[Closed] The Light You Used to Bring

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

I

t was right.

It was right that her voice was – dull, once again, of the warmth which had animated it. It was right. No undue expectations, he told himself. No holding on to anything one had best let go.

His lips twisted and thinned out when she spoke again. This – hurt – this he expected, and this he knew what to do with, as improper as it was to talk back to an officer of the Seventen. This was natural, or at least as natural as anything in the last week had been.

Some niggling little part of him, some part he wanted nothing more than to snuff out, told him he remembered this. Those unexpected flashes of anger, even when she was a little girl. One summer he remembered telling her haltingly, on the verge of tears, about how Benoit Bellecourt – now there was a name he had not thought in a long time – had torn up one of his proudest drawings. It had always made him feel safe, the way she…

No, he thought; he did not imagine she would do anything to harm the baker, whoever he or she was, inadvertently. And perhaps he had known what threat would hurt the most. He was, after all, a very good interrogator.

His fist was balled very tightly on the table. Slowly, as if he had to order each muscle individually, he forced his fingers to uncurl. “Excellent,” he said sharply.

There was the soft scrabble of claws across the dusty hardwood, then the gentle thud of the pup sitting down. At her feet, he thought. A comfort, perhaps.

He was not that. He would never again be that.

“Indeed.” With a deep breath, he inched his way around the table, fumbling in the empty air. He found another chair much like the first; it was human-sized – which was not too terribly large for him – but light, and he pulled it swiftly over to the open bag and sat.

He realized that he was already achingly, twistingly hungry. The events of the day had stolen his appetite, and now it had come roaring back. She must have been at least that hungry; he wondered, not for the first time, if she had eaten that morning.

“Again, these are no AAF field rations. They are meant to last – a few days, perhaps, for if an officer should be trapped somewhere, in the case of disaster.” He paused with a distinctly sour taste on his tongue. “And only one officer,” he went on, as matter-of-factly as ever. “You are my charge; I shall insist on you taking the greater share, if necessary. Of this, and…”

Damn it, but if only he had his sight! Find a kitchen in this place, which might be half-fallen in, or a snake’s nest? Was she proposing to cook while blinded? To clean a long-abandoned hearth with a twisted ankle, in pitch darkness, with gods knew what in the flue? If there even was one, and the whole thing had not fallen in or crumbled? But if either of them had their sight, they would not be in this position to begin with.

He kept his field indectal this time, though he snorted agitatedly. Then – for one creeping, uncomfortable moment, he realized that it was much more than his sight that he might have lost, back in the coach. That both of them might have lost. He had been so focused that he had not considered it.

He swallowed. “Whatever we find,” he went on. “Here – hold out your… hand. Other than the jerky which pup has claimed, we are issued…”

Slowly, with a rhythm almost akin to marching, he listed out the contents of the box. If she complied, he would place each in her hand, and only move onto the next when and if she had set it aside; he would pause and listen, if she thought aloud.

“… and eight ounces of corned beef,” he finished, setting the can in her hand. He had not included the tobacco ration. A shame, he thought dryly, one could not roll up one’s sorrows and smoke them away as easily.

He swallowed tightly. “As for the wholly unknown variable of time…”

Of a sudden, the dog began whining again, loudly. He heard the wet, slobbery sounds of his tongue again, as if he were licking her hand insistently.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

She should be hungry. Normally she would have been; when she ate, Aurelie did tend to eat well. The very idea of hunger, now, seemed as remote as the idea of—of tomorrow. She could eat—and she would, because there was nothing to be gained by her not doing so. Just as she had eaten at Graywatch, just as she had in the dull grey month between her birthday and Aremu's arrival.

"Oh, that's not necessary. I'm used to going without, I'll be fine." Aurelie said it without thinking, too distracted by her own misery to consider the impact of anything she was saying. She opened her mouth to apologize, then pressed it shut again. What impact? Her friend might have cared; this man who had come to sit down across from her likely did not.

See? She was getting better at sorting out the two. She was slow, but she caught on eventually.

