enheriter

[enheriter]

lemonade  spills  from  a  stranger’s  hands  and  onto  his  clothes,    staining  finely-woven  white  lawn  cloth  imported  directly  from  overseas  for  this  very  occasion,    his  linen  cravat    —    painstakingly  starched  by  his  washerwoman,    elaborately  tied  so  as  to  rival  beau  brummell  in  sheer  meticulousness    —      losing  its  delicate  arch  and  somewhat  flopping  around  rather  inelegantly.    it  behoves  him  to  discover  that  he’s  kept  a  grip  on  himself,    though  the  grip  he  has  on  his  glass  could  not  be  similarly  described:    knuckles  almost  straining  against  skin;    his  smile,    more  like  a  grimace. ❛    me,    ❜    aloysius  repeats,    his  glum  tone  of  voice  doubtless  mirroring  the  dismay  felt  by  the  other.    for  what  it’s  worth,    he  did  try  to  make  amends  for  his  slight  by  dispelling  any  notion  of  fortune-seeking  before  it  could  swirl  around  the  lady,    but  he  cannot  help  but  rue  his  kindness  now.    clearly  no  amount  of  wealth  can  make  up  for  good  manners.    ❛    you  do  realise,    ❜    he  starts,    ❛    that  every  action  is  being  watched,    yes?    ❜ ❛    —though  i  dare  say  poor  manners  would  matter  little,    ❜    he  adds,    almost  certainly  musing  out  loud,    but  also  doubtlessly  musing  out  loud  for  her  to  hear,    ❛    for  those  in  want  of  great  fortune.    ❜

Who: @enheriter

Where: palace gardens

There were two things Cat had prayed for after leaving that cursed inn on the way to London. The first was that she never hear word of her stupid lie again. This prayer had been dashed rather quickly (although her father at least had not yet heard word of it).

The second was that she never see the rude man who had caused her to make this false claim again. That seemed reasonable, for London was huge, certainly compared to where she had grown up.

Of course it would be her debut where this hope was dashed. She was no doubt being punished, and punishments always worked best when done in the most dramatic of ways.

It was a particularly large display of flowers that did Catherine in. The sight of them, surely not all in season, and so perfect in colour, led her to not pay attention to where she was going. Did not see the back she bumped into, sending lemonade spilling from her hands. “I am so sor…” her soft, open expression hardened instantly. “Oh.” She spoke shortly. “It is you.”

[enheriter]

“He could break free. But the terror of free will was vertiginous. Hence, he would invoke the rules which were there before him, to shake off his shoulders the unbearable weight of the choice, so that later on he could forgive himself for what he had done to his own life. So he did the sole thing he could bear doing. He returned home […]”

— Stefania Mela, Stalemate

[enheriter]

perfection,    aloysius  has  come  to  learn,    is  an  ill-made  phantasm.    his  mother  searched  for  it  within  him,    amidst  the  ruins  left  behind  by  a  father  who  had  lost  himself  to  that  very  search:    and  so  all  that  he  is,    and  all  that  he  knows,    are  ghosts  of  histories  he  can  never  now  learn.    he  will  never  truly  know,    not  really,    as  his  mother  did  not  and  does  not,    what  it  was  that  rendered  his  father  lost  to  the  world  in  which  he  used  to  waste  so  much  time;    but  aloysius  finds  himself  becoming,    more  and  more,    that  very  same  man:    dead  to  the  world’s  tumult,    living  alone,    perhaps  resigned,    though  perhaps  even  happy  at  knowing  his  place,    the  world  telling  him    this,    yet  no  more. the  world  telling  him    this,    yet  no  less. aloysius  had  invited  her  for  the  simple  reason  that  it  felt  right  to  do  so:    to  have  her  watch  this  horrid  excuse  of  an  exculpatory  performance,    fingers  treading  on  ivory,    treading  on  years  of  lessons  and  corrections  and  the  unbearable  weight  of  a  mother’s  expectations,    treading  on  too  many  notes  and  yet  still  not  enough.    still  not  enough.    he  looks  up,    once,    and  sees  only  shadow,    does  not  see  shadow  on  shadow  but  only  absence  of  a  shadow;    realises:    the  box  is  empty.    realises:    she  isn’t  here. realises:    it  is  all  for  nothing. and  yet,    still,    fingers  tread  on  ivory,    and  the  performance  plays  on.    it  plays  on  even  after  the  music  ends,    when  he  takes  a  bow  in  front  of  people  who  should  matter  but  don’t,    having  been  left  by  the  only  person  who  did.    it  plays  on  even  when  the  crowd  sifts  out  of  the  opera  house  like  water  released  from  a  dam.    it  plays  on  even  as  he  stands  before  her,    even  when  he  had  hoped  that  it  would  stop  playing  as  he  stands  before  her. ❛    a  misunderstanding,    ❜    he  echoes,    the  words  brittle  and  ashen  in  his  mouth,    leaving  only  bitterness.    yet  he  swallows;    his  mouth  moving  in  motions  that  resemble  the  formation  of  words,    but  he  does  not  feel  himself,    is  not  himself:    is,    instead,    the  duke  of  oxford,    making  polite  conversation.    ❛    i  see,    miss  toussaint,    ❜    he  says,    not  really  seeing.    ❛    do  tell:    what  kind  of  misunderstanding  was  it?    ❜    he  asks.    he  looks  at  her,    surveys  the  features  of  her  face,    tells  himself:    this,    yet  no  more.    ❛    nothing  too  concerning,    i  should  hope?    ❜

