agildedecho

[agildedecho]

closed starter @moonandstcrs

location: someone's estate

Domingo Alvarado stood near the gilded windows of the estate’s grand ballroom, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow over the polished parquet beneath his boots. His dark eyes followed the swirling crowd with the practiced calm of a man who had long learned to navigate society’s shifting tides—each smile measured, each gesture precise. Yet beneath the surface, a quiet storm raged. He caught sight of her then: Lady Theodosia Symonds. Her presence pulled at him like a sudden, unwelcome current, stirring memories he had tried to bury beneath duty and discipline. The delicate glint of her wedding ring, a cold band of gold catching the light, seemed to mock the brief sanctuary they had once found in one another—an urgency born of war’s cruelty, silent promises whispered in the shadows of a battlefield hospital. Nothing permanent, never meant to last. But lasting it had, in a way that no man could fully escape. Domingo squared his shoulders, smoothing the crease of his coat, and approached with the ease of a diplomat yet the careful restraint of a man aware of delicate ground. His voice, when he spoke, was low and steady, laced with the same tact he wielded so deftly in politics. “Lady Symonds. I trust the evening finds you well.” His eyes searched hers briefly—reserved, cautious—before he continued, “It is… a rare thing, to see you here. I hope the transition into this next chapter of your life has been kinder than the war allowed us.” There was no invitation for sentiment, only the quiet acknowledgment of a past that lingered between them like smoke in an empty room.

[agildedecho]

Domingo had not seen him approach—not truly. His mind had been elsewhere, as it often was when among crowds where masks outnumbered faces. He stood near the edge of the stables, gloved hands clasped neatly behind his back, eyes narrowed not with irritation but calculation as he observed the horses, their grooms, the quiet dealings behind the racing spectacle. It was only when a man nearly collided with him that Domingo turned his head, the motion unhurried, his expression unreadable. He did not stumble, nor startle. He rarely did. Atticus Sinclair. Domingo recognized the face—though more in theory than in familiarity. A name spoken in half-whispers at functions, often followed by the word unfortunate. The Sinclairs had seen better days, and the Ton never forgot such things.

Atticus spoke—rushed, polite, the kind of apology made by someone too used to bracing for disdain. Domingo’s gaze settled on him, quiet and discerning, the way one might study a painting whose brushstrokes revealed more upon closer inspection. “No harm done,” he said at last, his voice even, low, and marked with a cool civility that neither invited warmth nor dismissed it. “I’ve endured worse on Parliament floor.” A beat passed. He made no move to step away, nor to press the conversation forward. Simply existed there—tall, composed, a man formed by iron disciplines and velvet secrets. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he added, with that same restrained courtesy. “Sir Domingo Alvarado.” He offered his hand, firm and formal—the gesture of a man raised on decorum and diplomacy, but not untouched by steel. His dark eyes flicked across Atticus’s face—not in disdain, nor challenge, but with a quiet, appraising intelligence. “And you are…?” A pause. Then, with the faintest trace of wryness: “Forgive me. I’ve heard the name Sinclair, of course. I imagine most have.”

Who: @agildedecho for one, Mister Domingo Alvarado

Admittedly, Atticus was not having the best few days. His mind lingered not in the present but to the past, to a place in the woods where he and Josephine had shared yet another moment. Something that just left him more and more in a whirlwind of confusion. Each time he thought he had come to a conclusion, it fell apart. Each rationale seemed stranger and more far-fetched than the last. Then again, so did the event that began it all seemed just as far-fetched. To go from turned away confessions to kissing him in the woods was just…baffling to Atticus. More and more lately did the temptation to leave burned in him. A rare feeling.

Maybe that is why he was so close to the horses, watching them get outfitted for the races. Maybe that is why he did not notice the other until he practically walked into him. And maybe once more fate was pulling a cruel joke on him to run into, of all people, Josephine’s match- not that he knew of that part. Yet. “Oh. My apologies, I was not paying attention to where it was I was walking. My sincerest of apologies. I hope I didn’t spill anything on you.”

[agildedecho]

Domingo had been trained to maintain his composure under pressure—diplomatic rooms tense with politics, war councils burdened with the weight of lives, duels fought not with swords but with glances and innuendo. And yet, here in a quiet café tucked off a cobbled London street, with the scent of lavender tea curling in the air and the soft warmth of Marjorie’s gaze resting so steadily upon him—he found himself grasping for stillness, for control, and failing quietly. Her words landed not like arrows, but like candlelight—quiet, gentle, and impossible to ignore. He could have said something clever. Should have. That was always his shield: charm. But when he looked at her now—truly looked—all that rose within him was not practiced wit but something far less rehearsed. And far more dangerous. There was a flicker behind his eyes, like the flint of a storm in an otherwise calm sky. He glanced down for the briefest moment, gathering himself, then returned his gaze to hers. Steady. Measured. But not cold. “I do not often envy men,” he began slowly, voice low and tempered like a blade being sheathed. “Most chase what they do not understand. And so few ever see what is in front of them.” He paused, fingers brushing the rim of his cup though he did not drink. “But if you’ve truly sat through this season unnoticed... then I fear the men of the Ton are even more blind than I gave them credit for. Or perhaps they are simply cowards.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward—too small to be a smile, but too real to be anything else. “You say you’ve been waiting for someone who might deem you worthy of their heart… but I cannot help but wonder, Marjorie—has it not occurred to you that your worth might be so great it simply frightened the wrong men away?” It was too much. Too close to sentiment. He heard it in his own voice, felt the soft tremor of vulnerability he had long ago taught himself to deny. And yet, he did not step back from it. Not this time. He leaned slightly forward, just enough that the soft hum of the café fell away behind them, and the air between them felt suspended.

Marjorie felt her heartbeat quicken as she heard his words.

A warm smile as well as a demure gaze washing over her features as she spoke.

"Thank you Sir Domingo. And I am proud to know that I gave you something and someone to trust in during your time away. I sincerely hope my words served to be your light in such times, for your words served to be my light." Marjorie replied thoughtfully, gazing at him with a meaningful look in her eyes.

She cocked her head to the side slightly as she gazed at him, listening intently to what he had to say, and upon hearing it she couldn't help but smile shyly.

How many times at night would she read his letters when she should have been asleep? How many times had she laid awake at night not only wishing to see him but also wondering if anything could ever possibly come from two souls baring themselves to each other in written words from a long distance? Her heart would be set ablaze at the mere thought only for her to calm it down out of not wanting to get her hopes up, something she had done many times before whenever she laid awake at night, thinking of his lovely words that he had written her.

