what is a legacy?

If Grace was being honest with herself, the appearance of Calina Sokolova at her door was not a particularly good omen. She knew of the younger woman from her rank in Faron’s esteem and the fringes of the Montague ranks but had yet to engage with her on a more personal level. They had both stayed at arms length, satellites around a common center, crossing paths but never in a more meaningful way. Calina doesn’t seem like one to make a house call for anything other than business - and yet here she is.

Grace’s curiosity wins out over her concern. She buzzes Calina up and is waiting in the doorway when she reaches her apartment, inclining her head in simple greeting, arms crossed loosely as she leans against the doorframe. She notes as Calina’s eyes dart to her bandaged hands and forces herself not to fidget, to keep her face neutral. Some victories are far more bitter than others, the woman says, and it’s a bit uncanny, how she’s managed to slice straight to the heart of the matter in a few simple words. Grace wonders if she knows just how true her words ring.

“Thank you,” Grace says simply, unfolding herself from her position at the door and taking the proffered gifts. They are another surprise, one doubled by Faron’s writing on the label of the box. Another thing to haunt her, she muses, stepping back into her apartment, though this more welcome than the rest. “Please,” she says, gesturing Calina in and deadbolting the door behind her as she moves into the small space. “Take a seat wherever.”

“I have to admit, you playing messenger for Faron from beyond the grave is a bit unexpected,” she continues, placing the box and bottle on the coffee table before moving into her small kitchen. “Not unwelcome, though.” She retrieves two glasses from a cabinet and turns back to look at Calina across the low island that separates the two rooms. “Would you like a drink?” She asks, gesturing to the vodka. “I don’t have much by way of mixers, but that seems too nice not to share.”

//

Calina uncharacteristically does not relish in the languid satisfaction that stems from being shown gratitude, as her ego has been culled by the weight of Faron’s poignant absence and the fact that she never thought she’d extend an olive branch to the woman with a love of savagery in its most base form on her own accord. Instead, she’s left an off-kilter completeness that leads her to believe she’s driving another nail in the metaphorical coffin of what (or whom) she’s so desperately trying to rid herself--and that surely counts for something. “Of course,” the Sokolova woman says, schooling both her tone and expression into something placid and non-indicative of the unsettling discord that comes from accepting the gratitude alone; without Vasiliev by her side, she enters Grace’s apartment.

I have to admit, you playing messenger for Faron from beyond the grave is a bit unexpected...

Messenger--messenger from the late Vasiliev, the mouthpiece of a god whom can no longer speak; a pawn rather than a queen in her own right. Just barely, Calina’s lips tick upwards and a soft, wry hum follows immediately thereafter. "да, well,” she says, settling on the couch as Grace reachers into her cabinet for glassware, “you know how it goes--unexpected things tend to be remembered far more acutely.” She’ll never forget the day she realized Faron had been murdered, after all. When Grace extends an invitation to join her in drinking, Calina seizes it without hesitation, tacking on a “And that can help with forgetting, if need be--mixer or no mixer” as she nods in the direction of the Stolichnaya.

.

Odessa couldn’t imagine what life would be like without Calina by her side. It felt strange to know that the emissary hadn’t entered her life until recently. She felt like they were two souls intertwined with each other— two flames meant to cross paths. The two girls connected so easily that it seemed like nothing short of fate. A spark in her eye lit up at the mention of a shopping day. The thought of the two girls abandoning the stress of the war and focusing on mundane matters sounded so appealing. She had been war into the war, had grown up alongside many of the Montague soldiers, and perhaps it was time she allowed herself to have some distance from the war— even if it was just for a day.

“I could never say no to a shopping trip. It feels like forever since I’ve had a day to myself.” And maybe it truly has been a long time. Her work, emissary duties, and healing trauma all took up her time these days. Even when she found herself with idle time, she directed her attention on the mystery of her father’s killer. Perhaps she owed herself a break from her busy life.

Her cheeks flushed a slight red at the tone of Calina’s voice. “You don’t understand.” The emissary knew attacking Orion was a foolish move, but she had felt like a victim for so long. She felt like she was floating after her father died, a balloon drifting in the air after being released from its post, and she had just begun finding her footing when the torture occurred. It felt like every attempt at building herself up to be more than a tragic figure had slipped away as the scar in her neck stood on display and eyes looked at her as a tragedy of war. Attacking him wasn’t done with the intent of winning. It was done with the attempt to show that she was no longer cowering at the sight of him. She wanted to prove she had grown past being a victim. “He tortured me, Calina. He made me feel powerless for so long. I just—- wanted some of my power back.”

