heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

Yes, in theory she should be able to draw her skirts free. In practice, this requires delicate maneuvering and the eventual final detachment of a cat's snarled paw from the mutilated hem of the dark blue garment. But afterward, miraculous unscathed, they are left with an ominously murmuring make-do bag, both of them crouched around it where it sits on the floor, and—

"Oh."

There is blood beading in Ellis' beard. Wysteria reaches out, but doesn't touch him. Her hand instead dances around the prospect of touching his face and then falls away. She looks down to regard the thing trapped between them.

"Perhaps this will win you your freedom."

A special dispensation for dangerous services rendered, surely.

Can cats growl? This one seems given to it, considering the sound rumbling from within the layers of fabric.

"Perhaps I should bargain with her for a new dress for you," is not a vote against Wysteria's ability to repair the garment. (Or Ellis', if it comes to that.) But more a sense of how much is at the Lady Paget's fingertips and that perhaps some of that largesse should be parceled out to Wysteria.

The collection of scrapes have not drawn his attention. Wysteria's faltering hand is caught up again.

"I'll be sure to explain to her how you captured her pet."

In glowing yet delicate terms, surely. Ellis has yet to work out whether or not he might present the bundle to Lady Paget or if he will have to find a way to extract the cat for presentation.

Across from him on the other side of the snarling cat in a bag (more or less), Wysteria suddenly bristles. She scoffs.

"I have no need of the Lady of the house's charity. I am perfectly capable of doing my own mending. And furthermore"—has the sound of a thing spinning up toward full speed; a great monologue's threatening presence rising over the horizon. "If we are to broker for your freedom, it seems prudent to give you all the credit. Particularly when you were wounded in the process. In fact, I should like no part of this attributed to me including that mark I have left on your cheek. You may say it was Pouncival, and we will hope that it elicits some further sympathy from the Lady."

She will be damned if she accepts some garment from the woman who deemed her wardrobe so lackluster.

The vehemence of it takes Ellis by surprise. His eyes widen at her, thumb pausing in it's mapping of her knuckles.

Tempting fate, Ellis puts his free hand on the squirming, venomous bundle as if that might quiet Pouncival and leave him in a far better position to parse Wysteria. (It does not quite Pouncival. It does inspire some lashing movement within the wrappings, that does not dislodge Ellis' hand.)

"I thought you'd like a new dress," is said slowly. Ellis has the sense the dress is not necessarily the objectionable part of all this.

He turns her hand over in his own, examining for traces of blood as he continues, "Or to have some recognition for helping me accomplish what I'd spent most of the morning failing at."

Eventually, if prompted, Wysteria will come out with the heart of the grievance. Or so Ellis assumes.

"Not from the Lady Paget, thank you." The blood—his blood—is contained to under her thumbnail. There is only a trace of it. "I am perfectly content without either her accolades or charity. If she is capable of doing me any favor at all, it will be to grant your early release from her custody so that we might return to Kirkwall together."

Wysteria's attention flicks to the thrashing lump under his hand. She makes then to extract her fingers from his examination as if this will close the topic to all further debate or inquiry.

"Come now. Where must Ser Pouncival go now that you've successfully apprehended him?"

Ser Pouncival must go to the drawing room, trussed in a dust cloth to be opened by the lady of the house, at her own peril.

Ellis might say this. A straightforward answer, to be buffered by the query of whether Wysteria should like to accompany him in, or if she would like to retire to the suite of rooms Ellis has been allotted to wait for him there.

Instead, his hand tightens around hers to stall against escape as he asks, "Did Lady Paget offend you?"

His hand tightens about hers. It halts her escape.

"No, don't be ridiculous," sounds Yes, she's dreadful.

And that grip doesn't falter. The slight impulse towards reeling her in is stalled by the obvious obstacle dividing them.

"Tell me what happened," is very tender, considering the murderous snarling from the makeshift trap sitting between them.

"Nothing happened. Lady Paget was perfectly cordial," says that Lady Paget is a beast who has done something Wysteria will never forgive.

Between them, The Bag rumbles ominously.

