[Closed] To Meet the Hours

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Late Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Desiderio frowned a little more at her surprise. She had a sudden memory of the fretfulness he had felt then when he saw her practice, or when she had come to play with a bandage wrapped around her finger. He had always been so—protective, she supposed, or perhaps just concerned. Like she was the princess in a story, and the pricking of a needle on her thumb would send her into a deep slumber, from which she could only be awakened by...

...Well, if this most recent half of her life had taught her anything, it was that she was no princess, and life was nothing like those tales they had loved so well. The pricking of a needle had never done her any more harm than some minor discomfort, and she was better with it now, anyway. Embroidery and light mending were the least of her concerns when it came to injury, now.

Perhaps she ought not to have offered to show him. Desiderio had said he wanted to see it, but he... Maybe he was just being polite, and had she been less poorly socialized, she would have known to refuse. All of this seemed an imposition suddenly, and unfair. Aurelie had been downstairs and bathed properly, shouldn't he get the chance to do the same? It was selfish of her to keep him here, when he... he couldn't possibly want...

Oh, but she was pleased with the work. And it felt to her as if she wanted to show him more than just her needlework by showing him the pillowcase, too. Like it would be proof of something she could not yet articulate. Likely she was just afraid he would ask her more about Brunnhold, and that he would not like her answers. Cowardice seemed as good a reason as any. The smile on her face didn't feel afraid, but what did she know?

He seemed to consider her request a moment, still leaning on the chair. Scandalously close, Aurelie thought again, which was absurd. He wasn't even touching her, and was in no danger of doing so accidentally. Now, she thought, was the moment he would tell her he was only being polite after all. He set the sketchbook back down on the tabletop, stepping back from her. Aurelie felt slightly disappointed, but braced herself for his refusal.

What he did instead was so— So particularly— He was like a knight in a story, except he didn't kneel down or quite say all of things she dimly remembered him telling her were said in Bastian courts of old. It was ridiculous; she felt as if she ought to laugh. She found herself of all things feeling flustered instead, watching the way his dark hair fell as he bowed. The fabric of the sash caught the light and held it; from this position she could not see the monite stitched across it.

He straightened again, and Aurelie knew she was smiling far too much, her face far too warm. "Thank you, uhm. For—" Aurelie tried and failed to think of some equally silly ceremonial response. "Thank you." It had all been, she thought, sort of... rather... cute, really. Charming. She didn't think he would like to know she thought so; Aurelie kept that bit to herself.

There was something about taking his arm when she could actually see him that was more difficult than when she could not. It ought to be easier, as there was no risk she would put her hand somewhere she shouldn't, or something equally terrible. But he looked her in the eye when he held out his hand first, then his arm; it didn't help the warmth in her face in the least, or make her feel any more articulate.

Still, she took them both. The journey from the table to her bedroom door wasn't a long one. It felt miles and miles. Suddenly Aurelie was aware of every little motion she made, exactly where her body touched his and how. She was such a fool.

For a moment after she opened the door, she just stood in the doorway. She had been in the room earlier to retrieve her things, but she hadn't been paying as much attention then, too distracted to do so. Everything was exactly as she left it—of course it was, she scolded herself, she had only been gone a few days. And Cass had said it was so, hadn't she? A wave of something soft came over her anyway. She had made everything neatly before she left for the day, corners tucked in and squared. One of her embroidery books was exactly where she had left it on the bedside table, and underneath it—the book of stories.

"I-If you just wait here a moment, I can, ah. I'll bring it out. The, uhm, the light is better in the kitchen anyway." Aurelie left the door to her bedroom open; the room wasn't large, and it was easy enough to navigate from the doorway unassisted simply by leaning against things here and there. The pillowcase was in the trunk at the foot of her bed. Aurelie retrieved it, careful not to lose track of her needle minder or make a mess gathering it up. She had left it in a good place, she noted with relief. No stray needles sticking out or bits of unfinished stitches.

"I, ah, this is it," she said as she turned and made her way back to the door, to Desiderio. She had the decorated portion tucked against her body. For not accountable reason, she felt as if she would like it to be a surprise. Saved for better light. Ridiculous.

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

H

er cheeks were nearly scarlet; as were the tips of her ears, just poking out of her red hair. He would have thought he had made a mistake, if not for the broad smile on her face. She thanked him not once but twice, stuttering. He did hope she knew he was not totally serious. Though the oath, he thought ruefully, he did in fact take quite seriously; he could not but.

