Mirka

Mirka

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The gulls cawed, the summer sea stank in the wind and the sun was blazing down, white light and hot flame on the paved path that meandered down like a river betwixt colourful buildings. She swaggered on, chin up, sporting the general air of someone who had never belonged anywhere as much as here. Wear the confidence you’d like to have — won’t convince yourself with it, but that’s hardly the point. It was the fancier part of town that she didn’t live in and never would, but had liked to loiter on in occasionally. Now more than ever, to show someone the everyday sights.

“ See those, my grub? “

Pointed a clawed finger at the ships in the distance, the harbour winking to view betwixt slender trunks of trees that decorated the path on one side. The small child wrapped against her breast gave an incomprehensible little sound, eyes staring wide from beneath the shade of a knitted suncap. She’d fashioned it herself from unbleached white yarn and given the brim an impression of petals, so the kid looked like a proper fairy with a flower for a hat. Brought smiles out of people.

And provided shade for the brown eyes that were nothing like hers and the head that yet worked on sprouting the horns and all the curls that were definitely turning out too much like hers. Billowing coils, dark colour. Contrast against the skin that was a mottled silvery green, like a blanket of lichens on seaward rocks. Whose teeth it would yet get, was anyone’s guess.

“ You are never getting on one of those without me, that’s for sure. They lose people. “

She chattered on, skipping down the broad steps in a huffing and scuffing of leather soles. The arching incline was with a whole fancy sandstone banister she could plant her hand on, indulgently like a Queen descending a stair in her palace, all the way down. For effect and mainly to amuse herself as for the lack of onlookers, she pinched the hem of her skirt and lifted it a touch upon bouncing off the last step in mockery of how she imagined the highborn ladies probably did when they wanted to look coy.

“ But you can watch and I’ll tell you stories. You’ve big eyes and ears for it. So pay attention. “

The kid made no indication of listening, just the sort of mumbles keening out of kittens when they dozed off. Mirka erupted a sigh, chest deflating, and rolled up the roomy sleeves of her white shirt. Marched on into the circular little plateu at the intersection of paths leading any which way, twotone brick underfoot arranged in a wavelike pattern that folded into and over itself. At the other end of it rose a wall and before it a perfect square of polished granite, upon which stood a bronze statue. Tall figure berobed and behatted, proud gaze cast over at the distant port and with one foot braced on a stack of timber. Adorned with symbols of station, tools much like those of a carpenter on the belt and schematics in an open scroll spread to whomever would look. The verdigris shone brilliant in the sun, as much on the figure itself as the copper plaque mounted on the wall that should spell the name and years of a past First Shipwright.

And she could smell the oranges they were sentinel to from here. Holding in a breath, she maneuvered herself on the foundation in a hop and a grunt, one arm cradling the precious bundle at her breast. Paused to survey the ideal way to squirrel up the rest of the proper important dead and had just begun reaching up for a sturdy foothold when she caught movement in her periphery. Company, unbidden. And she froze to stare back, leg up, skirt hiked up to the garter at the knee. Baring the whole stocking.

Unseemly. Scholarly blasphemy and historical disrespect probably. She pursed her lips and squinted like an indignant wife might at a deadbeat spouse come saunter in through the front door after a fortnight’s bender. Not that she had any experience on that front. None, whatsoever.

“ Forgot my keys. “ She lied, tossing a hand at the house overlooking the yard she was about to weasel herself into. Brass fixtures and bright white frames about the six-paned windows and shroudlights mounted to the horizontal, deep green wood paneling of the walls. Expensive colours, high maintenance. Flaunted wealth.

“ So— You going to lend me a leg up or what? “ Her face curled to a smile full of sharp teeth, half daring and the rest full on coaxing. Whispered through it the bargain of a sphinx.

“ I’ll owe you. “
 
A grin, all tooth and sunlight, come cut clean 'neath stormy clouds of dark brows.

"Certainly, miss," a swish of the tail, all easy step toward, a flick of a something shiny spin about the wrist. Come snatch betwixt clawed and careful digits. Swerve stepped to the door. Slipped the pick in like it belonged. Turned, hitched, wiggled just right against tumbles that went click.

Hand came over handle, levered and pushed the door open. Easy as one who had the key. Even if the threads he wore were well worn and laden with the sort of hand stitched care only those who needed things to last learned to ply. The colors still rich at the heart of each thread.

