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After the Cathedral, everyone leaves Comida; Belizabeth has a Church edict to share, after all, and there’s no need to continue holding an international festival to celebrate choosing a new emperor when there is no new emperor.
Or, Plumbeline supposes, reading a letter from Belizabeth that names her interim leader of Comida, no official emperor.
It’s not until the third Church edict with no mention of her name, her city, or her Pyramid, that Plumbeline begins to feel unsure. Her information networks in Ceresia have brought back news of political resettlement and a joining into the Church’s holy war, but her Vegetanian spies have less to share as the Vegetanian castle locks down and the Church continues its tight-lipped history. Plumbeline, at her wit’s end, sends a single sentence to Belizabeth, a plea on their prior agreement, ‘Acknowledge me as Empress.’
The Pontifex herself does reply, though it takes an almost discourteous amount of time; the letter is very long and full of elegant, politic language, hemming and hawing until she all but says ‘No, I do not support your claim, and there is no Concord to rule besides.’ She also dares to still request that Plumbeline do her the favor of agreeing to mobilize the imperial and Fructaran troops to Candia for the war effort. When she receives the letter, Plumbeline locks herself into her bedroom for three hours, throwing pillows and journals around in a fit immature enough to make her feel like the child that everyone keeps treating her as. Then, she collects herself and sends an official missive to the Fructeran Noble Assemberry, advising them to keep their people home and avoid getting involved in Vegetanian disputes; there is, after all, no Concord -- why should Fructerans risk their lives for someone who is not even formally their ally?
Plumbeline ignores the next letter from Brightgarden, as well as the two that come after that; each letter of Belizabeth’s that refuses to sign over the power that should belong to Plumbeline is one that Plumbeline reads and leisurely throws away. It’s not all petulance, Comida is a city-state in and of itself, and even if there is no official empress, there needs to be someone in charge -- the citizens must be taken care of, the daily affairs managed, and the imports and outports have to be handled, and Plumbeline is the only person prepared and willing to do all that.
She deserves the title that goes along with the work, so when the people, Comdians that she’s known for years, call her Empress she’s disinclined to stop them.
When a letter arrives from Candia’s Lord Cruller, it’s a break in routine enough to raise Plumbeline’s eyebrow. The contents, though, reveal it to be just as unwanted as the Pontifex’s notes; he claims to be writing as a friend and ally but asks her to drop her singular demand for the sake of harmony. Plumbeline scoffs as she reads it, knowing that he is writing her from the throne that he’s so coveted for years and that the Church has confirmed him in, and responds ‘I appreciate your advice, as an ally, but I have done you the service of not meddling in your affairs. Will you not do me the same courtesy?’
No response is forthcoming and Plumbeline settles into pleased smugness, feeling that her point has been well expressed. When, days later, Lord Cruller appears at her gates with no retinue or prior warning, she’s taken by surprise.
Plumbeline rushes out of a meeting, planned for weeks and now unfinished, as her maid alerts her. She stops outside the room Lord Cruller has been left waiting in to tighten her bun and brush out her clothing, and to think uncharitably about people who have no sense of consideration, before she plasters on her most welcoming smile and sweeps into the room.
“Welcome to the Food Pyramid,” She says, inclining her head. Lord Cruller inclines his in kind and they share the pleasantries that one must, when you’re both sitting leaders of different countries. Eventually, Plumbeline gestures for him to follow her to her receiving room and he comes easily.
“I apologize for not writing ahead,” He says, as they walk through her Great Pyramid, “But I would’ve arrived ahead of any letter, so it seemed unnecessary.”
Plumbeline allows herself a frown while he cannot see it; with the normal mail perhaps he’s correct, but if he’d sent a single messenger ahead on a particularly fast horse- but he knows this, of course, and he surely knows that Plumbeline knows as well. Politics, she reminds herself, is mostly about pretending that you don’t know things.
She mentally shakes her annoyance, physically drops her frown, and says, “Of course, I understand.”
Plumbeline sweeps open the doors of the receiving room and makes her way down the rich violet carpet, climbing the small stairs to the dais and sitting on her throne. She expects that Calroy will stay at the foot of the stairs, as her petitioners do -- kneel or stand and make his case as they do, as any normal, unannounced person visiting her Pyramid would -- but instead, he follows her up the steps, stopping mere steps away from her and looming over her chair. It would be nearly impossible for her to straighten her back more, but she certainly tries.
“I appreciate your flexibility,” Calroy says, and it takes her a moment to remember that he’s still talking about her willingness to allow him in. “I thought I might be more persuasive in person than in a letter.”
Plumbeline’s eyes narrow and her voice goes flat as a Saturn peach. “Persuasive?” She asks.
Calroy simply nods, “I, of course, have supported your claim to the Concordant throne this entire time and would love to see you as Empress. You have the knowledge and the experience, after all, who else could do it?”
“I thank you for that support, but-”
“Though, I do wonder if you’re a bit too… single-minded.” Calroy says, cutting through her words thoughtlessly. He puts a hand to his chin consideringly, shifting his body in a way that makes his shadow in the midday light fall more completely onto her. “We have all been working towards the same goal for so long and we still are! House Rocks is still at large, the heretics of the Faith still run rampant in many countries, and we all want to solve these problems. But I worry that you may have forgotten some of that, Lady Uvano. We -- all of us -- only want what’s best for Calorum. We’ve worked so hard for these positions, and we surely don’t want a single rebellion to throw off years of planning-”
“You seem to be very keen on the word ‘we.’” Plumbeline interrupts, unable to take the indulgent way he is looking down onto her. She is not a war relic with a grudge, her goal is and has always been to rule Comida the way she’s known it deserves. She is uninterested in learning more about this “greater goal” Calroy assumes she shares. Calroy’s lips twitch downward but she pays it no mind as she continues, “I have been the ruler of Fructera, and now I sit upon the Concordant throne; I kept all of you apprised of my father’s condition as you plotted and planned; I risked my life and sullied my word to expose House Rocks mere weeks ago. All these things were done for the sake of your plans but they were done by me, and, Lord Cruller, I do not ever recall asking you for recommendations on how I run things.”
Calroy smiles, a gentle thing that makes Plumbeline’s annoyance bubble even higher. “Of course not, but I have experiences that you might find valuable, Lady Uvano-”
“Empress Uvano. And I would think that someone who failed their part of the plan multiple times would do well to think twice before attempting to give me advice,” Plumbeline snaps. Calroy takes a step back and Plumbeline thinks Good as she bares her teeth in an approximation of a smile. “I’m not some illiterate, insecure king, Lord Cruller, I’ve no need for sycophants.”
Calroy opens and closes his mouth several times, looking shocked. There is an anger painted over his expression that feels more honest than anything else Plumbeline has seen from him, and she thinks, suddenly, Is this who he is when his masks fail him? Is this how he improvises?
“I didn’t mean to imply-” Calroy starts again after he’s controlled himself. Plumbeline cuts him off and stands in a single motion, sending him stumbling back as they nearly collide.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” She says, already walking down the steps and out of the receiving room. She gestures to a servant and stops briefly in front of them. “And I’m sure you will not, in the future. Now, if that’s all, your visit has interrupted the flow of my day, but I have many tasks to complete. Comida cannot and should not have to run itself. Kev Lime can show you to a guest room if you’d like to rest before you return to Candian territory.”
