In which Penny cleans up...

[lesefton]

About a month after her birthday, Sefton gives Penny the gifts that have come for her from Boll.


The past few days have been rather subdued, Penny taking her cues from her teacher, abandoning the cuteness of games for a simpler, quieter thing. She's obediently left him alone, for the most part, dropping by now and then for a kiss, but today she seems bent on waiting for him. She is the image of the model student, although her feet are bare and tucked up under her skirts, with a book on her lap and her eyes scanning its pages. Dinner began in the living caverns a little over an hour ago, but she's brought nothing with her, suggesting perhaps that she was here, waiting, before dinner became an option.
Wordlessly, he's demonstrated his appreciation for her restraint, in gentler kisses, gentle squeezes of her hands. He's moving slowly as he comes into his rooom, one arm full of hides, the other lifting a sandwich to his mouth. He gets the door with his shoulder, and is half a step in before he spots her. "Good evening," he murmurs, resuming movement and easing the door shut behind him.

Penny's head lifts at the sound of the door opening, and though she doesn't visibly tense, she nonetheless relaxes just a tad when Sefton makes his appearance, and not a drudge or a fellow student seeking him out. "Good evening," she replies, her smile already tugging at her mouth. She watches him as he closes the door, and after a few moments she tilts her head, hefting her book a little bit. "History," she explains, succinctly, with a certain dryness of tone alluding to her dislike of the subject.

"History," he repeats, with a warmth in his tone that contradicts her view of the subject. "I can see you are riveted, Sweetness." He crosses over to set his hides down in a lop-sided pile, and turn to lean against the desk, studying his sandwich. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He glances up, grinning. "Business, or pleasure?"

The combination of his question and his grin brings a helpless sort of answering grin from Penny, though she is quick to recognize the foolish smile for what it is and tone it down to a twitch of the lips. Business or pleasure? She considered the question for a moment and then says, ruefully, "Lack of willpower." The book is still open, on her lap, though her attention is turned on the Headmaster instead. "The moment I stop paying attention, my feet bring me here."
His smile softens, and he tilts his head for a moment, curls clear of his eyes as he looks her over. "Your feet are very clever, then," he replies, reaching behind him to set down the rest of his sandwich, uneaten. "They must know that your present has arrived from Boll, and is waiting for you. It would have been here sooner, but Kel writes that each one of my brothers and cousins insisted on adding something, so the whole process became rather drawn out."

"Some part of me has to be clever, or they'd never have let me in here." A token demonstration, perhaps, of her frustration with her studies at the current moment. Penny perks up, though, straightening, smile lighting at his next words. "My present! I had nearly forgotten." Nearly -- but not quite. The book is unceremoniously dumped to the side in expectation, and her eyes find his again easily. "Come on, then, you know better than to keep me waiting."

"Many parts," Sefton contradicts, his eyes flickering to note the fate of the book for a moment. "Harder for you than others to make it here, Sweetness." He eases away from the desk, running one hand through his curls. "I know far better than to keep you waiting, but if you are waiting for more than one thing, I must choose which you should have first." He has a wicked grin for those words, and makes no move to retrieve her present, instead crouching so he can unlace his boots.

She never turns down praise, however asked for, and his words simply make her smile widen for a few moments. That is, until he continues, and her expression dims to a slightly less cheery thing, brows drawing in. There is amusement there still, however, while she watches him work at his boots. She's only patient enough to let him get one of them off before she abandons her place at the couch to move to sit side, flopping next to him and reaching for him, and for a kiss. But even this distraction cannot hold, and she draws back to flash him a sulky sort of look. "Give me my present, Sef! I have been astonishly good ever since you mentioned it, and not asked about it once, and you're cruel to keep teasing me."

He leans sideways for the kiss, though his fingers don't stop at his laces. "You have been astonishingly good," he agrees, amused. "That is far more surprising than that I am cruel, I should have said." He kicks off his boots, though, and rises to his feet, walking over to the trunk that lives at the end of his bed. There are more clothes lying about than is usually the case, and here is the reason -- most of the room inside the trunk is taken up with a box, which he removes, and sets down, closing the lid of the trunk so he can sit on it, and lean down to begin rummaging inside it. "Whose would you like first?"
The sulk vanishes as quickly as it came, and she leans back, pleased, when he begins moving to fetch the box. "Mmm..." she considers, but not for long, making her decision in an instant. "Rali's, his will be the silliest one." She moves over closer, settling back on her knees, expectantly. "You could have taken me home and spared yourself this trouble, you know," she reminds him, gently, but there's no heat in the admonishment. She knows why he could not afford a day spent away from the Weyr.

