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[heirring]

[action + written + crystal]

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[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.

[bouchonne]

Only when you're being unpleasant to me. When you're not trying to find some victory or whatever it is you're after, I like you just fine.

[ He crosses his arms. Then the gesture reminds him of her predicament; he unfolds them, and adds, more subdued: ]

I apologize if I've ever given you that impression.

[heirring]

That's a lie. There is nothing at all about me which should recommend me to you. Which is perfectly well and entirely your prerogative. [And just as quickly, croaked back from the depths of her little bed.] Your apology is accepted.

[bouchonne]

Nothing that should recommend you to me?

[ His brows draw together fiercely as he tries to comprehend what she's saying. The statement sounded like a bit of self-disparagement, but that doesn't seem possible, given the source - He's never heard her say an unkind word about herself, particularly not when there's a barb to be delivered instead. ]

What do you mean by that?

[ A foolish question to follow up with, he supposes; that'll likely invite the barb. What I mean is that you are too simple-minded and cruel to find anything to like in me, is what he wagers will come next. ]

[heirring]

[There, a flicker of further bafflement and a brief instant in which Wysteria searches his expression. The meaning is obvious; why pretend otherwise?]

There is nothing about me which appeals to you. [Is the same as what she has just said, so she shakes herself and attempts a further revision.] My character is offensive to you, Mister Rutyer.

[bouchonne]

[ Which is a cousin to what he was expecting her to say, but a kinder cousin. And - ]

That's complete rubbish, Miss Poppell. There's much about you that I do find frustrating, but parts of you are frustrating is a far cry from there is nothing appealing. There are elements of the Lady Alexandrie I find frustrating as well, but I clearly also find her appealing.