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Mondstadt was beautiful in the way hazelnuts were, with its rustic wooden buildings and hard-to-crack stone walls. (Or, well, it would be hard to crack, if not for the gateless entryways that lined its perimeter.)
Yelan, slinking invisibly through the night-shadowed streets, thought that Mondstadt almost had the right idea about city defense. Liyue Harbor, for all its splendor, was also very... open. It was in its nature, Yelan supposed, being a port and all. And it wasn’t like they’d be at war any time soon. But the part of her that was perpetually on guard couldn’t help hoping that the Qixing were taking more concrete measures to defend Liyue.
Like a nice, sturdy wall.
If only.
From here she could hear the burbling of the fountain. A short flight of stairs, a quick turn, and she’d be at her destination. The shrubbery cast long shadows in the moonlight, and Yelan, although invisible, was nevertheless thankful for the added cover.
Soon she was at the back door. It was usually locked and guarded; the Goth Grand Hotel didn’t take its security lightly, and neither did the Fatui who currently occupied it. But tonight there was no one and nothing to stop her from easing the door open, her footsteps silent as she stole into the hotel.
Placed on a wayside desk, a singular candle illuminated the passageway. It was newly lit—the wax had only begun to melt. Yelan picked it up. She would’ve preferred walking in darkness, but she knew she couldn’t risk it in unfamiliar territory.
He must have known this too.
Her lips curled downward.
She padded down the hall and up the stairs marked for staff. The carpets lining the wooden floor were excellent at muffling her footfalls, and she made little sound as she ascended to the third floor. Or second, technically; the hotel had a mezzanine in between. Honestly, she didn’t understand the necessity of a half-floor.
There were only two rooms on this floor. They were also the most expensive ones. Lower floors netted higher rates because guests did not like climbing stairs, and this floor was the lowest. But of course it didn’t even matter, because the Fatui had already rented out the entire building.
As she approached the leftmost door, she hesitated. Not for the first time, Yelan wondered if she should just turn and leave. It would be so easy...
No. She was already here. And besides—For Liyue, she told herself, and made herself believe it.
She laid a hand on the doorknob, and in the stillness, Yelan swore she could hear her heartbeat, like caged thunder. Fear, she thought. Anticipation.
(Thrill.)
She twisted, and the door opened easily.
“I almost thought you’d stood me up, little orchid.” Pantalone stood, his glasses glinting when he stepped into the candlelight.
“I’m here now,” Yelan said.
“You are indeed.” He circled closer; plucked the candle holder from her grasp. His hand lingered over hers. “Were you seen?”
“Don’t insult me,” she snapped. “Of course not.”
He only laughed, quiet. “Alright.”
Yelan imagined strangling him, and enjoyed the thought of it all too much.
“Well,” Pantalone said, “how have you been since we last met, little orchid?”
“Do you really want the truth?” she asked. “I don’t fancy the thought of you telling your... friends about my latest work.”
His expression turned calculating. “Arlecchino’s latest headache?”
“Liyue’s public orphanages were well overdue for refurbishment,” Yelan said. She let her mouth curve into a small smile. “I only had it re-prioritized. Is it my fault that a few employees were found unfit for duty in the process?”
Pantalone laughed. “I thought as much. Well done. She’s been hopping mad the past week.”
“Thank you.” She sat primly on the edge of the writing desk. “It’s always nice to have one’s effort be appreciated.”
There was a pause. And then—
“That is the point of this, isn’t it?” His voice had gone low. Yelan looked up. Behind his glasses, his eyes were dark. “Appreciation.”
“Perhaps,” Yelan said, just as softly. “Or perhaps I’m still waiting for you to drop your guard. Let out some priceless secret.”
Pantalone laughed. “Still lying to yourself, little orchid?”
Yelan said nothing. She watched him draw closer and set the candle down on the desk beside her.
“Are you going to kiss me, then?” she asked.
“Perhaps.”
Yelan couldn’t stand the intensity of his gaze—couldn’t bring herself to keep looking at him. Beside her the candle burned, throwing firelight across his features.
She averted her gaze. “At least put it out before you do,” she muttered.
“What?”
“The candle.” It was far too bright. In this light, her sin was thrown starkly into color.
Pantalone affected a hurt expression. “You don’t want to look at me?”
Yelan scoffed. “The curtains are already pulled back. There’s more than enough moonlight to see by.”
He shook his head, the motion somehow mocking. “As you say.”
Without looking, he pinched out the candlewick. Yelan half-hoped he had burned himself.
He caught the look on her face and laughed, the sound low and amused. “I’ve always known you’d had a taste for blood.”
She shrugged. “And? So do you.”
“So do I,” he agreed. “It shows how well-matched we are, little orchid.”
Yelan leaned closer. “Or,” she said, “it means we’ll only bleed each other dry.”
In the slivered moonlight, he could almost pass for a cathedral saint. “I’m willing to take that risk,” Pantalone whispered back. “Are you?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Her thumb traced over his cheekbones. “I already have.”
An unbearable silence fell. In the stillness, their breathing filled the room, loud. There was something about the way he was looking at her. Something about the way his hand had crept up to her knee, the barest touch of skin against skin an electric conduit.
In that moment, Yelan imagined that he would do anything she asked.
Awash in exhilaration, she leaned even closer and let her mouth brush over his, their lips scarcely touching, but touching still.
