Chapter Text
Lynette hears a door slam open and knows that it is only a matter of time before they find her. She is still in that man’s house, after all. Another door, to the room right next to hers, hits the wall. She can’t help how she shudders with fear. It’s only a matter of time.
There is a crash—a vase shattering?—outside the room where Lynette hides. There is no more of slamming doors. There is a clamor of voices, the man from whom she is hiding among them, demanding answers of an apparent intruder.
She prays that it is Lyney, that he somehow knows where she is and has come to rescue her. But whoever it is in the hall begins to speak, and the icy voice does not belong to her brother. She strains to listen, but cannot make out the words being said.
Then a scuffle echoes in the hall, the soft sounds of feet scrambling on carpet and drunken curses inching ever closer toward her. Then a choked gasp, and the voices stop. Then a heavy thud. Someone has fallen— and someone else, too, falls now.
The door opens. Heels click against the stone floor and she wedges herself further into the corner, behind the vase that is larger than her.
“Stop hiding. Cowering will get you nowhere,” the voice orders. Lynette dares to move her head out to see this person. Silhouetted by the moon shining outside the window is a dark-suited figure staring directly at her, wiping their hands with a handkerchief. Their head is covered with a hood. From her position, she cannot see anything else about them.
“Come out.” That voice is still so much like ice. Her ears are still folded in on themselves. She still cannot look away. “The one who wished to harm you is dead.”
She does not know this person. She cannot trust them. Yet the strings that hung her heart in a noose begin to snap, and turn, her heart begins to beat again. Lynette slowly picks herself up from the floor and makes her way toward the figure. Her head spins, surely a result of the alcohol she’d been plied with. Yet it does not spin so much that she cannot be sure of her steps. As she comes closer, she sees that it is a white-haired woman who stands there, her face perfectly impassive. That impassiveness is in no small part due to the blindfold that covers her eyes.
“Are you injured?”
It takes her a moment to register that the woman is speaking to her again. Her throat is so tight she fears no sound will escape it. She shakes her head. She is not— she is barely harmed, physically. Fear still has its hands on her soul.
“Follow me.” The woman turns toward the open door, surveying the hall. “That man has taken more children than only you.”
“He has.” Lynette surprises herself by speaking, even if her voice barely rises above a whisper. And try as she might, she cannot stop the horrid trembling that shakes her body. “He said he— he had.”
A cold hand rests atop her head and begins to knead at her ears. It’s far too hard, not nearly gentle, but it brings her comfort. Slowly, so much so that she barely realizes it’s happening, they unfold.
“Did he say where they were?” The woman’s eyes are twin crosses that pin her own in place.
“I don’t re— no?” The words feel heavy coming out of her mouth. She’s stopped shaking everywhere but her mind. She wonders if she’ll stumble over herself when she begins to walk again.
“You have good ears. But, you must learn to use them. Follow me.”
Without another word, she walks out of the room. Lynette only hesitates a moment before, indeed, following her in a stumbling manner.
The hall is darker than the room; only thin windows are present, and only on the one side. Even then, they are covered in thick curtains. But those curtains do not cover the entirety of the windows, and slivers of light shine through the cracks.
The woman has paused up ahead, examining the walls for— whatever for, Lynette can’t say. But she’s exhausted on her feet, and goes to lean against a wall for support. She misses, falling against it with a heavy thud. Oh. Perhaps she really is dizzy.
The woman kneels next to her before she can register what is happening.
She murmurs something, the beginning of which the small girl cannot catch; she has not completely hung her attention on the tenterhooks that are this woman’s presence. She only manages to make out the end: “I cannot dawdle, understand that.”
She understands enough to understand that she’ll be left behind. But before her eyes can begin to burn with any sort of emotion, the woman hoists Lynette up and begins to carry her. Lynette, for her part, cannot help but let herself hang limply in the woman’s arms. Her head pounds hard, so hard she fears it will crack her skull. She wants nothing more than to fall asleep. She cannot amid all the spinning.
The sound of a sliding door catches her attention, as does a rush of chill, stale air. They’re descending a flight of stairs. Their surroundings gradually become darker, yet Lynette can still see quite well in those small moments that she opens her eyes. The woman has no hesitation in her movements as she continues to descend into the darkness.
A door creaks open. A series of gasps. It sounds like other girls her age.
“Who are you? What does Antoine want?”
Lynette stares at the speaker through the corner of her eye. It’s a girl sitting on the edge of a mattress—there are several scattered in this cellar—who, but for her slight frame, might share her age. Her face is pale and haggard beyond anything she’s seen before. Yet it is set in stone, like her voice.
“Antoine Lefèvre is dead,” the woman says bluntly. “I am here to take you all from this place. If there are any possessions you wish to take with you, gather them and do not hesitate.”
“Who are you?” Lynette has sunk her head back onto the woman’s shoulder, has closed her eyes again. But she can hear that this girl is the only one who is not scrambling around, waking up the others in hurried whispers.
