#he caught my eye in i-land and i admire his steady persona a lot

[goldennika]

i watched Jungwon's My Little Day ep thinking it would be a healing ep like Beomgyu's but it made me just want to give Jungwon a tight hug bc damn, he really gave up his youth for his career and that he doesn't really know who he is as a person and doesn't know what/how to have fun outside of work

[milknette]

day 10 - reverse crush

my heart’s in overdrive, and, you’re behind the steering wheel.

tumblr month: @auyeahaugust

links: ao3 | ff.net

EVERYONE expects his answer to be Ladybug.

Because it's always Ladybug. The savior of Paris. The one who can undo all the damage. The one who always brings hope wherever she goes. The face of the superhero movement. (One can argue that Chat Noir is equally as important, and he definitely believes it to be true, but the question, in the end, is who his superhero crush is— and as far as Adrien's concerned, he can't have a crush on himself.

Though the apparent adrichat shippers beg to differ.)

In any case, Ladybug's not the answer.

Only one girl has his heart, really, and it's by sheer luck that she happens to be a superhero— and an even bigger bout of luck when he finds out about it. So the answer flows out of his tongue without so much as a thought:

"Multimouse."

Nadja Chamack is, understandably, caught off-guard. (In reality, she had come into this interview hoping to find some truth to the fact that two of Paris' biggest idols were in love with each other)— but this seemed to be a lot more interesting.

"She's… the one who helped Chat Noir and Ladybug with Kwamibuster, right?"

"Yeah!" Adrien's eyes almost sparkle as he talks about her. "She's the only reason why we— all of Paris, I mean, managed to defeat her then! Ladybug and Chat Noir would've been in real trouble if she wasn't there to save the day. And she's so cool like Multimouse has the power to become tiny, and when she used her power it was so adorable and amazing and wonderful—!"

"A Multimouse fanboy, then?" Nadja asks, an amused smile playing on her face. "I'm sure a lot of our viewers are surprised. They, and even I thought you'd choose Ladybug. What makes Multimouse so unique?"

Because it's her. Because it's the girl he's so desparately in love with. Because it's Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

(Not like he can say that, of course.)

"I do love Ladybug," Adrien begins. "She's a hero and I look up to her sense of duty and professionalism in saving Paris." Then, a pause. "But I admire Ma—Multimouse. She was thrown into the superhero role so suddenly, in a situation as high-stakes as back then, and managed to do perfectly." He looks down and smiles. "And… she's cute."

(Oops, now that wasn't meant to slip out.)

Nadja's look of victory at receiving— and being responsible for breaking the news of Adrien Agreste's Crush is clear. "Well, she does sound like quite a hero when you describe her like that. It's a shame that she hasn't showed up so much."

"You're right," Adrien mutters, and the disappointment in his tone is evident. "But I trust in Ladybug… and Chat Noir's judgment. If they need her, then she'll appear again."

"For the sake of your crush, let's hope so!"

Adrien splutters. "Wait, Ms. Chamack, this isn't a crush, it's just admiration from a purely superhero-civilian perspective…"

She turns to the video camera. "Young love is sweet, isn't it? For Adrien, let's all wish that Multimouse shows up again soon! Ladybug and Chat Noir, maybe you'd be interested in lending a hand?"

The show comes to a close with Adrien beet-red and almost desparately coveting her face.

.

.

Marinette is exhausted.

Which is saying a lot, because she's already exhausted on a regular day— from balancing her studies, being a class representative, fashion designing, helping at the bakery, and of course, being Ladybug, but this brought everything to an entirely new level.

Because now, not only did she have to run around Paris in one full-body suit, but with Adrien's apparent declaration of love on national television— and multiple angrily-worded 'why do you hate love / Multimouse / Adrien Agreste' letters to her superhero persona after— Marinette was now made to run around using two.

Ladybug with an akuma, Multimouse when patrolling. And also Ladybug when patrolling. And sometimes Multimouse with an akuma.

Just to keep everyone in Paris happy. (And non-suspicious, really.)

All because of that damned interview.

She has to stop herself from yelling a string of not-so-kind words into the sky.

Marinette likes Adrien. She really does.

He's a good friend, and after that whole misunderstanding with Chloé and the gum, basically cemented himself as an all-around good person. He's given her more homework help, fashion advice, and general pep talks than she could ever count.

But Marinette doesn't like like him.

(And maybe she would, in an alternate universe— he's kind, sweet, handsome, and all of Paris is quite frankly in love with him, but her heart belongs completely to someone else.)

So a sudden reveal that he has a crush on her superhero persona… and not even her primary one, doesn't really bother her as much as it could.

Besides, as far as she was concerned, Adrien had never interacted with Multimouse. She wonders how he could've gotten all those thoughts about her in his head, but decides it's just one of his stranger quirks and leaves it aside.

It's probably infatuation with a superhero. Nothing new, really. (She's experienced fans claiming they 'loved' her when all they truly felt was admiration. Nothing less, and honestly, nothing more.)

Marinette knows what true love is.

She knows it so clearly that when it comes jumping from the buildings, rooftop to rooftop, her heart threatens to beat out of her chest and follow him.

He lands on the empty balcony with ease.

"Why so glum, bugaboo?" Adrien asks. "You look exhausted. Didn't get enough rest last night?"

Marinette wants to scream. They're supposed to be patrolling tonight; alternating between Ladybug and Chat Noir, then Multimouse and Chat Noir, then Ladybug and Multimouse— a plan which, on paper, sounds perfect.

