Meanwhile, during that same over-an-hour, Jasnah has settled into her rented alcove. Rather than wander the shelves and floors herself, she had provided a list to an ardent for fulfillment. Texts and maps and scrolls are then delivered to her makeshift office. A low bench rims a wide, wide table. Alongside the library materials, her own notebooks are open and spread across the surface. She trends towards a system: recording all notable thoughts in one journal, then rewriting them into different subject-matter journals depending on their relevance.
One step further than her work on the Dawnchant, she's looking into the Dawncities. So when Verso returns, Jasnah is on her feet and leaning over a map whose corners are weighted down by soft-glowing gems. It's not unlike using a roll of coins as a paperweight.
Her attention drifts upward when he slips behind the heavy curtains separating her alcove from the public hallway. She watches him, then eyes the spines of his chosen reading material. At least three of the titles were considered restricted material not so long ago home in Alethkar.
"All genres have their place and their use," she counters. "Even romance."
Especially romance. So many books are intended to be read aloud to fathers and husbands and brothers. Alethi romances, however, are for the scribes themselves.
"You're making good progress through it." She reaches out with her freehand and touches the tip of the bookmark peeking out from the pages. "Any preliminary thoughts?"
Verso raises an eyebrow at the idea that Jasnah would ever find value in a romance novel. He first and foremost believes that art should make the audience feel something, and romance certainly does that— but he also gets the feeling that Jasnah wouldn't quite enjoy being made to feel something without her consent.
"It's good," is his preliminary thought, although he can already imagine his father griping at him. It's not about 'good' or 'bad'—what did the art set out to accomplish, and did it do so? Did it feel sincere, authentic? Clearing his throat, he adds, "And rather... racy." Another reason he's surprised that she would find value in it at all.
He's been the participant of countless academic discussions of art over the dinner table, so it only takes a moment for him to grasp more sophisticated thoughts. "You can really feel the protagonist's passion for Sterling in the prose. And her... lack of passion, elsewise."
Someday, somehow, Verso may find himself stumbling across Jasnah's personal copy of this particular novel. And, if that happens, he'll find a plethora of notes and thoughts scribbled into margins or pressed between the pages: does this really matter? — how can she enjoy this while her father suffers in captivity? — biology textbooks suggest this refractory period is entirely unrealistic. Cold, cool annotation even in the thrust of action.
Jasnah picks up the book and takes a quick, cursory check of where he's reached in the plot. Whatever page he'd stopped on, whatever scene it was, her expression betrays nothing.
"Relatable. Her alternative is a political match, wasn't it?" She leaves through a few more pages, trying to remind herself of the plot's finer details. "How tiresome. I hope we someday move beyond the notion that marriage is an adequate replacement for good legal code and strong trade agreements."
If there's a hint of something personal in her answer, it's because Jasnah had spent years refusing one particular political match.
"No wonder she lacks passion for the other man."
Passion! A concept she can understand academically, at least.
A replacement for legal code and trade agreements—that's certainly different from Lumière, where marriage is done for love. Papa and Maman had been absolutely disgustingly in love. Verso had teasingly noted many times how it had felt as if Renoir had sprung fully-formed from the earth for the sole purpose of being Maman's husband. He hadn't realized how accurate it was until later.
He leans his hip against the table, watching as Jasnah skims through the pages, hoping he didn't stop on anything too embarrassingly tawdry. "It's hard to feel passion for something when it's forced upon you," he says with a shrug. Not like he finds that relatable or anything!
"But I'm surprised to hear you advocate for passion over duty." Although— a flash of that handsome blond man in the courtyard. Perhaps she's capable of passion after all.
Jasnah takes one steadying breath. It isn't a terrible secret, really, but it is a smidge awkward to discuss. Her eyes stay on the text in her hand, fingers softly turning pages as she answers.
"Years ago, if one asked my father while he was king, he would have said it was my duty to marry his most loyal highprince."
Meridas Amaram was a mediocre man with twisted ambitions. Jasnah had refused him then and every year since — long after Gavilar's death, each time the man came sniffing about looking once more for a Kholin match.
"Duty isn't objective. It is defined entirely by the power that commands it into existence. At least passion doesn't pretend to be anything other than one person's subjective want."
