"It won't be too long before I have something to show for it", I said. Christ on a stick. =_=
[x] Elizabeth Irivich Zabanya
It's in the snowy, cloudy evening that you begin making your way back to the Treiser Manse, along with other Faulkren Academy apprentices for whom their patrols have ended. You have not been assigned far from the city center, thankfully, and the trek back will be short, taking you through the mercantile areas of the city. Not that there is much mercantile activity to speak of, with many shops closed or outright out of business. Still, the neighborhoods aren't so bereft of trade, and it is at one of these remaining stalls that you exchange some coin for a small bag of goods that you hang from your belt. You tighten the cloak around your shoulders and shift the weight of the buster sword on your back as you make your way back to the Treiser Manse.
Winter is getting colder. Little surprise, given it's the winter solstice.
The guards on the street quietly greet you - and you wish them well in return - as you pass through the doors of the Tresier Manse. Like the streets themselves, the manse is no longer as crowded as they were weeks ago. Only a few officers remain; with the threat of a Tenereian follow-up invasion off the table, and with the bulk of the evacuation effort largely over, many of the armies that had come to Arnheim - both those that fled here from Halissen and those that came from all over the Confederacy to defend the city - returned home to recuperate and reorganize. Nothing is confirmed yet, but rumors are that you will be heading home to Apaloft soon as well, now that the situation has stabilized.
As for the cellars that you descend down into, much of the wounded who made recoveries - partial or otherwise - have either been discharged or relocated to free spaces upstairs. Now, it is primarily occupied by the serving staff and the contingent of apprentices and mercenaries from Faulkren Academy.
No one has really made a serious suggestion to make a move to the more comfortable guest room upstairs. Maybe it's because many of them are occupied by the more serious wounded. Maybe it's because no one has really worked up the courage to ask. But perhaps, most likely, despite it hardly being the most comfortable of setups, those from Faulkren have become accustomed to these subterranean stone halls - dark, chilly, and lit by candles - and that familiarity has itself made everyone too lazy to actually leave.
Besides, the Faulkren apprentices have done what they can in lieu of their home away from home to make themselves more comfortable. Aside from the mattresses and blankets provided by the serving staff, the apprentices have decorated their temporary lodgings and filled it with creature comforts. Colorful tapestries have been hung from the ceiling for both privacy and decoration. Formations of candles - carefully tucked away from anything flammable - cast warm amber lights against cold stone. Apprentices have somehow picked out their personal pieces of tableware from the Treiser pantry, largely identical plates and forks and goblets that they have claimed for their own. This is something you would have found to be a tall tale were it not for the fact that you, too, have a mug that you instantly recognize as "your own" from the specific chips and indentations in the wood and metal.
You still don't like it down here, though. It's too dark and damp, and what scant sunlight that deigns to appear in the winter months doesn't reach down here. Perhaps that's partially why you have volunteered for more patrols, as opposed to setting a good example as a squad leader.
You push back a curtain of tapestries that permit you into a corner of the cellars that Squad Four has claimed. The candles still burn brightly at half-length, but it doesn't bother the sole occupant tucked beneath the sheets on a mattress set on the ground. There is something inherently contradictory about watching Elizabeth sleep in this setting, a soft elf girl against the hard stones of the cellars. Still, she makes it work, her features gentle and relaxed when asleep, her appearance practically doll-like, only slightly marred by the rings of slight darkness around her eyes even in rest. You don't doubt that today has been another busy day for her.
You don't try to rouse her; Elizabeth is a pretty heavy sleeper, and your visit to Marloch over summer vacation has taught you the consequences of waking her up before she's had her fill. Still, you gently whisper her name into her ear every minute or so in hopes that you will expedite that process. From the pouch around your belt, you put the solstice cake you bought on a plate - one out of several placed on the shelf - that you somehow recognize as "Elizabeth's".
After a while - about fifteen minutes, by your count - Elizabeth finally mumbles as she rouses, hazily opening her blurred eyes. She tosses and turns around in bed a bit, burying her face in her pillow for a while, but eventually - without much help from you, even - she pushes herself up from the mattress, looking just a bit glum. She sits there for a moment, seemingly dazed, until she seems to notice you sitting next to her mattress. Her eyes slowly focus until they narrow, seemingly finally lucid.
