying to think of what to say about opera. He glanced over at Ambassador Madison, and for the first time that night, his smile might’ve been a little strained. “And you?” he asked. “We were only just arguing about whether Heshath is more suited to opera than Estuan.”

[Linnea Madison]

Royal Opera House
Yaris 18, 2719 in the evening

The ambassador hardly seemed to notice if her husband had called out to Anatole as she was already speaking with him - it happened far too often for her to dwell on each occurrence of his interruptions - but the Incumbent himself didn't seem to give Milo's words any notice, either. Something might've seemed a little off about the older galdor, but Linnea couldn't say that she knew him well enough (if at all) to say definitively what he was usually like in conversation. She didn't know all that much about him beyond the basics. He was an incumbent, he was a good friend of Milo's, but she was afraid she didn't know many more solid facts beyond that. Anatole wasn't a man she would have chosen to attend an opera with, in honesty, based solely off of the rumors she'd heard in the past and the fact that he was friends with her husband, but she saw no reason to condemn him for things she wasn't even sure of.

Anatole bowed, pressing a kiss to her hand as Milo had done so easily with Diana, and if Linnea had any feelings on it, they weren't expressed. She bowed her head, again, as the incumbent straightened, "you're welcome to call me Linnea, Mister Vauquelin - I think you and my husband are close enough, it's a surprise that we haven't met before now."

Said husband was still exchanging warm words and jokes at every turn, as if he'd been born to dazzle a crowd, smiling in Diana's direction and continuing on, "in the Stacks - it's something else, Diana. You've hit it on the head, there - so close to Brunnhold, and so bold. I simply cannot imagine what must go through their heads -"

Milo fell into step beside the incumbent's wife and the good doctor, lowering his voice as they went further into the hall, but still so alight with warm, passionate energy. Linnea's gaze lingered on him for a moment, following his hands as they gestured and articulated his words, before her attention was drawn back to the older galdor beside her. She remained there, walking alongside him rather than making any attempt to reconnect with her husband just yet.

The Bastian didn't say anything, at first, handing over her own ticket after Anatole, moving through the halls with ease, as if she was either there often or had simply memorized the layout of the building's interior.

"Heshath?" repeated the dark-haired woman, for a moment sounding almost surprised with the notion that one might find Heshath more suitable for the opera. As they reached their box, Linnea sat almost stiffly, only relaxing somewhat again once she had a moment to settle into her seat.

"I'm afraid I would have to disagree with that sentiment," she admitted, quieter now although no less engaged, "I have nothing against Heshath in the opera - however, I do find Estuan better suited, on most occasions, if only because I can follow along all the easier."

Linnea crossed her legs, golden silks draped delicately across her form, and glanced finally away from the stage and back toward Anatole. "I do find myself here quite often, yes," she offered in response to his question before, and leaned in just a bit, as if she didn't want someone to hear her next words, "and if I'm being completely honest, I find Mugrobi better suited to the opera than even my homeland's Estuan. I don't know how one could not appreciate the melodic lilt of it, personally, especially in a place such as this."

Drawing herself back, the ambassador offered another smile, smaller this time but perhaps more genuine in nature.

"But I could go on about the opera for a house, if one let me. I should not keep you from Milo, I'm sure he's quite eager to catch up with you."

Milo seemed content enough in his own seat, continuing to offer their company only the most exciting and outrageous of stories, although did spare a glance now and then for his wife, as if checking to make sure that she wasn't saying anything too horrendous to his friend. He leaned in too, then, smiling wide at Anatole, dark eyes flicking to Linnea and back.

"I do hope my wife isn't boring you, Anatole," he joked, and a bit of laughter had already seeped into his voice, "she does have strong opinions on the arts - don't all Bastians? But really, old friend, tell me how you've been, will you? It's been far too long since I've seen you last."

[Tom Cooke]

Royal Opera House • Uptown

Evening on the 18th of Yaris, 2719

He smiled his thin, chill smile over at her. “Then please, Linnea, call me Anatole,” he returned, easy, easier than he’d ever thought he’d say the words.

Then they were in the box, a wash of warm darkness. The distant sawing of the orchestra was closer, now; it was like they’d passed into a bubble. They were about perched about midway up the gallery, hanging on one side of the crescent, so they had a good view of both the stage and the other boxes. The box was small enough, cozy and private, with one phosphor lamp casting a warm glow over the seats – leather-upholstered – and the little table. He spied a couple of decanters and a handful of snifters, glistening crystalline in the low light.