Hmm. It's interesting, really, that Verso's certain he must value passion more than Jasnah, yet he just might value duty more, too. She speaks as if it's all so simple, that duty is just a construct one can choose to ignore if they find it unreasonable. It's not so easy, when your entire existence is caught up in being the dutiful son, dutiful brother. Being here is the least duty-bound he's ever been, and he feels a pang of guilt for some reason, like it's wrong to not have somebody to place above himself.
"You make passion sound so... passionate," he says dryly. Jasnah can really describe anything in a way that sucks the sentiment out of it.
Oh. His assertion makes her gaze shoot up — eyebrows lifting.
"What an absurd presumption. As if I require a comparative sample to recognize my own disinterest."
She flicks the book once, a dry gesture. Pointed and unimpressed.
"This heroine needed an alternative to illuminate her own preferences. I do not. The man in question failed to interest me on the basis of his own profound inadequacies. No counterexample required."
Jasnah's mother must have spent years despairing of her daughter's coldness. She's simply never seen the point of binding herself to someone because custom insists upon it. Even her...interlude with Wit was never a matter of courtship. There was no marriage waiting at the end of that affair.
Quite frankly, Verso doesn't see the problem with Wema needing to experience passion to understand the absence of it with her other suitor. Sometimes, not having something is the only way to realize that you truly want it. But he drops that conversational thread for the moment, instead leaning back on his palms, nonchalant, as he says, "Ah, but there is a man who's caught your interest."
His tone is light, pleasant, gently ribbing. The tone he'd taken with Simon when he'd noticed just how fond he was of Clea. If there's at all a bittersweet edge to it, it's only because it brings to mind the last woman who'd truly been interested in him.
Well. Verso has succeeded in shaking Jasnah's attention wholly and fully off the book, off the map, off her current research pursuit. Confusion steals across her face, opening her expression before it quickly suddenly shutters into something pinched and uncertain.
— It's been months since Wit disappeared from Roshar. Is their dalliance still the topic of Urithiru gossip? What has Verso heard? Are there people who are still stuck on the Queen's...inappropriate relationship with her servant? Worse yet, what stories did Wit himself seed into the common vernacular of the tower?
Gently, almost too quietly, she sets the book aside. Her pause is a beat too long. She's scrambling for an answer that isn't a lie but which doesn't play too strong to whatever rumours he's come across.
So, her tactic: "Now, Dessendre — you think far too highly of yourself."
Playing it off as if she hears his teasing as a reflection of him and his proximity to her. Playing it off as if she teases in return.
"What?" Verso asks, uncharacteristically flustered. "No, that's— I didn't—"
Ugh, the thought of her thinking he'd meant himself is embarrassing, and proof that he really has been overdoing it with the attempted charm. He recovers after a moment, save for the redness crawling up the back of his neck.
"I wasn't referring to myself."
But she'd looked almost surprised to hear him say it, and surely 'surprise' isn't the emotion she'd feel at him thinking too highly of himself. It would be expected, really. No, the only possibility is that she knows exactly who he's referring to, and— he thinks of the way her smile had dimmed at being seen with the man.
"Hey," he says, gently, reassuringly, as he pushes himself off the table to take a step toward her. "Sorry—I didn't realize it was meant to be a secret." He'd only meant to make a friendly tease, and yes, perhaps glean a little more information about the man who'd made her laugh. But there's a lot he doesn't understand about this world, still, a lot he doesn't understand about Jasnah. "Bouche couseu. My lips are sealed."
Jasnah can feel her grasp on the conversation slipping through her fingertips. The cogs and wheels of her mind are (for once) openly on display as her attention narrows. Like following a map from one possible conclusion to the next: rejecting one, mutating another, circling the possibilities that feel most likely.
Wit. It must be Wit. Despite the fact that the position of Queen's Wit is now entirely vacant, the stories must persist in the taverns and halls of Urithiru's market ring. Silently, she curses the man for being so — open with his devotion. So effusive with his attention and his service that so often seemed to vault past expectation. How humiliating to think the court and common people might still be whispering about it behind her back. She cares less for her reputation — and cared little for it when the affair was happening — but can't help but be bothered by the stories' persistence.
