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[ofcastora]

VIVIANNE X CASTORA || A MOODBOARD PT. II (17/?)

❝ Said, A girl made of splinters isn’t built for love. But they tried, anyway. They tried. And turns out. I can. I can love hard as shrapnel. So hard I melt skin.❞  ―  Jeanann Verlee, from “Bridge Song,” Said the Manic to the Muse

______________________________________________________________

For @ofcastora​​

[ofcastora]

I like figuring you out. You are so human and puzzling,

Anne Sexton, from a letter to W. D. Snodgrass written c. January 1959 

@ofcastora

(via lavolumnia)

[ofcastora]

lavolumnia​:

‘Did it work? I’d hate to think that I ruined such a lovely dress.’

Vivianne’s mouth tugs into a smile despite her efforts to keep stoic. It’s a dark, some would argue sick, brand of humor that exists between herself and Castora; between a Montague Captain and the Capulet Underboss who was once obligated to injure her. “No.” She admits, squinting up at the moon in the distance, mirth still playing on her features. Truth be told, her dress was never laundered; a fact which had little to do with Castora’s blood marring it and more to do with her own; the near-fatal injuries that had wrecked the pretty fabric well beyond repair that night.

One ruined ballgown is hardly recompense for the painful stab wound Castora had endured at her hands, and yet both of them know that she can’t apologize for that. That she won’t. It was done to protect Il Capo, and Vivianne would do it again if she had to, although now that Juliana is head of the Capulets, she hopes it’ll leave a less bitter taste in her mouth. To hear Castora’s measured praise of the heiress makes her think that it’d have left a less bitter taste in the Montague’s mouth too, had she been injured in defense of la principessa rather than her bloodthirsty father that night. “Bodies in the Adige?” Vivianne is half-amused, half-affronted by the suggestion. “Of course they fell in line,” She answers flippantly; of course they knew there was no other choice. “Do you really believe I inspire such little loyalty, Aguilar?”

‘If the Don sees fit to single me out, then I’m singled out,’ Castora replies, and the phrase is so lukewarm and ambivalent that the Capulet Underboss sees it exactly for what it is. She clucks her tongue as if the Montague’s misspoken. 

“Wrong answer, cara mia.” Vivianne singsongs, before her voice turns soft and demure, all purr. “’If the Don sees fit to single me out, then I’m grateful for it.’ — Is what you should’ve said. But of course, that would take conviction you don’t have, non e vero?” They both know it’d have been the more correct answer.

Don’t be so honest, Capodecina, she doesn’t say; one day, it might cost you your neck. Still, by the time Castora scrambles to add that she’s ‘honoured’, her eyes and her mouth have already told a different story. It’s a baffling truth with respect to her new promotion. So she is a mietitrice, the Underboss thinks to herself, filing away the relevant tidbit of information for her own political gain. But right now, that doesn’t interest her half as much as Castora’s uninspiring reaction to the upgrade. 

“You’re honoured to be promoted in spite of your father?…” It’s a blunt question, perhaps the most direct she’s ever asked of the girl. Vivianne cocks her brow. 

“ — Or because, you’re starting to understand why Lorenzo did it?”

No. Castora feels a strange sense of satisfaction at the thought that Vivianne’s dress was ruined beyond repair, like her injured leg was equal in value to the hundreds (thousands?) of euros Signora Sloane spent on the garment. “A pity. Nevertheless, I’m sure you were able to find some new dress to replace it with in your collection.”

She kept forgetting Vivianne nearly died that night, faced with worse injuries than the knife wound to her leg. Between the her own injuries, Henry getting shot, and the three Witches hanging dead by their necks, she intentionally kept thoughts of Vivianne far from her mind. It was an act of affection, in it’s own way –– forgetting, leaving, all of that. Staying is a messy business. 

Castora won’t apologize, either. She had been reckless, yes, but she had been going after Cosimo Capulet. The enemy. She would do it again, too, although this time she would be more careful so as not to miss. The stubborn, silent refusal to apologize on both sides hangs heavy in the air –– and Castora misses the time when the air was just heavy with all the potential of problems their acquaintance would draw.

The truth would make everything worse. What would Vivianne’s reaction be if Castora just said it? I’m sorry Alexander almost murdered you! I’m sorry I tried to shoot Cosimo! I’m sorry I put you in the position to put a knife in my leg! The truth was not an admission of guilt, but of something worse: affection. 

She shakes her head. “No, not at all. Only that when a crown falls from head to another, it never hurts to be careful. To expect the worst.” Castora bites her tongue, refraining from saying yet another too honest comment that gives Vivianne ammunition. It’s not your ability to inspire loyalty that gives me pause. It is the simple fact that all children stop listening to their mothers.

The dread settles into her bones like an old friend. Oh yes, she had definitely misspoken. Grateful. She commits the phrasing to memory. I am grateful to be singled out. Still, she doubts it would sound so diplomatic from her lips. 

She doesn’t know why she does it, but Castora digs her heels in, trying her hand at tact than admitting to Vivianne that her assessment was correct. “Falsa. Duty is duty. It doesn’t need qualifiers.” That was probably by Damiano chose her; she had always known better than to bite the hand that feeds. “Honored. Grateful. What matters of it? They are words. I prefer action.”

If you were to point a gun to him, I would let you pull the trigger, she thinks treacherously. Probably not, but I’d want to let you. She doesn’t know what would be worse to admit to Vivianne – that her faith in Damiano was wavering because she wanted more, more, so much more or that she was simply tired of change. Soldier to captain to reaper, and from the shadows to the limelight, she something would stay still for a minute. She wishes she still lived in a world that had Valentina Gallo in it. 

Lorenzo. It had been years since anyone other than herself had spoken his name aloud, and Castora wonders if Vivianne ever knew him. 

She holds her head up high, hiding all the vulnerable places in her armor the question in pierced. “I could never understand that,” she says, not thinking of his desertion of the Montague’s. That she’s beginning to understand. His desertion of her, she knows why he’d leave her, but her heart refuses to let her mind understand it.  “I’ll never understand how anyone could just do that,” she spits out, as if the action in and of itself is unspeakable in its horror. 

Castora changes gears, opting for a different kind of directness. “I have a question – how many promotions did it take for you to become the underboss?” 

[ofcastora]

evcravens​:

For lack of a better description, Sergio Beneventi is a smug, two-faced cheat. 

Unfortunately, he’s also a very successful, very wealthy, annoyingly influential cheat, which is why, despite Everett’s reluctance to woo the cad to the Capulet cause, he’s played the game well enough to earn a tenuous amount of his often mercurial favor. He’s made his own good opinion just scarce enough that when he gives it, Beneventi feels as if he’s earned it; offered enough interest to give the man a feeling of importance, but not so much that it reeks of Capulet desperation.

It’s a dangerous game, weaving thread by thread in the hopes that Beneventi will eventually be caught in his net. Hope, because there’s no surety with those already tangled in the criminal underworld. Only a fool or a self-aggrandizing peacock would be so presumptuous as to call the game before its finished, and given that Everett’s survived this long in the mafia, he’s not planning on making the rookie mistake of being either.

Hence the Beretta and a switchblade and brass knuckles hidden in various places under a smooth, crisp Armani suit as he makes an impromptu visit to Beneventi’s warehouse to check on progress, and possibly sweeten the deal with a bit of political influence. He expects that they’ll have a varied amount of back and forth, and some irritatingly inclusive resolution, but he also expects that the man will end up calling him about it sometime later this week.

What Everett doesn’t expect is Castor Aguilar, reaching for a gun.

His own Beretta is drawn in a moment, heartbeat slowing as he watches her initially start in shock then mask her surprise. Fast, but not fast enough, he thinks, though he’s not surprised given how young she is. It takes time and practice to develop a non-reactive instinct, but she’s doing remarkably well for her age.

“Ciao, Castora. Lovely day, isn’t it?” Everett greets pleasantly, though his mind is whirring with a million theories on why she would be here, of all times. A wary premonition shivers down his spine. He doesn’t like the confusion on her expression at all, doesn’t like that suddenly, the warehouse feels too quiet. “I could ask you the same question.” A beat. “What a… coincidence.”

That rat-faced bastard, Castor curses. Her head feels like it’s going to burst like a gusher, both from trying to figure out why Everett Craven is here of all places and from the headache Sergio is preemptively giving her. Castora is used to dishonesty, used to betrayal, used to lies and disappointment – one does not survive long in Verona without getting accustomed to having bits of themselves chipped away – but she’ll always get that shiver of irritation when it comes anyway. 

Maybe that’s a good thing. Or maybe she’s still young. 

Craven draws his gun, too. He’s fast. No shots ring out. She doesn’t think they will, not from his Beretta, but still she does not lower her hand and tries not to think about the fallout of a Montague bullet in Everett fucking Craven’s head. “Nice suit,” she remarks dryly, not quite sure what else to say. It wasn’t too long ago that they were making awkward small talk in an office. 

The realization of what exactly is going on dawns on her. It appears that while Castora thought Sergio was in the moon to be courted, he was more interested in screwing her. “Indeed. What a coincidence. I don’t suppose your answer to my question would have to do with Sergio Beneventi?” The too-quiet warehouse feels like a ticking time bomb. She lowers her gun. “I do think, Signor Craven, that we’re both being played.” 

A tense, quiet moment. Before they can say more, the door to the warehouse creaks open, and in saunters the one, the only Sergio Beneventi, professional lucky bastard, and his lackeys. Lucky bastard might be the best description for him because Castora doesn’t shoot him on sight. If he feels any alarm at seeing both his potential clients – potential marks – standing together, he doesn’t show it.

“You look well, Celia,” he greets airily. She raises her brow in response, trying to recall how Vivianne looked when she was disappointed in someone. Her voice drips with danger, “Signor Beneventi, the Verona air suits you. I’m glad we were finally able to make this happen, but I’m afraid I’ve already made Edgar’s acquaintance.”

“A pity. I was looking forward to making introductions.” Beneventi’s face is neutral, but there’s a trace look of alarm in his eyes as they fall to Castora and Everett’s weapons, but it quickly disappears. “If I had an assistant, I would fire her, but alas I’m only in town on business for a short while. Certainly you can both understand,” he says.

“Certainly,” Castora replies. “You’ve been away from Verona for some time, Sergio. Perhaps you’ve forgotten how ––” Dangerous? Ridiculous? Preposterous? “ –– unwise it can be to double book a meeting with a Capulet and a Montague without their knowledge.”

“Your reputation certainly proceeds you, darling,” Sergio laughs, “Yes, some time.  Now, we should get into business while the night is still young––”

“Of course. To clarify, both myself and the gentlemen to my right ––” She gestures to Everett. “ –– We are both here for the same purpose, correct? The same business.”

Sergio doesn’t answer. “Regarding out relocation to Calabria...”

But Castora will not start a negotiation in bad faith, and she’s got half a mind to leave him to the Capulet’s, but she’s in too deep to walk away from this. “Apologies, Sergio, but I believe quite firmly we should address the elephant in the room.” Sergio raises an eyebrow, and Castora notices his hand float above his right jacket pocket. She plasters a fake demure smile, raises the pitch of her voice, attempting to sound less harsh. “Why are we both here?”

“Business, dear.” 

“Yes, but are you intentions? To play us off one another to raise the price?” A flash of irritation in her green eyes. “Then put a bullet in the loser’s head...as a message of solidarity to whoever’s side you end up pledging your allegiance to tonight, perhaps?” 

