Behind Every Smile

Thristle snuck down to the hold before dawn, balancing a tray of nicked supplies and trying not to think about how much this felt like feeding a monster under her bed. A beast that happened to like honey and hadn't dissolved her. Yet.

"Right then," she whispered, setting down her offerings just within reach of the obsidian walls. "Let's see what catches your fancy today."

Vesper's surface rippled lazily - the kind of ripple that suggested he had been waiting for her, probably enjoying her clumsy attempts at stealth. A tendril reached for the honey jar with familiar eagerness, but something was... off. The usual enthusiastic splashing was subdued, more like a halfhearted poke than its normal dive for sweetness.

"Not fooling anyone," Thristle muttered, watching the slime investigate each item with scientific precision. The bread earned a curious prod. The meat was thoroughly examined but left alone. The stew might as well have been water for all the attention he received. "Been acting strange since we boarded, haven't you?"

Vesper's only response was to form tiny wavelets across his surface - the pattern she'd learned meant it was thinking about something. Or plotting. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

"Found your morning experiment, I see." Thristle nearly dropped the honey jar. Seraphina stood at the hatch, looking far too alert for this ungodly hour. Her expression carried that particular blend of exasperation and concern that seemed reserved just for Thristle's escapades. But there was something else - a careful cataloging in her gaze that made Thristle's neck prickle. The way she noted distances, angles, and how long it took to reach Vesper's hold. Like someone marking escape routes. Or containment points.

"Just... testing a theory," Thristle managed, accent slipping as she tried to sound professional. "About dietary preferences and behavioral changes in confined specimens-"

"You're worried about him."

"I-" Thristle stopped, watching Vesper deliberately ignore a piece of perfectly good bread. "He's not himself. Usually can't keep him from testing everything. Now look at him - acting all proper and contained. It's not right."

Seraphina's lips twitched. "Most would consider that an improvement."

"Most haven't seen him properly happy," Thristle muttered, then caught herself. "Not that I want him dissolving things! Just... he's too quiet. Like he's waiting for something."

Behind her, Vesper's surface moved with that particular pattern that usually meant it was laughing at her expense, but even that seemed muted, careful.

"Well," Seraphina said dryly, "at least one of you is learning caution."

Thristle nodded absently, attention caught by something shifting inside Vesper's translucent mass. The slime had always collected things, but she'd never noticed how... deliberately they were arranged. The bear skull hung like a macabre trophy near the center, bits of bone trailing behind it like a grim constellation. A boar's skull floated nearby, positioned just so as if Vesper was proud of its hunting achievements.

"That's new," she muttered, forgetting her accent entirely as she leaned closer. Metal glinted through the gelatinous body - axe heads and spearheads suspended in neat rows, a battered metal mug that looked suspiciously like stolen from a kitchen. A stack of arrowheads caught the lamplight, their edges still sharp enough to cut.

"What is?" Seraphina moved closer, following her gaze.

"Look how organized everything is. It's not just random floating bits. He's... arranging them. Like a collection." Thristle's voice dropped to a whisper as she spotted something else - a seed, suspended in its own little pocket of slime. "Is that..."

"A seed?" Seraphina confirmed, her own voice tight with recognition. "Now it's into gardening?"

Vesper's surface rippled - not its usual playful patterns, but something more deliberate. He wanted them to notice what it had been keeping safe all this time. A glint of gold caught Thristle's eye.

"He's been holding onto it since..." Thristle's throat closed around the words. Since that night in the ruins, since before they really knew each other.

---

Hawthorne's casual supper invitation to celebrate the victory over mimic had come with his usual perfect smile and enough weight behind it to sink a ship. Thristle had managed to avoid him for over a day, but apparently, their luck had run dry.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Remember," Seraphina murmured as they climbed to his quarters, "let me do the talking."

Hawthorne's cabin smelled faintly of salt air and managed to be both exactly what Thristle expected and subtly wrong in ways that made her neck prickle. Everything is too carefully arranged - like someone's idea of what a captain's quarters should look like rather than a lived-in space. The brass fittings gleamed just a bit too bright, the books on the shelves looked suspiciously untouched, and most of the charts spread across his desk were crisp as new parchment. Every instinct screamed trap, but weren't they always screaming that lately? Hard to trust your gut when it kept mixing up 'dangerous' with 'different' - look at Vesper, after all...

"You've quite the collection of navigation texts," Thristle commented, falling back on nervous chatter. "Though I notice they're all from southern publishers. Not much trade with the north these days?" She caught herself starting to slouch and straighten, trying to maintain the scholarly persona.

