#hope i didn't come off too grumpy lol i am still a bit sick but feeling better

[ladynestaarcheron]

The Deal - Chapter One - Summer

ao3 - master post

as promised, chapter one today, even though the cost was my writing 6k words in an afternoon RIP me i thought this was going to be a lot shorter lol. enjoy!

---

When Nesta awakes, she knows she had a peaceful dream, she is in the House, and Cassian is by her side. She nearly smiles, more content than she's felt in living memory--when slowly, but not scarily, she remembers.

The scrying yesterday...it had left her mind bare and vulnerable and the Cauldron had taken advantage. She doesn't feel the pain now, but remembers that she felt it. Cassian, still asleep in the chair, had come in because of her screams. And...Rhysand?

Cassian rouses soon after, asks her how she's feeling. What is she supposed to say?

"Rhys is going to join us for breakfast," he tells her.

Nesta tries not to make a habit of swearing. But fuck.

He had, it must be said, comforted her last night. Left her in peace. Even though she was too tired to look, she knew the place was beautiful. She felt warm and safe and her pain had been entirely forgotten. Generous, she supposes. He had not needed to do that. But it's not as though they're friends now. Nesta knows what's coming. A lecture--at best. A reprimand for letting her magic run amok, for endangering Cassian and Azriel and maybe even the priestesses, for being so out of control she needed someone else, him, to come and pull her out of her own mind. It'll probably just be to scare her. They won't actually chuck her into the Prison. But that's where the threats will go, she's certain.

The peace of her dream fades completely by the time she trudges into the dining room. Cassian is there. And Rhys. They both stand when she enters.

"Good morning, Nesta," Rhys says. "How are you feeling?"

Nesta narrows her eyes. Cordial...even pleasant. "Fine."

"Glad to hear it." He smiles at her. Real, not mocking.

Nesta keeps her hands at her sides when she sits. Cassian chooses a spot next to her.

"Coffee or tea?"

"Nes is picky. I'll get it." Cassian flashes her a grin, which she doesn't return.

Buttering her up for something, that's clearly what this is about. But what?

Cassian and Rhys make idle conversation, accepting her short, one-word answers and not making a fuss over them. Cassian does nudge her until she's eaten to his satisfaction, though, but the smothering ends there. It's not how she'd like to spend her morning, but it's not too bad, until--

"Cass, could you give me a moment with Nesta?"

Cassian squeezes her thigh under the table and nods encouragingly at her. Her heart skips--for him or Rhys, she does not know.

---

Nesta's eyes are precisely the same shade as Feyre's, and yet always appear different. More gray. Lifeless, or afraid. Rhys has never seen her smile.

"I want to offer you something," he says.

Nesta's face tightens. "You want to offer me something?"

"Something I offer everyone. And I...had not thought to offer it to you. I apologize."

Nesta's brow quirks. He grimaces inwardly.

"I know that you've...experienced a lot of pain," he starts, in a careful voice. She freezes anyway. He continues, undeterred, "I can take the pain away. If you want."

Nesta's head tilts to the door, where Cassian is waiting outside. She shifts her gaze back to Rhys--not lifeless, not scared, but intelligent. "You can take it away?"

He nods slowly. "I can...make you forget."

It's something he offers them. All of them. All the females, when they come here. But he had never really considered Nesta a female who had come here, even though it was his idea to bring her. She was always something else entirely. His mistake. But he can right it now.

"You can make me forget?" she repeats, as she's been doing this whole morning. She frowns a little, different than her usual scowl, more curiosity than ire. Then she sucks in her lip, eyes widening. "Yes," she says. "Yes. All of it. Do it now."

"All right," he says, calm. Most females turn him down, too frightened, but Rhys doesn't judge either way. He isn't sure what he expected of Nesta, honestly. "It won't hurt. I just need you to lower your shields--"

"No," she says, standing. "I mean...all of it." Her eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world, stripped of any joy, stare at him with such urgency. Her hands clasp themselves tightly in front of her lips--pleading. "All of it, Rhysand."

His lips tug down. "Yes, I can make you forget it all--"

"All of it," she insists again. "I mean everything."

Rhys nods. Sometimes, even for the females who want to have their memories erased, the idea of anyone seeing them is too painful to process and renders them inconsolable--but then he realizes what she means.

"Nesta," he says, slowly, carefully. "I don't think--"

"You don't understand," she says, hands slamming down on the table. "You--if you saw--look," she says, shields dropping entirely. "Look."

Rhys raises his head, and he does.

He braces himself for the pain he felt last night, but this is entirely different. It's so much worse.