"Yes, the marriage market is relentless... though it is not relentless for me, I don't have very many suitors this season. For the two gentlemen I have spoken to previously, are now merely friends to me and nothing more than that. I am still waiting for my match this season. Many have asked what my dream match would be this season, yet so far no gentleman in the Ton seems to meet those expectations, for they were quite keen on wasting my time... that, and... I wish to give my heart to someone deserving of it and receive their heart in return because they deem me worthy of having it... and that hasn't happened yet... but, I'm hoping it will." Marjorie answered gently with determination lining her tone as she looked at him directly in his eyes.

She felt her heartbeat quicken again as she mentally kept reminding herself to breathe as her gaze never left him.

[agildedecho]

Domingo did not move immediately, nor did he rush to fill the silence Bastien left in the air between them. He had spent his life in rooms where silence meant weakness, where hesitation was swiftly punished. But here, with this boy—no, this young man who mistook himself for fragile porcelain—silence was a kind of offering. A space to breathe. To be. Domingo understood the weight of expectation too well to trample upon another’s quiet with platitudes. Instead, he stepped to Bastien’s side, slow and deliberate, letting his presence be felt but not forced. The wind swept across the water, the sky overhead bleeding lavender into the coming dusk. Domingo’s voice, when it came, was quiet and measured, not for the sake of diplomacy this time, but for the sake of the person beside him. “Then let us begin there—with disbelief,” he said, eyes not on Bastien, but on the same line of sky and sea the boy had stared at moments before. “It is an honest place. And there are too few of those left in this world.” He clasped his hands loosely before him, posture relaxed, gaze distant but unfixed, as though watching a memory unspool behind his eyes. “Your father is a formidable man. A friend. One of the few whose loyalty I trust without doubt. But I do not seek you because of him, Bastien. I was asked to watch over you, yes—but not for him. I agreed because I find you… curious.” His eyes flicked to Bastien then—not sharp, not dissecting, but steady. Present. “There is strength in you, though I suspect you’ve grown tired of hearing that word thrown at you like armor you did not ask to wear. There’s also uncertainty, yes, and pain... but that doesn’t make you lesser. It makes you aware. And that is far more dangerous—and far more rare—than certainty.” A pause. “I do not pity you.” The words were not tender, but they were clean. Honed to a blade’s edge, as all of Domingo’s words were, yet delivered not to wound but to cut away the lies Bastien had wrapped around himself. “I have no use for pity. Nor for performance when it serves no purpose.”

Bastien turned his head slightly, the cool breeze lifting a few strands of hair across his forehead. His eyes — those soft, searching eyes — lingered not on Domingo but on the distant line where the water kissed the sky, as if he could find an answer there that continued to elude him. For a long moment, he said nothing. Silence was safer. Silence could not betray him the way his voice might. At last, with a breath so light it barely stirred the air between them, he spoke. "I do not know if I believe you," Bastien said quietly, not in accusation, but with a gentleness that was almost more wounding. His accent curled around the words, giving them a softness, a vulnerability he could not hide even if he wished to. "It is not... personal. I find it difficult to trust the intentions of anyone who knows my father's name before they know mine." A small, mirthless smile tugged at his lips, though it faded almost instantly. "Even kindness feels suspect, sometimes."

He pressed a hand to the edge of the stone wall by the water, grounding himself with the roughness beneath his palm. His slender frame, so carefully composed, betrayed the exhaustion he tried to hide. "I am not like you, Domingo. You, you move through the world with such...certainty. I have no such gift. I am an interloper here. A curiosity at best, an obligation at worst." He shook his head slowly, his gaze dropping to the stones at his feet. "My presence in London is a favor. A debt being paid. You are here because of duty — and perhaps, perhaps a sliver of pity. It is all right. I do not resent it. I have long made my peace with being someone's burden."

He lifted his head again, the faintest trace of color warming his otherwise pale cheeks. "But I do appreciate the offer," Bastien said, voice low, almost fragile. "To walk beside me...even if you are only humoring a lonely boy who does not quite know how to be a man yet." He gave a ghost of a smile, but there was a sadness behind it that could not be disguised. "I will not ask for more than you are willing to give. I have learned better than to beg for permanence from those who were only meant to pass through." And with that, Bastien returned his gaze to the horizon — not dismissing Domingo, but rather, allowing him the choice to stay or go without expectation. It was all Bastien could offer: a steady, wounded heart, and a silence filled with all the words he did not know how to speak.

[agildedecho]

Josephine Hermance walked with the kind of effortless grace that bespoke breeding and practice rather than ease. Her expression was sculpted into neutrality, but he had studied enough faces, defused enough tense councils, to recognize the tight set of her jaw and the flicker of irony in her voice. A lesser man might have flinched. He did not. "You underestimate the weight of a compliment, Lady Hermance," Domingo replied, his voice smooth, low, threaded with diplomacy and something softer, carefully placed. "It was not flattery. I have seen nobler titles buckle under far less strain. If your sisters lend you strength, then they are as formidable as their reputation suggests." There. Not too warm, not too distant—enough respect to maintain rapport, enough ambiguity to preserve the illusion. The Queen was watching them both. Even now, perhaps.

A hawk circled high above the hedgerows. Domingo’s eyes followed it for a beat longer than necessary. "You speak of theatrics," he said eventually, tone almost amused. "I would offer a different term—performance. The court is full of it, after all. This match... it is a stage, is it not?" He turned his head just slightly toward her, dark eyes studying her profile as though she were a cipher he had yet to fully decode. "The Queen pens the script. We play our parts." He paused at a bend in the path, letting his gaze drift toward the pond glimmering in the distance. The sun caught the surface in sharp, fractured light—like a smile that didn’t reach the eyes. "I imagine," he continued, "that you dislike being directed. As do I." There was a faint twist to his mouth—something between amusement and resignation. "And yet, here we are. Actors under command." His voice gentled, not out of fondness, but out of habit—like she were a delegate from a precarious nation he must neither insult nor encourage. "We are not so different, you and I. I wonder if that will make this easier... or far more difficult." Then, as if he’d said nothing at all, he resumed their walk. Leaves whispered above them; the wind carried with it the scent of lilacs and the not-so-distant sound of carriage wheels.

If this were simply a match that her mother had arranged, Josephine would have told her no. There would be no way that she would court Domingo Alvarado. But this was the Queens will and she knew, if nothing else, that she needed to at least make a show of it. She had her position because of the Queens good will, she needn't mess it all up now. But could she not have picked someone that she could stand to be around a little more? Josephine thought that Domingo was a worthy opponent - she respected him for that, at the very least. If nothing else, this situation wasn't going to be boring.