"Wine?" Hawthorne offered, already pouring with practiced grace. His perfect smile hadn't wavered since they'd entered, but something about how he watched them over the rim of his glass made Thristle's stomach twist. The peculiar smile reminded her of market merchants back home, the ones who knew exactly what you wanted to hear. The ones Rose always said could 'sell snow to a snow spirit.' But Rose wasn't here to nudge her elbow and whisper warnings... Like a merchant assessing goods rather than a host entertaining guests.

"Thank you," Seraphina said, accepting her glass with perfect poise. However, Thristle noticed how she moved—too fluid for a maid, each gesture precise and economical. Her eyes swept the room in what looked like casual appreciation, but Thristle recognized it as tactical assessment—noting exits, checking shadows, measuring distances.

Thristle focused on her plate, pushing food around with careful precision while trying not too obviously avoid eating it. The fare was standard ship's provisions dressed up to look fancy - salted fish prepared with herbs, preserved vegetables arranged just so, hard tack softened and disguised with sauce. But something about how deliberately casual it all looked made her more nervous than if he'd served exotic delicacies.

Through the deck planks, Thristle felt Vesper's agitation - the engine's usual rhythm disrupted by the slime's restless movements. "Fascinating construction techniques in these newer vessels," she babbled, trying to mask her nervousness. "The way they integrate steam power with traditional rigging-"

"Indeed," Hawthorne cut in smoothly. "Though I'm more interested in hearing about your... academic experiences. Particularly regarding specimen handling. Our northern colleagues have such fascinating methods."

Thristle felt Seraphina's boot tap her ankle - their signal for silence. She reached for her water instead of answering, noticing how Hawthorne's eyes tracked the movement. The untouched wine sat like an accusation between them.

"Must be quite the journey for those northern traders," Seraphina commented, her cultured maid's accent slipping just enough to reveal something harder beneath. "Especially with the ports closed these past months."

"Oh, there are always... alternative routes for those with sufficient motivation." Hawthorne cut his fish into precise squares. "Though I confess, I'm particularly intrigued by your companion's remarkable properties. The selective dissolution abilities alone..." He gestured with his fork, enthusiasm almost convincing. "Pure academic interest, you understand. The research possibilities-"

"Ye mean like them facilities up north?" Thristle's accent slipped badly as anxiety got the better of her. "The ones that got shut down after-" She caught herself, face flushing.

"Our arrangements are with Lord Blackbriar," Seraphina cut in, her tone carrying that particular edge that usually preceded violence. She hadn't touched her food, Thristle noticed, and her posture had shifted subtly - weight on her back foot, hands positioned for quick movement.

"Ah yes, of course." Hawthorne began, but Seraphina continued with perfect maid's precision.

"I take my duties quite seriously," she said, delicately adjusting her napkin. "Particularly regarding those in my care." Her fingers traced the knife's dull edge with casual grace. "It would be... most unfortunate if anything were to interfere with those duties."

Thristle nearly choked on her water, not just at the carefully measured warning but at hearing Seraphina say "in my care" instead of the usual "his lordship's ward or my charge." The maid's eyes met hers briefly, carrying a promise that had nothing to do with professional obligation.

"Of course." Hawthorne's smile widened a fraction. "Though surely some scholarly discussion wouldn't violate any confidences?…" I have contacts at several respected institutions who would be fascinated by detailed observations of such a specimen. The camp facilities are quite well-equipped for-"

The room tilted sideways. Thristle grabbed the table edge, her tongue feeling suddenly thick. Not the wine she hadn't drunk. Not the food she hadn't eaten. The water. Stupid, stupid...

"What did..." Her carefully practiced accent dissolved completely. "Ye rotten mushroom, what'd ye do to-" The words tangled in her mouth. She tried to stand but her legs wouldn't cooperate. Through blurring vision, she saw Hawthorne's perfect smile crack into something hungrier.

"A mild sedative," he said pleasantly, dabbing his napkin at the corner of his mouth like they were discussing the weather. "Nothing permanent, I assure you. Simply ensuring cooperation during transport. The buyers are quite particular about specimen condition."

Something crashed behind her - Seraphina's chair hitting the floor as the maid shed her servile demeanor like a discarded mask. Her movements now were pure predator, each gesture speaking of years of lethal training. But even as she moved, Thristle saw what her guardian didn't - shadows in the doorway, metal glinting in the lamplight. She tried to shout a warning but her throat wouldn't work.

Seraphina spun with deadly grace, her dinner knife finding a gap in the first attacker's ribs. Her other hand somehow produced a thin blade from her apron, taking down a second man even as she moved. But there were too many - they'd planned for her skill, coordinated to contain someone dangerous. A blow caught her temple with a sickening crack.

"I do apologize for the theatrics," Hawthorne's voice came from very far away. "But the market for unique specimens has become quite competitive lately. And your friend below decks will fetch a remarkable price, once properly contained. The north is especially eager to study its remarkable properties..."

Darkness took her before she could hear the rest.

---