[ to her credit, she takes the correction in stride. jasnah is many thing — aloof, condescending, and strict. however, she is not so arrogant as to rankle under new information. she listens; she processes; she accepts. she is an adherent of the philosophy of aspiration and to aspire is to learn.
— doesn't stop her from wrinkling her nose and questioning his claim. ]
A partner dance? What, for harvest festivals?
[ light eyes feasts and fetes have always included a little bit of dancing, sure, but those dances were done in sets and lines. appropriate distance between participants. no touching. no partner. those are the dances she was taught. but she'd heard of other kinds, popular among the dark eyes. but verso, she'd noticed the moment she'd met him, isn't a dark eyes. his were a fine, bright grey. fit for royalty in roshar.
although...she also knows well enough that the colour of one's eyes means storms all in other worlds. wit told her so. it only underlined the strange arbitrary nature of the division — something she'd written about in the past, but only theoretically. ]
Or back-alley bars?
[ surely she thinks very little of this partner dancing. ]
[ Verso raises his eyebrows at that semi-accusation, although he finds it more humorous than offensive. He's been accused of a lot of things over the years. Being a deviant dancer is probably one of the more flattering accusations, all things considered. ]
My back-alley bar talents are of a... different nature.
[ An even less marketable nature, unless the Alethi are all secretly way freakier than he thought. ]
It's for parties. Socializing. You've really never pair danced before?
[ okay, alright, put a pin in the concept of his differing back-alley bar talents. jasnah is an equal opportunist interrogator. it's just that so many people resisted her curiosity.
she loosely crosses her arms, refusing to feel shame for her lack of familiarity with partner dances. her attention was always elsewhere — she learned as much as she needed to survive alethi feasts, and no more. ]
No. [ her head tilts. ] We have a handful of group steps, followed in a line, but nothing so — intimate. Is it truly so common in Lumière?
[ Sorry, he laughs a little. It's just— clearly, their cultures couldn't differ more on the concept of intimacy. What she considers surprisingly intimate is really quite banal. Of course there's some excitement to partner dancing with someone you find attractive, given the proximity, but it's hardly scandalous. Back before he learned the truth, when he really was the bon vivant he's portraying himself to be, Verso would regularly do five more scandalous things than that before lunch. ]
I once waltzed with an old lady.
[ To give her an idea of how shockingly intimate the act is. ]
[ her jaw works, lips tight. likely, her tongue tucking into a tooth — idle, fidgety, thoughtful. it stands to reason that different planets have different customs. wit had (after all) provided a lengthy, annotated list of the different genres of seduction poetry found across the cosmere.
(she liked the memento mori ones best.)
nevertheless, it's so strange! her cheeks colour, just barely, but mostly at his laughter. she can handle being wrong; she dislikes being naive. ]
The ways of your world are [ insufferable, bizarre, horrific ] fascinating.
[ Insufferable, bizarre, horrific—that's him. But he doesn't want to make her feel too embarrassed for not knowing, so he concedes: ]
It can be intimate, under the right circumstances.
[ He'd be lying if he'd said he'd never used dancing as an excuse to push his luck with someone that he shouldn't. (Hey, it's almost like that's a pattern.) Verso hadn't had anything more important to worry about besides choosing the outfit for his next concert and charming women into his bedroom then; or, more accurately, he hadn't known that he had anything more important to worry about. ]
It can be used as a way to... socialize with the opposite sex. [ Put euphemistically. It provides a pretense to get physically close to someone. Puts a respectable veneer over it. ] Or the same sex, as the case may be.
[ Verso's mom is a /r/raisedbynarcissists #boymom, but she was also apparently very woke for 1905, because she created an LGBT-friendly world. I must admit that is queen shit. ]
[ jasnah recognizes the euphemism for what it is. perhaps it isn't too different from a brace of other events and excuses fabricated by young, hot-blooded alethi over the years. it was never her cup of tea, of course — but additionally, the war of reckoning had put a damper on most revels. her uncle, dalinar, had a strict code about these sorts of things: no leisure during wartime.
— and, notably, the barrier to "socialize" was much, much lower for those of the same sex. it's not like jasnah hasn't witnessed a half-dozen of her scholar-sisters pair off in quiet corners of libraries, eschewing their work and entertaining distraction. some scholars got inappropriately attached to their students, though jasnah personally couldn't stomach the idea of getting romantically entangled with a ward. ]
I'd like a demonstration. [ and then in case it sounds too much as though she means right now, she adds: ] Someday.
