"Business." Is the easy response, not at all serious, she knows it's not normal business other men attend to. But for now he leaves it to let her push him about in her way. Takes her reproach with a easy go along as he moves away from her.
The kerchief is still left there though as he takes his position across from her and close to the fire. A blessed warmth to the cold winds that sweep outside. This late in the month of rain, and it was expected. Especially in the tower where they swept and barrelled along the Wrenhaven. They whistled and tapped on the windowpane and he stretched himself out in the chair. A grumble for when his knee twinged and waited for her to fix the tea, a critical eye on her. Of course he didn't believe it. He would be a very good Royal Protector or Royal Spymaster if he didn't question those around him.
Granted, not all interrogations had to be done in torturers chairs when finding out the root of the problem. Instead, he links his fingers in front of him as he leans back and watches her patiently. "I hope the tea will forgive me my busy schedule."
It's teasing, light and easy. Trying to draw some reprieve for her.
And Fiona knows better than to answer. All told, she doesn't truly want to know the details of the Kaldwin's secret lives. Not out of disinterest, so much as security. She can't dare make herself too important, too much of a soft target, a liability. If she knows too much, she can say too much, be it in drink or under someone's knife. Safer to remain ignorant, yet curious.
She prefers the stories Corvo tells, the ones she knows aren't true, but are realer than anything she's ever felt outside of pain.
After she passes the tea to Corvo, she gives in and takes the handkerchief. She doesn't dare touch it to her face, doesn't dirty it. Instead, Fiona worries it nervously in her hands, a movement that gives lie to her outward calm.
"It's one of the fancy brews from far off. Smells like lady's perfume. D'you like it?" She always tries to take note of their preferences, to try and improve in little ways, make them feel more cared for. To cover the hole of not seeing her siblings, not caring for them, protecting them, helping them in so long that they likely wouldn't know her from a stranger. The thought makes her cease up again, and she grimaces, closing her eyes tight against tears.
From far off, she says and obediately he sips. But almost in the same breath - it's not far off. It's a distant home. It's the streets of Karnaca in late spring. When the cool damp flowers of the jungle sprung up thick underfoot and they soaked them with the honey to make it sweet. The things he, as a child, had taken for granted as the poorest sort of sweet.
Laughable as a man to find that it was sort after in the highest society of Gristol and paid top dollar for by hungry lords, the same way that they practised the dances with a seriousness that he would have found endlessly amusing when he was young. Then it had been about moving in freedom with the joy of their situation in life. What would a Lord know about that? So he takes his sip of the tea and looks on the fine porcelain cup he never could have dreamed of drinking from when he was a lad.
The simple answer would do best, "It tastes as my mother's did." Which is the highest compliment he could give, and after a long night poised on rooftops in the winds, it is a welcome reprieve.
Up until he sees her face scrunch up tightly. The misery on it is not something he can even pretend to ignore for her sake this time - not that he would. He sets the tea aside then, and there's reproach in his voice, but not harsh, more a request for her to be honest with him this time. "Miss Fiona..."
Somehow, that just makes it worse. Talking about family is always a sore spot for Fiona, but she can usually hide it, use it, or set it aside. Now's different, it's too close to the surface. She does what she always does, puts her head in her hands, breathes deep, and lets it fade. It's so far away, she tells herself. She's so tired, and it takes more energy to cry.
Her voice is tired when she speaks, but she's not on the edge of tears. "I'm sorry. Something about my brothers." She shakes her head, and sits down next to him. Fiona pulls out the letter, and hands it to him. "Promise me you won't trouble yourself none."
She couldn't stand it if she worried him. He has enough to worry about.
He stays quiet, watching her and - ah, of course, that was what it was about. Fiona worried only about particular matters half so much. She had always been a keenly loyal girl. Something he valued especially about her.
Nothing he wanted to ignore, either. The years had meant he only kept such things close. Loyalty meant - well, he had felt it's loss more and more as the years went by. The years without Jessamine. "There is nothing I would prefer more than to trouble myself about."
