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The narrow Hightown street to which Miss Poppell and Madame Rutyer are summoned is as calm (and dull and dreary) as the grey sky overhead, far enough from any major gathering point that most of the foot traffic comes from people who live there and people out for leisurely walks. The particular house to which they're summoned has an impressive barrier of shrubs and ivy along the iron gate around its garden.
When they arrive—or one of the other of them, if they came separately—the leaves rustle and the shrubs ask, in a very cloak-and-daggers Orlesian voice: "Were you followed?"
When they arrive—or one of the other of them, if they came separately—the leaves rustle and the shrubs ask, in a very cloak-and-daggers Orlesian voice: "Were you followed?"
There are only so many ferries to and from the Gallows, and there are a great deal of stairs between the docks and Hightown, and so it is natural that at some point - either on the boat or along a series of stairs - the two of them converged.
Wysteria, a satchel filled with a collection of dry bread heels and slightly wilted lettuce greens scavenged from the Gallows kitchens, pivots toward the Orlesian shrub and does her best to address it without seeming to address it. Maybe she is talking to the fat stone garden ornament perched on the burbling fountain just beyond the iron gate. Who can say?
"I've no idea. But I doubt it. The two of us look very trustworthy."
Wysteria, a satchel filled with a collection of dry bread heels and slightly wilted lettuce greens scavenged from the Gallows kitchens, pivots toward the Orlesian shrub and does her best to address it without seeming to address it. Maybe she is talking to the fat stone garden ornament perched on the burbling fountain just beyond the iron gate. Who can say?
"I've no idea. But I doubt it. The two of us look very trustworthy."
"I am the height of respect and trust," Sidony says with a small smile, but the looks down at the shrubs with a raised brow. There are words that ought to be exchanged between herself and dear Bastien, but she will save those for later. No need to air laundry, so to speak, in front of those whom she does not know as well.
She's dressed down for the moment, not in her silks but in something a little less noble and gentile, and she crosses her arms behind her back as she smiles gently.
Her head tilts to the sky.
"I'd even suggest that people trust me too much."
She's dressed down for the moment, not in her silks but in something a little less noble and gentile, and she crosses her arms behind her back as she smiles gently.
Her head tilts to the sky.
"I'd even suggest that people trust me too much."
"Is that so?" the shrub says, rhetorical and appreciative. Then it slowly sprouts a human head.
Bastien is coping well. The light isn't gone from his eyes, the spring isn't gone from his step. But his mustache is very much gone from his lip.
There is also a twig in his hair.
"Thank you both very much for coming," he says. He doesn't scan the street to make sure they were not overestimating their appearance of innocence, before he rustles and slides the rest of the way out of the greenery. That's trust! Or: trust and the fact that this is all a little ridiculous, rather than a matter of life and death. Or: trust, and that fact, and good peripheral awareness.
He has twigs in more places than his hair. He plucks them off with both hands at once, with a long white feather meanwhile held between two fingers.
"They call him Lord Godwin Goose. I do not think he answers to his name, but—you know, just in case."
Bastien is coping well. The light isn't gone from his eyes, the spring isn't gone from his step. But his mustache is very much gone from his lip.
There is also a twig in his hair.
"Thank you both very much for coming," he says. He doesn't scan the street to make sure they were not overestimating their appearance of innocence, before he rustles and slides the rest of the way out of the greenery. That's trust! Or: trust and the fact that this is all a little ridiculous, rather than a matter of life and death. Or: trust, and that fact, and good peripheral awareness.
He has twigs in more places than his hair. He plucks them off with both hands at once, with a long white feather meanwhile held between two fingers.
"They call him Lord Godwin Goose. I do not think he answers to his name, but—you know, just in case."
Wysteria is the picture of subterfuge. She is indeed the very spirit of subtlety.
And then Bastien's upper lip exits the hedge.
The choked sound is smothered behind the clap of her hand closing tight over her mouth lest it expel any shriller noise which might be misinterpreted as a shriek of alarm (rather than delight) by Hightown's more suspicious passersby. And to keep from interrupting him, of course. Obviously whatever he has to say is very important.
After a long beat—yes, yes, Godwin Goose; naturally—, Wysteria heroically manages to master herself long enough to say,
"Oh Monsieur, you look hardly twenty," and then must clamp her hand in place again.
And then Bastien's upper lip exits the hedge.
The choked sound is smothered behind the clap of her hand closing tight over her mouth lest it expel any shriller noise which might be misinterpreted as a shriek of alarm (rather than delight) by Hightown's more suspicious passersby. And to keep from interrupting him, of course. Obviously whatever he has to say is very important.
After a long beat—yes, yes, Godwin Goose; naturally—, Wysteria heroically manages to master herself long enough to say,
"Oh Monsieur, you look hardly twenty," and then must clamp her hand in place again.
Bastien's eyebrows go up at the squeak, then drift back down to their natural position while he smiles.
"Oui." He wouldn't say he looks hardly twenty, and he has grown out of being truly babyfaced at least. Still: "That is the problem the mustache is meant to solve."
He flicks the twig out of his hair and leans his head sideways toward her with a conspiratorial voice-drop.
