He clicks his tongue. "Let them hear. Ça m'est égal. We have paid our way. So, too, we have paid for the privilege of insulting."
Val uses the momentum of the swell to settle back down again, and takes another bite of his chicken while he's at it. Ruadh remains like a statue, paws gripping at shipboard and pillow. The only movement he is concerned with is the movement of the chicken. And meanwhile Val has moved on to other thoughts and matters. The intrepid spirit of merchant sailors. New harbors. Decoys.
It is likely not altogether surprising that this is what he hooks upon.
"Another ship? We should then need to find two captains extremely keen upon northern mysteries. A difficult requirement to shop for in one."
"But consider the division of risk. One may be assured that they can scamper safely away without much risk at all and all the reward of whatever they're paid directly into their pocket. The other may be happy with a secure landing and the promise of some adventure to follow. That seems to be a perfectly equitable arrangement, and far more reasonable than asking someone to risk both the danger of the landing and whatever may lay within the continent's interior. Ruadh, would you care to come up here?"
The mabari flicks one stubbed ear in her direction at the invitation—a high compliment from even a very smart dog otherwise highly invested in the chicken bone being stripped down in front of him—but otherwise apparently is perfectly content with his post.
The refusal prompts a small tsk from Wysteria. She shuts the book in her lap.
"But if both are too keen, they might vie for the more exciting posting. How do we choose? Except, perhaps," and Val gestures with the chicken bone, expansively. The movement causes a morsel of meat to quiver tantalizingly upon the joint of it, on an angle that might be of great interest to certain present parties. "Except, perhaps, one might hold a trial between likely and interested parties, to determine the one most suited to an expedient flight, and one more suited to the covert arrival upon a forbidden shore."
Another bite. The Windlass rises again. Somewhere above their heads comes the distant muffled sound of voices, shouting to be heard over wind and rain. In contrast it is quite peaceful within the little cabin. Val peels a scrap of chicken from the bone and holds it toward Ruadh, an offering domestic and peaceful.
"Such a method would safely discount from our considerations those of an otherwise unwilling and obstinate spirit. We could never partner with those in this endeavor."
Unwilling and obstinate? Those two traits clearly have no part in this would-be expedition whatsoever.
Take, for example, Ruadh who is very gentle and entirely respectful about taking that morsel of chicken from Val's fingers. It's only once he's safely secured it that he proceeds to gobble it down with a great loud flap of his jowly muzzle.
"Take this and stow it beneath with my things before it jumps down and strikes you in the face or elsewhere of its own accord, would you?" She makes to pass the book down to Val; her traveling case is shoved in there under the bunk. But also, anticipating some grousing in reply and keen to avoid it, she also asks: "I don't suppose you're at present particularly well acquainted with any captains of a likely disposition who might be interested, are you?"
The smile that had crossed Val's face now sours into a scowl. He takes another bite of chicken, with emphasis. One bite remains which he peels off and tosses toward Ruadh.
"I wish that Ruadh was my traveling companion. He asks nothing of me. By the Maker--" which is said with effort as he sits up to accept the book from her. "I suppose his downside is that he has no real input as to the planning of expeditions, which is something that I require. Have you any input, Ruadh? No? No suggestions on captains of likely dispositions?"
He drags the case from beneath the bunk and undoes its latches. Before he replaces the book within, he turns it so he can look at its spine and, after this review, flips it open to scan through its pages.
"But! We are fortunate that I have at least one name in mind. A captain which we met while traveling the shipwrecks of Rialto Bay--Delgado. If he is still sailing we might inquire with him." Val snaps the book closed and drops it in the case. "What interests you most in Par Vollen?"
Thus satisfied, both in the sense that he's done as she asked and that she was right to assume he would complain bitterly over it, Wysteria settles back against the bulkhead and makes to draw a corner of the bunk's patchwork quilt over her lap in place of the book. Peaceful though it may be in the cabin, particularly compared to the gale and the barely audible shouting over it from above, it's still rather cold and very damp. Seeing as Ruadh would evidently rather eat chicken on the floor with Valentine than clamber up into the bunk to act as a bedwarmer, then she might attend to the matter herself.
