[Closed] Where You Don't See Me

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 24, 2720 - Early Morning
A Market in Castle Hill

All she had to do was be careful. She could be careful. The ten had been—that had only happened because she was surprised. Aurelie hadn't truly expected anyone to actively come looking for her; she simply wasn't that important. To be sought was very, very different from simply getting discovered one day.

There was no doubt in her mind now, either, that it had been her they'd been there for. The last four days, she'd warred with herself over whether or not to mention it to Cass. She didn't want the woman to worry about officers showing up at the Good Pan—but suppose they did? If they'd found her at the market, why not here?

In the end, she had stuck with her decision. Thinking back she thought they had seemed reluctant to move through the crowd to follow her. That meant, perhaps, that a spectacle was less than desirable. So the bakery was likely safe. Still, she couldn't be sure. If it came to that... Well, she supposed she would give up, then. Better that outcome than to reward Cass' kindness with more trouble than she was worth.

Just staying in the shop and not leaving wasn't an option, either. For one thing, that was strange behavior in and of itself, and would defeat the point of not mentioning it to the baker entirely. For another, she found the idea made her both sad and angry. Like she had come all of this way just to—to be even more restricted, really, than she had been before. No, she would just have to be vigilant and not let her fear get the better of her. Next time (oh Lady forbid there was a next time) it would be different. Better.

On top of it, she had decided that she couldn't return to that particular market in West-and-Long. Better to not go to any one market in particular, in fact. Aurelie tried to cheer herself up by telling herself it was a chance to get to know the city better. Maybe it would be good in the long run—she had every intention of taking careful account of where things could be bought for the best value to quality. Surely Cass knew already, and Aurelie could have just asked. But as scared as she was, she did like the idea of figuring it out for herself. Look on the bright side, she told herself, over and over.

With all of this in mind, she could still feel her heart threatening to leap out of her throat and dart away from her as she sorted through early summer squash. She had covered her hair, at least, with a muted grey kerchief. Most of it. The locks that framed her face and covered her forehead refused to stay hidden, but it was enough to make her more difficult to spot from a distance. The sun wasn't so high yet that it felt too warm; there was a mild drizzle coming off the water, in fact, that dulled colors and made everything smell of salt.

That was exciting, too. Old Rose Harbor was different than anywhere on the Islands had felt, for the short time she had spent there. More like Anaxas, and yet so very different than Brunnhold. That alone seemed almost worth it. New experiences, new places. Choices to make herself, to sink or to swim on her own. If she jumped at every little murmur in the small morning crowd, well... She would only have to do so for so long.

It would all be fine. She had to believe so.

[Desiderio Morandi]

a market in castle hill

afternoon on the 24th of roalis, 2720

G

ulls. Absolutely wretched creatures. But they populated the pages of his sketchbook, with their long, curved wings and their beady eyes; the two days before this he had spent staking out the waterfront, and he had seen plenty of them, waddling up and down piers as if they owned them and nearly snatching the food right out of the human laborers’ hands.

He had drawn the laborers, too. Hardy longshoremen, stripped down or sweating through their shirts in the Roalis heat, even in the cool breeze that swept off the ocean. He hardly envied them, but they made for excellent studies. He had spent plenty of time along the Arova in Vienda, but the look of them there was simply different, crushed down by the smog. The men here had driven him indignant, at first; in Vienda, even out of uniform, the lower races were attentive and polite.

They still gave him a wide enough berth here – the weight of his field made rather sure of that, along with the rest of him – but he hardly stood out here as he might have in Bellington or Kingsway.

Twice, now, from afar, and he’d have thought himself mad if he hadn’t heard it from the last crier’s lips, he had been mistaken for a wick. Twice!

It smelled rather of fish, too, and he was looking forward to leaving as soon as possible. As soon as they got this girl, if they hadn’t ruined it for themselves with that embarrassing first attempt.

