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“You’re late.”
“By your standards, yes. By mine I am precisely on time.”
Signora rarely made demands of Dottore, and in that moment she remembered why. Pride curved his chest, the line of his mouth, and propelled his ego to heights his fussy boots never could. Gloved hands came together in the small of his back, reinforcing his posture further, whilst the mask was forgone -an unexpected surprise- and narrowed red eyes marked the point of interest. Upon the canvas of white was a dot, a carriage, kicking up snow as it hurtled towards them.
“A beautiful day,” said Dottore, nose tilted towards the falling flakes. “A fine time for the Jester to return.”
Signora’s snort said everything and more. “If you went outside more often, you would know that it snows almost every day.”
“I don’t see how that discredits my observation.” Dottore turned with a lop-sided smile. “But to entertain your vein of logic: If I were to gaze on you today, then tomorrow, and repeat that for the next hundred years, would your own beauty become insignificant?”
“Flattery has never been your strong point.”
“Nor patience yours, Rosalyne.”
Signora straightened on the spot. Sheltered by the palace arches they were spared from the snowfall, and only victim to the bite of the winds. “Between you and me, I find the concept of marriage dreadful, but I think it would do you some good.”
“Not a chance.” Dottore recoiled. “You nag me plenty enough. Why should I be saddled with worse?”
“A mind like yours might appreciate the power shift. And besides, you really deserve it.” Signora revelled in the wrinkling of Dottore’s pale skin. Every twist and pull, the slide of his gaze. “Perhaps if you thought less about your ridiculous experiments, and hadn’t choked your one prospect of a relationship to death, fortune might have shone upon your foolish head.”
“You-!”
“Yes? What about me, Zandik...?”
A swear passed cracked, bitten lips. Dottore’s attention shot back to the carriage. It was larger now, not far from ‘home’, and all promise of a cheerful greeting ruined. Dottore longed to bury anyone in the snow, and ram an ice pick through their skull. He’d mar the landscape in splatters of red, hang the corpse from a tree then-
“Dottore.”
Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. “Signora.” He spared her a glance, witnessed the playful edge to her smile, and surrendered in a hefty sigh. “You’re quite the nuisance.”
“Thank you.”
“And I must confess your skills exceed mine in these affairs,” Dottore jerked his head towards the carriage. “Care to shed some light on what we’re expecting?”
“But of course,” Signora cooed, fingers curled around his upper arm. “Congratulations, Doctor. It’s a boy.”
“Woman-”
“Imbecile.” Signora sent the blow right back, watching it land in Dottore’s snarl. “Once again I remind you of the perks to leaving your precious laboratory. If you really must know what’s going on, if I must save your pitiful soul from embarrassment, then consider yourself in luck just this once. The Jester found what you wanted.”
“Someone obedient and lacking a tongue?”
“Someone to manage Snezhnaya’s coin.”
Dottore’s willpower was stretching thin, and it was entirely his own damned fault. He distinctly recalled, once upon a sulking time, having made such a thoughtless request; the result of too much whining for papers and numbers which beyond the realm of science simply dulled his mind. Dottore also might have threatened the last idiot who came knocking for his monthly expenses, and maybe, just maybe, that was the catalyst for Jester -Pierro’s- urgency.
“Doctor.” Signora’s fingers clenched in folds of wool, holding the man in place. “Small talk is tiresome, yet regrettably essential. Say your hellos, something nice. A simple exchange and then you can leave.”
“Indeed,” Dottore grimaced, painfully aware of the carriage closing in. “How are you, dearest penny scrounger? Your mora looks heavy, let me carry it.”
“Not like that.”
“I already discussed the weather with you. So, what next? Favourite food or drink? How about we start from the truly inane basics and discuss our favourite colours?”
“Mine is red, yours is blue.”
“How bold of you to presume.”
Signora sent a look. It was all she could do. The carriage came to a stop and so did her grip, loosening until her hand fell slack. Best smiles on they stood side by side, perfecting that much for the sake of foreign guests. First impressions were key, they knew it well, and they knew better than to bicker when Pierro emerged from the gilded carriage. The great slope of his shoulders somehow fit through the door, like liquid silver seeping into a crack. The carriage attendant shrunk and bowed beside the door, crumpling into a mumble of how are you, sir? May I be of assistance sir?
Pitiful described the attendant best, and his cowardice threatened Dottore’s poise. It was the chip in the ice, his gentlemanly facade. One false move and he’d cackle and wheeze. He’d hehehoho his way to a stern telling off from Pierro, and that in itself was a terrible thing. A minute from the lab was a minute from progress. The man’s infamous lecture’s would set him back far. It would lead to sleepless nights bathed in a blue - the glow of Dottore’s beloved workbench lamp- admiring vials of blue behind strands of... blue.