Then she yawns, rubs her eyes, and grumpily demands, "How long have you been there?" She mostly seems annoyed at waking up rather than at you having watched her sleeping; a napping Elizabeth in a public space is kind of a permanent fixture at Faulkren Academy at this point, and it's clear she doesn't really care.
Still, you try not to emphasize the point as you downplay your presence with a stammer: "U-Um. A b-bit?"
Elizabeth grunts, scratching her face and tugging at strands of her hair; she doesn't seem terribly offended. She rubs her eyes and yawns again before turning her gaze back to you, then on the plate you've settled between you. She seems almost surprised when she slowly asks, "Is that for me?"
"I-I thought you might want something sweet," you allow.
Elizabeth raises an eyebrow. "I suppose it is Midwinter's Feast today, isn't it?" And when you nod, she rubs her eyes again and - in the tone of someone who does not actually expect an affirmative answer, "And I don't suppose I'm missing out on this year's grand festivities in Arnheim?"
She really isn't. Had this whole affair ended with simply the fall of Halissen, the city might've been more inclined to throw a more subdued festival in an effort to galvanize morale. But although outright accusations of aseri and human treachery at Halissen had largely died down - mostly because most of Arnheim's inhabitants have since segregated themselves where possible - public tensions were too high for the city's leadership to risk it, especially since that distrust could be felt even among the armed women who would be providing security for such a celebration.
Elizabeth shrugs at the shaking of your head before helping herself to the cake. "How uncharacteristically kind of you," she quips, producing a fork from another nearby plate - one that you somehow also recognize as "Elizabeth's", emptied of its prior contents - and digging into the treat. You don't think being kind is something that is "uncharacteristic" of you, so you can only assume that Elizabeth is deliberately trying to tease you. She swallows her biteful of cake before remarking, "An Elsparian recipe. More spice than sweet. They're using sugar instead of jam too. Not a lot of it either."
You imagine that wartime rationing and the sorry state of Elsparian trade has made sugar a difficult commodity to acquire, never mind jam. Still, you feel a bit of trepidation as you ask, "D-Do you not like it?"
The tiny elf shrugs, but there's something warm about the gesture that suggests she's more pleased than she's otherwise letting on. "A solstice cake is a solstice cake." She takes another bite before asking, "You got this at a stall, didn't you?" You nod in confirmation; most bakeries in Arnheim at this point are closed given supply shortages, and it's the merchants who have brought goods from other regions that are still in business. Elizabeth doesn't seem put off by this fact, although she does note, "We'll head to a proper bakery next year, then. And you'll be along to help carry things."
"Th-The last time we went to a bakery, I ended up carrying you," you mumble under your breath.
You are not as quiet as you thought you were, but Elizabeth smirks, seemingly unoffended. "Then you have experience carrying important things, then." She wipes away the crumbs on her lips with the back of her hand before adding, "I would've preferred you brought me wine."
Your eyes widen as you stammer in protest, "Y-Y-You aren't allowed to!"
Elizabeth stares at you in mild confusion for a bit longer than you're used to; she's usually pretty quick on the uptake. Then again, although no longer sleep-deprived, she has also been tired. It doesn't take her too long, however, before a catty smirk unfurls across her lips. "Because I'm still a child?" she laughs. "I hate to disappoint you, but I've already become an adult."
You blink, surprised. "You've...had your eighteenth birthday?"
"Indeed," Elizabeth smirks, shoving another bite into her mouth and tilting her head back just a bit as if to accentuate the look she always seems to give whenever she's giving the impression she's looking down on people. She's very good at that. "You're just a little baby girl to me now."
You've always known - or at least intuited - that Elizabeth is a bit older than you. It really has to do with her demeanor - same as Sieglinde - rather than anything resembling actual knowledge of their birthdates. You suppose it's true that you've never actually really had that much occasion to ask about Elizabeth's birthday. This time last year, she was still the really scary squadmate who cowed the former Squad Twelve into submission shortly after the school year began, mostly just lounged around half-asleep, and seemed to barely acknowledge your presence. It was really only after Midwinter's Feast that your friendship really - somehow, inexplicably - just kind of happened. It's actually funny how that all worked out.
Still, you whine in protest, "Y-Y-You should've told us!" You also should've objected to your characterization as a "little baby girl", but the birthday is what came to mind first.
"...Why?" asks Elizabeth again, her brow creased just slightly in puzzlement.
"W-We could've celebrated it together!"
