[Closed] Where You Don't See Me

[Aurelie Steerpike]

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

She did rather wish the mustachioed constable would stop talking to her. One would expect her to be used to it, that strange combination of looking directly at her and seeing an adult, but talking as if she were no older than she had been when she was tested. (Many customers at the bakery read her as quite young, but she put that down to her height and general build—and even then, they thought she was adolescent at least. This was different.) She was not.

She wasn't really used to anyone talking to her at all. Most of the students and staff had no chance to be condescending; they simply never saw her. If they did have something to say to her, it was a request—an order. Delivered to her and then she was forgotten, under the assumption that she would simply do it. Which she usually did. She greatly preferred being wallpaper to this.

The other one ordered him to be silent, anyway. Aurelie might have been relieved, if he weren't being so very strange. She couldn't quite account for it, honestly. There was no need to be so—rude. She was doing what she was asked, wasn't she? Shouldn't someone look at you when speaking to you in this sort of situation? When she had started to be irritated by rudeness directed at her, she didn't know.

"A trial..." she murmured, mostly to herself, a small frown on her face. The cuffs were put on the wrists she had held out so obediently. She could feel gloved hands touch her just the smallest bit; she tensed her arms, wanting just from that to snatch them away. Absurd. She needed to get over that, too.

Maybe he'd seen her do it, because when he went on, his voice was harder than before. Preferable, at least, to that saccharine condescension from the other one. If she had to choose, anyway; lucky her, she got both. Only a week, and she'd be back. Aurelie's eyes closed again, her heart heavy. A month, she'd made it a whole month. She'd made it only a month. "So soon..."

But they weren't listening, at least she didn't think so. And it didn't matter, did it? She could say anything, as long as it wasn't "no". The cuffs and the bracelet came together and bit into her skin just enough that she couldn't ignore either one. Outside there were more. One backed away from her, as if she had proven fatal already. She pressed her mouth into a thin line, but she couldn't say she blamed him.

"Don’t mind Inspector Morandi." That was all she heard, and nothing after that. She knew the mustache was still speaking, of course. The shape of the words was there, but there was no meaning to them that she could divine. Aurelie froze where she was. She felt, rather suddenly, like she couldn't breath.

No. No, no, no. That was impossible. A coincidence, surely. There were—there had to be more Morandis in the world. An unrelated one, surely.

Who is the right age? Her mind was a traitor. The coloring was right, even if—she could never have pictured him so tall. Or so... He'd always been ill, and soft. In more ways than one; she had liked that. Serious, though. And if she listened, if she really listened... She knew where the accent was from, now. The mountains, not Florne or Anastou.

She was listening now; she couldn't help but listen. Aurelie looked up, at his face again. Standing here outside in the bright summer light, she could see more clearly. If she tried, she could see it. Just a bit— It had been so long, and so much was different— But it was there. It was like something had struck her, hard and unrelenting. Now that she saw it, she couldn't really see anything else.

"M-Morandi?" She didn't know what her face was doing, or her heart either. "De— ...N-no. Everything seems... clear."

What a pathetic lie that was. Nothing was clear at all. Not in front of her, not inside of her. But she wouldn't ask. Couldn't bear to know. Even if it was true... This was not her friend; that, at least, she was certain of. Aurelie blinked and looked away. "No questions. Thank you."

[Desiderio Morandi]

graywatch, redwine

evening on the 24th of roalis, 2720

S

he was looking directly at him, now, as she had in the market on the ten, as she had in the haberdashery. The look on her face was not quite the glare it had been inside; now, it was – he could not tell. He forced his eyes down, slowly, from her kerchief. He almost met her eyes, but found himself staring somewhere above them.

M-Morandi? He was gritting his teeth hard enough to break his jaw, he felt, but he did not wince or flinch; he merely continued looking at her, as if she had said nothing which was unusual to him. Tanqueray gave her a curious sidelong glance. He watched her as she stammered, trying not to hear the familiar cadence of a voice that was softer, a little deeper, now. A woman’s voice.

