Chapter Text
Lady Amangeaux made a living out of expecting the unexpected, finding patterns from nothing, drawing silvery truths from dirty, disguised life. She was a spymaster Karna would have been proud to see at work, a true master of her craft. The emperor, bulb bless his soul, had moved with a precision and knowledge that seemed divine to people unaware of her existence, failing to recognize similarities in the faces that haunted their peripheries.
It did not, in fact, take her spymaster skills to be unsurprised at Colin winding up on her doorstep again, leaning heavily onto his left leg and clutching a poorly bandaged right shoulder.
He was well past sheepishness for it, opting instead for gratitude alongside an unsaid promise that he had crossed more names off of her list in obtaining these injuries. This was displayed in how he was careful not to get blood on the rug in her entryway. The kind gesture also displayed that he was not in immediate danger of losing consciousness, and the spike of nerves at seeing him faded to a joy perhaps unusual for the situation.
"I'm starting to get suspicious that you'll only come to visit when dead or dying, Monsieur."
Colin shrugged with effort, a half grin tugging at his bruised lip. "I meant to drop by soon, promise." He gestured with his bandaged arm towards his leg. "You can thank the dagger of a horrible, horrible brussel sprout for the expedited visit."
"Shall I send regards to Brightgarden, then? That's the last location my little sprouts had you pinned down."
He shook his head. "Aubarge, actually. I got overambitious, didn't stop when I should've."
"Stupid man." She grinned.
"Something like that."
She stepped forward and embraced him, wrapping her arms around cool leather. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, the bristles of his facial hair scratching gently against her skin. Without breaking contact, she pressed her forehead to his shoulder, bowing slightly.
"I missed you," she murmured. A small hum of agreement sounded from above her ear.
"It'd be a real shame if you were found face-down in a convent somewhere, it's getting increasingly difficult to find good help."
"Yeah," he said, and she could feel a breathless laugh against her hair. "Sorry."
After a few more moments and no prompting from Colin, she grasped his arms and leaned back to look at him. Silver streaked through his dark hair, caught halfway between slicked back and hanging limply over his forehead. More silver still found purchase in his beard and mustache, neatly trimmed nonetheless. Some habits just couldn't be broken, it seemed. There were aspects of his appearance that would be quietly kept after for the rest of his life, something she suspected was a quiet nod to Raphaniel and his old vows. In between these flashes of gray, his eyes retained that sharp darkness, tints of blue obscured in the dim light.
She sighed, focusing her attention to potential injuries she had missed. Reluctantly removing an arm, she pushed back a few strands of hair congealed with dried blood, feeling her way along the warm skin of his temple. A hundred times, maybe, that she'd checked him for damages, terrified of what she'd find. Terrified that he'd collapse before she could get to him, that she'd open her door in the morning to another dead friend. Underneath even that, terrified that she'd be the last one left, the only one keeping certain secrets.
"Maggie," Colin said, hand coming up to reach hers, stilling it.
"Colin."
He leaned his head into her touch, just a little, weight resting in her palm. She flattened her hand, allowing his own to cover it.
"See? Still here," he said.
She nodded, slowly exhaling, then rubbed her thumb along his cheek before pulling back.
"I'll have Rose come by with better healing potions than what I've got, it might be a few hours, though." She paused. "Have you eaten?"
He turned, looking out at the dim twilight landscape before pulling the door shut. As the outside world became obscured, she saw some of the ocean of tension he was holding melting away, shoulders she didn't know were stiff loosening just a bit.
"I have, a bit." Read: food that you would smack me for considering a meal .
She pursed her lips. "I'll put something together. Are you staying tonight?"
If it came out a little more hopeful than she meant, he didn't comment on it as he began undoing his trenchcoat, hissing as he moved an arm or leg the wrong way.
He looked up. "Yeah, if that's alright." The bandanna around his neck was quickly unfastened, thrown haphazardly to the side. "I could use some guidance on what spots to hit next, anyway."
She watched as he bent to remove his boots, before cursing in pain and clearly thinking better of it. Suddenly reminded of the urgency of his unexpected arrival, she hurried down the hall to a medicine cabinet, pulling out the lesser healing potions she had on hand. The whole home had become something of a safehouse, stocked with miscellaneous supplies. It’d been a while since any children had been running around, and as such any spare closet could have poison darts or spare cloaks, though information was kept under tighter security, naturally.
