The pretty bottle redhead couldn’t look more out of place in this godforsaken bar if she tried. 

Lucy stares down over the balcony railing as the newcomer gawps at the expensive furnishings. Even from her second story seat, she can see those puppy brown eyes going wide at nearly everything— it’s clear the poor thing’s never been inside an upscale speakeasy before, nevermind one of Therese LeRoy’s functions. 

Good thing there’s not much of a dress code, or the girl would’ve felt horrendously underdressed on top of it all. Not that her little crop tee and jeans aren’t cute, of course— a simple arrangement, but who needs complexity when she’s got one hell of a figure to do the heavy lifting? With a tight two-pack accentuated by a fashionably unassuming navel piercing and toned arms to match, she looks every bit the veritable delicacy in the dimly lit bar. 

“Now that’s a tragedy waiting to happen.” 

Lucy snorts as she holds her glass out to Alistair. “Since when did you pay attention to anything that happens in here?” 

He smiles as he tops her up. “Hard not to notice with half the room waiting for a chance to pounce.”

An understatement. In a group of maybe fifteen Courtiers surrounded by their doting regulars, she can see at least ten others who’ve trained their eyes on the girl— fresh meat is rare, after all, and everyone’s always out to expand their entourage. 

The only thing stopping them, ironically, is her obvious cluelessness. The laws are clear— humans can only be pursued after they’ve been initiated with the blessing of the Exarch herself. This girl, alone, confused, out of her element, could not be more clearly off-limits.

“How long do you think it’ll take?”

Lucy hums over the lip of her glass. “For someone to risk the wrath of the iciest cunt this side of the city?”

Alistair laughs as he corks the wine bottle, shaking his head. “There’s only so much she can do with this many folks packed in here. You think they won’t pounce on the first chance they see?”

Hardly. Lucy knows what this community is capable of, chafing under the relatively new governance as they are. They miss the good old days, when they had actual hunting grounds instead of glorified mixers with humans who take weeks to initiate— and that’s just to feed. The process of receiving a blessing to turn a human takes up the better part of a year, often resulting in a refusal if one is unlucky enough. 

How could they resist the chance to take such a tantalising candidate? All it would take is a moment in the shadows, one errant touch away from the eyes of others and bam— vampiric instincts satisfied, clique expanded, and hated overlords spited. 

Lucy watches the girl frown apprehensively at the glass of champagne in her hands, evidently debating its safety— a smart move, albeit amongst the host of bad decisions that lead her here to begin with. 

“She’ll be someone’s shiny new toy by the end of the night.”

“Probably.” Alistair smirks. “Are you gonna do anything about it?”

She sighs as she places her glass on her table. Well, there’s a conundrum, isn’t there? She could just stay put. It's not her job, nor her responsibility— if Therese wanted her to do something about it, she would send a runner with a little order for her obedient Chevalier. The fact that she hasn't sent any such order despite the issue being in plain sight means she either has it under control, or she's willing to let this poor girl become the martyr to renew her campaign against the belligerent, misbegotten constituency. Let them transgress, then take the price of it right out of their hides, so to speak. Either way, it's not Lucy's concern— let the chips fall where they may, she says, it would hardly be be the first time there was collateral damage while trying to make the Courtiers behave. 

Alistair just laughs at her as she pushes off the velvet chaise.

“This is why you’ll never make it as a Prince, you know.”

“Oh dear, how tragic.” She rolls her eyes, resisting the urge to elbow him. “How will I ever live with myself.” 

Without bothering to acknowledge anything else that comes out of his mouth, she makes her way past the other private tables and down the stairs. Might as well get this over with and go home. 

“Not a fan of champagne?” 

The poor girl nearly spills her drink on herself. 

“Oh, I—” she holds the glass in both hands, doe-like eyes darting all over Lucy. “N-not really, I guess, um…” 

Christ, she’s even prettier up close. Lucy admires the way she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear as her eyes dart downwards and then struggle their way back up— which isn’t all that unexpected. Lucy is wearing a little black dress, emphasis on the little. The shy darling is trying so hard not to stare at the open window of skin between her tits.

“Might I interest you in something else, then?” She reaches out and gingerly takes the glass by the rim, pulling it from the girl’s grasp with zero resistance before she places it on a passing busboy’s tray. “Bottled, if you prefer. Your choice.” 

“Oh, I— I’m alright, thank you,” she stutters, wringing her hands. “I’m— I don’t really drink, actually…”

Lucy chuckles, raising a brow. “And you took a glass of champagne you had no intention of drinking because…?” 

“Well, it— one of the staff just kind of handed it to me, and…” 

“Too polite to say no?”

The girl shrugs with something between a sheepish smile and a wince. “Something like that.”

Cute. Impractical, and a little worrying, but cute. 

“So tell me, then,” she says, leaning a little closer under the pretence of shifting her weight. “How does a straight-laced and gentle-mannered woman find herself in a place like this?” Watching carefully for any signs of trepidation, she slowly reaches forward. “Alone, no less, despite how…” a careful touch, brushing the backs of her fingers along the inside of the girl’s forearm, “utterly enchanting she is?” 

And that’s all it takes. Lucy watches as the girl’s pupils dilate just a millimetre more, her breath and pulse quickening as the subtlest wave of goosebumps passes over her skin. Just a simple touch, the slightest press of Lucy’s will against hers. 

“I was…” those deep, rich brown eyes flicker over Lucy’s face under dark lashes. “Invited by a coworker, but I haven’t… I haven’t seen him yet, and…” 

She stops with a soft, near-inaudible gasp as Lucy trails her fingers farther up along her arm. “Awfully rude of him to leave you by your lonesome.” And against the rules. Someone has loose lips that Therese would be more than happy to sew shut, Lucy thinks. “I might make much better company, if you’re not opposed to the idea.”

“No,” the girl breathes immediately, before her eyes go wide and her bicep tenses— that muscle tone sure isn’t for show, it seems— “That’s— I mean yes, I’d love to, I’m not opposed at all—” 

Are those freckles scattered over her blooming blush? Cute. More’s the pity that some idiot lured her in here with hardly an explanation. 

Lucy laughs and catches one of her anxiously gesturing hands, turning it palm-down in hers.

“Let me clarify: will you grant me the honour,” she murmurs, lifting the girl’s hand to her lips, “of being your entertainment for the night?” 

A kiss to the slope of her knuckles, and Lucy can feel her shiver as she bites her lip in a subtle, almost unconscious motion. 

