Chapter Text
When Father tells him to come to the drawing room on the eve of his twenty-first birthday, Lyney knows that it’s time.
Debutants range in age from sixteen to eighteen, usually. Some nineteen, if their parents do not have spools of mora readily available at their disposal. The modiste is shrewd with her business model and ups her prices a month before the social season begins, though members of the lower society wouldn’t know. They, after all, cannot afford her regular offerings either.
And members with babes still flush and wet from their cribs grew up in families where finances were a hushed matter, always locked behind closed doors. They do not know either.
Some debutants are twenty, though it’s rare to see one so late, and usually, they are a special case. Twenty-one, on the other hand, is completely unheard of.
And yet, here they are.
He nods at Father, and when she looks away, his eyes find Lynette standing a little to the side. He takes in her sallow cheeks and fragile form and walks up to stand in front of her, smiling. She only ever deserves his smiles.
“It is our time,” he tells her, squeezing her brittle hand and inhaling the dim light in her eyes. She does not smile, but she is a beautiful thing. He laughs at the notion of protecting her honor from hungry lords and ladies and their incessant mamas, then shakes his head and leads her upstairs through the house.
They find Father sitting in her armchair at the end of the sitting area, one elbow perched on the rest while her gloved hands gently circles a tight silver spoon through her tea. She looks up as they walk through the doors, and as Lyney closes them shut behind him, Lynette slinks into the very edge of the couch opposite Father.
Lyney takes the seat next to her. He clears his throat.
“Father,” he greets.
Father hums. The steam from her tea curls by her mouth as she brings the porcelain to her lips. She speaks slowly, “I’d like for your presentation to be made to the queen this season.”
Lyney glances sidelong at his sister, who’s gazing calmly at Father.
He lowers himself until he is caught in a half-bow. It is an awkward angle, but it is a must. “If that is what you wish.”
“It is,” Father says. “It is about time. I will have an order note sent to Chioriya by the week’s end.”
“Thank you, Father,” Lyney says quietly.
“Thank you, Father,” Lynette says, quieter.
Father nods, then stands up, and Lyney keeps his eyes trained on his own feet as she calmly walks to the exit and disappears out into the hallway, the door clicking faintly shut behind her.
He twists and finds his sister’s eyes. He grins, and her expression softens. “You are debuting in society,” she says.
“We are debuting in society,” he says, reaching across the thick cushion and entangling their fingers together. A spiderweb, east to west. Thick and collected, the kind where if you stretch it, it will extend for miles and miles. He laughs, and he thinks it sounds watery, a little. “I am going to have a blast scaring off all those brooding people from you. My sister should only have the best of the best for her spouse.”
Lynette sighs. “I don't even want to be married, brother.”
“Good,” says Lyney. “That is the attitude you should be having about all of this, for the rest of the season.” A pause. “Though, I admit that’s selfish of me to ask of you, even if I am only speaking in jest. If love were to come your way, I hope that you won’t shy away from it.”
“Love only exists in fairy tales,” Lynette says with a huff. “Unfortunately, I think you’ll be stuck with me a little while longer.” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well, at least one season’s worth.”
He grins. He bumps their shoulders together. Outside, a bird cries in song.
Lynette falls sick the day they’re set to visit the modiste. She gets sick a lot. For the past two years, she’s spent more of her days in her bed than out of it. Lyney visits her room before leaving and tells his valet to wait outside. He leans over her haggard, sleeping figure and forcefully swallows down his grief.
He goes to Chioriya Boutique with Freminet instead. He tells his brother of their sister’s condition, and he watches as Freminet’s face twists into something indecipherable. It’s been like this for a while. Ever since the incident. Whenever Lyney brings up their sister, Freminet will quiet, look away for a few seconds before nodding. He’s noticed too, of course. Surely everyone has. Lynette was never the most talkative, but she’s changed since that night two years ago. It’s different now.
The modiste’s name is Chiori. She fixes her glasses atop the bridge of her nose as Lyney and Freminet enter, and she ushers them into the back and sits Freminet down onto a chair by the racks of colorful fabrics. Lyney takes his spot center stage, and he revels in it, smiling down and making delicate small talk with the frazzled woman as she fixes his suit over his body.
It’s a pretty thing, extravagant and beautiful. Soft white silk that falls gracefully down over his waist and his legs. His breath catches in his throat as an ostrich plume is delicately placed in his hair, and when he looks in the mirror, he feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
“It’s beautiful,” he says softly.
“Well,” says Chiori, “it is a classic. I make dozens of these every season for debutantes like you.”
“Your classics are very well made,” he compliments, bowing his head to look closer at her and watching the feather arch over the top of her head. The sweep of it barely misses the pins holding her brown curls away from her neck. “Father will make sure to deliver you your dues.”
“Glad to hear it, Mr. Snezhevich. Thank you for your patronage,” says Chiori, and then she peels the fabric away from Lyney’s body and hands him his regular clothes back.
Lyney’s arm catches Freminet's elbow as they exit the boutique. His grip does not loosen until they are back at the House of the Hearth.
