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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | The night of the House of Nobles vote, Avrenne meets Siamus for a private dinner to celebrate their victory. They discuss their approach to marriage and engagement, their insistence on children, and how fond a mermaid can be with a little wine in her. 14k-ish words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
Arc: Ringside Seats
Chain: Siarenne
The evening of the Stormwind House of Nobles seat selection, the windows of the Fallon townhouse are aglow with candlelight in the city's velvety summer twilight. The steady tide of afternoon letters and parcels and well-wishers — several of whom were politely but firmly turned away in the absence of prior calling cards — has ebbed, and now the house has settled into a glow of tranquility. If houses could look relieved, it probably would.
Avrenne arrives at the Fallon Townhouse her customary five minutes earlier than technically agreed upon. She has a full bouquet with her in a crystal vase, of one she clearly made herself for the purposes of presenting it, a spectacular thing of purple allium, pink and green caladium leaves, little notes of white and yellow chamomile, a bright filling of orange, red, and yellow nasturtium, with framing palm leaves she must have sent for ahead of time from Stranglethorn Vale.
The lady herself is dressed in a jade green gown tailored into a mermaid silhouette that flatters her figure with beautiful unusual embroidering that glitters in shades of black and gold as she walks. What is even more unusual is the lower neckline, dipping to just above the rise of the start of her cleavage, and the sleeves are gentle caps that fold softly over her shoulders and end. She wears long gold gloves that go up past her elbows, leaving a small space of skin of her upper arm exposed. At her throat is a familiar jade and zandalari gold necklace, and she wears the longer gold earrings she wore to the charity gala. Her hair is pinned back, at least for now — there is a jeweled hair comb that has caught her hair into a twist. Cosmetics have turned her eyes smokey and darkly intense, but nothing more has been applied.
Barbour opens the door precisely and smiles at her as he bows. If there is anything in her appearance that startles him, he is too Butlery to react to it. "Your Grace," he greets her. "His lordship is in the study at present. Shall I… take the flowers?"
"Thank you," she says, handing over the vase to him. It's not heavy — there is no water in it yet. "If you will bring it in to him to see? I expect he will want to know what it says." The bouquet, she clearly means. She doesn't elaborate.
"Naturally, Your Grace," Barbour agrees, taking the bouquet. He bears it down the hallway toward the study, escorting rather than leading Avrenne; she definitely knows where she's going by now.
Siamus is, for once, not at his desk but seated in one of the chairs before the hearth. The fire is unlit, and he is sitting back in his chair gazing at the mural map painted above the fireplace, his expression distant. He wears a dark blue suit and waistcoat with silver buttons and a paler blue cravat subtly threaded with a silver pinstripe. He is buttoned, neatly groomed, untousled.
At the sound of approach, he blinks from reverie back to the present, glances toward the doorway and rises to his feet.
Avrenne ensures she is the first thing he sees, walking into the study with that sense of purpose and impact as though she were entering a ballroom, and lights up like a lit fresnel lens at the sight of him, a bright smile on her face that leads directly into a happy laugh, warmer than a summer fire festival bonfire, that sense of invitation to join her in it, reaching out both hands for him. "Siamus."
He smiles back at her, his dark gaze warm, and crosses to her. "Avrenne. Your Grace. I'm grateful to ye for joining me." There is an emphasis on the last statement that suggests it is its own sort of entendre; he does not mean just for dinner.
She reaches out her hands to his to take hold of them, the gloves an unusual silken barrier as she gently squeezes. "I am so pleased you asked me." She leaves that open as well. "Congratulations on your victory." She turns her head slightly to indicate the bouquet with Barbour without taking her eyes off Siamus. "'Great joy and delight from our unity and patience, with energy in action of patriotism and victory.'"
His smile widens, and he lifts her hands to kiss each in turn. "The dining table, if ye please, Barbour," he says, and the butler inclines his head, smiling himself.
Siamus watches until Barbour has moved from view, and then turns his gaze down on Avrenne again. He has not let go of her hands. He rakes her with a look. "Tides ha' mercy on a man, Your Grace, but you're a vision." His eyes linger at the necklace and then lift to hers. "And I see now who it was took my prize; I had wondered. It suits ye beautifully." His voice is that low, intimate warmth again.
He draws her closer, steps in and bends toward her ear as though he means to tell her something private — perhaps something he decides against, because he hesitates there, and then only kisses her ear and then her cheekbone lightly before straightening.
She makes a soft sound at the first kiss, and her eyes close on it. She leans forward slightly, but merely opens her eyes on a sharp flick up to his as he straightens, there's a heat in those dark eyes made more obvious by the kohl around them. "Thank you. I'm glad you're pleased to have your prize returned, if in a slightly different way than before."
"Outshone by a far fairer prize, I daresay. Ye do look extraordinary, Avrenne, truly." He squeezes her hands gently and then releases her and steps back. "It's a day of celebrations for ye, I expect — all the seeds ye planted coming to bloom."
Avrenne laughs again, another one of simple delight, and there's a faint blush of happiness along her cheeks. "It is enormously satisfying, yes. I am very pleased at the outcome, and not the least for having an opportunity to show you what I am capable of, and for all that it allowed me to work alongside you in partnership. I truly am looking forward to more of it. You are lovely to work with, Siamus."
"I'm a blessed man wi'a lovely star to guide him," he tells her, and moves toward his desk. "Will ye have a glass of wine wi' me, or no? I've a thing here I wanted to show ye before we dine."
There's a brief hesitation and he can almost hear the cogs whirring in her head as she weighs costs, benefits, possible outcomes, and then for her own reasons she nods. "I would be happy to have a glass of wine with dinner," she specifies, as she looks over curiously at him.
He glances over at her, raises his eyebrows, considers, and nods. "Aye, very well. Will ye come and see this, then, meanwhile?" He has stopped by the desk, and his fingertips rest lightly on a roll of parchment there.
Avrenne moves over closer to him; quite a bit closer, her arm brushing against his as she keeps her attention on the parchment. "What is it?"
He cants a sidelong smile at her and unrolls the parchment, reaching to lift a compass from the corner of the desk to weigh down one corner of it.
The document is a blueprint for a ship. It will look extremely familiar to Avrenne, after her time going through the naval plans; it is clearly modeled on the ships of the line designed for the future navy. Modeled on, if not quite identical. The shape of the prow is slightly different, if Avrenne is aware enough to take note of such things, her forecastle less prominent, and the rigging of her three masts modified from the full-rigged naval plan. But she is clearly, for all intents and purposes, just a gently-adapted version of the same ship.
"My new flagship," Siamus tells her, with another smiling, sidelong glance. "Or will be, when she's finished. She's being built in Fallon Harbor as we speak, and when she's seaworthy I'll take her helm and give Berdon the Lion's Grace." He pauses, traces a finger along the line of the keel as if stroking it. "Her name will be the Lady Blanche."
Avrenne regards the ship plans with interest, and if she doesn't necessarily catch any particular meaning in the nuances, it's clear that she's taking note of the differences in the details. He can hear her reaction to the name, a sharp inhale of a gasp, of something clearly unexpected, and she turns her head up to Siamus, reaching her hand up to his cheek for a very light touch. "Oh." Some strong emotion is in her eyes, and while it might be ambiguous what exactly it is, what is very obvious is that she's deeply touched by it, a warm smile on her face and not a trace of the cold woman she pretends to be.
His smile curls upward, sly and warm, and he tilts his head a little into that light touch. "She'll be the pride o' my fleet," he tells her, "and the queen o' the narthern waters."
"Through squall and storm, wind and rain, White Lady guide his path; shine through and bless him with protection from the sea's great wrath," Avrenne says quietly, with a depth of feeling, fingers moving gently across his cheekbone. "May she be sure to keep you safe in my place, and bring you back home to me."
He catches her hand gently and brings it to his lips to kiss her fingertips, then releases her and turns slightly away, to begin rolling up the ship's plan again tidily. He's still smiling faintly. "I'm glad," he says. He does not clarify this semi-non-sequitur in any way.
