0001-03-09 - Naledi Returns

Spring harkens to birds chirping, flowers growing, sun and maybe a little warmth. Today, it means rain. Just torrents of rain from where Sevyli sits alone in the solarium with her needlework. The curtains are open, the windows have their paned shutterings done, but the heavy iron panels that are visible reminders Thread once fell and rumors have it that Thread has fallen recently in places like Benden or Telgar, are left undone.

A round holder thing that only allows Sev to work on a small portion of whatever this is at a time, rests atop a metal contraption. She squints, threads her needle with a new color, and begins working on another small flower.

Laughter from down below, rain or no rain -- or perhaps the more because of the rain -- gets cut off abruptly; a door closes. It's not long before the torrent of rain's augumented by a lighter cascade of footsteps, closer and closer until they pitter-patter to a pause before the solarium's threshold. This door opens, and there's Naledi's pretty head; she uses her cosmetics differently than she had last visit, but the earrings are familiar, a gift from her mother. And now that she's confirmed that said mother is there, and alone --

"Mother! I'm home!" Really home, this time, effervescent with excitement as she hurries close, her inside shoes dry but the hems of her split skirt damp, the tendrils of hair near her face curling with moisture, all of her delighted and -- given, again, the lack of company -- hardly decorous. Today is one of her good days.

Remember other mornings, other entrances?

Thin fingers poised over the magenta flowers pauses at the sound of rain, laughter, the sudden lack of rain, and then the patter of steps all in succesion. A small smile secrets itself in the corners of Sevyli's mouth and her nimble fingers finish that small flower she's working on, before tucking the needle into the canvas in preparation. She is, in fact, alone, when the solarium's door opens, her dark eyes warm when they rise to greet the damp bubbly vision before her. If there's a moment of her gaze ruminating over the figure, perhaps looking for signs of the norm of other mornings and other entrances, it's so fast and practiced, that it's near indiscernible.

"There you are," says the mother with a more matured version of that effervescent cheer, most of the golden bubbles of youth gone, but no less joyful at the presence of this child, "I'd waited all morning and worried the rain would stop you from coming but, I should know better." The needle-free hand lifts to curl fingers in beckon of her youngest, her darling, to her side. "Tell me everything."

Naledi leans in for a hug, her nose cold, and then -- no, the arm of her chair is too finely wrought to perch upon, so she pulls up another one, sitting on the very edge where she can lean in, and sigh. "It's so good to be home. The mud was -- oh! -- horrible, but I know we need the rain," for the grass, for the runners, for everything, but why did it have to sully her lovely shoes? "They say that under the circumstances," which is given such stern animation by her contralto, "I may wait to settle in for a pair of sevens, if that's all right with you," and why wouldn't it be? "before properly setting up shop. Opening up, is what they really mean, but," even her little shrug is pretty. Today. "Master G says she'll miss me, but it's 'onward to better things,' you know how it is. How is home?"

Past a moment of hesitation, her voice even softer, "How are you?"

Sevyli's arms around Naledi are briefly fierce, uncaring of the cold nose and stretching upward to plant a kiss to the young woman's cheekbone. Upon releasing her daughter, she leans back, indulgently watchful of the fine curves of Naledi's face, and taking it all, the cosmetics, the fashion -- the general look of her. "It's been too long," murmurs the older woman, audible, but just enough under her breath that it can be construed as not meant for anyone other than herself.

"Keroon will always be your home, my love. Always, and we're still standing. Thread might be falling up Benden way and their dragonriders go to meet it," she flickers evasive eyes back to her embroidery, and then down to the sparkling new ring her fingers now sport, where she twists it idly with her other hand, "But Keroon hasn't seen none of that yet." Perhaps, that's answer enough for both questions.