Hinges on the heavy thing hardly made a sound as it widened. "Second home, I reckon," he said with a wink. Voice, secret between them, all breeze. "Haven't seen the lot in three skies come purpled," motioned her and her little plum flower in.

A bow, too familiar with the hinge of hips, tilt of head, and flick of wrist.

"Mademoiselle," he said, all proper like, save the twang of a salt born dog.
 
She watched in disbelief as the stranger first came towards, then steered off to— the door? Body taut, readying to leap off the statue and leg it, if it came to being snitched on. It was always a fifty fifty sort of chances in these things —

But no knock, just the click of a false key. Finesse. And the rat of a dog she knew lived in that house along with the rest didn’t give a peep. Not even when the thick, paneled front door slipped open, unblemished lacquer flashing in the sun and providing the shape of this particular young man and his bow a certain— je ne sais quoi.

A lopsided grin about her, she climbed down and sauntered on over in meticulous steps as if she was wearing heels, head held high.

“ Thank you, Mister. “ She added to the theater, one hand tossing in an imperious twirl about her curls as she stopped before the threshold. Tilted her head at him, examining that face. Curiousity behind the cheer, trying to figure out the shape of him — what it was behind those eyes that made them look as he did.

And whether that warranted her knife.

“ Must be the smoothest rescue I’ve had to date. “ Not that there had ever been atrocious amounts of competition. But she could make it sound like there was, sell it proper. And she could keep playing, make this her house for the day — since it was in her linger at the door beginning to dawn on her he must’ve meant what he said. Second home, empty.

The air was still and had that stuffiness of a closed house, the hot of it. The long handwoven rug beneath her was soft as she stepped in, a beautiful ornate trail leading the whole depth of the corridor and past a dark wooden staircase that let up beside it. The wallpaper shimmered in the residual sunlight, featuring a busy pattern of birds facing each other with strawberries in their mouths, posed amidst florals she’d only seen in the finest damask come from overseas. Powdery blue, rose and olive green over a darker base.

She glanced past the shoulder to regard her stranger anew, eyes the vibrance of sundown in the gloom of the indoors. Smiled with something like bliss.

“ You do this often? “ Left it open what she meant and begun away down the corridor.
 
The bow deepened, just a touch of the horns at her approach. Tail low in its sweep to bid welcome as she walked on by, and he came up all velvet in her wake.

"But of course," he said with a knowing as she looked him over. Nothing there to hide in the bright of him.

Must be the smoothest rescue I've had to date

A little laugh between them there at the gate. "Wear that like a badge, I will," no mock in the warmth of it.

You do this often?

"Save an accomplice?" voice an easy hush that spread between em. "Or make myself welcome?" he looked over his shoulder into the yawn of unloved luxury. Just waiting. "As often as I can," lip still quirked, all upturned. The door still open as the gulls sailed by. Cries sharp with their song. Carried with the zest of ripe rinds. " If you ain't the sort," leveled eyes with her, then the little one wrapped in handmade petals. "Just tell me where, and I'll leave some for the pair of ya," bit of song in the how he said it.
 
And which exactly had made accomplice of the other, hmh? If it was a contest, she had to figure he’d won, upped the stakes with how she wasn’t terribly often in the breaking-into-rich-fucks’-houses business. But she could fancy it, once in a while, were there deft hands to lend her plausible deniability and a fast escape, if it came to it.

What sort he meant escaped her, but she wouldn’t ask clarification. Merely slowed down her gait to eye where his figure struck a dark shape in the bright doorframe. Lingering outside, partly to her disappointment. Not imposing. Timid?

“ I’d like to see you make yourself welcome. “ She spoke in a daring lilt to the tone, voice with a slight echo in the tall space. Her meandering march came to a halt at the end of the corridor, the pane of colourful light come from where it took a right. Had to be leading to the garden, the green and orange of the fragrant trees shining brilliant even through the glazed rhombus that was the backdoor window. Opulent florals again.

“ The grub doesn’t much care for the fruit. Or most other refreshment, really — “ She inclined her head, kissing the kid on the top of its head with errant affections. “ Maybe in a couple months. “

Smiled as she explained, with some excitement. Easy and bright as first loves.

“ Suppose we’ll have a garden party, although— “ An aloof offer there, her look absently taking in the geometric cut of the crystal sconces on the walls. “ I’m so filthy rich I don’t have any real friends, so— “ Sniffed, haughty.

