[Closed] The Light You Used to Bring

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

I

t was utterly unexpected. He had nothing to warn him of it, without his sight; it was like an arrow fired at him in total darkness, and he did not see it until it hit him. He might have gasped or jolted, had he been capable of anything at all. As it was, he stood very stiffly, confused and more than a little frightened.

She had laughed, and it was a very – well, a very lovely sound. It was not the breathless, hysterical laughter of earlier, when he had been too terrified to really listen. Nor was it a sob, or strangled. It was a delighted laugh. It was familiar in the worst possible way.

And so it was joined by another, more wretched surprise: a knot sitting just in the middle of his throat, what felt like the size of a grape. It was painful, and – as if the two were remotely connected – it made his eyes feel irritated and wet. It should not have prevented him from breathing, but he found his chest very tight regardless. He was utterly silent, breathing in and out evenly through his nose, desperate to hold off the tide of something that he felt was pushing at him inside-out. As if his skin and his very bones were a dam, and he had just felt the first hairline crack, and could not for the life of him find it to patch it over.

If her small hand had still been on his arm, he thought he might have died.

A dog, she went on, in the same infuriatingly wonderful tones. He snorted sharply again, though he managed to relax just enough; he rolled his shoulders, scowling at more tiny cracks. “I see,” grunted. “Friendly.” His scowl deepened.

The thing’s tail was still wagging at inadvisable speeds, thwap thwap thwap against his ankles. He might have been irritable at the thought of fur on his dress uniform, had the thing not been ruined already by this whole escapade. When the trial was over and he was back in Vienda, he would have to –

He swallowed tightly. He could hear the dog snuffling and licking at her, and letting out little grunting chirps.

She went on. Talking to the dog, he thought, unsure why for a moment he had worried otherwise. His lip twisted, but he stayed very still. What must have been a back foot bumped one of his boots.

It was wrong, he knew. All of this was horribly wrong. Every moment of reprieve or kindness would be paid for with cruelty later.

He cleared his throat. “Whatever it is doing,” he snapped, “now is hardly the time.” He narrowed his eyes. “Then – such a friendly dog seems a good sign. Its master must be near, and shelter or aid, perhaps, too. Does the dog seem well cared for?”

He had not felt the tail in a few moments. All of the sudden, he felt something latch onto his pant leg and pull.

“Damnation–!” He reached for his baton for one dizzying second, and then – froze, horrified, hand flinching away as if the thing were white-hot.

Grateful now, above all else, that she could not have seen.

The jaws let go, and there came another whine. Then the thing tugged – gently, he realized now – at his pant leg again. Bewildered, he did nothing; there was a rustling, and it seemed to trot away. It came back, then trotted away, then came back again and sat down with a soft thud, whining.

“Is it –” he grunted, feeling dazed and strangely too awful for his anger to hold any water. “Is it trying to lead us somewhere? Here. I am here, here is my arm – can you stand?”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

Oh, let Desiderio pout all he wanted. The dog was friendly, and she was happy to let it be. It had to have people—surely, despite her being able to feel its ribs under her fingers and the state of its fur... Wild or stray dogs that had never known human kindness tended to be much less like this. Certainly it wouldn't have come up to happily coat her face in a disgusting layer of dog saliva. She tried not to think about the possibility of her being wrong; she would, after all, have to leave it behind.

Its fur was so wonderfully soft and thick, too, where it wasn't dirty or matted together. What it needed was a bath; she rather thought she did too, at this point. Easier to arrange for the dog than herself, perhaps. Aurelie staunchly ignored the voice in the back of her mind that informed her it was inappropriate to bathe other people's dogs. Wherever this darling's people were, they were here, were they? No. And she was, and it needed doing. That simply settled it.

Besides, it was nice to have someone around who was glad of her company. Even a dog, even for just a little while. She had thought, from the whimpering, that it had been a puppy. Far too large for a puppy, though, so she must have been mistaken. She wasn't that familiar with dogs, so it was likely an easier mistake to make than she might have expected.

Aurelie didn't stop smiling or pause in her fawning over the animal when Desiderio cleared his throat and snapped at her again. She had decided she would ignore him, at least for the moment. The furred triangles of the dog's ears were so soft as she traced the shape of them with one of her fingers. There were some notches in the right, she noticed, and frowned. "Don't listen to Des," she said brightly, "Inspector Morandi is just having a very unpleasant day. Oh, but you are a sweetheart!"