It was a very lovely smile. It seemed to drive nearly every other thought out of his head. Even the flush was very lovely.

It was not distracting in a way that was particularly helpful, when she took his hand. She was almost wholly scarlet by the time her small, scarred hand was in his. He had not a clue what to make of it, other than that he was either terribly frightening or terribly embarrassing or both at once.

He felt like a very silly young man, in a way he had not even felt at Anastou. It was more than out of place here, and with her, and in his uniform, and with everything that had transpired. It seemed - wrong - even to pretend.

He tried not to think about anything at all as they made their way to the door, least of all how warm her hand was.

The embroidery at her collar was even more intricate than he had thought. He knew a little about human designs; there were some which at Numbrey one was taught to look for. These were not among them, with their full, swirling leaves. Whoever had embroidered them had paid attention to the shape of the leaves, and knew one plant from another. Bush honeysuckle, he thought, at least from his own studies of the plant, and from the small red pinpricks of berries, which he had not noticed from afar.

If any should be hidden… what a strange, uncomfortable thought. Where her blouse was tucked into her sash –

He tried rather hard not to think of where her blouse was tucked into her sash, or the way it all followed the inward curve of her waist, or the way her hip occasionally and inavoidably brushed his side.

He had expected her to shut the door. He stood outside, straight and still in spite of the swarming dizziness in his head. She stopped in the doorway, and he wondered what she was thinking. The room beyond – he tried not to look at too closely. It would have felt strange, as if he were violating some sacred privacy. It did not, however, look much like he had expected of a woman’s boudoir, which put him a little at ease.

He kept an eye on her in his periphery, conscious of the way she walked along the dresser and the bed, the chair, relievingly careful of her ankle, and watchful as she knelt at the trunk.

Perhaps it was this watchfulness that drew his eye to the bedside table. There was something familiar about the image. Not the table, or the books – not one of the books, at any rate. But he would have sworn he had seen that leatherbound spine, if much less worn…

His eyes widened, his scowl breaking into something else entirely. He could not have said what expression was on his face. His mouth was open slightly.

He glanced away sharply as she turned, gritting his jaw, but too late; she must have seen him looking. How terribly inappropriate. He was frowning down as she came closer, back into his caprise. The pillowcase she held close, with nothing of the design visible.

He held out his arm again, inclining his head. “To better light, then,” he pronounced gravely. “I shall at least avoid fretting over the needle, this time.”

He had not meant to say that. As if – as if he were still – as if he had anything in common with – his mind felt unfamiliarly cluttered.

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Late Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Left at the doorway while she rummaged around, Desiderio said nothing. Aurelie didn't even hear him move. She might have missed the rustle of fabric or the shifting of his weight underneath the sounds of her opening the trunk and retrieving the pillowcase, but she had this suspicion that he had not, in fact, moved a muscle. And would not, until she gave him cause to. It was a rather strange, almost dizzying feeling.

When she turned he wasn't looking at her (thank the Lady, she must have looked very silly hopping about the room on one leg). He was looking beyond her, into the room—Aurelie couldn't decide if that was much better, on reflection. There was something terribly intimate about it, even with him at the door. She hadn't been here more than a few weeks, so the room was rather spare anyway.

And she was particularly fastidious about putting her clothing away, so there was blessedly none of that to see either. There had been a matron in charge of her portion of the dormitories when Aurelie was a girl who had been rather a stickler on this point. Besides, she just slept better when everything was put away and in order. An orderly room spoke of an orderly mind, or so they said. She couldn't have the latter, but she could certainly make inroads towards the former.

Whatever he had seen, Desiderio had the strangest expression on his face when she turned back. Had she left something out, something she ought not to have? Sometimes she did miss a stocking—Lady forbid, she hadn't left out a chemise or something equally embarrassing, had she? No, she reassured herself; she didn't have many, and they had been as neatly folded as she had left them when she opened the trunk.

If she didn't know better, she would have said he looked—struck by something. His mouth had snapped shut as she turned to him, but there was no scowl on his face. What had he been looking at? Aurelie found that she wanted to know rather desperately what could make him make a face like that. To see if she could get him to look that way again, and allow her to get a better look at it.

