Porcelain Pursuit

“You left a shoe at the embassy, Citronella,” Blanche remarks, his voice in the same steady aloofness it always carries. Citronella’s arms are crossed tight and her nose is facing the ceiling, hardly listening to him. “It’s unbecoming of a lady to leave her belongings behind.”

“I did not leave them,” Citronella retorts, huffy. “I was forced to remove them and hadn’t the time to put them back on. If I had not abandoned the slipper I would have missed my curfew!”

“Nevertheless…” Blanche returns, unmoved by her pouting. “It will not find it’s way home on it’s own.”

Hince… here she was again, taking the elevator up from the floor of the burrow she hardly knows and back to the clouds she knows even less of. She taps her foot against the glass bottom of the elevator (noticeably in a pair of sensible flat bottomed slippers today, laced up her ankle to avoid them being lost during her adventure). She is annoyed by the trip she has to make, of course, it makes much more sense that the bun in servitude to her would go out of his way to retrieve the precious item than to make her chase it down… but some part of her is just as much anxious. After all, the last time she was here she was threatened with guards and banning and being thrown out of the Embassy. What if Primrose really is waiting at the top of the elevator with chains and men ready to toss her off the cloud? She pouts at her reflection in the polished surface of the elevator a moment before the doors slide open.

There is, in fact, no one waiting to shove her back inside and send the elevator back down. Citronella blinks, as if shocked at her own naivety, and steps out on the cloudy street of the embassy once again. The greenhouse looms in the distance, glimmering once again in the daylight, beautiful despite the knot of anxiety in the bottom of her stomach. She approaches the massive building, struggles through the doors once more, and sucks in a breath as deep as her corset and layers will allow.

Primrose is right where she expects him to be; kneeling in the dirt, his apron spotless despite his messy work. He looks up at the sound of the door opening, expecting a bun here to collect a few flowers for ambrosia, and instead finding his garden pest returning. His calm expression shifts into one of mild annoyance immediately.

“Well, if it isn’t the Embassy’s newest gardener,” he mutters, shifting his weight back on his heels to push himself away from the garden bed. He retrieves a handkerchief from the pocket of his apron to clean the dirt off of his fingers and nails with. “Back to ruin another flower bed, are we?”

Citronella’s lips press into a thin line. “I am here to retrieve my slipper.” 

“Your slipper has been properly disposed of, as any garbage left behind should be,” he returns, matter-of-factly.

Citronella’s jaw doesn’t drop - it’s awfully unlady-like to gape like a devish - but her shoulders stiffen and her eyebrows lower at the mere implication that he would simply toss her slipper in with the waste. She opens her mouth to protest at his actions, but is stopped by the cherubun raising a single, now-clean, finger. 

“However… I think my memory could be stirred. I might know where it was placed and could retrieve it before the garbage is taken away - should someone repay me for the time I wasted cleaning up their mess the last time they were here.”

Citronella crinkles her nose in annoyance as she turns his offer in her head. On one hoof… It is unfortunately true that she left quite the mess in her wake; dirt scattered across the greenhouse, seeds unplated and wasted as they were lost in the soil, muddy stocking-foot prints leading out of the greenhouse and down the sidewalk. Not to mention the state of the elevator.. On the other hoof - they’re not entirely keen on being made to do someone else’s bidding. They would much rather have Blanche clean up for them… but, once again, he has decided to allow them the taste of responsibility.

It’s bitter and gross.

“If it is repayment you want, I have the carats to pay for the ruined batch of seeds twice over. I’ll call upon my servant to deliver them to you. Do you have a bank address you would prefer them routed t-”

“Ah-ah,” Primrose stops her. Her eyebrow twitches in annoyance at being interrupted once more. “I’m uninterested in monetary repayment. I want repayment in effort.”

“Effort?” she returns, questioning.

“Precisely. Since you felt it so important to take time out of my schedule, I want you to take time out of yours in return. I’m behind on my errands due to the emergency measures I had to take within the greenhouse… a friend of mine has a delivery due.”

Citronella tilts her head. “Oh? I’ll simply have my chauffeur make the delivery. Shall I give you his number?” 

Primrose’s top lip curls up in a grimace, one eyebrow raising at the audacity of her suggestion. “I’m sorry… I don’t recall stuttering. I asked you to run the errand. I know it’s hard for you succubuns to find the energy to complete basic tasks with decency, but if you have the gall to trample my gardens, you will find it within you to deliver my package by hand - or you will find yourself without your precious, precious slippers.”

