DIAMOND BRIGHT

— CECILE LAFAILLE, IMPERIAL JEWELLER

THE TWENTY FIRST OF AUDE AT THE IMPERIAL OPERA HOUSE. open to @lafaille​

the box she’s been assigned is different from her usual, but even rosalind has to admit it’s a clear improvement. the view is spectacular, encompassing the whole opera house and stage, a perfect bird’s-eye view of the show. the satisfied purr of a cat pouncing on its prey creeps up her throat, and rosalind lets it loose as her lips curl proudly. finally, her value is being recognized with a seat worthy of her station. her talent has been noticed, her efforts have not been in vain and the empress will eventually admit that she made the wrong choice. if this gets back to alain, then perhaps rosalind can leverage it somehow — another estate, perhaps, or a seat at the table that will certainly spread across and beyond celestine. 

her fantasies consume her, devour her in one greedy swallow before rosalind realizes she is being swept away. she imagines jewels around her neck, rings that weigh more than a sack of dor on every finger, her lips pink and coiled as her lost twin sister returns at last. she imagines a different lover for every night and a feast that goes half-consumed before gallons of ale and wine are emptied. her stomach turns and turns and turns in anticipation, in a hot rush of want like a fever.

rosalind’s fantasies snap shut when she walks in, and rosalind can’t help the immediate twist of scorn and envy and the lingering smoke of desire on her features. “have you no decency?” she snaps at cecile, eyes traveling across her rival’s elegant attire and choice of jewels. “you must ruin my night with your horrible taste and company?”

Cecile wishes she were more surprised to find she isn’t seated alongside Calandre. It is not entirely unusual, particularly when there’s someone’s favour Calandre would like her to win. She does wish she’d been given more notice but... with everything on the Empress’ proverbial plate, Cecile can hardly blame her for not indulging in conversations of opera seating. It’s all well. Perhaps the night’s performance will let Cecile put politics and worry away for the space of an evening, allow her mind to be carried away by Melodie’s songbird voice and the grand drama of the opera. The thought puts a smile on her face as she steps into her box.

Only for it to immediately fall when she looks upon her company for an evening. Rosalind de Villiers, looking upon her as if her mere presence were an insult to all Rosalind holds dear. She gives Cecile no time to so much attempt a civil greeting, instead immediately bursting into insults. Indecent, Rosalind has the nerve to call her, when she is the one spewing venom entirely unprovoked. 

When he was a young man, public and often sudden executions were not out of place. Quite the contrary: while they were not a spectacle, per se, they certainly occurred more often. If Calandre feels her assassination attempts are nothing more than a part of her routine, something that is wedged into her calendar and daily schedule between breakfast and afternoon tea, then that’s her own right. Victoire manages to thwart most of them, from what he’s been told, and they make decent work of it time and time again. A knife at the Empress’ throat usually turns out to be nothing more than a letter written in messy scrawl atop Michel’s desk. He was never privy to how many men tried to Calandre’s father, Tristan, or her father’s father, and even when digging for answers, the numbers have always seemed muddled.

But these two events in such quick succession, without hesitation, without fear – Hippolyte’s thwarted efforts and Calandre’s fast move towards action – worry him. It’s an anxiety, thrumming just under the surface, that he is constantly aware of. It chips away at his thoughts during the day and what sparse sleep he can get at night. To hear Cecile express similar concerns is oddly… comforting. He is used to Val Faim, the riddles concealed through dialogue, the constant acting and presentation required onstage. He grew up underneath it, and sometimes it’s more of a relief than anything else to just have something said plainly, aloud, without fear for repercussion or public humiliation.

Michel is very tired. He wonders if that has anything to do with it. One can pretend and preen for only so many years before the dam starts to break.

Looking at Cecile, who seems to be in a similar state, he drums his fingertips quietly over the wood of his desk. “You’re not the only one with these worries. I spoke to Helene, last night, or tried to. It went poorly. I can’t gauge her, and I don’t know if Helene can either.” What a disaster of a conversation that had been. He wants to wince, just thinking about it. “I’ve had Gauthier approach me more than once, and if it’s not him, then it’s one of his lackeys. He’s getting bolder.”

A beat passes, and then another. Michel casts his eyes down, obviously considering something, and then looks at Cecile again. In a way, he admires her. No other, outside of Helene Farrow, has managed to chip away at Calandre’s exterior and remain so close to her for so long. Twenty years is not an insignificant amount of time. “You don’t think… she’s ignoring it, do you? Pretending it isn’t there?”

Perhaps even more than she realized, Cecile worried speaking plainly may loose her Michel’s favour, that she might seem a meddling socialite asking of matters above her station. She’s prepared for that, braced to sent away when he answers. But instead of dismissal, she finds understanding, her own worry reflected in the his eyes, the tone of his voice, the drumming of his fingertips against the table. In that, there is a small, curious comfort. She can take little solace in it, however, not when his words are as worrying as they are.

Helene is one of the finest women Cecile knows, and easily among the sharpest. She’s served Calandre for so long that if she can’t get a read on the Empress, Cecile isn’t sure there’s anyone in Val Faim who can. Cecile’s long since accepted that no matter how close she and Calandre are, there are things that the Empress must keep from her, national secrets and top secret military matters, things too dangerous for a laywoman to know. And yet, never before has she felt so distant from her friend. No matter what had to go unsaid as a matter of necessity, Cecile had never felt so shut out. 