“ I don’t know what you’re supposed to do in them, in nice company. Tea? Play— checkers. “ Spoke the last in a scrunch of the nose, feigned outrage.

“ Do you know? “
 
I'd like to see you make yourself welcome.

Put the wind full in his sails she did. With talk come off the walls like that. Tail all happy twitch as he turned his head and measured the room, saw how good she looked there, with all the dance of sunbeams bent through curtain, dust, and shroudstone.

"That so?" he purred on after, pulled the door shut with a thump behind him, light bled just a bit away as more shadows furled in where the door had once stayed open. Pads of sandals too quiet against the way.

His eyes eyed the little things. Easy things. Fit in the pocket, more than bright enough to earn some coin things. Picked up a tray. The sort of thing made to carry so many other things. Just as fancy no doubt, near as useless, less you found the right Captain.

He knew a few. Real problem was how ill it fit. Might be he found a good bag to stash it all in.

The Grub doesn't much care for fruit...

Set it down on one of the folded arm rests of the Piriyan style Sofa he strode beside. Ran his fingers across the supple leather of it. All burnt orange to go with the powder blue, and the deeper navy beneath the rose and olive that sprawled along the walls. Bit of dust on his fingertips when the came to rub.

"Grub, is it?" he asked, curious as a cat as he looked to her. Caught the unabashed kisses and gobblewomps that followed. Couldn't help but laugh. A small and honest thing.

A nod as he kept his easy stroll up the way. "Couple of months," nod nod. "Lil things change fast. Know that much,"

Kro always did look bigger every time he had come back. Stopped growing so tall, now, just kept changing, that way young people did at his age. Whittles and carves at a time.

His eyes had found a stone carving of a pike. Mean looking thing. Snagged it up. Turned it over. Stuck claw about its snarled teeth. Figured it was... Jade? Jade fetched a nice price, give it to the right trader. And he knew a couple. Good luck, on top of that.

Suppose we'll have a garden party... play checkers... do you know?

He stopped just a step away as he caught the scrunch of her nose. The black curls of her hair come settle about the forest of her brows and lashes, like ripe currants. Eyes a pair of pink powder horizons, danced with all orange and blues of the little world they wandered.

Forgot to breath a moment. Smiled sure as his lungs filled up.

"Chess," he said bright.

Cleared his throat. Put on the air of an older more refined soul he closed his eyes and straightened his back with a wiggle this way and wobble that. Hid the pike behind his back, and tugged at the mustard gold hem of his linen robe with the other hand and turned his head, all model for portrait.

"Never checkers. Checkers is for seamen, and pretenders, and never for the well to do," he had heard a Shroudmaster say once, and she had the heels to prove it. "Tea, and some oranges then?" he offered. Looked about with wide moonglow eyes. Tail all swish and swipe behind him. "I'm sure I can find where they keep the sets, find us a seat?"
 
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“ Yeah, grub. For now— “ She affirmed, tone floating off. “ Until I figure out a name. “

It’d felt difficult and she wasn’t entirely sure why. Too important? Still, she kept the cheer up, submit to hoping he’d not think less of her for the failure. A nameless child.

Which does kind of crawl around like a grub, by itself. Yet unsure what to do with its limbs, keeping them bent and close to the body. Inching around as only it’s size and little absent fidgets would provide if she sat back and let it rest on her belly.

She smiled for the thought and watched the young man sidelong, so very close now after his meander through the hall. Fixed on his profile when he turned his head and altered the being like in pursuit of some impression. She decided she liked his nose, the longer slope of it, and eyes that were warm as a hearth despite their pale colour. Expressive brows above them and a mouth that smiled more than it didn’t.

In tune with him she cast her gaze about the room and the finery, as if searching for something. Laughted at the remark on checkers in way of an amused exhale, small and pointed.

“ Seamen, pretenders and the badly-do. “ She recounted airily, bouncing a glance at him like meaning to make out which one he was. Wouldn’t ask, just nodded to his suggestion therein firmly, attention drifting to where the gardenways door loomed, window glowing.

“ There are little stone benches outside in the garden, beneath the trees. But— “ She whipped around with a thought, dabbing the side of her index against her lips.

“ Could do with some cushioning. I’ll forage for some. “Decided in a bob of curls and took a tentative step towards one of the closed doors in the corridor. “ Quilted blanket, tablecloth — oh! “ Snapped her fingers.