The kitchen was a silly idea. Aurelie didn't really think they ought to look for it, anyway, considering it was likely too damaged to be of any use and quite probably dangerous to even try. She just wanted something to do, something other than sit and wait and feel things she ought not to. It was easier when they were walking over, because she could concentrate on where her feet needed to go next and that occupied her well enough. Some of her mind might have wandered places it knew it shouldn't, but only small slivers. This? This was torment. She couldn't see, she couldn't cook, she couldn't clean or sew or even help sort things out because they were in Desiderio's bag.

In that way, she found his mechanical listing out of the rations comforting. There was no reason to think it was intended to be so, but it certainly gave her something to focus on. Aurelie took each item as it was handed to her, feeling it briefly with her fingertips and setting it gently aside. Not a lot, certainly, when divided across two people. But it should do for now, and it was—enough. She might have said something to that effect; she might not have done. Aurelie found that she couldn't rightly recall.

He had started to discuss the question of time; no matter what he said, she thought it was both too long and too short. Desiderio was interrupted quite rudely by the dog, who whined. Automatically, Aurelie put her hand back below the table and held it out. The dog shifted to put his face in her palm. Moments later, she felt a slobbery tongue again.

It was if some spell had been cast that let her set aside her more tender, hurtful feelings. Aurelie smiled, and the smile transformed into another quiet laugh. "What is it, hmm? You aren't getting any of the corned beef, no matter how charming you are. There's too much salt in it for you."

The dog whined again, as if he understood and didn't agree with her assessment. Privately, Aurelie thought she might give him a little anyway—but only a little. It really couldn't be too good for him. The dog didn't stray far, and she found that gave her enough strength to find some of her appetite after all.

They ate in silence. Once or twice, Aurelie thought to break it. Only once or twice; each time she thought better of it before she could speak. All topics seemed inappropriate somehow, and anyway Desiderio didn't want to talk to her. The dog did, in fact, get a bite of corned beef—the sound of him licking it up off of the floor was somehow even louder without them speaking.

Too quickly, their "meal"—really, she hesitated to give it so generous a description—was finished. Despite her earlier lack of appetite, she did feel a little better for having some food in her stomach. The dog helped, too. He hadn't moved from her side, sticking to her like a shadow. Aurelie was so indescribably grateful. Especially because now there was only... She had agreed to this, she reminded herself, and there was nothing... to be concerned about.

All the same, she put her hands in the dog's thick fur before she spoke. "I'm ready when you are. For... For you to... Do the diagnostic." Her stomach turned, and she was doubly grateful she'd eaten already. She couldn't have after this, she was fairly certain.

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

H

e should have liked to protest, if he had not thought better. All that came to his tongue was acid; if he had argued, it would have been at a snarling pitch. He had done enough snarling. His tongue knew only how to lash, and he knew that well enough, but he had done enough snarling for now. Silence was kinder.

And it hardly mattered, in any case. He would simply eat less. It was hardly as if she could see how much or how little he was eating. If something should happen to him before they were found, before he regained his sight and the inevitable should occur – she could find what he had saved. Then there would be enough left for her, perhaps, for a day.

Precious little, but enough. She had said she was ‘used to going without’.

The words sent little shivers down his spine, even cooking as he was underneath his dress uniform. All he could think was of a little girl who had been a picky eater, as all… children were. She had been, of course, the less picky of the two; he had been an absolute monster.

That last year in Anaxas – he struggled, gritting his teeth hard against the memory. He told himself he had forgotten most of it. He told himself he had been a silly, weak boy, asking silly questions. He had been a child, upset with a change in the life he had thought he would have; he had never dealt well with change. He had been a child missing a friend, missing a friend terribly, inventing all sorts of reasons to have nightmares when his friend was perfectly all right. That was why they had taken him back to Bastia.

But they had only been nightmares. That was why Dr. Honeywood and the rest of them had been so agitated with him for asking those questions; they were not only foolish but insulting questions. Insulting, dangerous questions.

Aurelie laughed.

Some part of him was glad of the dog. It was good to hear her laugh; it was good to hear her speak warmly to something, still. Safe, if it was the dog. He listened, smiling just a little himself, grateful beyond hope that she could not see him.

Judging by the sounds, she gave a little of the corned beef to pup anyway. That almost brought another smile to his face; the slobbery, enthusiastic beast licking his chops was deafeningly loud underneath the quiet scrape of the forks, the mechanical sounds of them eating. He could hear her eating, at least, which was good. They ate in silence, otherwise; he occupied himself with holding off the tide of his hunger, measuring out one bite at a time. It was almost enough not to think.

