#with a hint of castora

[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. 

[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.”

[paoladamasco]

AU MEME 🔆OUR FLATS ARE OPPOSITE EACH OTHER AND YOUR KITCHEN WINDOW FACES MY KITCHEN SO WE ALWAYS SEE EACH OTHER MAKING COFFEE AT 3AM featuring @ofrosso; @benvoliosantodomingo; @romroses; @odessasvernon; @ofcastora

There’s a very specific reason Felipe wants her to move, and Paola is pretty sure it’s the hot neighbor right across from her.

“I like it here, Felipe,” Paola says as she sets breakfast down on the table. “It’s affordable, it’s a good neighborhood and I just figured out how to stuff all my books in here without looking like an abandoned library.”

“You could move in with me,” Felipe offers, stabbing a blueberry with his fork and popping it into his mouth with relish.

Paola laughs as she imagines it: both of them living in either of their cramped flats, with all their things overflowing so there’s no space to even sit on the floor. “It’s a little soon for that, don’t you think? Besides, neither of us can afford a place big enough. And I’m still not convinced I need to move out at all.”

Felipe shoots her a look that says he doesn’t believe her. “Your neighbors are questionable, for one.”

“There’s only been two deaths in the area.”

“Yes, but you hear three gunshots every night.”

Paola shrugs, sipping on her tea in between handfuls of grapes. “I don’t mind it.”

There is it: he can’t help but glance at her kitchen window. Looking for them, Paola knows. She heaves a great and tired sigh to recapture Felipe’s attention, raising her brows pointedly. “You know I’ve never even met them, right?”

“You could have mentioned you live across someone who looks like that when they’re shirtless,” he grumbles.

His frown, all boyish and charming, still wins her over, no matter the reason. Paola’s smile is genuine as she tells him, “They don’t even notice me. Now eat your breakfast, I want to go visit the new bookstore down the street.”

Before they leave, Paola sneaks a peek at the kitchen window. Just like she thought — they’re there. And they’re looking straight at her.

🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆

Marcelo watches the girl who lives across from them, and wonders if she knows she missed a spot while brushing her hair. There’s a hint of bedhead right in the back, still frizzy and bunched together.

They noticed her when she moved in, primarily because she moved in alone. With boxes in her arms, she trekked up the stairs tirelessly for hours with only a bandana holding her hair back. It did nothing to help the sweat; they know the feeling, the burn when it gets into your eyes. They remember grinning when they saw it happen to Paola, as she squeezed her eyes shut and began wiping furiously at her eyes.

They didn’t leave their apartment to offer their help, of course. It wasn’t their problem; it was just an interesting show, and they liked that she never seemed to tire. Every few hours, she stopped to eat a banana over the sink and take a long sip from a beer bottle. They liked that, too.

It’s pure curiosity that keeps them watching this tiny, waifish girl who single-handedly moves endless boxes — many of them books, the heaviest and the worst kind — into a tiny apartment. It’s been several months since she’s moved in, and they’ve learned quite a few things since.

She likes to make tea during the day, but she makes coffee at night. She seems to have books everywhere and even reads while cooking; it’s always a different volume in her hands. Sometimes, the two make eye contact and she always looks surprised to see them; she also always smiles.

She has a boyfriend. They didn’t know that until today. Apparently, the boyfriend never spends the night.

🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆

It’s 3 AM, and Felipe is long gone; but Paola is wide awake, devouring the book of philosophy she bought from the new bookstore. Or at least, she’s trying to be wide awake. Eyelids growing heavier and heavier, the solution is obvious. She needs at least two cups of coffee to get through this next chapter — and then maybe three more for the next.

She rises from the couch and heads to the kitchen. Instinctively, Paola looks out the window for the person she’s become used to seeing at this hour. Yep, as usual, they’re pouring a drink too.

Just after she’s noticed them, they lift their head. Their eyes meet.

They raise their brows at her as if they’re asking a question. Paola lifts a hand and smiles as if she’s giving an answer. And she can’t help herself — she ends up taking a quick peek at their shirtless torso, a sight she’s seen nearly every night and still can’t seem to get enough of.

Okay, she’s starting to see Felipe’s point.

Paola turns away quickly, focusing on her coffee and willing herself not to look back at them. She’s been dating Felipe for two months, and it’s been fun. Nearly effortless, with conversation as enjoyable as their silence is comfortable. It’s rare for Paola to find people she connects with so naturally. Since he first introduced himself, she’s blossomed beneath his attention.