The frown had slid back into place by the time she reached him. Aurelie thought to ask, but she felt oddly shy. It was enough she had practically invited him to stare at her bedroom this whole time; she didn't need to pry. Besides, he needed to sit back down. She ought to have come over on her own; she hadn't been thinking.

He would avoid...? Aurelie hadn't expected that. They had, she realized, avoided mentioning such things as much as possible. A softness passed over her face, before she replaced it with a more normal sort of smile. "That's good to hear. And if it is of any comfort, I have yet to sustain any real harm from the dangers of needlework." Aurelie felt silly saying that; she tucked her hair self-consciously away before she took his arm again.

What would she have to do to make him smile, she wondered? Her jokes didn't help in that regard at all, she was fairly certain. She had made him laugh, sort of, once or twice. But she didn't think she had made him smile. The idea seemed terribly important, and she turned it over in her mind the entire journey back across the room. She simply wanted to know he could, she told herself. She was curious. And if they could be... friends, of a sort, again...

"I, uhm... This is ah, a work in progress. So don't, er, expect too much." Aurelie warned Desiderio as they reached the table again. She sat again, and then watched fretfully to see that he would as well. She did not, she decided, like the cast of his complexion in this moment. The moles on his face, which were always rather distinctive, stood out more now than she thought they ought to.

They were nice, she thought absently. Immediately she realized that she had been staring. Aurelie cleared her throat and looked hastily down to the pillowcase in her arms. She spread it out across the table, taking more care than was strictly necessary. She just needed time to gather her thoughts, that was all. Regain control of herself.

"They're, ah, supposed to be... gladioli," she admitted, feeling silly. The flowers were rendered in what she had thought was a rather cheerful orange, but she was starting to fear it was too garish. The longer she looked at them, the more she doubted her sense of taste. But as she had already done a strip of about two inches in width that went a third of the way across the opening of the pillowcase, she felt there was nothing to do but to finish as she had begun and evaluate at the end. She consoled herself with the thought that it was, at least, stitching practice.

"Ah, I'm not sure if... Well, I don't know that... Human floriography is probably different, if it... Er, I don't actually know anything about it at all, but, ah. They're meant to symbolize, uhm, strength and m-moral integrity. Really I just think they're nice, but, well... Er, I'm sorry, you don't need to listen to me going on and on." She shut her mouth, feeling her face burn in a different way than it had. There was just something incredibly nerve-wracking about this entire thing, despite her pride in the work. The stitches themselves were at least rather decent, now that she was looking at them again with fresh eyes. And she had worked in some filler patterns, as well as a border. (Was that too busy? Bells and chimes, she didn't know.) Aurelie resolved to keep her tongue in her head and just let Desiderio look at the blessed thing in peace.

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

T

here was a softness in her eyes for a moment. It made him feel distinctly uncomfortable; it caused a stirring, fluttering sensation in his stomach, and a deep ache in the middle of his chest. He was not sure what he had done to earn it. Perhaps it was not for him at all.

Or perhaps it was merely for the boy he had been.

The softness was replaced with another smile, anyway, bright and lovely – all of them were, he thought helplessly, tiredly – but much less familiar. “Huh,” he laughed, short and brusque. “That, too, is good to hear.”

And what was it she had sustained real harm from? What dangers–?

He felt that he was tangled up in brambles and leaves and berries like the ones embroidered on her dress. One minute, he felt like a helpless boy stuffed into a uniform, as if he had found himself in quite the wrong Ever, but he was not sure what the right one was. The sight of that book… gracious Hurte. But she had not asked, if she had seen him looking at it.

The next, he was a complete stranger who wished he had another name to address her by – because Aurelie seemed terribly inappropriate for a strange young woman, but he could not be sure Miss Steerpike still applied. Or what she was, or who she was, anymore.

He could not be sure of anything, except that she had slipped her hand around his arm again, and he could feel the tops of his ears reddening. Without caprision, he was very conscious of the small, sturdy warmth of her against his side, working their way toward the table.

Morandi also would have sworn on his title that she was hiding the pattern from him, tucked as it was against her chest. As if it were some sort of surprise. It was likely just coincidence, but there was something about the thought – that his eyes upon it meant something to her.

He inclined his head when they reached the table. Had he not just shown her what might well have been a book full of works in progress? But he supposed he understood; it had not been easy to show them to her. The thought that he understood this, if nothing else, was strangely comforting. A small, solid thing, next to the nightmarish haze of the last few days.