The dog, perhaps. If something happened to him, the dog could be her eyes. At least long enough to reach safety. How far away was this – this bakery? Where was she staying?

Or perhaps she would regain her eyesight before he regained his. He had not endeared himself to her; surely she knew by now that he could do nothing but hurt her. Therefore – she would slip away, he felt certain. Would she take the rest of the rations? If she were wise, she would.

Was he hoping–?

“I’m ready when you are.” Her voice, still unfamiliar enough to be a surprise, nearly startled him. They had finished; he might have known.

“Excellent,” he repeated sharply. “Then we shall commence.”

He cleared his throat. Matter-of-fact as though he were perfectly comfortable, he pushed himself up from his chair.

Then, in the dark, he – hesitated. “This is coarse, I am afraid.” His voice came out tight, a little sharper. “I have no way of seeing for the – homing, so I must use… another… way of seeing. You must… take my hand.” He took a deep breath. “And – guide it to your eyes.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

The dog needed a name. Aurelie knew she couldn't keep him, of course, and she wasn't even sure that he was, in fact, male or any other external features of the dog. But she thought she knew enough—and she couldn't just keep calling him "the dog", could she? That didn't seem right at all.

But what would she name him? The thought kept her occupied while they ate, the air filling with the sounds of scraping forks and the dog's enthusiasm. She had reached no conclusions by the time they'd finished eating. It was hard to name a dog you couldn't see, she thought. Aurelie wanted to ask Des for his opinion, but she knew there was no point. Inappropriate, she could hear him saying so clearly he might have spoken out loud. Inappropriate, and unwise.

She was only delaying thinking about the inevitable, anyway. Excellent, he said. She could not disagree more. There was absolutely nothing excellent about this. Any of it. Except for the dog, of course, but he didn't count. She straightened up when she heard his chair scraping across the floor. He was coming to a stand.

She frowned as he spoke, puzzled at first. Coarse? What did he need to do...? No way of seeing, he went on, and then—

"Ah." Aurelie swallowed. Her hands stilled in their petting of the dog. To take his hand, and to then move that hand to her face, her eyes. To help him, to cast on her, a thing she already didn't want... It was almost more than she could bear.

She wished once again, fervently, that it was her friend here with her and not this stranger that bore his name. Or, even better—that he truly was a stranger, and she needn't know at all that her dearest friend hated her now. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she shivered in her shapeless blue dress.

"All right," she agreed quietly, stiffly. Aurelie hesitated, chewing on her lip. Maybe she did want some of that brandy after all. "If you c-could, please, just, ah, set a hand on the table...?" If he did so she would wait a moment more, breathing in and out as evenly as she could. Then she took her own hands and slowly, carefully, moved them across the table.

It was strange; this wasn't even the first time she'd taken his hand today. It felt no more natural now than it had then. When they were children, though, she'd hardly even thought about it. She hadn't thought about a lot of things, then. If she had been just a little older, it would have been highly inappropriate. Ana had never seemed to like seeing it anyway, but Aurelie suspected she had never liked Desiderio to begin with.

His hand was warm, still, which she thought was distinctly unfair. She tried to concentrate on the part of her that was afraid, the part of her that didn't want him to touch her at all. There were just those other parts of her that longed for that simple closeness they'd had as children, and they kept intruding in the worst ways.

In and out; despite her best efforts, her breath came ragged. Aurelie took his hands and set them very carefully against her face. Unfamiliar fingertips brushed the skin of her eyelids. Her lashes were only wet because of the pain, which was unrelenting. At least, she hoped he would think so. She couldn't manage to fully convince herself.

"There," she said softly, and then winced. It was so odd, having his fingers there while the muscles of her face moved for expressions neither of them could see. Self-consciousness prickled at her. Slowly, she lowered her hands and put them on her lap. Even breathing was odd; Aurelie was too aware of how little distance it had to travel for her breath to make contact with his skin.

Let this be brief, she prayed. Please let this be simple, and brief.

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

A

h.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

The back of his neck prickled.