Calroy looks wrong-footed, even as he turns slightly towards Kev Lime, displeasure and confusion warring over his features. “Empress Uvano,” He tries again, “I feel as though you haven’t taken my appeal seriously-”
“You would be correct, as I haven’t.” Plumbeline snaps, stopping finally at a crossroads. She allows Calroy to fully catch up with her and notices, pleased, that he is of a height with her while they both stand. She will not allow people to loom over her in her domain any longer. “This is not your land, Lord Cruller, and I didn’t ask for your assistance. You’re welcome to enjoy Comida for as long as you want, though I imagine that you have your own problems to worry about in Candia. House Rocks is still at large, after all.”
Calroy splutters at her quotation and Plumbeline grins as sharp as a dagger. Calroy’s eyes crinkle in annoyance, and he looks her over before nodding once. “Of course. I thank you for your hospitality.”
“Of course,” Plumbeline says, “Though I hope you can forgive me for saying that I’d rather not see you in my halls again unless there is an actual matter of state to discuss.”
Plumbeline stays there, hands locked behind her back, as Calroy gives her another searching look before turning on his heel to speak to Kev Lime about his accommodations.
It’s clear to her now that he was here on behalf of Belizabeth or, at least, because of her, and he had thought that she’d- what? Simply roll over the moment in-person pressure was applied? That she was only brave and determined behind the cover of parchment? It is, of course, possible that this is just Calroy’s incorrect and personal analysis of her, but it’s more likely that this is what Belizabeth really thinks of her -- that she’s a silly little girl playing grown-up games, and playing them poorly. She walks the easy, familiar path back to her study as she thinks, lip curling under her complementation. I almost killed for these people, and they think so little of me? She wonders, face fully contorting into a snarl as the urge to destroy something rises in her. She rips a piece of parchment off the stack beside her desk with a fury that she rarely allows herself to feel fully. Fine then. If they think so little of my addition to the cause, I might as well remove it officially.
Her final letter, addressed simply and overly formally to the heads of Candia, Ceresia, and Vegetania (though, pointedly, not the head of the Church), reads Fructera and Comida are their own nations and wish to handle their own affairs. Though we would be happy to rejoin any alliances that form after these tragic events are sorted, we ask that you refrain from trying to pull us into your petty disputes in the meantime. We thank you in advance for your cooperation.
Yours,
Her Imperial Majesty, the Empress Uvano, elected ruler of Fructera
Plumbeline consults with the Comidan Emperor’s council -- or, what’s left of it, considering that the Candian representative fled weeks ago and Plumbeline has locked the Vegetanian into his room until he swears loyalty to the council or is extradited by his King. Neither Ceresia nor the Dairy Islands have pulled their members yet, but Plumbeline imagines it will only be a matter of time before the Islands sends an official letter or the weak-willed Feta man tries to escape; there’s a reason Belizabeth’s first plan hinged on straining the relationship between the Islands and Candia, after all.
Regardless, Plumbeline consults, contemplates, and then sends another letter to the Fructeran Noble Assemberry. Its official messengers will share her words with the other noble families, which will save her the time of having to do it herself; honestly, it’s both flattering and disconcerting that Fructera is self-sufficient enough a nation to fend for itself while she has had her energies focused on the Capital -- wonderful, of course, that they had let her lead hands-off, but embarrassing that no one has organized a bloc against her or tried to take power for themselves. Where was the ambition? Certainly, her family had been voted into power after the war and she was still the technical leader, but she hasn’t spent significant time in Fructera in years at this point. Plumbeline doesn’t let herself ponder over this for long, though, because her continued power is not an issue to be solved; right now, she doesn’t care why Fructerans are so complacent, just that they’ll stay complacent enough to stand behind her in this. Right now she needs a united front, allies.
After hours of writing and discourse, Plumbeline dismisses her advisors and remembers another of Belizabeth’s insistent demands; there are a surprising amount of moving parts in Belizabeth’s attempts at control, Plumbeline has found while dissecting each letter and demand, and she’s realized that this particular request was probably less about Belizabeth’s wants and more about her fulfilling a promise to some other naive fool who’s trusted her.
Plumbeline is suddenly grateful for her petulance, if she’s managed to screw over both Belizabeth and one of her allies, and especially if she’s inconvenienced the infuriating man that she suspects she has. Head still on allegiances, Plumbeline takes a pair of guards and goes to the dungeons of the Pyramid. It’s not an overly large space, and even its cells aren’t very populated -- criminals caught in Comida with serious enough crimes to require the dungeon are usually deported to their countries of origin to be dealt with, but sometimes there are extenuating circumstances, people of mixed nationality or people who have offended those of multiple nations and thus can be claimed by any of them.
Special cases like Archbishop Fettucina Alfredi, Ceresian but once thought to be Bulb-touched and taking the fall for a murder attempt on the King of Candia. A complicated case indeed, Plumbeline thinks, standing at her cell door. Alfredi’s once golden hair is dark with dirt and dust, limp and deeply in need of a cut; the rough prison garb is ill-fitting on her, nothing like the elegant draping fabrics Plumbeline remembers her in. It’s poor treatment for a woman brilliant enough to turn a whispered theoretical into a deadly reality.
Plumbeline clears her throat, and inclines her head gently when Alfredi’s head whips towards her. “Archbishop Alfredi.”
Alfredi’s lips pull into a snarl immediately, as though that’s the only expression she can offer anyone who would remind her of her religious title. Archbishop Fettucina Alfredi, miracle worker, beloved to the bulb; Archbishop Fettucina Alfredi, traitor, going stale in an Imperial prison.
“Lady Uvano,” Fettucina says, after a long moment of silence. Her eyes, without the potions and elixirs, are dark as blackcurrants, and she looks at Plumbeline like she would tear her apart with her bare hands if given the chance.
“Empress Uvano, actually,” Plumbeline says, raising her chin. Then, “Or, interim Empress Uvano, but I see little difference between the terms.”
Alfredi laughs, harsh and cruel. “Has she promised you that? That this is all just a stepping stone to your real potential, that it’ll all be worth it if you go along? Do you believe her?”
Plumbeline leans in, grips the bars of Fettucina’s cell so tightly with one hand that her palm begins to ache. She shakes her head so hard that her bun loosens. “Of course I don’t. That’s why I want you.”
“I- What?”
“You chose the wrong team once,” Plumbeline says, “Belizabeth and Ciabatta, they turned on you out the minute it was useful. If I agreed to turn you over to the church, she’d readily sell you to your death even as that damned carrot lived, but I’m giving you another choice. I’m done with them, all of them, and if you throw your lot in with me, I won’t let you down.”
“And if I say no?”
“Just because I’m done with them doesn’t mean that it’d hurt to foster a bit of goodwill.”
Alfredi scoffs, “So I either agree to work for you or you’ll send me to Belizabeth like a trussed Highharvest cornucopia?”
“I had heard that you were smart, Primogen, I didn’t think I’d have to explain this to you.”
