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Peruere knots the ascot at the base of her throat. The silk is softer than corded rope.
It feels wrong.
She’s too familiar with tying a noose.
Clervie kisses the space beneath the back of her collar, sweeping aside the hair she cut so diligently. It’s the same place where Arlecchino’s Vision will sit, one day.
The future’s always rushing to claim them. Time is a flood that hopes to wash them away.
‘Turn around,’ says Clervie, and Peruere does as instructed. Clervie’s eyes sweep over her, joy braiding her lips into a smile. ‘You look good like this.’
‘It’s the same as before.’
Clervie shakes her head. ‘Not at all. Firstly, your hair’s tucked behind your ear,’–which she reaches over to touch, brushing back Peruere’s shorter bangs–‘So I can finally see your eyes.’
‘What else is different?’
‘You look proud, and ready.’ Clervie’s hand drifts downward; her fingers brush that white ascot, relishing the material. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that. There are times when you seem a little reluctant to go out on missions.’
Peruere feels the heavy nothingness in her chest betrayed, briefly, by the upturned corners of her mouth. She bats them down. ‘Perhaps.’
The girl with whom she used to bicker and play and slit throats– she hums appreciatively. ‘You look very handsome, Peruere.’
The heavy nothingness in her chest, the downtrodden blackness, shudders with the briefest hope. Peruere snaps its neck.
‘Thank you.’
Briefly, Clervie stares at the ascot, something unspoken passing over her face. She turns away, says, ‘Let’s not keep “Mother” waiting.’
They take split paths down the silent halls of the orphanage. The next time Peruere sees Clervie’s face, it will be set with half-hearted resolution.
Her blood’s going to stain everything.
‘You look very handsome,’ Arlecchino says, tying the ribbon at Lyney’s neck.
‘Thank you, “Father”.’
His clothes are complicated artwork, and he is old enough to dress himself; nevertheless.
Lyney receives Arlecchino’s touch with an undue reverence, gaze directed downward.
When she’s satisfied, Arlecchino steps back. Lyney’s eyes flick to her, and then away.
Every day he seems to grow a little taller. Each time she turns her back, Lyney plays a trick on her, rushing off down the path to adulthood.
‘One day, you’d like to be in charge of this house. Wouldn’t you?’
Too respectful to feign polite shock, Lyney reaches for his cape. ‘Only if the need arises.’
‘If I don’t die out in the field, you’ll have to kill me.’
‘I– Can only hope you have many, many healthy years ahead of you, “Father”. Truly.’
Yes. Lyney leans on her as a stick leans on its fellow kindling, caring not that they will all go to the flame.
‘How do you suppose the children will address you? “Father”? “Mother”?’
Lyney wrinkles his nose at that. ‘I would ask them to use my name. Or… Your name. Arlecchino.’
Seating herself at the boy’s desk, Arlecchino crosses her legs. ‘You’ll earn no respect with that.’
‘It’s not about respect. I want to be seen as I am.’
Lyney turns to retrieve his other layers. His half-sleeves fall over his gloves; he laces his vest over his white shirt. He combs his bangs back over the right side of his face, just as Clervie once did for her.
‘It’s important that I am seen, after all,’ Lyney continues, placing his hat atop his head. ‘It’s for the magician to draw the eye, and his assistants to perform the sleight-of-hand.’
‘The Tsaritsa is not fond of pageantry,’ she says mildly.
Lyney grins. ‘My apologies to Her Majesty, but I plan to change her mind.’
Columbina smiles gently, feeling the cat ears atop Arlecchino’s head.
‘You look very pretty.’
‘Does the kuuvahki tell you that?’
‘Yes. I can “see” the colours; they suit you.’
‘My thanks, Columbina Hyposelenia.’
The words are hardly out of her mouth before Sandrone is cutting between them, vicious eyes turned on Columbina. ‘Co-lum-bi-NA!’
‘San-do-ro-ne,’ Columbina enunciates.
Sandrone growls, wrists flicking. Strings of light act as her hands, shaking Columbina by the shoulders. ‘What, you were just planning to leave me there!?’
Columbina rocks back and forth on her heels, leaning into the throttling. ‘You- told- me- to- go- a- way–’
‘That’s not what I meant at all!’
‘Then- what- should- I–’
‘Don’t cheat, and don’t gloat! How rude can you possibly be!’
‘Is–’
‘I wasn’t asking.’
Arlecchino touches one of Sandrone’s wrists. It startles her enough to make her drop the array of hands, freeing Columbina from her temper tantrum. Arlecchino says, ‘I am sure Columbina meant no harm, Marionette.’
