#Beatrice is also invited as a formality but i didn’t want to look up her sprite in case of spoilers

[leefi]

umineko friday beers invite list

#lots of friday beers participants this time around. excellent turnout #may be the highest friday beers cast ratio to date #Beatrice is also invited as a formality but i didn’t want to look up her sprite in case of spoilers #umineko #friday beers #woof #as of early chapter 2 subject to change as my lp continues

[thecandywrites]

Blood For Gold

So. I was SO INSPIRED by @kriskukko​ ‘s regency era orc art, please forgive me for taking it and putting it into the photo montage that I do for all my stories but I wanted everyone to see your amazing art and really get a visual sense of the story I want to tell. For more amazing orc and other fantasy beings in GORGEOUS period clothing- @kriskukko​ is where to go. They’re amazing. 

I’m a HUGE fan of Jane Austin in general and now with historical period dramas like Death Comes to Pemberley and Bridgerton, they need a fantasy twist with orcs, elves, trolls and of course mouras which are my own precious creation. Also because this is a fantasy period piece, I’m fudging and blurring the lines of historical accuracy just a wee bit. Regency Era- 1811-1820 ish. First Industrial Revolution- 1760-1840 and railways becoming a key transportation tool around this time as well. So we’re going with all three at the same time. 

Trains, Industrial Revolution, Regency, Nobility, Intrigue, Murder Mystery, Damsel in Distress, Mail Order Bride, Only One Bed but with a twist as Only One Train Cabin, all the clichés. ALL OF THEM. Enjoy. And I really hope @kriskukko​ enjoys this because this was written specifically for them. And it’s written as a reader insert. Hope that’s ok. If that’s annoying @kriskukko​, I can change that. Technically this will be female reader insert. 

Blood For Gold

Part 1

You were happily sitting on the train, in a private first class cabin suite, dressed in your mourning clothes, relieved that others took the hint and left you alone so you could travel in peace, reading one of your latest acquisitions from one of the more upscale and prominent bookstores in Kent since you were traveling from Kent back to London Towne. Normally you would never dream of traveling alone, but you did just give away your latest paid companion in marriage the day before to a man who would love her for the rest of her life so you found yourself feeling bittersweet at the loss of her company, both sad to lose such a close friend yet happy she would be happy. She was your third paid companion just this past year to do so. But you were far from begrudged. But now you would have to start the process all over again and have to take out an advertisement in the papers for a new paid companion and start anew. 

Then your thoughts were interrupted by the knock on the door by a station master since the train had stopped on its way into London, stopping in the industrial district. 

“Yes?” You asked as he came into your suite.   

“Begging your pardon Countess, but there are two first class gentlemen looking for a private cabin on their journey home and it’s a full train today and we’ve filled up all the other cabins, would it be a horrible inconvenience for them to share this one with you? We’d like to extend these certificates of first class cabins on future trips to you if you’d be willing to share yours with them.” He offered generously, holding them out to you hopefully. 

“Who are the gentlemen?” You asked curiously as you looked from his offering back to him. 

“Duke Damsey Voyambi and Count Javyn Jabire.” He answered. You didn’t know them personally but you knew of them. Men of both nobility and industry and supposedly of considerable wealth in this country. Although you did hear rumors of both gentlemen of being romantically attached to various debutants so you’d have to be careful to not let any rumors spring up. The last thing you needed was another scandal on your hands. 

“But of course, I would be happy to share my cabin with them.” You readily agreed before you took the ride certificates into your black laced gloved hand and put them away into your purse as the station master then happily left and returned with the gentlemen a moment later, they were exquisitely dressed but did smell like their factories, they must have been just checking in on their businesses. 

“Countess Morrigan, this is Duke Voyambi and this is Count Jabire.” The station master introduced as you stood to greet them formally. Duke Voyambi was orcish and the count was clearly troll, but you were moura, so it made little difference what they were. 

Mouras- ever since the moura plague over a hundred and fifty years ago that wiped out the heavenly moura population, leaving only the royal moura and mountain moura to live on since their own moura heritage was “diluted” by other races enough genetically to withstand the plague and live on- were now all born with golden yellow eyes, golden blonde hair and their moura collars and cloaks, instead of being actual objects containing magic and power were now reduced to looking like they were painted on the skin with gold glittering ink. It’s what made mouras stand out even more than they used to. Gone were the days of the real moura gifts but the breed’s legacy lived on. But you were of course in your mourning attire, mostly all black and covered up, the only moura trait giving you away were your gold eyes and little golden freckles on your cheeks and nose, otherwise you looked mostly human. 

“Pleasured to make your acquaintance Countess Morrigan. How do you do?” They bowed as you curtsied in kind. 

“Please, won’t you sit down gentlemen?” You invited as you gestured to the other bench before all three of you sat down again. 

“Thank you so much for having us Countess Morrigan, we’re much obliged.” Count Jabire thanked you earnestly. 

“Pleasure is all mine your graces, a journey is always more enjoyable when spent with amiable company.” You answered pleasantly. 

“So why are you travelling alone Young Countess?” Duke Voyambi asked curiously. 

“I believe you have me confused with the Young Countess Jane Morrigan, I am her late grandmother in law Audravienne Saharrazat Morrigan from Dorierra, I was married to the late Old Count Edward Morrigan.” You gently corrected, your r’s rolling while your moura accent flourished and furled with the pronunciation of your name, which both of them couldn’t help but raise their eyebrows at that revelation as they realized you were that Countess Morrigan. 

You were the reason every young man threw themselves into business if only to make enough money to afford a moura bride as beautiful and wonderful as you. To hear of the late Count Edward Morrigan’s death had many marking their calendars to mark when your mourning period would be over so they could pursue you themselves. Especially since after the death you weren’t immediately whisked away back to the moura stables of Dorierra but stayed in the country and it seemed to be in this moment that both actually took note of your mourning attire and seemed to connect the dots so to speak. 

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, again, so sorry for your loss, I believe the last time we were in the same room was actually your wedding to the Count only two years ago, forgive us for not recognizing you.” Count Jabire offered. 

“It’s alright, I did not recognize you either, that day was a bit of a blur for me and all the faces ran together having met so many people that day.” You admitted. 

Your wedding to the Count was attended by all of high society in this country, even the entire royal family attended, all of which you barely remembered because of the circumstances of your marrying the Count. It was all a blur for you and most of the first year of being married to him, you’d much prefer to forget and the circumstances of his passing had you feeling relieved you had only been married to him for a year. Much longer and it would have finished you for good. But you had settled into widowhood much easier than you had anticipated and it afforded for you to finally enjoy life again. Now that he was dead, you had a very charming and pleasant life, and one you would be loathed to lose. 

“Oh it’s perfectly alright, practically the whole country came for your wedding, it would be impossible for you to remember all of them, especially when all of them were practically strangers to you that day. And especially since you rarely come out into society since.” Duke Voyambi reasoned and all you could do was smile politely but it didn’t reach your eyes. 

Edward had been a widower, he was human and had married a human wife in his youth and used his family’s small and modest fortune and invested it into industry and investments, all of which paid off handsomely so that the Morrigans were one of the wealthiest nobles in all of England, if not most of Europe. Then Beatrice, Edward’s wife died, and in his old age, and now fully established wealth, Edward decided it was time for him to “buy” a moura bride, a tradition most kings partook in going back for a millennia since the moura stables were established specifically for that purpose. The moura estate of Doriera functioned like a racing horse stable. All brides were put on display and bought and sold or rented to the highest bidder, because since the plague, mouras were becoming even more rare and sought after and were the first to embrace the mail order bride system. Edward wanted a moura bride who was young and vibrant and entertaining to keep him company in his old age and give his last years a measure of happiness and pleasure. He had paid a fortune to the moura stable in Doriera for you since you had a pedigree that rivaled most ruling kings and gifts galore, not to mention were an outstanding beauty in your own right and Edward got what he paid for because you delivered on all accounts. 

Edward had been incredibly sweet, kind, thoughtful and generous as a husband when you first married him and treated you like the gem you were and in the beginning, you found much to appreciate and have affection for as he helped you to adjust to living in England, away from the moura stables and indulged you endlessly because he could afford to. He made sure you had a very generous allowance paid out weekly, wore splendid gowns and practically dripping in jewels at all times. You were his delight in his old age and he even had the good sense that it was all down in writing and was taken care of by his steward.

However six months into the marriage, he started to go completely senile, mistaking you for Beatrice and then getting so angry when you weren’t her and especially once the sun set every day, he became a different man, he grew incoherent, irritable and angry and even violent but then in the morning and during the day, he would come back to his senses and himself and would apologize and do everything he could to make amends and even hired special assistants to keep himself from hurting you further but even that only lasted a few months, the last three months of his life was spent having all sense leaving him and he became completely senile and deranged no matter the time of day and that’s when the abuses started happening, in his senility, he dismissed his helpers and Richard, his eldest son and heir, who was looking to save money, agreed with their dismissal, no matter your pleadings or theirs and even his steward plead with him but Richard and his family turned a blind eye to it since they viewed you as his paid caregiver and basically dumped him on you and left you all alone to deal with him and shut you and him up and away from society so they would not and could not see it for themselves while forbidding you from contacting the stables or anyone else about it to “preserve the family honor”. 

Then the “incident” happened and Edward unexpectedly passed. And it came as a relief to everyone else in the Morrigan family. Richard then fully inherited the estate and very quickly shipped you and all of your things off to live in London Towne as soon as you could be packed- to live in an exquisite and surprisingly luxurious townhouse in the fashionable side of town that was big enough to suit you just fine because you couldn’t return to the moura stables because ‘you were broken beyond repair’ by Edward’s and Richard’s treatment as judged by the stable masters who were beyond enraged at your treatment and thankfully Edward had written it into his will and specified the kind of living you would receive upon his death so that the rest of your life, until you chose to remarry someone of your choosing, would be in comfort and luxury and even accounted for inflation and unless Richard wanted to lose everything, he would be honoring his father’s wishes and pay out what you were definitely owed and had earned by enduring it, under the threat of the truth being discovered and him losing everything, including the family honor and estate and business to you, which the stable masters were more than ready and able to hire the best international lawyers who would make sure to hold the new Count Richard Morrigan to the very letter of the contract his father signed when he “bought” you from the stables which clearly stated, should you be damaged in any way, you would inherit all of Edward’s estate to “recoop” the damages inflicted on you personally which all moura contracts superseded all others in all courts worldwide. 

So that left Richard to pay for your silence and discretion on the matter, effectively doubling what his father had already set out in your material living agreement which you had the good sense to get down in writing and have the stable masters cosign it so that it accompanied the contract Edward signed which you kept a copy of in your possession and the stable masters also kept the original copy of and had it witnessed by the highest judges in the land, in private of course. Which for the price of your peace- and complete independent freedom from the Morrigan’s, you agreed to it since you could not return to the moura stables yourself. 

So you made peace with your circumstances and counted yourself fortunate to have the moura stables still backing you despite technically no longer being a part of them even though you knew that if this particular country were to ever become unsafe by either revolution or war, you were still welcome back to the stables under those conditions to simply preserve your bloodline, but little other circumstance garnered your return to them. 

Besides, you got to have the very same staff that served you at the Morrigan Estate named Broadcove follow you to your new townhouse- Mirador and they were ever so happy to follow you there because you were a good and fair mistress to them and took care of them exceedingly well and they made at least twice the money they would make at any other house and they were loyal to you to a fault. Even the steward followed you to Mirador because he knew his master had done you wrong. 

“How are you getting home to Broadcove?” Count Jabire asked curiously. 

“Oh since the Late Count Edward Morrigan passed and the New Count Richard Morrigan and his family has taken ownership of Broadcove, they thought it best I mourn in peace at a house of my own, so I have since moved to Mirador since the late Count’s passing.” You informed them. 

“Oh how kind and thoughtful of them.” Count Jabire noted and you fought not to snort a derisive laugh at that. It was never ‘thoughtful’ on their part. It was always just a business to them. 

“Yes, it’s been most helpful to me. It’s incredibly convenient to be in town and so close to so many amusements and diversions, it has helped me with my grief a great deal, especially since the living afforded to me by the late Count is generous enough for me to afford a paid companion so that I don’t get too lonely. My latest one was married only yesterday, Lady Bellum to Sir DeVaunce, you may have seen the announcement in the paper perhaps?” You readily agreed.

“Oh yes, yes of course.” Duke Voyambi readily agreed while Count Jabire nodded in agreement.  

“But now it seems I will have to take out another advertisement for another, since it’s obviously a little unseemly for a lady such as myself to travel alone, especially in this country.” You allowed as they nodded and gave each other a meaningful look. 

The rest of the ride was spent in pleasant conversation as all three of you got to become better acquainted. 

Duke Voyambi owned a soap company, making not just soap to wash the body, but laundry supplies as well which explained his own scent on his clothes smelled like he worked as a laundress. But he also employed a union of orcish workers. One of the few captains of industry that was for the union instead of against it, which you greatly respected because you could tell he was passionate about the betterment of orcs in general, from livelihood and wages, to education and living and working conditions and was incredibly safety conscious. 

Count Jabire on the other hand- he owned one of the many flour mills, using the river rushing through the feet of the bridge to run the giant wheels to make flour of various kinds. And it was why he smelled like a bakery and why the two of them together smelled- if anything- interesting. But they were clearly friends, and close ones at that and in conversation, they clearly played very well off each other and it was entertaining for you to sit and listen to them. You were almost saddened when your stop came and all three of you had to disembark. 

But at the same time, you were relieved to see Malcom, one of your manservants there to help you with your things and there with a carriage to take you home. 

“Till we see each other again gentlemen, may you both get home safely.” You offered the Duke and Count, curtseying again as they bowed and tipped their hats to you before you left to return to Mirador. 

“You have visitors waiting on you my Lady.” Malcolm informed you as he helped you into your carriage. 

“Who?” You asked. 

“Count and Countess Morrigan.” He answered before you groaned and made a whiney whimpering sound which brought a grin to Malcom’s face. 

“Why?” You asked. 

“Don’t know, but they came bearing gifts my Lady.” He answered. 

“Great, well, I suppose we shouldn’t keep them waiting any longer than they have to.” You urged him as he finished loading your things up and the driver drove the carriage home as you steeled yourself for whatever would find you once you came home. 

“Countess,” Richard and his wife Agnes greeted you as all three of you curtsied to each other respectfully. 

“Count, Countess.” You returned respectfully. 

“We trust your ride home from Kent was pleasant as always.” Richard urged with forced pleasantness. 

“It was,” you confirmed. 

“So what do I owe the pleasure of your presence your Graces?” You asked curiously. 

“Well since your mourning ends in a fortnight, we came to invite you to everything that will be happening shortly after, and since you will be out of mourning and even half mourning in a fortnight, you will need new clothes to stay with the fashions, we must get you out into society as soon as possible. Surely you long to see it and we brought all the invitations that we should all go to as a family.” Agnes insisted as cheerfully as she could muster as she presented you with a stack of invitations and you wanted to laugh scornfully in her face for her audacity. But decorum would not permit you to do so- so you simply smiled politely as you took them from her. 

“Of course.” You agreed as you started looking through them.  

“Well we must get you to the designer houses as soon as may be for they may need time to finish your gowns in time for all of these events. Take the next couple of days to rest and recoup from your journey from Kent, so on Wednesday perhaps, we should go, in the meantime, the stables have sent gifts to celebrate the event, and your servants have taken the trunks to your quarters for your inspection and we must inform you that you now have a dowry, should you chose to get remarried of fifty thousand pounds.” Agnes suggested. You were being paid thirty thousand pounds for your silence a year, since Edward afforded you fifteen thousand but Richard doubled it for your silance and discretion, but the Morrigan’s estate and business earned them hundreds of thousands of pounds a year which they were using to build an even bigger estate in the country along with a new townhouse in London that was going to rival any other as well, the new country estate was going to rival the Palace of Windsor or even Buckingham Palace. Which is how Edward could afford to give the stables two hundred a fifty thousand pounds to buy you outright from the stables but Edward, when he had not been senile insisted that you were worth every penny. But still, they always viewed you as a gold leech and they were obviously keen to get rid of you and have you ‘latch on’ to someone else. 

“Yes, Wednesday would be a good day for that, thank you.” You agreed, in a desperate attempt to get them out of your house so you wouldn’t have to put on this pretence any longer than you had to.

Mourning here lasted a year and a day for widows, the first six months were spent in deep or full mourning, where the widow would wear nothing but black, and the last six months were in half mourning where a little bit of subdued color was introduced back into the wardrobe, which seemed almost alien to you since mouras liked to dress in the brightest and most vibrant colors possible.

But you knew the sooner they could get you remarried after the mourning period- the better for them because they would no longer have to pay for your living arrangements and pay for your allowances. They were going to dump a fortune into getting your market ready and dump you on the first willing suitor who showed interest and they would try to induce you to remarry but you were determined that only the deepest and purist and most genuine love would ever induce you into matrimony now. 

If they only knew who you shared a train ride with- they would be going to the gentlemen directly to try to broker a deal behind your back as you wondered exactly what tricks they had up their sleeves to try to pawn you off. 

But you had tricks of your own. You just needed a little help...

#Blood For Gold #a story inspired by #@kriskukko #their regency and industrial revolution art #orcs #orc period drama #bridgerton #but orc and fantasy being style #it's going to be so fun!

[bookandcranny]

Beatrice - Chapter Two

“We parted on difficult terms. He had some ideas that… challenged my sense of professional integrity. I told him I was out and, well, men like that don't tend to handle rejection too gracefully.

All I know of him after that point is that he ran into some health problems and was forced to step down from his position. It may seem cruel but I think the world is better off for it. Rappaccini is no more qualified to treat the human body than I am to teach a dance class.”

Students filed into the corridor, too busy rushing to their next destination to take note of the visitor as she slipped into the lecture hall. Branching off from the main room itself was a small office, and inside, a lone professor plugging attendance data and homework grades into a blocky desktop computer. Gianna waited until the last lingering students dispersed before announcing herself with a knock on the doorframe.

The professor looked up. “Well look who it is.” She adjusted her glasses and squinted at the figure before her, taking all of her in from the spots of dribbled varnish on her shoes upward. “And who is it who stands before me? Not Virgil’s little girl.”

“I actually go by Gianna these days. Or Ms Alexander if you’re feeling formal,” she said wryly, though not without affection. 

Her face broke out in a grin that deepened the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She unhooked her cane from the arm of her chair and stood. “The last time I saw you, Gianna, you were half-- no, a quarter of your height and missing your front teeth. Time is a funny thing, isn’t it.”

“You’re telling me, Dr Bagnol.”

“Call me Petra. Or Professor if you’re feeling formal.” She winked and patted her arm. “We are colleagues of a kind now, aren’t we? I think you’ve earned the privilege.”

“I don’t know about that. You’re a biochemistry teacher and I fuss around with cotton swabs.”

“Technicalities! Don’t sell yourself short. You know, your father called just recently and when he told me you were going to be working here, I thought he was going to burst a lung the way he wouldn’t stop singing your praises.”

Gianna blushed at that.

“Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t set your sights higher than our humble university. I heard you were studying in Naples for a while.”

“I guess I was feeling homesick. Then I moved back in with my parents for a while and soon it was the opposite feeling.”

“Sick of home,” she supplied. “I know the feeling. I remember being your age, never wanting to be still for a moment. I was only surprised to hear you weren’t seduced away by foreign shores.”

She shrugged. “It was never about distance, I just needed to find a place where I felt like my life could really begin. And for right now I think that’s here.” Wanting to move the subject away from herself she added, “Dad says hi, by the way. He also says you need to start answering your email more than once a year.”

“Email. A man of literature like your father should give more respect to the written word. You tell him I won’t settle for less than a hand-scribed letter, like they did in the old days. I want to smell that clean valley air he goes on about etched into the paper.”

Gianna laughed. It was reassuring to find some things never changed. Although the silver in her hair had grown more prominent, Dr Bagnol was in many ways just the same as she remembered her. She never knew exactly how she and her father had met, only that it was while they were both still students, and that Petra had been a firecracker from the start, determined to surpass the role that had been imposed on her as a disabled woman in a field that was often unwelcoming to her. Though Gianna couldn’t say she knew her very well personally, the mythos that had been handed down to her had definitely played a part in her decision to become more independent. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Petra said. “Virgil dropped some hints that I should track you down once you started working here but I told him I wouldn’t have that kind of attitude. You’re a grown woman and you don’t need nannying. However,” She picked up a tote from her desk and slung it around her shoulder. “Since you came to me, I’m free to invite you to lunch.”

“Dad wanted you to check up on me?”

“Don’t take it for a lack of faith in you. Parents worry. It’s what they do. I’m sure he just wanted you to have a familiar face to turn to, should you need it. Come to lunch with me, Gianna. We’ll catch up.”

“Oh, that’s okay. You don’t have to--”

“I’m just going to keep asking until you give in. You know that, right?”

She felt herself soften under her insistence. It wasn’t as if she had other plans anyway. “Yeah, alright. That sounds nice.”

Petra led the way to a little sandwich shop not far off campus and, despite Gianna’s protests, insisted on treating her. The weather was kind to them that day so they took their lunch on the patio watching the cars crawl by to the rhythm of the neverending traffic. They sat and ate and spoke of nothing in particular until, without warning, Dr Bagnol’s gaze caught on something in the distance that put a troubled frown on her face.

“What is it?” She started to turn in her seat.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Her voice had taken on a sharp quality that startled the young woman, but she caught herself and when she spoke again her voice was even and deliberate. “I thought I saw someone I knew. That’s all.”

Not satisfied with her answer, Gianna glanced over her shoulder. Across the street, standing motionless in front of the crosswalk, was the withered old man she had seen in the garden that first day: Beatrice’s father.

Ever since she had met her that one evening on the fire escape, Gianna had come into the habit of chatting with her almost every day. She couldn’t always guarantee she’d be home from work when Beatrice went out to tend the garden, but on the days she spied her from her window she never hesitated to climb down and visit. 

Their chats together weren’t anything especially profound; she got the impression Beatrice really just wanted a friend to keep her company while she worked and Gianna was happy to provide. Often they kept the conversation light and simple. One would ask about the other’s day, or an interesting book they read, or something they heard in the news. Then Beatrice would eventually be summoned by her father or the memory of some other chore she had to attend to inside, and they would part ways.

On the occasions Beatrice wasn’t in such a pleasant mood however, no matter the initial topic the conversation would eventually find its way back to her father. Apparently he was, as Gianna had predicted, in a bad state and sick more often than not, and while Beatrice wasn’t his sole caretaker he trusted her more than the average nurse. The old man had been a doctor before being reduced to the role of patient, and a somewhat renowned one at that. He had homeschooled his daughter and taught her everything he knew. Now she was expected to apply that knowledge by taking on the bulk of responsibility for his care.

He was frail, she said, and the state of his health could be unpredictable, so she was on constant vigil. The only time she really had to herself was when he was asleep or on a rare errand, and she spent that time for the most part in the garden, the place that gave her the greatest sense of peace. It must have been hard on her, Gianna often thought, to be in the prime of her life and chained to his bedside. She understood though. If it had been either of her parents she was sure she would have done the same. 

Knowing this also gave her some more sympathy for the old man. It painted him in a more human light, and she berated herself for ever being afraid of him in the first place. But seeing him here now, staring at her again with those scrutinous sunken eyes, resurfaced some of that initial dread. Dr Bagnol seemed to sense it too.

At the moment Beatrice’s father was wearing an unseasonal gray overcoat and carrying an old-fashioned black carpet bag. He lifted his free hand and slowly waved at Gianna, his stony features cracking with the barest attempt at a smile, which did nothing to soften his appearance. In fact, the more she looked at him the more leering the grin appeared to be.

“Don’t acknowledge him, Gianna,” said Dr Bagnol coldly.

“No, no, it’s fine. That’s just my neighbor.” She forced herself to give a friendly wave in return. 

Petra reached across the table and grabbed her hand back. “What do you mean he’s your neighbor?”

“His building is next to mine. Why?” 

She sighed shakily and gave another glance across the street. The man was beginning to shuffle away now, the retreating shape of him becoming swallowed up by the crowd of fellow pedestrians. Petra released her hand and drew in a tense breath. She steepled her fingers together over the table.

“His name is Giacoma Rappaccini. He was… I knew him, for a time. Not well. He came to me for some insight on a project of his years ago.”

“I heard he was a doctor,” Gianna offered. “You worked together?”

The professor chose her next words carefully. “Officially, he was a 'doctor of holistic and alternative medicines', before he retired that is. But he liked to dabble. Botany, chemistry, anthropology, philosophy. I knew when I met him that he was the sort of man who could spend a hundred years studying and still feel he hadn't learned enough.” She smiled ruefully. “It was a quality we shared, so I agreed to assist him.”

“Doesn't seem like you like the guy much.”

“We parted on difficult terms. He had some ideas that… challenged my sense of professional integrity. I told him I was out and, well, men like that don't tend to handle rejection too gracefully. All I know of him after that point is that he ran into some health problems and was forced to step down from his position. It may seem cruel but I think the world is better off for it. Rappaccini is no more qualified to treat the human body than I am to teach a dance class. 

"He's a brilliant intellectual, sure, but he lacks any compassion, any consideration for the value of human life outside of points of data on a chart. He never cared about helping people with his medicine; he only ever cared about pushing his own limits. I think, in the end, he must have pushed himself too far."

Gianna sat and processed that. The man did give her the creeps but in the scant few times she’d witnessed him he’d never come across as malevolent, and Beatrice clearly loved him. Even on the bad days, she only ever spoke well of him, and it was hard to believe a girl like Beatrice could exist without having had a loving upbringing. Whoever her mother was or had been surely was loved by him as well. That was enough evidence for Gianna that he couldn’t be everything Petra claimed him to be.

“You said he’s your neighbor. Has he ever spoken to you? Invited you over?”

She shook her head. “Rumor has it he’s a pretty private person, and I’m not exactly going over to borrow a cup of sugar or anything.”

Gianna opted not to mention her afternoons with his daughter.

She relaxed at that reassurance. “Good. Take my advice and stay far away from Rappaccini. Nothing good ever came from getting too chummy with that man. Now, where were we?”

They changed topics and the conversation gradually returned to safer, more pleasant territory, but Gianna couldn't stop thinking about what she had said, about the old man and about the sweet but melancholy girl who was left alone with him.

-----

Against the professor’s advice, Gianna did continue meeting with Beatrice. It hadn’t even been a question in her mind whether she would. If anything, knowing about Petra’s history with Dr Rappaccini made her all the more curious about the young woman. 

She reasoned that she was still technically acting in line with Dr Bagnol’s wishes; she hadn’t so much as glimpsed the shadow of the man since their lunch outing, and the more she spoke with Beatrice the more certain she felt that the daughter was nothing like the boogieman father Petra had described to her, however much of her telling was even accurate.

Beatrice was a sweetheart, bookish and reserved. She smothered laughs behind her hand and averted her eyes when she found herself caught in Gianna’s warm gaze. She was smart, happily listing off the latin genuses of her favorite plants and reciting lessons on phytochemicals she suddenly remembered (she might as well have been speaking latin here too, for as much as Gianna understood her) but at the same time strangely naive. 

She had a boundless love for the world, yet Gianna got the impression she’d seen very little of it. Her eyes always went wide with interest when Gianna spoke of the traveling she’d done. Gianna never thought it was all that impressive but she would gladly talk about it, would say just about anything in fact, if it would get her to pay more attention to her than her flowers for a moment. 

One time, Gianna playfully inserted a flirtatious Italian phrase into their conversation and was flustered to find Beatrice spoke it near fluently, as well as Spanish, Portuguese, Romanian…

“How many languages do you know?” she asked, stunned.

“Six,” she replied. “Not counting English. I’m thinking about trying Mandarin next, and I can read Arabic but can’t speak it. Honestly, I’m not great with the conversational stuff. I’m just good at memorizing new vocabulary and being able to understand multiple languages gives me a much wider variety of reading material.”

She spoke about her talent with words like it was a card trick she’d picked up in her spare time.

“What do you like to read about?”

That got her excited. When Beatrice got excited she found it harder to play coy or smother her emotions under a layer of cool composure, so of course Gianna tried to get her excited as often as possible.

“Everything. Anything. Father’s library is huge but it’s mostly textbooks and old scientific journals and stuff like that. Which is fine,” she added hurriedly. “I like to read those too, but what I really like to read is… romance novels.”

She confessed it like it was some deep dark secret, grinning and turning berry red beneath the brown of her skin. It occurred to Gianna quite suddenly that she was falling in love with her. 

The panic set in right away. She had been happy to have Beatrice as a friend, tamping down her attraction in order to keep spending time with her, but now it was becoming clear that the dam wouldn’t hold forever. She needed to say something, if only to keep from leading her on, if only to keep her from getting the wrong idea or, heaven forbid, the right one. 

What if she was straight? Did gay girls read romance too? Did gay girls wear their dresses long and their hair short like her? Gianna had crushed on butches, on femmes, on lipstick, chapstick, snapback, every kind of sapphic on the vast spectrum of preference and presentation, and she still couldn’t get a read on her. Beatrice seemed to be from another world, another time, somehow out of step with the rest of humanity. If she started dropping hints, she couldn’t predict if she would follow her lead or recoil in disgust and never speak to her again.

That night, Gianna had a strange dream. She might have expected she would, given how wound up she’d felt since their last discussion. The ghost of her had followed her up, back through the window of her apartment, and as she tossed and turned in bed that night she was dizzy with it.

In her dream, she found herself walking in a cathedral. As was the way with dreams, her sight was blurry and visions danced and flickered in front of her eyes before vanishing in the same instant. However even as the edges of her surroundings blurred like a bad photograph, she heard the echoing of her footsteps clearly, and felt the largeness of the air around her. There wasn’t another way to describe it, she thought, just a strange sensation of vast emptiness surrounding her, rendering her infinitely smaller by comparison. 

She was a child now, and she was at a wedding. Or could it have been a funeral? There were flowers everywhere, but dark ones with big thorns and a smell that clung to the back of her throat and watered her eyes. She reached out to touch one and.

--

next chapter

#writeblr #chapter story #horror romance #gothic #lgbt #rappaccini's daughter #my writing

[halequeenjas]

Love Bites || Jasmine & Savannah

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @savannah-lim & @halequeenjas SUMMARY: Jasmine and Savannah go out for a night on the town and to pick up some hot musicians. Things don’t quite go as planned. 

Considering she was hanging out and making a new friend, Jasmine decided it was high time she tried out a new venue. She’d never been to the jazz night at this club before, but a change of pace seemed nice. Plus, this place was a little closer to Beatrice’s so less time spent in a likely sketchy uber. She hardly doubted Savannah would mind much either way. She walked up to the entrance and was tentatively impressed with the establishment. The music pouring out sounded good and the place had a sort of speakeasy vibe that she could get down with. She saw Savannah approaching and waved eagerly. “Hey,” she greeted with a bright smile, “So this isn’t my usual haunt, but it looks promising. Here’s to hoping the musicians look as good as they sound.” 

Regan had said she needed to get out and meet people, and reluctant as Savannah was to take advice from someone who had just quit their job and vanished like a hermit into the woods, she realised Regan was right. She didn’t have the excuse of recently discovering she was fae. She just had her work, and White Crest wasn’t the sort of mystery she could solve alone. “You look lovely,” she greeted with a smile. “I think this is the first time I’ve put on a dress in weeks.” She followed Jasmine inside where a hostess led them to their table and left them with a drinks menu. One of the acts was already performing, so Savannah took a moment to check them out. “That one’s married,” she observed, seeing his ring flash under the lights as he played his sax. 

