In which Penny's future is discussed...
WHO: Sefton and Penny
WHAT: Sefton asks Penny into his office to review her progress and discuss her future, their friendship, and her time at the Caucus so far.
WHEN: day 1, month 11, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
WHERE: Caucus Office
Caucus Office
As offices go, this one is fairly standard. Larger than most due to being shared, there are a pair of desks set facing each other in the center of the room. Each desk has a set of shelves running the length of the wall behind it and those shelves are filled with neatly organized scroll-tubes. The floor has been covered in a thick blue-and-black braided rug, and the wall not hidden behind shelves bears a tapestry that shows a Harper instructing a class of young students.
Contents:
Penny
Classroom (C) Out (O)
Sefton
Origins in Boll are betrayed as much in a telltale tenor drawl as in the flawless olive complexion so common to that area, Sefton defined by boyish good looks almost too good to be true. Tousled ebon curls are in constant disarray, and disobedient locks have been cropped to a curling fingerlength. Liquid brown eyes are wide, rimmed by enviably long lashes. The only visible flaws are a slight dint in his aquiline nose, suggesting a break in the past, and perhaps the occasional twist to lips near sensual in their fullness. A strong chin and jawline define his mobile face, his shoulders broad and his tall frame filled out to match.
Unaccustomed to the climate, Sefton has taken no chances about getting cold. Expensively tailored trousers of plain black nearly cover thick-soled and well polished boots. A matching shirt hangs untucked. When outdoors, a black leather jacket, similar to a rider's, is added to the outfit. He wears no knot.
Penny
At the age of 24 turns, 11 months, and 3 days, Penny is tall for a woman, about five feet, ten inches, and much of that height seems to originate in her legs. She has an oval face, cheekbones high but less prominant than in most faces; her skin, cinnamon-sweet klah in summer, never quite loses its olive tinge in winter. Almond-shaped, liquid brown eyes slant upwards, a somewhat exotic tinge in an otherwise normal face. Her nose is small, low on her face, above an expressive mouth that continually seems to give away her thoughts and emotions. Her hair is perhaps her true beauty, thick and dark and with a gentle wave in it that hovers somewhere between straight and curly.
Fall has brought a return to more practical clothing, Penny leaving behind the airy tropical clothing of summer. Her clothes aren't quite as nondescript as they used to be, though, her grey woolens exchanged for a layered black skirt and a rust-colored tunic over a creamy blouse, bound tight about her waist. She's not fashionably thin by any standards, but neither is she overweight; her clothing is perhaps not the most flattering it could be, but it's a sight better than her old style.
A journeyrank Smithcraft knot on her shoulder indicates her rank, and a badge pinned next to her knot proclaiming her a student of the Caucus, emblazoned with a large 'C' to designate her as hailing from a Crafthall.
The headmaster has the Caucus office to himself. He's eased back in his chair, the sole of one boot resting lightly on the edge of the desk to keep him so. The letter he's reading is held at arm's length, one brow slightly lofted as he peruses. Outside the early evening has brought with it a rush of bodies in every direction. Inside the office, peace and tranquility.
"There's a tap on the door, polite and even, and not very loud considering the noise outside. With it comes a voice, Penny's voice, calling, "Sefton?" And after waiting a half a second, the door opens anyway just wide enough to admit Penny's head. She looks weary, the natural circles under her eyes from her complexion still darker, and the set of her mouth somewhat grim -- that is, until she spots Sefton at his desk. The headmaster's presence brings a smile to her face, just as sweet as ever, erasing the brief signs of exhaustion. "Are you busy?"
Sefton lifts his gaze to her for a moment, drops dark eyes to the letter once more, and then shakes his head. "To say I was busy would suggest I was doing something worthwhile. I am most emphatically not busy. Come in, please." His boot comes off the desk, and the front legs of the chair thump down onto the ground before he comes to his feet, letter deposited atop the pile. "Drink?"
"Please," Penny replies, managing only barely not to speak in a rush of relief. Eager for company, it seems. She enters, closing the door again behind her and crossing towards Sefton's desk. "What's that? Some angry father, displeased at what nonsense you're allowing to enter his little girl's mind?" Her lips still curve in a smile, a fond sort of look with only a hint of wicked amusement in it.
"Penny, please." There is mock-reproach in Sefton's tone as he turns to survey the shelves behind him. Pulling a bottle down, he continues in his Headmaster's Voice, a hint of amusement threading through the solemnity. "My exhalted office automatically lends authority to whatever it is that I choose to teach. Were you unaware of this?" A glance over his shoulder, and a nod to the chair opposite his desk. "Sit, please. I've been meaning to talk to you." Back to her once more, he busies himself with pouring drinks.
Penny sits. Not always so obedient, this time it's curiosity and a faint hint of trepidation that causes her quick compliance with his request. "Talk to me about what?" she asks, smile only faintly troubled; no doubt, she expects something from the latest politics class, or a question about one of her fellow students.
Sefton turns with the drinks, leaning over to set hers down in front of her before he sinks into his seat. For the girl who shares his upbringing, it's one of Boll's native poisons. "Many things, Penny." It's one of his expansive moods. "You've been at the Caucus a little over a Turn now, you know. So have I, come to that. It is perhaps time you reviewed your progress thus far. Considered your future course."
Penny picks up the drink, swirling it for a moment in her glass before taking a light sip. A quick sigh follows, during Sefton's speech, though any relaxation or pleasure derived from the taste drains away as he speaks. "My progress," she repeats, her expression blank, through either incomprehension or denial. "I see." She seems disinclined to offer any more, sitting stock-still with straight posture in the chair and gripping her glass like it was a lifeline.
Sefton's lips curve to a hint of a smile, hair falling into his eyes as he drops his gaze to examine his own drink. "You see? A Turn's instruction has not been in vain, in that case. Demonstrate the analytical skills you have gained for me, Penny. In which areas do you think you have benefitted from the Caucus?"
"Which areas..." Penny very carefully sets the drink back down on the desk, with a barely audible clink. She's silent for a moment, thoughtful, dark eyes on her teacher as she lightly chews the inside of her cheek. Then, she says shortly, "Politics." A beat, and then her lips twitch in a faint smile. "I'm not entirely certain what you're looking for, Sefton. I've learned a lot of facts, and I'm stuffed full of enough ettiquette and fashion to last anyone a lifetime. I wouldn't disgrace my Hall if I were to go back today and be in the public eye again, if that's what you're asking."