"You're right," she allowed, addressing Desiderio at last. "Although... Hmm. It does seem rather—oh! Where are you going?" Aurelie had been about to explain that no, the dog did not in fact seem particularly well cared for, no matter how sweet of disposition. But it pulled away from her, to turn towards Desiderio. What was it doing?

He swore, and she frowned, hearing the anger in it. Her hand was still on the dog's back, but if she thought... If he... No, surely he wouldn't hurt the dog. He'd not, she realized slowly, really hurt her, either. Not physically anyway, she supposed; so the dog was likely in no danger. She didn't like that she couldn't be sure. The knowledge sat sick in the pit of her stomach. Once, she would have been.

But nothing else happened, save for the dog's back slipping out from under her hand. Aurelie felt a little sad; running off already. That was all right, of course, and she would have to... One couldn't bring dogs with you into the Everine's care, but... Except then she heard it come back. Pause. Returned again, and sat down with a distinctly impatient whine.

"Oh, you clever thing!" Aurelie meant, of course, the dog. Not just sweet, but smart, too! "Des, I think you're right. I can stand, I think."

Aurelie was so delighted she forgot even that she didn't want to touch Desiderio. Or rather, that he distinctly didn't seem to want to touch her, and she felt as if it ought to be mutual. Aurelie took his arm after a little fumbling and pulled herself to a stand. It was less graceful than she might have hoped, and she stumbled slightly. One hand shot out to brace herself and found the middle of his chest.

"Bells and... I'm sorry, De—oh." Aurelie cleared her throat and retracted her hand as swiftly as she could. What was wrong with her? That was about to be the second time. Just because she was excited about the dog, that didn't mean... Bells and chimes.

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

A

very unpleasant day was the least of it. How could she have said such a thing, at a time like this? You, too, he might have thought, are having an unpleasant day. He supposed she hardly had any option but to – joke. What else could she do? The thought tugged at him, much like Des, much like that Inspector Morandi, like a joke she was sharing with the dog.

Ordinarily, he might have barked.

There was a secret place inside Inspector Morandi which very much liked listening to people – any sort of people, really – talking to their animals. It felt rather like looking through the window at a party, or listening to happy people through a wall. He had not for a long time, had perhaps never, felt so welcome among people.

But to listen for a little while through the glass, especially to her – to listen to her coo and call something else sweetheart...

(A part of Morandi quite liked interrogation spells, but the ones he liked the most were, in fact, those which hid the caster from view, or shrouded the caster in another’s mind. Those he used often enough to constitute abuse. His colleagues thought him brusque and harsh, taking up a room with himself and his field. But often he went down to Kingsway Crossing, and a few well-placed little priority spells let him sit and sketch and listen in on strange conversations in peace.)

Although? Hmm? Rather what? he had wanted to ask, and he thought about it now. Rather – large? The dog whined again. It was terribly simpering to be an adult dog, but it would have been an immense pup. He felt an uncomfortable prickling at the back of his neck. There were very large breeds of domestic dogs, especially those kept among humans; there was no reason why this should not be one of them. That, or it was a very whiny, silly sort of dog.

He swallowed tightly, scowling, but he kept holding out his arm. This time, he was prepared for the fumbling, and for her weight too. He was just leaning in to slide his arm around her back when –

“Ah!” he snarled.

It was not the impact, which was quite manageable. He had not yet done up his jacket; her hand was warm through the thin linen, and he felt a fingertip on the bare skin just underneath his collarbone.

He was flushing deeply as she found her footing. He jerked his jacket closed and fastened the buttons again, very quickly. Des, she started, and then, thankfully, stopped. “By Her fearful symmetry,” he muttered between his teeth. “Are you all –” He broke off; his throat seemed too tight to speak. “Can you walk?” he asked instead.

She had nearly fallen. She would have fallen, if not for catching herself against him. He tried to take a little more of her weight, his brow furrowing.

The dog barked almost constantly, which made it easier to follow but did not improve his headache.

Not until his outstretched hand finally caught on what felt, after a few moments, like a wooden door-frame. He startled, pleased.

He reached past it, searching for a door, but his hand swung only through the empty air. The door was open, or else there was none. He heard the dog’s paws thump and clatter on hardwood, and a soft, slightly echoing bark. His heart sank.

“Hello?” He called. Nobody.