She takes a sip from her cup and decides to get curtains for the kitchen window in the afternoon. It solves everything: Felipe will feel more comfortable, the dip in her stomach will stop and she won’t waste as much coffee looking for excuses to see them in the middle of the night.

Before she returns to her reading spot, Paola looks for one last sight of them. But they’re gone.

Why is she so disappointed?

🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆

As it turns out, curtains can be quite expensive. It also doesn’t come with the set-up she needs to get it ready, so Paola is quick to abandon her search. She doesn’t look too deep into how easily she abandons her project. It’s inconvenient, and out of her already-skim budget.

Over the next month, Felipe grows more distant — sometimes, when she goes to spend the night, his eyes are glazed over and never seems to be quite there. She has a feeling he’s using something, but he always vehemently denies it. Paola keeps an eye out for anything that gives him away every time she visits. Felipe is a recovering addict; she can try to save him, but she is only a helping hand. Ultimately, Felipe is the only one who can pull himself out of the abyss.

She still sees them intermittently during the day, and always every night. They’ve developed a routine: they hold up whatever liquor they’re drinking, and Paola shows them the book she’s reading. Sometimes, they’ll smile at the cover as if they recognize it. Whenever it happens, she’s overwhelmed with the temptation to go to their door and ask if they do.

But Paola is smarter than that, so she never does. Although, admittedly, she has gone to her door as if she’s about to make the first step outside.

🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆

They saw the boyfriend in person, once. Out for a drink with their friends, it’s a regular night for Marcelo. Bellamy is beside them and talking to the bartender, making friends as he always does wherever he goes.

Roman is flirting with everyone at the bar while keeping a close eye on Odessa, who’s dancing and pretending she doesn’t dance for his benefit. They roll their eyes and throw a shot to the back of their throat. Idiots.

Castora is fighting off every single person who dares make a pass at her. Next to her is Armand, who goes by his middle name — Ajax — and has been best friends with Castora since they were children. He’s also in love with her and it’s obvious to everyone but Castora. Marcelo flags the bartender down for another shot. It’s something of a game tonight: one shot for every idiot duo they see tonight.

They’re scanning the room for the rest of their friends when they spot him: the boyfriend. They straighten slightly as they search for the girlfriend. She’s reading a book that their dads used to love. Part of them wants to ask her for her favorite parts, as if it will give them a new piece of their dads to remember and lock into their memory.

She’s not with him. Damn. Whatever, it’s just a stupid book and they have plenty of their dads to remember anyways. The bartender finally arrives with their shot, and they take it without a beat.

The boyfriend is coming closer, and he’s loud. Marcelo can’t help but start listening in.

“It’s this new drug called faerie’s blood, and I’ve never had anything like it. You guys have to try it, I can ask my dealer to hook us up…”

They wonder if Paola dabbles in drugs, too. It’s not that they have a problem with that — but somehow, she doesn’t strike them as the type. But what do they know? They’re just neighbors who have this weird, hidden ritual that they look forward to every night, for some forsaken reason.

Marcelo orders another shot. They’re not sure which idiotic duo it’s for this time; they just know they need one, now.

🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆

Felipe is using again. She can’t say what drug is in the small plastic bag in his wallet, but Paola is positive it’s a drug. The two fight for hours. Felipe insists he’s being careful, and he’s sick of being watched like a hawk. Paola calls him weak, a liar who knows he’s ruining his life and choosing to do it, anyways.

The two are broken up by the end of the night, and Paola returns to her flat with her things. Hot, angry tears roll down her cheeks as she throws out whatever she finds that belongs to him: a few T-shirts he left behind, his toothbrush…

She’s pouring out the perfume he bought for her down the kitchen sink when they show up. They’re wearing a shirt, for once. Paola likes them in a shirt, even a simple gray T-shirt with their built chest filling it out nicely.

They hold up a bottle of scotch. Paola doesn’t have anything to hold up: no books, no coffee, nothing. She just stares at them blankly, until their expression becomes visibly bewildered and they shake the bottle in their hands as if to remind her of their ritual.

An idea dawns on her.

She holds up a finger for them to wait. Before they can respond in any way, Paola grabs the last book that made them smile — she’s kept it on her coffee table all this time — and runs out to find them.