location: the english opera house, london

⊰ @enheriter. ⊱‌

his fingers stroke the keys and the audience is arrested from the first note. it fills the space with its small voice, melancholic and mournful, before falling on enraptured ears. he strikes a similar image on stage, she thinks. the set pieces are perfection at every angle, every brushstroke careful and steady, but the stars in the backdrop are distant from each other, the clouds stormy in color. aloysius sits alone on the bench with his hands poised and completes the portrait of a man trapped in divine isolation.

an eternity passes before the second note — this one stronger as time quickens to its normal pace. a piece of music begins to unfold itself before her in all its hollow prestige and she’s overcome with a question: is this his personal composition? it must be, for she knows she is witnessing something she should not. it is the exposed bone of his ribcage peeking from underneath all the muscle and sinew, rawness and ugliness and realness — something he would not want her to be privy to, but she is held hostage all the same. from up in her box it looks as if the piano and its player are caught between the crescent shape of the orchestra and the audience; all together yet so solitary, so haunting. the melody becomes taboo to her ears and she feels her heart flutter wildly in her throat. 

it’s only when her lady’s maid and chaperone leans forward from somewhere behind her with a whispered, “miss clarissa? are you feeling faint?”, that she realizes her fingers are white-knuckled around the arms of her chair, breath impossible to summon.

all the propriety in the world cannot keep her still once the spell is broken. she is moving out of her seat, out of the box, soon out of the opera house, all sensations and awareness dulled until the cool night air floods against her warm cheeks. rissa’s breaths come to her in gasps and she cannot be sorry for making a scene on the outside steps of the opera house. relief her lungs remember how to breathe, relief that she is free is all that occupies her mind.

“miss, miss!” her maid cries close behind, all worry. the poor girl ran after her all the way to the entrance, but it is a feat to summon sympathy in the state she is currently in. a dismissive wave is all she can manage, hand dropping to fist in the soft pink silks of her gown. “stand back. away, please.” it’s rude of her to treat anyone so offhand, not because polite society dictates one must treat their workers well, but because of her staunch belief that everyone is equal. she knows this, and still believes it, but rissa’s apologies are reserved for one person and one alone tonight.

so there she stands for what must be an eon, more statue than woman. even after the ton spill out the doors, performance over, she does not dare move an inch. only when the duke makes his appearance does the second spell break its hold, limbs no longer stiff in place. rissa has time to ponder what sort of portrait she paints to him off stage in her current state, beneath real stars and clouds.

all decency and formality is once again abandoned (another sin to add to her many of a lifetime) when she does not curtsy or greet him by title. instead she turns to face him as she says, “i can explain why i wasn’t able to greet you after your performance. it was a misunderstanding.”

