Niklaren Goldeye stares at the report, rereading it for the third time, hoping that somehow by doing so the words will have changed. Of course no such thing happens, and he feels his stomach sinking, a heavy burden of sadness settling on his shoulders, becoming a part of him.
Then he stands, strong and tall, not a hair out of place, and goes to tell Arthur that four of their knights have fallen.
"Miss Fa Toren, a word?"
Sandrilene Fa Toren, Sandry to her friends, purses her lips in confusion. She's not sure what her history professor might be stopping her over. Yes, her last essay was a tad... aggressive, sure. But there was nothing there that was incorrect, and as far as her subject, well she doesn't see how an essay on the women of Bletchley with a focus on how grossly under-appreciated they are by history doesn't fid the assignment. "Write about a specialized group of soldiers in World War Two." She could have written about paratroopers or spies like everyone else, but that was so... uninspiring.
"Professor?" She enquires, trying her best to mask her impatience. Any other day she would hardly have minded being kept behind, but today she has a group meeting, one she is supposed to lead. Tardiness is not something she particularly enjoys.
"This is an... old friend of mine." He gestures to the woman beside him, and Sandry takes her in. Her first thought is 'they can't be that old of friends,' for this woman still looks quite young. She has a kind smile, clothes that are loose and simple and impeccably made, and calluses on her palm that Sandry can feel from their brief handshake.
"Call me Lark," she says, and her voice is warm and low. She's the exact opposite of her old, stiff history prof, really. Sandry finds herself liking the woman immediately.
"Miss Lark was hoping to speak with you regarding a very exciting 'hands on' opportunity." And he sounds excited, too.
"What kind of opportunity?"
Lark looks at the professor, all sweetness. "I don't suppose we could use your office, Richard? We won't be long."
Sandry wants to tell her she's short on time, but the way Lark turns away, heading for the small adjourning office without waiting for permission, makes Sandry follow her instead.
Once the door is closed, Lark sits down on the desk with a relieved sigh.
"He hasn't improved at all, has he?"
Sandry shakes her head, leaning against a bookcase. "Are you an old student of his?"
Lark ignores the question, and Sandry doesn't' miss this. She matches Lark's contemplating stare with a curious one of her own.
"Your grades are impressive."
"Is this a job interview?"
Lark laughs. "Maybe."
"What kind of job?"
Again, no answer. Sandry clasps her hands behind her back so she doesn't fidget. Lark pulls a bundle of papers out of her bag, and Sandry recognizes her essay at the top.
"It's a good essay," Lark says, flipping through the papers. "Your mom and dad were ambassadors, right?"
A curt nod.
"How many languages can you speak?"
"Five." Fluently. She knows bits and pieces of more.
"You're majoring in history and international affairs... Used to ride horses..."
Now she just runs. Early in the morning, before anyone else is around. She's a people person, she is, but that hour is just for her. Her skin prickles. Lark's looking at some file of hers, reading off a paper that appears to be a summary of Sandry's whole life. That's more than a school file, then. What is this all about?
"Now your only extra curricular is your sewing group?"
Sandry bristles. "We make clothes for refugees."
"Fantastic." Lark seems to mean it, too. Not like her advisor, who always feels the need to remind her that getting arrested at another protest will not look good on her record. Or the other people in her classes, the ones who sneer at her knitting during lectures, made snide remarks about what kind of fake feminist she must be, rich bitch who's always sewing and probably has an arranged marriage somewhere. Really breaking the traditional mould.
Maybe she would have had one, or something like it, because high society changes slowest of all, but her parents died before anything was ever mentioned to her, in an epidemic of a disease that everyone in this country would rather think of as extinct. So yes, she's got a fury in her, a fire made for fighting and an arrogant tone to match. She's stopped caring about the sensitive dignities she's stepping on in order to make real change.
"What kind of job is it?" She repeats herself, because Lark is still looking at her like she's brilliant, something special, and she doesn't know what she's done.
Lark taps her finger on the essay.
"Let's call it a clerical one."
Sandry's eyes go wide in shock, and she tries to keep her voice from going all breathy with excitement.
"I'm interested."
The woman stands up, and Sandry notes the grace in which she does this, the beautiful lines of her outfit that compliment her body perfectly. And the pants have pockets, too. Sandry's dying to take a look at the fabric, maybe ask Lark where she got such a thing, but instead she's distracted by the business card Lark has produced from said pocket. It has a coat of arms on one side, and on the other a date, time, and address.
"I hoped you would be."
Sandry traces the lines of the coat of arms, and gives herself an extra second to smile.
