[Closed] Someone Reaching Back for Me

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

T
hey’re really quite mild,” Eleanor was saying. “Mannered, that is. I don’t know very much about the flavor p-profile. I have heard that in some towns the locals raise them as livestock, as we do with garmon in Anaxas, but the pr...p-practice isn’t as popular as the racing…”

“The racing, my dear?”

Diana was not altogether sure why, in his absence, she did not simply remove the thing. She stood looking up at it, her hands on her hips, her lips pressed together in thought. It was rather high up on the mantle; she would need to fetch Mr. Morris, or one of the other footmen – she might have cursed, Circle forgive her, that this of all weeks was when Mr. Douglas was visiting family in Fen Kierden, before the rains – and even then, if they did manage to get the blasted thing down without breaking it, she hadn’t a clue with what they might replace it.

A mirror, perhaps. No; she did not much like that idea. A mirror in a gilt frame was no substitute for a well-made painting in even a plain one. Even the portrait of Constance, rest her, was preferable to a mirror, and certainly preferable to this monstrosity; but if Anatole had hid it somewhere, Diana had not yet found it.

Knowing Anatole as he was now, she reflected grimly, she likely would not find it. She wondered if it was still even in the house. Perhaps it was floating in the bay, to use that expression of which he was so fond.

She had some fine Tivian pieces in the dining room – impressions of the mountains around Caroult. She had known the painter before he had reached renown; in fact, one of them had been a gift from him.

But it was less about the painting itself, she thought, and more about who had painted it, when it came to situations like these. A Tivian impression would hardly do as the centerpiece for a parlor, unless it was, say, one of Mr. Nuncio Adelardi’s, who had gained renown across all six kingdoms, admired even in Hox. She supposed that a fine historical painting, like one of the ones Anatole had in his study, might do – regardless of notoriety – but only if the painter had been dead for at least a decade.

“... oh, Mother, you didn’t tell me you were starting to see these in Vienda! They’re migrating down from the north, you know; I’ve heard they come from Roannah originally…”

“From Roannah?” Diana’s brow furrowed. She tapped her bottom lip, staring up.

She chid herself. This was a problem she should have taken care of before now. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t moved the dreadful thing the second she had waved good-bye to Anatole and the servants had moved the last of his luggage to a carriage.

Eleanor had, of course, found it fascinating, the first time she had seen it. Wretchedly, she had just begun to consider letting the girls see him again – in little doses, perhaps, so as not to overwhelm any of them – before he brought the thing home from one of his trips to the Rose. Now, Eleanor scarce gave it a glance, as if she had forgotten the portrait of her paternal grandfather had ever hung over the mantle; sometimes, Diana thought, suppressing a shudder, not even she paid it mind.

The delicate-legged buck perched above the mantle, its head raised, its lacquered black eyes looking down not over the room but out toward some middle distance. Its lacquered black antlers stretched up, twisted and branched; at night, they cast the most dreadful shadows up on the wall, and so she supposed she was grateful Chrysanthe and Amaryllis had at least been able to spare a noon.

It wouldn’t have been so dreadful if it weren’t painted all black, Diana thought. She herself wore a dress in deep green, the skirt glittering as she moved like light flickering over foliage. It was still long-sleeved against the Bethas chill, but she thought it was a breath of spring; she wore her hair braided up, a few ornaments shaped like yellow and white lilies tucked into the gleaming swoops and curls.

She had ensured that Eleanor had worn green, too; there had been similar ornaments in her hair, if she had cared to keep them there. “I cannot abide these f-fake… fake flowers,” she had said, putting her hands on her hips. “They are not good for pollination. They are not good for anything!”

Eleanor was droning on even now, behind her, in that unusually deep voice she must have inherited from her father. “Eleanor, my darling, will you go up and fetch Cerise?” Another little agitation. “She has been in her room with Sish since she arrived. It’s as if she doesn’t even want to – Eleanor?”

“A moment, Mother.”

When Diana turned, her jaw dropped. “Get away from that filthy thing,” she said.

Eleanor was crouched beside a spiderweb in the corner, her little notebook in one hand, a small stubby pencil in the other. She looked back at Diana, gawping. “It’s not filthy,” she protested. “It’s a greater Wakesho silk-walker’s web! Do you know how important –”

Diana had already rung the bell for Margaret. “I don’t know, Eleanor, and I don’t care,” she said, glancing down at the shadowed corner, watching a few errant strands glisten in the light that slanted through the atrium doors. Eleanor had already stood up, her head bowed, and was dusting off her dress. “Cobwebs and spiders in our parlor? What will your cousins think? That the maids simply overlooked an entire corner?”

Margaret was through the door, then. “Ma’am?” She glanced to Eleanor, and then to the object of Eleanor’s affections. “Circle!”

“Please,” began Diana, and at that moment, she heard the distant tinkle of the foyer doors, and a muffle of voices and footsteps. One of them was Morris’. “Quickly, please – and Eleanor, please fetch your sister.”

“Yes, Mother.” Eleanor, laying her notepad on a side table, was already moving toward the hall to the stairs.

Margaret had fetched another maid to dispose of the thing posthaste by the time Diana heard her cousins’ voices; she drew herself up, smiled her loveliest smile, and waited in the midst of the parlor. Behind her, she could hear Eleanor returning – she hoped to the gods with Cerise in tow, and without that ridiculous miraan.

[moralhazard]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

I don’t wanna!” Phileander’s voice rose to a sharp, high shriek, and then trailed off, just as quickly, into a breathless sort of wail. His small, sweet face was bunched up, howling red; tears streamed from his eyes and snot from his nose. He sobbed, clinging to Amaryllis, and buried himself into her shoulder, wailing once more, vigorously.

Amaryllis’s face was set into a soft smile; she held her son against her hip with one arm, and the other stroked his soft blond curls. “You don’t want what, darling? Shoes?” She kissed his head.

“No,” Phileander put in, sniffling. His bare feet flailed through the air, toes wriggling and scrunching.

Mrs. Pike held his shoes in one hand, her face set in what was not quite a smile.