Cecile’s nails dig into the skin of her palms, hands still folded in her lap as she turns Michel’s question over in her mind. “I dearly hope she is wise enough not to,” Cecile says. Under any circumstances, she’d be sure that Calandre had her reasons for keeping her motives so close to her chest. But Gauthier is a peculiar threat. Cecile never did quite know what exactly what transpired between them that broke their friendship so swiftly and dramatically, but even less has she understood Calandre’s allowing him to return. “But I...” she takes a breath, preparing herself to admit this. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her this way before.” 

One does not earn the title of Peacemaker by beheading her opponents at celebrations. Calandre is renouned for her wisdom, her diplomacy, for being all that her father wasn’t. Calandre is as good an Empress as Celestine could hope her. She believes that to the very core of her. “I want to believe that there is plan behind this, that her motivations will soon become clear,” Cecile says, unable to meet Michel’s eyes. It feels wrong, to merely want to believe, when Calandre holds such a special place in her heart. “But I fear that Gauthier is... not a threat she is properly prepared for.” She sighs, hating being reduced to speculation. 

Patrice cannot look at Cecile and deny that she belongs in this room. She does not exactly match the atmosphere, for that would imply that she blends in. No, Cecile is as stunning as ever, and it is the atmosphere that compliments her, not the other way around. He cannot tell if she was made for this city or if this city was made long ago in the hopes that, by the time Cecile was born, that it would be even the slightest bit worthy of being her backdrop. When she is the focus of the scene, he remembers why he loved her. When Patrice’s eyes take a moment to scan the background, he remembers why he could not stay.

He nods solemnly at her sentiments. “Thank you,” he replies genuinely, only wishing he could be as full of grief as those condolences assume he must be. He loved his mother, and could not deny this, but with so much of his life spent without her in his sights, he’d selfishly put his thoughts of family to the fading horizon. Of course he mourns her, of course he grieves. And yet he feels like he should be in more pain than he truly is. Patrice pushes the blame to Alain and the blackmail he hung over his head, just as he’d been learning of his mother’s passing. Part of him wishes to escape this party and go to her garden at the family estate. Part of him wishes to leave this country altogether.

And yet, he stays, not disappearing on his past love again. “I appreciate the offer. I’m not certain how long I will be in town, but I will be sure to find you should I need anything.” He wants the words to feel less awkward as they float through the air between them. “I am often by the old estate or on my ship should you need anything from me, as well. I would be happy to provide.” Honestly, Patrice isn’t even sure what Cecile might need from him - she hasn’t in a long time, after all, and it was all his doing - but he wouldn’t be so rude as to not extend courtesy. “I hope you are faring better than I.”

.

Inexplicably, she wants to reach out and touch him. Minutes ago, Cecile had half a mind to slap him, and she’s sure that instinct has not entirely left her, perhaps never will. But it is overwhelmed by something softer, brought upon by this strange sincerity between them, perhaps seeking to confirm that he really is here with her, solid and real, making stilted conversation and offering her kindnesses. Perhaps it’s simply that - damn him - she cannot help but care for him, even now, so long after he vanished from her life and forfeited his place in her heart. 

“I appreciate that,” she says. Once, there was a Cecile who thought she needed Patrice. That girl is gone. Truly, Cecile can’t fathom what she’d need from his ships or his home now, but she appreciates the sentiment none the less. They put themselves on equal ground, invited one another into both their family homes and the truer homes they’ve made for themselves. Cecile isn’t sure she wants to see the ship, to glimpse the life he left her for, but there is a cold comfort in knowing that she is welcome aboard it. No, she never would have left with him. But she cannot blame her younger self for wishing he had asked. 

Patrice tells her he hopes she fares better than he, and Cecile believes she means it. ‘I am,’ she thinks. “Thank you,” she says. 

𝐰𝐡𝐨: @lafaille 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: 𝐜𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞

Alain has been coiled in his own unease for the better part of a week and in many ways the explosion is the exhale he is looking for. Hippolyte’s blood is wiped from the marble of the Summer Palace with startling efficiency, though Régis is a man who rarely believes in the lasting power of blood. Names are what linger. And sure enough, while Hippolyte has been plucked from this world, his name still lingers on the lips of those who slip through the Underworld. It’s rare that the recently executed’s name is unaccompanied by a mention of Widrowem and there is still the push and pull of supposition - whether Hippolyte was there to gain favor in Calandre’s court for their neighbors or spill her blood - like the frothy tides of Celestinian Sea.

It is this state of unknown that Régis despises. Whether it be one, neither, or both, he simply wants to know. When the explosion occurs his own mind jumps to that which he cannot see. He isn’t far from the epicenter, close enough that he feels the shakes of it, far enough that only a few items are knocked from their positions on the shelf of his room at La Cour de La Reine. He feels a familiar singing of magic in his blood as it happens, the quickly strummed notes of a harpsichord. They implore him to move, just as a decorative vase comes crashing down on the exact spot he was standing in seconds before.

His first thought, when he learns more specifics on Henri and Amelie, is that the their placement is too convenient. Any good illusionist knows that in order to pull off a trick, your eye must be led away from the true point of deceit. This eats away at him as the city the realigns itself in the wake of the destruction. Over the next few days, nobility isn’t as discrete as they like to think themselves to be. When gossip is a currency, aristocrats suffer from the same sort of greed all men do. It reaches Régis’ ears quickly enough that his dearest cousin is being sent in Calandre’s place to make the rounds and sooth the heckles of those at Court. Any family worth their weight in gold and silk and opals would most likely be receiving a visit to their estate.