Her Majesty Queen Furina de Fontaine sits atop her throne as if she will die if her body is separated from it. Her back arches over the arm of it, her fingers run over the jewels studding the gold border, and she tilts her head in her right-hand’s direction, smirking wickedly and leaning closer to whisper something into his ear.
Neuvillette shifts. It is imperceptible. Lyney watches from the center of the line, then looks to Lynette next to him. Her dress is identical to his suit in color and in style, the cut masterfully executed to account for her height. Her face is flush with powder and gentle rouge paints her lips.
“Remember,” he whispers to her, “Monsieur Neuvillette’s favor is just as important as Her Majesty’s.”
“Everyone knows that, brother,” Lynette chides.
He winks. “Just wanted to make sure.”
Father comes behind them. She places her palm on the heart of Lyney’s back, and she looks down at him, her eyes sharp. “Straight back. Step right, right foot behind left, bend down, arms out.”
Immediately, Lyney sobers. He nods. Next to him, Lynette nods too.
“Good,” says Father. “It is almost our turn. Do not forget.” Her expression darkens. “Her Majesty may be ignorant, but that Neuvillette…nothing gets past him. He will know who we are.”
Lyney glances furtively around. “Does anyone else know?”
“Unlikely,” Father mutters. “I uphold an impeccable image in society.”
He doesn’t doubt it. Father is nothing if not poised, delicate in the way she carries herself. Though, Lyney supposes all of that changes when she’s completing assignments or conducting official Fatui business for the Hearth.
The two girls and their mother in front of them step through the threshold and onto the stage, and Lyney watches as Furina’s eyes glaze over them. Her stance is bored, though next to her, Neuvillette observes the girls carefully, his brows set atop his forehead. The girls are presented by their mother, sinking down into a perfect curtsy in front of Furina, and Furina sighs and rolls her eyes and flicks her wrist disinterestedly to shoo them away.
Well. He supposes that’s their cue.
Lyney’s hand darts to his side, finding Lynette’s and squeezing her fingers in his palm. He offers her a lightning-quick smile, and then his expression flattens. He waits for Father to stride forward, and as soon as he catches her leg extending in his periphery, he pushes off of his spot and enters the spotlight.
“Lord Arlecchino of the Hearth,” announces the footman by the pathway’s start.
Neuvillette straightens. Furina does too, but only after her eyebrows furrow at Neuvillette’s clear display of interest. She cocks her head, reaching over to poke his shoulder with the tip of her index finger, and he half-turns to face her, murmuring something under his breath and watching as Furina’s expression shifts to one of burning glee, as if she has just been let in on some big secret. Then again, that is probably exactly what just happened.
Lyney ignores it. He keeps his gaze respectful, and he walks alongside his sister until he is perched at the apex of the room. He curtsies just as practiced, and he watches through his periphery as Furina stands to her feet. She down at them, scrutinizing, and it is as if the entire world has gone still around them. Ladies and lords, misters and misses are holding their breaths. Next to Lyney, he feels Father shift in obvious anticipation.
“Hmm,” Furina drawls, “yes, I like you. You have an aura about you, little one. Like you were made to be on a stage! Très magnifique! Neuvillette, pencil him in for tea sometime after the first ball. What is your name, droplet?”
Lyney looks up. His fingers are buzzing as they clutch onto the fabric of his coat. “Lyney Snezhevich, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent, excellent,” Furina grins, and then she starts cackling, bending over as the palms of her hands find her stomach. “Oh, lovely, just lovely! Speaking of which, Neuvillette, who has requested to throw the first ball of the season?”
“The Duke of Meropide, Your Majesty,” says Neuvillette, and immediately, Lyney feels himself go very, very still.
“Oh, that dreadful Wriothesley fellow,” says Furina, shuddering a little. For the life of him, Lyney cannot tell if her reaction is real or not. Then Furina’s expression breaks, and she’s giggling. “I only jest, I jest of course!”
Only the Queen of Fontaine would be bold enough to refer to the Duke of Meropide as anything other than His Grace.
Then again, Lyney thinks, maybe she’s not the only one.
Father inhales and exhales next to him, which he supposes is his cue. He rises until he is standing again, and then he exchanges a furtive glance with his sister, who nods discreetly in his direction before turning and walking further down the path and away from Furina and Neuvillette. She turns to him when they are safely in the next room, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of her lips. She seems proud, in her own way, of him. That he was able to somehow gain the queen’s favor in such a roundabout way.
It is no small feat, after all.
Lynette lowers her chin to the ground when Father approaches them, and Father’s eyes sweep over her before zeroing in on Lyney. “Well done,” she says.
“Thank you, Father,” Lyney murmurs. The feather in his hair bends and sways by her shoulder as he bows, and Father hums, nodding at him shortly before walking away to greet one of the other lords in attendance. He releases a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, then sighs and looks back to his sister, who’s looking at him expectantly. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
“Me neither, if we’re being very honest,” she says, and Lyney laughs and lightly punches her shoulder with the curl of his fist. “Her Majesty invited you for tea with her. Do try not to make too much of a fool of yourself.”
“When have you ever known me to make a fool of myself, dear sister?”
“Do not even get me started,” says Lynette, and then she turns on her heel and walks away.