Were he not already sitting down, Rhys thinks the wave of self-hatred that falls over him would knock him over.

It all hits him--over and over again, worse than last night. Some of it is there, yes, but clearer. The woman is her grandmother, beating her. The man is--ugh--Rhys physically recoils as he sees Nesta's fanciful ideas of love with this man, so young, so hopeful--and how he had ruined that, how he had stripped it away from along with her dress and her dignity--

And how all of it is tied to love. Such deep, unending love...for Feyre, for Elain. It's all intertwined, it can't be severed from her being.

He sees the rest, but he does not look. He knows enough.

"Nesta," he says, gently, pulling out of her head.

"You're not going to do it," she says, eyes lined with silver. "I don't believe you. You're actually not going to--then leave! Just leave!"

"Nesta, wait," he says, raising his hands. "I didn't say I'm not going to help you."

"But that's it, isn't it?"

"You don't want to lose yourself like this. You love your sisters too much. Trust me, it's worth it."

"You...why did you even offer?" she asks, voice shaking. "You weren't going to help me. And know I'm just...if I were anyone else, you would do it. It's only for Feyre that you don't."

Rhys hesitates. She's right. If it were anyone else, he would let her start her life afresh, quietly, peacefully. But she is Nesta Archeron, his mate's sister, and there's something to fight for here. "All right," he says. "I'll make you a deal."

"I don't want to hear it," Nesta says immediately, but Rhys pushes.

"Give me two months."

Nesta crosses her arms over her chest. Her eyes still shine with unshed tears. "For what?"

"To prove to you that you don't need to do this."

Nesta shakes her head vigorously. "I'm not living like this for another second--"

"One month."

"No--"

"Two weeks."

"Don't you understand what you're asking me? Don't you see how I live?"

"One week," Rhys says firmly. "One week. If at the end of the week, you still want this...I'll do it."

Nesta pauses. She wipes her eyes, then narrows them at him. "You'll do it all?"

"You have my word."

She sucks in her lip again. "What will you tell them?"

"Leave it to me," he says. "They won't have any say. I'll do it...if you give me this week."

Nesta stares at him, face once again devoid of emotion, as she considers without letting him in on her thoughts. But he knows what she'll say. That's why he started with two months, bargaining down.

"All right," she says, finally. "One week. I'll do it. And then...you have to wipe my memory clean."

"If you want," he adds.

"Yes."

The magic seals the bond between them; Rhys feels it make its mark upon his skin. He lifts his left palm: three stars, at differing heights, like the Night Court insignia. Nesta purses her lips, and Rhys stifles a grin. Hopefully she won't mind it so much by the time the week is over.

"The week starts now. Spend two days here," he tells her. "I'll come get you on Tuesday morning."

Nesta looks up from her palm. "And take me where?"

"Don't worry about that. See you in two days, Nesta."

He strolls out of the House, keeping himself leisurely while in Nesta's line of sight. Clapping his hand on Cassian's shoulder, he shows him his other palm.

Cassian swears. "What did you do?"

"I've got work," he says, ignoring him. "Stay here with Nesta. Don't leave her for two days. Don't irritate her too much."

"Oh, that's rich. She actually likes me, you know."

"I know," Rhys agrees. And without another word, he takes off into the morning.

---

The next two days pass without any word from Rhysand. Nesta doesn't see anyone else besides Cassian. They train together on the roof, but more of the stuff she enjoys than what he says is important. He's teasing, but doesn't rise to her testing bait. In on Rhys' plan, she supposes, though he doesn't mention it at all.

He spends the first night in her room, in the chair he had slept in the night before. They don't mention it; they both pretend it's normal. He asks her if she'll read him any smut. She chucks a mystery novel at him. They go to sleep.

The next day is much of the same. Not unpleasant, but not worth living life.

"You're going somewhere," Cassian says to her on the morning of the third day.

"How do you know?"

He points to the trunk packed at the foot of her bed in answer. "Shame you won't have any good-looking roommates coming along with you." He grins at her.

Nesta turns away from him, bending down to look at the trunk, to hide her face. He had stayed in the chair, ready to protect her from herself, but he had not joined her in her bed.

"Do you know where I'm going?" she asks, the contents of the trunk too diverse to pinpoint any one climate.

"No. I've been here with you. But you'll find out soon enough. I like the dress you're supposed to wear today, though," he says, pointing to wear it hangs on the wardrobe.

When Nesta is washed and changed into the lilac chiffon daygown, and breakfasts with Cassian in the dining room, Rhysand walks in.

"Ready to go?" he asks.

