#red is for mourning in revaire

[faejilly]

Sorry for the lack of Finna rambles, the Early Access for 7kpp came out and I had to try and remember how to get my first delegate to her ludicrously successful ending

/it can be such a found family game y'all, I was absolutely flapping my hands at the screen and doing a 😭 face for like an hour 💙💙💙

[teaandinanity]

Day Four - Fashion

Valeriya in red, before and after.

[fic under the cut]

Before

Red is not much worn at court. Oh, occasionally someone will return to the social whirl in unseemly haste, still in half-mourning, with notes of carmine as accents or scarlet trimming a gown, rubies at ears and throat, garnet garlanding a wrist. Improper, certainly, but not unpardonable. More than that, though, is rarely seen. It is ill-bred to be much out in society in full mourning, freshly widowed, even with the more relaxed strictures under the new regime - and even the most abbreviated, superficial mourning will oblige her to wear full crimson for another six months.

She cannot wait half a year to start campaigning to be a representative at the Summit, not if she wants to seize the opportunity that hovers just within reach. It is almost too late for a true start already. She could wait, if the campaign were merely performative, merely an excuse to show herself to advantage and make inroads among the powerful, perhaps win another unwanted husband. The problem is, for all the skepticism of others, she means it.

She wants this, wants it far too much to let it slip through her fingers just because some people find it scandalous that she won’t play the grieving widow. Her relief is meant to be bereavement. They want her to pretend that it is.

She, for her part, wants this; she wants to go to Vail Isle, to have better options than she has been given, to prove herself so publicly that she can never be ignored or dismissed again.

So she wears red brazenly, and never bows her head in shame because she does not let herself feel it. She wears red, and it draws eyes.

The fashion, this season, has been for pastels. Valeriya can wear pastels, but they do not suit her half so well as jewel tones. She wears red, bold and bright as fresh blood. She wears red and seizes attention, holds it, uses it.

She is clearly not mourning her husband, they say. It is true enough.

She is shamelessly turning her mourning period to her own advantage. Also true.

She killed her husband. False, but she cannot deny the timing was convenient.

Convenient, and conveniently irrelevant. No one ruling the new Revaire cares about a little (unproven and unprovable) murder because she can prove - is proving - how she would excell if allowed to represent them. Everyone in this court with the power to stop her has blood on their hands; they are hardly going to fuss about a bit of red.

–

After

Red is often worn in Jiyel; it is worn for weddings and for festivals, for good fortune, for joy. She has always thought it suited her, but she has never loved it half so much as she does on the day of her wedding, wrapped in layers of silk so thick with gold embroidery it is stiff in places. Her hair is held up with gold, dripping with carnelian and ruby and garnet. The layers and the jewels should feel heavy, but her heart is light as thistledown. She feels as if she could float away, so the solid weight merely feels reassuring, grounding.

A marriage contract, in Jiyel, is often as not negotiated primarily by family rather than the principals. She and Lyon are neither of them dependent on family and thus subject to their wills. The contract they put their names to was a collaboration between them, from start to finish, not a zero-sum struggle between two noble families intent on getting the upper hand. They’ve started as they mean to go on; as partners, and as masters of their shared fate.

So she looks at her husband - also in red, although on him it is an accent to his customary, comfortable black - and grins, too happy to care that it’s broad and graceless. He smiles back, soft-eyed, clearly not minding in the least, and that means it’s alright. She is wearing red and gold, hair styled and face touched with tasteful cosmetic artistry, but he doesn’t care about all that. He cares enormously, though, that she’s happy.

The exchange of vows is relatively private; there will be a party, later, where Lyon’s peers (few), friends (fewer), and everyone who managed to insist on being invited because the King indicated an intention to attend his cousin’s wedding (unfortunately plentiful) will challenge her to debates on various subjects and present her with poems expecting her response to be spontaneous verse of her own creation - challenge her, in short, to prove that she’s worthy of her new husband. She doesn’t care what they think on that subject. Lyon has decided she’s worthy of him. She does not have to prove herself to anyone else; he’s decided she is.

He’s decided she is, and the Matchmaker agreed, and the contract is signed.

She will still meet the challenges presented, because she does not want a single person here to doubt that he chose well, but their opinions don’t truly matter to her husband, so for today at least, they do not have to matter to her, either.

He loves her. He loves her today, in red, giddy and grinning, and he will love her tomorrow morning, in a rumpled shift, contented and sleep-soft. He is not marrying her to be decorative.

She holds his gaze and it’s like no one else is even there. That’s as it should be; these words might be heard by others, but they are not for them. She is not performing for an audience. She is speaking to her husband. She is making a promise to the man she loves.

Jiyelian weddings have the couple write their own vows, and it was harder than extemporizing any speech meant for a crowd because she had ample time to overthink words intended for an audience of one, who matters more than anyone else ever has.

But she wants to say it anyway. She wants him to know. He should always know how much he is loved. He deserves to hear it said out loud.

She holds his eyes and for once even though there are many eyes on her, she does not pitch her voice to carry. She only speaks, quietly, to him.

“You are the answer to a question I have spent my life afraid to articulate. You woke my soul to joy; I want to share that happiness with you.

