[Closed] The Flowers Upside Down

[Desiderio Morandi]

an abandoned farmhouse

morning on the 28th of roalis, 2720

T

here was still prickling warmth in his cheeks, and now he could see a little color rising in hers, blurring the freckles. What had gotten into him? He could scarcely process the last few minutes, much less the last few days. What had not gotten into him?

… we do have Shadow, so the wolves are… are here already, so it’s just… Er.

“Huh!” Another brisk, unexpected laugh. Then he caught himself on another bemused snort. “A reasonable point,” he said dryly, awkwardly, clearing his throat. A bander pup. It was ludicrous; it was surreal. And yet there was no doubt that it was happening, all of it. And something about the way she had said it had just been so...

Morandi’s own fingers twitched on the table, returning to his lap. He sat very straightly; he had never smiled, but he frowned now, deeply.

Some part of him had pictured the two of them searching the house together again. She was looking up at him, or rather a little past him, and there was an apologetic edge in her voice. He felt a pang.

Well, he told himself. When her eyesight returned… And his had. It would have to, would it not?

He ignored the dread, pushing himself to his feet. “Naturally,” he said, abruptly and matter-of-factly.

He had gotten a few steps away from the table when her voice came again.

“Yes,” he replied. “Er. Shaving soap. It should do.” Not much, but – he put it out of his head, and in fact put everything out of his head, finding the chest of drawers near the beds that they had neglected the day before.

He searched mostly in silence, at first. He grunted occasionally as drawers came up empty, or with little more than scraps in them. Once, he found a tatter of cloth with a swirl of elaborate embroidery, in a design he had never seen; he studied it, running his fingers over the bumps and tassels, thinking of the shawl he had seen her in in the market. He was not sure why he thought of it, or what it meant. If they were to go to the bakery, then… The woman, the owner – not a human, surely?

A tiny prickling sensation scuttled down his back. He shook himself. Aurelie Steerpike, living among – humans.

He shook himself again, grunting. “I am afraid there is nothing but tatters,” he said. “We must do the best we can, I suppose.” He glanced over his shoulder; at this distance, she was a blurry shape, chin-length disheveled red hair and a light blue dress.

He started back toward the table, picking his way carefully; his eyes were still bleary. “I know a few spells to pass among people unnoticed, as long as you know an uncrowded route. And I spent enough time with the patrol sergeant to know that the Seventen here are quite lazy and disorderly; I should have liked further opportunity to discipline –”

He broke off, realizing what it was he said, and to whom, and the harsh cadence of his voice.

He had taken out the shaving soap, worn down from the past few days, and his spare uniform, too, throwing the jacket around his shoulders for now, at least, for propriety’s sake.

“Aurelie,” he said uncertainly, the name even stranger now on his tongue. “Here is – my hand. If you are ready.”

It was that which he offered this time, and not his arm; it was easier, he told himself, to help her to her feet with it, and not expect her to pull herself up on his arm.

He could not look at her face; he looked at her hand instead, small and sturdy and as scarred as a line cook's on the table. A stranger’s hand, utterly and completely, even if other parts of her were familiar. He felt a swell of curiosity and sadness all at once, and something else, something stranger, like homesickness.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Morning
An Abandoned Farmhouse

Desiderio had laughed. Aurelie was certain that's what the sound was now that she'd heard it more than once—more than twice, even. A strange sort of laugh, like from someone who wasn't used to doing it and had no intention of becoming used to it, either. If she hadn't been so overwhelmed with her own embarrassment, Aurelie might have smiled. A strange sound, but she liked hearing it. Even if she hadn't been precisely trying to make a joke.

Maybe she should have offered to help look, after all. Desiderio had agreed with her so abruptly. Any trace of that awkward laugh was gone; only the briskness remained. Aurelie felt more than little sorry, and not just because she wasn't very useful. She had only meant—she didn't want to slow him down, or make it more difficult. Which she would, leaning on his arm and hobbling around without being able to see anything. He stood as soon as he answered, so she choked back any further explanation she might have made.

Would shaving soap do? She had no idea, actually, if it was any different. Soap was soap, she thought uncertainly. And she didn't think the sort of man Desiderio had become would have suggested it if it weren't at least moderately sufficient. Aurelie made a small noise, in lieu of a nod. His voice was already a few steps distant, and she didn't think he was looking at her. She had to think that, or she didn't think she could bear it.