The smell was a little musty. Not, he thought, like mold, or like some of the poorer human residences his investigations had taken him to. Like sunlight on rotted wood. He breathed it in deeply, and felt no tickle in his chest; there was a little dust on the frame, but more than anything, he smelled vegetation. There might have been the vaguest trace of an animal smell – dogs, perhaps, or something like it – but if they had been there, they had long left.

He readjusted his arm underneath Aurelie – underneath the passive, feeling oddly ashamed. “No one,” he said, no less harsh and cold.

The dog had come back, and its flank was pressed against their shins. He could hear it panting and lapping again, as if it were licking her hand. He noticed for the first time – “I can feel its ribs,” he said. “Bright-burning Hurte...”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

Are you all—

He'd started to say it, then cut himself off. Aurelie's face was hot enough to fry an egg. He'd undone his jacket—why had he done a thing like that? She had to brace herself, or she would have fallen over entirely. But Gracious Lady! She had expected to feel jacket. Thick fabric. Maybe a button, even. Not—what had to have been his undershirt and the smallest bit of skin, just on the tip of one of her fingers. Warmer, even, than the air outside.

"I— Uhm, yes. I can... I can walk." She had only stumbled, after all. Just a little bit, when she'd not been able to hold her own weight as neatly as she had expected. Had he almost...? She had, for a moment, thought he might have been about to ask if she was all right. Even if he had started to, he'd decided against it in the end. Aurelie didn't think about how that made her feel, because it didn't matter.

The dog, at least, was oblivious and loud. Leading them forward with constant barking. It was sort of cute. Like it wanted to make sure they didn't get lost. She wondered if it knew somehow that they couldn't see; she'd heard animals were more sensitive than people to some sorts of things. Blindness hadn't been popularly included on that list, but perhaps... Certainly it seemed to be doing its best to help them.

Or, she thought fondly, this particular one was just that clever. She wasn't sure when she had come to be so fond of it, but she was. In some ways she hoped that it didn't have any people, because she didn't know what she'd do. Given how thin the dog was, and how badly in need of some attention...

Aurelie would rather think about the dog and its barking, anyway, than in how Desiderio had shifted to take more of her weight after she'd stumbled, and how some traitor part of her thought that was sweet of him. He wasn't sweet. He had been, as a child—as a young man, even. This version was not. This version snapped at her, and at the poor sweet dog, and had bandaged her ankle for no reason other than professional obligation.

She wasn't sure how long they went on like that, following the sounds of the dog (Bells but it did sound like just a small thing, barely more than a puppy, despite the size). Aurelie was very careful to lean only on his arm, specifically what parts of it were protected by the sleeves of his jacket. She thought she'd heard him button his coat back up again, but she didn't want to take any chances. However long it was, eventually the barking slowed and Desiderio startled.

Aurelie startled too, finding herself kicking what felt a bit like the frame of a door with her good foot. She paused, expecting—a knock, and and answer. But there was neither; she heard the dog ahead of them, its voice distorted by what must have been walls. Aurelie breathed a sigh of relief. Shelter, then, but empty. Nobody to impose upon, nobody to be forced to... Nobody to be dragged into this whole mess.

"Hmm," was all she said at first, frowning. Merciful Lady, her eyes hurt. She paused to wipe at them again. She heard nothing, not even after Desiderio called out, that sounded anything like a person. "It does seem to be—abandoned."

Desiderio shifted, but didn't pull away from her. The dog's nails clicked on the floor, going away from them and then coming back. Another smile bloomed across her face when she felt a warm tongue lapping at her hand. The weight of him—she wasn't sure what made her decide the dog was a "he", but at some point she had—made her wobble a little when he pressed against them. She could feel every rib, the poor thing.

"I was going to tell you," she said, part defensive and part apologetic, "but... His fur is matted, too, and doesn't feel like it's been cleaned in a long time." Aurelie paused, biting her lip. She swiveled her head in Desiderio's direction.

"If... If he had any owners, a family... I think they left long ago. I, ah. I think it's... just us. Here. And the dog," she added, smiling. The dog barked, like he knew she was talking about him. She gave him an affectionate rub on the head. Her hand came away covered in saliva and now, additionally, dog fur. It felt vile. Aurelie had never loved an animal so much in her life.

"What now?" She hadn't leaned away from him, though she could have. Just because she didn't know how long the house had been abandoned, and if there was anything she might trip over on the floor. Of course. And no other reasons.

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

H

e felt her shift under his arm. Wiping at her face, he thought. At first, he wondered if she would startle at his shout; he had not thought.

