[Mature] Look What You Made Me Do

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Evening, 14 Roalis, 2717
The King’s Courthouse, the Wharf

Even with just her fingertips against Corwynn’s skin, Niccolette could feel the laugh that rippled through him. She grinned, looking up at him, thoroughly pleased with the response. There was much to be said for experience, Niccolette thought, rather practically. She felt she could trust Corwynn not to fumble, not to make crass comments. If he had drawn his own conclusions too quickly, that might have been off-putting, but then Niccolette had not left him long to do so. She had not wished to be coy or hesitant or to make him guess; she saw little point in such pleasantries.

Corwynn shifted closer. Niccolette did not back away; her hand flattened, gently, and her palm rested fully against him, settled comfortably on his bare skin in the warm room. She drew her fingers back, stroking softly, and spread them out again, flat, continuing her explorations without the slightest hesitation.

“I should be rather disappointed if you did,” Niccolette said, teeth dragging carefully over one small lip. The color she had painted on was already somewhat worn, left behind at the Winged Fish and on the glass of gin she’d set down; she did not seem worried about it. “I should be glad to devote my full attention to your… care.”

Niccolette’s other hand settled gently, carefully, on Corwynn’s uninjured side, her thumb stroking softly over his skin. His hands traced down over her shoulders, and he eased her back towards the chaise lounge. Niccolette giggled, letting Corwynn wash her hands free of blood, leaving red stains behind on the cloths. He kissed her knuckles, and Niccolette shifted, catching his face with her hand, curiously playing her palm and fingers over his lips and cheek. She traced her hand down, slowly, lingering.

At the brush of Corwynn’s hands against her back, Niccolette shifted forward, coming against him – only to make his task easier, of course. Her hands settled back against his torso once more, although she didn’t find his bare skin with her lips – not yet.

The line of buttons went from Niccolette’s neck all the way down her spine, small, covered with slippery red silk, each one taking its time to yield beneath Corwynn’s probing fingers. The dress was deceptively well-cut; it was tailored rather precisely to Niccolette’s figure, and it clung, lingeringly, long after the first few buttons were undone. In time, with the warmth of Corwynn’s torso against her, Niccolette settled her lips against his neck, and set about doing her best to distract him from his careful, delicate work.

She felt it, as much as he did, when the last of the dress gave way. Niccolette shifted, and eased her hands away from Corwynn, and tugged lightly at the sleeves, letting the last of the dress come free and tumble to the ground. She left it there, heedless of the delicate silk, and stepped carefully out of it. She wore a pale, delicate corset, only a few shades darker than her skin, a match to the rest of her undergarments. There was no hint of shame or shyness in Niccolette; she wore the underthings with as much easy confidence as she had the red dress.

They lingered, there, a little while; there was plenty to occupy them both. The laces of the corset were stubborn, too, when their time came, but not more stubborn than Corwynn. Niccolette had turned away to let him work, hands holding her loosened hair up off her back. She turned back unhesitatingly to Corwynn when he was done, hands lowering, hair tumbling down over her back and shoulders. She settled herself against him, no more concerned about the brush of dried blood against skin than she had been about the red silk, and claimed a kiss, properly this time, her hands finding new places to explore already.

Perhaps especially for a Brother, Niccolette was mostly unmarked; Corwynn had seen her in the midst of more than one fight, never hesitating, never flinching, but she had no more than a few scars on the pale canvass of her body, and despite the years in Mugroba, fewer freckles. The exception, of course, was the handprint on her left side, much larger than her own slender hands, and so distinct that one could nearly read the lifelines left behind, with the unmistakable raised edges of a burn scar. The little finger rested just above her hip; the thumb, at the top, was settled above her lower ribs.

Niccolette made no attempt to cover or conceal the scar; she would not flinch, or try to guide Corwynn’s hands away. She wore it – and all the rest of herself – as comfortably as she had the corset, and the red silk before it, as easy here as she had been before her mirror in the privacy of her room. There was no hesitation in her, no reluctance, not about the baring of her skin nor anything else. She did not need to white-knuckle herself through the brush of him against her skin, or hurry through it to have it done; she was more than content to linger, to enjoy, to leave all thoughts and worries and angers aside, even if just for this while.