"Nothing," he assures her, taking a seat beside her. "You have nothing to worry about." Although he's not sure what she would be worried about to begin with, he feels compelled to offer the comfort anyway. You're okay.
"I only saw you two together in the courtyard, that's all." If she's trying to hide this relationship for whatever reason, perhaps smiling and laughing and twirling her hair—did she twirl her hair? It had felt like she was twirling her hair—with him in public is not the wisest option, but that feels a bit more solution-oriented and they're clearly still in the feelings stage of this issue.
The churn in Jasnah's stomach makes her think she should never have entertained Wit's interest. At the time, uncharacteristically of her, she hadn't thought quite so far ahead to the reaching consequences of their relationship. At the time, she'd been seduced by the idea of scheming and planning and collaborating with a being like him. He'd opened up a whole universe of different perspectives. And he'd told her the best stories.
Wallowing in this defeat, she almost misses Verso's statement about the courtyard. She entirely misses his reassurance. But then, her echoic memory trips over his particular wording.
Verso saw the two of them? In the courtyard? The tension eases in her spine — well, in as much as it ever eases in Jasnah's spine.
This is going to be a short tag because all Verso can do in response is raise one (not bushy, thank you very much; he'd stared at them in the mirror for thirty minutes after returning from the winehouse) eyebrow in... suspicion? Skepticism? Disbelief? Obviously, he's referring to yesterday. "Unless you have a plethora of other days in which you've been caught in public with a lover...?"
Oh, the sudden absurdity of it makes her break into actual, legitimate laughter — it's a huskier chuckle than the full-on belly laugh she'd shared with Adolin, yes, but laughter all the same.
Relief floods her posture like cold water after a hot day. Jasnah touches her temple with the edge of her bare thumb, exhaling shakily as she suppresses a second bout of snickering.
"Verso."
Uh-oh. She almost never uses his given name.
"The man you saw yesterday is my cousin."
Not even her favourite cousin!
"He's always top of the duelling lists, and so I wanted his input on a bit of legislation concerning unofficial duels. Challenges made over petty spats or besmirched honor. What in damnation convinced you he and I were...?"
Jasnah trails off, not even capable of completing the sentence. Even if they weren't blood relatives, Adolin would never meet her standards. She loves him dearly and will absolutely kill to keep him safe, but he's rather...ah, simple-minded.
Besides:
"You actually met his wife. We came through the Oathgate together."
Verso, she says, and he tries to ignore how the sound of his first name in her voice makes him feel all tingly. Then she smiles, and it's less of an ignoring the tingliness and more of a forcibly shoving it down.
"Oh," he says stupidly, feeling his neck warm again. "You'd just seemed so..." Lamely: "Friendly."
And maybe he'd noted how much more friendly she'd seemed with him—her cousin, putain—than she is with Verso. And the way her smile had faded upon seeing him. And maybe he'd ruminated on it for much of the night, feeling incredibly foolish.
"Why would you be worried about what I might have heard about your cousin?"
He isn't wrong. She was indeed friendly. Upon meeting Adolin, whe imagines he would have been friendly too. Her cousin has this annoying-beloved tendency to endear himself to everyone he meets. Engaging to a fault and deeply empathetic. It's easy to dismiss him as a privileged rich boy — and, don't get it twisted, he absolutely is a privileged rich boy — but Jasnah had seen so often the way a younger Adolin protected his younger brother, Renarin. She had seen the way he adapted to Shallan's instability. Yes, Adolin is a good man. Impossibly gregarious, to the point where he can thaw even Jasnah's better nature.
But, ah, here's the trickier hairpin to navigate. Verso's question is so direct, she doesn't half-wonder whether he's identified her aversion to lying.
Coolly: "I wasn't worried. Not about what you might have heard about Adolin. Not about..."
Hmm. She chooses her next words carefully.
"I wasn't worried," Jasnah says again, "but what you said — it made me realize there might be rumours still circulating about a — a prior attachment."
More embarrassing than the mistaken assumption is the way having it proven wrong relieves him. He feels his posture loosen, feels himself lean forward in his seat just a little. Glutton for punishment, indeed.