Elizabeth stares. Then she laughs, the tone obviously more sarcastic than the last time. "As if Ravenhill would want to celebrate my birthday," she snorts. Then before you can say something to the contrary - something about how Sieglinde doesn't dislike Elizabeth that much - she yawns, "Besides, you've had other concerns, had you not? The Inter-Academy Tournament and all."
You blink, confused. Then the realization dawns upon you. Elizabeth does not strike you as the kind of person who would be modest about when her birthday is or who celebrates it. Did she conceal that fact because of all your frustrations about the Inter-Academy Tournament? Did she go out of her way to make sure you weren't distracted?
"Besides," Elizabeth mumbles in between bites, "you got me cake. So we're even."
You try to imagine in which reality cake alone - stacked up against housing, feeding, and clothing you in both Marloch and Stengard, among other things - somehow made both of you "even" before deciding it probably isn't worth it to get into that debate with Elizabeth.
For a while, the two of you sit on the mattresses against the walls of the cellar, quietly watching the commotion around you. The air remains as heavy as it was before. Although the cellars have largely been cleared of the wounded, there is a weightiness to the movements of the serving staff who work down here, as if they too are burdened with the knowledge of how badly things are going, as if they know that even this - this brittle facsimile of peace and quiet - is but a temporary reprieve that can be shattered at any moment. It isn't just the serving staff either; your fellow Caldran mercenary apprentices, too, are more somber than usual, keeping to themselves and not in any particular hurry to seek out company. Perhaps they are simply tired. Or perhaps the mood has also affected them. You can't blame them, given everything that has happened over the past few weeks.
As the two of you sit together on the mattresses in your corner of the cellars, you murmur, somehow both to yourself and to Elizabeth: "I hadn't realized the war was going this badly."
Elizabeth raises an eyebrow as she shoves another bite of cake into her mouth and cocks her head in your direction. "Really?" she drawls in between bites. "We are fighting against one of the great superpowers of Iuryis, and you thought we'd be victorious?"
A cold, unsettling feeling grips the bottom of your stomach at Elizabeth's pessimism on the subject. "D-Do you not think we have a chance?"
"Frankly, it's a miracle we've been doing this well. This was always going to be an uphill war. Elspar was always forfeit." The tiny elf pauses, and then actually has the presence of mind to look around - well after the fact - before she smirks and adds, "It is fortunate I didn't say that in front of Treiser, isn't it?"
You do agree it is so, but neither can you think of a polite way to actually say that, not when you and Aphelia have a cordial - if not entirely close - relationship. "I-I-I...." you stammer.
"There is no trick in the bag that will replace superior numbers and industry and logistics. For all that Caldrein emphasizes its skill at arms, there is only ever so much a single person can do against the tide. A Caldran mercenary is still made of flesh and bone, after all."
You suppose that much is true. On the one hand, the defense of the homeland and the skill-at-arms of Caldran mercenaries are making a difference; it is only through thus that the Confederacy has resisted as well as it has. Yet you cannot help but feel that the entire war has been a grinder, one that slowly but surely crushes Caldrein callously underfoot. "You make it sound so h-hopeless," you say, trying not to give too much voice to that hopelessness.
"All it has ever been is stupidity," Elizabeth snorts. "Do you remember what started this war? A dispute over hunting grounds. It is, perhaps, a defect in the 'Caldran character': Some inability to tolerate slights where turning the other cheek would've sufficed."
You can't help but think that, to a degree, this is also true of Elizabeth. Your better judgment elects against actually giving voice to that, though.
"The same could be said, I imagine, of the Tenereian invaders. How much goodwill did they burn through with this war?" Elizabeth laughs tersely. "Truly, we are cousins in our foolishness."
You can't help but feel how much Elizabeth sounds like Sieglinde at this particular moment. Again, though, you decide it's probably better not to say anything on this subject.
Finishing the last of her cake, Elizabeth pushes off the mattress and rises to her full unimpressive height, looking down at your surprised face and declaring, "Come, I've had enough of this dreary cellar. It's time I stretch my legs, and maybe find myself a goblet of wine."
You hope she isn't serious about the wine.
