"Oh no, not in the slightest with respect to either account. I cannot speak of it, as it is to be the very definition of clandestine. In fact," she says, taking a moment to gently correct the fall of her skirts. "I might ask that you do your best to put it out of your mind entirely. I wouldn't have even mentioned it if it weren't for the need to organize our work together around it. Let us instead return to the subject of your imminent dinner with your good friend Mr. Fitz, or dispense entirely with the diversion of small talk and return to the subject of—"
Of whatever else needs doing. It occurs to her all at once that she has entirely run out of prepared material for his digestion and that it is a singularly troubling prospect, something akin to running out into a busy thoroughfare without looking and realizing too late that she might be imminently struck by a carriage.
"Well, it cannot be very clandestine," Val says, with an exhale that might be a laugh. "And you are already speaking of it, so you might as well continue to speak of it."
With a slight bit of extra force, he sets aside his teacup once more and heaves himself up so that he is sitting, cross-legged and facing Wysteria once more. Elbows resting on his knees, he knits his fingers together and tents both forefingers, and fixes her with a piercing and thoughtful look.
"It is not for Riftwatch," he says, after a moment. "Is it some silly Warden thing?"
She can feel herself hesitating - a more reasonable part of herself demanding she steer the conversation elsewhere. As a means of distraction, Wysteria moves to pour him a second cup of tea over the remaining sludge of the first.
"No," she says at last (good sense being something of a sometimes impulse and not a habit). "It is something of a personal favor he is doing me. Although I will say that his duties as a Warden have lent Mr. Ellis some measure of expertise with the subject in question and so I believe he will make a most excellent travelling companion."
Val snorts, as stretches out his arm to grab for the sugar bowl again. "And what is that. Darkspawn? Brooding? Leaving town?"
There is a kind of comfortable symbiosis to the pouring of tea without him having to ask for it. This, then, is why Val does not offer a word of thanks, but starts dumping sugar straightaway as he continues their conversation.
"You do know that there are many of our number who are good at travelling. I do not see why Mister Ellis," a name that he manages to pronounce in a highly Orlesian way, despite it being a very non-Orlesian name, "should come so highly recommended."
"It's true. We are indeed rather an accomplished group," she agrees, setting the pot aside.
"And if my interests lay in a direction I thought they might be best suited to travel in, I might consult them. Why, I might even be tempted to ask yourself for a referral as I believe you have mentioned some interest in globe trotting. But as it happens, I have assessed the candidates already and Mister Ellis is without question the best man for the job given his familiarity with the route in question and our destination."
Somewhere in there she has fetched up her teacup and begun sipping at it, thinking at twice the speed she is speaking so she might find some subject to steer toward. What she lands on is:
"But you mustn't be concerned, de Foncé. I will ask Mr. Ellis if he might might set aside a moment to attend to that offensive tree branch outside your window before we leave. He has been pitting the garden in order and I doubt he would mind. That way should you feel any desire to reference the material we will keep in this room while I'm away, you may do so comfortably."
Val sets his spoon down on his saucer with a slight bit of extra force. He is well-mannered enough that the result is that it is very slight, because he is not trying to be caught out.
"I can hire that work out," he says, clipped. "Mr. Ellis need not trouble himself with such a small thing. As you have said, he is not a hired man. No indeed, he is some manner of scholar, by your very generous telling. Tell me, what is this route with which he is so familiar? Are you visiting his familial estate in some charming little backwater?"
Here, a pause that verges at the very edge of prudent before crumpling.
"No. He hasn't spoken much of his family. Though he is Ferelden, so perhaps if it were convenient to do so to or from our intended destination. But really, Monsieur," she insists across the surface of her tea. She is still restlessly smoothing, rearranging and smoothing again her skirts with her other hand. "I truly cannot say more than that. Not without swearing you to some manner of oath of secrecy or something like it. It is not wholly my secret which I might tell in full."
With a scoff, Val sets aside his cup once again, abandoning it to grow cold and sludgier than it already is. He scoots himself closer to Wysteria so that the distance between them is very small indeed.
"Swear me," he says imperiously, and thrusts out his hand, presumably for the swearing. "I will not be tantalized with such half information and then turned out into the cold. It is unfair. Swear me so I might know."