[Corwynn]

14th of Roalis, 2717
KING'S COURTHOUSE | EVENING

If a life of privilege lived scorched and scorned—lived to a different kind of fullness than galdori society had ever intended—had taught Corwynn anything at all, it was, that one must not waste the good wine. While he had made plenty of mistakes in his four-odd decades, for the most part the blond galdor had managed to not squander what was meant to be savored and to discern what was worth savoring at all in the first place. There were, of course, times he simply chose not to care. There were, of course, other times he simply did as he pleased because power was often more alluring than just beauty. There were also other times when cheap thrills and less effort were simply more accessible and satisfying. There were, finally (and more often than not) regrets that followed, that he'd strung up and sailed on with because they were his either way.

Niccolette Ibutatu was good wine.

The Bastian hungry for the kind of vengeance that did not rend flesh or shatter bones was a woman meant to be savored, perhaps more so because Corwynn did not have to tie the bowline or the clove hitch for any of the consequences. Even if he did, honestly, he'd weathered worse storms than whatever possibly could have brewed on the horizon after this enjoyable, unexpected shared moment.

He made no comparisons, weighed no measures, and asked no impertinent questions. Contrary to assumptions, his enjoyment of Niccolette's invitation was not selfish or entirely self-indulgent, the older galdor experienced enough, perceptive enough, or at least considerate enough to not take advantage of what was given, having learned quite some time ago that pleasing oneself often sailed on better winds when one sought the pleasure of others.

Bruises and aches and dried blood aside, Corwynn let curiosities guide them both, and while he was at least academically aware that as a Living conversationalist, the young Bastian benefited from cellular growth and less propensity for permanent scarring thanks to her monic relationships, it was impossible to ignore the hand-shaped scar that sprawled like a brand across her torso, though he saved his pursuit of its origins for much later, perhaps especially because the dark-haired woman did not flinch or shy away from his exploratory touch.

Her level of comfort with such a scar in his company meant there were far better things to focus on with their bodies once there was only skin between them, and he found such confidence in wearing nothing else terribly alluring. Corwynn, for much of his life save perhaps what he'd spent at sea in Hawke's life debt, had mostly taken the luxury of choice when it came to scars, choosing more often than not to keep some visual, physical memory of things written in to the tattooed, freckled landscape of his flesh instead of magically fading injuries that could have been erased entirely. There were plenty of scars he wore that he didn't have that choice at all—his hand, a puckered old bullet hole in his thigh, and a few good cuts that probably had once needed stitches, but there were plenty he requested be left behind because they held meaning, because he wanted the memory. He was quite sure that the mark so detailed on Niccolette's otherwise lovely skin held meaning, that the mark had been made and no choices given, but it also seemed as though she'd also come to carry the weight of it with all the poise and shameless style of grace she carried everything else.

It wasn't until the languid lull of time well-spent that the blond gunman felt the need to ask. Not against prolonged post-coital company but also not the most dutiful of cuddlers when in situations that would otherwise have invited such attentions, Corwynn couldn't entirely help himself when it came to lingering with Niccolette. Not that lounging lazily was cuddling so much as recovering, slow moving with a soreness that was equally not meant to be confused with sentiment, rather content to catch a moment of stillness while pulses slowed and sweaty, flushed skin cooled, sprawled unapologetically in one of the quiet, out-of-the way room's chairs to trace the index finger of his less whole hand along the raised outline of the only real mark on the Bastian's now very-known body.

It was more his still-bright, blue-eyed glance to her face that asked any real question than the actual husky use of his voice, but as his hand, calloused by years at sea, drew away slowly and he shifted in awareness that he'd eventually have to stand up, gather clothing, lace a corset, and thread delicate buttons back through red silk, he no longer avoided the obvious,

"I can only guess that was a man's hand," She was a petite creature, not delicate so much as elegant. Corwynn didn't feel like fishing for answers coyly. He didn't want to draw out answers the way so many folks often skirted around the twisted scar tissue that was all that remained of his tenth finger, "there on your side. Was it purposeful or backlash?"

He might have even been able to guess whose, but the other galdor was not interested in naming the husband she'd sought so enjoyably to crush the heart of with their bodies, preferring to be direct and without his more sensual form of coyness. Magically speaking, he existed as an moderately-disciplined galdor comfortable with his own gods-granted abilities but also achingly aware of all of the risks he took in his Bad Brother career, stretching thin the boundaries of decent monic companionship and just plain illegal magic, if not the purposeful downplaying of noble uses when necessary. The blond galdor sighed, stretching with obvious reluctance before he began to shift and move toward standing, accommodating and without any haste,

"Did you choose to keep it?"