Comida was a difficult place to hide in, to be certain, but the bordering Fructeran neighborhoods provided a perfect place for hiding just enough to stay safe. Of course, there had been days or weeks spent at the emperor's side, but the times in between were spent here, managing the world she'd built for herself. A younger Amangeaux would have scoffed at the cramped hallways, the books hanging off tables accompanied by half-drank cups of coffee. But there was beauty here, in the warm wood tones. In her bedroom with its cheerful quilt, her lovely bathroom with the window that overlooked a quiet range of blueberry trees. People knock at both front and back doors with a regularity she never could have expected, bringing news with hushed tones. It was a frightening life at times, but never boring.
She walked back through the hall to see Colin sitting on the ground in defeat, boots still on. To his credit, he looked only slightly embarrassed as she sat next to him, wordlessly handing him the potion before tucking her knees to her chest. In a show of solidarity, she sat with him for a while, and they began catching each other up on who had managed to stay alive, the aftermath of Emperor Rocks’ ascension, and a variety of petty grievances.
Colin did not ask if she had found anything about Deli, and she was grateful, for there was nothing to say.
It had been a bad day, when he’d let that go. Sat down and admitted that Deli had made his own choice, and there was nothing more to do. It was such a quiet uproar, the way she could feel the thoughts radiating off him as he stared into nothingness, trying to function. Trying not to let it spill over.
His hands had twitched for something to do for days after, unable to settle or sleep. Like his body hadn’t caught up to his brain yet, and thus couldn’t give up the fight. He’d left, for a while, and come back himself again, or something resembling it. Stumbling to her doorway with a dozen new cuts and asking for more information, more marks.
She’d been frightened, then, unwilling to give him a tool to hurt himself with. Then, she’d been angry at him, for letting her think he’d left too, then at Deli, for the smallest second. Under that, angrier still, hopelessly so, at Raphaniel and Karna, for leaving her with the two people of their merry band who she’d never really known.
It had taken many, many years to get here. Now, at least, he told her before he was leaving. She kept some of his clothes in her closet, spare daggers and an old coat if he needed it.
Eventually, Colin pushed himself to his feet with a groan, claiming usage of the bathtub. She let him go upstairs, watching his frame disappear into the hallway before turning, boots thudding against the floor.
Knowing she’d be awake for a while, she pulled out some ledgers her sprouts had swiped, concerning the financial trail of a powerful Fructeran lord. There was always more to be done, it seemed. Always, things were shifting, the earth moving beneath her feet.
She was grateful, then, for something simple.
–
A few hours later, well into the night, Colin came downstairs to lean over her writing, taking the form of cramped but neat pages of notes. She turned to look at him. He smelled distractingly of her soap, dressed in clean clothes and fresh bandages. An hour or so ago, Rose had in fact dropped off a few stronger supplies, and the majority of his wounds had been healed, though the deepest still needed a bit of time.
"What time is it?" she asked, suddenly acutely aware of how long she'd been sitting here.
It wasn’t like her to keep these long hours anymore, but Uvano’s illness and subsequent death had forced her to rearrange the way she operated. Soon enough, she might approach Emperor Rocks, offering her skills and breadth of knowledge, something he’d be a fool to turn down. But to do that, she needed that breadth up to date and accurate, which meant hunting loose ends and possible informants. Which, in turn, meant sending little sprouts out, managing her own spies. Risks she was willing to take for herself were not acceptable for them, so every seam of an operation had to be neatly tucked and pressed, no detail left unturned.
The corners of Colin’s eyes crinkled slightly. "It’s way too late."
"I had no idea." But even as she said that, a yawn escaped her. Serendipitously, it produced that crinkling effect again, accompanied by an exasperated, lopsided grin. He leaned down and wordlessly swiped the papers from her desk.
"These can wait," he declared.
"Colin–"
"They'll wait."
She stood and reached to grab at them, and in one smooth movement, he leaned in and kissed her firmly.
They broke apart, and his eyes looked infuriatingly bright, his free hand coming to rest at her waist.
“Hey,” he said, all soft.
It had started a number of years ago, with neither of them bothering to truly keep track. He would come and go, mostly going, and she would as well. When they happened to overlap, there was– this.
Once, Colin had said that it was because they were the only people who really understood what had happened, who had been there on that road, in that cave. Amangeaux didn't want to entirely associate something nice with something she'd been atoning for the past few decades. He said that there was nothing he had that wasn't tied up in those places, nice or otherwise. They'd agreed to disagree, neither fully believing themselves.
