Under different circumstances, no one would consider a single two sunrises and a sunset adequate time to adapt to a new role and excel at it. But the role itself wasn’t exactly new to Safir, even if the title itself was; and Ilandria had neither the time nor the patience to wait for him to become proficient in it. Perhaps he should count himself lucky that it was but an unfamiliar guest on the receiving end of his incompetence (albeit a noteworthy unfamiliar guest), and not someone more integrally affiliated with his role.

And maybe he would have considered himself lucky, were it not for the fact this contextual stranger’s face was burned into his mind.

There was no time to check that his hair was adequately plaited, his collar was straight, or even ensure his shoes were tied. He didn’t even have the time to spread various and sundry papers and books across the surface of his desk to at least give the appearance he had been busy, and let time slip away from him. The rest was up to his social competence, and not flubbing and further correspondence with the prestigious vintner, because he was there no sooner than Safir sat down.

“Mister Revennel.” Such a pleasure to see you again. Thank you for giving me a chance, and not rescinding your appointment as a result of my complete  incompetence. All of which he wanted to say, but knew better, and settled only for the first two words and a nod of acknowledgment. If directly confronted with his egregious oversight, only then would he dish out the excuses. 

Fortunately, few Ilandrians would outright accuse their own king of poor conduct directly to his face. If Corvane was, in fact, born and bred high-class Ilandrian, he would surely think twice before calling out Safir in any way. Particularly when the most powerful man in all of Ilandria had, in the end, carved time out of his busy schedule to accommodate. “Like the rest of Ilandria, I have long since appreciated and respected your family’s formidable contributions to this kingdom’s vibrant culture. For all we have been criticized over the years--and for good reason, mind you--even our worst critics are helpless but to respect Ilandrian food and drink. It appears to me that you already bring so much to the table… literally and figuratively.” He couldn’t help but smile upon managing to slip in that last beat, despite the curious pressure of this audience.

“That said… I am indeed curious as to what else, if not the obvious, you wish to offer. And why you would seek to deviate from such a tried and true profession, if that is indeed your pursuit.”

Safir had offered his time and attention with entirely zero expectations for the vintner, and entirely with the intent just to listen. All the same, he could not act fast enough to stop his eyebrows from raising dramatically at the mention of ‘personal valet’. 

And the surprise did not stop there when, in line with Ilandrian logic yet curiously deprived of the sort of respect he was used to receiving, Corvane went on to pitch his capabilities by way of daring to point out his own king’s flaws. Safir had assumed him bold to begin with, for approaching him in the first place in lieu of waiting for an appropriate lull following the coronation celebration. It seemed he had underestimated just how bold this Revennel vintner was, which was altogether shocking, insulting, and yet curiously respectable.

Unsure as to whether he should take offense, or what to even do with such a feeling, Safir adjusted his posture in his seat, feigning mild discomfort to buy time for his thoughts and subsequent response. However much Corvane really didn’t waste time mincing words, his claims (at least those directly aimed at Safir) were difficult to refute. Even if they did lean heavily dramatic.

A brief moment of silence on the King’s part followed the ambitious vintner’s auspicious pitch. He accepted the beverage, swirled it around in his hand, but hesitated to drink. It was first thing in the morning, he had yet to form a single truly coherent thought, and the next words out of his mouth needed to be perfect. “So you wish to restore vitality to Ilandria’s… rotting, mismanaged soil. Am I understanding correctly?” Safir averted his gaze from the deep, russet wine to meet Corvane’s discerning gaze. One bold move deserved another. “Quite the deviation from your current profession, Mister Revennel. Not insofar as I don’t believe your carefully cultivated skills are not transferable, but it really is quite the drastic change in career. And not one that I believe for a moment you decided upon frivolously. I am rather curious as to what served as the catalyst for you to choose to walk away from a well-respected, and very successful business, to directly concern yourself with… well, me.”

Safir shifted again in his seat, crossing one leg over the other, and relaxed his posture as he sat back--drink still in hand, and still untouched. “I will not refute any of your claims; that was not my place as a Prince, and certainly not one as a King. It is my responsibility to listen to and consider any and all concerns of my subjects. And it is clear to everyone that much has been transpiring within my own kingdom, beyond my knowledge, for which I truly do hold myself accountable. I have no excuse for my blindness, and no remedy for what has already come to pass. As I am sure you already know from my less-than-adequate speech just yesterday, the only thing I can offer is to do better--not only than my father, but than the former Prince of Blades.” For the first time, the former title felt like sand on his tongue, and a discordant melody to his ears. He wondered if it had ever held any actual meaning at all.

“I am not the picture of perfection, Mister Revennel. That is not how I choose to present myself, and not how I wish my kingdom to see me. I also realize that I am not everyone’s chosen leader, and have left Ilandria feeling divided, and if not that, then perilously uncertain. And at a time when we already face untold danger.” Noticing the untouched drink was still in his hand, Safir set it carefully upon his desk which, despite the papers and books, did not look cluttered enough to pass off as being the source of his preoccupation that morning. “That said--neither will I endeavour to make excuses not to improve where I can. So I do not deny your words hold merit. You are obviously someone with a keen eye who knows how to put himself together. And, as a denizen of this kingdom under my rule, I do not begrudge your criticism of how I reflect onto my kingdom.”

The proffered wine remained untouched upon Safir’s desk, which was probably enough to make Corvane sweat. For all the new king hadn’t outright rejected him, nor had he disagreed with his outlook on the kingdom and the person now in charge of it, neither had he offered the vintner the very position within his court that he’d requested. After another brief pause, Safir finally reached for the wine and swirled it contemplatively in its vessel, green eyes watching the deep-hued liquid like he was looking for answers within it. “You’re a true Ilandrian, Mister Revennel. Someone with a keen and honest perspective that I can see as being very valuable not only to me, but to this kingdom. And you have a way with words that rivals that reminds me of my good friend, Lord Canaveris of Stella D’Mare: practiced and well-prepared. Curated, I’d go as far to say, to bring out the desired outcome of any situation life throws at you. An invaluable skill… one that I wish I could execute with even half of the finesse that you and Ari can.”

Finally, and likely much to Corvane’s relief, the new King titled the wine to his lips. Not enough to indulge, but certainly enough to taste and appreciate. No good king would start the morning without his full wits about him, but neither would an Ilandrian King dare to insult a guest. “I can see you as a valuable asset indeed to my Court. To myself, especially. I won’t pretend I couldn’t use help with my attire alone; my greatest vice is my inability to piece together a flattering ensemble. Better to be bad at that than at swordplay, I guess.” He almost chuckled. The atmosphere really seemed to be turning in Corvane’s favour, reflected in the glimmer of curiosity in Safir’s emerald eyes.

“But since one observation deserves another, Mister Revennel… I daresay it is possible to enter a situation in a way that is too prepared. And there is your vice.”

Whether or not shock registered on Corvane’s face, Safir wondered if the vintner had even gone as far as to prepare for the mirror to be turned back on him. Slowly, and with great respect, he set the wine back down. “I needn’t explain my situation, but I hope you can understand my perspective. I have spent my entire life around people who practice words. My own father, my tutors, the Council members… Look at where my naivete in trusting practiced, polished words has gotten me. Interrogated, confined to my room for days, and very nearly losing my father’s crown.” The King of Blades clasped his hands on the desk, and the upturned corners of his mouth became less pronounced. “I do need help, Mister Revennel. But the help I require is not that of someone rehearsing their words in front of a mirror before presenting them to me. My second vice is in just how easily I have been duped by deceit, of late… and I have grown rather ill of practiced monologues. What I want--and what I need--is something genuine and real. So… I will allow you this much.”

Safir pushed himself upright from his desk. His hands remained resting upon the polished wood. “One week. I will temporarily accept you into my employ for seven days, during which time I invite you to prove to me what sort of an asset you can be to me and my court… but only on one condition.” He met Corvane’s eyes, quietly conveying the message that this would not be a negotiable stipulation. “No rehearsals. I don’t want to see what you can do at your best. I want to see you at your realest, Mister Revennel. And rest assured, I will know curated words when I hear them. I fear it has been far too long since people have been real with me.”

On the condition that Corvane agreed, Safir signaled the guard at the door to step inside. “Please inform the relevant parties of this development, and escort Mister Revennel to speak with them. Again, this is conditional employment, and free access remains limited within the grounds of this palace until I decide in a week’s time where any of this is really going. If you please, Mister Revennel, we will reconvene again this evening right here to go over the details of your responsibilities. A room will be assigned to you, and you are welcome to dine here today. Until then,” he gestured toward the door, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips again. “I will do better to be on time.”

