Archive of Our Own ^beta

14 Days Until the Reunion

Delilah Briarwood had been many things when alive: an absolute bitch and a vicious squawk for one, but she had never been wasteful. Which is why it’s a surprise to absolutely no one that she’d left her entire fortune and business as an art trader to one sole successor. For Laudna, being on the receiving end of that inheritance was unexpected to say the least.

After all, Laudna didn’t have much to thank Delilah for—you can’t thank a dead bitch for writing you into her will—but credit where credit’s due, dying is probably the nicest thing that Delilah had ever done for her. And on the lead up to Winter’s Crest, too? Well, Laudna truly was spoiled.

Now that Delilah had, for lack of a better term, finally carked it, she’d seen significantly fewer commissions. That’s why it’s a welcome sight to see a new email resting in her inbox, one that isn’t telling Laudna that it’s not too late to buy that special someone an E-gift card.

Admittedly, she’d accepted the job without properly reading the details. She’d simply plugged ‘Heartmoor Hamlet’ into her GPS, filled up her trusty Rover Mini Cooper with petrol, and began the semi-treacherous drive through sleet and snow. At least, she thought, it would be another two weeks before she’d have to make this drive again.

Laudna would habitually veto these types of requests – temporary murals for events that she had to drive a ways out for – but the truth is that she’s ailing in the city. Like the bean plant of an elementary school science experiment withering away in the art supplies cupboard. Not to mention Laudna needs the work, right now. Plus, Fearne’s been hassling her about coming to visit her in the Heartmoor for… gods, it had to be almost a year now.

Ah, how the time flies when every detail of your life is being micromanaged by a depraved wench.

This place, Laudna had to admit, is just about in the sticks. In fact, it’s so far from anything at all that it feels like its own little corner of the world. The only town name on any road sign. In that way, it reminds Laudna of home, her original home, before she’d been taken to the city.

Her radio sang Winter’s Crest songs, some jolly, jovial tune with a few too many bells and whistle notes for Laudna’s taste and she jams her finger so hard into the off button that she felt her nail bend. Instead, she listened to the sound of her tires wobbling over the neglected road.

“Oh, Pâte, what have I done?” Laudna commiserated, imagining pulling his little body to life with her fingers. A little caricature of some failed children’s book she’d mused on a thousand years ago: another project that had been left at the bottom of a box to rot, while she focused on Delilah’s orders..

The road ahead of her was lined with snow and she could, occasionally, feel her frictionless tires gliding uncontrollably across the pavement. She was trying desperately to remain calm, knuckles turning white with grip.

“You done fucked up, tha’s what you gone and did, love.” His voice was gravelly in her throat, and the accent wide in her mouth and punctuated with hard plosives. Laudna could almost see him, hands on his rat hips, tutting. If he could tut. He could probably only say the word ‘tut’ now she’s thinking about it.

“Well, you don’t need to tell me that.” She shook her head, widening her eyes, almost as if in a pantomime.

“You asked.”

“Enough with that cheek. You know better.”

“Do I?”

Laudna huffed and adjusted her hands on the steering wheel, letting her fingers tap in a little wave. She’d been in the car too long and had been regretting not downloading a podcast for coming on four hours and with the radio only playing songs that made her want to hard left into oncoming traffic, she had no choice but to… simply provide her own entertainment.

Thankfully, it wasn’t that much longer before she passed the threshold of a town with a deep need of a new welcome sign, and an outskirts laden with trees and foliage. The kind of town you’d hear about in true crime after one of the residents went insane and went on a killing spree or something.

Not the point.

Here she was, an orphaned (newly, for the second time around, double points!) artist, making a piece to showcase at a reunion. A coming together of long time friends for the first time in… well, again, she hadn’t been given that many details so she may be embellishing a little. Filling in the blanks with something. If she’d any luck at all, the venue would have a way of contacting Mr Bell, the one who had contracted her.

So, naturally, that’s the first place she tried.

It’s not the usual way things would go: habitually, she’d have to make appointments with clients and they’d give her a tour of the place but even if Bertrand Bell knew she was coming, which she had made sure to inform him (four times over, in fact), he was unsurprisingly nowhere to be found.

“You’re certain he’s not here?” Laudna asked, twisting her hands in front of her, trying to look as polite as possible.

“He booked with us online, hon, I dunno what to tell ya,” the receptionist said. She flicked platinum white hair over her shoulder and picked lint off of the cuff of her bright pink sateen jacket. Though not physically, she gave the impression of someone who was always chewing gum. “And between you and me, he books this place out all the damn time and I’ve never seen the guy, so.”

“Alright.” Laudna looked down at the desk in front of her, and felt her shoulders fall, wilting in the receptionist’s gaze. All of the little trinkets at the desk look back up at her, just as solemn, taking particular note of the little toy crown that the receptionist was rolling between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. She hummed, one hand wrapped over the strap of her bag, the other falling to fiddle with the zip. “Alright.”

What move was she meant to make from here? She could always go back to her car, check into her hotel, log into her email for the gazillionth time to see if Bertrand has responded. Which he won’t have. She could always come back and try again tomorrow? Then again, if this receptionist—Opal, her name tag read—had never seen him, then Laudna’s chances of running into him are slim to none.

“Whatcha need him for?” Opal leaned forward, the crown hitting the desk with a soft clink as she pushed it to one side. “I can always try passing on a message. That’s not to say he’ll get it, but y’know, can’t say you didn’t try?”

“Oh! Tell him that—” (He should answer his fucking emails?) “—that Laudna is looking for him.”

Opal reached into her ponytail and pulled out a pen, smoothly flicking a post-it from the stack before writing, in perfect script ‘Bertrand – Lawdnah looking for you’. “I’ll see what I can do—even if it means tracking down the bastard myself.”

Something about the way she said it made Laudna think that she absolutely did not want Opal to go and find Bertrand herself because, if she did, the first time she’d be meeting the fellow would be from the casket.

Laudna had seen some videos recently, some kind of skit about the mean girl actually just being a girl’s girl. She had falsely assumed that it was a caricature. Her grip on the strap of her bag loosens.

“I…appreciate that,” she admitted, and immediately hated just how pathetic it sounded. So she set her shoulders back. “I’m—he commissioned me. To paint a mural? Or something for this space? Probably not in here specifically, but you know, a room for some kind of event.”

“That Reunion thing that’s happening near Winter’s Crest, right?”

“That’s the one! Yes. That one.”

“That damn thing’s all I’ve been hearing about for, like, a day now. If you wanna go scope it out, you can. I mean, no one’s booked it until then so.” Opal flicked her wrist, turning to a computer screen. “It’ll be busier next week once prep starts but you’re good to check it out now, if you wanna.”

There was nothing in Opal’s face or countenance to suggest that she shouldn’t so she did. Laudna practically let herself into what she’d come to know was called The Apogee Parlour. It was much larger than she originally anticipated it to be. The entire space echoed like a cavern, silence interrupted only by the occasional rumble of steps from the floor above, almost as if a single voice would carry across the entire room in a whisper.

All in all, it had about as much personality as an original-flavour Pringles can. Walls painted in millennial grey, floors a neutral beige of laminated hardwood, tables and chairs stacked and lined up against the walls, leaving open a large walkway in the middle.

A large walkway that was interrupted by a shock of lavender hair. The woman must have heard the soft click of Laudna’s boots because she turned suddenly and their eyes met from worlds away, all the way across the room.

Laudna felt her gut drop and dangle somewhere near her feet. She wished she could collect it up, jam it back into her body, turn around and promptly leave and never be seen again.

The woman stared at her, notebook still in hand, saying absolutely nothing, looking just as shocked to be seeing another person.

“You… wouldn’t happen to be Bertrand Bell, would you?” Laudna finally asked, dropping the silence into a decades old paper shredder. She chanced a few more steps forward. Her eyes were getting no better, afterall, and the closer she got, the more this woman came into focus.

Laudna finally caught a soft rounded nose and the swell of a bottom lip and freckles, tanned skin dotted with an entire sky’s worth of stars. And that’s not even to mention her curls—a wonderful concoction of waves seeped in lavender falling all the way down her back, bracketing her face like a gilded frame.

The woman pushed her glasses—round, golden—up her nose and her lips curled into a warm smile. Well, a smile that made Laudna feel warm, at the very least. She cocked an eyebrow.

“Do I look like a Bertrand, you reckon?” Her words were rurally linted, pulling vowels long and adding a sort of song to the words. But soft. Sweet sounding. Like honey and caramel and melted butter.

Laudna spluttered. “Well—well you never know these things! You could be Bertrand! I’ve never met him.”

“Me neither.” The woman smiled, pressed her notebook closed and took a few steps towards Laudna. They were now, at least, a conversation’s distance apart. She stuck out her hand. “Name’s Imogen Temult. You are?”

