April 9th, 1907

Things have been hectic. Suffice to say, the political situation of this country has been creeping towards the positively topsy turvy.

It’s fascinating, in the same way watching a train crash from a distance may be. Fascinating, a little awe-inducing, but perilous and fatal.

And my best friend – my oldest friend – has just become a victim to this fragile state of living, of walking on eggshells in court. Rad did not need to ask twice. The moment I received the letter I saddled a horse and rode off for the capital. Now, I am here, perched on the edge of a bed that is not my own, taking hospitality I have no right to partake in.

And being someone’s rock in a hurricane. The letter did not do things justice. She is beyond gaunt, beyond a shell. For someone normally so tough, she didn’t take this well. And, how can I blame her?

It is not that she is hard to look at – far from it. She never has been. But, it is hard to reconcile the image of her, depriving herself of sleep and comfort, with the smiling, star-touched girl I seen not even last week. And I do not mind it. She needs to stop bottling herself up till she cracks. It is none of my business when or how she does. I just need to be a blazing hearth for her, a place to rest her head. A home for her to return to.

And that is what I will be, what I have been.

The moment she seen me, she nearly collapsed into my arms. We didn’t speak for a time; simply, we sat in each other’s company, appreciating the strange kinship between us. If there were tears shed, neither of us minded. We existed in the proximity between us and only there. The world seemed to just drop away.

It still doesn’t feel concrete, the universe beyond her rooms. I doubt it will until I leave. Good. Excellent, even.

She did not need to talk, even when she did. I would’ve accepted our silence as enough – as more than enough. Her voice, gods above, seemed more wrecked than the rest of her – the waxy hue to her, normally rich tan skin, the faraway look in her eyes, the full-body tremors. The gaunt way her clothes seem to hang off of her, loose and ill-fitting – barely, but it’s a noticeable thing.

But, her voice—

She didn’t sound like herself. I daresay I almost flinched. It was the telltale rasp one associates with plague survivors, rough and hoarse.

“I know I have no right to the feeling, but I felt – I feel – betrayed. He was always supposed to sit in my corner, wasn’t he?”

“If he was half as good a friend as he claimed to be, then, yes – yes, he was.”

Her voice cracks, then, “So why wasn’t he?”

I, tentatively, reach out a hand, to lay on her shoulder, to offer comfort. I pull back just a hairsbreadth away.

She looks at me, eyes pleading, “Why?”

I don’t want to shrug or pull away, but it is what I do anyway. I am full of cowardice and anguish, for her – always for her.

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair, which is already messy – I’ve only succeeded in making it messier, “I don’t know. But, one lapse in judgment–.”

“Was enough to potentially destroy any credibility I may ever have.”

“I know, dear. I was going to say that for him, it will seem trivial. He could do what he pleases without a thought. Perhaps tell him. If he’s a better friend than he is a prince, he will listen. He ought to.”

She buries her head in her hands, with a weary sound – not quite sigh, not quite groan. To be frank, her frustration is evident and warranted. I would not blame her if she decided to, potentially, verbally eviscerate the crown prince, regardless of consequence.

It’s high time someone knocked the man down a peg. What kind of king does he think he will make, drowning his sorrows and coin in drinks, in tasteless, gaudy things? Surely, not a good one. The royal treasury will find itself empty if he’s left to his own devices, sooner rather than later. A debaucherous soiree every night would bankrupt us so fast, it would make heads spin.

I can only hope he’s kinder in conversation than he is in high society – I can only hope he resembles himself when drunk when he is amongst friends. The man is lost, inhibited. Dare I say emotional and open and…kind?

He seems to care less when inebriated, a quality both good and bad. For her sake – and his, by extension – I hope it's the good kind when he gets a talking to from someone nearly a head shorter than him. It will be quite a sight, I’m sure.

I look forward to seeing him look, almost, sheepish. It’s not something that would suit his face, handsome as it is – all chiseled jaw and broad, curved nose, arched brows and pointed sneer. He is, as I’m sure has been said countless times, a beauty for the ages – a man who stepped straight out a painting or from the pages of a storybook. If only he weren’t, well, him.

And, if he wasn't the way he is, I could see myself swooning for him, sympathizing with him, being another easily swayed, easier seduced conquest. Not that he would look twice at another man. A pity for him. Another pity he should think a childhood friend is worth anything less (else?) than the very stars in the sky, the constellations that spell fate in the cosmos.

As it is, he isn't worth it — for her or me. He never was. A cruel, narrow-minded young man with a habit of excess and carelessness. He won't be worth it, even till the day he dies.

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But, I cannot tell her that. She must come to her own conclusions, make her own choices. I trust her, now and always.

Finally, I close that gap and slowly, gently hug her. She pulls away and so do I, until she grins a weak, watery grin and nods.

We stay with each other for hours. It is nice to know that there is someone looking out for you.

And, it is a comfort to know that crows never forget a face.

❂

April 10th, 1907

Someway, somehow, the Broadhearth Institute is more prone to gossip than court itself.

Perhaps it isn’t surprising, but it is somewhat startling. Or at least, startling enough for someone like me, who hasn’t stepped foot in the place since I was fourteen. And what a time that was – I can’t say I miss it much, emotionally charged as it was.

This place still smells of leather and parchment, aging tomes and paper, the occasional scent of ink or smoke or something chemical lingering on the air. It is an intellectual’s paradise, even now.

In another life, I might’ve ended up in these walls, walking halls hallowed by academics, authors, scientists and scholars of legend. Perhaps, but it doesn’t do me much good to rely solely on hypotheticals.

Rad and I still would’ve worked together, everything would’ve fallen into place just so. I would’ve worn a pair of tortoise shell spectacles and spoken like a pretentious ass, but that is, largely, the only difference.