On the ten, he had dressed down Tanqueray and seen to it that Rowell was disciplined harshly. No one, not even the captain, had refused his seal; he had only been to use it under dire circumstances, but these were dire circumstances indeed. Since then, he had worked primarily with Chevreau, who was turning out to be a promising young woman indeed, as practical-minded and clever as she was divinipotent; he hardly knew why she was stranded in the Vineyard, in this city that smelled of beer and waste.

Well, he supposed it didn’t smell too badly this morning; nor did he too much dislike Castle Hill. It smelled rather more of the morning mist, with a hint of a salty breeze. Chevreau had had word from one of her informants here – she had them in vendors all over the markets, he was coming to discover – that a small, red-haired woman in a grey kerchief, not a regular and in fact never before seen, had been browsing radishes even earlier that morning.

There was a waft of something sweet in the air, something baking, as he tucked away his sketchbook, skimming the crowd for any flash of grey. The smell tugged at him in a way he had not expected; a great many things were tugging at parts of him he had long intended to bury. But the smell of baking in the summer had always ached in him, and it was nothing new.

He heard a giggle, and then a whisper: ... that tsuter-lookin’ kov, and more giggles. There was a gaggle of human girls over near one of the shopfronts, strung up with flowers and light green ribbons; they were heavily – rather scandalously – made up, and they were pointing at him, whispering and laughing. He scowled, and they stopped abruptly, shuffling inside.

He took a deep breath. Then –

Over by a stall, a light grey kerchief, barely glimpsed in the ebb and flow of the crowd. His headache was hammering; he felt it spike, as if somebody had fired a cannon against the walls of his skull. Just between his eyes, as usual. He swallowed a sour taste in his mouth and forced himself to push through, though he must not have been as inconspicuous as he had thought; a woman gave him a startled sidelong look as he brushed by, and when he returned it with a polite nod, she looked as if he had glowered at her.

“Mornin’ t’you, lass,” a gruff human voice was saying on the other side of the counter.

She was sorting through pale yellow squash, turning them over in her small, callused hands. He stopped for a moment, just out of field range; he knew not why. He watched for just a moment, his heavy brow furrowing.

Then, gritting his teeth and scowling despite himself, he came closer, until he knew she could feel him. It would have been better, he thought now, to use a human agent – but who could be trusted? Besides, Chevreau and Clerisseau’s men were poised in various places about the market; it was only that he hoped she was wise, this time, and came willingly.

“Excuse me,” he said, stepping in beside her and pretending to study the squash. “Might I have a word?” He cast her a sidelong glance.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 24, 2720 - Early Morning
A Market in Castle Hill

Yes, these three would do. Aurelie was sure of it. She never would be so fussy, when choosing for Brunnhold—they hardly chose at all, really. What was delivered was delivered, and if it wasn't spoiled they would use it. Then, they relied on it being in the best interest of the vendors to deliver them good product, or no longer have the University's contract.

There was something satisfying about being about to be choosy, to not simply take what was available and make do with it. Anxious as she was, the idea brought a little smile to her mouth. "G-good morning," she managed, and her smile remained even when she looked up. "These three, if you—"

The smile disappeared when she felt it, the very edges of a field, just entering her perception. All of the muscles in her shoulders stiffened, even as she tried to tell herself to relax. Not to panic, she couldn't panic. There was no promise either that it was—there were plenty of fields in the Harbor. "Ah, actually, maybe another day. Thank y—"

Her hopes of just putting her squash down and slipping away were dashed almost immediately. Foolish little rabbit-hearted thing that she was, Aurelie froze. It was one of the officers from the day before—the one oddly on foot, who loomed over her enough to make her shrink back instinctively. If she had any doubt before (and she didn't, really) it dissolved looking up into that unflinching face. She took a step back, seeing the man behind the counter looking away from them both.

"N-No, I really must be... g-going." It was truly astonishing, the sorts of things that came out of her mouth when her common sense was in no position to intervene. That nagging feeling was back, but Aurelie firmly squashed it down. Now was hardly the time, no matter what it was trying to tell her. She could have seen him a thousand times, what difference did it make?

Stupid, she should have known better than to think just covering her hair would make any difference at all. She simply thought—oh, what a wretched idiot she was. However they'd found her in the first place, it was almost assuredly magic. The mona didn't need to see her hair to know, she supposed. Foolish, stupid thing.

