Closed Sitting Books (Johanne)

[Dariel]

The Good Book 90th Day of Fall, 512 AV Dariel took a moment to look out the window, wistfully. Existing on less sleep than his contemporaries was a point of pride with him. Anywhere else that would have involved going to bed a bell later and being up a bell earlier than everybody else. Here in Lhavit he simply skiped the communal midnight rest. It was practical on all levels. Usually. Tonight however he had been talked into using that time to mind the Good Book, Keper Masute's -his father's- workshop and store for all kinds of things worth writing on. Not that the old man even bothered to keep the store open at this bell most nights. But he was out delivering a custom-made book to the Temple of the Moon. It was a lovely bit of work, a mosaic of engraved lapis held together by a frame of silver adorned both covers and the spine. Dariel would have preferred to be that messenger, but instead he'd been here in the store, all alone, finding ways to busy himself. First he had inspected all the finished but empty books, ordered them roughly by the type and shade of leather used, then by the miniscule differences in dimensions probably nobody else would notice. Now he was in the middle of sorting the many and varied sheets of loose paper about the store. Not that they'd been scattered. They had just been... well, scattered. The imported Wadj in this shelf, and the locally sourced papers made from Bromegrass and rags and a few other ingredients he wasn't privy too in another. By now they were still in different shelves but at least side by side. After the break he would sort them by grain and size differences on top of the colors they were already arranged by. But for now he took a rare moment of respite. Outside the window, the City of Stars lay almost silent. As silent as it ever got. And even though Winter was nominally a full day away still, he could already smell it on the breeze, he thought. Cold, dry, crisp, infinitely refreshing. Dariel welcomed the cold stealing into the windowless room. It kept him from falling asleep in those moments that his body remembered that it was supposed to lie in bed for one. His gaze rose skyward, past the Skyglass fixtures that directed the starlight into the room, but the actual night sky was hidden from his sight. The building across the street seemed to have been built with the intent of catching clouds, and the street itself was tiny compared to the main thoroughfare outside the door. Maybe he should just go outside for a moment. He'd certainly have a better view then. Dariel was still contemplating that thought when the street decided to come inside instead when the door opened, the draft gently playing the windchime that hung there.

[Johanne]

To Johanne, sleep was something meant to consume you for several bells, and then release you for a time. Even living in this starlit city for two years, now, Johanne had not become used to the Lhavitian custom of a broken sleep pattern. She had tried, of course, to sleep bell for bell with the locals, but every once in a while her body felt restless and demanded for longer periods of repose. This midnight rest, Johanne's body would not calm. The night was brisk, and the skies were unusually clear. She could not sleep, and though she knew she would regret the lost-bell later that day, she found herself walking from her apartment wrapped in a shawl and wearing her simple forest green dress. She was headed nowhere in particular. She did not leave her room with the intention of seeing anything but the open sky.

She could not bring herself to face the dizzying drops of the bridges leading to the other peaks that night. A small town girl from Denval, the mountains were something she would never become used to. During the sunlit hours, she was able to push her fear of the unknown depths and dizzying heights to the very back of her mind. But at night, when the world was dark and shadows seemed to play tricks on her eyes, their jagged peaks and razor-sharp edges leered dangerously. Tonight, she hugged the Surya Peak closely, never intending to step foot off the centremost locale of Lhavit.

With her eyes clasped firmly on the sky, she knew that she did not have to worry about bumping into strangers, or paying attention to residents hurrying down streets so late at night. The city was practically deserted; everyone asleep, or nearly. Lhavit was hers to explore, and she found herself more concerned on the night sky than the quiet city. What wonders the stars were! And Leth himself, quietly shining as a beacon to the restless and troubled! The sky was vast and full of empty space; but there were treasures nonetheless to be found.

Johanne, so fixed on the beauty of the night sky, did not see the broken cobblestone as she walked through the streets. The tip of her leather boot caught accidentally on the upraised stone, and down she tumbled, yelping as her knees and palms collided with the cold stone floor. Her shawl tumbled to the ground, and groaning, she collected herself. Johanne pulled her skirt up past her knees, only to see that she was not bleeding, and nothing was damaged at all: not even her pride, for there was no one to see her fall.

Collecting herself, Johanne looked around her, taking in her surroundings more consciously than she had done during her wanderings. She was somewhere near the Tower's Respite, she guessed, not far at all from her apartments, should she choose to leave. But right next to her was a little shop that she had never seen nor heard of. And her heart skipped a beat when she saw what it was.

