"You desire dinner. And you have not been asked, and so you are arranging for this. It is very clever, I will allow you that much. Your true motive might not be guessed by others, but I am afraid it is no match at all for my cleverness."
He smiles at her thing-face. Perhaps it will help. If it makes the face worse, so much the better: he might then observe it more properly.
She begins to make the sharpest, shortest noise but cuts herself off before it can make it through her teeth. Instead, she goes bright red up the back of her neck, tucks a series of nonexistant flyaway hairs behind her ears, and irons out that thing she is doing with her face, though her eyes remain quite bright indeed - flashing with the indignation that the rest of her has a stranglehold about.
You know. More or less.
"I fail to see how I would even begin to arrange to have dinner with a particular someone, given that I would not be a bidder in this hypothetical venture. Regardless of what I might or might not desire, or with whom. Which I do not. Desire."—Stop talking. That's a fine end point—"For if I did wish for such a thing, I would certainly come up with some method which left the result slightly less likely to chance."
"I have no doubt that you could come up with such a method!"
It is only a little disappointment, that she marshals her face so well. Val's pursuit of this matter is not yet ended. He reaches for the interior pocket of his light summer coat, and produces a small writing book. With a flick of his wrist, he flips it open, and extracts a small pencil from the flap sewn to its side.
"How would you arrange for a dinner with your 'particular someone'? Your first idea may be your best idea, so please, do not hold back."
The red on the back of her neck threatens to spread upward to color her ears. Her mouth somehow thins in two different directions at once, yet does nothing to keep her from talking.
"It is simple. I would claim some urgent matter of Riftwatch business required the presence of a pair of agents who might be inconspicuous at particular place, with the pretense that we be tasked with the observation of some conveniently placed party. Which is irrelevant to the discussion at hand, and not something I would do in actuality. It is merely the very first thing— Really, de Foncé."
Very focused on his writing, Val finds a moment to break and hold up a finger before returning to his work. Two words more, and then he resurfaces, tucks the pencil away and slips the book back into his coat, and flashes a smile at her.
"Of course it is not something that would be done. The very thought should perish! Mr. Ellis, anyone, yes, would no doubt dine with you if he were to be asked, there would be no game or pretense required to it, a mere question answered with a yes, your favorite food, whatever food it is Wardens enjoy--boiled cabbage?--and that would be all. We are speaking together of a raising of funds. Tell me, how much was charged for the chance to dine with these esteemed members of society, when funds were being raised for whatever-it-was that the funds were raised for. Sickness, was it? I cannot recall that either."
It is with visible effort - a slightly open mouth, much squinting and turning of the letter in her hands - that she veers between these two points and only by a very thin margin manages to jump the rail along with him back to the question of fundraising.
"It was for an orphanage. The leaflet didn't reference a particular sum, but I take it to have been substantial otherwise why would anyone bother printing anything about it? We would have to see about inviting what constitutes as Kirkwall's gentry to the thing, of course. To raise the floor on the bidding, I mean. I thought Lady Asgard might be willing to assist in populating the guest list. Or Ambassador Rutyer, though I imagine he would prefer it be made into an official Riftwatch matter and then there will be some bargaining required to allocate the funds raised."
"Absolutely. On that we are agreed. The work is ours. The funds must be ours. We cannot allow Riftwatch to interfere with either element. We must seek the Lady Asgard as a consultant, but be quite clear that it is outside the work of Riftwatch. We allow for no confusion. So too must our participants volunteer themselves, or else we shall become again entangled."
He turns to the window again, to peer out.
"If you think it will work, it is something we might consider. Of course I cannot imagine the extravagance. When I think of those I would seek audience with, dinner does not come into it. It is a silly thing. How fortunate we are surrounded by fools who will both pay and who will volunteer their time. We must think of those we would ask, if they do not volunteer themselves. Do you know, the sunlight might come in most prettily here. I think there is a tree that is blocking even more of it. If it were trimmed, properly, this room might offer a very agreeable light. When are we to have tea?"
She replies without thinking, words pouring out of her from where she stands in the largely empty room by automation even as she studies him there against the window. The light is perfectly pretty already, she thinks distantly, there being something of a baffled and disembodied quality to the whole affair. Has she successfully managed to herd the metaphorical cat in more or less the right direction after all?