Avian-bright, Naledi's eyes dart to that ring; avian-swift, so do her fingers, aiming to tease with a touch. "Pretty." She doesn't let herself look too closely at the embroidery, yet; it's too easy to get swallowed up in that, and better to engross herself in her long-missed mother. "It's hard to believe. It was always such a story. 'Nyah nyah watch out nyah nyah brave,'" only the girl doesn't say it mockingly particularly, just with the sort of wonderment given to something distant and Harper-crafted, something long ago. "But..." also a little teasing, but also not entirely teasing, "How are you?" She flutters her eyelashes, too.

Sevyli's fingers stop twisting about the ring, only because she's slid it off to hold out to her daughter: a simple gold ring with a triple prong setting around a cathedral sapphire of a uniquely greyish-blue hue. The brief, tight smile that accompanies it is paired with a, "I'm fine, my little Nala," her tongue rolling around the 'L' of the girl's name lovingly, "Despite the threat of Thread," which your father still does not believe in, left unsaid but evident in the clipped way she says the former, "We're thriving here at Keroon, enough so that your father's found the time to commission this bauble for me." Is what she's not saying, 'an apology' or 'this time'? It's so hard for even the closest of Sevyli's attache to read her moods in these moments, particularly with regards to Lord Keroon.

A pause leads to a softening of her words and a hand that reaches out, hitching herself forward to the very edge of her seat and pushing away the contraption that holds her needlework. "We're fine now," are her words, the somewhat sad, but not morose gaze she places on her daughter in alignment with the words. Now. As opposed to before, when they might not have been.

Naledi holds it up to the light, like wine, like spirits; she turns the ring this way and that, but doesn't seek to try it on, not even a moment's stifled movement before returning it to her mother: this bauble, indeed. "It's not an insignificant thing," she murmurs in her turn. Neither does she commit to meaning, and certainly not persuasion.

She does take her mother's hand, then, and then add her other on top; always tactile, even as a child, was Naledi. Even when her words failed her. Now she snugs her hands about Sevyli's, another little hug for what she doesn't even need to say. It happens; this isn't new. "And Jack?" Now that, that is a bit of a tease: to ask about her mother's favorite runner next, before even her siblings.

In between Naledi's hands, Sevyli's wiggles, though not to escape. Just a small testing of how tight the enclosure is and adding her own tactile motions to this need for touch. "He," replies Sev, "Is perfectly fine. Rides like a dream on the good days, and even better on the bad." The question has cleared the moroseness from the air, and elicits a quick, bemused wink at the younger woman, the insinuations meant to hit some sort of teenage embarrassment button. "Have you seen your father yet? He should be about somewhere," the free hand flutters about, "Near. I don't believe he had any intent to be far when he heard you were coming back."

Naledi's hands have loosened a little for that wiggle -- wiggle wiggle wiggle -- until suddenly the net closes! a catch! and she laughs. ...Until, moments later, she wriggles, less fish in the net than worm on the hook: two parts her mother's successful tactics, one part letting her see. "Mo-ther -- " drawn out in not-insincere exaggeration.

As for her father? "Not yet..." Tentatively hopeful, not letting herself be too buoyed by that secondhand belief. With a sideways glance, "He did write." At least once?

"Did he?" But that's that, a rhetorical question that doesn't really expect another confirmation. " He used to write me every day," he didn't, but memories being strange things have revised the past, "And he was such a wonderful writer." Sevyli's voice trails and she scoots over on the chair she's in, shaking her head, and patting the small spot she's exposed, "Come here," and squish together with me, "And tell me about what you're going to be opening up here and if," she raises her voice into her best impression of snotty Lady Holder, "It will be appropriate for our Bloodline."

"I remember," is softly said: not their writing itself, of course, but the story of their writing, one of the stories told little Nala on her mother's knee. (Other carers had other stories, but this was hers.) Little, little Nala might once have imagined corresponding with her own beau, might have played letter-games with leaves with just as little friends, but that was long before Naledi went to her Craft instead.

