"Go on," she says, then promptly amends with, "Oh, but you must also wear some of your armor. Not all of it, mind. Just a few pieces to imply the general effect," before lapsing into anticipatory silence. The thread on the glove is abandoned in favor of drawing the edges of her short cloak a little tighter about her on account of, obviously, the weather.
The book is so well worn that it must be a second (or third, or fourth-) hand purchase, the stamp lettering of its exterior worn largely away so that its title is legible only by the interior bookplate: Rural Scholar Series II: Principles of Floriculture by Merwyn A. Hughes. A very brief note is written on the inside - Best Wishes! -W.A. Poppell, 9:46 -, and tucked in alongside it is a packet of seeds bearing the simple description of 'pincushion flowers' written in some spidery scrawl which emphatically doesn't belong to Wysteria.
"My friend in Markham says he's had no luck growing them out of doors this far north as the climate is very different from near Calenhad. But I was assured they might take in a pot if kept in a cool, shady place and treated with some care."
Later, when Ellis thinks back as to how he got involved in public spectacles, he'll consider this request and think, Ah, a warning sign.
But in the moment, he hums over it softly and nods as he unfolds the quilted fabric to reveal the second item. Would it be such a hardship to wear his breastplate? No. Comparatively, the larger undertaking had been learning the dances, so overall—
As the book is revealed, Wysteria is treated to Ellis' brief laugh at the title, before his expression softens between the inscription and the packet of seeds. He draws in a deep breath. (There's no way for Wysteria to know about the little house he'd grown up in, fence lined with these flowers, set out in a vase on the kitchen table.) He turns the packet over in his hands before setting it back down on the page, covered over with his palm.
"You went through too much trouble," he says, reaching to take her hand. "This, the seeds, it's very kind, Wysteria."
There is a distinct flame of self-satisfaction which flares in answer to first his laugh and then the deep breath Ellis draws. She decides all at once that there is nothing quite so pleasant as successfully surprising someone, and so is very smug indeed as he takes her hand.
"Nonsense. Hobbies ought to be encouraged, which means the alternative would have been some kind of absurd fancy chicken. They don't wrap nearly so well."
He folds her hand in his own, squeezes her fingers. What else can he say? Like so many small kindnesses she has bestowed upon him, Ellis lacks the words to fully express his gratitude. There's no way to frame the gesture for her. She's missing too much context and Ellis can't bring himself to provide it for her.
After a moment, he clears his throat, smiles sideways at her as his gaze lifts from where his hands cup hers over the cover of the book.
"You're going to have to help me name those chickens, you know. I've been promised six chicks in the spring."
"I must do no such thing," she announces primly, delighted to put her foot down. "I will observe, I will be a willing ear should you wish to express some detail or two on the subject because I am your friend, I may even criticize. But what I refuse to do is to take an active role in the nurturing of farm animals. No, I am afraid they are entirely your responsibility."
She sniffs disparagingly to great effect and then, with her hand still comfortably in his, she adds—
"But were I to express my opinion, I might say that it would be amusing to call them Ser Tillers and Lady Shyna and Aldenon and so on. But again, I have no interest whatsoever."
A little distracted, stuck on the easy turn of phrase: Because I am your friend. It doesn't catch him off-guard, but it does linger, provoke some minor discomfort that he forcibly puts aside before it can dampen the moment.
"They'll tend to themselves once they're big enough," Ellis promises. "And the eggs will smooth things over with your neighbors, if we have some extra."
The explosions and fires have been fewer, but Ellis wants to shore up some good will in case the projects pick up again now that the weather has turned.
A momentary squint in response, while Ellis tries to discern exactly who this remark is disparaging.
"It's a kind gesture," Ellis says at last. If he makes it on Wysteria's behalf and she never realizes it's happening, well. "Much like you letting me keep chickens in your garden."
"Yes, yes," she pats the back of his hand over hers with her free one. "Very thoughtful. In any case, I don't anticipate they will have so much to be upset by over the winter. I have quite moved on from incendiaries. Or at the very least have resolved to continue experimentation in the Gallows where the work can be done more comfortably. The house's workshop shall be dedicated to toxicants, I think. Which reminds me, mind that you do not touch anything on the plates on my worktable."
It's always so fun to receive a new source of apprehension.
"Wysteria," Ellis says, for lack of ability to pick one clear objection. His grip tightens on her hand futilely. "Tell me you aren't bringing food on plates into your workshop."