"If this is the room we're decided on, I see no reason why it should not be done directly. I'll see to arranging it while you fetch chairs from the adjoining room, although mind that you do not take the one with the wretched yellow upholstery. It evidently belongs there and there have been complaints when its position is altered."
Lots of things have been thrown at poor Mr. Ellis' head by certain pugnacious spirits.
"As for the tree," she says, having at last decided she is pleased. "You are most welcome to trim it if you feel so passionately on the subject, Monsieur."
Val turns about again and the way that he smiles when he does so is demonstrable of why no one complains at him. About him, perhaps, when he is no longer in the room and cannot overhear. Haloed in the sunlight (only partially impeded by the tree that he complained of)--smiling, without a trace of the smirk that usually kisses the edge of each expression that he wears--self-assured and careless. He does not need to be liked, and so he is given the benefit of a sort of generic liking in most situations, until he has gone, and takes his glamour with him. How could you complain at him?
"I will fetch the chairs. I will not trim the branch. Do I appear to be some gardener? You must tell me if I do so that I can correct whatever it is that is giving that impression. I have not an interest at all in plants or in trees or in anything of the sort. I would not want to fool anyone."
There, in the center of the empty room which will be their workshop, Wysteria straightens by a half degree. The lines of her expression refine briefly to the study of him as if he is some interesting bit of math or a passage in a book she will need cross-references for.
"Then, no. You'll be relieved to hear that you bear no resemblance."
Then the letter's edge is tapped resolutely into her palm before being folded away into a skirt pocket, her scrutiny of him gone with it. "Not the yellow chair, Monsieur," she reminds him, and is away in a swirl of skirts.
Val remains very still and smiling for the assessment. He is not watching, particularly, her exit. The fact that he sees it is only because he happens to be looking in that direction, by chance, and nothing more.
When she is gone, her skirts taken with her, her footsteps tapping down the hallway, then Val drops his act. He gets out his book from his coat pocket and flips to the page that he had written upon, makes a brief study of his own writing, and then tucks the book away again and pushes away from the window.
When she returns, there are chairs in the workroom. Neither of them is yellow. There is also a carpet--also not yellow--and there is a cracked pot that must have once contained a house plant, if the dirt within it is anything to go by. Val has taken off his boots and his socks and thrown his coat over the chair that is upholstered in dark blue, very Orlesian, and he is sitting cross-legged upon the carpet with the plant pot held up to the light of the window, studying the daylight that comes in through the crack.
"The yellow chair is very ugly," he calls, when he hears Wysteria's tread upon the floor. "You might have said only that. I did touch it but found nothing to be strange about it, besides its especial ugliness. Piss and mustard and the scrum that comes of infection, particular to the infection of an eye. Like custard. I hate it."
"We are entirely in agreement, Monsieur," she calls back before she has even reached the room, and continues while passing through the door carrying an especially grandmotherly tray laden with the sort of porcelain that will never forget it was once dusty. "It was removed to front of the house when the weather turned on the pretense of spring cleaning in the hopes that it would go conveniently missing, and would have been forgotten there if not for the uproar it caused."
If the arrangement she finds in the room waiting for her is odd, she is consumed enough by the pleasure of meeting irritatingly exacting standards (Tea! Sugar! In this economy!) not to notice it as she veers round Val and the cracked pot, his socks and boots to—
She stops. She regards his shoes, the question clearly all but vomiting out of her. Then, just as visibly, she thinks better of it and joins him there on the floor.
"I will admit I had thought we might sit in the chairs."
"'The uproar'," he repeats, with amusement. Old dirt sifts onto the carpet as he tips the pot in a new direction, to be considered from this angle. "Who could have such feelings for so terrible a chair. Your choice of friends remains remarkable."
And that might not be a compliment. It is difficult to say. Only when she is upon the floor does Val set the pot aside, with a small flourish, and give her his full attention once more.
"Sitting is for later. It begins upon the floor. To be close to the earth, it is grounding." He thumps a hand a few times for emphasis. The carpet muffles the sound; the stray dirt leaps and falls back down again. "We will know when it is the time to switch to the chairs again. It will at the least be after tea, which--?"