But in this case, Marinette's both, she's Ladybug and Multimouse (and herself at every other point of the day), and therefore hasn't had any sleep at all.

It's tiring, but seeing Chat Noir, she finds, makes her feel a lot better.

"Had some things to do… in the real world," she mumbles instead, lazily leaning upon the railing. "How was it yesterday?" Marinette asks, opting to change topics. "Multimouse said you're working well together."

Chat Noir almost beams when the words escape her mouth.

(Marinette vaguely wonders if it's possible to be jealous of herself.)

"Really?" He asks, eyes bright. "She said that? I've honestly been so worried about whether or not I've been making her uncomfortable… she doesn't talk a lot, which I think is a shame, because I'm sure she has a ton of interesting stories…"

"Hey," Marinette stops him. "Remember that Multimouse has to keep her identity secret. She can't risk giving any information that might lead back to her civilian self. She's new to this, so it's only right that she's more careful than we are."

It's strange, talking about herself like this.

"You're right," he sighs, before turning to her. "Hey… can I tell you a secret?"

Marinette frowns. What could this be?

"I actually know who Multimouse is," he finally confesses. "I know it's Marinette."

Well, she already knew that. She was the one responsible for him making that realization, after all.

But what gets her is how comfortable he is saying her name— when really, all he should know is Ladybug and Multimouse.

"So you saw her detransform, huh?" Marinette asks, looking up to the sky. "I hope you'll keep it secret."

"Of course I will!" Chat Noir protests, then takes a deep breath. "I'm glad you trusted her. She's a good person."

Now how does he know that?

"I mean—," he stumbles over his words. "From what I've heard! From her friends… and online posts… and stuff… I've definitely never met her before!"

Liar.

Why is he so terrible at lying?

Because that's something she knows now. That Chat Noir knows her. That he knows Marinette. So to some extent, she knows him.

Which means that there's a very large possibility that Marinette has spoken to Chat Noir. That Marinette has interacted with Chat Noir. That Marinette is maybe even friends with Chat Noir. And that for all her talk about being in love with him, she doesn't recognize him at all.

"... Ladybug?"

"How do you know Marinette?"

The question escapes her tongue before she can stop it. It's a dangerous question, one that can ruin their secret identities completely, but she can't help doing so.

She needs to know.

He's evidently panicking. Marinette watches him with a steady gaze, even though she's all but in complete chaos on the inside.

"I'm kinda maybe in love with her."

Well.

She wasn't expecting that at all.

"You… love…," the words aren't registering, and she's struggling to get a single word out.

He sighs. "Yeah, cat's out of the bag now? I know her a bit in real life. She's just so kind and talented and cute… it's impossible not to fall in love with her. That's why I was so excited when you started recruiting Multimouse again— and why I've been so insistent on having her on patrols with me."

Wait.

"But it's okay! I'll never tell her that we actually know each other. Cat's honour!" Chat Noir smiles at her, acting as if there was nothing at all wrong in the world. "And don't worry, everyone I know has or had a crush on Marinette at some point. I'm one-in-a-million, so I don't think this'll narrow your search on me by that much…," he begins, "as long as you don't look."

Except she's looking. Even against her will, Marinette's mind speeds through everyone she knows that has a similar build to his.

Blonde hair, green eyes, about her size…

Only one person fits that bill.

The word escapes her mouth before she can stop it.

"Adrien?"

"... okay, so maybe I messed up."

"So you're the reason I haven't been sleeping?"

"Well I mean, I'm flattered…"

Marinette gets the situation she's in quickly. Adrien, however, takes a little bit longer.

"I meant for patrolling you absolute zero-braincelled—

"Patrolling? Ladybug, what do you mean…"

"Hhh. Think about it for a second."

"Ladybug…"

"You can do it."

"… you're Multimouse?"

"And…"

"And that means…"

"Come on now."

.

.

"Marinette?!"

[savage-rhi]

what would higgs do if gene was like unavailable relationship-wise because we all need jealous Higgs in our lives ok

@avenged-nightmare YO. You made me think of this whole drabble when I was in the car doing errands. I think you’re right we need some jelly Higgs 😂💙

Higgs was never the type to regret much, but he could feel it twist and coil in his chest as he watched the locals in town dance to music a small band was playing. As his eyes scanned the horizon, looking over everyone’s happy-go-lucky demeanor, his gaze settled on Gene. Under most circumstances, he would have been amused watching her having fun with folks. Higgs wasn’t a social butterfly, hadn’t been for three years since he went into hiding after Amelie tried to destroy the universe and all life in it, but Gene made it interesting for him. That was until Nick came into the picture. 

Higgs was beating himself up, watching Gene and Nick from afar laughing at some sort of joke before they started dancing. The two couldn’t keep their hands off each other even if their lives depended on it. 

Since Higgs and Gene decided to rest in a settlement after escaping MULEs and needed to ration up for the delivery Eastbound, she had been with Nick the entire time. He was local, an ex-porter turned carpenter in a world where BTs no longer dwelled on earth and civilization could rebuild. A young guy in his late thirties, dark features, a muscled body, had his shit together unlike someone else. Nicks energy outshined Higgs’s charisma, and Gene took to him like a moth to a flame. There was chemistry, even if Higgs dismissed it. 

It shouldn’t have bothered Higgs. Gene could mingle with whoever she wanted. She had needs and Higgs respected that, but that didn’t tamper down how pissed off he was knowing they were joined at the hip the last three days. His mind stupidly wandered over thoughts that further aggravated his stress.  His blood constricted as he caught those little teases of the assumption his brain had conjured about the relationship brewing between Gene and Nick. 

