A thoughtful pause, before Verso sets the mirror down. His hair looks pretty much exactly the same, although he'd balk if anyone pointed that out. It's obviously completely different!!
"I guess it can't be any worse than the gestral apprentice who was doing it," he says as he swivels in his chair to look at her. This, if nothing else, is proof of how much he likes her: he's willing to let her at his hair with nothing but a bottle of dye and a dream.
Y'know, someone might be offended to hear that their sincere offer of support and service is met with I guess it can't be any worse than (insert other option.) But luckily for Verso, Jasnah is nothing like him in this regard. Her ego is steel-clad in this regard — it's got so much less hanging in the balance than the dozens of other problems she's got to solve in a day. It might be refreshing to fail at something with considerably lower stakes — apologies to Verso's hair for calling it low stakes.
"And I'm assuming purple was not the intended outcome," she muses, having an easier time putting her boots on than she did taking them off.
"No," Verso says flatly. Be more engrossed in his hair stories!
"But all right, I'll go and see if I can track down some supplies." Which means he'll probably be walking around aimlessly until he finds someone kind enough to point him in the right direction. Just as he'd started learning where everything was here, he'd been whisked away. "Your room, or—?" She probably won't want to make a mess in her room. "My room, I suppose."
Sending him on a mission to walk around aimlessly is — sadly — rather the point of this side quest. It buys her another day to decide what to do with a man who refuses to be background furniture, when realistically what she needs from him is background furniture. Unhelpfully, the last Wit hadn't been particularly skilled at fading into the background either — but that was because, instead of sulking, he simply installed himself in the foreground and dared the Kholins to object.
She reaches for the hairpin she'd removed and left lying out the night before. The twisting motion draws a faint frown, but she manages it with only a small hitch — proof, she supposes, that healing is progressing. With practiced ease, she slots the pin back among the others and gives her head a brief shake. Braids secure. Still, she'll likely need to stop by her quarters before any official business. Ugh. She isn't entirely comfortable there yet.
Which makes the answer easier. "Your room," she confirms.
She gives his room a careful once-over in the thin, breaking light. Would it be strange to ask him to keep an eye out for odd cremlings? Storms — would he even know what constituted as odd in a cremling?
Jasnah pushes herself to her feet. She should say something. The silence stretches just long enough to be noticeable. She worries the corner of her lip, then settles something pared-down but honest.
"Thank you," she says, a little stiff, a little sincere. "For letting me stay."
Oh. "Well," he says, unsure what to say, "if I recall, it was more demanding that you stay." While she had one foot out the door, although he doesn't bring that up. It's silly, but it feels like bringing up the earlier part of the evening would sour what became of it. "But I'll gladly take your more gallant interpretation."
He turns back around to look self-consciously at his hair in the mirror again, silently giving her permission to take her leave.
—But he does add one more thing. "It's okay if you can't make it." Better to preemptively assume disappointment than get his hopes up and spend the evening feeling stood up like he had their first night back. "Just let me know so I don't have to organize a search party."
She doesn't feel more gallant for it, not when the entire maneuver had been about tucking herself into his space long enough to steal a quiet beat of peace. Perhaps it became less of a scheme if he'd already recognized her motive. In any case, correcting him would only reopen old seams and invite fresh accusations, so she contents herself with a nod. Yes — true enough — he had in fact demanded she stay.
She pauses at the threshold when he adds his one final caveat. Perfectly reasonable on its face. And yet it needles her, just slightly. Jasnah has never been in the habit of accounting for her movements to anyone. The expectation chafes; the recoil is instinctive. Still, she nods again. "Understood."
For a fleeting moment she considers checking the corridor — measuring who might see her leaving his rooms in the early morning. But the echo of last night's question (what, do I embarrass you?) causes that impulse to stutter and stop. Instead, she squares her shoulders and walks out into the belly of the tower with unhurried confidence, letting the moment pass unqualified.
———
Later — whether he is present when it arrives or discovers it later, a runner in Kholin blue eventually leaves a small, neatly wrapped parcel outside Verso's door.
