Archive of Our Own ^beta

In chess, promotion is the replacement of a pawn with a new queen, rook, bishop, or knight of the same color [...] Promotion is mandatory; the pawn cannot remain as a pawn.

Edelgard's formal offer arrives with the red wax seal of the emperor's personal correspondence, and Claude waits as long as he can before he sends his assent.

It's not nerves. He's not nervous. But there's a risk in coming to Enbarr, in taking up her offer of rooms and board and meetings. He's there as a representative of the Alliance, he tells himself, nothing more. He's even taking Hilda.

"Ooh," says Hilda, when he lets her know. "I'll break the news to Holst. Wow, I haven't seen Marianne for ages."

So it's all official, all business. He packs his Dukeliest clothes with a grimace and lets his household handle all the rest.

The letter had been fairly vague about the duration of the engagement. If Claude was being taken hostage - if he was - that would make sense, because presumably Edelgard will only keep him around until he's served his purpose. She'll figure out quickly that he's not much of a bargaining chip. She's got the heirs to Edmund, Gloucester and Ordelia already. The only leverage his person could provide is over the Gonerils.

In the carriage he asks Hilda if she'd protect him if it came to it. "If it came to what?", she says, nose wrinkling. "You're being weird. Can't we talk about something else? Ooh, you know, I heard wedding fever is on, big time. Even Manuela Casagranda is engaged!"

Claude hears all the gossip: that Edelgard's spymaster and prime minister were caught in a compromising position and almost immediately announced their intention to wed, that the younger son of Count Bergliez is courting either a girl or a boy from the Kingdom depending on who you ask and that the Emperor approves of the match politically, that there's even a rumour that Count Gloucester has been seeking out the company of a common-born knight more often than not.

None of it is something the Emperor won't know, but he clings to the scraps all the same.

They've been instructed to stop at the palace first. Claude is tracing the seams of the overstuffed carriage cushions with his fingernails as they proceed through the over-manicured gardens at an agonising crawl. Hilda doesn't look bothered, at least.

"Hils," he says, and then stops himself. "Hey. Listen. If anything happens, would you-"

He's cut off by Hubert von Vestra himself opening the carriage door.

"Welcome to Enbarr. I do hope you'll have a pleasant stay."

He's taken away from Hilda to a far wing of the palace. Claude tries to stay calm, tries to memorise the unnecessary winding route but his pulse is throbbing against his collar and bile rising in his throat. His quarters turn out to be lavish, impeccably so, a full suite of bedroom, private bathroom, dressing room, study and servants quarters leading off from a large central parlour, which the Emperor herself is standing within.

She appears to be straightening cushions on the couch.

"Hubert!", she says, and Claude's not imagining the touch of pink to her cheeks, the half-tied up hair with strands escaping. "You're early. I was expecting a word of warning-"

"My apologies," Hubert von Vestra replies, sweeping into a bow. "I merely thought it best to see to the matter of our esteemed guest personally."

Von Vestra is looking a little flushed too; the day is warm and wet. They should open some more windows. He looks around the suite, and realises it must be nestled inside the palace. There are no windows to open.

"Hubert," the Emperor says again, a note of annoyance without any real bite in it. Von Vestra sweeps aside and then Claude is looking right at her; the Emperor of Adrestia straightening fussy throw cushions in the most pleasantly-appointed cell Claude has ever seen. She's wearing a low-cut court dress, heavy-looking red brocade in the most fashionable style and it slides off her shoulder as Claude stares.

"Your Majesty," he says, and bobs into a bow the exact degree of Hubert's - no deeper, no shallower.

"Your Grace Duke Riegan," she says, and after a weird moment dips into a curtsey in response. "I apologise for the manner in which we have received you. We had hoped the rooms would be ready in time, but of course, you cannot act on information you do not yet have. Nevertheless," she takes in a steading breath; it makes the corsetry of the dress creak like a ship in a storm. "Welcome to Enbarr. We do hope you will enjoy your stay."

Claude's left alone after that, ostensibly to re-acquaint himself with the members of his household and settle himself in before dinner. He's brought two staff. 

Gerard started as a footman under the previous Duke Riegan and proved to have such competence and loyalty in abundance that he worked his way up to the Duke's personal manservant; a position he held with a pride that made him glow. Claude was more than happy to inherit a man who regarded ironing the Duke's socks as his life's sole purpose. 

Mhairi on the other hand was new, a fierce looking maidservant Judith had strongly recommended he take on for the stay in Enbarr. She kept inscrutable hours, cleaned like she had a personal vendetta against dust and has shown him the knives she kept hidden on her person three times. He liked her immediately.

He pulls Mhairi aside from her work frowning at the lintels with Gerard. "Could you run a message to another visitor from me? I want to make contact with Hilda before we eat."

He scribbles a loose leaf of nonsense on a piece of paper and hands it to her. Mhairi will tell him if anyone intercedes or refuses to let her through, Claude's sure of it. And if she does get intercepted, at least there's nothing in there to undermine his own position.

He's trying to read one of the books left on the shelves when Gerard clears his throat.

"What's on your mind?"

"Your Grace," says Gerard, a little stiffly. "Perhaps you might be more comfortable if you were to wash and rest before dinner?"

Claude realises that he is sitting on the last trunk Gerard wants to unpack. "Of course," he says. "Please let me know when Mhairi returns."

He's barely closed his eyes for an admittedly long-needed nap when Gerard shakes him awake. "Your Grace, you have a visitor."

He leaps up, throwing on just enough layers to make him decent and ignoring Gerard's pursed lips of disapproval. If it's Hilda-

It is not Hilda. Ferdinand von Aegir stands in the parlour, hands neatly folded behind his back. "Ah," he says, and moves to bow. "Your Grace-"

"There's no need," Claude cuts him off, disconcerted enough. "Please. I'm sorry I wasn't expecting you, Prime Minister. Please take a seat."

"Thank you," says Ferdinand, and remains standing. "It is wonderful to see you again. You are keeping well, I hope? And how was the journey?"

They make excruciating small talk for several minutes. Gerard lurks in one of the doorways, neither going to the effort of offering Ferdinand tea or breaking propriety by refusing it.

"I see," says Ferdinand, after a riveting discussion about the impact of the weather on the rose gardens at Gloucester Hall. "Quite so. And if you don't mind me asking, how do you like Enbarr so far?"

"I've barely seen any of it."

"Aha. Yes. Well. As you know, we are so happy to have you here. Her Majesty has talked of little else for weeks."

Claude doesn't believe that for a second. "But?"

"But," Ferdinand says, and rather than flounder goes quiet, screws his eyes closed and takes a preparatory breath. "Even as we are, inarguably, in a period of peace and calm, that is to say-"

"I need to watch my back?"

Ferdinand's smile barely falters. "Well. Perhaps we all do. But certainly I would say, given your rather unique situation, perhaps an abundance of caution could not go amiss."

"Thanks," says Claude, his heart sinking. "I appreciate the heads up."

Ferdinand makes a strange expression, a strangled grimace that becomes a tight, forced smile. "I apologise for this rather strange request. Please do rest assured that we are doing everything we can to address this matter."

"No, of course. And you'll let me know as soon as you know anything more?"

"Of course," says Ferdinand, and he is a terrible, terrible liar.

They make small talk for several more minutes before Ferdinand excuses himself, apologising again for the interruption and reassuring Claude that he will see him at dinner.

The door closes softly behind him, and the silence settles into the heavy furniture and plush carpeting.

"Well," says Claude, after a moment. "That was fun."

Gerard polishes a silver teaspoon with a murderous look in his eyes. "Your Grace," he says. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but-"

"Yeah," Claude says, thinking about the door to the rest of the palace, the parlour door with no lock, the single deadbolt on his bedroom door, the single deadbolt for the bathroom. The lack of windows. "I agree. Do you mind watching the door tonight?"

Gerard stops polishing for a moment. "If it's all the same to you, your Grace, I'll wait till Mhairi comes back. Now if you don't mind, I've laid out some dress options for dinner, and perhaps you could let me know which you'll use."

Mhairi isn't back by the time one of the palace's servants knocks to politely inform Duke Riegan that dinner will be served shortly, if he would like to accompany them to the dining rooms…? He can feel Gerard start to follow and waves him off. 

"Of course, please lead the way." He hopes Gerard understands what he means; that until they can engage the locksmith, the safety of Claude's rooms has to be taken as seriously as the safety of his person. It would be easier if Mhairi had returned, but she hasn't, so Claude is wearing an absurdly formal suit cut low at the hips to conceal two small (but sharp) knives and with double thickness breast pockets which protect a secret pocket in their inner lining containing two potent poisons and one small vial of antidote. There's a tiny, tiny pill to induce severe vomiting folded into his cuff should the food be suspect. He also has a rudimentary escape kit - razor blades, a thin roll of bandages, antiseptic and a rope - hidden in the false heels of his boots.

Normally he doesn't need to take these things to dinner. He isn't sure what normal will be in Enbarr.

The servant leads him down corridors he doesn't recognise at all. He tries to make small talk, but the man is either far too professional to entertain the notion or simply too boring to have much to say, and the conversation falls flat leaving only the sound of their footfall in the thick carpet. Why does the Emperor like carpets so much?

Finally he's brought to a small, dark wooden door, inlaid with carved panels depicting all manners of birds. The bronze handles are well-worn and tarnished with age. As at his door, the manservants knocks once and waits for a response before opening the door and ushering Claude in.

Edelgard sits alone at what looks like a family dining table.

"Claude," she says, face brightening. "Please. Take a seat."

He takes it all in: the place settings for two, the fire burning low in the small hearth, the well-worn chairs far more functional than grandiose. There's a cat on one of them wetly licking its own leg. The tabletop is shiny through use rather than finely polished, and from what he can see under it there's a piece of folded paper propping up one of the legs. Just like his rooms, there aren't any windows, and the adjoining doors are shut.

In short: what?

