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The tavern was busy, and Kaylie’s foot tapped in time to the beat of her own music. The percussion behind her kept the crowd alive and clapping as she let the song take over her.
She closed her eyes and breathed. The air filled her lungs but she didn’t dare slow down. The fiddle in her hands was old and bared her mother’s name across the back. The bow and the strings bit into her fingers as she played like her life depended on it.
The song finished with a dramatic flourish and Kaylie opened her eyes wide to the applause. She lifted her fiddle high before taking a bow. Her breathing was heavy with the thrill and the adrenaline.
She carefully packed the instrument away and wandered over to the bar. People clapped her on the back, congratulated her, told her she was brilliant. She shrugged each compliment off with an easy smile and a swift getaway.
Tonight was not a night to feed her ego. Tonight was a night to get drunk and forget.
It was easy enough to find a seat at the bar, and even easier to wrangle a free drink from the pretty barmaid who blushed when Kaylie commented on her pretty necklace.
“I feel that I should be jealous.”
The voice almost - almost - startled Kaylie, but she was already three drinks by that time. But there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to stop Kaylie from reacting.
“You’re a long way from home.” She commented. “Does you brother know you’re here?”
“Does your father?” The woman replied. Not quite a woman, Kaylie remembered. Just like her: too old for childhood, too jaded for adulthood.
“Does it matter?” Kaylie shot back. She slammed back her drink and finally looked over at her companion.
They’d met so briefly but the not-quite-a-girl had left quite an impression on Kaylie. But now Kaylie was looking at a slightly different version of that girl back in Whitestone. Her hair was very simply pulled back in a plait that ended somewhere around her hips, but the streak of white hadn’t moved. Her dress was much simpler this time; plain, still well-made, but nowhere near what someone like her should be wearing. Her shawl looked like an heirloom and Kaylie frowned. Was it?
“That depends entirely on what you were here for.” Cassandra said. She was sat in a way that let Kaylie know she was, in fact, crossing her ankles and sitting upright. The laugh was hard to suppress. Even in this seedy bar, in some shady town, Nobility was hard to budge.
“You tell me first.” Kaylie challenged, leaning on the bar counter and resting her head on her hand. The mischievous look in Cassandra’s eye should have made Kaylie weary, but she felt a small thrill. Only curiosity, she told herself. She was only curious about this girl she’d met so briefly all those months ago.
“I’m here for a drink.” Cassandra said, lazily flagging over one of the barmen. She still smiled regally when she looked up at him. “Two of your strongest whiskey, please. With the bottle.”
Kaylie’s eyebrow quirked upwards before she got her features back under control. She refused to be impressed until she saw something impressive.
The barman was back in barely a moment with two questionably clean glasses and a bottle filled with clear amber liquid. Kaylie didn’t make a move towards the glass placed in front of her, but Cassandra picked hers up and lifted it in a mock toast.
This time Kaylie didn’t hide her surprise. Cassandra threw back the drink with barely a grimace, placing the empty glass back on the counter gently. She drew herself up and met Kaylie’s eye.
“I believe it’s your turn for an answer.” Cassandra said. Kaylie suddenly remembered that she was facing a young girl that had successfully built up a city from nothing while she went around performing in taverns in a troupe.
“I’m here to get drunk.” Kaylie said, finally reaching out for the whiskey.
It burned as it went down and she could feel it warming up her up from her gut. Even with all her resilience, Kaylie couldn’t help the twist on her face. She scowled at the laugh Cassandra hid behind her hand. (Some faint, distant part of her mind realised that Cassandra was still wearing gloves despite all the other attempts to not look noble).
“I dunno what you’re laughing at.” Kaylie said, but her words were beginning to slur.
Cassandra didn’t hide her laughter now as she poured herself another drink. Slightly more than what the barman had poured for them.
“You’re too used to ale and wine.” She said, drinking the second glass but slightly slower.
“Alright, Miss Whiskey,” Kaylie sat up in her chair properly and leaned forwards. “I think it’s your turn to answer a question.”
There was a light in Cassandra’s eye as she poured them both another drink, but didn’t pick it up yet.
“As you wish.”
“How’d you find us all the way out here? You’re pretty far from Whitestone.” Kaylie’s voice held a challenge. Cassandra rose to it.
“But not too far from Emon.” Cassandra said. “And really, I didn’t come here looking for you. I told my brother I would go with him to help establish trade routes with the new Council of Emon. I decided to spend the evening exploring the city. Then I heard about a tavern where a particularly talented gnome was playing. Curiosity won out, in the end.”
“So you heard some rumours and came running?” Kaylie asked, a small smirk on her face.
“We didn’t really get to say farewell before you and Scanlan left.” Cassandra said. She finished her drink, letting her gloved fingers linger on the glass for a moment longer. Kaylie tried not to follow the movement. “I was just as curious as the rest of them, in all honesty.”