Expectant, as if asking to be served, except he is already reaching.
Her choice of friends has nothing whatsoever to do with it, but she has decided - very recently, yes; in fact, it occurred somewhere between this room and the kitchen - that she will not be in the mood to debate such trivial points with him today. She will reserve her spirits for the points of this discussion which matter, and most of all she will allow herself to enjoy his company. That is, she thinks, possible so long as she takes great pains to make it true.
"Stop that."
She intercepts his hand with a hiss and a smart slap to the knuckles, rescuing the teapot with her other hand. This is not a trivial matter. However, once in possession of the vessel and pouring both cups, the bite in her dissolves back again. She passes him the first, nodding to the tin and little copper pitcher in company on the tray.
"Sugar and milk is there. See to them as you like."
The quiet noise of indignation that he makes at the smack is undercut by his little smile. With great show, Val removes his hand and waits with patience until he is signaled to proceed.
"Oh," and he moves to accept his cup with one hand, grabbing immediately for the sugar tongs with the other hand, "my thanks, mademoiselle. A most generous hostess. Tell me, are you planning to have a grand opening of this house, whenever it has been brought up to current taste and standards? Or will it remain a place of exclusivity? Incidentally, I have some things to bring here, to furnish this room, that will assist us with our work. I will begin moving them in, now that we have designated this room. Do not worry, you will hardly be disturbed."
The quiet plop of sugar being dumped lavishly into tea plays along with this words, a constant accompanying line.
"If you have things which you would prefer in the space, you are most welcome to see them conveyed here. Though I would ask that your things attend to the house through the side door, as you did this afternoon. As for the house," she says, dosing her cup with some small measure of milk and no sugar at all. "I have great designs for its use as an extension of Riftwatch's Research and Diplomacy divisions - an independent locale, as it were, sponsored in part by the organization in order to host visiting academics and so on. I have already discussed the subject with the Ambassador, and am receiving a small bit of funding for the pursuit of the project."
Which is presently being spent almost entirely on solicitors and taxes and fees demanded by the office of the Viscount and so on, but that is neither here nor there and certainly is none of Valentine de Foncé's business.
"Do they have clubs of philosophy and the like in Orlais, Monsieur? They are rather popular in Kalvad. But as you say, it is hardly presentable in its current state. And then there is the matter of mollifying the house's inhabitant."
"Naturally Val Royeaux is full of such clubs. It is the most sensible place in the world for them to be, with the University as a guarantee for able minds. And some less than able, but affable, and some that are neither of each, but who are suffered at some clubs, and shunned from the best. I have no personal experience with this, but I have observed."
He pulls a face. It is very dramatic. This is what he looks like when he makes these observations. He may be sugaring his tea during these observations as well; in this moment, at least, he still is about that business.
"So, then, do you intend that these dinners be hosted here?"
One last plop of sugar and he reaches for the milk. The level in the cup has risen quite close to the rim already.
"Certainly not. It will be some time before this house is ready for visitors - present company excepting, of course, but I'm sure you will agree this is another matter entirely -, and the dinners must be held somewhere large enough to accommodate and fine enough to be comfortable to guests with means. If Lady Asgard agrees to assist in the development of the invitation list, then I will request also the use of one or two of her rooms. She and her husband keep a much more pleasant house than this one. And if that cannot be done, I'm certain an equally suitable place can be found somewhere in Kirkwall."
Her attention has been drawn, as filings to a magnet, toward the rising level in his teacup. Her hand, previously occupied by stirring her own cup with a delicate little spoon, has slowed considerably.
"My focus is first on the funding and development of the prototype. The house is another matter entirely, save for the discretion it presently provides. Do you require a larger cup, de Foncé?"
"Dear mademoiselle, I have seen derelict cottages more pleasant than this house."
But he says it so warmly it might almost sound a compliment. Val picks up the milk and considers his cup, then begins to pour, slowly. The level creeps still dangerously closer to the lip. "The cup is perfect, if in a style that is very dated. Much like everything here. Yet I must agree that the prototype is our focus and should remain as such. This house will apparently stand forever, no matter the rot and infestation that plague it. Perhaps it is charmed in some way. But our work must be completed, and the funds must be raised."
