Hedges rose around Elodie as she was led by the shoulders into the garden hurriedly through stones and then very carefully over more frozen cobbles. With the way the hedges closed in on them and muffled the sound of the fete in the distance, she couldn't help but feel- however falsely- that she was being hurried away for a clandestine meeting. Stars twinkled overhead as if keeping vigil, huddled behind the blanketed sky, waiting.

As they walked, she glanced down at the purple-red color of the wine against the whites and baby blues of her dress. Her breathing quickened. Air rushed past her lungs in an uncomfortable heave. It reminded her so much of that day in the field, and the smell of iron blood rushed into her nose. She could almost feel the warmth sinking around her fingers as she'd dug into the intestines of the sheep. The memory felt aged, covered in cobwebs on the shelves of her mind. The strings held her affixed in place, trapped by the sensation.

Her fingers found the fur nestled in her pocket, and she focused on the sensation of each strand of hair between her fingernails.

Once they were out of sight of the rest of the soiree, her would-be captor finally said, "Perhaps this is far enough." When Elodie didn't respond, he added, "You're limping-"

"I'm fine," Elodie said politely, out of habit more than anything.

"But your clothing-"

"I'm fine," Elodie insisted, with a sharpness that she immediately regretted. She filled her lungs with a deep breath and finally faced the man who had been kind enough to escort her away from public ruination.

Though he was a stranger, Elodie could tell he was somewhere around Nadya's age, only a little older than her. He was undeniably handsome, although he held himself awkwardly and stooped slightly. He adjusted the edges of his clothes, which were a pure white, wreathed in golden filigree, and he leaned a little too close to her as he did so. He moved as a gangly fawn did, unsure of the space he took up around him. If he intended to take advantage of her, he made no move to do so, instead raking his hand through a shock of disheveled golden hair that trailed just beneath his chin. Good-natured laugh lines framed his pale, gray eyes, and they searched her face, looking for some sign of recognition. When it didn't come, his lips split into a pleased grin.

With a theatrical gesture, he dug into a breast pocket and procured a lacey handkerchief. When he moved it closer to blot some of the wine off her shoulder, she could see gold filigree woven into looping swirling patterns decorated the edges, leading to a corner marked with the initials "B.W."

"You're Bishop Whitespire," she said with a voice as lean and thin as her face.

The blotting stopped momentarily, and a thoughtful look crossed his face, but he only said, "Pleased to meet you."

Elodie didn't know what to say to that. Although her only confirmation was the occasional story and foreign news carrier, Bishop Whitespire was the current High Speaker, a well-respected figure from the neighboring country of Vespertina. After several decades of political upheaval, Vespertina's people had turned to religion for their governance and way of life. The High Speaker was said to be a mouthpiece for the Builder, as an orator to a muse, and held tremendous sway even in places like the Audric Valley.

More importantly, Vesper religion severely rebuked orators' powers as heretical and rejected any admittance to orators within their borders.

The notion struck her like a mallet to the back of the head; she had snapped at the High Speaker, and presently, she was wearing his coat while he dabbed wine off of her shoulder.

"I'm embarrassed to say there's some in your hair," he commented, "Would you mind terribly lowering your eyes for a moment?"

Elodie complied and marveled at the way the candlelight feathered off his fine clothing. Even his shoes were free of frost like the snow was afraid to clump on the edges of his heels. Candlelight bloomed off of the golden buttons and embroidery on the front of his tunic, and for a moment, it was as though his chest was a blossoming sun amongst the darkening sky.

He bent down momentarily to rub a blotch of snow into his handkerchief, wetting it before running it through her hair with careful precision. His fingers were as light as dandelion spores through her hair, and despite being locked in a bizarre position by compelled politeness, she felt no tightness in her stomach and no desire to escape. He observed her as he cleaned, with a calm smile that seemed, to Elodie, plastered in place.

"There," he announced triumphantly, placing the soiled handkerchief into her hand so she could continue cleaning any places he had missed. "The coat is unfortunately beyond me, and I would still recommend washing your hair some before returning, but it should at least be less immediately uncomfortable." He sighed deeply and said, "Truly, I feel dreadful. You must allow me penance, miss ..."

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"Elodie Auclair," she responded with a full bow, still uncomfortable meeting his gaze. She winced slightly from the motion, her boots digging deeper into her heels and aggravating her injury. Her voice was pleasant but devastatingly quiet.

Recognition flashed in his eyes, and he took a step back. "Elodie ... ah, Elodie Auclair. Well, I must truly beg forgiveness then."

What happened next couldn't have shocked Elodie more than anything else that day. The high speaker dipped his head in a bow to his core and showed her the greatest deference meant for monarchs. The flick of his wrists was elegant beyond compare, and the candlelight flickering around him made him look like he was sparkling as he did so.

When he'd swept himself back up, he said, "I do believe I have you to thank for our attendance tonight. My aide and I could only attend tonight, thanks to the repairs made along the eastern road. Prince Braum had mentioned that your ingenuity led to such a series of events."