When Régis learns of this, he doesn’t acknowledge the slight sense of relief he feels settles in him. If Cecile is well enough to make personal visits, she most likely wasn’t anywhere near the explosion. There are few people Régis cares about, fewer still that he grows genuinely concerned for. By the nature of her station in his life, by the ties of lineage that bind them, it’s possible that Cecile is the only person in all of Celestine that could make him think twice about proceeding with his own selfish desires. In the end he would end up doing what he wanted to do - as he always did - but Régis supposed there is some significance to that slight wavering of consciousness, like the briefest flicker of a flame. 

So Régis makes his way to Cecile’s place of living and bribes the footman of her carriage, a face’s he’d only familiar with by sight not name, to grant him access. Régis positions himself so that he’s there, sitting, grinning like a cat, when the door to swings open. Indeed, Cecile doesn’t look physically affected or hurt by the explosion and that is good .

“Where to today?” Régis asks in a colloquial manner. He kicks up his boots so they rest on her seat, with some of the same cheekiness left over from their childhood. He offers up no explanation of his presence, simply expects her to accept it and keep up. “I’ll be honest, I don’t have much taste for the obsequious nature of such visits, though I certainly see the value of them.”

Cecile quickly checks her reflection in the mirror, tries to smooth the worry from her brow. She’s been called to the home of an Laurette Barbier, member of old Celestine family and much more worryingly, a somewhat infamous gossip. The rubble is freshly cleared from the streets, and rumours pop up like weeds from beneath the cobblestones. Cecile has been assigned the rather cumbersome task of pruning them before they’re allowed to spread and take hold. Today, that task shall be more difficult than ever. She’s felt the tension swirling in the air since the Anniversary, felt it echoed in her own body, a slight tightness to her spine, her hands gripping her pliers just a little more tightly. She hides it away. She is selling a less exciting story to a notorious gossip - she must sell it exceptionally well, present it with all the confidence she would her finest jewels. Cecile gives herself a practiced smile in the mirror - her delicate silver mask doing deliberately little to her expression - and then a quick nod. Calandre has asked this of her, she will rise to the occasion. 

There’s a determination in the click of her heels as she strides out of her home and to her waiting carriage. The door swings open, and there sits Régis Aveline, looking entirely too pleased with himself to be up to anything good. Cecile ought to be annoyed, ought to kick him out and have a chat with Edmond about allowing her cousin to sweet talk him, but instead she can’t help the genuine laugh that escapes her lips. She shakes her head as she climbs in across from him, rolling her eyes as he kicks his feet up onto her seat. She gives his boots a disapproving look, but doesn’t say anything. If he gets a speck of dirt on them, she is sending him the cleaning bill. 

“It’s good to see you, too, Régis,” she answers, still shaking her head at him. Why he couldn’t just come visit her in her shop or her home like anyone else, she has no idea, but he wouldn’t be Régis if he ever did anything the simple way. She’d meant it, though. It is good to see him, seemingly entirely unaffected by everything that has happed as of late, dancing through life with the same catlike grin he’s always worn. She’d known she wasn’t hurt in the explosion - thank Odeline - her work smoothing feathers means that she’s committed 

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: 13th of Maccius 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: Site of the explosion 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed, @lafaille​

Step after step, Roth follows Cecile, eyes always going from one point to another. The more Roth walks the streets of Val Faim, the more he can feel the electricity running through the cobblestones underneath his feet. Without noticing he starts doing it, his fingers dig into the palms of his hands, fists closed tight, time and time again when his mind starts to get too caught up in thoughts about the impeding chaos. It makes Roth feel like the hairs at the back of his neck never rest, always expecting something to go wrong — even more than it clearly already has. 

Their steps come to a halt together. It didn’t take much to notice the clear lack of a building where one used to stand. And it took even less to notice the burnt stone that had held the base of it. Close to the tomb — coincidence or carefully planned? Roth stands still for a moment, before his left arm pushed the sword to the back so he could crouch down, sweep explosion dust on his two fingers, feeling the texture, catching its scent as he rubs his fingers together. “Hm,” he breathes out before he stands back up. 

Roth keeps his eyes on the ground, looking at where the rubble had once littered the streets of Val Faim. “What can you tell me about what happened? The mage that did this and the one that survived?” The information he had gathered from talking nobles had been scarce.

-

There is something strangely familiar about Roth. It is not what should be her focus. Not with the explosion and Calandre hanging so heavily over her, over them both. But as they walk, she cannot help but steal glances at him, trying to place his features. All she finds is that vague sense of familiarity, and a subtle but distinct tension. She supposes she looks much the same. It is one thing to maintain an air of calm while smoothing over public opinion, another to be a messenger of frightening truth.

Together, they come to a stop. Cecile watches the Chevalier’s face as he takes in the sight, stands in silence with her hands clasped in front of her as he crouches down and examines it. What does it tell him, she wonders, does it reveal anything to him that the others of missed? “I suspect I can tell little you don’t already know, I’m afraid,” she admits. “The surviving mage swears it was an accident, that it wasn’t meant to happen.” Cecile’s heard the accounts, some more dramatic than others, but all of them are alike in describing the surviving mage, clinging to the body of the other and crying out. She hesitates for a moment and quietly adds, “from what I’ve heard from those on the scene, I’m inclined to believe her... it sounds as if... as if her distress was genuine.” 

Cecile hopes she is not speaking out of turn. She’s been offering the nobility calm smiles and telling anyone who asks that it was a simple magical accident, that the perpetrator is in custody, clean up is going well and there is no reason for fear. It is somehow both relieving and unsettling to deviate from her script. 

“May I ask what you make of it, so far?”

20. Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?