[enheriter]

❛    conceal  is  too    …    how  do  i  say  this,    malicious  of  a  word,    would  you  not  say?    ❜    he  asks,    tone  nonetheless  still  teasing,    a  certain  levity  in  the  way  he  comports  himself  around  the  younger  countess:    a  far  cry,    perhaps,    from  the  way  he  held  himself  so  guardedly  with  her  in  their  first  meeting    —    as  he  does,    he  thinks,    with  most  everyone  else    —    but  still  something  that’s  painted  with  the  brush  of  a  cordial  performance.    ❛    i  was  merely  hoarding    …    all  dragon-like,    if  you  will,    ❜    he  continues,    punctuating  his  sentence  with  the  spirit  of  a  wink:    just  bare  enough  to  make  one  doubt  he  ever  did  it,    for  surely  the  duke  of  oxford  doesn’t  talk  of  dragons  and  wink  at  young  countesses  in  an  off-the-beaten-path  storefront  in  abbey  green  now,    does  he?    yet  before  she  could  make  note  of  it,    aloysius  picks  up  what  she  so  easily  discarded:    an  hourglass,    the  intricacies  of  it  far  too  delicate  for  a  novice’s  eyes  like  his  to  ever  understand;    but  as  an  enjoyer  of  all  things  beautiful,    he  is  bewitched  all  the  same.    gently,    as  if  he  is  holding  a  small  creature,    liable  to  run  away  with  an  ill-placed  touch,    he  holds  it  up  to  the  light.    ❛    come,    ❜    he  says,    voice  almost  beckoning,    ❛    you  were  thinking  of  something  when  you  regarded  this    —    pray,    tell,    what  was  it?    ❜

not often can she be off on her own to explore sights outside of cholmondeley estates or ever so beloved hyde park. promenades do not bore her, never would she be caught saying as much, neither does her frequently visited bookshop ( its owner could perhaps say her presence bores him, she's not quite sure yet where they stand ). novelty, however, is always a welcomed taste on a palette accustomed to a routine held too close to her chest. nothing bad bound to appear out of patterns known like the back of her palm. there is irony to be found in her novel destination to be one filled with trinkets and such of the past. there is also no other place that seem so fitting for the young countess. stories raining down aplenty from every nooks and crannies stacked with much curious antiques. the distinctive calm voice is surprisingly enough to catch her attention in the midst of rampant fantasies about each object's origins. ❛ your grace, should i understand you were concealing this small oasis from me ? ❜ she would never feel entitled to his discoveries, timid smile portraying such a feeling in the greeting. ❛ i've only come as barely a pair of curious eyes, you shall not worry about my hand grabbing anything you've coveted. ❜ deposits back what she decides to be an unique hourglass, still debating on its previous owner's life path.

[enheriter]

❛    let’s  be  very  clear,    my  friend,    ❜    nara  says,    half-joking,    but  perhaps  also  half-serious,    in  that  specific  way  that  men  of  competitive  natures  could  be,    gloating  to  a  defeated  yet  worthy    —    perhaps  even  worthier    —    opponent.    ❛    my  victory  was  only  ever  made  possible  by  your  lapse.    ❜      he  tries  not  to  extend  justifications,    knowing  full  well  it  might  be  mistaken  for  condescension,    but  instead  settles  for  poking  fun  at  the  other.    ❛    like  orpheus,    turning  back  was  your  downfall,    ❜    he  says,    ❛    and  yet  you  were  even  worse  off:    orpheus,    at  the  very  least,    turned  back  to  see  a  fair  lady    —    while  you  were  not  so  blessed  in  that  regard,    seeing  only  dirt  and  sky.    ❜    laughter  yet  again  punctuates  his  words:    soft,    amiable. yet  narayana,    thoughtful,    dismounting  at  last,    lets  slip  his  focus  back  to  the  trotter,    patting  the  chestnut  that  had  given  him  victory  all  the  while.    ❛    though  i  dare  say  the  trotter  could  yet  be  tamed,    ❜    he  continues,    ❛    particularly  since  you  were  able  to  master  him  even  through  a  race    —    but  i  dare  say,    too,    that  the  stableman  is  clearly  not  up  for  the  task.    ❜    he  says  nothing  more,    but  looks  towards  the  army  man,    leaving  the  rest  in  careful  implication,    not  even  knowing  himself  what  the  right  course  of  action  ought  to  be. in  the  end,    he  shrugs,    decided  to  put  the  matter  to  rest,    should  the  other  not  find  it  worthy  of  discussion.    ❛    in  any  case,    shall  we  get  going  to  white’s?    ❜    he  might  as  well  enjoy  his  spoils,    after  all.

There is a moment, when Nara goes thundering past him, when he feels the rush of air as their paths cross. He remembers in that moment a small piece of the joy he has lost, since riding became a part of war, and not a form of sport,

It is a moment where, despite knowing he has likely lost, he pushed the trotter with everything he has.

