Yn Faire Morporkia Where We Lae Our Syne

You look at the embroidery on the pillows with increasing fascination. You're used to loads of tapestries and things, but of course the style here is completely different— though you couldn't say whether it was specifically Klatchian or Morporkian or both. Lovely work, though. Three bats crawl out of your sleeves as you focus your attention, to pick curiously at the threads with their thumbclaws, and you have to peel them off the fabric hastily before they fray anything important. You're still hopeless at keeping bats off anything you get too interested in.

You refocus on Makwaa's question. "That'd be brilliant, actually. As long as you're alright with— you know, one bat at a time can seem quite cute, but a couple dozen going about their business might be trifle unnerving. It'd be— er— unfortunate if anyone was to get, er, well, get injured."

You know you might be coming off as a bit of a fussy hen, but the disoriented shock of feeling a piece of yourself die— the crunch of the tiny ribcages, the delicate wings, the terrified little brain— isn't exactly your idea of a good time. It probably wouldn't be anyone's idea of a good time, or, if it was, you shouldn't like to meet them.

 

"I admit I yelp a bit when a random bat gets into my house, but if I'm expecting them I won't swat at them, I promise."

The bare table in front of him continues to bother you even after you've put out the tea things. "Do you eat regular food, then? I'd have to do some shopping before I could cook anything substantial, but I can offer a snack." Your tone is hopeful; you have a disconcergingly strong urge to feed him up.

 

"I don't think I work that way anymore," you apologize. "I wouldn't mind a cup of tea, should you have any on hand. The black ribboners have a funny sort of fixation on hot cocoa, which I absolutely can't fathom. They serve it at all the meetings, and the stuff's disgusting!"

 

"Yep, I've got tea, you're welcome to it." You direct him to the cups, tea tin, and milk pitcher rather than fixing it yourself; if he's going to be living here, he may as well make himself at home. While he's on that task, you occupy yourself slicing plums into a bowl and pouring yogurt and honey on top. It's too bad he can't have any. It's lovely.

 

You make yourself a cup of strong, sweet tea, then add milk, then just drink the milk straight from the pitcher. It's cold and it's long since left its body— it was made to leave its body— but it was still a living fluid, once. It's not so much an aftertaste of life as an echo, but it's something. Why the ribboners insist on cramming it full of chocolate dust, you don't know.

Your eyes have drifted shut as you were overwhelmed by the relief of finally having something to drink, and when you open them you're a little too embarrassed about it to actually look directly at Mr Makwaa. You put the half-empty milk pitcher back down, take your tea, and sit down like a proper young man of good breeding.

"Thank you," you say. "This is all very kind of you."

 

Head tilted, you look thoughtfully from him to the milk pitcher, then nudge your dessert toward him. "Yogurt's a live culture. Have you tried it since you got vamped?"

 

You blink. "It's alive? But I thought it was a.. a sort of... cheese."

You take the bowl and spoon, and try a bit of it carefully. "It's fizzy!" you report, a little alarmed. You try another spoonful. "It is alive. How interesting." You remember to give him back his dessert in time, and go and get the container of yogurt, as well as a spoon from the drawer you'd seen him use. You're digging in ravenously before you even make it back to the table. You'd tried sucking on fruits and vegetables, on the trip down to Ankh-Morpork, but you might have been chewing on stones. Whatever plants are made out of, your body doesn't want it anymore. But whatever the hell yogurt is, it's something that works. Not well. But it works.

 

Beaming, you pronounce, "I'll make a double batch from now on. Want any honey on yours?"

There's a contented silence punctuated by the clinking of spoons. When you've both cleaned your bowls, you sit back with a happy sigh. "What are some other foods that work for you, besides milk products? So I can add them to the shopping list. If you chip in a dollar or two on market days I don't mind getting your groceries along with mine."

 

"Er... tea, small beer. Raw meat." You shrug. "It's not a long list. I really don't need much."

 

"Black sausage?" you propose. "Steak tartare? I like to cook, it's a hobby. Give me a challenge!"

 

You fluster, shrinking back in your seat and waving your hands. "I-I really couldn't impose, I don't know, really, I couldn't say," you stammer, feeling yourself start to fray. "It's really, it's really just those, what I said, I don't know!"

 

"Oh dear." He's going batty, literally. One of him lands on your sweater; you give the fuzzy little thing a gentle pat. "I didn't mean to push. We'll just add a little extra milk and yogurt to the menu and see how that goes, okay?" You get up to make more tea, so you won't be staring at him and increasing his (frankly adorable) flusteredness.

 

You take a deep breath once the attention's off you, and do your best to compose yourself. You don't exactly fit all the way back together, but the bats at least find perches.

"Yes, quite," you say shakily. You busy yourself with your tea.

 

You stir honey into your tea and let your sweater ornament lick the spoon. "Look at all your little teefs!" you tell it. "So many bitty teefs! You win at nibbles! Yes you do!"

 

Watching the man coo at your bat is equal parts embarrassing and endearing. You've never met anyone who liked bats, before. When Mr Makwaa gently strokes the little thing's fuzzy back you feel an echoing bloom of warmth, soft and welcome. You don't really know the etiquette for this situation, so you go back to studying the pillows.

"Did you make these?" you ask. "They're very lovely, though I've never seen designs like this before."

 

"Yeah, I did. Thanks." You're genuinely pleased by the compliment and you let it show. "I sell my needlepoint patterns in the shop, they're a fairly good seller. My family's traditional Klatchian motifs with Morporkian arrangements and color schemes. We've always been in the rug business, so I grew up with it -- like, I was shocked to discover, when I went to school, that not everybody can just put their hands on fifty colors of silk twist at a moment's notice." You grin at the memory, deciding not to mention that the school in question was the Assassins' Guild, nor what your friends had wanted the silk for.

 

"Things must be very different in Klatch, in Uberwald most of this kind of thing is women's work. I think the men handle selling it. I know no one ever let me near the girls' embroidery things— not that I could have sat still in a chair for long enough to learn, anyway." You smile at the thought. The daughters of your father's friends and their quiet little decorative hobbies were almost entirely inconsequential to you anyway, as a child. "I was always climbing right out the window when my tutors' backs were turned to go hang around the stables and smew mews."

 

That's a nice smile, you wouldn't mind seeing more of it. "It was whole-family work for us. Well, rugs and tapestries and like, upholstery fabrics, the big looms. I think most Klatchians would consider little embroidered pillows girl stuff, but if I feel like doing it too, who's going to stop me?" You shrug. Then you stand and stretch, trying to keep your body from settling down for the evening. "So -- inventory for me, moths for you!"

 

You nod seriously and put down your empty cup, then follow him back to the shop part of the building.

"I'm going to need to sit down for this," you say, and help yourself to the front counter when he indicates it's alright. You— unwind, but— not— you can't let go entirely— a few dozen, it's a small shop— confined, you'll paste yourself across every wall if you come apart all the way. You dissolve just enough that you start feeling disoriented. Frantic: the light's so bright, the sounds are so loud, the people so large, you feel all air and motion. Too far into this and you'll lose yourself to the whole brainless swarm, but a few dozen's alright. You can handle it.

Jethro makes some noises at you, slow, heavy, deep noises, and you blink at him uncomprehendingly.

"I'm," you say, a slow deep noise of your own, and lose the rest of the thought.

There are a lot of moths. It's good.