She must see him take it all in, because her face falls. "I apologise if I have misled you. Merely, given your travel and the events of the day, I thought it might be best to forgo a formal reception in favour of something more… comfortable."

It's overly warm in the small room. Claude is dressed in what feels like fourteen formal layers, starched so rigidly it could keep the wearer upright after seven courses with seven kinds of wine. His boots are designed for sitting, not walking, and they're pinching his toes. Edelgard has swapped her red court dress for something lighter and looser. She doesn't look like an Emperor.

"Thanks," he says, in lieu of anything more appropriate. "You know, I feel a little bit overdressed."

She laughs, pushes the cat off the chair beside her and invites him to sit, waving to a footman to her left to start serving the soup course.

She watches him as they eat, although she looks away whenever he meets her eye. She insisted he didn't need to stand on ceremony, but she's barely touching her food - a red soup of hothouse vegetables that tingles on Claude's tongue, slices of roast pheasant with a thick berry sauce and green vegetables smothered in buttery garlic served with fluffy grains and a platter of fruits for dessert. It's a surprisingly modest meal for an Emperor. Perhaps that's why she doesn't enjoy eating it.

"Is it to your liking?" 

He's pushing the pheasant around on his plate, wondering if he can cut it into pieces so small she won't notice how little he's actually eaten. "It's great."

It's like ash in his mouth, but hey, at least he hasn't needed the vomiting pill.

As they peel their own fruits (the Emperor! peeling her own fruit!! ) Claude risks asking about Hilda.

Edelgard's knife skips through her pear, nearly taking a chunk out of her thumb. "Lady Goneril sent her apologies. She will not be joining us to dine this evening."

Great.

As threatened, Ferdinand does reappear during the cheese board, and what's worse, he brings Hubert. He cheerfully chatters and clatters away brewing an enormous pot of coffee that no one apart from Hubert actually drinks. Hubert, to his credit, merely sits there and glowers as Edelgard is questioned about every detail of the meal.

Finally Ferdinand deems the coffee sufficiently meddled with, and takes a seat at Claude's side. "If you would not mind my saying so, I must concede that we are rather underdressed. Duke Riegan, the elegance of your attire puts us to shame! Hubert, was I not saying earlier that we need not embrace quite so much informality in our own home?"

Von Vestra raises his one visible eyebrow. "And did I not say in response that if you were going to insist on full morning suits for a simple weekday meal, I was going to eat in the stables?"

"Leave Claude be, Ferdinand," Edelgard cuts in. She's stirring cream and sugar into her coffee with no apparent intent of drinking it, but she's smiling. "It's my fault. He was expecting a formal dinner, but I changed my plans at the last minute and asked him to eat here instead."

Asked? That's nice. Claude would have loved to be asked about this.

"Did you," says von Vestra. "And why was that, your Majesty?"

"Hubert," she says, with that same note of not-quite-irritation Claude noticed earlier. "Am I not allowed to eat a meal in my own dining room if I feel like it?"

"Of course," he says, and turns his weird pale eye towards Claude. "And what do you think of all this? Is her Majesty's personal dining room to your liking?"

"It's great," he says, trying to sound like he means it. "Super homey. I always love having to move cats so I can eat."

Edelgard and Ferdinand laugh more than the comment actually warrants; Hubert smirks into the rim of his porcelain cup. Claude thinks about taking the vomiting pill just to get out of there.

They invite him to join them for card games and conversation in Edelgard's parlour, but he begs off, claiming the travel is catching up to him. The manservant who leads him back to his rooms takes a much shorter path and is silent, letting him build a mental map in peace.

Mhairi is waiting by the door to let him in. She nods curtly to the manservant to dismiss him and his look of horror and surprise would be funny in any other situation. He lets her close the door and push a chair under the handle.

"What happened?"

"This place is a maze. It took me forever to find anyone who even knew that Lady Goneril was meant to be staying here, much less where her room actually was. When I got there the room was empty."

"Empty? You mean she was out?"

"No, Your Grace. The rooms were empty. The doors were locked and no one could find a key to open them, but I peeked through the keyhole and there were dustsheets over the furniture. I had to find the carriage driver in the stables to work out where Lady Goneril had gone."

The low grade agitation Claude has been fighting all day is peaking. He drums his fingers against his leg, unable to comfortably pace in his formal clothes. "So you found her?"

Mhairi snorts. "Eventually. She's staying out in the city, got herself a set of rooms in the Edmund estate. Apparently the Gonerils and the Riegans are the only members of the Roundtable who don't have property in Enbarr."

That makes sense, given the number of their children who had joined Adrestia's side in the war effort. "That explains why she missed dinner. Did you get the message to her?"

"I did." Mhairi pulls a folded letter out of her skirt pockets and hands it over. The paper is pale pink and smells heavily of Hilda's perfume. Claude opens it up.

Dear Claude,

Sorry to bail on you like this but you'll be fine.

xoxo
Hilda

He doesn't sleep well, kept up by the thought that his rooms are just two corridors down from the Emperor's.

Gerard greets him bright and early with a highly polished steaming teapot and some small fried buns. "The buns are from the markets and the tea is from your personal stores, your Grace." Claude threw the tea chest in with the luggage as an afterthought, remembering that the travel case for his personal chemistry kit looked similar enough that his hosts might ignore it. He's surprisingly grateful for the smell of slightly stale cinnamon.

Mhairi sticks her head in as he's dressing. "Your Grace," she says, dropping into the faintest reminiscence of a curtsy. "You've a visitor already."

"It is only me, Claude," Petra calls. "I will not mind if you are not all decent."

Unlike when Ferdinand dropped in unannounced, Claude is almost happy to see her. He hadn't been able to get to know her very well at Garreg Mach, but he'd enjoyed what conversations they did have. Petra was sharp and engaging, far more observant and thoughtful than most and although she hadn't known why, she'd shared with him the sense of being an outsider. He'd continued writing to her throughout the war, using the pretext of diplomatic relations with the future Queen of Brigid. They were almost friends.

He left the bedroom still tying his cravat. Petra was perching on one of the arms of the sofas, posture curled like a cat reading to spring at any moment and indeed, on seeing him, she leapt up to give him a hug.

"You look well," he says into her shoulder.

"You look healthy too. How are you keeping? Is Enbarr to your liking? It is very good to be seeing you again."

"And you," he says, and lets her lead him by the hand to sit on the sofa. "What brings you to my rooms so early?"

"I was awake, and I was thinking you might be too, so I came over to greet you. You are well, yes?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Is there a reason I shouldn't be?"

Petra looks immediately guilty.

"Petra," he finds himself saying, "you're not the first person to worry about me. Ferdinand dropped by yesterday asking similar questions, except he wouldn't tell me what was actually going on. Can you tell me anything at all?"

She shifts uncomfortably. "Perhaps you should be thinking of it as like… as like if you were being hunted. It is not a hunt, but it is like a hunt. And we are hunters hunting the hunter during the hunting."

He doesn't have a ready answer to that, nothing pithy or cheeky to say when all his worst fears were confirmed. "I see," he says, after a minute. "So I am bait."

"No! No, Claude. You are not bait. We are not hunting. It is very difficult to explain." She shuffles along the sofa and takes his hand in hers. He half wants to resist, to be petty and give her a taste of the betrayal he's feeling but she's trying to be nice and he's all alone on the other side of the continent and he's bait and he'll have to take whatever friendship he can get.. Her skin is calloused from her sword usage and her hands are warm. "We are very happy that you are in Enbarr. Edelgard has been wanting this for a very long time. But it is not just Edelgard. Hubert and Lysithea and Dorothea and many more are wanting to spend more time with you. We want you to be happy."

He meets her eyes: she is, as always, deeply sincere. 

"I am wanting to spend more time with you, so I am coming to see you very early so that I do not have to share. You are a very treasured guest. We are wanting to keep you safe, but you are a very free person, and we are not wanting to disrupt your freedom. So we are… speaking about dangers, and letting you have control of your own safety."

"While you're hunting something that hunts me."

Petra looks rather miserable. "I was speaking poorly. It is not a hunting. It is more like… we are trying to be taking extra care of you."

"Because you're so happy that I am in Enbarr."

"Yes. That is so. I am happy. Edelgard is happy."

He stands up, feigning a yawn. "Well, it was lovely to see you and you've certainly given me a lot to think about. Mhairi, can you show Petra out? I need to get ready for my morning appointments."

He doesn't have any morning appointments, but Mhairi goes along with it, almost shooing Petra out of the suite. As soon as she's gone and the chair replaced under the doorknob Claude flops back onto the sofa, letting himself succumb to gravity until his ankles are propped against the backrest and his shoulders are flat on the ground.

Mhairi makes a sympathetic noise. "That bad?"

"Worse," he says, watching his chest rise and fall.

"Should I write to Lady Judith?"

That's a thought. "You could, but I don't know what she would actually be able to do."

"I never underestimate what my lady can achieve with a sword."

It's a comforting thought. "Alright, then. But don't give away anything sensitive. It's likely to be intercepted." By the thing hunting him, or by its hunters? He doesn't much like either thought.

"As you will." She opens the door to the servant quarters and Gerard materialises to take her place.

"Gerard. Do you fancy a walk in the gardens?"

In addition to his usual walking coat and at Gerard's insistence he wears a sunhat, brim pulled low to cover his eyes. It seems silly - it won't make him unrecognisable - but they make it out to the kitchen gardens uncontested. He's hungry for something fresh, unable to enjoy any of the meal the night before and he finds an unattended raspberry bush, thin branches heavy with ripe red fruits. They're delicious. He's eaten a handful before a wide-leaved palm at the back of the greenhouse starts shaking, and then, after a moment, explosively sneezes.

Gerard has the culprit in hand before Claude can blink.

"Please don't kill me!" squeals Bernadetta von Varley, hands flapping in front of her face. "Please! I wasn't spying on you, I swear!"

Gerard looks unimpressed, and hoists her up to eye level. He's holding her collar very tightly. Bernadetta looks like she's going to black out.

