Chapter Text
At first glance, Moiraine Damodred makes a pleasant figure. The first time Siuan ever sees her, she is dressed in a deep blue that brings out her eyes, her hair elegantly swept up to frame a beautiful, doll-like face.
It is unfortunate, then, about her personality.
Less than half-way through the evening, it has been determined among attendees of the Meryton assembly that Miss Damodred is proud, considering herself above present company, and above being pleased. She dances with no one, and passes her time skulking in a corner, glowering at any man who dares to approach her.
Siuan might have been willing to forgive the skulking and glowering—after all, maybe the woman is shy; and who hasn’t at some point felt disdain for male admirers at a ball?—if it were not for the more personal slight.
She is sitting down to the side of the room, as she has been for two dances, and is therefore within earshot of a conversation between Moiraine and her companion, Mr. Lan Mandragoran.
“At least one dance,” Lan says to her. “You can’t just stand about by yourself in this stupid manner.”
He, the star of the ball—as the new tenant of Netherfield Park, and a wealthy young bachelor—has spent most of the evening dancing, and has even danced with Siuan’s sister, Nynaeve, twice.
General agreement among the ball attendees is that Lan is reserved, but has a significantly more pleasant countenance than the woman he arrived with (in this respect, Miss Damodred has done him a significant favour; by her side, even a rock could appear an appealing conversation partner with a sparkling personality).
Moiraine shakes her head. “There is not a man or woman in this room for whom it would not be a punishment for me to stand with.”
Lan raises a brow, holding out his hand. “Even myself?”
She frowns at him. “You know I will not. It is enough that we came here as one; if I dance with you, everyone will think that we are together, and then you will not stand a chance of finding yourself a proper partner. Go dance with that girl with the braid again. You like her, I can tell.”
The girl in question is Nynaeve. If Moiraine is correct, Siuan will be pleased for her; judging by the rare blush that graced Nynaeve’s face during the two dances she and Lan already shared, she is completely smitten (an even rarer state for Nynaeve to find herself in).
Lan follows Moiraine’s gaze across the room to Nynaeve, and his eyes soften, and he lowers his hand. “She is the loveliest woman I have ever beheld,” he says, in a gentle manner Siuan would not have expected from him, but approves of.
Then he turns his face to Siuan, who quickly pretends to be very busy and interested in her drink, so that they do not suspect her of eavesdropping. “But there is one of her sisters sitting down over there, who is also very pretty, and just your type. Perhaps I can ask my partner to introduce the two of you.”
“Which do you mean?”
Moiraine looks over. She takes all of Siuan in, and Siuan pretends not to notice, while at the same time suppressing a shiver at the weight of her gaze—something about those piercing eyes, and her imperious manner.
“She is handsome, I suppose,” Moiraine says stiffly, “but not handsome enough to tempt me.”
Then she turns away again, and sends Lan over to Nynaeve, and goes back to her resolute skulking.
Well then! Siuan thinks, immediately deciding that she resents this woman.
It is not a matter of vanity; Siuan knows that she is far from the shiniest fish in the pond. Rather, it is the way Moiraine dismisses her, and sticks her pretty nose into the air in that infuriating high and mighty way. As though she is better than everyone else there. The only thing holding Siuan back from marching right over and informing Moiraine that she is hardly the catch of the day herself, is the indignity of admitting that she was eavesdropping on Lan and Moiraine’s conversation in the first place.
Over the course of the next two weeks, Nynaeve meets with Lan five more times; she visits him one morning at Netherfield Hall, and dines in his company over the presence of four evenings.
“He is not as much of a fool as most men,” Nynaeve confesses to Siuan. By her standards, this is the highest of praise. Somewhat begrudgingly she adds, “And he is a good listener.”
Siuan is not surprised, man of few words that he is; she has heard him speak very little, beyond greetings and pleasantries and that one overheard conversation with Moiraine—a woman of even fewer words.
“What do they even talk about?” she asks Nynaeve, with a sort of fascination, watching Lan and Moiraine from across another ball, this time hosted by Sir William Sharif.
The two of them are standing in silence, turned ever-so-slightly towards each other, sipping slowly at their wine. Occasionally, their eyes meet. Once, Moiraine briefly raises a perfectly arched brow at him. Another time, the corner of Lan’s mouth twitches in some approximation of a smile. Looking at them together, it is easy to understand Moiraine’s worries that they would be mistaken for a couple. A very odd couple.
Nynaeve shrugs. “They don’t. They haven’t in front of me, anyway. I don’t think she likes me.”
“She likes you,” Siuan says. Because Nynaeve is her sister, and she wants to reassure her. Not because she wants to defend Moiraine Damodred (as a matter of fact, it pains her to do so). “I heard her say it. Or that she approves of you, at least.”
“Well.” Nynaeve sniffs, “I don’t like her.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I have no idea what he sees in her.”
“Neither do I.”
But now Nynaeve turns on Siuan suddenly, braid swinging. There is a glint in her eye. “Don’t you?”
Siuan splutters. “Of course not! She’s the most arrogant woman I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. I’d sooner go swimming with silverpike than spend ten minutes in her close proximity.”
Nynaeve hums. “You look at her a lot, though.”
It would be hard not to look at Moiraine. Firstly, because she lurks at the sidelines so ostentatiously, with that clear disapproval—in Siuan’s direction more often than not, it feels like—written all over her (misleadingly) lovely face. Also, because she is wearing a pretty blue stone on a thin golden chain on her head, woven into her dark hair, and it keeps catching the light, drawing the eye.
Siuan tells Nynaeve as such.
“She asked about you when I visited Netherfield Hall, you know,” Nynaeve says.
“Did she? What did she say?”
“I had only just come in and greeted them all, and she said, ‘And how does your sister, Miss Siuan, fare?’ and I told her that you were doing fine, and then she went back to her book and ignored me until it was time to say goodbye.”
Siuan scoffs. “That means nothing. She was only being polite.”
Though, admittedly, Moiraine doesn’t seem to put much stock in politeness.
“If she was just being polite, why did she ask about you specifically? She didn’t mention Perrin, or Egwene, or Mat.” Their three other siblings, all younger. Mat, at seventeen, is the baby of the family.
“She probably just didn’t remember their names.”
Nynaeve says, in a tone that clearly betrays that she just means to humour Siuan, “Maybe.”
Still, from that point on, Siuan finds herself paying even more attention to Moiraine Damodred than before.
Inevitably, this means that there are a few occasions on which she looks over and finds that Moiraine is already watching her, and their gazes meet from across the room. It’s not fair; it’s as though Moiraine has singled Siuan out for some reason, searching for some excuse to spurn her even more.
Occasional glances aside, Siuan tries to steer clear of the other woman, yet—somehow—Moiraine ends up at her side anyway.
Siuan is by the piano, watching Perrin perform, when someone leans in towards her shoulder and murmurs, “And do you play, Miss Sanche?”
