Audemus Dawnspark

Imbrication

“Both of you,” She begins in that special Meadowshine tone, smart and sharp and just try me, “Are absolutely ridiculous. Spoiled, even. Do I look like a scullery maid?”

A withering look and foreboding jerk of a wash-pruned finger. “Don't answer that.”

Carrying a wicker basket with a paisley patterned liner that is stacked to the brim with laundered and folded clothes, he can see the similarities. Tucking away his clothes into his dresser and hanging his coats in the armoire, she’s also more housekeep than laundress, but he knows well enough to keep those observations to himself.

Idly, he turns a page of the journal in his lap, revealing an inky sketch of a human with an aquiline profile. He commits the image to memory, then scans the page for a name between the long glances he affords at Melisande’s back.

“What’s that?” He questions, interest immediately perked by an article of clothing that she tuts at and sets aside.

“Just one of Mathias’s things. Must have gotten them mixed up in the wash.”

Of course it is. A whipcord coat the color of overripe red currants is certainly not something he would ever wear, nor even spare a second glance at if it were hanging from a clothing rack. It’s also not a shade that would likely be flattering against his complexion, and he’s quite sure it would be similarly bad alongside Mathias’s. But, if someone had to wear it, he would certainly look better in it.

He makes a mental note to tell him just so, later.

x

Khida spends an inordinately long time threading periwinkle sea rockets into his hair, insisting that if they have tea, he must look the part. There’s a quilt spread out on the sandy hummock and Melisande has provided tea (orange peel and rose hips), finger sandwiches (strawberry and cream cheese), and even invitations (his name, complete with a backwards ‘S’, was the most prominent on the guest list and was also the only one belonging to a non-imaginary construct).

Melisande is singing a pleasant shanty as she pins damp laundry to the clothesline strung up along the dunes, and Khida is chattering in his ear about chicken eggs, her speech inflected with a strange whistling lisp thanks to her missing front teeth that makes chickens sound more like chickeths. He tunes them both out and focuses instead on a scuttling crab picking its way closer that seems to be intent on scavenging a sandwich for his own.

He nudges his boot in the sand, and it scurries away. It wasn’t invited, anyway.

Khida finally seems satisfied with his floral adornments, tucking a flower with a prominent taproot behind his ear. The glabrous leaves smell a bit pungent, but he bites back his protest as she compliments him. “You look pretty.”

Melisande, fastening a pair of heavy woollen trousers to the line, corrects: “Handsome.”

“You look handthome.”

“Thank you,” He replies politely, smoothing out the blanket so Khida can seat herself next to him. “Would you like some tea?”

“Let me do it!”

Bossiness is not a trait he can bring himself to find fault in even as Melisande clicks her tongue reproachfully at the little girl’s lack of propriety when it comes to tea party etiquette. However, in her haste to make sure that he isn’t the one who gets the honors of pouring, Khida bowls over him with grabby fingers and upturns the kettle, spilling the entirety of its contents. The tea infuses her pretty white chiffon and turns it pale puce. He hones in on the fretful tremble of her lower lip immediately and preemptively winces before the hysterics even begin.

“Can you finish this?” Melisande implores to him between her assurances to Khida that she’ll be able to remove the stain, tugging the blubbering girl — my favorite dress, my favorite dress! — along the sawgrass lined trail. If the two of them weren’t already disappearing down the path back towards Rustberg, his gawk could be better appreciated.

He sulks for a long time with only the persistent crab for company, and when it becomes apparent that Melisande is not playing some sort of prank that involves him doing laundry of all things, he rises to his feet and begrudgingly wanders over to the washing line.

There's mostly children's clothes left in the bin, and he dutifully hangs them, affixing pegs to twine. Somewhere after the second or third garment, he finds himself wondering how much clothing children actually need, and voices this complaint to a gull crowing overhead.

At the bottom of the wash is the crimson coat.

He holds it at arm's length for a long inspection; a duffle coat made of wool fleecier to the touch than he had imagined, threads gone soft with repeated washing. The wooden fastenings are dulled with age and the grey fur lining of the oversized hood seems a bit threadbare in the spots where the edges of a tricorn could have conceivably rested.

He puts it on.

It’s too long through the arm and torso and too wide in the shoulders, but the combination of zesty citrus detergent and salt air reminds him of tropical trade winds. A delicate cluster of purple petals, pulled from the top of his head, is pressed into one of the inner pockets alongside the four clothespins left in the bucket.

Maybe the color isn’t so bad after all.

x

“Wine?”

“What? No,” Mathias replies absentmindedly, dismissing the offer with a handwave, not moving from the hunched over position he’s adopted to pour over a coastal map laid out across the coffee table.

“Suit yourself,” He retorts airily, sloshing the rest of the vin de glace into his already overburdened glass. Stretching his legs along the settee, he props his bare feet along Mathias’s side, nudging them beneath the lower hem of his shirt.

His toes are slapped away. “Light! Your feet are fucking cold. You know what — it’s fucking cold in here. Don’t you ever close the window?”

“When it rains.” It’s a truthful answer that earns him a flat stare in return.

“People complain about the thistle smell.” A fond eye roll.

“The wine helps.” For emphasis, he drains half of his wine glass and only pauses for a breath when he gets a clout on the thigh — more loud than painful —  that makes him laugh with impish mirth.

“My patron saint of lost causes. I think you're just immune to the cold. Makes sense, I guess.” The words hold a warmth the chilly air of his room does not, and prickle his skin in lieu of temperature-induced goosebumps.

He points — hand lifting his glass, a finger stretched out along the crystal stem — to the wardrobe. “There are spare blankets in the bottom. You could use one to wrap around your mouth so I don't have to hear you complain.”

Another clap of a broad, tattooed hand along his leg in playful rebuke before Mathias pitches forward to his feet and shuffles across the high-pile rug to find a source of warmth to huddle in. “Shove over,” Comes the grump, right before his legs are being squashed into the back of the cushions.

With the blanket over his shoulders, Mathias could pass for a king in ermine. Pirate potentate, his mind supplies, in silver mink couture instead of speckled stoat.

“Was that my coat?”

The question interrupts his musings. He quaffs the dessert wine, a knee-jerk reflex of the glass being raised to his lips. It — and something else infinitely more ineffable — blazes a hot trail from palate to belly.

“You must have left it here.”

Mathias makes a noise somewhere between an exhale and a grunt, an onomatopoeia of elucidation. There’s a brief pause as he shuffles through a sheaf of nautical charts, and then, apparently nonplussed by this assertion, simply draws the nippy pair of feet into his lap and responds: “Must have.”