Baroque

Baroque (Part 9)


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Beginning Notes:

My apologies for taking so long in updating this fic. Life\'s been overly hectic lately, and I\'m just now able to figure out a way to manage my time more properly. And since I\'ve finally given up all work for Gundam Wing, I can now completely dedicate myself to Kaze to Ki no Uta and update my WIPs more consistently.

As always, thank you all so much for reading and offering encouragement with your feedback. Your interest and enthusiasm are alwayeatleatly appreciated.

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PART 9

Most students had already left for the Christmas break, and only a handful of late departures remained. They were largely congregating in the common-room, chatting excitedly about their holiday plans while waiting for their families to arrive.

Carl had said his farewell an hour ago, embracing his friend warmly and kissing both his cheeks.

“Off to Italy, huh?” Serge noted as he pulled away.

“Yes. I can’t wait. You’ll enjoy yourself, I hope, in spite of the company you’ll be keeping for the next two weeks. Carl nodded in Pascal’s direction, rolling his eyes. Pascal merely snorted.

“I will, thanks. And take care! A Merry Christmas to your mom from me.”

“I’ll tell her.” Carl turned to Pascal and embraced and kissed him as well. “Merry Christmas, Satan. Try not to condemn another poor innocent to Hell.”

“That’s a bit of a tall order,” Pascal replied, chuckling, as he patted his friend’s back when he pulled away. “I swear to God, you’re determined to kill me with boredom, Mise. What good is having a guest for the holidays if I can’t even have any fun with him?”

“I’m here for you to experiment on. Leave Serge alone.”

“All right, all right, fine. Go dig yourself up some relics and share the wealth when you come back.”

Carl merely grinned, shaking his head knowingly, before turning around and walking off with his bags toward his mother’s car. Serge and Pascal watched the two drive off in a swirl of leaves and fumes and stood in silence for a while till the vehicle disappeared beyond the academy gates.

“Don’t tell him this, but I miss him already,” Pascal presently said, his voice a little wistful. “It’s never the same being told off by anyone else but Carl.”

“You’ll see him again, you know. Stop being such a drama queen.”

“Bite me, Serge.”

Serge’s grin broadened as the two walked idly back to the dorm and to the warmth and leisurely comfort that awaited them inside. His mind was awhirl with a host of thoughts that both cheered and intimidated him; this was the first time, after all, that he was going to be spending Christmas with someone other than his aunt.

What little experience he’d had in the celebration of any family-oriented event could easily be summed up as thus: he and his aunt, dressed up in their best, eating a splendid collection of dishes (served in the best china) in cold silence. Around them, the maids went about their business quietly and efficiently, periodically stealing sympathetic glances at the isolated boy but by and large being unable to do much to comfort him. The house would have its vast structure decked inside and out with both antique and new trimmings, while traditional holiday music would be playing in the background.

There was opulence, and there was wealth, yes, but a strong undercurrent of loneliness and detachment defined them. The specter of his parents’ disgrace, moreover, constantly dogged his steps, which turned out to be even more palpable during these celebrations. And his aunt was only too keen on reminding him of his shameful past as her method of keeping him firmly wrapped around her finger.

Serge’s mind often drifted to his parents and their past Christmases together though his memory largely failed him. He was much too young, after all, to be aware of everything, let alone to be able to retain them in his mind. What he did manage to recall, however, were vague, fleeting scenes of his parents laughing over the sparsely-decorated tree or playfully arguing over the humble Christmas dinner they’d manage to scrape together for their tiny family. Gifts were mostly handmade by the giver, and the boy was showered with new sweaters and coats that Paiva skillfully made from scratch, while his father tinkered around with little odds and ends with which to create his toys.

Serge’s mother being forced to remain home on account of the child, Aslan took up the burden of working for two people, which, unfortunately for him, did little in alleviating their poverty.

For all that, however, Serge could never bring to mind a single moment spent in miserable discontent. His parents knew exactly what they were doing when they ran off and risked disinheritance and disgrace, and they stuck it out, braving the painful ramifications of what many saw as a rash act. In a tiny apartment they all lived, a far, far cry from the richness to which they’d long been accustomed.

And as his mind fixed itself on these snatches of memories, Serge silently strengthened his resolve to do everything in his power to make his parents proud of him—to do everything correctly, to be nothing short of perfect if he could help it.

