Words are funny things

The whole way up the stairs, Nadja felt her heart pounding against her ribs. Why in the world was she so nervous? He was just a person, the same as she. Flesh. Bone. Mind. Heart. She reminded herself of these things with every step she took up the three flights, practically tiptoeing (or perhaps floating) so as not to make a sound. The only sound she seemed to be able to hear was her heart. She fumbled about with her key, the door sticking ever so slightly before swinging open. 

The biting cold of the snow had seemed to invade her apartment even with all the windows shut tight. If she hadn’t scared the poor man away, the cold certainly would. Nadja cupped her hands to her mouth and breathed on them, trying to return some heat to icy fingertips before hanging up her coat by the door. “Min Gud, I’m sorry it’s so cold…” She flitted about, turning on lights and banishing the dark from the place. 

She finally looked up, caught up in Jack’s gaze, and then caught up in his words. So where would you like me? Nadja felt her cheeks burn up, chasing the frost away. Don’t be foolish Nadja. you know that’s not what he meant… The voice in her mind chided her. You care too much when he might not care at all… And yet, she railed against that fear and hoped against hope that he might care.

If he had meant something else by his words, he quickly spoke and added onto them. Tea. How does tea work in France… “How the tea thing works is, first, I stop being a rude host and offer to take your coat- though if you’d like to keep it, I do know it gets very cold in here…” She reached out, offering but not insisting. “And if I had a very nice parlor, I would offer to let you sit in there while I fussed with the kettle, but I don’t. I have a very nice…” She glanced around the little living area, the soft fabric of the couch, the neatly stacked blankets, the armchair that had certainly seen better days… Supposedly, better days were coming. “Something Room. Where you sit wherever you like and relax and tell me how you like your tea. And I make it. Et voilà: how tea works in this very specific, little part of France.” 

She paused a moment before adding. “I do enjoy tea, but I don’t usually have company.” Did she sound like a fool? Maybe. Probably. Definitely. Here they were talking about tea but were they really talking about tea? Some little part of her mind screamed in confusion and frustration. The ballerina absentmindedly rocked back and forth in a b-plus, her nervousness manifesting itself in movement. When she had been small, she would dance in hallways outside of studios, needing to move before auditions. It had never changed- now, she simply tried to keep her feet tied to the ground as her heart tried floating in the air for the first time.

“Oh this isn’t cold. It’s not cold until you’re standing in ice.” And blood, he finished before drawing back. Flooded trenches filled with white, brown, and red. Britain’s true colors, he’d joked in front of his men, before Cam had given him that look. His father’s look, like his shape didn’t belong and he was about to be carved up to fit. And for once, in that cursed trench, it was true. There had been no Odette to save him, nowhere to run. And then there had been no option of running at all. Not for him or Cam or Thomas or Freddie or Reg. They’d lain frozen on the battlefield in various stages of cracking ice. 

Still he smiled. It wasn’t her fault. Perhaps if he could believe the doctors it wasn’t even his. But there was always that gentle reminder of what wasn’t the same anymore. Should she take his coat? He weighed the circumstances. People were more inclined to ignore a pinned sleeve in a greatcoat than anywhere else. And beyond the embarrassment there was the deeper question. 

He was contemplating all these things but she was so close, the snow still clinging to her soft hair and long eyelashes. Her sweet round nose looked practically frozen. He felt an urge rising, but it was an oddly delicate one. If he kissed the tip of her nose, would she warm up? He tried to quiet the question in his mind but the answer to her perfectly polite inquiry left his mouth before he could stop it. “Yes, thank you.” He unbuttoned the front of his coat with an expert hand then shrugged off one side. All in an effort to get closer to her for only a moment. She hadn’t meant it like that, he didn’t think. That had been a truly remarkable first kiss but it was a first kiss. Jack could always tell. Yet he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. Perhaps he’d bewitched himself. Yes, that had to be the answer.

“Your ‘Something Room’ is lovely.” He tried to use the French pronunciation to mock himself, but he suspected it only sounded awkward. They were both foreigners, yes, but her French was perfect and his was... let’s say very focused in its conversational needs? “Far cozier than anything I’ve ever been in at home. And we stole ours from some poor Scotsmen a millennia ago.” It wasn’t exactly that simple, as inherited titles were very funny things, but the explanations was expedient. 

When Nadja was six, she had dreamed of an evening where she met her true love, like in a story book or the plot of a ballet. 

The older she had gotten, the less had believed in anything of the sort. Her world, from outsiders eyes, was an oil painting. Soft and elegant, made of fairy stuff and swan feathers. A world where the true love in the stories they danced was surely somewhere in their lives. The reality of her life had been a rat race. It had been ravenous jaws that snapped and destroyed those little girl thoughts. It was watching her friends and fellow dancers pulled around like marionettes by abonnes.

Love couldn’t be real. Not from everything she had seen. 

But if love wasn’t real, then how was she standing in a moment that felt like it might last a million years? How was her heart both skipping beats and pounding a million miles in a few seconds? How was she standing there knowing that her heart would never be her own again?

There was a moment of silence where she stood in dread. Of course he would say no. He would leave, and she would sit there in her icy apartment all evening watching the snow fall down until the sun rose again. He would bid her adieu and she would never see him again, and Jack Lambton would become nothing more than a fairy tale she told herself on winter evenings. 

He smiled, and hope battered inside her chest like a bird in a cage. He spoke, and that bird soared through the snowy night sky. Perhaps love could be real. Who was she to say? If a little rat could be called a fairy, then why couldn’t a little bit of love at first meeting exist in the real world?

“Well, you’re very lucky, as I have what hopefully isn’t a frozen pot of milk and a full container of sugar to go with the previously mentioned cup of tea.” She tried to contain her smile as she took him by the hand and unlocked the door leading into the apartment building. “I cannot promise how much warmer it is in here than out there, but at least there’s tea…”

Now who’s the prince he heard Freddie purr just behind his shoulder. Or is it the sorcerer? Jack didn’t know, and perhaps he didn’t want to find out. We’re adults. We’re all adults and we’re human. He’d learned a lot about human frailty in recent years. From death to injury to tricks of the mind. But this wasn’t a trick. He wasn’t sure she was capable of one, Fae or no. In her part of the world, her kind were called the Hidden Folk. Elves really, rather than the more Saxon fairies. But that was the thing about the Díser. They were powerful in a way the Celtic creature was not. They were derived from goddesses, eternal nature spirits dancing in the mist. They had lived and would live long beyond the mortal men they sometimes took in the woods. 

And he did mean took. They captured victims with their haunting eyes and alluring smiles and did as they pleased. They might play at helplessness but it was only an act. There was nothing duplicitous in Nadja Babineaux. Yet perhaps he hoped she had that power. To carry him away, to make it not up to him. Maybe if he drank the tea he would be bound to her unseen world, like Persephone and her blood red pomegranate.

Don’t be a wilting flower, Jackie. You’re rare to wilt. Freddie laughed at him. Jack wanted to say that he hadn’t ever in his life, but then he’d be talking to thin air in front of a stranger, and he was odd enough as is. 

He watched Nadja unlock the door and push it open. He followed her up three flights of a tight and twisting staircase, leaning on the railing for stability. He was always aware, nowadays, of his risk of falling. She unlocked her own door and headed inside. Jack stood in the hallway for a moment, wondering if he was stepping into Heaven or the Underworld. Either was fine in this strange moment, when his Virgil was so charming. 

The quarters were tight and a little drafty but well cared for. His family would have called it “quaint,” which was horribly condescending. He studied the details of the room, the softness of the fabrics. Gentle, like her. He turned his eyes to Nadja, fully observing her in her own space for the first time. She really did glow, even with her nose red from frost. “So where would you like me?” 

...And that was far more suggestive than he’d intended. He coughed. This was more than being out of practice. This was... why was he so terrified of the word ‘no’ leaving her lips? Of making her feel uncomfortable? He always took his partners’ comfort into account, of course, but he was dreading the slightest bit of awkwardness. He sensed the moment’s weight and novelty, even if he couldn’t explain it. So he did his best to recover. “I should say, how does the tea thing work in France? You’re well equipped for it with the milk and sugar. Should I presume it’s something you enjoy yourself?” It was a gentle question, but subtly probing. Who else has been here? And, more importantly, he asked himself. He had no right to wonder.

There is a moment’s difference in thinking and in knowing. 

