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

The horse doesn't seem thrilled with the deposit of passenger, and the whickering complaint is accompanied by a fussy little side-step. Ellis makes a soft, soothing noise, though he has to carefully reach over with the hand that hasn't settled across Wysteria's back to pat the mare's neck.

"Careful," is gruffly said, some minor attempt at clinging to the pretense of being a stranger despite the fact that she's certainly caught on, even before recognizing his favored mount from the Gallows stable.

Reaching across, he pins the cape to her back, out of her face, and asks, "Can you ride upright, or will it spoil the effect?"

"The effect? And what effect is that meant to be exactly?" she begins to bluster back, clinging to the saddle with one hand against the paranoia of somehow overbalancing despite his hand there at her back.

And then all at once—

She moves as if to straighten, the abruptness of it nearly well and truly ruining how he's placed her. Some scrabbling occurs which the horse, reliable though it may be, no doubt would prefer didn't. When she has recovered, Wysteria demands with marginally less heat, "Are you attempting to kidnap me, sir?"

The kind of question that rekindles some interest in their audience. Ellis is not unaware of that either, though his only immediate reaction is to trade one hand for another, to keep one palm at the mare's neck while the other presumably keeps Wysteria from sliding out the saddle.

"Aye," is not as certain as it could be. Theoretically, the answer is yes. But it isn't exactly going as planned.

But maybe this is how it would have gone in Kalvad, spoiled identity included.

There is a brief, instant flush of outrage which rises in her that is equal parts—no, it is all embarrassment.

This is not how a bridal kidnapping in Kalvad is meant to go. She doesn't think it is, in any case. Surely you aren meant to see your betrothed's face so you don't accidentally attempt to stab him to death— But slung there across the saddle with his hand so studiously avoiding her backside and a dozen eyes glancing uneasily in their direction, it occurs to Wysteria that she doesn't actually know. Every bride she has ever known has always been perfectly (coyly) innocent about the evening in question and—

Thank the Maker that he is on the other side of the horse and unlikely to see her look of absolute mortification. Imagine if she had managed to sink her pin into him.

"No." Wysteria strangles out a reply only a few seconds later, this absurd mental calculation having occurred more or less instantly. "It would not ruin the effect."

With the sneaking suspicion he's missed some step of the process, Ellis reaches over and squeezes her hip gently.

"It's a short ride, I promise."

Though is that not how it's meant to be? He'd thought it would be simpler, easier on her, but—

Well, it's done now. He can't very well light out to another destination at this point, when all the arrangements have been settled. He'd been unclear on what exactly happens after the kidnapping, which suddenly also feels like an important lacking piece of information.

But at the end of a short gallop through Kirkwalls's emptying streets, they come to a small inn. It's on the lowest edges of Hightown, so not any great luxury, but it is clean and the proprietor is a cheerful, sweet-faced woman who does not comment on anything other than the room she's set aside, with a lovely view of the sea, if you please. There are bouquets of flowers in a vase on the table and strewn across the mantle and candles on the table, illuminating the meal that's been prepared for them.

"I didn't know what happened after the kidnapping," Ellis tells her, delicate over the words. "But I promised you dinner earlier."

Throughout her struggle, she had managed to retain her little felt hat. This is a blessing, for her half pinned hair has somewhat failed to withstand all the trouble and she may more or less twist the whole affair and shove it up under the cap and be more or less presentable once they have arrived and dismounted without anyone (such as the lovely woman who greets them) being much the wiser. This simple fact somewhat reduces the mortification inherent in having attempted to stab Ellis to death so that once they've been shown to the room—which is indeed very lovely—, she has the room in which to feel a small prickle of pleasure stirring underneath all the murderous embarrassment.

"Oh," sound quite surprised, albeit in a distinctly less horrified vein than all her other shock prior to this moment. "It's very prettily done."

(She is not in her best dress or even her second best dress. The thought prompts Wysteria to absently smooth the wrinkles in her skirts as the door is shut prudently behind them.)

"Hilde is good at these things," Ellis tells her, the kind of statement that is clearly repeated after having been reassured of it more than once in the planning of this venture.

But more importantly—

"You never said what happened after someone made off with their betrothed," isn't exactly an apology, but it does have some rueful ring to it. What goes unsaid: I hope that this makes up for the inaccuracy.

Ellis had very nearly consulted Tony, but thankfully for all involved, had refrained from invoking any earth customs in pre-wedding night shenanigans.

His hand catches her elbow, holding there lightly as Wysteria takes the tableau in. Ellis is in no hurry. There is dinner and there is the book they've been reading and there is much else to discuss. None of it need be rushed after.

"Oh. Well—"

Here she might confess the truth. That she has no idea what is meant to happen to the kidnapped bride to be when she has been spirited off before her wedding. It's quite possible that a fine meal is shared, or even that there are no requirements whatsoever.

She is on the very verge of saying so when she is gripped by some alternative.