The tea now flush with the cup's edge, Val stops pouring and very casually picks it up, his hand remarkably steady.
In sympathy, she begins automatically to raise her own cup though fails entirely to do much of anything beyond looking past it to observe the precarious arrangement of pale sludge he has made for himself.
"Then it's settled," she says, entirely conversational despite her distraction. "All that remains is to find ourselves a few willing volunteers and the whole matter will be all but guaranteed. Which do you think would be best - a posting on the Gallows board, or an inquiry slipped into certain mail cubbies in the hall? I suppose an inquiry might be made by crystal as well, but we would have to be quite conscious in the phrasing."
He scoffs, so forcefully the breath disturbs the surface tension of the cup. A ripple skims across the tea: still, it does not spill.
"An open posting? What will that get us, except the dregs. Already it is a silly thing. Do we trust the raising of our money to any-old-one? No, we do not. We must be selective if we are to raise any funds with this plan. We must choose, and inquire, and populate our list in this way. Any open invitation to participation will get us nothing but head's aches."
Please. At last he takes a sip of his sludge. It is thick, this sip. Val does not flinch at all.
In her head, Wysteria does a swift calculation of the weight of sugar allotted into that cup, and from it gauges the percentage of which it makes up the larger bag in the kitchen hidden with extreme care behind a number of odds and ends so as not to be disturbed by Misters Fitz or Stark or Ellis, and so eventually comes to the working out of that sip's rough monetary value.
"In that case, I will leave it to you to make up the list of who we will approach. You're clearly far more discerning when it comes to matters of what is considered good taste here than I am. See, for example, the matter of the Antivan wallpaper."
She takes a slow slip from her own cup. It is perfectly adequate without the sugar - they have all been choking down bitter chicory coffee for so long that real tea is a balm -, though she thinks she would prefer it with just a little.
With the twinging preternatural sense of someone being asked to actually contribute to the group project, Val quickly pivots. That is to say, he takes a moment to looks around, as if ensuring that they are indeed still alone.
"Wallpaper is one thing, mademoiselle. I wonder that you have not noticed--" He leans forward, with a confidential air about him. The distance between them narrows. His tea, in defiance of all logic, still does not spill, though the movement does send another tremor across its surface. "I am unappreciated."
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"But surely that is what this is?"
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"Surely that is what what is?"
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He smiles at her thing-face. Perhaps it will help. If it makes the face worse, so much the better: he might then observe it more properly.
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You know. More or less.
"I fail to see how I would even begin to arrange to have dinner with a particular someone, given that I would not be a bidder in this hypothetical venture. Regardless of what I might or might not desire, or with whom. Which I do not. Desire."—Stop talking. That's a fine end point—"For if I did wish for such a thing, I would certainly come up with some method which left the result slightly less likely to chance."
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It is only a little disappointment, that she marshals her face so well. Val's pursuit of this matter is not yet ended. He reaches for the interior pocket of his light summer coat, and produces a small writing book. With a flick of his wrist, he flips it open, and extracts a small pencil from the flap sewn to its side.
"How would you arrange for a dinner with your 'particular someone'? Your first idea may be your best idea, so please, do not hold back."
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"It is simple. I would claim some urgent matter of Riftwatch business required the presence of a pair of agents who might be inconspicuous at particular place, with the pretense that we be tasked with the observation of some conveniently placed party. Which is irrelevant to the discussion at hand, and not something I would do in actuality. It is merely the very first thing— Really, de Foncé."
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Very focused on his writing, Val finds a moment to break and hold up a finger before returning to his work. Two words more, and then he resurfaces, tucks the pencil away and slips the book back into his coat, and flashes a smile at her.
"Of course it is not something that would be done. The very thought should perish! Mr. Ellis, anyone, yes, would no doubt dine with you if he were to be asked, there would be no game or pretense required to it, a mere question answered with a yes, your favorite food, whatever food it is Wardens enjoy--boiled cabbage?--and that would be all. We are speaking together of a raising of funds. Tell me, how much was charged for the chance to dine with these esteemed members of society, when funds were being raised for whatever-it-was that the funds were raised for. Sickness, was it? I cannot recall that either."
