And you're finally free to twist and turn like a skeleton key. Who: Quenten Delacreaux (& NPC Leola Vancoor) What: good intentions, bad results Where: Nobles District When: Saturday morning Rating: PG-13 for references to violent death Status: Complete
Kiernan had told her not to go. What could it hurt? she’d asked, and he’d answered, Trust me. It’s not a good idea.
Perhaps it wasn’t. Everyone always had nothing but her best interests at heart, and even Kiernan was likely trying to help her avoid whatever unpleasantness he anticipated she’d find. Still, she had to try, and she wasn’t the sort to let a bad idea deter her. Besides, Lav was so very depressed. The present would be fine without anything from Nowe. Lav would love it no matter what; Quen knew that. He would never know. Even so, some part of her wouldn’t let her give up without at least making an attempt.
She’d headed toward the Nobles District alone that morning, determined to find the Vancoor estate where Nowe had once lived. If she explained what she needed, surely whomever survived Nowe would understand. She had only to find the estate, and for that she would have to rely on the kindness of strangers.
It wasn’t long before she ran into just such a kind stranger—quite literally. She felt the other go down as she herself fell backward onto the cobblestones, hitting her tailbone hard as she hit the ground. “Ow,” she complained, getting to her feet and rubbing her sore bum before offering a hand to the stranger. “I’m sorry. I’m so clumsy.”
Familiar though the Nobles District was, Leola Vancoor saw the streets with different eyes now. The people were foreign, the happiness was jarring, the fresh air stifling. It had been some time since she’d left the estate, having settled for brief adventures in the garden rather than braving the world beyond the gates.
Scattered thoughts plagued her until the moment the impact came, throwing her back onto cobblestone and splayed hands. She was sore, but otherwise unharmed-- and yet still the displeasure surged. The hand was ignored.
“Clumsy people, ah--” the shorter woman shifted to climb back to her own feet “--do not knock people over. Blind people do.” Not a moment was spared to brush the dirt and dust off the white of her dress, upon returning to standing. “Hmm? Are you?”
“Am I blind?” Quen was taken aback by the question, but she recovered quickly enough, offering the woman a smile. “I’m afraid I am both blind and clumsy, ma’am. Once again, I’m truly very sorry. I should have paid better attention to my surroundings.” She took a moment to brush the dust off her own bottom before recalling why she’d come to the Nobles District in the first place. “Could you help me?” she asked suddenly, as an afterthought.
A blind girl, how quaint. And a commoner, from her choice of words and dress. Leola smiled, cocking her head like the most curious of birds. The heels of her hands throbbed.
“Why?”
“Well, I don’t know my way around,” Quen admitted, “and to be honest, I don’t really know where I’m going. But perhaps since you live around here, you might know better than I where I need to go. I’m looking for the Vancoor estate.”
A manic laugh bubbled up in Leola’s throat, and her hands fluttered up, brushing nose and lips. Strange girl, asking strange questions. “Why?” she inquired again, so much more interested now.
“Well,” Quen said again uncertainly, “a good friend of mine was once friends with Nowe Vancoor. I was hoping to … meet his family. Perhaps have a conversation.” She carefully left out the part where she’d planned to ask to have something that had once been Nowe’s. It wasn’t polite to ask people you didn’t know to give you things, and she was willing to build a relationship with the Vancoors before even beginning to get into that.
Besides, there was something about this woman that unsettled Quen a bit. She couldn’t put her finger on it, exactly, but there was just something … not right in the way she spoke.
And then the laugh came, high and sharp, drawing the attention of another who passed. “You didn’t know him, and you would like to meet his family. Do you think your friendship gives you the privilege to have tea with them? Ah, but wait, wait.”
Hands came to flutter by Quen’s face, as if they mean to touch her. “Who is your friend?” Her voice fell into a whisper. “You can tell me. I knew Nowe Vancoor so very well.”
She felt the hands near her face, but she stood her ground. “I’m sorry,” she said yet again. “I didn’t mean to presume. I was only fourteen when he passed, and I’m afraid Lav never got around to introducing us. I think he would have, had there been more time…” she trailed off.
Leola’s smile returned, unseen. “Oh, do you think so? What a surprise, you see, because I am good friends with Lavitz, and he has never mentioned being friends with such a young girl. They were the closest of friends, did you know? Yes, and what a tragedy it must have been for him, to lose a loved one. Truly horrible. To allow your best friend to die in your arms when you might have saved him, yes, I cannot imagine the guilt that plagues him.”
Her attempt to smother her next laugh failed. “Were you hoping to offer condolences? Ah, but you missed the anniversary of his death, I am afraid. How unlucky.”
Quen’s hands clenched into fists. “That’s unfair,” she said. “I know Lav, and he would have done anything to save his friend, if there was anything that could have been done. Nowe died in battle. He was a fighter. That happens sometimes, and it’s not anyone’s fault. If you’re Lav’s friend, you’d know how terrible he felt, to lose his friend in front of him and not be able to do anything about it. But you know what? I think he has never mentioned you because you aren’t his friend.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Not if you would say something so horrible about someone so kind.”
“Kind, yes. Lavitz is so very kind, isn’t he?” If Leola was going to back down herself, she showed no signs of it. “He brings flowers every year, and tells me he’s sorry like he means it. He says it as if each time I see his face, I don’t see him drenched in my husband’s blood, as if I don’t picture Nowe’s bloody corpse laying still on a table. Yes, yes, he must be so sorry.”
She finally dusted off her palms, as if just noticing they were dirty.
“But sorry is not enough.”
Quen realized then that she was shaking: whether from anger or fear or the sudden cold realization that Kiernan was quite right and she shouldn’t have come, she couldn’t say. Either way, she could only stand there for what felt like an eternity, rooted to the spot, uncertain as to what she could possibly do to make this better.
There’s nothing to do, a voice in her head told her. It was her own voice. This woman is unwell. You can’t fix this.
The knowledge that she had wandered into a situation she could not change returned her ability to speak. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, very quietly, “and I am sorry to bother you. I think I ought to take my leave.” Turning on her heel, she began to walk very briskly the way she had come.
Remaining behind and without any intention of following, Leola smoothed the hair from her temples, still laughing under her breath. “Give him my regards,” she called to the girl’s retreating back, idly wondering how she was finding her way with no eyesight, “and tell him that I wish him the happiest of birthdays.”