chastity comes naturally. patience is learned.
Sybil sang scales. She arranged ridiculously ornate vases of flowers. She sat with Sam Whalebone (the first) and tried to probe the mysteries of where the inorganic things he ate went to- sometimes literally- and then she put out the fire and sent for a house-girl to clean up the char. She sat down daily and wrote someone from the list: von Uberwald, Venturi, Selachii and so on. She was quiet and polite and moved about the house keeping a cold shoulder directed to her parents at all times. It wasn't easy, but she was managing.
She had been saving her misbehavior up for being in public, where she would let S.W (1st) do just about anything that might attract the attention of the Watch, but she wasn't allowed out at night, and the effort had been for naught in the daytime.
So, it was night now, and she had decided enough was enough. Sybil had long legs and long arms and a long torso, it just so happened they were more curvaceous than what modern sensibility allowed to be particularly desirable. The fashion of the day tended to do her less justice than she perhaps deserved. She was a few centuries too late to be considered beautiful, but she was sixteen, and her body still worked with an alarming sort of elasticity and the ability to rebound from an eight foot drop onto soft, immaculately manicured lawn. She stood, tucked her hair back again with some success, straightened her dress, pulled up the dark shawl that had dropped down with her, and started, ducked and quiet, for the front of the house.
Once on the street, she had a moment's hesitation. Thing were worse, everyone knew it, but some things, she thought, were important. And anyway, she thought, as Sam Whalebone trotted dumpily across the lawn from where she'd left him in the servant's back quarters, she was armed.
She lifted the dragon, carrying him the way most foolish dragon owners who did not understand what the held did, only with the knowledge that a well aimed dragon and well placed tickle would result in some serious firepower. She had a pocketful of coal.
The walk to Treacle Mine Road was long, and unpleasant. She felt more than once looks coming her way from the doorways of pubs and other establishments still open past the curfew that pretended they weren't open past the curfew. Once, she almost didn't throw herself into an alleyway when the hurry up wagon rattled by.
She was a Ramkin. She wasn't entirely used to having to worrying about things like curfew. Or thieves. Or who knew what.
But some things were more important.
She took a moment once she had reached the Watch house to straighten her clothing, pat her hair which was half fallen out and all over the place but in a fashionable way that she would never have been able to achieve by trying- such is the luck of youth- put her chin up, rethought, put her chin down but kept her back straight and, slippers whispering against the cobblestones, walked straight up to the door.
The Watch was a public building. Did you just go in, or were you supposed to knock? Oh, dear, she wasn't sure on the etiquette for this. She walked up, saw the lit lantern, the open door, briefly rearranged her shawl around herself - and artfully, subtly over the dragon-and stepped in. She glanced around, went to the nearest desk, and said, "Excuse me."
She had been saving her misbehavior up for being in public, where she would let S.W (1st) do just about anything that might attract the attention of the Watch, but she wasn't allowed out at night, and the effort had been for naught in the daytime.
So, it was night now, and she had decided enough was enough. Sybil had long legs and long arms and a long torso, it just so happened they were more curvaceous than what modern sensibility allowed to be particularly desirable. The fashion of the day tended to do her less justice than she perhaps deserved. She was a few centuries too late to be considered beautiful, but she was sixteen, and her body still worked with an alarming sort of elasticity and the ability to rebound from an eight foot drop onto soft, immaculately manicured lawn. She stood, tucked her hair back again with some success, straightened her dress, pulled up the dark shawl that had dropped down with her, and started, ducked and quiet, for the front of the house.
Once on the street, she had a moment's hesitation. Thing were worse, everyone knew it, but some things, she thought, were important. And anyway, she thought, as Sam Whalebone trotted dumpily across the lawn from where she'd left him in the servant's back quarters, she was armed.
She lifted the dragon, carrying him the way most foolish dragon owners who did not understand what the held did, only with the knowledge that a well aimed dragon and well placed tickle would result in some serious firepower. She had a pocketful of coal.
The walk to Treacle Mine Road was long, and unpleasant. She felt more than once looks coming her way from the doorways of pubs and other establishments still open past the curfew that pretended they weren't open past the curfew. Once, she almost didn't throw herself into an alleyway when the hurry up wagon rattled by.
She was a Ramkin. She wasn't entirely used to having to worrying about things like curfew. Or thieves. Or who knew what.
But some things were more important.
She took a moment once she had reached the Watch house to straighten her clothing, pat her hair which was half fallen out and all over the place but in a fashionable way that she would never have been able to achieve by trying- such is the luck of youth- put her chin up, rethought, put her chin down but kept her back straight and, slippers whispering against the cobblestones, walked straight up to the door.
The Watch was a public building. Did you just go in, or were you supposed to knock? Oh, dear, she wasn't sure on the etiquette for this. She walked up, saw the lit lantern, the open door, briefly rearranged her shawl around herself - and artfully, subtly over the dragon-and stepped in. She glanced around, went to the nearest desk, and said, "Excuse me."