Did he care? It was hardly as if anyone found him particularly pleasant to be around. A little carefulness would not change that, and nor did it matter, given their respective trajectories. The whole point was rather that she should not find him pleasant to be around.

Fear and mistrust, too, he could have hardened himself against; nearly every perceptivist in any occupation like this one learned to. But it was the mixture of fear, mistrust, and – familiarity, that made everything hurt all the more. He was not that boy, he told himself. He had tried to tell her, over and over, with his actions, and he thought he might have finally succeeded in convincing her. What was wrong with him?

“Mm,” he grunted. “Abandoned. Yes.” She seemed a great deal less put-out than him; he supposed she would have been. The sooner they found living people, the sooner…

Any tatter of hope, he wanted to remind her, was nothing but cruel. They would find people eventually, and none of this would change anything. She knew that, didn’t she? She must have. Why had she laughed? Why did she insist on smiling?

He thought with a pang of the little girl who had always seemed to be good at making the best of a bad situation. He thought of lumpy cookies, dark-edged and cakey in the middle; he thought of little tears in stuffed animals spilling sawdust, patched over with lovely bright cloth. More real, he thought, though he could not remember the context. He thought of this woman in shackles, and of how her eyes must look, and his stomach turned over.

He frowned down at the dog, still pressing its flank firmly against his shin.

A stray, then. She sounded almost – fond. Just us, she said, awkward, and the dog, then with a smile warming her voice. He felt an altogether unaccountable tug. “We are hardly in any position to do much of – anything for him,” he replied, no less sharp.

He had felt her shift again, and a strange prickling along his jaw made him feel as if her eyes were on his face. She was on his left side. It was hardly as if she could see the great swath of scarring, blinded as she was, but –

What now?

“Come,” he barked. “Blast it, pup, stop tangling yourself up in my legs.” He took a few awkward, ginger steps into the house; the pup seemed to catch on right away – smart, strangely smart for a domestic dog, least of all one half-starved; Morandi found himself directionlessly worried again – and trotted forward a little more, never quite leaving their side.

He nearly stumbled over it, at first – a table, solid if a little wobbly under his hand, and then – a chair, built for someone larger even than him. He could hear the pup yip excitedly, panting.

“There is a chair. Do you feel it? Here – sit,” he said roughly, then, “Your – your ankle. I should –”

Perform diagnostics, he thought to say, then stopped himself, lips twisting. It was only, he told himself, that he was such a poor hand at the quantitative conversation; he was a perceptivist, after all. He dreaded the difficulty of the task.

He paused. “I should have rations. For us. And – dried meat, for the dog. I shall let you distribute… that… to the dog.” Since it is you, he wanted to protest, who cares so much about him. Instead – “What makes you so sure it is a ‘he’?” he asked instead, brow furrowing.

The dog barked excitedly again, as if he could tell he was being talked-about. He really did sound like a pup. A remarkably large pup, but a pup nonetheless.

You always did want a pet, he got the strangest urge to say. Strange, and dangerous; he grit his teeth hard.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

Whatever anyone else might think of her, Aurelie wasn't stupid. Only her eyes were blind; she could see the reality of the situation perfectly clearly. Besides, she was never in any position to do much for anybody. Not even a dog, who needed such simple things as food and a bath and affection. So Desiderio needn't have bothered reminding her; she knew.

Let me pretend, she wanted to ask—to beg. Just for a little while. She knew all of this was just a temporary reprieve, a delaying of the inevitable. A little fantasy, like the whole last month had been. A dream where she could do things like—like take care of a dog, like talk to a friend she had loved and missed. Just a bit wouldn't hurt anything. Let me have this much, to carry with me.

Aurelie didn't ask, and she certainly didn't beg. She wasn't sure that Inspector Morandi would agree, or even understand. Instead she tried to focus only on the moment in front of them, and leave anything else—inevitable or impossible—to the moments in which they might come.

The dog seemed rather glued to them both, which Aurelie found incredibly sweet. Desiderio seemed less charmed. Aurelie wasn't sure that he was charmed by much of anything, the man her friend had become. He took a few steps forward, which rather obliged her to follow. The dog, at least, seemed to understand rather quickly and he didn't get in their way. Aurelie smiled; she couldn't seem to stop.

They moved carefully across the floor, all three of them. She wasn't sure how long ago this house had been abandoned—it didn't smell, well, as if it had been occupied recently. Not entirely unpleasant, but firmly unused. Like some of the abandoned buildings on campus; she had helped, once or twice, to clear them out to be restored for use as the school's population grew.