"I would like to know more about the Fex, and how they live on the island presently and to what extent they've disappeared into the Qun. I think it's quite fascinating that so little has been seen or heard of them, when the Qun is so particular about using it's people in the way which benefits it best. Surely if they still exist, there must be one suited to the sort of work the Qunari abroad usually are made to do. And yet—!
It's nearly a sigh of longing. Val wipes his chicken greased fingers on some miscellaneous contents of the case and snaps it shut. The bare bone is discarded upon the crude plate and shoved beneath the bunk as well, tucked out of Ruadh's range.
"I saw but a single spire. I suppose it would not be a spire. A peak, we shall say, standing proudly from the treeline. I shall never forget the sight of it. I felt my heart pierced by it, even from a distance. I cannot imagine what it would be to find entry to one, to see what artifacts lie within--what mysteries might be unraveled, or reduced--or what new mysteries might be found. To be the first human in Ages to set foot within. To behold what has not been beheld in this Age--beheld and recorded and made available for others to learn of, that is, I am sure there are plenty of eyes that are entering the pyramids even as we speak, and looking around and whatever is inside, and greedily keeping all of those sights for themselves--"
This time he sighs, properly, a great exhalation, as he throws himself down onto his pillow once more. It is a very small pillow, and there's a quiet thud as his head hits the floor as well. No matter.
"I wonder if the Fex were not completely absorbed by the Qun. As you say--the benefit of the many, blabla-- Have you read much of Seheron? There is an interesting text written of its history by Melus--and of course, I have written of it, after our travels there."
"If you had written a paper on a topic, I would have read it. At some point, anyways. There is no excuse for such a lack. You might be reading it now--not at present, of course, at present we are conversing--but during this journey. And on the way to Orazammer, when you were traveling alone--what else were you doing at that time! You might have troubled yourself to read it then."
He folds his hands behind his head to make a secondary pillow. At least his fingers are now clean of grease, so he will not be doing anything to dirty his hair. It has grown still a little longer than when he'd first departed Kirkwall for Orazammar, something that will need to be attended to at a later date.
"In any case. I was not asking because I was holding out hope that you would have troubled yourself to read my work. I was asking because of the precarious situation in which Seheron finds itself. Half-conquered by the Qunari, who are in turned challenged by Tevinter--and then the rebel forces that challenge both, the Tal-Vashoth and the native rebels--who have retained their rich history, despite efforts to suppress and consume them--one might think of them as a sort of blueprint by which the Fex's history might be mapped. For does not history so often repeat itself?"
How irritating it is when he has some proper cause to be egotistical. The perfectly sound and therefore highly annoying reasoning of it briefly checks her as she is sat there with her back pressed to the bulkhead, swaying up and then down and then left and right while the boat is battered. The lamp wobbles above them in counter to it all, a drunk dancer at a party gone very late indeed and somehow always a beat behind the music.
Having mentally rifled through all the possible things she might say in objection and finding that none of them really suit, Wysteria at last says, "Well yes, I suppose you have something of a point. Regarding history and the matter of Seheron, I mean."
She has been busy reading and writing other things on this particular trip, thank you.
"Though really," yes being here implied, "Melus drew heavily from the work of Brother Vell, but Vell's Land of Fog can be somewhat difficult to lay hands upon. One should not fault Melus for being derivative, since his writing grants wider accessibility to works that might otherwise have been lost."
Val puts his boots against the wall again, resuming his previous pose.
"There is a copy of the Melus now in your library. You should be pleased to find it when you have taken up residence at your little house once more. That is, if it has not been stolen."
"I can't imagine why it might have been. I trust someone" who shall not be named "Is seeing to the house's security, to say nothing of Bronagh. Who I continue to have confidence in, as she hasn't yet written me to serve her resignation."
But that's hardly the point. From where she is sat in the bunk with the thin quilt drawn over her lap, Wysteria considers his boots there on the narrow cabin's wall.
"Do you suppose any other books wandered onto my shelves while I've been away?"
"Oh, most assuredly. I should say that an entirely village of books has transplanted itself quite comfortably upon your shelves. They were a most attractive territory to be so occupied, all of their fields and open plains and so on."
He swishes his feet against the wall. It is, after all, also a pleasantly open space.
"One might call it a colonization, except that there were hardly any books there to begin with. Can it be colonization, when the territory is so thoroughly empty?"
Her scoff is a miniature version of that one she utters so often in his company.
