| A Different Approach |
| Summary: | Day and Rosanna discuss a change of strategy. (Or maybe just a strategy at all.) |
| Date: | February 29, 2012 |
| Related Logs: | Attempted Distractions |
| Players: |
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| Guest Chambers — Seagard Castle |
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| All pretty and stuff. |
| February 29, 289 |
It's mid-morning on a (blessedly, for most of the populace) uneventful day in Seagard. The sky is breathtaking blue and dotted with scudding clouds; sunlight streams through the casement of the tall, broad window set in the southern wall of Rosanna's well-appointed guest suite. Amidst the pillows of the deep window seat, Day sits with her legs tucked up, making an attempt at knitting. It's a valiant attempt, but doomed, it seems. There's a deep line drawn between her brows as she surveys the snarled waste of yarn that marks her failure. On the floor beneath her, Rosanna's cat bats the ball of yarn the septa is working from, to and fro. "Maiden, Mother, and Crone," Day mutters, letting her skull thunk back against the stone. "Old women, gnarled with arthritis and near blind, can accomplish this without even looking at their work — how is it I cannot?"
"Barristan, stop that," Rosanna chides as she scoops up the long-limbed grey tabby. She strokes his fluffy ears as he lounges in a long-suffering way. "They probably do it when they're old because they didn't have anything better to do when they were young," she announces in a confident manner as she settles down near Day's feet on the window seat. "I'd throw myself out this window if I had to just knit all day."
Rubbing the back of her neck, Day smirks in wry agreement. "I am about to throw myself at this window, and I've barely been at it an hour." She lets the mess of yarn simply lay in her lap for the time being, turning her attention to her charge. She studies the young woman a moment, a smile easing onto her features. "I missed you terribly while I was away, you know. It was so strange to be apart from you for so long." She sits up a bit straighter, folding herself cross-legged and reaching for Rosanna's hands. "Tell me what you've been up to?"
"You shouldn't have been away," Rosanna says in lingering unforgiveness. She allows the clasp of one of her hands, although the other busies itself with Barristan on her lap, and she makes a show of only deigning to give her hand to her governess. "You're not their governess."
Day grins, completely unfazed by the rebuke, tucking a lock of hair behind Rosanna's ear and sliding a finger down to tuck beneath the surly young lady's chin. "I was taking care of the people we both love," she says, grin softening into a more serious expression. "Including you. If I could have split myself in half and been both places at once, I would have — but alas, there is only one of me. So I had to make a choice. It wasn't an easy one."
Rosanna sniffs delicately, still refusing to be convinced. "Well," she says. "You're here now, I guess." She strokes her fingers slowly along Barristan's fur, encouraging him to begin a loud, rumbling purr. "I have been trying to get to know Lord Patrek," she says, a note of complaint in her voice. "He's so busy." She is decent enough to sound a little less sullen when she adds, "And sad."
Day settles back, smiling as fondly over her young lady's little fit of pique as anyone else might over the sunniest disposition. She composes herself to give Rosanna's thoughts and concerns the serious attention they doubtless merit, coiling one loose end of yarn from her knitting disaster around her finger. "And sad," she agrees. "When someone you love dies, that loss is like — well, it's like losing them any other way, really. They're gone from your life, suddenly, with things left unsaid and a huge, aching space where they used to live in your heart." She pauses. "You know what that's like."
Rosanna frowns, her gaze dropping skittishly to Barristan. "That's different," she says. "Lord Patrek doesn't want to hear about that."
"On the contrary, my love," says Day, gentle and warm, "It's likely one of the few things he does want to hear from a lovely, patient friend. That she understands — even if only a little. Of course, you wouldn't compare your hurts — a death, the loss of a father… it is different in some ways, too different to hold them up together. But Rosanna… you know loss. And you know sorrow. You know loneliness, for there is no lonelier feeling — even when you're surrounded be people, as Lord Patrek is — than longing for someone who will never return." She pauses, beginning to unwind the yarn from her finger. "If he can share his sorrow with you, my Rose, and confide in you — you will have given him the one thing that no one else can."