She glances at Cassian. "Yes."

With a wave of his hand, the trunk, brought in by Cassian, disappears. Rhysand waves them out onto the veranda. Nesta's stomach clenches--they'll have to fly. She had forgotten.

But neither of the males seem to notice anything amiss. Cassian bends down to kiss her cheek--in front of Rhysand--and says, "Bye, sweetheart," as though they are lovers, leaving for the day. There is the promise of seeing each other again that night, but Nesta knows...she will never see him again.

"Goodbye," she says, voice catching.

Again, neither of them seem to notice. Comfortably, Rhysand lifts her into his arms--she will never see the House again, she will never again take pleasure in its friendship, she will never see Gwyn again--and flies a few dozen feet in the air--

They winnow onto solid ground.

Foreign ground.

A small cavalry of dark-skinned Fae, darker than Cassian, dressed in bright colors and light fabric greet them.

Nesta vaguely recognizes one of them. Eyes like the sea and hair like its foam. A handsome forehead, with soft cheeks and a rigid jawline. Even if she did not recognize him, Nesta would know the power in the air immediately. One of the High Lords.

"High Lord, Lady Nesta," he says with a slight bow, "welcome to the Summer Court."

Rhysand returns a small one, so Nesta dips into a curtsy as he says, "Thank you for having us."

"Ottilie and Cordelia will take your things," the High Lord says, waving over two females to the trunks which have appeared behind them. "I trust you're ready to begin?"

Rhysand inclines his head and offers his arm to Nesta. She grimaces inwardly as she takes it.

"This way."

The group of faeries part for the three of them to pass through. Only when she walks by him does Nesta notice Varian--right. This is his home court. He's some sort of prince here.

Doesn't matter. He doesn't seem to be going where Tarquin--that's his name, she remembers--is taking them. As long as she won't have to remind him of any of the Night Court's pleasantries, she doesn't care. Although perhaps he'd need it more than anyone, being with Amren, Nesta thinks bitterly. One person she will not miss seeing again. In fact, the only thing that makes her queasy is the idea of Amren meeting the new Nesta and once again tricking her into believing they are friends.

"Welcome to Adriata, Lady Nesta," Tarquin says, turning around and holding out his arm in the direction of a large window. Nesta's eyes widen as she takes in the view.

It's leagues more beautiful than Velaris, that much is certain. A sparkling teal sea hugging a white-sand coastline, and brightly colored buildings only one or two stories high, not breaking the incredible skyline. There's a pier stretching out farther than Nesta would've thought possible, and a staircase cutting right into the water.

"Our Sea Steps," Tarquin says, following her line of sight. "May I escort you there?"

When Rhys doesn't answer, she realizes she's supposed to. "You may," she replies, too distracted to think about whether she should add please or thank you.

Tarquin and Rhysand are both polite the whole way down to the pier. Nesta finds she falls back into the role of a dignified lady easily--this is just like being shown someone's estate, just like a proper dinner. It's only the characters that don't fit, but if Rhysand can act, she can too. How this is supposed to make her change her mind...perhaps he's struck some sort of deal with Tarquin? She'll live here instead?

"Do you spend much time at the Night Court's beaches, Lady Nesta?" Tarquin asks her, when they reach the shore.

"I...haven't yet had the opportunity to go."

"Excellent," he says. "The first Prythian beach you see should be ours."

Rhysand laughs. "She's walked along the Sidra river plenty."

Nesta stops herself from flinching--she hates the thought of being watched.

People--children, she realizes, lots of children--run along the beach, playing games or exercising, but the dock they walk along is empty. Tarquin, again noticing her observations, says, "The Sea Steps are normally open to the public, but we had them closed for everyone but personnel today. For your pleasure."

"Personnel?"

"We have a facility down here."

The staircase at the docks looks like any other, except for the fact that it descends into the water. When Tarquin takes the first step, his feet under the sea, Nesta's throat tightens. The water--she can't--

But when his hand touches the waves, the sea breaks, forming a sort of hallway around the steps. Rhysand doesn't stop his stride, and Nesta keeps pace with them, as they follow Tarquin down.

She would have assumed it would be dark. It's not.

The sunlight shines through the walls and ceiling of the staircase, and when they reach the bottom, the floor opens up to...the ocean.

Tarquin turns to see her face. "Well?" he says, his polite pesona dropping into something a little more smug.

"It's," Nesta says, struggling to find the right words. "It's like...a reverse aquarium."

Tarquin laughs. "That's the idea."

The room is ridiculously large, and offsets a few corridors. The floor beneath Nesta's feet feels dry and stable, the air cool but not uncomfortably so. And all around her...