The furniture was a relief, but it made her heart sink a little. Who had left so quickly as to leave tables and chairs—and dogs, clever and sweet as this one—behind? What had happened? Aurelie tried to tell herself that it was nothing, that they'd merely had replacements in their new home. The dog said otherwise.

"Thank you," she murmured, defaulting to politeness while she chewed on what the presence of all of this meant. It was only when she'd come to sit again and released Desiderio's arm that she realized she'd hardly even noticed how hard his voice had been when directing her to do so. She was getting used to it, she supposed; the thought pricked at her heart, just a little. The chair was large; her feet didn't even come close to the floor, but dangled uselessly.

Now, she supposed, he'd want to—check on the... To perform, as he had said, diagnostics. To cast on her; she was forcing herself not to forget or flinch away from the thought. It made her skin crawl. When had she become so afraid of it...? There was nothing harmful or sinister about checking her ankle. She had, in fact, been cast on before a handful of times for similar purposes. It had not bothered her then. "Your ankle," he said, and she stiffened.

To her surprise, that wasn't what he suggested at all. She let out a little bit of the tension she'd been holding. Rations, he said, and dried meat for the dog. That made Aurelie smile again, warm despite herself. There was, after all, a little of her friend still. "I'm not," she confessed. Some of her amusement crept in to warm her voice. "It's just a—a feeling. I don't suppose that he minds one way or the other, but 'it' feels so..."

She had, a few times, been referred to that way—usually by younger students, trying deliberately to be cruel. They were always corrected, if someone was around to correct them. Aurelie didn't know if it bothered her too terribly; the intention was worse than the action. Still. She shrugged, forgetting that Desiderio couldn't see her do it. "I'll feed him, though."

The dog yiped happily. She wondered if he knew the word "feed"; it was possible. Aurelie laughed again; it was easier to do than she expected. "This is why you brought us here, isn't it? A ploy, to get at the rations." She felt the skinny ribcage press against her knees. "Clever boy," she praised him again, reaching down to pet him.

"I always wanted a pet," she said distantly; like he didn't know. She had, perhaps, mentioned it approximately a hundred thousand times over that first summer they'd spent properly together. And every summer after. Do you remember? she wanted to ask. When they were married, she'd always said, a real hingle, and a whole pack of dogs. There were a lot of plans she'd made for when they were married; all of them so clearly the sorts of things a child would plan for.

Aurelie swallowed, her throat thick. That had been a long time ago. "What kind of rations?" Food, that was a better topic than pets, or the past with all its unrealized futures. Her voice was rougher than she would have liked; she cleared her throat, tucking her hair behind her ears. "It's a shame I can't... Well, I don't suppose the kitchen is still at all functional, anyway."

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

S

he said thank you, as if –

He swallowed tightly again, but said nothing. She had been a very polite girl, he remembered now. Well – he had been a very polite boy, himself, once. And then, in the years between, they…

She sat.

There was a little bemusement in her voice when she spoke again. That, too, was new. His heart seemed to melt into his lungs; for a moment, he forgot to breathe. There was a strange loosening of the muscles of his face, and something – he had no idea what – tugging at his lips. (Is it because he barks? he found himself wanting to ask, dryly.) Then she went on, and he frowned.

‘It’. She trailed off into silence once more, and in the dark, he could not see her face. He could not see anything; he could imagine a great deal. But no. No, no…

I’ll feed him, though, she said in the end, punctuated by a rather infuriatingly charming yip. He grunted angrily, depositing his bag from his shoulder and onto the table. He busied himself about opening it up.

It was, of course, immaculately organized. In this at least there was no blind fumbling. There was blessed, calm control. There was the pouch in which he kept his seerstone, smooth and preternaturally cool even through the thin velvet. There was the side compartment in which he kept his sketchbook. His fingertips lingered there. He almost wanted to take it out, for just a moment – just to feel the comforting calfskin cover – but then he heard the chair creak as she shifted, and his hand left it. Finally, he found the emergency rations, slipping the slim box out without another sound.

A ploy, she said, to get at the rations. He let out another soft huh, quite against his will. Clever, he opened his mouth to say, then –

Clever boy.

He cleared his throat, thumbing carefully through the rations. He found the bag with the jerky, and he took out a few strips, setting them on the table beside where he remembered the chair was. “There,” he said brusquely. He had opened his mouth to speak once again, but he stiffened at her next words. There was a distant softness to her voice, one for which he was altogether unprepared. Like a great deal of this.

