Cyril made a rather undignified squealing sound, big toothy grin splitting his face again. “Great! Fantastique! We can head right out, you’ll love it, it’s—no! Wait, I’ve got to change first. If I show up to Lumière d’Or in tie-dye they’ll probably call it treason. Two minutes, meet you by the elevator! Ta!”
Then he scampered off, and when Quinn followed more slowly into the auto walkway, she could still see him in the distance, jogging to the residential wing, though Sybil had already vanished. The hall was quiet again when she reached it, as was the walk back to the elevator. This was to be the new norm then, it seemed. A perpetual blanket of silence, intended for comfort, but perhaps unintentionally smothering.
Thankfully, she wasn’t left in it for long. True to his word, Cyril returned minutes later in a new outfit. He wore a thick-stitched, navy-blue sweater cut short at the elbows and the midriff, beneath which was the familiar pilot’s suit, as well as slim pants and some comfortable, if stylish looking shoes. His hair was pulled back into a high tail that looked intentionally messy, and over his eyes were a pair of small, round sunglasses with only the bottom half of their lenses.
“There we go! Comfy and just a little chic, perfect for a casual drop-in. They’ll love you there—stopping by on your first day, out of the blue, dressed like you’re on the move and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Mmh!” He kissed his fingers emphatically, then called the lift.
The ride up was mostly quiet. Cyril tapped excitedly on his phone, perhaps to warn the restaurant they were coming, though it seemed that he liked the spontaneity too much for that. He smiled at her, bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet the whole way. Only when the lift came to a stop did he regain his composure, straightening up, grin mellowing bouncing halted.
“Deep breath,” he said, though it seemed like he was actually talking to himself.
The doors opened and Cyril stepped immediately out. Quinn followed close behind. They’d come to what was designated as ‘UPPER COMMONS’, which, judging by Toussaint’s introduction, was likely the floor above whatever the lower shopping section was. The lights were brighter here, the walls whiter—not that she could see much of them. The level was incredibly large, so much so that the other side tapered almost into invisibility. No wonder there was a monorail, it might have taken ten or fifteen minutes just to cut straight across, never mind walking around.
There was no tree here, as there was on the Aerie, but rather a prodigious fountain placed dead-center, built within and around an expansive marblework scene. It depicted a crowd, at least from their end, of men and women, horses, dogs, soldiers in armor with spear and sword in hand, farmer with spade and woodsman with axe, scholars in intricately-carved robes, clutching books at their sides, debating with one another, pointing onward. All were in motion, moving towards the other end of the long, stone platform, flanked on either end by jets of water that curved inwards, making it appear as though it were raining upon the voyage. At the far end, a denser stone crowd was gathered, and their details meshed together, their shoulders pressed close, almost like a single mass.
Standing above them on a platform were two figures, a man and a woman. The man held a sword in one hand, which pierced the woman’s chest, but he was turned away from her, holding in his other hand what might have been her heart. His expression was fearful, and pained. The woman’s, by contrast, was entirely serene, and the gentlest smile had been carved upon her lips. Her hands were outstretched to the sword, grasping it. Looking closely, one could see that the man’s fingers were loose upon the hilt, holding it only barely, and that the woman’s were closed upon the guard and blade, almost like she’d pushed it into her own chest. The pseudo-rain fell hardest upon them.
“These floors are open to tourists most of the time. All the work is up there,” Cyril said, gesturing up. High above them, a large section of the ceiling was glass, across which walked a plethora of people in CSC uniforms. “We’re close by, thankfully, restaurant’s right this way!”
True to his point, the shops and lounges and walkways were riddled with civilians. There were few around the lift, understandably, but it took no more than a few moments for the nearest ones to notice them. On the Aerie, Quinn’s fans were mostly quiet, and kept away with their phones out, whispering amongst each other. Here, the first person to see them dropped her shopping bag onto the ground with a glassy crunch and let out an ecstatic shriek. Eyes turned to her, then quickly found Quinn and Cyril. A whole section of the floor suddenly burst to life as people abandoned their meals, conversations, and store-going and spilled into the common walkways.
