the first time I made mincemeat of the standard propositions establishing a so-called moral science

[bouchonne]

WHO: Byerly Rutyer and Wysteria Poppell
WHAT: She's stuck with him for 3 hours
WHEN: Whenever
WHERE: On the road
NOTES: He's a smutmonger??

[ It's not a terrible trip from Kirkwall to Greencliff. Thirty miles along the coast, and a journey decently worth taking: Greencliff is a striking city, with a high copper content in the mineral cliffs giving them a curious greenish tint. Not particularly built-up, not a center of commerce or of war, but quite nice nevertheless. There are a multiple trips by commercial carriage out there per day. So, logically, the odds of running into someone you don't want to run into are relatively small.

Thank the Maker Wysteria isn't a betting woman, because it's clear enough her luck today is rotten.

Because not only does she end up in a carriage with Byerly, Byerly was running late. So that means that it's when she's well and truly settled, and when the wagon is but a few breaths from departing, that he scrambles in. The door closes behind him as he pants, clearly come off a sprint for it; the driver gives a cry; the horses lurch into motion; there's no time for her to escape.

Perhaps a stroke of good luck for the girl, though. By, for once, is so genuinely overcome with the aftereffects of drink that he doesn't even take the time to investigate his surroundings. Instead, he flops over the bench, and throws his arm across his eyes, and groans, all without ever having seen her. ]

Comments

[bouchonne]

My masochism? My dear girl.

[ He places her hat on top of her book, blocking her view. ]

I'm simply trying to help you.

[heirring]

Then I suppose the real question, Messere, [she says, shifting the hat from the page,] is why in the devil's name you'd want to do that.

[There's her place. With a flick of the wrist and a definitive angling of her body toward the window that says she has no interest at all in the answer, she turns all her attention to the book and wills him to disappear.]

[bouchonne]

[ Why indeed? Honestly, he'd like to pretend that the answer doesn't come to him immediately, but, well - it comes to him immediately. Because a young woman, of some vivaciousness and some intelligence and a dearth of common sense, alone in a world that has proven to be very, very, very cruel, is likely to get hurt. She is likely to have that spark snuffed out. And how many times has Byerly seen that happen? He watched his sister turn hard, in spite of his best efforts to conceal her from the world and conceal the world from her. He watched Alexandrie, back when they were both so much younger, smiling coldly at him as she humiliated him in the same way that she had been humiliated - bringing the cruelty she had suffered around to tear Byerly to pieces. He had watched so many women suffer, good women, strong women, who were good for the world; he had watched them suffer and been able to do nothing.

The Rutyer family, they say, is cursed. Madness lies upon them like the taint, passed down through blood, through proximity. Byerly has that curse, no question of it; there is madness in his future and madness in his present. In the future, that madness will be of a terribly conventional sort; he'll turn shambling and ranting, like his aunt and his grandmother and his great-uncle, or violent like his uncle and his cousins and his grandfather. But in the present day, the curse has a rather more conventionally tragic manifestation. He is cursed to possess the will to save people but to lack the wits and the strength.

Poor Byerly. Poor, poor Byerly. Poor, poor everyone in Byerly's orbit.

And how can he say that? Especially to this girl who looks at him and sees a villain. How can he explain to her that he's a pathetic drunken fop with aspirations of knightliness, the town fool who's too foolish for this world? How can he explain to her - because I want to help you, because I see the humanity in you and I want to defend it? He simply can't. It's simply impossible. She'd laugh at him. Cruelly.

So instead - instead, he says - ]

Let us say - in honor of Lady de la Fontaine.

[heirring]

[It isn't what she expected. But then, she thinks, she doesn't actually expect anything at all from him and so, really, there is nothing to be disappointed or pleased by with what can only be the most obtuse answer ever given to any question. Which is fine. It was entirely rhetorical anyway.]

I'm sure she'd be gratified to hear it.

[This said without a second glance to him, much less a look that might consider any reassessment. Instead, Wysteria steadies the book on her knee and sets her spare hand studiously with thumb to jaw and forefinger to temple - all the better to block him out with. If she reads the same page twice in succession with the effort - well. She can hardly be blamed for it. Eventually, she will have managed to imagine pouring enough hatred ouit onto the page where it then might be eaten away by the sunlight through the carriage window that she will make progress in some peace.

What a singularly unbearable carriage ride this has been. She cannot imagine Greencliff will have anything to make up for it.]