"That's hardly true. And if there was so much open space, it's only on account of having put so many of the old collection into storage what with it being generally quite poor or rotten."
(Literally, as far as the last point is concerned. A great deal of the house's library had suffered from a considerable leak at some point prior to her inheritance.)
It's only after this objection, once she has recalled that she didn't ask in order to be annoyed, that Wysteria primly tucks her knee-jerk guard away like a handkerchief into a pocket and thus resolutely continues—
"And do you recall whether much else has changed about my little house? Your things haven't invaded further rooms, have they?"
The scoff seems to come from a very high height, as if Wysteria is poised upon a mountaintop. It drifts down to Val, still upon the floor. He smiles.
"'Poor' and 'rotten' are wonderful reasons why the former residents of the shelves should have been consigned to storage crates. Perhaps they may be replaced, if matching volumes and sets might be located. That would be a worthy undertaking for-- hm, someone. Your Mister Ellis."
Whose name he has not missed hearing. All the same, he manages to pronounce it quite blithely, as if he has no care at all about the name or the person attached to the name or what they might do about assisting with restocking the former library.
"Of course Veronique is enjoying the new cellar--but she is not my things--she is herself, her own--so I think discussing her in this context would be deeply disrespectful. And why should my things have invaded your house? My workroom in the Gallows remains quite sufficient for my purposes."
"Well," she says to his boots. Having dispensed with the book and made herself more or less as comfortable sitting against the bunk's bulkhead as she is likely to be, Wysteria turns her attention to drawing her undone hair forward across her shoulder where it might be habitually combed through with fingers. It was a mistake to take it down. She's been relying on another girl among the passengers to help her braid it back up again. However, with the weather tossing everything about it seems highly unlikely to be sorted any time soon; she will have to fold the whole mess up under a felt cap until the sea stops running.
Well.
"How should I know? Apparently books are wandering in onto my shelves of their own accord. Who's to say what else might have trailed after them? Though I will admit to being surprised, Valentine. Your workroom in the Gallows is so very small."
It is now Val's turn to scoff. His scoff is not so signature as Wysteria's. One might hear it in a room of other likely scoffers and not immediately select him as its source. And certainly he exercises it rather less than Wysteria, who is so practiced at scoffing she might claim it as a title--the Scoffer--or enter into some sort of competition to prove herself the best at it, which would be rather beneath her and not likely to happen, even if such a competition did exist.
"Really! It is not so," and he drops out of his accent long enough to imitate her, "very small. It is of a perfectly adequate proportion. Could it be larger? Doubtless. Could it be smaller? One should hope not, or no real work could get done at all. But so very small is entirely false to say of it. What reason have you to hold an opinion on it in the first place?"
"No reason whatsoever. And it isn't an opinion. It is merely a fact observed from an entirely neutral position. Indeed, I only even bothered to comment on the thing because I thought that you were already been thinking it and would have agreed instantly. If I imagined you to be so pleased with the space, I would have said nothing at all. Obviously, I have no desire whatsoever to sway your opinion on any other direction. I'm quite pleased with my multitude of rooms, works in progress though they may be. Have you have had a house of your own, Valentine? It's quite liberating to do whatever you like with it, at whatever rate you choose."
His imitation of her, she decides, is quite poor. But it's almost very nearly funny that he tried.
"In any case, it's of no real consequence. I was only curious. I'm pleased to hear that I won't have to do much tidying once we've returned."
"I have my apartments in Val Royeaux. I know very well the pleasure of having such choice. I hardly need to be told. I certainly do not need to have ownership of an entire mansion to know it."
He takes his hands from behind his head so that he might fold his arms over his chest. The ship falls on the swell of the wave, pitching beneath him, and he makes a noise of disgust and sits up as the ship rises again.
"If I wanted to use a room in your little house, I would."
Her hair lays across one of her shoulders, a curtain of gold dulled by the poor light of the lantern that still swings over their heads. Val scowls, to show how very unimpressed he is.
His face floats up past the narrow bunk's edge, impressively glowering. Wysteria pointedly does not cross her arms right back at him.
"Very good. It's hardly as if I'm trying to convince you, Valentine."
So don't act as if she is, monsieur.
The point, she feels, is so well made that she might leave it there and see what he says in reply. She can imagine the shape of his rustled feathers very clearly, and there's some pleasure in seeing him so rankled that the impulse to turn the screw and simply allow him to bridle against it.