Even as the moment passes, and he faces the frustration of defeat, he still cannot quite shake the grin on his face, the adrenaline in his veins.

“You most certainly should be offended” William grumbled, not at all happy to have been beaten in the thing he had dedicated the past 10 years of his life to (unruly horse or not). “I certainly did not expect you to be in front of me!”

As Williams horse finally comes to a full stop he once against finds his feet on the ground "One day I will learn not to take bets. God, I think, tries to keep me a lesson each time I do. "

His eyes swing once more to his friend, back into teasing before either has even taken a breath, "surely only divine intervention could have led to your victory!"

[enheriter]

❛    you  play  it  safe,    ❜    aloysius  says,    studying  his  cards,    the  words  critical  but  the  tone  in  which  he  delivers  them  almost  thoughtful,    as  if  maybe  his  friend  had  the  right  of  it  all  along  and  now  he’s  had  cause  to  doubt  his  own  judgement.    ❛    though  it’s  a  proper  shame  how  i’ll  be  missing  out  on  your  scintillating  advice  now  that  you’re  on  the  table,    ❜    he  continues,    moving  about  on  his  seat,    as  if  suddenly  uncomfortable  when,    really,    he’s  just  fidgety.    ❛    i’ll  try  my  very  best  not  to  put  it  on  your  ledger  if  your  call  loses.    ❜    —    then  he  does  as  his  friend  says,    and  he  hits.

A BOY BRINGS AYDIN A CHAIR and he pretends the boy doesn't even exist, a small head bow of acknowledgement to his friend before taking a seat beside him. if there's one thing that gets aydin's blood pumping, it's the thrill of the cards—especially making bets with money that isn't his. his eyes flit over aloysius' hand thoughtfully, trying to treat it as if it were his own. but in the end, he's never one to back down from a challenge. " hit, " aydin says, chin raising slightly.

[enheriter]

he  runs  the  risk  of  being  obtuse:    a  welcome  deal  if,    for  nothing  else,    it  grants  him  cover  of  plausible  deniability    —    and  not  only  him,    aloysius  thinks,    but  everyone  around  him  is  given  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.    ❛    is  that  so?    ❜    he  asks,    tone  of  voice  genuinely  curious,    leaning  towards  her  as  if  that  would  make  him  understand  her  better,    as  if  proximity  is  the  only  thing  that  distanced  the  two  of  them  in  this  moment.    ❛    i  fear  you  may  be  right,    ❜    he  says,    putting  down  the  jar  with  a  disappointed  look  on  his  face.    ❛    such  a  gift  might  be  so  bland  so  as  to  be  called  thoughtless  but  —    ❜ he  hesitates.    it  would  not  do  to  ignore  her  question  posed,    especially  when  he  purported  to  call  himself  a  gentleman  of  good  conduct,    but  it  would  be  no  stretch  of  the  imagination  to  call  it  highly  insinuative.    or  is  it?    the  season  always  brings  with  it  a  requirement  of  having  to  read  between  the  lines  but    —    then  again,    maybe  he’s  just  being  full  of  it.    or  full  of  himself.    either  way,    he  ought  to  be  more  charitable.    ❛    what  does  the  lady  recommend,  then?    ❜    he  asks.    ❛    especially  to  a  gentleman  who  is,    indeed,    in  search  of    —    something  prettier,    as  you  say.    ❜

london was wonderful at this time of year. with each day that passed, the streets filled with more and more fervour with each arrival of lords and ladies and defective diamonds ( of which she was sure they would never measure up to her and her personal delusions ). with all the hubbub, one simply never knew who they might run into.

it was simply pippa’s good fortunes that carry her to a window in which she spies aloysius ponsonby inspecting truffles and treats and what have you. therefore, as a woman who rarely refused the help of lady luck, of course she creeps into the store with all the stealth that a young lady in a daringly pink gown can muster and must now pretend to care about cheese lest she look like the crazed fangirl that she is. he doesn’t seem to notice the deception. or, if he does, he doesn’t say anything about it. either way: the duke of oxford is speaking to her. oh how she loves london in the season!

she could faint.

pippa gives a giggle, light-headed with attention. “a gift for who, your grace? not another lady, i hope! because although wonderfully fragrant,” her dimples smile betrays nothing. “i fear you may be in search of something prettier?”