“I know,” Amaryllis sighed. “You were having so much fun with your toy train, and now we have to go outside, and you’re quite upset,” She kissed his head again. “But we’ll go and see Cousin Di, and you’ll have so much fun.”

“No,” Phileander mumbled.

“Sometimes, we have to put on our shoes and go outside,” Amaryllis went on, “even when we don’t want to go.”

Phileander sniffled. He wiped his nose on her shoulder.

Amaryllis sighed, rubbing his back with her hand. “It can be quite frustrating to stop something we’re enjoying, even when it’s to do something else we like. But now Mrs. Pike is going to put your shoes on, and we’re going to go, my love.”

Mrs. Pike approached, grasping one small foot in a competent hand.

“Nooooooo!” Phileander wailed. He squirmed, and shot his nanny a vicious, tear-filled glare. “Mama, no!” He buried his face in Amaryllis once more, sobbing as if his heart would break.

“Now, Mister Phileander, that’s not very nice,” Mrs. Pike said, firmly. She did not let go of the small, flailing foot, nor did she let the other strike her.

“Go ahead,” Amaryllis said, holding onto her son. She rubbed his back. “He’ll calm down in the carriage or else he won’t, but he won’t stay here.”

Mrs. Pike nodded. “That’s the way, Mrs. Braithwaite. He’s a good lad, aren’t you, Mister Phil?”

“We’re going to see your Cousin Di,” Amaryllis murmured, bouncing her son lightly as Mrs. Pike pulled his socks on, one by one. He flailed, kicking, but the sock stayed firmly on his foot; Mrs. Pike avoided the errant leg, diligently, and set about buckling on his shoes, “and your Aunt Chrysanthe. And your cousins Eleanor and Cerise, and some other lovely people too.”

“No,” Phileander said. He sniffled. Then, quietly, “Auntie Chrissy?”

“That’s right,” Amaryllis said, smiling. “Your lovely Auntie Chrissy, with her long braids.”

Phileander sniffled again. “No,” he mumbled.

“There we go!” Mrs. Pike eased back. “Oh, madam, your dress. I’ll fetch a wet cloth for the carriage, shall I?”

“Yes, thank you,” Amaryllis smiled. She kissed her son’s head once more, cradling him; Phileander smeared more snot against the pale pink fabric of her dress, and sniffled noisily.

In the carriage, Phileander consented to sit on her lap, although still somewhat grudgingly. Amaryllis settled in next to the window, and opened the curtains for them both. She covered Phileander’s eyes with her hand, nonchalantly.

“No!” Phileander giggled.

“No?” Amaryllis’s eyebrows raised; she lowered her hand. “You’d like to see?”

“No,” Phileander said, happily.

Amaryllis covered his eyes again; Phileander began to giggle once more.

“Comes right out, madam,” Mrs. Pike dabbed at her shoulder, and pressed a dry cloth to it.

“Thank you,” Amaryllis said, smiling at her. She looked back down at the little boy on her lap, and covered his eyes once more.

“Noooooo!” Phileander wailed, but he was giggling too; he grabbed at her hand, and tugged it down.

Amaryllis laughed; she rubbed her back with his hand. “Look, darling,” she said, smiling, “see all the people on the street? That man is wearing a lovely hat; that woman has such a nice dress.”

“Twain?” Phileander asked.

“No trains yet, not in this part of Vienda.” Amaryllis stroked his back. “But there are lots of carriages, with moa, and kensers. Look, there’s a very nice moa, with such lovely gray feathers.”

Phileander watched again, absorbed.

Mrs. Pike wiped up the last of the dampness, and eased back, smiling. Her hair was tucked beneath a white cap, but for a few gray-white curls which held neatly at the side. Amaryllis’s own was braided, and bound into a loose bun at the back of her head, not so heavy and ungainly as the dreadful updos for society parties, but still elegant enough, she hoped.

Her poor walking dress, with its rapidly drying shoulder, was a soft, sugary pink; it was perhaps a bit optimistically floral for Bethas, but Amaryllis was rather fond of it all the same. It came in neatly at the waist, and was paneled down to the ground, widening neatly out from the hips down to create a pleasant, if narrow, silhouette. The asymmetric detailing on the bodice and the lovely lace sleeves gave it a bit of life, and a bit of contrasting color too.

At the Vauquelin house, Amaryllis descended out of the carriage. Mrs. Pike gave Phileander a quick scrub with a damp cloth, which made him giggle again, then carried Phileander down and set him firmly on the ground next to her. Amaryllis extended a hand down to Phileander; Phileander took it, as calm as if there had been no tantrum, and toddled happily, if a bit slowly, alongside her, up to the front door.

The butler let them in, taking cloaks and Phileander’s darling little jacket. Phileander wore his darling little velvet Fauntleroy suit, a lovely blue with a little lace collar sewn on over his white blouse; his long white socks, so hard-won, went up to the knees of his shorts. He looked all around as they walked, holding tightly to her hand. Mrs. Pike followed just behind.

“Would you arrange for Mrs. Pike to take some tea in the kitchen?” Amaryllis asked the butler, smiling politely.

“Happy to help you get settled first, madam,” Mrs. Pike said, confidently. “In case the little master has any more ideas.”

Amaryllis grinned. “Thank you,” she said, sighing. Phileander beamed up at her, his face all washed clean.

They came into the parlor together; Amaryllis had eyes only for Diana, and she smiled, fondly, at the sight of her. “Diana,” she said. “I should like very much to introduce Phileander Braithwaite.” She glanced down at the little boy at her side. “Phileander, this is your Cousin Di.”

Phileander looked up at Diana with wide eyes.

“Go on, love,” Amaryllis let go of his hand, gently.

Phileander took a careful step forward, and then bowed, with a little swishing of his hair and jacket.

