Archive of Our Own

The best hunters do not rush to meet the beast. They let the beast reveal itself.

Consider, for example, the boar. Like many of its peers in the animal kingdom, the boar is a creature of habit. Once comfortable, it will follow the same paths to feed and return to the same pits to wallow. The longer the boar goes unchallenged, the larger and bolder it grows. It learns which clearings it owns and which sounds mean nothing to it. Wherever it treads, it expects the forest to make way, because to it, that is how things should be.

Everett Lefevere understands this too well, because he was born into a name whose sound alone is enough to open all of life’s doors. No one has ever made him feel small or exposed, so wherever he wills, the world bends. Whenever he wishes, the world grants. Whatever he desires, no matter how vile, he indulges.

He is indulging tonight. The huntress is certain of it, and that is why she came.

As she sets her hand on the doorhandle to the manor, heat pulses through her fingers, melting and collapsing the locks. When she pushes open the doors, she is greeted by the stunned face of the few attendants standing guard.

Obstacles. She watches them. They watch her.

What comes next, she expects – the response of any animal once panicked. Weapons raised and mouths opening in an attempt to shout orders to subdue the intruder.

The effort is stopped in seconds with fourteen infernal stakes through their hearts; fourteen quick kills. They could have been innocent. The huntress does not care. No one who raises their weapon on behalf of this animal is innocent. Not to her.

Their bodies remain suspended on the crimson stakes, spilling blood across the reflective floors, and rendering the boar’s protection wiped out. Wherever it is, it does not realize it is now alone.

The huntress follows its trail down the halls, through one door after another. It takes her to a secluded corridor of the home, where the tile softens to carpet and the colors shift to sickeningly sensual shades of scarlet.

Here. The pasture where the boar gorges. The choice in color is telling enough, but most damning of all is what the huntress hears beyond the door at the very end of the corridor. A voice speaking soothingly slow, using the sort of words meant to calm a child’s terror.

The huntress does not hesitate. With one sure step forward, she pushes her heel into a floorboard with enough force to snap it. Beyond the door, the man’s voice stops mid-word.

Silence. The door is closed. Then, it is open, and there he is, the boarish bastard.

Shadow to shadow. Face to face. Eye to eye.

The huntress smiles.

“Hello.”

There comes a moment in every hunt when the animal becomes aware that it is a target. Once the realization comes, it freezes. It stops. It turns, searching for the protection it has always relied on. It wonders, Where is the shrubbery? Where is my pack? Where is safety? 

When nothing answers, instinct takes over. The boar raises its head and bares its tusks, convinced that dominance and threats will reassert the order it expects. It has worked every time before. It must work now, mustn’t it?

But it never has the chance to charge. The huntress does not allow it. Her first strike lands directly where it should; one decisive spray of blood, and off with the boar’s tusks. Away with the strength that made the boar a boar. Now, what remains is a hog, squealing and kicking as the huntress drags it into the open, and ends it for good.

When Everett Lefevere screams his final scream, the forest does not truly mourn him. When the last of his fight leaves him, the huntress does not dwell. She merely surveys the surrounding terrain, and begins a new search.

⊰══════════⊱

The Chief Justice’s reaction to the evidence presented is, in most respects, exactly what Arlecchino anticipated, though she can’t say she wasn’t hoping for a little more urgency.

Resting on the table between them is a case containing a single glass vial. The vial’s contents are still and so light that if not for what Arlecchino knew about its origins, she’d think it’s harmless. Across from her, Neuvillette studies the vial in silence. The only thing in the office that moves is the hand of the clock on the wall behind him, signalling each tick of his thoughts.

When he looks up, his expression has hardly changed.

“And you obtained this from the Lefeveres themselves?” he asks.

Arlecchino nods. “I did.”

“By what means?”

“Negotiation,” Arlecchino replies. “It was handed over voluntarily.”

Still, Neuvillette presses. “Under what circumstances?”

He’s suspicious already, and for that reason, Arlecchino avoids speaking too quickly. There are details that she will not disclose to Fontaine’s executives, particularly the fact that the operation which procured this evidence was carried out by twins who were, at the time of said operation, children.

Arlecchino tilts her head. “I’d like to know how the circumstances are relevant.”

“They are relevant,” Neuvillette explains without hesitation, “because evidence obtained through violence or coercion is inadmissible.” The last word, he’s sure to emphasize. “Legalities aside, a single vial does not constitute probable cause for punitive action against the entirety of the noble Court.”

“No,” Arlecchino agrees. “But it does constitute probable cause for investigation.”

That gives them Iudex considerable pause. Good.

He narrows his eyes. “Investigation by whom?”

A question he already knows the answer to. Matching his posture, Arlecchino leans forward with an enticing smile. “A noble household of Fontaine’s most reputable private investigators. Their names, licenses, and qualifications are thoroughly documented by your office.”

There’s no need to name the House. Doing so won't make Neuvillette dislike the answer any less than he does. Silence stretches between them, and for the entire spell of it, his eyes do not leave Arlecchino’s face. She takes his quiet contemplation as permission to continue.

“Our objective is straightforward,” she elaborates. “To trace supply lines, financial flow, and correspondence connected to the compound’s production and distribution. No arrests. No seizures. No interrogations.”

“And,” Neuvillette interjects, “no violence.”

How inconvenient. “Unless,” Arlecchino counters, “in self-defense.”

It’s the most she can push for. He considers her for a long moment, weighing both the request and the fact that she thought it urgent enough to come to him with it at all. At the slightest easing of his expression, Arlecchino knows she’s made a successful bargain.

Without a further word, Neuvillette turns his chair toward the typewriter at the corner of his office. Letter by letter, rhythmic strikes of ceramic keys set the terms of their discussion into law. When he finishes, he removes the page and lies it beside the case containing the vial, allowing the ink to dry into the paper.

Their contract is a simple one-page order, granting enough legal room to keep the House of the Hearth safe. Every limit they discussed is there; every boundary and every stipulation, drying into the page the same way blood dries into grass. Once it's done, Neuvillette slides the document toward her.

“Read it thoroughly,” he says. “Ensure that you understand every term, then sign your full legal name.”

That, she does. Satisfied with the terms, Arlecchino takes the pen and signs the line at the bottom.

Arlecchino d'Ete

Her legal Fontainian name. It’s not her only name, but to the nation’s bureaucratic system, it’s enough to hold her accountable with. Beneath it, Neuvillette adds his own signature, and after setting down his pen, he seals the completed order with a stamp and a final warning.

“Overstep even slightly, and I will shut you down.”

Despite his tone, Arlecchino doesn’t let her courtesy slip. “As you should,” she says, rising from her chair with the same dignified smile. “House d'Ete greatly appreciates your consideration and wisdom, Monsieur Neuvillette.”

Neuvillette inclines his head in acknowledgment, but whether or not he believes her is another matter entirely.

⊰══════════⊱

“The wheels will turn as they always have.”

“As for Everett’s preferred subject, I’m pleased to inform you that Pierre has responded to the test compound with remarkable receptivity, both physically and behaviorally.”

“There was something particular about Everett’s affection for Pierre; something that, were it to come to light, would surely cost you your position in our household.”

“Let’s not mince words. I am referring to inappropriate relations between your nephew and your son.”

“Do your part, and the matter regarding your son will remain buried where it belongs. Refuse again, however, and I will ensure the full truth comes to light.”

Arlecchino’s jaw tightens.

“The wheels will turn…”

“Inappropriate relations…”

“Refuse again, however, and I will ensure the full truth comes to light.”

“Your son…”

Arlecchino lowers the letters to the table, pinning them in place beneath her fingertips. Heat tingles beneath her nails, and briefly, she considers letting that heat erase the words just as one of her daughters erased their author.

The heat creeps up her arms. Higher, hotter, angrier…

But she stops it, and stills it, because Conan Lefevere is dead. The damage he did remains, but the circumstances have changed. Owen and Geneve Lefevere cannot be dealt with the same way their relatives were. An adjustment in attitude is needed, and Arlecchino makes it just as the doorway to the conference room fills with firelit figures.

Her operatives wait outside, outlined by the fire blazing at the heart of the chamber. For a moment, the sight pulls her backward to a time when they weren’t nearly as tall as they are now. Back then, they had passed through that hearthfire as shadows, watched by other children who didn't know which of them would survive the trial that waited.

Twenty-five of them crossed those flames. Of those twenty-five, only seven returned. Of those seven, only four have remained at their home – one to rule, the other three to serve.

At Arlecchino’s nod, those three – Chirac, Yseut, and Deianeira – enter the conference room. Each offers a slight bow, followed by a respectful acknowledgement of, “My lady.” Wasting no time, they take their places around the table as they have done a dozen times before.

