[Closed] The Flowers Upside Down

[Desiderio Morandi]

an abandoned farmhouse

morning on the 28th of roalis, 2720

H

e had scarcely realized it, when he saw her flinch. For a moment he wondered if it was his voice, but he thought that unlikely; then – his field smoothed indectal around him, and he felt a sinking.

In the haberdashery, of course. She had been a fugitive, and he had been a stranger on the verge of arresting her. When he had performed his diagnostic, it had been awkward and uncertain, both of them blind, and – only natural to be frightened or scandalized. When he had cast on the magister, too, it had been sudden. But now?

He thought he remembered her expression changing, when he had suggested that he knew spells which could hide them in Old Rose Harbor. Even with warning, with his word that he meant her no ill will. Certainly it was inappropriate for him to cast around – her kind – the sinking in him grew confused; she seemed, looked, as much a galdor as he did, albeit a galdor who by some terrible mishap had been imprisoned in the life of a servant –

It was only him, he thought, only his poor manner. Surely she had not been – no one had cast on her?

He had seen her lips twist before that, a strange expression he could not place, when he had spoken of the Seventen. Not quite a smile or a frown; not quite bitter, or sweet. He remembered the shiver at his elbow again in the coach, and felt a swell of indignation. Again, he found himself wanting to explain, to justify: everything he had done in the last ten years had been for the sake of safety, for the sake of the social order; everything he was now, no matter who thought him harsh or cruel, was in service of…

He was unsettled.

I’m not so good at it myself. Another feeling he could not place. He ached to know, but scarcely knew where even to begin to ask about… the life she had had. The parts of that life that she - enjoyed, even. It seemed so far removed from everything he knew, in all of the ways that counted.

He grimaced faintly, watching pup smear mud on her skirt with his paw; he thought of her as a girl, worrying at dust on her dress. But he dipped the other rag in the bucket and leaned in to help. Pup let out a huff, but permitted him to.

Someone, she said first, stumbling; then – a friend. Then, him. Morandi’s cheeks prickled slightly; he cleared his throat, resisting the uncharacteristic urge to apologize. The same friend, it must have been, who did not have an oven. You need not tell me, he thought to blurt out, brusque. If it was – if – he was hardly the commissioner on her case any longer –

Sentimental, she said, and his brow furrowed; then, I haven’t been given a lot of things. He frowned.

Then –

“The drawing,” he said. He looked at her face, his eyes gone very wide indeed.

The drawing that he had given her?

He nearly stopped washing pup. Oh, he remembered the one. He remembered too the long saga of begging for it back, when he was older, of promising to draw it and draw it again, better; and her stubborn, sweet refusals, every time.

“Of Caroult?” His voice came out sharp and harsh with surprise, but there was a smile twitching at his lips, baffled and almost desperate. “Of the chapel?”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Morning
An Abandoned Farmhouse

Even as Aurelie fumbled through her words, part of her felt the smallest thrill of satisfaction. Shadow was being a very well-behaved boy for his bath. See? she could have said. He doesn't hate you after all—look at how good he's being! The muddy paw was mildly distressing, but Aurelie couldn't muster up much care for this dress. She entertained brief fantasies of burning it, even.

Not like what she'd been wearing when she'd... When Desiderio had... When they'd arrived at Graywatch. That, she was sad to have lost. The embroidery on it was so lovely, carefully done by a hand far more skilled than her own. She had gotten better, with practice and the books Aremu had gotten for her. Not quite as good as instruction from someone who knew better—but she didn't know anyone like that, and wouldn't have known how to ask anyway. It seemed an awfully weighty sort of favor when she could offer so little to make it worthwhile.

There were the most curious patterns, too, in places that you couldn't see when the garments were worn. Aurelie didn't quite know that they meant, although they felt meaningful looking at them, or why they were hidden from sight. Once or twice, she had almost asked Cass. Both times, she'd lost her nerve before she managed to even begin the question. She was likely just reading too much into it, anyway. And why tell her?

What had they done with it, all that beautiful work? Aurelie thought she knew, and it made her sad. They were just clothes—she knew that. But they were lovely.

