So Say The Seasons – Chapter 4

            The temple attendant guides Maronette and Elwen through the wall left of the entrance so they can walk beside the rows of pews and under the stained-glass windows depicting the seasonal gods in a whirlwind of colour matching each of the deities’ domains. They are taken towards the front of the temple, but before they reach the altar, the woman unlocks an unadorned side door that leads to the passageway surrounding a cloister. In the centre of it, a small, decommissioned water fount lies covered in vines. The rain has filled the dark granite basin and the stone is cracked here and there, and the old gargoyles at the corners of the courtyard’s roof vomit water from the mouths in the front of their time-worn faces. The dilapidated courtyard leads to the administrative area of the temple, not designed to be visited by the faithful in attendance, or really anyone who was not an initiate of the faith. The old woman produces another iron key, though this one is elaborated, two-pronged, signalling that the door they are about to enter would be nearly impossible to picklock. As she turns the key and the door unlocks with an audible clank, she doesn’t push it open; instead, she leans and knocks twice.

            “Not now, I’m busy,” comes a familiar voice from the inside.

            The old temple attendant knocks three more times in rapid succession.

            “Come back tomorrow at the crack of dawn,” the voice on the other side demands.

            “But what if the sun doesn’t rise?” the old lady retorts.

            Maronette lifts a brow at the exchange, but Elwen is less phased. She recognises the pattern as a security measure, allowing the person on the other side to prepare ahead for different situations. A different number of knocks and different responses to the code can signal to the person on the other side if those with the attendant are friends or foes, if they are many or few, and if the situation is an emergency or not. Memorising all the Black Rune’s Club codes alone is a daunting task, and the few that Elwen knows by heart are already complex enough that she needs to create memory devices to remember them all.

            The door eventually opens, and a tall, lanky woman in her fifties is behind it. She has a stern look on her face, but seeing Elwen, the vague hint of a smile forms, only very vaguely and only for a moment, before she turns to the old woman who brought them there.

            “Thank you, Vera, this will be all.”

            “As you wish, Mother Superior…”

            And the old woman is set on her way back to the temple, walking slowly over her arthritic joints across the decrypt cloister. Meanwhile, the lanky raven-haired lady with hints of salt and pepper touching the front of her strands pushes the door further open to invite Maronette and Elwen inside. She closes the passage as soon as they enter, and they find themselves in what was, for all intents and purposes, exactly what they expected to find inside a clerical administrative office. The four holy symbols of the Springtide Divines are attached to the stone wall, executed in simple wood designs, and most of the room is covered by practical, unadorned furniture meant to hold ledgers and scrolls, writing supplies and a safe for deposits. The tall woman wears a simple black dress, tight around the chest, arms, waist and thighs, unadorned except for the lacing at the wrists and the end of the high collar. The lower part of the dress is what is known as a mermaid dress, tight around the thighs and flaring past the knees. The dress is charcoal black and opaque everywhere except for the lacing on the wrists and neck. Despite her slender proportions that seem to give her a spidery aura and the modest, almost complete coverage of her dress, it’s clear that she is a beautiful woman to anyone who looks, and that she must’ve been even more so in her youth before the crow’s feet touched her eyes and the silver touched her hair. But, while Elwen would never admit this in front of Maronette, she still thought the old Black Rune handler to be quite beautiful in her own way. The tightness of her dress only accentuates that.

            “Yurastasia, you’re looking good as always.”

            “Tell me something I don’t know,” she says as she walks towards the shelves and pulls a single ledger from them.

            There is nothing written on the deep black cover, nothing that Maronette or Elwen can read, at least, but still, she seems to know exactly what she is looking for. As she opens it, the cyphered script is impossible to read. It uses its own alphabet, mixing new symbols and numbers, but Yurastasia navigates the pages with her long bony finger and black-painted nail until she lands on the last line of a page.

            “A-ha… Elwen, dear, your tithe is due,” she speaks deadpan, lifting her eyes to the two women and finally taking a seat in the chair on the other side of the office’s desk.

            “Tell me something I don’t know,” Elwen teases before she reaches into her belt and places a bag of coins over the table, pushing it a few inches toward Yurastasia.

