That morning’s paper bore news which suggested… demon dung, he just had it. Suggested something. In any event, he felt a sense of foreboding that the city was to be sealed and no goods transported in or out until after the latest Earth Guild mineshaft had been cleared. Mindful of the day before, he read only briefly before preparing his own recipe for cabbage rolls. He used the fruit reduction from Friday, and the rice and meat was still good from the freezing cold outside, and if it was a bit dry, the reduction would restore it.
Once again having attended to breakfast and lunch, Quill set out for work, happily on time or even a little bit early. Walking up the alley behind Dragon Tales he checked the loose brick in the wall and found not one but two scraps of paper. One said, “danger” and the other said “no.” He wondered which one had been placed there first, or if they were from two separate games of children playing spies. But then, the handwriting was the same on both.
With a shrug, he let himself in and set about herding cats, sorting books, and—wait, no, he herded volunteers, and sorted books, and attended to the everyday paperwork of running an organization for one’s boss. But first, of course, he updated the blackboard to say, “Please wipe the snow from your boots before you enter.” It seemed like a good message, as messages went, because snow was ever-present outside the city square and moisture brought in mildew brought the destruction of books.
It being Saturday, there was the usual deluge of people who needed books right that day, and couldn’t possibly wait until Monday. Quill took it as a small grace that nobody asked him about his Incarnate faith, and the day proceeded reasonably quickly to lunch with Noue. As much as any time was tolerable spent away from Noue, at least. He supposed he would admit he enjoyed Glue’s company, and Parchment, though the two of them spent more and more time being treacly sweet upon each other.
Noue looked cheerful and was eating a cabbage roll, albeit one from one of the market square stalls, and flagged down Quill as he proceeded to “their” table. He brought his lunch and explained that, while it wasn’t how his moms made it, his was a more model example of a cabbage roll. Noue looked dubiously at the purple reduction poured over it, but sampled a bite before returning to her more touristy roll.
They discussed books, and Noue indicated she’d been doing some reading on dragons. There was deucedly little literature on the subject aside from records of their patronage and the scriptural references to Gotorjod taking the wrathful flame of the One God on her wings. Quill felt the impulse to consult his axiom of lore, but thoughts of a man with a broken nose left him with the feeling he should simply listen to what Noue was learning. It never did well to talk too much with a lady present anyway, Wisdom was… that was a curious mental capital. But in any event, wisdom often came from the mouths of women, while men drank deep of folly in each others’ company. She talked about different colors of dragon referenced in stories of patronage, and complained that if they’d been all that interested in patronizing they could have clued in the Age of Stone peoples that there were more than twice the number of elemental spheres than anyone realized. But then, dragons viewed time differently, having so much more of it, and at least one apologist emphasized the value of hard work, to which humans had been sentenced when they were kicked out of the Garden, and the rediscovery of the spheres thusly.
Quill was enthusiastic about listening, even as he had the nagging feeling he knew some of this already, because he was, in a conservative and cautious way, dragon-critical himself, and listening to Noue hold forth passionately on a subject about which they agreed was a joy in and of itself. After they had finished their lunches, and as the square was growing crowded, Noue suggested they avail themselves of one of the entertainments available to the well-heeled on a Saturday afternoon. She smiled at his suit, still blue, and cravat, one of the few garments regularly changed out, and assured him she would cover the cost. This was a relief, and not the least bit uncomfortable to Quill; if someone wanted to take him somewhere above his station, they were welcome to do so on their own dime.
She had heard good things about an illusion show just off the main square, utilizing the recently-discovered light sphere to project fantastical imagery into the air above inclined seats, as singers and actors voiced the parts of the performance. He asked what story they were performing, and she shrugged and shook her head. All she knew was that it would be dark, semi-private, and hopefully diverting. She took his hand and he realized what she meant. It would be a place to hold hands, even kiss, without fear of… whatever he didn’t like about public spaces.
They rose from their table and Noue led the way, paying at a small kiosk near the entrance to a carpeted hallway. Quill wondered idly how they kept carpet free of mildew and then remembered it was not even a block off the covered central square. Noue led them down the hall and past some printed banners advertising various stories. Quill wondered if she’d picked one at random and led them through the door into a large, slightly chilly room full of seats fixed to the floor. There were candles providing illumination, however, and with relatively little trouble they took seats just to the right of the door. They spoke quietly, and Quill learned she had selected an entertainment favored by those of an artistic persuasion, full of abstract imagery, percussion, and vocalization.
After a sandglass or two, as the room grew not full but less empty, a gust of air sorcery blew out the candles simultaneously. Personally, he thought it was a neat trick, though Noue didn’t seem particularly impressed. He supposed they had seen more impressive applications of the air sphere… at some point. The room was entirely dark, and then a sphere of light appeared overhead. It appeared textured, or became textured, spinning in place, until it became an eye, staring down at them. A second soprano, if he was any judge, held a single ringing note joined by drums when the eye grew two feathery wings. After that, Noue took his hand, and his attention veered sharply away from the—admittedly skillful—abstract performance.
