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“Are you certain about this, Hubert?” Ferdinand asks for what might be the seventh time since this morning. “I am certain Dorothea would understand if you did not stay the full time, or if you wanted me to accompany you for part of the evening.”
Hubert fights the urge to roll his eyes; Lady Edelgard shows no such restraint. The autumn air is crisp as they make their way down a side street in Enbarr’s culture district, accompanied by a small and frankly redundant retinue of guards, as though they aren’t three of the most dangerous people in all of Fódlan.
“Ferdinand,” says Edelgard, her low-heeled boots clicking on the cobblestones. “I’m beginning to think you just want to attend both sets of festivities yourself.”
“Of course I do!” says Ferdinand, sounding not at all repentant. “You know I hold both Dorothea and Petra dear, and I do not think it too presumptuous to say they feel the same about me. But I respect the brides’ decision to keep their parties discrete — as in separate , do not give me that look, Your Majesty — and my desire to attend both is an entirely distinct matter from my concern for Hubert’s well-being.”
“Ferdinand,” says Hubert, feeling a headache coming on. “We waged a continental war and bested some of the most powerful immortal beings to walk this earth. I am fairly certain I will survive a bachelorette party.”
“I know you will survive, ” Ferdinand huffs. “But will you enjoy it? I hate the thought of you languishing in a corner, nursing some foul, bitter drink, glaring daggers at Dorothea’s lovely friends and counting down the minutes until you can stage an exit.”
Hubert bites back a smirk as he walks, arms pressed neatly behind him.
“Perhaps sitting in corners and glaring is my way of enjoying things.”
“What are you even proposing, Ferdinand?” Edelgard asks in fond exasperation as they round a corner. “That Hubert should take your place tomorrow, and join Petra and her entourage on an all-day hunt? Or that he should turn around right now and return to his desk, from which you have been trying to pry him for years?”
Ferdinand throws up his hands.
“I don’t know,” he says, apparently flustered to the point of contraction. “I have been too busy drawing research and support for the new Ministry of Culture to think up practical solutions to this problem, which only struck me in its full gravity last night, and has occupied my thoughts since.”
Edelgard laughs outright at that. She slips her arm into Ferdinand’s as the three of them emerge into the central plaza of the Arts District, Hubert’s eyes reflexively flicking around the square to check for snipers.
“Ferdinand,” says Edelgard, leaning into him. “My old friend, trusted advisor, decorated hero of the Great War. You are being ridiculous.”
“I know,” says Ferdinand unhappily.
They pass the stone fountain where Ferdinand and Dorothea had their first ill-fated meeting so many years ago. The setting sun casts their shadows long and warm as they approach their destination, a two-story building of handsome brick. The rooftop is baulstraded in wrought iron, and light sparkles off the enormous plateglass windows on the first floor — perfect for observing the kind of guest who wants to be seen (or for carrying out an assassination, Hubert thinks idly).
Today, though, the lower level is empty of clientele. The owner, a short, grey-haired man with a fastidiously groomed beard, greets them with a deep bow and a familiar smile as the guards fall back to stand at the door. He delivers a speech on the honor of welcoming such esteemed guests for such an auspicious occasion, then leads them to the foot of a narrow, spiraling stairwell.
“I believe that was your cue to leave,” Hubert mutters to Ferdinand as they follow their host upstairs.
“Just a quick hello,” says Ferdinand dismissively. Hubert gives up on not rolling his eyes.
A moment later they emerge onto the rooftop pavilion, where a happy cry goes up from a long table and its occupants.
“Edie!” gasps Dorothea in delight, rising from her seat. Her companions, presumably the rest of her wedding party, swiftly follow suit out of deference to their emperor.
The bride-to-be is dressed in a draped gown of rich purple, her hair sporting a few Brigidian braids but mostly falling loose over her shoulders, where it contrasts spectacularly with her dazzling, geometric gold necklaces. On the table, several carafes of wine stand between a few plates of hors d'oeuvres, artfully arranged. By the grazed state of the food and the flushed cheeks around the table, Hubert takes that the others have been here a while already.
“You look incredible, as always, Dorothea,” says Edelgard, accepting the warm embrace the songstress presses upon her.
“Stunning,” Ferdinand agrees brightly, like he’s supposed to be there.
“Ferdie!” calls one of Dorothea’s companions, a round-faced woman in a fantastically tailored pantsuit. She raises her glass of wine in greeting. “I thought you were part of Petra’s bridal party! Will you be joining us instead?”
“Oh, no,” says Edelgard firmly. “He just escorted us here. He was about to leave.”
There is a chorus of disappointment from the table.
Hubert feels a hand land on his shoulder as Dorothea resumes chatting with Edelgard.
“Do try to enjoy yourself,” says Ferdinand, voice low and endearingly worried. “They are fine musicians and wonderful people, I promise you.”
“I can’t tell if your concern is more that I’ll experience trauma, or that I’ll inflict it,” says Hubert dryly.
“I am capable of holding concurrent concerns.”
“I imagine you’d be a pretty dismal Prime Minister if you weren’t,” says Hubert. “Now go. You’ve fussed more than enough, and you have an early morning tomorrow.”
Ferdinand looks momentarily heartened at the reminder, though Hubert personally can’t think of many things he’d enjoy less than spending eight hours in the saddle or creeping about the woods, chasing down deer and pheasants and rabbits. Couples in Brigid are apparently expected to secure their own wedding feasts, though Dorothea has tactfully recused herself from the tradition in favor of a more classically Enbarran prenuptial blowout.
As Ferdinand sneaks in a quick hug from Dorothea and a friendly wave to her friends, Hubert sizes them up. There are four of them in total, all from Mittelfrank — Hubert knows their names and recent movements, having investigated them thoroughly before agreeing to letting Edelgard attend. There’s Harriet, the pantsuited contralto who greeted Ferdinand earlier; Thaddeus, the dark-eyed, long-limbed tenor with their feet up on an empty chair; Emilia, the curly-haired soprano topping off Dorothea’s wine glass; and Silas, the dark-skinned bass who still hasn’t resumed his seat, waiting for the Emperor to take hers first.
(Hubert mentally awards Silas points for that respectful, if somewhat antiquated, gesture.)
“Well then,” says Ferdinand with one last, regretful glance around the assembled company. “I will be on my way, then.”
He hesitates a moment, then quickly presses a kiss to Hubert’s cheek and turns tail. By the time Hubert can register the motion, much less manage the burning of his ears, Ferdinand is gone.
As he turns towards the others, Hubert catches Emilia staring delightedly at him, like he’s a horse that’s just stood on its hind legs. He suppresses the urge to scowl at her.
“Come, sit,” says Dorothea, guiding Edelgard towards a cushioned seat at the head of the table.
“Shouldn’t you be in the position of honor?” Edelgard asks as she shucks her coat, revealing a wool evening dress of deep maroon beneath. Hubert automatically steps over to take it from her, then after a moment’s thought, removes his cape as well.
“You know me,” says Dorothea, pushing in Edelgard’s chair and squeezing her friend’s shoulders. “I prefer to be in the center of things.”
Dorothea moves further down towards the middlemost chair; Thaddeus removes their feet from it and offers the woman of the hour a dazzling smile.