[enheriter]

❛    the  tides  are  ever-changing,    ❜    he  says,    ❛    but  i  fail  to  see  why  i  should  be  beholden  to  it:    thus,    my  predictability.    ❜    he  could  not  help  but  laugh  a  little  at  the  other’s  attempt  of  an  assessment  at  this    …    other  poet.    ❛    everyman  might  be  a  sort  of  misnomer,    ❜    he  says,    easily  passing  off  his  good  humour  at  the  other’s  expense  as  good  humour  through  the  other’s  words.    ❛    nevertheless,    ❜    he  says,    ❛    it’s  excellent  reading  all  the  same    —    ❜    or  so  narayana  would  hope    —    ❛    but  you  must  forgive  me:    i  had  thought  this  enquiring  young  mind  that  you  spoke  of  to  be  yours.    ❜    he’s  perhaps  being  a  touch  too  charitable  here,    but  honesty  has  never  been  his  best  policy.    ❛    did  the  lady  rosales  not  express  to  you  her  preferences?    ❜

"I would certainly expect no less from you, Officer Vogeti," he chuckles. He notes how much it seems like Narayana belongs here, much more astute than Cabell could hope to be, and he gets the feelings that he's happened upon the right person, blindly putting his trust in him. He nods along diligently, hanging on to his every word and inscribing the phrase you must let every poem breathe into his memory, so that he could follow these instructions at his next opportunity and maybe even become a little more like Narayana. "Accessible, you say?" he asks, taking the book from the other man and turning over the cover to inspect. "A sort of everyman, do you think? Someone who can speak from the perspective of the common thread between us all? I think that would be excellent reading for the young lady of our house," Cabell posits, glad he's found some help.

[enheriter]

❛    i  do  not  see  what  is  so  wrong  with  being  childish,    princess,    ❜    he  says,    even  if  he  does  not  believe  it.    ❛    besides,    ❜    he  adds,    ❛    bernard  is  not  too  childish  a  name,    i  believe    —    and  i  dare  say  that  the  alliteration  makes  him  sound  more  distinguished  than  anything  else.    ❜    he  pets  the  creature,    fingers  threading  through  the  soft  fur.    ❛    though  perhaps  bernard  the  bunny  might  suffer  from  being  lonely    …    shall  we  go  to  the  menagerie  to  get  him  a  companion?    ❜

adelaide let out a giggle at his comment. “no, i do not believe that would be fit.” she said before nodding to give permission. “hm, what do you think of the name bernard?” she asked with a smile, “bernard the bunny.” she giggled out looking down at the creature, “or does that sound too childish?”

[enheriter]

❛    vogeti  narayana,    ❜    he  speaks,    only  too  eager  to  comply  with  the  lady’s  request  of  an  introduction  that  he  almost  forgets  himself.    he  walks  back  internally,    reins  himself  in:    ❛    commodore  narayana  vogeti,    in  these  parts,    ❜    he  corrects  himself.    ❛    though  i  apologise,    lady  krishnamurthi,    ❜    he  says,    ❛    if  i  offended  you  with  my    …    zealousness.    ❜    he  gives  the  lady  an  apologetic  smile.    ❛    i  reckon  i  am  exactly  as  your  brother  would  be,    in  this  regard:    too  excited  in  receiving  the  news  that  i  am  not  the  only  south  indian  here.    ❜    his  tone  now  slips  into  something  almost  nostalgic,    reverent.    ❛    it  seems  we  are  both  a  long  way  away  from  home.    ❜

"That is a very generous offer," Devika says, and if the invitation takes her aback in any way, she doesn't show it. In truth, after so many nights of eating alone, or with a withdrawn seven year old as her only company, there is something quietly reassuring about it. Even coming from a man she knows so little about. "And I am inclined to accept. But I think that I should first learn your name, if only so I can tell my brother that we are not, in fact, not the only South Indians in the ton." The small bevy of Singh's, Kumar's, Patel's would certainly have Dhruv believing otherwise, no matter how many paintings and traveling manifests she showed him. "Lady Krishnamurti. It's a pleasure to meet you."