Fish. Eels. Creatures she's never even imagined. All swimming through the sea, gliding, like flying.

Nesta approaches one of the walls, letting go of Rhysand's arm. She lifts her palm to it, but doesn't touch. It feels cool.

"It's water," Tarquin says. "You can stick your hand in."

Gingerly, Nesta presses in a finger. It goes through, easily--it's water. The walls are water. The walls are the sea.

Nesta raises her eyes. A school of fish--gracious, but she doesn't know any of their names! Not beyond the generic--fish, eels, jellyfish...crab and coral and a dolphin! Nesta's never seen a dolphin before!

"Bottlenose, Lady," a faerie says to her, appearing out of nowhere. As Nesta looks to see him, she realizes she's wrong--there are plenty of other faeries, all dressed in teal--the personnel--milling about. She only had not noticed, entirely taken by the sight.

"The dolphin," the faerie adds. "They're not unique to the faerie world. You get them in mortal seas, too."

Nesta turns back to the sea-wall. "And this?" she says, pointing to a bright orange fish.

"Those are faerie, Lady. We call them Orange Biters."

"Biters?"

Wordlessly, the faerie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, dried anchovy. He reaches his hand into the water, tossing the anchovy in the direction of the fish--which opens its jaws wide, revealing a set of terrifying fangs, and chomps down on it.

"They don't bother with the shore," the faerie assures her. "It's perfectly safe to swim there."

"Oh," Nesta says. Not as though she was worried about that, as there's no chance of her swimming anytime soon, but...it's incredible; she can't think of what to say.

"Shall we begin the tour, Lady Nesta?" Tarquin asks her.

She looks to Rhysand, who, again, is waiting for her answer. "Yes, please."

Tarquin leads them into different pathways through the sea, introducing her to the faeries working there and letting them explain what they specialize in, what they're doing. Some of them are monitoring breeding patterns, some tracking coral growth, but most are simply watching the fish, noting everything they do.

"Does it ever get tedious?" Nesta asks a female.

"Never," she says, raising her arms. "Could you ever get tired of this view?"

Nesta supposes not. But the tour ends, and Tarquin leads them back up the stairs and onto land.

"Did you enjoy the Sea Steps?"

"It was the most incredible thing I have ever seen," Nesta answers honestly.

Tarquin grins broadly at her. "You're more than welcome back, any time you'd like."

Before Nesta can thank him, Rhysand says, "Perhaps you might allow her to bring Cassian next time." To Nesta he says, "Tarquin's predecessor had banned Cassian from ever entering the city."

"Rightfully so, I believe," Tarquin says lightly. "Would you not agree, Lady Nesta, that someone who destroys a building loses privileges to reenter the city limits?"

"But he'd like the Sea Stairs too, don't you think, Nesta?"

Nesta shoots Rhysand a look. "I'm sure anyone would."

"Maybe you could make him fight a shark for it," Rhys suggests.

Tarquin laughs. "That would be something. Do you agree, Lady Nesta?"

"I suppose so," she says after a beat. It is only after she says it does the vision hit her: Cassian, wings flung out behind him the water, fighting a shark in front of the Summer Court to win the chance to return to this city. Her lips quirk upwards of their own accord.

---

Lunch is an affair as well. Tarquin shows them to a seaside restaurant, cleared of its patrons. The chef comes out and bows to them, low, thanking her for honoring them with her first meal in the Summer Court.

She had forgotten what it was like to be treated this way. The High Lady's sister. Here with Rhysand, it seems impossible to deny her place in the Night Court. But she goes along with it anyway, thanking them for having her, eating the meal they serve and sending her compliments to the kitchen.

Afterwards, they walk along the streets for an hour or two. It isn't a parade, but Night Court flags have been hung up, and people at booths call out their cheery hellos and ask if Lady Nesta would like to try their seasalt scrub, if the High Lord would like a pearl set to bring home to the High Lady.

"See anything you like?" Rhys says to her.

"It's all lovely," she replies, diplomatic.

"Oh, come on," he says, nudging her, and she clamps down on her jaw to keep it from dropping. "Anything for yourself? Gwyn, or Emerie?"

Her heart pangs at that. Gwyn and Emerie.

"Are these all ocean pearls?" she asks a faerie at a jewelry booth. "Anything from a river?"

With a flourish, the faerie shows her a tray of river pearls, strung in various fashions. Running her fingers over the gems, she selects a teal-stone string, the same color as Gwyn's eyes.

"For you, Lady Nesta?"