[ not a question. never a question. she commands, and the loyal provide. ]
[ Whipped around, once again. For once, Verso's fairly sure his rustiness isn't to blame for his uncertainty at whether she's suggesting they dance, or... dance. Although he's reluctant to follow a train of thought that is vanishingly unlikely, his nerve endings tingle slightly, and somewhere in the back of his mind he finds himself acutely aware of the space between them. Even more acutely aware of how that imperious tone of voice might sound making other sorts of commands.
Exceedingly casually: ] Sure. A proper demonstration will require your participation, though.
[ Because it's paired. And also because he wants it to. ]
[ her voice is iron, far more severe than the topic requires — and that should perhaps be his first clue that she isn't being entirely serious in her disagreement. still iron, her voice sinks low and quiet. presumably for his ears only. ]
I'm certain we could find a willing stand-in.
[ a glance across the back of the settee, indicating with just her sightline the three scribes who had ogled him upon their arrival to the shelter. they have long since moved on to other topics, but it's clear jasnah hasn't forgotten how they reacted.
ultimately, she will agree to dance (for science!) but something in her very nature disallows her from simply saying so. ]
[ ...Yep, there's more whipping around. It's a wonder she hasn't given him whiplash. He's starting to catch onto the cadence of this push-pull, though; she says something that suggests she might harbor some amount of interest in him, however insignificant and superficial, and then immediately withdraws when he responds favorably. So, maybe he shouldn't respond favorably.
An experimental calling of her bluff, he cants his head toward the scribes. ] Should I go ask?
[ He'll dance-cuck Jasnah if she wants to be dance-cucked. ]
[ she doesn't answer immediately. instead, like earlier in the stairwell, she holds is gaze without flinching. she does blink — in a wholly natural, human way. she isn't about to pin him with a crazed stare. but it's clear that he has her attention.
— and something else, too, given the nasty twist she feels in her chest. disappointment? apprehension? something about the way he plays along upsets her, but she's enough of a scholar to want to run that feeling down. hunt it, pin it, dissect it. ]
Go on. [ she lifts her gloved hand and gestures, vaguely. ] Let me observe the not half-bad waltzer at work.
[ Hm. Not a bluff, then, or perhaps she's calling his bluff on calling her bluff. Verso is terminally competitive, so instead of backing down from the challenge, he merely takes a moment to primp, tousling his hair just right and rumpling his collar in a way that's meant to be handsomely disheveled rather than unkempt. Standing from his perch on the settee, he says, ] As her majesty wishes.
[ It's been an awfully long time since he's actually used any of his more rakish skills, but he must still have access to them, deep down. With a loose, untroubled sort of posture, he approaches the scribes and leans nonchalantly against the wall. ]
If I might trouble you mademoiselles for a moment...
[ thrilling, really, to watch him arrange his appearance before he stands. jasnah observes with a water-oil mixture of contempt and compassion. after all, architecting one's own reputation through physical appearance and fashion is one of her more persistent habits. she likes how he recognizes the social implication of a just-in-time tousled look.
he speaks, as her majesty wishes, and jasnah resists a wayward urge to pat him encouragingly (sarcastically) on the arm as he departs. instead, she does nothing. says nothing. only watches.
across the room, the three scribes turn from their conversation. the more gregarious of the three, a dimple-faced woman wearing sky blue, smiles broadly. ]
Brightlord! [ she greets him with enthusiasm, clapping her hands together — the sound is deadened, as one hand is obviously buttoned into her sleeve. ] How timely. We were hoping you could settle a bet for us — surely, you're from Thaylenah?
[ it's the hair, most likely, that makes them ask. thaylens possess white eyebrows, with seemingly no upper limit to their growth. it's a silly mistake they're making, but jasnah's expression remains impassive across the room. ]
[ Verso makes a mental note to find out what a Brightlord is later, but since it sounds flattering enough, he lets it slide in the moment. With an index finger pointed in his new friend's direction, he says, ] Ah, good guess.
[ Maybe. He's not really sure, but he's certain Jasnah will be all-too-willing to explain why it was (or wasn't) a reasonable guess. ]
But no. My place of origin [ —it hasn't been a 'home' in a long time— ] is... lesser known than that.
