strangetrip | [EP] musketeers don't hide

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[EP] musketeers don't hide

The longer Constance was here, the less she could let herself believe it was all some fever dream. She was here, stuck in an inn in the Americas almost four hundred years in the future. As much as she wanted to be home, she didn't have the means to get there, and she wasn't going to sit around doing nothing. She hadn't done that while her husband was at the front; she wouldn't do it now.

She needed to learn about all the new technology – a new word, one she'd learned from River Song – and learn English, and she wasn't going to do either hiding away in her room or in the kitchens, although after a week watching the inn's unnerving cook and preparing things that didn't include chicken, for whoever was hungry, she thought she was starting to get a feel for the stove and ovens, and the rooms cooler than most cellars without being underground.

Today she'd made several meat pies and some with fruit, similar to the apple pie many had had the day they arrived, and taken them to the cafe. After setting them out for people to serve themselves, much as she would've at the garrison, if the cadets... or Porthos gave her the time to, she sat at a table nearby with needle and thread. A seam in her overbodice needed repair, and it with only the one outfit it was the only mending she was comfortable doing in public, regardless how little most of the women here wore.

She looked up as she heard someone come in, threading the needle by feel alone, and offered them a friendly grin. "'ello." It wasn't much, and she'd have to switch to French for anything else, but a simple greeting she'd heard often enough to offer in English. "Il y a de la nourriture, si vous la voulez," she added, gesturing toward the pies with a tip of her head.

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Another day, another rather unproductive stewing about the property. He'd flown it the first time, frustrated that the open air seemed to force his wings to turn after some hours as if they'd been caught up by an unyielding current. He'd walked it instead today, taking his time in scouting to search for some manner of arcane symbol or half-hidden relic that might be responsible for all this. As usual, stirring himself round and round in circles did little more than make Vax'ildan's stomach churn.

Or possibly, Vax admitted to himself, catching scent of something exceptionally mouth-watering as he stopped just out front of the cafe doors, he'd just got very hungry on top of irritable and gloomy. He'd not eaten yet, after all.

He could scarcely believe the sight of it, the rather pleasant-looking lady within seeming to indicate why yes, you lucky idiot, it just so happens there's pies out for you. But there were forks and plates out, slices cut from the whole of the crusts, with her not seeming to mind as he made his way over to them like a dog come in when he knew it was time for dinner. Whatever she said, he understood none of it - but he gave her a respectful bow of his head and a meaningful look before he started piling up a plate. "Thank you, fair lady."

Edited 2017-01-14 02:06 (UTC)

A man wearing armor, and knowing what to do with food, was a familiar sight for Constance, and a comforting one. The feathered cloak was maybe a bit strange, but still closer to what she expected than most of the clothing worn by people here. But...

... then she noticed the ears, and she caught herself staring. Fair cheeks turned rosy as drew her eyes away and focused on really listening to his words. She got the idea it was some kind of thanks, and answered as though it were, he probably didn't understand her any more than she did him. "De rien, monsieur. Mangez, mangez," she added, urging him at the food. Then she shook her head and shrugged, apologetic. "Pardonez-moi, je ne parle votre langue."

For as maddening and stressful as it was to be thrust into this place with no easy way home, at least they mostly spoke Common. He'd be twice lost otherwise. He tried again to puzzle out her words as she spoke, but however lovely it sounded tripping from her tongue, it was no clearer than the first time.

He came to sit beside her where she worked with her needle, and after a few bites of savory meat pie so good in this wasteland of chicken that he could've kissed her, Vax tried a different approach. The phrase he offered was in another language, soft and lilting, requiring finer dexterity of tongue. "Os vor shyr sari eir paelolor ol eilia sylia." She'd got a good look at his ears while he'd fixed his plate. If she spoke something else, it might be Elvish.

His next words were more melodic, if possible more foreign than the first, and as incomprehensible to Constance. Arabic maybe, like Samara's poetry? Or... She touched the rim of her ear and nodded toward him, "Fée?" Her hands tightened slightly in the cloth of her mending to keep from crossing herself, just in case.

After his talk with the wizard girl, Vax suspected he'd be getting more of that. He shook his head quickly, and left off the Elvish. "No! No, no." He balanced his plate on one knee, reaching to tug one pointed ear softly. "Elf," he explained as simply as he could. "And only by half," he added in a soft grousing under his breath.

