[Closed] To Meet the Hours

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Late Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Alioe's Grace, she was a mess! She could see it, reflected back in the way Desiderio looked at her when she started to cry. No doubt uncomfortable, judging by the way his mouth pulled into a grimace as she went to scrub at her face. That was reasonable—Aurelie didn't want to be making a spectacle of herself, she simply couldn't do anything to stop it.

Nothing she said many any sense. Nothing she felt made any sense. Everything inside of her felt a total and utter mess. Ten years of wanting without wanting, of trying not to get too attached to any one person or anyone thing. To find a place, and then disappear into it. A cog that functioned well, but would not be missed if it were gone—only replaced.

He snarled at her; he was always snapping and growling now. But she had some so far—miles and miles, it seemed. That sharp tongue he'd put in his mouth wasn't going to stop her from holding her hand out now. Not when red walls hadn't, or the crisp, heavy wool of his uniform with its sash of gleaming monite. He didn't have to take it, anyway. Aurelie rather expected he wouldn't.

But he did.

Hesitantly. And he stared at her first, as if he couldn't believe her boldness, or her foolishness, or both. Aurelie couldn't blame him for that. But he put his hand over hers again, and she smiled. Her hand was completely swallowed by his. It was strange and comforting at once. She didn't even think too much on what he should think of the state of her—the ragged edges of her nails, the small scars, all the signs of a life of hard work. It was hard to be worried about that, when she had so much else in front of her.

Aurelie almost choked, still, when he said they had told him she would not miss him. That seemed the most insulting lie of all—more than that they were no more than simple children. Even children grew lonely, missed their loved ones and their homes when far away from them. "I'm sure they did," she said as evenly as she could manage. Her voice was tight; beneath Desiderio's palm, her muscles tensed, fingers pressing into the wood of the table.

Poor Des. Aurelie couldn't picture it, not quite. They had always both of them tried so hard to be well-behaved. And look how well that had gone, she thought; it was only a touch bitter. There must be something the matter with the answers—oh, Aurelie could imagine so. Better not to ask, to forget about all of them. Not quite out of sight, but seen right through as if they were not there. And her Des, trying to— Her heart ached, terribly.

"So you have," she murmured, frowning. She thought of what the Magister had been discussing with him in the coach yesterday morning—had that really only been yesterday? it felt like years had passed. The fear of it hadn't left her, but she didn't shiver now. Only—wondered.

What she wanted to do was to turn her hand up, to press their palms together and thread her fingers through. Like they were children again. Which, she reminded herself sternly, they were not. She could surely maintain at least that much composure. Tears still shone on her eyelashes; every so often, one escaped to roll down her cheek. Aurelie didn't bother herself to wipe them away.

"I imagine not, given your reputation." she agreed, trying to tease as gently as she could. A machine, who lived in his office and had no need for sleep—she could have believed that before, but she saw no trace of that now. His eyes looked irritated; Aurelie worried, immediately, that it was because of all that had happened. She didn't pull her hand away. Rather, she leaned in again, peering at his face. Just because she was crying, that didn't mean she had to make Desiderio's condition any worse.

"Are you feeling all right? You're not... too tired, are you? We can talk more tomorrow, if you... If you need to rest, or..." Aurelie couldn't stop a little smile at the word "tomorrow". A miracle, that word. Sacred.

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

H

e had felt her hand tense and her fingers curl slightly. All the little muscles on the back of her hand suddenly taut, the bones flickering under his palm. I’m sure they did. Her voice was only barely even. He could not have said how it made him feel, or anything that he felt now, other than that it was – strangely justifying. To know that even a sliver of it had been real.

Justifying and terrible all at once. What did it mean? He could not even begin to guess. His head was spinning.

It had been that, and not what came next, that made her tense. At that, at him, she only frowned – a thoughtful, troubled frown – and agreed.

The first proper tear darted down her cheek, and he watched it, gleaming. It was a few more moments before it was followed by the next, on the other side; he watched that, too. She did not wipe them away, though she had a spare hand. So did he; a part of him wished very badly to reach out and brush her cheek with his thumb, as he had in the farmhouse. More to feel it against the tip of his finger, real and solid, than anything else. As if it were evidence, though he knew it would be gone before he could use it in court.