Her words have struck a nerve; whatever her guess was, it was close enough to puncture Sergio’s ego. As his ego deflated, so does his patience. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. We’re all civilized persons. There’s no need to talk of bullets.” 

Castora doesn’t need the threat spelled out: Keep trying my patience, and I’ll be forced to do something I don’t want to do. 

“Good. It’d be awfully inconvenient for you to have to kill a billionaire and an heiress. You’ve been away from Verona for too long. ” she says, coldly. “I wouldn’t say you’ve gone soft, dear, as that’s clearly not the case if you’re willing to perform such a stunt. But what you’ve failed to understand, Sergio, is that in times like this, people prefer business partners who don’t play schoolyard games when millions of euros are involved.” 

Play stupid games, you win stupid prizes. And when you poke the beast, except to get bitten. Castora and Sergio – and his lackeys – reach for their guns at the same time. 

[ofcastora]

Ana de Armas for Estée Lauder’s Beautiful Magnolia Eau de Parfum Campaign

[ofcastora]

evcravens​:

Everett strides casually to where Castora’s work is spread out over the table, notices her uncovered cup of coffee, and takes a measured, subtle step back. Given the rather poor track record of drinks being added into their interactions he’s really not keen on reliving another one of them today — particularly considering they’re supposed to be in the middle of a work meeting, and having a suit jacket drenched in the paralegal’s cappuccino is hardly professional.

“Not well enough,” he repeats, incredulity seeping into his timbre. There’s some merit to it, he supposes, given the intermittent time he’d taken off in the wake of Lillian and Maeve’s deaths, but two personal crises in a row and a pre-scheduled holiday haven’t impeded his commitment to his legal profession. “I took four and a half weeks off, total, which is the most I’ve taken off in the past eight years, and hardly longer that the 20-day EU mandate. Not well enough.”

It’s insulting to use a period of bereavement as grounds for questionable competency of employment — then again, corporate law is a monster in and of itself, all red-taped and twisted into whatever a team sees fit. Everett lets out a soft scoff and pulls out his smartphone.

“If Richard believes it’s necessary and Gio approved it, I can get you the files,” he says crisply, briefly considering whether such information falling into a Montague’s hands would be incriminating in any way, before deciding it’s safe to offer it directly to her rather than through C&R’s representative. “I’m assuming you wanted the emails concerning the term sheet negotiation? We also have recordings of some of the phone calls; I can ask my business admin if she could get those for you.”

A beat of silence passes between them. The marketing VP walks past the glass wall and offers a sunny wave, which Everett returns on impulse, and — realizing that given the open setting of the conference rooms on the second floor, they’re very much in a corporate fishbowl — attempts to start a convincing semblance of small talk with the not-Montague paralegal.

“I trust Gio has been doing his best at getting you all the information you need.” Civil, questioning, expectant. The atmosphere is awkward, horribly enough, a sentiment Everett was rather glad to leave in his early twenties though it still creeps up on him when he leasts expects it. He watches her curiously for a moment, then — “Does Richard assign you to cases? Or do you have free rein to choose?”

She notices him take a glance at her coffee and take a step back – notices and can’t help but resent it a little bit, however fair it may be. The first time she ruined his shirt was mortifying enough and she’d rather her report to Richard not start with “I ruined his shirt again.” And she’d rather her reputation not become “that one paralegal who spilled coffee on Everett Craven’s undoubtably expensive shirt.” 

“Yes, not well enough,” she repeats, unsure of what to add. She can guess as to why he has taken a few weeks off recently; she understands, perhaps better than most Veronese. Grief is a hell of a beast, the way it nestles into your bones and creaking reminders of not only what you remember but what you have forgotten. It could be too much to hold, so Castora didn’t. She could take the resentment, the anger of grief, but not the rest of it. 

“They’ve gone with a bombardment strategy, and I won’t bother you with the details of some of their other efforts ––” And the fact that Richard dated one of ex-wife of one of the Saras lawyers. “–– But we’re poking them back. I’ll let Richard fill you in at the next meeting.”

There is an unavoidable awkward pause. She smiles politely when another executive walks by. There’s no such thing as Capulet’s and Montague’s here. Just business. “That’d be great – team sheets and phone calls exactly.” Another beat, and she’s unsure of exactly how to say I know how weird a Montague asking for your emails and call records must be, so instead she says, “Yes, Gio’s been great.”

 It’s not a lie – minus how annoying Saras was, Craven & Ricci was one of the better clients Castora worked with over the years. The team was polite, communicative, discreet and kept any bullshit under wraps. She would be sending Gio a muffin basket and an expensive bottle of whiskey when this was over as a “thank you” for the absurd amount of emailing they had done. If it wasn’t Capulet-owned, perhaps she would have wanted to work at C&R. 

Does Richard assign you to cases? Or do you have free rein to choose? Castora raises an eyebrow, as if to say If I could, would I be here? Before she can respond, her phone rings – an unsaved number, but one when recognizes instantly – Sergio Beneventi, a dealer she’d been working the past few weeks, with a very appropriate surname. “I’m sorry, this is the office. I probably should take this.”

[ TWO WEEKS LATER –– UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, NEUTRAL TERRITORY ]

Castora was supposed to be Sergio last Saturday. He was not a hard man to find, but rather a hard man to impress. Beneventi’s business had been operating successfully, quietly, and most notably, independently for a number of years in Italy. He used to be based in Verona, but relocated to Catanzaro after the Castelvecchio incident. But now Sergio was back and in the mood to be courted. 

He was also, in Castora’s opinion, a bastard who liked giving her the runaround. Efficient though he may be, Sergio was not exceptional – this world was filled with dangerous men who liked mind games. That was part of the reason she was early; she was always early to these sorts of things. It caught people off-guard. 

However, it seemed like Castora was not the only one who had the idea which is how she finds herself raising her gun at Everett Craven is a dingy warehouse. Somehow, it was less awkward than their conversation at his office.

What the fuck are you doing here? She thinks, but because he’s friends with her boss, and also his business has been signing her paychecks, and also because OE&A and C&R have a meeting on Tuesday, Castora quickly schools her features in a neutral expression. “What are you doing here?” 

[ofcastora]

ajax-giordano​:

It is easier, Ajax thinks, to invite her loathing. He knows what to expect from it: a flash of lightning in her eyes, the full force of her weight in the swing of her arm, the venom that she tucks under her tongue and releases in a string of curses when Ajax bests her, at last. And he always bests her, because destruction lives in his bones and his blood sings of brutality, the kind that leaves stronger warriors than Castora gasping — but she never kneels, refuses to bend. The heart stutters before the way her gaze latches onto his and does not submit. For Castora’s power lies in her tenacity; she resists, and she endures. Ajax wants to believe that her strength in spirit is enough to triumph the strength in knuckles and teeth.

It isn’t. Her second try goes well, as her fist cuts into his jaw. He nods his acknowledgement (afraid that, should he signal his appreciation, too much will overflow and he will pour flowers at her feet) and beckons for her to come at him again. But then Castora leaves him an opening, and mechanically, Ajax seizes the opportunity. 

He realizes too late that he has started a new battle of its own, one that rages terribly in his chest as his hands pin Castora’s wrists to the ground. The heat of her eyes warm the cold stone of his heart, and he’s worried she’ll burn away whatever semblance of control he has left, and he’s afraid she’ll see the way he dreams of her and her triumphant smile when she lands a blow or the hard shrug of her shoulders when she decides she will try again. Ajax devotes all his strength to keeping his expression blank, a void in which no emotion lasts and no emotion survives. He is still above her, preoccupied with the stirrings of his heart to bother with that of the body. “Too slow,” he chides. 

She truly has no idea what goes on in that head of his, why he continues to bother with her and why he continues to make impossible demands of her.  Five more. Six more. Ten more. That’s all he has ever said to her. Five, six, ten. Castora would like a change of pace. Maybe four more, three more, two more. Or actually I think that’s enough for one day.

But it was never enough – for either of them. He would push her again and again, and she would fight until she could no longer stand. It was a rhythm, one she did not question. It would be an insult to both of them if they stopped at any other point...except the pipe dream where Castora bested him in a fight. In a sense, their sparring sessions were unsatisfying. They ended, but there was never an ending, like a book that repeats the first chapter again and again.

Castora swears she sees a node of acknowledgement, but any swell of pride (or even a relieved finally) fades away when she leaves an opening and he knocks her to the ground, wrists pinning her hand above her head. She should have seen the opening she had left him; most wouldn’t have caught it so quickly, but then again, she supposes Ajax wasn’t most people. Castora looks up at him, green eyes burning. 

Something in his eyes catches her attention. A different kind of determination than the one she’s used to seeing from him. Ajax was often still, she had observed – still and taut, but somehow always in action, like a marble statue waiting for someone to breath life into him. They are close enough, she thinks; all she needs to do is arch her back and she could do it. But there is life in him already, oft dormant though it may be. An empty man can’t fight like he does; a man made of stone doesn’t get that look in his eyes. 

Too slow, of course, Castora thinks, focusing on how to get out of this position. She hooks his leg with her foot, tries to move her elbow down so she can muster enough force to get free and flip him over. A valiant effort, but it doesn’t work. “Too slow,” she repeats, letting out a long exhale. “Alright, how would I get out of this?”

[ofcastora]

priam-taravella​:

Date: July 20th

Time: Evening

Location: A cafe near the river bank

Status: Open to all

Verona is always showing its teeth. It’s either snarling, or laughing. Tonight, Priam feels, it’s the latter. 

It’s one of those nights of brutal self-inquisition, when Priam finds the four walls of his lavish penthouse too suffocating and seeking no one’s company in particular, the Capulet prince finds himself sitting in a café, outside, nursing a bottle of wine, and a cup of black coffee, an odd combination, and watching river march to the beat of its own drum.

He got people killed today. Quite a lot of them. All for his personal gain. Sure, it advances the Capulet agenda, no doubt, but the new weapons deal solidifies his position within the mob like never before, and it’s just a beginning. Priam now has the blood of a few Capulet pawns he willingly sacrifised to lure out the Montagues and their weapons supplier, and even though he feels no remorse, it’s a strange feeling. To play with the lives of others like a puppetmaster. At least they met a swift end in a shootout, but the Montagues he had taken by the police will have no such luxury. They’ll die in prison, but only after they spill the information Priam needs and after they start to beg for a merciful death. He’s seen to that. It’s amazing the influence Taravalla money combined with Capulet power can buy.

Priam’s reach grows by day.

He will follow his ambitions like a cat chases sunshine on a lazy Spring Sunday. Other be damned.

A toast to his own victory, Priam pours another glass of the finest wine on the menu, and whilst his eyes are fixed on the amber liquid, he can hear a sound of a chair drag against a pavement. Unexpected company.

Not interrupting pouring the wine, Priam greets a newcomer with an entertained smile. “Want to hear a joke? A circus animal, an infant and a virgin walk into a bar. The bartender asks, what can I get you, Mr. Montague?”   

She’s heard whispers. Castora always has a way of hearing rumors when it comes to Priam Taravella, whether she wanted to or not. It was no secret she despised him, so the gods of gossip and rumors always saw fit that she got an update on whatever bullshit people were saying about him or what he was saying about himself. 

This whisper, though, was interesting. A weapons deal. There was a shootout and some Montague’s were taken in. No one important enough for Don Damiano to worry about. He considered sending the Reapers after them, for an all too-brief moment, but ultimately decided against it. 