“Oh, very good!” Amaryllis said, brightly. She came forward, and took her son’s hand once more, leading him to the couches. Mrs. Pike held at the door, beaming as proudly as Amaryllis had not, quite, been able to.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Vauquelin House, Uptown
Bethas 29, 2720 - Afternoon Teatime

What had made her agree to come to this--this tea party? Cerise didn't make a habit of attending things like this. In fact, she traditionally avoided them at all possible. They just weren't her forte, and always left her feeling like a sum of all of her faults--too loud, too impulsive, too mean. Eleanor was going, but Eleanor always went. That hardly meant Cerise had to participate, too. She had just thought--she had just thought it might be nice to be at home, if only for the weekend. Also, she might not make it back in time for the formal dinner--which would be very unfortunate, but a necessary sacrifice.

The second she had arrived, she had taken Sish up to her room and not come back down. Diana was doing whatever it was she was doing--fluttering around the house, redecorating the parlor. When last Cerise had stuck her head in the room, careful not to be noticed, she had been frowning at that thing over the mantle. Maybe, Cerise thought sadly, she would take it down and replace it with that portrait of Grandfather. She didn't really know what had possessed her father to buy it, of course, let alone put it in the parlor. It was terribly gruesome. But she kind of liked it, and would be sorry to see it go.

Diana and Eleanor were both wearing green. She had been asked to wear green also, and admittedly Cerise did like the dress that had been suggested. It was nicer than what she generally wore at school, even in her off-hours, spring-like without being overly floral. It was a nice color on her, too. Cerise had instead gone with something else, a visiting skirt in a stormy grey that perhaps suited the weather more than the springtime green would have. Sprawling backwards on the bed had already somewhat rumpled the skirt, which spoiled the effect of the spare lines and sharp angles of it. She had put on the high-collared blouse as a matter of self-preservation; it was a lighter grey, with a little bit of lace around the cuffs and the collar that she actually was very fond of. Sish was going to destroy it, however.

For now, the miraan in question was content to burrow underneath the coverlet on Cerise's bed and root around underneath. What she was looking for, Cerise hadn't a clue, but it was fun to watch.

Maybe, she thought grimly, if I stay up here long enough, Diana will forget I'm home. I could just skip it. Unlikely, but it was possible. She didn't want to talk to Diana's cousins, or their friends. They were nice enough, but she hadn't seen Amaryllis and Chrysanthe in years. They weren't even her relatives, not really.

Her hopes were dashed when there was a knock at the door, timid and uncertain.

"It's open!" she called out, not bothering to get up from where she had laid herself. She was, after all, very busy with staring at the ceiling right now. It was probably just Eleanor, anyway. After an uncertain pause, the door swung open and her sister's blonde head appeared, though the rest of her remained in the hall. "I'm coming down," Cerise said with a sigh, not waiting for Eleanor to say anything. She struggled to sit up; the motion of it rumpled the coverlet enough that Sish reappeared with an irritated hissing.

"Oh, hush! You're right, I am tormenting you." Sish chittered as if in agreement, but was happy to let Cerise pick her up and place her on her shoulders one she'd resumed standing. She didn't bother to check on her hair in the vanity mirror, or the rest of her. Her dark curls had been carefully pinned up earlier that morning and fixed with a heavy clip--and then a few more, for good measure. One of them had already fallen down on the job, and the sleekness that had been present when it was set was rather ruined now. Possibly, she allowed, from all of the rolling around on the bed with Sish. Maybe.

No, there was nothing for it. They were all just going to have to tolerate her as she was. Or not, and she could go back upstairs and read--both were equally acceptable.

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

W
hen Amaryllis emerged into the parlor, Diana found all her worries swept quite free of their moorings, as if they had been tangled up in some maid’s broom and shuffled into the dustpan like Eleanor’s poor spiderweb. “Amaryllis,” she said, before she was capable of saying anything else; she clasped her hands before her and took a soft breath in and smiled.

She was simply radiant, as always. There was something wonderfully pastoral about her dress, paired with the charming braids that wove her hair into a bun.

Pink and florals were not, either of them, in among the Uptown ladies this Bethas, or at least not the ladies in Diana’s social sets. The chill of Intas still clung to Bethas; they had not quite left this last dreadful winter behind, though the weather was not quite so disruptive as Bethas of last year, when it had snowed nearly every other day for a week. At Mrs. Leblanc’s last soirée, Mrs. Duflechy had dared a sort of delicate coral color and a great deal more chiffon than Diana had thought strictly necessary for the occasion, though she had appreciated the matching earrings, and had told her so in the company of the other ladies, to save her any impression of embarrassment.

All the same, Diana would never have even considered it, here, in the parlor, with Amaryllis standing so comely in the sunlight that slanted in from the atrium doors. It made the flowers on her dress glow; the strands of her hair, none out of place – for all it was a more relaxed updo – seemed to glitter with it.

“It was only the web,” Diana heard Eleanor saying, muffled, somewhere down the hall behind. She could not make out Cerise’s voice. “You see, the greater silk-walkers have a most distinctive weaving pattern – I could tell just from looking at it – I had sketched out half of the pattern before Mother called in the maid…”

“Hm?” Diana nearly started at Amaryllis’ words; she had scarce thought – she realized, a bastly smile filling up her whole face, that she hadn’t thought at all. It was almost as if she had thought Amaryllis had come in with another little toddler, a toddler she did not know, wobbling in beside her.

But no! It was young master Phileander after all, with those wide eyes that were – Amaryllis had been right, Diana thought – so much like his father’s. And his hair! He was so much a Palmifer, too, even if the curls had come from elsewhere. It made her think of Eleanor; she sighed. “Why, he’s grown so tall,” she tutted, putting one hand delicately over her mouth to hide a wide smile, “I scarcely recognized him!”

For a moment, when Amaryllis let go of his hand, Diana’s heart leapt and turned over. She did not want him to fall and scuff his little knees, or his charming blue velvet suit; she had forgotten how they wobbled so, little ones at his age.

Quite practicedly, Phileander bowed low.

Diana permitted herself a delighted laugh behind her hand, soft and elegant. “A pleasure to be introduced to you, Mr. Braithwaite,” she said at last, fixing her face into a more serious expression. She stepped forward herself and bowed deeply at the waist.

She let her field wander close to him, though he was not yet old enough – not even by half – for an eddle. Still, she reached out, like a tickle, and she wore a smile when she rose from her bow.