"But how do I make him do that?" Rosanna says with a huff of a frustrated breath. "He doesn't want to talk. I don't know what he wants to talk about." Her bottom lip puckers with the threat of a pout.
Day considers. "Have you ever seen how Tommas gains the trust of a wounded animal?" she asks. "He goes slowly. He is quiet. He is open. He lets the creature know that he can be trusted, and that he means them no further harm." She lifts her eyebrows a little. "In this, my love, you hold every card. The boy has been deeply wounded. If you can gain his trust, be his friend, his heart will follow after. I've never seen any of the foundlings Tommas has nursed back to health leave his side willingly."
Rosanna looks a bit skeptical at the translation of Tommas' skills in animal handling to more human pursuits, but she doesn't voice an objection. "Very well," she says. "I'm supposed to offer Kingsgrove as a suitable place for any of the displaced smallfolk from the Roost. To help with the harvest, I suppose."
"Then you might offer your friendship at the same time," Day suggests. "Tell him what you know of loss, and of the wounds war leaves on the heart. Let him see you vulnerable, my love. He will trust that — he will see himself in it."
The young Groves huffs a delicate, petulant breath. "What good is learning the arts of a lady's conversation if I'm just supposed to say everything I'm feeling?"
Day chuckles, shaking her head. "There is a tool for every occasion, Rosebud. Had you met Lord Patrek at a gay ball in peacetime, when his heart was merry and unburdened, flirtation and coquetry might well have turned his head. But such is not the case." She looks quite serious now, though her tone is still gentle, there's a note in it that calls her student to attend a lesson. "You're a clever girl, Rosanna. My goal never been to teach you what to think — but how. How to use that adorably cunning and endlessly clever mind. And it's now you must begin. You must pay attention to your circumstances, your surroundings, not just what is said but how it's said and by whom. You have all the tools you need to make the world yours, but you must adapt as situations change. When an archer's foe is upon him, he abandons his bow for a bodkin. You must be able to do the same."
Rosanna takes in a slow, deep breath that ends in a more determined nod. "All right," she says, giving Day's hand a squeeze. "I can do that." Her smile a touch vain, she says, "I can be clever." Stroking Barristan's ears once more, she says, "We walked in the garden last week. He gave me his arm."
The septa smiles, squeezing Rosanna's hand in return. "I know you can," she says of the young lady's capacity for cleverness — with no small amount of pride. She has her own vanity, after all. "For now, the most important weapon in your arsenal is honesty. Vulnerability. Openness. Compassion. Be his friend, his ally, the balm his heart cannot do without — and you'll be his wife in time."
The curve of Rosanna's smile widens in reply. Then it falters. "What if his advisors tell him he should marry a greater house?"
"They will," says Day, simply. "That is their job, to be as ambitious for Seagard as I am ambitious for you — and they are men who will see gain only in the most material terms. But my Rose, he will love you — and it's not as though you're some common girl. You are perfectly suitable in every respect. If Lord Patrek sets his heart upon you, no one will be able to gainsay him."
Once again, that smile reasserts itself with a self-satisfied certainty. "He will," Rosanna agrees, as if she's just decided upon the fact and that's that. "I will make sure of it."
Day smiles once more, all warmth and pride, tugging Rosanna over into her arms for a proper squeeze and a kiss on the forehead, like the young lady's just a wee moppet, once more. "That's my girl," she murmurs into Rosie's hair.
Rosanna laughs a bit into Day's shoulder, even as Barristan yowls a protest at ending up squeezed between them. "Day," she says in a half-teasing whine. "I am not a little girl anymore."
"You'll always be a little girl in my heart," says Day, getting in another squeeze and kiss before letting go. "The only thing that's changed is I can't subject you to such displays in public any longer. Alas." She chuckles, untangling Rosanna's unhappy cat from her knitting. "My apologies, Barry."
Barristan offers another yowl before darting off of Rosanna's lap to find less squishy places to rest. Rosanna doesn't seem particularly bothered. "He'll recover," she says airily of her unhappy cat, smoothing down her skirts.