"I know," he agrees, looking down to where he's pushing aside packing material to find the object he's after. "A day away would be welcome, but just now --" He shakes his head, curls falling down into his eyes. "I am sorry that such sadness should coincide with this time of year for you. Ah, here. Now, Rali wished me to explain that --" He pauses, reaching out one long arm to take a letter from the edge of the desk, and skimming it. "All the other children are playing with these, and that if you do not find childish moments here, then you ought, and perhaps this will help." He fishes from the straw a finely carved and painted spinning top, holding it out for inspection. "Apparently they are the latest craze at home. When one spins it, the patterns merge, and form others."

The gleam of childish pleasure softens a little, and Penny tilts her head, eyes moving from the straw-filled box to Sefton's face. "It is near your birthday, too," she points out, softly. "Don't be sorry on my account." She hesitates a moment, perhaps considering something else she might say, but the top is distracting enough to pull her back into character. "Oh, it is fun!" She reaches out to take it, examining it more closely and running her fingers over the carving, a close inspection of its crafting.

"Ah, but I am old, and if I recall correctly, I celebrated my birthday with great enjoyment," Sefton replies, yielding up the top. "Rali is as playful as ever. I think he ought to marry, perhaps. Whose next?" He watches her responses, each of them, dark eyes on her face as she inspects his brother's gift.
Penny's lips quirk with that little half-smile at the mention of his birthday celebrations, and it isn't until he turns the subject back to Rali that her attention returns. "Hush, he's young yet, don't go matching him off and ruining his fun. Unless you imply that I am old, and flighty, and ought to settle down, seeing as he and I are the same age." Penny raises an eyebrow at Sefton, amused for a moment before she sets the top on a patch of floor beside the rug, giving it a spin -- the stone is not quite even enough to encourage a good run, but the patterns are visible for a few moments before it encounters the carpet and topples over. "Freyan's," she decides, her eyes on the top.

Sefton leans in to watch the progress of the top, grinning, and leans back only when it settles again. "For you, I recommend no such course, as well you know." His reply is flippant. "I think Rali might be happier with a woman to settle him." He shrugs, dismissing that topic for another time, and draws out the next gift. It comes in a small cloth sack, dyed sky blue, and rather than simply handing it over, he holds out one palm and tips the contents onto it, spreading them out for her to see. Four fish in dark wood, carved and stylised, designed to be set on a dresser or a shelf, as ornamentation. "This," Sefton reports, reaching for the letter with the hand that holds the small sack, and claiming it once more, "is to be accepted in the hope that it will revive memories of a fishing trip you once made together, I am told."

"I would be forced to disapprove of any woman he was matched with, you know there aren't any good enough for my boys." She is content then to take her cue to move on to other things, particularly when the other things include more gifts for her. She reaches out to curl her fingers around Sefton's wrist, drawing his hand closer so that she can inspect the fish -- this time there is no gleeful grin at the whimsy of it, and she just looks. "He would've done better to send no fish at all," she says, quietly, eyes lifting for a moment to look at Sefton, and then back down. "We never caught anything." But she removes her hand from his so that she can take the fish, and inspect them with an intensity meant to hide the quiver of her lips that hints at her true reaction to Freyan's thoughtfulness. "You pick the next one," she says, anticipating the question.

"Do not let Besla hear you say it," Sefton replies, letting her draw his hand in, and meeting her smile with a quiet twist of his lips. "Never a thing?" He tips his hand sideways, so he can pour the little fish into her palm. "Freyan is a better fisherman than that. I suspect ulterior motives." He reaches down into the box, pushing aside a wad of straw to pull out a tall, slender bottle, holding it out for her inspection. It has no label, but a Y stamped into the seal. "Yannel's gift, of course," he drawls. "It is a white, particularly sweet, but delicate enough that it is not cloying, he informs me. The grapes were left longer on the vine, to achieve the taste. He says you must drink it chilled, but not cold."

"Besla's different," Penny declares, clearing her throat and reaching for the little pouch to slip the fish back into them. She doesn't clarify her comment, though, instead setting top and bag next to her and reaching for the bottle. "There are always ulterior motives, with you lot. Oh, Yannel. He knows me too well, I'm afraid." But she seems to be pleased by the gift, looking at the bottle as if something about the wine inside might be revealed if she stares at it long enough. "Merrik next." Perhaps she thinks she can get through without an excess of emotion, so long as the gifts keep coming -- her eyes are still on the bottle as she runs a finger over the stamped Y.