The Good Book. A Papermaker's & Bookbinder's Shop.

Memories of hours working with wet and uncompromising pulp flashed through her mind; of cursing as the tree sap would not stick with the leather, when the papers tore and scattered to the ground; of crying when the paper was too thick or too thin. Of wailing and screaming when her mother burnt her books that she herself had made.

Without hesitating, Johanne sprung up and opened the door and was greeted with the sight of beautiful leatherbound notebooks, of strips drying by the windows, of papers organised in their colours and grains. She was greeted with the sight of home. She smiled, and her heart swelled.

Wrenching her eyes from the heart-warming sight before her, Johanne saw a man standing in the corner of the shop, and his gaze was turned to hers. He seemed tall, well-muscled, athletic. Proportioned. His hair was a white-blond and his gaze was direct. But for once, Johanne was not concerned with characters, but rather what she used to tell the stories. She smiled at him, but her eyes drifted immediately back to the display of notebooks. Without taking her eyes from them, she spoke.

"Before you say anything else, I want to thank you for this shop's existance. Thank you." And she stepped forward, as if to touch the sacred notebooks before her.

[Dariel]

Tilting his head first one way, then the other, the young man regarded the scrawny thing the wind had blown into the store. He knew it to have been the wind because just looking at her hair made his fingers twitch and itch with the desire to brush it straight. Fingers that slide behind his back to seize around wrists as he assumed what he took to be a professional posture. The girl didn't really seem to take notice of any of it, so entranced was she with the wares on display. Dariel would give her a few moments to take it all in before replying with precise, measured words. "Really, it is... my father you have to thank for. And his father before that. I am merely minding it while he is out on business. I do know my way about the store well enough to assist you, however." Dariel's eyes narrowed and relaxed in pulses, the focus of his gaze shifting forward and back as it sought to get him a better impression of the young woman. Did she even have coin? Would she leave his almost pristine shelves in disarray? On the other hand, she clearly had a love of books and paper. Something Dariel could relate to, to an extent. His was a love of knowledge and the means to immortalizing them, not so much of the difficult work that went into creating the means of said immortalization. He gave the single customer in what was his shop for the time being another look, pegged her as of the earth, but with her head in the clouds. Of course that was mostly taken from the colors of her garb and the state of her hair, but he needed something to go by. He was not going to judge a book by its cover, especially not in a book store. Instead, he would pluck one from the shelves. Earthy. Head in the clouds. He pulled out one of the travelling books with the wraparound leather cover. This one had a soft fuzziness to it. It was properly tanned and stretched, not suede, but he would never be able to tell what animal it was from. He mostly cared for the fact that it was a rich chestnut in color, and the closure was made from a chip of bone. Earthy. The paper in turn had a slight blue tinge. He had assumed that this was due to some taint during the paper making process, but it was the only thing he could do with the second part of his assessment. Clouds meant sky meant blue. Pressing the book to his chest, he turned to face the woman, then just gave her the time to soak it all in. His nose twitched. Somewhere, someone had started to brew the day's first tea, the scent wafting in through the open window. Trying to find out all the spices in the aroma tickling his nose would keep him entertained as he waited.

[Johanne]

The man's speech reached Johanne's ears, his words sinking in but his tone making no impact. If she had not been entranced by leather and paper, she would have found the young man slightly odd: too measured, too calculated. His shoulders were held in the perfect posture, his back straight and his eyebrows slightly raised. But Johanne's heart was filled to the brim with the notebooks before her, and the longing for the art she had once wanted to spend her life creating. Stepping forward, she caressed the books on the table, feeling the smooth cured leather beneath her fingertips. A smile came to her lips as she spoke to the young man again: her voice distant, her eyes contented. She was thinking of her notebooks at home, in her small little bedroom in Denval. The stars and Leth had all but disappeared from her mind.

"Is it not your shop, too, then?" Johanne mused, before picking up an immaculately crafted portfolio. The spine was stiff and the cover sturdy. Johanne imagined herself sitting in the Surya Plaza for bells, simply sketching the beautiful structures, the peaks behind her, all ideas for tattoos that she could present to her boss at Lazuli Ink. She wrenched herself from her thoughts and finished the open question she had posed to the blond young man. "I mean, if it is your father's, and your grandfather's, does that not mean that it will be yours, too? And what a shop to be the custodian of!" Her smile was electrifying: it was strange how paper and leather and spines and pulp could make her feel alive.