When he's finished rolling the plan back up, he ties it neatly with a loop of ribbon and lays it along one edge of the desk.
"Now, may I walk ye in to dinner? It's only we two, as I mentioned, so we have the evening entire to ourselves." He does not mention how he managed to dispose of Sintha. However he did it, she will no doubt have her revenge.
Avrenne watches him with a soft smile, and raises her hand up for an escort. "Of course. Do lead on then, Siamus."
He gives her arm to escort her, and leads her from the room.
Following the hall to the left would bring them back to the front door; they turn to the right. Past two further sets of closed doors, the hallway ends on a T, the corridor now running off to left and right to become stairs on either side. Set between these branches, at the end of the hall, is the entrance to the dining room.
The room is large enough to host a formal dinner, but it is clearly rarely used for the purpose. Technically, the beautifully-burnished rectangular cherry dining table could seat a modest eight people; in actuality, at present it can seat two, because the other chairs have been drawn away, leaving only the one at the head of the table and the one at the right hand. The chairs themselves are also burnished dark cherry, upholstered in a blue-gray damask.
At the back of the room, behind the table, a broad bay window looks out onto the courtyard garden behind the townhouse; it is currently suffusing the room with a soft, blue twilight. Delicate plumes of blooming wisteria drape the outside of the window, and visible in the garden beyond are arbors of jasmine and moonflower, the pale blossoms almost radiant in the half-light. A firefly winks in and out of view.
Avrenne's arrangement has been placed at the table's center, candles arranged around it.
Siamus leads Avrenne to her place setting and draws out her chair for her. There is no footman present to do so; it's really just the two of them.
Avrenne takes her seat with that particular elegance, as though despite it being only the two of them, she is being observed by a critical judge, waiting and watching for her to show any sign of coarseness. As soon as she's seated, there is a brief pause, her eyes flicking to the single other chair and down to her hands.
Very deliberately, and slowly, as though it might be difficult in some way of some resistance, she pulls off first her left, then her right glove, her expression caught in a mask of composure to hide whatever other feeling there might be beneath it. Without the gloves, her arms are fully revealed in the candlelight — the scarring starkly visible on her skin, the terrible sense of a bracelet of thicker keloid scar tissue that twines upwards into strange, twisting shapes of browns and reds, the texture more obvious in the lighting.
She folds the gloves and sets them to the side of her place setting, and reaches up to the comb holding her hair in place; with a simple maneuvering, she undoes it, and lets it fall down around her face into a very gentle wave. This, it says, is Home and he is not Public.
Siamus pauses for a moment with a hand on the back of his own chair and does not sit; he watches Avrenne, his gaze dark and intent, his expression somber.
Only when she has finished making these adjustments does he at last take his seat. He offers a hand over to her, his gaze still steady.
Avrenne doesn't hesitate, setting her hand in his — there's nothing unusual about the temperature of her hand at all. It's back to the coolness he knows is her true neutral. There's an answering seriousness in her face, as she flicks her eyes from one of her arms to the other, and says softly, "Even I'm not used to seeing them anymore. I had Mr. Latour alter a dress for it." For tonight, for him, is the unspoken implication.
He lifts her hand, draws her toward him and bends his head — not to kiss her hand itself, but the inside of her wrist, and then to turn it and kiss the back of her wrist. "I'm honored," he tells her gently, seriously. "To see ye so glorious." His thumb skims over her knuckles.
There's that same softer inhale at the kiss of her wrists, and she offers a small smile, and a self-conscious shrug that is more a twitch of her shoulders than the usual careful shrug she ordinarily makes. "Well. You will see them often after a week from now, so." She drops her eyes to his cravat, and then flicks them back up as she makes a soft sound. "You mentioned a wine?"
"I did," he agrees, still softly, as though trying not to disturb something delicate. "Will a Gamay suit?" He releases her hand and sits back.
Avrenne makes a soft sound as she shrugs again, this time controlled and purposeful as she sets her hands in her lap by habit, folding them over each other. "I don't know the rest of the meal, but I'm willing to trust in your selection, Siamus. I have no strong preferences of wine."
Siamus nods. He rises and goes to one of the serving sideboards, where a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses wait, and prises the cork from the bottle to pour.
There are paintings on the walls of the little dining room. There are only a handful of them, but unlike any of the other art in either Fallon house, these are actual portraits. Of people, not ships. People portraits.
Flanking the door through which they entered are formal portraits of a man and a woman. The woman is younger than Sintha, perhaps in her early twenties, perhaps only her late teens. She is inordinately lovely, a slender and delicately-made girl with a complexion of porcelain and rose, and wide, long-lashed eyes in a striking hazel hue. Her glossy black hair has been piled into an elaborate mass of soft curls, but has slipped loose at one side to tumble a lock down over her shoulder. She wears a loose, off-the-shoulder gown that emphasizes her ethereal quality, and she holds in her lap a massive bouquet of pink and white meadowsweet. There is something shyly uncertain in her manner, as though she isn't entirely clear how she happens to be having her portrait painted but she doesn't want to give offense by asking.
The man in his portrait is likewise younger than Siamus, somewhere in his mid-twenties, but the resemblance is unmistakable. He is more heavily built than Siamus, and squarer of jaw and feature: shapes emphasized by the fact that he is both short-haired and clean-shaven. But the black-eyed gaze is nearly identical, and the slight, downward tilt of one eyebrow so precise a mannerism that one of the two men must surely have learned it by miming the other. On the man in the painting, however, it is a severe, assessing expression; on Siamus, that same inward slant of the brow would be one of amused exasperation. The man in the portrait wears a silver-brocaded sea green naval dress uniform, and every line of his posture suggests impatience, a native animation unwillingly suspended.
The other three portraits, arranged on the side walls, are of two children, a boy and a girl: One of each child separately, and one of the pair of them together. In the painting of the girl alone, the child can't be more than three or four, and she glowers at the viewer with pre-Raphaelite intensity, clutching one-handed a bouquet of wildflowers in a manner that suggests she's about to flog someone with them. The boy is older in his portrait, nine or ten, and he gazes out from the frame with inordinate, hollow-eyed solemnity. He wears a sea-green naval tailcoat and holds a tricorn hat under his arm: an officer and a gentleman in miniature.
In the portrait of the children together, they are both older still, dressed in matching navy blue. He is a slim youth of perhaps fourteen, she a still-round-cheeked child of nine or ten. She is seated, and he stands behind her with a hand on the back of her chair. Their expressions have both softened from their younger incarnations: Instead of glaring intensity, she offers the viewer a sharp and skeptic scrutiny; instead of frozen formality, he wears a cool neutrality. There's something in the shape they form together, the way their postures incline subtly toward one another, that manages to make this portrait warmer than any of the others.
Avrenne's eyes flick from portrait to portrait, lingering for a longer time on the one of the two children together, something wistful in her manner, and her eyes soft rather than sharply attentive to details, someone viewing something precious rather than tucking away information for later.
Siamus returns with two glasses of garnet-red wine, and offers one to Avrenne. "I should have asked," he observes, "when I invited ye whether there's a thing ye prefer or no' to eat. I beg your pardon."
Avrenne takes hers with a delicate touch, holding onto it for a moment, before she sets it at her place without yet sipping at it. "I dislike very few things, and I doubt you would serve any of them. I have enjoyed all my meals here," she says and there's that nostalgia in her voice again.
He smiles at her and takes his own seat again. "Tides, but you're an obliging lady, Your Grace. Ye'll spoil me." There's that wicked glint in his gaze. "I do hope. But will ye drink wi' me now to our victory?" He lifts his glass to her.
Avrenne picks hers back up and raises it in a Lordaeron fashion for a cheers. "To our victory," she says, her eyes on his.
Siamus inclines his head in acknowledgement. "And many more to come." He salutes her with his glass, and drinks.
Avrenne does at least take a small sip of the wine, and makes a small sound of appreciation at the taste. "Oh, that is lovely." She does, however, put the wine back down rather than drink more.
He smiles at her. "It is," he agrees smoothly.