"No, this is perfectly well," she says instead after a moment as his hand lies just there at her elbow. "And it's entirely my fault for not telling you. I can hardly blame you for not knowing. It isn't as if—well, never mind it and not to worry. I will, uh, lead you through the particulars over dinner?"

Nailed it.

Some slight scrutiny furrows Ellis' expression, and gives way to some softer thing as he steps around to her.

"Aye."

Whether or not her assertion is believed, Ellis is content to let her make what she pleases of their evening. Regardless, positioned there adjacent to her, his fingers lift to her jaw and the strip of smooth ribbon securing it beneath her chin.

"Let's have this off," he tells her, solicitous. "And your cape."

To be comfortable, surely. They have shared meals in their cloaks and hats and thick, warm outwear before. But they might pretend to be in the Hightown house, and he might help her off with her cape without any fanfare, as if they were coming home from a day's work.

"Only if you will wait while I pin up my hair properly," is the very weakest protest, made even while submitting to the delicate work of his fingers. Oh very well. He may undo the ribbons and take her red cape too.

"I refuse to have dinner with you on what it meant to be a proper evening half dressed. Properly dressed I mean. Obviously I have all my other clothes on."

Right. Shedding the hat and cape. She still has a fistful of pins in her skirt pocket.

"I don't mind it," will not matter very much in the grand scheme of things. Ellis has grown familiar with the lines separating out proper and improper. They are not impossible to move, but it takes some persuasion. And he might convince her otherwise, but—

But he doesn't mind watching the deft work of her fingers setting those pins into place, steals glances at it while he hangs both cape and hat on the little peg inside the door. His scarf and coat join them, satchel set down on the floor.

When he returns to her, it's to take her by the hand and draw her in with him to the table by the fire. Here, the assorted trays, waiting to be uncovered, the little vase of flowers and trio of candles, waiting for their attention.

"I pull your chair out?" he asks, a little teasing. "Like that time at that Orlesian estate?"

For all her fussing and fiddling, she is indeed perfectly deft with that pocketful of pins. In quick succession, Wysteria has her pale hair twisted into a semblance of neatness and picked into place. She more than ready to be led by the hand by the time Ellis returns to take her by it.

—and to scoff and roll her eyes and slap at his wrist without actually letting him go.

"If you must."

Apparently, he must.

It does necessitate letting go of Wysteria, which Ellis does regret.

But then here they are, sat together for a meal. They've done this hundreds of times before. The only difference is the shift in their status, and the weight of barely-grasped tradition bearing down on this particular evening.

"Are there other points in the future where I'll have to kidnap you?" Ellis asks, lifting the cloth over the basket of scones.

Hopefully not, considering how poorly this first attempt had gone.

Wysteria smooths her skirts once. And then a second time, laughing reflexively.

"No, I don't believe so. It's just the one time as far as I'm aware. Though I've become rather practiced, you know. I think if you tried again, I might best you."

There, see. She will simply make a joke out of the whole affair. Shifting up in her chair, she fetches the bottle on the table and promptly sets about working the cork free. She continues to talk in the interim.

"But there are other requirements now, of course. Ordinarily there would be, er, certain dishes we might be expected to share? But if those scones are made with any fruit then they should do. And then we're meant to share to a cup, but you and I have very different tastes in that sort of thing so I won't require it of you."

Pop! After a brief sniff of the wine soaked cork, Wysteria pours herself a glass of the spiced wine.

"But there is a game we might play."

"Yes, I think you might. If I hadn't had you over my shoulder so fast you might have gotten that pin into my throat."

Entirely blasé about the prospect. If anything, Ellis sounds rather pleased at over her reflexes. It doesn't interrupt his sorting through the basket, idle examination turned purposeful. After a few minutes, he lifts out one, then two, then three scones with a sweet jam filling to set on a small plate nudged between them, having apparently deemed the others unqualified for her purposes.

Then, his hand beckons towards her cup.

"A sip, for tradition's sake," he acquiesces, before prompting, "What kind of game? Not the kind we'd need cards for?"

"Oh— Well." With a little flame of guilt licking at her, Wysteria sets the cup down and nudges it gently in his direction.

"No, it doesn't require cards. Which is convenient, as I doubt either of brought any. It is more a... a game in which two people are meant to become better acquainted with one another. Though I think it's much more challenging to play when those two people have not spent quite so much time together as you and I have. Which would be very unusual, you know. I believe betrothed people in Kalvad are rarely such good friends, so it would ordinarily make sense to play along."

"We wouldn't have found time to play a game like that in between all the dances and the walks in the garden?"

But no, Ellis knows that if they'd met that way, they'd never have grown as close as they have. Perhaps he wouldn't have caught her eye at all, if not for all the science and the garden and the times they hauled each other out of danger.

And perhaps it isn't the sort of game meant to be played in a place where they'd be carefully chaperoned. That too is an advantage they've had. Tony has been the nearest thing to a chaperone they've ever had.

