I was taken to a play last night by a dear companion. Well, myself and those closest to me. It was to be one of highlights of the season — a political satire, an almost comic take on recent events.

It fell flat on several accounts: firstly, it was not remotely funny, nor satirical – it bordered heavily on slapstick, and not in a pleasant way. Secondly, the glamor and splendor of fashion seemed more gilded than true – typical of court certainly, but more befitting of an opera than a comedy. That was a disappointment in its own right, to see Sturrish trends in fashion favored more than Kergazini ones. It is to be expected of the rich and powerful, but still. And, thirdly, on account of the piece being downright insulting, the hard earned coin of my companions and I – what little of it we spent – was wasted.

Beyond that, it mangled the story it sought to tell – my own story and that of my friends.

It is never a pleasant experience to see yourself depicted as self-centered or wailing or waifish or manipulative, lascivious – or as the butt of every joke. There was not a shred of accuracy in the tale.

It made my skin crawl and my stomach knot and my blood boil then and it does now. I suppose we were lucky no one spotted us in the crowd, or, if they did, paid little mind to our presence. After all, how could rumored revolutionaries afford tickets to the premier theatre event of the social calendar of the wealthy elite?

I am lucky that our wealthiest companion – the one who acquired the tickets – is no fool. Our obvious discomfort, for we all were quite disturbed, made swift work of our stay in our seats. We left at intermission and, instead, had a lovely time waltzing through the city at night and admiring bookstores and antique stores from afar. I admit, in the latter pastime of window shopping, I was on my own, but no one jested about it.

Not in the mood we were all in, sour and miffed.

I couldn’t help but wonder – and I still do wonder – if this is what the public thinks of us. That they see us merely as naive children, let loose on the world of politics because we were bored, instead of ground down and desperate for change. That all we were, all we are, is a quartet of chaos, harbingers of ill fortune and misery, meant to be ridiculed.

Last night, I drifted off in a bed that was not my own, in a house not my own, fretting. Does the world, well and truly, see me as some scatter-brained fool hellbent on seducing her way to power? Do they think that is how I cemented myself academically or how I aided my companions in our quest for reform? By showing skin? By being just some pretty smile in the background?

I was haunted by this last night. Utterly haunted. So haunted, in fact, that not long into my fitful lack of rest, I slunk out.

Now, climbing onto roofs has always been my most reckless habit – save one other, according to a close confidant. And, yet, it is a habit I indulge all too frequently, mostly to the concern of my family.

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The rooftop of the house I slept at, in particular, is lovely, with warm clay shingles, and window arches creating flat alcoves. In short, it was a perfect place for me to perch.

Now, how does one get onto a manor roof? Well, I am rather fond of climbing up using vine-covered siding or window access, but this house has a handful of balconies only just below the start of the tiles. Climbing the rest of the way was simple, if, admittedly, dangerous.

❂

The air changes at such an altitude and reduces breath to puffs of cold air, faintly visible. That is the only reason I realized someone had joined me – a hiss of breathing that resembled city fog for all of a moment creeping up past the edge of the shingles.

“Room for one more?”

I almost kicked his fingers from their grip on the tiles as he pulled himself up. He just laughed at my expression.

“You know full well–.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, still amused, “I know only so many people who would climb up to the roof of my ancestral home, myself included. I need not ask. But,” here he grins, “you must admit, it was funny.”

Here I will admit – it was, in some strange way. That earned him an arched eyebrow, though, “Funny, perhaps. But unnecessary, Astari. Truly.”

“You only think it was unnecessary because you didn’t think of it first, my little friend.”

“I’m sorely regretting not kicking you now, you know.”

He simply guffaws, the sound faintly breathless from his climb. He’s settled himself on the opposite end of the alcove, a divot between two windows, their arches providing ample support.

He’s sitting as comfortably as this were his favored wingback chair from the library, his legs fully extended and crossed, his elbows resting on the brickwork and shingles. He’s languid, catlike, graceful.

The toe of one of his boots, a scuffed black kidskin, nudges against my shoulder. I keep my gaze very pointedly focused on counting the tiling on the roof, tracing the clay under my hands, rather than looking at him. I am a scientist for the gods’ sake – not a schoolgirl.

He breaks the easy silence, “What were you planning on contemplating on your lonesome tonight, little hare?”

I snort, derisively, “World politics.” My voice sounds odd and flat, even to me. I begin the process of biting a fingernail. I need to be distracted.

“World politics? We’ve had enough of those for a lifetime. What’s really going on in that head of yours, Tillis?”

“Tonight.” I say on a breath and I hear him heave a tired sigh, “It got me thinking. About public image, about what the people know. About what they don’t.”

“I figured as much, jackrabbit.” His voice sounds almost as weary, as breathless, as exhausted as mine.

He steadies himself and swings his legs off the alcove, settling in a cross-legged sit. He thinks on it, then turns and inches his way next to me. He interlocks his fingers with mine, “The public, the people, who cares what they think? It is not something they lived through, now is it? It is none of their business what we went through, however much they want to know.”

He says it with such conviction that I am almost startled. This is the side of Astari I rarely glimpse – the side that clearly fuels much of his writing, the side shaped by a family who knows what loss is and knows how to come back from it.

He squeezes my hand, lifts it to his mouth and kisses it, holding my gaze steady. His eyes – the right gray-blue, the left, mossy green – are sure, true. They betray nothing for he hides nothing. This is him, raw and honest and without his magic or his cosmetics and jewels or his witty barbs.

I can only stammer out a response, my throat feeling strangely tight and my face hot. And, then, he says, “The world will never deserve the full story. Not when they seek to change it. If they wish for it that badly, they will get it in its honesty.”

He drops my hand, closes the distance between us, and kisses the top of my head with all the reverence he might apply to setting an altar in his family’s temple.

We stay on the roof till morning, enjoying the view from the widow’s walk, and then creep down at dawn.

And, now, I write this from the comfort of the solar. A room with memories of its own. If I squint, I can find bloodstains on the chaise lounge, even now. It is a room with its own steady pulse.

Breakfast and lunch came and went and so did Astari. Today, his latest publications must be delivered by mail. He has flitted in and out of his own house like a ghost, running from home to post office with papers and, at one point, with his typewriter case slung across his shoulder.

But I know he will return.

He always does.