[enheriter]

❛    oh,    heavens,    spare  me,    ❜    he  says,    in  an  exasperated  tone  of  voice  that  somehow    —    in  a  distinct,    cavalier  way    —    seemed  more  fond  than  genuinely  annoyed.    ❛    could  you  even  imagine?    they’re  going  to  play  the  music,    and  then  sooner  or  later  they’ll  be  asking    oh,    who’s  the  composer?    who  wrote  it?    and  then  they’ll  crowd  around  and  it’d  be  an  entire    —    thing.    ❜    the  way  he  talks  of  this  seemingly  dreadful  ordeal,    the  more  it  starts  to  look  as  if  he  would  genuinely  welcome  the  attention:    a  peacock  preening  his  feathers  for  an  imagined,    adoring  public.    ❛    i’d  rather  we  poke  fun  at  the  would-be  poet,    ❜    he  says.    ❛    i  reckon  we  can  cut  him  down  with  the  right  words,    said  at  the  right  time.    ❜

"You've made a rare accusation, Oxford" Sydney chuckles with amusement. "But I suppose you bring it out of me." Soon his fingers pinch empty air as the glass is nicked from his hands, and Sydney is impressed by the duke's speed. His freed hand rakes through his dark mop, any previous attempt of smoothing damned by the motion. "Shall I suggest that the hostess slip one of your compositions to this evening's musicians? The sooner your tolerance wears thin, the sooner we may empty the servers' trays and get out of here."

[enheriter]

he  turns  ‘round  at  the  sound  of  a  familiar  voice    —    and  the  sight  of  the  viscountess  chakraborti’s  face  is  enough  to  make  him  smile:    strictly  speaking  a  business  associate,    perhaps,    but  one  whom  he’s  had  plenty  of  dealings  enough  to  consider  somewhat  more    —    not  exactly  a  friend,    not  really,    but  someone  whose  company  he  well-enough  appreciates,    and  that’s  more  than  he  could  say  for  most  people.    ❛    lady  chakraborti,    ❜    he  greets,    bowing  before  her  in  a  sweeping  sort  of  gesture  that  conveys    —    or  so  he  should  hope    —    enough  of  his  respect  and  appreciation.    it  would  not  do,    after  all,    to  alienate  a  business  partner  simply  because  he  didn’t  observe  the  proper  form  of  address. ❛    it’s  far  better  weather  that  we  have  here  than  could  be  found  in  either  of  the  poles,    ❜    he  says  frankly.    ❛    though  the  southerly  winds  could  stand  to  not  be  so  southerly,    ❜    he  adds,    almost  musing  out  loud:    he  hasn’t  really  thought  about  it  too  much,    but  it’s  something  that  struck  him  as  he  was  reviewing  his  accounts  earlier  that  morning    —    a  matter  that  tangentially  touches  upon  their  business  together.    ❛    i  believe  some  merchantmen  refuse  to  leave  port  out  of  fears  of  encountering  disagreeable  weather.    ❜

closed starter @enheriter

In the beautiful Hyde Park, Mahira discovered a bit of peace and quiet away from her usual secret business. She enjoyed being alone in the park, with the sunlight shining through the trees and the only sounds being the birds singing in the distance. However, her peaceful moment was interrupted when she unexpectedly came across someone she knew—Narayana. Because of their business connections, they had to be discreet, but there he was, in broad daylight.

"It's nice to see you here. Do you like the weather?" she greeted him with a bright smile. Deep down, she often worried about what her family would think and what people would say if they found out about her secret dealings. Her life was full of hidden secrets—each one more difficult to handle than the last. But for now, she had to keep up appearances and act like she was just casually meeting a friend in the park.

[enheriter]

Erou, Maya Phillips

[enheriter]

