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The first time Furina meets the Knave, she barely even makes note of the occasion.
The Hydro Archon is a busy woman, after all — she hardly has time to stop and chat with every child she passes on her rare, official outings through the city. If she did, she’d be here all day, and in all honesty she really doesn’t want to make more polite conversation than she has to.
(It hurts a bit less now, after 500 years, seeing the children playing in the street and knowing she’ll outlive each and every one of them, but it’s not something she enjoys dwelling on nevertheless.)
This child, though — this one catches her eye, or rather, forces it. Furina’s not quite sure how she notices the little one hanging in the shadows of the street, watching the procession pass with indifference. They look like they’ve just stepped out of an old photograph with their two-toned hair and black-and-white clothing, standing in stark contrast to the colorful fashion of the Fontainian high society ladies crowding the sidewalk.
And then their eyes meet, and Furina knows she’ll never forget those eyes as long as she lives.
Though she barely remembers the face they belong to, she finds herself staring at them often in her nightmares, two crimson cruciforms watching her from the darkness, their accusing gaze seeming to say:
You don’t know me, but I know you.
—
Peruere is on a mission for her “Mother” the first time she sees the Hydro Archon in the flesh.
Normally, she wouldn’t let herself get distracted on a job, but the noise from the festivities was so loud and Peruere was so curious. She’s never seen a parade before — surely, just a quick peek wouldn't hurt.
(Clervie will be so excited when she tells her. Peruere can imagine the jealous sparkle in her eyes now.)
She stays in the shadows where she’s most comfortable, but this comes with the unfortunate consequence of being unable to see the parade itself past the top hats and bustle skirts in front of her. There are advantages to being an eight-year-old assassin. This is not one of them.
She’s about to leave to get back to the reason she’s out in the city in the first place when a gasp, quickly replaced by a loud cheer, ripples through the crowd. Peruere leans forward just a bit, balancing on the tips of her toes, and she sees her — Lady Furina, the Hydro Archon herself.
Her first impression of the god is just how bright she is. Her laughter, high-pitched and chittering, is unfamiliar to the orphan girl. The sunlight bounces off of her candied blue-and-white curls, the flash of her smile is blinding.
Her second impression is that she’s seen that sort of expression before — the way Lady Furina’s smile sits perfectly placed upon her lips, the practiced and methodical acting she’s seen on her “Mother” and her associates; the far-off glint her eyes sometimes take, reminiscent of the children who’d given up on fighting their fate.
Peruere’s no mind reader, but she’s seen enough suffering to know its subtleties intimately.
And then, inexplicably, Furina looks directly at Peruere — one eye light, one dark — and the young assassin is certain she’s judged correctly.
The moment is over in an instant. As she watches the Archon’s procession retreating from her view, Peruere briefly wonders what could bring such a look to a god’s face.
Only briefly, though. She has a job to finish.
(As luck would have it, the man she was sent to dispatch was standing near her at the parade. It was a simple thing to follow him home under the cover of the crowds. Perhaps this wasn’t such a waste of time, after all.)
—
The second time Furina meets the Knave, the moon is stained crimson.
Nothing was supposed to happen. She knew it was unwise to wander the city alone — she’d been reprimanded for doing so many times throughout the year by Neuvillette and his posse of Melusines — and she knew it was an especially bad idea to do so now, when tensions were heightened by the prophecy and the Traveler’s arrival.
And it’s nighttime, too, which seemed fortuitous at first — no paparazzi to bother her or snap incriminating photos — but also, upsettingly, meant there would be no witnesses in the event of an emergency.
(Although, perhaps this too was a stroke of luck.)
Regardless: nothing was supposed to happen. Furina was just feeling a bit overwhelmed; her room in the Palais resembled a prison more than a place of rest these days, and wasn’t the best way to relax to take a walk and pretend to be a normal person with no nation-destroying secrets to hide?
Alas, fate has rarely been on Furina’s side.
She’d been delighted to notice the cat, a fluffy fellow-traveler on this cold and lonely night, someone who would not recognize her face or speak of her secrets.
But now, the cat has vanished, running for fear of its life (how Furina wishes she could follow, but her heart pounds in her throat and her legs are reduced to jelly) in the face of this masked attacker appearing from the shadows.
The masked figure — a woman, if Furina had to assume — stands over Furina’s collapsed form, head covered by a dark cloak. Furina thinks she’s wearing gloves at first, but a closer look makes it clear that somehow, that’s what her arms really look like — charred flesh, like that of a log that’s been in the hearth too long, replaces healthy skin from her elbows down.
Her eyes are hidden behind her mask, but Furina can feel her searching gaze all the same. It pierces into the very fabric of her being; there’s a sharp downturn to the woman’s lips, and somehow Furina knows she’s disappointed her.