Keeping the portfolio in her hands without thinking about it, she turned to the young man. She had all manner of questions now that the lock on her heart had been pried open. She had not made any paper, any books, since she had left her home years ago. It was too much a thing of the past. She had promised herself she would only fashion her own when she had a story worth telling on it, but she kept putting it off, kept finding reasons to dream instead of do. But this young man and The Good Book could save her from the drought in her mind. The dam burst forth.

"Do you have workshops, here? Where do you import your leather from? Do you collect the pulp yourself? Which books did you yourself fashion? How long has your father been doing this? Would he teach me to better myself? I have coin, of course, and I am willing to pay. If I were to fashion some of my own work, may I sell it back to you?" Johanne took a breath and let the torrent of questions dry up.

She did not expect the young man to answer her, but if he could but tell her one morsel of information that could give her hope, she would feel a little like Johanne Verkir of Denval again. She did not miss her past but she missed her books. She stood before the young man, gripping onto the portfolio with an iron grip, waiting to hear something that would set her heart aflame with possibilities. She could answer her calling again.

[Dariel]

The tall young man did indeed look as if a torrent of words had just smacked him in the face and thoroughly drenched him. Yet even this cold fish of a man could not resist smiling a little at at the scrawny thing's exuberance. Two far-reaching steps took him across the cramped store until only the table stood between them. Dariel laid the book he'd selected down on the table, brushing his hand over the leather before withdrawing it. Then his body froze again while his eyes and voice took over. "I... pursued a different trade. I also suspect that I lack Keper's talent. Making books is practically an art when he does it. And given to the same limitations as any artist. If it was up to him I presume we would never sell a book. Me, I am well able to appreciate a good book, but I think I am better off stacking." And even that he only did here and there. He had to play the good son on and off. Not that he minded. Keper had no mind for logistics or organization. Both of which were things Dariel had in abundance. He liked order, he liked efficiency and it showed in every motion of his body. The double blink as he regarded her followed a small eternity in which he didn't seem to blink at all. His head even seemed to recoil from the impact of the words that followed, heavy with passion as they were, that smile he could not keep in cracking across his face like Syna breaking through the clouds. It was a brief display, but all the more genuine for it. Instead of answering immediately, he crooked a finger in Johanne's direction before the smile faded, saving it from looking a shade too unwholesome. Three more steps took him to the actual counter that doubled as Keper Masute's worktable. The only reason it looked orderly was the fact that Dariel had begun his earlier cleaning blitz here. His knuckles struck the wood once to indicate that this was the 'workshop' the woman had inquired after, considering that question answered. Sweeping the now opened hand across the same spot he just knocked on as if he needed to clean it after his touch, he considered the rest of her questions. "We cannot make Wadj here, obviously, but some of the local grasses can be used to make paper. It is invariably green-grayish and not as fine as proper Wadj, but it has its uses. Though I feel it takes better to charcoal than to ink." "Likewise, the leather is local as well. You may have noticed Lhavitians are not terribly fond of leather for wear. A lot of this is Hillgoat I am given to understand. Some of the sturdier ones are made from Mountainbeast hide. But you will also see lacquered wood in evidence. I find it impractical, but it is... fashionable with some people. The simpler workbooks often use pasteboard. Not sturdy, vulnerable to water, but one can doodle on it I presume." The rawboned face twisted into a little grimace at that. He didn't seem to think much of drawing on book covers. Nevertheless he tried to be courteous if not friendly. A good if distant host. "I am afraid my father would have to answer your other questions. I am not certain if he is currently looking to take on an apprentice, though I believe the demand is there to justify another helping hand around here." "Though as you can see, Keper only fashions a few standardized books for direct sale, most of his other work is made to order. If you fashion your own books, well, I should suggest you best try to peddle them in Kalinor..." Dariel allowed himself a teensy smirk at that one. No, he was not serious, and should Keper ask for his opinion he might even speak up in the girl's favor. At least if she demonstrated skill to match that delectable passion for books that shone through in everything she'd done since coming in. There just was no need to nurture competition.

[Johanne]

Johanne could not help but feel a little embarrassed when a brief but genuine smile spread across the shop-keeper's face. It flashed across his features quickly, like a comet, but it was nonetheless there. She did not usually ramble on so loudly and extensively, but it had been a full two years since she had been around this equipment and one who knew it well. She wanted to drink in the knowledge as much as she could, for here was what she felt she was truly meant to pursue: her tattooing was simply a way to feed herself. Her words and her paper and her books were what mattered, even if she was rather terrible at binding the paper she made into books. That was why she bombarded the man with questions: she wanted to learn.