He had never remembered her crying much as a girl. He had wondered if she had, after the test; he had not been able to picture it.

He had asked for her before, too. After they had learned, but before she had been gated. He had not been meant to learn of it in the interim; he could not remember now who had let it slip. He usually spent winters in Muffey, with Mother and Uncle, but everyone had planned to go to Briarwood after the test. In celebration, of course; secretly he had planned to tell her about some of the things he had not been allowed to before.

He had demanded to go anyway. So they could not be husband and wife, but – he had not understood the import of it then, had not had the danger explained; he had only wanted to go –

Her gentle, teasing voice surprised him.

“Huh,” he laughed, clearing his throat. It might have offended him, from anyone else. But he was smiling a little.

She leaned in, looking up at him. He blinked a few more times, squinting down.

He shook his head first. “Thank you. I am tired,” he said abruptly, “but not too tired.” He jerked his chin slightly. “I have cast much more heavily in the past. I do not sleep, remember? Ah.” That was not very funny.

Instead he curled his fingers around the bottom of her hand, holding it a little more tightly. Too tightly, it seemed to him; mechanically, he relaxed his hand a little, but it was very awkward.

Tomorrow? There would be tomorrow. What a strange thought. He could not even keep tomorrow from happening; he had not even that much control. He could control nothing, least of all in this moment himself.

“Miss Elwes will want to speak soon. I should rather stay up with you until you retire,” he said, “as I have not done so in a very long time.” He remembered it still, though.

Why was it so difficult now? There was so much in the way of those two children, now - they were buried so deeply. (And not least in the way was something else, something he did not know, something that had made his eyes want to linger where they should not have. He had never been so brutish or foolish in all his...)

He took a deep breath. “I should like to know something of what your life has been. Since. How you came to – to work in the kitchens, to – it is all still so – I have for years –”

He was sharply aware of the gleaming tracks down her cheeks, and the deep shadows underneath her eyes. “You are – not too tired? I should not interrogate you.” He swallowed, lips twisting down into a deeper frown. “But you need not worry what I do not wish to hear.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Late Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Aurelie's cheek itched where the tears were drying on it; she ought to have wiped them away. She would have to take care to wash her face later, before she went to bed. A small part of her registered this consideration in an absent, distant way. All the rest of her was focused on Desiderio's hand on hers and this strange, stolen moment.

He hadn't looked away from her while she carried on. She must be a sight—crying and going on and on about how she had missed him, letting some of the bitterness of the last ten years seep out at the edges. Still he hadn't looked away from her. It was comforting and distressing at once. Was the teasing too much? She only meant to... to show it was all right, that she wasn't...

Aurelie relaxed when he laughed. He had now such a—an odd sort of laugh, but she was growing fond of it. And the smile that followed, which she could examine rather closely as she leaned in. The way it pulled slightly on the muscles of his face, how the scars on that side didn't pull in the same way. She had the most inexplicable urge to put her hand on his face and let her fingers find the way the muscles moved underneath. She really was very tired.

The joke in the face of her fretting wasn't very funny. She tried not to think, too, about what that meant—to have "cast more heavily" in the past. This was a part of him, too, and she didn't want to look away from it forever. It all just seemed more than she could handle at the moment. If he was making jokes though, even poor ones, that was good.

"All right then," she agreed softly, still smiling. Aurelie was tired herself—they had both had a rather long, stressful day. Still, she'd been hoping that he was well enough to stay up with her a little longer. She wasn't ready to let go of this moment, not just yet. There could be more—a tomorrow she could not see, yet unmade—but Aurelie wanted this one to go on a bit longer.

Desiderio's fingers curled around her hand, so tight it very nearly was too much; that moment she would have liked to go on forever. Aurelie might have cried again, if he hadn't relaxed his fingers that little bit.

"Ah, that's right. I, uhm. Forgot." She had forgotten about Cass downstairs entirely, she realized with a stab of guilt. Truthfully, she had forgotten everything outside of the small sphere of this kitchen, with only the three of them in it—just herself, Desiderio and Shadow, still asleep on the floor by her feet. Every so often he twitched, dreaming puppy dreams she couldn't know. "I would like that," she added with another smile.

