Elsie turned away from the room, away from the sword, and took a slow breath.
They were still in Lorant lands. The white of snow-capped mountains pierced through the deep blue of midday sky, a scant two clouds making a leisurely progression just to the right of the dirigible. Winter held the land below them with a stillness that reached even into her little alcove balcony. Sporadic flashes of copper were the only evidence of civilization in the mass of ground beneath her. That and the billowing plume of grey smoke trailing down the mountainside.
A train, Elsie thought.
An awkward scraping sound pulled her attention away from the view. One long, booted leg hooked over her balcony railing, originating from the room beside hers. Next came an arm, grasping the wall with effort as its owner continued his climb. Before his head came into view Elsie lifted her pistol, the one item she hadn't left on her bed.
Dorian's face contorted with the exertion of clinging to the side of the flying boat and then froze in alarm as he caught sight of the weapon. His body went still, arms straining with the struggle to stay half inside her balcony.
"This was a good deal more romantic when I hadn't factored in your Bedim training," he said.
Elsie smirked and lowered the pistol.
"You are the most persistent man I have ever known," she moved to help him.
He transferred his weight from the other balcony and onto her railing, wincing as something tore. The sound of ripping fabric made them both pause. He was wearing the jacket she had made. Quirking an eyebrow at him, she clucked her tongue twice before hauling him completely over her railing. Her seamstress tendencies made her flinch as the tearing continued, a long, open hole emerging in the chest of the jacket.
Once properly balanced on the balcony, he inspected the hole, pushing two fingers through it. The sight made her eye twitch but she crossed her arms, determined to address his unwelcome presence first. Dorian grinned at her, albeit sheepishly, and she almost gave in. Then she remembered her pistol, heavy in her left hand, the assortment of weaponry on display in her room, and the quiet solitude she'd been enjoying prior to his arrival.
"I think we should discuss your penchant for showing up uninvited," she said. "That's twice now you've interrupted my thoughts; three times if we count your very arrival in Delgora."
"I'm happy to discuss anything you like, so long as we can discuss it face to face and not through your door."
"We don't actually talk when we come face to face."
The smile he gave her was full of heat and knowing. Her very skin reacted to it, prickling with anticipation. They hadn't really touched during the long months of Winter Tournament, he being far removed from Delgora House and she too busy avoiding him. There was a whisper in her ear, a push to just give in and take him. He wasn't going to leave, she couldn't fight him out of the room and, to be fair, she didn't want to.
"It will be a feat, Elsie, but I can show restraint," he broke into her internal debate.
She withheld the idea that it wasn't his restraint she was concerned about. Turning, she moved into her room, fighting to remember why she wasn't kissing him yet. It seemed like she should be. Her magic certainly thought so. His footsteps sounded behind her, the click of his boots muffling as he entered the carpeted room. Deciding it was prudent to have something between them she walked around the bed, tossing her pistol so that it joined the myriad of weaponry on the comforter. For a moment she worried that she hadn't disengaged the firing mechanism, but it bounced once, landing neatly beside her sack of gunpowder.
"Is this why you won't answer your door?" Dorian asked, distracted by the contents on the bed. "You've been preparing?"
"No," Elsie frowned at the set of three small daggers just beside the gunpowder. "I just didn't know what to do with them. An attack is improbable this high up."
He grunted in something she assumed was agreement, gray eyes fastened on the coiled garrote. Elsie smiled, at once knowing his concern. The coil had an outer rim of ruffles made to resemble a garter. She'd never had to use the thing but it was still the only weapon she was never without. Pistols, swords, daggers and the like were a good deal harder to hide than the length of double-layered silk. It was also one of her earliest creations, the two thin loops that served as grips buttoned together, making it easy to access in an emergency.
"Well," he cleared his throat. "I would suggest putting them back in your trunk but I think paranoia might make you pull them out again. Where did you normally hide them?"