Sefton laughs, one hand coming up to rake his hair back from his eyes. "There are some who would say that you did not disgrace your Hall before, and some who would say that you will always disgrace it, Penny. We will come to that later. So your head is stuffed full of new information. Is any of it going to be useful to you in the future, do you think? Beyond the fact that you can claim to have passed tests, what has the Caucus done for you?"
"Of course," Penny replies easily. "There's a different between being brilliant and personable, and being brilliant and personable and -educated-." Her self-praise is matter-of-fact, yet light enough to be a joke. "Instinct and upbringing aren't always enough to know how to get through a difficult social or political situation, as it has been in the past for me." She smiles, her usual smile, though something about the eyes seems a little off -- that perhaps she's far less comfortable in this topic than she appears. "I've met a wide variety of people, contacts I'm sure will come in handy in the future."
"Mmmmm." Sefton's non-committal in reply, downing a generous mouthful of his drink. "Contacts, certainly. Speak to me of what you think you might have gained that you have not, then. I take it you do not suggest that you have made the very best use of every moment. What could you have done differently? And what sort of weight do you give to those omissions?"
For a moment, Penny's face as she regards him is rather helpless, her eyes and lips making her look for a fleeting instant not a day over eight Turns again. But then it's gone, and she finally reaches for her drink again. "I don't know," she murmurs, frowning into the glass and not drinking from it. "I probably should have tried harder to befriend some of the other Caucus women." But even her tone is doubtful on that score.
Except that when she was eight she was never stumped by Sefton as she is these days. "No doubt you will wish to reflect on this further," he observes mildly, downing another generous swallow. "We will move on. One Turn complete, you have three left to you to achieve whatever it is that you feel you can at Caucus. It strikes me that this is a good time for you to consider this question also. You are too talented a student to simply push on without considering the end to which your studies will lead you."
"In fact, Penny doesn't look like she wishes to reflect on it further at all. The faint flicker of relief generated by switching subjects dissipates almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving her with a vaguely disgruntled expression on her face that she's probably not aware of. Finally, she takes another drink -- somewhat more than a sip this time -- and sighs. Her voice is weary when she speaks. "Sefton, what are you trying to get at? Why don't you just tell me what this is all about?"
"If you are not careful you will wrinkle your forehead permanently," Sefton points out helpfully, that faint thread of amusement running through his voice once more. "I am not trying to get at anything in particular, Penny. Every so often I am actually obliged to talk to you as your Headmaster, surprising and inconvenient though you may find it. You are an unusual student in an unusual position. I would like you to reassure me that you are aware of this. I would like you to reassure me that you have given some thought to your future." His drawl is pronounced, lingering lazily over the words.
A hand lifts briefly, touching her forehead as if surprised to be having some strange expression -- a touch of vanity, perhaps, checking for premature wrinkles? Penny drops her head immediately, though, the impulse quelled. After a moment of contemplation, her eyes unsettlingly focused on Sefton's face, she looks away, almost lazily, to the side and down at where the wall meets the floor of the office. "I'm aware of it," she says quietly. "My future is what it has always been."
"What it has always been?" Sefton ponders the idea for a moment, accepting her gaze with no sign of concern. "A Turn at Caucus has not changed it at all? Then I am afraid we are somehow failing in our purpose. Elaborate, if you will indulge me. Tell me what your future has always been, and is now." Pausing, he drains the last of his drink, reaching behind him to pull the bottle down from the shelf without the need to turn his head.
A long and probably quite painful struggle for mastership," Penny says, with a shrug, eyes still on the floor. "I'm quite aware of my brilliance," she says, a touch of rather uncharacteristic sarcasm marring her usually-warm voice. "I'm not about to waste it, rest assured. Sefton, you know all this." She's much slower to finish her drink, still a good half of it left; that is, until she takes a third, longer swallow that leaves considerably less. "Surely this is a waste of your time." And hers?
"Something more to drink?" Sefton makes the offer politely, almost automatically, unstoppering the bottle as he continues. "I do not consider it a waste of my time, Penny, and I thank you for humouring me." Still that note of faint amusement -- usually present in class, less frequent in their private meetings. He's still playing at being the instructor a little. "If you still have your heart set on your long and quite certainly painful struggle, I simply think it about time you started giving some thought to strategy. I sincerely hope your plan consists of more than returning to your Hall and working very hard."
Penny glances first at the bottle, then at Sefton. She hesitates, uncharacteristically, and then smiles. "Why not, hmm?" Tilting her glass back she drains the rest of it, expression twisting briefly into that of someone unused to drinking liquor quickly before she masters it again and holds it out to him. Her cheeks darken ever so slightly at his last comment, her smile fading a little. "I'm not so naive as to think that hard work alone will see me through the way it would a man, no. I've the advantage of being one of the sole Smiths to be attending the Caucus right now, and I'm certainly the brightest." No arrogance or bravado, simple statement of fact. "The truth is, you know exactly why I came here, and it was to forge relationships with those who would be most likely on the Conclave when it comes time for my mastership to come under question." She pauses, stopping short as though about to say more, but halts herself instead. "What do you mean, if I still have my heart set on it?"
"Mmmmm." Another non-committal noise from Sefton, as he leans forward to fill her glass generously. "And yet, when we discussed what you have gained and failed to gain in the past Turn, and what you might do differently, you did not mention the forging of these relationships. I must admit, your friendships thus far do not seem to have been aimed at those who will hold the power to give your Hall difficulties over their possible promotion of a female. Do you think you've done what you need to have in the first quarter of your time here?" He fills his own glass, carefully stoppering the bottle before he sets it down. "You know well what I mean, Penny. If you have remained unaware that one school of thought holds that you'll tire of your ambition, then I shall have to revise my opinion of you."