A very long time, indeed. It felt longer than the ten years it had been. Aurelie had always tried to scrape every moment she could out of those summers—Nurse had only reluctantly gotten her to go to bed, though she tried to be a good girl and not to fuss. Had he felt the same way? The idea made her feel strange and giddy.

He took a breath, Aurelie watching still. Her smile dimmed and faded, something more complicated left in its wake. Something of how her life had been...? She had started to talk about it that morning, blind and exhausted by her own emotions. For a moment she thought to say that she was too tired, after all—it wasn't that she didn't want to talk to him, but it seemed so...

"No, I'm all right," she said with a gentle shake of her head in response to the question. He was frowning again, and fretful. He had asked though, and she... she wished to tell him, if he wanted to know. If only she knew where to begin. "It's not, ah, terribly interesting. My life." Aurelie studied his face a moment longer, tracing the shape of it, before she went on.

"I'm afraid I don't really know what... I didn't always work in the kitchen, of course. Uhm, when I first... At the beginning, I did all sorts of things. Whatever... needed doing, and I could do, I was assigned. But..." She trailed off, thinking. She let her eyes fall from her face to their hands on the tabletop, the cheery orange flowers nearby. She was grateful for the pressure of his fingers on her hand; it made it much easier to continue.

"I liked working in the kitchens best—even when all I was doing was washing dishes." The memory made her smile, just a little bit. She didn't understand why she had liked it so much until years later. The kitchens in Brunnhold were nothing like the kitchen where she had spent so many illicit childhood hours, but it had reminded her of it all the same. Of home.

"So I tried very hard to be... To prove that I could. That I deserved a place. It was..." Aurelie's chest prickled where the scar was, wide and ugly. "...Not always easy. B-But I, ah... Managed, in the end." She shrugged, looking back up at Desiderio again. There was more she could have said, she supposed. It was just so—where did she start, unravelling the weave of all the joys and miseries of all their time apart?

"You have to tell me too," she added, warmth coming back to her face. "About your... It's a conversation, then, and not... Ah. Numbrey is not one of the places I imagined you being, when I... When I thought about you. How you might be doing."

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

D

o not fret, he chid himself sharply. And still he could not seem to help it: he watched her very closely, his brow knit even when she said that she was all right.

Curious, but she seemed to be watching him just as closely.

A part of him wanted to tell her that he had not been altogether joking. He did not have that reputation she had mentioned for nothing. No one fretted, really, over Inspector Morandi.

But she had relented just as easily, and she was speaking, now, to his surprise. Speaking of –

His brow furrowed more deeply, his lips curving even deeper into their accustomed frown. He watched her and did not look away.

Not when she said Whatever needed doing, and I could do, I was assigned. A swallow stuck in his throat. At – ten? He was struggling to wrap his mind around it. He still pictured her with ribbons in her long red hair, with full white sleeves and lace-fringed cuffs that would have been sullied and stained doing the dishes. She had always been so worried about getting dirty – or rather, about troubling Nurse with her getting dirty.

No ribbons or dresses to get dirty, he supposed numbly; denim was rather tough. He wondered if they had cut her hair. He had never seen a gated servant with long hair worn loose, despite the fact that they were said to be treated like children – curious, that he had never considered that before – he supposed if it got caught in anything, in the course of labor…

She was looking down at their hands. She had not taken hers away, in spite of all his clumsy harshness. He was grateful for it; he was trying not to let all of this get the better of him. She had not cringed back from him, and he had no wish to cringe back from her. But it was a great deal to take in, still – he supposed it must have been for her, too.

He was grateful for her smile, too. A galdor, washing dishes! But she had always like to help, as a girl. ‘Such a funny little creature’, Mother had said of the youngest Steerpike daughter once, and something about growing out of it. He realized with a sharp ache how much he had liked her, that funny little girl.

There was a curious little smile on her face now.

To prove that I could. That I deserved a place.

He did not mean to interrupt, but he nodded once sharply, grunting. He was still looking at her eyes when they rose to meet his again; his brow was still furrowed deeply.

