(no subject)
The stomping (or rather, click-stomp, click-stomp, click-stomp) of boots in the hall announce Sefton's visitor well before she raps furiously on the door - a pointless exercise, for Bailie enters without hesitation, an extremely thick volume in tow and a scowl tossed between the pages and her path, the pages and the door, the pages and Sefton's room... "Sefton of Southern Boll!" She is not, one might deduce, at all pleased this evening.
Sefton is working for once, instead of sprawled on his couch. He pushes his chair out from his desk, swinging sideways on it and then coming politely to his feet as she enters. "Not for long, you know. I met this girl from Fort Hold..." His drawl is lazy, amused at his own joke -- no concession made to her ill temper.
"Allow me to quote for you, from a reputable dictionary, the definition of the word 'presumptive'." Stopped short just inside, Bailie has not bothered with closing the door, instead locking her dark eyes down to the page her heavy book is open at. "Based on presumption; expected to develop in a particular direction under normal conditions; having a reasonable basis for belief or acceptance. Example, /heir presumptive/ - person named as an expected heir under set conditions." There is a little stumbling over larger words as Bailie reads aloud, but her tone remains even.
Sefton listens attentively, reaching up to brush his hair back from his eyes absently. Scanning unsuccessfully for the part of her dictionary definition that has caused her grief. "Sounds like a reputable dictionary to me, yes. You understand why it's presumptive, surely? He can't make it final until I've married into his Blood. But it's settled, don't worry." A pause. "Do you want a drink?"
Bailie takes a deep breath, in, and then slowly out. "Don't worry... don't -worry-..." She clears her throat, scowl remaining. "You hadn't thought to -mention- this to me at all, had you? Is this another of your little games to see me upset, Sefton? You're pushing it, you know." The offer of a drink is ignored, implying a 'no', though Bailie looks as though she needs one or five.
Sefton pauses at this point, sinking back into his chair and indicating his sofa for her with a wave of one arm. "Bailie, you will appreciate the fact that I do not admit this often, but I am absolutely lost. I can't think of anything I've done lately that aimed to provoke you." He's puzzled rather than combative, brows drawn together in faint confusion.
"You mean, -besides- cheating me of the chance to prove myself to my father and earn myself his seat in the Conclave?" With no regard for the dictionary, whosever it might be, Bailie drops is clear on the ground in front of her in order to fold her arms crossly.
"His seat...?" Sefton is good with the poker face. So good, in fact, that he teaches it to other people. Thus, the fact that both brows momentarily shoot up in incredulity says something for the magnitude of his surprise. He masters himself fairly quickly, tone immediately apologetic. "Bailie, forgive me. I had no idea you were under the impression that he was considering that."
With arms already folded, Bailie's temper has little room to convey itself; she stomps a boot childishly, teeth gritted. "Oh, -forgive- you. Well, when you put it like that, dearest Sefton, I've no choice. Shall we go to bed now?" Caustically spoken, with eyes narrowed and locked on her target.
"No, I don't think so." Look at Sefton's wary glance. "I'm sorry, Bailie, I didn't realise you had misunderstood. I promise, I cheated you out of nothing. Naming a daughter would have been out of the question. It was your husband, or one of your brothers."
Bailie is silent for a good few moments, breathing heavily. When at last she speaks again, she's a little quieter than before, though easily identified as being just as angry. "So you thought you'd beat Balien and Vellen both to their birthright, then... and used me." More throat-clearing.
"No," he corrects her instantly, tone more certain now. Helps when you can tell the truth. "Fort never crossed my mind. I wanted you for Lady at Boll, and that was what I asked your father and my uncle for. They chose a different path for me."
"Oh, of course. This was conveniently out of your control - don't - can't - grrr!" Bailie stomps again, her scowl deepening. "You know, you're every bit the -prick-," Such a word does not roll off the young lady's tongue as it might someone else's, "Ginella says you are! You tease me, and lecture me, and patronize me, and sneak around behind my back."
"Bailie!" His reproof comes sharply, disapproval taking over his place. "Remember who you are, and behave that way." His hand comes up again to push his hair back from his face, the gesture impatient. "I have apologised twice, now. You can either take my word that I did not intend to deceive you in this, or you can refuse to do so. Which is it?"
Bailie glares back at Sefton. "Just improving my vocabulary, dearest." To buy herself some time to calm down, she bends to pick up the abandoned dictionary. Suppose someone might be wanting that back, er. "I refuse to do so, and don't accept either of your apologies."
"You refuse to accept my word when I offer it to you?" The frustration that coloured Sefton's voice is gone, replaced by a cold tone that has not been leveled at her before.
Bailie hugs the dictionary to her chest, a little intimidated. Her glare softens a touch as she considers her answer. "Our match is purely political, in your favour. You could have discussed this with me long ago, even before informing the Weyrleader, but you chose not to - do you honestly expect me to pretend to you that I do believe you, Sefton?" She is much quieter now, and tries her best to match the ice in her betrothed's voice.
"Purely in my favour?" Sefton disagrees, and says as much with his tone. "You will be Lady of Pern's first Hold. Rather than having to leave your home and win over a new people, you will remain where you are. If your husband is not entirely to your taste, he will treat you better than others might." He leans back against his desk, propping his elbow on it. "You already acted without discretion once, and I had to see off your friend Ginella over that. I hesitated to allow you to do it again."
"I said purely -political-, and -in- your favour. Any other pretty girl in my position would do, you don't love me. And you, you will go from what, -third- nephew of Boll? To -Lord- of Pern's first Hold," Bailie clarifies, her glare starting to wane. She sounds almost resigned, even.
"Second," Sefton corrects, then scowls -- presumably for having been drawn into the argument. "Bailie, I was practically assured my uncle's favour. It may surprise you to learn that I did hesitate to give up my home for yours. But it is done." Coming to his feet abruptly, he runs a hand through his hair. "You must decide what role you will play as my wife."
Bailie is silently glad for the small victory in Sefton's argument, and hugs the dictionary tighter, eyes still locked on him. She gulps down a breath, and starts to blink a little more often. "Do you think I haven't already, and am not trying my hardest?"
"Bailie, the only part of this conversation I've comprehended so far has been the part where we established that I have no idea at all what you're thinking, or what you've decided." Sefton's response is irritable, but after a slow breath he softens it. "Naming a female heir would be unacceptable to any number of major Holds, and doubly so with the onset of a Pass. I assumed you knew this, and I apologise if I should have made it clearer." Moving past her, he reaches up to the shelf for a bottle. "Tell me what you've decided."
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in... "Right." Bailie considers her response for a moment, and sees fit to add, "I mean, alright." She takes a step backwards, and drops her eyes to the ground. "I - you can... I don't want to be anything more than the pretty face who accompanies you when needed, Sefton. That way, when there are important things that you don't see fit to tell me, it won't be assumed that I know when I don't. I'll come back when I'm in a better mood to visit with you." Shuffle, shuffle... Bai edges toward the door.
finis