Could she even go back to the bakery at all? What would happen, if they followed her there? No, she would worry about that later. She couldn't go back right now no matter what, but she had to focus on getting out of this moment. All future moments were yet to be determined, and best taken as they came.

Aurelie shuffled another half step back. There was a gap between the stalls here, one that she thought she could—barely—fit between. If she could just...! This time, she didn't bother with the basket or the rest of her shopping. Aurelie threw it, and then darted as quickly as she could into that tiny gap. Both stall owners on either side of her shouted in surprise, and she apologized to them somewhere in the back of her mind.

Now? Now she just had to get away. Angry or upset vendors were low on her list of concerns. With any luck, the officer wouldn't be able to fit after her, and she would buy herself a little time to disappear again.

[Desiderio Morandi]

a market in castle hill

afternoon on the 24th of roalis, 2720

H

e saw her stiffen and begin to excuse herself. “‘Course,” the human opposite them said, but he was looking at Morandi. Morandi met his eye once over the squashes, steely; he looked away and down, and he frowned, but he made no foolish decisions.

The girl, on the other hand –

She looked up, all the way up, at him, and he looked down at her. There was, again, little time to study her. There were wisps of red hair on either side of her kerchief, as valiantly as she had applied it; her small face was covered in freckles.

No, she stammered after a moment, looking him directly in the eye, I really must be going.

Morandi was not certain there was time for the shock to register on his face. In a moment, she had turned on her heel again – again, like the ten – but this time, he was ready, and he did not hesitate. He had lunged forward when she darted into the meagre space between two stalls, tossing her basket and all of its contents. He nearly stumbled on a radish that rolled out; he caught himself on a nearby stall, the wood creaking and shaking. In the clamor, he nearly lost her.

“What in the hells?”

“Watch where you’re goin’, lass!”

He darted a look from one shopkeeper to the next; a startled human woman, her grey-white hair bound up under a coif, stared at him shocked over a few boxes piled high with bundles of greens.

The space was too small. He would never fit as she had; and with every moment he stood there gawking, she was getting further away. Well, that was no matter, he reminded himself. Chevreau and Tanqueray were both on the lookout, and there were few exits Clerisseau’s men, stupid Numbrey-fresh boys though they were, had not covered. She would be caught, though he would very much have preferred it be with some semblance of dignity.

But another thrice-damned market spectacle! Something about all of this had him off-balance; he could not have said what it was. He had never done this before.

He felt, strangely, that if he stopped to think – if he thought about any of it – he felt himself on the edge of something horrible, as if he had taken a first step into waters deeper and more vicious than he had imagined. As if, though his step was firm and his balance impeccable, he might be dragged down in an instant.

No. He was in control.

The human woman gasped, moving quickly aside. He vaulted himself over the counter, between the vegetables, heedless as he barrelled past her; behind him, he heard more murmurs, more gasps. Heart thundering in his ears, he hurled himself down the alleyway, empty of thoughts, empty of everything.

He saw her when he turned the corner, at last. This was a smaller street; she was tucking herself under a once-colorful, now-faded awning, opening up a small creaking door. He heard a bell jingle, then the door shut. He closed the distance at a half-jog, his breath coming fast. He tried the door, but it was locked now. On the other side of the thin door, he heard a flurry of whispers and a shuffling; he raised his fist and banged once, twice.

Silence, then. He banged again.

“Ain't open yet,” came a gnarled voice.

“Their Majesties’ Seventen,” he said, keeping his voice even; he fought the urge to sag, standing even straighter.

There was another whisper, and more shuffling. Then, at last, the door opened a crack, revealing a rheumy eye and a bushy white eyebrow; the eye went wide with shock. “Officer,” came a mumble, the door opening a little wider to reveal a long, lined face that disappeared into a thick white beard. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Behind him, Morandi could glimpse what looked like a haberdashery, with all manner of thread and yarn and cloth on cluttered shelves; it was too draped in shadows to see much more. “I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to step aside.”

