COLD DELIRIUM

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 — 𝐒𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐧 — 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 — 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

“I don’t, but I’m also realistic in my expectations from this place,” he answers. Val Faim has seemed to not change one bit since he left its shores, but Gisele certainly has, and he was determined to know why. “I cannot say what some other future might have held for me. I’d imagine you can see why I was never so eager to return to this place, not for so much as a visit,” he shrugged. Perhaps there could have been an exception for those he cared about, had he not left on the terms that he did. For a moment, he wonders if Gisele would have been any different had he visited, or if he would have noticed her descent over time instead. None of that would have kept him from the sea.

She speaks of romance, an obviously pointed remark at Patrice’s own capabilities, and he cannot miss what it is she is looking for from him. But Patrice was a man whose heart was taken by the place he was currently kept from, and no lover could (or at least had) ever surpassed his heart’s yearning for the sea’s cold grasp. Many had learned such a thing the hard way, no matter how many times he’d told them. “Romance is a thing that has not lived within my grasp for a very long time,” Patrice replies, hoping to dismiss the subject. When this was all over, though, perhaps that would change - he would vow to romance the sea, to apologize for ever leaving her sights and promising to surrender his heart to her forevermore. 

There is nothing in her words alone that concerns Patrice. Were they to be taken at face value, he might have apologized for her loss and for prying into something he assumed must have been sensitive. But Patrice was paying too much attention to Gisele to deny the way her tone shifted, her mood darkened, and her voice seemed to hold no hint of grief and that which left an unpleasant aftertaste in his throat, so much so that he could not keep any sort of act afloat. No, he could do nothing but incredulously utter, “What happened to you?”

“I understand,” she concedes unhappily. Far be it from her to fault anyone for their disdain for this place. She’d not be here either if not for pressing affairs involving death and family. From an abstract point of view, she thinks, their circumstances are not different.

That yearning she felt moments ago sinks somewhere between her ribs, lodged between her lungs. So her tentative little affections are being dismissed. Gisele would never understand how other people were so unsuccessful in fending off love-- One couldn’t make it down the street in Val Faim without tripping over bastards or extramarital affairs or scandalous trysts that threaten to ruin noble houses for good, and yet here she is, trying and failing to simulate love where it should make sense. "I can't rightly say I'm in a different position, but they do say it's never too late, don’t they?" While this aimless sort of optimism is all she has to offer at present, her mind has already begun to resign itself to finding alternate avenues. Perhaps her hope for sentiment was naive, but her appraisal of Patrice’s worth as a match was not. From the very start, she should have approached this clinically, unburdened by sentiment. What a fool she’s being, coming here barefaced and dripping in pearls, as if that could have made her anyone but herself. 

Patrice’s incredulity is far from lost on her; Not for the first time something inside her crumples, new creases folding over old ones, like a letter too many times condemned to and retrieved from the wastebasket. He thinks her as strange as everyone else does. So be it. "I just told you what happened," she says flatly, as though he'd simply misheard, "Murder."

One need not glimpse fire to latch onto its presence, and one need not grasp flame to feel its scorch. Such was the visceral intimacy of burning – a language that had long since woven its smoke-strung syllables into their ireful entanglement; an impulse most familiar to their ashen tongues and blackened throats. It was the steadying fulcrum of each encounter; the governing force of every collision, and it now served as the guiding strobe light for his sightless eyes, drawing them along all that remained suffocated and unseen in Gisele’s hollowed expression. So viciously vacant, so crudely composed, yet there was no denying the way it burned. Zhenya couldn’t see the gnashing of Gisele’s teeth; couldn’t spot the bite of her nails or gauge the curdling in her gut, yet he could feel the clutch of that ever-familiar heat across his cheeks, accompanied by the undeniable sting of ash across his lips – and that was more than enough. Intuitively, he knew that the icy splinters of his words had struck through the fire and sliced open its blood-rich core. Such a victory could only ever be embraced, especially in the face of one as armored and untouchable as Gisele Duval, and embrace it he did; blatantly trailing his gaze across the woman’s stoic face, chorded neck, and twitching hand. I see nothing, his eyes declared, yet I see everything.

Of all the rotten sentiments, gloating was not one that Zhenya readily succumbed to; he was often driven by his inherent sense of honor, except in matters where duty or necessity took precedence. Although neither of those crucial notions applied to his rivalry with Gisele, he still stood firm in it with great conviction, despite the undesirable responses it drew from him. After all, the heiress had struck him with the most unforgiveable of slights – she had dared to define him. Seemingly before their paths had even crossed, she had decreed her judgement of him to be true, armed with nothing more than tatters of preconception and shards of fabrication – yet still clutching them in a blanched fist that she audaciously, arrogantly held to his face as though it harbored a cluster of his heartstrings. It made him wish for nothing more than to witness her hand flare open with wounds, blood gushing forth in a trail as endless as the lengths to which he would take their feud in order to dismantle her false sense of knowing.