Odessa brushed a few stray curls away from Calina’s face as she took to memorizing her features. She sometimes forgot about the price of being in a mob. She was a child that was tucked away from the blood and violence. She had been pushed onto the path of an emissary to avoid the deadly features of being in a mob. Sights like what occurred at the cathedral served to remind her that bloodshed was unavoidable in their line of work. Death was a risk for them all, and she wouldn’t allow herself to leave the Earth without remembering every detail of her best friend. Her hand slipped away from Calina’s cheeks as she sat back. A small smile curled onto her lip as she hummed, “Then let’s not waste the free time we have.”

//

She dips her head in concession, Odessa’s flustered response enough to cow her worry, displeasure, and gentle anger. “I hear you, amica mia,” Calina murmurs, “I do.” And although she doesn’t necessarily understand Odessa’s exact situation, she does understand what it feels like to be a victim and she vehemently wishes that the woman in front of her didn’t feel that way. 

Calina catches Odessa’s fingertips in hers, lips pressing gently against the backs of the Vernon woman’s hands in a gentle promise that, even if the Russian-born emissary doesn’t like the ways in which her friend handles situations (and especially those in regards to the likes of men like Orion Massetti), she’ll always be there. “давайте не будем тратить впустую свободное время, которое у нас есть,” she parrots back in Russian, releasing Odessa’s hands so that she may grab the bottle of champagne, a mischievous smile overtaking her visage.

There will be time, of course, for the Sokolova woman to sit and think about Odessa’s attack against Orion, to think about the ways in which he could retaliate--if he would at all, that is, considering he seems to view her as more of a pest than a predator; she could, hypothetically, not warrant his attention. And as fervently as Calina believes that Odessa Vernon is worth all of the attention and then somme, she’s incredibly glad that, in this moment, her best friend might be able to fly under the radar, undetected. There will be time for her to work through her trip to Russia with the woman at her side with a fine-toothed comb. There will be time for Calina to become Cleopatra, to slip into the role of Damiano’s messenger rather than that of the Queen of St. Petersburg or, at the very least, the princess of the dark alleyway; she will, eventually, pick up her defenses and guard herself appropriately.

Now, however, is not the time. Now is the time for gratitude and friendship and genuine enjoyment. Now is the time for Cleopatra to fade away and for Calina to take her stead; now, Calina is free to be herself as much as she wants without fear of attack. Here, in Odessa’s apartment with champagne flutes and warmhearted laughter between two friends, she is happy.

“Tell me, are you interested in finishing this bottle with me tonight and watching a movie?” she asks, bottle already pouring into one of the glasses.

Calina apparently knows him better than he thought, which is to say that she does the one thing Boris does not usually like to do: sit with himself in silence. She remains seated, continues to scrawl notes with a graceful hand, and it is all Boris can do to sit there, clenching his fingers into a fist and then reacting. It is a compulsory movement, something to kill the time while she makes him wait.

And, of course, when she speaks, it hits him right between the ribs, because she’s right. She’s competent. More than competent; it takes something greater than just competence to survive the Montagues. Ferocity, maybe. Selfishness. He forces himself to relax his jaw before he clenches it so hard that it shatters his teeth. There are feelings, here, but they are difficult for him to name, much less to parse and separate into catalogues.

He’s usually decent at compartmentalizing – a necessary evil, in their work, if you know what’s good for you – but with Calina, all the cards are tossed into the air, and most of them do not land on the table.

She has given him enough withering gazes and steely-eyed stares that he knows where he is on the list of her priorities, which is to say somewhere around rock bottom. Maybe even underground, if he continues to dig.

Boris, because he cannot help himself, picks up the shovel. “I didn’t–” no. Wrong words, wrong time, wrong place. No I. They are left standing in silence for another uncomfortable thirty seconds, a minute, minute-thirty-seconds. “That was the wrong foot, and it’s not really why I came here. I… don’t care about the Yakuza. You did– you do good work,” he says, and decides that perhaps here and now it would be better to play the sympathetic fool. Sympathetic being relative, of course. They are both conniving enough that he doesn’t think baiting her would do any good, or that it would necessarily be possible. It might work for the others, but Calina could talk circles around Faron. She’s an opponent with heavier hits. His hands are at first limp at his sides, but he lifts them up and rubs at the center of his right palm with his left thumb, instead. A movement indicating nervousness. Humility. Shame.