He had noticed that she was watching him sit rather raptly. Concerned, he supposed. He must have looked rather unwell. He felt it. She cleared her throat suddenly, and he glanced up, confused; but she was spreading the pillowcase out over the table.

He sat up in his seat, peering down over it. His eyes widened slightly.

“Gladioli,” he repeated. They were very clear; the color, while bright and a little odd beside the more muted border, stood out well against the fabric. She went on, stumbling and trailing off, and he studied it. “Human – floriography?”

That country nonsense, perhaps. He heard it in his uncle’s voice. He had never heard anybody call it floriography, whatever it was they did.

He glanced up when she stopped; her face was very red.

He glanced back down. “I may not need it, that is true,” he said brusquely, “but I do want it. To listen to you, I mean to say.” He raised his brows. “Besides. One seldom escapes Anastou without a passing understanding of floriography. Talking bouquets were quite the rage, when I attended.”

A pause; he did not look up. “For a time, it was an interest of mine.” Easier to speak that way than in words, he thought – especially where matters of the heart were concerned.

Hurte! He chid himself immediately for the thought. Certainly he did not need to admit aloud that he had spent ages arranging nosegays for a hopeless crush, all of which were quite ignored. He had found edelweiss particularly romantic, and had rather prided himself on coming from its native region.

“I, too, really just think they are nice,” he added dryly, peering up at her over his glasses.

Then cleared his throat.

“I have never seen this pattern before. The border...” He bent a little closer, pushing his glasses up on his nose; he did not touch the embroidery, but he studied the way the light caught on the threads. “The composition is very fine indeed. I like it; I should think Miss Elwes will, as well. The rendering of the flowers is very pleasing.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Late Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Another laugh—short, and not a smile, but Aurelie would take it anyway. At least he didn't find her entirely unpleasant, which she found somewhat reassuring. She knew she was... different, now, to how she had been. And he was, too. The idea that those differences might mean they didn't fit together as friends of any sort was too much sadness to bear.

Aurelie had thought about bringing the book out, too. The one she'd brought with her from Briarwood, with the drawing in it. She kept it on her bedside table these days, re-reading it slowly and carefully. She didn't remember every story in it by heart, only her most favorite ones. And she liked telling them to the children; she had only just started doing so, but it was fun. They were a reasonably receptive audience. Something had stayed her from it. Shyness, perhaps, or something else.

She could always, she thought with a little bit of wonder and a little bit of fear, show him tomorrow. There was a tomorrow, after all. The idea that this wouldn't be the only conversation they had dawned over her slowly. Aurelie found she couldn't examine it too closely, or she might become even more stupid than she already was.

She didn't need the help. Aurelie already felt ten times a fool, spreading out the pillowcase and babbling on and on in front of Desiderio like this. This wasn't anywhere near as good as his sketches were. Had she not already made such a production of it, she would have snatched it back and put it away. Yes, the orange was absolutely too garish. Aurelie babbled on while he peered down at it.

Did they look like gladioli at all? Aurelie wanted to ask, but she was afraid. Desiderio's approval of her work so far felt strangely weighty. In this moment, she thought she might rather have shown it to Cass herself than to have Desiderio's bright eyes on it a moment longer.

"W-well, it's not quite the same," Aurelie said hastily. She felt like she had said something wrong, and she didn't quite know why. Flustered, maybe. Desiderio hadn't said anything to make her believe he thought it was entirely awful, at least. "But I think there's... some overlap at least. Nurse told me one or two," she added, more carefully than the rest. As if mattered now, the things Nurse had told her that were inappropriate for a young lady to know.

Bells and chimes, but she could run her mouth when she'd a mind to! The air was filled up with the sound of her own voice, or some babblingly anxious version of it. Desiderio lifted his eyes from the fabric when she stopped. She could have cooked an egg on her face.

He didn't need it, he began. Which, of course he didn't. In that moment, Aurelie could very happily have sunk into the center of Vita and never re-emerged. But he carried on, and she began to feel rather the opposite—she could have floated away into the clouds. It was very curious. And a relief—if he didn't mind that, then she was unlikely to upset him too much before... before they parted ways again. Aurelie smiled, watching the way the lift of his eyebrows pulled on the scars on that side of his face.