Uniformed guards, evidently not having expected them, snapped to attention and set about surveying the crowd. There didn’t seem to be a mob forming, and no one was rushing the pair, so for now there was no call to set up a cordon. Of course, that didn’t mean the crowds watched silently. Even though they didn’t come too close, they did shout and cheer. There was no small amount of applause as they passed, and amongst the ecstatic cries of Cyril’s name, Quinn could here quite a few people shouting her own between encouraging whoops and whistles.
Cyril preened like a peacock, waving, bowing, blowing kisses. A flurry of camera flashes followed them and he seemed apt at catching every single one with a sharp pose or a photogenic smile. He took a moment to run over to a small cluster, shaking a man’s hand with some familiarity before returning to Quinn and leading her the rest of the way.
Eventually they reached it: ‘Lumière d’Or’. It was built deep into the wall, and the entrance was an alcove, behind which were a pair of thick oaken doors. The desk out front was manned by a single, tuxedoed woman. She looked shocked when they approached, but that quickly melted into a pleased smile.
“Master Derisa! What a pleasure, we weren’t expecting you.”
“Few ever do. But it’s our new friend’s first day aboard and I thought there would be no better introduction in Casoban than to have lunch here. Would it be trouble to prepare our table?”
She waved him off. “Never trouble for you. Come right on in, we’d be honored.”
They made their way through the double doors, into a hallway of lacquered wooden walls and deep golden lights, which opened up into the restaurant proper. Massive, easily three or four times the size of Tohoki Grill, but with no less atmosphere. The room was comfortably dim, save for pillars of golden light, which, as she looked, Quinn would see were not pillars at all, but holograms of trees with digital roots dug into the hardwood floors, and branches that spread and interlocked and made a resplendent, flaxen canopy of the ceiling.
Round tables lined the floor, lavish booths at the fringes, and further, along the curving outer wall, were windows like the ones down in the dormitory. On a small stage opposite, a band played somber, melancholic music. Gentle piano and tender saxophone, while a man in a white suit sang quietly in Casobani. A pleasant undercurrent to the conversation-heavy air.
The maître de awaited them, expressing a similar sentiment as the woman outside. He led them through the floor, and as they walked, nearly every table in the full house turned to see. However, the mellow air was persevered; no one shouted or got up or did so much as momentarily pause before returning to their meals. Eventually they came to a small table beside one of the windows, which was given a smidgen more space than the rest. As they took their seats, he left them menus, and Cyril ordered a wine with much too long of a name while their cups were filled with water. Then, they were left alone for a moment.
Cyril exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath since the elevator.
“Now, that’s more like it. Not so loud, not so quiet, and just enough attention. You know, almost all the restaurants here have absurd reservation waitlists, but Lumière d’Or is particularly ridiculous. They have one planet-side, in Merain. Four months to get in—and they might still turn you away at the door if they don’t like you. I’ve heard some people plan their whole year around a dinner up here.” He flipped open the menu, nudging his half-glasses down. “I’ve made it my goal to try everything on here at least once. I think only the chefs have ever done that. Maybe Moroux. He seems the sort. TV pitches him as a down-to-earth, country boy but, well, you’ve seen the goatee. Not a lot of farmers with manicured moustaches.”
The menu was large, but focused. Very intensely Casobani, from its seafood dishes to its steaks, and pastas. There were a few recipes she might recognize from the cookbooks back on the Aerie, albeit they were expanded, refined, and though the prices weren’t listed, likely immensely expensive.
The maître de returned with wine, and bread, and a small plate of what he called ‘artesian bruschetta’, and then left them again. Cyril set his menu down, apparently having decided, and turned his attention Quinn.
“So, Quinnlash Loughvein. Wow. Just, wow. I’m honestly so surprised I’m sitting across from you; I was beginning to worry I’d never get a chance like this! I mean, Sybil and I, really, we sort of owe our jobs to you. I’m not sure what state the CSC would be in if you hadn’t intervened at the duel.” He giggled quietly into his hand. “It was happening during one of my performances, you know. I actually missed my walk-on cue because I was watching backstage. You were…enthralling. Really, unbelievable. You fought a Tormont and won, and that was your first time actually, you know, fighting? They tell stories about that family here to scare kids out of becoming pilots! And then the Modir afterwards, I just...how in the world did you manage it?”