Claude sighs. "Let her down. Hello, Bernadetta. Fancy seeing you here."

Gerard drops her and she completely fails to catch herself on her feet, instead landing heavily on her rear. She looks like she's going to cry. "Stupid Bernie! Idiot, stupid, just because you wanted to check on the pitcher plant that was dropping leaves! Now you're causing trouble for Edelgard's guest!!"

Claude motions for Gerard to step back. "Actually, I was looking for someone to help me."

"Help… you…?"

He catches Gerard's eye briefly, wills him to go along with it. "Yes. My manservant and I really wanted some fresh fruit after breakfast, but all I could find were these raspberries. Do you know if there's anything else around?"

Bernadetta looks a bit more lively. "L-like what? There's pears, pineapples, coconuts…. Grapes, melons… A few small oranges... Ooh! The peach currants are very good at the moment!"

Claude hates peach currants. "That would be great."

Bernadetta seems to relax after a few minutes around the plants. She's truly knowledgeable, and the ripe peach currants aren't quite as bad as he'd feared. Gerard, traitorously, asks for a second handful.

"I'm glad I ran into you," he says, wiping the sticky juice off his fingers onto some grass. "I hardly ever saw you during the war, but I guess you were out here, huh?"

"Oh no," Bernadetta says. "I was locked away in my room."

He doesn't know what to say. He hadn't thought he was the first "guest" of the palace, by any means, but it's still striking to hear it out loud. "I'm sorry," he says, after a moment. "That must have been really hard."

"What? No. It was easy! Safe and sound inside my room is my favourite place to be! Nothing can get to you when you're behind four walls!" She crouches forwards, and starts to draw something with her finger in the dirt. "See, Bernie's room was here on the west side, but Edelgard found her another set even further in, all cosy and safe!"

He squints down at the marks. "So where would my rooms be?"

"Here, of course!" She's confident and deft, drawing neat straight lines that turn into a floorplan before him. He tries to memorise it. "Ooh, an internal suite! You must feel great in there, knowing there's nothing but palace all around you!"

"Well, I agree that it's sheltered, but that doesn't mean no one could get in."

"Oh," Bernadetta says, fingers skipping over doorways and servant's stairs. "That's - that's terrible. Oh! I know? Why don't you get the locks changed? No one minds. Trust me, I change mine a couple of times a month!"

That seems excessive, but it's not a bad start. He looks at Gerard again, his mouth stained pink with the fruit's juices, and tilts his head in wordless inquiry. Can we-?

Gerard nods, and resumes chewing.

They manage to engage one able to start that afternoon but for Claude to run interference he can't stay in the rooms. Mhairi and Gerard will have their hands full trying to keep the rest of the palace staff from noticing what's going on. He could take a walk through the more open gardens, but there are too many angles of attack and everyone had heard about the attempt made on Edelgard's life from the garden roofs. He's trying to talk himself into just plugging his ears, standing in the corridor and enduring it when someone knocks. It's not the servant's knock, nor do they wait for a response before they let themself in. 

"Oh good," says Linhardt. "You're still here. Excellent. I need to borrow you."

Claude doesn't remember much about Linhardt. His sources had gone tight-lipped when he'd asked why he was getting word-for-word transcripts of Caspar's daily activities, but nothing about the first son and likely inheritor of the Minister for Domestic Affairs. Eventually one had admitted that Linhardt just didn't do much, and 'sat reading in the library for fifteen hours' was pretty much his typical day. Claude vaguely remembers he had a reputation for being lazy, but it was nothing like Hilda's carefully constructed aura of incompetence. Linhardt just didn't appear to care.

"You haven't changed," he says, trying to make conversation as Linhardt leads him through the palace. Claude is still dressed for his garden walk minus the hat, which means the inner pockets of his black coat contain a number of small knives and knuckledusters, as well as powders to induce unconsciousness and irritate the eyes. He'd experimented with dismantling a bow and strapping that into the lining, but it turned out to need to be at least shoulder to hip length if he wanted any functional draw power, and a piece of wood that long was neither comfortable nor inconspicuous.

"Well, no," says Linhardt. "We're only going to the library. Why? Was I expected to dress up?"

"No, I meant-"

"I did hear about you wearing formal attire to dinner last night," Linhardt says, eyes narrowing. "Kindly stop that at once. I have no interest in Ferdinand insisting we all wear tailcoats in the Emperor's presence, and I am afraid you have only encouraged him."

"Right," Claude says, unable to follow this and memorise the route. "Sure. I'll keep that in mind."

"Do. We are making progress, of a sort, but it doesn't help that buffoons like Ferdinand want to worship at the altar of an outdated, uncomfortable, useless notion of formal dress ."

Claude has given up. "Uh huh," he says, trying to sound like he's listening while thinking left left right, ornate bird pattern wallpaper from the third turn, dated portraits of former ministers, most recent closest to the turn, marble busts from thirty paces in .

"-and here we are."

Here is a set of heavy double doors, so large and unwieldy that a smaller door has been cut into one of them. This is the door that Linhardt opens, although it makes him stoop slightly to pass through. Claude hadn't thought about how much he and Linhardt are of a similar height and bangs his head on the frame.

Linhardt casts a little white magic immediately, and when the glow fades Claude can see the bookcases towering around him in the gloom. This can only be the library, or one of them - he isn't entirely sure there's a maximum number of versions of the same rooms a palace can need - and it's largely cool, quiet and empty. Little pools of light pick out lamps fixed into reading nooks and desks: Linhardt appears to have commandeered several tables for his work. Claude lets himself be directed to come and sit with him.

"Tea?" Linhardt says, and ignores Claude's head shake to pour him a cup anyway. It smells like Angelica tea, clear and herbal. He tries not to pull a face.

They sit in silence. "Ugh," says Linhardt, apparently having drained his cup. "That's better. How much do you know about peacetime applications of crests?"

"Not much, I've only read Morghaint's first treatise on the subject-"

Linhardt's face lights up. "You've read Morghaint?"

"Only the first treatise, I really wouldn't call myself an expert-"

"Astounding. Would you believe you're the first person I've met who can name a single crest scholar?"

"No," says Claude, who is not remotely surprised. "Surely not."

"I can't understand why people are so incurious about the most fascinating aspects of our lives. Putting aside their social function and social utility, you might think people would want to understand what gives them the ability to suddenly heal from any wound, or cast a greater magic than they know-"

"Aha," says Claude. "But you're talking about nobles, not people at large. Nobles aren't known for being open-minded."

Linhardt looks at Claude in disbelief for a moment, and then smiles, a really genuine smile that makes his eyes crinkle. "Goodness," he says, reaching for a stack of notebooks. "I can see why she likes you."

Claude doesn't get a chance to ask what he means before the tests begin.

Linhardt, as it turns out, is trying to develop a unified theory of crest invocation. The tests for this involve trying to trigger Claude's crest into activating without his life being at risk. They don't manage to achieve anything, but Linhardt seems delighted by his efforts, albeit in a slightly cold, Linhardt-like way. He quizzes Claude about every detail he can remember from the Morghaint treatise, and piles several more books into his arms before he lets him leave.

As Linhardt walks him back to his quarters, Claude finds a moment to ask if there's any reason he should be concerned.

"Goddess, no," says Linhardt, wide-eyed. "I should hope not. But if anything does happen, please keep me updated on how your crest responds."

They part ways at the mouth of a corridor Claude is beginning to recognise as the one that leads to his rooms, and Mhairi presses a copy of the key to his new locks into his hands as soon as he arrives.

While he was out, he learns, a footman invited him to dine with the Emperor tonight, a formal meal for real this time. There's a card explaining which other guests have RSVP'd; he's happy to see Lysithea and Lorenz's names on there. He doesn't have a huge amount of time to get ready, though, and it's a struggle to get into his lightly used suit even when he wants to. Gerard is still lacing him in when the knock comes.

Once again he's led through areas of the palace he has never seen before. This part must be the more public part, at least, because the paintings and statuary go from functional to jaw-droppingly opulent. He's finally stopped at double doors on a balcony, flanked by heralds in full Hresvelg livery and barely given a moment to compose himself before the doors swing open, and someone who projects his voice like his life depends on it calls out "His Grace, the Duke of Riegan!"

He looks down into the crowds and glittering lights. It feels a little bit like dropping from a wyvern mid flight: the dizzying rush, the moment of weightlessness, the silence of the fall. He steadies himself with a breath, and takes the first step.

Edelgard catches him at the bottom of the steps, taking his hand in hers. "Duke Riegan," she says, and her whole face is lit up with excitement and joy. Claude hadn't taken her for someone who thrived at this kind of party, especially given that just a few years ago she was carving her scarlet path, but hey. People can always surprise you. 

She really does shine. The dress is beyond his capacity to appreciate, but he can appreciate what it's doing to her even if he probably shouldn't because she's the Emperor and he is only here to be her inverted commas guest. But there's been effort, there's definitely evidence of effort tonight. She's wearing makeup, he thinks, trying to add some colour back into her pallid face, and she's clearly not as practiced at applying it as she would like to be. The incongruity of it all is charming. She can be charming when she wants to be.

"Your Highness."

"Please," she says, "call me Edelgard tonight."

Before he can respond to this the loud man starts booming again. He wants to clear the landing zone, but Edelgard keeps her hold on him and directs him to stand by her side. It's out of the main thoroughfare, at least, but he can't say he understands it. He tries not to fidget as a near endless parade of Enbarr's best and brightest glide down the stairs and join the crowd. Edelgard greets most of them by name because of course she does, but thankfully she doesn't appear to need Claude to do more than stand there and smile.

He's feeling frayed after nearly an hour of this. She slides her hand back over his and squeezes just once. "We're almost done," she murmurs, and then- "good evening! It's wonderful to see you both, I didn't think you would be able to make it!"

Claude isn't staring at Edelgard's pet mercenary walking down the stairs hand in hand with the Ashen Demon, of all people, but only just. 