Aurelie found it easier to picture than she might have expected—Desiderio, interested in floriography. Not the one in front of her, but a young man more like the boy she had known. What sorts of things had he done at Anastou? She thought briefly of the ring on his finger; had that been why?

There was something a little romantic about that idea, even if it hurt her to think about in some absurd way. Or someone else entirely, more likely. Desiderio was serious—he had always been so—but she had always liked that about him. She couldn't possibly be the only one. And he was— He had grown to be very—

"Oh, were they?" Aurelie leaned in a little more, her eyes bright. She didn't know much about it—they were no more keen to teach passives that than anything else really—but she'd certainly picked up some chatter from upper-form girls in the hall. "I wonder if they were as popular in Brunnhold. I, uhm, I don't really know... A bit, I think."

Aurelie tilted her head, considering him as he looked up. Her smile got that much brighter. When had he started to wear glasses? He was rather young for it; she did remember Ana had said something to her, about her eyes. Aurelie wondered if that was the same sort of thing. Ana was too vain for spectacles (although if she did wear them Aurelie was certain she'd look just as lovely as always). She thought they rather suited Desiderio.

"Oh! It's, ah, well it's slightly adapted from—" Aurelie had been ready to explain how she'd adapted it from bits and pieces of things she'd seen elsewhere, in shops around the neighborhood and in a few of her books, when the rest of what Desiderio said hit her. Aurelie's mouth opened.

Thank you. That's what she knew she ought to say. Nothing came out of her mouth. He liked it? Really? The flowers were pleasing? She couldn't quite believe it. Of course it was Cass who really had to like it—it was a gift for her, after all, to thank her for everything—but... Oh, Desiderio liked it, truly? Aurelie beamed, unable to contain herself.

"I'm glad you think so," she managed, her voice only slightly strange. "I, uhm. That, ah, means a good deal f-from.... from you." Aurelie looked down, but she couldn't seem to stop grinning.

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

N

ot quite the same – that, he could agree with. Overlap, he was not so sure about. It was a very small thing, but it made him strangely uncomfortable to hear it even suggested – by her, particularly.

Their own customs humans may have had, but they were, as everyone knew, a wholly different species, with wholly different origins. Everyone knew that the galdori had migrated to all of the kingdoms from Roannah in the far northeast, and had brought with them culture, science, Circlism – most of all their fascination with the natural world and its meaning, from which the contemporary language of flowers, along with other gentle arts, had come. Even Estuan had come from Roannah, in all its permutations.

He knew that there were scholars who studied human practices. The thought of it had always made him terribly uncomfortable. Academics, he supposed. It was more a Brunnhold and a Thul’amat habit than Anastou; he doubted anyone in proximity to Edelagne would indulge in such nonsense.

Strange, too, to hear her say Nurse now. Like something out of a memory. Puppies and the smell of baking, and little Aurelie struggling with pans heavy-laden with dough. Very happy memories, until Mother had forbidden him from the kitchen.

In the corner of his eye, he could see the honeysuckle embroidered along her cuff in great detail. It was not entirely different from the patterns around the gladioli, he realized, and worked with the same eye for detail, if by a less experienced hand. Quite similar, in fact.

He felt very uncomfortable indeed.

Brunnhold, she said, and he felt strange, almost as if – as if he had expected her to say that she had gone there, as if he had forgotten…

But she sounded happy as she went on, and he could see her smiling; she was looking at his face again instead of the pillowcase, very attentively, which made it almost physically impossible for him to look up now. He rather wished she was on his right side. Utterly foolish; he had never been vain about that.

Adapted from–? She broke off suddenly, then said something else, wavering a little.

… means a good deal f-from… from you. He looked up sharply.

And found her face a great deal closer than he expected, on account of them both having leaned in.

She was grinning broadly. Her cheeks were still very red, and he had the distractingly strong impression that her skin would be very warm to the touch. And soft. He was distracted by a few freckles around her lips, before he could tear his eyes away. To hers, which were looking down at the needlework. As green as the embroidery on her sleeve, and very bright – and with longer, thicker lashes than she had ever had as a girl.

He blinked. “From me?” he repeated dumbly.

He realized late that it sounded rather abrupt and cold – he was not smiling. He blinked again, clearing his throat. “Ah. Well! Good,” he said firmly and sharply. Stupidly. That was not the correct response, either. But he had not a single clue what was.