His lips quirked in idle response to her insult, lashes caught in a demeaning flutter as his gaze trailed away in subtle dismissal. However, he was quick to draw it back into its clash with Gisele’s, tilting his head tauntingly as he said, “You speak of commands as if they’re restricting, but that only sounds to me like a feeble justification for your inaction. You were commanded to come here, yes, but you weren’t obligated to follow in your fellow nobles’ footsteps, and that’s precisely what you did,” His mouth curved in a smile, its edge cutting. “At least a dog is aware of its own blind devotion. It doesn’t delude itself into believing it’s anything else. I imagine you ought to learn a thing or two from it in that regard, especially when you’re wielding the notion of honesty against another.” If he were a prideful man, he would have certainly bore the brunt of Gisele’s disparaging tirade. In reality, however, he registered it for its cheapness and nothing else. “As you can see, plenty of words just escaped my mouth, and I dare you to claim the dishonesty of a single one of them. Or better yet, prove them wrong. Uphold the truth that you champion so vigorously.”

The tempest churning behind Gisele’s eyes darkens yet another degree. "Would that you knew me as well as you claim, you'd be aware that I've spent the night working to-" But the rest of her defense dies in the air as she clamps down around her half-formed admission like a vice. It isn’t as though she could ever give voice to the thoughts swirling through her mind, pushing at her tongue, especially not to Zhenya of all people. Gisele cannot insist the night as having been spent campaigning against Calandre, stoking discontent wherever she suspects even the slightest flicker; Neither can she claim she’s spent her time shadowing Yvon, working through endless rehearsals for the girl’s eventual removal. There’s precious little she can admit without leaving herself exposed, bound by sense to keep cautious even as she’s dying to lay things out as they are. If only she could look Zhenya in the face and tell him that just because she’s yet to take pieces in this grand game does not mean she is not positioning her knights and bishops, moving out rooks and pawns, drawing the queen herself out with the full intention of massacre. If only she could spit her designs at him, even if just to see if he might flinch. If only she could finally force the concession from him that she is a credible threat, meriting far more than the few brief flickers of attention he’s paid her. If only, if only, if only, and yet, already she’s being too bold with her resentment, coming too close to tripping over the lines in the sand. All this for his validation of her worth, something she can recognize she only desires because of its absence. This recognition makes the white-hot fury she’s built up no less intense, but all the more mortifying.

Gisele shifts her weight a half-step back, widening the space between them as a physical cue to distance herself. It's imperative that she redirect. “But then, if you say I’ve spent my night doing nothing but enjoying the festivities, who am I to argue?” Sweet but flat, the words flow like old champagne left out too long. It’s an exercise in restraint, forcing her eyes to focus on him at large without allowing herself to be baited with the way his attention wanders away again and again or the mocking smile. “After all, here you are explaining the contents of my character to me. Should I be flattered you’ve seemingly put such thought into your analysis of me?”

The question isn’t nearly so insincere as she frames it to be. Really, there’s a kind of catharsis to the insults, once she removes herself enough to keep from leaping to her own defense. Zhenya can make a show of paying her no mind, but his observations, at least, imply a level of care. He isn’t wrong about her, or if he is, he isn’t alone in his wrongness. Delusional, blindly devoted, failing her own ideals: accusations so familiar they begin to feel somewhat like home. They sting, but they’re followed by an old relief, something nearing gratitude that someone has taken the time to really recognize her. Terrible as she is, someone recognizes her. A unique catharsis, to be sure.

Gisele has never had pets, but she has hunting dogs. All he way back in Fleur, equipped with kennels and trainers and breeders, they’re the very image of at canines should be-- creatures outfitted with purpose and discipline, sleeker version of the wild things they’d descended from, not like the legions of spoiled lap dogs at home in the capital. Once upon a time she had four, but even being a predator is a dangerous task at the best of times. Not long before Gisele’s mother passed and collapsed every one of her eldest daughter’s carefully crafted plans on the way out, Gisele had lost her very favorite of the pack. She remembers it well: Mythra, the strongest, quickest, smartest of the bunch, squaring off with a wolf that had happened upon the hunting party; The way they stood, stock still, every hair bristling; The instant both creatures lunged at each other's throats and locked on with relentless accuracy. Neither survived, but Gisele recalls the scene occasionally, indulging her terrible habit of scouring through horrors for meanings and metaphors. Maybe there’s something to be said there about the wild vs the tame, or base instincts vs those trained into you, but probably it was just violence for violence’s sake. 

She’s reminded so vividly of this moment because she feels she’s currently watching the same scene unfold in the expanse of Le Palais D'Été. The parallels are somewhat blurred, unclear who plays the wolf and who the hound, but the choreography is just the same-- Medraut and a minor but well-connected noble, facing off with hackles raised, a hair's breadth from an all out fight. Significantly less unclear is the urge to intervene that overcomes her, taking this as a cue to place herself squarely between them.