She and the other girls of the ballet thought about lots of things. Thought they’d like to be a prima one day. Thought that they’d like to go out to lavish parties with beautiful dresses and even more beautiful people. Thought that their dreams might come true one day, and maybe their feet wouldn’t have to bleed and their bodies wouldn’t have to creak and ache every day of their lives. Thought that they’d like to be in love. 

Thinking was a child’s game, just as much as dreaming. 

Wait a moment, a heartbeat, a million years in a second, and something changes. Knowing. Like lightning striking the top of your head. 

To say that she thought she would very much like to kiss the man again would have been a fool’s statement. In the heartbeat after the words tumbled forth from her foolish lips, she knew the answer was definite. That she wanted to kiss him again. And again. And…

He kissed her and she knew she wanted to kiss only him for the rest of her life. Probably a silly, stupid, lovestruck thought from a silly, stupid, lovestruck girl. Not that she would ever tell him that, especially not here, not now- all the snow for three blocks would melt with the embarrassed blush that would come into being if she did. She kissed him and she knew that he’d already stolen her heart.

When the cold air touched her lips once more, something in her heart and soul wanted to protest. But his hand remained. Nadja took comfort in that, absentmindedly tilting her head to press a tiny kiss to the palm of Jack’s hand as snowflakes tickled her eyelashes, her cheeks. Entranced, she almost missed his words. And then her eyes flicked up, up to the street sign. Up to the little apartment on the third floor with the flower basket frozen over and covered in snow. Her mouth curled into the smallest frown as she stared up at the place she called home. “It is… It- that seemed to be a much quicker walk than usual.” Nadja dipped her head slightly and tried to keep her face from turning scarlet all over again. 

She stood in the snow, not wanting to move away from him, but also feeling the cold starting to seep through well-worn shoes. “I have tea-” The words blurted out awkwardly, fumbling and tumbling into the winter air amidst a smoke-puff of breath. “I mean- it’s cold, and you’re- förlåt! You’re probably freezing and tired- do you want a cup of tea?” Brilliantly done, Nadja. If he didn’t run before…

Jack watched her lips trace along his palm. In a different world, in a different time he would have smirked Cheeky and thought nothing of it. But now it felt like... a blessing maybe. Magic again. Hope and forgiveness, true unrepentant gentleness in those perfect lips, clinging to his one remaining hand. One that had hurt so much and so many. 

“A very short walk.” He echoed. “Blink and you miss it.” But he refused to blink. Even if she was hiding from him in her own soft way. 

He knew a lot about consent. Odette would accept nothing less. But there was an ease to his and Odette’s relationship that allowed for certain silent understandings. A wanting they could both sense with their bodies rather than their ears. And something about Nadja was made of that. 

Jack trusted so little in the world but his words. It had been different once upon a time. He’d been as confident with his physical form as anybody could be. But even in his pain and frustration, he could feel her wanting. This was no act, no door opened so he could exit stage left, if you please. 

He felt Reg over his shoulder. Who am I to deny her, really? Who are you, Reg answered, if you deny what you want. Reg was right, as always. Jack had never had a problem with wanting things before. Knowledge, justice, people. He’d made no apologies. And he refused to think of the war as a punishment. Well, as his punishment. Cam and his pals had done enough, hadn’t they? 

So there was no harm in wanting. Not when she knew so clearly. When the only thing standing between her and him was that lemon-faced demon of propriety. He didn’t need to teach her to defy it. She’d done it already. She’d kissed him first, hadn’t she? Far braver than him.

Jack smiled at her. “Now that’s not fair, dearest Titania. You offer an Englishman tea and you can carry him off to all sorts of places. Lead the way.”

Nadja felt as if she’d been dunked into the icy Seine.

It wasn’t the chill of the snowy evening that did it- she was warm enough bundled up in the well-worn coat and the old gloves. It was the sinking feeling in her stomach, the feeling of the blood in her veins crystallizing while her heart lurched in her chest.

Fear.

She wasn’t used to it. On stage, she wasn’t usually nervous. She could flit about with the most complicated of steps. Backstage, the feeling bubbled up every once in a while when abonnes filled the space and lingered a bit too close. But this was different. This was fear of destroying something before it had even begun. Fear that she had overstepped. Her heart was always running ten steps of her mind, and now… Her mind was a blizzard all its own.

And then, she was frozen in her tracks. His hand caught her as she backpedaled in the snowy street. The icy fear began to melt, just a little. Pins and needles in her hands, her arms, her chest… 

She tried to remember exactly how to breathe.

Jack’s gentle words caught her off guard. There was such a sincerity to them, so soft but so sincere. He pulled her close and her heart lurched inside her chest once more, beating so loudly she was amazed he couldn’t hear it. His words spun around in her mind and she tried to process them, to parse out some hidden meaning. Beautiful people. Kindnesses. Honors. Her fingers gently curled into the fabric of his coat as she stood there, entranced with the wordsmith.  It was his last words that broke her trance. I would be very, very honored to get to kiss you again… A nervous smile flickered across her lips, and her eyes drifted down to his mouth for just a moment before meeting his gaze once more.

“I think I would like that very much…” 

Affirmative consent was a funny thing. There was a true and unique value in “yes,” especially when repeated ad infinitum, breathless and desperate. It was empowering and intoxicating and in recent months, it had been the only thing that had made Jack feel entirely himself. And yet. And yet...

Nadja thought she wanted him. There was a time when even a bit of hesitance was enough for Jack to move on but in this moment, all he wanted was to make her sure. There was a Fae in there, all banter aside. A Changeling, somewhere between Arcadia and the world above, magic bound with cold iron he only needed to remove. Perhaps she would fly away then, on great gossamer wings. To think she’d bring him along was an act of hubris, but he’d never been one to shy away from the traits of Greek tragedy (even if he hated the field of study.)

She was innocent. Innocent in a way Jack had not dealt with before, having never been so himself. He wasn’t patronizing enough to deny her the opportunity to lose that innocence. But somehow he was also certain that she would be innocent until the moment she left this earth for good. Perhaps innocence was the wrong word. Pure. No, that had unpleasant connotations too. Perhaps there was a kenning. Snow-like Nadja. Beautiful and soft, erasing the imperfections of the world for one ephemeral night. Or a lifetime, if the powers of nature so chose.

Jack slipped his hand from hers, bringing it up to her cheek as he kissed her again. Long and deep and gentle. He knew he should wait for her to lead and he did to an extent. But she also tasted like a spring breeze in deep winter. (He was mixing metaphors again. He knew better.) Kisses usually made him feel hungry, ache-y, buzzed. But this felt like breathing deep after emerging from crystal blue water. (A different metaphor again, Jack, Jesus Christ.) 

He forced himself to pause, pulling away gently and not so far. His hand lingered on her cheek as his gaze rose up to the street sign. “Ah. This is you, isn’t it?” It was an inane little question, and yet the implication placed a weight on his body he hadn’t felt since a muddy field in Belgium. 

Maelie shook her head in disbelief, trying to imagine it. Sure, she’d seen the blurry photographs on occasion, sometimes art depicting tropical, warm, countries… But the image of a beach, with the knowledge that the water wasn’t even cold? That was something that surprised her. “Clearly I will have to take a trip there sometime. Escape the cold one winter.” She was struggling to stay real, not to drift into pleasant small talk she made at events. A trip off the continent wouldn’t be in the cards for a long time, if ever. She hadn’t been outside of Paris since she left home, and had barely been anywhere else before that - her idea of an adventure had been visiting Jack and Odette.

“Oh, you’re right, forgive me for forgetting how prestigious a client you are.” The blonde teased, a playful look on her face. Her smile went from playful to warm, however, as Jack explained how he had translated the book himself. “I think that’s wonderful. Translations too often lose the soul of the original - I’m glad you’re doing it yourself.” As he suggested an English copy, she pondered for a moment. “Whichever you prefer. I’m sure both are wonderful. I have not practiced my English much, though, so keep that in mind.” 

Everything. Everything Odette knew would be quite a bit, but at least she didn’t need to explain it all. Just the end, really. Why she left, what had happened since she left… although, she was hoping he wouldn’t notice if she left a few things out. There were things he simply didn’t need to know.

“Right.” She finally spoke again, if only to acknowledge that she’d heard him. How could she possibly put the rest into words? But before she needed to, he was saying her name, and her bright blue hues flicked back up to his face.