“An’ what’s this about? Bein’ respectful, sir,” the old man muttered, bushy brows drawing together.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 24, 2720 - Early Morning
Castle Hill

Aurelie had good endurance, if she did say so herself. Better than most, at least; certainly better than any golly girl her age. It had been earned, too. Aurelie was almost proud of it, if she were proud of anything. It had been years of hard work that had made her so. She didn't look like much, but she was sturdy and she knew she could keep this pace for a longer time than it seemed.

The problem was, endurance was not the same as speed. As she willed herself to think, gasping steady lungfuls of damp summer air, she knew too that it wasn't the same as sheer height. She didn't want to count on losing the dour-faced officer with something as simple as darting down a path too narrow for him to follow directly. In fact, she could hear the commotion behind her; pursuit was on her heels.

What she needed was a way to throw him—them? there had to be more—off entirely. She couldn't truly outrun him at all, let alone forever. It was hard to think over the terrified rattling of her heart in her throat, her own gasping for breath. She had to, or all of this was for nothing. Think! How could she... Ah!

Down a smaller street was a shop; Aurelie could see the awning from where she was. She veered towards it, abruptly, hoping against hope she could at least buy herself time. The chime of the bell was cheery, in spite of everything. She almost laughed.

"What on Vita—?" The shop's owner, an old man she recognized from the bakery, stood from the chair he'd been in behind the counter. Aurelie bowed, hastily, chest heaving. There was very little time, and this was a gamble at best. Banking mostly on how little love there was for Their Majesties' officers; she could hardly bank on pity for her kind, but that would certainly help.

It was a gamble she would have to take. Oh, but she didn't want to cause—no. She would have to be selfish now. Perhaps she could make it up to the haberdasher later. Somehow. Aurelie wasn't sure how, but she would try. "P-please, I—" Her voice was quiet but desperate; so too was her glance at the door.

The bearded face seemed to grow only more lined as he frowned. The old man glanced from Aurelie's face, red and slightly shining with effort, to the door once more. By now she could hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Whatever he saw, it was in her favor. "The back, lass, 'n be quick 'bout it." He didn't smile, but he wasn't precisely frowning, either. Aurelie didn't care—she was so relieved she could have cried.

"Oh, thank you, I-I'm afraid it's a bit—" Aurelie's urgent whisper was cut off with a shake of his head.

"The back!" He all but glared at her. Red with more than exertion, Aurelie nodded. Now was hardly the moment to waste. She moved through the cluttered shelves, smelling of felt and thread and mercury, and through the door behind the counter. The door opened to a small back room—a workshop and inventory space both. There was, she realized sinkingly, no way out from it. She would just have to rely on the haberdasher, and hope for the best.

All the same, she couldn't help but press her ear to the door, all but holding her breath. She could hear voices, but she couldn't make out any of the words. Just move on! Nothing important here, check somewhere else! She squeezed her eyes shut, and she prayed.

[Desiderio Morandi]

a market in castle hill

afternoon on the 24th of roalis, 2720

S

tep aside,” he was saying, his voice low and soft, but intent.

“‘Course, sir,” the old man said, opening the door a little more. Morandi cleared his throat; immediately, he was struck with the smell of must and old cloth, smoke-stained wood. “But I can’t say I know what the problem is. I been payin’ the king, sir, the proper king, an’ it ain’t for nothin’ I run this place twenty maw…”

There was a frown carved deep into the lines of his face, and he was tugging at his long white beard with a hand that looked more than anything like the gnarled branches of a tree. He rambled on in his rasping, creaky voice; Morandi did not look at him again, instead stepping inside.

The door-bell jangled again. The old human relinquished the door, though he did not look terribly pleased to. Regardless, he stepped aside; he stopped wringing his beard and began wringing his hands together.

Morandi’s breath was beginning to even out.

