If Claribel were to visit the palace again today, they’d need to be prepared. Prepared to meet Rosalind’s schemes blow-for-blow.

Thankfully, without Lady Jehanne to intimidate, they could now retreat to the better-smelling study.

And double-thankfully, Claribel’s Steward was at hand to clear her itinerary, save the appointment with the apothecarist. A close brush with Lady Agatha’s party was enough to make her want a lie-down. Six other ladies had been set to attend. Six. At a meal that wasn’t supposed to be silent.

~We will not be visiting the palace again today.~

But…

~No. I’ve been thinking about what you said. Possibly not said. Thought. You are right. Why bother with things when others can take care of it on your behalf. Why bother visiting her again when she can come to me? I had been thinking of making a donation, but had only held back upon consideration for Ros, but if she won’t consider me…~

‘Hubert,’ she called to the Stewart, ‘dust off the special alms I was going to supply via the Church.’

‘Now… my lady?’

‘Now is the time. Please review it today with Father Mathis and Father Bertin. Make sure the latest numbers are on there. I will take it to Cardinal Octavus myself during my weekly visit on the morrow.’

‘At once, my lady. And lifetime clause?’

‘Make sure it’s in there, as we’d discussed.’

Hubert bowed and made a quick exit.

~Now then, you seem sure that the rumour cannot be contained, even though no one seems to be speaking of it this morning.~

Ari mulled it over. Some statements had nothing to do with the words that made up the sentence itself.

~Friend? Do you really think we were friends? I am a duchess’s daughter. Do you think people approach me without knowing that? Ros knew too. Perhaps the good times were real, but she knew, she knew that being a friend of Aquilon brought you knights hand-trained by my father. And when she called upon me to call upon those knights, call upon them to lay down their lives, I refused. Was I the traitor in our friendship? Did I leave her hanging in a time of need? Or was that my only worth to her?~

Max would have asked them to talk to each other. But what was the point of talking when the words were sure to be lies? It was easier to assume the worst. Truer. Safer.

~Even you. Would you have let me live if I was of no use to you? If I had no connections to Tristram, and no way to navigate the world around him to help you search for Miri, would you tolerate me as you do now?~

Claribel let out a mirthless laugh. ~No. No, I know you are not like that. It is a strange thing, to be able to look into another person’s head.~

~I admit that I would not like it, had things turned out the other way around.~

~You do like things to be fair. Quite the warrior of justice.~

Claribel laughed again, this time with an iota of gaiety. A drop in an ocean of darker emotions, washing over Ari, comforting, unrelenting.

Her words were half-formed, but formed all-the-same.

~Not as much as it scares you. They seep in around the edges, yes, but they are not your core.~

What was a core anyway? Just a beacon that Max had once lit within the void that she’d never really noticed before. In the formless deep stood the last bastion, but the light was burning down, and everything must return to how it was always meant to be.

Nothing comes from nothing. Yet. Yet. Her feelings rose out of a sea of shapeless grey. She clung to it, separating it from the darkness, the only good, yet… Yet. Nothing comes from nothing. It was a moment, stolen, from the natural order of the universe. A blip. A mistake.

~Speaking of mistakes,~ said Claribel, cloaking herself in a false smile once more, ~do you remember how to address Duke Auster in writing?~

<…Wait. You… Ugh.>

~Before you ask, I didn’t know this was going to happen. Still, it’s nice to be right. It is a useful skill to have.~ She guided Ari’s hand to a quill and some pots of ink, in red and black. Gently, she said, ~Your love was no mistake. However, I don’t feel the same confidence in your letter-writing skills.~

In her life as Becky, she’d written a fair amount of letters to those who’d spent longer climbing the corporate ladder than herself, though she supposed a duke never needed to do any climbing, except from the underside as a core-strengthening exercise. All Ari knew was how to kick the ladder out and stab someone with the splinters.

She dipped Claribel’s quill, which was really just a sad-looking white goose feather trimmed and sharpened with a knife, into a pot of black ink, and wrote.

Or not.