Definitely, he imagined her saying. Or any number of other words, words that might have begun a question: Does…? Not – Desiderio. Not…

Des.

“Morandi,” he said sharply, and now without a hint of unevenness. He said it as matter-of-factly as if he assumed she was merely confirming she had not misheard. “Indeed.”

He drew in a deep breath, rolling his shoulders. He could feel a flurry of cracks as he did so. Momentarily, he shut his eyes. All this stress. He knew precisely what would do for this, and the moment he got back to Graywatch: a run. A good, proper run, not scrambling through some marketplace after a girl half his size, on the heels of an operation that should never have been this messy, not if he had been in charge at the start. Even footfalls, even breathing, a rhythm to ease this blasted headache.

He clasped his gloved hands behind his back. “Very well, then, Aurelie,” he forced himself to say, inclining his head. “The proceedings are quite straightforward.” The name had tasted strangely in his mouth. The last time he had said it, he had been a boy of almost fifteen, mouse-voiced and crackling; it sounded now consolingly like a stranger speaking a stranger’s name. As it should.

“When we’re back at Graywatch,” Tanqueray said, “we’ll have Dr. Pettigrew in services – as kind and gentle a physician as you’ll ever meet – give you a look-over, to make sure you haven’t gotten yourself hurt.”

His eyes lingered on the girl’s face, at some place between her red eyebrows.

Then they jerked away, and he gestured sharply to one of the boys, the one who had startled a few moments ago. “Ensign Babineaux. If you are finished standing around and gawking,” and he took one abrupt clip of a step toward the ensign, who jolted and looked up at him, “go and inform the captain and Pettigrew. I have no great desire to linger here, Inspector Tanqueray; the sooner we begin, the better.”

*

The first thing he had done was run a circuit around the Vineyard’s grounds, even-paved stones and squat, grey, rain-stained buildings with rectangular dark windows. He ran and ran, until he was sweating through his undershirt but not straining. It did not seem to help his headache, or the tension in his back.

After taking tea and a substantial midday meal – he found himself surprisingly ravenous – he applied himself to strength training, and kept on at the barbells until the early evening, when the dull throb of his skull joined the ache in his muscles. Then he went to bathe, and he scrubbed himself vigorously, as if the day’s wretchedness and confusion might slough off with the sweat and grime.

By the time he joined Clerisseau and Tanqueray for dinner, they assured him the passive had already been examined and quartered comfortably in the east wing. Tanqueray had said something, half-laughing and half-pitying, about ‘that childish little bracelet’ she insisted on keeping on; he had startled both men by snapping, oddly unsettled.

A trial...

It was late in the evening, now, as he set out to the easternmost building, a little ways away from the rest of the grounds. He had not had enough port to addle him, but he could still taste it, dark and sweet. His throat was dry.

He did not trust any of them.

He was wearing a clean, freshly-pressed uniform; the heels of his polished boots clicked down the last hallway before the cell. It was small, he had been told, and more like a flat than a jail cell, except for a high, barred window overlooking the courtyard.

There were only two like it in the compound, both of them remote. The floor was inlaid with counterspell circles.

The door was in front of him nearly before he was ready. It was plain and unassuming, though reinforced a great deal; in the soft blue phosphor light, at the height of his waist, he could see the square shape of a hatch large enough for a tray.

He stopped, his heart suddenly slamming in his throat. He rubbed his eyes, straightening his glasses.

For a moment, with a horrible wave of nausea, it was her he pictured on the other side. Not her, but – Aurelie. A great, leatherbound book almost too big for either of them to carry, two small shadows on the sunlit water –

He swallowed the lurch; he pushed it out of his mind as swiftly as it had come. The damned port was upsetting his stomach. He rapped at the door thrice. “If you would stand away from the door, please,” he said brusquely, “and keep your hands where I can see them.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 24, 2720 - Evening
Graywatch, Redwine

They were looking at her; Aurelie knew they were looking at her. Of course they were, but this was slightly different. She could feel it, but she didn't turn to look at anyone else. For a moment, she thought—had hoped—she was mistaken. Maybe she'd misheard, or something else equally unlikely.