“...there’s still hope,” her daughter was adding, less muffled. “I didn’t get a chance to see the silk-walker itself; it must still be around – oh!”

As Amaryllis led the young master toward the couches, Diana turned to see Eleanor and Cerise in the doorway. Diana hid her irritation well; she took a deep breath, and the smoothness of her smile roughened not a whit. “Eleanor, Cerise,” she said, “I believe it’s been quite some time since you girls have seen your cousin Amaryllis. And little Phileander,” she said, gesturing.

“Hello, Mrs. – er – Amaryllis,” Eleanor said awkwardly, stepping into the room, bowing deeply.

Diana raised her eyebrows at Cerise’s dress, though she said nothing. The grey, she thought, rather complimented Cerise’s eyes – so like his, but she did not linger on the thought – though it was rather last season. She was pleased, at least, that the girl had made a choice, and not an entirely unfashionable one. She considered asking Cerise to accompany her to the retiring room – to fix her hair, of course – but it seemed like something one would do with a child.

The miraan she spared not a glance; she kept the smile on her face smooth. She turned back to Amaryllis and moved to take a seat herself opposite, sinking into a comfortable armchair with an elegant motion. “You have such a lovely taste in dresses, my dear,” she said, pleased again by the flowers. “This one is quite splendid.”

[moralhazard]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

Phileander stared up at Diana, very intently. She came forward and bowed, and Amaryllis felt the brush of her cousin’s field over her son, soft and gentle, and smiled.

Phileander grinned up at her, then, although he clung still to Amaryllis’s hand. “A pweasure,” he repeated, carefully, “to meet you.”

Amaryllis felt as if her heart might burst; she kept her smile polite and social, and her son’s warm little hand in hers. “Very good manners, my dear,” she told him, warm. Phileander brightened, looking very pleased with himself.

Amaryllis had reached the couches, although not quite sat, when Eleanor and Cerise appeared in the doorway. She turned, smiling – there was a rather unexpected flash of black out of the corner of her eye, unexpected, like a thicket of thorns – but Amaryllis had eyes only for Eleanor and Cerise. She smiled at them both. “Eleanor, Cerise, it’s so lovely to see the both of you again,” she said, warmly, bowing. Next to her, without even needing prompting, Phileander repeated his careful little bow.

Eleanor, she thought, was growing up to look much like a young lady, even if there was still something awkward in her bow, and more than a little tentative. Cerise – it was a struggle not to smile at the sight of her, frowning half-sullen, with her large gray eyes, her hair a mess and – was that a miraan in her hair…?

“What is it?” Phileander asked, wide-eyed. He tugged on Amaryllis’s hand. “Mama, what is it?” A chubby finger stabbed directly at Cerise’s hair.

Amaryllis sat, and hoisted Phileander up onto the couch next to her; his small boots dangled off the floor. “Those,” she said, smiling, “are your cousins Cerise and Eleanor.”

Phileander frowned up at her. “No,” he said, firmly.

Amaryllis smiled, “and in your cousin Cerise’s – ah – on her shoulders,” she amended, carefully, “is a miraan.”

“Miwaan,” Phileander repeated. He turned back to Cerise, and beamed up at her. “Miwaan pwetty.”

“The miraan is very pretty,” Amaryllis agreed, lightly. She glanced up at Mrs. Pike. “Mrs. Pike, I think we can spare you for a few moments.” She said, gently.

“Of course, madam,” Mrs. Pike curtsied, and the butler led her back out of the room.

Amaryllis turned to Diana, smiling. “It’s early in Bethas for such optimism,” she admitted, looking down at her dress, “but it’s been so lovely and sunny, the second half of this week.”

To which the man said,” Niccolette continues, dryly, sitting back against the seat of Francoise’s carriage, “that if the entire journey is to be like this, he should prefer to disembark now.”

Francoise was laughing; she fetched out a handkerchief and patted at the corners of her eyes. “Is that a first for you?” She asked, giggling. “Inspiring a man to jump out of an airship?”

Niccolette grinned; she did not answer, though she knew what the answer was. “Rather disappointingly, he proved to be less than truthful.” The Bastian mused. “Although I was not entirely sure; I did not see him again until the ship landed.”

Francoise giggled again. Her breath came a little unevenly, and she breathed deep, settling back. She pressed her lips together, then leaned forward and opened the carriage window, letting the cold breeze glow about the drapes.

“Oh,” Francoise sighed. “It feels so good to be out.”

Niccolette smiled, glancing down the road at a butcher’s shop. “Enjoying the refreshing air of Vienda?”

Francoise grimaced lightly and carefully shut the window once more. “The doctor did say mild activity was allowed,” she pointed out. “Surely a tea with friends qualifies. It was lovely of Amaryllis to invite us; I haven’t seen her since I was practically the size of an airship myself! She slimmed down so quickly after she had Phileander.” She looked down at herself and grimaced, running a hand over her waist; her eyes darted to Niccolette’s own waist, and she made the faintest of pouts.

“You look lovely,” Niccolette said. Francoise’s hair was half up, twisted and pinned on the back of her head, looking remarkably simple and elegant for how long it had taken the maid; if her copper silk gown had been let out even the slightest in the waist, there was no sign of it.

“Please,” Francoise took a deep breath. “I’m - good lady, this morning I ran my fingers through my hair and a clump of it just - came out!” She shuddered, reaching up and not quite touching the updo. “I owe everything to the miracle of corsetry,” she said, wryly.

Niccolette reached over and took Francoise’s hands in hers. The long fawn-colored sleeves of her gown, pricked out in pale gold embroidery, settled against the other woman’s sleeves. She raised her eyebrows.

Francoise looked down at their intertwined hands, then up at Niccolette with a smile. She sighed. “And I’m moody,” she said, petulantly, but it coaxed a grin from her.

Niccolette grinned as well, squeezing her hands and letting go. “I did not know Amaryllis knew the Vauquelins so well.”

“Oh, she and Diana are cousins,” Francoise said, smiling. “I don’t think I have ever met either of the Vauquelin girls. One hopes they take more after their mothers; I’m sure the Incumbent’s first wife was just as lovely.”