He has another sip of his own wine and then sets the glass down likewise, then peaks a brow at her. "How is the sale of your townhouse looking?"
"Approaching the final sale. It will go to Ms. Howards in the end, as I expected, although I'm waiting for her to make the final bid. She will," Avrenne says confidently. "But she's going to pretend she's thinking about it first. Mr. Tanner won't go any higher though, and we all know it. She can have it, and she is now convinced of the property's worth."
His approval gleams. "Good. Well done. No' to be expected otherwise, of course, but I'm glad to hear. And Ta says ye'll be moving your people in wi' us shortly?"
"Yes. Daisy is likely to only be at the townhouse in Stormwind, and I…" She moves her head a little side to side. "I don't expect she will remain through the year, after her birthday in October. She will not renew the wardship." She smiles faintly and there's something between proud and wistful in it both. "Otto I expect will remain at the Estate. But, the sooner we move them over the easier it will be to finish moving the rest of the house effects out."
Siamus nods at her. "I've been staying here in the city, no' just for business and the selection but because Ta's got some workmen at Fallon House. But that affects only my rooms and yours, I believe." He smiles faintly. "We can move over whoever ye like there. If ye want to go yourself, there's the rooms ye've had before as a guest, for now. Or if ye'd like the room here" — our room — "now that the selection's done, I can manage my business from the House and give this place over to ye."
The door opens and Shine and Catrin enter silently to arrange dishes on the table before the pair. There is a platter of charcuterie, fruit and bread, and a small plate for each of a salad of frisee and figs with a light dijon^ vinaigrette. (^The lesser-known Lordaeron province of Dijon.)
Apparently this evening's meal's theme is Lordaeron, not Ocean.
No sooner have the dishes been set down than both servants vanish again discreetly.
Avrenne's expression grows softer at the sign of the food, and a small smile at the salad that has that particular wistful look she gets from time to time. She waits for Shine and Catrin to exit before she moves her hands out of her lap to pick up her correct fork for salad. "It would likely be best if I remain in my house here until the last of it. Mr. Latour will move after the wedding. It will be a…difficult adjustment for him, and he will not like if it affects the wedding dress fittings. It's nearly finished, but I expect he will be tinkering with it until the night before. The rest can be placed ahead of time. I can manage on my own."
He nods approvingly and also picks up his salad fork. He even holds it in the correct hand, since a knife isn't necessary for salad. Somewhere, Sintha breathes a sigh of relief. "I'll no' ask questions about the wedding dress, as I believe that's no' for a gentleman to know ahead? But I have got some other things for ye, and Ta thought it best I give them in advance, in case ye need to have your tailor make amendments to suit? I don't see it being necessary, but then again I'm no' a lady nor a dressmaker."
"Oh?" Avrenne eats in small, careful bites, but that's not unusual. "He very well might change things, depending on what they are."
"Well, the first —" He sets his fork down and lifts his napkin to blot politely at his lips before rising from his chair and laying the napkin in his seat. He returns to the sideboard and picks up a pair of flat boxes there. He also collects the bottle of wine, as he's in the neighborhood. He returns to the table with all three, sets them down and resumes his seat. He lifts the top box and slides it over to Avrenne, then picks up his wineglass and sits back patiently to watch her open it.
Avrenne raises her brows, sets down her fork, in the correct place on her plate to indicate she isn't finished, and carefully wipes her hands clean before she moves the box off the table to open it.
Within the box, on a cushion of blue velvet, is arranged — carefully, so as not to tangle it — an extremely delicate gold-wire net threaded with pearls, and trailing fine, irregular strands of more pearls.
Siamus is studying her face rather than the gift in its box, wearing his faint smile. "For your hair," he explains. He pauses and then adds dryly, "And a sacrifice. So no' an heirloom, I fear."
You would think, from her expression, that she does not receive many gifts. There's a soft combination of surprise and delight, subdued but visible as she smiles at the sight of the pearls. She reaches a hand to hover, rather than touch, her fingers over the net. She doesn't seem disappointed to hear that she won't get to keep it, with no change in her expression at the news. "It's very lovely." Her voice has a lower quality to it. "Thank you, Siamus."
He nods, gratified, has a sip of wine, and then sets his glass down to slide the other, slightly larger box toward her. "A wedding gift, but no' for the wedding. Just a gift."
Avrenne flicks her eyes to Siamus for a beat, before she looks back down to close the box of the hair net, and set it carefully aside near her folded gloves and hair comb. She picks up the other one, holding it carefully to open it.
The object within the box appears, at a glance, to be a pocketwatch; it is a palm-sized, watch-shaped case of the right shape and heft. The case is of gold, clasped and trimmed with a silvery metal a little too dark to be silver, with an opalescent sheen that marks it as neither pewter nor steel. The smooth, gold face of the case that looks up at her is inset with the triangular piece of green sea glass that Isla found for her on the beach at Fallon House, and which Sintha had claimed for Secret Reasons.
Should she lift it from the box and turn it over, she will find that the back of the case — rather than being smooth and unadorned — is in fact an astrolabe: delicately-made and -etched, smoothly functional, the pin at its center a pearl. The latitude plate is Stormwind's.
And should she press the clasp to open the case, she will find that it is empty inside: a generous, watch-sized space, lined with that same dark-opalescent, silvery-not-silver metal.
The pendant loop is also generously-sized, and there is no chain affixed.
"Oh." Avrenne blinks a few times, reaching for it in that way that seems more like how she reached for his ledgers — as though she hasn't entirely chosen to make the movement, and becomes aware of it more by seeing her hand touching the pendant. There's a very brief hesitation as she touches it, as though she's not certain she should, before she picks up, setting the box back down on the table without looking at it, her eyes fixed on the gift itself. She turns it over in both hands as though it's an incredibly precious, possibly fragile object, like a spun glass bubble of hope. She looks curiously at the latitude plate — there's no recognition in her expression — but the question is held for the moment, as she moves her fingertips over the various features.
She does, after a moment, open it, and there's a soft sigh at the sight of it, which might seem odd given that it's empty, but for the knowledge perhaps of why she wanted such a thing. Her forefinger sketches out an uncannily accurate sizing of the sea stalk bloom that belongs to her on the inside of the case.
"Siamus." It's soft and there's feeling behind his name. "It's incredible. Thank you."
He smiles and leans in, putting his elbows on the table. Somewhere, Sintha's eye twitches. "Ta gave me the glass, and said ye wanted a place to carry your sea stalk. I thought it would suit. I didn't know if ye'd want to wear it for a pendant or in a watch-pocket or at your waist — on your sash or the like — so I didn't give ye a chain or ribbon. But we can get ye one." He reaches over to touch his thumb to the smooth metal interior. "That's starmsilver. Ye don't get veins of it anywhere but Kul Tiras. The islands are riddled wi' it."
"I've never seen it in person before," Avrenne says quietly. "It's extraordinary." She sets her other hand on his wrist, a very light touch, her eyes still on the case as she strokes a finger gently along the back with the latitude plate. "What is this part of the astrolabe?"
He leans closer. "Now, that's the plate. Ye can't represent a three-dimensional celestial sphere — figurative sphere, aye? — in two dimensions, so wi' most astrolabes ye have plates ye can change in and out, based on your latitude. Because this one is meant to be small and portable, ye don't have a full set of plates; I've given ye Starmwend here. So ye can read the stars for home."
Avrenne absorbs the information with that sense of tucking details away, and then finally raises her eyes off it to smile at him, shining softly. "It really is extraordinary, Siamus."
He smiles back at her and sits up, withdrawing his hand. "I'm pleased ye think so. An extraordinary gift for an extraordinary lady."
Picking up his wineglass again, he says, "Ye read, I'm sure, the chapter on astrolabes in On the Movement of the Heavens. But ye may already be familiar, as a mathematical mermaid." He arches his brows with amusement and drinks, then sets his glass down again to resume eating his salad.