Constance didn't need to know English for his noes to be obvious. Not a fairy, then, and she lowered her eyes in apology. "Je suis désolée, monsieur. Je ne voulais pas vous offenser." Not a fairy, but not a man as she knew them either, one more strange thing about this future, and something in it he didn't seem happy about either.

He carried no sword, but there was the armor and daggers on his belt, and it was enough for Constance to fall back on the familiar. "A fighter?" she asked, her gaze holding on his armor, then dropping to his weapons, before she squeezed her upper arm miming strength and made a stabbing motion.

Whatever she asked him sounded like 'combatant' in Common, and her progressively adorable pantomime told him what she was curious about just as well. If they'd shared a language, he might've reassured her - I kill mostly bad people now, that sort of thing. But language barrier aside, she didn't look as if she'd shrink or scream if he brandished a weapon. What she looked was interested.

Holding aside his plate with one hand, his other very slowly, very carefully moved to slide Whisper from its place at his side, just in case she felt differently about a naked edge than a sheathed one. The steel dagger was rather long and slim as he exposed it, with a tapering point. A faintly iridescent white line curled around the handle, some trick of the light causing it to seem to move slightly when one began to take their eyes away from it, though it seemed entirely still again once it had attention.

Vax'ildan first showed her his stabbing grip, then his hand shifted with amazing fluidity to demonstrate a throwing grasp. Indulging himself just a bit, he turned his face to smile at the woman. He spun the dagger end over end, several feet into the air above his hand, and caught the handle back up again as it fell. Show-off, he could hear his sister muttering, even from a world away.

He was showing off now, and Constance laughed, the bright sound dimming with memories of her favorite show-offs. Porthos and Aramis were more likely to use their guns for it, but gambling on their skills had earned them coin more than once, not that they needed the excuse. And they would've been the first to challenge him to some kind of pistols versus knives just for the fun of it.

Athos was far more practical, and would've feigned disinterest in any such games (while watching intently from one side), but she could imagine him appreciating how finely crafted the dagger was.

Constance wasn't Aramis. Or Porthos. Or Athos. So her reaction was different too. She bit at her lip, considering, the same flash of enthusiasm in her eyes she'd once given for pistols and for swords. She leaned forward, drawing the dagger from its sheath at her back – slowly, because men that at ease with weapons could react to potential threats before they had a chance to think – and held it the way he'd held his. "Enseignez-moi?" she asked, pointing with her free hand to his dagger, and then at herself.

"I can be reasonably sure you're not asking me to stab you," Vax told her, slipping Whisper neatly back into its sheath and setting his plate aside on one table.

"That's a sturdy little pig-sticker," he smiled, the expression showing pleasantly surprised that the unassuming baker woman had that in back of her apron the whole while. He looked at how she held it, reaching carefully to hold the hilt in the one hand and rearrange her fingers just slightly with the other. He gave her wrist a bit of a firm wiggle to loosen her up. "Lead with your index and thumb for throwing," her tapped those first digits. "But follow through with the whole of your arm," he took his hand back to pat at his own elbow and shoulder. He demonstrated the empty-handed gesture he'd use to toss the dagger at an unsuspecting pie plate on another table. Not that he was recommending she start throwing sharp things in close quarters...

Oh, she knew that look, and Constance expression turned almost smug. Aramis had worn a similar one the first time he saw her wield a sword. And many of the cadets had before they learned not to underestimate Madame D'Artagnan.

No, Constance wasn't going to start throwing knives inside – she did have the sense God gave her, thank you, even if some people she could name didn't seem to use theirs. But she let him adjust her grip, focusing on how it felt, cool steel under her fingers and the way the weight of the dagger balanced. She watched just as carefully his motions as he demonstrated a throw. Maybe sometime soon she could find a place out of the way where she could practice. Then wouldn't D'Artagnan be surprised when she got home and had learned a new and useful trick.

She aped her new teacher's actions, not letting go of the dagger obviously, but the rest, to get the feel of it. It felt awkward, not quite right, and she shook her head, trying again more slowly.

"You're sitting," Vax pointed out constructively from around his continuation of the meat pie. "It's not a leisurely activity. You've got to get the right posture for the follow-through, at least while you're still figuring it out."

