Chapter Text
What makes you so special, special
To think I would ever settle
For that devious dance between you and me?
- Devil, Devil by MILCK
i.
The air is muggy in the train carriage, but there's not much longer until her stop. There are five others in third-class, all in varying states. In one corner, a horrid little boy with a voice just like—no, she won't even think it—getting cross with his mum, his ugly lips scrunching into a scowl. Vera surveys the scene with distaste before looking away. She's rather had enough of children. Only natural, after everything that has transpired.
Seated directly across from her is an exceptionally debonair man in a midnight blue pinstripe suit. Tall and tanned. A cruel set to the mouth that proclaims his arrogance for him. Nothing at all like Hugo—oh, Hugo. Hugo, the very picture of light. A blade of grass in the meadow of innocence. How angry he had been with her. Had he ever known her at all?
One might be tempted to say that Vera had sworn off men after suffering the indignity of the Coroner's Inquest. But really, the truth was that she was simply uninterested in stuffy society pricks with little substance. No vim in their blood.
But there was something different about this man, something that made her momentarily forget the image of a head bobbing up and down in the foamy sea...
She thought to herself that this was a man who had surely been to exotic parts of the world, who had seen things, who never denied himself anything. No, a fellow like that knew what he wanted and would kill to get it...
ii.
Philip has always hated children.
Nasty little buggers. He wouldn't mind their lack of decorum—he barely has any himself—if it weren't for their snotty noses and incessant whining.
He knows that men nowadays are encouraged to step up as fathers, to mold their sons into proud pillars for king and country. But he's never been suited for all that nonsense. Philip is a mercenary. He operates alone, and he never foresees this changing.
Inevitably, this brings up the question of women. Women are attractive enough, Philip feels, but they're like cigarettes.
Well, the same ethos applies, in any case: inhale and discard.
Take this woman, opposite him. He can have her if he wants. He senses as much.
His panther-like eyes flash over her nearly imperceptibly.
Schoolmistress, no doubt. Pretty, and a cool customer.
A hint of pretense to the way she conducts herself.
He's headed to Soldier Island on business, but he can't help but feel something stir in his veins for the first time in forever.
He'd rather like to take her on.
iii.
A smirk is thrown in her direction. She frowns and looks down self-consciously.
Her skirt has ridden up, allowing him a glance at her stockings.
She firmly pulls the purple fabric back down.
The shameless bastard already has some designs on her, she can tell. She gets up to retrieve her luggage.
He can't conceal his amusement at her vexation, and somehow that eggs her on even more. She swings her trunk off the rack and flies past him. As she does, she can feel his gaze burning into her legs.
The feeling of being desired is not entirely unwelcome after a strenuous semester and an even more exhausting year.
So often, people see her as a thing to be pitied, and she despises it.
Death, convention, pity—that was all for the other people.