“Sit down, Hubert,” says Dorothea, gesturing to the remaining empty seat. Her eyes glitter mischievously at him. “I believe introductions are in order.”
It isn’t that bad, honestly. There is a small bar on the pavilion, and after a moment a bartender appears (Joanna, originally from Rusalka, aspiring actress, lives with a roommate and two cats, no suspicious contacts). Hubert’s gin glass is satisfyingly heavy and cold in his gloved hand.
Dorothea’s friends mostly seem interested in Edelgard, whom a few of them have met previously at some Mittelfrank soirée or another. They pepper the emperor with questions about palace life and international intrigue and courtly tradition, reacting with gasps and “oohs” and exclamations to matters that Hubert frankly isn’t sure merit such dramatics. Emilia in particular wants to hear about the emperor’s personal chef, as she is apparently set to play a king’s cook in an upcoming production and is keen to “really grapple with the interiority of the role.” Hubert is fairly certain those are not words with actual meaning.
After a leisurely series of apéritifs, dinner is served. The conversation turns to the wedding — what Dorothea will wear, what game Petra and her hunting party will secure for the feast, whether Manuela’s drunkenness will precede Ferdinand’s weeping or vice versa. Hubert declines to comment on that last one, though he can at least contribute to the exercise of outlining the festivities, having memorized most of the minutiae as he organized security. Dorothea’s friends seem surprised and impressed when he knows offhand the exact guest count. He decides not to mention he knows the exact guest list .
It comes time for gifts. Knowing how this tradition typically unfolds, Hubert requests a second gin.
The first present, at least, is sweeter than it is scandalous. It’s an exquisite writing set, five sleek pens of mixed materials. One is wooden, and carved to accommodate a delicate hand; another is bone, cool and polished and studded with tiny pearls. All arouse Hubert’s natural envy of anyone with superior writing utensils.
Silas presents the second part of his gift, an embossed notebook of heavy paper pre-printed with broad, even staves.
“So that you may continue to make progress on your opera,” he says, “and present us with a showcase when you next return to Enbarr.”
Dorothea throws her arms around him, clearly delighted, and plants a kiss on the top of his shaved head in thanks.
The next gift is more what Hubert expected: a saucy lingerie set, clearly tailored to Dorothea’s generous measurements, and a selection of exotic massage oils. As it’s all being unwrapped, Harriet whispers something into Dorothea’s ear that makes the songstress laugh out loud, though not blush (come to think of it, Hubert hasn’t seen anyone but Petra make Dorothea blush in some time now).
Edelgard delivers her present — a beautiful maritime spyglass — and remarks cryptically that it will make sense with their proper wedding gift. Her eyes flick to Hubert’s as she speaks and they share a tiny, knowing smile, both of them thinking of the small, swift, impeccably crafted ship that’s waiting downshore from the port in Enbarr. A gift from the Empire, not just the Emperor, ensuring their Brigidian allies can visit easily and often.
A fine silk robe and an intricate garter belt later, it’s Hubert’s turn. He procures a box from his sleeve and passes it along the table, then settles back in his chair.
“A rock!” gasps Dorothea when she lifts the lid, fingers splayed on her clavicle in exaggerated astonishment. “Oh Hubie, you really shouldn’t have.”
“I seem to recall you once accused me of having the emotional range of one,” says Hubert, waiting for her to discover the sigil imprinted on the other side.
“Aha,” says Dorothea as she lifts the dark little stone from its satin-lined case and feels the mark. “Is this something safe to activate among friends, Minister?”
The others laugh conspiratorially. They probably think Dorothea is asking if it’s a sex thing, Hubert realizes with some amusement, rather than ensuring it won’t unleash some dark horror on the table.
At his nod, Dorothea’s fingertips pass a tiny little glow into the delicate spellwork.
“Dorothea!” says a warm, familiar voice from the rock, a little crackled but recognizable — Emilia jumps. “Please accept my warmest congratulations on your remarkable performance as Leonore this evening. You were truly splendid. I have never heard such warmth and color in ‘Come, hope, leave the last star,’ and I believe I have attended six performances of it in my life, if you count recitals, which I think ought to be counted. I am never more proud to be a patron of Mittelfrank than when I see you take center stage — just magnificent, Thea, really, I swear you grow more talented with every performance. Hubert, how long a message did you say th-”
Ferdinand’s voice cuts off abruptly, the stone falling silent in the palm of Dorothea’s hand.
“It’s no substitute for a real conversation,” says Hubert after a moment, as the others stare at the device in curiosity. “But I thought it might make a suitable supplement to any letters that are to be exchanged when you leave for Brigid. It would be a shame to go too long without hearing your voice.”
“Hubert,” says Dorothea, clearly touched by both the gift and his comment. “Wherever did you get something like this?”
“In my laboratory,” he says, casting a glance at Edelgard. “The sigil can be applied to any inanimate object, though some materials hold it better than others. Obviously such magic has...other potential applications that made the project attractive, but your use was my focus in developing it.”
“You invented that?” says Thaddeus incredulously.
“He’s very clever,” says Dorothea, winking at Hubert as she reaches for her final gift.
When dessert arrives — saghert and cream, prepared Garreg Mach style with preserved peaches instead of fresh — so does the owner of the restaurant. In too many words with too many syllables, he asks permission to interrupt their gathering, then delivers a long-winded but very sweet speech about meeting Dorothea just before the war and watching her career blossom over the years. He gets a little choked up towards the end, as he explains how proud and sad he was to learn she would be leaving Enbarr to become Brigidian Queen Consort. In a final gesture, he reveals he’s had two cases of her favorite shiraz sent to the royal residence in Brigid, so that she might enjoy the taste of her old home from her new one.
Emilia, who is more than a little tipsy, is crying by the end of this monologue, and joins Dorothea in enfolding the man in a warm, tearful embrace.
They finish up, Hubert divvying up his saghert and cream between the bride and the emperor, and collect their coats and wits. A courier waits downstairs to spirit Dorothea’s gifts back to her apartment, along with the emperor’s guards to accompany them to their next location. This is a little bit silly, as they’re only headed a few blocks, but it at least seems to amuse the singers, who find the escort delightfully novel.
Dorothea takes Edelgard’s arm, leaving Hubert to walk a few watchful paces behind. The animated chatter of the group leaves him oddly content, considering he usually finds groups of more than three people grating. There’s something about their easy banter, their casual acceptance of one another’s outlandishness, that reminds Hubert of a different group of hopeless fools.
“May I ask a question?” Harriet pipes up as they walk, rushing a step or two to catch up with his longer stride.
“It seems you already have,” says Hubert.
Realizing that might have come across as hostile, Hubert attempts a smile, and slows his pace to accommodate hers.
“Did you really once Silence someone for asking about your haircut?”
Hubert blinks.
“Excuse me?”
“Dorothea said you’re a very sensitive person,” says Harriet. “She said that once, during the war, someone remarked on your haircut and you rendered them mute for an afternoon.”
“That second part is...technically true,” says Hubert, wondering under what circumstances Dorothea had seen fit to tell that particular story, and what on earth had possessed her to describe him as sensitive . “Though I would note that it wasn’t just the remark about the haircut. Prime Minister Aegir will be the first to admit he earned his hour of silence.”