For a moment, Wysteria considers the potential of accidentally upending the tea try onto de Foncé's lap. But she rather likes that cushion and there is every likelihood that it might suffer unfairly as a result. So instead, after a long beat of hesitation, she takes the offered hand.
(Her fingertips are faintly ink stained; there is a small speckling of scars between her thumb and forefinger - a child's black powder burn there now forever.)
"Then you must swear that you will speak no part of this outside this room, and with no other individual regardless of where they might be standing. You may not even discuss the subject with Mr. Ellis. And should you break this solemn oath— Well, I will never forgive you. And you will have to write an essay in support of that scholar, Finlayson, from Markham University who you have said must have researched with his eyes closed to come to his conclusions. Agreed?"
"Finlayson is an ass," Val says, his lip curled. "I would sooner drive splinters under my fingernails then utter a word of defense of his abominable scholarship. You did read that laughable essay of his, yes? If he had spent thirty seconds at the dig in Nevarra he would have understood the critical hinge of its modern society is not the fork, but the spoon. The fork has been around in many forms in Nevarra for Age after Age. The teeth tell us this."
He shakes her hand firmly the whole time that he is speaking, as if he has forgotten that they are shaking hands in the first place.
(His hands are rougher than might be expected for the former heir of Comte de Falaise sur la Mont, callouses and old bite scars and healed burns. Dirt under his fingernails. A workman.)
"I swear, yes, because I will absolutely die before I defend Finlayson's research. To say nothing of his atrocious sentence structure. And I do not wish to speak to Mr. Ellis so I will have no trouble keeping that part of the swearing. Now on with it."
The acidity in his response satisfies her entirely. So much so that she forgets they have yet to stop (avidly) shaking hands. Rather than make any attempt to pry herself free, she simply proceeds to confess.
"Very well. Then, under pain of certain death should you speak any word of this to anyone whatsoever, I shall tell you. We are travelling to Orzammar with the intention of securing a contact who trades in, and will be willing to trade to us specifically, a very particular form of refined crystal lyrium. Mr. Ellis is familiar with the city, having been through some years ago on Warden business in the Deep Roads. And while I cannot imagine we will stray quite so far as that, one never knows what may occur when one is abroad. This is particularly true, I think, when one wishes to engage in business while there."
Impassioned, Val stops shaking her hand so that he might instead seize upon her hand and pull her closer.
"Orzammar? Mademoiselle! Without me? But I am so interested in Orzammar. This is unfair. Of course Mr. Ellis has experience upon the Deep Roads. He cannot have spent much time to immerse himself within anything of particular note. What has he told you of the Wardens? It is not as if he is some ambassador, with credentials that might earn you a place among those of high position in that city. If he has made some false promise to you, then you ought to be keenly aware."
The tug warrants a small noise of dismay for the tea jostling of the tea tray, but otherwise passes without remark for—
"Mr. Ellis has guaranteed nothing of the sort, Monsieur."
—she has a Warden's honor to defend.
"And indeed I have very little interest in dealing with anyone placed so especially prominently as to be accessible via an ambassador's recommendation. No, this must be an arrangement made quietly so that anyone might question it will see only a private interest and no tie to the organization which we are all a part of. I suspect it is imperative that this deal be one made under the table, so to speak, far from the eyes of the Chantry. In which case, I have rather more use for a sturdy arm than a scholar, no matter how well connected. Which is, for the record, all Mr. Ellis has ever claimed to be. A capable fighter, I mean."
Val was already letting her hand go, so wringing it is quite unnecessary. He looks extremely dissatisfied--and yet still handsome, unconsciously. Rather like a prize show dog given the wrong dish of food at dinnertime.
"Oh, so he is some sort of smuggler as well as a Warden. And a capable fighter besides. What a glowing review he has given you of himself. And I hope you are very happy in Orzammar and Mr. Ellis does not lead you over the side of some sheer cliff to your deep death."
Though-- "If he does, I will continue our project without you. It will make a fitting tribute to complete it."
Her bristling must be entirely for poor Mr. Ellis' sake - who is surely among the most respectable people she has had the pleasure of meeting, and deserves none of this harsh treatment from some Orlesian puffed up on his own opinion of himself (nevermind the fact that the man's accomplishments might warrant a little self satisfaction; that is entirely not the point). For she pivots smoothly toward this last point with no malice whatsoever, and indeed threatens to verge on (very firm, unsentimental) sincerity when she says—
"Good. No other guarantee could please me more, Monsieur. Indeed that is precisely why this partnership is so important, and indeed why it is so vital the design be something that might be pursued in my stead."