"But thank you."
"Oui." He wouldn't say he looks hardly twenty, and he has grown out of being truly babyfaced at least. Still: "That is the problem the mustache is meant to solve."
He flicks the twig out of his hair and leans his head sideways toward her with a conspiratorial voice-drop.
"But thank you."
[ In addition to the ferryman, the ferry currently contains three men, a violin, and a cello. (The instruments and two of the men have a performance scheduled. The third man is just lucky, probably.) The wind and the water are quiet and still, and Bastien is still chattering into his crystal to continue to conversation he was having when he stepped onto the boat: ]
Alas Very Wit. Alas Very Wit. Very Wit Alas, Wit Alas Very. Tiwyrevsala. [ Tiwyrevsala, mon ami. You must, I beg, keep my secret, answers Val de Foncé's smaller voice. ] Of course! Of course. Give your friend Tiwyrevsala my best wishes.
[ And then he silences it with its obnoxious cumbersome twisting motion, smiles vaguely into the middle distance, and—sounding more puzzled than gleeful— ]
Valentine de Foncé and Miss Poppell are getting married.
Alas Very Wit. Alas Very Wit. Very Wit Alas, Wit Alas Very. Tiwyrevsala. [ Tiwyrevsala, mon ami. You must, I beg, keep my secret, answers Val de Foncé's smaller voice. ] Of course! Of course. Give your friend Tiwyrevsala my best wishes.
[ And then he silences it with its obnoxious cumbersome twisting motion, smiles vaguely into the middle distance, and—sounding more puzzled than gleeful— ]
Valentine de Foncé and Miss Poppell are getting married.
Well.
[He puffs thoughtfully on a cigarette.]
Good for her.
[He puffs thoughtfully on a cigarette.]
Good for her.
[ Byerly's reaction is stronger. And it was bad timing: Byerly was in the middle of lifting a flask to his lips. He immediately sprays the brandy out in shock; half of it still goes down his throat, and he chokes.
Fucking...what? ]
Fucking...what? ]
Edited 2021-04-25 00:56 (UTC)
[Barrow helpfully claps him on the back with an enormous hand.]
[ Bastien reaches a hand halfway before he's beaten to back-patting and instead watches with concern that grows milder by each second Byerly doesn't keel over gasping, until it's mild enough that he can look at Barrow instead. ]
You think so? I did not even know they liked one another.
You think so? I did not even know they liked one another.
[Barrow wavers his hand vaguely.]
She seems the sort to value marriage to nobility, doesn’t she?
[His eyebrows raise at Byerly’s assertion.]
...well that I didn’t know.
She seems the sort to value marriage to nobility, doesn’t she?
[His eyebrows raise at Byerly’s assertion.]
...well that I didn’t know.
[ A late morning later, when he's still working on his coffee and the workday still seems long and vast enough to hold everything that needs to be done even if he does it slowly while gossiping, ]
Did you know that Miss Poppell was getting married?
Did you know that Miss Poppell was getting married?
Edited (orlesian italics) 2021-04-25 01:55 (UTC)
Well,
[Barrow scratches idly at the stubble on his cheek. Caring about other people's romantic affairs has never especially been his style, but,]
I can't imagine Miss Poppell is one to be compelled into anything she'd rather not do.
[They'd all be hearing about it, if she were.]
[Barrow scratches idly at the stubble on his cheek. Caring about other people's romantic affairs has never especially been his style, but,]
I can't imagine Miss Poppell is one to be compelled into anything she'd rather not do.
[They'd all be hearing about it, if she were.]
[ Alexandrie looks up from the page she's drafting, eyebrows arching upward. It's a look of interest rather than surprise, so... ]
I did indeed! Did you have it from Miss Poppell herself, or have the messenger birds of Riftwatch begun to chirp to each other in earnest?
[ chirp chirp ♫ ]
I did indeed! Did you have it from Miss Poppell herself, or have the messenger birds of Riftwatch begun to chirp to each other in earnest?
[ chirp chirp ♫ ]
Unless...
[ He fishes out a handkerchief to offer By, in case he has any brandy lingering where it oughtn't.
Anyway, he's joking. His unless face vanishes as quickly as it arrived. ]
If I had to name an Orlesian unlikely to blackmail someone, under pressure, I would name Monsieur de Foncé.
[ He fishes out a handkerchief to offer By, in case he has any brandy lingering where it oughtn't.
Anyway, he's joking. His unless face vanishes as quickly as it arrived. ]
If I had to name an Orlesian unlikely to blackmail someone, under pressure, I would name Monsieur de Foncé.
[ She laughs for that, and then sets her pen to the side so she can give this the full attention it so richly deserves. ]
Of course he made a clever puzzle of it. Did he have the glow of a man in love, or the glow of a man pleased by having a secret plan?
Of course he made a clever puzzle of it. Did he have the glow of a man in love, or the glow of a man pleased by having a secret plan?
Isn’t she?
[Puff puff,]
If she does, marrying someone else doesn’t make that untrue.
[ask me how I know that wait dont]
[Puff puff,]
If she does, marrying someone else doesn’t make that untrue.
[ask me how I know that wait dont]
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