With you, I would share all that I am, and I promise to be gentle with those parts of yourself that you share with me.

I promise to listen, to your words and your silences both.

I promise you support in your endeavors, an ally in your struggles, and a safe place where you can rest.

You have my heart already, so I cannot offer it now, but I pledge to be a partner to you, and to try to deserve your faith. 

I am so glad to call you husband.”

Glad. It is too small a word; she is both proud and humbled, ecstatic, triumphant. She cannot say any of that. It sounds wrong in the air, would be twisted further out of true by the ears other than his that would hear her. This is not a victory she has won; it is an unlooked-for gift, a kindness she cannot deserve. It is a measure of grace from the very universe, that he should have looked at her, seen her, and found something to love.

Other people will try to find hidden meanings in her words. Lyon won’t. Lyon sees her clearly, but his eyes are nonetheless soft. That gaze pierces every defense she’s ever had, but it holds her so gently.

He’s smiling at her, that quiet curve of his lips that isn’t at all performative, that only ever happens when he is truly happy.

She looks back at him and thinks the love must be shining out of her the same way the sun glows through a raised hand, mortal flesh wholly insufficient to contain so much light.

[ellebeebee]

Family

Shortly after the Baron of Namaire passes, Sabine returns home to the Guyenne estate for an overdue visit with her family.  It’s not all tea and roses, and Sabine has business in mind for her siblings.  (And yes, Rosalin is shamelessly inspired by Julie d’Aubigny.)

5821 words, Revaire!mc and no pairing, general

-

Sabine took the hand Chrétien offered, and a few raindrops fell on her traveling gloves.  Black spots bloomed over the maroon silk.  She stepped down from the carriage, careful with her impractical and yet very pretty slippers on the slick running board.  The butler-- the new one that Chrétien had written to her about-- held an umbrella to shield her mostly, and her brother partly, from the rain.

“Thank you,” Sabine told him.

“Of course, madam,” he said, specks of water dotting his coarse dark hair.  He managed a bow that was both elegant in its grace and careful in its keeping the umbrella still keeping the rain off.

It could never be said the facade of the Guyenne estate did not show a modern style-- attractive in its stately proportions with larger windows than the ancestors had used and more delicate crenelations-- but that was the face of the castle.  The interiors and the unseen sections told a different story.  The southern wing jutted out over a lake and would have lovely vistas if the whole wing did not smell of mildew and the foundation had not been steadily dissolving into that very same lake.

Only half the eastern wing was kept open, and many of the western wing’s room were also kept closed.  The best and oldest portraits were kept covered year-round unless company was expected.  Servants were constantly hired and dismissed as the cash flow changed, so new faces were a permanent feature of the house.

“Shall we?” Chrétien asked.

It never failed to surprise her: having to look up at him.  Even though he’d been taller than her for years.  Curly dark hair and dimples, her precious baby brother.  He smiled inquisitively at her lingering.

Sabine patted his arm. “Very well.”

They walked the short distance over the shining gravel to the entrance, Manel and his umbrella following.  The footmen were waiting with the entrance doors.  Rain darkened the shoulders of their wool uniforms.  They bowed as she and Chrétien passed.

Warmth washed over them in the foyer.  White and pink marble, silver sconces and gold gilding.  She had a minimum of time to inspect the latest refurbishment before a side door burst open and screaming bounced about the foyer.

Two bundles of taffeta and ribbon bows bowled into her midriff.

“Sabine!  Sabine!”

Sabine laughed and stooped to grip the two girls strangling her waist even tighter to herself.   They squealed.  She knelt to push them back a little and get a better look.  Identical brown and dimpled cheeks, cheekbones that would one day be sculpted, little bow mouths.  Camilla wore a yellow frock with yellow lace, and Marigold wore blue with black velvet ribbons.  They grinned at her.

“Oh my doves,” Sabine said. “Little dumplings.  You’ve grown so much!”

“Did you bring Pardot’s Theorems--”

“What about The Principles of Thought as--”

“Girls,” Chrétien said.  He handed his coat off to the doorman and frowned at them. “She’s been in the door for a second.  You could at least give a proper greeting.”

Sabine stifled a snort.  His babyface made the frown look very ill-fitting indeed.  She tugged on the twins’ mahogany curls.

“He’s right.  I could be convinced by a kiss though,” she whispered.

They giggled, and together pecked either side of her face. “Hello, sister!”

“Hello, loves!  The books are in my luggage, and I’m sure the maids are already unpacking--”

They flew up the main staircase before she finished the thought.

“Camilla, Marigold!”

Vera appeared in the same archway they’d come screaming from, herself much more sedate in a great voluminous skirt of a saccharine pink.  Her thin and brown shoulders nearly drowned in embellishments, and her head swayed under the great whirl of her dark curls molded into a complicated style.  She smoothed down delicate rosettes and ruffles to smile at Sabine.  Lilah followed her into the foyer as well.

“Sabine,” Vera said after a pause, her arms jerking upward for an embrace.