While she waited, she found she had plenty of time for her mind to turn to other concerns. There were so many to choose from, after all. She didn't think she could wash Shadow very efficiently, which was—well. He didn't stand out any more than herself or Desiderio, and being clean really wouldn't help much in that regard anyway. When they got back—and it was a "when", she would not allow herself to think "if"—she would clean him properly. Assuming Cass would be all right with that.

Or any of this. She was doing her best to remain optimistic on that front. No sense in worrying about that part until they'd made it that far. Shadow was by far the easiest part to explain of all of this, anyway. As if he knew she was thinking about him, Shadow pressed himself happily up against her side. Aurelie obligingly started running her hands through the fluff of his neck.

Aurelie shook herself from her concerns when Desiderio called out to her again from across the room. Nothing but tatters after all. She'd rather thought that might be the case, but it was still a bit disappointing. Her skin itched to be out of this dress and into... anything else, really. As long as it wasn't blue. Such a petty, minor concern—what was wrong with her that it was even on her mind?

Desiderio was heading back this way; she could hear his footsteps getting closer. She left off her petting of Shadow, putting her hands back on the table. A few spells, he said, to go unnoticed. That was very—useful. Practical, even, and she tried to keep that in mind even as her stomach clenched at the idea of more casting. I used to be very good at not being noticed, Aurelie wanted to say, but it would have been more to distract herself than for the benefit of anyone else. And all desire to joke dried up as he went on anyway.

Orderly and efficient enough that they were here right now. Really, that was more than enough of both of those qualities for her liking. Her skin prickled uncomfortably thinking of it. Now it was easier to hear the inspector than her friend. Aurelie licked her lip, mouth dry; she could taste the lingering salt of dried meat and the bitterness of her own fear.

"I should be able to—I try to avoid crowds generally. If I can." Would she be able to find the way back, without her sight? She was still so new to the city, and not used to finding her way around even with her sight. The harbor wasn't Brunnhold, where she knew every shortcut and servant's corridor as well as the scars on her hands. She didn't even know where they would be when they re-entered the city. What if she led them wrong, and something happened? It would be all her fault.

No, no. One step at a time, she reminded herself. Think only of what was in front of her.

It was the sound of her name that brought her out of that line of thinking more than any internal scolding on her own part. Aurelie, he'd said, in a voice she didn't recognize but shaped in a way she did. An uncommon accent, she thought dazedly, and distinctly Bastian. It made her feel unaccountably strange in a way that was not altogether unpleasant.

"O-Oh. Yes. I'm ready." Aurelie didn't reach out right away. His hand, he'd said. Not his arm, but his hand. Practical, she thought. And nothing to be concerned over. Her pulse seemed to disagree. It skipped and raced in the oddest way. She stirred herself and reached out, hesitantly through the never-ending dark. Thank you, Des; the words seemed stuck in her throat, refusing to move any further.

[Desiderio Morandi]

an abandoned farmhouse

morning on the 28th of roalis, 2720

O

ne step at a time.

That meant no thinking about it, that I try to avoid crowds generally, if I can; that meant no thinking about the girl in the market, her brilliant copper-red hair poorly hidden underneath her embroidered grey kerchief, picking out summer squash one by one.

That meant no thinking about whether she could get them back blind, or whether he could find their way, or what that might entail. Or thinking about the both of them in separate cells in Graywatch. Or thinking about Aurelie, still blind, in the Church of the Moon; or thinking about this woman who owned the bakery, and what it would be like for Aurelie to show up on her doorstep flanked by a Seventen in uniform and a bander wolf.

It meant offering her his hand, that was all, so that he could help her to her feet. Nothing more, no matter how he felt. His left hand; he was strangely reluctant to use his right, with his ring glinting in the corner of his eye.

Ready, she said, but did not at first lift her hand.

She looked surprised. Hesitant, if he had to put a word to it; worried, perhaps. Frightened of him? He could not tell. He breathed evenly, forcing himself to watch her, not to look away. And to wait.

She raised her hand, finally. He did not wait for her to fumble and search; he reached out and took it in a warm, firm grip. No hesitation. He bent to help her to her feet, moving in beside her.

“There,” he said, matter-of-fact.

He watched her ankle just underneath the hem of her skirt, his brow knit. It seemed difficult for her to keep her weight off of it; again, he was reminded starkly – as if the texture of scars and calluses against his hand were not enough – that this was a woman who had spent a great deal of time on her feet.