"Prior attachment?" he echoes, keeping his expression to 'faintly inquisitive' instead of 'nosy'. It's a bit like interacting with a standoffish alley cat: show too much interest, and he'll spook her away. He's more curious than his appearance would show, though—so she did have a lover once, and she thinks of him still. Perhaps it was scandalous.
Luckily, for reasons we don't quite understand, Rosharans also somehow use some bizarrely modern slang. Therefore, Jasnah doesn't even blink when Verso asks her about a jerk ex-boyfriend.
Well — actually — that's not true. She does indeed blink, but not because she fails to understand exactly what he's asking. So now she has to ask herself...had he been her boyfriend? What a deeply pedestrian term for whatever had passed between Jasnah and her Wit. Notably, it's the boyfriend part that she's uncertain about because...unequivocally, Wit was, is, and will forever be a colossal jerk.
"We were terrible for one another."
Terrible and wonderful. Jasnah believes she could have deftly saved Roshar with Wit at her side. Pity his goals were so different from her own. They aligned, briefly, for one shining moment.
"Barely warrants being called a relationship."
Did she just admit to falling prey to a situationship? Yeah, kinda. Well. Best not let Verso linger too long on this topic. Jasnah loves to pry into the lives of others, but she can't quite take a taste of her own medicine.
"And certainly doesn't warrant so much discussion."
'Terrible for one another'. Verso can relate. Except— no. He'd been the one who was terrible. Julie had done nothing wrong except be foolish enough to let him love her. He absolutely does not try to relate with his own experience, considering that calling him a 'jerk ex-boyfriend' in that scenario would be letting him off impossibly light.
Instead, in response to the accusation that he's over-discussing this:
"There's this thing in Lumière we do with people we like," he says lightly. "It's called conversation. You ask questions, share things..."
There's something hard in the back of her throat. Bilious, bitter, and making it hard to answer as lightly as she'd like. Jasnah glances at the maps and books across the desk, mourning the reason she wanted to work in Palanaeum in the first place. But the part of her psyche that is rational (to a fault) reminds her: isn't this precisely the kind of connection you've derided others for overlooking?
Talking. Bonding. Engaging. Relating. She remembers a partner (not Wit) who professed discomfort with Jasnah's seemingly bottomless appetite for conversation. After that, it had taken her years to try again.
"Alright," she squares her shoulders. "Your turn. Did you leave behind a lover back home?"
No softness; no tact. He's the one who accused her of having a lover first. And if he wants them to ask questions and share things so badly, he can take his lumps as well.
For the record, Verso had meant that he'd ask questions and Jasnah would share things, not the other way around. He prefers things that way. He's a great active listener. Gives his full attention, nods along, responds thoughtfully. He's a lot less skilled at sharing things about himself, primarily because it feels like there isn't much he can share that isn't an admission of something horrible in some way. His whole life is something horrible.
He is skilled at equivocating, though. "You tell me," he volleys back, fully aware that he's giving her the opportunity to say something scathing if she wishes. "What do you think?"
She raises a finger. Just one, canted to the left and static. The suggestion of a wagged finger. Verso — she doesn't say his name, not again, not so soon. But the implication is thick in the way she fixes him in her gaze. He can't suggest they should share with one another and then dance so blatantly out from under the executioner's sword.
"Don't be a coward," Jasnah warns him. "It's unbecoming."
And then, lips quirking, she drops her hand to the table and reaches for a pen. Sliding a journal from past her elbow, she scribbles a sentence. She tears the page. She folds it crisply.
"I've written down what I think. You can read it if you answer first."
She's no fool. She may not have caught every implication and hope hidden behind Verso's banter, but she's learned enough. Her opinion of him, committed to ink, will be worth something.
Oh—she's very, very right. Verso would have clamored for anyone's opinion of him, but Jasnah's is certainly more valuable than gold. She's exceptionally discerning, hypercritical, with unrelenting standards. Unlike others might do—like Verso would absolutely do—she won't soften the edges of her less flattering opinions.
Ah, merde. He's like an animal caught in a trap, her honest opinion the bait.
With a shrug of acquiescence, he admits, more bitterly than he would like, "A long time ago. Not anymore."