Noue kissed Quill’s knuckles, then the inside of his wrist, and then simply grabbed him by his lapels and let her breath warm his lips before her tongue parted them, his jaw already slack with distraction. Hardly one to be outdone, he raised his arm to cup the back of her head, thankful she had stopped keeping sticks in her hair and that it was simply soft, curled, and loose, and gently closed the distance between their lips. She was warm, her lips were soft, and if she had cabbage on her breath he could hardly claim otherwise about himself. Her tongue, already having parted his lips, met his tongue and lunch was the last thing on his mind. She hummed her delight into his mouth, and he separated them enough to put a finger to her lips and shush her. She chuckled deep in her throat and took his finger between her teeth, her tongue making circles around the pad and tracing the finely-groomed edge of his nail. Then she pushed his finger away, still using her tongue, and sat there looking sweet and innocent even as she had heightened the fancies of his imagination to a fever pitch.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The performance, he would later note on the bulletin, was approximately two hours. Were it not for his faith he would have sworn under oath it had been at most three sandglasses. He knew his face was flushed, and when he cupped Noue’s cheek for a parting kiss, he felt how warm her own face was. “May I escort you to Church tomorrow?” Her nose wrinkled in that charmingly displeased way she did, and she asked him why he attended a Wholist Church when there were so many Witness chapels, and probably even a few Incarnate halls. He replied simply that he was a man of habit and that was the habit that served him. She considered this silently, before nodding and telling him he could pick her up at The Golden Spoil the next morning.
It occurred to Quill only as he realized he was taking a different route than usual that he was visiting his moms. Along the way, he ducked into two stores, though ultimately he decided against buying anything. He knocked gently on the door to their stout apartment building and the door was thrown wide open almost immediately. He laughed as they proclaimed they had been waiting for him.
Mother Plotarc raised an eyebrow at her flushed, cheerful son and asked who he had just met. He laughed again, regarding the stout, gray-haired woman in a simple black dress and hand-tatted lace shawl. He never could hide anything from them; well that wasn’t true, he could hide things, but they somehow always knew he was. With a grin, Quill told them that he was most assuredly in love, as he hugged Mother and then Mama. They were different to hug, his Mama was tall like him. Dutifully having pecked each cheek and cheerfully borne other signs of maternal affection, he launched into an excited ramble about Noue. She was intelligent and witty, an enthusiastic rock climber and knowledgeable about matters political and philosophical. But they knew that already. Mama laughed and told him to tell them all about her all over again, if she made her son so happy. He smiled ruefully and launched back into his ramble. She had held her own in a debate with some of his friends, not that she had to in order to win his esteem. After all, his friends could be a handful. Somehow, the names of his friends never came up. While he could hide things, and although they somehow always knew, his moms never pressed when he wanted to keep a secret.
He would have thought he would get sick of cabbage, but even his own recipe couldn’t compare to cabbage rolls made by Mama. He suspected they used a different meat blend than his own, and it was nothing like as sweet, but he had never asked for the recipe. Some things were not meant to be made by a bachelor in his own home, because they were the sacred domain of family. His moms had acquired the habit of coffee after dinner, the bitter brew a welcome accompaniment to whatever dessert they had cooked up. Today they served up a carrot pudding, made from curds, flour, eggs, and naturally enough carrot. It had never seemed like an affectation, more just how they did things. His moms were not ones to make displays of wealth; if anything they were the sort to save fragments of old shirts to make into quilts stuffed with the most ragged pieces.
Mama Kweeleh asked him how he’d met this woman, “Denouement” she was, and probably would ever be to his moms. Assuming there was an “ever,” was the sobering thought. Mother noted his face fall, and spoke up reminding him not to get in over his head; he was a man who loved to love and his last relationship had left him heartsick when he departed abruptly for Spirithome. Quill bore the motherly reprimand obediently, though he wanted to defend his former partner that there had been a reason for his departure… but he couldn’t remember it and so kept his peace. They asked how the two of them had met and he told them it was through work. His moms exchanged glances, and asked him if he’d purchased those books that had been in the paper. Though something slid uneasily in the back of his mind, he shook his head, assuring them that the entire collection of Dragon Tales’ literature was legitimately obtained.
On the subject of news, he asked them whether they needed anything, what with the embargo on trade, but they demurred and said if anything they should be asking him that—they lived comfortably. Speaking of livings, how was his job at Dragon Tales treating him? He sighed cheerfully, explaining about Leather and the efforts to keep the damp out of the books, paperwork to account for hours, expenses, and so on. He laughed as he told them someone had checked out three volumes of a penny dreadful, and Mother looked reproachfully at her son, reminding him that reading of any sort was enrichment and he ought not judge. Everyone, after all, was a neighbor and deserved neighborly treatment. Especially if they were patronizing “his” library. He shook his head in amusement and acknowledgement.
As the evening concluded, with a minimal number of silences, his mothers sent him off with wrapped puddings, and having heard the tale of the lunchtime cabbage rolls pulled a plate of beef stroganoff from the icebox open to the outside that they simply would not hear of him leaving behind. Quill protested but knew a losing battle when he saw one, and ultimately wound up balancing a small pile of finger foods and wrapped puddings atop a plate of stroganoff more resembling a platter. He didn’t remember announcing when he would visit them next, but they never seemed surprised when he arrived. He tried to count the number of days since he had seen them last, wondering if he habitually visited every so many days rather than a more predictable weekly schedule, but despite a busy day and filling dinner the aromas of food kept him from focusing on arithmetic. His own cold box of his small apartment was filled to the brim with the rewards of being a good son to loving mothers, and in fact he—only out of necessity, you understand—had to eat another of the puddings before there was room to close the lid and not let the cold infiltrate the rest of the space.
He laughed at his own internal dialogue, as though he needed to defend—sarx. That was what he had forgotten. He was going to review his fencing forms on Saturday afternoons. He hadn’t counted on the romantic interlude with Noue, and he had entirely forgotten he was visiting his moms. He had exercised the weekend before, and he walked every day, he would make sure to review his forms next weekend. If he stayed up to review them now he might oversleep, and that might make him late to Church… with Noue.
