Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Princess Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin (just Emily, please), first of her name, future ruler of the Isles, and definitely not oversleeping right now, awoke to a desk full of half-inked notes and the mid-day Karnacan sun pooling down the windowsill like an overflowing plant saucer.

Emily stares sleepily at this completely unwarranted influx of light. How bright Karnaca was compared to the soft grey days and creeping fog of Dunwall! She yawns and gathers her hair into a low ponytail. In a few years' time, she'll put her hair into a high bun like her mother, but right now, behind the walls of the royal apartments in Karnaca, she is only her mother's daughter, nothing more.

They had begun to visit Karnaca with some regularity when she had turned eight. Her mother had said something about wanting to keep Emily aware of her heritage, whatever that meant. Emily was a creature of Dunwall, but this place, this place was special too. It had grown on her as well. Corvo was from here, and he'd taken her to see many of its hallmarks, though she doubts she'll be let back in the High Overseer's office anytime soon, not after what she glued his desk drawers shut while he was discussing some important matter with her mother.

Well, maybe he shouldn't have ignored her then! He can't hold what she did when she was ten against her.

It's not precisely that she's left a trail of chaos behind in Karnaca, just that there was a reason Delilah started hanging around her more—not that she minded. She never knew the aunt on Corv—on her father's side of the family. (She's still not sure if she's allowed to be open about Corvo. Open secrets didn't necessarily mean freely discussed.)

She'd learned to paint with Delilah's guidance. Watercolors at first, and then some of the coveted paints whose constituents had to be ground first and then mixed with egg yolks. Sokolov had then taken to teaching her, if only to counterbalance modernity with what he called the "traditional techniques" of painting. Oh! Hadn't she promised to pick up some fresh paints for him this morning? He'd run out of a few colors. She should probably get them from Delilah.

Reaching for a ribbon on her desk, Emily brushes against a letter. Frowning, she picks it up, checking the front and the back. "Emily" reads Corvo's careful handwriting in ink. Hmm. He wouldn't leave her to attend to any serious matters, would he? Is this why the royal apartments are so empty right now?

To read the letter, turn to Chapter 2.

To fetch fresh paints for Sokolov, turn to Chapter 3.

Chapter Text

Of course, she ought to read the letter.

With the letter opener, she cuts through the envelope and retrieves the letter inside.

Dear Emily, it reads. It has come to my attention that Mrs. Pilsen has gone missing again. She's told me that she wants to go on a vacation to see the very southernmost point of Karnaca. Can you help me find her? Love, Corvo.

Emily frowns in thought as she folds the letter and tucks it into her pocket. "Southernmost point of Karnaca"? What could that mean? Then, she rummages around her desk for a map: Let's see, there are a few contenders for southernmost point: thinking in nomenclature, the top two contenders were Point Batista near the Batista Mining District and Point Abele near the Grand Palace, while thinking in physical distance, it seemed to be Santiago Fisheries. Hmmmm. Too many to pick from. She should ask Mindy for help. Mindy knows a great deal about Karnaca.

Mindy, fortunately, is easy to find near the docks, this time sitting cross-legged on a wooden pier, staring out onto the bright, rippling sea. As Emily draws near, she lowers her cigarette.

"It's a bad habit," Mindy says languidly, examining the cigarette between her fingers before snuffing it out. "So, what brings you here?" The smoke trails in a thin line towards the sky.

"Corvo left me a note—a puzzle, really."

"Sounds like he might want you to solve it yourself, eh?"

Emily huffs, exasperated. "But I wanted to know what you thought." She pauses a moment. "And surely isn't it a test of a good empress to know when to seek advice from her more-knowledgeable subjects, rather than to stubbornly plow on ahead?"

Mindy laughs. "You talk like an empress already. Ok, give it here." She smiles, half to herself. "Mrs. Pilsen, is this your governess?"

Emily squirms a little in embarrassment. "My childhood doll." And to redeem herself from childish flights of fancy, she explains, "Corvo gave her to me for my fifth birthday. She's like a friend to me—when I was small, you know."

"Of course," Mindy replies gently, amusement on her lips.

"Corvo used to hide her all over Dunwall Tower for me to find. He thought—he thinks I should know all the corners of the empire."

"So you should." Mindy pauses in thought. "I'll bet Mrs. Pilsen went to the Grand Palace. There's no good company to be had for a fine lady in Batista District." Here, Mindy grins. "But plenty of fun for the rest of us."

"Like what?"

"The wind corridor, for example. That's where they funnel the wind off Shindaerey Peak into the city's windmills."

They did sound like great fun, Emily admits to herself quietly.

To go to the Grand Palace, turn to Chapter 5.

To travel the wind corridor with Mindy, turn to Chapter 7.