There was irony, if he looked for it; he desperately and dearly wished not to look, but there was nothing else, really, to look at. He reminded himself over and over, with the regularity and insistence of a march, that this was not his childhood friend. This was not the girl whose hand he had held thoughtlessly and easily nearly every day of every summer.

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” His words came out no less stiff than hers. Mechanically, he set his left hand on the table; he knew she must touch his right, but he found himself uncomfortable with the idea.

He could see nothing, and so again he had no warning. There was nothing but the rough wood underneath his hand; then – the first brush of her fingertips, testing the backs of his knuckles.

Thank you, he wanted to say, sharp and matter-of-fact. His throat was too tight even to clear, and certainly to speak. How had they held hands once? Gripping tightly, sometimes, any way they could, or fingers intertwined, loose and easy? He could no longer remember, and nor did he want to. He remembered the impression of a little girl’s hand, roughly the size of his, and how they fit together just so, as if the shapes were worn into each other.

It was awkward now. It was not holding so much as a hesitant lead-and-follow; it would hardly have been appropriate to hold hands. She found his other hand with hers, and he thought ruefully that she must have been petting the pup, because it was a little warmer.

Her face was as unexpected as her hand had been. He was gritting his teeth tightly; he managed to stay rigid and silent, but only just.

In and out. Even. The first thing he felt was her cheek, surprisingly warm and damp, and then she guided his fingertips to her eyes. There was a little fine hair brushing the smallest finger of his right hand. He could feel her eyes flickering underneath her eyelids; the skin was even warmer here, as if inflamed.

His brow furrowed, and he frowned. Her eyelashes were very wet. The scrap usually gets it worst of all, he remembered, swallowing tightly.

Her breath was coming very raggedly. That, he thought, was not the pain. She winced, and then lowered her hands; he felt an awful pang.

No, he thought firmly, in a way that both comforted and sickened him. There was nothing left between them, after all. He was not her childhood friend; that trust was gone. He could afford to bring no doubt to the mona: this, too, he knew. And so, taking a deep breath, he put all of it out of his mind as he might have with any other target, holding together the pieces of his training as if his life depended on it.

“Ready,” he said more quietly. “I shall begin.” He began to cast.

Immediately, relief. He breathed in the etheric lightness around him and felt it ease his headache. It was as if he had been drowning, and had broken to the surface now for a few greedy gasps of air.

The first part of the spell was firmly quantitative, and firmly targeted her eyes. Then, carefully, he moved into the leybridge, and the perceptive mona in his field flared bright; he wove a reading spell through the quantitative frame, carefully strengthening it. She might feel it, he knew, a slight pressure: if he noticed any change in her expression, he had no choice now but to keep casting.

He lost track of himself, wholly absorbed. Once, gently but unthinkingly, he wiped a tear away with his thumb.

He curled the spell after a few moments – it was a simple spell – a little light-headed, something that was almost a smile on his lips.

But he was piercingly aware of her face underneath his hands, and he frowned again. One shuddering breath, then more deep, even breathing. “There is nothing beyond blindness that I can detect; I believe that it is not a sign of anything worse,” he said stiffly, his hands coming away. “And while I can say nothing else of the nature of the blindness, no part of it is of the mind.”

I could do something for the pain, he thought to offer. Perceptive numbing spells worked on the mind rather than the nerves; it might not even work. And something told him that pup was a more potent comfort than any more of his guttural speech, monite or otherwise, could ever be.

Strangely drained for the simplicity of the spell, he sat down. He was aware, quite suddenly, that pup had been whimpering for a while – and that, judging by the sound, he had crept behind Aurelie’s chair. He heard a soft wet lapping again. When he reached to massage his forehead, his eyes and cheeks were damp.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

The problem was not the helplessness. Or at least, that wasn't the whole of it. The problem was that she couldn't trust him, and it hurt her more than she thought it would by now.

He was silent after he set his hand on the table; Aurelie couldn't decide if she was grateful for that or not. Certainly it was better than any sharp words, but it left her with very little else to think about other than the strangeness of how their hands didn't fit together as they once hand.

(She had very carefully avoided all of the fingers of his right hand. That was ridiculous of her, but she couldn't help it all the same. She ought to be happy; she was happy, in a way, that he... That... Oh, you absolute ninny, Aurelie Steerpike.)