Johanne's heart sank but a little when he stepped forward and told her that he was not well-versed in the art of the store, though his father was. It was of course going to be that when Johanne finally found the place she wanted to explore, she must be delayed by a little. That wasn't to say she lost all faith in the young man. If it were a family business, there was a chance that he could answer her questions nonetheless. "It is an art, isn't it?" mused Johanne thoughtfully, a whimsical smile on her face. "It's a beautiful store, regardless. You should pass that onto your father for me." She was not trying to be forceful. She was entirely genuine, and did not intend to dismiss the young man.

Indeed, when he crooked his finger at Johanne in a gesture to follow him further into the rabbit hole, she did not hesitate: she simply followed the blond, her step light and her heart full. She did not once let go of the portfolio, so artfully made, still clinging it to her thin and bony chest. He knocked on another counter. Johanne had no idea what the obtuse gesture meant, but when he spun on to different questions, answering them in depth, she was willing to let one go.

She nodded along with what he was saying, thinking of the properties of the vegetation in the Misty Peaks, and how the Wadj must have been thinner, smoother, than local made paper. "Better to charcoal than to ink. Thank you. I'll remember that." And she would. She'd write it down on a scrap of paper when she went home that night, tossing it into a pile of similar ripped pieces, all of which were things she needed to remember. Her notes were in chaos but it was not the organisation which mattered: simply the act of writing it down. "And the wadj. May I ask how much you import per season? Just out of curiosity, that's all."

Johanne wrinkled her nose at the thought of wooden book covers. She could understand the appeal to some of the richer families, with more people to impress, but to the average person: what use was that? Too heavy to carry, too immovable to be practical. She found herself nodding along with the young man. "Impractical indeed. The thought of writing on a book, too, isn't something I like. It's what's inside the book that matters. The cover is to hold the secrets inside. Like a warm blanket on a winter's night." She blushed, then. It was a terrible metaphor and awkwardly phrased, to a very still and quiet young man. She looked away, hastily, scratching at the scar of the Denval Quay on her right wrist in agitation. It was hidden just on the underside, and Johanne often, absent-mindedly, pushed up the sleeves of her shirt just a little to itch at her body art, when thinking or embarrassed.

"Oh, I'm not looking for a job," she blurted out, trying to correct the misunderstanding. "I already have one, at the Lazuli Ink Parlour. I'm sorry. I simply meant that if he could perhaps teach me some tips some bell or other that he has a quiet moment, I'd be most grateful, and even pay..." She would do anything for her dream. Kalinor? Johanne did not trust herself to go into that web and come out alive: so eager may they be for a surrogate. "I'm afraid I've never been to Kalinor..." Her smile became weak, and her confusion obvious.

[Dariel]

"I was being facetious. About Kalinor that is, not about the rest. You would after all be competition of a sort. And again, I fear only Keper -my father- could answer the question after lessons. Ah well, I presume passion is all one can really ask for. Everything else can be negotiated. Stick around a little longer and you might catch him as he returns from his errand." Stepping around and behind the worktable cum sales counter while running his fingertips across the well-oiled wood, Dariel's eyes sought a small shelf behind it. Not finding what he sought, he had to confess,"The exact numbers are in the ledger, but we literally buy hundreds of sheets in a year. However, my father does not import them himself. There is a local trader who specializes in the route to Ahnatep. I fear I forgot her name as well, but that too is in the proper ledger." Dariel frowned. At himself mostly, though of course that was not obvious. For one, he frowned because the ledger was not in the place he had ordained for it, but more importantly he had caught himself saying 'we' once more. Father or not, Keper and Dariel had little to nothing in common. One was easy-going, warm-hearted and sang to himself without noticing, the other was... brilliant, driven and pragmatical to a fault, Dariel thought. And orderly. A much neglected virtue, he found. Coming back out from behind the counter, he picked up another stray strand of their conversation, if only to agree emphatically. "I might not jump to such vivid imagery, but I agree fully. The contents of books are the real treasures, and be they pressed flowers. Though, yes, a well-done book may well be a work of art itself. Art containing art, without being redundant. I like that." "And again, as I said earlier, Keper should be back in soon. I shall not mind the company, if you have the time. I am sure there are..." And then his wandering gaze snagged on something. Something about her, something about Johanne whom he'd never found the courtesy to introduce himself to, and who'd never found the presence of mind to do so either. Something about her wrist. Dariel tried to pull away, but was drawn back in. His face was as always a still pool, but his eyes were tempestuous planets reflected therein, their abundant curiosity flashing and swirling in the most palpable of manners. Without warning his left hand darted forward like a striking snake, seeking to seize and reveal what he had only caught an inkling of. "What is... this?"