Cecile was fortunate to never fall seriously ill as a child, though she dealt with her share of colds and the flu. She hated being sick as a child, a trait she’s retained in adulthood. Being stuck in bed and unable to work wears on Cecile very quickly, especially as a child when it kept her from spending time with her mother in Lafaille Bijoux.

33. Concept of home and family?

Blood family is important, but to Cecile family and home is much more about relationships than blood. Her father didn’t always feel like family to her, but she considers Calandre a sister, more family than many of her blood relations. Though the Lafaille and Aveline families are a few generations removed from their lines joining, their families have always been close Cecile regards Adrienne and Régis Aveline her most beloved cousins. What happened to Frederic broke her heart, she regularly writes to Adrienne, and she tries to look out for Régis, no matter how much he resists it. 

.

So much Patrice had left behind. So much he had to lose - wealth, titles, a promising future, Cecile. He had not been foolish enough to think he would still have her after all these years. He knew what he was giving up that night, allowing everything he might regret leave his body with every huff of breath he pushed from his lungs as he sprinted towards the small craft he’d built in the dead of night, nothing but the moon on the water to light his way. He could not allow himself to be tied to this place for a minute longer, lest his name become suspect and his head put on trial. Even writing to anyone in Val Faim, he feared, would jeopardize not just everything he had worked for, but his own life, as well. Besides, there would have been nowhere for anyone to send return correspondence.

He looked at Cecile now, up close, for the first time in nearly two decades. She was still beautiful as ever, time kind to the strengths she wore in her expression. He knew he did not look the same. “Then you should know now it is not but a rumor.” Perhaps he had known they were doomed from the start. Cecile belonged in Val Faim - he could not deny seeing how she thrived beneath the light dripping from the ornate chandelier, catching on her bright jewels and brighter eyes - and Patrice never had. Part of him had always known she wouldn’t have come with him even if he asked. He’d never held out hope. He’d also never allowed himself to regret.

“I will be honest with you - I don’t intend to stay, no.” And yet, that is not his decision to make. But if he could not tell her then, he would tell her now, that he cannot stay a second longer than he is forced to. Perhaps even less time than that. Patrice is not sure what Cecile is thinking; once, he’d known her well enough to see every little cue that told him what was on her mind. Now, be it that such a language had been lost to time, or that she practiced an entirely new one, he was not sure. “I’ve come to pay respects to my mother. She recently passed. I’m not sure who my father has told.”

.

There is a strange relief in hearing him say it. No, Patrice doesn’t intend to stay. No, he never did. This ghost of her past will once again vanish back to the sea, and he’ll be happier for it. Cecile remembers how even when they were young he so disdained the city they both called home, though Cecile was the only one who ever meant it. Maybe this time, he’ll bid her farewell. Or maybe he’ll simply vanish again, and she’ll hear of his departure only when the gossip reaches her ears. If he didn’t find her deserving of a farewell then, why would he decide otherwise now? 

“I’ve come to pay respects to my mother. She recently passed. I’m not sure who my father has told.”

Cecile’s heart drops to her stomach, the hard line of her mouth softening in surprise and sympathy. She hadn’t long kept in touch with the Chéron family after Patrice’s departure. There had seemed little point, when the only person to tie them together had left them all for the sea. She should have heard the news, should have followed them more closely. She’d bristled at the slightest of assumptions he’d made of her life, while she herself remained ignorant to such a shift in his. She might not have known Lady Chéron well, but she knows grief.

“My sincerest condolences for your loss.” The years at court have surely changed her in countless ways. But she has not let it make her cruel. It has not made her glib and heartless in the face of grief. Patrice’s face still conjures up a whirlwind of emotions. Cecile may never truly forgive him for leaving, but she knows what it is to lose a parent, how deeply it can shake you. She doesn’t know whether Patrice was still close with her - she remembers how he struggled with his father, even all those years ago - but if it has finally brought him back to Val Faim long enough to find himself at an event like this, it must have affected him deeply.

Cecile swallows and with it she swallows her pride. “If there’s anything you need while you’re here,” she says, sounding perhaps a touch unsure even to her own ears, “I’m still living at the Lafaille estate in Hightown.” Would he even remember where it was, the place she once brought him home to? What a strange thing to do, to offer this ghost to come haunt her home. “And Lafaille Bijoux is right where’s it’s always been.”

Cyril didn’t sleep much that night and as the Imperial carriage takes her to her friend’s shop, the swaying movements and the constant sound of the wheels on the cobblestone almost lull her to a sleep she hadn’t known for hours. Her mind is too preoccupied with what her ears had heard only the day before and her heart ached for how overwhelmed the Empress seemed to be, in a place that feels ready to turn against her. Cyril doesn’t understand the nuances of reigning over an Empire or a Court right in one’s backyard but she understands fear. 

The carriage comes to a halt and only when the door on her right is opened and a hand offered as assistance does Cyril return from her thoughts to reality. “Thank you,” she tells the person that helped her get out of the carriage, merely out of habit and obligation rather than the young tailor needing an actual hand to exit. Cyril irons out her kefta with her own hands, looking down herself to check for any imperfections; the kefta she wore was a dirty white, longer in the back and paired with pants that matched its golden accents, a stark contrast to Cyril’s dark hair.

Cyril crossed the street in hurried steps, impatient to get to Cecile’s shop. And once she does, she gives the door a knock, glad to hear Cecile’s voice on the other side. “Yes, it’s me!” she calls out, waiting a heartbeat before walking in. Cyril can’t help but let out a sigh of relief through lips tightened into a smile, already feeling the effect of Cecile’s presence in her own peace of mind. The streets left behind a sense of tension that Cyril doesn’t want to deal with. 