Penny continues to hold out her glass, staring at Sefton with a certain amount of hurt in her eyes. Eventually she seems to notice the glass and retracts her arm, staring into the liquid. There's a long silence, followed by a quick swallow of her drink. "Have I thought about it?" she murmurs. "Yes. You know my family, my mother's family -- nobody loved their children more. Does the idea of never having that hurt... of course." Her flippant words bely the subtle catch in her voice; she doesn't meet his eyes, staring down instead. "But I don't think I could ever be really happy in such a life. I wouldn't be willing to give up being a Smith, but I wouldn't want to give up raising my children in order to work. I'd be torn, for the rest of my life." And her lips twist in a grimace that, if anything, only proves that she's more than a little torn already. And then, to the matter of her friendships, she opens her mouth as if to respond, only to close it again, her weariness more evident than ever. Quietly, she manages, "I'm doing the best that I can, Sef." And of course he knows that particular wobble, the strained edge to her words; he's heard her cry before, after all.
"You are not doing the best you can," he disagrees mildly, pausing to sip from his drink. "You spend endless time with a healer who will never be able to assist you, should he rise even to be head of his own craft. They are viewed as sympathetic to women in any event. Now they say you spend time talking to a guard who will certainly do nothing for your chances. If you want to be a Master, you will need to genuinely do the best you can. Not the best you feel you can." His words are impassive, but the tone gentles as he continues, a hint of his more usual affection evident. "You need to weigh your ambition, Penny." Still her name, though -- not a single nickname so far, this day. "Perhaps you could manage both as a Journeyman -- mother and crafter. I do not know. If Mastery is what you want, though, it is time to make a commitment."
It's as well there's a lot of ambient background noise from the hall, or the little noises of the teardrops as they land on Penny's hands in her lap would probably be audible; big fat ones, rolling slowly down her cheeks. First one, then two -- but she doesn't sob or wail, just sits there listening quietly. She doesn't even speak, and just as well, because she'd probably lose it then at the sound of her own voice. One of the tears falls into the drink she holds tightly against the tops of her legs, but she doesn't notice. She remains silent.
Sefton sighs faintly, as though mildly irritated by this show of femininity -- carefully controlled as his reactions are, however, this one is as likely deliberate as not. "You know I will do what I can for you, Penny, but you must not overestimate my influence when it comes to the crafts. And frankly, you must give me a reason to exert myself on your behalf. Currently, I lack it." His drawl softens, growing gentler still. "Weigh up your ambition, sweetness. Decide if it is what will truly make you happy. I do not advocate either course, but it is past time that you did."
"I came here to see a friendly face," Penny says finally, in a small, sighing voice that pushes past any lumps that may be in her throat; it's not accusatory, or defensive, merely a statement of curious fact. She passes an irritated hand across her eyes, leaving only scattered miniature droplets on her lashes. Another moment is taken before she takes a few quick, consecutive sips from her glass, grateful for its presence now more than ever. She appears to be done crying, the brief bout of tears leaving behind a sort of dull bitterness. Quietly and haltingly, as if trying to get words out that don't want themselves to come, she says, "Sometimes, Sef, I--" And then there she stops, staring at her drink with an odd expression of mixed frustration and weary acceptance.
"Difficult as you may find it to believe, there is no friendlier face in the world, Penny." Sefton is very gentle now, turning his glass in a slow circle in his hands. "If I said none of this, then I could not call myself your friend, or anything resembling one." Raking his hair back from his eyes absently, he's quiet as he continues. "Sometimes, we all, Penny. Speak, though. You should say it out loud, if only to push it aside afterwards, and set your sights on the mountain you've decided to scale."
"I know." It's a quiet admission, but full of not only understanding, but a tacit forgiveness for the harsh words. Penny's expression has cleared, but hasn't quite shut down to its usual cheerful ground state; there's misery there, and a wealth of doubt. She shakes her head, lifting her glass and taking a long pull from her drink. "No, I don't think so," she says with more firmness. "Perhaps that's something you can write off as learned from the Caucus -- I've learned, at least a little, to know when to shut up." That said, she follows her own advice and takes another drink, grimacing slightly again. She's always been a bit of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, but she seems to be downing her drink with a sort of grim determination now.
Sefton considers this for several moments, and then inclines his head approvingly. "Good girl, Penny." He matches her, downing most of his drink, and setting the glass down for a moment. "Be aware, though, that I am available for counsel. It is my role as your headmaster, but I hope you are aware that I will always be available after you leave the Caucus." A moment's consideration, and he speaks, the amusement that irritates and confuses so many students resurfacing in his voice. "If it is what you desire, I think you are as good a candidate as any to take a tilt at gaining your Master's knot. I think you are a better candidate than most. If you decide it is what you desire, speak to me of it. Use the resources available to you."
"Of course it's what I desire," Penny says, eyeing Sefton with a raised eyebrow. "Weren't you paying attention?" The problem being, of course, that he was. She finishes the rest of her drink, and quite neatly puts it back on the desk, with just the slightest bit of extra care. "After the Caucus," she repeats, slowly. "Yes. I'm sure I'll see you should my work ever bring me to Fort." Her voice is pleasant, and her smile after speaking carries just a hint of apologetic sadness -- regret for lives going in different directions, perhaps.
"I was paying attention, sweetness." The words -- and the nickname that's been so long in coming, are murmured. "And I'll repeat myself, nevertheless. You should think on whether this is what you truly desire. Strongly enough." He reaches forward to claim his drink and finish it, and then for the bottle, this time without asking. "You will see me regardless, as well you know." Brows quirk for a moment. "Perhaps I'll pull strings and have you stationed with us. Bailie would so like the idea of a female to take on her smaller commissions." It's a barely veiled tease -- a signal that the mood can now lift.
The idea of being stationed at Fort brings some sort of unidentifiable twist to Penny's features, be it pleasure or not; but the reaction to the mention of Bailie is a definite negative. She frowns at Sefton, opening her mouth -- and then she shuts it again, subsiding a little, apparently seeing it as a joke. "I don't like it when you're my headmaster," she says, the corners of her mouth twitching with an effort. "I don't need to think. I've been thinking it since I was old enough to understand what a master smith -was-." But she stops then, perhaps the realization that this likely means she -should- rethink it sinking in a little. She sighs, eyeing the bottle for a moment before her eyes flicker back towards Sefton. "I believe you have a very important decision to make. You know me. Better than probably anyone else in the world, you know me, and that's saying something. What it all comes down to, in the end I mean, is whether or not you're going to cave and pour me a third drink, knowing what you do about Third-Drink-Penny."