“Good morning,” Arlecchino greets them once they’ve settled into their chairs. “Thank you all for your punctuality and vigilance. Your efforts have seen to the gradual weakening of Fontaine’s most dominant social players.” A single tap directs the room’s attention to the dossier at her fingertips. “What you’re looking at is the full body of intelligence gathered by our children over the course of their recent assignments, the details of which you’ve all been briefed on. With what we now know, and with two key figures removed, the conditions are finally right to cleanse the Lefevere rot for good.”

The shift in the room is instant. Shadows of satisfaction settle behind her operatives’ eyes, the enthusiasm of people who learned too young to expect violence. 

Arlecchino does not let that anticipation build. “However,” she continues, “the rise in crime has left the Maison Gardiennage and the Marechaussee Phantom on high alert. I will not risk unnecessary complications by proceeding as we normally would, so…” She clasps her hands, “I have involved the Iudex in our operation.”

Quick blinks. Pen clicks. Exchanged glances. Arlecchino doesn’t fault them for being alarmed. Neuvillette is not an enemy, but sometimes, he comes too close to being one.

From the dossier, Arlecchino withdraws the contract she signed with the Iudex. She slides it across the table to Chirac, who reads it in silence before passing it to Yseut, who passes it to Deianeira. 

“This agreement grants us protection from legal interference, so long as we operate within the established boundaries,” Arlecchino explains while they read, “I won’t pretend that those boundaries are ideal, but they reduce the risk of Neuvillette turning his attention toward us, and they leave the Lefeveres no lawful grounds for retaliation.”

Frowning, Deianeira exhales. “The Iudex becoming an ally. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Not an ally,” Arlecchino corrects. “A means.”

Deianeira nods. “A means.”

They have their apprehensions, and rightfully so. It’s a reach to ask them to abandon the methods that kept them alive during harsher times. Still, no one voices an objection. They remain silent, accepting the Knave’s decision. 

Arlecchino does not mistake that acceptance for complete trust. It doesn’t need to be, not yet. She’s only been their King for a little while. Let the trust come with time. For now, understanding and loyalty will suffice.

“This operation won’t follow our usual pattern,” Arlecchino concludes. “There will be no pursuit to kill. Instead, we’ll trap the beast and break its legs. After we’ve wounded it, we’ll step away, and let it bleed out.”

That’s the kind of talk they like. Chirac lifts a brow. “And what’s our bait?”

“Simple,” Arlecchino replies. “An offer that’s sweeter than their favorite wine.”

⊰══════════⊱

It took Chirac weeks to spring Teyvat’s most expensive trap.

An open-air, invitation-only theater unfolds beneath the evening sky, defined by boundaries of carefully spaced candlelight. Within each circle of light, artifacts and living figures form still-lifes of social history. Every few minutes, the performers change posture, allowing one era to dissolve into the next.

The attendees move between the displays at their leisure, making the live performances their topic of praise or their topic of debate. Chirac walks the rows as invitations are verified, taking attendance the same way he would if he were teaching a class.

House Gaulle is present in full: Lord Antonius and Lady Alicent, with their children Clement and Sophia at their sides. With them walks House Noltaire: Lord Gerard, Lady Rena, and their son Caedran. They’re comfortable in each others’ company, and the stability brought to their house through their ties to Maison Gardiennage. Their threat remains low…for now.

The largest family unit present is that of Fontaine’s most merciless loan sharks: House Volz. Lord Sylas and Lady Kathleen stride the floors with their children Nathan and Natalie in tow. Behind them, Kathleen’s sister, Lady Isla, follows with her daughter Cherelle. They smile easily, eat heartily, and linger where wealth is displayed, fitting behavior for a household whose financial empire is built on the ruin of the less fortunate. The House of the Hearth has been watching them for some time, and will continue to do so.

After that, there is the house that matters most. 

House Lefevere arrives last, with Lord Owen now standing at its head, elevated by the unfortunate, unfortunate passing of his nephew, Lord Everett, and his elder brother, Lord Conan. At his side, Lady Geneve wears her new role of the house matriarch, while their son and future patriarch, Pierre, follows a half-step behind them.

Near-perfect attendance.

Near. One house is missing: House Faucher.

Lyney and Lynette’s absence needs no explanation, but Lord Lysander’s absence – and Ciel’s, perhaps – is a reason for concern. From what Chirac knows, a man like Lysander is always keeping himself just out of sight. Seldom seen, but always watching. 

If the rumors regarding that oh-so-observant serpent are true, he'll be next on the Knave’s list if he slithers too close. But then, what to do about Ciel. Should they hunt down the little bird as well, just to tie up loose ends? 

Archons, these thoughts are going to an ugly place. Chirac can almost hear the Knave in his ear. You’ve sidetracked yourself. Focus. Now.

Yes ma’am. Chirac archives that uncomfortable rabbit hole of thought, returning his attention to the first displays that form the theater's foundation. Performers stand upon low stone platforms, arranged by functionality. One bears a block of raw stone against his chest. Another unfurls a parchment map, while another turns a ring of iron keys in slow circles. The last balances a set of scales.

After a measured interval, the performers all rotate as one, facing the neighboring stand. There, a new tableau waits: an archivist hunched over ledgers, a judge seated still, and a clerk standing obediently at the judge's side. On the final platform, a performer presses seal after seal into waiting documents, each one identical to the last. Behind that one, another breaks those seals and lets the papers fall from her fingers. Despite their myriad of roles, their garments are all the same color – bone-white. Blank.

House Gaulle and House Noltaire linger here. They speak in low voices, nodding at the shifting figures. Between them, their adolescent children point, whispering observations beyond their years. 

Nothing abnormal. Chirac moves on.

The following displays are a celebration of abundance. These platforms are longer, stretched into banquet tables that slowly replenish themselves. Along the length of each table, performers dressed in greens and soft golds pass mora from palm to palm. When those coins reach the end, a pair of hands is there to count, while another is there to record. 

House Volz gathers here, because this is the image that financial predators like them love the most. Around them, their vassal houses swarm, choosing from the extravagant spread of wines and dishes imported from every nation bordering Fontaine. The food itself was half the budget, and the mere thought of having to update the hotel’s financial records has Chirac’s fingers twitching toward the fidget pen in his pocket.

Not the time for that, though. He’ll click the stress away later. For now, he moves on to the final platforms.

The final displays are devoted to a performance of inheritance. They were, by far, the most difficult for Chirac to design. On each platform stand adolescents dressed as lords, weighed down by coats heavy with chains and ornaments. Their faces are entirely obscured, because their identities do not matter. Only their roles. 

At least, that’s the surface-level reason. The true reason is a certain pair of twins, and the suspicion they’d immediately draw if they were noticed.

Lyney and Lynette have been placed at the central stand, along with a few assistant performers. The elder faceless twin steps forward to receive a crown placed into his hands by one of his Hearth brothers, Lanz. With the crown passed, Lanz recedes to the back of the platform, leaving Lyney alone at the front. Behind him, Lynette's work goes unseen. She, too, is fully concealed, bent over a ledger that she rewrites again and again. With each pass of the pen, her handwriting shrinks until it verges on disappearing. 

To Chirac’s pride, this is the area that reels the Lefeveres right in. He finds them before the platform of performers that most closely resembles their own household: an imitation family dressed in scarlet and gold, arranged in a circle of perfect harmony. At the center stands the father with his arm extended, pouring wine from a goblet that never runs dry. Once his sights are set, Chirac scans the area to find his younger assistant.

Near the entrance, Filliol stands with several other children of the Hearth, welcoming guests as they arrive. Of them all, she is dressed to be seen the most – face fully made up, gown embellished beyond what was likely necessary, and hair threaded with flower petals and gems pure enough to catch the candlelight at every turn. Attention follows her from nobles her age and older, with more than a few of the adolescent lords pausing to offer compliments that she accepts with a rehearsed nod of her head. When Chirac calls her over, she excuses herself to come to his side, and together, they move through the crowd as surrogate father and daughter.

It takes no more than a heartbeat for Geneve to notice. The moment they approach, she assesses them, then seizes control of the conversation.

“Lord d'Ete,” she greets, already painting on her charm. “Don’t tell me you’re the one responsible for all this. Men aren’t supposed to have an eye for design.”

Chirac cocks his head. “Be careful what you assume, Lady Lefevere. Some of us are more exceptional than others.”

“I see.”  Geneve turns back toward the display, gesturing as she steps closer. “Just look at this one. I hate to sound full of myself, but I can’t help seeing my own family up there.” Lifting a hand, she traces the air. “Strength in scarlet. Grace in gold. A house that prospers, and passes that prosperity down…” The hand flutters to Owen’s shoulder, “from one heir…” Then down to Pierre’s, “to the next.”

Chirac nods along. “You understand it best.”