Another time, when they were both younger, she'd said they did this because he felt an obligation to look after her. That he was a lost soul when he had no one to worry about, and she was the closest approximation to Raphaniel he had. Colin had full-body-cringed at that, and asked her not to make that specific comparison when they were in bed. Unwillingly, this had gotten a laugh out of her. Then, he kissed her and told her that she was probably right, but that it wasn't her fault at all, and he wasn't sure he knew the difference between obligation and love, anyway.
He'd gotten very orange after that, and buried his face in the pillow. She'd protested and laughed, pulling at his arm and begging him to specify exactly what he didn't know the difference between.
It'd been a number of years, and she thought of it still. Duty and love, the degrees of difference.
"I'll help in the morning," he said, setting the papers back on the table.
She nodded.
“Come to bed, Maggie.”
So she did.
-
She awoke to shifting covers, and Colin trying his best to untangle himself from her without making noise. She opened her mouth to assure him that there was no need, but the soft swearing amused her too much to disrupt his efforts.
Propping herself up slightly, she watched him in the early dawn, slipping silently around the room.
They’d never made the habit of waking up at the same time: her and her noble talent for languishing in bed far past first light, him and his soldier’s timekeeping. He never liked to linger once he woke up, preferring to go start breakfast or begin planning future assignments.
He looked over at her then, catching her open eyes.
“Fuck, sorry,” he said. His morning voice was lower, had a bit more of a roughness to it.
She shrugged. “It’s alright. Good morning.”
Wordlessly, he continued about, shrugging on a shirt, arms coming to stretch out behind him, the quiet pops of joints stark against silence.
It was hard to determine what she was allowed to think. Where the convenience of this stretched into something wholly new, built to exist even in isolation of their intersecting lines of work. She’d grappled quite a bit with it at first, to be honest.
Yet, Amangeaux had spent years of her life worrying about marriages, trying to shape herself into something valuable enough to win security from whatever noble would offer it. Everything had a title, a label, a use. Her beauty was prepared in the morning with elixirs and tinctures, something tangible that she could hold in front of her.
Then, she had been a warrior, and played at being something different, for the first time. She had pulled from some deeper well, and simplified it all: protect her kid, and stay alive. Somehow, she’d succeeded at both, in spite of everything.
Now, she was too tired to be warrior or maiden. There was no energy left for the constant pretending, at least when she wasn’t truly borrowing another person’s face. When Colin was here, she was content to have him.
He’d finished getting ready by now, hair haphazardly combed back. He opened the door, and turned to look at her again. His expression was hardly visible, but she could feel his gaze.
She wondered how close the call had been, how narrow the escape was.
There were sets of boundaries, things they didn’t ask about, or for. He never requested too much information about her operations, never tried to hold her to his idea of rights and wrongs. In return, though, she often had no idea just how many corners he was cutting.
He looked at her, and just then, he stood every inch a knight, weak sun rays beginning to cast his face in rosy marigold.
He raised his hand halfway to his stomach, as if to make some sort of comical gesture of a bow.
“Go back to sleep, my lady,” he whispered, ducking his head.
From anyone else, she abhorred that title; her stare had gotten potent enough to stop the words dead in someone’s mouth. In his, it felt wry and sweet. She didn’t ask him to shake the habit.
“I’ll be down in a bit,” she said, drawing the covers back up around her. “Take a look at those sheets, for me. I’m sure there’s a link I’m missing.”
He nodded. She was already beginning to fall back asleep as the door shut quietly, warm and loose-limbed in these early hours.
-
A while later she drifted to consciousness again, light now streaming in through gaps in the curtains. Now, she could see Colin’s belongings, neatly piled on a dresser, comfortable among her jewelry boxes and hair brushes.
It was her turn to plod quietly around the room, smiling absently as she pulled on her clothes, clasped a favorite necklace on. She could smell coffee from downstairs as she did, and without waiting to braid her hair, went to join him.
Sure enough, the margins of her notes on Lord Brandywine were dotted with questions written in a barely legible hand, chicken scratch that was truly impressively messy. She told Colin as much, and he laughed, before sitting down again and translating his comments.
“It’s weird, n’est-ce pas?” she muttered to him after a few minutes. “The money just disappears into thin air. Poof. Wherever it’s going, it’s not being marked anywhere.”
He frowned, running a finger over his upper lip. “Mistress?”