A sudden chill wind blew, forcing the two friends to break out in a sprint once they neared the dormitory’s ivy-choked façade.

“I heard that the coming winter’s going to be pretty bad,” Pascal declared, raising his voice so as to be heard above the noise of the wind and the leaves crunching underfoot. “If anyone’s cursed with the shitty luck to be left behind for Christmas, he’s in for a pretty miserable Noel.”

Serge, tightening his coat around his shoulders, could only nod in response and grimace against the biting air.

**********

The company in the common-room proved to be a very amiable, chattering lot. The students huddled together near the blazing hearth as they all conversed, and Serge felt himself slowly lulled by the sound of youthful voices around him. He’d stretched himself out on one of the sofas and idly waited for Pascal’s ride while his friend played solitaire nearby, and he drifted in and out of a light sleep as time ticked.

He was slightly amazed at finding himself thinking of Gilbert and how the latter spent his holidays.

“I’m sure he’s spoiled rotten by his family,” he murmured, stifling a yawn and allowing his eyes to droop shut. “That’s the only reason why he turned out this way.”

“Hmm?” Pascal absently said as he bent over the cards he played.

“What?”

“Did you just say something?”

“No—no.”

“You lie like a dog, Battouille, but I won’t push,” Pascal replied dryly, at which Serge snickered.

He continued to think about his roommate. He’d heard of Gilbert’s mysterious and, apparently, powerful guardian. He’d been told of the way the students and especially the administration practically bowed at his feet whenever he was present, which was seldom.

He imagined the way Gilbert must have behaved during those times when the man was around. He could see the bright-haired boy strutting around by his guardian’s side, imperious and contemptuous, head held high, eyes cold and disdainful as they scanned the environment. He could see the smirk and could hear the patronizing responses to his classmates’ inquiries.

Serge was certain that the older man’s presence was simply another opportunity for Gilbert to assert his dominance over the rest of the academy.

The boy scowled. Gilbert could certainly use some lessons in humility.

“I suppose it’s only fair for me to give you a bit of a heads up on my family,” Pascal presently declared, glancing up at his friend with a sheepish little grin. “You’re about to be lost in our company for the next two and a half weeks, after all.”

“What, are your sisters pretty freaky?”

“Well—I suppose it depends on the situation.”

“Go on,” Serge said, laughing lightly and closing his eyes again to listen and absorb his friend’s words. It felt rather good simply lounging about, idle in every sense, absorbing the warmth of another’s company. It was too bad, he had to note, that this was something he could never expect to feel whenever his roommate was about.

“Dorothy’s the oldest, and she’s married with enough children to populate a village.”

“It’s in the genes, I think.”

“Shut up. May’s the next—she’s a model. I’m the one who comes after her. Then there’s Patricia, who’s always trying to hide behind her art…”

“Huh? How come?”

Pascal paused for a second or two, and Serge opened his eyes to find his friend’s hand frozen in the air as though he’d just been caught in the middle of dealing out cards. The taller boy stared thoughtfully at nothing before he presently shrugged off his momentary trance.

“I think you’re better off meeting her and finding that out for yourself,” he replied. “Nina’s next in line, then the twins—Lila and Sonia—and, finally, Michel.”

Serge blinked, eyes widening at the list of names. “Good grief,” he breathed.

“Good grief is right,” Pascal said with a dry laugh. “It must have been something in the water.”

“You’re not the only boy…”

“Which is damned good, let me tell you—though Michel’s still seven years old, and it’s a bit hard bonding with him the way I’d like to when I’m home. My mother had a miscarriage before I was born, and I figured that had that been prevented and she had another boy, he and I would be pretty close or something.”

Serge smiled fondly at his friend. Visions of tall, gangly, bespectacled Pascal awkwardly cavorting around with a little child of seven years filled his mind and sent both thrills of amusement and melancholy coursing through him. He’d always wondered, after all, how things would have been had his parents lived and given him a sibling or two.

“It’s a great thing to be looked up to by your little brother,” he said quietly, and his friend nodded with an embarrassed smile and (to Serge’s amusement) a slight blush. “Though I’m not too sure about your liberal thinking.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it till he begins to act like a depraved liberal; any given family can only afford to have one, after all.”

