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@thewildranger
I believe I am facing a spoon thief.
Damn me. [ She gets on her knees and looks beneath the porch for a moment, then sighs heavily and moves back to the street. Crossing her arms, she considered the situation. ] There’s nothing under it but droppings and shed fur. I cannot stand that cat.
Cats are hard, Captain. Uh ... I'm sorry?
Ma'am?
Y-yes, um!
Ah, t-that sounds delicious. W-what are you going to season it with? [ She pauses, and then realizes she had forgotten… ] T-the kitchen, ah, i-it’s this way by the way. Y-youre welcome to come back and prepare it, ah, a-as you see f-fit.
Seasoning's ma's especial secret, Miss Marion. One day she'll pass on the secret to me, I reckon--likely on her deathbed, though. [He hauls the haunch down and follows her.]
Thank you, ma'am. Ah ... well, how is business today?
At the sharp comment, Clara stiffened and let her eyes fall to the ground. She’d been lucky, and she knew it. Without the witch, she’d be ashes now, and everything she had would be scattered to the wind. She tried to steel herself against more comments like that one, to gain some ground where she’d lost so much in the time they’d grown close. Perhaps that’s why his anger and gruffness (and cursing) had hurt so much, because he had been one of those few people she’d been relaxed around, who knew her in ways no one else did.
That very well could be over, and later, when she was alone and close to sleep, she’d let herself feel grief over it. But not now.
Her gloved fingers knotted together as he asked, and she focused on a spot in the snow by his feet. ”Aye. Victor had t’fetch her, when I wouldna wake. But her potion mended m’lungs, fer all tha’ I was weak as a babe after.”
If she was wrong, why did he feel ashamed? Why did he feel as if he'd managed to fail her in this? His jaw clenched, his mouth pressed in a taut, petulant line. He furrowed his brow, realizing something--
"Who is Victor?" Syd asked, straightening up at the unfamiliar name. It had seemed to him that Clara did so little away from her goat or her loom that she might not have had a life besides that. If he had been asked to name three of her friends, and not to include his own people in the list, he wouldn't be able to do it. And as much as he disliked this--guilt?--he disliked more the idea that he had not really known her after all--or her life.
I believe I am facing a spoon thief.
[ Lavinia pauses, unsure if she’s upset him or not. But, in the end, Sydney had gone outside, so she would go in search of the cat. In a matter of seconds, Lavinia had chased him out of the room, onto the porch and into the streets. Lavinia ran out after it by the time he had ran beneath the building’s stilts. ] Well? Where did he go?
Same place the reindeer goes, captain.
She could all but hear the thoughts blaring in his head, her eyes taking in the tick of his jaw and the conflicted sort of tension in his eyes. Was this what his magic, his ‘wind’,’ did to him? Something made her wonder if it was, instead, her own arrival, and seeing the sudden change in his posture and manners of address only settled that in her mind as fact. Her shoulders slumped a bit, and she gave a weary sigh. She’d been foolish to hope, however slightly, that things would go swimmingly.
"I was just…hopin’ t’speak t’ye, is all, Syd. I’ve no’ seen ye since I was made well, an’ after seein’ ye nigh on every night, well…" She let the sentence hang in the air, not sure how she wanted it to end. There were no clear expectations of this meeting, only that she’d come after him because she missed the uncomplicated feeling of being at his side, of having someone to share the day’s happenings with, and who made her feel safe enough to sleep deeply. She’d missed his friendship, in all its simplicity and ease.
The gap between them must have only been a couple of yards of snow and cobblestone. He exhaled, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The slip of ice and snow melting and re-freezing beneath his own feet preoccupied him for a full five seconds; it was easier to think about his footing in the real world than it was else where.
He nodded, curtly, not letting himself dwell any longer on an answer. "Aye," Syd said, tautly, politely. It felt like stones scraping inside his gut, the grudge trying to keep its foundations. "It's good you've been made well. Some aren't afforded the chance."
That sounded bad, even to him. He grimaced, amending it with a question in a lighter tone, "Did the witch visit you?"
She’d followed him at the quick-step as soon as she’d spotted that familiar lanky stride amongst the crowd. There was no real thought behind her following him, and certainly no plan as to what she’d say to him once she closed the distance, but neither of those asides slowed her feet across the uneven cobbles.
It was odd, still, to be back at the shop. She’d spent four months sleeping under the Forman’s roof, eating at the same table, and even sleeping a few paces from the very man in her sights, his presence giving her the feeling of safety that had finally allowed her to sleep peacefully. (Not that she’d been sleeping much anyway, but still.) Sydney had become a close companion, someone to stitch beside as they sat by the hearth in the deepest hours of night after his rounds, and there had been the one memorable feast that she’d spent on his arm, albeit with her in her cups. But then her illness had come, and with it coughing and wheezing that had been loud enough to keep all but the dead awake, so Clara had left the Forman’s house to give them a bit of peace and quiet. Sydney had been angry with her then, and angrier still in the days after, as she grew weaker and sicker and had been more than a bit pigheaded in her denial that it was serious.