"You don't like it? Penny, that hurts me deeply. Do you realise that you are alone in your failure to acclaim my suitability for the position?" Sefton's drawl speaks of the enormous amusement his current position affords, and he rakes his hair back from his eyes as he leans in to pour himself another drink, unwittingly (or perhaps not) voicing her realisation. "All plans are best reviewed frequently, if we really intend on their success. Modification is not a weakness, but a sign of flexibility -- and even your apprentices know that with flexibility comes strength, surely." The bottle pauses over her glass, and stays still for a moment. "You make an excellent point, Journeyman. What are your plans upon leaving my office?" (re)
"I plan on staggering about the living caverns, singing badly and making a fool of myself," Penny says, eyebrow arched. "Seriously, Sefton, you really ask me that? I plan on going back to the commons and finding something to eat and then going to bed early for once and get some sleep thanks to the blessed powers of alcohol." And she sounds like she means it, too, half a smile quirking her lips. She sighs. "I've got a lot to think about, you know that. But if I'm going to have even a finger's length of emotional distance from the problem, I have to be able to fall asleep at a reasonable hour at least once."
The half-smile widens, and she tilts her head. "One more drink with me, Sef. Only a fool would turn down a last drink with a beautiful woman." Her voice drips with sincerity, making it all the more plain how insincere she is.
Sefton, uncharacteristically, hesitates just a moment longer. Then he tilts the bottle forward to fill her glass, setting it down with a thump and stoppering it. "Then eat and sleep, sweetness. Don't make me sorry I set you loose on the weyr, you hear?" It's a mock-stern caution that he offers, lifting his own glass and leaning back in his chair slowly -- three-glass-Sefton is much the same as one-glass-Sefton. "And when you have thought, I want you to come back and talk to me again."
Do I have to? The look that Penny turns on Sefton then is so full of meaning, chagrin overriding anything else. But then she sighs, nursing her drink in tiny, morose sips in rapid succession. "I will," she says simply, pulling up first one leg and then the other, feet resting on the edge of the seat and knees up. "Come back to talk to you, that is. Not make you sorry about boozing me up."
"Indeed you will, or I'll make it a Headmaster's requirement, rather than a polite request," Sefton murmurs, the faint hint of sternness perhaps intended to linger in her memory when her hangover carries away the other nuances of the conversation. "I won't set a time for the conversation, but you must let me know when you're ready, and I'll put aside some time so we can talk in peace. If it is what you want, you have a new path to consider -- one quite different to the way you've picked out at present. If you decide that Journeyman will do, we can discuss that too."
Drink dangling slightly from one hand, draped over her raised knees, Penny swirls the liquid around a little. After a moment she leans her head over, resting it against her knees, her expression oddly perceptive as she regards the man sideways. "I don't understand, with all that you have to do as headmaster and instructor, how you always still have time for me." Perhaps it's the alcohol making her a little more lucid, one of those strange moments where the everyday bustle of life filters from the brain, leaving only the important things behind. "I don't think I've ever had anybody care about me quite the way that you do." A beat, and she lifts her head again to take another sip. "Except my father, obviously."
Sefton is silent for several long moments -- the words demand a cautious reply, and his words are just that. "I've had time for you since you were a child, Penny, and I always will. If you are sure of nothing else," which seems a safe bet, given the manner in which the man has upended her world in the last half hour or so, "then you should never doubt that." He drains his drink, and pushes the glass away, fingers going out to play absently with the bottle -- no offer of a refill is forthcoming, though. "I should hope very much that you never have."
Penny smiles, though the expression is only an odd echo of her usual smile; something in the evening's conversation is still hurting, and she seems unwilling to admit it. "I know, Sef, I do. I don't think I would have any idea what to do if suddenly you weren't right there." As in, say, living at Fort, lengths and lengths away? "D'you remember that time I got in trouble for smashing up Pietor's model cart and I had to stay up all night fixing it so my da wouldn't freak? And you were there with your uncle, but you stayed with me the whole time and helped me glue the bits together." Another drink, another sigh, followed by a silence. And then, very quietly, "I think I liked us better then."
"There's no reason I won't always be right there," Sefton points out, evidently immune to the evils of future distance. "Although you survived perfectly well through the ten Turns or so you had to do without me while you earned your current rank." His lips curve to a smile that's far more pleasant than those that usually go on show. "As I recall it, the child entirely deserved to have his possessions smashed. I was rather sorry you had to repair it, but I thought it ill-advised to make such a remark to you while your temper was running so high." He lapses into silence with her, the sound of the bottle shifting on the table louder. "How were we different, then?"
"He did rather, didn't?" says Penny, with a whimsical sort of smile as memories of said child come floating back. Sefton's last question brings her back, though, her eyes refocusing only somewhat belatedly on his face. "You know," she says, with a shrug, eyeing the last few swallows left in her glass. "Younger. More optimistic. When you're little, you can do anything. Be anyone. Marry anyone you like," and here she casts a pointed look and a fond smile at her drinking companion. "Just happier, I guess," she finishes, finally draining the end of her drink and then looking at the glass as if surprised at where it all went.
"I don't know whether much has changed, then. Optimism has been exchanged for realism, perhaps, but reality sometimes offers more opportunities than the imagination ever furnished." Sefton, future Lord of Fort, has certainly found this to be the case. "If I recall correctly, your eight-Turn-old desire was to marry me, and you would hear no disagreement." A shrug, and he stretches his legs out in front of him. "If you are less happy now than you were as a child, perhaps you only need to rediscover a sense of direction. I cannot say, I am afraid. I have changed so much, then?"
Penny leans forward to place her now-empty glass on the table, very carefully putting it down without clinking it. She looks back up then, letting her eyes meet Sefton's for a brief moment. "Do you really think you haven't?" Changed, that is. Without a drink in her hand, she seems unsure of what to do. After a moment, she gets a little heavily to her feet. "Thank you for the drinks," she says with a sigh. "No doubt some day I'll thank you for the conversation as well, but not today." No more alcohol? Then no more Penny. She's off to angst in peace, evident in the slight tremble of her mouth -- always the part of her that gives her away, no matter how schooled the rest of her face is, and with three glasses of liquor in her, she's certainly not up to the challenge of hiding that little tremor.
"Of course we've changed. I'm not so sure it's for the worse, is all." Sefton's reply is quiet again, as self-assured as ever. He comes politely to his feet as she does, one hand again raking his hair back from his eyes. "Sleep well, Penny." The farewell is murmured, and he waits -- watching -- until her exit is completely before he sinks back into his chair. And then he pours himself another drink.