Inside: a spanreed, accompanied by a concise note in Jasnah's hand explaining that she has its paired pen; a modest pouch of spheres; and a thin, tile-like chit. The note directs him — precisely, without flourish — to present the chit to the Kholin quartermaster from now on, where it will serve as authorization to collect his wages.
Everything accounted for. Everything said without saying more than necessary. Except...except what looks to be an afterthought, scribbled under a signature of just her first initial. It reads: I expect to be free by the Hateful Hour.
Does he know that the Hateful Hour is that one hour between when one moon (Salas) sets and the next moon (Nomon) hasn't yet risen? The darkest hour of the night. Oh well. Something else to do rather than standing around feeling like a coatrack.
It's not until a while after the parcel is delivered that Verso actually returns. The wild goose chase Jasnah had intended to send him on was a long one; he'd tried finding the right merchant himself—for longer than he's willing to admit—before he finally gave up and asked for help. From there, he'd had to choose just the right dye, just the right supplies. His hair is important! It's, like, 60% of his personality, at least.
But when he does finally return back to his lodgings, he's surprised to see anything from her at all. He sets up the spanreed and sends a simple OK, thanks, uncertain if she'll even have time to look at his message. Uncertain if she'll even care for a response at all. Ah, well. Better safe than sorry.
Then, of course, he has to go on another wild goose chase to figure out what a Hateful Hour is. It's at least getting him more social interaction, even if he looks like a complete fool during it.
Once he knows, he wonders if he's meant to fetch her at that time or if she simply means for him to wait. Hm. He contemplates the options for a long moment before deciding that Jasnah is much like a cat; she prefers to approach rather than be approached. So, he stays put right where he is, dutifully trimming his beard with a pair of small scissors he'd purchased.
Jasnah makes an effort to be punctual. Truly, she does. Salas starts to sink and, setting her pen down, the Queen attempts to remove her crown. Y'know. Figuratively. She's not actually wearing the crown. But with a shuffle of paper and a glance at her waiting spanreeds, she puts her desk to bed.
It's just that when she steps outside of her study she finds Renarin pacing the hallway.
"Cousin," she greets him. Apprehensive, if only because of how loudly she reads the agitation in his demeanour. And that's how the next forty-five minutes of the Hateful Hour gets eaten up by an impromptu audience with the youngest of her cousins.
Her mind is still pivoting around Renarin's questions when she finally, finally, finally makes it to Verso's door. And because she's a stickler for presentation, she takes a moment to straighten the skirts on a garnet-coloured havah piped with gold frogging up to its high collar.
...And she'll withhold any apology until she gets a better sense of his mood.
—Verso's mood isn't particularly sour, but having grown impatient, he's apparently in the middle of doing it his damn self. There's black paste all up in his hair (and a little bit on his face, because he's not good at this). All over the white parts, unfortunately! He's not skilled enough to leave them out, nor does he have a real attachment to them.
"Oh. I didn't think you were coming," he says by way of greeting.
She takes in the image of him mid-dye-job. Door ajar, its edge still caught by the tips of her fingers. A series of complicated (and not so complicated) expressions flicker across her face. Fascination; disbelief; reproach; amusement; settling into a mild exasperation.
"I was on my way here when my cousin caught me in the halls to ask some interesting questions about Alethi marriage law. I..."
She trails off. Sounds like that's as close to an I'm sorry as he's likely to get. Maybe if he'd looked a little sadder.
"Could you really not wait an hour?"
Gentle, with a soft thud, the door shuts behind her. Jasnah stalks the perimeter of his personal space, examining his work thus far from every angle. And by the time the tracks to his far side — and notices how the dye itself is covering those stripes of white of which she's actually quite fond.
He doesn't know how to explain that he'd already set himself up to expect the worst to shield against disappointment, so he doesn't. "Sitting there with nothing to do but look in the mirror made me realize the circumstances were more dire than previously thought."