Higgs squinted his eyes, glaring menacingly as he noticed Nick’s arms wrap around Gene’s waist, pulling her closer to him while the music went from vibrant to sensual. His blood boiled. Higgs was tempted to use the last of his remaining powers to put Nick in his place right then and there. 

“How are you holding up?” One of the locals asked Higgs, making him clear his throat as he tried to gain his composure. 

“Pardon?” Higgs asked. 

“You look like you’re close to going on a killing spree,” the man chuckled, shaking his head as he looked in the direction of Gene and Nick. The two were laughing as they swayed, their bodies perfectly synched with the music rising through the crowd. 

“You know, if you want to impress your lady friend, you’re going about it the wrong way.” The man stated as Higgs furrowed his brows, looking over him like he was a lunatic. 

“Ya’ll got the wrong idea, we ain’t an item. I’m just the bodyguard.” Higgs said, crossing his arms. In turn, the local shot Higgs a look that screamed he knew a liar when he saw one. Higgs growled, shaking his head as he looked away and back at the pair. 

“Sure doesn’t explain the crap you’ve pulled these last few days trying to one-up Nick at everything when your porter gal comes around. The arm-wrestling match, the banter, you sabotaging one of Nick’s buildings on purpose, trapping the poor guy in a ditch, trying to knock him down when he was on the portapotty before your gal caught you red-handed and bitched you out in front of everyone and their kin,” the local laughed, slapping Higgs’s shoulder as he shook his head. 

“Call it whatever you want, people can see through your bullshit.”

“Why don’t you fuck off and leave me be?” Higgs said firmly, his voice low as he looked down at the local, who shot his hands up in surrender. 

“Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a twist if he goes in for the kill tonight cause you were too stubborn to say anything about it. I had an idea to help your little predicament, but I guess you’re too proud.” He smiled at Higgs, genuinely, then began to leave. 

Higgs sighed, rubbing his face before he hollered.

“I’ll bite! What the hell ya had in mind?” 

“Thought you’d never ask!” 

 The music settled down while the band adjusted the set. The local shoved a guitar in Higgs’s arms while he bs’d with the lead singer for a moment, talking on Higgs’s behalf while Higgs looked at the crowd. No one was paying attention, too busy enjoying their drinks and chatter to notice what was going on at the front. He eyed Nick and Gene who were taking a break, drinking together. Higgs felt his fingertips squeeze the neck of the guitar, watching how genuine Gene’s smile looked while Nick’s larger than life persona engulfed her attention. 

“Okay! You’re lucky I know the band. You get one song. Make it count,” The local chimed in, snapping Higgs out of his trance as he swallowed.

“What?”

“Haven’t you been paying attention? What song are you gonna play? You said you were good at guitar, no?” 

“Yeah, I am but--”

“Don’t get cold feet, you’re this close to serenading your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girl you two-faced fuckin’ shit weasel--!”

“And you’re on!” 

The local grinned from ear to ear and backed off with the band members. The focus was on Higgs the moment the crowd noticed there was only one person on stage. Higgs would have given anything to punch not only the smug look but thick mustache off the guy's face as he gestured for Higgs to follow through. 

“Fuck me,” Higgs murmured under his breath, gently strumming the strings. He took one last glance over the small waves of people, seeing Gene wasn’t paying mind to anyone but Nick and his shit-eating grin. He could put a cupie doll to shame as far as Higgs was concerned. 

Taking in a deep breath, Higgs sat down on the stool the singer had been using and started to hum. His fingers tested the waters of the instrument, strumming a soft melody as his body began to move along with the beat. 

His brain was fighting with itself, wanting to focus on his envy while the other half debated on what to sing. He had no time to prepare and had never performed in front of a large crowd before. When Higgs was a porter before he threw his lot in with Homo Demens, he played here and there for associates during breaks but that was the extent of showing his talents and hobbies off. 

It was now or never. 

“Unkempt hair, unbroken gal. Strong as the rocks cuttin’ her feet. Never seen somethin’ like you. No, no, I never did. Strange creature, what are you doin’ in an untamed land?” The words broke through Higgs’s lips, voice steady like water smoothing the edges of a rock over time. 

“She crawled up the mountain to me. Her voice soft and steady, I-I don’t know why I never saw stars until that day. Those long, long days. Somethin’ about the way your hair falls in your face brings me back to a place where I could run, and never look back again. Too much spirit for me to take, she’s gone again, free of me free of sin.” Higgs closed his eyes, letting the instrument and its rustic tune speak words that couldn’t be spoken, only felt. He didn’t sense the crowd, not even Gene and Nick--too enraptured in the memories he had of when they had first met.

“Those eyes wide, that smilin’ shine makes me make a beast of myself. Come back to me, come back to the mountain and be with me. Her voice soft and steady, I-I don’t know why I never saw stars until that day. Those long, long days.” There was a pain Higgs allowed to come through his voice, his renewed feelings for life clashing with old ideals and bad habits he had spent years in hiding trying to reconcile. 

“Crawl up the mountain to me. Just a while longer, no-no-no,” Higgs briefly opened his eyes, and he swore in a single split second, Gene was staring right at him. Peering at a past reflection of Higgs that once upon a time begun to quit surviving and started to live when he first became a porter. He’d never admit how much he loved that. Not even to her. 

“Little warrior, crawl back to my mountain and be with me.” Higgs finished, feeling euphoria push down the ill feelings he carried as he received applause. He was quick to let the band go back to their routine, not wanting to steal their thunder despite how much his inner child was relishing at the moment--feeling like a rockstar for a few seconds. 