She jumps, nearly spilling her lemonade. “Fishguts! You snuck up on me.”
Moiraine only blinks at her. Those stupid big blue eyes. They are uncanny, Siuan thinks. It is hard not to look at them; but looking at them is like looking into the sun, it is unbearable. She is unbearable.
When it becomes clear that Moiraine is not going to apologise for sneaking up on her—and why would she?—Siuan answers—shortly, because already she is annoyed with Moiraine—“No, I do not.”
“Surely you were taught.”
Oh, so now she is assuming that Siuan’s family could not even afford to make sure that all of their children could play an instrument! Light, what a snob.
It is true; the Sanches are not as wealthy as they once were, their fortune having dwindled over the generations, and now the Longbourn estate itself remains their biggest asset, with the only way forward being for Siuan and each of her siblings to marry into money—but they are not quite the lowly beggars Moiraine Damodred is making them out to be!
“I was taught,” Siuan says, through gritted teeth. “We all were. I’m just tone-deaf, that’s all.”
“A pity.” Moiraine looks down, her gaze lingering on Siuan’s fingers, wrapped around her drink. “You seem like you would have very skilled hands.”
What sort of veiled insult is that supposed to be? Siuan bristles, preparing to snap back at Moiraine—but is interrupted by Sir William appearing behind the two of them.
“My dear ladies,” he says, “I have noticed that neither of you is dancing! A shame; I think it would pay a proper compliment to the place. Miss Damodred, you must allow me to present Miss Sanche here to you as a partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.”
“Actually—” Siuan begins to say, meaning to continue (though, admittedly, it would be very petty), I am not handsome enough to tempt Miss Damodred, but she does not have the opportunity.
For Moiraine nods and replies to Sir William, “Certainly.” And she offers Siuan her palm. “Would you allow me the honour of your hand in the next dance, Miss Sanche?”
Siuan cannot quite detect a note of mockery in Moiraine’s tone, but she is sure it must be there, and she wants to return the humiliation Moiraine dealt her at that first Meryton ball.
“No.” With a sweet smile, Siuan then explains to Sir William, “Miss Damodred is all politeness.”
Sir William shifts awkwardly. Moiraine’s palm is still outstretched, though her shoulders have stiffened a little. The tips of her ears are flushed a faint pink—it could be from the heat of the room, or the little gold cuffs she wears there, but Siuan hopes it is from embarrassment.
“She is, indeed,” says Sir William, “but considering the inducement, we cannot wonder at her complaisance; who would object to such a partner?”
She means, wholeheartedly, to keep up the resistance—but makes the mistake of meeting Moiraine’s eyes once more. Moiraine’s feelings cannot possibly be hurt; her dignity, rather, at being rejected by someone she considers so beneath her.
Still, seeing the expression on Moiraine’s face, Siuan finds herself reluctantly grinding out, “Yes, fine. You may have the honour, Miss Damodred.”
They take their place in the set, Siuan and Moiraine standing opposite one another, and for a time neither says a word. Likely, if she leaves it to Moiraine, they will spend the whole thing in silence, and so (since conversation will likely be the greater punishment to her partner than a continuation of the situation as it is) Siuan eventually bites out an observation about the ball.
Moiraine replies, then falls quiet again. Her palm is warm in Siuan’s through the thin material of their gloves.
After a pause of some length, Siuan says, “It is your turn to say something now, Miss Damodred. I talked about the dance, and now you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”
Her partner smiles thinly. “Do you usually talk, while you are dancing?”
“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know.”
“I confess, there is little I would care to say about the room, or other couples. My attention has been elsewhere this evening.”
Yes, of course, why should the great Moiraine Damodred concern herself with paying attention to any of the people of Meryton?
Siuan scoffs. “Yes, I have noticed.”
Moiraine tilts her head at her, a lock of dark hair falling forwards into her face. That little blue stone on her brow shimmers in the light, drawing attention to her eyes. “You disapprove?”
More mockery. She really is shameless.
“Should I not?” Siuan replies archly.
Her only reply is an elegant sort of shrug, Moiraine appearing to concede the point.
They are silent a moment more, focusing on the set. Begrudgingly, Siuan notes that—for all her previous refusals to participate—the other woman is a skilled dancer, light on her feet, with a natural sort of grace that is absent from her social interactions.
This time it is Moiraine who speaks first. “You do not play the piano, then—or any other instrument, I assume. You dance only a little more than I do. Tell me, Miss Sanche, how do you pass the time?”
Siuan could make up some sort of a lie, an appropriately ladylike activity that Moiraine could not look down her nose at, but why bother? Her opinion of Siuan is surely already low, and set in stone. Siuan will not stoop to trying to please her.
“I fish.”
“You fish?” There is a note of delight, or perhaps amusement, in Moiraine’s voice.
“Yes, I fish.”
“I have not met many ladies with such unusual hobbies.”
“Well,” Siuan lifts her chin defiantly, “I am not like many other ladies.”
Unexpectedly, Moiraine’s face softens. Siuan is reminded, fleetingly, of the tenderness in Lan’s rocky face when he looked at Nynaeve from across the ballroom at Meryton. She wonders what has caught Moiraine’s attention, to have inspired such sentiment.
“No,” Moiraine murmurs. “You are not.”
She does not like that soft expression on Moiraine’s face. Her attention is supposed to be on Siuan, not whatever has her looking so fond. And this dance is still meant to be a punishment, after all.
“And you?” Siuan demands. “What do you do to pass the time?”
“I ride, often with Lan. I read. The library at Pemberley,” Moiraine’s home estate—even grander than Netherfield, if the rumours are accurate, “is impressive, the work of many generations.”
Of course, she cannot resist the opportunity to brag, rubbing her wealth in Siuan’s face.
“I read too,” Siuan says, as though to prove a point. The way Moiraine goes on, she probably half-expects Siuan to be illiterate.
“Naturally,” says Moiraine smoothly. “Perhaps one day you should visit Pemberley, and see the library there for yourself.”
It is such a surprising offer that Siuan misses a beat of the dance, and almost stumbles—likely Moiraine’s plan all along.
“I am sure that you have better things to do than bother yourself entertaining the humble likes of me,” Siuan scoffs, and speaks no more for the duration of the dance except for some further plain observations about the ball, leaving Moiraine’s side with a flounce of her skirts as soon as the set ends a few minutes later.
When she glances back subtly out of the corner of her eye (as, of course, she cannot help doing, this having become a sort of habit) she is pleased to see Moiraine standing alone and watching her leave, looking suitably bewildered.
The following morning, a letter arrives at breakfast.
“For Miss Sanche, from Netherfield Hall, ma’am,” says the servant who brings it, passing the envelope to Mrs Sanche.
“Praise the Light!” cries Mrs Sanche, handing the letter over to Nynaeve without so much as glancing at it. “It must be from Mr Mandragoran again! I told you he liked you, my dear.”
