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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Avrenne has been cordially invited to spend a weekend at her fiance's house to discuss their two goals of a navy and a marriage, and begin the merger of their households. The first order of business is to find out if Sintha can outlast Isla in pure enthusiasm, and for Siamus and Avrenne to plot out how exactly to make this navy concept work. There's a lot of math, and a lot of business talk. There's a whole lot of lingering looks. Nerds. 9900-ish words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Arc: Ringside Seats
Chain: Siarenne
The weekend has dawned clear and cool, with a promise of early-summer warmth. For now, though, it is a rosy morning, a few soft streaks of cloud on a pearl-blue sky, dew still glittering on the grass. The craggy Gothic crenellations of Fallon House are not quite so gentle-looking as they were at sunset on the evening of the Gala, but nor does it look forbidding today; stately is perhaps the word.
The grounds and gardens are as Avrenne remembers, the viburnum perhaps in showier, snowier bloom by now. On the steps of the house, beside the gravel-paved drive, Barbour the butler is waiting, flanked by a pair of immaculate, courteously impassive footmen. (One of them is the footman with the eyepatch, but, you know. Otherwise immaculate.)
Avrenne arrives in force. Or at least with some of it. The carriage is clearly rented, and manned by Finley, dressed much more casually than his usual butler persona. He hops down with the spring like ease of a man in his early 20s to open the door of it.
The first out is Avrenne herself, dressed in a long sleeved, relatively high-necked, deep green and pink dress that feels very floral, the skirt of it flowing and fluttery. Her hair is pinned back in a simple bun, not quite as severe or tight as she usually wears it.
Behind her is a young girl with dark hair in a long braid, no older than 15-years-old, who immediately trips trying to get out of the carriage, and is immediately caught by Finley with an exasperation of an older brother. "Sorry, sorry, I'm fine." She's wearing a simple dress of a soft yellow, but it looks exceptionally well made, as if by a master who was trying to get "a ball of sunshine" into the sense of a dress and succeeded.
Following Isla is a short man, no more than a few inches taller than Avrenne, whose age is a little ambiguous. He's round cheeked, and his strawberry blond hair fluffs out around him like a little halo of curls, with wide eyes taking in the flowers as he climbs out of the carriage. Everything about him seems a little soft and very shy.
The carriage dips a little in the change of weight as the final occupant leaves it — this is not a child. This is a much older man, someone who could be Avrenne's father's age, in his 60s at the least, and though he's currently dressed in simple clothing of a well made short sleeved shirt and sturdy pants, it's obvious from his manner and his build that he is the muscle of the family. He's gone a little stocky with it, no longer a trim man, but that is still muscle under there, and he stands by Avrenne like a knight in attendance.
One of the footmen immediately turns to open the door of the manor and step within; Barbour and the other footman descend. "Your Grace," says Barbour warmly, and he and the other man both bow. "Shine has gone to alert my lord and lady." He gestures to the footman at his shoulder to begin collecting luggage.
Shine returns only a moment later to the front steps, followed by another footman and a pair of maids; Shine and his comrade move to assist with the luggage, while the maids curtsey to the Duchess and her retinue.
"Moirin and Lyra will show your people about, if it please you, and to their rooms," Barbour adds, and surveys the members of the Esprit household kindly.
"There you are, darling!" cries a familiar, breathless voice from the house, and Sintha Fallon breezes out, her expression aglow. Her dark hair is loose, and she is dressed in a navy blue blouse with puffed sleeves and a high, buttoned neck, and a high-waisted navy blue skirt. "Gosh, we've been dying, haven't we, Shay?" She comes sweeping across the drive to air-kiss Avrenne.
Her brother, who emerges after her and waits a moment atop the steps to survey the group, does not appear to have been dying, but #okaysintha. He is smiling, a little more warmly than the usual sardonic tilt, though his dark eyes still have that amused gleam. He's dressed rather as he was when Avrenne last saw him, for the contract negotiations, although he wears no cravat now and the neck of his shirt is casually unbuttoned.
After a moment — perhaps waiting for the air-kisses to be dispensed with — he descends the stairs in his sister's wake and crosses the drive to the group as well. He gazes down smilingly at Avrenne a moment. "Your Grace," he says. "I'm pleased you could come."
He reaches for her hand and lifts it for, again, a gentle but actual kiss, before releasing her to consider the others gathered around. "And pleased so many of your people could, as well. No Miss Mercailles, today?"
Avrenne accepts both her air kisses and her real kisses with grace, although there's no mistaking the way she smiles warmly at the sight of Siamus, and the smile remains. "Commodore. Thank you for having us," she says in greeting, and glances back behind her at her retinue. "No. Sophie remains with Daisy and Mr. Latour at home. She sends her greetings though."
Avrenne's retinue is a motley of reactions.
Finley's eyes have gone narrow and calculating at the kiss of Avrenne's hand, but it doesn't look like anger at least, although he's crossed his arms already.
Sir Somer gives Sintha and Siamus correct, formal bows, holding back behind Avrenne with that hovering sense of a knight, his expression kindly if a little bland.
Otto has moved as much behind Sir Somer as he can, peeping out from behind, soft blue eyes going between Sintha and Siamus. N-new people, gosh.
Isla is already writing the fanfiction of the Duchess and the Commodore, watching Avrenne and Siamus with a sparkle so obvious in her eyes that it's amazing they don't manifest, her hands clasped to her chest.
"Hello, Finley," chirps Sintha brightly. He is the one she knows. She smiles with impish conspiracy at Isla. I bet you write amazing fanfic, says that look.
Siamus nods respectfully to Sir Somer, smiles briefly at Otto and Isla, and steps forward to offer a hand to Finley. "Commodore Fallon," he says courteously, as though Finley doesn't know this. His manner says that these people are clearly here as Avrenne's wards, not her servants, and he will receive them as guests.