Alfredi shakes her head. “I’m no primogen, especially not if I’m abandoning my church and country.”
“Fettucina, then.” Plumbeline says, “The name you use makes no difference to me.”
“Of course it doesn’t. Either way, I’m your alchemist, yes?” Fettucina laughs again, still sharp, “Fine. I, Fettucina Alfredi, pledge my loyalty to the Empress, Her Imperial Majesty, Plumbeline Uvano. Anything else? Or have I satisfied your ego?”
Plumbeline makes a gesture to tell the guards at her back to come closer and watches boredly as they unlock the cell and remove Fettucina’s chains. Fettucina rubs at her wrists suspiciously but follows when Plumbeline walks away. “You will learn, dear alchemist, that my ego is never satisfied.”
Plumbeline arranges for Fettucina to have a permanent room made, in Plumbeline’s wing of the Pyramid -- keep friends close, after all. Then, she gets back to work: there are Fructeran nobles to write beseeching letters to and daily affairs to be dealt with, not to mention three other countries that she had to keep especially close eyes on now that they’re involved in a war she is not; while they hadn’t yet pushed the issue of Fructera and the Meat Lands keeping to themselves -- probably because Candia, Vegetania, and Ceresia were all barely allies in the first place, each with separate reasons behind their war against House Rocks -- it was a risk that Plumbeline wanted to stay well aware of.
Half a week later, Plumbeline gets the first question from Fettucina.
“She’s made a list of book requests,” A nervous lemon messenger, Volkameri, stands at the door.
Plumbeline, up to her elbows in correspondence, waves a hand dismissively. “And? Get them for her, then.”
There’s a pause, the shape of the messenger not leaving in her doorway. “Are you certain?”
“She’s not a prisoner, anymore,” Plumbeline reminds them, sternly but not unkindly. It’s an argument she’s already had, and won, against her advisors. “If she wants books, she can have them, as long as they’re not about how to murder me personally.” Plumbeline pauses, looking up for a moment, “Though, I’m sure she could figure that out without books.”
Volkameri looks vaguely alarmed, but Plumbeline raises an eyebrow at them until they leave.
After that, it’s only two more days before Fettucina asks for an audience with “the Empress.” Her note phrases it exactly like that, and Plumbeline clicks her tongue at it. Somehow, even Fettucina’s exact, purposeful handwriting on parchment makes the words feel half-mocking. Plumbeline, of course, makes a point to receive her in the throne room.
Fettucina, when she arrives, is cleaned up. It makes sense, it’s been a week since they’ve seen each other, but Plumbeline is still shocked to see the golden hair loose in classic Ceresian style, to notice how the wine-colored toga Fettucina has chosen makes the ex-archbishop’s skin nearly glow
“Empress,” Fettucina says with a perfect bow. “I merely thought I’d bring myself before you and ask how I could be of service.”
Plumbeline raises an eyebrow. Fettucina doesn’t flinch. Plumbeline asks, “Of service?”
“I’m your alchemist now, am I not?”
Plumbeline laughs, unable to help herself, as Fettucina seemingly tries to make herself look servile. Fettucina’s acclaimed inscrutable face, Plumbeline is finding, works less well when one isn’t distracted and blinded by half a glowing face. “Did I say that?”
She hadn’t, of course. Fettucina had offered it, unbidden, the moment Plumbeline had asked for her loyalty. Plumbeline watches with an unkind twist of amusement as Fettucina realizes this for herself, disgust clear in her eyes, before she rallies again.
“It was said. Do you disagree?”
“No, of course not,” Plumbeline admits. She stands and steps down off the dais, walks down the aisle. She stops when she’s eye-to-eye with Fettucina, on her level. “But I have no tasks for you… Alchemist.”
“Then why did you-!” Fettucina cuts herself off, with effort, and takes a deep breath. “I apologize, Empress, but I don’t quite understand why you freed me if you don’t have a role for me.”
“I told you, I need you on my side. I need you not on the Pontifex’s side. It’s as simple as that.”
“Then I am simply a prisoner?”
“No, you’re a guest of the Empress. You have your own room and limited autonomy. The guards around you may be more concerned with making sure you stay around than with keeping you safe, but they certainly won’t let you fall prey to any assassination attempts. I simply need you to be here.”
Fettucina is silent for a moment, and Plumbeline watches as those expressive eyes flick around as she thinks, and then, “My notes, my experiments- can I have them back?”
“Ah. That. Well, shortly after your arrest, your apartment was searched and your belongings were seized by Ceresia.”
Suspiciously soon after her arrest, Plumbeline thinks but does not say. She can see from the anger in Fettucina’s eyes that she understands anyway.
“All of it?” Fettucina asks, though Plumbeline thinks the Ceresian can guess by how Fettucina’s shoulders tense like she’s bracing for a blow. Plumbeline pauses, just for a moment.
“Most of it,” She admits, watching some of the tension leak from that frame. “Everything on the water-steel is gone, as well as much of your Ceresian client correspondence, but not… not everything.”
Plumbeline had sent people to the old apartments, when she freed Fettucina, and they’d come back with just a few notebooks written in code and sheets of paper covered with strange dialects of Fructerano. Plumbeline knows that she should’ve given them to someone else to study, to make sure that they weren’t too dangerous, but the truth is that she’d barely looked at them herself; it had felt invasive, for some reason. She’d ordered them locked away on the east side of the Pyramid instead, in a room that used to be a study for some scholar or other that had held her father’s favor. The few tomes look pitiful and lonely on the room’s wall of shelves, stripped and empty, but Plumbeline has done nothing else with them -- not brought them to an old imperial alchemist, nor destroyed them, nor outright given them to Fettucina.
“Can I have what you saved?” Fettucina asks, words falling out of her mouth like bubbling marinara. She winces then, just slightly, and mostly in the eyes.
“My alchemist,” Plumbeline says, turning the words over in her mouth. Fettucina’s brow crumples impatiently. “My Alchemist would benefit from a laboratory, yes?”
Fettucina startles but recovers quickly. “Yes, Empress.”
“I’ll have it arranged. The notes will be of no use to you if you don’t have space to practice them.” Plumbeline waves a hand and Kev Lime snaps to attention, to go bring the order to someone who can get tables moved or made, get the laboratory that Plumbeline has been holding for Fettucina ready for the woman herself. “I’ll let you know when it’s done. Now, if that’s all?”
Plumbeline raises an eyebrow. Fettucina meets her gaze head-on, head tilted slightly, those dark eyes searching. Plumbeline doesn’t know what the scientist finds, but what Plumbeline sees is this: a woman who can and has done whatever it takes to get ahead, and who doesn’t regret a moment of it. A woman that Plumbeline can relate to. A woman that Plumbeline could’ve been, had it been more beneficial for Belizabeth to make her a fall guy.
“Of course, my Empress,” Fettucina says, eventually, bowing again. This time, she takes Plumbeline’s hand and brushes a delicate, Fructeran-court perfect kiss across Plumbeline’s ringed knuckles. Plumbeline holds completely still, then and after Fettucina raises and leaves the room at such a clip that her guards have to jog to keep up.