'And what is he contributing to this project, exactly? Besides moral support,' Mr. Stark had asked.
"I trust entirely your determination to see it finished."
So not-fun that Val actually frowns. It is a rare expression on him, lacking its usual flair and overstatement.
"Well, I do not actually want for that end," he says, a statement which borders upon the heartfeltedly sincere, despite its flippant delivery.
To make up for this weakness, he takes up his cup once more and takes a big sip of the sludge, and pulls a face. "This really is terrible. I have about half a dozen books in my private collection on Orazammar. I am certain Mr. Ellis is a wealth of knowledge of some of the place, as you have defended him with such steadfast conviction, and I know you to be not a complete idiot, but there are of course many things of it that are circulated in certain circles."
There is, for just the smallest moment, the slightest impulse toward the barest kind of magnanimity which catches her like picking up a splinter from some unlikely surface. Of course it has nothing whatsoever at all to do with him, with either his interest in the dwarven city or with his sullen capitulation on the point of the project's (her) longevity. No, it is entirely an act of truly stalwart charity from the goodness of her very own heart which leads her to relent by this narrow margin.
"Then perhaps, as you feel so passionately on the subject, you would agree to something of a consulting role, Monsieur."
She takes a small sip from her cup to make up for all this generosity she is displaying. "There is time yet before I leave Kirkwall. You might lend me one or two of these books, or we could at the very least discuss the broad strokes of them. And then when I am in Orzammar I might once or twice call on you by way of sending crystal should it seem necessary to do so."
"I detest acting the consultant. It is so boring," and Val drops his elbows onto his knees, carried forward by the heavy heave of his sigh. "To be left at home while all of the interesting things are happening abroad? I cannot stand it. At the University I was insistent that I would do the field research for whatever project that I worked on, because how is life best spent? Not in dingy little rooms or in libraries. But in the open spaces of the world, in the ruins and the deep places and the forests and every place that is interesting. Anything else causes me such pain, I feel very near to death each time I must suffer it."
Very sad. He drops his chin in his hands, dejected, with a mild pout.
But.
"As I have no choice, and as including me in some way is likely very prudent to you and your work and all, I will accept the position of consultant. And I will be available to you by sending crystal, if I am not very busy with projects and work of my own. And even then I will be able to lend at least half of an ear. Or half of a half. Or I shall have someone else transcribe my answers for me and give them to you. It is agreed."
Which is, really, all she might reasonably hope for. So rather than argue the semantics—of which there are many whose dissection she might happily avail herself of—, she simply nods her satisfaction before drinking down the last of her tea. Good. Agreed.
"Well," she says at last, setting aside her empty cup. "Now that we have resolved the question of both my hobbies and our way forward with respect to funding, let us turn our attention to the thing itself. I have been thinking that though there is certainly some benefit in being conservative with our materials—choosing, say, to cut the stock from whatever lumber if convenient to hand—that it would be far more convincing to see that the piece we eventually present for reproduction possesses some marked visual appeal. We will have a few rough hewn iterations for our own initial experiment, of course. But for our master model I am rather keen to have at least the lumber imported from Orlais. Something of a symbolic gesture, as it were.
"So if you are not entirely opposed to the sentiment of the thing, I will fetch the bottle waiting in the kitchen and we will transition to sitting in chairs, at which point you may give me all your opinions on the subject of sourcing materials from there."
Much (and quickly) recovered, now that he has found a way forward, Val straightens up somewhat, and slurps down more of his tea sludge.
"Chairs are very out of fashion these days, but if you are insisting--" Helplessly, he shrugs, and takes another slurp. "This is my only opposition. It is weak. I will accept the wine, and it will weaken still more, and I will sit in a chair like a gentleman of the old fashion and discuss materials. It is very charming of you, to think of Orlais in this project!"
"It is only appropriate to make some nod to your part in thing," she says, shifts her cup to the tea tray though making no effort to collect the sum of the dishware. The whole arrangement can be swept away once they've finished their business for the afternoon.
"Were the option available, I might suggest that we use some Kalvadan ore in the casting, but alas. The design itself will simply have to be representative all on its own."