It was not for nothing that he took his exercise every day at the same time, and so seriously. He remembered, once – it seemed to him like thinking of another man’s boyhood, and he could not seem to picture himself, no matter how hard he tried – feeling ill and small and weak. Until…

He had not thought of that in a very long time, and he did not plan to think of it now. He was comfortable now; he had learned to be comfortable. Strength and discipline were all he had known for a decade, and every one of his muscles was well-trained. Every inch of him he had honed to this purpose. He stood rigid-tall, confident and comfortable with every bit of his height and breadth. The chase had only given him more energy; he had caught his breath, and now every one of his nerves was alight.

“Where is she?” he asked without preamble, cutting across the old man. “Harboring a fugitive is a serious offense. If you tell me –”

“Mant sorry, sir, but I think it's best if you leave.” There was an edge in the old man's voice.

He felt it like a spur in his side, or like the breaking of a tight-wound thread.

He might have searched the place himself. It was small, after all; there were few enough places to hide. But it was cluttered, and he had been irritable since he had set foot in this wretched place – and every inch of him had been bristling for this, too.

He knew precisely which spell he meant to use, and the monite had been on the tip of his tongue since he had stepped in. A simple but strong truth spell.

In his time as a Seventen, he had heard humanity describe monite as everything from guttural to strange and ugly; but there was nothing more satisfying in Vita than the invocation of a spell, nothing more beautiful. And the lovely beginning tickle of an etheric field, of his field, the perceptive mona coming to life. He began the spell, and he felt his headache ebb for a few precious moments, like a tide receding. This was nothing, he thought, nothing if not a noble use. How could it be otherwise?

Roll

SidekickBOT
Today at 11:05 PM
@Graf: 1d6 = (6) = 6

The old man’s eyes widened at the sound of monite. He took a step back, and Morandi stood still, scowling down. “Where is she?” he repeated, hard and cold, holding the upkeep with the same vice grip as he held his posture.

“Didn’t mean ne trouble,” he croaked. “Only, that’s the new lass at the Good Pan, an’ I know her kind, but I ain’t – I ain’t got much respect for brigk –” His brow furrowed, as if he could scarce believe what he was saying. “In the back, she’s – she’s in the back…”

“Thank you.” Morandi’s lip curled, and he let go of the upkeep. He heard the old man gasp, but he was already pushing past, through the cluttered aisles.

The haberdasher should have been grateful; even if compelled, he had aided – rather than hindered – an investigation. And it was for his safety, and for the safety of all his kind, that this was important.

Damn his poor eyes! The mona danced, still whispering with the runoff; but he could feel his headache coming back, a light tapping between his eyes. But if he had cornered her, here, finally – if this wretched endeavour could come to an end, if there was no back door – he could be back in Vienda within the week, back to everything that he knew, back to the his work and to the Beauvilliers.

He pushed through the door.

“It is in your best interests to come willingly,” he said more quietly, squinting in the dark, musty air.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 24, 2720 - Early Morning
Castle Hill

She couldn't hear much through the door at first, although she tried her hardest. The slamming of her heartbeat against her ribcage was too loud, she thought sourly. There were voices, and she knew one of them was the officer who had approached her. And no others, which she thought was—curious. Although you hardly needed backup to apprehend someone like her. Then—yes, it was the jangling of the bell.

Only long practice kept her quiet and still when she wanted to cry. The bell meant the door had opened—had the shopkeeper given her up after all? No, she couldn't—wouldn't—think so. That was an unkind thought born only of fear. He had looked at her face and had sent her back here, instead of away. Even if he were to give her up, well. She could hardly blame him. Aurelie reminded herself to have a little faith.

All the same, her vision blurred with fear.

There was no alternative; she had effectively cornered herself. There was a window, letting in weak grey light, but it was too small and high for her to consider. Even if she could reach it, she'd certainly never fit through. She was small, but—not quite like that. If this wasn't enough, if the officer didn't move on... Aurelie felt her stomach sink. That had not been the face of a man who just gave up and moved on, she felt.

The poor old man, too. She could hear his voice, rasping and unhappy. Perhaps she should give up, to be less trouble that way. Ah, no, she had already decided to be selfish. She would make him a cake. (She could hear the Bastian voice cut sharply through again. A fugitive, he called her—it sounded even worse from someone else's mouth than it did in her own head.) No, two cakes. And if he didn't like cake, well, she'd make him something else. As much as she wanted. If she could just walk out of this back room by her own choice, she would make him baked goods the likes of which he had never seen.