“A Harbinger of the Fatui. The Knave, head of the House of the Hearth,” the woman—the Harbinger—says.
“The House of the Hearth,” the same girl echoes cautiously. “I know that place. But I’ve never heard of you before.”
Lynette herself knows nothing of the Fatui, save for those brief remarks she’s overheard where they’re denigrated in the same breath as all Snezhnaya. But can they really be so bad if this woman, a Fatuus and a Harbinger besides, is rescuing them?
The woman is leading the group of girls out of the basement now. They reach the hall again.
“It is understandable that you do not know of me. My business requires discretion and subtlety, not announcements of my presence.” She makes to say more, except—
“Lynette!” Finally, her brother’s voice cuts through the silence and darkness. The woman stiffens, but only for a moment. Lynette wonders if she would have noticed if she hadn’t been carrying her.
“Lyney,” she tries to respond. All that comes out of her mouth is a slurred mess of sound. “Ly- ney ,” she tries again, with more intent behind it.
He runs up to the woman. He tries to pull Lynette from her grasp. The most he can manage is her arm. She tries to take his hand, to let him know she’s alright. She can barely close her hand around his.
Her brother is still in his clothes from the party. But she is, as well. Of all the things to notice, at this time. “What did you do to her?” His words are fearful underneath the anger.
“I mean no harm to any of you,” the Fatuus says slowly. “Your sister was drugged, and it is taking effect now. She cannot walk on her own.”
“Then let me take her!”
It’s too loud, and for a moment her ears ring so much that she hears nothing else. When it clears, they are all outside. The woman is still carrying her, and Lyney is tightly holding her dangling arm. Lynette forces her eyes open. She needs to see what is happening.
What she sees is that she’s inside a carriage with everyone else. Lyney is still at her side. The Knave is at the gate of that mansion, examining a pocketwatch, which she then puts away.
She plucks something white from her pocket and drops it at the gate. Without a word, she turns and makes her way toward the carriage. She gives a quick word to the driver, a young woman with light brown hair, and finally enters. The carriage pulls away. The only sounds now are stifled breathing from everyone save the woman.
“You may be wondering why I left that glove at the gate of the mansion,” the Knave finally says. The carriage falls silent at her words. “Before I answer, I invite one of you to tell me what you think.”
For a moment, no one dares speak.
“You wanted someone to see it,” a very little girl, even littler than her, finally ventures.
The carriage falls even more silent as the Knave’s gaze turns to her. “What is your name?”
“I’m— Manon,” the girl replies, with only a slight hesitation.
Her face becomes pleased. “Very good, Manon.” Then her eyes shift outward, over each cramped, wide-eyed figure. “You children may, or may not, be aware of a man in Fontaine who goes by the moniker of ‘The White Glove.’ His business mainly lies in disposing of unwanted things.
“His people will arrive soon enough to cleanse this scene. The glove is simply an indication that my side of the business is complete. Do you all understand?”
There is a murmuring chorus of yes’s, the last thing Lynette can truly hear before her consciousness slides into a stupor. She’s roused by everyone else scrambling from the carriage, and before she realizes what’s happening, she is back inside—
She flees. She tries, at least, but she misses the stairs out and begins to fall—
Sharp-nailed hands that do not dig into her skin firmly catch her. Before she knows what is happening, they pull her toward a couch. Why is she inside? Wasn’t she just in the carriage?
She looks up to see the Knave. Her face is set in stone with some unplaceable expression. Perhaps if her head was not swimming, she’d be able to place it.
“Sit,” she orders. “You’ll injure yourself badly if you keep at this.”
Lynette sits.
The woman — the Knave — hands her a glass of water and a small folded cloth. “Clean your mouth, then drink.”
She does so. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was, until she’d finally had some water to soothe her dry throat.
A bloody smear sits on the corner of the handkerchief. Lynette stares closely, but she can’t place whose blood it is. Her bottom lip, after all, is cracked and split. She almost remembers that the stain was present before she used the cloth, but that’s only almost.
This night is passing by too quickly, now. She can barely understand anything that has been happening around her. Lyney is sitting next to her and clutching her arm like she’ll disappear in the next moment. She doesn’t remember him being there in the previous moment, nor does she remember why he’s holding that glass. Hadn’t she been holding it?
“Lynette,” he says pleadingly.
She looks at him. Her head turned too much, too fast, and her vision wobbles. “ ‘m here,” she says.
“Neither of you are in any state for further conversation tonight,” the Harbinger interjects. “We will converse tomorrow. But for now, rest.”
Somehow, she finds herself in a bed, in a long room filled with a long line of beds. Lyney is next to her, still in his party clothes. Although, she’s also still in her party clothes. Of all the things to remember, is her last full thought before falling asleep.
She doesn’t know that Lyney refuses to fall asleep, that he instead forces himself to stay up the entire night to guard her. Of course she doesn’t know; by the time she finally awakens he’s passed out from exhaustion.