“Because we’ve seen it and lived it, friend.” Geneve glances at her son. “Soon, Pierre will too.”

Pierre’s shoulders draw inward, like Geneve’s touch was enough to compress his entire posture. Taking notice, Chirac shifts his attention to him. “That age is fast approaching,” he says. “You’re ready, aren’t you?”

Pierre hesitates. “I…feel less ready than I know I am.”

In other words, No.

“Nonsense,” Owen says. “There is no feeling ready. Only doing what’s required when the time comes.”

The man rarely speaks, and when he does, it’s usually to correct his son. Docilely, Pierre lowers his gaze. “Yes, father. You’re right.”

An opportunity. Chirac gives Filliol a brief glance. Her cue to talk, to say just enough to make herself visible.

“You’ll be a fine lord,” she says, nodding toward the display. “Look. Scarlet strength. It’s in your blood.”

The comment brings a small smile to Pierre’s face, and a faint blush to his cheeks. Before he can open his mount to thank Filliol, Geneve steals his space in the conversation.

“And golden grace is in yours, sweetling,” she says, stepping forward to take Filliol’s hands in her own. Already, she’s looking at her like a daughter she owns. “Every lord needs a lady, and you’d make a fine match for my son. I can picture your children now.”

Skipping straight to breeding. Classic Lefevere mentality, but it’s an opening into presenting their planned offer, and Chirac jumps right on board, ignoring the unsettled expression Pierre throws at his mother. “Are you offering?” Chirac half-jokes. “If so, I’m not opposed. It’s about time for my daughter to become a real woman.” Words so filthy that Chirac nearly choked on them, but if he wants to mingle with this family, he needs to speak their language.

Geneve pauses, considering. The couple’s decision is made in a silent moment of eye contact. 

Owen reaches into his coat, producing a pen and a small, scented card. On it, he writes three lines; a date, a place, and a time. When he is finished, he drops it into Chirac’s coat pocket.

They’ve taken the bait. Chirac holds back a victorious grin.

“We will discuss this somewhere more discreet,” Geneve says, releasing Filliol’s hands. 

“Yes,” Chirac replies. “We will.”

And now, they have the beast where they want it.

With their words sealed, both families turn back to the display before them, standing side by side as if now acquainted. Before them, the performers change positions for the final time. One by one, the figures surrounding the father lower themselves, bowing their heads in unison. 

Enraptured, the Lefeveres look on.

They do not notice when the father’s goblet of wine runs dry.

⊰══════════⊱

Filliol wishes this was the beautiful dream it appears to be.

Owen and Geneve Lefevere’s estate looks like it was painted into existence, with its walls washed in intricate blue patterns that are edged in gold so fine that it seems to glow on its own. Every surface from the floor to the ceiling reflects light back at itself, layered with designs that refuse to let the eye rest.

Lyney and Lynette must have seen places like this before. They likely wouldn’t think twice about this, but to Filliol, the sight is hypnotizing.

As Geneve Lefevere walks them through, her voice echoes off the paned surfaces. “Still my proudest work,” she says with a pleased laugh. “Owen didn’t care for the patterns at first, but I knew he would, in time.” She nudges her husband with her hip. “Now he won’t let a single day pass without having them polished.”

Filliol swallows, still staring. “They’re…bright.”

Beside her, Chirac chuckles. “Careful,” he says. “Stare too long, and they might blind you.”

Blind you. Message received: Don’t be sidetracked by what’s pretty.

Filliol blinks, refocusing. The beauty is still there, but she’s not here to be swept up in a fantasy. She’s here on a job.

Geneve waves her hand. “Patterns won’t harm her. Actually, on the contrary,” She turns fully toward Filliol with a warmly appraising smile. “we’ll have a dress made for you, as a gift. Pierre, what shade of blue do you think would suit our young lady?”

Pierre blinks, caught off guard either by the question or the fact that he was even asked one at all. “I’ll…” An uncertain pause. “I’ll need some time.”

“Right, right,” Chirac steps in smoothly, guiding the moment where he wants it. “Time…to get to know each other.”

“Yes!” Geneve agrees at once. She closes the distance between them and places Filliol’s hand into Pierre’s. “That’s precisely what you need, so off you go, you two. We’ll send for you shortly.”

There’s the cue. Filliol’s heart stutters as Pierre looks at her, then does as he’s told. He steps forward and offers his arm.

“My lady?”

Such a simple thing, yet it feels so unreal. Here she is, about to walk arm-in-arm with a young noble, the way real ladies do. As hard as she’s trying, she can’t stop the fluttering in her chest. 

If only…

Still blushing, Filliol loops her arm through Pierre’s, and together, they step away from the adults. Three guards follow at a respectful distance, close enough to watch without intruding. 

Soft footsteps on copper-colored floors. Whenever the Filliol’s eyes meet Pierre’s, they both look away too quickly, exchanging small, embarrassed smiles as if they’ve caught each other doing something they shouldn’t do. Despite the stiffness in his shoulders, Pierre guides her through the halls with gentleness, never tightening his grip or rushing his pace. 

What a prince. How could he possibly be Conan’s relative? Or worse, Everett’s?

Now the attendants are opening the doors, and staying focused is somehow even more difficult, because heavens, look at these gardens. Low hills roll gently across the ground, layered in thick sheets of blue and gold blossoms. Vines climb the walls and spill from the alcoves, catching the sunlight that filters through leaves and drifting petals.

Is this real?

It must be, because Pierre is leading Filliol right into it. They walk through a passage of knotted hedges that arch inward. Here, with just the two of them and the flowers, Pierre’s posture eases. The gardens soothe them both in a way nothing else seems to, and now, the space between them is much less awkward.

Filliol’s words come out as breathless whispers. “I’ve never seen this…”

Pierre smiles. “Had you not come here, you never would’ve.” He runs his fingers through an arc of vines, lifting away a petal that he slips between their palms. “Special blossoms, these are. Only my maman and I know how to breed them.”

Filliol turns to him. “You breed flowers?”

“I know my fair share about the chemical process, yes. I don’t mind sharing with you, but only once you’ve joined our fold.” Pierre’s smile makes an impish tilt. “A family secret, you see.”

Filliol giggles. “I like secrets.”

Pierre pauses, studying her.

After a moment, he nods. “That’s good. You’ll need to keep many of them.”

Oh? This could be an opportunity. Filliol leans in. “Like what?”

“Trade secrets, mostly,” Pierre replies easily. “You don’t win certain games without employing your own…strategies.”

Like exploitation, or murder. Filliol knows all about House Lefevere’s “strategies.”

 “That’s true,” she agrees nonetheless. “My household has its strategies as well.”

Pierre hums. “Then you understand perfectly. Perhaps we are a good match after all.”

Filliol’s heart skips as they pass through a wrought gate into a quieter corner of the garden. A shallow pool curves around them, its surface scattered with rose petals that drift and turn in slow, aimless patterns. The sound of water hushes the world beyond the hedges.

Pierre slows, lowering his gaze to a single blue petal caught at the pool’s edge.

“You really are lovely, Lady d’Ete,” he says softly. “If marrying you was my decision, I think I’d still make it.”

For a moment, Filliol forgets what this walk is meant to be. Nothing about it began with choice.

“You don’t seem like you get to make decisions,” Filliol probes. “Not often.”

Pierre exhales. “That’s the life of a Lefevere heir. You make none of the decisions until you’re expected to make all of them. There is no in-between.” He glances at her. “Your family must be the same.”

But it isn’t.

Filliol’s fingers curl into the hem of her sleeve. Unbidden, her thoughts slip to her brother in cramped rooms behind locked doors; to how hunger used to hollow his face, and how hatred used to bruise him in ways no one wanted to look at; to the terrible truth that she could have stayed safe and comfortable…if she had been willing to leave him there.

“I had a choice,” she says, voice steady even as her chest tightens. “I could have stayed with the other family. They were kind, and they would have taken care of me.” She swallows. “But my brother was in a group home, being starved and beaten just for existing. I couldn’t live well knowing that.” She draws in a breath and lets it out slowly. “So I left. I chose him. And when my new family came along…I chose them, too.”

Pierre says nothing. He only looks at her with eyes that are full of unvoiced thoughts.

“I didn’t expect a story like that,” he says, eventually. “I’m sorry for what your brother experienced, and for misunderstanding.”

“You don’t need to be,” Filliol brushes it off. “Actually…I think I should be the one apologizing.”

Pierre’s brow creases. “Why?”

“Because,” she says, and feels the weight of the words even as she speaks them, “you can’t make the same choice I did.”

Suddenly, the garden is a lot quieter.

Pierre’s arm tenses where it rests near hers. He looks at her as if she’s spoken in another language. “What do you mean? I don’t need to. I love my family very much.”