If he thought anything of the warmth in her face, or the damp, he said nothing then either. He had a soldier's hands, she thought without knowing what that meant. It made her so achingly sad, she knew her eyes trembled a little and that he could feel them do so. When he spoke again, she squeezed her eyes shut.

The dog was there, loyal as he had been this whole time. She reached her hand out on instinct when that first harsh syllable was uttered. The dog was there, pressing his nose into her palm, thumping his tail against the table leg. Only for a moment—as the... the spell carried on, he seemed to grow more and more agitated. The dog moved to behind the chair, although he was large enough that his head still remained under her hand. Aurelie couldn't tell if that was because of her, or because of the stirring of the mona in the air. Animals, she remembered, could sense it too. He could possibly read it better than she could; the thought was a little bitter around the edges.

Just a diagnostic. That's what she told herself, over and over. Just a diagnostic, and nothing else. That slight pressure meant—nothing at all. It was only part of it, there was nothing... Why would he... She thought of Ana, and she had to forcefully repress a shudder. This was different. And even Ana had... stopped, in the end. Whatever it was that she had started.

Her heart pounded in her ribs anyway, so hard it hurt. There was that tug of mistrust again, and it made her sick. He could do anything, and she wouldn't know until he'd done it. Effective interrogation techniques, she remembered, and she clenched her fist around a handful of her skirts.

There was nothing she could do even if she did know, she thought. And that was not, it turned out, the worst of it. The absolute worst of it was when his thumb moved, more gently than she'd thought Inspector Morandi capable of, over her cheek to brush away a tear that had escaped. Without so much as an interruption in his casting, like it was nothing. Then, she almost pushed his hands away. Then, she'd almost relaxed.

Had he been casting a short while, or a long one? Aurelie couldn't tell. It seemed forever. Eventually it stopped, and the mona settled around them both. Aurelie still almost jumped when she heard his voice, stiff and unfamiliar-familiar. "You could check my...? Ah. T-That's... good. Isn't it?"

After he took his hands away, she carefully scrubbed at her own face, as if she could rid herself of the lingering warmth of Desiderio's fingers. The feeling of his thumb on her cheek remained, and it felt cruel and kind at once. She heard him move away, sitting down. The dog was still whining, lapping at her hand. "There there," she murmured to him, trying to settle him down, "everything is all right. That's a good boy."

He whuffed a breath, but after some steady strokes with both of her hands, the whining stopped. If only she could convince herself as easily as the dog. She steadied herself, and then asked what she had been dreading all this time: "I-Is it... Do you know," she carried on softly, "if it's... permanent?"

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

H

e almost wished that he was still touching her face. It was wrong; it was horribly wrong. And yet it was harder, now that he had had a taste of a sort of seeing – now he could only imagine the winces, the hot inflamed eyes, the glossy, cool tears on her cheeks. Now the last face he could picture was the one that he had touched while casting, and he could picture nothing else. The scrap usually gets it worst of all, came her voice, echoing again through his head.

She was talking to pup, now, in soothing tones. He shut his eyes, rubbing them with his finger and thumb. Pup whimpered a little more, but then he heard the soft woof of his breath. After a while, there was only the sound of him lapping at her hand.

He folded his hands in his lap, for there was little else he could do with them. There was still a little wetness on his fingertips; he could not be certain whose tears it was.

You could check my…? He felt uncertainty, and then something not unlike guilt. Not that, under Anaxi law, she had the right to know; in fact, she was expressly forbidden. To cast on a passive at all was pushing at the edges of the law, though Inspector Morandi knew the law very well, and he knew that it was permissible under circumstances like this one.

Her voice was steadier when she spoke again.

He frowned. A part of him was irritated that she had brought it up at all; a part of him was attempting to choke his own fear on the matter. He had resolved not to think about it. And yet… There was, he supposed, no point in pretending. Not for him, and especially not for her. Asking, then, had been inevitable, and it was wise that she had gone ahead.

“I am afraid that I do not,” he pronounced, dour.

He paused.