            “Oh, you came prepared, such a good girl. That truly warms an old woman’s heart,” Yurastasia says before pulling the pouch, undoing the strings and spilling the coins on the table. “You won’t mind if I count it,” she concludes in what should’ve been a question but sounded like a statement.

            “Not at all, go ahead.”

            Maronette shifts uncomfortably as she takes her seat.

            “So, how’s life treating you, dearie? It’s been a while since you paid us a house call.”

            “I cannot complain.”

            “Not even if I give you leave to do it?” Yurastasia asks as she spreads the coins around and starts piling them by similar values and denominations, forming stacks of ten for whatever is the same.

            “Well, when you put it so…” Elwen says playfully, “I suppose there’s some trouble brewing. Trouble I might be able to easily deal with if I could be in two places at once.”

            “And if my grandmother had wheels, she would’ve been a wagon,” Yurastasia responds, dismissively of ‘ifs’.

            Maronette suppresses a chuckle, which she knows to be inappropriate for the situation, but Elwen can guess that her bodyguard and lover’s fertile imagination doesn’t allow her to not immediately picture a wheeled grandmother. She is glad Maronette can suppress her laugh because she doesn’t want to chide her, at the risk of revealing too much of their relationship to Yurastasia.

            “Well, this is a different ‘if’. I actually know the solution to my problem, and the Black Rune can help me with it,” Elwen explains.

            Yurastasia ceases to count the coins for just a moment, lifting an eyebrow and looking towards Elwen with intensity. First, she seems to be simply musing over her words, and then she looks a bit sceptical before returning her attention to the coins. She is silent for a few seconds after, not asking a follow-up question until the last coin is counted.

            “Your tithe is all here,” she declares.

            “As it should be,” Elwen dips her head and says matter-of-factly.

            “As it should be,” Yurastasia echoes.

            And then, she takes a dark quill from an inkpot and scribbles something on the last line of the ledger, blowing on it and placing the quill back to let the new note dry. The coins are dragged towards her and allowed to fall past the edge of the table into an open drawer, waiting for them before it’s closed. No doubt to be added to the safe as soon as the two leave. But for now, Yurastasia finally leans back on the chair and opens a wooden jar to pull out a cigarette. She attaches it to a very thin, long filter, and her elbow rests on the arm of the chair as she takes a lazy drag through it before looking at Elwen.

            “Let’s say I’m someone who knows who you mean… Let’s say these people might be inclined to help you with your problem because they may or may not have worked with you in the past…”

            “Yes, let’s say so…” Elwen agrees with the game being played.

            “What do you need from these hypothetical people?”

            “I know they have access to very talented people who can do things that I’m simply not… Strong enough to do, at least on my own, yet.”

            “Let’s say they do…” Yurastasia continues, taking another puff and blowing out the smoke through her nose as she encourages Elwen to keep going.

            “I want a spell to be cast. A spell that will create a simulacrum of me, to take my place on the stage and in my house as I abscond myself from the city for something close to a year.”

            “I know nothing of spells and magic… But hypothetically, if I knew, I might think that this spell you speak of is something pricy. Let’s say my friends can do that for you… Can you afford the cost?”

            “I think so… How much would it cost?”

            “Two thousand sovereigns...” Yurastasia says, clicking the cigarette with her filter over an ashtray before adding, “...hypothetically.”

            Elwen can feel Maronette suppressing a gasp at the mention of that amount of money. Two thousand sovereigns are more than some craftsmen make in a whole year of work. Maronette and Elwen are comfortable, of course, or else they wouldn’t be able to afford the townhouse, but this is still a lot of money. Their whole savings and then some. She reaches under the table to give the bodyguard a comforting squeeze on her knee, letting her know it is alright before she dips her head.

            “It’s a price I’m willing, and more importantly, able, to pay,” Elwen says decidedly and then, before Maronette can speak a word in protest, she adds, “hypothetically, of course… But I would also probably need a couple of days to gather the coin.”

            “Of course, in this hypothetical scenario, I could see these friends of mine waiting a couple of weeks, but no more than two weeks, for the advancement of the fee.”