He needed air. He needed it fast. 

Higgs let out a deep sigh of relief when he exited the huge tent. His fingers shook, carding through his hair for comfort. In hindsight, he probably embarrassed himself, but Higgs wasn’t going to lie, it was beautiful getting a taste of what he could have done with his sad life. 

“Hey,” Gene’s voice broke his train of thought after a while. Higgs cleared his throat, shooting her a quick smile.

“Hey yourself darlin’,” Higgs mused. His face felt warm as she smiled back.

“I didn’t know you wrote your own material,” Gene laughed as Higgs grinned briefly, giving a playful smirk.

“You never asked.”

“That’s fair.” Gene nodded. 

“Where’s Nick?” Higgs asked, looking over Gene’s shoulder before she shrugged. 

“Probably getting more beers,” 

Higgs could sense a disturbance in Gene’s voice, and a twinge of guilt began to sink his gut. As much as he was a jealous asshole, and had been a dick to both of them, deep down Higgs didn’t want to take away Gene’s fun. He knew he was a selfish bastard, realizing it even more so than before.

“He’s probably lookin’ for you. You’re like a mother duck and he can’t stop paddlin’ towards ya.” Higgs said sarcastically.

Gene snorted, shaking her head. 

“I don’t care. I’m sure he’s got plenty of others he can entertain.” 

“Guy’s a-walkin' distraction. Hell, I thought I was a peacockin’ creep way back when. I see what folks admire about Nick.” Higgs chuckled. 

Gene smiled slightly, before taking in a breath. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“If you’re ready for a personal answer,” Higgs smirked. “Shoot.”

“That was us--wasn’t it? The song.”

Whatever grandeur persona Higgs had been putting on during this conversation lept out a window and dived headfirst into an ocean. He was silent for a long time, almost to the very second where Gene prepared to change the subject.

“It was you,” Higgs murmured. “It was all you.” 

Gene’s mouth formed into a grin that made Higgs’s knees feel heavy. Nonetheless, he realized he must’ve embarrassed her doing that whole stunt, much like he did the past few days terrorizing both her and Nick. He was surprised when he felt Gene’s lips on his cheek, her nose softly nudging his skin. 

Gene shrugged keeping her gaze down, smiling big as she walked off to their camp. Higgs watched with a look of awe on his face before he murmured a proud yes to himself. 

He didn’t have the balls to admit his growing attachment to her, the mere porter he bumped into a year ago, but Higgs owned the little victory. It was enough for him. 

**A link to my ko-fi account. If you enjoy my content and want to support me getting my monthly medication for fibromyalgia and arthritis, I would be eternally grateful. It is NOT a requirement however! All my work is free to read!**

[aria-i-adagio]

What You Take Won’t Kill You

Masterpost

Fandom: The Arcana

Chapter Rating: T with a squeeze of lime

By the time Portia’s deft hands have finished with my hair and face, I’m so dolled up that I feel as though I’m impersonating someone else - an actress standing in the middle of a stage, praying that the lines that she’s forgotten return to her.  The fabric and the cloud of expensive fragrance that surrounds me change my posture.  My back is held straighter, my steps are smoother, more confident.  Perhaps, instead of a costume, I can think of it as a kind of armor that will make it easier to suffer through the next hour.  Portia has her arm hooked in mine, and I'm not sure if it's support or to make sure I won't run away.  Probably a little bit of both.

Nadia awaits us in the room with the horrible goat painting, this time set up for a more intimate dinner.  Two sets of tableware are already laid, and Portia gives a nod towards the chair closest to the Countess's before whispering conspiratorially in my ear.  "I'll keep the booze coming.  Won't hurt."  She slips into her servant persona again, all prim and proper.

"Dema.  It seems the Palace is becoming to you."  Red eyes flicker over me, and for the first time feel that she is appreciating my appearance.  I'm still not entirely sure about what to do with her.  I don't care for the trick that she pulled with my cards - though it was admittedly quite clever.  And my sympathies certainly lay more with the Doctor than with the Countess.  But...she has resources that I might need if I'm actually going to discover what happened three years ago.  And if nothing else, I'll get another good meal out of this.  I can't cook for shit and when Asra is gone, I typically eat whatever stuff on a stick the market is serving up that day.

"My lady."  I lower my head slightly, which is all of the bow I'm going to give her.  "I can't say that I haven't enjoyed any of my stay here."

A gracious nod tells me she appreciates my gesture - minimal as it is - and suggests that no more is demanded of me.  "I am told the collection of things you brought was quite remarkable.  If there is anything else you need, let Portia or me know.  It will be taken care of." 

"I'd appreciate a little more time in the library.  Uninterrupted."  I pause, then add on.  "And my sandals did take a bit of beating while running about the city today." 

"Can do!"  Portia pipes up, and I see a brief expectant smile in the Countess’s red eyes as she’s reminded of Portia’s presence.  "I know what you can do, milady.  Pretend it's Dema's birthday."

Birthday?

An excited finger pokes my ribs.  Birthdays seem to be a good thing in the magical world of Portia.  Nadia smiles at her handmaid’s antics.  “Hmm, I can think of some other gifts for you.  And I hear the kitchen has already prepared a lovely cake.  And some . . . guests . . . since you have a penchant for fraternizing with your prey, I thought it would be nice to invite them along to share our meal. What do you say?"

When is my birthday anyway?  And fraternizing with my prey?  Does the Countess know that I spoke to Julian at the bar?  Or that he broke into my shop.  That would be . . . unfortunate, primarily for me.  Unless, of course, she had somehow caught him.  For a moment, I’m afraid that Julian will be pushed into the dining room with manacles on his wrists, but the only people who enter are the two guards, once again in their normal uniforms.  I manage not to sign in relief.