Serge closed his eyes again. “You’re really something else, Pascal.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The conversation fell into a comfortable lull, and Serge drifted off, to be gently roused from his nap by his friend. He blinked the remnants of sleep away and found that only he and Pascal were left in the common-room, with the fire having died down to no more than glowing embers. The shadows had lengthened against the walls, and the silence fell on him like a lonely blanket. He couldn’t help but shiver from its effects as he groggily sat up and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.

Thank God that he was spending Christmas with his friend and the sizable Biquet family. Now that he’d finally been exposed to the world outside his isolated existence, he simply cn’t n’t comprehend the thought of subjecting someone—anyone—to time spent alone.

It was too cruel, he determined, as Pascal cheerfully announced the arrival of his parents’ car for them.

“Are we the only ones left in the school?” Serge asked as the two boys hauled their luggage out. They were met by a thickening curtain of snow, and they both winced from the sudden bite of winter’s chill.

“I heard that there might be one or two staying behind,” Pascal replied as they hurried over to the waiting car. “Sucks for them.”

The hired driver helped them load their bags inside the car’s trunk, and he urged them to move quickly and to get inside before their noses fell off from the cold. Pascal sat in the front and immediately engaged the driver in a lively conversation regarding the goings on back home, while Serge quietly climbed in the back.

As he reached out to pull the car door shut, Serge glanced up in time to spot a pale figure moving through the snow toward the front door. The boy paused as he stared in amazement.

It was Gilbert—dressed in nothing more than a cotton oxford shirt and jeans, a thick, red blanket draped around his shoulders to ward off the cold. He walked barefoot on the icy ground, but his featuretraetrayed none of the discomfort he was surely feeling from the exposure. The boy held his head high, his eyes wide and unreadable, his cheeks reddening from the touch of the snow. Even his gait spoke of fluid grace and quiet dignity.

To Serge, Gilbert moved with an odd brand of proud resignation in his air, no different from a condemned criminal who understood—and accepted—his place, perhaps because he’d been doled out the same punishment befored hed he’d learned to embrace it as something that was undeniably a part of his existence and from which he couldn’t escape.

“I thought he left already,” Serge muttered, blinking. “Maybe he’ll be picked up later on.”

His gaze followed the solitary walker as Gilbert made his way to the front door, opening it and stepping inside and finally disappearing from Serge’s view without a break in his step.

“Come on, Battouille, close the door so we can get the hell out of here,” Pascal said, his words shattering Serge’s thoughts.

With a hurried apology, the boy quickly pulled the door shut, and the car drove off.

**********

To say that Serge was overwhelmed would have been an understatement. The moment he stepped across the threshold of the expansive Biquet domicile, a colorful, loud mass of humanity immediately swooped down on him before almost literally carrying him off like a tidal wave.

And to say that Serge was stunned would have been yet another understatement. The boy, caught completely off-guard in spite of Pascal’s initial warnings, violently shied away from the eagerly chattering herd that stampeded relentlessly toward him. But before he could turn on his heels for a mad dash back to the car, he was seized by several hands and was happily chastised by several voices for being “such a shy boy” in the company ofendsends.

“Come now, my dear,” a woman, who, to Serge, could only be Pascal’s mother, laughed as she led him away by his arm. “I’m sure you’ve had a long, tiring ride here. I’ve had some pastries made especially for Pascal’s guest, and I insist that you rest yourself on our most comfortable sofa.”

Serge, completely frazzled, could only steal a glance over his shoulder as he helplessly tried to make eye contact with his friend. Around him, the younger Biquet children skipped and vied noisily for his attention, plying him with questions and curious observations about his clothes and general appearance.

“Is your hair really curly? Look, Mama! He’s got your hair, too!”

“You’re dark! Do you like the sun?”

“Do you want my chocolate? I can’t eat it anymore. I’m too full now.”

Behind him was Pascal, sauntering lazily with his hands shoved deeply in his pockets, grinning archly at his confusion and punctuating it with a careless shrug. “Welcome to the family,” he mouthed.

Pascal’s family was a very lively group, every member seemingly eager to be the center of attention and therefore filling the air with raised, almost frantic voices as they sought to be heard above the din, and Serge felt his head throb from the noise. Only Michel and Patricia proved to be the more subdued ones for reasons that Serge determined ran along fairly similar lines. With a large family like this, after alhe che chances of being overstepped or ignored were rather great, and from what he could see, Serge realized that these two were intimidated by their very own siblings and so had withdrawn themselves to their own corners, watching the goings on around them with a mixture of longing, envy, and even resentment.