            “Good, so, would that be all…?”

            “Well, you see… Not quite. There’s something that needs doing, which requires someone of your calibre and persuasion. The sovereigns would, in this scenario, cover the cost of the materials for the spell you mention, but… Our time also has a price, and that price cannot be paid in coin alone.”

            “And what needs doing?”

            “There’s a man who sits atop all the gold in the capital, yet very little is his own. He deems himself entitled to decide who can buy and sell gold and gold-minted goods within the capital. Now, a friend of a friend might have a business that wants to open a shop here, and that business might need that man’s signature. Trouble is, that man is stubborn and would rather keep only those storefronts loyal to him operating in town.”

            Elwen has a bad feeling about where that’s going. She adjusts in the chair uncomfortably, and it’s Maronette’s turn to reach out and squeeze her knee in a comforting motion. She finds her bodyguard’s eyes, and they are not just concerned for her but visibly annoyed at Yurastasia for causing Elwen such discomfort. Or generally for feeling like she and Elwen have something strange between them, akin to friendship, but not without a vague edge of threat.

            “I see. Would that man be, by any chance, Mortimer Blackwell, Chapter Master of the Goldsmith’s Guild?”

            “The very same,” Yurastasia says, “and the friend of my friend is a reputable merchant named Jinzo, whose emporium of goods trades in many things but is not licensed to trade in gold… That requires the guild’s seal, I’m told, and, well, Jinzo would like to avoid going through official channels… Too many bribes to be paid that way if he wants to pass inspection.”

            “I see. You want me to talk Mortimer into granting Jinzo a gold-trade license...”

            “…Without sending inspectors to look at his inventory, yes.”

            “That’s a tall order.”

            “So is to be in two places at once. Yet when we truly want something, we can make it rain in the desert, can’t we?”

            Elwen takes a deep breath, and Yurastasia simply watches her for a moment, taking slow puffs of her cigarette and beating it over the ashtray. Finally, the woman nods and extends her hand.

            “It will be done, as long as our mutual acquaintances can uphold their end,” Elwen vouches.

            “You know they always do,” Yurastasia says and shifting to a slightly more threatening tone, she echoes, “they always do.”

            The two women shake hands, and Elwen feels a shiver down her spine. Like someone has poured a bucket of cold water down her back. She knows this seemingly friendly and easy deal will be anything but. As much as she and Yurastasia have a friendly relationship, the Black Rune Club is not forgiving of someone not delivering their end of the bargain. Elwen stands after the handshake, prepared to leave. Maronette gets on her feet and dips her torso slowly in a parting motion as she says, her first words in the meeting:

            “It was nice seeing you again, Yurastasia. Take care…”

            “Oh, I will. You two should take care, as well…”

            The way those words leave her mouth causes both women to turn their heads to face the raven-haired, black-clad spider of a woman behind her desk. She puts out her cigarette and offers a smirk. Elwen feels another shiver down her spine. Is she about to insinuate that she knows about them? If she does, that will be a big problem. The Black Rune can hold that secret over both their heads for the rest of their lives. It is definitely not ammo they want them to have. Yurastasia can feel that she touched a sensitive spot, and she smiles, amused:

            “The society will be impatient for results on this business deal… There’s a gala happening in the Eutarion Villa in two nights… Blackwell will be there. It would be the perfect opportunity to talk to him.”

            “Two days? I need more time to figure out an angle for this, Yurastasia…” Elwen protests.

            “That’s too bad, my nightingale. Our mutual friends can’t wait that long. They get restless. If you want their help, you need to show you mean business, quick.”

            Elwen sighs and shakes her head, nodding. Seems like Yurastasia doesn’t know about them after all, and that is good. She would not have missed a chance to lord this over their heads if she could, even in a subtle way. All she wants is hurry on the Blackwell front. Elwen and Maronette dip in reverence and leave the backroom for the courtyard. There, they make their way back to the Springtide temple, and the coach is waiting for them outside. The rain has given little to no sign of stopping, and as they enter the coach, they can hear the fat drops hitting the leathery ceiling before the driver, protected only by his thick travel cloak, spurs the horses into motion.