“Not sure it’d be much of an honour,” she says shyly, with half a self-deprecating smile. “I’m not very interesting.”

Lucy laughs. “All due respect, love,” she teases, lowering their hands to lace their fingers together instead. “I couldn’t disagree more.”

That blush blooms vividly across her face in tandem with a bashful smile, and it’s contagious— Lucy smirks and winks before heading towards the stairs with her in tow. 

The ideal situation would be to get her out of here now, of course— but people would talk. Lucy can just imagine the fuss of gossip kicked up in Court— the Countess Karnstein’s daughter, liking a mortal enough to take her home so early in the night? Spurning the good Exarch’s hospitality, no less, before she could even break out the quality refreshments?

Her mother wouldn’t let her hear the end of it, and she has no intentions of subjecting herself to more lectures. Besides, one can only bend a mind so far from its natural state before it breaks— and as enamoured the darling seems to be, Lucy can tell she’s not the type to go home with a stranger off the bat. Best not push her luck— or her sanity. 

“Good evening, your grace.” The well-dressed hostess bows as they reach the third floor, unclipping the velvet stanchion cord. “Will you be taking a veranda or alcove table tonight?”

“Veranda, if you please.” Don’t want her guest to feel cornered, after all; Lucy brought her up here so they could avoid the gawking, not to sequester her in a dark corner. “Any free?” 

“The eastern table has a wonderful view of the moon at this hour.” 

“Perfect.” It’s her favourite, anyhow, seeing as it looks out onto the river. “No interruptions barring your staff and the Exarch’s inquiries, thank you.” 

“As you wish, Lady Lucida.”

With that, she leads them through the grandiose room, past the heavy red curtains partitioning off the alcoves. They’re nice enough settings for a private feeding, garnished with a candlelit dinner and upscale service— but no one’s going to be feeding on this particular human tonight. To the far side she goes, towards the full-length dormer window that serves as the main entry to the balcony, pausing only for the doorman to let them in. 

“Did she just call you…” The girl starts quietly as she steps outside, eyeing the decor nervously. 

“A pretentious way of addressing VIP at these functions— pay it no mind.” She gestures at the seating as invitingly as possible. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” 

The entire place is designed to be as comfortable as possible, after all. The plush burgundy half-moon couch is accompanied by a rich mahogany coffee table of impeccably planned proportions: wide and tall enough to accommodate food and drinks, while leaving enough room should the two occupants decide to get a little more familiar with one another. With the thick antique rug, lit candles and string lights coiled around the railing, it looks like a movie set come to life. 

Therese has acceptable taste, at least, if a little unoriginal. 

“Oh, um…” The girl inches towards the couch before slowly taking a seat. “Okay.”

A more resilient mind than average, it seems— most would have obeyed the simple invitation with hardly a thought. Lucy will have to come on a little stronger if she wants to keep her attention. 

“Two virgin daiquiris, please,” she calls to the server waiting inside the threshold. “One strawberry and one…?”

The girl blinks at her expectant look before catching on, cute as anything. “Oh— uh, mango, if that’s…”

“Mango. And do be generous with the coconut milk.” 

She tugs on the golden rope to close the curtain in front of the doors and moves to join the girl on the couch.

“Now, then,” she sighs, settling in sideways with one elbow propped on the back of the couch. A respectable distance away, of course. “Might I have the lovely lady’s name?” 

“W-Wil,” she stutters, hands gathered demurely in her lap as if to take up the least amount of space possible. 

How unique. Lucy folds a leg under herself so as to comfortably face her companion, leaning the side of her head on the hand of her propped up arm. “Just Wil?” 

“Sort of.” She tucks some hair behind her ear again— a nervous habit, Lucy guesses. “It’s, uhm. Short for Wilhelmina.”

She says it like she’s terribly embarrassed, and Lucy can’t help but laugh. God, she’s cute. Her dark, defined brows, her high cheekbones— the sheer, bashful sweetness of her mannerisms juxtaposed with those regal features makes her just lovely to look at.

“I see.” One would want a diminutive for that kind of name in this day and age, wouldn’t they? “Very charming.”

“O-oh. I…” She flusters cutely, too, fidgeting with her hands and struggling to make eye contact as she bites down on something of a smile. “Thank you. Um…” She tucks her hair behind her ear again. “You’re… Lucida, right? I-I’m not sure if I caught that correctly…” 

 Lucy raises her brows. “I’m surprised you caught it at all.” Genuinely. “Attentive, aren’t you?” 

“Oh, not…” she rubs the back of her neck, biting down on a smile. “Not any more than your name is memorable, I think.” 

Lucy doesn’t miss the way she relaxes somewhat, angling her body just the slightest bit more towards her. Her sculpted shoulders aren’t so tense, and her knees are just a little closer now— almost within casual reach.

“Yes, I know,” Lucy snorts. “My mother couldn’t be bothered to add an extra ‘n’ just to make my life easier, and now I get to share a name with a well-known font.” She shrugs. “It makes for an interesting icebreaker if nothing else, I suppose.” 

Not one that she likes to use very often, but nonetheless. 

“Well, it’s not just— it’s the term for the brightest star in a constellation, right?” Wil offers, knitting her brows. “From the feminine singular form of Lucidus.” The way the Latin rolls off her tongue is very well-practised, actually. “I…” she glances at Lucy, eyes flitting nervously. “I think it suits you.” 

It’s not the first time someone’s made a pass at her along the same lines— literally being named “shining” in the singular most overrated language has its ups and downs, after all. But Lucy doesn’t think she’s ever been quite this charmed by the delivery. Perhaps it’s the contrast between how easily she recited the fun little factoid and how clumsily she stumbled through using the opportunity to flirt. 

What a gem, this poor girl who’s wandered into Court tonight. Lucy almost wishes she were a proper Guest.

“How sweet. I bet you say that to all the girls,” she says, adding a wink. “But I do, predictably, go by Lucy for most occasions— if that’s amenable to you?”

“Well, I— of course it is,” Wil says with a nervous laugh. “It’s your name, so…”

God, that’s cute. 

“So, Wil,” she says with her most honeyed tone, idly glancing at the waiter stepping in with their drinks. “Tell me more about yourself.”

“Well, I— thank you,” she adds quickly as she takes her drink from the waiter’s tray. “I’m not sure there’s much to tell.”