“ Doilies. Fancy, no? “ Put one under the teapot. It’ll look properly picturesque. And she’d damn well steal all that lace once they were done — could fashion something for the grub out of it later.

“ Teaset, a pot— “ Counted, a finger unfurling to each. “ They probably have a shroudworks stove in this house— “ Glanced at all the lamps and the woven wire.

“ You ever operated one? “ Excitement mounting, she started away, opening doors in search of the kitchen. Glanced at him, deadpan.

“ I haven’t. “
 
A step carried him off in the direction of what he wagered was a kitchen. Hand reached to door handle. Opened. Found a closet. Scanned about. Coats. Nice coats. Boots. A parasol?

Grabbed it up, pitched and yawed it, might the world's worst fencer their saber, saw the shine on the material. Silk to be sure. Cream colored, with what looked like patterns of red flowers in those spaces still bunched between the panels. Tucked it under his arm with quick-turn-snap. Leaned back at the sound of a voice growing more, welcome, in his ear. Peaked around the door frame to spy her there before the doorwindow. All painted by sun's fire.

"Coushins sound lovely," he added with a nod. Course. Just about everything sounded lovely.

Leave the jacket. Too big about the chest. Had felt nice on the fingers though. He grinned. Maybe on the way out. Shut the door with a soft click. A shift of curls at the corner of his eye caught his look like a fish to a hook. She stepped, and he followed.

"How many closets can one place have, I wonder," he asked as he watched her rummage. Deft handed

Fancy, no?"

"Most," he laughed along. Peered down the way.

You ever operated one?

Off she went. No stranger to this then. Made him grin all the wider.

"How hard could it be?" he said all easy.

Come open the next door, and there it was. Put the Cisca's galley to shame. All dark hard wood floors, while cabinets painted sand dollar white, and the walls were lined with ceramic tiles patterned with blue swallows across white skies. Stalks of seeded straw pinched in their painted beaks in mirrored pattern, accented with sunset golds and oranges.

"And a sink!" he said with a laugh, stepped close to it. "Looks like copper," tapped it with the metaled top of the parasol with a turn of the ear. "Sounds copper," twisted a nob. Water poured out. Cold. Closed the nob, twisted the other."Hot!" excited. "Grub fancy a bath?" he said with a bob over his shoulder. Saw what looked near a shroud engine in the corner of his eye. Tail flicked. Smiled wide. "Ah, there it is!" stepped to it quick. Spun the parasol behind his back, where about the pike hid, and stashed it like a saber. "Now all we need is," he eyes searched for the teapot.
 
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“ How— “ She turned, smiling wide at the sight of him in her wake. “ Hard— “ Kicked the kitchen door open rest of the way with her heel. “ Could it be? “

Spread her arms and spun a little circle in the midst of the generous space, taking in the bounty of beauty from floor to ceiling. Hummed and yanked open a cabinet door, inspecting the glassware and porcelain on the shelves with cursory glance. Claws clicked against the glaze of a bowl as she pulled it out to the tune of her company’s excited chattering. That touch of some idyllic life and what home was supposed to be and sound like, if she would’ve got to choose.

About baths— She hacked a laugh and put the bowl away, careless, rounding to the sink without closing the cabinet.

“ Much too peaceful now, but perhaps later — “ Put her hands on the edge of the copper sink and eyed the broad, deep bowl of it. Proper big like, for servants to wash a whole three course’s worth of dishes in. Or ten of those small dogs, all at once. The yapping—

“ Bound to get stinky at some point. You know they can blow shit right upto the back of their necks? “

Held a breath and dug her claws in, arms taut, and tested the strength of the copper sink’s attachments in a yank. Didn’t budge, bolted firm to the wall.

“ Appetizing. “ Her lungs deflated and she settled to lean against the damn thing, like she’d not just lost a duel against it. Head tilted at the stranger where he worked, brow quirked. Meant to just stay behind and enjoy the view, but— couldn’t. She stuck out her leg and glanced at the tip of her shoe, lips pursed.

“ You like children, stranger? “
 
"Stinky?" he laughed, incredulous. Shook his head. Then shrugged and nod as his fingers tested the copper wheel crank on the shroud stone stove. They could definitely get that out. Grabbed a lever, and turned it clockwise some clicks. Nothing noticeable. Turned over the shoulder "I mean, sounds about right," he said with a chuff. "All the way to their necks, huh?" he had seen sailors in such sorry state of affairs. "Serious business that," put eyes on the stove once more.