Sandrone scoffs. ‘I thought we were pretending not to be Fatui.’
‘We’re still Fatui,’ Arlecchino says. ‘Merely Fatui cats.’
‘Ugh, don’t remind me.’ At the thought of Lynette, Sandrone winces.
‘You look pretty too, Sandrone,’ says Columbina, interjecting.
‘Hmph! What do I care for your opinion?’
How unfortunate. If that is how Sandrone wishes to treat Columbina during her last night on earth, then so be it.
Heedless, Columbina reaches for both of them. ‘I want to ride the Dodocos.’
‘Then go ride them yourself.’
‘With you,’ Columbina persists.
They ride the Dodoco Whirly Gig.
‘You look very pretty today.’
Freminet absorbs the compliment with an uncomprehending frown. Once he seems to have felt its effects, he ducks his head, blushing at the tips of his ears and across the back of his neck. He rubs at the spot as though it itches.
‘Y-yes, “Father”.’
‘Do you not think so?’
‘I d-don’t think anything,’ he says, pressing himself against the arm of the sofa. He tries to shrink into it.
Arlecchino stirs a sugar cube into her fresh cup of tea, thanking Lynette as she passes. ‘Have confidence in yourself. That is the first step in skillfully accomplishing your missions.’
‘Yes, of course, but…’
But Freminet would rather vanish into the deep dark than stare himself in the face. He has a pixie’s nose, pale eyelashes, a flattering constellation of freckles. If he chose to use himself as Lyney does, then he would be a far more effective killer.
She asks much of him. He believes himself to be a beached flounder.
‘I hope, at some point, our missions can… Change,’ he manages.
Arlecchino says, ‘Then we would no longer be the House of the Hearth.’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘You’re free to disagree. I welcome a different point-of-view.’
Will Freminet ever believe that? Or is Arlecchino the fool, really, unable to picture a world where they do not function as the murderous arm of the Tsaritsa?
The seasons are changing.
‘Here,’ says Lynette, serving Freminet a hot chocolate. He gratefully wraps his hands around the mug.
‘Who’s up for a round of Genius Invokation TCG?’ Lyney adds, swooping in like a protective bird.
Arlecchino stands, making way. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
Freminet stares after her, silent.
Furina unpins Arlecchino's Vision from the top of her spine.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ she says again, soft; devoted; shapeless.
‘Thank you, Lady Furina.’
‘Can’t I just be “Furina” with you?’
‘As you wish.’
Unlacing her coat, she lets Furina slide the thin material from her shoulders. Arlecchino unbuttons her vest, rolling up her silk red sleeves. She turns to catch Furina’s eye, and Furina hastily pretends she wasn’t drinking her in.
‘Allow me,’ she says, stepping close. Furina gasps, face sheet-white.
‘Don’t–!’
Before she can spring back and open up old wounds, Arlecchino places a hand at the small of her back. Furina hiccups in surprise. ‘I do not mean to hurt you.’
It isn’t easy to trust the one you thought would kill you. Uneasily, Furina nods.
Arlecchino drops to her knees.
She unbuckles Furina’s shoes, peels her from her socks, trailing up the rest of her body. Her intentions aren’t erotic, but that doesn’t keep Furina from flushing.
Sliding button through button-hole, opening Furina’s vest, Arlecchino smiles. ‘I never should have thought I would be here with you.’
‘O-on the Wingalet, you mean? Or–?’
‘With you.’
‘Oh.’
Beneath her clothes, Furina is neither lady nor lord. She is merely herself, as free as the water, as inscrutable as the pinpricks of stars in the sky.
Arlecchino would like to be the same.
‘You are quite beautiful in that, Lynette.’
‘I appreciate it.’
Chiori steps back to let them appreciate her handiwork. Lynette places a gloved hand on the brim of her lotus-shaped hat, glancing at herself in the mirror. The ocean-blue dress flares out from her in rippling seams and lacework.
Lyney whistles.
Freminet holds Pers up, saying, ‘We both like it.’
Arlecchino, having said her piece, lets the brothers steal her attention. Lynette is no longer a girl, but a model for the sea beneath their feet. She has become a concept.
‘You. Knave.’ Chiori looks her up and down. ‘When I finish designing my swan dress, you’re next.’
Her audacity is refreshing. ‘I am quite busy.’
‘I’ll send for you,’ Chiori says.
Arlecchino leans against the wall; Chiori turns away.
The bloodless night resounds.