Like him, Josephine showed nothing of the discomfort which she felt beneath the surface - except, perhaps, the slight tension in her shoulders. She raised an eyebrow at his compliment. Well, he certainly played the part very well, "Thank you Sir Domingo. That is kind of you to say." Did her tone sound as awkward and forced as she thought that it did? She certainly hoped not. "I cannot take all of the credit, though. My sisters help. They keep me strong." She shrugged. She almost definitely would have crumbled under the pressure of the whole situation if it weren't for her siblings. They were everything to her - anyone who knew her well enough, knew that. She was a strong woman, yes but she was also comfortable enough to realise that she needed the people around her for that to be true. If Josephine stopped to think about things a little more - she'd realise that the two of them were more alike than they realised. Similar to Domingo, whilst she gave the image of cool and collected, her mind was buzzing with what was going to come next. She gave a huff of a laugh as the others mentioned the matchmaking, "I think that theatrical is probably the best word for it. Or the only word to be said that won't get me into too much trouble." A smirk slipped onto her lips for the merest of moment before she spoke again, "It's certainly an interesting predicament to find one self in. I do wonder how successful it will actually be."

[agildedecho]

Domingo offered a slight smile at her words, though he quickly lowered his gaze, careful to rein in the sudden surge of emotion that threatened to betray him. He had spent so long mastering restraint that moments like these felt almost foreign, dangerous even. When he finally spoke, his voice was even, low, and measured, as if he were discussing something far more mundane than the vulnerable weight of their long correspondence. “You are very kind, Lady Marjorie,” he said quietly, the formality slipping in almost unconsciously, a shield he often wore in unfamiliar terrain. “I admit, I questioned whether this meeting would diminish what we had built with ink and parchment. It is easier, sometimes, to believe in illusions.” His gaze lifted to meet hers, more steady than warm, though there was a trace of something deeper beneath the surface—something he was not yet ready to name. “But standing here, I find no illusion at all. Only… something I am glad to have trusted in.”

He folded his hands on the table to keep them from fidgeting, a habit he had learned to suppress early in his career. There were many things he could say—words of admiration, of longing—but Domingo was a cautious man, and this meeting was still precarious, no matter how familiar she felt. Instead, he allowed a more practical thought to slip forward, one that had been quietly gnawing at him since his return. “I have been absent for much of the season,” he said, tone shifting toward the conversational, though his eyes remained keenly observant. “Spain kept me longer than intended. I wonder if, in my absence, you have found yourself caught up in all the usual expectations. The marriage market is rather relentless, I hear.” He spoke it lightly, almost detached, but there was a weight behind the question—a quiet, unspoken hope that he might not be too late. Though he did not say it aloud, Domingo knew he was no easy prize. He came with shadows, ambitions, and loyalties that would demand much of any woman who dared love him. But for the first time in a long while, he found himself hoping, however cautiously, that perhaps she might yet choose to.

Marjorie curtsied respectfully, a shiver running down her spine as she not only heard his voice for the first time but also savored his touch and the electrifying feel of his lips on the back of her hand.

She smiled warmly at him, her eyes gazing at him with warmth as she took in his smile. Everything about him absolutely captivated her, she nearly forgot how to speak for a moment.

Fortunately, she finally found her voice.

"Oh, n-no it is quite alright. You certainly didn't keep me waiting. For they say absence makes the heart grow fonder." She answered with a shy smile accompanied with a soft and demure gaze as she blushed.

As he spoke, she felt as if she had to remind herself to breathe.

"I feel the same, for your words to me were beyond any that anyone has ever spoken to me. They were ethereal and beautiful. Your letters became a part of my life too, and I'm overjoyed and very touched to know that my words to you did the same." She whispered back, her shyness momentarily melting away, gazing upon him as if no one else were there in the establishment with them, her eyes shining dreamily.

There was something special there that she felt, and she was glad to share it with him. She wasn't sure exactly what she felt in that moment, but she simply couldn't look away from him.

Marjorie knew she had to say something though.

"I've... never written so many letters to someone I have only just seen in person. It is as if we've known each other for years but only just now know what the other looks like. In my dreams you looked as if you were from a valiant portrait... but I was mistaken, you are far more handsome than any portrait." Marjorie said, still in awe with simply being in his presence after so long and after so many letters that laid their souls bare had been exchanged between the two of them.

[agildedecho]

closed starter @promisedhexvens

location: local park

The gravel crunched softly under Domingo’s polished boots as he walked along the tree-lined promenade, hands loosely clasped behind his back in a posture of careful leisure. Outwardly, he appeared every inch the composed knight and diplomat the court had come to expect — tailored, solemn, and deeply self-possessed. His face, carved in quiet, thoughtful lines, betrayed none of the tension simmering beneath his calm exterior. He stole a glance at Josephine Hermance walking beside him, with the confidence of a woman who had long since learned she could trust no one but herself. Domingo could admire that, even respect it. And yet, admiration did not make this situation any less precarious. They were political rivals, after all, though circumstance, the Queen’s meddling hand, had now forced them into the farcical dance of courtship.

Domingo’s voice, when he spoke, was smooth and low, honed by years of diplomatic service. “I must commend you, Lady Hermance. Few would carry the weight you bear with such elegance.” A diplomatic truth — but it was a truth nonetheless. “Not many find themselves head of a house so young and remain standing.” He offered her a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable. “It is no small feat.” He allowed a beat of silence to stretch between them, the crisp spring air stirring the leaves overhead. Inwardly, his mind moved at a different pace entirely: calculating, cautious, wary of every word spoken and unspoken. He knew better than to underestimate her. Domingo’s tone grew lighter as he continued, feigning casual conversation with the effortless grace of a man used to hiding anything important. “I wonder, Miss Hermance… do you find this matchmaking scheme as curious as I do? It seems almost… theatrical.” A wry glint, so faint it might be missed, flickered in his eyes. He slowed his pace deliberately, offering her the illusion of control over their path, but never once relaxing his vigilance. In matters of politics, and, he suspected, in matters of the heart, Josephine Hermance would be a formidable opponent. Or perhaps, God help them both, something far more dangerous.

[agildedecho]

Domingo's gaze lingered on Ela, the silence between them settling into something fragile, weighted with old memories. Her vulnerability, the way she clung to that book—How to Be a Good Wife—was a painful reminder of everything they had lost. His heart twinged, ached with the weight of what they had once been. He wanted to reassure her, but he didn’t quite know how. Not without digging up memories best left buried. With a careful breath, Domingo straightened, his jaw tightening with resolve. “Wait here,” he said quietly, his voice soft but firm. Domingo moved away from her with the grace of someone accustomed to both command and quiet reflection. His footsteps were measured, deliberate, as if the weight of the moment settled on him like the layers of dust in the library. Ela’s words had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. The vulnerability she laid bare, the depth of her uncertainty, was a cruel reminder of everything they had been to each other—of everything they had lost. His throat tightened, but he swallowed the feeling. It was easier, safer, to act with the detached precision of a knight than to dwell on the hurt she stirred in him.