Somehow, Fettucina had still managed to make Plumbeline feel like she was being made fun of. Somehow, Plumbeline thinks as she runs her thumb over the still warm knuckles of her hand, I don’t quite think I mind.
There’s a part of Plumbeline that says it’s silly or naive to allow Fettucina her own lab. Of course, the rest of her is sure that if she didn’t let Fettucina have a lab, give her something to fill her time with as her alchemist, it would be to both of their detriments; largely because she’s fairly certain that Fettucina actually would find a way to murder her if she didn’t, of course, but also because then Plumbeline wouldn’t be able to walk into the organized chaos of the new laboratory.
It’s fascinating to walk halls that Plumbeline has known since her youth, only to end up in a place that’s new and constantly changing. There are bubbling beakers of Vegetanian skin samples, milk-silk soft slices of Meat, diagrams on the walls about the effects of Rot on a body. The first time she had visited, Fettucina had stood completely straight in the center of the lab as though it was an inspection. Now, the alchemist, hair tied up roughly with a strip of fruit leather and goggles over her eyes as she bends over something that gives off a faint glow, doesn’t even look up from her work, other than to make sure it’s Plumbeline.
“Don’t touch the third dish from the door, it would eat your fingers away before you could even start to scream,” Fettucina offers, almost boredly, and Plumbeline tucks her hands behind her back but leans over to look at the dish all the same. It’s fascinating, seeing the things Fettucina’s brilliant mind can come up with when she doesn’t have the yolk of the church or an obligation to play holy hanging over her.
Wincing, Plumbeline remembers the one time -- just once -- that she had asked, “Do you draw your power from The Hungry One? Since you’re not truly Bulb-blessed?”
Fettucina, still so suspicious around Plumbeline back then, had thrown her head back and laughed, immediately, the line of her throat stark and bright in the candlelight. “The Hungry One? My Empress,” She’d said, outright sardonic, “There are more things in heaven and earth than just the Bulb and the Hungry One. I draw my power from myself.”
At the time, Plumbeline had recoiled in embarrassment, left in a swirl of fabric, and made a point to push Fettucina from her thoughts for nearly two weeks. Now, Plumbeline believed it; every glance at the experiments beyond imagination, the creations beyond thought, proved it to her.
It’s a few more minutes before Fettucina puts a lid over her glowing experiment and leans back, rolling out her shoulders with a low groan that makes Plumbeline want, inexplicably, to offer a massage. She supposes it’s just that Plumbeline, of all people, knows what staying curled up over delicate work for long hours does to your back, your shoulders, and how one might want a pair of warm and trusted hands to ease those pains away for a few minutes.
The thoughts fall away, though, when Fettucina turns to her, eyebrow raised. “My Empress?”
Plumbeline rolls her eyes. “My Alchemist,” She answers in kind, “You once asked if I’d give you a task, and I’ve finally thought of one. You can create enchantments, correct? Healing or harming?”
“Come now, you know that I keep healing potions on my person at all times,” Fettucina says, which is only true in that Plumbeline had assumed it. Since she’s been given a laboratory, the ex-primogen has taken to wearing a bandolier of vials that Plumbeline keeps telling people are for healing, in Fettucina’s official capacity as Imperial Alchemist, but Plumbeline has always figured that if Fettucina thought that she actually needed to know what the vials held, she would tell Plumbeline.
“Good, good, a reasonable practice to be sure,” Plumbeline says, instead of any of that. Fettucina gives her a flat look.
“If I may be so frank, we both know I’m no good at doublespeak and politics. If you could arrive at your point before next Highbright-”
“Fine. I wanted to know…” Plumbeline pauses and then continues, careful, “The situation in Fructera is delicate, as this war continues. The Assemberry grows nervous the longer it continues, you see, sure that we should pick a side. It certainly doesn’t help that there’s an upstart riling up the peasantry- but, of course, all of that is politics. I’ll get to my point. The mind is a sensitive thing, yes?”
“Yes,” Fettucina says, voice sliding hesitant. The Ceresian laughs, though it’s clearly forced, “Dear Empress, I can show you to the library if you would like to learn about mind healing. It’s not exactly my field of study-”
“You claim to hate word games, and yet you insist on pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Plumbeline huffs. “I’ll be the direct one, then: I’d like to know about a potion that could control hearts and minds. The majority of the Assemberry doesn’t care or is reliant on my house for their power, so they easily agree that, even with me being so far from home, that I should maintain leadership, but there’s the upstart.” Plumbeline’s lip curls involuntarily, “Fera Mangas, who I know only by reputation, gains more popularity with the common people each day. Normally this wouldn’t matter, but things are so unsure with the dissolution of the Concord and the war that if something doesn’t change soon, the more brittle-willed representatives will begin to fold.”
Fettucina has turned away from Plumbeline during her speech, looking now out the room’s singular window towards the Pulp Bay. “I cannot help you, Empress.”
Plumbeline narrows her eyes at Fettucina, and says, not asks, “Why not.”
Fettucina turns away, looks out her singular window to the sea. “Choice is an important thing. I have been asked before, by those with noble causes and those without, to create something like this, and I won’t. I would never. I refuse to even conceptualize creating something that could so completely destroy someone’s ability to choose.”
“But I’m not-”
“You’re not, Plumbeline,” She says, and the use of her name, as well as the surety in Fettucina’s voice, startle Plumbeline. “But if I made it, if I experimented and got the right blend of ingredients to make someone susceptible and make their will pliable, someone else could too. We’ve both already seen how easy it is to make an alchemist a scapegoat and ransack her apartments for information. If I made this for you, gave you the ability to completely overwrite someone’s wants, and another acquired the formula or a sample, I would-” She cuts herself off, breathing sharply in, “I cannot do it. You’ll simply have to woo them with your sparkling personality, as usual.”
Plumbeline stares at Fettucina’s back, tense and straight. She could push this, she knows, probably convince or threaten Fettucina into doing it anyway. Plumbeline could, with a little application of her ‘sparkling personality’ get everything she’s ever wanted, but- she won’t.
There’s something there, in the tightness of Fettucina’s jaw, that tells Plumbeline that this boundary would shatter, not bend.
“Okay,” Plumbeline says, then again, “Okay. Tell me, what’s come of your rot treatment?”
Fettucina’s shoulders roll, as though their conversation had a physical weight that she must now throw off, but she still smiles as she takes Plumbeline’s wrist and leads her to another part of the room. Fettucina lights up as she explains to Plumbeline how she’s trying to isolate the cause of rot to treat it rather than just amputating affected areas the way doctors have done for decades, but Plumbeline is barely listening at this point, halfway back in her own head as she thinks about the political trap she’s embroiled in. A potion, a magic elixir, could’ve made all of this so much easier- but no. You like a challenge, Plumbeline reminds herself, tucking her hands behind her back and ooh-ing appropriately as Fettucina shows off how she’s managed to make a rot that is ten times faster than normal. And besides, It’s important to have a set of ethics. You should be happy that your Alchemist has things she won’t do. A line drawn in the sand means that there are things to either side of it; it’s charmingly human of Fettucina, which intrigues Plumbeline.