They had moved perilously close to the door; she could hear better now, and that didn't make her feel any more secure. Not when she heard the harsh beginnings of Monite. That was a wash of icewater over her. Aurelie jerked back from the door, and it was only iron will that kept her from stumbling back and giving herself away. He had cast, though she didn't know what. On the poor old man who had done nothing but be kind to her, but try to help when she didn't deserve it—

"...in the back..."

Aurelie stumbled back, and back again. There wasn't far to go. There wasn't anywhere to go, anymore. One month, she'd only made it a month. And it had been worth it. What a month! She had been on an airship, and a ferry, and to a foreign country. Gotten a job, learned to swim. Very nearly, she'd... She had come very close to letting herself... She had gotten to know just a little bit what it was like to be a person.

That was more than she could ever have asked for. More than she could ever have dreamed of. But it was only a dream, and all dreams came to an end. That, she knew very well.

By the time the door opened, Aurelie was standing straight. She thought of her grandmother, and Mother, and even—even of Ana. She was nothing like them; she was a failure by birth. But they were a part of her all the same; she raised her chin and squared her shoulders.

"N-no," she began. He was squinting in the dim light, like his vision was poor. For a brief moment, Aurelie entertained the idea of taking advantage of that, of trying to push past—to run, again. But he filled the doorframe, solid inevitability. The moment passed. "I-I don't think it is. In my best interests. I don't think it's in my interests at all. B-but..."

Her eyes squeezed shut; she opened them again.

"I'll come anyway." She lifted her eyes up, and she glared. She had tried her best. That was all she could have hoped for. She was sorry, mostly, to have wasted so much of people's time.

[Desiderio Morandi]

a market in castle hill

afternoon on the 24th of roalis, 2720

N

o?

He felt a well of frustration bubbling up inside him, growing with the return of his headache. It was embarrassing. Can you not see, he wanted to demand, that this can only get messier and messier, the more you resist?

If she turned to run at once, if there were a back door, if his moment’s blindness lost her again, if Clerisseau’s excuse for decent Seventen failed to catch her – the thought of this drawn out over another week, or the girl escaping altogether on a ship bound for Mugroba or the isles, the thought of writing back to headquarters empty-handed… He wanted so very badly to go home, to what stability he had managed to pull, bit by bit, from this life. With this case closed and closed well, another thread in the tapestry of security, another thing to commend him to his superiors.

His eyes adjusted. This room was even smaller and more cluttered. She was a small shape in the midst of it. His shadow fell over her, and he was – comforted, strangely, by the fact that he could not make out her features by the oil lamp quite as well as he had in the market.

Still more so as she went on. No, she had said, not that she would not come, but that – How did she continue to manage being polite and infuriating at once? He had no patience left for this. “Regardless,” he bit off, more sharply than he meant to, “it is in Their Majesties’ interests, and those are the interests which I…”

He grimaced, then took a deep breath. She had said she would come. Was this a trick? She was glaring up at him with large green eyes, her mouth set, her shoulders as square as they had been on the ten. There was a faint glisten of sweat on her brow.

Like children, someone had told him once, when he was much, much younger. It had not made much sense to him then. He was not sure it made sense to him now, but he had been briefed. She was not the perpetrator of a crime, and nor was she to be treated as one; she was, after a fashion, the victim.

A flicker of pain went across his face; he swallowed tightly. “Thank you,” he said instead. More gently, he hoped.

The old man was behind the counter, he saw in the corner of his eye. If he was watching, his eyes were fixed firmly to the counter. Morandi felt a pang. It was one he did not want or need.

There was a loud jingle at the door behind, and the musty haberdashery was full of light, suddenly.

“Ah, there you are!” came Tanqueray’s familiar, if winded, voice from behind. Morandi grimaced, half-turning, at the brush of clairvoyant mona. “And there she is, thank the Circle. Stay outside, lads,” he called over his shoulder. His lean freckled face was red and shining; his mustaches looked distinctly wilting. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the old man. “Was this man harboring her?”