Michel proved to be a very sensitive child and seemed to be on the constant lookout for any slips in conversation where he’d be completely overlooked, lapsing into a despondent silence when the subject revolved around the older children. Pascal, hovering nearby, would attempt to cheer him up with some form of distraction, which tended to work quite well—though Serge couldn’t help but wonder if the child spent much of his time in pensive silence when his older brother was away in school and no longer there to catch him when he fell.

Patricia, for her part, seemed constantly distracted by her creations. She carried around a small blank journal and a pencil, and she never failed in picking a quiet, almost isolated spot in the room in which she lost herself. She’d sit with her legs crossed under her as she bowed over her journal and drew figures, completely disregarding any breach in conduct for which she could be guilty. And everyone seemed to be used to her solitary nature as they carried on with the conversation without once chiding her for her lack of courtesy to Serge.

The boy didn’t mind at all and in fact found himself feeling curious as he watched the pale, hunched figure from the corner of his eye.

From a distance, after all—the girl’s shape and coloring, the way her gold hair tumbled over her face to obscure her features from prying eyes, the way her too-thin limbs spoke of a kind of delicacy that was more a product of neglect or abandonment, the way her expression (whenever it could be glimpsed) revealed a mind brilliant but painfully subjugated by forces beyond its control—Patricia reminded him too much of Gilbert, the only difference being the overly large pair of glasses perched clumsily on her nose and the carpet of freckles that dotted her complexion.

Once or twice, in the course of the evening repast, the girl had glanced up as she stretched a limb or rubbed her neck, catching Serge staring at her in the process. The boy would flash her a quick, embarrassed smile, which she’d reward with an irritated glower and a haughty toss of her head before turning her attention back to her work.

The two barely exchanged a handful of civil words between each other, and as Patricia stiffly excused herself from his company and marched off in determined silence, Serge couldn’t help but feel a pang from the perceived snub. He watched the girl’s figure get swallowed up by the evening shadows as she rounded a corner and disappeared, and he thought that he’d just been shunned by his roommate yet again.

Or, to his greater amazement, he found himself watching Gilbert’s phantom image walking away from him, his figure partially enveloped by a thick, reankeanket, his bare feet whispering over the wood floors.

“Wait,” he whispered as he ran a hand across his eyes to dispel the mist that was thickening before them. “This is insane. I’m letting him get to me again—maybe giving him exactly what he wants.”

He shook his head and immediately turned away to follow Pascal around as his friend gave him a tour of the house.

**********

Life in the Biquet household was quite loud, and while Serge at first thought that the amazing energy levels that bore down on him from all around were nothing more than an effect of his presence, he quickly discovered himself to be very wrong on that regard. Several days after his arrival showed absolutely no changes, and people around him remained talkative to an almost disconcerting degree.

Pascal divided his time between his friend and his family, and Serge was only too happy to allow the other boy the time and the space for himself.

During moments of solitude, therefore, Serge spent his time in Pascal’s room, curled up in a large, cushy armchair with a book on his lap.

The days leading up to Christmas grew more and more hectic, and he was obliged to keep his distance from the frantic household as they prepared for the much-anticipated holiday. He therefore spent most of his time in Pascal’s room, losing himself in his reading (his own room being completely bare where entertainment was concerned), joining the family only when Pascal summoned him for any reason.

By and large the routine calmed him, and he felt more and more comfortable staying under the same roof as his lively hosts—that is, until that one afternoon when he’d fallen asleep in the armchair right after moving it from its original position to face the window and watch the snow.

The warmth of the cushions, the blanket he’d draped on his legs, and the bulky sweater he wore soothed him, plunging him into a deep, dreamless sleep that should have stretched forever had he had his way. Unfortunately for him, however, he was startled out of his rest by a sudden thump coming from somewhere in the room.

He peered behind the chair once he felt that he was sufficiently awake. “Hello? Who’s there?” he called out.

“Oh, shit!”

There was another thump, followed by another soft curse and then the sound of shifting furniture.