WHAT: Sefton asks Penny into his office to review her progress and discuss her future, their friendship, and her time at the Caucus so far.
WHEN: day 1, month 11, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
WHERE: Caucus Office
Caucus Office
As offices go, this one is fairly standard. Larger than most due to being shared, there are a pair of desks set facing each other in the center of the room. Each desk has a set of shelves running the length of the wall behind it and those shelves are filled with neatly organized scroll-tubes. The floor has been covered in a thick blue-and-black braided rug, and the wall not hidden behind shelves bears a tapestry that shows a Harper instructing a class of young students.
Contents:
Penny
Classroom (C) Out (O)
Sefton
Origins in Boll are betrayed as much in a telltale tenor drawl as in the flawless olive complexion so common to that area, Sefton defined by boyish good looks almost too good to be true. Tousled ebon curls are in constant disarray, and disobedient locks have been cropped to a curling fingerlength. Liquid brown eyes are wide, rimmed by enviably long lashes. The only visible flaws are a slight dint in his aquiline nose, suggesting a break in the past, and perhaps the occasional twist to lips near sensual in their fullness. A strong chin and jawline define his mobile face, his shoulders broad and his tall frame filled out to match.
Unaccustomed to the climate, Sefton has taken no chances about getting cold. Expensively tailored trousers of plain black nearly cover thick-soled and well polished boots. A matching shirt hangs untucked. When outdoors, a black leather jacket, similar to a rider's, is added to the outfit. He wears no knot.
Penny
At the age of 24 turns, 11 months, and 3 days, Penny is tall for a woman, about five feet, ten inches, and much of that height seems to originate in her legs. She has an oval face, cheekbones high but less prominant than in most faces; her skin, cinnamon-sweet klah in summer, never quite loses its olive tinge in winter. Almond-shaped, liquid brown eyes slant upwards, a somewhat exotic tinge in an otherwise normal face. Her nose is small, low on her face, above an expressive mouth that continually seems to give away her thoughts and emotions. Her hair is perhaps her true beauty, thick and dark and with a gentle wave in it that hovers somewhere between straight and curly.
Fall has brought a return to more practical clothing, Penny leaving behind the airy tropical clothing of summer. Her clothes aren't quite as nondescript as they used to be, though, her grey woolens exchanged for a layered black skirt and a rust-colored tunic over a creamy blouse, bound tight about her waist. She's not fashionably thin by any standards, but neither is she overweight; her clothing is perhaps not the most flattering it could be, but it's a sight better than her old style.
A journeyrank Smithcraft knot on her shoulder indicates her rank, and a badge pinned next to her knot proclaiming her a student of the Caucus, emblazoned with a large 'C' to designate her as hailing from a Crafthall.
The headmaster has the Caucus office to himself. He's eased back in his chair, the sole of one boot resting lightly on the edge of the desk to keep him so. The letter he's reading is held at arm's length, one brow slightly lofted as he peruses. Outside the early evening has brought with it a rush of bodies in every direction. Inside the office, peace and tranquility.
"There's a tap on the door, polite and even, and not very loud considering the noise outside. With it comes a voice, Penny's voice, calling, "Sefton?" And after waiting a half a second, the door opens anyway just wide enough to admit Penny's head. She looks weary, the natural circles under her eyes from her complexion still darker, and the set of her mouth somewhat grim -- that is, until she spots Sefton at his desk. The headmaster's presence brings a smile to her face, just as sweet as ever, erasing the brief signs of exhaustion. "Are you busy?"
Sefton lifts his gaze to her for a moment, drops dark eyes to the letter once more, and then shakes his head. "To say I was busy would suggest I was doing something worthwhile. I am most emphatically not busy. Come in, please." His boot comes off the desk, and the front legs of the chair thump down onto the ground before he comes to his feet, letter deposited atop the pile. "Drink?"
"Please," Penny replies, managing only barely not to speak in a rush of relief. Eager for company, it seems. She enters, closing the door again behind her and crossing towards Sefton's desk. "What's that? Some angry father, displeased at what nonsense you're allowing to enter his little girl's mind?" Her lips still curve in a smile, a fond sort of look with only a hint of wicked amusement in it.
"Penny, please." There is mock-reproach in Sefton's tone as he turns to survey the shelves behind him. Pulling a bottle down, he continues in his Headmaster's Voice, a hint of amusement threading through the solemnity. "My exhalted office automatically lends authority to whatever it is that I choose to teach. Were you unaware of this?" A glance over his shoulder, and a nod to the chair opposite his desk. "Sit, please. I've been meaning to talk to you." Back to her once more, he busies himself with pouring drinks.
Penny sits. Not always so obedient, this time it's curiosity and a faint hint of trepidation that causes her quick compliance with his request. "Talk to me about what?" she asks, smile only faintly troubled; no doubt, she expects something from the latest politics class, or a question about one of her fellow students.
Sefton turns with the drinks, leaning over to set hers down in front of her before he sinks into his seat. For the girl who shares his upbringing, it's one of Boll's native poisons. "Many things, Penny." It's one of his expansive moods. "You've been at the Caucus a little over a Turn now, you know. So have I, come to that. It is perhaps time you reviewed your progress thus far. Considered your future course."
Penny picks up the drink, swirling it for a moment in her glass before taking a light sip. A quick sigh follows, during Sefton's speech, though any relaxation or pleasure derived from the taste drains away as he speaks. "My progress," she repeats, her expression blank, through either incomprehension or denial. "I see." She seems disinclined to offer any more, sitting stock-still with straight posture in the chair and gripping her glass like it was a lifeline.
Sefton's lips curve to a hint of a smile, hair falling into his eyes as he drops his gaze to examine his own drink. "You see? A Turn's instruction has not been in vain, in that case. Demonstrate the analytical skills you have gained for me, Penny. In which areas do you think you have benefitted from the Caucus?"
"Which areas..." Penny very carefully sets the drink back down on the desk, with a barely audible clink. She's silent for a moment, thoughtful, dark eyes on her teacher as she lightly chews the inside of her cheek. Then, she says shortly, "Politics." A beat, and then her lips twitch in a faint smile. "I'm not entirely certain what you're looking for, Sefton. I've learned a lot of facts, and I'm stuffed full of enough ettiquette and fashion to last anyone a lifetime. I wouldn't disgrace my Hall if I were to go back today and be in the public eye again, if that's what you're asking."