Niccolette shrugged. “Perhaps.”

The carriage came to a stop; the coachman came around and opened the door, and Francoise took his hand to step out in delicate heeled boots, an exact match for the dress. She took a deep breath in. Niccolette settled her arm through the other woman’s, as she might have done nearly half a lifetime ago at Brunnhold; they proceeded together down the walkway.

Inside, Francoise glanced inside the mirror just once, turned forward, and smiled. By the time they made it to the parlor she was vivid and bright, her living field comfortably enmeshed with Niccolette’s own, despite the differences between them.

Niccolette and she both bowed coming into the room.

“Mrs. Vauquelin,” Francoise said, smiling, “thank you for having us; it’s wonderful to have the opportunity to really talk with you. Amaryllis - it’s so good to see you!” She came forward, hands outstretched; Amaryllis rose up from the couch, catching them, and leaned forward to brush her cheek with a kiss.

“And this must be little Phileander,” Francoise said, wide-eyed, looking admiringly down at the little boy sitting on the couch. “Oh, goodness, he’s gotten so big!”

Amaryllis grinned. “Phileander, will you say hello to Mrs. Rochambeaux and Mrs. Ibutatu?”

Niccolette came a little further into the room with a neutral smile on her face. She glanced down at the little boy.

“Hewwo,” Phileander said, twisting to look up at Francoise, and peering curiously over the back of the couch at Niccolette.

“Oh, what a handsome little fellow you are,” Francoise said, sweetly. She smiled at Amaryllis.

“Nicco,” Amaryllis smiled at her as well, her hand resting lightly on her son as she sat once more. “Thank you both for coming.”

“Of course,” Niccolette said lightly. “It’s always good to see you, and good to see you again, Mrs. Vauquelin,” she smiled at Diana.

It was not a small drawing room, but Niccolette was not quite dampening either. Her field washed out into the air around her, extending a full eight feet, sharp and lively. She had caprised Amaryllis comfortably, and Diana as well, natural, polite extensions of her field.

She and Francoise both turned to the girls now; out of the corner of her eye, she saw Francoise’s gaze widen slightly at the sight of the miraan enmeshed in the girl’s hair. Niccolette met Cerise’s eyes with a smile with the littlest edge to it, and met the older student’s sturdy physical field with a curious caprise - polite and social, but, as with any extension of her field, with an unavoidable intensity to the sensitive. Niccolette, at least, was firmly of the opinion it was unavoidable; she did not see the least reason to try and tame it.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown
Bethas 29, 2020 - Afternoon Teatime

Cerise followed Eleanor down the hall, listening to her talking about--something. Some kind of bug-related something, Cerise wasn't sure. She was listening but not really absorbing any of the information. Something about a spider in the parlor, or just the spider's web? It wasn't that she found Eleanor boring, per se, or that she didn't want to listen. It was just sort of hard to follow her younger sister's enthusiasm. She tried to make the right sorts of listening noises.

Maybe she should have done something about her hair, after all. She'd been more confident about her decision not to before she left her bedroom. The closer the two Vauquelin daughters got to the parlor, the more Cerise felt like she might have been overly hasty. It wasn't that she set out to embarrass Diana specifically with all the things she did. That just sort of seemed to happen, and she could always feel the frown even when none was visible on Diana's face. She couldn't help but needle her a little, though.

These sorts of thoughts kept her occupied as she half-listened to Eleanor talking about her beloved spider. She opened her mouth as they approached to say that she wasn't sure it would be best to tell Diana that she thought the spider was so likely to still be around--but they had reached their destination, and she closed her jaw with a snap.

"Hello Amaryllis." Cerise bowed as well, sharp and as deep as she could manage with Sish on her shoulders. The baby--Phileander--she regarded with more reservation. She wasn't particularly good with babies, as far as she knew. Babies featured very little in her day-to-day existence; indeed, any child under ten was a rare enough sight for her. Cerise found she wasn't quite sure what to do around them. They were very much like proper people, but she always felt strange treating them like they were. She couldn't, either, bring herself to coo over them like some women did.

The way he bowed to them as well, so careful in his little suit, was a bit charming. Cerise wanted to smile, but she controlled herself. She didn't want to seem--she didn't know. The effort failed when he pointed at Sish and called her pretty. The smile broke free before she could stop it, then, and she beamed at Phileander.

"Her name is Sish, Destroyer of Hours," she told him solemnly. The smile remained at the corners of her mouth. She didn't offer to let him touch her; she wasn't sure if Sish would like it. If Cerise was inexperienced with children, Sish was even less so--barely more than a baby herself. Sish was well-behaved, for the most part, with Cerise. Pushing her luck by letting the baby touch her seemed unwise. Neither little creature was likely to enjoy the experience.

Cerise had remained standing after greeting both Braithwaites, though she moved a little further into the room. Was the spider still there? She looked around, but didn't think she saw anything. Diana and Amaryllis started talking about dresses; Cerise could only do her best not to make it too obvious she wasn't really listening. There wasn't much to listen to, in the end--not too long after Amaryllis arrived, she heard the door again.

Cerise had expected Chrysanthe, somehow. But no, the ones who came next had to be her not-cousin's friends. Whose names were... Were... Mrs. Rochambeaux and Mrs. Ibutatu. A Mugrobi last name, but a Bastian face. She felt like she had met the other, or heard her name. Perhaps that of her husband--Cerise hardly kept track. Especially not in the last few years. So maybe she was mistaken, and either way it didn't really matter. The elder Vauquelin daughter decided she was already bored. What if Sish knocked something over, or broke something...? Surely she would be sent up to her room then...?

Her scheming as interrupted when Mrs. Ibutatu and Mrs. Rochambeaux turned their attention from greeting Diana and Amaryllis. Mrs. Rochambeaux's eyes widened at the sight of Sish; Cerise repressed a sigh. Mrs. Ibutatu had smiled at her, and there was something around it that she wasn't sure she liked. A certain sharpness to it.