Ari should have known that Nia would not let him get away with the tease that was his entirely hands off dancing on the one night that almost everyone else could nary keep their clothes on. When the festivities dimmed and there was nowhere to return to but their room, sleep was never an option on the table. They spent the better part of the evening tangled in one another’s limbs and out of breath, until neither of them could resist the weight of exhaustion, and slipped into undisturbed slumber. While both slept in well past dawn, Ari of course had the decorum to rise in time for breakfast. “Five  minutes…” She called to the Canaveris lord when he called her to come and join him, and when five minutes passed, received the same response. He had almost finished by the time she finally hauled herself out of bed, clad only in a robe--Ari’s, to be precise, because she didn’t have the wherewithal to look for her own.

The Master Alchemist looked exactly as one would expect after events of the previous night: hair tousled, entirely unkempt, and with the energy levels of someone who had rather hoped she would spend the day in bed. “None of this looks Sommath-approved,” she commented in a raspy drawl as she seated herself on the edge of the armchair where Ari sat, and reached for a sugar-dusted biscuit on the table. “I guess I should probably take advantage of the chaos before he’s on me again about whatever nutrition I think I need…”

There was a knock at the door the moment she put the biscuit to her lips, and Nia wondered if she hadn’t spoken too soon. “Shit… speak and he shall appear, or something.” For all she’d jumped at the sudden knock, the Ardane woman continued to indulge in the pastry, not particularly fazed at potentially being caught shirking Sommath’s stringent dietary plan. Too groggy to care about being caught, or possibly assuming there still remained some grace period in the midst of Ilandria’s chaos. Micromanaging her lifestyle had taken a backseat amidst the mayhem around Ilandria’s coronation.

Nonetheless, Nia breathed a small sigh of relief when Ari answered the door, not to be greeted by Sommath. Instead, the new King of Ilandria stood sheepishly in the doorway, with an expression that shifted from uncertain to almost regretful as soon as his eye fell upon the Master Alchemist who, clad in only a robe, didn’t exactly look prepared for company. “...I’m so sorry.” Safir stammered, turning his eyes away from the disheveled Master Alchemist who was clad in a robe that didn’t exactly fit her. “I thought… maybe by now--”

“Oh come on, Safir! See me at my worst and hardly bat an eyelash, but I show a little shoulder and you’re squeamish? You are not that fragile.” Nia tossed her hair over her bare shoulder and put the partially-eaten biscuit down, hopped off the armchair, and grabbed Safir by the arm, dragging him across the threshold. “So cut the crap and why don’t you tell us why you’re here, looking like you’re lost in your own home?”

Safir blinked several times, looking lost in his own disorganized thoughts. After half a moment, he invited himself to one of the armchairs. “Corvane Revennel seeks employment within the palace.”

A pause. Nia, who more often than not did not know when to stop talking, purposely bit her tongue and waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she seized the opportunity to fill the silence. “That’s fucking amazing! So then, what the hell’s with that look? Why are you sitting there like having a goddamned Revennel in your employ is a problem?”

“He seeks employment as my personal valet.”

More silence. This time, confusion flickered across Nia’s face for a second, only to be overshadowed by excitement. “I repeat--why the hell do you say it like it’s a problem? Go take a damn nap, Safir. Clearly your cognitive capacities are fried after a night of forced partying.”

“But why? Why the hell would a vintner, who is already doing especially well for himself, seek that kind of career change?” The King of Blades slumped in the chair and rubbed the back of his neck. “Clearly he’s an opportunist, and for that I don’t begrudge him. He isn’t the first to seize an opportunity as the entire kingdom is shifting at its very foundation; to solidify himself as part of the change, such that when everything heals and finally settles into place, he’ll have already rooted securely into the soil, making it more difficult to remove him if the need arises.”

“Oh, honey… you need sleep. The extent to which you are overthinking this is going to take years off your life.” Nia crossed the room. While her bemusement held firm, she still pressed the back of her hand to Safir’s forehead, like she was concerned he might be falling ill. “You’re right: anyone with an assertive streak wants to find their way into prestige. But that’s really nothing new. You’re just hyper-aware because you got burned. If you ask me…” The Master Alchemist now invited herself to perch on the arm of his chair, and draped an arm around his shoulders. “I’d sure as hell pick a Revennel over all other candidates. Especially one who looks like that.”

“I… proposed a trial week in my service. To see if the help he thinks he can offer holds any merit. But mostly to see how I feel about it.” The blonde King rested his elbow on the opposite chair arm, and his forehead against his hamd. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you two. I just need… another perspective. One that has both the kingdom’s and my best interests in mind. And there aren’t many perspectives that I trust these days. Not even my own, it seems…”

Nia exchanged a glance with Ari, who would undoubtedly have the more balanced and unbiased perspective of the two of them. “Want us to interrogate him? Determine if he’s worthy of even being in the company of the esteemed new King of Ilandria? No, I’m not joking. But… look, Safir.” Finally conceding defeat in her attempt at encouraging a little humour to uplift the overtired and overthinking King, she dropped the smile and brushed the careless strands of hair from Safir’s face. “As much as I wish we were all rooted in the same kingdom, Ari and I won’t be within arm’s reach all the time. And I think Ari will agree that a valet, whether it’s the Revennel vintner or someone else entirely, is a great idea. Probably something you should have had all along.” Her fingers picked up the loose, sloppy braid resting against Safir’s shoulder. “I say this with love--but you weave your hair like you have two left hands.”

It was only the dreams where she belonged to another that were the nightmares.

But those days were over. They had pledged themselves, and Ryan was, quite literally now, out of the picture. But she hadn't broken things off with him, an insidious little voice whispered. Eric brushed off its warning. He believed Charlotte when she professed her feelings to be as strong as his own. All the more reason for them to find their way out of this world and continue shaping their previous reality in all the ways they had just begun to.

If either of you are the same when you wake up.

This thought intruded like a thunderclap, and was not so easily banished. Fear stole over Eric as he wondered at the extent of his injuries in the wake of the accident (the same as here? worse?), but he pushed his own worries aside when he noticed the tears still glimmering on Charlotte's cheeks. He reached for her, catching one glistening gem on the curl of his finger and drawing it away. "In the meantime, who's better suited to playing our roles than us?" he asked her. "We've lived in them almost as much as we've lived as ourselves." There were many nights (and matinees) he had wished to trade places with the Phantom before ultimately thinking better of it. Still, it had been a fantasy that returned time and again, one he had entertained and entertained others with in turn.

But he was not Erik. He didn't think the man would know how to console his Christine now, outside of taking her beneath his cloak and spiriting her somewhere dark, unable to comprehend how a soul might seek comfort in the light.

Eric stepped from the vanity and offered his hand to Charlotte, then guided her in a slow spin, with the companionable license that had always come easy to them. Yes, she was rumpled and singed around the edges, but she could still have easily adorned a music box as its centerpiece. He almost swore he heard music — the song she had sung that called him to her — and he sang it back to her now.

"If I could make days last forever… if words could make wishes come true… I'd save every day like a treasure and then, again, I would spend them with you."

The turn became a dance shared between them. Just when Eric thought he would be the first to surrender, a muffled shout from out in the hallway broke through their moment:

"Let me see her!"

He froze. Someone was coming. He could feel a heartbeat in their joined hands — his, or hers — and its sudden leap in anticipation of discovery. But why should he have to hide? Why not stand with her in his arms and dare whoever came upon them to take issue with it?

But something told him to do so was folly. He had felt for himself how real the world around them was. He had to imagine the people who inhabited the opera's walls would also be as corporeal, flesh and blood. He could stand against one person should they object to finding him, but if they called for reinforcements, he might be subdued and taken away, and then what would Charlotte do? Would she be forced to unravel the mystery alone while he was confined to an institution?

"It's alright," he soothed as he withdrew from her. "I won't go anywhere." Not again. "I'll be on the other side of the mirror. See what you can learn."

He stepped behind the mirror, triggering the mechanism, and it swung shut between them — a window for him, a blind alley for her, just as the door to her dressing room was unlocked and thrown open. Eric perceived the woman he took to be Madame Giry pulling back with a set of keys, eyes flitting nervously from the heaps of roses to the rafters. She had little enough time to take in the space before a man swept into the room and eclipsed her view.

