He woke, sweating, as he had several nights over the past few months. Ever since Lady Florence LaVelle’s debut.
Vester put his cold, clammy face in his hot, sweaty palms. He’d been a fool. A fool! A drunken fool! Why he'd ever thought it was a good idea to tear Lady Florence's wig from her head, he'd never know.
So, just like he did every time he woke up like this, he hit himself on the sides of his head several times, punching himself as he would an adversary.
“Knock some sense into yourself!” his father had thundered, over and over. This was long after the LaVelle guards had dropped him off at home, with Duke LaVelle himself explaining what had happened. Lord Giles had been horrified—his son had done what to the Duke’s daughter?! Because he’d been drunk?
Being a mere viscount, his father had been in no position to do anything other than prostrate himself and beg forgiveness for his idiot son’s stupid, drunken behavior.
“He’ll never do such a thing ever again! You have my word, Duke LaVelle,” Lord Giles had said. Duke LaVelle had, thankfully, been mollified, along with the help of a chest of gold and jewels...a sum Vester knew would be missed.
Truthfully, the trip to the LaVelle dungeons had been all Vester needed to correct his appalling behavior, but his father still insisted on beating some more sense into him.
Being a noble, the LaVelle guards had followed the code of honor during Vester’s questioning, so even though it had hurt, it hadn’t been unbearable, and they hadn’t beaten him anywhere that would show.
But the fear. The fear of that red-hot poker—even if it would never actually touch him, it had seared his mind. As had the fear of the other instruments they had threatened to use on him, prepared to use on him, had even started to use on him only to be “interrupted” at the last minute. It was all burned into his memory.
So, even though he hadn't appeared to be in terrible shape coming home, Vester had been a wreck on the inside. He barely felt his father’s lashings, and only realized halfway through that his father kept shouting the same things over and over, “Knock some sense into yourself! You big idiot! Why would you do something so stupid? Why?”
Therefore, that’s what he did. Whenever he woke up from nightmares of pincers or pokers or cages with spikes, he knocked himself on the head until the pain dominated everything else.
Only then could he dizzily fall back to sleep.
????
~Florence
I stare at the pale pink invitation, delivered to my breakfast table only a few moments ago. The sender: Lady Charlotte Liptoff.
She had asked for permission to call upon me, but I didn’t think she actually had the gall to do it, being the daughter of a mere baron. I rip open the beribboned envelope:
My Dearest Lady Florence,
You are cordially invited to an afternoon soirée, featuring the Rose Garden Quartet. Refreshments will be served during the performance. Your attendance is most anticipated.
Your humble admirer,
Lady Charlotte Liptoff
If circumstances were more normal for me, there would be no question about my attendance, or rather, lack thereof. However, things are far from normal. I sip my tea and contemplate: on the one hand, there is the LaVelle reputation to uphold, as I am constantly reminded. On the other hand, there is my tendency to attract misfortune.
It’s times like these when I regret staying alone in the annex because there is no one I can ask for advice. Yet, despite the loneliness, I know it would be far more uncomfortable to stay in the main house.
“Mary,” I call. “Prepare some stationary for me.”
I can’t stay shut away from high society forever and let the rumors continue—it’s time to face the social scene head-on.
????
~Felix
He knew his cheeks were pink—he had felt the heat of his flush for some time now. No matter how many times it happened, Felix never grew accustomed to it—every time a young lady showed interest in him, he’d stammer, politely decline, and make a brisk escape, cheeks burning.
His latest escape had been into a tea shop, where he had hastily purchased a cup of tea and a slice of cake to pass the time.
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Felix missed his white robes. The legs of the trousers felt far too confining, too close, and the shirt was the same. Both those and a suit jacket were needed for his “uniform” as the King called it—though it was really a disguise. Felix had objected to deception when the King first brought up following Lady Florence around the Royal Academy campus, stating there was no need for it. But the King had insisted, referring to the disguise as a “uniform” in an attempt to assuage Felix’s guilt about wearing it.
Calling it something else did not remove the guilt or the deception, but Felix could not refuse the King’s command. So, here he was, dressed as a male student, his long silver hair partially tied back away from his face, and slim silver spectacles perched atop his narrow nose.
According to Mrs. Sally, the woman the King had sent to make his uniform, he made “quite a dashing young scholar,” but Felix hadn’t known what she'd meant. He’d been raised in the Temple, away from society, with only his twin and other clerics for company the majority of the time, so his knowledge of the world outside the Temple was…sparse.