            Only as the wheels begin spinning and they start to move through the rain-soaked streets back to the townhouse does Maronette allow herself to speak her mind.

            “I do not like to work for that woman.”

            “You’re not, technically. I am. It’s a personal favour to me. You owe her nothing,” Elwen points out.

            “I like you working for her even less, Elwen.”

            “Maron, please… We can surely talk that old, fat Blackwell into approving some small-time business, can’t we?”

            “Last time I heard that name, you had a choice of adjectives to attach to it, none of them good.”

            Elwen sighs and begrudgingly nods.

            “He deserves each and every one of them. Nonetheless, he’s the mark, and we have our task.”

            “Fine… It’s not Blackwell that concerns me the most, though, it’s the Black Rune… They are not the type of people we want lording things over our heads.”

            “I know, and that’s why we are paying them in advance… When we get the money, somehow,” Elwen says, turning to look out the window.

            “I’m not concerned about them lording this favour over our heads… I’m concerned about involving them this close to our… Plan. They might catch wind of it.”

            “Maronette, you worry too much, and I love you to death for it, but… If we are going to do what we are going to do, the risk is unavoidable. It’s the only way to get what we want. It’s either follow this path or give up, and you know I won’t give up, so…”

            Maronette rolls her eyes and shakes her head before she simply offers a shrug of resignation, knowing that talking won’t change Elwen’s mind. Elwen knows she doesn’t even want to change her mind, or else she would’ve spoken sooner. She just wants her to be careful. And she can’t promise that, but she can always promise to try.

            “I’ll try to be careful, alright?” Elwen says.

            Maronette’s face seems to relax just a little bit at those words, and Elwen knows that’s what the woman needs to hear. And then she bites her lips in a bout of naughtiness. Maronette looks quizzically at her before Elwen weaves her magic and casts a spell towards her companion. Purple wisps of light flow from her fingers and enter her bodyguard’s torso through her clothes. Maronette squirms and moans softly as her tight riding pants suddenly gain a slight bulge in the front.

            “Fu-… Elwen, what are you doing?”

            “Giving you a treat for putting up with my hare-brained schemes and impulsive decisions…” Elwen proposes, kneeling on the coach’s floor in front of Maronette.

            The bodyguard looks torn between being angry and being pulled by lust as she feels her lover’s hand starting to unbutton the front of her pants.

            “Is this what you call being careful?”

            “Relax, the windows won’t let anyone see me down here…” she says, gently pulling the flaps of the pants aside as she unbuttons it and releasing the newly grown member into the air as it twitches, visibly hard.

            “But… But…”

            Maronette begins to try and protest, but as soon as Elwen’s lips wrap around the tip of her cock, her protests quickly vanish, replaced instead by shivering gasps of pleasure. The chariot continues on its way to the townhouse, passing through the few people who would still brave the streets in that weather, entirely unaware of what was taking place on the coach but a few feet from them.

***

            The Eutarion are one of the most influential and powerful families in the city, and part of holding that influence is displaying their wealth and holding a firm finger on the pulse of the city’s social life. As such, the Eutarions often hold the most important events of the social season, and their fall gala is no exception.

            As Elwen and Maronette arrive at the front yard of the villa, they are taken by a servant girl wearing a mask of bark and a dress the colour of fallen leaves to the interior of the large villa right in the heart of the most expensive district of the capital. It’s clear they have spared no expense yet again, and paying some lip service to the Autumn King for those more connected to the Springtide, they decorated the whole manor with similar motifs. Actual branches have been brought from the woods and stacked to form a tunnel to funnel guests from their front door, across their luxurious hall, and into the ballroom in the back.