“Another – might be able to tell you,” he went on. He paused, licking his lips. He hesitated. “I could check for,” he went on, brusque out of habit, “clotting, stroke. Trauma to the brain. And only barely that. I am a sorcerer of the mind and not the brain. But I know enough to look for damage or alterations to it – which might also cause permanent blindness – of which there are none. I know nothing about the workings of eyes themselves. Only that the problem is in our eyes alone, and nowhere else.”

He should not have said this. He should not have gone so far. But – there it was again, that needling, strange feeling. Whatever she was, she was not a child. And knowledge of this could scarce pose a risk to any of the other gated passives, or at least no more of a risk than the knowledge she already possessed – from wherever she had been in the months of her absence, to whomever she had talked, with whomever she had…

Uncomfortable with the great swath of unknowns, he resolved not to think more on it.

“The physicians at Brunnhold will likely wish to run tests of their own. On the both of us, I daresay.” That, he was scarcely looking forward to. Diablerie was rare, and many cases were fatal; he could already hear the magister’s curiosity, and that of her colleagues in monic theory.

As if, he thought with a prickle of anger, they were beetles under a magnifying glass. No, he thought then. It would be uncomfortable for him, of course, and may Hurte’s claws tear at them all for it. But she would be the beetle under the magnifying glass. It would be she in whom they were most interested.

Would this – the diablerie, that she had gone missing and taken an officer of the law with her – would this change anything? The past few hours had flown by. He had not even considered it. Would she be – disciplined? Would the Church of the Moon still be a suitable place…?

The trial, he thought. He would testify at the trial. A trial was fair, an exercise of justice; justice was blind.

Justice, he told himself firmly, was blind.

“I should,” he said after a moment, pushing himself up, “begin searching the house. Unless you have any other questions?” He reached into his jacket for his glasses, if only for the principle of the thing. Strange, how what had seemed to him to be a symbol of all his fears had become a sliver of hope.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

Aurelie hadn't been sure if Desiderio would answer that half-question, fearful and uncertain. What of her mind...? She knew more, she thought, than most assumed. For all that passives weren't supposed to know anything of the workings of the mona at all, they had been raised in galdori households and she had worked at the school for half her life. Most of the students and faculty did not, on the whole, watch their tongues around people they were determined to forget were there.

But he had, in answering her second question, the one she had managed to ask in full. The one she wanted to know the answer to even less, but was perhaps more important. It was funny—nothing about the way Desiderio spoke was kind or friendly or even polite. And still she found herself smiling; he had answered, properly and completely. Not the sort of answer one gave a child, at least, if also not the sort of answer one might give a friend.

"That's good to know," she murmured, mostly to herself. A sorcerer of the mind, he said, and not the brain itself. That was about as comforting at the rest of the answer. She ran her thumbs over the dog's soft ears and she thought. Even though it didn't matter to her if she ever regained her sight, now, there was a little solidity to be found in knowing there was no damage that Desiderio could find beyond that. She hoped that meant the same thing for him, too—Aurelie could hardly check as he had done.

Her smile shifted to a grimace when he went on. Yes, they probably would. Aurelie swallowed, and let her face crumble. Professor Moore, maybe, she could have stood to let—but that wasn't going to happen. And he was only interested in the diablerie in a broad sense. No, it would be... others, who would...

She had never thought about what happened after diablerie. In all her imaginings, she had never truly believed that there would be an "after", if it should happen to her. Fatal, she'd thought; she'd always been so certain that hers would be. For her, if for no one else. They so often were, weren't they? She'd always heard it was so. What did they do, with...?

Would the fact that she'd hurt Desiderio—and the magister, she reminded herself, which was possibly of more import to Brunnhold—change things? "Yes," she mumbled, "they almost... almost certainly will."

Was even isolation enough? For something like her, who could hurt people again and again? At least, if she had died—

Enough. She was still fiercely, achingly glad she hadn't died, nor had anyone else. Despite the grimness of the path in front of her, she clung to that. What could they do that would be any worse than a life spent entirely alone? Maybe she would be—prodded at and studied, an object of curiosity. But what was there left to take from her? It was a cold comfort, but she took what she could.

The words hung in the air. Even the dog was quiet, until Aurelie heard him come to stand again. "I—" Her voice sounded tight; Aurelie cleared her throat and tried again. "No, that's... All I needed to know. Thank you."