He might have let go of her hand and let her hold his arm instead, but – he did not. Strange as it was, it was as if he wanted to commit this hand to his memory, as if the particular pattern of scars was somehow significant to a question he desperately needed the answer to.

And how large his was by contrast – Hurte, but he hardly remembered having grown this much! It seemed to him that he had been this large for as long as he could remember, but now, with his hand swallowing hers up, he felt again like an awkward teenaged boy at Anastou.

If only he were. She had been rather quiet, since he had taken her hand; he cleared his throat and looked away, and began to urge them toward the door, his bag underneath his arm.

“Hmm,” he grunted, frowning, watching her. “Careful. You are like some of my colleagues in patrol – right back up on the chrove, as they say. You do not much like to be idle, do you?”

He glanced away. You always did, he wanted to add, but he had the feeling it would have been like pouring salt in an open wound, when he could find none of the softness he felt for his voice. He suspected he was making an ass of himself, regardless; he had given her nothing but harshness, snark, and the occasional threat for days, and now –

But what else was there to do? Whatever became of them, of her, on account of his actions today, had the uncomfortable feeling this was not to be a short-term entanglement. “Nor do I,” he added, quieter, if no less abrupt. If he could not be gentle, then at least…

“You said that you – cook. That you like it. Yesterday afternoon.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Morning
An Abandoned Farmhouse

Aurelie reached out her hand. Some part of her hadn't expected anyone to take it—for her to just hold it out there in the dark, forever. Desiderio had taken her hand without hesitation or fumbling; just firm and matter-of-fact. There, he'd said; just so. Moved in beside her without any further fuss.

His hand was so much bigger than it had been, and steadier too. A soldier's hand, she'd thought before—she thought so now, too, but it was the warmth of it she noticed most now. So different than it had been, but it was almost as easy to take his hand as it had been when they were children, if she just didn't think about it.

Desiderio bore her weight so very carefully. He had to bend down to do it, and bend a great deal. Just what had he done to get so... so much bigger? Aurelie knew she hadn't grown much herself, but it seemed excessive. Aurelie had the most inane desire to ask him if his father had been a tall man; she'd no idea. Everyone seemed tall to her then anyway; less vexingly than they did now, because she'd been so confident she would grow. She'd been confident in a lot of things, then.

Focus! She kept trying to put her weight on her injured ankle, not accustomed to keeping off of it. She didn't know what she'd do at the bakery, if... Well, her eyes were more of a problem than her ankle. And a problem for when—when—they made it back to the Good Pan. Now she needed to make it to the door without tripping over her own feet and putting Desiderio's new-found sturdiness to the test.

His comment surprised her; she smiled without thinking about it. "No," she admitted, feeling sheepish. "I'm afraid I—I never quite learned the knack." She had precious little opportunity to do so, of course, these past ten years. Not for more than a snatched moment or two—a little embroidery in the garden when the weather was fine, a bit of staring out the window. Splinters of time here and there, nothing more.

You noticed? She wanted to ask, more than a little pleased. She had always been a restless child—Nurse had only let her in the kitchen to give her something to do, she suspected. However ill-advised that might have been in Mother's eyes. Like a wind-up toy, Nurse had said, that never needed any winding. It had served her well, she supposed, in the life she had ended up with, if not the one she ought to have had.

"Is that so?" Aurelie had almost missed it, so concentrated on heading to the door. And he'd said it so quietly, like he didn't really want to. She couldn't imagine him idle now, she admitted. The Desiderio she'd seen put her in mind of nothing so much as one of the groundskeeper's hunting dogs. He wasn't precisely idle when they were children, either, she thought. Just—unwell. Aurelie had done bustling about enough for the both of them. She'd never minded.

Now, though? Now it was different. He was different. And for the first time since seeing him again all those days ago, when she hadn't known who it was she was seeing, Aurelie thought she might like to know who he had become in all their years apart.

"Oh! Yes, I... I do. Cook. And like it." You remember? She didn't ask, but it must have shown on her face. She hadn't thought he'd been listening, not really. That he wanted to listen. She couldn't tell if he really wanted to listen to her now, but he had asked. She ought to let that count for something.

"I bake now, mostly. But b-before... When I... Er..." Aurelie steadied herself. "In B-Brunnhold, I worked in the kitchens. Mostly. I really do... I really do like it. The work. I'm much better at thumbprint cookies now," she added, shy and a little proud. "I even got to make them sometimes for... for guests of faculty, that sort of thing."