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"It was for an orphanage. The leaflet didn't reference a particular sum, but I take it to have been substantial otherwise why would anyone bother printing anything about it? We would have to see about inviting what constitutes as Kirkwall's gentry to the thing, of course. To raise the floor on the bidding, I mean. I thought Lady Asgard might be willing to assist in populating the guest list. Or Ambassador Rutyer, though I imagine he would prefer it be made into an official Riftwatch matter and then there will be some bargaining required to allocate the funds raised."
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He turns to the window again, to peer out.
"If you think it will work, it is something we might consider. Of course I cannot imagine the extravagance. When I think of those I would seek audience with, dinner does not come into it. It is a silly thing. How fortunate we are surrounded by fools who will both pay and who will volunteer their time. We must think of those we would ask, if they do not volunteer themselves. Do you know, the sunlight might come in most prettily here. I think there is a tree that is blocking even more of it. If it were trimmed, properly, this room might offer a very agreeable light. When are we to have tea?"
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"If this is the room we're decided on, I see no reason why it should not be done directly. I'll see to arranging it while you fetch chairs from the adjoining room, although mind that you do not take the one with the wretched yellow upholstery. It evidently belongs there and there have been complaints when its position is altered."
Lots of things have been thrown at poor Mr. Ellis' head by certain pugnacious spirits.
"As for the tree," she says, having at last decided she is pleased. "You are most welcome to trim it if you feel so passionately on the subject, Monsieur."
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Val turns about again and the way that he smiles when he does so is demonstrable of why no one complains at him. About him, perhaps, when he is no longer in the room and cannot overhear. Haloed in the sunlight (only partially impeded by the tree that he complained of)--smiling, without a trace of the smirk that usually kisses the edge of each expression that he wears--self-assured and careless. He does not need to be liked, and so he is given the benefit of a sort of generic liking in most situations, until he has gone, and takes his glamour with him. How could you complain at him?
"I will fetch the chairs. I will not trim the branch. Do I appear to be some gardener? You must tell me if I do so that I can correct whatever it is that is giving that impression. I have not an interest at all in plants or in trees or in anything of the sort. I would not want to fool anyone."
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"Then, no. You'll be relieved to hear that you bear no resemblance."
Then the letter's edge is tapped resolutely into her palm before being folded away into a skirt pocket, her scrutiny of him gone with it. "Not the yellow chair, Monsieur," she reminds him, and is away in a swirl of skirts.
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When she is gone, her skirts taken with her, her footsteps tapping down the hallway, then Val drops his act. He gets out his book from his coat pocket and flips to the page that he had written upon, makes a brief study of his own writing, and then tucks the book away again and pushes away from the window.
When she returns, there are chairs in the workroom. Neither of them is yellow. There is also a carpet--also not yellow--and there is a cracked pot that must have once contained a house plant, if the dirt within it is anything to go by. Val has taken off his boots and his socks and thrown his coat over the chair that is upholstered in dark blue, very Orlesian, and he is sitting cross-legged upon the carpet with the plant pot held up to the light of the window, studying the daylight that comes in through the crack.
"The yellow chair is very ugly," he calls, when he hears Wysteria's tread upon the floor. "You might have said only that. I did touch it but found nothing to be strange about it, besides its especial ugliness. Piss and mustard and the scrum that comes of infection, particular to the infection of an eye. Like custard. I hate it."
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If the arrangement she finds in the room waiting for her is odd, she is consumed enough by the pleasure of meeting irritatingly exacting standards (Tea! Sugar! In this economy!) not to notice it as she veers round Val and the cracked pot, his socks and boots to—
She stops. She regards his shoes, the question clearly all but vomiting out of her. Then, just as visibly, she thinks better of it and joins him there on the floor.
"I will admit I had thought we might sit in the chairs."
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And that might not be a compliment. It is difficult to say. Only when she is upon the floor does Val set the pot aside, with a small flourish, and give her his full attention once more.
