April, 13th 1907

Perhaps it is apparent that I am not one to take interruptions well. As Geven would quip – snappish as a wyvern. Gods, I miss him. But, he is busy. I can feel it in my bones, that he is in the trenches of literature and theory, hypothesis and speculation and drafts of his thesis work.

I cannot say I envy him that. I don’t think I ever will.

Because I lack a love of disturbances when working, I am not the kindest upon the knocking of the door, or the telltale rattle of the knocker. Normally, it’s the more aggressive intrusions that boil my blood, but, today, it’s a strangely soft sound – hesitant.

With great reluctance, I retreat from my chaise and the book in my hands, with its well worn leather binding. It’s a book that, I will, begrudgingly admit, is a favorite. Not that one would guess it – or that some of my inner circle need to know that, not with what the novel is about.

It’s a well-loved thing, a cherished thing. I almost want to hide it from eager eyes. It makes me feel small, the fragile vulnerability of being exposed in such a way.

The door swings inward, and I’m frowning – Asteri would insist I am scowling. I, for one, would disagree. But, the expression melts away upon seeing who stands, one hand still raised in a fist, in front of my door.

I will my expression not to be one of naked shock. I pray I do not look the fool. Rarely have my prayers been answered.

“Mr. Booths!,” I practically choke, “W-what a pleasant surprise!”

I almost mean it. Almost, but not quite. We are not a particularly close set, the two of us. Barely exchanged more than cordial words. And, yet, here he is.

There’s a strange expression on his face, one I’ve never seen before. Normally, he always looks a bit stiff and cold – which would be on account of his growing up in the palace and public eye, much like Setra…or myself, in a way.

He looks apologetic and….kind? I don’t think I’ve ever been so consistently thrown off so frequently – first, yesterday’s disaster of a conversation, and now this.

There’s a gentle smile gracing his face. It melts away some of the stoicism and hard edges, makes him feel warm and alive, not impersonal. He asks, a touch amused, “May I come in? I’d hate to intrude–”

I surprise both him and myself, when I say, with only a smidge of forced cheer, “Of course.” My smile isn’t as tight-lipped as I thought it would be – it comes far too easy. Likely, I’ve been far too stressed.

He steps in and, for an instant, there’s blank wonder in his eyes. I see the corner of his lip twitch, curving upward for all of a moment. He whistles, low, “Some space you’ve got here.”I laugh, more of a wheeze than anything, “It’s hardly mine. I share it – it’s not just my name on the plate, after all.” It’s not like it’s mine, not with the crown holding my leash. Not with Setra reining me in.

“Right,” he says, slowly, “Of course. The doctor isn’t in, I suppose?”“He is not. Research outside the grounds. This place makes him antsy.”“What? The school?”“The institute. And, no – the palace.”

He makes a lazy hum of a sound, “Can’t say I blame him.”

Then, he takes a breath, and says, “I’d like to apologize on behalf of his highness. Setra is – was – hardly rational. Especially when he’s hungover. Or drinking. Scratch that, it’s a constant state of being for him.”

That startles an honest-to-gods laugh out of me, almost full-bodied. I feel tears pool in my eyes, “You aren’t kidding! And, here I thought, you were his loyal lapdog as much as Hawksley!”

He snorts at that, “Setra is many things – kind is not often one of them. I will not sit at his feet or catch game for him like a hound.”

He’s wandered further and further into the lab, fingers ghosting over nooks and crannies, eyes catching on shelves, glassed in, where jars of solutions sit. He seems to have a fervent energy about him here. It makes me wonder – “Do you have an interest in the sciences, Mr. Booths?”

“Oh, no. Father would have a fit. No – but, it is fascinating, to see how people exist in a space like this. To see the precision and meticulous details. Nothing is insignificant.”I murmur, “Too right.” It prompts an amused quirk of an eyebrow. Really, he looks like Setra then – reminds me of the boy the crown prince had been.

It hits me like a punch to the gut. This is the sort of boy he might have become. Despite it all, Elez seems in good spirits.

I ask, a touch tentatively, “Did you continue to play after I left? The braschti game?”

This time, I manage to wheedle a smile out of him, “I still lost. But, I can claim I am not a sore loser. That much is true.”“Mhm.”

“I can tell you want to ask about him. He was sulking, glum. Still gloated whenever he won, though.”

“What else would he do? He can’t drown in his own dour spirits forever.”

Elez stops in front of a door, one that, while not padlocked, is often difficult to jimmy open. Behind it, sealed away are some of the more volatile elements, kept away in storage. The deadbolt broke long before I was here. Normally untouched. There’s a gleam in his eye, now, one that seems more hungry than curious.