Well, that, and the fact that I would’ve seen her every day. Instead of solely hearing from her through letters and passing glances.

I only prattle on because I’ve stayed stuck to her side, like a particularly stubborn barnacle on the side of a ship’s hull. Which is to say, I’ve rarely left the room without her. To say none of us have strayed from her is the truth. It is not to protect her, but rather to protect whomever (whoever?) decides to look at her the wrong way.

Here, I will – with great reluctance – admit that it is to protect her, if only a bit. It’s not that she’s fragile – she is anything but – but, it is that she is being judged. And none of us – myself, her cousin and his companions – will tolerate it.

When I was fourteen, this place felt so much grander, so much larger – in short, a respectable, majestic place to be treated with something bordering on reverence.

Now, with the majority of my circle knee-deep in research and classes – significantly more-so than when we were all gangly, awkward and much younger – I see it for what it is. A place to cultivate, yes, but also a place to stunt growth, and, sometimes, foster something other than trust between acquaintances.

This, it seems, is no different. I do not lament not coming here often when all I cared about at fourteen was my own anger and how I was changing, rapidly. How I fought the change keenly, and how I bucked it off.

It’s funny, because so young, I was prone to being snappish and brooding and all sorts of negative. Most wouldn’t me that way now. Perhaps it was science, but likely it was my own folly. I was thrown into the deep end of research, myself – politics and family history and medical records and surgical procedures, even old magic. All for one goal. A goal that I had achieved only days prior to that fateful visit. It left me in a strange place, teetering from giddiness to loathing.

My sleep suffered because of it. It is no wonder that I was so abrasive and careless to my dearest friend when I was in such a state. Ripe for angst, my father joked, barely a year ago, that’s what our ‘steri was.

To say we got off on the wrong foot is, admittedly, a gross understatement. We got along as well as dragons sharing territory – which is to, more aptly say, not at all. I know now that Rad, who had, at the time, become a new friend, if not an ally, was highly amused by our verbal sparring – his younger cousin and his (eventual) colleague engaging each other in a convoluted battle of wits.

One thing that stuck with me – and I regret that I said it, I really do, is that I asked her: “Do you study myth too? Considering that’s all that’s left of your parents, after all.”

The slight should’ve gone unforgiven. Really, it was an awful, callous thing to come out of my mouth. My own issues were no excuse. It wasn’t just a battle of wits anymore. I had declared all out war. And, I left, head hanging. You’d be surprised at just how vicious she can be, really. I certainly was. I left shell-shocked, ego bruised – and, yet, some part of me wanted another go.

But, I’m not surprised anymore. I know better. On the carriage ride home – my father had insisted on taking it, as it was the whole family traveling to the institute to visit my dear cousin, a scientist himself – I furiously scrawled a letter out. A weak, flailing and frantic apology all rolled up in the request of, ‘I think we could be friends, if we don’t try and tear out each other’s jugulars first. Care to try it?’

I lived the rest — it’s history, now. But, what isn’t history is her pain, visceral and palpable. I will not let my friend be slandered, and I will not let my skills go to waste.

It’s time to uproot our dear, darling Crocus. It’s time I stopped putting my head down – it’s time I used my journalism for something other than half-baked political satire that’s more banal than biting. Enough with the commentary. I could do with making a real change, like the contract offered me to. It waits in my desk drawer.

Perhaps I’ll finally dirty my hands a little. I think it would suit me rather nicely.

❂

April 10th, 1907

Dearest,

All these years later, I am still not sure how I am forgiven. I remain in awe of that particular decision of yours – and if I do not live in awe, I live dumbfounded.

That aside, I want to say how unbelievably appalled I am at the actions of more than a few normally (somewhat) respectable journalists. Appalled, anguished, enraged and horrified, really. They have no right to stoop so low, to completely fabricate this.

I will not stand for it. I know that, normally, when one of us says that we are going to find out who Crocus is, it is meant as jest.

For me, it is anything but. I will be writing to Edgar shortly, to see if he has any suspicions. I should hope he does. He’s a good man, with a nose like a bloodhound – especially for something so important as anonymous sourcing and journalistic integrity.

I should not ramble. Rather, I find myself more preoccupied than usual. Mostly with how you fare. I know you are better than when I arrived and when I left, likely not long ago at the time of you reading this. But, I still find myself concerned. Crocus is merely the mouthpiece of a group of people looking to mindlessly entertain themselves – although, occasionally there are some good political cartoons to get out of it, I will admit.

Whoever they are, they deserve your scrutiny, but the full force of your rage should be reserved for others, darling. Let it tear through them like a forest fire. Let it consume when it needs to, but remember, do not let it burn everything.

Destruction is something far more effective when measured.

Yrs, always,

A, Lorens (your most beloathed)

❂

April 11th, 1907. Unsent, still resting in an envelope.

My loathsome friend,

I will not say you are wrong about destruction – simply it is more satisfying to leave nothing in your wake.

What Crocus said and what they insinuated about me no doubt stung. But it stings less and less by the day. I find it isn’t so stifling to enter a room and have all eyes gravitate to me with Rad or Et or Tasl by my side.

You as well, though you are gone now.

Aside from the incident, I’ve been feeling stagnant, like too-still waters.

The restlessness has started to return again. I can only hope to hear from the doctor soon. Otherwise, I will be left with nothing.

Your dearest,

1. Fernsby.

P.S. For the first time, I wasn’t sure how to sign off a letter. So, thank you for that.

❂

March, 15th 1907

Enclosed is the proper coin for compensation, along with the other materials to convince you. You know what to do. The locks are only so strong. Only take enough to fill a thimble — barely — halfway. Suspicion is to be avoided.

Pick the bottle according to preference. But do it discreetly. Do it with haste.

You know what hangs in the balance.