the gardener of bone and hydrogen
She has taken to sipping at tea ever since her father gave her a small box full of gold-and-crimson tea tins the last time he had visited. A tea trader from overseas had gifted a crate of his rarest blend to him as a token of gratitude at being granted a trading license, and though she knew her father to be an avid tea-drinker (yet another habit he has never shed from his days as a Scarab prince) the crate had contained far too many tins for any respectable man to drink in a year.
She has finished two tins in two months. They sit atop her dresser, filled with various trinkets — one for gold, the other for silver — because Aghavni had thought them too pretty to toss away.
The night is still dreadfully young. Already, she has run out of droning reports and loophole-riddled contracts to read through and sign. Charon’s desk boasts a new stack of curling parchment all marked with her scrawling signature (with their seldom-dotted ‘i’s), but still in need of his. Hence the tea. She had stepped into the kitchens on her way from his room, and had frowned at the prospect of heading back to her own.
There is a hidden chamber tucked along the very back of the Floor that Aghavni often stays in on her evenings off. It is far enough away from the gambling for sanity, yet close enough to eavesdrop on back-room gossip (and lover’s quarrels) whenever her books proved too tedious.
She is heading for the room, with her two cups of tea in tow, when she spots him. His name comes immediately to her tongue. Toulouse. The golden man with the scarlet scarf is a well-known regular, but he needn’t have been for her to remember him. It is a crime to forget a face so pretty.
Never, however, has she spoken to him. “Good evening.”
Her eyes snap warily to his before she corrects herself. She uses her curtsy to rearrange her features back into contemplative placidity. “Good evening to you, sir.” Tugging her lips into a smile, she pads softly over to his side. Her brows quirk when she sees the man staring curiously, dubiously, at the Bulletin.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what these are?”
She seals her lips in a sly hum. “Nothing of much importance. Reminders for the staff. Memos.” She glances over at him, at the old-gold luster of his skin, and chews on her lip thoughtfully. “They are spelled to be unreadable except to the ones they are written for.” Even she cannot decipher the majority of the notes tacked to the scarred face of the Bulletin. It is a mysterious entity, driven by Vikander’s magic no doubt, though Aghavni had never thought it strange.
The Scarab plays host to stranger things.
On a whim, she lifts a porcelain cup towards him. “Would you care for a cup of tea?” The second cup had not been intended for anyone other than herself (she had read once, in a book of etiquette, that well-brought-up ladies were not to indulge in more than one of any delicacy in polite society — the Scarab is hardly polite society) but tonight she feels especially generous.
“Imported. More indulgent, even, than the drinks they pour in the Lounge.”
@Tuolouse "speaks" { she's already charmed c': }