            There, an explosion of light and colour assaults Elwen and Maronette as they emerge from the tunnel of dried twigs and branches into a massive hall decorated to look like the court of the Fey. The walls are draped with colourful cloth that hides them completely from sight, and despite being a fire hazard, it does make it easy to forget where they stand. Vines, actual vines, are dangling from the ceiling and tied to them are hanging lanterns inside spherical glasses of varied colours, and one would be forgiven for thinking those were actual fairy lights above their heads, floating, given how the Eutarion patriarch has sprung for a clear silk thread to hold the lights in place, barely visible from the ground. Antlers and pinecones are liberally employed in decorating the central iron chandelier and the columns, and as is the tradition for the fall gala, every guest is expected to come wearing fall colours and some prop that falls within the motifs of the season.

            Elwen opts that night for an ochre-yellow dress with layered frills that mimic tree leaves, with the inner layers done in gradually darker and more brown colours. The frills start at her elbow and puff out in layers until the middle of her forearm. The skirt features similar rings that mimic layers, with the first half being bright ochre-yellow. However, from her knees down, each ring is a shade darker, culminating in a deep, earthy-brown at the hem. Each layer overlays the former in the shape, suggesting maple leaves. She knows she made the right call with the design, or at least the stylist, as all the eyes turn to her. Her fall accessory is a single amber drop shaped like an acorn, and she wears it as a pendant for her necklace. Besides her, Maron is simply wearing her gala military uniform. Still, so as not to violate the rules of the party, she has two tiny antlers forming the back part of the sticks holding the bundle of her raised hair. She eschewed her eyepatch for a half-bark mask without an eye, replaced instead by a glass eye made to appear feline in nature.

            The two women attract a lot of glances and whispers as they stride into the saloon, and for the first hour of the party, Elwen spends her time socialising with the many known and not-so-known names of high society and tactically avoiding Blackwell. She wants him to see her talking to everyone before he sees her approaching him, so that he will be expecting her approach, and thus, not read much into it. It is best to catch him disarmed to conduct business. Knowing the sensitive nature of their conversation, she leaves him for last and waits for him to be isolated from the others, standing on a balcony to smoke his pipe, while most guests prefer to stay deeper within the ballroom.

            “I’ll go talk to him. It’s best if you wait here, Maron.”

            “What? Why?”

            “Because we will talk shady business, and it won’t be convincing if I have my bodyguard with me. He needs to feel at ease to demand a bribe or something,” Elwen explains what should be obvious.

            “Fine. But stay within sight. I’ll be by that column. Just… Scream or gesture if you need help.”

            “Thank you, but I think I can handle Blackwell by myself if it comes to it… And it won’t...” Elwen says, and sensing Maronette is about to protest her decision, she adds, “...So you’ll be staying there, hm?”

            “Yes, right there.”

            “Seems right on route for all the drinks leaving the kitchen.”

            “A happy coincidence.”

            “I’m sure it is, love,” Elwen chuckles.

            She has an impulse to lean forward and place a peck on Maron’s lips, but realises that doing so at the party would put them both in jeopardy. Instead, she bites her lips nervously and adjusts her dress. Maronette tugs the sleeves of her coat, and Elwen knows she feels the same impulse to part with a kiss. Instead, they exchange a glance that speaks a thousand words, and Elwen departs without saying another. As she approaches Blackwell, she notices the stocky, rotund and moustached Goldsmith leader is just beating the ashes off his pipe, preparing to rejoin the party. That is bad; as much as she would rather not smell like pipe weed for the rest of the party, if he is smoking, they would have an organic excuse to stay out of earshot of others. But still, she moves fast to intercept him before he leaves the balcony.

            “Master Blackwell!” she exclaims, calling his attention as she crosses the threshold and extends her hand for the traditional high society greeting.

            “Oh… My favourite singer… How’s the season treating you, sweet Elwen?”

            She is struck by sudden disgust, remembering how he has treated her before, and hearing him call her ‘sweet Elwen’ feels intimate and violating. But she does her best to sport a pleasant smile as she allows him to kiss her knuckles. He drools a bit too much on them, and his moustache tickles her skin and prickles. She discreetly wipes the back of her hand on her dress when she retrieves it.

            “It’s been a good season so far. With hopes that when the sun sets on the Autumn King’s reign and the Winter Queen rises, I will be done with most social engagements and be able to hibernate at home and await away the cold like a bear.”