His honesty eases something in her jaw — a tension she didn't realize she was holding. It's minor and it's silent, but the observant eye will see the direct cause-and-effect between his honesty (bitter though it was) and her relief. Maybe it's because Wit was mentioned earlier, and she remembered all over again the compulsive lengths he would go to simply to circumvent her whenever she asked for the truth. He lied like he breathed. Even when he didn't want to.
"Acceptable."
She slides the folded paper across the wooden tabletop — real wood, judging by the grain, not soulcast! — and drums her gloved fingers three times on the message before relinquishing it entirely.
Whenever he does read it — now or later — it captures her opinion in a scant few lines and exceptional penmanship:
VERSO—
I believe you left someone behind but whoever it was isn't waiting on your return. And you dodge the truth about it like man who knows it condemns him.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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One step further than her work on the Dawnchant, she's looking into the Dawncities. So when Verso returns, Jasnah is on her feet and leaning over a map whose corners are weighted down by soft-glowing gems. It's not unlike using a roll of coins as a paperweight.
Her attention drifts upward when he slips behind the heavy curtains separating her alcove from the public hallway. She watches him, then eyes the spines of his chosen reading material. At least three of the titles were considered restricted material not so long ago home in Alethkar.
"All genres have their place and their use," she counters. "Even romance."
Especially romance. So many books are intended to be read aloud to fathers and husbands and brothers. Alethi romances, however, are for the scribes themselves.
"You're making good progress through it." She reaches out with her freehand and touches the tip of the bookmark peeking out from the pages. "Any preliminary thoughts?"
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"It's good," is his preliminary thought, although he can already imagine his father griping at him. It's not about 'good' or 'bad'—what did the art set out to accomplish, and did it do so? Did it feel sincere, authentic? Clearing his throat, he adds, "And rather... racy." Another reason he's surprised that she would find value in it at all.
He's been the participant of countless academic discussions of art over the dinner table, so it only takes a moment for him to grasp more sophisticated thoughts. "You can really feel the protagonist's passion for Sterling in the prose. And her... lack of passion, elsewise."
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Jasnah picks up the book and takes a quick, cursory check of where he's reached in the plot. Whatever page he'd stopped on, whatever scene it was, her expression betrays nothing.
"Relatable. Her alternative is a political match, wasn't it?" She leaves through a few more pages, trying to remind herself of the plot's finer details. "How tiresome. I hope we someday move beyond the notion that marriage is an adequate replacement for good legal code and strong trade agreements."
If there's a hint of something personal in her answer, it's because Jasnah had spent years refusing one particular political match.
"No wonder she lacks passion for the other man."
Passion! A concept she can understand academically, at least.
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He leans his hip against the table, watching as Jasnah skims through the pages, hoping he didn't stop on anything too embarrassingly tawdry. "It's hard to feel passion for something when it's forced upon you," he says with a shrug. Not like he finds that relatable or anything!
"But I'm surprised to hear you advocate for passion over duty." Although— a flash of that handsome blond man in the courtyard. Perhaps she's capable of passion after all.
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"Years ago, if one asked my father while he was king, he would have said it was my duty to marry his most loyal highprince."
Meridas Amaram was a mediocre man with twisted ambitions. Jasnah had refused him then and every year since — long after Gavilar's death, each time the man came sniffing about looking once more for a Kholin match.
"Duty isn't objective. It is defined entirely by the power that commands it into existence. At least passion doesn't pretend to be anything other than one person's subjective want."
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"You make passion sound so... passionate," he says dryly. Jasnah can really describe anything in a way that sucks the sentiment out of it.
Casually: "Your heart was elsewhere, I assume."
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"What an absurd presumption. As if I require a comparative sample to recognize my own disinterest."
She flicks the book once, a dry gesture. Pointed and unimpressed.
"This heroine needed an alternative to illuminate her own preferences. I do not. The man in question failed to interest me on the basis of his own profound inadequacies. No counterexample required."
Jasnah's mother must have spent years despairing of her daughter's coldness. She's simply never seen the point of binding herself to someone because custom insists upon it. Even her...interlude with Wit was never a matter of courtship. There was no marriage waiting at the end of that affair.