Not to mention, when Russo had finally figured out how to release Felix from the time-trap last winter, he'd emerged to find that five years had gone by. It had only felt like a night’s worth of sleep for Felix, but for the rest of the world, Russo included, five years had passed. Felix had not aged, but Russo had. And so many other things had changed while he was stuck in that cursed trap.
Felix sighed into his cup of tea. Russo told him not to think about it, not to worry about it—that it wasn’t his fault. But that was just Russo shouldering the responsibility as he usually did, as the “older” twin by twenty-some minutes. Now older by five-some years…
How could he have made such a mistake?
“Cheer up, lad,” the proprietress called across the near-empty shop, startling Felix. “Surely whatever’s weighing on you can’t be that terrible, can it?”
Felix smiled politely at her and watched as the proprietress, several years his senior, blushed. Is this what Mrs. Sally had meant when she said I was “dashing?”
“I appreciate your kind words,” he replied, standing to leave. Now he had to make another hasty retreat—before his cheeks started to match hers for no good reason.
Unfortunately, just as he was exiting the shop, Lady Florence of all people decided to enter it.
He pushed past her, ignoring her pinched brows as she tried to place his face, hoping she would fail to recognize him.
“Cleric Felix?” she called after him. He stopped. “It is Felix, isn’t it, and not Russo?”
He’d drawn the line at the “uniform”—he would not ignore her directly, not after she’d identified him.
“Ah,” he replied, turning around. He took one step toward her and stopped—Lady Florence was a vision before him! Her pale lilac gown suited her, complementing her clear, turquoise eyes and matching the ends of her hair. It was with relief he noticed that her cheeks were far less holl0w than when he'd first seen her, tied to her bed. “It’s an honor to be recognized by you, Lady Florence. Yes, I am Felix. Would you allow me the pleasure of buying you some tea?”
How dare he be so presumptuous, but what else was there to say at that moment?
“Didn’t you just finish having tea yourself?” she asked, giving him a small smile and gesturing to the shop he'd just left.
His heart ached—he did not deserve to see her smile.
“I did,” he replied, his voice strained. The flames were creeping toward his face—he could feel the heat rising as his shame grew. Shame and…and admiration for her. Yes, admiration. Only that.
But that word tasted bitter and wrong...
“Then I shall thank you for the offer, but politely decline…this time.”
Was he imagining things, or did Lady Florence also appear nervous?
“If I may be so bold..." she continued, "I would like to ask you a few questions at your earliest convenience, now that I know you’re attending the Academy.”
He was deceiving her, adding to his list of sins against her.
“Y-yes,” Felix replied. “Yes, of course. I am at your disposal, my lady.” He dipped his head in deference.
“Excellent. Then, how about after classes end on Loersday, next week?” She turned her head to the side and read the name of the shop behind them. “Chamomile and Honey Tea Shop. How was it? I’ve heard it’s nice, which is why I was headed here myself. Is it a good place to meet?”
“Th-the tea was fine to me, th-though my palate couldn’t possibly be as refined as yours, my lady,” he said. It was cramped in the shop—the tables were small, and the chairs were placed close together. If he and Lady Florence were to have tea together inside…his ears started to burn at the thought of sitting so close to her. “Perhaps—”
“It sounds perfect, Cleric Felix,” she said, giving him another small smile. This time, he noticed it did not quite reach her eyes.
Oh.
His embarrassment instantly vanished as concern for her washed over him. Reaching out with his holy power, he was immediately flooded with several strong emotions—bone-deep fatigue, deep-seated rage, iron determination, bottomless grief—but only the smallest ember of hope. He recoiled, shocked by the violent storm brewing inside her.
“Don’t forget! Loersday, after classes are over for the day.” She dipped her head, then headed into the shop.
Felix walked to the nearest bench and sat. He hadn’t planned on encountering Lady Florence like this, nor invading her privacy with his powers. Would the King be pleased?
A nasty sensation ballooned within him, as if he’d swallowed a slime monster. How could he continue this ruse? How could he blatantly lie to Lady Florence’s face, never mind the King’s command? She clearly needed help, not deceit. The last thing she needed was to get caught up in the King's schemes. Lady Florence needed rest, counsel, and healing, but how could he do that within the constraints of the King's commands?
Russo. He’d ask Russo. Surely his brother would know what to do.
≈ "Monday" ]