Mae had never been good at hiding her feelings, but she’d always tried. Sure, she was good at remaining polite. Keeping a pleasant smile on her face when she needed to, but brushing off passive aggressive jabs, or unintentionally insulting remarks, was much different from what Jack was telling her. No, this time, as he explained, she could feel the inner points of her eyebrows twitch in and up, and the rest of her face fall.

“They never told me.” It was barely above a whisper, but it came out nonetheless, to confirm what he’d said. Of course they wouldn’t have wanted to wait for Jack to be done with school, they wanted the problem handled as soon as possible, and he wasn’t the quickest option. Finding something to say wasn’t something that she usually struggled with, but now was a different story. Lip now trembling and tears starting to come to her eyes, she couldn’t help but imagine all the pain that could have been avoided if she’d just told him. Everything she went through after arriving in Paris, all the things she wanted to forget, simply wouldn’t have happened. 

But it did. Because she chose to leave. 

He must have sensed her uncertainty of what to say next, because Jack then told her he was proud of her. He wasn’t wrong, she had done it on her own. And she wished that she hadn’t. “I’m sorry.” She told him, a tear falling down her cheek as she blinked, though she made no move to wipe it away. “I should have told you before I left… I just panicked.” She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. Her hands were gripping tight on the countertop, knuckles white as she struggled to explain herself. “And I worried you wouldn’t have wanted me back, after a while. It had been too long.”

“We’ll all go together. Odie loves it.” He spoke as if they were what they had been destined to be -- debutantes dabbling in whatever they fancied at the time, disappearing off to the strange reaches of the world. As if wealth like that still sat in their hands. As if disappearing from society meant anything other than career and social atrophy now. He had courted that atrophy in the case of England. Let them miss me, he’d thought. Let them wonder where I am, if I can get around on my own, little broken Jack. He so enjoyed reappearing in the society clubs and tea rooms a few tables away from his family’s friends. A little gay ghost.

Jack worried that he’d erred in bringing up Odette so casually, but he couldn’t help mentioning her. She was his other half. The attachment was bound to leak out somehow. 

He was quite certain his heart had fallen out of his chest as Mae told him the other half of the story. “They didn’t...” The punctuation to end that was muddy. A question and an exclamation, but far too small and pained for such theatrics. Which said something, because Jack loved theatrics. His mind flashed from pain to anger for a moment. If he did ever see either of their parents again, there was a new kind of hell to pay. He imagined himself, for a moment, as some Cornish hero, longsword in hand. You robbed me of a bride, Lord Hawkhurst. And so you must die. Well, perhaps that was a little extreme. But she was in so much pain. So much pain for such a small thing. A small, lovely thing. They were cowards, the Harts. Despite his anger with his mother, Jack could still imagine her, imperious. What did you expect dear? They’re from Kent. As if the North was any better. 

But he was pulled from his wild imaginings by the vision his friend had become. “Oh Mae.” He gently removed the tear from her cheek. The motion had brought them much closer, but he didn’t step away. “We always want you back. Always.”

If he had repeated words to her, she didn’t know and she didn’t care. She would have listened to Jack read a dictionary in a language she didn’t even understand. It would have been glorious. He spoke about kennings and poetry and she simply floated away on a string of words and knowledge that she wanted to drink. It was like the bubbles of champagne, making her float up, up, up… 

She’d never really known what it felt like to have her heart stop in her chest, but when he blushed, Nadja swore that everything in the whole world stopped in a deafening, crashing silence. Just snowfall and her heartbeat roaring away in her ears like a siren blaring. Run away, it cried out, don’t fall, it’s dangerous… 

Foolish heart. She had already fallen. 

Nadja kissed him before she realized she had wanted to, before she realized that she had even leaned in to kiss him. It was quick- if someone walking by blinked, they would have missed it, but the ballerina’s heart was like a cane hammering out beats on a studio floor as she’d realized what she’d done. And then the fear and guilt began to set in. She’d ruined everything, hadn’t she… She had, she had… 

“I’m so sorry,” She whispered, so quiet a mouse would have probably had to strain to hear. Nadja took a step back, her champagne bubble world popping and the fearful feeling started creeping through her body from her head to her toes “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry-”

Jack was used to a certain level of sexual aggressiveness. It came with the company, for lack of a better term. Excited, fumbling hands, well tailored clothes beautifully disrespected. But this was not that. There was something so innocent, so pure, that he half expected he’d burst into flames when Nadja’s lips touched his.

Yet he did not. Instead he felt electrified. It was more than novelty. It was new and different and warm in a way he could not explain. Not with all his words, his languages, his fantasies and fairy stories. 

Then she was gone, folding into herself in full retreat. 

He caught her with his left hand, but for a moment, he was sure that the right was there, clutching at the other edge of her coat. Soft and warm and present. So strangely, beautifully present. No past, no ghosts. Just sensations. Somehow, even in her panic, she steadied him. His voice was soft but insistent. “No, Nadja, no. You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. There can be nothing wrong with that. A kiss is one of the greatest gifts the world has. There are few greater kindnesses.”

No. Not kindnesses. That sounded like pity, and this wasn’t that. He tugged at her coat again, gently, to bring her closer to him, their faces close. “And there is no greater honor than a kiss from someone who knows what she wants. Never apologize for knowing that. Ever. Your kind mustn’t apologize. You are not bound by the frailties of this world.” He meant it in more than poetry. Beautiful people, he found, could more easily move beyond the petty mortal rules that demanded shame. And she was stunningly beautiful.

If she were a fae, she might have carried this man away just to hear him speak every day of her life. Or to look into his eyes. There were worlds within them- she could just see their silhouettes. Ghosts of ideas that swam within their depths… Between his siren’s song and the depths of those eyes, she swore she might sink forever. Or float… here in the snow, a thousand icy bubbles that swirled about them.

And then, as if he had somehow read her mind, It would be an absolute honor to be carried away by you, Nadja… Nadja’s heart lurched in her chest like a bird attempting to fly out of bars it had not known existed. He was lucky she wasn’t made of snow. She would have melted, a snow girl reduced to a memory of ice and dissolving snowflakes. 

Would it be impolite to kiss a man she’d barely just met in the snow on the streets of Paris? 

Probably. 

A new song entered her ears, and finally, finally, she had a name for her mystery man. Jack. Her eyes glowed as she found herself repeating the name aloud. “Jack… no, I was beginning to wonder if you were going to make me guess…” It suited him. It felt right on her lips, Jack, not so formal as ‘your lord’ or ‘the honorable Monsieur…’. Jack sounded like the warmth of a dream, or like coming home to a warm apartment, a fire in the hearth… 

“Well, Monsieur Jack,” She began, one palm smooth against his coat, just over his heart. “Thank you for granting a fae girl a dance…” A secretive smile had found itself content to remain on her lips, making no promises not to carry him away… though, to be fair, her heart would likely be carried away by him no matter what. 

Jack inclined his head in acknowledgment, the etiquette training finally making a rare appearance. “My honor and pleasure. Or have I said that already?” He considered for a beat, nearly certain he had. “Repeated words are the greatest sin in poetry, you know. Unless it’s intentional. But with all respect to Ms. Stein, there is only so much value in saying what something is in the same way over and over again. The Saxons at least put a twist on it - kennings, the same meaning but very different words - ‘Heaven’s candle’ for sun, ‘whale path’ for ocean, ‘ring-giver’ for king. They love their presents, those Norsemen. And their oceans.” He winced and looked sidelong at her. “I’m lecturing you now, certainly. Certainly. It’s habit now.” Since those others have atrophied and gotten trench foot, ghostly Freddie muttered.

Jack knew better. He always knew better. He could restrain himself, couldn’t he, back then? When he’d cared to? But he had been given an inch and taken a continent. Perhaps a whole mortal realm. Maybe it was because he was in some degree of pain a good deal of the time or because he was lonely or because he felt guilty for imposing on Odette’s fabulous life in Paris. But none of that was Nadja’s fault. She deserved a... something. Well, certainly not a professor.

He sighed, an apology. “No girl deserves to be lectured, Fae or mortal.” Then, he felt it as he looked at her, her bright cheeks, her eyes as dark and warm as ancient woods. The tiniest glimmer of his old self, the fun self, the one people cried and died for. It seemed a shame to waste it. 