He did wait the majority of the hour, at least. The dye is still wet, little bits somehow smeared onto his neck and chin. It's been a process trying to do this himself.
Taking the 'oh' as disappointment that he didn't wait for her, he says, "Don't worry. There's still ample area in the back that I've missed, I'm sure."
Just for a beat. Long enough for the disappointment to finish blooming and be packed neatly away where it won't show on her face. Still, she can't quite stop inspecting the way the dye has wicked into places she hadn't expected to miss.
Instead, she lifts a hand and — without touching him — gestures vaguely toward the front of his head.
"...I was under the impression," she says, carefully even, "that this was a corrective measure. Roots only."
"—You mean the stripes?" he asks, finally catching on. "It may surprise you, but I wasn't born with them."
This is the way he's meant to look, is what he means. The way he did look for a long time. It certainly wasn't his choice to sport white hair; in Lumière, even a few greys are a rare occurrence now. More than that is an anomaly. It made him stand out, but not necessarily in a good way. Things are different here, admittedly, but it had never occurred to him until— well, right this second that he would ever do his hair any other way.
"Didn't I tell you? The apprentice who used to dye my hair would always muck it up." Said with no small amount of annoyance. Obviously, this has been a pain point. "I kept it rather than risk him turning it green on a revision."
It does surprise her. It wouldn't be so strange to see someone with two such markedly different tones in their hair. Not only could it be parentage (like with her cousins) but it's not that far off from the way Thaylens tend to have white eyebrows no matter what the other hair on their head.
She likely shouldn't say anything. It's a bit cruel, isn't it? To say something complimentary about a thing that's no longer accurate. But he did as good as ask for flattery — that one time, walking to the restaurant. So maybe she should say something and get it over with and...
"I found them quite striking."
The words fall fast from her mouth as she — stares, stock-still, not possessing near enough self-consciousness to so much as fidget under the awkward silence that follows.
It's clear by his expression that, despite the fact that he wants flattery from her, he's not quite sure what to do with it now that he has it. He'd assumed she didn't have a single opinion on his physical appearance, save for maybe 'I'm sure it works for other people'. As long as he looks put together enough to not reflect poorly on her, he'd figured he could shave himself bald from head to toe and it wouldn't even register as noteworthy on her radar.
"Well, that might have been helpful to know beforehand." Why didn't she say anything before he lost the singular physical attribute of his that she's ever complimented??? "I thought maybe it made me look like an old man."
See? It's not just women he thinks need to look young!
Jasnah reaches for the dye pot — gingerly lifting it out of his possession and...and does nothing with it, as this suddenly and unexpectedly starts to look like a two-handed job. All she wanted to accomplish just now was to wipe down the jar with a cloth — supposing the one within reach was acquired for exactly this purpose — but she doesn't want to hold either the pot or the rag with her safehand sleeve.
So, with a decisive hum, she drops the little pot onto the cloth for a second and unbuttons her sleeve up to the elbow. Her hand is (of course) gloved. With that little bit extra mobility, she picks up the pot again and begins to scrub away some smudges. A little tidying before dying the back half of his hair, you see.
"But you never looked like one." Her attention is buried on this small, compulsive little task as she talks. "I'd always assumed you couldn't be any older than me, at any rate."
But he's obviously pleased by the comment, even though of course it makes sense that he wouldn't really look old. At least, not as old as he really is. He's not so sure how he feels about the proof of his real age peeking through in his hair, but it's too late; if he rinses the dye off now, partway through, it'll just look grey.
Since she seems to be determined to finish the job, he settles down in his desk chair, turned away from her so that she can easily see what she's working with. As he does, he says, "I was... thirty-three, I think. When the Fracture happened." Older than he ever should have been by seven years.
She gets to work. Having secured the rolled-up sleeve with a button, Jasnah opts to tackle this task explicitly with her safehand — mostly because it's already got a glove, and she'd prefer not to have dye staining her skin. Awkward, maybe, but she's trying not to think too long or too hard about that particular note of cognitive dissonance.
