For What It's Worth

“Well, you have me at a disadvantage, since you got my name from all that screaming downstairs,” Cerise noted, with little cheer or humour, as she sat opposite of her hanger-on. Then she smirked as she let loose a suggestive cry. “Oh, Cerise~!”

Heads turned, and the young man desperately shushed the witch, finger to his pursed lips and all. Cerise fixed a smirk at him, and used the opportunity to continue prying apart what her hanger-on was keeping close to his chest.

It was already extremely telling that he had offered to make their time worthwhile by treating her to a table at one of the newer eateries at the heart of the capital, the habitat of the newly monied and the nobility who survived the change in royal families.

Their changing tastes had brought in a wave of small, dainty, airy shops that catered to smaller parties. A far cry from the taverns and large eating halls that Cerise either lunched at, or found herself having to do impromptu treatments at, these places had well-dressed servants bringing over trays serving meticulously decorated dishes, as well as teas and other flavored drinks imported from beyond Arnis’s borders.

The two of them were seated at a small round table at such a little restaurant, with its clean walls, polished wood, and the obligated silence that deadened the air, save for the silent sniff of contempt from behind Cerise that made the man in front of her duck his head and stare into his cup of tea, ears red.

“I guess I should introduce myself,” The young man finally apologized, as he pulled the cap off his head to reveal his clean, combed blond hair. “Um, Marcus Chekvale.”

Despite his efforts to dress down, the cleanliness of the rest of him, not to mention his reflexive choice of watering hole told Cerise enough – a rich kid who had felt suffocated where he lived and snuck out on some bad advice for some adventure.

The witch supposed it could have been worse.

“I’ll humour you until you’re bored,” she warned as she lifted her cup and breathed in the steam – floral, but certainly something not found in the vicinity of the city, “But after that, I want your assurance that I’m out of your system and that we’ll never meet again. I don’t know where you’re from, but we’re from two entirely different worlds, I’m certain. Now what has you so interested in me?”

“I just…” Marcus trailed off for a second, before he hit upon a thought. “It’s my first time seeing such an old style of controlling Breath.”

“For good reason,” Cerise retorted, and sipped.

“I’m a researcher at the University, you see. I work under Professor…”

Cerise tried to listen to the spiel out of good manners, but the beginning of the sentence tweaked her danger sense.

There was really only one university in the city worth bringing up in conversation. The Arnis Heart University for Inquiry and Research was, as it described itself, dedicated to pushing forward the modern methods of controlling Breath. Old Mistress Candlethumb always sneered at the campus that encircled the clocktower just a stone’s throw away from the royal palace, but she also subscribed to the idea of apprentices – just another thing Cerise inherited just a little too late.

“What am I? Another essay for you?” Cerise snorted, and Marcus waved his hands, desperately trying to blow away the accusation.

“Of course not… but… seeing you down there, it’s…” The researcher made a face, but decided to push through. “It’s like seeing gold at the bottom of a toilet. I’ll admit, seeing you in a–”

“Euphemism, please,” Cerise warned. “We’re in public.”

“In a… well, that place, it was a shock. But don’t you think it’s a waste? You’re practising something historical, and to just use it that way?”

“What would you do about it?” Cerise challenged him. “I’m happy you got to see a piece of “history”, but for me, it’s what I learned, and what I use. I know it works for me, for what I do, and I also know no one else cares enough about it.”

Marcus leaned forward in his seat, the boyish sparkle in his eyes giving way to an intense focus. “You could explain it to me, let me publicize it, let others know about it, and then maybe someone–”

“That’s just more mass-production,” Cerise countered. “Arnis has everything it will ever need in regards to the Breath of the World. The modern methods have all but plucked the stars from the skies to light our roads. It lights our fires. It stamps steel. What I do can’t do any of that. The only dignity it has left is being boxed away and only taken out when it’s used.”

“And that includes bloodsports?” Marcus muttered into his cup, to which Cerise nodded without shame.

“Absolutely. And if it’s never used after me, then that’s fine. But it’s not for being put into pamphlets for everyone to know. That’s now how the old ways work.”

“I don’t get it,” Marcus said, eyes furrowed. “You have actual talent. You practice something unique. Shouldn’t you deserve better?”

Cerise looked away, hiding a contortion on the verge of a smile, though it wasn’t. To the interloping man, it was like she was remembering an old, embarrassing joke, and she shook her head to try and rid herself of something.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” the witch scoffed, and moved to put her old hat back on her head. “Thanks for the drink, but this is where we part ways. Is there a back door?”

Marcus rose as she did. “Yes, but wait-”

“No. Don’t follow me.”

The response was curt and warning. Marcus, knowing he must have stepped on too many toes finally, found himself unable to move further, lest he lose what little common ground he had left with this strange woman, who easily slid past a complaining waitress and into the door that would lead into the kitchen, where she would get more aggrieved comments she would brush off.

As that door swung shut, the one at the front of the restaurant opened.

“Sir, what are you–” Marcus heard from another serving staff member, before the sentence was cut off by a yelp, a commotion, and a sudden hand grabbing a fistful of his shirt to pull him around so he faced the stormy, scrunched face of a new man, who had a few more behind him, scanning the rest of the restaurant’s patrons as they shrank back.

“Let go of me!” The university researcher reflexively demanded. “Do you know who I am?”

“Don’t care,” The invader tersely answered. “That woman you were with, where did she go?”

“What’s it to you–” Marcus dared to ask, before the fist around his clothes dragged him right up into the man’s face.

“Our business is with her, not you. If you have any sense, you’ll tell us and forget about anything that happened tonight.”

Marcus might have dropped the ball where Cerise was concerned, but he still had wits enough to pick up all the context from the man’s warnings.

Had they been followed, just as he doggedly followed after Cerise after the fight? Who were they? Avery’s friends unhappy that he lost? Angry and drunk audiences who lost big on a bet? Hired thugs? It didn’t matter. The origin was the same: nursed grudges and petty revenge.

Marcus swallowed nervously, and hoped he could sell this lie well enough.