I know, he wanted to say.

He shut his eyes. He felt dizzy. He knew, because she had told him. He knew, too, because – suddenly it was all he could think of. A hingle, he remembered, which they would name Henrietta, and a veritable army of pups. They had said it together with the weight of a promise, as heavy as the promise that they should never fall in love. Did she remember the plans he had drawn up, too? The sketches of the nurseries…

She had never laughed at him for liking to play house, for the stuffed animals swaddled in blankets, and the dusty glass bottles repurposed… He had confessed to her once in a soft, quiet voice that he knew boys were not meant to like that sort of thing, in the same way that boys were meant to be soldiers and Seventen – she had never laughed at him.

He thought of it now, the smell of the sunlight slanting in through the windows, and when he had stopped pretending that he was merely humoring a little girl. The tea parties, the quiet speculation as to what, exactly, the running of a household might entail. Of her Mother and what Mother meant, and how he had never known his Father and did not know what it was to be a Father, and how he was a little frightened of the picture of his Father in the west hall, stiff and dour…

He snorted, his fist clenched on the table-top. The perceptive mona were hot and tense around them.

He heard her swallow, loud in the muffled silence inside the house. He smoothed his field carefully; even more carefully, he relaxed.

“The kitchen?” He blinked, tentatively picking through the box again. “No. I do not think so.” Can’t what? He thought of the scars and calluses on her hands.

He thought of the food at Brunnhold. He had been a very picky eater, as a boy. The meat had been too tough or too tender, the vegetables too soft or wilted, not enough spices. He had never thought who might have made it, back then; he had thought it simply materialized. As if…

He frowned. “Canned tuna,” he said, setting the can down audibly. “Tack. Jerky. Dried vegetables. Brandy,” he drawled wryly. “Not as much as the AAF carry. Lucky them.”

He swallowed.

“Water, if you are thirsty? You must be,” he said brusquely, holding out a canteen in the empty air.

There was only one, and it seemed terribly improprietous to share, but...

He paused. His heart was hammering in his throat. “You would,” he started. “You would do what? If there were a kitchen.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

There was a sound, when she was talking to the dog, much like the sound she'd heard before. Something very unlike a laugh, and yet... Aurelie couldn't quite remember with as much clarity as she would have liked what it sounded like when he had laughed before, when they were children. It was rare—her laughter was the same, up until very recently. Not quite like that, she thought, but not so different either.

There had just been the one, anyway. Aurelie couldn't tell if he was laughing because of her, chattering on to the dog, or at her for the same. The former, if he was still her friend. The latter, perhaps, was more likely now. She heard the sound of something being set down on the table, and then Desiderio's voice. She set her hand carefully on the tabletop and crept her fingers along until she felt what it was. Strips of dried meat, just the thing to give to a good dog like the one that had found them.

"Thank you," she said again, more warm than polite. He didn't have to give the dog anything. Whatever he thought of her—at least, there was still... that much of the boy she had known, that he would feed the dog. While she continued to speak, she took the strips of meat and held them out under the table. There was a snuffling at her hand, and then a tongue. No teeth, she was pleased to note. Aurelie released the meat to the floor, and listened to the dog snatch it up with wet, snuffling pleasure.

It was almost nice, she thought dizzily. Sitting at the little table, with the dog underneath. He hadn't snapped at her, quite. If she just didn't think, if she could ignore the stinging in her eyes and the blindness and the smell of animals and vegetation, she could...

Best not to think too much on that, though. This wasn't like it had been when they were children, Desiderio drawing out plans for nurseries or helping her set out a tea party for the two of them and a manner of toys that she had declared their many friends and children. She had quite a lot of toys, after all, and very few friends. Only later had she come to understand how much it had all meant to her, and by then it was too late. There were no more tea parties by then.

Well, mostly not—Aurelie remembered, with a little flicker of both sadness and warmth, that there were at least one or two, lately. She left those behind, too. There wouldn't be... Yazad could hardly come visit her with the Everine. Nobody could, even if they wanted to.

For a moment, she tensed, feeling a shift in Desiderio's field. The dog tensed, too; the fur on his neck stood on end. He didn't growl, but she almost thought— But no, she went on, and his field returned to normal. Whatever that had been, whatever she had said to cause it... The talk of the kitchen had been a wise move. Aurelie tried not to miss her Des, who had been someone she thought she could always tell anything to.