Lucy snorts as she takes her glass and replaces it with the tip. “You’ve got to stop selling yourself short, sweetheart, you’re much too interesting for that.” But her self-consciousness is duly noted, and Lucy doesn’t intend on being difficult. “Where are you from?”

“Hong Kong.” She takes a small sip of her drink before cradling it in her hands. “Sort of, anyway— I moved to San Diego when I was eight.” 

“Oh?” Lucy quirks a brow. “That’s a big move. Any particular reason?” 

Wrong question— Wil tries to pass off a small grimace as a smile, taking a sip before looking down at her glass as if to avoid eye contact.

“My, um… mother passed away, and I was taken in by my relatives.” Ah. Not the happiest story, then. Wil clears her throat and with a bit of strained nonchalance as she puts her drink down on the table, trying to a casual lean against the back of the couch as she turns a bit more towards Lucy. “What about you— you’re from London, right?”

A heavy-handed diversion before Lucy can even offer her sympathies. Some combination of not wanting to talk about it, and feeling embarrassed for having something so grave to say in response to an innocuous question— as far as Lucy can tell, anyway. 

“Did the accent give me away?” she laughs, placing her drink on the table as well. “Yes, I was raised in London for most of my life after I was adopted.” 

“Oh—” Wil tries to lilt her voice upwards at the end, maybe hoping to sound more inquisitive than surprised. She immediately tenses again, but with attentiveness this time instead of discomfort— god. She’s trying too hard. “You were…”

“Orphaned as well, yes, when I was four. And that’s not usually something I share on the first date,” she adds, “but I’m hoping it’ll put your mind at ease to know I’m no stranger to the topic.” 

Gentleness isn’t her strong suit, but this girl makes it easy— who wouldn’t be taken with that puppy-eyed look? Wil stares at her with such surprise, it almost makes Lucy want to reach out and see how far she can push that sensitive demeanour. 

“I… I appreciate it,” she murmurs, tucking her chin. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Mm. I don’t think ‘kind’ is the proper word for this,” Lucy laughs, low and velvety as she reaches with her free hand to brush her fingertips up the inside of Wil’s forearm. “Considering I do have an ulterior motive to helping you get comfortable.” 

That little lip bite is just as cute as the first time— a subdued shiver as Wil’s dark eyes flicker to her hand then back to her face, and Lucy knows she’s got her attention again. 

But as satisfying as that is, she knows not to push too fast. There’s still the rest of the night to keep her occupied, after all.

“Well, now that we’ve got the parental baggage out of the way,” she says with a smile, walking her middle and index fingers up to along her upper arm, “what do you do, Wil?”

She stops her hand at the sleeve of her t-shirt, tracing her fingers along the edge. It’s simple, but almost more charming in its plainness— the white material contrasts neatly with the smooth brown of her skin and red of her hair, creating a very casual effect in tandem with the tight jeans. 

“Uhm— f-for a living?” Poor darling seems to be having a little trouble stringing her words together now that Lucy’s touching her again.

Lucy laughs. “Sure. Or your favourite hobbies, if you prefer to talk about that.” She draws little inane patterns along the faint contour of her bicep, openly admiring the muscle tone that’s still visible when relaxed. “I just want to get to know you a little better.” 

“Well, I…” She struggles to keep eye contact, pulse picking up a touch. “I play volleyball on the weekends, and I start embroidery projects sometimes, but that’s about it for hobbies…”

“Deft hands, huh?” She trails her fingertips all the way down her arm on her way to Wil’s hand, tracing along her inner wrist tendon and then the lines of her palm. “You don’t play any instruments, by any chance?” 

“A bit of—” a quiet gasp, taken as quietly as possible as her lashes flutter— looks like Lucy’s found a sensitive spot. “ — of cello when I was in school, but nothing n-notable, I don’t think.” 

Wil readily holds her hand open a little wider when Lucy starts tracing along the edges of her fingers, and it’s all just very adorable. Lucy laughs under her breath as she explores.

“I’m surprised you aren’t a pianist,” she admits. “You have the hands for it.”

“T-thank you…?” 

Lucy’s not sure if the hesitation is from trying to keep her scattered focus together, or actually not understanding the compliment. She’s leaning in much closer now, enough that their knees are touching— enough that she could easily lean in for a kiss, if she were so inclined.

“You mentioned school— how long ago was that?” She continues, caressing the curve of her knuckles. 

“Over ten years ago, I— I was in my highschool symphony.” Wil curls her fingers and turns her hand in response, as if to give her better access. “I’m… an editorial assistant for a bimonthly anthropology journal, right now.” 

She says it so sheepishly, as if she should be embarrassed somehow. Lucy snorts, quirking a brow at her.

“And this… co-worker of yours, does he work on the same journal?” 

“Yes, he’s— he’s another one of the assistants.” 

Lucy hums, putting her hand on Wil’s knee instead. “Does he usually invite you to parties and leave you hanging?” 

“N-no.” Wil’s staring down at the way Lucy’s rubbing her thumb over the denim, and her heartbeat ticks up again. “I mean, I’m not sure, this was the first time, so…”

“Ah. Was this supposed to be a date, then?” 

“No—” Wil’s eyes snap back up, a little alarmed. “I mean, I… I hope not? He said his girlfriend’s a VIP h-here…” 

She trails off in a stutter as Lucy moves her hand farther up her thigh— not an obscene amount, of course. Just enough to keep her enthralled. 

“Did he mention his girlfriend’s name at all?” 

“No, not that I remember…” Wil frowns in confusion, even as her breath quickens. “Why do you ask?” 

Huh. Interesting. The average human would be too intoxicated with her influence by now to question much of anything. 

“Curiosity.” She backs off with the compulsion somewhat, not wanting to overdo it. “Wondering if I know her, considering this place has a fairly exclusive clientele.” 

“Oh. Maybe.” Wil’s brows relax, though her frown doesn’t fade entirely. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know…” 

Lucy laughs and takes her hand off her leg, reaching up to tuck some of her lovely red hair behind her ear for her instead. It’s silkier than she expects from bleached and re-dyed hair— she must take good care of it. “Don’t apologise, love, I don’t actually care all that much.” Therese is most likely on the case already, anyway. Letting her hand linger just a hairsbreadth from her jaw, she gives her best smile. “Just making conversation.”

“Right.” Wil’s eyes flutter shut for a moment when Lucy actually presses her fingertips to her face. “Sorry, I… I’m…” 

Her lips stay parted as she tries to find her next words, staring so intently into Lucy’s eyes. Such rich, deep brown, with flecks of light caramel nearly swallowed by the dark of her pupils— Lucy laughs. 