“Aww, you’ve been thinking about me.” Kaylie teased, but she felt a slight glow in her chest at the blush that grew on Cassandra’s cheeks.
Another band started up with a jaunty tune. It wasn’t late enough in the evening for anything slower and people started pulling each other onto the miniscule amount of free space before the stage. Couples danced to the joyous song and friends laughed as they tried to match each other’s footwork.
Kaylie looked back to Cassandra and saw her watching the people with an oddly closed-off look on her face. She jerked back to reality when she felt Kaylie’s hand just above her wrist. The gloves didn’t end until halfway up Cassandra’s bicep, but the touch still felt oddly intimate.
“One more drink,” Kaylie said, holding up her index finger like she was counting, “one dance, and then we part ways and I never see your pretty face ever again. Deal?”
“I suppose I have pushed my luck.” Cassandra mused, pulling the glasses together to pour again. But she reached into the pouch at her side and pulled out a small bottle with a simple white label plastered around it. Cassandra topped the glass with the clear liquid from the bottle and then the bottle disappeared again into the pouch or the folds of her skirt.
Kaylie took the cue from Cassandra and picked up the glass, sniffing the liquid first. She hated to admit that she was impressed by the absolute nonchalance in Cassandra’s posture, and she wondered vaguely if the other girl was even affected by the amount of alcohol they’d both had.
The smell was strong but curious enough that Kaylie looked up at Cassandra with a quirked eyebrow.
“Courage.” Cassandra answered. “Whitestone produced.”
“Smells like shit.” Kaylie tilted the glass to look at the liquid from every angle.
“Tastes like it too, but at least it’s strong.” Cassandra said. She held out the glass towards Kaylie. “Cheers.”
Then she threw back the drink and Kaylie felt herself smile.
“Are we dancing or not?” Cassandra asked, swapping the glass for the bottle. She looked at Kaylie in a silent question.
Kaylie answered by knocking back her glass and taking her hand.
The band kept playing, rallying the crowd into a merry frenzy. They kept taking sips of the whiskey until it was half full and they were stumbling out into the street.
The evening had slid into night at some point and the lamps had already been lit. Kaylie had somehow gotten ahold of the bottle, and they passed it back and forth. Cassandra was laughing at something or nothing and Kaylie couldn’t stop looking at free she looked. No restrictive dresses, no prim and proper manners, no city in need of ruling.
Just two not-quite-friends laughing and stumbling along holding each other. They passed streets and Kaylie knew dimly that she should be heading back. That Scanlan would worry if she was out all night. That Cassandra was a long, long way from home or familiarity.
But Kaylie could feel her own heartbeat in his palm where she touched Cassandra’s arm and could hear Cassandra rambling on about something or other, and that was intoxicating enough on its own.
They passed streets upon streets, wandering with no destination. Maybe it was the loneliness, maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the longing, but Kaylie felt brave under the streetlamps, holding onto Cassandra’s dress.
Kaylie lept up onto a low wall in front of some fountain and pulled Cassandra to a stop. It took her a moment to realise something had changed. Cassandra’s gaze was bare, open, honest.
This was the young woman with all the layers of nobility and barely-touched-upon trauma stripped away. This was a young woman with nothing to lose and something to gain. This was someone with something to prove and no one to prove it too.
The white streak in her hair was proof she survived something Kaylie could barely imagine. The gloves were proof that they were from vastly different walks of life. The dress was a reminder that they would never really understand each other.
None of that stopped Kaylie from placing the bottle down on the wall beside her and leaning up to kiss Cassandra under the yellow light of the streetlamps. She reached up but her hands hovered like she didn’t want to step any further over the line that she already had.
But Cassandra leaned down and wrapped her arms around Kaylie’s waist, lifting her just that little bit. The gloves strained as Cassandra grabbed fistfuls of Kaylie’s shirt, holding them both in place. Hands pulled at Cassandra’s plait, wanting desperately to run it through her fingers. To see what it felt like to hold someone and know they were never going to let you go. To explore everything about each other and learn something new about themselves.
Cassandra made a soft noise against Kaylie’s mouth. Maybe it was the alcohol, but Kaylie thought maybe she could fall in love with this girl if she kept kissing her back like that.
She couldn’t remember closing her eyes, or when her hands had moved down to Cassandra’s neck, gently stroking her cheek with the pad of her thumb. But slowly, Kaylie’s eyes opened.
The campfire pit they’d made the night before had stopped smouldering. Early morning light streamed through the tree canopy above them. Familiar sounds told her that the troupe they were tagging along with had just woken and were beginning the process or organising breakfast.
Kaylie closed her eyes again, holding on to that one last image before the dream had been broken. The ache in her chest was difficult to breathe around, but still she did it. Her body felt heavy and uncopperative, but she still sat up and began help with breakfast.
