Chapter Text
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an Eternal in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
Sebille groaned, sheathing her rapier as tufts of straw fell to the ground. Mrs. Laird was squawking again in a way that even Sebille found a bit unbecoming of a lady of moderate means.
“The Ros estate is let at last!” Her shrill voice drifted through an open window, punctuated by a noncommittal murmur from Mr. Laird. Sebille moved under the window, keeping out of sight as Mrs. Laird carried on.
“It is! The square were buzzin’ with it. Aren’t you dyin’ to know who’s taken it?"
"You want to tell me, and I’ve no objection to hearin’ it."
“A gentleman called ben-Mezd. Word has he served with Lucian back in the day, can you believe it?”
“I doubt it matters if I do.”
“He’s taken up in the estate with his sister. And—” Sebille could hear the old woman practically salivating through the window. “— He’s single. Single as a doorknocker. I was thinkin’…”
“A commendable past time, dear.”
“Wouldn’t he just love to meet the girls, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure that’s why he’s come to town.”
“Tsch! You love vexin’ me. You’ve no compassion on my poor nerves."
“On the contrary, my dear. Your nerves are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration for twenty years at least."
Sebille, sensing the verbal eruption had quelled, quietly snuck back into the house and up to her quarters. She stripped off her doublet and stretched out on the thin straw pad on the floor. Ada Laird was vicariously husband-hunting again, which was sure to mean more work for Sebille in short order.
While not technically a daughter of the Lairds, they had welcomed her in as a servant-cum-charge after she’d escaped her Lizard captors a decade ago. With nowhere to go, she had turned to working as a hired sword, and while Mr. Laird couldn’t afford much in salary, he could provide a hot meal, a spare bed, and an even countenance, and so Sebille found herself sticking around. Ada Laird, for her part, seemed to forget that although Sebille looked less than 30, she was five times’ Ada’s age at least.
With two daughters of marrying age, the Lairds found Sebille an adequate chaperone when needed — her sword was a deterrent where her stony face was not. When her watchful eye wasn’t required, Sebille rented her sword to the pubs and gambling parlors that needed muscle on occasion. It wasn’t a particularly interesting existence, but after nearly a century of enslavement, she wasn’t looking for much more peril for the moment.
The next morning the house was in a flurry again, Mrs. Laird’s shrill voice whipping her daughters into a frenzy.
“The Ros estate is holdin’ a ball within the tenday!” she gushed. Almira, the youngest, fluttered her hands in excitement.
“Oooh! D’you think there’ll be magisters there?”
Sebille leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed. “Is that all you care about? The uniform? I’ll starch a sack and hang it from a dummy if that’s all you require.” Almira stuck out her tongue and pouted.
“I don’t expect Mama would like you flirting with magisters when you’re supposed to be wooing that ben-Mezd fellow,” said Lohse, the elder daughter. She smirked at Sebille, who quirked her eyebrow in return. “Besides, magisters have no proper salary unless they’ve made at least four feathers.”
“Shouldn’t you like to go to the ball, Sebille?” pleaded Mrs. Laird, desperate for Sebille to tip the scales in her favor.
“No.” Mrs. Laird let out a frustrated huff as Lohse giggled. “Besides, I am not your natural child, so it matters not if I’m to be wed away. There’s no reason for me to go beyond as a chaperone.”
Mrs. Laird, too overcome by the warring images of wedding bells and eviction notices in her head, descended on her youngest daughter.
“Quit coughin’, Almira, for the love of the Seven! You’re tearin’ my poor nerves to pieces.”
“Almira has no discretion in her coughs,” said Mr. Laird. “She times them ill.”
“I do not cough for my own amusement,” sulked Almira.
Mrs. Laird pressed her hand to her pillowy bosom, resisting the vapors that seemed ready to consume her. “If your poor father expires ‘fore one of you marries into a family of means—” she gave Almira a pointed glare, “—we’ll all be marched off to the poorhouse when the next owner takes over the estate.” She gave a dramatic turn and swooshed her skirts out to the front garden, no doubt in hope that her dramatic sighing would attract the attention of a passing widow thirsty for gossip.