[ A way of saying 'yeah, you've probably never heard of it'. A glance back at Jasnah, checking if she still wants him to do this, before he turns back to the women again. ]
I was wondering if I might recruit one of you for a little cultural exchange. [ And then, just so they know what they're getting into: ] A demonstration of partner dancing.
[ the dimples on the sky-blue scribe sharpen as she gasps theatrically, bare fingertips touching the edge of her cheek. ]
A dance, Brightlord? And here we were only wagering on the length of your eyebrows.
[ her companions react differently: the second, a severe woman dressed in copper, blinks once in a flat, assessing way. the third, in a soft lilac hue, visibly startles, then tries to hide it with a shy smile.
copper: ] Cultural exchange? Here? We’re practically drowning in culture already.
[ lilac: ] Don’t be rude—
[ copper: ] I’m not. Just cautious. Partner dancing is...
[ sky-blue elbows copper without shame, interrupting her, then steps forward as though announcing her candidacy to a council.
sky-blue: ] Well, if you’re looking for someone who won’t embarrass you, I danced at my cousin’s wedding last month. Half the warcamps saw it.
[ a beat. she glances, openly, boldly, past verso’s shoulder toward jasnah — not asking permission but clocking the monarch’s reaction like a practiced courtier. ]
But if this is meant to be instructive... perhaps you should tell us what sort of dance we’re talking about. Slow? Fast? Something respectable? Or...?
[ lilac squeaks. copper snorts. sky-blue's words demonstrate that not all alethi are quite as uptight as their queen. ]
Verso, vain as he is, touches his eyebrows self-consciously at the comment. (Are they suggesting they're bushy? He did spend a long time in the wilderness.) But then the women move on, so he does too, albeit not without adding 'shave beard, and also maybe eyebrows???' to his mental agenda.
He glances back at Jasnah's reaction, too, eyes following Mademoiselle Sky-Blue's. Honestly, he hasn't the slightest idea if Jasnah has just set him up to deeply offend the innocent women they're holed up with. She had seemed rather scandalized by the prospect of partner dancing, after all—but the more gregarious of the bunch seems the type to step out of her comfort zone, perhaps less tightly wound than Jasnah.
"Don't I seem respectable?" Mm. Don't answer that. "It's a party dance."
He takes a few steps back toward the center of the room, hand outstretched in invitation as he offers easy flattery: "It should be simple enough for someone who's danced in front of half the warcamps, I think."
Across the room, Jasnah suppresses an eyeroll. Now, don’t get it twisted — she has long argued that there are now roles, behaviours, or personalities that adhere more feminine than others. If the scribe in sky blue wants to flirt and fuss, Jasnah would defend that woman’s right to do so. Doesn’t mean she finds it appealing. Or practical. At least, not on this day, in this place, with this man.
(Or maybe she’s simply feeling a little territorial.)
The queen helps herself to a cup of wine — orange again — and settles back onto the settee to watch this ceremony, this mock courtship, this cultural exchange that she understands is for her benefit first and foremost. Her education.
Sky-Blue’s smile widens, showing teeth, and she places her bare right hand in Verso’s. Palm to palm. Casual, confident, clearly a woman who feels easy ownership over her presence and her affection. Unlike Jasnah, she does not guard it jealously like a finite resource.
“—What manner of music should I imagine, good sir?”
Ah, not an offense, then. Judging by Jasnah's behaviors, one might think something as simple as the touch of a hand would be impossibly inappropriate, but his understanding of the culture shifts a bit to the left now. Maybe it's just Alethkar's queen that's so icily withholding.
"I'll take care of the music," he says, shooting his partner a grin back. It's been a long time since he's felt the warmth of another person's fingers against his, and he has to admit that the sensation is nice, even when coming from a near-stranger. "Just put your hands here—"
Patiently, he walks her through the stance—left arm draped across his right arm, right hand clasped in his left—and the basic steps, before humming Blue Danube again as he steps forward, to the side, back. He was right: although it's been ages since he's had cause to do this, the steps come back easily once he starts, like riding a bicycle.