"I did enjoy that chapter," Avrenne answers, and it takes her a moment before she closes the case, and sets it back in its box, closing it once more. She places it with the other, her fingers lingering on the box an extra beat. It takes her another moment to start eating again, her eyes on Siamus. "That is what is quite new, though, to consider the whole of it rather than the details, and how one can navigate and find them by understanding them in place. I could tell you precise angles of direct lines and relative scale of, oh, just about every constellation, but the placement of them is something I'm still learning. It's been fascinating."
"I cannot tell ye," he says seriously, "what a pleasure it's been to have the company of a lady so intelligent and interested in it all. No' that I claim a shortage of intelligent ladies, mind" — his dry tone suggests that he may, in fact, claim a shortage of intelligent ladies at least in Certain Circles — "but the interest…." He hesitates, and his voice softens slightly. "The interest and the respect. It's genuinely a privilege." He picks up his wineglass again to salute her.
Avrenne's answering smile has that lambent light, a pleased glow. She holds his eyes for only a few beats though before she lowers them to somewhere around his cravat. "I am glad that it pleases you, and that you appreciate it so. It's not always the…well." She looks over to her own wine glass, and she picks it up with that nervous sort of flutter of her fingers, perhaps more to have something to do than anything, since she hesitates before she drinks another sip.
"There's been many times when my interest in certain things has been what cooled the attention of a prospective suitor, rather than the reverse. Or that my interests are not broad enough, appropriate for a lady. I'm afraid that if you were to look for poetry from me, you will be very disappointed. I know essentially nothing of it." A pause, and a consideration. She takes another very small sip of her wine before she sets it back down, and flicks her gaze back to Siamus with a smile getting close to conspiratorial. "Well. I know one thing I suppose. A limerick."
Siamus drinks and then sets his glass down and reaches for the wine bottle to top his glass up. "A limerick?" He casts her an amused look. "Now, I know a few of those as well but most of mine I learned from sailors, so I'm guessing we don't know them in common. Please." He gestures magnanimously with his free hand. Let's hear it.
"Oh, I would need something to write on, and with."
Siamus pauses, arches a brow, and sets the wine bottle down to shift his napkin and rise again. "Well, now I'm curious," he tells her. "I'll be right back." He goes around the table and leaves the room.
Avrenne laughs softly, watching him, and continues eating at the same speed as before, her eyes going to the box with the sea stalk pendant within it.
He returns a few moments later with a sheet of Fallon stationery and a fountain pen, both of which he offers to her courteously, with an ironic half-bow, before sitting again.
Avrenne takes both, and sets the paper to the side of her mostly finished plate. She gives him a playful sort of smile, and moves her other hand to shield what she's writing from view as she writes with quick flicks of the pen. Only after she's done does she move her hand, and turn the sheet of paper so he can see that she's written…a formula?
She hovers a finger above it, not touching the ink, as she recites:
"A dozen, a gross, and a score
Plus three times the square root of four
Divided by seven
Plus five times eleven
Is nine squared, and not a bit more."
She grins at him with a humming sound of a laugh bubbling up that she's trying not to release to not laugh at her own joke, only partially successful. It's…it's a math poem. Somewhere, Finley groans and sets his head on a table.
Siamus scans the formula as she reads, his brow creased. Before she's even read to the end of it, his expression has cleared, and he starts to laugh. He puts a hand to his chest and slumps back in his chair, dropping his head back, and laughs until he's out of breath. "Tides below, Avrenne," he manages at last, and then just shakes his head, grinning.
Avrenne laughs with him, a warm sound with a heat to it of a high summer's day, as she watches him with a pure sort of joy on her face that makes it difficult to believe that this woman has ever managed to seem convincingly cold. There's a sound that is close to a giggle as she sets the pen down next to the formula, and she's still grinning back at him, happiness setting her aglow more than the candlelight possibly could. "Thank you," she says, a little oddly perhaps until she clarifies. "I always thought it was very funny, but, well." She shrugs and looks at the charcuterie board, reaching forward to select some of the bread. "That's not usually the response it gets."
"Ah," he sighs smilingly, still composing himself as he blots at one eye with his thumb. "Well, ye've been stranded wi' the wrong company too long, Your Grace. But now ye've come where educated men will appreciate ye."
Avrenne flicks her gaze back to Siamus. "Mm." She tears some of the bread off to take a small bite of it, chewing and swallowing. "That was always a bit of the trouble with me, my mother used to tell me. That I didn't want appreciation enough to 'work for it.' That if I would just learn a little more of other things, or bend a bit further, pretend at interests that would be more appealing, and not insist on my own 'oddities,' that I would be more appreciated and find the course easier. I don't think anyone has ever thought me so agreeable as you do," she says with something soft in her voice.
"Well," says Siamus genially, "then it's a lucky thing I caught ye. Or you caught me. Or Ta caught us both. One or another of those. Though if I'd known when she first sent for me that coming back to Starmwend meant I'd find myself no' just properly on the House of Nobles but a married man besides, I might never have left the Howling Fjord." He gives her a wry, gleaming look. "So it's for the best she didn't mention it, because I'm a man willing to admit when he's wrong. Or would have been wrong."
Avrenne makes a soft sound, her gaze steady on Siamus as she repeats the tearing of the bread, eating as he speaks. She offers him another soft smile. "I'm not one to believe in fate," she says. "I believe that our choices matter, and that we have the power to make our destiny. But I find myself glad that, whatever the reasons, that things happened the way they did. I thought when I read the news from Northrend, that my engagement had been broken, that it was a tragedy. In the end, it was the best thing that could have possibly happened, and I freely admit my own error in judgment that led to it." There's something in her expression for a moment, but it's brief and mixed enough to be ambiguous.
"I am very happy, Siamus. And I do hope you know that I am proud of you, for what you have accomplished with the House election and your work with the plans for the navy. It really has been an honor to be at your side through it. You earned this victory, in every way."
"I may have," he concedes. "But I'd no' have won it without ye, and so it's what we've accomplished. I don't harbor illusions that today would have come about wi'out your hand at the helm."
He has another sip of wine, shifts the glass aside, and reaches for some bread to smear with pate. Yes there should be accents but I am lazy. "And I'm sympathetic, I hope ye understand, regarding the matter of Mr. Green. I've mentioned, I believe, that I was betrothed once before, and obviously it came to naught. There was some… deep sentiment involved there, much as I might already have known better at the time."
His voice gentles; it is indeed sympathetic. "Ye do steer astray, in that fog. It's… a species of madness, I expect, in the end. But it's a madness ye can be cured from, wi' time and good sense. You're a lady of sense by nature, I can tell, and I hope soon ye can think of Mr. Green wi'out a sting."
Avrenne looks away, her eyes on her wine glass and there's a strange expression on her face, something strangely apologetic and bitter. "I don't know that I could call my own deep sentiment, or that perhaps I'm not capable of it. I might be…too cold for such things," she says and there's something hollow in her voice. "What stung the most was that sense that for the first time in a very long time, I thought to depend on someone else beyond myself, to stretch and reach for something, sure that I had someone behind me to hold steady there. And it was…painful, to feel it suddenly evaporate and leave me falling. A reminder that no one would catch me. No one would carry me." That seems oddly specific, and tied to something in particular. She inhales and squares her shoulders off.
"But when I went to Northrend, I met with his wife to retrieve my paperwork. And she offered…in a way, at least, by question, that if she were to dissolve the marriage, to leave the man but without his fortune, would I take him?" Avrenne looks bleak, the light of her dimmed back to nothing. "And I knew the moment she asked it that the answer was no. That for a man who had truly left me, who had let me fall, I would not sacrifice everything that I have built, all of those who depend upon me, the future of the Alliance itself, to have him in a cage. I would have remained at his side through anything, if he had been mine, but he wasn't. And I walked away. As I said." Her voice grows quieter. "Circuitry instead of veins."