“A little distracted?” she prompts, pressing the backs of her fingers to her cheek. Wil blinks, but doesn’t look away sheepishly like Lucy expected— no, she shifts a little closer, actually, doing that little lip-bite again.

“Maybe,” she breathes, her cadence getting lower and softer with each breath. She hesitantly reaches out and puts a warm hand on Lucy’s knee. “Just feeling like I’ve been… talking about myself too much.” Gently brushing her thumb over the fabric of her stockings, she glances up at Lucy again from behind those pretty pretty lashes. “Tell me more about you?” 

Oh. Lucy looks down to the soft hand on her leg. 

Interesting.

Not that she’s any stranger to having her overtures reciprocated. It’s not so rare that her dinner dates would try to put their hands on her as well— for better and for worse, depending on the night. But wallflower types like Wil never make a move without an explicit invitation, and Lucy has yet to extend one so far. 

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“I’m…” A little taken aback, admittedly. It seems she’s been underestimating Wil quite severely. “Not sure what there is to tell.” 

And Wil smiles with such… shy mischief at that, her freckles pushing against Lucy’s fingers. “Now who’s selling herself short?” 

Ah. Touche— she snorts, moving to play with the collar of Wil’s shirt. “Walked right into that one, didn’t I?” She’s a little annoyed with herself for the clumsiness. “Fair enough. What do you want to know?” 

“More of the same, maybe?” Wil shifts even closer, her hand using the excuse to adjust just a little higher up Lucy’s thigh than it was before. It’s almost funny and somehow very cute that she’s furtively mimicking Lucy— her touches are far less aggressive, but still. “What do you do?” 

“For a living?” she quips with a smile before she can help herself— and there’s something conspiratorial about the way Wil smiles back, eyes creasing in that lovely way they do. 

“Or for fun,” she laughs quietly. “Just want to get to know you more.” 

Beat for beat, huh? There’s something ridiculously charming about how obvious it is that flirting is not Wil’s forte, nor something she’s all that well-versed in. She’s making such a concerted effort at… not flirting itself, but reciprocity. Giving as good as she’s getting, or at least trying so very hard to.

“Well, I…” she fiddles with Wil’s shirt, unhappy that she even has to search for what to say instead of having it come to her in practised prose. “Have to admit I don’t have very much in terms of hobbies. Most of my time is spent working.” 

Honesty was perhaps not the best policy here. She’s not half as enigmatic or interesting as she pretends to be to get through these godawful nights— image is everything at Court, and Mother dearest does hate it so when she doesn’t play along.

Still, if Wil thinks she’s boring at all, it doesn’t show. “What sort of work do you do?” she asks, her fingers tracing patterns along the top of Lucy’s thigh. Inching just a little closer with each pass, of course. 

Her motions aren’t half as subtle as she’s trying to pass them off as, but they send the tiniest tingles through Lucy’s nerves. 

“I’m something of a chronic freelancer,” she admits, belatedly wishing she’d delivered it a bit more confidently and a bit less quietly. “Forever swinging between having too much work and stressing over a lack of work.”

Wil laughs wryly, laying her hand flat against Lucy’s leg to squeeze it very, very slightly in a sympathetic gesture. “As it is with freelancing, I imagine.” Her palm brushes up and down in slight motions that feel nicer than they have any right to. “What field do you work in?”

“An eclectic assortment.” To put her lack of focus in nicer terms, perhaps. “Mostly split between a bit of coding and some visual art commissions.”

And Wil lights up at that, eyes darting up to hers in happy intrigue. “You’re an artist?” 

Lucy can’t help but laugh. “I am… extremely hesitant to label myself as such, but, I suppose it fits as a technical term. I do graphic design and paintings, more rarely.” 

“Really?” Her delight isn’t deterred in the slightest, and neither is her hand. It’s halfway to the hem of her dress, now, about as far as Lucy went before stopping. “Watercolour or oil?” 

She traces Wil’s clavicles through the fabric of her shirt, wondering if she could get away with slipping her fingertips just underneath the collar. “Both, depending on my mood and the commission.” She sighs. “It’s nothing spectacular, really.” 

That last bit doesn’t really come across as the eloquent humility she sprinkles into her repertoire at times, which is unfortunate.

“You know,” Wil murmurs, her voice low and velvety— she doesn’t have to speak very loudly at all to be heard now with their legs pressed together. It would take so little for her to tug Lucy halfway into her lap. “There’s probably something nice I could say about how the art must be as pretty as the artist, but…” she bites her lip and tucks her chin again, and— “I’m not sure I’m smooth enough to really stick the delivery.” 

The tips of Lucy’s ears feel warm. Fascinating.

“It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? Thank you kindly,” she responds, relieved that she hasn’t lost her momentum entirely. “You’re almost as sweet as you are nice to look at.” 

The way Wil flushes is as winsome as it’s been the entire night. She smiles like she can’t help herself, almost trying to hide it behind the stray locks of hair falling across her face, and it’s… 

Lucy struggles to fight off the vague feeling that she’s bitten off more than she can chew, so to speak. She wasn’t anticipating that Wil would do much more than meekly bask in her doting, not that she would be so resistant to her influence, or respond so eagerly of her own volition— 

And certainly not that she’d find herself so charmed by it all. Wil only laughs shyly before looking up from under her long lashes, slowly lifting her face until— until they’re just… studying each other, tangled together in the quiet din. The muffled sounds of the party filter through the curtain and the open windows below, alongside the occasional passing of cars. Everything glimmers: the distant cityscape across the river, the string lights encircling the balcony, and the reflection of it all in— 

“See something interesting?” Lucy quips, wanting to break the moment, reaching her limit. The intensity of Wil’s undivided attention is… something she finds herself patently unprepared for. 

But Wil doesn’t laugh and tuck her chin bashfully like she had hoped. No, her gaze just flits all over Lucy’s face, as if she’s drinking in all the details.

“Yeah,” she near-whispers. “Just trying to figure out what colour your eyes are under the contacts.”

Lucy blinks.

“Come again?” 

“Your contacts…?” Wil leans away a little hesitantly. “Are you not… I’m sorry, parts of your eyes were yellow so I just assumed—” 

No. 

No, that’s not right at all.

Lucy grabs her jaw, pulling her closer— just inches away, enough that she can see the details of her irises, and Wil can see hers. 