She'd not had anyone like that in a long time, anyway. She had more than learned to carry on without. Aurelie hoped, in a way that felt more like a punishment to herself than anything else, that his lovely fiancee could be that for him now. (How long had they waited? A month, a season, a year? Not too long, she supposed, when they'd learned—)

Aurelie still chuckled, a soft sound that was almost too quiet to be heard. Such a serious answer at her idle speculation. The dog had finished the meat she had given him and wandered off. Not too far—she could hear him snuffling around, although he ought to know the house better than they did and have very little need to investigate. Dogs, she thought, were strange people.

"Not bad," she said, thinking on it. If the kitchen worked, if she could see, if there was anything left in it... At the mention of brandy, she wrinkled her nose. Aurelie had precious little chance to drink alcohol, and the one time she had in recent memory had not gone well. "You and the AAF can keep the brandy." His drawl was dry enough to get half a smile from her—where he wouldn't see it, of course.

She was thirsty though; she hadn't realized how much so until he mentioned it, but she was. There was a sound like the sloshing of water in a container. Aurelie reached for it, carefully. Is there, she wanted to ask, a second one, a glass? She knew that was a stupid question, and a stupid concern, so she didn't voice it. Just took the water that was offered her in the spirit it was offered with: duty, obligation.

"Cook something," she said without quite thinking about it. Aurelie paused and cleared her throat; it had been a long time since she'd had to tell anyone about this. She didn't, really, meet that many new people. Or old friends, who weren't her friend anymore. "That's what I— In the kitchens, I..."

She paused again, then plunged forward. He was the one who wanted to take her back; if he wanted that so badly for her, then he could at least stand to hear about it. "At Brunnhold," she continued steadily, "I've been—was—working in the kitchens, mostly, since I was. Hmm. Twelve or so, I suppose. And I have—had—a job at a bakery. In the Harbor. Before. ...I like it. Cooking, I mean."

The last she said quietly, but not so quietly he couldn't hear her. And a little sadly, too; she didn't think she'd be working in a kitchen anymore. All her hard work to find herself a place, for nothing.

[Desiderio Morandi]

wherever 'here' is

late morning on the 27th of roalis, 2720

T

here was another soft huh. “The AAF can keep the brandy themselves, I dare say. I do not much like the stuff,” he said, matter-of-fact and sharp. “Useful for the cold, at least.” For a moment, there had almost been a small smile on his face.

Almost.

The dog had taken the jerky only Vespe knew where, now. Morandi had heard a frankly grotesque slopping noise when he had taken it from her hand - one of the many noises this pup made, of which nearly all the detainee seemed quite enamored - and was rather glad he had not offered to feed him himself. (Of course, he rather suspected that the dog's reception to him would be somewhat less kindly, and he was in no hurry to feel the thing's teeth. Animals, as a general rule, had not taken well to him in a very long time. Since Numbrey, he supposed.)

'Not bad' might have been his own judgment. There was something altogether unfamiliar about this, now: the warm, practical tone of her voice, and behind it the sense that she was measuring it out in her head.

He felt secure, almost without thinking. He could think of a handful of times he had been in tense situations with civilians; in none of them had he been so sure that they would do what needed to be done, sparing or wasting nothing. And this was not a civilian but a fugitive.

Their hands did not brush when she took the skin, thankfully. He heard a sloshing, but he could not have said whether she took a drink.

He opened his mouth to speak again, then felt tongue-tied. He wanted to plan with her; he wanted to ask her how far she thought the rations might go, and what she might do with them, given the resources. He wanted to ask if she thought they might tentatively explore, to see if they could find this kitchen.

He was not sure if he was more terrified of it being easy or difficult. Aurelie – not his Aurelie, in the same breath; anyone could see that – and yet, he still wanted to –

Cook something, she said. His brow furrowed; he was silent, listening to her go on.

Twelve. He tried not to let his throat catch audibly. He succeeded.

He got the strangest urge to find her hands, to take them in his. Even if she had not been mortified at his touch, it was utterly inappropriate. But he had the aching, desperate urge to run his hands over them, to find each scar with his fingertips.

As if she were a case and her hands were the evidence, he wanted to imagine the curve of each cooking-knife, or the angle of the pot that had burned the side of her thumb once. To guess at how long ago it had been, to try and mark those years with those scars. To reconstruct them, dogged and loyal, as if he were tracing the footsteps of a killer.

