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[heirring]

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[heirring]

[From the shadow cast across her bed, she narrows her eyes at him. That is not an answer to her question, Mister Rutyer. Don't think she hasn't noticed.]

There's no need to apologize on that account, Ambassador. I assure you that I've been obligated to be very well rested.

[bouchonne]

Just so.

[ The embarrassment deepens. Byerly, usually a reasonably suave man even under adverse circumstances, is clearly not particularly comfortable in the presence of illness or injury. Less so still when the injured party is Wysteria, frankly. (And least of all when he's caught in a misdeed.) ]

As for your query, I - was taking back something I'd left here by mistake.

[heirring]

Something you'd left here, [She repeats back, the very height of skepticism.] With my things.

[bouchonne]

That's right.

[ His expression, embarrassed, gains a very slight edge of defiance. ]

[heirring]

[Which is absurd, of course. What possible grounds does he have for being stubborn when he is here beside her sick bed tossing her belongings?]

Perhaps you might describe the item to me, Mister Rutyer. And then I will tell you if I have seen or moved it since you left it in my possession.

[bouchonne]

[ Fuck. He deflates a little. He can't bring himself to fight her when she looks so...small. ]

It was a book.

[heirring]

[There is something there at the edge of his expression which twinges at something behind her ribs—a quiet, rankling suspicion which rises in the face of moments like this one, or when Tony doesn't quite look at her, or in discovering Ellis has slipped away without a proper goodbye. Not that Byerly's opinion is at all on the level with those others, but somehow that makes his pity (for that must be what it is) even more intolerable.

The wrinkle between her brows faintly deepens.]

I have a great assortment of books here with me. Perhaps you might elaborate.

[bouchonne]

It was -

[ Fuck. He yanks his hand through his hair. ]

A book on dwarven engineering and weaponsmithing. I can't remember the title, it was some dry blasted thing with half a dozen words I didn't know.

[heirring]

Why do you have a book on dwarven weaponsmithing?

[Is a foolish question, she realizes only after she's asked it. An instant later, she has gone very dreadfully pale and then very dreadfully pinkish. Her frown has resolutely set.]

Oh, ha ha. Yes that's very funny, Mister Rutyer.

[bouchonne]

[ He doesn't track her assumption. ]

What is funny, Miss Poppell?

[heirring]

[It's very cruel to make fun of her in this moment. So much so that she decides instantly that she won't be bothered by it at all. She will simply be immune and not at all pricked by the cold injustice of the thing.]

If there is something you wish to say to me, you may simply say so.

[bouchonne]

It -

[ There's the faintest hint of color that rises in his sallow cheek. ]

Maker, Miss Poppell, it was intended to be a Satinalia gift.

[heirring]

[—catches her visibly short. Lying there under the plain infirmary bed clothes, she doesn't start but the fixed upset in her pale sickly drawn face goes briefly remote before descending into outright confusion.

A bevy of questions, none more than half formed, eventually becomes:]

What?

[bouchonne]

It -

[ The color deepens. He turns back, and - there, there it is, the fucking thing, half-buried under a scarf someone has left. He picks it up and shows it. It's a very small volume, but rather thick, and when he shows it - ]

The spine is too stiff.

[ He flips it open and shows that, indeed, it's a book with an extremely tight spine. Tough to keep open to the page you want to read. Especially tough to keep open if you only have one hand to work with. ]

I was looking to - fix it somehow. Didn't think till it was too late.

[heirring]

[The reception of this shameful confession is merely being plunged further into bafflement. Distantly, Wysteria considers the possibility that her fever has returned. She blankly glances about the room as if the surroundings of the clinic might yield some answer. When that fails and her attention finally returns to Byerly and his flush face, she clearly has yet to find a satisfactory solution to the problem which lies at the heart of the man's failed subterfuge.]

But why had you brought me a Satinalia gift to begin with?

[bouchonne]

Because it's -

[ The color persists; it's the frown that deepens this time. ]

Because it's a tradition. Why would I not?

[heirring]

Because we are sworn enemies.

[—is not something she would say (certainly not in that bewildered, nonvenomous timbre) if she weren't still at least somewhat ill with fatigue.]

[bouchonne]

We're -

[ He gapes. ]

What?

[ Then - ]

Are you high?

[heirring]

[She gawks right back at him.]

Are you?

[bouchonne]

[ A touch defensively - ]

A little. Sworn enemies?

[heirring]

Well yes. [A beat of hesitation, and then as if she herself is legitimately unsure:] —Aren't we?

[bouchonne]

[ Without any uncertainty: ]

Absolutely not!

[heirring]

[His confidence clearly shocks her. Without much (any) prior calculation, Wysteria blurts:]

Then what exactly do you propose as an alternative?

[bouchonne]

An alternative - An alternative to what?

[heirring]

To—to our considerable history of acrimony, of course.

[Obviously. Then, considerably more to the point:]

You dislike me.