Raoul did not look like Ryan. Eric supposed there was some comfort in that — that he may have been half-expecting it all along. Still, it was another man in Charlotte's dressing room now whose presence supplanted his own, and if he delved deep enough there might be a tug of familiarity, after all, another consciousness who both recognized and loathed the viscount on sight.

"Christine! I came as soon as I heard!" Raoul wasted no time in crossing the room to her. He seemed about to engulf her in his arms, then paused, hovering, as if at war with his own propriety.

It hit Eric like a runaway train, then, that he had no idea where in the story they were meant to have appeared. The chandelier fell, he thought. They had triggered their own chandelier near the end of Act One and it had malfunctioned. It was meant to fall only after Christine and Raoul escaped to the roof, and never endanger Christine herself. But the fact that she had been present, and he had thrown himself upon her to protect her...

Eric bided his time in exile studying Charlotte's costume more closely. Since he had been on deck, did that mean the Phantom hadn't been the dark engineer responsible for this chandelier crash? Surely "Erik" would never attempt such a potentially fatal incident with Christine anywhere near the stage. He was certain to be blamed, anyway, but it raised the question of just how much had changed — or how much their sudden presence had interfered with things. Might they alter the trajectory of the story without meaning to, and what would be the consequences?

His thoughts scattered as the Vicomte de Chagny decided he was done holding back. The other man pulled Charlotte into an embrace, burying his head in her shoulder, and Eric's hackles rose. "Little Lotte, what would I do if anything happened to you? We have only just found each other again," Raoul murmured, still loud enough for Eric to hear at the other end of the room, on the other side of the mirror.

She may as well have been dead to you days before you realized she was here in the very opera house you patronize, Eric thought blackly. Had the man ever actively attempted to find his sweetheart all these years? Had he not the wealth and means to do so? Surely news of her famous father's death had reached him.

As Raoul drew back from her (not far enough for Eric's satisfaction), the viscount's eyes traveled over to the vanity. No, not to the vanity — to the chair, where Eric's discarded cloak still hung. "What is this?" Raoul inquired. "Whose is this?" His eyes narrowed, not with mistrust for Christine, but suddenly for the room itself. "Who has been here?"

Shit, Eric thought, profoundly unphantom-like.

Breath hitched in her throat as he raised her head back up to his, as she fell into the golden gaze and longed to drown in it. His mouth was a whisper against hers, entirely new and painfully familiar all at once. Clover did not close her eyes then to savor the moment but instead she searched the softness of his face and realized how, even if this was different, that it was still her general. This was her Quinn. And she wanted to die. She wanted the floor to open and swallow her once more. She wanted to scream and cry and push him away. She wanted to whimper and kiss him and never stop. He was General Quinnley Belvedere. He was the Executioner of Earl’s Crossing.  He was the heir apparent to Northam. He was the next High Commander. He was everything she was fighting against.

And he was everything she wanted.

A storm of emotions raged inside of her while her heart battled fiercely against her mind in a war that could truly only end one way. She remained frozen in place, gray eyes the only part of her that moved as she searched his features. Why couldn’t you have been anyone else? Just anyone else. Love was a cruel mistress, to curse Azalea Walther which such a fate. To lose the mother and brother she loved, to lose the woman that raised her, and to have her find comfort and companionship and love in the one man in the entire frozen world that she could not have, should not have. Oh how she had missed him. How she had dreamt of him. How she had drawn him, the same  man and so wildly different. Graphite still smudged the tips of her fingers, revealing her folly, her desire to make him want her how she wanted him.

“But I am.” She whispered, unsure if the words were even loud enough to hear. “You terrify me.” Clover, despite a lifetime of training to control every aspect of her body and mind, began to tremble just a little bit. Stormy eyes held his fast as she savored the feel of his hand against her cheek. She worried about the lives of her spies. She feared losing the Resistance. She panicked at the thought of a cell in the Mother’s Lament. And while she was afraid he would discover who she was, she was far more afraid of him never loving her back, of being without him. All of her tenuous control snapped and she leaned into him.  She savored the way her body fell perfectly into the planes of his (even with that standard suit between them.)

“I have never been so afraid.” She whispered again as longing laced every single syllable. “I was afraid - am afraid - you meant it, what you said. How you…” she broke eye contact then and stepped away, chewing on the inside of her cheek. He had laughed, like there was a divide between them. Like she was so far beneath him the idea was ridiculous. And it had hurt in a way she had not expected it to hurt. The ache had lingered, tucked beneath her ribs like a cancer. No logic could cure her. No reason could take away the pain. She loved him so entirely and hated herself for it completely. He was taking her to the very edge of ruin and she was leaping off.

Clover swallowed and took another two steps away, before turning to look at him. He was drunk. He was lonely. He did not love her. She ran her hands on her pants, a movement designed for Chloe’s persona but the lines blurred now that it might have been her own.

“I have never been so scared in my entire life.”

First, that he was far more intoxicated than he’d initially thought. The flakes blowing from the rooftops blurred before his vision and gave him the sensation he was moving, despite his immaculately polished boots being planted solidly in the carpet of snow on the sidewalk. His eyes shone feverishly bright, rendered gold in the glow of the amber street lamp outside. Was it the alcohol in his blood that made time seem so sluggish? Or was it simply the rush of anticipation that stretched the minutes?

Second, that it wasn’t just that he wanted Chloe Paice. He needed her. Not just his body—although certainly that was also the case—but her company. Her attention. The seamstress’ presence in his life had become a steady force, a refuge not just from the trials of duty, but from the sea of souls from which he felt so apart. Beneath the cover of the cold velvet night they’d shared in Earl’s Crossing, she’d revealed to him a darkness in her that he’d recognized all too well. It simply wasn’t the same with anyone else. He’d taken Chloe’s companionship for granted, and he didn't want to do that again.

And third…well, that was worst of all. Third was that he was undeniably, foolishly in lo—

The door cracked open. The seamstress’ face darkened with surprise as she took him in, and he stood motionlessly as her stormy gaze swept from his eyes to his feet and back again. His name on her tongue was a breathy, strangely emotional syllable, and it stoked the fire in him that was already fueled by weeks of longing (and far too many glasses of wine).

“You know what I’m doing here.” The words were presumptuous. Overly forward. Too bold. But Quinn’s voice was low and warm, and unmasked affection glittered in his golden eyes. Chloe did not move to let him inside, but he stepped forward, gently forcing her back until the door closed behind them and the icy breeze was banished to the street.

The first floor shoppe was dark. He reached up slowly as his eyes adjusted, using a hooked finger beneath Chloe’s chin to tilt her face upward towards his. The soft filtered light from the street limned her sharp features like a painting, and he heard her breath catch as he leaned in closer. Their gazes locked for just a moment—silver meeting gold—and then he brushed his lips against hers, featherlight, almost anxious.

“It’s a great party. They’re all back there, getting drunk and dancing and trying to one-up each other. And trying to entice me to their beds,” he drawled, smiling. His smirk quickly sobered, however, and he was unable to keep the emotional strain from his voice as he continued. “But they’re all scared of me. You aren’t scared of me.”

He straightened, studying her face once more. When she didn’t pull away, his touch drifted to her cheek and traced her jawline. “I miss you, Chloe. Tell me you miss me too.”

Quinn hunted her. He was looking for her. Each spy that he found, each time he consigned someone to the Mother’s Lament, he was truly hunting for her. He wanted to root her out, arrest her, display her before the elite and then torture every secret from her through pain. And then, after hours of not sleeping, she began to laugh at the sheer irony of how hard he sought her and how close he was. She laughed and laughed until at some point the laughter dissolved into sobs and tears finally wet her cheeks.

Now, she had to figure out a path forward. Because, she could end this for them. She could get unfettered access to the one being groomed to take Gregory Remington Walther’s place - to fill the void that her brother had left behind when he died. Clover stood, clenching the soft fabric of her gray skirts in her sweating palms. She oscillated between despair and resolution, heartbreak and determination. Rose had all but beat emotions from her - to put the cause above literally every other human need, especially personal affairs. Those were not a luxury the youngest Walther could ever afford.

Yet, she had found herself longing for it. She had found herself dreaming of togetherness and a life at Avondale with the general, as foolhardy of a notion as that was. Quinnley Belvedere had found a part of Clover that she hadn’t known had still existed. Fuck him. Fuck him.

