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.
Of course he reads it now, like a child who can't wait to open his birthday present, if said birthday present also caused some amount of anxiety. His eyes skim over the words quickly, expression opaque. Then he refolds the paper along the neat, crisp lines she'd made and slides it into his pocket.
Truthfully, he'd been expecting something more along the lines of I think you left many broken hearts in your wake, you player, you. This hits a bit more close to home than that.
"I was terrible for her," he says, because he can't quite bring himself to give Julie any of the blame for what transpired. He'd tried to, back when it had first happened. I didn't mean to turned quickly to you made me do this. Forcibly lighthearted: "See? We have so much in common. Both of us the casualties of failed romance."
Jasnah possesses exactly enough audacity to watch Verso closely as he reads. Her mind does unkind things as she does so, letting her imagine whether Wit had looked similarly inscrutable when he'd read the letter she'd left for him. Her assessments then had been a measure more unkind than they are now, but his reply remains burned in her memory: You are right, and your letter to me was — characteristically — full of wisdom and excellent deductions.
One last reminder that single-minded truth might be just as hurtful as multi-headed lies. She leans her elbow on the table and, growing casual, tucks her chin against the leather palm of her glove.
"So much in common."
She echoes. But she isn't talking about him and her. The realization sets off alarm bells at the base of her skull.
"...Do you actually enjoy those?" Jasnah tips her chin toward the pile of romance novels — the origin of this conversation. It's a soft adjustment of the topic at hand, but it's still a question. After all, he's the one who said they should ask questions and share answers.
"I didn't have much in the way of reading material before," he says before he remembers not to. Ah, well. Maybe she'll simply assume Lumière is an island of illiterate idiots. "I think I would be glad to read a dictionary at this point." Or maybe a thesaurus. Hell, he'd take a wordsearch.
But that isn't answering the question, exactly. She'd asked if he enjoyed reading these overwrought love stories, not just if he tolerated it. It isn't his favorite genre of book—that honor goes to spun yarns of wondrous places and heart-racing adventure—but there's certainly value to be had in it regardless. Admittedly, some romance books are a little more literary than others, but there's a place for tawdry tales of quivering and trembling and throbbing, too. (Or whichever naughty adjectives an author might be inclined to use.)
He regards the stack for a moment, then: "Love is at the soul of all great art, one way or another." Not necessarily romantic love. The song he'd written for Alicia comes to mind. "This genre just... distills it."
So much in common indeed. How in damnation did she land herself in this position once again? Sat beside a slippery man, dressed in black, waxing poetic about art. It ought to be enough to set her teeth on edge, only...
Only she deeply appreciates the way he loops back to the question and answers it in earnest. Again, she bestows her approval with the smallest softening of her shoulders. It's almost as though instead of praise-filled words or pats on the head, she lets him know he's doing a good job by the adjustments in her posture. Not that she's relaxing consciously — not at all. It's simply the consequences of her easy, piqued curiosity. Even when he's letting things slip that don't quite add up. She files those away for later.
Jasnah pushes her luck with another question, never mind how many she likely owes him by now: "If love is the soul of great art, then what does its absence produce? Mediocrity?"
Storms, Wit would be on his knees if he'd ever managed to coax her into discussing the nature of art with him. Too bad, so sad.
"No," he answers, only definitive instead of prevaricatory when ruminating on the essence of good art. If the absence of love were to make art poor quality, then his poetry would be very shoddy indeed. It's not love's absence that makes his poetry questionable; it's that he rhymes 'torment' with 'lament'.
Verso leans forward a little more, visibly more attuned to this topic in conversation than he's ever been before. "The absence of something is still about that something. You can't miss something without first understanding what it is you're missing." That is to say— art about being loveless still has love at the soul of it.
"It's like when a composition has an unresolved cadence. You feel the unplayed chord's presence all the more for the lack of it."
...It is a thing of beauty to watch a person — any person — engage earnestly and enthusiastically on a topic they love. In that regard, she imagines Verso might actually be correct: love is the soul of great art, even when that art is rhetorical argument.
But that doesn't mean she can't flip any conversation on its head and turn it into an oral exam. Jasnah's composure relaxes to the point of crossing one leg over the other, body leaning against the desk. She points a finger down at the tabletop, tapping it three times.
"Consider the statement: all great art is hated. The only way to create something that nobody hates is to ensure that it can't be loved either. Do you agree?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
— 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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
no subject
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.
no subject
"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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
"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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
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..."
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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.
no subject
Truthfully, he'd been expecting something more along the lines of I think you left many broken hearts in your wake, you player, you. This hits a bit more close to home than that.
"I was terrible for her," he says, because he can't quite bring himself to give Julie any of the blame for what transpired. He'd tried to, back when it had first happened. I didn't mean to turned quickly to you made me do this. Forcibly lighthearted: "See? We have so much in common. Both of us the casualties of failed romance."
no subject
One last reminder that single-minded truth might be just as hurtful as multi-headed lies. She leans her elbow on the table and, growing casual, tucks her chin against the leather palm of her glove.
"So much in common."
She echoes. But she isn't talking about him and her. The realization sets off alarm bells at the base of her skull.
"...Do you actually enjoy those?" Jasnah tips her chin toward the pile of romance novels — the origin of this conversation. It's a soft adjustment of the topic at hand, but it's still a question. After all, he's the one who said they should ask questions and share answers.
no subject
But that isn't answering the question, exactly. She'd asked if he enjoyed reading these overwrought love stories, not just if he tolerated it. It isn't his favorite genre of book—that honor goes to spun yarns of wondrous places and heart-racing adventure—but there's certainly value to be had in it regardless. Admittedly, some romance books are a little more literary than others, but there's a place for tawdry tales of quivering and trembling and throbbing, too. (Or whichever naughty adjectives an author might be inclined to use.)
He regards the stack for a moment, then: "Love is at the soul of all great art, one way or another." Not necessarily romantic love. The song he'd written for Alicia comes to mind. "This genre just... distills it."
no subject
Only she deeply appreciates the way he loops back to the question and answers it in earnest. Again, she bestows her approval with the smallest softening of her shoulders. It's almost as though instead of praise-filled words or pats on the head, she lets him know he's doing a good job by the adjustments in her posture. Not that she's relaxing consciously — not at all. It's simply the consequences of her easy, piqued curiosity. Even when he's letting things slip that don't quite add up. She files those away for later.
Jasnah pushes her luck with another question, never mind how many she likely owes him by now: "If love is the soul of great art, then what does its absence produce? Mediocrity?"
Storms, Wit would be on his knees if he'd ever managed to coax her into discussing the nature of art with him. Too bad, so sad.
no subject
Verso leans forward a little more, visibly more attuned to this topic in conversation than he's ever been before. "The absence of something is still about that something. You can't miss something without first understanding what it is you're missing." That is to say— art about being loveless still has love at the soul of it.
"It's like when a composition has an unresolved cadence. You feel the unplayed chord's presence all the more for the lack of it."
no subject
But that doesn't mean she can't flip any conversation on its head and turn it into an oral exam. Jasnah's composure relaxes to the point of crossing one leg over the other, body leaning against the desk. She points a finger down at the tabletop, tapping it three times.
"Consider the statement: all great art is hated. The only way to create something that nobody hates is to ensure that it can't be loved either. Do you agree?"
(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)
tosses u a midnight before bed tag.......
delightful.
(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)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...