3rd of April, 1907
I suppose it is warranted I say: happy Damaskhein. Or is it merry? I can never get it right. No matter.
It is late, but I can afford to be awake for a few more hours. I can go to bed at 3 chimes. No need to fret.
I have never been one for parties, as I’m sure has been surmised. That is not to say scientists do not like socializing in public. I, personally, find I don’t have the constitution for small talk or politics.
Growing up, there was something otherworldly, magical, enchanted about the palace. Courtiers, though biased, had always said that laughter sang in the hallowed halls of the court. That it transcended anything normal – bliss, sadness, anger were heightened inside its wall. Emotions seemed to break their own solid realities. For whatever reason, ever gullible as I was, I believed it. Took to the myth like a duck takes to water.
I hear it is something they still tell children.
But, now, I know better. There is no music in the walls, no bright magic thrumming through it. Not the benevolent kind, anyhow. Every emotion is heightened, all right. But nothing is, was, or, will ever be beautiful. Court distorts everything, I’ve found – people drunk on fine spirits from around the country and world, gossiping and preening.
There is, well and truly, nothing real about the affairs of the court.
That is in part why I was barred from attending anything more lavish than a breakfast. To be honest, I was rather thankful for it.
So, as I stood high above the ballroom earlier this evening, I couldn't help but think: why?
There was something brewing, something wrong, but it’s not a student’s job to know, now, is it? Only to learn. As if that stopped curious young scholars from going toe-to-toe with dragons or sea serpents or any manner of creature.
Once again, I am thankful that my mentor is the one scouting the wilds, searching for any ancient evidence of creatures who may have lived on this end of the continent. That he’s the one emphasizing the bio- in biochemist and not I. Truly, I don’t know how Geven does it – the man has the patience of the gods on his side.
I won’t discredit the fact that I am not used to formal wear — or, more clearly put, evening gowns. Labs require little in the way of fashion, hence my skirts with fraying hems and lab coats covered with stains and the occasional burn mark and ink on the sleeves.
While I dress in ways some would consider fashionable, they are not elegant – they are strictly practical and necessary. It is not the layers of undergarments and petticoats that deter me from being comfortable – those I’m used to – but, it's the feel of silk against what little of my skin is in contact with the material. Compared to the old wools and linens I wear, it's a strangely fluid fabric. I like it.
Not that my preferences in fabric matter. No, what matters is understanding that my choice – or, better put, forced hand – in fashion has little to do with my creeping unease.
That sense belongs to the environs I’ve been shoved into – and the fact that I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
I know it's not the good kind of watched – being looked after by a friend, even from afar. I would know if it was him watching after all, considering his eyes haven’t shifted a fraction from the crowd of wealthy young women who practically surround him. I’ve never envied him this – or them. The standing stiff, the socializing, the demure demeanor that so many men expect. It makes my skin itch and crawl terribly when I have to behave in such a way, especially publicly.
As I began my descent, from overhead railing to the ballroom floor, I held out little hope that I would socialize – or even socialize well – with the gentry. I could talk for hours about all manner of things — poetry, chemistry, art, literature, history, the stars and planets. But, the nobility always have certain expectations for scientists in conversation. Enthusiasm does not seem to be included on that list.
❂
There are people I recognize – naturally, why wouldn’t I recognize them, if I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding them?
Firstly, my eye is drawn to the preening young women of court, in silks and velvets and tulles and vibrant colors, adorned with feathers, pearls, lace, beading. They are more than I will ever be. I can hear their laughter, soft and dainty as a wind chime, even from a distance. Soft it may be, but it is never subtle.
Next, I see a flash of scarlet in the crowd – gaudy and quite a choice in color for anyone. Expensive, too. Well, it used to be expensive, before synthetics were discovered. Not that Elez Booths, son of Earl of Densyth, Lythoz Booths, would wear anything synthetic. Not with the political power – or wealth – of his father. A brooch adorns his waistcoat, shaped as a mockingbird mid-flight, a poniard tight in its talons. As if he could be any more obvious.