Serge blinked, surprised. He recognized the voice. “Patricia?” he prodded, shifting in his seat and standing up to greet his young hostess more properly. As he stepped around the chair to face her, he instantly froze, the greeting dying on his lips as he gaped.

Patricia was, indeed, in the room with him. Apparently completely unaware of Serge’s presence, she’d set up her easel in her brother’s room and had begun to sketch—herself—in nothing but a towel wrapped around her waist. There was a small mirror that she’d also set up on a nearby table, using her own reflection for her model. Progress had apparently been made before she’d accidentally bumped against the table and caused the mirror to topple over, the sound being the one that had roused Serge from his nap.

The boy’s sleepy call had caught her off guard, and she’d stumbled against a chair in her surprise.

And for several heavy, silent seconds, the two stared at each other in horrified amazement. Serge’s face burnt at the sight of a half-naked Patricia standing just a few feet away, the look of shock and horror eventually replaced by one of defiance and anger as the girl flushed and glared at him.

“So what now,” she presently ground out. “Are you just going to stand there and check out a naked girl like the pervert that you are?”

Serge’s tongue finally loosened itself from the roof of his mouth. He stiffly shook his head as he averted his eyes and stared at the carpet instead. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t know that you were here. I was sleeping—you know—on the chair.”

Silence met his fumbling, and he awkwardly scratched the back of his head without once raising his eyes.

“Um—I should go.”

“What’s the matter? Do I disgust you?”

“N—No, you don’t. It’s—well—I’ve never been with a naked girl before.”

He heard Patricia sigh heavily. “Look—I didn’t know you were around. If you must know, I always hide in Pascal’s room when I want to practice sketching nude figures because the light’s always good here, and he doesn’t care what I do.”

“I think he would if he knew we were alone here and that you’re—you know—missing your clothes,” Serge quickly replied, glancing up to meet her gaze before realizing that he’d just skimmed over her exposed breasts. His face heating up some more, he immediately looked away.

“My clothes aren’t missing,” Patricia said a little testily. “They’re right there, piled up on a chair.” She sighed again as she paused. “All right, fine. Go on and leave then. God forbid that I break up your friendship with Pascal. I know I’ve already caused enough mental damage with my bizarre ways.” Serge stole another glance to find that she’d turned back to her sketch and had started to pick up where she left off.

The boy watched her for a few seconds in awkward silence, amazed at her apparent skill in capturing likenesses—so much so that he was soon lost in his observation, his initial discomfiture suddenly clean forgotten, along with the awareness of the impropriety of their situation.

The figure that was slowly being coaxed into shape on the massive sketch pad reminded him of all those masterpieces he’d seen in museums. Memories of nudes or formal portraits were carefully pulled out of the deeper recesses of his mind, and he marveled at the way Patricia’s charcoal likeness seemed almost immortal and god-like.

“That’s beautiful,” he blurted out in awed tones, and the girl glanced over her shoulder to scowl even more darkly at him.

“Don’t patronize me,” she retorted.

Serge blinked. “What? No, I didn’t mean to sound like I was patronizing you,” he immediately said. “It’s true, what I just said. I like your drawing. You look like a nymph.” His voice failed him when Patricia shot him a look of incredulity, and he immediately withdrew himself, mortified at his boldness.

“What you see isn’t real,” she simply said. “This nymph you’re babbling about isn’t me. It’s just a stupid sketch. Didn’t I just tell you that I’m still practicing?” She paused. “What’re you doing here, anyway? I thought you wanted to get the hell away from me.”

Serge ignored her and plunged headlong into the conversation, his mortification compounding further, his confusion swelling to unbearable levels as he fought to keep up with himself and this sudden mindless responsiveness that was coming out in full force from only God knew where.

“The drawing is you,” he stammered as he nodded at the easel. “You’re very pretty, and I think you’ve captured that really well.”

Patricia continued to regard him incredulously. Then, flinging her pencil aside, she turned to face him, completely unabashed at her exposure. “Listen, you—I’m not pretty,” she hissed, jabbing her massive glasses against her nose before placing her hands on her hips. “I’m not like my sister and her high fashion, doped-up model friends. I’m not tall, I’m not filled out in the right places, I don’t have perfect skin, and I don’t have perfect teeth. I don’t need anyone to lie to me about my looks just to do me a favor—least of all you, Mr. Honor Student. As far as my drawings go, I sketch whatever I damn well please. And if I say that this isn’t me, it’s isn’t me.” Here she lightly struck her sketch pad with her soiled knuckles in emphasis. “You got that?”