When Dottore left the lab, which wasn’t too often, he’d trail darkened halls cocooned by indigo. Moonlight kissed silver details into the thick weave -granted definition, a shine to the tiles- yet those too bore the comforting hue and- alright, he understood. Signora could be forgiven for her assumptions. He didn’t dislike blue at all, but to say it was his favourite? Now, that was daring. 'Favourite' suggested an intense, open love, and Dottore refrained from indulging his heart.
Love was messy and complicated. Bare guts and bones and they’ll ask for the world. Conversation once lead to misconceptions, affection disguised in a harmless picnic. Pointless prattle didn’t get Sohreh far (should’ve buried her deeper or burnt the corpse, on that note) and where was Dottore at the end of it all?
Better off, he’d say without a hitch. Cold aside he was free, alive, and very few could touch him now. Powerful was he within the palace walls. Respected was he across the land. Command did he possess throughout the endless white.
“There’s no need to fuss. I can get out myself.”
Distracted was Dottore, engrossed within thought, then hauled were his eyes to the source of the command. Pensive silence formed the foundations, and each careful breath was a brick to the row. Pierro’s assistant was shooed by a shadow. A hand. A claw of black leading into more black. Long robes emerged from the carriage door, then hung tall and neat by Pierro’s side.
Upon the bland landscape, something tipped. It was as if night itself had grown weary, impatient, and chosen to descend early. It pooled over snow, stretched high, higher still; the prettiest ink splatter on the once-boring world. Charcoal on chalk. Dark hair, pale skin. A beautiful contrast further heightened by the snow. Silver frames beheld a waiting gaze; a level of intelligence worth Dottore’s time.
“Doctor. Fair Lady.” Jester dipped his head in polite recognition. “Allow me to introduce the Regrator.”
“A pleasure.” Signora’s hand extended, taken like glass in the Regrator's claw. Around his gloved middle finger sat a lone silver ring, a detail which captured Dottore’s magpie eyes.
“Your journey was well, I trust?” she asked.
“Very much so, My Lady.”
“Call me Signora.”
The Regrator released her hand gently. From form to voice everything was considered, like balancing a cup of water filled to the brim. Round it swirled, his words full of charm, and not once did he spill a drop. The Regrator wore a well-versed warmth which curled his lips, turned spectacled eyes into crescents, and caused Dottore’s gut to coil with a peculiar need.
Pierro’s judgement seldom failed, if at all. There was a reason for this decision, much like anyone else he swept away to their palace, but precisely what it was remained to be seen. Plenty of lower ranked idiots handled their money, some even handled it well, so what gave this man an edge? What brought the Jester to travel, bring him back in person, and welcome him into their ranks?
“Pantalone, this is Dottore. The Doctor.”
“I see.”
Two syllables held him like a vice. I see was velvet on his lobes, a red hot iron gliding through ice. It was all Dottore would receive, he quickly realised, when no attempt of a shake was made. Instead the Regrator’s gloved hands married one another; index finger curled, tapped to a slow beat, whilst his face was set. Cunning.
How dare he. Dottore scoffed. How dare he? Barely a foot in the palace and he fit right in, bearing the hefty crown of inflated snobbery. The Regrator, Pantalone, was about as charming as the bird shit on the tower stones. Streaky and messy, an unwelcome sight, though cleverly disguised come the next dust of snow. Fancy robes and ebony waves were dearest Pantalone’s snow. Those were the smoke, the tools of his trickery, and his tongue was a sheathed, waiting blade.
The Regrator didn’t know his place. Someday, Dottore vowed, he would learn. Dottore would guide him to the edge himself, ruin that perfect face, and have him uttering a rich, lovely plea.
Pantalone would understand, as others had prior, that Dottore was a man you didn’t offend. He was the one for whom you dropped everything on demand, and ran as fast as you could to fulfil his wish. ‘As if your life depends on it' became real, a threat, and no one dared to tempt such a fate.
Dottore was proud. Invincible, really.
Pity for him, Pantalone didn’t care.
“Thank you,” Pantalone addressed Pierro. Another stab to Dottore’s dignity. “In the unlikely event that I find myself wounded, I’ll know precisely where to go.”
“You said you weren’t staying long.”
“I was not,” Signora agreed, her temper quelled by a cup of Fire-Water, “but Dottore you-” she frowned suddenly, glaring at no point in particular “-you ought to have tea for the sake of your guests. Not everyone wants alcohol.”