His dark eyes flash and flit, as though he’s looking for something. It would almost be suspicious, if not for the young woman on his arm. I can’t – couldn’t – get a good view of her face with what her looking at him and the distance between us. Not that I blame her for being focused on him. He has a beauty akin to the Calths themselves – the beauty of carved statues and folktale heroes.
Well, I haven’t avoided all of them. I see the lean, silver-clad backs that mark the Lorens family apart – at the very least, it marks their sons apart. They’ve always liked their finery, even in a place where they aren’t always welcome. Their patriarch, the duke, stands tall, if stiffly, clad in a midnight blue number so dark it borders on black. Black like the night sky, black like ink, black like the feathers of his family's much beloved crow.
How I wished to talk to them, to run into the arms of a familiar friend, to see the kind faces of his brother and father.
But, I know better. I show my fealty to the king and queen — proud and elegant people, if a little tense around the eyes — before I turn back to circle the ballroom.
It’s always been a beautiful thing, and, for once, I feel that I belong within its walls and intricate glass domed ceiling. That would be on account of the dress and the emeralds at my throat and dangling from my ears, like caught stars.
Really, if I didn’t know better I would think I almost looked pretty.
Again, I am drawn to the shiniest figures in the room – that lovely silver that makes him and his brother look so sharp. But, my brow furrows. It’s an ugly habit. I run a gloved thumb between the wrinkle between my eyebrows before I step forward.
I’m fairly certain I know who has pulled aside the youngest Lorens boy for a private conversation. And, judging by the fact that I see him tense, it is not a particularly pleasant one.
I can see his shoulders stiffen, even from across the room. The telltale wrinkle of his nose makes the snarl building in his expression all too clear.
I step close enough to eavesdrop, sidestepping and weaving through people.
On approach, I catch the snippets of other conversations:
“To think she’d show her face here. Not a smart one, is she?”
“Oh, no, of course not. They take anyone these days.”
High tittering sounds seem to envelop me, to crush and squeeze in their grasp, their presence unwelcome. The whispers are harsh and stinging – and in common.
“Well, she is pretty. In a common sort of way.”
“Pretty?” A disbelieving snort, “you’d call anyone who so much as looked at you ‘pretty’, Hektor.”
I move closer as swiftly as I can manage, careful not to trip. Sharp tongues and sharper eyes may have followed, but I was in singular pursuit.
And, then, I can hear their two voices clearly. Certainly not happy voices.
“Well, Lorens, I’d say it’s a pleasure to see you again, but we both know I shouldn’t be lying. You know, it has been quite some time. I always thought you looked better in skirts, though.”
“Mister Hawksley,” His jaw is clenched, a muscle ticking, “I never asked for your opinion, however respected it may be considered. I think trousers suit me rather well. Skirts made me look rather, how should I put it, too feminine for my tastes. Now, trousers, on the other hand – the gods’ greatest invention.”
Rationally, I know he can handle himself. But I’m bristling nonetheless.
“But, be honest Mister Lorens – may I call you Asteri?”
The raising of a single sleek mousy brown brow, “You may not, Hawksley. But, do continue to dig your own grave.”
“Perhaps I’ll call you by an older name, then. Would that suit you?”
His ears turn a normally charming, shade of dainty pink, “Under no circumstances, Alexei. Lest you seek a dagger to come into close contact with your person.”
“Duly noted, Lorens. My, you have quite the temper.”
“One must, if one wants to survive.”
Hawksley’s eyes light up with mirth, “Survival? Is that what you live for? Not pleasure, not your country, your people – barbaric as they are – but, survival? Gods, no wonder we turn our noses up at the likes of you.”
I can’t tell which of us is angrier. But, I know I must speak.
“Hawksley,” I say, in the most demure — and yet most warning — tone I can force myself to use, “is that any way to treat a social superior?”