“Who are you?” Furina asks, trying to take charge of the situation (but she’s frozen on the ground and her voice shakes and stutters), “and w-what are you trying to do?”
She hates this, never hated anything more. She’s alone, unprotected, fully at the mercy of whoever this stranger is. The woman looks at her as if she’s read her every secret, as if she knows she’s a liar, a fraud.
“Hm.” The masked woman steps closer and crouches down. Furina flinches backward, but her legs refuse to move, so she’s helpless as the woman reaches a hand to her face.
“Would you believe me,” the attacker twirls a lock of Furina’s hair around her blackened, clawed finger, “if I said I merely wished for the company of the Lady Archon?”
“In that case, you will have to make an appointment. The current wait time is two years,” Furina says through a forced smile (the only kind she knows how to make, these days — ever the actress). The response comes automatic from centuries of practice, and Furina finds herself fervently praying it’s not the wrong one.
Furina jumps when the woman lets out a sharp exhale, relaxing only a little when she realizes the sound is a snort of laughter. The stranger leans in, hot breath brushing against Furina’s ear — impossibly hot, more so than any ordinary human’s, as though fire courses through her veins in place of blood. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
A shudder races down Furina’s spine. Her chest is tight like she’s on the verge of breaking into tears, or laughter, or both at once, but instead she does nothing at all. The air feels trapped in her lungs as she breathes, barely audible (but that’s no issue, the woman is so close she could slit Furina’s throat with one of those sharpened scarlet nails), “Don’t k-kill me. Please. I’m begging you. Please…”
Her eyes are closed (if she’s going to die here, without having accomplished anything, please at least let it be quick), so she only realizes the woman has moved when she feels a breeze and hears the rustle of fabric. When she opens her eyes again, to her shock, she’s not dead.
She’s alone.
(She gathers herself, eventually, enough to stumble back to the Palais. She doesn’t sleep that night — or the next, for that matter. It’s a shame to lose her only respite from the agony of waking existence.)
—
The first thing Arlecchino notices is how little the Hydro Archon has changed.
It’s to be expected, of course — it would be more surprising if the god had been notably different from the one she saw all those years ago — but it’s still jarring. Arlecchino has seen her fair share of immortals or close, with half her colleagues falling into the category of something-not-quite-human, but the period of her life that they’ve been a part of has been one of remarkable stability, all things considered. Arlecchino tends to think of her life in terms of before and after, and her time as a Harbinger falls squarely into the latter.
Lady Furina, however, is different. The first time Arlecchino had seen her in the flesh, some two decades ago, that name hadn’t even existed yet. Clervie had been a nigh-constant presence then instead of a whisper in the back of her mind. There was some light in her friend’s eyes in those days — shadowed by “Mother’s” presence, but not completely snuffed out by what she had yet to learn. There was more wonder, limited though it may have been, at the world outside of the House and the possibilities it held.
Perhaps that was why Furina’s figure maintained such a presence in young Peruere’s mind. She represented the world Clervie and all their siblings strived for, one of glittering opportunities: operas, tea parties, high society events attended for simple pleasure instead of as means to gather intelligence.
But that was all a long time ago. Peruere is gone — dead on the battlefield where the rest of her family lies — and in her place stands the Knave. The Knave does not waste time on pointless fantasies. The Knave knows the world beyond the hearth is cold and unforgiving and undeserving of a child’s naive idolization.
The Knave understands that if you want something, you must seize it for yourself, no matter how soaked the ground beneath your feet becomes with the blood of your opponents.
So she’ll pry the Gnosis from Furina’s chest with her own two hands if she must. To hell with the consequences — what do the judgments of gods matter to those outside their purview?
The second thing Arlecchino notices is that it’s all far too easy. So easy, in fact, she thinks it must be a trap; there’s no other explanation for why the Hydro Archon would be wandering the streets at night without any security whatsoever.
She takes the bait anyway, only to discover that it was indeed too good to be true. Not because it’s some grand plan to capture bad actors like herself — no, it’s because Lady Furina does not seem to be the Hydro Archon at all.
That may be for the best, considering the pathetic display she put on tonight. It would certainly be a cause for concern if the nation’s power was in the hands of someone even less competent than Arlecchino thought. It does throw a rather large wrench into the House’s plans, though.
There’s much to be done, so Arlecchino slips back into the cover of night, leaving the false god trembling like a field mouse on the cobblestones.
—
The third time Furina meets the Knave, it is all candied words and accusing smiles, hidden meanings behind every casual utterance. It’s Furina’s battlefield of choice, but this time, she finds herself at a disadvantage.