"Stand." He knew it was all babble to her, so Vax slowly exaggerated his gestures as he rose from his own seat, set back his shoulders to draw the line of his torso upright, put his weight on his rear heel, and mimed the throw of his fork - without releasing, of course.

It wasn't a sword-fighting stance, but it wouldn't be, would it? But between D'Artagnan teaching Constance, her watching him train with the others, and seeing the cadets at practice, she knew the importance of having the proper posture for the act. She didn't have to understand what he was saying to hear similar instructions in her memory.

She stood, the flick of her hand adjusting her skirts so practiced it happened subconsciously while right then she wasn't thinking about them or that sort of proper. Her gaze traveled from him to her imagined target and back several times as she adjusted her stance. When she felt it matched his, the arm holding the knife moved through its arc once again. That did feel better, and she smiled briefly, before the eagerness to learn something new faded under more pressing matters.

"But you didn't come in here for me to pester you. You wanted food." She waved him back toward his plate. "I can wheedle lessons from you later."

He still didn't know what she was saying, but the universal feminine shooing of eat, eat! came through easily enough. He would've asked more about her martial training, if he could have - and it seemed to him she understood how to go about beginning to learn the forms of combat, so that she probably had experience in another discipline. He'd seen that trick done with skirts before - and always by dangerous women.

"Maybe we'll teach each other a thing or two," Vax'ildan suggested (as if it were an original thought), though he helped himself to a slice of fruit pie for the time being. It seemed then that they'd have all the time they wanted for lessons.

Buffy couldn't speak French except some lyrics in songs but that didn't count and if you'd asked Giles, he'd say her grasp at what he would call the English language wasn't all that grasped either.

"Umm, did you say you want me to move the pies?" She was pretty sure s'il vous plait was please but she wasn't sure what voulez was unless it meant female valet.

Maybe Constance should ask Snow or River to make her a sign, so she didn't have to explain every time that she didn't speak English. Maybe hang it around her neck. But since she didn't have a sign, Constance shook her head. "Je ne comprends pas, mademoiselle."

She pointed to the girl, then to the food laid out on the table, and mimed eating, question in the tilt of her head.

Buffy knew mime! "Oh, you want me to eat!" She wouldn't turn down a pie, especially when it wasn't Chicken pot pie. She was getting a little tired of chicken. And her one outfit. She walked over to the pie and took a slice before returning to sit next to the woman.

"You sew?" She set the plate down and pointed to the darning that she was doing. "Sew?" Buffy mimed sewing.

The fleur de lis on Constance's bodice wasn't a seal exactly, although it was a symbol – of both France and its musketeers – and she glanced down at it a second. The girl's attention seemed more on Constance's mending than the rest of her clothes, and the gesture went with it. She tilted the hand holding the cloth, showing where the was pulling free, rather than try to explain what was she was doing and why, when the girl wouldn't understand her words anyway. Sceau, seau, saut, sot... and maybe, "Sew?" she echoed, making another stitch as she watched the girl for confirmation.

"Sew!" Buffy got excited that they were tentatively, sort of, understanding each other. She tugged on her skirt and said, "skirt. I am really getting tired of wearing one thing." The odds were pretty good that the other woman wouldn't understand that whinging, but Buffy really was getting tired of wearing the same thing all the time.

She was thinking of wearing a sheet toga just to break up the monotony. Or check to see if there was a lost and found somewhere in the hotel where she could scrounge up clothes.

The skirt was unbelievably short to Constance's eyes, but no more than most of the other garments she'd seen women wearing here. She took it in with the practiced eye of a seamstress. The stitches were small and perfectly even; the cloth was fine, but not sturdy enough for every day without quickly wearing out. And that might be the problem, the meaning behind the frustration in the girl's movements and tone. If she, like Constance had appeared with only the one outfit, and it wouldn't last long...

Constance's mouth pursed as she thought, then set her sewing aside and stood, motioning for the girl to come with her. She wouldn't understand, but it was easier talking than not, so Constance said, "There's a shop, if you're looking for more clothes. I'll show you." She hadn't looked around herself yet, for several reasons, but if it would help the girl.

"Oh! I forgot," she said, stopping almost as soon as she'd started, and put her hand on her chest. "Constance."

Buffy did not understand what the woman was trying to say but she did understand the motioning movement so began to walk with her wondering where they were going. Then she said her name, or at least Buffy interpreted that as what she'd been doing and did the same.