Sitting in the back of the cart that morning, Kaylie let her mind wander. What had brought on that dream? Why now?
Eventually, Kaylie reached into her meagre belonging and pulled out some parchment and quill. She let the words flow as naturally as she could, but it still felt odd. Disjointed. It took everything in her not to tear the sheet up.
Instead, she took a second sheet and began to write once more.
“Lady Cassandra?”
The voice wrenched Cassandra’s attention away the pages in front of her. Technically, she was supposed to be coming through some of these books for specific information, but they were so dreadfully dense with information that it was difficult to concentrate on them for long periods of time. Admitting defeat, Cassandra closed the book in front of her and turned her attention to the guard standing beside her chair. She placed the book on the low table in front of her, next to where her tea was steadily growing cold.
“Yes?”
“A message arrived for you today.” The guard handed over the rolled up parchment and Cassandra frowned.
“Very well.” She said, as she took the parchment. “Thank you for bringing this to me.”
The guard nodded professionally and left the room.
Carefully, Cassandra unravelled the roll, frowning when several sheets came apart. It took her a moment to realise that one sheet was a letter addressed to her, and the rest were sheet music. Cassandra placed the sheet music down on the closed book and focused on the letter.
She had to read it several times before the words actually sank in. It was an apology. It was hopeful that their paths would cross again. It was lonely. It was funny anecdotes.
But it was the signature at the bottom that confused Cassandra the most. ‘Kaylie’ was written in stylised font down at the bottom.
Cassandra remembered Kaylie, quite clearly in fact. She remembered stumbling across the drunken Gnome in the hallways. She remembered talking. She remembered the brief moment of true connection she had felt, and fought down the blush that came with the memory of Kaylie gently reaching out and taking her hand.
What confused her was the timing. Scanlan and Kaylie had left several months ago. Vox Machina had been severely broken up when they abruptly left. Cassandra remembered the looks on their faces, remembered the anger and the pain in their postures. (She’d made sure to avoid them. Past experience kept her at least an arm’s length away when any voice was raised).
Eventually, Cassandra picked up the sheet music: across the top the words ‘Lady Whitestone’ glared up at her.
The air left her lungs in a heartbeat.
This was for her.
This composition had been written for her.
Cassandra stood. She had never been the most proficient with musical instruments, but she had been decent with the piano. An old, grand piano still rested in their mother’s old study (rarely used for work, and more for her mother to unleash the creativity she always needed to keep locked away).
The ivory keys under her gloved hands felt cold and dusty with disuse. She remembered the few times she dared to sneak in here under the Briarwood’s rule and the iron band clasped her lungs again. She pushed one of the keys.
That one note eased her chest. The piano had been tuned during the time Whitestone was being rebuilt. It still sounded as beautiful as Cassandra remembered.
The sheets of parchment took some persuading to stay up on the stand but eventually Cassandra was sat on the stool, her hands resting gently on the keys in the form she remembered. She studied the notes, dredging up memories from long ago. It took some trial and error to remember keys and chords, but once Cassandra started, the melody came easily.
It started off small, uncertain, barely finding its feet. Then as the composer and the player both grew more comfortable with the notes and the progression, the tune changed. It grew faster, livelier, grander. The music was jovial and familiar and full of something that Kaylie had sewn into the notes but that Cassandra couldn’t quite pick out.
The composition petered out as Cassandra ran out of pages to play. She played the final few notes and just sat. Her hands fell to her lap as she thought.
The melody had been beautiful. Unequivocally beautiful. And Cassandra had never had anything written for her. Certainly nothing as lovely as this. Why had Kaylie given her this precious thing with her own name written across the top like that was her title? After all these months, after barely knowing her, why now?
She reached out gently and touched the pages, as if they would somehow impart the answers she needed. Cassandra frowned. At the bottom of the last page, a small note had been scribbled.
'Love, the Music Maker'
Cassandra stood and collected the sheets, a grim determination in her shoulders. The hallways were empty and no one disturbed her as she retired to her room. Her writing equipment were already out on her desk from the last time she failed to put them away.
The words came easily as Cassandra wrote the reply letter. It wasn’t the most formal letter she had ever written, and she hoped it would be the last she was address to Kaylie, the Music Maker.
Cassandra smiled as she signed it.
Yours, faithfully
Cassandra
(Lady Whitstone)
The letters could take weeks to arrive between them, but they were always worth the wait. Small updates and anecdotes and tidbits about the everyday lives. Funny stories and reassurances. Small glimpses of pasts that neither girl really wanted to delve too deeply into over parchment. Promises that they’d see each other again someday, hopefully, maybe, probably.
The Music Maker and Lady Whitestone.
What an unusual pair.