| Sneaky Brekfast |
| Summary: | Angharad catches Keyte mid-sneak for some early brekkie. |
| Date: | Date of play (26/04/2014) |
| Related: | things and ones |
| Players: |
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It's rather early to be called morning if you're any kind of person fond of sleeping — but then, some are not. And some are, but are not asleep at this hour on this day for whatever reason. Apparently, Keyte is one of those people, sneaking down from above in her nightdress and padding through the greater hall of the manse towards the kitchen; she's hoping to pilfer some of the day's first-baked bread.
It is a bit early to be visiting, certainly, but Angharad does tend to be an early riser. And perhaps she's attempting to avoid the hours when most of the household will be awake, if not present. In any event, she arrives in a silk day dress and light cloak, just enough to bead off the rain, putting back her hood in the foyer and pushing back a few locks of hair that managed to get become damp, despite. A flash of sneaky, nightdress-clad twin crossing the great hall draws her attention — and she steps foward, hesitantly, calling out in a stage whisper, "Hsst! Keyte!"
OH GODS IS SHE BUSTED. Keyte ducks her head as guiltily as it is comical, curling down as though it might put her out of sight. It doesn't, of course, and she forced to slant a glance aside to see who's caught her. "Harry?" Her voice breaks clear across the room, surprised.
Harry hurries, over, smiling in a fashion that's warm, laughing, and — well, quite melancholy, all at once. "Shh, shhhh," she puts her finger against her lips. "Don't wake anyone. What are you doing up?"
Well, this is at least better than she'd expected. Keyte rubs her eyes a bit as Harry scurries over, unsure in her early morning haze if she's seeing things or not. Apparently not. When next she speaks, at least she's lowered to a whisper: "I was hungry," she retorts, still a little confused. "What are… I don't… do you want some bread? Or tea, or… something?"
Harry nods, taking Keyte's arm affectionately. "Let's sneak down to the kitchen and see what they've got."
She's still a little sleepy, truth be told, not that Keyte would protest the taking of her arm regardless. She nods back blearily, and starts picking her way back to the kitchen with Harry in tow. "Are you alright," she whisper-questions, still a little confused. "I've heard so many things these last days."
"They're probably true," says Harry with dark, dry mirth. "It's not as though the servants here ever have to exercise their imaginations. We provide plenty of gossip that's real — and often full of proof." She gives Keyte's arm a little squeeze. "Don't worry about me, though, cous. I'm fine. Or… I will be, at any rate. Though I already miss you and your sister. And Katya. and Jo."
"That's not very comforting," Keyte replies worriedly, creases forming in her expression as they creep along. "Well I do, you know. Worry about you. And miss you — as if Boring Isle wasn't boring enough."
"I haven't left town," Harry promises, pushing open the kitchen door and poking her head in. There are, of course, servants there at nearly every hour, and this is no exception. Meals and snacks and meals again for a house of intemperate nobles is a 'round the clock enterprise. "Pardon me, friends — might we have the room for a little?" She may no longer reside at Garden Isle, but she's still Ser Laurent's wife and a Tyrell. The cooks and scullery quickly make themselves scarce.
"I should hope not," Keyte exclaims softly, though above a whisper, at the mention of leaving town. There are certain things that just permeate the consciousness, and that is one. She starts to blink again, as cooks and maids scatter, and the slightly older of the Tyrell twins gives a giant yawn. "You didn't ask them for bread first," she complains in that barely-intelligible yawnspeak, as she steals her arm back to streeeeetch.
"I'm sure it's around here, somewhere," says Angharad, making herself at home in the kitchen. She puts on water for tea and inspects the cupboards, soon ferreting out a fresh loaf of still-steaming bread and a crock of butter. "In any event, I'm just back with my cousin Maera. Once Laurent and I have certain financial matters worked out, I'll probably just have a little manse of my own. We can visit all the time, wherever I am."
Keyte trots over to the nearest bench with a stool, seating herself and yawning again. "Oh," is the only word she spends this yawn on, leaning herself forward to curl upon the benchtop. "But, wait, I thought, uh, huh?" She lifts her head a little, sniffing unwittingly at that lovely fresh bread. Mmm, yes, that's what she was sneaking down for.
"Which?" asks Harry, clattering about a bit as she searches for fruit preserves.
"You're not a witch," Keyte responds, sniffing again.