It's sort of fun, actually. Makes him feel a bit like he used to feel, back when things were simple and easy and his greatest concern was whether he'd get to dance with the prettiest girl at the party. It's not strictly accurate to the waltz, but he lifts his arm and twirls Sky-Blue around before pulling her back in, showing off.
From her vantage point, Jasnah can't identify anything truly scandalous about the dance. The pair are physically close, yes, but from across the room she can see the space between their bodies. The tense cant of the arm suggests restraint — not indulgence. She understands (in observing) why he called this style classic. And, as her attention sweeps briefly to the dancers' feet, she can imagine herself managing the steps. It looks easier than some of the more basic sword stances, and she'd only just recently started learning those.
Meanwhile, the scribe wearing sky blue seems to light up in Verso's arms. His attention for her us reflected back in a dazzling grin and an energetic, cooperative nature. She may have danced before, but this dance is still new to her and her steps are clumsy.
Sky-Blue (or whatever her name actually is, Jasnah thinks she's related to the Sebarial house) doesn't seem to mind her own clumsiness. When she misses a step, she laughs and lets her momentum crash against Verso. Not in an over provocation — simply joyful and heedless. A far, far cry from the queen who deliberates every word.
Her friends cheer her on. And as cantankerous as Jasnah can be, she at least appreciates what it means to witness this sliver of peace in otherwise dreary times.
Verso laughs softly at the misstep and ensuing crash, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her. If it's been a long time since he had someone else's hand in his, it's been even longer since he's experienced carelessness like this, even as a mere witness. The only carefree distractions he's engaged in any time recently have been quick trysts in the woods with people who are scared of their impending death and want to feel something besides fear and sadness, clothing still half-on and the return to camp made hastily after.
"Merci, mademoiselle," he says, releasing her and giving her a little bow. It's obvious that he thrives under positive attention, like a flower that turns toward the warmth of the sun. "You've done very well for a beginner."
A step back, and— "Anyone else want to try?" He's not talking to Jasnah, but he's not not talking to her, either.
— Honestly? Jasnah is tempted. A kind of hunger claws under her ribs, making her crave the things she's always valued over physicality: bonding, relating, engaging. For a moment, watching the other woman's smile and hearing Verso's laughter, she thought maybe she understood the value in the gesture. The risk-reward of the dance. Like, they both left their performance feeling a little fuller.
(Another more stubborn wingbeat in her chest forces her to ask: can't intellectual conversation provide the same?)
Here's the thing. As real as her temptation is, Jasnah can't simply raise her hand and cut in. Not with these three scribes watching. Quite apart from any social hesitation, there are political implications. If she dances with him in front of these three women, they'll mistake him for a suitor. If the highprinces get whiff of a possible suitor (however incorrectly) then it becomes a whole new headache.
So, instead! She clears her throat and cuts her voice across the room: "That's quite enough for the time being, Dessendre. Don't you think you've distracted the poor girls long enough?"
...Even the one in sky blue can't quite bring herself to correct the queen, even if her eyes tell a different story.
Yes, Jasnah thinks. She'll have to wait her turn when there are fewer witnesses.
If he'd been a flower blooming under the scribe's warm attention, he wilts a little at the cold front from Jasnah's side of the room.
He clears his throat and offers the sky-blue-clad scribe a congenial nod before stepping away, wondering if maybe they'll have the opportunity to meet again. She'd been fun. When he returns to the settee, it's at the edge of the seat, boots planted on the ground instead of kicked up on the stool.
Jasnah isn't a liar. Not by the strictest definitions, at any rate. Although she may lie by omission or deflection, she prefers to say things that are true. Truth, you see, matters to her. If she had hated his demonstration, she would have told him so. But because she didn't hate it, and because he's asking her for her verdict directly, she needs a moment to navigate her way through all the different branching dialogue trees available.
"Hmm," she hums. She sets her half-drank second cup aside. She folds her hands in her lap, bare over gloved. And she waits another beat for the scribes to lose themselves in a different topic, paying less and less attention to the two on the settee.
"I think," Jasnah tips her chin, "that it's a pity you can't play piano and dance at the same time."
If he takes his time sorting through her verbs and nouns, he might come to the following conclusion: she intends to try a dance — at some point, likely in the privacy of his quarters — and she can imagine the appeal of it alongside good music — oh, and she thinks his music is good. In not quite the same words, she does indeed tell him he is good.