Imogen! Laudna had always loved the name Imogen. It was rather fun to say. Imogen.

“I’m Laudna,” she said and reached back. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Imogen’s hands were warm and somewhat rough, like she’d spent a lifetime doing practical work. Not so much writing in notebooks. Her grip was firm, but she let go of her hand perhaps too quickly for Laudna’s taste. Not that she wanted Imogen to hold her hand for longer, no, absolutely not, it just felt… curt, in a way.

Something in Laudna wanted to feel the warmth of her hand again, because she hadn’t been paying enough attention to how it felt the first time.

“As in, Bradbury? The artist?”

Laudna felt her mouth dry up. It wasn’t often that someone recognised her by name, and the times that they had, it had never been a good thing. They’d always known Delilah, or of the Briarwoods, and by extension her. “Yes. Why?”

“It was me, actually. Who commissioned you, I mean.” The weight on Laudna’s shoulders lifted suddenly, like a cliff of clay easily bending to the tide’s demand for erosion. “Your wage is coming out of his pocket so it had to be done by him but, I’m actually kinda glad that I ran into you. He was meant to pass along my contact. I wasn’t sure if you had it and just didn’t reach out or if he just… didn’t.”

Imogen seemed at least a little versed in Bertrand’s… quirks.

“He didn’t. He seems to have a habit of dropping off of the face of the earth just when you need him.” She didn’t intend to add that note of bitterness into her voice, but it seeped in through the cracks, like she’d added too much cacao and it hit between the sweet notes of milk chocolate.

“You don’t say. Well, bless his heart.” Imogen laughed humorlessly, shaking her head. Her hair tossed around her as she did; Laudna, idly, wondered if it was soft to the touch. Internally scolded herself for even thinking of it. “Anyway, I’m the coordinator. I’m runnin’ things, basically.”

“The whole event?” Laudna’s brow pulled together. “Completely on your own?”

“Not completely! I got a couple friends that I’m cashin’ in favours for. Last big job ‘til the New Year so we gotta make the most of it. Plus, now you’re here we can exchange contacts and can go through some design ideas and such, if that’s somethin’ you’d be interested in? It’ll—uh—make it a lot easier. In the long run, I mean, if we’re able to hash out some designs now. Gettin’ an early start to things, if you know what I mean?”

The ‘Imogen (Coordinator)’ contact was tucked away in her phone in a matter of minutes. Laudna didn’t want to notice that this was the first number she’d added to her phone of her own volition, not out of obligation to Delilah. It felt too small to be monumental, but she stared at it in reverence anyway, thumbs held in stasis over the screen as she took it in.

Then, Imogen opened her notebook again and she began talking, taking Laudna by the non-literal hand (much to her dismay) and guiding her through the space, gesturing to regions of the room that she’d allocated to certain themes or colours. Occasionally, she’d seem to lose her train of thought and jot something down.

At some point, Laudna couldn’t help but get the feeling that she should be making notes, too.

Occasionally, Imogen would speak in a circle, then catch her stumble and rectify it, like she’d been desperate to verbalise her plans and now that she finally had to, it was all spilling out too quickly, like an overfilled cup, but she’d been prepared with paper towels to wipe up the mess.

“All this to say. The clients had originally asked for a stained glass-esque…” She gestures to the back wall. “Backdrop. Mural.”

“I regret to inform, I absolutely don’t have enough time—or experience—to do an entire piece in stained glass.” Laudna would be remiss if ‘proficient with stained glass’ wasn’t scrubbed from her website—one of Delilah’s many lies about her repertoire, and one that Laudna certainly hadn’t intended on making good on. Far too much bother, as far as she was concerned.

“I know, I know, that’s what I figured when I was lookin’ at the request, so I thought, like, you know you can absolutely shut this down, but maybe, like, paint it as if it was stained glass? With all the lines between everythin’ I mean, and not much shadin’? So we’re usin’ less paint?”

Laudna had never done something like that. Of course, she’d used one medium in order to imitate another thousands of times but on this big a scale? It would be a large undertaking. A lot of workshopping, hashing out ideas and intricacies and so many iterations. And that’s not even to mention the process of actually painting. Imogen was no painter, obviously, so she wouldn’t know that the amount of paint wouldn’t really change. Laudna would need it locally supplied, since the preliminary ideas were now milch, and Laudna doubted that this hole-in-the-wall town would have the very specific niche brand of paint that she preferred. So she didn’t know how the stuff would act, what the application is like, if there’d be a need for underpainting, multiple coats. And if she needed to do multiple coats, she’d need to account for the drying time and—

“If I can start today, I think we could make it happen,” Laudna said. It would be a crunch. A major crunch. Murals usually had at least a few more people working on them for them to be done in this short a time period.

The ‘we’ had slipped in without Laudna even noticing.

Imogen’s eyes lit up and whatever part of Laudna that doubted she could do it shrivelled like a hair in fire. “You’re certain?”

“I’m not,” she admitted, eyes bouncing away from Imogen’s too-kind, too-hopeful eyes and looking to the back wall. An area behind a short, raised platform that was a bleak, occasionally scuffed white. “But we can certainly try.”

13 Days Until the Reunion

There’s a little cafe that Laudna scoped on her way into town that she’d later find out was called Zephrah—a cozy little thing with some outdoor seating placed under a quaint little canopy, a chalkboard out front with the deals of the day and a painting of a landscape pressed onto the windows in white paint. Ever since driving past it on her way in, she’d wanted to pop her head in.

A little bell rang from the top of the door as she pushed inside, greeted by a short man with light brown hair who took her order and invited her to sit wherever she’d like.

Laudna had opted for one of the smaller tables, only two chairs to boot, and sat with her steaming mug—the latte had the most delightful little Winter’s Crest tree drawn on the top of the foam—and a plate of goodies. The buttery, flakey pastry of the croissant went fantastically with the blend of coffee they stocked. A rich, deep pull of espresso that Laudna had expected to be more tart, sharper on the inhale than it was on the taste.

She popped another bit of pastry into her mouth and hummed to herself as she pushed her plate to one side, pulling out a sketchbook. The box that she drew—the rough proportions of the back wall—were mostly procrastination if she’s honest. The only mark on the paper that she’s sure of.

The graphite glided across the page thinly, a blade on ice, as she began to carve out faces using thicker lines. A differentiation on her usual style: faceless silhouettes based on the pictures that Imogen had sent to her—presumably of those who would be attending this reunion. It had been the only thing she’d heard from Imogen, so it must be important.

She cycled through a few different styles, but the wall being taller than it is wide caused her more issues than she’d care to admit, especially when you’re trying to compile seven figures all into one piece. The odd number threw her off. How was one meant to even balance composition when you have an odd amount of subjects. Of course, if it was landscape, it would be a thousand and one times more manageable. But that was simply not the case.

Laudna took a long sip of her coffee, mentally apologising for ruining the tree.

(Trying to drink gently was not a thing she was trained in, nor good at. The tree was toast from the get go.)

She picked up her mechanical pencil again, pushing for an extra breadth of graphite before her attention was caught by the delicate tinkling of the bell above the door.

“Morning! Be with you in just a second,” the cashier called from the back.

“That’s fine, take your time, Orym.”

Laudna tried not to people watch, but the voice immediately rang familiar.

Imogen stood at the counter, bundled in a long, green coat and yellow scarf, rubbing condensation from her glasses as she looked into the small display cabinet. Her hair was pulled back and tied, a long ponytail sitting bunched in her hood, but even despite it, wisps of lavender floated around Imogen’s head. Maybe they weren’t not on purpose. If they were, they were effortless. And beautiful.

She pushed her glasses back onto her face, settling to rub her palms together as she waited, rocking her weight from one foot to the other.

Trying to turn back to the page, Laudna pushed the urge to greet Imogen down like a sweet medicine. They’d met once in a strictly professional capacity, that was hardly territory for waving at her, first thing in the morning, when Imogen was probably just trying to get on with her day.

Laudna looked up again, back to Imogen, who was already looking back at her, a smile playing on her lips.

Imogen’s cheeks were flushed red with cold and it must have been the colour that made her eyes look brighter, Laudna thought. She had this look, like she was spring embodied, like Imogen, herself, was capable of turning the world warm again.

“Mornin’, Laudna,” she said, a gentle smile bleeding into her words. “Glad you found this place, was gonna recommend it to you, if not.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but the barista—Orym, Imogen called him—returned and took her order.

The drawing on her page felt wrong, still – she’d never been good at action poses, anyway. Laudna turned over and started again, working the same box onto the paper. The image seemed to fall blank, even as she flicked over the previous iterations, identifying what wasn’t working, fixing it in the next.