She turned in her seat, towards where she thought he might be. It was a silly gesture, but she couldn't let go of the nagging feeling that she ought to face someone she was speaking to. "I would—l-like to help. Search the house. If I could. Please." What a stupid thing to have said! As if he would let her, or welcome her company. Well, it didn't matter if he wanted her to. She had asked for herself, not out of some misguided search for friendliness.

She thought of his thumb on her face; her heart lurched. "I would prefer to be of use, if I could," she added, a little hopeful.

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

T

he girl he remembered did not like the dark. Not knowing was a sort of dark; being in the dark was to have lost control, even if there was precious little to be controlled in the first place. Morandi liked being in the dark, figuratively or otherwise, nearly as much as he liked having no control. And Morandi very, very much liked control.

Good to know, she replied, so softly he almost wondered if he was not intended to hear it. It was justifying, if not comforting; he found that he did not regret telling her any of that in the least. What it would mean, he did not know – who was he, he had thought just days earlier, to argue with ancient law, and yet there he was – but it was a small thing. It was a small thing, and surely it could do no more harm than anything else.

That had been the strangest thing about it. Or one of the strangest things. Being told, he remembered sharply and painfully, that in fact, his friend would not want to see him. That he had always been wrong about her, about her and the woman she might become. She had told him she was afraid of the dark; they had told him afterward that being in the dark was what was best for her, if not what she wanted. They had told him that she would come to want it, or that she would want it if she knew what was best for her. They had told him that the responsibility of all galdori – knowledge and nobility – would crush her. That she should want nothing more than to have the pressure of freedom alleviated.

That, he had been told, was the lot of all passive galdori. Imagine setting a child to manage accounts, or at the head of a proper household, Professor Honeywood had said to him sternly after hours. What could that cause, but suffering and disaster?

But Inspector Morandi did not think that the detainee liked very much to be in the dark. He knew a little of deductive reasoning. He knew a little of what sorts of hands belonged to whom. He had probed enough minds, though Hurte forbid ever hers, to know more than a little of people, even if he was a poor hand at fitting in with them. And nothing about this woman told him that she liked being in the dark.

Thank you, she said. He nodded sharply, square-jawed. Wordless, he turned, prepared to step out into the dark himself. Perhaps, he thought wryly, a board would swing loose and strike him unconscious. Or perhaps the house would fall in on him. Or perhaps –

He half-turned at the sound of her again, foolish though he knew it was. It was hardly as if they could see one another. He frowned; he frowned yet more deeply.

He hesitated.

Help? With her ankle–? He swallowed tightly, frowning yet more deeply. It would be easier, and faster too, simply to do it himself. And it would risk less harm for her.

But he remembered her, struggling with him at the window-frame. And he remembered all of the rest, too, from when he was a little older, old enough to understand better. She had always liked to be useful; not to be permitted to help, as one patronizes to a child, but to really help.

“Hmph,” he grunted, sharp and harsh. As if the Inspector were reluctant to admit it; as if he were compelled, after a great deal of thinking, to admit the practicality of it, despite his disdain. “A second pair of hands might prove useful indeed. Very well.” A few more steps back, careful, until he found the table again. “Here is my arm. Can you stand?”

*

As if by a different, stranger sort of magic, once she had taken his arm, pup seemed quite enthusiastic about helping himself.

The house was not quite so dilapidated as he had assumed. Dusty, yes – covered in dust, thickets of it, dust and cobwebs. They walked through one once, and he had frightened pup with the exclamation. Pup led them to the kitchen first, wherein he reached into a cabinet and gotten a fistful of ivy; they found some wizened onions otherwise, but also some nuts, and some cured meat tucked away, about which pup had been very enthusiastic. It was her, after all, who had found those. Perhaps a second pair of hands had not been such a bad idea.

Morandi had said little. It was easier not to speak. He grunted sometimes, nodded sharply; a derisive comment here, there. He kept a respectable distance – relatively, with her leaning on his arm.

He thought he had a map of the place in his head, or as much of one as he could.

That was how the time passed: counting the steps. Easier than anything else. Ten, from the table to the kitchen cabinets; eight, from the table to the hearth. Five, from the table to the first bed, and four from the table to the second, which was much smaller. A child’s bed.

