#but she's never been particularly courageous and i think she'd always lean on facades and defenses

[ellebeebee]

Fear

Sabine again, and I thought I’d look at her particular fears as a Revairan in uncertain times.

1734 words, no pairing, Revaire!mc, general

-

As she “guided” them through the hedge maze, Sabine waited several little meaningless tête-à-tête exchanges about the merits of getting lost, the scandal of being suspected of running away with each other, etc., before she broached the topic she’d been keeping on the tip of her tongue since the welcome feast.

“I’ve been meaning to say-- I believe we have a mutual friend,” she glanced up.

Clarmont smiled genially. “Oh?”

They did not move in the same circles.  The times they’d crossed paths at court could be counted on one hand.  Her glittering world of social seasons was quite apart from his sedate country life.  That they would have a mutual friend was indeed, worthy of an “Oh?”

Even an unsurprised one.

“Jan Allard.  The writer,” she smiled back. “He has the most interesting conversation, don’t you think?”

“Very much so.  Quite a character,” Clarmont said. “I must confess, though.  His treatises are a bit beyond me.”

She laughed lightly. “They certainly are for me.  But somehow I think you are being a little modest, my lord.”

“Oh, no.  I am afraid I am hopeless beyond the small matters of a country estate.  High econcomics and such send me off snoozing in my armchair.  And I suspect, my lady, that it is you who is being modest.”

“Modest?  Me?  How scandalous.”

He laughed low in his throat.

“But that does remind me,” he said. “When I saw Jan last, he told me to send you his regards.”

Sabine’s light hand on his arm directed them down yet another dead end.  They turned about, and a warm breeze brushed the back of their necks.  She remained silent for a moment.

“That was kind of him,” she said.  She stared ahead. “I have not seen him in some time, and did not get the chance to give my farewells.  You would have seen him… last month, yes?  I believe he was staying with you.”

Clarmont said nothing for a long stretch.

Like every month, last month had been awfully quiet on his estate, save for his guest.  It had not been so quiet in the capital, however.  Oh, not for the nobility, of course.  The court’s favored, anyway.  The parties and luncheons and theatricals continued on.  But in the city’s lower streets, the common people’s squares ran red.  A new batch of anarchists and radicals had been rounded up by the Crown, and dealt with.  Including that nuisance of an anti-monarchist pamphlet writer, The Fox.  The Fox had swung, along with his fellow instigators, from the gallows before a sullen-eyed crowd.

There was a secret that the Crown hadn’t sniffed out, though.  The Fox was not the man they caught, but rather Jan Allard.

Which he knew she knew.  And which she knew he knew she knew.  And so on, and so forth.

Clarmont smiled. “Yes.  I kept him for as long as I could, but I’m afraid he was more than pleased to finally escape the dullness of my land for his usual haunts.”

Sabine smiled. “Oh, I doubt very much that is true--”

They continued on their stroll through the idyllic gardens until teatime.

-

“There’s been a change,” Sayra said quietly.  She stood to the side with the corset in her hands and the laces draped over the shoulder of her neat black jacket.

Sabine had her arms halfway raised to let her begin help dressing her.  She turned her head over her shoulder to Sayra.

“A change?”

Sayra pulled the corset over her shift, and Sabine held it against her breast as she began to lace the back.

Sayra lowered her voice. “Lady Pema is planning on visiting Princess Gisette before Lady Naomi’s morning tea.  The princess plans to pressure her into taking her along to the tea.”

A presumptuous move by the princess-- to intrude uninvited-- but people were often left with no other options with her than ‘Yes’ or ‘Yes.’  That Sayra should know such intimate information was becoming less of a surprise as the days went by.

Sabine gazed across the room and let Sayra work, threading the dozens of eyelets with a practiced ease.  Ria had left already after finishing her hair and makeup, and Jasper would be at the door soon.  She felt all her lumps settling into a comfortable and familiar position as Sayra tied off the corset’s laces.

“Could you get the pink day dress instead?” Sabine said. “I think I will send my regrets to Lady Naomi.  I’ve a bit of a headache coming on.”

Sayra did not pause as she silently went to the wardrobe to put back the visiting gown and all of its accompanying underthings.

As they pulled pink dress’s matching petticoat carefully over her head, so as not to disturb her hair, Sabine caught her dark eyes.

“Thank you, dear.”

Sayra blinked placidly and tied off one side of the petticoat. “Not at all, my lady.”