Maybe her Satinalia gift should have been an upgraded ventilation system for the workspace. Ellis had seen Tony's sketches and thought them ambitious, but—
"Not at all," she patiently assures him. She has heard this tone before and knows that a certain gentleness of touch may be required to see him put at ease.
"But there are plates in my workshop on which I am presently growing rather poisonous fungi and I would prefer that no one touch them. There are notes on all of them, of course, but it is only polite to say something directly as well."
"Have I covered the plates," she repeats to herself. Honestly. "Of course I have covered the plates of half of the samples. The others are exposed to sunlight during the day, so I might understand the best conditions under which it grows."
She pats his hand in hers once more for emphasis. Are you comforted now, Ellis?
"I had the opportunity to collect a number of strange samples when Mr. Stark and I travelled to manage the Bierstagg rift. Given their toxic nature, I thought it best to keep them in a secure place for study rather than in the Gallows workshops where someone might stumble upon them unawares."
She is being the very height of responsible, thank you very much.
"Once I have a reliable stock from which to cut from, I would like to consult with Miss Van Klerk or Madame Smythe to see how best to use it. I suspect a grenade formula, or perhaps simply a coating for arrow heads."
There is some visible conflict in Ellis' expression. On the one hand, that would be very useful. On the other, why does it have to be done in the house?
After a moment: "You're terribly clever, you know."
Because that's the truth of it, regardless of Ellis' apprehensions. The entire matter can be distilled to that single truth: Wysteria saw opportunity and pursued it. She is blindingly clever, and he is proud of her for it.
"But be sure you mind you don't do yourself harm in the process, yes?"
She should almost certainly have something to say in reply to the second point - 'Yes, Mr. Ellis. It is perfectly safe and I will take great care to be mindful of not touching the poisonous fungi and then my face;' 'Yes, of course Mr. Ellis. I will practice every precaution, and Madame Smythe is quite accomplished. I have no doubt that as a senior alchemist she will be the very picture of caution' -, but nothing rises readily.
For she is trapped in the moment prior, the one in which she is terribly clever, and the warmth which blooms in her chest on account of it is such a real thing that she can feel it hot in her cheeks and prickling behind her eyes.
She laughs. It's a cursory 'ha ha' designed for sweeping away a series of more ridiculous sentiments and to leave behind room for only smug self satisfaction.
"Of course," Ellis agrees warmly. His hands tighten on hers for a moment before he releases her. "And I've kept you too long, I think."
Considering how very busy she is, with such demands on her time. Some light amusement warms his expression as he looks at her, straightening as he folds the jacket over the book and packet.
She fusses briefly with the collar of the embroidered bright red half cape and how it lies about her shoulders and then, kicking out her boots, springs decisively up onto her feet. Her skirts and trailing edge of the cape have collected a prodigious amount of hay, which she knocks (or irritably picks) briskly free before offering her crooked elbow to him.
A pause, in which Ellis tugs on his own coat, tucks his Satinalia gifts under one arm, plucks two lingering bits of straw from the hip of her skirt, and then—
"Yes," he tells her, offering her his elbow. It's still a little less natural a gesture on him than it would be on another, but it's offered none the less. "Let's see you off on your business."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The book is so well worn that it must be a second (or third, or fourth-) hand purchase, the stamp lettering of its exterior worn largely away so that its title is legible only by the interior bookplate: Rural Scholar Series II: Principles of Floriculture by Merwyn A. Hughes. A very brief note is written on the inside - Best Wishes! -W.A. Poppell, 9:46 -, and tucked in alongside it is a packet of seeds bearing the simple description of 'pincushion flowers' written in some spidery scrawl which emphatically doesn't belong to Wysteria.
"My friend in Markham says he's had no luck growing them out of doors this far north as the climate is very different from near Calenhad. But I was assured they might take in a pot if kept in a cool, shady place and treated with some care."
no subject
But in the moment, he hums over it softly and nods as he unfolds the quilted fabric to reveal the second item. Would it be such a hardship to wear his breastplate? No. Comparatively, the larger undertaking had been learning the dances, so overall—
As the book is revealed, Wysteria is treated to Ellis' brief laugh at the title, before his expression softens between the inscription and the packet of seeds. He draws in a deep breath. (There's no way for Wysteria to know about the little house he'd grown up in, fence lined with these flowers, set out in a vase on the kitchen table.) He turns the packet over in his hands before setting it back down on the page, covered over with his palm.