How strangely wonderful it was, and wonderfully strange, to be telling Desiderio all of this. Ana, she realized with an ache, had never asked her if she liked the work or not. Aurelie wasn't sure she cared, not like this. But she liked it—even with his brash manner, Aurelie liked it. It was like just this little crack had broken in a dam, and all of the greedy little questions she'd wanted to ask came pouring out of it.

"Would it be an... appropriate question," she asked now, her foot finding the doorway and starting to step down, "now that you, ah, 'removed yourself from my case'..." Oh it was no good. She couldn't keep up the tone she wanted to; softness poured itself in when she wasn't looking.

"...Are you still drawing? I, uhm. I really did... want to know. Before."

[Desiderio Morandi]

an abandoned farmhouse

morning on the 28th of roalis, 2720

S

he was not looking at him, not exactly. Perhaps that made the smile easier. They were both very concentrated on footing; it was easy to glance away, to keep his eyes occupied with her ankle and the floor. He was guiding her around the magister now, wordless – she must not know, and he did not exactly want to draw attention to it – though it was frustrating, how she had managed to fall so close to the door. Rude of her, he thought irritatedly, when someone with a twisted ankle might trip.

The knack, she had called it, sheepish.

If she was offended, he did not think she looked it. Why do they work? he had asked once. Galdor children did not work; human and tsat children, he had seen now, worked out of necessity, and some were quite proud of it, but – passive galdori were still galdori, and galdori children did not work. Idle hands, he remembered, that had been the answer. Idle hands lead to… He could not remember what, now.

He supposed he would have to learn the knack, when this was all over. (When, not if, he told himself, not looking back at the magister.) Amelie seemed quite insistent that he did; but whenever he tried to relax around her, she seemed to think he was even more stiff and restless, which made him yet more stiff and restless.

Is that so?

He had not expected the question. He grunted in confirmation, uncomfortable.

She looked surprised at the question. I have been listening, he got the urge to say, but he did not think it would sound as playful as he meant it, and he did not want it to sound harsh.

He looked away from her face; he had been staring, he realized, where the sunlight from the door was falling squarely on it now. She almost seemed to glow, where his eyes were still bleary from the diablerie.

He listened instead, which was easier. He tried not to tense; he swallowed tightly, pushing down his unease. The Steerpikes’ younger daughter, not only working, but working in the – kitchen. And liking it.

Then, it was not a very Steerpike hand in his.

“I remember the cookies which you used to make for me,” he said, even more quietly, to his own surprise. He had always wondered if she would grow out of it; Briarwood was not exactly the sort of place where the mistress of the house helped in the kitchens, though it would have been acceptable, if queer, as a lady’s hobby. “I imagine it is not only thumbprint cookies you make now,” he added.

He glanced over sharply, almost distracted even from her feet and the doorway. Then he smiled a little more, looking down. Hurte’s grace, ‘removed himself from her case’ – had he actually said that? He must have. He was more surprised at her boldness, especially given the unpleasant memory of two days ago.

“I believe so,” he replied, brusquely and seriously, as if considering it. “And yes. I am.”

He was no longer the commissioner on her case, but who was he, then? A – friend?

They were not children; that was hardly appropriate. He was a young man, and, whatever anyone said, she was a young woman – and he was a young man engaged to be wed, no less.

Besides, a friend who had just hours ago been her arresting officer, who had threatened her friend, who had chased her down in a market–?

And besides even that, his field – and her lack thereof – were a reminder, though he no longer knew of what. There was some barrier here, was there not? But how was he meant to comport himself? How was she?

The sunlight was warm as they stepped out; the insects were loud. “When I can. I spend most of my time working and training. Most,” here he hesitated, lifting his brows, “of my colleagues do not know about my… hobby. I like to keep my professional and private lives – separate. As I am sure that you have…”

Noticed. He swallowed dryly. And he had a great deal of one, and not much of the other. It was not that Morandi did not have friends; he had the gentlemen with whom he played billiards at the Pendulum, and other Seventen with whom he drank occasionally. There was Mr. Shrikeweed.

It seemed terrible now to say that his sketchbook was in the bag with the soap and the spare uniform. Just yesterday, or the day before, he might have shown it to her; but he knew he would not have. In fact, if they had not been blinded, he might never have. And now he could not.