But that field--they had all of Cerise's attention, then, when she met Mrs. Ibutatu's caprise. She had felt, in her time, many living fields--none of them felt quite like this. There was an intensity to it, and a knife-like quality. Not a healer at all--and probably not a biologist of any sort, either. The light of interest was hard to hide, so Cerise didn't try.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Rochambeaux, Mrs. Ibutatu." Cerise bowed to both of them her same awkward bow. Sish chittered in irrtation and flapped out a wing. Cerise paused to stroke her head, and to unpick a claw from the lace at her collar. She remembered, somewhat belatedly, that it was probably polite to caprise Mrs. Rochambeaux and Amaryllis as well. She had moved close enough for it; Cerise did it hastily, and with perhaps too little care.

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

D
estroyer of Hours. Good gods, Diana thought, not for the first time, but where had she gotten that? Sish would not have been so bad, though she had imagined something rather more – normal; she didn’t have to bandy about that epithet, as if it were a hero from a Hessean epic, only no Hessean epic anybody had ever heard of or read. Diana smiled smoothly, as if it were a charming little joke; she watched as Cerise bowed awkwardly with the thing on her shoulders, watching another curl slide out of place, and she took a deep breath in.

Phileander, at least, was rapt. Diana sat very straight, but comfortable, her ankles crossed; as she watched him, the polite smile on her face tilted, barely perceptibly, toward unabashed delight.

She was trying, nevertheless, to give Amaryllis all her attention. “Optimism, my dear,” she replied, “is a balm for these trying times. One hopes this weather will continue; perhaps Loshis will come in gently…”

She was thinking, as she went on, how a gift might be in order. Not now – heavens, no! – not at the age, Diana reflected wryly, when a feathery tail might be likely to end up in Phileander’s mouth. But she knew several magnificent breeders, one of whom was a friend of Mrs. Leblanc and who owed her a favor, who were adept at producing temperaments most suitable for companionship with children.

Soon enough, she heard more noises in the hall; she was already rising to her feet, smoothing out her skirt. When the footman opened the parlor door, it produced not Chrysanthe Palmifer but – to a slight widening of Diana’s eyes – Niccolette Ibutatu, the same pale face framed in dark hair, the same kohled green eyes, she had seen at Clock’s Eve. Behind her, bowing just as deeply, came Francoise Rochambeaux.

“Mrs. Rochambeaux!” Diana breathed, her smile broadening into an expression of surprise. “It has been so long,” she said, stepping forward for a light, bastly-tinged caprise and another low bow. “We are so grateful that you joined us,” she added.

Diana had not seen her since before the summer of last year; the days of early twenty-seven nineteen blended into one another, the parties and the smoothing-overs, but the Rochambeaux had been a constant, at least until Anatole and Aurelien had come to whatever disagreement had driven them apart. She had set it aside, assuming that Francoise had been unwell – she had heard rumors that there had been complications – and the young woman’s sweet smile and warm, polite greeting did much to put her at ease.

“You look magnificent,” she added, smiling at Francoise. It was true; despite the rumors, she had expected it, all the same. Her hair was the vibrant, wavy red that Diana had always been so partial to, and the simple sweeping updo made it almost match the coppery silk of her dress. “Both of you. What a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Ibutatu.”

There was something at the edges of her smile. If her eyes had widened, that was all; her face stayed in its polite, pleasant smile, for all she felt it washing over the room, as if someone had drawn the drapes back from all the windows. She let some curiosity creep into her caprise, as it had in Ophus, and she permitted herself to raise her eyebrows as she looked back at Cerise.

I am not, she thought, a fool, and I did not invite you to tea for no reason, my darling girl.

Diana moved to sit again as her cousin kissed her schoolfriend’s cheek. “This weather is unseasonably lovely. Only a little warmer and I should have invited you all to a picnic,” she said, with a laugh. “How is little Jacqueline?”

There was a feeling like that of a held breath; she knew she would have to stand again, shortly – or at least, hoped she did. She would not order the tea, at least, until she knew. She looked back over her shoulder as gracefully as she could at Cerise and Eleanor, who were still standing; Eleanor moved to take another of the armchairs, though her blue eyes were roving about the room at intervals as if secretly searching for something.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown

Swish,” the little boy was saying, happily aloud, with no particular audience. He had settled back down on the couch next to Amaryllis, his feet swinging back and forth; he was gazing wide-eyed at the miraan.

“Sish,” Amaryllis corrected lightly. Her face was carefully, neatly blank, although Niccolette remembered her well enough from their school days to find the hint of a smile in her eyes. “Destroyer of Hours.” Her gaze flicked up to Cerise, and she smiled at her cousin.

“Sish,” Phileander said, very carefully. “Destwower of Houws.”

“Very good,” Amaryllis said; she cleared her throat, and if there was the faintest hint of laughter in her voice, none of them begrudged her.

“Sish pwetty,” Phileander repeated. He beamed over at Cerise.

“Very well,” Francoise said, smiling, to Diana's question about Jacqueline. She sat, and Niccolette did as well, on two of the chairs in the small drawing room. “She’s such a sweet baby – so well-behaved.”

Niccolette thought of Jacqueline’s loud, wailing squalls during the ceremony of Makarios di Hurte, a little more than a month ago now, and how the Archevne had had to raise his voice – louder and louder – in order to be heard over her, until by the end he was practically screaming the blessings of Hurte into the air. She smiled, brighter; she quite, she thought, agreed with her friend’s estimation.

“Nicco, are you still volunteering at Grand Mercy?” Amaryllis asked, smiling. She glanced down at Phileander, her hand still set on his back. He was looking around, although his gaze kept drifting back to the miraan.

“Yes, a few days each week,” Niccolette said. Her hands settled comfortably together in her lap; she did not run her fingers over the ring on her left, but she was sharply aware of the feeling of the metal against her fingertips. She sat – as they all did – even and upright, and crossed her ankles lightly.

“What do you do there?” Amaryllis asked, curiously. “With – patients?” Her smile crept up at the edges.

Niccolette grinned. “I suppose you remember the days of my studies at Brunnhold Public,” she said, shrugging lightly. “I have learned a thing or two since then – but – I am mostly doing anesthesiology for the surgeons. I have,” she paused, and smiled, “something of a knack for sustaining the spells.”