Ellis takes a careful sip from her cup, and leans back across the table to return it to her. There. Tradition appeased.

"Is it a question for a question?" Ellis tacks on, swallowing a second time against the lingering taste.

No, they would not have found time to have much in the way of informal conversation, she doesn't say. Instead she takes her cup back and takes a more formidable sip from it and fetches one of the scones to her.

"Not quite," she lies. A question for a question is far too easy a game. And is easily wriggled out of. She searches for a moment for an alternative, covering the pause by breaking her chosen scone in half until she finally settles on—

"It's a game where questions are asked and kisses are exchanged for answers. To be sure, ah, that by the time a couple is married that they know one another quite well."

Yes that sounds very possible.

"But it can't be played very well over dinner," she hastens to add. Obviously. "So we will have to talk about something else in the mean time and you may use the time to think up what you still care to ask me."

Questions don’t come as easily to him as Wysteria might imagine. The difficulty lies with Ellis’ disinclination to pry and the rest in that for the most part, whenever he has had some curiosity, she has very agreeably answered it when pressed. Ellis hums softly over the terms, nodding as he reaches to lift the covering over the roast duck meant for their supper.

“I’ll try to provide some challenge for you,” Ellis assured her gamely.

After all, he has been forewarned of all the things Wysteria has stored up thus far.

“Can I ask about the experiment you and Tony were working on last night?”

Tony’s comments on it had been mostly promises that the chemical reaction had been very minor, and unworthy of lengthy discussion. Ellis is expecting the exact same from Wysteria, but perhaps with a little more detail as to the chemicals involved. It would be a help, if he knew what he should need to counter in the future.

And while she explains, he can consider questions. Less ones he might ask, and more how he might answer ones Wysteria might put to him.

"Oh that."

Without thinking to preface it with a coy flutter of eyelashes as she ought to—'Yes, but what will you give me for it, Mister Ellis?' a clever woman in one of those terrible little books Alexandrie sometimes reads would say—, Wysteria promptly launches into an explanation of how she and Tony had been testing various components for smelting lighter armor plating, and how their latest combination requires fire treating and a glaze of liquified serpentstone ore, which naturally requires a powerful solvent such as—

So on and so forth, chattering along at breakneck speed as they share the dinner he's so studiously arranged for them. She is so pleased to tell him every little detail that by the time she reaches the end of the explanation, Wysteria has nearly forgotten that sense of foolishness she'd felt when he'd first snatched her up off her feet.

Had this dinner not been preceded by a kidnapping, it might very well be business as usual. They share meals. Wysteria tells him at length of what she has gotten up to in her work. Ellis listens and poses a handful of questions, as they split the food between them. When Wysteria winds to a close, Ellis is tearing one of the last rolls into pieces over his plate, watching her with a small smile.

"It sounds as if it's going well."

Minor fires aside.

"I was going to ask you how your game is started, but we needn't play if you'd rather read, or talk of something els.e"

She has made efficient work of her half of the meal and a great deal of the little bottle of wine (of which she has always been perfectly capable of drinking more than her fair share without much in the way of ill effect), and in another half mark or so the pleasant hum of the latter may begin to strike her. One might deem this, between the food and the patter of conversation, being lulled into a false sense of security. She has almost forgotten her lie by the time Ellis returns them to it.

If there is a flicker of trepidation in her expression—

"No," she resolves. "No, it can't be helped. It's tradition, you know. And we can read any other evening. Or even after the game, I suppose. If you still care to. —Which I don't see why you shouldn't, of course. But, er—"

She gives the table setting a once over, and then searches her own skirt pockets until she produces a coin. Some of the dinner things are cleared to the side and the coin is poised for spinning.

"Heads or tails? Whichever of us loses will have to answer first."

Across the table, Ellis reaches to stack their plates, refill her cup, draw the clay jug of water towards himself as he asks, "Remind me, what is the penalty if we aren't able to answer?"

A kiss is the exchange, he knows. But if there is a reward, there is likely some penalty, and it's better to know ahead of time so he might consider how best to offset it.

And in all their time together, he has grown used to the idea of how exacting Wysteria is regarding certain kinds of rules.

Here, Wysteria's hesitation is so pronounced that even she must recognize that there's no real masking it. The coin remains poised between her forefingers for spinning and after a long beat, she confesses—

"There must be a penalty. But I don't remember what it's meant to be. Would you like to suggest one?"

Here, Ellis might say any number of things, skeptical or otherwise.

But whatever he takes from the long moment of quiet study, it culminates in:

"I don't suppose forfeiting the kiss is enough of a penalty."

A joke, really. Ellis knows she expects more than that.

"It wouldn't be fair if I were drinking water and you drinking the wine," is a different sticking point. A neat solution struck from the list of possibilities. "Would you like something off me?"

His hand comes to his chest, rests over the burnished copper fastenings of his gambeson. And with that movement, the assumption: Ellis is the one who will be doing most of the forfeiting.

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