The young tailor walks over to the Jeweller, taking in the surrounding shop’s beauty but focusing solely on Cecile. “I hope it’s okay I let myself in. How are you? I heard people talking about the explosion, how terrible it was. I should have reached out to you sooner.”

“Of course it is, Cyril. It’s good to see you,” Cecile says, greeting Cyril with a warm smile. She stands and greets Cyril with a faux kiss on either cheek. The young tailor has seen so much since coming to Val Faim, but it does not compare to the chaos of the last few months. “You know you’re always welcome.” Cecile means it. She knows how treacherous a place the Summer Palace might feel sometimes. If Lafaille Bijoux can offer Cyril a place to escape to, Cecile welcomes it. 

“I’m alright,” she promises. The accusing fingers and prying eyes of various nobles merchants - either demanding answers or possessed with certainty they know how this should be handled - have been just as difficult for Cecile to handle as the explosion itself. Like all of Val Faim she is tired and she is worried, but she is still clinging to her certainty that they will whether this storm. This isn’t the first tragedy Val Faim has faced and it won’t be last.

“I’m sorry I didn’t reach out to you sooner,” she says. She truly should have spoken to Cyril sooner, but with Cyril she will not repeat the practiced, calm, lines she has been giving to anyone who makes a fuss. Val Faim needs to believe Calandre strong in the face of this tragedy. Cecile dearly wishes that were the truth, wishes Calandre would let her in. Cecile will do what Calandre asks her to, will be right there whenever she is ready to open up, but the distance and the worry wears on her. It has been exhausting, offering all this reassurance in calm, even tones when she only wishes she could believe the practiced words she tells them. “I’ve been frightfully busy smoothing things over, but that’s no excuse.” 

It was as though the thread of time had coiled itself into a noose around Brosseau’s neck; for it was severed by the same clean, clear-cut swipe of the Commander’s sword as it tore through flesh, bone, and chorded muscle. The scene drawled to a stop before him, its slow, gradual halt blinding his eyes to the splatter of blood and muffling his ears against the plummet of the corpse as Brosseau crumbled to the floor amidst an ensnaring silence – no longer a man, but a mere token, left broken and empty of value.

Strips and dollops of his blood clung to the air, scattered and suspended. And with each gruesome trace of scarlet that Zhenya’s eyes glimpsed, a certain consideration of the scene weaved itself into the expanse of his perception, alighting his eyes one red ripple at a time – as though his thoughts and ponderings were laid out before him in a tangible cluster, raw and perfectly reflective of the dreaded nature of the dilemma.

Empress Calandre’s disarming callousness; Brosseau’s veiled motives; the North’s looming interests. All were angles which took up equal precedence for him, though none of them were quite as daunting to ponder as the fact that it was his own hands that had shoved Brosseau into the shadow of the blade – in a deliberate maneuver that had yet to prove fruitful or justified. The man certainly hadn’t been innocent, having charged at the Empress with glaring hostility, but what if he hadn’t been entirely guilty? What if it had been the Empress’ rash judgement that had sealed his fate, rather than any true treachery on his part? And if not, what if he had been merely a pawn, set to incite a tailored trail of events that could be unfolding right at this very moment, utterly unthwarted by the blood that had been pointlessly spilled?

Zhenya had come here to serve his homeland, not to condemn others while catering to his guise.

Was that truly what he had done?

He had no room to contemplate the question. Fingers settled against his arm and his cheek in a tentative touch that he viscerally recognized as Cecile’s, then the string of his musings shattered, imploding outward against his face like a rushing draught; time swooping in at its tail with enough force to jar him. He blinked, eyes stilling over the sight of Brosseau before flitting down to clash with Cecile’s in a familiar tangle that never failed to hone and heighten his awareness. After all, what was lost of himself and willfully given away with Matthieu, was always found and reclaimed with Cecile. She anchored his ever-straying roots like no one else could. His breath shivered out, head tipping forward slightly in a quelled impulse to lean into her and rest his forehead against hers. He flexed his fingers, suddenly aware of how clammy his palms were. “Yes, I’m alright.” He murmured, dulled eyes brightening with concern as he went on to ask, “Are you? I can only imagine how you must be feeling. I’m sorry you witnessed that, Cecile,” He laid a comforting hand upon her arm, referring to the unprecedented cruelty of the Empress rather than the execution it had bred. Using the same grip, he gently ushered Cecile forward, falling into step beside her as they made their way through throngs of panicked attendees, noble and civilian alike. “Where is Matthieu?”

In all the chaos this night has brought - the condemning words from her own lips, the splatter of blood, whatever strange notions have gotten into Calandre, somehow impenetrable even to Cecile - Zhenya brings her steadiness. His breath shakes, his head slightly wavering, and Cecile wants nothing more than to hold him close, hold him fast and steady as she can until their heartbeats steady and synchronize. But she too is wavering slightly in her heels, head swirling with images of blood splattered on marvel, of the look on Calandre’s face, of the sword gleaming in the light, of all the masked faces standing and watching. Instead, she gently squeezes his arm, trying to anchor them both with the contact. 

He tells her he’s alright and Cecile lets out a small, shaky exhale of relief. It is only affirming what she can already see and touch, but it still brings her some degree of comfort to hear it aloud. He asks the same of her, apologies for what she’s seen. She is perhaps too skilled at pulling her emotions in. A fracture in her mask might be seen as a fracture in Calandre’s, and so the set of her jaw is as hard and impenetrable any porcelain mask she might don. But Zhenya and Matthieu, they strip it all away. 