“Oh!” says Harriet, eyes widening. “It was Ferdinand! I see. I hadn’t realized it was...that sort of thing.”
Hubert chokes.
“I beg your pardon?”
“No judgment,” says Harriet quickly. “I can imagine he’d be rather loud, and —”
“—I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” says Hubert pointedly, staring resolutely at the back of Lady Edelgard’s head.
He could explain, of course, that the incident in question had not been ‘that sort of thing’ at all — it had been a hot-tempered decision, admittedly, but not a hot-blooded one, and it had preceded any amorous entanglement with the man by a good year and a half. But somehow he gets the feeling that Harriet has already settled on an interpretation.
“Harriet!” Thaddeus calls from behind them. “Are you badgering the good minister?”
“Only a little,” she says, grinning back.
“Well, stop,” they admonish. “You know what Dorothea told us.”
Hubert considers asking, but decides against it.
They proceed to their next location without further incident, Thaddeus falling in beside Hubert to ask questions about his laboratory and the process of developing new magics. Hubert learns that they worked as a metallurgist’s apprentice during the war, equipping the blacksmiths’ forges with fine steel, and that in fact all four of the singers served in some capacity. It shouldn’t surprise him, considering how all-encompassing the war was. But somehow it always does, to be reminded that so many people lived through that hell and came out on the other side making lewd jokes and complaining about impossibly melismatic soprano parts.
At the bottlehouse, their “private” table is hardly private, just two wooden steps and a thick velvet rope cordoning it off from the rest of the bustling floor, but that seems to be what Dorothea was hoping for. It’s an establishment catering to opera patrons and performers alike: a truly excessive number of paintings crowd the walls, including a good number of signed portraits of Mittelfrank’s current and former stars. Hubert spots Manuela’s picture above an enormous oil painting of a scene from Wilhelm und Luisa , and Dorothea’s between a close-up of the late bass Michail von Boramas and a handsome mirror framed in gold filigree.
It’s difficult to make conversation in such a loud establishment, but that doesn’t stop the others. Emilia and Harriet tease Dorothea about the time Petra had one too many tankards and initiated an arm-wrestling tournament at a table over by the window. Edelgard gets into a deeply technical discussion with Silas about Shatranj strategy. Thaddeus flirts relentlessly with one of the emperor’s guards, who is clearly trying to balance professionalism with a desire to flirt back. Through it all, every so often, individuals or little groups will approach their table to greet Dorothea and wish her well. Half of them remember to bow to the emperor first; the other half usually remember when Hubert glares hard enough.
When most of their glasses are empty, Hubert rises to go get the next round, and Emilia clambers over Harriet to join him, earning a playful swat on the rear from the alto as she goes. They shoulder their way through the crowd, Hubert keeping one hand on the tome in his pocket until they’ve reached the bar.
“Hello,” says Emilia, flashing him a nervous, tipsy smile once Hubert has handed over the list of what they require to the barkeeps.
Hubert keeps the drink preparations in the corner of his eye and offers her an equally wary smile.
“Hello.”
She looks around, fingering one of the tightly-wound curls that frame her face, then looks back up at him. She’s swaying a little on her feet, but not without rhythm, like she’s moving to a tune stuck in her head.
“It’s so nice to actually meet you,” she says, words a tiny bit slurred. “Ferdie — so sorry, Prime Minister Aegir — talks about you a lot, but...somehow he never actually says much. You’re very ah...very mysterious.”
“Oh?” says Hubert, raising an eyebrow.
The first two drinks, Edelgard’s noa cream whiskey and Harriet’s white wine, land on the counter.
“Yes,” says Emilia. “He says you’re very busy, but won’t say what...what kind of work it is that you do that keeps you thus. He says you appreciate the arts, but you never acc — hic — accompany him to the opera. He also says you’re very handsome, which I suppose I can see now for myself.”
Hubert laughs outright at that before he realizes she’s not joking, and falls awkwardly quiet. He waits to see if she’ll go on, but she’s just watching him, not with malice, just curiosity.
“I accompanied him to two or three operas, early in our courtship,” says Hubert after a moment. “We had some...insurmountable differences in how we approach artistic appreciation.”
(This is to say that Ferdinand’s way of enjoying an opera is to gush about it and reprise every aria he can recall, and Hubert’s way of enjoying an opera is to pick it apart at the seams, and now they have an amicable arrangement never to watch the same productions.)
“I see,” says Emilia, as the rest of the drinks appear. She smiles again, picking up three glasses in a practiced if somewhat precarious hold. “You’re very lucky, you know.”
“I know,” Hubert reassures her, arranging the other four so he can lift them more securely.
“Good,” she beams as they head back towards the others. “You seem nice, Minister Vestra. I dunno why Thea said you were so scary.”
Hubert sighs.
The guard lifts the rope for them as they reapproach their corner, Emilia managing to deliver the next round onto the table without spilling too much. Hubert sets the rest of them down, pauses a moment as a sensible thought occurs to him, and then turns back toward the bar to request a pitcher of water.
When he returns, a fair-haired man in an emerald waistcoat has managed to lean all the way across their table to speak with Dorothea in a low voice, his posterior presented to the rest of the room. At the songstress’ side, Edelgard is looking like she might burst out laughing at any second.
Hubert gives it a moment, standing patiently with the water pitcher in hand. Finally, Dorothea says something with a wink that makes the man straighten up alarmingly fast, turning to look right at Hubert with a scarlet blush raging on his face.
“Ibegyourpardon,” he says, bobbing in a hasty bow. Before Hubert can give said pardon, he’s burrowed into the crowd and disappeared, leaving Hubert to slide back into the bench and set down the water.
“Should I ask?” says Hubert, reaching for his fourth gin of the evening, the lone drink left in the center of the table.
“You have an admirer,” says Edelgard, looking far too pleased with the situation.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” says Dorothea, rolling her eyes. “That’s Günter. He asks me about every man I bring to La Stanza.”
Hubert sips his drink.
“And I suppose you told him that I am in fact a renowned murderer, specializing in poisoning upstanding gentlemen in bars.”
“He’s not that upstanding,” says Harriet.
“And technically, several of us are renowned murderers, so that’s hardly a differentiating factor,” adds Dorothea. “But no, I just told him that he was unlikely to get very far making overtures towards the Prime Minister’s paramour.”
“Paramour?” Hubert echoes, mildly indignant. “You make it sound as though we’re carrying on an affair.”
Dorothea sips her wine, a teasing glint in her eye.
“There’s a strong argument to be made that you’re both married to the Empire.”
“And a happy marriage it is, I think all three parties would agree,” says Hubert defensively, which gets an exasperated smile from Edelgard.
“To happy marriages!” says Thaddeus, raising their mug of ale.
“Hear, hear!” the others chime in.
“Even when they take our dear friends to distant shores,” adds Silas somberly, bumping his glass to Dorothea’s.
Emilia promptly begins to cry again, not in a sad way, just clearly in the mood for it.
“I believe now’s your time to give a speech, Miss Arnault,” says Harriet, patting Emilia’s arm. “Or better yet, a song.”
Somehow, between the drunken chutzpah of the singers and Edelgard’s steadying hand, Dorothea manages to clamber atop the table, where she taps the hilt of a previously-concealed dagger against her wine glass (good for her, thinks Hubert). Like the piercing summons of an oboe to an orchestra, the ringing sound gathers the attention of the bar, leaving all the patrons huddled in hushed expectation.