Somewhere in there, Wysteria has managed to get to her feet with only a little wrestling of skirts. She looks down at him and his tea sludge and physically restrains herself from snatching the sugar bowl to take from the room with her.
"I'll see if some biscuits can be found to make up for the embarassment of sitting in furniture."
"Not chocolate. Chocolate biscuits taste like chalk."
Val takes another thick sip, then gets to his knees and very gallantly presents the cup to her. The sludge has gathered at the very bottom of the cup, a deep well.
"Mademoiselle." Voilà. Val is no longer in need of it, so clearly, she is in need of it instead. Almost in the same breath, he skips back to the design discussion. "Are you very good at sketching? There will be a great deal of space at the handle of it, I think. It would look very silly if it were a blank space. I like decoration, don't you?"
The cup earns a flat study, a significant look toward the tray, and no further acknowledgement.
"I am fond of it, yes. But I am a draftsman, Monsieur, and by no means an artist. If you care for it to be at all in good taste, you will have to design any patterning yourself. Or find some worthy substitute to do it for us."
"I adore the lines of draftwork, their cleanliness and simplicity. If you are very skilled at it, the pieces can be arranged and rearranged to appear as a pattern. Very avant-garde, yes? I am thinking particularly of a certain artist of Val Royeaux--Lemoigne--he was so well known for his daring way of painting vines and leaves. Such thin lines that were so little, but said so much. This is what I am thinking of. I am sure you will manage it charmingly."
And at last, he sets the cup upon the tray and sits back. His smile is full of confidence, sunny and radiant.
"We must have something of yours if this sentimentality is to guide our materials. Did you hear what I said? Of the chocolate biscuits?"
Her laugh is very sudden - sounds first like 'Ha!' then descends into further acerbic laughter: You.
"That they taste of chalk, yes. I heard you, Monsieur."
With a cluck of her tongue and a swirl of skirts in place of an eye roll—Charmingly, he says. Adore, he says—Wysteria sweeps for the open door.
"I will consider it. And when I refuse, you will find some suitable substitute and we will consider it even on the basis that there was every any consideration at all in either direction." She has reached the doorway, indeed has breezed through it and around its corner, and only at the very last moment does her hand catch at the frame and draw her back into the opening.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Of whatever else needs doing. It occurs to her all at once that she has entirely run out of prepared material for his digestion and that it is a singularly troubling prospect, something akin to running out into a busy thoroughfare without looking and realizing too late that she might be imminently struck by a carriage.
"Of the project. Generally."
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With a slight bit of extra force, he sets aside his teacup once more and heaves himself up so that he is sitting, cross-legged and facing Wysteria once more. Elbows resting on his knees, he knits his fingers together and tents both forefingers, and fixes her with a piercing and thoughtful look.
"It is not for Riftwatch," he says, after a moment. "Is it some silly Warden thing?"
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"No," she says at last (good sense being something of a sometimes impulse and not a habit). "It is something of a personal favor he is doing me. Although I will say that his duties as a Warden have lent Mr. Ellis some measure of expertise with the subject in question and so I believe he will make a most excellent travelling companion."
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There is a kind of comfortable symbiosis to the pouring of tea without him having to ask for it. This, then, is why Val does not offer a word of thanks, but starts dumping sugar straightaway as he continues their conversation.
"You do know that there are many of our number who are good at travelling. I do not see why Mister Ellis," a name that he manages to pronounce in a highly Orlesian way, despite it being a very non-Orlesian name, "should come so highly recommended."
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"And if my interests lay in a direction I thought they might be best suited to travel in, I might consult them. Why, I might even be tempted to ask yourself for a referral as I believe you have mentioned some interest in globe trotting. But as it happens, I have assessed the candidates already and Mister Ellis is without question the best man for the job given his familiarity with the route in question and our destination."
Somewhere in there she has fetched up her teacup and begun sipping at it, thinking at twice the speed she is speaking so she might find some subject to steer toward. What she lands on is:
"But you mustn't be concerned, de Foncé. I will ask Mr. Ellis if he might might set aside a moment to attend to that offensive tree branch outside your window before we leave. He has been pitting the garden in order and I doubt he would mind. That way should you feel any desire to reference the material we will keep in this room while I'm away, you may do so comfortably."