“Allow me to explain how this will end and save you both the trouble of living through it. This one-" she casts a pointed glance at Medraut before focusing onto the noble, "-will trounce you. You'll be left bruised and beaten and lucky if you so much as land a hit. Whatever illusion you’ve been maintaining of any sort of martial prowess will be stripped from you in a matter of minutes.” Her focus snaps back to Medraut. “And in retaliation, our dear Lord Trémoïlle will call upon his aunt to ruin you so completely, even the least respectable will have difficulty justifying associating with you. Those comrades-in-arms you arrived with too, for good measure. Both of you will gain nothing and lose more than you can afford, but by all means, faites vos fêtes if you’re still so inclined.”

          𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐌, The Lion’s Mane became, for Etienne, the city’s core and capital, his own personal pandemonium, and the closest thing to comfort he could ever hope to discover. So frequently was his booth adorned with his wines, and perhaps less frequently, companions, that it became his own. A self-implemented, unofficial sanction, (as he had not yet convinced Degaré why the booth would be better adorned with, “Property of Etienne Marais” sprawled across it), tangible enough that he lounged leisurely in the splintered seat like a makeshift throne. Besides— Etienne’s claim of royalty— which was him being noble adjacent, more than anything— bore the same weight of absurdity that his claim to a wooden booth did.

         It made the spectacle of Calandre and Alain vying for his hand all the more the gratifying, for the forging of his courtly presence confirmed Etienne’s belief in the fragility of noble associations. To enter noble circles requires only the proper presentation of oneself, as an asset that the crown and those in opposition could not bear to live without, for what worse hands for the philosopher’s stone to wind up in, then that of one’s enemy? How badly Alain and Calandre desired Etienne’s allegiance mattered little— just as long as the idea of him aligning with others— continued to be unbearable. 

         Unbearable— it was the word that remained with him as he watched Gisele glide across the crowded space. How far Calandre and Alain were willing to go were still depths not yet fully explored— but sending Gisele to do his bidding, and in the Mane of all places? Perhaps Alain was willing to go far indeed. As the gap between the two of them lessens, the span of his smile lengthens. He understands that she would not grace his presence unless it was absolutely necessary. She was one of many people he’d crossed  on his quest to upward mobility— but the difference between Gisele, and many of the others, was that the potential for her wrath was enough to unnerve the alchemist— enough for him to question her intentions, even as she presented them to him, clear as day. 

         “Gisele,” he utters plainly between sips, opting out of the formalities she’d extended in his initial greeting. “I don’t believe in coincidences, nor do I care for formalities. You knew this though, didn’t you?” Traces of amusement still linger in his expression. “Oh— and I could do without you using the word delight in reference to me— or anyone else for that matter— for the remainder of my life.” He gestures for Gisele to sit, tilting his glass toward her expectantly. “I’d prefer it if you sit, but feel free to linger awkwardly around the booth. I’m sure you have a speech prepared, yeah? I’m not gonna stand in your way, so go on, convince me.”

Even if just once, Gisele wishes she could be spared the resistance of a target. It's not that her pride is outraged by Etienne's words - by her own estimation she has a higher tolerance for derision than most - but her mind is puzzling out the logical eventualities, imagining how the chess board will shuffle for each move she makes, and the odds displease her. He relishes in this power too much, both over her in this instance and in his crowning position atop the triangle between Calandre and Alain. To sever him from it, even if only to replace it with power of another kind, is not a straightforward procedure. She's equipped with offers, both appealing and realistic; Unfortunately offers alone are nothing without the proper preamble. Gisele can make no mistake on that front, not again-- she could reliably offer Etienne the world and he'd still be scouting for better deals. She suspects there's nothing in existence she could ever definitively buy his allegiance with and this infeasible price makes crafting a sales pitch so much more trying. 

And yet, for all the imposing unlikelihoods, she knows she must try. Not so much for Alain, as for herself. She simply has to adjust her techniques to account for the difficulty of character. If Etienne refuses to receive delight, there are plenty of tactics she can call upon that require none. "Perhaps I did know, but I'd much rather be too polite than overfamiliar. It never pays to overplay one's hand." Gisele's artfully sunny air does not waver for even a moment in the face of his dismissiveness, but her reply comes as half concession, half warning.

It’s a little funny, isn’t it? The both of them thinking and so it begins, in unison, for entirely different reasons.

Michel can’t help it. He frowns. It’s gone as quickly as he can remove it, but… reflex is reflex, he supposes.

In any other situation, the way Gisele’s dial turns from sorrow to sheer determination might have been comforting, but Michel can’t help but look at it as the opposite. She has gone from shock to on the offensive in as little as a matter of seconds, putting him on the defensive, and he wonders if he should be offended. Insulted, maybe. Speaking in such a way to a Commander can’t be correct, but he’s spent so long dealing with the mindless pups of nobility that it doesn’t even registed. He spends more time looking at the lack of tear streaks on Gisele’s face and how she holds herself on the settee than he listens to her quick heel-turn.