“Friends, colleagues, fellows in art,” Dorothea calls dramatically, summoning her full stage presence, and begins to address her adoring public.
As she speaks, Hubert finds himself tuning out the words, instead letting his eyes and ears comb the crowd for any sign of suspicious activity. A man elbowing his way to the front turns out to be clutching a program, not a blade; a hand reaching into a pocket turns out to be questing for a handkerchief, not a tome. Shortly after Hubert’s third misread, Edelgard’s hand descends on his forearm and squeezes none too gently, the message clear . Hubert heeds his emperor and refocuses.
“...and though my heart breaks fresh every time I think of taking my bows just when I’ve found my home under Mittelfrank’s lights,” Dorothea is saying, “I couldn’t tell you how excited I am to see what this magnificent company makes of itself while I’m abroad. This isn’t my swan song, good citizens of Enbarr, mark my word. I’ll be back, and I’ll bring with me the best of all the traditions of Brigid, and build a bridge of song between our great nations until you’ll forget I ever left, and beg me to go away.”
“Never!” come the obligatory cries from the crowd.
“Don’t go!”
“A song, please, Miss Arnault!”
“Scintille et sois étrange!”
“Wenn ich dort!”
“Regina della Giorno!”
Dorothea snaps her fingers, and Thaddeus swiftly lifts her wine glass into her waiting hand. She drains it slowly, as though to prove she can hold the room’s attention through the gesture, then procures a tuning fork from her cleavage.
Hubert has never patronized a tavern whose clientele is composed entirely of opera stars and aficionados (Hubert has never really patronized a tavern, if he’s being technical). He is wholly unprepared for the room not only to receive Dorothea’s performance, but to actively participate in it, five- and six-part harmonies swelling grandly out of the crowded room as Dorothea’s warm mezzo hovers and glides and soars through the lyrical arcs of her aria. Some seem to know the piece by heart; others hum drunkenly along and figure it out as they go. All are enraptured.
Hubert finds, as the gin sets in, that he is too. When the spell ends, the tavern erupting in thunderous applause, he chances a glance at Edelgard and finds the emperor’s eyes brimming with tears.
“Oh, stop,” she says when she catches him looking, huffing a shaky laugh. “You’ll miss her, too.”
“Of course,” says Hubert honestly. He really will. “All the same, I doubt something as trivial as distance would keep her away from all this .”
He gestures to where Dorothea has descended into the crowd, pressed on all sides by friends and admirers, each more eager than the last for a chance to shower her with adulation. The glow in her cheeks speaks to more than just the wine.
“All for Petra,” muses Edelgard, swirling what’s left of her whiskey in the glass. “Love is a powerful thing.”
“It is,” Hubert agrees. He hesitates a moment, eyes flicking outside to the lamplit plaza, then says quietly: “On that note — they ought to be returning within the hour, Your Majesty. It may be time.”
“I know,” says Edelgard, sighing, though there’s a helpless smile creeping over her face. She sips her drink, squints at what’s left, and downs the whole thing. “You’ll be a good sport for Thea without me, right?”
“I am always a good sport, My Lady.”
“A certain chess partner of yours reports that is not so,” says Edelgard wryly.
“No one wins every game,” Hubert grumbles. “I still contend that the goddess spirit granted them some sort of ability to see the future, or else change the past.”
“The only possible explanation,” says Edelgard, rolling her eyes affectionately.
Hubert finishes his gin, offering no retort, comfortable in his own unreasonableness.
“All right,” says Edelgard, rising from her chair at last. “I should be going. Let me bid Dorothea a proper goodbye. I’ll see you in the morning for our usual meeting, if you’re not indisposed after whatever else this evening will hold for you.”
She smiles impishly at him as she edges past him to escape the booth, the guards immediately stepping down to help clear her path.
The crowd parts to deliver the emperor to Enbarr’s favorite songstress-turned-war-hero-turned-songstress. The two women embrace warmly, exchanging words Hubert can’t hear over the noise of the revelers. As their conversation comes to an end, Dorothea bows to kiss Edelgard’s hand, then rises to kiss her cheek with much less formality, the both of them laughing and beaming. One more embrace, and Lady Edelgard is sweeping out with her guards, off to the palace and her own elusive lover.
Hubert settles back, pouring himself a glass of water. He’s alone at the table now, the Mittelfrank crew having dispersed into the crowd to mingle. With Edelgard gone he feels a little exposed and out of place, but the gin and his affection for Dorothea are enough to keep the feeling from having any real teeth. Not for the first time, he wonders how Linhardt managed to weasel out of attending either set of festivities.
The group lingers in the bottlehouse a little longer, until Harriet sets about rounding them up and extricating Dorothea from her adoring public. Drinks are polished off; goodbyes are exchanged; coats are located and donned. Soon they’re standing in the square, pink-cheeked from the autumn air and the drinks, and Dorothea is inquiring about their next destination.
“Not far,” Harriet reassures her, one arm around Emilia’s waist to steady her. “Just follow us, darling.”
It’s only a few minutes’ walk to the opera house. Mittelfrank towers grandly over the square, its ornate columns cast in warm shadow by the witchlights at their base. The six of them bypass the front entrance with its towering bronze doors, instead making their way around the side to the artists’ entrance, where a familiar figure is waiting.
“Manuela!” Dorothea gasps in delight, pulling free of Thaddeus’ arm to greet her mentor. “What are you doing here?”
“If you thought you could make it through your bachelorette party without seeing me, I didn’t teach you well enough,” says Manuela, her kisses leaving lipstick stains on both of Dorothea’s already rosy cheeks as they embrace.
“I hoped, but I didn’t know,” says Dorothea, beaming. “Will you be joining us for a nightcap?”
“Oh goodness no,” says Manuela. “Perhaps if you were getting married five years ago, like we all thought you and your princess would. But I don’t think I could keep up with you kids anymore. I’m just here to do the honors.”
She withdraws a delicate golden key from her pocket.
“Oh,” breathes Dorothea. Hubert takes this to mean that Mittelfrank doesn’t open itself to private parties every day.
“Directrix Astranár sends her regards,” says Manuela with a smile. She turns and unlocks the door; candlelight spills out onto the stone steps as the lush interior hall is revealed, thick-carpeted and well-lit.
The group steps up as Manuela steps aside, Hubert nodding a greeting to his former professor, who winks back.
“It feels so naughty, sneaking in after hours,” says Dorothea, raising a hand over her mouth to hide a grin. She hesitates a moment as the file inside, turning back to look at Manuela through the doorframe.
“We trust you not to trash the place,” says Manuela. “Enjoy your party, my darling diva. I’ll see you day after next for your ceremony.”
“Day after next,” Dorothea agrees warmly,, sneaking in one more embrace. “I can’t wait to hear your processional.”
As the singers move further in, Manuela shuts the door, and Hubert hears the lock click back into place. The quiet is profound in a hall usually so lively.
Hubert finds himself at the back of the pack, admiring the paintings in the artists’ wing while they walk. He’s only ever been in here to rendezvous with his agents in the chorus and the stage crew; he hasn’t had an opportunity to appreciate the loveliness of the décor — it’s really quite nice. Or maybe he’s just feeling the gin.
