“I wanted to talk to you three—or, I guess two, now, since Manus is sleeping—if you don’t mind.”
Maria smiles quietly, hopefully, as she guides Jarl back into the house and kitchen, forgoing the living room since it’s so much closer to the guest rooms and thus might make them wake up Manus. Áesta hums softly, almost noncommittally, as he returns from putting aforementioned magician to sleep. It’s passed sundown, now (almost 8 according to the clock), and Jarl will have to turn in soon, as well; with him probably Áesta, too (unless he decides to spend the night with Manus—which would be fine: Jarl’s already fed him for the day, after all; as surprising as those words/feelings might have been in the middle of their face-off with Mariti).
“Hwat about?” the daemon asks, settling into a kitchen chair.
Jarl wonders if the fact that it faces the front entrance has anything to do with his seating choice. Aloud, however, he asks: “When we’re leaving?” It seems like the most likely question, after all. “In the morning. Right after we figure out where, exactly, Jasey and his kidnapper got off.”
Maria blinks, “That… isn’t quite my question…”
“Ah know t’e answ’r, t’ough.” Áesta picks at tapered nail—not sharp enough to be a claw, sure, but still long and to a suggestive point—while appearing to greatly enjoy the attention he’s receiving.
Jarl tries not to roll his eyes.
“Really?” Maria asks, surprised. Shantown’s priest can’t really blame her: he’s shocked, too.
Áesta only nods, “Ceart. Ah asked Gwendolyn hwile Ah were t’ere. She said t’ey went ta Cas’leg’dry.”
“… Castlegodry???” Maria asks, appearing just as confused as Jarl. “Why would they go THERE???”
“There’s… NOTHING there!”
“Gwendolyn’s grandma is.”
~
“The crazy old witch?”
Jarl raises his brows in surprise, eyes wide, as both he and Áesta stare down Maria’s choice of words. Aforementioned Head Nun, however, remains unperturbed (by their stares, at least).
“She used to have a hut here—on the outskirts—where she practiced magic.”
“Natural Medicine,” Áesta corrects, appearing for the first time unfriendly. “She were an ‘erbalist.”
“Like Hagen?”
“Sure,” the little daemon nods. “Like an apothecary.”
“So you knew her?”
“… Yes.”
~
“… Ya seem ta know a lot of people, Áesta.”
Shantown’s priest almost shivers at the note of suspicion in Maria’s voice, the sudden narrowing of her eyes, and the frown now marring her normally kind face. She’s catching on. Maybe, she even KNOWS.
“First Father Mariti… now Gina Wittle O’?”
Áesta smirks challengingly and shrugs. “… Ah get around.”
Jarl snorts.
“To a little town hardly anyone knows about?” Maria asks, still skeptical. “For a priest you don’t even like and an old woman who dances naked beneath the moon?” There’s something condescending about her voice, like she’s speaking down her nose instead of looking because looking would be too beneath her.
Áesta doesn’t seem to appreciate that but Jarl’s still reeling from the naked bit.
“T’at’s sowrt of hwat get around means. Also, t’at’s a legit Pagan t’ing. Fun, too.”
“I-isn’t that… the fire festival or something?” Jarl asks, nervously placating.
Thankfully, both Áesta and Maria nod; only the daemon seems pleased, though. “Beltane,” he clarifies. “Brings in t’e summer.”
“Although, most people don’t actually get naked for it anymore,” Maria concedes.
“True. Manus and Gina both would, though. Just because.”
The nun laughs, “I could see that.”
Áesta grins, “Right?”
(Jarl sighs as the two begin getting along again; but, in the back of his mind [and probably Maria’s, too], warning bells still ring: it doesn’t matter how much Áesta likes you; if you insult his friend, he’ll hate you.)
~
“But… exactly how long have you known Father Mariti?”
Áesta frowns, all humor gone, and Jarl is left to wonder: why would Maria risk asking such a question?
Mainly because the daemon beside him immediately answers.
“Decades.”
~
“So he was young when you two met?”
Dark brown eyes stare determinedly into (orange) green ones as Jarl watches from the sidelines. He sweats nervously, glancing back and forth like a child watching an pendulum swing or a tennis match.
Eventually, Áesta answers the nun.
It’s not the answer either expected; but no one’s sure who’s more shocked: Jarl, Maria, or even Áesta; “No.”
~
Maria seems at a loss.
She sits heavily in her chair, in the house of the man she clearly no longer trusts, and clutches her teacup religiously. Her hands are shaking, causing the mug to shake as well, and she looks paler than Manus did when the Trio of Treaties first arrived in Bailenac’ringy. It’s… really not the best look on her.
Áesta seems sympathetic.
Jarl isn’t sure if this is due to the amicable nature of their interactions up until this point or Áesta’s nature (which is shockingly forgiving when one considers the fact that he’s a daemon and they’re thought to be… well, one of them is literally named WRATH for a reason, right?), but the disguised devil seems comforting when he speaks, “‘E ‘as always been v’ry healt’y, Ah believe.” … Seems might have been an operating word.
In fact, Maria slowly shakes her head: “Healthy has nothing to do with a man not aging for 50 years.”
“50???” Jarl balks, unable to help himself. He knows, of course, about Áesta’s cruse—the one that makes Mariti age no mer’—but still: the idea that someone, a priest no less, could go 50 years without aging OR getting asked a boat load of questions… Science hasn’t gotten people to the point where they can do that yet—Jarl knows because Hagen has spent a lot of his time as an apothecary trying to help prolong lives.
So how is it that the people of Bailenac’ringy don’t even ask Mariti for his secret???
“You know about magic, clearly; do you think… Father Mariti is actually a witch?”
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