“Though I suspect you Unseelie have your ways of protecting yourselves. Of getting what you want.” 

What had she gotten herself into?

Nadja kept searching for an answer to the question that tolled loud as a bell in her head, yet could not seem to find one. She didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into. It had emerged in her brain, a mere thought, as he stepped after her through the snow, only growing louder as he spoke and louder still as his hand settled on the small of her back. She had seen ballerinas dance with the abonnes at parties, though that was something she sought to avoid as much as she could. The man holding onto her now did not fall into that category.

Her hands came to rest just behind his neck, her fingers interlacing themselves together. It certainly wasn’t a position she was used to being in while she danced with someone. In Swan Lake, she danced with a young man named Louis- but that was different. Louis was her friend- she’d grown up alongside the boy. She thought of him as a sort of brother. When they danced together, there was such an immense amount of understanding, of concentration on technical work and trusting one another so that neither one would fall flat on their face. The dancing was meant to be viewed, enjoyed, digested by an audience. But this… Well, it was definitely a lot more intimate. She swore for a moment she felt her heart lurch to a complete stop in her chest, her doubts crashing about in her head in raucous cacophony. 

And then, her mind went Quiet. Quiet as the snow falling, muffling the city with it’s gentle touch. She was grateful for the dark and the cold, as she was certain her cheeks were burning red as she looked back at the man. Nadja finally allowed herself to breathe again as they swayed gently in the snow, as she watched snowflakes settle like crystals against his clothing, in his hair… 

“I’m not quite sure what you mean…” She began softly, the trumpet player crooning away for a moment or two above them, “I make no promises on whether I’m a fae; I make every promise that there’s no dark double lurking in the shadows to take my place… No Odile-adjacent.”

“Ah but that is very politic of you, Miss Babineaux.” Jack couldn’t help smiling at her as they swayed. She had such a beautiful smile. Spring in snow. “The Fae are Seelie and Unseelie, light and dark, but they can appear to be whatever they like. Perhaps I should have asked if you need a double or not. For you seem well equipped to carry a man away. You conjure music with your wishes and magic in your feet.” 

Reg often accused him of getting lost in his own poetry. It was a fair criticism. The majesty of words was a maze, strange and stunning and dangerous. They had minds of their own, words. Jack never quite knew where his own might take him. All he knew, from simple observation, was that his words wanted to cling to Nadja Babineaux, even if he himself was too scared to move. They had taken his petrification as a challenge and now she looked at him... She looked at him like she might understand. 

It was a rare thing, and the discovery of it was certainly something he hadn’t experienced, having come to that understanding with Odette before words may have existed in earnest for either of them. It was so rare, so new, in fact, that he feared that mentioning it at all, even thinking it, might break the spell. But his mouth wouldn’t close. His mind wouldn’t stop. She not only seemed to indulge his fancies, she wanted to hear more. 

He made her soul smile…

It was a silly little thought that crossed her mind as he spoke, but one that wouldn’t leave her alone. Her lips were twisted up, up, upward in an uncontrollable, warm smile the more that the man spoke to her. Nadja didn’t pretend to understand it. The only thing she was certain about, and that was that something felt different- and not in a bad way. 

She was so lost in her own little reverie, that feeling of warmth radiating into her fingers and toes, that the sound of the trumpet from above startled her a bit. Wide brown eyes shot upward to peer at a lamp-lit window through the snow to find the source of the noise. At first it was just noise- a blast or two, fumbled about in some sort of uncertainty. And slowly, surely, a melody began. It wasn’t a familiar tune, nor was it played in full, the musician stopping and starting as they went. 

And then he caught her eye… 

Nadja wondered what was so terribly interesting to him- what was he looking for in her face? Or was she imagining it all- was she imagining him looking at her in a way that made her feel terribly important and like she’d swallowed a million butterflies? Löjlig. She was ridiculous. Truly the most ridiculous girl in all of Paris.

Her mouth hung open for just a moment as if to contemplate his question. She wasn’t sure if she should agree or refute his suspicion. Rather than claim any sort of fae ancestry, Nadja gave a knowing little smile before elegantly dance-walking through the snow, doing a little balancé and stepping away, her fingers slipping down his arm and gently tugging him forward through the snow with a laugh like springtime. “No price. Only a dance.”

This is a truly awful idea. That was the first thought that entered Jack’s head. It hadn’t come from anywhere. Not Freddie or Kit and certainly not Reg. It had come from him. That strange little voice that wanted him to protect himself. One that he’d silenced for most of his life, externalized to Odette or ignored all together. We don’t trade in pity. Well it was a cruel voice, wasn’t it? He had no basis for the thought. The little ballerina was glowing the way young people did when they... ah but that was dangerous too, wasn’t it? And we don’t traffic in lies. It wasn’t a lie, was it? He did want to dance with her. And she did with him. Before, it would have been easy as that. 

Odette told him he could do this. That he was still beautiful and strong and good at this. The listening. The touching. The being in a space the doctors at Roehampton had considered closed to him. He’d defied them then. He could defy them now, couldn’t he? Even if something about this felt more dangerous. Bigger.

She’s innocent. He heard Freddie chortle, more than a slight edge of contempt. And she was. She wasn’t like him. She had clearly experienced some of the literal fallout of the war but she wouldn’t have been like him before. She was sweet and kind and the way she looked at him. Like the worlds he imagined in his head made sense. Jack my darling. Reg echoed, warm and soft in the broken garret of his mind. You’re innocent too.

“I think I can afford that,” he said, perhaps a little throatier than he intended. He let her pull him until they settled, his hand against the small of her back, his disability forcing an intimacy he wasn’t sure either of them were ready for. 

Nicolas waved his hand dismissively at the other’s question, shaking his head. “No, no, not like that.” He didn’t want to come off cocky and say he was expecting him to be a fan… and, frankly, he would like to avoid the discussion about his career as long as possible, if this man didn’t already know him. “I guess that depends on what you have in mind.” If he was just going to make it up to him by buying his coffee, well, he wouldn’t say no to that.

The homme considered the stranger’s point for a moment, before shrugging. “I’m no literary expert, but I suppose I agree… I wish Ophelia was in it a bit more, so far, but I’m alright with Kit’s chapters too.” Truly, he just read for pleasure. He was no critic, and he doubted he ever would be. He’d gone through school, but his knowledge of the literary arts was nothing like his knowledge of music. “Sometimes smart ones are the ones who are the slowest, though. It takes longer to decide or absorb, but then they never forget. I think that can be more valuable sometimes… but maybe I haven’t reached section you’re talking about.”

Nico’s face changed to confusion at the other’s next words, blinking once. “You wrote it?” He asked hesitantly, eyes widening slightly as he quickly looked down at the book, before back up at the man. “Oh. I should have realized, my apologies.” Not that he’d introduced himself, or anything. “Creators always seem to dislike their work once it’s out though, right? You wait until someone gives their opinion of it, because until then, you only see its flaws.”

Jack’s smile was still wide when he went red, doubly contrite. “How on earth could you have realized? The slight air of desperation I suppose. The need to hang on your every word.” Yes, that was the reason. Shut up, Freddie. My, my the man was pretty and intelligent. Always dangerous. “They’re all painfully well observed, you know. Are you a creator yourself?” 

This man was... Well Jack wasn’t sure how to decide what this man was. He was one of those slippery cases, blink and you miss it. But sussing out the desires of strangers had always been Freddie’s game, not Jack’s. Jack didn’t have the energy or the interest in nuance, and he didn’t have Odette’s powers of observation. His forte was promises, beautifully rendered and executed in full. But he wouldn’t spin a tale for someone he wasn’t sure of. Not out of shame or fear of discovery or humiliation by any means, but more out of respect. Financial apology it was then. Perhaps seeing Cam had reminded him of Lambton habits. 

Maelie looked at him carefully, but nodded gently at his words. If it was a bit of a test, she wasn’t going to admit it out loud… She truly had no idea how he felt about her, until today. She wouldn’t have even batted an eye if someone were to say he hated her, or forgotten her… and she wasn’t even sure which of the two would be worse. “I’m not sure about a pirate costume, but Jamaica itself sounds lovely. Much warmer than here.” Even in the summer, Paris had never been especially warm. Not like it was elsewhere.

“Ah, but you told me I owe you one hundred roses, so would I really be losing any business were you to receive less? Or would I be saving more flowers for paying customers?” The blonde countered, her eyebrows raised playfully with a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She missed this.

