but it is Thoroughly Shortsighted and Entirely Unfair to force us to remain
we have fought Despicable Foes and triumphed over
please don't worry about us

Tamburlaine frowns. A single, malignant ink blot spreads from the tip of his quill.

(The ink is a fetching shade of blue. For some reason, like, everything in Councillor Cargan's household is blue.)

He sighs, crumples the page, and stares dejectedly at the antique escritoire. At least the guest rooms are nice.

A slight creak at the door. Then a voice, in peevish baritone:

“If you really must write me out of house and home, you could at least have the courtesy not to use the Beerbohm and Seton stuff.”

“Mr Councillor Cargan, sir!”

With exactly the level of nervous deference the situation requires, Tamberlin jumps to his feet. There is then no option but to hover awkwardly in place.

The Councillor faces him with a frown of the utmost derision: statuesque in the doorway; cravat set fashionably awry. Then, suddenly - horrifyingly -

- he bursts out laughing.

“Gods!” he splutters, leaning against the door frame for support. “You absolutely must do exactly the same thing when Francesco's around. Only add a bow or something.”

Tamburrlaine, ever adaptable, meets this with a grin of his own. “I thought maybe I should bow, sir, but I wasn't sure. I don't really know about the etiquette of… this…” Swiftly, he forges on, tone palpably and perhaps overly earnest. “Thank you for the hospitality, sir. And the paper. Sorry about the paper. I only wanted to write my parents. And a few other people. I'd forgotten everyone's probably worried. Sir.”

His cravat is tied in a plausible imitation of the way Councillor Cargan wore his last season. He probably hasn't gotten it too badly wrong. Already the Councillor thinks he's decidedly unfashionable and a little dull, probably. Life is so terribly unfair. He hopes he doesn't have ink on his face.

No acknowledgement of his meticulously (poorly?) tied cravat is immediately evident from the Councillor's expression. Nor any acknowledgement of his ensemble, or the probable ink, or anything, save -

“You mean to say your parents haven't the scantest inkling you're still breathing?”

And - oh - at that, his face darkens.

“Oh, no, they know that I'm alive!” Tamburlane says, quickly. “I mean, now they do. I met with cousin Tabby, like, a week ago. She tried to drag me back home and said I shouldn't go adventuring anymore, so I ran away.” He bites his lip. “I probably shouldn't have left it so long, should I? Sir.”

(In a casual and basically totally subtle way, he rubs at his left cheek with one hand. His index finger comes away a little smudged. Drat.)

The Councillor narrows his eyes, and it is really difficult to tell whether this is because Tamberlaine is not the least bit basically totally subtle, or because he is unreservedly irate at this latest botched admission. He can't imagine the obscene cerulean blot defacing half his features could help with the latter, though.

The response, when it comes, is unexpected. “Gods, you're an infant. Is the Terrec household really so despotic? I wouldn't have thought so. They're Terrecs.”

This, at least, is a subject on which he has strong and articulate opinions. “Not despotic. Selfish. Even though loads of people have been adventuring for ages just fine, Mother and Father are afraid I'll be maimed or killed - so they don't want me saving other people. As though we're worth more than everybody else!” His fists clench at his sides. “They won't let me do anything and how can I show anyone that I'm more than a stupid child if they don't let me try?” It takes all his willpower to keep his voice controlled and level.

Councillor Cargan finally steps into the room, eyebrows firmly aloft. “So, allow me to see if I've grasped the nuance of this situation. The issue, when it comes down to it, is that you have parents who love you.”