He thought of the kitchen he had observed during the Whittemore case, when he had been tracking the missing scullery maid. All steam and sizzling and shouts. And efficiency. He tried to picture the little girl he had known in one of them, fighting to keep up on the line.

For a moment, all thought strangled, he was afraid he might. But his fingers were curled tightly on the table.

It was perverse, the Inspector said to himself; it was wrong. He knew what must happen, what he must do. But he opened his mouth, hesitating.

He wanted only to ask, to... talk to her. I like it, she had offered. Cooking, I mean. So very, very quiet. He felt a strange burning in his eyes. Why had she told him that? She could have left it off; she had spoken quietly, but not so quietly he could not hear. Why did she want him to know that? That she liked cooking? As if opening up a door, as if he might –

“It would be unwise,” came his cold, sharp voice, with the slight edge of a threat, “to speak more of the bakery which was responsible for harboring a fugitive. Not to the commissioner on your case, at the very least, or to any officer of the law.”

He stiffened in his seat, clearing his throat. “Well. We must further explore this strange place in a little while. Perhaps we shall yet survive, in that case, and the pup too. And speaking of –”

Only foolish sentiment had delayed this, and that he had to rid himself of entirely. It was, he told himself firmly, kinder to both of them.

“When you are ready for me to cast a diagnostic spell, tell me. It would be unwise to delay.” (And if he tried – if he had truly tried to speak, would he have even been able to…? Would he have been able to say anything that was not harsh?) “Still, it may be best to eat first.” It was the hunger that made his hands shake slightly; it had to be.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 27, 2720 - Late Morning
Somewhere Else Again

What would he make of it, she wondered? That she had been working was hardly the worst of it—it wasn't, after all, the labor she minded. Would he ask her questions? She found she very much wanted him to. They didn't have to be—she didn't want to talk about the things that made her sad, all the lonely and cruel parts. If he asked, she thought, she would tell him anything he wanted to hear about it. Aurelie held her breath.

It would be unwise, he said, knife-edged and threatening. Aurelie was disappointed, despite knowing better. Of course that was the part he'd heard, and not the last of it. She had only meant to—to hold out a hand, and talk with him a little while. She had missed him, that was all.

She had missed her friend. Why was it so hard for her to remember that this is not who she was with? Her throat tightened again, and her shoulders hunched. She had some of the water, thought it did nothing for the feeling. Desiderio was right there on the other side of the table, and yet her friend felt further away from her than he had in ten years. Stupid, that's what she was.

"Yes, I expect we shall." She didn't sound particularly thrilled at the prospect; she didn't feel thrilled, either. Not that she didn't wish to survive, of course. Somehow, even with nothing to look forward to for the whole rest of her life but choking isolation, she still wanted that. Aurelie supposed that was good. Right now she didn't feel terribly certain of this.

She had begun to tense when Desiderio had—had threatened Cass, something that had made just the tiniest spark of steadying anger take hold. That wasn't necessary, she'd wanted to snap back just as sharp. He'd already caught her; they were on their way to put her back into the box she'd come from right now. Safely out of sight and out of mind. Leave the bakery alone! It was already over. He'd won.

So it wasn't a surprised when he brought it up again: the need to cast, to examine... Her, she supposed. And what she had done to the both of them. Unwise, he said again. Unwise to speak, unwise to wait. Aurelie wasn't feeling particularly wise right at this moment. She never really did.

"We wouldn't wish to be unwise." The hurt in her own voice surprised her. Was she really so wounded by what she had no right not have expected? She had opened that door, of course, but she hadn't really thought... It was only right that he had slammed it shut.

"Let's eat, then. And after..." Aurelie shut her eyes, a reflex more than a necessity, and drew a deep and shaking breath. "After we've eaten, I... Yes. You can— Should— I'll be ready." She wouldn't, she couldn't be really, but that didn't matter. He would do it, she suspected, whether she wanted him to or not.

The dog, having finished his offering, had come to sit at her feet. Aurelie could feel him there with the tips of her feet. Out of range of her hand for any petting, but she found his presence comforting anyway. "We should—divide it out, I suppose. For however long you think..." Aurelie frowned, letting practical considerations take over.

"Perhaps we should try to find the kitchen after all..." Out of practicality; if there was anything good yet left in it, if they could make it last a bit longer... They didn't, after all, know how long they would be here like this. Before... Before the blindness wore off (which it would), or the magister... found them, and they carried on. As they would, inevitably.