Fingers tented firmly against the back of his skull, she tilts his head forward. Then, glancing over the supplies, she grabs a small stubby brush that looks as though he may have already used it to glob some of the colour into place. Standing just behind him, she pauses to test the viscosity of the dye. Small, curious steps — she isn't rushing.
She does the math he doesn't say aloud — after all, she remembers how he told her that thirty-three was the most recent gommage before he'd landed here.
But oh, storms, she can't help herself: "Were you not — cursed yet?"
She always uses his word for it. Always, always, always.
Verso keeps his head angled how she tilts it, an obedient customer in Jasnah's first-time-ever salon. He wishes he hadn't preemptively begun to dye his hair for a different reason now; if he hadn't already done it, she would have started at the front, facing him. She might have touched his face.
But he did already do it and she isn't touching his face, so he keeps his head still.
"I'm not sure," he says, and this is one case where he really isn't. He'd felt like he was aging, but would he really know? Verso had been twenty-six. That's not so different from thirty-three. Maybe he's been a fly in amber since his first breath. "I wasn't exactly going around dying in my younger years. The Fracture was the first time I noticed it."
"Not dying, no," she echoes, skeptical. "But no scraped knees? No split lips?"
She turns the question over while she works, briefly imagining what this fidgety man must have been like as a fidgety child. Then she scoops dye onto the little wooden-handled comb and, with a practiced air she does not technically possess, divides the back of his hair into loose sections. She starts at the roots on the lowest section, painting carefully, then works the paste in with the tips of her gloved fingers.
Her touch is precise. Deliberate. Even without prior experience, she takes care not to smear the dye where it doesn't belong — no careless streaks along his neck, no stain at the edge of his ear or collar. Everything contained. Controlled.
"Storms," she adds, dry as ever, "not even a stubbed toe?"
What is he supposed to say to that? Well, I'm not actually sure I ever was a child. Hard to say, really! That's— strange. Makes him sound like some sort of insane freak.
"I— yeah, I remember getting hurt." The key word being 'remember'. Whether he actually experienced it is up for debate. "When I was young. But after adulthood, I couldn't say."
Well. That's an unusual answer. Just as well he's facing away and can't see the faint crease of her frown. Jasnah loads the comb again with a generous sweep of dye and moves one layer higher, returning — methodically — to the roots. She works the paste in with slow, thorough strokes, fingers massaging until it threads between every strand. No shortcuts. No missed spots.
"Hm." She turns the thought over, on the verge of asking, "Did you have any—"
But then she notices his head drifting — almost imperceptibly. Lifting out if its tilt.
She stops mid-sentence. "Head down." Said softly, but still unmistakably a directive.
Her knuckles settle at the base of his skull. A light, assured pressure and she guides him back into place. And then Jasnah resumes without comment, her touch steady again as she continues her work.
Verso's quiet for a moment. It's definitely wrong how much he enjoys the sensation of her fingers at the nape of his neck. The pressure is strangely comforting, and he's inclined to lean into it instead of away from it as she intends, but he suffocates that urge before it can go anywhere.
"Any... what?" he says after that beat of silence. Purposefully obtuse: "Any... secret talents? Admirers? Zest for life, perhaps?"
Any injuries during the Fracture — on account of him mentioning not noticing his curse until then. But the interrogative heat of the moment seems to have passed, and she chews it over while moves onto another section.
"I was going to ask whether you had any other pursuits besides the piano, as a child. But I suppose secret talents will do."
She lies. At least it's not to herself, which is the true cardinal sin. And in this case, she gets the sense that perhaps she'd gotten away with more questions about his curse than she usually does in the run of a mini-interrogation. Besides, she's been learning how to stay on a decent enough card hand. Shifting questions now feels a little like that.
On 'other pursuits': "I held a paintbrush before I could speak." Yet another 'I' that doesn't really belong to him, but there's no other way to phrase it. And— it does feel like it was him, even if he knows it wasn't. He has no other childhood to draw from.
"And I was captain of the swim team at school."