Here and now, young-but-less-little Nala happily presses into the small spot and doesn't need any more, doesn't want any more, her split skirt tucked up against her mother's finer garb. She's smiling, just short of a giggle. "Well," she says. "My sketchbook's in my bag, so you'll just have to pretend," and listen to her sketching out the concepts with words: from scarves that float on air (and the new staggered hemlines, and sleeves), to -- most likely for waiting-women -- fabric printed so as to encourage a little embroidered personalization without demanding too much time or changing the hand, to... all sorts of things. Revised riding gear (for riding runners, it need not be said). Boots with little knives. By dint of her training, she has a more practical bent than most daughters of well-off Holds: emphasizing what will deliver the desired effects, reusing -- if not necessarily for the original wearer -- as much as possible, constantly aware of resources and how they're deployed.

But eventually, with a helplessly quirky smile, "I'm parched."

Sevyli listens with all the attention a person gives their long-gone, and much beloved, youngest child. She is a picture of stillness in comparison to the animation of Naledi's words coupled with a clear passion for what she does and pride, it has to be said, clefts into her lifted chin and small smile. Here and there, there are some questions and a possible suggestion of fashion through the eyes of the older generation, and maybe once or twice, a very noticeable nose wrinkle as that is something she would never have been allowed to wear or consider.

Keroon's lady is thoughtfully considering the last thing said, the conservative use of resources, her eyes distant and one finger twirling in the air idly as if to follow a thought line, before Naledi's physical needs and her lacking as both mother and hostess bring her back startled. "Oh, right. I'll call for that tea you like and those spiced cookies. Oh, I didn't tell you, Cook," the capital 'C' can be heard, which can only mean the one kitchen worker who has been on staff even before Sevyli was at Keroon, "Finally wrangled the recipe for those Igen Hold sweets you like."

"Did she!" Naledi practically sparkles, for all that she was already gleaming due to her mother's commentary and particularly those nose wrinkles (which she had not given into the temptation to suggest might remain that way). "What did it take? Bribery? Blackmail? A trade of some kind that may or may not have begun with the letter 'b'?" Though the seat is sized for Sevyli, and Naledi's not so very much shorter, by flexing her ankles she can swing her feet showily.

"Leave her secrets to herself," admonishes Sevyli, perhaps knowing these questions could become realities for the cook, "She was quite pleased she came into possession of it." Oh, hello, there's a little bell by her chair that, when rung, beckons someone from beyond the door. A simple, "We'll take some afternoon refreshments now. Tell Pentele that the lady Naledi is back home with us." Apparently, that would be enough for the kitchen staff to put together all the little hoarded treats for the doted on Hold's 'baby.' "But personally," Sev adds with that nonchalance mischief of a should be deadpan tease, "I believe it may be a trade that may or may not have begun with none of our business but all of our wildest speculations."

The bell hath tolled! Or, really, it's more of a jingle, at least so far as Naledi's concerned -- for all that she's ostensibly been thwarted (a wrinkle of her nose suggests she'll be seeing the cook later, not only to thank her). The girl's still so much a daughter of the hold -- 'lady,' not 'journeyman' -- that she can take that helpful someone more or less for granted, sinking back with a pleased sigh to rest her head on her mother's shoulder. "You're always so good at that," she says, "making it sound more interesting than it could have been. Some mothers squelch that sort of thing." Poor daughters! "What word from Grandmama?"

"There's a line between speculation that makes life a little more delightful to consider, and speculation that is unkind." Sevyli notes, about her *good*ness. "In this case, I think Pentele would be amused at our speculations but whether she chooses to tell us more or not," the woman shrugs one shoulder lightly, the one her daughter's head rests on, and leans in to kiss the top of her head affectionately. An arm reaches around the girl and up along the other side of her head to delve long fingers into Naledi's hair. "Fort holds on," bemusement laden in the not so funny pun. "They've faced fall, so I've heard, not that-," the warmth of Sev's voice drops several degrees and her unfinished thought lingers in the air. "She's well enough, but writes how she hopes to not see another Turn. As always." Ciera's antipathy towards aging, and aging after the passing of her spouse, are a long held source of conversation of annoyance, affection, and resignation amongst her children. It is what it is.