Unfortunately, Verso has so little self-respect that this not-quite-a-compliment pleases him, perhaps more than it should. Maybe he should consider whether it's strictly healthy to have someone's approval dangled in front of him, constantly just out of reach, but he doesn't. Instead, he smiles at the brief ray of sun in the blizzard that is Jasnah Kholin.
"You never know," he teases. "I am a man of many talents. I might surprise you."
If Jasnah understood just how hot-and-cold her behaviour has been perceived, she might actually possess enough shame to feel contrition. But, in many respects, she lacks compassion for those whose self-worth lives mostly in others' reflection.
And so: "I'll not hold my breath."
She stretches her neck from one side to the next, clearly getting antsy so long locked in the shelter. Restlessness opens the door to paranoia, and paranoia isn't something she needs in additional doses.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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— doesn't stop her from wrinkling her nose and questioning his claim. ]
A partner dance? What, for harvest festivals?
[ light eyes feasts and fetes have always included a little bit of dancing, sure, but those dances were done in sets and lines. appropriate distance between participants. no touching. no partner. those are the dances she was taught. but she'd heard of other kinds, popular among the dark eyes. but verso, she'd noticed the moment she'd met him, isn't a dark eyes. his were a fine, bright grey. fit for royalty in roshar.
although...she also knows well enough that the colour of one's eyes means storms all in other worlds. wit told her so. it only underlined the strange arbitrary nature of the division — something she'd written about in the past, but only theoretically. ]
Or back-alley bars?
[ surely she thinks very little of this partner dancing. ]
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My back-alley bar talents are of a... different nature.
[ An even less marketable nature, unless the Alethi are all secretly way freakier than he thought. ]
It's for parties. Socializing. You've really never pair danced before?
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she loosely crosses her arms, refusing to feel shame for her lack of familiarity with partner dances. her attention was always elsewhere — she learned as much as she needed to survive alethi feasts, and no more. ]
No. [ her head tilts. ] We have a handful of group steps, followed in a line, but nothing so — intimate. Is it truly so common in Lumière?
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[ Sorry, he laughs a little. It's just— clearly, their cultures couldn't differ more on the concept of intimacy. What she considers surprisingly intimate is really quite banal. Of course there's some excitement to partner dancing with someone you find attractive, given the proximity, but it's hardly scandalous. Back before he learned the truth, when he really was the bon vivant he's portraying himself to be, Verso would regularly do five more scandalous things than that before lunch. ]
I once waltzed with an old lady.
[ To give her an idea of how shockingly intimate the act is. ]
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(she liked the memento mori ones best.)
nevertheless, it's so strange! her cheeks colour, just barely, but mostly at his laughter. she can handle being wrong; she dislikes being naive. ]
The ways of your world are [ insufferable, bizarre, horrific ] fascinating.
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It can be intimate, under the right circumstances.
[ He'd be lying if he'd said he'd never used dancing as an excuse to push his luck with someone that he shouldn't. (Hey, it's almost like that's a pattern.) Verso hadn't had anything more important to worry about besides choosing the outfit for his next concert and charming women into his bedroom then; or, more accurately, he hadn't known that he had anything more important to worry about. ]
It can be used as a way to... socialize with the opposite sex. [ Put euphemistically. It provides a pretense to get physically close to someone. Puts a respectable veneer over it. ] Or the same sex, as the case may be.
[ Verso's mom is a /r/raisedbynarcissists #boymom, but she was also apparently very woke for 1905, because she created an LGBT-friendly world. I must admit that is queen shit. ]
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— and, notably, the barrier to "socialize" was much, much lower for those of the same sex. it's not like jasnah hasn't witnessed a half-dozen of her scholar-sisters pair off in quiet corners of libraries, eschewing their work and entertaining distraction. some scholars got inappropriately attached to their students, though jasnah personally couldn't stomach the idea of getting romantically entangled with a ward. ]
I'd like a demonstration. [ and then in case it sounds too much as though she means right now, she adds: ] Someday.
[ not a question. never a question. she commands, and the loyal provide. ]
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Exceedingly casually: ] Sure. A proper demonstration will require your participation, though.
[ Because it's paired. And also because he wants it to. ]
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[ her voice is iron, far more severe than the topic requires — and that should perhaps be his first clue that she isn't being entirely serious in her disagreement. still iron, her voice sinks low and quiet. presumably for his ears only. ]
I'm certain we could find a willing stand-in.