Chapter Text

The Royal Conservatory is, of course, closed for seasonal renovations, which Emily has decided means that they're preparing new exhibits, deciding what should be on display, and most importantly, ignoring the ever-growing archives and its dusty, crinkled papers. She didn't think anyone had been down in the archives in, well, at least a hundred years. Yes, that seemed like a correct number, and to test her theory, like any good natural philosopher, as Sokolov would say, she'd tucked in a small drawing of Delilah, asleep on the sofa during one of her afternoon naps. Emily was conducting an experiment!

She is also, at that moment, conducting a much more perilous experiment against the effects of gravity, as she fling herself onto the back of the giant taxidermied owls, circling the ceiling like orderly, furry planets. She scrabbles across them, and panting, pulls herself up against the window of the curator's office. If Delilah's anywhere in Karnaca, she'll be here.

Emily's careful not to disturb the tea set with its newspaper laid carefully next to it, as she slides the window open.

"A little more to the side," comes her aunt's voice, in the tone reserved for directing painting subjects. Emily takes this as her cue.

"Aunt Deli-lah!" Emily calls out.

"Come in," Delilah returns.

"Not through the window again," Breanna adds, but she goes unheeded.

Emily swings her legs over the windowsill and jumps onto the ground. Then, she breaks into a run that Breanna can most certainly hear, before leaping onto the banister and sliding down the railing.

Downstairs, her aunt has set up a painting easel with bags of herbs and crushed stones near it, while Breanna reclines on a sofa, one arm supporting herself.

"She has far too much energy," Breanna remarks dryly from her seat.

"Surely, she hasn't come all this way just to say hello to her dear old aunt?" Delilah says knowingly, pointing at Emily with her paintbrush. A dark-brown pigment clings to the tip.

Emily puts the satchel down on Breanna's desk, to its owner's raised eyebrow. "Sokolov needs fresh paints—the umber, yellow ochre, and..." She fishes out the scrap of parchment again. "Azurite."

"He's lucky I just made a fresh batch," Delilah replies, bending over to examine her canvas sacks. "Though, I'm afraid he'll have to grind up the azurite on his own."

"Don't give him any more physical labors, dear," Breanna says, glancing over her shoulder to the west. "It's bad for his heart. I'm sure he's over at the Clockwork Mansion, quarreling with his understudy."

"Bad company for a little girl," Delilah quips, as she scoops up small allotments of pigment in glass jars. "Go on right home, so we can tell Jess with an honest heart that we didn't lead you astray."

"We would never lead anyone astray," Breanna replies with a knowing glance at her lover. "Anyway, you know you can come to us if some prick of a boy wrongs you."

"We'll turn him into a toad."

"Or a chair."

Emily frowns in thought, as she stuffs the paints (and one small piece of azurite) into her satchel. "But can you turn him into a bat?"

"It'll be a good time," Delilah concludes. She turns pensively to the window. "What do you think they're doing at the Grand Palace just now?"

"Probably some insufferable party," Breanna replies. "Lords and ladies and their little cakes."

"I could go for a little cake right now," Delilah adds in a very transparent way, and they both look at Emily expectantly.

Emily stamps her feet with an exasperated sigh. "Oh, is everyone ordering me around? First Sokolov, and now this."

"Not ordering, asking," Breanna corrects.

"Besides, we'll teach you some magic when you get back," Delilah adds. "To sweeten the deal."

Emily pretends to consider this. "Well, maybe," she says. "But only if you show me how to turn people into toads."

(Her mathematics tutor will have much to think about with his new life in the swamp!)

"That's my niece," Delilah replies. "Go, go now," she continues with a shooing motion of her hands. "I have much to left to paint, and the light is fading."

Emily stands at attention with a mock-salute before collecting the bag of paints that knock together in their sealed glass vials. As she slings it over her shoulder, Breanna seems to remember something.

"Hey," Breanna says, reaching for something under the silk pillow. "Stay out of the archives. I just re-ordered them."

Emily catches her wadded-up drawing with a grin.

As Emily climbs out of the office window onto the balcony below, she cannot help but catch the flickering lights of the Grand Palace. She's been there on a few occasions when she was younger. She doesn't remember much of those official visits, only entertaining herself in those loud, empty halls and then clambering onto the pavilion's roof as the sun set in a quilt of red and gold.

Pandyssia, she'd thought with an explorer's heart. I'm so close to Pandyssia now. The closest I can get in all the Isles.

The clank of paint vials brings her back to the present and remind her that she has a choice to make.

To go to the Clockwork Mansion to give Sokolov his paints, turn to Chapter 4.

To go to the Grand Palace for a little cake, turn to Chapter 5.

To return home with the paints instead, turn to Chapter 6.