Corwynn added the last question almost quieter still because, in his own way, he understood far too many of the possible answers.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 14 Roalis, 2717
The King’s Courthouse, the Wharf

Niccolette’s eyes were half-shut; she was sprawled, comfortably, listening to nothing but the even inhale and exhale of her breath, aware of the press of warm, bare skin against her. She could smell sweat in the air, tinged with the faint coppery undertone of blood.

Niccolette could still feel sensation against the burn on her side. She had not been able to, not at first. Nerve damage, the living conversationalist thought, sleepily, feeling the trace of Corwynn’s finger against the skin. It had taken the nerves a long time to recover, and they were not as they had been. But, then, nothing in her was; why should they be any different?

She could feel his finger, but there was something different about the touch. It wasn’t easy to describe. Nothing about it tingled, Niccolette thought; that was the best way she had come up with to find the words for it. She could have traced the path of the finger – she felt it, certainly – but there was a sharp, noticeable difference in sensation at the edges of the burn.

Niccolette’s eyes fluttered open in time to catch Corwynn’s glance. She raised her eyebrows at him, lightly, and yawned in response to the question he asked, settling back into place. Purposeful or backlash, he asked. Niccolette made a little face, slightly distasteful, and shut her eyes again. What a silly question. Why should it be or?

Purposeful or backlash. Well, it would be strange enough to have deliberately carved a burn scar the size of a man’s hand into her side – and yet, Niccolette thought, that was very nearly what she had done. She had known, as she cast, as she held Uzoji to herself, as she felt the first beginnings of heat against her hand, the numbness and tingling in her fingers, as she had watched the snow melt in the heated air around her – purposeful indeed. And yet, of course it had been backlash.

Niccolette was much more aware of the loss of Corwynn’s warmth against her. She shifted, and sighed when he pulled away, stretching herself, bare toes pointed. Her eyes opened again, and her gaze fixed on him again at his second question, more curiously this time. He wasn’t quite rising yet; Niccolette was still well aware of him against her. But he was beginning to rise, and as comfortable as the moment had been, Niccolette was just as glad for it to end. She could not quite imagine cuddling with Corwynn. It would be like cuddling with a maja’wa, one of the great leathery beasts that lined the Turga, although Corwynn was far more pleasing to look at.

Niccolette shifted herself upright, easing back comfortably against the head of the chair. She pushed her hair back off her face, combing her fingers through it, and eased the long mass of it down over her shoulder. She began to work at it, steadily, comfortably, fingers well experienced in sorting through post-coital knots. Her softly lidded gaze remained on Corwynn.

“I have not tried to get rid of it,” Niccolette said. Her hair was long enough to half-cover the scar, but she made no particularly effort to do so; discussing it made her no more self-conscious than the sight, or the feeling of Corwynn’s hand against it. She shrugged, hair shifting over her bare front. “I doubt I could.” The living conversationalist said, practically. She knew something of skin, and scars.

“It was backlash, of course,” Niccolette added with a half-yawn. If not for the second question, she doubted she would have deigned the first with a response; certainly Corwynn’s comment about the hand belonging to a man was – and would continue to be – well-ignored. “But that is not to say it was not purposeful.” Niccolette smiled.

There was no shame in her at the backlash. She had chosen; she had known what she had done. She remembered well the fear of waking up without the mona, the frustration and difficulty that had followed the loss of her field, of her connection with them. Even then, frightened and weak, her breath half-shuttered in her chest, she had not felt ashamed; even then, she had not felt regret.

“And you?” Niccolette pushed her hair back over her forehead again, and sat up, slightly; fingers crept over a scar on Corwynn’s back, puckered skin where some blade had bit deep. They traced down, slowly, not so much sensual as curious, following the lines where his history had bit in deep. “Surely not all of these were without choice.” Niccolette murmured. She saw scars that she herself – if she wished – could have swept away. Unless the scar tissue inhibited function, most healers were hesitant to perform such cosmetic procedures – but there were plenty willing to do that or more, and Niccolette had little doubt that a man such as Corwynn was capable of finding such.

Like the teeth of a maja’wa, Niccolette thought, studying the scars on his back. “Is it for vanity that you keep them?” Niccolette asked with a wicked little grin. The words could have stung, but she did not think they would, not for Corwynn.

[Corwynn]

14th of Roalis, 2717
KING'S COURTHOUSE | EVENING

"Nor should you." Corwynn was quick to exhale the syllables, interjecting while he watched deft hands in dark hair without bothering to hide the distraction from his expression. He hummed a noise of agreement—empathetic but not prying—when Niccolette answered his questions with such simplicity. His curiosity, like his physical appetite, had been sated in her confirmation that what remained etched into her lovely skin was an important memory, and he smiled back at her lack of shame in its earning, fully aware of the delicate balance galdori often chose to strike with their magical abilities.