Still, a potion would have been easier. Now Plumbeline is going to have to do something much worse: call a meeting of the Assemberry.
It takes a week and a half for a representative of each Noble bloc to arrive at the Pyramid. Fructera doesn’t work like anywhere else in Calorum, with their kings and clan leaders; the closest thing is Ceresian’s periodic senate, but even that is a poor shade of the consortium that Fructera depends on. Merchants by history, most Fructeran nobles have translated the idea of trade secrets into a tradition of keeping to themselves and dealing only with their own land and business, so the Assemberry is only for when there are particularly difficult issues that require nationwide consensus. They don’t even meet annually most of the time, just exchange letters through the information network, and now here they all are. In Plumbeline’s pyramid. How wonderful.
Plumbeline dresses unenthusiastically on the day of the meeting; she can’t even wear her best finery, because she needs these people to remember that she’s one of them, not her rightful status as Empress, so they’ll make the correct decision to stand with her. On one side of her dressing room is Plumbeline’s childhood minder, an apricot woman that Plumbeline hasn’t seen for years, but Plumbeline had left her in charge of the Fructeran affairs of House Uvano so they’d needed to rendezvous. Aprina keeps up a chatter about the castle Plumbeline grew up in and coos approvingly over Plumbeline’s outfit -- nice, of course, but typical for Court. In the other corner, sullen and stiff-postured, is Fettucina Alfredi.
“I still don’t know why I have to go to a Fructeran council meeting.”
Plumbeline rolls her eyes but uses the mirror and the excuse of pulling her hair up to subtly admire the actual cause of Fettucina’s attitude -- a newly commissioned dress, in the trendiest Fructeran style Plumbeline could get away with. Fettucina, used to the loose and draping traditional fabrics of Ceresia, has been in a mood about it since Plumbeline announced that the Assemberry meeting require proper dress from the Imperial Alchemist.
“To add to my credibility,” Plumbeline reminds, for what must be the fourth time, “If they can see that not even all clergy support this foolish crusade-”
“I’m not a clergy member anymore,” Fettucina cuts off. Plumbeline can never quite tell if the sharpness of tone that Fettucina uses each time she reminds Plumbeline of this fact is from regret, anger, or despair. Still,
“You’ll be as good as, to them.”
“You also forget, dearie,” Aprina chimes, becoming the only person to indulgently pat Fettucina’s head and survive, “That most of these nobles don’t trust the Pontifex right now. If the church is at war with Candia, why do Fructeran merchants, traveling within our borders, have to fear intimidation and violence from Crusaders? It’s not fair or right and, frankly, people are getting awfully tired of it. It’s part of the reason that Fera Mang-”
“Do not mention her here,” Plumbeline snaps. There’s a few beats of silence and Plumbeline turns, meeting Aprina’s hard gaze apologetically. “Sorry, Apri, I’m just a little… wound up, about her.”
Aprina sniffs but turns back to Fettucina. “My point is, it doesn’t matter if the church claims you’re a heretic. It barely matters if you are one! Just say some nonsense about the Bulb guiding your hand as you create your tinctures and they’ll be willing to pretend to believe it; it’s barely different than what doctors do, right?”
“Doctors don’t pretend to be bulb-touched for several decades,” Plumbeline can’t stop herself from pointing out. Fettucina rolls her eyes but Aprina laughs.
“You just haven’t been to the right doctors, my heart,” She says, sweeping over and pinching Plumbeline’s cheek. “Now, you finish up, I’ll go warm up the crowd for you.”
Plumbeline finishes getting ready silently, clipping in barrettes and laying down her edges by route. It’s not until she’s doing one final check over herself in her full-length mirror that she says, “She’s right, you know,”
“That you need a new doctor?” Fettucina asks dryly.
“That they’re looking for something to cling to, and you -- we’re -- going to give it to them.”
Fettucina hums disbelievingly and Plumbeline decides not to push it. Yet. She turns to look Fettucina over officially and takes another second to really admire it all; the whole ensemble is a subdued pale orange, complimenting the peach-pink that Plumbeline wears nicely. The bodice is barely even ribbed, certainly not enough to merit all the wiggling Fettucina keeps doing, and Plumbeline had been sure to request light and airy fabrics and to keep the slit in the skirt downright conservative.
“Let me do your hair,” Plumbeline offers. Fettucina puts a hand up to it as if she’d hardly remembered that she had any.
“Can’t I wear it like this?” She asks.
Plumbeline shakes her head, “Normally it wouldn’t matter, but at Court, everyone pulls up their hair. It’s traditional. Come now, nothing as extravagant as me,” Plumbeline entices, gesturing at her own high and tight updo, decorated as it is with barrettes and braids, “Just let me twist it for you.”
Fettucina continues to look wary but acquiesce, stepping close and lowering her head. The golden locks are already brushed so it takes next to no time for Plumbeline to pull it back into a simple twisted bun against Fettucina’s neck. Plumbeline uses one of her own bobby pins to secure it, and then it’s done.
“There,” Plumbeline says, “Absolutely-”
Plumbeline’s voice dies in her throat as she takes half a step back and Fettucina lifts her head. The daylight reflects off Fettucina’s cheekbones to stunning effect, with all that hair out of the way, and somehow her expressive eyes look even bigger like this.
“Perfect,” Plumbeline finishes, voice low, “You look perfect.”
Fettucina’s eyes flicker down, just for a moment, and she clears her throat like she’s about to speak, but before she can, there’s a sharp knock against the door.
“Your Majesty? They’re ready for you.”
Plumbeline takes a step back, and then another for good measure. Swallows, to wet her suddenly dry mouth. Puts on her most charming smile.
“Well then, my Alchemist, are you ready to sway some hearts the old-fashioned way?” She asks, offering Fettucina her arm.
Fettucina takes it cautiously, still looking a bit like Plumbeline is one of her experiments, a puzzle to be solved, but says, “I’m ready to give it a try, for your sake.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
Plumbeline doesn’t hate the Assemberry, nor is she indifferent to Fructera, despite what some people may think. She loves the country that raised her, shepherded her softly into her teen years even while there was a war on, but she’s always felt more comfortable in memories of it than reality; quick flashes of running down shiny dark hallways with Aprina at her back, visiting the Bay with her mother and finding a Lanzone-shelled crab, even being thirteen and hiding behind heavy curtains to eavesdrop on her father’s worried war updates. She’s had ample excuse to avoid the beautiful old castle that is her birthright in these past two years, between her former obligations to her father’s health and her current ones to the city-state of Comida, but stepping into the conference room chosen for the Assemberry meeting feels just like coming home, in all the bad and good ways.
“My Lady!” A minor lord calls as she enters, and Plumbeline bites her tongue against an automatic correction. She moves over towards him, though Fettucina stops her with a tug at their still connected arms.
“Surely I don’t have to sit with you all,” She says, sotto-voice, almost managing to sound like a question rather than a demand.