So that hardly explains why she might say so abruptly—
Val's eyes narrow. He was quite prepared to argue. This has become a tactic of hers, suddenly making an offering that might be a kindness. Like a man facing down a wild animal, he stays quite still.
"I might find a use for another room. But you hardly require my company."
Val rests his chin on the edge of the bunk. Its border has a slight lip, common to ship's accommodations, presumably designed to protect slumbering passengers from tumbling out of bed. His eyes stay narrowed as he continues to consider Wysteria, his wife, in a particular state of less-dressed, with the aforementioned tumble of her unbound and partly uncombed hair, and her shawl settled comfortably and rather matronly around her small shoulders. The ship's lantern makes interesting shadows around her. She could be the subject of a mundane painting.
Certainly this is a close association. How else would one find one's self in this particular situation?
"It could be advantageous," he says. Eventually. "Certainly I have found it so in these past weeks. It is far more convenient to merely cross a passageway to argue with you, when I have found the reason or cause to do so, rather than depart upon the ferry and walk all the way to Hightown and find you within the maze of rooms in your little mansion. And certainly my having a room--or two--within your little house would give further credence to our Arrangement."
Formal Arrangement; capitalized A. There is no need to mention the social and familiar word between them. They both know it.
"Though I should have to have my address changed for all my correspondence, if this arrangement of situation was made."
That long, studious pause prompts some urge to squirm. Happily, the boat is doing so much of that on her behalf that even if she we're to shift a little, or to self consciously rearrange the blanket across her knees, or to feel at all tempted to withdraw the question on account of him not answering it promptly enough— Well, she would hardly notice it herself. Certainly no one else could.
In any case, the whole sensation of being so aware of herself sitting there against the bulkhead, and of being looked at, and how ridiculous she must appear evaporates promptly given the proper motivation.
"Two rooms," Wysteria repeats to underline the rapid shift in scope from none rooms to that. But it's mild as far as checks go; it isn't even accompanied by a disdainful scoff.
"If you feel it necessary to have your letters and papers and other mail and so on there, then I'm relatively confident a side table could be found to stack it all on. There is, as you know, a surplus of furniture to hand on the site."
Yes, indeed. It would in fact serve the Arrangement perfectly well. But more importantly—
"In fact, that would be preferable. Then I can be certain that you will read my notes, rather than letting them molder unattended in your Gallows pigeonhole."
His huffed breath ruffles the ends of his hair. It is rather too longish to be fashionable now, and puts Val solidly in the category of a category of man inattentive to standards. But when one is beneath the earth--hundreds upon hundreds of miles, if not thousands--where there is no one of any real consequence to do any seeing, one is certainly permitted a certain amount of indifference to style. Or at least this is the argument that Val has been making while in Orazammar. Now that they are above-ground, he should likely arrange for a visit to a barber, or hack at it himself at some point along the journey. There must be a pair of scissors somewhere about the Windlass.
"They hardly molder. I see them eventually. It is that I so rarely have cause to review the contents of the little holes--things of no particular consequence are left there--do not squawk, I am not speaking of your notes, I am speaking of all the other silly little Riftwatchy notes, about silly little Riftwatchy things. Occasionally I have taken all of the contents straight to my workroom and used it as kindling. It makes for very fine kindling. I think it is the parchment that they use. Cheap stuff, it burns well, which is the kindest thing that can be said of it. In any case, yes, if two rooms and a side table from your great collection of unused and rather antiquated furnishings might be secured for me, I could see how the change to accommodation might be very," hm, he makes a flighty gesture, as if trying to stir the correct word out of the air itself, "suitable, we shall say. Not at all dissatisfying. If it is amendable to you, mademoiselle, as the lady of the house."
When Val raises his eyebrows, they are nearly hidden by the overgrowth of his hair. He really must see a barber.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2022-11-08 02:55 am (UTC)Val uses the momentum of the swell to settle back down again, and takes another bite of his chicken while he's at it. Ruadh remains like a statue, paws gripping at shipboard and pillow. The only movement he is concerned with is the movement of the chicken. And meanwhile Val has moved on to other thoughts and matters. The intrepid spirit of merchant sailors. New harbors. Decoys.
It is likely not altogether surprising that this is what he hooks upon.
