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The palace is cold, despite the heat conductors Dottore has built into the walls. Signora sits in her office, listening to the wailing wind outside her window, bundled up in several layers of coats and furs. Her own inner core keeps her warmer than most of the others but this does not prevent her from feeling the nip of the ice upon her face.
On days like these, even she finds it harder to focus on warmth. Dottore had reconfigured her chambers some months earlier to ensure it was warm enough that she had no need for layers of fur and coats and right now, that is the one place she wishes to be. She tears her gaze from the window and sighs, looking down at her paperwork and wondering if it would perhaps be a better use of her time to take a break. There’s hardly any rush to complete this particular manuscript, after all.
The deal between Her Majesty and Rex Lapis is not set to play out for another two years, at least. Surely there is time to set it aside for now and occupy herself elsewhere for a few hours. Decision made, Signora stands and bundles her coats closer, striding from her desk and to the doors, startling the shivering guards on the other side.
She pays them no mind as they bow and salute and instead makes her way down the glistening, icy halls to her personal quarters. Each click of her heels echo loudly against the high, vaulted ceiling and for once, the halls are clear.
It’s not a particularly busy day, within the halls of the Palace. A rare sight indeed, Signora is almost tempted to take a walk. It’s not often she gets the peace to do so. Usually there are multitudes of Dottore’s segments running around, running errands for the antisocial lunatic in the basement, or agents hurrying to and fro from Pierro’s office.
But today, everything is still and quiet. Not uncomfortably so, and perhaps that is why Signora finds herself in a good mood and turns on her heel in a last minute change of direction. You see, it has only been a handful of weeks since The Tsaritsa inducted their newest—Lord Tartaglia, Eleventh of The Eleven Fatui Harbingers of Her Imperial Majesty’s Royal Vanguard of Snezhnaya and Signora must admit, she finds herself oddly drawn to the boy.
She hasn’t had the opportunity to speak with him one on one yet, as he has no doubt been flung from one location to the next, adjusting to his new title and position and all the eccentricities that come with it.
She approaches his office and asks the guards, “Is Lord Tartaglia present?”
“Yes Lady Signora.” They step aside to allow her access to the doors and she nods, lifting a hand to rap swiftly at the glossy, mahogany doors. From inside, she hears scrambling and muted whispers and then silence before Lord Tartaglia’s voice rings out.
“Enter.”
She pushes inside. The room is cold. Colder than her own, certainly, as it has not been used before he arrived and as such, Dottore has yet to install heaters into the walls. The room itself is plain, boring, and empty. It’s clear he has not taken any time to truly make it his own.
Her own office has a fire raging in the hearth at all times, Pantalone keeps an expensive fur carpet beneath his desk, and Dottore’s office is filled with trinkets and clutter from his homeland.
She cannot help but wonder what Tartaglia’s office will look like, once he’s adjusted enough to claim it as his own space. She wonders briefly if he even knows he can do as he pleases in here.
Turning her gaze to the Eleventh, she notes that, if at all possible, Tartaglia wears even more layers than herself and she cannot help but see his youth, as dead blue eyes stare at her from over a red scarf and beneath ginger bangs.
At his side, a Fatui Agent stands tall, arms behind her back and gaze straight ahead, reacting to Signora’s presence with little more than a bow.
“Lady Signora,” Tartaglia says, because he’s only been here a few weeks and before that, he was a citizen of Snezhnaya and as such, has yet to learn that here, between their own rank and inside their own walls, he is more than welcome to simply call her Signora .
“Tartaglia,” she returns. “I was wondering if you might like to take a walk with me.”
He cocks his head, eyes darting towards his Fatui Agent before looking back to her. The woman does not move nor react.
“A walk?” Tartaglia repeats. “Where?”
“Amongst the halls,” Signora replied. “It’s rather empty today. You’ll find that is a very rare thing indeed. I take it you haven’t seen much of the Palace yet, have you?”
“No ma’am.”
Quite polite. Signora must say, she rather likes him. She’s sure that civility will die down sooner or later, once he gets used to them and his new life, but for now she finds it rather refreshing. Much better than Dottore at any rate, who takes glee in calling her ‘Lohefalter’ when he feels like stirring up trouble.
“Then walk with me.” It’s a request, but he takes it as an order. Signora thinks she remembers Pulcinella saying something about the boy having been an Agent, prior to a Harbinger. The obedience makes sense then. He’s trained to take a Harbinger’s orders, after all.
He stands stiffly and nods to the Fatui Agent then hesitates, tripping over his own words because he’s not used to being in charge of someone else. After watching for a few moments, Signora takes pity on him and speaks over his fumbling.
“Agent. You are dismissed.”