The servant clears their throat timidly. “The other—”
Now Nynaeve pauses, staring at the writing on the envelope. “It’s for you,” she says, looking at Siuan.
Siuan, who has a mouthful of toast, almost chokes. “For me?”
What in the world could Lan Mandragoran want with her? They have barely spoken; he is so besotted with Nynaeve, and Siuan so busy avoiding his companion.
She takes the letter from Nynaeve and opens it carefully, skimming over the contents.
“It is from Miss Damodred,” she says, surprised. “She wants me to dine with her. Mr Mandragoran will be out.”
It must be some sort of power move—retribution for the way Siuan left things between them at the ball.
Siuan sets the paper down on the table and folds her arms over her chest. “I’m not going.” Moiraine cannot possibly expect her to.
And if she does… Well, it will do Moiraine some good to be humbled.
“Of course you are going!” exclaims Mrs Sanche.
“Not even if you trussed me up in a net and dragged me there. I cannot stand that woman.”
“She must be the proudest, most disagreeable person in the world,” agrees Mat sympathetically, as he stabs at scrambled eggs with his fork. “Everybody I spoke to at the ball hoped that she would never come back.”
Well, that seems a little harsh. The last bit, at least—Siuan has no quarrels with the assessment of Moiraine as a person.
“Think, Siuan!” Mrs Sanche persists. “She might be inviting you there, on Mr Mandragoran’s behalf, to learn some more about your sister’s character. You must go, and make sure to describe all of Nynaeve’s best qualities to her!”
Siuan fingers the corner of the letter, just below Moiraine’s signed name. She writes in a lovely hand, neat sloping letters of perfectly curled cursive. There is a dramatic little flourish in the way she has written the D for Damodred—from anyone else, Siuan might have found it endearing.
She looks at Nynaeve. “Do you really want me to?”
“I would be grateful if you did.” A sly sort of look enters Nynaeve’s eye. “Besides, perhaps you will find yourself enjoying Miss Damodred’s company more in private than you do in public—though you did seem rather enthralled by one another for a moment, back at the ball.”
“Yes,” Mrs Sanche murmurs absent-mindedly, “you did make quite a dashing pair.”
Enthralled! They are mad, the lot of them.
“We were arguing, actually.”
“Cosiest argument I ever saw,” Nynaeve says.
Siuan glowers at her. “Careful. I might spend dinner telling Miss Damodred all your worst qualities, at this rate.”
Though Lan would probably find them sweet, the way he hangs on Nynaeve’s every word, even when all Nynaeve is doing is ranting at him. Love makes people fools in the strangest ways. Siuan is glad to have never been in it.
Nynaeve only flips her braid triumphantly. “So you will go!”
She will. Siuan sighs, and turns to their mother. “May I take the carriage?”
Mrs Sanche smiles into her tea. “Certainly not, my dear. You will go to Netherfield on horseback.”
She arrives at Netherfield soaked through to the bone, shivering, and clinging tightly to the pommel of Bela’s saddle, her nails digging into the damp leather; she is already far from the finest rider on fair ground in dry weather, let alone these kinds of conditions.
As soon as Siuan steps foot past the butler into Netherfield Hall, her horse passed off to a groom outside, a small puddle starts to form around her on the marble floors.
“Miss Sanche,” Moiraine begins to say, stepping out from a near-by room to greet her, as though she has been stood there waiting for the sound of the front door, then stops, staring at Siuan. “You’re wet!”
Siuan’s teeth chatter. “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”
“You must be freezing!” Moiraine strides over, looping her arm through Siuan’s.
She feels wonderfully hot against the rest of Siuan, her limbs so cold she can barely feel them, and she has to make a concentrated effort not to lean into Moiraine’s side to try and soak in more of her warmth. They are close enough as it is; Siuan can smell Moiraine’s soap, and also a faint air of something like pine.
Moiraine begins to lead her upstairs. She is stronger than she looks—or perhaps the ride over here has simply made Siuan weak.
“We must change you into warm clothes at once,” Moiraine continues. “Did you come here on horseback? I’d have sent a carriage if I—”
Light, no need for her to start thinking that they cannot even afford a horse and carriage, when they have a perfectly good one back home, and Siuan was simply instructed not to take it (Siuan is beginning to suspect why; but it would not do for Moiraine to deduce the same—how conniving of Siuan’s mother!)
“I chose not to take our carriage, actually.” Siuan sniffs. She suspects it is not quite as dignified as she intends, given that her hair is plastered to her head, and water is dripping down her face. “I wanted a bit of fresh air.”
“Well, you certainly got more than a bit.” Moiraine leads her into a (admittedly rather lovely) bedroom, with a plush bed and a large window that looks out onto the grounds of Netherfield. “Some water and fresh air—all you need now is some sunlight, and you’ll find yourself in bloom.”
If she means it as a joke, Siuan is not in the mood to find it anything other than a poor one. She sneezes.
Moiraine presses a handkerchief into her hand. “Here, take this. I will go find a maid to fetch you some clothes and help you dress.”
She steps out of the room, leaving Siuan alone. Until that moment, it occurs to Siuan, she had been expecting Moiraine to be the one to help her change—a patently absurd idea! The thought of it makes her blush. Moiraine dressing and undressing Siuan, like some sort of common lady’s maid.
The rain must have done her more ill than she knew.
Siuan fiddles with the handkerchief. It is surprisingly bereft of lace, and must have been embroidered by Moiraine herself; the little D of her initials in the corner has the same flourish as her signature. Siuan finds herself tracing the shape of it.
Finally a maid comes, and helps Siuan change into dry clothes, a nightdress and dressing-gown, both deeply practical, though a few inches too short. As she pulls the dress over her head, Siuan cannot help noting that it has that same scent of pine she detected around Moiraine; these clothes must be hers.
Well, of course they are! Who else would they belong to? Moiraine is the only woman staying here. It means nothing. Still, something about the smell, and the softness of the fabric, is vaguely soothing.
(Ashes, Siuan really must be getting feverish, to be thinking such things!)
The maid helps Siuan take care of her hair, settles her into bed, and makes sure that the fire in the hearth is blazing before leaving the room. Almost as soon she is gone, there is a knock on the door.
“Yes?” Siuan says.
Moiraine comes inside, shutting the door behind her.
“Have you been standing outside the door waiting, all this time?” Amusement leaks into Siuan’s voice. Who’d have thought Miss Damodred would be such a dedicated host, especially to a woman she considers so beneath her?
“Not all this time,” Moiraine says, rather defensively, in a way that—to Siuan—suggests that she definitely has. “I have sent a note to your family explaining everything, so that they will not worry when you do not return home tonight; you must stay here while it still rains, of course.”