(Prove? That she deserved a place? Not always easy? He had been told that she would simply be given one, and everything she could possibly –)

“I – ah. Ah, yes.” There was a little more of that lovely redness in her cheeks, underneath the freckles. “Hurte’s teeth, I have been staring at you something frightful. A habit I picked up – well – it is, as you say, a conversation. I should indeed – yes.”

He glanced down at their hands himself, feeling oddly embarrassed. She had thought how he might–?

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes slightly. “I, ah… My first year at Anastou… I was not…”

He again resisted the oddest urge to trace his thumb over a scar; it was just underneath the pad, a small, curved, bumpy thing, the ghost of what must have been a fumbled knife.

“It was recommended to me that I take up new hobbies. Which would encourage proper discipline. I discovered that I was somewhat more – physically inclined – than I…” He cleared his throat. “With my inclinations, and my – well – a perceptive mentor suggested to me the Caramiada. And me, to several recruiters of the Caramiada.” Which, he did not add, had an entire unit devoted to the reclamation of passives; the gating process was somewhat more strict in Bastia, as was everything else.

“I was set upon it, before we lost the estate. Somewhat fancifully – my head was full of chivalry back then.” It is not, now. “Anastou was quite a strange place. I wanted to… fit in.”

He glanced up, unsure what he expected or wanted to see on her face. “They came to respect you, then? At – at Brunnhold. I was told you would not – need to –” He swallowed tightly. Matron, he thought.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Late Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Aurelie hadn't been good at the work right away. Not the dishes, not the laundry (she had struggled to help carry such heavy loads), not anything else. None of them were—that ought to have been a comfort, but it wasn't. She had persisted as best she could; she was nothing if not stubborn. Her hands had hurt and blistered, and she's wanted to cry more days than not.

In the end Aurelie didn't cry, and she didn't stop. The work was nothing she had ever thought she would be doing, but she was determined to do it well. Proud, even, when she got better and better at it. It helped that nobody minded when she got dirty in the course of her efforts.

Aurelie wondered if any of this made sense. If Desiderio thought anything of all that she was saying, he didn't interrupt. She was grateful for that—she didn't think she could have continued. Easier to keep going once she had started, yet she knew she could be derailed rather easily. When she lifted her eyes away from their hands, he was frowning. Thinking? She ought to have... But he had said she didn't need to worry about whether or not he liked what he heard, and she didn't know how to say it any other way.

Staring at you something frightful, he'd said, with that rather charmingly Bastian Hurte's teeth. Well, Aurelie found it charming, anyway, when he said it. There was something about sound of it that she found—it was just an accent she didn't hear often, and she liked it all the more for that. She had never heard anyone else, other than Desiderio's family, who had one quite like it. So it seemed reasonable to her that she would have found it very nearly as charming said by anyone else.

She had already noticed him... looking at her. Staring, as he said. Hearing him say it out loud, making it concrete and real (with such an oddly halting manner) made it... Bells and chimes, she thought she was getting redder by the second. Like all he had to do was look at her, and she... She only felt shy, because he was so different than he had been. It was only professional habit, anyway, so she didn't need to think on it any longer.

Aurelie listened with fairly rapt attention as he started talking about Anastou. He was not...? Not, what? Not... as he was now? Or not as he had been? She wouldn't dare interrupt, she only listened, turning it over in her mind. Hobbies that encouraged proper discipline. Not like art, she thought sadly, which hadn't seemed just a hobby.

(The phrase physically inclined made her more scarlet still; Aurelie's mind went somewhere wholly inappropriate. "I can see that," she wanted to say, jokingly, but she was rather afraid it wouldn't come out as silly as she might have meant it.)

"The Caramiada..." she murmured, oddly troubled. She didn't want him to not—she wanted to hear this, too. She had heard, in the way of rumors, that things were even stricter in Bastia, when it came to gating. And that the Caramiada played a rather more... enthusiastic role than... Perhaps it was just the last few days, but she wondered if that was where he had meant to end up. He'd certainly not said so, but the idea was just plausible enough that she couldn't seem to shake it.