"Avrenne." After a moment's hesitation, Siamus sets the bread down on his salad plate's edge and reaches for one of her hands again. "Ye made a choice in good sense, aye? Fortune or no, the man had left ye" — his voice is hard and cold — "and he deserved nothing of ye in reward for it. What sort of bloody proof or bargain was that, that she was asking of ye? He'd just proved himself a disloyal fool, and then she asked would ye have him back wi' nothing to show for your own loyalty but a man wi' none himself?" His mouth curls down disdainfully, his black eyes flinty. "We have our loyalties and our duties both. Ye have yours to the Alliance and to House Esprit, and for anyone to expect ye to throw those over for a man? A man as little worth as —"
He pauses, takes a breath. When he speaks again, his tone is reasonable and bland. "I spent — when Als- when Miss Grier and I were separated, I spent some months trying to reach her, in the sentimental belief that our — bond endured. When I learned I was mistaken, it was because Miss Grier had misconstrued my own loyalties and obligations, in a tempest of her own feelings and without so much as a direct conversation. Had she offered such a conversation, it is possible she would have understood the matter differently. But as she had not, as she had —" Another pause. He picks his wine glass up mildly. "I did not take it on myself to offer her that conversation, either. She had found fault in me first — in her assumptions of me — and withdrawn her loyalty first. It would have been folly to pursue her, or to attempt to persuade her of the validity of my other obligations, when she'd already shown her colors."
He drinks, sets the glass down and slides it away again.
Avrenne's hand curls around his as he speaks, her eyes fixed on him as though held there by some force she cannot break free of even if she wanted to, as though the rest of the world has fallen away leaving only a single steady point. She manages to keep the emotion off her face when he speaks of Alsbeth, but she's betrayed by her magic — her hand heating in anger the moment he mentions misconstruing his loyalties and it takes a few seconds while he drinks for it to cool.
"You're a lady of sense. And I've seen the laughter and the light in ye, and I've had ye in my arms, and I know you're not a cold lady, Avrenne. There's nothing cold about ye beyond what ye must show the world as a lady in your position, wi' your obligations. Ye choose with your head, no' your heart, and a man who'd expect ye to do the latter neither understands nor values ye rightly. Anyone who wants love can buy a ten-copper novel in any bookshop in this city. I mean to build a legacy, and I want a partner for it, no' a girl to play games wi'.
"Any man's free to choose otherwise as he pleases, and I'll thank him for doing so if it's meant he's looked past ye, because that's proved my good fortune."
There's something again in her expression, as though there are words in her throat, behind her lips, and she's holding them back through sheer force of will. It takes her a moment after he's stopped speaking to say anything, and it may be because the words she says must first push the other ones aside. "That is why I accepted your proposal, Siamus. Why I refused to offer a marriage chosen out of sentiment, because what I am offering is all that I am beyond a woman's affection. And what I require is not a man's affection to depend on. I am a House; that is by choice as much by birth, and this is what I want to do with my life. I don't want a man who would choose me for sentimental reasons, some fleeting emotion that would fade with a few weeks separation," Oh, there is a tremble there in her face, pain rippling across her. "But whose loyalty cannot be doubted, because it is not dependent on feeling for me, but comes from who he is at his core."
She lifts his hand and pulls it to her to kiss his fingers the way he does hers, her eyes dark and made even more intense with the kohl that lines them. "And I have that. I will never abandon you, Siamus. And I trust that you will not abandon our House. I will see us to where this course leads, of House Fallon leading the Alliance's true navy, with an Admiral Fallon at its head where he belongs. Because I may be delayed, but I will not be stopped from going where I wish to go. All I need is time."
He is watching her intently through this speech, watches her kiss his hand, and then he takes that hand from hers to wrap it strongly around the back of her neck and drag her toward him. He leans over to kiss her. It is a gentle kiss, tender, and it's so at odds with his ferocious grip on her that it feels like a tease.
He releases her decorously and sits back, offering that slight smile again. "I'm grateful to ye, Avrenne. And nor do I pay mind to anyone who suggests a marriage wi'out sentiment must be a cold one. It's my hope we'll find ours warm enough to please, at least for a time. If no', or when it wears, warmth is easy enough to find, but a lady wi' conversation and intellect such as yours is a rarer pearl to prize. Ye'll always have from me the respect ye deserve as Lady Fallon and the mother of our line."
There's definitely nothing cold about her response to the kiss, gentle as it is. She remains slightly forward even after he releases her, and there's a soft shining to her with the heat of her eyes that suggests oh, yes, it'll be warm enough, and, in fact, if not for certain restrictions it'd be warm enough right now, and again there's something in her face, some emotion that —
Avrenne drops her eyes from his and reaches for her wine to drink a larger sip than she's taken so far. "And you will always have my respect and admiration, Siamus." She smiles at her bread. It's probably meant for Siamus, rather than the carbohydrates, but who knows. "I cannot imagine tiring of your company or your conversation. A man of action and passion for innovation will never cease to be of interest to me. So we will always have that, if nothing else."
He inclines his head smilingly and picks up his own slice of bread again to eat. Who doesn't smile at carbohydrates, frankly? "Talking of innovation," he says, and then doesn't get to continue talking of innovation for a moment because Shine and Catrin enter once more, followed by an additional footman. This latter gentleman moves discreetly around the Lord and Lady-to-Be Fallon to whisk away salad plates and forks, and then Shine and Catrin smoothly lay down the next plates and depart. They leave the charcuterie; the toffs are clearly still working on that.
The next course is a crisply bronze-skinned breast of duck draped in a sauce of tart cherries, accompanied by haricots verts amandine (that is Old Lordaeronian) and tiny, buttery new potatoes. Siamus takes up the wine bottle again to top off his glass, and then moves the bottle to Avrenne's glass, brows raised inquiringly.
Avrenne's glass has barely moved down from its original pour, and she hesitates again as though genuinely considering. In the end she shakes her head slightly, her hair moving gently with the motion around her face. "No, thank you, not at the moment."
She picks up her correct utensils for the meal, and there is again that nostalgic look to her, something soft and pleased as she begins to cut into the course — she doesn't, however, use the Stormwind style of formal dining. Either by conscious choice or unconscious habit, she has reverted to Lordaeron. "Speaking of innovation?" She prompts.
Siamus does not note that Avrenne is using her silverware in the Lordaeron fashion, because he does not note such things, but somewhere Sintha has just gently folded forward to rest her forehead on a table. Now they're both doing it, ugh.
It takes him a moment; he sets the wine bottle down and rewinds his memory as he picks up his own silverware. "Aye, speaking of innovation — Ta's been working on a project for me. Confidential. But obviously, now —" He gestures at Avrenne with his fork. "Ye might want to talk wi' her about it, put your heads together on logistics and whatnot. Materials. She's been working out the engineering side, designs. I've heard rumors the Alliance has begun its own research, and if it's so, perhaps we ought to integrate the projects sooner rather than later, pool resources and knowledge. Ye probably have the better connections for that. I know Ta was hoping to bring her friend in to help wi' it as well — what's the girl — ah. Brown hair?" He frowns. That is extremely helpful, Siamus. "Chattering. Engineer. Very bright, I understand. Husband a blackguard."
Avrenne's brows go up, and then up, and up — high enough to cause a line on her forehead, but there is such a light in her eyes that it's more amazing that she doesn't literally shine it out like a lighthouse. At the attempt at the description, Avrenne's expression grows more thoughtful, and she reaches over to take a sip of wine. "The project sounds fascinating," she says and the enthusiasm is audible in her voice. "I would be very pleased to speak to Sintha on it, and see what I might be able to offer. I'm not an engineer, but I spend a lot of my time working with many experts in their fields, and often those with the ideas simply need support for the logistics in order to accomplish great things."
Siamus nods approvingly, cutting into his own meal. "Exactly, aye." He eats for a moment in contented silence, and then glances over at Avrenne in the candlelight. "Your eyes are lovely like that. What ye've done. I did tell ye that you're exquisite tonight?" His gaze glitters with that smile, although it doesn't actually reach his lips.
"Thank you, and yes, you did," Avrenne says. There's no real change in her manner at the compliment, no sign that it's really landed, but she offers a small smile at him. "And you look very fine, Siamus. But you always do." It sounds not only sincere, but soft and with a warmth to it.