They know nothing. They’ll give nothing, he had said. Castora failed to see how this wasn’t a blow to them. Sure, arms dealing was the Capulet’s forte. It always had been. But losing some of their own and a dealer to a Capulet scheme allegedly arranged by Priam Taravella, betrothed to Juliet? That was a blow – for the Montague’s, certainly, but more for Castora on a personal level. 

Priam Taravella deserves to rot in a grave, not play out his Machiavelli fetish, she thought. Yet Castora could not pretend she did not feel a twinge of jealousy. He was allowed to flourish in the light, but Damiano saw fit to see her reach wilt in the darkness. 

That all being said, she didn’t intend to see him at the cafe. But tonight she felt like showing her teeth. So the wolf sat across the snake in the grass and thought “Sure, why not make my day worse?”

“Funny,” Castora deadpanned. “I assume that makes you the circus animal?” 

[ofcastora]

@lavolumnia replied to your post: i wanna read more from this AU

In which I continue the DiVerona Regency AU // Part 2 of me transforming Castora and Vivianne’s baking class into a Regency women’s archery club, inspired by this historical club and these outfits ft. Bridgerton-level historical accuracy. Also in which Castora becomes deeply invested in her mother-figure’s happiness and bears witness to a bodice ripper romance, but does not care for it at all. 

MENTIONED/APPEAR: Vivianne Sloane // @lavolumnia, Everett Craven // @evcravens, Priam Taravella // @priam-taravella, Cosimo Capulet (NPC), Silviana (NPC), the du Pont family, the Daly family

It was a truth universally acknowledged by all who had the misfortune of taking a stroll in Hyde Park in the morning hours in the month leading up to the Hyde Park Amazon’s Liston Hall showcase and ball that Lady Vivianne Sloane and Miss Castora Aguilar were very awful at archery. Nothing, sans for hanging at the Old Bailey for accidental homicide, would prevent them in their endeavors, however. 

Both ladies were quite indomitable and all members of the ton who sought a stroll and all squirrels seeking whatever squirrels sought quickly learned it was best to steer clear of them all together. On the bright side, while they made poor exhibition archers, perhaps in another life they would have made fine huntresses; neither of them had gotten anywhere near a bullseye, but they have gotten significantly closer to skewering a squirrel.

“It appears, Lady Vivianne, that we are actually getting worse.” 

“Nonsense.” Such a thing cannot be possible was the unspoken truth. 

Castora loosed another arrow. It did not land on the target, soaring high overhead and landing squarely in the tree behind it. “Perhaps you are, but I think my form is improving.” 

It was Vivianne’s turn to try; the arrow skimmed past the edge of the target, nestling itself in the dirt by the unfortunate tree that caught Castora’s arrow. 

“I can see that.” 

If the pair still had any arrows in the quiver, Castora was quite certain that Vivianne would have stabbed her with one. She gently placed her bow on the ground, fighting the impulse to break in two. It looked like Vivianne had the same thought as her. “Shall we?” she asked

This was, perhaps, the most depressing part of their practice sessions – collecting the evidence of their failures. 

“I suppose we have no choice –– unless you could hire a lady’s maid for this purpose?” 

“A lady’s maid for the sole purpose of fetching our arrows?” 

“I dare say she would have her work cut out for her.”

Castora pulled a stubborn arrow from the dirt, ignoring how it stained the hem of her dress. She took a look at their de facto practice field, something akin to distress on her face. “At least we did not lose any arrows in the Serpentine today,” she muttered. “Do you think it is too late to ‘come down with something’?” 

“Mrs. Silviana will have your head.” 

“Good. She can take it. She’s so often taken leave of her senses, maybe she’ll find use for my head,” Castora remarked. 

Vivianne raised an eyebrow, “You are quite bold to assume she has the sense to take advantage of such an opportunity.” 

They had reached the tree where Castora’s last arrow had lodged itself. Oh, damn it, she thought, seeing that it had landed about a foot taller than Castora herself. She jumped, trying to grab hold of it, but could not reach. 

Vivianne, who Castora was quite certain could reach it, stood by watching the younger woman take out all her energy on an arrow, the corners of her lips threatening to curve into a smile. 

A few more attempts occurred, each more feeble than the last. Castora leaned against the tree to catch her breath. “I simply have no wish to embarrass myself in front of the ton, Lady Vivianne – yes, I am keenly aware of the irony.”

"Surely you cannot be afraid of them?” Vivianne asked. Castora wished she could read her expressions better – was the woman surprised by this? Disappointed? 

“I am aware of the reality of my circumstances,” she said grimly. “And I feel like I have exhausted my quiver of accidents for this season.” Castora was a wit, a court jester the ton tolerated despite her father conning half of their father’s out of a not-insignificant sum of money because of powerful friends, a beautiful cousin they would all like to wed (or bed), and because someone had to provide some amusement, but their tolerance was ever-wavering tightrope. She could walk it, but she would always teeter. 

The fall was inevitable. 

Vivianne looked seriously at Castora, then smirked. “Yes, that game of Pall-Mall was certainly something.”

Castora’s cheeks burned. “It was an accident and Priam Taravella knows it.”

“If your aim with a bow and arrow is any indication of your aim in general, I believe you.” It was not. They both knew that – and Castora had surmised that Vivianne realized that she had been aiming for her future-stepson-in-law’s head, but that was to be expected when the beast knocked her own ball out of the way on purpose. “If it is any consolation, Miss Castora, I promise that I will be there with you to suffer Silviana and that exhibition together.” 

“Thank you.” She understood the hidden meaning – no one would insult her at the Exhibition with a future duchess by her side. 

Vivianne stepped forward, easily reaching the arrow. 

Snap. In her efforts, the arrow had split – the tip and a quarter of the shaft remained lodged in a tree. Vivianne glowered at the remnants of the arrow in her hand. 

“If I have to look at another arrow today, I think I might die.” 

“I quite agree, Miss Castora.” She was quiet for a long moment.  Then, she asked, “How about tea?”

--

A maid poured their tea and quietly left. Castora looked around at Vivianne’s apartments in wonder – surely, this was the most beautiful place she had ever been in. If I ever have the funds to decorate my own lodgings, I should like to make it look like this, Castora thought. 

“Who do you picture when you fire an arrow?” she asked. Vivianne sipped her tea, thinking over the question carefully. 

“Silviana,” she answered. “And a few others, but lately mostly Silviana. And yourself?”

“Silviana, too.” It wasn’t a lie, but it was not the whole truth. “I take turns picturing all the people who have made me cross.”

“And somehow you rarely hit your target.”

“Perhaps I would have more luck if the person I wished to strike was in the vicinity. There is only so much the imagination can do.”

A lull fell over the conversation. “I suppose you must quit this place when you and the Duke marry.” An odd expression crossed over her face at the word marry.

“Nonsense – this is mine.”

“Yours? How?”

“My late father bequeathed to his cousin, Philip Allard, in his will -–”

“–– The Duke of Beaufort?” 

“Yes. His only daughter, Lady Daphne, is married.” Castora detected a hint of a grimace in Vivianne’s voice. “Since the family hates London, he saw no use for the property, so he gave it to me.” 

Ah. This was as close to Vivianne’s as it could be, and yet it did not truly belong to her. It was charity. It was alms for a less fortunate relative. Castora understood. At least Vivianne owned something, bittersweet though it may be. 

“My distant cousin who inherited Uppercross after my Andrés’s passing pays for my lodgings in London for the Season.”

“Do you reside at Uppercross the rest of the year?”

“No,” Castora scoffed. Uppercross wasn’t the home she had as a child, the one she lost twice over. It did not belong to her anymore. It never did. “I usually take invitations from friends in the countryside. I toured the Lakes with Lady Pandora the last year.” 

“Your mother does not miss you?” It did not surprise her that Vivianne knew that her father was gone, but did not know what happened to her mother. No one really cared what befell Isabella Aguilar in the wake of her husband’s scandal. 

“My mother is dead,” Castora replied flatly.

“Mine is too.”

“I suppose that makes us both orphans.”

“It’s quite an ugly word, do you not agree?” Vivianne sipped her tea. “It comes from the Greek word orphanos, which means ‘bereaved.’”

“Orphanos.” Castora tested the word on her tongue. “You are right. It’s ugly. What is the best way to shed the label, orphan, do you think?” 

“Why, marriage, of course.”

Castora hesitated before asking, “Is that why you are marrying Duke Capulet?” It was odd, their match – after all, before all this Vivianne Sloane had been a spinster. 

Another one of Vivianne’s inscrutable expressions crossed her face. “No. Not the whole of it.”

“Is it a love match, then?”

“What constitutes a love match in your opinion?”

“The fool’s errand known as love, of course,” Castora replied. “But I suppose it can be a love match if you love his house, his title – I would hardly begrudge anyone a desire to become a duchess – although I would characterize that as a love arrangement, not a love match.” 

“I did not take you for a romantic – is that why you are still unmarried? Holding out for love, Miss Castora?” Such blunt questioning from anyone else would have offended her, but from Vivianne, Castora did not mind. 

“I do not wish to marry.” Only the greatest love could persuade me...or an offer from a Duke, a Marquess, an Earl, or a Viscount. Barons and men with gambling debts need not apply. Both options struck her as improbable, if not outright impossible. “It seems to me that every marriage I’ve witnessed has only brought misery...particularly for the women in the match.” Sure, her Uncle Aguilar’s marriage was quite happy by all accounts – surely, it helped that Ramona’s mother died young before the marriage had time to sour. 

Vivianne seemed curious. “What do you intend to do then?”

“My cousin, Ramona, is adored by the ton. She shall marry well.”

“And what if you received an offer from someone suitable?” 

“I would...consider it, as long as he is not a drunkard or a gambler. Actually, I believe I could deal with a drunkard. No gamblers,” she said. “Anything is better than ending up as a....governess.”

“I could not picture you spending your days tutoring children.” 

“My mother was one, actually, before she married. She worked for a good family, too. One that Vivianne was likely acquainted with. That was the other thing about Isabella Aguilar – she was intelligent. She was unfortunate, but bright. Love robbed her off her senses and killed her in the poorhouse. “She was unable to get back into the line of work with a child, however.” 

“Children complicate matters,” Vivianne said solemnly. The rumors of Vivianne Sloane’s first Season being delayed by a year floated back to the top of Castora’s head; there were whispers of a bastard child, but Castora had know interest in Vivianne’s secrets unless she chose to share them with her. 

“We do,” Castora said. “Lady Vivianne – I hope this goes without saying, but could you –– could you not repeat that my mother was a governess?” 

She nodded. “You have my word. Drink your tea, Castora. Before it gets cold.”

--

Liston Hall was a lovely country estate of middling size; it was pretty, spacious, and very green, everything a country estate ought to be, but it paled in comparison to the surrounding homes such as Campden Court. The true glory of Liston Hall was its apple orchard, where the archery exhibition would be held. 

Castora had not been to Gloucestershire since she was a child, accompanying her mother and forced to bear witness to her demise. During her year here, she had never been to Linton. The families of the other Gloucestershire estates – the Craven’s of Campden Court, the Daly’s of Aubrey Park, and the du Pont’s of Kellnych Hall – were not the type to deign to visit Linton Hall.

At least, that’s how Castora remembered them. She prayed that some things never changed. 

Whether or not the neighboring aristocrats visited seemed irrespective today – more than half the ton was here, but no one in the ton that Castora actually liked –-- except for Vivianne.

Who she could not find. 