"Let them stay.  They played your game well."

“I suppose our two fierce creatures do deserve a reward.”  She indulges me with a smile.  "Take seat, please, all of you. It is time for a little something to warm your hearts and steady your nerves, even if it is just for a little while."

It seems a servant has been waiting outside already, bringing fine silver cups filled with ice and sprigs of mint and something gingery, judging by the smell.  Portia takes place to stand at her mistress's side, seeming more like a proud mother hen than a social inferior.  "Sit, please, before the ice melts."

Overly aware of my dress, I tuck it around my legs and take my seat near the head of the table.  Another servant enters and lays out two place settings at the other end, as far of the Countess as possible.  That won't do.  I get back up, walk down to the end of the table, collect the flatware and the plates and bring them back to the head of the table, setting them down across from mine, and giving the Countess a pointed look.  Let them stay does not mean to exile them to the far end of the table.

The Countess stares down her nose her me, and then a slow smile overtakes her face.  "While I understand your point, my esteemed Dema, I very much doubt you are doing them a favor."  I want to read her smile as icy, but isn't, not really.  She seems more... amused?  Indulgent is perhaps the right word.  Someone allowing the antics of a favored pet to play out before tightening the leash again.

Portia seems to be suppressing a giggle as she quickly rearranges the flatware back into the proper order as I walk back to one own place and take my seat.  The Countess's comment about not doing them a favor may have been right.  Both guards look entirely terrified as they take their places across from me.  Ah well.  Of course, in using them to make a point of the Countess, perhaps I wasn't behaving much better than she herself had.

"Have you recovered from your trials?"  Nadia asks friendly little questions, polite and amicable, but somehow so very... no, distant is not quite the right word.  Far away, maybe, or lonely, the same kind of lonely a traveling merchant has when staring into a tavern fire during a long night.  She’s simply far better in masking it with friendly chit chat.  Undoubtedly, Portia briefed her in about those two, and she manages to keep a conversation flowing, even if it's mainly her asking the questions.

Unfortunately, her polite questions turn to me.  “Tell me more about yourself, Dema.  Where are you from?”

“Umm.”  I grab my wine glass and hastily drink from it, in a bid to stall for time.  “It’s far from here.  Small town.  You wouldn’t have heard of it.”

"You might be surprised.  I have heard of an astounding amount of small places.  It is important to know such..."  For a second, her voice breaks, and she looks like she's bitten on something vile, food or memory.  A hasty sip of wine.  "But I cannot blame anyone for getting drawn in by the big city.  Of course not.  Adventure and money, whatever you prefer."

"A little of both, I suppose."  A servant whisks away the ice, replacing with some sort of fish involving chopped and highly spiced raw fish.  I push a bit of fish around my plate, trying to figure out a way to turn the conversation to a different topic.  “I moved here to work with my aunt.  She, uh, owned the shop before me.”

"So you have lived here for a while?"  One of the guards asks, glad to be out of the spotlight.  "You like it? We rarely get into town itself.  Feels like it changed a lot." 

“Oh, you know how is it,” I dissemble and wish that I had a god to pray to that no one else would ask questions about my life or past.  “Things change slowly, and you hardly notice it at all.”

Nadia inserts herself back into the conversation.  “Was your aunt a card reader as well?”

“She -”  I don’t know much about my aunt either.  Asra’s told me that the shop was once hers, and I’ve inferred some things from the contents of thereof, but I don’t know any real details.  “She mostly worked with herbs.”  I stuff my mouth with another bite of the fish, hoping for a reprieve from her questions.

“Ah, botanical magic, how pleasant.”

“Um, yes.  This fish is quite nice.”  Please let that distract her.  Or maybe she’ll just ask me about herbs and flowers.  I can answer those questions.

“The kitchen here does admirably well, but I’m afraid they haven’t quite managed to replicate the flavors I remember from my childhood.  Nonetheless, it is a wonderful dish for a summer night.”

A servant whisks my empty plate.  Nadia pushes back her chair and stands.  At the other end of the table, Bludmila and Ludovico drop their utensils in unison.  “Portia, please have the sorbet and desserts Dema and I sent to the veranda.  I think I would like to enjoy the night air a bit.  And -”  She tilts her head down to look at me.  “I would like to speak a bit more privately.”  

I follow her out onto the veranda.  Lamps sway along the railing, providing sufficient light, but no so much as to overwhelm the sense of nighttime solitude.  Nadia settles herself into a wicker chair at a small table.  As a servant places two dishes of icy sorbet topped with mint sprig, I take the seat across from hers.  She picks up the petite spoon from the dish and gently scraps a bite from the sorbet.  I decide to be polite this time and mirror her actions.  The sorbet is cherry - tart and only slightly sweet.  It complements rather than clashing with the lingering taste of the spiced swordfish.

“I fear that I may not have made the best of impressions on you, Dema.”

The mouthful of sorbet melting on my tongue conveniently keeps me from quipping about her understatement.  She continues without waiting for a response.

“I’m not unaware of the current state of disorder in the city.  My motivations with this investigation are simply to begin to restore the city’s order and perhaps its faith in my competence as a leader.  To do that, I must establish what happened three years ago and see Count Lucio’s murderer brought to justice.”

“How is it that you don’t know what happened?”

