Night Comes To Tallahassee

[we_bring_hell]

The Bar does her best to mother the underage patrons of the Bar, nudging them gently towards self-care and withholding harmful things, but she is not omniscient. She couldn't have known not to give Harrowhark Nonagesimus pushpins and index cards and colorful string.

Harrow has secured a small sideroom in the library, the equivalent of a grad student cubicle, and something awful is taking shape there; the crazy conspiracist murder board equivalent of the bone construct lurking in the depths of Canaan House. There is color-coding. There are crossreferences. There are Tarot cards mixed in. There's a map of Canaan House. There are accidental yarn pentagrams that have somehow not yet summoned the soul of Pepe Silvia.

Harrowhark is dressed way down, and yet somehow at her most feral and goblin-like, sockfooted and gloveless in soft pants and black hoodie, as she shifts the cards around and examines new configurations. Ever so often she refers to her journal. She is humming something under her breath.

Comments

[we_do_bones]

Gideon turns her eyes away and goes to where she'd tossed her own clothes onto the bed she hasn't used and strips to her bandeau, feeling unaccountably and wildly nervous as she silently slips back into the trousers, shirt, and robe she was wearing when she first arrived.

Gideon isn't willing to wait, whatever Harrow might say about taking her time.

[we_bring_hell]

Harrow turns back from the closet, dressed in her habit and rusty, ancient robe. She puts her journal into the pockets and looks around the room; but none of the rest of this can come with her.

She toes on her old, shitty boots, eyes the shiny spikes of her new ones with regret.

"Ready, Nav?" she asks.

[we_do_bones]

Gideon twitches her sunglasses back up her nose. Her hair has finally finished drying, and it sticks up like a ludicrous flame burning down a black candle.

"I was born ready, bitch," she says. "Let's go."

[we_bring_hell]

A grin twitches for just a second over Harrow's badly-painted face. Just a flash.

"All right."

She sweeps down the stairs as only the Reverend Daughter can sweep, in the arrogant confidence her cavalier is on her wings.

[we_do_bones]

She is.

Half a step behind. At her shoulder. Exactly where she's supposed to be.

[we_bring_hell]

She faces the door. On the other side of that door, Camilla Hect is waiting for her with handcuffs. So is a Gideon who has seen the Fourth die, screamed all night with nightmares, threatened to desert Harrow to serve another.

So is the head of Protosilaus the Seventh.

"Farewell, Gideon Nav. I'm sorry."

Always one to get the last word, Harrow darts through the door.

[we_do_bones]

"Harrow!" yells Gideon, breaking her silence with deep annoyance.

But the door has already swung shut, and when Gideon opens it again, Harrow is nowhere to be seen.

What she does see is Isaac Tettares braiding Jeannemary the Fourth's hair up out of her face as they mutter to each other. They look up as Gideon steps through the door, but don't seem to notice anything: Gideon glances over her shoulder and only sees the doorway to the eating-atrium. There's Harrowhark, with Palamedes and Camilla the Sixth, just like Gideon remembers.

"Have you two been paired a very long time?" asks Jeannemary's small voice, and Gideon looks at her in surprise as Isaac moans in embarrassment.

"It feels like forever," she says honestly, and slips her glasses on, feeling instantly better. "Come on. Let's go."