Aurelie hadn't been talking about that, or about how well Shadow was doing with his bath. (Even if he did splash her again; she supposed that was all right, as she had washing up to do herself.) She had been talking about—things she ought not mention.

Although—she wasn't in Brunnhold any longer. Those rules didn't apply to her; they hadn't for some time. Some did, of course. The ones that were laws, not rules. That was a strange thought that she didn't precisely know if she liked; she hadn't really adjusted to it since she left. Like or not, it had sort of compelled her tongue forward. The novelty, she supposed, of being able to mention Fionn at all, even in such a roundabout and non-specific way, without having to be afraid of punishment.

(She still felt a strange hesitance that didn't feel like it had much to do with that fear. That, Aurelie didn't know what to make of. Best to set it aside, really.)

So what had made her mention the drawing? Desiderio was certain to think her a—a very stupid person, to have held on to it all this time. Certainly he'd sounded shocked when she did. Of Caroult? he asked, and she couldn't tell if he sounded more surprised or angry. Aurelie nodded, feeling her face warm.

"I, uhm. Yes. It's, ah. Held up very well, I think. I was allowed to keep a few things, you see, so I had a book and it... it tucks rather nicely inside so it hasn't gotten damaged or anything. Uhm. Oh. Perhaps I should—put it in a frame, or... Hmm." Aurelie didn't know what to say now. What had she been trying to...? All that seemed to come out of her mouth was rambling.

"I never did get to see the... Well. Doesn't matter now, I suppose, I... Uhm. S-sorry, I did mean it when I said I'm not so good at... conversation." Just wash the pup, Aurelie. Don't keep digging this hole any deeper. Aurelie reapplied herself to the effort, which was at least going fairly well despite her seeming determination to make it strange. Shadow did try to squirm away, but they managed to keep him in place.

"Have you? Er, recently, I mean, been back to... Uhm. Back to Caroult?" Was that a strange question to ask? She couldn't tell. She supposed she'd find out, depending on Desiderio's reaction to the question.

[Desiderio Morandi]

an abandoned farmhouse

morning on the 28th of roalis, 2720

A

little pink had crept into Aurelie’s cheeks; he was nearly too surprised to notice, or to look away. She nodded, and he watched another wispy strand of red hair slip from behind her ear, drifting in front of her face. He listened, rapt, eyes wide and surprised on her face, and at first with the slightest smile. He had quite forgotten to scrub pup, and he felt a furry tail beating insistently against his ankles through his boots.

I was allowed to keep a few things, you see…

His mouth came open, then shut again. The words sank through him; in spite of the Roalis heat, he felt cold, as if some spell had been cast upon him.

He had not wanted to think of it. He had not thought of it since he was a boy, since he had dreamt of it over and over. Aurelie, his Aurelie, in a strange place, with none of her things and no one she knew. He had asked if they had let her keep Henrietta, or her books, or any number of other things; of course, nobody had answered him, except to say that she would be permitted to keep what was good for her, and should not miss the rest.

He had never even thought to ask about the drawing. He had scarcely thought she would ask to keep it, under the circumstances. He had seldom thought of it at all, over the last ten years.

The care with which she spoke of it sent a jolt through him. “In a – frame.” He got the most baffling urge, then, to say, Do not frame it, for Hurte’s sake: I shall draw you a better one.

He hesitated, still frozen in place, when she apologized. She rather applied herself to washing pup, then, a lock of coppery red hair drifting between her face and him. The tip of her ear was very red, still.

He could make no sense of it. Not a tenth of it. Des, came a soft, unfamiliar voice, like a ghost: a strange woman in a powder-blue dress, looking up at him from inside rings of wards traced into the cell floor, with him glowering stiffly from the outside.

He glanced down when she spoke again, swallowing tightly.

“No,” he said, more harshly – like a snap – than he meant. He had begun scrubbing pup again; he paused, swallowing, and tried to re-order his thoughts. “I mean to say, do not apologize. You are – you are quite all right.”

For a moment, he was too occupied in holding Shadow to answer her question.

He was rather dumbstruck by it, too. “Two years ago,” he said. “For Aunt Petronilla’s funeral. Cecilia and Francesca still live there.”