“Are we going to the Patrons’ Salon?” Dorothea asks Harriet curiously as they head down the hallway.
“Someplace better,” Harriet tells her. “Don’t worry, we had what we needed from the bar sent over.”
“I wasn’t worried,” says Dorothea, laughing and stumbling a little.
“We have something of a surprise for you,” says Silas. “Related, in a way, to the compositional notebook you received earlier.”
“Ooh,” says Dorothea. “Consider me intrigued.”
A few turns – notably, away from the main auditorium and the grand lobby – and they’re nearing their destination. Emilia giggles and slips her hands over Dorothea’s eyes as they approach, while Harriet guides the blinded bride forward and Thaddeus skips ahead to get the doors.
The Golden Lark Hall is the smaller of Mittelfrank’s two theaters, built for recitals and lecture series rather than full productions. Usually it has no set, just the elegance of a bare stage and maybe a prop or two. But tonight, it boasts a stately wooden balcony above a painted shoreline, lovingly constructed and rendered in the brilliant blues and greens and yellows of the Brigidian coast.
Dorothea’s gasp resounds through the empty hall as Emilia’s hands come away.
“It’s an exact replica of the terrace where Petra proposed,” says Thaddeus, sounding giddy.
“It’s – how did you – ” she stammers, eyes wide with wonder.
“Now you’ll have to come back and debut The Song of the Huntress here,” says Harriet, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “When you’ve finished it, of course.”
“Oh,” says Dorothea, blinking back happy tears, clearly overcome. “Oh, I suppose I will.”
“Go on,” says Silas with a gentle smile. “Get a closer look.”
Dorothea does, leading all of them up onto the stage, where she sets about examining the elaborate woodwork, trailing her hands speechlessly over the precise geometric ornamentation. Thaddeus and Emilia join her in clambering up to the balcony itself; Hubert opts to stay behind, but looks up to watch Dorothea’s face light up as she looks out over the empty hall.
“It’s exactly right,” she says, amazed. “How did you get every detail just so?”
The singers’ eyes converge conspicuously on Hubert. He clears his throat.
“There are a number of people in my employ who…specialize in taking detailed notes,” he says. “I may have had one of them serve as a consultant for your set designers.”
Dorothea’s eyes narrow playfully as she stares down at him.
“I hope your spies don’t make a habit of observing Petra’s private balcony, Hubert,” she says, “or I suspect you’ll find yourself with some detailed notes on my tits.”
“Thea!” Emilia gasps, scandalized but laughing anyway.
“Come, come,” Harriet calls, having stayed below with Hubert. “We’re not done with you yet, Miss Arnault. Let’s play a game.”
Beneath the set terrace, on the “beach,” there are a few couches and chairs set up, and a table with further refreshments in the center and a red velvet bag. They plop their way onto them, a comfortable range of drunkenness between the six. Hubert opts for a chair of his own but finds his plan to stay aloof thwarted when Dorothea perches on its arm and drapes herself over the back of it.
“Hello,” she says, resting her chin on his shoulder as the others set about pouring drinks.
“Hello,” he says. He holds very still, as though any movement might dislodge her, or bring about further closeness.
“Have I mentioned yet how delighted I am that you agreed to come tonight?” she asks.
“Not yet,” says Hubert. “Though if you did, I would of course tell you that I was surprised and honored to be invited, given my status as a notorious spoilsport.”
“Oh, hush,” says Dorothea. “You’ll have to try a lot harder to ruin my fun, and you know it.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“No,” says Dorothea. “I’d rather try and ruin your fun instead.”
Before he can find out what that means, Silas passes them both drinks — some crimson concoction, lighter than wine — and Dorothea slips off the arm of his chair to wander to the central table. She picks up the velvet bag, smiling at Harriet.
“Is this what I think it is?”
Harriet grins.
“Why don’t you have one of us reach in and find out?”
“Have it your way,” says Dorothea, tossing it to her.
Hubert isn’t sure what’s going on, but he’s just discovered the drink Silas made for them is quite good – sour, with a subtle bite to it that suggests a strong clear liquor, and just enough sweetness to go down smooth. This realization also leads Hubert to consider that he’s just accepted a drink unquestioningly from a near-stranger. Truly, time is dulling his spymaster’s instincts. He takes another sip.
“Tell us the story of how you came to know the soon-to-be-weds,” reads Harriet, having drawn and unsealed a little scroll from inside the bag.
“Ooh, I remember this,” Emilia giggles.
Harriet recrosses her legs, tapping her nails against her glass thoughtfully.
“It must have been Imperial Year 1174,” she says. “I was going up for a part, and I met Thea backstage just before she went on for her own audition. She was so sweet, but the moment she went on and started to sing I realized I had no chance. I couldn’t even be angry — she was just so good.”
A few glasses are raised at that, and Dorothea glows.
“Over the next few years, we grew closer, sometimes in the chorus together, or acting as one another’s understudies,” Harriet goes on. “I watched her date so many awful men. Nitwits and cretins, every one. Then finally, her patron helped her with the application to Garreg Mach, and off she went. I thought she was crazy to leave Mittelfrank just as her star was really rising, but she wanted to follow Manuela, wanted to learn more than just stagecraft.”
Dorothea smiles, settling on the couch next to Thaddeus.
“Thea,” Harriet says, turning to look at her head on. “Do you remember the first time you wrote me about Petra?”
“Oh, no,” says Dorothea. “Is it embarrassing?”
“I’d say,” Harriet laughs back. “You told me she was like a character out of an opera you wanted to write — the brave, beautiful warrior princess, separated from her homeland, but determined to make her people proud. You said you thought her prayer marks were like ‘works of fine art on the canvas of her skin.’ And there must have been a full paragraph just about her hair.”
Hubert joins the others in chuckling at that, remembering those days.
“In that same letter, you also referred to him as the Imperial Ratman,” Harriet adds, jerking her thumb at Hubert and flashing a truly impish grin.
“Harriet!” Dorothea gasps, mortified. She looks over at Hubert, an apology already forming on her lips, only to find that he’s chuckling.
“When I think of all the nicknames I would have deserved ten years ago, I can hardly fault you for that one.”
Dorothea settles back, sipping her drink and looking a little embarrassed.
“I used to try and get Ferdie to call you that, too,” she admits. “But he would never bite. ‘Dorothea! Mocking someone for their appearance, however odious their character, is unbecoming of a noble.’ ”
She rolls her eyes as she completes the impression, then adds: “I think he just liked your rat face, even then.”
That has Hubert’s cheeks burning. He’s saved from further embarrassment when Silas pulls a new scroll from the bag and reads: what is the most enchanting feature of the bride-to-be?
“Her voice,” Silas answers himself immediately. “Not just for its beauty, though of course it’s famous all across Fódlan for that. But more because she’s used it to fight for those who need a champion.”
“Oh, yes,” says Emilia, smiling warmly in agreement.
“To Thea’s voice!” Thaddeus calls, a little loud in their inebriation, raising their glass. “And her rack, also famous across Fódlan.”
Dorothea swats their leg as the others laugh; there’s no anger in it. Hubert finds the bag passed to him. Reaching inside, he draws out a little scroll and sets his drink down so he can unroll it.