Elsie shrugged, "Depended on the location. On the Brietta it was always inside the two mattresses. But given the expense of the room I wouldn't want to cut into the bed here."
"My father's pocketbook thanks you."
Smiling, she relaxed a bit, warming up to his company again.
"But if you're not in here preparing, then what have you been doing?" The question was casual, but she knew there was hurt somewhere in there.
His fingers reached out and began tracing the length of her grandmother's scabbard. A utilitarian object to say the least, plain, a mere forty-three inches long, but there was a strength to it that comforted Elsie. The woman who had borne that sword and sheath had known battle and necessity. That was her ancestry; capable people.
Elsie almost forgot he'd asked a question. Pulling herself from a fog of doubts and bloodlines and war, she brought her attention back to the man in her room, a man who had almost ruined everything; Saldorian Gregorian Dominic Feverrette, a contradiction of frustration and pleasure, standing strong and formidable at the foot of her bed.
"I was thinking," she said in answer.
"I gathered. And what have you discovered in your pensive state?"
"That I miss my sister."
The sudden rush of emotion made her turn away. She wasn't certain why she'd admitted it. She'd meticulously kept her thoughts away from Bryva, forcing her mind to the present or to the distant past, leaping over the arms deal like it was a black hole in my her memory. The audible confession seemed to crack through her resolve, the hot pool of fresh tears breaking away. Elsie clenched her fists, quickly drying her cheeks and making every effort to stop herself. But the ache of loss filled her now, pushing away all of her carefully laid plans to avoid the subject, and she couldn't stop.
Wind whistled past the open balcony doors, filling the room with the bite of winter air. Dorian was silent behind her, slowly moving until his chest brushed against her back. His arms circled her body, and she leaned against him. She felt him nuzzle the side of her neck and cheek, murmuring something soothing and quiet until she had found some semblance of self control. Remarkably, her magic was quiet at the contact.
"We had it all planned you know," Elsie sighed and smiled a little at the memory. "What we would do the day after we confronted Lorant. She said she would find us two gentlemen, Hemic Knights no less, and we would raid every drinking establishment in Delgora, dancing until our feet couldn't stand it anymore."
His arms tightened around her waist, but he remained silent. There was a flash of Bryva's laughing face in her memory. Elsie couldn't pinpoint the exact moment of the memory but it caught in her mind. Bryva had a bubbling sort of laugh that came right from her center and ebbed out, infecting everyone nearby with good humor. Her whole face would light up, eyes crinkling in merriment, hand smacking her knee on most occasions. Just thinking of it made Elsie smile.
And then she remembered that Bryva wouldn't be laughing anymore. Not within this life anyway.
"I might have turned my back on the Delgora people if it wasn't for Bryva." Elsie heard her own voice go flat was bitterness. "I could have just walked away, let them fend for themselves."
"I don't believe that," he released her and moved to stand at her left side. "And neither do you."
"Don't I?"
"No, you don't." He took a deep breath, as though he were about to plunge headlong into water, before continuing. "You're just hurt and angry; and rightly so. But you're a Witch-Born, throu
gh and through. No matter the losses that you've suffered, you keep standing back up to fight again."
"That's nothing special, Dorian. You can see the same feat displayed in the Hemic tournaments."
"At tournament," he repeated, stressing the words. "You're not in the middle of a tournament, and the losses you've taken are those close to you, those you love. A man can take bodily harm and stand back up; only a noble man can take the sacrifices that you have."
"I'm a Bedim."
"By necessity, not by choice," his hand grasped her shoulder when she opened her mouth, intent on arguing further. But she stopped when their gazes met, incapable of finishing whatever thought had entered her mind. "Elsie, if you're trying to tell me you don't deserve the House Seat, that the life you've led is less than chivalrous, you're wrong. And I'm fairly certain if Bryva were standing here now she'd slap you just for thinking it."
Flinching, Elsie tried to turn away, but he caught her other shoulder and forced her to stay.