He turns, startled. His gaze starts at my toes and trails up, lazy, but still sharp and keen — the hungry gaze of a vulture. His expression is just as sharp, a pointed, crooked leer that exposes his canines. It curdles into something that borders on a frown when it stops on my face.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Our Miss Fernsby, in the flesh.” His eyes, bloodshot and half-moon lidded, light up dangerously, “And, really, it is quite the flesh.”
I frown, “Unnecessary, Mister Hawksley.”
“Hardly, dear. I’m merely, complementing, the, shall we say, merchandise. My, you’ve changed.”
“Of course I’ve changed, we haven’t seen each other since we were nine. Time has dealt you a heavy hand, though, hasn't she?”
“Some would say so. And how quickly time flies, dearest.”
“Too quickly for my taste.” My tone isn’t as bone dry as I’d like, but Alexei takes the hint. It’s practically stamped on my forehead. He chuckles like a hyena.
It’s the raucous, obnoxious laughter that grates nerves down to the finest points. Alexei Hawksley at nine wasn’t nearly so abrasive. And, if gossip is to be trusted, he was the mellow compatriot to the crown prince – the one who got his classmate and fellow interested in the drink, amongst other substances.
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“You know, I don’t think anyone thought you’d show your face around here anytime soon. Not with what’s in circulation.”
I feel my brittle, simpering facade, fragile as a beaker, slip and shatter. “I beg your pardon. The what?”
Another hyena’s cackle, which is beginning to further get on my nerves. “Surely you’ve been up to date! You, our crown prince’s bedfellow! Now, I know he usually has a quite a roster of women warming his bed, but, with you…that bed must create small fires.” He says this with an indulgent, proud grin — a prouder, slyer wink. As though it’s the best joke ever made by anyone.
I raise both my eyebrows, “Well, if I am to be considered the prince’s own, surely I deserve more respect.”
“If only, Tillis. If you were his betrothed, which I highly doubt, more respect might be owed. But, all you do is provide him someone nice to come home to. You’ll never marry the man, Fernsby. You’ll be a highly valued mistress, at best.”
Now it’s my turn to bristle, my turn for my lip to curl dangerously. Subdued has never been my speed. I do not pity the women who have to experience it day in and day out. I can barely manage that kind of composure for an hour. I manage to keep a waver from my voice, when I retort, “I can only hope for the best of jewels, if I am to be the prince’s most favored bed-warmer.”
“Indeed. Quite a predicament you’ve gotten yourself into. Always the social climber. But, once he’s done with you, I’m sure you’ll have the highest bidders from the rest of the gentry. The woman who wooed the crown prince.” He makes no effort to hide the, nearly lecherous, gleam in his eyes. “Perhaps, you’ll make an honest man of one of us yet.”
“Perhaps, Hawksley. No need to get your hopes up. Not with your coffers.”
“You leave my coffers out of this, or I won’t be so civil.”
I concede, my eyes widening, my expression bordering in on a pout. All for show, of course – it’s an almost comical expression. “Well, perhaps some generous man will help me with holding my tongue.” The words are almost spat out, shot through with venom, even under the surface. My tone isn’t mocking, but it is by no means serious.
He’s almost sneering now, “Whatever man could do that will be lucky. Luckier than most. Who knows, you might make an honest man out of our dear Lorens, here." His sneer is more pronounced as he gestures, dismissively, towards Asteri.
He pauses and there’s a cruel touch to his expression, “Although, it’d be impressive if you made a man out of him, first.”
“Mister Hawksley, dear, are you sober?” The question slips out before I can stop myself.
He freezes and then reassesses me, as though seeing me for the first time, “I am, in fact.” His smirk morphs into a lazy smile, “Well, more specifically, hungover. Mother’s breathing down my neck.”
“The state of your coffers, I presume?”
He grimaces, sets his jaw and says, “None of your business, again. You always were too pushy for your own good, Fernsby. Look where it’s gotten you.”
I try not to narrow my eyes, “Just where has it gotten me?”
