Business as Usual

marie-victoire
The windows at the Beggar and Flagon were all thrown open for the evening. Summer was clinging on well past its expiration date, and even the breeze from Faline's harbor wasn't enough to clear out the lingering humidity (or the damp stink that went with it). Marie-Victoire slumped in a heap behind her desk, lifelessly waving a feathered fan toward the sweat collecting at her dress's low neckline.

She turned her head in her elaborate chair to look out the wide office window. Ships were gathering in front of another dingy Faline sunset, visible over the shabby rooftops separating her house from the bay. She cursed the retreating sun, and hoped it took the unseasonable heatwave with it.

Heaving a sigh, Vivi straightened up out of her slouch in increments, her bulky, fine skirts wobbling like a meringue. She snapped her fan shut and snatched the matches from the top of her desk with equal, pitiful violence and looked at the ornate room darkening around her. "Rodanthe!" She called into the house, mouth working around the cigarette she was pulling to her lips, and when she got no immediate reply: "Eamon! My lamps!"

She lit her cigarette, squinting at the dim entryway of the room, waiting for one of her summoned subjects to appear. However, after several long seconds, only the common clamor of the Beggar at dusk came through the door. Drawing in an irritated drag, she found the floor with her tiny feet, and rose.

It had been years since she'd had to light her own lamps. This entire house was built around her desire to never light her own lamps again. The building sat on a foundation comprised entirely of Marie-Victoire's grievances with any form of manual labor, and the fortune she built to avoid it. These thoughts fueled her as she moved irately around the room, touching a match to every oil-damp wick in the half dozen elegant fixtures lining her office's walls. She lit each one with the comfortable grace of practice, and would have rather died than been seen at the task.

That's why she dropped her match when Mochrie entered her office for their meeting, and why she rounded on him with her small face puckered with rage as she did. "You startled me!" She accused her unsuspecting guest. Her anger was ineffectual, loud, and funny like a hen's, and her dress even wiggled like a plump bird as she brought her toe down on the match on the floorboards and stamped it out.
(421)

mochrie
Mochrie inelegantly tossed the bag of books onto the desk with a thud. He raised his eyebrows at her, as if to say, 'here you go', and wandered toward the space opposite her desk, leaning back to catch his hands on a small side table with a gaudy dog sculpture on it.

He took a moment before he spoke to her; he was out of breath, and quite frankly, felt disgusting. He pulled his shirt up by the collar to wipe his face, the fabric already discolored enough from sweat that it wouldn't make a difference. It was the sort of heat that made his eyelids feel soggy, that wilted his normally-stiff hair and made it stick to him-- or rather, his hair and everything else.

He nodded his chin toward the bag on the desk. "All five. Undamaged." He pulled his coin purse from his pocket, dropped it onto the side table he leaned on, tugged its drawstring open, wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. "Other half, please."

He'd waited all of a half-second when his brow furrowed and he glanced around the room. Six of the dozen lamps were lit, casting an orange glow on only one side of the room, and one side of him and Vivi. He squinted, brought his shoulder up to wipe his cheek, arm limply extended. "Is there a reason it's dark in here, or?"
[232]

marie-victoire
Her fan, pulled whip-quick from the volume of her skirts, snapped open again angrily. It fluttered ineffectually at her damp face, rippling in warning like a rattlesnake's tail. Mochrie was certainly used to Marie-Victoire's histrionics at this point, but she glared as if anyone who'd ever met her was still supposed to be fazed by her theater.

Vivi's eyes followed his books to the desk, then his gaze to her porcelain poodle, then met his stare when he finally looked up. She continued to wiggle the fan in puffed-up silence until he challenged the state of the room. "I was resting!" she lied shrilly, and stomped a dozen tiny steps back to the center of the room. "This heat is - unf - unbearable!" She fell into her chair, making a noise like a kitten surprised to land on its feet, and awkwardly hop-dragged her seat back up to her desk. At some point in the cartoonish sequence, the fan closed again.

"Show them to me," she ordered imperiously, pointing at the books with the folded fan like an orchestra conductor. "I want to see the condition."

While her eyes still watched him, her hands pecked at the back of her desk, feeling for the knob of a drawer. Once she found and opened it, she reached inside, rifling blindly. Instead of retrieving the cash box Mochrie was hoping for, she raised a small heart-shaped container into view. It was covered in fine paper and delicate ribbon, and was placed with care at the center of the desk before she removed its lid. She lifted a small fabric puff -- heart-shaped like its box -- from within and began to dab it on her sweaty neck and chest. The fragrant, perfumed talcum powder wafted out in swirls when delicately applied, and left an uneven mosaic of ghostly white hearts over her skin.

She heaved a sigh that was part irritation and part relief, then waggled the limp soft heart at him. "No one wants to do their job today," she complained. "Not even the customers want to come. This weather, it is bad for business." The heart wobbled in sad agreement before Mochrie's eyes. "Look at you. You are drenched. You look like a pirate. How are we supposed to live this way?" She would talk about damn near anything but money.
(388)

mochrie
Mochrie rolled his eyes, just barely, his tongue pushing out his cheek as he ran it over his teeth. The books were right in front of her, and the words 'check them yourself' were halfway up his throat when he swallowed them back down; he had wiggle room for his attitude, but only so much before the size of the reward began to dwindle.

