The Golden Rose Tea Room • Two Falls
Afternoon on the 4th of Bethas, 2720
T
here was an unpleasant curl of a smile on her face. He pushed down another wave of discomfort, and again the urge to run his fingers over his own. He looked away toward the bookshelf when she spoke; he found himself terrified she’d see it in his eyes, what he felt, though he knew his Rooks face was better than that of most men. It was easier to feel a squeeze in his heart at those words, looking at the books, and at the gilt red copy of Mircalla sitting on the arm of the chair. In the corner of his eyes, she was just a haze of a pale face and dark curls, and his heart squeezed tighter.
“I’ll accept that responsibility.” He found a laugh somewhere, and it didn’t come out as bitter as he’d thought it would. Diana, he almost added, would hardly care.
He forced himself to look back. Cerise was looking down at her bowl, but she hadn’t moved to pick it up or take the spoon again. There were still a few chunks of potatoes, a few glistening wedges of mushroom poking up out of the hearty broth.
You should eat, he wanted to say. Come on, lass, you’ve had nothing.
No. The word was a jagged riff. He’d prepared himself for it; he held and waited as she ran a hand through her mane of curls, falling all about her head now in a cloud.
Then it was all half-sentences, starts of one and finishes of another. He looked down at her bowl, lips twisting as he sucked on his tooth. So you weren’t lying, he thought. Would you have told me, if there were? Do you even want me there? He couldn’t figure out what she wanted, after all; it seemed to’ve dissolved into the steam from the tea and the two comfortable chairs, blurred into all their talk and all his exhaustion.
Outside, the rain pattered the window. Sish, much like a cat, had heard something of her mistress, had rolled and wiggled herself up and crawled back into Cerise’s lap. He could hear the pinpricks as her claws dug into fabric, and, he thought, skin. Cerise’s face didn’t register it.
The travel team, he thought. What in hell was she suggesting? It settled into place, like a piece in the puzzle; had all this – all this – been to tug at his heartstrings, to get him to sponsor her? Or whatever it was she’d brought up back then to pull the rug out from under him with Burbridge?
There was color in her cheeks. She shrugged. Mugroba, he remembered again, and swallowed a lump.
“The travel team?” he asked, and found himself leaning forward slightly to take his own teacup. He reached for the teapot, then. “Tryouts?”
He paused, his fingertips perched on the handle.
He poured himself another cup of tea. He hesitated; the spout drifted over to her cup, but didn’t pour. “I’m not very much like I was,” he said softly. “We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to, but you came and got me, and I’m sticking around for as long as you want me.”
There was no point in saying he wished he had got to see the other matches; it was a bald-faced lie, with where he'd been less than two years ago, and a patronizing one in this voice. He asked himself if he wanted to see her duel now, and he didn't know how he felt about the answer.
here was an unpleasant curl of a smile on her face. He pushed down another wave of discomfort, and again the urge to run his fingers over his own. He looked away toward the bookshelf when she spoke; he found himself terrified she’d see it in his eyes, what he felt, though he knew his Rooks face was better than that of most men. It was easier to feel a squeeze in his heart at those words, looking at the books, and at the gilt red copy of Mircalla sitting on the arm of the chair. In the corner of his eyes, she was just a haze of a pale face and dark curls, and his heart squeezed tighter.
“I’ll accept that responsibility.” He found a laugh somewhere, and it didn’t come out as bitter as he’d thought it would. Diana, he almost added, would hardly care.
He forced himself to look back. Cerise was looking down at her bowl, but she hadn’t moved to pick it up or take the spoon again. There were still a few chunks of potatoes, a few glistening wedges of mushroom poking up out of the hearty broth.
You should eat, he wanted to say. Come on, lass, you’ve had nothing.
No. The word was a jagged riff. He’d prepared himself for it; he held and waited as she ran a hand through her mane of curls, falling all about her head now in a cloud.
Then it was all half-sentences, starts of one and finishes of another. He looked down at her bowl, lips twisting as he sucked on his tooth. So you weren’t lying, he thought. Would you have told me, if there were? Do you even want me there? He couldn’t figure out what she wanted, after all; it seemed to’ve dissolved into the steam from the tea and the two comfortable chairs, blurred into all their talk and all his exhaustion.
Outside, the rain pattered the window. Sish, much like a cat, had heard something of her mistress, had rolled and wiggled herself up and crawled back into Cerise’s lap. He could hear the pinpricks as her claws dug into fabric, and, he thought, skin. Cerise’s face didn’t register it.
The travel team, he thought. What in hell was she suggesting? It settled into place, like a piece in the puzzle; had all this – all this – been to tug at his heartstrings, to get him to sponsor her? Or whatever it was she’d brought up back then to pull the rug out from under him with Burbridge?
There was color in her cheeks. She shrugged. Mugroba, he remembered again, and swallowed a lump.
“The travel team?” he asked, and found himself leaning forward slightly to take his own teacup. He reached for the teapot, then. “Tryouts?”
He paused, his fingertips perched on the handle.
He poured himself another cup of tea. He hesitated; the spout drifted over to her cup, but didn’t pour. “I’m not very much like I was,” he said softly. “We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to, but you came and got me, and I’m sticking around for as long as you want me.”
There was no point in saying he wished he had got to see the other matches; it was a bald-faced lie, with where he'd been less than two years ago, and a patronizing one in this voice. He asked himself if he wanted to see her duel now, and he didn't know how he felt about the answer.