“I’m alright. I’ll be alright,” she promises him as she lets him guide her through the crowd, ever-steadying. She is shaken, yes, but she is steady on her feet. Cecile doesn’t know whether to worry after Calandre ( who didn’t warn her, even vaguely, why didn’t she warn her? ) or try to make excuses for her, but Zhenya pulls her away from the thought. He asks after Matthieu, and Cecile tries to remember if she’d seen him in the crowd. He’d been there, she’s sure, seen what had happened. “He can’t be far,” she assures him. “We’ll find him, or he us.” There is so little that is certain tonight, but of that, of the three of them, she feels sure.

“if i had any more free time on my hands, really, i’d work the front counters out there myself — if only to spend hours gazing upon my beloveds without interruption.” abandoning preamble at the entryway, yvon sweeps into the back room already half-shed of her chrysalis, jacket shrugged off her shoulders and promptly draped across the back of a chair. “so with that in mind, i suppose i’d make a rather terrible shop girl. i’d tell everyone to leave me alone with my babies.” the length of the room is taken in a handful of long strides, only halted at the edge of the counter cecile works over. yvon leans over, placing a kiss on either side of her cheeks.  “— hello, dear —”

“now i don’t want to hear a word of thanks about it darling, but i picked up some things from marjolaine’s on the way here.” as court mage presenting magicks to the infantile collection of courtiers, yvon sits a bag on the counter, simple brown paper embossed with cloudy patterns of steam. “you know as well as i that you neglect your appetite in the lead up to a grand affair, and if that results in even the slightest shake to the hand, who knows the impact such a thing will have on your settings and inlays. not to mention if you skip enough meals tinkering away as you, you shall surpass me in talent and waist line both, and the thought of it alone — a tragedy for my reputation.” 

it’s the grace of noble-blood that allows yvon to cover care with vanity. she’d learned it from youth, as all children of affluence did, locking up nostalgic trinkets and toys in heavy gilded trunks at the end of the day. 

her elbows fix on the mahogany below, palms cupping upward to play bluebird’s nest with her chin, which rests in their joint bridge. she looks from the bag to cecile, awaiting as a child does the first signatures of causing joy. “your favourite, of course.” 

It’s no wonder Yvon has so easily charmed the Court, breezing into the workshop bearing gifts and compliments and her easily given affection. She can’t picture Yvon, always flitting about Val Faim for social events to attend and artists to inspire, as a shop girl, though with all the suitors she has Yvon would probably bring in business even if she tried to shoo all the patrons away. A warm smile spreads on Cecile’s lips, fondness unmistakable in her eyes. She puts down her work - a rare thing, as of late, to peer into the bag at the flaky classic croissants Yvon has brought her. Yvon is right, of course. It is entirely too easy for Cecile to let mealtimes pass her by in the lead up to an event like this. But the croissants, of course, are simply too divine to let go to waste.

“You can protest all you like, love, but you shall have my thanks anyway,” Cecile says, breathing in the warm, comforting scent. “They smell absolutely divine, Yvon. Thank you.” Then, she looks back to Yvon, smiling with her chin in her hands, pleased as punch. And Cecile is suddenly reminded of Clémentine - surely around here somewhere, as is always is - proudly trotting in with a bird in her teeth, or a perhaps younger version of herself, eagerly showing off her first pieces. 

“Now,” she says, closing up the paper bag and setting it aside, before turning to Yvon, eyebrows raised in playful skepticism. She knows Yvon, knows how busy she must be, and more importantly, how dearly she loves her fineries and her beautiful sparkly things. “You know I always love to see you,” Cecile says, meaning it. The workshop has been a haven for her nearly as long as she can remember. There is a simple, quiet joy in watching it become so for someone else. Seeing the familiar way Yvon moves through the space, leaning on the oaken surfaces to admire the gems, comfortable and safe, stirs something warm and softly aching in Cecile’s heart. 

It seems Calandre preferred that the masquerade’s final act be a surprise. He can’t help it, when she says it, the halfhearted chuckle that escapes him. A surprise certainly is one word for it. He’d been expecting a relatively relaxed evening. Maybe a few shared drinks, some laughs, directions to restrain the nobility that tended towards a lackadaisical attitude when it came to drunkenness, and then the chance to retire to his rooms in the evening and sleep it off, feeling successful.

Instead, she’d approached him, tall, towering, and sharp as a bird of prey. She’d put her hand on his shoulder and told him to pick out a blade he felt was ceremonial, and to ensure he had his helmet on hand. He did as he was told, and what ensued was as close to a crisis as crisis got. Masked or not, he’d seen the faces in the crowd. Almost everyone in that room had felt some kind of way. Elation, terror, concern–

It hadn’t mattered. Hippolyte was dead; Michel had cut his head off anyways. He watches Cecile with a steady gaze, mouth pressed into a hard line. He reminds himself to relax his shoulders and straighten his spine. She is not the enemy, here. There is nothing to worry about. He knows Cecile. More than that, he knows she’s a good woman who would do anything if it meant keeping Calandre safe and well-cared for. That she’s implying she was similarly uninformed is no laughing matter.

He gestures at the settee usually reserved for guests for her to sit, should she choose. It’s not uncommon that several will come in at once to speak to him on issues they think are worth worrying about. Usually he doesn’t share their opinion, but today… “I had a few minutes, and nothing more.” Michel smiles, a little wry. “I hadn’t even had time to polish my sword before it was time to set foot on stage.” And what a stage it’d been! He has to wonder if the consummate dread he’d felt afterwards was less to do with the act and more with the crowd.

