Thicker Than Seawater

Sometimes Club: Empire of the Rising Sea

• Peridiscus, Saxifrage

• The Knothill: Lounge

Peridiscus blinks at the streams of late morning sunshine pouring in through the windows of the lounge. How did it get to be so late in the day? The hob absentmindedly swirls the glass of wine he was nursing, listening to the birdsong outside by creatures who were oblivious to the somber atmosphere within the hotel. He idly observes the sounds of the other hotel workers he was allegedly supervising, repairing and cleaning the hotel after the events of the previous night, their voices low and subdued.

Light footfalls thrum the wood and iron of the staircase, announcing Saxifrage's descent. She spirals from the floor above, skirt clenched in a hand, so as not to trip over the hem, but she stops before reaching the floor. The jill peers into the room, timid and guilty, and clears her throat, as if the noise of the steps had not already betrayed her approach. This is the first time she has exited her quarters since the debacle on the beach, and, while bathed and combed, Saxifrage is bereft of her characteristic buoyancy.

Peridiscus catches a sight of his sister's skirt hem, barely visible below his hooded eyelids. The hob grips the glass a little tighter uneasily, but otherwise he is bereft of any response to her entrance. After a moment, Peridiscus takes a drink of his glass spasmodically, a trickle of red wine dribbles from the corner of his lips. He hurriedly wipes it off with a sleeve.

Saxifrage's throat tightens, and her skin goes cold with the wintry gust of Peridiscus' riposte. At first, the jill just bows her head in despair, olive gaze rolling to the side, as if she were considering retreat. But she then lowers herself into a sit on the steps, perched halfway between the upper level and the lounge, arms wrapped around her bent knees. "Peridiscus, I--" she trails off, her nose afire with encroaching tears. There are no words to fix this.

Peridiscus glances up at the mention of his name, and upon seeing his sister's expression, her coming tears, the polecat's face contorts into uncharacteristic anger. He puts the wine glass down atop of the table before him convulsively, with force just shy of what would be required to break the glass. The noise it made was loud, and the glass clatters as it upended itself when the hob jerkily drew back his hand. He glances down at the glass and his expression changes again, terrified by his own emotions. He glances up at his sister remorsefully. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that."

Unlocking with the other, her hand moves to twine its fingers about a baluster. The jill rubs its twisted work with a thumb, observing her brother through penitent, glazed eyes. "It's all right," Saxifrage pipes, then she looks away. She examines the wrought iron beside her in way that suggests the jill had not given its intricacies much thought in years. "Remember when we visited in summer as kits?" The flutter of a smile plucks at the edge of her mouth. "And you got your head stuck?" She pantomimes Peridiscus' youthful misadventure, moving her forehead to rest against two balusters.

Peridiscus manages a lopsided half-grin at the memory, his face feeling like it was constrained by a mask that hasn't been furrowed by any expression in too long. "I was just happy Anselm got me out with only a bit of grease." Then, he adds sardonically, "I'm sure my allowance would have been docked for life if they had to somehow cut the balusters." The image of his father asking him how he expected to pay for last night lingers in his mind.

"Anselm," Saxifrage echoes the name. Her head remains tipped against the cool iron balusters, and she lids her eyes. "He tried desperately to stop me; I should have listened to him, Peri. But I--I don't know what I was thinking." The jill flattens her little rounded ears against her skull, and turns her face inward to the balusters--a shift that conjures a veil of flaxen hair to hide behind. "Maybe I liked the thought of an adventure, you know? I go out of my mind here, cooped up like a laying hen."

Peridiscus's lopsided-smile widens into his familiar full grin, and his eyes widen a little at his sister's explanation of her "adventurous" tendencies. The hob runs a hand through his thick hair. It was hanging flat and unstylish, the natural result of washing it and letting it dry naturally. He approaches his sister, coming to stand in front of her, so that his face was almost level with hers on the other side of the balusters. "Well, I hope you had some fun. Now we're supposed to lie low for awhile. I don't know what that means. Maybe it means we're grounded." He smirks, but then relents a little, "I guess it was fun. I-I didn't know I had anything like that in me." But then a shadow quickly sweeps over his features and he looks away. "If only it hadn't been so costly.... I was ready to face down father about the costs, but... You heard about the staff?"

Saxifrage tries to swallow the lump which once again burgeons in her throat. "Yes. Papa spoke with me about it--oh, Peri. It's all my fault; those poor creatures. What will they do now?" Her hand, still curled around the pole, tenses, white-knuckled flesh visible through the sable fur. Then it loosens, plummeting down the length of the baluster in anguish, before she draws it to the bridge of her nose in a fist. "I was naive to presume it would only be my neck on the line. In fact, I wish I'd hanged. Papa would have only had to relieve half of them, had he not been bound to pay for my freedom, as well."

Peridiscus snaps his eyes back up to try to meet his sister's. Forcefully, he says, "No, it wasn't your fault. I- I was angry, but I wasn't thinking. It wasn't your fault." He pauses, and adds wistfully. "I don't think it's even mine. Politics is like a force of nature. The waves crash over us, sweeping away what we love."

In the sibling familiarity of his eyes, gazes locked, Saxifrage loses the battle to stave off tears. Crying is not something the jill often does; in fact, even as a child, she was known to reconcile injury--physical and emotional--with a stony indifference. But the salty shine thickens. A single droplet slips from the inner corner of her eye, skirting the contour of her snout in a march of abject shame. "Have you heard news of the others? Punch?" The timbre of her tremulous words implies Saxifrage is unsure whether she really wants to know the answer.

Peridiscus touches the iron balusters with the tip of his fingers, feeling the cool undulating contours of the wrought iron. He hesitantly says, "No, there's not been any word that I've heard yet." A beat. "Do you love him?"

Saxifrage pushes a forearm against her eyes; a blockade against any further weeping. Beneath its weight, the burning subsides. When she removes the arm, the jill is in full remission from her emotional faux pas. "What do creatures like us know of love, Peri? What does anybody, really? But especially us. Our lives are well orchestrated; we're not allowed to dabble in such petty sentiments. Look what becomes when we do." She inclines her chin an intrepid notch. "But, for what it's worth, I have known him almost as long as I have known you; I would no sooner want to find him beheaded than my own kin."

Peridiscus nods once in acknowledgement, though he seems slightly taken aback. "I don't think-- Well." He looks miserable. "Perhaps..." he begins, but changes his mind. "Papa doesn't think it will come to that," he finishes lamely.

"I hope he's right," the jill says. Clenching the banister, Saxifrage pulls herself to her feet. "But things have taken a turn for the unexpected; I doubt even the wisest among us could know what will happen next. Our king--as we knew him--is dead, his throne usurped by a potentially murderous lunatic." She has begun to climb the steps, but peers down to Peridiscus. "We won't be able to purchase our safety forever, dear brother." There is something distinctly foreboding in what she says, and it is not restricted to the immediate words; the jill's very tone chips at something else, perhaps on the cusp of treason.

Peridiscus slumps against the staircase, watching his sib leave. His expression is grave, and he answers almost neutrally, with the only slightest tinge of conspiratorial irony in his tone: "We Knothills serve the legitimate government of this land." Then, he turns back to his work. And more wine.