"For a friend," she says, voice turning hollow.

The faerie beams at her, wrapping it up in pretty paper. "Your friend will love it very much, Lady."

"Thank you," she says, as Rhysand pays.

They walk a little further, Nesta mostly ignoring the salespeople except to offer slight nods of acknowledgement, until she finds a spice spread. She picks out the most fragrant, and every kind of seasalt they have, into a small chest. For Emerie.

She wouldn't want to spend her last week out of the House, with Rhsyand of all people, but perhaps it's for the best. Even thinking about her friends is painful enough. They don't know who she is, what she has done. If they had...it would only be a matter of time before they left her, rejecting her, like everyone else has done. If Elain, sweet, heartfelt, patient Elain could not love her enough; if strong, resilient, defiant Feyre gave up on her...only Rhysand stands at her side, and not for love. At least, not love for her.

He'll be proven wrong, she knows. Her sisters won't even lose her. They'll remake her however they want, in whatever image they please. Maybe it'll even be one Cassian will favor.

The streets quiet somewhat, in the afternoon, and Tarquin tells them his people take naps around this hour every day. The heat, he explains, can be taxing. So he shows they back to the palace, tells them to rest or wander as they like, and would they please join him from a celebratory dinner at seven.

Celebrating what, Nesta isn't sure, but Rhysand accepts, and then she does too.

"Our rooms connect," he tells her when they get there. "I'll be in there if you need me."

"What..." would I need you for, she wants to say, but instead switches to, "should I do?"

He shrugs. "Wander, like Tarquin said. Or nap. Whatever you'd prefer."

He leaves her at her door, pushing into his. Nesta rolls her eyes to no one and enters her room.

Her trunk sits at the foot of the bed. The patterns are all complimentary of the sea, and the scent of it floats in through the open window with a warm breeze.

The heat is taxing. Nesta slips out of her daygown and into a robe, lying down on the silken sheets. What will she feel like, she wonders. When she is made anew. Will she wonder about who she was? Will they tell her? No, they won't; what would they say? They will make something up. Feyre will tell her she's their emissary, happy to serve. Elain will tell her they meet for breakfast every day. Perhaps they won't ever mention being human, and Nesta will never wonder about what she has lost.

Surely, she'll accept it. She'll be as easy as they all want. She has to be. Because Nesta doesn't know what she'll do if...when even after the pain is wiped away, when none of her remains, if she is the same. If it is not the hurt that makes her so, it is simply who she is.

It is perhaps her biggest fear, albeit a new one, and not easy to fall asleep to, but she does, and awakes sometime later to windchimes and a knock on her door.

"Lady Nesta? May I come in?"

"Uh, yes," Nesta says, bringing a hand to her forehead. "Enter."

The door opens slightly. One of the females from earlier. Ottilie. "May I help you prepare for this evening?"

"Yes," Nesta says dimly, massaging her temples, too distracted by her headache to realize what she's agreed to. She's become very used to not having any staff around at the House, and yet, still not having to do much of the work herself, beyond what she pleases. She likes it, never having liked being fussed over. Staff have always been frightened of her, anyway, even when she was human.

But Ottilie doesn't seem to show any fear. "Headache, Lady Nesta? From the heat?"

"I think so."

"This will help," she says, bringing out a small blue pill from her pocket and pouring her a glass of water from the pitcher by her bed. Nesta takes it, and Ottilie says, "But it's best to remember to drink when you visit us, Lady Nesta."

"Thanks," Nesta says, swallowing. "Tonight is..."

"Dinner, lady. And dancing. And a performance."

Dinner and dancing. She can do that. It's all she used to do, actually. Elain had it enjoyed it more, obviously, but...Nesta knows how to play the part. She isn't sure why Rhysand thinks this will show her life is worth living with all her pain, but...just a few more days. She can do this.

Ottilie is pleasant, chatting as she lays out Nesta's dress from her wardrobe and steaming it straight. She doesn't mind Nesta's short answers and keeps most of the conversation going herself, but not annoyingly so. She talks of the history of the Summer Court, explaining about the type of performance they'll see tonight. Vaguely interesting, but nothing too mind-occupying.

Nesta hates the feel of others touching her hair, and Ottilie doesn't protest when Nesta takes the brush to do it herself. She styles a coronet with a bit more twists and braids than usual, in honor of the celebration tonight, and picks out pins studded with sparkling blue stones, matching her dress.