Her inability to think had absolutely nothing to do with the glances that she kept stealing in Imogen’s direction, or the script she’d begun planning in her head, for when Imogen walked out the door. Is ‘See you later’ okay? Would she see her later? It didn’t insinuate that Laudna was going to follow her or something, did it? ‘Goodbye’ felt too formal, does it not? Too final. ‘It was nice to see you again’ felt too… passive aggressive? Maybe a little yearn-y?

Laudna huffed. She’d never been good at the whole ‘talking’ thing, had been robbed of whatever eloquence she once had years ago.

“You mind if I sit?”

“What?”

“You mind keepin’ me company?”

Laudna blinked.

Imogen. Pulled out the chair across from her, pointed down at the seat.

“If not, that’s alright, I can sit…” She nodded to one of the other tables, all of which were completely empty. “Somewhere.”

“Oh. Oh!” Laudna’s brain clicked back into motion. “Yes! Please, sit. You can. If you’d like. I’m not expecting anyone.”

Fearne had wormed her way out of coming to see her—something about Nana Mori needing her help, that she promised she was going to make time in the next few days. Laudna didn’t doubt it but, still. She hadn’t wanted to eat breakfast alone. And now she wouldn’t.

Imogen breathed a sigh, relief swelling into her face. “Gods, I’m real glad, it was gonna be kinda awkward if I just sat across the room and I remembered I needed to text you or somethin’.”

“Goodness, Imogen, of course not! You’re welcome to sit with me, anytime,” Laudna said, hoping she sounded authentic. Because she was, Imogen is truly welcome any time. From what Laudna had seen of Imogen, she was hard working, sweet and, in Laudna’s humble opinion, beautiful. A good communicator. Who wouldn’t want to be in her company? “It would’ve been a little awkward, I do agree. But I’d never make you do that, don’t worry yourself.”

“You order anythin’ good? Orym’s always tryin’ out new stuff.”

“The croissants are to die for. They’re much better than the pastries in Whitestone.”

The bakeries that she’d frequented in Whitestone were… mediocre at best. The Slayer’s Cake had been a novel and rare exception to the rule—and Laudna thought that its rarity was something of an injustice. She wondered how many family recipes had been lost to being bought out by large corporations that only cared about profit, and not the people they’re feeding.

“I told him to make ‘em and keep ‘em on the menu. They’re perfect.” Imogen looked suddenly proud. She unzipped her coat and hung it around the back of her chair, revealing a soft-looking sky blue and white flannel that was layered over a tank top, but she left the scarf hanging around her neck. Laudna made a pointed effort to not look at her neck. Staring was uncouth. “Better than the ones in the city, huh?”

Laudna’s eyes looked back at her from the surface of her coffee, rippling as she shifted the cup by the handle. “It’s not often you see little places like these. You know, where things are made fresh and aren’t frozen and all of that malarkey.”

“Lucky for you, that’s all this place is. This place bein’ the Heartmoor, anyway. We’re our own little corner of nowhere.” There’s that smile again. Laudna wanted to be wrapped in that smile and it would last her all the way through winter. She wondered if Imogen smiled at every stranger like this, or if it was just at Laudna. “Been a while since I’ve been out of town, if I’m honest.”

“How come?”

“Not much reason to leave, I guess. Last time I really went was on a field trip when I was a kid. Don’t remember it all that much, though.”

“It’s not all that worth remembering, if I’m honest.”

Imogen shifted in her seat, leaning almost imperceptibly forward. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s just… so big, I suppose. You become just another face of hundreds that will pass through the doors of a given place on a given day and it all feels rather… anonymous, if you understand me. There’s a sense of intimacy, I think, in being known.” Laudna laced her fingers together in demonstration. “When you see the same barista, for instance, every day for months, and they still don’t know your name, it’s easy to feel lost.”

Laudna certainly felt lost. She hoped that the implication had been lost on Imogen, but her eyes told Laudna that it hadn’t been. A spark of recognition that made Laudna feel like someone had grabbed her lungs and squeezed.

“I can see why you wouldn’t like a place like that,” Imogen said, simply. “But I can see why people who don’t wanna be known flock there. Makes a lotta sense.”

Imogen paused, as if in thought, before she said, “Where I came from, it’s kinda the opposite problem. In Gelvaan, everyone knew each other too well. Everyone’s business is everyone’s business because there’s not a lot that happens around those parts. Same folks passing through the same doors at the same time every day. Nothin’ new, everythin’ old.”

She finally took a drink from her still-steaming cup, only to set it down with a little too much force as her face twists, the liquid sloshing over the side. “Hot. Shit, ouch.”

Laudna half-rose from her seat. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah! Yeah, no, I’m good, just Orym’s stupid ass coffee machine always makes the milk too hot. I’m always burnin’ myself on this shit. Sorry, I don’t mean to curse so much.”

Laudna couldn’t stop her own smile, even if she wanted to. “I have a mouth like, pardon my French, a fucking sailor on a good day. You’re not to worry about it, dear.”

She picked up a napkin from atop her notebook, holding it out for Imogen, who took it and began mopping up the small spillage from her drink, mumbling something about how this happens every damn time.

“I’ve been meaning to ask: what is it you’re workin’ on? You looked a little in your head when I came in. If it’s nothin’ personal, of course.”

“I’ve been trying to sketch out some ideas for the mural.” Laudna sipped from her cup. “But nothing seems to be sticking for me, right now. I’ve been trying to follow the formula of traditional stained glass designs—the shape of the wall lends itself to something of that nature but… nothing seems to be working.”

Against her better judgement, Laudna flipped to her first attempt, the shoddy box and half-baked silhouettes glaring up at her from the page, and slid her notebook over to Imogen.

“I’m probably a little outta touch with this whole thing, but these look great to me, Laudna.” She sipped carefully, only wincing a little this time. “What’s botherin’ you so much?”

Laudna considered this for perhaps too long. “I just can’t visualise it. As in, I think the spectrum of everything this piece could be is still far too broad for me to make any sweeping decisions about it.” She flipped the pencil over in her fingers, letting the familiar weight of it guide a small spinning motion. “You see, my… terms of… employment recently… underwent high levels of… restructuring.”

It’d be more awkward to talk about her mother/dictator/manager/mentor’s death than it would be to make Imogen sit across the other side of the cafe. And yet, Laudna’s words had been punctuated with so many pauses that maybe it would’ve been easier just to admit it in the first place.

Imogen cocked an eyebrow. “New management?” she supplied.

“Yes! Yes, just like that.” Laudna placed the pen down on the table, tearing off another polite bite of the croissant. “You see, I’m used to working according to very specific guidelines—when it’s left up to me like this, I… can’t help but feel that I’m going to make the wrong choice.”

A pause rang heavily between them, so long that Laudna had to consider if she’d said something wrong, if she’d walked across a line she hadn’t known was there. More so when Imogen's eyes, for the first time in the conversation, fully fell away from Laudna, climbing the wall behind her.

“You…” Imogen started. She pursed her lips, brow furrowing, before she looked up. “Laudna, I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I didn’t think you were capable. Your work is amazin’. You should have more faith in yourself.”

The words felt about as heavy as the silence had been, and Laudna let them sink into her skin like warm water laden with rich oils. She turned them over in her palm like a stone, looking at them front to back and then over again.

Laudna swallowed down the lump in her throat. “You mean that?”

“Of course I do.” Imogen looked away again, cleared her throat, pushed her seat back just to tuck it back in again. “I wouldn’t just—I mean, I’m not one to blow smoke up your ass, just for the sake of it. I know I don’t know you, and you don’t really know me but. If you can take anythin’, know that I mean it.”

Laudna always hated this stage of the process. The spaghetti throwing, if you would. Trying to get something to stick, letting it boil in water until it becomes something consumable, edible. A small part of something greater than itself. She hated the feeling of not being able to get it right the first time around. It was wasteful to spend time and energy cooking pasta that she ultimately wasn’t going to use, dressed in a too-thick sauce no one was ever meant to see. She hated even more just how vulnerable it felt to have someone bear witness to those failures. To have someone look over each of her failed sketches.

And yet, with Imogen, it… felt easy, somehow.

Eyes that didn’t see a mess, that instead registered progress. A step towards the final draft, a step closer to the perfect roux.

“Would it help you out if I narrowed it down?” Imogen finally asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Like, if I gave you those guidelines. A set of bullet points or somethin’ that the design has to meet. A—a colour palette maybe, somethin’ like that? ”

“That… would be a world of help, actually.”

“I won’t pretend like I know what I’m talkin’ about but the least I can do is give you a couple ideas, right?”

(Later that evening, Laudna received a string of messages while she was eating dinner.

The first had been a list.

1). Stained glass 2). Something personal to each member 3). Maybe their faces? Idk i’m not the artist

The second had been a block of colours, hex codes included, all both complementing and contrasting one another perfectly.