Something about that even, straightforward confirmation made her feel worse. He'd hardly blinked, expression as steady and stern as if she had never spoken. Oh, the accent was almost the same, but the voice. Eleven years was a long time, but it wasn't long enough that she didn't remember him as he'd been. Did he recognize her now, too?

Did it matter?

Tanqueray was speaking to her again; she tried to put this out of her mind. If she dwelled on it any more she would fall apart. Somehow even the prospect of Dr. Pettigrew was preferable, no matter how cold it made her blood run. As if she wouldn't know if she were ill or injured. Doing what, precisely? She wanted to snap her jaw and ask. The feeling was easier to think about, so she held to it.

Aurelie just nodded. There was nothing to be said to that. The man— Des— Morandi stepped away. Aurelie looked at his back a moment, trying to picture it hunched over a sketchbook. Helping her sail a boat while the glittering shapes of fish slid under the water. There was nowhere to put her hands, with them cuffed together like this. Nowhere to put the ache that thought conjured up.

She had only looked a moment, but the sight of those shoulders, broad and straight, burned in the back of her eyes.

What would happen if she were caught, beyond being forced to go back—and not just back, but to what she knew would be worse than anything she'd left—wasn't something she'd given much thought. Or rather, she had—it tormented all sorts of spare corners in her mind, sleeping and awake. Just that she hadn't been able to picture the particulars.

The whole trip to Graywatch was a blur, and much of what came after. Everyone was gentle, oh, so gentle. All hushed tones and soft voices, as if she would break under the strain of being spoken to in a normal way. Perhaps it was diablerie they feared—agitation, they said, was often the catalyst. They had unbound her hands, but she wasn't to put them in her pockets; she kept them clasped firmly together in front of her.

Dr. Pettigrew was as even-tempered as promised, and as aggravating as she had known he would be. The examination in question was through enough to be... She was used to it, she reminded herself, and a little part of her shut down. She had flickered briefly back to life when they tried to take her bracelet and lockets away, clamping her hands over both. The good doctor had laughed, but they'd let her keep them both.

Her human-style clothes with all their beautiful needlework were taken away; what she was given instead was a soft blue dress two sizes too big for her. A uniform, she was told, would be waiting for her at the university.

At some point she was shown to a room far away from anything else, then given a reasonable lunch and an equally unremarkable dinner. Nothing would come of refusing to take food; it would neither delay nor alter her fate. She occupied herself with thinking on how she would have made it better. The thought passed the time, and kept her away from anything else her mind might have dwelled on.

“Very well, then, Aurelie.” Like the name of a stranger.

The room was just as bland as the dinner, as the dress she was wearing. Just as adequate, too; not large, but certainly no smaller than her room at Brunnhold had been. Spare, maybe, but not harsh. There were spell circles on the floor; Aurelie tried not to look at them, feeling her skin crawl when she did. The door had clicked shut, and she was alone for the first time all day.

Only when she was by herself did she let the fullness of her fear and misery crash over her. All day she'd kept her shoulders as straight as she could, to give herself some measure of—something. She didn't know. Now there was no one to see her, and she collapsed into a quiet, hopeless kind of crying that brought her no ease. Well, she thought with an edge of the hysterical, what else was she supposed to do but cry? Maybe they'd let her wash the dishes, if she asked.

There were three knocks at the door, startling her out of her crying. Aurelie sniffed, then scrubbed her face dry with the sleeve of her dress. The rough-spun cotton scratched at her face, but it was dry. Tanqueray, she thought, or the doctor again. But it was neither; Aurelie's heart lurched.

"I'm away from the door," she called out, coming to stand. Her voice sounded awful; she winced. Merciful Lady. What was he doing here? When they'd arrived, he couldn't get away from her fast enough. She was tempted to ask just what he thought she would do with her hands out of sight, but she lost the nerve. The indignation that held her up all that morning had been drained out of her.

"Inspector Morandi, sir," she added. It felt like a knife, but she couldn't tell which one of them she had aimed it at.