 By nature, Jasmine had always been a social person. In a crowd was where she thrived and she always enjoyed being the life of the party or a night on the town. Making a new friend was always welcome. She lit up with a megawatt smile and said, “Thanks, this is one of my favorite dresses.” Red and Dior had always suited her well. “You look pretty great yourself though I do say we need an excuse for you to wear dresses more often.” Which more likely than not meant more girls’ nights which she was always here for. She looked over the performers and her eyes looked them over. She hadn’t even noticed the ring. No wonder Savannah was in the FBI. “Good eye,” she said with a tilt of her head and a tone that indicated she was impressed, “We’re not here to be home wreckers. I’m sure there are enough attractive single people here for us to flirt with.” Her eyes fell on a trumpet player who noticeably had no ring and swayed with the music in a way that was entrancing to say the least. “Dibs on the trumpet player,” she nudged with a smirk before she asked, “Any wine preferences? Figured we could share a couple of bottles.” 

 Savannah couldn’t help her flirtation as she gave Jasmine a small wink. “Well, I’m sure we can find someone who can’t wait to get your favorite dress off you.” In another life, she might have been that person, but her gaydar really wasn’t picking anything up. Jasmine only ever talked about men. “If we find me an attractive person to go on dates with, I might have an excuse to change out of the business suits,” she snickered, situating herself and looking through the drinks menu. “I was married once. I’d have gone crazy if anyone tried to put the moves on my wife. Not because I didn’t trust her. Just because it’s disrespectful.” The harmless flirting was one thing, but flirting with intent, knowing someone was in a committed relationship was something else entirely. “I’m easy,” she said, in reference to the choice of wine rather than her pants. “But if you’re having the trumpet player, I’m claiming the cellist,” she joked. She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties and Savannah was a little more hopeful about her preferences. 

 Jasmine chose to ignore the wink. It wouldn’t be the first or last time a woman was a bit flirtatious with her. “That’s never the problem. It’s always more of a finding someone I’d actually let take my favorite dress off,” she joked with a small laugh. She’d been told by too many men that her standards were too high and that she’d never find better than them. She also knew they were all wrong. “I formally request to be the one helping pick out the dresses. It’s one of my areas of expertise.” She glanced over at the bartender to indicate they were ready to order as she agreed with Savannah, “Can’t say I’ve been married, but you are right it’s disrespectful. Plus, anyone that would cheat on their significant other is hardly worthwhile.” Once the bartender came over, she gave him a winning smile and ordered a bottle of mulled wine for them to share. It was a cold night and something about the spices made it feel warm. “If it makes no difference to you I figure ‘tis the season and all.” Her eyes fell on the cellist and responded, “She’s all yours. Not really my type anyway.” The set ended as they got their bottle of wine and she gave Savannah a devious grin. “I think that just might be our cue.” 

 “Standards are important,” Savannah said. She wasn’t too picky when it came to one night stands, but a real relationship was far more elusive. She rarely found anyone who truly interested her, and she doubted most people would be too happy with her fascination with murder and the macbre. “My wife would never have cheated on me. Nor I on her. It was just… complicated.” Savannah drank the wine, watching as the set ended, returning Jasmine’s grin. She waved over the cellist and sax player as they left the stage and started mingling at the bar. “Hey,” she said. “Care to join us?” 

 “You’d be surprised how many people don’t realize that,” Jasmine said as she thought over the partners of some of her high school friends. She’d never understood dating someone who didn’t appreciate who their significant other was as a person or bothered to treat them with basic respect, but she couldn’t just make people have more self-respect. She sipped her wine and nodded as Savannah spoke. “Sometimes things just don’t work out and that’s okay.” She wasn’t about to press into the details there when they were about to take a go at flirting with some of the musicians. Thinking about ex-lovers wasn’t exactly a fun time no matter what way you sliced it. She gave the saxophone player a wink as Savannah invited them over. Jas had never been one for subtle. If she wanted something, she went after it. He seemed intrigued and the pair walked over to join them. “That was a great set,” Jasmine said as they sat down with them. “Which I’m sure you knew. Anyway, I’m Jasmine and this is my friend Savannah. We couldn’t help but notice you’re both talented and beautiful people. It seemed only right we should meet.” Her eyes lingered on the sax player who introduced himself as Jean as he smoothly responded, “It takes beautiful to know beautiful.” And boy was he right. 

 Savannah nodded appreciatively. Jasmine seemed to understand that sometimes relationships just didn't work, and thankfully, she didn't seem interested in going into detail or rehashing it. She'd rather move onto something else anyway, and right now, that something else consisted of an attractive cellist who hopefully, unlike everyone else attractive in this town, was single. "Nice to meet you," she said to Jean. He had a hint of a French accent and somehow made the cheesy introductory remark work. "How about you?" she asked the cellist. 

"Lucille," the other woman said, extending her hand to Savannah's and holding onto it a moment too long. "Glad you enjoyed the set. The next guy's are really good too. You'll like them." 

"I'm sure I will," Savannah said. "Your hands are a little chilly. Should we get you a drink to help you warm up?" she asked, smiling, because apparently, the French didn't get to have a monopoly on cheesy. 

 Jasmine was pleased with how considerably well this was going. Maybe checking out this new joint had been one of her better ideas. Which was saying a lot considering she was filled with great ideas. Jean and Lucille seemed eager to join them and at Savannah’s suggestion, she got the bartender’s attention with a small wave. “Two more glasses, please,” she said brightly before turning to them, “I hope you like Pinot Noir. If not, we could always get a bottle of something else.”  

She watched as Jean eyed the bottle of wine with a seemingly approving look. “You clearly have good taste,” he stated. Expensive was left unsaid though it was true all the same. “It only seems right that a fine woman should have a fine wine.” It was cheesy, but the way his dark eyes looked her over like she was the most enticing thing he’d ever seen cancelled it out. Savannah and Lucille seemed to be hitting it off, too. With drinks poured all around, Jean suggested, “You know, we have a nice VIP lounge in back.” 

 Savannah was happy to take Jean’s direction on the drinks. She was far more interested in getting to know the two people who’d just joined them for drinks. She quirked an eyebrow at the mention of a VIP lounge. “Oh, that’s very flattering.” The waiter returned with two more glasses and a fresh bottle of wine, but Lucille held up her hand.

“Could you actually take it into the back for us, please?” she said, her voice sugar sweet, but something deviously charming lingering in her gaze. Something Savannah was all too keen to dissect. 

“I think that’s a great idea,” Savannah said, looking to Jasmine. “Shall we?”

 Given the musicians were both attractive, talented, and seemed to have a fair amount of class, they easily agreed to hanging out in the VIP lounge. There was nothing Jasmine loved more than a good VIP section and this spot delivered. The couches that lined the area were a tasteful black, but comfortable and plush… and surprisingly clean. Always a plus. The lighting was dim and the red of the walls gave it a sort of prohibition era vibe that she could get down with. Maybe it wasn’t quite Speakeasy, but she found she enjoyed it all the same.  

The group had chattered on for a bit and the flirtation seemed to be natural between both pairs. Chemistry was definitely there and the time seemed to be moving quickly. She set her own wine glass down as Jean took her hand. She swore she saw a flash of red in his eyes momentarily, but wrote it off as part of the lighting. That was until he placed a kiss on her wrist and she felt something knick it. “Ow,” she said, attempting to draw her arm away from him but his grip on her wrist tightened. Now, the red eyes were definitely not something she could write off as given the glow and sinister look they were delivering now. “Uhm, Savannah,” she said uneasily, not daring to take her eyes off Jean as she fumbled her free arm back for her bag. 

 Savannah could be incredibly awkward, but she could also be endearing and charming. Fortunately, the latter was winning out tonight and Lucille seemed interested. They talk, drank, flirted, and right when she thought maybe she'd be able to actually invite this woman back to her house for some privacy, she heard Jasmine yelp.

"Jas?" she answered, turning to look at the others, and then she saw the glowing red eyes and the hungry expression. "Hey!" She grabbed some pepper spray. "Back off, buddy."

Lucille also jumped up, eyes widening with a gasp. "Jean! Have you gone mad?! Where are your manners?" She waved Savannah's pepper spray holding arm away. "That won't be necessary." 

But Savannah wasn’t convinced and still kept it upright, finger on the trigger. “Get him off her then!” 

 Jasmine still fumbled trying to fish through her purse for one of the iron rods she kept in there, but Jean’s grip only seemed to pull her closer. The smile on his face was daunting to say the least and she noticed just how sharp his teeth were and she noticed a bit of the blood from her wrist on one of them. Great, she finally hits on a hot jazz musician and he just happens to be a hungry vampire. 

Savannah had pepper spray raised up and ready to go, but somehow she doubted that would slow a vampire down. Lucille was saying something about manners that caught Jean’s attention and he pouted, “But Lucille, I’m hungry now.” Before she knew it, he was sinking his teeth back into her wrist to turn her into his dinner. Or a light snack. She didn’t really know. Either way, she shrieked and defensively slammed the heel of her Louboutin into his foot hoping to give new meaning to the whole red bottoms thing. 

The action seemed to distract him enough for him to release his grip on her and she quickly fumbled to grab an iron bar from her purse. Her hands gripped around it and she looked at Jean with a glare. “Come any closer and I will whack you in the face with this thing.” Not the worst threat, but she definitely didn’t have a stake on her. She glanced over at Savannah who was still ready to wield her pepper spray and noticed Lucille’s eyes. “Savannah, watch out!” 

 Savannah stared on in awe at the madness unfolding before her eyes. Lucille had seemed disappointed in this manner of behavior, but not surprised. She had known what he was, probably because she was one and the same. At Jasmine’s warning, Savannah turned, eyes widening at the creature that now had its sights turned on her. 

“Sorry, love,” Lucille said. “He’s not usually like this, but you’ve seen too much now.” Savannah’s heart was in her throat, threatening to force its way out, and as the vampire lunged at her, she sprayed almost the entirety of the bottle into Lucille’s face, causing a scream and a long enough hesitation for the two of them to begin to flee. 

“Let’s go!” She grabbed Jasmine’s free hand, still holding up the spray and firing it into the air behind them as the two of them fumbled through the door and out into the hallway. She could hear the grunts and growls behind them. There was a large heavy box of sound equipment by the door, and Savannah shoved it in front so it would prevent them from being chased for a few moments. She followed the exit signs on the wall. They needed to get the hell out of here.

 Not surprisingly, Jean cared little for Jasmine’s warning. After all, her frame didn’t look like it could wield all that much damage, but as he leaned toward her again, she gave him a good whack in the head with the iron rod. At the same time, she heard Savannah releasing the contents of the pepper spray directly onto Lucille. The pair of musicians were stunned momentarily and she was quick to run off with Savannah. 

Much to her relief, Savannah had managed to block off the hallway so they could get away. Running in heels was less than ideal, but adrenaline worked wonders. She could hardly even feel her feet as they bolted out of the bar. She kept running up the block until she saw a few officers outside of one of the bars. No one would try anything in front of an on duty cop, right? 

She let out an exhausted breath and mumbled, “Holy crap.” While she wasn’t sure how much Savannah knew, she was able to act quickly in the face of supernatural danger. So she cautiously asked, “So… did you know what Lucille and Jean were?” 

 Had they truly cared to track them down, Savannah didn’t doubt that the vampires would have caught up to them, but now that they were in a crowded place, it wasn’t worth the effort, which was fortunate for them. She recalled Carrington’s concern for her a few nights ago when she’d ended up in Teeth. Had this encounter happened first, she might have been a little more cautious about going in, and certainly what had unfolded once she was there. 

“Me?” she asked, sucking at the air to attempt to catch her breath. “No, no, I didn’t know. I thought you were the expert.” Jasmine might not have said as much, but Savannah had read between the lines. Jasmine was savvy and smart. She knew the secrets of this town. “I just wanted a nice night with a hot musician,” she sighed. 

 Initially, her question had come out rushed and Jasmine found she was still trying to catch her breath. Despite her regular cardio there was something about sprinting in heels was definitely enough to leave her winded. That and the face a vampire tried to turn her into a snack didn’t help. That was decidedly not the kind of snack Jasmine wanted to be. She leaned against the brick wall of another bar and kept her arm close to her. “That’s not what I meant,” she said as she shook her head, “It was my idea to come here anyway. I just know-- you seemed hesitant about the idea of haunted houses before.” 

This was a risk, but given what they just experienced, she couldn’t not tell Savannah the truth behind their encounter. It was a matter of safety which was slightly more important than her reputation. She sighed. “Those were vampires. Hence the red glowing eyes and the trying to eat us. Not really my expertise, but I know some about them. If you don’t think I’m totally crazy, I do know a vampire free bar not far from here.” 

“Oh.” Savannah had just about caught her breath now. She was sure she looked a mess, and she’d used the last of her pepper spray. “I… knew that, but only after they bit you.” She pulled a compact out of her purse, examining herself in it to make sure she didn’t look too worse for wear. Her hair needed some attention, and her clothes needed straightening a little, but she was intact. Self consciously, she favored her inner thigh where Carrington had fed from her during their encounter a few nights earlier. “I think we have a lot to talk about.” She nodded to the bar behind them. “Is this one safe? I don’t think we’re done drinking yet.”

#love bites #savannah #wickedswriting

[beatricebidelaire]

Brighter Days

pairing: Bertrand Baudelaire / Dewey Denouement

summary: Dewey pines over Bertrand. Beatrice and Ernest ride horses.

word count: ~2.2k

alt: ao3

Kit was speeding through the traffic, breaking several traffic rules under one minute, but Dewey’s mind was barely there. As they drove through a tunnel, he remembered that night all those years ago, in the dead of the night, the first time his friend without a license drove him all the way to another city just to visit a library that was rumored to only open from 10pm to before dawn.  (Though, on another note, Dewey realized he couldn’t be actually 100% sure that Kit had a license now.)

Dewey remembered Bertrand had been driving far more carefully at that time than Kit was doing now, with the explanation of not wanting to draw attention and get stopped by a cop, but Dewey had been quite excited and a little scared anyway.  The thrill of the late night adventure and sneaking out had been fun and an everlasting memory that made him nostalgic until today.

They were fourteen, and Bertrand somehow managed to convince his chaperone to let him borrow the green roadster for the night. 

Dewey had read books on driving before, but his experience with actually driving was quite limited – well, none, in fact.  Unlike Bertrand, who just shrugged and said “yeah my chaperone lets me drive the roadster sometimes” when Dewey first found out Bertrand had already done this several times.

“So, tell me about this night time library,” Bertrand asked, sounding curious, and Dewey latched into an excited explanation about the rumors he heard of, and the scraps of information he gathered from newspaper and magazines.

“One of the magazines says they have lots of books about vampires, don’t know if that’s true or not, but it sounds pretty interesting.”

“Hmmm,” Bertrand said, sounding amused, “if it’s true, those bunch of theater kids would be so mad you didn’t invite them.”  They both laughed.

Dewey noticed Bertrand had quite a nice laugh.

They continued the drive, a drive that would, at some later point in time of Dewey’s life, made him wonder if this was the start of his attraction to people who would take him on adventurous car-rides, while he studied maps and inaccurate tour books info beside them. People who’d been on many missions out in the city and other places while he spent most of his time in the library – they had a certain kind of appeal.  Though the drive with Bertrand wasn’t as dangerously speedy and rules-disregarding as the later ones he would have with Kit, the night time sneaking out was enough for his 14-year-old self.

Later into the night, Dewey would get excited over all the new books he hadn’t seen in other libraries before. He would memorize every piece of rare edition of classics he found, while Bertrand trod patiently alongside of him and seemed visibly more excited when he reached the engineering section.

“I take it you’re not much of a classic literature guy?” he asked later, a little curiously, as they stepped out of the library.

Bertrand considered that. “Let’s just say I enjoy building things more,” he said.

“And yet you drive me all the way here, to a library in a different town.”

Bertrand hesitated, and Dewey couldn’t really see his expression in the dark of night. “The library doesn’t just have classic literature, Mr. Denouement.”

In retrospect, Dewey desperately wished he’d seen his expression.

During their teenage years, Bertrand would sometimes escape his group of theater friends he often help build sets with and join him in the library.  Occasionally, he brought some fancy shape chocolates R made for everyone. “You can’t just stay in the library for 12 hours and not eat anything,” he would say, slightly disapprovingly, but would give in easily when Dewey claimed he’s ‘almost finished with this book’.

They would carefully eat the chocolates together, trying to not to drop anything, and Dewey would finish his book while Bertrand did Sudoku puzzles beside him.

He couldn’t remember exactly which time they started leaning against each other.

If he wanted to pinpoint exactly where things started going downhill, Dewey would probably say a certain night at the opera, one he hadn’t actually attended himself.  Everything became a little off after that, though he didn’t immediately notice.  By the time he heard about what happened that night from other people, it was already too late.

He remembered, clearly, their first fight that happened because of that. It was probably not big enough of a fight in other’s people’s eyes, but it was bad enough, considering how they usually were.

“Maybe you’re right, but I don’t want to – I can’t talk about this anymore. And we’re not going to change the past by talking about it.” Bertrand said before he left.

It was, as he feared, all downhill from there. Some days he wished he’d told him his feelings, some days he was glad he never did.  On the day Bertrand came to tell him he and Beatrice were leaving The City, he kind of wished he had.

“What about all the volunteer work?”

“There are more important things, Mr. Denouement,” Bertrand replied, and Dewey hated the formality that he’d found endearing all those years ago.

“That’s not what you said when we were kids,” he argued, weakly.

“We were never kids,” was the answer he got, and also the last words he’d ever gotten from him.

[A timestamp, between the present and the memories]

“Hey, Frank,” Beatrice greeted him as she climbed onto a horse cheerily. “Ready to admire my speed on the horse from far behind again today?”

“Hello, Beatrice,” Ernest nodded curtly, thinking that was probably how his triplet would’ve greeted her, if he was the one talking to her here right now.  From Beatrice’s delighted laughter, Ernest knew he got this one right. After all, it was fairly easy to impersonate someone when you knew of all their mannerisms and ways of speech. Oh, the being identical thing helped too, of course.

He climbed onto the horse he’d seen with Frank in the photo taken by Monty, pleased that he did his research thoroughly. He’d been on a horse before, so even if he didn’t go on monthly horseback riding adventures with the city’s most famous opera actress like Frank did, Ernest liked to think he could manage this just fine.

“See you at the lake!” Beatrice yelled, and her horse echoed her yell enthusiastically. Before he could say anything, they were already getting further and further away. The city’s most famous opera actress did like her speed, alright.

He chased behind her, but it took him a while to adjust, and he briefly wondered if horses could distinguish between triplets.  Was it possible they were that smart and intuitive? Not even most humans could do that.

This was fun, he thought. The wind blew past him sharply, a rare enjoyable treat that felt so different than the staying at the hotel 24/7, and he let himself immersed in that feeling. Beatrice and her horse were now a small figure amidst the grasslands.  The rhythm of up and down and going forward fast in the same time was another delight, too. Wow, he really had been stuck at that hotel for a long time, hadn’t he?

He allowed himself, for a while, to pretend that he didn’t come here to do something important. That they were just old friends going horseback riding together. Like normal people who didn’t have secret information to pass do, probably.

When he finally arrived by the lake, Beatrice was waiting. She stood beside the horse, leaning down slightly to prop an arm on it to support her chin.  She was looking at him, almost too thoughtfully.

He realized his cover was blown.  Well, better now than earlier, he thought. He needed to tell her eventually, anyway. Preferably at some faraway lake where they could talk without prying eyes.

“Ernest Denouement,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s been a while.”

“Beatrice Baudelaire,” he returned smoothly, “Always a pleasure. What gave it away?”

“Apparently, even triplets ride horses in different manners.  I’ve been doing this monthly thing with Frank for a while now, I know his style.  Unless you’re Dewey, I suppose, but then you would rather invite me to your library to talk instead of, hmmm, intercepting Frank’s letter saying he had some urgent matters to attend to and couldn’t come, and come meet me yourself instead.” She looked at him questioningly. “Did I guess right?  I love guessing other people’s plans!”

“Well, I’m afraid I come bearing news about a certain nefarious plan, therefore reducing the guesswork you’ll need.”

The corner of her lips quirked up slightly. “We can play 20 questions, that’ll be fun! Question one – does it involve an unhygienic Count?”

Only Beatrice Baudelaire, Ernest thought, could be enthusiastically playing 20 questions with someone who was known to be on the other side, at least publicly. “Yes,” he played along. “Very much.”

“And … what do you have to gain by telling me this?”  She asked shrewdly.

He blinked, not expecting her to bring up this question so fast.  Then again, it did seem very – Beatrice, for lack of a better description. “I’m just – wait, open-ended questions aren’t allowed,” he tried.

“But you were planning to tell me before I suggested the game,” she countered immediately.

“Not including my motive,” he argued, not even sure why he was arguing.

“Then how should I trust you?” She asked, reasonably. “I mean, I think I probably do know, talented detective that I am –”

“You played the role of a detective once in an opera –”

“—But still, I’d rather hear you confirm it, or I might need to fight you and then throw you into the lake.  Oh, did I tell you I could guide a second horse at the same time while riding the first one?”

He was beginning to wonder why he didn’t just pass this piece of information to his brothers and asked them to relay the message.  Of course, he didn’t want his brothers to possibly mention this to more people, people who might not necessarily need to know, which might lead to higher chances of the firestarting side suspecting him.

Besides, it was cool to have an excuse to get out in the wild once in a while, even if the only person he needed to justify this to was himself.  His triplets probably thought he was back in his room watching black and white old movies.

“I just thought, I’d do this for Dewey, and – and he would’ve wanted you to know. Though I didn’t tell him because I don’t think he could be that much help in this situation.”

“Bertrand,” Beatrice nodded, knowingly. “So he still hasn’t …”

Ernest hesitated, “I mean, I think he’s moving on, it’s just I know he’ll still care, and …” he trailed off.

“And so do you,” she commented.  He shrugged, noncommittal.

“And well, he has been spending a lot of time with Snicket lately, so …” he directed the topic away from himself, and she let him.

“Jacques?” She questioned.

“Kit,” he corrected her.

Beatrice frowned, then sighed. “Alright, next time we meet under layers of disguises, we’re discussing Kit’s taste in men.”

He studied her, interested. “Why do you care so much?”

“I don’t,” she said, almost too fast.  Then she added, primly, pushing a pair of imaginary glasses up her nose slightly. “I’m just a thorough detective.”

“Shouldn’t’ve worn contact lenses if you wanted to do that, Madam Detective,” he quipped.  

She rolled her eyes. “Now that reminds me, J would be joining us for a while from a boat, so when the time comes you either need to act like Frank or reveal who you are.”

“Snicket?” he questioned.

“Anwhistle,” she corrected him.

“Ah, I see your point.  ‘Shouldn’t’ve’,” he said wryly. “I might make an early leave then, perhaps. Something that’s suddenly came up at the hotel sounds like a very realistic excuse.”

“So, O’s plan,” she reminded him.

“He was bragging about finally getting the evidence on you and Bertrand’s involvement of the opera night,” he was speaking fast now, wanting to finish before Josephine’s arrival. “I don’t know where the evidence is but Esme does. They would probably do something with it very soon.  I would suspect blackmail if they were sensible and love money the same way the rest of us do instead of having a personal vendetta against you or obsession with a piece of teaset, so …. honestly … probably arson.”

She mulled over the information, frowning hard. “Perhaps we could plan something too, even striking first.”

“I think the less I know, the better.”

“Very true,” she smiled a little, “fragmentary plots.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and he wondered, if she was thinking about Lemony.  He didn’t ask anything.

They saw a boat was now moving closer to them in the lake, and Ernest nodded, “Well, it’s time to leave.  Give Josephine Frank’s regards.”

“Of course,” she hesitated. “Well, thanks for the information.”

“Be careful,” he blurted out, and she nodded solemnly.  He took one last glance at the lake, before climbing back onto the horse. “See you around, Beatrice.”

#ok i did not expect the b&e part to be ... that long #it just happened #asoue #dewey denouement #bertrand baudelaire #bertrand x dewey #beatrice baudelaire #ernest denouement #stuff i write #mine #oneshot #i only proofread real quick once cuz its like. 3am #good night

[hwu-adventures-blog]

Family Life- Happy Birthday Mr Sinclaire

family life: part 1 and part 2

It’s Ernest’s Birthday and Beatrice has planned a surprise ball to celebrate! But will everything run smoothly or will it be an utter disaster?

Beatrice awoke in the master bedroom at Edgewater manor as the sun drifted through the curtains. She opened her eyes slowly and was met by the sight of her husband sleeping peacefully- she smiled- he still looked as handsome as the day they met 12 years ago when she almost got ran over by his horse back in Groveshire. They’d had so many moments since then a collection of memories good and bad but she wouldn’t have it any other way. a few moments later he stirred and Ernest Sinclaire opened his eyes

“good morning my darling wife” he says his voice heavy with sleep

“good morning birthday boy” she replied

“am I really 38 years of age?”

“’fraid so” Beatrice grinned

“I’m getting old” he says

Beatrice chuckled  

“yet still as handsome as ever” she kissed her husband on the lips quickly and he brushed a strand of hair away from her face

“you still know how to warm a man’s heart Beatrice”

“a skill only reserved for you dear”

“what time is it?”

Beatrice looked at the clock in her room and turned back to Ernest

“ten minutes past six”

“the children will not wake for another hour”

Ernest said smiling at his wife

“whatever are you suggesting Mr Sinclaire?” Beatrice smiled playfully

“this”

he kissed his wife with passion pouring though it- Beatrice responded with as much eagerness as Ernest, and Ernest moves on top of his wife without breaking apart- however it only takes a few seconds before they heard footsteps running down the hall towards their room. Ernest moved back off his wife quickly before the door swung open and in rushed three children followed by another limping one and the nursemaid (also Beatrice’s lady in waiting), Briar carrying a two month old baby, Beatrice suppressed a laugh at Ernest’s face of relief that they didn’t get caught and slight annoyance at the interruption.

“Papa! Happy birthday papa!” the children exclaim

“thank you children- did you all sleep well?”

“George was up all night but other than that I think we all slept well”  Vincent, the eldest said  

“oh that’s good”

“papa! Can we give you your presents now?” Mary the eldest daughter and the younger twin asked

“not quite yet- we’ll let your papa open them at breakfast downstairs” Beatrice smiled at her children

“we’ll go and wait!” George, Mary’s twin brother says looking a little pale

“George are you alright?” Beatrice asked concerned

“yes mama I’m fine!” George replied before pulling his twin out of the room and racing her to the dining room. Briar wished Ernest a happy birthday before leading the rest of the children out of their parents bedroom.  

“why did we have five children?” Ernest sighed running his hand through his hair “they’re never going let us have a moment to ourselves”

“you should have kept yourself under control more” Beatrice joked

“it takes two for that to happen dear”

“Mr Sinclaire! I’m shocked at how you are talking! It’s a scandal! Whatever would your wife say?” Beatrice looked at Ernest with a mock appalled expression on her face Ernest let an amused smile creep out from the corner of his face

“I believe this talk inside our private quarters amuses her”

“is that so?”

“I’m quite certain”

“then she should count herself a very lucky woman”

“I think I’m the lucky one”

Ernest leans over to kiss Beatrice on the lips again before she gets up

“come on we mustn’t keep the children waiting”  

 Breakfast was a very happy affair with the children talking and demanding to give their father his presents. Vincent gave Ernest a brand new teddy bear similar to the one he got him, Mary and George both got him two new books (Ernest got them their first books when they were born), Eustace got Ernest a statue of a soldier (he received a toy soldier set for when he was older from Ernest) and Clementine (or rather Beatrice on Clementine’s behalf since she’s only a baby) got her father a small doll that was dressed up in a similar fashion to his mother (he’d gotten her a couple of dolls for the day she was born dressed up as both her mother and father). Ernest had almost been brought to tears at his children’s gifts as they were almost twice as thoughtful as his previous birthday gifts. He’d hugged each and every one of them (despite protests from Vincent who was kind of ‘out-growing’ hugs from his father).

“papa- there’s one more gift on the table” Mary said to her father

And sure enough there was one gift left on the table, one that had not been there with the other gifts.

“what’s this?” Ernest looked surprised picking up the present

“I have no idea” Beatrice feigned innocence at this

Ernest gave Beatrice a look of suspicion as he opened the parcel, revealing a very well made and expensive new coat, the coat was the colour of the bluest dark blue he had ever seen and had gold buttons with the crest of Edgewater pressed into each one. Ernest was taken rather aback by this present as he had no idea Beatrice knew that he needed a new coat (his old one had become worn with age) he looked at the coat and frowned slightly at this fact. Beatrice picked up on his frown.

“I could always exchange it for something else- if you don’t like it or want it-”

“no- I love it Beatrice, thank you, but- how did you know I needed a new coat?”

“I overheard you talking to Mr Chambers last month and you mentioned that you could really do with a new coat as it was so worn down and starting to get unfixable holes in it and I saw an advertisement for a new tailor in the papers so I thought I’d get you one”

 Ernest smiled at his wife warmly from where he was sat at the table

“besides you’ll need one for tonight”

“what’s happening tonight?”

“well I know you didn’t want to make too much of a fuss about your birthday like yo Ii do every year but, I wanted to do something for you this year and I was incredibly bored one evening so I planned a ball for tonight to celebrate!”

“Beatrice, you shouldn’t have”

“never underestimate the power of boredom”

“I have been thinking about holding one recently since it’s coming up to our wedding anniversary” Ernest smiled

“but this’ll do just as well”

The children look excitedly at their parents

“a ball? A ball for papa’s birthday?” Vincent asked

“this is going to be so exciting isn’t it?” George yells in anticipation

“oh, we’ve never been to a ball before!” Mary exclaimed

“not so fast- you’ll only be allowed to stay until your bedtime so do not get too excited” Ernest said

“awwww”

“well- I suppose- it wouldn’t hurt if we extend their  bedtime by a half an hour or so?” Beatrice asked Ernest who instantly caved to his wife’s suggestion

“well of your mother says it’s alright then I guess it would not hurt”

“yay!”

There’s a gurgle from baby Clementine in agreement with her siblings  

“mama what are we doing today?” Eustace asked his mother

“I’m not sure, why don’t we let your father decide our activity for today” Beatrice said  

“well, I do have papers to attend to but I would also like to go for a day in Kensington gardens- I have not been there in a while” Ernest suggested with a smile

“I guess we’re going to Kensington gardens and having a nice family day out”   Beatrice smiled

“Oh Kensington is magical mama!” the eldest girl smiled at her mother

“alright, you five start getting ready to go- I shall get the kitchen to prepare a picnic and Ernest, you go and get ready too and enjoy yourself for a while- the papers you have too look at can wait”

“Beatrice I-”

“no objections Ernest, it’s your birthday- one of the only days you can be excused from work”

Ernest did not object anymore to that. He’s learned not to test his wife when she’s that excited about something. The children got ready in almost frecord breaking time and actually had to wait for Beatrice and Ernest to get dressed instead. They entered the carriage picnic in hand together and they enjoyed the day in the magical place that is Kensington gardens.

 Six o’clock rolled around quickly and Ernest and Beatrice were getting ready to head down to the ballroom. Beatrice was sat at the vanity, putting on her jewelry , she was dressed in a bright blue and white dress, her hair done in a simple bun and Ernest had just gotten into his white dress shirt, black formal trousers. Black shoes and white waste coat.

“I really enjoyed our day out together Beatrice” Ernest smiled at his wife warmly

“I’m glad you enjoyed it Ernest- that’s all I could ask for”

Beatrice looked at Ernest through the reflection in the mirror and smiled back at him

“I think the children were especially enchanted by it as they always are when we go”

“I’m sure they were convinced there were fairies in the trees and flowers”

“well when their mother was joining in it was hard not to be convinced”

“my mama always told me to use my imagination”

Beatrice turned and looked at Ernest who was struggling with his Kerchief. He’s never struggled with hit before so something must be bothering him. she got up, walked up to him and started to help him with it

“what’s the matter?” she asked

“nothing is the matter with me- but I saw the slight look of worry in your eyes as you were just looking at me so what is bothering you?” Ernest replied softly

“it’s- it’s probably nothing” Beatrice says eyes focused on the kerchief

“it’s not the Duke is it? or the Countess?”