The invitation arrives at the House of the Hearth the next day: a ball is to be held on the Isle of Meropide in a week’s time, hosted by the one and only Duke of Meropide: His Grace, Duke Wriothesley.
Lyney has been dreading this from the moment he learned at the debutante ceremony that the duke would be hosting the very first ball of the season; it’s no surprise that he is, considering his close ties to the royal court and the fact that he is personal friends with Monsieur Neuvillette. He is the perfect candidate to open the season, although he is not known to be a host. Plus, his estate is large and quite beautiful.
Lyney would know.
His servant fits him into a suit of red silk that perfectly complements the violet of his eyes and the paleness of his skin. Lyney admires the fabric with unabashed awe, making a mental note to express his thanks to Chiori the next time he sees her. Next, rouge is patted onto his cheekbones and a touch of red is applied on the heart of his lips, and as his hair is done up with pins and decorated with baby pink pearls, he meets his eyes through the mirror in front of him and takes a long, slow breath.
It will be fine, he thinks mutedly, if he expertly maneuvers himself so that he does not come in contact with Wriothesley. He’s sure Wriothesley isn’t very eager to see him, either. Considering—well, considering everything.
So he forces the tension out of his figure and straightens up, plastering a smile on his face and carefully picking through the holes in his facade until what is left before him is some small semblance of what one would consider normal: happiness. Anticipation. The suit, all of a sudden, feels tight and heavy on his body.
He thanks the servant for their good work, and then he heads to the hallway, finding Freminet waiting for him right outside his door with his cloak. He takes it from his hands, blowing him a soft kiss and asking, “Is Lynette ready?”
“She…” Freminet trails off. “She’s waiting for you in the carriage, brother.”
“Perfect,” Lyney nods, and then he’s off.
He finds Lynette fiddling with the hem of her skirt in her designated spot in their carriage. Hers is a pretty teal color, the silk smooth and flowy against her figure, and her hair is done up halfway. Before he allows the footman to help him climb on board, he looks over to his right, just in time to see Father entering her own carriage a little ahead of them.
“Brother,” Lynette calls, “are you going to get on?”
Lyney huffs and follows her lead.
He sits himself down across from her, crossing one of his legs over the other and leveling her with a look. “Well?” he asks, tilting his head. “Are you excited for your very first ball as a member of high society?”
Lynette shifts in her seat. “This dress is exceedingly itchy.”
“It looks lovely on you,” he compliments.
Lynette sighs. “I’m sure it does. But it is not the most comfortable, so. It kind of cancels out.”
“Mm. Are you feeling better?” Lyney asks softly. “You know, you could have stayed home if you wanted to. I’m sure Father wouldn’t have minded.”
“That’s true,” Lynette nods. “She seems a lot more interested in making sure you’re gaining the important peoples’ favor.”
“I hope you know she still wants the best for you as well.”
“I do know that,” his sister says. “Though I also know that you’re the child of hers that is going to actually have names filled on your dance card.”
Lyney gasps. “Don’t tell me you’re not going to dance? You?”
“Dancing has never been my strong suit,” Lynette admits. “You know this.”
Lyney does not. When they were younger, Lynette was the one between the three siblings who carried herself across the dance floor—well, their little practice area in the House of the Hearth’s drawing room—with the type of elegance you would see from only the most seasoned dancers. She’s the one who helped Lyney learn half of what he knows now, and he’s sure Freminet will be an excellent dancer thanks to her once he’s old enough to debut in society as well.
“I just…” Lynette starts, snapping him out of his thoughts, “all of this is a lot, for me. And I haven’t really been able to dance, ever since…”
Lyney swallows. “I understand,” he says quietly. “If you don’t want to dance, I won’t force you too.” A pause. “Though if someone asks you to, you must know it’s not possible for you to decline.”
“Such are the sticky rules of society,” says Lynette, and then she sighs in that way of hers. To the untrained eye, someone wouldn’t be able to tell whether she cared too much, or whether she didn’t care at all. “I’ve got it, brother. Though you must promise me you won’t try to make any introductions for me. Or ask someone else to do so in your stead. Then I really won’t be able to say no.”
Lyney laughs. “Okay,” he nods, “I promise.”
And so they go.
The Isle of Meropide is a wet budding rose, a few more specks of water, or maybe blood, and it will unfurl and tint the sky with its swollen redness. In the center lies a palace that is fit for only the burliest of kings—or, in this case, a duke.
Lyney steps to the ground and gently helps Lynette out of the carriage, and then the two of them stare up at the grand, imposing walls of the Meropide estate and reach for each other’s hands.
“Can you breathe?” Lyney murmurs quietly.
“I’m okay,” Lynette says. Her voice shakes, ever so slightly, and to anyone else, it would go unnoticed.
Fortunately, Lyney isn’t anyone else. So he offers her what he hopes is his most reassuring smile and says, “If you want to leave, just come and find me. Don’t think about anything else. I’ll be the one to deal with Father if she gets upset by an early departure.”
“Perhaps she’d understand,” says Lynette thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you if I don’t feel well, brother. But don’t worry yourself over me the entire night. Go and have fun. I’ll feel bad if you don’t.”
“I’ll try my best,” he says, squeezing her hand, and then Father appears at his left and leads them inside.