"I understand, I think, wanting that," she said softly. Her smile was sad now; oh, she understood that very well. Aurelie searched his face; he had been looking down when speaking of Anastou. She was still searching it when he looked back up. He looked—unsure, perhaps even worried. Did you? she wanted to ask. Did you fit in with that strange place?

Were you lonely, or was it just me?

Aurelie hesitated. That was a somewhat—complicated question. How could she even begin to answer...? Honestly, she decided, and as completely as she thought she could manage. "Yes," she started, "and... no." That, she said a little quieter. Aurelie looked away, briefly.

"Sometimes I thought so. Sometimes I thought that if I worked hard enough, tried hard enough, that..." She closed her eyes, taking a breath. "But that was foolish of me. They needed me, certainly. Maybe some... some others might have respected me I suppose, after a fashion, but..." When she opened them again, she was frowning, trying to think.

"It is not a place that... encourages respect, I don't think. Not... not in a real..." Aurelie shrugged, unable to find the path to find what she wanted to say. "Brunnhold was a strange place, too. And I don't think I ever fit it, no matter how hard I tried." Or she hadn't been good enough to; that thought gnawed at her heart no matter what. A silly sort of thing to say out loud, though, so she kept it to herself.

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

H

e most certainly should not have said that.

For a while, she was very, very red indeed; the tips of her ears nearly matched her hair. He had the sense that to touch them, they would be hot, too, and the thought – of – it was certainly not an appropriate thought. Nor the wisps of hair around them, which were surely quite soft, which she had many times already tucked behind them and which had many times slipped loose.

As he went on, some of the color left her cheeks. But it was replaced by an almost luminous attention in her eyes – one which he had not expected when he glanced up and caught them. One which nearly caught his breath and his voice. He had expected –

He was not altogether sure. This was entirely new to him. All of it: the small, homely kitchen; the pup, snoring at their feet; her, across from him, in her dress which just below the tabletop had a pointed hem. And her hand underneath his, small but warm and work-roughened. He had never been this close to a woman, certainly, and he did not think he had ever been this close to anyone. Certainly he had never told anybody else this.

And he was rapt to every motion. He heard her repeat him, Caramiada, as if she knew. Looking worried, perhaps.

Only just this morning, he had –

It struck him in waves, strangely strong and nauseating. He had nearly… But she was speaking, and he tried to look up, to focus. It was the no, and the way her eyes closed, her lashes long against her cheeks. And then they were open and she was looking at him. This time, there was not very much stuttering at all.

“No,” he said after she had finished. “It does not…” He shook himself. He held onto her hand, his heart beating in his throat.

It was because she did not fit, some old part of him said firmly. She was not like the rest of them. She was Aurelie. It had been a mistake. It had never been meant to happen that way.

Here she sat opposite him, still with that queer feeling of nothing to caprise. Sometimes he would think himself accustomed to it – almost. And then he would notice it again, how his field stood utterly alone, and yet he was looking at her, looking at her vivid green eyes and touching her hand, and she was here, and she was not a child. And yet there was nothing in the air.

“It does not seem to be a place which does,” he said brusquely, his hand tightening on hers again for a moment. “I do not think it foolish. All the same.”

The same sharp tone, which he could not seem to help. He shook his head abruptly, his lips twisted and carved in the same deep frown. He imagined her for a moment in a proper blue uniform. They needed me, certainly.

“I do not know what I would do without this discipline,” he said, lifting his chin. “Without –” He clasped one hand against his chest, his uniform. “It is –”

His fist was against the monite, he realized. He broke off, hand dropping to the table.

“Good,” he said, “to be needed. It is not – not foolish, to want respect. Aurelie." He must truly have been tired, because he could not tear himself away from – how lovely she looked in this dress. All of her. And all the embroidery, deep lovely green and very human, kept drawing his attention to her neck and wrists…

“I thought that I fit,” he said, his hand twitching atop hers. “I do not – know. I have never said any of this aloud.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Late Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

This was a dream. Aurelie could think of no other explanation than this for the moment they were in now. A dream, or some strange sort of Ever where there was a small, warm kitchen and Desiderio holding her hand, listening to her talk about how the last ten years had been. Shadow still curled up nearby, ill-kempt side rising and falling in gentle time with his breath.