Sefton laughs, one hand coming up to rake his hair back from his eyes. "There are some who would say that you did not disgrace your Hall before, and some who would say that you will always disgrace it, Penny. We will come to that later. So your head is stuffed full of new information. Is any of it going to be useful to you in the future, do you think? Beyond the fact that you can claim to have passed tests, what has the Caucus done for you?"
"Of course," Penny replies easily. "There's a different between being brilliant and personable, and being brilliant and personable and -educated-." Her self-praise is matter-of-fact, yet light enough to be a joke. "Instinct and upbringing aren't always enough to know how to get through a difficult social or political situation, as it has been in the past for me." She smiles, her usual smile, though something about the eyes seems a little off -- that perhaps she's far less comfortable in this topic than she appears. "I've met a wide variety of people, contacts I'm sure will come in handy in the future."
"Mmmmm." Sefton's non-committal in reply, downing a generous mouthful of his drink. "Contacts, certainly. Speak to me of what you think you might have gained that you have not, then. I take it you do not suggest that you have made the very best use of every moment. What could you have done differently? And what sort of weight do you give to those omissions?"
For a moment, Penny's face as she regards him is rather helpless, her eyes and lips making her look for a fleeting instant not a day over eight Turns again. But then it's gone, and she finally reaches for her drink again. "I don't know," she murmurs, frowning into the glass and not drinking from it. "I probably should have tried harder to befriend some of the other Caucus women." But even her tone is doubtful on that score.
Except that when she was eight she was never stumped by Sefton as she is these days. "No doubt you will wish to reflect on this further," he observes mildly, downing another generous swallow. "We will move on. One Turn complete, you have three left to you to achieve whatever it is that you feel you can at Caucus. It strikes me that this is a good time for you to consider this question also. You are too talented a student to simply push on without considering the end to which your studies will lead you."
"In fact, Penny doesn't look like she wishes to reflect on it further at all. The faint flicker of relief generated by switching subjects dissipates almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving her with a vaguely disgruntled expression on her face that she's probably not aware of. Finally, she takes another drink -- somewhat more than a sip this time -- and sighs. Her voice is weary when she speaks. "Sefton, what are you trying to get at? Why don't you just tell me what this is all about?"
"If you are not careful you will wrinkle your forehead permanently," Sefton points out helpfully, that faint thread of amusement running through his voice once more. "I am not trying to get at anything in particular, Penny. Every so often I am actually obliged to talk to you as your Headmaster, surprising and inconvenient though you may find it. You are an unusual student in an unusual position. I would like you to reassure me that you are aware of this. I would like you to reassure me that you have given some thought to your future." His drawl is pronounced, lingering lazily over the words.
A hand lifts briefly, touching her forehead as if surprised to be having some strange expression -- a touch of vanity, perhaps, checking for premature wrinkles? Penny drops her head immediately, though, the impulse quelled. After a moment of contemplation, her eyes unsettlingly focused on Sefton's face, she looks away, almost lazily, to the side and down at where the wall meets the floor of the office. "I'm aware of it," she says quietly. "My future is what it has always been."
"What it has always been?" Sefton ponders the idea for a moment, accepting her gaze with no sign of concern. "A Turn at Caucus has not changed it at all? Then I am afraid we are somehow failing in our purpose. Elaborate, if you will indulge me. Tell me what your future has always been, and is now." Pausing, he drains the last of his drink, reaching behind him to pull the bottle down from the shelf without the need to turn his head.
A long and probably quite painful struggle for mastership," Penny says, with a shrug, eyes still on the floor. "I'm quite aware of my brilliance," she says, a touch of rather uncharacteristic sarcasm marring her usually-warm voice. "I'm not about to waste it, rest assured. Sefton, you know all this." She's much slower to finish her drink, still a good half of it left; that is, until she takes a third, longer swallow that leaves considerably less. "Surely this is a waste of your time." And hers?
"Something more to drink?" Sefton makes the offer politely, almost automatically, unstoppering the bottle as he continues. "I do not consider it a waste of my time, Penny, and I thank you for humouring me." Still that note of faint amusement -- usually present in class, less frequent in their private meetings. He's still playing at being the instructor a little. "If you still have your heart set on your long and quite certainly painful struggle, I simply think it about time you started giving some thought to strategy. I sincerely hope your plan consists of more than returning to your Hall and working very hard."
Penny glances first at the bottle, then at Sefton. She hesitates, uncharacteristically, and then smiles. "Why not, hmm?" Tilting her glass back she drains the rest of it, expression twisting briefly into that of someone unused to drinking liquor quickly before she masters it again and holds it out to him. Her cheeks darken ever so slightly at his last comment, her smile fading a little. "I'm not so naive as to think that hard work alone will see me through the way it would a man, no. I've the advantage of being one of the sole Smiths to be attending the Caucus right now, and I'm certainly the brightest." No arrogance or bravado, simple statement of fact. "The truth is, you know exactly why I came here, and it was to forge relationships with those who would be most likely on the Conclave when it comes time for my mastership to come under question." She pauses, stopping short as though about to say more, but halts herself instead. "What do you mean, if I still have my heart set on it?"
"Mmmmm." Another non-committal noise from Sefton, as he leans forward to fill her glass generously. "And yet, when we discussed what you have gained and failed to gain in the past Turn, and what you might do differently, you did not mention the forging of these relationships. I must admit, your friendships thus far do not seem to have been aimed at those who will hold the power to give your Hall difficulties over their possible promotion of a female. Do you think you've done what you need to have in the first quarter of your time here?" He fills his own glass, carefully stoppering the bottle before he sets it down. "You know well what I mean, Penny. If you have remained unaware that one school of thought holds that you'll tire of your ambition, then I shall have to revise my opinion of you."
Penny continues to hold out her glass, staring at Sefton with a certain amount of hurt in her eyes. Eventually she seems to notice the glass and retracts her arm, staring into the liquid. There's a long silence, followed by a quick swallow of her drink. "Have I thought about it?" she murmurs. "Yes. You know my family, my mother's family -- nobody loved their children more. Does the idea of never having that hurt... of course." Her flippant words bely the subtle catch in her voice; she doesn't meet his eyes, staring down instead. "But I don't think I could ever be really happy in such a life. I wouldn't be willing to give up being a Smith, but I wouldn't want to give up raising my children in order to work. I'd be torn, for the rest of my life." And her lips twist in a grimace that, if anything, only proves that she's more than a little torn already. And then, to the matter of her friendships, she opens her mouth as if to respond, only to close it again, her weariness more evident than ever. Quietly, she manages, "I'm doing the best that I can, Sef." And of course he knows that particular wobble, the strained edge to her words; he's heard her cry before, after all.