"Sitting is for later. It begins upon the floor. To be close to the earth, it is grounding." He thumps a hand a few times for emphasis. The carpet muffles the sound; the stray dirt leaps and falls back down again. "We will know when it is the time to switch to the chairs again. It will at the least be after tea, which--?"
Expectant, as if asking to be served, except he is already reaching.
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"Stop that."
She intercepts his hand with a hiss and a smart slap to the knuckles, rescuing the teapot with her other hand. This is not a trivial matter. However, once in possession of the vessel and pouring both cups, the bite in her dissolves back again. She passes him the first, nodding to the tin and little copper pitcher in company on the tray.
"Sugar and milk is there. See to them as you like."
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"Oh," and he moves to accept his cup with one hand, grabbing immediately for the sugar tongs with the other hand, "my thanks, mademoiselle. A most generous hostess. Tell me, are you planning to have a grand opening of this house, whenever it has been brought up to current taste and standards? Or will it remain a place of exclusivity? Incidentally, I have some things to bring here, to furnish this room, that will assist us with our work. I will begin moving them in, now that we have designated this room. Do not worry, you will hardly be disturbed."
The quiet plop of sugar being dumped lavishly into tea plays along with this words, a constant accompanying line.
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Which is presently being spent almost entirely on solicitors and taxes and fees demanded by the office of the Viscount and so on, but that is neither here nor there and certainly is none of Valentine de Foncé's business.
"Do they have clubs of philosophy and the like in Orlais, Monsieur? They are rather popular in Kalvad. But as you say, it is hardly presentable in its current state. And then there is the matter of mollifying the house's inhabitant."
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He pulls a face. It is very dramatic. This is what he looks like when he makes these observations. He may be sugaring his tea during these observations as well; in this moment, at least, he still is about that business.
"So, then, do you intend that these dinners be hosted here?"
One last plop of sugar and he reaches for the milk. The level in the cup has risen quite close to the rim already.
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Her attention has been drawn, as filings to a magnet, toward the rising level in his teacup. Her hand, previously occupied by stirring her own cup with a delicate little spoon, has slowed considerably.
"My focus is first on the funding and development of the prototype. The house is another matter entirely, save for the discretion it presently provides. Do you require a larger cup, de Foncé?"
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But he says it so warmly it might almost sound a compliment. Val picks up the milk and considers his cup, then begins to pour, slowly. The level creeps still dangerously closer to the lip. "The cup is perfect, if in a style that is very dated. Much like everything here. Yet I must agree that the prototype is our focus and should remain as such. This house will apparently stand forever, no matter the rot and infestation that plague it. Perhaps it is charmed in some way. But our work must be completed, and the funds must be raised."
The tea now flush with the cup's edge, Val stops pouring and very casually picks it up, his hand remarkably steady.
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"Then it's settled," she says, entirely conversational despite her distraction. "All that remains is to find ourselves a few willing volunteers and the whole matter will be all but guaranteed. Which do you think would be best - a posting on the Gallows board, or an inquiry slipped into certain mail cubbies in the hall? I suppose an inquiry might be made by crystal as well, but we would have to be quite conscious in the phrasing."
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"An open posting? What will that get us, except the dregs. Already it is a silly thing. Do we trust the raising of our money to any-old-one? No, we do not. We must be selective if we are to raise any funds with this plan. We must choose, and inquire, and populate our list in this way. Any open invitation to participation will get us nothing but head's aches."
Please. At last he takes a sip of his sludge. It is thick, this sip. Val does not flinch at all.
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"In that case, I will leave it to you to make up the list of who we will approach. You're clearly far more discerning when it comes to matters of what is considered good taste here than I am. See, for example, the matter of the Antivan wallpaper."
She takes a slow slip from her own cup. It is perfectly adequate without the sugar - they have all been choking down bitter chicory coffee for so long that real tea is a balm -, though she thinks she would prefer it with just a little.
Alas, needs must.
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"Wallpaper is one thing, mademoiselle. I wonder that you have not noticed--" He leans forward, with a confidential air about him. The distance between them narrows. His tea, in defiance of all logic, still does not spill, though the movement does send another tremor across its surface. "I am unappreciated."
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