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

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.

As they are shown from the room, Ellis still keeps Ser Pouncival in his periphery, right up until the drawing room doors are closed behind them.

And so it is the pair of them along with the short, round-faced maid. Whether or not she's relieved to be out of the parlor is difficult to say, but before anything is said, Ellis requests, "A room beside mine please, Sophie. It will make it easier when we depart if I'm not knocking on doors up and down the halls in the early morning."

Considering the size of the house, it's impossible to say who would be disrupted, but Sophie raises no specific objections. If there's a long look of assessment preceding her agreement, well—

There's still agreement.

Which is how Wysteria is gifted a suite of rooms for her own use, with several dresses laid out across the bed and all the assorted items for a bath set by the fire for her. There's a parlor with plush sofa and polished mahogany tables, and a silver tea service set out along with a little plate of scones. All if furnished in cream and gold, without a single cat hair to be spotted.

And notably a door which leads out to a balcony which stretches all along the upper level of the house so it is easy enough to cross between Ellis' rooms and her own. If one were so inclined.

She is, in fact, not inclined. And so the next time they see one another, it is while they are being shown to Lady Paget's dining room. The dress which she has selected is a pretty dark lavender, and not at all in keeping with her usual colors or style. It has pretty little petal-shaped details at the sleeves and along the bodice, and in deference to the occasion of taking a fine meal in a fine house, Wysteria has dispensed with the high collared shirt she wears so frequently. The dress is also, objectively speaking, far nice than the one mauled by Ser Pouncival. But at dinner, Lady Paget is all brisk albeit a little backhanded approval—'Oh, very good Miss Poppell. I'm pleased to see you have good taste after all. Oh, what a dreadful scar,' and so on, all said in the kindest tones so as to make it fully impossible to tell whether she is being genuine or just every so faintly cruel.

Wysteria supposes that it's very possible to do both at all once, and throughout the dinner she is all sunshine and good cheer: bright polite humor, and laughter and smiles, sweetness and air and light fit to please any lady and very unpleasantly feigned for anyone more familiar with Wysteria's patter and typical level of exuberance. To an untrained eye, she is in high spirits. To a trained one, she is a picture of misery as they make their way through dinner, and then through an hour in the drawing room where Wysteria must beg not to be given the opportunity to delight them on the harpsichord (for her playing is very bad), and even during the short walk back to their rooms.

Have you ever had an evening go so uniformly poorly?

And then, not ten minutes after their respective doors have closed behind them: a delicate tap-tap-tap at the balcony door which leads into Ellis' room.

How aware is Ellis that the evening is going poorly?

Aware enough that the tap on the door is answered so very promptly that it implies Ellis had been standing on the opposite side of it, hesitating over whether or not to impose on her.

He takes her hands in his own instead. There is no particular greeting other than their linked hands and Ellis drawing her into the room. The balcony door remains open, for the moment.

Though Ellis has presumably inhabited this suite for weeks, there is hardly any evidence of it. A trunk is open at the foot of his bed. A pair of boots is set by the chair at the fire. But whatever else Ellis might have brought with him is contained out of sight. With the bed made so impeccably, he might as well be as newly arrived to this room as Wysteria is to hers.

Ellis refrains from telling her she looks beautiful. It feels like an unwelcome thing, considering the misery of dinner. Instead, this—

A quiet attempt to reel her in to him, to hold on to her if she'll allow him.

If she is caught off guard by the instantaneous opening of the door, all that it means is that Wysteria hesitates long enough to be effectively drawn in across the threshold and pulled in close to him.

There in that narrow little space against his shoulder she says, "Oh, what a hateful woman," with real vehemence. "I have never disliked someone so thoroughly. I hope that terrible creature she calls a cat scratches her somewhere delicate."

It's a very uncharitable assessment of a woman who has quite literally fed, clothed, and boarded her with no advance warning. And yet, she is in a uniquely uncharitable mood all bristling and hot with temper in the net of Ellis' hold on her.

Despite Ellis' rather tepid opinion on Lady Paget, (Lonely still feels correct, in spite of everything) no objections are raised.

Compliments are her appearance are similarly tabled, out of concern that the origin of the dress in question will sour her on any kind of appreciation. Instead, his response is initially limited to the circular press of his palm to her back, rubbing circles there rather than trying to dissect exactly what he might say in response.

"We'll be gone tomorrow," he reminds. "And if there are to be further dealings with her, they will be the responsibility of Diplomacy Division."

What can be more of a comfort than reassurance that they've seen the last of this woman?

Here, she draws abruptly back—not free of him or the loop of his arms, but certainly far enough to give him an interrogative look. So much for put on cheer or miserable silences.

"You're very cool about the thing. Don't pretend you weren't cross with her when we earlier stood in her drawing room."

"I was cross."

Less for his own sake and more for Wysteria's clear mortification. Ellis had underestimated it, or overestimated Lady Paget's ability to be welcoming. Nevermind the mistake of thinking a single cat would be more easily dealt with.

"But it's over now."

In which it applies so broadly to the situation: the dinner, his stretch of servitude, the need to make nice with Lady Paget. Ellis' annoyance has more or less dissipated to make space to shift his attention to Wysteria.

"Over!" There is a firm note of protest in it—a firm objection to the whole concept that anything might be over. Not while they are this evening still in the lady's house! Sleeping in her rooms! Dressed in her clothes!

"You know, I find it very unreasonable how quick you are to forgive. It would suit everyone far more if you— Well if you were to nurture just the slightest evidence of a temper. It is very difficult, you know. To always be the only unreasonable person in the room."

Frankly, it's inconsiderate.

"No one's said you're unreasonable."

Maybe Ellis hadn't caught the entirety of insults, intentional or otherwise, passing back and forth across the table tonight, but unreasonable hadn't featured among them. His hands shifts, moving from her back to her biceps where he can rub his hands soothingly up and down. Lightly, so as not to damage the detailing of the sleeves.

"I don't care to think of her," he tells her, tone a little coaxing. "I've other things I'd rather pay mind to."

Chief among them, Wysteria herself.

"'Other things.'" This habit of echoing his claims like the interior of a cave will evidently be a theme for the evening. "What other things could you possibly be so concerned with? Not the Lady's cat, or what Commander Flint will say. Mister Stark will find some means by which to excuse you, I'm certain. Or even what Lady Paget may or may not give Riftwatch in return for a number of hard weeks in her service. It is very unfair, Mister Ellis. That she should keep you for so long. If I'd known before you left, I might have sent you with something. A half dozen books we might have discussed in the evening, or at least something sweet. I know I'm not the only who who's fond of those checkered shortboard cookies. Or I might have kissed you once or twice more, or—"

Or, or, or. That pretty imagining of him saying goodnight to her in the blue tinged garden of the Hightown house at night.

"Or anything at all. Oh, let me see what's been done to your poor face."

This, all temperamental bluster as she raises a hand to take him by the chin. She turns her face to examine the scratch she has left behind on his cheek.

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