"True..." Naledi lifts her head up a little as its not-so-soft pillow bobs, but lowers it when her hair's being tended to, without complaint for her hairstyle. Her hair isn't as long as it used to be, back when she had a maid to tend it, and it could use some shaping, but it is lustrous and clean; there are no hidden surprises for her mother to find. "As always," Naledi repeats with a sigh. "I stitched her a scarf, in colors she said she liked," but this is the grandmother who can't be trusted to use objects for their intended purpose. Then again, she's the grandmother who's still alive.

Many times, Naledi will keep moving on and moving on; this time she circles back. "Not that... what, about Fort?"

"Not about Fort," says Sevyli tersely. "Keroon is nowhere near ready to face Fall. I'm afraid our first brush will result in casualties to both people and the economy." She's come a long way from the thirteen year old girl who came to Keroon with bright shiny optimism.

The tea service arrives with an assortment of teas to choose from and towers of snacks and trays. "Black. Two sugars, just a touch of a cream, and a stick of cinnamon to stir with." The butler obliges, putting together Sevyli's drink of choice, and then looks to the younger woman.

"The usual," Naledi says lightly, as though it were that simple; perhaps it really isn't a test, to see whether he remembers her tea with its lavender and bergamot, cornflower and mallow. The tea her mother remembered. She hadn't jerked upright upon his entry, either, had merely lifted her head with a delicate stretch of her arm, the better to glance across the delicacies on offer. They could as well have been talking about the embroidery threads she's been careful not to dwell upon. "...Lovely," she says.

He is not amused, but does begrudgingly seem to remember what the youngest of Keroon's Blood prefers as her tea and in her tea. Perhaps, if it had been just Naledi, he may have forgotten a step in her tea, or accidentally sweetened it. Or something equally bland in protest. But as Sevyli is present, he does none of those things and puts small spoonfuls of the various different ingredients to this particular tea blend and pours hot water over the tea strainer, allowing the long golden gadget with its mesh bottom to sit atop the hot water for the time it takes him to put together two plates of treats for the two ladies.

"Thank you, Bianed." It's a dismissal as much as it is words of appreciation, and he takes this as the moment to take the strainer off the top and place Naledi's cup with its saucer on the table near by, then Sevyli's, and then the two plates before exiting, leaving the remnant food tower and tea service by the door. Just in case.

By the door. Not in reach. But that's all right; they have plenty for now. Naledi, who may or may not have an inkling as to what might have been her doom -- sometimes, with Naledi, it's so hard to tell -- waits until they have gotten to enjoy a few bites, and sips, before murmuring in an altogether different tone than before, "Lovely." She purses her lips, then directs a glance towards the door.

Sevyli ignores what she perceives is Naledi's implication from the tone and the word and that glance, instead reaching for her tea and sinking back into that chair by her daughter. A small sip elicits an appreciative hmmmm under her breath. "We should take a look through what's let of your wardrobe here and cull the pieces that no longer match so the fabric can be used by others," starts the older woman, considering the figure by her speculatively, "Somehow, I'm not sure if that all black gown you had made when you were fifteen is..." The words trail off into her tea, her eyes still gazing above the lifted rim.

"'Fitting'?" Naledi plays at preening, drawing a hand down the curve of her hip to go with the pun before leaning forward, addressing what she perceives as her mother's answering non-answer more directly: mouthed rather than spoken, 'You really think he's listening?' And that they have to be concerned for that? In a normal tone, "It's dreadful. All I can think about is what went into the dyeing to get it that dark, that even, and I didn't know to appreciate it then."