“Right.” Right. And so it begins. “You know your house is well-liked. Your people adored your mother, and from what I’ve heard, they adore you – can you think of anyone who might have wanted to cause you harm? You truly believe the intent was always to kill?”

He’s dealt with petty noble squabbles, in the past. In fair Val Faim, where we lay our scene, two houses both lacking entirely in dignity… Calandre has dispatched him where necessary, ending stupid little civil wars before they ever get the chance to begin, and assassination attempts without real motive are not uncommon, especially in the capital city, but all the way out here? Something about it has him pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He watches her face, the way it twists into an expression of confusion to take the place of mourning. And so it begins, and so it begins, and so it begins. “You reported that it was an act of poison, correct?”

Gisele makes careful note of the frown, and though her expression remains locked in place, she takes in a slightly deeper than usual breath, as though about to sigh but not letting it out.  "No, no one comes to mind. No plotting cousins, no rabble rousers, nothing.” She lets herself sound slightly frustrated with herself, not a difficult part to play when it strays so close to her honest emotions. “I suppose I have no proof of deadly intentions, but what else could it have been? What could have caused this? Nothing ever just happens. There's always a reason or someone to blame. There's always something that could have been done."

Once again, she desperately wishes she could cry. She wishes she could be charming, sympathetic, pleasant, sweet, something, but it’s always been beyond her. Even as a child, when she tried to leverage conversations with tears or pouts or puppy dog eyes, she failed utterly. These vain attempts at recapturing a tender, juvenile charisma she’d never possessed only ever underlined the gruesome sobriety of her nature. Some people were simply never meant to be pitied. It makes this all the harder to play. Gisele can’t rely on sympathy or likeability to construct a vision of innocence, but neither can she fall back on honesty or diligence. All her natural talents lay in things that could be of no use to her here, and worse, were likely hurting her case. She knows how she looks, how she seems, the lack of reaction that suits her so well in court and politics now working against her.

There is nothing gentle about her. Liane is all winter, her eyes darker than the purple dusk of the sky, her touch colder than the kiss of death, and each word that falls from her lips are sharper than the last — she will pull your heart from your chest, stain it with fleeting moments of softness before sinking her teeth in until she tastes nothing but the sweetness of your skin and the burning of your heart, but her eyes have never tasted a vision quite like Gisele. She desires her, but never wishes to eat. “Would it be presumptuous of me to assume that I baffle you, Gisele?” As with their initial exchange of words, her voice is peppered with an undeniable amount of charm as she gifts the Duval woman an almost smile.

She thinks of her as a hollow light. If she were to brush her hand alongside the curve of her cheek, there would be nothing but the palm of her hand passing through. In truth, Liane does not know what it is that Gisele wants from her. Perhaps she needs a safe place to tear her way out of her own skin — to cut it all open, to take a peek at her demons without looking like one. “Is that why you’ve settled on tonight of all nights to whisk me away and delve into the sweet wonders of my mind?”

“Have you flocked to my side to poke and pry, or are you simply a woman in need of company?”

Liane is fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to her. If she were to dust off Gisele’s skin, perhaps she’d see traces of the horrors that linger underneath, that bruise at the red of her heart and gnaw at the slope of her throat. If she were to scoop out what has been buried for so long, to peel her wounds raw, scratch hard enough, long enough so they won’t heal, perhaps she would finally be able to escape herself. “Do you truly believe I would lie to you, Gisele?” Liane’s lashes dip against the tops of her cheeks as she places her hand upon her heart, the corners of her lips curling into a smile as mischief glimmers behind her eyes. “Perhaps it is you who wishes to deceive me. I can only imagine how sweet it is to hear such kind words fall from my lips. Were my words of praise insufficient? Shall I speak them once more?”

I can never be sure if I’m noticed at all. The tips of her fingers stretch themselves towards Liane, warm, hot, scorching — “In truth, you are hard to forget. I must confess that your name has echoed in my ear countless times. It has traveled through the weeping willows and drifted through the spring air long before you decided to gift me with your presence.” She lays out the bait and waits for Gisele to bite, offering her a fleeting glance, and as the Duval woman glows under the starlight, she finds that the dark undeniably suits her.

Gisele’s laughter rings out in the night and it’s brightness brings no comfort. “Terribly presumptuous, I should say, but not at all wrong. I believe temperance a virtue of mine and yet I won’t deny myself the pleasure of your company when I’m blessed by chance with the opportunity to have it.” To say she isn’t entranced by Liane would be a lie, and not a particularly convincing one at that. There are things neither a mask nor rigid composure can obscure, human nature the grand betrayer. Gisele gazes at Liane with eyes too bright even for the soothing darkness, pupils wide and glittering in the low light, following every flick of Liane’s eyes, every twist of wrist, even the most minute of movements tracked. Similarly, her heart rhythm has picked up, thrumming with a frenetic energy. Fear or predatory instinct or desire, all such base emotions break through even the most elaborately constructed guises to reveal themselves in such ways. Gisele isn’t sure which of those options she falls into. She wonders if there’s any meaningful way to tell them apart. 