He found the row of books he was searching for without much effort. It had always been tucked away, hidden in plain sight behind far more reputable texts. He had come here more than once, when the need for a distraction was at its worst, when his thoughts of her grew too unbearable. The same book had caught his eye then, and though it had seemed absurd at the time, it was something he felt might be helpful now. Not that he expected it to be a magic solution to anything, but it could, perhaps, answer some of the questions Ela had that she had no one else to ask.

The spine of the book was worn, the leather faded with age. Matters of Intimacy, it read, a title that alone would have caused a stir if anyone were to see it. Domingo’s fingers brushed over it, a flicker of unease passing through him. The memories of his younger self—the ones where this book had been a joke, a game to some of the men, a matter of curiosity to others—now felt absurd. It hadn’t been a joke when it was first offered to him, and it certainly wasn’t one now. He tucked the book under his arm and made his way back to Ela, the weight of it somehow heavier than the burden of what they had once shared.

When he returned to her, he could see the way she clutched the How to Be a Good Wife book to her chest, as though it were some sort of shield. Her eyes met his in a mix of embarrassment and longing, and it stung him to see her like that. He wasn’t sure if he was helping, or making things worse, but he knew he had to at least try. With a steadying breath, he offered her the book, holding it out toward her with care, as though offering something fragile.

"This," he said softly, his voice low and calm, "is not what you were looking for in that book." His fingers brushed against hers again as she took it, a touch that was all too familiar, all too painful. "But," he continued, stepping back just enough to give her space, "it might help you understand the things you’re concerned about. Though I will say this—no book, no matter how detailed, will ever prepare you for the real thing." He met her gaze then, his expression solemn. "A book can tell you what to expect, what to do, but it cannot teach you the intimacy that exists between two people—especially not the kind of intimacy you want with a husband, with someone you care about deeply." His voice softened, his eyes growing distant for a moment before he returned his attention fully to her. Ela had once been the center of his world—he didn’t want her to think she had to be anything less than herself. "Intimacy is not something you can read about," he said gently, his tone almost apologetic. "It’s something you have to feel, something you grow into. It’s messy, it’s imperfect, and it’s not always what you expect it to be. But it’s real, and it’s something you cannot learn from a book."

Ela blinked against the dim light, the golden dusk filtering through tall windows catching the dust motes in the air like drifting stars. She’d fallen asleep again—she could feel it in the slight ache in her neck, in the way her cheek had creased against the edge of her open book. But it wasn’t the light or the chill of the library that woke her. It was his voice. Her eyes fluttered open fully, and there he stood—Domingo. Her breath caught, just for a second. The years fell away in that one glance. He looked exactly as she remembered and not at all the same. The weight of time sat on his shoulders now, but his eyes—oh, those eyes still held a kindness that made her heart ache.

She straightened abruptly, pushing back her hair in a flurry of embarrassment—only to see what he was looking at. That book. How to Be a Good Wife. Ela’s entire body went hot. “Oh,” she breathed, cheeks going crimson as she snatched the book up and clutched it tightly to her chest, like that might somehow erase its presence. “That’s—um—that isn’t—I mean…” She buried her face in one hand, letting out a mortified little laugh. “I fell asleep,” she mumbled into her palm. “I wasn’t�� I wasn’t expecting anyone to see.”

Her voice was soft, fluttering at the edges, but she forced herself to peek at him through her fingers, her heart racing with a helpless blend of shame and old affection. “It’s not what you think,” she added quickly. “I was only trying to prepare myself. For… Mister Kensington. I just thought—I mean, one must be ready, mustn’t one? I didn’t have anyone to ask, not really.” she admitted, voice faltering. “Mama is gone. My sister would laugh, or worse, scold me. And my friends—well, it’s not something one brings up over tea. Not when they’re all so sure of themselves and I—I still feel as though I’m pretending to be a grown woman some days.” She glanced down at her hands, twisting the hem of her sleeve, her voice growing softer still. “And then there’s the curse.” She didn’t have to explain it. Domingo knew. She looks down at the book, disappointment written on her face. “It felt safer to read. Even if the book is mostly nonsense about not speaking out of turn and keeping one’s hair tidy.” She gave a feeble smile, eyes dipping downward. “It doesn’t say anything about how to make a husband happy. Not truly. Not how to be… close. Or warm. Or—” her voice faltered, face burning anew “—or the other things.”

She closed her eyes, trying to will the embarrassment away, trying to pretend he wasn’t her former fiancé, the one who had once been meant to hold these answers for her. The silence pressed close. She peeked at him again, heart skipping, wondering—What is he thinking? Does he pity me? Is he laughing inside? Does he remember how it once was, when it was supposed to be us? The ache that flickered in her chest surprised her. She was engaged now. She had moved on. But part of her still wanted to know what Domingo saw when he looked at her now—fragile, flustered, and trying so very hard to be something she wasn’t sure she could be.

[agildedecho]

Domingo stood in quiet admiration as Marjorie entered the room, his eyes momentarily betraying the calm, composed mask he so often wore. The moment he saw her, everything seemed to shift, the space between them narrowing as his gaze moved over her with the precision of a man who had spent months imagining her, only to find that no amount of words could truly prepare him for the real thing. She was more captivating in person, her elegance and grace manifesting in every movement. Her beauty wasn’t just in her features, but in the way she carried herself—like a woman who had lived in the world of her own thoughts, just as he had, but who was now standing in front of him as if out of a dream. “Lady Marjorie,” Domingo greeted her with a slight bow, his voice rich with a warmth that hadn’t quite made its way into his words before. His hand gently took hers, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand with the kind of respectful, deliberate care that only someone used to diplomacy could muster. There was a moment of stillness as he lingered there, his gaze never leaving her face, and he couldn’t help but allow himself a rare, genuine smile. “The pleasure is mine, more than you can know.” His tone was soft, his words careful, but there was an undeniable pull in his expression as he studied her. The letters they had exchanged, the words that had haunted his thoughts, now felt distant and almost irrelevant, for what he saw in front of him was more than he ever imagined. He exhaled slowly, as though catching his breath, before his smile turned slightly rueful. “I must apologize for not meeting you sooner. Spain required a delicate hand, and I’ve been caught in matters of state. But, as they say, better late than never,” he continued, his voice tinged with both the regret of the delay and the sincerity of his words. “I hope I have not kept you waiting too long.” As he spoke, he stepped just a little closer, the warmth of his presence filling the space between them. His eyes softened, and for a brief moment, he let down his guard completely. “It’s a rare thing, to meet someone whose words have become such a part of one’s life,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, and for a fleeting second, the diplomat and the knight both faded, leaving only the man who had longed for this moment.

She couldn't have been more nervous than she was right now. She would be finally meeting him face to face. She wasn't sure what he looked like exactly but she was sure he would be handsome.