The third one, and Laudna’s personal favourite, had been a poorly drawn picture of a set up. If Laudna squinted and pressed her phone to the tip of her nose, she supposed the vision was there. Other than that, the drawing had… looked so much like a nightmarish donkey that Laudna was hesitant to point it out.

That last one spiralled into an hours-long texting conversation that kept Laudna up far later than she’d like to admit.)

11 Days Until the Reunion

It took three whole days of futsing about with the design until Laudna was happy with the composition. Three whole days, one of which she spent tucked away in her hotel room, hunched over a desk in what might have been the World’s Most Uncomfortable Spinny Chair. The other two had been cut between Zephrah and the Apogee Parlour. Without Imogen’s help, she’s not sure how long it would have taken her.

On that second day, Laudna had been a little confused when she’d received the invite to sit in the Apogee Parlour, but wasn’t bogged down enough to reject it entirely. In fact, she had accepted—both the first and second times—rather enthusiastically.

They’d spent those days in quiet company. Imogen would have her notebook beside her at all times, grumbling something about budgets and having to keep everything straight (comments that Laudna wasn’t sure if she was meant to respond to or not). At others, she’d have her laptop in front of her, glasses perched on her nose as she squinted at her screen. And on some, she would simply quietly tap away at something, headphones pushing down her hair.

It was the third day—and they were back in the Apogee Parlour, having commandeered one of the many tables, when Laudna got it. In fact, the moment she stumbled into the draft, she knew.

The lines came easier, sturdier. She’d built off of the previous sketch, pushing the variation ever so slightly and incorporating a logo that she’d found through some thorough research (not cyberstalking. Imogen would have surely stopped her if it was cyberstalking).

“Imogen,” Laudna said, loud and sudden enough that Imogen near jumped out of her skin. Then, quieter. “Sorry. I—I think I have it.”

“You got it?” Imogen pushed her laptop back and away from her, pushing herself to standing. “Can I—”

But Laudna had already pushed the sketchbook in her direction.

Imogen scanned over it, drinking in every detail before she breathed, “This is it.” with such finality that it made Laudna feel weightless. “Gods, Laudna, this is it. This is perfect.”

Imogen glanced between her and the notebook, and then finally fixed her gaze on Laudna. Imogen looked at her like she’d been the one to light the sun on fire.

9 Days Until The Reunion

Imogen was late.

Laudna tugged at her blouse again, pulling it down and smoothing out what little creases remained. Her reflection taunted her as she pulled her shoulders back, trying to stand up straight.

It had taken almost two entire days to finally get that damn mural sketched out onto the back wall. Laudna didn’t know how she was going to cope with painting the thing, her hips and arms were already aching—it was like the time she’d made the fantastic decision to curl her hair. Something that she had never done again, of course, but that wasn’t so much an option here.

She tugged at the skirt this time, and then adjusted the belt.

Now, it was time to start adding the colour. Well, for this exact moment, choosing the colours. She saved the colour palette that Imogen had sent her maybe a dozen times just to make sure she actually had it. And now, she… Well, she was waiting for Imogen to pick her up. But she was late.

Laudna had never known Imogen be late for anything, not in the five entire days she’d known her. Okay, well, maybe she hadn’t known her very long, but it still felt out of character.

At least… it gave her enough time to fuss with her mascara, and debate whether or not her eyeshadow matched her lipstick?

(It did, it always did, but Laudna would never let herself have that peace of mind, never content to be complacent.)

Imogen wouldn’t stand her up, would she?

Surely that would be much more awkward considering that they were working together and would altogether complicate things a lot more than necessary.

Stand her up! Laudna almost had to laugh at herself. As if it was some kind of date. They’re going to pick colours for the job that Imogen was paying Laudna to do. Well, that Imogen was getting Bertrand to pay Laudna to do but that’s basically the same thing! Point was, it wasn’t a date. Would never be a date.

Because Imogen and Laudna had a very professional working relationship. And, of course, Imogen deserved someone much better than the likes of Laudna. A man, probably, too. Imogen had given her absolutely zero indication that she would consider relationships with other women, other than the flannel, of course, but that didn’t mean much these days.

Wait, why had she even thought about this? Such frivolity, and about a client, too, would be frowned upon. Laudna needed to get it together.

She pushed the wrinkles out of her skirt again, just in time for her phone to buzz.

Imogen (Coordinator):

Laudna i am SO sorry i’m late, im outside

If Laudna ran down to the hotel lobby faster than she usually would, that’s between her and whatever gods there are. And maybe anyone staying on the first floor.

When she finally reached the car park, she was surprised to see Imogen already outside, standing on the corner waiting for her.

She looked, for lack of a better term, dashing. Light brown slacks and a button up the colour of the sky. Form fitted and tucked between a well-worn, comfortable-looking leather jacket. And, most interestingly, her glasses were completely absent. Not hung from her shirt or tucked into her hair just, simply not there at all.

“You’re not wearing your glasses,” Laudna pointed out simply. “Are you… can you see?” She hadn’t meant for that to be the first thing she said, so she strung on, “Good morning,” for good measure.

“Mornin’ and yeah, I wanted to try somethin’ different I guess?” Imogen reached and scratched the nape of her neck, then adjusted the collar of her jacket. “Contacts.”

If Laudna didn’t know better, she’d say that Imogen looked nervous. Of course, she couldn’t be, because she’s Imogen and it’s only Laudna. Unless the paint store got her in a sweat just thinking about it? A possibility not yet disproved.

“You look lovely, Imogen! Of course, that’s not to say that you don’t also look lovely when you’re wearing your glasses but you look just as radiant without them!”

It’s not that cold, but a particularly enthusiastic gust of wind was enough to bring colour to Imogen’s cheeks. “You’re mighty kind, Laudna.”

“I’m honest!”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” Imogen said. “You look good normally but. I like your… lipstick. It—that colour really suits you. It matches your… shoes.”

Laudna felt a trill of joy .”I did it on purpose! You’re the first person to ever notice.”

She was. Laudna wasn’t used to anyone sparing her a glance, let alone noticing the time and effort she’d taken coordinating herself. Then again, it was Imogen’s job to coordinate things. Perhaps it was all a part of the practice.

“Well, you look wonderful, Laud,” Imogen said, “You ready to get going?”

Laudna had nodded, barely even registered that Imogen had opened and closed the truck’s door for her, because Imogen had called her Laud. How was it that shucking a syllable off her name felt so intimate? She wasn’t used to the way it sounded, but on Imogen’s tongue it felt mellifluous with the way it fell on Laudna’s ears, like a secret kept between only the two of them.

The drive went quickly, especially when the only thing that was bouncing around in Laudna’s mind was that nickname. A nickname! Imogen had given her a nickname! The first nickname she’d ever had, at that. Laudna almost wanted to head back to her hotel room imminently, just so that she could roll around on her bed and kick her legs.

“I’m still real sorry about bein’ late. I completely lost track of time,” Imogen said as she indicated right. These roads seemed second nature to her.

“That’s quite alright. Though, a head’s up would’ve been nice?”

Imogen cringed, her expression like she’s resisting slamming her head into the steering wheel. “I meant to, I just realised that I was late and got in a whole funk about it, was already drivin’ by the time I thought of it.”

“Was… everything alright?” Laudna didn’t know if they were friends enough to be able to ask.

Imogen deflated the hesitant tone with an awkward laugh. “It was ‘cause of these damned contacts. I don’t wear ‘em too often, see? So… I was strugglin’ to get the second one in for a whole half hour or somethin’ stupid like that, and by the time I’d got it in, I was already late and I wasn’t even ready so.” That laugh again—to Laudna, it was like a song, quickly becoming her favourite. “I dunno. Just wanted to do somethin’ different today, since we’re not really at work?”

Laudna felt like her entire body was going to set on fire. Imogen wanted to do something different. Just for her! Just for little old Laudna. Little old Laud.

Of course, it was entirely possible that Imogen would simply go someplace else, after she’d dropped Laudna off at the paint store but… she stayed.

When Laudna pushed herself out of the truck, Imogen followed her. Had even gently taken her by the arm and led her inside, and didn’t let go once they’d passed through the threshold.

Imogen had curled her arm around Laudna’s, and it felt so natural that it was bizarre to have to pull away, when it came time to crouch down to pull out samples, comparing them to the ones on her phone.

(“That’s orange.”

“No, it’s salmon.”

“Laudna, that’s fuckin’ orange.”

“Okay, well, I need a ‘fucking orange’ that’s a little less pink.”

“What about this one?”

“Imogen, that’s the same colour.”

“This one?”

“Perfect!”)

