#viarook

The two Crows of House de Riva confirmed the operation’s essentials one last time.

"Two hours. Not a minute more."

Once an agent was in the field, Viago couldn’t micromanage every decision. Nor did he care to examine certain aspects of the assignment in any detail. What he could control was the duration. Whether or not they obtained the evidence they needed, they would leave the mansion when the two hours elapsed. The greater priority was not to arouse Bellatri’s suspicion.

A mask could conceal Viago’s features, but prolonged exposure among the guests increased the risk of recognition. Of King Fulgeno II’s many royal bastards, he alone had chosen the Crows over a life of gilded exile. He had risen to the rank of Talon, a position that conferred practical power comparable to the king’s—a prominence which rendered obscurity impossible. By his own reckoning, his presence on this operation was foolish, however generously he might frame it. Still, not everything in the world could be expected to unfold sensibly.

Viago shoved the inconvenient thought aside.

"Don’t rely too heavily on the soporific. He may not drink, or the glasses may be switched."

"I have other ways to incapacitate him."

"If you have to subdue him by force, the infiltration has already failed."

As the carriage neared its destination, Viago took a faceted glass flacon from the traveling case at his feet and stowed it in his velvet coat. A shallow box revealed two masks: a white half-mask and a black owl. He lowered the white half-mask over Andrea’s face. While Viago fastened the mask’s ribbons, Andrea held his breath. For a moment, the younger man seemed a caged bird, feathers puffed.

"Your eagerness is what won you this assignment," Viago said. "I’m beginning to think I should have taken it as a warning instead."

"I won’t give you cause to regret approving me for it."

From a few inches away, Andrea’s warm exhale fanned across the exposed skin above Viago’s collar. Orange blossom drifted from his styled auburn hair, mingling with the powdery scent of cosmetics. The fragrance was strange on him—meant for a single evening, an element of a disguise that would be discarded. Irritation, and something Viago declined to name, lodged beneath his ribs.

"You’re already making me doubt that judgment."

A sheen gathered in Andrea’s large eyes. Viago tilted his head, studying the reaction. He felt his lips pull upward despite himself.

Then the carriage jolted, as though a wheel had caught in a rut.

A ghost of the old pain shot through the knee he had injured years ago. It had healed completely, but every carriage ride had a nasty knack for reviving the ache. The absurd satisfaction dissolved like spun sugar in water.

Viago drew back. His fingers dug into the leather squab.

"Miserable contraptions."

"Carriages still trouble you," Andrea said cautiously. "You didn’t need to attend the affair yourself. There were plenty of other Crows available."

"You require rather particular supervision. I saw no reason to entrust the task to someone less capable of handling you."

They left the greenhouse together. Viago put the padlock through the latch. It clicked shut. He checked that the padlock had engaged, then trailed a fingertip along the metal.

As he turned, the moment itself seemed to fold with him. The boy hugging the basket had grown into a young man. Andrea at twenty-two, preserved in memory. Once no higher than Viago’s chest, the top of his head now reached Viago’s ear. His limbs stayed slim, but they held a deceptive strength. His auburn hair, short before, fell to his eyes. A late-autumn breeze tousled it and played at the unbuttoned collar of his shirt.

Viago proceeded as if nothing had happened; Andrea followed close behind.

Inside the residence, they went up to the second-floor study. Andrea entered first. The sunlight from the tall windows cast his contours into a translucent haze. Viago stepped in after him, shut the door, and paused by it. Andrea placed the basket of poisonous herbs on the workbench and asked if he should process them immediately. "Set it aside," Viago said.

Andrea padded over to the bookshelves.

"Vi, where’s that famous book on neurotoxins? I’m pretty sure it was around here."

Vi. The nickname on Andrea’s tongue was an endearing dissonance. Was it a future that hadn’t arrived, or only something his mind was conjuring? The air trembled subtly, a fine crack running through the illusion.

Already? It can’t fall apart yet. Viago crossed the room in long strides and stopped at the bookshelves. He found 'Taxonomy and Mechanisms of Plant Neurotoxins' at once. His index finger hooked over the top edge of the spine. The book came partway out, tilting forward. Andrea raised his arm to take the book. Viago caught his wrist and hauled him in abruptly.

The book hit the floor and tumbled away. The younger man was willingly trapped in his embrace. Viago pressed his forehead against Andrea’s shoulder. The scent of chocolate and cinnamon unraveled his restraint.

Viago lowered himself to one knee and buried his face in Andrea’s midriff. His bare hands traveled up the younger man’s calves. The fabric didn’t blunt anything—leg muscles tightening, then loosening under his palms.

At the playful hum above him, Viago lifted his face. Somehow, his boy had changed into the Rook he was now. Rook didn’t push him away. Instead, he ran a small hand through Viago’s hair.