“Not that any of my sprouts can find, no.”
“Militia?”
She grimaced. “Let’s hope not.”
He paused for a moment, eyes darkening. “Look into his family, maybe. Are they– involved?” She looked at him, confused. “With the church, I mean,” he clarified.
“You don’t think–?”
“Well, let’s hope not,” he echoed.
There was a map in a drawer somewhere in this house, with Xs marking places that had been cleared of the Sanctis Putris. It had started with them drunk one night, on a wine he’d insisted he wouldn’t like, no less. Most certainly, it was a liability to have such tangible proof of their intentions, even if it would be unreadable to most others.
Still, there was a visceral satisfaction to it, some childish instinct fulfilled in the red ink covering more and more of Calorum, the grandiose way they had taken to crossing off towns and cities with a flourish.
She’d thought the dying organization wouldn’t be brave enough to creep back into Comida, not with the chastising they’d received a decade ago. She’d been wrong before, however. Stacking her notes neatly, she made a mental note to start investigating potential links between Brandywine and cataloged FDA members.
Another hour or so passed this way, with light bickering and trading sips of coffee.
Just then, a light series of knocks sounded at the door. Telepathic connection confirmed that it was no one to worry about, and the young sprout known as Hyacinth stepped inside.
She’d decided she needed help years ago, and grappled with how to form a system that wouldn’t hurt people or force them into situations that they couldn’t escape. Street urchins made the best candidates (unassuming, able to fade into the background), and she made offers frequently to those she found.
None of her recruits used their real name, at her request, usually settling on some type of flora or fauna. They were paid handsomely and taught defensive magic to the best of her ability, though she had never gotten quite as good as Karna.
Besides the fact that it was basic decency, she knew from experience that servants could be bought, if the price was right. Kindness went a long way in ensuring a low turnover rate.
Hyacinth was a young clementine, responsible largely for matters of correspondence– those looking specifically for Amangeaux, not the correspondence meant for others she was stealing and copying down. She’d been an effective messenger for half a decade, and none of the Alarms on her letters had gone off in her hands yet, indicating no illicit mail opening.
She walked in with a few envelopes in hand, no doubt more word of mouth messages waiting to be repeated. Hyacinth, among her other talents, had an exceptional memory for spoken words, and that meant exorbitant amounts of money went to keeping her loyalty.
Upon seeing Colin, she nodded a hello. There’d been some attempt at keeping him a secret from her spies at the beginning, before quickly realizing the futility of it.
Besides, he’d said, who’s even looking for me at this point?
Colin.
Well, yeah. But I mean– it’s been decades. Anyone who wants to try can have at me, it’s never gone well for anyone before.
She’d rolled her eyes, and the matter had been settled.
The letters she read through were of no huge importance. A few clear pieces of bait, small updates from other informants on who was sleeping with who, and who was mad about that. Towards the bottom of the pile, though, was one made of a thicker paper than the rest.
Just putting her fingers on the envelope, she recognized the signature creamy texture of Dairy Islands paper. Confirming her suspicions was a royal seal of a yellow wax, imprinted with a tiny “Keep Sharp!” and a wedge of cheese.
She’d been waiting for this response for some time.
Upon opening it, the letter was addressed not to her, but to simply “Colin”, in beautiful cursive. Briefly skimming the contents to check that it was what she expected, she handed it off to him, who seemed surprised to be included in the letter-reading portion of the morning.
This surprised look gave way to a fearful one, at seeing the address. Then, confusion, a furrowed brow, as he continued reading. By the time he reached the bottom of the letter, his hand had slipped over his mouth, disbelieving.
She waited for him to say something, watched his eyes travel up to begin the letter again, and again, as if checking to make sure he hadn’t read it wrong.
Finally, he spoke.
“I’ve been summoned,” he said, dragging his hand over his face. “To Lacramor. By the Duchess of Lacramor.”
She nodded. “Primsy Coldbottle now, right?”
“Yeah,” he affirmed, in a half vacant voice, still staring at the letter. “Um. She wants an audience with me.”
“Intriguing.”
“She’s specified very clearly, several times, that she’s not intending to murder me.”
“Well, that’s good.”
He exhaled. “She wants to pardon me.”
At that, Hyacinth stopped copying down a letter and looked right at Amangeaux. She shrugged in response.
“How- how did she find me? How would she know I was here?” His voice was reedy, now, full of shocked disbelief. “Is this real?”
Amangeaux walked over to him, looked at the letter again.