“no- they were not invited tonight, I made sure of it myself, so I am not worried about them- it’s something else”

“then what is it?”

There’s a pause

“you’re worrying me Beatrice”

“it’s George”

“what about George?”

“he wasn’t as energetic as he usually is and I’m worried about him- he didn’t look too good this morning either”

“he’s probably getting a chill or something- George has never been a sickly child and when he has been unwell he’s gotten over it fairly soon”

“it’s just my instincts are telling me something is wrong with him but I can’t decide if it’s telling me it’s serious or not- we should send for a doctor”

“we should wait until tomorrow morning- it could merely be a tummy bug or something and it probably won’t get much worse in the next few hours”

There’s a pause Beatrice considers Ernest’s words- he’s being reasonable and maybe she’s just being overly worried. Ernest puts his hand ontop of hers in a comfort.

“I just don’t want to lose another family member”

“you, Beatrice Sinclair, have five wonderful, mostly healthy children who are not going to leave you anytime soon and you’ve also got a husband who cares an awful lot about you and the children and he does not plan on leaving you at all- especially after you’d won his heart all those years ago”

“but what if something unplanned happened?”

“then we’ll get through it, together, like we’ve always done- I promise we will”

Ernest smiled at her before Beatrice looked away at the wooden clock in the room and noticed the time. six thirty.

“we should head down and welcome the guests”

“is it that time already? Well then wife, can you pass me my coat?”  

Beatrice stepped away from Ernest and picked up his new coat, passing it to him

“thank you dear”

Ernest put on the coat and did up the three buttons in the middle and looked at his wife

“does it look… acceptable?”

“acceptable? it makes you look like the most handsome man in the ballroom- but then, you are always the most handsome man to me”

Ernest felt a blush creep up his neck, still after all these years Beatrice has that effect on him that makes him feel flustered- it was quite impressive and he wondered if his mother had that effect on his father before- anyway, he smiled at her and offered his arm to her

“if I’m the most handsome man in the ballroom them I’m glad to have the most beautiful woman in there at my side”

Beatrice smiled back at her husband giving him a look that he had become accustomed to over the many years they’d known each other- a look of extreme love and adoration that could make his heart melt in a second, a look she only reserved for him. She accepted his arm without hesitation an they walked to the top of the stairs. Ernest looks at Beatrice and says the words that have become a force of habit over the past 15 years or so of knowing each other.

“are you ready?”

“only if you are”

“well, I’m ready”  

The pair stepped down the stairs to greet their guests.

 “this ball is so beautiful Lady Beatrice, it must have taken a lot of work for this” Annabelle said to Beatrice and Mr Chambers.

“it was nothing that Ernest did not deserve, honestly he prefers to keep his birthdays quiet but this year I felt I needed to do something”  Beatrice smiled

“it surprised me that your children are still awake” Mr Chambers said looking out of the window to the garden

“I promised they could stay up for a couple more hours than usual since it is their first ball they’ve been to although, little Clementine is only a baby so she was excluded from that deal”

“so miss Parsons, how is your latest painting coming along?”

“like a dream- I should be done within the week”

“that’s good- you know, I still never figured out why you decided to paint Ledford Park”

“I’ve painted Edgewater many a time but I’ve never painted Ledford so when Mr Sinclair asked if I would like a change of scene and paint Ledford for some reason I can not disclose as of yet I was honoured”

“Ernest commissioned you to specifically paint Ledford? I just assumed he gave you permission to do it” Beatrice said

“again for a reason you are not allowed to know”

“so Mr Chambers, have you heard from Mr Konevi recently?” Beatrice asked

“he’s coming back to England in a few weeks actually with Prince Hamid”

“oh that’s good- you and him must have a lot of catching up to do” Beatrice smiled with a knowing look in her eyes

“yes- we do have a lot to talk about” mr chambers confirmed to her

Beatrice knew there’d probably not be much talking involved when Yusuf Konevi and Bartholomew Chambers got some time alone together- she was nearly 100% sure of it.

“oh you must bring him to Ledford Park when he is here! The children would love to meet him and Ernest and I would love to hear about his time in the Ottoman Empire and we can all catch up as old friends do” Beatrice said

“I’m sure he’d be honoured by the invite Lady Beatrice”

“I don’t mean to intrude, but may I have this dance Lady Beatrice?”

Beatrice turned around to find her step-brother, Edmund Marlcaster offering his hand to her.

“of course Mr Marlcaster” she took his hand and they walked to the dancefloor  

“well it’s a nice surprise to have a dance with my big brother although I don’t quite know-”

“I just wanted to have a dance with my sister, and say my congratulations for keeping the Duke and my mother away from this event”

“it took a lot of hard work but- I managed to stop them from knowing- I was not having them ruining Ernest’s birthday”

“that is pretty clever”

“Edmund?”

“yes?”

“do you ever have this feeling that something is about to go terribly wrong?”

“yes I do, why?”

“because I’ve had it all evening and I can’t tell what it is”

“you don’t suppose the countess or the Duke do know about this?”

“I don’t know, Edmund, I really don’t know”

The evening passed on and soon it was nine o’clock Beatrice was dancing with her husband once more, waltzing to the music gently and after a while Ernest speaks.  

“it’s been a really lovely evening, thank you for putting this together” Ernest said to his wife

“it’s my pleasure Ernest- you deserve nothing less”

“and there’s been no sign of the Duke or the Countess, which I for one count as a requirement for a successful event”

“that, is one of my many talents I’ve learned over the years, how to evade the count and the duke”

“I’m actually quite surprised they hadn’t caught on”

“it surprised me too- maybe miracles can happen!”

Ernest let out a little chuckle at his wife

“shouldn’t we send the children to get ready for bed? They’ve breen up two hours past ther bedtime”

“I’m fairly certain Briar will be sending them off any moment now”

“Beatrice?”

“yes?”

“I love you”

“I love you too?”

“sorry, I just feel like I haven’t said it in a while”

“I know you love me Ernest you don’t have to say it”

“you know I love you too right?”

“of course”

Ernest leans closer to her just close enough for him to whisper something in her ear

“how about once this is over, we continue what we were trying to achieve this morning?”

“I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed to giving you an extra birthday present” Beatrice giggles

“it’s settled then- although lets try not to have anymore children” Ernest said in a quiet voice

“I can’t make any promises Ernest but hopefully that is the plan”

 The pair smile at each other

“you nknow I’m glad I chose you to be my husband”

“even after 12 years since I proposed?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way”

“well I-“

“Lady Beatrice! Mr Sinclaire!”

Arthur Woods came running up to Ernest and Beatrice interrupting the pair

“what is it Arthur?” Beatrice asked concerned at his tone of voice  

“it’s master George- he’s collapsed outside in the garden- I think we should phone a doctor”

Beatrice felt her heart pound- her instincts were correct- she shouldn’t have ignored them- George had been sick! she glanced at Ernest who looked back at her- horror and worry visible in his eyes

“Mr woods go get the nearest doctor in town and tell them to hurry- it’s an emergency” Ernest said urgently before following Beatrice quickly into the garden where Mary, Vincent, Eustace and Beatrice’s best friend and maid Briar were surrounding a very unconscious and sweating George.

“what happened?” Ernest asked picking his son up from the ground into his arms

“he was complaining of headaches and nausea, so I decided to send all of the children to bed thinking it was extreme tiredness- however, as he was walking he just collapsed” Briar said

Nausea. Headaches. He had complained about that on the trip round Kensington gardens but Beatrice had only given him some drink as they could not send him to bed whilst away from Edgewater or Ledford Park. Alarm bells rang inside Beatrice’s head. Those were symptoms she’d read up on in a medical book- specifically when she was reading about the one illness that- no it couldn’t be that-

“the doctor is on his way, he needs to be resting in bed for now” Ernest said surprisingly level- headed for this situation however he looked at Beatrice and gave her a look of worry before hurrying inside to put his son in bed.

“Mama? Will Georgie be alright?” Mary asked

The little girl was looking just as worried, maybe even more worried than her siblings Beatrice took hold of her daughter’s hand and gave her the only answer she could.    

“I- I don’t know- I genuinely don’t know”  

A/N: Sorry it took so long to write but I've been really busy- anyway next part will be dealing with what has happened with George but you guys probably know where this is heading anyway. Part 4 might not be up for a few weeks as i have a lot of work for University due in soon. anyway thanks for reading!

Tagged accounts (if anyone want to be tagged then don’t hesitate to ask):

@cocomaxley

#desire and decorum #mc #mc x ernest #choices: desire and decorum #pixelberry #ernest sinclaire #ernest x mc

[bringmetolife-pwff]

Part One: Chapter Eleven - The Late Princess Diana’s Concert

July 1st, 2007

Today was a big step in her friendship with William.  Not only would she get to meet some of his family there but she would know him on a much personal level as well.  She was anxious.  Evelyn had decided to wear a bright yellow sundress and tan wedges for shoes.  She had long tresses down in soft waves, flawless skin, a small winged eyeliner with her eyelashes coated in black mascara.  

It was a nice day and Evelyn wanted to be comfortable as the concert was going to be at Wembley Stadium.  Once she felt she looked good enough, she left the apartment and headed to Clarence House where she would be arriving to Wembley Stadium with William, Harry and Chelsy.  Her family meeting them there.

***

As they were at their destination, Wembley Stadium, William turned to her with all seriousness.  Any sense of humour that he had was now gone and only concern was held in his blue eyes.

"If at any point you feel as though it's too much or you get slightly overwhelmed tell me, alright?  I love my family but meeting loads of them at once can be a bit much for some."

"I will," she nodded her head giving him a smile.  "Now come on, you, let's go in already," she said excitedly as she unbuckled her seatbelt.  

"All right, all right," he laughed shaking his head as they both walked out the car.

Before arriving, the night before, William had briefed Evelyn on how to formally greet his Granny, the Queen, and certain members of the Royal family.  It was going to be a lot but Evelyn was quite excited about the day.  Knowing that Chelsy would be there as well made her feel a bit better about everything.  She would be meeting the majority of his family today -- the Queen, cousins Princess Eugenie and Beatrice of York, their mother Sarah, Duchess of York, Zara and Peter Phillips, Mike Tindall and Autumn Kelly.  He advised her the best he could.  She would also be meeting members of the Spencer family as well as his ex-girlfriend, Kate Middleton, and her family.

"You must be the famous Evelyn," a tall blonde commented at Evelyn as she was with a very muscular man next to her.  Both of them holding hands.

After introductions were made Evelyn found out that Zara was an equestrian and an Olympian and that Mike was a rugby player.

"Have you ever been to a game before?" he asked her curious.

"I haven't," she shook her head.

"Well, if you're ever interested you should come to one of my games."

"Will do," she smiled at the guy.

It wasn't until later that William had found out that his Granny was at the stadium.

"Granny," William called for his grandmother once she was done talking to someone Evelyn didn't know.  "I have someone I want you to meet.  This is Evelyn Bennett."

Evelyn curtsied to the Queen, "Your Royal Highness."

The Queen was impressed with her curtsy as she smiled at the young blonde.

"Are you the fashion designer whom William went to your show months back?"

"Yes, ma'am," she nodded her head.  "My brother, Eric, is in the same unit as William and we had met a couple times before."

"I must say your line for this year was very nice.  I was quite pleased with the turn out."

She had no idea that the Queen had known about her or her fashion line.  She supposed she needed to if her grandson was friends with her.  Blushing, she took the compliment.  

"Thank you, ma'am."

William cleared his throat as the two women looked up at him curious to hear what he had to say.

"Granny, Evelyn was the young girl who gave me the forget-me-nots at mum's funeral."

Realisation dawned on the Queen as she remembered all those years ago.  They weren't her fondest or proudest moments and if she could take back how she treated Diana, she would in a heart beat.  But, from now on she promised to do better.

"Oh, yes, yes.  Of course.  I remember now.  I thought I recognised you a bit, or at least knew you from somewhere," she smiled at the woman.  "Now I know," the Queen said as she walked to the young blonde and took her hands in hers.  "Thank you for providing comfort to William on that day.  It was a lot for our family but especially the boys."

Evelyn felt a lump in her throat as she could feel her eyes start to tear up.  Shit, shit, shit!  She was not planning on crying today and she tried her damn near best to not let the tears spill.  Thankfully, they held up to their end of the bargain.

"I remember how I felt when my granddad died, ma'am, and I just felt as though he needed some comfort.  Someone to know that there were others like him out there."  

"Very brave of you, indeed.  Your curtsy has improved by now I see."

"Thank you, ma'am," she smiled bashfully.

"Please, call me Elizabeth."

"Alright, ma'- Elizabeth," the two women smiled at each other as it felt as though a bond was starting to form.  

What kind of bond?  They weren't sure.  But the Queen was sure that she would be seeing more of this blonde as she could see how close her and her grandson were.  Plenty of introductions were made that day, as she was meeting the rest of William's family and his ex-girlfriend; along with her family.

"William this is my mum--Natasha, dad--Peter, Jake and his girlfriend Mia along with my two adorable nephews Samuel and David," she said tickling Samuel's stomach making him squirm and laugh as she held him in her arms.  "You already know Eric, Noah, Theo and Vivienne; who you already met."

"It's nice to meet you all," William said after shaking all their hands with a smile on his face.  "And so incredibly glad to have you all join us for this event."

"Oh we wouldn't miss it for the world," Natasha said warmly with a kind smile.

"Please enjoy yourselves and just have fun that's all my family and I ask of you," he politely smiled at her family.

William suddenly noticed a familiar tall brunette whose dimples showed as she smiled, talking to one of his friends, and her sister Pippa next to her.  His demeanor completely changed.  He no longer had a relaxed posture or that smile that seemed to light up his blue eyes.  He now displayed a slight frown and seemed more closed off; stoic even.

"Right then," he told her family.  "Evelyn, there's one more person I would like you to meet."

Her eyes moved to the direction that he followed and she sucked in a breath, nodding her head.  She handed Samuel to Mia and followed William.  She knew that Kate would be here and felt as though it would be better to meet her right away instead of later.  Evelyn wondered if he had seen Kate since he ended things with her but guessing by his changed behaviour, she guessed he hadn't.

Evelyn saw William's friend who she met last night, Michael, raise his eyebrows and glance at them.  Kate saw the gesture as well and stopped laughing as she saw her ex walk up to her with another woman.

She had recognised her.  Not only for her name--being a Bennett family member all of them were very well-known but also for seeing her on the front cover with William as the two looked very comfortable outside of the club, Boujis.  For a split second, Evelyn saw hurt in the brunette's eyes.  As fast as it came was as fast as it went.  Instead, stood a woman who was trying to look strong and brave in front of her ex-boyfriend.

"Kate," William greeted his ex.

"Will."

It felt as though to Evelyn that she was invading this very personal conversation and it made her feel a bit awkward, like she didn't belong.  She and Michael stood there watching the two ex's as William cleared his throat.

"I wanted to thank you and your family for still coming to the concert to honour my mum."

"Of course," she gave a tight lipped smile.  "We wouldn't not come.  After all, you did ask me to come before we broke up."

Ouch.  Evelyn wasn't sure who those words hurt more. . .  Her or William.  

"Right well I wanted to introduce you to Evelyn.  Evelyn this is Kate," he gestured.

Kate raised an eyebrow at the blonde as she looked at her.  She noticed the apprehension in her and liked feeling as though she was above the blonde somehow.  She had already known William's friends and family for years and was good friends with them.  Whereas this Evelyn woman was still meeting all of them.  Still trying to find her place.  

"Pleasure," she said abruptly, no hint of a smile shown.

"You as well," Evelyn replied quietly as she wrung her hands together.

"Evelyn, why don't we go have a chat with Sebastian and his wife Elisabeth?  They've just arrived and I'd hate for them to not have anyone around," Michael suggested allowing the frosty behaviour.

"Are they really?" she asked genuinely interested now.  "I'd love to see them."

Since she had met Elisabeth that night at Boujis a few weeks ago, they had kept in touch in the meantime.  Making sure to check in on Evelyn and wanting her to feel welcome.  Elisabeth had such a warm and inviting presence about her that was intoxicating.

"I'll come find you later," William told Evelyn to which she nodded her head and he gave her a small smile of reassurance as which she reciprocated.

***

William eventually found Evelyn and looked infinitely better than when she had left him.

"Are you okay?" she asked concerned as worry filled her eyes.

"Perfect, never better."

After Evelyn had left with Michael, he and Kate had a small chat about what they were up to now and how they had been.  It may have been superficial but he didn't need any heavy talking with Kate tonight, if anything that could be for another time; if it needed to be at all.

"Evelyn, there's someone very special I want you to meet," William said as he guided her to a man who was shorter than William and had shaggy blondish brown hair.

"Elton," William called him and suddenly Evelyn sucked in a breath, releasing it.

The man turned around and Evelyn took notice of his appearance. He was a bit chubby and wore small framed glasses that seemed to have a bit of a rosy tint to them. He seemed like a very happy man. Evelyn and she couldn't believe that she was actually meeting him. She had heard of Elton John from her parents as they very much liked his songs.

"Evelyn," William paused as his hand was on her back in a supportive manner. "This is a dear family friend who was best friends with my mum for years. Evelyn this is Elton John."

"Hello dear, how are you?" He asked with a very sweet, warm and welcoming smile after he shook her hand, he took hold of them in his.

"I'm well, thank you. And you? It's an honour to meet you, sir."

He had a hearty laugh at the word 'sir.' His eyes dancing with gleam as his whole body shook with laughter.

"Please call me Elton! No one has called me 'sir' in years, unless it's business. Are you here for business, dear?" He asked to which her eyes widened with shock.

Even though he was granted the title 'sir' by the Queen, he never truly liked to be called it.  It was an honour to be granted that title but he felt it should remain that for him--a title.  

"No, I'm sorry, Elton," she apologised.

"It's no problem at all," he waved a hand. "I've been looking forward to meeting you," he told her releasing their hands. "I've heard lots about you."

"Well, it seems as though you were the only one," she teased.

"Keeping her to yourself, hm?" He asked turning to William to which earned a laugh from both William and Evelyn.

"What can I say? She's just so lovely, I couldn't share."

"Oh stop," she told him jokingly.

The three of them had a chat for a few more moments before Elton was called for soundcheck as he was going to be opening up to the song Your Song.

***

The piano started playing and the crowd cheered, especially loud were the family and friends sitting in the Royal box, wanting to support their dear friend.

Elton's face appeared on the screen and he smiled, Diana's picture as well as Evelyn looked over at William and smiled at him, squeezing his hand in support.  As he started singing the opening lyrics to the song Your Song, he received a standing ovation from everyone in the stadium.

It's a little bit funny, this feelin' inside I'm not one of those who can easily hide I don't have much money, but boy, if I did I'd buy a big house where we both could live

If I was a sculptor, but then again, no Or a man who makes potions in a travelin' show Oh, I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do My gift is my song and this one's for you

After Elton John's song, William and Harry both walked on stage as they shook hands with the family friend and waved to people. The crowd cheering for Elton John, Prince William and Prince Harry and the two prince's walked to the microphones.

"Hello Wembley," Harry spoke loudly into the microphone as the crowd cheered some more making Evelyn laugh with Chelsy.

"It's great to see so many of you here today, supporting this very special show. Of course, when William and I first had this idea we forgot that we'd end up standing here desperately trying to think of something funny to say. Well, we'll leave that to the funny people."

"I'd just like to tell you," William spoke up. "why we're all here tonight. This evening is about all my mother loved in life. Her music, her dance, her charities and her family and friends," the crowd cheered as Union Jacks were flying by fans holding them swaying their arms side to side.

"I'd also like to take this opportunity to say hi to all the guys in Ace Squadron Household Cavalry who are serving out in Iraq at the moment," Harry said and the crowd cheered again. "I wish I was there with you, I'm sorry I can't be. But to you and everybody else at operations at the moment we'd both like to say stay safe."

"So for now," William concluded. "We'll see you later on. We just want you to have an awesome time and enjoy the line up here today. Speaking of which, we have the greatest pleasure in introducing one of our mothers favourite bands -- it's Duran Duran."

Duran Duran performance went fantastic as everyone loved the song.  Other artists sang their songs as well.

Natasha Bedingfield was now on stage and the instruments to the song Unwritten started to play as Evelyn let out a gasp and looked to William.

"Are you only joking?" she asked.

William knew exactly what she was going on about.  This was the first dance they had danced to at Boujis a few weeks ago.

"Did you tell her?" she asked him.

"No," he grinned at her.  "Honest.  Is it okay?"

"More than okay."

I am unwritten, can't read my mind I'm undefined I'm just beginning, the pen's in my hand Ending unplanned

Staring at the blank page before you Open up the dirty window (window, window, window) Reaching for something in the distance So close you can almost taste it (taste it, taste it, taste it)

She raked her hands absentmindedly through his sandy blonde hair as they swayed to the slow song.  His strong arms wrapped around her tiny frame from the back as she leaned against his chest.  They were lost in their own little world oblivious to Harry's smirk at the "friends" and the side eye glances that Eugenie and Beatrice were giving each other.  They missed the knowing glint that Natasha gave Peter and the sweet smile that Zara gave them as she cuddled next to Mike.  Chelsy had decided to take a picture of the two of them--his arms wrapped around hers as she leaned into his chest, both having big smiles on their faces as they looked onward at the music playing.  

Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in No one else, no one else Can speak the words on your lips Drench yourself in words unspoken Live your life with arms wide open Today is where your book begins The rest is still unwritten

William and Evelyn sat in the crowds as he put an arm around her shoulders as they danced to the music.  She loved the feeling of being so close to him.  The warmth is body radiated.  The safety she felt as she looked into his blue eyes and felt his sandy blonde hair in between her fingers.  Natasha spoke into the mic.

"Come on," and raised her hands above her head clapping and everyone followed.  

Your lips It is It is On your lips On your lipsStaring at the blank page before you Open up the dirty window (window, window, window) Reaching for something in the distance So close you can almost taste it...

Evelyn forgot that she was with the Royal family and looked at them as normal people--friends.

The rest is still unwritten.

When the song ended, the crowd cheered and Evelyn leaned her head on William's shoulder as he wrapped a protective arm around her, wanting to keep her close.  

Eventually Kanye West performed as William and Evelyn were shouting the lyrics to the song.

"Gotta testify, come up in the spot looking extra fly," William and Evelyn shouted at the same time while dancing and laughing.  "For the day I die I'mma touch the sky.  Back when they thought pink polos would hurt the roc, before cam got the shit to pop, the doors was closed."

"I felt like bad boy's street team, I couldn't work the locks," William shouted as Evelyn recorded him shouting lyrics word for word.

The concert had come to an end and good nights were said to family and friends.  The two were at William's car as he pulled her close to her.

"Stay with me tonight?" William asked Eve as he held her hand.

"Yeah," she nodded her head with a smile.

***

The four were now back at Clarence House having enjoyed the best time.  They were going over the final result of how much money they had made from the concert.  Evelyn just knew that regardless of how much they made, Diana would be proud of her sons for the men they had become and honouring her memory as not only a Princess but as an influential person and a mother.

"One point two million pounds," Evelyn said wide eyed as she looked at the two prince's and Chelsy.  "Holy shit!"

"Well done, everyone," Evelyn told the three of them.  "Your mum would be proud," she told the two princes.

"You look like you had a good time," William pointed out to Evelyn as they were alone for the first time all day.

"I had the best, thank you for inviting me," she smiled at him.

"It wouldn't have been the same without you," he told her honestly.

"I'm sure it would have, but thank you for making me feel better."

Harry and Chelsy had now retired to his room leaving the two alone.  Chelsy had made sure to send the pictures she had taken throughout the night to Evelyn including the ones of Eve and William together.  The young blonde wasn't sure what they were but whatever they were, she was glad to see them both enjoying themselves.  She wished everyone could experience love or romance.

"Am not joking," he shook his head.  "It would've been all right, I s'pose.  But being with you is the most relaxed and fun I've had in ages.  I never wanted this night to end."

***

"You leave tomorrow," as realisation hit her and they were alone in his room.

He nodded his head.  For the first time he wasn't wanting to.  He wanted to stay and now it would be months possibly before he saw her again.  

"I like you Eve," William said to her as he took her hand in his.  "I think I always have, from the moment I met you.  But it was never the right timing for either of us and -"

"I like you too, Wills," she told him honestly.  "From the very first moment I met you all those years ago when you were only a boy, there was something about you.  Your eyes held such kindness and truth.  It made me want to get to know you more."

"Can I kiss you?" he asked gently to which she nodded.

As soon as she felt his lips press to hers, it was soft at first, almost as though it were like a feather blowing in the wind.  His hand making its way to her thigh, trailing up her waist, arm and then making its final destination to her cheek.  Feeling encouraged by this, Evelyn applies a bit more pressure to his lips, enjoying the feeling of his lips on hers.  Like she can feel her whole body awaken.  Then he slows it down and detaches his lips from hers, resting his forward against hers as they try to breathe normal.

"We finally admitted to liking each other and now you're leaving tomorrow. . . Where do we go from here?" Evelyn asked leaning against the couch as he pulled her to him wanting to feel close to her.

"I know I probably have absolutely no right to ask you this but I was wondering if you'd wait for me?"

His blue eyes held such hope, thoughtfulness and consideration. They had no idea what the future held but they had hoped that it held the two of them together.

"Of course," she laughed happily as a tear slid down her cheek hugging him. "Of course, I'd wait for you. You didn't even have to ask."

"Oh Eve. . ."

He pulled her to him as he breathed in her scent smelling a fresh smell of possibly fresh citrus.  His head now in the crook of her neck as he peppered soft kisses down her neck, her hands making their way into his sandy blonde hair as she enjoyed the feeling.

Slowly he picked her up as her legs wrapped round his waist and he carried her to his bed laying her down as laughed lightly.  Both her hands moved to his face as she leaned forward with more aggression, more assertiveness than she had felt in ages.  

"Are you sure?" He asked her softly as he hovered over her on his bed.

"More than anything," she promised him as her hands moved her hands under his shirt, feeling his skin for the first time.  

The slightest touch making him shiver.  His shirt being removed and tossed to the side somewhere, neither of them caring in the slightest.  Her hands ran up his back, round his broad muscular shoulders, slowing making their way down his chest then his stomach.  Leaning down he pressed his lips to hers, clothes being removed.  Reaching for protection, he slid into her allowing her a few moments to adjust.  

Heavy breaths and moans were heard as they made love to each other.  her fingers scratching up and down his back as he whispered sweet nothings to her.  She felt whole.  For the first time having this feeling.  She felt loved and taken care of and doing the same for him.  

After finishing, the two fell asleep in each other's arms.  Her head on his chest as he held her tight.  

Neither of them wanting to let go of this.

#bringmetolife-pwff prince William princewilliamfanfic britishroyalfamily prince harry kate middleton romance fanfiction

[historyrepeatsitself-phff]

Chapter Seventy-Six

A/N: This is a pretty long chapter, so I hope you enjoy.

I know I say this every time, but please please please let me know what you think of the chapters. I think I speak on behalf of every fanfic writer when I say that even the smallest message makes our day!! You can send me the simplest thing like “that was good” or “i liked it” (or also “that was shit” if that’s how you feel 😄)

I love writing the story for you guys, but hearing what you think makes it even more enjoyable for me. Please don’t be shy, and please don’t worry about language issues, I’ve lived abroad before, I know how hard it is to speak in a second language and I would never judge anyone for it 💖

On the morning of the 5th of February, Harry awoke suddenly, eyes finding Emmy who was in a deep sleep beside him. She was curled in a ball, tucked under the cover, and so Harry hastily slipped out of bed to comfort Grace before she could wake her mother. Grace was crying, face scrunched up and arms flailing, and Harry lifted her into his arms. Her wails faltered for a moment, happy to have company, before she continued screeching again. Harry lifted her, sniffed, and then made a face. She needed changing.

“Alright, baby, I’ll change your nappy,” he murmured, taking her out into the nursery and shutting all the doors behind him. He recalled Emmy getting up in the night to feed Grace, and he wanted to let her sleep as much as possible. Emmy had had a busy few days, not only with preparing for the christening – three days earlier she’d accompanied Harry, William and Kate to a Heads Together training day for the London Marathon, and only the day before Emmy had visited Macmillan’s Cancer charity. He was not surprised she was exhausted.

“You can stop crying,” he teased Grace gently, setting her on the changing table. “I’m doing it, alright?”

He wrinkled his nose as he removed the soiled nappy and then started to clean her. Grace stopped crying now, silent, watching her daddy with wide, blue eyes. She was being difficult, kicking her legs whenever he tried to grab them and wipe under them, and he scowled at her, as though she was doing it on purpose.

“There,” Harry said finally. “All done.” He scooped Grace up into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder, and he rubbed her back reassuringly as he took her downstairs. “Let’s see what the score was last night, shall we?”

He settled himself on the sofa in the living room, with Grace sprawled on his chest, her eyes drooping closed. Grace loved laying on her daddy’s torso like this, and his heartbeat would calm her, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing would settle her. She laid there, content, as her father absentmindedly stroked her back with his fingertips and watched the results from the premier league football games the night before.

Eventually, Emmy awoke, immediately stressing that she should’ve been woken earlier, and their busy day began. Emmy got herself ready while Harry looked after his daughter, and then Claire watched the little girl while Harry himself got ready. Grace had a few tears throughout the morning, and she didn’t like the frilly christening gown as Emmy gently forced her into it. But she had recovered by the time they set off for St James’ Palace, and she was smiling once more as they arrived.

There were lots of crowds gathered outside the palace as the car swept through the gates, and they waved and cheered, trying to catch a glimpse into the car. From the passenger seat, Emmy smiled out at them, knowing they couldn’t see her due to the tinted windows. Then she glanced round into the back of the car, where Grace was cooing in her car-seat.

“You excited, Grace?” Emmy said to her, and her daughter’s eyes flickered to hers. The little girl broke into a smile. “It’s your christening, today is all about you.”

Harry pulled into one of the parking spaces in the car park round the back of the palace, where dozens of vehicles were already parked. All the godparents and most of the family had been told to arrive before them, and so only Elizabeth and Phillip would be arriving afterwards. As the car slowed to a stop, Mike and Zara were just getting out of their car, with little Mia with them. Zara was to be one of Grace’s godparents, and she beamed as she saw who was arriving.

“Why hello,” she said, grinning, as Harry hopped out of the Jaguar. “Nice day for a christening.”

Harry chuckled, moving round to unbuckle Grace from her car-seat as Emmy carefully got out of the car, worried about nudging her hat or creasing her skirt. She was wearing an Alexander McQueen skirt and matching top, pale pink, fitted so that it highlighted her slender curves, but it had an appropriate neckline and the skirt fell to her knees, so it was formal and followed all the rules. It was probably too fitted, but Emmy wasn’t showing much skin and so she hadn’t wanted it to look frumpy.

“Em, you look lovely,” Zara said to her, as Emmy came round and waved at Mia.

“Thank you, so do you,” Emmy said. “Both of you, that’s a very pretty dress.” She was smiling at the little girl, and Mia looked delighted.

“Thanks,” Mike said. “It’s couture.”

Emmy giggled at him as Zara rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t even know what that means,” she said, smirking at her husband.

Harry joined them then, with Grace in his arms, ready in her vintage christening gown – the very same that all of her cousins had worn at their own christenings. She leant into her father’s chest, sleepy.

“Hello Grace!” Zara said, coming over to tickle the little girl. “Hello! Aren’t you pretty today? Aren’t you?”

“She’s always pretty,” Harry replied, somewhat indignantly, and Zara rolled her eyes at him.

“You know what I meant,” she said. “She gets blonder by the day.”

“It’s more a strawberry blond,” Mike mused, taking Mia’s hand as the six of them made their way into the palace, followed by Rick, Kev and Brian.