They’d been there for the better part of the afternoon before they’d walked out, wallets lighter, with the correct configuration and quantity of paints and a brand new set of larger brushes—for the larger areas, Imogen’s insistence.

If she’s honest, Laudna hadn’t intended on being out so long. She wondered if Opal would still be around to let her into the Apogee Parlour, so that she could make a start on the backdrop. Laudna was about to open her mouth, inconveniencing Imogen for one last time that evening in asking for a lift there, when she was cut off.

“You got any plans for dinner?” Imogen asked. They’re stopped at a red light, and Imogen turned to look at her, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping out the beat of the radio onto her thigh. At this rate, Laudna would start to like Winter’s Crest songs. “If you’re not busy, I was thinkin’ that we could hit a diner? It’s not fancy or nothin’, but I like it.”

Laudna was, horrifyingly, interrupted once again. This time, betrayed by her own stomach, that let out the most baleful sounding gurgle known to man. Laudna hadn’t been planning on saying no, but Imogen’s eyes perched with crow’s feet when she smiled and she felt the embarrassment melt away like ice on a gritted highway.

“Dinner sounds wonderful.”

The diner that Imogen took them too reminded Laudna, in many ways, of Zephrah. Warm-looking and comfortable, if a little rough around the edges. The interior was lit with rich, orange-yellow lights that weren’t harsh on the eyes, and there seemed to be a constant clatter coming from the kitchen, distant enough to form a beat under the hum of music and conversation.

“You’ll love it,” Imogen said, voice tucked away in a low whisper, like it was another secret she was sharing, as if they weren’t standing in the entrance where everyone could see them. “Promise.”

Imogen chose a table by the back corner—a booth with seats made of red, peeling leather—and a small vase of plastic flowers pushed against a wall next to the syrups and seasonings. She, without much thought, reached over and handed Laudna one of the menus tucked between the bottles.

“Is there something you recommend?”

“You fond of rhubarb?”

“I can be!”

Imogen shot her a look. “Are you?”

“...Not usually.”

“Pecan?” Laudna must’ve smiled because Imogen nodded, beaming like she’d guessed and still got the answer right. “I know it’s not really dinner food, but it’s nice if you got a sweet tooth? Even if not.” She shrugged.

Imogen looked a little pensive as she looked over the menu, despite the fact that everything in Laudna told her that Imogen wouldn’t need the thing to order. She hummed and ran her finger along the worn edge, flicked the dog-eared corner. Imogen’s eyes flitted between Laudna and the menu, over and over, her lips never quite finding the words she wanted to say.

“I’ve always thought about moving back out to a small town. It’s much more my speed,” Laudna said, jutting her head towards the rest of the diner. The air was thick with the smell of fryer oil and hot, jammy pie fillings and the checkered linoleum couldn’t quite gleam back at her. “I think I much prefer the quieter times.”

Imogen looked suddenly thankful: her shoulders fell and she seemed to melt into the leather seat. “What drew you to the city? If I’m not stickin’ my nose where it shouldn’t be, course.”

“I…” The truth rolled around Laudna’s tongue like chewed tobacco. Bitter and dulling, and yet sparking something like a hit at the back of her throat. She pressed it against her teeth, wondering if she should spit it out. And yet, the flavour had been long dried, and it was high time to finally let go of it. “I’m certain you’ve heard of my patrons. Former. The Briarwoods.”

Imogen hummed, the menu slid out of her hands and it sat, not quite flat, covering a ring stain on the table. “The rumours and such, yeah. There any truth to ‘em?”

“More than you think, likely. They were… less than stellar: I’m sure you gathered that much already.” Laudna swallowed. “I lost my parents young, and they were heralded for being kind enough to take in a stray from the countryside. I was taken from my home, raised in the city, trained in the arts and my skills were used for… well, you know the rest.” When Imogen doesn’t respond, Laudna tacks on, “Profit. Not that I saw any of it, of course.”

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spelled it out so easily. And, most surprising to her, she wasn’t even close to crying.

“Laudna that’s… horrible. I can’t even imagine what that must be like.”

Laudna tried to smile. She didn’t want Imogen’s pity. “I’m dreading going back home, if I’m honest.”

“S’not a home, if you’re dreadin’ it, Laud.”

Understanding.

The sweet, gentle clutches of understanding.

Even if the details were misaligned, Imogen knew what it was like to have a not-quite home. She reached across the distance, across the table, and gathered Laudna’s fingers into her palm.

“I should consider my options. Leaving the city would be all too easy. I have more money than I care for now—inheritance from the old bag—and yet nothing at all to do with it. I suppose I could go anywhere.” Laudna mused. “Spoiled for choice.”

If she so desired, she could be rid of Whitestone entirely. Start a new life on Wildemount, move to some nondescript town by the coast and live out her days in blessed isolation. Perhaps Laudna would actually consider it, but with only herself for company, she’d last a matter of weeks.

Unless she wasn’t alone.

Laudna glanced at Imogen, who still held her hand, and she twisted their fingers together. Despite the weather outside, Imogen’s hand was still impossibly warm.

She’d known Imogen for all of five days, and yet…

“When I first got into town, I didn’t know no one,” Imogen started. “Was runnin’ away, y’know. Ridin’ a high ‘cause I left home and this was the first big thing I ever did just for me. I was overwhelmed and the Taste of Tal'dorei—this place—was the first place I saw.” Her eyes were honed with nostalgia as they wandered through the space—Laudna can’t help but follow. Again, Imogen gave her hand a ginger squeeze. “Walked through them doors and was met with a smile, like I'd been here every day for years and I just… I guess I just knew that this was gonna be home.”

“Would I be out of line to say that…” she stopped herself.

To say that Laudna felt like she was home, too. With Imogen.

“To say what?” Imogen’s eyes are fucking celestial.

“To say that I know what you mean.” It wasn’t explicit, but it was enough. Imogen understood. Laudna knew that by the way she squeezed her hand again.

“You ladies ready to order?”

Imogen startled, like she’d forgotten that they weren’t alone and pulled her hand away, but not as if she’d been burnt. Something new. No one had minded being holding Laudna's hand before now. Imogen was the first.

Imogen, her client. Oh, dear.

“Absolutely are, we’ll take—”

We. It was so natural. Easy.

Laudna spent her entire life being the second part of every introduction: Delilah and, the Briarwoods and, and yet she could almost see a future. Something fuzzy in her peripherals, something that looked a whole lot like becoming part of a whole, a we, instead of sticking to the shadows.

(Imogen was right about the pie. Not a typical ‘dinner’ food, but it was rich and satiating and they ate from one bowl with two spoons. Laudna took the little flag out of the centre of it, and tried to, as discreetly as possible, tuck it into her purse. Because even if the smell and taste of this memory would fade, she wanted to remember how this moment looked in perfect, unmarred clarity.)

8 Days Until the Reunion

A little over a week until the reunion and Laudna had intended to start painting.

In her excitement to have found a sketch that worked, though, she and Imogen had both forgotten about the whole… stained glass part of the whole thing. Which, while it wasn’t a complete travesty, meant that Laudna wasted almost another entire day thickening line work and ensuring that proportions were correctly allocated. Only then was she able to appoint colours, and begin contemplating arrangement.

It was times like this that she regretted not being more digital. Had she had one of those Apple Pads, she’s certain this process would have gone much faster.

Imogen, who had been in the Apogee Parlour all day, had been just as bummed as she sat on the floor, computer in her lap, tapping away at what Laudna could only assume were some very intense spreadsheets.

“You think you’re gonna get onto paint today at all?” Imogen asked, looking up as she took a sip from her apple juice carton. They were a guilty pleasure of hers, apparently, because they were the only damn things Imogen kept in her bag, other than her phone, keys and wallet.

“The background, maybe.” Laudna tapped the pencil on her chin, fighting the urge to lay back and simply become one with the floor. “I can’t believe I forgot the main element. It was on the list.”

“Hey, we’re still a week out, we’re good. We got time. Plus, once more people get off their asses—” She jutted her head very aggressively in the direction of her laptop. “—I should be more free. I could help? Y’know, if it’s just paintin’ and you tell me where to put what, I could manage.”

Laudna can’t decide if that would be good or not. Afterall, Delilah had always said: ‘if you want something done correctly, do it yourself.’ Granted, she’d said that when Laudna had failed to complete a still-life oil painting to standard when she’d never used the medium before. Perhaps if she simply added a colour map, some abbreviations according to which colours go where, it wouldn’t be too hard to simply do the outlines after—

“I am so sorry—I only just got the chance to come—it’s been a week. Laudna, oh my goodness, I am so happy to see you, you don’t even know. C’mere.”

Laudna had never seen someone cross the room so fast. Sure, she’d only ever seen herself and Imogen in here, but this was another level. Then again, this was Fearne.