Has he already bragged about this? It feels unlikely that he hasn't, but it bears repeating.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"I guess it can't be any worse than the gestral apprentice who was doing it," he says as he swivels in his chair to look at her. This, if nothing else, is proof of how much he likes her: he's willing to let her at his hair with nothing but a bottle of dye and a dream.
"Did I ever tell you he once turned it purple?"
no subject
"And I'm assuming purple was not the intended outcome," she muses, having an easier time putting her boots on than she did taking them off.
no subject
"But all right, I'll go and see if I can track down some supplies." Which means he'll probably be walking around aimlessly until he finds someone kind enough to point him in the right direction. Just as he'd started learning where everything was here, he'd been whisked away. "Your room, or—?" She probably won't want to make a mess in her room. "My room, I suppose."
no subject
She reaches for the hairpin she'd removed and left lying out the night before. The twisting motion draws a faint frown, but she manages it with only a small hitch — proof, she supposes, that healing is progressing. With practiced ease, she slots the pin back among the others and gives her head a brief shake. Braids secure. Still, she'll likely need to stop by her quarters before any official business. Ugh. She isn't entirely comfortable there yet.
Which makes the answer easier. "Your room," she confirms.
She gives his room a careful once-over in the thin, breaking light. Would it be strange to ask him to keep an eye out for odd cremlings? Storms — would he even know what constituted as odd in a cremling?
Jasnah pushes herself to her feet. She should say something. The silence stretches just long enough to be noticeable. She worries the corner of her lip, then settles something pared-down but honest.
"Thank you," she says, a little stiff, a little sincere. "For letting me stay."
no subject
He turns back around to look self-consciously at his hair in the mirror again, silently giving her permission to take her leave.
—But he does add one more thing. "It's okay if you can't make it." Better to preemptively assume disappointment than get his hopes up and spend the evening feeling stood up like he had their first night back. "Just let me know so I don't have to organize a search party."
no subject
She pauses at the threshold when he adds his one final caveat. Perfectly reasonable on its face. And yet it needles her, just slightly. Jasnah has never been in the habit of accounting for her movements to anyone. The expectation chafes; the recoil is instinctive. Still, she nods again. "Understood."
For a fleeting moment she considers checking the corridor — measuring who might see her leaving his rooms in the early morning. But the echo of last night's question (what, do I embarrass you?) causes that impulse to stutter and stop. Instead, she squares her shoulders and walks out into the belly of the tower with unhurried confidence, letting the moment pass unqualified.
———
Later — whether he is present when it arrives or discovers it later, a runner in Kholin blue eventually leaves a small, neatly wrapped parcel outside Verso's door.
Inside: a spanreed, accompanied by a concise note in Jasnah's hand explaining that she has its paired pen; a modest pouch of spheres; and a thin, tile-like chit. The note directs him — precisely, without flourish — to present the chit to the Kholin quartermaster from now on, where it will serve as authorization to collect his wages.
Everything accounted for. Everything said without saying more than necessary. Except...except what looks to be an afterthought, scribbled under a signature of just her first initial. It reads: I expect to be free by the Hateful Hour.
Does he know that the Hateful Hour is that one hour between when one moon (Salas) sets and the next moon (Nomon) hasn't yet risen? The darkest hour of the night. Oh well. Something else to do rather than standing around feeling like a coatrack.
no subject
But when he does finally return back to his lodgings, he's surprised to see anything from her at all. He sets up the spanreed and sends a simple OK, thanks, uncertain if she'll even have time to look at his message. Uncertain if she'll even care for a response at all. Ah, well. Better safe than sorry.
Then, of course, he has to go on another wild goose chase to figure out what a Hateful Hour is. It's at least getting him more social interaction, even if he looks like a complete fool during it.
Once he knows, he wonders if he's meant to fetch her at that time or if she simply means for him to wait. Hm. He contemplates the options for a long moment before deciding that Jasnah is much like a cat; she prefers to approach rather than be approached. So, he stays put right where he is, dutifully trimming his beard with a pair of small scissors he'd purchased.
no subject
It's just that when she steps outside of her study she finds Renarin pacing the hallway.