Marjorie stepped out of the carriage and took a deep breath. Did she look alright? Did she look nervous? She hoped he would like her. Would she know where he was in Gunter's?

Marjorie walked in, her servant behind her as her eyes scanned the establishment before landing on a face, a handsome face. His eyes were just as she had pictured, his face was youthful yet rugged, his posture was certainly not rigid but he was far from slouching, and his smile was ultimately captivating.

Domingo...

Marjorie's breath caught in her throat briefly before she willed herself to breathe. She approached him with a gaze as if they were the only two people in Gunter's.

"Sir Domingo Alvarado, I... I am so happy to finally meet you face to face. It's me Lady Marjorie Hermance." She said, trying to contain her excitement and nervousness as she elegantly curtsied to him before holding her hand out for him to kiss.

She smiled at him as she drank in the sight of him. It was surreal to finally see him after all of the letters they had exchanged.

[agildedecho]

Domingo’s eyes lingered on Bastien, the young man standing with his back to the water, looking as though he sought peace in the endless horizon. There was a familiarity to Bastien’s posture, a subtle weariness to his soul that Domingo had come to recognize. He knew all too well what it was like to wear that heaviness, to try and escape the past without truly succeeding. For a moment, Domingo stood there in silence, watching him, before Bastien’s soft voice cut through the air, pulling him from his thoughts. “Ah, Bastien,” Domingo began, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though it was tempered by something far more serious in his tone. He took a step forward, his voice steady as he responded, “If I had wanted to shadow you, I would have done so without announcing it. But I am no stranger to your father’s concerns.” He chuckled lightly, though it was more out of amusement at the situation than any genuine humor. “Francis may think I’m your keeper, but I assure you, I’m simply... here.” His words trailed off for a moment as he regarded Bastien, his gaze softer. “And yes, I would be honored to walk beside you.” Domingo took another step, closing the distance between them, his presence calm but steady, like a weight settling beside Bastien. His tone grew more serious, the guarded edges of his demeanor slipping away as he spoke. “I know what it’s like to bear the weight of a name, a legacy that follows you, whether you ask for it or not. You don’t have to carry it alone, though. You may think the past defines you, but it’s the choices you make now that will determine who you truly are.” His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of something warmer beneath it—perhaps a reminder that even the most reserved among them needed a little tethering now and then. “I’m not here as your father’s envoy, Bastien. I’m here as a man who understands what it means to be untethered. I’m simply offering to walk beside you—for however long you need it.”

closed starter @agildedecho || the piers

The water had always soothed him. Bastien’s boots whispered along the wooden boards of the pier, his hands tucked neatly behind his back, posture composed though his thoughts were anything but. The salt air curled into his lungs, cool and bracing, tangling itself with the scent of old rope and sun-warmed tar. The sky was the colour of tarnished silver, and the water below mirrored it—quiet, glassy, endless. He liked the way it made him feel small. Not insignificant, precisely, but unburdened of importance. Just a man. Just one set of eyes, observing. He slowed, then stopped near the edge, letting the wind bite softly at his cheeks, tousle a curl loose from its pin. He could have stayed there for hours if left uninterrupted.

But he wasn’t alone.

He didn’t turn his head—didn’t need to. The weight of being watched had become familiar in recent days, like an ill-fitting coat he could not quite shed. Bastien gave it a breath, a count of three, then sighed. His voice, when it came, was soft but carried clearly on the breeze. “Domingo,” he said, not unkindly, “if you insist on shadowing me, the least you can do is walk beside me.” A pause. Then, quieter—almost an afterthought—“I might even be grateful for it.” He turned at last, and there he was. Of course. Tall and composed, as always. One of the only familiar figures in London, and perhaps the one person who knew him before he became this—before letters and bloodlines and unravelled truths had shifted the shape of him. Bastien’s mouth tilted in a small, tired smile, more weary than warm, but genuine for all that. “Or is it my father who sent you again?” he asked, voice mild, the words wrapped in velvet despite the sting underneath. “I do wonder if he thinks I might float away if left untethered.”

[agildedecho]

Domingo could feel the weight of the moment pressing on him. Seeing Edith’s pain—her shock—was like a sudden, sharp stab to his chest. Arthur’s memory was something he tried to keep buried, but the mention of his name always had the power to pull it all to the surface. He had lost count of the nights he had spent alone, haunted by thoughts of his fallen friend, wondering what might have been had the war not stolen him away so suddenly. Arthur had been more than a comrade; he had been a brother. And in many ways, it felt as though a part of Domingo had died with him.

He watched Edith carefully, a deep ache welling inside him as she struggled to collect herself. Her pain mirrored his, though he would never admit to her how much it still hurt. He had promised himself that he would never let Arthur’s death break him, but standing in front of Edith, with her wide, searching eyes, all the defenses he’d built up seemed to crumble. He took a step closer to her, not to comfort, but simply to bridge the distance, feeling the pull of something unspoken between them. His voice, though soft, was firm with purpose. “If you’d like, we can speak about this somewhere private. I know this is not easy, not here.” His eyes met hers, a flash of something tender and conflicted flickering within them. “Arthur spoke of you often... He... he had great affection for you.”

Domingo paused, his fingers instinctively flexing as he carefully considered his next words. “And yes, he would have called me Dom,” he added, the familiarity of the nickname both a comfort and a burden. The memory of Arthur’s voice calling him that echoed in his mind, and he quickly shook it off, as if to prevent the grief from swallowing him whole. "I know this is sudden, Edith, and I’m sorry to stir up old memories, but if you need to speak, truly speak, I’m here. I owe it to both you and Arthur to give you that much." His gaze softened, but the stoic mask he wore never fully lifted. He was a diplomat, after all—ever the strategist. And yet, in moments like this, even he couldn’t fully shield himself from the weight of the past.

Edith was about to respond - she could understand how it would feel to a little out of place in the city. When she had gone away, she had thought that she would come back and it would all be pretty similar to how it had been before. She couldn't have been more wrong. She was about to tell him that London would forever be shifting and changing ... when he repeated that name again and she couldn't think straight. Arthur Knight.

The night that she had agreed to marry Arthur hadn't been anything extraordinary. They were sat by a lake, her head in his lap. "I could spend my entire life like this. With you." She had said. "So why don't you?" Arthur had responded. And the conversation had gone from there. Once Edith realised that he was truly serious - that he already had a ring - she had happily accepted. It was nothing spectacular but it was truly the best night of her life. He had been gone a few days later. "I will return soon and we will get married." He had promised. It was a promise that was never supposed to be kept.