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Val sets his spoon down on his saucer with a slight bit of extra force. He is well-mannered enough that the result is that it is very slight, because he is not trying to be caught out.
"I can hire that work out," he says, clipped. "Mr. Ellis need not trouble himself with such a small thing. As you have said, he is not a hired man. No indeed, he is some manner of scholar, by your very generous telling. Tell me, what is this route with which he is so familiar? Are you visiting his familial estate in some charming little backwater?"
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Here, a pause that verges at the very edge of prudent before crumpling.
"No. He hasn't spoken much of his family. Though he is Ferelden, so perhaps if it were convenient to do so to or from our intended destination. But really, Monsieur," she insists across the surface of her tea. She is still restlessly smoothing, rearranging and smoothing again her skirts with her other hand. "I truly cannot say more than that. Not without swearing you to some manner of oath of secrecy or something like it. It is not wholly my secret which I might tell in full."
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"Swear me," he says imperiously, and thrusts out his hand, presumably for the swearing. "I will not be tantalized with such half information and then turned out into the cold. It is unfair. Swear me so I might know."
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(Her fingertips are faintly ink stained; there is a small speckling of scars between her thumb and forefinger - a child's black powder burn there now forever.)
"Then you must swear that you will speak no part of this outside this room, and with no other individual regardless of where they might be standing. You may not even discuss the subject with Mr. Ellis. And should you break this solemn oath— Well, I will never forgive you. And you will have to write an essay in support of that scholar, Finlayson, from Markham University who you have said must have researched with his eyes closed to come to his conclusions. Agreed?"
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He shakes her hand firmly the whole time that he is speaking, as if he has forgotten that they are shaking hands in the first place.
(His hands are rougher than might be expected for the former heir of Comte de Falaise sur la Mont, callouses and old bite scars and healed burns. Dirt under his fingernails. A workman.)
"I swear, yes, because I will absolutely die before I defend Finlayson's research. To say nothing of his atrocious sentence structure. And I do not wish to speak to Mr. Ellis so I will have no trouble keeping that part of the swearing. Now on with it."
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"Very well. Then, under pain of certain death should you speak any word of this to anyone whatsoever, I shall tell you. We are travelling to Orzammar with the intention of securing a contact who trades in, and will be willing to trade to us specifically, a very particular form of refined crystal lyrium. Mr. Ellis is familiar with the city, having been through some years ago on Warden business in the Deep Roads. And while I cannot imagine we will stray quite so far as that, one never knows what may occur when one is abroad. This is particularly true, I think, when one wishes to engage in business while there."
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Impassioned, Val stops shaking her hand so that he might instead seize upon her hand and pull her closer.
"Orzammar? Mademoiselle! Without me? But I am so interested in Orzammar. This is unfair. Of course Mr. Ellis has experience upon the Deep Roads. He cannot have spent much time to immerse himself within anything of particular note. What has he told you of the Wardens? It is not as if he is some ambassador, with credentials that might earn you a place among those of high position in that city. If he has made some false promise to you, then you ought to be keenly aware."
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"Mr. Ellis has guaranteed nothing of the sort, Monsieur."
—she has a Warden's honor to defend.
"And indeed I have very little interest in dealing with anyone placed so especially prominently as to be accessible via an ambassador's recommendation. No, this must be an arrangement made quietly so that anyone might question it will see only a private interest and no tie to the organization which we are all a part of. I suspect it is imperative that this deal be one made under the table, so to speak, far from the eyes of the Chantry. In which case, I have rather more use for a sturdy arm than a scholar, no matter how well connected. Which is, for the record, all Mr. Ellis has ever claimed to be. A capable fighter, I mean."
Here, finally, she makes to wring her hand free.
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"Oh, so he is some sort of smuggler as well as a Warden. And a capable fighter besides. What a glowing review he has given you of himself. And I hope you are very happy in Orzammar and Mr. Ellis does not lead you over the side of some sheer cliff to your deep death."
Though-- "If he does, I will continue our project without you. It will make a fitting tribute to complete it."
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"Good. No other guarantee could please me more, Monsieur. Indeed that is precisely why this partnership is so important, and indeed why it is so vital the design be something that might be pursued in my stead."
'And what is he contributing to this project, exactly? Besides moral support,' Mr. Stark had asked.