He was a cog in this oppressive wheel, desiring nothing more than to maintain this regime and see all those that opposed it squashed beneath his boot. He saw the military as superior, as the bloodlines favored by the High Commander as more desirable than her own (or at least her perceived bloodline).

But was that true? He had never treated her as lesser. He had never thought she deserved specific treatment due to her position. Was it only because she fucked him? No. She had seen it, heard it when she had spied amongst the servants at Maria’s wedding. She had thought he was a good man - a monster but a good man. Clover of all people was well aware of how difficult it was to keep that dichotomy inside oneself.

How was she even hesitating? She knew what she needed to do. She knew what she should do. And the mere thought of thinking it made her ill. Her heart squeezed each time she imagined doing anything but wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him with a terrifying ferocity.

The Resistance leader continued to argue with herself for another three hours before she heard the shoppe door open and Dennis limp inside.  She brushed along her face, twisted back her hair and straightened her clothes. Descending the steps, she called out to him before retrieving the cloak that she had been working on before Quinn’s arrival the previous evening.

The work served to be a delightful distraction throughout the day until just before closing when two notes arrived. One from Elora and one was Gloria Ramirez. She furrowed her brow. She had never been asked to craft a gown for a Ramirez. They notoriously preferred Kendall Richards across the city. They were both requesting her services - rush services for the following day. She scribbled out responses and sent Dennis out to deliver them.

———— ————

Elora arrived precisely on time with a request for Clover to refashion an old gown to fit this vision she had. It was a beautiful black and gold piece for some event that Lawrence had not gone into detail about. The Terril delivered some news, in the privacy of the back room, and fortunately it was good news considering what had transpired recently for the seamstress. She in return divulged what she had learned from the Belvedere residence regarding Resistance supporters. Elora never questioned how Clover obtained her information and their meeting was cut short with the early arrival of Gloria.

“Lady Ramirez,” Clover said, greeting the stunning woman with a smile and a deep incline of her head. “You honor me with the request to visit my shoppe.”

The woman looked down at Clover and her plain gray attire with a bit of disdain before eyes lit upon Elora. Her demeanor shifted entirely. She greeted someone of her station with enthusiasm, not bothering to respond to the seamstress directly. As Elora and Gloria exchanged pleasantries, Gloria’s companion (a maid perhaps?) began to detail what the woman was looking for and the timeline. She wanted the dress in five days and no later - for an event that was going to make quite the splash.

Gloria Ramirez was a stunning woman, perhaps a year or two younger than Chloe. She had bright red hair that spilled in thick curls down her back, half pinned up to draw them back to reveal a face blessed by whatever gods ruled this miserable earth. Her eyes were a deep brown, set to contrast starkly against her ivory skin and the lightest dapple of freckles across high cheeks and a thin, perfect nose.

Elora departed and finally the woman turned her attention to the shoppe owner. “I assume Gerty has filled you in on my needs.” A statement, not a question. Chloe dipped her head.

“Of course, miss. The timeline is tight and I -“

“Money is no object for this. I seek to draw the eye of someone who the investment will surely be worth the reward.”

“Of course, miss.” Chloe repeated and led Gloria to the private room, Gerty following closely behind. Chloe set about taking Gloria’s measurements and recording everything that she needed. As she did so, Gloria prattled on with Gerty as though Chloe did not even exist.

“And we will pair the dress with the emerald. Mother said she would let me borrow it. And my hair…” Chloe tuned out the detail talk until her attention was drawn abruptly back moments later. “His promotion would be a big step up for us. And he is rumored to be quite the beast in bed. I could positively make far worse matches. Everything must be perfect to draw Belvedere’s eye.”

Chloe’s fingers faltered on her sketch when she heard his name. This gown. This dress was for Quinn’s promotion. It was to draw him to Gloria Ramirez in hopes of making a marriage match. Something that the High Commander would undoubtedly be pushing towards the new Major General. An heir needed an heir after all. And what better blood to mix his with than Gloria Ramirez. Chloe swallowed harshly.

The remainder of the appointment passed in a blur of choosing a fabric and a cut and setting an obscene price. Gloria did not even blink at it.

———— ————

Multiple times over the next four days, Clover wanted to burn this dress in the hearth. Because it was positively perfect. It was one of the finest gowns she’d ever made, second only to Maria’s wedding dress. And Gloria was almost a perfect duplicate for Clover’s own form - even if she was a touch shorter than the seamstress. Briefly, the rebel thought of trying it on and what Quinn would say to see it on her. And when the thought would slide into her mind, she’d hiss in annoyance that she was still thinking of him this way. That she still saw him as her Quinn. As hers. And not as the Executioner. Not as her father’s chosen.

For if her father had chosen him, then he had to be positively awful to the core. Didn’t he?

The dress was packaged beautifully and sent to be delivered by hand by Dennis the morning of the event. The response card was a surprise, with words of praise for the finest dress the Ramirez girl had ever seen.

Clover tossed the card in the small fireplace in her loft and watched it be quickly consumed by the flames. It was late, having worked to finish the cloak downstairs in the shoppe. She stretched her aching muscles, stripping out of the brown dress and sliding into a pair of soft cotton pants and a thick sweater that hung loosely over a tight fitting blue shirt. She pulled stockings up to her knees before positioning the pants back on top. It was a freezing night. And there was something comforting about the attire  

The rebel leader settled down into her chair, turning the oil lamp down slightly as she prepared to sketch. What, she didn’t know. But something. Anything. To get her mind off of Quinn Belvedere. She had decided the prior evening that she was not going to kill him. She couldn’t. She knew it. She was in love with him, completely and utterly.  It didn’t matter what logic demanded. She wouldn’t kill him but neither would she stay the order of Aaron gave it once he heard who had been promoted.

As her mind whirred still, her fingers moved on their own volition. As she pondered the war torn landscape of her heart, her hands were drawing out a scene that was all too familiar. Quinnley. Covered in blood. Surprise on his face at seeing her. Recognition. And one thing she wished had been there - love. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He has scoffed at a future together. Scoffed, like she was actually beneath him. Yet, she dreamed it to life. The Executioner of her heart, it seemed.

She heard a knock on the door, a firm rap and she furrowed her brow. It was the front door and not the back. Official shoppe business, not spy craft. Clover descended the stairs, holding her sketchbook in her hands. She placed it on the counter as she moved across the first floor. Graphite stained fingers turned the lock and then the handle. Of all the people at her door she had considered, Major General Quinnley Belvedere was not one of them.

She could not hide the sharp inhale breath. “Quinn.” The following exhalation was his name with the mixture of all the emotions he had created inside of her over the last months. Clover searched his face, not moving from the doorway. Cold air bit at her cheeks and fingers but she stayed rooted to the spot. Blue eyes went stormy as she took him in. He was impeccably dressed, though even in her shock she noted small changes to the attire that would have enhanced his fantastic physique. Gaze found his amber eyes once more, noted the slight haziness to them. He was drunk. He was showing up at her door, the evening of his promotion announcement, drunk.

“What are you doing here?”

The state of the establishment beyond the door was not much more luxurious than its weathered exterior suggested. Quinn had been here before; it occupied a strange intersection between the upper and lower classes, catering to neither. It was the kind of place that asked no questions and made no assumptions. He unbuttoned his black coat and slid onto a barstool. He would surely be recognized, but the unspoken code of conduct here would protect him from being approached. Except, of course, by the bartender, who took his order and delivered his drink with nothing more than a curt nod.

He brought his glass to his lips. Whiskey. Not his drink of choice, but the burn felt fitting this night.

Quinn was admittedly not well-versed in rejection, romantic or sexual or otherwise, but he could accept it with valid reasoning. The only problem was that he knew she wanted him. So why, then, break things off just when things were getting good…getting better than good?

For fuck’s sake.

What was wrong with him? There had never been pretense between them. She was a great lay, but she wasn’t his only great lay. He could have his pick of women, or men, or anyone in between; he was not humble enough to deny his charisma and allure. So what was it about Chloe Paice that was making him absolutely, truly, deeply fucking crazy?

He was supposed to be celebrating. He, Quinnley Belvedere, son of the late and infamous Marius, had been hand-selected by High Commander Walther for a title and a post he’d been dreaming of since he was a boy. He’d personally led a squadron of soldiers to quash a rebellion in the mountains. Hell, he’d even been outsmarting Clover of late, picking off his rural operatives like a sharpshooter. But pride had been replaced with confusion and, with the alcohol warming his blood, a deepening tide of irritation. Chloe had the right to end things, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. In fact, he fucking hated it.