"Indeed she was quite sympathetic to the state of Riftwatch's affairs. Particularly in the sense where I was representative of them."

A hand returns to The Bag, tempting fate. Unsurprisingly, the second attempt does not soothe the vocal displeasure radiating outward.

If he could, he would put a kiss to her palm. As it stands, his thumb draws lightly across her knuckles in familiar motion as he studies her.

"What did she say?"

No sympathies had been expressed in Ellis' hearing, but is that such a surprise? Their conversations had tended towards other matters, such as the crates in the attic that must be relocated or the creaking hinges on the doors leading out to the veranda.

Her spare hand slaps the back of his. It's a small thing. Not delicate, just a brief crack like a snap of fingers. Stop that.

"She said nothing at all." And also, "I believe she doesn't care for my dress."

Thump, thump, says the bag as Ser Puncival pummels Ellis' hand from inside the canvas.

This is not much information. It could be mistaken for a small thing. But it had been jealously guarded. Having had to expend so much care teo draw this minor aspect of the conversation from Wysteria, it become more minor turn of conversation.

There are too many layers of cloth between Ser Pouncival and Ellis' palm, but the determined prick of claws makes a ghostly impression. Ellis lifts his eyes to Wysteria, eyebrows raised for the slap of her hand, and then draws her up with him.

"Lady Paget has bad taste."

How much weight does such a declaration carry when made by Ellis, who knows next to nothing about what is and isn't good taste? (Maybe a good amount of weight, considering the majority of what he hears regarding good taste comes from Wysteria.) He keeps his hold on her hand even as he bends to lift the bag containing the loudly objecting cat.

"Come with me."

Presumably to deliver the cat.

Lady Paget has fine taste. She has stood in the woman's house for several hours now, observing the wallpaper and the trimmings about windows and the weave of rugs and even the lady in question herself. No, she isn't perhaps not fashionable in the sense that there is no whiff of the Orlesian broadsheet stylings here in this old house, but there is an air of certainty throughout it and Wysteria is quite sure that more than makes up for the other.

But what is she to tell him? Merely that he's wrong? She might; instead, her jaw has clamped stubbornly shut, as if by refusing to address the topic further she might somehow delay her reintroduction despite the fact that she allows Ellis to fetch her up to her feet and can indeed be induced to go along with him though she is nothing is not conscious of the fact that her hem has been put all out of sorts.

"Truly, it's nothing," she says only a great deal of steps later. "It's hardly as if I came here for the Lady's approval. That wasn't my intention and that remains so."

"It's not nothing."

Not if it's weighing on her this way, though Ellis isn't entirely sure how best to put it to rights. Or if it's something he can have any hand in amending.

"You'll help me barter my way out, and I'll see you fairly compensated for the insult," only seems like an easy prospect. It's far beyond his realm of expertise, admittedly, but he intends to attempt something.

He keeps their hand links through the entire march down to the drawing room. The trek is underscored entirely by Pouncival's increasingly furious yowling. The bag doesn't do much of anything to stifle the sound so surely the occupants of the drawing room must hear them coming, harp or no harp.

She makes no further attempts to dissuade him as they go, but as they near the door to Lady Paget's drawing room (through which the dulcet tones of a harp being played at increasingly desperate volume can only be faintly detected beneath the insistent yowling of a very cross feline) she makes to wring her hand from his with a desperate little hiss of, "Mister Ellis."

It is one thing to be seen about the streets of Markham, or in Kirkwall, or by common people in little villages, or even in the Gallows itself which is so full to bursting with all manner of indiscretion that their dalliance hardly warrants remark. But it is another thing entirely to walk about a fine lady's house while all but shouting out every detail of how someone might find reason to disregard any scrap of respect for her that they might have contrived otherwise. And it is a different thing altogether, she thinks, when one means to stand up before someone and make an argument.

There is no reason at all to be seen as sentimental under such circumstances.

Whatever Ellis might have intended to the contrary dissipates at the motion of her hand. There is some brief flicker across his expression, schooled into nothingness as his grip on her loosens then releases.