She’d often wondered, in the weeks since she’d gotten well, if Sydney ever knew that he’d been so, so right, or if he’d heard somewhere how bad it had gotten.
But then he’d come to a sudden halt, giving her a chance to catch him up. ”It’s b-…” She started, only to stop a few paces from him with enough of a jolt that her hood fell from her head, eyes wide at the jut of his arm and the force at which he hit the house. She half-turned, looking for a pursuer or some other danger, but was unable to find anything that might have garnered such a reaction. Concern and wariness were on her face as she answered him, her arms curling tightly against her stomach and pressing the handle of her shopping basket against her ribs. ”I…didna mean t’catch ye off yer guard.”
He swallowed back whatever he might have said to anyone else. He was not certain what he felt toward Clara, anymore. There was still a grudge in him, held closely--but if he had been asked, by anyone else, why he still nursed said grudge, he wouldn't have been able to explain. A muscle pulsed in his jaw; he gritted his teeth, holding back that unknown sentiment, which was nevertheless threatening to make itself heard.
He exhaled, his breath steaming white in the air. "No, it's not your fault--I just--there was just something in the air, that's all it was. Me magic, that's what it was. Put me off--y'know it makes me jumpy."
Syd nodded his head resolutely, trying to affect the "all business" seriousness that he so admired in the captain, and aimed, at all times, to imitate. "Can I be of service, Miss Bridge?"
I believe I am facing a spoon thief.
Then speak plainly. I just need you to watch where he goes when he runs outside. Is this too much a task for you?
[He swallows, bristling up a bit.] No, ma'am. [He shakes his head, heading out to go try and call for the spoon-cat.]
Uh--here, kitty. [He whistles.] Here, cat. C'mon ...
Y-yes, um!
Y-yes, absolutely. Ah- [ She peers into the baskey, poing to gain some insight. ] W-what is it?
Haunch o' venison. Shot it myself.
You look like you're freezing...
Ah, I beg your pardon, sir…
Uh--Aye. Aye, I suppose. You're forgiven.
Y - If I like my town and why.
He did like his country, though Syd had never thought about the "why"--there were a lot of reasons, he supposed, not to. Mostly having to do with the winter, probably, and the fact that thievery (and the blame for "allowing" the thievery) was just as unending as the weather. People got mean and desperate.
"Aye," Syd said with a fierce nod. An enthusiasm flowed from him like a sudden gust, carrying with it all of the reasons that seemed to spring forward from nowhere, from under the snow. "I do. Best people in the world live here, and the strongest of will. There's problems everywhere, I reckon, but here, we can endure nearly anything."
Y-yes, um!
I-is there anything I can help you with? T-there’s, ah—we’ve got day old cakes on sale, and, ah…I m-made new honey bread this morning.
[Syd slings a basket, heavily laden with something slightly squishy covered over by a clean, but somewhat snowed-on, rag.]
Morning, Miss Marion. Ma wants to know if she could have this heated in the ovens here.
You look like you're freezing...
No, pretty boy, I’m not going that way. I was hoping you could’ve accompanied me my way…
I ... I'm not a boy, I'm almost nineteen. I'm a man of the rangers.
You walk like a troll.
By the gods. I am surrounded by idiots with the sensibilities of children. Go back on your patrol, Sir. You would not want the company of me.
You're right, I don't want your company. You can go once you've apologized.
You walk like a troll.
Really now, are all you rangers so easily offended?
Aye, we are when we're disrespected to our faces.
You walk like a troll.
Slowly and horribly loud. If not for the fact that it’s been hardly five minutes since I arrived in town, I’d have asked if you intended to follow me around all day like a lost, clubfooted lamb.
... this is my route!
I believe I am facing a spoon thief.
I know, which is why he will come out, begging for strips of food in under an hour. He is a trickster, true, but he also knows where he is the least unwelcome on that street.
You can say no, Syd, if you do not want to do it.
Aye, ma'am. I mean ... I know. S'not quite what I'm saying ... I guess, I might not be able to tell where he's at. It's mostly wild things that I can, uh, know about like that.
[He sighs, as if trying to build himself up.] I, uh, I can still try.
❅ [from Jem.]
"C'mon, wake up," said a voice. Something fell across his cheek, something insubstantially light. Syd murmured, sighed, and opened his eyes.
"The hell, Jem," Syd said, brushing the pine needles from his nose. "Aye, I'm up, I'm up."
Only a day left in here, Syd reminded himself, unwinding his cape from around his legs. He tried to recall a few screeds about loyalty and trust in your fellow rangers, but something put him off about Jem. Ey set his jaw clenching. One day left.