She sets her spoon down and looks over the railing.  Her lips are pressed together into a thin line as she gazes at the darkness over the garden.  As I wait for her response, a massive snowy owl lands on the railing beside her.  She smiles and reaches out, stroking the owl’s head and speaking to it.  “Ah, Chandra, it’s good to have you here, old friend.”  The owl hoots gently at her.  She turns back to me and takes a deep breath - the first sign nervousness I’ve seen from her since those first few moments in my shop.  “What I am about to tell you must remain entirely between the two of us.”

“My lady?”

“Please.  Nadia.  Too few people call me by my name these days.”  She presses a hand to her temple, ever so briefly gnaws at her thumb, and then lets her hand fall back into her lap.  “I have - almost no recollections of my time in this city.”

“Your memories are missing?”  That single sentence changes my entire impression of the Countess, but I’m not yet willing to give into the sudden surge of empathy that fills me.

“Sometimes I recall hints of the past.  Whispers.  But anytime that happens, I also experience excruciating headaches . . . blinding really.  I remember agreeing to marry Lucio.  Coming to Vesuvia during the masquerade nine years ago, but everything in between, my memories are like being lost in a fog on some lonely island.”

“That -” I allow my own spoon to clatter against the sorbet dish.  What I’m about to say is as much of a understatement as the Countess’s comment on having failed to impress me.  “Would be disconcerting.” 

“Yes.”  The Countess turns back to the owl and runs her fingers over its glossy feathers.  “Portia is the only other person aware of my . . . predicament.  But I think you will now understand why I must know what happened, and who I can trust.  My courtiers tell me that Dr. Devorak is guilty.  If he is, so be it, he will hang when I apprehend him.  Which is at least an improvement on the gladiatorial trial by combat some of my courtiers would like to see return.  But I am not entirely convinced that they are telling me the whole story, or even a true story.  I will be just as content if you find he is innocent, so long as we establish the truth.”

“Why me?”

“I came to your shop because I continually saw your sign - the snake wrapped around an apothecary’s mortar and pestle - in my dreams.  I don’t know what I expected.”  She pauses and fixes me with another appraising look.  I doubt that I am anything like what she expected.  “But I think that I can trust you.  You have little interest in telling me what I want to hear.”  She rubs both of her temples.  The muscles in her face have gone taut, probably another headache coming on.  “Perhaps you will think a little more kindly of me now?”

“If your goal is to establish the truth, I can agree to help you with that.”

“That is all I require of you.”  The Countess stands, and Portia materializes from the shadows.  “I believe I will retire for the evening.  Portia, would you see Dema back to her guest room and provide her with anything she needs?”

Portia links her arm in mine as we stroll along the veranda, taking an alternate route back to the guest room.  “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

“I suppose not.”  I had made it through dinner without staining the white dress, and the conversation with the Countess had been illuminating.  Her intentions might not be as horrible as they seemed at first.  Perhaps she was more misguided than anything.  It was a vulnerable state, to be reliant on someone else to fill in information from a large chunk of time.  More vulnerable than I really liked to admit.  “So, the Countess has lost all of her memories of Vesuvia?”

“Yeah . . . I wasn’t exactly sure when I should tell you that, sorry.”  Portia let go of my arm to push open a door leading back inside.  “I wanted to earlier.  But, I’m glad that she told you.”

“So it really has been the courtiers running Vesuvia?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh?”  I elbow her side gently, finally haven’t become accustomed to her familiarity.  “Sounds like you have opinions?”

“As always.”  She looks around the hallways, reassuring herself that they’re clear before continuing.  “They’re - well, you’ll meet them soon enough.  But Valerius is the only one who seems concerned at all about the city, and he has a certain expectation about how things should go.  Then there’s Valdemar . . .”  She shivers.  “I don’t know if I even want to know what they’re up to.  Certainly wouldn’t help me sleep if I found out.”  She takes my arm again.  “But, you’ve had quite a long day, let’s get you back to bed.”

***

When I got back to my room, I undressed and curled up in bed hugging a pillow and hoping for a bit of sleep.  I wasn’t surprised when it didn���t.   I rolled back out of bed and paced the room trying to burn off the nagging wrongness - something missing - I felt deep in my bones.  Faust’s presence would be welcome, but tonight she’s nowhere to be seen.  With a sigh I settled myself on a the sofa with a glass of water from the carafe that had thoughtfully been left in the room and took Asra’s deck from my bag of belongings.  Leaning back against the plush cushions I let my mind turn for a moment.  I have questions about Nadia and Julian both.  Nadia’s motivations are a bit clearer now, but I can’t quite bring myself to trust her.  And Julian -  why did I almost immediately feel connected with him?  It couldn’t just be his past with Asra, whatever that had or hadn’t been?  

I settle on Julian as a topic of intrigue and shuffle the deck several times before cutting it and laying out the top three cards.  I pause before turning them over in quick succession.  The Moon, the Hanged Man reversed, and the Ace of Cups.  I let my fingers hover of the spread, but the cards were quiet.  Or perhaps, they were simply drowned out by my own mind howling at the moon.  The Hanged Man still seems appropriate to Julian - one so buffeted by the waves of fate that he’s simply given up and hopes to be washed up on some shore.  The Ace of Cups should feel more promising than it does, but the idea of an overflowing cup is only reassuring if you’re not the one being asked to empty yourself.  I close my eyes.  There’s only one person who might actually answer my questions about Julian.  Besides, if I wandered off to bar even if I didn’t find him, I could simply fall back on my usual strategy for coping with insomnia and existential dread: wine, music, sex - anything to deaden the roar of my mind.  

