Chương 44: Chapter 40 ~ Avoidance

15/11/1111 EotTS 10: 00 Gysel sat at her desk, staring at pages of notes, a thick book half-filled with marginalia and small copper page markers, and pen and ink: all of these pieces should eventually come together to form an essay written by someone who did not understand the subject matter, and had been doing everything to avoid the inevitable work.

"Brilliant Kawvel," Gysel said, as she took a bite of the breakfast she had brought back from the cafeteria.

"You are right! I did not ask the divination deck my question this morning." Pushing the essay-stuffs and a full tray of food containing breakfast, lunch, and snacks against the wall, Gysel stood and retrieved the deck from beneath the pillow, before returning to the desk, deck in hand, and sitting down, giving it a good shuffle and asking her daily question: "Good morning, Divination Deck. Will I finish my essay today?" The drawn card was: Sixth Daughter of Looms, but reversed.

The illustration was of two sets of hands exchanging a folded blanket, and a few gold coins.

"I think this is some sort of exchange of goods. What do you think, Kawvel?" Gysel reached out, gently grasped Kawvel's head, and made him nod.

"I think it is a bad draw; it does not relate to the question. Unless I am not putting in the labor required for the desired outcome; if that is the case, then the deck is correct." Shuffling the deck, Gysel placed it on one of the shelves; it could be returned to its place later. She scratched her chin; an exchange of goods, but reversed, that could mean a gift, something given with no expectation of return, like what?

"What was that Kawvel?... You think I should write Mother and Father, and ask them to mail the copy of Mahlvyldt ove'Herkolm's Ulygewyian so Thyres can read it?... I do not see why not; it certainly will not get read at Mother and Father's house... Yes, that would make him happy... but this is your idea, not mine. I have to write 'the Bird Journal' anyway. So, I might as well—" Gysel paused and tapped one of the scones sitting on the tray, "—feed two birds with one scone."

Her lips slowly twisted into a grin as she produced her letter paper from the desk drawer. Loading the pen, she started on the letters. After about half an hour, both letters were finished, in envelopes, sealed in wax, addressed, and ready to be mailed; and they would be mailed, as soon as this essay was finished. Gysel looked over the tray of snacks.

"What do you say, Kawvel? I have: four muffins, two pumpkin, two bran; two scones, both cheese; and six cookies, all oatmeal. What should I start with?... You think I should start with my essay? Fine, scone it is." 15/11/1111 EotTS 17: 00 Forlorn, Gysel stared at the empty tray; all the snacks were gone, and the essay was only about half finished: the snacks had been poorly rationed, and it was still another two hours until dinner.

With a sigh, Gysel ran her hands down her face, and let her head flop down onto the papers; but the sound was not the usual sound that came with the action; it was harder, and more woody, like a knocking at the door, and then it came again, it was a knocking at the door, so Gysel dragged herself from the chair, and went to see who was set on disturbing the peckish essayist during such a productive time.

Gysel unlocked the door, and opened it; past the threshold stood Wyohla, and she was in the typical Wyohla attire that consisted of showing no skin besides the face: except to-day, the sweater was made from a stormy, blueish-grey wool, with an ornate design which looked to be of Mourna reaping a field knitted in (a scene like this was said to be braided into the hair of brides in the far east of the Grand Northern Forest, so it was certainly interesting to see on a sweater); and she wore charcoal-colored, pleated trousers, with a wide-legged design, but even with the extra fabric, it was still pulled taut between her waist and the middle of her thighs, giving her upper-legs the appearance of overfull bags of sugar.

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"Do you dress like that throughout Hahmehlyn's reign?" Gysel asked.

"It will certainly get hot."

"I do," answered Wyohla, "I always dress like this. I burn easily. If I get too hot, I take a nice cold bath."

"There is a bathhouse in Thoranyn that provides cold baths?"

"Well, no, of course not. And if there were, they would not want me there anyway... as I... as I would make the other women jealous—""Oh," muttered Gysel, as her eyes scanned the scene on Wyohla's sweater up and down; that was true enough, but it seemed more likely that Wyohla would displace too much water when she got in.

