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There are few places where Loquatius Seelie feels more at home than an evening gala, among the bright lights, free-flowing drinks, leather and velvet and the soft swish of silk. Amusing how skilled mortals are at manufacturing such a credible imitation of a fey court’s festivities. It’s one of the reasons he keeps up his friendship with Patia: the hoity-toity upper crust of Avalir can say what they will about the archmage, but she knows how to throw a good party.
Loquatius sips his cocktail—the sharp tang of citrus tempered by a sweetness that reminds him of the sugary mintberries from his faraway childhood—and scans the crowd. It’s not just the trappings of elegant luxury that does it for him, he decides. It’s the thrum of energy in the air. He lets just the slightest bit of the low buzz humming beneath his skin rise to the surface, catching his reflection in the glass of a carved grandfather clock just in time to watch himself shift: his artful curls turning to a shade of gold a smidge brighter than what he’d started the evening with, an attractive flush staining his now sun-darkened cheeks.
The change suits him. He decides to keep it.
His eyes flicker an inch to the right of his mirror image to see a dark-haired woman watching him from the other side of the room. The corner of his mouth twitches. He enjoys the pursuit, but there’s something uniquely entertaining about flirting with someone who’s already interested.
Loquatius downs the rest of his drink and sets it down on the nearest flat surface, a well-practiced smile already on his face as he takes a fifth cocktail from a nearby hodmedod. He loves this. Weaving in and out of the crowd, exchanging pleasantries—oh, Evandrin is finally here, always a treat to flirt with him and his equally handsome, if taciturn husband Zerxus—before Loquatius finally ends his circuit with one final inspection of his reflection at the other side of the room. He looks amazing. He always does.
It takes him no longer than a second to spot the head of dark hair he’s had his eye on. A compliment would be best for opening a conversation, but the scowl she wears is fiercer than he’d ever care to wear on any but his worst days, and even compliments must have at least a grain of truth to them. Perhaps she would prefer a willing ear to complain to instead.
“You don't look like you’re enjoying your evening very much, my lady,” Loquatius purrs. "Is everything alright?"
“Oh. It’s you.”
He's startled when the golden eyes that turn in his direction hold much more scorn than would be warranted from someone he’s never met before, but he has this down to an art form. He recovers his composure immediately.
“How flattering that you already know of me, but nevertheless, let me introduce myself. Loquatius Seelie of the Herald’s Tome, at your service. Though I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
She rolls her eyes. The open disdain is more than a little fetching. “Of course you don’t remember me.”
He blinks, bewildered by this pronouncement. “I’m not in the habit of forgetting anyone I’ve ever spoken to, my lady—”
“Well, I’m not in the habit of speaking to anyone from the press, either,” she says, her gaze already lost to the sea of faces before them. “So in hindsight, it probably isn’t that surprising.”
“Let me rectify my past errors then,” Loquatius says, putting on what he knows is his most charming smile and tries not to be discomfited by the fact that she seems completely bored by his company.
“Laerryn Coramar,” she says vaguely without looking at him.
Well. The Architect Arcane herself. That is impressive indeed. Loquatius knows of her, of course, but he’s certain he’s never seen her until now. Either way, he should at least strike up an acquaintance with her. One never knows when a new source of information might come in handy, if nothing else.
“Have we really met before, my lady? I’m certain someone like you would be unforgettable to me.” For all the Architect’s dress is so fashionable, she's hardly bothered with makeup. A dusting of rouge on her cheeks, a swipe of kohl around her eyes that's slightly askew, nothing more.
“We have, although only in passing,” she says, and grabs a glass of champagne from a passing hodmedod’s tray without waiting for it to ask. Her nails are trimmed short, the dark paint chipped. “I was busy. You were doing some piece on the preparations for the Replenishment. But your hair was a different color then, a sea green sort of blue with highlights—” She stops speaking abruptly and takes a rather large gulp of her drink.
Oh. Loquatius thinks he knows what she’s talking about. His hair had been a rich teal streaked with sky blue—he’d been feeling oddly sentimental for a river that had traversed past the window of his childhood bedroom that day, and it had shown.
“It was nice,” she adds as an afterthought. “That’s all.”
“Thank you, Architect Coramar,” Loquatius says, thrown by the unexpected compliment. She… had remembered that? He can hardly remember what his own face looked like five minutes ago.