The bartender poured him another without saying a word.

Quinn returned to Avondale an hour later, leaving his horse to the stablehand and trudging to his bedroom. A hot shower banished the lingering chill from his muscles but did little for his mood, so he took a seat next to the flickering fire and went through the basket of mail that the staff had left on his desk.

Amongst seemingly endless missives on militia stationery, a wholly different envelope—with handwriting he recognized immediately—was caught between notes from the previous day’s delivery. His pulse picked up as he eased open the adhesive and unfolded the paper inside. She didn’t need to sign it; he would have recognized her sketching style anywhere. A soft smile erupted unbidden as he studied the lines and shading—not lewdly, despite the subject matter—but fondly, admiringly. He ran his thumb along the border of the paper, where a trail of her graphite fingerprints lined the edge. Those hands of hers that were so nimble, so skilled. So impressive. How small they always felt in his own hands.

That odd ache that had become familiar over the recent weeks twisted deeper in his gut, cutting like a knife. This wasn’t right. Surely they could still enjoy one another’s company. Why did his title, or her occupation, matter for a good fuck?

Not even with the alcohol could Quinn admit to himself that what he claimed this wasn’t was actually exactly what he wanted. A life. One where he could come home from Compound to find her waiting for him. To have her on his arm at social functions, the pair of them dressed to the nines. To feel her next to him in his bed every night, not just for the sex, but for the company. The conversation. The comforting presence and the reassuring touches.

But she was right, and he would have to get used to it. The general had no interest in someone who had no interest in him.

He just had to convince himself of that.

————

The ballroom at Wymberly was impressive even during the long stretches when it went unused. Northam hosted countless events throughout the year at various venues throughout Thebes, but very few were large or formal enough to warrant the use of the high commander’s personal ballroom. When its heavy curtains were drawn and electric lights doused, its high tin-tiled ceiling and grand curved staircase loaned it the feel of a cavern, or even a cathedral…sacrosanct, as if the dust that coated its floors and banisters were holy somehow. A gray skin preserving the memories of its most recent hurrah, until the servants came to clean the slate, preparing it for its next occasion.

It was certainly not the first formal to-do Quinn had graced at the Wymberly estate; it wasn’t the first time he’d descended the sweep of plush carpeted steps or stepped onto the fine marble floors. But the spectacle that greeted him when he appeared at the top of the staircase outdid any other event he’d attended there. Glittering and golden and lush, it felt like stepping into another world entirely.

And frankly, he was impressed.

The paneled walls, already adorned with silver filigree, dripped now with ornate arrangements of evergreen foliage that cascaded ceiling to floor. Juniper and balsam and cedar perfumed the cool air, which would soon warm as more guests arrived to fill the space.

The general descended the stairs slowly and surveyed the burgeoning crowd, his polished dress boots sinking into the impossibly plush ivory carpet. Matching velvet curtains were drawn back with gold and silver tassels to reveal narrow two-story windows, which shone spectacularly with fragmented reflections of the massive crystal chandelier suspended in the center of the room. Even the floor, the white marble inlaid with subtle patterns of cream and silver, had been polished to a gloss so pristine it may as well have been a mirror.

Quinn paused at the first landing, tapping his fingers idly on the banister. A presence quietly appeared to his right, but the general didn’t turn; he knew who it was on instinct alone. “High Commander Walther,” Quinn addressed, waiting a beat before he turned to face their silver-haired leader. He crossed a fist over his chest in greeting.

“What do you think, Belvedere?” the high commander asked, his benevolent smile and easy posture loaning him the appearance of a mild-mannered benefactor. But the man was as finely dressed as Quinn, sporting a set of formal military blues in a saturated lapis that brightly contrasted Quinn’s dark indigo.

“Suitable, I suppose,” Quinn quipped, his neutral expression cracking into a smarmy grin.

The commander laughed heartily and clapped the general on the back. “Suitable is certainly what we aim for here at Wymberly,” he chuckled, quirking a brow as he regarded his newest chief appointee. “Although, with all this talk of the ‘Executioner of Earl’s Crossing’ perhaps I should have made you the overseer of the Mother’s Lament.” His expression darkened a little, affording Quinn a glimpse of the predator behind the smile. “Anyway. It’s well earned, Quinnley. Well deserved indeed.”

Quinn, aware of the appraisal, schooled his face to the picture of cool confidence—which wasn’t difficult, considering how he was cool and confident. Still, it always grated on his nerves when the man addressed him by his full first name. He smiled nevertheless. “It’s appreciated,” he returned, inclining his head in a small bow. “And I couldn’t be more thrilled at the honor, as you know.”

“That I do.” The High Commander stepped up to the railing, hazel eyes sweeping over the well-dressed guests like a lion deciding which antelope in the herd he might later make his prey. “Your father would be proud to see this day. To see how far you’ve come in his footsteps. And how far you’ve ventured beyond them, dare I say.”

Quinn silently bristled, but his face remained neutral. “I like to think so, too, sir.” He cast his gaze to the people milling below, most of whom he recognized from afar by mannerisms alone. By all accounts, it was as elite a guest list as one was likely ever to get—all high-ranking military and Thebesian darlings. The Terril siblings had arrived, the sister Elora making herself known instantly in a glittering ensemble of black and silver. The Hathaways. The Ramirez family. Colonel Ritchie and his elderly mother. Even jealous General Crenshaw’s crone of a wife picked her way solo through the crowd like a hen, her stride lacking any semblance of grace in a gauzy mauve gown. He might’ve pointed her out and shared a chuckle with the commander, if the topic of his father hadn’t just fouled his mood.

“You know, I once dreamed of a night like this for my son,” the high commander said, almost offhandedly. Quinn knew better. The man never did anything offhanded. “Look at us, Quinnley. You, lacking a father. And I, a son. What a team we make.”

Quinn was too skilled at masking his emotions to let it show, but a conflicting mix of revulsion and—to his own horror—pride festered beneath his perfectly pleasant visage. Being practically the same age as the late Gregoray Walther II, it had of course occurred to the Belvedere general that the high commander’s close attention and special grooming hadn’t only been the product of Quinn’s talent…but that it also fulfilled an opportunity for the aging man that the Rebellion had stolen from him that bloody night all those years ago. The High Commander was anything but sentimental (despite the act he so easily put on for the public), but Quinn knew him well enough to understand how driven he was to cement his legacy. Even if he had to settle for a lesser bloodline to do it.

But where the high commander had missed a son for nearly decade and a half, Quinn had only found himself lacking a father for the better part of a year. Their journeys were hardly parallel, even considering how absent General Marius Belvedere had been over the course of the twins’ life. And given the way in which Marius had met his end, well…the wound had barely formed a scab, and now the high commander was picking it open.

“Indeed,” Quinn replied smoothly, meeting the man’s eyes with a smile. Quinn never did anything offhandedly either. “Thank you, High Commander.”

“You’ve reaped what you’ve sown, Chief Belvedere,” the man said, sounding sage. “A harvest we’ve desperately needed for a long time. Enjoy yourself tonight.”

The high commander left him alone on the landing. Quinn rested both elbows on the rail. He largely ignored the feel of the eyes upon him from below. He looked the part: a perfectly coiffed, immaculately dressed general, wearing his new title not only as a bronze medal pinned to his jacket, but in the imperious lift of his chin, in the broad set of his shoulders. Where he normally wore a close-cropped beard in the winter months, tonight he was clean-shaven, the sharp cut of his jaw on full display. It was a calculated choice—the idea was to present himself as approachable, perhaps slightly younger than his years, to cement himself in the favorable graces of the elite. To soften, if only a little, his still-fresh reputation as the Executioner.