“Golden, I like,” Emmy corrected.

“Gold? Yeah, I see it,” Mike said, grinning at her. “So, Em, how stressed are you on a scale of 1 to 10?”

“I’m fine,” she answered, surprised.

“Really?” His eyes widened in surprise. “God, Zara was pulling her hair out all day, and Mia wouldn’t stop crying.”

“Well now I’m stressed,” Emmy said, with a laugh. “After that reassurance.”

“Grace will be fine,” Harry said, a hand rubbing her back. “If anything, she’ll fall asleep.”

“She sleeps a lot?” Zara asked. “Why doesn’t that surprise me, she’s your daughter after all?” She grinned at her cousin, who grinned back.

“Explains why Mia’s so naughty, huh?” he retorted.

“I no naughty!” Mia said, scowling up at Harry.

“I hear you are,” he replied playfully.

“No way!” she said, looking offended.

“Alright, I believe you,” he said, ruffling her hair. She ducked away from him – her favourite game was getting people to chase her.

“Don’t do that, Harry!” Zara complained, groaning. “Do you know how many times I’ve done Mia’s hair today?! And you just messed it up!”

“Sorry,” he said, hastily combing Mia’s hair back into place with his fingers. Again, she ran away. Emmy laughed lightly at the little girl.

“There you are, I thought I heard voices,” William said, emerging from a room up ahead. He grinned at them all, and then his face softened and his voice rose an octave as they approached. “There’s my little niece, there she is!” he cooed, coming over and reaching for Grace. Harry gently handed her over, and William nuzzled her to him. “Hello, Grace! Hello, Grace! You going to show me that beautiful smile?” He held her up in front of him, making funny faces, and she giggled. William gasped. “You can giggle now, huh? Oh you have such a lovely little giggle, yes you do!” He pulled her back into his arms, cuddling her close, and Harry smiled at the sight of them together.

“Everyone is just in here,” William said, leading the way back in. “I see you invited a lot of the family.”

“Hmm, we wanted them all to be here,” Harry said. “Not just the godparents. But there’s not that many of them.”

Emmy followed Mike and Zara into the room, and she was immediately intimidated by all the people there. When sending out all the invitations, the thought of all of Harry’s family in one room hadn’t been nearly as daunting as it was to see them all, alongside her own family. Their friends were there too, Jake and Zoe, Guy and Lizzie, Chris, even though they weren’t godparents; they were stood graciously with Taylor and Skippy.

“There’s my little goddaughter!” Beatrice sang, dancing over and taking Grace from William, wanting cuddles. Grace was comfy in her uncle’s arms, and she looked disgruntled to be passed around again, but Beatrice started tickling her to the point that she didn’t care, she just enjoyed the attention. “Oh, you get prettier every day!”

Beatrice and Dave had been stood with Eugenie and Andrew, and they all came over to see baby Grace again. Eugenie and Andrew hadn’t seen her since Christmas.

“She’s growing fast,” Eugenie mused. “Oh, her hair’s a lovely colour.”

“It’s ginger,” Beatrice said smugly.

“It’s golden,” Emmy corrected. “Not ginger.”

“Determined to make that stick, aren’t you?” Harry teased her gently, and she blushed, moving slightly into him as he snaked an arm round her waist.

“You look lovely, Emmy,” Beatrice said to her. “No way you gave birth three months ago!”

Emmy blushed even more deeply. “I, er, I’ve been running quite a bit.”

“It’s not fair, is it?” Zara mused, still stood with them. “I’m still not back to my pre-baby weight.”

“Maybe it’s all those pizzas,” Mike said, grinning. She elbowed him with a scowl.

Emmy took Grace back into her arms, for she had just seen her father and she wanted to go and see him, let him see his granddaughter again. So she left Harry’s family to it, crossing the room to where he, Chelsea, John, Tara and Rosie were all stood. Rosie, the little seven-year-old, came running over.

“Hi Emmy, hi Emmy!” she sang, jumping up and down.

“Hey Rosie,” Emmy said, with a grin. “You okay? How’s school?”

“It’s boring,” she said, yawning as though to emphasise. “And Daddy says I’m not allowed to talk about Grace to anyone, but loads of people keep asking.”

“No, you have to keep her a secret, okay?” Emmy said to her youngest half-sister. “It makes her more special.”

“She can hardly get more special, though,” Alexander murmured, as he took Grace into his arms and gently stroked her blond hair. “Hello darling.”

Emmy smiled. “I think she’s a bit sleepy, but I doubt she’ll get much sleep with all this racket.”

“No,” Alexander agreed, frowning around at the room before returning his gaze to his granddaughter. “She’s grown even since I last saw her.”

“She laughs now.”

“Really? Oh, that’s wonderful.”

A hand on the small of her back made her jump, but before she could spin round Harry had come to stand beside her, managing a smile for his father-in-law.

“Alexander,” he said in greeting.

“Henry.” Alexander nodded his head. “Oh, that was a yawn, yes it was. Are you sleepy, Grace?”

Even Harry couldn’t hate Alexander when he was being so nice to Grace, and his fingers traced absently along Emmy’s back as he watched them. Emmy, however, was looking round the room at the other guests. She smiled at an elderly woman coming over.

“Nana!” she said, moving to kiss her cheek in greeting.

“Hello dear, you look lovely, so grown up!” the lady said. Harry recalled meeting her on the odd occasion – she was Emmy’s mother’s mother, Maureen. “Let me meet your little one, then.”

Emmy led Maureen over, and Alexander showed her the little baby. Emmy looked delighted when Maureen cooed that she was a beautiful baby, that Sophia would’ve been proud, that she looked just like Sophia had when she was a baby. And then Maureen looked at Harry.

“Nana, you remember my husband,” Emmy said to her gran. “Harry, you remember my Nana.”

“I do, of course,” Harry said, ducking to kiss Maureen’s cheek. Then he kissed the back of her hand too. “Nice to see you again.”

“He’s as charming as before,” Maureen said to Emmy, who smiled. Harry felt himself blushing. “You’re very lucky, dear, I told you before.”

“I know, Nana, I am,” Emmy said, throwing Harry a smile.

Emmy’s other grandmother, Alexander’s mother, Rose, was also there, and her reaction to seeing Harry again was similar to Maureen’s, except a lot more inappropriate.

“Oh yes, the handsome one,” Rose said, pulling Harry down into a hug once Emmy had introduced them again. She pressed a smacking, wet kiss on his cheek, and he forced the smile to stay fixed on his face, laughing awkwardly.

“Harry,” Charles said then, coming over and, to Harry’s relief, giving Harry a reason to leave the Farringtons. He took Grace from Alexander and then followed his father over to where he and Camilla were sat, talking animatedly to Anne and Timothy.

“Hello Grace, little darling, hello,” Charles cooed at his granddaughter, taking her into his arms and tickling her gently.

Anne smiled at Harry. “Thank you for the invite, Harry. It’s nice for there to finally be a family christening.” He swore her eyes went to where Kate was stood, talking to Guy and Lizzie.

Then he frowned. “Are George and Charlotte not here?”

“No, Kate didn’t want them here,” Charles said absently, then he fixed his younger son with a significant look. “She doesn’t want them in any of the pictures.”

Harry stared at him incredulously, then glanced over at Kate again. No, maybe she just didn’t want them playing up. Maybe she just didn’t want them taking attention away from Grace. Surely it wasn’t something as petty as the pictures!

“It’s a true family gathering,” Timothy agreed with Anne. “I was just speaking to Alexander, I’ve never really managed to meet him, he’s a nice chap.”

“Hmm.” Harry was not going to argue, not now, although he did want to.

“Emmy looks lovely,” Charles said to him then, distracting him. “Very nice choice of attire.”

“Yeah,” he replied, turning to find Emmy and letting his eyes sweep over her, feasting on her tiny waist, the curve of her hips, her tiny calves. A jolt somewhere behind his naval forced him to stop looking at her, for fear of losing himself in the sight of her body. “She’s beautiful.”

Camilla smiled at him. “And how are you both with Grace?”

“Good, we’re coping quite well, I think,” he said, nodding.

“Please don’t hesitate if you need someone to babysit,” she added. “Charles told me about your desire not to hire a nanny until she’s a little older.”

“Yeah, thank you,” he said. “We want to raise her ourselves, you know? Emmy wants to be the main woman in her life right now, because she’s so young.”

“Hmm, it’s very nice, but I wonder how long it’ll last,” Anne said. “Just beware. When things like Trooping the Colour come up, you may struggle to find babysitters.”

Harry nodded. He knew that. “Shall I take her back from you, Pa? I think the christening must be starting soon.”

“Of course.” Charles handed Grace back, and Harry gently curled his arms round his daughter. Grace’s eyes went to his face, and she broke into a smile, one of her hands reaching up as though to brush along his beard. He smiled down at her.

“Hello baby,” he murmured, lifting her only to kiss her forehead. He stood there for a few moments, gently rocking Grace, for she’d grown quite agitated what with being handed round everyone, and he let his gaze rove the room, seeing who was there, wondering whether they were missing anyone.

Beatrice, Eugenie, Dave and Andrew were stood talking. Zara and Mike were still with William, and they were talking to Peter and Autumn, as Savannah and Isla chased Mia round their legs. Harry’s Uncle Edward and Sophie were stood with Louise and James, James dressed in a cute little suit and tie. Emmy’s brother Benedict was stood with her sister Lucy and his wife Susie, with his little girl Felicity toddling round their legs, cooing. Benedict was another of the godparents.

Two other godparents, Taylor and Skippy, were stood with Jake, Zoe and Chris, chatting animatedly. Harry hadn’t seen Chris for a long time, but he knew Chris had moved away, unable to stay in London after what had happened with Kian. Guy and Lizzie were stood near them, talking to Kate who looked lovely in a peach ensemble that Harry was sure the press would adore. Then Harry’s secretary Edward was there, dressed smartly in a suit and tie, with his wife Rachel. He looked somewhat nervous, but also proud – he kept glancing round the room, as though knowing that Claire was in charge today and wanting to help her with the responsibility.  

Then there was Emmy’s father, Chelsea and her step-siblings, along with her two grandmothers, and her aunt Maria. Maria had been her mother’s sister, and Harry had only met her once, at their wedding. Her daughter, Bella, who was a few years older than Emmy, was stood with her.

And then, Harry’s eyes fell on the final godparent. Who was coming towards him.

“Seeiso!” Harry crowed, beaming at him.

“Harry, how are you, my friend?” Seeiso said, delighted. Seeiso was a prince of Lesotho, and had co-founded Sentebale with Harry. The two had been friends for over ten years, ever since Harry had visited for the first time.

“I’m very well, again, thank you for coming today,” Harry said. He knew Seeiso had had to cancel a few things, but Seeiso waved it off.

“I could hardly miss it, could I? Such an honour.” He smiled, and then his eyes dropped to Grace. “Hello little one, nice to meet you.” He took one of Grace’s tiny hands, and shook it. She frowned, pulling it from his grasp, and he chuckled. “Oh? You don’t like me?”

“I think she’s just tired,” Harry said. “She’s been quite sleepy this morning.”

“Does she keep you up at night?”

“Not as much as Emmy,” he replied, with a grin, and Seeiso roared with laughter.

“Oh, how I have missed you, cheeky Prince,” Seeiso guffawed. “Where is your lovely wife? I must say hello…”

“She’s just over there, catching up with her family,” Harry said, nodding over, and Seeiso gasped.

“She looks lovely!” he said. “Harry, I feel truly blessed to see you so happy.”

“I feel blessed myself, but thanks Seeiso,” Harry said, smiling.

“I’ll say hello to Emmy afterwards,” Seeiso mused. “I think we will start in a moment, no?”

“I believe so, just waiting for Granny,” he answered.

“Well, I’ll leave you to get ready,” Seeiso said, patting his arm. The two princes shared a smile before Seeiso left him be, and Harry rocked Grace back and forth again, only eyes for her now. She gazed up at him, and as he broke into a smile, she copied. She let out a coo, and he chuckled, drawing a tiny laugh from her.

“How is she?” Harry jumped at Emmy’s voice, and she laughed at him. “Sorry to scare you.”

“No, it’s just me daydreaming,” he replied, grinning. Emmy moved close to him and peered down at Grace, receiving a smile and some excited babbling as Grace’s eyes went to her. She beamed down at her little girl, leaning closer to tickle her tummy and then to brush her nose against Grace’s, an eskimo kiss. “I think she’s okay, she seems a little sleepy every now and then.”

“Hmm.” Emmy stroked her fingertips along Grace’s forehead. “Maybe she’ll fall asleep?” She sounded hopeful.

“As long as she’s awake for the photographers,” he said. “Somehow I don’t think they’ll appreciate if she’s asleep again.”

“Who cares?” she said playfully, then smiled at him. “Can I take her?”

“Sure.” He carefully handed Grace over, and Emmy cuddled her close.

“Hello darling, you’re with mummy again now, yes you are,” she whispered, rocking her backwards and forwards.

“Harry, Emmy.” Edward had joined them now, looking concerned. “Is Claire doing okay? Does she need my help with anything?” Behind him, his wife, Rachel rolled her eyes.

“Ed, just chill,” Harry said, with a grin. “You’re godfather, you’re not on duty today.”

“But if she needs help-”

“She’s fine,” Emmy said reassuringly. “Today you’re not secretary, you’re just Edward.”

He managed a smile for Emmy, before turning still-worried eyes to Harry. “I honestly don’t mind, if Claire can’t cope-”

“Who says I can’t cope?” said a voice, and the four of them turned to see Claire there, grinning. “Your faith in me is touching, Ed.”

Edward grinned sheepishly. “It says more about me than you, trust me.”

“Oh, for sure,” Claire replied. “Okay, if your guests want to make their way into the Chapel Royal. Your grandparents have just arrived, Harry. The press are set up in the adjacent drawing room, they’ll photograph your entrance into the chapel and then your exit also.”

Harry and Emmy waited with Charles, Camilla, William and Kate for Elizabeth and Phillip while the rest of the guests made their way to the chapel. Edward seemed very confused to be leaving with them rather than staying with Harry and Claire, but he did so nonetheless. Eventually, the Queen arrived.

“There’s my little great-granddaughter,” Elizabeth mused, beaming at Grace in Emmy’s arms.

“Hello little one,” Phillip said to Grace, while the family greeted Elizabeth with kisses, bows and curtseys. Emmy smiled at him. “How is she getting on?”

“She’s very well,” Emmy said. “She laughs now.”

“Really? Wow, that’s advanced, marvellous,” Phillip said gruffly.

“Emmy,” Claire said gently, as the family caught up with each other and Elizabeth interrogated William and Kate about the absence of George and Charlotte. “It’s time to go in now.”

“Of course,” Emmy said. She guessed that Claire did not want to interrupt the Queen. Then again, neither did Emmy. She nudged Harry. “It’s time to go.”

He winked at her. “Okay, everyone, we need to head to the chapel now. We’ll talk about all this later.”

William grinned at his brother as they followed their grandparents and their father out of the room. “You saved my ass there, Harry.”

“You should’ve just brought the kids,” Harry replied. “It would’ve been nice to have them here.”

“I know, but there were too many photographers, you know.” He shrugged, and Harry looked away, unamused. Too many photographers, huh? When were there not going to be too many photographers?

Harry turned round then, looking for Emmy, and he smiled, waiting for her and entwining a hand with hers. “You okay?”

“Yep, she’s fallen asleep,” she told him, casting an adoring look over Grace, who was dozing soundly in her arms now. “Hopefully she stays that way for the service.”

He threw her a smile, his hand going to the small of her back and rubbing reassuringly as they followed the family towards the photographers.

“She was very well behaved, wasn’t she?”

Emmy had lost track of the number of times someone had said that to her, but it never stopped making her proud. Grace had been well-behaved. She had slept soundly and had only awoken when the archbishop had flicked the water over her. Even then, she had only cried for a little bit, until Harry and Emmy had quickly soothed her, and she finished the service with a smile on her face, enjoying the attention.

Now, she was sat on the opposite side of the room at Clarence House, cuddled in Daddy’s lap as he spoke to Peter and Jake. Emmy scanned the room for her friends, seeing Taylor talking to Lucy and Chris chatting to Benedict. She’d just finished talking to her own grandmother, and now she briefly checked that everything was in order before slipping from the room and heading for the bathroom.

As she walked along the corridor, she heard voices, and she paused – one of them was slightly raised, sounding upset, and the other was a soft murmur. She quickly realized that it was William and Kate, tucked in a room a little away from the party. Emmy wondered whether she should be listening, but curiosity got the better of her.

“She was being so mean to me!” Kate was saying, evidently crying.

“Just ignore her, love.”

“I can’t, she was asking me why they aren’t here, she kept asking, as though my reason wasn’t good enough!”

“Hey, she’s old-fashioned, you know she is. She doesn’t believe in privacy for the kids-”

“She kept asking, William. Interrogating me! As though I’d done something wrong!”

“They wanted the kids here, they wanted people to see all of us together, I didn’t realise how important it was to them-”

“Why are they blaming me?!” Kate wailed. “Why were they bullying me, not you? It’s because it’s all my fault, isn’t it? I’ve never been good enough for you in their eyes-”

“Stop it,” William said forcefully, and then his voice softened. “Kate, don’t you dare start saying that. They adore you, how could they not? And they know how much I love you, that’s all that matters.”

“I’ve never been good enough,” she sniffled. “Never. Especially not since Emmy’s come along, she can do no wrong in their eyes, can she? Even when we go over to your grandmother’s, she can’t stop telling me that Emmy did this and Emmy did that.” She finished bitterly.

“Don’t, alright?” William said. “Just don’t. Emmy has been able to do more because she didn’t have kids. Now that Grace is here, just you watch. People will lose interest, of course they will. She won’t be out and about as much. Don’t hate Emmy, it’s not her fault.”

“You know I don’t hate Emmy,” Kate replied indignantly. “She’s lovely, I just get very tired of being compared to her.”

Emmy stopped listening then, for a door opened down the way and she spun round, terrified at having been caught eavesdropping, but it was only Claire. The secretary rose her eyebrows in surprise, and Emmy hastily put a finger to her lips, before gesturing for her to follow her down the corridor.

“What is it?” Claire asked, once they were well enough away. “What were you doing?”

“William and Kate were in there,” Emmy said, her heart hammering at Kate’s words. “And Kate…Kate was saying that the family are always telling her how much work I’m doing.” She looked delighted.

Claire smiled in surprise, and somewhat confusion. “That’s…great, Emmy.”

“I know, can you believe it? Kate said she was tired of being compared to me,” Emmy added, encouraged by the words she’d overheard. “Me! The Kate said that.”

“I thought she wasn’t the Kate anymore,” Claire said dryly. “But I’m happy for you, at least the family acknowledge how much work you’re doing.”

Emmy clapped happily, relieved and delighted by this news. “I can’t believe it. I mean, I guessed I was doing okay because I never got told off for much but I never thought-”

Claire grinned at Emmy as she trailed off happily. “Look, we better get back to the party.”

“I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be right in.”

Harry was talking to Benedict with Grace cuddled in his arms when Emmy returned. She made a beeline for Harry, eager to tell him what she’d heard, but then she saw William and Kate. Kate was talking animatedly to Zara and Autumn, her earlier tears forgotten, or perhaps merely masked. Emmy decided to wait until they’d got home to tell him, and she swallowed her delight.

“Hey Mummy,” Taylor said, with a smirk, and Emmy smiled. “Want a drink?”

“Still breastfeeding,” Emmy said, shaking her head. “Have you tried some of the Fondant Fancies? They’re to die for, I had some before.”

“No, I think Mike’s already eaten them all. How are you? How are things?”

“They’re good,” she replied, surprised by the serious turn in the conversation.

“How are you and Harry?”

Emmy rolled her eyes. “We’re fine.”

“Especially now the six weeks is up, huh?” Taylor grinned.

It was recommended to wait at least six weeks after the birth before having sex again, and Harry and Emmy had waited over that, for Emmy still felt too sore to entertain the thought of it. By the time she was ready, Harry was desperate.

“Yeah,” she answered with a laugh. “It was really hard for him, I think. And he couldn’t say anything, because he knew it would’ve been painful for me, but I could tell he was pretty desperate.”

Taylor snickered, looking across the room to where Harry was stood, now chatting to Susie as well, and Grace was being introduced to Felicity. The little toddler looked curious to meet her new cousin. “How’s he as a dad?”

“He’s amazing,” Emmy said. “He’s just…he’s been fantastic.”

“Still very much in love with him then?”

Her smile disappeared. “Why?”

“Just checking, I worry about you sometimes, you know.” Taylor patted her arm gently. “He does so many engagements, I worry that you’re on your own too much.”

“I’m fine,” Emmy said. “Now that Grace is almost three months old, we’re going to start taking it in turns. My schedule’s a bit busier, and we’re going to organize it so that one of us is always home to look after her.”

“You don’t want a nanny?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I want Grace’s earliest months to be just with me and Harry, you know? I don’t want any other woman confusing her.”

“That’s fair enough. If you ever need someone to babysit, I’d be offended if you didn’t ask.”

“I know, I will, thank you.” Emmy smiled at her best friend. “I mean, it’s your duty now. You’re her godmother.”

“I know!” Taylor beamed at her. “I’m so excited, I’m going to be the best godmother ever!”

Emmy laughed lightly. “I remember Skippy saying something similar.”

“Yeah, we’re both super excited,” Taylor said, and her eyes flickered to where Skippy was stood on the other side of the room. Emmy watched as her expression softened slightly, and her eyes lingered.

“Ahem.” She cleared her throat, and Taylor, startled, turned back to her. “Sorry, was I interrupting you and your gazing?”

“Gazing?” Taylor feigned nonchalance.

“At Skippy.”

“Pfft.” She turned away, rolling her eyes. “You really will make something out of nothing, won’t you?”

“Nothing? I saw the way you were looking at him!” Emmy giggled. “Tay, you can tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Taylor asked innocently.

Emmy rolled her eyes now. “Just tell me! I’m your best friend.”

“Stop nosing if you want to keep that title,” Taylor teased.

“Wow, death threats?” Harry had just joined them, baby Grace curled in his arms, and he smirked at the two of them. “Taylor, am I going to have to report you to Rick?”

“I’d like to see you try,” Taylor replied, grinning. “And I wasn’t threatening to kill her, I was threatening to renounce her as best friend.”

“Oh yeah? What’s Emmy done now?”

“Hey!” Emmy said, pouting at him, and he chuckled, leaning over to kiss her in response. She turned her face away, and his lips met her cheek. In retaliation, he kissed her neck instead, and her squirm made him laugh. “You’re so annoying.”

“So you keep saying,” he replied, as she gently took Grace in her arms. Then he snaked an arm round her waist and pulled her to him, kissing her cheek again.

“Ugh, give me a minute, I’m going to go throw up,” Taylor said.

“Go on then,” Harry replied. “At least you’d be leaving us be.”

She glared at him, outraged, then the two of them laughed together. “Alright, I’ll let you guys catch up with your families, I’m going to go see Chris and Skippy.”

“Oh yeah?” Emmy said, raising an eyebrow and smirking at Skippy’s name.

“Fuck off, Emmy,” Taylor hissed, blushing and giving her best friend a scowl before she left them to it. Harry frowned at Emmy.

“Was there something I missed?”

“No, just a little joke we have going,’ Emmy explained. “Anyway, how are things?”

“Good, I was just chatting to Benedict,” he said. “You know, he’s really not that bad. He might just be the one member of your family that doesn’t make me want to stab myself in the eyes.”

She rolled her eyes. “Speaking of brothers I, er, overheard your brother talking to Kate just now.”

“Eavesdropping, huh?” he teased, tickling her lightly. She squirmed away, trying to stay serious.

“Not purposely,” she insisted. “Anyway, Kate mentioned that your family are always talking about me to her! She said they’re always going on about how good I am on engagements and stuff!”

“That’s great,” he said. “Although I knew you were good already.”

He didn’t seem totally surprised. She frowned. “Yeah, but it’s your family that said it. Not you. You’re biased.”

“I know, it’s great, babe.” He leant down and kissed her gently.

He couldn’t tell Emmy, but he knew how much his father and his grandmother went on about Emmy to Kate. It was, in fact, very difficult for Kate to accept it. William had told him recently how much it was upsetting her. Rather than being openly criticized or told what she should be doing differently, she was having passive aggressive comments about Emmy thrown in her face in an attempt to motivate her to work more. And that was having the opposite effect that Harry’s family were hoping for – instead of being encouraged, Kate now felt as though she could do no right and was trying to avoid the few engagements she already did for fear of upsetting the family even more. William had told Harry that it was not a good time for Kate in that sense.

Harry looked over at Kate now, laughing with Camilla and Sophie. Absently, his hand rubbed along Emmy’s back, as he realized just how lucky he was that it was his wife that was doing well.

Although Harry knew that his grandmother had her own views about Emmy, and there were things that she thought needed to change. But that was for another day.

He dropped his gaze to Grace, who was awake and now smiling up at Emmy from her arms. He smiled too, receiving his daughter’s piercing blue stare and then her cheeky beam. He reached over to gently tickle her, and she giggled in response, arms flailing happily.

“That is the sweetest laugh,” said a voice.

“Bella!” Emmy said, beaming at her cousin. “How are you?”

“I’m very well, a bit stressed, you know.” Harry vaguely remembered that Bella was getting married in a few months’ time – they’d received the invitation at the start of the year. “But everything is really well, it’s just all so expensive.”

“Hmm, I know,” Emmy said seriously. “I can’t wait to see your dress!”

“It’s really nice, it’s the one thing that I don’t think is overpriced,” Bella said, with a laugh. “I’d pay anything for it, I love it.”

“Oh that’s good,” Emmy said. “What colour are your bridesmaids?”

“Pale yellow,” Bella said. “It’s a summer wedding, I couldn’t go for anything else, really. I want sunflowers everywhere too, but the flowers are so expensive.”

Harry got lost in the wedding talk, and he moved away to go and bid goodbye to Seeiso, who was flying back to Lesotho.

“He must be very proud to be godfather,” William mused, as he and Harry watched Seeiso leave.

“He is, I think. He sounded really surprised when I asked him,” Harry said, then hesitated before adding, “Look, William, I hope you’re not offended-”

William shook his head with a grin. “Harry, if you’re about to apologise for not making me godfather, save your breath. I’m not offended in the slightest. I’ll see enough of Grace anyway, I’m her uncle.”

“That was my thinking,” he replied. “That’s the main reason we made Benedict one, because he lives in America so he won’t see her as much-”

“Honestly, Harry, it’s fine.” He grinned at him. “How are you coping with the sleepless nights?”

“They’re not too bad, to be honest,” Harry said. “She’s doesn’t cry much, mainly if she’s hungry or if she needs changing. She’s a pretty good baby.”

“You’re getting off lightly,” William said. “Wait til she starts teething.”

“So I’ve heard,” Harry said, laughing. “Look, Emmy said that Kate was upset earlier-”

Surprise registered on William’s face, but then he waved it off. “Oh yeah, don’t worry, something that Granny said, is all.”

“You know,” Harry said slowly. “You should’ve just brought George and Charlotte.”

William met his gaze. “Trust me, I know. But Kate understands them better than I do, she knows when they’re not in the right mood. She was worried about all the photographs.”

“Hmm.” Harry had nothing to say to that, so merely nodded.

“Anyway, forget George and Charlotte,” William said, with a smile. “Today’s all about Grace, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, grinning openly at that. “She’s been really well-behaved, I’m really proud of her.”

“You should be,” he answered. “She’s lovely, Harry. She really is. I’m proud of you.”

Harry smiled, embarrassed. “Thanks, Wills.”

“Mum would be proud,” he added, rubbing his brother’s shoulder. “She really would.”

“Of both of us,” Harry replied. The two brothers shared a small smile, before they headed back into the party.

#historyrepeatsitself-phff #Prince Harry #prince harry fanfiction #prince harry fanfic

[kvotheunkvothe]

A long while back, I wrote an AU to one of my books, with a kind of Pygmalion story of the main characters involving cyborgs. @stradivariholmes mentioned it might be interesting to have another, similar story, with the roles reversed. This AU assumed they weren’t Summoners and how their lives might have been if the central conflict of the book was instead based on this AU idea.

Below is the first part, working title of Glassworks.

.

It was a good day for travel.

It was still a few weeks before the spring planting season, and the ground was only just beginning to thaw as he made his way overland under the sun’s first rays. His breath was just visible on the morning air, and Bailey walked swiftly so as to generate a bit of heat as he made his way onto the path in the thick forests beyond the fields.

Near dawn, he’d climbed his way up the winding way of the tree’s limbs to the home’s farther reaches, where his sister was already at work. This portion of the old home had been mostly empty for some years—“dormant” Pin liked to say, like it was something that need only be awoken. When the head of their House had died, her first heir already taken by the Wilderness, most of the bustling business had died away with it. Between the loss of basically all leadership and the harsh crop failures in those lean years that followed, nearly a decade later they were still only just clawing their way back. It warmed his heart to see Pin had taken this project on, though, slowly converting unused portions of the rambling home into indoor greenhouses. As long as Talus Mos was wintering with them and available to provide his glasswork expertise, it seemed a worthy endeavor.

Bailey had scrambled up the last wobbly ladder to enter the converted space at floor-level, looking up into the crisscrossing ropes and scaffolds. The two of them were in harness gear, their long blond hair pinned back from their faces. Talus Mos’s hair was braided somewhat sloppily with various violet beads, while Pin’s flowed relatively freely down her back. She’d grown in more recent years, nearly to Airiadnee’s height. And although she was not Violet, Pin acted as Talus Mos’s assistant, now, as he measured and planned how best to construct the necessary racks and shelves for optimal lighting. He’d almost grudgingly warmed to Pin over the years, as she’d grown more into her own person and stopped only being a reminder of his grief.

“Pin!” Bailey called up, and the girl left off to rappel down and dangle upside-down over his head, one hand collecting the pool of her blonde hair to keep it from her face. “How’s it coming along?”

“Par’quick’em,” she said, reflexively putting the hand that was still holding her hair over her cleft lip as she grinned down at him. “Should be’em done before our Sister-Houses visit. ‘S where get’ee, Bailey?” she added, looking to his ear. Unlike the two of them, Bailey kept his hair cropped short, leaving his ears visible. There were two blue rings there, today, the top one showing their House sigil.

“The House of Rush,” he confirmed. “I’ve got to recite the last part of the Dark Epochs, today, first, but afterward I’ll invite them.”

“Don’t forget to bring the House a gift,” Talus Mos called from overhead, still at work. Somewhat unsolicited. It was a hard habit to break; when Bailey had taken over the House at a young age, even his father’s somewhat clumsy advice had been appreciated. But it had been some years since that was really appropriate. Perhaps he read the silence well enough to recognize the gaff, because Talus Mos paused momentarily in what he was doing to add, “Although I’m sure you don’t need reminders, Warden Reed.”

“Of course,” Bailey answered, his tone neutral, recognizing the formal use of title as a form of apology and choosing to be mollified. And seeing that Pin had grown uncomfortable, he managed to dredge up a smile for her. “I should be back sometime tonight, after nightfall. I’ll check the traps on the way home.”

Here she shook her head, though, righting herself so she was no longer upside-down where she hung. “Not in’ee fancy clothes—don’t wan’ee bloody. I’ll check’em.”

He ran a hand over his clothing, and had to admit to the wisdom in that. The rich cloth was intricately embroidered, the colors vibrant, and even on his tall, skinny frame everything fit well. They’d had to carefully save over the past winter to each afford a set of clothing that wouldn’t embarrass them when they went to call on their cousins.

Still, he didn’t much like the idea of her out in the forest alone. Before the Wilderness took her, even Airiadne—who had been strong Yellow and hunting most of her life—often enough took a companion with her, to watch her back and help her take down anything too big. “Have Lee Parable go with you,” he conceded. “He’s wanted something to do while he waited for planting season.”