her  teasing  remark  almost  brings  out  another  chuckle  from  him    —    but  then  she  continues,    and  narayana  finds  himself  unable  to  withhold  the  grimace  that  splits  his  expression.    it’s  a  dangerous  thing,    an  unexpected  thing:    he  had  let  his  guard  down  towards  her,    and  he  feels  splayed  apart,    as  if  she  could  dissect  him.    he  tries  to  transform  the  grimace  into  something  haughty  and  unkind,    trying  to  invoke  in  his  face  the  expression  he  often  divines  in  his  sailors  when  they  talk  of  having  a  fun  night  in  town  whenever  they  dock  at  a  new  port.    ❛    why  go  courting  when  i  can  choose  instead  to  enjoy  myself  for  as  long  as  i  wish?    ❜    he  asks,    in  a  tone  of  voice  he’s  heard  plenty  enough  but  has  had  no  opportunity  to  try  on  himself. ❛    i  have  you,    ❜    nara  says,    shrugging.    ❛    you,    ❜    he  repeats,    and  he  comes  nearer  towards  her:    plucking  the  sketches  out  of  her  hands,    but  in  such  a  way  that  he  grabs  them  from  behind  her,    so  that  his  arms  encompass  her  shoulders,    his  body  flush  with  hers.    ❛    you,    ❜    he  emphasises,    ❛    who  can  talk  to  me  about  beauty  and  art  and  poetry    —    and  can  produce  such  charming  little  sketches  such  as  these.    ❜    he  takes  her  hand  in  his,    tracing  the  strokes  of  her  drawing  with  her  fingertips.    ❛    you  do  yourself  a  disservice,    calling  it  dull,    ❜    he  continues.    ❛    you  should  have  this  put  out  at  the  modiste:    a  gorgeous  new  collection,    with  an  absolutely  singular  theme.    i’m  sure  it  will  bewitch  everyone:    the  ladies  in  love  with  the  dresses,    the  gentlemen  in  love  with  the  ladies  wearing  the  dresses.    ❜

– IT ISN'T AS IF LUCY HASN'T RECEIVED GIFTS BEFORE, accustomed to being brought back treasures by certain clients that have grown fond of her over the years. but this is the first she's been given without being asked for something in return – other than her company. she can't help but wonder how much longer this will last. after all, they never do. she could tell you a few stories about that. " see, you can be clever, " she teases, nose crinkling slightly at the flattery. " the ladies of the ton will be in trouble if you are courting this season. "

there's a brief but discerning look in her eyes. she always withholds judgement, and today is no different. " well, if it's difficult, then you should not force it, " she dips her head slightly, meeting his gaze, " make your thoughts not your prisoners, they say. the words will come to you when you need them. but i shall miss them in the meantime. "

she reaches over to produce her latest sketches. they're adventurous, grand costuming meant for a production of a midsummer night's dream. " they are fairly rudimentary, " she disclaims. " but with a little work . . . "

[enheriter]

abbey  green,    as  it  always  did,    absorbed  his  attention  for  far  longer  than  might  be  called  sensible:    everywhere  is  the  triumph  of  sight  and  sound;    hawkers  calling  out  their  wares,    talking  in  hyperbole  so  exaggerated  it  is  almost  a  wonder  that    —    for  example    —    disease  still  existed  when  mr.    hardyngg’s  miracle  serum  could  allegedly  cure  any  ailment  known  to  man,    including    (    but  perhaps  most  especially    )    male  pattern  baldness.    aloysius  is  fortunately  not  so  afflicted,    but  came  nearer  nevertheless:    a  cure  for  all  ailments,    you  say?    asking  as  if  he  was  a  researcher,    on  the  search  for  the  panacea  once  sought  by  newton  and  kelley,    and  from  this  hawker  could  come  the  solution  for  everything.    it  had  been,    truth  be  told,    a  charming  conversation    —    though  it  would  be  folly  to  even  believe  a  tenth  of  all  the  seller’s  claims    —    and  he  had  come  away  feeling  as  if  it  was  time  well  spent.    he  resolved  to  go  home,    pockets  filled  with  the  pamphlets  proclaiming  the  benefits  of  this  so-called  miracle  cure,    when  he  heard  the  voice  calling  out  to  him,    turning  ‘round  just  as  the  young  woman  closed  the  distance  between  them.    ❛    duchess  kensington?    ❜    he  asks,    voice  conveying  his  disbelief.    yet  he  doesn't  waste  his  time  asking    why  are  you  here?    instead  shaking  his  head,    before  greeting  her  with  a  smile.    ❛    that  copy  is  yours,    ❜    he  speaks,    hands  taking  out  the  folded  pieces  from  his  pockets:    almost  overflowing,    which  was  probably  why  the  slip  of  paper  had  come  away  so  easily.    ❛    it  pleases  me  to  inform  you  that  the  cure  for  everything  apparently  rests  undiscovered  and  underutilised  in  a  stall  in  abbey  green  in  our  fair  city  of  london.    ❜    he  adds.