"You went through too much trouble," he says, reaching to take her hand. "This, the seeds, it's very kind, Wysteria."
no subject
"Nonsense. Hobbies ought to be encouraged, which means the alternative would have been some kind of absurd fancy chicken. They don't wrap nearly so well."
no subject
He folds her hand in his own, squeezes her fingers. What else can he say? Like so many small kindnesses she has bestowed upon him, Ellis lacks the words to fully express his gratitude. There's no way to frame the gesture for her. She's missing too much context and Ellis can't bring himself to provide it for her.
After a moment, he clears his throat, smiles sideways at her as his gaze lifts from where his hands cup hers over the cover of the book.
"You're going to have to help me name those chickens, you know. I've been promised six chicks in the spring."
no subject
She sniffs disparagingly to great effect and then, with her hand still comfortably in his, she adds—
"But were I to express my opinion, I might say that it would be amusing to call them Ser Tillers and Lady Shyna and Aldenon and so on. But again, I have no interest whatsoever."
no subject
A little distracted, stuck on the easy turn of phrase: Because I am your friend. It doesn't catch him off-guard, but it does linger, provoke some minor discomfort that he forcibly puts aside before it can dampen the moment.
"They'll tend to themselves once they're big enough," Ellis promises. "And the eggs will smooth things over with your neighbors, if we have some extra."
The explosions and fires have been fewer, but Ellis wants to shore up some good will in case the projects pick up again now that the weather has turned.
no subject
"Their servants, perhaps."
no subject
"It's a kind gesture," Ellis says at last. If he makes it on Wysteria's behalf and she never realizes it's happening, well. "Much like you letting me keep chickens in your garden."
no subject
"Yes, yes," she pats the back of his hand over hers with her free one. "Very thoughtful. In any case, I don't anticipate they will have so much to be upset by over the winter. I have quite moved on from incendiaries. Or at the very least have resolved to continue experimentation in the Gallows where the work can be done more comfortably. The house's workshop shall be dedicated to toxicants, I think. Which reminds me, mind that you do not touch anything on the plates on my worktable."
no subject
"Wysteria," Ellis says, for lack of ability to pick one clear objection. His grip tightens on her hand futilely. "Tell me you aren't bringing food on plates into your workshop."
Maybe her Satinalia gift should have been an upgraded ventilation system for the workspace. Ellis had seen Tony's sketches and thought them ambitious, but—
no subject
"But there are plates in my workshop on which I am presently growing rather poisonous fungi and I would prefer that no one touch them. There are notes on all of them, of course, but it is only polite to say something directly as well."
See? Perfectly reasonable.
no subject
"You've covered the plates?"
Which is potentially a better question than: What are you planning on doing with poisonous fungi?
no subject
She pats his hand in hers once more for emphasis. Are you comforted now, Ellis?
no subject
"Remind me what prompted this curiosity," Ellis asks her, the worried frown not eased by the pat of her hand.
no subject
She is being the very height of responsible, thank you very much.
"Once I have a reliable stock from which to cut from, I would like to consult with Miss Van Klerk or Madame Smythe to see how best to use it. I suspect a grenade formula, or perhaps simply a coating for arrow heads."
no subject
After a moment: "You're terribly clever, you know."
Because that's the truth of it, regardless of Ellis' apprehensions. The entire matter can be distilled to that single truth: Wysteria saw opportunity and pursued it. She is blindingly clever, and he is proud of her for it.
"But be sure you mind you don't do yourself harm in the process, yes?"
no subject
For she is trapped in the moment prior, the one in which she is terribly clever, and the warmth which blooms in her chest on account of it is such a real thing that she can feel it hot in her cheeks and prickling behind her eyes.
She laughs. It's a cursory 'ha ha' designed for sweeping away a series of more ridiculous sentiments and to leave behind room for only smug self satisfaction.
"Yes, yes," she declares. "I'm quite aware."
no subject
Considering how very busy she is, with such demands on her time. Some light amusement warms his expression as he looks at her, straightening as he folds the jacket over the book and packet.
"Shall I walk you to the ferry, or elsewhere?"
no subject
She fusses briefly with the collar of the embroidered bright red half cape and how it lies about her shoulders and then, kicking out her boots, springs decisively up onto her feet. Her skirts and trailing edge of the cape have collected a prodigious amount of hay, which she knocks (or irritably picks) briskly free before offering her crooked elbow to him.
"Shall we, Mr. Ellis?"
slaps bow on this
"Yes," he tells her, offering her his elbow. It's still a little less natural a gesture on him than it would be on another, but it's offered none the less. "Let's see you off on your business."