they say you're a saint, you're a whore, you're a sinner
After a brief discussion (ahem) in Martel's offices at the palace earlier, Maryani managed to tug him along to the dressmaker's with her. Nourelle's adulthood had been kept off long enough, and she'd requested and had tailored a dress to suit her daughter's age. Most people kept thinking Maryani was the girl's sister, not her mother, which would' ( Read more... )
Whether or not Martel finds these little private jokes amusing usually depends on his mood and present situation -- today his mood is varying from moment to moment, but 'distracted' seems to cover it for the main. He tucks his hand at Maryani's elbow and tries not to look as though he'd rather slit his own throat than spend much more time here.
It's also much harder to judge whether or not he'll disapprove of the dress when he can't see how it'll look on, and she can probably see him trying to figure it out in his head, scrutinizing the gown in front of him with a look personally unique.
There's someone else entering behind them who'll recognize it almost as well. Some things simply aren't forgotten.
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What she probably won't recognize is the golden-skinned woman laughing into Martel's shoulder. Maryani finds that expression sort of endearing, and nudges him with her hip to give him an idea of how the dress will hang--by indicating on herself. "I know you find this tedious, darling, but it's important to a girl her age."
Maryani refrains from mentioning anything about Khalad, because she would actually like to get the thing out of the store without anyone requesting ten extra inches of fabric be adding to it.
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"I find it tedious because it is tedious," he says, mutinous and steadfastly ignoring the varying looks they're on the receiving end of from the seamstress. He disentangles to hold the dress against Maryani herself, for an idea, and when he turns--
Petrana of Gatas does not smile when their eyes meet. "My Lord."
He tells himself he's imagining the familiarity of intonation, his grip on the fabric slipping and then clenching reflexively, and he's wrong.
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Maryani only hesitates for a split second before turning to Petrana with an uncertain, but nevertheless friendly smile. "Hello! Are you and Martel acquainted?"
She gathers yes, and not positively, but assuming control over the situation is her instinct here.
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"We were." They say it in time; Martel's fast on his feet and recovery from the shock of seeing her was only moments. He clears his throat, half to clear his head, and puts the red dress carefully down where he'd picked it up from, hand in the small of Maryani's back. "You look well, Countess."
"I expect I do. As do the both of you! Will you not introduce me to your...wife, my Lord?" Petrana smiles--prettily, she was always a pretty thing, only a little taller than Maryani and though she doesn't have certain advantages, she wears her age well.
"Of course--remiss of me, I beg your forgiveness." The layers of that statement become clear with his slightly brusque introductions, "If you will allow me to introduce you both, my wife Maryani, Lady Petrana, Countess of Gatas."
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Martel, Maryani observes, has a penchant for petite women with long dark hair. Petrana's paler, of course, and vastly more aristocratic looking than tawny-skinned Maryani with her smile like a new knife, and who is mostly made of earthy rawness and sex and blood, as her origins might lead you to expect. Regardless, this definitely tells her the man has a type.
And she recognizes the name. It only shows in her expression for a second, but there's layers there, of shock, of understanding, and, most tellingly: guilt. For a lot of reasons, but the guilt is one she's not going to get over for a while. She's had problems explaining it to Martel sufficiently, for that matter, which is saying something when it's not rightfully all her fault.
You can't choose the circumstances of your birth, after all, but that's only part of this.
"It's good to meet you, Countess; what brings you to the shop?"
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"The fine craftsmanship here, of course!" Petrana didn't miss the recognition; her chin lifts with hauteur that Martel remembers as an affectation. Her height isn't much, but Petra has noble birth and noble bearing, and reasons here to emphasize them. "My Lord and I are visiting. A family occasion -- a wedding!"
"My congratulations to the couple," Martel murmurs, drier than he probably intended to let it be.
"And to the two of you! Though I understand I am belated." Petra smiles when she's angry. Martel used to think occasionally she learned the habit from him, but it was a passing contemplation that he never commented on.
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Maryani will never get used to noble women, she decides; Ehlana is lovely, and they have mutual respect for one another, but if there's a problem she'd rather talk about it. So she does.
"I don't see any particular reason for us to stand here and be awkward at one another," she says, carefully, "Countess, my husband is--relatively busy at the palace of late, but I understand you two have some unresolved issues; if you'd like to come over for dinner at some point to attempt to remedy some of them, you're welcome. At least with me."
She realizes it's...you know, still awkward--Nourelle and Nikolau are there, after all, but this is stupid, this standing here with awfulness seething all around them.
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Martel's used to Maryani's more forthright attitude, but Petrana is momentarily thrown. She rallies well, though, and she's shaking her head before Maryani has quite finished saying 'at least with me'. "I don't--I don't believe that to be necessary. I only have one question--if you will, my Lord?"
