Post by Sébastien de Rochegrâve (I) on Jul 15, 2006 3:31:27 GMT -5
My mother’s face was a beacon of impartiality and very slight concern. Only I, who knew her so well, could see the slight smile was of amusement rather than of sympathy for the man before her, currently demanding my head on a plate. “There is nothing the chirurgeons can do!” He screamed, hysterics making his whinny voice climb slowly higher in pitch. “My son will never regain use of his arm.”
Delicately arched brows drew together above my mother’s sable eyes, feigning a confusion I’d never known her to experience in truth. “I’m unsure of what you would have me do, sir.” She said softly and slowly, “By all accounts, it was your son struck the first blow.”
“With his fist!” I very nearly spoiled it all by laughing aloud as the old Vicomte’s voice cracked on the last syllable. “And that fiend,” he gestured wildly in my direction to indicate who exactly was fiendish, “Sliced clean to the bone with a dagger! My son was unarmed!” It again became a struggle no to laugh.
Mother turned her head away, blinking rapidly and pulling a charming and nervous twist of her mouth, “You should perhaps teach your son not to attack a man at weapons practice without suitable armaments.” She sighed. Dropping all pretense of womanly nerves, she leveled a calm, rational, but distinctly steely gaze upon my accuser, “It’s been ruled self defense. We’ve paid the chirurgeons, of our own magnanimity I might add, since no charges have been leveled. I suggest you accept this as more than fair and you leave. There are no further roads open to you. You’ll only torture yourself, and your son, in prolonging this.”
Sometime later I sat in my mother’s dressing room, reading to her from her favorite book as she dressed her hair for dinner. She broke into my recitation with the question I’d know would come eventually. “There is not chance at all that his fiancée is carrying your child?”
Marking my line with my index finger I watched her carefully twist and pin a dark curl into place before answering, “None, Mother. I know better than that. She’s a bed hopping, power hungry wretch, trying to stir up some attention. But I’m in no danger of imminent parenthood. Though you might as well open a book on who is, because I doubt if it’s the fiancée.”
“Well enough.” She smiled and stuck another pin in her ebony locks, no worries for the unborn child, the girl, her fiancée or his arm. Only for me, only for us. “I’ve been thinking.” She spoke up before I could resume reading, “Do you remember, some time ago, when we talked about you traveling to the City of Elua?”
Looking at her sidelong I quirked an eyebrow, “Trying to get rid of me too, Mother? What would, Father say?” I clasped one hand to my heart dramatically and cast my eyes skyward.
“Bite your tongue.” She retorted absentmindedly as she turned this way and that, trying to find strands strayed from her elegant coif. “I’ve always meant for you to spend time in the city before you inherit. Things here can get a little small, and I worry that you’re young. I was already a Comtesse by the time I was your age.”
“Wed to a man twice that.”
“I was already a mother.”
“And nearly a widow.”
“We still own a townhouse there,” She continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, “I’ve been renting it out for a pretty profit but I can always get new tenants once you come home. That district is close enough to Palace grounds that it will always be fashionable. What do you think?” she asked turning on her stool to face me.
Shutting the book to the satisfying thwack of bound pages reconnecting I set it down. Rising and coming to her side, I tucked a bejeweled pin down the side of her bound curls, and murmured “I am ever at your command, Mother.” Before placing a loving peck on the smooth, olive skin of her brow. “I’ll make arrangements on the morrow.”
Delicately arched brows drew together above my mother’s sable eyes, feigning a confusion I’d never known her to experience in truth. “I’m unsure of what you would have me do, sir.” She said softly and slowly, “By all accounts, it was your son struck the first blow.”
“With his fist!” I very nearly spoiled it all by laughing aloud as the old Vicomte’s voice cracked on the last syllable. “And that fiend,” he gestured wildly in my direction to indicate who exactly was fiendish, “Sliced clean to the bone with a dagger! My son was unarmed!” It again became a struggle no to laugh.
Mother turned her head away, blinking rapidly and pulling a charming and nervous twist of her mouth, “You should perhaps teach your son not to attack a man at weapons practice without suitable armaments.” She sighed. Dropping all pretense of womanly nerves, she leveled a calm, rational, but distinctly steely gaze upon my accuser, “It’s been ruled self defense. We’ve paid the chirurgeons, of our own magnanimity I might add, since no charges have been leveled. I suggest you accept this as more than fair and you leave. There are no further roads open to you. You’ll only torture yourself, and your son, in prolonging this.”
Sometime later I sat in my mother’s dressing room, reading to her from her favorite book as she dressed her hair for dinner. She broke into my recitation with the question I’d know would come eventually. “There is not chance at all that his fiancée is carrying your child?”
Marking my line with my index finger I watched her carefully twist and pin a dark curl into place before answering, “None, Mother. I know better than that. She’s a bed hopping, power hungry wretch, trying to stir up some attention. But I’m in no danger of imminent parenthood. Though you might as well open a book on who is, because I doubt if it’s the fiancée.”
“Well enough.” She smiled and stuck another pin in her ebony locks, no worries for the unborn child, the girl, her fiancée or his arm. Only for me, only for us. “I’ve been thinking.” She spoke up before I could resume reading, “Do you remember, some time ago, when we talked about you traveling to the City of Elua?”
Looking at her sidelong I quirked an eyebrow, “Trying to get rid of me too, Mother? What would, Father say?” I clasped one hand to my heart dramatically and cast my eyes skyward.
“Bite your tongue.” She retorted absentmindedly as she turned this way and that, trying to find strands strayed from her elegant coif. “I’ve always meant for you to spend time in the city before you inherit. Things here can get a little small, and I worry that you’re young. I was already a Comtesse by the time I was your age.”
“Wed to a man twice that.”
“I was already a mother.”
“And nearly a widow.”
“We still own a townhouse there,” She continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, “I’ve been renting it out for a pretty profit but I can always get new tenants once you come home. That district is close enough to Palace grounds that it will always be fashionable. What do you think?” she asked turning on her stool to face me.
Shutting the book to the satisfying thwack of bound pages reconnecting I set it down. Rising and coming to her side, I tucked a bejeweled pin down the side of her bound curls, and murmured “I am ever at your command, Mother.” Before placing a loving peck on the smooth, olive skin of her brow. “I’ll make arrangements on the morrow.”