“Now, Almira, you may cough as much as you like,” said Mr. Laird wearily.
The night of the ball arrived with much anticipation from Mrs. Laird and Almira, moderate anticipation from Lohse, and complete disinterest from Mr. Laird and Sebille. Not entirely accurate — Sebille was, in fact, very interested in seeing what had become of the Ros estate following the mass slaughter that had occurred at a wedding a few years ago. Following the massacre, Michal Ros and his daughter had vanished, leaving the sprawling property unoccupied. Until now, in any case. It was impossible to purchase a home in Arx that had not seen at least one murder of a previous owner, but Sebille wondered what sort of person could stomach the spirits of over three dozen wedding guests milling about their domicile.
“…Fuck me, he is a fine one,” Lohse nudged Sebille, causing Sebille to slop her mead over her wrist.
“He is,” conceded Sebille, dabbing at herself. She had to admit that Ifan was handsome and well-mannered. His countenance was stoic until perturbed by a friend, acquaintance, or stranger, at which point it broke into an easy, weathered smile. He did not seem to prefer discussing his time in Lucian’s forces, and spoke much more amiably of being on the hunt and tending to his hounds. He danced easily with each of the attending ladies in turn, even the widows and children, leaving each with a smile on her face.
Almira did not seem particularly interested in his attention, choosing instead to fix her sights on the youngest magister she could find.
Lohse dug her nails into Sebille’s arm as Ifan approached the pair, trying to keep her face straight. Ifan took Lohse’s free hand and bowed, his warm brown eyes fixed on her face. “The ladies Lohse and Sebille, I presume?”
“Oh, no, not a lady. But pleased to make your acquaintance.” Sebille bowed to Ifan as Lohse dipped into a low curtsy, almost hauling Sebille down with her.
“May I introduce my bosom companion, the Lord Fane?” Ifan stepped aside, gesturing to an impossibly tall man who bowed only slightly. Long silver hair reached his shoulders, his firm, narrow face punctuated by deep black eyes that sparkled with Source, as though each held an infinite galaxy. His skin was grey-blue, yet warm and hale. He did not smile.
“Ah, yes. The niceties. Pleasurable to make your acquaintance,” he said dismissively.
Ifan swept Lohse off to a dance, her brilliant red curls bouncing in her wake, and even from across the room, Sebille could see a frisson between them that had not been present with Ifan’s other partners.
Fane, for his part, drifted off to a distant corner without another word, jotting something in a small notebook he produced from inside his doublet.
The balance of ladies to gentleman at the ball was askew, and Sebille was neither asked nor cared to dance. Her duty was primarily to keep Almira out of trouble. As she hovered near Almira, shooting daggers at the magisters eyeing her hungrily, she overheard Ifan’s rich baritone, all but pleading his recalcitrant friend.
“Come, Fane. Not a single dance? I hate to see you lurking about in this stupid manner. You look like a cad.”
“I certainly shall not. A monumental waste of time. Beyond which, there is not a single woman in the room of whose chatter it would not be a punishment to me to endure.”
“Fuck me, you are a hard sell,” chuckled Ifan. “By Rhalic, I’ve never met with so many pleasant ladies in my life as I have this evening. Hardly a poor looker in the bunch.”
“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Fane.
“Lohse? She’s the loveliest girl I’ve met in a decade. But one of her sisters, I believe, is sitting down just there. She’s quite lovely, no? And Lohse says she’s smart as a whip.”
“I am hardly in the mood to pick at the ragheap of women who are slighted by other men. Scurry off to Lohse and enjoy her smiles, and leave me out of it.”
Ifan threw up his hands and swiftly abandoned the conversation to chase down Lohse, who looked nothing but delighted to have earned a second dance. Fane disappeared from the dance hall altogether.
Sebille was not interested enough in either man to take offense, but she relished relaying the conversation to Lohse and Almira on the walk home. The trio tittered over Ifan’s good manners, and scoffed in exaggerated incredulity at the forbidding, disagreeable countenance of Lord Fane, who they collectively agreed to be unworthy to be associated with his friend.