The woman nods, bows to them both, and leaves the room. Tartaglia huffs and Signora decides to pretend the flush on his cheeks is due to the cold, rather than embarrassment or humiliation.
“I could’ve done that,” he muttered into his scarf as he followed her out of the office and down the hall. She nods in agreement.
“You must take charge of them,” she tells him. “They are yours to command, after all. They will obey your orders.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Tartaglia murmured. “Just feels weird…”
Signora thinks. “Did you train with her?” She asked. “Was she an agent within your assigned regiment?” If that’s the issue he’s having, giving orders to someone who he fought alongside, she can rearrange things, talking to Pierro and Capitano about getting him assigned someone else.
“No, it’s not that,” Tartaglia replied. “She used to be part of Capitano’s, but I guess he nominated her to be my primary agent.”
“Ah.” Signora nods. “What is her name?”
“Um…Agent Ekaterina.”
Signora thinks she might actually know her. Not personally, of course, but she’s sure she’s heard the name in passing. Actually, if she recalls correctly…
“Agent Ekaterina has a good head on her shoulders,” she informed him. “She’s well disciplined and experienced.” More than that, she’ll be patient with him, which is what Signora thinks the boy needs right now.
“Oh, well, that’s good.” He huffs, and she glances over to see him wringing his gloved hands together, lightly blowing into his cupped palms.
“Are you cold?”
He glanced at her. “Yeah, my office is freezing,” he complained. Signora hummed.
“Dottore has yet to install heating coils into the walls,” she told him. “That office has not been used for quite some time. But I will endeavor to ensure he knows it needs to be a priority.”
She already knows he knows it’s a priority, because he was the one who said as much to her a few days earlier, when he did his incredibly rare monthly rounds of coming out of his basement lab to ask the others if there was anything additional they needed in their office.
“Oh, no, there’s no need to rush,” Tartaglia says hurriedly. “Really, I can handle a little cold. Lord Dottore really doesn’t need to make any sort of fuss on my account, honestly.”
Signora stops him instantly, rounding to stand in front of him and stop him from walking. He reacts instantly, eyes narrowing as he jerks back, as though preparing for her to strike or fight him. She does nothing of the sort, waiting calmly until he relaxes enough that she knows he’s listening.
“From the outside, we are viewed as cold and heartless,” she begins. “We are the Eleven Fatui Harbingers of Snezhnaya’s Royal Vanguard. For this reason alone, we must appear steadfast and unwavering.” She softens her gaze and tone as she adds, “That does not mean that is the truth.”
Tartaglia blinks. She’s thrown him off guard. “What…does this have to do with heat?” He asked.
“We look after one another,” Signora replied. “On the outside, we despise each other but within these walls, we have one another's backs. Dottore is already planning to include heating coils within your office, I believe that’s what he’s working on right now. You are one of us, a Harbinger, and for that purpose we will treat you as such.”
Tartaglia says, “It’s only been a couple of weeks.”
“Correct. But you were chosen by The Tsaritsa Herself, were you not?” He nods. “Does she make mistakes?”
“No, of course not!”
“Of course not,” Signora repeated. “You were chosen by Her to be not just her Harbinger , Tartaglia of the Eleven, but her child as well. She cares for us and we care for one another in turn.”
“Like…” he’s choosing his words carefully. “Like a family.”
“Exactly.”
He stares at her. “I thought you guys hated each other.”
She laughs. “Well of course we present as such to the public,” she replied. “We are Harbingers , Tartaglia. We must appear frightening and all-powerful to any outside of these walls. Inside the palace, however…well, what purpose do I have to fear Dottore when I once watched him fall down three flights of stairs because he insisted that the wheels he had installed in the soles of his boots would register the lip of the steps and stop.”
Tartaglia’s mouth dropped open and she can tell he’s struggling to picture the terrifying, reclusive Second Harbinger falling down the stairs while wearing wheelie shoes.
Even more amusing, though Signora doesn’t share this now, Dottore still wears them and still, occasionally, falls down the stairs.
“Uh…wow.”
Signora chuckled. “He was fine,” she assured. “But we all certainly had a good laugh.”
“When did that happen?”
The day Tartaglia became a Harbinger. Dottore had barely made it through the ceremony without whining about a broken collarbone, twisted knee, and sprained ankle.
Signora had kicked him in the twisted knee later that night, just to watch him cry.
“You have questions.”
“Just one, I think.”
“Go on.”
“Can I trust you?” What a brilliant question. Wise boy, Signora is almost impressed. “Any of you? Can I trust you not to stab me in the back?”
“Yes.” And it’s true. They may bicker and argue, play enemies in public, but the truth of the matter is that when the day is done and it comes down to it, there is nearly no one else they can rely on but one another.