"Finley Boutille," Finley says, shaking Siamus' hand with a familiarity that suggests he's not here as Avrenne's butler; it's not a too firm handshake at least, but there's something sharp in his face as he meets Siamus' eyes. The last name might be familiar to Siamus.
Avrenne sets her hands in front of her for a moment, dark eyes flicking from Finley to Siamus like she's watching for something to go wrong. But she turns her attention to Sintha, and moves a hand out to gather Isla slightly into it. "Lady Sintha, may I present my youngest ward, Isla Lenaire."
Isla dips into a wobbly curtsy. Still definitely doesn't have it down.
"And my ward Otto Renner," Avrenne says, holding out her other hand. Otto immediately comes forward to take it like a much smaller child might, as though he needs it to actually look at Sintha. He's already blushing hard enough for his face to turn very, very pink. He doesn't bow or curtsy, just stares wide eyed.
As soon as Finley's finished shaking Siamus' hand, Sir Somer steps forward to greet Siamus with an offer of a soldier's handshake, rather than a bow to a nobleman. "Commodore. Sir Geoffrey Somer. An honor to meet you."
"Likewise, Sir Somer." Siamus shakes the man's hand firmly and offers a slight smile. "A pleasure." If he was struck by any sharpness in Finley's expression, he didn't react to it.
Sintha beams at Isla and then at Otto and then — because Otto is looking awfully shy — back at Isla again. "You must call me Sintha," she confides to them both. "We are going to be a household soon, after all, and Lady Sintha is only for company occasions. What sorts of things would you like to do and see? Commodore Fallon and the Duchess are going to do some incredibly tedious things with numbers for a while, so if there's anything you'd like… ? There's the beach, you know, and the gardens and the stables, and there's a library and a games room in the house." She eyes Isla again. "Gosh, I love your dress."
Otto perks up at the mention of the garden. "Avrenne said there was a greenhouse?" His voice is barely audible, and it has a wispy quality to it.
Isla beams back at Sintha, moving in closer, sparkles of enthusiasm following her. "Oh! I want to see everything. Is it true that you have a stables and a harbor and how big is the library and do you really have a telescope — is it on the beach?" Belatedly, she tries for another small curtsy. "Oh. Thank you. It's from Mr. Latour." The dress, probably.
Avrenne nudges Otto a little. "Go on. You can take Sir Somer with you." At the mention of his name, Sir Somer steps forward, offering his hand to Otto, who takes it in that way of transferring from Avrenne to Sir Somer, watching Sintha still. She has access to…flohwers.
"Finley," Avrenne says, looking over at him. There's an unasked question.
Finley is already moving forward with the intent of standing behind Isla. "Yeah." Is the answer.
"Moirin!" calls Sintha to one of the two maids, who steps neatly forward and bobs a curtsey. "Can you fetch Larabie, please, so that Mr. Renner and Sir Somer can see the greenhouses after the gardens?"
"Yes, mum," says the maid, and hurries off back toward the house.
Sintha turns to the two men and smiles kindly. "You may walk wherever you like in the gardens, there's ever-so-much more around the back, and Larabie will come so that he can show you the greenhouse and the hothouse whenever you're ready. He's our gardener, he's absolutely a dear, you'll love him immediately."
She turns to Isla and offers out a sisterly hand. "And you may come with me, and I will show you absolutely everything. We will start inside the house and I'll show you everything on the ground floor and then your rooms if you'd like to freshen and then we can walk the grounds and see the stables and the gardens and the telescope and the beach."
Gosh, what an agenda. She tows Isla merrily away, presumably with Finley in their wake.
Siamus looks down at Avrenne again and, with that faint smile, offers his arm. "I am exhausted just listening to her, sometimes," he says dryly. "I believe she has ye in the same room as last time, if you'd like to go and see to it a moment?"
"Oh, I think she will find that Isla has not only the capacity to keep up, but the advantage of youth to possibly exceed." Avrenne looks fondly after them both, good luck Finley, her hand rising automatically in response to the offered arm, fingers light and proper. "I would like to go to the room first, yes. I need to collect my books from my luggage. I should have everything I require, if I have remembered the necessary components for something like a navy correctly." It is, again, that set softening phrase, but there's absolutely no humility in her voice whatsoever. It's all confidence all the way down. She's prepared.
Siamus smiles wryly down at her. "I very much expect you have, Your Grace," he says with that dry warmth, and escorts her toward the house. He lays his free hand over Avrenne's hand on his arm, a lightly possessive gesture he has not used before. "Lyra will show you up to the room again, aye? In case you've forgotten the way. And then she can bring ye back to my office when you're ready." He is clearly not going to escort the lady to her room himself, because Propriety.
Lyra the maid — a wide-eyed, bird-boned, black-haired girl who could be anywhere from 15 to 25 — glides after them, prepared to take over Guiding The Lady once Lord Fallon has relinquished her at the staircase.
Avrenne's gaze lingers a little longer on Siamus than is probably proper, but she turns to the maid as she slowly drops her hand off Siamus' arm. "Thank you. I do recall the way there," she says, moving with that surety of purpose of hers, that stately walk that shows how sure she is of her course. She doesn't overtake the maid entirely though, to not be rude even in her independence.
Lyra leads her once more to the far western end of the house and the pale rose-grey room with the Many Avrennes Bed and the sea-view balcony. She opens the door for the Duchess to usher her in, and then dips a curtsey. "Effoikin be ofarver sarves, mileedy," she says in a high, soft voice that has been absolutely pickled in Kul Tiran, and steps demurely aside to wait.