“Vera,” she said and pulled her as close as possible with that large skirt.  Their jaws clacked together in the cheek kisses.  Sabine held her shoulders and smiled as she inspected her. “My.  Aren’t you a picture.  Perfectly pretty, dear.”

Vera inspected her as well, again pausing a little too long. “And you look-- well.  Quite appropriate.  Quite appropriate, sister.”

Sabine smiled.  The traveling gown was red for mourning.  The seamstress had cut it well-fitted and styled it modernly.  Not too ostentatious to be worthy of second looks, but certainly not dowdy.  Quite appropriate indeed.  Yet Vera’s eyes lingered on the close cut of the dress and her figure beneath it.  When gathered together, Sabine quite always stood apart from the other Guyenne women in not being quite so narrow and svelte.  Not at all, in fact.

And Vera let slip the word ‘appropriate’ in that condescending manner that was ever her particular charm.  Yes.  There certainly was no place like home.

“Lilah,” Sabine said, looking beyond Vera’s shoulder.

Lilah stepped forward in a motion not quite a curtsy and yet still somehow deferential.  As she dipped, her hand swept smooth the front of her simple dress.  Rather too simple, really, in Sabine’s opinion.  A schoolgirl’s crown of braids wrapped around her head and pulled taut at her temples, making her hooded and heavy-lashed eyes rather doll-like.

“Sister,” Lilah said.

Sabine raised a brow. “‘Sister’?  Why, what manners!  What a perfect little lady-- oh don’t, I know quite well you’re all growing up, but if you think I’m going to let you get by without a hug you are sorely mistaken.”

She held out her hands and gestured imperiously.  Lilah’s lips cracked a little smile despite herself.  They hugged, a little awkwardly having been several months out of practice.  And she was turning out to be such a formal little thing, her Lilah.

“Oh, look at my beauty, my love--”

Behind Vera appeared Mother and Father.  Lilah released her as Mother bull-rushed them and scooped Sabine into a fiercely tight embrace.  And then Father threw his arms about the both of them and squeezed them until they squealed.  A great deal of fussing and admiring was had, with complaints about the journey and the eye-rolling about Camilla and Marigold.  Sabine protested the absence of the littlest of her siblings (Andreas, Domin, and baby Marjot); Chrétien smiled and pointed out that it was well past dark and their bedtimes.

When this quieted, and her mother stopped making dewey eyes at the sight of her in full mourning, Sabine looked about the hall where they-- still-- lingered.

“Where is Rosalin?” she asked.

Mother and Father quieted.  Lilah and Vera’s eyes flew to their faces.  Lady Guyenne, beautiful as ever with an artful tumble of dark curls and a thin face and large thick-lashed eyes, stared at Sabine with her lips mouthing around floundering words.  She looked to her husband.  Lord Guyenne, mahogany to his wife’s copper with his coarse hair flaring from his head in a handsome halo, tugged at the lapels of his coat and hesitantly smiled at Sabine.

“Well.  Dear--”

“Where,” Sabine said, her tone changing. “Is Roselin?”

Lord Guyenne’s lips puckered.  When their parents still remained silent, Sabine’s gaze shot to Chrétien.  His dark brows shot up.  He raised his hands defensively.

“I’ve just gotten back with you.  I know as much as you do.”

She turned back on her parents.  They managed placating smiles.

“Sabine, darling--”

She exhaled violently. “No, do not-- I cannot believe the pair of you!  This is the third time.”

Mother sighed and laughed. “Oh, Sabine, really.  It’s not such an ordeal.  You know Rosalin!  She can’t be caged, she’s a free spirit--”

“She is a young girl,” Sabine shot back. “She is a foolish and arrogant young girl you have coddled into thinking that she is impervious to consequence--”

This tirade and back and forth continued on for a while.  Vera and Lilah drifted as close as Vera’s ridiculous skirts allowed, with mirroring awkward nonplussed expressions.  Chrétien’s hands hovered about and reached forward as if to make some gesture of intervention, but he never expressed anything other than silent dismay in his wide eyes.

Mother fluttered her hands. “Oh, enough!  She’s fine--”

“Really?  Really, she’s fine?  Do you even have any idea where’s she gone this time?”

“She has a poetic heart!  Romance is in her blood, and I’m glad--”

“So that’s what this is?  Another love drama?”

“Sabine,” Father said.  He placed a hand on her arm and smiled at her pleadingly. “Please.  Rosalin is an intelligent girl.  She’ll be fine.”

She stared up at him, clenching her jaw. “How long has she been gone?”

He hesitated. “Ah.  A… few days.”

Sabine closed her eyes.  She released a long stream of extremely cross breath. 

“Sabine,” Chrétien said.  He looked at her with beseeching eyes and dimples.  He has always hated conflict.

She exhaled and pursed her lips. “Alright, fine.  Vera, Lilah-- I think it’s time you two went to bed.”

Vera made a sound of protest, her mouth opening in an angry ‘o.’  Lilah discretely nudged her in the side before pulling on some sash or enormous silk rose on her skirt.  Vera made a bit of a squawk as she was led up the stairs.

“You two,” she gestured at her parents. “Continue on, I suppose.”

Mother blinked. “Wh-- Won’t you come sit down for a nightcap?”