[ a glance across the back of the settee, indicating with just her sightline the three scribes who had ogled him upon their arrival to the shelter. they have long since moved on to other topics, but it's clear jasnah hasn't forgotten how they reacted.
ultimately, she will agree to dance (for science!) but something in her very nature disallows her from simply saying so. ]
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An experimental calling of her bluff, he cants his head toward the scribes. ] Should I go ask?
[ He'll dance-cuck Jasnah if she wants to be dance-cucked. ]
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— and something else, too, given the nasty twist she feels in her chest. disappointment? apprehension? something about the way he plays along upsets her, but she's enough of a scholar to want to run that feeling down. hunt it, pin it, dissect it. ]
Go on. [ she lifts her gloved hand and gestures, vaguely. ] Let me observe the not half-bad waltzer at work.
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[ It's been an awfully long time since he's actually used any of his more rakish skills, but he must still have access to them, deep down. With a loose, untroubled sort of posture, he approaches the scribes and leans nonchalantly against the wall. ]
If I might trouble you mademoiselles for a moment...
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he speaks, as her majesty wishes, and jasnah resists a wayward urge to pat him encouragingly (sarcastically) on the arm as he departs. instead, she does nothing. says nothing. only watches.
across the room, the three scribes turn from their conversation. the more gregarious of the three, a dimple-faced woman wearing sky blue, smiles broadly. ]
Brightlord! [ she greets him with enthusiasm, clapping her hands together — the sound is deadened, as one hand is obviously buttoned into her sleeve. ] How timely. We were hoping you could settle a bet for us — surely, you're from Thaylenah?
[ it's the hair, most likely, that makes them ask. thaylens possess white eyebrows, with seemingly no upper limit to their growth. it's a silly mistake they're making, but jasnah's expression remains impassive across the room. ]
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[ Maybe. He's not really sure, but he's certain Jasnah will be all-too-willing to explain why it was (or wasn't) a reasonable guess. ]
But no. My place of origin [ —it hasn't been a 'home' in a long time— ] is... lesser known than that.
[ A way of saying 'yeah, you've probably never heard of it'. A glance back at Jasnah, checking if she still wants him to do this, before he turns back to the women again. ]
I was wondering if I might recruit one of you for a little cultural exchange. [ And then, just so they know what they're getting into: ] A demonstration of partner dancing.
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A dance, Brightlord? And here we were only wagering on the length of your eyebrows.
[ her companions react differently: the second, a severe woman dressed in copper, blinks once in a flat, assessing way. the third, in a soft lilac hue, visibly startles, then tries to hide it with a shy smile.
copper: ] Cultural exchange? Here? We’re practically drowning in culture already.
[ lilac: ] Don’t be rude—
[ copper: ] I’m not. Just cautious. Partner dancing is...
[ sky-blue elbows copper without shame, interrupting her, then steps forward as though announcing her candidacy to a council.
sky-blue: ] Well, if you’re looking for someone who won’t embarrass you, I danced at my cousin’s wedding last month. Half the warcamps saw it.
[ a beat. she glances, openly, boldly, past verso’s shoulder toward jasnah — not asking permission but clocking the monarch’s reaction like a practiced courtier. ]
But if this is meant to be instructive... perhaps you should tell us what sort of dance we’re talking about. Slow? Fast? Something respectable? Or...?
[ lilac squeaks. copper snorts. sky-blue's words demonstrate that not all alethi are quite as uptight as their queen. ]
aggressively backflips into prose
He glances back at Jasnah's reaction, too, eyes following Mademoiselle Sky-Blue's. Honestly, he hasn't the slightest idea if Jasnah has just set him up to deeply offend the innocent women they're holed up with. She had seemed rather scandalized by the prospect of partner dancing, after all—but the more gregarious of the bunch seems the type to step out of her comfort zone, perhaps less tightly wound than Jasnah.
"Don't I seem respectable?" Mm. Don't answer that. "It's a party dance."
He takes a few steps back toward the center of the room, hand outstretched in invitation as he offers easy flattery: "It should be simple enough for someone who's danced in front of half the warcamps, I think."
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(Or maybe she’s simply feeling a little territorial.)