Had she truly wanted to see it, all those years ago, Caroult, the chapel? Enough to think of it now?

“Not back to the chapel. Mother lost the estate; after I finished at Anastou, we moved to Anaxas.” His shoulder brushed hers as he scrubbed behind Shadow’s ears; he cleared his throat, shifting. “I – went to Anastou for most of my schooling. Mother sent me there, I mean to say, after… Hmph.”

Shadow flopped against Aurelie and was trying to push his head into her lap, peering up at her with sad eyes.

“You kept some of your books?” His throat felt oddly constricted.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Morning
An Abandoned Farmhouse

Oh, should she not have said that? About the frame? She supposed he likely didn't want her to. Desiderio had, after all, tried to take the drawing back from her. There were other reasons he might not want her to have the drawing at all now, but Aurelie tried not to dwell on that too much. They were talking, weren't they?

Trying to talk, anyway. Aurelie wasn't sure either of them were much good at it—they had both said as much, and she didn't think either of them was being particularly hard on themselves. She liked talking to Desiderio though. Even if it was hard, or awkward, or strange. Some corner of her heart had wanted it so badly for all these years, she didn't care about all the rest. She just wanted to hear from him.

His "no" came sudden and sharp. Anger, she thought; she ought to have expected... But she had apologized! She knew she wasn't terribly good at making conversation. She hadn't thought she was bad enough to make him angry with her, but she was clearly wrong. In the pause, she had opened her mouth to apologize again; she shut it when he went on.

Desiderio, she was realizing slowly, had a particularly harsh way of speaking that didn't—necessarily—seem to match with his intent. Well, he had said so, but it was hard to remember in the moment even still. Aurelie wished desperately to be able to see his face. The last time she had seen it, the last time she thought she would ever see it... It wasn't fair. Why only talk to her now, when she couldn't see him, when everything she had to carry in her heart was of him looking angry or uncomfortable or unhappy at the sight of her? Aurelie swallowed, distracting herself with keeping Shadow in place.

"Oh no, I'm sorry to hear about your aunt." She couldn't remember if she knew much about this one—Desiderio had a great number of aunts, and Aurelie hadn't met any of them. This was not, if she thought about it, the one he had wanted to name a dog after. Not as she could recall, at least. She wondered, absurdly, if his fiancée had gone with him, and seen the things she had never gotten to. Aurelie couldn't think of why that came with such a wave of jealousy; it wasn't as if she had been particularly keen on Caroult in particular. Except for the fact that it mattered to Desiderio.

She didn't know what to say about the estate. To say she was sorry for that, too, seemed strange—looking at the drawing after she was a little older, she thought she understood a little more of why his mother had been eager enough to set up the engagement. Even thought it meant losing his name, and even though they were both of them yet children. (She had considered how different things might have been if it were Ana and not her—Desiderio wasn't much younger than her than Aurelie was to him. It was a very difficult picture to form.)

"Oh! To Anastou… That explains why I never saw you, except—er. I mean. Hmm. I, ah, I see." So instead she'd said something worse. She seemed determined to remind him of exactly where she'd been all this time, as if he didn't know. And why in such an embarrassing way? It felt absurd. Yes, I did look for you, even though I knew there was no point. She had been a child then; at least she'd had the sense to stay away, and not call out to him the few times she had caught sight of him.

Shadow was trying to fit himself onto her lap now; she could feel a damp head wedged up against her. They'd almost finished, she thought. As much as they could be right now—she would give him a proper bath later, when they got back. They would all get a proper bath when they got back. The thought was somewhat cheering.

"Stop that, darling—you're too big to sit in my lap." She scratched his head, trying to make sense of the sound of Desiderio's voice as he asked her about... about books. She hesitated. None of her answers were—particularly pleasing. But he had asked, and she wanted to be... honest, as much as she could. She scratched her nose with a wet finger.

"N-No, well... Just the one. I—" Aurelie paused. "I don't want to tell you more than you want to hear," she admitted. "But I'm not sure how to... Hmm. Only the one... A book of children's tales. N-nothing more than... than that. I wasn't allowed to keep very much, but I... I had that."