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Quite frankly, Verso doesn't see the problem with Wema needing to experience passion to understand the absence of it with her other suitor. Sometimes, not having something is the only way to realize that you truly want it. But he drops that conversational thread for the moment, instead leaning back on his palms, nonchalant, as he says, "Ah, but there is a man who's caught your interest."
His tone is light, pleasant, gently ribbing. The tone he'd taken with Simon when he'd noticed just how fond he was of Clea. If there's at all a bittersweet edge to it, it's only because it brings to mind the last woman who'd truly been interested in him.
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— It's been months since Wit disappeared from Roshar. Is their dalliance still the topic of Urithiru gossip? What has Verso heard? Are there people who are still stuck on the Queen's...inappropriate relationship with her servant? Worse yet, what stories did Wit himself seed into the common vernacular of the tower?
Gently, almost too quietly, she sets the book aside. Her pause is a beat too long. She's scrambling for an answer that isn't a lie but which doesn't play too strong to whatever rumours he's come across.
So, her tactic: "Now, Dessendre — you think far too highly of yourself."
Playing it off as if she hears his teasing as a reflection of him and his proximity to her. Playing it off as if she teases in return.
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Ugh, the thought of her thinking he'd meant himself is embarrassing, and proof that he really has been overdoing it with the attempted charm. He recovers after a moment, save for the redness crawling up the back of his neck.
"I wasn't referring to myself."
But she'd looked almost surprised to hear him say it, and surely 'surprise' isn't the emotion she'd feel at him thinking too highly of himself. It would be expected, really. No, the only possibility is that she knows exactly who he's referring to, and— he thinks of the way her smile had dimmed at being seen with the man.
"Hey," he says, gently, reassuringly, as he pushes himself off the table to take a step toward her. "Sorry—I didn't realize it was meant to be a secret." He'd only meant to make a friendly tease, and yes, perhaps glean a little more information about the man who'd made her laugh. But there's a lot he doesn't understand about this world, still, a lot he doesn't understand about Jasnah. "Bouche couseu. My lips are sealed."
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Wit. It must be Wit. Despite the fact that the position of Queen's Wit is now entirely vacant, the stories must persist in the taverns and halls of Urithiru's market ring. Silently, she curses the man for being so — open with his devotion. So effusive with his attention and his service that so often seemed to vault past expectation. How humiliating to think the court and common people might still be whispering about it behind her back. She cares less for her reputation — and cared little for it when the affair was happening — but can't help but be bothered by the stories' persistence.
Stiffly, she sits.
"What have you heard?"
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"Nothing," he assures her, taking a seat beside her. "You have nothing to worry about." Although he's not sure what she would be worried about to begin with, he feels compelled to offer the comfort anyway. You're okay.
"I only saw you two together in the courtyard, that's all." If she's trying to hide this relationship for whatever reason, perhaps smiling and laughing and twirling her hair—did she twirl her hair? It had felt like she was twirling her hair—with him in public is not the wisest option, but that feels a bit more solution-oriented and they're clearly still in the feelings stage of this issue.
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Wallowing in this defeat, she almost misses Verso's statement about the courtyard. She entirely misses his reassurance. But then, her echoic memory trips over his particular wording.
Verso saw the two of them? In the courtyard? The tension eases in her spine — well, in as much as it ever eases in Jasnah's spine.
"— You're talking about yesterday, aren't you?"
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Oh, the sudden absurdity of it makes her break into actual, legitimate laughter — it's a huskier chuckle than the full-on belly laugh she'd shared with Adolin, yes, but laughter all the same.
Relief floods her posture like cold water after a hot day. Jasnah touches her temple with the edge of her bare thumb, exhaling shakily as she suppresses a second bout of snickering.
"Verso."
Uh-oh. She almost never uses his given name.
"The man you saw yesterday is my cousin."
Not even her favourite cousin!
"He's always top of the duelling lists, and so I wanted his input on a bit of legislation concerning unofficial duels. Challenges made over petty spats or besmirched honor. What in damnation convinced you he and I were...?"