"You’re impossible, honestly."

Viago slid his hand beneath the hem of Rook’s shirt. His fingertips traced warm skin, inching up under his ribs. As though gravity claimed him, Viago sank to his knees. He kissed Rook’s abdomen as it rose and fell with shallow breaths. Then he licked the sweat-sheened skin. The taste on his tongue was sweet and salty. He didn’t mind. If anything, he was glad of it. He showered more kisses around Rook’s navel.

Squirming at the tickle, Rook cupped the back of his head and eased him away. He smiled wide, the exact expression Viago could never forget. It pulled Viago straight back to the season that had taken hold of him. Nights when flowers that endured the cold bloomed at last. Mornings when the weight in an embrace felt precious. Moments not meant to fade.

Viago reached up and stroked Rook’s cheek. Rook leaned in further, closing the distance.

"Vi. It’s time to wake up."

Before their lips could meet, Rook broke apart into dozens of butterflies, each glowing pearly white. Viago slowly unfurled his hand. Fragments of light slipped out between his fingers. The last one settled softly on his palm. Without so much as a chance to cradle it, the forbidden spacetime twisted and screamed.

Viago’s eyes flew open. The familiar underside of the walnut canopy filled his view. He sat up and looked around. The bedchamber lay in the predawn gloom. He fumbled for the space beside him and drew back the woven coverlet. Only after confirming no one was there did he let out a shuddering sigh.

In his training clothes, he stepped into the room whose owner was gone. He took a tunic from a stack in the wardrobe and nuzzled his face against it. The linen smelled faintly of wood, yet a sharp need coiled in his gut. A fond chuckle floated to him. The boy sprawled on his stomach across the bed, idly kicking his feet. Viago returned the tunic to the wardrobe, then fled the room.

On his way downstairs, Viago saw the boy climbing the stone staircase, blowing gently on a mug in both hands. Beyond the front door, the silence of dawn enveloped the courtyard. The boy hung laundry on a line strung between cypress posts. A sheet billowed, swathing him.

The moment Viago cleared the wrought iron gate, he launched into a sprint. A cobbled avenue flanked by trees, the square before the chantry, an arched bridge over the canal, the customs house, and an Antaam guard station. They blurred behind him in quick succession. By the time he made it to the harbor, his thighs throbbed, his lungs stinging with every breath.

Viago guided Andrea toward a nearby table. With polished tact, he deflected anyone curious about either of them who tried to strike up a conversation. In the end, however, he obliged a middle-aged woman in a silk gown when she invited him to dance. Before escorting her away, he ordered Andrea not to stray from the table.

Andrea ate a few almonds from a dish while he surveyed the hall and the gallery above. Bellatri was conversing with a knot of guests. One of the guards stationed near the grand staircase yawned. From a private room in a corner of the second floor, two masked guests stepped into the gallery, their attire disheveled. Behind them came a youth with a robe thrown over her bare body. Two servants followed at her heels, watching her. After descending to the first floor, the group made their way behind a maroon velvet curtain at the edge of the hall.

His observations were interrupted when a young man in a rabbit mask sidled up to him and offered him a glass of wine. The stranger expressed admiration for the elaborate needlework on Andrea's satin cape, then launched into a lengthy discourse on the latest fashions in Antiva City. The mention of the city reminded Andrea of the sumptuously dressed seamster whom Viago had summoned to the residence two weeks earlier. From the capital, possibly?

Between bites of a fig, Andrea supplied the requisite murmurs at suitable intervals, which prompted the man to compliment the sweetness of his voice. Soon, the man’s propositions grew more audacious and explicit. Andrea responded with a deferential smile until Viago seized him by the waist.

"I don’t recall telling you to entertain the likes of him so cheaply."

Despite the contempt in Viago’s remark, the rabbit-masked man hastened to retreat rather than take offense. Andrea put his glass down on the table.

"Nothing happened."

"Then I suppose I imagined him saying he wanted to hear you scream beneath him," Viago said acidly.

Andrea looked into his blue eyes.

"I've always been yours. I always will be."

Viago narrowed his eyes. Andrea reached for the older man’s tense jaw, but stopped when he remembered the fig juice on his fingertips. Viago bit down on those fingers.

"Don't assume that your flattery will charm everyone," he grumbled. "And why did you keep nibbling at everything? People will think I starve you."

Andrea failed to affect a nonchalant chuckle. The bright sting in his fingers couldn’t offset the bitterness of the evasion. He adopted the safer role Viago preferred.

"I only sampled what you permitted me to." Stretching up on tiptoe, he whispered into Viago’s pink ear. "You haven’t touched a thing, so at least one of us has to eat something if we’re going to blend in."