“Can’em look after myself,” she grumbled, but accepted the order before climbing back up into the higher reaches of the room, and Bailey set off soon after.

Bailey made good time, arriving close to noon at the House of Rush. Unlike his home, which was built in several parts into old, living trees, this Sister-House sprawled over a tributary from the river, their family’s generator mostly fed by its current. The House was alive with humming activity, both from the family and the many hired hands at work to keep the place functioning, much as Bailey remembered his House being when he was a child.

He eventually found a cousin high enough up the House’s ranking to honor their deal, and a short time later Bailey had an audience of some forty-odd to sit and listen to the last of the history lesson. The Dark Epochs of the days immediately following the Ancients’ downfall tended to garner better attendance than other stories, not only from the children first learning their histories, but also from adults who felt it was an important, cautionary tale. It was, by necessity, a long and complicated story to tell, and sometimes a Blue might spend half a season living in a House, further elaborating on minutiae from this tale alone. From the final days of the Ancients’ sprawling empire, to the madness that led them to containing the Word in print, to their deadly machine that captured the sun, and the monsters they left in their wake. In the dark years without sunlight, creatures from beneath the mountains, under the seas, and beyond the stars spread their blighted tendrils onto the sun-forsaken lands. When the sun escaped its prison, its first blast made wastes of the East and decimated what was once fertile land in the South, leaving only deserts. So powerful was the blast that what men it touched, their shadows were sheared away, leaving only these half-men creatures to crawl the earth, and even generations later the blight was on at least half of every one born. Their fleeing shadows eventually shaped the non-men, who it was said still crept these forests on moonless nights. And there were, of course, the clockwork men that still littered the countryside: these made-things that mostly had lost their purpose, who sometimes still awoke to do their long-gone masters’ deeds as servants or, often enough, as war-machines that slaughtered everything in their paths.

He was aware, near the end of his retelling, that the head of the House of Rush had taken time from his schedule to come and listen to the tale. Bailey had been told he looked quite like his mother’s brother, Rush Arlen, and although he’d had little to do with the man directly for a number of years, he could see at a glance it had been an apt comparison. His Blue training served him well in that he did not miss a beat, his recitation remaining precise, his gestures practiced. It was with some relief he finally concluded, but the feeling of being judged didn’t really abate as Warden Rush invited him back to speak more privately in his office. Once there, after he was paid for his performance, Bailey presented him with the twin vials of spices he’d carried from his home, trying not to think of just how dear an expense it had been. If this paid off, it would be worth it.

Warden Rush accepted them with some puzzlement, saying, “Your spice debt has long been paid, Reed Carson.”

“They’re a gift, as part of an invitation from the House of Reed for a gathering, a week from now.”

Honestly, Bailey wouldn’t be surprised if the Houses of Sedge, Fennel, and Runnel hadn’t gossiped to Rush about their own invitations, already, and Warden Rush was just giving himself more time to consider his answer.

He finally mused, “Your House has gone through hard times, since the Lady Reed Beatrice died. It’s been a lot of work for you, I know, but you seem to have grown into your own as a Blue. I’m glad to see you’ve managed to pull through so well.” He saved Bailey the embarrassment of glancing to his ear, many-times pierced to fulfill contracts outside his House. “And your House—it’s still just you and Reed Adelaide, isn’t it?”

Bailey fought the prickle of shame at the admission, “Yes,” their numbers were still pitifully small, with only he and little Pin left. The question also revealed Rush Arlen knew the purpose of this show of wealth and the invitation to the House, a point further clarified as he went on:

“The House of Reed was dwindling even when your mother, my sister, was born into it. Some forty years ago, these Sister-Houses gathered to judge its viability, and even though it was the weaker House in the union, it was hoped new blood would be enough to sustain it. At the time, the ancestral lands were still rich, even if the numbers had dwindled. A child born into that House would still thrive, so concessions were made to honor an old House that seeded so many others.” He set the vials of spice on his desk, and then bowed his head. “Well, I digress on this old history. Your extension of hospitality is well-received, Warden Reed, and I am honored to accept your invitation.”

Bailey bowed his head in kind, and after a few more pleasantries were exchanged, he graciously declined the invitation to stay the night and set off back for his own home. It had gone about as well as could be expected, he consoled himself, and had been a bit warmer reception than he’d had at the other Sister-Houses. Being reminded of one’s House’s poor resources was never a pleasant experience, but it was something that needed to be addressed in these kinds of delicate negotiations. If everything went well, his House only stood to gain, but he still had the long walk home to worry over how he’d handled things. Perhaps he shouldn’t have made the invitation when he was already there on business, somewhat undercutting his show of resources. He had never been very good with people as a whole, and even less so when he was feeling the sting of humiliation. But spending another entire day to deliver the message had seemed wasteful.

While Bailey was thus occupied, he was surprised to look up at one point further along and realize he’d left the path quite far behind. The woods around him were completely unfamiliar, this far from home, and even with many leaves gone from the winter-stripped trees, it was still rather dark under the shelter of their boughs. A cold wave of fear rushed over him, making him momentarily giddy as he tried to calmly reorient himself by the faint shimmers of sunlight and day-stars overhead. He struck out again, listening for the flow of water and alert for any recognizable landmarks. When he spotted a break in the trees up ahead, his long stride quickened a bit until he came abruptly into a clearing.

Or, well, not properly just a clearing. He shivered as he recognized the dark Ancient metal underfoot, that even these millennia later resisted even a weed’s growth. The space was nearly perfectly circular, and at its center was a cube of white stone, nearly as half as tall as he stood. Its sides were unnaturally straight, precise, crisp, not weathered in the slightest. Along the top, a few inches down, was a groove where the top of the cube would presumably slide aside. And he knew he should leave it alone—he’d just finished telling a long story of the folly of the Ancients and their ways, and there were hundreds of other tales of people foolish enough to meddle with whatever they’d left behind. But the pristine nature of the site made Bailey hesitate. Because yes, what the Ancients left behind was often terrible and destructive, but sometimes there were tools, machinery, weapons that were incredibly useful. They all denied it, but every House jealously guarded some piece of Ancient tech they would never admit to having. And if there was something in there that could help his House…

He put his hands on the top of the cube, bracing his legs as he pushed at it. He was not particularly strong, and he imagined he probably would have looked fairly ridiculous to anyone who happened along, trying to shift this enormous slab of stone all by himself. But in a moment, there was a curious kind of release as some internal mechanism reacted and the stone slid aside in one smooth motion, toppling over the other side.

Words. There were words everywhere, he could see now, written all within the cube’s interior. Like the old mantras against evil, the spells that had been meant to hold devastation back when the Ancients still thought themselves invincible. With creeping horror, he realized that whatever they had meant to contain, he’d released it now. And whatever ruin it visited on the land, that was on his head. He should run, if he wanted to have any hope of surviving this. He might even plausibly deny any involvement. But he forced himself to step forward and face this instead, and his knife—for all the good it would do him—was in his hand as he peered inside to where faint sunlight still only just reached.

There was a woman inside. Or the image of a woman, at least. The features so finely and delicately wrought as to be beyond the imagination of even the most skilled glassworker. Her skin was transparent, as was her arteries, veins, muscles, and bones, down into the center of her. Her hair was the most exquisite work he’d ever seen, so light and true-to-life he almost felt he could reach out and brush a strand away from her face. There were bits of cloth on the figure, apparently added after it was created, but time had rendered them little more than dust. Every line of her was true, every inch precise, perfectly formed. She was curled in the fetal position to fit into the box, one arm cushioning her head while the other wrapped around herself, in a posture at once guarded and yet oddly exposed. As if she only slept. The creation was not without its flaws, however. Thin scars marred the cheeks, too straight and purposeful to be made by time or accident. By now he had quite forgotten to feel frightened, and had nearly forgotten how to breathe. But seeing its damage struck something in him, so he almost felt he resonated in sympathy for the imagined pain. The ache just to smooth away the damage was almost overpowering, and he was already trying to imagine how he would get it home, as ungainly as that might be.

The sun had been shining on it for nearly a full minute when his avid gaze caught the first hint of movement. Within the center of her, the tiniest tick. And then another. Gears within her chest beginning to move, processes restarting. There was a spark, somewhere in its center. Not a sculpture, he realized, far too late—a clockwork. Not art, but a tool of the Ancient’s. A wretched shadow of their own minds, and capable of just as much destruction. While it lay there, still and unaware, he knew he should finish the job. Destroy this thing as well as he could. Or at the very least try to shut it away again. But he felt rooted to the spot as the internal mechanism took up a rhythm, and the outer glass surface began to change, clouding over to a skin tone, the hair shifting slightly even in the slight breeze as it darkened to brown. He’d thought it finely made, before, with only the liking of life to it, but that had been nothing to seeing it actually animated. He could see a faint pulse in the neck of what now appeared to only be a young woman, her chest stirring with long, slow breaths. The long dark lashes fluttered against her cheeks. Oh he should smash it to pieces. Stab it with his knife. Shatter it with a rock. Anything. Anything that would stop this tool of the Ancients from fulfilling whatever its awful purpose must be. He knew he should. He almost could.

She opened her eyes. And he knew he was lost.

Oh such eyes of liquid gold, of living flame—he was caught, mesmerized, at once drowning and burning in their depths. He’d half-climbed onto the lip of the cube, almost without his noticing, as he was enticed closer to their warmth. At some point he’d dropped his knife, his hands apparently having little idea what to do with themselves. The tiniest crease was forming between her brows as she looked up at him. A bemused smile tugged at her full lips as she blinked up at the strange man perched at the edge of her tomb, a slender shadow silhouetted against the still-dazzling light. Her limbs were fluid grace as she stretched, minutely, and made to sit up. But the cascades of hair falling all down her back made her startle slightly, drawing her gaze down. She took sudden stock of herself, grasping at the last remains of her clothes and pulling her waist-length hair about herself like a curtain as her face heated to a bright brand of red, the thin scars standing out white against her cheeks.

Strange to say, he hadn’t especially noticed until that moment that she was naked. Oh he had seen that the clothes had long ago deteriorated and her figure was visible underneath the remains. But in the way a sculpture may be unclothed, or a painting may display a form. As a thing that was meant to be viewed and appreciated. It was only when she reacted—not a mere subject, but a full actor in her own right—that she seemed to transform into being actually naked.

He might have made some small sound. His breath catching, or perhaps his throat working. A very minor reaction, all things considered. But apparently it was a step too far. Abruptly she was surging up, all the liquid power of her molten body coming to a point as her hands slammed into him, sending him flying onto his back nearly at the edge of the clearing. He had a moment to wonder if his spine had broken as all the wind was knocked out of him. But his digits all wiggled at his command, and in a moment he was able to dizzily lift his head in time to see the glassworks figure scramble her way out of the cube. Such a funny little thing, really. Her long hair catching on the wind, she cast him one last blushing look before her dainty glass feet hit the ground and she slipped away into the trees.

He let out what little breath he had, and let his head fall back against the ground. Feeling more dazed than actually injured. But somehow still loathe to move, trying to sort out the flood of emotions he seemed to be lazily floating through.

By the time Bailey had regained his feet, she was long gone, and the light with her. He had expected to make the last leg of his journey home in the dark, only that had been with the expectation of the familiar path. Even so, he knew his stars well enough he might have only been minorly inconvenienced. But a late winter squall had blown over the forest, stirring up a flurry, so that he had both the unfamiliar woods, the night, and the transfiguring power of the storm to contend with. The brittle bones of the trees rattled around him, every step just a little bit slower as the accumulating snow dragged at his feet. He put his head down and walked into the wind, squinting ahead for a familiar landmark. A few times he thought he might have regained the path, only to find he instead walked an animal trail. Even realizing his mistakes, he continued to follow them in the hopes they would eventually lead to at least a water source he might recognize.

Many hours later, when he saw the light up ahead, he thought at first they were stars dancing in front of his eyes. His feet were cold lumps in his boots, the wind seeming to pass right through his skinny frame every time it gusted. He forced himself to pick up the pace, teeth chattering too much to even call a greeting as he recognized a familiar face, but raising his hand as he came within the cast of the torch light.

Lee Parable startled as Bailey nearly careened into him on the proper path, almost dropping the torch as his hands naturally formed signed exclamations of silent surprise. Seeing the state he was in, however, Lee Parable quickly recovered and shrugged out of his own overcoat to sling over Bailey’s shuddering shoulders. Never one to waste words, he didn’t ask why Bailey had been so late, nor what had made him leave the path as he led the way back.

The only time he spoke, it was to say, “Something follows us.”

“Yes.”

Lee glanced back at him; seeing no alarm, his pace didn’t quicken. But there was something in the faraway look in Bailey’s eye he didn’t entirely trust, either, so that his guard stayed up. Bailey still felt somewhat dazzled by the light as he followed its bobbing head back to his door. His thoughts felt rather far away even when Pin descended on them both at the door, fluttering about them as they shook off snow and stomped their boots clear. He missed the anxious look exchanged between them as they got Bailey up to the kitchen, seated near the fireplace. Even in its warmth, back in his own kitchen, still he didn’t seem present until Pin stuck an iron needle in his finger to check whether he still bled.

“Ow,” he muttered, brows drawing down as he brought his bleeding thumb to his mouth.

“Apolo’em,” she said, looking less repentant than relieved. “Look’ee so distant and alien. Wasn’t sure Lee Parable hadn’t brought’em some seemling.”

Bailey glanced over to where Lee Parable was holding the fire poker, giving a somewhat more apologetic shrug than Pin had managed as he set the makeshift weapon aside. The Joplin provided quietly, “You left the path.”

“Yes, well. I’d hope if I were actually a creature wearing your brother’s face, you might have noticed before I was brought into the household,” Bailey grumbled at Pin as she pressed a hot mug of something that smelled medicinal into his hands. “Or leant it your coat. Thank’ee, for that,” he added, returning the heavy garment to its rightful owner. As Lee Parable was hanging it up to dry over the fire, Bailey caught Pin still giving him a narrow look. “What, a drop of blood wasn’t enough for you, you terribly suspicious child?”

“What happened out there?” she asked, quietly. “Look’ee… different. Like’ee not all here, still.”

“I’m a bit rattled. I got lost hours ago,” he side-stepped, drinking from his mug to buy time. Nose wrinkling as he gagged it down. “’Sblood, Pin, this is terrible.”

“That’s how’ee know’s medicine,” she answered, primly.

She still didn’t seem wholly satisfied with his explanation, but she stopped pressing while Lee Parable drew up a chair to sit with them and share their company for a while. They kept the conversation fairly light, for as long as he was there. He was very nearly family—he’d helplessly adored Bailey’s older sister, Airiadnee, before the Wilderness has claimed her, and he’d been a fairly dependable friend in all the intervening years since—but there were some things that really should only be discussed within the House. So they spoke in broad terms of their day. Lee mentioned that, for all that this was a late storm, most other signs pointed towards an early spring and an early planting. Pin shared that they’d had a minor setback that afternoon in construction when one of the giant birds that populated the region had tried to poke its enormous beak in through the open glass panel where Talus Mos had been working, and that it hadn’t gone away until Pin had shot at it—and missed—with three arrows.

After Lee Parable eventually left to get some rest, Bailey poked up the fire. Distracted by the dancing light, he found his thoughts wandering, yet again, to the glasswork woman. Wondering how it was her eyes had seemed to contain this same flame. Whether it had been caught at the time of her forming, or whether she generated it anew under those fleeting rays of sunlight.

“Was’t that bad?” Pin asked, stirring him from these musings. “The meeting with Rush?”

“Hmm? Oh,” he set the poker aside, coming to sit back down. “No. No, it was fine. They accepted our invitation. Warden Rush was a bit blunter than the other Houses have been: that they’re going to be judging us pretty harshly, to see if it’s even worth it to help us out. But if he’s not entirely sympathetic, I also don’t think he’s adverse to our position.”

“But might be all’s for nothing,” Pin said, hand creeping to her mouth in an unconscious comfort gesture.

“It might be,” he agreed, wishing he could spare her this frank discussion. It still seemed too heavy a thing to put on her shoulders, even recognizing he’d been even younger than she was now when he’d had to take over as head of the House. He knew she wasn’t a baby anymore, but over the years he’d tried to shield her at least a little from how dire their situation had become. “If they don’t think our House has a future, there’d be no point in naming one more Reed.”

She sighed, but nodded, the atmosphere primarily somber. Houses died, sometimes, when resources or members dwindled too low. They both knew that, intellectually, but it was another thing entirely to live it. On the whole, when a child was going to be born, the two Houses involved would negotiate to provide the new baby with the most resources—deciding which House was stronger and naming the child there. If the Houses were on approximately equal footing, sometimes the child was given to one family in concession for some other trade or promise. But if your House sank low enough, there was little negotiating power, and very few offers would tempt even the greediest House to allow a child to be born into an impoverished name. Occasionally a stronger Sister-House might step in on your behalf to help with negotiations, or they might offer up a fosterling of their own just to keep the House alive. An extreme measure, but sometimes a necessary one.

“Well,” Pin shook these heavy thoughts off, sighing as she stood. “Have’em impress, then, so’s favor’em.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Bailey said, feigning more confidence than he felt, toying with the end of one of his sleeves.

“Go to bed, gloomy,” she said on her way out, not fooled. “It’ll look brighter, tomorrow.”

He nodded, absently, but stayed where he was seated for some time longer, his eyes trailing to the gusts of snow blowing past the enormous windows. Telling himself that he’d primarily imagined he’d heard another set of footsteps trudging through the snow during the long trek home. That Lee Parable’s flame was the first and only light he’d seen in the dark. And that a glass creation couldn’t feel the cold.

The intent still hadn’t entirely formed in his mind when he made his way to the sewing bin. There were a few articles still set to be mended, and others that just hadn’t been put away. This simple old dress of Pin’s, for instance, had been in here for half a year by now. He’d put off repairing it for so long that by the time he’d mended the hem, the child had far outgrown it, shooting up like a weed last summer. So it wasn’t like she would even miss it, really. Wherever it ended up. He told himself he was only going outside to check when he dug out his coat and refastened his boots to his feet. What he was going to check he didn’t quite confront, nor the purpose behind bringing this old dress with him. He stepped into the yard, and from there back beneath the trees. Hearing nothing but the wind winding its way overhead and his own footsteps crunching a new path. When he came to a stump some little ways in, he casually lay the dress there. Pausing for only a moment to feel rather foolish before retreating to the house again. He kept his eyes on the welcoming kitchen lights, moving steadily onward and not looking back. Even when he heard the soft, distinct sounds of fabric rustling behind him.

***

The snow had stopped by early morning. Within hours of dawn, the sun had melted off most of the accumulation. As if to rewrite the prior day and erase all trace of its passing.

Bailey rather wished such a thing were possible. His first thought on waking had been a kind of wordless panic that sent him catapulting from his hammock to the window, his hands dragging distracted through the ends of his hair as he thought back on the day before, as one might recall a particularly bewildering dream. Had he taken complete leave of his senses? Bad enough that he’d awoken some Ancient evil and let it follow him home. Had he actually gone out into the storm last night and given it a Wind-bitten dress?

No, he couldn’t have been that thoughtless. Or self-destructive. Or selfish. Foolish. Irresponsible. Short-sighted. Reckless.

He was on around his third iteration for insults directed at himself when he firmly decided to just push it from his mind. He would just go on as if it had never happened. And hopefully that would be the end of it.

And it wasn’t as if there weren’t a host of issues to otherwise occupy his thoughts. He had a week to prepare for his cousins’ arrival and show off just how well they were doing. And then there was the seasonal hiring coming around again, the work orders to sort, a few more inquiries into whether a good herbalist wouldn’t be willing to apprentice Pin, do another check for any broken windows before the next windy season, and he still needed to go back through and catalogue what they might need from the next passing tinker or whether an actual trip to town would be necessary. Not to mention the seventh-year tithe would be due, and he’d sooner trust his own sums than accept the calculated tax on good faith.

When Pin finally tracked him down late that afternoon, he had therefore had a very busy day with legitimate House business to keep him entirely preoccupied. His long pipe was clamped between his teeth, the thick, colored smoke pooling around the ankles of the stool he was perched on as he distractedly puffed away. The little workroom he’d claimed was covered in little tapestry notations and glass panels of receipts and tallies. In his lap, he had a complicated tangle of strings and beads he was busy braiding together as he muttered under his breath and occasionally jabbed at a little button-covered machine at his side that gave very unhelpful dings at certain intervals. This only seemed to make him type in his sums in an angrier fashion, soliciting ever-shriller dings.

“Oughta just hire’ee Red,” Pin opined.

“Nearly finished,” he said around his pipe, not looking up. “What ‘s it, Pin, busy’em.”

“Found’em this outside, this morning. Know’ee where it came from?” Pin asked, setting something down on a small empty corner of the table.

Still trying to keep a running count going in his head, Bailey was leaning over to grab a red bead from the farther edge of the table when he glanced at it. And then promptly fell off his stool.

It was her. The glasswork woman he’d freed the day before. The creature of living light, of fluid art, of a solid fucking punch, and he was already quite winded again as he scrambled to his feet, choking on a breath of smoke and ignoring Pin’s surprised exclamation. Because of course it wasn’t actually her. It was only a figurine, barely the size of his ring finger. And yet so clearly it was her features: the little slope of her somewhat bulbous nose, the twin scars on her cheeks, the long hair, the rather bottom-heavy shape. As small as it was, every bit of it was still finely, carefully formed—if he squinted hard enough, he thought he could see little fingernails shaped in the clear glass.

“Where’d’ee get’s?” he demanded, eyes watering as he continued to cough up a lung.

“It was on the stoop, this morning. Bailey, what ‘s it? ‘S wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s… nothing to worry about,” he said, picking up the stool and avoiding eye contact. Busying himself with tapping out his pipe, pounding his fist on his chest to get the last of his coughs out. “Apolo’em, Pin, I just took a bad breath, there. I think I’ve been doing these sums for too long. Well, it’s a cute figure. Are you sure Talus Mos didn’t make it?”

“He’s good,” she conceded. “But don’t think’em ever done anything quite this close to life. Almost looks to breathe, doesn’t it?”

“Mm,” he had to agree, and though he had just finished telling himself he should feign indifference, his eye was dragged back to studying the figurine. Almost, yes, he could imagine its tiny breast stirred with breath. He remembered how the actual glasswork had begun with a small ticking of her internal mechanism to signal her return to life and motion.

“’S odd, it turning up on our door. ‘N it almost seems trying to say something, doesn’t it?”

This, too, he had to acknowledge. The figure was curtsying, wearing the dress he’d left outside. She was peeking from behind the curtain of her hair, but even if the little figurine hadn’t been designed with its face visible at all, the posture was obviously one of embarrassed gratitude.

“Strange subject, too. Not a classic beauty. But ‘s something charming about it.”

Something warm and brilliant, captivating and achingly alive. The way a trampled little flower with half its petals missing was still just as lovely, almost improved for its idiosyncrasies. Such a funny little thing, looking just rather unfairly adorable in that hand-me-down dress. Yes, he supposed it was possible someone might get that impression.

And maybe he should be more cautious. Maybe this figurine carried some bit of that Ancient thing’s consciousness and it was only here to spy on them, and he would do better to smash it. Or destroy it anyway, just because of where it came from. But even such thoughts were fleeting—he could no more seriously consider shattering this than he could the actual glasswork.

He glanced over to find Pin not trying especially hard to hide her grin. “What?” he demanded.

“Are’ee blushing, Bailey?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered, which only seemed to be making the heat in his face worse. “Don’t you have work to do?”

Pin gave a delighted laugh. “Oh, are’ee awful’some liar, Bailey. Should’ee just told me had’ee sweetheart, dolty-face. La, now it all makes sense! This’s why’ee’ve suddenly pushed so hard for our Sister-Houses to step in on your behalf, isn’t it? To help negotiate with her House? Oh, sneak’ee, should’ve just told me!”

“Pin, you know that’s absurd. This deal with our Sister-Houses has taken years of careful planning—“

“Is this where’ee were yesterday, when’ee got lost?”

“I don’t know where you get the basis for this fantasy you’ve concocted—“ he started, rather uncomfortable with just how close she was guessing.

“Know’em family? Wait, let me see,” she said, picking the figurine up and skipping back out of Bailey’s reach as she squinted at its features. “Her hair’s even longer’n straighter’n mine. But got’em almost a bit of a Mountain’some look about’em, doesn’t she? Ah, ah!” she cautioned, darting around the side of the table as Bailey tried to snatch the glass figure from her hands. “Let me guess the House. ‘S it Vale? Ponderosa? Luna? But no, stick’em close to home. Almost Aster, and get’em strong Violet. ‘S not Mountain garb, though—almost looks like one of my old dresses.”

“Well if you’re quite finished, I’m going for a walk,” Bailey announced, trying to salvage what was left of his dignity.

“Are’ee going to see her, again? Can I meet’em?” she asked, nearly hopping with excitement.

“No, no, you seem to be doing quite well enough playing make-believe over there.”

“I’ll quit teasing,” Pin pledged. “I know it can be delicate, these negotiations, early on, ‘n I won’t go blabbering to everyone.”

“That’s very fortunate, as there’s no one to meet, you silly thing. There isn’t,” he insisted at her disbelieving pout. “I just need to get some air and check on the traps.”

“All right, keep’ee secrets.” Pin huffed, taking his vacated seat. “But tell’em I said ‘hi!’” she called after him, so that he flinched and glanced around lest anyone else had heard her. At this point not really sure whether he should be more hopeful or horrified at the idea running into the glasswork girl again.

***

Under the cover of the trees, the sun had not yet completely melted away the new snowfall by the time Bailey made his way outside. He was better dressed for the weather, this time around. His fancy clothing he’d packed away again, but his homespun and thick jacket served him in good stead. He readjusted the quiver on his back and held his bow at the ready as he followed a different path from the one he’d tread the day before, walking south to check the traps and see if he could scare up some larger game.

A scant ten minutes had passed when he first spotted the footprints off the path. Relatively small tracks compared to his, carrying the imprint of a bare foot. Another hour’s melt might have obliterated their mark entirely, but he could clearly see which direction they headed: away from the house and towards where he knew there were some old ruins. And maybe he should leave it at that. Let this thing pass out of his life and just be grateful that it hadn’t brought ruin on them all.

His gut told him he’d only narrowly dodged tragedy. His head accepted this notion as sound. And yet he found his feet turned off the path as his heart beat rather too quickly in his chest.

These ruins had been picked apart, over the many years. Only a few sophisticated Red Houses knew how to rework some of the most durable of the Ancient metal like the site where the glasswork had been entombed. But the Ancients had also made their buildings of stone and glass parts that were more easily scavenged. What was left at these ruins was therefore little more than a skeleton of some of the crumbled buildings, not worth dismantling, overgrown with vegetation. It had been built on the edge of a steep drop-off, beyond which the Kin River could be seen still winding its way east before it flowed northward.

It was on the ledge of a dilapidated wall that he spotted her again. She was sitting with her skirts bunched up around her knees, bare feet swinging freely as she looked out over the ledge into the forest. She’d retained her color, but looking up at her profile, he could see that where, before, her expression had been lively and animated, she appeared more withdrawn, now. A cold wind blew, pulling her hair out like a long banner. And while she didn’t shiver, her posture was stiff, and she carried herself rather carefully, as if holding together all the cracks in her glass skin.

“This used to all be city,” she finally spoke. She had an accent he couldn’t quite place, reflective of a place and a time that no longer existed. Her voice a bit deeper than he might have imagined, for her little frame. Perhaps it was only a component of the glass, though, because the chiming resonance of the sound seemed to be finding a place somewhere in his sternum. “So much of what I remember before my long dreaming passes through me, like the sun through my palm,” she said, considering her hand as its color faded to clear and then returned. “But I do know this: the forests had only been lonely oases between the roads. And a city had thrived here, from one end of the horizon to the next.”

His eyes were still captivated by the hand she’d held aloft, and he spoke unthinkingly. “Why didn’t the Ancients make you in their image, with six fingers?”

“Make me?” She seemed to genuinely consider the question as she turned over her hand. “No,” she spoke slowly, her voice rather distant. “No, I made this. I remember shaping every finger to replace the ones I’d have to leave behind. Six was common, but, no, not everyone had that many. And when they said the end was coming, that what would be left of our bodies would be less than human anyway…”

She trailed off and then stopped studying her hands, instead using them to collect her hair and twist it aside. This done, she finally looked down to fully acknowledge Bailey’s presence. He was gazing up in some wonder, still reeling from this information, in many ways worse than he’d suspected: to be not only a tool of the Ancients, but one of them herself. Or what was left of one, under all that vagueness and formed glass. Created to escape the calamity of their world ending. She said she remembered little, but how much of it was forbidden and dangerous? She said she’d made this only to survive, but who knew what terrible purpose might be buried deep in her programming?

 She seemed to become more self-aware under his eye, now fidgeting where she sat. The little movements betraying some inner drive, a richer sense of self than any created thing could boast. Not a creature, not a tool, not an emissary of the Ancient’s evils. Just a young woman whose world had ended and who had survived it as best she could.

“I’m sorry I pushed you. It… I was disoriented, and you were perched there a strange man all bird bone and sunshine, and y-you had such a light in your eye it’s a wonder I could keep my glass innards from melting, but that’s… that’s no excuse, and I’m sorry. And thank you, for the dress, too I… I d-didn’t know if…”

Maybe there was something a little off in her wind-up. She was turning rather red again, and took the opportunity of hopping down from her high spot on the old wall to try to collect herself. She noted how he flinched when her feet touched down on the hard stone, and she offered a small smile that made the cracks in her cheeks shift in a strange way that ultimately was rather charming. She smoothed down her skirts, her hair spilling free around her shoulders and down her back. Such a comical little contradiction she made as she reassured, “I’m more durable than I look.”

Is that why he felt like he was the one who had been shattered? “Yes,” he managed, “I can see that, now.”

He hadn’t really been aware he’d taken a step closer to her until he saw the way she tensed. Not a strict fear response, perhaps, but a kind of wariness that made him immediately halt, to let the tension drain away again. Strange to think she would have anything to fear from him, but it didn’t seem a wise thing to confront just then.

“The cities aren’t all gone,” he offered, pointing over the drop off. “Another half-day’s walk brings you to a little town. And far beyond that, in the desert, is the empire’s hub.”

“Empire?” she murmured, mostly to herself. “No, that… doesn’t sound familiar. At all. How… how long have I been…?” She seemed to catch herself, though, focusing on him again. “Sorry, I guess you wouldn’t know, I was just thinking out loud and…”

“Oh. I might know,” Bailey said, tone casual, suddenly becoming preoccupied with his sleeve cuffs. He felt the burning light of her interested gaze on him and tried very hard to keep his voice lofty and academic. “If I had a few more details I could be more exact. But judging by the technology that went into forming your body, from your tomb, and from your memory of there being a city here—you were right on the cusp of the last of the Ancient Era, before we entered the sunless times of the Dark Epochs. I just finished reciting those histories to my cousins, as it happens, so I know the stories well. But even that tale is days in telling and, really, that’s only the beginning of it from your time. We’ve passed through many eras since then, just to get where we are now.”

“I suppose… I’ll pick it up as I go,” she began dubiously, looking off the way he’d pointed. “Because so much of my memory is a smudge on my mind’s eye, I could just try to make the best of what I have? Start fresh in that town down there?”

Her mouth was setting with determination as the thought seemed to take hold, her resolve firming. But was that really such a good idea? Walking in blind, without a House to speak for her, without a clue as to custom? Amongst strangers who could, at any time, divine her origin? He told himself that it was only the thought that this could somehow be traced back to him that made him feel a lurch of panic, his words a little rushed as he offered, “I could fill you in, on what you’ve missed. Not all of it. But enough to get by. If you like.”