“No, no,” Plumbeline gestures to chairs placed along the wall, which are typically used for attendants and assistants. Fettucina only barely fits into the category, but if she doesn’t want to sit in the proper places, Plumbeline won’t make her. Fettucina nods gratefully and goes, and Plumbeline continues her way towards the noble. Now that she’s closer she can recognize the man’s reddened skin and spotted freckles as Lord Ananessa -- a family historically very close to Candians, if only through the trade available in the Sugarlands, but he seems delighted enough to see Plumbeline. He also seems to have saved the seat at the head of the table for her, which is as good a sign as any.
Plumbeline kisses both his cheeks and endures all of the usual pleasantries, the how are yous and the I’m sorry about your fathers, before Lord Ananessa says, “Dreadful, all this business of a war,” and it feels like the room collectively holds its breath for her answer.
“Absolutely awful,” Plumbeline agrees, “And even more so that they try to pull us into it.”
There’s a flurry of whispers, even one woman who crosses herself, and Plumbeline decides to take control of the situation before it devolves. She needs to make these people understand that to take any side but neutrality in the Church’s war is a fool’s errand, and it's all none of their business besides.
“I remind the Assemberry,” She says, raising her voice, “That with the current crown-holder of Candia on the run and in open rebellion, there is no Concord. Ceresia has elected to join this little… search that the Pontifex is doing, but the Concord itself is based on a treaty and alliance between the five nations. If one of the nations has eschewed the terms and is actively at war with some of the others, the entire thing is null and void.”
“Be that as it may, what about our alliances outside the Concord?” The woman who crossed herself calls out. Plumbeline resists the urge to roll her eyes. “We are good, Bulb-fearing people, we have a responsibility to-”
“Our people?” A voice cuts in, smooth as a paring knife. The woman who glides into the room is in trousers, green hair little more than a flop of bangs against the burnished orange of her skin, too short to pull into anything but a pitiful ponytail, more stray hairs than tamed. Plumbeline knows, at a glance, that this is Fera Mangas.
“I’m sorry,” Plumbeline says anyway, “I don’t think we’ve met. I’ve been kept from my homeland for far too long, I fear.”
“It’s no problem at all,” Fera says, grin nearly splitting her face, “Lady Fera Mangas, at your service. I’ve recently taken over representation of the North Eastern bloc.”
“The North Eastern bloc?” Plumbeline repeats before she can stop herself, mentally cursing afterward. It’s a show of weakness to admit a gap in her knowledge, but she hadn’t heard anything about the previous Lord leading that area leaving. Wary but curious, she asks, “I had thought that Lord Comosus was their representative out there.”
“It’s a recent change in power,” Fera offers, “Very, very recent. Now, I see the question of what to do about this war has risen.”
“Yes, we were just debating it,” Lord Ananessa cuts in from Plumbeline’s side. Plumbeline slants a glance at him, but the old man seems to be innocently eager to hear a new voice, not actively conspiring against her. “I agree with you, of course; it’s no concern of mine if Candia wants to get itself torn apart, I have my own people to worry about.”
Fera laughs, but it’s a sharp, unbalanced noise. “You think that’s my opinion? My dear Lord, having a responsibility to my people means that it’s entirely my concern if families and merchants are being pillaged on the roads by some Vegetanian goons. My opinion is that we immediately mobilize against this so-called crusade, before Vegetania decides to turn their Mace of Faith loose on another target.”
There are gasps following Fera’s bold words and the gathered nobles begin to clamor as unintelligibly and insignificantly as so many crowconuts in the streets. This is not at all what I planned, Plumbeline thinks, despairingly, furiously. This was supposed to be easy, a meeting called where she’d be able to sway these soft-minded nobles to her side of thinking with minimal effort and a bit of flattery. Plumbeline’s lip curls as the panic in the room grows, sound washing over her as she makes eye contact across the room with Fera Mangas, who smirks like she knows exactly what Plumbeline is thinking. Then, Fera’s eyes slide to Plumbeline’s left, and she blinks, surprised, some of the surety dropping from her expression.
“Pardon me, my Empress,” A calm, familiar voice says over Plumbeline’s shoulder. When Plumbeline turns, she’s nearly blinded: for the first time since her release, Fettucina Alfredi has used her most infamous potion, and her right eye -- though only her right eye -- shines with a light that Plumbeline knows is alchemical in nature but that still feels almost holy. Plumbeline steps back, just enough that Fettucina can join her at the head of the table, and she’s not the only one shocked to silence by Fettucina’s startling look.
“My name,” Fettucina says, raising her voice over the few remaining chatters, “Is Fettucina Alfredi. You may have heard about me, you may have been told that I am a heretic and a traitor, a liar and a con. You may have heard that I have been working alongside Empress Uvano.”
“Are you?” Someone asks, and Plumbeline can’t even tear her eyes from the uneven lighting of Fettucina’s face to see who. “A con?”
Fettucina’s face softens into a smile and she shakes her head, “Is your doctor a con for making a soothing paste? The Bulb guides my hand every day, to help make potions and do research. Aren’t we all Bulb-touched, in this way?”
Amazingly, there are some noises of agreement, and Plumbeline sends a prayer of thanks to whatever may be listening for Aprina. She cuts in, “Exactly, we all have our own paths laid upon our hearts by the Bulb, but one thing I truly believe is that this path pursued by the Pontifex, this crusade, is not a true path to be followed. Joining in the Church’s war will lead us only to ruin.”
“So you want us to stay neutral, while our people cower in fear?” Fera asks. Plumbeline meets her eye, no longer flustered by the other Lady’s appearance nor by the energy she seems to exude, now that Fettucina is at Plumbeline’s side like an anchoring force. Plumbeline looks Fera Mangas in the eyes, tilts her head, and decides to try a bargain.
“We don’t know who we can trust, though I understand long-held alliances and that this council was made for all voices to be heard,” She says to the nervous and tittering nobles before her, cutting off any objections of tradition. She lifts a hand to count off as she continues, “However, Ceresia is in political flux, Candia’s king was an oathbreaker and now is a traitor, and Vegetania- They’ve left us as a barrier to protect them while their Church wages war. I agree with your concerns, Lady Mangas, how many of our border villages must be terrorized for someone else’s war? How much must we suffer for others’ satisfaction?”
Fera raises her eyebrow, “Of course. What do you suggest, then?”
“I know that I’ve been… distracted, but I’m here now. We’re here, for Fructera, for Comida, for the smoldering remains of our Concord, even as every other nation turns its back on the agreements we signed for another war. Why, when they refuse to honor their promises, should we? It is still my opinion that Fructera should, officially, stay out of this war and especially off the side of a Pontifex who would punish a woman for using her Bulb-given powers to help the sick and infirm.”
Plumbeline gestures boldly at Fettucina, glowing and stoic, looking every bit the miracle worker she had spent so long pretending to be. There’s an approving hum through the room.
“I agree,” Fera says, and her voice is echoed by many, “So, officially, Fructera wants no part in either side of this war, but unofficially…?”
“We all have a responsibility to our people,” Plumbeline says, quoting Fera’s words back to her, a verbal hand held out. “If I have to send soldiers out with my merchants to protect them, is it the soldiers’ fault if they’re forced to engage in battle by goons who refuse to mind their own business?”
Plumbeline brings an empathic hand down on the table to punctuate her statement and the sound echoes through the council room like a bowstring. Fera Mangas’ lips twitch into a smile, one more like the soft curve of a banana tree than a knife.