A fair brow quirked at her riposte, broad shoulders relaxing beneath the revisiting of some old misadventure left behind where he could no longer see it beneath Niccolette's fingertips, eyes fluttering shut as he traveled back over the tumultuous summer storms of the Tincta Basta, wading through sea battles and sharp edges with a slow exhale—not because he was sentimental. The older galdor had laid sentiment down years, if not decades, ago (in his own way, anyway) as far as he was concerned. But stubbornly, he kept records of his exploits, whether successes or failures, perhaps because he'd long ago accepted he had no interest in leaving behind any other sort of legacy.

He knew the dent in his flesh the dark-haired woman passed over and the other fainter scars beneath, and he knew the way the vertebrae not far from her fingers ached in the bitter chill of Ophus because of the damage that had been wrought by a gaff hook rending muscle and bone. He remembered the broken face of the poor sodding ersehole that had tried to gut him from behind, too, the broken face that went far too many days without water or food on the way back to the Rose. He knew the way that bastard had suffered in his stead. But he also knew the insatiable heat of infection, and, as her fingers traced lower still, he knew all the other stories she happened to casually meander over, stories he'd refused to erase from leaving some part of their experience behind.

He had thought to stand and dress, but Niccolette's touch wandered over history and Corwynn glanced almost idly toward his hands. They'd both been whole and smooth once. Perhaps, for a few years of his youth, they might have even been proper, but, honestly? No, probably not even then.

"Vanity?"

The blond gunman laughed, soft and deep, muscle and sinew moving beneath the varied landscape of his skin. Her question didn't insult him—quite the contrary: His answer was hardly hesitant, and bore no shame in the honesty. The King's Taxman appreciated the opportunity to be more than just out of his clothing with pleasant company, but surprisingly transparent, too, "Maybe more than just a little, yes. Vanity. Pride. Both, I'd say. I take satisfaction in the physical reminder that I still live, especially when I know that it's clocking likely whoever left that mark or that one—" He shifted beneath her touch to put examples in her view, indicating his victories, though it was obvious in the depths of his voice that not every mark he'd allowed to remain was something he considered a win, "—or that one didn't."

The older galdor grinned back, sharp and no less wicked, before his crystalline blue gaze slipped away from the petite Bastian's pretty, knowing expression, curling the remaining fingers of his right hand against his calloused palm, still quite aware of the strange sensation of his body remembering what was now missing after his unconventional casting earlier this evening—was it the mona who found it amusing to remind him?

"And I'm not ashamed to keep a record of my failures, too. I don't have any heirs to tell these stories once I'm just another godsbedamned corpse at the bottom of the Harbor, so I might as well tell 'em myself until I can't anymore."

Rather deep thoughts to be delivered off the lips of a man hardly dressed, and Corwynn shrugged as if to dismiss them, leaning his head back to stare at the shadows that clung to the ceiling meticulously kept free of curling paint and letting his thumb lightly brush over the scar that so boldly decorated the rest of Niccolette's no less enjoyable shape,

"Some things are worth keeping the evidence of." Even when they're evidences of your regrets, even when they're evidences of things long gone and long past he meant to add, but didn't, resisting the urge to wax too conversational, to reveal too much of the reality of an emotional inner life that Corwynn had simply learned to keep to himself. He chuckled instead, reluctantly untangling his body from the young Bastian's and ignoring the sore protest of his side, hands lingering on skin he was quite aware he wouldn't be touching again with the same sort of freedoms,

"I don't think you entirely disagree." The blond galdor found his feet again, not as suavely steady as he'd have liked, and made some semblance of polite use of himself, gathering articles of clothing that had been so hastily discarded. He did so without rushing—he had nowhere to be but perhaps his own bed at this point,

"That's a mark of both—failure and success—I'd venture to guess, but I won't begrudge you a hint of Hurte's own striped vanity for wearing it as shamelessly as you do." Corwynn grinned again, arranging fabric, bloodied and ruined.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 14 Roalis, 2717
The King’s Courthouse, the Wharf

Niccolette had arched an eyebrow at Corwynn’s comment, but she chose to let it pass by. She supposed she ought not to be surprised that the galdor was audacious; audacity was something of a requirement, given his career choices. She understood he had meant it as a compliment, but Niccolette, too, lived a life with fewer masters than most, even if she, too, had learned it was not so easy to have none. She cared little for Corwynn’s idea of what she should do with her body, except for where it directly concerned him, and even then she valued her own opinion considerably more than his.