Francoise shivered. “The practicum was by far the worst part of living conversation,” she said. She looked up at Cerise and Eleanor, smiling. Her field was indectal; like Amaryllis’s field of static mona, it was shy of a ramscott, edged with the soft living glow of someone who has mostly healed.

“Are you both at Brunnhold?” Francoise asked, smiling. “I enjoyed my time there so very much; it seems like quite a long time ago, now!” She turned with a social smile to Amaryllis and Niccolette, and back to the two younger girls. “What are your concentrations?”

Niccolette’s gaze, and her attention, wandered slightly. She looked over to see Phileander looking at her, curiously. She raised her eyebrows at him, and he giggled and turned back to his cousin, and the miraan in her hair. “Sish sish sish,” he hummed beneath his breath, feet kicking lightly.

Amaryllis, smiling, did not try to silence him; she stroked his back with her hand.

Chrysanthe had not intended to arrive late. In part, her hair was to blame. She had tried to tie it up with a ribbon, thinking - but it only managed to look even shorter, though she thought it was rather nice pulled back in a tail. She tried a headband next, as she had taken to wearing at the factory, but it was a rather human look, whatever she did with it. However comfortable it might have been to have the wisps of hair out of her eyes, she would not do that to Amaryllis.

So with a sigh, Chrysanthe had set aside the ribbons and bands both, brushed her hair out once more - that at least was a shorter process than it had been; when she thought of the hours she had spent drying it, especially in Qrieth! - and smoothed it back off her face with her hands.

Chrysanthe checked her reflection in the small mirror in her boarding house room one last time. She had thought of sending Amaryllis a note, but it seemed like such an odd thing to commit to paper. She had not had the chance to go by and see her sister since. She thought, rather guiltily, that perhaps she should have gone over one weeknight, or have suggested that they go together to cousin Diana’s. It was, unfortunately, too late for that now; she took her pocket watch, snapped it shut, and tucked it away into one of the pockets in her skirt. Much too late, Chrysanthe thought guiltily.

Chrysanthe caught the coach from the edge of the bridge, and passed the ride in silent, unseeing contemplation; the sights which she normally enjoyed she today could not even have recalled. The last stop was only a few blocks from Willow Avenue, and she walked the rest of the way with her chin high and the cloak of her hood drawn up. She let herself entertain the rather idle fantasy of keeping it up the entirety of the tea - or else, finding a bonnet and claiming it was the latest fashion from Tiv - but in the end, she handed her cloak to the butler, set her chin and shoulders, and walked into the drawing room.

Amaryllis was laughing, sitting on a couch; she looked up, smiling, and gasped aloud. “Oh!"

Chrysanthe’s entrance had not yet disturbed the vivid chatter of the room, not greatly. At Amaryllis’s gasp, all the rest went abruptly silent; Amaryllis’s hand was pressed firmly over her mouth - too late, Chrysanthe thought, with something like a mental sigh - and her eyes were wide. Chrysanthe stood very straight in the matching pale brown silk jacket and skirt, and did not reach to touch the soft blonde locks which, now, did not even quite skim her shoulders.

Phileander was rather absorbed in trying to fit a finger in his nostril; Chrysanthe imagined he was likely enjoying the brief lapse in Amaryllis’s close attention. Even he looked up, after a moment.

“Auntie Chrissy!” He came off the couch rather hard - Amaryllis jerked, her hands dropping and extending, but holding short of trying to stop him - and came charging at her like a small and rather ungainly bull.

Chrysanthe laughed, and let him clutch at her skirt, without even flinching at the thought of where those fingers had been. She stroked his hair with her hand. “Good afternoon, stinkbug,” she said, cheerfully.

Phileander lapsed into delighted giggles. “No!” He said, wrapping his arms around her in a hug. Then, in a giggling mumble against the fabric, “I not stinkbug!”

Chrysanthe looked up, and met her sister’s eyes across the room. She tried on something like a smile, straightening her spine, one hand still cradling Phileander’s head. “At least Phileander still recognizes me,” she said; she had not quite meant it to sound so sharp, but once the words were out she could not take them back. She held through it, instead, and bowed lightly at the waist. “Diana, it’s lovely to see you again; thank you for having me. Mrs. Rochambeaux, Mrs. Ibutatu, Cerise, Eleanor. A pleasure.” She looked at each of them in turn, and what she had made of her smile did not yield. Her static ramscott held, indectal but warm, all around her.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

The Vauquelin Parlor, Uptown
Bethas 29, 2720 - Afternoon Teatime

Phileander, Cerise had decided, was a tolerable sort of child. She still rather felt that she didn't know what to do around children, but he at least could recognize how lovely Sish was. So he was shaping up to be a good sort of person, she thought, whenever he finally became a person at all. She smiled a little hesitantly at the baby and Amaryllis both. The smile sat sort of oddly on her face, as if she wasn't used to doing it.

Eleanor had taken a seat, but was still looking around the room. Probably for her spider. Cerise hadn't seen it yet, but that didn't mean it wasn't in the room. She wanted to tell her to stop being so obvious before Diana caught on. Cerise was fairly certain her stepmother would not be particularly thrilled with the spider once Eleanor found it, no matter how in love with it her sister was. Although that idea was entertaining in and of itself; Cerise didn't want her sister to be upset if the spider had to be dispatched with. There was simply no way to do it without attracting attention, at least not right now.

Cerise did not move to sit, and wasn't going to do so until Chrysanthe arrived. It seemed to her that there was very little point; also, she wasn't sure where she wanted to sit yet. Easier to just stand there awkwardly like some kind of glowering spring thundercloud and wait for everyone else to sort out seating arrangements than to take the initiative.

When had Diana met Mrs. Ibutatu? It had to have been at a party--there were so many, after all. Her stepmother had raised her eyebrows when she looked at Cerise. The student thought, for a moment, that might be why she had been invited in the first place. To be so considered was a kind of strange feeling. She chose not to dwell on it.

Luckily she was saved from having to consider it any longer by Mrs. Rochambeaux's question, directed at herself and Eleanor. She considered letting Eleanor speak first, but she wasn't sure that wouldn't result in a long speech about, oh, the comparative lifespans of different sorts of beetles.

