“Oh, I see. You’re not like other girls, then?” Ahbni asks, but there’s a note of mocking in her tone.
“What?” Pip asks, turning to look at Ahbni full in the face, startled.
Ahbni shoves her hands into her skirt pockets and radiates ire.
Pip looks down at her own feet, her brain chugging along to follow what just happened in that conversation, where the wrong turn occurred.
“Um,” Pip says at last, and looks up to me. I’m afraid I am no help, however, for I am too amused. We step off the escalator, and Pip is so befuddled that she just stops in the middle of the marble floor. Pip smacks her forehead with her palm and groans. “Oh my god. I did it. I fell into a trope again. It’s just like you said, Syth. Aware, but not immune. Fuck me.”
Elgar looks her up and down, and frowns. “What trope?”
“Strong Female Character Who Disdains Femininity and is Not Like Other Girls,” Pip says, running her free hand through her hair. She looks mortified. “Ahbni, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—”
“’S okay,” Ahbni says. “I just . . . I can’t stand that kind of crap. I call it out when I encounter it.”
“As well you should,” Pip says, nodding firmly.
“What my wife meant to say is that she doesn’t enjoy many of the traditionally feminine pastimes naturally,” I explain, dropping a kiss onto her cheek. “Which I think is best for us, all told. I can’t imagine what a disaster our wardrobe would be if I left you to do the laundry.”
“Hey,” Pip protests, affronted. “I cook!”
“And beautifully, bao bei. But what I am saying, dearest, is that the average Chipping Estate would utterly fall apart without ‘women’s work.’ It is not worthless.”
“I’m not denying that,” Pip says with a frown. “I’m just . . . I don’t do that stuff.”
“And that’s fine,” Ahbni says. “Just don’t call it ‘useless’ because it’s female coded when we all know it isn’t actually useless.”
Pip groans and runs her hands through her hair again. “No, you’re right. I’m not—never mind, I’m an asshole. I’m sorry. Can I take it all back?”
“Yes,” Ahbni says, with another one of those sunrise grins. “As long as you admit that you’re a bad feminist who needs to work on her intersectionality.”
Pip laughs, and slings her arm over Ahbni’s shoulder, grinning blindingly at the young woman. “That’s it. It’s official. I’m keeping you forever,” Pip says. Ahbni tries to protest, but she’s smiling too much to get the words out properly. “No, nope, nope. I’m adopting you. You’re coming to live in Victoria and you’re going to be my new TA and I’m going to supervise your PhD and you’re part of the family now. No point in resisting.”
“Okay,” Ahbni says, head ducked, scuffing the toes of her shoes together, blushing madly. I don’t think Pip’s obvious glowing approval and proximity are doing anything for what appears to be Ahbni’s budding crush on her. Poor dear.
“Now,” I say. “Off with you all. I’ll meet you in the hospitality room once I’ve rendered these, ah, props to be safe for the convention hall.” Ahbni probably thinks I intend to zip-tie the blades into their sheaths, as other cosplayers must do if they want their props to pass a weapon’s check. I have no intention of disabusing her of that notion.
Elgar
As the former Shadow Hand of Hain, Elgar figures Forsyth can appreciate the need to protect information. But what Forsyth actually says when he sees the briefcase with the combination lock handcuffed to a nervous-looking techie is: “There’s protection, and there is excess. It’s just a film.”
Elgar knows what Forsyth means—in the grand scheme of things, someone getting the short film out into the world a few hours ahead of Flageolet doing it at the con is a relatively minor disaster. It would announce the series too early, but the series is still going to be announced today, one way or another. Because Flageolet Entertainment fears this very kind of leak, they’d even arranged for the teaser short to be among the first block of the con’s programming.
But compared to getting horribly murdered by the Viceroy? Yeah, it seems excessive.
“Come into the washroom with me, Elgar,” Forsyth says, rolling his eyes. “I wish to fix your hair before your panel.”
“You do?” Elgar asks, startled. Forsyth fixes him with a telling stare, and Elgar scrambles to his feet and follows Forsyth into the hospitality suite’s large washroom.
“Honestly,” Forsyth says, closing the door behind them and locking it. “You would never have survived in the court of King Carvel. Subtlety, Elgar.”
“I can never really figure that out,” Elgar says with a shrug.
“Yes, and my brother is proof of that,” Forsyth replies, but it’s with a smile, at least. “Here, turn to face the mirror so I may attach this.”
He pulls the replica of Kintyre’s dagger out of the back of his leather jerkin. When Elgar turns, he can feel Forsyth tugging on his belt and tucking in his shirt, but he can’t actually see what he’s doing. The press of the sheathed knife against the small of his back is strange and alien, and at the same time, a huge comfort.
“Try to grab the knife,” Forsyth says, and Elgar reaches back. He can get his fingers around the hilt well enough, though he got some of his shirt with it, too. “Ah, you’ll have to be wary of that. Lucky for us you have lost as much weight as you have, and have not yet replaced your shirts. This will cover the hilt. Try again.”
Elgar does, and then again, and again, until Forsyth is content that he can grab and unsheathe the dagger quickly, easily, and without cutting himself. Elgar has to keep wiping his palms on his pants to keep the handle from getting too sweat-slicked.
“Now, when you stab,” Forsyth says, reaching across his