She snapped back to Domingo with a sudden realisation that she had let his words hang for a little too long. Though she was struggling to get her words out. It felt like all the wind had been knocked out of her. "Sorry..." She muttered, shaking her head a little. She quickly blinked back the tears. She did not want to make a scene, not here. The sudden mention of her love was not something that she was prepared for. "You knew him..." Edith choked out. "He told you about me?" There hadn't been a day since he had left her that she hadn't thought about him. She hadn't thought that she would have bumped into someone who knew him, who knew her by association. "Sorry." She coughed, trying to get her voice back to normal. "Wait..." Edith muttered. She was trying to remember a small detail. "Dom - do you - would he have called you Dom?" She looked up at Domingo, her eyes wide, searching. How she wished that they could have this conversation anywhere that wasn't here.

[agildedecho]

closed starter @marjorieminerva

location: gunter’s, pre-matching making

Gunther’s was abuzz with polite laughter and the delicate clink of fine porcelain, the usual symphony of Mayfair’s midday hours. Domingo Alvarado sat at a small table near the window, a modest cup of chocolate growing cold before him. His coat was immaculate—navy trimmed with silver, a diplomat’s wardrobe carefully selected to impress but not boast—but his posture gave him away. Not rigid, not loose—suspended. As though he were caught between tension and hope. He was early. Far too early, if he were honest. But punctuality had long been a shield he wore like armor, and he needed all the armor he could summon today.

In the quiet space between the ticking of the café’s grand clock and the distant roll of carriage wheels, Domingo allowed his mind to wander—to her. To the way her pen curled her thoughts into sentences that felt too good for this world. Letters from Marjorie had found him in the filth of the trenches, and somehow never felt out of place. Her words didn’t speak to rank, or war, or politics—they spoke to the man beneath the uniform. And though he knew it had started by accident—a misaddressed envelope, a forgotten detail—he had answered. And kept answering.

His fingers tapped the edge of the table now, betraying him. Domingo Alvarado, Knight of the Realm, diplomat of repute, veteran of bloodied campaigns… nervous. Truly nervous. Because words on a page were one thing, but seeing her…Would she laugh the way he imagined? Would she look disappointed? Would she recognize him, this carefully composed stranger who only seemed to bare his soul with ink and paper? Domingo sat back, drawing a quiet breath as he caught his reflection in the café’s glass pane. His face was serious by nature—high cheekbones, furrowed brow, lips pressed into thought—but today, a rare and unpracticed smile hovered at the corners. Excitement—warm, almost boyish—was winning out against the usual solemnity. He straightened as the bell above the door gave a gentle chime.

Marjorie?

[agildedecho]

Domingo had always felt a deep affection for Oxford, a place that had shaped much of who he had become—his intellect, his ambition, and the core of his character. It was a sanctuary of quiet, one he could always rely on to pull him back to simpler times, when life wasn’t so complicated. On this particular evening, as the students dispersed to enjoy their weekend, he found solace in the near-empty library. The soft murmur of turning pages and the scent of old leather bound volumes felt like a familiar embrace, and he was lost in the peace of it all when something caught his eye. There, nestled among the towering stacks, sat Ela—sleeping, surrounded by an array of textbooks. The sight of her, so still, so innocent in her slumber, stirred something deep within him. For a moment, she looked exactly as she had years ago, when they would wander the halls of Oxford together, exchanging ideas and dreams that felt so distant now.

Her soft breathing, the way her head rested on her hand, the gentle fall of her hair—it was all too familiar. He stood there, unmoving, for longer than he cared to admit, until Ela stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she was disoriented, confused by the dimming light and the quiet of the library. The moment their gazes met, Domingo’s breath caught in his chest. There was no denying the impact she had on him, even after all these years. The weight of time seemed to fall away as she rubbed her eyes and tried to collect herself. The quiet tension between them was palpable, but Domingo, ever the tactician, chose not to acknowledge the sudden rush of old feelings. Instead, he allowed himself the quiet pleasure of watching her, her graceful movements as natural as ever.

His gaze, however, was drawn to the books she had been reading, each one more advanced than the last. It was no surprise—Ela had always been a brilliant mind, capable of diving into subjects that most would shy away from. But one book, in particular, made him pause—a title that seemed oddly out of place among the other scholarly texts. How to Be a Good Wife. His lips twitched into a smile before he could stop himself, and a soft laugh escaped him, quickly stifled as he cleared his throat. His eyes flicked back to Ela, a playful gleam hiding beneath his stoic demeanor. "Even Oxford has its peculiarities," he remarked, his voice warm yet teasing. "It seems the university offers more than just knowledge on war strategy and politics."

closed starter @agildedecho // the oxford university library

Ela's head was heavy with the weight of too many books, her eyelids fluttering closed as the quiet of the library wrapped around her like a soft, comforting blanket. The pages of the open books before her blurred into an indistinct haze. She had been reading, and reading, trying desperately to absorb the knowledge her tutors insisted she needed. But the more she tried, the more the words melted into an indecipherable jumble. It was peaceful here—so peaceful, in fact, that her exhaustion slowly overtook her, and she drifted into a light sleep, surrounded by the towering mountains of books she had yet to conquer.

The tap of a finger against her shoulder startled her awake. She blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting to the dimming light of the library as the world slowly came back into focus. She could feel a slight disorientation, the soft murmur of the library’s silence broken by the quiet hum of her own thoughts. Her hand instinctively went to her eyes, rubbing them as she tried to make sense of the figure standing before her. The quiet rustle of paper and the distant ticking of a clock echoed in her ears as she slowly lifted her gaze. The figure’s presence was gentle but undeniably real, and Ela’s breath caught in her chest, her heart racing a little faster than she would have liked.

[agildedecho]

Domingo let the familiar din of the Silver Lantern fade into the background as he reached into his coat and withdrew a slim parcel, wrapped in dark cloth and tied with a simple leather cord. He laid it on the table between them with deliberate care, the worn grain of the wood catching the faint gleam of metal beneath. There was a pause, almost reverent, before he nudged it slightly toward Edward. “For you,” he said simply, his voice low and even, lacking any fanfare but heavy with meaning. When Edward pulled the cloth away, a knife revealed itself—Spanish steel, finely crafted, sharp as memory. The hilt was smooth, built for speed and balance, forged with elegance but meant for use. Along the flat of the blade, clean and deliberate, was an engraving: A través del fuego, juntos. Through fire, together. Beneath the phrase were the initials E.S.G. Domingo watched his friend’s expression carefully, though his own remained composed. “It’s from Toledo,” he said after a beat. “Balanced to your grip. You lost the last one saving my life, if memory serves. Thought it only fair.” There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes—warm, rare. “Besides, even bastards like you deserve something that reminds them they were never alone out there.” Edward’s inevitable flirtation earned a quiet snort from Domingo, who leaned back with the ease of someone well used to navigating his friend’s sharp tongue and softer truths. “You wouldn’t survive the heartbreak,” he said, a dry note in his tone. “And we both know I’m not in the habit of seducing disasters I’d also need to clean up after.” His gaze sharpened slightly, a flicker of steel behind the charm. “But friendship… real friendship… That’s rarer than gold. You stood by me when it counted, Edward. Not many can say that. This”—he nodded to the blade—“isn’t a gift. It’s a marker. A memory, forged in fire.” His voice dropped, quieter, like something pulled from a deeper part of him. “Whatever the world makes of us now… I remember who we were.”