Sabine shook her head, already walking past them. “No.  Good night, Mother, Father.  I will see you at breakfast.”

She moved past the grand staircase to the oaken door tucked behind it.  A pair of ‘Good night’s!’ and Chrétien’s footsteps trailed after her into the warm and dimly lit hallway that meandered around the parlors, the library, and the sitting rooms.  A slightly threadbare carpet kept their steps muffled, and the inset panelling kept the damp and cold air from the rain out.  It was late enough that they didn’t encounter servants.

“Sabine,” Chrétien said.

“I have a feeling.  She knew I was coming, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

They found their way to the kitchens.  The broad and tall-ceilinged room was lined with worn wooden counters, beautiful hammered copper pots with dark patina, little terracotta pots with herbs, and dried ham hocks.  The scent of salt and yeast and rendered fat perfumed the air.  At one of the thick-planked tables set around for food prep, a cluster of servants sat over cups of tea.  Brows raised, they stood as Sabine and Chrétien entered.

“My lord, my lady--”

“Hello, Cook,” Chrétien smiled. “This is Sabine.  The oldest of our little brood.”

The older woman-- suspiciously thin for a cook, but appropriately cheerful in the smile-- bobbed a bit.  Another new face hired on since she’d left.

“Oh, yes, of course.  We’ve heard so much, my lady.”

Sabine smiled back, stuffing down her agitation. “Some of it good, I hope.  Please-- don’t stand on my account.  And I have to ask your forgiveness for intruding on your domain.”

“Oh, not at all.”

Sabine gestured and the cook and the two kitchenhands hovered in an almost-sitting position.  They hesitated, looking at each other.  Chrétien smiled encouragingly, and Sabine moved past the butcher’s block and the counters to another of the clean, lemon-scented tables.  She sat, her red skirts rustling loudly, and the servants slowly sat as well.

But the cook popped up again. “Shall I make you tea?”

Chrétien sat beside Sabine, and waved his hands. “No, no, we’re fine.  Please, don’t worry on our account.”

“Yes,” Sabine said. “We’re sorry for imposing--  Ah, my manners.  What was your name?”

“Nadia, ma’am.  But ‘Cook’ is fine.”

“Nadia.  We’re sorry for imposing.  But we’ve a little mouse we’re hunting.”

Nadia blanched.

Sabine stopped short and smiled. “Oh, no.  Don’t worry.  Not a real mouse.  I’m only joking.”

Pausing a moment, she smiled back and chuckled. “Oh, well.  Just so you know, ma’am, I keep a tight ship down here and you’ll find no vermin here.”  She wagged a stern finger.

“A woman after my own heart,” Sabine said.

They all sat like that for a while.  The servants at one table them at another.  Despite their assurances, the conversation between the cook and her girls went stilted and too quiet.  Sabine and Chrétien sat silently, smiling placatingly at their inquisitive looks.  Rather quickly, Cook and the girls left for their quarters.

The candles in the sconces and hanging lanterns flickered as the time dragged.  Sabine let the stillness of the kitchen cool her off, and Chrétien made some comments about the skill of the new cook.  He yawned a few times but shook his head when she told him to go on to bed.

But in fact, they didn’t have to wait that long.  The door to the kitchen yard, around the corner from where they sat, squealed as it cautiously pushed inward.  A long pause.  The hard patter of rain and the blue light of the moon spilled into the kitchen.  The door creaked as it closed.  The tap of well-heeled boots bounced off the walls.

Rosalin rounded the corner, freezing at the sight of her two older siblings sitting in the kitchens.

“Hello, Rosalin,” Sabine said. “Nice of you to join us.”

Her lips flapped open and closed for a moment.  She was soaking wet.  Her black hair was plastered to her skull, her ponytail a tangled mess.  Her jaunty scarlet coat drooped splotchy and dripping from her thin shoulders, and her matching red breeches clung to her legs.  Her black boots shone with rain.

“Uh,” Rosalin struggled. “Uh.  I, uh.  Thought you were coming tomorrow.”

Sabine raised a brow. “That’s the thing about carousing rakes.  They tend to lose track of time.”

Rosalin frowned. “I wasn’t-- You have no idea--” She rounded on Chrétien with a glare. “You!”

He threw his hands up. “I was gone, remember?  I was with her, and had no notion at all about this.  And anyway, why does everyone blame me for these things?”

“Oh!” Rosalin huffed. “You’re always on her side anyway!”

Sabine stood. “There are no sides, Rosalin.  There’s only our family.  And don’t talk to your brother like that.”

She rolled her thick-lashed eyes. “So what?  Is this the part where you give me the lecture?”

Sabine eyed her.  She shook her head. “You’re drenched.  Go change and get to bed.”

“Sabine, you’re not my mother.  You can’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re right, I’m not your mother,” Sabine said. “But I do happen to be the one paying for your dancing lessons.  Your singing and fencing masters.  I happen to be the one that has paid bribes to alehouses and casinos to forget your face.  I am the one who paid for that very suit you wear and the food on your table, Rosalin-- so.  Go upstairs.  And go to bed.”