“Why, you’re the talk of palace gossip, dear. You’re practically a small celebrity. And, the public only knows you in passing. My, the columns have been having fun with you.”
I try not to flinch, but I must seem stung.
He smiles, a victor’s smile, a wolfish one, but says nothing. Instead he turns to Asteri, whispering something in his ear — something that makes him blanch, my friend turning somehow paler. Then, he leans back and traces over the rounded end of Asteri’s ear, indicating the way it would be shaped if it was pointed.
I watch Alexei’s back as he saunters off, likely to drown himself in sycophants and in substances. Asteri turns towards me first, flustered and flush and startled. He seems, almost, out of place, more so than usual.
I offer him a sheepish grin and, then, spit out, “Bakhurat.” A word he’d taught me, in fact. It’s ancient Aulnian, meaning ‘crowfood’
.
Colloquially, it means something more…harsh. A huckster’s guide to Ancient Aulnian (written by Dexar Pithia) describes the slang as “…having found a new home in the modern language. It is an insult, yes, but a versatile one. Being offered up to the crows is no honor — and neither is being called this word, with modern or ancient intentions”. Asteri’d laugh at me, considering I’m quoting scholarly — more aptly, educational — literature in my own journal. I could bear it if it was him. I think he finds this an endearing quality. At least, I should hope.
He offers me a sliver of a grin. The flash of gold in a pan on the riverbed. Whether it’s pyrite – fools gold – or real, I don’t care to know the difference. He’s smiling, nonetheless.
He says, slipping out of common with ease, “It was hardly necessary for you to cuss him out.”
I hadn’t stopped at just one word, you see. But some of my language was not appropriate to transcribe — most of which was in low Kergazini. There’s a reason the dialect is known for being that of the sailor’s.
I was scowling, swearing at Hawksley’s swiftly disappearing back. But, now I offer a tiny conspiratorial grin, “It was, without any doubt, necessary. In the way oxygen is necessary. I couldn’t just let him run his mouth. Not when he’s disrespecting his social betters. He should know better.”
“He should, ” he says, conceding the point, “but it isn't a necessity for you to use the entire repertoire of Kergazini swear words at your disposal to mutter at him.”
“Wasn’t it? It was rather satisfying, Asteri.”
His laugh is soft, deep but gentle.
Tension finally drops out of my shoulders. Then, for the first time I really look at him.
My eyebrows rise and I blink back shock. Seeing my confusion, he just grins that charming, lopsided grin – a relic from childhood and memories long since past.
Compared to his usual, less courtly appearance, my closest friends looks utterly normal – he looks like his father. For once, that mischievous twinkle in his eyes is dimmed, his features duller than normal. There is nothing sharp about his features this way, everything is rounded off, pleasantly human. Not a single sharp canine, not a single pierced ear. It’s definitely startling.
I choke out, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you glamoured before. You look like your father.”
Another laugh startles out of him, “Well, I should hope so,” the wry arch of an eyebrow, “But, is that really so unexpected?”
“Knowing you, yes.”
Another laugh, softer this time, ”A fair point, if I’ve ever heard one,” a beat, a moment of brief silence – then, “I’d hate to sound rude, but I wasn’t expecting your presence tonight. In fact, I recall you were banned from court.”
I sign softly. I’ve never been fluent in Aulnian, but I speak it well enough. Better than my stumbling through any other language. “Everything is perfectly alright, sir. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting my presence, either. And,” I lower my voice, “to be fair, the banning was no fault of mine.”
Astari’s eyes twinkle with mirth, “Indeed, it was not. Whose was it then? Surely not our prince’s? Knowing him, I thought he’d relish throwing you to the wolves.”
I snort, “Well, I have been thrown to the wolves. I just don’t feel like talking to his royal highness.”
He chuckles – and the warmth of the sound is not lost on me, “Oh, I’m sure. He seems rather..preoccupied, anyhow.”