He’d tried to speak to Helene last night about this, and she’d been quick to dismiss him. That Cecile would want to dance the same dance, sing the same tune… “What are you thinking, Lady Lafaille?” Michel glances at the box of pastries, then back at her. “It’s clear you’re not here to speak on baked fineries, no matter how much I appreciate them.”

Michel lets out a dry chuckle, and Cecile echoes it with her own sad half-smile - just to say that she understands, more than anything else. The palace can have that effect, especially now, all that finery, and the blood it sometimes goes hand in hand with. It had felt almost unreal, standing before that crowd and declaring her position on Hippolyte’s fate. She swallows hard, remembering now. She doesn’t regret her words - everything she said she meant. But she regrets the way it happened, that Hippolyte hadn’t faced proper trial, that the affair was so sharply reminiscent of Tristan’s reign. She is accustomed to Calandre asking for her opinion in the privacy of her quarters or in meetings with her advisors - not being called to speak it on stage. 

The Commander steels himself and motions for her to sit. Cecile does so without hesitation, neatly folding her hands in her lap. Michel had only gotten a few minutes warning. The rest of the room even less. It’s almost a relief, when Michel asks her for her thoughts directly.

“I’m worried about Calandre,” she admits, not bothering to hide the concern in her voice, that must surely mark her face from behind her mask. It is a strange relief, to say it aloud. Not quite a weight lifted off her shoulders, but a long, much-needed exhale. “Allowing Gauthier to attend the masquerade and then...” There is no sense in being delicate about it. She all but signed the death warrant. Michel held the sword. “Brousseau’s execution.” 

Calandre is no stranger to assassination attempts. Cecile remembers how they used to frighten her, how over her twenty years as Empress they became almost routine. As have the trials and the executions of her would-be murderers. The Anniversary - such a politically charged event - was almost bound to bring about another attempt. Who it came from might have been unexpected - such a prominent, wealthy noble - but even so, it shouldn’t have shaken her to take such sudden, extreme measures. Not unless there is more going on than Cecile’s knows. Not unless there is something she is not being told. 

…  She dips her head, a nod in acknowledgement. “The apologies are mine, Madame.” For a brief moment, she wonders - What do nobles have to pray for? But she banishes the thought from her mind. It’s not her place to say who needs Odeline’s guidance. It’s not her place to think of it, even.

Sainte attempts to act less startled, but she’s never been a particularly good actor - Gaspard always said she wore her heart on her sleeve, a dangerous thing for someone in her position. Perhaps this was another reason for the mask, that she scrambles to grab, and slip back over her face. She  doesn’t really know Cecille, not personally at least - it’s more peripheral, the way she knows most people in the Empress’ courts. All the people she trusts so little, moreso with every day that she spends in Val Faim. 

“They’re beautiful.” she says, nodding at the flowers. People bring flowers, and sometimes dor as well, but flowers have always seemed, to Sainte, to make more sense. Though, she supposes something, even if its only a few coins, is better than nothing at all. 

Cecile feels a twinge of guilt as the mercenary before her tries to steady herself. If her words have expelled the notion of her as a threat, they certainly haven’t softened the intrusion. She averts her eyes as Sainte reaches for her mask, suddenly realizing that this is the first time she’s seen her without it. She looks younger than Cecile had imagined. Perhaps softer, too, if that isn’t her own imagination or simply a trick of the light. Cecile knows Sainte by reputation (quiet, effective, favoured by Calandre) more than any actual interactions. Sainte has simply been one of many masked faces in the halls of the Summer Palace, set to whatever task Calandre has assigned her last. Cecile is likely the same in Sainte’s eyes, another figure in the palace of intentions unknown. 

“Thank you.” she says, glancing back down at the flowers in her arms. “I’ll be sure to pass your compliments to my gardener.” She probably sounds utterly frivolous, paying someone else to water the flowers at a home she barely uses. It seems too late now, to make an exit, despite the awkwardness her presence has caused. She knows the tomb is a public place, that all are free to enter here, but something about Sainte makes her seem connected to the place in a way that Cecile simply isn’t - or maybe that too is projection, for Cecile’s visits are so brief and infrequent. 

THE EIGHTH OF MACCIUS AT THE SILVER QUARTER. closed for @lafaille​

News of Calandre’s emotional unraveling tucked in her pocket like a jewel, there is a delighted spring in Rosalind’s step. She walks through the Gold Quarter not as the washed-up jeweler or the noble might-have-been, but a blissful child just given a morsel of sweets, despite having done nothing to deserve it. For Celestine’s beloved Empress is falling apart, and as she crumbles to dust, so, too, will her posse. So, too, will Cecile, who comes into Rosalind’s vision at just the perfect time. For when you feel invulnerable, every moment is the perfect time. Such is the fallacy of winning; you can’t imagine ever losing again.

“Hello, Cecile.” With a cat’s grin and a twinkle in her eye, Rosalind marches to her fated rival and ignores the irritated glances of patrons behind her. “Having a good morning? Or has the Empress’ poor mood gotten to you, too?” She pouts, as if sympathetic to Calandre’s plight, but a smile stubbornly tugs at her lips. “I’m sure she’s already told you all about it, but it looks like our Empress isn’t too happy with the state of things. She’s so lucky to have someone like you close to confide in.” 

Cecile’s patrons are beginning to murmur among themselves and, fearing that they will take her opponent’s attention away, Rosalind sighs dramatically and runs a finger along one of the pieces on display. It’s lovely, if you like to appear as simple and boring as Cecile does. “A part of Val Faim in rubble, hired painters telling such dreadful tales… it’s horrible, isn’t it?”