[Desiderio Morandi]

an abandoned farmhouse

morning on the 28th of roalis, 2720

E

xcept –

He stiffened, looking up at her slowly. Except? She trailed off again into hmm and I see, and he frowned a little more. He might not have even noticed it; it had just the same tentative, polite tone as her I’m sorry to hear about your aunt, and as nearly everything else she had said.

Morandi had been on the verge of protesting, earlier, when she had called herself unworthy of notice; but he was beginning to understand what she meant by that, in her roundabout, humble way. It was almost like when they were children, only she was much, much better at it now, and he much worse. He thought she would have been an excellent liar, had she not been – who she was, he supposed. And he was beginning to discover, too, that she was in fact a terrible liar.

Had she seen him, the one year – after? The thought raised gooseflesh on his arms and his back; he tried to ignore them, to ignore the thought of it, but he found himself stiffer as he went back to washing pup with her.

He had looked for her; he had thought he would recognize her, even in servant’s blue. Had he seen her without realizing it? He had gone to his classes early that year with a hundred plans and fantasies, all of them dashed, of how to see her, how to see if she really was as well cared-for as they said. In all of them, he had thought he would find her easily, immediately, as if she were different from all the others.

But he had been so accustomed to ignoring the sight of a light blue pinafore, a freckled red head bustling about in the dining hall. Had he seen her? Had she blended into the walls, like the rest?

Had she seen him, looking over her as if she were not there?

Why had she not – why had he – why –

He grunted, unable to look up at her for a moment. Pup no longer stank quite so terribly, though his breath still smelled of something wretched.

In Old Rose Harbor, he thought – vaguely, because he could not bear to think, then, of what strange other world he was about to step into, and for how long; he could not bear to picture it, this ‘Cass’ or Aurelie’s bakery or any of the rest – in Old Rose Harbor, pup would eat well. They would make sure of it. Before he caught himself, he found himself scratching pup’s flank where he could feel the ribs.

He looked up at her finally, listening, his brow furrowing deeper. His eyes narrowed slightly; his lips pressed tightly together. Just the one.

Children’s tales.

Heart tightening, he wanted to ask if it was the old leatherbound volume they had read from; it had been almost too big for their arms, then. But instead –

“More than I wish to hear? What is it I do not wish to hear?” he asked, his voice sharp and strong and cold. Except where it broke on her name, as brittle as an old blade: “Aurelie?”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Morning
An Abandoned Farmhouse

Only one book, and it had to be—suitable. That had been made very clear to her, or rather to her parents. To Aurelie herself, very little had been explained. She supposed they hardly felt the need—whether she understood or not, the outcome was the same. She was lucky to have even the one. To have taken anything at all. Many children, she knew, were not given even that much. Simply left there, unwanted and unloved.

Aurelie didn't reach for the locket at her neck, wet and filthy as she was, but she could feel it against her skin; it seemed almost warm. She had been loved at least that much; she didn't know how to feel anymore that they hadn't loved her just a little bit more.

That one leather-bound volume, that gift from Father, had been one of the few true treasures she had. With the drawing tucked inside of it and the locket she wore, always, they made up all of things that were truly hers in the whole world. She had loved them, fiercely; she still loved them. She hadn't read it much, that heavy book with all those beautiful pictures. Afraid that if someone saw, if she touched it too much, they would decide it was too much excitement after all and take it away.

Desiderio's reaction, when he spoke again, was sharper and stronger than Aurelie had quite thought it would be. He sounded angry with her—for what? For assuming that he didn't, truly, want to hear that much about her life as it had been? Why should he? Nobody else had! Not Ana, not Aremu, not Uzoji, not kindly absent-minded professors—not anyone. They knew what they wanted to, and nothing more.

Her shoulders tensed, her jaw setting. Shadow, head in her lap, whined. She wondered if he could sense her agitation. But her anger broke as his voice did, over her name. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault, she supposed, but it was his least of all. He had only asked. That was more than anyone else had done.

"I don't know!" Her voice was as tight as her shoulders. She let the cloth slip back into the bucket, stroking Shadow's head absently. She didn't bother to even pretend to look at Desiderio; it wasn't like she could see him anyway. "I have no idea what you don't want to hear, I only meant... What do you think, all this time, I've been...? Until this morning, you were going to..." Her mouth twisted, but her shoulders stayed straight and tight.