“Careful,” I warn, as I fall into step behind him, “I’m not even allowed to handle most of those. At least, not without supervision. I wouldn’t go after the forbidden – lest you want to get hurt.”

He startles, but his grin returns, “Of course, of course, Wouldn’t want to cause a ruckus.”

He backs off, but his eyes keep flitting over there, his hands keep micro-adjusting his cufflinks – a mismatched set, a crane and a mockingbird adorning the linen. He tugs at his cravat, loosening it. Despite the fidgets, he seems to relax, some tension dropping from his shoulders, “It’s quiet in here,” he says, and his voice – not for the first time – carries an echo,”It seems peaceful.”

“It’s actually maddening.”

He turns to me, a little startled – “I’m sure it can be, after a while.” He looks more and more sheepish, even as he steels his expression, “Lovely as this was, Miss Fernsby, I’d hate to send more rumors flying.—” I grimace and he does too, “—I’d best be off.”

❂

With Booths gone, it’s pleasantly, easily silent. Not the more stifling, anxiety-inducing silence that I've come to despise so much. It’s certainly a more bearable kind of quiet, one that I’m grateful for.

Despite who he surrounds himself with, Booths seems to have made it, mostly, unscathed. He can count himself lucky. Sadly, I am not so fortunate.

When I hear another knock on my door, this one at ease, not hesitant or rough, my shoulders raise, involuntarily. Not a reaction I’d normally have to my family. Not when Rad has a spare key – but takes far more pleasure in knocking to get on my nerves. If it was him, he would’ve called for me by now.

From where I stand, halfway between the threshold and the chaise, I cannot make out who it is on the other side. But I have a feeling I know them. So, when it opens, I am not nearly so shocked to see him – Etko, looking as put-together as ever, save for the ruffled mess that is his hair.

As he grins, he says, “I should’ve gotten the key from your cousin, I know. It’s much more fun this way, though.”“He would say the same thing.”“I know. Quiet day?,” he raises an eyebrow, “Normally, it looks like a storm tore through the place.” He’s right to comment, even if I don’t take it well. My lab space is hardly clean when I work, my lab coats – and there are numerous – nicked and stained, some of them with burn marks on them. Not every coat is treated so recklessly, but most suffer because of rampant curiosity.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

I arch a brow in return, “Nice to see you think so highly of me, Kildere. I thought you were living in the city? Knowing Rad, he would’ve crowed it from the rooftops – that he has both of you in the same place, for once in his life, that you were staying.”

That earns me a short burst of a laugh, “Oh, he’s been rather tight-lipped about it, this time. Doesn’t want to tempt fate.”

“I can hardly blame him, with how he cares for you both.”

He makes a soft humming sound and runs a hand through his hair, “That he does. But, sadly, I’m not here for pleasure. Not that we haven’t indulged.” Here, his expression takes a turn to the foxlike, the wry and knowing.

I feel a flush creep up my neck, my expression shutters just a bit, “You don’t need to elaborate, there, Kildere. I know you want to. What business?”

His grin widens at my subtle distress – we both know what he’s hinting at, reluctant as I am to acknowledge my cousin’s personal affairs. Affairs I have no place in. He winks, “Perhaps I do want to elaborate, much as you would hate it. The Chronicle wants me here for the commentary, of course. How else is a satirist supposed to make his living? I cannot do it well from afar, that is for certain.”

“So you staying in the same apartments as Rad and Tasl is simply a benefit of the job?”

“You could say that. They’re a benefit, regardless, though.” The grin resembles a smirk slightly more, his dimple showing. His eyes are bright with mirth, with joy. For a man entrenched in the complexities of politics, he’s oddly happy. When he works, he’s usually focused – honed only for the task of creating.

“I’m sure,” I say, drily. As much as I love my cousin, the last thing I want is to hear about his exploits in those apartments.

Another laugh from him, “Lighten up, Fernsby. It’s not like I’m going into detail.” As he enters the lab proper, that earns him a playful smack on the shoulder, though I have to stand on the tips of my toes to do it.

“Perhaps not, Etko. But, no matter how much I love my cousin, I’d prefer if those private details stayed private.”

“I hear you, Till. I’d hate to corrupt your innocence.”“And who said I had that? Certainly not the tabloids.”

He grimaces, his expression souring, his eyes flashing, “He got an earful from us both about not telling you. That protective streak will be the death of him, I swear it. It was the worst possible decision. Though, we’re all glad you’re better than you were. You have no idea how stressful it was. We thought Asteri would—.” He looks at me sidelong, and pauses, “Nevermind.”

