land development

"i'm not blind." he rests a hand on his hip and frowns. "you're fond of sighing, but it’s doubled when you read your mail."

ingrid bites her cheek.

"you write to enbarr, and you receive word back," felix continues. "you fret and wring your hands when you think i’m not looking and send off parcels when no one else is around to see it. so.”

ingrid braces herself. 

“are you a spy?"

she balks.

"a-- a spy? felix, do you seriously believe--"

his lips twitch into something resembling a smirk.

"save your breath. i know you’re not. you’re too dedicated to your virtuous notions of fealty to be."

the flames in her cheeks almost make her wish it were true.

"are you teasing me, felix?"

"something of the sort, perhaps."

ingrid frowns. "you're not very good at it."

"so i'm told."

some of the tension bleeds from her shoulders.

"but that doesn't mean i'm not asking about it seriously."

and it bleeds back in.

"who are you writing?"

ingrid hesitates. she traces the lines of her husband's-- her husband's!-- face, looking for a sign. how he's feeling, how he will feel. how poor of an idea responding will be. but she is honest to a fault and making a fuss will only make it worse, so she swallows her objections and speaks.

"dorothea."

his eyes flash, then dull.

"ah."

ingrid winces.

"that makes sense, i suppose."

"what do you mean?"

"you two seemed... close, back at the academy."

ingrid's heart squeezes.

"after a fashion," she says, "perhaps."

"don't think i don't know how she talked about you. she wasn't exactly subtle about it."

and her pulse quickens.

"dorothea is-- well, you know--"

"did you respond in kind?"

felix levels his gaze at her, and it feels like a challenge. ingrid lifts her chin, straightens her back. they stare at each other, and a moment passes heavy between them.

she says nothing. felix’s eyes drop.

"i see," he says, and somehow it feels worse than having admitted it aloud. "are you sure she's not using you? worming her way into your good graces for some agenda or other?"

"felix." there is a sudden danger to ingrid's voice.

"i ask for practicality's sake." his eyes meet hers again. "she is our enemy--"

"was our enemy."

"--and if you wind up broken-hearted and betrayed by some adrestian songstress looking to further herself in the wake of a failed invasion, it's not going to be on my account."

ingrid stares, again. the familiar traces of irritation are dusted across felix's face, but there's no heat behind his gaze. he seems almost--

"are you concerned for me, felix?"

he scoffs. "is it so hard to believe?"

"it's not that i think you incapable..."

"i'm under no illusions when it comes to our union." he places an emphasis on the word that might sound like derision to any other person. if she's being honest, it sounds like derision to her, too. "i'm not... angry, if that's what you were expecting."

ingrid doesn't quite know what to do with her hands. she swallows thickly. "and... what if word got out, then?"

felix looks almost bored.

"the affairs of my house are my business. not anyone else's."

heat builds in the back of her sinuses.

"what if people think you weak?"

felix's eyes darken. "if anyone thinks me weak, they can take it up with my blade."

ingrid pitches forward, crossing the distance between them with unexpected speed, and hugs him with force enough to make him grunt. "thank you, felix."

he brings a hesitant hand up to pat her back. she draws back and looks at him, face grave.

"you know, if you were ever so inclined--"

his face collapses into a grimace. 

"please. spare me."

mari in the big city part 1

“Are you sure you don’t need any help moving, Mari?”

Marianne adjusts the cell phone on her shoulder. There’s a concerned lilt to Hilda’s voice on the other side of the line, and part of Marianne appreciates it, but she can’t help the familiar curls of dread from settling into her gut.

“No, it’s alright,” she says, opening a cardboard box and peering inside. Dull blankets stare back up at her. “Um, the movers handled all the big stuff so it’s mostly just unpacking.”

“Well, alright.” Marianne walks over to the window and sits down on the floor beneath it. “But I’m definitely throwing you a housewarming party, alright? Maybe next weekend?”

Marianne curls her toes into the carpet.

“Maybe. If… nothing comes up.”

“If nothing comes up? You already got plans, Mari? Gonna hit the town, see the sights?”

“Well, you know.” Marianne worries at her cuticles. “There’s still so much to do around here before, um. It’s presentable. For something like that.”

“Riiiiiiight.” Marianne winces at how clearly Hilda doubts her. “And you’re sure you don’t need any help.”

Marianne looks around her new apartment. The walls are bare. Boxes are piled on top of each other and scattered across the floor. It seems like too little and too much at the same time. The idea of her going through it all is immediately draining.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m sure.”

Marianne drags a few of the lighter boxes closer to the wall, forming a barrier between the corner and the greater part of the room. She takes a few of the blankets and lays them out on the ground before crawling on top of them and cocooning herself. 

She falls asleep to the sound of traffic below.

“Soooooo.” Hilda grins at her from behind her sunglasses, pink nails curling around her mug of tea. “How are you liking the new place?”

Marianne sits across from her outside a small cafe, ivy spilling out of hanging planters along the windowsills. It’s a bit expensive, but Hilda insisted on taking her to “the hidden gems around town” and the bistro is the first on the list. 

Hilda showed Marianne the list when they first arrived. It’s nice, written in gel on creamy stationary, with decorative flourishes around the edges.

Marianne chews the inside of her cheek.

“It’s nice,” she says. “I like being alone.”

Hilda’s face collapses into a frown. “I’m sorry you couldn’t move in with me and Doro, but our shithead roommate is all talk, apparently, and didn’t actually pack up and go after that big fight with our landlord.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Marianne says, reaching for her own cup. “I really do like being alone.”

Hilda pouts. “I guess…. Still, it would’ve been fun to have you.”

Marianne gives her a small smile.

“Yeah.”

“That being said, feel free to drop by whenever. I can get you a key so even if we aren’t there you can let yourself in.”

“Oh,” Marianne begins, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, “but what about your other roommate? I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Literally don’t even worry about her, she barely pays rent anyway.” Hilda sighs. “I was so looking forward to her leaving.”

Marianne toys with her mug.

“I’ll think about it.”

overture

When Warwick is six his father takes him to the ballet. 

 

He sits in the box next to the duke and stretches to see over the banister. A manservant quietly hands him a cushion to sit on, and Wick hops up on top of it, on his knees, and watches.

 

He’s not really sure what the story is -- the performers don’t speak much, and when they do, it seems to be in a different language -- but he’s entranced all the same. The line of dancers moving in sync is mesmerizing and he follows every dip, every twirl, every lift. The music speeds up, slows down, brightens and sharpens and grows. 

 

He fidgets in his seat. With the crash of a cymbal at the height of a crescendo, he flies out of it. 

“Warwick, sit down,” his father hisses. Warwick doesn't hear him.

 

He grips the side of the box, standing on tip-toe and leaning forward. He opens his eyes wider as if it’ll impress the images on stage into them. He mouths along to the wordless melody. He listens.
 

On the carriage ride back home, he twitches his feet in time to a silent beat, thoughts bouncing through his mind in a steady 4/4.