Turned the wheel more. The coils, black iron and circular, wound and shaped onto the flat enameled surface. Heard something rattle. Creak. Looked down at the oven door. Felt it warmer. Looked to the coils. Saw them, a tinge redder.

"Oh, look at that!" He said with wide eyes, all bend and lean down toward the thing. Got close with the rock of his heels and hinge of his hips. Tail all happy s. "I think it's cooking up!"

You like children, stranger?

A turn of the head that saw curled horns knock with a thwack against the stove. All spring and shake. Caused him to wince some, suck breath through teeth as he eased away from the hurt, and rubbed his horn some, down by the base of his skull. Scrunch of nose, at her, playful bit of pain as he rigged himself upright.

"Feel like one myself half the time," he said with a hint of something cooler there. His eyes fell from her, and onto the grub. So sure against her softness. "But never minded no child, not really no how. Bout as bad as any other person I think, just, looking for their place in it all, and most of them well, they're alright, people I mean. Kids..." his eyes flit back up to hers. Smiled something softer as he saw her leaning there. Tongue felt twisted up some. Not used to that. Not really. Spied something on the cabinets, just over the sink by a green leafed potted plant, vines all draped and bushed about the woodwork. Brows raised. "Teapot," He said flat, pointing with his nose, all snaggle toothed rumble of bushed glee.
 
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Red glow, above and within. She tilted her head, watching him bang his head against a yet another thing in his animated way and trying not to smile for it. Amused for how it lined up with the initial part of his response.

It ended up wordier than she’d expected, beyond just the regular yesses, nos and idontknows. The look he gave the two of them, sat back and watching him, eluded description. Sounded awfully diplomatic, somehow, her expression mellowing out even as the gaze amidst it all narrowed. Sharper curiousity and inquiry in it, both left unsaid.

“ Suppose they are. Alright. People. “

She turned to what he pointed out in an instant, as if glad to. Something to do, her shape sprung to it and arm reached up, hem of a striped skirt bouncing as she rose to tiptoes and then back down. Paused to inspect the pot, lifting the lid in a metallic click and blowing inside the chamber of its belly. Some dust, but not much.

In a flick of the wrist, she started the cold water. Pipes rattled and faucet huffed, pot getting heavier in her grip. In a loud creak of the valve, she spun around again and this time for the stove. Glanced down at the glow that painted the knee of her skirts a brighter red.

“ Should probably figure the oven off— “ She started in a twist of the lips. Though she didn’t smile as such, one was in her tone as she glanced at her company sidelong. “ Unless you plan putting something in it. “

Herself put the pot down on one of the hot swirls, carefully.
 
A turn in no time, all tip toe and stretch as she reached. Left him all, blink at the stern, as lines ran up side of body to arm and fingertips, deft to snatch the thing.

Another blink, all dreamy in the light as the plumbing made sounds, and the water poured.

Sounded lovely. Hollow filling up with cool water. Looked lovely. All curls, and Grub strapped.

Shift of shoulders had him shift his eyes, all up and away at some fool's distraction. Cups! Saw those hanging from hooks under one of the cabinets. Stepped over, snatched up one, two, remembered the Grub did not care much for refreshments. Left it at two.

Should probably figure the oven off-

He craned his head to look over his shoulder. Caught her eye spying. "Oh, r-"

Unless you plan putting something in it,

A titter. Excited more than nervous as he strode over all long step. Left cups there on the counter for the two of them. "Know any good recipes?" he asked with a raise of the brow. Set eyes down to the knobs, and dials. Saw something like swirls near one. Nod. Something like a mouth near another.

He had tweaked that one. Looked to her, brows bounced and lips quirked. Well?
 
“ Maybe. “ She responded, truthful enough. Wasn’t any that she could really write down or describe, all based on the way hands moved and measured on memory. Recipe of instinct, available ingredients and old instruction. Went beyond just cooking too, if she had to linger on the thought.

Fly by the seat of one’s skirts. It made good enough things — had for her, anyway.

“ But we probably haven’t the means here for much. “ From him, her look went to the rest of the kitchen, tone unaffected, upbeat despite all. “ Crumpets, scones and the like. Doubt there’s even a square of butter for toppings. “ Inspectorial, she reached up to peek in one of the cabinets by the stove. Closed it and opened another, face brightening to the sight of multiple jars with dry leaves, smalls as to resemble grounds, in them. Multiple colours.