[Johanne]

"Oh, of course. I did not mean to press." Johanne had never thought of herself as competition, exactly. She would be willing to let him sell her works with the profit almost completely going to him. It was worth it to be able to create that sort of art again; an art she had missed, an art she had been almost afraid to begin practising again. And then this shop seemed to fall out of the sky and Johanne was spinning with possibilities. But the young man extended the olive branch to her, and did not outright crush Johanne's hopes.

"Thank you, if you don't mind, I'll wait." She smiled gratefully at the young man, her eagerness now somewhat assuaged, knowing that she could have her questions answered in not too long. Now she could focus on the blond man as an individual, not just a means to an end. She introduced herself, hoping the young man would personalise himself, too. "My name is Johanne. Thank you so very much for all your help thus far." And she sent him a brilliant smile, sincere and genuine.

And at his words, she imagined a dark-skinned woman, with cloth wrapped around her face to protect her from prying Syna's eyes, a caravan trailing behind her. In that caravan were hundreds and hundreds of the precious Wadj sheets, as she peddled her wares to the towns she visited annually. And here, the blond man, stumbling back into the shop, his arms laden with sheets of the paper, the smell of the desert rising around him... She smiled at the image. "It must be an experience doing business with a desert-woman," she said, wistfully. Small-town Johanne could hardly imagine such an exotic thing. Ironic: being that she lived in a town where the fallen Ethaefal lived.

Johanne was glad this man, so severe though his face was, could speak with ease on pressed flowers and the beauty in book making. It made the waiting until the owner of the shop arrived all the more bearable, knowing that she could ramble on about her love of paper and words and he would not judge her: at least, not outwardly. His visage was always truly composed, though Johanne had noticed a frown flash across his face. It was gone before she could contemplate it, though, and wonder if it was directed at her. But she let the thought go: if he had a problem with her, it would become more and more obvious as they conversed, and then she could confront him.

"Art containing art, yes!" she said, happily, glad that he understood. "While the words are the true treasure, it makes sense for it to look beautiful as well, no? I am a tattoo artist, as I said. I have come to realise that beauty is not one thing, but the combination of every factor, so that they are balanced in perfect harmony." She nodded, seriously. Words and paper. Ink and flesh. Scars and skin. The moment before a kiss and the moment after. These are all the things that Johanne tried to balance so that she could live a truly beautiful life. It was something she was endlessly concerned with: worried that the words would not come if she had not enough ethereal and literary wonders in her world.

The young man's sentence trailed off, and before Johanne could ask what it was, his hand flashed out, quick as a fish, and grabbed Johanne's wrist. She tensed, unsure of what to do: being manhandled by a stranger was not something that she was used to. She stiffened, and aimed to pull her wrist away, before she noticed where his gaze went. Her heart sank. Here, another person who would misunderstand. Another who would think she was less-than-sane, depressed, suicidal. Another person who would not get to see the beauty in her scars. She prepared for a long explanation to an accusatory stare.

"This ... is a scar." Sighing, Johanne wrenched her wrist away, using it to push up the sleeves of both arms. The man would see her forearms, covered with scars: images of Leth, Syna. The Denvali Quay. Books and stiletto knives, stars and tattoo instruments, all carved into her skin and presenting as white, raised scars. "I have a lot of them." And she waited for the torrent of accusal, while she stood with her heart and soul on display: these scars were her heart.