Guarded, he inclines his head. "Of course." I owe you that much.
"How many oaths did you break?"
It takes him a moment to realize what she's asking, and another to realize why. His grip on Maryani tightens and releases. "None I made to you. Not knowingly."
Petrana wasn't holding her breath, not at all. She gazes at them both for a moment, and then nods, her jaw tightening. "I'll not repeat that."
"You're very kind, my Lady."
"Sentimental. Foolishly sentimental."
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Ah. Maryani adds, carefully, because while Petrana obviously knows the various reasons for legitimacy, she wants to make it abundantly clear why Nouria's father has no such interest or ability in claiming her: "We all have our little youthful indiscretions," and she's dry as the Sahara there because they all know what Martel did was a lot more than that, "Sometimes they treat us more poorly than others, and new circumstances must be found ( ... )
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Petrana inclines her head to Maryani's comments, but there's no time to respond to them when Nouria has just arrived.
"Never, little one," Martel says, bland but underneath it affectionate--for a moment he watches Petrana watch her, wonders what she's thinking, but he lets it pass without comment. "Come, let me introduce you to an old friend." (Petrana half laughs, softly.) "Nourelle, Lady Petrana, Countess of Gatas."
"You are as lovely as your mother," Petrana tells her, all pristine ladylike manners.
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Maryani stays by Martel's side, tucked against him to an almost inappropriate degree. She knows what's coming, because her daughter, she suspects, exceeds both herself and Martel when it comes to sheer calculation. Stragen had his hand in that, but some of it is innate. You'd think being raised by nuns until the age of twelve would've given Nourelle a soul of eager morality, but rather she's...her own girl.
On that note, there's a second--half a second, really--where she processes Petrana's rank, appearance, the tension in her mother and father, the focus on Nouria herself, and then she's smiling like she's a countess as well, instead of a half-cast girl born to a teenager broken out of slavery and a mentally disturbed priest out of wedlock.
"That's very kind of you to say, Countess," Nourelle tells her, lowering her eyes in an affectation of demure gratitude, "I'm much obliged to make your acquaintance; I've never personally had the pleasure of visiting Gatas, but I've heard only the loveliest things about it. The Deiran ( ... )
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Petrana is a mother her ownself, and besides that--of everything, this had been the last thing to let go. She smiles--genuinely, the first time since her arrival in the dressmaker's, and there's something about her when she's not so haughty and guarded that explains a great deal--and claps her hands together. "I do of course. I tell my own daughters--younger than you, yet--the same, but I'm sure you understand it's one of many things. General, Lady Maryani, you wouldn't mind?"
Martel glances at Maryani before he's even going to try wading into that.
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"Just Maryani, please," Maryani corrects, lightly; she has sort of an opposition to any sort of formality for herself that she didn't earn, "But please--go right ahead. Don't let her sweet-talk you."
"Mother, really," Nouria raises her eyebrows, "As if I were capable; as the Countess says, she's got daughters a little younger than me, so I wouldn't even try if I knew how. That's the sort of thing I'll learn when I'm older. Shall we, Countess?"
Nevermind that this entire game she's playing is sweet-talking of a sort, but it's harmless. Nouria does this with virtually everyone because she can, and it's practice. (Except Khalad, who shoots holes in it every time she tries, and she doesn't quite understand how he's able to see through her best act when she's fooled some of the cleverest of the aristocracy ( ... )
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Petrana is far more at home with the games Nouria plays than whatever that was that passed between herself and the couple silent together behind them. (Not to mention her mischievous streak a mile wide; Nouria will no doubt return to her parents will all manner of stories about her father's youth, only slightly edited accounts.)
Perhaps it's fair that he can't, when he's similarly inscrutable. The timing is unsettling, among other things, and he's not sure he wants to address any of it.
Out of sight had been out of mind. "They'll probably get along terrifyingly well," he says, as though inanities will put off conversation.
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"Mmm," is Maryani's noise of assent; she expects Nouria will also be carefully studying Petrana for any mannerisms she might want to pick up. It's not that Nouria just wants to know how to have the perfect manners, the perfect charm: she wants the perfect persona for every situation. The streetwise one is easy for her to pick up, and the warrior's persona is something she gets naturally from Maryani, but ladylike manners must be learned.
Maryani turns away slightly. "She's lovely. And some things are clearer, now."
Her tone is wistful. Maybe he's with Maryani now, but...Petrana got married, Petrana had children who wouldn't have to lie about their pasts, she could have done all those things Maryani might never, ever be able to give him. They've talked about it a time or two before, in years past. It still rakes at her. It's not that she wants to be an aristocrat--far from it--but she wants to make him happy, and to be the woman that will do that (instead of 'one of'), true legitimacy it seems necessary ( ... )
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