“ Sure have tea to choose from for our party, though. “

She took one, a darker blend with bits of fruit mixed in. Opened the lid in a bright chime and sniffed the contents. Black tea, sweet, earthy and bitter, with a citrus undertone. And another note she couldn’t name, but which mingled in something crispy and warm. Summer and spice.

“ Hmh— “ She put it down on the counter beneath and slid it towards her stovewrangling companion, leaving the lid off in case he wanted to inspect the contents for himself. Reached up again and pulled out another jar, from the end of the row. This one was the most drained of all the jars, the blend at the bottom a deep black. Appeared plain, with nothing added in.

She popped the lid open and huffed in a whiff. Rich, malty, almost syrupy. A hint of smoke and something floral. Familiar, but not — the aroma was way finer and more robust from what they could’ve afforded at home. No age and exposure either that dulled out flavour overtime.

“ I like this one. “ Wouldn’t tell why, just tilted the mouth of the jar at the stranger. Cradling with both hands.

“ Smell. “
 
"Oh, there has to be butter," Param said, tone as warm as the brightness hers brought. A balminess to it, the sort that stuck to ya on warm days with just the right amount of silver and grey in the skies.

He checked a cabinet. Then another. All clacks and quieter thunks.

"Altalusians love their butter!" he said sure enough. "Go on and on as to how its the pride of the crown, and nothing's better than the sweet kiss of cream straight from the Roch's teat and the whole hullabaloo-"

Heard the pop of a tin. Head keeled as nose bounced with sniff sniff. Lone Snaggle tooth poking out from over his lip. "Oh, that smells lovely," he said as he turned from the hunt for spreadable fat. Small stepped to her side, and picked up the container. Brought it to his nose. Breathed in deep and felt a shiver go down his spine, all through the end of his tail. Fur on end as he shimmied his shoulders.

I like this one, smell.

His eyes panned down to spy the container. Near empty, as most good things ended up being. He bent closer and took a whiff.

"Like sweet pine fire and honey," he said impressed. Nod nod. Smelled again. "That's the one right there,"

Straightened up. Capped the other container. Set it back. Wide eyed turned on his heels, snatched the dial on the oven and turned it, one way. Saw it glow brighter. Felt hotter. Quick the other until it clicked.

A rumble. A rattle. A weak little, pahoo, and the glow came to its end.

Steam was rising from the kettle.

"You drink tea often?" he asked, with a quirked brow, and a look sidelong. Tail a gentle swish about their feet. He plucked the little copper tea siv that sat nestled in the pot. Lifted it up to her, with a little loop and twirl about the thumb.
 
She smiled at her successful coaxing, watching him bend closer to inspect the tea as bid. The words got a huff out of her, breast bouncing with amusement.

“ Sweet pine fire and honey — “ She repeated, putting the jar down. “ Like from a lyricist’s mouth. “

The worse tea she put back into the row where it belonged, against the instinct that told to just leave it all. From the same shelf she picked the little measure that lived in a small bowl by the leaves, left there for convenience she had to figure. It, too, was terribly fancy.

Like a spoon but not, teardrop handle decorated with a carving — roses and their jagged leaves, the edges of them glinting a brilliant gold. The rest of it was silver, she suspected, the decision to pocket it fixing to the back of her mind. She roused from thought in a flinch to the question and metallic sound of what the stranger was offering to her. Ah, yes—

She took it from him and shrugged.

“ Not terribly. Less now as apparently too much of it can make the baby fussy. “ She responded, feeling a little wriggle in the sling against her breast as if on cue. Past the sieve and her work to measure tea in it, two dark eyes fixed on the face they didn’t know and stared with an air of judgement, as it was with all babies when they were particularly deadpan. Before they learned more expressions, that was, though she’d seen the grub smile once of twice so far. Delicate, fleeting things.

“ Altalusians, you said— “ She remarked belatedly, silver clinking as she put the measure down on the counter. “ Gave the impression you don’t assume them your kin. The whole hullabaloo. “ She repeated the rest for how fun it sounded, that last word. Left how he didn’t sound local out of it, in case he took offense, despite the fact neither did she. A more subtle accent, hers, but there all the same to who listened and knew things.

The filled tea sieve she offered back to him.

“ Where are you from? “
 
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