"Edelgard!" says Shez loudly, drawing her into a hug. "What's up, girl? What's crackalackin?"

The Ashen Demon bows stiffly to them both. "Where's the food?"

"Dinner will be served shortly," Edelgard says. "Thank you so much for coming. I appreciate it was short notice."

"Eh," says Shez, tossing her hair back theatrically. "My girl here will do anything for a free meal." The Ashen Demon nods. "Besides, how could we miss your big night?" She reaches out like she's going to touch Claude, and then thinks better of it. He tries to smile, but he's really not feeling it.

Edelgard tentatively squeezes his hand again after they depart.

"I didn't know commoners were invited to these things," he says, keeping his voice low.

She grimaces. "They weren't, not until recently. Believe me, the parties were all the worse for it. But one perk of being emperor is that what I say goes, and any nobles who don't like it can either shape up or get out."

"That's fair," he says after a moment. Her hand is smooth in his, glove against glove, but he feels the heat from her palm all the same.

A footman scurries out of the shadows and whispers something to her. 

"Very well," Edelgard says, and then, "shall we?"

Claude hasn't got a clue, but he follows her lead and the hand that pulls him along to the front of the room. There are tables of poured drinks, but very few servants. He tries to catch a glimpse of either Lorenz or Lysithea in the crowd, but there are just too many bodies, too much noise. Edelgard leads them to a platform that will probably hold an orchestra later, but thankfully does not invite Claude up the stairs with her.

She taps a glass with a spoon and the room falls silent. She projects her voice for the speech, which means it carries over and away from Claude and he would have to strain his ears to really hear. He gets bits and pieces. Future. Momentous. Alliance. Peace. He watches the crowd, watches them all watching her. They love her, he decides, or it's a fear that's close enough to it. The laughs are genuine, the applause seems sincere, and when the gong rings for dinner people almost seem disappointed she's stopped speaking. Not the Ashen Demon, of course, who is first at the doors to the dining room.

Edelgard descends to lead him once again; with nothing else he can do, he lets her.

The formal dining hall is everything he feared and then some. Hundreds of small circular tables in precisely ordered rows groan with silverware, all arranged to face a smaller table with an actual throne at the centre seat. People fuss onwards, spilling down the room inelegantly, arguing here and there about the seating plan or pushing past each other to reach their assigned seat. The walls are covered in livery, but it's not the Hresvelgian flag he knows. Something new, maybe. A symbol of Edelgard's new world. He notes the flag of the Leicester Alliance hanging behind a chair at the high table, not that close to the throne but unpleasantly visible amongst the red and gold livery. His hands feel clammy. He's grateful for his gloves.

Although he is assigned a seat at the high table, it's not that prominent and Lorenz and Lysithea take the seats on either side. Claude is so momentarily grateful that he has to fight the urge to embrace both of them. He settles for ruffling Lysithea's hair, and she looks like she wants to spit in his drink.

Dinner, thankfully, is small and short, and the courses are served quickly enough that there's little time for talking. Lorenz exchanges a few pleasantries, Lysithea asks him about life in the palace and it's weirdly normal except for the bit where Claude is a hostage who appears to also be the Emperor's current favourite toy. He itches to ask them what they make of it, whether this is just something she does or if they know how the end of the war is going, if anything has changed since he set foot in the carriage to Enbarr. He doesn't get the chance before Edelgard is standing and making her glass ring again to announce that the dancing has commenced in the main hall.

She glances at him as she takes her leave, but without any solid obligation to get up and follow he remains in his chair, passing his untouched sorbet to Lysithea who has been zealously watching it melt for the last ten minutes.

"You're not dancing?" Lorenz asks.

Claude makes a non-committal noise. "Was anyone else I know invited tonight?"

Lorenz twists his lips as he thinks about it. "I don't think so. Marianne may have been, but I believe she had a prior engagement with the opera."

Right. "There's lots to do in Enbarr."

"I most heartily agree. You simply must come and see the gardens at-" Lorenz lists off memorable sights like his life depends on it, and Claude can't summon the heart to tell him that Claude's life is apparently going to be within the palace now, however much of it that he has left.

"-and the palace, of course, the palace is not quite itself at the moment."

"Is it not?" That's the first Claude has heard of it.

"Edelgard's chief of staff is back in her home province," Lysithea says. There's a smudge of sorbet on her nose.

"Not on the northern front lines?"

Lorenz frowns at that. "The ceasefire with the Kingdom is all but signed. Surely you were aware of that? I don't mean to pry, but is that not what we celebrate this very evening?"

Claude's starting to wish he'd paid a bit more attention to the speech. His head throbs. Lorenz looks like he wants to say something, but doesn't. That's fair. They haven't really been friends lately.

Lysithea pats his head with a comforting but sticky hand as she stands up to take Lorenz to dance. "Don't stay here too long," she says, and with that they leave him to it. He can't resent Gloucester and Ordelia for honouring their ties to the Empire. He'd always known they had them, and he'd tried to use them for his own ends as much as he could. Still. He wonders what the war would have looked like if they'd stayed at his side.

The small sounds of servants clearing the tables float down to him. He suspects they'd normally start from this end and work downwards to the kitchens, but if they're at half strength anyway they can manage to live with it. It's peaceful and quiet, and the strains of music that seep through the doors are little more than suggestions of a bassline or a melody. They're not songs he knows. The noise peaks for a moment, and then settles.

Someone sits in the chair next to him.

"Hii," breathes Dorothea, smoothing a lock of hair back from her flushed face. "Is everything okay in here? Edie is beside herself with worry."

He blinks up at her. "Dorothea? When did you get here?"

"Oh, about fifteen minutes ago. I had hoped to attend the whole thing, but my bloody understudy nearly fractured her leg in rehearsal and there's no one else who can manage the aria so yours truly had to belt it at a speed which would have the composer rolling in his grave and skip the third act in its entirety just to make it to the ball." She smiles at him, letting her hand settle on his shoulder. "It's fine. My character dies at the end of Act Two. She's meant to haunt her lover as he sings about the cruelty of fate, but I'm sure they can stick a wig on one of the dancing girls and make do. How are you?"

"Is this another talk?"

"Another- what do you mean, what talk?"

"Oh," he says, propping himself up onto his elbow. "You know. This and that. Is it always like this, here?"

"Well," says Dorothea. "I might need a few more details. Like what? Has something happened to you? No one's tried to slip anything into your food, have they? Or break into your rooms?"

He sits fully upright then, drawing back from her.

Dorothea shifts, biting her lip. "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but-. You might not be safe here."

Claude lets his mouth fall open slowly in a pantomime of shock.

"Oh, don't be like that. I'm serious. It's not - you - I mean, it is you, but it's not your fault . It's. Complicated."

She shifts again, and he notices that her jewellery is cheap, fake, glass and brass flickering in the lights. Her dress is a style that he doesn't see often. None of the ladies were wearing dresses like that tonight. Is it old? It's flashy, though. Her makeup is dramatic and bold and it doesn't really look good so much as it looks like a lot of makeup. She could be truthful. She could've come from the stage.

Dorothea sighs. "How much do you know?"

"About as much as you've just told me."

She covers her face with her hand. "Oh, boy. What a mess. Who've you spoken to?"

He hesitates. He wants to trust Dorothea, because she's nice and she's being nice to him and she's a commoner who rose by her own merit to Edelgard's inner circle, and she's certainly taking the time to warn him about possible modes of attack even though he looks like he's currently defenceless.

But he can't trust her, not really. Ferdinand can be a buffoon, but he'd die before anyone questioned his honour. Petra still values him as a political equal, maybe even a friend. But Dorothea is a climber, a striver. A survivor. And it's hard to survive when you're playing by someone else's rules. If he wanted to poison someone, he'd spread a rumour about contaminated food and slip it into their water supply. If he wanted to break into someone's rooms, he'd whisper in their ear about thieves operating at night and then walk in through the doorway during the day. He knows the value of misdirection. And it's not like she isn't used to the stage.

The fact is, he's been thrown into something that's been brewing in Enbarr for a long, long time. It might not be his fault. He may not have caused it. But he's only going to get out alive by staying ahead and staying sharp.

"It's fine," he says. "Honestly. Don't worry about me. It's just, you know. New city. There's a lot to get used to."

"Uh huh," Dorothea says, and she doesn't look convinced at all. "Well. Listen. Not now, but at some point, if a girl named Monica von Ochs approaches you, please do come and let me know. Or Hubie. Or Ferdie, or Petra, or anyone really. Well, maybe not Lin, but that's only because he's not interested. Any one of the rest of us will do. Just let us know, ok? We can help you."

"I'll remember that name," he promises, and Dorothea sighs and leaves it at that. 

She pats his shoulder once more before she heads back to the ballroom. "I'll tell Edie you're tired, ok? She might come and find you if I don't."

He waves her goodbye before sinking his head down into his arms again. There's a few minutes of quiet, listening to the buzz of the servants' conversation as they work. Finally one plucks up the courage to approach him.

"Duke Riegan," she says, tone somewhere between scared and annoyed. "Might I call for one of your household to accompany you back to your rooms?"

Gerard arrives within a few minutes, frowning as though someone has told him that Duke Riegan needs collecting as he is drunk. He insists on sniffing Claude's breath, apparently unconvinced by Claude's promise that he hasn't been drinking, he wouldn't, and then he gamely pulls one of Claude's arms up and across his shoulders and supports him all the way back. Gerard is warm and steady, and Claude doesn't mind playing the helpless drunk so much when he knows there's a garrotte wire threaded into Gerard's belt and that the man knows how to use it.

Mhairi fusses over Claude, peeling him out of the layer after layer of somehow still rigid formal clothing before handing him a washcloth and leaving him alone in his bedroom.

He washes himself half-heartedly; his mind is elsewhere. Dorothea, Ferdinand, Petra and apparently Hubert are engaged in some vast conspiracy about something and his presence in the capital is bringing things to a head. He doesn't like any part of that. He came here in the understanding that he would be a pawn in their game and to try to stay alive. Instead, he's been thrown into a metaphorical bear pit, and he doesn't know if he's the bear or the dogs.