The quill made a splatter of ink over the parchment, and the nib sliced through the wettened patch. Once upon a time, Ari had seen photos from a piece by Murakami Saburo, running through man-sized pages stretched out on wooden frames, bursting through them like a character rising through the pages of a book. Or was it a man running into a book, ripping apart the world that he could never truly inhabit? Passing Through. There’d been a gallery label next to the photo, asking viewers which art critics they aligned with: was the art the act of paper-breaking, or the ripped pages left behind, or the photos that captured each moment?

~I am amazed.~

Ari reached for a fresh piece of parchment, and summoned her best handwriting.

A downward stroke for ‘Dear’–

~STOP! Who are you calling dear?~

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~Just… focus on the penmanship. I am known for my elegant cursive. You will write the following:

To my lord the Duke of… Fated One save me. Are you really literate? No, don’t write that. Stop.~

Ari glanced down at the letter, which she’d been writing in her neatest hand.

~There are samples of my writing in the library.~ The stairs in the corner that also opened up onto the Great Hall took her directly there. ~That’s right. On the shelves. I scribed the book with the blue roses and no title at the top right. Do you think you could imitate my hand?~

Ari ran her hand along the top shelf, missing the feeling of brushing against spines instead of pages, until she found the blue roses.

Flicking to the middle for a sample of the writing, she read,

~All right, all right. Do you know how to shape your ‘D’s now?~

~Please…~

Ari let the bottom of Claribel’s dress trail down the stairs, even as Ninus’s hands did the same.

Back in the study, she practised Claribel’s letters, writing out Moracea in various states of undress, detailed in Claribel’s curling cursive, next to a startled bunny that she’d doodled in the margins. Understandable, because if she was a rabbit hiding behind an oak branch, she’d wear the same expression when she found out that it was not that type of wood.

~Do you have to?~

~I copied it for Lady Guinevere. It is going to be a private wedding present. Unfortunately the illuminations are not yet complete. I hope your artistic skills are more inspiring than your attempts at sewing.~

Ari squinted at the illustration on the next page. A snake was defying gravity, wriggling into the nostril of an unperturbed deer. A problem for another day.

She looped out the alphabet, slowly, though fast enough to ensure that the ink didn’t drip and nib of the quill didn’t rip through the parchment, drawing instead of writing.

~Is that… Is that really how easy it is to forge my hand?~

The meaning of her own words crashed down on her. What if… What if the person who’d forged Claribel’s signature, whatever its name was in this world, was also not of this world? Surely not. There were bound to be forgers in this world too, just as skilled, perhaps more so. But what if…

She was the third Agent to be sent into this world, and the forger wasn’t Natty. Then was it Hannah Temple? How did that fit with Hesperus’s knowledge of their kind? Had Hannah joined forces with Hesperus and Tristram? And… And… No, there was no satisfying click of puzzle pieces falling into place. She was trying to jam a piece of sky among pieces of the ocean.

Then… Anyone who went through Year Eleven.

Those who fell through the programme, who weren’t gifted enough to make it past the first test, they transferred out of the programme. Or so the Chief had told them. Could they really transfer back out into the real world, laden with secrets? Back out, into the… the…

The thoughts dissipated: ripples claimed by the stillness of the silent waters. Silent. Watching.

This time, the quill remained firmly bound by the fragile parchment, as things should be, and the shape of Claribel’s handwriting scratched her whispers into ink.

To my lord the Duke of Auster, in haste, Lady Claribel sends her greetings.

My lord, you have once shown me around the Temple of Sailan in your beautiful, hilly Rulan, and pointed to the fresco of Sailan slaying the many-tongued beastly form of Rumour incarnate. I am reminded of your wise words from that day, today more than ever.

I must confess that the rumours of my marriage to a man now deceased have surprised me as they have no doubt surprised you, although with your greater capacity for patience and wisdom, your words upon hearing those rumours may not have earned as many disapproving glares from members of the Church as mine did.

Therefore, please pray for me to remain as calm as you are, to make no rash decisions, and to find the source of this most malicious falsehood, for I fear that it is a ploy to turn us against each other. I thank the Fated One for our deep respect and understanding of each other, for we have thwarted that attempt by our mutual trust.

