Harri finds herself gently carried, again, from the motor-car into the korvu by-Tenstone korvu Overmore kanru Tjenwater family's dressmaker's shop, clutching at Vespidine's shoulders and torn between hiding against her shoulder and glancing wildly about the street in fear of a staring audience.
Vespidine places her in a chair, has a murmured conversation with the old dressmaker, and then, casually, kneels at Harri's feet. Cradling her ankles in warm hands, she slips on and off a bewildering succession of footwear, whisked from and returned to the back of the shop.
"These," Vespidine pronounces after some time. "If Harika approves," as if any part of Harri's mind functions past the mere sight of her there, looking up. Harri swallows, blood loud in her ears.
"Harri?" Vespidine adds, brows climbing a little.
"Fine," Harri manages. "These are — if you think so?" She gamely attempt to look at what's on her feet; kitten heeled ankle boots, butter-soft, blue-grey.
"I'm sorry." Vespidine sighs a little. "It's all a little much, isn't it? We'll eat breakfast, and then perhaps you can nap." She rises effortlessly, mutters a few more things to the dressmaker, and extends a hand to help Harri out of the chair.
Harri decides not to think too hard about the fact that she has shoes now, apparently under some ambient understanding that Vespidine's indecorosa's shoes will of course be paid for, probably by some mysterious process involving invoices and personal accountants wherein Vespidine herself never actually sees either prices, invoices, or money.
She'll simply not think about it. Not here, not yet.
She follows Vespidine back out to the car, and is whisked away for breakfast, instead; a secluded uptown café, toast and eggs, Vespidine sipping coffee satz taken rich and black, a glass of fruit juice for Harri. Vespidine orders confidently, and only afterwards pauses, a deferral, silently checking Harri's face for disagreement.
Harri is too tired to disagree, even if she cared to. She hasn't slept enough, and then she embarrassingly panicked, which has drained her. She picks at her toast.
"Harri," Vespidine says softly. "I know it's too much right now, but there's something that can't wait." She casually brushes the back of her hand along the outside of Harri's forearm, and watches her with careful eyes.
Harri drops what's left of the toast onto her plate, nods, and props her weary head on the heel of her hand. "Go on," she says.
"Shoes can only take you so far, if you don't have somewhere of your own to go," Vespidine says. "I know you're not going to like this, Harri, but — I need things, too. I cannot leave my indecorosa out in the street."
"Too scandalous," Harri says.
"No." Vespidine closes her eyes for a few seconds. "Yes, it would be; but the private family is family, Harri, you don't hear of people abandoning their family members to deprivation and think oh, how scandalous — you think worse things."
Harri uses a finger on her free hand to prod the cold toast around. "Cos can do what she likes to me, that's merely scandal, but deprivation is too much," she says dryly.
"Deprivation is too much," Vespidine says, very quietly. "For me."
"I can't—" Harri begins, and the elf curls fingers around her arm.
"I know," she says. "You can't even stay a morning in the main house without — attending to the potentiality of escape. You can't stay there; you need somewhere of your own. Somewhere that doesn't come with the possibility that it can be taken away from you...." Vespidine fiddles with a napkin, and sighs. "That I can take it away," she corrects.
Harri shrinks under a gathering, oppressive feeling of too much. "You're talking about — installing your mistress in a convenient apartment of her own," she says, in a strangled voice.
"You may be stuck with me for a long time, Harri," Vespidine says, uncurling her warm fingers and pulling her hand back. "If that's to be anything but torture, then you have to be established as a force within the family in your own right. I'm not — yes, that's how it will look. Yes, that's — an acceptable appearance, an acceptable way to treat you, to the family. But, please, I need to make you safe. I need to. Not just for today, but a foundation for your safety in years to come. You need somewhere. There's a little place, in walking distance of City Hall; when I first started working for the Mayoral campaign I wanted somewhere close by, before — before it was obvious to me I will never be able to work hard enough, there, to make my hard work worth more than the family name I come attached to. I can visit our lawyer, sign over the deed to you, make it yours. I won't so much as have a key; lock me out on the steps, if you need to." She picks up her cup; Harri can see the infinitesimal tremble in her hand.
"I can't—" Harri says, thin and frantic, trying desperately to think. "I can't say no, you know I can't say no—"
"I know that I can do things now which will give you the safety to say no on some tomorrows," Vespidine says fiercely, and attempts to choke herself down to quietness. "Harri, please, take time to think if you need—" but Harri can't.
"The newspaper," she chokes. "They said — they said you'd been shopping for. My birthday."
Vespidine looks startled, caught out by the change of tack. "It seemed a safe way to be seen," she says cautiously. "About you without — involving you—"
"I can't," Harri forces out through her aching throat. "I can't — not gifts. I can't. I have to know what I'm expected to pay, gifts are — for hiding it, for later, to use against you, I can't — nothing for my birthday, Vespidine. I'll take this in exchange for — no gifts. No birthday. I can't. I need you to—" and she balls her own napkin in a tight fist and presses it to her chest, gasping for air.
"Breathe," Vespidine says. "Harika. Breathe with me. In—"
Harri whimpers, wordless nonspecific protest.
"Breathe," Vespidine insists, so Harri closes her eyes and does her best. "That's it. In — out. In — out." She slowly folds Harri into her arms. "With me. That's it. In—" and she runs feather-light fingertips slowly up Harri's back; "out," running them back down.
Harri shudders.
For a while, that's all they do.
"No gifts," Vespidine says eventually, and leans back a little. Harri opens her eyes to look back at her. "Ever?" and Harri gnaws her lip at the elf's quiet wistfulness. "No, Harri, I'm not trying to negotiate," she adds quickly. "I'd just — rather enjoy, I suppose. Flowers. Pretty things for you. If the answer's no, I'll simply be a little sad now and get it over with."
"I don't know," Harri says, wishing to be back in the close silence, simply breathing together, but Vespidine tilts her head thoughtfully instead.
"The dress," she says. "For the wedding. Was that different?"
"That wasn't a gift—"
And Vespidine makes a satisfied face that Harri will reserve some dread for, later. "No gifts for your birthday," she promises in a murmur, and draws Harri back in for a last, lingering hug before slipping back into her own seat.
"I think I'd like a nap after all," Harri says.