She was swept up in a hug before she truly had time to comprehend the intrusion—being squeezed within an inch of her life, near lifted off the ground. It truly had been too long since she’d seen Fearne: her hair was longer, pale green and braided with an entire bouquet’s worth of flowers, practically her own pollinator, at that point. But she was dressed in the most lovely chunky knit sweater with her name across the front, a gift with Nana Mori’s name written—non-literally, of course—all over it.

“I was meant to come earlier this week, but Birdie—you know, my mom—needed help in the shop and I was gonna come here this morning, but Chet wanted to watch another quickie so that happened and goodness it’s been a day.”

Definitely not what one wanted to hear from someone when your face was inadvertently smushed into their boobs, but Laudna supposed there was worse.

“A… what now?” Imogen asked.

Fearne let Laudna go, turning on Imogen. “Yeah, you know, like one of those shows with the short episodes? Just a quickie. Gods, Imogen, what did you think I meant, you dog?”

“You know exactly what you were doin’ sayin’ that, don’t play dumb.”

“I wasn’t! I promise!” Fearne threw her hands up in surrender, before her eyes blinked past both Imogen and Laudna and fell to the wall. “Laudna, did you do this? This is incredible. You’re incredible.”

“Yes, well. You know… it’s been a work-in-progress for a while now…” She hadn’t intended to sound so meek, but… Fearne was Fearne. She’d always had this way of making Laudna feel like she was… well, special. It was on instinct alone that Laudna found the ends of her hair, the end of her ponytail, and twisted it around her finger tightly before releasing it.

Fearne was, of course, overly complimentary by nature, but that didn’t make it any less thrilling to be in her attention. It wasn’t that Laudna had a thing for Fearne, of course not, but she was drawn to her the way everyone seemed to be, like she was some kind of magnet personified, attracting the iron in blood.

“You, uh, know Fearne, Laud?” Imogen said. She was no longer sitting on the floor, instead stood with her laptop folded and tucked under her arm.

“Laud?” Fearne parroted indignantly. “Fuck yeah, she knows Fearne.” Fearne whirled around, her skirt a wave, her face plastered with a grin so shit-eating that it didn’t entirely make sense until she added, “You guys are ‘friends’?”

“We’re friends, yes,” Laudna pushed on, pointedly ignoring those implications. “Imogen helped me get acquainted with this space and has been… guiding me through this whole thing,” Laudna said. “We’re…”

“Oh my gods, are you guys fucking already?”

“Fearne.” Imogen, for lack of a better descriptor, looked as if she wanted to douse Fearne in oil and light a match. “We are not fuckin’!” (“Geez, okay. Someone’s gotta check.”) “How’d you guys meet? If you don’t mind—wouldn’t have pinned it.”

Fearne waved a hand. “Oh, we met like eons ago. I don’t even remember.”

It had been through a mutual friend—Ira Wendigoth, the resident Creature that escaped his Enclosure that Laudna had known in highschool. They’d been in the same occult-adjacent club and he’d given Laudna eyeliner recommendations that she still swore by, so. Though, how Fearne had met Ira, or why Ira had decided to just combine two separate coffee meetings into one was completely beyond Laudna.

“Which is super funny, actually, because I remember meeting Imogen.” Imogen, who looked like Fearne had instead told her that her grandad had caused a hit and run. “It was at the campus gay bar—”

“There wasn’t a—” She turned on Laudna, as if pleading for her to listen. “It wasn’t a gay bar.”

“Yeah, well.” Fearne rolled her eyes and then gestured between herself and Imogen. “Gay people were there. So.”

“Ashton was also there,” Imogen retorted, folding her arms over her chest.

Fearne was nonplussed. “That’s not proving the point you want it to. They were literally wearing a skirt.”

“That don’t—that don’t prove anythin’.”

“Anyway. We’re going to get drinks. Me and the rest of the Hells. Not at a gay bar, this time. You coming Mogen?”

Laudna turned away and began to pack what little array of items she had back into her crochet tote. A little speaker and her half-empty water bottle and some ibuprofen gel (those damned joints were getting worse by the hour). She could afford the early night, if only to rest her hip and be back at it early tomorrow.

The silence stretched longer than Laudna thought it ever should and she simply began to organise paint cans and divvy up brushes to certain cans. Then, finally, she stood and brushed off her skirts.

“Well, it’s been an awfully long day,” Laudna said. “I do hope you two have fun, yes?”

Fearne shifts all of her weight onto one hip. “And just where do you think you’re going?”

“Back to my hotel?”

“You’re coming with us.”

“If you’d like?” Imogen offered, like taking Laudna’s hand over the table of a certain diner. “I could even walk you back after?”

It couldn’t hurt, right?

And, let’s face it, if Imogen kept looking at her like that, Laudna wasn’t sure she’d be able to say no to anything.

The Spire by Fire—their usual haunt, apparently—was a pub of mixed company, carpets that smell like long dried draught beers and low lighting. Which was to say, it was any old place, but one that meant something to Imogen, at least.

It hadn’t been too long a walk from the Parlour, but Imogen had insisted on hanging her jacket over Laudna’s shoulders and had walked on her arm (in spite of Fearne’s teasing) the whole way there.

The group that had welcomed Imogen and Fearne was simultaneously the most and least expected thing. A crotchety old man, Chetney; Ashton (Imogen really was fighting a losing battle with that one); Orym, the barista from Zephrah; Dorian, who curiously had a guitar, flute, and violin on his person. One of them couldn’t make it, apparently, but was virtually present through a phone call—a jingling, jovial voice that the group was referring to as “Letters.”

It was… a motley crew. And that was to say the least of it. A whole host of colourful characters that Laudna wasn’t sure she was home in, not with her black skirt and matching cardigan and her vaguely floral maroon blouse and the beaded chain that tied glasses around her neck.

She wasn’t sure if she was home here, but there she was, tucked into the centre of it all, Imogen’s thigh against hers, Imogen’s arm falling easily over the booth’s seat behind Laudna’s shoulders, Imogen pressed in right there. Only a breath away, only a word away.

In all the ways that Imogen’s presence was close and familiar, there were about a thousand ways that Imogen was sharpened in different company. Not in a bad way, of course, nothing could ever make Laudna think bad of her. But this Imogen had a sharp wit and biting remarks and a laugh that leapt from her throat, loud over the twittering comments. Her eyes crinkled in that all-too-familiar way and she slapped the table, bent double over a fucking dick joke. It was such an addictive sound that Laudna found herself laughing too.

Maybe it was the buzz from the cider that she’d half-finished, or the thrill of being in such a lively group, the type where you barely needed to contribute to the conversation to feel like you were part of it. But it was all so… easy. Like pieces falling into place, like the tide coming to shore, like remembering to pick up dinner on your way home from work.

“Next round’s on me, I owe y’all one” Imogen announced, and she stood up suddenly and looked down to Laudna as Orym shuffled out of the booth to let her out. “I’ll need a hand, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, of course!”

And Laudna followed. The easiest thing in the world.

“You doin’ alright, hon?” Imogen asked when they’re far enough from earshot. Now out of the booth, Laudna was delighted to find that Imogen got red-faced when she drank. “I know they’re a lot. A rowdy bunch, but they’re good folks.”

There’s something unspoken there—Imogen had mentioned, once, almost offhandedly at the time, that there was power in being able to choose your own family. That real connections, the ones you wanna keep, weren’t necessarily through blood. Laudna supposed that these were Imogen’s binds. Her family, even if she didn’t explicitly say so.

“They are! Rowdy, I mean. And if they’re with you, then the ‘good’ part is implied, I believe.”

Imogen smiled at her, like she’d said just the right thing.

“If I’m honest, I’ve been tryna think of ways to get y’all in the same room since I met you.”

“You have?”

“Honest! Only ever schemin’, course but… I wanted you to meet ‘em, before you had to get off, y’know. But I also understand that it’s a lot—and I get if you’d wanna be headin’ off pretty soon?”

Her out, Laudna recognised. Imogen was giving her an out. So that she wasn’t trapped. All she had to do was take it.

“Well, I’ll stay for this round,” Laudna decided and winked, something she wasn’t entirely sure on how she felt about doing. “So long as you’re buying?”

7 Days Until the Reunion

The clock had ticked over into midnight by the time Laudna had finished her drink. Imogen, true to her word (and ever the gentleman, in Laudna’s humble opinion), was escorting her back to her hotel.

“I do hope you’ve been likin’ it here,” Imogen said once the sounds of the bar had faded to a near imperceptible drone. Their shoes tapped in an almost-harmony, Imogen just a half-step behind Laudna. “Have you? I mean, no worries if you don’t. Just wonderin’ what you think of the place so far.”