Just do what you always do, he thought. Someone passes you a glass, hold it, swirl it, sniff it, pretend to sip it now and then. Move around so nobody can say quite how much you’ve had; and if somebody does notice, say you’re feeling ill. It’s nothing, he thought, nothing.

They were taking their seats, now. The doctor sank comfortably into one, though he was on the edge of his seat to listen to Savatier; Diana sat nearby. Linnea sat a little stiffly, he noticed, and he couldn’t tell if she was comfortable. He sat down himself, with practiced grace — shoulders back, spine as straight as it had been all night; legs slightly apart, not crossed (this was still hard for him), confident and dignified.

He noticed that Linnea and Milo were sitting a little apart. You could’ve put it down to the way they’d come in, scattered, with Milo chattering away to the doctor and Diana. He was still talking, his hands restless as birds’ wings; Diana and Levesque were laughing in paroxysms as they took their seats.

He sensed something, he thought, and with the separate last names — but it wasn’t any of his business. What was one more unsettled golly couple in the political world? What was one more ambassador with secrets, one more chrove’s erse of a politician with more words than sense?

Instead of giving it more thought, he focused on Linnea. He listened to her with an attentive expression, though with the murmur in the galleries and the chatter of the doctor, it was hard to focus. Estuan, Heshath. There was something in the back of his mind, something Diana had told him he’d always said about his preference for Heshath; he tried to recall it, feeling vaguely as if it were some test he had to pass to proceed, discussing opera with a Bastian sphinx draped in gold silk.

But then she apologized for going on, and leaned in to speak again. He found it easier to pay attention; it was like a layer of gauze slid away, and he could see her clear grey eyes in sharp focus. She offered him a smaller, warmer smile. Anatole’s smile twitched; his eyebrows rose, and some of the bland, cold pleasantness in his face melted to something else. “Mugrobi,” he repeated. There was something very warm in his voice.

Don’t apologize; please, go on. What about Mugrobi opera? Do you like the Mugrobi language? Do you like Mugrobi poetry, too? I like Mugrobi poetry. I’ve just read Brellos pez Hirtka for the first time; I want to learn the language. It’s beautiful. It was the language my… my – it was the language he used to –

Something stirred in the back of his head, then; for a moment, he heard the clear, soft notes of a man’s voice, and the deep, rich curl of an oud through the air.

“Mmm,” he heard Anatole humming, to his abject horror, but the voice went on, “Heshath’s shorter syllables and more guttural pronunciation lend themselves well to a more recitative style; works like The Perils of Shoegazer are more to my taste… ah! Milo!”

He found himself looking into the Heshath’s russet-brown eyes, then. The smile froze on his face, and for a moment, he felt like a deer at the point of an arrow. Savatier’s focus was on him, now, and with it, the doctor’s and Diana’s. Four fields weighed heavy on him. I do hope my wife isn't boring you, he had said, and the words sat ill with him, but he couldn't've said why.

It was only the briefest of pauses; quick enough, Anatole was speaking again.

“It’s true that this year has been… difficult. I owe much to Dr. Amari, Diana, my staff – and to the Circle,” he added, as if an afterthought. “But life has kept me much too busy to be laid low for long. Cerise will finish at Brunnhold this year, and the Capital has been… well, I needn’t elaborate.” He wore an appropriately somber look for a moment, casting a glance over the railing and to the side, down to the lower middle of the galleries. The Queen’s box was a-buzz, but the Queen’s chair was vacant tonight, as it’d been for the last two months.

He looked back at Milo Savatier, and the mask fell; the one underneath it reflected, mirror-like, the other man’s relentless cheer. It was a smile with a sneering edge, one of the ones Anatole’s face did so well. “And passing the torch to Mugroba has been a task, as you well know. It simply wouldn’t do, to lose a seat in the Council at a time like this. Really, what is stroke to the end of an Anaxi Symvouli Cycle?”

“Anatole,” chirped Diana, slapping his arm gently. Her field pulsed reproachfully, but she was laughing.

Levesque laughed, too, and he knew he’d been brazen in just the right way. Address it, he thought, playful and bold as you like, then move on; it didn’t invite interrogation, and it threw pity right out the window. It seemed like something Anatole would do.