"I don't know what you want to hear, either, Des. I don't understand why we're sitting here, having this conversation. I just—" This was absolutely wretched. She didn't want to say this, any of this. Not in general, and not here, covered in mud and misery and no small amount of uncertainty. Waiting for the magister to wake up, for this all to mean nothing—he had said he would do it again, but Aurelie didn't think she could take him so literally at his word.

"I don't mean to... to be ungrateful. Or—I'm glad you're here, I'm glad you..." she continued, softer but no less brittle. "I was lonely, and I missed you. And now, you're here, and I..." She squeezed her eyes shut; they stung, but she wouldn't give in.

"...If Shadow seems clean enough, we should also... I don't think we should stay here much longer." The change of subject was transparent, even to her. But it was true, also—this hardly felt like the most appropriate time. If there even was such a thing. Her voice was soft-edged, still, but steadier than it had been.

"But I do want to talk more, if you'd like. Later. When we're—" Safe, she almost said. As if that was possible. "When we've moved on. All right?" Aurelie hesitated. And then, very carefully, held out a cold, wet hand.

[Desiderio Morandi]

an abandoned farmhouse

morning on the 28th of roalis, 2720

H

e was not sure whether he felt like an interrogator or a sad little boy, or both, somehow. The name, which he had not spoken in years, made him feel like the latter; he felt vulnerable and strange all over again, without even his crisp uniform and his snaps to tell him who he was. He felt like a boy from whom something was being kept, something about someone who was very dear to him – the same boy who had been hushed and pacified over and over, and convinced that there was no great and terrible secret, after all.

But it was the inspector who sat with her and pup, uniform or not. Confused and tense, he watched her shoulders stiffen; he watched her jaw tighten, even through the wispy sheaf of her hair.

It was the posture, his training told him rather insistently, of a guilty person. She did not even try to look at him. In any normal interrogation, he would have by now whispered a few clauses of monite – a reading spell, a truth spell, a maintenance spell to weaken the target to suggestion – he would be describing her body language on his pad as uncomfortable, tensed in response to the unexpected question –

What had happened to him? What had happened to her?

Her voice sounded tight, sharp; he glanced down at her hand, stroking the thick fur of Shadow’s head gently. His eyes softened, and he felt it like a pain in the middle of his chest. She went on, hard and unstammering, but no less confusing. His heart was hammering in his chest.

He did not know what to think, he wanted to argue pointlessly. Unfairly. He had not wanted to know; perhaps she was right. And now?

He had caught her, and with no small to-do. It must have been terrifying, if not humiliating. And he had been – he would have seen her to Brunnhold, and then – would he have been satisfied? To have left her there?

The thought gripped him with panic, now. How close had he come–? Now he wanted to say, stop, you are right, let us leave, let us go now, suddenly aware of how close they still were –

He glanced back up at her face sharply, studying the twist of her lips. Searching for something he could not find. A word of monite only, surely, and he might know better how to read between the words; he felt horribly hamstrung. (Hamstrung without magic, talking to his first and oldest friend?)

“Ungrateful?” he repeated dumbly, for once too confused to sound harsh. His tongue felt thick. Lonely? That, he could not bear to say aloud.

He had asked if she would be lonely, and they had told him ‘no’ so many times that he had begun to believe them.

“I – yes,” he said. “Yes.” The second time, stronger.

There, again, that blunt practicality, even in her soft voice. It was hardly an order, but it would do for one.

He hesitated when she spoke again, taken aback. Later. The thought of later was almost as impossible as the thought of talking. And it was not an order, or a question; it was something else. He let the cloth slip back into the bucket himself.

As hesitantly as if he were the banderwolf she was reaching blindly to and not pup, she had extended her hand.

He realized that he did not remotely know what she wanted him to do with it. “All right,” he said firmly, and sounded to himself much more like Inspector Morandi than he had. He took a deep breath. Then: “Thank you. Aurelie.”

Without a second’s hesitation, he took her hand and gave it a firm Seventen’s shake.