The queen helps herself to a cup of wine — orange again — and settles back onto the settee to watch this ceremony, this mock courtship, this cultural exchange that she understands is for her benefit first and foremost. Her education.
Sky-Blue’s smile widens, showing teeth, and she places her bare right hand in Verso’s. Palm to palm. Casual, confident, clearly a woman who feels easy ownership over her presence and her affection. Unlike Jasnah, she does not guard it jealously like a finite resource.
“—What manner of music should I imagine, good sir?”
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"I'll take care of the music," he says, shooting his partner a grin back. It's been a long time since he's felt the warmth of another person's fingers against his, and he has to admit that the sensation is nice, even when coming from a near-stranger. "Just put your hands here—"
Patiently, he walks her through the stance—left arm draped across his right arm, right hand clasped in his left—and the basic steps, before humming Blue Danube again as he steps forward, to the side, back. He was right: although it's been ages since he's had cause to do this, the steps come back easily once he starts, like riding a bicycle.
It's sort of fun, actually. Makes him feel a bit like he used to feel, back when things were simple and easy and his greatest concern was whether he'd get to dance with the prettiest girl at the party. It's not strictly accurate to the waltz, but he lifts his arm and twirls Sky-Blue around before pulling her back in, showing off.
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Meanwhile, the scribe wearing sky blue seems to light up in Verso's arms. His attention for her us reflected back in a dazzling grin and an energetic, cooperative nature. She may have danced before, but this dance is still new to her and her steps are clumsy.
Sky-Blue (or whatever her name actually is, Jasnah thinks she's related to the Sebarial house) doesn't seem to mind her own clumsiness. When she misses a step, she laughs and lets her momentum crash against Verso. Not in an over provocation — simply joyful and heedless. A far, far cry from the queen who deliberates every word.
Her friends cheer her on. And as cantankerous as Jasnah can be, she at least appreciates what it means to witness this sliver of peace in otherwise dreary times.
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"Merci, mademoiselle," he says, releasing her and giving her a little bow. It's obvious that he thrives under positive attention, like a flower that turns toward the warmth of the sun. "You've done very well for a beginner."
A step back, and— "Anyone else want to try?" He's not talking to Jasnah, but he's not not talking to her, either.
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(Another more stubborn wingbeat in her chest forces her to ask: can't intellectual conversation provide the same?)
Here's the thing. As real as her temptation is, Jasnah can't simply raise her hand and cut in. Not with these three scribes watching. Quite apart from any social hesitation, there are political implications. If she dances with him in front of these three women, they'll mistake him for a suitor. If the highprinces get whiff of a possible suitor (however incorrectly) then it becomes a whole new headache.
So, instead! She clears her throat and cuts her voice across the room: "That's quite enough for the time being, Dessendre. Don't you think you've distracted the poor girls long enough?"
...Even the one in sky blue can't quite bring herself to correct the queen, even if her eyes tell a different story.
Yes, Jasnah thinks. She'll have to wait her turn when there are fewer witnesses.
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He clears his throat and offers the sky-blue-clad scribe a congenial nod before stepping away, wondering if maybe they'll have the opportunity to meet again. She'd been fun. When he returns to the settee, it's at the edge of the seat, boots planted on the ground instead of kicked up on the stool.
"So," he says after a moment, "what did Her Majesty think of the demonstration?"
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"Hmm," she hums. She sets her half-drank second cup aside. She folds her hands in her lap, bare over gloved. And she waits another beat for the scribes to lose themselves in a different topic, paying less and less attention to the two on the settee.
"I think," Jasnah tips her chin, "that it's a pity you can't play piano and dance at the same time."
If he takes his time sorting through her verbs and nouns, he might come to the following conclusion: she intends to try a dance — at some point, likely in the privacy of his quarters — and she can imagine the appeal of it alongside good music — oh, and she thinks his music is good. In not quite the same words, she does indeed tell him he is good.
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"You never know," he teases. "I am a man of many talents. I might surprise you."
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And so: "I'll not hold my breath."
She stretches her neck from one side to the next, clearly getting antsy so long locked in the shelter. Restlessness opens the door to paranoia, and paranoia isn't something she needs in additional doses.
"...The tune was quite lovely."
She could hear him humming from across the room.
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tosses u a midnight before bed tag.......
delightful.
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