Good God – she had one friend, or one person who was close to a friend, here and she could not find her. There was only so much small talk a girl coud do with a glass of lemonade, as anything stronger would not be served until dinner.

Leaving the hall to look for Vivianne, Castora collided into the chest of a gentleman, almost spilling her lemonade all over him.  Well, perhaps there was a splash or too on his shoes....and slight more than a splash on his white cravat. Said gentlemen did not seem angry so much as annoyed, however. Still, Castora wished she could melt into the floor.

“I apologize, sir, I am sorry,” she started, her cheeks aflame. 

“It is quite alright.” Oh no, this was worse – he was trying hard to be genteel about this. Something about his voice – and face, and countenance – looked familiar, but she could not place him. 

“Let me fetch a servant, perhaps they can....wash it?” 

He looked at her curiously, as though he was trying to place her, too. “I live at Campden Court – I shall send for a change of clothes direct.” 

Realization hit Castora like a ton of bricks. “You are Everett Craven, Marquess of Montrose.” She dropped into a courtesy and cursed every God for not answering her prayers. “I apologize again, my Lord.” 

He had come into the title several years ago with the death of his father and was one of the most desired bachelor’s in England –– and one of the most skilled at fending off ambitious mamas. He was almost more desired because he was, by all accounts, a proper gentleman who left rakish activities to the rest of his peers; it truly was a miracle he left London alive and unmarried.

She had heard more fearsome stories about him, however. The Season before her and Ramona’s debut, he accompanied Catherine Daly to London, as Lord Daly was unwell at the time, and practically bit off the head of every man who came near her.

“I am. Pardon me – have we met before, my lady?” 

Yes. See, while Isabella Aguilar was unable to find work as a governess, her former employer, the damned du Pont’s of Kellnych Hall, had found employment for Isabella at a lady’s maid to Lady Daly of Aubrey Park. She told them she was a widow, and with Bastian du Pont’s introduction, they accepted a lady’s maid with a child of the right age to be a playmate to their three daughters. 

Melting into the floor suddenly seemed insufficient. Perhaps she could suddenly collapse and die, like a lady in a novel, and be reincarnated as a bee. Yes, that seemed good. 

“No, I do not believe we have had the occasion, my lord.” She shook her head again, “Just Miss. Miss Castora Aguilar of Uppercross.”

“Castora? That is quite an––” 

"–– You can say unusual, my Lord. I cannot take offense since I have ruined your cravat.” At least it didn’t spill on his pants. 

He looked at her again. “Are you sure we have not met before?”

“Perhaps in London?” Castora lied. “London is full of faces and names, it’s hard to keep them all straight. Especially during the Season.”

Just as he was about to say something again, Vivianne rounded the corner. “Miss Castora, there you are ---” Whatever words were on her lips died when she saw the Marquess. It was quite a spectacular (and quite unsettling thing) to see Vivianne Sloane rendered speechless. 

She looked at the Marquess. He looked like he had seen a ghost. Is it too late to melt into the floor? Castora wondered, thinking about how to best extricate herself from the situation. 

Suddenly the lemonade-stained cravat seemed like the least of everyone’s problems. “Lady Vivianne,” the Marquess greeted. 

“Lord Montrose,” she said, similarly stiff. Neither pair seemed to notice Castora. They only had eyes for one another. God, now would be a lovely time to answer my call for death. 

She took a step backwards in the hopes of sneaking out and leaving them to...whatever was going to happen, but unfortunately, Fate had other plans for them as a person – namely, Duke Capulet – had rounded the corner in search of his wife-to-be. 

Duke Capulet was tall and distinguished with greyed hair; age suited him. He walked like someone who never doubted his importance and was unused to being denied. Castora had a difficult time thinking of him as anyone’s husband, or father, or guardian. 

“Montrose,” he said in greeting, falling back to Vivianne’s side. The man appeared jovial and pleasant, but there was an air of darkness about him – and he appeared to be in quite a fowl mood.

“Capulet,” the Marquess replied. Castora searched Vivianne’s eyes for a single clue as to what was happening. The future Duchess gave no indication that anything odd was going on. 

“What on earth happened to you, Montrose?” the Duke asked, gesturing to his clothes. 

“I was not watching where I was going and collided into the young lady whilst she carried some...water?”

“Lemonade,” Castora quietly corrected.  “The Marquess is too kind. This is my fault.”

“Regardless of whose fault it is, I hope you shall excuse me to get this matter sorted with.”

“Of course. Shall I see you at the exhibition, Montrose?” 

The Marquess nodded, made his courtesies, and left. 

The Duke’s attention fell to her, “And who are you?”

Vivianne answered for her, “Miss Castora of Uppercross, dear. She is in the Hyde Park Amazons with me.” The Marquess of Montrose seemed surprised at the revelation that Vivianne was in an archery club.

“Right, of course. You and Lady Vivianne have been hard at work these past few weeks, I have gathered.” He looked at her. “You are Aguilar’s girl, are you not?”

“His niece,” Castora said quickly, pretending not to know his meaning. “He passed away several years ago.”

The Duke did not stop. “Your father was an interesting character, more than what one would expect from one of Montague’s whelps. I think he tried to swindle me during a game of vingt-et-un.”

“My family is very lucky to consider the Montague’s our friends, my Lord,” she replied diplomatically, keenly aware that she could not afford to offend one of the most powerful men in the country.

“For your sake, Miss Castora, I pray the apple falls far from the tree. My dear, see that you never play cards with her,” he said with a snake oil smile. Castora supposed it was a charming smile, if one could ignore the malice hiding in his words. Still, she laughed at his joke.

And I pray the same for your daughter, you wretched man.

“If you will pardon me, my Lord, I think I am going to replace my lemonade.”

“Let me accompany you, Miss Castora,” Vivianne said. “We have much to discuss before the exhibition.”

They returned to the main hall, arm in arm. Castora squeezed Vivianne’s hand, and the woman squeezed back in silent apology. What reason is there to marry this man? Surely a duchy is not worth it? 

“I apologize for the Duke. He is not himself after travelling.”

There was something odd about resorting to pleasantries with Vivianne – they had so often bypassed them in their conversations in Hyde Park. A cold sensation settled into Castora’s bones.

“No apologies necessary, Lady Vivianne….how do you know the Marquess of Montrose?”

“Hmm?”

“It looked to be like you two knew each other.” 

“A lifetime ago. I did not think he would come.” Castora quietly wondered if Vivianne had been making the same prayers she had made on the journey over.

--

Castora was lined up with the other ladies of the Hyde Park Amazons...in the very back of the group, where no one could see her miss the target. Vivianne was not there. 

“Mrs. Silviana, have you seen Lady Vivianne?”

Silviana startled at Castora’s voice. “Oh, you are here.” 

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” She remarked before asking again, “Where is Lady Vivianne?”

Silviana’s eyes narrowed. “She has a headache and she is unable to join us. I am quite surprised, Miss Castora, that you do not have one as well.” 

Damn her, Castora cursed, Damn her for leaving me to fend for myself. Damn her for breaking her promise. 

“Are you alright, Miss Castora?” Silviana asked. 

No. I feel rather foolish, you useless twit, she thought bitterly. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Right, dear. And – do remember to aim, please?” She nodded and glared at Silviana’s retreating figure. Aim. She could do that. 

--

At last came time for the Exhibition. Gentlemen and ladies of the ton and other appropriate social circles gathered around the Hyde Park Amazons at a respectable distance, mostly on the sidelines by the tree. For this exhibit, the ladies were to fire five arrows and hit their targets. The more advanced archers would perform in a play about Artemis and her huntresses later in the day.

Five. You only have to get through five. 

On the first arrow, she thought of Vivianne and aimed. Predictably, she missed – not as poorly as usually, however. On the second arrow, she thought of Vivianne and aimed. She missed again.

On the third, Castora vowed to clear her mind. Do not aim for anything but the target. When the last thought melted away, Castora closed her eyes and fired the arrow. The audience gasped. 

Did I hit a bullseye? She opened her eyes to find that no, she had not hit the target. Her arrow was nowhere near the target. In fact, she could not see it all. Why is everyone staring at me?

The Hyde Park Amazon next to her, sensing Castora’s confusion, helpfully pointed at an apple tree towards the edge of their circle. Pinned to the tree by Castora’s arrow was a gentleman’s hat. One of the lower hanging apples helpfully fell to the ground. 

And not just any gentleman’s hat. No, it was Duke Capulet’s hat. The man was positively glowering at her. 

“Oops.” She swore quietly under her breath using a word she learned from Marcelo that no lady was supposed to know. I almost killed a duke. I almost killed a duke. Fuck, I almost killed a duke.

But she did not feel so bad for Cosimo Capulet after all. It wasn’t like she had stabbed him. It was only a hat, after all. It could be worse, Castora thought to herself. I could have swindled him during a game of vingt-et-un. 

Suffice to say, while the play continued without incident later in the evening, the ladies of the first exhibit did not fire their fourth and fifth arrows. 

--

After profusely apologizing to the Duke several times over, each time more insincere than the last, Castora excused herself from the luncheon with, appropriately, a headache. There

There was a knock at her door. Castora cautiously opened it to find Vivianne, standing in front of her right as rain. “Did you or did you not try to kill the Duke?” 

Castora ignored the question. “How is your headache, Lady Vivianne? I do hope you will be able to attend the ball.”

“Castora – did you try to kill the Duke?”

“No, of course not! Not intentionally at least! The only thing I ended up killing was his hat, and a trip to a good haberdashery could fix it right up!” She insisted.

Vivianne closed the door to Castora’s guest chamber behind her. “You deeply offended him, Castora,” she said seriously. 

“I was aiming for the target. I missed. That is not out of the ordinary for me, Lady Vivianne. Nor is it for you, and if you had shown up, you may have done worse!” 

“Perhaps, but as it stands, you are the one who accidentally attacked a duke. You also accidentally hit his future son-in-law in the face with a pall-mall ball several months ago – an incident of which the Duke is very much aware of. You can see why this...why this is problematic.” 

“It was an accident. I have offered to pay to replace the hat, an offer which the Duke said he is considering.”

“Castora, the Duke has strongly suggested to me that I find another hobby outside of the Amazons.”

Her face fell. But you’re my friend, the girl wanted to protest.  “He is not your husband, yet. He cannot make you do anything...unless you wish to leave.” 

“In some matters of life, what you want does not matter.” 

“Surely it does in this one?” 

Vivianne smiled bitterly, “Dear Castora, I forget how young you are sometimes.” 

With that, she left, closing the door behind her. Castora did not know why, but she had the sudden desire to cry for the first time since her mother’s death. 

--

There is absolutely no way this evening can get worse, Castora thought to herself as she prepared to enter the ballroom for the evening festivities. No chance in hell. 

Still, halfway to the ballroom she turned on her heel and thought best not to risk it. On the way back to her room, Castora decided that she did not want to sit in her room all evening and decided to visit the Liston Hall library. 

Scouring through the library, Castora settled on The Mysteries of Udolpho, a novel she had greedily consumed several years ago because Ramona suggested it. She had not liked it much, as Castora was not one for Gothic romances, but she was in no mood to explore. Take me away, Mrs. Radcliffe, to a world far less complicated than ours.

Settled by her desk, she was halfway through the second chapter when she heard two voices, one belonging to a man and the other to a woman, deep in the throes of an argument. The man dragged the woman into the library.