Jasnah trails off, not even capable of completing the sentence. Even if they weren't blood relatives, Adolin would never meet her standards. She loves him dearly and will absolutely kill to keep him safe, but he's rather...ah, simple-minded.
Besides:
"You actually met his wife. We came through the Oathgate together."
What a relief! It's enough to make her smile.
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"Oh," he says stupidly, feeling his neck warm again. "You'd just seemed so..." Lamely: "Friendly."
And maybe he'd noted how much more friendly she'd seemed with him—her cousin, putain—than she is with Verso. And the way her smile had faded upon seeing him. And maybe he'd ruminated on it for much of the night, feeling incredibly foolish.
"Why would you be worried about what I might have heard about your cousin?"
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But, ah, here's the trickier hairpin to navigate. Verso's question is so direct, she doesn't half-wonder whether he's identified her aversion to lying.
Coolly: "I wasn't worried. Not about what you might have heard about Adolin. Not about..."
Hmm. She chooses her next words carefully.
"I wasn't worried," Jasnah says again, "but what you said — it made me realize there might be rumours still circulating about a — a prior attachment."
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"Prior attachment?" he echoes, keeping his expression to 'faintly inquisitive' instead of 'nosy'. It's a bit like interacting with a standoffish alley cat: show too much interest, and he'll spook her away. He's more curious than his appearance would show, though—so she did have a lover once, and she thinks of him still. Perhaps it was scandalous.
Because these Belle Époque fantasy characters for some reason talk like this, he asks, blasé, "Jerk ex-boyfriend?"
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Well — actually — that's not true. She does indeed blink, but not because she fails to understand exactly what he's asking. So now she has to ask herself...had he been her boyfriend? What a deeply pedestrian term for whatever had passed between Jasnah and her Wit. Notably, it's the boyfriend part that she's uncertain about because...unequivocally, Wit was, is, and will forever be a colossal jerk.
"We were terrible for one another."
Terrible and wonderful. Jasnah believes she could have deftly saved Roshar with Wit at her side. Pity his goals were so different from her own. They aligned, briefly, for one shining moment.
"Barely warrants being called a relationship."
Did she just admit to falling prey to a situationship? Yeah, kinda. Well. Best not let Verso linger too long on this topic. Jasnah loves to pry into the lives of others, but she can't quite take a taste of her own medicine.
"And certainly doesn't warrant so much discussion."
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Instead, in response to the accusation that he's over-discussing this:
"There's this thing in Lumière we do with people we like," he says lightly. "It's called conversation. You ask questions, share things..."
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Talking. Bonding. Engaging. Relating. She remembers a partner (not Wit) who professed discomfort with Jasnah's seemingly bottomless appetite for conversation. After that, it had taken her years to try again.
"Alright," she squares her shoulders. "Your turn. Did you leave behind a lover back home?"
No softness; no tact. He's the one who accused her of having a lover first. And if he wants them to ask questions and share things so badly, he can take his lumps as well.
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He is skilled at equivocating, though. "You tell me," he volleys back, fully aware that he's giving her the opportunity to say something scathing if she wishes. "What do you think?"
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"Don't be a coward," Jasnah warns him. "It's unbecoming."
And then, lips quirking, she drops her hand to the table and reaches for a pen. Sliding a journal from past her elbow, she scribbles a sentence. She tears the page. She folds it crisply.
"I've written down what I think. You can read it if you answer first."
She's no fool. She may not have caught every implication and hope hidden behind Verso's banter, but she's learned enough. Her opinion of him, committed to ink, will be worth something.
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Ah, merde. He's like an animal caught in a trap, her honest opinion the bait.
With a shrug of acquiescence, he admits, more bitterly than he would like, "A long time ago. Not anymore."
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"Acceptable."
She slides the folded paper across the wooden tabletop — real wood, judging by the grain, not soulcast! — and drums her gloved fingers three times on the message before relinquishing it entirely.
Whenever he does read it — now or later — it captures her opinion in a scant few lines and exceptional penmanship:
VERSO—
I believe you left someone behind but whoever it was isn't waiting on your return. And you dodge the truth about it like man who knows it condemns him.
J.
...She'd like to think she gets partial marks.
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tosses u a midnight before bed tag.......
delightful.
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