Nesta doesn't know if the House packed for her or if Rhysand did, but the dress is magnificent. Modest in the way no one else in Prythian seems to care about--except maybe the priestesses--covering her breasts, back, and arms, like it should. But the fabric switches sheer from her elbows to her wrist, and there are matching panels from her waist to the ground, her legs cleverly hidden with a deep turquoise slip. It gives the illusion that she's showing more skin than she is, Nesta thinks as she eyes herself in the mirror, which she decides is all right. As long as she's not actually bare...that's fine.

Rhysand is waiting for her right outside her door when Ottilie opens it and lets her step out.

"You look lovely," he says, and grins when she only narrows her eyes at him in response. Nonetheless, she takes his arm and lets him lead her to a large courtyard overlooking the water.

The sun sets later in Summer, and even though it's seven, twilight has only just begun to touch the sky, and they catch the last of the sun's rays as it dips below the sea. With it, faelights flicker on, leaving the evening nearly as bright as the day. A glance upwards tells her what everyone has told her about the Night Court is true: the stars shine brighter there than anywhere else.

"Good evening," Tarquin says, too loud to be addressing just them. Indeed, the courtyard silences, all the Fae splendor-dressed Fae turning to face him. "And welcome to our honored guests, the High Lord of Night...and his sister, Lady Nesta, Kingslayer."

Nesta starts--at being referred to as Rhysand's sister and Kingslayer both. The crowd does not care, smattering an applause.

"Let the night begin," Tarquin continues, raising a glance.

The faeries cheer in answer, raising glasses of their own.

Tarquin approaches, a waiter trailing him. "Something to drink?" he offers them.

Nesta flushes.

But Rhysand only says, "Thank you. Nesta?"

She looks at him, trying to decipher if this is some sort of test. But he doesn't appear to be hiding anything, only casually asking her as polite society demands he does. So she takes it, gingerly, carefully.

What would Elain say? Feyre? Cassian?

But they aren't here right now. She can do what she likes.

"To a lovely night," Tarquin says, holding out his glass.

"Indeed," Rhysand coos, and Nesta stifles an eye roll as she clinks her goblet to theirs.

With the very first sip, Nesta knows. She isn't going to get drunk tonight. It hadn't been that that she'd craved, ever, it was only the dulling of pain. But being so far away from everything that has caused her hurt is good enough for tonight. The Summer Court is its own distraction from her own head. Plus, she'd always hated feeling out of control of herself. That was part of why she'd drunk. Her punishment for being...herself.

But it's not like Nesta's a masochist. Only realistic. So there's no reason for any of that tonight. She can just enjoy this sweet, sparkling wine, and manage with everyone's company.

She supposes with its fishing industry, it's only natural for so much of the food to be seabased, but she finds she tires of it quickly. The table Tarquin shows them is laden with tiny portions of other things, too, though, enough for a bite of each, then staff whisk the empty plates away and serve something else. Most of the conversation revolves around the food, with Tarquin explaining what each dish is, and Nesta commenting on what she likes about, or else making something up if she doesn't. After about an hour of this, a hush falls over the courtyard as the faelights dim.

"The main entertainment," Tarquin says, gesturing towards the water. Nesta's eyes follow his hands, and she waits, unsure of what she's supposed to be seeing. A performance, Ottilie had said.

It is entirely silent but for the waves when the violin starts. First one, then another, and few more join. For a wild moment, Nesta thinks they might be coming from the water--but no, they are merely on the other side of the courtyard. The violins all strike the same chord and then fall quiet together, for a moment, two, and then--

Something rises from the sea, sparkling too bright to properly make out at first. Nesta soon deciphers what the shape is: two faeries raising a third, each of them clutching a leg. But how are the lower two standing straight up in the water? Is there a hidden platform, like the Sea Stairs?

The top faerie flips backwards into the water, the violins starting up again with the splash. The two lower faeries rise, higher than the top one had--each of them held up by two faeries as well. They flip backwards into the water, their sparkling uniforms glinting like diamonds in the starlight, and the pattern repeats, larger and more fanciful, until a wild applause and a change in the music signifies the start of a new act.

The music is more exciting, Nesta wants to watch the performers. But she can't draw her eyes away from the water as the water-acrobats, flipping in and out of the sea, move in some way akin to play staging. There's a war, that much is certain, by the way the faeries launch themselves at each other. Wild, brutal, and unfathomably beautiful. There's a break in it, as two entwine together, and the music turns sad, slow, and Nesta thinks the war is over, lost, before one the faeries launches themselves at someone sneaking up on them from behind, knocking them both into the water. Then it is over. A final act of flips again, and Nesta is first on her feet to clap when they finish, standing on--aha--a raised podium to take their bows.