Castora froze – it was Lady Vivianne and Lord Everett. They did not see her from her position, and so they kept on spitting venom Castora did not comprehend at one another. Wishing to avoid another awkward encounter with the both of them, she simply sunk behind the desk before they could see her and waited for them to leave. 

About ten minutes later, they were still arguing and Castora still had no idea what in the hell was going on because she was trying not to eavesdrop, but sometimes she could not help it. 

But what she did hear was the Marquess of Montrose, voice laced with pain, asking Vivianne why she was marrying him. It did seem to be the question of the day. 

“Someone knows about Cyrus.” There was an eerie silence across the hall; Castora resisted the urge to emerge from her hiding place to ask Who is Cyrus? “They are trying to exhort me for money, but no one would dare come for me, or Cyrus, if I am Lady Capulet.” 

“How much? Who is blackmailing you?” Reasonable questions.  

“It matters not, Everett.” I fail to see how that is true.

“Vivianne, how can you say that?” Castora quietly noted the use of their Christian names, and quietly prayed to God for the upteenth time to day, that they would finish their argument somewhere else. 

“Because what is done is done. I cannot break this engagement.” Fair enough.

“You did not seem to have much of an issue with that before.” Ah, okay. There is that mystery solved.

“Don’t you dare. This is not remotely the same situation. If I do not marry Cosimo, then I will be ruined. Cyrus will be ruined. By association with me, Juliana will be ruined. I cannot have that.” A love arrangement, Castora realized. 

“I loved you,” the Marquess said. To Castora’s ears, it did not sound like his affections were in the past tense. Vivianne did not respond to Everett with words, but with actions. 

Oh no. Oh no. Dear God. From her hiding position under the desk, Castora saw the Marquess’s – clean – cravat flying off. Their….noises grew closer, and she heard someone place the other on the desk, knocking the copy of Udolpho off the table, but too far out of reach from Castora. 

How generous, Castora thought dryly, realizing that there would be no escape for her now. 

Castora covered her ears and cursing God, she laid back, and tried to think of England.

--

Much to Castora’s surprise, Silviana welcomed her back the following Thursday to the Hyde Park Amazons, remarking something along the lines of “At least we know you can hit something now, Mis Castora.” 

To everyone’s greater surprise, and Mrs. Silviana’s palpable disappointment, Vivianne showed up for practice. “I hope you are feeling better, Lady Vivianne. You can go and practice with Miss Castora in the back,” the instructor commanded. 

“I know the place,” the future Duchess replied, unable to keep the hint of bitterness out of her voice, before  walking over to her and Castora’s usual spot. 

Castora could not look her in the eye. She refused to do so, for if she did, she would admit to all she saw and heard. Around 15 minutes went by of excruciating silence, before Lady Vivianne chose to break it. 

“How are you, Miss Castora?” 

“I am well.” I want to die. “How are you, Lady Vivianne? How is Lord Capulet’s hat?” 

“We are both fine,” she responded wryly. “Once the Duke calmed down, he did not object to me continuing on with the Hyde Park Amazon’s...you can look at me, Miss Castora, I will not bite your head off.”

Do not say anything, she commanded herself. Do not –– “Lady Vivianne, I was in the library during the Liston House ball.”

Vivianne, who was preparing to fire an arrow, loosened it without bothering to see where it landed. The blood drained from her face. “I do not know your meaning, Miss Castora.” 

“I wish I did not know my own meaning either.”

She lowered her voice, “How much did you hear?”

Too bloody much. “All of it, unfortunately. I did not intend to. I truly, truly did not intend to. I decided against going to the ball, and was trying to read when you and the Marquess entered. I thought it best to hide until you two were finished ––” Everything seemed like a poor choice of words, but Castora persisted. “–– And I did not intend to hear….so much.” 

Vivianne was silent for a long time. The girl in front of her was so distressed that she could not help but believe her, and then, “The Mysteries of Udolpho, really, Miss Castora?”

“I am not proud of it either. Listen, Lady Vivianne, I want to assure you that I...I will say nothing of...of, well, anything, to nobody. I do not know, or care, who Cyrus is. Or that you were once engaged to the Marquess, or that you two appear to still love each other very much.” 

“I appreciate your discretion, Miss Castora, but I must correct you on the last point. Whatever we had was in the past.”

“From where I stood, what was past seemed present.” 

“I would prefer if you did not discuss myself and the Marquess anymore.” 

“As you wish, Lady Vivianne –– however, there is one point, I do have an inquiry on. Who is blackmailing you and is there any way I can help?”

“No, dear girl, there is not.” 

The pair were quiet for a long moment. “I think you would be a better Marchioness than a Duchess. Marchioness Vivianne sounds better than Duchess Vivianne, does it not?”

“That is your opinion.”

“And what is yours?”

“Miss Castora, I thought we agreed not to speak about the Marquess anymore.”

“Yes, but in all honesty, I like him more than the Duke and I think you do, too. He is titled, wealthy, and is capable of weathering scandals. The Craven family is powerful. No one would dare come for a Marchioness of Montrose, either. If Duke Capulet was ever unwise enough to gamble with my father, I do not know how wise he will be in the future. And Juliana Capulet is set to be married in a month to a powerful, wealthy man. She could weather her father’s broken engagement if done with grace.”

“There are more forces at play here than you understand, Castora.” 

“Yes, but I understand enough to know that you do not deserve the misery that is to come with a life chained to Lord Capulet.” Yes, but after everything I was forced to witness in that library, this the least you could do for me. 

“And you are convinced the Marquess is a good man from the five minutes you saw of him?” 

“He is always kind to those lower than himself.” 

Vivianne laughed, “You are a romantic, after all.”

“No, I simply believe that the only reasons to marry are for great, true, unshakeable love, or comfort and protection. The Marquess appears ready to provide you with both,” Castora said.

“I did not realize you cared so much.”

I saw my mother collapse in on herself from misery; I will not see it happen again. “I--I like my friends to be happy, Lady Vivianne.” 

“Happiness requires miracles. You and I both know too well to believe in them.”

Castora could not argue with Vivianne on that point.

Mrs. Silviana screamed and ran up to the region her two least favorite students were exiled to. “Oh my God, you did it! Which one of you did this?” 

The pair followed her gaze to the target where the last arrow Lady Vivianne fired had landed in the center of the target. A bullseye. 

For a moment, Vivianne Sloane and Castora Aguilar both believed in miracles. 

[ofcastora]

@lavolumnia replied to your post: i wanna read more from this AU

In which I continue the DiVerona Regency AU // Part 1 of me transforming Castora and Vivianne’s baking class into a Regency women’s archery club, inspired by this historical club and these outfits ft. Bridgerton-level historical accuracy

MENTIONED/APPEAR: @lavolumnia, @priam-taravella, Damiano Montague, Cosimo Capulet, Tiberius Capulet, Rafaella Capulet, Juliana Capulet, @ofaguilar, @deadvalentinagallo

Miss Castora Aguilar learned that young ladies should hold their tongue at a young age, but she quickly disregarded the lesson. She was a poorer, scandal-tainted relation; not quite an orphan, but just as good as. If she did not speak for herself, then who would? The world was unkind on a good day, and outright cruel on another, and there is no shame in surviving.

She had been permitted to be sharp-tongued by society because she had titled and/or well-connected friends who would vouch for her, and while she toed the line of what was appropriate or not, the only truly unforgivable thing she had done was be the daughter of a scoundrel. It is, unsurprisingly, difficult to find a match on the marriage mart when your father may or may not have stolen great deals of money from your potential suitor’s fathers, and perhaps something of more value from their mothers.

Alas, the Season practically thrived on such awkward encounters.

--

It had started out a day like any other – a quiet breakfast with her cousin that became quite rowdy when Miss Valentina Gallo came by to call on Ramona. The two went off on their own “adventure” to “buy some new ribbon,” which meant Castora would discover what they actually did in two weeks time. They used to invite her to their outings, but Castora learned it was better for all them if Castora had other plans during that time.

To achieve that purpose, she had recently taken up with a women’s archery club that practiced every Thursday in Hyde Park: the Hyde Park Amazons, a name that Castora had thought wonderful until she met the club’s captain, Mrs. Silviana, and realized she was more of a meddlesome matron than a ferocious warrior, although were the two not the same? 

It took Castora about five minutes about joining Silviana’s group to realize that she was awful at archery. By all accounts, she should have been good by it. She was an active young woman and her temperament was certainly suited to the activity. In fact, she was the worst.

Well, second-to-worst.

Well, she and Lady Vivianne Sloane were about equally matched. It was quite lucky that their practices were in a rather empty area of the park

The two women had started around the same time; since they were both new and awful, they were often paired up during practice. Castora didn’t dislike Lady Vivianne – she just did not like her very much. During their time with the Hyde Park Amazons, the two had barely exchanged two words, and those words have been teetering on the edge of civility. 

It made perfect sense to Castora. Lady Vivianne, daughter of an Earl, was engaged to Lord Capulet, a Duke who had never gotten along with Lord Montague, Castora’s benefactor. Lord Capulet was also in the unfortunate possession of a reckless nephew who had started a feud with Castora’s oldest friend and the most wretched woman in the whole of England as his ward. He also had a sweet-tempered daughter, who had nothing wrong in Castora’s eyes except to have the misfortune of being engaged to Priam Taravella, whom Castora had strongly disliked and had “accidentally” hit with a pall-mall ball during a game at a garden party. 

She imagined it was the same way for Vivianne. Here she was with a known associate of her husband-to-be’s enemy...and someone who caused bodily harm to her future son-in-law.

It was not personal. It was all personal-adjacent. It was awkward. In fact, if not for her unfortunate connection to Lord Capulet, Castora would have felt rather confident in publicly asserting that she rather liked Lady Vivianne. The older woman was poised, gracious, charming, biting, and powerful. No visible rough edges. 

She was everything Castora would like to be. 

“I cannot imagine why Silviana thinks it’s wise to pair the two of us together with weapons,” Castora had muttered under her breath. She could have sworn the corners of Lady Vivianne’s lips turned up.

They both drew their arrows and released them. Neither hit their the target. “Oh, I do imagine that’s why,” Castora said dryly, “We probably would never be able to hit each other.” In addition, the more time they spent bickering and failing together, the less they would be rolling their eyes at Silviana’s teaching metaphors. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Aguilar. We are close enough range to one another that anything is possible.”

“Shall we play a game of William Tell to test your theory?”

The two shared a look. Too risky.

Castora took another shot, putting all of her might into her aim. She hit the bottom of the target. “Do you think we will get better one day, Lady Vivianne?” Castora sighed, unable to hide her exasperation.

“We better.” 

-- A few more Thursdays came and went. Castora and Vivianne displayed marginal improvement, and she was beginning to appreciate the other woman’s company. The more time she spent with Vivianne, the less she had to look at the other show-off members of the group.

They understood the virtue of leaving one another to the soul-crushing frustration of slow progress with minimal interruptions. Castora thought it would be nice to have such a companion; she loved Ramona and Valentina, but there was only so much she could take of being number three; Pandora was her dearest friend, but she was married. There was power in a bond that existed only in their silence. 

Prior to their meeting at the archery club, Castora had little idea of who Lady Vivianne was, outside of her association with the Capulet family. She did not know if the universe threw some crumbs of gossip her way because of this or if she simply paid attention to it now, but over the course of the past month or so, Castora had come to learn that Lady Vivianne herself knew something of scandal; perhaps that was why they shared a quiet understanding.