[Desiderio Morandi]

graywatch, redwine

evening on the 24th of roalis, 2720

T

hank you.” He said it immediately; the words came very easily, in fact. What came less easily was his hand on the keyring. The metal was cold even through his gloves, and he seemed to fumble, trying to find the right key.

The voice on the other side of the door had been a rasp. It had been a little more smooth, when she had addressed him – Inspector Morandi, sir – and the address was, in and of itself, a relief. Some part of him had expected her to speak to him as if he were still, as if they were still – to plead like a child, or to appeal to his –

But no. And something about the girl who had stood very straightly in the haberdashery, who had looked him in the eye, frowning, and said, no, might have told him she would not. The girl who had, too, somehow escaped Brunnhold. No, she was cleverer than that. Which was a fact that irked him as much as comforted him; subterfuge could yet still lay ahead. He had been an officer of the investigative division long enough to know this well.

When he finally unbolted the door, turned the key in the lock and came in, she was standing comfortably far from the door. As comfortably far as one could ever be. But there were spell circles underfoot, comforting however ineffective they might have been, and he was no stranger to risk.

For a moment, his eyes caught on the pale blue uniform. It stood out against the sparse, whitewashed room; it was baggy, bulky at the shoulders and nearly dusting the floor.

The image was familiar, if unexpected. Less familiar than to the others at the Vineyard, he supposed; at Anastou, they wore pale grey. He had another viciously sudden, consuming impression of his first and only year at Brunnhold. It was more a feeling than a memory; he remembered very few specifics of that year, other than searching their faces in the dining hall, jumping at every…

His stomach lurched, but he mastered himself. The striping port.

Her cheeks were dry, but her eyes were rather red, and her face was discolored. He supposed, with a wry sort of detachment, that anyone’s might be, in her position. He felt a tug of – but he did not think she had been mistreated. These were lazy, undisciplined men, but not…

Her hair was uncovered, too, now, and bright coppery-red. Chin-length, still with a straight fringe across her brow. Still? Grimacing, he looked away sharply; he surveyed the room. Simple, neatly-made bed, with only a wrinkle where she must have sat. Chair, desk.

He took a deep, even breath, standing ramrod-straight and clasping his hands behind his back.

Without looking at her, he asked, “Have you been treated well?” He had thought the window overlooked the courtyard, but he saw only a drab grey wall through the bars. “If anyone has laid a hand on you, if you should require anything, do not hesitate to speak; I am responsible for your protection until Brunnhold. My commission empowers me to discipline these men as I see fit.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 24, 2720 - Evening
Graywatch, Redwine

There was a pause, and Aurelie wondered if he had asked as a matter of course. Perhaps he intended to stand outside that door and talk to her through the rectangular slot. The image of it was very nearly absurd enough to make her smile, if she had the capacity. She did not.

And he entered, anyway. Aurelie didn't know what she'd expected to feel; it just hurt, sharply. Like she had forgotten she was injured, and moved in a way which reminded her of it. She wondered what he saw, looking at her. The little girl she had been, like Ana did? No, she didn't think so. Else she didn't think...

Pretending she knew anything of what De—what Inspector Morandi would do or not do was stupid. Aurelie stared when he entered the room; she couldn't seem to help herself. Stupid, stupid thing that she was, a part of her was just glad to see he was... doing well. Not so sickly anymore as he had been, which was surely a good thing.

She let herself entertain a little fantasy: he entered the room, and everything was as normal as it could be after so long. In this flash of a daydream, she wasn't wearing this loose blue dress that made her feel swamped and trapped at once; he was not wearing that crisp, neat-pressed uniform that inspired the same feeling. Because she wasn't a—a fugitive, or a former fugitive. She could ask what she wanted to ask, the question on the tip of her tongue.

Dreams, she reminded herself, were for sleeping. Now she was awake, and things were as they were. Her face still softened a desperate moment before she looked away. (Not down—she didn't want to see the spell circles on the floor, or her own stockinged feet from under the hem of that ill-fit dress. Just away.)

The question caught her by surprise. The purpose for the visit wasn't clear to her at all, but this was... It might have been sweet, if he'd looked at her. He didn't.