“But enough about me,” he said, because he really didn’t know me enough to say anything about him; the mannerisms fit like a glove, but you always skirted dangerous territory with old friends. “Please, Milo, it’s been far too long. I can’t believe I missed you and your wife during the Vyrdag. It’s a pleasure to meet Linnea, finally, after hearing so much.” He turned his empty smile on her, briefly, before turning back to Savatier. “How have you been? How have the both of you been?”

[Linnea Madison]

Royal Opera House
Yaris 18, 2719 in the evening

At first it seemed as if the incumbent was pleased with her mention of the Mugrobi language being preferable for opera, as if he might've agreed with the opinion, but he was humming, then, and voicing his disagreement just as soon. Linnea was not bothered by a difference in opinion, for there were too many she faced in her line of work to afford making each important, and she nodded in acknowledgement. Anatole was distracted from the conversation regardless, her husband never having been able to handle someone's attention being off of him for long, and the ambassador allowed herself to scoot further back into her seat, casting her gaze out to the gallery below.

Milo listened intently to his dear friend's explanations, his eyes alight with interest, expression warm. There was something beneath it, though, something almost imperceptible like particles of dust in the air, or a sound just high enough in tone not to hear. It didn't radiate from him as it did with some other politicians she knew, nor did it seep into his speech through cracks in some facade. It was more of a feeling, and barely even that, but it was one that Linnea had known for years.

"Of course - it's truly a blessing from the Circle that you've recovered so well, Anatole," his smile wouldn't have said otherwise, but she knew that her husband and the entirety of his family was far from religious. She'd never met a Hessean that wasn't the same; it was something she chose not to discuss with him, because she knew that she wouldn't appreciate whatever he had to say on the matter.

"And Good Lady, young Cerise, graduating? It's hard to believe how quickly they grow up, isn't it?" Milo was appalled, truly, to learn such a thing - he often forgot the difference in age between himself and the incumbent, but felt it hardly mattered. They had far too much in common for it to make a difference; Milo was only a few years older than Linnea, but he fit in quite well among the older crowds, politicians, officials - he was charming, she would give him that, and easily found common ground with almost anyone he encountered.

Her husband didn't bother holding back his laugh as Anatole made mention of the Symvouli's upcoming shift to Mugroba. He'd not spent much of his life in Anaxas, but he'd spent even less in Mugroba, and couldn't say that he'd enjoyed what he'd heard about the kingdom - they were far too lax for his taste, concerned with petty things and ignorant to what really mattered. There were no such sounds of amusement from the Hessean's wife, who was content to remain out of the conversation for the moment.

"Oh, Anatole, I have missed your wit," the dark-haired galdor confessed, however he quieted down as the subject was shifted to the matter of himself and the Bastian sitting beside his friend.

"I've been well - I'm thinking of extending my visits here to Vienda, too. The house is simply too empty without me," he teased, gaze shifting for a moment to his wife, following the sharp lines of her profile. She didn't look over to meet his eyes, but felt his gaze upon her nonetheless. "As you know, we've no children of our own, yet, and I don't want to be too late - I think I'll make quite the father, don't you, old friend?"

For the first time that evening, Linnea's field seemed to twist, her outward expression hardly changing and her eyes remaining fixed upon the people below the box. It was a startling dazzle of discomfort, one that she didn't even attempt to diminish for her husband's sake. His dark eyes narrowed, watching her for another long, tense moment but returning to Anatole's face soon after.

"More time in Vienda means all the more time for operas and dinners with friends," he attempted to move away from the subject, again, embarrassed enough by his wife's silent but bold act of defiance, and set a hand against Anatole's shoulder.

"She's not tried to convince you Mugrobi is superior to Heshath yet, has she?"

[Tom Cooke]

Royal Opera House • Uptown

Evening on the 18th of Yaris, 2719

B
lessing from the Circle. If only he knew.

Anatole nodded appreciatively at Savatier’s exclamation; he smiled and shrugged, as if to say, One almost can’t believe it, as if the man sitting across from him had ever seen Cerise Vauquelin as anything other than a grown woman. If he thought Savatier was a little young himself to be making a comment like that – Cerise, by his reckoning, would’ve been born when he was twenty, if that – he couldn’t seem to hold onto the thought; there was something in the Hessean’s broad, good-natured smile, something in the way his words glittered like the gold trim on his suit. It just swept him right along.