She returns her attention to her food. "You know," she says conversationally. "I bid on the necklace as part of all my opening bids to start the war of them to drive the auction up of what I knew would be of interest to those there, but I picked this one in part because if it remained under a point, then I could afford it within my allotted donation, and I had the thought of the hope that someday I might get the story from you of how you came to acquire it. The description was intriguing. 'Necklace of jade and zandalari gold, salvaged at sea.' I was curious. Well, am curious. If you recall the tale of it, I would be pleased to hear it."
Now his smile appears. "I am learning," he says courteously, "what ye take for compliment and what ye don't." He doesn't sound put out at all; if anything he sounds amused. Science!
He has another bite of dinner and then lays his silverware down and sits back, picking up his wineglass. "Now, ye understand when we say 'salvaged at sea,' it's often a gentleman's way of saying we seized it in battle." His smile slants wryly. "That piece was interesting because of its provenance, though. We took a pair of goblin ships off the Cape of Stranglethorn that were smuggling pilfered weapons to the Bloodsails. The first we sank cleanly, but the second attempted to run when we attacked her sister, and ended up wrecking herself on the eastern shoals." He modestly does not specify whether the ship had help from either the weather or sea in wrecking herself.
"We went in to confiscate their cargo, and found they'd been carrying Gurubashi gold and relics as well as the weapons — taken from Zul'Gurub after that city was raided. The Bloodsails don't seem to have overmuch use for that sort of thing, nor the wits to loot it themselves, so I was curious how the goblins came to be carrying it and for whom. When we broke open the last chest, though, we found a strongbox buried inside beneath some other loot, full no' of Gurubashi but of Zandalari pieces." He nods toward Avrenne's necklace. "Because it came from the city, we believe it's some evidence that — despite their protestations, and their help in bringing Zul'Gurub down — there may have been Zandalari sympathizers wi' the cult of Hakkar." He gestures with his wine glass. "They deny it, of course, but as best we can tell, someone on Zandalar was trying to reclaim those specific pieces fast and discreetly, and I'm no' clear why the need for that kind of discretion otherwise. The Gurubashi loot seems to have been cover for the transport of the Zandalari.
Avrenne listens with that quiet attentiveness he's likely come to expect. All questions are held, and the details filed away. There is a moment of a flash of something in her face at the mention of the cult of Hakkar that looks like anger — a pressing of lips and a tightening around her eyes — before she blinks it back away, listening closely.
"At any rate, it belongs to the Kingdom of Starmwend now, or most of it does. That piece, I thought particularly lovely. Allegedly belonged to a princess of theirs at some point." He smiles at Avrenne again, and has a sip of wine. "I'd rather thought to make a gift of it to a Lady Fallon someday, but when we wanted items for auction, I put it up. But as it happens —" His smile widens warmly.
At the conclusion, she breaks out into a delighted laugh, warm and low as soft candlelight, the sound of it reaching for him as though to pull him into it, and she looks pleased, smiling back at him. "Interesting, as expected," she says. "Well done, Siamus." It has that same approval as before at the Thenedain Remembrance Ball, of hearing of the sinking of profiteers.
He inclines his head modestly, still smiling, and sets his wine down to resume eating. "It suits ye very well, so I'm doubly glad it's yours." After a couple of bites, he adds, "There's Zandalari gold moving along the coast now — new investment, it seems, no' relics. They're ferrying it up from Booty Bay toward Tirisfal, possibly to put toward the Horde war effort in Narthrend. While it's pleasant to see the Zandalari taking an interest in world affairs and the effort against the Lich King" — his tone is a little dry — "considering the way the Horde's efforts in the narth are sometimes aimed, I expect that gold will suit the Alliance efforts better. I've had three of my ships still in Fallon Harbor tending to the problem, but wi' my withdrawing them soon to Narthrend, I had to put another lass on the job. A little unorthodox, but she seems to be handling well enough, and it keeps the gold moving to Starmwend even if less officially."
Avrenne makes a thoughtful sound, sipping at her wine. She seems to be drinking very carefully, but the sips are larger now that she's halfway through the main course. "Good. At the moment, 'unorthodox' is often all we truly have available. For now, at least. And there is always the paradox of competence involved, where the more competently it is done, the easier it becomes for some to see no problem at all, nor recognize how much that achievement has come from great effort and cleverness working under less than ideal conditions that never needed be so. That is the challenge to present the information in another light to remind those in power who can change those circumstances that competence should be rewarded and supported, and that there is significant benefit to be had if we would just invest better in those people willing to do the work."
Siamus glances up from his plate and smiles at her, once again in that manner of a professor approving of her work. "Aye, just so. And the lass is one of the more competent sailors I've met outside of Kul Tiras; if I could bring her round and get the Alliance blessing on her, it would be a boon for all of us." He has another bite, gestures with his fork. "She took part of a mast off me, once. And stole back her own ship." His tone is fondly amused; it's a little the way he talks about Sintha. It's also a little not the way he talks about Sintha.
Avrenne, on the other hand, grows more serious, the amusement in her face dimming, as she eats another bite before she asks, tone calm and curious, "She took off part of your mast? From firing upon you, I would assume? That seems to be another story." It goes implied that she is interested to know it, but she doesn't ask directly.
"From firing on me, aye." He glances at her, still amused himself. "Though, to be fair, it was her own ship I had at the time. I'll admit I didn't expect her to fire on it, so I may no' have been on my guard." He's rueful. "But not only is she the only person to take a ship from me, she'll be the only person in this life to take one from me twice. So ye know she's a bloody talent." A pause, and then he clarifies, "Again, her own ship. Both times. She'd never touch a Fallon ship."
"Mm." Avrenne picks up her wine to take a sip and set it back down. "May I ask why it is that you have taken her ship for her to take it back?" There's still nothing beyond curiosity in her voice, and nothing in her expression that reads as anything other than thoughtful of perhaps someone stringing together information.
"I've taken her ship because she's an unlicensed nuisance. Fancies herself a pirate." He gives Avrenne a look. "She harries the Horde and goblins, in the main, and she's never taken a life. I'd prefer to see her brought round officially to the Alliance than such a talent wasted." Another pause. "Kul Tirans take piracy very bloody seriously," he assures her. "But this lass is more cheek than hazard."
There is a fleeting something in Avrenne's eyes at the word pirate, but it's gone so quickly that it might not have been there. She raises her brows and picks up her silverware to continue eating. "Well, as you know, my general rule is that I avoid making an enemy where a strategic ally will better serve the Alliance," she says diplomatically as she cuts into the duck for another small bite. "Should I ever meet her, I will do what I can to sing a convincing song of another option for her. As you said, we can build ships for a navy, but if there are none capable of being its proper crew, the ships add nothing sitting in the harbor. Every outside talent reapplied to the Alliance navy is its own victory."
Siamus nods firmly and returns his attention to his own meal. After a moment though, he observes to his duck, with that smile still in his voice, "Tides below but you're a diplomatic lady." It seems he did not miss the fleeting something.
There's a faint pleased smile at that, as she eats the next few bites in silence, possibly thinking.
"If ye need to tell me something," he adds, flicking a glance up from his meal, "ye can do it, ye know. I'm no' marrying you for ye to keep your opinions to yourself. And we can disagree on a thing and no' fall out over it."
He doesn't press her, though, but asks a moment later, "Which lady have ye chosen? For the wedding?"
"Morgauna. She has agreed, pleased to be asked," Avrenne says and she smiles again at Siamus. "You may always ask me if you are unsure, Siamus. But not only do I respect your judgment and your reasoning on a situation you know well, but I trust that you will want to hear my own opinion. I am accustomed to keeping my opinions to myself in political waters, but that is not you. I will speak my mind to you, I promise."
"Good girl," he approves. "And good, about Morgauna. I'm having Berdon down, for my part. If he can come wi' Eli when he returns, he will, but if no' he'll come through Dalaran. It may cut it finer, but he'll be here. I expect there will be enough time for ye to meet him before, at least."