Aurelie worried while she spoke that it all sounded so terribly childish—it wasn't so terrible, really. Better than the factories or the street, certainly. She thought of the children who came to the back door every day, sweet and thin with a kind of hunger in their face that bread didn't fill. There were worse things than a lack of respect, worse things than loneliness. It was only that her world was so small that she thought things were so awful there.

Desiderio would see that, she thought, even as she kept speaking. He would see that, and he would pull his hand away. Nobody had ever asked her before—she supposed they all knew, or thought they did. Not even Aremu, who had been so keen to take her away. For which she would always be grateful, of course. Was this why he never asked? Because her answers were so...?

No, Desiderio had said when she had finished. He didn't move his hand away from hers. Aurelie looked in his face for something—a sign that she was right, and shouldn't have said anything. All she saw was something she couldn't quite read that might have been shock, but certainly wasn't contempt. Or anything else she thought she might see.

Aurelie didn't know if she was relieved to be wrong or sorry. The sharp, short tone of his voice cut through both; the pressure of his fingers tightening around her hand again unwound the knot in her shoulders. The tight look in her face soothed somewhat. Aurelie had the funniest urge to turn her hand and squeeze back. Where would it stop if she allowed herself to do that much, though? She kept her hand as it was.

Desiderio spoke again, of discipline. The uniform, sharp and green. Aurelie felt a confusing mix of things, looking at it. She was afraid on some level, and horrified that she should be so. (Was that not sign that she was in the wrong, that she ought to...?)

Most overwhelmingly, she felt guilty. Sitting here with her was taking something away from him, something important. Who was she to do that? The ring on his finger caught the light as he put his fist against his sash with all that clean-stitched monite. Her heart twisted.

"That makes two of us then," she said quietly, with a sad smile on her lips. "I've never said any of this to anyone, either. You're actually... Ah, you're, uhm. The only one who has ever asked." She raised her eyebrows like that was a joke, tried to make it feel... It sounded so much more dire when it came out of her mouth than it had in her mind. She swallowed.

"I haven't been—entirely unhappy." She wanted, needed, to reassure him of that much. It was true, too. It wasn't fair to pretend otherwise. "I love cooking, I really do. The work... And the other girls, they... Sometimes it..." She stopped, feeling like she'd gotten hopelessly lost in what she was trying to say. The mark on her arm itched.

"...Thank you for saying so, though, Des. I really..." Aurelie bit her lip, then frowned. Slowly, she put her free hand on top of his. She could feel all the small bones of his hand underneath her fingers; they itched to move, to travel upwards to his arm and... She wouldn't, though. She wouldn't. She was just tired, and confused.

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

H

e supposed it made sense, though he disliked it a great deal.

He supposed it was not exactly something one spoke of with other gated passives, in the first place. It was dizzying to think of; for those two words, gated passive, he had had in his mind – if not a different image, then no image at all. Certainly not the one that was beginning to take shape.

He had asked where they slept, and he had been told not to worry, but nothing more. He had asked whether she had other girls to talk to, and he had been told that she had plenty of company. He had been asked whether the work would be too difficult, and he had been told that she would only be given tasks which she could manage, which were rewarding and fulfilling; that it was like the Everine or the Archevne, to each one a task suited to them, and no more than they could bear. Not servants.

Except – Aurelie was not a child; whatever else she was, she was not a child. Did not behave like one. And the rest of them?

There was competition among household servants of the human persuasion. He had arrested a second footman once for the murder of a first, over a petty squabble. He had investigated the disappearance of a scullery maid on behalf of the lady of the house – and that had come to a much more sinister end. He had heard, vaguely, of investigations into misconduct in the passive ward, but –

He was sitting straight, breathing evenly. Discipline, he had just told her.

No one had asked her since then, either. Who would? She was risking a great deal even sitting at this table with him, much less speaking of – this.

She went on, as if to – reassure him? He studied her face, feeling more and more as if she were, really, a stranger. There were so many shadows in the folds of everything she had told him.

He felt a reading spell on the tip of his tongue. He ached to ask the mona to finish only one of these fragmented sentences.