It was rather clammy with mud and well-water, and surprisingly cold. He supposed his was, as well. “We shall talk. More. When we have moved on.” He cleared his throat, letting go of her hand, then hesitated himself. “Ah. You – ah.”

After another awkward pause, he took her hand again, then leaned to take her arm.

“Here,” he said quietly. “Careful on your ankle. I shall fetch up fresh water - here is the well support, to lean on…”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Morning
An Abandoned Farmhouse

Just this one time, Desiderio hadn't sounded angry or harsh or distant. Only confused, and maybe a bit—no, only confused. To read anything else into his tone was just projecting. Aurelie thought she could hear more of her friend in that than she had in all the rest, even the times he had said her name.

To the rest of what she'd said, Desiderio said nothing at all. Good. That was how it should be. Aurelie knew she shouldn't have said any of it. Some part of her was still disappointed. A foolish part, childish and ridiculous. Why should she be disappointed that her change of subject had worked? That was the point of doing it. Her own behavior exhausted her sometimes.

Maybe it was that absurd disappointment that made her speak again. Oh, that was true too, though. She did want to talk to him—it was wretched, and it hurt terribly. She wanted to anyway, so very badly. More than she had quite realized until she had made the offer, a little afraid he would tell her no. That this little outburst had been quite enough "talking" for Desiderio, if not too much. Surely, if not that specific part of her then one equally stupid had held out her hand.

He agreed, first. Aurelie didn't feel much relieved; she wanted to talk, but didn't feel any better thinking about doing so. Thanked her, which was—she wasn't sure he ought to, but bit her tongue on telling him so. Wait, she wanted to say, wait until we get that far before you... But that was silly. Her pulse fluttered for a moment when he took her hand and—

—And shook it, firmly and professionally. His hand was just as cold and damp and muddy as her own. That had not been... quite what she had in mind when she'd held her hand out. Aurelie wasn't sure if she was supposed to take some sort of hint from it. She supposed that she wouldn't have known any better what to do if he had taken her hand as she'd wanted, as he had so many times when they were children. That was highly inappropriate now, anyway; that was possibly what he meant by the handshake.

But still, it was very strange. Stranger, somehow, than shaking Cass' hand or that of any other human she had met of late. Aurelie was adjusting to that, bit by bit—feeling Desiderio's field at the same time as the gesture added a very unique layer to this all. She resisted the urge to rub her hands together, to try and dispel the feeling, when he let go of her hand again.

"G-Good. I mean, that we'll... Yes. Hmm. Thank you." Now it was her turn to sound puzzled. Too much so to put her hand back in her lap. What had she been thinking, really? They were adults now, and he was engaged—he couldn't hold her hand, not even briefly, just because she wanted to feel reassured. When he did take it again, it was practical—to help her so that she could wash up.

That was all, she insisted to herself. She took his hand and his arm both, coming to lean on the support offered. True to his word, Desiderio fetched fresh water from the well so she could wash as best as she was able. Aurelie knew her efforts were only so effective; even if she couldn't see it, she could feel that it was so.

Still, she managed enough to not be conspicuous. It was terribly awkward and horrendously embarrassing, but she managed—and it was no worse than anything that had come out of her mouth, anyway. It rather helped that she had nothing to change into that was clean, and accordingly contained her efforts. When they were all three of them as clean as they could get, they went back to the house. If Shadow found some new terrible thing to roll in, Aurelie was unaware—he was clean enough not to attract extra attention, and that was all she could ask.

Neither of them continued the conversation from before; she didn't know if she was more grateful or disappointed. An equal mix of both seemed most likely; she knew that was absurd, and she still couldn't help it. There was very little other preparations to make, for her. She had come with nothing, and would leave with only slightly more. It was only the sounds of the moa outside that gave her pause.

(Should she be concerned about the magister? Aurelie wondered that again, and again could find very little in her that was. A problem for another time—she felt oddly anxious, now that they had taken care of one practical problem.)

"How much," she asked carefully, "do you know about—moa...?"

[Desiderio Morandi]

an abandoned farmhouse

morning on the 28th of roalis, 2720

W

ith a deep breath, Morandi smoothed his dress uniform jacket out on the rickety mattress, frowning down.

