A Missive Received at Calomel Hall.

[Carnath-Emory]

The stern gaze of Cinnabar Calomel. It sounds like the title for a book, a thought which leaves the swordswoman slightly smiling at the most inappropriate moment. He won't appreciate that anymore than he'd appreciated her choice of terms - but this is not unusual; such points of disagreement have been a near-constant feature of their friendship, and hadn't she invited him here despite that? And despite even the nature of that summons, had he not appeared?

It has seemed healthy to her.
And still does even now; even when she answers the man's insistences with a sour flattening of the lips - and with sudden laughter just moments after it. "No. No, I think you have the right of it on that. A man who successfully governs? We imagine he has better tools with which to manage a, mm - problem."

A blind spot.
A space between thought and conclusion.

But this is a thing partway reclined upon its windowsill and a little dimmed by the warmth of wine, anaesthetics and the evening sun. She does not much stir, even before Calomel's bade her to keep her seat, but only nods her head so slowly; only lifts it, at that last, to fix upon him this long, pale gaze.

"Thank you. For that. But - " a tilt of her chin towards him; towards chessboards and promised salves and his own bruised self. " - for coming at all. I know that it costs."

We both do.

"This game, mn? Yes. Certainly. When I've learned the rules."

Which change with context; which change with the passage of years. And when he leaves, it's to the sound of her laughter, and with a smile grown small and warm and fierce.