First of all, she was a spinster who managed to nab a duke. Second, there was something about her coming out postponed for a year in favor of a nine-month stay in seclusion at the Sloane’s country estate, her parents sudden death, and something about them not leaving her as much money as expected. And there had been something about a broken engagement many years ago, but Castora had stopped listening by that point. 

Even though there was often some truth to such rumors, Castora would never bring them up to Vivianne’s face, lest she take Castora up on her offer of a game of William Tell. 

At the end of practice one day, Silviana gathered all the ladies and passed around a piece of paper, which Castora instantly recognized as an invitation.

The elegant and beauteous assemblace of Ladies Archers established three Summers ago at Hyde Park under the name HYDE PARK AMAZONS courteously invites you to a supper and Ball at the Liston Hall on the 31st of August. To all interested parties, the Amazons will host their annual showcase at a luncheon before the evening’s festivities.

Castora and Vivianne shared a horrified look. 

“Is this not exciting, Lady Vivianne?” Silviana crooned. “You and Miss Aguilar’s first showcase.”

Castora cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Mrs. Silviana, but do all Amazons have to perform at this showcase?”

“But of course, my dear.” She brought her voice down to a whisper so that only Castora and Vivianne could hear. “This is quite an opportunity for you, Miss Castora. This sport quite shows off your figure and there will be plenty of eligible young men in attendance. There always are.”

“Nothing really demonstrates how eligible a bride a girl is like demonstrating your expertise with a weapon.”

“Exactly!” 

“And how many people received this invitation, Mrs. Silviana?” Vivianne asked cooly. Castora could tell by the arch in her brow that she was not pleased by this situation either. 

“Liston Hall is my brother’s estate, so quite a few. Most of the ton is usually in attendance. Usually some family from the neighboring estates come as well. Aubrey Park, Kellnych, Hall, Campden Court, the like. Do not worry Lady Vivianne, I have ensured that Lord Capulet receives an invitation as well.” 

“Did you say Campden Court?” Castora asked. Both Silviana and Vivianne’s heads snapped to her.

“Do you know the family?”

“No, not really.”

Silviana soon left Castora and Vivianne to mingle with the other ladies of the club. As soon as the woman’s meddlesome gaze was no longer upon them, Castora turned to Vivianne. “Will you be attending?”

“I quite think Mrs. Silviana will have my head if I do not.”

“I think I might catch a chill that day and be too sick to attend.”

“In August?” 

“You are right. Mrs. Silviana may be a fool, but she will never believe that.” 

“And mine. I must confess, I do not have any desire to embarrass myself in front of the ton.”  Castora had oft said she would never to marry unless it was for love, and she had vowed that she would never love, but she had no desire to publicly humiliate herself. 

“Nor I.”

Castora picked up an arrow from a nearby quiver. “That leaves us with one option.”

“It does,” Vivianne nodded in agreement.

“We must ––” Castora started, before Vivianne interrupted, fishing her sentence.

“–– Practice.”

-- 

The next day, the pair met in Hyde Park. Vivianne handed Castora a bow and arrow.

“How did you manage to procure these in one day?”

Vivianne smiled, “I have my ways.”

“I do believe I am quite glad to know you, Lady Vivianne Sloane.”

“And I, you, Miss Castora Aguilar.” 

[ofcastora]

Ana de Armas as Sol POR UN PUÑADO DE BESOS 2014, dir. David Menkes

[ofcastora]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LIZ!

All affluent in yellow, bought and sold By Kings that hammer roses into gold: I did not know I loved their warring thorns Until they flowered into spikes so hard My blood made obdurate the rose’s stem.  My God was generous! O much too much! The nearest rose is now beyond my reach.                                       ( King Midas by Howard Moss )

@priam-taravella​

[ofcastora]

ajax-giordano​:

CLOSED TO @ofcastora​​. I DON’T KNOW THE DATE BUT I SIMPLY DO NOT CARE.

the truth is singular, as cold and as clean as the blade of a new knife: he does not know pain unless it burns him straight through, carves a hole in his chest that is as visible as it is internal. only then does he allow himself a taste of grief, a glimpse of agony.

he wipes at his mouth, and catches a glimpse of blood as he pulls his hand away. a hint of a smile tugs at his lips, appreciation for castora’s left hook glints in his eye, and armand offers a brisk nod of approval. “good. do that again five times in a row.” he adjusts the position of his feet, puts up his arms and nods once more, welcoming another attempt. “now.”

Her left hook connects with his mouth, and Castora breathes out a sigh of relief. Finally. They had been sparring for the better part of an hour, and her arms were starting to ache. This is how it always was with Ajax. She would ask him to spar – he’d never ask her – and he would usually comply, reschedule seven times, and when they finally came to blows on the mat, he’d remind her how much she had to learn. And then they wouldn’t talk until the next time; if not for the fact that he kept agreeing, Castora would’ve guessed that he hated her. Maybe he did. Most likely he disliked her in some way, but she did not really care too much what he thought of her so long as he thought her capable. 

Do that again five times in a row, he says. She takes a moment to catch her breath, glaring at him. Oh fuck you, man, Castora thinks. Refusing to give up, she uses what’s left of her stamina to adjust her position. “Five. Easy.” 

She punches. He blocks. It’s the name of the game. She gets another hit in. Four. Punches, blocks, rise and repeat. On one move, her body knows she’s made a mistake before her mind does, she mentally prepares herself for the impact when Ajax pins her to the ground. 

[ofcastora]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, VIC!

KATARINA DU PONT + FLOWER LANGUAGE

amaryllis → strength & determination protea → courage & daring yellow → rose intense emotions & undying love

INSP.

@katarinadvpont

[ofcastora]

@evcravens asked: 🔆 regency babeeeeeey

TW: mentions of drug overdose, death mentions, awkward pining

MENTIONED/APPEAR: @ofaguilar, @ofrosso, @deadvalentinagallo, @matthiaswarren, @priam-taravella, Pandora Phan, Roman Montague, Hazel Accardi, Alvise Vernon, Damiano Montague, Armand “Ajax” Giordano

Miss Ramona Aguilar and Miss Castora Aguilar, or “The Aguilar Girls”, as they were sometimes referred to in order to save time, were perhaps the most unlucky members of the ton, with Castora being a hare more unlucky than Ramona. 

Their streak of rotten luck began about four-and-ten years ago when Castora’s father, Lorenzo, an unrepentant rake with neither the desire nor the capability to reform, left his wife and Uppercross estate,  never to be heard from again. Uppercross then passed to Matteo, Ramona’s father; a widow of most gracious temperament; while this was bad luck for Miss Castora and her mother, Isabella, it was a pleasant turn of events for Matteo, a second son who was better suited to be first. 

Isabella, as tender hearted as she was, did not bare the change in life circumstances well and soon departed the estate with Castora in tow. She had passed two years later from influenza at her parent’s home in the countryside (in the poorhouse). Castora returned to Uppercross as Matteo Aguilar’s ward and he promised to provide a dowry of 800 pounds per annum for her. It was a little less than Ramona’s dowry of 1,000 pounds per annum, but that was to be expected and was not malicious Matteo had only expected to provide a dowry for one girl, not two. If Castora ever took any insult to this, she didn’t remember it. She was simply too happy to be back at Uppercross, and in the company of her cousin’s Ramona and Andrés again. 

“I do not need the money, uncle,” she had said. “For I promise I shall never marry unless it is for the greatest love, which I vow to never seek.” It would be an easy promise to keep, Castora had thought, already realizing at a young age that a poorer relation with an infamous father was not likely to draw a good sister. Ramona, already famed as a beauty, would be able to draw a rich husband and Castora could be a very happy spinster. 

Whatever damage Lorenzo had done to the Aguilar reputation, Matteo had been able to undo it with some help from powerful friends, Lord Montague and Lord Vernon, and get his daughter and niece into the ton for the 1813 season the year both girls turned eight-and-ten. Everything was going as expected. 

Ramona was hailed as the Incomparable, had a dance card full at every party, and managed to convince the newly minted Viscount Warren, the talk of the ton for his good looks and melancholy refusal to dance because of his grief over his father’s recent death, to dance with her. She’d befriended Miss Valentina Gallo, a half-feral girl whom Castora had insulted on their first meeting; the two had caused much scandal when they came dressed as men during Lord Vernon’s masque. 

Castora caught the eye of Lady Pandora Phan, the wealthy daughter of a duke on her second Season, who took her under her wing when Castora said, perhaps too loudly, that she’d only marry in the case of two unlikely events: One) a year without rain in England; and two) the greatest love. It also helped that Castora was dear friends with Marcelo Rosso, the good friend of Lord Montague’s heir, Roman. She helped Pandora secure a betrothal to Roman during the second-to-last ball of the Season by bullying all his friends into dancing with her so that Pandora could dance with Roman. 

Marcelo gladly whirled his “little sister” on the floor, but Bellamy needed to be strong armed, and quiet, sullen, proud Ajax who had barely spoken two words to her all Season and whom Castora was convinced hated her, practically had to be dragged onto the floor for a quadrille. His name was not Ajax, but everyone called him that, which Castora found to be odd, but she’d never overstep her place and ask for his real name. 

During the last ball of the Season, Matteo Aguilar clutched his heart and fell to the ground. He joined his wife in the ground soon after. Neither Ramona nor Castora Aguilar ended up with a match. Andrés took over Uppercross and promised to care for his sister and cousin, but by next year he had died from influenza (in an opium den, a part of the story rapidly hushed by Castora, with the help of Miss Valentina, Lady Pandora, and Viscount Warren) and a quick look at the books revealed that Castora and Ramona’s dowries had disappeared (into the opium den.)

Uppercross was entailed to a distant cousin, who supplied them with a small allowance and agreed to let them stay in London for the Season in order to get them married. The Aguilar Girls were sometimes the talk of the ton, particular when Miss Castora almost broke Lord Priam Taravella’s nose with a pall-mall ball to the nose, but they had good, loyal friends in high places who would not let them be destitute. Ramona wrote letters to Viscount Warren nearly every day, and he wrote back just as quickly. They danced the first two dances – or, scandalously, the first three – at every ball, and a proposal was to come any day now.

Any. Day. Now. Castora would very much like to be a viscount’s sister-in-law (well, cousin-in-law, technically, but all knew that Miss Castora and Miss Ramona were as close as sisters). It’d be so much easier to sleep at night knowing Ramona was taken care of and she could embrace her destiny as a spinster. 

But, for some God forsaken reason, that day did not come. It did not come during their third Season, nor by their fourth, and by their fifth – the last this distant cousin was willing to pay for – Castora was ready to drag them to a church and perform the ceremony herself. Her favorite evenings, a respite from her cousin’s romance, came at the gatherings Pandora would host at her and Roman’s lodgings.

She always bested everyone at whist, but never Ajax, Roman’s quiet friend whom she learned from Pandora had amassed a small fortune in the Navy, at whist. Apart from the fact that his back was always determinedly straight and the intense look in his green eyes, she wouldn’t have pegged him for a soldier – he was too quiet. When she mentioned this to Pandora, she laughed. “Oh, Ajax? He’s quiet, Castora, but he’s got a good humor. You should hear him talk about what adventures he and his ward, Hazel, get up to...”  

It was then that she noticed that Ajax did talk in the company of their shared acquaintances – to Pandora, to Bellamy, sometimes with Matthias, at length with Roman, and even terse words with Marcelo. But never to her. 