"We're supposed to follow that?" Nesta asks Tarquin.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he says pleasantly. "I'm sure you can keep up. May I?" He holds his hand out to her.

Nesta hasn't been asked to dance in...she can't even remember.

"You may," she says, not looking at Rhysand to check if she can.

The violinists play, and other couples join them. Rhysand is dancing with some female who greeted them this morning. One of Tarquin's cousins, she supposes.

"Any shows like that in the Night Court?" Tarquin asks her.

"Have you never been?" she asks, because she doesn't know the answer.

"I have not. You might remind your sister she should invite me. The least she could do, after she so rudely ruined her welcome here by robbing my family."

Nesta raises her eyebrows, but Tarquin doesn't smile. "Are you here as an emissary, too, Lady Nesta?"

"No." Oh, that's right. Feyre had had that stupid title once.

"Well, that's what Rhys told me she was. But she was just here to steal for him."

"Why did you invite him back?"

"He made amends when he saved my people," Tarquin admits, grudgingly. "And I wanted to meet you."

They pause their conversation as they spin: she twirls out, in, out, then he pulls her back.

"Why did you agree to come?" he asks. "I hear you are not so interested in policy."

Nesta shudders slightly. He hears from spies, he means. For she is the High Lady's sister, so all the other Courts have spies watching her. "Is this policy making?"

"No," he says. "This is pleasure."

"Then I suppose you could say that's what I'm here for."

He grins at her. A real smile, not the polite, detached ones of today. "Any specific kind you are looking for, Lady Nesta?"

Is he...flirting?

"No," she says. "Just learning what other Courts have to offer."

"Well, I'm flattered you chose to start with ours."

Is that it, then? Is Rhysand taking her around the other Courts? He has four days left, but five other Courts...Spring, she supposes, will not be on their itinerary.

"You dance very well," he says.

"Thank you. You make a fair partner."

He laughs. "Fair?"

"Fair's better than most."

He laughs again. "Did you have lessons?"

"I did, actually...ballet. For years." But it's been quite a while since Nesta's thought of that, hasn't it?

"Then perhaps you could be one of the Night Court's performers."

Nesta huffs. "I don't think I could be one of the Night Court's anything."

"Good," Tarquin says. "You're wasted at night. You're too beautiful to be kept in the dark."

Definitely flirting.

"Tell me of mortal dances. Are they anything like ours?"

Nesta looks over at the crowd, the violinists, the sea beyond. "On paper," she says, "but this is...well, I have never seen a show like yours before, as I said."

"Well, you won't find that anywhere else. But the same, otherwise? Food, dancing, music?"

"The same," she confirms.

"Hm. I suppose we might be having this very evening anywhere, then."

"I suppose we might," she says.

"But I'll always remain partial to my own Court."

"I can certainly understand that," Nesta answers honestly.

He likes her answer. He asks her more about the mortal world, gentle things that don't trigger painful memories. She talks without saying much, and he finds ways to compliment her genuinely anyway. She had watched Elain had conversations like this once. It had looked nice. It is.

Rhysand cuts in, after a while. For propriety's sake, presumably, as he doesn't say much beyond asking her if she's enjoying the evening.

"Tarquin wants to dance with you again," he says when their number is up.

"So do I," she replies, somewhat surprised at herself, and he hands her to him with an incline of his head.

This time, she asks him things. If he can swim as well as those performers. He laughs. "Not as well as they, no. But perhaps stronger than most."

"And what of the fish?" she asks. "Do you know about the fish as well as the personnel at the Sea Stairs do?"

"Not as well as they do, either. I...I'm the youngest High Lord--well, after your sister. I'm just past eighty years old."

"Oh, young," Nesta says, and they both laugh, surprising herself again. "I only mean that's about as old as human beings get."

"I know," he says. "But young for us, at any rate." Us. "So there's much I haven't yet...I was far down the line for this throne, you know."

"Oh?" Nesta asks. She knows it doesn't pass how she'd expect, from High Lord to eldest, that power has something to do with it, but she isn't quite sure of it all.

"My uncle was High Lord. He...and most all our family, all his children...slaughtered. By Amarantha."

"Oh," Nesta says, faltering. "I-I'm sorry--"

"We're all so grateful to you and your sisters," he says, unperturbed, "for ending her reign, for ending Hybern." He grins, shifting the mood back. "Even if she did rob my coffers."

"What did she take?" Nesta says.

"A book."

Oh. That book.

Doesn't make any sense to Nesta. This High Lord seems...well, regardless of how he seems, he fought alongside them in the war. He has a personal grudge against Hybern. Surely he would've wanted to aid them...but Nesta doesn't ever claim to understand how the Night Court operates.