He pushed himself off the dog-sculpture-table and wiped the ball of his palm across his chest before he started rummaging through the bag, arranging each book in a row atop the desk before her. A History of Oceanic Magics and Superstitions, as the first; The Lunar Cycle's Effect on Conjurational Ability, as the second; and then A Tanner's Experience with Monstrous Fabrics, The Truth Behind Talking Frogs, and A Novice's Guide to Enchanted Pastry following. Each tome was in arguably perfect condition-- much as they could be in this weather-- save for the last, which looked as though a good bit of flour had been caked into its canvas cover. Mochrie hummed silently in his head, already defeated in knowing she'd likely give him lowered pay for it. Whatever. He wouldn't have the energy to barter with her, not in this heat, so he'd take what he could get.

He opened his mouth to confirm that the books were all right when he was interrupted by a flurry of talcum, to which he snapped his mouth shut and squinted, lashes picking up all the residual dustings. He pinched them between his fingers to pull off the powder once she was done, blinking all the while.

He glanced down at his collared shirt and slacks in response to her comment, raised a brow. "A pirate?" He pulled the front of his shirt out a little, as if the different angle would prove her insult right. "What, is it because my sleeves are rolled up? I can roll them down, if that's any better for you."

He leaned a hip against the desk, gave her a look with that same raised brow, and held his arm out, popping the button with his free hand to roll the sleeve down. "Don't worry, your majesty. I'll look like no more than a soggy cripple in no time." He sniffed and tilted his head toward the books. "They're all in proper condition, by the way. You're more than welcome to check them yourself, unless you need me to turn the pages for you."
[412] 

marie-victoire
She closed her powder box while Mochrie laid the books out in rows, plucking it away while pretending she didn't notice his aggravation. Deals in the Beggar were reliable, straightforward, but occasionally the house demanded a bit of pageantry like this from its guests. Longtime associates knew that playing along was more than just pacifying the madam, it was buying in: a pledge of participation and culpability, accepting one's share in the danger of their business. The ritual placement of contraband tomes on the altar between them was offering enough. Marie-Victoire leaned in to look.

Mochrie straightened every volume into place beneath her lifted chin, and her scrutinizing gaze was anything but funny. Her splayed fingers hovered over each cover, so very nearly touching, as if she could divine their contents, until coming to the final book. As Mochrie expected, she coiled her index finger, her long nail excavating the surface through the stain of flour.

"A pirate," she repeated, almost absentmindedly, only looking up when he began to fuss with his sleeves. Her face clouded with confusion, then she said: "Because you are damp. And salty. In this terrible heat." She picked up A Novice's Guide to Enchanted Pastry, turning it over for inspection, "I do not care how you wear your shirt, monsieur."

She lifted the binding to her face. "You know I will say there is damage," her finger cracked open the cover, flipped the pages. "Even after I pay to have this cleaned."

She met his raised brow with her own, and returned the magical cookbook to its place in rank and file. "Other than that, they do seem beautiful." She leaned back in her chair, and grimaced at how dark the room was growing. "Though I can barely see them."

"RODANTHE!" Vivi hollered suddenly, past Mochrie to the open the door. "My LAMPS, Rodanthe!" But the din from the Beggar's dining room bustled on.

"You see? You see what I mean?" Vivi turned back to Mochrie, as if expecting sympathy, and shook her head. Her hands trailed back to the desk drawer, idly stalling the moment where gold found its way into Mochrie's hands. "Do you smoke?" She asked, then more importantly: "Do you care if I smoke?"
(373)

mochrie
"I don't care if you smoke," Mochrie muttered, willing himself not to roll his eyes. "I don't want any, thanks." She loved to draw out these exchanges, it seemed, likely to brainstorm some good reason to cut him short.

As she took her sweet time fitting her cigarette into its unfortunately ostentatious holder, and their conversation came to a pause, Mochrie took the lull for himself. He guessed he was already down maybe ten percent of his promised pay with that flour, and he'd rather not make it twenty.

He plucked the match from her fingertips before she had the chance to snuff it out, and, ignoring her incredulous expression, moved to the darkened side of the room, beginning to light her lamps.

"You know, I've never been offered a smoke after a job," he started. He kept his eyes on the lamps, just speaking loud enough for her to hear him as he faced away. "I've only ever been handed the coin and immediately seen out." He scoffed, falsely, making it seem like something supplicating. "Granted, I was offered forty thousand for one job. I didn't take it," he lied, "but that Lady Andraste—"

He cut himself off, blinked. He filled the silence by lighting the last lamp and waving the match out. Part of him was pleased with his attempt to convince her, while every ounce of the rest of him regretted speaking Lasair's name. "Sorry." He pursed his lips in an awkward smile, shook his head a little. "You wouldn't want to hear about that."
[258]

marie-victoire
The cigarette was retrieved without further drama, and she watched him levelly he took the match from her, her feigned stupidity having nearly run its course. When the cigarette found her lips, Marie-Victoire took a long drag, retracting into her seat to keep the smoke from the precious tomes. She nearly collapsed backward, spreading her elbows inelegantly over the arms of her chair while her free hand fanned her dewy, perspiring face.

Her expression was intent when he looked back to her after his misstep, her demeanor having shifted darkly. Her paper fan folded slowly, and was brought to rest on the desktop with a gentle clatter. "My friend Mochrie," she began, her hand straying to her bust.

She pulled a small gold key from her corset, dangling it from a damp blue ribbon. With it, she unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk in a practiced movement, her eye contact with him unbroken.

On the top of her desk she stacked his expected sum of gold, plus four, five, ten, twenty pieces more. "I very much would." 
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