It's the scale of it that troubles him. By all accounts, everyone who's spoken to him should be loyal to Edelgard. So who is Monica von Ochs loyal to? He can't put a face to the name but it rings a bell, a memory from his aborted school days breaching through three years of stress and rule and war. She was close to Edelgard, he thinks. She could still be. But she's either trying to kill him, or save his life.

He wakes with his heart pounding against his chest as his ears tell his body before his brain that there is someone outside his room. He strains his ears. There - unmistakably. Someone trying the handle. Someone discovering his new locks. The sweat runs cold as he grabs a candle and slides out of the bed, determined to not go down without a fight. The wax is still warm and pliable under his fingers; he can't have been asleep long. He can't take the risk of stopping for a match. With no windows there's no moonlight and the servants have their door closed. He feels his way along the wall, keeping his weight low and stable, his steps quiet. His hands are so sweaty that they must be leaving marks on the wallpaper. He grips the candle tighter before he retrieves his key. It's warm from hanging around his neck.

He opens the door just a fraction, just a crack, just enough for him to look out.

The corridor is silent. There's nobody there.

Mhairi finds him after a minute, hunched over and gasping. She gets him to breathe into a bag as Gerard lights candles, ties a sword to his belt and steps out to guard the doorway from the other side.

He sleeps in Gerard's bed that night at Mhairi's insistence. It smells of hair pomade and carbolic soap and he falls asleep in the half-dark, one finger measuring the thump of his pulse against his neck.

Caspar von Bergliez arrives shortly after dawn to invite Claude on an adventure; Claude instructs Gerard to decline on his behalf.

Mhairi is sent to the kitchens for breakfast, agonising to the head cook about her lord's delicate stomach after such a night of excess. The cook is a garrulous woman, keen to suggest various home recipes and exactly the person to tell the whole palace that Duke Riegan should not be disturbed today. 

He writes another letter to Hilda. He has no way to send it, but that isn't the point. He packs his trunk, unpacks it, half-packs it again and settles for cramming as many things as he would miss into a daybag. Perhaps tomorrow, once he's "recovered", he'll ask to see the city for the day. That could work. The weather is so unpredictable this time of year. Of course he would bring a spare change of clothes, a riding habit, an oilskin and a crossbow in three pieces which he can snap into a lethal weapon with just a flick of the wrist.

Gerard is resting after the long night. Mhairi is further up the hallway, managing the consequences of her newfound friendship with the cook and attempting to refuse offers of a light tea for the young lord, some delicate finger foods so eminently palatable, indeed, all the rage these days and Claude himself is distracted, trying to think through his rate of fire with the crossbow under pressure. Probably no more than four bolts a minute, once he's factored in rewinding and the risk of the stupid thing malfunctioning. More than about twenty bolts will definitely rattle in the bag. That could only give him about five minutes in a fight, but if it's still full-tilt by then he'll be dead anyway. He'll slip in a few daggers so he won't be defenceless if he does run out.

There's a heavy knock at the door. It must be Mhairi, defeated, her arms full of who knows what. Claude opens it.

"Come on, come in."

"Thank you," says Hubert von Vestra. "Fascinating superstition, isn't it? That one must openly invite great evils into their home? Don't mind me. I'll just sit down here."

Claude is in little more than his sweaty shirt sleeves, dry-mouthed and brain elsewhere. "Minister Vestra," he manages. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Ah, yes," Hubert says, and retrieves a glass jar from one of his pockets. He is, of course, immaculately dressed in his usual uniform. "Yes. I had heard from Caspar that you were otherwise indisposed today." He gives Claude a once-over with a flick of his weird visible eye. There's a quirk to the edge of his mouth that suggests he knows Claude was lying. "I came to offer you my condolences, and also… this."

There's a liquid in the glass jar, so lightly coloured Claude mistook it for empty. It's thick. There are a few bubbles suspended within it, and when Hubert tilts the jar they slowly drift along with the wave.

He feels sick.

"I can see your imagination is hard at work, so do let me explain myself. This is a mixture of sugars, salts and fats suspended in fluid. It is, believe it or not, the Vestra family cure-all. The odour is unpleasant and the taste is nearly unspeakable, but there is nothing quite like it after a bout of intestinal distress. I have heard it is rather effective at managing the symptoms of a hangover, though I have had little course to test that myself." Hubert von Vestra shifts forwards, the jar in his outstretched hand.

Claude, as slowly and stiffly as he can, leans back.

Hubert's placid expression twitches.

"I see," he says. "Well. I would offer to drink some myself as a show of good faith, but it would hardly have any benefit. Nonetheless. I shall leave it here, for now, and you may do as you please with it." He conspicuously sets it down on a side table, and pulls his hand back into his lap. "I can send one of my assistants over later with the recipe, if it would make you feel better to prepare a batch yourself."

Claude doesn't respond. He keeps himself very still.

"Right," says Hubert. "Right. I don't suppose there is anything else I can do for you? It goes without saying that her Majesty is moments away from pursuing ruinous vengeance against last night's caterers. Please do say the word and oblivion shall be theirs."

Claude feels like he needs to swallow, but his mouth is so dry he can't. There's something else making this lump in his throat, in his chest.

Hubert is still watching him. His face softens, just a fraction. "I know there has been…" He makes a vague hand gesture. "Between us, and I implore you to understand that I meant no ill by it. I suppose you should know that I have… in some sense… rather been hoping that perhaps… some day… you and I, we could be friends."

Claude is going to be sick all over Hubert's militarily polished boots. "I'm so sorry to cut this short," he manages. "But I'm not feeling well."

Mhairi reappears shortly after Gerard sees Hubert out. Claude has repositioned himself over the chamberpot, as close to the porcelain as he dares. It's still cool against his skin. He's doing little more than breathing heavily now, the immediate clenching tension draining away. Mhairi rubs his back all the same.

"I've got bits from the banquet, if you want them. Cook's done 'em as finger sandwiches. Ever so neat."

"No thanks," he says, and wishes they had proper sewers in Fódlan so he could stick his head into the toilet and drown in it. Maybe they can stop by a canal in the middle of the night and he'll jump in.

"Eat something," she says. "You'll feel better for it. And then I've got some bad news."

"Bad news first," he groans. "Get it out of the way."

Mhairi's hand stills. "My letter to Lady Daphnel's been waylaid. I put it in the outgoing post this morning before I spoke to cook. When I checked it on the way back the basket was untouched save my letter. It was gone."

His stomach roils. "What did it say?"

"Nowt of value, that's for sure. Mostly a request for her to drop by my elderly mother's house seeing as I still wasn't sure how long I'd be staying in Enbarr. I used my worst handwriting for it and everything. Phonetic spellings throughout."

"That was smart."

Mhairi moves around to place a cool washcloth on his forehead. "Well, her Ladyship trained me well. I used to run letters between Daphnel and Riegan for her all the time. And when I was stopped by the old Duke to check it he would find nothing more than girlish prattle, and that's all I can say. You'll forgive me for not saying more, Your Grace, but my lady keeps her secrets."

"I appreciate it. I'm sure she'll contact us another way if she wants to. But, Mhairi. Is your mother in any danger?"

She smiles. "I don't think so, seeing as she's been dead some fifteen years. Now, come sit at the table. You'll feel better once you've eaten something."

More's the pity: he actually does. He can't stomach much, but the sandwiches are really good for their size. Hilda would love them.

"Gerard," he says, discreetly wiping the crumbs onto his sleeve. "Would any of this keep for tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure, your Grace. May be so that Mhairi can get Cook to do a fresh batch in the morning."

"Good idea. Ask if we can have them for an early start. And can you send out a word to the younger Bergliez? I think we can use him."

By the time Claude goes to bed the anticipation is under his skin. He lies on his back feeling the pulse of it, clenching and unclenching his fists under the sheets. He's got a plan. He can get out of here. You can't survive playing by someone else's rules. They think he's a pawn, crawling forwards. But that's their game. Their rules. He's got a name now, names to lead to people to lead to answers. He's going to teach them a whole new game.

Caspar arrives bright and early. "Claude!" he says, with all the volume of a waterfall. "What's crackalackin!"

Claude is ready, prepared, already up and dressed in his most comfortable city-suit and broken-in boots. He's got the day bag ready and waiting. Mhairi's on her way. He tries to match Caspar's enthusiasm. It takes a lot, but it seems to convince him.

"You know," Caspar says, helping himself to several pieces of fruit from the sideboard. "I was kind of worried, you saying you couldn't come out yesterday and all. 'Specially after the party. Guess I was wrong! You look great!"

"I'm feeling better," Claude says, and Mhairi bursts through the door with a wicker hamper before Caspar asks any more questions.

The plan is simple enough. Caspar had been all too-happy to reschedule their proposed adventure to the following day. Claude will play along, having such a good time that he will invite Caspar to join him for lunch. On opening the hamper he will realise it's full of Hilda's favourite foods, and wouldn't it be great to head out into the city? We can eat at the Edmund estate. Caspar will say yes, because Caspar doesn't think far enough ahead to see any problems with that plan, and Claude will be on a carriage out into Enbarr before anyone realises to stop him. It's not just the freedom and the safety beyond the palace that he's after. The only lead he's got is Monica von Ochs, and he's not stepping foot back onto these grounds until he finds out how she's involved.

It does rest on Hilda being willing to potentially defend him with her life. Well. Hopefully it won't come to that.

The morning goes quickly, not least because Caspar's intention was to show Claude the semi-feral cat colony he (and his girlfriend and his boyfriend, as it turns out, so take that Hilda) have been raising in the stables. They're clearly accustomed to Caspar's visits and the mother throws herself at him, yowling. Once she's been fed she calms down and four black and white kittens emerge from the straw. One in particular has huge bluish-red eyes and the only patch of black is the very tip of her tail and he likes her immediately. She's remarkably feisty, pouncing on Claude's hand and chasing it even after he withdraws it to the safety of this lap. He can't pretend he isn't charmed. The others are fine, cute enough, although one has a black patch on its head like Lorenz's unfortunate haircut. Claude points it out to Caspar's delight.