"Would you like to see some of our collection?" he asks her. "If you promise not to steal." His tone is light, but Nesta knows he is serious.

"I won't," she assures him. She could tell him she has little use for anything, doesn't own anything herself and doesn't particularly care too. But she doesn't, content with the night as it is, and lets him lead her back inside, to a quiet area of his castle.

Two guards stand in front of a massive door, but they only bow when they see them approach and move out of the way. Tarquin opens it with a wave of his hand, his magic shifting something in the air.

"Oh," Nesta breathes when she steps in. She can't help it. Once a merchant's daughter, always a merchant's daughter.

Any number of jewels, tiaras, goblets...Tarquin's family is a wealthy one indeed. She supposes they all are, all the High Lord's families.

"It's too much," he says. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I..."

"I'm in the business of selling, now actually," Tarquin continues. "I never thought I'd be High Lord, but now that I am...well, it's not as though I don't have ambitions. I want to do right by my people."

"That's admirable," Nesta says distractedly, bending down to try and guess if a chest of fat rubies is real.

"I abhor the differences our society places on High Fae and lesser faeries. We're all faeries...do you agree with me?"

"I do indeed," Nesta says, but she doesn't agree the way he assumes. Nesta's never given much thought to the status levels of different types of Fae in Prythian. Her base instinct is to view them all as monsters anyway. But, realizing it's true, she says, "I don't like very many High Fae anyway. The only ones I do like are part-nymph and Illyrian."

He laughs. "I suppose you don't consider yourself High Fae."

"No, I don't," she says. "I'm not."

"You're not," he agrees. Then he says, a bit awkwardly, "And I suppose the Illyrian you're fond of...Cassian?"

"Oh, no," she says, not thinking. "I was speaking of my friend Emerie."

He perks up at this. "Oh."

"She's the one I bought the spices for."

"Oh! Well...you're very welcome to bring her along on your next visit."

"Thank you," she says politely.

"And...your friend, the nymph...I suppose the river pearls are for her?"

"Yes."

"Well, it seems as though you don't have anything to remember my Court for yourself, then." He sounds as though he's teasing her.

"I have the memories," Nesta says, remaining polite, even though soon she won't.

"Well, then, please," he says, waving a hand. "Choose a momento."

Nesta laughs, unable to stop herself, but he doesn't. "I insist."

"I--no. That's very generous, but--"

"No, please. What kind of host would I be if I didn't give you something to remember your trip by?"

"This is very kind of you, but--"

"Please, Nesta," he says, dropping the made-up title. "If not a gift for tonight, consider it incentive to come back."

She blushes, flustered. He's...it's wrong, isn't it? He's a good man--male. It's wrong of her to deceive him like this. She's obviously not...he thought he was talking to one female, but he's not, he's talking to someone entirely different.

"Very well," he says. "I shall have to choose for you."

He turns, ignoring her protestations, and reaches his hand high up, calling a wooden box to his hands. "Good thing, too," he says, "because you never would have found this on your own. And it suits you perfectly."

Nesta is about to argue again, but then he opens the box.

A fine-gold chain links together dozens of tiny blue stones. At first Nesta thinks the chain wraps around twice, like a long necklace, but then she realizes one is a necklace, and the other is a matching circlet, for her head.

"You didn't wear any jewelry today or tonight," he says. "But this is delicate enough that it should suit you nicely. And the color brings out your eyes, I think. Do you like it?"

"I...do," she says, hands itching to touch it. Merchant's daughter, whether she likes it or not.

"Then please accept," he says, holding out the box to her.

Nesta looks up at him, studying him carefully. "Feyre didn't have to steal from you," she says. "You would have given her anything."

Tarquin meets her gaze, not backing down as most males tend to. "No, I wouldn't have."

---

Nesta walks towards Rhys with a slight smile on her face, faint blush in her cheeks. Her hands are holding a small box.

"Did you have a nice time?" he asks her.

Her smile fades. She looks at him, frowning slightly. "I'm a person. Of course I had a nice time. But life isn't vacation, Rhysand. I still go to bed at the end of every day. I'm still alone with my thoughts, in my head...you know what that's like." Her voice turns accusatory.

"I know," he says evenly. "But you did have a nice time, otherwise?"

"I already said so," she says, impatient.

"Good," he says, turning to his door. "Get some sleep. We leave for Winter tomorrow."

---

She had half-hoped that she would be wrong, that the pleasure of the day would bleed into her dreams, that she'd be spared the horrors of herself for the night.

But she isn't.