rainbowfic | Canary Yellow #6: As the Gentle Rain from Heaven (The Quality of Mercy)

Name: As the Gentle Rain from Heaven
Story: The Quality of Mercy (Peccadillo Parlour)
Colors: Canary yellow #6: The loss of reason in war seems to me honorable, like the death of a sentry at his post.
Supplies and Styles: n/a
Word Count: 661
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.

“You always have to make it about you, don’t you?” said Cilla.

Pru took her time arranging the dishes in the dishwasher. There was an art to it, based on the flow of water and the fragility of the items in question. The pot was already in the sink, ready to be scrubbed. Her second-favourite cousin, of two, stood by to watch Pru crouch to shift plates around. Those polished nails would never touch a scrub-brush again.

“I’m allowed to talk to my aunt, Cilla.”

“My mother has a soft spot for you, but the rest of us kind of wanted to talk to her too. I had to cram all that about Elijah’s christening into the last five minutes of dessert.”

“Look, I really needed her insight. I--”

“I’m so sick of your drama spoiling Sunday dinner.”

There was a clatter as Pru adjusted the cutlery box a little too forcefully. She stood up on her high heels and closed the door carefully, set the machine in motion. “What is your problem? If you want to talk to your mother, then do.”

“I tried!”

“Bullshit. You waited, because you know she doesn’t like Peter’s church.” Cilla’s husband was an evangelical Christian, while Amelia believed in nothing but the proper way of doing things and the power of crystals. “You wanted to give her the date and get it out of the way as quickly as possible. And now you’re hiding out here shitting on me rather than face her.”

Things had never been great between the cousins, but they had really gone down since Cilla started to go to church, just as Pru had broken seven figures and finally got Eileen—favourite cousin—to go to Pride with her for the first time. There was little Pru could do about it. Or so she told herself. Cilla was just not a hill worth dying on.

Sometimes Pru wondered if there was a hill like that left. She’d seen too many battles, too many losses, and won too many victories that had turned out empty.

Cilla’s lovely face screwed up into coiled rage. “I came here to forgive you,” she hissed, then turned on her heels and flounced out of the kitchen. Pru could hear the sound of voices raise and disappear as the kitchen door closed behind her.

Pru nearly stomped her foot, but you learn not to do that after years of wearing heels as high as these. The hypocrisy was mind-boggling.

Her brow cleared. A thought occurred.

What was the most common moral narrative in media? How did one strike the balance between an attractive story and an obvious lie?

-

“I have an idea.”

“For me or for you?”

There was a coldness in Jimmy’s voice on the other end of the line. Prudence adjusted her headset and slowed down for a crossing. “Stop being sore, Jimmy. I told you. I intend to keep your secrets.”

“What do you want?”

“I said stop it. I think I have an angle on the Cadfield case. Ready for this?”

“Mmm.”

“Forgiveness.”

Jimmy laughed, and not kindly.

“Not like that. We don’t forgive him. Nobody forgives me. I haven’t thought it all through yet, but what do you hate more than an obviously corrupt person?”

There was a beat. “An insincere one.”

“Bingo. Work with me on this?”

Another brief silence on the line. Pru bit her lip. Violet was right. She could use Jimmy’s help.

“How much longer until the deadline?”

“They’ll have to charge Cadfield in two days or go back to court.”

“Brunch tomorrow.” The line went dead. Pru, truth be told, was glad it did. It meant she could stop thinking about this mess and go home to her bath and her glass of wine.

Or…

She glanced at the navigation system, though she knew just the streets to take to drive over to Violet’s.

She squeezed the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.