“We never – spoke about Faron. And what happened.”

The words hang in empty space between them, listless, directionless. It’s true: he doesn’t care about the Yakuza, even if admitting to her skill feels like the emotional equivalent of pulling fingernails off with pliers. He has always enjoyed veneration of the self, for the sake of both his pride and his survival, two things which more or less feed off of each other. Anyone else entering the picture threatens that symbiosis. Faron threatened that symbiosis brazenly and openly, but now the man is dead, and Boris and Calina, and he supposes Grace Daly, too – are left to deal with his remains.

“You didn’t what?” the emissary presses, patience for the Kovrov man already thinning. Were he a smart man, Calina presumes, he would swallow his pride and acquiesce to the Queen of St. Petersburg now, lest he run the risk of ending up on the wrong side of her whip-quick tongue and steely mind. But here, he continues to linger in uncomfortable silence even after she, in very few and blade sharp words, has already expressed that she wants nothing to do with him. 

His praise rolls down her back like water, like huskily-breathed promises against the shell of her ear. In moments like this, it’s easy to see why she so instantly cuts him to the quick: he’s no different from the men she used to service in Madame Kamenev’s salon. He’s deception and charm and entitlement personified; he’s a man who holds himself above all else, and he will do what it takes to survive--even at the expense of those of whom he once deigned to call associates or friends or loved ones. She’s just about to offer a chilly and polite acknowledgement of his approval, when his countenance changes. Discomfort melts into nervousness into shame and Calina warily watches, the hairs on the back of her neck shooting upwards.

We never - spoke about Faron. And what happened.

Her expression remains the same, save for the near-imperceptible arch of a well-manicured brow. She can’t trust Boris as far as she can throw him, and a nagging voice in the back of her mind tells her that he inquires only to see if her wounds are still raw enough to poke and prod and draw blood; he can’t possibly want to talk about Faron, but rather how Calina feels in reaction to the loss of him. She’s quick to hold her cars against her chest, a loose curl brushing gently against her cheek as she cants her head, mulling over his choice of words. Faron’s old signet ring grows heavy around her right ring finger as she clears her throat. 

“No, we didn’t,” Calina agrees in response, chaining memories of Faron before they’ve a chance to loose themselves. She won’t think of that damned November night, of how she went to Alexander because she knew something was wrong, of how he had nothing in the moment to give but the promise that he’d let her know if he learned the truth... She refuses to think of the following through of the said promise, refuses to think of how her world seemed to crack and crumble. Instead, she focuses on Boris, deciding to force his hand and make him begin the conversation himself.  

Cleopatra is right.

Whether she believes what she says is another matter, but the argument of peace and mercy over violence is enough that Everett intentionally uncoils the tension knotted in his shoulders, a barely-there tell telegraphing surrender that he’s sure a woman as perceptive as Calina will easily to pick up on. Perhaps, if he was truly still wavering on such a decision, he would need more robust arguments to sway him towards standing down… but in this situation, it’s enough. She’s done her part in showing her hand, and while it isn’t a royal flush, it’s at least a full house — and when it comes to bartering bodies and blood, Everett’s always been very easy to fold.

Rain continues to tap little footsteps against the broken glass that litters the café floor, pooling together with residual tear gas that poisons the air with a faint, acrid scent alongside the kick of gunpowder. It’s been merely a minute since Calina accosted him, but already, Brielle and Regina have slipped completely from his grasp amidst the fight that still rages on in the main room. There’s no use going to find them, nor is there utility in diving into a melee of more needless bloodshed over a singular scrap of land.

Here, with Calina, he stands in the eye of the hurricane, war howling everywhere around them but the narrow back corridor, where there’s nothing but the smell of rainwater and the promise of an offer she’s presented to him.

An exchange of sorts. Risk for reward. You can’t win if you don’t play, she seems to tease, and Everett decides that perhaps, in another life, he would like Calina Sokolova. Gears whir behind her mind like a well-oiled machine, an intelligence as sharp as it is brilliant, and a part of Everett wants to pry her open and see exactly what makes her tick. Intriguing. Though she does have a terrible taste in men, his mind adds drily, but that’s not a statement he’s willing to say out loud, and particularly not in the midst of a negotiation.