“Yes, of course… and have you done the translation on this book yourself, or did you have someone else do it?” As much as she’d teased him about the quality of his French, there was great potential that he’d learned more during their time away from each other… although, he did say otherwise. As he told her he would bring her a copy of the novel, however, she shook her head, despite her excitement to see it. “They told me they would drop one off, but they haven’t yet. I’m sure it’s on its way though, and I wouldn’t want to bother you with it.”

Maelie flitted about the kitchen, trying to get a kettle going on the stove, so she could make tea, if nothing else. Before she could get very far though, he had stopped her, and her gaze immediately flew to his face, her eyes wide and surprised. Not that he had stopped her, more that she had fallen into such an old habit… she hadn’t done something like that in quite a while, buzzed around like a honeybee. Although, she wasn’t going from flower to flower, rather cupboard to cupboard to try and look for what she might need. And now, it was if time was standing still, as he asked her what happened. 

She couldn’t play dumb. She knew what he was asking, and while she normally might try to question it, avoid giving a real answer… but she couldn’t, not with Jack. And not about this. So, after watching his face for a moment, and desperately trying to decide what to tell him, she took a deep breath, before speaking. “I don’t know how much you already know.” She admitted, voice quiet, as if sapped of energy. “You… you know about the engagement, I’m sure. And I was going to do it, but every time I even spoke to the man, I couldn’t help feeling… so utterly trapped.” She took a step back, leaning gently against the edge of her counter. She could feel a lump forming in her throat, but she did her best to shove it down. She didn’t want to cry, not so soon after seeing him again. “I wanted to tell you, before I left. But you would have convinced me to stay, or you would have gotten in trouble yourselves, and I couldn’t let you do that… and so I bought a train ticket to Paris, and escaped before anyone else had woken up.” 

“Warmer and cooler all at once. The ocean isn’t even cold.” Sometimes he imagined giants beneath the surface of the water, breathing great fiery breaths. He hand’t included them in the book as it felt a bit too English for the setting, but he could never quite shake the image from his mind.

“You have to spend money to make money, God Mae.” He was false annoyed but he committed anyway. It would have been disrespectful to do anything else. “A prestigious client like me? I’m worth more in name than francs, you know that.” A winking nod to the state of most English nobility, unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, Jack remained divided.) Wealth was an illusion now as much as class. They were all hanging on by the skin of their terrible teeth. 

Jack demurred a little, self conscious. “I did translate it. Was an utter brat about it too, wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.” Well, aside from Odette, but that subject was delicate at the moment. “So it might be quite coarse in comparison to the books you used to offer me. Perhaps an English copy would be more forgiving?” He grinned. “Almost certainly, I think.”

“Odie told me everything.” he said gently, trying to offer it as a comfort. “Everything she knew, I should say.” 

Jack felt yet another small part of him breaking. A part he hadn’t even realized was intact. If she had waited. God, if she had waited. “Mae, I...” Was it worth mentioning now or would it make it worse? Tell her, poppet. It’ll tear you up if you don’t. It does anyway. Jack replied in his mind. Then practice, love. 

“Before that, your parents came to my mother for a match. They didn’t like that she wanted to delay the wedding until the end of school, but she thought they were coming around. That they would have told you. I wish you had told me.” 

Jack never wanted to guilt her. It was a genuine wish, more frustrated with the universe than his friend. He looked to the side, sighing. “The Countess didn’t tell me either, not until it was too late. I can’t imagine why she thought it would be an argument.” He offered Mae a soft smile. “I would have been absolutely honored to trap you.” He hoped his meaning was clear, that he would have been protecting without controlling. Their friendship was too important to be anything else. Plus they both knew he’d never give up Odette.

He and Maelie’s sexual interests had never quite matched up in the right way at the right time. Perhaps Jack flattered himself in thinking that she leaned slightly more towards girls than boys, as if that explained it away. He had had to face the specter of an unconventional marriage three times now. He and Odette has been spared. Mae had been missed. And Nadja. Well, Nadja had been tricked. 

She found herself drinking in every word he uttered and every little expression his face made. Nadja wanted to learn it all… Nadja found herself snuggling into his side slightly just so she could try to read his face like a book. Hopefully she could just play it off that she was just a little bit too cold. After all- the theatre always felt like it sat within the pits of hell- or at least backstage did. Outside felt like a tundra in comparison… maybe it wasn’t so bad. 

A small sad laugh escaped her lips. The ballet was not a childhood she would have wished upon anyone. She loved the art, but the cost of growing up far too fast… “Boys start learning about the same age as girls- I started when I was about six or seven… that’s when I moved here, that’s when I began to learn. Boys in the ballet are like crown jewels. Girls are like… pebbles. It’s a matter of finding the best one, but God knows that there are a million more suited better than the one that’s been chosen. But it isn’t much of a childhood, Monsieur.” There was a reason ballerinas retired so young- a ballerina’s days were numbered. She knew that from the first day a pointe shoe went on her foot.

Nadja blinked for a moment, the heaviness of the word before hitting her like a brick wall. They all had their before. Before she could sleep through the night without hearing a backfiring car like a bomb, or dreaming up sirens warning the people of Paris to leave their beds… She found her before and after to be more of a psychological one, whereas Jack- well, Jack had to learn a whole new way of living, sans an arm. 

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze and cracked a smile. “One day I’m going to dance with you- not ballet, though. I have too much ballet in my life. Helvete, I’d dance with you in the snow if there was music.” 

“Gentry’s not exactly either, I suppose. But less strenuous exercise.” Jack, really. Clumsy. He blushed a little, apologetic. “I’m afraid that’s always the case with boys. And we do our very best to not deserve it.”

He would carry tension in his body until the day he died when he thought of the moment he realized how differently Odette was treated, not just for her gender but her race besides. He was eternally realizing how little he knew, from Jamaica to the Isle of Nevis and back to the sex workers of Paris. Now he could add ballet to the injustices of the world. Art shouldn’t do that. Art should never do that. 

“You are a very beautiful pebble, and I dearly hope that whatever toddler is pulling from the pond will scoop you up soon.” Jack winced at the clumsiness again. “I’m straining your equally beautiful metaphor, I apologize.”

There was more recognition at his mention of the war than he would wish on anyone. He knew Paris had been hit, but one never knew the scale another was facing at first glance. Some part of him wanted to apologize for bringing this to her doorstep, but as often happened with his thoughts of the trenches, he suspected

One day. His smile was still growing at what he now considered a promise to see her again when he heard the soft cry of a trumpet out a window. Lilting and halting all at once. Practicing, not performing. Still. It was music. He caught Nadja’s eye, studying her the way he would an ancient text. Searching, earnest. 

odettealarie​:

The times right before or during a show were something very… cleansing, for Odette, much as the thought was amusingly paradoxical. She could be wearing incredibly revealing clothes, barely more than lace, feathers, and silk, but the routine of it was what she always found so comforting. They were performances, something she practiced and perfected without audiences. Choreographed, prepared, decorated - every aspect, every piece, was entirely within her control. Even the audience, during a performance, was something of a controlled element - they were predictable, almost always. The whole point was to enthrall them, to catch attention and hold it. 

The stage, then, was where she thrived. Was all the control she craved, for these bits of time that she had it - any more might get to her head, after all. But for these minutes of time, the hours she entertained at Le Ciel, her own territory and claimed space, she was in control. It wasn’t often that something managed to surprise her, after all this time. 

Jack was always one of the few, but his breaks in her concentration were welcome - he made it more fun, she enjoyed showing off her skill for his benefit, as he was in a rare position to know just how much work she put into that final product. He was always so proud, which she thrived in. He saw the performance, past the feathers and skin to see her. To see the work and the artistry of it. Rare, that, which made him all the more valuable. 

There were, of course, others who didn’t see it - who didn’t pay attention, for boredom or being uncomfortable, but even that was predictable in its way. Odette was almost always able to take note of those individuals, work out post-performance if it’s shyness or shame, something she should coax them from, or something best left alone. 

She was already mid-performance, following long memorized steps and stretches that were similar enough to actual ballet to be recognizable, but stretched and twisted until they were hers when she caught sight of him. New entry, not too important in and of itself, but - the face. Oddly familiar, tugging at her memory enough to be mildly distracting. She knew her routine well enough that Odette didn’t falter, didn’t miss a step or movement, but - during a time where she liked to not have to think, she was stuck on it. 