She pointed to her own chest and said "Buffy." Then she pointed to her and said, "Constance." Just in case she hadn't been saying her name, that would give her a clue that that was how Buffy had understood her to say.

Constance gave another friendly smile when the girl introduced herself. "Buffy." Then led the way towards one of the few places in the inn with a name she recognized - the boutique. Hopefully Buffy would find something there she liked and could wear.

"Oh my God, I think I love you." Buffy exclaimed as soon as she saw the sign for the boutique. She turned bright eyes to Constance. "Thank you. Uh. Oh. Hey. I know this one! Merci."

Seeing the girl light up, Constance laughed. If only everything in the future was so easy to fix. "Je vous en prie, Buffy." She gestured for Buffy to lead the way. Constance wasn't ready to adopt the clothes of this time, and she didn't see how the clothes could possibly fit well when they weren't made to measure, but she'd be glad to help Buffy look for something to wear.

Buffy made a bee line toward a very cute floral skirt and black top. It looked like it would have flow if she had to kick someone's ass. Hopefully Ethan's.

"Oooh what do you think of these?" She held up both the skirt and the top for Constance to see.

The layers of chiffon were such a fine and delicate material Constance could see them as underskirts for only a very rich lady, and it took a moment for her to realize it was meant to be a skirt on its own, with that floral pattern. She reached out, feeling the fabrics of skirts and bodice between her fingers. The bodice in particular looked too small, but when she tested it, it stretched unexpectedly and in ways the cloth Constance was familiar with did not. Enough it might fit after all. "They're lovely," she said with a grin. Revealing, she thought, but lovely, and piqued Constance's curiosity enough she wanted to get a better look at some of the other garments sometime soon.

Buffy didn't know what she said but the smile told her that she probably liked the outfit. She went in search of the dressing room, but not before grabbing another top to see which one looked best with the skirt. "You should try that one." Buffy pointed to a pretty blue floral dress. "It would look pretty on you."

Buffy pointed out another dress, but didn't stop for it on her way to... wherever she was going. Was there something she wanted Constance to see about it? Taking a closer look, she found nowhere to attach sleeves, and while it was longer than most skirts she'd seen women wearing here, it would still be above the ankles on someone Constance's height. It had also been slit on the side to show layers underneath, but Constance searched nearby without finding what those layers were supposed to be. The colors and the flowers were pretty, though.

Buffy had tried on both outfits but in the end, chose the original one with the top. Instead of returning in the same outfit that she'd entered, she came back with her new outfit on. When she saw Constance she twirled. "New clothes! Man thank you so much for showing me here." She paused and muttered crap.

"Um, merci for the ..." She didn't know the French for clothes but she did know one word that was connected to fashion. "Couture." Her fingers trailed over the top and skirt.

Constance frowned confusion for a moment. She hadn't made the clothes, only pointed Buffy to them. But maybe it was close enough, since she thought – hoped – she understood what Buffy was thanking her for.

"Je vous en prie." She hadn't done much at all. But Buffy's happiness at new clothes brightened Constance's day too.

Constance might not think that she'd done much for Buffy, but she would be eternally grateful to have found the boutique. Even if it was only one pair of different clothes.

"It's amazing what one new outfit will make you feel fresh." She knew that Constance wouldn't understand her but Buffy assumed that her look of contentment would express everything.

Phryne being Phryne had quite recovered her aplomb after an afternoon and several evening nightcaps with Jack. She set about to meet everyone in the hotel so she would know who to suspect if things or bodies went missing--and in the meantime to learn the extent of the social scene to which she was presently confined.

The lovely young woman busy with stitching and offering pies seemed an unlikely murderess, and equally unlikely companion for herself, but so had Dot on first acquaintance. Besides, the poor girl seemed quite unable to converse in English. "How delightful. Did you make them?" Phryne inquired in French accented with the flavor of Bohemian Montparnasse.

The woman spoke French more easily than most of the few Constance had met so far, and she was a little shocked how much a relief it was to hear. The relief showed in her eyes and the way her smile warmed as she confirmed, "Oui, madame. I thought people might like something that wasn't chicken. And I'm not used to sitting still.

"You're welcome to join me if you like."