“Are you going to kiss me, then?” she whispered against his mouth, and he shivered.
“I—Wait.” All of a sudden Pantalone drew back, and she frowned. But he only took his glasses off, placing them carefully to the side, and came right back to stand between her legs. “There.”
Yelan put a finger under his chin and tilted his head up. “Well?” she asked. “I won’t ask again.”
Under her fingers, she could feel him tremble. “Yes. Yes, I will.”
He kissed her at last, those sinful lips finally on hers. She threw her arms around his neck, and all through the night they traded mouths until there were no more words.
The next day, Yelan rose before the sun.
At home in Liyue, she slept light. Abroad, she slept even lighter. Yet the evening’s activities had somehow tired her out to the point that she’d gotten more than the usual four hours.
The bed was warm and so was he. They had fallen asleep with limbs still entangled, heedless to any arrangement. But sometime during the night she—no, he must’ve shifted them, so that Pantalone’s head now lay against her chest and her arms were now thrown around him.
(Perhaps, some part of her mind offered, this was the true reason for her prolonged rest. Yelan discarded the notion in short order.)
She could not stay for much longer. Her window of opportunity closed with the sunrise; she hoped to be far from Mondstadt by then.
Unfortunately, the sheets were a tempting cocoon of warmth, and his arm was tight around her waist. And still sleepy, she thought, Would it be so bad to lie here for a few moments more? Would it be so bad to let myself imagine I was in the arms of someone who loved me? Someone to hold me?
It was still dark outside. Yelan closed her eyes.
Five minutes.
The bed was cold when she jerked awake for the second time, and the sound of her cursing broke the stillness of the late morning.
How could she have let herself miss her window for sneaking out? While she’d slept, what had he—
Yelan’s furious gaze fell on the bedside table, where a crisp note lay stark against dark wood. She snatched it up, still angry at herself.
Little orchid, it read, his letters sharp and curling, it was good to see you again. Already I await our next meeting.
You know well enough that I profess faith in nothing but my own will; wealth and the Tsaritsa being the only possible exceptions. Nevertheless, may the Anemo Archon protect you.
Until we meet again.
It was unsigned, but Yelan knew the shape of Pantalone’s handwriting by heart. She folded the note with trembling hands and stood, pulling the sheets tight around her body.
The worthless Harbinger had put her clothes in a neatly folded pile by the foot of the mattress. At least, she hoped he’d been the one to do so. If he’d summoned one of his Fatui underlings to tidy up and they’d ended up seeing her half-naked, she would well and truly murder him.
Yelan dressed as quickly as she could. She had lost more than enough time already. Entering the washroom, she rinsed her face, then ran her fingers through her hair until the strands had conformed to some semblance of order.
She did a once-over of herself in the mirror—then paused. Her eyes narrowed. She stepped closer to her reflection.
The die tassel that hung from her throat was missing.
That fucking—
Forget it. She was going to rob him before she left.
Pantalone arrived shortly at Dornman Port, all ready to depart for Fontaine, when he was halted by a messenger skidding to a stop in front of him.
Through gasping breaths, the messenger said, “Lord Harbinger,” and then gasped some more.
Without looking, Pantalone made a careless gesture to proceed, a curious tassel dangling from his fingers.
“There’s been—” An audible swallow. “There’s been a break-in, sir. At the Goth Grand Hotel.”
Pantalone’s expression smoothed over. He turned slowly to face the messenger. “Really.”
“Yes, my lord,” the messenger said hurriedly. “They haven’t found a trace of the thief, but there are objects missing from the west wing. Sir Luke said you’d know what they were.”
The west wing was where they stored most Mondstadtian artifacts, real or fake. That Ragnvindr man had been a thorn in the Fatui’s side, buying up all the relics he could get his hands on. It was infuriating. Fortunately, the man was still a novice when it came to the black market, and when it came to most antiques, the Fatui yet had the upper hand.
Goth Grand Hotel had been empty, and right there in the middle of Mondstadt, too. It tickled Pantalone to stash it all under the man’s nose. But now some of them had been stolen, apparently, and—
Okay, he wouldn’t lie to himself. There was only one possible culprit. And if he was being honest, he had half-expected this.
“Never mind,” he said, his tone easy. “I’ll reimburse the loss on my next excursion.”
Apparently, his apathy was more concerning than his rage, because the messenger went white as a sheet.
“Lord Harbinger, sir?” the messenger stammered.
“Never mind, I said. I’ll reimburse the loss,” Pantalone said patiently. “Go back and tell them that. Although you might want to clean out your ears before you go. It’s annoying having to repeat oneself.”
“Yes, sir,” the messenger said hastily, snapping off a quick bow. “Right away, sir.”
When the messenger was but a speck on the horizon, Pantalone held up the die tassel still hanging from his fingers to the light, and laughed.
“Well, little orchid,” Pantalone murmured, “message heard and received.”
Tucking the tassel into his pocket, he went and boarded the ship, turning from Mondstadt with nary a backward glance. He remembered Fontaine as a fascinating nation, seething with technological marvels. Where there were marvels, there was Mora. Where there was Mora, there was business. Where there was business, there was the Fatui, and so there would be Yelan. They would meet again, and soon. He was certain of it.
When they did, maybe he could steal something else of hers in return. Perhaps even another night with her.