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rejam: It is, just barely, a cold morning in Palisade, which suits the tastes of the proprietress of the Swan entirely. While the first early risers flit about in their fashionably gauzy finery, shivering in their cashmere shawls and the hair standing on end on their exposed arms, Maeve stands ensconced in heavy, fine wool and her own straight-backed dignity.

She is waiting outside the building where she has been told the Chosen lives, where according to gossip the lovely Guardian treads. She has no shame about this, having long since decided it is her duty to do this whenever possible, and the Navy captain will be her first target. Amid the shadows and half-light she is a murky figure, her dress unrelentingly black. The straight-laced brocade and long sleeves with their discreet bits of lace serve to make her look much older than she is, helped along by the wings of steel-grey at her temples, striking against her auburn hair, which is rather more severe than is completely stylish despite the manicured curls hanging against her cheeks. She does not tap her toes. She does not drum her fingers. She merely stands, painfully upright, by the door. And waits.


phoenix: Talbot is usually an early riser: he tends to rise with the sun, as he did when he was aboard the Tempest. Though he is an early riser, he is usually somewhat late (at least by Palisade standards) to get up and get moving. First he lingers over a breakfast; Talbot's salary is well-padded enough for him to hire a manservant who can, at least, cook and clean for him. Talbot has never lost his tastes for fine breakfasts; though he cannot have the pheasant and tunny most commonly served as breakfast in the captain's quarters of the Tempest, his breakfast today is eggs and ham and a muffin, with Hollandaise sauce: fit for, at least, a sea captain.

He will spend an hour lingering over his breakfast, staring moodily out the window. He must sit awkwardly to do so, his chair turned at an angle to his table. The musket-ball injury prevents him from most twisting motions. The wound is free of infection and is healing nicely, but he is still stiff, and sore. It makes his mood more sour than it ought to be.

He will maintain this sour mood for only as long as it takes Cesambre to rise. The deer's hooves are so light against the hard woods of his floors that he does not immediately sense her approach; only when she whuffs into his ear and then delicately bumps her velvet nose against his cheekbone does he look up at her. He has to smile at her. The yearling is as delicate and refined as any lady of society. He cannot imagine a time when he could exist without her...

Except when he thinks of the Tempest and when he must go back to the ship. If he even can.

When Cesambre's ears perk up, and the deer makes her elegant way to the mullioned windows to look down on the street -- concern and curiosity trickling into Talbot's mind -- he is aware that someone must be waiting for him. Cesambre always knows. He summons the servant to help him dress (putting his arms into his coats is always awkward now that he is hurt), and moments later, he will make his way downstairs to answer the door.

Who opens the door to Maeve is every inch a sea captain, incongruously not on his ship: Talbot's long dark hair is pulled back, his neckcloth is white (and tied a bit high, to hide the bandages underneath), and even his boots are polished to a shine. The only thing he is missing are his coat and his captain's epaulettes. He would look like a minor noble, one of the few in Palisade, but for his sun and sea-weathered skin and the strong speaking voice of a Navy captain. "May I help you?"


rejam: The eyes that take him in are pale and quick and shrewd, uncomfortably reminiscent of a cat’s; Maeve drops the kind of shallow, practiced curtsy, a glorified nod, one delivers to an equal, not to a better. And while she might never be mistaken for a noble, herself—with her unfashionable clothes and restrained, severe appearance—she nonetheless exudes the kind of wealth and independence one does not typically expect of a female, and has the bearing of a woman who has invented her own titles where her blood gave her none. Her voice is brisk and professional and she tips her chin up to peer down her long, pointed nose as she speaks.

“Maeve Cavanaugh,” she says, and the name probably doesn’t ring a bell, not to Paul, at least. The next part might, though, given its notoriety: “I am the owner of the Swan.” She does not give him time to answer, and indeed apparently does not find any particular shame in the statement, before she continues: “You are Captain Talbot, of the Navy; recently returned, so I understand, after a period of some unfortunate excitement. I am here to speak with you about our mutual interests.”

She does not elaborate. It is unclear whether she is being polite in allowing him to answer with a question or if she perhaps has no idea that clarification might be necessary.


phoenix: He opens his mouth to speak and is neatly cut off by the fact the woman continues her greetings; Talbot experiences the rare pleasure of someone else telling him who he is. And then all of his history. It would have made another man flush. It merely makes him curious, and a little skeptical ... until she mentions the Swan, and then his face abruptly changes. It goes from mildly confused irritation to something like surprised amusement. "I assure you, madam, I have not been to your establishment," the pause before that last word is barely noticible. "Perhaps your records--..."

He cannot imagine why anyone from the Swan would be knocking at his door -- until the visitor is greeted by Cesambre forcing her head up underneath one of Talbot's arms, ears perked up and dark eyes intent on the woman's form. This is more forward than the yearling tends to be; Cesambre is normally self-contained, content to watch and interfere ... only when necessary.

It makes Talbot's heart sink into his Hessian boots. "I suppose this is not about the Swan."


rejam: For answer, Maeve is characteristically to-the-point. She reaches into the bosom of her dress--on another woman perhaps this would be alarmingly sexy, but given her company and the fact that Maeve knows what is sexy and how to avoid it when she desires, it is decidedly not--and pulls from it a string. On the end of a string there dangles a soft black stone in the shape of a deer--a thing Talbot will surely know intimately. The whorls adorning its surface gleam bright emerald in the grey morning and they are nearly throbbing with an intensity that alarms her. This is new. There is a restless quality to the thing that speaks of the immediacy of drastic change.