For all the obvious discomfort in the air, something akin to a status quo has slowly descended on Arnheim. The serving staff you and Elizabeth pass in the Treiser Manse continue their hustle and bustle, and the Caldran mercenary apprentices of Faulkren Academy largely stay out of their way as they rest against and huddle up in the corners. The wounded quartered here have thankfully decreased significantly in number over the weeks, and they no longer carpet the floors of the cellars. They have been replaced citywide by the sick, the inevitable side effect of the overcrowding that has struck Arnheim, but the Treiser Manse - the political and military heart of the entire campaign to defend Elspar - is far too important to become the center of some kind of outbreak. Save for isolated incidents, there have been no major cases of civil violence, no assaults on officers insisting on racially-mixed units of the sort you witnessed with Florence. In a way, amidst the exceptional circumstances, a sort of calm and normalcy has settled on the city.
But there are other small ways that remind you that not all is alright. It is impossible for them to outright segregate themselves, but you cannot help but notice that the serving staff in the Tresier Manse increasingly congregate based on race. And there is a noticeable but otherwise small shrinking of their number; you suspect that some have fled Arnheim for the safety of Caldrein's other regions. It seems so short-sighted: If Arnheim is to fall, the regions to the east shall surely come after.
"Aren't you concerned that L-Lindholm will be next after Elspar?" you ask Elizabeth in a low voice as the two of you stride across the cellars; thankfully, the elf seems to be headed for the stairs leading up to the ground floor rather than towards the kitchens for the threatened glass of wine.
"Along with Apaloft and Sandria, yes," Elizabeth adds flippantly, making no effort to play down the sensitivity of your question. "Fulwaite will be safe for the time being, and not only because it is utterly uninteresting." She marches up the stairs, where dreary stone corridors are replaced with more resplendent halls. Then, upon noticing the look you give her, she rolls her eyes and grumbles, "Of course I'm concerned. But if this was something that any Caldran mercenary apprentice of eighteen summers - prodigiously talented though she is - could solve on her own, we wouldn't be in this sorry mess."
You want to say something in response to that - maybe some platitude about how Tenereia would have to expend even more time and effort and resources trying to invade three regions at once, never mind that the Confederacy just lost a significant portion of its fighting force trying to defend Halissen, a loss you won't recover from for years - but something else catches your attention first. The music wafted so softly into your ears that you did not notice it at first, not when you were climbing the stairs from the cellars. But the gentle plucking of strings grew softly and subtly louder until you suddenly can no longer ignore its presence. You are drawn almost subconsciously towards the source, the sound clearly melodious in nature but not of any guitar or lyre or some other street instrument you're familiar with. The notes grow clearer as you navigate the corridors of the manse, a melody recognizable beyond distant, muffled sounds. It's a slow piece, gentle and with the kind tenor of a lullaby, but also wistful, like a wish for better times.
It is only when you finally reach the foyer of the Treiser Manse that you find the source of the music. In a corner of the chamber, Sieglinde is seated on a stool with what you can only describe as a titanic musical instrument resting slightly on her shoulder and between her arms. The orchestral harp stands taller than you, rivaling perhaps your buster sword in size; it is against the harp that Sieglinde sits, her eyes gently closed as limber, ungloved fingers dance across the strings in smooth, practiced motions, playing from memory without sheets.
You've always considered Sieglinde a graceful person, even when she's tearing through her opponents in combat, but there's something about watching her play the harp that really seems to entrench that impression.
Sieglinde enjoys a small audience of Caldran mercenary apprentices and guards and wounded and passing servants, all of whom largely listen in thoughtful silence. There are even a few familiar faces among them, although none quite as familiar as the dark-haired aseri leaning against one of the foyer's archways. Stephanie stands at a respectful distance from Sieglinde as she watches the latter play, favoring you and Elizabeth with a quiet nod of greeting when the two of you approach.
For a while, the three of you stand there, listening to Sieglinde play. Her music evokes the mental image of a familiar village disappearing behind the hills, a lover waiting patiently at a lighthouse, a lonely campfire smoldering against the setting sun. The music eventually slows, then comes to a gentle stop as the last notes fall. Sieglinde exhales, and then opens her eyes and bows her head to polite applause from around her.
Noticing her squad standing to the side, she rises from her stool to join you, where Elizabeth snorts, "A fine choice of music to suit the mood. I'm sure more melancholy is what we all need."
Sieglinde regards Elizabeth for a moment before she exhales; one could almost interpret it as a sigh. "I thought an unambiguously upbeat piece would be insincere," she admits.
"It was a very beautiful song," Stephanie offers, ignoring Elizabeth; beside your roommate, you nod in strong agreement.