One day after he’d beat her at whist again, Castora had remarked, “If you’re going to beat me so often, you could at least tell me your name, so I can properly curse you.” His cheeks turned red, and he stood up and left the room. He came back, just ten minutes later, and entered into a rousing conversation with Roman, and Castora had come to realize that Ajax just didn’t like her, and well, if he didn’t like her, then she didn’t like him. 

“I’d rather help you write a love letter than spend a minute with him, I swear,” she’d whined to Ramona once. 

Then, one day, she woke up to find Ramona had left their London house with nothing but a brief note – Gone to Greta Green with Matthias. Love, your cousin – and Castora was ready to walk to Gretna Green on foot in order to murder her cousin. News of Ramona Aguilar and Matthias Warren’s elopement spread quickly, and suddenly Castora found herself in a very unfortunate position where her reputation was damaged by association and no one would believe that Castora – Ramona’s closest companion – knew nothing about these plans.

Said cousin wrote as soon as he heard the news that Castora, an associate of wanton wickedness, could no longer stay at the London residence. To make matters worse, no one had heard from Ramona nor Viscount Warren, leading doubts as to whether the pair had actually married at all. 

-- 

In summation, that is why Castora Aguilar – penniless daughter of a vagabond, unwitting accomplice to an elopement, future murderess of Ramona Aguilar  – considered herself the unluckiest member of the ton. And that is precisely what she told Pandora, having wound up sobbing in her hallway, in full view of her servants, with her things. 

“You can stay as long as you need to,” Pandora said, pulling her friend out of the hall where any servants could see and gossip. She wiped away her tears. “I will fix this, Cas. I will find a way.”

Castora simply nodded, thankful to not have be turned out or go back to the poorhouse, but the tears kept flowing –– a rather odd, unsightly thing to witness from the elder Miss Aguilar, who hadn’t cried since her mother died.  “What’s wrong, Cas?” Pandora asked, more alarmed than she already was. 

“Nothing,” she sniffed. “It’s just –– I can never marry for love, now.” It was unlikely before the scandal, but now it would be nothing but a dream. Castora had never realized had badly she would have liked to be loved. “I cannot even marry for comfort. Who will want me, Pan? What can I give them? How...how will I live?” Perhaps if Ramona and Matthias returned as man and wife there would be hope for her, but there was no word. When a lady’s reputation is damaged, it is a stain that can never come out. 

Pandora took her hand, “We will find a way.” 

“I cannot take more from you than I already have,” Castora had insisted. It was a blow to her pride – always the poorer relation, always needing help from friends in higher placer. For once, she’d like to just be Castora and be comfortable and be enough.

“You only take what I willingly give.”

--

Two weeks later, Castora was trying to stave off a foul mood by reading a book in Pandora and Roman’s drawing room when Ajax bounds in. He had not stopped to take off his coat or his hat, and his brow was covered in sweat. He looked positively undone, like he was about to be sick. 

“Roman and Pandora are calling on Lord Tomas and Lady Celeste,” she informed him matter-of-factly. “I can ring for tea, if you’d like?” 

“No,” he said suddenly. “No,” he repeated softly. 

“Would you like to wait for them?” Ajax looked her at like she was sprouting another head. Castora closed her book and made her way to the door. 

“Where are you going?”

“To the library?” 

“Why?”

“Because it looks like you’re going to wait here and I’d prefer to continue my book.”

He looked at her desperately. “But I’m hear to see you, Miss Aguilar.” 

“Me?” Now she was looking at him like he was sprouting a second head. “Whatever for?”

He gestured for her to sit. She stood obstinately for a moment, before deciding to sit lest the man collapse. So, Castora sat and waited, but Ajax didn’t speak. 

After a long, quiet moment, he opened his mouth and said, “I cannot hide my feelings anymore. I love you, most ardently and most fiercely.” It was a good thing she had heeded him and sat down, for Castora was quite certain she would have fainted. Instead she looked at him blankly. “I love you,” he repeated, as if she had not heard the first time. “I love you and I would like to marry you.” 

She rolled her eyes, “This is Pandora’s doing, isn’t it?” It all made sense – a sudden proposal from a man in their social circle, not rich but could certainly keep Castora comfortable for her days, who could be persuaded to attempt to save the future of his dear friend’s wife’s friend. 

Ajax looked at her dumbstruck. “What? No --”

“I’m not offended.” Well, maybe a little. “I know she wants to help, but you don’t need to throw yourself on this sword...with such verve.” 

“Miss Aguilar, I think you misunderstand me.” 

“It’s alright. I know she simply enlisted you to try to help me with my current predicament, and while I appreciate what you are doing for me, there is no need to say you love me.”

He was starting to get annoyed, “I am following no one’s will but my own. I love you and I want to marry you.”

“Love me?” Now Castora was well and truly offended. “You need not lie to me, sir. It is one thing to propose a marriage of convenience and of duty.  It is another thing to lie about the matters of the heart.”

“I am not lying to you. I cared for you, and I have cared for you since the day I first laid eyes on you.” 

She stood up suddenly, “But you don’t even like me!” 

“How can you think that?”

“You don’t talk to me. You engage everyone in conversation, even Marcelo on occassion, but never me. You won’t tell me your name! And you never let me win at whist! If you loved you, you would’ve put me out of my misery and let me win at least one game.” 

“Perhaps that’s because you’re not good enough.” He, quite noticeably didn’t know to answer the first part of her accusations. “What is you answer?”

For a moment, Castora forgot she was being proposed to. “No,” she said coldly. “If you had asked in a gentleman like manner and not pretended to have an attachment to me, then perhaps my answer would’ve been different.” 

“I apologize. For being so presumptuous as to believe that you would--”

Someone by the doorway clears their throat. “What is going on in here?” Pandora asks. Roman is by her side, and almost just as confused as his wife. 

“A proposal, apparently. Pandora, I appreciate what you are trying to do for me, but I could do without false protestations of love.”

Pandora’s eyes widen. “Oh, Cas...” 

Castora looks between Pandora, Roman, and Ajax, realization dawning on her. Oh no. You’re really in love with me. This was a real proposal. This wasn’t a game. Her cheeks are bright red, and she wishes the floor would open up and swallow her whole. 

Ajax lowers his head. “I should go. Apologies for intruding. Roman, Pandora.” He moves past Roman and Pandora to the hallway, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. Before Castora knows what she’s doing, she runs after him, grabbing him by the hand before he is able to open the door. Ajax stops cold in his tracks.

Castora doesn’t know what to do next, her hand in his. He looks at her with something like hope in his beautiful green eyes, and suddenly pulls her hand away. “I’m sorry. I did not know you were being earnest in your proposal to me. All that talk about love confused me and I was wrong to be offended by it. I see know that you were only saying it because you thought that would be the best way to make overtures without injuring my pride.” 

“What?” 

“I’d like to say yes. If you would still have me.” 

She hopes he says yes. This is perhaps her only chance to avoid ruin. 

“Yes. I would -- that would be....suitable,” he says. “I’m sorry for saying that I loved you. I should have realized it would be the wrong approach.

He leaves and Castora feels like she’s had the wind knocked out of her. Oh, yes, I’m definitely going to wring Ramona’s neck next time I see her. 

--

The wedding is slated for a month from tomorrow. Roman and Pandora Montague publicly supported the match, so the rest of the ton falls in line and whispers about the match behind Castora’s back. She pretends not to notice. Soon-to-be-married ladies with less-than-perfect reputations cannot wack people with pall mall mallets. 

There is a garden party and she’s taking a turn about the room with her future husband. They’re walking silently arm-in-arm. If there is anything Castora has realized about Ajax recently it’s that he’s actually quite handsome. The pair were both pretending like the love confession never happened. 

“Lovely weather today,” Castora remarks insipidly. Ajax nods in agreement, but says nothing. This is why she had wanted to marry for love – to have someone to talk to. Loneliness she could bare, but not the quiet. But it was different with Ajax. The awkwardness was still there, but the silences were comfortable. She could get used to his quiet. 

“Can I ask you something?” Ajax looks like he’s about to be ill, but nods. “Can you tell me why I can’t beat you at whist?” He almost smiles. It was a rare sight, to see Ajax smiling. She felt a flutter of pride that she could bring one to his face. 

“It depends on the game. Some days you overexert yourself, thinking about what my strategy could be. And then there are days you are so impatient that you make silly mistakes.” 

“Yes, that all makes sense, but how can I beat you?”

He smiles again. “You’ll learn one day.” 

“Can I learn your name, then? I suppose I should not find out what you are called at the altar.”

Ajax thinks for a second. “Armand. My name is Armand, but I would prefer if you continued to call me Ajax, Miss Aguilar.”

Armand, she thinks. The name would sound lovely rolling off her tongue. 

She nods. “You can call me Castora, if you like. Since we are to be wed, I think it only reasonable.” 

--

Ajax escorts her back to Pandora and Roman’s home. When they return, the is a solicitor named Mr. Fredericks who insists that he’d like to see her in the drawing room. Then, he presents her with documents and says, “Miss Aguilar, I represent an individual who has bequeathed you 50,000 pounds.” 

Castora and Ajax’s jaws drop. “You must be mistaken.” 

“I’m not. Believe me, I double and triple checked with my client regarding this matter. He’s quite insistent in leaving you this sum.” 

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. All he said is that a Miss Castora Maria Aguilar, daughter of Isabella, who currently resides in London with Lord and Lady Montague is to receive this sum.” He takes a good, long look at her. “I have my theories though.” 

“What theories?”

“I’d prefer to keep them to myself.” 

Ajax cuts in. “Who is this individual?”

“He would prefer to remain anonymous, particularly as he is still living.” 

“Can I find out who he is when he dies?”

Mr. Fredericks shrugs. “Perhaps, although that may not be for some time.” 

They see Mr. Fredericks out and return to the drawing room. Castora is rich, and she’s smiling so brightly her face is starting to hurt. 

“Pandora and Roman will be back soon. I’ll inform them upon the return about the wedding.”

“What about the wedding?”

“...You don’t wish to end our engagement?” 

“No, whatever for?” 

“You are rescued, Castora. You no longer need me.” 

Her heart sinks in her chest. She should have realized that he would have no longer wanted to marry her now that he no longer had to, particularly after she offended him so. 

“I see no wish to bring further scandal to my name, and the wedding is one month. But if you wish to break the engagement, I promise I will not be offended. I have....some 50,000 pounds to cushion the blow.” 

“I would...like to continue.”

“Then we are in agreement....would you like to play a game of whist?” 

He nods and sits down at the table across from her, taking out a deck of cards. They play with hearts first. He beats her six times in a row before she insists they stop. 

-- 

The wedding day comes and goes without major fuss. Marcelo walks her down the aisle, glaring at Ajax the whole way. Pandora smiles for her. Ajax’s ward, Hazel, looks at Castora like she doesn’t quite know what to do with her. Castora and Ajax say their vows, and she thinks they’ll both mean them. Even if they won’t ever be in love with each other, for how could he love her after his first proposal, they would be loyal. 

When the wedding night comes, Ajax takes her back to his lodgings. Hazel is spending the evening with some friends in town, so they have the place all to themselves. “I figured it would be best to wait until the marriage to look for new lodgings.” A good idea, considering Castora’s sudden inheritance. 

Later, he shows her to an empty bedroom and places her luggage on the floor. “We can figure out precise arrangements later. Good night, Castora.” 

He turns to leave. She looks at him perplexed. “Is this not your room?”

“No. Mine to the left.”