Rosalin glared.  They gazed at each other.  Exhaling angrily, Rosalin walked away with an indignant clip in her step.

Sabine deflated when the kitchen doors banged shut behind her.  She closed her eyes, the journey catching up with her.

“Welcome home…?” Chrétien said.

She stared at him, and shook her head. “I don’t know why I bother.”

-

A certain Boneille Guyenne had commissioned the desk nearly a century ago, insistent that it be as impressive as possible.  Her interpretation of “impressive” honestly left much to be desired aesthetically.  It loomed in the middle of the library, nearly the size of a draft horse, with its fluted columns for legs and its crenellation of roses and little birds.  Sabine leaned over its inlaid cherry wood surface.  A black ledger laid out before her.  The fingers of her red gloved hand perused the pages and columns.

Mid-morning light, lavender from last night’s rain, danced over the parquet, the tall shelves, and the leather chairs.

Chrétien stepped through the open archway. “Ah.  The audit’s begun already.”

Sabine straightened and smiled wryly at him. “Trust me.  It’s light reading.  I have absolutely nothing to worry about and you’ve done very well.”

He approached, his hand coming up to rub at his neck bashfully.  He looked down at the ledger with her.  “Really, please check to see if everything matches what I’ve sent you.”

She sat down at the desk’s overplush chair, smoothing out the draping of her red skirts. “Chrétien.  I’m proud of you.”

“Just make sure you really do look through everything.  I’m sure…”

“Did you hear me?” she gazed at him, still avoiding her eyes. “I said I’m proud of you.”

His dimples deepened with his embarrassed smile.  He reluctantly met her eyes and shook his head. “You’ve done all the hard work.”

Sabine gave an exasperated sigh.  She smiled at him, and flipped the ledge shut.  He sat at the edge of the ostentatious desk, trying to keep a little opal gilded lion from digging into his back.

“Any sign of Rosalin?” Sabine said.

“She generally never wakes up before noon.”

Her lips pinched. “Well.  I’m having a talk with her at some point during this visit whether she likes it or not.” Her eyes snapped to him. “Actually.  I need a talk with you as well.”

“Me?  What did I do?”

“Oh, nothing, honey.  Not that sort of talk.  Unless I need to know something?”

“No, no!”

She laughed. “You’re so cute.”

“I--” he started, dark and thick brows knit perplexedly. “What did you want to talk about?”

Sabine inspected him.  The tall and thin windows looked out over the south grounds and its articulated “natural” paths and little copses.  It was easier and cheaper to maintain a naturalistic garden than a formal one.  Chrétien leaned toward the tall side, with limbs that were gradually coming into their own with a graceful way of drawing him up politely.  He dressed well, yet simply, and his pleasant looks invited instant trust.  No one could mistake him for anything other than a noble son.

“You’re going to university,” Sabine said. “No matter what.”

He gazed at her, and his lips pulled a bit tight. “Sabine… I…”

“I know you think that staying here and keeping up with the estate will be the best,” she went on. “But you going and furthering your education, spending time in society and learning more-- that is what will help this family most, Chrétien.”

“I just.  I worry about what will happen here if I’m gone.  I was visiting you for not even a fortnight and Rosalin ran off with us knowing.”

“Rosalin is another matter.  Completely unrelated.” She reached across the desk and laid a hand on his fingers. “I want you to be selfish in this.  I know you want to go; your books and theorems are always on your mind, I know it.  There will be plenty of time to rebuild the family name and all of that later.  But now is the time for you to serve yourself.”

He remained silent.  She squeezed his fingers.

“I want you to go out, meet bad influences.  Make mistakes.  Have fun.  You deserve it, you know.”

“Bad influences?” he smiled.

She frowned. “Well.  Not too bad.  I shall certainly have stern words if you get too wild.”

He smiled a moment longer before looking down and rubbing his fingers on the desk’s surface.

“I… think I do want that.  To, uhm, go.”

She stood and went around to him, pulling him into a hug.  Seated, he actually was at eye level with her.

“I know you do,” she said. “You’re my baby brother.  Of course I know.  And go you shall!”

He patted her back. “Please don’t start on the baby brother stuff.”

“My sweetie!  My itty bitty wuvie-dovie baby--”

“Stop!  You’re bullying me, stop!”

Sabine laughed and released him.  She leaned against the desk beside him.  Their shoulders knocked.  It reminded her of them being small and sitting on a kitchen bench together, squeezed in with the others.  Staying warm in one of the remaining rooms to be heated, during one of the more lean times.

“I wanted your thoughts on some other things,” she said.

“Oh?”

She nodded. “I think it’s time to look to the future.”

A maid passed by in the hall outside the entrance, weighed down with a basket of laundry.  Rosalin’s red suit dangled from the edge.  The laundresses would have a time of it restoring the red wool after the drenching it got yesterday.

“You are going to university,” Sabine stated. “Afterwards, we’ll see, but I’m sure you’ll have options and ideas for after.  Rosalin-- let’s put her aside for the moment.  She is her own tangle of problems.  Vera…” She tapped on the desk with her fingers. “What do you think of marriage for her?”