The ballroom is decorated with flowers and greenery and candlelight, floor to ceiling windows and a sweeping balcony that overlooks the gardens. There are dozens of people milling about, some dancing in the center, most mingling together in small groups around the trim of the room. Dresses of gold and pastel glint against the buttery light, while ribbons and beads and sparkling crystals twinkle like starlight from where they’re adorned in the guests’ hair. Soft music wafts from the piano as they approach it, and as Father greets a few acquaintances, Lyney and Lynette trail a safe distance behind her.
The last time he had been here, Lyney hadn’t stuck around long enough to appreciate the beauty of the estate. Very honestly, he has no intentions of doing so right now, either, though the splendor is irritatingly hard to miss. They have to spend the next several hours here, so, he supposes he will have to try his hardest to swallow down the sick feeling pooling in his gut until he is back in the safety of his bedroom at home.
“Do you think Wriothesley—” Lyney starts.
“Keep your voice down,” Lynette cuts him off, a stern glint in her eyes. “You wouldn’t want to be called out for impertinence.”
Lyney scoffs, but he lowers his voice in spite of himself. “I hardly think Wriothesley would expect me to treat him with any semblance of respect.”
“Fair,” his sister agrees with a slight tilt of his head. “Though, brother, you must remember where we are.”
“Don’t worry,” says Lyney, “it would be hard for me to forget.”
They head over to the table piled with sweets, and Lyney picks out a cupcake and offers one to Lynette, who declines with a shake of her head. “I think I’ll fall sick if I eat anything,” she says, and then, “Do you mind if I go and get myself some punch? It’ll give you an opportunity to get yourself out there too,” and Lyney sighs and gently knocks their shoulders together, nodding.
She smiles, tilting her head before turning on her heel and flickering away with a swish of her skirt, and Lyney is left to look out into the crowd of people, eyes sharp as he surveys the scene before him.
“Mr. Snezhevich!” a familiar voice calls from somewhere to his right, and Lyney turns just in time to see a woman walking over to him, her blonde curls in a loose updo and her pointed nails gripping the hem of her extravagant black-yellow dress. “I thought that was you! I heard from Monsieur Neuvillette’s melusine friends that you made your debut this season!”
“Lady Caspar,” Lyney greets, sweeping into a bow while Navia curtsies gently. “How lovely to see you! How long has it been?”
“Too long!” Navia exclaims, smiling as she cocks her head. “If you’d permit it, I’d love to call on you sometime this week. Perhaps we can catch up over some macarons and tea!”
Lady Navia Caspar is from the renowned Caspar family. She recently inherited the title of Countess of Poisson after her father’s passing, and of course, the Hearth has always kept close ties with all powerful lineages in society. The Caspars are no exception. She and Lyney are of similar age too, though Navia a little older, so despite Lyney debuting later than his peers, the two of them were still able to maintain casual relations that would not be frowned upon by etiquette’s standards. Besides, Navia got married in her second season out, so there was really no need to be skittish.
“That would be most agreeable,” Lyney smiles, and then asks, “How is your wife?”
“Oh, she should be around here somewhere,” says Navia. She looks around for a moment, frowning. “I swear she was just—ah! Over there! Clorinde!”
Lyney follows her gaze, and instead of focusing on the woman draped in deep purple silk, his eyes swipe over to the man she is currently speaking with: tall, broad shouldered, dark hair falling over and curtaining around his temple and the periwinkle of his eyes.
The Duke. Wriothesley.
Clorinde pauses in the middle of whatever it is she’s saying, turning her head and following the sound of Navia’s voice. Next to Lyney, Navia is waving her hand over her head, and Lyney watches as Clorinde finds them across the room, her expression softening ever so slightly at the sight of her wife.
Wriothesley turns too. Though his eyes find Lyney.
At first, there is nothing, and for one, excruciating second, Lyney wonders if Wriothesley remembers him at all. Something sick and ugly immediately pools in his stomach at the thought, because no matter how hard he has tried, that night two years ago has clouded over the bulb of his mind like a pesky moth. Large in its wings, cutting in its sting. Lyney tries to inhale and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.
But then the line of Wriothesley’s mouth flattens against the lower half of his face, and instantly, Lyney is positive that he remembers everything.
“Clorinde!” Navia is calling from next to him. “Come over here!”
Clorinde curtsies shortly to Wriothesley, who looks back at her in momentary bewilderment before he shakes his head and says something quietly. She nods slowly, and then he begins to follow her. Because of course he does. Of course he’s coming here with her. Lyney should have known, from the moment Navia approached him, that this would end up happening. Clorinde and Wriothesley have been friends for years. Of course they would be chatting it up at the duke’s season opening ball. Of course they would be together at precisely the moment Navia calls for her wife. Of course Lyney would be there too.
Poets would call this a stroke of fate. They’d be contradictory, Lyney thinks. After all, fate is supposed to be kind.
Clorinde stops in front of them first. She takes Navia’s hand in hers and swoops down to press a featherlight kiss to her knuckles. It is a sweet sight, rare amidst the hustle and bustle of hunting courtship. Navia giggles, rolling her eyes at the display, but her smile is fond, and that’s telling enough. Love matches are rare in society, but they are more often some of the strongest.