And all this was part of the dance, anyway. He could hear the doctor chirping and shaking his head in the background, some of his lank, thin blond hair falling out of the way; the lamplight wasn’t being fair kind to his bald spot. Diana, who’d wafted over to touch his arm again, was shaking her head and pursing her lips.

“It seems to me that just yesterday,” she put in softly, “she was off to Brunnhold for the first time; she’s blossomed into such a… fierce young lady, since I married Anatole – and what a ramscott. I should almost expect her to pursue physical studies in Qrieth.”

Anatole hummed his approval, casting her a loving enough look.

The only one who wasn’t dancing, he thought, was Linnea Madison. He didn’t dare spare her a glance, not now Savatier had him in his claws; but she’d slid neatly into the backdrop of the evening, a quiet, dignified figure draped in gold. He still felt her field, lapping confidently against his, but it didn’t make itself noticeable. You could almost forget she was there, in Savatier’s glow – almost, but not quite.

He made the requisite noises of approval at the notion that the Hessean’d be making himself welcome in Vienda more often; he laughed, and the mask on his face was one of pleasure. “Ah, indeed?” he asked, softly, and Savatier’s voice swallowed it up.

The mask didn’t slip. It didn’t slip, not even as he went on – not even as Tom’s gut sank and twisted, and the tension he’d been feeling half the night broke on Anatole’s cliffs and washed away – not even as he felt the ambassador’s field grow heavy and dark and tight with discomfort. It was just a space, like a cloud passing over the sun. Tom watched Milo Savatier’s eyes go narrow and sharp as he looked at his wife, open and plain as day, for a few seconds.

It was all so open. He wondered if he’d missed something, missed a cue. Levesque shifted uncomfortably; Diana was still smiling, and he couldn’t read anything in her field.

Tom blinked; a muscle spasmed underneath his left eye. The smile stayed set in the lines of Anatole’s face, because the muscles remembered them, even if Tom wanted to forget; and he was damned grateful for it. “A fine father,” he found himself saying, the words winding their way out in Anatole’s voice, deep and confident as it’d ever been. “The Circle gave us Eleanor when I was forty; you needn’t worry. You’ll be a fine father someday, Milo.”

His tongue felt sour. Savatier’s hand was on his shoulder, and he got the funny urge to jerk his shoulder. He was so godsdamn tired, and – he cast a glance at the decanter and the glasses – just for tonight, he thought; he’d poured out everything in Anatole’s study – he tried to focus on Savatier’s voice again, tried to look in his eyes. Anatole’s face remembered the smile; it kept on remembering.

She’s not tried to convince me of anything, he wanted to say. We were having a conversation. Instead, he laughed. “I suppose so. Arthur said you’d have words about it.”

“Mugrobi opera really is something,” put in Dr. Levesque. “I visited a colleague at Thul’amat just last year, and – well, I cannot approve, but – he took me to the Turtle, to see a performance. It’s all their imbali passives performing. Theatre, he told me, is a liar’s work, much like – like printmaking, and the law –”

“Arthur,” laughed Diana.

“No, no, they really do think so!”

The twisting in Tom’s gut wasn’t getting any less knotty. He made the mistake of looking down at Anatole’s hand, on the arm of the chair beside him. The wedding band glinting on the ring finger. The – he looked up at Diana’s profile, rapt, then looked to his other side, up the drapes of dark gold silk, up to the long, pale face of the Bastian ambassador, framed by hair that looked almost black in the dimness.

“Actually,” said Tom, looking back at the Hessean’s handsome face, “I’ve found myself with a new appreciation for Mugrobi literature, of late. Perhaps it’s for the best, if the flock is migrating to Thul Ka in the rainy season next year. But what do you think?” On his periphery, he could see Levesque rising and pouring the brandy; he could hear glass clinking on glass, needling in his ear.

[Linnea Madison]

Royal Opera House
Yaris 18, 2719 in the evening

Milo's wide smile returned as if it'd never even left his face in the first place - he nodded, firm, to the incumbent's reassurances, and didn't glance toward his wife again in the fear that she might - just maybe - be looking at him, daring him to go on. Of course, she wasn't; the Bastian's field had returned to a state of relative neutrality, if a bit scuffed at the edges, and her eyes remained fixed on the gallery below, willing herself not to listen to whatever the other guests were discussing.