There is a noticeable gentle blush at good girl, even if she tries not to move her expression, her eyes on her plate.
He lays his silverware down on his plate and settles back, his manner more serious now. "When I've got word that Silverwind and Storm's Daughter are near landing in Moa'ki, I'm going to send Miss Coit to Wintergarde. I've instructed two of mine to take gryphons as soon as they make landfall and meet her there. One of them's a ship's surgeon, so he'll be useful to the Keep on his own, but I'm sending them in the main to help Miss Coit summon. We'll no' be able to move a whole cargo nor the whole complement of personnel by summons, but I'll have them bring through some men wi' crates of guns, at least, to be sure they're getting a piece of that relief as soon as possible. The rest will have to go overland wi' the infantry, but it will make a start."
Avrenne nods her own approval at the logistics. "An excellent plan." That's thinking with portals.
He nods. It is, yes.
"I expect I should meet wi' Morgauna and Tennerow and Ference. Now that it's done. About what we'll prioritize. At the wedding, perhaps, if no' before."
"Lord Tennerow, I will invite sooner. He should be here, oh, in three days." Avrenne takes another small sip of her wine, past halfway gone now. "That will be an easy visit. He will be a strong ally for you, likely the start of the Fallon voting block of the House, as Marchand is for Aspenwood."
"Good, all right." Siamus hesitates, then sits forward and puts his elbows on the table again. "I was thinking to leave for Narthrend again a week after the wedding. Will that do, for timing?" His expression is serious, steady on Avrenne.
Avrenne pauses, and she might be doing…math? It's that same expression anyway, of when she seems to be calculating numbers, before she nods slowly. "Mmhm. I believe so. It will work out well this time, if I recall correctly," she says in that distracted voice, as though she's speaking more out loud in thinking than really purposefully. She looks back at Siamus and says more firmly, "And if there is any immediate political concern that requires your presence, we have the necessary elements in place to address it."
Siamus nods. "I am thinking," he says, a little carefully, "no' just of the politics of it. But of the likelihood of getting ye wi' child before I go. In case of —" You know. It's a bloody war.
"I realize a week's no' the longest time for it, and if ye think it necessary, I could arrange…." He frowns, considers what he might arrange. "Well. There will be Miss Coit now, if need be. But I know a lady might have an idea whether one time is better than another for herself, so I ask."
He reaches for his wine glass. "And I am, naturally, willing to be diligent about the matter during that week." His tone is the same careful courtesy. The look in his eyes is not. He has a sip of wine, possibly to cover his smile.
"Yes. In this case, that is the best week for this month," Avrenne says frankly. "The week after would be only attempting as the vagaries can be, but the week after. Well. Would not be useful for such a purpose." She shrugs, and she tries for a serious expression.
"And I do appreciate your willingness to be diligent, Siamus," she says, a playful note in her voice, and she loses the seriousness, possibly due to some external source like a fine Gamay wine, as she laughs, warm and inviting as a hand stroking against his face, tipping her head back a little, exposing the line of her throat. She reaches for her own wine to take another drink, which may or may not be a continuing good idea.
His answering smile is wider and warmer than usual as he watches her laugh. "I am nothing," he says, "if no' willing to carry out my duties to the House." He might still be trying for that Courteous voice, but he cannot keep a straight face. "And I do appreciate your willingness in the matter as well."
Avrenne sets her glass down and looks over at him with a soft grin. She sets her elbow on the table — huh — and sets her chin in her palm as she regards him. "You know," she says, her voice containing a touch of the sultry sound to it. "That's one of the things that Priscilla and I disagree on the most? She won't have children with a man at war. Lord Bertrand must leave the military before she'll marry him. And I've never been able to convince her otherwise. She can be…very stubborn." Avrenne moves her other hand vaguely in the air. "So can I, but I've never out-stubborned her. And I am not willing to wait for some perfect time. War will always happen, and I would never ask a man I respected to not fight for his children's future."
He extends a hand to her, resting his arm on the table's surface. "I suppose, if they're no' married yet… And Aspenwood has siblings, he's no' the one the house rides on." A little bit of cold calculus, but okay. His tone is merely thoughtful. "But I'm marrying to secure Fallon's future, and I'd best see it done before the worst might happen. Most of the purpose of this exercise is the continuity of the line. So I'd best ensure it's continuing." He hesitates. "… how long is it, now? Going on — five years?"
Avrenne lifts her chin from her hand to place her hand in his, fingers stroking along his in a way reminiscent of how she's touched things like the lighthouse casing and the case for her sea stalk. "The engagement? Ten years."
Siamus literally jolts in his seat, his expression a mask of flat incredulity. "No. Ten years? I hope, at least, that he's —" Siamus, do not hope that aloud, it is rude. "Ten years," he says again, with a sort of horrified wonder.
Avrenne moves a hand in an open gesture, a little bit of there it is, and pats his hand with hers almost as though comforting him from something. "Priscilla," Avrenne says seriously. "Is very, very stubborn. I am not being immodest when I say that I am persuasive when I want to be and I have never." She raises her brows and tilts her head towards him. "Never been able to get her to alter a course she's truly decided on. And it…" She sighs, her gaze going off to the side and genuine sorrow crowding into her face. "It's never sure. I should have never inherited the title. I had so many people ahead of me, and there should have been even more, but all it took was one war, and an entire House down to one. I will not be the reason House Esprit ceases to exist. And maybe that's me being stubborn in just another way, but." She looks back at Siamus. "That is the reality. I will have as many children as I can, and I will never let my House fall if there is even one single thing left I might do for it."
Siamus runs his thumb over her fingers. "We'll see to it."
His thumb continues to move, meditatively. "It was… irresponsible, to put off securing Fallon for so long, perhaps. But it was a balance between… providing the future, and finding the lady to do so. Aye? We're the first generation of Starmwend Fallons. My Lady will be the first, and the mother of the House. Ta kicked up a fuss about my being particular, or dragging feet, but — it was a decision worth care."
Sintha might have other thoughts on the delay, but she is not here to voice them.
"No, it makes sense. And you do still have Sintha. Two is more than one." Her mouth moves into a slight almost frown. "It probably is telling that I didn't push as hard as I could have to start earlier myself," Avrenne says softly. "But I've never really been one to force someone to do something. It's really just not my nature. I'll open the door, but the thought of pushing people around like…" She trails off. "I can care for children on my own. Come war or hardship." She knows that from experience, clearly. "But I cannot…" A vague circle. You know. Make 'em on her own. She reaches for her wine glass again to take another small sip. "So. I really do appreciate your willingness."
"I assure you," Siamus tells her with gleaming amusement. "It is no hardship."
That might be an actual giggle, or something approaching it, a bubble of a laugh as she sets the wine glass down and looks back over at him with a smile, tracing a line along his fingers with that gentle touch. "Not for me either," she says with a warm invitation in the tone if nothing explicit in the words, as she holds his gaze.
He studies her a moment, still smiling, and then shifts to take his napkin from his lap and set it on the table. He pushes his chair back at an angle from the table and beckons to her, his dark gaze fixed on hers the whole time.
It takes Avrenne a moment — which might be the first hint that she's not necessarily operating at her quickest thoughts capacity — to figure out what he means by it, and she pauses to set her silverware at finished with the meal, drinks the rest of her wine in a single swallow, before she rises to a stand (her napkin falling unheeded to the ground), and steps over to him. She looks down at him with another soft, warm smile, and without real hesitation sits across his lap not at all unlike how she did in the carriage, her arm going around his neck.
He tilts his head back a little against the loop of her arm, and fits his own arm around her to pull her closer. His hand splays across her hip. The fingers of his other hand trail up and down her breastbone idly, tracing the expanse bared by that lower neckline. "I'm glad," he tells her, "that you're no' a shy violet about it. It will go easier."
Avrenne smiles at him, and there's a warm blush on her cheeks, and that sense of a bow being strung slowly as she arches into him. "You know," she says and that sultry note has her voice lower. "White violets are 'modesty.' Blue violets are faithfulness. And purple are a sentence on their own: 'You occupy my thoughts.'" A small pause. "I haven't been compared to a violet before, I don't think, shy or otherwise. It's usually yellow flowers. Because of my hair."