“My thoughts exactly, Empress Uvano,” Fera says, a hand shaken. Plumbeline allows herself a reckless grin in return. Beside her, Fettucina bumps her arm softly, and Plumbeline can barely find it in herself to mind the insinuation of I told you so in those half-dark, half-bright eyes.
The rest of the Assemberry goes quickly and immemorably, nobles using the excuse of everyone being in the same place to work out trade agreements and air out old disputes. Before everyone returns to their own blocs and homes, Plumbeline does actually shake hands with Fera Mangas.
“Forgive me for my bluntness, Empress, but I find you absolutely fascinating,” Fera says in that brief private meeting, still holding onto Plumbeline’s hand. “You truly don’t have a horse in this race at all, do you? Just your pride.”
Plumbeline, who feels most comfortable when Fera and her raw charisma and unsettling energy are across the room, merely smiles. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“No,” Fera says, releasing Plumbeline and laughing that unbalanced laugh again, “No, I’m quite sure you don’t.”
When Plumbeline recounts the encounter later, Fettucina merely says, “She has a hungry sort of energy to her, doesn’t she?” and refuses to explain what that means. And so as quickly as it was called, the Assemberry is over, and Plumbeline’s life returns to normal.
Returns to normal… excepting one thing: Fettucina is suddenly everywhere. The alchemist had stuck firmly to Plumbeline’s side, after that first interjection, and now it seems like she’s decided to make herself Plumbeline’s shadow even after their Pyramid clears of strangers.
“I do have guards, you know,” Plumbeline says, one day, as Fettucina lounges in her study with some medical text while Plumbeline responds to letters. At Fettucina’s raised eyebrow, she elaborates, “In case you’re concerned for my life. I have a multitude of guards, as well as that healing elixir you made for me. I keep it around my neck.”
“Can’t I just enjoy your company?” Fettucina asks, feigning hurt. Plumbeline rolls her eyes but doesn’t ask again. It has been nice, after all, and the alchemist following her around means that Plumbeline doesn’t have to build time into her schedule to go visit her in the lab. Plumbeline reaches to grab the next letter and raises an eyebrow.
“Look, it’s from Belizabeth,” She tosses it to Fettucina, who frowns at it before opening it with a knife from her bandolier, “Skim it for me, is it a request that we stop attacking her crusaders or that we join the war properly, this time?”
When Fettucina doesn’t answer quickly, Plumbeline raises her eyes and sees that the Ceresian is looking at the paper like it’s poisonous, face paling by the second.
“Well, surely Belizabeth’s demands can’t be that terrifying,” Plumbeline tries to joke, but it falls flat when she reaches for the letter and Fettucina jerks it out of her reach. Plumbeline draws herself up, the smile dropping from her mouth. “Fettucina? Give me the letter.”
“I-” Fettucina looks between the letter and Plumbeline, “I need you to know that I work by contract.”
“What?”
“Just read it, and remember I work by contract,” Fettucina says, all but shoving the letter into Plumbeline’s chest and rushing to the other side of the room.
Lady Uvano, It begins, as all of Belizabeth’s notes do, I see that we can find no common ground. Fine then. My church will turn to you after I’ve crushed out this threat and begun fulfilling my purpose, and your Fructera, rotten at its core, will be dealt with accordingly. I should’ve expected it, really; how could you ever see the greater picture of the necessary Bulbian sacrifice when you’ve been playing house with a woman who specializes in poison? Ask her, sometime, how easy it is to hide rot in a potion. Ask her how many times she’s done it. Honor thy mother and father, Lady Uvano.
May the Bulb judge your soul.
Belizabeth Brassica, Pontifex of the Bulbian Church
It takes a few reads, furrow-browed, before the implications begin to sink into Plumbeline’s head. Poison. Father. Sacrifice. Plumbeline stumbles back with the realization, letter feeling like a brand in her hand.
“Did you-” She swallows over her revulsion at the question, forces onward, “Did you poison my father?”
“My Empress,” Fettucina starts, and Plumbeline throws the piece of paper at her. It’s an ineffective projectile for how devastatingly it’s torn through Plumbeline’s chest, thin and short as it is, but Fettucina flinches nonetheless.
“Do not use that tone of voice with me, Fettucina Alfredi, I am not a child you have to soothe. Answer me!” Plumbeline steps closer, wishing that Fettucina would look at her, would stop facing the wall and using gentle words and not saying no. “Did you murder my father?”
Fettucina closes her eyes for a moment, just a moment, and then lifts them to meet Plumbeline’s furious look clearly with those dark, wide eyes. “I don’t know. I work on contract, I told you, and I never asked for the gory details. People came to me asking for things and I either said yes or no, it rarely involved me knowing where anything was going. I only made what I was told and left well enough alone.”
“And, this thing she mentions, hiding rot in a potion -- could you have done it? In any innocuous potion-”
“Your father’s sickness came about entirely on his own, Plumbeline, you know that,” Fettuccine says, but Plumbeline’s mind is already spiraling. Any potion, even a daily mineral tincture forced onto him by his daughter? Where had she gotten that idea anyway? Had it been her own, or had it been whispered into her ear, placed to weaken and tear apart the very foundations of her life?
“She says you could do it.”
“Belizabeth Brassica,” Fettucina says, spitting the name like a curse, “Has said a lot of things.”
Plumbline turns away, facing the yellowed stone wall as she attempts to control her breathing. You are panicking like a child, She berates, Get a hold of yourself. You have to think about this. The swirl of thoughts and emotions feels almost like a physical pressure on her skull, and Plumbeline resists the urge to press her fingers into her temples, all the If’s clamoring about. If her father’s illness wasn’t entirely natural, if there had been a poison, if Fettucina had made that poison, if Plumbeline doing her part to keep Belizabeth informed on the health of the Emperor had actually made her a party to her father’s murder… It was all so much, and what did any of it mean? What did any of it matter? It’s over, months past now. What can she do? Take Alfredi’s head as punishment? Wage a petty little war against Belizabeth Brassica specifically? Throw herself into the sea?
“I think I need to be alone,” She says eventually, when she can speak without screaming or sobbing.
“I don’t think that’s-”
“Then send someone else here!” Plumbeline snaps despite herself, spinning to face the Ceresian. Fettucina takes a step back, hands hovering in the air. “It just can’t be you. Not right now, Fettucina- Alfredi- Alchemist. I just- I need to be away from you.”
Fettucina’s face slides into stiffness like it was made for it and she nods, bowing her head deferentially. “As you wish, your Imperial Majesty.”
Plumbeline winces at the formality, but she disguises it in a turn back towards the wall. She listens to the soft pad of Fettucina’s sandals as she leaves the room, hears her accented voice rise as she gives an order to Plumbeline’s guards -- and the guards answering barks of agreement as they do whatever it is she’s requested. Plumbeline’s head reminds her that this is another liberty she’s allowed the woman who might have killed her father, the power to order her people and to be obeyed.
