Fort Weyr - Central Infirmary
This room looks fairly similar to most other infirmaries, with it's faint scent of antiseptic and an eerie quiet that goes along with convalescence. Rows of cots line both walls, each separated by a privacy screen. Breaking the line of cots along the outside wall is a entrance to the dragonhealing section of the infirmary. The far end of the oval room is filled with metal cabinets that hold the tools of the Weyrhealer’s trade, as well as a desk from which the healer can supervise his domain. Upon one wall rests a thick 'chart' containing the information on all patients within the infirmary.


Slightly backdated. By about 2 days.

It may be the Weyrhealer's turnday (she's 32 now!), but that is no excuse for taking any time off, least of all not as Mirinda is concerned. Likely, she has some sort of plan with her family either later in the day or on her restday, but as of right now? She is at her desk, supervising the activity of apprentices over cleaning and minor exams, and attempting to keep up on the everpresent task of maintaining records. She has her hair up in a sparkling clip that's clearly new, and the scarf she's wearing isn't one anyone has seen before either, but other than that there's no external sign that it's anything other than an average day for her.

Zhirayr is whistling as he walks in, which is probably a terrible sign for anyone who's ever met him. The Steward isn't supposed to be happy, right? So that means he's plotting someone's demise, right? Like the old Steward! (Never mind that Lycander still died of natural causes, and wasn't actually helped along his way; some rumors never die.) Oblivious to all of that, of course, he grins as soon as he sees Mirinda, and one of his hands comes out from behind his back to deposit … a small vase with some flowers in it, on her desk. (Not on top of the paperwork.) "Hello, you," he greets.

Ominous. That's what that is. It's ominous. Mirinda gives him a funny look, though it is accompanied by a smile — her mouth is smiling, her eyes are funny-look, just a little. "You're cheerful," she accuses, for all that it's a strange thing to accuse someone of. Zhirayr usually isn't cheerful. "And those are beautiful, thank you."

"I heard a stunning rumor about you today," the Steward tells the Healer, remaining quite cheerful as he leans down to steal a kiss… on the side of her cheek. "Nice scarf, by the way." Definitely ominous.

"A rumor? Oh, fantastic." Mirinda, appreciative of the fact that that was as far as he went with the kiss, smiles and plays along. "You'll have to break it to me. At least I'm sitting down. And thank you, it was a gift from my brother and sister." She doesn't specify which ones, though anyone who knows her family might guess Brebain and Daina — one to do all the actual work, and the other to contribute funds.

"Well." Zhirayr might be willing to play along with that, so long as she doesn't mind too much that he sits down on the edge of her desk — again, not on the paperwork! — and is still ominously keeping his other hand behind him, out of sight. (The word of the day, boys and girls, is…) "I suppose there've been a few of them, really," he continues, kicking one foot out to prop himself up properly. "Like what happens to you when you smell cinnamon, or the fact that you're back together with that icky Steward, and maybe something about a Turnday… but I can't, quite, remember what that one was."

So long as he's not sitting on anything, Mirinda isn't going to argue. She does point out, "We have chairs," but isn't actually saying anything other than that. If he chooses not to employ a chair, that is his choice. He's just setting an example for everyone, including his own staff. "You should probably explain the first one," she says warily, "and the second is probationary," taking it slow, remember? "and the third might be valid, if it was about it being today. But of course you'd have no idea and just coincidentally brought me flowers."

"Of course," Zhirayr agrees readily, and smiles sunnily down at her. "I'm not sure about offering up explanations in public, though — what if someone hears us? Wouldn't it make more sense to test it in private, instead?" He might be trying to create something with that rumor, instead of actually… having heard a rumor that she has some specific reaction. You can do that, you know. "I was hoping to keep the second one going, though, which might also have something to do with the flowers. Brightening up your desk, and all of that." His other hand is still hidden.

Mirinda probably doesn't at all want to know what he's thinking, if that has to do with the cinnamon thing. Really. No. Though she looks like she's laughing more than anything else, and not commenting on anything having to do with conditioning. "Yes, I'm sure," she says. "And even on days that aren't — supposedly, rumored to be — special, flowers are always nice."

"Exactly so," the Steward agrees sunnily. "Of course, there's also the fact that sometimes, on days that are not, supposedly, rumored to be special, you have hair, and sometimes — not like today — you don't want people to see it." Somewhere in there is a hint about his ominously-hidden other hand. Somewhere.

"Are there days that I don't have hair?" Mirinda raises her eyebrows at him, still looking seconds away from actual laughter. "Because that, like my reaction to cinnamon, is something I didn't know about either." She raises two fingertips to her head, as if making sure that fancy clip and hair are both still present.

​"Well," somewhat shiftily, "I'm sure I couldn't say anything about that." Zhirayr has never seen her with a shaved head, at any rate. "But I think that sometimes you'd like to have something covering the top of your head. Yes?"