“I have no guests, only intrusions, and you’re managing your drink just fine.”
“Rotten bastard.”
Dottore grinned. A gruesome, handsome thing. Such was his charm (to Signora at least) how Dottore wove all that which she thought unpleasant into a fine silk, and draped it around himself like a robe. Attraction spoke in the grit of his belly deep laugh, the infinite well of arrogance, and the wild swings of his arms when he passionately showcased a new success.
Were he a fraction more selfless, and less prone to violence, he really, truly, stood a chance. Someone might just find home in the folds of his ego, see through the cracks and consider him dear.
“That face,” Dottore remarked, “I know it. You’re thinking nothing good.”
“That depends who you ask.”
“I ask you,” he said pointedly. “To not think that which you are undoubtedly thinking.”
“Which is...?”
Dottore stared and stared some more. Time stretched like the ripples of a moonlit lake, or the shadows conjured by his surreal work lamp. “I do not know, at present. But when I do,” he snickered, effectively dampening the threat, “I shall be most unhappy. Brace yourself.”
“Already braced, darling.”
“Never change.”
For once, he meant those words. Dottore liked a sharp tongue and a sharper mind, and Signora fit the bill well. Where others would praise, the woman cut deep; a refreshing approach he openly admired. More people ought to speak and behave as she did, share opinions as they often did, and then they’d find the world a much better place.
“The puppet.” Signora broke the silence. “Is he still wandering about the Abyss?”
“Hopefully.”
Alright, bad choice of topic. Signora’s eyes reeled and she tried once more. “Our new arrival then,” she pressed ahead. “Any thoughts?”
“Tall. Ignorant. Probably fortunate to have made it this-”
“Dottore. Please.”
“I’m not wrong.” Dottore stood his ground, hurling the last of his drink down his throat. “I don’t think I’ve ever known someone so rude.”
“I have.” Signora pulled a face, staring that person dead in the eyes. “Is this all because he wouldn’t shake your hand?”
“He insulted me on purpose.”
“So what?” Signora countered. “We are each indebted to Her Majesty and Pierro. Pantalone owes you nothing.”
“Pantalone-” Dottore seethed, smacking his cup to the workbench too loud “-will find his pretty face ground into the stones if he doesn’t hold his tongue. I’ll drag him down myself if he-! What? What’s that look for...?”
Signora toyed with the fur of her cloak. “What look, Zandik?”
“Rosalyne.”
Her own cup emptied and returned to the workbench. Signora entertained amusement like she wielded her flames, turning it in her hand and holding it near.
“You called him 'pretty'.”
“Oh for goodness sake-”
“Plenty of attractive people have entered the palace, and not once did you display any interest!” Signora acted fast, index finger geared his way. “You’ve had your share of admirers during the feasts, some even lavishing you with gifts, and you turned them down all the same. You spoke of ugly intentions, shallow desire, and here at last I see you slip.”
“Do not exaggerate.” Dottore turned away, willing the churning in his stomach to cease. So what if he made such a remark? Could a man not state a fact? Pantalone was pleasant on the eyes. Perhaps even charming despite his gall, and worth a private visit later on so Dottore could pick that fascinating brain.
"Dottore...?"
Silence.
Knowing a hopeless cause when she saw one, Signora rose to her feet. One heel before the other she paced along, coming to the row of garment hooks by the door. The lab coats never went there for risk of contamination (they were often thrown upon chairs instead), whereas Dottore’s ‘business’ attire could stay. There he hung a formal jacket scarcely seen the last few decades, and the peculiar white coat he preferred in contrast. The hefty gold metal wing folded without its wearer, and the corvid mantle likewise appeared sad.
Dottore never voiced it aloud, but he harboured a fondness for birds. He respected the intellect, the brutality, their waste not want not mentality concerning the dead. Signora had caught him on occasion by the palace towers, feeding scraps of unnamed meat to a squawking gathering, and found in that instant a wave of peace; a mutual understanding between two parties, formed by the shared need to scavenge. Survive.
Even then, Signora recalled, Dottore held some birds in higher regard. Those who were brighter, fiercer, magnificent. He adored the ravens, the crows, the magpies. Animated shadows who stalked the land. Dottore drew to the comforts of darkness and wisdom -such a painful irony, that last one- holing himself in a lab with pitiful lighting, and a profound opinion of their newest recruit.
“It appears I am mistaken,” she murmured fondly, fingertips brushing against charcoal feathers. “Your favourite colour is black.”