Harry blinks, head cants, then smirks. "Thank you. I like to think so. But I was asking which thought had the 'huh?' attached. It seemed like there might be some clarification in order."
"Oh," says Keyte again, this time not a yawn. "No, I thought you and Laurent were moving to a manse… together. I asked him to find Kevyn a place in your household just… yesterday? The day before?" All the days are a blur at this hour. She frowns a deep, troubled frown, and adds, "He said he would."
"I'm sure he will," says Harry reassures, bending low to peek in a low bin. "Ah-ha." She brings over a crock of raspberry preserves to go with the bread and butter. "But I don't think Laurent and I will be sharing a roof again. It happens, sometimes — ladies and lords take up separate residences." She tears a piece from the loaf of bread and slathers is with butter.
Keyte blinks again, and reaches up to scratch at her sleep-tangled mess of dark curls. "Well that's… horrible," she voices quite honestly, reaching out to tear the end off the loaf once Harry's got hers. "Aren't you upset?"
Harry fiddles with her bread, lashes low. "I've wept a great deal," she conefesses. "And I may weep a while longer. After the first few days…" She takes a breath and takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. "It comes and goes, not. Some moments I'm fine, others… I'm not."
"Well that's… horrible," Keyte repeats, increasingly alarmed. "What did he do? I mean," she takes up a knife to start slathering her own end of bread in butter, "I'm not unaware that he's, you know. Ser Thorn. But I — did he do something extra awful?"
"He's…" Harry begins, unsure how to begin, and so she stops, setting down her bread and going to check on the kettle. "I loved — still, gods help me, love — Ser Thorn. I married him, after all. Somewhat in haste, I admit, but neither blind nor stupid. I knew who he was. Is." She hefts the kettle from the hearth, putting together a tray for tea. "He's decided — when, how, I don't know — that I never loved him. That I lied to him. What evidence — again, I've no idea. I was too critical, perhaps. We did fight often, I found his behavior, at times, appalling. After the trial, in particular, but for him to think I never loved him…" She pauses again, gripping the edge of the stone counter, head bowed. Silently counting, perhaps, until she's once again sure of her voice. "At any rate," she goes on, getting back to work with a deep breath, "he won't be disabused of the notion. So… his treatment of me has been…" She shrugs, a twich of her shoulders. "You know your cousin. He loves or he hates, and he won't abide anyone for which he feels the latter."
Keyte, bless her oblivious soul, continues to slather an ungodsly amount of butter onto the pillowy innards of her breadcrust, only deigning to bite once Mt Butter is completed. She is a good listener, only interjecting the once; "It is," she agrees, of Laurent's appalling behaviour. She continues to wear a frown that's ill-suited to her, chewing thoughtfully until Harry concludes, then swallowing abruptly. "So he kicked you out?" She is as far outraged as one can be whilst still waking up. It's still pretty outraged.
"No," says Harry, looking over her shoulder at Keyte, apologetically. "I left. I know — that women endure this kind of thing from their husbands all the time, and remain, however despised, to bear his children and manage his home… But I couldn't." She pours two cups of steaming tea, monitoring her hands for steadiness as she does so. "He even agrees not to — to take his lovers elsewhere — which was quite fair of him. But I couldn't." She sets down the teapot carefully. "I'm sorry."
"Uh." Keyte was about to tuck into another bite of Mt Butter, but the 'no' has spoiled her appetite, or at least given her pause. She's quiet, for a good long moment, just watching the Northern girl, head sloooooowly tilting to one side. "You don't have to be sorry to me," she finally says, straightening up her face. "I just… this is all very sudden."
Harry breathes a bleak laugh. "Yes. I can imagine. It's sudden to me, as well. I don't — can't — understand how someone's heart can change from love to hate so quickly." She looks up, her expression plaintive and painful. "Do you think less of me, for not staying?"
She pauses for a little moment this time, not long and drawn out like the last. Keyte's lips twitch, and she says, "No, but I wish you wouldn't go. I was born his cousin, it seems unfair that having chosen him you get to leave." By the last word she's broken into a smile, and she extends an hand out to welcome Harry for a one-armed hug. Breakfast, priorities, but you know: it's ok.
Harry chokes a wet bubble of a laugh, leaning into Keyte's one-armed hug. "It's probably a little easier, being his cousin. He loves you, however horrible he is." Still. "Thank you." And then there's breakfast. And tea. And sympathy, which is a lovely balm of its own.