He felt a tickling warmth in his cheeks; he leaned back a little, running a hand self-consciously along his jaw. He was staring fixedly down at one gladiolus. His lips twitched at the edges. He smiled slightly.

As whom, he chid himself – her arresting officer, who had snatched her away from it in the first place? Only to – to have decided to bring her back, and now to take advantage of –

His smile fell, and he cleared his throat again. “I am – pleased to know. That,” he blurted out for want of something to say. “That you have taken needlework up again. Thank you. For showing me. After everything I did – I – thank you. Aurelie.”

He dared to look up at her again.

“I have been remiss not to clarify,” he added, his voice even more tight and abrupt. “I was harsh. When you asked before. But I do not mind if you call me Des.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Late Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

Desiderio looked up rather quickly when she confessed that she was particularly pleased to hear that he approved of her work. Aurelie hadn't been so keenly aware of the distance she'd closed between the two of them; meeting his eyes now, it felt like very little indeed. Aurelie didn't pull back; that would have seemed odd, wouldn't it have? Likely made Desiderio uncomfortable, as well.

Also, it was hard to remember to lean away when she seemed also to have forgotten how to breathe. He was looking at her, she felt—properly and specifically at her. The knowledge gave her the most curious desire to hide and to—to do something to keep his attention. The feelings warred with each other, but neither was victorious. Aurelie did nothing but drop her eyes and feel her ears grow redder by the moment. He was going to think she had a medical condition at the rate she was going.

The tone of his voice freed her to be able to pull back a little bit at last. Aurelie looked up again, not sure how to better word what she had meant. Was he upset? Aurelie couldn't tell; his voice sounded so often like he was that she couldn't decide when that was actually the case. Had that been too much? She had only meant—because he had an artist's eye, and... And because she was a fool, and she wanted him to think she had learned anything worthwhile at all in the time they'd spent growing apart. That was silly.

Aurelie ought to have said so. She was, unfortunately, rather immediately distracted. Desiderio leaned back as well, his eyes now fixed not on her but on the flowers. The thing was, she could have sworn—she ought to know better, but... His color looked just a bit warmer than it was before. She followed the way he ran his hand along his jaw, as if she could not stop herself, and then...

Desiderio smiled, the smallest of smiles. If Aurelie hadn't been watching his face so intently, she would have missed it. Just the tiniest curve of his mouth at the edges, and she felt her heart stop. Maybe she did have a medical condition; his every gesture seemed to send her into some sort of disarray. Aurelie would have to revise her plan to make him smile. Any more than this and she thought she might die.

Yet she was still disappointed when the smile was brief. Barely had she registered it when it fell off his face. He cleared his throat, again; Aurelie was distressed to realize she had been staring at him again. "O-Oh. Uhm. You're... welcome? Ah. I m-mean, well, er. You showed me— I'm happy, too. Er, that you're still drawing I mean."

Desiderio looked up; she wished she had the faintest idea of what her face looked like right now. She thought she was smiling, but what kind? She couldn't say, and her best guess worried her a little. He spoke again, voice clipped and even tighter than it had been before. Aurelie blinked.

"O-Oh." Aurelie blinked again. Chimes, was she going to cry again? Aurelie did not like the knowledge that she was far more likely to cry when she was happy than when in distress. Had she always been such a foolish person? "N-No, you weren't... Er, well, you were. Ah, harsh, I mean, b-but I understand... Uhm."

It was only a name. Not even his name, properly; a silly and not particularly creative nickname she'd given him as a child who found "Desiderio" too long to fit in her mouth. For a moment, she thought to tell him that it was better if she didn't, after all. He had been right, to be harsh with her—she was already having a difficult time remembering that he ought not be her friend at all, for all kinds of reasons. That she ought not want him to be. She wouldn't do that; she simply hadn't the strength.

"If you're sure you don't mind, I..." Aurelie ran her tongue over her lip, teeth catching a corner. "You can, ah. You can call me whatever—I don't mind in particular... Uhm. Whatever you'd like. Des."

One tiny syllable; it brought all kinds of poorly-buried warm flooding back through her heart. He had changed, she could see that, but... Oh, wasn't that nice, too? She meant it when she said she wanted to know who he was now. She only hoped coming to know her again wouldn't be too terribly disappointing.