“Wil,” she commands— doesn’t suggest, doesn’t charm, commands with the full force of her Authority. “What colour are my eyes?” 

“Um— metallic gold, mostly?” she says, her expression nervous instead of docile with compulsion. Her hand is still pressed to Lucy’s thigh as she’s held captive, holding on tightly. “But maybe— maybe green, I think, under that…” 

Wrong. They should be blue. They should look light blue to any human, the same way that this old mansion should look decrepit and abandoned to the uninitiated passerby. The only ones who can see through the glamours are those with permission and supposedly, a rare few who are immune to it all. 

Not just rumours and hearsay after all, then. The pieces fall into place and that cluelessness makes sense, but— 

“Green,” Wil murmurs again, heartbeat racing, eyes half-lidded as she leans in. “Like clovers.” 

Oh.

In hindsight, Lucy can see how this would come off as an invitation for a kiss. They’ve sort of been dancing around one without acknowledging it for the better part of the evening, after all. Wil, still half-leaning over her, presses forward ever so softly, one hand braced against the couch and other still on her thigh—

And nothing could have prepared Lucy for the way she tastes.

She gasps and scrabbles to grab the back of the girl’s neck, pushing past her mouth. It’s near indescribable— sweet, soft, divine all at once— Wil kisses back just as fiercely, moaning around her tongue, and Lucy wants more, more.

Wil’s hand burns her through her stockings, slipping up uninhibited now as Lucy greedily chases each sublime silhouette she tastes— winter flowers, summer afternoons, the golden glimmer of honey— electrifying fingers finally touch her bare skin, that little strip between her thigh-highs and her skirt. Her fingers dig into the back of her neck, and Wil keens in response. 

And that sound, that sound— she tastes the echo of it in each kiss, the faint cadence of that sweet sweet shyness as she asked for mango in the drink that sits untouched on the table. The very same shyness that’s now deepened into a rich and saccharine earnestness, in fact. She grasps Lucy’s thigh, fingertips trespassing just under the hem of her skirt ever so gently and insistently— waiting for permission to encroach further— 

“Mm—” she barely chokes back a whimper as she feels Wil slip a thumb underneath the garter strap, inching ever higher. 

Suddenly she understands why the others spoil their regulars so obscenely. She’d always found it… over the top, as with everything else about the culture. None of her dates have ever been more than pleasant, hardly warranting such extravagant dotage— but if this is how good it can get with the right match, then…

Then she doesn’t know how she’s going to get through this night. She doesn’t know how she’ll survive the nerve-rending sparks shooting through her nerves when Wil moves her hand even further, angles it even closer, thumb digging lightly into the inside of her thigh when she keens into that exquisite mouth—

Something buzzes unpleasantly.

“Oh, crap—” Wil pulls her hand away to deal with the tantrum her phone starts throwing in her pocket. “Sorry, lemme just…” 

Lucy doesn’t let go of her as she quickly swipes to decline the call. Interruption abated, she moves to place the phone on the table when it buzzes, again—

“Dammit,” Wil hisses under her breath, declining the call again. “Sorry, it’s my cousin, let me just text him—”

She barely gets to her messaging screen before being waylaid by another incoming call— this cousin seems determined to get Wil on the line, so Lucy resigns herself to letting go and straightening out her dress.

“I’m so sorry about this, just give me a second—” she declines, sits up to hold her phone with both hands and seems to get a step further in texting before getting another call. “Oh, come on…”

“Take the call— I won’t be offended, I promise,” she says as evenly as possible as she crosses her legs the other way and reaches for her drink. Really, she won’t— she’s more annoyed than offended. 

But the entirely disappointed and crestfallen look that Wil gives is too precious, actually, and she can’t even stay disgruntled. What a darling— not nearly as helpless as Lucy thought, but that just makes it all so…

“Really, I don’t mind,” she says, a little softer this time, smiling as she reaches over to play with a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear. 

The little affectionate gesture works as intended— Wil gives her yet another apologetic look, but takes it as permission enough.

“Hi, Justin, I—” she’s cut off immediately by a stream of something very impassioned— Lucy can’t pick out the words with the distortion, but she sure can hear it. “No, I’m— I’m fine, I was just—” 

Poor girl. Can’t get a word in. Lucy bites down on a laugh, if only to spare her the embarrassment. 

“No, I didn’t find him in the end, but—” another interruption that sounds prohibitively interrogative. “Well, I— no, I’m not alone, I’m—” she throws a furtive glance at Lucy. “ — talking to someone else.” 

And, for some reason, that gets a pause from the other end. A pause that only lasts for a moment, but still— the cousin seems to launch into another line of questioning, perhaps sounding a little less angry and more… scandalised, if Lucy’s reading the rise in pitch correctly.

“Yes,” Wil sighs, sounding defeated. It’s cute. “No, I didn’t— yes, I’m safe, I can take care of myself— can I please just text you later?” 

Quieter mumblings from the phone. “Yes, I promise.” Another response that sounds a bit clipped. “Okay. Bye.” 

And then she finally hangs up, dropping her head into her free hand. 

Lucy lets herself laugh quietly at the exhausted display. “I gather you’re fairly close with your cousin?” 

“Yes, we— we grew up together, he’s the oldest son of the aunt who took me in.” Wil sets her phone on the table and takes a sip of her drink, brows furrowed in defeat. “And, being the oldest, he can be a bit… overbearing sometimes.” 

A very kind understatement. Lucy snorts, pulling her hand away from Wil. “And he knows you’re out somewhere tonight because…?”

“Well, I— I told him, because I was…” She sets the glass back down on the wood, idly scratching her thumbnail against the stem. “Just trying to be safe. I’m not much of a party person, so it’s been a while since I’ve gone out at night, and…” she rubs the back of her neck, grimacing. “That sounded a lot sadder than I hoped.”

 Well, that explains her self-consciousness despite being something of a bombshell, at least. 

“Preferring to spend your nights in the peace and quiet of your own home is nothing to be ashamed of— and I would certainly be the last to judge. Still…” She turns a little towards Wil again, propping an elbow on the back of the couch with loosely curled fingers pressed to her lips, her other hand on her knee. “Might I ask what brought you out here tonight, then?” Assuming that she’s not the type to take up a coworker’s invitation to a non-work gathering so easily. 