“Just Laerryn, please,” she says with a wrinkle of her nose. “Not a big fan of formalities.”
“This is an odd place to find you, then,” he comments, glancing at the crowd around them.
“I promised Patia. And Evandrin made me.”
He hums. No wonder she hadn't bothered dressing up—she didn't even want to be here to begin with. She’s a busy woman, after all. “I see we have some common friends, at least.”
“Probably, if you got an invite to be here. Patia cares a lot about that sort of thing.” Laerryn shrugs. “Listen, if you’re here to make small talk with me, I’m really not interested. You can go now.”
Loquatius puts his glass down. What a fascinating creature she is. He hasn’t encountered such forthrightness in a ballroom in at least a decade, not since the first time he met Zerxus.
“Let me entertain you with more interesting conversation, then.”
Laerryn glances at him sidelong, as though she hadn't expected him to persist. “I hear you’re a changeling—is that true?”
“Very much so.” She’s baiting him by being rude, and he knows it. He's more than willing to change faces for nothing but her amusement, but she's already looked away.
“A master of deception, then.”
“Yes,” Loquatius agrees readily. “Nothing more important in this line of work than to make people think you’re a vainglorious little peacock without two brain cells to rub together.”
That earns him a tiny smile. “Are you telling me that isn’t the case?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that. Though I can’t imagine an Architect of your status would think much of what I do, if a party like this bores you.”
Laerryn raises an arched eyebrow at him. “Do you really think I’d be here talking to you if I didn’t think you were worth the conversation?”
“So you think I’m worth the conversation?” he asks, grinning as she rolls her eyes again.
“That’s still up for assessment.”
“Let me know when you’ve made a decision.”
“Don’t bother waiting around.”
Loquatius chuckles. “Give me a little credit here. To quote your own words, do you really think I’d be here talking to you if I didn’t think you were worth the conversation?”
“No,” she says flatly.
Oh. Loquatius flounders for a moment, bewildered. He'd expected banter, not candor. No one has ever been this good at throwing him off before.
“I’m told that isn’t usually the kind of impression my reputation leaves,” he says after a pause.
Laerryn shrugs again. When she does, the deep violet of her gorgeous dress ripples from shoulders to hem. “You’re great at making it look like you do things aimlessly, but I disagree. A master of deception, as I said.”
He's stunned by this assessment, but takes care to keep it from showing. “Takes one to know one.”
“I don’t bother with deception,” she corrects him.
“What you see is what you get, then?”
“Precisely.” She smiles again, small but genuine. “Your polar opposite, you might say.”
Loquatius leans down, shifting his face into something he knows mortals find universally appealing—larger eyes, fuller mouth, heavy lashes. “They do say opposites attract, you know.”
Laerryn lets out a decidedly ungraceful snort. “That is, and I can’t emphasize this enough, a terrible line.”
“Made you laugh though, didn’t it? I’d call that successful enough.”
“How many masks you must wear,” she says, apropos of absolutely nothing. For the first time, she turns and looks him squarely in the eye. “What does your face really look like?”
Very few have ever dared to ask Loquatius so bluntly before. He has a standard set of responses at the ready: a face that launched a thousand skyships is his favorite one, or bold of you to assume I possess a face of my own at all, when he’s feeling less charitable; but Laerryn is asking for more than glibness.
His mouth quirks. “Not much to look at, really,” he says, more honestly than he’d intended.
“Let me be the judge of that,” she says quietly.
The concept of wanting to flee from a conversation has been completely alien to him until this very moment. He swallows. The intensity of her gaze strips him bare, down to the core. Not many have seen his real face—at this gala, Patia and Evandrin, certainly, and Zerxus by extension—to ask him to reveal himself in the midst of a crowd like this? Unthinkable. Here, there are no mirrors where he can watch himself. There is only Laerryn and the full force of her clear-eyed attention. Laerryn and her disarming truthfulness, her bare face, her calloused hands. It’s almost frightening how beautiful she is, despite all the flaws she displays so openly. How could he not remember meeting her before? How could he forget someone like her?
He wants to show her. He doesn’t know why, but he does.