He would. Because she would regain her sight.

“I did not become an artist,” he added, as if that were not obvious. He felt almost apologetic, which was ridiculous. Interrogation methods, he remembered the magister saying; he remembered the little shiver at his elbow. He swallowed tightly.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Morning
An Abandoned Farmhouse

How would he take it? Aurelie liked talking about her work. It gave her purpose, something to do. A routine, which she hadn't realized she missed so utterly until starting work at the bakery. She had filled her time on Dzum, to be sure—pleasantly, even. But it was none of it work that needed her to do it, not really. And if she didn't do it, there was no consequence. Aurelie had not quite come to terms with how that made her feel before she... left.

But Steerpikes did not labor. Steerpikes didn't do many things—Aurelie was, in the end, a failure at being one. Desiderio knew this as well as she did. Better, she thought, than anyone else might. More in many ways even than Ana, who seemed to think that she could still be. Aurelie told herself it didn't matter. Aurelie also knew she was wrong.

Aurelie smiled again, a hesitant upturn of the corners of her mouth. Unlucky Desiderio—she had made more of them for him than she had anyone else. Never for Ana, or Mother and Father. They, after all, would have asked her to stop. They couldn't possibly have been particularly good, even with Nurse and Cook helping her. Sometimes she wondered what would have become of her baking, if she had proven to be as she should be. Would you have minded a wife with such an odd hobby?

Well, it certainly didn't matter now. She hadn't, and it wasn't a hobby anymore. That was that. Aurelie was happy to talk about it, anyway, especially with Desiderio. Even this version of him. "No," she answered warmly, "it's not."

In fact, she wasn't just happy to talk about her work. It felt like some sort of rare miracle, to have Desiderio here, asking her these things. Talking to her. Even if it was just shock, or some temporary whim... It was all she'd wanted, really, even after—her terror and her affection had jumbled up too much for her to sort them out. They weren't friends anymore, and hadn't been for so long. But they weren't strangers, either.

And, more simply and perhaps more importantly, she had missed him.

The teasing had been—perhaps too much. Something of a gamble, or maybe a test. To see if she could break the spell they were both under. Everything else felt so unreal, though, why not this? Why not talk to him as if that was even remotely acceptable for either one of them? Who, after all, would ever know? The only thing at risk here was her heart. And that had broken enough times, she hardly thought one more would matter.

"I believe so." Like he had to think about whether or not it was truly appropriate. Aurelie couldn't decide if he were teasing her back or not. He sounded so sincere, like he was truly weighing it out. Was it allowable, for her to ask? At least he didn't sound angry with her, which she took as an improvement.

Aurelie felt the sun but did not see it when they stepped out of the house. She wasn't used to it yet; she suspected it would take her quite a long time to become used to it. The feeling had been muffled when they were inside; there was no direct sunlight to feel, after all, except in a few places where there was a window or a hole. The morning was in full swing around them—birds and insects of all kinds, raucous and vibrant. The air felt hazy and alive, and warmer than she expected—was it later than she'd realized? The whole day felt blurry.

Still drawing after all, he said! Aurelie didn't know why that made her feel so relieved. Hadn't she decided to think it was so, anyway? But it was one thing to decide herself, and another to hear it from him. What sorts of things did he draw now? Now that he wasn't catering to the whims of over-eager little girls. (Oh, but she had spent hours and hours, happily just watching him draw. It seemed so much like magic to her, then. She thought it still did now.)

"I had noticed." She had said it softly; Aurelie couldn't keep the ache out of it. Not just that he hadn't become any kind of artist—that had been rather clear. If he had, she thought with a feeling that was both sad and tender, would she ever have seen him again? Aurelie thought it unlikely. Small gifts, she supposed. Small gifts from strange sources.

It was harder to walk out here; the floor inside had not been particularly even, but the ground was even worse. "Does, ah, your fiancée like—oh, chimes!" Aurelie should have been paying attention. Well, she paid the price for her inattentiveness. There was an awkward step, and she stumbled, putting her other hand out to catch herself. She had expected the ground, somehow—it was Desiderio's other hand she caught instead.

[Desiderio Morandi]

an abandoned farmhouse

morning on the 28th of roalis, 2720

R

ather hard not to notice. Very little of him telegraphed artist, these days, even if she had not met him under such – tense conditions.