"You are not doing the best you can," he disagrees mildly, pausing to sip from his drink. "You spend endless time with a healer who will never be able to assist you, should he rise even to be head of his own craft. They are viewed as sympathetic to women in any event. Now they say you spend time talking to a guard who will certainly do nothing for your chances. If you want to be a Master, you will need to genuinely do the best you can. Not the best you feel you can." His words are impassive, but the tone gentles as he continues, a hint of his more usual affection evident. "You need to weigh your ambition, Penny." Still her name, though -- not a single nickname so far, this day. "Perhaps you could manage both as a Journeyman -- mother and crafter. I do not know. If Mastery is what you want, though, it is time to make a commitment."
It's as well there's a lot of ambient background noise from the hall, or the little noises of the teardrops as they land on Penny's hands in her lap would probably be audible; big fat ones, rolling slowly down her cheeks. First one, then two -- but she doesn't sob or wail, just sits there listening quietly. She doesn't even speak, and just as well, because she'd probably lose it then at the sound of her own voice. One of the tears falls into the drink she holds tightly against the tops of her legs, but she doesn't notice. She remains silent.
Sefton sighs faintly, as though mildly irritated by this show of femininity -- carefully controlled as his reactions are, however, this one is as likely deliberate as not. "You know I will do what I can for you, Penny, but you must not overestimate my influence when it comes to the crafts. And frankly, you must give me a reason to exert myself on your behalf. Currently, I lack it." His drawl softens, growing gentler still. "Weigh up your ambition, sweetness. Decide if it is what will truly make you happy. I do not advocate either course, but it is past time that you did."
"I came here to see a friendly face," Penny says finally, in a small, sighing voice that pushes past any lumps that may be in her throat; it's not accusatory, or defensive, merely a statement of curious fact. She passes an irritated hand across her eyes, leaving only scattered miniature droplets on her lashes. Another moment is taken before she takes a few quick, consecutive sips from her glass, grateful for its presence now more than ever. She appears to be done crying, the brief bout of tears leaving behind a sort of dull bitterness. Quietly and haltingly, as if trying to get words out that don't want themselves to come, she says, "Sometimes, Sef, I--" And then there she stops, staring at her drink with an odd expression of mixed frustration and weary acceptance.
"Difficult as you may find it to believe, there is no friendlier face in the world, Penny." Sefton is very gentle now, turning his glass in a slow circle in his hands. "If I said none of this, then I could not call myself your friend, or anything resembling one." Raking his hair back from his eyes absently, he's quiet as he continues. "Sometimes, we all, Penny. Speak, though. You should say it out loud, if only to push it aside afterwards, and set your sights on the mountain you've decided to scale."
"I know." It's a quiet admission, but full of not only understanding, but a tacit forgiveness for the harsh words. Penny's expression has cleared, but hasn't quite shut down to its usual cheerful ground state; there's misery there, and a wealth of doubt. She shakes her head, lifting her glass and taking a long pull from her drink. "No, I don't think so," she says with more firmness. "Perhaps that's something you can write off as learned from the Caucus -- I've learned, at least a little, to know when to shut up." That said, she follows her own advice and takes another drink, grimacing slightly again. She's always been a bit of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, but she seems to be downing her drink with a sort of grim determination now.
Sefton considers this for several moments, and then inclines his head approvingly. "Good girl, Penny." He matches her, downing most of his drink, and setting the glass down for a moment. "Be aware, though, that I am available for counsel. It is my role as your headmaster, but I hope you are aware that I will always be available after you leave the Caucus." A moment's consideration, and he speaks, the amusement that irritates and confuses so many students resurfacing in his voice. "If it is what you desire, I think you are as good a candidate as any to take a tilt at gaining your Master's knot. I think you are a better candidate than most. If you decide it is what you desire, speak to me of it. Use the resources available to you."
"Of course it's what I desire," Penny says, eyeing Sefton with a raised eyebrow. "Weren't you paying attention?" The problem being, of course, that he was. She finishes the rest of her drink, and quite neatly puts it back on the desk, with just the slightest bit of extra care. "After the Caucus," she repeats, slowly. "Yes. I'm sure I'll see you should my work ever bring me to Fort." Her voice is pleasant, and her smile after speaking carries just a hint of apologetic sadness -- regret for lives going in different directions, perhaps.
"I was paying attention, sweetness." The words -- and the nickname that's been so long in coming, are murmured. "And I'll repeat myself, nevertheless. You should think on whether this is what you truly desire. Strongly enough." He reaches forward to claim his drink and finish it, and then for the bottle, this time without asking. "You will see me regardless, as well you know." Brows quirk for a moment. "Perhaps I'll pull strings and have you stationed with us. Bailie would so like the idea of a female to take on her smaller commissions." It's a barely veiled tease -- a signal that the mood can now lift.
The idea of being stationed at Fort brings some sort of unidentifiable twist to Penny's features, be it pleasure or not; but the reaction to the mention of Bailie is a definite negative. She frowns at Sefton, opening her mouth -- and then she shuts it again, subsiding a little, apparently seeing it as a joke. "I don't like it when you're my headmaster," she says, the corners of her mouth twitching with an effort. "I don't need to think. I've been thinking it since I was old enough to understand what a master smith -was-." But she stops then, perhaps the realization that this likely means she -should- rethink it sinking in a little. She sighs, eyeing the bottle for a moment before her eyes flicker back towards Sefton. "I believe you have a very important decision to make. You know me. Better than probably anyone else in the world, you know me, and that's saying something. What it all comes down to, in the end I mean, is whether or not you're going to cave and pour me a third drink, knowing what you do about Third-Drink-Penny."