She hesitated, and he tried to keep his face neutral, eyes directed to the side as she considered this alternative. “I don’t want to impose,” she began.

“You made that little figurine, didn’t you?”

“Y-es?” she said, stretching the word out. “Sorry, I didn’t know if you’d… want to actually see me again after…”

“How did you make it, out here? I didn’t see any tools.”

“Well, um, yeah, but there’s old glass all over the ground, here.”

He glanced to her and she colored a bit as if embarrassed, again. But she bent to the ground to demonstrate, shifting the old rubble between her fingers. As he watched, the glass bits—smoothed almost into pebbles by time—began to glow a hot red, growing malleable and stretching as she teased it into a little flower shape. And then, just as quickly, formed it back into a ball and dropped the red-hot glass back to the ground.

“That’s very useful,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “Can you also use tools, if someone were watching you?” At her hesitant nod, he said, “Well. If you’re that good at glasswork, you’ll have a steady career. There’s always more work to be done, even if it’s in construction and repair and not fine art. There are some projects around my home—you can help, there, while I tell you a shortened version of the histories. As kind of an informal contract.”

“That… actually sounds perfect. Okay, it’s a deal!” she agreed, moving forward and snatching up his hand in sudden enthusiasm.

He’d just watched her melt glass with those fingers. He wondered at himself, that his first instinct had still been to clasp her hand in return. Frankly, under the circumstances, he probably deserved to have his whole limb charred off for that. But her hand was only warm to the touch, as any person’s would be. Her beaming expression somehow making him feel a little brighter, a little lighter. How could someone have created glass eyes with so much depth to them—even if she had been some master worker in her prior life, how had she captured that nuance? Even from only a step away, her façade was flawless, every glass hair of her eyelashes perfectly formed.

To the eye. His hand knew better. She was warm, yes, but the texture of her skin was still smooth, hard, unyielding glass. It was worth remembering, he told himself sternly, even as she released him and danced back a few steps again, looking a bit flustered.

“Sorry, I… Yes, that sounds like a good plan. And thank you. Um. So what should I…? I actually forgot to ask your name.”

“It’s Carson, of the House of Reed,” he replied, somewhat relieved to have a protocol to fall back on. “And if your memory is still a smudge—I suppose you don’t remember what you were called.”

“Actually, there’s something engraved on my sole, so I think that must be right,” she said, balancing on one foot as she looked at the bottom. “See, it says ‘Catherine Derringer,’ so either that’s me, or someone was having a real laugh with me while I was—“ She looked up, startled at his sudden movement. He’d stepped away from her, and she was surprised by how bloodless he’d gone. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes were riveted on the words. “Can you get rid of that?” he asked, hoarsely. “The way you made your skin color, or even if burn’ee out’s—can’ee remove that?” She put her foot back down, and he was finally able to meet her eye, seeing how tense she was again. “The written Word can’t be suffered,” he started, but even trying to explain it seemed too much to bear just then.

Ultimately, he shook his head, the long gap of history between them. Taking his kerchief from his pocket, he knelt in front of her. And, although she was still quite confused, she permitted him to tie the fabric over her foot like he was wrapping a wound, hiding it from view.

He straightened, already visibly calmer. “Perhaps that’s where we’ll begin, then.”

***

They had a somewhat circuitous path back to the house as Bailey took the opportunity to first check his hunting traps and try to lay some groundwork for telling the histories. Although she was full grown and seemed to have some fuzzy memory of her life during the Ancient times, it seemed best not to rely on that recollection and just try to start from scratch. He therefore approached this latter task as he would for any very young student, which meant essentially going all the way back. The glasswork woman, he found, made for a fairly receptive audience, and once she’d forgotten a bit of her nervousness, she had copious questions about nearly everything: What was this Word? How does a Word speak itself? Why did the Wind have a will but most other things in the cosmos didn’t? How do you eat a Word? Was this supposed to be allegorical? And so on and so forth, but she had to outright stop him when he got around to talking about writing being part of what caused the Ancient’s end.

“That can’t be right,” she insisted, pushing her hair out of her face again.

The forest path here was a bit narrow, but she turned sideways and trotted to keep up just so she could confront Bailey on this.

“Writing is—it’s how you learn! There’s just no way to communicate aloud all that information. And if you had specialized knowledge, it would get lost if you didn’t tell enough people before you died.”

“We get by.”

“But how is this any worse than just speaking? Isn’t that also messing with the Word, or whatever?”

“Some think so,” he conceded. “North of here, the Joplins only allow the children to speak, and adults are expected to know better. So they sign—“ “See, that’s also language!”

“—as people were intended to, without treading into the specific domain reserved to the Word. But for most people, just speaking isn’t profane in the way trapping the Word in immutable forms would be.” He glanced to her, and seeing her somewhat mutinous expression, said, “This isn’t debatable.”

“It just seems so… backwards. And inefficient.”

“It’s the way of the world, Derringer Cater—Catherine,” he said, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar word.

“Cat’s fine,” she brushed it off, missing his look of quickly-controlled surprise.

“I can say it properly, Derringer Catherine,” he said, somewhat stiffly, as if to prove that he could.

“Hmm, well. So, wait, you don’t keep any records?”

“Oh. No, we do. In beadwork, or made in glass sheet grooves. As approximations of the ideas, and mostly to keep track of House business.”

“Seems like cheating,” she muttered as they stepped from the path to visit the third trap. She absentmindedly gathered up the hem of her skirt to lift it away from the melting snow, otherwise seeming oblivious to the cold conditions. “And it also just seems like the wrong lesson to learn, here. I know we must have done a lot wrong, but for you guys all to take from that that illiteracy was preferable to—good God!” she broke off as she spotted something caught in the trap, her feet scrambling backwards so that she nearly fell right on the slushy earth. “What the hell is that?”

Bailey wasn’t entirely certain, himself. Creatures could look so different, when they were as sick as this one was. He couldn’t tell if it had initially had that rat tail, or if that was another product of the mange that left clumps of matted, bloody hair scattered about the trap from the creature’s thrashing. The trap itself wasn’t designed to permanently injure, but it’s skin was so delicate even its attempts to free itself had resulted in most of the flesh sloughing off. It had what looked like six functional limbs, and one boneless one growing from about midway up its hind-quarters. Its milky eye told him it had likely been blind from birth. Its open sores wiggled with parasites that seemed to have come from within.

“Not fit to eat,” he sighed, drawing his knife to put it out of its misery. He avoided the snap of its spindly teeth to slit its throat. The blood that wept from the wound was sluggish and thick, and he quickly wiped his blade clean in some of the melting snow. He’d need to find another place to reset the trap, let the forest reclaim this patch while the carcass rotted.

Derringer had been quiet while he did this, her face a mixture of disgust and pity. “Are there… a lot of things out here, like that?”

“Not as many as there used to be. They’re born sick, so most don’t live long enough to reproduce. And we’ve done a pretty thorough job of killing the ones that do manage to survive. It’s been a slow process, but now it’s fairly few and far between you find one as bad off as this.”

She was more reticent, again, as she followed him back to the path. Her colors seemed a bit muted, the bright gold of her eye dimmed as she watched the ground. Eventually, she offered softly, “We really screwed up, didn’t we.”

He didn’t dispute it. “There’s more. And there aren’t enough steps between here and the house to tell it all. It’s more than just the writing on your foot: you’re going to need to be on your guard against anyone discovering your origins. The Ancients were powerful and fearless, but their ingenuity was often tainted with their own self-destructive tendencies. What we have from the Ancients, their machines or their medicines, we have slowly tested over the course of generations. Anything new—anything unexpected or potentially dangerous—we generally destroy. Clockworks are a mixed bag, sometimes still useful and able to repeat the functions for which they were made. I’ve never heard of one quite like you,” he admitted, “but as I say, that doesn’t help you much, because that means you’re wholly new.”

“You destroy things just because you don’t understand them?” she asked, and as shaken as she still was, she couldn’t quite hide the contempt in her voice. “Seems a bit barbarous.”

“You think so? Ah, well. Perhaps we are a barbarous people.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“In the Era of Coldstill, five generations from the Sun’s release,” he cut her off, making a sign of the era to signal the start of the lesson, “was the township of Casing, named for the Ancient tech casing in the town’s center. Near the base of the Mountains was it founded, during the times when the kingdoms were still forming and the fertile plains were yet unruled. Being so near the Mountains, they carried on the city-state form of government, where no family has any kind of direct political voice as our Houses give us. Casing was a bustling town that made use of the rich farmland, timber, natural ores from the mountainside, and, most importantly, the Ancient’s treasures they mined with impunity. They knew the dangers, but laughed at them as old superstitions from the ignorant and cowardly. And for a time, they seemed justified. The township of Casing grew and thrived, utilizing Ancient technology to tend their crops, to gather resources more easily, to subdue their enemies. It was a beautiful town, by all accounts. If you have the stomach for it, you can still go see it. The city is there, as it likely will be until the sun finally winks out: every inch of it, every paving stone, every child, every blade of grass, perfectly preserved from where they were covered in the Ancient dark metal that does not corrode. No one is sure exactly how it happened. Some think the Ancient artifact at the town center used to be some sort of city-maker, meant to create buildings in an instant, as some of the stories say, and that it was only that the controls had some internal miscalculation. Others think it might have been sabotage, from ones trying to punish them for their hubris. Whatever it was, it must have happened in an instant, to capture them like that, totally encased in metal, without a hint of fear or knowledge of their impending end. And so it remains, as a reminder to those who would needlessly meddle with the Ancient’s things.”

The forest path was a bit narrower, here, requiring that they go one-by-one. At his back, Derringer seemed to be absorbing the story, too engrossed in its implications to even interrupt with a question. Her steps were slowing, and when she stopped entirely, he turned back. She stood on the path, her hands twisting the fabric of her skirt in a nervous gesture. Her head was bent slightly, the long sweep of her hair partially obscuring her face. The angle of light through the trees showed her skin had become somewhat translucent again, casting refracted light onto the earth around her. At the neckline of her dress, Bailey could just make out a shadow of her inner workings as they hummed away inside of her, a perfect mechanism of engineering and art that still somehow didn’t account for the spark of living light in her eyes as her gaze darted up to meet his.

“If that’s all true,” she said, “if Ancient things are so terrible—why are you taking me back with you? Why did you wake me up at all?”

“Ah, well. It figures. All this knowledge of history, and apparently I’m still not very wise.” He could see she wasn’t satisfied with that answer, her silence prompting further response. “The histories are reminders. They help guide us. But we can still reason for ourselves. As I say, I don’t know that there’s ever been another like you. We’re warned from unintentionally injuring ourselves from technology left behind by the Ancients. But you aren’t a thing that was left behind you’re… a person. Misplaced in time. If you hurt me, it will be by your own volition. Is that your intention?”

“No. Not intentionally,” she said, and he rather wished she hadn’t sounded so solemn about it. She was looking at her hands, again, something pained flickering over her features. “I remember making this form. So there must have been something, before. But… I can’t really tell you I was that same person, for sure. Maybe this is only a… casing, for a very sophisticated machine with a facsimile of life.”

“Well,” he said. “If you are just clockwork—at that level of sophistication, is there really any difference?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. She let her hand drop, her opacity returning as she straightened her back and gestured him on ahead of her towards the house. “But I can see why you might caution against putting that question to the public at large. It seems more something I’d rather work out for myself, rather than risk just having any old person decide it’d be a good idea to try and smash me.”

From behind, she saw a shudder run over his skinny frame. He tried to shake it off as owing to the weather as he readjusted his coat, but she could see his ears had reddened a bit with the emotion he’d suppressed. A curiously visceral response as he only gave a brief nod of agreement and swiftly changed the subject.

When they finally reached the house, the day was deepening towards twilight, again. The faint speckles of the stars that had persisted through midday now reclaimed the sky in earnest as the heavy red sun gave way for another night. One day closer to when the Sister-Houses would be arriving to judge their progress and determine their viability.

That seemed like something to worry about tomorrow, though. For now, Bailey was trying to figure out how to get the glasswork woman into the house without exciting unnecessary attention. It was inevitable that Pin would discover their visitor, of course. But he could only hope she would keep true to her promise of discretion, even if this wasn’t exactly what Pin had had in mind. Better to have everything sorted and above board even before he saw anyone else. So he avoided the front and the kitchen entrance. From a distance he had spotted Lee Parable heading in from the fields—his sensitive skin heavily veiled even against the weak winter sun, carrying a soil-testing apparatus slung over his shoulders—but Bailey had only given a wave of acknowledgement. He then hustled Derringer Catherine around the side at the base of one of the trees that made up a farther wing. The bark was worn smooth where generations had placed their hands, so that even if she weren’t following right behind, Derringer probably could have made her way up to his bedroom window. It was a rather charming little room, she reflected, shimmying down from the wide sill. A bit cluttered, perhaps. A hammock was strung up near the window they’d entered, with the thick coverlets on it rucked a bit. Elsewhere were incidentals people tended to collect wherever they might stay for long, the way dust gathers in the corners of a room: a half-finished tapestry, some baskets of yarn, a few little machines, clothing stored more or less in bins, a few glass figurines that caught the light. A kind of litter of life. She wondered, suddenly, what her room had looked like. It made her feel a little less real, to not even have such a banal way to mark her history.

Bailey had been checking the hallway. It hadn’t really occurred to him until they’d arrived, but he was not unaware of just how much of his private life he’d unwittingly exposed to her. Seeing the hall was empty, he hastened her out of the room with no small amount of relief.

They were curiously twisty hallways, rather narrow and tall for the most part, with sunroofs high above and more rooms and alcoves speckled down their path. Eventually they came back to the accounting room where Bailey had passed most of the day, and he was chagrinned to find that Pin had left the glass figure of Derringer right in the middle of his workspace. Determined not to let it rattle him, he merely cleared a space to quickly draw up a simple contract that would pass inspection. He also took the opportunity to supply her with an old satchel and directed her to make a bowl and utensils for herself from some of the glass—the bare minimum anyone would leave home with—so she at least had the appearance of having traveled there. He then dug out a violet earring for her. Trying heartily to ignore the little thrill that swept over him when her fingers brushed over his.

“This looks like your ring,” she said, turning over the earring to look at the tree design as she nodded to the ring on his hand.

“Well I should hope so; it’s my House’s sigil.”

“It’s pretty. Although some might say a symbol that means a specific thing is a kind of word,” she said, a smile breaking out across her face at his disgruntled frown. She pushed her hair back a bit from her face as she considered, “I don’t even know if my ears are pierced, come to think of it. Can you see if…?”

He kept his expression still as he managed a mute nod and got up to go to her side of the worktable. She was perched on another stool, there, her feet nowhere near the ground. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, cheeks only slightly pink, head cocking to give him better access. He was trying to still the trembling in his fingers as he finally was given permission to touch—and yet reigned in the temptation, so that he only lightly brushed her hair to the side. Still marveling in the warm flow of her locks over his fingers. Her eyes were lowered, eyelashes skimming the top of her scarred cheeks. He saw her shiver slightly as he uncovered the shell of her ear and found they were indeed pierced. Wordlessly, he took the glass earring from her and fastened it in place.

He stepped back, quickly, as she reached up to feel the earring, spilling her hair over her other shoulder. She seemed oblivious to the effect she had on him as she mused, “I suppose it must seem a strange thing not to know about yourself. To exist in a body you don’t seem to properly own. But every time I try to recall, it’s as if I’m looking back through fogged glass. I can make out… fragments. Sometimes the shape of it more than anything. But few details. I wonder if it was because of what I did to myself, to make me like this—or if in the long centuries of my sleep, it all simply faded out of me. Like an old book left out in the elements, the sun leeching all my colors and words away.” She stirred herself, glancing to him and saying, “Um. Or I guess not a book. Since you don’t… Sorry. So, what now?”

What indeed. He had been puzzling over it while he’d been drawing up the contract, until then mostly acting on instinct. He’d considered just trying to hide her in various projects about the rambling house and just make time to give her history lessons as well he could. But that ultimately seemed a recipe for disaster if Pin stumbled upon her and launched an interrogation. Better to act as if there were nothing to hide and keep this within his control. So he said, “I can show you to where they’re working on the new greenhouse. It’s glasswork, but less technical skill involved than your talents actually warrant—mostly grunt work—so it won’t take much of your concentration while I fill you in on more of the histories.”

“Who’s working on it now?” she asked, following where he led back out into the hall.

“Oh. Well. My fauder, Talus Mos, mostly, but my little sister has been assisting him.”

He spoke casually, but he was toying with the cuff of his sleeve and walking a bit quicker to try to cut off conversation. Eventually their windy path took them out on a farther limb and up through the floor of a rounded room perched on a higher bough. She squinted up through where the fading daylight was being caught by the clever play of glass panels. Grunt work, indeed!

Up along one of the high, sloping walls, she could see two people in harness at work: an older man and a teenage girl, carefully fitting one of the glass panels into the wall. The girl held it in place while the man made a few minor adjustments and then carefully ran a glowing-hot tool along the joining seam, to do a first seal. He nodded his approval, and the girl let go, glancing down for the first time.

“Oh!” she said, her eye immediately falling on Derringer Catherine. Her hand leap to her mouth, even as it split in a wide grin and she began to giggle uproariously.

“What’s funny?” the man demanded, also looking down but seeing little amusing about the situation.

Pin was already rappelling down almost faster than she could dole out the slack. “And who’s’ee, stranger?” she asked, in mock-shock.

“This is my sister, Reed Adelaide. And she’s Derringer Catherine. She’s been hired on to help out a bit.”

“Has’em, Bailey?”

Pin was grinning fit to burst while her brother pretended not to know what she was on about. Derringer wasn’t feigning being in the dark, at least, and could only try to return a somewhat confused smile of her own as the girl transferred her attention to the newcomer. Derringer could see the family resemblance between the two of them—both being rather tall and willowy blonds—and even with Pin’s cleft lip, the facial structure was fairly similar. She was also a bit annoyed that even with this sapling she had to look up to see Pin’s smile turn conspiratorial.

“So’ee came after all?” she stage-whispered. “La, but aren’t’ee na’much bigger’n your figurine’n all.”

“She’s here to help put up the greenhouse,” Bailey said, firmly.

“Don’t’ee worry. I won’t tell,” Pin assured her, ignoring him.

“Oh, uh, o-okay,” Derringer said, a bit dazed.

“And get’em lots’some time to talk, while we work!”

“You brought on new help?” Talus Mos was making his way down quite a bit slower. “I told you we’d finish before your Sister-Houses arrived. I keep my word,” he said, a bit stiffly.

“I know you do. But I need Pin elsewhere.”

Pin, seeing her chance to interrogate the newcomer slipping away, set up an exuberant protest that she was learning a useful skill and they’d already had setbacks, so they needed all hands on this to finish in time. At the same time, Talus Mos was arguing this wasn’t what they’d agreed to, they were all going to be in the way of one another, and that he still needed Pin to keep on-schedule. Bailey was trying to address both of their complaints at the same time, which just ended up with them all talking over one another, trying to get a word in edgewise. They certainly were a rowdy bunch, Derringer reflected, their words ringing off the greenhouse surfaces and right through her glass bones, until she finally interrupted, “I won’t be in the way!” which at least got their attention.

“I like odd hours,” she said. “I can work at night, and we’ll get it done twice as fast without getting in one another’s way.” She didn’t really seem to need sleep, as far as she could tell, so this seemed a good compromise.

“I’m amenable to that,” Talus Mos immediately agreed.

Pin was the only one whose aim was thwarted, now. But she ultimately had to content herself to that, telling herself she would still find a way to slake her curiosity. As Derringer Catherine claimed this a good a time as any to begin work, crying off that she had already eaten, Pin had to instead grill Bailey in undertones all the way back to the kitchen as they went to prepare the evening meal.

“Thought’ee say didn’t know’ee’em?” she sing-songed.

“Did I.”

“Is she staying long? Have’ee talked to her family? Where’s Derringer House? How’d’ee meet her out here?”

Pin didn’t seem to mind very much that he ignored her and just busied himself at making the meal, mostly just delighted to have something to tease him about. It had been a long, dreary winter of years for their House. She knew how he’d struggled to keep them afloat, always worrying about the family, putting it before all of his own needs. It relieved her that he finally wanted something for himself, which seemed to be making him happy in an embarrassed kind of way. So she didn’t push him too hard, mostly content to pester as she only hoped Derringer Catherine would stay with them for a long, long time.

***

Dinner was a busy affair. Beyond trying to tiptoe around Pin’s questions, an influx of House business snared Bailey’s attention.

First came agents from Harrington and Raise—Sister-Houses to one another who held longstanding contracts with the House of Reed for harvesting and land development. It still galled Bailey that in those early, lean years, he’d been forced to sell a long-coveted plot of his family’s land to the House of Raise. It had been necessary, and he had been sure the price was dear, but he couldn’t help the little twist of bitterness whenever he thought of it. His opinion of their Houses was not particularly high in any case. Their labor was steady, they fulfilled their contracts, and he envied them their numbers; but he’d yet to meet one of them who particularly interested him as people. True to form, these two were rather bland bead-counters who primarily seemed to enjoy one another’s company. They stayed for the meal after they had given confirmation of when and how many laborers would be supplied, but they declined to stay the night.

While they were cleaning up afterwards, the cook Bailey had hired weeks before arrived with his two assistants. This of course required some delicate maneuvering as contracts were affirmed, control of the kitchen was ceded, and proper housing was arranged. By the time Bailey was finished with that and left for them to start on tomorrow’s bread, he found Talus Mos waiting to ambush him, dancing around the insecurities that had seized him, given time to think it over. And so he had to be reassured that no, he was not being replaced, everything was fine, there was still a place for him here. And just when Bailey thought his working day might be over, Lee Parable had to politely request his attention yet again as regarded the soil sampling results, to work out which crops to plant where and how much seed and fertilizer they might need. This took some calculation, and they had each smoked approximately three pipes before they felt satisfied with their plan and left it for the day.

Bailey’s bones ached. Had been aching since his first growth spurt, although he hoped, by now, that he was nearing his full height. He decided to seek some relief in the steam room, down in the lower level. It was a large room, and he was grateful to sit alone in it, unbothered, and let the heat seep in. By the time he went to laboriously pump the shower cistern full, most of the aches had dissipated, and he was able to tolerate the cold shock of the drawn well-water. He looked forward to spring, when the river was not so frozen as to be dangerous and he wouldn’t have to do all this work just to get clean.

By the time he emerged, feeling marginally more human, it returned to him in a rush that he should really go check on Derringer, to see how she was settling into the work. He had meant to go back as soon as they had finished eating, but in the middle of everything else, he’d fallen back on his old routines and completely forgotten. A dread foreboding crept over him, his stride growing increasingly longer, as he only then realized that he hadn’t seen Pin since dinner.

Coming up through the floor, a glance skyward gave total vindication for his fears. For there was Pin, in harness again with a stack of glass plates, beside Derringer Catherine. They had paused in their work and—Bailey’s heart gave a lurch—Pin was holding onto the glasswork’s arm, tilting it as though to inspect it. Those dangerous glass fingers were held loose, the Ancient thing appearing calm and tolerant. When Bailey stumbled over the last ladder rung and clattered his way up with a hoarse shout, they both glanced down in some surprise, but still quite at their ease.

“Pin, let go!” he snapped, his fear putting an edge of anger into his voice.

“Derringer said’em I could look’see,” Pin answered stubbornly. As he was getting his own harness on, below, she continued talking to her companion. “And made’ee them, your own self? I’ve a cousin,” she continued, “lost a leg. Bone rot brought a fever that nearly took’em with the leg. When he’d recovered, get’em a mechanical in town, and barely slowed’em down. But’s just a machine—nothing like get’ee, here. ‘S like art. You’re wasted on the greenhouse. But how’d’ee lose both arms?”

“Not… all at once. I had time to prepare,” she put off actually answering, and was somewhat grateful for the interruption as Bailey made his way up to them.

The climb had given him a chance to cool the immediate spark of fear he’d felt, but Pin still felt it prudent to let go of Derringer’s arm and interject before she could be scolded: “I wasn’t snooping; get’em assist, and accidently brushed her arm, and ‘s only curious’some, anyway, and said’em fine, right, Derringer Casser—Catr…” Realizing she didn’t have much chance of pronouncing the name properly, she somewhat lamely repeated, “Derringer?”

“Um. Yes? She was helping,” she agreed, more firmly.

“I can take that over,” Bailey said. He was pleased that his hands were steady again when he gestured for the glass plates Pin was holding. “You should get some rest.”

Pin clutched them to herself instead, brows drawing down. “Why’s’ee not get’ee the same?”

“I have histories to recite. It’s part of the exchange for her work. You can stay if you like,” he shrugged, tone implying he didn’t care one way or the other. “But it’s all things you’ve heard before. And you’ll still need to be up with the dawn to help Talus Mos.”

“Thank you, for all your help,” Derringer Catherine put in at this point, so Pin’s expression was slightly less sour as she handed the glass plates over to her brother.

Even so, she lingered for a while longer, rather unsatisfied that they seemed to actually just be sticking to business. His recitation of the histories was such a basic primer, she wondered if he was deliberately doing it to bore her. But Derringer seemed to be listening attentively as she worked, asking appropriate questions. It was really quite dull. They worked easily, smoothly together, anticipating one another in their work and moving preemptively to meet the other’s needs. But Pin didn’t see any sign of the wistful looks or longing sighs she felt would have been more appropriate to two secret lovers. Finally, admitting defeat, she rappelled back down to the ground, sparing a last glance at them. Still working together in attentive synchronicity. Derringer’s skirt was bunched up almost scandalously over her knee, nearly bumping into his from time to time as they seemed drawn together, like two flames joining over the breath of oxygen between them.

When she was gone, Derringer set aside the tool she had been borrowing to switch over to just using her glass-molding hands, the work progressing at a much faster pace. Apparently preoccupied, she found the courage to broach the subject, “Sorry. I r-really didn’t plan that. It just kind of… I didn’t know what to say or… And it just seemed easy enough to let her think it was just my arms, and… I’m sorry, anyway, if I scared you, or…”

“It’s better than I could have come up with, on short notice,” he admitted. “And it was probably bound to come up.” There was a long pause. She had just about given up hope that he was actually going to address the real issue when he said, quietly, “It’s not you. Not entirely, anyway. If I really had doubts, I wouldn’t have let you in. I wouldn’t have let you anywhere near her. But…”

His hands were shaking. His lips twisted, holding back something vicious. A kind of fear lurked in the hollow spaces of his face. But when his averted eyes finally returned her gaze, she was the one who had to look away—the way one hides from the intense glare of the sun on a snowbank. She felt, again, a kind of aching emptiness in the heart of her. She found herself wondering if she had ever known someone who had cared for her the way he clearly cared for his family. Someone she must have entirely forgotten, somewhere in these many years. Strange to think even such passion could simply be lost.

When he began, again, to recite the histories, they both seemed only too eager to let the matter drop.

Even with a world of words to channel, the human body can only act as a conduit for so long. Bailey kept up for as long as he could, eventually settling in one place on a ledge to keep talking. Derringer set up a platform to take the glass panels from more swiftly, and she went ranging along the forming walls. The breaks between his stories began to stretch; his words began to soften and slur. Watching her work was hypnotizing. Her fearlessness when she’d slipped the harness and tied her skirts to one side, making new toeholds for herself as needed and smoothing the glass away as she finished. The little artistry she started to add to the panels, making landscapes and figures appear with a brush of her fingers. The steady sureness that entered her posture when she let herself get lost in her work. The distracted way she’d tucked her long hair away. The strength in her legs glimpsed when she would tense and shift from one part of her project to the next. Her body was fire licking the insides of this lantern room.

She could see the sun threatening the horizon when she finally sat back from her work, lest the rest of the family catch her at it. Only when she heard the first birdsong did it occur to her that the room was otherwise quiet. Had been quiet for some time.

At some point Bailey had dozed off. Perched on the ledge, still sitting in the safety harness, his cheek rested against the rope. It would be quite the rude awakening, should he fall. As she climbed up, level with him, she was struck by just how sleep changed him. The worry and caution eased away; his lips, slightly parted, lacking the somewhat mocking smile. Thin bones and gentle lines under threadbare clothing; almost breakable. It was only in motion, with the full force of his will and passions, that he seemed so formidable. Taking a seat beside him on the ledge, her hand hesitated before she tried to gently brush some of the hair off his brow—wild-growing wheat, it resisted the furrows her fingers attempted to make to tame it into line, springing right back. Under what sun did he fully ripen? He stirred at her touch, eyes opening blearily in some quiet confusion for the curious expression on her face.

Oh God. What had she been thinking? Her hand withdrew, swiftly. Apologies already bubbling out of her as she shifted over the ledge.

“Wait—“

The sound was tremendous in the quiet room. She had landed solidly, but steadily, uninjured. Only thrown off-center when Talus Mos poked his head up from the ladder she was approaching. He gained the room and looked around in some alarm.

“What was that? It sounded like a hammer falling!”

“It’s nothing to worry about. Derringer Catherine, wait, I—“ he let out a wordless gasp of discomfort upon moving his legs, the pins and needles spiking through him with a vengeance.

“Did you sleep in the harness?” Talus Mos demanded, disapproving, watching him fumble slack out of his line as he scrambled to get to the ground.

“If I could… if I could j-just get out of your way,” Derringer muttered, actually rather wishing Talus Mos would move aside and let her escape.

But now he was looking around, his face transforming with astonishment. “Eaten Word. What did you do? This is nearly three days’ work you finished. In a night!”

“Oh? I’m? Sure it wasn’t that much?” she tried to brush past, her heart sinking as Bailey made it to the ground.

“Maybe not. If you didn’t do it correctly,” he said, clearly dubious. “If they weren’t properly set—“

“Feel free to check,” Bailey said, still wincing as sensation returned to his legs and he limped over. Talus Mos didn’t go quite so far as to say that he intended to do so, but it was clear from the way he was setting up his own equipment that he was going to look back over her section of the wall.

Even with the way clear, now, she didn’t flee, waiting for Bailey to approach. But her face was rose as the dawn overhead, not daring to look at him. He missed the easy confidence she’d shown the night before; wondered, wildly, if there was some magical combination of things he could say that would restore her to how she had been. He felt at a rare loss for the right words.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, clearly mortified.

“No, you don’t have to—“

“I shouldn’t have—“

“You didn’t—“

Up the ladder, Pin finally made her way. She was still idly chewing on some of the breakfast she’d brought with her and wishing she’d heeded the advice to get to sleep earlier. But as she emerged up the ladder it all seemed rather worth it: Because there they were and she had just known it. There was little mistaking their postures. Her skirts were all tied to the side, exposing one leg almost to the hip. They were both a bit red. The edges of his fingers had found their way to her wrist. The gesture somewhat arresting, but less a demand, more a question. Gentle. Something she could have easily pulled away from, had she wanted to.

He only looked guiltier by immediately pulling away when he saw Pin. “Well. You’re up early. How did you sleep?”

“Better’n’ee, if’n had to guess,” she said, ever-so smug and wise.

He chose to ignore her tone. “I’m going after that egg today. Derringer Catherine,” he said formally, “if you would care to accompany me, we can continue from where we left off yesterday. On the histories,” he added, belatedly.

“Hasn’t’em working all night?” Pin asked, seeing all that had been accomplished and showing a touch of concern. “’S dangerous. If’n you’re caught…”

“No, I… I can go. I’m not tired,” Derringer said, willing to take just about any excuse to get past this awkwardness at this point.

It was only after she’d followed him through a brief trek to the kitchen to grab some breakfast and back outside that she thought to ask: “Um. Sorry. What egg?”

***

Things of that size really didn’t belong in the air.

That was Derringer’s first thought upon spying the enormous bird-creature up the tree. Even from this far away, it was impressive. It was the size of an ambitious sapling itself, nearly four times her own height. With leathery, triangular wings, and a beak large enough to swallow her without use of the sharp, black teeth within. It made strange crooning bugles from time to time that echoed through the trees, its long neck swaying as it made minute adjustments to its nest as it became more agitated, its bugling becoming more frequent.