"Sometimes our ulterior motives are honourable," Sefton replies, obediently retrieving the offering that comes from the oldest of his cousins. "How it made it here in one piece I cannot imagine, but Merrik has chosen to reveal his oft-concealed artistic soul." The Headmaster's mouth quirks at the mental image this conjured, and he pulls a cloth bundle from the box, plucking a few strands of straw from it. "For your bed, to bring a little colour to it," he continues, offering the bolt of cloth, brilliant in reds, yellows, oranges and golds.

"Merrik? Artistic? Merrik is the soul of practi--" But that is as far as she gets, and Penny cuts herself off with a slow intake of breath, her eyes fairly glowing as she looks at the cloth. She doesn't reach for it right away, choosing to stare instead, and then all at once reaches to take it and hug it to her. "It's perfect! One month there and they all know me so well -- am I that transparent?" But even the idea of being so easily read is not enough to rid her expression of the pleasure this latest gift brings, in colors suited to her warm skin tones, and patterns as cheery as she is wont to be.

Sefton shakes his head, yielding up the cloth with a smile that's almost rueful. "They were only reacquainting themselves, Sweetness. They had very little to learn, and they read of you often in my letters." He reaches down into the box, pushing aside straw in search of the next gift, and beginning to draw it out. "How Tayan's gift survived without breaking is anybody's guess. I suppose he must have taken particular care in packing it." A large glass jar, filled with preserved fruit, the lid clamped firmly on -- ribbons in emerald green are tied to it. "He bids you taste home, and braid the ribbons into your hair," Tayan's cousin, the Headmaster, explains, after referring to the letter.

Penny's smile is fond as she shifts her attention from Merrik's gift to Tayan's. "The orchards. Of course." The bolt of cloth is let down to rest across her lap as she reaches for the jar, fingering the ribbons with obvious pleasure. "I will either have to save it and try to make it last, or eat it all in one go and make myself sick." The gleam in her eye at that last suggests which option she's more likely to choose. "I hope Besla sent some word along with Mittan's," she says, lifting her eyes again. "I miss her, for all we've known each other for only a short time."

"Your restraint is legendary," Sefton replies, with a lazy grin. "Besla has indeed sent some word, but first, Kelar's gift, and then mine. We are concerned, both of us, that Mittan's might put us in the shade." He's careful as he pulls out his brother's offering, which seems at first to be a bundle of simple, undyed cloth. From a man who lives by (and woos) the weavers, however, this is unlikely. Carefully the cloth is unfolded, and a shawl is revealed, midnight blue, woven through with strands of silver, and embroidered with whimsical patterns of silver beads, polished to catch the light. "Kelar does not send particular instructions," Sefton observes, studying the cloth, as thin as a spinner's web in places.

No instructions are needed, at least not to appreciate the gift, if Penny's face is any indication. She merely stares, mouth open just a little, making no effort to hide her reaction to the shawl. It's a long few moments before she reaches out to touch it, and feel the delicacy of the weave. "This must have cost him a fortune," she manages eventually, practical to the last, but not quite able to bring her eyes away from it.

"Perhaps," Sefton allows, lifting his shoulders a couple of degrees. He moves to hand it over, so he can reach out his long arm sideways again, and claim a small case from his desk -- it holds jewelry, its design makes this much obvious. "Would you like gift now, Sweetness?" It's a tease, his fingers ready to open the lid, but demanding her request.

Penny is still a bit bewildered by the extravagance of Kelar's gift, as she takes the shawl from him gingerly, no doubt afraid of messing up the fabric. She looks up when he speaks again, eyes moving from his face to the box and back again, hesitating a moment before her lips quirk with the smile lurking there. She nods, before she manages, "Yes, please," in a tone of utter politeness and restraint.

If Kelar's gift is guilty of extravagance, so too is Sefton's -- the former is designed to be worn on evenings when the height of elegance is required. The latter is for other, wilder nights, when energy and colour reign instead. The necklace is comprised of perhaps two dozen chains, in three shades of gold, woven together in a tangle so that they nearly form one rope -- red and orange glass, or else rubies and topazes nestle in amongst the links, to catch the light and fire it back. Sefton lifts the lid, and the holds out the case for her inspection wordlessly.

Penny hesitates, her eyes lingering on his face while he holds out the box, letting a few moments pass before she drops her gaze, her smile anticipatory. It takes her a moment, eyes fixed on the necklace, to react; when she does, it's a small thing. She swallows, starts breathing again, and lifts her eyes back to his, some sort of wordless question in her face.