"Your hair's not yellow," he informs her gently but firmly. "It's Zandalari gold." He lifts his hand to draw her hair back from the side of her face, runs it through his fingers appreciatively. "And you're no' a violet, though I confess ye have occupied my thoughts now and again. But you're a —" Siamus pauses. His knowledge of flowers fails. "What flower would ye be? If ye had a choice."
She tilts her head into his hand, leaning into it. "Alyssum," Avrenne answers so readily that it's as though she's been waiting for someone to ask her it. "'Worth beyond beauty, sweetness of soul.'" She laughs a little. "But that one is purple and white." She strokes a line along the back of his neck with her hand, looking at him as though he's something precious and beloved. "No one's ever asked me that. They tell me what flower I am, all the beautiful things they can think to compare me to even when the meanings are very silly or horrible, but no one ever asks what I'd choose."
"'Worth beyond beauty,'" he muses. "It suits ye very well." He draws his fingers through her hair again, uses the gentle movement to tilt her head a little farther so that he can bend in and kiss her throat. "And what flower would I be, I wonder?" he inquires softly against her skin.
Avrenne closes her eyes, which may or not be a good choice, on a soft gasp at the kiss, her hand moving up into his hair to gently weave her fingers through it. "What do you want it to say?" She sounds breathless, and her pulse is already wild. "Patriotism? Gallantry? Fidelity in adversity? Radiant in charms and attraction?" Just a couple ideas off the top of her head.
He laughs, his lips still brushing her skin. "Two of those speak to my vanity, and two to my pride, so perhaps if there's one meaning 'vainglorious'…" He lifts his head, tips it into the touch of her fingers in his hair. "Is there a book?"
"Mmhm. It's called a floriography dictionary," Avrenne murmurs, leaning forward. "I used to have several."
"I'll need ye to recommend one to me." He smiles and trails fingertips down the side of her throat.
"I could write it for you. I recall them all correctly," she adds, proudly, but in something starting to approach an actual mumble, as she sways forward more into him with a soft sigh.
"I'd like that," he says, "if you're willing to the task." He adjusts her in his lap, his hand firmer on her hip, as his hand drifts down over the bodice of her gown, fingers skimming the cloth. Perhaps he is considering the embroidery. He is probably not considering the embroidery.
After another moment he takes his hands from her, careful not to dislodge her, so that he can remove his suit jacket and drape it aside. He unbuttons his waistcoat and tugs his cravat loose, and then arranges Avrenne closer against him.
Avrenne makes a soft sound as she curls up into him, both arms around his neck as she leans in to press a kiss to his cheek in clear affection. "Your cravats 'n waistcoats have been my colors," she mumbles at him. He knows this information. "It's sweet. I like the way you talk to me in it."
"Ah, ye noticed," he says lightly; he also knew she'd noticed. "Well, as I don't speak flowers yet…."
He tips his head back a little to peer at her, and draws his fingers gently along one of her embracing arms, stroking the whorls of her scars. "I think," he observes, "that I may be losing ye. Has it been such a day, or is my company so soporific?" He doesn't sound put out at all; it's the dry, amused tone.
"You can't lose me," Avrenne says sweetly, her head dropping down to press in close against his neck, nuzzling against him as she breathes in deeply. "I'm your star home. And you're a sailor who can read the stars." There's another soft little laugh, a humming sound that turns into actual humming. It's…it's Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.
Someone is probably not sober and for once it might not be Siamus.
He laughs too, softly and startled, at the song. "That's right," he agrees. "I'll no' lose my little homeward star. And she's a fond little thing wi' a drop of wine in her, isn't she?" He's still tracing her scars lightly, idly, his other arm around her hip again. He makes no move to do anything else now.
He can feel the little pout she makes, and hear it in her voice, something of a mumbly scold. "I'm always fond of you. I'd be fond of you with anything in me." That was a choice of words.
"Are ye, now?" His voice is lower, still warm with amusement; his touch on her arm is slower. "Well that's a glad thing." A moment later, quieter still, "She's a terrible temptation, a fond little mermaid. But I'm afraid I'm a gentleman. Are ye very comfortable?" He's dropped his chin, is murmuring into her hair.
"Very comfortable," she agrees. "'m safe with you." A deep, satisfied sort of sigh as she sinks down lower. "You'd carry me. Would just lift me up," she mumbles into his neck. "I wouldn't e’en have to ask. I could cry 'nd you'd just hold 'nto me, tell me you're there. That's who you are. Siamus. That's why I…" Whatever the end of that sentence might have been is lost as she sighs again, pausing maybe in thought, but the thought becomes silence as she breathes slowly in sleep.
He continues to hold her for a time silently, ruminatively.
The dining room door opens again to admit Shine and Catrin and the second footman. All three halt at the scene. Dessert is probably not called for.
Siamus smiles wryly and lifts his chin to address them quietly. "Catrin, is the east room made up?"
Catrin nods, her lips pressed to prevent a smile.
Siamus nods back at her, shifts very carefully beneath Avrenne to rearrange her in his arms, and gets to his feet with her cradled against his chest. "Shine, will ye have Barbour send to her house for her girl? Isla."
"Milord," Shine murmurs. He passes Catrin the plate he's carrying and leaves the room. Catrin follows, bearing both unnecessary dishes back to the kitchen, as the other footman moves in to begin clearing the table quietly.
Siamus carries Avrenne out of the dining room and turns to bear her up the stairs to a guest bedroom.
Avrenne stirs slightly, just once as he starts moving, and there's a sleepy murmur of his name before she slips back under into sleep.
At the top of the stairs, Siamus passes the door to his own rooms on the right, and bears Avrenne down the quiet hallway to the next. He turns slightly to shoulder the door open, careful not to disturb her.
The room within is a soft and distinctly feminine guest room in airy pale green and white: lacy white curtains, a wallpaper of delicate climbing vines above the white wainscoting, a white vanity table by the bathroom door with a stool upholstered in pale green jacquard damask. The floor is once again multilayered carpets, the bed with its pale green linen sheets and white coverlets once again many Avrennes big.
Siamus carries her to the bed and lays her down with near-tender care, her head on the pillows. He moves around the side of the bed to remove her shoes, sets them neatly on the floor beside the end table, and then finds a matchbox in the end-table drawer and lifts the glass of the little oil lamp on the table to kindle it. He replaces glass and then matches in near-silence.
Crossing to the window, he draws back the curtains to open one side of the casement a few inches, sending a cool breath of evening air through the room.
Avrenne makes a small sound, almost a whimper, that ends in a sigh as she turns in her sleep to her side, pressing her hands together and pulling her arms in close to her chest as though trying to either protect them or hold something to herself. She curls up into herself, making herself even smaller, like someone trying to take up as little space as she possibly can, making herself as small a target as possible, or perhaps someone who is using herself as her own shell of armor.
In sleep, without the animation of her expression and eyes, she may seem plainer, as though the impact of the person has dimmed to such an extent to reveal the simple angular lines of her features, the unremarkable curves of her. Her expression though, at the moment, has a faint smile to it, a little curving of her lips as though someone's told her a secret.
Siamus returns to the bedside to study Avrenne, smiling faintly to himself. If he finds her plain, his expression doesn't show it; it's the same gently amused warmth as ever. He bends to brush her hair back from her face, drawing his fingers through it again, and strokes her temple with his thumb.
Straightening, he goes to the foot of the bed and unfolds a blanket folded there, to draw it up over her; he doesn't disturb her by trying to wrangle her into the sheets beneath her.
He lets himself quietly out of the room.
Catrin is waiting in the hall outside the door.
"Will ye stay until her girl comes?" Siamus asks her, low-voiced. "In case she wakes."
Catrin smiles at him and dips her head. "Yes, sir."
He nods at her and moves toward the stairs, to return to his study — and possibly the rest of his dinner — below.