"Another ship? We should then need to find two captains extremely keen upon northern mysteries. A difficult requirement to shop for in one."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-08 03:08 am (UTC)The mabari flicks one stubbed ear in her direction at the invitation—a high compliment from even a very smart dog otherwise highly invested in the chicken bone being stripped down in front of him—but otherwise apparently is perfectly content with his post.
The refusal prompts a small tsk from Wysteria. She shuts the book in her lap.
no subject
Date: 2022-11-08 04:20 am (UTC)Another bite. The Windlass rises again. Somewhere above their heads comes the distant muffled sound of voices, shouting to be heard over wind and rain. In contrast it is quite peaceful within the little cabin. Val peels a scrap of chicken from the bone and holds it toward Ruadh, an offering domestic and peaceful.
"Such a method would safely discount from our considerations those of an otherwise unwilling and obstinate spirit. We could never partner with those in this endeavor."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-08 05:32 am (UTC)Unwilling and obstinate? Those two traits clearly have no part in this would-be expedition whatsoever.
Take, for example, Ruadh who is very gentle and entirely respectful about taking that morsel of chicken from Val's fingers. It's only once he's safely secured it that he proceeds to gobble it down with a great loud flap of his jowly muzzle.
"Take this and stow it beneath with my things before it jumps down and strikes you in the face or elsewhere of its own accord, would you?" She makes to pass the book down to Val; her traveling case is shoved in there under the bunk. But also, anticipating some grousing in reply and keen to avoid it, she also asks: "I don't suppose you're at present particularly well acquainted with any captains of a likely disposition who might be interested, are you?"
no subject
Date: 2022-11-09 01:36 am (UTC)"I wish that Ruadh was my traveling companion. He asks nothing of me. By the Maker--" which is said with effort as he sits up to accept the book from her. "I suppose his downside is that he has no real input as to the planning of expeditions, which is something that I require. Have you any input, Ruadh? No? No suggestions on captains of likely dispositions?"
He drags the case from beneath the bunk and undoes its latches. Before he replaces the book within, he turns it so he can look at its spine and, after this review, flips it open to scan through its pages.
"But! We are fortunate that I have at least one name in mind. A captain which we met while traveling the shipwrecks of Rialto Bay--Delgado. If he is still sailing we might inquire with him." Val snaps the book closed and drops it in the case. "What interests you most in Par Vollen?"
no subject
Date: 2022-11-09 01:53 am (UTC)"I would like to know more about the Fex, and how they live on the island presently and to what extent they've disappeared into the Qun. I think it's quite fascinating that so little has been seen or heard of them, when the Qun is so particular about using it's people in the way which benefits it best. Surely if they still exist, there must be one suited to the sort of work the Qunari abroad usually are made to do. And yet—!
"Naturally you wish to see the pyramids."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-09 05:12 am (UTC)It's nearly a sigh of longing. Val wipes his chicken greased fingers on some miscellaneous contents of the case and snaps it shut. The bare bone is discarded upon the crude plate and shoved beneath the bunk as well, tucked out of Ruadh's range.
"I saw but a single spire. I suppose it would not be a spire. A peak, we shall say, standing proudly from the treeline. I shall never forget the sight of it. I felt my heart pierced by it, even from a distance. I cannot imagine what it would be to find entry to one, to see what artifacts lie within--what mysteries might be unraveled, or reduced--or what new mysteries might be found. To be the first human in Ages to set foot within. To behold what has not been beheld in this Age--beheld and recorded and made available for others to learn of, that is, I am sure there are plenty of eyes that are entering the pyramids even as we speak, and looking around and whatever is inside, and greedily keeping all of those sights for themselves--"
This time he sighs, properly, a great exhalation, as he throws himself down onto his pillow once more. It is a very small pillow, and there's a quiet thud as his head hits the floor as well. No matter.
"I wonder if the Fex were not completely absorbed by the Qun. As you say--the benefit of the many, blabla-- Have you read much of Seheron? There is an interesting text written of its history by Melus--and of course, I have written of it, after our travels there."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-09 05:28 am (UTC)"I haven't read any of your writing on the subject of that's what you're asking, no."