Sefton studies his own gift with her, and then, when she does not speak, lifts his eyes in lazy enquiry -- it does not strike him, apparently, that she might not like it. Nevertheless, it's in that direction that he teases, drawl lazy, self-assured. "It does not please you?"

That tease is enough to make her frown at him, just for a moment, in exasperation. She looks back at the necklace, frown dissipating, still kneeling on the floor with her other gifts scattered around her, and says, "I've never owned--" But she stops, looking back up again. "Is this -real-?" It's uncertain, from her tone, what she wishes the answer to be.

Sefton's mouth twists to a wry smile, and he extends his hand a little further, bidding her take the case from him. "I believe the phrase you were looking for was 'Thank you, Sefton'," he remarks, dry. "I should like to see you wear it, some time."

Apparently, he's exceeded the amount of teasing that will have an effect on her -- she ignores that initial sarcasm, her eyes inevitably brought back to the necklace. She doesn't reach out for the case, but instead straightens and scrambles closer until she's kneeling on the floor next to the clothes chest. She turns her back, enthusiasm returning in a visible flood, a rush of color to her face. "Put it on!" She lifts her hands to gather up her hair on top of her head in order to assist him in carrying out her demand.

"Very well," Sefton murmurs, lifting the necklace free, and setting the case down to one side, so he can lean forward to fasten it around her neck. Ungentlemanly, he takes advantage of her proximity to press his lips to her neck, and as he fastens the clasp -- it takes longer, without looking at it while he does so -- to nibble her skin, his chin slightly prickly towards the end of the day.

Penny's breath catches in her throat, first at the touch of the cold metal on her skin and then at the warmth of his mouth; perhaps her hands tremble a little, for a few locks of hair tumble down as he works the clasp. Behind her, he can't see her eyes close and her teeth catch at her lip with the effort of holding still long enough for him to finish with the necklace.

He takes his time with the necklace, and reaches over her shoulder to be sure it's sitting straight before he withdraws, fingers coming up to tease her hair free of her restraining hand, tracing up the shape of her arm on their way to that task. He combs it straight, and then settles back to where he sits on the edge of the chest. "My shaving things are on the bottom shelf," he murmurs, pointing to that space where his possessions that are not books lie -- amongst othes, his shaving things, and the piece of mirror he uses.

Penny is either hesitant about seeing it or reluctant to leave him long enough to fetch the mirror, but after a few moments she moves forward to investigate the indicated shelf. She settles back on her knees again once she's found it, and spends a few long seconds gazing into it, one hand creeping up to trace along the curve of the necklace. Eventually she lowers the hand with the mirror and turns back toward him. "What do you think?" The other hand is still touching the necklace as she seeks out his eyes. Then, perhaps with a touch of self-consciousness, she adds, "You have to imagine it without these clothes." Not a necklace meant to be worn with her every day school clothes.

"I have plenty of practice at that," Sefton replies, white teeth flashing in a grin. He puts his smile away as he reaches for the case, and holds it out to her. "I shall have to see that you have a reason to wear it soon, Sweetness. You look beautiful." Another grin, to chase away that moment of solemnity. "Now, we have only Mittan and Besla's gift remaining, I think."

An answering smile quirks, amused, at that -- and though she reaches out to take the case as he offers it, she makes no attempt yet to remove the necklace and put it back where it will be safe. Instead she's not-so-surreptitiously glancing into the mirror again, until Sefton speaks again, and she replaces the mirror on the shelf with an effort. "What? Oh." She raises an eyebrow, one hand still at her throat. "I think you have done your brother a disservice, saving his gift to follow this one."

Sefton laughs, shaking his head, and lifting one hand to rake his curls back from his eyes. "On the contrary, Sweetness. Mittan and Besla have such a gift -- such news -- that any other that followed it would be put in the shade. They have been a little pressed for time lately, and they ask that you forgive them for sending you something small." He reaches into the crate one last time, and pushes aside a little straw to find a piece of hide, folded over once, and holds it up. Rather than handing it over, he opens it himself, and reads the contents with a grin -- he must know them already for after the first few words, his eyes flicker up to catch her reaction. "Dearest Penny," he begins. "Our daughter's name is Praya. Come home soon to meet her. With love, Mittan and Besla."