Siuan does not even argue over staying. Between the trip home and spending the night at Netherfield Hall, staying is definitely the lesser of two evils, even if it does mean more time in Moiraine’s company. Besides, with the fire lit, and bundled into this huge bed, Siuan feels rather too comfy to get up again.
“Oh, they will not worry.” Her loving mother, plotting ten strokes ahead—the silverpike, Siuan thinks, without really meaning it. And Nynaeve too, if she was in on any of this.
Moiraine nods. “I suppose they would have concluded as such for themselves, knowing you left on horseback, and seeing this weather.”
“Yes.”
“You must stay as long as you like, or feel the need to,” Moiraine continues. “Lan will not mind.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” Siuan says. Moiraine’s handkerchief is still bunched up tightly in her hand. “I will be out of your hair as soon as the rain dries up tomorrow morning; I don’t want to bunch up your netting with my presence.” Feeling unreasonably petty again, perhaps because Moiraine’s presence in the room is so much more magnified now that they are alone together, and Siuan is dressed in her clothes, so that Moiraine is all she can think of, Siuan adds bitingly, “I’m sure there are plenty of much more tempting guests who are far worthier of your time than I.”
Unfortunately, by the time tomorrow rolls around, the previous evening’s torrential downpours fading away into a light drizzle, Siuan is definitely, actually feverish.
A sheen of sweat clings Moiraine’s nightdress against Siuan’s skin, damp curls of stray hair licking at her hot forehead. She shivers worse than she did when she came in from the rain, teeth clacking together, and is wracked by a vicious cough.
“I can still ride home,” she insists weakly, when Moiraine bursts into her room that morning, still dressed only in her nightclothes and dressing-gown herself. (Siuan notes, absent-mindedly, that they are exact twins to the ones she is wearing. She and Moiraine are matching; how quaint).
Moiraine lays a hand on Siuan’s forehead—for a brief second, it is wonderfully cool against Siuan’s warm skin; it is as though Moiraine’s body is whatever Siuan needs it to be at any given moment—then whips it away, as though burned.
“Do not act a fool,” she tells Siuan, voice harsher than Siuan remembers it ever being, except for perhaps that night at the Meryton ball, when she called Siuan not enough. “You would catch your death—a second time! You are staying here until I say otherwise, and I am calling for the doctor.”
“Bossy,” Siuan mutters under her breath, and hears Moiraine huff something like, Impossible woman, under her own.
From there, the day is a whirlpool of faces. First there is Lan, sticking his head through the door. He greets Siuan, apologises that she has been caught ill, and welcomes her to stay at Netherfield for as long as she needs. Then there is the doctor, who declares that Siuan has caught a chill, and will recover fine with time, so long as she remains in bed and keeps warm. In-between there is Moiraine, who says little, but pushes cups of warm honeyed tea into Siuan’s shaky hands, and stands glowering at Siuan’s bedside to make sure that she drinks it all.
Last of all, there is Nynaeve, with mud all along the hem of her dress.
“Are you alright?” Nynaeve demands, as soon as she enters the room.
Siuan, meanwhile, coughs and asks, “Did you walk all the way here?”
Nynaeve waves her hand dismissively. “I could not wait for them to ready the carriage when I heard the news. Have they been taking care of you? Has the doctor been?”
“He has. It’s only a chill.”
“Only a chill,” Nynaeve grumbles under her breath, beginning to fuss over Siuan, adjusting blankets, feeling her forehead like Moiraine had, except rather more roughly. “You look terrible for it only being a chill. I’ve given the maid some herbs to brew into a tea for you—you’ll drink it twice a day, at least, or I’ll come and pour it down your throat myself!”
Siuan grips Nynaeve’s wrist. “You don’t need to come here,” she implores her. “Take me home with you instead. The sooner, the better.”
“Don’t be so wool-headed. You’re far too sick to travel.”
“I’ll die if I have to spend the foreseeable future alone in this place. With her.”
How is Siuan supposed to stand a week—maybe even two! Or more!—in Moiraine’s presence, bearing the weight of her piercing gaze, in Moiraine’s clothes that smell like Moiraine, all while knowing that Siuan is in truth a burden to her, and that Moiraine would rather Siuan was not here, and she did not have to be associated with her? Siuan was barely willing to come here for the length of one dinner in the first place!
“You won’t be alone,” Nynaeve comforts her. “Lan has invited me to stay, so that I can watch over you. The two of us will be here too.”
Nynaeve has always been something of a healer, and she keeps Siuan in company a great deal, making sure she is as comfortable as possible—but being ill is boring, draining business and, all too often, Siuan finds herself drifting off to sleep, leaving Nynaeve to her own devices.
Thus, inevitably, whenever she awakes, Nynaeve is gone—having left to find Lan, presumably—and it is Moiraine who takes her place in the chair at Siuan’s bedside.
She reads a book there, usually, although sometimes she will switch it up with some embroidery or sketching, neither of which she deigns to show Siuan (and which Siuan does not ask to see, so that Moiraine doesn’t have the satisfaction of knowing she has caught Siuan’s curiosity).
It would not be so bad, waking up to the sight of Moiraine’s face, it being so lovely, if it were not always followed by Moiraine opening her mouth to say something awkward and insulting, or giving Siuan one of those inscrutable looks that must be loathing, because Siuan cannot think of any other emotion that could justify such intensity.
Once, Siuan opens her eyes, and Moiraine is there of course, but she is actually asleep in the chair next to Siuan’s bed, an open book slid half-way off her lap, her head tipped back to reveal the pale slope of her throat, her mouth open.
The sight of it is… Admittedly a little sweet.
Only because Moiraine is at her most likeable when she is not looking at or speaking to Siuan.
Siuan is tempted to leave her that way, let Moiraine wake up on her own. A crick in the neck won’t kill Moiraine. It might even discourage her from spending so much time in Siuan’s room.
But Moiraine is only here out of some sort of misplaced sense of guilt or duty for Siuan falling ill while visiting her. It doesn’t seem fair to punish her for that. If anything, it is almost impressive that Moiraine is so determined to spend so much time here when she does not even like Siuan.
“Miss Damodred?” Siuan says.
Moiraine does not respond, does not even shift. She must be tired—what has she been doing in her spare time, when she should have been sleeping?
It is no matter. Growing up with so many siblings teaches one how to deal with these kinds of things. Siuan shuffles across the bed, then pokes Moiraine hard in the ribs.
The other woman jerks awake, sitting up, book at last sliding from her lap to the floor with a loud thud.
She blinks sleepily and frowns at Siuan, rubbing her side. “Must you be such a brute?”
Siuan shrugs. “Last resort. Besides, I barely touched you.”
“We must have very different definitions of touch,” Moiraine mutters, and for a moment heat seems to rise to her pale cheeks.
Well, it is rather warm, there is no need for the maid to keep the fire quite so hot anymore now that Siuan’s fever is starting to break.