It went without saying, really. He kept his household close - he had to, after all. So he takes another sip of the tea before he sets it aside from him and leans forward. Elbows braced on the arms of his chair and these days, his hair is kept short, swept back - neat as court required. That and it wasn't as easy for an opponent to latch onto. "So lets not waste time, shall we?"
Fiona looks up at him, in that moment, as though distant planets of which she's never heard orbit around his whims. She wants to say, no, don't do it, don't clean up my messes. But more damning is the fact that they need to be cleaned, and she can't do it herself.
Her shoulders slacken. "You- you can do something about this?"
For once, her conniving creativity fails her. What can they do? Her family's problems, so distant and impossible to interact with, always feel like a wall built up around her, the open spaces closing in until no light is left.
She'd know better than anyone how often having a great deal of power meant there was nothing he could so often. It was his position to see to the Royal Household - a wayward daughter that liked to be out on the rooftops of a night, and a hundred different leads he had to follow up and seldom, seldom was there much as a figure he could do.
But this? This was something that was perfectly within his purvue. "It is in the Empress's wishes that her reign be one of justice for her people and to bridge the gap that... previous governments fostered." He doesn't speak of Burrows, he never speaks of Burrows. "Your brother achieved his position on his merit and not his breeding. It is a good thing not only for you family, but it sets an important precedent for all the great houses. The Empress will not want to see one of her most up and coming natural philosophers thrown away on old prejudices that his teacher unfortunately harbours."
He takes up the tea cup, swirling it a moment before he takes another mouthful. "Nor I, as her servant and your families patron, like to know that what might become of such a fine young mind when it is wasted by being removed from the place it can be fostered."
To say the least, the army could most definitely use someone who knew their way around making an impressive explosion or two. So could royal celebrations, for that matter. "So yes, I believe there is something that can be done."
It's such an odd moment, so out of place with her normal life. Just three hours ago, she was stubbornly polishing brass buttons, and before that, drinking cold tea so it didn't go to waste. In those rare moments when the cobwebs are brushed away, and she thinks she can see the stars through the cloying light of the city, it feels like someone else's life. She can't help a little sniffle, the beginnings of a nervous, woeful laugh.
"I- I can't- sir, I don't think I could ever repay you..." He's not Sir, he's Corvo, except when she falls backward into habit bred into her, remembering too much his position and prestige. It's the easiest thing in the world to forget, until it's suddenly all she can think about.
She gently, gently takes his hand, and says it with all the feeling she has. "Thank you."
His fingers turn into her hold, gripping back gently. Holding fast to her with the consideration of his own strength. His fingers are rough and calloused, his littlest finger that had never been set after his torture, crooked on the break. Knuckles that are there now from callouses, not the crushed bones from a childhood on the streets.
"You can thank me by remembering not to call me 'sir'." A tease, as he holds her back. "I'd hate to think I was becoming one of them. We grew up much the same." He hums softly, a consideration. He doesn't speak of his childhood, of course he doesn't, the nobles liked to throw it often enough in his face that he grew up in the back streets of Karnaca. "Well, almost the same. I never much needed a shirt in the heat."
Fiona nods, slow and soft. It's something discussed rarely if ever, but she knows what he means. It shouldn't matter from where this kindness stems, but it always chafes, the fear that it's some form of pity. Remembering his past makes it easier to set that aside.
"What will we do?" What can be done What look like possibilities to Corvo just feel like closed doors to Fiona.
For her, they are, for him - well, they were something he took no small joy in kicking open. Running the Empire has he had for Emily until she came of age meant he had to set aside personal joys for the sake of the Empire's stability.
Like being disregarding of the nobilities opinions about matters that their own arrogance made them think they were superior. "A lawyer, first, I think."