Took her a little longer to see Jack lingering in the background, confusion increasing as she did. Not that she let it reach her face, of course, but that feeling of familiarity increased along with the confusion. He was supposed to have left and looked far too determined - ah. Cam. Well, that threw a bit of a wrench in things. And took away that sense of peace from performing, unfortunately. 

Odette had always been proud of her body, proud of the way she could get the eyes of others drawn to her no matter how much or how little she chose to wear. She didn’t feel shame, being seen by Cam now - though, if she were honest, she would have preferred to avoid it. She had long been used to him being the minder for her and Jack. Having him see her perform was not as bad as having one of their parents watch, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable either. 

The music concluded, allowing Odette the time to hold her last position suspended in the air, before lowering herself and going backstage - she didn’t soak in the applause nearly as much as she would have normally, but it wouldn’t be noticed by most. And she was inclined to forgive herself the distraction, for this instance. She needed to get herself between the brothers sooner rather than allowing enough time for them to start anything in her club. 

She still cleaned herself up, wiping away the sweat and reapplying make up in spots where she needed to before heading out onto the floor. She still smiled, the tension unreadable to anyone who did not know her well, still greeted and made brief comments as she moved towards where she’d seen Cam and Jack, making her way to Jack first. 

“You were supposed to be leaving to write,” the reproach was mild at best, the normal bemusement leeched from her tone in her worry. Odette’s eyes went to Cam next, “But I take it that you stayed for another sort of show.” That was more pointed, but her arm still curled around Jack’s waist all the same, offering comfort in her presence - something she suspected he’d want, along with the stability of having her close. She knew the level of bitterness there, between them - much as she disagreed with it, there was no mistake that it was built up by them both, at this point. That much was obvious, even only hearing one side for the past several years. 

“It is nice to see you again, Cam.” Odette let her sincerity show through in that, the use of nickname and all in it. Familiar, of course, to a point where she hoped she wouldn’t be found offensive simply for the presumption she was still allowed to be informal. But it was difficult to pretend she was not, not with the amount of memories threatened to claw up her throat. “I know it’s been a very long time, but please believe that I have missed you.” Missed the ease of what they’d all been to each other, once. But also had wished that she could have been more of a friend to him, through everything - after knowing what had happened, to both of them, wishing she could help. 

But that was always the difference between her and Jack, wasn’t it? He was the brave one, the one willing to keep in his family and stand despite knowing how different he was. He stayed in that world, for all that it might still cost him. Odette ran, allowing herself to be thought missing or dead so she did not have to be held accountable in the same way.

Just had to turn the other cheek, as they said. Simple as that. Simple. He’d picked the skill up years ago, honed it since then. A necessity, if you were to be any sort of gentleman. But Jack, as ever, had to test the limits of the thing. Never more so than lately. Than now. The pathetic use of. That smarted, a slap across a bone-deep bruise. Pathetic. Being used. That was how Jack saw him, wasn’t it? The blasted draft hadn’t been at all subtle, on that point. On any point. He should have tipped the whole folio into the river on his way home, after that useless first attempt to talk Jack out of it. Or thrown it in the fire. No idea why he hadn’t, really. Subtlety, perhaps. A gesture so ridiculous might have been worth it, though, if only to get the damn thing away from him all the faster. 

As it was, he could only get away from anything so quickly, these days. Fast enough, this time. Cheek turned, jaw clenched, Cam left his brother to whatever fresh spite he’d got to pondering. He needn’t wait to hear it; better things to do with himself. Like… well, the bar had better be at least half-decent.

It was better, actually. That he’d grant, as he made an earnest start on a bit of champagne that was pressed his way the moment he slid into that seat Ali had kept for him. “There you are, old boy,” his lieutenant-general smirked, puffing lazily through a cigar, already nearing the end of his own glass, and beckoning to the nearest waiter for another. “In just the nick of time, too. Impeccable.” No comment needed; Alistair wouldn’t ask what kept him. Which was a sort of kindness, wasn’t it? Given what usually kept him. Cam sat back with a short sigh, hooking his cane along the chair arm. And drank, tightly, as the soft-lit susurrus dimmed away, the curtains drawing up. They all struck him as more or less the same, these places - he’d been through a few dozen, over the years, with his fellow officers. Though, Le Ciel had certainly committed to its theme with stand-out gusto. Lavishly, too. Expensive, well-maintained goose feathers. But goose feathers, still. So awkwardly irreligious. Only, that wasn’t what was scrounging around in his chest, uncomfortably. No, that - that was…

A memory. Many of them, in fact. A girl, her long, dark hair gleaming in the sunshine, pirouetting and chassé-ing through the gardens. Odette. 

“Steady on,” Ali chuckled, patting his former aide-de-camp on the shoulder as he coughed champagne back into the glass, mostly, the bubbles fizzing up the back of his nose. Odette Alarie. Here, in Paris, after all - up there, in the silks and rings. “Another of those,” his superior was muttering to the waiter as he arrived; Cam shook his head, muffling another cough. “Scotch. If you have it.” He’d need something stronger, to weather this - and weather it he must. Wouldn’t do to leave early. Miss out on all the fun, as the rest of the regiment might say. Still stinging, Cam pinned himself back into his chair and fixed his eyes on some bit of stage scenery. So intently that it took another tap from Alistair for him to realize all the dreadful spectacle was finally over. 

Waving Ali off so vaguely he couldn’t quite recall having said anything at all, Cam downed what remained of his whisky and waved for more as the whistles and howls faded off and the Bays jostled away to make the most of their evening. A mortified heat had crawled up the thin walls of his chest and settled in, like a fever; it sparked again, the embarrassment positively sickly, as an entirely recognizable figure slid across the edge of his sight - two, actually. Who on her arm, but, of course. Of course. His stare cut away from Jack, to Odie, as she spoke; the steel of it turned, for her, blunted. Still, his spine was parade-ground straight, stiff. As if they were far from this awful place, this whole noxious evening. If only.  

“Such a very, very long time. Ages, Lady Alarie,” he returned, proper about it, staging a smile. A middling production at best, Cam could only imagine. Slow to start, unsteady throughout. Like his footing, here, and not for the regular reasons. Wasn’t it funny, though, to hear her talk like that - as if it was anyone’s fault but hers that he hadn’t even known, for certain, that she was alive. For all this time. No; hers and Jack’s, apparently. Cam was ignoring his brother, though, eyes on Odie. Very intentionally. “With the war, too - we’d all feared the worst,” he pressed on. If one could call it that, pressing, when he was holding the conversation at a long arm’s length. The smile tried for an encore; barely made an appearance, through the curtain. Poor show. “But, ah, I see you’ve settled in quite comfortably.” Certainly couldn’t say the same. Still. Cam raised his glass, mechanically. “Wonderful. I wish you all the best.” And he did. Truly. Even if that did sound something like a rather over-optimistic farewell. It would only be polite, really, to leave him be. Then again, in present company - well, hope springs eternal. So they always said. 

This wasn’t nearly as fun as Jack expected. In fact, it was downright uncomfortable, if not depressing. He’d watched his brother choke, the Brits consuming spirits by the barrel full. Jack had never noticed how much Camniel drank until he considered his own consumption after a particularly bad attempt at reworking the climax of the book. (It was comforting to know that someone was worse.) 

He hadn’t expected Odette to realize Cam was in the room. A bit of hubris he was deeply regretting now. He felt her tense ever so slightly, the same way he tensed at the little insults and big ones, gathering like an oncoming storm. She was nothing if not a professional, though, the Angel. He doubted even Cam would see the ever so slightly anxious little girl he had actually known, as she was so beautifully obscured by a celestial being’s form. He had the strangest desire to stride on stage, take her hand and pull her off, getting to his knees immediately to beg her forgiveness. Jack had only ever apologized to three people. One was now far beyond his reach. One was dead. And the last and most frequent was Odette. 

Still, at this moment as the lights went up and the champagne was poured again for the after party schmoozing, she forgave without his entreaties of remorse. She knew. Perhaps she had known as it had happened. He was far luckier than he ever deserved to be. Oh sweet love. he heard Reg coo at him in pity. It made it all the worse. And Odette was holding him. He couldn’t think of a word to say aside from leaning into her touch. God, it all hurt. 