Siuan shuffles upright in bed, adjusting the silk scarf wrapped around her hair. Moiraine leans down to pick up her book, goes to put it on the side, then changes her mind and keeps a hold of it instead, thumbing the pages restlessly.
Then Moiraine speaks up again. “You are an odd family, aren’t you?”
Siuan bristles. “You’re hardly one to cast nets, when it comes to being odd.” The words come out sharp and hooked.
It must sting even more than Siuan meant for it to; Moiraine flinches so hard that she almost drops the book again. “I only meant,” she says quietly, “that you fish, and your sister dabbles in these… herbs and things, and that, given the choice of a carriage, the two of you would rather come here through ankle-deep mud on foot and horseback. It was an observation, not an insult.”
“Oh.” Siuan does not often feel shame—but in that moment, it burns in her belly as hot as one of the embers from the fireplace. She has, admittedly, formed rather a habit of expecting the worst of Moiraine. Her reaction was a harsh one. “Yes. Well, I suppose you could consider us odd, in that respect.”
“Do your other siblings have unusual interests too?”
A fond smile tugs at Siuan’s mouth, her affection for her family spilling over. “Certainly. Perrin, he spends all his time with the animals, and he can teach a dog to do anything. And Mat—he’s such trouble, but he means well—has the best luck of anyone I know when it comes to cards and dicing, and Egwene… She could make a fine scholar one day if she had the opportunity, I think, she has such a determination to learn everything…”
To her surprise, by the time she has finished talking, Moiraine is smiling too. A genuine smile, almost as fond as Siuan’s. She looks more radiant than ever before.
“I do not think I have ever seen you as happy as when you were telling me about them, just now,” Moiraine explains.
“I love them,” Siuan says simply. Then she asks, “Do you have any close family of your own?” It is one of the few things she has never heard mentioned in the whispers about Miss Damodred across Meryton gatherings.
Moiraine nods. “Two half-brothers, one older, one younger—but the elder has been dead for some years now.”
A little of the light in her expression fades away at the mention of her older brother. Siuan is sad to see it go.
“I’m sorry.” She cannot imagine the ache of losing Mat or Perrin.
An emotion Siuan can’t name flickers across Moiraine’s face. “You should not be,” she says. “I have Lan, and he makes for a far better older brother than Taringail ever did.”
“Mr Mandragoran seems like a very fine man,” Siuan agrees. “Nynaeve is constantly singing his praises back home.” She may as well do what she came to Netherfield for in the first place, and help Nynaeve out a little, seeing as Siuan is stuck here with Moiraine anyway.
Not that Nynaeve will need much help securing Lan’s affections, surely, given the additional time and proximity Siuan’s illness has allowed them.
Moiraine lifts an eyebrow. “Does she? She does not seem like the type to go around singing anyone’s praises.”
It is a rather accurate observation of Nynaeve’s character. Well, Nynaeve has been forced to spend almost as much time with Moiraine as she has with Lan, on account of staying here; Siuan supposes the two of them must have gotten to know each other quite well too. To hear Nynaeve’s side of things, it has not brought Moiraine and Nynaeve closer in the way it has Nynaeve and Lan, however.
Siuan cannot imagine how uncomfortable breakfast and dinner must have been this week, with just Moiraine, Nynaeve, and Lan sitting around the table, and is suddenly rather glad that she has been taking her own meals in bed.
“Nynaeve shares praise in her own way,” Siuan says. “Once you know her well, you can tell when it is there.”
Moiraine hums. “She must get it from your father; your mother is certainly much less shy about expressing her approval towards Lan.”
“Our mother only wants the best for us,” Siuan says carefully. She hopes Moiraine hasn’t heard Mrs Sanche say anything too brazen, particularly about Lan’s wealth or his title; it would not do for Moiraine to think that Nynaeve is only interested in Lan because of those things.
“That is understandable,” Moiraine agrees, but she sounds just as careful as Siuan did, and Siuan cannot tell what she might be thinking.
Moiraine stands, placing her book down on the chair and smoothing her trousers. “I will leave you to rest now—unless there’s anything you need?”
Siuan almost asks her to stay.
Not just because she wants to defend her family against whatever less positive opinions Moiraine has formed of them, or because it is boring to lie around alone in bed all week—but because, for a moment, she forgot that she and Moiraine dislike each other, and found herself feeling content.
Then she remembers that Moiraine is probably only here out of a sense of obligation, not because she enjoys Siuan’s company, and so shakes her head.
Moiraine begins to walk towards the door.
“Wait!” The word feels pulled out of her, like a fish caught on the line; there is no holding it back.
Moiraine pauses in the doorway, turning back to her.
“I’m sorry, for what I said about you being odd. I was only being defensive. You’re actually—” Siuan swallows, her mouth feels strangely dry, “you’re not so bad sometimes, Moiraine.”
She isn’t sure why she says it. Moiraine is odd. It’s just that that’s not a bad thing—it’s certainly not the reason why Siuan dislikes her. If anything, it’s one of Moiraine’s better qualities. And Siuan doesn’t want Moiraine to leave this room thinking anything to the contrary.
Moiraine’s response is a soft scoff. “Do not dishonour me with false apologies, Miss Sanche. Your approval of my character—or lack thereof—means nothing to me. Enjoy the rest of your evening; I hope you will be well enough to leave soon.”
The door closes softly behind her, but it may as well have slammed, for all the frost in Moiraine’s voice, and the intense burst of dislike that Siuan feels towards Moiraine which follows.
After a period of ten days, the doctor declares that Siuan is back in good health, and her time at Netherfield draws to a close.
This time, the family carriage does come for her and Nynaeve—with their mother and siblings piled inside.
“Thank you for taking care of our dear girls, Mr. Mandragoran!” Mrs Sanche says, with an exuberance that makes Siuan cringe, because she knows it will seem like too much to those with reserved natures like Lan and Moiraine’s. “Especially my poor Siuan!”
“It was my pleasure to have them stay here, Mrs Sanche,” replies Lan, with a quiet composure that would put Mrs Sanche to shame, if only she were more self-aware. “Although truly I had very little part in any of it; all the credit for your daughter’s care belongs to Miss Damodred and the other Miss Sanche.”
Mrs Sanche raises her eyebrows at the mention of Moiraine’s name, as though surprised. “In that case, thank you to you too, Miss Damodred!” She is notably cooler towards Moiraine than she was towards Lan, though.
“It was no trouble,” Moiraine says. It is perhaps the most humble Siuan has ever seen her act so far—she is surprised to find herself rather missing Moiraine’s more familiar, haughty manner.
Mat climbs over Egwene, who complains as he trods on her toes, and asks with puppy-dog enthusiasm, “Mr Mandragoran, is it true that you promised to hold a ball here at Netherfield?”
Lan hesitates. Siuan is fairly certain there is nothing he and Moiraine would hate more than to host a ball here at Netherfield. “Well…”
“Oh, do hold a ball!” Egwene joins in.