"Thank you, I can manage here," Avrenne says, her own accent crisp as a dill pickle spear, cool and refreshing, if not as salty as a Kul Tiran one. She moves to a particular set of luggage, bending to pick it up, open it, and remove a leather satchel that looks a little heavy. She holds onto it by the handle rather than placing the strap over herself, and she closes the luggage once more. She's quick and efficient, and steps back to the doorway ready. "If you could see me to the Commodore's office?"
Lyra drops another curtsey and leads Avrenne not down the hallway from which they came but into a new hall to the left, leading from southwestern toward the northwestern corner of the house. "Isslardshepsrums air vessway," she explains. "Orfis danear."
She leads Avrenne past several closed doors, around another corner, and at last to a heavy wooden door outside which she stops. She knocks twice and then opens the door with another bobbed curtsey to Avrenne.
This room is as masculine and as impeccably-ordered as his townhouse study in the city; it is also larger and more spacious, which only emphasizes the tidiness, as there's too much room for anything to feel cluttered together. A wide window above a bench windowseat at the back of the room overlooks the gardens below — and the telescope terrace. Bookcases flank the window to either side, full of heavy texts, treatises and atlases, as well as a number of odd, presumably-decorative artifacts, like the spiraling horn of a narwhal and an intricate brass orrery. A desk stands before all of these.
One wall of the room is hung with a floor-to-ceiling jigsaw of framed charts and maps, though none of these is either terrestrial or nautical; they are star-charts, and at the center hangs the print the Commodore described to Avrenne on the terrace the night of the gala, a black-and-white rendition of two faces of the surface of Azeroth's smaller moon.
At the opposite wall is a fireplace, and two leather couches face one another across a low coffee table. Atop the table lie a leather portfolio and a ledger, along with a silver tea service. Siamus is standing at the wall, leaning pensively beside the fireplace. He straightens as the door opens for Avrenne, and flashes a smile at her.
Avrenne's eyes go first to Siamus as though drawn by a magnet, and there's an answering small smile back, before she flicks her gaze around the room in that way of someone rapidly taking inventory — her face lights up a little further at the sight of the smaller moon surface in recognition, lingering a half beat longer — before she continues the sweep to get her bearings. It's brief, however, as she directs her attention back to the Commodore and strides forward confidently to the table, holding onto her satchel.
"That's all, Lyra," Siamus tells the maid, who vanishes with another curtsey.
He ushers Avrenne to her choice of couches, and waits until she has sat to take a seat opposite her. "Will ye have some tea?" he asks as he sits. "There's a fair amount for us to cover."
Avrenne sits with that practiced elegance, setting her satchel to the side. "Thank you, yes."
Siamus pours her a cup of Tea, Plain, with grave courtesy, and sets cup and saucer before her on the table before pouring a second cup of Tea, Plain, for himself. "It's strong, if ye don't mind," he warns her wryly. "They know I take it black as tar. If it doesn't suit, I'll have them bring another."
He sets his saucer before him on the table and immediately lifts his cup for a sip; he doesn't use the handle, but holds the cup with thumb and two fingers offset around the rim, tipping it carefully. Sintha would have a tantrum if she saw it. Siamus doesn't seem to realize he's doing it.
When he replaces the cup on the saucer, he unbuttons his cuffs and begins casually to roll his sleeves; it is Work Time now, not Guest Time. "I've numbers for ye and I've plans to go wi' the numbers," he says, and reaches to pull the portfolio to the center of the table.
Avrenne picks up her cup properly, with a delicate touch, and takes a sip. She smiles faintly at the taste, and sets it down again. "The tea suits fine, Commodore." It sounds sincere, and unfeigned. It's just been put down because it's Business Avrenne time.
"Wonderful," she says as she directs her attention to the portfolio, and her hands move a little as though to reach for it, some sense of eagerness in the gesture as though she genuinely cannot wait to get her hands on it.
Siamus glances at the gesture and smiles faintly. He flips the portfolio open to reveal, atop the rest of the papers, a series of blueprints. "Ships," he explains, although this is probably evident even to the seasick Duchess. "The models we'll want. They're no' all ships of the line, some support and transport vessels, but in the main it's warships.
"The bulk of them are Tirasian-designed frigates, no' these clumsy marchant things the Alliance has got now." He draws a blueprint from the stack and lays it out for Avrenne. "These are your third-rates — two gun decks, between 64 and 80 guns mounted — and while I expect it'll be tempting for some to want to sink money straightaway into first- and second-rates —" He glances up at Avrenne. "Ah, those are gun classes, aye? First-rates are three decks, no less than a hundred guns; second-rates are three decks, wi' 90 or 98 guns. But the size and firepower on those is wasted on what the Alliance calls sailors right now; third-rates are the best compromise wi' firepower and speed, maneuverability."
He pauses. "We'll want ninety."
He slides the blueprints aside and shows her ledger pages beneath. "These are the numbers. Wood, canvas, rope, tar, iron…. Well, ye can see it all marked. This column is the total per ship, and so these are the totals for thirty ships, sixty, ninety — I've no idea what costs will be in bulk for some of these materials, I've ne'er bought for thirty ships at a time before myself." He lifts the ghost of a smile to Avrenne. "Space to build will be the problem; I've got slips at Fallon Harbor, and there are those in Starmwend Harbor as well, but to build at this quantity we'll need to find more."
"Mm." Avrenne's attention remains on the numbers and the blueprints. If she's noticed that he's rolled up his sleeves, she's hiding it well. "Did you factor in labor costs separately as the whole of the cost per ship, or as part of the materials individually in each case?" Her eyes are on the numbers of the costs, flicking back and forth between the materials and the costs, and you can almost hear the wheels starting to spin in her mind as she does rapid math.
"Labor's included in the total," he says, and turns the page. "But I've broken it out here. Some of it we may have to import. From Starmsong, I mean. I have… some contacts there, I can probably bring us a few foremen to oversee. But standard shipbuilding crews here can be trained up quick enough wi' the right oversight. I did factor that in as well, here." He indicates another set of notations in his distinctive, spiky, calligraphic hand, and then turns the page.