Winter’s Crest grew closer by the day, the sharp scent of cold hanging in the air like a stubborn fog. The cold wrapped gangly fingers around the night and tugged, an iced breeze calling from streetlamp to streetlamp, chilling the metal and turning the ground to ice. Laudna tugged Imogen’s coat further around her, and though Imogen made no indication of being cold, Laudna tucked their interlocked fingers into the pocket anyway.

When had they started holding hands? Just as they’d left the Spire by Fire, probably. Maybe. Laudna wasn’t sure—she hadn’t entirely processed it until then.

“It’s nice here. Rather quiet.”

A few streets over, Laudna could hear the purr of a car’s engine. Quiet enough that it could’ve been the wind, really. Who’s to say?

“Does tend to be. Don’t get too much goin’ on this time of year. Not ‘til after Winter’s Crest.”

“Is that so?”

“It is! We got this lil’ travelling market that comes around and sells a bunch of baked goods and treats and handmade stockings and stuff. It’s real nice, I think you’d like it. Not too many people, and they put up a bunch of, like, fairy lights and they put up a tree in the middle of town and decorate it and it’s… I just think you’d like it.” Imogen sniffled. “Seems like your kinda thing, that’s all.”

Imogen, Laudna noticed with a healthy dash of affection, spoke with her hands. Well, one hand, really, the one that wasn’t still holding Laudna’s.

“Well, I do like craft markets,” Laudna admitted and rolled the idea of the Winter’s Crest market between her fingers like a souvenir coin. She promptly launched into what happened the last time she’d attended a craft market and spared no details.

Eventually, Laudna noticed that they’d stopped outside of her hotel: Imogen really had walked her all the way back to her room. In truth, Laudna had been so focused on their conversation that she hardly registered the walk at all.

“We got a whole parade thing that we do in town, too. You’ll never guess who runs it.”

“Oh, easy. Orym obviously takes the lead on that one.”

“Har, har. You’re funny.”

“Am I?” Laudna mused, feigning thought as she looked at the sky. So many stars, much more than the city. It was hard to believe that it was the same sky. “I thought it would be Orym’s speciality.”

“Yeah, well, I think he’d probably keep his head more than I do, if I’m honest.”

“Never. No one is as capable as you, Imogen.” Laudna finally let go of her hand so that she could turn and face Imogen. Without missing a beat, Imogen glanced down, picked up Laudna’s opposite hand, toying with her fingers. Laudna could feel how warm Imogen’s hands were, even through the gloves. “Maybe you could be beat at drawing… but not at your actual job.”

“Here I was thinkin’ that I’d gotten away from that.”

“It’s my lock screen, didn’t I tell you?”

Imogen blanched. “You did not.”

“Didn’t I?” Laudna tried her hand at wiggling her eyebrows. She only really felt movement in one and her grin probably gave her away. “Stand down, I didn’t. I didn’t! It was a great drawing though.”

Imogen snorted. “Shut up, now I know you’re lyin’ to me.”

“I would never,” Laudna said— confessed. She said it so gently it may as well have been a confession.

“I know you wouldn’t.” Just as sweet. A pause, before, “Y’know, Laud, I’ve been a fan of yours for a while now. A good year or so. I came across your profile online—” Laudna didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was never in control of those accounts, not until recently, and even then she had no idea how to use them. “—and you just had this way of makin’ things make sense that didn’t before. It was almost like it was speakin’ to me, y’know? Like music but for your eyes or somethin’. I’m not makin’ much sense, now, am I?”

For a moment, Laudna forgot that she was an active participant in the conversation and, blinking rapidly, stumbled over, “You are. Making sense. You’re making perfect sense, Imogen.”

“Yeah?” When Imogen smiled at her, Laudna noticed, for the very first time, a tiny gap in her front teeth. “Good. I just. Wanted to thank you, I guess. For makin’ art.”

No one had… ever thanked her before. Well, of course, there had been clients that thanked her for her time as they handed over a cheque, but none of them had… None of them were Imogen.

No one had thanked her, not only for her art, but also all of the implications that came along with it. The pages torn from sketchbooks and the failures and the sketches no one was meant to see. The hours of time and classes and dedication that she’d put into mastering every stroke of every brush.

Somehow, impossibly, Imogen seemed to understand it all.

Without thinking, Laudna reached and hooked a hand under Imogen’s jaw, thumb against her cheek. She wished, suddenly, that she had chosen to forgo the gloves; she wanted to feel Imogen’s skin under her palm. It didn’t entirely register that she stepped closer, so close that when they exhaled, their breaths gave way to one, singular cloud.

“You’re thanking me?” Laudna asked gently. “Imogen, I never would have made it here without you.”

Her voice was low and it caught in her throat, the words slowed by honey. Caught between them, like a secret. A real one this time.

And then reality came rushing back.

Another car, closer this time, honked loudly and the sound of screeching brakes ripped through the night.

Laudna took her hand from Imogen’s face, rocked back on her heel. She was suddenly embarrassed. Her client. Imogen was her client. How had she let her imagination run away so far? She’d never done anything before. But she’d also never come this close, either.

“You’re a good friend to me, Imogen,” Laudna said quickly, too quickly. It sounded all rushed, all the syllables too close to one another and wrong, so wrong. “Like, you know! A friend. A sister!”

Even the laugh she managed was false. Too broken. Too shallow.

Why… did she say that? What had made her say something so blatantly untrue?

Imogen’s face dropped, like being hit with the reality of a promise being broken. Her brows pulled together, lips pursed into a line and she almost recoiled. Like the words had physically knocked her.

Couldn’t she tell that Laudna was just… that she was just—

“Like… a sister?” Imogen asked, despondent.

“You know—haha! I’m awfully tired. I’m so sorry. You will text me when you’re home, won’t you? Don’t walk—grab a cab home. My treat?” Laudna looked down into her bag—anything if she didn’t have to look at that awful look on Imogen’s face—and she took a spare note from the bottom of her bag, pressed it into Imogen’s hands.

Laudna couldn’t bear to look at her much longer. If she did, she’d do something she’d regret more. More than sacrificing whatever this could have been with Imogen, throwing away the part of this town that she’d grown so terribly fond of.

So Laudna turned, gathered up all the courage she could spare and swallowed back the ball of dread that threatened to push her to tears before she finally stole away to her hotel room. Only when she was there did Laudna finally allow her composure to crack.

The next morning—much later than usual, Opal noted with a waggle of her eyebrows—Laudna arrived at the Apogee Parlour to find it completely empty. Well, not completely, of course, all of her things were there: the paints, the brushes, the tarps protecting the floor. But no Imogen.

Part of Laudna was glad. It meant she had more time to rehearse her speech. Her apology. Her acknowledgement of the… incorrectness. Of her statement. That they were nothing like sisters at all, more like friends and, Laudna would have to admit, more even, than that. She wondered if Imogen would spite her for it, no matter how many times she apologised.

So she spent the morning readying supplies, making sure her water was full, opening the paints that she’d need for the logo in the centre—a brilliant deep blue and an off-white, the lining would come later—ensuring the brushes were adequately soaked.

Laudna pattered about until midday, because Imogen would be upset if she missed the first stroke of paint. She procrastinated by trying to find a new mix of music to play, something different than her usual playlist of soft, romantic jazz. Eventually, not but twenty minutes later, she settled on an instrumental made of string and soft wind instruments. The kind that made Laudna remember dancing as a girl, or one day, she posited, dancing with Imogen.

It’s pushing on one in the afternoon when Laudna finally dipped her brush into that midnight blue. With her phone quiet—not that Laudna had texted her either—she supposed there was no other choice but to push on. The first brush of nighttime washing over bleak white.

It was good that she threw in the ‘waiting’ towel early because she would have been hanging around all day, for nothing. Imogen never showed up at the Apogee Parlour.

It reminded Laudna of a situation she’d been in before. Only this time, she didn’t have a reservation to pay for.

And besides, this time, she probably deserved it, too.

5 Days Until the Reunion

Imogen didn’t drop by the night after the bar, or the day after that, either.

So Laudna had been able to make good headway. She’d almost forgotten how productive she could be when she wasn’t occasionally distracted by conversation. With the logo in the middle finished, and one other section drying, she had roughly six and a background left to do. Absolutely doable, in her humble opinion.

Laudna hiked up her sleeves, opened up the paint, and got right to work.

She was completely uninterrupted, zoned in to the sound of the brushstrokes and the strings in a particularly passionate piece, for the majority of the day. It had to be around three, just when evening was beginning to crawl in, when the door behind her opened and Laudna perked up.

“Imogen?” she asked quickly, turning on her heel to find…

Not Imogen. She didn’t know if she was relieved or upset, but something adjacent to both wrapped around her heart and squeezed.

“Unfortunately not. I’m Prism—from the Cobalt Soul?”

The name rattled around in Laudna’s mind for a second, before she landed on, “The… news agents?”