It was evening by the time they sat back down to eat again. He was not sure what told him so. A slight chill in the air, perhaps, or the sounds of the crickets outside; he could see no light.

He could see nothing. The pain was gone, at least – for him. But he could see nothing.

“Your eyes,” he said, pausing after a bite of jerky and tack. He spoke sharply above the sound of pup scarfing down more corned beef and licking his chops. “How fare your eyes now?”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Evening
Somewhere Else Again

There was no practical value to having her hobble along after him. Aurelie knew that. Despite forgetting about her ankle, which didn't hurt so much just sitting there in the chair, Aurelie knew that her hands were only so useful. If anything, she would get in the way. So in spite of the note of hope in her voice when she asked, she had fully expected the answer to be a harsh, grunted "no".

To her great surprise, then, that wasn't what he said at all. A smile bloomed across her face. If he had told her to remain where she was, she didn't know that she had the strength to have argued. She wouldn't have liked it, certainly, but she would have done it. Oh, he didn't sound like he wanted to let her come with him while he looked through the house. In fact, he sounded like it was the last thing he wanted to do. She found she didn't care; he had said yes, and there was his arm.

This time, she hardly hesitated when taking it. The dog barked excitedly (he really did sound terribly young, despite his size), coming to his feet and wagging his tail. Thwap thwap thwap. If there was awkwardness, leaning on his arm again, thinking of that thumb on her face, Aurelie ignored it. At least she wouldn't be sitting here, idle and useless.

"I think I can manage." Warmth crept into her voice as she put her weight on his arm. Somehow, she couldn't seem to muster up the desire to take it back.

***

The ankle was a problem. That become immediately apparent as they poked around the house, which was in better shape than she'd thought from the lack of door and the state of the dog. Filthy though, and riddled with cobwebs. They were mostly above Aurelie's head; not, it seemed, above Desiderio's—he had startled both her and the dog so much with his yelling about running into one, Aurelie hadn't been able to stop herself from laughing.

She wasn't totally useless, though. Aurelie was heartened to think she had at least partially made up for her hobbling by finding a few things that seemed entirely edible. She had tested some of them, namely the nuts, by putting one in her mouth, but she reasoned that one was unlikely to hurt her if it were spoiled. And it wasn't, so it was fine. The dog, who she still hadn't quite thought of a name for, had seemed particularly thrilled by some cured meat. Aurelie had told him he couldn't have much of that, either; he seemed entirely undeterred.

Aurelie had mostly talked to the dog, in fact. For not speaking a word of Estuan, he proved a much more sociable companion than Desiderio. Her old friend was sharp and unpleasant the entire time, as he had been every moment before this. Aurelie minded less than she thought she should; he bore her weight, at least, steadily and without complaint.

The house wasn't large, but with her ankle it took them a long time to get the entire picture of it. She could feel some chill in the air by the time they'd finished, and the song of crickets came in softly around them. Aurelie wondered, suddenly, if there would have been lightning bugs, had she the eyes to see them. They weren't too far from the Arova, after all. As she took a seat, she heard the cry of an owl.

This meal was silent, too. Aurelie found it almost comfortable. If she'd had some sewing to do, she might even have thought it sort of pleasant. The exploration had been pain-staking, tedious, and thoroughly exhausting. After two days of pacing around the small room in Graywatch, the tiredness in her muscles was welcome indeed. There was the dog, too, who had gotten some of the cured meat she'd found after all, in addition to more of the corned beef. So much salt, she thought absently.

"Hmm?" Aurelie paused, finishing the bite of tack that was in her mouth and swallowing. She frowned, thinking on it. She had somewhat learned to ignore the pain; she was used to that, too, in a way. "...No better," she confessed after some evaluation. She shook her head, bit her lip. "The... p-pain may be a little... reduced. But I still can't..." ...See anything, she couldn't quite bring herself to say.

"But—are yours any better? I hoped... Er, well, I expect... I've heard... Bells and chimes." Aurelie distracted herself by giving a little of the tack to the dog too, which he took with the same degree of enthusiasm he'd taken more dog-appropriate morsels. He wasn't a picky eater; she liked that quality in a dog.