A phantom voice echoed through his mind as he stood there, scanning the crowd once more. Too bad you’re not wearing one of mine, it said, a sultry purr in his imagination—Chloe, with the ghost of her seamstress’ fingers trailing over the tailored jacket that swathed his broad shoulders. Had he been alone, he might have laughed. He thought back to the ensemble he’d worn to Maria’s wedding. The luxurious indigo jacket he wore now, which leaned daringly nearer to purple than blue, was far more traditional despite its color. Would she approve of his fabric selection, despite the regulation structure? I would move this seam, she might say, that confident gleam in her blue-gray eyes. Better to make out that physique of yours. And these buttons? She would flash a devilish smirk. Far too difficult to remove…

A shiver bolted down his spine. He found himself not just wishing she had been the one to craft his outfit but that Chloe was there at his side, clad in a gown of her own creation, gliding alongside him as he finally descended to the main floor. She would have been the talk of the party, possibly even more so than he, and he would have reveled in it with the same amount of pride. But that wasn’t to be, for more reasons than her life station. A pang of disappointment echoed through him. He’d grown too accustomed to thinking about her, and that habit was proving incredibly difficult to shake. Especially—annoyingly—now that she’d declared she wasn’t interested in seeing him anymore.

As soon as his polished shoes touched the marble floor, an arrival distracted the guests. Quinn followed their gazes toward the hallway door and was frankly not surprised to find that the object of everyone’s attention was his dear twin sister stepping over the threshold. He watched as Maria handed a luxurious fur-trimmed coat to the attendant, revealing a form-fitting dress in navy blue. A grin tugged at his lips. Military blues. A statement, to be sure, from the queen of statements—flared at the hem, with a high turtleneck and long sleeves. The impression was made even more profound by her husband’s simple black suit…no blue, no military involvement.

Maria found Quinn’s gaze immediately despite the crowd. She said something to the people around her and they laughed, turning to look at Quinn too.

“Brother dear,” Maria greeted, sisterly mischief pulling her painted lips into a grin. She reached up to pat his clean-shaven cheek. “You look like you did when we were ten.”

Quinn snorted. “As always, Mia, your kindness is unparalleled,” he drawled. He gave a nod of greeting to Max, then flicked his gaze back to his smirking sister. “I wasn’t sure whether to expect you after your last message.”

“Anything to keep you guessing.”

“We had the wind on our side across the Atlantic,” Max explained. He seemed relieved there was a topic he could contribute to. “Made it back to the port in Washentown with a day to spare, and got to Thebes a few hours ago.”

“And how was…?”

“The Canarias,” Maria supplied, looking miffed that he hadn’t recalled their most recent destination. “It’s an archipelago off the coast of Morocco—”

“I’m sure he knows about the Canarias, darling,” Max cut in. “He has more things to think about than memorizing our travel itineraries.” Quinn arched a brow and chuckled, pleasantly surprised by Max’s forwardness. Maria shot him a look that quickly gave way to a smile.

“He’s right,” Quinn said. “I’m familiar. We did take the same geography lessons, you know.”

“Like anyone could pay attention to old Master Ventra.”

At that, the twins shared a knowing laugh. Maria’s expression sobered first, and she intercepted a waiter carrying flutes of rosy champagne. She passed a glass to Max and Quinn, then raised hers between them. “Congratulations, General Belvedere,” she toasted, her voice warm. A hint of pride twinkled in her amber eyes, and Quinn was surprisingly touched by the unexpected sentiment from his stalwart sister. She made no mention of their father as might have been expected; instead, they shared a sort of stubborn glee in the knowledge that the old bastard’s son had risen above him. Quinn was suddenly very glad she’d made it.

“I must go make my rounds,” declared Maria. “I promised Max we’d get them over with early.”

Max looked mortified that she’d admitted such. The general swallowed the remainder of his champagne and laughed. “Truthfully, I don’t blame you,” he said. As if to reinforce his point, he snagged a glass of white wine from a passing waiter and brought the chalice greedily to his lips.

The Lanes then disappeared into the sea of guests, leaving Quinn at the mercy of the passing attendees who felt the need to strike up a conversation with the guest of honor. The ones with lower social standing tended to offer him quick, reverent congratulations before going on their way, as if afraid to bother him. The higher-status guests were not shy in roping him into conversations, bringing him into their interpersonal debates, doling halfhearted condolences over the loss of his parents, or gushing over everything they’d heard about the incident in Earl’s Crossing. “We heard you took the town without losing a single soldier,” the middle-aged wife of some newly-appointed colonel said, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. Her friend, clad in pale yellow, gawked at him wide-eyed as she added, “I heard they were building an army to march on Thebes, and you killed every last one of them.”

Quinn had neither the desire nor the energy to correct their stories. Information churned out from society’s gossip mill was rarely accurate and impossible to manage. So he drank his wine and smiled along—which sometimes made the women blush, and he had to fight to keep from rolling his eyes—and waited patiently for them to excuse themselves, only for them to be replaced by others just as eager to hear him speak about Earl’s Crossing. Which, of course, he never did.

He deposited his empty glass on a table nearby and found himself mercifully alone. The general wasn’t sure how many glasses of wine he’d downed since the party had really gotten going, but it was enough that the glow of the electric lights were haloed in hazy gold and the stream of waltzing couples on the dance floor seemed to flow like a river before his eyes.

A pretty young woman sidled up to him, interrupting his reprieve. “General,” she said, batting long black lashes up at him. She was petite, bolstered by tall silver high-heeled shoes, and wore a ruched scarlet dress that stopped at her knees. “I’ve been watching you all night,” she drawled, leaning in and lowering her voice. “Waiting to get you alone.”

With the wine coursing in his blood lowering his inhibitions, Quinn wanted to laugh. Instead, he offered her a lopsided smile. “So I have an admirer?” he replied diplomatically.

“You do.” The woman stretched out a manicured hand. “And her name is Therese. Therese Saintclair.”

Quinn’s own hand felt enormous as it wrapped around Therese’s small fingers, and he brought her knuckles to his lips. “A pleasure, Miss Saintclair.” He knew her uncle; Robert Saintclair was a ruthless Colonel who frequented Compound on overnight shifts, prowling the grounds like a wolf.

She tossed her platinum blond hair over her bare shoulder, exposing the cut of her collarbone and the length of her slender neck. “I’d like to show you just how much of a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance,” she murmured, her breath perfumed with alcohol. Her lips brushed his ear, just barely, and he thought instantly of Chloe. Of whispered words and challenges. Of monsters and their pleasure.

For a moment, he imagined what it might be like to bring someone like Therese Saintclair to his bed. But it felt wrong somehow. Hollow. This woman was undeniably beautiful, well-connected, and even quite bold with the help of the booze. But she didn’t excite him; for the flames behind his ribs, she was mere kindling, a quick shimmer that would drop to cold ash and leave him voracious for more.

Chloe, on the other hand, was gasoline.

As if in response, the seamstress’ voice echoed in his head, clear as a bell. All the women want to fuck you, she’d say, laughing wickedly, and the men can’t decide whether they want to fuck you or BE you.

He chuckled out loud before he could stop himself. Therese’s blue eyes lit up at that and took it as an invitation to get closer, pressing the entire length of her side against him as she nestled against his shoulder. Quinn could feel eyes glancing in their direction, so he tolerated it for a moment before breaking away with the excuse of fetching another drink. Some frilly cocktail, he noted with distaste, but realized it could still serve a purpose by thrusting it in Therese’s hand. She did not pick up on the fact that the gesture was an excuse to put distance between them, instead reading it as a gentlemanly favor. Hmm. Pretty enough. But she’s either an idiot or a drunk. Probably both, Chloe’s voice whispered to him.

“Please excuse me, Miss Saintclair. I must have a word with my sister,” he said politely, hardly daring to crack a smile for fear of her inviting herself along. Once, he might’ve been delighted by the attention—the attention he’d been getting all night, in fact. He’d have his pick of adoring ladies at the end of the evening, and probably could have helped himself to more than a single serving, at that. What has that damn seamstress done to me? he thought.

“I’ll be waiting, General.”

The way the blonde spoke his rank prompted the hairs on the back of neck to rise as he walked briskly away. It was a smooth purr, respectful, a tone he might have found appealing before. But it was nothing like how Chloe said it. The seamstress uttered his name like he was a battle to be fought, a challenge to be won—not some idol to be worshiped or false hero to be praised. Like he was more than just the title that preceded his name, or the legacy of his family dynasty. She made him feel like he was, foremost, a man. None of the rest of it had mattered to her.

Had. It hadn’t mattered to her until suddenly it did, and she swiftly closed the book on their impassioned era. The disappointment he’d felt at Chloe’s dismissal had been eating at him like an acid. As bitterness washed over him, the golden lights and the decor were suddenly too garish, too saturated. And if he heard one more fucking arpeggio from the string quartet in the corner, he feared he might show everyone in attendance just how he’d earned his nickname at Earl’s Crossing.