"Usually when traveling, yes." Perhaps Mirinda was raised by the sort of people who teach you that a Traveling Hat is right and proper. She doesn't have many, but there are a couple she likes to wear — hats or headscarves. Especially when betweening, but even by other means of travel. And she's generally got hats for when she goes to runner races, but that's a very different set of hats.

And now, well… ominously… he pulls a hatbox, with a decorative ribbon tied into a pretty (but not that fancy) bow on top, from behind his back. And presents it to her, wordlessly. The hat inside is beautiful, and soft, and easily crushed down to be packed for travel — Zhirayr does pay a little bit of attention to when she wears hats — a linen/wool blend in a light cream. It would be pretty but plain — not to say boring — if not for the beautiful, filmy satin flower perched above the brim on one side, in a vibrant (and expensive) purple.

Mirinda opens it slowly, for all that she can tell it's a hatbox — he might be pranking her, and the item inside is most decidedly not a hat — and bites her lip a little as she opens up the lid. The hat she is met with might seem plain to others, but it absolutely delights her, filmy flower and all. "Oh, this — I have a few things this would look amazing with," she breathes, and gives the flower an adoring touch with one fingertip.

"I found one that was purple velvet, a similar shape," Zhirayr offers offhandedly — this would apparently be the hand he's leaning on, and not the one that was clutching a hatbox for most of the conversation, logically enough — "but it seemed a little… overdone." Or, you know, considering the cost of dye and all, it's the fact that it was almost the cost of the runners who'd be racing when she wore it.

"I think," Mirinda agrees, giving the hat one last loving touch before closing the box again and setting it aside on her desk — closed, so as not to become damaged by work, "that I would probably have felt guilty, had you gone quite that far. It's not really a special turnday."

"Or maybe an anniversary gift," Zhirayr agrees, idly, as if it's no big thing to think about them having the sort of anniversary where he'd give her a vibrantly purple, outrageously expensive hat. He reaches out to touch the now-untied ribbon (a plain red satin, but quite nice for all of that), fingertip ghosting over its edge. "How much longer are you working today, anyway?"

Considering they broke up, Mirinda wouldn't be sure how to count an anniversary — and she probably can't remember either the day they first got together or the day they got back together. Not the dates, anyway. She remembers the events just fine. And it is way too early in Relationship 2.0 to consider a wedding anniversary. "Um — three hours," after a quick clock consult. "Why?"

"Because I have other gifts for you that require privacy," Zhirayr answers patiently. "Starting with dinner, although I realize that you may have planned a different dinner, in which case I can switch to dessert — or we can make plans for tomorrow to be our private celebration of your turnday, because from the dessert plans on I definitely don't want anyone else present."

"My parents," Mirinda admits, looking almost guilty, but only almost, "are coming. For dinner. And then I have my brother who lives here, my brother and sister who are coming from their Crafthalls, and two young girls." Lianri's parents might make a surprise appearance, too, considering Mirinda has their daughter and all, but with the number of other children they have, who knows. "So I'm not sure — another day might be better." Guilt! Now seeping in just a little.

Zhirayr offers her a faintly-wry smile. "I did realize that that was a possibility," he points out gently. "That's part of why I'm actually glad that you're working another three hours — I came by now in order to find out whether or not I could have you for dinner — I mean, have you to dinner, by myself, this sentence sounded a lot better in my head," as he gives up, chuckling and shaking his head. "But. Have you talked to the cooks yet about having something special made up, for however many people you think are actually going to show up, plus a few? Because if not, I can do that. And I can have my special dinner for the two of us be tomorrow, if you like."

Is he offering to take advantage of his position for her family's benefit? That's something Mirinda attaches to more quickly than the possibly-mistaken double entendre. "No, I wouldn't presume that kind of importance or authority, even if I am The Weyrhealer," and one can hear the capitals. "I suppose it is something you could do, though, and it would be rude of me to refuse if you're really offering —"

"Anyone is allowed to ask," Zhirayr points out dryly. "Not that very many people realize it, and most of those who do, don't — but you're allowed to ask for something a little bit out-of-the-ordinary, and if you aren't specific about it, or if your specificity has to do with allergies, you'll generally get something delightful. There are only so many plain tubers the average cook can make without wanting to stab something, after all."

"I didn't think," says Mirinda, "that it would be fair for me to ask for any dinners to be altered because of my turnday. You don't see special things done for others. But I suppose that's because their food's sent directly to them, and not given to everyone — it's just not something I thought of." She shrugs, the flowers catching her eyes again, which results in another small, fond smile. "Some kind of stew, maybe? Not fish. Spicy."

"I'll see what I can arrange for you," the Steward promises, calmly planning to trade on as many favors as he needs to arrange something delicious and delightful for her and her family. Once he has the approximate number of people (plus him, plus a few), along with any allergies (or teenage-girl refusal-to-eat-that-food options), he leans in and kisses her — not on the cheek, and not chastely, but not all that non-discreetly, either. "I'll see you at dinner," he promises. "And tomorrow, you're mine." And with a wink, Zhirayr leaves her to think about what that kiss could have been like if nobody else had been in the room… or, more likely, he leaves her to finish her paperwork before dinner.


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