“But if you could,” Filliol presses, softly but insistently, “would you choose another one?”

Pierre falters. The easy cadence of his voice slips, now tinged with alarm. “That’s…um. I…” He shakes his head. “I don’t understand that question.”

There it is, the forbidden wound. Filliol reaches out, resting her hand against his forearm. “It’s alright if you would, my lord. You can tell me. I’m very good at keeping secre–”

Pierre jerks his arm away, as if her touch burns. Now crushed, the petal in their palms sinks to the ground.

“No.” He takes a step back, then another, opening cold space where there once had been warmth and petals. “No, there’s….nothing to say. There’s no secret. I love my family. My family loves me. That’s all there is.”

He’s speaking too quickly; Filliol notices the change, the crack in his poise. Now, his hands tremble at his sides, a symptom Lyney and Lynette told her about before.

Withdrawal.

So it’s true. He is a Sinthe addict. Made him easy for Everett and Conan to control, no doubt.

“Pierre?” she asks, softening her voice. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Lie. “Just under the weather.” Another lie. “I don’t adjust well when the seasons change.” That’s likely true, but even so, it isn’t the truth.

“Pierre, things are going to change, and you can change with them,” Filliol says, stepping closer. She reaches for his hands, enclosing them in her own. “You can choose, so choose. Come with me, and let me take you to a new home, where you will never be controlled, and you will never be betrayed.”

She’s reached him.

Pierre’s gaze drops to where their hands meet, and his focus slips away. His breathing slows and his shoulders slacken, like Filliol’s words have pulled him into some deep, dark trance. 

Alarm pricks at her nerves. “Pierre,” she says, trying to guide him out. “Look at me.”

He doesn’t. He keeps staring, so Filliol tries again. “Pierre?”

He goes completely still.

Unease crawls up Filliol’s spine. She glances back toward the guards, searching for reassurance that she’s still safe. They’re here to protect her, right?

But even they don’t move. When Filliol turns back…

Pierre is looking straight at her.

And there is nothing gentle left in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

Filliol blinks. 

“Do what?”

“Touch.” Pierre’s fingers tighten around hers, not enough to hurt…yet. “Touching leaves an impression, and impressions attract attention. You don’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention, do you?”

Filliol pulls back her hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just trying to–”

“Interfere?” Pierre cuts in. “That’s what this always is.”

Frost floods Filliol’s chest. She swallows, forcing herself to stay steady.

“I don’t think that’s true,” she says carefully.

Pierre tilts his head. “You don’t think?”

“I don’t underst–”

He seizes her hands again, and this time, it does hurt. “Oh, you understand perfectly,” he says, voice low and insistent. “Because you’ve been listening.”

Startled, Filliol wrenches free and steps back, putting space between them. “I was only speaking with you, as is expected of us.”

“Exactly.” Pierre nods, like her resistance pleases him. “That’s the word. Expectations.”

He steps toward her. She steps back, but he mirrors her movement, reclaiming the space. “You’re expected to be perfect,” he continues softly. “Expected to be kind.” 

A pause. His eyes darken. 

“Expected…to be mine.”

What is happening? Guards?

He’s advancing again. Filliol retreats, heart hammering, to the opening gate.

“When someone is offered to a name,” Pierre’s voice drifts after her, “they don’t decide how much of themselves they give.”

“Pierre, wait–”

“Don’t deny it. There’s no stopping what we’ve started.” He reaches out, ghosting his fingertips along her hip, and with the movement, his voice drops. “What was it your father said about it being time for you to become a real woman?”

Filliol almost retches. In that moment, she sees the resemblance she hadn’t wanted to notice – the shadow left behind by an uncle and a cousin. A kind of darkness shaped early, and fed by years of silent suffering.

It’s so terrifying. Now, Filliol understands just how dangerous this dream – no, this mission – has always been.

Focus. No more fantasizing.

“Okay,” Filliol snaps, dropping the polish from her voice. “You’re not listening. I am not yours, because we are not getting married. Nothing has started.”

To that, Pierre doesn’t respond. He probably didn’t even hear her. His hands rise to the clasp in his hair, trembling as they pull it free. The piece drops to the stone path with a dull, metallic sound, letting his auburn hair spill loose around his face. When he reaches for the fastenings at his sleeves, understanding crashes down.

Not this.

Filliol’s gaze darts to the gate.

That is all it takes for Pierre to issue the command. 

“Guards,” he says calmly – pleasantly, almost. “Restrain our gorgeous guest.”

Guards?

Steel-strong hands seize Filliol’s arms, crushing the breath out of her chest. She twists, trying to pull free…

The guards aren’t here to protect her.

This isn’t happening.

Her feet leave the ground, and the world tilts. Her back slams into stone.

This isn’t–

Yes it is. Do something, Filliol. You’re a child of the Knave. Fight back.

“No!” Filliol screams, but he keeps closing in. “Pierre, I said no!”

She can’t say the word anymore. Her mouth is covered, but that single word – no – makes Pierre freeze. His fingers twitch, like deep down, his humanity is trying to override a lifetime of addiction, grooming, and violation.

To Filliol’s despair, it fails.

Pierre laughs. Laughs. “Oh, you poor thing. You really don’t understand,” he croons as he crawls over her, caging her with his arms. His shadow swallows her whole.

“‘No’ means nothing in this house.”

Don’t do this, Pierre. Don’t be like the men who broke you. “No” has to mean something to you. It has to. 

It has to.

It…

⊰══════════⊱

Chirac swears he heard a sound from the garden.

He averts his focus to look out the window. At seeing nothing, an unpleasant suspicion rises, but he smooths it down and turns back to his hosts at the table.

“Pardon me,” he says. “Sidetracked myself, as I do too often. Do continue, Lady Lefevere.”

Geneve follows his glance toward the window, though her expression doesn’t change. She stirs her tea, then resumes. “As I was saying, this union offers House d’Ete something rather…unique.” She gestures with her spoon. “Pierre’s position places him in line for considerable influence within Fontaine’s upper courts. With the right alignment, that influence could become yours as well.”

Not too bad an offer. Chirac answers it with an agreeable nod, allowing himself a moment of silence.

“In return,” he begins once he’s gathered his thoughts, “House Lefevere gains some liquidity. A portion of our Fontainian assets. Limited access to two or three of our overseas trade partners. Nothing extravagant, but it’ll steady your ship.” He leans in, sharpening his gaze. “You’re trading bureaucratic influence for a little extra coin. Does that truly sound fair to you?”

Amused, Geneve laughs.

“Oh, Lord d’Ete, please stop with the modesty. I’m not a fool.” She sets down her teacup. “We saw what you served at the theater; cuisine from half the world, perfectly sourced and prepared. That isn’t the kind of work from a house with ‘a little extra coin.’ You have reach, and you have wealth – real wealth, not the kind that vanishes the moment the markets shake.” She leans back with a self-satisfied hum. “There is no better way to secure and expand such reach than by joining hands with the most influential household in Fontaine. No one who does so leaves disappointed.”

Hm, she does pay attention. And what a pitch. If Chirac were stupider, he’d be sold, but Geneve is rather enthusiastic about seeing this through, and it’s that enthusiasm that gives her away. She wants this arrangement a bit too badly.

Either that, or worse: She’s hoping for an outcome in which they give nothing and gain everything, and that kind of outcome can only be achieved by removing Chirac from the equation entirely.

Chirac’s gaze drifts, just slightly, to Owen.

Still silent. That’s nothing new. He’s always been content to let his wife steer conversations, but this isn’t the same. His eyes have been tracking Chirac the entire time, from the moment he walked in to the moment Owen directed him to the specific chair he’s sitting in now.

Something is wrong. Once Chirac catches on to it, he reads the room again, letting Geneve drone on.

The problem isn’t in front of him. It’s above him, so he searches the air overheard, feeling for any disturbance. He finds it instantly, a trained presence pressed flat against the ceiling’s bones, waiting.

Chirac narrows his focus, and scans it.

Limbs braced wide. A controlled heartbeat. The soft give of lungs drawing air through a throat.

Ah.

That explains everything.

Fine. If the Lefeveres want to play that game, Chirac will play. He knows it best, after all.

Without shifting his posture or breaking eye contact with Geneve, he summons the Delusion hidden in the underside of his coat. With its power, he traces the air, following it upward into the presence’s ribcage, and the two fragile sacks within. A little down the airways is all he needs, and patiently, he lets that pressure build until the sacks strain, and then…

Pop.

It isn’t a sound anyone can hear, but it’s a sensation Chirac can feel – tension snapping, and resistance collapsing. The heartbeat palpitates, then fades, leaving the presence limp against the ceiling beams.

Sleep tight, whoever you are. With that problem solved, Chirac redirects his full attention to the table, helping himself to more tea.