“You thought he would what? I know he was worried, but you all were. Surely, it wasn’t that awful.”

He winces, but seems to think better of opening his mouth.

“Etko Kildere, what did you think he was going to do?”

“Well,” he sighs, “it’s not my place to say. But, he took a dark turn for a bit. When he wasn’t with you, I mean.”

I look at him, blinking rapidly – “He cared that much?”

There, he throws back his head in a laugh, “Oh gods, Rad was right!”“Right about what?”“Nothing,” he says, going a little quiet, amusement in his expression, despite the tight lines around his eyes, “nothing at all.”

I know he won’t tell me anything. He lingers and says, “Rad sent me. He wants to talk later.” With that, he affectionately ruffles my hair, despite my deep frown. He turns on his heel with a little flourish and a knowing grin and leaves.

Everyday I am reminded of why my cousin loves these two so dearly. And, despite how they tease, I can’t help but love them, too. As family – family I never had. I can only imagine what Rad wants to discuss so quickly. I will not dwell on it, yet.

Finally, I settle back into the chaise and open the book again. With a sigh, I descend back into a world of manners, a world of money, a world of laws and custom and practice so different from my own. And, if I giggle like a schoolgirl or kick my feet a little too excitedly at certain interactions, well, no one can judge me in solitude.

❂

I’m not much surprised when my door opens at eight chimes. Frankly, I am tuckered out. I have done nothing but laze about and read.

But, when Radine walks in and ever-so gently nudges me, I get up.

Softly, he says, “I think this conversation would be better suited to the apartment.”

I raise an eyebrow, but don’t question his coming for me himself. We all have our eccentricities.

And, so, I follow him, and when we enter the rooms his family calls home, it’s eerily quiet. There’s a single oil lamp still lit, casting a flickering, warm glow across the room. And, in a towering chair, sits his father. He looks at me apologetically and says, “The deal was you spoke with him first.”

Rad places a hand on my shoulder, squeezes it, and turns around.

And, then, I am alone. Alone with my uncle. I cannot see his face, obscured as it is by a newspaper – but I don’t need to to know he is displeased.

He says – not in common, but educated, high Kergazini, “Some name you’ve made for yourself.”

I try my best not to sound exasperated, not to react strongly. But, a muscle in my jaw jumps in response. Haltingly, I croak, “That’s one way to put it, uncle.”

He lowers the newspaper from his face, only a tad. All these years and I still find it so difficult, that he is meant to be my mother’s kin, my cousin’s kin. It does not make sense. He laughs, but there’s no mirth behind it. It’s false, mocking, “And whose fault is that, Tillis? You did something foolish, it had a cost – and now you must pay it.”

That causes me to freeze, “You believe it, then.”

“I have a hard time finding it to be false, my dear. The fruit does not fall far from its tree. You’re just like her. So much spirit in you. So much ambition.”

I grimace, but say nothing. I cannot bring myself to. Better to be silent and let him speak, or else I’m digging my own grave.

“It’s a shame,” he continues, brusquely, “to have you waste away here. You have a legacy to live up to. Even with your blood being tainted,” his lip curls, “you’re still Obtel. Your grandfather was a lord, Tillis. A lord.”

The same words I’ve heard since I was little. That I have a family name to uphold, a duty to the skeleton that is my grandfather, to the phantom that is my mother.

He smiles, the expression a grim line, “He was a bastard in his own right, of course. And my sister had her own problems, but you – you and my son were meant to break the cycle. To get our titles back. To bring us back from the brink. And you throw it all away for the crown prince.”

This time, I manage to protest – “And if I didn’t? If what the society papers say is a lie?”

“You’ve still failed the family, Tillis.” He pushes his glasses up, as they’ve fallen down his nose. It’s crooked, broken when he was a teenager. It never healed straight. “You’ve failed me. And I won’t stand for it. My father certainly didn’t.”

I want to snap – enough about your father – but, I set my jaw. “How have I failed you, uncle [redacted]?”

“You’re becoming her all over again. You’ll get yourself killed, going down this path.”

“How will the media being misinformed kill me?”

He scoffs, “You’d be surprised what could. I am speaking of the crown, dear. If you keep fraternizing with them, dire straits could be in your future. It is what happened to my sister, after all.”

Not your mother – my sister. Always as though the pain of her absence is his and his alone.

I try not to be biting or snappish, but around him, it becomes increasingly hard, “What happened to my mother has nothing to do with her interacting with the crown. Not in the way you imply.”