“Were you ever attracted to the bride-to-be?” he reads.
Thaddeus and Emilia immediately laugh, while Silas raises his eyebrows and Harriet’s eyes bore curiously across the circle at Hubert. Dorothea just looks amused, swirling her drink in its glass.
Hubert chuckles quietly, setting the scroll aside.
“Certainly I’ve noted that Dorothea is, objectively speaking, very lovely,” says Hubert. “And at her own behest, I did once consider what a marriage between us might look like.”
“Oh,” says Harriet, casting an intrigued glance at Dorothea. “Go on.”
“I said then that given her wit and her talents, it would be advantageous from a strategic intelligence perspective,” says Hubert. “And though clearly such a union is not in our futures, I stand by that. If I may politely disagree with the previous assessment, Miss Arnault’s most alluring feature is her mind.”
Dorothea beams at him, recognizing his high praise for what it is.
“Ferdinand is a silly man,” she says. “You can sing my praises all you like, no letter-writing required.”
Hubert smiles and takes another sip. Harriet gives Dorothea a curious look, and Dorothea glances at Hubert with a little bit of mischief in her eyes.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” she says to the others. “Ferdie can’t bear to hear Hubie compliment him out loud, so our dear minister writes him love letters instead.”
The other singers respond immediately and dramatically — Emilia practically swoons in her chair; Harriet and Thaddeus burst out laughing; Silas presses a touched hand to his heart. Hubert can feel his ears burning but masks his expression by finishing his drink and getting up to fix himself another.
“Is that how you confessed your love?” Emilia asks hopefully, eyes wide and bright. “Through a letter?”
Hubert glances up from the pitcher warily.
“Isn’t this game about showering the bride with attention?”
“Oh, I like this version just fine,” says Dorothea, grinning.
“Of course you would,” he mutters.
“You need to understand you’re quite a novelty here, Hubert,” says Dorothea, reaching to snag a cluster of grapes off the center table. “Ferdie comes to the green room before and after every show. He attends all the patron dinners and most of the lecture series, and he’s got half the chorus lusting after him. Everyone knows he’s spoken for, but he’s quite tight-lipped about his love life. And I doubt you need to be told that your own reputation is rather...fearsome. So to have you here in the flesh — the dark, mysterious man who holds the heart of Mittelfrank’s darling Prime Minister in his dangerous hands — some might see it as a unique opportunity.”
Hubert feels a pang, somewhere between gratitude and regret, realizing that Ferdinand has kept reticent on his behalf.
“Also, Thea told us we weren’t allowed to really grill you until the emperor left,” says Thaddeus with a grin.
“Of course she did,” Hubert mutters as Dorothea sticks out her tongue at him. “From what I gather, she’s also told you all plenty about me already.”
“Yes, but half of it I made up to amuse myself,” says Dorothea. “Come on, Hubie. Indulge us. You’re among friends.”
Hubert sighs, settling back onto the chair with his refilled glass.
“Fine,” he says after a moment. “Though I...can’t in good conscience share the story of how we began courting. It’s very long and...ah, very romantic, and I suspect Ferdinand would like to be the one to tell it. But I’ll answer the next question that comes out of the bag as though it were about him, if that’s an acceptable compromise.”
Dorothea is staring at him with a truly evil glint in her eyes.
“The next three,” she bargains. “If you won’t share how your relationship began.”
Hubert scowls at her.
“It’s your bachelorette night,” he says. “Why are you so eager to make this about my love life?”
“Hubie,” Dorothea says, as though he’s being ridiculous. “How often do I get the chance to administer a veritable truth serum to the Minister of the Imperial Household? I’d gladly weaponize my wedding for that kind of power.”
He rolls his eyes, passing the bag to Emilia.
“Very well.”
It takes her a minute to decide on a scroll, and another to realize she’s reading it upside down. Silas quietly pours a glass of water, which Hubert slides onto the table next to her, exchanging a knowing nod with the bass.
“What would you guess is the most sc...scandalous place the brides have ever made love?” Emilia reads, brow furrowing in confusion as she looks at Hubert. “Or I guess that means...what would you guess is the most scandalous place you and Ferdie...you know.” She giggles. “But you don’t have to guess, I suppose.”
Hubert gives Dorothea a dirty look.
“The other questions were decidedly less invasive.”
“Are you reneging on our arrangement, minister?” says Dorothea, offense looming in her tone.
“You’re insufferable,” sighs Hubert. “Fine. The chapel, in Garreg Mach.”
“Hubie!” Dorothea gasps delightedly. “Where in?”
“The northeast corner,” says Hubert. “By the saints’ statues.”
“Was this while we were still in school?”
“Absolutely not,” says Hubert, affronted. “I don’t believe I need to remind you that Ferdinand and I were not exactly friendly until well into the war.”
“You don’t have to be friendly to fuck,” says Harriet.
Thaddeus nods in sage agreement.
“Next question, please,” says Hubert through gritted teeth.
Dorothea gets the bag next, reading over her scroll before passing the whole thing over to Thaddeus.
“What’s a memory of Ferdie that makes you smile?” she says. She seems mildly disappointed not to have drawn a spicier question.
Hubert thinks for a moment, sifting through options. There are, it turns out, quite a few to choose from.
“Standing in the gallery of the Council Hall,” he says eventually, “watching him present his proposal for a universal education option to the governors of a united Fódlan.”
“Hubie,” Dorothea objects. “That’s not romantic at all.”
“My definition of romance and yours do not have to coincide.”
Maybe romantic isn’t quite the right word. But it unquestionably meets the prompt. Every time Hubert remembers that day — the view from the back of the balcony, gazing down as Ferdinand had commanded the floor with his usual aplomb, his remarkable preparation evident in the way he’d skillfully fielded every question and challenge the Council had thrown at him, his gestures animated and his eyes bright with earnest passion — Hubert can’t help the curve of his own lips, a warm echo of the pride and admiration he’d felt that day.
“You’re grinning, Hubie,” says Dorothea.
Hubert swallows another mouthful of the sour-sweet drink.
“I suppose I am.”
“Does this mean you’re not going to give me a better answer?”
“I suppose it does.”
Dorothea huffs and turns to Thaddeus, who is ready with Hubert’s final question.
“If the soon-to-be...no, if you and the Prime Minister hadn’t gotten together, what would your life be like?” they read.
Hubert’s mind has been slow to move out of his memory of the Council Hall — perhaps it’s the drink; he hasn’t been pacing himself or counting as carefully as he usually would — and he finds the new question catches him rather off guard. He’s thought plenty about what would happen if one of them died, of course. That’s his job, to be prepared for the worst. But to imagine a world where they’re both alive, just...not with one another, somehow, is another task entirely.
Hubert’s brow furrows as he thinks. Ferdinand would have many suitors, of course. Hubert would watch him court a few of them, would do his diligence in ensuring they posed no threat to the Prime Minister or to the Empire, would perhaps hear a word or two about the courtship from Ferdinand when they took tea and coffee together. Eventually Ferdinand would find the right one — someone beautiful and charming, like the people in this room, like Ferdinand himself — and they’d wed. He and Hubert would still have their work, of course, and that will always be enormously important, but—
“—Hubert?” Dorothea prompts, pulling him from his thoughts. “Your life, if you weren’t with Ferdie?”