Chrétien’s brow rose. “She’s… too young still, don’t you think?”

“I don’t mean right away.  A few more years.  But I think not too long, because I highly doubt that she will ever mature much more.  I think the best thing is to find someone patient and indulgent, and of good enough position to flatter her vanity--”

“And enough money to afford it.”

“Yes.  Someone safe and not caught up in politics or the court.  Because she simply is unsuited to those matters.  But, eventually.  I think that would be best for her.”

He nodded slowly. “You’re probably right.”

“I’ll speak to her about it,” Sabine pushed on. “Now, Lilah.  Lilah-- I would rather push off her marriage for as long as possible.  I see potential in her for political power, and I don’t believe she’d ever be satisfied with a safe marriage.”

“Are you thinking… the Summit?”

“She won’t be old enough for the next one.  But maybe the one after.  Or…” She paused. “I have some ideas for myself, and if she were willing she could be a great help to me.  She has intelligence, poise, looks…”

“But-- I’m not sure what she wants.”

“Me either.  Another conversation to have.  If I can draw her out-- you know how difficult she can be.”

“Yes.  But there’s time.”

Sabine nodded. “Now, the twins.  I think it’s obvious for them.  When they’re fifteen or sixteen, I think we’ll send them along to one of Jiyel’s academies.  They’ll thrive there, I’m sure.”

Chrétien smiled. “They’ve already talked about that, you know.”

“Have they?  Well, it’s settled then.  I’ll look into the different schools.  Or just ask them, because I am sure they know everything already.  And have opinions.”

“So then, the children?”

She smiled. “You’re all children to me, love.”

“You know, you’re not that much older than me.”

“My baby brother.  Adorable little dimpled babycakes.”

He grimaced nervously. “Please don’t.  Domin?  Andreas?”

Her expression faded back to seriousness. “Honestly, I’d like to have them fostered elsewhere.  Preferably together.  Wellin or Arland.  Somewhere staid.”

Chrétien hesitated. “But, they’re so young.”

“I know.  I don’t say this lightly.  Maybe in a few years, but…” She shook her head, and she sighed. “And Marjot…”

Marjot had only been born the previous year.  She was happy little bundle of gurlges and squirming, but she truly was just a baby.

“A baby truly should have her mother,” Sabine said. “But… I don’t know, Chrétien.  I’m nervous about waiting too long.”

Somewhere deeper in the house, Camilla and Marigold and the two young boys were shrieking about something.  Overhead, running feet pounded across the upper floor.

Sabine lowered her voice and leaned in closer to him. “You don’t know quite how bad it is in the capital, Chrétien.  The stories alone don’t do it justice.  Everything is beautiful and jeweled and gilded, and the ballrooms are full of laughter-- but there is suspicion everywhere.  Blood being spilt in the dark, away from the public’s sight but always on their minds.”

She swept a red-gloved hand over her red skirts.  Chrétien reached over to lay an arm over her shoulders.  They leaned into each other.

“Mother and Father…”

“You know how I feel about them.”

He nodded, and went silent.  They sat together-- the two of them, the two oldest and therefore tied together as the responsible ones.  They had always been partners in everything, and knew better than anyone what they each carried.

-

After a day or two of chasing rumours of Rosalin stalking the halls, taking her meals in strange places, and making a nuisance of herself in the servant’s quarters-- Sabine finally hunted her down in one of the closed off wings of the estate.  If ever renovated, the long gallery would be beautiful with its very old and very tall (and very boarded up) windows and its covered antique settees and enormous pink marble fireplace.

Rosalin prowled around the room, wearing white breeches and a blue fencing jacket with its tails whipping behind her.  She moved about with one arm tucked into her back and the other thrusting and slashing with her rapier.  She hummed an arpeggio as she fought an invisible opponent, dust dancing in her wake.

In the doorway, Sabine cleared her throat.

Rosalin paused.  Her expression fell at the sight of her.  She’d somehow pulled the boards away from one window, and its light caught along the wavering edge of her suspended blade.  Sabine stepped forward.

Rosalin lowered her sword arm. “Do you want something?”

Sabine gave her a look. “Could you please try to sound more displeased to see me?  If that is even possible?”

Rosalin’s mouth twisted around and she shrugged.

Picking up her skirts so the pretty embroidered hem didn’t drag in patches of dust, Sabine gingerly minced forward to a couch shrouded in a white cloth.  She grimaced at the layer of powder and fuzz on the cloth and jerked at it until she could toss it to the side.  At the cloud this disturbed, she coughed and waved in front of her face.  The upholstery of the couch was ratty and badly in need of replacement.

Still, Sabine sat with as much grace as if it were the finest silk.  She eyed Rosalin, but she remained stuck to her spot with her feet placed for some fencing maneuver.  As if waiting for her to live so she could restart.

“You can remain standing if you like,” Sabine said. “But I’m going to speak to you anyway.”

They stared at each other for a bit before Sabine exhaled.

“Rosalin, I hope you do realize that I don’t treat you the way I do to anger you.  I love you, and I get concerned.”

Rosalin’s eyes went wary. “I’m not a child.  I can take care of myself.”