“Mr. Snezhevich,” Clorinde greets, now looking at Lyney, who bows in return. “How are you?”
“Getting used to all of this, to say the least,” says Lyney, smiling. There is something thick lodged in the back of his throat. He can feel Wriothesley’s eyes on the side of his face. “How have you been, Lady Caspar?”
“Well enough,” Clorinde nods. She squeezes Navia’s hand, still settled in her own. “My lady, would you do me the honor of joining me for the waltz?”
“The waltz, huh?” Navia grins. “I’d be most honored. Though, give me a second. Allow me to make a formal introduction for His Grace and Mr. Snezhevich first.”
Lyney quickly opens his mouth to protest. “That’s really not—”
“Your Grace,” Navia curtsies, and through the corner of his eye, Lyney watches as Wriothesley politely bows in return. It is the first time Lyney has allowed himself to look in his direction thus far, and almost immediately, he regrets it. “This is Mr. Lyney Snezhevich, the eldest son of Lord Arlecchino. Mr. Snezhevich, this is His Grace, Duke Wriothesley. He is the host of this lovely party, though I am sure you already knew that.”
Well. There’s not much Lyney can do now.
He turns to face Wriothesley, only to find him already staring back. Lyney meets his eyes and ignores the burning sensation in the tips of his fingers and his chest, the sickness curdling in his gut. “It is a pleasure to formally meet you, Your Grace,” he says, bowing. And if his bow is just a few degrees too short of perfect politeness, then nobody would be the wiser.
Except maybe—“The pleasure is mine,” says Wriothesley, and Lyney feels gooseflesh erupt over his skin at the sound of his voice, dreary and almost mocking in its intonation, “Mr. Snezhevich.”
Lyney swallows down the scowl that threatens to squeeze through the hard line of his mouth. Wriothesley pays no mind to it, and a few seconds later, Navia claps her hands together and bids them farewell, hurrying off to the dance floor with her wife. Lyney mourns her presence, for now he is alone. With Wriothesley. And after a formal introduction, well, it’s only a matter of time before—
“The waltz is beginning in a few minutes,” says Wriothesley, and instantly, Lyney’s head begins to throb. “May I see your dance card, Mr. Snezhevich?”
“And if I say no?” Lyney drawls. There’s no point in being polite. Not when no one else is within earshot.
“Hm,” says Wriothesley, “well, you’d be bold for rejecting a dance with me.”
“Your opinion of yourself is entirely too high.”
“I see,” says Wriothesley, “so I must assume someone has already reserved the waltz with you.”
Lyney feels the tips of his ears flush. It is here when he realizes that several eyes are currently skirting over them from all corners of the ballroom: the way Wriothesley is bent expectantly over him, the way Lyney is hanging his dance card from his wrist behind the curve of his back. It’s a sight that is shocking enough to send the jaws of even the most prim and proper mamas hanging open. After all, why is the Duke of Meropide talking so…intimately with the heir to the Hearth? Even if he did receive the queen’s favor upon his debut, jumping straight through every peerage rank and landing himself right on the very duke hosting this ball—it is surely unheard of!
Lyney feels his mask shutter over his face. He swallows, then straightens up and holds his hand out in front of his chest.
Wriothesley’s eyes narrow on him. He takes the card hanging off of his wrist and signs his name next to the waltz. Then he flicks his signature with his index finger and offers Lyney his arm, tilting his head expectantly.
“Shall we?”
“I cannot believe I am doing this,” Lyney informs him.
“Society tends to bring out the worst in everyone,” Wriothesley says smoothly, and there’s something about the timbre of his voice that has Lyney swallowing down another glare.
The music begins to swell and slow as Wriothesley leads them to the very center of the dance floor, and Lyney is only mildly aware of the dozens of eyes currently bearing holes into his form. Who is that? they must be whispering. Is that the duke? and Who is that dancing with His Grace? and That’s Lyney Snezhevich, he’s the heir to the title of the Hearth, and Didn’t you hear? Her Majesty personally invited him for tea upon the season’s opening.
Lyney looks up and meets Wriothesley’s eyes, and immediately, his breath catches in his throat. Like this, Wriothesley is so much larger than him, his hands wide and firm where one curls around the outline of Lyney’s waist and the other clasps around Lyney’s palm. He looks like an extension of the room itself and somehow more powerful at the same time, like the way people tend to look when a fire burns across their features in the center of a dark cave, or a slice of sunlight amidst hot summer afternoon. His face is a study in contrasts; from his sharp cheekbones to his shadowy, black eyebrows to his piercingly dark eyes.
There’s not an inch of softness to be found there, not even if someone were to spend hours upon hours looking for it.
Lyney, despite everything, finds himself transfixed by his obsidian stare as they slowly begin to sway back and forth in time with the music. He’s a good dancer, the duke, and this is an infuriating realization. His grip on Lyney’s waist remains tight as they glide across the floor, passing the other couples and curving into empty space. It's almost hypnotic, how smoothly Wriothesley maneuvers him across the floor, and Lyney is caught between the desire to wrench away from him and the desire to be hopelessly carried along.
“It’s been a while,” Wriothesley says, and Lyney almost starts, but reigns it in at the very last second.