I am unable to restrain the tiniest of grins, “Well, naturally. He’s a rather popular fellow around here.”
“You know, when I last wrote you, I was hoping we could meet again in person.”
“Your last letter? You wrote to me?”
“Yes, Miss Fernsby. From last month?”
“The last letter I received from you was from well over two months ago.”
His lips purse, his eyes narrow. He’s deep in thought when he says, “Ah. Odd.” A beat, then, “I thought they would’ve been delivered by now. Speaking of, have you heard anything from our postmaster?”
“Neither hair nor hide. It’s been days; it’s starting to worry me. I want to write him, myself.”
“A spontaneous excursion or something else?”
“I wish I knew.”
He hums out a soft noise. That crease between his brows returns in full force, scrunching his nose. And, like some fool, I have the overwhelming and strange, foreign urge to smooth it out. I force my hands to still.
❂
In silence, I’ve never been sure of how to proceed. But this time I don’t have to worry. I am saved – or rather, interrupted – by heavy, familiar footfalls behind me. Astari gives me one last long glance, his gray-blue eyes shining with something unrecognizable, before he bows, excusing himself with, “It was lovely to see you again, Miss Fernsby, but I must be going. Business calls.” He looks apologetic, and his movements are stiffer, more formal.
“Setra, you really didn’t have to scare him off, did you?”
I hate to admit I’d know the distinct sounds of his footfalls anywhere – especially on the marble floor of a ballroom. The authoritative, heavy, slow steps he takes have become as familiar to me as my own.
“Of course I did, Tillis. He ought to know better than to show his face at court. And you should know better than to talk to him. You can’t trust that family, Till.”
I will admit I was surprised he responded in Kergazini and not common – the same language, the same dialect. Not something fancy, unintelligible to me. He must want privacy, then. Language, in this room, was a weapon – one he clearly did not want turned on him. Not that I can blame him. When you are as public as a crown prince, vigilance is key. Or, so he’s said. I don’t think he’s lived it well.
“He’d say the same thing about you. Your personal vendetta against his family aside, Setra, how has your evening been? Eventful, I’d assume.”
“Fine,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “A perfectly acceptable little gathering of high society. And, Tillis, just so you know, in public it’s ‘your highness’– not Setra.” His voice has dropped about half an octave. It sounds like he means it.
“Council voice? On your most darling friend?” That earns one of my oldest friends a pursed lip.
“Council voice.” He responds, his tone gruff, resolute. He’s not budging. His voice is hollow, devoid of feeling. Pure authority. He is the perfect picture of callous, powerful royalty.
Sometimes, I forget. But, when he sounds like that, when he pins me in place with his stare, I remember.
I sigh out through my nose, “Very well.” a brief pause – then, “You didn’t have to go through all these efforts to get me to attend, you know.”
I gesture to the silk, the sparkling jewels, everything that I feel I have borrowed. I feel as though I am a selkie, living in someone else’s skin. Scratch that, I feel the reverse of a selkie – but, I still long for home. Always.
He flicks his wrist, “Yes, I did. You wouldn’t’ve come without a little enticing.”
Then, I grit out, “Did you know what they’re saying about us? More aptly, me?”
I know I look angry. Good. My shock is still fresh on my tongue, strangely bittersweet.
Setra simply grins, the expression devilish and wild and a little feral, “I did, dearest Fernsby. I may have let some members of the court make that impression. I didn’t discourage it.”
“You understand how that makes me look, yes?”
His grin merely widens and he offers her his arm, eyebrow raised, “Why wouldn’t I? It’s given your little school quite the publicity, hasn’t it?”
I take his arm, albeit hesitantly. I feel my lip curl, unconsciously, “It’s given my little school publicity?! Highness, your father funds that school. You do too, last I recall. There is nothing good about this attention. I didn’t know until Alexei – Mister Hawksley, apologies, my manner-stickling friend – insisted we were sleeping together. Of all the ideas!”
“Well, it’s hardly the wildest thing they’ve heard about me.”