“I pray you don't mistake my doubt for disapproval,” Gisele replies, matching the timber of Liane’s tone to the slightest inflection, and yet somehow her delivery lacks the same undeniable charm. Her tone is, as ever, low and silky and song-like, but it always retains an edge of something far less pleasant, be it mockery or disdain, pretense or distance. It may be lovely as a siren’s class, but it promises no pleasures and offers no allure, simply spells out doom like a lullaby. “I can appreciate the craft of a fine lie far better than I can trivial praise, and you, I suspect, are an artist with falsehoods. I should think a single lie from you tends sweeter than a thousand truths. Though by all means, I’d love to hear the praises all again.”

Dismissed for the evening, Hector finds himself on the steps outside the palace and in the company of small group of unarmored chevaliers he shares a brief, however fond, history with. He’d trained with these men for a brief stint, slept in their barracks, crawled through mud, hunted and rode with them. He’d also rang their heads like bells in spars with them, and they’d tried to ring his too. Now, they’re dragging him to the Lion’s Mane in the familiar way old friends do and forcing a thick bottomless cup into his hands. It’s been years since he’s seen the few of them, years since they’d heard his stories of the stories of dragons that burrowed and flew and breathed fire, and how Hector slew them all. He’s goaded into entertaining his stories and humoring his brothers, and before long, the man who drinks least and talks less so at banquets and galas, has now put a dent in the barkeep’s barrels and attracted a crowd.

Hector sings his stories to the songs of praise and he’s heralded after each one. Dragon’s bane, beast-man, dragon knight, stone-man, he collects his fair share of titles from jeers and cheers that end with raised mugs punctuated by the hollow slams of them on tabletops. It’s after the fifth story Hector’s finds that he’s allowed himself to become drunk, or has at the very least guzzled enough of the Mane’s finest to step into the fighting ring for a demonstration of a dragon slayer’s strength…

When it’s done, his count’s up to seven men flattened. He’s lost his jacket and the strings of his sweat wrinkled shirt hang untied and open, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The ridge leading down his chiseled chest is flushed and heaving, the chorded musculature of forearms littered with scars of curious shapes and glorified origins. He’s led back to the tables smothered by a pack of men he’s inspired who praise him with shouts in his ears, pats to his back and elbows to his ribs. Hector’s more drunk on their attention than he is on ale at this point, he’s got to admit, and he can’t for the life of him remember why that’s a bad thing.

With his head in a swirl and his body in the highs of adrenaline he throws himself onto his chair, his knuckles reddened when he wraps his hand back around his cup only to find it empty. 

“Another!” Hector shouts to command, shoving his cup against someone, anyone, within his arm’s reach as he plucks the mug from his nearest comrade’s lips to finish off himself. It’s only after he wipes the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand that he turns to look to who he’s bestowed the honor of being his cupbearer. 

  —

Every business excursion to this corner of the city is excruciating. Campaigning is an exercise in willful self-degradation, a headache in and of itself, and the chaos, the noise, the neverending action of La Crinière De Lion has the effect of working said ache up into a crescendo of a migraine, so powerful Gisele's vision is softly blurring around the edges. All she can think about is retreating to the blissful silence of home for the night, the world outside her walls dead for all she cares. It’s a freedom waiting on the other side of her escape from this place, an escape that gets abruptly cut off as she’s skirting past a particularly rowdy table. 

Instinctually her fingers curl around the cup shoved at her, but once her mind returns from the distant thoughts of how she’ll spend the night and catches back up to the present, she hastily reels back and lets the offending object clatter to the ground. A few errant drops splash onto the dark velvet of her skirts. "For prophet's sake…"

Gisele’s gaze flicks back up from the floor to none other than Hector Geraud. She’d caught a glimpse of him when she’d first arrived, identified him at the epicenter of all the commotion she was careful to avoid, but not thought much of it. Perhaps she should have taken more notice-- Hector’s been a fixture of Court for as long as she's been aware of him, but a much more stable one than tonight’s behaviour suggests. There are countless stories of glory adorning his reputation, but there are stories about everything and that hardly meant anything to her. All that really matters are the lines he recites for the Empress: praise and promises of devotion and unquestioning approval, all delivered without a hint of subterfuge. Gisele has long since written him off as beyond her influence and therefore beyond her caring.