Morandi hesitated, glancing at the girl, then back. “No, Constable,” he said matter-of-factly. “He proved helpful, in fact, in apprehending her.”

Tanqueray grunted, uncertain, then looked back at the passive. He conjured a smile Morandi supposed was meant to look gentle. “The jig is up, eh, lass? Don’t worry; none of us means you any harm. On the contrary, we all want to help you. We’ve fine accommodations back at Graywatch, for until the magister arrives. They say your name is Aurelie?”

Morandi’s breath caught audibly in his throat.

“Inspector?” Tanqueray lifted an eyebrow.

Morandi froze for a moment too long. Slowly, he reached for the cuffs at his belt. He took one leaden step toward the passive, staring at a cluttered shelf somewhere over her kerchief. “You will – permit me – to restrain you,” he ground, nearly between his teeth, fighting to even his voice out, “as a… formality.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 24, 2720 - Early Morning
A Market in Castle Hill

Regardless, he'd said, sharp-voiced as anything. Aurelie didn't want to shrink back from that; her body disagreed. The field and the voice and the face together made her—but she didn't. She lowered her eyes, but she stayed where she was with her shoulders squared off. A warm flicker of pride kindled in her, a tiny candle flame.

What did she care whose "interests" it was in, really? Not hers, no matter what they said. The University's, surely. And, evidently, Their Majesties' too. Aurelie couldn't see what difference she made to them (or anyone) but it was the principle of the matter, she supposed.

Dim as the light was, Aurelie could see just fine. Well enough for the grimace, and the flicker of pain. She wondered if it was because of casting, or chasing her. Good, she thought grimly, and not without a twinge of shame. He deserved it. Possibly. Even though it was... She might have thought it was in everyone's best interests too, if she were... If she weren't the only person who had much to lose here.

Even so, she bit off a polite "you're welcome". Swallowed it whole, with the glare in place. At least that much rudeness was called for. No matter that he said that less sharply than he'd said anything else.

Oh, but it did bother her, that accent. Not the kind of Bastian accent she heard most often; not Florne, not Anastou. But she did know it, and she didn't know why. She had heard Niccolette Ibutatu for only a moment, and Yazad much more—it didn't sound like theirs. A mystery she would never solve, and didn't matter.

She didn't get the time to ask anyway, even if she'd wanted. The hatmaker looked only at the counter; Aurelie thought he might look slightly ashamed and more than slightly afraid. She was sad and angry at once, looking at him. Thank you, she wanted to say, for having tried. But the door was opening and there were more people and more light, suddenly.

Harboring a fugitive. She hardly needed to make that any worse. Just because there was no way to make it better... More than "thank you", perhaps Aurelie owed him an apology. He was going to get in trouble, just for trying to help her. For being kind. Her stomach sank. She should have given up in the first place. Then this nice old man, whose name she didn't even know, wouldn't be—

“No, Constable.”

Aurelie's eyes widened in brief surprise. Why lie? Why not just—just punish both of them? Why, she wondered miserably, show mercy here? Whatever the reason, Aurelie was glad. She didn't dare look at the man or the first officer, but instead clasped her hands in front of her. At least she hadn't done more damage. That was something.

She did not like the constable's smile. It was familiar, and immediately brought back the anger that had set her shoulders and held up her head. It was the sort of smile you gave to a frightened, confused child. In fact, she would have found it insulting even then. She did not smile back; she didn't know that she was expected to.

For a moment, she thought to ask if—maybe—she could... Could collect her things. That was absurd. For one thing, there was no way they would let her. For another, she wouldn't lead them back to Cass. Harboring a fugitive. No, what few things she had that could come with her... It was fine. They were only things. The one that made her saddest wasn't Ana's dress, or her embroidery books, or any of her things from the Harbor or the Islands.

