|Summary:||Ceinlys is troubled by recent events.. right?|
|Date:||4th October 2012|
|Related Logs:||It Would Be She|
|Ceinlys' Chambers - Highfield Keep|
|Not as fancy as you might expect.|
"What do you mean, she's not dead yet?!" The words are hurled and drift within earshot as a handmaiden quietly elbows open the door of the well-appointed chambers and discreetly carries a tray inside. Oh, how she hopes not to be noticed. Everyone seeks to become invisible when the Lady is in one of those moods.
The guardsman being addressed holds his ground, hands clasped properly at the small of his back. But the stammering hesitation to his response seems only to infuriate his noble hostess still further. "Well? Do you profess to be a Maester, perhaps? Have you some.." Across the grand table, her elegant hand whirls in the air, implying a search for the correct description, while the other rests lightly upon the surface, steadying her slight forward incline. "..innate understanding of the body that would allow you to make such an assumption? Not dead yet." His report is echoed in abject scorn, accompanied by the sneering curl of a seductive upper lip. Leaving the moment just long enough to become uncomfortable, she then merely turns from him, arms folded, to stare out through the window. "Get out." Only too pleased to oblige, the guard hastens toward the door. But he's called to a halt as his grasp closes upon the handle. "..and Hugh..?" In contrast to a moment ago, the tone is dangerously sweet. He doesn't dare to look back, he simply freezes in place. "..do not forget our arrangement. I would so hate to be disappointed again."
With a gulp, hopefully unseen by those occupying the room, poor Hugh offers a mumbled, "M'lady.." before practically catapulting himself out into the hallway, loosing a deep, long-held breath. By the Seven, but that woman can be as formidable as his Lord, at times. Maybe moreso, given that the temper lurks beneath such a fair facade.
Gazing through the thick, wavery glass of her window, Ceinlys heaves a similar sigh, for altogether different reasons, fingertips lightly drumming upon opposite forearms. All these months of planning. Of biding her time. Of doing things subtly. And someone else just comes along and flails about with a knife. How utterly disheartening. And what's worse.. the job wasn't even finished! Rather than ridding Highfield of the menace that is it's Lady, now she languishes in her own squalor behind closed doors, festering and poisonous until she can be lanced like a boil. It's not fair!
"Leave me." The curt command is softly voiced, intended for all but her loyal attendant. The handmaiden who brought that little fare for lunch steals a last glimpse of the Steward as she bobs a respectful curtsey. Clad in blacks and jades, a stark and careful contrast to the porcelain of near flawless skin and vivid blue of dark-lashed eyes, it's not difficult to see, even in distracted profile, why his Lordship may have fallen for the charms of the young woman. Ceinlys holds herself straight-backed and proud, even as she regards the fields outside with thoughtful, narrowed eyes. Who would think such a graceful creature had such a capacity for cruelty and malice? Does his Lordship know?
Before she can speculate any further in her thoughts, the girl is ushered from the room by Brigid, shooed out into the hallway and the heavy door firmly closed at her back. Oh well, she'll have a tidbit of gossip to carry back to the kitchens, at the very least. The servants do love to muse over the details of Aleister's second in command. It helps pass the time when peeling potatoes.
Inside, the young lady sags a little following the departure of those watchful eyes. Her own attendant, of course, knows the truth of things - she has been with Ceinlys since she was a child. But she's not the sort to fuss and coddle, either. Brigid goes about her work briskly, even as her mistress, eventually, begins. "..will she ever die?" Frustration and fatigue lace the hopeless utterance, and the ebon-maned Steward pivots on a heel, wandering unhurriedly to her high-backed chair and dropping into it with a considerable lack of poise. A hand, propped by the elbow, rises to splay fingers lightly across her brow. "Is it so much to ask?" Eyeing the offerings laid on the neat platter, she grimaces slightly. Apparently she has little appetite, today. The goblet of wine, though, she lowers her hand to reach for without undue hesitation.
"She will, m'lady. Takes a sound mind to heal a broken body.. and we both know she's been lackin' that for quite some time. Even before her little bastard died." Fluffing the cushions that are strewn 'carelessly' upon a window bench, Brigid speaks cheerfully enough.
"You don't know that he was a bastard." Ceinlys takes a slow sip of her sweetwine, savoring the taste as she only half-listens to the servant.
"I don't know much of anythin', m'lady. But it's what folks believe that matters."
"Yes, well, I believe that damned Castellan is deliberately stalling the drafting of the annulment." An unaccustomed frown darkens the young woman's expression, fleetingly, her wine swirling slowly within the heavy goblet. Capturing her lower lip between her teeth, Ceinlys glances idly to the sheafs of fresh parchment, ever scattered about her table. "And with Bastien gone.." She'd never admit to being concerned for her safety. Who would dare threaten Aleister's favourite? But still.. the lack of words itself implies her.. unease. "Brigid, bring me some ink." With another, heartier mouthful of wine, she sets it aside and draws some papers closer, sitting up more purposely now. "..I think it's time to have words with my father."
Dutifully fetching a small pot from a drawer, the handmaiden brings it to be set before her mistress, pausing to eye her thoughtfully. It doesn't take long for the lack of movement to be noted. The Steward glances up through her long lashes, quill dipped and poised to begin. "..yes?"
"You've barely touched your plate the last three days. You're lookin' peaky, afore midday. And - forgive me m'lady - your temper's been of a most ferocious sort. Moreso than usual." Brigid keeps her shrewd eyes upon her charge, speaking plainly as is her way. Sort of.
Ceinlys sighs, tucking back an errant, spiralling raven tendril with her free and, trying to settle to writing. "..I really ought to consider taking on a scribe. Perhaps father has a trusted one he might lend me.." The handmaiden says nothing. She just continues to stare levelly. That, in the end, gets her the reaction she desires. She knows how to handle her young mistress, most of the time. Looking back up sharply, then averting her cerulean eyes just as swiftly, the young lady mutters, "..and? It's just.. the stress of recent events. And the lack of a decent meal!" Well, there's the aforementioned flare of unjustifiable rage. She knocks the platter flying across the table, then drops her quill, folding her arms tight beneath her bosom and regarding her servant with an expression that is, for want of a better word, petulant. Indignant. But with a certain flicker of fear in those predatory eyes that even she cannot disguise.