“I...don’t know,” he says, surprised at the softness in his own voice. “No less full, but...empty, all the same.”
No one patronizes him with any cooing, but he sees Emilia clutch her water glass close to her chest, and there’s a thoughtfulness in Harriet’s eyes, different from the sharp-eyed gaze he’s seen from her so far.
“Well, we got our three questions,” says Thaddeus, as Hubert tries to shake the strange mood that’s come over him. “Let’s finish the round, Thea.”
Another series of drinks is poured, and they proceed with the game. Emilia has draped herself over Harriet’s lap, and even Harriet’s speech is beginning to slur. They hear about the worst fight Dorothea ever had with Silas, the time Emilia walked in on Petra and Dorothea ‘christening’ the green room, and Thaddeus’ speculation on the brides’ preferences regarding bedroom attire. On Dorothea’s next turn, they’re regaled with a stirring nation of a wartime raid she and Petra led on a Church stronghold to free some imprisoned Empire soldiers.
“We knew enemy reinforcements were coming,” Dorothea is saying, face flushed with memory and merriment. “But there was this one soldier, injured, couldn’t have been older than nineteen, and Petra refused to leave him behind. That warrior spirit, that insistence that every life in her charge had value, was worth fighting for...that’s when I knew it was more than...more than a passing infatuation. That’s when I knew I loved her.”
The others voice their inebriated approval. Hubert finishes yet another drink and thinks dizzily of his own answer to the prompt. It had been at the war table in the Cardinal’s Room, Ferdinand opposing him with all the passion and power with which he faced down their enemies, and something had just abruptly clicked inside him, like a pick in a lock. Hubert had been so distracted by the realization that he’d lost the argument (which had turned out for the best — Ferdinand had been right, and seeking reinforcements from Gloucester had been the difference between victory and defeat at Myrrdin).
Hubert suddenly and fervently finds himself wishing that Ferdinand were here. The feeling isn’t unusual for a social function — in fact, at most parties, it would have taken significantly less time for him to get to this point — but the drink and the reminiscence have compounded it, and abruptly there’s little he’d rather be doing than wrapping himself up around that strong frame, nuzzling his nose into that thick, beautiful hair…
“Here,” says Silas, jolting Hubert from his thoughts. He’s holding out a glass of water, expression kind.
Hubert mutters his thanks, hoping his face isn’t as red as it feels.
Inevitably, it becomes time to sing. Silas and Thaddeus drag a practice upright onto the stage, its wheels squeaking, and Harriet springs to the bench. Soon they’re standing around the piano and calling out favorites, the five singers delighting in their collective vocal dexterity despite their inebriation.
Hubert doesn’t know most of the songs, but he lets them guide him gently from mood to mood, his mind drifting between the present moment and thoughts of the Prime Minister. Eventually there’s a piece he recognizes, and he finds himself caught up in the singers’ energy, humming along at first, and eventually joining the final line of familiar chorus: “Vernünftige Liebe — das ist keine Liebe. Und das habe ich von dir gelernt.”
When the music comes to an end, he finds everyone is smiling at him, and realizes abruptly he’s made an ass of himself.
“My apologies,” he says, ducking his head and offering a sheepish smile. “I shall ah...leave it to the professionals.”
“No, that’s not it,” says Thaddeus, dark eyes warm and curious. “You have a lovely voice.”
“You’re really not half bad, Hubie.”
“Does Ferdie know you sing?” Emilia asks.
“Do I know what?” asks a familiar voice from below.
All attention snaps to the house, where Ferdinand stands at the end of the aisle, having very obviously thrown a waistcoat and cape over his nightclothes. Immediately an elated cry goes up from the drunken singers; Silas extends an arm down to help the Prime Minister up onto the stage, and Thaddeus rushes to fetch him a drink. Hubert feels a terrible warmth spreading in the pit of his stomach at the sight of him, hair mussed and sleeping trousers shoved hastily into his boots.
“Ferdie!” says Dorothea, flinging her arms around his shoulders and pressing a messy kiss to his cheek. “What are you doing here?”
“I um—” says Ferdinand, trying to decline the drink Emilia is now pressing insistently into his hands. “Forgive me for intruding, I was—”
“—how did you even get in here?” Harriet interrupts.
“I used Hubert’s key,” says Ferdinand. “And then followed the music.”
“Hubie,” says Dorothea, eyes narrowing as she turns to him. “Why do you have a key to the Mittelfrank Opera House?”
“I...ah,” says Hubert, avoiding her eyes. “I have a key t’a number of important establishments in Enbarr.”
“Wait, Prime Minister Aegir, you were saying why you’ve come,” says Silas, looking concerned as he lays a hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder. “Is something the matter?”
“No, no,” says Ferdinand hurriedly. His eyes flick to Hubert and his cheeks color a little. “I...if I may be terribly honest, was having trouble sleeping, knowing I may have pressured Hubert into attending, and the hour had gotten quite late and I thought perhaps he was ah...in need of rescuing.”
Hubert gives up battling the warmth that’s now seeped through every part of him at the sound of those words. He rounds the piano, handing off his drink to Silas, and pulls Ferdinand out of Dorothea’s arms and into his own.
“You needn’t have worried,” he says softly. “But I adore that you did.”
He tilts his head down to kiss Ferdinand on the lips, triggering a yelp from Emilia and a delighted gasp from the rest of them.
Ferdinand pulls away, eyes wide and face rapidly reddening, turning towards Dorothea.
“What have you done to my fiancée?” he demands, then immediately claps a hand over his own mouth.
“Fiancée?!” Dorothea repeats, thunderstruck. The others look just as surprised, if not quite as aghast as the bride-to-be. Hubert slips his arms around Ferdinand’s waist from behind, leaning to rest his chin on his sturdy shoulder.
“I—” Ferdinand stammers, glancing down as Hubert’s hair tickles the side of his neck. “It was a slip of the tongue, Thea, really, it’s not—”
“—we didn’t want to draw any attention from you and Petra,” says Hubert, a bit muffled by Ferdinand’s shoulder. He’s suddenly very tired but not at all unhappy, Ferdinand’s familiar warmth grounding him as he leans tipsily on his partner.
“Wait, so you are engaged?” Dorothea demands, elation and fury warring in her expression. “Since when? And why didn’t you tell me?”
“Since a few hours before we received the letter about your own betrothal,” says Ferdinand. “It was a coincidence, Thea, I swear. And we were going to tell you, but we didn’t want to distract you when you were planning for your own nuptials, and there was no rush, after all, so we were going to wait until after your honeymoon, but...it seems I’ve ruined that now.”
“You’re not even the one who’s drunk,” says Harriet, impressed. “I see why he’s the spymaster and not you, Ferdie.”
“Does Edelgard know?” asks Dorothea.
“Y-yes,” says Ferdinand, twitching a little as Hubert sighs into the crook of his shoulder. “But she’s the only one.”
“I can’t believe you two,” says Dorothea, but the indignation is rapidly slipping from her face, giving way to helpless joy. “How did it happen?”
Hubert lifts his head a little, one hand coming up to brush Ferdinand’s hair away from his ear so he can murmur into it:
“You can tell her.”