Chapter Text

Emily knows how to get into the Clockwork Mansion. In fact, she knows it so well that the last time she was there, she tormented the Grand Inventor by leading him on a wild goose chase behind the walls of the mansion, only stopping when Corvo had plucked her from her hiding spot under the pool table. Corvo had hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her out that way, with Jindosh trailing behind, likely to intercept any attempts at escape.

She'd taken great pride in his disheveled appearance: his hair free from its styling cream and that pencil mustache crinkled in displeasure. Then, she'd stuck her tongue out at him, and to her great surprise, he'd returned the gesture, disagreeable man that he was.

It's easy enough to sneak past the walls with just a pull of a lever and Jindosh's irritated voice following her: "Hello? Hello? Is someone there?"

"I've told you before, Jindosh," Sokolov's voice begins, carrying over from somewhere deep in the mansion, "this ostentatious, claptrap contraption is falling apart. It's inevitable without a solid skeleton to support it."

Emily snickers as she makes her way across the cool, folded-up wasteland behind the walls.

"What you term 'ostentious,' Sokolov, is merely a matter of refined tastes. I've seen the hovel you call home in Dunwall, and I—" Jindosh stares at her, as she peers past the window into the room. He groans and, closing his eyes, rubs the bridge of his nose. "The rats are back in the walls, I see."

Jindosh leans back into a sprawl across a chair, and takes another discontented, deep breath from the tip of a hookah, while Sokolov surveys Emily from his spot on the sofa, his eyebrows furrowing as he tries to make out why she might be here. On a nearby table are careful rows of unearthed ferns, soil still clinging to their roots.  

"Emily," Sokolov says. "What a curious thing you're up to, wandering this death-trap."

Emily jumps into the room. "I've brought your paints, like you asked," she says as she presses the satchel into his aged hands. Pretending not to notice Jindosh's attention, she glances at the ferns. "What are you up to?"

"Jindosh and I have just been conferring on how best to overwinter the ferns," Sokolov says absentmindedly, holding one of the vials to the light. "Take one with you and give to Delilah as thanks for the paints."

"I was just there," Emily protests. "I can't run across the whole city."

"Save it for when she gets home. She likes plants."

"What about me?" Emily continues. "You asked me, after all."

"She can't have one of the ferns," Jindosh cuts in, grumpily. "We need them for the experiments."

"You're too young to be a crotchety old man, Jindosh," Sokolov replies. "And I think she's earned one for her efforts."

Jindosh rolls his eyes and crosses his arms as he sinks farther back into the chair.

"Besides," Sokolov continues with a sly wink to Emily, "I don't think we'll need them all. The chemical solution you've proposed should work to stimulate the roots."

Jindosh considers all of this warily, yet with an irrepressible note of pride. "And you were just content to disagree with me for the sake of disagreement?"

"A man needs a good quarrel from time to time," Sokolov replies smoothly, slipping two of the ferns into Emily's pocket. "Go on home now, before Jindosh turns you into one of his clockwork abominations," he tells her, patting her hand.

This ignites a fresh round of squabbling, and Emily disappears back behind the walls with a grin. She could always count on Sokolov to intercede on her behalf.

When Emily returns home, the royal apartments are still strangely empty. Where could Corvo and her mother have gone off to? Surely, their very important meeting couldn't have taken that long. The afternoon sun is heavy in the cloudless, dusty sky, and Emily cannot help but feel the allure of a good nap. She settles in on one of the many sofas there, and dreams of better things.

She dreams of the smile on her aunt's face when she holds out the plant to her; how Delilah will turn it over, inspecting the root system with approval; and then, how they'll pot of the plants together, fresh, black soil filling the pots so easily. The first watering that breaks the surface of the soil to seep down, the excess collecting in the saucer. Jessamine teasing them about the growing plant collection, but then adding to it in secret.

Yes, there's much to look forward to.

END

Chapter Text

Climbing across the rooftop of the Grand Palace is as easy as Emily remembers it being. The painted terracotta tiles provide places for her to grip and move across the vast swaths of grey that make up the pyramidal plains of the roof. Then, she slides down onto the pale balcony of the Duke.

But for her next move, she doesn't have to look much further than a series of tiny, muddy footprints headed inside. Her errand was only a pretense, but for what?

Emily follows the tiny footprints down the stairs, past black-clad servants in their livery with covered dishes, and into an open-air pavilion, with the sea pacing beyond it. Lights have been strung along the railings, delicate finger dishes are piled in trays and staggered ceramic plates, and the tables have been set with plates and cups and sparkling silverware. In the center is Mrs. Pilsen next to a full cup of tea.

It takes a moment to realize that all of this is for her.

"We thought you might have gotten lost," her mother says, relief evident in her face, as she carries a small plate heaped with finger sandwiches and fruit. "It was all Corvo's idea."