It was all Serge could do to acquiesce regardless of his opinions and back down while he still could. He was much too bewildered at his companion’s defensiveness, realizing that Patricia was the sort to stand her ground obsessively, determined not only to have the last word but also to hold to her views come hell or high water.

Yes, he understood that the girl felt intimidated by the standards she believed had been set by her sisters, particularly the two older ones. And he also understood the all-too-natural need to compete against Patricia’s perceived rivals. But he’d also continued the conversation with the belief that an honest observation from someone she didn’t know much—especially one who was of the opposite sex—would somehow filter through the barriers she’d set and enlighten her with the truth about her own worth.

He therefore moved off and walked to the door in silence, cradling his book against his chest. He could feel Patricia’s gaze fixed resolutely on him; he could even feel her eyes narrow as she watched him go.

It was a familiar feeling—that of being regarded closely—with a mixture of disdain and reluctant curiosity. He’d felt it several times in the recent past. It was a feeling that offered him, at that moment, an unusual brand of comfort by virtue of its easy recognizability, and he was suddenly inundated with the urge to cling to it, to hold on to the strange intimacy it offered him.

As he paused at the door, he gazed down at the hand that was now resting on the doorknob. And at that moment, he felt that he’d been transported back to his room in the academy, and that the subtle, insistent, and enigmatic pressure he was feeling of eyes resting on his figure and watching his every move spoke of another boy’s presence—one that had been haunting him in more ways than he cared to admit.

He swallowed audibly as he waited, absorbing the sensation of being psychically removed from the present moment to one that transcended everything else. He also realized—however reluctantly—that he was loath to be denied the privilege (as he now saw it) of being regarded with contemptuously appraising eyes.

Once again propelled by nothing more than instinct as well as a mind that was firmly fixed on a wholly different plane, Serge turned around to find himself staring at Gilbert, who stood in the middle of the room, his figure encased in a fading halo cast by the light filtering through the window. His roommate was watching him with a hollow-eyed gaze and an air of complete distrust. Serge perceived it all too well and plowed ahead with words that came from nowhere.

“Laugh at me if you want to—but I do think you’re beautiful, and no one can make me say otherwise,” he said before walking out the room.

**********

The holidays came and went, the days nothing more than a festive blur to Serge, who’d sunk to a more pensive mood. He enjoyed his time immensely with his hosts, of course, and those moments spent in their company—and especially in Pascal’s—served to pull him out of his thoughts even if only temporarily. Whether or not his friend noticed his subtle t int in mood mattered little to him though in all outward appearances it seemed that Pascal remained oblivious to the changes—at least he said nothing about them. He was much too caught up with the frenzied bustle of the season, and Serge didn’t mind a jot.

Even that odd shift in Patricia’s behavior didn’t touch Pascal.

Since that confrontation in her brother’s room, the girl had slowly grown more talkative and certainly more willing to participate in anything she used to shun. She still kept to herself, by and large, but she was clearly making a conscious effort at getting seen by others—at least more often than usual.

She began to spend a little more time poring over fashion magazines and consulting May for makeup tips though she was still fairly hesitant where practical applications were concerned. It had to take her mother and her older sisters to get her to brave it out and begin putting on a bit of color here and there.

At one point she’d even begun to ask about possibly getting a perm.

Serge observed all this, and he was pleased to see her work hard to come out of her shell. However, to what extent the significance of this transformation had actually been absorbed by him remained unknown.

In one ear and out another, they’d always said—and proven unequivocally by Serge when one of the twins skipped to his side one evening as the family gathered in the living room for a post dinner repast.

“Pat’s always looking at you,” Sonia hummed cheekily as she peered over the boy’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of what he was read “I “I think she likes you. Pretty gross, huh?”

Serge merely laughed with her, ruffling her hair good-naturedly, before returning to his reading. A paragraph later, he’d already forgotten what the child had just told him, his mind having suddenly yet inescapably fixed itself in thoughts of returning to Laconblade Academy and to Room 17. And the warm familiarity of coldly appraising eyes.

(tbc)