The moment their eyes first meet, Furina is struck by a disquieting sense of familiarity. For years, those eyes have haunted her, following her in her nightmares. She’s long since forgotten their origin, chalking it up to a working of the imagination — but here they are in front of her now, set into a real flesh-and-bone face.
When the Knave reaches out a hand in a diplomatic greeting, Furina’s blood runs cold as ice — the blackened skin tipped with scarlet nails is all too familiar, the cornerstone of her most recent bad dreams.
Arlecchino notices her hesitation, but says nothing, merely raising an eyebrow with a barely-noticeable quirk of the lips. Furina swallows her panic and hurriedly accepts the handshake, though she does let go of the unnaturally-warm fingers quicker than etiquette would typically allow.
She chances a glance at Neuvillette as she leads the Knave to the sofa. The worry on his face is almost imperceptible, but Furina’s seen that subtle tightness too many times to mistake it. He’s concerned about her. She’d find it sweet in any other circumstance, but now it feels patronizing in a sense, like he thinks she’s too weak to handle this on her own.
And maybe she is. But she can’t let Arlecchino catch on and take advantage of that, so Furina brightens her smile and puts more spring into her step with the practiced grace of the celebrated actress she is.
“It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Madame Knave,” Furina says, laying the sweetness on thicker than the frosting on the desserts arranged on the table. She hopes it masks the waver in her voice. “I trust your stay in Fontaine has been to your liking?” She gestures lightly at the seats surrounding the dessert- and tea-laden table.
“Please, Miss Furina, there is no need for one of your stature to stand on ceremony with me. ‘Arlecchino’ is fine,” the Harbinger says as she places a pastel pink box in Neuvillette’s waiting hands and accepts Furina’s invitation to sit on one of the plush divans. She crosses one long leg over the other.
Furina feels the muscles in her face strain. “Of course, of course! All are equal in the Opera Epiclese, my dear Arlecchino, so formalities are unnecessary.” Her eyes shift to Neuvillette, who looks a bit lost with his burden. “May I ask what you have so graciously delivered to us?”
There’s a flash of white as Arlecchino smiles. “Merely a small offering for our tea party this afternoon. What sort of guest would I be, to show up empty-handed? I do believe you’ll enjoy it, Lady Furina.”
Furina doesn’t miss the pointed way Arlecchino emphasizes the title before her name, as if she wants to make sure Furina knows she’s ignoring her earlier statement about formalities.
Neuvillette’s eyes meet hers. After a brief moment, Furina nods, waving him over. “Well, in that case, let’s not delay.”
He sets the box down gently on the table before lifting the lid to reveal a decadently-decorated slice of cake, topped off with a glistening red cherry. Despite herself, Furina’s mouth waters a bit at the sight. It looks like the dessert sold at her favorite bakery, the one whose few slices sell out within moments of opening. She hasn’t had the time to wait outside lately, and she hasn’t sent any attendants to do so. She didn’t realize how much she missed it.
Then she remembers where she is, who bought this cake for her, and she quickly gathers her composure. “My word,” Furina exclaims with a careful amount of enthusiasm, “this really is quite the surprise. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing. It simply caught my eye as I was walking through the Quarter Narbonnais this morning, and I believed it would be the perfect addition to our little gathering.” The smile in the Knave’s voice doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and there’s a sharpness in her tone that doesn’t match her words.
“It seems we have similar tastes in desserts, then! How wonderful.” Furina lets out a giggle that may be a bit too high-pitched to sound natural, nearly flinching when she hears herself. Neuvillette casts her a quick glance out of the corners of his eyes as he takes a seat next to Furina.
Arlecchino doesn’t answer, instead staring at Furina with those piercing eyes, measured smile never leaving her face. Furina shifts uncomfortably under her burning gaze. She can feel the fabric of her gloves growing damp with sweat.
A beat passes, then two, and then a uniformed Melusine scurries through the door. “Excuse me, pardon the intrusion, but, um, Monsieur Neuvillette…?”
The Chief Justice leans down so the Melusine can whisper into his ear. Furina watches as her most trusted advisor’s face stiffens almost imperceptibly.
“My apologies,” he says, rising to his full, towering height, “but I must take care of some pressing business.”
Panic hits like a bucket of cold water to the face. “Wait,” Furina hisses, hand clutching the fabric of Neuvillette’s robes and pulling him back down, “you’re leaving?”
“I’m afraid I must, Lady Furina. It’s very urgent.” And Furina can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s serious, that this matter cannot be delayed. Her stomach sinks further at the thought of what could trouble the Hydro Sovereign so. “I will try to find a trustworthy individual to serve as mediator in my absence.”