The picnic is perfect. "Man," Caspar says, shoving four delicate finger sandwiches into his mouth. "Hilda would love this stuff."

"You think?"

"Uh, yeah? It's all fiddly and pink! She's all about that kind of thing!"

"Huh", Claude says, as though this has just occurred to him. "You're right. Shame we can't take her some."

"Why not? Is she out?"

"I don't know," Claude says, and doesn't need to fake the rueful sigh. "I haven't actually seen her since I got here. She's staying at the Edmund house and my carriage got sent back to Derdriu. I guess I've been stuck in the palace."

Caspar attempts to swallow and be outraged simultaneously and nearly chokes. "No way," he wheezes, red faced. "No freakin' way. You gotta -you gotta see the city. You gotta see Hilda! We can take my dad's carriage. I can drive."

"Really?", says Claude, and thumps Caspar on the back.

Count von Bergliez employs a full-time driver. Claude tries to look disappointed, for Caspar's sake.

Caspar gives Claude a running commentary, although it's less about the city itself and more about strange people Caspar has met in various places. Claude tunes it out, mostly, thinking through how he's going to handle things at the Edmund estate. Margrave Edmund is still a citizen of the Leicester Alliance; still has a seat on the Roundtable. Claude doesn't think he'll be refused entry to the estate. But Edmund has a deft hand for managing conflicting interests, and Claude can't assume he'll get any help either. He's best to go straight to Hilda when he arrives.

In Enbarr, his interests are the Goneril's interests. The Duke has no love for the Empire. Hilda pretends to be out of the loop on these things, but Claude knows better. More than ever, he needs her insight, her gossip, the kind of clear-headed assessment that only comes from someone with a minimal personal interest in the situation.

If Mhairi's contact was old, if Hilda has moved on or worse, well. He's pretty sure he could convince Caspar to drive him back to the Alliance, or at least to somewhere where he can rent a wyvern and make the journey himself. He doesn't like the idea of leaving Gerard and Mhairi behind but they both have a contingency plan if he doesn't come back after five days days and neither of them are too stubborn to follow it.

He doesn't like it, but right now he's in a position where the only life he's possibly endangering is his own. Hilda is under Margrave Edmund's protection as a guest in his house. No one who's warned Claude has extended that warning onto Hilda. She is probably as safe as she can be at the moment. He has to believe that's true.

The carriage jerks to a stop outside a neat terraced house; red-bricked with large windows facing down onto the street. It's a perfectly respectable house for a wealthy merchant to own, albeit a little below the standard that may be expected of a leader of a sovereign foreign nation.

He takes a breath to steel himself, gripping the handle of the hamper until he hears the wicker creak. Caspar leaps up to follow him out of the carriage. "Actually," Claude says, "I've just realised, I can get Hilda to take me home. Thanks for everything."

He knocks the door handle up to lock it as he exits and signals for the coachman to drive. Caspar stares at him as the carriage pulls off, shoulders jerking wildly as he fails to open the door.

A butler in formal dress opens the servant's door. He peers down his nose at Claude, expression suggesting there's something foul-smelling right under his nose. Claude wishes he'd snuck the 'Vestra family cure-all' into the basket.

"I'm here to see Miss Goneril."

"Miss Goneril is… indisposed."

"May I speak to Marianne von Edmund, then?"

A pronounced sniff.

"Please tell her it's about Dorte."

The butler recognises the name, at least, and bids Claude into the scullery with a sigh. "I will let her know you are here."

The scullery is small but well-used. Claude finds an old cane chair and sits down, watching the cook chastise two maids about something that apparently happened a couple of nights ago. The expression on the maids' faces suggests to Claude that the cook was the one at fault, but the berating continues until he hears a door in the distance and the cook busies himself chopping onions at great speed.

"I'm Marianne," says a familiar voice. "What happened? Is he- Claude!"

She hesitates before offering him a handshake. He takes, and there's a moment of conflict in her expression before she releases his hand to draw him into a hug. Marianne smells like lavender and powder and the woollen collar of her house robe makes him want to sneeze.

"Claude," she says, arms tight around his back. "I'm sorry. I knew you were in town, I should've come to find you sooner, it's just-"

"It's okay," he says, and tries to step out of the circle of her arms. "Listen, I really need to speak to Hilda. Is she still here?"

"She's upstairs," Marianne says, "follow me."

Hilda is lying down on the bed in what appears to be guest rooms. They're nicely appointed with modestly fashionable wallpaper and there's few personal touches beyond the things Claude knows Hilda always has on her person. Those objects are strewn over surfaces as though she hadn't had the chance to unpack. Her favourite trunk is half open at the foot of the bed, spilling out bright pink and red clothes like intestines.

She doesn't look up when the door groans open, merely lifting an arm to cover her eyes. "Mari," she says, "my angel. Please tell me you've come to kill me."

"I have not," Marianne says, picking her way across the floor. "I've brought you a guest."

Hilda's arm twitches. Marianne sits beside her on the bed, smoothing down the rumpled covers. "Hilda," she says, very softly, stroking some hair away from Hilda's face. "I think you should talk to him. It seems urgent."

"Oh, goddess. If it's my stupid brother you can tell him to fuck off if he knows what's good for him, otherwise as soon as I can get out of bed I'm going to come for him my fucking self-"

"It's me," Claude says. "I need help. I need you."

To his horror, she bursts into tears.

Fifteen minutes after the butler has been summoned to escort Duke von Riegan down to a sitting room (and Claude notes with interest the effect that this has), ten minutes after he's been offered a cup of tea by a maid who seemed instructed to hover by his elbow until he accepts it, three minutes after he put his head in his hands until the throbbing ebbed away, Hilda finally appears. She's dressed, at least, although the dress looks far too flimsy and unfashionable for her to be planning to leave the house any time soon. She closes the door behind her, and then stands in the entranceway, fidgeting with her skirts.

"Hilda," Claude says, desperate to get some kind of plan in place before Caspar can tell anyone where he is. "What happened? Why didn't you come to the palace?"

"Oh my god," she says, miserably. "Claude. I feel fucking awful. I'm so fucking sorry, I really am. I don't even know where to start."

His patience is wearing thin. "Can you keep it relevant?"

"Why? Aren't you meant to be all loved up in the palace?"

"Holed up," he corrects her. "And yeah. As you might imagine, I don't love being held hostage."

She sits down on the velvet sofa set at a right angle to him. "Ugh," says Hilda, mirroring his posture. "I didn't think things were that bad."

"Well. People have been trying to break into my rooms at night. Hubert gave me some poison. Oh, and apparently there's some grand plot I'm now involved in where I'm bait for something or someone and this goes right up, only stopping at the Emperor herself so yeah, things are that bad. Where were you?"

"Ugh," she says again. "Oh goddess, this is embarrassing. So I told Holst I was going to see Mari while I was in Enbarr, right? And you know my brother, he can't think any further than the tip of his sword so literally he's like 'you should take her a present' and I'm like yeah great idiot my presence is the present and he's like 'oh ho ho, what about some food? A regional treat to remind her of home?' which is so. You know. Mari doesn't even eat meat so what exactly would I bring her from a fortress that would remind her of home-"

"Hilda," Claude interrupts. "You didn't eat some mushrooms your brother picked, did you?"

She's silent for a moment. "He swore it. Swore on his fucking life that he bought them from the market and they were fresh and, like, I didn't think my brother would fucking lie to me -"

Claude is definitely, absolutely, unquestionably on the brink of saying something he is going to regret later. He bites down hard, forcing it back.

"I spoke to your lady," Hilda says. She looks pale and washed out in the light from the large windows. "Marianne had filled me in, you see, so I was like, ok, he'll be fine tonight, I'll settle in and go back there in the morning so I wrote you that note and then we had the mushrooms for dinner and I-"

She leans forwards, grabbing at his sleeve.

"It was so bad. I've been in bed for literally the last two days. I didn't even want to be. Claude, I can't even- the things I saw."

The door opens a crack.

"Can I ask the cook to make you something?" Marianne asks softly. "Or is there anything else I can do?"

Claude meets her eye. "Did you overhear us?"

"Some of it," she admits. "Hilda isn't lying. We were both… indisposed for quite some time." She sits primly at Hilda's side. "I'm not sure what mushrooms they were, but I spent several hours vividly hallucinating that I was a tree on a warm sunny day out on the plains. There was a breeze between my branches, and I think a family of squirrels had begun to nest in my trunk."

"Not me," Hilda rasps, clutching at Claude's sleeve. "I can't even describe it. It was horrible. Everything just. Fell apart. It was like the world wasn't really made of people, or things, just these collections of tiny things and those tiny things were made of even tinier things-"

"Particles," Claude says, not really listening to her. "But what, is it over now? Are you better?"

"I think so," Hilda says. "Probably. If someone's trying to kill you."

"Yeah," says Claude, feeling his stomach plummet. "Thanks."

She limply pats his bicep. "Well, what's the plan? I'm assuming you have one."

"Who is Monica von Ochs?"

Fifteen minutes later, the finger sandwiches are all gone and Claude knows way more than he ever wanted to about Monica von Ochs. The name was familiar because she's the girl the Black Eagles rescued back at the academy, of course he'd heard about that. A routine mission to deal with a few bandits ended up with Edelgard personally solving a year old kidnapping, and Monica had become devoted to her as a result. The slang term for girls like her, he learns, is chickadees.

("You know," Hilda says, "young women who are sexually fixated on the Emperor. Because her symbol is the two headed eagle. They want her to eat them up, see? They want to be her little chickadees.")