Rosalind’s intrusion isn’t exactly unexpected, but it is far from welcome. Cecile has long since abandoned any hope of smoothing over whatever quarrel Rosalind imagines between them. Rosalind can burst into her shop with all the subtlety of a rock thrown through the glass windows as many times as she likes, but Cecile is not an easy woman to shatter. 

“My apologies,” she says softly to her bristling patrons - a polite couple looking for a birthday gift for a wealthy aunt they’d very much like to impress and an anxious young man trying to pick out a gift for his paramour - and turns to Rosalind. She smiles as if she bears a salacious secret, every word a barb. They might have pricked Cecile’s skin, had she not spent the past week fending off more difficult questions than these. Instead, they barely leave a scratch. 

“Always a pleasure, Lady de Villiers,” she responds placidly. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that cleanup and repair near the Tomb is coming along very well, and I hear Sylvain Amaury’s work is splendid.”  

Patrice hated events such as this one. There was certainly almost nothing good about being at a party for nobles in Val Faim. It was full of the egotistical elite that Patrice had grown to loathe, all expecting him to kiss their rings. The only saving graces seemed to be in the food, for the hosts knew better than to serve anything less than the finest to their judgmental guests, and the fashion. While he still regularly dressed like he was out at sea, he didn’t quite hate the clothing he could don for these occasions. His shirt still draped unbuttoned over his chest, but the deep blue, embroidered coat hid most of it. The left half of his face was hidden beneath the mask he wore before these people he could not trust, the right half left exposed. He knew they would talk. He did not care. Better for them to know the face of the ghost than bother him with questions of his origins.

So soon after his mother’s funeral, Patrice could have easily avoided this event altogether. Even those who judged his every move would not blame him for missing it. But the host was someone Patrice had been meaning to talk to while in town, for he’d done some past business in collecting some stones for the dealer, and wondered if another contract might allow Alain to loosen the leash about Patrice’s neck. It was strictly business, and nothing more, which made it all the harder for Patrice to enjoy a moment of this party, for its host was tremendously busy.

He didn’t even attempt to fool people into thinking he was having a good time. He’d spent his life far away from their stares and their influence, so tonight, he would not let it affect him, either. Let them talk. They would soon forget him the moment he could leave this cursed city, anyway.

Patrice finds what he hopes is a more secluded area of the party and counts down the minutes until he can either conduct his business or until he simply gives up and leaves. His stare as he scans the crowd seems to keep others at bay, which is a good thing. He simply does not have the patience nor the energy for that tonight, despite what the response to his expression may be. But there is someone who isn’t deterred, he realizes, as he looks up and catches the eye of another. Perhaps it would be easier to ignore those familiar eyes if she’d been wearing a mask that covered more of her face, but there was, a memory of childhood lurking beneath the maturity that had grown overtop it. Cecile.

For a moment, guilt bubbles up from within his stomach acid - or perhaps it’s just the champagne he’d downed too quickly moments earlier - as he remembers the swiftness with which he left. A younger version of himself had thought of her often, hoping she would understand, wondering what she was doing upon the shores of a town he swore he would never return to. As he grew older, those thoughts faded. The sea had always been his true love.

Patrice had begun to doubt his initial thoughts, thinking it was not her, that the alcohol and the lights and the masks had him confused - but then she approached, and he could not deny it any longer. “I suppose rumor of my return has reached your ears,” he replied, nodding. He wondered if he should feel worse in her presence, but his heart simply could not ache for the “what if” when he’d seized all that it had once dreamed of, even when those dreams swirled about in his mind when he once held her in his arms. “I wasn’t sure if I would see you here, Cecile.”

-

It’s him. 

Cecile sees the recognition in Patrice’s eyes, the familiarity of his features. Hers widen at the sight - if only for a fraction of a moment, lips parting slightly in surprise. In moments like these, Cecile understands why so many choose to hide their faces. 

“I suppose rumor of my return has reached your ears.”

It hadn’t. Of course it hadn’t. Cecile has spent the past month impossibly busy with preparations. She’s had no time for idle gossip. He would know that, had he ever bothered to write her, had he known a single thing thing about life she’s led since he unceremoniously left it. She’s struck with a sudden urge to strike him with an open-hand across the exposed side of his face for leaving, for never saying goodbye, for not warning her of his return, for presuming to know even the least consequential detail of her life. That would give the gossips something to talk about. 

Instead, Cecile simply steels herself tilts her chin up to him. She is not, and never has been some poor forlorn maiden abandoned on the shore. Whatever wounds he’d left her with, they have long since healed over, soothed by time and friendship and the touch of other lovers. The scars have all but faded entirely. She’s kept her composure through worse than this. Satisfying as it might be, she’ll give neither the gossips the material nor Patrice any inkling that she’s... that the sight of him still evokes any emotion worth naming. He wasn’t sure he’d see her here, here in the city she has carved herself a place in with diamond-tipped gem cutters and a delicate touch.

“I’m afraid I’ve had little time for rumours as of late,” she answers, pointedly, unsmilingly polite. A thousand questions bubble in the back of her throat - lingering questions she hadn’t thought on in years and sharp new ones alike. “It’s just as well, I prefer to get my information from the source.” From the tone of her voice - perfected in her long years at court - a passerby would never know that she means anything by the comment, but the gold of the mask can’t quite hide the sharpness in her eyes.

“What’s brought you back to Val Faim after all these years?” Cecile asks. She knows why he left, doesn’t even know if she wants to know why he did it so suddenly, but for this at least, she seeks answers. Perhaps a part of her always knew his heart belonged to the sea. Now, he stands before her on dry land. “I don’t imagine you’ll be staying long?”