06/22
word count: 1600

She had ascertained a few items of intelligence on this visit to the Garde, of varying degrees of utility.

The first was that Petitcru was not afraid of ghosts and, remarkably, also not afraid of Pal beyond the first few seconds of tremulous greeting. The two were even friendly, which yielded the absolute hilarity of Petitcru sneezing and play-bowing and baiting an animal a hundred times her size, who responded first with gentle bafflement and then with mindless zoomies. The supervised play date being long over, Petitcru now snoozed down in the chapel bedroom, where a baby gate incongruously corralled her in safety, and Pal dozed in her customary spot in the bailey.

The second was that life continued to return to the Garde, in the form first of new birdsong. She still had not laid eyes on the nightingales, and so she had gasped aloud at the first glimpse of a creature moving in the branches above the path to the river. She had, also, instinctively attempted to grab Nail’s arm in excitement, but both of them had the good grace - and the feelings still too sore and tender from their last conversation - to pretend she hadn't. She did not know what it was; he, better informed, identified it as a thrush of some kind. And no sooner had he done so than he had told her, in his quiet way: look. So she had, and was rendered silent to see dark eyes watching her warily from beneath the brush. The rabbit was soon joined by another, and together they vanished into the trees. Her disappointment was so sharp that she couldn't speak for a moment, and when she did it was only to say that they would come back, as if it was Gouvernail that needed the consolation, and not herself.

The third item was that the boathouse did, in fact, contain the adorable little boat - even more adorable in person, as she was delighted to discover, and looking nearly brand new, having been dragged out of the water and stored away from it in the dark. The velvet seats were a bit worn, and the enamel scenes decorating the hull were a bit chipped and faded, but it was otherwise in remarkable condition, almost begging to be put into the water. But the opening to the bank was so thoroughly overgrown that she had, at last, despaired of clearing it today - unwilling to simply brute force it and risk damaging that beautiful hull - and thought to scavenge around for something to more efficiently tackle the brush that choked the water and the dock.

So she had returned to the tournament store room, and after pulling out the oars had begun rummaging. Her first intention had been for some sort of mostly-intact hoe or machete or even a sword, but she had quickly become distracted by all the many treasures and mysteries secured within the boxes and chests. Ignoring the sense of uncomfortable disapproval radiating off Nail whenever her back was turned - made worse by a mutual reserve that lingered after their last conversation had cut too close to the bone - she stopped asking him questions and began instead to invent her own mental histories for each little gem of a find. If any given thing had been important, he would have told her - so she let her imagination range freely.

It was a bit like being in an antique store. Myth, she thought, would approve. It had, also, the same anticipatory pleasure of being in an antique store: every new shelf or box expected to yield up a treasure she did not even know she was hunting for. She tucked a couple of the prettier trinkets into subspace to examine at her leisure later - thinking with guilt as she did so of that purloined ring also rattling around in there - and paused on a simple wooden box. It was in worse shape than those around it, less perfectly and implausibly preserved, and the wood was so soft with dry rot that it crumbled beneath her fingers when she opened it.

She almost moved past it, when she saw that inside there was nothing but a pile of loosely folded silk. But she was drawn back to it by how pristine it was, and by the golden threads that caught the light slanting into the store room from above. It reminded her of that ghostly loom which still slowly clicked away in its corner, weaving its strange ribbons.

So she lifted it from the box, and found it to be two lengths of gold-shot silk, lined in a richer fabric that was soft and heavy in her hands. A moment of examination proved that she had the wrong idea, and she wondered vaguely how she had come to it. The so-called lining, she soon perceived, must be the outside, and the gold silk the inside. It was richly embroidered, heavy with intricately worked threads picked out with gold and silver to create stars and moons above a parade of opulent figures standing amidst wild flora and fauna. Gingerly, she passed a thumb over a lady’s perfect miniature hands, and no threads came loose or disintegrated.

She turned to Nail, curious enough at last to ask him a question, and held them up to catch the light.

“What are they?” She asked.

He shrugged. “I do not know. I believe they had some ritual use, before my time.”

She wrinkled her nose in disappointment, and then went to return them to the box. But as she did so she noticed, in the crumbling remains of the lid, the painted image of two closed eyes.

It felt a shame to return them to the ruined box, beautiful as they were. Whatever their purpose, they deserved a better home than a rotten casket in an abandoned store room. So after a pause she wound them up as gently as she could, and delivered them into subspace with the rest of her booty. It would be nice to look at them under the brighter lights of Destiny City - perhaps even to bring them to Myth, to see if she knew anything about them.

Thinking again of the woman brought on a barely-stifled sigh. She still needed to extend an invitation to her. But after the last visit to the Garde had gone so catastrophically, she was almost afraid that he might have changed his mind about being willing to talk to her at all. It was manipulative - dishonest, in truth - but she was avoiding mentioning it, so that she'd have the excuse of ignorance if she brought her anyway.

“Didn't they tell you anything about the stuff before your time?” She asked vaguely, turning her attention to another shelf.

“Of course. But many things had become unnecessary, and so were passed over.”

“Were they unnecessary? Or did you just prefer to stick a sword into every problem?” She asked drily.

“I was better equipped to ‘stick a sword’ into them, as you put it,” he answered with that aggravating mildness, “than for many other pursuits.”

Like enjoying yourself ever, she thought, but she'd said it often enough, and the feelings still felt bruised. “I'm just jealous that I can't stick a sword in my problems,” she said vaguely instead. “I think maybe this stupid fake war would have been over years ago if people in general were more willing to stick swords into problems.”

Not that she was going to be doing that any time soon. But still, someone ought to. Gouvernail politely refrained from making the observation that the only thing stopping her was her own squeamishness, but his silence broadcast it so loudly that she became annoyed anyway.

Well, if she was going to be in a bad mood with no one to blame but herself, she might as well get the most out of it.

“I'll tackle the boat house some other time,” she decided, airing it like a royal decree as she turned abruptly from her rummaging. “I haven't practiced even a little with the whip.”

“I assumed as much,” he said with incredible dryness. “Do you mean to do so now?”

“Yes,” she decided, tipping up her chin in haughtiness that she hoped at least concealed the fact that she was suddenly hoping to be irritated by him again - realizing, as she did so, that it was because she was inexplicably afraid of any other option and was running from it.

Maybe it had been easier for Gouvernail to stick his sword into his problems. But she would be a hypocrite if she accused him of avoiding others by doing so, as she stood courting her own childish annoyance for the sake of not looking at any other feelings. It was easier to resent him than to pity him, and more comfortable to snap at him than to feel herself growing emotional and sick by inviting him to speak to her openly.

“Let's go crack the ******** whip,” she said grimly, turning towards the sunshine of the bailey. He, as always, stood aside despite taking up no real space, and let her pass before him. She had always felt a strange kind of thrill in sweeping past him while he loomed a foot over her, feeling as if she was standing taller than him in some ineffable and important way. But she felt small, today - little - and suspected that if either of them was going to come out of the next hour with their dignity intact, it was not going to be her.

She closed the door to the store room, leaving the chamber in silence broken only by the click-click of the perpetual loom, and by the soft sound a moment later - unheard by anyone - of the rotted box falling apart abruptly into a pile of splinters and dust and broken hinges.