She's Edelgard's personal secretary, nominally, although in practice she does anything Edelgard asks her to and several things she doesn't. But she's also the sole heiress to a troubled barony far up on the north-western coast, and she was (apparently) called up to resolve an issue shortly before Claude arrived.

Claude drums his fingers on his leg. "Chances are she's still there, then."

Hilda shrugs. "Probably? It's a few day's travel at least. Why?"

He's thought through everything he has, and he's accepted that he's not going to get any answers until he's spoken to Monica. Ferdinand, Petra and Dorothea all spoke in vagaries and euphemisms. Caspar and Bernadetta didn't appear to have a clue. Linhardt told him to his face that he doesn't care about any grand conspiracy. And Claude can't believe that Hubert would ever be on anyone's side except Edelgard's, which means his motivations are as mysterious as hers. There are times for inaction, for waiting. But this isn't one of them, and he's not going back to meekly staying in the palace as the vice closes around him. 

Hilda sighs. "Gimme five minutes to change."

He says goodbye to Marianne at the front door. Hilda is now in a riding habit, trying to find a pair of horses that get along for the first leg of the journey.

Marianne clasps his hands. She's very soft, very warm. "You really can't come with us?" he asks, but there's no reason why she would. There's nothing in this venture that would serve her father's interests.

"It's a kind offer," she says. "But no. I think I'm going to finish off those mushrooms." She looks serene. "It was so wonderful being a tree."

They ride as hard as they dare to the north east, to the satellite towns beyond the city walls. Things that are uncommon further into Enbarr - like wyverns - are housed out here in facilities for stabling horses and hiring flights. Hilda complains for the sake of complaining. It's nice to be out flying with her again.

The Ochs Barony is small, tucked away across the wide bay to the north west. They fly further up the coast to the east, eventually finding a port town where they stable their wyverns and Claude pays an eye-watering sum for an overnight boat trip across the bay. Claude sits out on the deck as late as he can, watching the stars in the clear sky.

They stop in Hevring to pick up carriages and guides before they pass through the mountains.

"What are you going to do when we get there?" Hilda asks, watching the rolls of endless grey stone through the windows. "Like, what are you going to say to her?"

"It depends," replies Claude, putting down his history of the Ochs region and watching the reflection of Hilda's reflection in the glass. "Who is hunting me, and who is being hunted by the hunters?"

Hilda frowns. "That sounds like a lot. Can you keep me out of it? I kind of see myself as more like, you know. Emotional support. Go Claude! You got this! Like that."

"Thanks," he says, and watches the scrub grass, the flowers in the verges, the eternity of stone beyond the glass. "Can I have some now? Is there any way I could've avoided this?"

The reflection of the reflection of Hilda starts cleaning her nails. "I dunno. I mean, you could've said no when Edelgard asked to marry you."

Claude has lost his hearing. Or his ability to understand speech. Or something. His ears are ringing from the altitude and his brain is leaking out of them and Hilda isn't making sense because she's trying to get a rise out of him, that's all, except it's not funny.

"When she what," he hears himself say from a very great distance.

Hilda is quiet for a long time.

"Oh," she says, eventually. "Shit. I mean, I came for the party, but you-"

"What party-"

"And you didn't think-"

"Of course not!" He whirls around to face her. "Hilda! I had a lot going on!"

"What? How?"

"You read the letter! Heretofore for the continuation of the ongoing cooperation of our two nations we humbly request that the person of Duke Riegan resides in Enbarr alongside her Majesty until such a time as an agreement is reached with regards to the matter of their commitment to ongoing relations or if the union serves no further purpose- "

"Right," says Hilda. "Honestly. I thought it was a bit wordy at the time. But you didn't, like…?"

There's nothing he can say to defend himself.

He tries to put aside the plot and the cryptic warnings and the encroaching paranoia to think about Edelgard. What had Edelgard done?

He thinks back to arriving in Enbarr. He was greeted by Hubert. He was taken to rooms just a few corridors down from the Emperor's personal suite. She was waiting for him in them. They ate in her private rooms, alone. In any other circumstance he would've praised the menu. They took coffee with her newly-married friends.

The next night she'd held the dance. She'd had him by her side while she greeted her guests. He'd - he'd thought it was a demonstration of strength. Proof of the power she held over his life. Was it possible that it wasn't?

He'd sat at the high table, not that many seats down from her throne. Linhardt had said she liked him. Dorothea told him that Edelgard was worried. Petra had said something about sharing him. Even Hubert had said that Edelgard would obliterate a catering company for him although it was impossible to tell when Hubert was joking.

He meets his reflection's gaze. He's pale. His face looks drained. Something floats up in his memory. Back then, a couple of years ago, back when he'd been chasing Dimitri and the ground had opened into that portal to the rift, she'd been… attentive. Gracious. She'd been nice , carefully throwing back all his barbs and self-deprecation. She wanted a more permanent union even then.

"Hilda," he asks, watching her reflection without meeting her eyes. "Are you being serious? Did this all start because Edelgard wanted to marry me?"

Hilda looks pained. She says nothing at all. There's nothing he can say to her, so they sit in silence as the mountains drift by.

Claude has time to think as they creep closer to Ochs. More than he'd like, possibly, and he makes good use of none of it. It just doesn't seem possible to square what Hilda had said with everything he knew, or everything he had thought he knew. He's not even sure he can trust his own perception. Who is Monica von Ochs? What does she want? Petra, Ferdinand et. al: are they her friends? Her rivals? He wishes he had more information. He wishes he was back in Derdriu. He wishes Hilda hadn't told him. He wishes he could've continued pretending that the world made sense sometimes.

There's a redheaded girl out in the front gardens as they arrive on the Ochs estate. Claude tilts his head towards her, pointing without pointing and Hilda nods, lips in a terse line. Claude jumps out of the carriage before she can stop him.
"Monica von Ochs! Good afternoon, how are you, what's crackalackin?"

She turns around slowly. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh," he says, and makes a show of slowly looking around. "Just wondering why the Emperor's personal secretary, close friend and confidant couldn't make it to the banquet honouring one of the greatest political achievements of her reign."

"Something came up."

"You were missed."

She meets his eyes then. "I'm sorry to hear that. Her Majesty knew full well where I was and I made sure to send my apologies in advance."

"Something more important than being at her side?"

"Nothing is more important to me than my service," Monica says, carefully enunciating. "However, I am bound to my other duties as the heir to the Ochs estate-"

"Which has greatly benefitted from the unseasonably warm and wet weather this summer from the western coast, and is on track to have its best harvest on record, furthermore merchants are flooding to the area following sustained investment from the Emperor's new regional levelling up funds-"

There are bright circles of colour on Monica's cheeks. She looks like an angry jester. "It was personal business."

"Oh, it must have been. So many people commented that it must have been something deeply personal that took you away from Enbarr at her Majesty's hour of greatest need-"

"You don't know what you're talking about!" She steps towards him, her feet crunching on the gravel paths. "I have given everything for her, and I would do it again in a heartbeat! I am not interested in the idle gossip of hangers-on who don't even appreciate her Majesty! And she calls them her friends! You, how can you possibly compare? You, you-" She takes a deep breath, her hands balled into tight fists. "You are not good enough for her, and you know it."

This isn't how he thought this would go. "I'm sorry?"

"You didn't support her adequately during the war. I know from the financial records that Houses Goneril and Riegan had far more troops to spare than they ever committed to the Faerghan front. You deliberately underperformed on your military obligations and cited the eastern border with Almyra which I'm sure I don't need to tell you has been quiet since 1180. Her Majesty may not be able to marry for love, but at least she should have a partner who understands her ambitions and actually wants her to succeed-"

"Excuse me," says Claude, stung. "But when did I ever stand in her way? I was right there, at Garreg Mach, I was pushing for not just the dissolution of the Central Church but to remove the archbishop completely-"

"-And yet, you counselled leniency for Faerghus. Consistently. Her Majesty should've skewered those traitorous halfwits and razed their frozen lands but because you thought it would help you out she let them live! She let the king live! You are clearly a bad influence because she values your judgement above all sense and reason, and what's more, you don't even like her-"

"I don't dislike her-" but that's only technically true, he realises as he's saying it. He likes a lot about Edelgard. He likes her strange sense of humour. He likes her passion, how everything she cares about gets the same amount of her intensity. He likes her boldness and how unflinching she is in the face of overwhelming adversity. He likes how hard she tries, because so many in the Alliance don't, won't, can't imagine lifting a finger beyond their own interests. Okay, so politically they don't always see eye to eye but she's willing to listen, and apparently she values his input. He likes the hidden strength in her small frame, the way she holds her axe when she charges forwards and the way her hair starts to curl around her ears and her ears only. He has tried not to form any opinions about any other part of her person (something she has really tested these last few days) of respect, primarily, but no small amount of fear.

Monica is staring at him.

He coughs.

She sighs. "I want you to understand that I would do anything to make Her Majesty happy. I really would. Her happiness is my happiness. So please. Get back in your carriage."

He twists to see over his shoulder: Hilda startles away from the window, but the imprint of her face and her hands is clear upon the glass.

"I don't think I should," he says.

Monica rolls her eyes and pushes him backwards. "Get in. I'm going with you. And hurry up, there's a boat going to Enbarr this evening and if you make me miss it I will never, ever forgive you for the rest of my life."

She's not strong - she's got those mage arms, like Lysithea - but he lets her turn him around and push her back to the carriage. Hilda is flabbergasted.

"What did she-"

"Hilda!" he interrupts, offering Monica a hand up. She doesn't take it. "This is Monica von Ochs."

Hilda immediately looks interested. "Hiiii," she says, shifting so her arms frame her chest. "You know, I don't think we've ever been properly introduced."

Claude doesn't listen to most of their conversation. The boat will take them directly to Enbarr, which means Edelgard. He has no idea what to say to her. His brain is circling at a frantic speed, thoughts too jumbled together in every direction for him to begin a plan. He didn't anticipate this. He has no idea what to do. Hilda and Monica, who've moved to sit next to each other on the opposite bench and are comparing their hand sizes, are no help when he asks them. He can't just tell Edelgard how he feels - like people even know these things! - when the future of the Alliance is on the line. What happens to his people if he says yes? Or no? What happens to him?