This, breezily, as the Windlass heaves hard over. Wysteria somehow manages to slide lengthwise down the bunk without actually toppling over.
no subject
Date: 2022-11-10 01:37 am (UTC)"If you had written a paper on a topic, I would have read it. At some point, anyways. There is no excuse for such a lack. You might be reading it now--not at present, of course, at present we are conversing--but during this journey. And on the way to Orazammer, when you were traveling alone--what else were you doing at that time! You might have troubled yourself to read it then."
He folds his hands behind his head to make a secondary pillow. At least his fingers are now clean of grease, so he will not be doing anything to dirty his hair. It has grown still a little longer than when he'd first departed Kirkwall for Orazammar, something that will need to be attended to at a later date.
"In any case. I was not asking because I was holding out hope that you would have troubled yourself to read my work. I was asking because of the precarious situation in which Seheron finds itself. Half-conquered by the Qunari, who are in turned challenged by Tevinter--and then the rebel forces that challenge both, the Tal-Vashoth and the native rebels--who have retained their rich history, despite efforts to suppress and consume them--one might think of them as a sort of blueprint by which the Fex's history might be mapped. For does not history so often repeat itself?"
no subject
Date: 2022-11-10 06:20 pm (UTC)Having mentally rifled through all the possible things she might say in objection and finding that none of them really suit, Wysteria at last says, "Well yes, I suppose you have something of a point. Regarding history and the matter of Seheron, I mean."
She has been busy reading and writing other things on this particular trip, thank you.
"Melus, you said?"
no subject
Date: 2022-11-11 04:51 am (UTC)Val puts his boots against the wall again, resuming his previous pose.
"There is a copy of the Melus now in your library. You should be pleased to find it when you have taken up residence at your little house once more. That is, if it has not been stolen."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-11 05:38 am (UTC)But that's hardly the point. From where she is sat in the bunk with the thin quilt drawn over her lap, Wysteria considers his boots there on the narrow cabin's wall.
"Do you suppose any other books wandered onto my shelves while I've been away?"
no subject
Date: 2022-11-13 01:40 am (UTC)He swishes his feet against the wall. It is, after all, also a pleasantly open space.
"One might call it a colonization, except that there were hardly any books there to begin with. Can it be colonization, when the territory is so thoroughly empty?"
no subject
Date: 2022-11-13 03:25 am (UTC)"That's hardly true. And if there was so much open space, it's only on account of having put so many of the old collection into storage what with it being generally quite poor or rotten."
(Literally, as far as the last point is concerned. A great deal of the house's library had suffered from a considerable leak at some point prior to her inheritance.)
It's only after this objection, once she has recalled that she didn't ask in order to be annoyed, that Wysteria primly tucks her knee-jerk guard away like a handkerchief into a pocket and thus resolutely continues—
"And do you recall whether much else has changed about my little house? Your things haven't invaded further rooms, have they?"
no subject
Date: 2022-11-13 05:06 am (UTC)"'Poor' and 'rotten' are wonderful reasons why the former residents of the shelves should have been consigned to storage crates. Perhaps they may be replaced, if matching volumes and sets might be located. That would be a worthy undertaking for-- hm, someone. Your Mister Ellis."
Whose name he has not missed hearing. All the same, he manages to pronounce it quite blithely, as if he has no care at all about the name or the person attached to the name or what they might do about assisting with restocking the former library.
"Of course Veronique is enjoying the new cellar--but she is not my things--she is herself, her own--so I think discussing her in this context would be deeply disrespectful. And why should my things have invaded your house? My workroom in the Gallows remains quite sufficient for my purposes."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-13 06:21 am (UTC)"Well," she says to his boots. Having dispensed with the book and made herself more or less as comfortable sitting against the bunk's bulkhead as she is likely to be, Wysteria turns her attention to drawing her undone hair forward across her shoulder where it might be habitually combed through with fingers. It was a mistake to take it down. She's been relying on another girl among the passengers to help her braid it back up again. However, with the weather tossing everything about it seems highly unlikely to be sorted any time soon; she will have to fold the whole mess up under a felt cap until the sea stops running.
Well.
"How should I know? Apparently books are wandering in onto my shelves of their own accord. Who's to say what else might have trailed after them? Though I will admit to being surprised, Valentine. Your workroom in the Gallows is so very small."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-15 04:57 am (UTC)"Really! It is not so," and he drops out of his accent long enough to imitate her, "very small. It is of a perfectly adequate proportion. Could it be larger? Doubtless. Could it be smaller? One should hope not, or no real work could get done at all. But so very small is entirely false to say of it. What reason have you to hold an opinion on it in the first place?"
no subject
Date: 2022-11-15 05:12 am (UTC)His imitation of her, she decides, is quite poor. But it's almost very nearly funny that he tried.