"How have the Pillars in Delgora stayed upright all these years?" There was a fierceness to his face that made her want to squirm. "You've held them up, Elsie. You and you alone have been the wall protecting the Delgora people from the Wild. You're already the House Witch, whether you feel like you deserve it or not."
"Is a House Witch supposed to resent the people she's protecting?" Elsie shook her head. "I know what I've done, Dorian. And I know what I've lost."
"Fates, Elsie," he stepped in close to her, a hand moving to cup her cheek. She felt their Talents react, curling and growing with each other in spite of the painful conversation. He kissed her then, tasting of brandy and something minty and her mind tilted off the subject. His hands made a slow progression over her back, drawing her closer as the kiss continued, and Elsie lost herself in the feel of him.
Finally he drew away, pressing his forehead to hers as he struggled to catch his breath.
"You can't win all your arguments that way," she murmured to him.
The joke caught him off guard because he huffed a laugh. "I'll try to remember that," he said. And then, with a sad smile, he tucked a bit of her hair behind her ear. "I imagine every House Witch has a moment or two of resentment, Elsie. Though not to the extent I think you are speaking of. But if it helps any, the natural reaction to such a loss is to wonder if it is worth it in the end."
Elsie curled up against him, resting her cheek on his chest and closing her eyes. She could fight the union later. For the moment all she wanted was his strength, his comfort, his voice. He held her there, promising without speaking that he wouldn't fail her.
"Will it be worth it in the end?" she asked.
His breath stirred the hair around the base of her neck, "That depends on you."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Propped comfortably in her bed, the mattress seemed to hold them both in a cocoon of snug warmth, keeping them safe as the ship brought them closer to the end battle. To the moment when Elsie would have to face Reonne and the Dellidus, who Dorian had not forgotten held the body of her father captive. His jacket lay on the bureau, ruined until Elsie could mend the hole, with an alarming array of weaponry on top of it. Elsie was snuggled up against his right side, quietly dozing. He'd noticed on the Brietta that she snored a bit when in deep slumber so he knew she was only on the verge, partly dreaming and partly aware of him. There was a contented sort of feeling from her, as though the moodiness of recent loss had morphed at last into resigned peace.
They'd closed the balcony doors to keep heat in the room, but the glass still allowed for a clear view of the outside. A golden sunset put the room into a glow of many shades of cream and burnished copper, the colors fading bit by bit as the hours past. Shadows formed in the far corners, stretching out in odd, elongated angles with the onset of twilight. He could see the moon, long and crescent, almost reachable just outside the doors. Three or four stars peppered around it, waiting for the day to finish and the night to finally claim the world.
He wasn't certain when he had fallen asleep, but when he awoke the light had gone, replaced with the silver glow of moonlight. A scuffling noise outside of Elsie's door brought him fully awake. Squinting at the door as though he might see through it - this, alas, went beyond even his magic - Dorian focused on his hearing, zeroing in on the three voices just beyond.
"Why me?" - Winslow's voice and Dorian relaxed.
"Because she seems to like you."
He was fairly certain that was Bartholomew.
"Well she's not going to like me if I pound on her door while she's mourning her sister. You do it."
"I can't afford the disfavor. I represent the soon-to-be House Witch of Feverrette now, remember? There could be political repercussions."
"You're just afraid all that Bedim influence might land you with a blade in your gullet."
"Gentlemen," Gremor's voice now. "Gentlemen, if you please. Master Dorian has been missing for nine hours now. I don't care which of you knocks as long as you do so quickly."
"So you do it," Winslow and Bart said in unison.
Dorian snorted his humor and gingerly transferred Elsie's body onto a pillow. She grumbled a bit, blinking bleary eyes at him as he slid off the bed. He motioned for her to be quiet, grinning before turning to tiptoe to the door. Disheveling his hair with one hand he untucked his shirt with the other, then waited for the knock.
It came in short order, two heavy strikes on the wood, and Dorian yanked the door open, forcing a sour and censorious look to his face.