"I trust entirely your determination to see it finished."
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So not-fun that Val actually frowns. It is a rare expression on him, lacking its usual flair and overstatement.
"Well, I do not actually want for that end," he says, a statement which borders upon the heartfeltedly sincere, despite its flippant delivery.
To make up for this weakness, he takes up his cup once more and takes a big sip of the sludge, and pulls a face. "This really is terrible. I have about half a dozen books in my private collection on Orazammar. I am certain Mr. Ellis is a wealth of knowledge of some of the place, as you have defended him with such steadfast conviction, and I know you to be not a complete idiot, but there are of course many things of it that are circulated in certain circles."
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"Then perhaps, as you feel so passionately on the subject, you would agree to something of a consulting role, Monsieur."
She takes a small sip from her cup to make up for all this generosity she is displaying. "There is time yet before I leave Kirkwall. You might lend me one or two of these books, or we could at the very least discuss the broad strokes of them. And then when I am in Orzammar I might once or twice call on you by way of sending crystal should it seem necessary to do so."
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Very sad. He drops his chin in his hands, dejected, with a mild pout.
But.
"As I have no choice, and as including me in some way is likely very prudent to you and your work and all, I will accept the position of consultant. And I will be available to you by sending crystal, if I am not very busy with projects and work of my own. And even then I will be able to lend at least half of an ear. Or half of a half. Or I shall have someone else transcribe my answers for me and give them to you. It is agreed."
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"Well," she says at last, setting aside her empty cup. "Now that we have resolved the question of both my hobbies and our way forward with respect to funding, let us turn our attention to the thing itself. I have been thinking that though there is certainly some benefit in being conservative with our materials—choosing, say, to cut the stock from whatever lumber if convenient to hand—that it would be far more convincing to see that the piece we eventually present for reproduction possesses some marked visual appeal. We will have a few rough hewn iterations for our own initial experiment, of course. But for our master model I am rather keen to have at least the lumber imported from Orlais. Something of a symbolic gesture, as it were.
"So if you are not entirely opposed to the sentiment of the thing, I will fetch the bottle waiting in the kitchen and we will transition to sitting in chairs, at which point you may give me all your opinions on the subject of sourcing materials from there."
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"Chairs are very out of fashion these days, but if you are insisting--" Helplessly, he shrugs, and takes another slurp. "This is my only opposition. It is weak. I will accept the wine, and it will weaken still more, and I will sit in a chair like a gentleman of the old fashion and discuss materials. It is very charming of you, to think of Orlais in this project!"
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"Were the option available, I might suggest that we use some Kalvadan ore in the casting, but alas. The design itself will simply have to be representative all on its own."
Somewhere in there, Wysteria has managed to get to her feet with only a little wrestling of skirts. She looks down at him and his tea sludge and physically restrains herself from snatching the sugar bowl to take from the room with her.
"I'll see if some biscuits can be found to make up for the embarassment of sitting in furniture."
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Val takes another thick sip, then gets to his knees and very gallantly presents the cup to her. The sludge has gathered at the very bottom of the cup, a deep well.
"Mademoiselle." Voilà. Val is no longer in need of it, so clearly, she is in need of it instead. Almost in the same breath, he skips back to the design discussion. "Are you very good at sketching? There will be a great deal of space at the handle of it, I think. It would look very silly if it were a blank space. I like decoration, don't you?"
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"I am fond of it, yes. But I am a draftsman, Monsieur, and by no means an artist. If you care for it to be at all in good taste, you will have to design any patterning yourself. Or find some worthy substitute to do it for us."
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And at last, he sets the cup upon the tray and sits back. His smile is full of confidence, sunny and radiant.
"We must have something of yours if this sentimentality is to guide our materials. Did you hear what I said? Of the chocolate biscuits?"
no subject
"That they taste of chalk, yes. I heard you, Monsieur."
With a cluck of her tongue and a swirl of skirts in place of an eye roll—Charmingly, he says. Adore, he says—Wysteria sweeps for the open door.
"I will consider it. And when I refuse, you will find some suitable substitute and we will consider it even on the basis that there was every any consideration at all in either direction." She has reached the doorway, indeed has breezed through it and around its corner, and only at the very last moment does her hand catch at the frame and draw her back into the opening.
She squints at him.
"What are your feelings on cinnamon?"
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