Given the way the palace gardens and the field wrapped around this city, the bar with raven signboard is actually closer than my usual haunt near the shop.  And, certainly, more interesting.  As I had suspected, business had picked right back up once the guards had left.  In fact, a fiddler had been added to the mix, along with a somewhat drunken accordion player.  I order a couple of drinks from the bar - neither Portia’s purloined champagne or the wine over dinner had been enough - then surveyed the room, quickly spotting the person I hoped to find again when I left the Palace.

“Mind if I sit here?”

A very surprised Julian looks up at me as I set my drinks down next to his.  “Not at all.  I wasn't expecting to see you again tonight.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” I sit down across the table from him and throw back the double shot of harsh liquor I held in my head, chasing it with the significantly better beer.  Julian raises his eyebrows and looks vaguely impressed.  But then wine from dinner had merely been a drop in the bucket of my ever expanding alcoholism.  After all, why should I bother to keep the present clear when the past was so blurry.

He glances over my clothes, then smirks.  “Whatever are you wearing, my dear?”

“Oh.”  I hadn't really thought about coordinating when I shrugged into some combination of clothes that covered the important bits.  I was in my old canvas trousers (someone in the palace laundry had expertly mended the ripped hem) and a loose sleeveless top of my own.  A black silk robe that had been tossed across the back of the sofa was over that, just skimming the tops of my thighs.  I suppose it was intended to be a bathrobe, or a dressing gown.  It was doing well enough as an overshirt, if well enough was limited to providing one more layer against the evening chill.  I return his smirk.  “What?  You don’t think this fits with my general bohemian aesthetic.”  

Julian laughs, and I feel a warmth beginning in my belly, once that has nothing to do with the alcohol or even lust.  I've heard this laugh before - I know, I just know - and I want to keep hear it again and again.  “Don't worry about it.  I'm sure you’d look fetching in a flour sack.  You certainly do in whatever this is.”

“You’re the one wearing gloves indoors and a shirt missing most of its buttons.”

“Fair enough.”  He shrugs, eyes glassy with drink.  “You do realize that Nadia'll hang you with me if she finds out you've known where I am and haven't told her.”  He reaches across the table and strokes the side of my head that collided with the door frame the other night.  The familiarity is both unexpected and yet, it somehow feels right.  “Your head hasn't been bothering you has it?”

My head always bothers me, but not from the knock the other day.  Whatever he did to heal the concussion lasted.  “See, I’m having trouble reconciling that concern with a cold blooded murderer.”

“Even murderers are entitled to some moral complexity, my dear.”  He drinks his beer, gaze shifting from side to side and then down at his gloved hands.  He rubs his right hand across the back of the left, lips pursed in an utterly abject expression.  “If I even am a murderer.”

I lower the beer that I had almost raised to my lips back down on the table.  “If?  You don’t know.”

“I, well -”  He leans forward over the table, dropping his head into his hands.  “I don’t remember much of what happened the night Lucio died.  Everything from then - not just that night, all of the plague, really - is foggy, confused.”

More missing memories?  His, the Countess’s - mine.  If amnesia is the running theme, was I involved in the murder somehow?  And what else had been involved to disorder so many people’s minds?  There wasn’t much in the books I had access to about losing memories, but what little I had found was consistent in noting that it was extremely uncommon outside of old age or significant trauma.  Julian and Nadia both have a clear connection to the Count and his murder, but I don’t - at least, not as far as I know.  But there is an awful lot that I don’t know.  

But, more to the immediate point.  “Why are you in Vesuvia then?  Do you want to die for a murder you may not have commited?”

“Does it matter?  Look, sailing with pirates for three years gives a man a lot of time to think and all I know is that I’m guilty of something.  I have to be, to feel the way I do.” He lifts his head for a moment before dropping it back against the table, arms crossed in front of him.  “Besides, if it's my fate to hang, then there's no, um, no point in continuing to run from it.  Maybe I’ll at least get some kind of answer out of dying.”

There's something about seeing him so despondent that makes me want to wrap both my arms around him - and tightly.  I start to reach my hand across the table, then jerk it back.  I've had plenty of bleak interludes, but what I feel right now is some emotion that goes unexpectedly beyond casual empathy.  Some bizarre sense that he is important to me.  A piece of heirloom jewelry that was lost and is now found, or a rare book once read in a library and now available for redemption on a vendor’s table.  I’m not quite sure how to explain away the sentiment or just what to do with it.  But not acting isn't an option.  I slowly extend my hand until my fingers are resting on his shoulder.  “It wasn’t you.”

He raises his head, just enough to meet my eyes.  “You can’t tell me that I’m innocent.  You don’t know that.”

“No.”  I lift my fingers from his shoulder and stroke the lock of hair that’s falling over his face.  “But I know you’re not a bad man.”

“How?”

“I -”  This isn’t like the cards whispering to me.  This is something more real, something from inside of me.  The words are distant, as if they’ve been shouted through a fog and had to echo over open water before reaching me, but but unlike the cards, the words are my own, and I know they are true.  My fingers brush against his cheekbone.  “I just do.”

“You really are a little fool.”  His head tilts, leaning into my fingers.  I stroke his hair and his cheekbone, waiting for him to say something else.  The fiddler pulls a long morose note from the strings that wavers in the air.  He sits up and tosses a coin across the room to the musicians, calling for something happier, faster.  The accordionist catches it adroitly and the pair begin a quick paced tune.  