"Senchanti is among my favorite composers," Sieglinde replies, Stephanie's compliment flying completely over her head. "Her Concerto No. 5 was among the first songs I worked to learn."
The tiny elf rolls her eyes aggressively, sighing, "She means it was well-played, you showoff."
Sieglinde blinks. "Ah." Then - electing to ignore the name-calling at the end - she bows her head: "Thank you. I thought some of us could take our minds off of the present state of affairs."
"I-It's a good song for Midwinter's Feast," you say encouragingly. Many popular carols for Midwinter's Feast tend to be more festive to reflect the celebratory air, but slower, more thoughtful songs are common for the occasion too.
But it's only a moment after when you realize that this little fact has taken your two other squadmates by surprise, given the blank looks they give you. Sieglinde actually blinks for a moment before softly murmuring, as if reminded of a long-forgotten memory, "It is that time of the year, isn't it?"
"It completely slipped my mind too," Stephanie admits a little more sheepishly.
The corners of Elizabeth's lips curl sharply into a wicked smirk at this, and she latches onto your arm coquettishly - you squeak in surprise - as she smugly declares, "Well, Neianne remembered to get me a solstice cake."
Your eyes are already widening in mortification even before you process another set of looks Stephanie and Sieglinde give you. "I-I-I know you like solstice cake!" you panickedly stammer, trying - despite knowing full well that neither of your two other squadmates are likely to be offended or even care about not having been given a solstice cake - to dissuade any obvious sign of favoritism. You're a responsible, impartial squad leader after all.
Sighing, Sieglinde cradles her forehead in her long, slender fingers. "If we're going to insist on mortifying our squad leader," she mutters with a clear hint of exasperation, "I know a quiet balcony where we can at least do so in private."
It would be nice to get away from curious eyes staring at the four of you - four unlikely squadmates - and have a change of setting that isn't the confines of the cellars, comfortable though Faulkren Academy has made it. And Sieglinde's choice of balcony isn't even bad, tucked around a less-traversed corner of the Treiser Manse's halls, perched right above the largely unused garden, and shielded from prevailing winds. The place was an emergency triage site just weeks ago, but as the crisis stabilized, it was possible to move all the wounded indoors and not out in the snow. As such, Squad Four has a largely solitary and mostly quiet balcony to yourselves. You even ignore the fact that you just came back from the cold outside.
What's more objectionable is the view. It could've been nice, under better circumstances. This balcony doesn't command the best view from the Treiser Manse - there are prettier districts of Arnheim to look at - but it's still a balcony on the tallest hilltop, affording you a good view across the city and then the hills past the walls. But the winter gloom aside, the streets are almost deathly empty. They aren't completely devoid of people, but not only has the stream of refugees that swarmed the city weeks ago since ceased, there has similarly been an exodus of people who have since left Arnheim, making the eastward crossing over the Elfert River, which is as good as any indication of their faith in Arnheim's defenses. Those who remain stay indoors to avoid the cold and each other, distrustful of those who may have contributed to the fall of Halissen and fearful of potential future episodes of mass violence. There are also small blackened patches of the city from where fires broke out, a reminder of that violence.
This is nothing new to you. Caldran mercenary apprentices have been patrolling the streets for some time now. But it's one thing to see the emptiness from the ground, and another to see the desolation of entire city districts from the hilltop. There is a sense of loneliness that surpasses the personal from up here.
"You can hardly tell that tens of thousands of people are supposed to live here," Stephanie murmurs, her chin resting upon her forearms folded on the railing of the balcony. Her black ears are slightly drooped and her tail languid.
"It just means there is sufficient shelter for the refugees through winter," Sieglinde points out, her tone dispassionate. She, too, looks out at the cityscape as she leans back with her waist against the high stone railing, her arms crossed. Her gaze, unsurprisingly, reflects a rote clinicalness. " We can only hope that those who have fled the city have found shelter elsewhere, but Arnheim's resources will not be stretched perilously thin. Things are fine."
Stephanie's right ear actually twitches once, a hint of her displeasure at Sieglinde's description of the situation. "We had to kill people just weeks ago. I don't want to think things are somehow just fine, like this," she waves out at the city, "is somehow the new normal."
The taller elf regards the aseri for a moment before shrugging. It is simultaneously dispassionate and slightly resigned. "We're at war, after all. Given the circumstances, there's no need for people to be left out in the cold.