"I missed you," she blurted out. She could not seem to bring herself to want to take it back.

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

U

nderstand?

It was hard to make much sense at all of her face opposite him. He thought that she was smiling, but it was nothing like the smiles of moments ago. She was blinking – almost as if to hold back tears; he had seen this enough in the course of his work to know it well – and went on, stumbling, and he thought that he had certainly been overbearing, but he did not seem to know how to do anything but.

She had at least admitted that he had been harsh. But what was it that she understood? He had treated her wretchedly. He felt he had not explained a tenth of it, and certainly not enough to warrant – understanding.

So what on Vita was it that she understood? That he had felt strongly enough back then to want to cut off all feeling? That he had not known – and still did not know – anything about Brunnhold, and was still afraid of the answers to the questions he wanted to ask? (That door, they had not even begun to open. He was not sure how. Not as a – friend, or whatever he was to her now. As an inspector, as an officer questioning a witness or the victim of a crime, perhaps. But he did not wish to - make an interrogation of it.)

What did she understand about anything that had passed in the last few days, least of all anything about his behavior, when he did not understand any of it himself?

If you’re sure you don’t mind, she said first. His brow furrowed even more deeply. He wanted to bark again, as he had once: I am always sure.

He frowned instead, swallowing a dry lump. Aurelie was what he had always called her, he wanted to say, but only if she thought it appropriate for a… a young man? What a ridiculous thing to say, in the midst of all this. She had been scarlet to her ears; whatever her feelings on Des, she stumbled over her words as if she were frightened of him.

And she kept staring at him – at what? Was he making her self-conscious with his own eyes? He scarcely knew what was wrong with him. And –

I missed you.

His eyes went wide again, and his breath caught in his throat.

“I missed you, too,” he blurted out, harsh and sharp. He forgot himself, and his field rippled and warmed, flexed with distress. “Terribly. They sent me to Florne because I would not stop asking for you. I – what –”

Without thinking, he reached out across the gladioli and pressed her hand with his. It was an awkward fumble. Her hand was almost shockingly warm underneath his.

He drew away. “I am very sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. He was so tired he had not been thinking. And mortified, now: he could still feel the shape of it tingling on his fingers, including the bumpy tracery of scars. “I – by Her deadly terrors.”

[Aurelie Steerpike]

Roalis 28, 2720 - Late Evening
The Good Pan Bakery

It was not that Aurelie had no friends at all these last ten or eleven years. That was unkind and unfair to those she did have, and their ranks were few enough to warrant not wishing to be cruel even within the boundaries of her own heart. Aurelie had friends. A few she would consider good friends, too. More she thought could become so with time.

There was just nobody like Desiderio. Nor could there ever be, imagining someone even wanted to try. Imagining she wanted to let someone try. Oh, she would wait all year for the breaks from school so they could play together. Sometimes she thought she was more excited for him to come back from school more than she was for Ana to come home, which made her feel terribly disloyal to her sister. They must have made an odd pair, she knew now—but she hadn't thought so then.

Funny, that she could only see how odd their friendship was now that any relationship at all was even odder. Impossible, she would have said at just the beginning of this year. She would have said a lot of things were impossible, then. Aurelie was slowly learning not to rule so many things out as she had done in the past. After all, she was sitting here, wasn't she? Very nearly driven to tears because he said it was all right if she called him Des.

So she had missed him, and that was no less true now than it had been at the beginning of the year. Or the year before, or the one before that. Nothing that had happened between them these last few days, not all the hurt and confusion and fear she had felt, changed that simple fact.

Desiderio's eyes went wide when she said it. Was that so surprising? Wasn't that obvious?

Perhaps she understood. Her own eyes were round as saucers when he—somehow, she had not expected for him to say it back. Let alone all that he said after that. His field felt—strange, different than it had. She wished again she could read it properly, to know what it meant.

Before she could get her mind around any of it, his hand was on hers. Not to support her while she walked, or some other practical, explainable purpose. Just there, warm and so different than it had been, but no less welcome for it. Just a moment, and then he drew away again, apologizing.

"Oh," she breathed. Her head felt suddenly quite blank. It's fine, she wanted to say, through it all. She could not bring herself to form the words.