He was not sure what to say. One makes the best of one’s circumstances, seemed rude. And he did believe her.

Biting her lip, she placed her other hand atop his.

He stiffened slightly, then relaxed. Certainly nobody else had ever held his hand like this, though he was not about to tell her that. And not on the heels of her thanks, wholly undeserved.

“I am grateful for your trust,” he said after a moment. “I have given you little reason to believe that I would listen.”

That was not entirely true. He had, in fact, listened.

He grimaced. “Or that I would not use the information to hurt you,” he added, even more sharply and matter-of-factly. “I was surprised and afraid. I believed that I was doing what was right. I know now that I was not. That changes very little.”

The soft pressure of her fingers on the back of his hand was very different, and very distracting. He could feel the texture of her calluses, and also where her palm was soft; it was almost like a current through him, the way it raised gooseflesh on his arms and tickled at something else entirely. A muscle tensed in his face, making his bruise ache.

He looked down at their hands. “Thank you, Aurelie. Regardless.”

He could turn his hand over. Would she hold it? It seemed stiff, leaden. How would her hand fit into it? Should he put his other hand atop hers? It was on the pillowcase now; his engagement ring was cold around his finger. He wanted very badly to –

He realized that he was stroking one of the embroidered flowers with his thumb, rhythmic and slow and oddly gentle. He glanced down and stopped at once.

“You will permit me to watch you embroider, tomorrow?” he asked brusquely, glancing up. He doubted either of the two of them would be going anywhere.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Late Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Trust. What a funny thing it was—Aurelie had hardly had to think to give it to him for this. Abstractly, she found that more than a little concerning. Suppose her trust was misplaced? The only person she thought he could really harm with this information, this conversation, was her. Nothing she had told him just now put Cass in any more danger than Aurelie had already, should he... Aurelie didn't think he would, though. Would he? Hurt them, now...?

There was no trust without risk. That wasn't trust at all, then. Aurelie wanted to trust him so badly. She thought she did—she just wasn't sure she should. There was nothing she could do about it, anyway. She could hardly seem to stop herself.

"No," she insisted, "It— It matters. To me. I, uhm. Hmm." She wasn't quite sure what she was saying. She was distracted by the feeling of his hand under hers, of the way he had stiffened and then relaxed when she had touched him. She had maybe thought—perhaps she ought to take it away, to... Aurelie had only really meant to have it there a moment. But the moment got longer and longer, and he hadn't asked her to stop.

"Er. You're... You're welcome," she said awkwardly, feeling stupid and thick-tongued. She did like the sound of her name when he said it. Always like that, always in full—Aurelie. That was a silly thing to think about right at this moment, even she knew that. The tracks of the tears on her face had only recently dried. When had she become so hopeless?

Aurelie pulled her eyes away from his face at last, dropping down to look at Desiderio's other hand. His right hand, where the ring gleamed dully. She ought to remember—perhaps she ought to look at it more often. It had something of a sobering effect. Or it should do; Aurelie was starting to have doubts about her moral integrity. He was moving his thumb against an embroidered flower, slowly. That did not help her moral integrity in the least.

She looked up when he stopped, self-conscious. She needed to get a grip on herself. She needed to, and she would! It was just nice to be asked, and listened to, and to be asked and listened to by him in particular. And who wasn't happy to know their friend had grown up... well? Nobody. It was a good thing to know.

"W-watch? Oh. Er." Aurelie blinked, surprised and more than a little flustered. She pictured it (of course she pictured it) rather instantaneously. His serious, watchful gaze on her while she did her stitching. She wanted to squirm a little just thinking about it. "I, er. Well. I— Of course you can, but I can't imagine it's particularly... interesting to..."

What would he be doing? Just sitting up here with her, watching...? Aurelie hadn't thought as far ahead as tomorrow. There was no way she could work, not with her ankle like this. She had thought maybe she would take the chance while Cass was otherwise occupied to work on the pillowcase—she had yet to really spend too much time in the flat without Cass being there as well. Their schedules did rather overlap, after all.