He has never contrived to keep hold of her when she has expressed any objection to it.

And so the beat of acknowledgement passes just outside the door, with the bag in Ellis' hands rippling under Ser Pouncival's increasingly desperate bid for freedom. Whatever might be said is cut off by a sharp, impatient voice—

"Don't just stand out there, come in."

The harp's tempo wavers uncertainly, and maybe a little despairingly at the source of such noise drawing closer.

Ellis tips his head to Wysteria, and nudges open one drawing room door to allow her to pass by him.

Quite a display of manners, considering Ellis is with one hand containing a violently objecting cat in a sack.

For an instant, Wysteria hesitates. Were she not actively in the middle of processing the demand, she might consider whether this is how victims of an execution feel right before they are marched to the wall and shot. In the moment however, she only has the ludicrous passing thought for how she owns the only gun in Thedas and for a little knot of embarrassment to cinch tight in her belly—not for Lady Paget, but for that brief ghost of a thing which had passed across Ellis' face—and then she steps through the door with her tattered skirt hem and the flush of mortification hot on the back of her neck.

The harpist stops playing.

"Lady Paget," she begins, and then must repeat herself more loudly to be heard over the din of the bagged cat. "Lady Paget, I believe you will be pleased to know—"

The woman on her divan makes an impatient little gesture with her hand. It effectively silences Wysteria with no more than an objecting croak.

"Lady Paget," Ellis takes up, in spite of the waved hand, though whatever is meant to be said is interrupted by the tearing of fabric and the emergence of one, grasping paw, claws fully extended.

In perfect unison, the three maids hovering around Lady Paget's divan take several graceful steps backwards.

"Oh, for pity's sake," Lady Paget says. Or possibly says. She has not extended the effort to raise her voice, so Pouncival's outrage more or less muffles his owner. "Ellis, please, simply put her down. There's no need for such a production."

It's surely only Wysteria who catches the minor flicker of irritation. They're a matched set in that moment, with a flush of temper creeping up from beneath Ellis' collar. Whether or not she caught his expression, this uncontrollable sign of temper is visible to her regardless, as Ellis takes an angled step forward to position himself slightly in front of Wysteria before turning the cat out.

The cat lands, as cats are wont to do, on all four of its murderous little paws. Ser Pounvical is a perfectly round orb of bristled fur standing all on end, yellow eyes turned fully black from the dilation of the animal's pupils. Wysteria, that half measure behind Ellis, cringes just faintly backward.

And then the cat totters forward on its ruffled limbs. In the seconds it requires Ser Pouncival to reach the divan, she has smoothed more of her fur down and has stopped walking like a hobbled horse, and is quite spry about jumping up onto the foot of the sofa near her mistress's slipper feet. There she sits, staring directly back at Ellis with shark-black eyes.

"There, you see. Simply done."

A look from the woman on the divan makes the harpist start, fingers tripping over themselves to resume their light tickling of the strings.

Having stretched one arm out in front of Wysteria, not so unlike Ellis' habit when facing demons or Venatori or even once, notably, a rather large bear, Ellis runs through at least three increasingly baffled rejoinders before clearly deciding not to pursue the matter.

His arm drops. He glances back to Wysteria, reassuring himself of her, before turning to incline his head to Lady Paget.

"Aye, nicely done."

Delicately. What use is there in questioning the phenomenon, or raising the point that Lady Paget might have accomplished this for herself easier than Ellis might have. He clears his throat, as the harpist settles back into the interrupted melody.

"My lady, Wysteria has brought word from my Commander that I'm needed, very urgently," he continues on smoothly. "So I must depart with her in the morning."

"Wysteria? Who is—?" Lady Paget's attention slides past Ellis' shoulder to Wysteria who has, if her own sense of the heat in her face is true, gone fundamentally scarlet in his shadow. "Oh yes of course. Miss Poppell, you might have introduced yourself so. It's a very charming little name."