"—So, I have my own tub, a nice big one with enough room for three, made entirely out of silver. I bathe there. You can use it whenever you want; I have the best shampoos, lotions, and soaps. We can light some incense, and I'll get you so clean, you will feel like a whole new person."

"No. I do not want to. I can bathe myself. And I like what the Academy supplies." Wyohla sighed, pursed her lips, and gave her head a little shake.

"Well, anyways... I was looking for you yesterday. Where were you?" Gysel looked up to Wyohla—has someone told her what happened the other day? does she know? is she mad? is that what this is about? —"I was at the post office with Thyres."

"With Thyres?" Wyohla asked slowly.

"You could have asked me. I would have gone with you."

"I ran into Thyres in the lobby, and we were both going to the same place."

"Well, I am more than happy to go with you wherever you want to; all you need to do is ask." Wyohla leaned down to eye level.

"But I expect the same from you."

"All right," answered Gysel—is this not already the entire relationship? transactional... like the Sixth Daughter of Looms—.

"Really?" Wyohla raised a light eyebrow, the left one.

"Yes."

"Well then, how about you and I go for dinner... then go see a play? How does that sound?"

"A play?"

"Yes, a play."

"Where? Is there a small open-air theater somewhere? Would it not be hard to see with the fog? Especially at night."

"An open-air theater..." Wyohla scoffed.

"What do you think I am? Of course not, we are going to see a play, at a theater, at the Thoranyn Theater and Conservatory. The big one, up the hill."

"No," Gysel stated; that was far, far too much money for one to spend, especially a student.

"What!? Why!?" Recoiling, Wyohla put her hands on her hips.

"So you won't even come to dinner with me?"

"I will go for dinner with you, but not to the theater."

"Why not?"

"Because it is too expensive," said Gysel.

"Too expensive? Don't be ridiculous. Too expensive... Gysel, the theater is certainly not too expensive. It's publicly funded; floor and balcony seating is completely free everywhere in the empire."

"No, it is not."

"Yes, it is, Gysel."

"Mother said it is not. Mother said that it costs too much money to bring three people to a play." Wyohla's brow furrowed, and she slowly licked her teeth. Ten times the clock ticked before she spoke again: "The boxes still cost money, so I'm sure she was talking about that."

"Maybe," said Gysel, softly—Mother and Father never talked about their seats, so maybe Wyohla was right... they would not do that—.

"So, how does that sound? Dinner and a play, just the two of us, you and I."

"All right. But we will be getting floor seats?"

"Sure. Do you have a dress?" Wyohla asked.

"I have woolen skirts, blouses, and a vest."

"Let me look," said Wyohla, as she pushed her hair back, out of her face, and started to walk around Gysel.

"I'll doll you up." Gysel placed herself before Wyohla, arms outstretched.

"NO! I do not have anything nice enough. You do not need to look. You do not need to doll me up." Wyohla backed away, back into the common room.

"Well, you need a dress, not just for the play, but in general. I'm surprised you don't have one."

"I did not bring them."

"Why not?"

"I did not like the necklines," said Gysel, lowering her arms.

"Too high and tight around the neck?"

"No."

"Too low?"

"Yes. They were also warm colors, and I did not like the texture of the fabric."

"Well," Wyohla paused, and her eyes quickly flicked downwards, then she made eye contact.

"I know a place where we can get you one you will like."

"It will not be ready in time," said Gysel, as she looked away from Wyohla's cold, blue eyes, and down to her boots.

"Yes, it will. We order it before dinner, pick it up after, you change into it there, or here, then we go to the theater; it will be fine."

"That will not be enough time."

"Well, it certainly won't be enough time if you keep saying it is. Put on your shoes and coat, and let's go." Wyohla started for the door.

"All right," Gysel began to follow, then stopped.

"I would like to stop at the post office as well."

"Fine by me. I'm not letting Thyres become your post-office buddy." Retrieving the letters, Gysel fetched her coat, which in this case was the long, calf-length overcoat, made from a heavy tweed tartan of browns, greens, and creams (it was chilly out, and the fog had lingered far longer than it usually did, leaving rivulets of water on the window: the overcoat was certainly the right choice for the weather) from the wardrobe, put her shoes on, and followed Wyohla out the door.