The gold braid on one side had come untwined and was fraying at the edges, no doubt where it had snagged on a stone; there was a tear roughly the size of his thumbnail on the left sleeve, a scuff at the waist, and the fur on the cuffs was muddied and tangled. The deep green silk of the sash, too, was creased and dirtied, though the embroidered monite was thankfully intact.

He ran his hand along his jaw, comfortingly smooth now except for the craggy edges of his scars. Even with his poor eyesight and the small hand-mirror, he had managed a remarkably close shave. The task had been grounding, stabilizing; it was somewhat late in the day for his usual routine, and he would not be going on his morning run, but it gave him a much-needed semblance of normalcy. He had maneuvered carefully and methodically around his scars, as he had for years, now, since the accident.

He had washed and shaved while she had washed, both of them by the well.

A young woman’s privacy was very important, and he thought it rather unfortunate that there was no more dignified place or means by which she might wash. Even the cell in Graywatch, he thought, had been more dignified than this. He had turned his back, even though she had not taken off her dress; he had engaged himself vigorously in his own task, so she should hear him and think his attention entirely elsewhere.

Rather than maneuver them around the magister again, he had simply moved Desrouleaux gently to lean against the wall. He had felt for her pulse, which was strong; he felt oddly detached, numb, as if he would not have cared one way or another. He was almost more troubled by the thought of Aurelie tripping over her and worsening her ankle.

As for the discussion –

Now, he stood by the bed in his crisp spare uniform, the sash clean and orderly, his hair brushed and pulled back. Pulling his gloves on, he felt much more like himself; it was an aching, if mixed, relief.

Whatever he was walking into with this ‘Cass’ and this bakery, he told himself, he would walk into as an officer of the law, dishonored or not. Whatever his personal feelings – he had learned to set those aside in the name of a higher purpose.

But then? When it came time to… He stood straight and tall in his uniform, but there were questions still slurring about inside his head, and his heart – he could not have said what he felt.

He was folding his dirty dress uniform and tucking it into his bag when her tentative voice came.

“Moa,” he repeated sharply. He could hear it scratching outside; he had been avoiding thinking about it.

To requisition a magister’s moa? But it was no less legal than incapacitating said magister, and – he could hardly have them walk back, with her ankle. It was, again, the most practical option.

“Very little, I am afraid. Even chroven I do not have a great liking for; not since –” He cleared his throat, breaking off. He secured the buckles on his bag and slung it around his shoulder, then turned to look at her.

Her hair was a little more orderly, and the stain was gone from her cheek; her hands were still scuffed, but no longer dark with stains. She still gazed about vaguely, as if she could not see. As usual, she did not look directly at him; it was somewhere over his shoulder, or in the middle of his chest.

Would she ever look at him again? He felt a foolish, ridiculous pang.

He was conscious, too, of himself in his crisp Seventen’s uniform, and her still in her rumpled, stained dress, still looking quite the ill-treated prisoner.

He cleared his throat again, taking a few steps toward her and holding out a gloved hand. “Here is my hand,” he repeated, swallowing the lump and pushing through. “I rode one once before,” he went on, if she let him take her weight carefully once again and start toward the door, “at the Clock’s Eve parade in Vienda two years ago. I recall it was not so difficult, even amid all the noise and celebration.” He said celebration with the same intonation as one might say riot or disorder.

The sunlight was warm on his face; already, he felt sweat prickling at the back of his neck.

“This one seems a… docile enough beast.” Then, deadpan and dry: “I should think it will certainly be easier than it was in my dress uniform.”

He was just shielding his face from the sunlight, stepping out, when he heard the moa begin to squawk and scratch – and Shadow, yipping and barking playfully.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Morning
An Abandoned Farmhouse

They were really doing this. Aurelie couldn't decide which was the most surprising part of the whole situation. That they were going to leave this farmhouse with Magister Desrouleaux unconscious inside of it and just—just go back to the bakery? To whatever would come after that? Or the part where there was a "they" at all? A "they" that included herself and someone she had never dreamed she would see again in her entire life. Not even when she let herself consider what Ana wanted from her, in weaker, lonelier moments. Aurelie hadn't dared. That, she was reluctant to admit, might have weakened her resolve.