His fingers drum, more than a lawyer. He would find out who would be overseeing this case. Then he would speak to Yul, the abbey would not wish for a hardworking man be thrown out onto the street. They after all, had a message to preach. "Then the Abbey will have opinions, no doubt, that they will wish to air in the sermons, once they heard about such matters."
Public pressure, heaviness on the case, to teach the headmaster a lesson, if nothing else.
"A lawyer?" That seems like an awful lot of trouble on her account. Expensive trouble. The sort of trouble Gallaghers don't get out of in one piece. And she knows Corvo means well and she knows he'll do his best, but still, she worries. She hasn't gotten this far without worrying. It's what's kept her alive.
Which makes her gawk even more when he speaks next. "The- the abbey? What can the abbey want with us? We're- we're not respectable. You don't know, I- My family..." She frowns, expression gone sour. Her family has done things she doesn't want the Abbey knowing about. Hasn't everyone?
He shouldn't relish so, the idea of thwarting the old guard that had so delighted in calling him traitor. The long methodical revenge that he breathed not a word of, but it was there, under everything. How much they never suspected him of anything, yet was something they lived every breath in fear of.
"The abbey - " he presses it directly, like he's explaining something obvious. " - is here for every man." The new High Overseer, not Campbell or Martin's traitorous shallow belief, believed in his cause and his duty. "Not just the rich, and throwing a promising young man to a life of destitution and drink, idle hands if I have ever heard of them, is the last thing they want, when he has a chance to work hard."
He softens, letting hi mouth soften, and he reaches forward to her, leaning in his seat, his considerable height and reach making it easy to brush his fingers against hers. "Fiona, let me help you, as you did me once."
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no subject
The kerchief is still left there though as he takes his position across from her and close to the fire. A blessed warmth to the cold winds that sweep outside. This late in the month of rain, and it was expected. Especially in the tower where they swept and barrelled along the Wrenhaven. They whistled and tapped on the windowpane and he stretched himself out in the chair. A grumble for when his knee twinged and waited for her to fix the tea, a critical eye on her. Of course he didn't believe it. He would be a very good Royal Protector or Royal Spymaster if he didn't question those around him.
Granted, not all interrogations had to be done in torturers chairs when finding out the root of the problem. Instead, he links his fingers in front of him as he leans back and watches her patiently. "I hope the tea will forgive me my busy schedule."
It's teasing, light and easy. Trying to draw some reprieve for her.
no subject
She prefers the stories Corvo tells, the ones she knows aren't true, but are realer than anything she's ever felt outside of pain.
After she passes the tea to Corvo, she gives in and takes the handkerchief. She doesn't dare touch it to her face, doesn't dirty it. Instead, Fiona worries it nervously in her hands, a movement that gives lie to her outward calm.
"It's one of the fancy brews from far off. Smells like lady's perfume. D'you like it?" She always tries to take note of their preferences, to try and improve in little ways, make them feel more cared for. To cover the hole of not seeing her siblings, not caring for them, protecting them, helping them in so long that they likely wouldn't know her from a stranger. The thought makes her cease up again, and she grimaces, closing her eyes tight against tears.
no subject
Laughable as a man to find that it was sort after in the highest society of Gristol and paid top dollar for by hungry lords, the same way that they practised the dances with a seriousness that he would have found endlessly amusing when he was young. Then it had been about moving in freedom with the joy of their situation in life. What would a Lord know about that? So he takes his sip of the tea and looks on the fine porcelain cup he never could have dreamed of drinking from when he was a lad.
The simple answer would do best, "It tastes as my mother's did." Which is the highest compliment he could give, and after a long night poised on rooftops in the winds, it is a welcome reprieve.
Up until he sees her face scrunch up tightly. The misery on it is not something he can even pretend to ignore for her sake this time - not that he would. He sets the tea aside then, and there's reproach in his voice, but not harsh, more a request for her to be honest with him this time. "Miss Fiona..."
no subject
Her voice is tired when she speaks, but she's not on the edge of tears. "I'm sorry. Something about my brothers." She shakes her head, and sits down next to him. Fiona pulls out the letter, and hands it to him. "Promise me you won't trouble yourself none."