            “Oh, that’s everyone’s wishes, I would wager. But alas, ’tis not our lot in life…”

            “Well, how’s the season treating you?”

            “Old war wound throbs when it rains. It can put one in a sour mood for most of the fall, that sort of thing, but I’m quite content today.”

            “Oh, and why is that?”

            “Oh, for having a chance to be in such a beautiful party, with such beautiful women…”

            The way he says the last sentence causes a tightness in her throat, and she feels almost as violated as if he had licked the skin of her neck. He could fool most with his gentle, avuncular presence; for most men, Mortimer Blackwell is a soft-spoken, well-mannered war veteran, a great craftsman, and an upstanding member of society. But ask a woman in private, and she might have a few things to add to that list. Elwen knows firsthand. She is surprised that he doesn’t seem to remember offending her himself. Or perhaps he does, but is safe in the knowledge that she cannot act openly against him in high society, as her stance as a successful singer means that any status she currently holds is borrowed at best. And her place in society at large as a woman is always tenuous. She can only imagine how he’d react if he knew about her lover.

            But she is not there to learn to like him, nor to take revenge. She is there to negotiate, and she decides that sufficient pleasantries have already been exchanged; she takes a deep breath and pushes through her disgust to continue.

            “You aren’t looking that bad yourself, Master Blackwell.”

            Uttering those words nearly makes her vomit. Any other person, and she’d be happy to extend an empty compliment like that, but for him, it feels like a betrayal of her inner self. And Blackwell seems to catch on to her discomfort, and he smirks. He smirks, the absolute bastard.

            “You honour me with flatteries, miss. You honour me, but don’t fool me. I can tell when someone wants something from a mile away. One doesn’t become Master of the Goldsmiths without having some sense for this sort of thing.”

            Elwen retains a huff of frustration. That path is shot, and there’s no sense in persisting on it, so she must try a different approach other than flattery. A cold wind blows from the outside. The balcony they are standing on overlooks the massive Eutarion backyard and stands directly above their large hedge maze. In the centre of which, there is a fountain. From above, they can see the spiral-style maze, but the hedge is tall enough that anyone inside won’t be able to peek above. Aside from the central fountain, there are four circular courtyards in the maze, opposite each other like cardinal directions on a compass. Culturally, Springtide has become ingrained in the aesthetic sensibilities of the population, and circles broken into four are a common theme in art. The four seasons, the four directions, the four winds. Those things tend to pop up a lot in decor if one has an eye for spotting them. Elwen stares at the maze for a moment to try to find a new way ahead. And then, she sees one.

            “Very well, Master Blackwell, you’re too cunning for the base trick of flattery, though I would call it a social grace and not a strategy…”

            “Often those things overlap,” the man says, pocketing his pipe finally.

            “Very true, so let’s do away with social graces… I have invested in a business, and it’s been brought to my attention that you are in a good position to allow my investment to multiply…”

            “Ah, I see what this is now,” Blackwell says, feigning offence for a moment.

            “Surely, I’m not the first one to bring business talk to a party, am I? Half the people here are arranging partnerships, marriages or making or breaking their alliances.”

            “Very true. You’re not the first person, but you are the first woman ever to encroach on me during my leisure time for business reasons,” he says, dropping the pretend offence but still seeming annoyed.

            “If my investment pays off, I will be happy to show my gratitude in a manner most appropriate,” Elwen adds, “gold for the goldsmith.”

            “Ah! Well, you’re talking my language now… A business where I make money is something I’m less annoyed to discuss at a party. Or with a woman.”

            ‘Do not punch him,’ Elwen tells herself as he speaks again, and she focuses her eyes on his round face. It would be so easy to hit him right in the middle of it and break his nose to make him even more toad-like. And rightfully earned. Yet, she needs him.

            “Very well… The business is Jinzo’s Emporium… They trade in all sorts of things but they lack the license to trade in gold objects… A license only the guild, or yourself, can provide.”

            “Ha!” He laughs in an obnoxiously loud and short burst. “That shithole? Save your breath, honey. No profit from that joint will make the minimum bar for a bribe. If they want to get a license, they can apply, pay and wait like everyone else…”

            “My friend was hoping to bypass inspection.”