Behind the house, Bailey had made a stop over to grab some equipment from a shed on the perimeter, including some climbing gear, two large satchels, and a strange kind of horn. The horn was clearly made of some kind of bone, but it was shaped less as a tube, more of a kind of thin, sloping wave. While they had walked along into the forest, he’d blown into it from time to time, reproducing a sound much like the one Derringer was hearing now. On closer examination, she realized now that the “horn” had actually been a bony kind of crest, like a miniature the one she could see on the bird—although how the animal was producing any sound from that, she wasn’t sure.

“There are eggs up there?” she whispered, dubiously, when he’d reached a temporary break in his recitation.

“Oh yes. I’ve been keeping an eye on them,” he assured, matching her low tones.

“It’s winter.”

“Quetzes’s eggs take three years to hatch.”

Well, when you’re the size of a flying behemoth, apparently you can stand to take your time. Still, it seemed rather a shame, given that, and she shifted, uncomfortably. “What’re you going to do with them?”

“I have cousins who train them. They can carry a rider well enough, although they’re a bit expensive in upkeep. They don’t breed in captivity, and you can’t train the adults. So there’s always a dearth. It’ll hopefully sufficiently endear me to them when they arrive next week.” He said the last somewhat dryly. His fingers drummed against his knees, straightened cuffs that needed no straightening, brushed flecks of mud away from his shoes.

“Your sister mentioned you have, um, cousins coming to visit. Is it a big deal?”

“Oh. I’m sure we’ll manage,” he didn’t really answer her, but just then he stiffened, murmuring, “There it goes!”

Sure enough, apparently fed up waiting for an answer that would never come, the bird was shaking its wings out, waddling in place, shifting from side to side. And then it launched from the nest. It was like a boulder, at first, falling from a mountainside in an inevitable battle with gravity—until, miraculously, those enormous wings opened with a percussive sound like a drum being struck, and away it swooped off into the trees.

They wasted no time in scurrying to the tree holding the nest. The borrowed shoes had spikes in the front of them, their hands holding hooks to drive into the bark. She wasn’t sure what they were supposed to do if that great thing came winging back early. She could perhaps act as moral support when it snipped Bailey’s head off. But even such dreary thoughts couldn’t sustain her for long. There was a kind of thrill in it, now, a bubbling mix of fear and excitement in her glass innards that almost felt to sting. The sentiment echoed on Bailey’s face as they scurried up the tree, his teeth flashing in a biting laugh.

His shirt was soaked through with sweat before long, despite the cold in the air. His limbs were quaking as the ground fell away, muscles protesting the unusual activity. She was keeping pace beside him, tireless and cool, as she had been for sunsets of generations—that inner ticking would run longer than the sun. As they neared the nest’s branch, she outpaced him a bit in her eagerness, face alight with expectation. He wondered if she would hunt like this: powerful and lithe, single-minded in her purpose. He was very much tempted to take her. Although before then, he told himself, averting his eyes, he should really probably see about getting her some trousers…

This was certainly a third-year nest. It reeked, that lizard, fetid stench of moulting. The heat was sunk deep into the twigs, so that moving over it felt like stirring live coals from ashes. And so they uncovered the eggs. There were nine in total, each the size of a human torso. One Bailey could tell at a touch had never quickened. But the others were viable, something healthy and living stirring within. Only waiting for their season of life. He looked up to find Derringer’s grin matching his own, the sweet warmth of her expression creating a strange kind of fire in his center. She had a smudge on her cheek from where she’d brushed it against the wet bark. Such careless artistry. Didn’t the Ancients make holy buildings of stained glass?

But then she was looking away, a hand at her chest as though she was trying to contain something, there. Or perhaps as if there was something already constrained. Her brow furrowed as she turned away to sling off her pack and carefully lay the egg she’d collected within while he did the same. They covered the other eggs as best they could with the precious time they had, and then beat a hasty retreat. On their backs, the eggs continued to radiate left-over heat through their delicate shells all the way back to the house, where they finally stored the eggs beside the fire they stirred in Bailey’s room. He had debated keeping them in the main sitting area, or perhaps in the kitchen, but he feared the temptation would prove too much and someone might abscond with them in the night. No, better like this, kept marginally secret, where he could keep an eye on them.

“Do you do that all the time?” Derringer asked behind him.

“No, this was only the second time,” he said, turning back.

He wasn’t sure why he felt quite so shocked to see she’d sat down on his hammock, her little feet not quite touching the floor. Most of the furniture in here was covered in projects he hadn’t bothered to clear away. So naturally it would be the most logical place to sit, enthroned among his heavy quilts. She’d drawn them around her shoulders in what must have been an unconscious gesture, because as he cautiously seated himself beside her, she seemed perplexed by the question: “Are you cold?”

“I don’t think I do that, anymore. Feel cold, I mean.” She toyed with the edge of the blanket, thoughtful, as she pushed it off her shoulders. He found himself staring at the delicate brown hairs along her arms, moving even with such a small generated breeze. “I’m not really… sure what I feel. I know it isn’t like it used to be, but it’s hard to say… how. The blanket is soft. It traps heat. But it’s not… comfortable? No, that’s not it, it doesn’t give comfort. It’s a thing that’s there, it has these properties, but something almost seems to interrupt it before I can properly feel it. Although there were a few times where I almost thought…” As she had spoken, her hand had crept to her chest, over where her heart should be.

She was startled from her reverie when he took her other hand. Glass, his fingers told him, but what did they know, anyway. “And this? What does this feel like?”

“Um. A h-hand?” she said, giggling nervously. Oh she wished he wouldn’t look at her with those big, pale eyes. There was that feeling again, like a creeping vine twining through all her innards, making them seize in her mechanism—was he trying to draw it out of her? “Bony? A bit cold? Distinctly hand-shaped?”

He could call on such a lazy smile. It had been a mistake to look at his mouth. If he breathed into her, would she grow warm and fogged? She was losing her opaqueness, the facsimile of skin. Could this glass reform into new shapes under the press of those fingers?

And no, actually, this wasn’t right. In her chest, there was something seriously wrong—something bound and breaking, something she wasn’t supposed to touch…

She dropped his hand, ducking her head so that her hair swept forward. Waiting until she felt the sensation pass. Grateful for the silence; that he didn’t press. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to feel all that, just yet,” she offered at length.

He shifted slightly, giving her a little more space. It wasn’t easy on a hammock, but at least he was making an effort. Eventually he just stood up, giving them both some much-needed distance. A few breaths passed as he apparently settled something within himself before he said, “Our original arrangement still stands. I have a few other things to take care of, today. But I can come keep you company in the greenhouse again, later?” his tone making it a question. Although he only watched her from the corner of his eye, a very slight smile tugged at his mouth when she avidly nodded agreement. Both of them trying not to feel entirely foolish as he left her there.

***

The days settled into a loose kind of pattern. There was a feverish amount of household work to manage in preparation for both his Sister-Houses’ visit and also for the coming growing season. Contracts made months before were fulfilled as the home filled with laborers, agents, travelers, and craftsmen. There were many rooms that still needed to be aired out, and he had a running checklist in his mind of minor repairs to see to. Bailey was fully preoccupied when the message reached him that there was a man outside. He had so far refused to come in or announce himself, but had asked for an audience.

When his schedule was somewhat clearer, Bailey finally made his way out to check on this mystery person. There were sometimes shy sorts, afraid to leave their Houses’ names until they were sure of the reception. A few had clearly fled without permission, carrying no token to allow them to negotiate a contract, their labor still rightfully owed to their House. Often these were better politely fed and then passed along, rather than potentially incurring their family’s wrath.

But the ones Bailey found outside were known to him. The man who met him at the edge of the clearing surrounding the home was a middling-age Red, his long hair very nearly hidden beneath all the beads braided into it. His face was wrinkled perhaps somewhat prematurely: with care, but also with smiles.

“Warden Reed,” Bailey was greeted, formally, but warmly.

“Solaris.” Leaving aside any family name still felt awkward in his mouth. A sad kind of reminder. But if there was any sting left to it, the older man didn’t show it. “And Marta?”

Solaris gestured back further into the trees, in confirmation. “We’ve come to fulfill our contracts, to see to your records and generator.”

“I recall. You didn’t have to wait out here.”

“You had quite a bit more activity around than usual. We weren’t sure… She wasn’t sure…” His face had balanced to slightly more care than smile for the moment as he glanced back into the trees again, where a very large shadow shuffled a bit closer.

Even hunched nearly double, as she was, she still dwarfed the men. Even since the last time he’d seen her, a year ago, she had grown again. Her limbs and digits each carried an extra joint to them, creating three segments of each. They said in the times of the Ancients, modification was rapidly becoming the norm. But born mods were rare these days, only occasionally cropping up in a family every few decades. Bailey rather suspected quite a few more were born than actually lived to adulthood. Marta, herself, had been unwanted by either parent House, the gossip went. What would have happened to her if Solaris hadn’t cut ties with his House and decided to raise her himself was unknown. But the two of them seemed happy enough: Solaris was an excellent weaver and recordkeeper, while Marta had a way with engines, even as young as she was. And although she was shy and generally awkward, she clearly looked well cared-for. Even now, Solaris’s concern seemed to be solely for her, showing little of the exasperation or sullenness one might expect after being made to wait in the cold for another’s comfort. Perhaps the loss of his family’s name wasn’t such a bitter thing after all.

“Warden Reed,” the girl mumbled, looking as if she would much rather stay hidden behind her tree. “Didn’t’em wanna disturb’ee guests.”

“No one is disturbed. Don’t be ridiculous.”

She was about Pin’s age, he remembered. They used to play together, when they were younger. And just as with Pin, she didn’t seem assured with the kinds of platitudes you might give a child. Her eyes were altogether rather too world-weary as she paused before saying, “If say’ee, Warden Reed. I’ll start now. But if please’ee, the work on’ee jenny will go faster if someone would bring’em meals and a cot down.”

There seemed little point in argument. When he had a moment to speak with Solaris alone, the man had turned fairly solemn as he explained that their last contract had been cancelled after too many workers quit rather than work alongside her. It had been a big project that required many hands, in close proximity, for long days.

She seemed relieved to be left alone in one of the root basements in the Reed home to do minor tune-ups to a generator. Bailey didn’t really have the time to try to fix what was broken in this situation, although it made him feel somewhat sick at heart to think of her cooped up down there. He was somewhat less than subtle in telling Pin she had an old friend who she really mustspend some time with and counted it as a minor victory when he spotted the two of them strolling the grounds in the evenings.

Bailey’s own nights were quite busy. Each day, he waited for the light to fade from the sky with ever-mounting anticipation until he could once again spend his time with the glasswork woman. He thought he had been fairly successful in pushing down any unwanted or unwarranted feeling of disappointment, but that didn’t stop him from reveling in what little time he had with Derringer. Trying to be concise in telling their history, but entertaining as well. Cursing that so much of the past was tragedy and warning; straining his memory for those stories that might bring brief delight or humor, if only because of the way her face would flush and her bright eye would turn to him to share in her joy. He busied himself with patching up some of his sister’s old trousers while he tried to keep his mind on reciting histories. Only to be continuously distracted by some of her questions, which would reveal something of the world she’d left behind. Or by her laughter, her smile, the way she kept losing herself in her work.

It was dangerous. He’d known from the start that it was, with anything the Ancients had touched. But there was another kind of danger. He’d felt stirrings for women before; he wasn’t made of stone. And of course he’d faced rejection. She had said, plainly, she couldn’t reciprocate. And he’d accepted that. Or he thought he had. He kept his distance, he didn’t press, he didn’t ask, and he certainly didn’t touch; they talked, and they kept to their work. So why were these feelings still so volatile? Seeming to rise and fall with the facsimile of breath stirring in her chest?

Maybe it was the closeness of the work. After the second night, she’d already finished with the greenhouse. So she took to roving his halls, learning the layout of the home as he directed her to minor repairs, or simply showed her around. The house was asleep, so to keep up conversation they had to stay close and speak softly. He was thus hyper-aware of her every movement, taking great pains to keep from any accidental touch, any misplaced word, until he felt his chest might burst with suppressed emotion. It was a wonderful kind of agony, at once exhausting and thrilling. It could go nowhere; it was completely unsustainable. But for those few brief nights, he tried to just enjoy it while it lasted.

Bailey sensed trouble when his father tracked him down a few days in. Talus Mos’s stance was tense, his face set, but he waited for Bailey to finish with the matters he was immediately tending to. Not an emergency, then, but still official.

“Warden Reed,” Talus Mos began, the formality in the address immediately concerning Bailey, “I would never cheat you.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Bailey responded automatically, startled.

“And I am not lazy,” Talus Mos went on resolutely. “And yet I… have no excuse. That Violet woman you brought on, of the House of Derringer—I don’t know how she finished that work so quickly, but I’ve checked it over myself. It’s sound. Artistic, even.”

“Oh. That,” Bailey said, relaxing. “You needn’t judge yourself based on her work.”

“But I do,” he insisted. “And I tell you, with the equipment we had, I couldn’t have finished that in twice the time she did, working alone, and at night. I worked as fast and as well as I could, but I have no excuse—“

“You don’t need one,” Bailey said to stop this outpouring, as much for his sake as for his father’s.

Talus Mos had had somewhat weak spirits, ever since Reed Beatrice had passed. The risk of loving only one with such a blind passion. He was prone to melancholy, only slowly pulling himself back from oblivion when he saw how the children of his late lover’s House might still need him. He had done what he could, taking solace in his glassblowing skills as a sign of his continued usefulness and worth. Being outshone like this had therefore shaken him rather more than either of them could have guessed. He looked old. And lost. His shoulders rounded, little care gone into his braids. Bailey had a twinge of fear, realizing his burden had always been greater than he had initially imagined. He had spent so long worrying over Pin, trying to prepare for her future, he’d rarely put much thought into what would become of his father, if their House’s fortunes should fail. Talus Mos was not a young man, anymore, and his own House hadn’t had much to do with him for twenty-odd years.

Bailey couldn’t leave it like this. “She wasn’t… working with the same equipment,” he allowed. “It made the work easier for her.”

“Other equipment? She brought it with her?”

“It’s an heirloom,” Bailey said, to cut off further inquiry. Something from the Ancients, proprietary to her House, and something she would almost certainly be unwilling to share. Bailey told himself it wasn’t exactly a lie; she was something of an artifact, herself.

But this seemed to be enough. Talus Mos let out a breath of relief, setting aside that burden of inadequacy, at least momentarily. He even managed a smile. “Well, in that case. But heirloom or not, she’s certainly skilled. But I suppose you would know that. You’ve been spending a lot of time with her.”

Bailey turned back to the looms he’d been sorting through. “Have I? Oh. Yes, I suppose. She needed a brush-up on her histories.”

“That seemed to have worked out well for the two of you, then,” Talus Mos said, not blind to the deflection. He paused before saying, “I only met her briefly. But Pin seems to like her. She says she has the most peculiar yellow eyes…”

Bailey glanced over at that. “It’s not like with Nee,” he said, quietly. “It’s not the Wilderness. Her eyes are just like that.” Seeing a trace of pity in his father’s face, he had to smile. “I’m not deluding myself. And if you saw for yourself, you wouldn’t mistake it.”

“If you say so.”

Bailey had certainly spent long enough studying her eyes. It was true, they were a golden sort of color rarely seen in nature. When the Wilderness got a hold of you, it created a similar effect, leeching yellow into the eye. But the Wilderness distorted the iris, making it fill nearly all the white of the eye. There was nothing like that with Derringer Catherine, captivating as her eyes were: like bonny little flowers springing out of the snow.

“What?” she asked, the second-time she found him looking into her eyes a bit too long. He saw her fidget with nerves and immediately looked away, cursing himself.

“Nothing. My little sister only accidentally stirred up some trouble when she told Talus Mos about your eyes.”

“What kind of trouble?”

He paused, but she was likely to run into this again. “When the Wilderness claims someone, sometimes their eyes change to look a little like yours. It’s rare, and people mostly only hear of it. Those who have seen it first-hand are unlikely to make that mistake. So it’s not something you need to overly concern yourself over.”

Her hair had been slipping loose again. He fought the urge to brush it away from her face. They’d found another broken window in an out-of-the-way room in a farther corner of the house, and after she repaired it, they’d mostly been sitting in conversation for most of the night on the sill. The globes they’d shaken into life had slowly gone back to sleep. The moonlight on her skin was a scarlet wash. Her eyes had a soft kind of lighting to them, like dim candles behind a screen Still the most luminous points in the room.

“Talus Mos. That’s the older guy who was working in the greenhouse? And he’s your… father?” she asked, still not very clear. At his nod, she asked, “And who’s the other guy, the quiet one? Is that your brother?”

“Lee Parable? No, not exactly. He left Joplin, which is further to the north and has no Houses as we do, so they all take the House name ‘Lee,’ for political purposes. He has known our family for years, though, and he shares a kinship interest with Reed Adelaide, my little sister.” At Derringer’s inquiring glance he elaborated, “She was born of him, and of my older sister, Airadne.”

“So she’s…? Wait, what?”

“Before the Wilderness took her,” Bailey said, thinking this was what had confused her.

“But then she’s not… If she’s Parable’s and Airadne’s daughter, then she’s not your sister.”

“Yes, she is.”

“No, she’s your niece.”

“’Niece’? What’s a niece?”

“It’s—come on,” she said, getting flustered, standing up and starting to pace, “when a sibling has a daughter, that’s… that’s your niece.”

It seemed to be all semantics, to him. They were all children of the same House, raised in the same generation. Who the parent was generally made little difference except perhaps between said parent and child, should they form any kind of bond.

“I fail to see the importance of such a distinction.”

“No, it’s important,” she insisted. “I mean not just in terms of who’s your actual sibling, but also, just… Being an aunt or uncle is… I mean, it’s special! When my niece was born, I—“

She stopped pacing suddenly, her back to him. There was a wretched sound; it might have been her that screamed, or else only something internal starting to yield to pressure. She crumpled forward, a hand at her chest, another covering her mouth. He was on his feet in an instant, all the hairs raised on his neck as he approached, only to halt when she turned half-towards him. Her colors came and went, fading in and out with her labored breaths.

“My niece…” she croaked out. Her face was awful, the grief vivid. Her contorted expression created terrible canyons of the scars on her cheeks. “Oh God, I remember… her. Wh-when she was born, her little hands—the first time I held her, her hands couldn’t even close around my finger. She was—“

She gasped, and the shrill, piercing sound was now clearly coming from her chest, like tortured metal being reshaped. Panicked, Bailey begged her, “Let me help.”

Reluctantly, she straightened somewhat and let him approach, hand still at her breast. “Something is… wrong,” she admitted. “Loose.” She pulled down the front of her shirt a little, her chest wall abruptly becoming transparent.

Bailey was not a healer. He had a fairly rudimentary knowledge of anatomy. Once, as a child, he’d gone with a gaggle of other children with an Orange to see a demonstration in the closest little town, where a healer had preserved a cadaver for the class’s inspection. Looking, now, none of the glass-replicas in motion seemed to bear much resemblance to that long ago corpse. But there was one part, at least, that didn’t seem to be properly moving: at the source of the trouble, there was a still, dark little organ. Opaque where the rest of her was still clear. Something in what looked like a strangle-hold of metal, only feebly struggling in its grip. Three bands surrounded the little organ, with the uppermost metal bent slightly, as though ruptured.

“Your heart,” he whispered. Awe in his voice. “I think it’s an actual heart. It’s bound,” he said, looking up from its little prison to her face.

He hadn’t realized how close he’d actually gotten to her until then. How hard he would have to fight the desire to try to give comfort for the quiet pain he saw there. He knew he would likely only make it worse if he tried.

“Is that what hurts?” she asked, her voice as soft as his. “The binding?”

“The undoing,” he admitted. He should move away. Out of arm’s reach at least, so his treacherous arms wouldn’t so ache to hold her. A fool, he couldn’t bring himself to bring this plan to fruition. “One of the bands is giving way.”

He saw the flicker of fear, and then when she had mastered it. Her voice only shook a little. “Wh-what happens if they come loose entirely?”

He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. A thousand terrible thoughts occurred to him, each more unbearable than the last. Somehow in thinking of all the potential ways she might pass back out of his life, he had never really considered any loss would be entirely permanent. She was a creature of flame, born countless generations ago. If the force of the Ancient’s folly and time hadn’t been enough to destroy her, it seemed unlikely much around here would. And even if he was overreacting, just seeing her in so much pain was sending him into a flurry of unexpected impulses and emotions.

He might have gone on to do something entirely foolish if behind him he hadn’t heard, “Reed Carson?”

Bailey spun around shielding as much of her from view as he could. Irrationally upset at the interruption, heart pounding in fear that someone might have seen her glass form revealed. When he saw it was Lee Parable, he barked out, “What? What is it?” with far less courtesy than he usually showed the Joplin.

There was a long pause. Lee Parable’s face was obscured in the dark. This is it, Bailey thought, feeling like he was in freefall. He should have been more careful. He never should have let it get this far, care this much. He only had himself to blame.

But when Lee Parable spoke, it had nothing to do with either impoliteness or Derringer Catherine.

He said, “Spores.”

The word hung there, drifting about the room. An evil cloud overhead.

Bailey’s legs nearly tripped out from under him as he bolted back for the window, all other thoughts forgotten. As if by looking he could change the narrative. Maybe Lee Parable had been mistaken. A trick of the eye, or a common dust cloud. But he could not long disbelieve his own eyes: the unmistakable miasma of scarlet, leaking from the moon’s bloody grin.

“Where’s it making landfall?” he choked out, holding the sill.

“Two days north,” Lee Parable answered.

Bailey’s hands were shaking, the wood creaking somewhat under his grip. “Spores?” he heard Derringer Catherine ask, tentatively, but his mind was already racing. If they left, now—right now—they might just be in time. The party, all of his careful plans; it was all for nothing, now. But there was no use thinking of that. Lee Parable was waiting for an answer, and there was only one he could really make.

He turned away from the window, saying, “Wake the kitchen staff, first. Tell them we’ll need rations. Then get Pin. Have her rouse the house and get everyone down into the front yard. I’ll be in the armory. Go!”

Bailey could hear the house waking around him, even as he ran, himself, down to the bottom levels. Voices calling, sleepy, panicked, confused, but there was no help for it. He almost didn’t notice Derringer had followed him down until, shaking a globe into life at the armory door to put in the complicated code, the light caught in her wide, glass eyes.

“What’s going on?” she whispered, trembling. There was something in her look—a hollowness, stark as the scars on her face. She may not have remembered the cataclysm that ended the Ancients. Not the specifics of it. But here in the dark with him, hearing the pounding of footsteps overhead in a heart’s stampede, an echo of it still sounded through her.

He busied himself at the door, hands dancing over the tapping sequence that would admit them. It unsealed with a hiss of stale air, the room long unused, but it swung open easily at a touch.

“The moon,” he said, already heading to the far wall where the apparatuses had remained untouched these many years. Trying to remember all the steps he needed to take, as they’d been explained to him. Checking the fuel gauges, straps, extra canisters. They were designed to be worn like packs, the canisters carried on the back, and the wand to spray the fire out like one was watering the earth. Each also came with a protective face-mask, to protect against inhaling either the smoke or the spores.

“Or rather, the forests on the moon. You Ancients did your job too well, there. You meant them to thrive, and they did. But the spores they began to put out, well… I suppose you couldn’t have predicted they could cross that narrow channel back. It took them a while to do that, apparently, but now it’s every 30 to 50 years. It’s early, this time; it’s only been 27.”

The equipment was sound, and he felt a moment’s rush of relief. There was enough here to properly equip a proper House’s size, and spares left over. Of all the things their tithes had to go towards, he was at least grateful that even the lowliest of Houses was always supposed to be well-supplied in this manner.

“Wh-what happens when they get here?” she asked, coming over to help him pick up the packs and stack them outside the door for easier retrieval.

“They grow,” he stated, wryly. “And grow. On anything. In the smallest hint of nutrients. But they weren’t designed for such a rich environment, or so heavy an atmosphere. They sprout and gorge and claw their way up and push out everything in its way until they collapse under their own weight within about a week; rotting, stinking corpses.”

“He said it’ll touch down north of here?”

“It’s too much for any House to handle alone,” he answered. They were now down to just a handful of the packs, each of them picking up as many as they could carry to take directly into the yard. “If we didn’t come together—is everyone ready?” he broke off as Pin trotted in, panting.

She gulped air, nodding. “’S get’em fast’em, ‘n’ cross bett’n ‘cease. ‘S mine?” Pin asked, eagerly, as he passed her a pack.

“You’ll need to keep a sharp eye out. Landfall will come at night. I doubt it will reach here, but—“

“Here?” Pin burst in, face coloring. “No, ‘s come’em with’ee.”

“Hmm. Well. No,” Bailey said, suddenly very busy in re-checking the equipment in his arms. “You’re staying here, to watch after our own lands. I’m going to ask Talus Mos to help you. You’ll need to keep the fire lit in my room, remember to turn the eggs…”

Pin had a few colorful phrases to say on this subject, rather too furious to care that they had a wide-eyed audience. “’S babies half’em age, going!” was the first semi-intelligible thing Derringer was able to pick up. “Any big’em’nough walk’s get’em ready!”

“Yes. Well. And they have others they’ll be leaving at home, to watch their holdings. No one expects us to abandon everything; we each give as much as—“

“Then stay’ee,” Pin said, inspired. “’S’more important, keeping the head of the House, ‘n if’n happen’some’em, ‘s’not as bad—“

“Don’t be absurd,” he said, coolly. And by now Derringer was quite wishing she could just squeak by and leave them to squabble this out, but Pin was still blocking the door.

“Why’s’t absurd’em? Don’t’ee strike the twig ‘n’ kill’ee tree, ‘s the roots burn’ee. So the House. If I’m a twig—“

“You’re not a twig,” he snapped, his voice cracking on the word. Derringer kept her eyes averted, but she couldn’t shut her ears. Oh why couldn’t she have just barreled past the willowy girl. “Pin, I can’t lose any more branches. And it won’t come to that,” he insisted as she started to protest, again. “Please. Stay here. We’ll be back in a few days, and it would be nice if we had a house to come back to and not a pile of splinters. Oh, now,” he said as Pin started crying, the fear finally reaching her past her indignation. He awkwardly shifted the packs he was carrying around to give her a one-armed hug, trying to reassure her that they were prepared, that nothing was going to go wrong. This, at least, finally freed the doorway, as Derringer slipped out, lugging as many of the packs as her arms could carry with the nozzles trailing along and bumping her knees.

The yard outside was a mass of shifting bodies, turned grotesque under the red moonlight. Derringer tried not to shiver as she began passing the packs out, saying that yes, more were coming, and no she didn’t know when they were leaving. Luckily Bailey followed her out shortly and was able to call them to order quickly enough, telling them where more of the packs had been stacked in the hall inside, checking that food had been distributed.

“All contracts can be considered suspended. If you need to renegotiate, this is something we can settle when this is over. Landfall is two days’ walk north of here, and we’ll need to walk through the night.”

“Have the other Houses been reached?” someone asked. “Do they know?”

“We don’t have a tuner,” Bailey admitted, “or any other way to directly reach them.”

“We could send a runner on ahead,” someone else began, doubtfully.

“I’ll go.” It was so dark in the yard, it was safe to say many had not even realized Marta was there on the outskirts of their ring until she had spoken and began to unfold her modified limbs. A few people stifled yelps of surprise as she abruptly loomed overhead. Bailey realized he had never actually seen her at her full height, before; even when standing, there had been a kind of stooped shame to her posture. It was absent, now, as she tossed back her hair and said, “I can be quite swift.”

“Marta,” Solaris cautioned, at once warring with pride and terror, “you can’t go on ahead, alone, not through those woods. I’ll… I’ll come—“

“You’ll slow me down,” she said, not unkindly, but as simple fact. To Bailey, she said, “I’ll get the word out. We’ll be ready.” And on her long, unusual limbs, she strode, disappearing into the forest as fast as a candle blowing out.

There was little else left for them to do but to sort the last of their affairs out and follow after her. Bailey managed to find the time somewhere in the midst of all the tumult and noise to convince Talus Mos to also remain behind, as people broke off either to go back to their homes for more supplies or further instruction, or else prepared to set off north. Frankly it was shocking to Derringer how fast order seem to emerge out of this chaos, and almost before she knew it, they were getting underway.

Bailey glanced back, once, at the tree line, looking back towards home. Spotting a little figure perched up on top of the house as a lookout. She was wearing the flamethrower pack and waving back madly in defiance of her own fear. Stained by the moonlight as they were, her tears almost looked like blood.

***

They moved under torchlight, their shadows writhing across the trees, over the frozen ground in a ring. They bunched together, closer than they might usually walk even with a neighbor. There was no sense in trying to be quiet; their presence was known, their actions closely watched by unseen eyes. Through the darkness outside of the fire’s reach, they could hear things rustling in furtive fits or deliberate treads. A knocking sounded through the trees several times, the noise tracking them. And so they hummed and sang, making a kind of net around them, as if the thin weave of light and sound could offer protection.

And maybe it did. They grew accustomed to being watched, and nothing came out of that dark to confront them. Many of them knew this path north, by daylight, and tried to take solace in spotting landmarks to track their progress and bolster their spirits.

There came a point in the night, however, when they all drew to an abrupt halt. There had been a movement through the trees. Not the wind, but a kind of sigh nonetheless. It swept over them, through them, an oppressive weight. It hit some harder than others. Some seemed not to notice it at all beyond the basic animal sense in the herd, seeing others be affected and halting to wait for them. A few merely shivered. Others stood blinking in confusion. And some were driven from their feet entirely. There was an alien sort of curiosity in the invasion, but whether it garnered their purpose was difficult to say. It passed on again, leaving them to gather themselves, wipe sudden tears from their eyes, and—for a few—to be quietly ill in the bushes. None of them wanted to discuss it, but by hasty agreement a break was called for.

Derringer had been one of those who had merely seen the effects, ducking under Bailey’s arm to hold him up as his knees buckled under him. He seemed somewhat dazed in the aftermath, staring off into the trees as though listening for something Derringer could not hear. By slow degrees his eye returned to tracking the flickering dance of the fire, and then to his companions, and finally to Derringer where she sat beside him under his arm.

“The Wilderness,” he managed on his second attempt, his throat creaking and wooden.

She opened her folded fingers to show him the stones collected there. A wry smile pulling at one corner of her mouth and stretching the scar on that cheek. “So they told me. And I told them it hasn’t got me, but it doesn’t seem to do much good. I’m forming a nice little collection,” she jangled them together before letting them fall out of her palm back onto the ground. “You don’t really throw rocks at them, after they’re taken?”

He shook his head. He was going to tell her it was only superstition. A stone given kindly, now, to remind them—when their minds turned—not to come seeking wrath by stealing livestock or crops. But he was still feeling too vague, a kind of restlessness in his own skin that failed to form the thoughts to words. He knew it was dangerous, leaving himself open like this, seeking after that seductive call at the edges of his hearing. With an effort he dragged himself back to the light and warmth of their company and was surprised to find Derringer still so near to him. Closer, even, having pulled the corner of his open jacket around herself. Giving a kind of embarrassed grimace as he shifted to slip that arm from the sleeve and drew it instead around her waist.

“They kept asking if I was cold,” she mumbled, toying with the frayed edge of the kerchief still tied on her bare foot, over the written words.

“Is this all right?”