May the Fated One lend us strength in trying times.

A humble friend of House Auster

Her hand ached, and her fingertips had been dyed ink black. Quills had a long way to go when it came to ergonomic design.

~That is only the back-up letter–~

~You are the one who believes the rumour will spread no matter what.~

~Will it though? The only people who heard are a handful of my people, and I’ve asked everyone present to keep a secret, so–~

~The knights are–~

~That’s the same as–~

~Anyway! If you are right, then that is not a back-up letter at all. I will send it at once if even a single one of my people are talking about that marriage contract with anyone else when we do our morning greetings. I will float ahead and listen in.~

*

So they went, greeting everyone within Claribel’s household, asking them how they were, how their children were, how their bad backs were, all of which were suspiciously answered by variations of ‘very well’.

They went around the gardens, thankful for another mild winter’s day. She couldn’t even see her crystalising breath in the morning air, only the waxing and waning of Claribel as she drifted farther before the silvery thread that connected their hearts tugged her back towards Ari.

The man that Claribel introduced as Lonicer presented Ari with an offending purple carrot, boasting of its enormous size. Perhaps she’d draw a rabbit nibbling on one for Lady Guinevere’s illustrated present. The boy with Lonicer, named William, apparently bore an unmistakable likeness to Patricia, except she couldn’t recall Patricia’s face.

‘I’ve watered the roses, my lady,’ he said with a sniff. ‘Got another bud bloomed this morning.’

‘Great work!’ said Ari, hoping that it’d be enough to put him off her scent, or give him whatever it was that he so eagerly desired, staring up at her with puppy-dog eyes. ‘And… keep it up?’

‘Should we try ‘n’ get some of those special roses from Jumont as well?’

Lonicer thumped him on the shoulder. ‘Enough! Go pull up more carrots! We want to add ‘em to the stew tonight!’

‘But I just thought–’

‘Hang on, let the boy speak. Why are we getting new roses?’ said Ari, though she cared little for roses, and was already forgetting the name of the boy.

‘I… I just thought you might want to plant some green roses, my lady,’ said the boy. ‘There’s those ones from Jumont that look just like them roses, with twirly leaves that look just like flowers. They’d work well with the blue ones too.’ When she didn’t reply, he added, ‘Should we go ahead? We could get talkin’ to some merchants. There’s ships from Jumont in port right now.’

‘And you want to add green to my house colours, because…?’

‘Because you are… you are…’

Lonicer sighed. ‘Because William heard us talkin’ about your marriage, my lady. He doesn’t really understand…’

‘Heard who talking?’

‘I… we… we were…’

‘Lonicer, I am not angry. I am just disappointed.’

~Oh don’t. I haven’t turned into mine yet, and I doubt it’d even be possible, even should the duchy require it.~

‘I had just heard about your… your marriage.’

‘How many people know?’ Lonicer looked at his feet. ‘It is untrue. So no green to my house colours. In fact, you may plant some red roses next to the blue. Lady Proserpina showed me some beautiful ones before. Velvety, rich petals, very tightly wound. Why don’t you look into that? Or even better, look into getting those carrots orange. The purple dyes all our stews brown.’

*

Duke Aquilon took the news well. Ari let Claribel press her into the peripheries of their shared body, let Claribel speak through a mouth that she’d originally owned anyhow. It hardly made Ari’s head throb now, to step aside and make space for the other spirit, and it seemed like the right thing to do, the only thing to do, to let the father hear directly from his daughter’s mouth before anyone else got there first.

When they’d finished speaking, Duke Aquilon merely nodded. Perhaps he had other things to worry about. Perhaps he really believed her when Claribel assured him that everything was under control.

The letter went next, via the fastest messenger on the fastest messenger horse. Perhaps it would outrun rumour too, all the way to Auster.

*

Ari was just about to head to the gates for the carriage to the apothecary when a messenger in a blood red doublet and matching red shoes swept through the gates.

He dropped two dead rabbits at her feet, and cried, ‘To the Lady Claribel Aquilon, Lower Warden of the Guild of Mages, Lady Oriana sends her regards!’