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... )
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."
Meaning: 'yeah, my babydaddy was a psychopath who tried to kill me. Can you blame me for preferring this one?' Which...not by much, sweetie, but Maryani is biased, and believes he's recovered from that as much as is feasible, and as admirably as both personalities and circumstances will allow. On that note, a pretty, ostensibly Elene girl, more Petrana's height than Maryani's, comes through the door. She's less buxom than her mother, compact and made for slipping through city streets without being noticed, but they definitely have the same cheekbones.
And they both smile like they know something.
"And my mother and father beat me here already," Nouria muses out loud, eying Petrana with some curiosity, "Hello. I'm so sorry, am I interrupting?"
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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 mountains have a reputation, especially in winter. My mother doesn't care much for fashion--it's a personal choice, of course--but as a lady of taste, would you be kind enough to espouse your personal opinions on what I've ordered for myself?"
The flattery involved in that question, and the implicit trust (which is a compliment in and of itself, since she can tell there's oddness with Petrana and her parents) are all charm. By all appearances genuine, too.
Nouria hesitates, and adds, with a certain sort of humility and a lowered voice, "I'm only eighteen, and everyone tells me it's terribly important to look just right. Do you agree?"
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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.)
She will go off with Petrana now, to look at the fashions of the shop, if all are amenable. Maryani, meanwhile, looks up at Martel, quietly. Her eyes are hard to read, right now, which is a rare thing for them--Martel, of all people, can usually tell what she's thinking.
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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.
But Maryani can't change the color of her skin or the shape of her features. Not permanently, anyhow.
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"Which things might those be?"
To say he's guarded now is to understate the case--illustrated by his reluctance to turn her back to him, even if he holds on tighter when she moves. Their relationship has never been simple; there's too much done, too much past, too many secrets. This is something he's actively avoided touching on--to understand it for them both requires more given honesty than he's been willing or able to give.
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Maryani just shakes her head, slightly, and smooths her fingertips along the neckline of his shirt before turning all the way around. "She's quite proper on the outside. I doubt it's that way all the way through--which is how it ought to be, isn't it?"
Even if you gave Maryani a title, she is so much herself, too hypersexual (she doesn't know if her body made her that way or if she just uses it that way), too violent, too...well, look at her. It's not that she suspects he'd prefer to be with Petrana so much as she wonders if it wouldn't have been ultimately better if he'd chosen the path that included her instead of Maryani, because that's the path where he didn't fall from grace, where he made the smart decision to avoid the girl in the woods and not betray his Order.
She's associated with his mistakes and intertwined with the worst of him. That's just how it is.
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"It suits her," he allows, inclining his head and not otherwise commenting on whether or not Petra is proper 'all the way through'. (Of course, she's not--it's less bloody than Maryani, but scratch the surface and Martel remembers the girl he chased up trees and caught while she laughed like she was screaming, twisting 'my Lord' until he wanted to wring her neck or just abscond somewhere private.)
He'd made a choice--a conscious choice, after Maryani's unexpected kiss, after Maryani, to keep to the path she wonders about now. He'd known better than to think he could marry her; Petra was a good match (in his own mind he never thought 'better', even as he made the decision), a beautiful woman, and someone he'd believed he'd come to love. He cared for her enough, and they'd fit together well.
It hadn't been so hard to walk away from her, though. He thinks about that, now, whether he wants to or not.
(Petra thinks of it, too, and second place hurts but not so much as it would've, not now, not with so many years between them and she loves Davidias, loves him like a grown woman and not someone only learning how to with a man who doesn't feel the same way.)
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And, of course, they're not saying anything about any of this.
When Maryani was fourteen, someone ('someone', if she mentioned this out loud they would all know who) told her there are women you marry and women you desire, and Maryani was born into the latter category. That's what this is about, really, not Petrana, who isn't a person to her so much as a symbol of the girl you take home to mom.
Which is funny because Maryani really gets along with Sephrenia, but never mind that. Right now she's pretending to look over some dresses until her hands stop shaking, which she is praying Martel will not notice, because they're already going to have to discuss this later.
Or maybe they won't. She's not sure she has the self-defense today to push him if he's especially reluctant.
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In a moment that deserves some kind of fanfare, Martel leans down behind her, his lips at her ear, "We'll discuss it later."
He was twenty-five when they met, and disinclined to discuss much of anything; a man in his forties now, the amount of times he's offered this of himself can't be counted because previously they didn't exist.
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Yes, judging by the look on her face, she is somewhat surprised to hear that. But she nods, and half-smiles, before throwing herself headfirst (because Maryani does everything wholeheartedly, which is the main reason she's not a lady: she lives too hard) back into her role in life.
"I'd better go make sure Nourelle isn't convincing the Countess to do anything mad," she murmurs, "I'll meet you back at home later, darling."
She kisses his cheek, shopgirls and onlookers be damned.
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Whatever Martel ends up doing for what's left of the afternoon and evening, it's after dinner when he does get home (from the palace, most likely, but there are other options), time enough that Nikolau at least should be in bed.
Either he was busy, he was putting it off, or more likely he was conveniently busy. Still--these days he's a man of his word, though he likes to encourage other perceptions as it suits him to, and it's been coming for longer than just an afternoon.
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Maryani is in the bedroom putting some clothes away. Nourelle came back from the dress shop full of little tricks, some others were aware she learned, some not, and with a dark red dress that both fit her age and would catch attention when she chose. The other dresses, darker and less low-cut, were for other occasions. (She did have some plans to try the red one out on a certain squire, however. Her mother has elected not to mention this to Martel.)
Heaving a sigh, Maryani sits down on the trunk at the foot of the bed, and starts taking off her dress. Her hair is already unwound and loose around her shoulders, but the dress is an annoying facet of her day--moreso since the children don't appreciate the sheer white thing she wears underneath.
Martel probably enjoys it, however, under other circumstances.
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There are definitely days Martel's really does appreciate Maryani's idea of appropriate clothing. (They often coincide with days where he doesn't have the patience for all the things involved in taking off most Elene women's fashion.)
He closes the door behind him, softly, and watches her. "Tired?"
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