Memories surfaced and popped like bubbles across her vision. The Langstrom province! The memory had a dream-like quality, and she barely remembered giving that advice to Prince Braum. She hadn't been aware he had acted on it or that it had produced a result grand enough to welcome the High Speaker to winter's fete.

Not knowing what else to do, Elodie ducked her head and focused on dabbing her shoulder with the handkerchief as though it would do anything.

The High Speaker chuckled to himself, a burbling noise with the pleasantness and familiarity of a mother calling for suppertime. Elodie could understand why droves of Vesper worshippers hung on his words. Every gesture he made and word he selected was calculated to be soothing and somehow swaddling, like a warm blanket after running around in the winter snow. He did so effortlessly and genuinely.

Her lashes still lowered, she could only say, "I cannot take credit for the Prince's efforts."

"I shall count myself as unlucky if I have to depart this evening without forgiveness from the woman to whom I owe my safe passage. I'd like to make things right." Apologetic eyes bore into her, and again, he asked, "What penance shall I have?"

She wouldn't have taken him very seriously if it weren't for the imperiousness in his voice and the seriousness of his tone. At once, she felt her spine straighten, though whether out of fear or admiration, she wasn't sure. The feeling crawled down her legs and stiffened her toes.

"Perhaps you could ... if you don't mind, that is ... if you could forget how I spoke to you earlier? I didn't mean to snap; it's just ..."

At first, his face was placid, unmoving. Elodie thought him much like the marble statues that littered the garden: frozen in time and beautiful. His eyes scanned her entire body like he was searching for some secret clue. Then, small lines crinkled the skin around his eyes, and he burst out in short, staccato laughter. It swept through him with ease, and Elodie thought him much like an angel as he filled the space with sound.

"Very well. Consider it erased."

A small whisper of a man with folded hands appeared from behind one of the hedges, murmuring an apology for his intrusion. He had a youthful appearance, contrasted by dark, limp hair that hung over his face like a veil, and he smelled faintly of incense. Though he spoke to the High Speaker in a hushed tone, his eyes never left Elodie. The sensation unnerved her, as though she was a hare being hunted by a stalking predator. Danger, she thought, despite none being present.

"I understand," the High Speaker said with a tone of tragedy. "Though I regret we didn't have more time for conversation. Miss Auclair, I must take my leave to appease those expecting my presence. You must visit the White Tower someday. I would also welcome your insight into our country's neighborly relations." There was something pitying and devilish that moved across his features, like a chess player who had seen a move four turns in advance or a seer enacting a tragic prophecy that they couldn't forestall.

Elodie's mind went white, her mouth dry. Spots bloomed across her vision. A response. She needed to respond. Come on, lips, move!

"Doesn't Vespertina refuse entry to orators?" she blurted out.

The High Speaker's features petrified, a painting forming from soft, quick brush strokes. His sharp nose turned slightly skyward, and he looked down at her imperiously. "Is that why you seem so afraid of me? I have no sway over your country." He shook his head knowingly. "As far as I'm concerned, I've only been introduced to Prince Braum's advisor, a lovely Miss Elodie Auclair, to whom I owe a great favor. She never mentioned anything about oration." He looked over his shoulder to his diminutive aide and said, "Quill, you can see that some paperwork be left with King Asrun's diplomats can't you?"

The subservient man nodded and finally spoke to Elodie. His hands had remained folded together the entire time, and he was so pale that he looked like a ghost against the dark foliage of the hedges. "As you wish," he said softly, almost too quietly to hear.

"With your permission, of course," the High Speaker added, looking at Elodie cautiously.

She had a thousand questions for the High Speaker, none of which he could answer presently, given his engagements. Why did he want her to visit? Had he known she was an orator, or had she stupidly revealed that?

None of that mattered right now, of course. Of all people, her mind drifted to Braum. She wished he was here to provide a charming word and a well-placed compliment that would put both parties at ease. Images flashed across her mind of him standing with Nadya, the icicle crown pinched between his hands, and the severe look on his face. No, Braum was busy with other matters entirely. She had no choice but to stand alone as a court advisor.

"I would be honored," she said, returning his handkerchief.

"Keep it," he told her. "Proof of our garden dalliance." His voice hinted at mischievousness, and the aide behind him frowned but said nothing.

When Elodie tried to return his coat, he shook his head and said, "No, please, I insist you keep that as well. These northern winters are just dreadful, and I wouldn't want your reputation soiled by a stained gown."

As kind as he wished to be, Elodie could see that he was shivering beneath his silken shirt and pitied him. She pushed the coat back into his hands and thanked him for the kindness.

Before stepping away entirely, he swiveled on his back foot. His expression was less marbled, more apologetic, and transformative. Some venere seemed to fade away, like terebinth scratching away at layers of paint. Airily, but with some amount of importance, he said, "It was lovely to meet you, Miss Auclair."

Beside him, Quill scowled.