            “Of course he was… What is the deal then? Stolen items? Is the gold diluted?”

            “Sire, surely I do not know what you insinuate.”

            Blackwell forces a yawn at those words from Elwen and begins to move towards the door, to leave the balcony as he says:

            “This already bores me. The answer is no…”

            Elwen feels her chance to convince Blackwell slipping through her fingers. And with that, the opportunity to get the simulacrum, and in turn, to have her child with Maronette. Too much is on the table. She cannot let this go. As much as Blackwell disgusts her, he isn’t worth her future. She will swallow her revulsion and pride and do what she has to do.

            She touches his shoulder, a bold gesture considering social norms, and stops him from departing.

            “Sire, please listen… If not gold, then something else. But this license is very important to me, and I would appreciate it if you would give it your sincere consideration. I might not be rich enough to bribe you, but I do have friends and a voice, and a man like yourself needs more than just gold… You need favours as well.”

            That seems to have done the trick, as Blackwell turns with a smile of satisfaction at her enhanced offer. She wishes she didn’t have to show her hand like that and admit she needed it, because now the price will go up. However, if it is something she can afford, she’ll do it; it is just a matter of haggling. Her hand leaves his shoulder as soon as he turns, and his smile, yellowed by pipe smoking, fills her with deep nausea.

            “Well, well… Now we are talking… Very well, I will consider this business license for your friend… And I’ll take my payment in something other than gold.”

            “Great, so we can st-“

            Elwen is about to offer to intercede in his favour with some famous families that offer her patronage or use her connections in the art world to push some of the guild’s products. But before she can articulate her following argument, his hand touches her waist through the dress, and she freezes, paralysed. And then he shifts it to her rear and gropes her ass. Not a simple squeeze either, or a brief hold, but an aggressive grip around her rear, which is both invasive and painful.

            “The word on the street is that you theatre whores are all sluts, so… Maybe we can arrange a private performance in exchange for that license, eh?”

            Elwen feels hot, boiling rage climbing over her, and before she can think about it, her closed fist hits him square in the middle of the face. The blow makes him wobble and nearly stumble back. For a moment, she fears he is going to fall over the parapet into the courtyard below. The idea that she could’ve killed him fills her with dread, even though he is despicable; she would be ruined for murdering such a member of high society at a party. However, punching him alone might have ruined her, too.

            “You whore!” he cries, covering his nose and huffing out furiously into the ballroom.

            Elwen takes two steps to chase him, but before she can do it, Maronette intercepts her, putting a hand in front of her to hold her stomach.

            “Are you alright? What happened?”

            “I blew it, Maron, I blew it!” Elwen says, feeling tears of both rage and sorrow welling in her eyes, as she watches Blackwell slip away and knows that with him goes her chance at the simulacrum.

            Not only will he never listen to her on Jinzo again, but he might also go out of his way to punish the business in revenge, which would make the Black Rune furious at Elwen. And then the simulacrum plan is gone, at best. And at worst, they will find themselves on the blacklist of one of the most dangerous groups in the empire.

            “Don’t worry… We can go for my backup plan…” Maronette tries to comfort her.

            “Backup plan? What are you talking about?”

            “Do you trust me?”

            “Y-Yes?”

            “Good… Because you’re not going to like where we are going to next… But you need to do exactly as I say… Alright?”

            Elwen lifts an eyebrow and hesitates.

            “A-Alright…”

            Maronette doesn’t seem reassured at that, and then she nods towards someone behind Elwen. As Elwen turns around, she sees one of the servant girls working for the party, and for a moment, she has no idea who they are behind the bark mask. But as she nods back to Maronette and begins to approach, rage wells up deep inside her as she notices the coppery red hair bursting from the sides of the mask. That, and the girl’s frame, immediately lets her know who that is.

            “No,” she says, in a gasp, and then more emphatically turns to Maronette to whisper, “no.”

            “It’s… The only way.”

            Elwen purses her lips in anger as she watches her approach, and furiously, she represses her urge to scream as she greets the serving girl:

            “Hey, Natalie…”