“Saying it because you believe it, or because you know I do?” he posits probingly, a tone that borders on dry. Then, before she can respond — “Regardless, I’ll bite. I won’t raise a weapon. You have my word, Cleopatra.” He steps back one, two paces, safely outside the line of sight of any other Capulets, and raises his hands in a visual show of surrender. “One less drop of bloodshed.” A beat. His eyes glint curiously as he gestures towards the back corridor leading to the exit. “Let’s talk business.”

— EXEUNT EDGAR

So she does know, then, of the offer the Montague capobastone extended to him a month prior, promising recognition, respite, reward. Cleopatra, Gertrude and Portia. The list of the Montagues privy to this most recent play on Verona’s chessboard grows by one in Everett’s mind. The list of Capulets remains the same. Edgar and Volumnia. Everett suspects it’s due to Calina’s history with Vasiliev that’s granted her information on an otherwise clandestine dealing and all the recent meetings he’s privately held with Pandora Phan. Then again, even if Vasiliev was the first to set out to make Everett a turncoat, there’s no reason for Calina to be informed of the newly instated initiative. Coincidence, perhaps — or a testament to her value in the Montagues, that the woman before him is considered worthy enough of more tightly-held secrets.

Whatever it may be, it’s another line written into the dossier of information on one Calina Sokolova that Everett files away in his mind, an enigmatic emissary who’s to be respected as much as she’s to not be underestimated. Alongside it is written caution, levelheadedness. Her shoulders aren’t loose enough for Everett to fear a swift, sudden movement, stiffened by the adrenaline of the moment and the violence that rages outside the shop windows. Whatever this is, it’s not the distraction before the kill. Rather, she’s playing a game of intellect over fists, and for that she’s garnered Everett’s respect.

I mean between us.

Emissario to emissaria, equal to equal. This is a personal wager as much as it is political. Interesting. His eyes glint, and suddenly Everett wonders whether Calina Sokolova is really so married to the cause, considering herself nothing more than a drop in the body politic of the Montagues — or whether there’s private stake that motivates her to leverage individual relationship over political gain. What she’s proposing is the first string of a tether that goes beyond the mutual respect that already exists between them.

For a second, Everett feels horribly guilty that he’s planning to snap that tether before the end of the summer.

Whatever esteem he holds for Calina, she’s a Montague; and regardless of whether the offer to switch sides Pandora initially made had the appropriate taste and appeal in March, Lillian’s murder two weeks ago has effectively sealed Everett’s decision on the matter. He won’t accept it; he already has made up his mind — but that doesn’t mean he can’t entertain the illusion of it, so long as he can get what he needs from the arrangement. It was a plan borne from political interest, when first conceived. But now, as Everett thinks of the gaping hole in his understanding of Lillian’s assassination, it’s shifted into something much more personal. He needs to find out from the Montagues themselves why such a woman was targeted. Why his friend — Lillian, with all her imperfectly endearing virtues and faults — was lying six feet deep in a cemetery.

“You want me to stand down,” he states matter-of-factly, the ghost of a smile nearly flickering across his lips as he reads her tells. “Come now, Cleopatra. Let’s be frank with each other.” Everett’s smooth baritone undercuts the fighting still outside, expertly playing the calculating Capulet who could be swayed by a Montague’s honeyed words. He knows, even now, that he’ll surrender to her — but that doesn’t mean he won’t make the Queen of St. Petersburg work for her reward. “You would have me capitulate without a fight, in a territory I’m tasked to defend. Tell me, what is the benefit of peace between us?”

Emissario to emissaria, equal to equal. No longer a war of dichotomies, but a stalemate between a man and a woman, tied together by a war and a man from their histories who lies dead in the ground. Unspoken: What can you offer me?

“Peace between us mitigates unnecessary bloodshed,” Calina says. It is, after all, only a coffee shop over which they’re warring; the Phoenix and the Turtle may have the hearts of Capulet sympathizers but it does little but polish the silver of the Capulet armor, as it holds no substantial power. “I’m asking you to stand down because I, like you, believe some things can be settled with words rather than bullets and blades. It benefits us both, signore, and also those not informed as to why bullets whiz by them in a normally sleepy little café.” Think of the innocent, Edgar; think of the unnecessary collateral damage. Neither of them want to fight, but they would if pressed; a passerby would be an unfortunate, but overlooked loss, surely.. He was a Capulet and she was a Montague, but what if, what if, what if...