"Cousin," she greets him. Apprehensive, if only because of how loudly she reads the agitation in his demeanour. And that's how the next forty-five minutes of the Hateful Hour gets eaten up by an impromptu audience with the youngest of her cousins.
Her mind is still pivoting around Renarin's questions when she finally, finally, finally makes it to Verso's door. And because she's a stickler for presentation, she takes a moment to straighten the skirts on a garnet-coloured havah piped with gold frogging up to its high collar.
...And she'll withhold any apology until she gets a better sense of his mood.
no subject
"Oh. I didn't think you were coming," he says by way of greeting.
no subject
She takes in the image of him mid-dye-job. Door ajar, its edge still caught by the tips of her fingers. A series of complicated (and not so complicated) expressions flicker across her face. Fascination; disbelief; reproach; amusement; settling into a mild exasperation.
"I was on my way here when my cousin caught me in the halls to ask some interesting questions about Alethi marriage law. I..."
She trails off. Sounds like that's as close to an I'm sorry as he's likely to get. Maybe if he'd looked a little sadder.
"Could you really not wait an hour?"
Gentle, with a soft thud, the door shuts behind her. Jasnah stalks the perimeter of his personal space, examining his work thus far from every angle. And by the time the tracks to his far side — and notices how the dye itself is covering those stripes of white of which she's actually quite fond.
Her reaction is a soft, deflated oh.
no subject
He did wait the majority of the hour, at least. The dye is still wet, little bits somehow smeared onto his neck and chin. It's been a process trying to do this himself.
Taking the 'oh' as disappointment that he didn't wait for her, he says, "Don't worry. There's still ample area in the back that I've missed, I'm sure."
no subject
Just for a beat. Long enough for the disappointment to finish blooming and be packed neatly away where it won't show on her face. Still, she can't quite stop inspecting the way the dye has wicked into places she hadn't expected to miss.
Instead, she lifts a hand and — without touching him — gestures vaguely toward the front of his head.
"...I was under the impression," she says, carefully even, "that this was a corrective measure. Roots only."
A pause. Her head tilts.
"Not a full revision."
no subject
This is the way he's meant to look, is what he means. The way he did look for a long time. It certainly wasn't his choice to sport white hair; in Lumière, even a few greys are a rare occurrence now. More than that is an anomaly. It made him stand out, but not necessarily in a good way. Things are different here, admittedly, but it had never occurred to him until— well, right this second that he would ever do his hair any other way.
"Didn't I tell you? The apprentice who used to dye my hair would always muck it up." Said with no small amount of annoyance. Obviously, this has been a pain point. "I kept it rather than risk him turning it green on a revision."
no subject
She likely shouldn't say anything. It's a bit cruel, isn't it? To say something complimentary about a thing that's no longer accurate. But he did as good as ask for flattery — that one time, walking to the restaurant. So maybe she should say something and get it over with and...
"I found them quite striking."
The words fall fast from her mouth as she — stares, stock-still, not possessing near enough self-consciousness to so much as fidget under the awkward silence that follows.
no subject
It's clear by his expression that, despite the fact that he wants flattery from her, he's not quite sure what to do with it now that he has it. He'd assumed she didn't have a single opinion on his physical appearance, save for maybe 'I'm sure it works for other people'. As long as he looks put together enough to not reflect poorly on her, he'd figured he could shave himself bald from head to toe and it wouldn't even register as noteworthy on her radar.
"Well, that might have been helpful to know beforehand." Why didn't she say anything before he lost the singular physical attribute of his that she's ever complimented??? "I thought maybe it made me look like an old man."
See? It's not just women he thinks need to look young!
no subject
Jasnah reaches for the dye pot — gingerly lifting it out of his possession and...and does nothing with it, as this suddenly and unexpectedly starts to look like a two-handed job. All she wanted to accomplish just now was to wipe down the jar with a cloth — supposing the one within reach was acquired for exactly this purpose — but she doesn't want to hold either the pot or the rag with her safehand sleeve.