“Not while enough,” he mutters, and almost as if it’s in retaliation, Wriothesley’s hand splays across the small of his back, and he dips him halfway down to the floor.
Lyney catches his eye from below, narrowing his own as he’s lifted effortlessly back to his feet and guided into the next part of the dance. Wriothesley hums, but there’s something odd about the way he’s looking at him. Almost as if he wants to say something.
Lyney is proven right when Wriothesley opens his mouth just a few seconds later: “Mr. Snezhevich,” he says, and then, “I am sorry about what happened to your sister—”
“Do not,” Lyney cuts in, pushing himself forward. His chest collides with Wriothesley, and there is a dangerous flicker in Wriothesley’s eyes as he tightens his grasp around his shoulder. “Do not even mention her in front of me.”
Wriothesley straightens. He slips his palm down until it’s resting at Lyney’s hip, and Lyney feels himself bristle at the touch. The air in his lungs grows heavy as he’s pulled along in the next flourish, and when Wriothesley finally responds, his voice is low.
“If that’s what you want.”
Lyney tilts his head. “Oh? I wasn’t under the impression you cared about what I want, Your Grace.”
“Only for this one matter,” Wriothesley mutters. “In any case, that was before, this is after.”
“This is now,” Lyney snaps. “There is no before and after.”
“Mr. Snezhevich, do you enjoy wearing that scowl of yours on your face?”
“Yes, actually, I do. I enjoy it very much. So much so that it feels like my second skin.”
“Hm,” Wriothesley hums. His lips twist. Lyney is sure it’s one of his practiced methods of getting something he wants. He wouldn’t expect anything more from a spoiled duke who probably never has had to worry about a thing in their life. “You know, people are watching you.”
“I am well aware,” says Lyney, though his skin prickles at the reminder anyway.
“The queen’s favor, and now a waltz with me. Things really are going quite well for you this season, aren’t they?”
“Once again, your opinion of yourself is entirely too high—”
Wriothesley spins him. For two seconds, the world tilts on its axis, and for two seconds, Lyney forgets everything his dancing instructors and his sister taught him. For two seconds, he comes dangerously close to toppling right onto Wriothesley’s chest, maybe step on his foot to get a point across, or something. But he catches himself, allows his nails to dig into the fabric of Wriothesley’s coat and slide across it like chalk, and then, just because he can, Lyney extends his foot just enough so that the heel of his boot drives into the front curve of his partner’s.
“Oops,” he says under his breath.
He watches as Wriothesley’s eye twitches. “Mr. Snezhevich. Am I supposed to believe you didn’t do that on purpose?”
“I’m not a very talented dancer, you see.” Another dip. Lyney’s eyes sweep across the crowd in the split-second his head is bent toward the ground, and he finds Father standing a little ways away, watching him intently. Wriothesley pulls him up and Lyney’s hand roams to his cravat, ghosting over the material for a short moment before his palm finds the space between his shoulder and his neck once again.
“You?” Wriothesley says. He doesn’t seem affected, at least on the outside. They’re back to the very center of the floor now. “Not a talented dancer? Now that I find hard to believe.”
“And you, Your Grace?” Lyney asks as he circles him. “I wasn’t under the impression the elusive Duke of Meropide likes to dance at the balls he hosts.” The corners of his mouth twitch, though not in amusement. “In fact, from what I’ve heard, you barely like to host them in the first place.”
“Well,” says Wriothesley, “how was I to resist when I heard that this was the season you were debuting?”
Lyney flinches so hard he almost recoils. Unfortunately, there are several eyes still carefully analyzing them right now, and backing out would mean Wriothesley is the winner of their little spite. So he wrenches his body back to the present and places it into the familiar motions of the dance.
The music is slowing now, easing back into something more akin to background noise. “So you were waiting for me.”
“I think a conversation was overdue,” says Wriothesley, and Lyney’s teeth sink into his bottom lip. “I think a conversation is overdue. It is, of course, hard to see people without the pretense of society functions.”
Everything feels tight. “I have nothing to talk to you about.”
“Now we both know that’s not true.”
And just like that, the dance ends. They take their places across from each other, Wriothesley bowing while Lyney curtsies.
They stand quietly for a moment. Around them, people are erupting into whispers, and Lyney feels each and every one of the eyes pointing in their direction snake around him and bite into his skin. Sweet venom that sinks through his veins and his skull and through the backs of his eyes. He knows everyone is watching them. He knows that this is going to be in tomorrow morning’s edition of the Steambird. He knows that Father is going to pull him aside later and either reprimand him or tell him he did a good job. His sister…he has no idea what his sister is going to say.
God. What the hell is he doing? Did he really just…with Duke Wriothesley?
It’s then when he really, truly realizes where he is: in the Isle of Meropide, in Duke Wriothesley’s estate. The same place he came on Father’s command two years ago, when he had snuck in and failed his mission and escaped through the waters around the border of the walls and watched as his sister—
“Mr. Snezhevich,” Wriothesley is saying from somewhere above him. But the world is going murky and smudged, and every sound is turning into a cacophony of screams and jeers and cheers and applause, all vying to become audible over one another. There’s fog and dirt and blood in his ears, and all of a sudden, the world is as it was two years ago: his bow is in his hands, and Lynette is at his heels, and they’re running. And the walls feel like they’re toppling in on them, and this was not how it was supposed to go. The duke wasn’t supposed to catch them. The duke wasn’t supposed to catch them.