… They take a d e e p breath, hold it at the back of their throat, and curl their fists at their sides in an incredible attempt to hold their temper down. When the flash of anger at being addressed as lesser passes, they close their eyes, release the breath, and straight into the delicate and dainty posture they always carry. Both articulated hands extend before them. “I understand. Please… inform me of the contents of the package and the address they should be delivered to and I shall get them there posthaste.”

If Primrose were able to make the expression, he might have smiled at how easily the succubun caved under his diminutives. “Don’t move,” he orders. He leaves Citronella hands out in the middle of the greenhouse while he slips into the backroom, reaches up on a shelf above fresh tea clippings, and pulls down a brown paper package. It’s deposited right into Citronella’s waiting hands when he returns.

She blinks her eyes open, looking down at the weightless box now in her grasp. She wasn’t expecting much of anything… but surely something more substantial than this. “This is…?” she prompts.

“Tea. Tea leaves don’t grow well in burrowgatory soil. Dove may wish to live below the embassy, bless them their poor choices, but that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to provide the tea they indulge in. I was going to deliver this the evening of the last time we met… it’s overdue now. Imagine how thirsty and confused they must be…” he says, purely to rub it in. This particular jab goes right over Citronella’s head, however. “In any case. The address is on the package. Be punctual and you’ll manage to catch me before I retire to my home for the evening. Otherwise, I suppose you’ll have to continue to wait.”

After some huffing and bowing and muttering her thanks and not-thanks, Citronella leaves the greenhouse and the cloud of the Embassy. 

--

Citronella smells the right house before they realize they’ve made it. 

Jackal is outside, boot propped up on an aviabath while she mends a hole in her jeans with a needle and handful of random thread. A cigarette hangs out of her mouth. Citronella has to check thrice to make absolutely certain that this is the right house and this is the individual Primrose of all people didn’t have qualms against delivering too specifically. At some point, Jackal takes note of the golden cupcake liner walking back and forth in front of her burrow. She pulls the remaining butt of her cigarette out of her mouth and smothers the embers in the nearest ashtray.

“Hey, angel-!” she calls. Citronella jumps, fumbles the box in her hands, and clutches it twice as hard to her chest in shock. She’s two seconds torn between confusion at why someone would address her like that and spinning around back the way she came when she hears the gentle, bell-like chime of a quiet hhmmm? from within the home, floating through an open window.

“You lose a doll on the way home from one of your tea parties?” Jackal leans up against her front door, eyes on Citronella - who is completely frozen in front of her. They desperately wish Blanche were here behind them. Even better… if Cavalier had been available to accompany them on these trips.

“Mh? No? The only doll I have is the one Peter made me… and that stays safe on the couch for us to hold!” Dove says from inside, giggling. “Why do you ask?”

“For you to hold,” Jackal mumbles out of the corner of her mouth with a roll of her eyes. Citronella isn’t observant enough to note her pink-touched cheeks. Before she can explain herself, Dove’s face pops up in the window, all soft white hair and shimmering eyes. They do all the observing without Jackal having to make another comment - particularly, with an elated gasp.

“Hello!!!!” Dove says in a tone three times more chipper than Jackal’s maybe ever could be - with or without the amount of cigarettes she smokes a day. “I love your dress… did Peter make that?”

Citronella’s tongue suddenly feels too thick in her mouth. She shakes her head. No… Blanche purchased this dress for her when he brought her to Kuro’s burrow. He didn’t mention it was from anyone in particular - perhaps one of his regular patrons. “I don’t believe he did…”

“It’s beautiful… The gold suits you - and your spirit friends there. What brings you by today?”

Citronella holds up the box.

“Tea?” Dove smiles, gentle.

“ ‘bout damn time…” Jackal comments to the side.

“I was told you were already expecting it, yes. It… Happens to be my fault that the delivery is delayed. I’ve been instructed to hand it to you personally to make amends for the tardiness.”

“Oh,that Primrose…” Dove shakes their head. “I’ve told him every time I’ve come to see him in the garden that I don’t need a whole box of leaves a month. I… Well. I do drink a lot of tea - but not nearly that much! He shouldn’t have sent you out of your way just for a little box…” They sigh, push themselves up from the window, and open the front door - which only slightly knocks Jackal off balance from where she was leaning against it. “Here… The least I can do is invite you in to enjoy a cup as thanks for the long trip. Do you have anywhere to be soon?”

Citronella blinks her absent eyes and looks up and to each side before she answers. Invited in… for tea…? “I must meet my driver before sundown. I can’t be alone at night…”

Dove waves her in. “Plenty of time! Jackal, can you get the butter biscuits down from the top shelf for the tea? I can’t quite reach.”

Jackal shakes her head affectionately. “Whatever you want, angel…”