"Be that as it may," Wysteria blurts out in an artificially pleasant tone. She has pasted on a smile where she stands at Ellis' elbow, all effected sunshine and good humor. Ha ha ha, yes what a hilarious misunderstanding. "I'm afraid the Warden speaks the truth. I was sent at the behest of his Commander to—to deliver new confidential orders. We must had East. Er. Confidentially."

The tempo of the harp rises just slightly, perhaps in anticipation of some further request. Lady Paget's lips have pursed, a hand lifting to draw fingers beneath her chin as Wysteria speaks.

"Confidentially."

Each syllable drawn out in cool tones. Behind her, the three maids exchange looks. Ellis straightens, squaring his shoulders in unconscious recognition of approaching danger.

"I've taken advantage of your kindness long enough, Lady Paget. If I stay much longer, it will be impossible for me to leave."

Flattery is not exactly Ellis' forte. But it is the nearest to it he can get while remaining truthful. After all, it has grown near impossible to leave. He continues on briskly: "If you'll indulge me just a little longer, I'd ask that you spare us rooms for one last night, and a replacement for my—associate's garment, we will be on our way at first light."

The barest trip over identifier. But the sting of Wysteria's slap had been instructive enough. Ellis refrains from any overt declarations while Lady Paget's pursed lips grow more pronounced as she examines them.

It might be prudent under such circumstances to lower one's eyes and give the dense rug under one's feet a thorough study. Why look at the finely woven flowers and leaves; how elegant the pattern and color palette of the piece is; and so on and so forth, all in the pursuit of ignoring the fact that one is about to be utterly destroyed upon the point which they currently stand. Wysteria, halfway shielded by Ellis' elbow, does no such thing. She merely becomes a rigor mortis inflicted version of herself—smile baked on and eyes charmingly bright even as the flush of mortification rises higher up the back of her neck to lay ownership to the entirety of her scalp. The sum of her movement is to absently twitch back her skirts, as if the damage done to them might be concealed by doing so rather than underlined.

(Spoilers: it's the latter.)

With the animal grace of a predator, Lady Paget's attention swivels to one of the maids behind the divan.

"I trust something can be arranged for dressing Miss Poppell properly. The length of the hem will have to rise, of course."

Wysteria's silence is a clear indicator that this is a conversation gone poorly, though Ellis has yet to divine the exact shape of the trouble.

But he is aware that he is outclassed in this arena. It is much like standing in a room full of traps, and trying to decide whether he would rather be blasted off his feet or bludgeoned by something heavy.

Nevertheless, he has come this far in the conversation. A brief sidelong look gleans nothing, and he cannot reach for Wysteria, despite wishing to, so—

"Lady Paget, I could only ask that you give us the equal of what she's lost in our pursuit of your companion."

To his credit, Ellis spares only a single, narrowed glance towards the cat. The sentiment is perhaps mutual, as he receives a baleful look in return.

"I have told her of how kind you've been to me during my stay," is a very careful prompt. "That should extend to my fellows, aye?"

Kindness is only slightly pointed. But still, it is a deliberate reminder. On her divan, the lady herself sighs over it. The cat affects the sort of yawn that bares far too many teeth to be innocent.

Wysteria's attention, here, finally lowers to her hands before her. She has evidently been picking faintly at her nails and the cuticles now are a little worse for the wear thanks to the hard treatment. It is only prudent to gently shove the rest of them back in an attempt to tidy the look of the whole hand, and by then the conversation in the room has flowed along fully without her so that by the time Lady Paget says,

"Miss Poppell—"

She jumps. And blinks directly up at the woman on the divan. "Yes, your Ladyship?"

"I said do you have a preference of color, or shall I select something myself?"

"Oh." Then, promptly: "No, your Ladyship. I quite enjoy all of them. Colors, that is." A flickering glance toward Ellis reveals very little save that the back of his neck is a little flush, and then she realigns her attention once more to the the older woman draped across the furniture.

Lady Paget with her calculating eyes studies both of them. Then she turns to her cadre of maids and tells the shortest one, "Go along and prepare a second room for Miss Poppell. See that she's made comfortable and something suitable is provided, yes? And then I will see the both of you,"—her face tilts back to them—"At dinner."

How simple indeed.

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