Everett Craven, Montague emissary doesn’t sound half bad, does it?

She straightens under his gaze as she continues to lure him with silk spun words and near-dizzying promises, her own heart rate slowing in response. She realizes she, for the most part, has succeeded already; her goal was to keep Ellyushka’s fight with Regina as fair as possible and to keep Everett tied up with her rather than at the side of his Capulet comrade. But, Calina is nothing if not a calculated opportunist and this--this display of her knowledge, this admittance that she’s privy to his recruitment attempts--outweighs the risk of making her a bigger rival than he once figured. “I would be remiss to overlook the gravity of your decision in this situation,” the emissary says, “and am acutely aware that asking you to capitulate without a fight in a territory you’re tasked to defend is something that warrants an exchange of sorts between you and I.”

Calina knows even his staunchest beliefs can, at the very least, be bent to accommodate certain situations. After all, she’s heard tales of his ungentlemanly and explosive retaliation at Vasiliev on behalf of Vivianne Sloane; for his lover’s honor, he threw himself down to Faron’s level and punched him. It was more than a knee-jerk reaction to a crude remark; it was all the time spent with Faron that left him irritated rather than at peace... What would he do, then, for immunity for those of whom he holds dear? What would he do for the promise of peace in their lives?

TEXT MESSAGE TO: Calina 🕊️ You must know that I would appreciate any amount of time that you spent on a gift for me.

TEXT MESSAGE TO: Calina 🕊️ Though I cannot overlook the fact that I must’ve crossed your mind quite frequently if you took that much time in deciding. 

TEXT MESSAGE TO: Calina 🕊️ See you soon, 麗人.

A near-empty wine glass was fixed between Omi’s lips, doing nearly anything to distract herself until her friend’s long-awaited arrival. Checking the mirror again was not an option, as she’d already done so several times too many. She’d typically been quite mindful of her appearance, but her fretting on this particular night had reached a new level. Omi had verified several times that the part in her bob had not been crooked, nor had there been any lingering strings or blemishes on her dress. A spare wineglass sat diagonal from her on the coffee table, hoping that Calina would accept an invitation to drink with her.

Omi rose instantly at the sound of knocking, bare, manicured feet gliding across hardwood floors only seconds later. She’d already answered the door with a smile, but upon seeing Calina, the smile seemed to shift— to grow wider almost, illuminating her entire face. She greets her companion with a gentle kiss on each cheek, before ushering her in and closing the door behind her. 

“I have to agree, but only the strongest of feelings are able to withstand and grow during separation. That explains why I missed your presence so much.” She led Calina to her couch, where she shifts her body to comfortably face her, a decidedly comfortable distance between them, though surely the most comfortable distance would be none at all. Omi looks at Calina expectantly. “And it is always lovely to see you. You absolutely must tell me every detail of your trip, 麗人. But first, how are you feeling? Would you fancy a drink?”

She leans into the gentle kisses against her cheeks, a soft hum rumbling in her chest as Omi showers her with warm greetings and kind words. She slips into the woman’s home, a metaphorical weight lifting from her shoulders. Here, in Omi’s home, she needn’t be on her highest guard; here, in Omi’s home, she could be Calina first and Cleopatra; here, in Omi’s home, she was a friend before she was a Montague. Calina relishes the small moments like these, a honey-sweet response slipping from her lips without need for much thought: “You make it so difficult to leave, дорогой цветок. I wish I could whisk you away from Verona so you could travel with me every time I’ve got to work.” Especially this time, since she’d just returned from Japan on a mission to woo the Yakuza.

Calina settles near Omi, her knee pressing against the other’s thigh as she scoots closer. “You’re rather skilled at what you do,” the woman says. “I’ve been here less than five minutes and I’m ready to tell you absolutely everything,” she teases, expression lighting up at the offer of conversation and a drink. “I’m well, cara mia. Much better now that I’m here. How are you?” Her trip had been successful, further cementing her place in the Montagues’ favor and she got a chance to go home and visit the graves of her mother and Faron, though she’ll keep these details tucked against her chest. When Omi asks, she’ll explain the success as though she didn’t need it more than the Montagues; she’ll say she visited old friends and places that stick out from growing up. 