“It was kind of a spontaneous decision?” Wil sighs, leaning back with her hands in her lap. “I… I actually told my coworker I couldn’t come, at first. He said to let him know if I changed my mind, but I guess…” She winces sheepishly. “I guess a few hours before was a bit too last-minute.” 

Lucy laughs, a little surprised— well, then, that would be why Wil was left alone in the lobby instead of being welcomed by one of the regulars. Still against the rules, since she shouldn’t be told the venue address at all without being initiated, but at least it explains the sloppiness; no one’s stupid enough to let her sit unattended to and in plain view. 

“A few hours?” she quirks a brow. “Did something happen, or was it just a spur of the moment?” 

That cute little lip-bite, unsure this time, as she fidgets with her hands. “A bit of both? I got home from work today and realized…” 

She hesitates— struggles, more like, furrowing her brows, and Lucy presses her cheek to the backs of her fingers.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, I won’t press.” 

“No, it’s—” she laughs. “It’s nothing like that. I’m just, um…” a furtive glance upwards, with those pretty pretty eyes. “Kind of embarrassed about it? It has to do with an ex, and that’s not exactly the most attractive thing to bring up when you’re...”

The cautious pause is entirely too endearing. Those skittish eyes are now watching carefully for a reaction, for any sign of discomfort— as if Lucy would be put off by anything at this point after the thoroughly compromising position they were in just a few short moments ago.

“Fair enough,” Lucy laughs. “But self-awareness, on the other hand, is very attractive, and I very much doubt you’re about to go on some self-absorbed rant. Try me, won’t you?” She shifts her weight, making a show of settling in to give her undivided attention. “If nothing else, I very much enjoy hearing you talk about yourself.” 

As well as watching her light up like a firefly when flattered. Wil tucks some of her errant hair behind her ear, smiling to herself in bashful delight. “If— if you say so.” 

She takes a deep breath and pauses as she gathers her words, her smile slowly falling.

“When I got home from work today,” she starts, carefully. “I didn’t have any plans other than to wind down and make dinner, and so on. The usual. Then I got a text from my friend who’s getting married soon and I realized that today is…” she furrows her brows. “Exactly two years since I was dumped by my then-fiance.”

“Ah.” Lucy’s not entirely sure how to proceed. “I’m sorry that happened.”

“Don’t be, it was— it was a good thing, actually,” she laughs. “He was a serial cheater, and he was always picking on me for being boring and ugly—”

A sharp laugh shoots out of Lucy before she can stop it.

“I’m sorry, I—” very nice, very tactful of her, good god! “It’s not that I found that funny at all, I just—”

“I know, I know,” Wil laughs. “Some people, right?” 

Some people indeed— Lucy’s long since accepted the existence of cartoonishly arrogant, mean-spirited, and invariably mediocre men, but christ.

“Putting his juvenile behaviour aside,” she waves her hand, frowning. “The idea of calling you unattractive is just so patently untrue, it’s absurd.” 

And she’s not just saying that to see Wil flustered again, as charming as she is. 

“Thank you.” She smiles and shakes her head, looking down at her hands. “I know I shouldn’t have, but at the time, I…” she fidgets quietly. “I believed him. He’d tell me things like how he was settling for me, and how I would never find anyone else who wanted to be with me, and I really believed him.” 

The forlorn way she trails off is so tragically familiar, Lucy is so sure she understands the entirety of the unspoken story in hazy reflections alone. She knows that look. She knows it better than she knows her own face in the mirror.

“Not that I still do— or that I even really care at all—” Wil blinks, and it’s gone, replaced with shyness again. “I mean, there’s more to living well than being someone’s girlfriend, right? I have my own job, my own apartment, my own social life and a… an actual sense of self respect to speak of.” Oh, that laugh is dark but so awfully relatable. “I’m happy with where I am now, truly. I don’t usually feel like I have anything to prove, but I… I don’t know.” She bites her lip and shakes her head. “When I realized what day it was and that I didn’t have any plans except to stay home, as always, I just…”

“Wanted to spite him and everything he ever said about you?” 

“Yeah,” she laughs sheepishly, as if admitting to something less than flattering. “It’s petty and almost as juvenile, I know.”

“Perhaps.” Lucy fiddles with the hem of her dress. “But it would be rather hypocritical of me to say so, to be honest.” 

She looks at Lucy with wide eyes, jolted out of her melancholy.

“Oh.” It’s funny how she seems both very and not in the least surprised by the admission. Those eyes flicker all over Lucy’s face as if searching for something, and she can’t help but wonder what it is. “You…” 

“Never had a romantic entanglement leave me with that kind of mark, so I can’t say I understand perfectly,” she clarifies. “But… I spent most of my life shaping myself to someone’s expectations while getting little to no affection in return,” she laughs, looking down at her own nails. “And though it’s been years since I stopped needing her approval, I can’t claim to be always and entirely unaffected by it to this day.” 

She says it simply and as a matter of fact, almost cheerful in her delivery, because this is another thing she doesn’t usually tell on the first date— or the fiftieth, for that matter.

“So,” she continues with a sigh. “If you want to chase a sense of vindication every once in a while, well—” she scoffs wryly. “I’m of the opinion a little petty indulgence here and there is only good for the soul.” 

She smiles, perhaps a bit conspiratorially— and after a moment, finds it reflected back at her in that lovely face. Those dimples, those freckles, the glimmering of the string lights in her eyes— god. 

(This girl is so frighteningly easy to adore.)

“In any case,” Lucy sighs, shrugging. “I daresay that’s a worthwhile occasion, no?” She raises a brow. “Happy second anniversary of your freedom, Wil. May you never lose sight of it again.”

And she— she whole-heartedly means that sentiment, but maybe it was a mistake to say aloud. Wil’s bashfulness melts into that warm richness again as she stares straight into Lucy’s eyes without flickering or wavering. It’s back, that… singular, heated focus that Lucy saw the split second before she nearly realigned all her nerve endings with that kiss.

“Thank you.” The way her voice drops in tandem, quiet and silky as she leans forward again— “I’m… I’m really glad I came here tonight.” 

At least she sees it coming this time. Lucy closes her eyes as their lips touch, sighing as she tastes that prelude to heaven once more— it’s a much less intense affair than when she had pushed forward in blind, animalistic desperation that first time, but somehow more enticing for how gentle it is. Wil kisses her so softly, reaching up to cradle the nape of her neck, slowly, slowly guiding her closer to that unforgettable sweetness, and…

Your freedom. May you never lose sight of it again.