“Funny,” he remarks after Geneve has finally paused. “Our children seem to have run off.”

Geneve hums. “That’d be a strange thing for Pierre to do.”

“It’s hard to know what strange things go on in our children’s heads.” Chirac lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “But what does it matter? As long as they’re alive and walking, yes?”

That earns him a pause.

Geneve’s brow creases. “I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean.”

“Nothing, unless it means something to you,” Chirac replies. “Does it?”

Geneve’s spoon stills against her teacup.

“You tell me,” she says coolly. “And while you’re at it, perhaps you’d care to elaborate on why you’re really here.”

“To arrange a marriage between my daughter and your son. Stability has its appeal, especially after a disruption like Everett’s disappearance.” Chirac sighs, shaking his head as though he’s lamenting a shared inconvenience. “I hate to see a house stall when its wheels should be turning.”

That one line from Conan’s letter changes the entire room. 

Geneve’s demeanor doesn’t crack, but her hands lace together more tightly around her teacup. “I don’t follow.”

“Hm?” Chirac says, mildly as ever. “Oh, just a turn of phrase one of your relatives was rather fond of.”

A shadow passes behind Owen’s eyes, but Geneve covers it with her words. “That’s a rather vivid way to put it. Everett never spoke that way.”

“Then I suppose I’m not referring to Everett.” Chirac gives a small, dismissive wave, as though correcting a trivial error. “Though I could be misremembering. The mind has a habit of blending things together, especially things you’ve read.”

Geneve’s brightness dims. “You’ve done quite a bit of reading for someone here to discuss a marriage.”

“I like to understand how a house moves before I consider binding my own to it,” Chirac replies, still pleasant-toned. “That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”

Geneve lifts her teacup, studying him over the glossy rim. “What’s reasonable – and fair – is honesty with the people you expect to benefit from.”

“Fairness has never been a rule of the game,” Chirac chuckles. “If it was, your house would’ve lost decades ago.”

“And you’d have won?” Geneve sneers. “Is that what you’re implying, knowing full well that this entire conversation has been you lying through your teeth?”

Chirac tilts his head. “Me? Lying?” He exhales, letting his expression slip into a show of hurt. “Words can be cruel, dear lady. You must learn to be gentler with them.”

“Don’t be juvenile, Chirac.”

Owen speaking up? That’s new. The room stills at the sound of his voice, which startles even his wife. “You know as well as we do that this meeting was never going to end amicably.”

Chirac quirks a brow. “Is that supposed to be my fault?”

“It is,” Owen’s eyes darken, “when you walk into someone’s home with the intent to destroy it.”

About time they got past the pretend-diplomacy. Chirac doesn’t look away, maintaining the same unrepentant grin.

“A-plus, Lord Lefevere. You’re spot on.”

Owen smiles. “Is that so?”

He rises from his chair, and good gods, is he one behemoth of a man. He towers over Chirac like a brute ready to break all of his bones, but Chirac doesn’t so much as blink. He remains exactly where he is, and when Owen notices, he is not pleased.  

“Posturing won’t save you. Your deception was known the moment you entered our chambers,” Owen says. “However…despite your treachery, House Lefevere has much to offer you in exchange for your surrender. You have fifteen seconds to reconsider your position, after which we will proceed with the necessary action against you.” His eyes bore into Chirac’s – brown to vermillion. “Choose wisely.”

Finally, Chirac shifts, but only to lean back and drape an arm over the side of his chair. His eyes drift lazily between Owen and Geneve in a refusal so casual it borders on being insulting.

The silence stretches. One second. Two seconds. Five. Ten. Fifteen.

Owen exhales through his nose. “Very well,” he says while his wife lets out a quiet snicker. “You’ve made your decision.”

He raises his hand and snaps his fingers.

Nothing happens.

Owen’s expression tightens. He snaps again, sharper this time.

Still nothing.

Slowly, he looks up. Confusion breaks through the stone set of his face as he realizes the presence he’d been relying on is no longer alive.

Chirac twirls his teacup between his fingers. “Oh,” he says idly, as if the thought has only just occurred to him. “Was that signal meant for me, or for your friend in the ceiling?” He glances upward, pleasantly curious. “Because if it was for them…”

With a sharp crack, the ceiling gives way. Plaster and dust explode downward as a body crashes through, slamming into the table between them. Glass shatters. Porcelain splinters. Red spreads across the spotless floors as the masked assassin – fully covered, throat slack, and eyes already gone – lies in a heap of broken shards.

After the room has quieted down, Chirac calmly finishes his sentence. “…then I’m afraid I have bad news.”

For a long moment, Geneve says nothing. She stares at the corpse, mouth parted, as the color drains from her face. Then the reality hits, and a sharp, panicked gasp tears out of her.

That sound is all the rest of the hidden figures need. Secret panels slide open and shadows detach from the walls. Guards surge from alcoves with raised guns and drawn daggers, training the entire assault on Chirac.

Now that gets his heart going. Chirac drops his teacup and releases a resigned exhale. No violence unless in self-defense, their contract with the Iudex dictates. Well they were beyond self-defense minutes ago.

The Delusion answers Chirac’s call without a sound, a flash, or a warning. Quickly, he finds each airway, and crushes.

One after another, the guards crumble where they stand, dropped by invisible pressure that collapses their throats from the inside. Some don’t even finish their step, and others reach up too late, clawing uselessly at skin that shows no mark of injury. Boots and weapons clatter as bodies hit the floor in uneven rhythm.

Then, dead silence. Blood seeps across the shattered table, pooling around broken porcelain and glass. The attempt on Chirac’s life is over in an instant.

He turns back to the Lefeveres.

“Despite your many crimes, the House of the Hearth has much to offer you in exchange for your surrender,” he says lightly, echoing the patriarch’s earlier demand. “You have fifteen seconds to reconsider your position, after which I will proceed with the necessary action against you.”

As Chirac approaches the shocked couple, a current of air coils around him, tearing curtains free from their ties and toppling vases from their countertops. 

He stops directly in front of them.

“Choose wisely.”

They say nothing. One second. Two seconds. Five. Ten. Fifteen.

Chirac exhales once, tightening the air. “Fine,” he says, voice flat. “You’ve made your decision.”

The pressure surges, forcing itself into their throats. Geneve gasps, clawing at nothing. Owen staggers…

Then snaps. He lunges forward, locking his arms around Geneve as if his body alone can shield her from the invisible force. “Alright!” he coughs, barely forcing sound past the crushing air. “Alright, we surrender!”

Attaboy. Chirac just knew the big man would come around.

Once released, Owen sags, no longer the towering figure who ruled the room moments ago. Now he’s disheveled and shaken, clutching his wife like a lifeline. He looks up at Chirac, eyes wide and raw. “What…do you want?”

Chirac leans in.

“First, you’ll help me retrieve the children,” he commands. “Everything else, you’ll discuss with my boss.”

⊰══════════⊱

Chirac opens the gate to the secluded path of the garden, and finds a sight he hopes doesn’t mean what he thinks it means.

Filliol sits upright on a stone bench along the path, wringing her hands in her lap. Her posture is perfect – squared shoulders, lifted chin, straightened spine. On the contrary, one sleeve of her gown is creased as if it’d been gripped and smoothed again in a hurry. What was once a neat bow is now a shriveled ribbon that hangs loose, allowing strands of her brown hair to fall forward and pool on her misaligned gloves.

Someone is trying very hard to look perfectly fine.

She does not look up when Chirac approaches and asks “Where’s Pierre?”

Filliol blinks. “He left.”

“Why?” Chirac presses. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Your surroundings are telling a different story.”

“Nothing happened,” she repeats sharply. She turns her head away, angling her gaze toward the far end of the path where the garden bends out of sight. Her voice softens. “Before anything did, he stopped.”

Owen steps forward. “And where is he now?”

“Gone.”

Owen scowls. “Gone where?”

“He didn’t say where.” Filliol’s fingers tighten once in her lap before stilling again. “He just said that he can’t live in a place where no one listens or cares when he says no.”

The change in Geneve is immediate. Warmth drains from her face as though it was never there to begin with, replaced by venomous fury. Her accusatory gaze cuts into Filliol.

“What did you do, you lying little stain?” she hisses. “Pierre would never–”

“That’s enough from you,” Chirac cuts her off before she makes this any worse. He’s relieved when she actually snaps her mouth shut. “Filliol, did he say anything else?”

Filliol straightens, smoothing her gown down her leg. She draws in a slow breath. “He said…” Finally, she looks at Owen and Geneve. Really looks at them. “that he loves you, and that he’s sorry. But it hurts, and he can’t take it anymore.” She blinks once. Then turns her gaze aside again, as if watching him disappear all over again. “Then he left.”