"I've broken guns out separately as well — that is, they're included front page wi' the total costs and materials, but I expect we'd be best served wi' dwarven labor on those, so I set that accounting aside here." He taps another precise, spiky column of figures.
Avrenne makes an affirmative sound. "And some of these things could be, temporarily at least, assembled on an offsite, though not ideal for the long term functionality, but I will need to look at how the numbers work for adding in transportation and time saved to see if it's worth it, or if it would be better to expedite the expansion of a shipyard first," she almost murmurs it, in that distracted voice of someone thinking out loud as she watches his fingers on the numbers. Her hand reaches out for her satchel, opening it to pull out a heavy looking book, setting it beside her, her attention still on the numbers on the page.
Siamus flashes her another quick, slight smile. He picks up his tea again in that peculiar, casual fashion to drink. When he sets it down, he shifts another couple of inches forward on the couch, bending over the portfolio again. "Here's where our biggest obstacle is, though: Personnel. Right now we've got Alliance ships crewed half wi' sailors and half wi' infantry, which is bloody criminal management, frankly. Ye need marines: sailors and fighting men at once. And ye need plenty of them, and they'll need training up.
"There's some time to get that done while the ships are being built, but finding the bodies for it is a problem. We've been throwing men into infantry and cavalry and burning through numbers o' both since the last war; between Outland and Narthrend, they're still being chewed up faster than we can make more." A slight lift of his gaze to hers, and then he looks back to the page again. "We'll need recruiting, some way to attract men to the service and get them trained. It's fair possible that some o' the sailors and infantry out there right now will be interested in proper retraining as marines. Beyond that…." He spreads his hands and sits back.
Avrenne seems to be considering it, her fingers still on her book like she's keeping it there to absorb the information through the touch. Wheels go brrrrr. "Publicity, and attracting the public to service," she says quietly, in that thoughtful, distracted voice. Her eyes are on the page still, but she's not really seeing it. "Lord Ference will be a valuable ally there. He has a talent for attracting talent. The key will be having him direct it to the navy. Then there are the draenei. They do not have sea experience, but they do have things very like a ship, and it may not be so difficult a leap, to add in a new force of option. I have a few contacts at the Exodar and in Shattrath who would be worth looking into for their forces. There are also the Broken, as they call themselves, who may be willing to serve in that way." She's clearly just talking out loud, but she lifts her eyes to Siamus.
He is watching her with that glittering amusement that says he's impressed and he's enjoying being impressed. "I'd no' have thought of that," he concedes. "The draenei, nor the Broken. That's good. Good thinking." He inclines his head respectfully to her, smiling.
Avrenne smiles back, a warm one, but she allows it to break through. She reaches over to take a sip of her tea. Ahem. Serious face. "Publicity is always difficult. But, there is a reason why my father had me attend Lord Ference's military plays — if we want to adjust public sentiment, the arts are a way to do so. Lord Tennerow and Lord Amerith would be likely easy to persuade to invest in some subtle and not-so-subtle pushes of that agenda in those forms, to shift the narrative to where we might want it to be. At the moment, most people have no idea how bad it really is. They can't see it. They are left to imagine what they think the navy is, or remember what it was and assume that it remains so. That needs to be addressed. I have already begun speaking to those I know who could push things in that direction."
Avrenne shrugs a little. "But it will not give us numbers today, unfortunately. It will, however, direct where we know we must address the problem long term."
Siamus settles back against his couch, draping an arm across the top of it, and surveys Avrenne with an approving, black-eyed glint. "Brilliant," he says, and just continues to look at her for a moment.
At last he says, "Publicity's very much no' my strong suit, as Ta would be delighted to tell ye. I expect you'll go a long way toward righting that course for us."
Avrenne's smile returns, and she holds Siamus' gaze a little too long, before she flicks her eyes to her tea. Oh, an excellent excuse to lean forward and shift slightly as she drinks. "In the meantime, I can do a little more with what we have." She sets her teacup down and looks at the plans for a moment, and then back up at Siamus.
"I would like to adjust some of these numbers, if I may. It will take me a bit of time, although not as long as it would be from scratch, obviously, since I am only adjusting them." A faint smile. "I would appreciate your company, as I will have questions as I go, but it'll likely be very boring to watch, as I'll just be doing quite a lot of math." She doesn't know him very well yet; it's fine. "But, I could write them down for later, if you would rather do something else while I work on the ones I am sure of."
"I would be very glad to watch," he says, with every indication of gentlemanly courtesy except, perhaps, something in the words themselves. He cannot help himself; he was drawn this way. "And to answer any questions ye have. But I'm afraid I must insist, Your Grace, that ye remember I'm a man who's marrying for math. Don't assume I'll be bored watching ye work it."
Avrenne makes that polite, closed mouth laugh that contains a suggestion of a hum of her real one, and looks over at the desk. "Might I borrow your desk, Commodore?" It's a gentle ask, and a genuine one, rather than a demand phrased as a question.
"By all means." He rises to his feet and moves to offer her a hand up, unnecessarily but chivalrously.
Avrenne takes it automatically, standing carefully with the skirts of her dress to avoid a tangle of them, adjusting them as she stands.
He gives her fingers a light squeeze and steps back to allow her passage. "Shall I bring your books?" He indicates her satchel.
"Oh, thank you," Avrenne says, glancing back at it. She looks like she's going to end up grabbing at least part of the navy plans with that same sort of eagerness as before to actually touch them to be able to look through them. New math! Exciting!
Siamus steps back to collect her satchel and — carefully — the portfolio of the navy plans for her, to escort her to the desk with them. He sets them down on the immaculate surface and goes back to the coffee table for her tea cup, which he also brings to the desk. "Pencils in the top right drawer, if ye need," he tells her, and pulls out the desk chair for her.