And hardly artful work he had shown her in Old Rose Harbor. Well, he had told her that Inspector Morandi was hardly known for his soft touch; but that had been remarkably bad, even for him. A part of him wanted to follow that soft, aching voice with a sharp argument, an insistence, but of what? That he was less – like this – than he seemed? (That would have been a lie.) Or that he was better than he seemed at the job he had chosen – that under ordinary circumstances, his ruthlessness was much more orderly, much more efficient?

Doubtless that would have heartened her.

He reflected, not for the first time, that had he been in charge of this case – completely in charge, from the beginning, with his own men from Vienda – she would have been apprehended much more quickly. She would likely have been in Brunnhold before her diablerie ever went off.

She had seemed pleased to talk about her baking, at least. If she was surprised or tentative or even afraid, she had not let it stop her from telling him.

Nor had she let it stop her from teasing him; he was still a little pleased privately, though he knew not the twentieth part of how to express it. He wondered if she knew that he had been teasing her back. He did not exactly make it easy.

The word fiancee caught him like a static shock before he even saw her foot slip, and he might not have caught her. Training; that, at least, the Inspector had on the boy she had known. For better or worse, his arm shot out over her shoulder before he had any say in it, and his hand found hers.

Their fingers slipped together, interlocked.

“Hurte,” he grunted sharply. For a moment, it –

He had a horribly strange vision of dancing with Amelie at the Beauvilliers’ ball in Roalis. Then he saw the ring glinting on his finger, pressed coldly against hers.

“No,” he said abruptly, steadying her back on her feet. He cleared his throat. “I mean to say, she does not – know. About. It. The drawing. At all.”

Was that what she had been on the verge of asking? He realized, warmth prickling in his cheeks, that he did not know. She could have been asking about anything. It was hardly appropriate for her to ask about his fiancee.

He blinked, frowning. “Are you all right? Your ankle.” Slowly, he let go of that hand; he steadied her back again with his right hand, and held hers with his left, as he had before.

He felt unaccountably strange. Pull yourself together, Inspector, he snapped at himself, for the last time. There had been nothing he could hear when she had mentioned his fiancee – nothing in her voice – she had been a little girl back then, and no doubt would have grown to resent the engagement as she grew older. As if his engagement now to someone else were remotely upsetting, compared to – everything else.

“A few more steps to the well.” A swell of worry. “Then you must sit,” he said, harsh and cold like an order.

He frowned. “I am afraid you have the sympathy of half the ensigns and recruits in Vienda; stuck in the forest with Inspector Morandi is rather the kind of nightmare scenario about which they joke, when they think that I cannot hear.”

The well looked no more well-appointed than it had felt (or smelt) the day before. Sturdy enough, though, and functional; and easier to help her sit, now that he had his sight.

“Sit, please,” he tried again, this time more mildly. Or what passed on his tongue for ‘mild’. “And tell me what else you like to bake, while I check your ankle.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Morning
An Abandoned Farmhouse

For just a moment, their fingers had been intertwined. Desiderio had caught her with his other hand, with his right. The metal of the ring—his engagement ring—pressed cold and hard against all the scars and calluses on her fingers. Aurelie felt like she'd been slapped.

No, he'd said as he steadied her. Aurelie had the absurd thought that he was protesting the way her fingers had slipped through his in her stumbling. No, he might have said, this is hardly appropriate. And he would have been right. But that wasn't what he was saying—he was answering her half-asked question. Aurelie had meant to ask, before she'd tripped over her own feet, if his fiancée liked them. She hadn't considered that she wouldn't know about it at all.

Desiderio said he kept his professional and his personal lives separate. But wasn't she part of his personal life...? Even the new boldness that had come over her wouldn't let her ask about that. The idea just made her so—so indescribably sad. Who, then, did know about it? If not his colleagues and not the woman who was to be his wife... who? They were wonderful, she thought. Surely...?

And why tell her?

It was only because she already knew, she decided. And telling her anything wasn't—it wasn't the same, she supposed. None of it sat well with her, no matter how she tried to slice it in her mind. "O-oh," was all she managed as she attempted to steady herself. "I'm all right. Just a, er. Just a little stumble." They put their hands back how they were; this was good. It would give her room, she thought, to calm down. Startled from nearly having fallen, of course.