Owen’s composure splinters with hints of what might be genuine concern. “And you let him?”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to stop him.”

“You could have convinced him to stay.”

“I tried.” Filliol’s fingers loosen in her lap. “‘No’ was his answer, and I wanted to respect it. I think it might be the first time anyone ever has.”

Chirac reins in the agitation building in his chest. “Aren’t you a thoughtful young lady.” Not what he wanted to say, but he doesn’t like to scold.

Even through Chirac’s tone, Filliol must have heard the suppressed reprimand. “I know it was a mistake,” she admits, looking up at him with eyes that plead for understanding, “but he just wanted to be free. You wouldn’t have stopped him, would you?”

Yes, Filliol. That’s exactly what Chirac would’ve done.

By now, Owen is holding his temple, and as much as Chirac hates to agree with the man, he admittedly isn’t too far from sharing the same sentiment. Pierre, an unstable variable, now on the loose because Filliol chose a naive virtue over his safe containment. The thought is so unsettling that for a while, Chirac can’t even speak. 

And he won’t, he decides. He can’t say he doesn’t understand the decision, but the Knave… 

What would she think?

Keep controlling the boy, or let him finally choose. It will be a while before Chirac is able to decide which was truly the right thing to do.

“Fine,” he says at last, turning back toward the gate. “We’re finished here.”

⊰══════════⊱

That evening, after they’ve contained the Lefeveres and returned to the hotel, Chirac asks Filliol on several occasions if she needs medical attention.

Despite the hand-shaped bruises around her wrists, she denies it every time.

⊰══════════⊱

Only two Lefeveres, when they were supposed to contain three. Arlecchino expects an explanation for this.

Not long after she’s taken her seat in the conference room, Chirac enters, pen in one hand, folder in the other. Once he’s approached the table, he sets down and opens the folder, spreading out documents of their summarized mission. Quietly, he sorts through the sheets, bringing one from the bottom of the stack to the top without making a hint of eye contact with the woman across from him.

Arlecchino remains still, letting him finish his fidgeting until he stops and brings his gaze to hers.

Arlecchino taps a nail to the table. “You should know what I’m going to ask.”

“Pierre didn’t escape,” Chirac answers so quickly that Arlecchino is certain he rehearsed the discussion before arriving. “He was released.” 

“By you?”

“I authorized the decision.”

“But did you make the decision?”

Chirac sighs. “Filliol did what she thought was the right thing, and I didn’t disagree.”

He should have. Arlecchino returns to tapping her nail against the table. Outside the room, the fire in the hearth chamber flares, scattering stray motes of light across the walls. For that entire spell of silence, Arlecchino doesn’t so much as blink.

“The right thing, to her, was to release an emotionally unstable liability to our operation?” 

“The right thing, in that moment, was to refrain from using force.” Chirac says. “We had no legal reason for it, so retrieving Pierre against his will would’ve been kidnapping. A crime, which would’ve placed us in direct violation of the very terms you negotiated with the Iudex.”

“Your reasoning is correct,” Arlecchino folds her arms, “and an indicator that you would forfeit operational security for the sake of what the law finds agreeable.”

Chirac has busied his hands again, this time by twirling his pen. “Pierre’s freedom isn’t a risk we can’t mitigate,” he says. “We have his parents' cooperation, and we know his household’s patterns. So if – if – he becomes a threat, tracking him down won’t even be difficult.” The pen stops between his fingers, then resumes twirling. “Time-consuming, sure, but not difficult.”

Arlecchino appraises him, clinking her heel against the floor. The sound applies pressure, but he holds his ground. “Regardless of Pierre’s presence or absence, the mission objective was met,” he continues, removing the topmost document from the folder. “Exceeded, actually.”

Shifting his focus, Chirac lies two documents on the face of the folder, then slides it across the table to present to Arlecchino. When she opens it, she finds, typed and signed in unmistakable penmanship, an agreement surrendering all that the Lefeveres own to House d’Ete.

If nothing else, it proves that Chirac has done his part. Despite the one loose end, the mission was indeed a success, but a contract was not the primary objective, not for Arlecchino. She can hardly be satisfied knowing that this came at the cost of someone who could’ve been another Hearth child.

She lowers the folder, bringing her scorching gaze back to Chirac. “You released a child into a world that eats children alive.”

“Legally, he’s an adult.”

Don’t even. “Mentally, he is a child. A damaged, distraught child who is unfit to care for himself because he is suffering from an addiction forced onto him by his own relatives.”

“He said no,” Chirac insists. “What do you expect me to do, Peruere? Hold him hostage? I couldn’t have stopped him regardless; he was gone by the time I reached his location.”

That’s one excuse too many. Arlecchino leaves her chair and paces to the filing cabinet; anything she can do to create some distance before she incinerates this man where he stands. She trails her hand along the orderly row of documented profiles, and each flit of paper is like filing a red-hot sheet of anger into the compartment where it belongs. Clean, crisp order of the mind. Arlecchino does not speak again until she has achieved it.

How can she even be frustrated? She’s the one who told her operatives to stay within Neuvillette’s lines. If she wanted them to determine for themselves where some of those lines are drawn, perhaps she should have said so.

Lesson learned.

Once the mental smoke clears, she stops her hand over a file that’s still in the making, then pulls it free from the row. “What I expect you to do,” she says, approaching Chirac with Pierre Lefevere’s dossier, “is find him.” She sets the dossier on the table with enough force for the landing to echo outside the conference room. “No child should disappear without a guardian to search for them.”

Without flinching, Chirac swipes up and examines the dossier’s contents. When he’s skimmed through each sheet of Pierre’s unfinished profile, he lets his attention drift over the folder’s edge.

What settles into his expression isn’t defiance, exactly, but a kind of certainty, like he’s happily accepting a challenge. As he closes the file, that expression lifts into a confident smile. 

“And no child will.”

⊰══════════⊱

There are kind invitations, and then there are irrefusable summonings. Owen has interacted with his elder siblings long enough to know the difference, and the letter Chirac handed them was certainly not the former.

Their designated meeting place and temporary residence is a secluded two-bedroom house on the outskirts of the Court of Fontaine, furnished and “gifted” to them by that fire-eyed lord. No one tends to walk these streets, so you’ll have peace and quiet aplenty, he’d said with that sunny smile Owen has come to loathe. Do enjoy your stay.

There is nothing to enjoy about this place. It’s far too cramped and far too quiet. In a home, there are supposed to be the footsteps of attendants, the occasional requests for the homeowner’s attention, the winds tossing vines in the outdoor garden – a controlled sort of quiet, not this crushing vacuum that’s only made more unbearable by Geneve’s incessant rambling.

“It was Conan’s job to keep this under control,” she says, pacing to the living room window. “We weren’t even supposed to see this, and if we did, not for long. But he just had to drop dead, didn’t he?” She huffs, pressing her nails into her forearms. “How could this even happen? How could Everett have been so reckless? How could Blaire be so blind? How could Pierre…”

Pierre. The name that’s been on Owen’s mind since the nineteen year old it belongs to disappeared. He stares at the space between his knees, where there is nothing. No home. No future. No son.

Geneve’s footsteps clack to the opposite side of the room. “We did everything that was asked of us, gave up everything we could have given, and look where we still ended up.” A bitter scoff. “We were everything they needed. Now, where are they when we need them?”

Pierre, did you foresee this? Is this what you were waiting for? 

“The city will chew us up over this. We’ll be laughingstocks.”

Pierre, where did you go?

“Our legacy…”

Pierre, why is your father so foolish?

“We have to at least preserve that.”

Pierre, why won’t your mother stop talking long enough…

“When we leave this prison…”

…to let…

“...our first priority must be the Steambird.”

…your father…

“We still have insiders in their editorial staff.”

think?

“We can–”

“Geneve.”

At last, she’s quiet, and Owen’s thoughts have room to form. His eyes stay on the empty space between his knees.

“Our lives are in danger. Our son is missing. And your only concern…” Slowly, he brings his gaze to Geneve’s worry-wrought face, “is who might talk about it?”

Geneve clenches her forearms. As she stares back at Owen, the distress in her eyes grows into outright terror.

“You know this city. You know how it always starts,” she says. Through her words, Owen can hear the tears building, and how she pushes just enough strength into her voice to shove them down. “First, a ripple – an observation that turns into a whisper that turns into a rumor that turns into a headline, and once it's a headline, we're done for.” A shaky breath. “Out come the wolves. Out come the bears. Out come the snakes to hunt us down, rip us open and feast on our hearts. Out comes Blaire from whatever shadow she's hiding in to take what's left of us, scowl at it, and throw it to the wastelands.” She covers her mouth, but still, her words tumble over themselves in a stream of panic. “Then, out come the insects and maggots to take their final share, and once we're broken down to grime, it's only a matter of time before the world finds Pierre and does the same thing to him.”