“I—” Lyney starts, then stops.
His vision is spinning. His mouth feels numb.
He needs to get out of here.
“I need to go,” he says, maybe. He doesn’t really know. He’s still and he’s calm and he just needs to keep repeating that in his head until he’s safe and alone somewhere, anywhere. Anywhere that’s not here. But the thought of escaping the island is lodging water in his throat, spit gurgling up to his lips until his eyes smear with red.
He walks forward. One step at a time. There’s a weight around his arm, he realized belatefly, and when he looks up, he finds Wriothesley standing next to him, staring down at him with knitted brows and pursed, tight lips.
And that is too much. That, on top of everything, is too much.
“Let go of me,” Lyney hisses, yanking his arm away and pushing past him. A few gasps can be heard ringing somewhere in the distance, but the only thing Lyney can see is his sister’s face filling with seawater, her eyes bulging out of their sockets, red veins pale and skin even paler.
There’s that weight again. It holds him firmer this time, and Lyney is barely cognizant of the fact that he’s being led away now until he is. Until he snaps back to consciousness and his entire body jumps to action, his knees dropping until he’s on the floor, rolling back between the person’s feet and hoisting himself up again, using his left foot to balance himself and his right to kick upward. He pins the person to the wall and cages them with his hands, and immediately feels very, very stupid for doing so.
Wriothesley is staring down at him. His eyes are wide on his face and his jaw is set in a hard line. Lyney’s eyes flit around, frigid, and the weight leaves his shoulders when he realizes they’re in a secluded hallway away from the main area of the ballroom.
“What the fuck?” Lyney curses.
“Lyney,” says Wriothesley, voice scratchy against the charred air.
Lyney bristles. The wall burns the skin of his palms. He cannot smell this place without salt beading his lungs. He spits, “Wriothesley.”
“There he is,” Wriothesley says, and it is as if he has cleaved Lyney into two halves of his person. Before he can respond, Lyney feels the air woosh out of his gut, and suddenly, their positions have flipped.
Lyney’s back presses roughly against the wall, a strong hand on the span of his stomach, and it is so deeply improper that he cannot help but look up into Wriothesley’s eyes and scoff. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Wriothesley ducks down, and like this, their faces are barely a ghost’s breath apart. A shudder runs down Lyney’s spine, curling against the wall and forcing him to arch his back forward. Wriothesley takes this in with his eyes. It’s obvious, the way his gaze rakes over Lyney’s figure, his eyes narrowing as he leans right by the corner of his mouth.
“Exactly what you were just doing to me,” he whispers, and Lyney ignores how it makes his upper lip curl.
“Your Grace,” he drawls, “we are here alone in your estate, with no chaperone. Do you even know what’ll happen if someone were to catch us here?”
“Like this?” Wriothesley says. With how close they are, his stubble scratches Lyney’s jaw as he speaks. “Do you know what would happen if someone were to catch us here?”
A needle of anxiety twists into Lyney’s chest. “Your dukedom won’t save us then.”
The hand over his stomach presses into him harder. “You shouldn’t have come here,” says Wriothesley. “Now, or back then.”
Immediately, Lyney tries to struggle away from the grip around him. But it is useless. He is weaponless, and Wriothesley is stronger than him. No matter how much that pisses him off. “I told you not to speak to me about what happened back then—”
“No,” Wriothesley cuts in. “You told me not to mention your sis—”
“Do not finish that fucking sentence, Wriothesley,” Lyney hisses, “or archons help you—”
“Or what?” Wriothesley asks him, and the way he says it, the way he’s looking at Lyney as if he can see right through him, or something. It infuriates him to no end. He doesn’t have the right. He doesn’t have the fucking right. Not after what he did. Not after what happened. Not after—
“Or I’ll kill you—” Lyney lunges for him. He may be smaller than him, but he’s agile. Quick on his feet. If he angles this in just the right way, then maybe he can duck down and make his escape. He can go back to the ballroom and find his sister and they can get the fuck out of here—
Someone gasps.
Immediately, the world stands still.
Lyney’s eyes fly up to find Wriothesley, who, for the first time in his life probably, has completely frozen still. For a moment, Lyney wonders if it was either of them that made the sound, but that wouldn’t make any sense. The sound is far away, a little. Too far away for it to be one of them.
The two of them turn in the direction of the gasp. And, right there, are three women, their jaws slacked as they stare unabashedly at the two of them. Lyney’s mouth snaps shut, and he briefly wonders if a nice smile and a bit of bribery would be enough to flit past this. Perhaps Wriothesley would open his wallet too. Surely with the right amount of money they would be able to—
Someone else rounds the corner of the hallway, and just like that, all of Lyney’s dreams die right in his throat.
“Father,” he murmurs, and then again, “Father, I—oh my fucking—Wriothesley, let go of me!”
Wriothesley does. He seems to be a little put out too, which would be something Lyney would relish in a lot more if it weren’t for the fucked up situation that was slowly unfurling here.