Furina plasters a strained smile to her face, one she knows isn’t fooling anyone — not her companion of four centuries, and certainly not the woman sitting across from her, whose clawed fingers slowly drum on her thigh. “Alright. You are dismissed.”
When the door closes behind Neuvillette, the Knave’s grin widens. Furina can’t help thinking of a wolf’s snarl, the way Arlecchino’s lips curl back.
“Well, now that your pet is gone…” Arlecchino pauses, a glint in her eyes. “Or is it the other way around, hm?”
Neither one of them makes a move. The tea poured before the Knave’s arrival sits in the cups, growing colder by the minute.
“You really must try the berry tarts,” Furina says stiffly. “I insist.”
“Thank you for the offer, Miss Furina, but I must decline. Respectfully, of course.” There’s something that almost sounds like the beginning of a scoff in her voice. “I’d prefer to settle some business sooner rather than later.”
As she speaks, her fingers drum faster, drawing Furina’s eyes to the nails that glisten as though they’ve been dipped in blood. She tries to hide her shudder as she draws herself up and puffs out her chest. “Ah, yes, naturally. I would hate to keep an honored guest such as yourself waiting. Please, do enlighten me: how may I help you?”
Arlecchino reaches forward and plucks the cherry garnishing the slice of cake. She turns it over, cross-marked eyes studying its shining surface. When she speaks, her tone is both detached and accusing. “Have you ever watched a person drown?”
Furina’s blood turns to ice. “What is it you want from me, Knave?”
“You wound me with your sharp words, Lady Furina.” The outline of a smile dances on Arlecchino’s lips as she places the cherry back onto the cake. “I merely want the same as all other Fontainians — to save my homeland.” She pauses. “And to negotiate for the return of my wrongfully-imprisoned colleague, I suppose.”
Oh. So that’s what this is about. Furina smoothes down the front of her blouse, a nervous habit. “Well, I am more than happy to discuss the latter with you, but I fail to see the relevance of your first point —”
“I hear it’s the worst way to die, you know,” the Knave cuts her off with a musing, distracted voice. “Your lungs fighting to survive, unable to stop taking deep breaths of the very thing that’s killing you… your body bloating, your eyes falling out of your skull from the pressure… Personally, I feel burning to death would be a more painful way to go, but what would I know of such things?”
Furina tries to swallow, but her mouth is as dry as the deserts of Sumeru. “The pie is quite good, too,” comes her weak response, “high-quality lavender melons imported from Inazuma, or so my pâtissier says. Even unripe lavender melons were a delicacy until recently, though I’m sure you know all about that.”
“Hm.” Arlecchino leans back on the cushions of the divan, looking smugly satisfied with herself.
There’s a tremor in Furina’s fingers, so she clasps them together quickly, hoping the Knave didn’t notice. Didn’t Neuvillette say he’d find a mediator?
Just as the thought flits across her mind, there’s a knock at the door. A familiar voice, high-pitched and squeaking, carries through the thick wood. “Furina? Can we come in? Is everything okay?”
The relief that floods her is almost overwhelming. “You may enter!” Furina chirps, thinking she’s never been so happy to see anyone in her entire 500-year-long life.
—
To her credit, Lady Furina is not as much of a pushover as Arlecchino was anticipating. Still, her performance hardly inspires confidence, her demeanor betraying deep insecurities without her trusted Iudex by her side.
Ultimately, though, the conversation is largely an unfruitful one. For all her faults, the false Archon at least keeps her secrets close to her chest, and refuses to divulge any useful information. The one thing to make the whole charade meaningful is the Traveler, a valuable ally if they can be persuaded — and though their guard is up, they aren’t openly hostile during their little chat. Arlecchino suspects they don’t fully trust Furina, either; it’s hard to have blind faith in the gods when you’ve borne witness to their flaws, after all.
Once she’s taken a seat on the aquabus back to the Court, Arlecchino heaves a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. Whoever hides behind the masks of the Hydro Archon and Chief Justice, it’s clear now that the House of the Hearth will receive no cooperation through official channels — in other words, they’ll have to alter fate on their own. What a headache.
Well, no matter. It never hurts to have others indebted to you — as long as you make sure to collect, of course, and the Knave has a few ideas regarding payment from the Hydro Archon.
Arlecchino rests her head on the edge of the aquabus, tuning out the chatter of her fellow passengers. Perhaps this will work out in the House’s favor after all. It’ll take no shortage of planning, but a few sleepless nights are a small price to pay for the survival of her Fontaine branches and a Gnosis to boot.
When she returns to her lodgings, she throws a few logs in the fireplace, snapping her fingers to set the wood alight. She sets a smooth jazz record on the gramophone and slides the letters from Snezhnaya, written in a sloping, childlike hand, out of sight.
The Knave begins to spin her web.