"I have been treated adequately, sir," she choked out. Oh, she hated that tone to her voice—automatically, she had slid back into that Brunnhold habit of a quiet kind of deference. I still have it, the drawing you gave me. I know you were so embarrassed, later—I understand that more now than I did then. You see, I've gotten much more into needlework, and...

Aurelie let a shudder move across her skin, thinking about the implication. Not that she hadn't before. She had always been... It rarely came up, for her. At Brunnhold. "It's after Brunnhold that I'd need..." She choked herself off, shocked she'd let that slip. Her mind felt all kinds of fogged up. It was only because the longer she looked, the better she could see.

"Everything is... It's fine." Aurelie paused, a frown creasing her face. She hazarded a glance up at his; the scars on one side stood out so starkly, she wondered... Just what had happened? Not just then, but all the time in between?

"Is that..." Aurelie was still frowning, but it shifted now. Oh, Lady, but she couldn't help but see the first real friend she'd ever had. She knew better, and yet... "You came all the way over here to ask me that?"

Wretched, stupid thing. There was a quality to her voice that she didn't like. Too soft, too... "I'm glad you're doing well."

[Desiderio Morandi]

graywatch, redwine

evening on the 24th of roalis, 2720

S

he was staring at him, at first; he could feel her eyes on him. What? he wanted to demand. What about me surprises you?

No. No, no. Perhaps he had had too much port, after all. Or perhaps the company of those wretches had soured him. And so he still did not look at her, even when she looked away, even though another, stranger expression ran across her face, even if only for a moment. The expression was – familiar.

She was just beyond the frame of his glasses. She was a blur in pale blue and red; she might have been anyone, any gated passive, had she been in a proper uniform and proper shoes. He kept her there, staring fixedly at the window through the bars, growing steadily glossy-dark opaque as the light outside died.

He did not want to look, but he did not know whether looking frightened him more for the familiarity or the unfamiliarity. He did not know what he was afraid to see: the parts he knew, or the parts he did not. Or to see which were which. He thought of her hands, and he felt gooseflesh creep up his arms.

He felt it run through him like ice in his veins, but he did not look at her. Nor when she delivered, choked but servant-polite, her response. Sir, she said, and he found it a strangely comforting word to hold onto.

Adequately.

He nodded once, abrupt. He did not move from his place by the door; nor did he look at her.

Then, she spoke again.

He went utterly still and stiff. That voice – by Her deadly terrors, he wished she would stop, stop there. Somehow, he had expected her to sound as she always had, as if she had not aged a day since he knew her. And now he was talking to him in this soft, stranger-woman’s voice, talking as a friend might, talking as if they were still…

He shut his eyes for a moment, a wince spasming across his face. When he opened them, his teeth were grit tightly. He had been put on this case for a reason; he was not so pliable, or stupid, that such a transparent attempt at manipulation would sway him.

(Why on Hurte’s talons would she need anything after they arrived at Brunnhold? Certainly the life of a passive servant was not ideal; perhaps, having grown accustomed to playing at freedom, she saw discipline as oppressive, as any child might. He wanted very badly for the thought to comfort him.)

... I’m glad you’re doing well.

His eyes widened.

“I came all this way because I do not like these men, and I do not trust them with any matter important enough to my superiors to warrant this level of care. And competence, a quality to be found severely wanting in this place.” The words spilled out of him quite without his permission; and still he found them staccato, bitten-off, as if he were barking orders.

He was looking at her, now, horribly. He was staring directly into her eyes. “If you wish, I can arrange to speak with Brunnhold’s own investigative division. I should not wish any harm to befall you, under my care or any other’s.”

For a moment, he choked. The air was warm around him; he realized that his field had shifted deep red, had flexed outward and was simmering-hot.

He blinked. It went still, flushed and blanched; the perceptive mona quivered, then evened out indectal. “Have you any other concerns?” he asked coldly, once he had mastered himself. “Now is the time to address them; I shall not return before the magister arrives.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 24, 2720 - Evening
Graywatch, Redwine

If she had to pick one surprise about Desiderio's appearance as he stood just inside the doorway of this spare, cheerless room, Aurelie wouldn't have picked his height or his breadth. Those surprised her, of course, and the harsh set of his face. There was the scar, too.