They arrive early the next morning, Claude wearing the travelling clothes he had slept in, and he hesitates to disembark.

"Cheer up," says Hilda. "You'll only have to tell her that you don't want to marry her once."

The rented carriage stops at the Edmund estate. It makes sense, but it stings a little. Not that Hilda would do anything - she's right, he can only die once - but she could be providing a bit more emotional support.

After a moment, Monica von Ochs disembarks as well.

Claude can't hide his surprise. "You're not coming to the palace?"

"I will," Monia demurs. "Lady Goneril has something that she wants to show me first."

"I can wait."

"Oh, I couldn't ask you to do that for me! It might take a while. You should get on. I'm sure everyone is waiting for you."

"It's no trouble-" he begins but Hilda interrupts.

"It's just up in my room, Claude. I'll see you later, okay?"

He doesn't want to return alone, but Hilda is glaring at him.

"Fine. I'll see you later. I'll let my footman know to expect you."

He stops in at the scullery before they depart and lets the butler know that the official word from Duke Riegan is that Lady Goneril and her guests will be expected at the palace within the hour. It's petty, but whatever she wants to show Monica, she's going to have to be quick.

Removing his gloves, Claude traces the seams of the thin carriage cushions with his fingernails as they proceed through the over-manicured gardens at an agonising crawl. This might be the last time he ever enters the palace. He can't say he'll miss it. Edelgard may have relaxed on trimming the topiary and refused to put up any additional statues but it's still a monument to power and wealth, noteworthy only for the worst reasons. Is he going to be buried here? Hopefully not. He can't imagine they would want him to be.

The carriage grinds to a halt. The door opens from the outside.

The Emperor stands in front of him in her housecoat and pyjamas, cheeks flushed and hair whipping out of her braids.

"Claude," she says. Without really thinking about it he pulls her in and she ends up crowded next to him, their legs flush. She should be cold, but she's warm.

Edelgard looks like she wants to say something, but he shakes his head, opening his door instead just enough to instruct the driver to turn around and keep going.

She looks annoyed, and moves to sit facing him on the other side. "Claude," she says, again. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry," says Claude, sitting back. "We need to talk."

"So talk. Where have you been?"

"Way to put me on the spot. I'll get to that, don't worry. So. Uh. This has been… fun, right?"

Edelgard narrows her eyes. "You'll have to clarify what you mean."

"Being here, in the palace. Being your guest. Or your prisoner. I'm still not sure which."

Edelgard looks pained. "I assure you that that was not my intention."

"Right. So what was that, exactly?"

Sweetly, Edelgard looks embarrassed.

"I've been up in Ochs territory," he says, changing tack. "As you've asked. Interesting place. I've met some very interesting people. Did you know there's a ferry captain who can fold his entire ear up and hide it inside his head? Amazing. Monica van Ochs. She's amazing too."

Edelgard breathes out through her nostrils, short and sharp. 

"It's funny. Ever since I got here people have been giving me vague warnings to keep my distance and watch my back. I knew there was something going on and believe me, I'm not so self-obsessed and unreliable that I'd forgotten you still had enemies."

"You're not self-obsessed or unreliable at all," Edelgard mutters. He ignores her.

"But the thing is, I just couldn't get any answers. Everyone wanted me to know that I was in danger, but no one was saying why. And I saw very quickly that I was. I've been separated from my retainer, someone tried to break into my rooms, Hubert offered me poison-"

She looks alarmed at that.

"-though that might have been his way of saying hello. But. My point is. Everything seemed to come back to Monica von Ochs. You know her, of course."

"Yes," Edelgard says, and sighs. With the next breath she's no longer slumped over; her back is straight and she's upright, regal. "I know Monica very well. I will tell you this. I know that she is devoted to me. I know that she had expressed some opinions about my plans. And I had spoken to her. We had discussed her reservations, at length, in confidence, and we had agreed on a plan by which she could continue to support me without feeling slighted or sidelined or that she does not matter to me because that is simply not true."

"That's good," Claude says, "because when I spoke to her, it turned out there's a lot we agree on."

Edelgard's composure doesn't crack. She sits there like an Emperor on a throne in the cheap rented carriage and waits for Claude to say exactly what he means.

"Monica expressed concern that her beloved Emperor was making an unsuitable political match. As a representative of the Roundtable, I've got a bone to pick with some of her examples of the Alliance supposedly underperforming, but I can see her point. The Emperor could have her pick of nobles or commoners who would support her completely with their full loyalty. That's not something you can expect from a foreigner. For some people, the Alliance is always going to come first."

He reaches over and takes her hand.

"Edelgard," he says, and she leans towards him, just a fraction. "It's difficult for me to say this, but… I think you need to know. There's a lot of people who want Hilda. You're going to have to get in line."

It's worth it for that moment, the split second of her composure cracking and a storm of emotions bursting through her face.

"-Just kidding," he says, before she can act on any of these impulses. "I know you wanted to marry me. That was a joke. Ha ha."

She's quiet. He thinks she must be steeling herself, applying that vaunted composure again layer by layer and letting it dry. But she isn't, and what she actually says in a small, raw voice is: "I wasn't sure that you knew."

His heart sinks. "I… may have initially misinterpreted things. Possibly. But yeah, I know now. And I don't…"

He's still holding her hand. He takes the other one. Insurance, maybe. Or just because they're heavy. And small.

"I don't have an answer for you. Not yet."

Edelgard lets her head drop. "Frankly, I suspected as much. The more time you spent in the palace, the clearer it was that you were avoiding me."

He was? "I was?"

"-and I can only apologise if I've made you uncomfortable or hurt you in any way."

"What, like when you made me stand beside you for hours in my awful formal boots? They pinch my toes."

She ignores him. "As for the other issues, I apologise. Lady Goneril instructed us to deliver her items to the Edmund estate. We understood this to be something you had agreed upon beforehand. That was erroneous. I am also sorry that people have been trying to get into your rooms. I didn't see anyone when I tried to leave a message with your servants after the ball, but my presence may have caused alarm. As for Hubert, I…" She retrieves one hand and massages her brow. "I will talk to Hubert. I hope you can forgive me. It was never my intention to make you feel anything less than an honoured and welcome guest."

Claude leans forward. His hand feels awkward and clumsy against Edelgard's skin, but once he's moved hers they can see eye to eye. She looks sad. Lost. He holds her face and then lets go.

"Do you know what else Monica said," he says, and it comes out so quietly that it's almost lost to the noise of the road. "She said you would never be able to marry for love. Is that true?"

Edelgard looks like she wants to turn away, but she's too stubborn to be the one to break their eye contact. "Monica was speaking out of turn."

"But. It's true, isn't it? Edelgard. You tore everything down to build a brighter future, and you don't even get to enjoy it. You can't have one thing that's just for you?"

"Monica doesn't know what she's talking about. Please afford me the courtesy of understanding that I make my choices for a reason."

"Right, but when you're leading a country it's different. I know that. You know that. I…" He's seized by the wretched, awful urge to tell her everything. The whole truth. Everything he's kept locked in his heart for the last few years. He swallows as much as he can. "The truth is, my parents were a love match. They eloped even though it was a terrible idea politically and they made it work. And knowing them, knowing that, I can't accept anyone I admire settling for less."

Edelgard releases his hand to trace up his arm, to his shoulder, to his jaw and then to mirror him, cupping his cheek in her hand.

"That's a wonderful sentiment. I hope your parents are happy together for the rest of their days. But I am not your parents, and I am not my parents. I don't need anyone to worry about me. The choices I make-" she slips her thumb to caress his cheekbone. He's suddenly hyperconscious of every sensation throughout his body, from his cold stiff toes to every whorl of her fingerprints against his skin. "I make for a reason. Please. Trust me on this."

He understands, suddenly, what she's trying to say and what she can't say. He understands the caution and concern. Sometimes these things happen to you, and you're not who you thought you were, or where you were, and everything changes before you but all you can do is keep moving forwards. He puts his hand on her knee.

"Edelgard," he says. "Next time you want to renegotiate our ongoing partnership, you should come to Derdriu. I mean, Enbarr is adequate, but there's nowhere like home. You should come visit me. Come see the sights."

"The merchant harbours and the crab pots?"

"If you like."

"And Hilda Valentine Goneril?"

"I'm sure she'll be around."

She chews her lip. "Will you have an answer for me?"

"I don't know. I might-" he leans in. She follows him. "-have a different question."

"I see," she says, and then they meet in the middle and don't say anything at all.

"I can't believe you," Hilda says, a few days later. They've had to split into smaller coaches for this part of the journey home, and Mhairi and Gerard have finally left Claude's side. Not that he can blame them - he made it back about two hours before his final last resort contingency plan kicked in - but Hilda looks like she's going to murder him. Or interrogate him. Or worse.

She sticks her feet in his lap with some force. "We went all that way and you didn't even turn her down!?"

"I thought you were in favour of us getting married?"

"Obviously not, but at least then I could've gone to the wedding. You say yes, I get an awesome party, you say no, I get my bestie back full-time. It was win/win for me, Claude!!" She tries to kick him. He grabs her boot.

"Well, hold onto that thought. We're going to have another round of negotiations in a few months. And-" Hilda has stopped trying to kick him, but he's not stupid enough to let go of her foot yet. "We'll be having them in Derdriu. How's that for a win/win?"

"Ugh," she says, and wiggles her leg to shake him off. "Do you think she'll bring Monica? I would love to see her again."

"Dunno," Claude says, cheerfully. "Maybe she'll just bring Hubert."

Hilda remembers she has two feet as Claude has a similar revelation about his second hand. They grapple in the carriage until they get loud enough to annoy Gerard and Mhairi, who break them up and separate them. He doesn't mind. They don't have that far left to go.

He'll see her soon, in Derdriu.