After a moment's wonder, the Veil's acid edge slowing its crawl, Viktor's head makes a half-turn toward Gwenaëlle, like she's just called forth a thought that locks into place, quick and tidy; the look that finally reaches her cuts a conspiratorial angle.
"I think you might be right."
They leave the steward, on the verge of emotional shambles, with a still-developing incursion and a too-casual promise to return for a second appraisal once they've had a good think about it. Their return trip to the Bear's Tooth—which comes with a little grumbling up front for the fact that conveyance by palanquin remains the most convenient option—is spent exchanging written lines regarding their next steps to avoid any chance of being overheard. This will be a quick stop back home to grab something that really ought to be signed out, but a) it would take a minute to explain the plan, which is both risky and not strictly necessary, and thus, b) permission isn't guaranteed, while, in his experience, c) forgiveness nearly always is, especially if the transgression ends with a net positive for whatever finger of authority is inclined to wag in his direction. So they just go and get the thing and take it away.
Plus, facing almost no repercussions for that explosion in Kirkwall has left him feeling frankly a little invincible. Why yes, he will continue to do whatever he wants, thank you.
What they bring to the site is a sizeable hat box, awkward to carry and heavier than it looks, but not prohibitively so; inside the box is a sizeable hat, the ugliness of which is prohibitive, in Viktor's opinion; inside the hat is a stone polyhedron inscribed with ancient runework, its pieces intermingled with silk to prevent them sealing together in magnetic attraction.
"It goes without saying that he mustn't see this," Viktor is saying anyway, of the box, on their way to the door. "If he does, we'll have a serious problem on our hands. More than one, actually," comes with a little tilt of his head, as if in concession to an argument they aren't having.
no subject
"I think you might be right."
They leave the steward, on the verge of emotional shambles, with a still-developing incursion and a too-casual promise to return for a second appraisal once they've had a good think about it. Their return trip to the Bear's Tooth—which comes with a little grumbling up front for the fact that conveyance by palanquin remains the most convenient option—is spent exchanging written lines regarding their next steps to avoid any chance of being overheard. This will be a quick stop back home to grab something that really ought to be signed out, but a) it would take a minute to explain the plan, which is both risky and not strictly necessary, and thus, b) permission isn't guaranteed, while, in his experience, c) forgiveness nearly always is, especially if the transgression ends with a net positive for whatever finger of authority is inclined to wag in his direction. So they just go and get the thing and take it away.
Plus, facing almost no repercussions for that explosion in Kirkwall has left him feeling frankly a little invincible. Why yes, he will continue to do whatever he wants, thank you.
What they bring to the site is a sizeable hat box, awkward to carry and heavier than it looks, but not prohibitively so; inside the box is a sizeable hat, the ugliness of which is prohibitive, in Viktor's opinion; inside the hat is a stone polyhedron inscribed with ancient runework, its pieces intermingled with silk to prevent them sealing together in magnetic attraction.
"It goes without saying that he mustn't see this," Viktor is saying anyway, of the box, on their way to the door. "If he does, we'll have a serious problem on our hands. More than one, actually," comes with a little tilt of his head, as if in concession to an argument they aren't having.