“You could invite the militia!”
Suddenly, Siuan finds herself thinking that the quiet evenings at Netherfield with just Lan, Nynaeve, and Moiraine were not nearly so bad, and considers asking to stay for another.
Shut-Your-Blowholes, she tries to mouth at her two youngest siblings, but they are studiously avoiding looking at her and focusing all their attention on Lan—the only person seeming to notice Siuan’s efforts is Moiraine, who does not even bother trying to hide her resulting smirk at the sight. Siuan feels her cheeks go warm.
“Perhaps,” Lan says finally. “Once your sister has been home for a few days, and I have received word that Miss Sanche is recovered enough to attend alongside you all.”
He helps Nynaeve into the carriage, the two of them exchanging small smiles. Mat opens his mouth, likely to comment something stupid, but luckily Perrin manages to kick him before he can get it out.
Then only Siuan is left standing with their hosts. Strangely, Lan moves aside, and so it is Moiraine who gently takes Siuan’s hand to assist her.
For once, neither of them is wearing any gloves. She has not held Moiraine’s hand like this before, and Siuan’s memory of Moiraine touching her brow to check for fever is hazy. Moiraine’s palm is soft, but the skin around her little finger and ring finger is slightly roughened, likely from riding.
It is a fleeting touch—yet for a second, a heartbeat, Siuan could swear that Moiraine’s hand tightens around her own, an affectionate sort of squeeze, and then they are parting again. As Moiraine steps back, Siuan watches her hand flex, pinky twitching, as though reaching for something.
Moiraine looks back at her—catches Siuan watching—and folds her arms over her chest, hands tucked inside, wrangling control of herself once more.
Not long after returning home, the Sanches host a guest of their own: a Mr Gareth Bryne, cousin to Mr Sanche, recently ordained as a vicar. He has had the fortune of receiving patronage from the Lady Elaida do Avriny a’Roihan, and does not give anyone a chance of forgetting it.
“My small rectory abuts her estate, Rosings Park, and she often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies,” Mr Bryne describes.
Siuan catches Nynaeve’s eye, and fights the urge to laugh.
“Does she have any family?” Mrs Sanche asks, ever-vigilant in her search for possible spouses of good fortune for her children.
“One stepdaughter, from her late wife’s previous marriage, the heiress of Rosings and very extensive property. I have often observed to Lady Elaida that her stepdaughter seemed born to be a duchess, for she has all the superior graces of an elevated rank…”
A snort bubbles out from Egwene’s mouth, and she masks it quickly as a cough, lifting her drink to her lips so as to hide her smile.
“These are the kind of delicate little compliments that are always acceptable to young ladies, and which I conceive myself particularly bound to pay…”
And so the man drones on, unaware of what an ass he makes of himself.
After dinner, Mr Bryne lectures the family extensively on sermons for what is supposedly only two hours but feels like much longer, before finally slipping away to pull Mrs Sanche aside.
Sitting next to Nynaeve at the fireside, Siuan watches them warily. Mr Bryne and her mother keep glancing at her.
“You don’t think he’s come here looking for a wife, do you?” she asks Nynaeve in a low whisper.
She would rather run off and live an isolated life as a fisherwoman by the river than marry a man like Mr Bryne.
“Do you want me to be honest, or reassuring?”
Siuan sighs. “I think that’s enough of an answer in itself.”
“You don’t have to say yes, if he asks. I wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I don’t intend to,” Siuan says. It is just that the matter of him asking—and the fall-out of her rejecting him, including Mrs Sanche’s inevitable disappointment—will be so tiresome in and of itself. “You, though! Will you really accept Lan, if he asks you?” At this point, it seems more of a when than an if.
Over the course of the following few days, attempts to avoid Mr Bryne’s company where possible lead the five Sanche offspring to spend a significant amount of time out in the village.
They are approaching the milliner’s shop one afternoon when Mat exclaims, “Look, it’s Miss Guirale!” and dashes off, Egwene following closely after him.
“Miss Guirale?” Siuan repeats, frowning. The name doesn’t ring any bells for her—or Nynaeve, judging by her expression.
“She’s a lieutenant,” Perrin supplies. “From the militia. We met her while the two of you were at Netherfield.”
The three of them catch up to Mat and Egwene, who are hanging off an—admittedly quite attractive—woman dressed in dark red, with pale blonde hair tied back in dozens of long, tiny braids.
“A pleasure,” Liandrin Guirale greets Siuan smoothly, as they introduce themselves. “Your sister and brothers have told me all about you, Miss Sanche.”
Siuan smiles back at her. “All good things, I hope.”
“Of course. Well, except that you’d been taken ill, and had to stay at Netherfield in Miss Damodred and Mr Mandragoran’s company. You must be thrilled to finally be free of them, I’m sure they bored you half to death!”
“I managed.” There is no reason to feel defensive of Moiraine, or even Lan. If she is, it is only because they did Siuan a favour by looking after her, and because Lan is so dear to Nynaeve. “Are you acquainted with the two of them, then?”
“Oh, intimately,” Liandrin purrs. “Well, with Miss Damodred at least.”
Siuan makes an embarrassing, strangled sound. Which is entirely unreasonable of her; Moiraine can have as many friends as she wants, intimate or not, it is none of Siuan’s business. “But you are not— intimately acquainted anymore?”
“No, not anymore,” Liandrin says airily. “We had a falling out some years ago. Miss Damodred is a very proud creature, don’t you think?”
“She can be,” Siuan replies, and feels incredibly disloyal for it, even though it’s true, and she doesn’t even like Moiraine. Much.
Egwene rushes over, pink-cheeked and breathless. “Siuan, please lend me some money!”
Frowning, Siuan tells her, “You already owe me quite a considerable sum, Egg.”
Liandrin reaches into her coat pocket with another thin smile. “Allow me to oblige.”
“Oh, Miss Guirale, please, you mustn’t indulge her—”
But Liandrin insists, and so she and Siuan follow Egwene into the milliner’s, where Siuan’s other siblings are.
In return for her generosity at the milliner’s, Siuan insists on inviting Liandrin back to Longbourn for some tea—an offer which the other woman accepts gladly.
The walk home through the woods is leisurely, Mat and Egwene skipping ahead of the group with their new-bought ribbons, Siuan and Miss Guirale bringing up the rear as they speak. The other woman is a good conversation partner, with a dry sort of humour—but because Liandrin has brought up Moiraine, Siuan keeps finding herself comparing the two, which is distracting, as well as annoying; she’s sick of Moiraine consuming all her thoughts.
“Will you be stationed here all winter?” Siuan asks.
“Depends on what the Domani have in mind going forwards. Of course I look forward to the action,” Liandrin smiles, “but on the other hand—”
Nynaeve strides over, grabbing Siuan’s elbow. “Look!” she hisses, pointing across the stream they have all been walking alongside.