[Dariel]

Dariel's pale eyes in a paler face narrowed at Johanne, retracting, withdrawing as she was. Taking more than a defensive position. She took a defensive mindset, it seemed. It did not even occur to him that he had violated her privacy. In this moment, the tables were reversed and he driven by the curiosity the woman had exuded before."I can see that it is a scar. But it is not an accidental one. It has been given form with purpose. It is raised. Who did that? How? Did they infect the cuts to make them so visceral? What is the meaning?" His reaction was neither damnation nor praise. It was a child's curiosity let run free. It did not judge. It did not care to judge. Judgement would have meant to consider the bearer of the scar. But Dariel, Dariel only concerned himself with the thing itself, not the skin it had been shaped from. When he was done asking questions, he asked yet another one, silently, by turning his once aggressive hand over, open now, palm up. An open invitation, a request maybe, nothing more. While he waited for the scar's bearer to make her move, he recalled her questions and prompts. "Dariel. Dariel Masute. And please do wait, I did invite you after all. I should even be able to magic up some tea if the wait gets too long in this drafty chamber... though truth be told, I quite like the draft. Keeps me from passing out." He was almost sociable about this thing, maybe because Johanne's own graces were about as lacking as his and he hardly needed to feel bad about omitting some senseless unwritten rule. Maybe he just needed her to remain until his curiosity was sated. His wandering, seeking eyes certainly could not get enough of her all of a sudden. Wherever skin showed from her garb she'd find herself examined, checked for more scars, or indication that there were more."Though I fear I must dash your dreams about a desert woman. The trader is a local, and I doubt she makes the trip herself to be honest. She likely sends out rough men of an even rougher nature. But once more, wait for my father. His father was from Ahnatep." "Myself, I can maybe count to ten in Arumenic, I fear, or order something to drink and the like. As you can tell, the desert has not touched me." Dariel's gaze slid across the woman's face, brushed across her chest without showing any interest for the cloth and came to rest on his own hand again, fixating it as if he could will it to fill itself with her wrist. When he finally tore his gaze away it was her eyes that he looked for next. There was one more card to his hand. "That thing you said about beauty? You are right, but not thinking far enough. Beauty is a thing being the best of its kind it can be. Traditions and mores are for lesser people. The kind who cannot decide for themselves what is what. Yes?"

[Johanne]

Johanne swallowed, uncomfortable beneath the calculating stare. People she met did not often understand the scars. They thought they were self-mutilation, the representation of self-loathing, or perhaps the reminder of an abusive past, or torture. But to Johanne, the scars were her heart on display, things she had felt, that had made her laugh and cry and feel. How could she explain this to a man so calculating and logical? She looked down, and saw Syna and Leth on her forearm: the first she gave to herself. Her heart swelled with courage and Joseph, and she answered the young man's impertinent questions.

"No, they are not accidental." Her voice was quiet, but convicted and defending herself. "I gave them to myself. They are the representation of everything that has made me feel alive." She traced the flower just below her elbow: she had given it to herself her first spring in Lhavit. It reminded her of new life, new hope and new beginnings. "They are raised because I gouge out the skin, creating a narrow tunnel. I have to be careful not to go too deep. When they are healing, I interrupt the process, picking at the scabs so that when a scar eventually forms, it is prominent, raised and not likely to fade any time soon."

When he extended his palm, though, she hesitated. Johanne would always defend her scars, but to place them willingly in the hands of another, of an unknown, who could say and do anything that Johanne was not able to predict was something that gave her pause. Her wrist hung beside her, and she spent her time answering his questions, rather than trusting him completely so quickly. "Dariel," she said, softly, as if testing the sound of the name on her tongue. "Tea would be nice. If you have any, and it is not too much trouble to make it." Despite his sociable conversation, Johanne still noticed his roaming eyes, and felt uncomfortable in his examination. She knew he was looking for more of the same.

His grandfather, from Anhatep? And yet the young man showed no signs of the desert. He was lean, pale and clearly of the mountains, where one had to be forever on their guard if they ventured beyond the city. "I can speak Denvali," she offered, though why she was bringing up the past to a man who clearly was mining for information, she did not know. Perhaps a part of her hoped that Dariel, part of the trade which Johanne loved so dearly, could not mean ill will. "Some have said that it sounds strange, but I think it is wonderful. I have not spoken it since I left, though, so I am, perhaps, a little rusty." She shrugged, and kept her hand by her side. She was not yet ready to trust him.

She shook her head at Dariel, jarred by his different views. "I do not agree. Beauty can sometimes be found in tradition. For instance: the Moon Festival here. It is beautiful, yes? And yet it is a tradition, a very important one. What you are describing is not beauty, but innovation, and innovation can sometimes be destructive." She shrugged again. To her, beauty was found in old and delicate things, things that were fragile, things that told a story. It was not just the new.

And despite their differing views, Johanne sighed and surrendered her wrist to Dariel, trusting despite herself.