no_sin_but | (no subject)

(no subject)

this is london, 1603. outside it, on the road with the crowds even early in the morning.

it isn't pretty.

Marlowe glances over at Mary Anne, thoughtfully.

"Think you can hold your seat in there?" He asks, gesturing with his head towards the English capital.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I think I can manage not to embarrass you," she says, smile a touch wry.

"Shall we?"

"I was more worried about you losing control of the horse and breaking your neck than my pride," he drawls.

Mary Anne looks appropriately (moderately) offended.

"As if my neck were not already very hard to break, I do have a horse of my own, thank you. I know how to handle myself."

Well, if the lady will fall, the lady will fall. On, then, into London.

London of 1603 is crowded, wooden; you smell it long, long before you see it. This is a street, wide as they get and cobbled. Slippery cobbles and people. Carts. Other horses.

Marlowe is going to frankly ignore Mary Anne's expression and stay close. Pride is one thing, but even experienced riders have lost control of their horses here.

Mary Anne has never seen anything like the streets here, and Kit's words of caution do little to prepare her for them. Her hands tighten on the reigns and she sits straighter in the saddle.

After the first few minutes of riding, her internal bravado crumbles slightly, but she sets her jaw and does her best to look unruffled.

Proof that Marlowe does, in fact, know how to handle people when he makes the effort:

"Once we get off the street, we'll have to dismount. The lanes...are interesting. And you might crack your skull on one of the sign."

He isn't joking, either; that nine foot requirement for shop signs?

Yeah. Try enforcing that.

She manages a small smile.

"I'll be sure to duck, then."

He lifts his hand and rubs his forehead in remembered pain.

"Yeah. You can try."

"Ah. Easier said than done?" she guesses.

"Welcome to the nice, charming, picturesque and altogether safe place I like to call home."

She laughs.

"It's a pleasure to be here, but remind me to show you what I called home one of these days."

They have eerily similar tastes.

"Ah, not the other place?" He asks as he directs his horse around a corner.

Match made in somewhere.
"No," she says, turning her own horse to follow.

"That was a place we got for ourselves. Before that...before that I was living in the middle of a war."

She realizes for the first time that she's never told him about that part of her life. It's strange to think that Vietnam might not be the first thing people learn about her anymore.

"I shouldn't be surprised."

"Especially not considering I was there by choice."

"Choice, choice? Why'd a pretty lady like you choose a war, hmm?" This is not Marlowe. This man, short and wiry with eyes far too bright, is someone entirely different. He's also holding onto the bridle of Mary Anne's horse.

Edited 2008-03-13 11:23 (UTC)

Marlowe is regarding him with something that can only be described as amused resignation.

"Reeves. Why don't you let go of the bridle?"

"Because my knifework is better than my needlepoint," she replies, then turns to Kit.

"I don't suppose you're going to introduce us?"

"Naturally. This is Reeves. He is occasionally useful, but more often annoying and his continual survival is something I marvel at. Reeves, this is my wife, Mariane."

Reeves lets go of the bridle.

And stares.

"You have a wife?!"

Mary Anne (Mariane) laughs.

"Is he really so impossible, then, if that piece of news shocks you?"

"Lady. Lady, lady, lady, oh-Mistress-oh...yes."

Drily,

"You're ruining the fun."

She does her best to stifle further laughter and mostly succeeds.

"Oh, I think he's doing just fine.

He still is," she adds in a conspiratorial tone to Reeves, "deeply impossible."

Reeves sweeps her a bow.

"You've laid my mind to rest, oh beautiful one."