Chapter Text
It’s sometime after midnight and Brisby’s got her cornered in the music room, pinned back against the stone side of the fireplace that’s biting cold even through her clothes. His empty-eye mask is looming over her black blank one. He’s hissing endearments, promises, threats. Waverly does not know what they are, anymore; all she knows is that his twisted face is too close to her own and she has a knife in her pocket (and there’s the state of her reputation and the state of the carpets to consider, blood is such a bitch to get out) and -
And it is suddenly a moot point. There is no small amount of shouting as Brisby is yanked away by the neck and shoved back, hits a globe, sends it toppling and crashing into flower arrangement. It’s all very quick. Very efficient. Very welcome. Waverly takes a great breath and uses it to snap at the guards that come rushing into the room. She directs their anger towards Brisby and his spluttered excuses, and away from the guest who’d yanked him off her.
The man is wearing a costume that looks very grim in contrast to the gaiety of Dunwall’s nobility; and his mask is in such exceptionally bad taste.
Waverly gathers herself, straightens, adjusts her tilted hat and puts on a smile. It’s a brittle smile, false, but he won’t be able to see that behind her own mask. All that matters is that he hears it in her voice. “Ah, well, that’s over with.” It comes out far more flippant than she actually feels. “So. How can I thank my daring rescuer?”
The use of the word rescuer, and the amount of honey she layers over it, makes her want to stab herself in the eye.
The man twitches, slightly. Stiff. “Can we talk?”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“Privately.”
The man’s mask is a skull. She makes herself smile just the same. “Of course.”
Waverly is a practical young woman. If she is given a choice between a man in a mask of empty skin and a man in a mask that spits in the face of wanted posters all over the city, she will chose the exciting one a hundred times over. She is not naïve enough to request a third option.
“Might I have a name?” she asks, as she leads him up the stairs.
And there it is, again: that twitch. “I thought the whole point of this party was guessing.”
What he really says is no. Waverly frowns. This is not a game to him. He is no young unspoilt Brimbsley relation or hanger-on to Ramsay or any of the other nameless guests she doesn’t know but knows. She has no idea who this man is, and that unsettles her nearly as much as Brisby’s mask.
It is very quiet upstairs.
This unsettles her too.
Hiram’s paranoia is rubbing off on her. Truly.
“Guess, then,” she replies. “You’ll know soon enough. My sister’s the one whose tastes runs strange enough that she’d let you leave the mask on.”
“You’re Waverly.”
She glances back as she pushes open the door to her room. “What gave it away?”
There is no answer.
Whoever this man is, he is impossible. Waverly likes impossible. She sweeps off her black hat and her mask and tosses them both on the bed. Behind her, the man shuts the door and locks it with a click. “We can talk,” she says, going to the sidebar to pour them both drinks, “or we can ‘talk,’ but either way, take that dreadful mask off. I’m quite curious as to –”
She turns.
And Waverly goes very quiet, and very still.
Corvo Attano is quite still, as well, though it’s a different and watchful sort of stillness. His hand is only resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, but this means nothing. He looks very tired. The wanted posters have been generous: they’ve left out some of the gauntness of his face, the scar under his right eye, the flat sort of resignation in his gaze.
Waverly swallows hard. “I suppose,” she murmurs, “that there’s no point in screaming.”
“No.” He hesitates. “Not for you, anyway.”
She nods once, slow. Her veins seemed to have filled with ice – it’s a very solid sort of feeling. She raises the glass of whiskey in her hand in a small toast and downs it, wincing, in one long swallow.
He still hasn’t moved.
“I won’t insult the both of us by asking why,” she says. Outsider, the whiskey burns in her throat. It tastes almost like the hysteria she cannot allow herself to feel. “You’re after Hiram. You’re not after me.”
Corvo sighs. “Don’t bother trying to plead –”
“I will try.” The glass clangs as she sets it down and goes to fill it again. Her back is toward him, but she doubts it makes much difference. He’ll run her through whether she’s watching or not. “I might as well. You’re lucky. If I thought it would work I’d start taking off my clothes, but you’re rather famous for not falling for that.”
Corvo makes a small half-amused sound. “What else am I famous for?”
Waverly braces both hands on the sidebar and briefly closes her eyes. Her sisters, she thinks. Her sisters need her. They cannot last a week without her. And she’s not dead yet. The fact that there’s no sword blossoming silver through her chest means that he wants to hear what she has to say. She racks her brain for every rumor she’s heard of the former Lord Protector, before his disgrace; comes up short and racks her brain for every conclusion she can draw about after. Combines them both. “I know,” she begins, “what it’s like, to live in someone’s shadow, to be taken for granted –”
Corvo says nothing. But it’s clear she’s made a mistake. The sword is very sudden and very cold on the side of her neck.
Waverly grits her teeth. “Go on, then.”
“My life wasn’t like that,” Corvo murmurs fiercely. “It wasn’t. It –” He stops. “Just – keep talking.”
His voice is flat. His voice is finished. She draws inspiration from that. “You don’t need to kill me,” she presses. “Take the key to Dunwall Tower or whatever else you want. I don’t care. Hiram’s not worth my skin.” Her lips twitch despite herself. “My skin’s worth very little, honestly.”
She tries to turn, but he won’t quite let her. This makes sense. She supposes that he doesn’t want to look at her face.
“If I let you live you’ll go running to the guards,” he says.
“No.”
“You’ll go running to your sisters.”
“Not until Hiram is dead. Never, if you want. I swear. You don’t need to kill me. I can help you if you let me live.” That’s the real point, honestly. Mercy is a very pretty idea, but it’s better if she can press an advantage. She flinches as the edge of the blade kisses her neck. “I-If you cut me I’m going to have to come up with a way to explain it, though. May I turn?”
He allows her to.
Waverly braces herself with both hands on the countertop behind her, because if she doesn’t she will fall. The sense of panic is all very abstract. She’s not shaking. She’s just cold. What she’s said to him is all perfectly true: her own life is worth very little to anyone but herself, but her sisters need her, and they’re worth all the world.
Slowly, she reaches into her pocket and draws out the key to the Tower. She holds it out to him as if he’s a hound that might bite. “Take it,” she manages. “Go. I swear I won’t breathe a word you were here. I’ll try to get Hiram to loosen security if you like. Whenever you’re done I’ll make sure my family supports Emily. Or whatever you want.”
Corvo gives her what might be a fraction of a smile. “I can’t trust you.”
Of course not, Waverly wants to yell. Obviously. She can see it in his face. His face is somehow even more terrifying than his mask (this is always the danger of a masquerade: the masks are more true than the men they represent, and she should have been tipped off by the fact that he wore a skull). She can see in his eyes that this is not a man who can trust anyone, ever again.
She makes herself nod.
“Just do what makes sense. I’m not stupid. I-I’m more helpful to you alive.” Her words, she hopes, are cool and rational. Waverly draws a thin breath, and thinks of her sisters, and prays that this man has reason left if not mercy. She has, after all, never been deserving of mercy. “Please.”