Aurelie had thought that when he said he'd gone to Anastou... after, that it had been his idea. Or at least that he had wanted to go. Why stay at Brunnhold after all, and chance seeing her? Risk that reminder that all these years he had been wasting his time? Aurelie could understand that. Ana had gone to Bastia too, and stayed there.

Sometimes it was easier to think he didn't miss her. Even in her loneliest moments, when she thought of home the most, she felt like that was for the best. There was nothing either of them could have done. Nothing would have been different, no matter where he was. He hated her, she was certain of it. She had known it the moment she'd seen the looks on her parents' faces, when she failed the only test she'd ever really needed to pass.

The tears were hardly going to stay back now. Aurelie could feel the ghost of the pressure of Desiderio's hand on hers still. She wished he hadn't let go. She wiped at her face, trying to catch the tear before it fell. "You don't have to apologize," she managed, choked. "It's all right. I..."

Blessed Lady, she felt like she was only seven or eight years old again, small and soft. All this time, she had been so sure... But he had missed her. Had asked for her! Why, she couldn't quite—but he hadn't hated her, then. Despite everything. "I-I'm sorry, I'm not normally so... I... I always thought you'd... Worried you..." Aurelie sniffed, trying to get control of herself. "I thought... M-maybe it was just easier if I... I thought you hated me, Des, and that's why you left. Why I never... saw you."

If she held out her hand again...? She couldn't quite close the distance on her own, but she held it out. Just a moment more, she thought. It wasn't at all appropriate but—she only wanted a moment more. That was all right, wasn't it?

[Desiderio Morandi]

the good pan, old rose harbor

late evening on the 28th of roalis, 2720

S

he looked – appropriately mortified, he thought first. His palm and his fingers itched where he had touched her. He folded his hands tightly together on the pillowcase, fearful of what they might do next. He watched her, his face twisted somewhere between surprise and a scowl, scarcely able to speak or excuse himself more through the tightness in his chest.

There: the first glittering on her lashes. His spirits sank. He felt as if his hand had been made of cold iron; he glanced down at hers still on the table, half-expecting to see bruises.

There were only the small, red knuckles, chapped from work, and the chewed nails. And the pale scars which he had wanted so badly to inspect when he had been blind, before he had known anything at all of what he would do.

She used it to wipe her face, giving his eyes no choice but to follow it up. His mouth was open now, grimacing. He could not seem to control his face, or any other part of him. Was this what passed for discipline in him now? What was wrong with him? This was why he had learned it to begin with. He had been an unruly terror his first year at Anastou, when he had learned again to feel – angry at everything which breathed – all of his responses mismatched and wrong – better not to feel anything at all.

She choked out a few words, and it took him a moment to process them.

He started to shake his head sharply, to insist. Then, after a moment, she began again, apologizing herself. Every few words, it seemed to him, were an island – a separate clue in a case that had been cold for a decade now. All incomplete. She sniffed.

“Hated you?” he choked out, a snarl he could not help.

She held out her hand again, and his eyes darted down to it. It took him a moment to realize what she wanted.

He glanced up, brows drawing together with disbelief. He felt as if he were made of wool and starch.

But then he reached out and, clumsy and hesitant, set his hand on hers again. It was so small, he noticed again, ever as shockingly as the first time, though it must in fact have grown – it was that his was so much larger now – it covered hers completely.

“Easier if you…” he repeated stiffly, blinking back a rawness in his own eyes. “That I believe I understand.” A lot of things were easier to believe, he thought. “I was told that you would not miss me. Among other – things.”

That she was a child, still, or had a child's mind, or – it seemed too awful now to say.

His lips twisted. “I heckled my professors with questions almost constantly. I was uncharacteristically – misbehaved. I thought, if they do not like the questions which I am asking, then there must be something the matter with the answers.”

He had left his hand on hers, staring down at it uncertainly. Resisting the urge to trace his fingertips over it, to – investigate it. The queerest urge. To think that this was Aurelie, the Aurelie he remembered, his oldest and dearest friend, and that her hand was utterly unrecognizable to him.

He cleared his throat, but the damnable lump would not leave.

“I have made something of a career out of asking questions now,” he said and, remembering her shiver at his shoulder in the coach, his voice broke jaggedly over the last word.

He cleared his throat again, blinking once, twice. “I am not – normally so – myself.” And again. Blinking thrice. Damnation, he could barely speak. His eyes burned horribly.