And Desiderio... The thought dawned over Aurelie painfully slowly. He could hardly go anywhere either, as he was. He was rather—conspicuous. Whatever danger they were in from Magister Desrouleaux, they were only in it if someone knew where they were. So logically, she supposed, he would be up here with her. Alone. All day.

"Would you rather—do something together?" Aurelie stuttered out, a little desperate. If he just watched her at her needlework all day, she rather thought she would combust. "T-That is... Neither of us are going anywhere, I think, and... uhm. That... I suppose both things are possible, just. Ah."

"I would like t-to, ah, spend time with you. Generally. Uhm. If you don't mind. It... it has been a long time." How did that sound, with her hands around his? Bells and chimes, she sounded absolutely shameless. She didn't mean it that way, it was only that they... They had been friends, once. It had been so easy to spend all day together then. Why did it sound so odd now?

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

I

am in fact quite curious,” he replied at once when she trailed off, as abrupt and bold as ever. If with a little awkward jerk of his chin, and a pause wherein he did not quite remember to shut his mouth. About your technique, he could not bring himself to say. He cleared his throat instead.

He thought it rather improper, if not offensive, to say that his rubric for what was interesting was somewhat skewed. A kinder way to phrase it might have been that he was as – oriented to details, he supposed, as he had been as a boy. (She seemed rather the same; a strange but strangely comforting thing suddenly to notice, if he had not before.)

But she had been rather flushed for a while now, and the strangest things seemed to worsen it. Something told him that he should not, in fact, say anything more at all.

She stuttered again. It took him a moment to process the words. It caught him a little off his guard; his eyes fluttered wide, and he blinked a few times.

His brows drew together.

“It has.” He had meant it merely as agreement. His voice sounded rather thick.

Strange and terrible, how what he meant gently came out harsh, and what he meant no weight behind – like that – came out as heavy as iron.

It was perhaps his hand folded between hers. He looked down at it now, dizzied. Dizzied enough to feel another smile twitching at the edges of his lips, aching in his bruise and tugging uncomfortably at his scars. It was a sad smile.

Almost more important than I would like to spend time with you, all the more so for its stuttering, was the fact that it had needed to be said. Had he really spent nearly all the daylight hours of every summer day with her, once? He thought of the things they used to do, and had a bizarre vision of himself crammed awkwardly under the table in a game of hide-and-seek. (Ghoulish, almost – well, he was much better at that game now.)

Another feeling he could not place. It worsened the tightness in his throat all at once. Returned the pressure to his eyes. His hand felt like lead; he wanted so badly to hold onto her hand, but he was afraid he would hold so tightly it would bruise. All of him wanted to clench or roll up. He felt –

He cleared his throat and blinked a few more times, and then, because he knew that his eyes were agitated, took off his glasses to rub his eyes. His fingertips came away wet. The lump lodged in his throat made his breath almost want to – to freeze.

And so he sat even straighter, and squared his jaw even squarer, and held his field even more indectal. (He did not move his hand from hers.)

“Hmm,” he grunted, setting his glasses back on his nose. “Naturally.” There was a cool dart of wetness down one of his cheeks, and he felt it patter against his uniform collar. He realized belatedly what was happening.

He jerked his chin up, frowning thoughtfully. Shadow let out a snore, and he glanced down, then back up. Aurelie was slightly blurry.

“I daresay pup will need a bath, when we have both of us rested sufficiently to give him one.” As if he were giving orders, despite the hoarseness of his voice. “And – perhaps – we might discover – some other pleasant activity with which to pass the time together. I am afraid that I – I do not know – other than needlework, and cooking, how you like to spend your days. Now. Perhaps I may – h-help with some such endeavor around the house.”

Fear, he thought. It hit him of a sudden, along with thoughts of tomorrow. Everything crashing down. Changing. Like a flood pushing at a dam.

Fugitives. Together, with the first friend he had ever had. Only it was not like a fairy tale: it was all wrong. He was not a little boy, and she was not a little girl. And after everything he had done to her, after how little resemblance either of them bore to those children, she was holding his hand – and telling him in a great many words that she missed him.

His lips were still twisted in that almost-smile. An awkward mess of a thing. He laid his other hand atop hers and pressed it gently, his fingers curling slightly around it.