No, what surprised her most of all were the glasses. Evidently she had the spare capacity to think that they suited his face in some strange way. She couldn't remember if he had been wearing them earlier; he must have been. She remembered him squinting at her in the back room of the haberdasher's shop, before she knew. Rabbit-frightened then, when now she just felt sick at heart and to weary for it.

Before he knew? The thought made her entertain a different kind of fantasy—one in which he'd known exactly who it was they were looking for, had volunteered, had... No, she knew that wasn't true. With a kind of grim heaviness, she remembered the way he'd reacted to the sound of her name. He'd no more known than she had.

Curious, his behavior—just as curious now as it had been before, if not more so. She should have stopped speaking; none of this mattered. It was the shock of it all that let all these words just keep tumbling out of her mouth. No stutter for once, or stumbling retractions.

Was the sight of her now so unpleasant, then? These weren't ideal circumstances, but... Ah, she supposed this was normal. Nobody wanted to remember you had once been friends with, let alone engaged to, something—someone like her. But the way he went stone-still at the sound of her voice hurt. The wince hurt even more.

(Now, of course, she couldn't even take the petty satisfaction of hoping the pain was from pursuit of her. She wished she could, but that had dissolved as soon as Tanqueray had said his name.)

The last had been too much. She should have known better than—ah, but she'd never been very smart, had she? Sentimental, too, beyond what was proper. Somewhere, she just hoped... Oh, she didn't think he would let her go, or talk with her properly, or... Aurelie just couldn't stop herself from longing to see just a little of the boy she had known and never thought to meet again in her life.

His eyes widened, bright gold behind the ring of metal and glass. And then he began to speak. "Speaking" was generous—he spat the words at her, as though issuing a command. This time she flinched, folding her hands in front of her and squeezing them tight. Whatever had held her up before had been worn away, leaving her defenseless and soft.

Now he looked at her, when he hadn't before. Now she met those gold eyes with her own, even as she took a step back. She was, she realized abruptly, frightened, no matter what he was saying. Of Desiderio, who she had once thought— Who had been so concerned when she fell off a chair that first time they—

That was too much, even for her. She didn't make a sound, not yet, but a tear slipped out and rolled down her face. She couldn't for the life of her seem to untangle her hands to wipe it away.

"I-I'm sorry." Had she any other concerns? Oh, she had plenty. About herself, what was going to happen, if she could bear it a second time. About Ana. About him. What tumbled out of her mouth was none of those. "I-I only wanted to ask... I-If you were drawing, still."

[Desiderio Morandi]

graywatch, redwine

evening on the 24th of roalis, 2720

S

he had flinched.

Too heavy a touch, they had said at Numbrey; if he had been a doctor, one of his professors at Anastou had chortled, his bedside manner would have been rather lacking. Well, by Hurte, it was a good thing he was not a doctor.

Or an artist, or a lawyer. Morandi was an officer of the law, as he had been for the last six years, and as he had planned to be for the last nine, even when it was the Caramiada his sights were set on and not the Seventen. Leave soft-voiced nothings to simpering fools like Tanqueray and Pettigrew, or to the services division, or to inspectors with different methods. They would be grateful when they wanted a man who would act well but without hesitation, ruthlessly, who could cut ties or wash his hands of anything, as he had since – ever since –

He should not have looked at her. It was both the familiar and the unfamiliar; it was everything he had been frightened of.

The shape of her eyes was the same as it had always been, even if they no longer seemed to fill up her whole face, wide and curious. The slope of her cheeks was still soft, though the chubbiness of childhood had fallen away; he thought he recognized the small, proud chin, even.

Perhaps he had recognized it earlier, in the market, without knowing. But how could he have known? The fullness of her lips was a strange surprise, too; he was going mad, or else he had had more port at dinner than he had thought, but gooseflesh crept up the back of his neck.