Once upon a time, the Duval villa in Fleur and the estate in Ville Haute looked practically the same. They’re both staggeringly old, but so finely constructed and meticulously maintained as to have all the charm of age without the expected wear and tear, more monuments than homes, but where the country villa maintains the aesthetic sensibility of the departed Duval matriarch, all soft shades and plush interiors, the estate in Val Faim is a different beast entirely. Gisele, in her frequent solo trips up and intermittent stays in the capital, had long since begun the process of making the space her own-- removing the floral wallpaper, swapping out furniture, refitting parlours into more practical rooms. It would have been wonderful had her plans not been brought to a screeching halt, leaving the space stripped and unfinished, barren and austere. No other member of her family had so much as stayed the night here in years, and yet the idea of Yvon bargaining in, as officially entitled to the space as Gisele was, dampened her spirits so thoroughly that she couldn’t will herself to continue until the property was unquestionably hers. Now it stands hollow, bleak, and grand as a monarchic tomb. 

Between the desolation inside and Gisele’s solitary nature, visitors were an exceedingly rare thing, only a choice few being allowed so much as a glance into the grounds. Unfortunately, like most everything she values, she has to give up her rigid seclusion is service of duty. If there is somewhere safer from the risk of being overheard in the city, Gisele doesn’t know it. So here she is, seated at a pleasant table in her courtyard (one of the handful of spaces untouched by her doomed redecorating spree), waiting for Régis to arrive, be escorted to her by staff, and inevitably disturb what little peace she’s found here. Propriety dictates she be a good host, set out wine and so forth, but her discomfort wares at her, the pestilent dread of being encroached upon.

Though the masks may change daily, hourly in some cases, the faces of Court for the most part remain the same day in and day out. One knows their stories, detailed accounts of every exploit and embarrassment sniffed out and passed around by insidious gossips, their haunts and habits, their allies and enemies. Between all that, one generally has enough information to feel out their character and position, make an accurate assessment of the role they’ve been cast to in the grand masque playing out on the political stage. This makes any unknowns both interesting and valuable. They could feasibly be shaped into anything, like a beautiful empty manor waiting for carpets and furnishings. So many possibilities-- it could become a palace or a brothel, depending entirely on who has the pleasure of filling it. How limited by comparison is everything already completed and labeled. The influx of new additions has, therefore, been a great delight to Gisele.

The fascination she’s picked up with Chevaliers in undeniable, stemming from the improbable but oh-so-enticing idea that she could get her hooks into one of Calandre’s elite and induct them into the fold of conspiracy. The recently arrived trio attracts her personal attention even beyond that, though-- between Adraste and Medraut, how could they not? And their senior officer, Roth, is certainly not spared her notice, unknown that he is to her. At every chance, she’s been careful to observe body language, mark each acquaintance, and gather what whispers she can manage to overhear, constructing a narrative for him from the gathered clues, a narrative she thinks she could nudge here and there into something that suits her.

There’s no place in the city where solitude is finer and company is more disagreeable than the library, and yet still Gisele finds herself here on a social call of all things. If that does not speak to her desire for this endeavour to work out, she cannot imagine what would. 

It’s been years since her last encounter with Iseult, long enough ago to feel like an acquaintance from another lifetime. Back then, the world seemed somehow more plaint, easier to categorize into the rigid black and whites of morality she relied on. Although she’s yet to embrace the middling mercy of grey, still quick to sort people and events into strictly good and strictly bad, day by day and drip by drip she eases into the idea. At the very least, she’s moved death from black to grey and violence from an inadmissible terror to a fact of life. This realignment brings with it retroactive complications; She no longer fancies herself above brutality, she certainly doesn’t startle from fresh blood like she once did, and her prior overreactions now seem callow at best. 

Gisele isn’t proud of how she terminated her brief friendship with them, isn’t proud that she’s never found the time to repair things, and particularly isn’t proud of the fact that this current attempt at revival is not sourced from exclusively honourable reasons. It almost feels like some cruel irony to find they’ve been held up in the palace for work, comically close by. They’re not even particularly hard to track down when she does arrive to seek them out amoung the books.

to be anywhere beyond his own solitude is to walk on a knife’s edge. 

he was never made for this; the gold sheen of this capital, weaving through politics if not staying out of it completely, standing shoulder to shoulder with courtiers and nobles and pretending as if he belongs when silk and blood mix. the spectacle of a masquerade was alien enough, but an execution as calandre’s finale was neither the tedium he expected nor the noise to cut through the doldrums he’d wanted. it’s with crashing relief that he slips away in between fireworks, and to the respite of a familiar space, the soft glow of candlelight creating enough of a lilting waltz that he wouldn’t want for another masquerade the rest of his life. 

at his desk, he pauses. every paper and scroll  is as he left it, and his fingers hover over his quill, tempted to pick it up and write of all that has transpired, to create order in the night’s disarray, if only for his own peace of mind–behind it, for posterity. should hippolyte turn out to be innocent, does he trust calandre’s biographers to transcribe this evening’s events? oddly, no one seems to remember jaster stuck a sword through a man’s gut.

before he can begin, a voice startles him out of his musing, though he doesn’t stand from his seat. knowing iseult is somewhere in the shadows, loathed as he is to admit after their vague little row, offers a sense of ease he wouldn’t have otherwise. 

his brow lifts when the woman he’s come to know as gisele duval begins with chastisement and ends with amends. it’s a shock to see how either duval sister can muster the strength and will to attend a damned masquerade, though he’s come to understand both boast their own peculiar resilience. while yvon seemed to cope with questionable habits, of which he tries to coax her from when she does find her way to the library, gisele in particular strikes savatier as less shaken, faster to grieve and recover. 