“This isn’t about you alone anymore! You dragged me into this. My reputation, my career. I’m going to lose it all, highness! That’s on you.” I’m glaring, now.
“Oh? Is my little scientist feeling hurt?” Setra’s tone is high and mocking – nothing short of grating. He’s pouting at me, the expression a tad gloating and all-too realistic. His eyes gleam. All the while, the pair of us move through the ballroom, a natural rhythm between us, despite this turn in tone and topic.
I scowl and deadpan, “Are you finished, your highness?”
He looks me dead in the eye, grinning still, “Quite, little scientist. Quite.”
I’ve never wanted to punch him more. By now, we are nearing the gardens – the stuffiness of the ballroom and the crowds easing.
Now, it’s easier to think, easier to speak – finally, in a language I actually understand fluently. As we step into the garden, he clears his throat, his expression still distinctly smug, “I can get Crocus to revoke the articles.”
“Wait – Crocus authored articles? There are more than one?”
He laughs – a dry, mirthless, rasping sound, “Of course there are! You think they’d be satisfied with just one?”
“Yes?! Whatever happened to friends keeping friends out of the press. Or, in your case, trying to.”
“It became a liability. You are my friend, Tills, but first and foremost, you are the crown’s. And don’t protest, little scientist – you know I’m right. Who pays you? Who lords over your contract? Funds your research? Who raised you?”
Jaw set determinedly, I answer, “My aunt and uncle. My mentor and fellow scientists. The crown had no hand in my raising.”
“Not literally, no. But you were a ward of the kingdom for quite some time.”
“I was a ward of the institute – raised by academics. Not by your family. And thank the gods for that.”
A dry chuckle, “And did these academics do you any good? I think not. Your parents, for instance,” he makes a disapproving noise, shaking his head, “Traitorous, leaving you here all alone.”
“I was not left alone.” but, despite the sharpness of my tone, I hold back a wince. Why does it always circle back to my lack of parents?
He laughs again, and, this time, the sound is harsh and dismissive, “You weren’t? Then how did you ever meet me? You were lonely and you and I both know it. Your parents were only just gone.”
“Again, I was not alone. You were not the only friend I had. Believe it or not. I had – and have - friends outside of the crown.”
“Where the crown begins, our friendship ends, I’m afraid.”
“So we were never friends?”
“I never said that, Till. But, heavy is the head that wears the crown.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you don’t wear a crown. You wear a circlet, if I recall correctly.”
“Pedantic, eh?”
“No. More semantic, I think.”
“Naturally.”
And, I grin despite myself. And, then I am angry again. People find it so easy to forgive a handsome face and Setra is no exception. And it seems I am the latest victim. My anger, unwillingly, shrinks in size.
I breathe in the cool air, a relief compared to the halls of court. There’s an odd lulling peace to this place, something the palace sorely lacks Much like my beloved rooftops.. The energy of the palace has always made me uncomfortable, a faint hum of something unnatural in the air. It has always felt strangely trapping, though whether this is because I was not often in court or because I was not all that interested in the socializing aspect of it, I could never tell.
He slips a pocket watch out from beneath his suit-coat. There’s a heavy, weary sigh and the pocketwatch vanishes back into the recesses of the fabric. With the most resigned expression I’ve ever seen grace his face, he says, “Damned advisors,” he shakes his head, exasperated.
“What about them?”
“They always do this to me,” he grumbles, “Ruining my fun.”
Another arch of an eyebrow, “Your fun? You’re meant to be king – I’d hate to side with your staff, but they are doing their jobs.”
He groans, running a hand through his hair. He sighs out, “Not you, too.”
I snort, “Go do your job, Calth.”
He turns on his heel, moving with angry, quick steps. He’s muttering all the while, and he does not look happy about it.
I just sigh – he’s never been one for his work, if you could even call it that.
All it is is meager political dealings and strategy briefs. Nothing strenuous. What a fine king my friend will make.