And this time, at least, Lucy remembers to stop before she loses all sense of right and wrong.

“Listen, I…” she says, pulling away to place a hand on her collar again. “You should know—”

“Your grace, the Exarch is here to see you.”

Fuck’s sake. Of course. Of course she doesn’t get the chance to explain it herself, things just have to— 

She looks at Wil. Those pretty, dark eyes, darting between her and the curtains with concern, with her soft hand still resting smooth and gentle on Lucy’s skin. All this sweetness, that she was never entitled to in the first place. 

“Let her in,” she sighs, shuffling to put just a few more respectable inches between her and Wil, closing her eyes for a moment when Wil’s hands slip away. 

(It doesn’t make a difference. She tells herself as she straightens out her dress— it doesn’t make a difference if she gets to explain herself to Wil or not, because the end result will be the same.)

Taking a deep breath as she hears the frigid woman step through the curtain, she puts on her best smile to throw over the back of the couch.

“Therese, darling, what a surprise.”

Therese stares at her impassively, in her prim and proper formalwear as always. 

“Pardon the interruption, Chevalier Karnstein.” And, of course, the insistence of addressing her by her rank in the Order rather than her actual peerage. Even that small amount of courtesy makes her sound like she’s chewing glass. “I trust you’re enjoying your evening?” 

“Very much so.” Lucy can’t even bring herself to care that she’s coming off as overtly venomous. “Why, I haven’t had this much fun in ages.” 

Therese narrows her eyes just a fraction of an inch, perhaps even imperceptibly to the human eye. “You honour me, Chevalier.” Then she turns her attention to Wil, as Lucy can only guess was her real goal all along. “I’ve been told you were the one who received the… unexpected Guest.” Such a haughty tone, just short of a sneer. “Allow me to thank you for your foresight.” 

Foresight. Right. That would be the word for it, ironically enough.

“As the issue has been dealt with, I will be relieving you of her care…” her icy blue eyes rove over Lucy and Wil, and her pause stretches on far longer than Lucy likes. “Assuming you have no objections?” 

The raised brow speaks volumes, and Lucy leans over the back of the couch to glare at her with her smile still held across her lips. Rude little cunt. She’s baiting Lucy. Daring her to try and lay a claim on a wayward bystander, testing her integrity— 

(Is it so obvious that she’s more fond of Wil than she ought to be?)

“Assuming you’re not addressing me and talking about her like she’s an object to be passed around— while she’s sitting right here, no less,” she says pleasantly. “You should really look her in the eyes while you’re asking her a question.”

And maybe it’s petty to needle at her just as much in return, but Lucy doesn’t care. She just relishes the way Therese scowls just short of huffing like a spoiled child in the face of a reprimand, tendons on her neck rising with how tightly she’s clenching her jaw. 

“Forgive me, Miss… Wilhelmina Mah, was it?” Hysterical— she doesn’t even bother to acknowledge Lucy’s jab. “I’ve been told of your invitation by your colleague— I regret to inform you that there’s been a grave misunderstanding.” She nods her head in a slight bow, imagine that. “While you are not at fault for any part of this situation, I must ask you to leave the premises.”

“Oh! I… right— right now?” 

Lucy shifts away, looking down at the couch instead. Deep purple against the blue of Wil’s jeans, contrasted with the brown of her nervously moving hands…

“Unfortunately, yes— if you require an escort or any compensation for transportation expenses, we will be happy to provide.”

“Oh, no that’s— I understand, I’m— I’m sorry about all this,” she says, as if she needs to apologise for anything. She takes her phone from the table quickly, and Lucy watches her swipe it open with slight clumsiness. “Could I just—” there’s a nervous little laugh as she grasps her phone with both hands, thumbs ready to type. “Sorry, if I could…” Lucy imagines her glancing at Therese. “Get your number before I go…?” 

Such crushing sweetness. Lucy doesn’t dare look up at what might be a hopeful look, and she knows she’s a coward. Can’t even look someone in the eyes as she reaps the consequences of her idiocy— god, why did she let it go so far, knowing this would be the only acceptable outcome?

She puts a hand lightly over Wil’s phone and very, very gently nudges it away.

“It was wonderful meeting you, Wil.” Fake smiles were never all that difficult for Lucy— but this one feels like she’s trying to lift the entire ocean with the corners of her mouth alone, and she still doesn’t have the stones to look at Wil’s face. “I hope you get home safe.” 

She still can’t look at Wil’s face, but she still catches the way her shoulders droop.

“Oh… right.” and christ— disappointment, she was expecting, but that tone of— of resignation in her voice… “I… Thank you for the drink.” 

The drink that she barely took two sips of? Lucy glances at it and nearly laughs. “Thank you for the company.” 

It was better than she could have ever asked for in this godforsaken place, really. But she dutifully turns away as Wil rises from her seat, and doesn’t look over her shoulder as she hears one of the staff lead her out and away. She doesn’t wonder if Wil ever gave her a backwards glance before leaving, she doesn’t wish that she could have explained in private and gotten away with leaving Wil her number, and… and she isn’t grateful that she can lie as much as she wants in her own head. 

There’s the longest silence as she sips idly at her useless daiquiri. 

“Who was it?” 

She can almost hear Therese raise a brow at her. “I haven’t known you to care for the details of Court incidents.” 

“No, you haven’t.” You could also just answer my question without being a bitch about it, Lucy doesn’t say, staring down into her glass. “Would you be so surprised if I was merely curious as to who’d attempt such an egregiously unlawful Invitation?” 

Therese just scoffs under her breath. “Victoria Adamson.” Ah, yes, the Adamsons. Lucy remembers them well— the former bigwigs of this neighbourhood before the Order came muscling in. So this was some sort of payback for having their ‘ancestral’ hunting grounds taken from them, is it? “Her trial will be held tomorrow.” 

“How expeditious. I’m glad to hear it.” Lucy swirls her drink. “What sentence will you be handing down?” 

Another long pause — chances are, Therese is glaring at the back of her head over whatever insult she decided to hear in that question. 

“Thirty years solitary confinement. Do you object, Chevalier?” 

Lucy does laugh, this time, because the venom is so entirely unnecessary. As if she’s ever disliked reminders that Therese outranks her in the Order as much as little miss Exarch despises any and all mentions that she, a Courtier of common lineage, must accord the proper respect to the Honourable Lady Karnstein. The compensation and projection is ever so funny and a little sad. 