🔆🔆🔆🔆🔆

Their door looks exactly like hers, but it feels entirely different. Paola takes a moment to stare at it, contemplating all that it means: seeing them up-close without glass between them, hearing their voice, learning their name… All of it is so simple, so necessary; yet they’ve found a way to communicate without it.

Is this stupid? Is this too rash, not even 24 hours having passed since she and Felipe broke up?

It doesn’t feel stupid; it feels right, it feels brave, it feels like an adventure. It doesn’t feel rash, either, with months and months of silent interactions and their nightly show-and-tells.

Paola doesn’t care; she’s going to do it.

She knocks on the door. When it opens, she’s struck by how tall they are. Paola blinks up at them and studies the small details she’s never been able to see across the distance. They have more facial hair than she realized. Their eyes are startling, not quite brown and not quite green.

They’re so tall. Paola isn’t sure why she’s so fixated on that, until — without her thinking it, without her questioning it — her hand is reaching up to cup the back of their neck and bring them down to where the small people like her live. Their lips crash together, uncomfortably at first; it takes only a short beat to find a rhythm, and when they do, they lean into it as if they’ve done it their whole lives. They seem to realize what’s happening a second after Paola does, hands gripping her waist and pulling her flush against their body.

She’s the first to pull away, breathing harder than usual. They don’t even seem to be affected — as if they expected this all along and it’s her who’s late to the party. There’s a smirk on their lips, the lips that she just kissed. Paola wants to kiss it again until they have to swallow their smirk, until all that’s left is the same smile she saw when she held up the right book title.

“Do you think kissing someone the night of your breakup is a bad thing to do?” Paola asks.

Surprise flashes across their face, but they look almost satisfied as they respond, “The better question is, do you care?”

She likes their voice. Better yet, she likes their answer. She smiles at them stupidly, having nothing else to say. It’s Marcelo who breaks the silence, stepping aside to make room as he says, “Want to come in?”

“I thought strangers weren’t to be trusted,” Paola points out, hoping the sincerity of her voice is understood as a joke.

It’s a relief when they laugh. They get it, she thinks, they get it. “I’m Marcelo.”

“I’m Paola.”

“Great, now we’re not strangers. Get the fuck in here already.”

[rothorns]

date: december 22nd time: 11:05 p.m. location: roman’s apartment availability: @odessasvernon

Why hadn’t he told him beforehand?

This was the question that continued to plague the Montague heir’s brain, from the moment his father whispered in his ear briefly about his plans. He’d done everything in his power to not let his expression change, to not even hint at what his father had been planning. It made sense. It had been well-thought out and calculated, that Roman had only wish he’d thought of it himself. This was something Damiano had to have been planning for ages— as it was easier said than done, finding the right people for the job, and ensuring all the pieces masterfully fell into place. But it all came back to the same question— why not let Roman in on the plan? He was supposed to be in training to take on his position, after all.

He paced around his apartment, which he’d insisted on living in after growing weary of living at the estate, too haunted by that same question to even notice the pain permeating through his body. Had he sprained his ankle? Most likely. A few deep gashes in his arm and chest? Tended to; he’d be alright. But the same lingering question remained— what possible reason could Damiano have for hiding that sort of information from him?

His flurry of insecurity and doubt was interrupted by yet another unabating question— one he scolded himself for not considering earlier, as he’d been too caught up in his own selfish misery. He’d seen practically every person who sided with the Montagues– from Lawrence and Bellamy, to Calina and Castora— but where the hell was Henry?

He was a flurry of fingers and furrowed brows, contacting each an every person who might’ve have some idea of his whereabouts. But he simply wasn’t getting the answers he wanted at the rate that he needed. He’d have to find him himself. That’s what he decided, as he searched for the nearest shirt, when the sudden ringing of the doorbell interrupted his stream of thoughts. Maybe it was Henry. He hurriedly answered the door, not even bothering to check for who it was, not caring how reckless or careless he was being, and his stomach dropped the moment he saw who it was.

Not because he’d been disappointed— but because of the condition she was in. The fear rapidly transitioned to anger, as he hurriedly ushered her inside, asking repeatedly if she was okay, and locking the door hastily behind him. “Who was it, Dess?” he said taking her hands urgently, but dropping them moments later— realizing in that moment that there were more important things to consider. He’d just finished tending to his own wounds prior to her arrival, so everything he needed had already been out. “Sit down, I could care less about the couch,” he says as he slides a pair of gloves on. “And you haven’t happened to have heard from  Henry, have you?”