There seemed almost to be a weight to how he looked at her; was it that he was wondering why she chose this life perhaps? She had seen him when he had first been brought to the Teahouse, had helped tend to him through those first few weeks. Fiona had even read to him then; a few times taking her sewing to just sit and sing softly or weave her own stories for his ears. He doubtfully remembered much of any of that though. It did not make her uneasy though, the study, the weight, she was use to it, and here in this room it ruffled her little. His words though, so sharp and ready did draw a peal of laughter light and free from her as they fell into the air.<br/><br/><em>“It sounds like the Ratking. Or like you’re trying to spit out your own back teeth.”</em><br/><br/>"How apt, I always thought so, it makes me marvel at those lackwit poets who write in it as if it gives their work loftiness and worth." The redhead wrinkled her nose slightly at the end of the statement, mirth easy on her features as she jabbed at her contemporaries. For the fact that she herself was a published poet was naught no one in this house needed to know. Unlike her father she did not want fame from her work, or for her name to be known but merely to express herself; besides she would be mocked, a woman and a whore, not even a full courtesan.<em>Ah what foolish webs I weave even for myself...a mistress, to be a wife perhaps? And then a poetess, a authoress but never in the light of day. I think some part of me fears going outside this stage I crafted, beyond this part of life.</em>The thoughts rose and fell away, dismissed easily as her lively eyes drifted over the features that had always caught her fancy since she had first seen Atticus.<br/><br/>He was so dark, so different from her first lover, but in his brooding, wounded way something about him tugged into her soul and made her want to offer comfort, healing. What could she do other then offer him books and words though? He had forsworn the life she lived; and likely thought her foolish to live as she did. What man who had been through the whores of the slum brothels could ever think highly of one raised gently and to books and knowledge, who had fallen into this life and been so gifted? Her first patron had wooed her, courted her. Tragedy had only come to her in form of death claiming her loved ones. She was naught to him but her brains, but oh what a fierce intelligence those cornflower eyes contained, sparks of wit she wished she had more skill in drawing out.<br/><br/>Atti was far more intelligent then he gave himself credit for; yet that too she could not offer, how so without seeming to be condescending? He fit in here more then she did; even her William had been proof of that.<br/><br/><em>“Mmn,” </em>Fi noted then, with sighing resignation that even how the guard cleared his throat made her thoughts want to stray. Perhaps she had been too long without a client that made her burn, perhaps it was the rain, perhaps it was the memories.  Her eyes trailed over his shoulders, wondering if he remembered how she had bathed them through his fevers, such strong shoulders.<em>Fool, foolish thoughts Fi.</em>She scolded herself sharply, paying attention once more to his speech.<em>“Ah, reading for pleasure... it’s not for that, no. My intention is to expand my vocabulary more than anything. Not that I have reason to speak much,”</em><br/><br/>Her eyes went back to his good one then, a slight furrow of confusion on her brow, head tilted as her fingers took once more to her fidgeting, this time tracing the soft pattern of golden thread over her plum silk in the form of a flower that draped over her knee. Long pale fingers moved over and over; he had given her a puzzle of sorts. Many would love to speak to him from what she had noted. The other whores found him tempting, mysterious and yearn worthy, the servants whispered and sighed over him. Did he not know how many eyes he had caught, nor hearts he could pull should he wish? Perhaps not, it was not something he would want to see or know after what he had lived through from what little she knew. And those observations marked her a whore as much as he was no longer one.<br/><br/><em>“I would appreciate that, thank you. My nightmares are rife with impossible to pronounce words. If this one were to swell their ranks, I will tear all my hair out.” </em><br/><br/>"You are always welcome to speak to me Atticus, you know I'm not so popular with the clients these days and my whenever my time is free I do hope you know I find delight in your company and indeed as well your discourse. You have a rich voice, the cadence is so..." she hummed, seeking the right word. His smile seemed almost too teasing, too on edge. But then she was the same, that brightness she spilled forth called because it was her trademark. He had once been in the same position, only better? Or stronger, something of the like. Maybe that was why she read him so well. "Alluring, yet soothing, your voice makes me think of protection and strength."<br/><br/>She chose her words to weave her spell of compliments, yet each ringing with the sincerity of her feelings, false positives she never gave but with her gentle touch and easy way she often restored people's confidence. Softly she reached toward him, the expression on her face serene, open, making it clear she could let him push her away. "I would gladly offer my services and gift of tongue to slay what monster words I may for you. No nightmares should trouble the sleep of a guardian so bold." Her smile dipped her lips, slightly lopsided, impish, to lighten the moment when she sensed too much gravity might make him reject her. She feared that rejection for clients paid to see her, but other people? No, she was not wanted, not needed; she gave to the clients yes, and brought in high prices and good money for Ryan with her work, Lessard was her mentor, her elder brother of a sorts, but there was no true need for her. Ah the melancholy she normally reserved for the poetry she wrote at night when rest did not come.<br/><br/>It must be the rain. Still her eyes sparkled as if gems alight with delight and she laughed softly "Like in a tale, the faerie maiden gifts her chosen hero with weapons he might not think to need and he slays the beasts."