The mention of their present being news must have alerted Penny -- her face changes a little, though she does not have time to think through the connotations of the words before he's reading the hide. It's as well he's watching for her reaction, for it's certainly something to see -- even after so much cheer and pleasure at her presents, her eyes light visibly at the news, widening and both hands fly to her mouth. "Sefton!" She's not bothered to moderate her tone. "You didn't tell me!" It's hardly accusatory, though, and she scrambles forward to snatch the hide out of his hand and pore over it herself, as if she might glean some information from the writing that the reading aloud did not convey.

"Fancy that, I keep secrets." Sefton could not be drier, yielding up the piece of hide with no small amusement. "I rather thought it was not my news to tell, when I knew that they were looking forward to that opportunity. I cannot find a day to take you home just now, with things as they are, but I will see that you get the chance to go without me."

"Praya, what a pretty name." Penny's still staring at the note, perhaps completely ignoring what Sefton is saying. "If only my parents had taken such care in the naming of me. Oh, Sef, how could you not tell me?" But she's pleased, there's no denying this, and even annoyance that he did not instantly tell her is not enough to mar the occasion. She does, however, sober after a few moments and look back up to him. "You have to come too, Sef. It isn't the same when you're not there, when I go without you I just spend all the time thinking that you should be there with me." Her expression has softened, brows drawing in a little. Her voice is much softer when she speaks again. "You can't spare one afternoon?" She pauses, and a smile quirks again. "To see your niece?"

"I did not tell because I was particularly asked by my brother and his wife that I allow them to tell you," Sefton replies, lifting his hands to demonstrate his innocence. "You cannot fault my behaviour, Sweetness." He looks down to the hide she holds, and his mouth quirks. "It is a pretty name. There is nobody whose name starts with a P in our family, either. I wonder what inspired them to choose it." A fond grin accompanies those words, and he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, coming closer to her. "I knew you would importune me, with those eyes of yours. I can perhaps find an evening, if that will do."

"Your behavior is always at fault in some way," Penny says drily, starting to recover a little from the news; though she still glances down at the brief note now and then, as if to remind herself that it's there. Perhaps she would've said more but for his teasing, bringing up a thought that no doubt had not occurred to her. "But-- you really think the P in it is for me?" And back into bewilderment she goes, perhaps more than a little overwhelmed by the other gifts and this new information. She lifts her gaze again with an effort. "Why do you even try to say that you will not come, then, if you know I will convince you to do so anyway?" She carefully folds the note, and tucks it into the ribbons around the jar of Tayan's preserves, and then rises up onto her knees so she can lean closer to him, trace a finger along his cheek. "It would be good for you to come home for a little."

He smiles, turning his head into her touch, then turning it further so he can kiss her finger. "I will read you the rest of your present," he replies, taking up the letter one last time. "Please tell Penny," he drawls, "that we hope she does not mind that we have borrowed her P, and that we hope our little girl will grow up as bold and as charming as her namesake." He looks up from the letter, grinning. "They ought to be here in charge of Caucus, not I, with such silver tongues." A glance down to the letter, so he can conclude. "She must come and give her stamp of approval very soon, and you will have to bring her, for --" He cuts off, smile rueful. "I am besieged from all sides. I will find an evening, Sweetness, and take you home. I yield."

Penny listens, in silence, though her mouth -- that one part of her that she's completely incapable of keeping controlled -- starts to tremble tellingly. Eventually she lifts a hand to hide it, though her eyes are suspiciously wet by this point, and she gives up pretense and drops her gaze, bowing her head. "Find an evening soon," she manages finally, in a small voice. "I want to go home."

Sefton's smile turns gentle, and he leans down to brush her hair back from her face, when she bows her head, and press his cheek to hers. "I promise," he whispers, before he straightens up. "I have letters I must write. Stay here a little longer, and then we will go to eat together." He's rising, and looking down at the hides he dumped on his desk. The remnants of the sandwich are retrieved, and passed down. "That will keep you alive until I am done. I want to write to Lord Bardo's heir before my thoughts escape me. Look over your gifts again, and then I will be done."

Penny gives a quiet sniff as he pulls away again. Her look as she accepts the sandwich suggests perhaps that she will never be hungry again, with such gifts to sustain her, but she takes it anyway, tilting her face up to watch him as he stands. "Sef--" She speaks to forestall him, though she doesn't seem to know what to say past his name. Her mouth opens, but she stops, and just looks, helplessly, until her eyes drop and she glances round at her presents. Finally she's forced to acknowledge her own speechlessness, and her mouth twists to a rueful smile even as her eyes seek his. "I think the phrase I'm looking for is 'Thank you, Sefton.'"