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Ada Vessalius lived a long life. Her brother died when she was eight, and then again when she was eighteen; this was not the end of all things for her. She grieved. She lived. She grew into her power. She grew old. She grew into her power some more.
When Ada was eighty nine full years of age, and her husband was nearly fifteen years dead, there was a problem with truly illegal contractors outside her summer home, out in the country of her lands. It was a beautiful home, one she’d played in many a time as a child, with Oz and Gilbert, and one in which she’d begun her studies in forbidden magic, and she knew it better than the wrinkles on the backs of her hands.
Seventy one years, it had been. Gilbert, on his semi-annual visits, had begun to grow antsy, had begun to ask for Vessalius riches to be added to his Baskerville connections so that he could get information on every single child born on a specific day that would occur twenty nine years from now. Ada had already willed it to him, of course, though she hadn’t told him yet: Gilbert would know when he knew, and if he didn’t know before she died, then that was revenge for helping her first boyfriend fake his death instead of breaking up with her honorably.
The lost romance didn’t sting her heart anymore, but Ada had been a witch since she was twelve, and the memory of everyone of importance watching her as if they knew something she didn’t still nettled, only slightly. Ada had been a sweet girl, and had grown into a kind woman, and was now of an age to be called sweet again, but she was still of the bloodline that had nearly plunged the world into the Abyss for the hint of a woman’s love and the daughter of a man who had quashed an innocent being’s heart again and again for a simple, irrational grudge. She had not forgiven Gilbert this. She had forgiven him both of Oz’s deaths, and the bullet that had lodged next to her brother’s heart while she was trapped in that conference room, and any other slight, real or imagined, he might feel guilt over.
But she did not forgive the decades-past humiliation, though neither did she resent him for it. He loved Vincent; so had she. Gil always had been too easy to fold to those he loved for his own good. Ada had not forgiven, but she had resolved to put it behind her and staunchly ignore any rumors of Vincent Nightray’s survival.
And, in her defense, when she heard of the bright young man who had rescued her townspeople and arrested the contractor, she did not think of Vincent. One rarely thought ‘Vincent Nightray’ and ‘hero’ in the same sentence, if one was formerly associated with Pandora or currently associated with the man in question, and that was, Ada knew—or had known, at any rate—how Vincent liked it.
It was always a good idea to keep up good appearances with the Baskervilles. Even now, nearly a century after Pandora’s fall from grace, when Jack Vessalius was merely the name of a monster from children’s books and certainly didn’t reflect on little old sweet Duchess Ada Vessalius, but in the years fresh from Pandora’s fall Ada had begun the habit, and even though the Gilbert Nightray visited her publicly once a year and she was known widely as having a close relationship with the group that so many people, now, very nearly worshipped. Ada could have avoided thanking the Baskerville agent personally without injury to her reputation; had she known it was Vincent, she probably would have.
She did not know this.
Ada sent a message for the young Baskerville agent to meet her in her garden, for tea—she hadn’t been up for walking much, lately, and as much as she wished with Gilbert that her sheer force of will would be enough to carry her through twenty nine more years, she knew her time was coming soon—and waited.
The table was set, though her servants weren’t to bring out the tea and food until her guest arrived at the gates. The garden was beautiful, though empty of all sentient life other than herself; Ada had never taken on a personal servant of her own, because as a girl she’d wanted to keep her occult studies secret, and, when she was older, after her father’s little revelation, she had found it hard to trust anyone who wasn’t herself or Gilbert, and, not only had Gilbert been Oz’s servant and refused all other allegiances, but he was also far too important, these days, to be anyone’s domestic.
He would have, she thought. If she had asked. She was Oz’s sister—she was his oldest and dearest surviving friend. They would have mourned together. She would have trusted him with even the things she’d kept secret as a child.
Ada had never asked. Gilbert had never offered.
She was torn from her reminiscing as her servants brought out steaming tea, tiny sandwiches, and beautifully decorated cakes: her guest was arriving. She thanked them, sent them away, sat up as straight as she could (not all that straight, not anymore; Ada Vessalius was dying, and she knew it). She watched the entrance to the garden, perfectly visible from her position, though she and her table were obscured. Ada had designed these gardens with her own hands, once, and someday, if they were lucky, her children would inherit them and never know how useful they could be in a war.
When the Baskerville followed her servant out into the garden, Ada froze. For a moment, she was eighteen again, stealing kisses at society functions and covering up hickeys at the symphony, baring the deepest parts of her soul for someone she believes is the same as her and loves her in truth. And then the moment ended, and Ada was once again a very old woman, watching a very old man be led into her gardens. Vincent hadn’t aged a day since his so-called death, but he was older than Ada, and if he had more time than her then it wasn’t much, no matter what Gilbert said about slow Baskerville aging. Perhaps he would remain with Gilbert until Oz was born again; Ada did not forgive her humiliation, but she didn’t want to damn either surviving Nightray brother to loneliness.
“Welcome,” she said, and smiled as though she did not recognize Vincent when he sat across from her.
“Thank you, Duchess Vessalius,” he replied, just as politely.
Ada waited until her servant was out of earshot before letting her smile turn slightly more feral and saying, “Oh, you can dispense with the formalities, my dear—you never used them in the past, after all.”
Vincent choked on his tea. She wondered if he remembered her childhood bedroom, and, if so, whether the memory has lost its sting, like it had for her, or those times she’d nearly caught him skulking in her back gardens meant that he hadn’t been nearly as good at letting go as she had.
“I designed all of my gardens myself, you know,” she said. “I knew every time they were broken into.”
Vincent continued coughing.
“So, why are you here?” she asked. “I wasn’t aware that you were the one in my town, and you could easily have refused the invitation without giving offense.”
Vincent looked so, so young, but there was age behind his eyes. He nodded. “You’re dying,” he said simply.
“I am,” Ada replied.
“Gil worries.”
“Gil visits every other month,” said Ada severely, “and when I am actually on my deathbed, I suspect he will be at my side, like he ought, as my oldest and dearest friend.”
She and Vincent stared at each other. They had been in love, once; once, Ada had assumed it would be Vincent whom she would marry. He had left her in the lurch. He had humiliated her and given her reputation a heavy blow.
Vincent looked away first, and sighed with the air of someone humoring someone else, and said, “Fine. I worry.”
“Honest of you,” Ada said. “I’m only dying, Vincent.”
Vincent had had more experience with death at a younger age than she had. “I know,” he said. A small smile played around the edges of his lips. “I suppose I wanted to say goodbye.”
“I’m not dead yet,” she told him.
“Which is why I’m saying goodbye now.”
Ada and Vincent watched each other for a few more moments. “You are as welcome here as your brother,” she said finally.
“Thank you,” said Vincent.
Ada inclined her head. “Is my assumption correct that you have no intentions on taking me up on my invitation?” she asked.
Vincent tilted his head, calculating, considering. “We’ve all grown up,” he said finally. “There may be one more visitor at your deathbed than you accounted for.”
Ada nodded. “Good. I won’t need to endure the awkwardness of making Gilbert give you all of my witchcraft supplies,” she said, and Vincent tossed his head back and let out a surprised laugh.
The sun was warm. The day was good. And, as time traveled on, two old friends finally began to reconnect.