Rapid breaths break through the openings in her trembling fingers. When she blinks, the tears in her eyes finally slip free, marring her once flawless makeup with long, dark streaks. 

“Us, torn apart. Our baby, torn apart. Everything we defended, torn apart.” As she lowers her head, her voice weakens to a whimper. “What then? How do we even fight that? What do we do?” she sobs, sinking to the floor and burying her face in her hands. “Oh, gods. What do we do? What do we do? What do we do?”

What can they do? They’ve played every hand they had. Owen doesn’t have the answer his wife is crying for, so he gives none, letting his gaze slump back between his knees.

“Say something!” Geneve screams at him. “Try to care!”

“I do care.”

“No you don’t.”

“Because I won’t let Blaire sell us out?” Owen argues back. “Because I won’t give any more of myself to this pack of cannibals?”

“That pack is your pack now,” Geneve keeps fighting. Archons, the stubbornness of this woman. “You have a duty to it whether you like it or not.”

Owen shakes his head. “I reject that duty.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Blaire did!” Owen snaps. “She rejected her duty when she left the rest of us to clean up this mess made by the son she refused to discipline.”

“Oh, don’t tell that old story again,” Geneve hisses. “She protected Everett because she didn’t know.”

Really? Is that what Geneve has convinced herself? “She knew,” Owen says through gritted teeth. “How could she not, with the rumors that kept piling up over the years? Do you really think a dozen people are telling the same false ‘story’?” Owen narrows his eyes. “Do you think Pierre was telling a lie?”

Geneve’s expression wavers, but she steadies it. “She’s your sister. You would choose a secret over your sister?”

“You would choose a traitor over your son?”

That, Geneve doesn’t answer, and Owen prays that the silence doesn’t mean she would.

She shrinks, and as she does, Owen stands. “‘She’s your sister.’ Well, she may be more your sister than mine, because sovereigns, do you sound just like her,” he goes on, closing in on his wife. “When Pierre cried in my office about the first incident with Everett, I went to her, and what she told me made me want to beat her to death.” 

His sister’s words rise in his throat like bile. 

“‘Everett is your nephew. Your family. Do not speak ill of your family if you wish to continue having one.’”

Letting those words hang, he stops in front of Geneve.

“Do those sound like the words of a true sister?”

Geneve doesn’t answer. She just stares past him, trying to build a wall between herself and his words. But Owen doesn’t allow her. Each brick of denial she lays, he crushes.

“She knew everything Everett was, and she still let him do whatever he wanted to whoever he wanted, including our son.” Stop shaking your head, Geneve. You know what the truth is. “They are not family to me. When Everett died, I was relieved. When Conan died, I nearly jumped for joy. Blaire has been dead to me for a decade now. I did not love them, or the empire they built.” 

The admission is a weight off his shoulders, and with that weight gone, Owen can finally soften his words. He lowers himself in front of Geneve, looking her in the eyes.

 “But I do love you and Pierre, and if I want to keep you, I need to comply.” He takes her hands. “Stop fighting, Geneve. There's nothing to lose anymore; the empire has fallen. All that remains is what matters.”

The words pull another sob from Geneve. She draws it back, releasing a shaky exhale. “I can’t.”

“We can, and we will.” Owen lifts her to her feet, and in slow steps, walks her back to the chair on the opposite side of the room. “Compose yourself, sit with me, and do what you must do to save what’s left of our family.”

With the last of her willpower gone, Geneve gives in. She sits and leans against the back of the chair, wiping her tears as she stares ahead at nothing. Owen takes his place beside her, and as he watches the door, the cold reality settles in.

They truly have lost the game.

⊰══════════⊱

Owen and Geneve are not half as savage as their relatives are. Arlecchino sees that the moment she opens the door to their new home.

They sit on the sofa together, almost huddling, like two animals braced for a threat greater than themselves. Owen’s attention doesn’t leave her, tracking her as she crosses the room. Geneve, by contrast, stares through the far wall with unfocused eyes.

Arlecchino doesn’t speak right away. She lays down the files, aligning them against the edge of the cocktail table in the center of the small room. After sitting down, she addresses the couple.

“Hello.”

The greeting, cordial as it was, isn’t returned. Rather than respond, Owen continues studying her from the cut in her collar to the glint in her heel. Slowly, recognition drifts over him like a dark cloud. 

“Everett’s killer,” he says at last. “It must have been you.”

Arlecchino folds her hands. “What gives you that impression?”

“What doesn’t?” Owen huffs humorlessly. “Chirac was monstrous in his own way, but you? You look like the kind of person who could kill a man the way Everett was killed…and enjoy it.”

What he expects is a tell – any show of denial or pride that will give away the truth. Arlecchino offers him none of it. “That was a rather careless way to speak of your nephew’s passing,” she says, even-toned.

“He was no nephew to me,” Owen replies. “Just a man with whom I happened to share blood and secrets.”

Secrets, he says? In response, Arlecchino slides a single file across the table and opens it. Inside are nothing but blank pages, empty canvases on which the couple can paint their sins. She produces a pen and sets it atop the paper, then nudges it toward Owen.

“Not for long,” she says. “Write down every secret you share with your nephew and your siblings. If you do that, I’m willing to consider extending you an olive branch.”

The pen rests between them. Owen's eyes shift between it and her. 

A sigh later, his decision is made. Despite his distaste for the command disguised as a suggestion, Owen reaches for the pen. At first, he only stares at the white page.

Soon, one line.

Then, a pause.

Then, another line that pulls another line, and another – memories accessed by the mere act of writing them down. A moment of guilt stills the pen, but that guilt soon morphs to urgency that only spurs the pen onward until the entire page is filled. 

After that, he doesn’t stop. He pushes the first sheet aside for another, spilling confessions in paragraphs that gradually become less and less even. His hands must ache by the time he reaches the final sheet, but still, he writes.

The final line he adds is the signature that binds his identity to every word.

Owen Lefevere

Evidence, on paper, in writing. To Owen, this must be damnation, but so is every other option. Being a wiser man, he chose the option that gives them the best odds of survival. Arlecchino can give him credit for that much. 

She takes back the stack and reads over the writing’s contents. It isn’t focused, more a hasty overview of House Lefevere’s dealings over the last decade, but it’s more than enough leverage to satisfy her.

Until it isn’t. 

After the second sheet, Arlecchino eyes stop moving. She lowers the pages and looks at Owen again. “You were instructed to disclose every secret.”

Owen’s brow furrows. “I have.”

“And yet, we appear to be missing the most crucial piece of the puzzle.” Arlecchino taps a nail to the offending paragraph. “The chemist who manufactured the Sinthe; the correspondent whose identity Conan redacted from his letters. What is their name?”

“I don’t know.”

The temperature in the room climbs just enough to be a silent warning.

“Lying to me is ill-advised, Owen.”

“That wasn’t a lie,” Owen says quietly. He looks away, toward anything that isn’t Arlecchino. “Those three kept us in the dark about any matter that wasn’t ours to handle. Now, the two men who knew the correspondent are dead, and Blaire has vanished without a single word regarding her whereabouts. Probe me all you wish, but I cannot give information I don’t have.”

It seems plausible, and Owen’s tone holds no hint of deception, but Arlecchino cannot let that remain unresolved. “Why would they withhold that information from you?” she asks.

Owen’s shoulders draw in. The composure he’s been forcing fractures just enough to reveal the resentment beneath. “Personal grudges,” he answers. “Blaire had her reservations about us, particularly following an…incident…between her son and ours.”

The matter alluded to in Conan’s letter, he means. That truth, she will not allow them to tiptoe around. Arlecchino stops him before he can distance himself from it. “‘Incident’?”

“An…assault,” Owen clarifies, looking away once again.

“And who was the first to report this assault?”

“Pierre.”

“To who?”

“To me.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him what any man of my house would have told a son carrying that kind of reputational poison.”

Arlecchino narrows her eyes. “Say the words.”

Silence. Owen’s eyes drift to the space between his knees.

He exhales. “‘Everett is family. A Lefevere does not speak ill of his family.’”

Some parents they are. Heat smolders in Arlecchino’s nerves, strong enough to have been sensed by the Lefeveres. Immediately, Owen tenses. “You’d have done something different, I presume.”

“That goes without question,” Arlecchino says with seething calm. “Pierre is your child.”

“And Everett is Blaire’s child,” Geneve snaps to attention to say. “We couldn't just retaliate, especially not with Conan holding a knife to our necks.”

Arlecchino leans forward. “You could have kept Pierre hidden; sent him away; claimed that he was unfit to participate in their studies. Anything but let him suffer to save yourselves.”