"You don't like it? Penny, that hurts me deeply. Do you realise that you are alone in your failure to acclaim my suitability for the position?" Sefton's drawl speaks of the enormous amusement his current position affords, and he rakes his hair back from his eyes as he leans in to pour himself another drink, unwittingly (or perhaps not) voicing her realisation. "All plans are best reviewed frequently, if we really intend on their success. Modification is not a weakness, but a sign of flexibility -- and even your apprentices know that with flexibility comes strength, surely." The bottle pauses over her glass, and stays still for a moment. "You make an excellent point, Journeyman. What are your plans upon leaving my office?" (re)
"I plan on staggering about the living caverns, singing badly and making a fool of myself," Penny says, eyebrow arched. "Seriously, Sefton, you really ask me that? I plan on going back to the commons and finding something to eat and then going to bed early for once and get some sleep thanks to the blessed powers of alcohol." And she sounds like she means it, too, half a smile quirking her lips. She sighs. "I've got a lot to think about, you know that. But if I'm going to have even a finger's length of emotional distance from the problem, I have to be able to fall asleep at a reasonable hour at least once."
The half-smile widens, and she tilts her head. "One more drink with me, Sef. Only a fool would turn down a last drink with a beautiful woman." Her voice drips with sincerity, making it all the more plain how insincere she is.
Sefton, uncharacteristically, hesitates just a moment longer. Then he tilts the bottle forward to fill her glass, setting it down with a thump and stoppering it. "Then eat and sleep, sweetness. Don't make me sorry I set you loose on the weyr, you hear?" It's a mock-stern caution that he offers, lifting his own glass and leaning back in his chair slowly -- three-glass-Sefton is much the same as one-glass-Sefton. "And when you have thought, I want you to come back and talk to me again."
Do I have to? The look that Penny turns on Sefton then is so full of meaning, chagrin overriding anything else. But then she sighs, nursing her drink in tiny, morose sips in rapid succession. "I will," she says simply, pulling up first one leg and then the other, feet resting on the edge of the seat and knees up. "Come back to talk to you, that is. Not make you sorry about boozing me up."
"Indeed you will, or I'll make it a Headmaster's requirement, rather than a polite request," Sefton murmurs, the faint hint of sternness perhaps intended to linger in her memory when her hangover carries away the other nuances of the conversation. "I won't set a time for the conversation, but you must let me know when you're ready, and I'll put aside some time so we can talk in peace. If it is what you want, you have a new path to consider -- one quite different to the way you've picked out at present. If you decide that Journeyman will do, we can discuss that too."
Drink dangling slightly from one hand, draped over her raised knees, Penny swirls the liquid around a little. After a moment she leans her head over, resting it against her knees, her expression oddly perceptive as she regards the man sideways. "I don't understand, with all that you have to do as headmaster and instructor, how you always still have time for me." Perhaps it's the alcohol making her a little more lucid, one of those strange moments where the everyday bustle of life filters from the brain, leaving only the important things behind. "I don't think I've ever had anybody care about me quite the way that you do." A beat, and she lifts her head again to take another sip. "Except my father, obviously."
Sefton is silent for several long moments -- the words demand a cautious reply, and his words are just that. "I've had time for you since you were a child, Penny, and I always will. If you are sure of nothing else," which seems a safe bet, given the manner in which the man has upended her world in the last half hour or so, "then you should never doubt that." He drains his drink, and pushes the glass away, fingers going out to play absently with the bottle -- no offer of a refill is forthcoming, though. "I should hope very much that you never have."
Penny smiles, though the expression is only an odd echo of her usual smile; something in the evening's conversation is still hurting, and she seems unwilling to admit it. "I know, Sef, I do. I don't think I would have any idea what to do if suddenly you weren't right there." As in, say, living at Fort, lengths and lengths away? "D'you remember that time I got in trouble for smashing up Pietor's model cart and I had to stay up all night fixing it so my da wouldn't freak? And you were there with your uncle, but you stayed with me the whole time and helped me glue the bits together." Another drink, another sigh, followed by a silence. And then, very quietly, "I think I liked us better then."
"There's no reason I won't always be right there," Sefton points out, evidently immune to the evils of future distance. "Although you survived perfectly well through the ten Turns or so you had to do without me while you earned your current rank." His lips curve to a smile that's far more pleasant than those that usually go on show. "As I recall it, the child entirely deserved to have his possessions smashed. I was rather sorry you had to repair it, but I thought it ill-advised to make such a remark to you while your temper was running so high." He lapses into silence with her, the sound of the bottle shifting on the table louder. "How were we different, then?"
"He did rather, didn't?" says Penny, with a whimsical sort of smile as memories of said child come floating back. Sefton's last question brings her back, though, her eyes refocusing only somewhat belatedly on his face. "You know," she says, with a shrug, eyeing the last few swallows left in her glass. "Younger. More optimistic. When you're little, you can do anything. Be anyone. Marry anyone you like," and here she casts a pointed look and a fond smile at her drinking companion. "Just happier, I guess," she finishes, finally draining the end of her drink and then looking at the glass as if surprised at where it all went.
"I don't know whether much has changed, then. Optimism has been exchanged for realism, perhaps, but reality sometimes offers more opportunities than the imagination ever furnished." Sefton, future Lord of Fort, has certainly found this to be the case. "If I recall correctly, your eight-Turn-old desire was to marry me, and you would hear no disagreement." A shrug, and he stretches his legs out in front of him. "If you are less happy now than you were as a child, perhaps you only need to rediscover a sense of direction. I cannot say, I am afraid. I have changed so much, then?"
Penny leans forward to place her now-empty glass on the table, very carefully putting it down without clinking it. She looks back up then, letting her eyes meet Sefton's for a brief moment. "Do you really think you haven't?" Changed, that is. Without a drink in her hand, she seems unsure of what to do. After a moment, she gets a little heavily to her feet. "Thank you for the drinks," she says with a sigh. "No doubt some day I'll thank you for the conversation as well, but not today." No more alcohol? Then no more Penny. She's off to angst in peace, evident in the slight tremble of her mouth -- always the part of her that gives her away, no matter how schooled the rest of her face is, and with three glasses of liquor in her, she's certainly not up to the challenge of hiding that little tremor.
"Of course we've changed. I'm not so sure it's for the worse, is all." Sefton's reply is quiet again, as self-assured as ever. He comes politely to his feet as she does, one hand again raking his hair back from his eyes. "Sleep well, Penny." The farewell is murmured, and he waits -- watching -- until her exit is completely before he sinks back into his chair. And then he pours himself another drink.