“So -- are we not to...to.....” Castora blushes, rarely at a loss for words. “To consummate the marriage, Ajax?” 

He looks at her as if she’s struck him. “There is no need to.”

“Why the devil not?”

Ajax doesn’t answer. He just leaves, closing the door behind him. 

--

Castora cannot sleep. She’s tried, but not matter what she does, all her thoughts are of Ajax and why he didn’t want them to share a bed tonight. 

At half past two, she knocks on Ajax’s bedroom loudly. Her husband answers. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” 

“Good. You didn’t answer my question. Why the devil not?”

He looks pained. “Please, Castora.”

“I don’t want you to share your bed with me if you don’t want to. I just want an explanation.” 

“Because I love you, and I know you do not return my feelings, so I would prefer...I would prefer it if you did not break my heart.”

This is the first time they’ve spoken about the proposal since it happened. Castora is thankful it’s dark so he cannot see her shame. 

“Still?” Castora doesn’t know what to say.

“Still.”

“I don’t want to break your heart,” she replies. “Can I come in, please? We do not need to share a bed, but it’s awkward to talk like this.” He moves aside and lets her in, her hand brushing his. She sits on the edge of the bed. There is a long moment of quiet before she says, “I do not want to break your heart. I didn’t...I didn’t even realize I was in possession of it.” 

“You have been for years, Castora.” He’s not angry. It’s just a fact to him at this point. “Ever since that first day we met. Do you remember?”

Castora is surprised that she does. “Yes. It was my first season, when Pandora and Roman were still courting. We danced a quadrille, I believe. Lord Montague had introduced us earlier that evening.” 

“He did. I had asked Roman to ask him to.” 

“Why?” She laughed, unable to fathom why he would want to meet her. 

“Your cousin had been declared the Incomparable of the Season, yes? And there was a lot of disappointment that she hadn’t secured a proposal at that point.” 

“I remember.”

“And someone, I forget who, made a comment that perhaps the only way in which Ramona was the Incomparable was an Incomparable Failure. So, you---”

“So I told her that no, that role had been already filled by her.”

“And that Ramona was the Incomparable in every sense except for rapier wit and excellent penmenship, which was why she kept you around.” Ajax shrugged. “I--you love her so much, and you never stood by when people gossiped about you. It was...impossible not to love you. But, uh, Pandora told me that you would only marry for the greatest love, and I would never presume that I could give you that.”

Oh, how Castora wished she had never made that vow, even if it was half in jest. She’d forgotten how sharp her words could be, how easily they hurt. “You know, I also vowed to marry unless it didn’t rain in England for a year.” 

“My point.”

“Do you know why I made that vow?” He shakes his head. “My father was not a good man; he lied, cheated, stole and abandoned my mother and I. She died in a poorhouse, but she loved him. She loved him to the very end, never losing hope that he would come for her, for us.  I saw what insufficient love does, so I never wanted it. If I was ever to risk the dangers of matrimony, it would have to be for a love that would be steady, like a candle that would burn and never go out. It would have to be for a love that I could never deserve.”

She takes his head and kisses it. “I’m frightened, too. Frightened of what love would do to me, if it would destroy me like it did my mother. She wasn’t strong enough. And...And I know that I’m already half in love with you. I can’t give you tonight, or tomorrow, but I know I’ll been in love with you soon, and I-- I don’t want it to be too late. It’d be just my luck – the second I fall in love, you will have given up on me, Armand.” It slips out by accident. “Sorry, Ajax.”

“I like it when you say my name.” He looks at her and Castora feels seen since the first time in ages. “I promise not to break your heart if you won’t break mine.”

“Deal.” Castora leans in and kisses him. He startles, then pulls her close and kisses her back. Unlike their wedding ceremony, this kiss is only for them. Just for Castora and just for Armand. 

--

Two weeks after the wedding, her maid informs her she has visitors in the drawing room. Castora comes downstairs to find Ramona and a sheepish Viscount Warren sitting in her drawing room. The cousin’s run into each other arms for a big hug. This was the longest they’d be apart in years and Castora hadn’t realized how badly her heart ached.  “I can’t believe you got married without me, Castora Maria Aguilar. Well, I suppose it’s Giordano now, isn’t it?” 

“It is. Are you still Aguilar, or are you Ramona Warren?”

“Warren.” 

“Very well then. Ramona Cecelia Warren, I’m going to murder you.” 

Ramona and Matthias both look a little afraid. “How dare you run off to Gretna Green without telling me! And how dare you both take a month and a half to return without sending word! Do you know what you put me through?”

“We didn’t want to wait! And with the dowry situation ––”

“I don’t give two figs about the dowry situation! He’s a bloody viscount, Mona, he could afford to marry a woman with no fortune! I, on the other hand, could not afford to be a woman without a fortune and no reputation! And why did you not come home earlier?”

“But we got married the second we got to Gretna Green! I wrote to you. Oh, the letters must have been waylaid. You know my penmanship is awful, Castora! And when Matthias’s cousin’s heard we were in Scotland, they invited us to stay and---”

"Yes, yes,” Castora says impatiently, “And with the letters not arriving, you didn’t realize what a fuss it would cause.”

“Something like that,” Ramona replies. “Now tell me, dear cuz, what else did I miss?”

Castora smiles wickedly, “I’ll write you a letter and make you wait a month and a half to read it.” 

[ofcastora]

ANA DE ARMAS for The Sunday Times, January 2021. 

[ofcastora]

lavolumnia​:

‘Takes one to know one.’

It’s a childish retort, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Maybe Castora’s just quick with her tongue, arming it with any repartee that might land its mark  — or maybe she’s the exact brand of perceptive that’s always been a thorn in Vivianne’s side. La Capobastone has a suspicion which theory is true, but like most personal truths, she shelves the matter entirely and responds merely with a smile. 

“Piccola spina, you of all people should know better than to put stock in rumours. Cosimo’s alive and kicking, I’m sure he’ll be just touched by your concern.” The most accurate part of that sentence is that the former Capofamiglia is kicking; meaning that he’s still beyond livid with her for the coup she’d pulled five days ago. But she’s not about to let it put a damper on her present mood. The tongue-in-cheek reminder of their brief but reluctantly violent run-in half a year ago at Il Teatro isn’t a thought Vivianne wants to dwell on either, however. She still remembers Castora’s blood running over her switchblade, painting her fist red… Sometimes, she wishes she could forget. Not that Castora will ever know it. Not that any Montague ever can. 

So instead she replies, equally flippant —  “Don’t worry, I laundered it.”

“Haven’t two heads already grown in place of the one that the Hydra’s lost?” The Underboss adds in answer to the girl’s question. Tybalt and Juliet had swiftly risen in Cosimo’s stead. Although they’re young, each has a skillset that the Capulets need in order to thrive. Tybalt, for the warmongering fear he instills in their enemies; lest they should think to try and takeover now that the old King is dethroned. Juliet; for the level-headed mercy that promises her own people a kinder future. 

… And then there’s Volumnia. Volumnia, who keeps Tiberius’ rage firmly bound like a well-controlled leash; Volumnia, who builds walls around Juliana’s heart, brick-by-brick, in order to keep the world from exploiting her tender vulnerabilities. And Vivianne; who is determined to love and protect them both. 

Still, though those promotions are merited in many ways, they remain premature in others. Juliana and Tiberius remain painfully young for the heavy responsibilities now balancing on their shoulders. The same, it seems, can be said of Castora. Although she’d only been guessing as to the girl’s promotion to Mietitrice, the Montague has unwittingly confirmed it. “I’d think it was for you to decide whether or not such a promotion is worth congratulating…” She returns evenly, hiding her surprise at Castora’s palpable displeasure. Is it the position itself, or the promotion? Is there discontent sowing itself, even now, within Montague ranks?… Hoping to learn more, Vivianne treads a thin line between dry humour and pliable praise. 

“Obviously, Damiano has you singled out. Be it for your skill or your unparalleled ability to out-frown absolutely everyone in a room, I wouldn’t know. Most Captains would love nothing more than to please the Big Boss. What makes you different?”

Sure, Cosimo’s alive and kicking. For now, Castora thinks, unable to hide a little smirk when Vivianne insists that the former don isn’t pushing daisies. He’ll live, and then he’ll get too bored in whatever villa he’s been exiled off too, and then he’ll come crawling back to Verona like a snake. Or, and this scenario Castora finds more likely, Cosimo will get restless and choke to death on some arsenic-laced tea. 

Or maybe Cosimo was more like Lorenzo than she’d given him credit for – capable of fucking of to who knows where and entertaining himself from the shadows. 

“Did it work? I’d hate to think that I ruined such a lovely dress,” she replies dryly. Castora is still angry that Vivianne stabbed her – and why wouldn’t she be? The capobastone stabbed her in the leg. In the leg. Yes it wasn’t in her heart or through her ribs, and she’d recovered, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t annoying and that she wouldn’t bring it up whenever the opportunity presented itself. 

It wasn’t a betrayal. It wasn’t anything personal, but it’s hard to tell the difference with a switchblade in your leg. 

Castora keeps her face neutral when Vivianne mentions the two knew heads of the hydra – Tiberius and Juliana. A tiger and a princess. Well, a tiger and a queen, correct? Juliana seems reasonable, but can you ever trust the head that bears the crown? She had to have walked over her father’s body to claim her crown. Perhaps one day she’d climb over her capobastone’s, or pseudo-mother, or whatever Vivianne was to her. And Tiberius. Oh, Tiberius. The Montague almost piities Vivianne, faced with the task of being playing capobastane to Tiberius’s adviser. The man was nothing short of a warmongering lunatic that couldn’t be trusted to provide reasonable counsel, like his predecessor before him.

Nepotism’s a hell of a bitch. 

“Two heads and one crown,” she answers. “A crown that of course goes to the queen. Young, lovely, and well-liked by the people.” Meanwhile, they had a tyrannt don who made them more unpopular with each order. And a princeling who was engaged to her best friend, who may or may not be able to bring her up into the inner circle of power when the princeling because king. “But young and a woman, too. Did all Capulet’s fall in line or should I be on the look out for bodies surfacing in the Adige?” 

Castora has the deep sense that she’s fucked up, that Vivianne tricked her into confirming something. Her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t let her face turn red. Accusing her of tricking information out of her seemed childish. It’d be ineffective. 

“It’s not up to me to decide, though, isn’t it? That’s the role of the Don. If he sees fit to single me out ––” Single me out for the shadows while insisting that I play socialite – “Then I’m singled out.” On the surface, her promotion to the Reaper’s was a compliment, and maybe a few years ago, Castora would’ve been honored. But she’s not the little girl whose loyalty was borne from being grateful that Don Damiano and Don Alvise didn’t kill her because of her father when they had the chance. 

The last person to be singled out to play a role in the shadows ended up dead. Young, dead, and halfway forgotten. 

“I’m honored,” she says, unable to shake the feeling that she’s burying herself deeper with a lie she’s unable to sell. I’m no longer content to die young for the Montague’s.. I want to live to see 25, and 26, and 30. And that’s unlikely if I’m tied politically to a man determined to turn everyone against him. I want to be an adviser or a capobastone one day, and that’s not going to happen if they see me as Don Damiano’s personal hitwoman. I want to reach higher, and that’s not possible if they see me as nothing but a knife when I can’t fall back on nepotism.

“I’m honored to be Lorenzo Aguilar’s daughter and be allowed to rise as far as I have,” she says, letting Vivianne read between the lines.