So, with a decisive hum, she drops the little pot onto the cloth for a second and unbuttons her sleeve up to the elbow. Her hand is (of course) gloved. With that little bit extra mobility, she picks up the pot again and begins to scrub away some smudges. A little tidying before dying the back half of his hair, you see.
"But you never looked like one." Her attention is buried on this small, compulsive little task as she talks. "I'd always assumed you couldn't be any older than me, at any rate."
no subject
But he's obviously pleased by the comment, even though of course it makes sense that he wouldn't really look old. At least, not as old as he really is. He's not so sure how he feels about the proof of his real age peeking through in his hair, but it's too late; if he rinses the dye off now, partway through, it'll just look grey.
Since she seems to be determined to finish the job, he settles down in his desk chair, turned away from her so that she can easily see what she's working with. As he does, he says, "I was... thirty-three, I think. When the Fracture happened." Older than he ever should have been by seven years.
no subject
Fingers tented firmly against the back of his skull, she tilts his head forward. Then, glancing over the supplies, she grabs a small stubby brush that looks as though he may have already used it to glob some of the colour into place. Standing just behind him, she pauses to test the viscosity of the dye. Small, curious steps — she isn't rushing.
She does the math he doesn't say aloud — after all, she remembers how he told her that thirty-three was the most recent gommage before he'd landed here.
But oh, storms, she can't help herself: "Were you not — cursed yet?"
She always uses his word for it. Always, always, always.
no subject
But he did already do it and she isn't touching his face, so he keeps his head still.
"I'm not sure," he says, and this is one case where he really isn't. He'd felt like he was aging, but would he really know? Verso had been twenty-six. That's not so different from thirty-three. Maybe he's been a fly in amber since his first breath. "I wasn't exactly going around dying in my younger years. The Fracture was the first time I noticed it."
no subject
She turns the question over while she works, briefly imagining what this fidgety man must have been like as a fidgety child. Then she scoops dye onto the little wooden-handled comb and, with a practiced air she does not technically possess, divides the back of his hair into loose sections. She starts at the roots on the lowest section, painting carefully, then works the paste in with the tips of her gloved fingers.
Her touch is precise. Deliberate. Even without prior experience, she takes care not to smear the dye where it doesn't belong — no careless streaks along his neck, no stain at the edge of his ear or collar. Everything contained. Controlled.
"Storms," she adds, dry as ever, "not even a stubbed toe?"
no subject
What is he supposed to say to that? Well, I'm not actually sure I ever was a child. Hard to say, really! That's— strange. Makes him sound like some sort of insane freak.
"I— yeah, I remember getting hurt." The key word being 'remember'. Whether he actually experienced it is up for debate. "When I was young. But after adulthood, I couldn't say."
no subject
"Hm." She turns the thought over, on the verge of asking, "Did you have any—"
But then she notices his head drifting — almost imperceptibly. Lifting out if its tilt.
She stops mid-sentence. "Head down." Said softly, but still unmistakably a directive.
Her knuckles settle at the base of his skull. A light, assured pressure and she guides him back into place. And then Jasnah resumes without comment, her touch steady again as she continues her work.
no subject
"Any... what?" he says after that beat of silence. Purposefully obtuse: "Any... secret talents? Admirers? Zest for life, perhaps?"
no subject
"I was going to ask whether you had any other pursuits besides the piano, as a child. But I suppose secret talents will do."
She lies. At least it's not to herself, which is the true cardinal sin. And in this case, she gets the sense that perhaps she'd gotten away with more questions about his curse than she usually does in the run of a mini-interrogation. Besides, she's been learning how to stay on a decent enough card hand. Shifting questions now feels a little like that.
no subject
"And I was captain of the swim team at school."
Has he already bragged about this? It feels unlikely that he hasn't, but it bears repeating.
"What about you, as a child?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)