Yet here they were. Preparing to go back to Old Rose Harbor, as if that were at all reasonable. Aurelie now had an unusually intimate picture of—of a version of Desiderio's regular morning habits, as far as bathing and so forth went. She wasn't entirely certain that she was meant to; it seemed like a strange thing to know about someone. But he'd been so inescapably loud about it, Aurelie couldn't help but pay attention. If that was part of his regular habit, she didn't know what to make of it.

She hoped it hadn't bothered him, being so near to her the whole time. Best not to bring it up; she doubted Desiderio wanted to reflect on her new-found awareness any more than she did herself. Bad enough that he had to stay nearby while she washed her face and hands and did her best to get herself into some sort of order. A poor sort of order, but there was little she could do about that. At least she didn't feel quite so much like she was coated in grime on every part of her. Merely what was covered by the dress, which was, of course, most of her.

Aurelie had never been quite so envious of someone's having a change of clothes. She tried not to itch at her arms, or anywhere else.

The suggestion of the moa had been—bold, she felt. Phrased, she hoped, so that he could ignore it for what it was and merely answer her as if she had asked in idleness. Should he not wish to... What was one more crime, she told herself stubbornly, on top of all the rest? And it might slow the magister down, to have to walk. Aurelie staunchly refused to think about the fact that time and distance hadn't stopped anyone from finding her in the first place, and that she was hardly less conspicuous with Shadow and Desiderio with her.

"Ah. I see," she said with a small frown. Since...? He'd broken off; Aurelie remembered suddenly that he had been the only one on foot when she'd first seen him in the market. That felt like a lifetime ago, but it was less than a week. And she had looked into his face and seen a stranger; the idea made her a little sad, now that she knew better.

She had assumed that regardless of the end of that "since," Desiderio had been telling her no on her half-hearted suggestion regarding the magister's mount. Walking would be slow and difficult with her ankle; she didn't know what to do about that. It wasn't as if she could will it to heal itself. She had a strangely vivid picture of Desiderio having to carry her; Aurelie dismissed it rather hastily.

One day she would learn not to make so many assumptions. Desiderio cleared his throat again; she heard the shuffle of his boots over packed earth. Shadow, she registered dimly, must be outside. She heard an excited bark, followed by a sort of mildly distressed "squonk" from the moa. Then he held out a hand, continuing to speak. Aurelie took it; that was becoming habit by now. He had put his gloves back on, she noted; the combination of relief and disappointment was dizzying.

They moved towards the door. Letting him take her weight, leaning against this new-to-her sturdiness of him, was also becoming habit. She scarce dared think about what that meant for this nebulous "later" either. Desiderio, she thought absently, did not sound like he much enjoyed being in parades. Aurelie could picture it, though; Desiderio in that gold-edged uniform that filled her with fear and something else, atop a moa. Looking absolutely solemn, at least in her imagination—given the way he said celebration, like it was unpleasant in the mouth, she didn't think she was terribly far off.

(The Roalis heat on her face chased off the thought that came after that, which was certainty that he had looked very fine, as well. Best to ignore that—that wasn't helpful in the least. She needed to learn to control herself better, she really did.)

Docile enough—so then they would...? Oh, she did hope it wasn't... Well, it hardly mattered if he wanted to or not, did it? There was little choice, with her ankle and her blindness as it was. One more crime; one more imposition. She'd opened her mouth to say something about—docility, or moa, or maybe even dress uniforms (Lady preserve!) when she heard the squawk of the moa intensify, and Shadow's excited yips as well.

"Shadow!" she said, rather severely, forgetting everything else for the moment. They weren't going to get very far if he was tormenting the poor thing the entire way. She snapped her fingers, trying to get his attention. "Shadow, you leave off that poor thing right this instant!"

Oh, this would be much easier if she could see. Shadow had no reason to listen to her; she had moved more out of instinct than sense, adopting the same firmly scolding tone she'd used with the very youngest scullery girls when they tried to slack off in the middle of dinner service. The tone that had rather earned Aurelie her charming nickname, she supposed—but she couldn't help it. Instinct and habit so far outweighed any other thought, after all.