Niccolette watched Corwynn laugh, and admired the ripple of muscle beneath tanned scarred skin, as shamelessly as he had looked at her hair not a few moments ago. She kept her fingers on him when he shifted, drifting them over that mark or that one, scarcely shy even when sated. She grinned, because she thought she had known the answer before she had asked. She grinned, because she understood, and because she thought he knew it.

Niccolette made a faint little face at the mention of heirs. There were many things she could have said - what makes you think should have any interest in telling your stories, rather than their own? Who are you to ask that of them? But she did not care enough to argue the point; it seemed to her something of a moot one, regardless. Corwynn was welcome to sort out his issues another time; Niccolette was not unaware that she had her own, and not unaware that they perhaps touched on this precise issue rather closely.

The Bastian chose to smile at the brush of Corwynn’s hand against her scar, looking down at it, and then back at him. She made no effort to keep skin against skin; he eased away without protest, although Niccolette did yawn and stretch once more, never unaware of her own contours, and perhaps particularly not now.

“You are welcome to venture,” Niccolette said casually. She shrugged, looking down at the scar. She set her hand to it again, slowly, and smiled. “I think it unwise to refuse the price that the mona ask you to pay.” Niccolette said, looking back up at Corwynn. She went back to combing her fingers through her hair, teasing the knots from it. She supposed it was not so different from Hawke, really. The comparison felt sacrilegious and somewhat insulting, although Niccolette could not quite have said to whom.

They were warned, she thought, even as children. There were dangers. She had seen them first hand, dueling in Brunnhold, in the world beyond - had experienced backlash more than once herself. The successes and failures had to be taken in stride; the mona were what they were. They had no respect for indignation, which Niccolette found quite reasonable. Why should they?

And there would be greater prices to pay, in time. Many living conversationalists ended their lives to strange growths inside the body, which impeded its function. Some could be cut away; many could not. One fought; one had the right to fight. But any galdor who called upon the mona for all their life and then begrudged the payment of their debt in the end, Niccolette thought rather a coward.

Niccoleyte brushed her hair back over her head and rose. She set to finding her things as well; she did not seek Corwynn out, but neither did she shy away from the brush of their bare bodies. In time, Niccolette turned to him, corset settled against her front, and lifted her hair up in her hands. The gold wedding ring on her finger glinted in the low light; she wore it as shamelessly as all the rest.

“Some things are worth keeping the evidence of,” Niccolette agreed. She took a deep breath, and let it out long and slow, feeling the first pull of the corset against her ribs. “Shame is all the more reason to do so. Hiding it does not lessen the sting; it might mask it, of course, but there is always a cost.”

[Corwynn]

14th of Roalis, 2717
KING'S COURTHOUSE | EVENING

"As the King's Taxman, I can't argue against that sentiment—at least from a sorcerous perspective." Corwynn replied quietly, though he might have looked down at his stained clothing to mask the frown that creased its way into his well-aged features at such an admission. He knew enough about debts, though paying them was sometimes a more complicated affair, depending on who one was. Or who one owed. He'd seen his fair share of backlash, been forced to brail more than once, and felt the various consequences of overstepping his abilities, but, honestly, he'd never entirely felt such results of risks he'd taken unfair. He'd heard plenty of opposite complaints when he came to collect from those who owed Silas Hawke, however, and all sorts of excuses one simply couldn't give the sentient particles he'd been born with the ability to communicate with at will.

Ultimately, everything had a price.

Corwynn had simply learned to weigh value in underworld currency and blood instead of in concords and red tape.

He couldn't begrudge the mona for putting up with him, either, honestly, and though the blond galdor had spent much of his life shirking the standards of etiquette and respect expected of the sole heir of the Wynngate name and business capitol, investments, and reputation, he'd learned the hard way as a student not to take lightly the respect the mona demanded of his desire to call upon its will. Where he'd chosen when and where to temper his behavior, his opinions, and his actions moving like a predator among his peers—a predator on Silas' leash, none the less—he'd had his boundaries defined, built upon, and reinforced when it came to the sorcerous path he'd not shied away from.

One couldn't pilot an airship and not make concessions to the mona required to keep it from exploding. It was, perhaps, the one relationship Corwynn had learned to maintain with any real sense of responsibility and emotional attachment, after all. It was, in his opinion, the one relationship worth the price.