“not at all. i’m terribly pleased the library seems to have found itself such a staunch guardian.” he smiles faintly, folds his hands above his quill. “perhaps i am being impolite, slipping out. but i haven’t the disposition for prolonged spectacles.” cants his head, curious, and sympathetic. “but to have caught me means you’ve sneaked out as well. tell me, were you bored by the evening? or troubled?”

A… joke? 

Gisele casts an unsure glance to the side, as though the answers to the puzzle of this situation might be lurking just off her periphery between the shelves. The suggestion of a smile, the sympathy, the inoffensive banter-- it’s all a bit difficult to parse, especially in her current state, and the conspicuous lack of bitter retorts pricking at her tongue only obfuscates things further. There’s a majesty between them, a sort of odd, uneasy obeisance she feels compelled to grant Savatier. Anyone with Gisele’s inclination to attack, especially to attack those in positions of power, learns quickly to afford no one the satisfaction of nervousness, but here it’s impossible to shake the feeling that she ought to tread lightly around him. Cordial as his response may be, there’s some instinct of hers that something is wrong, paranoia like hot breath on the back of her neck. 

It takes conscious effort to redirect from the route her thinking has begun to tumble down. These kinds of excuses are unacceptable even when made only to herself, grubby thoughts she’s ashamed to have pass through her mind. She steels her resolve and summons up a reply, settling on a tepid “In that case, I’m glad to be of service.” Her hand draws up under her veil and scratches idly at her neck, right at the spot where the pulse feels strongest, an old nervous habit she’d previously believed she’d trained out of herself.

"I can't say I’m terribly surprised. These events don’t strike me as quite to your taste. Even knowing you were just there, it’s still difficult to imagine you fitting in at a ball.” Or anywhere, but she leaves off that last part. He doesn’t belong, not in the way she doesn’t, but in some deeper sense she can’t place. How did he get this way? What does he think and feel and value and fear and desire? She can barely guess and eats at her. She wishes she had access to a live transcript of his thoughts so she could study them and sniff out what it was that made him so… completely beyond her.

She speaks of rumors and opinions and judgment, and Patrice cannot help the visceral bloom of the feeling that makes him wish to run as far from this place as possible. Rumors water the thorn-adorned plants of Val Faim, and judgment is the poison pollen their flowers spit into the air. “I do,” he agreed with a nod, “but you know as well as I that things don’t quite work that way around here.” Patrice never had shelter from such things, and so he had to make his own. First, in Sasha, and then, in his own absence from this place altogether. Gisele, he’d assumed, had always been protected by her beauty and her light. He hadn’t ever considered those flowers she strung in her hair contained that same poison, or that she’d inhaled their sickeningly sweet scent long enough for them to change her own chemistry.

There was a dance they’d done so often as children, one with their words and their actions more than with rhythm and song. It was a natural one, moving in ways they didn’t need to think about when they spent time together. Now, the steps feel forced and forgotten, a performance rather than a natural sensation. Patrice had never been good at performances, and still he could not hide the tension in his voice. He hopes it can be chalked up to the awkwardness of seeing everyone he’s ever known at such a sensitive time. “You’d be correct. Though I wouldn’t always call it romance.” But perhaps his relationship with the sea was like that with any lover. There were the romantic days of beautiful sunsets and kisses from the salty mist, but there were plenty of rough patches, navigating storms and tying down that which he couldn’t afford to lose to the murky depths. 

“Thank you. I feel I still need the time to process, but this city’s busy pace isn’t quite helpful.” He doesn’t wish to talk about his mother. He’s struck with the reminder that he wouldn’t have been in touch with her anyway. He swallows it down; its aftertaste is of guilt. Patrice changes the subject.  He wishes to know more about Gisele, to study her like he would any other finding of his - but this time, rather than the how, he was looking for the why. Family, a subject they’d just danced atop, seems like a good place to start. “How does your family fare?”

"I agree it's not how things are usually done here, but, well, I thought you of all people wouldn't care how things are done." Her words hang hopefully expectant in the air for just a beat before she abruptly changes her mind, the equations she’s always running adding up to unfavourable sums, and she relents with a soft sigh. "I actually haven't heard much of anything about you for years now, so don’t fret on that front. I didn't even know you'd returned until I overheard that you had asked after me. To think, if not for that, I’d still be wondering if I’d ever see you again." The briefest flicker of hurt runs over her features before they quickly fix back into a more winsome expression. Though the temptation to dwell on topics where she might pry some kind of sympathy is difficult to ignore, there’s a much more appealing mood that seems well within her grasp if she plays her cards right.