In her exceptionally idle moments, of which there were blessedly few, Aurelie had let herself wonder what it would have been like if the engagement had gone through. For a time, that had been the only dream she had in the world. To graduate, and get married, and run the household—together. Ana had scolded her for her lack of ambition once, Aurelie remembered. It had felt a big enough dream to her at seven, at ten. It was too big, now.

Would they have stayed friends? She liked to think so, but she had been a child. They both were, but some part of her had worried that when she started school he'd find her too babyish to spend time with. He would have been in upper form before long, after all, and she—

It was a silly line of thought then. Now, it was just ridiculous. All her childish fears amounted to nothing, in the end, because she'd never even considered the one that proved to be the real undoing of it.

When Desiderio spoke again his voice was hard, like issuing an order. She remembered when they'd first met, properly, she had—oh, what had it been? She couldn't quite recall. Fallen off of something, bumped into something. She did that rather a lot at that age. What she did remember clearly was his concern, fretting over if she had broken any of her bones. Thinking about it made her smile enough that his tone could only sting so much.

"It isn't so bad," Aurelie protested, crossing those last few steps to the well. That was perhaps overly generous—much of it had been. Much of it had been worse, she thought, than any ensign would feel about the whole affair. "I've been, uhm... There are worse things I could think of." That was completely true, at least. They had only just avoided one of them. Aurelie suddenly rather understood why he wouldn't have told many people about anything so personal as a hobby.

"I, uhm. The other girls used to call me 'Matron', you know—it was not a compliment. I, ah, think they might feel the same. About me. Or, er, not too far off." What would any of them say to her now? It was a strange thought. Even Bernadetta would be rather scandalized. They'd probably still find her dull, though.

Desiderio asked her to sit, and so she sat. The stone was still just as damp and cool. Sitting was just as unpleasant. But there was something in the way he had asked again that made her want to do it. "I'm sure my ankle is fine," she protested weakly, but didn't stop him. Selfish—she thought a part of her just liked the way he fussed. Bells and chimes.

"Oh, er. Lots of things! I, uhm. Well, of late I have been experimenting in, ah, recipes that don't... call for an oven. For, uhm. For a friend—he doesn't have one. And with different kinds of spices. You can change a lot that way, it's a bit like a puzzle. I have been thinking, er, to ask Cass—she, ah, she owns the bakery—if I could... Introduce a few to the shop. Uhm. In the future, after... I haven't been there long enough t-to... impose." Aurelie was rambling. She knew she was, she could hear herself. She just didn't know how to stop—it was either prattle on with this sort of dull detail, or thinking too much about Desiderio's hands on her ankle. At least this was only dull to listen to; those sorts of thoughts were infinitely worse.

[Desiderio Morandi]

an abandoned farmhouse

morning on the 28th of roalis, 2720

N

ot too bad, she said first; then, worse things she could think of. That was more like it, he thought dryly. Still, it was – sweet of her, in a way he was not quite certain what to do with. Especially given their respective positions, and everything he had just done.

But she went on as they settled, and his brow furrowed.

“Matron, indeed?” he repeated.

Worse things, he thought again, this time with an unpleasant sinking. Matron was hardly a child’s title, even in jest.

He thought of her loud, clear voice when they had first been blinded, the sort of voice one used to call orders. Or, he thought anew, to call over the bustle of a kitchen. Then he thought of her blunt, practical gathering of herself – and him – after he had… removed himself from her case.

The same as him, she said, then – not too far off, somewhat more accurately.

That was sweet, too.

And the worry burrowed itself deeper in him, and he was as unsure what to do with it now as he was the sweetness. The other girls? He had never been able to picture it; in all his imaginings, it had been a strange sort of nursery, despite everything he should have known. And now, a rather different image was taking shape.

He might have asked a dozen questions already. He thought he would have to eventually. But if there was one person in Vita he did not want to interrogate, not now and not ever, it was her.

He looked down again, setting the bag on the lip of the well. He let go her hand a little reluctantly; he made sure she was fully settled first, tutting and snipping between his teeth, urging her to take care with her ankle.

“So it may be,” he said sharply to her protestation, his jaw set and his back very straight. He supposed she remembered enough of his treatment the day before that the last thing that she wanted was more of his attentions. Still, she did not stop him or protest more; she did not seem terribly troubled, in fact. Putting it out of her head entirely, no doubt, the poor woman.