"I graduate this year," she answered, perhaps stepping in too quickly. Sish shifted on her shoulders and Cerise adjusted her posture to accommodate her. "Physical conversation--it's been very useful on the dueling team." Cerise smiled again, a pointy smile that made her look remarkably like Sish. Perhaps a bit less golden. "I hope to join a professional team after grad--Sish stop that."

Sish, apparently bored with her lounging across Cerise's shoulders, had started to wriggle about, making an effort to clamber up to higher elevations. Had she made any overtures towards fixing her hair, they would have been undone now. Tiny claws sunk into her shoulder; Sish put her head in Cerise's ear. Now would be an ideal time for Eleanor to start speaking about her studies, if she chose to do so. Cerise was thoroughly occupied.

It was a lot of work, unwinding tiny claws and feathers from the chaos of her own hair. Even swept up as it was, bits of it had been escaping all day. Cerise suspected that somehow Sish had been tangling herself in them on purpose; that was the only explanation for how much of it she was having to unwind from the golden-scaled creature. The attention suited her, of course, and she let Cerise know how happy she was about it by swishing her tail around--mostly hitting Cerise in the face with it. At some point she got a feather in her mouth, and was spitting it out and settling Sish down again when, at last, Chrysanthe arrived.

Cerise had missed the gasp; she did not miss the silence and looked to the doorway. Her eyebrows shot up. It wasn't, she thought, that Chrysanthe didn't look very lovely. She did--Cerise couldn't quite remember what she looked like with long hair. It had been a few years since they'd last seen each other. But it was rather striking and, it seemed, unexpected. Cerise, another clip sliding out of her hair, found she was just a bit jealous. Not that she would ever cut her own hair so short. Mama's hair had been long, she remembered; one of her earliest memories was watching her brush it out before bed.

Phileander rocketed off of the couch, breaking away from his mother. Catching sight of where his hand had been, Cerise revised her opinion of children slightly. That was more than a little disgusting.

"Hello Chrysanthe," Cerise greeted her stepmother's cousin, bowing as well as she could. "I like your hair."

[Graf]

Afternoon, 29 Bethas, 2720
The Vauquelin Parlor

T
he practicum! Diana cannot quite avoid shivering; she shivers politely, watching the two ladies intently. She remembers schoolfriends who went into the living conversation – it is not too far from the perceptive; the argument has been made that perceptivism is a subset of living, but Diana is not so sure she agrees – and remembers too the positively terrible stories they would bring back from the Brunnhold Public.

She looks curiously at Niccolette, as the conversation draws on, turns away from such things. She has not missed the tilt of her cousin’s question; she cannot quite picture the Bastian widow’s bedside manner.

Nearby, Eleanor has heard the word anesthesiology and is rapt. At fifteen, her field is still rather dasher, and Diana wonders what she is taking away from this.

As the Francoise’s question turned toward the girls, Diana turned with it, toward where Cerise still stood glowering in grey; it was becoming more and more difficult to look at her without craning one’s neck awkwardly. Diana kept a smooth, polite smile on her face through her mention of the dueling team, though she could not quite help watching Mrs. Ibutatu in the corner of her eye.

Her smile only barely faltered as Sish set to work about the girl’s hair; Circle knew what she was doing. Another curl slipped out of place, pulled free by a tiny claw.

There was a lull.

“I have not – decided yet.” Eleanor’s voice filled it, slow and awkward. “On a focus, I mean. I am – between living and physical, I mean. And perceptive. I mean –”

Diana turned, smiling and tilting her head. “Living would seem quite useful, dear,” she said, “for entomology.” She glanced over toward the couch, studying each woman’s expression, before movement in the corner of her eye drew her attention back to Cerise.

She heard Francoise’s voice, and then: “Oh! Yes,” Eleanor said. “Quite – quite so. Insects, yes, though I – you see – what the ancients referred to as insects, in these days, you see, we know are arachnids, and many other phyla of invertebrates, like snails; I myself have a particular interest in arachnids, which…”

Diana felt as if her attention were being pulled in two directions. On the one hand, Cerise was still standing, and in fact had a mouthful of Sish’s tailfeathers; she spat one out in a most unladylike manner, and it began to drift to the floor, which had only just been swept. Diana heard the word spider come out of Eleanor’s mouth, and she was just about to turn and speak when the parlor door opened again, admitting another young lady.

Diana heard Amaryllis’ soft gasp, interrupting her laughter, before she looked up. She raised two elegant blond eyebrows, her lips slightly parted. It was a moment before she rose. Perhaps ironically, the first one among them to rise – who was not already standing – was little Phil, who went tottering foot over foot toward his cousin before anyone could say anything.

And then, Cerise, like a bolt of lightning: I like your hair.

The little stinkbug was still giggling; Diana found an easy smile. “Good afternoon, Chrysanthe,” she said, rising smoothly from her seat. “Thank you for coming – really.”

She bowed deeply, and reached out with her field – her caprise was, perhaps, warmer than it might have been, and deeper, meeting the static ramscott with curiosity and something akin to eagerness.

She remembered her father’s field, even as a girl, even when her sense was growing acclimated to it; she remembered the sturdy, matter-of-fact warmth of it, a field that – Mother always used to say – solved problems. She remembered, too, her cousin’s hair, long and lovely and straw-colored like all of their kin, and the two long braids she had worn from the time she was admitted to Brunnhold.

A little girl, she had thought, even then; a little girl’s braids, a little girl’s field. She felt an unexpected swell of warmth. She smiled at Cerise, then at Chrysanthe. There had been a sharpness in her young cousin’s voice; she had hoped it would be permitted to slip by without comment, but – she supposed things did not always have to be smooth to be elegant.

“It suits you magnificently, Chrysanthe.” She wanted, strangely, to go and take Chrysanthe in her arms like she might have as a little girl; instead, her smile warmed. “Short hair was the fashion in Tiv, when I was at Anastou,” she said, slowly but not remotely hesitantly, “though it never suited me quite so well as it suits you.”