Day tosses the mess of yarn from her lap back into the basket on the floor. "My knitting won't, but it's just as well. We'll call it a mercy killing."
"Knitting is for old ladies, anyways," Rosanna decides, despite her earlier claims of the skill requiring practice. "You're still young." She rises from the window seat with a swish of skirts to approaching the looking glass and smooth out her auburn curls.
Rosanna laughs a bit into Day's shoulder, even as Barristan yowls a protest at ending up squeezed between them. "Day," she says in a half-teasing whine. "I am not a little girl anymore."
"You'll always be a little girl in my heart," says Day, getting in another squeeze and kiss before letting go. "The only thing that's changed is I can't subject you to such displays in public any longer. Alas." She chuckles, untangling Rosanna's unhappy cat from her knitting. "My apologies, Barry."
Barristan offers another yowl before darting off of Rosanna's lap to find less squishy places to rest. Rosanna doesn't seem particularly bothered. "He'll recover," she says airily of her unhappy cat, smoothing down her skirts.
Day tosses the mess of yarn from her lap back into the basket on the floor. "My knitting won't, but it's just as well. We'll call it a mercy killing."
"Knitting is for old ladies, anyways," Rosanna decides, despite her earlier claims of the skill requiring practice. "You're still young." She rises from the window seat with a swish of skirts to approaching the looking glass and smooth out her auburn curls.
"Not so young as once I was," Day notes with a soft touch of rue. She gazes out the window a moment, then unfolds herself from the sill, coming over to help fix the mess she's made of Rosanna's hair. "Lord Patrek would be a good husband for you, Rosanna," she says, meeting the young lady's eyes in the mirror. "Far better than most."
Rosanna smiles at Day in the mirror, something a bit smug in the sly curve of her lips. "He would," she agrees carelessly, her gaze focused on herself as she smooths out her hair. "But I'm only marrying someone who would be a good husband for me." Because, you know. She is totally in control of this aspect of her life.
Day smiles and leans down to kiss Rosie's cheek. "I believe we can make that so." Not quite as smug as Rosanna, but easily as confident. This is, after all, what they've been preparing for all these years. "Never worry, my love. You have the staunchest possible allies supporting you — you'll never be alone, or without help." She straightens and stretches. "I think it's almost time for midday meal. Would you like me to fetch something from the kitchen?"
Rosanna turns her head from side to side, admiring herself in the looking glass once her hair is fixed. "No," she says. "There's no reason to take a meal on our own. We shall go find someone to sup with."
The septa bows her head to her charge's wisdom. "Of course, my lady," she assents with a smile, then turns just in time to retrieve one of her slippers before Barristan bats it under the bed. "Just a moment while I discover what Barry's done with my other shoe."
"Don't steal shoes, Barristan," Rosanna says in a tone almost bored with her pet, not even bothering to look about for him. She futzes with this or that on her dress as she waits.
Slippers retrieved, Day is ready to play chaperon in fairly short order, studying Rosanna a moment before they head out. She frames the young lady's face in her hands. "Bored and disenchanted is not a good look — for anyone. If you must be bored, try looking wistful and a little sad, instead. It's a subtle distinction, but I advise you to practice it. Try now?"
"Why should I have to look sad?" Rosanna says in a tone half-whine as huffs a breath.
Day tsks. "Because it's attractive and bored is not. Or you might cultivate a small, dreamy smile as though you're thinking fondly on someone. But the Kill Me Now Life Is So Tedious look will never do."
"I was not looking like that," Rosanna insists, pouting. Then she heaves another great sigh in a long-suffering manner before arranging her expression into something a bit more dreamily — if still slyly — attractive.
Laughing, Day kisses the tip of Rosie's nose. "That'll do, Rosebud," she approves. "That'll do."
Rosanna lets the artifice slide away as soon as she secures approval. "Can we go now?"
Day smirks, pinching Rosanna's side as she opens the door — and makes a proper curtsy. "After you, my lady."
Rosanna sniffs haughtily, trying to shadow her squirming at the pinch, and moves on through the door. After her, indeed.