"You can't keep her inside forever," Corvo replies, glancing up from a fig. "She needs survival skills more than ever."

"She'll be fine," Delilah says, before draining the rest of her wine glass. "The kid takes after you; she's been jumping around like a jackarabbit all day today."

"I've just been becoming acquainted with the lay of the land," Emily replies, a tad haughtily, "like a good empress."

"She takes after you as well," Jessamine replies to Delilah with a knowing smile, before pressing the plate into Emily's hands. "Eat now. You must be hungry," she tells Emily.

"You as well," Corvo says, guiding Jessamine back to the overflowing table. "I'm no good if you neglect yourself."

"I'm empress, not some fainting maiden," Jessamine tells Corvo firmly, but a tender smile plays on her lips as she takes her place beside Corvo (and swipes a particularly ripe fig from his plate with a knowing grin).

And as Emily tucks into the plate, under the gently swaying ropes of light and eternally bright foliage, she cannot help but feel wrapped in a bubble of protection and love. She hopes it will last forever.

END

Chapter Text

It was a probably a good idea to go back home. No sense in running about Karnaca like Corvo, she supposes. Still, that doesn't mean she has to be proper about being home alone and with no supervision. She can still have an adventure in the royal apartments—starting with her aunt's stash of paintings.

Emily slips down to Delilah's small quarters: potted plants hang from the ceilings with great puffs of fern leaves and trailing vines, while various half-ground pigments lie out in their mixing bowls. Emily rubs a chalky rust across her fingers, inspecting it, before wiping it on her pants. Emily might not be often allowed to use these paints, but that doesn't mean she's a stranger to them.

She sifts through some of the partially stenciled portraits: one of the Duke of Karnaca and a favorite wolfhound, a few others of various nobles she probably should recognize but doesn't, a cat sunning itself on a balcony, the fishermen bringing in a catch in the late afternoon, when the sea has turned dark.

Emily's breath catches a hitch when she spots the last one. Two girls, dashing around Dunwall Tower. Emily's been at that very corner, the one with the banner overhead and stained-glass window of a sparrow in flight. It's like looking into a parallel time. It's surely not her time, but Delilah doesn't paint fictions.

Oh, it's her mother—Jessamine.

Jessamine and Delilah, when they were young.

Emily turns it over for any additional clues, but instead, a paper falls out, having been loosely folded into the back of the canvas. It's a child's drawing—it's her drawing from when she was about eight years old. With a mixture of curiosity at rediscovering a half-remembered artifact and teenage embarrassment, she surveys the simple assortment of lines to delineate figures with shaky yet pronounced letters below them. It's a family drawing of her, Corvo, her mother, and Delilah.

Well, Emily knows she can do so much better now.

Sitting down with a pencil and a borrowed sketchbook, Emily begins to compose a new drawing, and when she's finished, she folds it inside of the old one for her aunt to find.

END

Chapter Text

The wind corridor is a mass of groaning, creaking pipes funneling wind towards the city like a circulatory system. On a work platform above the pipes, Mindy waits for another gust of turbulence, judging the flow with a careful tension in her form. Then she leaps into the oncoming gust and it carries her, laughing, to another work platform.

"Go on!" Mindy calls, and Emily springs into action.

It's almost like flying. She's suddenly rolled up into a state of weightlessness as the wind suspends her over the city. She flings her arms away from her in mock-flight, enjoying the way this almost invisible force guides her, slides her next to Mindy.

Elated, Emily watches for the next wind current.

"That one," Mindy says. "Catch it. Now!"

Emily jumps into the next wind flow, the mountain chill wrapping along her as it sweeps her farther along the structures, as the mouth of the pipes open and close in time. And for a moment, she's very young and jumping into her mother's arms again from the pavilion's rooftop. The rush of the air as she hurtles towards her mother thrills her, second to only the firm resistance of her mother's arms as Jessamine catches her.

"She's your daughter," her mother teases Corvo. "She gets it from you."

Corov chuckles, and taking Emily, tosses her into the air.

"Again!" she calls out. "Again!" 

Corvo's strong arms find her again and again as she soars ever so briefly through the air and then tumbles back down again. She laughs and laughs. "I almost saw the lighthouse that time!"

Corvo grins. "Keep an eye out for the boats now, you hear?"

"I see...! One—no, no, two boats at sea!" Emily says, reaching out her tiny, chubby hand towards the dark shapes on the water.

In the present, riding the wind currents, Emily feels much the same sense of wonder and joy. Glancing over to the faraway Karnacan Bay, a shimmering bowl of light, she tries to puzzle out how many ships are there. It's tricky to tell, but she counts at least ten, maybe twelve in the lower right area.  

As her feet hit the next wooden platform, she resolves to tell Corvo what she's seen from up on high. Even now, her family is never far from her mind.

END