[There's a familiar face in the dance hall, although it doesn't make itself known until Byerly has been there for some time. When it does, he'll abruptly find himself with an elf at his elbow, made up for the evening (not stage made up) and clearly out doing some dancing herself.]
Ambassadeur, [Fifi greets over the din, with an amiable wiggle of her fingers.]
[ This is an unexpected face, but certainly not an unwelcome one. This is someone who is friendly to him, but who knows nothing of all that's going on and won't look at him with sympathy and care. (Well. Perhaps she doesn't know of it. He wouldn't be altogether shocked to hear that she actually had caught wind; those ears of hers are sharp in more ways than one.) He can hardly think of a more delightful companion, assuming that she's amenable to the idea. ]
Mademoiselle Mariette. [ He steps back enough that he can bow to her, an elegant gesture, his hand to his heart. Then he straightens, and holds out that hand: ] Would you care to dance?
[She traces the rim of her wine glass with her finger.]
My Jacques. There are so few people in this world who you can look at, and you can say... this one is good. He had a good heart. I have never known anyone like him.
[Her brow creases faintly, betraying the briefest flash of pain.]
[ Byerly thinks of that dream they all had - the dream of a miserable future. He thinks of Bastien, dead for many years in that reality. He remembers the pain having been sharp, even years later. ]
And all because powerful people saw men as no more than toy soldiers to play with and crush. I am sorry, Madame Fournier.
[She looks faintly surprised to be called that, even if it was she who just disclosed the title's significance. The smile returns to her face, softer.]
So it goes, [she replies, shrugging one shoulder, the mask of stillness returning.]
[ He holds out his hand to her. When she takes it, he'll lead her once again to the dance floor - this one a slightly more sedate sort of waltz. One of the moves for more daring pairs is for one partner to lift the other high in the air - he considers Fifi (quite small and light), but then thinks of himself, and decides: he'd throw his back out. So he sticks to the saner, both-feet-on-the-floor approach, and leaves the acrobatics to the young ones. ]
Trust me, [is chided with a giggle, and she gives a little jump right on cue.
True to what she said, Fifi holds herself aloft and executes the flourish herself with trained elegance, relying on Byerly only as a flag relies on its pole. When she lands and returns to the waltzing position, she raises her eyebrows at him. See?]
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Ambassadeur, [Fifi greets over the din, with an amiable wiggle of her fingers.]
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Mademoiselle Mariette. [ He steps back enough that he can bow to her, an elegant gesture, his hand to his heart. Then he straightens, and holds out that hand: ] Would you care to dance?
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It would be my pleasure, Messere, [she says, her lips quirked in a smile despite the overly formal exchange.]
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Do you prefer to lead, Mademoiselle, or follow?
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As they step away, she tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, smiling breathlessly.]
It’s Madame, actually, [she says after a moment, without rancor, as she makes her way toward the bar.] I was married, for a time.
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[ He's out of breath himself. He's not as young as he used to be. ]
Who would let you go? [ Then, to the barmaid: ] A wine, please, for the lady, and a water for me.
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Empress Celene, [she says drily,] or Duke Gaspard. Or both, depending on how you look at it.
[A table opens up, and she slips into one of the chairs, holding the other for Byerly.]
My husband was killed in the War of the Lions. Conscripted, [she adds gently,] he was no soldier. An accountant.
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How long were you married?
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A few years, though he courted me for longer.
[A fond smile crosses her features, though she drops her gaze, limiting the view of what might be going on behind her eyes.]
Madame Fournier died with him, I'm afraid. His family never acknowledged me.
[She blinks, her glance briefly fluttering back to Byerly,]
Humans. [you know how it goes.]
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He was human? Your husband?
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[She traces the rim of her wine glass with her finger.]
My Jacques. There are so few people in this world who you can look at, and you can say... this one is good. He had a good heart. I have never known anyone like him.
[Her brow creases faintly, betraying the briefest flash of pain.]
He had no business going to war.
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And all because powerful people saw men as no more than toy soldiers to play with and crush. I am sorry, Madame Fournier.
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So it goes, [she replies, shrugging one shoulder, the mask of stillness returning.]
Shall we dance again?
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[ He holds out his hand to her. When she takes it, he'll lead her once again to the dance floor - this one a slightly more sedate sort of waltz. One of the moves for more daring pairs is for one partner to lift the other high in the air - he considers Fifi (quite small and light), but then thinks of himself, and decides: he'd throw his back out. So he sticks to the saner, both-feet-on-the-floor approach, and leaves the acrobatics to the young ones. ]
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Try it. All the hard work is mine.
[Rather than give him the chance to say no, she positions herself, guiding his arms.]
Besides, I trust you. You haven’t had a drop to drink.
[Her glance back at him offers the most fleeting of winks— of course she knows, she’s the one who straightens his bottles.]
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But if I drop you -
[ But the beat in the music comes - and he lifts. ]
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True to what she said, Fifi holds herself aloft and executes the flourish herself with trained elegance, relying on Byerly only as a flag relies on its pole.
When she lands and returns to the waltzing position, she raises her eyebrows at him. See?]
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[ He admits, laughing, as the other dancers around them issue nods of approval - ]
You're very good. Thank you for making me look powerful and manly.
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It was a combined effort, Messere. Think nothing of it.