Odie, ever the peacemaker, had been her usual poised and pleasant self. And Camniel had gentried at her, for lack of a better word. The only world where giving a woman her proper title put her in her place. Jack felt himself getting angry again. The nerve of evoking the war as a form of chiding, like she owed them anything. Still he stifled his rage as best he could, channeling it into an ever so slightly queer high society tone. “Oh Cam, be sociable.” he said, slightly mimicking their mother. “I told you she was marvelous, didn’t I?” He turned to Odette, eyes pleading and puckish all at once. Be mean with me, just this once. You deserve it. He deserves it. But in holding her gaze, he knew he’d failed again. She didn’t want this. He should never have brought it to her.

Odette laughed, “At least I’ll be buried in well said innuendo, synonyms, and similes. You’ve spoiled me for other, less well spoken innuendo, you know.” There was always some aspiring author or poet who tried to charm her by being particularly eloquent - which was, unfortunately for them, probably where she was most spoiled. She was difficult to impress with that particular tactic, after being around Jack so long. 

And God could only help them if they managed to reference a mythological figure incorrectly or less flatteringly than they intended - referencing her as Aphrodite was well intentioned, she knew, but it hardly seemed like the best way to tempt fate. Nor was it particularly unique. Creative wordplay, however, was always intriguing. She was simply far more well versed in that field than most expected, at least early on. 

“The accent is charming, according to some. Downright sexy, even. But taking on a French lilt can really make things easier with the locals - far more willing to help you or try harder to understand what you’re saying if you try speaking their language.” That had been a stumbling block early on for her - Odette had been under the impression that her French was rather good, prior to actually living there. That was a crash course in actual French, rather than anything taught in lessons. Now, of course, hers was nearly flawless - but that was a matter of lots of time and practice. She huffed a laugh at the bed comment, “I’m glad you acknowledge my taste is better, love. I’ll be especially pleased if that means you’ll listen to me more often,” The teasing was lighthearted, but still held a grain of truth to it. 

She was very well aware of the fact that no one could talk Jack down the way she could - she had more influence over him than almost anyone else, certainly more influence over him than anyone else still alive. If she was there and had an opinion, he’d at least consider it before moving forward and Odette knew it. Throughout their friendship, she had the better track record for biting down her temper and being able to look towards the long term with a clear mind. Jack’s own tendencies towards impulse balanced her out well - helped to remind her that biting back her first impulse, her gut reaction, wasn’t always the right move. And it was often worth indulging, even if the only purpose was to make herself happy for the time being. 

That being said - she worried for him, about him. Something was coming, too much of a stir was brewing. The publicity was good for his sales, of course - and the more people who could potentially be touched by his book, the better. But there was always the potential for consequences. A potential that looked to be looming a bit more every day. It was only a matter of time before someone caught up to Jack, to her. Paris was a retreat, but not an escape from their past, their families. The other shoe would drop, sooner or later, and she held some hope that she would be able to help Jack when it did. 

“Flatterer,” Odette’s affection was warm, coloring her tone with it as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You give me quite a lot of competition on that front.” He always was gorgeous, to her - had been when they were both young and just starting to learn each other and would be when they were both old and grey. She knew, of course, that losing his arm had impacted Jack’s own perception of his beauty - knowing that was only part of why she always loved to remind him how beautiful she found him. Mind, body, and soul - her Jack was beautiful, something she’d always stand by. The scars, the part of him he missed, that was simply part of his beauty. He’d healed from pain, from agony she knew she’d never be able to understand. Only ache for him, learn about as best she could to ensure she was there to help him grow beyond it, had been there while he healed and remind him how loved he was. He lived through so much and she loved him all the more for having dragged himself into being the person he was, admired him for knowing how far he’d come. Odette smiled, touching Jack’s cheek lightly to draw his attention to her, “Absolutely stunning, always.” 

Moving her hand away and going back to the paper, she glanced through the properties with more intent, pleased that Jack was interested. “I can’t argue with that.” No matter how much she wished that she could’ve, damn it. The wish was selfish and she knew it, though, so she bit her tongue against it. He wouldn’t be Jack, after all, if he hid - he was always the brave one, of them. “Have I mentioned lately that I’m proud of you? I admire your resolve, to stand and defend what you believe in. And that your book can speak to so many others, put a voice to thoughts they might already be struggling with.” 

She turned the paper to share with Jack as he reached for it, pointing to a property before folding the paper abruptly, her attempt at a scowl somewhat ruined by the grin she was fighting. “Insist all you like, it’s my idea so I get to pay for it. You, sir, can concede the field gracefully or I shall have to convince you to do so.”

“I apologize for making your job more difficult.” Jack was blushing. He tended to waver between truly asinine self satisfaction and a horrible imposter’s complex when it came to his writing. He supposed it was that way for all writers, even privileged and petty ones. “Fortunately you do have a marvelous poker face.” He reached up to draw a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “My patient saint.” Odette didn’t take any clients she didn’t want, but Jack flattered himself by thinking she’d rather be lazing around with him than having to vet new candidates. Someone with her wit deserved endless and accomplished entertainment. 

“To some.” He laughed. It was true that the posh accent he’d been raised with or even the County Durham Northern lilt he’d picked up from his family’s staff likely lacked novelty to his best friend. But he hadn’t worn out its efficacy with others. “My French is so very bad, Odie. I fear they’d think I was making fun of them. And there is nothing the French hate more than a joke.” Or an actually humorous one anyway. Sure their kind were stuffy, but they weren’t so very sanctimonious about it. The only humor he consistently enjoyed in Paris was on the stage at Le Ciel, and even then that was clearly influenced by one of the greatest minds of his generation. (Odette, not him. He wasn’t that self absorbed. Not at this hour.)

“I listen,” Jack whined slightly. “I have gotten far less difficult with age, don’t deny it.” He neglected to acknowledge how far back he’d started on the listening front but he had made progress. 

And he was blushing again at her compliments. He’d never been like Odette, but really, very few mortals were. It took him at least a few sentences to charm someone. She could capture you with a look and keep you with a word. How could you feel bad about yourself when she said you were pretty? That you had value? The mistakes, the damage, it all melted away at her touch. Because no matter where they ran to, they would run together.

“I’m that stunning am I?” Stunning enough that she’d agree with him, my my. He was both pleased and surprised at her allowing him to tilt at windmills, let alone honor him for it. He hadn’t meant to write an “issues” book. He wasn’t Upton Sinclair or Charles Dickens. He was far more interested in modern myth, the potential intersection of the supernatural and the real world, the value of wonder and majesty. Cultures were defined by their monsters, not their heroes. How often the two overlapped. Yet here he was, pissing off the War Office. It was delicious.

“You have mentioned it, but as always, I entreat you to do whatever you’re doing again. I appreciate the support, much as I know it pains you.” He sobered for a moment, holding her gaze. “I really will be careful, my love. I promise. Well, careful for me. I know it’s utterly insufferable, but you’re right. It could be important.” 

The more he thought about his argument with Cam by the Thames, the more confident he grew that the outcome of the affair, as caustic as it might be, would be a valuable one. If he had to sacrifice his family to do it, he would. They’d sacrificed him on the altar of propriety long ago anyway. The boys were getting old enough that he could save them if they wanted to be saved. But he would save them from themselves if he had to. 

Vivienne nodded slowly as she took in Jack’s response. A good number of years of dealing with all manner of disorganized artistic folks - some young enough that careful questioning was to be expected, some old enough that it crept into the embarrassing – had given her what she thought was a reasonably light touch when it came to catching people out.

Which this wasn’t. Or, at least, not yet. Just a bit of …what? Quasi-maternal interest, maybe?

The sight of the younger Lambton brother, in her front room again, but now  towering over her tables and assorted things, compared to the past, sent flashes of past interactions through her. Leaving aside her less than smooth relationship with his parents, her position as the constantly present, childless friend of the older generation had indeed created hierarchy of sorts between them, but there was something just slightly performative about it, too. After so many minutes and hours on end in the company of such stiff, unfailingly proper people, anyone misbehaving gave her a little jolt of delight, provided she performed the finger wagging expected of her.

Not that he was to know that, of course. Anyone over 5 feet tall is terrifying when you’re young and ready to tear the dreary old civilized world apart. And now, just the slightest touch of those old adolescent nerves might play to her advantage.