Sabine sighed. “I know.  You’re not a child, but neither are you completely grown.  You realize that, don’t you?  The places you go, the things you do… They’re more dangerous than I think you know.”

“I’m not afraid of danger,” she retorted, eyes flashing. “Especially when it’s in the service of what’s right.  When it’s a strike back at the boot on the throats of the innocent and downtrodden.”

“And you think you’re actually helping people?  Helping your great cause and not simply invited scrutiny?  Scrutiny that could very well mean not just your neck but all of ours?  That you aren’t, in fact, simply playing revolutionary?”

Her dark brows drew in anger. “I’m careful.  I’m always careful.  But I can’t believe it-- I knew you were such an overbearing sham, but I can’t believe you’re an actually cold-blooded monarchist.”

She spat the word, monarchist, venomously.

“I am-- publicly,” Sabine stated calmly. “As so many of us must be.  You would be surprised how many of the people you spit at for being bootlickers actually harbor no good will for the current Crown.”

Rosalin sniffed. “No action is as bad as support.”

“Who said I’m not acting?” Sabine said.  They stared at each other.  Sabine remained straight-backed with a direct gaze while uncertainty seeped into Rosalin’s eyes.

Sabine continued. “But that is the difference.  Do you know the type of people that crowd the gallows stage and swing on the ropes?  Those without caution.  That move without subtlety.  And their loved ones and friends swing with them.  You know this.  You’ve seen it.”

Oh, yes.  She did indeed know about all of Rosalin’s little excursions into the cities and their lower quarters.

Rosalin fully lowered her rapier and brought her feet together.  She looked away, bit her lip.

Sabine leaned back. “But you’re right.  You’re no longer a child.  So I’ll let you know that I’ve talking with Chrétien about all of you.  About your futures.  Because Mother and Father certainly aren’t thinking about it.  But when it comes to you, I worry.”

Rosalin sat on the couch with her, quite a few seats away and not looking at her.

“Women have few choices, Rosalin,” Sabine said. “A true marriage isn’t possible for you.  But-- if we discuss our options-- certain arrangements can be made in a marriage.”

Her eyes shot up at this. “I don’t want that.  Ever.  Love should be true and honest and gone into with everything you are.”

“I was talking of marriage.  Not love.”

“I won’t separate the two.”

Sabine studied her.  Truthfully, she could not blame her.  She was grateful to Namaire, and had loved him in a way-- but she’d never been in love with him.

“Maybe there is something in our blood,” Sabine said. “Because now I am very little inclined to disagree with you.  In the future, I…” She trailed off, and she shook her head. “Who knows what the future holds?  But for now, I am not going to force you into anything you don’t want.”

She scoffed. “I’d like to see you try.” But the sullen edge was gone and a more genial, sarcastic sharpness took its place.

Sabine glanced at her with a small smile. “Well, then, what do you think your future will look like?  Because I am struggling to see anything more than corrupting young ladies and winning duels.”

“That sounds pretty good to me,” Rosalin said. “What’s so wrong with that?”

“That’s all very well and good in your youth, but you’ll have to settle down at some point.”

“I don’t see why.”

Sabine gave her a look.  Rosalin pursed her lips and shrugged.

“Look.  I can take care of myself, Sabine.  I know-- I guess-- that you want to help, but I’m never going to be alright with ‘quiet’ and ‘respectable.’”

“Who said anything about respectable?  A good rumour or three can be quite useful.  I’m more concerned about safe.”

“I said I was careful, didn’t I?  And… I’ll try to be more careful.  Your subtle thing.  I’ll try.”

Staring hard at her, Sabine exhaled. “I’d prefer to see it rather than just hear it from you.  But alright.  And no more running off!  If you want to go in to the city, you need only ask.  You’re old enough now that you can pretend to be accompanying one of our friends.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rosalin said, in an entirely unconvincing tone.  She changed tactics. “You said you were thinking about the future for all of us?”

She was the third oldest.  Sabine was used to relying only on Chrétien concerning family matters, and she was used to expected the worst of Rosalin’s temperament-- but perhaps she was mistaken about that now.  She was the third oldest and therefore some of the responsibilities could be imparted to her.  Or at least discussed if only to open her eyes to the realities the rest of them were in.

Sabine spoke to her about her tentative plans for each of their siblings, and Rosalin commented here and there.  She still seemed wary, as if there was some trap in Sabine’s new candor.

“You seem… oddly concerned about getting us out of Revaire.”

Rosalin now sat facing her on the couch, one soft boot on the floor and the other tucked up underneath her thigh.  The singular uncovered window’s light gilded her dark ponytail and her strong brows, her high cheekbones and proud nose.  She studied Sabine hard.

Sabine leaned back, her red gloves in her red wool crepe lap. “I am, very much so.  This country is a disaster.  It is a bloody sty, and I am quite done with it.”

“But the estate--”

“Look at this place,” Sabine gestured around them. “Look.  It’s a rotting mess.  And what has this horrible old pile of stone ever done for us?  Other than made us miserable with its expense and its history.  Chrétien wants to keep going, to restore everything-- but I have very severe  misgivings about it.  I hope in time I’ll be able to convince him to look to himself first.”

