We Were Sitting At Speeds Known Only To Few Who: Henri & Mal What: First Meetings, First Warnings, General Fuckery When: Sunday, June 12th, Late Afternoon, a few hours after a nice walk. Where: Antoine's Blues Palace
The cigarillo reclining in the ashtray sent lazy spirals of smoke upwards, teasing the lamps over the bar with long, languid strokes. Every so often, Henri reached over with his maimed left hand to pluck the rolled leaf from its resting place, take a drag, and tap off a new pillow of ash for it to lounge against as he worked. The drinks he would have to make the following day required practice, layering, a steady hand.
Can't have 'Euphrasie's Tit' running away before anyone gets a lick. Got to make sure the cream's good and thick, or it'll drop into the anisette...
His hands were the least of his worries, thankfully. He had not been as settled, when he had returned to the Palace from his morning walk. Perhaps too much sugar, too soon. He made a note to take it easy, at least for a while, before returning to the bakery for more of Hazel's magic. And for another round of toying with the bird. No, it had been the chalk-artist, the Man of FAITH that had made his hands curl into tight fists once he was out of sight. Henri had managed to maintain the whistle, the casual front he had worn in the yard time and time again, until he turned down a side street. THAT was when his heart had pounced against his ribs, emptying his lungs with a snarl. Never, he had screamed at himself, shadowboxing against memories, against his rage, against his loss, Never let a collared dog smell fear.
Gives 'em reason to strain the leash.
He had eaten since then, real food, most of a roast chicken that had been left for him (he presumed) by Ciara. He felt much better. No reason at all to be so wary of the back-stabbing Cloves all around him, or the soul-stabbing Aurellians all around them. He felt much better.
He dropped a cherry on top of the cap of cream in the glass, and waited. When it didn't fall after a couple of minutes, he grunted, once, applauding his work. He reached for the cigarillo, but found it too short to pluck from the ashes. Sucking his teeth, he fished a battered tin case from his pocket, but glanced up as someone opened the door.