The bud of the Meropide rose—he thought earlier that it would need water, or blood, to bloom. He just didn’t expect the blood to be his.
“Lyney,” says Father, stopping in front of them. She looks at him, and then she looks at Wriothesley, and then she looks back at him. There is a glint of something Lyney can’t quite place shining in her eyes. If he looks close enough, maybe he can decipher it. If he looks close enough, maybe he can grab it with his hands and yank it away from her visage.
But Father is too careful to allow that.
Lyney closes his eyes.
“What is the meaning of this?” Father croons, her voice like silk. “Where is your chaperone?”
“Lord Arlecchino,” Wriothesley starts, but nothing follows. Because it’s obvious what is about to happen. If it was just Father, maybe it would have been fine. But those girls just behind her are whispering between themselves, their eyes flickering between Lyney and Wriothesley, and Lyney knows that it’s over.
This is the end.
Wriothesley seems to know it as well. Though something is shifting. The outline of his shoulders grows tenser with each passing second.
“You compromised my child,” says Father, eyes sharp as she runs her gaze over Wriothesley. He’s taller than her, but like this, she is more imposing. And that alone is enough. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Wriothesley looks at Lyney. Lyney sees it in his periphery, the way his expression thunders. The way his eyes are dark and angry. Lyney does not meet his gaze. He does not know what will happen if he—
“I will procure a special license,” Wriothesley says, finally, his voice blank.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“No,” says Lyney. “What the—no!”
“Good,” Father nods. “That’s what I expected.”
“Mr. Snezhevich is scheduled for tea with Queen Furina and Monsieur Neuvillette in a few days,” says Wriothesley, ignoring the way Lyney is just barely shaking against his side. “I will accompany him. We can request the license then.”
The world is crumbling, brick by brick, speck of dirt by speck of dirt. Lyney stands at the center of it, and he watches the debris explode.
“License for what,” he says. He thinks he may be on the verge of another panic attack. Again, louder: “License for what?”
“A marriage license,” says Wriothesley, and this time, Lyney does look up at him. He sees anger. Suspicion. And Lyney is a trained spy—he would not be mistaken about this. Wriothesley’s lips part, and Lyney knows that he is doomed. “For our marriage.”
So he should not be surprised that, immediately once they are set to leave the ball for the night, Lyney is whisked away while everyone is distracted and slammed against the stony garden wall.
“You planned this,” Wriothesley whispers roughly into his ear. “You planned this, didn’t you?”
Lyney squirms. His head feels light. “What the fuck—what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“You and your father,” Wriothesley hisses. “You planned to entrap me in marriage.”
Lyney’s jaw hinges open. There is no fucking shot. “Do you actually believe that’s something I would do? With you?”
“You and your sister infiltrated my land and pranced around like you fucking owned the place two years ago,” Wriothesley says. His fingers are curled into Lyney’s cravat, and Lyney feels it loosen alongside his tongue.
“It is not my fault your security measures are dogshit,” he spits. “And I told you not to mention my sister ever again. I don’t want to hear a thing about her from your filthy mouth!”
Wriothesley smirks. It is fucking aggravating. “If you think this is my filthy mouth, darling, then you are sorely mistaken.”
That’s it. Lyney squirms, struggles against the tight hold on him, and when he finally pushes away, he slams his foot down onto the balcony floor and yells, “This is exactly what I’m goddamn talking about! Why you think I would want anything to do with you ever again in my life is beyond me. And to entrap you in marriage? All of that back there was clearly your fucking doing. Don’t piss me off.”
“Perhaps not you,” says Wriothesley. His voice is low. Like this, they could be caught again, but it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? “But your lord? I wouldn’t put anything past her.”
Lyney’s teeth in his mouth are tight, caging his gums and his tongue and growing closer and closer to drawing blood. “You do not know a thing about Father.”
“You should look inward,” says Wriothesley blankly, and Lyney’s arm hair prickles and straightens. “Maybe it’s you that does not actually know a thing about your father.”
Lyney thinks he is shaking. “Shut up, Wriothesley. Just shut the fuck up.”
“We’re getting married, thanks to you,” Wriothesley says coldly. His hand comes up, lifting Lyney’s face, and his fingers are icy against the flush of the night on his skin. “You now have your entire life to try to make me shut up.”
He pulls off of him, and then he leaves without looking back over his shoulder even once. Lyney is left there, alone. He picks himself up and goes to find his sister.
THE STEAMBIRD; 30 October 1815
Dearest Reader,
It is said that a moth is attracted to firelight, so much so that it simply cannot resist the temptation of spreading its wings across a flame and burning straight to ash.
And tonight’s social season opening truly caused such a moth to come forth.
Yes, you heard it here first! After years of expertly skirting the gazes of hungry mamas, I am pleased to inform you that Duke Wriothesley is engaged to Lord Arlecchino’s eldest son, Mr. Lyney Snezhevich. No one knows how such a match came to be, though the two of them were found in a rather…compromising position in a secluded area of His Grace’s estate. Of course, only the loveliest of lovebirds sing praise in each other’s beaks. Congratulations to the happy couple!
Yours truly,
Lady Charlotte