"Mm," Avrenne says, as she sits with that same careful elegance, adjusting her dress. She removes from her satchel a gnomish pen, a bag of something that sounds like lightweight metal tools — th-there might be a protractor in there — and a notebook that when she opens it reveals that it's graphed paper. She seems to prefer to work in pen
Siamus does not step away at once but lingers for a moment to lean over her shoulder, resting his knuckles lightly on the desk beside her, to consider her implements as she lays them out. He is close enough for a moment that his cologne — light, crisp, herbaceous — is perceptible, as well as the faint, clean note of sea salt.
"Lovely," he says, and straightens away to move idly to a bookcase.
Is that a faint flush to her cheeks? Possibly. "Might I write directly on it? I don't have to — I can take notes for you to apply later. It just saves a step, if you do not mind me marking it up."
"On my figures? Ye may write whatever ye like. Obviously don't touch the ship plans. If ye please."
"Oh, no, course not. I meant only the numbers," Avrenne says. She draws the ledger of the figures closer, her fingers stroking down the lines of them in a light caress. Mmm. Numbers. Her other hand she sets on the large book next to her. She starts reading down the figures for the navy again, as though checking once more, looking at each particular.
And then there's the click of her pen, and the sound of sharp, decisive writing as she strikes out some figures, making rapid adjustments; it's immediately clear that it's a more simple math going on there — just a small adjustment of a base price of the same resource from the same location. It's mentally calculated and adjusted for what she seems to believe she can get the price to be; a little less here, and a little less there. There's only a few, and she moves through them quickly.
With those done, she moves onto the more difficult work. The real math starts, and the book gets involved, as she starts working on the larger quantities, and the resources that will need to be bought over time, applying in some cases short marginal cost calculus, and in others, a more complex long run marginal cost, as she checks various figures repeatedly through her book — they seem to be numbers that have already been calculated out in patterns of cost for materials and from where.
"Commodore," she says eventually, tapping a particular part of a wood order. "Is this because you require this specific wood, this specific sort of grain density, or this quantity overall? Is there any wiggle room for the wood to be either lower than the 600 to 900 range of the density of oak?"
"Lower? No." He pauses. "I'd consider pine or cedar if it's no' below 500, but I won't love it. Oak's my preference. I'm looking to float a sound navy, no' a cheap one." He softens this last remark with a slight smile: I understand you're not suggesting otherwise. "The density's important. She's got to resist rot and hold watertight. Teak or mahogany would be better, because denser yet, but obviously no' for the cost. Oak's as cost-effective as I'd like to get."
He turns back to the bookcase and draws out a volume, then returns to the couch to settle by his cup of tea again.
Avrenne nods. It's clear that she's just checking. "I know of some options that would be just on that range, but for oak…" She trails off, as she makes another notation on her scratch paper. "It doesn't have to come from the same place…" is muttered before she falls silent again, calculating out two separate equations for what looks to be two different sources, pricing them both out over time, and then she marks the differences.
"Have you looked into the shipyards of the kaldorei?" She asks as she examines another set of numbers in her book, and then the numbers from Siamus' ledger. She has started a graph of something — that looks like it's probably her trying to solve for the question of do they expand the shipyard first, or do they work slower on the shipyard while they use other assembly locations and transport it, based on the locations she knows for labor and relative space to the harbor options.
"I have no'. All my own shipping's been built here or in Tiragarde. I have some experience wi' the Starmwend and Menethil yards — familiar wi' their people, wi' ships they've turned out — but I've no' built with 'em myself. Kalimdor, no. But I'll take the building of them anywhere so long as they can build exact to plan and wi' the right materials." He pauses. "Anywhere except Theramore."
Mildly, he flips open the book he's selected from the shelf, and then leans forward to pick up his tea again.
Avrenne looks up at that, her gaze on him for just a beat or two, something noted in those dark eyes, and then she returns to her math. "Mm. I will need to find out exactly what that labor cost will look like, but there are some resources here that I know I can get a better price from in Kalimdor, and if we do not need to ship it, then I like some of these prices better. If they must be shipped, then there are others closer to those locations that will be less expensive in the end." It's that distracted tone, like she's mostly talking to herself, as she writes. "So far, what I can see looks like we might be best served in a few short term off-site assembling, and stretching the expansion of the shipyard out, but I will need some of those other numbers to be absolutely sure."
Siamus nods mildly; whether she's aware of it or not in her distraction is another matter.
He drinks some tea, pages through the book in his lap, stops and runs his finger down one side of the page. He leans forward to lay the open book on the table and rises, tea in hand, to cross to the other bookcase this time. Low, flat drawers have been built into it, and he sets his teacup on a shelf so that he can pull one of the drawers out. He pages carefully through a series of charts collected there, lifts one, holds it up to survey it, and brings it back to the coffee table to lay out alongside the book.
Returning to the desk where Avrenne is working, he murmurs a polite pardon as he steps in to open the drawer at her right hand. From within it — from the incredibly orderly series of trays and tins within it — he selects two pencils, a drafting compass, and — yes — a protractor. He closes the drawer and returns to the coffee table.
(Yes, he has forgotten his tea on the shelf.)
Avrenne's writing slows when he gets closer, though she keeps her eyes very fixed on her work — possibly a little too fixed, like she's deliberately not looking at his arm — but her eyes flick to follow him back as he walks away. She returns to her work, drinking the last of her tea in a single long swallow.
There's the sound of her pen writing faster, and then several flips of her book, more writing, and then finally a faint sound of frustration. She's looking back and forth between the ledger, her scratch paper, and her book like they're three children standing over a broken vase and one of them definitely did it — she just wants to know which one did it.