"No? Well, I do hope I'll get the chance to find out exactly what you would call romance then." Maybe that’s a jarring transition, but she can't help much if the topic seems doomed to forever stray in the realism of dreariness without her direct intervention. Gisele doesn’t want nostalgic ruminations or discussions of the city, she wants momentum, feeling, romance perhaps? Any impulse for mundane love has long since been lost, schooled out by a daisy-chain of betrayals inflicted upon her, but the most disastrous want remains a constant. She wants him to tell her things, to think she’s beautiful, to be reminded of her by simple things, to miss her when she’s gone. Ever since girlhood she’s wanted to occupy a piece of his mind, but by now all her ambitions have widened, this one being no exception.

Cyril had never really paid attention to the history classes about Celestine so the fact that she was caught in the net of a conversatio that was most definitely political, she can’t help but rub her forefinger and thumb together, a nervousness slipping through the cracks of her otherwise confident demeanour. Politics were never her forté — the inherent plotting and manipulation that comes with it goes against her very own “go-with-your-gut” nature. And, in that moment, her gut is telling her that there is something off about Gisele, about the way she’s so hellbent on trying to find a simple answer to what is not a simple matter, not to Cyril. 

“What makes you think my partaking actively in… the governance of Celestine would be something good? I have older siblings, parents who are still alive who are far better at it than I am.” Cyril can’t imagine herself spending any amount of time second-guessing everyone’s intentions, overthinking every interaction she has, wondering how much of it was genuine and how much of it had been a game. “Just because you seem to take pleasure in thinking about it, it doesn’t mean it’s an universal feeling, Gisele.” 

Cyril looks away from the Duval woman, both because she wants to avoid looking at the one that sees so keen on scrutinising every part of Cyril’s thoughts. Everything inside of Cyril is urging her to cut the conversation short, screaming at her legs to walk away, at her lungs to gather all the air they can before Cyril finds herself unable to remember how to breathe. It’s Gisele’s next words that bring the tailor’s attention back to the noble woman. Shortsighted, spoiled child. Cyril feels a fire surge inside of her chest and, for a heartbeat, she finds herself wishing she could do to Gisele what she had done to the other courtier. But only for a short heartbeat and in the next, Cyril reminds herself that’s not who she is and she cannot let anyone in Court make her feel like she has to be.

Cyril’s eyes narrow and she breathes out words, almost as if she just wants to be done with it. “Calandre is a good Empress and I trust and like her. I don’t know Gauthier. I don’t…” She shakes her. “He’s intimidating. And spilling blood is never right, no matter what for. Is that what you want to hear, Gisele?” 

Gisele is predictably unmoved. "Yet still more excuses. You’re tenacious, I’ll grant you that.”

And then the flash of fury lights in Cyril’s eyes-- This is precisely the intended effect and Gisele basks in it, responding with a bright, joyful laugh, it’s alien warmth all the more jarring against the prevailing hostility she’s exhibited up until now. “Brava, my dear, that's an excellent start." And she means it. 

There’s much left to be desired with the answer, of course. To Gisele’s mind, the logic needs work-- If spilling blood is never right, how can she take up Calandre’s mantle, who’s ascendancy was brought about by the butcher of her father? Meanwhile, (although Gisele personally finds this distasteful and prays it isn’t actually the case) Alain has not explicitly called for Calandre's death. He might be content with an abdication, a peaceful, bloodless solution to all this turmoil. If Cyril is genuine in these romantic fantasies of irenic power, Gisele wonders what it would take to direct those utopias into ones more sympathetic to the cause. Still, all criticism aside, she’s satisfied to have pried out these opinions. At the very least, it proves there’s an active mind lurking behind the cut of the tailor’s mask that need not only be dedicated to frippery, that could be roused to the occasion with the right kind of nudge. 

"I am not a woman apt to be proven wrong and yet here we are. Perhaps there's more to you than I've given due credit for.” Her tone has become complimentary, deferential almost, but her approval is significantly more demonstrated than felt. While this extraction of opinion has been hardfought, successfully attaining it is not necessarily a victory. The kitten may yet have claws, but that begs the question of if Gisele should be pulling said little cat’s claws or sharpening them. If she’s just created a threat from a placid onlooker, it is solely her responsibility to crush that in turn, and she takes her responsibilities very seriously. "Or perhaps not. Either way, it'll be great fun finding out, won't it?” Even Gisele can’t be sure if she's making promises or threats, but she supposes there’s little practical difference between the two. In any case, she fully plans to fulfill them. "You'll be seeing more of me very soon, but until then, do keep thinking about what you've just told me. I suspect you'll come to some marvelous realisations if you give it due consideration,” Gisele dismisses, in a way that is simultaneously irreproachably correct in etiquette and terribly imperious, “À bientôt, Lady Beauchamp.” 

In a swish of dark skirts, she makes her exit, cutting a path through the inconsequentials around them.