It wasn’t easy to escape Wymberly unnoticed. Apart from Compound, the high commander’s estate was the most secured place in all of Thebes and probably all of Northam. Fortunately, Quinn’s status and reputation meant very few ranked high enough to stop him from leaving, and even fewer had the guts to say anything to his face. He wasn’t dressed appropriately for the weather—he hadn’t bothered tracking down his winter overcoat before he slipped out—but the wine in his belly and blood kept him from shivering as a jittery member of the Wymberly livery staff brought him a horse.

“And your coat, sir, from the valet,” the young boy stammered, thrusting the heavy wool garment at him.

Quinn slid his arms into the warm embrace of the coat and then cantered down the long oak-lined driveway, the icy wind sobering him up a little. The guards at the gate let him pass with a series of posture-perfect salutes, and he burst out onto the deserted street with a clatter of hooves in the nighttime silence. The road that passed in front of Wymberly had been blockaded for the event, of course, but it was still very late; most of Thebes had hunkered down for the night. Quinn found himself turning left onto the Avenue…one route to Avondale, yes, but also the thoroughfare upon which a certain seamstress ran her shoppe.

The street lamps were mostly doused at this time of night to conserve energy, with only one every few blocks left illuminated to break up the darkness. The general felt more like a shadow than a man as he wended his way down the deserted road, hoofbeats muffled by packed snow on the cobbles. Nearly all the storefronts were dark, with heavy curtains drawn across the windowpanes against the cold. The abandoned Avenue, combined with the influence of a few too many drinks, left Quinn with the eerie sense that he had somehow detached from the world—as if he wandered through some kind of dream, where the snow glittered a little too sharply and the shadows seemed to swim on their own.

But that couldn’t be, because in his dreams he wouldn’t simply pause outside Rose’s, paralyzed with indecision. He wouldn’t chew on his lower lip, debating whether or not to knock on the front door. He wouldn’t spend long, frigid minutes staring up at the soft glow of lamplight that leaked from a gap in the curtains on the second floor. And he definitely wouldn’t be hearing the memory of Chloe’s voice declare over and over that they shouldn’t see each other anymore.

No, in his dreams, he would already be inside, backing her into the wall, breathing her in, trailing kisses over every hidden inch of her.

“Fuck,” the exquisitely-dressed general whispered to himself, the word escaping in a silvery cloud carried away by the wind.

He dismounted gracefully considering the concentration of wine in his blood and secured his horse to the hitching post outside, fumbling a little with the reins.

She told you to go, he told himself. She ended this.

Ended it? With you? the darker part of him retorted. A woman doesn’t willingly give up Quinn Belvedere.

He stepped up to the shoppe door, fine snow-dust blowing from the rooftops and settling like glitter in his wind-tossed hair.

What kind of a man would you be if you didn’t heed her wishes?

The darkness in him stirred, flashed its teeth. Not a good one.

He rapped a bare knuckle on the door.

And waited.

Regardless, she couldn’t be seen on his arm. She couldn’t draw that sort of attention and she most certainly would never walk the halls of Wymberly so long as he was alive. She searched her lover’s face as he remained close. Fingers itched to run through his curls, to dishevel them in a way that only she could. Memories swirled around in her mind - the smell of him, his laugh, his hand in hers. Clover mentally attempted to patch the hole his words were leaving in her, like trying to put a bandaid on a broken dam. Futile.

And the fine silver thread that had bound them together since she first laid eyes on him, drew tighter and tighter with each step he took away from her. She felt it, begging her to go after him. To stop him. To beg him. So tight it was nearly pulling her shattered heart right out of her chest.

Snap.

The door closed behind him. Not with a slam but with a click, making it all the worse. She watched him, rooted to the spot as he disappeared onto the street. She longed to let her knees buckle, to sink to the floor and weep into it. The fabric of her skirts would absorb the tears that would undoubtedly roll down her face. The tight knot inside of her twisted, pressing and pressing and pressing against her lungs. Daring to release the breath, it came out like a sob - a pitiful, mournful sound.  But that was all she permitted herself. With practiced hands, acting out of instinct rather than true attention, she packaged everything up for the night. She locked the front door and drew the curtains.

Aaron. She needed to see Aaron.

-

The streets were livelier than she had anticipated, with boisterous drunkards and their companions for the evening wandering along the streets. She drew the hood of her brown clock further down over her face, blocking the wisps of snow that swirled in the gusts of wind. It was a longer walk that she would have desired at this time of year, meandering through the city to prevent a direct path of being followed. Finally, she pushed into Aaron’s bar.

It was thickly packed with patrons hiding from the winter inside by the fire and with the warmth of lovers on their laps. Stormy gaze slid from person to person in quick succession before she lowered her hood. Tapping her old boots against the wood to her left, she wound through until her eyes met Aaron’s. It must have been something etched in the lines of her face, or perhaps he just knew her soul so well, but his smile faltered before it even made its way to his mouth. Large, calloused hand smacked the back of another bartender’s shoulder and he jerked his head to his back office.

The door clicked behind her as she drew off her cloak and let the brown fabric hang from a hook by the fire in hopes it would help dry the hem. She settled into the familiar chair beside the flames and was brought a glass of scotch, neat. She raised her eyebrows at him and he settled across from her, giving her a knowing raise of his eyebrow. Clover’s attention shifted back to the flames, feeling the crushing weight in her chest again. It was suffocating and yet the pain wouldn’t completely claim her. She was trapped in this purgatory, an emotional hell.

“Well?” He inquired once and then let the silence surround them again, broken only by the snap and hiss of fire licking alongside wood. The seamstress continued to stare, willing the flames to swallow her whole, to end whatever sort of grief this was that was spreading through her like a cancer.

“I got too close to a mark.” Not entirely the truth but close enough.

“Ah.” Aaron reclined, crossing his ankle over his knee and balancing his own full glass atop it. Again, silence. He was more than good at listening. A bartender’s gift, he had called it on more than one occasion, and an excellent method of extracting information without actually seeming interested.

“I don’t like how this feels.” Clover nearly whispered the words, holding the drink that still hadn’t made its way to her lips. She feared that not even the alcohol could dull whatever this was, could wipe his words from her memory.

“It is not pleasant, no.” Gray-blue eyes met his then and he smiled sadly.

“Your situation is a bit different.” She corrected. “Mine was my own foolishness.” Finally, she took a long, slow sip of the amber liquid and felt it burn all the way down to her empty stomach. “I can’t believe it.”

“Does he know anything?” Aaron asked without accusations in his tone. Clover still cut him a withering look.

“I was foolish, not reckless.”

“Hmmm. Want to talk about them?”

“Yes.” Another sip. “And no.” They drank, letting the quiet soothe the sharpness of the emotions. Whether it was the companionship or the alcohol, the knot unwound some and Clover let her dark head recline back into the chair, closing her eyes.

“He is in the militia. I’ve gotten good intel from him and it was so…easy. And then suddenly…” a toss of her head, slight, irritated at herself. “It was like I was running along as I always have and then I just ran right off a cliff. It wasn’t slow or easy. It was all at once.”

Aaron examined the woman across from him. Nearly young enough to be his daughter, he wondered how many people thought they were truly lovers. It was a good ruse, an easy excuse, but he looked at her only with the fondness of family. And with that too, he now looked at her with pity. Her situation was all circumstance. Born to those parents, ripped from her life and thrust into this one. One not meant for children. Rose had cared for this woman before him, but the seamstress and rebel had not known how to raise a daughter. She had not sought to preserve Clover’s delicate edges, to guide her into womanhood and allow her emotions. Rose preached that emotions got you killed. It wasn’t untrue but as he noted the tension in the Walther’s shoulders and the crease in her brow, he wished they had done it differently.

Clover recounted her relationship with Quinn to Aaron then, careful about the details and omitting certain parts. Yet he received the gist and he felt the pain in her words when she realized she had to sever ties, and then how the man’s words cut her open and left her bleeding. Even as her voice faltered once or twice, she didn’t cry. She held it close inside of her and pressed it firmer and firmer, turning carbon into diamond.

“You did what you had to.” He sighed, setting down his glass on the side table. “And I’m sorry for it.”

Her eyes opened, swirling gray and blue and silver like a hurricane brewing in the ocean. “I know.” Leaning forward, she settled her elbows on her knees and ran both hands through her hair. Clasping her hands on the back of her neck she exhaled slowly through her nose. Clover held the position for what felt like a decade before sitting up straight.