No, the one that made her saddest was her book of children's stories. Not even the book itself, although it was very dear to her. But the drawing... Oh, she wished she could... It had come with her so far, and for so long. To lose it now made all of this suddenly worse. Aurelie felt her eyes start to warm, thinking about it. Was there any way to...? No. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it had always been for the best, and she should let go of all of these things. It wasn't like she would ever see the people who had given them to her ever again.

"Ye—" She started to answer but paused, puzzled. Didn't they know already? Perhaps the dark-haired Inspector didn't bother with things like remembering the names of fugitives. Or maybe he knew someone else by her name, and was displeased with the association. It was one of those names, she supposed, that was not unheard of, but uncommon enough to be surprising when heard in reference to someone else. "Aurelie St... Yes, sir."

As if it mattered. He wasn't even looking at her, now. Not even as he asked to put her in handcuffs, like she would do something. Hadn't she already proven that she couldn't get away? There was a part of her that wanted to be difficult, to put her hands behind her back. That part of her had always been wretchedly small, even when it shouldn't be. She put her hands forward obligingly.

[Desiderio Morandi]

a market in castle hill

afternoon on the 24th of roalis, 2720

A

urelie St – He was still staring at a misshapen felt excuse for a hat on the shelf behind her, behind the – the fugitive. He had taken one step, but it was not enough.

She was, to his surprise, holding out her hands in front of her. As good as her word. Her small shoulders were squared, and her chin was lifted, so that she reminded him almost of a… She was no more smiling than she had been when she came out.

Yes, sir.

“Aurelie,” Tanqueray said, pulling at his mustaches, still smiling. “Very pretty name. Not one you hear very often, especially in these parts.” He cleared his throat, straightening to the extent of his meagre height and clasping his hands behind his back; he was still looking down, though not by very much, at – her. “Well, Aurelie, I cannot promise it will be smooth sailing from here on out, but that’s simply the nature of what you’ve managed…”

“Be quiet. That is an order.”

But Morandi was not sure silence was any better. One more step, as laborious as if his feet had been replaced with led, or – tin. He had stepped close enough that he could see the top of her head, a few wisps of red hair escaping on either side, catching in the light from the door. He could see her eyes, too, fixed on him, in his periphery. If he had looked at her, he would have been looking almost directly down at her; the thought should not have been so strange. It hadn’t been, a few moments ago. It shouldn’t have been now.

The cuffs rattled as he lifted them. They seemed loud in the silence, but even that was better than Tanqueray’s voice. Than if Tanqueray –

He tore his eyes away from the hat, but he could not look at her face; instead, they skimmed down to her hands. He knew he must not hesitate. “As Inspector Tanqueray has said,” he began, “you will be staying in Graywatch until the liaison from Brunnhold, who is to be the judge and inquisitor in your trial, arrives. She and I will be responsible for escorting you to the university.”

His hands were much – shockingly, it seemed to him, though again, it should not have been – larger than hers. And hers were callused, he realized all over again, this time with a strange desire to shiver. Chapped, even, as if from a great deal of washing.

His thumb brushed one of her wrists through his gloves as he adjusted the cuffs around them. Immediately, he went on harshly, “I have seen to it that your accommodations in Graywatch are entirely satisfactory. In any case, Magister Windburn should not be so long. You will be in Brunnhold within the week; that I can nearly promise you.”

“Come along, lass.” Tanqueray's smile had soured. Morandi drew away and began to turn, absurdly careful not to let their hands brush again.

The light outside seemed unreasonably bright; it was like a knife had been thrust into his skull. He did not wince, all the same, and held himself quite as straight as he had. He did not look at her; it was Tanqueray who led her out.

Several young ensigns stood around. On seeing the passive, all of them stiffened; one backed up, looking way as if he might catch fire from meeting her eye.

“Don’t mind Inspector Morandi. The lads like to joke that he’s part machine,” he could hear Tanqueray saying, behind him. “He’s the liaison from Vienda’s own investigative division. I’m Tanqueray. Let me or Sergeant Clerisseau know if you need anything while you’re, ah, staying with us, all right?”

“Do you have any questions?” the Inspector grated, staring at the girl’s grey kerchief, each word clipped.