-

The stablehand patted Butterscotch’s wide flank.  The horse’s tail barely flicked.  He was, truthfully, only a step above a plow horse in temperament.  But the Lady Sabine of Revaire had been requesting the most docile and slowest beast they could find ever since her accident, and so Butterscotch was pulled from his quiet life of grazing placidly on the rare occasion that she was invited to a ride.  She accepted these invitations with some reluctance, it seemed.

The stablehand took a cloth handed to him by the boy assigned to follow him about on duty as part of training.  The boy took his own cloth and began helping him wiping down Butterscotch’s broad sides.

The Isle stables were beautiful.  Straight-cut beams lofted high, and groundskeepers kept the white mortar of the walls neat and clean.  Broad strokes of sunlight painted the smooth rock floor, let in by the tall windows set with real glass.  These horses lived better than many humans, truthfully.

Over the perfume of new hay being laid down and the chatter of the others working, the stablehand and the boy groomed Butterscotch.

A flurry of something drew his eye to a window.  He dusted the front of his breeches and went to the glass.  The stablehand blinked, his cheeks shifting.

He gestured to the boy to continue working on Butterscotch as he slipped out the stables’ grand double doors.

The area around the stables was of course manicured and arrayed to suit the aesthetic sensibilities of the nobility; pretty trees and intricate little awnings provided shade over several seating areas.

A lady and lord stood by one of these very seating areas and its ornamental topiary.  Their body language and distant sound of chatter read as light and friendly, even if the lord leaned in a rather looming-way and held his shoulders and nose rather high.  You’d think they were indeed just chatting, but you could never know with this lot.  Especially with that crown prince of Revaire and the very lady of Revaire whose horse he’d been currying.

She’d apparently lingered after her ride in order to rest-- riding being a practice in containing reluctance for her-- and Prince Jarrod had happened by.

Unseen, the stablehand watched a moment.  He grabbed a large broom and rounded the corner of the stables toward the gentil paved yard.  He pushed the stiff bristles against the pale stone tiles and whistled a jaunty tune.  He felt them take notice and dipped his hat respectfully.  The prince frowned and the lady blinked.  The stablehand replaced his hat and continued, whistling ever louder.

He saw out of the corner of his eye as the prince turned back, his cocky posture and whatever his line of cocky words had been interrupted and not so much in stride.  The lady straightened and said something.  The prince retorted.  A short exchange followed.  The prince finally turned with an overly-dramatic swirl of his cape and stalked away.  A bit of red marked his pale cheeks.

The stablehand continued sweeping.  A pair of trim boots and the embroidered hem of a riding habit swished into his view.

He bowed slightly. “My lady.”

Lady Sabine ran a hand over her skirts as she gazed at him. “I owe you my thanks.”

“My lady?” he said.

She raised a dark brow.

He tapped the ground with the broom. “Just doing my job, my lady.”

“Then you have fortuitous timing,” she said.

She tilted her head back to study him.  Her brow knitted. “You…”

The stablehand waited with a vague smile.

“It would be good…” Lady Sabine started. “I mean, I would very much appreciate it if this incident remained here.  And did not reach the ears of our friend.”

He considered this.  He was no player of the guests’ rotten games, but there was no mistaking who she meant.  Their mutual companion at the servants’ gambling tables.  Her eyes were stuck to his expression with uncertainty pinching her lips.

“I can do that, my lady,” the stablehand said. “But, pardon the presumption-- not much of a way to have a beginning.  With un-truths.”

Her eyes widened.  And then her shoulders went sort of limp as she huffed a small laugh. “I suppose you are right-- well, you are very right actually.” She popped open a fan to shield her face from the sun as she smiled. “I owe you my thanks twice it seems.”

“Not at all, my lady.”

The fan’s shadow cast her features into a sort of soft painterly picture.  She peered at him.  Looking for something, seemed like.

“It’s just…” she said. “Well.  It’s a bit embarrassing, I have to admit.”

He shrugged.  Studied her back. “I didn’t see anything embarrassing.  I mean.  Pardon me, but the prince is… something, right?”

Her eyes shifted, and she lowered her voice. “Well.  Yes.  But I am fortunate, aren’t I?  Unlike others.”

The quiet of her voice echoed the quiet steps and quiet looks of laundry girls, maids.  He nodded.

“We all have our own ways, my lady,” he said.

They paused quietly.  No one was about; most of the stable workers were inside tending to the steeds of the nobility after their morning rides.  If anyone would pass by, they might look strange.  The lady met his eyes, and their words turned into a silent acknowledgement.  She stepped back.

She sighed. “Well, I must be away.  Until next time, dear.”

“My lady.”

She walked away, and the stablehand went back to Butterscotch.