“I assume she has her own spies, Colin. That’s certainly the royal seal, and her handwriting.”
He stood then, and began pacing, paper falling forgotten from his hands. It began fluttering to the ground, and Hyacinth rushed behind him to catch it.
After a few rounds around the kitchen, he continued speaking. “Fuck. Fuck. Do I go?” He turned to look at her, eyes wild. “I mean, she already knows everything, but I– I haven’t been there in years. What if it’s a trap? I mean, it doesn’t matter, I can’t ignore summons, but– Fuck.”
He heaved a breath, still looking to her, apparently for advice.
“Okay,” she said, “Duchess Coldbottle is new to the throne, and known for being kindhearted. Chances are, this is genuine.”
He nodded, seemingly relaxing somewhat.
“It’s been decades. Calorum is at peace. Maybe it’s– just a nice thing. Setting a good precedent.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re right.”
He started walking aimlessly again, fidgeting, accidentally bumping into the table and cursing.
“I guess I’m going to the Dairy Islands,” he said. Apparently having found a purpose, he began moving to the hallway, picking up pieces of gear and putting them down again. “I need ship passage, I think? I mean, of course I do. Bulb above.”
He started rifling through a closet, pushing past articles of clothing. “I need my coat, where the fuck is my coat?”
“Colin,” Amangeaux said. He turned. She pointed upstairs.
“Oh, right.”
In an instant, he dashed up the steps, still frighteningly quick, as always.
“You know, you don’t have to leave this very second!” she called after him, to no response.
She looked to Hyacinth, who seemed far too pleased with the situation.
“Please, tell Fawn to book a passage for Lacramor. Something small and discreet,” she said, rifling the letters together. “As fast as possible. He doesn’t seem anxious to wait.”
Hyacinth nodded and started walking towards the front door. As she left, she said over her shoulder cheerfully, “You could have told him differently, you know.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma chérie,” said Amangeaux, fully aware it sounded like a lie. It was too late for her to hear anyway, and she resolved to clean up the kitchen, not bothering to try to slow Colin down.
A few minutes later, Fawn appeared to notify her that passage was booked, right as Colin came thundering down the stairs.
To the unpracticed viewer of Colin Provolone, he might have appeared normal. To her, there was a noticeable panic in the way he had dressed, everything just slightly to the left of where it should be, shirt rumpled under a coat that seemed like he’d thrown it on as fast as humanly possible. Charmingly, his hair had been combed again, and it looked like he’d washed his face, as though preparing for an appearance that was still a few days out. She hoped he’d actually packed everything he needed, as opposed to grabbing random items to throw in a satchel.
“You’re boarding the Candied Pearl, it leaves in an hour.” She informed him from the bottom of the stairs as he rushed past. “From Port Tangelo. You should have plenty of time to make it.”
A muffled thanks sounded from the kitchen, and he soon emerged again, seemingly prepared to leave.
Finally, he stopped moving steps from the door, seeming slightly out of breath. A piece of dark hair sprung over his forehead from where it’d been pushed back.
Unbidden, she reached forward to tuck it back. He bent slightly to allow her to, and grabbed her hand as it returned.
They stood there for a moment. She brushed her thumb back and forth over his palm in what she hoped was a reassuring motion.
“Come back here, after?” she asked.
“Yeah. Course.”
“It’ll go fine. If it doesn’t, then you know how to handle yourself.” She squeezed his hand. “Perhaps it’s a good thing, to finally put this to rest after all these years. To cross one enemy off the list.”
He laughed once, as though still not quite believing it was real. “Agreed. Just hope you’re right, about the whole not murdering me part.”
I know I’m right. She smiled. “Duchess Coldbottle was very insistent on that point.”
“Yeah, well.” He looked towards the door. “Guess we’ll see.”
It was there again, that relentless movement. His unending need to never sit in something for too long. Here, it felt like he was almost waiting for permission to leave.
And she knew that she was not his keeper, nor vice versa. That if he wanted, he could let that urge take over, and drift forever into shadowy backgrounds, something the opposite of static that you could never quite see clearly. Decades of running had given him the ability to fade into nothingness in a crowded room, to make you forget you ever saw that man before if asked.
It was an effort, to hold himself in one place. She was pleased that he would try.
“Go get your name back, Monsieur.”
Colin smiled, and squared his shoulders, as if bracing for something. Then, he squeezed her hand one last time, and walked out the door.