Julian takes another drink of his beer and smiles at me - it only looks half forced - before standing and bowing dramatically, one hand extended to me.  I return his smile and toss back the remains of my beer.  This may not be an answer but it is part what I was hoping for when I came - to find someone to dance with into the energy running through my body gave out.  Anyone would do, honestly, but at the moment, Julian intrigues me.  I stand up and take his hand.  Eyebrow arched in what might be surprise, he takes my hand, his grin becoming more genuine as he does.  

He is, as I suspected, a fine dancer.  And dancing him with isn’t as awkward as I would have expected, given that he’s head, shoulders, and bit of ribcage taller than I am.  I feel as if he knows the steps I’m going to take before I do.  We whirl through two songs before returning breathless to our table and signaling to the barkeep for more beers, which Julian helpfully goes to fetch.

He slides close to me on the bench, wrapping an arm companionably around my shoulders. “Why the trouble sleeping, lovely?”  

I shrug.  Honestly, I don't know.  Sometimes, I just got too agitated to sleep for days on end for absolutely no apparent reason at all.  And then the sleeplessness only snowballs on itself as the agitation takes over, tearing into my consciousness like a vulture working on a fresh carcass, until finally, my mind is so far from my body that the latter can simply crash down into bed.  But Julian looks like he knows a few things about not sleeping.  Reaching out, I run my finger along the dark circle under his uncovered eye.  “And how well do you sleep?”

“I'll sleep when I'm dead.”  He leans over me.  “You smell good.”  He traces the line of my now exposed collarbone.  I lean into his touch, running my tongue across my bottom lip.  But then he shakes his head, straightens up there robe tied over my shirt, and pushes my hair back from my face.  I narrow my eyes at him, pouting and disappointed.  Julian is the perfectly awful decision I’ll looking for.  And he's clearly enough interested in me.  He runs a hand along my jaw and brushes his thumb over my bottom lip.  “I’d love to, darling, really, but I don’t know you well enough to know if this is your normal, or if you simply have amazing balance while inebriated.”

“I’m never normal, per se.”

“Note that I said ‘your normal’ not just 'normal.’”

“I'm not at all sure that I even have a personalized normal.”

“Life that complicated, my dear?”

“Not really.”  My life itself is fairly banal, except for that whole not remembering more than three years thing.  I feel like a ghost.  A specter - a spectator - at the limits of life and death.  A shade captured in patterns of behavior that were set for me long ago.  Watching.  Reacting.  But every time I feel able to act on my own, something seizes me, either pulling into melancholy or dragging me up, up, up into a frenzy.  And, once again, I'm stuck in the pattern, whatever exit I glimpsed long past, and I'm once again caught barely managing to balance between life and death.  Maybe that's why I had accepted the Countess's proposal; I wanted the exterior to match a little more constant parade of up and down in my interior life, or at least, provide me with a sorry if distraction from them.  “But my mind makes up for it in sheer unpredictability.”

“You better get back to the palace; it’s nearly dawn.  Come on, I’ll walk you.”  

“That sounds like a horrible idea.”  I lean forward, resting my forehead against his shoulder one hand on his chest, the other resting on his waist.  I’m not inebriated, but I might be a little drunk.  “I don’t want you to get caught.”

“Heh.”  Under my fingers, his chest catches in a half laugh.  “Compromise.  Your shop?”

“I can work with that, I think.”  I mean, he was walking openly in the market the other morning.  The people who live and work around my shop must not be in a hurry to turn him in either.

The air outside has gotten steadily cooler over the course of the cloudless night.  I wrap the bathrobe tighter around me and retie the knot in the sash.  Julian stops and looks back at me with a concerned expression.

“Are you warm enough in that?”

“This?  I’m fine.  Silk is a surprisingly good insulator.”

“I did not know that.”  He takes my arm when I stumble over a bucket that has been tossed in the street.  “Still, you, um, you look like you might be chilly.”  He pulls me close to him, and wraps one side of his coat around me.  It’s comfortable - the same way snuggling against Asra is comfortable.  We walk in silence arm and arm, through several turns of the street.    

“Say, why did my old mask upset you so much?”

“I -” I shudder at the thought of those glassy red eyes.  “I don’t know, to be honest.”  I pull my arm free of his hand.  “I’m sure a lot of people don’t like them.  Bad memories.  And you had broken into my home as well.”

“Yeah, I really am sorry about that.  I mean, I thought I was just breaking into As - the witch’s home.”

“Why are you trying to find him?”  And for that matter, why doesn’t he want to say his name?  At some point, Asra had been someone Julian wanted to protect, rather than “the witch.”

“I need answers.  I think he has them, if I can get him to tell me something for once.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Heh,” Julian chuckles.  “How long have you . . . ?”

“Been his apprentice?  Three years.”  At least, that’s as far as I can remember being his apprentice.  I’m not quite sure that I’m ready to trust Julian with the full extent to which I’m missing my own past.  I want to.  I’m so tired of keeping that card clutched close to my chest, telling little lies to disguise it and praying that I can keep up with them, all the while feeling like I’m drifting further and further from who I actually am.

“Fascinating timing.”

“What?”

“Oh nothing.  Look, we’re at your shop.”

Speaking of people not answering questions.  Almost as bad as Asra.  I undo the wards on the door and turn back to say goodbye to Julian.  He leans down, embraces me, then kisses my cheeks: one, then the other, then the first one again.  “Sleep, my dear.” 

“You too, maybe?”

“Maybe.”  He smiles at me - a genuine smile with no hint of a smirk.  Then he’s gone.

Chapter Seven

a/n: Yes. I was and am very much into nineties era Depeche Mode, and so is Julian.  At least, this Julian.  Who also gets worried about whether he likes new bands because they’re actually good, or just because they’re trendy.