Loquatius lets his face morph in increments, just to see Laerryn’s reaction. Her golden eyes widen as he lets the hectic color drain from his face and hair, until there is nothing left but the blankness of his white hair and eyes, his grayish skin mottled by faint webs of black veins beneath. It’s his lot as a changeling to always be someone other than himself. Sometimes, even he isn’t entirely certain there’s anyone behind the masks he wears at all.
“There you have it,” he says wearily. She’s still staring at him, slightly open-mouthed, her champagne glass dangling forgotten at her fingers. He allows her to look a second longer before restoring his appearance. “Are you satisfied?”
“Hardly,” Laerryn says, her voice low. Her gaze makes him feel as though he’s being consumed whole. “That was one hell of a party trick, Herald Seelie.”
“Loquatius, please,” he says automatically. He licks his lips. Maybe Laerryn hadn’t deigned to bestow a single glance on him when they’d first met. There’s no way he could forget the way those golden eyes blazed. “I’d be happy to demonstrate for you again, if you like.”
Her gaze turns bright with curiosity. “Patia told me you would be charming.”
“Did she, now? That’s quite the compliment coming from her.”
Laerryn has an odd half-smile on her face. “We’re told to be wary of fey folk. Your kind possesses magic far beyond that of any mortal. Is that true of you too?”
“Yes,” he says.
She takes a step closer. Then another. “I want to see it.”
“I’ll show you whatever you like,” he says, his throat dry.
Even to his own ears, it sounds like a promise. Laerryn must notice, because her smile widens. Gods, she is so beautiful. Loquatius is entirely lost.
“Aren’t you going to ask me for something in exchange?” she asks archly.
His face breaks into a grin, a real one, entirely without his permission. “Hasn’t anyone ever warned you about not getting into contracts with the fey?”
“What’s the worst you could ask for?” she scoffs. “My life? My soul?”
“Your heart, maybe,” he says, his lips twitching.
She actually groans aloud at that. “You really have to work on those godawful lines of yours. The only way I’m entering a contract with you is if I walk into it with my eyes wide open.”
“You sound terribly sure of yourself.”
“That’s because I am.”
Loquatius privately agrees. The Architect Arcane holds the strings of their great city firmly in her capable hands—he’s certain that she could unmake the entirety of Avalir if she set her mind to it, to say nothing of a simple contract. Not that he’s going to tell her that.
“Well?” Laerryn demands. “What are your terms?”
“I’ve already told you,” he says, smiling. “Your heart, in exchange for my magic.” She pulls a face at him, and he laughs. “I’ll settle for your attention, if that isn’t agreeable to you.”
“Oh, if that’s all,” she says, relenting, “you’ll definitely have that. Far too much of it than you could ever want, probably. What happens if you or I break the contract?”
Loquatius hums. “I suppose we’ll find out.”
“Everything comes with risks, I guess,” she says, sighing. “Is that all?”
“Almost. One last thing.” Loquatius leans closer, lets his body shift back into his own pale, featureless appearance. “There are many ways to enter contracts with the fey, as I’m sure you know. And I prefer a kiss to seal the deal, Architect Arcane.”
He expects her to object. To slap him across the face for his boldness, even.
Instead, she steps forward and yanks him down by the lapels.
For a moment, time slows and comes to a complete stop.
Perhaps it’s fortunate after all that Laerryn was already skulking in a corner of the room, mostly out of sight, because Loquatius forgets everything in the face of the softness of her mouth, her warm spicy scent filling his lungs, her body a line of heat against his own.
It lasts no longer than a few seconds, but he’s left stunned when they break apart. He can feel the fey magic in his veins coursing through his veins, knitting them together. She gasps, still clutching at his lapels, shivering as though with cold, but her golden eyes are burning.
“Is that—”
“Yes. Binding, just as you asked for.” Loquatius encircles an arm around her waist. She lets him. Suddenly, he realizes he wants her to look at him again. He’d do anything to have her full attention just a few moments longer. “When would you like your first demonstration?”
“In five minutes,” she says at once. “At the cloakroom on the first floor.”
He huffs out a laugh, hopelessly endeared despite the fire she’s stoking in him. “You should really be more careful what you wish for.”
She pushes him away and sweeps past him without a second look. “Make it worth it, Seelie.”
“Oh, I think you’ll find yourself quite satisfied,” he says, smirking. After all, he is nothing but truthful.