She nodded, almost seeming to test herself—or her resolve, or how much she actually felt—as the rigidity melted away by slow degrees, tucking her chin down and settling against him. With her head so close to his chest, he only hoped she couldn’t hear how his heart was pounding, couldn’t feel how his arm around her trembled. His gaze traveling over the waves of her cascading hair as it puddled around them. He wished she would look up so that he could drown in the liquid flame of her eyes, but was terrified to move and spoil it all. All thought of the Wilderness’s dark mysteries driven from his mind. Oh if he could only extend the night, halt the murderous turn of the moon’s ill-begotten spawn and stay like this for a little bit longer.

“When this is over,” she began, her voice small.

But the group was stirring, gathering together again. She flinched back away from him, standing before he had even regained his wits. The absence of the warmth along his side felt a punishing brand as they set off again.

With the dawn, they were heartened to see signs of others having recently passed through here. When they passed near the House of Rush, they were actually greeted by agents of the House who offered refreshment and told them Marta had been through hours earlier. This lightened their steps a bit as they continued on, and before noon their path had joined with a larger and somewhat slower group that had formed from a number of lesser Houses. Many of these, too, had good tidings of having been awoken and warned in plenty of time to start out, while a few others were lucky to have simply spotted the coming spores for themselves. There was a feeling of buoyant comradery in the meeting, less festive than martial, and enough to make them all momentarily forget their sore feet and sleepless night. It likely would not have been sustainable for the full journey, but they were fortunate to have an herbalist in the group they had joined. In one of their brief halts, a fire was set and a cauldron yielded a vast amount of a stimulant the herbalist called the Traveler’s Spirit. It was a thick, green liquid with chunks in it that made it difficult to force down the gullet. It also smelled of wet grass and had an unpleasant turpentine aftertaste.

The long stretch of the road ahead seemed to melt away after that. Bailey could little recall what had happened between his first sip and dusk of the following day, when they found themselves nearing the encampment gathered to meet the spores. It was less that there was a blank spot in his memory so much as it felt that nothing that had happened had been important enough to remember, all the many steps blurring together into a haze of travel. With the effects wearing off, however, his body remembered the trip perfectly well. His feet ached and his legs shook with fatigue. There was an acrid burning in the back of his throat, and his stomach was painfully empty. Without the Traveler’s Spirit, he wasn’t confident they all could have kept up the pace to get as far as they had, so quickly. But it was not an experience he intended to repeat, if given the opportunity.

There was little time to dwell on it, however. Here, the hive of activity quickly swept over their group as people had food shoved on them and were then assigned to tasks and sections to cover. Overhead, the first groups to arrive had already been hard at work in the upper canopies of the trees, shaving off many of the higher branches and erecting platforms so people could fire at the spores overhead without catching the whole forest aflame. Others on the ground level were seeding competitive fast-growing mosses and fungi to make the earth even marginally less accessible to the descending spores. A group of Joplins who had made their way south into the empire were passing out chemicals that could be poured on anywhere they still managed to take root.

Somehow, Bailey finally found himself on one of the upper platforms, less than an hour from the expected landfall. Dotted out as far as his eye could reach were flickers of flame where others waited in preparation. His eye was mesmerized by the sheer numbers of people he could see still mobilizing below—more people than he had ever seen gathered together in one place. The wind set the platform to swaying, the chillness finding its way through his clothing. His nerves jangled unpleasantly, even his weariness being displaced as he glanced over to where Derringer waited with him on the other side of the platform. Lee Parable was initially going to join them, but had ultimately decided he was more comfortable sticking to the chemical route on the ground, rather than deal with the machinery. He could dimly see Derringer fiddling with her pack, now, frowning at the wand apparatus.

”Do you know how to use it?” he asked, and she startled.

“Oh, are you back? I mean, communicative?” She picked up her gear and moved closer, looking somewhat relieved. “Sorry, it’s just… It was so creepy. After you guys took that green stuff, it was like I was suddenly walking with a bunch of zombies. You were all silent, and you just walked straight through without a break for anything.”

Her description did nothing to relieve his stress, and he took out his pipe to distract himself. “That must have been exceedingly dull,” he said, dryly, to cover how his hands shook somewhat.

The red cloud overhead was fast descending, occasionally blotting out the moon entirely, so that Derringer seemed to flicker in and out of sight. “I tried talking to you a few times,” she admitted. “But it was like you were looking right through me.”

The colored smoke from his pipe drifted lazily on the wind. They were lucky it was such a clear, calm night. He knew he should feel grateful the spores hadn’t fallen during a storm or where heavier winds could have blown the spores across half the whole northern lands. But mostly he just felt sick, even the smoke doing little to cut the cold steel wire of tension in him.

“There’s something… I tried to say before. Maybe it can wait,” Derringer said, looking away. And whatever it was, he was suddenly certainly he didn’t want to hear it. However, his heart had only begun to lift when she continued with, “But it probably shouldn’t. It… has to be said. When this is over…”

“Derringer—“ he tried to forestall her words, perhaps with an inkling of where it was leading, even if he didn’t yet want to admit it to himself.

“When this is all over,” she said, firmly, turning to look at him again, “I need to leave. I’ll walk back with you, but then I need to go on. To that little town. Or further south. Maybe to Osla. I don’t know. But I have to go.”

Even in the dark, the crystal reflection of her eyes was a sun-glow. He felt scorched under her gaze. Like a weed drying up and crackling in the summer heat. Right in the heart of him was a sense of brittleness and withering. “I’m sorry,” he said, leadenly. “I… You told me not to, but I pushed you too far—“

“You didn’t. I pushed myself, maybe. But that’s not… You said there were bindings,” she said, putting a hand to her chest. “That they were weakening, bending. I can feel them breaking. I don’t know what will happen to me if the bindings break. But I can’t imagine I’ll survive the aftermath for long.

“While we were walking, I… tested myself a little. Trying to put pressure on just where I can still feel it hurt. It’s like a sore tooth, I just can’t keep my tongue from prodding it. And I… I need to leave. Now. Before the leaving is what finally breaks me altogether.”

His throat worked. He almost said, “Then don’t leave at all.” But it was a senseless and selfish request. Her bindings might hold for another year, or a decade. They might last the rest of his lifespan. And if she waited that long, how much worse would it be when he was finally the one forced to leave her, slipping away into death. It was delusional to think she would stay so long, anyway, a light contained in his tiny lantern, when she had all the rest of the world to set ablaze. Stupid to imagine she would waste even years with him when she could barely stand his touch as it was. And he was a fool twice-over for not having learned his father’s lesson: never to wholly give oneself to just one person.

Before the moonlight was covered again, she watched him swallow down his objections. It almost made it worse, seeing such terrible understanding in her expression. He looked away before the light could return, and it was almost with relief he heard the first shouts of warning from the other platforms.

The spores had arrived.

The sky was awash with red. The descending units, individually, were delicate, spindly things no bigger than a woman’s littlest finger. Along one end of them were wiry protrusions like tiny legs, the bottom section being more of a rod with a bulbous point on the top that contained the actual spores. It was this conversely delicate design that protected them from reaching too great a speed on entering the atmosphere. With the air resistance dragging at it, the weaker parts of it would sheer off, little by little, as terminal velocity was eventually reached just as the ground came rearing up and, on impact, the spores could be released more easily. Their form, luckily, meant that they tended to move rather closely together, caught up in one another’s protrusions. It limited the amount of space that needed to be protected against their invasion. Unfortunately, this also meant that when they did descend, it was en masse, like a hail of arrows already bloodied.

Flames sprouted up to meet the onslaught. The defenders waved their wands overhead, their protective masks in place, aiming at their targets as best they could. Small grenades, tossed overhead, took out still more. The light illuminated their targets, and it was gratifying to see how they sizzled and fell. But the onslaught was unyielding. For every fifty they singed, there were a thousand more directly behind, and still falling. Bailey almost felt he merely waved a torch at the dark, and that the great mass of red gnats swayed out of his path and back again. Below, the ground workers were kept just as busy, scouring the earth in wide swaths, only to go back to the ground they just tread and begin again. Children scurried along between the trees or jumped from platform to platform, bringing extra fuel or chemicals or shovels. At one point a little fellow who looked to be only a handful of summers old tried to carry two of the heavy canisters himself. He misjudged his leap between the platforms and there was a horrifying shriek he barely managed to gasp just before he hit the forest floor.

There were other accidents. The spores had not fallen in their area of the world for some time, and very few had much experience dealing with flames or anything like combat. More than a few people suffered burns, and others lost their heads entirely. Bailey remembered hearing one woman shrieking that the spores were in her eyes. She’d ripped the protective mask from her face and plunged her own nails into her eyes. The last intelligible thing she’d said was that they were burrowing into her, and then only dissolved into broken screams. Her partner on the platform had been forced to quit her own efforts in order to try to get the mask back on the inconsolable woman before the spores really did find their way into the nutrient-rich bloody chasms she’d left in her face. But Bailey had his own battles to fight, and could watch no longer. At some point they must have sent someone else to collect her, because when he looked again, she was gone.

They tried to work in shifts, as best they could, so there was always someone with a full canister while the other switched out. As the night dragged on, however, Bailey began to flag. His hands were clumsy, numb, each burst of flame a smear on his eyes—red and black and white, swirling together into a long nightmare. And then there came a point: there was barely a shout of warning before one of the grenades, thrown too carelessly, exploded directly overhead.

Bailey didn’t remember the blast, exactly. He found himself flat on his back, precariously close to the platform’s edge. Her ears were ringing, eyes almost too painful to open. One leg was dangling into darkness while the other was crumpled uncomfortably beneath him. His protective mask had been blown clean off, and the smoke was nearly unbearable, so thick he almost felt it lodged in his throat. He felt a warm, inhumanly smooth hand on his brow, and his streaming eyes opened to find Derringer kneeling over him. She was saying something, but he couldn’t hear her over the ringing in his ears, the roar of fire, the panicked screams. Over her shoulder, he could see the sky was still filled with spores. Their wretched journey nearly at its end. Greedy for the rich soil beckoning below.

Her fingers found his cheek, and his eyes were dragged back to hers. Her other hand clutched the front of her clothing, over her chest, in a fierce, agonizing kind of grip. And amidst all of this, perhaps it was strange that his first clear thought was to worry what this was doing to the bindings over her heart. If his ears were properly working, would he hear that awful creak of bending metals again?

“I’m all right,” he tried to say, but when he attempted to sit up, she put a hand to his shoulder, firmly propelling him back down. But perhaps this was the push she needed. There was a steady kind of fire burning in her eyes, now, a look of purpose settling over her features as she set aside her own equipment and stood, looking up into the sky.

Her hands were moving together. Almost as one might roll a ball of clay. Palm to palm, they slid, smoothly gliding together, faster and faster, until between her fingers he began to see sparks. They moved between her hands until there was too much for her to directly contain, there. Little spits of lightning began to crawl over the fine bones of her wrist and creep over her fingers until they seemed bathed in the light. Only then did her hands start to move apart, the electricity sizzling as it leapt from one hand to the next, finger to finger, and back again, building louder and brighter all the while until it held steady: arcs of lightning held between her hands, growing thicker and more powerful the farther she spread her arms. Until at the last she made a motion as if hurling it into the air.

It was as if she’d called a thunderbolt directly from the night sky. The white-hot energy burst through the swarm of spores all the way into the stratosphere, burning everything in its path. Bailey, whose eyes were still only recovering from the grenade, thought he might actually have been blinded. He rolled to his side, still coughing wretchedly. And he must have fallen unconscious at some point, because the next he knew it was daylight that was weakly making its way through his eyelashes. He was lying in a canvas hammock, and he could hear the groans of the wounded around him. His lungs still burned, but at his first movement, water was pressed to his lips to at least satisfy the worst of it. When finally he could properly open his eyes, he found Lee Parable and Derringer Catherine hovering over him.

“Take it easy,” Derringer quickly cautioned when he immediately tried to get up.

“The spores?” he choked.

“It’s pretty well sorted,” she assured. At his somewhat frantic look, she said, almost too casually, “We ran into some luck at the end, there. I guess all that atmospheric disturbance was good for something: some heat lightning took out a lot of it all at once.”

Lee Parable was frowning, but he didn’t directly refute her, instead saying, “I saw the sky lit up white through the branches.”

“So you didn’t miss much, and a lot of people left already. Lee Parable says he’s going to stick around for a few more days to help try to kill any we might have missed. Oh, and someone stopped by? He was kind of tall, blond? I think he said he was, oh, Word in Rust?”

“Warden Rush,” Lee Parable provided, which made quite a bit more sense.

“And he wants to talk to you—oh not right now,” she protested when he started to get up again, looking like she might just bodily pin him to that hammock if he kept up in this ridiculous manner. “When you’re feeling well enough!”

“I’m all right,” he said, trying to wave her off and feeling primarily uncomfortable they were making such a fuss over him.

“No, you’re—Bailey, stop, just wait for the healer,” she finally snapped. And perhaps she merely took it for docility, that he abruptly lay perfectly still, his face turned a rather bright shade of red as he tried very hard not to look at anything at all. Although how she could be so oblivious to how perfectly embarrassed her companions were, he wasn’t sure. Lee Parable was reduced to hand-speech, giving abrupt apologies for why he had to leave, right now, immediately, and be elsewhere. Bailey wished he could do the same. Of course, it wasn’t like she had intended to publicly address him in quite so intimate a manner, he had to remind himself. She likely had only picked it up from hearing his family address him, and hadn’t realized the significance of it. And right now, he was far too mortified to even broach the subject with her.

At the very least, it kept him lying still long enough wait for one of the healers to take the time to come check him out. The healer was a rather frazzled-looking older lady who checked his ears and eyes and listened to his chest, frowning when she heard he’d had smoke exposure.

“I don’t like the sound of your breathing,” she said, frankly, “but you otherwise seem well enough to travel. If the cough keeps up for another few days, see someone.” And then she was off, seeing to someone with a burn covering half of his exposed skin.

Bailey’s legs felt rubbery, and he moved stiffly at first, grateful for Derringer’s arm. But by the time he saw Warden Rush still organizing a few of the ground units, his stride was fairly sure again, even walking alone. He had only time to feel freshly embarrassed for his poor state of dress before his uncle spotted him, giving an approving nod.

“You organized things quickly,” Warden Rush said, after the initial pleasantries were over. “It’s one thing to plan at one’s leisure, but doing things right under a time constraint is another thing entirely. That modified girl, the Houseless Red—I’ve spoken with five Houses who said she was their first news the spores were even falling.” He considered Bailey a moment longer before saying, “Don’t concern yourself too much, setting up another meeting with all of our Sister-Houses. We’ll all expect a delay. But when it does happen, you have my support.”

“Y—I… Thank’ee,” Bailey managed, nearly swaying on his feet at the unexpected rush of relief he experienced, only for Warden Rush to laugh and clap him on the shoulder.

“We’ll take it from here. You should get back.”

There did seem to be little enough for Bailey to do, there, and those with bigger stakes in the land or with more resources seemed to have it fairly well-covered. The walk back would certainly be a more leisurely one, following a trickle of people heading back south either to hunt the ground for any missed spores or simply to go home. Bailey might have felt glad to have the walk back to spend as much time as he liked with Derringer Catherine, if it weren’t for the fact he knew this journey was the last he would see of her. He wished he could somehow contrive to drag the trip out a bit longer. But it wasn’t wholly contrivance that resulted in somewhat frequent stops as his breath was stolen away and his coughing worsened.

Still, he didn’t think very much of it until he coughed up the first drops of blood.

In his palm, the droplets glared crimson against the pale linen of his kerchief. He had touched his nose, at first, to find that, no, this could not be blamed on a nosebleed. He thought, then, perhaps it had been only the force of his coughing. The ache in his chest had not abated, as they had walked, and now—mere hours from home—the sensation in his chest had gradually built to a stabbing pain. As the pain had worsened, so, too, had his cough. But maybe it was only the smoke damage.

He could not long lie to himself. The hand he held to his chest could feel the frantic beat of his heart, but it rested near a darker secret: an unspooling of deadly tendrils where it had nestled in his lungs. The blood in his hand blurred with bitter tears, his legs becoming shaky beneath him. It was only fear of further indignity that kept him from fainting entirely, as with a force of will he closed his hand around the soiled cloth and made his shoulders straighten. He had retreated some few steps to get some privacy while the latest coughing passed, and now he forced a look of unconcern on his face as he put the offending object in his pocket and rejoined Derringer.

“Are you all right?

If he told her, he might well undo all the effort that was going to be put into sending her away in the first place. There was nothing that could be done, and it would be selfish and cowardly just to put this burden on her so that he wouldn’t have to carry it alone. Better to smile, now and let her make a clean break of it.

“Of course,” he reassured.

She hesitated, seeing how he had picked up the pace rather significantly, before she ventured, “We could rest a bit longer, if you need to?”

“There is no need.”

She bit her lip, accepting this as something of a rebuke, no matter how airily he spoke it. Perhaps she had misread the situation, and it was only his injury that had kept him dawdling before, rather than any kind of reluctance for the journey’s end. Maybe she had been projecting, all this while.

As much as she had tried to soften it, leaving would still be enormously difficult. That night they fought the spores, after she had called out some of the deepest energies she could feel percolating within her—there had been that dreadful moment when she had turned back and found him lying so very still, with his limbs still all at awkward angles from where he had been so carelessly flung. He didn’t answer to her call, her touch, and the little flutter of a pulse in the delicate curve of his neck had seemed such a fragile, thready thing. She hadn’t intended to feel anything, then, but it hadn’t stopped the terrible wrenching ripping its way inside of her as she gathered him up to take down to the healers. Later, given some time alone, she had allowed her skin to become translucent and taken a cautious survey of the damage. There was now only a single band still in place over the trembling heart, the strain visible even on brief review. If she was smart, she would avoid any further stress she could possibly manage until, perhaps, she could find some way to fix what had already been done.

As they neared the house, she wondered if she wasn’t entirely a fool that she hadn’t broken off from his path, already. There was nothing she had left at the house that she could not replace, and listening to the wretched hacking of that painful cough wasn’t doing either of them any favors. But she kept by him, anyway, increasingly concerned, the paler he became. A few times he had to stop and lean against a tree and cough into his kerchiefs. But he waved aside assistance, managing a smile, and not slackening their pace in the slightest.

As they entered, at last, into the courtyard around the house, he at least allowed his shoulders to sag in relief. The home was quite intact, even if the ground were a bit scuffed-up, still, from when they had had their impromptu gathering. There were a few chickens hissing warnings at them, flashing tiny black teeth in a challenge, but Pin shooed them away as she came at a gallop towards them, giving a brilliant smile she didn’t bother to his behind her hand.

Before Pin could reach them, Bailey said in undertones, “I’ll be sorry to see you go, but it’s perhaps better done sooner than later.”

“I… Yes, you’re right. I should probably…”

But then Pin was upon them, nearly sweeping Bailey off his feet in her enthusiasm. “Oh, slow’d’ee, had neighbors pour’em through all day, and get’ee lead feet ‘n’ all!” she said, but rather too excitable for her scolding to have any weight. But this turned rather to concern as he abruptly bent, coughing heavily into the kerchief he fumbled from his pocket. “Are’ee hurt?”

“Just… smoke,” he gasped, eyes streaming a bit as he was wracked with another cough. “Derringer,” he said when he could speak, the word almost a plea, for she hadn’t made any move to leave.

At Pin’s curious look, Derringer shuffled her feet, guiltily, starting to step towards the house. “I… I have to go.”

“Now?” Pin asked, blankly. “It’ll be sundown in a few hours, get’ee fresh start if’n—“

“No, she has to—“ Bailey started, grabbing Pin’s shoulder in his desperation, but then he could feel it coming on again. And he knew, within the first few coughs, that this time was different. When the blood came, it wasn’t the small droplets he’d managed to conceal so far, but a flood of red spilling past his lips onto the churned earth.

His sister shrieked, now holding him up as he shook and shook, giving weak gasps as he drowned in the torrent. Pin was sobbing, terrified, and when he finally got the breath to whisper something to her, she shook her head violently.

“What’s going on?” Derringer asked, hovering, uncertain. “Let me help, I can help get him to the house, we can get a healer—“

“This doesn’t concern you,” Bailey snapped at her, the viciousness of his tone making her stumble back. “Go. Now.”

She watched Pin help him make his limping way to the house. Neither of them looked back. Pin was trembling nearly as much as he was. When they got to the door, they were met by a number of people who had returned to fulfil their contracts and come, curious at the noise in the yard. Pin didn’t answer their questions, but instead simply requested they help him up the stairs to somewhere comfortable.

To Pin fell the unhappy task of the arrangements. Talus Mos had to be told, of course. Although she kept trying to sort that duty to the bottom of her list, she went to him first. It was as terrible as she had anticipated, but she didn’t have time for his grief. There was the wood to gather, and the spice to collect. Bailey would have told her her to skip most of the ceremony, but he wasn’t consulted, and it was with an obstinate air she put all of her efforts into making all the proper arrangements. Trying to push away the heartsick by falling into the work.

When it finally came time, she looked desperately for tasks unfinished; for any way to delay the inevitable. But there was nothing left to do but the final step.

He’d changed out of his bloody clothes, and he was at least strong enough to walk to the pyre under his own power. He would not—could not—be buried in the family crypt, as their mother had been. Not with the spore aching to burst its way out of where it had nestled in his chest, borne there on the wind when his mask had been knocked loose. But she was determined that he would still have a proper send-off.

It was a House affair, and they were given their space to manage it privately. Talus Mos would have been permitted to attend, but neither of them had really expected him to; he wasn’t really strong enough to endure it. The house was shuttered and dark as the two of them made their way to the little clearing as the sun dipped low over the horizon. All the earth was dark, even if the sky held traces of light.

The wood they had gathered was stacked high enough that he had to hoist himself up, to sit on top. It was not the most comfortable place, perhaps, but he didn’t expect to be there long. He felt curiously detached, once sitting there, taking out his belt knife. Almost unable to believe it. Just a few days ago, there had seemed to be so much promise still left.

“Warden Rush pledged to back us,” he said. “They don’t expect to be called soon, but you should… use this. Call it a funeral feast. People get… sentimental on such occasions.”

He stifled a cough, determined to have his say. There had been no more hemorrhaging since that first scare, and he would not have his last words lost to another.

“Lee Parable can manage most of the planting supervision this year alone, if he has to. We settled what seeds we’d need, and where. But pay attention, and rotate them next year.”

He was pushing it, talking this much, and he couldn’t restrain the cough that tore through him, then.

“Don’t waste the spice on me,” he said when he could. “And remember to take the ring, after I…”

Pin was trying to keep her crying quiet, and he couldn’t bear to look at her as he positioned the knife at his chest. It wobbled in his grip. And he was afraid that, at the last, he wouldn’t be able to do it. But the alternative was to ask Pin to do it, and that could not be tolerated.

And he might have found the courage, then, if he hadn’t looked up to see her approaching through the trees. With her long, long hair floating along in her wake, coming from the gloom, her step slow and sure and her wide eyes alight, she almost seemed an apparition. He opened his mouth, intending to beg her to leave, but he didn’t have the will to ask it of her, again. Instead he was silent as she approached, curiously expectant, though he knew not of what.

Preoccupied as she was, Pin didn’t notice Derringer had arrived until she was standing on the other side of the pyre. There was something frightening in her expression: distorted not by pity nor sadness, but a with avid ferocity as she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me, about the spore?” And when he could give no response, she began climbing up on the bundled sticks and snatched the knife from his nerveless fingers, letting it drop. She pressed, “You would have let me leave without telling me?” Seizing his shirt-front, pulling herself up entirely, he could see the swirling, living light in her eyes as she hissed into his face, “You were just going to die, without saying anything?”

She was too near. Her powerful limbs were almost a cage around him, the heat in them a sweet balm to the wretched shivers he’d been repressing. They were both nearly breathless, and of their own volition his hands had come up to seize her upper arms, fingers partly buried in the molten flow of her hair. Oh if he had to die, would this be such a terribly bad way to go? But—

“Dear, your heart,” he said, weakly.

“Damn my heart,” she growled, closing that last distance.

It was, perhaps, less a kiss than a calculated attack. Her mouth found his, but then so did the flame. It drank on his inhalation, trailing down into his lungs, until it touched the coiling tendril of the sprouting spore, and that burning agony was worse than anything the spore had yet inflicted on him. His fingers spasmed, ineffectually, but there was no breath left in him to scream, no strength to resist. She had gone entirely translucent, focused as she was, and the light in her was nearly too bright to look at. She blazed, little more than fire in a woman-shaped casing, as she held him, burning out the last of the contagion and cauterizing its many wounds.

His first breath of the cool night air was almost unbearably sweet. It rushed to his head so that he swayed, still held up by Derringer’s arms.. But then she let go. She was stepping down and back, away from the pyre. Her hands held at her chest in a staying motion. He could hear Pin, sounding utterly bewildered, shouting questions. She’d ran around and collected his knife, holding it at Derringer in a terrified but determined manner, but Derringer wasn’t even looking at her.

“Wait,” he said, trying to get his feet under him. But she had fled, and Pin had latched onto his arm.

“What was’em?” she demanded. “Are’ee hurt? It was wearing her face—“

“I’m not hurt, she burned it out of me. Let go.” And then, knowing that wasn’t nearly good enough: “Please, I have to go, I’ll explain when I get back.”

There were no footprints to follow, as he had that first day. But there were occasional little signs of her passing: the bent undergrowth, broken twigs, scorched earth, and the smell of lightning. And really, there was only one landmark nearby that she would recognize.

He burst onto the ruins to find her standing at the ledge, her back to him. The light had fled, and it was only under the stars he picked out her form. When she turned, her hands were still clasped at her chest, but her expression was clear.

“It’s breaking,” she said, plainly. “And… I knew it would. I had to get here, before… But I think I’ve figured it out, now. It’s all right.” She took a small step backward.

“Stop! What are you doing?”

“I’ve figured it out,” she repeated. “This… this glass skin. It isn’t me. Even if I lived in it for another thousand years, it was never me.” She took another step back, her heel at the rock ledge. Not even she could survive that drop.

“Don’t. Please, don’t. We’ll fix it. We’ll put the bands right. Please.”

“Shh, Bailey,” she said, giving a tremulous smile. “I know you’re frightened. And I’m sorry. But… it’ll be all right.”

The wind tugged at her, her hair arching out over the ledge. She took a step. And then she was gone.

.

Concluded-->

#glassworks #sumflowers #ahod #drabble #au

[princezukohere]

Still Friends *revisited* part 13

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

part 5

part 6

part 7

part 8

part 9

part 10

part 11

part 12

Dear Mr. Mendes, 

does that sound too formal? I was trying to joke around....but we both know I don't get to choose when I'm funny. I don't write letters and just writing this is weird because I could just text you or facetime you but I feel as if there's something powerful with writing letters...if that makes sense.

I think my main reason for writing this is because if I could talk I'd be talking to you right now, everything would be different. Just the fact that my voice is gone makes me feel so vulnerable and I know that Bea gets it but I feel as if you would understand on a different level...music is what I want to do. My love, my life and here I am with the fear that my voice is completely gone and I don't know how to handle that.

Have I ever told you that you're my light? That you made me feel like nothing else mattered in life, and then I broke up with you because I was jealous and terrified but most of all I was insecure. I was jealous because you knew what you wanted when it came to music and I struggle when it comes to writing songs because I've never dealt with all the things that everyone else did. I was terrified to lose you and I thought that maybe by choosing to be friends you would be around forever, that way we couldn't have a bad break up and never talk again but I realized that I was being selfish.

You always respected me and my choices, you never hurt me and if you did it was never intentional. You made me so happy all the time and I don't know how to thank you, how to make everything that you did for me, mean something...but I will forever try. 

I'm writing this in my hotel room, we're currently in Texas as tomorrow morning I go back on tour starting in Venezuela. I just want to say that I love you so much. Thank you for being the best boyfriend and friend ever.

You set your journal down on the bed, heading to the balcony of your room, the chanting had only got louder, eventually pulling the doors open you heard cheers from the crowed. They were playing Regenerated, chanting to get well soon. You held onto the balcony with a smile, happy tears running down your face at how loving they were. You went back inside to get your phone before putting them on your snapchat and twitter.

Beatrice Miller, my love Bea,

We met because of Twitter, people telling us that we'd make great friends and they were right. You've been there for me without even knowing me for so long but if feels like an eternity because your friendship alone gives me the need to go on.

I thank Selena for inviting us both on her tour because then I got to know you more and that's when we really came together. I trust you so much and I respect you so much...the fact that I sit next to you in a car as we head to the airport and you haven't taken the journal means a lot to me. The fact that when I look up at you, you smile back because of how strong our love is.

You were there for me during my breakup with Shawn as I was there for you when your break up with Jacob came around and something we've learned is that music is our escape.

Chapter one: Blue, is beautiful and I thank you for letting me be apart of the journey... Chapter: Two is going to be just as great. 

I've been working on Behind The Scene and you have been an amazing impact on my life when it came to this. 

When I told you that Opportunity and Regenerated wouldn't have music videos you understood why but Behind The Scenes is for the fans, for my family...to see that I go through things and that I have problems just like they do. 

Thank you so much, Bea, because without you in my Life, I think I would have fallen down a hole, I'm serious, you've kept me sane and for that, I owe you my life.

Walking through the airport was always difficult, people either were there waiting for you or people soon found you. This time people were waiting and you were stuck in a car for an hour. Soon John and his crew had got there helping you and Bea out of the car, making it inside the building safely. You loved being able to talk to them and to have a conversation with them but in a situation like this, where it was a big crowed. John didn't want any repeat mall incidents.

You guys waved at people and signed and took pictures with those closest to you along with making your way into the airport.

"I feel bad for the people who are trying to catch a flight." You whispered to Bea as you guys were boarding the plane, "All of our beautiful people just barricading the doors."

My Family,

If I could write you all an individual letter I would but there's so many of you and not enough time. The past three years has been amazing and you guys have been on one hell of a journey, I appreciate it so damn much.

This letter is an announcement just as much as it is a thank you. When Bea and I get back to America she won't be continuing the tour with me because of her own projects so I will be taking three of you, ages sixteen and up around the rest of America and a special surprise trip. Everything is paid for so don't be scared to enter, you also will get to listen to songs from Behind The Scenes.

Behind The Scenes is an album, like Regenerated but ore in detail, you get to learn about the things that I went through, of course with some fun songs that might be false, we'll see. 

I'm pushing for fourteen songs and five bonus tracks, it may be hard but this one is for you guys.

You had started writing Behind the Scenes before Regenerated was out which was scary, to get back but now it was serious, your third album was a thing that you wanted. The songs haven't been picked yet but four songs that you already wrote were,

Man like you

Match Made in Heaven

I'll survive

Follow me

Man Like you was about Shawn, this was after the party when he tried to talk to you at your album release. I want another Man Like You, to make me feel safe, another Man Like You, when my nights are gray. He'll kiss me, he'll love me, he'll touch me, they way you do...but oh, he won't be you.

Match Made in Heaven is about Abraham, he was what you thought you wanted but of course not what you needed and to you, he deserved better.  You don't deserve a sap story, a girl who can't figure things out. You were perfect in every way, but darling, you were a match made in heaven, everything I thought I needed, but you didn't have one thing, you weren't him.

I'll survive was when you and Bea had gotten into the fight that day and you felt like everything was falling apart. I'll survive, the night without you...but baby I...I need you. Come back home, to me, to us, be what we could be, baby I...I miss you, but I'll survive.

Follow me is dedicated to the fans, to follow you on your journey through the business, through the crying,  everything they were there and you wanted them to remember how special they were to you. Follow me, I promise you won't regret it. Follow me, I promise I'll show you the stars, you mean the world me, you mean everything to me, so follow me...through my journey.

You sat in your dressing room a small smile on your face as you set the journal down, your journey was soon coming to an end, but there was still one thing you hadn't done and before you took your break to finish your album there was one more surprise that they needed to see, and it was right around the corner.

#shawn mendes x reader #shawn mendes imagine #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes au #shawn mendes #magcon shawn #magcon x reader #magcon imagines #magcon au #magcon