“What news is there?”

“Marigold and her son are settled. But we lost Patrice in Junakuska. Someone’s rooting them out far faster than we can recruit them. And there aren’t enough people to train them quickly and improper training is getting them killed.”

“What we need is to eliminate whoever is masterminding this. If we can determine who is it precisely, we could activate the Lark.”

“We were saving them for the High Commander, a last resort.”

“I understand but if we eliminate him and this man takes his place we’re in an even worse position. Without a significant heir, they would squabble at his grave but I suspect whoever is eliminating us so swiftly will be a contender. I’ll see what I can uncover.” Clover’s head throbbed. And as it throbbed, a snake slide through her body. It was a hissing, spitting thing so full of venom she snapped her head back up. Realization, just as swift as the one earlier, slammed into her. Blood drained from her face. Her mouth went completely dry and her blood turned to icy sludge in her veins.

Quinn.

The heir apparent was Quinn.

The muscles in Chloe’s neck tensed almost imperceptibly, and her posture stiffened. She was no longer langourous on the stool, draped like a fine silk…she was nocked and ready to fire. Or flee.

After all this time in each other’s beds, he knew the intimate details of her body—the way she carried herself, how her body reacted to his, how she fearlessly took up space in his presence. He knew her in pleasure and he’d seen her in pain. He’d even had the privilege of witnessing her awe, bewitched by the artworks that lined the halls of the High Commander’s museum.

But Chloe’s reaction to this was visceral.

As if his good news was not, in fact, good news.

He couldn’t make sense of it. He’d imagined this moment a playing out hundred different ways since his visit to Wymberly. But this? Not once had it occurred to him she may not react with the same unbridled enthusiasm he felt. And yet he’d seen it! Just for a moment, as brief as a flash of summer heat lightning, her eyes had shone bright with the emotion he’d waited days to witness. True to the blue-gray storm that always churned in her gaze, however, the clouds darkened. The curtains fell. The walls rose. She’d allowed him in, and then just as quickly slammed the door in his face.

Well, the general, too, could build a fortress. The warmth in his expression faded as she spoke, replaced with a practiced cool indifference that belied the hollow ache that had carved itself into his chest. “Thank you for the congratulations, Miss Paice,” he replied, allowing his hand to slide back to his side. There is nowhere for this to go and I think it best that it doesn’t go any further. She’d struck a nerve, but he refused to let her see it. He didn’t step away; he kept his body angled toward her, despite the change in her manner.

“I fear you’ve misunderstood me,” Quinn continued, a smile tilting his lips—exactly what one might expect of a general with a reputation such as his. “Where exactly did you imagine this going, Miss Paice? I’m hardly proposing marriage here.” A laugh, nonchalant. “I simply thought you might appreciate a night out. A chance to wear one of your fine gowns.” He hummed. “Believe it or not, I do enjoy your company. In more ways that one.” Memories of their wicked trysts darkened his gaze, but rather than excite him, the thoughts only amplified the discomfort in his gut. Still, he kept that part of him hidden carefully away.

“But you are absolutely right,” he drawled, “and I understand.”

Except he most definitely did not understand.

His casual tone was alarmingly convincing, as if he’d been through this same process a hundred times before. There was nothing in his body language that indicated how impossible it felt to drag himself away from the seamstress. How the distance of the counter between them felt like a mile.

He had to force himself to look back at her as he slid open the lock and tugged at the door, amber meeting storm in a collision that made him feel unsteady. “It was fun while it lasted, Miss Paice, but every flame is bound to burn itself out eventually. Take care, please.”

Their mouths met. Not the collision of monstrous titans, warring for dominance, but affectionate. It was brief but so inviting, warm and comforting - like home. Shock slid through her at the thought, leaving her a bit dazed. The general’s words wrapped her up with their sincerity. Each word he spoke was another battering ram against the walls she wanted to keep between them. Stormy gaze searched his face, amazed at the boyishness of his features. He was elated, truly and utterly thrilled to talk to her. To talk to her, not to take her to bed. Walls crumbled, leaving her exposed and excited. She smiled gently, briefly looking down at how he rubbed at her hand, almost nervously. The feel of his calloused skin against her knuckles was like a balm to the anxiety coursing through her. Perhaps…

Milliseconds was all her mind needed to run rampant with the idea. The idea of coming home to him. The idea of sitting together and sharing their lives. His mouth on hers in that tender, warm way that reminded her of a sensation she had not felt in decades. Quinnley Belvedere could be hers. Truly and totally hers.

The intensity in his gaze when their eyes met again startled her almost as much as his news. Promoted. Promoted. Promoted. Promoted. He was a general in the High Commander’s military. He was responsible for rooting out enemies, responsible for supporting the oppressive regime that she was fighting with every single breath she took. And he was moving up in those ranks. That meant - she swallowed hard, searching his face. She knew what he wanted from her. She knew what he needed from her. Because it was precisely how she had felt last night. She wanted to share her life with him, her hopes and dreams and activities. If he was doing precisely what she was doing then that could only mean that she was not alone. He - he - he couldn’t. No. No. No. No.

The emotional whiplash was too much.

Suddenly, it was like she was drowning and falling all at the same time. The ocean roared in her ears and the earth was pulled out from beneath her feet. Major General Quinnley Belvedere. Major General. As suddenly as it hit her, she returned to her senses. Clover’s body was on autopilot with years of training kicking into gear. She smiled, weakly, looking down at their hands. As she squeezed them gently, the seamstress felt an entirely new sensation. A tight, crushing grip grabbed her heart and squeezed with all its might. Her hands withdrew and she took a step back before meeting his face again.

“Congratulations, General. The High Commander would be a fool to not recognize your talents and reward them appropriately.” Clover gave him another small smile as her heart was breaking, as she rebuilt those walls for the sake of the Resistance. For something bigger than herself. At the expense of what might have been happiness, what could have been love if she let this go further. But it couldn’t. He couldn’t feel for her. She had to end this now. “You honor me with the invitation,” the words were stiff, as if forced but she kept her tone lighter. Every ounce of training from Rose was utilized to keep from caving. “But I thought we both understood what this is, what this was.” Everything. “I am a seamstress and you are a Major General. There is nowhere for this to go and I think it best that it doesn’t go any further.” She fought the urge to look away, to hide the feelings beneath that he might see lurking. Clover kept her gaze on his face, her expression pitying even as she longed to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him. “I am sorry if I gave you any different impression.”

Maddening, of course, because their wicked escapades had become so addicting. It was pleasure, nothing more, that kept the two of them coming back again and again. Worth it, to be sure; the thought of it was enough to stoke the embers that perpetually smoldered for her, and he wet his lip with his tongue, studying her. She was dressed in what he recognized as one of her standard workday outfits, with a soft measuring tape slung casually around her shoulders and bits of snipped golden thread stuck to her lap. His smile broadened. Her intensity radiated even like this, in the middle of the workday, and he knew her well enough to see it. Or maybe she felt comfortable enough with him now to let him see the real her.

The thought thrilled him more than it should have, and the monster that dwelled behind his ribs stirred to life.

Boldly, perhaps too boldly, the general reached over and flipped the ‘open’ sign in the window to ‘closed’ and twisted the lock closed. “I have something to share with you,” he said, his voice betraying his excitement. He strolled around the counter, closing the gap between them. A magnetic pull dragged him forward and he pressed his lips gently to hers. Warmth spread from his core to his fingertips and back again. “I missed you,” he heard himself say when he pulled away. He’d meant it to sound tantalizing, but what came out was raw earnestness, his heart skipping a beat.

Quinn cleared his throat and stood straighter, reaching for one of her hands. “I’ve been counting the minutes until I could come back here,” he admitted, running his thumb over her knuckles, tracing the silvery scar there. He kept his amber gaze low, looking at their entwined hands. “It was torture to wait. But I received some very exciting news last week. It’s part of the reason why I was kept away…” He trailed off, then looked suddenly upward, capturing her stormy stare. “I’ve been promoted.”

His heart picked up its rhythm, thrilled to finally speak the words out loud. “It’s not being announced to the public for another couple of days. But I had to tell you. You’re looking at Major General Quinnley Belvedere, now. It's...well, it's something I've been working toward for a long time.” He grinned crookedly, but his gaze was sharp, watching for her reaction. “There is to be a celebration in my honor at Wymberly next week. Miss Paice, would you consider joining me there?”