There, visible through the trees, are two figures on horseback. One broad-shouldered and atop a tall black stallion, the other smaller and impossibly regal on a sleek white mare.
“Mr Mandragoran!” Nynaeve calls over to the other side of the stream. There is a fond lightness to her often-stern face. She twists her braid in her hands girlishly.
The figures ride closer, speeding up, then stop once they reach the water. Lan jumps off his horse.
“Miss Sanche,” he greets Nynaeve, looking very pleased. “How fortuitous that we should bump into one another. Miss Damodred and I were just considering riding over to your house.”
Siuan’s eyes are drawn to Moiraine, who does not dismount. She is utterly windswept, little strands of hair curling around her brow, some rare colour snapped into her pale face. It suits her.
Also, she is wearing a delightfully snug pair of riding breeches.
“It is good to see that you are back at full health, Miss Sanche,” Moiraine says to Siuan, ignoring Liandrin’s presence entirely in a rather rude way. There is something in the stiff set of her shoulders that reminds Siuan of the spikes on a pufferfish.
She opens her mouth to reply, but is interrupted by Mat pestering Lan. “Mr Mandragoran, you said you’d throw a ball once you knew Siuan was better! Now you have seen her for yourself, you can’t make any more excuses!”
Lan smiles. “I suppose you are right. We shouldn’t keep you waiting any longer. Miss Damodred and I will have to start making the preparations tonight.”
Moiraine’s cool expression turns rather long-suffering. Siuan hides a smile—and knows, when Moiraine glares at her, that the other woman must have noticed.
“Fantastic!” Mat crows. “You won’t regret it, Mr Mandragoran, I’m sure Nynaeve will dress up for you, and all that!”
“And be sure to invite Miss Guirale!” Egwene adds.
Siuan huffs. “Egwene, you can’t just—”
She is not even half-way through her sentence, however, when Moiraine turns her horse around and rides off abruptly without a word, without so much as a glance back, at a fast pace.
“Will you excuse me, ladies and gents?” Lan says regretfully, more to Nynaeve than anyone else, looking in the direction Moiraine rode off in with a concerned expression. He climbs back onto his horse, urging it into motion. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
As soon as he is out of sight, Nynaeve wheels on Mat. “Why did you have to say that! Now he’s going to think that I’ve dressed up for him when we go to the ball!”
“But you are always dressing up for him,” Mat complains. He speeds up his step though, putting additional distance between himself and Nynaeve.
“He needn’t know that!” Nynaeve follows after Mat with a fierce expression, looking like she wants to box his ears.
“Run, Mat!” Perrin calls, he and Egwene falling over each other laughing.
Though Liandrin raises her eyebrows at the family antics, she does not comment—and does not seem to judge.
“If I may ask, what kind of falling out did the two of you have?” Siuan says to her. “I have never seen Miss Damodred quite so… Prickly.”
Liandrin shakes her head. “Oh, it was all rather explosive. Moiraine and I grew up together, you see—my father managed her estate, and her father treated me like a second daughter—but Moiraine always thought less of me, because I came from humbler beginnings. I’m sure you understand what she’s like. On his deathbed, Mr Damodred asked Moiraine to provide for me, and make sure that I could fulfil my heart’s wish of joining the church. But when he died Moiraine ignored his wishes and gave the living that was supposed to be set aside for me to somebody else.”
It’s true, Moiraine is proud—but this seems a step too far, even for her.
Siuan frowns. “Are you sure?”
“You saw her, just now; Moiraine did not even deign me worthy of being looked in the eyes.”
“It just sounds so cruel. I wouldn’t have expected that from her.”
Liandrin shrugs. “Moiraine Damodred is a hard woman. If you have not learned that yet, I am sure that you will in time—though my advice would be to distance yourself, before such an opportunity arises.”
Except, of course, that will not be possible. It is clear to anyone who has met them that Lan and Moiraine are joined at the hip. If Lan marries Nynaeve, Moiraine will become a part of the family as surely as he does.
A daunting prospect, for Siuan to be tied to Moiraine for the rest of her life.
“I suppose that means you will not be making an appearance at the ball, then,” Siuan says.
“If I did come, would you make it worth my while, and save me a dance?” Liandrin asks.
Siuan laughs, charmed by her boldness. “Let’s say that I would.”
“In that case, should I get an invitation, I will come,” Liandrin declares. “If you do not see me, you can assume that it is because I have been slighted by Miss Damodred’s prejudices once more; nothing else could stop me from seeking out your company again.”
Though Siuan keeps an eye out for a flash of blonde braids throughout the ball at Netherfield, most of her time is consumed by the prolonged efforts to avoid Mr Bryne, who is doing his best to cling to her side, like some sort of particularly stubborn species of barnacle.
“Siuan!” Leane Sharif, Siuan’s childhood friend, and Sir William Sharif’s oldest daughter, greets her as they cross currents by the refreshments table. “Are you looking for someone?”
“No,” Siuan lies guiltily. Then shakes her head—why should she feel guilty for wanting to find Liandrin?—and asks, “Have you seen a Miss Guirale?”
“She might be in the ballroom,” Leane offers. She links her arm through Siuan’s. “Here, I’ll come with you, and help you look. Describe her to me.”
Siuan describes Liandrin as they push their way through the crowd—the braids, the cheekbones that could cut glass—and the two of them peer at every blonde woman they pass, but their nets come up empty.
However, Nynaeve catches Siuan’s eye from across the room. She pardons herself from a conversation with Lan, and slips over.
“She’s not here,” Nynaeve tells her.
Siuan’s face falls. It would have been nice to have the promise of a dance with somebody whose presence she enjoys to look forward to—and it would have provided plenty more opportunity to steer clear of Mr Bryne. “Did Mr Mandragoran tell you that?”
“He said she was detained.”
Well, given Liandrin’s words earlier, Siuan knows exactly what detained must be code for: Liandrin not being invited in the first place. It feels like a rather damning confirmation of everything that she said about what happened between her and Moiraine.
Worse, speaking with Nynaeve detains Siuan and Leane themselves long enough for Mr Bryne to catch up to them.
“Miss Sanche,” he pants, red in the face from chasing after her in the heat of the ballroom. “There you are.”
Awkwardly, Siuan replies, “Mr Bryne, what a surprise! Have you been looking for me? I’m afraid I hadn’t noticed.”
He wipes sweat off his brow. “Of course, I take no offense. It is easy for a young lady to get overwhelmed in this kind of crowd.” He holds out his hand. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance?”
Siuan cringes internally, desperately trying to think of a reason to turn him down. “I didn’t think you danced, Mr Bryne.”
“I do not consider it incompatible with the office of a clergyman to participate in such an innocent diversion…”
She casts her eyes around the room. She can’t just pretend to be searching for Liandrin for the whole rest of the evening, especially now that she knows that Liandrin definitely isn’t coming.