She waits until she can’t hear Fettucina at all anymore before she crumbles forward on shaky legs, face pressed roughly against the cool stone, and takes a shaky breath in. Plumbeline tries to remember how to breathe past the lump in her throat, the heat in her eyes, the hole in her chest. Her father, ill. Her father, poisoned. She doesn’t know which is true nor what she could or should do with either narrative.
“I’m sorry,” She whispers, in her beautiful empty room. It’s the same beautiful empty room that she once played on the floor of as a child, that she once paced around while helping brainstorm responses to nobles double her age, that she once stood in and watched her father fade away.
What does it matter, in the end? Plumbeline had always asked herself that during the early moments of doubt, after Belizabeth’s first innuendo-laden overture towards power. In every nation, the powerful got to rule for no reason except that they were there, so why shouldn’t she get to be Empress? She knew what she was doing, and she’d certainly be better at it than the Candian that her father kept waxing poetic about. What did it matter, if Belizabeth Brassica wanted to hurt a few people that Plumbeline barely knew?
What did it matter, if she’d helped that wench murder the Emperor?
By the time Aprina, staying in the Pyramid for an extra-long visit and apparently sent by a guard, arrives, Plumbeline’s sobs are rough enough that it hurts.
When Plumbeline was young, her parents took her to the mountains. It was an easy trip to make, for an Assemberry representative, and Plumbeline had spent the week kicking around in the snow with both her parents, galavanting in the fresh mountain air. The air on Plumbeline’s balcony in Comida isn’t like that, the sights and sounds of the city so different from the serene stillness of nature, but Plumbeline still feels a hint of that peace when she sits out there.
It’s the only place she feels peace, recently, and it’s easy to move her operations to a desk on an outdoor walkway and pretend that it could be that easy to go back to earlier, ignorant days. Oh, what Plumbeline would do for the mountain again! For a time before she hungered for power or her proper role, before she placed her heart into lions’ mouths and trusted them not to devour it.
“Plumbeline,” Aprina says, on the third morning, “There must be something I can do to help.”
“Bringing me my work is plenty, thank you,” Plumbeline says, unable to neglect her duties even in her grief. “And your company, of course.”
It’s only Aprina’s company that she can bear, and Aprina has taken it remarkably well, acting like it’s still her job to help out and watch over Plumbeline. Aprina pauses before she reenters the Pyramid, though, the weight of her eyes heavy on Plumbeline’s back. “If I may be so blunt…”
Plumbeline waves a dismissive hand. “Why not? At this point, what difference could it make?”
Aprina makes a pained sort of noise, and Plumbeline glances out of the corner of her eye to see her biting her lip. “I have been with your family for a very long time.”
“I know.”
“So you know that I’ve also watched you grow into a hardworking, strong-willed woman that both of your parents would be proud of.” Plumbeline winces at Aprina’s words, but Aprina shakes her head and continues, “Don’t argue with me; no matter what sins you think you’ve committed, your parents would be proud of your dedication to your people and what you’ve done with their legacies. But, Plumbeline, I’ve never seen you happier with another person than I have this past month with that Alchemist of yours, and your parents had always wanted that too. More than either of them cared about ruling-”
“And that’s the point, isn’t it?” Plumbeline cuts in, spinning around to face Aprina. “That they cared more about connections with other people and trusting them to be good, to do the right thing, then their countries. And it killed them.”
“It did not-”
“It did! Trust killed my father.” I killed my father.
“After a long, meaningful, happy life,” Aprina snaps, as though Plumbeline is a recalcitrant toddler. Plumbeline takes the rebuke like a physical hit, taking a half step back in surprise. “I’m not telling you to forgive her or to apologize, and I’m certainly not asking to know the whole story. I’m just asking you to think about how you’ve felt these past few weeks, and to think about how you’ve felt while you’ve been punishing yourself and her these last few days.”
Plumbeline knows, without meditating on it at all, which she longs for. The mystery of her father’s death still sits on her heart, but the facts remain: nothing more can be done about it now, and the only person she wants revenge against is Belizabeth, who orchestrated all of this and then dared bring it to Plumbeline’s attention. She doesn’t want to be upset at Fettucina anymore. She swallows hard and asks quietly, “And then what?”
“And then I want you to be happy. If that means talking to the Alchemist or finding someone else to confide in or anything, I want you to continue to choose yourself. My dear heart, you were not created to run the perfect nation. You’re a young woman who deserves a life of her own.”
“Apri, I may’ve made a mistake,” Plumbeline finally admits, her eyes watering. Aprina opens her arms and Plumbeline goes into them willingly. Aprina rubs circles into Plumbeline’s back and hums sweetly.
“We’ve all made mistakes. It’s how we move forward that matters.”
Plumbeline stands there, rocking with Aprina for a moment longer, before she takes a step back. She doesn’t know what to do with all the rolling questions in her head, but she knows that she doesn’t want to face them alone. She doesn’t want to hold onto this grief at the expense of her own joy.
“Do you know where-”
“In the gardens, you silly girl,” Aprina says, “I’ve had that crabapple gardener, August, watching her wander them for days.”
Plumbeline pulls at her skirts, hikes them up to well above proprietary so that they won’t trip her up, and sets off. The walls of the Pyramid rush by as Plumbeline rushes through the halls, servants jumping out of her way as she careens around corners and out of the garden door. It takes only a moment to stop Fettucina’s golden head among the shrubbery, as well as the gardener who’s standing silently behind her, watching with narrowed eyes. He makes eye contact with Plumbeline and makes a noise of alarm, startling all three of them and alerting Fettucina to Plumbeline’s presence.
“Plumbeline!” Fettucina says, then, “I mean, my Empress, I am so-”
Plumbeline cuts her off, “You said you weren’t sure, before. Were you lying?”
“What?”
“You said you didn’t know whether or not Belizabeth’s claims were true.”
“I don’t!” Fettucina insists, catching up to Plumbeline’s admittedly wild train of thought. “I’ve made poisons that I knew were going to the Pontifex, but I never knew what happened after that. I should’ve known, I should’ve asked, I’m so sor-”
“Don’t apologize to me,” Plumbeline says, shaking her head hard enough that her hair begins to fall loose, “It doesn’t- Well, maybe it does matter, but we don’t know. We don’t know and we can’t dwell on it.”
Fettucina looks up at Plumbeline with those dark, emotional eyes that Plumbeline has missed so much. “I’m still sorry, that that broccoli woman has driven this wedge between us.”
“Belizabeth Brassica will not take anything else from me,” Plumbeline says, and she reaches down to take Fettucina’s hand into her own. “And she could never actually take this, either. These past few days have been torture for me, but try as I might, I could never scrub you from my mind, from my heart.”
“Your heart?” Fettucina asks. Plumbeline nods. Fettucina uses her free hand to cup Plumbeline’s cheek and run a reverent thumb under her eye. “Can I kiss you?”
Their lips meet before Plumbeline has even finished agreeing, and it feels like a plan coming to fruition, like a puzzle piece snapped perfectly into place, like something made exactly for her. Perfect, Plumbeline thinks, and she knows at that moment that she can focus on this and all that it promises.
Plumbeline twines her fingers into Fettucina’s hair, kissing her in the bright light of her nation-state, and knows that what matters is the future, come whatever may.