The motion of putting on his shirt was much more of a reminder of his previous injury and subsequent healing, of how purposeful his lack of rest had been, but it wasn't as if the Taxman had any particular regrets, either. He hissed and frowned, well-weathered features creasing more in displeasure over the state of his clothing in the end than the ache of dressing, but before he bothered with buttons, he leaned against the dark-stained wood of the tastefully stocked liquor cabinet that had been thoughtfully made part of the small, under-lit room and poured himself a new glass of whatever looked sufficient for the moment.

His crystalline gaze followed the petite Bastian as she ran fingers through her hair and sorted her clothing, though it wasn't out of sentiment so much as opportunity, smiling from over the rim of his drink once presented with the pleasing curve of her spine and the wordless request to retie her corset. Setting amber liquid down, Corwynn was no stranger to the art of such things, nine fingers just as deft as they'd already proven themselves elsewhere, though much more proper in this endeavor.

"Some, yes."

The older galdor agreed in his own way, as unconcerned as ever about the glitter of gold on her finger and the meaning it may have held for Niccolette, let alone for Uzoji. Or what meaning it didn't hold, either, really. It wasn't as though he'd bothered to let such social and legal contracts define his boundaries when such things didn't suit him. If he had any opinions on what wasn't worth remembering, he felt no need to overshare, having shared plenty already, but his words from over her shoulder were quiet enough to almost have the flavor of advice, but it was most likely the alcohol that lingered on his tongue and not at all his actual intention to be that kind of friend, irregardless of how many angry wives' beds he'd seen between the sheets of,

"Nothing good ever comes of leaving things to fester, of course." Corwynn's smirk could be heard in the warm lilt of his baritone, blue eyes straying to his own less than whole hand as he finished the last ties of the young woman's corset. So many grains were worth so little at their harvest, but once they'd been left to ferment, the prices demanded for the results were expensive indeed. Leaning away, he chose not to reach back for his drink, turning his attention to the buttons of his bloodied shirt, "Whether those things are in plain sight or not."

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 14 Roalis, 2717
The King’s Courthouse, the Wharf

Corwynn drew the comparison himself, unabashed, or at least outwardly so. Niccolette wondered what he thought, if he found the mona a harsher master than his King. She was a Brother, of course; she understood the choices they had made, and what they might demand of her. But she saw Hawke only rarely; they operated beneath him, but with their independence all the same.

Who was easier to serve? Niccolette wondered. Both, she thought, had to be faced down; neither could be submitted to, lest they never listen again. Was it better to be able to explain? Niccolette thought not; there was a simplicity, a purity, to communing with the mona. They judged your intent, your will and your words; they took what you said and brought it into the world. The rules were those you made yourself; none other could intrude upon them but that you allowed it.

Niccolette wove her fingers into her hair, and held it upright, waiting patiently enough for Corwynn to set his drink down and come over.

”Mmm,” Niccolette said, in response to the man’s thinly-veiled advice about a marriage not his own. She did not turn to look meaningfully at Corwynn; she did not bother. She felt him pull the last of the laces into place, and lowered her hands, long loose locks tumbling over her back. She went to the crumpled, stained red dress, and smoothed her hand over it, grinning. Well worth it, Niccolette thought, a little smugly.

”Scars split evenly,” Niccolette said; she stepped into the dress, and pulled the long sleeves over her arms, settling it against her shoulders. She let Corwynn finish his drink, and beckoned him over with a little smile, letting him do up again all the buttons he had so carefully taken apart.

”The body remembers,” Niccolette murmured. ”They say bones heal stronger for the breaking; perhaps it is so. But we know where we were taken apart, especially when infection is left to linger.”

Niccolette lowered her hands when Corwynn finished the last of the buttons. ”I do not abide festering,” she said, smiling. ”Better to have it out, and see what healing can be done.”

The Bastian did not linger; she was not the sort to kiss a lover good bye. She swept from the room in crumpled red silk, and from there away; there was no regret in her, nor shame. She had set her course and followed it true; if the weapon she had found to wield was double-edged, there was no trace of pain to be found. Perhaps it was only that it was worth it, to her; perhaps it was the splitting open of a festering wound, temporary pain for a greater relief.

If Niccolette had such thoughts, they did not show either. Instead, there was a small, easy smile on her face as she drew up her hood and stepped out into the night; instead, there was an ease to her demeanor as she made her way into the night, and headed home.