Upon hearing more of it, Phryne noted that the woman's French didn't sound Parisian or familiar from any other region. Curious, but hardly criminal. She did smile and take up the invitation to join her, but not before serving herself a judicious sample of the pies.

"Please. You must call me Phryne," she said as she took the offered seat with a charmingly friendly smile. "And what ought I call my culinary benefactress?"

Phryne was a pretty name, Constance thought, although as unfamiliar to her as others she'd met here. If Aramis were here, he could've told her of the historical Phryne, although he probably would've been too busy charming Phryne to bother educating Constance on that bit of history.

"I'm called Constance, but I'm no one's benefactress. Just a woman with too much time on my hands, and not much I can do here except cook. After the garrison, a few pies for the people here is almost a break."

Edited 2017-01-20 20:45 (UTC)

"I beg to differ, Constance. You've spared me eating those horrid things called 'chicken fingers'." Phryne mock shuddered, but honestly, fingers? "I may be forever in your debt." She flashed the young woman a genuine, if slightly overbright smile, then sobered to ask gently, "Where were you stationed in the war?"

The war was such a part of their lives in Paris, Constance didn't think it strange Phryne – who carried herself like a noble, although it was harder for Constance to tell here in the future – would ask about it, although asking where Constance had been stationed, as though she were a soldier herself caused her to pause.

"I looked after the musketeer garrison, in Paris, but it was mostly cadets, since the musketeers were all at the front. Including my husband.

"Musketeers?" Startled by the revelation, Phryne needed a moment to compose her thoughts. Of course, she shouldn't have been startled. She had noticed the archaisms in Constance's French and her dress style was quite old-fashioned, but then so was Dot's. Still, the idea of time travel hadn't truly penetrated her thinking yet, in spite of Jack being from after and Dot from before and this hotel from well after all of them.

"It seems we served in different wars. You in the Thirty Years' War if I'm not mistaken, and me... well, it will be news to you, but the first World War, nearly three centuries later."

The time travel still made Constance's head spin, but struggling with the differences here and now mostly distracted her from the how and the particulars of all she'd missed. She'd been here long enough to assume most the people she met were from her future, and left it at that.

Thirty years. There had been fighting in one place or another most of Constance's life, although not always for the French. It was enough to give her hope the fighting might end soon. But any comfort she felt in that thought was followed by horror at the idea of a war that encompassed the whole world, and she crossed herself reflexively. "I would've hoped after centuries even men would learn to think and talk instead of fighting all the time trying to solve their difficulties. I guess that was too much to ask."

Edited 2017-01-23 22:52 (UTC)

Phryne noted the religious gesture without comment, but inwardly renewed her determination to make certain Constance and Dot became acquainted. "As much as I'd like to blame it on the men, women have been far from innocent in such matters."

And, honestly, blaming humanity's failings on men was one more way of deprecating women's capabilities. If a woman could drive as well as a man, likewise she could be pigheaded and cruel right along with them. Lydia Andrews had been only the tip of that particular iceberg.

Constance's thoughts went to Milady, and to the lady assassin who had for her own reasons freed Constance of Bonacieux. Both capable of dealing death without it touching their hearts, if they had hearts. But even when Milady warmed the king's bed, Constance hoped she would've been unable to instigate a war.

"In your time, then, have women risen to posts where the choice to go to war is theirs?"

"We are only just beginning to. Or beginning to again, I should say. Many positions of power were left vacant during the war. Women took them of necessity, as we always have." Queen Victoria had been rather the exception that proved the rule, but Phryne rued not having been alive during her reign.

But for the prim clothes and repressive manners, anyhow.

"As we always have," Constance echoed in agreement. Treville had made Athos captain, then put Constance in charge of the garrison while the musketeers were away at the fighting. Sylvie had taken charge of the refugee settlement after Red Guards killed her father. And Anne... "The queen has long hoped and worked for peace, perhaps now she's regent she'll be the one to end the fighting. Or she was – it's hard thinking of my world, my life as in the past."

"Were I better versed in history than I am, I could tell you precisely what did happen, although, one does wonder if such things are static or fluid, considering," Phryne mused aloud and then dismissed it with a somewhat languid wave of her arm. "In any event, it seems we may need to take matters in hand, here, as well. You've made a nice beginning, but there's much more to be done."

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[EP] musketeers don't hide

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