"In any case, it's of no real consequence. I was only curious. I'm pleased to hear that I won't have to do much tidying once we've returned."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-16 12:46 am (UTC)"I have my apartments in Val Royeaux. I know very well the pleasure of having such choice. I hardly need to be told. I certainly do not need to have ownership of an entire mansion to know it."
He takes his hands from behind his head so that he might fold his arms over his chest. The ship falls on the swell of the wave, pitching beneath him, and he makes a noise of disgust and sits up as the ship rises again.
"If I wanted to use a room in your little house, I would."
Her hair lays across one of her shoulders, a curtain of gold dulled by the poor light of the lantern that still swings over their heads. Val scowls, to show how very unimpressed he is.
no subject
Date: 2022-11-16 01:52 am (UTC)"Very good. It's hardly as if I'm trying to convince you, Valentine."
So don't act as if she is, monsieur.
The point, she feels, is so well made that she might leave it there and see what he says in reply. She can imagine the shape of his rustled feathers very clearly, and there's some pleasure in seeing him so rankled that the impulse to turn the screw and simply allow him to bridle against it.
So that hardly explains why she might say so abruptly—
"Would you? Like to use one of my rooms."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-16 05:19 am (UTC)"I might find a use for another room. But you hardly require my company."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-16 08:04 am (UTC)She has such a wealth of friends and companions, both to hand and easily addressed through written correspondence.
Sat there on the narrow bunk, Wysteria gathers her knit shawl about her.
"I'm asking if you should like to continue this close association that we've been made familiar with these past weeks."
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Date: 2022-11-16 07:05 pm (UTC)Certainly this is a close association. How else would one find one's self in this particular situation?
"It could be advantageous," he says. Eventually. "Certainly I have found it so in these past weeks. It is far more convenient to merely cross a passageway to argue with you, when I have found the reason or cause to do so, rather than depart upon the ferry and walk all the way to Hightown and find you within the maze of rooms in your little mansion. And certainly my having a room--or two--within your little house would give further credence to our Arrangement."
Formal Arrangement; capitalized A. There is no need to mention the social and familiar word between them. They both know it.
"Though I should have to have my address changed for all my correspondence, if this arrangement of situation was made."
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Date: 2022-11-17 12:23 am (UTC)In any case, the whole sensation of being so aware of herself sitting there against the bulkhead, and of being looked at, and how ridiculous she must appear evaporates promptly given the proper motivation.
"Two rooms," Wysteria repeats to underline the rapid shift in scope from none rooms to that. But it's mild as far as checks go; it isn't even accompanied by a disdainful scoff.
"If you feel it necessary to have your letters and papers and other mail and so on there, then I'm relatively confident a side table could be found to stack it all on. There is, as you know, a surplus of furniture to hand on the site."
Yes, indeed. It would in fact serve the Arrangement perfectly well. But more importantly—
"In fact, that would be preferable. Then I can be certain that you will read my notes, rather than letting them molder unattended in your Gallows pigeonhole."
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Date: 2022-11-18 01:19 am (UTC)"They hardly molder. I see them eventually. It is that I so rarely have cause to review the contents of the little holes--things of no particular consequence are left there--do not squawk, I am not speaking of your notes, I am speaking of all the other silly little Riftwatchy notes, about silly little Riftwatchy things. Occasionally I have taken all of the contents straight to my workroom and used it as kindling. It makes for very fine kindling. I think it is the parchment that they use. Cheap stuff, it burns well, which is the kindest thing that can be said of it. In any case, yes, if two rooms and a side table from your great collection of unused and rather antiquated furnishings might be secured for me, I could see how the change to accommodation might be very," hm, he makes a flighty gesture, as if trying to stir the correct word out of the air itself, "suitable, we shall say. Not at all dissatisfying. If it is amendable to you, mademoiselle, as the lady of the house."
When Val raises his eyebrows, they are nearly hidden by the overgrowth of his hair. He really must see a barber.
"Is it, mademoiselle? Amendable?"
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