“Saving ourselves saves Pierre as well,” Geneve keeps arguing. “You'd understand our position if you had children of your own.”

Lyney. Lynette. Freminet. Filliol. Nanteuil. Lanz. Lias. Neil. Chapleau. Marlea. Kaori. Dozens of names, dozens of little souls wounded by people who make the same excuses Geneve does. With each one that comes to mind, the heat in Arlecchino’s nerves pulses.

“Perhaps I do,” she says. “And perhaps I would scorch the world for them if just one of them gave me a good enough reason.”

Silenced again, Geneve shrivels back in her chair, while her husband only nods.

“I’d do the same for my child,” he says. “Unfortunately, the world I was born in is made of steel, and steel doesn’t burn.” 

“Indeed it doesn’t,” Arlecchino replies. “But it does melt, if the heat is strong enough.”

Owen’s gaze drops, and Geneve cannot bring herself to meet Arlecchino’s eyes. She argues no more, because there is nothing left to argue.

One son is dead. The other wanders the world alone, not too far from meeting the same fate. The latter fact would be reason enough for an execution in Arlecchino’s crueler book, but culling these two is far beyond the limits she negotiated, and wholly unnecessary. Enough of this household has perished already, so these two will be left to live with the aftermath of their choices. That is Arlecchino’s verdict.

“For the rest of your lives, you are to remain under our close surveillance,” she decides. “As our vassal house, you will answer to us and do whatever we ask of you, or your next place of residence will be a cell in the Fortress of Meropide.” She stands, gathering her evidence. “Consider this your olive branch.”

A beast stripped of its shimmering pelt and forced to serve its hunter. With her judgement delivered, Arlecchino exits the home, leaving that beast in the ruin it created. 

⊰══════════⊱

This time, Arlecchino has what the Iudex seeks. 

Spread across his desk is their compiled case file of undeniable evidence, now including all operational and financial records from the Sinthe storage and distribution facility. Neuvillette takes his time looking them over, scanning each and every line.

“These are sufficient,” Neuvillette says once finished. “But you agreed to obtain them without the use of violence. What, then, of the bodies discovered at the estate?”

“The Lefeveres have confirmed that all acts of violence occurred without their authorization,” Arlecchino answers. “The guards engaged Chirac under no order from their supervisors, requiring an act of self-defense to preserve his life. Owen’s account to the Marechaussee Phantom matches this testimony, as they have stated, under oath, that the guards acted outside their command.”

A half-lie, but anyone who would have been willing to contest it is dead. Still, Arlecchino adds, “To the poor maid who discovered it, it must have been a shocking scene. Unfortunately, our house is not responsible for it.”

Above them, the clock ticks. Neuvillette’s eyes return to the documents. 

Eventually, he nods. “No charges will be filed. Your operative acted within his rights.”

Good. Getting past that hurdle was Arlecchino’s first objective. On to the next.

“There is another conclusion we’ve drawn. It extends beyond the Lefeveres,” she says, redirecting the conversation. “We have reason to believe that Sinthe contains a component of particular interest to you.” Her voice drops. “Primordial seawater.”

Neuvillette’s gaze sharpens. Tension threads his otherwise composed posture. “I sensed as much.”

“Then you know why I presented it to you in the first place.”

“I know the reason you provided, but I suspect there is another.”

“You’d be correct.” Arlecchino looks to the clock on the wall. Always ticking, counting Fontaine’s seconds. “Your nation’s destruction was prophesied to be brought about by the very water that the Lefeveres were peddling. Decades have passed, and still I see no movement from the Archon.”

“As she has assured our nation many times, Lady Furina has a plan,” Neuvillette replies. “Fontaine will be saved.”

That answer is not a true one. Only the same empty assurance recited in the same empty tone. Arlecchino stifles the heat building in her hands. “I take that to mean that the Archon hasn’t disclosed her master plan to you.” 

“The matter is confidential, but of utmost urgency to Fontaine’s upper jurisdiction,” Neuvillette says evenly. “Any licit assistance from your house is welcomed and appreciated, but the law will not excuse you if you go beyond the bounds of proper justice, regardless of what your intent is.”

“‘Proper’ justice.” Arlecchino nearly laughs. “And what is proper justice? Turning a blind eye to a rotten house just because they can wear a mask of lawfulness? Stringing out a nation’s hope with false promises, until the deluge they fear wipes them out? Lawfulness is hardly justice. Too often, in fact, it’s just a veil.”

“You’re correct,” Neuvillette agrees. Interesting. “A veil is not justice. Nor is a false promise, or a blade swung with no accountability to follow the trail of blood it leaves. Proper justice is justice that can be named, proven, and answered for.” 

His expression darkens.

“But what you want,” he continues, “is permission to act without consequence. You will receive none from me. Continue to bring me what you can prove, but if you step outside the law to do it, I will stop you as I would stop any other threat to Fontaine’s order.”

Now that was a true answer. For a while, Arlecchino has to ponder it. Perhaps the Iudex does know her, and clearly, he has taken his stance. 

Fair enough. She is not foolish enough to make an enemy of him. There are better ways to fight this battle. “Fine,” she concedes. “The ‘proper’ way it is.”

As she stands and makes to exit, she leaves one final thought on his table. “If justice were proper, the Lefeveres would not exist, and neither would I nor my house. We are all here because at some point, your precious ‘order’ failed, and when it inevitably fails again, someone will need to rebalance the scales.”

A duty that Arlecchino takes great pride in carrying out. At the thought, she turns her back to hide the smirk spreading across her face. 

“I hope you at least have a plan for that, Chief Justice.”

⊰══════════⊱

Arlecchino first learned to hunt in the field of her own home.

She stands there now, alone, on the old grounds where the Hearth children once played their games. This is where the idea took root, out here where brothers were instructed to chase down sisters while their teachers watched from the sidelines.

What a twisted system. More twisted, in some ways, than House Lefevere. And like that noble house, it did not survive her.

Owen and Geneve had one choice. Their son, or their name. They made the worst choice, and now, they’ve lost both. One choice could’ve put Everett in prison, or Pierre in a true home. One choice could’ve changed that family’s entire fate.

One choice.

The same could’ve been true in the past, when House did not quite mean home and Mother did not quite mean guardian. One choice, one decision made a month sooner…

Could it have saved more of Peruere’s siblings? Could it?

Someone is here. He is just as swept in his own thoughts as she is in hers, though he thinks his little cloak of shadow can hide it. Arlecchino always knows where her operatives are, even when she pretends not to.

She inclines her head in his direction, finding him easily despite his attempt to blend in among the walls. “I thought you'd have done away with that old trick by now.”

Chirac sighs. His shadow cloak unfurls from around him, revealing sunny colors that stand in stark contrast to the darkness he’d used to conceal himself. “I like it,” he says. “It’s one of the first House’s rare gifts.”

“Gifts” is not the term Arlecchino would use. She walks ahead, having caught sight of an odd patch of growth on the ground ahead. “You’ve always had an odd perspective regarding the first Knave.”

“Learned it from a long-gone sister,” Chirac’s voice drifts after her. “If that psycho’s daughter could find decent things to say about her, there’s no reason why I can’t do the same.”

Long-gone indeed. The visage of said sister is a heavy enough memory to weigh down the entire field.

Immediately, Chirac attempts to lighten it with a helf-serious remark. “You could stand to try out some of her optimism. You’re a real downer sometimes.”

“One of us has to be a disciplined leader,” Arlecchino deadpans. “And you seem more interested in jokes and women than the dozens of children under your instruction.”

“That’s not even true,” Chirac scoffs, folding his arms. “You’re always mean to me.”

“Find something to do, Chirac.” Arlecchino’s attention shifts from him to the growth poking out of the ground. “Perhaps rearrange your office for the third time this month. You do clean better than you teach.”

“Like I said,” Chirac says, surrounding himself in shadows, “always mean to me.”

In a gust of wind, Chirac sweeps out of the area, leaving Arlecchino alone to sink back into her contemplation. It’s bold of him to speak to her like an acquaintance, but her operatives were her siblings before they were her subordinates. Despite the trouble that comes with leading a household of steel-willed fighters, Peruere is glad that she does not have to do so alone.

In front of her, she’s just noticed, is the emerging stem of what will soon be the coming season’s first lumidouce bells. Clervie’s favorite flower. Lynette’s favorite scent. A blossom’s blessing passed from one generation to another.

It will last, if Peruere makes the right choices.

She closes her eyes. Behind her eyelids, a grim blot of crimson attempts to spread. She smothers it, because sorrow only causes one to waver. In its stead, she conjures an image of the lumidouce bells, fully bloomed and standing tall in the sunlight. 

“We are different,” she tells the blossom.

Her promise may be true, because when she opens her eyes, the stem is not dead.