“You’ve earned your position with exemplary discretion, judgement, and resourcefulness, Exarch LeRoy, I would be hard-pressed to find fault in your administration of this exarchy.” She hears the slightest shift of fabric, the quietest grind of high heels against the floor, and tries not to smile. Nothing infuriates half as much as a polite compliment from someone you hate, and they both know Lucy’s doing it on purpose. “I have my own opinions and suggestions, of course, but I’m more than capable of keeping them to myself unless solicited.” 

Silence again. Lucy almost expects to hear Therese walk off without so much as a curt refusal— one of the saving graces of their working relationship has been that Lucy has little to no interest in exarchy affairs at all. Who knows how outraged Miss Ice Queen would be at her sudden verbosity on the matter. 

“Let’s hear it.” 

Ah, so her own hateful curiosity won out in the end, did it? 

“Excommunication of the regular,” Lucy says mildly, watching the city lights blink across the river. “And thralldom for the Courtier.” 

Therese inhales sharply. 

“Thralldom,” she repeats slowly. “For a failed attempt at an unlawful Invitation?” 

Lucy’s first reaction might also have been to think it disproportionately harsh, had she not been the one to suggest it. An eternity of servitude, still conscious but stripped of any and all autonomy or control— it’s a punishment that lawfully ranks above execution in terms of severity, reserved for the most vile and unrepentant of tresspasses. 

“Remind me, Therese darling,” Lucy sighs. “Why did my mother embark on this foolish crusade of ‘informed consent’ to begin with?” 

That, at least, earns her an instinctually disdainful huff. “Grand Master Karnstein founded the Order of Amelioration because it is right and just to treat with humans as fellow intelligent beings instead of prey. To act like animals is to die like animals— whether it means to be usurped as predators or quashed as parasites.”

“And if our kindred are to continue living as part of the natural order, we must acknowledge and act according to the irrefutable fact that we are neither superior nor inferior to humans— we simply are.” Lucy finishes the spiel for her, having heard it far too many times to not know it by heart. “So would you not say that an attempt to steal the autonomy of an unsuspecting human— successful or not— is the ultimate antithesis of everything we’re trying to establish here?” 

A pause. 

“Your point being?” 

Lucy snorts quietly, shaking her head. “The fact that Adamson failed to enthral an unconsenting individual shouldn’t take away from the severity of the attempt itself. If you will excuse my humble opinion, your excellency,” she murmurs. “Why not bestow her the same fate she would have gladly forced upon an innocent bystander, make an example of her? What better opportunity to impress the importance of the Order’s laws upon this reprobate, upstart community?” 

Another pause, even longer this time— but funnily enough, the animosity has drained from the silence. Therese is actually considering what she’s said, imagine that. 

“It would be difficult,” she finally admits, through grit teeth. “Adamson is a Baroness, and within the proprieties of the Court, I…” 

Could never dare, no matter how empowered by chivalric rank. The Order is a scant three centuries old in comparison to the ancient Court— half the reason why this exarchy in particular causes such problems is precisely because Therese holds no personal title. 

Lucy takes a sip of her drink and sighs yet again. Politics. Always with the pedantic, tedious, archaic politics. 

“Exarch LeRoy,” she declares, putting on the tone she reserves for bureaucratic performances. “Let it be known that I, Lucida Karnstein, in the fullest capacity of my hereditary countship, endorse whichever decision you make on the matter of Victoria Adamson’s sentencing.” Knocking back the rest of her daiquiri, she lazily holds the empty glass out towards the back of the couch without looking. “That good enough, or do you want it in writing?” 

Utter quiet as a server takes her glass. Lucy does feel a little bad about being such a cunt— were it anyone else, she’d at least try to be nice about pulling the nobility card, even if it’s just to help. 

“Why.” 

Such a dangerously quiet growl, hardly thrown like a question and more like a threat. Lucy rises to her feet, laughing. 

“Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it?” she smiles at the narrowed blue eyes trying to bore white-hot holes into her head. “You could accept that I do believe in the Order’s principles for my own reasons, or you could preserve your current understanding of me and assume I have some ulterior motive.” She shrugs cheerfully, hands on her hips. “I don’t care much either way.”

With that, she heads towards the exit— she’s had enough of this place and these people and all their problems. Tried to do a good thing and got more than she bargained for, as always, as ever. 

“If you’ve grown as fond of the Guest as I suspect,” Therese says just before Lucy can pass through the curtains. “I must inform you that this incident renders her permanently ineligible for Invitation.” 

Oh, Therese, always knowing exactly what to say to make sure Lucy promptly loses any and all sympathy or goodwill she might find for her.

“I’m well aware, darling,” Lucy laughs. “You didn’t have to remind me.” 

But of course she wouldn’t have been able to pass up the opportunity. Bitch. At least Alistair’s already in the driver’s seat by the time she stomps downstairs and throws herself into the back seats. 

“Woof.” He peers at her through the rearview. “That bad?” 

“Shut your fucking mouth and drive.” 

“Well, hey, come on,” he says, turning the ignition. “It’s your own fault for getting so attached to a girl you just met—”

“Alistair.” She closes her eyes and presses at her temples. “Don’t make me repeat myself, or I’ll rip your throat out.” 

“Alright, fine…” 

It’s good that he stops there, because if he had said one more word, she might have made good on her threat anyway— but for now, it’s blissfully silent as he pulls out of the parking garage, and Lucy’s feeling just fine. 

She’s not thinking about Wil, or her charming smile, or that relentlessly lovely honesty to every thing she did, that earnestness— she’s not thinking about the shade of her hair, the crinkle underneath her eyes that only showed when she smiled, or the fact that— for the first time in her life— the impossible happened. Someone wanted her. Really and truly wanted her, of their own volition, for their own reasons, wanted her in a way Lucy had no control over. Real attraction, genuine connection, and Lucy could have experienced what it's like to be an honest lover if she had just been normal. Every bit the flirty but ultimately harmless stranger she had pretended to be. Just a normal person completely unrelated to some— futile crusade to redeem a parasitic species, who wasn’t a failed prodigy going through the motions of an obedient daughter, who didn’t regularly oversee matters of life and death and autonomy, just… 

Just another ordinary somebody, with ordinary responsibilities and worries. 

Lucy closes her eyes, and suspends the memory of that impossible moment in her mind. Warm eyes, a mango-sweet smile, red hair the shade of winter afternoons, and she misses it all as much as she misses the sun.