"Aside from missing out on the holiday cheer?" Elizabeth softly laughs, lazing upon one of the balcony's chairs with her legs crossed, favoring her fingernails with her attention rather than the state of Arnheim.
Sieglinde actually favors Elizabeth with a pause before replying, "Now would be inopportune."
"Would it really?" Stephanie grumbles. "Everyone's on knife's edge. Wouldn't a holiday celebration be good for morale? To have something to bring us all together?"
"I do not think Arnheim's economic and logistic situation is equipped to manage a festival right now."
"And given the public mood," Elizabeth sneers, "do you trust those commoners to not break into riots at the first sign of trouble?"
You would like to think you know Elizabeth well enough to accept that her emphasis on "commoner" is mostly sardonic; although not quite as critical as Sieglinde, the blonde elf's views on social class largely seem to be clinical and detached, rather than a reflection of any belief in some inherent superiority that her aristocratic caste has over the common people.
Stephanie's ears drops even more, flat as they are on her head. "Things aren't getting any better, are they?" Stephanie sighs.
"Speak for yourself," Elizabeth snorts, and although you do so, you don't really need to actually glance at her expression to see that a wicked, sardonic smirk has unfurled across her lips. "Things are getting better for me, even though it's still a drag."
Stephanie regards Elizabeth with a cautious look, weighing the elf's usual behavior with her seemingly earnest and tiring labors as of late. "Have you been alright?"
"Oh, just fine," Elizabeth snorts with a wave of her hand, her voice lilting just enough to suggest sarcasm, but not enough to be called out for it. "Having to look after the health of dozens of people a day isn't exhausting at all."
You actually catch Sieglinde rolling her eyes as she sets her gaze on the horizon over Arnheim's walls, muttering not-quite-under-her-breath, "As if you see them as people at all."
But here Elizabeth smirks darkly, and you can't help but feel a chill run down your spine. "Oh?" she drawls snidely. "That's rich coming from you, Ravenhill."
"E-Elizabeth?" you stammer, recognizing when Elizabeth is merely teasing in her own ruthless way and when she's being challenging. The latter is not always a good sign.
"Unlike Ravenhill here," Elizabeth's smirk curls cruelly, unfurling her arm in Sieglinde's direction, "I see people as people. I see them as individual lives. I just think they're all boring." She looks askance at Sieglinde with a sadistic glint in her eyes. "Whereas Ravenhill can't even see people as people. To her, lives are just cogs in a system."
But Sieglinde is not intimidated at all. Rather, she closes her eyes calmly and simply states, "I do not subscribe to the theory of individual greatness. The individual is subject to the whims of the system, and merely born to the times. To change the individual, you must change the system." Sieglinde opens her ice-cold blue eyes, matching Elizabeth's golden ones. "That is the only way to affect real change."
You gulp, unable to suppress the feeling that deadly electricity is crackling between these two elven highborns as they glare at each other.
And all of the sudden, Stephanie heaves a dramatic sigh as she mutters, "Has anyone ever told you that you're both kind of insufferable?"
You stare, stunned. Your mind races with a dozen different interjections, ways to defuse the situation before it turns into a three-way argument; she's never outright cut them off like this before.
It proves unnecessary, though. "Yes," both Elizabeth and Sieglinde say, deadpan, for once entirely on the same page..
Stephanie blinks for a moment or two, clearly taken aback. Then she sighs and cradles her forehead in resignation. "...Forget it," she mutters, shaking her head. "I give up."
At the sight of her, you can't help but laugh. It starts as a quiet giggle you can't quite stifle, but then as Stephanie's head jerks up to stare at you, you fully lose control, doubling over where you stand, wracked with laughter.
Watching you, Stephanie tries to continue looking indignant.
"I'm...I-I'm s-sorry!" you manage, in no way slowing down.
Stephanie's lip twitches, and soon she has her head in her hands again, shoulders shaking in silent mirth.
"You," Elizabeth says, "are both ridiculous." But she makes no attempt to mask her amusement, her words laughed out loud in her pretty, tinkling laugh, an octave higher than either of yours.
Watching you all, Sieglinde looks politely baffled, but you swear you catch the ghost of a smile twitch across her face in spite of herself.
Beyond the balcony, in the hallway behind and the floor below, those within earshot politely leave well enough alone. With the past weeks being as they have been, half-hysterical outpourings of laughter are - they decide - not entirely unwelcome.