The way she went on made him think it was certainly so. Distracting herself, he supposed. He hesitated himself, drawing in a breath; he crouched. “Stretch out your, ah,” he said, “leg – I shall only check that the swelling is not worse…”

By Her beauty and terror, he had handled the minor injuries of a half-dozen female recruits and ensigns, and had seen lady civilians in all manner of dishevelment, galdor and human alike; this was hardly any different. She was certainly not thinking of him that way.

Though as she went on, he found it easier; he found himself quite distracted enough by her voice.

Of course, he was surprised at himself – on one level – how much he simply wanted to hear her talk about baking. It was nothing like they were children; he found himself oddly achingly curious. A puzzle? he wanted to ask. It was so far removed from anything he knew, and yet it seemed so very - like something that she would say.

But what seemed to him rather more like a puzzle was the rest. “A friend with no oven,” he murmured. And yet an interest in baking, and access to different kinds of spices. He, she had said, even more outrageously. Cass, too, he filed away, but more interesting was the fact that she had not, as he had previously assumed, been working for the bakery all these months.

A Heshath vessel, he recalled, had been the main suspect, but none of the crew had known anything. He thought for a moment to ask what sort of recipes precisely she might introduce; then - this was not, he reminded himself, an interrogation. He felt a pang.

“Would you know that you have stumped the collies for near a month now,” he said, dry and deadpan. “You make for quite a curious fugitive, Aurelie Steerpike.” Matron, indeed. Absolutely nothing lined up.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Morning
An Abandoned Farmhouse

There was something about the way he said it—Matron—that made Aurelie shift in her skin. Someone has to look after the children, she wanted to point out sourly; you didn't think it was all galdori minders, did you? Her own busybody nature made her a natural fit for the title. However much she hated it, she never did argue with the other girls. Knowing Desiderio knew this about her prickled, and not, she thought, because she was proud of it.

She would have been swinging at empty air if she said any of it, though. What was the point? She wasn't even angry with Desiderio, not really. How would he know? How would anyone know? They certainly never bothered to ask. Even Aremu had never asked. No need to sour the conversation with a bitterness she didn't think he would understand. She barely understood it herself.

He helped her settle down, and she put the thought out of her mind. Desiderio was tutting and fretting over her like some kind of mother hen. Like he used to, actually, whenever she did something to earn herself an injury of some kind. She wasn't a rowdy child, but she managed to get herself into scrapes anyway. She tried to tell herself this was just the same as when she was ten and he was fourteen-going-on-fifteen, but it wasn't. Maybe to him it was, but not to her.

She didn't think he liked touching her much. Well, it was probably more than a little strange. She wasn't helping at all with her obvious nervousness. Aurelie stretched her leg out gingerly, feeling singularly forward. It was just looking at an injury. There was no more import to it than checking—checking Shadow over. Which they ought to do. Aurelie wasn't sure where he'd gotten off to, although she thought that was him running about in the background.

It was only after she mentioned Aremu that she thought she might have been better off keeping her mouth shut. Should she have...? No, no, it was fine. She hadn't said how long she'd known him, or—even passives were allowed friends. Not, she thought uneasily, that she was allowed male friends. And certainly not... But it was all right. Surely. She'd only mentioned the baking. Right?

Spices could mean anything, she decided. Be from anywhere! There were plenty in Anaxas that she hadn't tried. Aurelie could only hope he didn't ask, to find out what a poor liar she made. More, she thought with a pang, because it would hurt to find out he'd been asking as some sort of interrogation and not genuine interest than out of any concern for Aremu.

"Me?" she blurted out, startled. A curious fugitive? The picture was so absurd—Aurelie laughed, or sort of did. More of a nervous titter than a laugh proper. "How is that? I very well might be the least exciting fugitive you've ever... Hmm." She cleared her throat.

"Perhaps the problem is that you have been looking for someone more interesting. It's only me though, I'm afraid." You'd be surprised what you can get away with when you're too boring to notice, Aurelie almost said, but caught herself in time. She meant it as a joke—it was a joke—but thinking about how it might sound in Desiderio's ears soured it on her tongue. "I don't really know how to be one, I suppose. And you caught me in the end."

She ought not to have said that for sure. She didn't know why she had. It was a heavy, unpleasant thought—trust her to ruin a perfectly nice conversation, though. Aurelie chewed on her lip and turned her face down, out of habit. "H-How's the ankle? Will I walk again?" She wiggled it a little, meaning to be funny—only to wince in pain instead. Jostling it hurt. She really needed to learn to be more mindful of her own injuries.