He relishes the little shiver he feels Ferdinand give in response.
“We, ah...” says Ferdinand distractedly. “Well, first we had a conversation about it, just about...whether or not it was something we both wanted, if it was practical for the Empire and our roles, and then—”
“—please don’t tell me you asked Edelgard’s blessing,” Dorothea groans.
“—then we asked Edelgard’s blessing,” says Ferdinand, reddening as Hubert smirks into his neck.
“Hubie,” Dorothea says. “You’re a horrible influence.”
“I know.”
“If it helps,” says Ferdinand, “Her Majesty was about as pleased as you seem to be that we’d asked. I believe her exact words were ‘the fact that you think you need my permission makes me want to withhold it.’ ”
Dorothea laughs.
“Good for Edie.”
“And I thought that was it,” says Ferdinand, laying a hand over one of the ones Hubert has on his waist, his tone growing softer. “But the next day, Hubert offered to join me on my morning ride, which I really should have taken as a sign something was afoot, and...we rode all the way to the southern shore, and took a lovely breakfast on the low cliffs, and...the rest is probably quite predictable.”
“Say it anyway!” Emilia implores, leaning against the piano as she hangs on to Ferdinand’s every word.
“I proposed,” says Hubert. He presses a tiny kiss to the side of Ferdinand’s neck. “And this fool said yes.”
“Oh, Hubie,” says Dorothea, grinning ear to ear. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“I didn’t either,” says Hubert, returning his chin to Ferdinand’s shoulder. “Which is why I arranged it near the cliffs, so I would be motivated t’hurry up and get it over with as quickly as possible.”
“Hubert!” says Ferdinand, huffing an affronted laugh. “I thought it was because you knew how much I loved that view.”
“It was a...a tactically ideal location.”
“I can’t believe you kept this from me for months, ” says Dorothea, working out the last of her aggravation. “You really are the worst, you know. Both of you.”
“We were truly just trying to keep the focus on you and Petra,” says Ferdinand apologetically. “We didn’t mean to keep you in the dark, Thea. I am honestly very sorry.”
“Oh, don’t be,” says Dorothea. She steps forward and wraps her arms around them both, three heads bumping in a messy, affectionate hug that both men return. “I’m just so happy for you idiots.”
“Oh,” says Thaddeus suddenly; they’ve taken a seat on the piano bench with Harriet, and their eyes are lit up with realization. “Hub — Minister Vestra, you said Ferdie would want to tell the story of how your courtship began.”
Hubert feels Ferdinand freeze up as Dorothea steps away, her own eyes glinting with amusement.
“I...did, didn’t I,” says Hubert idly.
“Yes, you said it was a long and romantic tale,” Dorothea prompts, mischief in her smile.
“Y...yes,” says Ferdinand nervously. “Much too long for this late hour, I am afraid, and I would hate to strain your patience at your own party. I really should be going; I will be rising with the sun to join Petra on her hunt, as you know.”
The others clamor for him to tell it anyway, but Dorothea finally waves them off, laughing.
“Go,” she tells him. “And take Hubie with you. He’s been a great sport tonight, all things considered, but I suspect he’s about ready for bed.”
“I am always a great sport,” Hubert mumbles reflexively.
“Yes, dear,” says Ferdinand.
“Here,” says Silas, appearing with Hubert’s cloak and jacket.
“Thank you, Silas,” says Ferdinand sincerely. He takes both over his arm and turns to Dorothea. “Thea — it was marvelous to see you twice tonight, though I do apologize that neither time was by invitation.”
“You’re always welcome here, Ferdie,” Emilia reassures him, smiling warmly from atop the piano.
“Yes, come and see us again soon,” Thaddeus echoes.
“Careful,” Dorothea warns. “Ferdie has a habit of making a home where you least expect it. I wouldn’t encourage him too much.”
She winks at Hubert, who tries to wink back, realizing only a second later that he’s done so with the eye no one can see.
“All right,” says Ferdinand, prying Hubert’s hands off his waist so he can turn and slip a steadying arm under the taller man’s shoulders instead. “Back to the palace with us, then.”
“Dorothea,” says Hubert, offering her a sincere (if somewhat crooked) smile. “Thank you for...for inviting me tonight. I am looking forward t’the wedding.”
“Please, Hubert,” Dorothea laughs, patting his cheek. “You’ve never looked forward to a gathering of more than four people in your life.”
He catches her hand and squeezes it affectionately.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
As the singers call their goodbyes, Ferdinand leads the two of them to the little stairs that connect the stage to the house. The singers take up a new melody at their backs while they make their way down the aisle and exit, leaving behind the stage with its Brigidian terrace replica and its merry occupants.
Soon enough they’re emerging into the brisk midnight air, Enbarr glowing with its witchlights and oil lamps under a thick sliver of an autumn moon. Ferdinand pauses to help Hubert into his jacket and cloak, and as his practiced fingers fasten the last buckle, Hubert steals another warm kiss from those lovely lips.
Ferdinand laughs softly as he pulls away, brushing Hubert’s hair back from his face.
“You taste like cranberries,” he remarks. Hubert just smiles.
They begin the trek back to the palace arm in arm, Ferdinand guiding Hubert in straight lines, which have somehow become rather difficult to achieve.
“You know,” says Hubert as they walk. “When we...when we get married, it is probably expected that we will share the story of how we came to be...us.”
Even in the dim light, he can see Ferdinand blush at that.
“You’re probably right,” says Ferdinand, voice uncharacteristically delicate. “What long, romantic tale do you think would suit the occasion?”
“Why not the truth?” asks Hubert, leaning over to nibble gently on Ferdinand’s ear.
“Hubert,” Ferdinand laughs, twitching but not pulling away. “I don’t think our friends need to hear that we angered each other squabbling over naval strategy until you bent me over your desk.”
Hubert laughs into his ear.
“If memory serves,” he says, lowering his voice. “It was technically Seteth’s desk at the time. And you recount it as though you didn’t make the first move, cutting off my very valid point about the nonper’shable rations shortage with that smart mouth of yours.”
Ferdinand grins, turning his head to meet Hubert’s lips for another kiss, this one a little deeper and rougher than the previous. When they pull away, Hubert extricates his arm from Ferdinand’s so he can wrap it around his shoulders instead. Ferdinand follows suit a moment later and they continue like this, sharing one another’s weight as they approach the edge of the square.
“Hubert,” says Ferdinand softly, casting a glance at him. “I know it is the drink loosening your composure tonight. But I must say...it is...nice to see this side of you outside our chambers.”
“It’s a terrible trajectory you’ve set me on,” Hubert agrees, feeling pleasantly unburdened by his usual restraint. “First you make me experience desire, then affection, then love, and now y’have me willing to admit to as much in a public setting. Next you’ll have me agreeing t’spend the rest of my saints-forsaken life with you.”
Ferdinand laughs happily, leaning his head against Hubert’s shoulder.
“I can think of worse things,” he says.
Hubert kisses his temple, holds him a little closer. As they slip out of the plaza, the moon looms a little higher, and Hubert imagines he can still hear song and laughter pealing faintly out of the opera house behind them.
“Truthfully, Ferdie,” he says, thumb rubbing over the curve of the other man’s shoulder, “I can think of nothing better.”