we all keep our sadness cupped safe in our hands ( semi - open )

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Vauquelin + YOU?
WHAT: Settling into Hightown.
WHEN: Current.
WHERE: The new Vauquelin residence, Hightown.
NOTES: Open to anyone who'd have a reason to visit her at her home. Deliveries, pick ups, important conversations as need having.

Actually moving into her new townhouse is not as involved a process as it might be; Gwenaëlle's brought her bedroom with her, not the entirety of the Vauquelin household, so most of the interiors are what had belonged to the current owner the property is now being rented from, purchased on her behalf by the Duke before he left so that she can do as she pleases with them, replace or keep the pieces she likes at her leisure. She'd not been expecting it to be her own home in quite so literal a way, and in overseeing the airing out of the place and some rearrangements made, she finds she's not entirely -

She didn't want to rely on her grandfather, but she misses him. Maybe living together here would have been pleasant.

No sense in dwelling on it, though, when there's still a hundred things to be done - messages sent to her friends and acquaintances by runner to inform them of her new abode and ensure everyone who ought to have her address has it and will have no trouble locating her now that she's (finally) out of the Gallows. She leaves Yva to unpack her belongings, pens a request for Alistair to come at his convenience because she requires his assistance, spends a solid several hours sorting through her new library inventory to see if any of it is useful or if it's all just What This Merchant Thought Would Look Impressive On His Shelves - a selection of tomes are set aside to be donated to the Inquisition, she supposes someone from the research division might come and collect them or she'll have to have someone take them down. Her own books go up, and she has the remainder of what she certainly isn't keeping out boxed up to be delivered to her landlord's current address.

It is a very nice house, and she's more pleased with it than she isn't. Visitors will be shown to the walled courtyard, where she's spread a blanket on the grass and is settled there with her writing, reading glasses balanced on her nose, hair swept back in curls.

Comments

[byblow]

After a second's delay, Alistair smiles. It's a good thing—not something he'd ever presume to have any say in, and not something he resents not having a say in either, but if Morrigan had asked his opinion he'd have thought it was a good idea. His willingness to tell everyone else to buck up and get over their qualms with the Gallows or the docks doesn't extend to Kieran.

"No, I think that's brilliant," he says. "He likes dragons. And they ought to breathe fire. The ones that breathe ice or lighting, they're cheating. And the ones that don't breathe anything—what's even the point? Anyway, I think he'll love it." He reads the list with all the attentiveness it deserves. "You're going to spoil him."

That's not a complaint.

[elegiaque]

"A little," she allows, glancing up, pleased - "I think he should be a little spoiled." She doesn't bother with something like don't you, because - well, he does, obviously, or he'd have used a different tone to make the observation.

By way of explanation, "He's shown me a little of your sword lessons. I thought you might like to help." She mightn't know why, but: does it matter? Gwenaëlle's love for Kieran is fierce and crushing; it isn't for her to ask why someone else cares for him. Why wouldn't an - acquaintance - of Morrigan's not see that Kieran is the very finest of fine little boys?