Edward leaned back in his chair, the flickering lamplight casting playful shadows across his features as he watched Domingo take his first sip of the brandy. There was a familiar warmth in the air between them, thick with camaraderie and unspoken understanding, like a well-worn coat that fit just right. The years had passed, the world outside their little bubble of friendship had shifted, but here they were again, two old soldiers in a dimly lit inn that smelled faintly of brandy and mischief. The sharp glint in Domingo’s eyes, that ever-present mix of mockery and meaning, was something Edward had come to treasure. It reminded him of the days on the battlefield—where life was simple, and survival depended on one’s ability to read the room, to turn on a dime, and to speak plainly. Not that Edward ever had any trouble with speaking plainly; it was something he’d perfected years ago, especially when it came to dishing out insults and threats with a half-grin.

“Ah, Domingo, always with the words,” Edward chuckled, lifting his glass and swirling the brandy. The amber liquid caught the light, refracting it into a thousand little sparks that danced in his eyes. “Threatening to shoot you is how I show it. Love. I’d be sparing you from the mess you’ve returned too,” he added, the sarcasm rich in his voice. “But you’re right about one thing—this place, this little corner of London, does tend to attract the scent of scandal. But, well, I did build it that way.” He grinned, knowing full well that Domingo would understand the unspoken meaning behind that. The Silver Lantern wasn’t just an inn. It was a carefully constructed web of whispered deals and clandestine meetings. Edward had made it a sanctuary for the misfits and outcasts, where everything could be bought, sold, or bartered, as long as you knew the right people and weren’t too squeamish about your morals.

Domingo’s praise made Edward pause for a moment. There was something about the way his old comrade spoke, something that made Edward’s chest tighten with an emotion he never allowed himself to acknowledge. Pride? Perhaps. But Edward had never been good with words when it came to matters of the heart. So, he laughed it off, raising his glass in a mock salute. “Done well?” Edward repeated, a self-deprecating grin pulling at his lips. “I’ve managed not to burn the place down or start an outright war with the peerage, so I suppose that counts for something, doesn’t it? And as for your family’s name—don’t worry, I’ve kept it out of the gossip rags. For now.” His tone was light, but inside, a small part of him did care. Domingo had always been an anchor, even if he never said as much. Edward could navigate the noble world with all the finesse of a fox, but without Domingo’s steady hand, he’d likely have tripped up long ago.

“And London has not, as you put it, burned down in your absence,” Edward continued, his voice dropping a little. “But don’t think I haven’t been keeping my eyes peeled for any new distractions. Not much ever changes around here—save for the latest trend that has nobles falling in love with their staff. Ridiculous, isn’t it? And yet, they’re all a part of it, prancing about, as if their affections could ever be more than a fleeting fancy.” He chuckled darkly, the sharpness in his eyes betraying the edge of bitterness that had always clung to him, even in moments of levity. Nobles had a way of twisting everything to suit their whims, and Edward wasn’t blind to their hypocrisy. Still, he played along, for it served him well to do so.

But then, at the mention of a gift, his expression softened. There was no denying the genuine spark of excitement in his eyes, no matter how much he tried to mask it with a roguish grin. Domingo was the only person Edward trusted enough to let his guard down with, even if he’d never admit it aloud. The thought of a gift—of something more tangible than the usual witty repartee or shared battle scars—struck a chord deep inside him. “You brought me something?” Edward raised an eyebrow, a glint of mischief flickering in his gaze. “Well, don’t leave me hanging now, my dear friend. What is it? Something extravagant, no doubt, to tempt me into making terrible decisions?” He leaned forward slightly, the anticipation lighting up his face. “But, mind you, I’m not falling for any noble’s ridiculous courtship. If that’s your game, you’ll be sorely disappointed.” He winked, his tone playful but carrying an underlying edge of truth. He was not one for noble titles or the trappings of their affections. If any noble tried to entertain such nonsense with him, they would be met with nothing more than a sharp laugh and a swift retreat.

[agildedecho]

Domingo’s gaze remained steady, his attention unwavering, as he studied the woman before him. There was something intoxicating in the way she carried herself, a careful balance of allure and mystery, as though she were constantly playing a game he hadn’t quite learned the rules to. He had to admit, it fascinated him. She was a puzzle—one he was eager to solve, though not without caution. His experiences had taught him that every situation could be a trap if one wasn’t careful, and the glint of the mask she wore only added to the intrigue. Her touch, light and deliberate as it was, sent a subtle tension through him. He allowed himself to lean into her fingers, his own hand moving to trace the delicate curve of her arm, but never enough to give away the full measure of his own desire. He had to stay vigilant, always observing, never losing control of the situation. Her words were laced with wit and challenge, pulling him in further. "Power," he repeated with a small, measured smile, his voice low and thoughtful. "Perhaps it can be found in many places, but it’s the people who wield it that interest me most." He shifted slightly, closing the distance between them just enough to feel the heat of her proximity, but not enough to fully cross into dangerous territory. His fingers grazed the edge of her jaw, careful, as though he were testing the waters, waiting for her to make the first move in this delicate dance they were both engaged in. Her veiled words were a game he knew all too well, one he had played with others in far different circumstances. Still, he was intrigued by the way she twisted power into a weapon, how easily she could manipulate it without even fully revealing herself. He was no stranger to intrigue, and certainly no stranger to playing his part in a dance of wit and will. But he wasn’t just here for the game. "And what do you desire, Jade?" he asked softly, a question that lingered between them, sharp and weighted, as though it might unlock the last secret she’d been keeping from him. His fingers drifted lower, just a whisper of touch, testing the limits she would set for him. He could already tell: she was no simple woman, and that, more than anything, made her worth pursuing.

this was a dance, one that natasha practiced until she perfected it. it wasn't so unlike how the young men and women performed during the season. everything was carefully crafted to have a specific end result, whether it was money, love, or something much darker. the man in front of her was yet another dance partner to entertain. natasha took in his features, his dark hair, tanned skin. something about him nagged at the back of her mind. for the moment, she pushed it down to focus on her work.

lips curled into a smile. "thank you, and yes, yes it is an honor" she replies with a slight laugh. natasha observed him carefully. by now, some customers would have had their hands all over her, and yet, he merely watched her. natasha watched him in return. her fingers played with the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck.

his voice was rich like honey, something natasha could get used to if she weren't too careful. it would be easy to melt into him like candle wax to an open flame. "desire?" she repeats, a brow raised. a hum of approval. "what is it you desire, rafael?" dark eyes peered at him from over her veil, inching to get him to confess. as he leans in, natasha stays put, eyes flickering to his lips. "power can be found in even the most...surprising places or the most surprising people."