There are some things she’s not quite yet ready to share so easily--not without a drink, at least.

.

There are two people in this world: those who are bred for war and those who join up for multitudes of reasons.

Heloise places her chin in the palm of her hand and disregards the familiar prickle of tears that burn at the white of her eyes. Her bottom lip juts out as she casts her gaze downward, absent-mindedly reading over the menu. “Brie had no reason to join,” she whispers, hollow words sorrow-filled. “We weren’t perfect back home.”

Vivid memories of shrill cries pierce her thoughts, like nails against a chalkboard, as well as narrowing eyes and flying fists. “We weren’t perfect, but at least she was safe.” Her cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, and peers at Calina through her lashes. “She’s not a Montague.” There’s a slight crease in her brows as silence infiltrates the air. “Not really.”

Tears choke her words as her leg begins to bounce up and down, and a heaviness rests on her heart. She looks at Calina and understands now that she’s been replaced. They’re bound together in a way she and Brielle never could be, two halves of one whole. “She trusts you.” It isn’t a question. “She trusts you, but she doesn’t trust me.”

She aches for the key to the treasure box and to drown in secrets Brielle has hidden away. Their trust is enveloped in a layer of cobwebs and she wishes to wipe it clean. Heloise finds Calina’s eyes and straightens her shoulders as a little green eyed monster licks at her stomach, hot, fiery flames possessing her. “Why do you think that is?”

Wordlessly, she closes the menu and blinks back the tears as her heart twinges with a gentle ache. “What can I do to make her trust me?” Heloise is on the brink of begging, wide-eyed and tear-stricken. She buries her face in her hands and begins to sob, shaking her head back and forth. “Why does she allow me to stay if she’s just going to treat me like this?”

A thousand words sit heavy in her chest, but she simply stiffens her shoulders and continues to shed a few more tears. “I don’t know what to do.”

///

Brie had no reason to join, Heloise intones sorrowfully, and Calina is reminded of her hand in convincing Ellyushka to leave her home to precede Faron and herself in Verona. The Sokolova woman clears her throat, brown hues drifting to the menu underhand to give the Maksimovich girl a moment to collect herself and reign in the tears that undoubtedly swim at her lash line. “Ellyushka hadn’t a reason to join, so far as you are concerned,” she corrects, careful to keep her tones dulcet and honey-coated for gentle Heloise’s sake as she scans the menu. “Just because she hasn’t explained herself to you doesn’t mean that she’s here without reason.” She’s here because of Faron, because of me, because of you, Marya, and Konstantin. 

But then, Heloise’s tells precede the tears that well at her lash line, and Calina resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Loshya…” she trails, voice adopting a warning tone as the younger woman begins to unravel in front of her very eyes. Pull yourself together, she wants to say, for God’s sake, we’re in a cafe and we’re here to eat, not to sob in public. But, she doesn’t give sound to these sentiments, deciding instead to unwrap her silverware and give her the napkin to her sniveling companion. “Wipe your tears.”

She trusts you. She trusts you, but she doesn’t trust me. Why do you think that is?

The Sokolova woman meets Heloise’s gaze with a steady one of her own, brown hues unwavering as she takes note of the hint of jealousy that flashes here and there in the younger woman’s expression. She resists the urge to snap, to jab at the younger sister with unforgiving words: What have you done, Heloise, to earn her trust? Where Heloise is weak, Calina is strong; where Heloise fails, Calina succeeds. It only makes sense, then, that Brielle trusts the woman who’s acted in her best interests as her chosen sister rather than one who’s done everything but. “I’m sure the things Ellyushka and I endured together have created the type of bond you see between us,” she says with a noncommittal shrug, “just as the things that the two of you have endured together have created your relationship.” It’s a pity, then, that the interactions between the sisters so often ends in dissatisfaction and detachment. It’s a blessing, then, that the interactions between Calina and Brielle so often end in comfort and satisfaction.

“Would you rather she kick you out, Heloise?” Calina replies. “Come now, don’t ask questions to which you don’t want answers.” Brielle allows Heloise to stay because she is a far better woman than Calina, who would have sent her home long ago. “You’d be better off spending time recognizing how well-off you are rather than asking why. Don’t look a gift horse in its mouth.” Translation: You’re lucky, Heloise, that she lets you stay at all. Don’t poke at her, lest you push her into changing her mind.