“What about the people?”

“You are my people.  My siblings, my servants, and my friends.  These are my people.  I may sound heartless, but I cannot save the world.  What I can do is protect you all.  And I am determined to do so.”

Rosalin shook her head, mouth drawn tight.  Clearly, she disagreed.  And Sabine really did fear for her.  There was too much death sown into the soil of this country; she had no appetite at all to see any of them struggle to grow in such poisoned conditions.

“If you won’t think of the greater good--” Rosalin shot at her, to which she raised an arch brow. “--Then what, at least, about Mother and Father?  You didn’t say anything about them.”

Feeling a cool stillness crack over head like an egg, Sabine gazed at her. “Our parents have made their choices in life.  I am done with being constantly disappointed in them.  Done cleaning up their messes.  Neither I, nor any of us, owe them anything.  They will have to find their own way, as best they can.”

Rosalin stared back.  It was apparently not the answer she’d expected.

Sabine sighed.  They sat together in silence, each considered the chaotic valleys and hills of their childhood.  The highs and lows of the money and the petty, unrealistic concerns of Lord and Lady Guyenne.  The scrabbling for any sense at all of some safety in their lives.

“My concerns lie with my siblings now,” Sabine stated. “And whether you like it or not, that includes you.  I won’t dictate to you how to live.  But I love you Rosalin, and I want you to be safe and happy.”

Rosalin’s shoulders hunched a bit, and she looked off.

Sabine smiled. “Did you hear me?  I love you, Roz.”

“Yeah.  Well.  I love you too.  I suppose.”

Sabine laughed. “I’ll take it.  Now--” She eyed her sister and her embarrassed expression, and her eyes coi nsidering their conversation.  She continued. “Now.  This latest escapade of the heart-- are you or are you not going to tell me about her?”

Rosalin’s eyes shot back to her, scrutinizing for sarcasm.  Sabine smiled.  Rosalin snorted.  She straightened and flicked away her ponytail with cavelier pose.

“Well-- If you really want to know…”

[now-sleeps-the-crimson-peta-blog]

Day 7: Future

@7kpp

It took years.

Seven cold, bitter, stolen years she would bear the scars of forever. She was not enough. She would never be enough. Turning, turning, turning, round and round she went, until that one morning when the melody stopped, her crystal music box shattered into pieces.

She never spoke of what it took. Never spoke of that final drop, that final act of violence. Perhaps the memory itself became distorted: a vile, acrid thing to be replayed, time and again, in nightmares she could not remember upon awakening.

The maids whispered. Of a shrill, piercing scream; an animal in pain. Of the blood they washed off her linens, that morning, and the few mornings that followed. Of how, for a while, the king seemed much more at ease, his manner relaxed, yet all the more unnerving for how unusual this was. Of how the queen stared past everyone and everything with vacant eyes, eyes filled with nothing but despair so perfect it could have been mistaken for indifference.

Odile, queen of Revaire, retired early, and sent her maids away. Alone, she sat for hours upon her bed. Dry-eyed and silent, she stared, transxifed, upon the small blade in her lap - a letter opener as sharp as a sword.

As the dawn broke, it’s light gray and uncertain, she closed her hand upon the hilt, and hurled the knife accross the room.

‘No.’

She would not die, neither by her own hand, nor by his.

*

Constance was wrong. Not in the way she questioned duty - only in the way she chose to act upon that realization. A letter was not enough. Not at first.

The king thought the running of the royal household an inconsequential matter, best left in the hands of his wife, that meek, foolish creature who could not possibly manage anything of greater importance. In the sphere that was her due, Odile was free.

There were many desperate men and women, more in Revaire, perhaps, than anywhere else. Sickness. Poverty. Unfulfilled ambitions. A bitter, all-consuming need for vengeance. All useful motives.

The castle became filled with servants who owed the queen a new chance at life. Before long, she realized that her plans might succeed, that an accident would not be questioned: a jousting lance that would not shatter on impact, a horse driven into a frenzy. Then, she remembered. Not everything. Enough.

Odile, queen of Revaire, thought a quick death too great a mercy.

*

In the autumn months, the young king came down with a wasting sickness. The queen loved him well, and despaired of his misfortune. Unafraid and ever vigilant, she remained ever at his bed, sparing no effort to find the cure. She has been seen confering with medics from all the lands, from tattooed healer-men of Skalt to the renowned doctors of Jiyel, all in vain. Cordelia, first of her name, queen of Wellin, became an unexpected companion and a steadfast ally, visiting often to console Odile in her despair.

At the dawn of the first spring day, bells all accross Revaire rang out in a mournful melody, and the heralds cried: “The king is dead! Long live the queen!”

Jarrod’s funeral was a splendid affair. Too splendid, perhaps, to be seemly in a land as ravaged by poverty and hunger as his reign has left Revaire. There were some who cried out against the injustice that was monarchy, some who tried to stop the red procession as it moved through the capital.

She bid her informants to learn their names. Those, too, the heralds would cry soon enough, the owner of each name bound and gagged before the executioner’s block.

Odile, queen of Revaire, knew better than to forgive.