“Oh,” she said with a deep chuckle, “No need to be so self-deprecating. I try to at least brush shoulders with everyone. And besides, with this much ‘glittering glamour and talent’ as you say, it only feels fair to make all the newcomers comfortable - hope they’ll keep coming and cease to be newcomers at some point.”

She clapped her hands together in delight. “I’m so glad! Oh, I’ve been fine, absolutely fine! You know, treading boards, trying not to read reviews,  –” Aquiring names, dropping them.”–that kind of thing. Mostly it’s good, with the odd terrifyingly annoying matron on the cards. Either I’m too good at them, or I’m getting too old, I’d rather not think about which one it is,” she said with a chuckle.

She paused for a second, surveying the shifting crowd. “And how have you been? Well, I hope.” Another pause. Was it too soon to ask this?

No. A perfectly innocuous question, surely.

“If it isn’t too nosy of me …Jack,” she said, moving slightly closer and hoping the first name might engender just the right dab of intimacy, “What do you do? For a living, I mean.”

“I make a policy of never abandoning my new-ness I’m afraid.” Jack said, smile a bit clipped but rogue-ish still. “My appeal has always been my novelty. Without that, I have nothing.” A gentle boundary setting. Sorry, love, can’t stay. Terribly busy black sheep-ing. He would not be drawn back in. Not when he’d received all the benefits of such places and lost them in equal measure. Not when Maelie’s ghost moved between the sequined dresses like Banquo in Macbeth. 

And Moreau fired across his bow again. He wondered briefly if this was some strange conspiracy between her and his mother. A Shakespearean gambit to see how deep his anger ran with each family member in turn. He took on an air of bemusement. “Terrifyingly annoying matrons. Why, I have some history with those. My condolences and I chide you for your self deprecation in return. No such thing as being too good.” And there was that smile again. Rather not think about which it is indeed.

How had he been? Or rather, how well did he cover? “Well. Well. Well enough.” His head shook a little, then he nodded to his arm, matching her chuckle. “The burden’s a little lighter in any case.” He knew it could be awkward to talk about his disability, about the war. Perhaps that was why he insisted on it. He had to see the dead. Maybe others should have to see them too.

His shit-eating grin widened. He had to admire her nerve. Madame Moreau hadn’t asked his intentions, but she might as well have. What was it with the French? The British gentry never talked about money. Admittedly it was because a fair amount of them had none outside of land, but that was exactly why it was rude. The Durham mines weren’t empty yet, even if the foundation of the castle was sinking in more ways than one. 

The way he talked of titles was not what she would have expected from one who owned them. But what did she know of titles and high society- well… she knew well enough who to call ‘my lord’, ‘your grace’, or ‘your honor’, but that was due in great part to the abonnes. He acted as if it were more of a curse than a gift, as if some Von Rothbart had condemned him to a life he’d rather not live. Stuck.  

The topic of titles and heirs seemed to vanish completely when he took her arm. She felt her heart give a peculiar little lurch in her chest like someone had stuffed her full of butterflies and fluff. She couldn’t help but look up at him, a bit lost in his face, his eyes. She shivered slightly- thankfully it was snowing. She didn’t have to blame it on butterflies- it could be the wind or a rogue snowflake. But Nadja couldn’t help herself but tuck herself a little closer to the man, giving his arm a gentle little squeeze as if to issue some quiet apology for her own awkwardness. “There’s nothing to forgive, Monsieur Lambton,”

As they started to walk, her eyes drifted upward for a moment. The snow drifted down and was illuminated by streetlamps, transforming each flake into its own small drifting scrap of starlight… She could count a million times she’d walked home through the snow, teeth chattering, arms crossed. She’d never taken a moment to truly enjoy it. But the man had a way with words… he had already started painting the world with his watercolors, and some little piece of her never wanted him to stop talking. She wanted him to tell her about snow sprites and the stars and- “You have nephews- how old are they?” Nadja swore she saw something flicker in his eyes when he had first mentioned them… she wasn’t sure what. But she was certain she wanted to know more about the Honorable Mr. Lambton. 

Hopefully home would get further and further away, roads would magically stretch to allow her just a few more minutes with the man. 

A small smile crept over Jack’s features before widening to a glowing, warm heat that he worried would melt the snow around him as it fell, giving him away. For a moment, he was in another time, another place. A world before war, where all that stood between them were the questions of yes or no, then when and how. But he dared not ask, for fear of losing her. There hadn’t been costs before. He didn’t know why he was sure there were costs now, in this other beautiful world, with this beautiful woman, but he knew it as well as gravity and mud and Beowulf. But he was selfish, wasn’t he? He’d always been. 

“Bill is seven, Jos is six. Going on forty, really. He worries enough for us all.” God he worried for that boy. For both of them. But protecting them involved impulses he wasn’t sure he could suppress. Caging anger until it boiled over like it had that horrible night beside the fireplace. He didn’t want to be Cam. Never wanted to be Cam. He’d come so eerily close, felt the boys’ confusion and terrified sense of betrayal. Da yelled once yes, but not Uncle Jack. Never Uncle Jack. Even when his stories frighten us. 

Jack swallowed.

The cold air bit at her cheeks as she stepped out into the night, snowflakes swirling around and landing on her eyelashes and in her hair. She loved the snow- it reminded her of being a child. Running around outside after hours in the studio, her cheeks red as cherries as she tried to make a snowman with a few other girls. Simpler times. She was about to ask why he’d gone out into the cold rather than wait in the warmth of the building when he started explaining himself. Bridge-trolls… Stage managers most likely- not getting paid nearly enough, and certainly not being paid overtime. She couldn’t blame them for wanting to go home. But then he said something that made her blink.

Octavia Lambton was a name she knew. She’d never met Lady Lambton, but she’d heard an awful lot about her. An abonne in the sense that she was a patron of the arts, nothing else. But a powerful one. She wouldn’t be surprised if her word made or broke careers. There was a moment where Nadja felt as if she’d gotten herself in too deep. A lord? Was that what he was? Nobility of some sort- Nadja didn’t quite understand the titles. But a lord and a ballerina? Probably unthinkable. Unspeakable. Other than a flirtation- an abbone-esque situation… 

Her brain whirred about, a little more nervous than she’d been a moment or two before, but something about his eyes put her at ease. His admission sounded more like an apology than an introduction. But at least now she had a surname- Lambton. Monsieur Lambton. Lord Lambton? How in the world had she talked to him for so long and not asked his name- really Nadja, how rude…

“I would love some company on the trip home,” She began, trying to get her heart to stop pounding like a drum being played by a novice- skipping beats, fumbling about. “But before we go-” She offered her arm with a small smile. “I really do need to apologize for not introducing myself. Nadja Babineaux. It’s a pleasure to meet you… my lord? Monsieur? I’m sorry, what are the honorifics- ignored or otherwise.”

This had been the exact opposite of his intention. The quashed but still clear panic on her face. This is what he hated about his name, about his family. The castles, the estates, the great dragon that he was sure still lurked in the well. They all served as walls. Bastions keeping the real world, the real, kind people at bay. The people who made him feel human.

“Monsieur is more than fine. The only title I get is ‘The Honourable,’ and that’s only in those nonsense announcements at parties and mail you really don’t want to open. My father is an Earl and my brother is a Viscount, and he has two darling little sons who shall be Earls and Viscounts after him. Well, not Jos as he’s in my boat. But Bill is the child-who-would-be Earl, poor thing.” 

Jack really did mean it. He adored his nephews. They were the only good thing that Vi had ever given the world, and there were times, that summer, that in some ways they felt like they were his. It wasn’t just that Bill was a dead ringer for his uncle. (A fact which Vi had hoped to leverage against him. Look at him. He could have been yours. So there’s no risk of discovery. Jack had declined respectfully, then vehemently, no matter his ill-advised attempt at offering to help her on the eave of her marriage to Cam all those years ago.) It was that Bill was already showing signs of being like him. Open, hungry, and angry. It was a cruel world for boys like Bill, and in his heart, Jack wanted to be the parent he’d never had. That no one else would be. But he’d left. Stormed off really. Apologized to the boys in private but left all the same. And now this beautiful creature was standing before him, clearly enamored of someone Jack only appeared to be. But how to tell her, that was the question. Did he have to tell her? If they were only going to talk? There was no harm in talking, and he eyes did glitter so when she was excited.