It was difficult work, however, when one was meant to partake in the conversation, and despite her personal opinions, Linnea didn't often express such blatant negativity. It had just... irked her, and it always did, but tonight it felt impossible; her careful mask was strained, pulled over her face like a bag, suffocating and inescapable.

"Of course," her husband began with a nod of agreement, "I'm not in a hurry to find a new wardrobe for dear Linnea just yet, anyhow - it will happen, in time."

The ambassador was still.

Milo went on, head turning as Dr. Levesque began to speak, "to the Turtle?" he repeated, appalled, yet horribly curious at the same time, and quieted himself to listen to the rest of the older galdor's little adventure to the island. The Hessean couldn't even imagine doing such a thing, himself, but was captured entirely by the foolish way of thinking that seemed all too prevalent in Mugroba; passives were given such freedoms, and Milo couldn't understand it. Anaxas had it right, in terms of dealing with their damaged goods - at least in Brunnhold and in homes as personal servants, passives were made useful.

"How absurd!" he exclaimed, his voice heavy with his entertainment, smile stretching at the corners - Linnea felt someone's eyes on her, then - as the galdor shook his head, "but I suppose, as long as they keep it to their own island, I can't be too bothered by such a thing. I think we've plenty of other problems here at home to deal with, don't you, Diana?"

Linnea glanced to the side, catching Anatole's gaze for a brief moment before it left her form, the incumbent's attention shifting back to her husband. She allowed herself to tune back into the conversation, listening to the aging politician speak of Mugrobi poetry, though her eyes were drawn to the doctor's hands as the man made to pour himself some brandy.

"Mugrobi literature, ah?" Milo considered, hand coming up to rub idly at his chin, at the dark whiskers that covered it, "I can't say that I've read all that much, myself, although I'm sure my wife would have more to say on the matter. If it's anything like passives playing theatre, then perhaps I'll have to give it a try," the man joked, easily, hand squeezing Anatole's shoulder gently before it was pulled back to himself.

"Oh, yes," started Linnea, dragging her eyes from Dr. Levesque and forcing herself back into the flowing river that was polite conversation, "some of the greatest works I've read were from Mugroba - have you found anything in particular that you favor, Anatole? I have a fondness for Mugrobi poetry, myself."

Glancing to the side, Milo made to stand, throwing a look back to his friend and asking, "a drink, Anatole?"

[Tom Cooke]

Royal Opera House • Uptown

Evening on the 18th of Yaris, 2719

L
innea Madison was hard to read. Not that he was sure he wanted to read her; not that it was any of his business, being honest, and the more he cared, the more trouble he’d get himself into in the long term.

But he couldn’t seem to help it. Sitting there, listening to Milo Savatier gasp, to the Turtle? – like a parrot, Tom thought; he was like a bird you’d keep ’cause it was pretty, ’cause it said charming shit to impress the company – the more and more that thin, polite smile felt like it was calcifying. All the muscles in his face hurt, but they couldn’t seem to remember anything other than that smile. His whole body felt like it was turning to stone.

And he only saw Ambassador Madison’s face in glimpses, whenever he could steal them, flick them over as if incidentally under Savatier’s watchful eye. He saw her in impressions: chill, flat grey eyes; a tumble of dark hair, smooth and coiffed and still as if it’d been carved from wood. A long, pale face like a theatre mask, but which? Maybe it was the lighting, the sharp glow from the lamp and the pooling shadows – she looked tired, he thought, for all her stateliness.

Levesque was pouring a glass of brandy, and he caught her watching him - intently, if briefly. Well, she might well’ve needed a drink; Tom wouldn’t’ve wanted to be married to this laoso, neither. He was trying to focus on Milo’s voice. He wasn’t sure what to say, and he didn’t think he had to say anything, ’cause Savatier was squeezing his shoulder and drawing away, the uncomfortably warm glow of his attention drawn back with him.

Madison’s voice was soft and even underneath the distant burble of the orchestra warming up, but it drew his attention right away. He studied her face, still smiling his thin smile – then brightened, just a pina manna.