“... In fact several people, her ladyship included, have complimented me on my lightness of foot…”
There, across the room, reassuringly consistent even when the ball is being thrown at her own place of residence: Moiraine, looking dour in a corner. Inspiration strikes. Siuan never even considers Leane, who is much closer to her and would have been an equally suitable dance partner.
“I do apologise, Mr Bryne, but I have actually already promised the next two dances to Miss Damodred,” Siuan says, and calls a few more hasty parting words over her shoulder, hurrying in Moiraine’s direction before Mr Bryne can request the next dance for after those two are finished.
As she draws close, Moiraine’s gaze switches over to Siuan, drinking her in with all of its usual intensity.
“Miss Sanche.”
There’s no time for greetings and pleasantries; the next set will be starting soon.
“Dance with me,” Siuan tells her, breathlessly.
Moiraine raises a brow, an amused smile tugging at her mouth. “A bit forward of you to order me around like this, is it not?”
“Take pity!” Siuan jerks her head back in Mr Bryne’s direction. “I need a reason to avoid him, else my evening will devolve into complete misery.”
“Do you mean to say that you will not be completely miserable in my company?” Moiraine’s voice has taken on a light, teasing tone.
Siuan scowls. “You are preferable.”
Anyone would be preferable. A pond full of hungry sharks or silverpike would be preferable.
“You did not appear to enjoy my company the last time we danced.”
“You’ve grown on me since then.”
Moiraine hums. “I am not sure what I would have to gain from this. You know I do not usually dance at these kinds of things.”
The music for the current set is drawing to an end. Barely any time left until the next one begins.
“You’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that you made me beg!” Siuan hisses, hoping it will be enough to convince her, that it will appeal to Moiraine’s pride.
A slow smile curls over Moiraine’s lips. “Alright. Then beg.”
Siuan’s jaw almost drops. Alarmingly, heat pulses in her chest. “What?”
“Beg,” Moiraine repeats smugly, in that crisp, perfectly precise Cairhienin accent of hers. “If I find your efforts sufficient, then I will dance with you.”
Her face is hot too. Light, she must be blushing. “I can hardly—” Siuan lowers her voice. “I can hardly get down on my knees and plead with you in the middle of the ballroom.”
“Can’t you? Perhaps you do not want my help badly enough, then.” Moiraine tilts her head slightly to the side patronisingly. Old couples are stepping away from the dancefloor, and new ones are moving towards it. “Ask me properly.”
So that’s what this is about: payback for what Siuan put Moiraine through, the last time they danced.
Well, fine. Siuan really is desperate—and she’s not going to give Moiraine the satisfaction of backing down now.
“Miss Moiraine Damodred,” she grinds out through gritted teeth, and holds out an open palm. “You are a true jewel among women. No beauty or charm compares to yours. You blaze brighter than the sun; I am drawn to you the way ships are drawn to rocks during storms at sea. Would you do me the great honour of your hand in this next dance?”
Moiraine pretends to consider the question. For a heartbeat, with a sick lurch in her stomach, Siuan thinks that Moiraine is going to say no, just to drive home the point of this petty little revenge—but then, with all the gracious air of a benevolent queen addressing her devoted subject, Moiraine takes Siuan’s hand.
“There is no need to demean yourself so, Miss Sanche, of course I will dance with you.”
They manage to join the set just as the first notes of the next song begin to play.
Face to face, palm to palm. Stepping in time to the music with Moiraine. They move well together, as though swimming along the same current.
“The ballroom here at Netherfield is much larger than the one at Meryton,” Moiraine remarks. “Though I suppose you will claim that makes everything less intimate.”
Siuan smiles. “I think this is plenty intimate, actually.” Her arm brushes Moiraine’s. “But you are right; usually I would have leapt to Meryton’s defence.” Especially when being compared to Netherfield, especially with Moiraine being the one making the comparison.
“Because you enjoy being contrary, or because you are proud?”
“Perhaps both.”
“You do not consider these to be personal flaws?”
“Oh, they definitely are, but I think I more than make up for them in other ways.”
Moiraine’s mouth twitches—amusement, maybe—but she says nothing, glancing away.
“Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Damodred?” Siuan pushes.
“I think you are fishing for compliments, Miss Sanche. But I will agree that in spite of your many flaws, there have been moments where I have found you to be—what was the phrasing you preferred? Ah! Not so bad.”
Well, if they’re bringing up sore spots, Siuan won’t be outdone. She arches a brow. “Not tempting, though?”
Moiraine huffs something like a laugh. “Is there someone you would like to tempt?”
Siuan scoffs. “Certainly no one in this room.”
It is not a lie. She does not think it is a lie.
(Why, then, is she still so insulted at Moiraine calling her not handsome enough to be a temptation?
Only because of the principle of the matter, Siuan tells herself).
If Moiraine seems to stiffen a little at those words, Siuan pretends not to notice; she won’t give Moiraine the satisfaction.
“Would you say, Miss Damodred,” Siuan continues, “that your resentment, once created, is unappeasable?”
“Yes, I would say so.”
“You must be very cautious, then, as to its being created.”
Moiraine’s voice is firm. Whatever hint of a smile was on her face has faded. “I am.”
“And you never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”
“I hope not.”
“It is particularly incumbent, on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly first.”
Moiraine tips her chin into the air, blue eyes sharp. “May I ask the purpose of all these questions?”
“The illustration of your character. I am trying to make it out.”
She does not want Moiraine to be the horrible person Liandrin has made her out to be—or even the slightly less horrible, but still largely intolerable, person that most everybody else seems to think her to be.
Not that Siuan likes her, or anything. It’s just that they will likely be sisters-in-law, of a sort; she wants to be able to see the best in Moiraine. Or know her enemy, at least.
“And what is your success?” Moiraine inquires.
Siuan shakes her head. “I find that it is an upstream battle. I have enough different accounts of you to puzzle me exceedingly.”
“I should think that your own accounts would be enough.”
“When you met us in the woods, earlier this week,” Siuan says, “we had just been forming a new acquaintance with Miss Guirale. She had much to say about you.”
“I am sure that she did.” Moiraine’s demeanour is decidedly cooled. “Miss Guirale is blessed with such manners as may ensure her making new friends—whether she may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”
With emphasis, Siuan replies, “She has certainly been so unlucky as to lose your friendship, and in a manner which she is likely to suffer from all her life.”
Moiraine’s mouth tightens—she does not reply, and when Siuan continues the conversation, Moiraine offers only terse responses.
A moment later, the set ends. Before the next one can begin, Moiraine strides away. This time, she is the one leaving her partner behind on the ballroom floor, and—unlike Siuan at Meryton—Moiraine does not even look back.
Worse, while Siuan watches Moiraine go, Mr Bryne appears beside her once more, and snatches up the opportunity to take over as Siuan’s dance partner.
For the rest of the evening, Moiraine is nowhere to be seen.