Siamus is by now absorbed in marking up the chart on the table, carefully, precisely, with protractor and compass and some information in the book beside him. He pages back and forth, pauses to work out an equation in the margins of the book, returns to the chart to make a note.
At Avrenne's frustrated noise he arches a brow but doesn't stop working immediately; after a moment, though, when the scratch of her pen doesn't resume, he glances up. "Something amiss, Your Grace? Is it in my figures?" His tone says it is definitely not in my figures, but respectfully.
"No, no, your figures are lovely," Avrenne says immediately, warmth in her voice. "Market volatility. If I could guarantee that we were the only ones buying from two locations, I could get another 2% reduction, but I simply cannot. I know that the Ulmer family contracts out of that mine regularly, but not regularly enough to predict, and if the Lorrans decide finally on a quarry this year, and it's this one…" She shakes her head.
"I have no way at all to ensure that they don't. I would need to set that up to halt them, or encourage them to go elsewhere, but if I do, then I would need to redirect them to other resources I have already set now for the others, which would alter other figures that should be as they are. Which means finding yet another location that would suit them that would also not be useful for us, that I could convince them to use." She tilts her head back, exposing the line of her throat in that sense of vague frustration of someone who can't control everything, gosh, but what if she could.
Siamus watches her for a moment, smiling that smile. "Well. Ye don't have to solve it all here and now at my desk, do ye? I'd happily keep ye there all weekend, but if there's no' a little time for other matters, Ta will see me drawn and quartered. Clear your thoughts a bit, now and again."
Avrenne looks over at him, a rueful smile on her face. "I like to do it all once, whenever I can, so I have all the numbers fresh in my head. But, if I get up and start pacing, it's probably time to set me at some flowers or something for a bit, or I will wear a line through your floor. I just hate when it's apparent that I'll have to come back much later, when I can see a very clear path of a direct line of the best possible choice, but it's within a vacuum, of a perfect world. And I cannot, in good conscience, price that one out. I will have to use three other sources combined for now, and a much smaller margin of saving, but I can guarantee it."
She turns her attention back to her work, pen starting up again as she starts up three more formulas to price out the market for the locations. "And I should say, I enjoy it. Even when it's frustrating. I would happily stay here for days working out every detail in full, fueled on nothing but tea and numbers." There's a soft playful tease in the voice.
"Well, then," says Siamus dryly, and sets down drafting compass and pencil to get to his feet. He picks up the teapot and brings it to the desk to pour her some more. "Let it never be said I'd come between a mermaid and her maths." He leans again at her shoulder for a moment to watch her work and makes a soft, thoughtful sound.
Avrenne pauses as he pours her more tea and there's a brief, fleeting softer look on her face, before she blinks it back and away. She continues with what she's doing, tracking three resources out simultaneously, and crunching the numbers into the average cost expected, and makes the adjustment for the ledger, with the new locations noted. She writes an angular hand, clear and, if one wanted to call it something, slightly rectangular in nature. Her notebook is already covered in various calculations — some of which seemed to have been solving for something as she determined which parts of his numbers came from what, and then plugged it into another formula for herself — and the ledger has been marked in most places.
She looks up and raises her brows at the sound. "Mm?"
"Clever," he says, and smiles down at her, his gleaming black gaze fixed briefly on her face. "I like a bit o' neat work."
He drops a finger to the page of her notebook to trace a series of equations along, nods, checks the adjustment in the ledger and nods again. "I'll be glad to show ye Fallon's books later, if ye'd like them. But one project at a time."
Avrenne's smile grows bright, not unlike the one she gave him after seeing Musca, like that would be a genuine delight, and she doesn't wipe it off as she turns back to her numbers. "Well, in truth, I am almost done for what I can do today, off the top of my head. Some of these I would need more time to investigate specifically for those numbers." She taps a few of them. "Do you know if the designs for the guns would accommodate fel iron on a few components? It will alter the overall weight of it, I should say, if that is a factor."
Siamus considers this seriously, leaning closer over her again to study the numbers. "Weight's important in shipbuilding, just as density. It'll depend what the total difference is, aye? I've no' as much experience wi' Outland materials, myself. If ye can work out for me the total shift per ship — assume 72 guns per — I'll know how feasible." He turns his head to smile at her again.
Avrenne pauses for just a few seconds, and then, off the top of her head, writes it out in quick flicks of her pen solving as she goes. She underlines her answer. "That would be the difference, if I could alter just the one component. It will be a slight increase now, but the long term maintenance will be reduced significantly. It's one I've looked into for my own contracts for just that reason, but I do not have to worry about weight the same way." She looks up at Siamus, brows raised in the question whether or not that is feasible or not.
He considers it, tips his head, his gaze going distant with his own calculations.
"Aye," he says after a moment. "That's workable. Aye. My concern would be wi' how she rides in the water, weight up on gun-decks like that, but we can account for it. Let me — if I can have my numbers back a minute?" He's already reaching for his ledger, taking another pencil from the drawer.
He unfolds one of the ship blueprints, flips to an unused back page of the ledger, and begins to make a swift series of calculations, glancing back and forth. "It might mean taking two guns off each ship, which changes the overall again. Still no' put us much back in effectiveness, and if it's better maintenance…." He makes a seesawing motion with his hand. Same difference.
He shifts where he's standing so that he can bend to work quickly and without crowding against Avrenne's shoulder. "And then… aye. I'd think that the safest course. If there's any of this we're no' sure on after numbers are run, I'll do a proof of concept at Fallon Harbor, but it's fair standard stuff for us and this all looks watertight."
Avrenne watches him work because he's doing things, eyes following every movement. That's allowed, isn't it? Seems legit. When he stops, she looks back at the numbers. "It's significantly better maintenance," she says, and there's a pleased sound in her voice. "I've calculated them out multiple times, had several examples prototyped and tested to prove the math was sound, and the difference is over two standard deviations from mean — even assuming incompetence in the maintenance — every time. The fel iron simply does not wear the same way, not in any stress tests. It was a remarkable discovery. The problem is that you cannot replace the full of it, because the weight becomes impossible to move even over land, and both shipping costs and the cost of labor to move them on the field becomes prohibitive."