"It is not about the Swan," she says briskly, and her eyes when they look at Cesambre are both triumphant and frighteningly hungry.


phoenix: Cesambre leans forward to inspect the totem -- sensing it for what it is, stirred to action beyond simply gaping at it, like her Chosen -- but then dances away timidly at the look on Maeve's face. The deer is a fairly good judge of character for one so young. That hunger on Maeve's face is not flattering in the least. The yearling's large ears, as pale a pink as the blush on a maiden's cheek, fan out -- as if Cesambre is listening for danger. Or as if she can hear the heartbeat of the totem, or the pulsing magic.

Talbot falls back on old habits, which make his voice a bit crisp with habitual formality. "I see that," he says, pulling at his neckcloth to ease the pulling on his bandages underneath. "Would you care to come in?" He remains standing in front of Cesambre, as if he expects Maeve to simply snatch the yearling up under her arm and make off with her.


rejam: “While the idle natterings of townspeople will do nothing but bolster my own reputation,” she replies briskly, “I suspect it may damage your own to be seen taking a woman in my line of work into your rooms. I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you, however.” She removes her eyes from Cesambre to Paul as she says this, narrowed and waiting, the decision neatly made his responsibility.


phoenix: Talbot actually allows himself a ghost of a smile at that -- considers the impunity of slamming the door in her face while he goes to finish dressing -- and eventually is saved by Cesambre flicking an ear at him, whuffing against his side, and then stepping out into the lane. She descends the steps without blinking; she has had ample practice at this, and a moment later she extends her long, graceful neck towards Maeve: smelling her, perhaps, or maybe just sensing her. Talbot's thick eyebrows lift: "A moment, please."


He clucks his tongue at Cesambre to return inside. The deer looks up, but then remains where she is, near Maeve, apparently not wanting to stray too far from the pulsing, breathing Totem she wears. It is a source of great interest. Talbot already knows better than to try and sway his deer's will. Inside of her delicate seeming is a core of iron. He sighs -- feelingly -- and then nods. "I'll just be a moment."

It takes him perhaps another ten or fifteen moments to get ready. What steps out of the door of the brownstone is more or less what she would expect: his hair pulled neatly back, his coat on, his boots spit-shined. He is not wearing his Navy coat, but the effect is the same. "After you."


rejam: “If it suits you and you’ve dined already,” she says, “we can discuss as we walk. It is my habit to take a stroll in the mornings. It is good for the lungs.” And for the everything else, if the slim, unforgiving lines of her body beneath her heavy dress is any indication. She drops the totem back where it came, giving it a little tuck and then patting her cleavage absently, and nods towards the doe as she sets off. Her steps, like everything else about her, are businesslike. She moves in a surprisingly athletic fashion, much more suited to a younger woman than to a lady of light crow’s feet and grey temples; there is a healing cut on her cheekbone that becomes visible as she sweeps out of the shadows. The mark of her journey into the Wardwood.

“What is her name?” she asks. “I was hoping you could tell me what to expect.” There is no shame, or hesitation, or even deference. “It is hard to separate fact from embellishment in the old stories.”


phoenix: "Aye," he agrees; he looks at her sideways, trying not to make his gaze conspicuous. The cut on her cheekbone is questionable. He wonders for a moment whether it was something suffered inside the Swan, but then remembers the totem: no. It must have come from the Wardwood. His own journey into the wood was not without folly. His chest and torso ache as if in response, throbbing underneath the bandages, and he sighs.

"Cesambre," he eventually says -- the name sounds French, if French were more musical. So named, the yearling bounds up to her Chosen at once, thrusting her head, with its velvet ears, underneath his hand. He scratches her head with a practiced, unconscious motion: like how people pet cats who nuzzle up under their hands. "As for what to expect -- I am afraid I cannot. I was to return to my ship in a month's time, after my injury healed sufficiently. Being Chosen has ... changed that, somewhat."


rejam: If she is disappointed, she doesn't show it. Knowledge isn't her true goal, anyway. Forming connections is. "Changed that? Would it be too forward of me to ask in what way it has changed? If you'll pardon my saying so, your bearing and every bit of gossip that comes my way--and in my position, that is a considerable amount of gossip--tells me that you're every inch a sailor."


phoenix: Talbot sighs. He has an entire vocabulary of them, from the longsuffering gust of breath to the truly internally troubled sigh he has been rather more fond of lately. Cesambre glances to him, ears fanned out, steps nervous; a moment later she seems to collect herself and paces sedately beside him as he talks. She rarely strays from within touching distance. "I am a Navy man. I cannot have a deer on the Tempest." If she has heard the gossip this may be all he needs to say.


rejam: There is a long silence. Clearly, she has not heard the gossip. "I wasn't aware our government had fallen so far from the old ways that they would bar a Chosen from duty. They should be giving you a promotion, rather."


phoenix: "A female deer," he stresses, tipping his head away from her in an air of longsuffering. It is perhaps Talbot's most favorite expression. And then, if she does not immediately latch on to the concept, he pauses, steps hitching, and puts a hand on the velvet dome of Cesambre's head, scratching at it lightly: "Women are, of course, bad luck on ships." It is a superstition, but sailors are a superstitious lot, and Talbot resumes walking a moment later. "I beg your pardon."


rejam: She actually draws up to a halt, staring at him in scornful disbelief. "And I suppose," she says after a few astonished seconds, her voice thick with mockery, "that the rats and the cats do you a favor and leave their mates at the dock, waving tiny handkerchiefs in farewell."


phoenix: He looks over his shoulder at her, and for a moment he looks profoundly irritated: but he smooths that over as best he can, having long since become proficient at assuming a bland military bearing. He betrays it by the fact that his jaw works. "It is superstition," he says, and his fingers are his tell -- they do not leave Cesambre's head. The deer herself simply stares at Maeve as if she is the one who has said the unfortunate thing. "I cannot take up my post for some weeks hence, until I heal. There is plenty of time to adapt in between." She will need to do the same, no matter what she might otherwise think.