She couldn't stand it if she worried him. He has enough to worry about.
no subject
Nothing he wanted to ignore, either. The years had meant he only kept such things close. Loyalty meant - well, he had felt it's loss more and more as the years went by. The years without Jessamine. "There is nothing I would prefer more than to trouble myself about."
It went without saying, really. He kept his household close - he had to, after all. So he takes another sip of the tea before he sets it aside from him and leans forward. Elbows braced on the arms of his chair and these days, his hair is kept short, swept back - neat as court required. That and it wasn't as easy for an opponent to latch onto. "So lets not waste time, shall we?"
no subject
Her shoulders slacken. "You- you can do something about this?"
For once, her conniving creativity fails her. What can they do? Her family's problems, so distant and impossible to interact with, always feel like a wall built up around her, the open spaces closing in until no light is left.
no subject
But this? This was something that was perfectly within his purvue. "It is in the Empress's wishes that her reign be one of justice for her people and to bridge the gap that... previous governments fostered." He doesn't speak of Burrows, he never speaks of Burrows. "Your brother achieved his position on his merit and not his breeding. It is a good thing not only for you family, but it sets an important precedent for all the great houses. The Empress will not want to see one of her most up and coming natural philosophers thrown away on old prejudices that his teacher unfortunately harbours."
He takes up the tea cup, swirling it a moment before he takes another mouthful. "Nor I, as her servant and your families patron, like to know that what might become of such a fine young mind when it is wasted by being removed from the place it can be fostered."
To say the least, the army could most definitely use someone who knew their way around making an impressive explosion or two. So could royal celebrations, for that matter. "So yes, I believe there is something that can be done."
no subject
"I- I can't- sir, I don't think I could ever repay you..." He's not Sir, he's Corvo, except when she falls backward into habit bred into her, remembering too much his position and prestige. It's the easiest thing in the world to forget, until it's suddenly all she can think about.
She gently, gently takes his hand, and says it with all the feeling she has. "Thank you."
no subject
"You can thank me by remembering not to call me 'sir'." A tease, as he holds her back. "I'd hate to think I was becoming one of them. We grew up much the same." He hums softly, a consideration. He doesn't speak of his childhood, of course he doesn't, the nobles liked to throw it often enough in his face that he grew up in the back streets of Karnaca. "Well, almost the same. I never much needed a shirt in the heat."
no subject
"What will we do?" What can be done What look like possibilities to Corvo just feel like closed doors to Fiona.
no subject
Like being disregarding of the nobilities opinions about matters that their own arrogance made them think they were superior. "A lawyer, first, I think."
His fingers drum, more than a lawyer. He would find out who would be overseeing this case. Then he would speak to Yul, the abbey would not wish for a hardworking man be thrown out onto the street. They after all, had a message to preach. "Then the Abbey will have opinions, no doubt, that they will wish to air in the sermons, once they heard about such matters."
Public pressure, heaviness on the case, to teach the headmaster a lesson, if nothing else.
no subject
Which makes her gawk even more when he speaks next. "The- the abbey? What can the abbey want with us? We're- we're not respectable. You don't know, I- My family..." She frowns, expression gone sour. Her family has done things she doesn't want the Abbey knowing about. Hasn't everyone?
"Are you sure?"
switches over to this account do not mind me
"The abbey - " he presses it directly, like he's explaining something obvious. " - is here for every man." The new High Overseer, not Campbell or Martin's traitorous shallow belief, believed in his cause and his duty. "Not just the rich, and throwing a promising young man to a life of destitution and drink, idle hands if I have ever heard of them, is the last thing they want, when he has a chance to work hard."
He softens, letting hi mouth soften, and he reaches forward to her, leaning in his seat, his considerable height and reach making it easy to brush his fingers against hers. "Fiona, let me help you, as you did me once."