“Mugrobi poetry,” he said, fair soft, and he was surprised to hear his words coming out in Anatole’s deep voice, in Anatole’s accent. He didn’t linger on it, though. Something else was taking shape in his head. He blinked at Linnea, big grey eyes almost owlish. “As a matter of fact, it’s poetry I’ve been reading. I can’t say I’ve much experience with imbali opera, though I would imagine it is – most impressive,” he went on, slow and even hesitant, though the glance he shot Dr. Levesque was almost loathing, “but their poetry –”

A drink, Anatole? His focus scattered momentarily.

Anatole blinked, and blinked again, and tore his gaze away and toward the Hessean. Toward where the Hessean’d been, of course, and he wasn’t there anymore, and he found his eyes traveling up, up, toward the handsome tanned face; and it was only then he’d figured out what Savatier had said, and by that time, Anatole was already burbling, “Yes, thank you, Milo.”

He didn’t have the time, or the reasoning, to go back on what he’d said. Nor would he’ve refused him in the first place. A man drinks too much in this Uptown hell, They Talk; a man doesn’t drink at all, like he’s scared to, like he’s given it up, They Talk twice as much. Dze – he’d danced this dance before. Best get his mind off it.

A little disoriented, his eyes wandered back to Linnea, and his mind wandered back to – what’d they been talking about? His face hurt; he felt stretched thin. Diana’s fingers lingered on his forearm, and showed no signs of letting up. But –

“Brellos pez Hirtka,” Tom said suddenly, as if he’d plucked the name from the dark. As if he’d found it, like the brightest star in the sky on a cloudy day. Anatole’s smile was a twist of thin lips, a tangle of lines, half-sneer; nothing in Tom’s soul would warm it. But he shifted in his seat to face Linnea, and he smiled anyway, and his face hurt a little less for it.

“I’m new to Mugrobi poetry; being h– truth be told, I’m new to poetry. But the Al Jenwa is… each poem seemed to me more beautiful than the last.” He paused, seeming surprised that’d come out of his mouth; he colored a little. Behind him, he could hear Diana chattering away to Levesque, laughing, but he could feel her fingertips buried in his sleeve. “Have you read Hirtka?” he asked anyway, rapt.

[Linnea Madison]

Royal Opera House
Yaris 18, 2719 in the evening

There it was again - she knew she'd caught something in the incumbent's voice before, when she had mentioned her preference for Mugrobi opera, and here it was again, as she brought up Mugrobi poetry instead. He might've tumbled right over the softness in tone before, and continued on to disagree, but now she knew that it had been no accident. She was more shocked, of course, to hear that the man wasn't completely turned off by the idea of imbali opera, but it wasn't an unwelcome surprise. She couldn't say that she was quite as lax as their neighboring kingdom when it came to her ideas of passives, but she was far from the strict, hard judgement of her peers, and found it quite pleasant to hear someone else of (she assumed) similar opinion.

Her husband left Anatole's side to approach Levesque and pour himself and the incumbent their drinks, while Linnea's eyes remained on said incumbent, watching him with interest and seeming to warm (albeit slightly) to the conversation as he continued.

"Oh?" the ambassador raised an eyebrow at the mention of pez Hirtka, although waited for Anatole to finish his thought before she said anything else.

"I have, yes - a dear friend of mine brought the al-Jenwa to my attention a handful of years ago, and I've been mesmerized since," Linnea felt herself smile again, genuine and friendly, her mind momentarily occupied with thoughts of other times, other places - but she didn't allow herself the silence for long. "I thought I'd understood the meaning - and purpose - of love, until I read pez Hirtka's poetry. I've not found many works I like quite as much."

The Bastian's eyes followed Milo as he returned to them, keeping a drink in hand whilst offering the other out to Anatole, bowing his head with a warm smile. He hadn't poured a glass for Linnea, and the ambassador's hands remained empty.

"Although," his wife continued, her smile widening for a moment, "I must admit, occasionally I return to the works of authors such as Ansari pez Nasoor when I wish to lighten my mood, when pez Hirtka reminds me of how utterly clueless I am in the realm of love."

"Quite," Milo couldn't help but add, "for as many of those love poems she reads, one would think my wife would have begged me to stay in Vienda with her long ago."

"One would think, yes," Linnea couldn't quite help herself, either, "perhaps you should read some poetry yourself, Milo, then you would understand why I have not."

The Hessean's smile was strained on his face, but unwavering, and he only looked away to comment on how lovely the incumbent's wife looked tonight, and to sip at his brandy, and to ignore his dear wife's conversation as best as he could.