There must be some miscommunication in their various physical quirks and expressions and silences, but Sevyli looks perplexed by her daughter's words. Brown eyes look to the door and then back, the finely groomed eyebrows raising oddly. But, it wouldn't be the first (or last) time she is left confused by the youngest of her four. She'll let that go, perhaps to revisit later, but settles on the talk of clothing and fabric and appreciation -- this she can handle. "We all go through phases and it takes time to appreciate things truly," as if Sev has ever worked so hard to truly appreciate the labor behind her lifestyle, "It'll do someone else good. Perhaps in its next life as as pants. Trousers. A cape? Something." A beat. "Are you happy, love?"

Naledi's left wondering, her lips slightly parted; but if her mother doesn't follow up, she can't, or shouldn't. "You're right, of course. A cape would be lovely and dramatic, and piecing can -- " she stops. "Yes, I love seeing you. It's wonderful being back," is her immediate answer, but then her head tilts, tentative: is this one of those questions, does she have to rummage through everything, is it asking after those days that are... not good.

"That's good. That's good," says Sevyli, a pause after those words as she recognizes some of those tells, the head tilt and the driving emotion behind it, tentativeness, and what they may portend or mean. "Your father and I are so happy you were fortuitously posted here, close to home, and that you seem so happy being a weaver. We're very proud of your accomplishments," she adds, with the unintentional obliviousness of a doting parent of a child living privileged lives where choice in some respects are taken for granted. "Did you meet anyone at the Hall?" Is that question really as innocent of a conversation thread as Sevyli's voice implies?

Given that, Naledi relaxes perceptibly, her eyes luminous and her toes curling just a little within her slippers. "Thank you." She adds, more drolly, "I don't imagine you were surprised to find me here." Does she know just how her parents have smoothed her road, over the Turns? Some of it, surely. Some.

She's worked hard, really hard... but she came to the Hall with a stacked deck.

As for meeting, "Several wonderful people." Naledi's lashes waft upward with her smile, because she can be -- is? -- innocent too. "I look forward to corresponding. It won't be the same, scattered from one region to another, but... some of us will keep in touch." Somewhat.

The Interval was kind to Keroon and their pockets are deep. The fact they use those pockets and influence to aid their progeny is only expected, right? What parent wouldn't? Those that couldn't, but a story for another time, and Sevyli seems to take the former statement as inevitable from the small acknowledgement in her head tip to the lack of her own surprise at the fortuitousness.

"We were considering hosting some of Igen's relations for a short while, perhaps," Sev remarks, an idle twirl of the cinnamon stick in her tea making dull clinks against the sides of the cup, "You could find others to correspond with along with your Hall acquaintances."

"My Hall friends," Naledi reframes quickly, if still softly. But it was earlier, the hosting, that had her sitting back in the crowded seat; now she says, as though reassuring herself, "It would take time, for invitations to be extended and accepted. And of course travel."

And, "My masters would also see that as a prime opportunity to market my wares," also, with a small sideways smile.

Corrected, "Hall friends." If Sevyli is at all dubious about how a daughter of hers could be friends with crafters, despite the fact her daughter is a crafter herself, the only slip up was referring to them as acquaintances. She takes the correction in stride with a tipped head of acknowledgement. Her empty cup, with its cinnamon stick resting in the saucer, is set down. "It will take some time for traveling." But the invitations? Extension? Acceptance? She does not refer back to, which is tell enough. "Love, I have a few duties to attend to, if you need anything more I'll send," another pause, a quirked smile, "Landon up instead." Of Bianed.

Oh. Oh. Her lashes flutter down, now, before Naledi looks up. She takes a hasty sip of tea. "Of course." Then she fortifies herself with another. "I'll see you at dinner." That's almost it, but then, "Are there any... surprises in my rooms?" This time?

Surprises? Sevyli laughs, standing and moving to give her daughter a brief hug and kiss to the top of her head, "You'll have to find your brothers and figure that one out."

Fine, fine. Naledi sniffs, then returns a kiss to her mother's cheek; she'll wait until Sevyli is gone before taking her cup to the windows with all that rain... and taking the discarded cinnamon stick along the way.