It was not a child’s face; it was as if – as if he were looking at an older cousin, or a woman who looked remarkably like a girl he had known once. Not a ghost, as he had always expected – feared – but even worse, a living woman inexplicably in servant’s blue, who had stepped back as if she expected him to strike her.

Who was looking up at him now with one gleaming tear rolling down her cheek. It sent icewater down his spine; he could count on one hand the times he had ever seen her cry, before.

I-I’m sorry, she said.

It was inappropriate for him to have made her flinch, and certainly for him to have redshifted; even for him, it was… But his face seemed frozen in a livid, disdainful expression. He could not seem to fix it.

And his eyes widened even more when she went on, stumbling. You remember?

“Hardly,” he snarled before he could stop himself, “an appropriate question.”

He had been terrified for a moment that he might answer honestly. Little chance of that now; he felt barely aware of what he was doing. “Least of all for the commissioner responsible for overseeing your transport,” he went on, quieter and colder. “The magister should be here within the next three days – two, if we are fortunate.”

The spell circles underfoot were comforting and alarming all at once, but they reminded him precisely why it was so important that he not give in to this, whatever it was; they grounded him.

He looked over her one last time, face still fixed in contempt, and then turned to leave. “I hope that you sleep well.”

He could not breathe. His stomach was churning; he was going to be sick. Mechanically, he locked the door, but his hand was shaking when he tucked the keyring away. He did not listen at the door, and nor did he hesitate, starting back down the hall at an even clip.

It was only in the courtyard, the roar of the crickets loud in the dark, that he began to run. Every muscle had been ready; his breath was even, now, and so were his footfalls. But he was not jogging – he was running, like a hound that had caught the scent of a rabbit.

He could already feel the sweat prickling in the small of his back in the humid night breeze, and his muscles were already strained from exercising earlier, but he could not seem to stop. It was not like running away; it was as if he were being pulled forward by some invisible force, as if he were on the tail of some prey he could not see. He shut his eyes and felt the breeze tug through his hair.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 24, 2720 - Evening
Graywatch, Redwine

There was nothing left to take from her anymore. She had thought that all her ten years in Brunnhold, and she had thought it again when she left. Yet again when she left Dzum to come here, taking that out of her own hands before it hurt too much when someone else did it for her.

Looking at the face of the man who was somehow undeniably Desiderio, who had been so much of her whole world when they were children, curled into that snarl of disdain, Aurelie knew she had been wrong. It was funny, how often she kept proving that point.

She knew she shouldn't have asked—that he would not and did not want her to. She didn't even truly expect an answer, any more than she expected any of this to have happened in the first place. At least her mind hadn't; her heart proved traitor and fool to her over and over, and it had held out some hope that he might. I don't want anything from you, she wanted to insist, I don't expect anything. I only want to know, to carry with me, now that the drawing is lost.

Her mouth trembled, and she bit her lip to stop it. His face blurred and waved in front of her, but she felt nothing more escape. A small mercy; as he was now, Aurelie couldn't bear the thought of him seeing her cry any more than he already had. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again her eyelashes were wet but her vision was clear.

Would that it had been so clear from the start.

If we are fortunate, he said; if he was fortunate, and she was not. She supposed it didn't really matter—two days, three, a hundred. As if a stay of execution would make it hurt less when the day finally came. Aurelie looked away from him, towards the floor. There was nothing inscribed directly below her; that comforted her somehow, to see nothing at all but her feet and the scrap of floor she allowed herself to.

"I'm sorry," she said, quiet and deferential. She didn't think he heard her, and she knew he didn't care. She meant it, anyway. Sorry, for asking when she knew she should not. Sorry, for the tiny spark of her that was happy to see him.

She could hear him turn, and lock the door. And she could hear even, sharp footsteps down the hall as he retreated. She stood just as she was for a long time, even after they faded. She didn't know how long—the sun had set, and there were no clocks in the room. There wasn't much of anything. When she stirred herself to motion, it was just to sit on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms around herself. She didn't cry.

Sorry, she could have said, for being this at all—for breaking a promise made for her, but she'd wanted to keep all the same.