Stanthorpe Hall, Uptown
“I thought you’d quit,” Chrysanthe said, smiling.
Rosalinde grinned. “These last weeks we’ve been scrambling about like miraan trying to get Haverling all the reports he needed for Mugroba. Cigarettes were an absolute lifeline. This is my last,” she paused, raising sharp, slim red eyebrows. “Or second to last.”
Chrysanthe grinned, thinking of cigarettes shared on cold and rainy evenings, standing in the back gardens of one meeting house or another, and thinking, too, of her own various and varied resolutions to do the same. The breeze ruffled her hair, tugging the short locks, and she resisted the urge to reach up and run her fingers through them.
“I didn’t think you’d be able to come,” Rosalinde said, after a moment.
Chrysanthe raised her own eyebrows in response.
“Oh, come, darling, I didn’t mean it like that,” Rosalinde said. “I just assumed there’d be some to do at the factory.”
“There was,” Chrysanthe said, smiling, a little wry. “This was a good excuse to get out of it,” she glanced at the drab courtyard, and then back at the squat, rather depressing lines of Stanthorpe.
“Blast,” Rosalinde sighed. “It seemed such a good idea to get myself on this Shrikeweed fellow’s calendar last week, when I was drowning in policy memos and looking forward to time to work on anything else. Now…” She pulled a small silver pocketwatch from her coat, and checked the time. “Let’s walk and talk, else we’ll be late.”
Chrysanthe smiled. “I’m here for moral support, then, I take it?” The two women moved between the columns, heading for the door, two sets of low heels clicking steadily against the stone.
“Moral and content,” Rosalinde grinned, her perceptive field nudging warmly at the end of Chrysanthe's static mona. “Come on, I’ve read Janthering’s depositions; you’ve made rather a study of suffrage, at least as it pertains to guardianship.”
Chrysanthe stopped, looking at Roselinde, her field withdrawing just perceptibly. After a moment, she kept on. “I was under the impression the names were kept confidential,” Chrysanthe said, after a moment, her tone slightly cool.
“I inferred,” Rosalinde shot a grin sideways at her. “Oh come on, don’t be cross! It’s nothing to be ashamed of, and not in the least your fault. Did you read the summary?”
“I skimmed it,” Chrysanthe kept on, following Rosalinde; the other woman held the door, and Chrysanthe made her way inside, glancing around. Even with the political season having started in Thul Ka, the hall was still busy, or at least seemed so to Chrysanthe. The rust red of Rosalinde’s skirt rather stood out – the swish of their two skirts, Chrysanthe thought, stood out as well, rather stark against a sea of pants. She resumed the caprise, in the end, yielding slightly her barriers.
“It’s all a bit technical for me, I’m afraid,” Chrysanthe added.
“That’s where I come in, darling,” Rosalinde said with a wave of her hand. “Though – should you be asked to share the particulars of your situation…?”
“Do you think this man Shrikeweed likely to be swayed by such considerations?” Chrysanthe asked.
Rosalinde shrugged. “He’s got little enough in the way of reputation – rather a cipher, that one, by all accounts. Still, one wants to be prepared.”
Chrysanthe’s lips folded together for a moment, but she didn’t slow her stride again.
“The goal is nominally to clarify several points of the brief,” Rosalinde went on, “and to see – well, how seriously he espouses the views he outlines. Allies of the suffrage cause are few enough in Stanthorpe; too many here are content to hew to the ways things have been done, simply because they are familiar, or else old. Whether it’s moral or pure pragmatism, I’d be glad enough for any support. I doubt I'll find it.”
“At least he took the meeting,” Chrysanthe pointed out. They turned the corner onto a quieter hall; Rosalinde didn’t slow her stride. Chrysanthe, two inches taller than the other woman, found it easy enough to keep up all the same.
Rosalinde stopped, then, turning to Chrysanthe. “Thank you for coming,” she said, quietly, looking at the other woman.
In the next moment, she turned back, opening the exterior doors; Chrysanthe followed her into a set of offices, and to another door – this one, she supposed, belonging to Shrikeweed.
“It’s a cause which matters to me,” Chrysanthe said, quietly. She adjusted the fall of her heavy wool coat, her neat gray skirt suit beneath still slightly damp with the chill of the air outside.
Rosalinde glanced over her shoulder at Chrysanthe, and she grinned. "As it should us all." She turned back, lifted her hand, and knocked.