"And that's maintenance wi' salt water exposure?" Siamus sounds pretty confident that Avrenne already has the answer to that, but he's just got to flag it to be thorough.
"Yes." Avrenne shrugs slightly. "You will not see quite as high a difference because they had four components altered, but this one," she taps her paper with the number, "Was the one that was statistically significant, and performed across salt water, fine and coarse grain sand, snow, ash, and other stress tests. The others were just adding to the overall excellent functionality, but that, I think, adds far too much weight to be worth it."
Siamus nods approvingly. "Good," he says. And then: "Good. As ye say, then. We'll go wi' that."
He pauses, and adds, "Your Grace." His wry tone suggests that he had briefly forgotten he's addressing a Duchess, because they are both just being a couple of nerds right now.
Avrenne smiles at the praise, and it might be clear in how warm the look is that it's not something she hears often. She looks away from him back at the numbers, adjusts her pen completely unnecessarily, and then takes a sip of her tea. There's a sense of a slightly nervous flutter of her fingers with how she sets the cup back down, giving a bit of the lie of how casually she offers, "If you wished, Commodore, you could simply call me 'Avrenne.' At the very least in private, if you were not comfortable using my given name in other places. I would not mind the familiarity." She flicks her gaze up to his at that, looking for a decision on the matter.
He studies her back for a moment, with that dark amusement, and then nods once, courteously. "I'd be honored. Thank ye, Avrenne. Will ye no' call me Siamus, then?" He tilts a brow at her.
There's a distinct tint of color at the use of her name, a very faint blush, but she holds his eyes. "With your permission, I would, yes."
"I would be very pleased," he says, his gaze and his tone equally warm, "if ye would call me Siamus, Avrenne." And then there is that slight retreat into sardonic humor he does so often: "And ye may call me it wherever ye please, since my sister will go about calling me 'Shay' to whomever she bloody well pleases, herself."
Avrenne makes a thoughtful sound at that. "I'm not one for nicknames myself — I have an old friend who is allowed to use one, but only because of how old the friendship is. Your sister did mention that it's rather personal, your nicknames for each other. I wondered if…" She pauses, and there's something tentative in her voice. "I had heard her call you so before, but I had not heard yours for hers until recently, and the thought occurred to me that it was interesting, that both of your nicknames seemed to be, well. What we foreigners must get wrong about your names, when seeing them written in particular. S-i-a. T-h-a. Our unfamiliarity leading to repeated corrections, that sense of distance." She clears her throat a little, and moves to take a sip of her tea. "I may be reading more into that than there really is," she allows. "It just seemed like a little In Between sort of signal, to me."
Siamus stares at her for a long moment, and there is something simultaneously wary and wondering in his gaze. "The way ye do that," he says at last. "Tides ha'mercy, the mind on you."
He straightens and smiles down at her. "Well, and you're right, aye." He hesitates. There's still that strange scrutiny in his eyes. "And the way ye say that. 'We foreigners.'"
Avrenne looks up at him, eyes serious and thoughtful. "We all sort of still are that, to each of us. Lordaeron foreign to Stormwind, Stormwind foreign to Kul Tiras, and so on. It's that perspective, in each place, shifting who is the foreign one." She shrugs, a small movement of her shoulders. "I was young, when Stormwind fell, and they came to Lordaeron. I viewed them as 'foreigners,' and I did not think much of it in my youthful ignorance and surety of what was the center of the world. Until it was reversed, and I realized that now…I was the foreigner, permanently, the center shifted. It gave me a lot of insight into what it means to always been seen as 'other.'
"For better or worse, there are still lines, and it is not always worse to have those different perspectives, foreign as they may sometimes be. It enriches us all, when done right, but it creates distance when done wrong. It is part of why I feel so strongly that we need voices like yours and Morgauna's on the House. At the moment, other races look at 'humanity' and…" She shakes her head a little. "They think 'Stormwind,' because it is the biggest one they encounter the most often. But smaller doesn't mean less significant. Lordaeron's culture, Kul Tiras' culture, Gilneas' culture…they all matter. We do not need to homogenize to be stronger together, and we can try to realize we are all between foreigners and united simultaneously."
He is smiling at her, still gazing. "No," he says. "Aye. And I believe it as well, whole-hearted. It's just — Ta and I are reminded regularly here that we're foreigners. Rare it ever occurs to anyone else they're foreign to us as well."
His stare is nearly uncomfortable in its intensity now; he seems to realize that, and breaks it to consider the papers on the desk. "It's easier for us to feel kin here, I think, wi' the people of Lordaeron or elsewhere. And we would all — including Starmwend itself — be well served to have some of those voices, the dispossessed, among those on the House."
Avrenne has no trouble holding his gaze, and there's something riveted in her expression, as though some of the rest of the world has started to fade away, but when he breaks it, she seems to have a moment of her eyes roving around for somewhere to land like he's suddenly pulled away and she has almost lost her balance. Her eyes catch on the ledger. Oh, good. Numbers. Safe numbers.
"Yes. Perspective that is necessary, especially at the top. Representatives of the human part of the Alliance in truth, as much as we can." She takes another sip of her tea, sets the cup back down and touches the ledger with a well manicured hand. "And, of course, part of that is a real navy. I could never build something like this alone despite every connection I have, even if I can recognize its need. We cannot do this without you, Siamus." There's something much softer in her voice with his name, even if she can't quite look at him when she uses it, her eyes on his ledger instead.