[agildedecho]

Domingo had not expected the sight of her to unravel him. He had rehearsed this moment in his mind—what he might say, how he would measure his tone, the exact way he would incline his head to keep the past from spilling through the present. And yet nothing could have braced him for the quiet ache that bloomed at the sound of his name on her lips—Dom, then Mr. Alvarado, like a door opening and shutting all at once. There was no use pretending he did not hear the warmth beneath her formality, or the way her smile wrapped around his ribs and pulled. “I’ve missed the tree,” he said finally, voice low, reverent, as though speaking too loudly might break whatever fragile peace they’d stumbled into. His eyes dropped briefly to the book in her hands, recognizing the familiar curl of her fingers around the spine, the way she always held literature like it might carry her away if she let it. “You always had a talent for choosing the exact passage the soul didn’t know it needed.” His smile was faint, as if he were trying to resist it, but he did not look away. “Read to me, Ela. Just for a little while.” He sat beside her in the dappled hush, legs stretched long, hands clasped loosely over his knee. As her voice rose again—soft, melodic, stirring something long-buried—he let his eyes drift closed, the way they always had. Not out of disinterest, but because with her, listening had never been passive. It was immersion. It was surrender. He didn’t need to speak of what had been lost between them. Not yet. In this moment, beneath their old tree and wrapped in the cadence of her voice, he allowed himself to remember that once—before duty, before war, before her absence—he had been known. And even now, her voice found the parts of him the world had tried to bury.

the end.

Ela had not expected her hands to tremble. But they did. The moment she heard his voice—low, familiar, edged with something both fond and sorrowful—her heart gave a flutter that made her feel as though the years had folded in on themselves. Her eyes lifted slowly from the worn spine of her book, and there he was. Domingo. A gust of wind stirred the leaves above them, casting dappled light across his face. She was glad for it, for it gave her a moment to look at him properly without the whole world seeing the truth in her gaze. He looked older, somehow—more solid, more distant—but his presence was still a kind of gravity that pulled her inward. She clutched the book to her chest. “Dom…” she whispered, before catching herself. “Mr. Alvarado.” Her tone was soft, halting, but it carried warmth beneath its polish, like sunlight through thin curtains. “You’re not interrupting. Not at all. I—this tree never felt quite right without you beneath it.” A small smile ghosted across her lips, full of something wistful. “I think it’s missed you.”

Then, with a gentle shift of her hand, she lifted the book from her lap and held it out just slightly. “I’ve been reading aloud again. This one’s poetry—though it wanders into philosophy at times. I rather like when poems do that, don’t you? When they ask questions no one’s meant to answer?” Her voice trembled with the eagerness of an old self—one he would remember. “Do you know the writer? His name is Hartley. Not especially popular, but I find him… thoughtful.” She hesitated, lashes fluttering. Her gaze lingered on his face, unsure of how close she could tread without falling through the remnants of what they once were. “I was about to read a passage aloud. Would you… would you like me to?” Her words held a nervous tenderness, as though she feared the answer. “Just for a little while. Just as we used to.” Ela tried to still the fluttering in her chest, the ache that came with his nearness. She did not speak of Kensington. She did not speak of rings or promises or what her future had become. In this moment, beneath the cathedral of leaves, she wanted only to borrow a little bit of yesterday. She smoothed the page, her fingers trailing across the lines, and said gently, “If you’d like, I’ll read it to you. I remember you used to close your eyes when I read… like you were listening with your heart instead of your ears.” Her voice faltered at the end—not quite a question. But the hope in it was clear.

[agildedecho]

Domingo stood still for a moment, the noise of the salon dimmed to a distant hum as he considered her question. “No,” he said at last, his voice quiet but sure, “not new—only returned. Spain kept me longer than expected, and now London feels different in all the ways it insists it has not changed.” His gaze swept the room, then returned to her with a steadiness that was neither confrontational nor soft. “Though I imagine it is I who have shifted, not the city.” Spain had demanded much from him, but it had not demanded this: the sudden, unwelcome ache of a ghost conjured by nothing more than a woman’s name. He hesitated only a moment before offering the truth. “I did say a name—Arthur.” The sound of it landed gently, but not without weight. “Forgive me. I hadn’t meant to speak it aloud.” The admission carried none of the casualness often worn by men at salons. “Arthur Knight and I served together during the war. We shared winters, rations, and, at times, silence too heavy for words. He spoke of you often.” There was something guarded behind his eyes then, as if allowing even that much to slip past his reserve cost him something. Arthur had spoken often of a woman back home—Edith. Not in the abstract, but in the way a man speaks when he’s already built a life with someone in his heart, even if war kept it at a distance. Domingo had listened, sometimes even envied the certainty in Arthur’s voice. Now, standing before the woman herself, there was something strangely intimate in recognizing her name before ever hearing her story. “I did not mean to unsettle you.” The words were offered with deliberate care, like a balm applied where he could already see the wound. “Only—I recognized your name. And it’s strange, isn’t it, how memory can reach through time and stop a man mid-breath?” His voice softened as he dipped his head slightly, more acknowledgment than apology. “Still, I’m glad for the introduction, Miss Cooke. In a city where every smile is edged with agenda, I find some relief in an encounter tethered to something true.”

Edith nodded her head as he repeated her name like a question. "Yes." She raised an eyebrow, "I'm sorry, do we know each other?" She wasn't sure if she had missed something here. Should she know who this man was? She couldn't recall ever having seen him before. And she was sure that she would remember someone like him if she had seen him before. It wasn't like he had a face that was easy to forget. There was a part of her that wanted to put it down to some weird coincidence - that she maybe looked like someone that he had known.

She raised an eyebrow at the women next to her as Domingo seemed to be lost in his own head for a moment. She wasn't sure what it was that she was supposed to be doing here. But then she heard the mumble of a name fall from his lips. "What did you just say?" Edith questioned. She could have sworn that she'd heard it. Arthur. The man that she had loved, that she had thought she would marry, the father of her child. Surely not. She must have misheard. She dropped her gaze from Domingo for a mere moment, to collect herself.

As she looked bat up at him, Edith shook her head. "No apology necessary." She muttered, though her voice betrayed her true feelings. The simple mention of his name - even if it wasn't what he had said, it was what she thought he had said - and she went to bits. She would never get over what had happened to him. "Charmed." She nodded. "Are you new to town?"