open ; location: abbey green

Etta typically delights in taking strolls about town when allowed. Of course she's chaperoned by some ladies maids, though they've been around the estate long enough to know her and trust her, and vice versa. She doesn't feel stifled or controlled when she's with people from her manor, as long as it's not her mother, so Etta relaxes a touch as she walks along Abbey Green, letting her eyes drift along the storefronts, wondering if she ought to let her whims take hold and give in to the window shopping in order to alleviate her restlessness. What her eye instead catches from a distance is the fluttering of something falling out of someone's pockets or purse, unbeknownst to the owner. "Wait! Excuse me, wait!" she calls, hoisting her skirts up with one hand and trying to hail them with the other as she starts to pick up into a run after them. She can hear her ladies maids calling after her not to be so careless, but she's entirely too focused on her new escapade as she scoops up the object from the ground and closes the distance with the unsuspecting target. "Just a moment, you've dropped this!" she tries one more time, hoping they'll finally hear her.

[enheriter]

❛    as  a  man  of  the  sea,    ❜    narayana  speaks,    ❛    you  must  forgive  me  for  recommending  coleridge’s  rime  of  the  ancient  mariner.    ❜    deft  fingers  take  out  a  copy  of  the  said  poem:    so  familiar  is  he  with  the  layout  of  this  place,    knowledge  gleaned  from  visits  oft-made,    that  he  barely  even  looks;    hands  pulling  out  the  tome  almost  like  reflex  action,    barely  even  thought  about.    ❛    some  critics  say  it  is  obscure,    ❜    the  commodore  says,    in  a  tone  of  voice  that  makes  it  very  clear  what,    exactly,    he  thinks  of  those  critics,    ❛    but  it  opens  itself  up  to  you  very  easily,    if  you  just  let  it  breathe  —    as  you  must  for  every  poem.    ❜    it’s  clear  that  this  is  a  topic  he  could  talk  endlessly  about,    but  he  stops  himself:    his  hands  pull  out,    in  yet  another  gesture  that  makes  him  look  as  if  he  is  picking  by  random,    another  tome.    ❛    but  if  that  doesn’t  sound  enticing,    here’s  a  more    —    accessible  poet  who  writes  about  his  own  sea  voyages.    ❜    and  of  course,    he  would  know  this,   for  he  is  that  very  poet  he  now  recommends,    his  words  published  under  a  pseudonym.

open ; location: almon's books

Cabell has made his way to the bookstore after hearing his younger sister's offhand request for more poetry books around the house. He finds himself a little stumped, however, when he realizes he's forgotten to ask her the names of any authors or titles he could recognize as he scans the shelves. "Excuse me, might you have any insight on what an inquiring young mind would most gravitate towards?" he asks the nearest patron, keeping his voice polite and quiet. He is very much an enjoyer of fine arts, but that is unfortunately limited to simply enjoying and not yet retaining information on names of great works or which authors are worth their salt.

[enheriter]

❛    well,    yes,    ❜    he  admits  very  easily,    pleased  at  the  sound  of  laughter  coming  out  of  her  mouth.    ❛    i  would  in  fact  have  done  the  very  same,    ❜    he  continues,    ❛    only  i  would  have  made  it  so  that  i  didn’t  get  caught.    ❜    her  light  slap  is  met  with  the  most  drawn-out  groan.    ❛    oh,    is  this  what  the  youth  of  today  indulge  in  nowadays?    cruelty  against  their  elders?    ❜    he  teases,    but  the  gesture    —    playful  and  light  and  absolutely  so  normal  between  the  two  of  them    —    cements  the  notion  he’s  been  floating  in  his  head:    he  must  attend  to  her  matches,    considering  there  is  nothing  else  for  him  to  pay  attention  to  for  the  season.    ❛    i’m  sure  we  can  find  you  some  fine  gentleman  who  values    —    let’s  call  that  boxing  trait  of  yours,    hm,    assertiveness,    i  should  say,    in  a  wife,    ❜    he  muses  out  loud,    but  then  the  expression  on  his  face,    once  teasing,    turns  into  genuine  concern.    ❛    nobody  has  given  you  actual  cause  for  beating  them  into  a  pulp  outside  of  the  ring,    i  should  hope?    ❜

𝕸ingxia couldn't help but laugh at him reminiscing on a childhood memory. "Those treats were delicious and you would have done it too!" Giving him a light slap on his chest in a playful jest, she had the biggest smile on her face. They were most definitely the loudest in the park, but they paid no mind to it. "It is...ridiculous! That I have to have my interests and hobbies on a list to be bought by a man. I am in no way prepared for this. Unless beating men to a pulp is a valued trait for a wife in the Ton."