“And I guess I just have to take your word for it, don’t I?”
Signora hummed. “Yes.”
He huffed. “Yeah, okay.” He shivered. “Let’s just keep moving. Activity keeps the blood flowing which hikes adrenaline up and keeps us warm.”
Signora eyes him for a moment. “I have a better idea.” After all, there will be other times when the Palace halls are empty. Perhaps once his office is warm enough for him, they can venture out again. Gesturing for him to follow, Signora turns and heads off in a different direction, noting that he wastes no time in taking off after her.
They arrive at her chambers and she lets him in, noting the instant relief that washes over his face when he feels the soothing heat of her entry room.
“Oh wow, it’s so warm in here,” he remarks as Signora shucks off her coat and hangs it on the hook near the door. She gestures for him to do the same and he hesitates only a moment before fighting with his gloves, scarf, and coat. Finally divested of the extra winter layers, he hangs them up as well, then follows her to the connecting receiving room.
“I much prefer the more tropical temperatures,” she told him.” Snezhnaya was certainly a shock to me, when I arrived. But you’re used to it, aren’t you? You hail from Snezhnaya.”
“Yeah, uh, Morepsok.”
She nods. She’s not entirely familiar with the name, but she has a vague enough idea of where it may lay. It’s small, she’s certain about that, as she knows she has all of Snezhnaya’s largest cities memorized and laid out within her mind.
“Would you like a drink?” She offers. “Firewater? Tea?”
“No, I uh…I think I’m okay.” It’s the nerves, she knows. Pantalone was much the same, when he first arrived and she took him under her wing for a few days until Dottore decided the banker was his favorite Harbinger and stole him away. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” She gets comfortable on the couch and watches him shift uneasily, unsure if he has permission or if he can just take permission. Feeling sympathetic, she tells him, “Come. Sit with me.”
And he does, though she can’t tell if it’s that ingrained instinct to obey those once ranked above him or simply because he wishes to. She makes a note to sit down with him and discuss it. The boy should feel safe with them. He is one of them, after all. Her little brother in a sense. No one here will harm him, nor will they let anyone else harm him.
He sits, a distance from her, but she can tell he’s drawn to her warmth. More than that, she can tell he’s tired . As a new Harbinger, he has been up each day since almost before Pierro himself, so many tasks piled upon his plate she’s surprised he’s slept at all.
“ Come .” She orders again, but this time she shifts closer and drapes an arm around his shoulders, drawing him into her side. He tenses, but she hushes him and says, “I won’t harm you. You’re tired, I can tell. It’s warm enough here and we have no urgent business to attend to. Rest , Tartaglia. No one will enter.”
“But you’re here.”
“And I have assured you that I will not hurt you.” Besides, if she wanted to she could have done so a thousand times already. He still hesitates, stiff as he leans into her, but she feels him begin to relax as the moments go by.
Carefully, slowly, she begins to card her fingers through his hair. He tenses instantly but it’s only a matter of time before he relaxes once more, sighing softly. She wonders, only briefly, what his home life was like. He’s young, barely a true adult, and she knows he spent several years as an agent before becoming Lord Tartaglia.
What must his family be like? Who could look upon this boy, this child , and declare him undeserving of warmth, love, attention and affection? Who could decide he should be cast out and sent to the Fatui where any semblance of emotion or weakness is practically beat out of them?
He is certainly shaping up to be the most interesting of the Harbingers, the only one with Agent experience prior to this role. She hopes they can loosen him, soften him, and thinks that Agent Ekaterina might actually be good for that too.
And if she isn’t, well, Signora is here for a reason isn’t she?
As time goes by, the boy slips. Down, down, down, until Signora simply adjusts him herself so that his head is in her lap. He lets out another soft, shuddering sigh and she can tell by the gentle rise and fall of his chest that he sleeps deeply.
She keeps up her ministrations in his hair, humming a gentle bard’s tune from her homeland beneath her breath. It is only when the sun begins to set and her stomach protests that she gently prompts him to wake.
“Come, Tartaglia,” she says, choosing not to comment on the violent way he startles and jerks upright, nearly headbutting her. “It’s late and we should eat.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He cards his hands through his hair several times, taking a few even breaths as he blinks at his surroundings, orienting himself. She allows him the time, in no hurry.
Once he’s steady, they both stand and move to the door to don their coats once more. Entering the hall, they walk in silence to the dining room until Tartaglia clears his throat and quietly murmurs.
“Thanks. Sorry for–”
“You’re very welcome,” she says, because the boy needs to learn now to not apologize quite so much, especially within the halls of the palace. “Any time.”