There's a brief silence and then he sets a hand lightly on her shoulder. "Well, and nor could I wi'out you, as it happens. I've only been trying to get them to hear me for seven years now. I'm grateful to ye, Avrenne." His tone is soft and serious. His hand doesn't linger; he lifts it almost at once, and steps away to return to the couch and the chart on the table.
As he sits, he glances around for his teacup, doesn't find it, and frowns.
Again those eyes follow him back, even if there's a resume to the sound of her pen, adjusting the numbers. A brief pause, and though she seems to now only be looking at the ledger, she asks, "Is something wrong?"
"Tea," he says. "I've mislaid it."
Avrenne — in that way of hers of how she knew precisely where Morgauna was in a crowded ballroom, as though she has been, in fact, tracking his every movement all along — moves her left hand to point with mathematical elegance of the shortest distance between the points of herself and the teacup directly at the cup on the shelf, her attention still on the numbers as she continues calculations. "Oh, just there, if I recall correctly."
"Ah," he says, sounding faintly startled. "Thank you." He rises again to go collect it. "A useful lady in more ways than one." He sounds amused again. Is that a compliment, Siamus? Is it really, though? All the ladies love it when you call them useful.
It probably says something about Avrenne that it makes her smile more than being called a "picture" had, a warm, pleased look there briefly on her face before it returns to that careful composure as she sets her left hand back down on the desk. She concentrates once more on what she's doing, writing quickly.
Siamus returns to his own work, topping up his tea and then leaning over his book and chart again. For a time he works in silence — the rustle of a turned page, the brief scratch of pencil — but after a time he begins to hum quietly, absent-mindedly.
The melody is light and lilting and there is a peculiar sense of ritual to it, as though his movements back and forth — book to chart, the line of his finger across the paper, the arc of the compass and a swift tick of pencil, chart back to book — are being guided by it, or guiding it themselves. He seems absolutely unaware he's doing it.
Avrenne, on the other hand, seems acutely aware. The moment the humming begins her lips part slightly, her breathing goes shallow, and her writing slows down, almost as though afraid that if she does anything to alert to her presence, it'll stop.
Eventually though, she does run out of numbers to adjust. And her pen stops writing. She doesn't say anything, however, as though hoping to let the moment last just a little bit longer.
It does; Siamus is unaware and unselfconscious. Even when there's a knock and the door opens to admit Sintha herself, he doesn't stop immediately, still absorbed in the rhythm and ritual. Only when Sintha says, "Stars above, don't be morbid, Shay. Is it the fleet?" does he look up, re-orienting himself.
He doesn't answer her, but lays his pencil down and sits back. "What now, plague mouse?"
Sintha smiles sweetly at him, and then turns her bright attention to Avrenne. "Are you quite bored to death? Because there's luncheon out in the garden, and you might have a break now for some fun, surely. I believe your charges have been having a lovely time, but you might want to have a little check-in with them so they don't think Shay's abducted you."
"On the contrary, I have been enjoying myself," Avrenne says. Given the small smile on her face, it seems likely to be true. "I am just about done here for today though. A final review of where we are with the numbers now," she looks over at Siamus at that, her hand reaching over to touch a part of the ledger. "And I think we can leave it for the moment, until more information can be acquired to firm up the expected marginal costs, and what remains unknown of the fixed costs."
Siamus rises to his feet and crosses back to the desk. "If ye'd like to be stolen away by Ta and your wards for luncheon, I'd be happy to review the numbers myself here, and if I have questions for ye later we can go over them again. I suspect you've been better than thorough, though. And once we're both agreed, I can have Annai — Miss Curran — make a clean presentation copy."
Avrenne considers it in a moment's pause, her eyes flicking from Siamus to Sintha and then the ledger, that cool composure wrapped around her once more. "If you would prefer, yes. We can always discuss it more at length another time." She takes a last drink of her tea.
"This is about all I can do immediately for the numbers without beginning the process of deliberately starting full negotiations for these other things. These are the expectations so far, that I can say for certain I can acquire." She clicks her pen, writes three more small things in a different blue colored ink, and then clicks it again. "And these," she hovers over the blue inked numbers, tapping it. “In blue, are what I think the House would approve for the treasury with the least amount of resistance, based on my experiences with selling contracts to them.”
The numbers have been adjusted, and sectioned off for the 30/60/90 estimates. At the final count, she has reduced the count of the first 30 ships by a fairly impressive 37.2%. It’s still not enough – she needs to find another 8% somewhere to hit the other number of what she thinks the House will pass. That number of reduction drops significantly at the 60 and 90 ships – a 17.31% and a much smaller 9% evenly. The difficulty in both seems to be on the markets extended that far out in such increasing quantities, and the unknown if they will be fully committing to only the two harbors or expanding into Kalimdor options.
She begins to set her things back into her satchel, quick, efficient movements, moving slightly to shift the skirt of her dress to prepare to stand.
Siamus raises his eyebrows, impressed, and steps back to offer her his hand to rise. Sintha, meanwhile, makes a tiny noise that seems to mean: nerds.
Avrenne takes Siamus' hand with that growing familiarity, a small smile flashing as she stands, her other hand smoothing out her dress in a slightly self-conscious gesture, a faint touch of almost nervousness to it, if one was looking closely.
"Avrenne," says Siamus, and squeezes her hand lightly. To Sintha he says, "I'll be down shortly, aye? Try not to have exhausted my lady by then." He releases Avrenne with a faint smile, and Sintha sweeps forward to take her by the arm.
Avrenne allows the transfer, accepting Sintha's arm with the ease of familiarity being led so, leaving her satchel — and the book of her resources — behind in what seems to be a deliberate choice, as she prepares to be escorted slash whisked by Sintha whirlwind to luncheon. She gives Siamus one more suggestion of a polite dip of her head, a brief smile, and then turns her attention to Sintha. "Do lead on then, Sintha."