“I can’t see you end up how she did,” he says, with no small amount of desperation – and, somehow, an equal amount of that long-buried passion, simmering up and boiling as rage, “I refuse to see it happen, Tillis.”

With that, he smacks the newspaper down on the table, a loud thwap echoing through the room. I don’t flinch at the sound, but I do as he slides it across from me – as I read—process—devour—the words.

My mouth goes dry, my voice a rasp, a hoarse little croak, “You can’t be serious.”

He raises an eyebrow, slowly, “I very well can be, dear.”

He points at the headline, again, with a crooked finger, one that has a pale scar across the knuckle. As though I could miss something like that. “You’re telling me there’s a chance…” I hiss out a swear in Aulnian, mostly to keep him from chiding me.“A very real possibility. You’d have to leave, of course. Given the stories, there would be knives at your throat faster than you could blink.”“And who would I stay with?”He laughs, derisively, “Who else?”

I frown, “I’m not going north. You know I can’t stand that old house. I swear it, the eyes on the taxidermies blink.”

“And who will take you in if you don’t come home?”“This is my home. I know you want to protect me, but I will never go back to that place.”

“Such drastic language, Till. If anything escalates and you end up in peril, don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”

I nod, tightly. Just because he’s insistent on my coming to that house, doesn’t mean I have to. Nor does it mean I have nowhere else to go if this all goes belly-up.

The silence is ringing – too loud, too heavy, too oppressive. He rubs at his temple and sighs, “You won’t walk that same path – even if I die trying, you will never.”

I nod, stiffly. I’ve had no intention of being a political target or a radical. I don’t want to change my mind now.

He adds, gruffly, “Rad did want to talk to you, though. It was me who played his hand.” A pause, a huff, “Don’t blame him.”

Again, I say nothing – simply nodding, and slinking away, to find his son. My skin feels strange – too tight, too hot, a strange crawling sensation underneath the flesh.

❂

Rad is there to catch me when I inevitably stumble – in this case, literally. He holds me tight, close to him, in the dark of his room – only just beyond the threshold. Whispers, like a mantra, like a prayer, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His eyes, those lovely, bark-brown eyes, shine with unshed tears. Gods, we’re both a mess. Neither of us seem to mind it. Our family seems to be made of people with glass bones, fragile bodies – like ice sculptures – and even more fragile organs; we harbor delicate emotions, made of spun glass, broken upon a breath.

My face is pressed into the crook of his shoulder and we sit chest-to-chest on the floor, knees knocking together in our closeness. The moonlight catches his hair, his face, his eyes – it makes him look like a painting of a hero, lined with gold and silver. It makes him seem softer, younger – one would even say saint-like if one was religious enough.

The moonlight spills across the room and, when I move my face from his shoulder, scoot back and look at him anew, I pretend not to notice that we are not alone in his room. That, haphazardly, there are, curled up on his creaky four-poster, two forms, silhouetted by the watery light and shadows. I pretend I do not see the scatter of clothes across the foot of the bed and the floor.

I do not need to guess, much like I do not need to know or snoop. I shoot him a look, though.

He offers me a weak grin, punctuated by a hiccup, “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“No thanks to you,” I murmur, “but, I don’t want you blaming yourself. You’ve got enough on your plate already.”“‘Course I do. You do, too.”

“Hush,” I shake my head, “You know I haven’t for a while, yet.”

That gets another grin out of him, and he embraces me again – harder this time, as though he wants to pour his emotions into me.

I wheeze, faintly, “Careful on the ribs.”

He lets go, gently flicks me on the nose and says, “Rest, Till. You’ve earned it a dozen times over.”

❂

April 13th (?), 1907

I will not, in fact, be resting. I do not care that it is either nearing twelve chimes or it past twelve chimes – I’m wide awake.

To call today busy would be an understatement – the news, the constant talking. I feel worn out. No thanks to the news and the fact that I may have to return to the decrepit old house my uncle inherited when my grandfather died.

Democratic representatives from other nations are fairly common, yes, but in this social climate? It’s difficult to say how it will go over – especially considering the paper didn’t phrase it as democratic representatives for negotiations. They phrased it as eligible marriage candidates from across the world.

Excuse me while I plunge my head into drywall. Or extremely cold water. Either would be effective.

It seems the rumors – not my own, but far earlier ones – are true.

Setra Calth is going to be forced to court a spouse – a politically advantageous, wealthy, perhaps vapid spouse.

Hu-zzah.

Don’t invite me to the wedding.