he wasn’t looking at either of them, but for a moment, both of them were looking at her. Her pointed profile was set, despite the heavy dark hair that was falling out of her braid. There were a few tangles stuck to her neck and fraying out about her face. Her blouse was full of pinprick holes at the shoulders. He frowned, blinking, and he wanted to say again, Cerise – he could feel Jima fuming at his back, and he wasn’t sure what he could feel in Cerise’s field, but it wasn’t anger – Cerise, it’s all right.
Father, she said, and he blinked again, back at Sish. He didn’t know what he wanted to say.
Cerise’s arm was a long line like a tree branch; in the corner of his eye, he saw Jima flinch when she whistled. Brat, he thought, his brow furrowing, smiling just a little. Pop, pop, pop, went Sish’s claws, and then paused, still caught and digging in. Chrrrp? Little eyes fixed on Cerise.
She whistled yet again, and Sish scrambled down. Behind him, he saw Jima’s chest rise and fall in a very deep breath. Every line in Cerise was rigid-sharp as she turned to them, bundling up Sish in her arms like a scaly boch. I’m sorry, she said, after some stumbling. She bowed to ada’xa Jima finally, and he felt a pang. Her eyes were sharp and cold when she rose, and that faint twist of a sneer was on her face, but there was a soft brush of pink across her narrow pale cheeks.
He nodded when she spoke again. He couldn’t quite smile; it was almost more than he could bear. He swallowed thickly, watching her swing out the door with a jangle of the bell. He took a deep breath and mastered himself.
He wasn’t sure what in the gods’ names he was feeling, but now wasn’t the time for it. He smoothed his politician’s smile out; he turned to Jima. “Ada’xa –”
“I can make no demands, Incumbent, sir,” Jima said, his deep voice smooth and polite. He inclined his head and shoulders again; every line of him was deferential, but his face was dark. “The Clothiers’ Guild, and thereby the Brotherhood of the Crocus, can.”
“I shall be happy to pay for the velvet,” he said softly. “And for the afúr’oho, ada’xa, which she mentioned, when we have the measurements from ada’na Ebele.”
Jima frowned at the velvet over his shoulder. “The Guild, sir, may find future damages – or their potentiality – objectionable.”
“We won’t bring Sish in again, ada’xa.” He smiled, and kept smiling; his face was stiff and painful, but his smile was smooth.
Fifteen or twenty minutes later, he came out through the door, the Hat under one arm with his parasol. He didn’t see her at first; there wasn’t much room between the shopfront – with its glassy bay windows – and the curb, bustling with carts and coaches and pullers and foot traffic. He found her eventually still cradling Sish in a nook a couple of buildings over, in the shade of an awning, a support and a few hanging plants between her and the busy street.
He wasn’t sure how he’d expected to feel at the sight of her pale, narrow face, thin lips faintly twisted. However it was, it wasn’t what he felt, in the end. He didn’t glance up at the braid, but he saw it; the bulk of it’d slipped a little lower, and it looked like it must’ve pinched. Sish was peering up from her arms, squirming a little, and she chirruped when she saw him.
His brow furrowed, at first, then smoothed out; he tried something like a wry smile. “We’ve had a day already, haven’t we, Sish?” His field brushed hers and settled into a caprise; he slid into the shade of the alcove and leaned against the wall.
He held his tongue for a moment; he swallowed it, almost. Almost. Is she all right? he thought to ask instead, casual-like.
And damn him, he couldn’t.
“Are you all right?” he asked.