"What in Fates is going on out here?" he demanded.
Gremor - poor man - was the one who had knocked. His saggy features lifted in appall, whitening all the more as the state of Dorian's undress became apparent. Bartholomew made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gargle, and Winslow scoffed. Glancing over his shoulder at the bed, now empty, he moved to block their view of the room with his body and the door, wondering where Elsie had fled.
It didn't matter, he was too far involved with horrifying his manservant to locate her. His Talent told him she was in the room, and that was enough. He frowned at Gremor, who was stammering to find his sensibilities again.
"Speak up, man. Why are the three of you loitering outside Elsie's door?"
"Ah ... well ... you see ... but ... " Gremor choked for the right words.
He couldn't hold it anymore. Dorian broke, laughing so loud it made Bart jump. "Breathe, Gremor," he said. "I could hear you from inside."
"Are you mad? The Council will ... " Bart found his composure first.
"The Council can leap into the Wild," Winslow grasped Bart's shoulder, stopping the man from finishing his thought.
Bartholomew looked from Winslow to Dorian and back again, and then shut his mouth.
"But how did you get in there?" Gremor asked. "I've watched your door all day."
"Balcony," Dorian grinned more when Gremor gasped.
"Fates alive!" Gremor wailed. "What if you'd fallen?"
"I imagine it would have hurt, a lot." Dorian leaned against the doorframe, keeping himself wedged so that Elsie could remain in private.
"Quite the gathering," his father said, walking in from the parlor. "I see you've found Dorian, excellent. The staff has been frantically searching the ship for hours." Rorant glanced at the door, one eyebrow lifting with dry humor. "How is the lady?"
"She'll be fine," Dorian said. He felt her hand suddenly on his hip, just out sight from the crew in the hall. Her fingers started a slow, deliberate trail down the side of his leg. His body stiffened in response. "In fact, I think she is feeling a good deal better."
"That's very good to hear," Rorant pushed his way to the front of the gathering, murmuring a small apology to Winslow. "Now then, Lady Leona was asking the proper procedure for speaking with Elsie in private. The girl seems out of sorts and concerned. Perhaps you can influence the Heir to seek her out?"
His knee made an involuntary twitch, bumping into the door as her hand continued its progression ove
r the back of his thigh. "I'll see what I can do, Father," Dorian kept himself from sucking in a breath of surprise. "Now if you don't mind, gentlemen, the hour is a bit late."
"It's only a half past eight, my lord. And you haven't eaten all day." Gremor said. "Are you not hungry?"
"I know where the galley is if I'm plagued with a need to eat, Gremor." Dorian slid back into the room and bid them all a good night.
She closed the door with him, remaining out of sight, and leaned against it with a wicked smile. Caging her with his arms he brought the full length of his body to press against her. There was a ginger scent to her hair. He'd noticed it before but he was dizzy with it now. Her heartbeat quickened, fluttering so that he could see it at her neck and he bent to kiss her there. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the occupants of the hall disperse, grumbling with various degrees of relief.
"I was testing your restraint, My Lord," she teased him. "I am most impressed."
His mouth still lingered at her neck. Smiling, he traced her throat with his tongue, light and slow, listening to the breath as it caught in her chest. "No," he murmured against the delicate skin there. "Not yet you aren't. But I swear by morning you will be."
***
"I'm not certain what to call you anymore," Leona said.
Elsie watched the girl over her coffee, holding the ceramic mug with both hands and wishing she were still ensconced in Dorian's arms, lazily enjoying the morning. However, Leona's body language reminded her that she was still needed. The little thing sat so rigid in her chair, staring intently into the mug that she had yet to sip from, that Elsie felt a pang of pity for her.
"You can call me Nessa if it makes you more comfortable," Elsie lowered her coffee. "No matter the name you choose, I hope you still call me friend."
Leona's shoulders relaxed a smidge. She flashed a weak smile. "How could you want that? If my mother has done everything you say she has?"
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