“I got told I’m good to ask you a few questions?” The light in her eyes suddenly dimmed. “Did Opal lie to me again?”

“She may have,” Laudna conceded. It was more probable than one may think—Laudna still didn’t have a bead on her.

“Would you mind if I just did it anyway? I’m gonna be—I’ll be honest, this is kinda my first job and if I don’t come back with a good enough interview this time Dynios said he’d rethink my apprenticeship and I do not want that to happen.” Prism took a deep breath, combed her short hair out with her fingers before, “It’ll be like… ten minutes. Tops. Maybe fifteen. I love your hair, by the way. Did you dye it like that or is it natural?”

If nothing else, it passed the time.

In fact, Prism barely even impeded on her work. She would ask a question and simply record Laudna’s answer as she painted, occasionally snapping a picture or so. Prism had only asked Laudna to pose for one shot; that was only because she thought the ladders would make a good shot. Laudna didn’t care to see the pictures, never the type to care for vanity. Especially not when she was working, even if she did make the rare exception of doing her makeup today.

In between questions about her process, Prism would ask about random things. Like how long it took to grow her hair out and ‘are those Doc Martens?’ and ‘where’d you get that shirt?’

It passed the time and, at the very least, helped Laudna not think about Imogen. Imogen, who had been radio silent for coming on three days.

Just after the sun had finally set, Prism announced that she was done for the day and thanked Laudna for her time and once again apologised for how impromptu it had been. She combed through her hair one last time, adjusted her beret and began to pack her camera and its lenses into their proper place in the bag.

That’s when the door opened and in stepped… Imogen. Hair wind-tossed and a scarf thrown around her neck, two to-go cups tucked in her hands, as if she’d simply been stuck in traffic this whole time.

Laudna felt her throat close, like she’d accidently eaten peanuts again. Her chest felt as if someone had coated the inside of her lungs with lead.

“Laudna, I brought you a—oh. Uh. Hi.”

“This is—”

“Are you Imogen? Laudna’s told me about you, all good things. “

“This is Prism, she’s from the Cobalt Soul. Doing a small piece on the Reunion, is that right?”

“Absolutely is and I’m heading out. Thanks again, Laudna!” She zipped up her camera bag and threw it over her shoulder, hustling past all of the still unmoved furniture.

“Don’t go spreadin’ your news ‘til event’s been and gone, got it?” Imogen called.

A distant ‘Yes ma’am!’ could be heard before the door closed entirely and the Apogee Parlour fell into silence.

Laudna could hear the soft sound of her wringing her hands around each other—hadn’t even realised she was nervous until she’d heard it. The sound of her shifting from one foot of the other was minute, but somehow seemed to echo throughout the entire space.

“Laud, I brought you a hot chocolate,” Imogen eventually said. “I know you said you don’t drink caffeine past four so.”

“That’s… very thoughtful of you, Imogen.”

Laudna wanted to apologise, wanted to launch into the script that she’s been planning for almost three days. But instead, she stayed quiet. Stepped close enough to take the cup from Imogen’s hands—it was still fresh, too hot to drink—and allowed her eyes to wander.

“Things got kinda busy for me for a second there,” Imogen said. “Glad you’ve gotten on good.”

“That’s quite alright. That’s how these things go. I understand.”

Imogen cleared her throat and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Who was that?”

“Prism—she said she was from the Cobalt Soul, showed me a badge and her ID. Everything was above board, I’m certain.”

“That’s not what I’m—you… don’t know her?”

“That’s the first time we’ve met.”

“Good, good.” Imogen relaxed for a second, before her shoulders jumped to her ears. “Not ‘good’ as in, like, I’m glad you don’t have friends or nothin’, I meant ‘good’ as in—”

“Imogen.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re worried about nothing, dear.”

The double meaning, she’d intended. The ‘dear’ she had not.

Imogen’s shoulders fell again, as she took one long deep breath. “Hope you didn’t miss me too much?” she tried.

“Endlessly, of course.”

“Well, uh, I dunno how much longer you’re gonna be here, but I got a bunch of paperwork I gotta get through? If you’ll have me?” Imogen looked like she was expecting Laudna to be on her way out, too. “I brought that bagel that you said you wanted to try?”

Even if Laudna didn’t get the balls to apologise, this would do. For now.

3 Days Until the Reunion

Things seemed to return to normal, as if whatever wrench Laudna had thrown into the works had been promptly plucked out, discarded, and the works had returned to normal.

Imogen was a little more in and out, of course, what with the date closing in, but she’d text in advance and, if Laudna was in the Parlour late, she’d bring hot chocolate and the unsold baked treats from Zephrah and her laptop and they’d spend the evening together. Until Imogen would offer to walk her home and Laudna would make sure to keep her hands in the pockets of the coat she always remembered to bring.

The mural was coming together nicely.

On the slower days, once Imogen finished what she needed to, she’d roll up her sleeves and get stuck in. Not literally, but you wouldn’t think that with the amount of paint she was always covered in by the end of it. With two sets of hands instead of one, the paint added up a lot quicker.

And, that’s not to mention that with the constant up-and-down of the ladder and all of the painting, Laudna was aching in places she didn’t even know could ache.

Luckily, Imogen was more than happy to pick up the slack when Laudna needed a break.

She had her hair tied back, lavender curls bunched into a bun, a resistant couple rejecting the restriction completely, and was halfway up the step ladder, reaching far over to the side to go over a patch of stubbornly transparent white paint. All the while Laudna remained at the bottom, dutifully leaning her entire body weight on the ladder to make sure she was safe.

It was by no means the most flattering of angles, but Laudna couldn’t help but feel the swell of a smile come to her cheeks. She watched Imogen carefully, taking in the fluidity of her movements—her technical skill and precision had come very far in the few short days they’d been working together.

The words left Laudna before she could even really think about them.

“I missed you,” she said. “Before. The three days I didn’t see you.”

Imogen almost dropped the damned brush.

“Shit, darlin’, a warning on that one would’ve been nice.” Imogen made a pointed effort to readjust her grip on the brush and straightened herself up. She was smiling, despite not looking in Laudna’s direction at all. “I… missed you too.”

Darlin’.

Laudna had to unpack that one for hours, that little nickname tied to the hope that the paint that Imogen was laying—the finishing touches to the mural’s base—would be dry by the time it came to do the finishing touches the next morning.

The gold accents being the only thing that was missing. The metallics being Imogen’s idea, and a major step away from the basics that Laudna was all too versed in and, notably, something that the Briarwoods thought was cheap and tacky. The easy way out, instead of using the composition and existing palette to your advantage.

But Laudna loved the idea. Maybe it was only a toe out of the box the Briarwoods had put her in, but it was better than nothing after all.

Before she could even think about adding them, though, the base needed to completely dry out. Otherwise the colours would mix and everything would muddy.

(By some miracle, it’s bone dry at the exact time she needs it to be.)

1 Day Until the Reunion

The day before the reunion, Delilah Briarwood—the bitch herself—must roll in her fucking grave as Laudna put the finishing touches onto the wall.

She finished it. Seamlessly, effortlessly, and with no one there to witness it but the artist singing a Winter’s crest song (yes, she was loath to admit, she was infected) and Laudna herself. But by the gods, she fucking did it.

The first thing she thought was how excited Imogen was going to be when she saw it. Her phone was in her hand before she even had time to wipe all of the golden paint from her hands, leaving radiant smears over the bottom half of her screen as she opened Imogen’s contact. Laudna sent the announcement, bouncing on her heels in excitement, with a promise that it would be better if she saw it in person, and that she was looking forward to seeing Imogen this evening.

She tapped her phone closed excitedly and slid it into the front pocket of her overalls. Laudna hummed along to the music, all the while closing the only paint still open, and beginning to individually wrap each of her brushes for transport back to the city. Cleaning was much too much fuss to deal with here and was suitably relegated to Future Laudna.

The music was a little louder than usual—a little treat—but there was no way that Laudna could miss the sound of the door slamming open. She turned, suddenly and there—

There stood Imogen.

Completely breathless and red-cheeked from the cold and half-dressed in winter gear.

Laudna had studied many works of art over her time under Delilah, but somehow she couldn’t help but think that they wouldn’t stand a chance in the same room as Imogen Temult. She was…

Goodness, she was beautiful.

“Imogen?” Her name fell from Laudna’s lips the same way snow falls from the sky.

Laudna couldn’t help but see the irony of it all.

The first time they’d met, they’d been on opposite sides of the Apogee Parlour, roles reversed. But that had been before everything.

Laudna from two weeks ago was completely clueless. Dumb-founded and caught like a deer in headlights in Imogen’s gaze but here? Here, this Laudna felt like it was the most natural thing in the damn world.

She crossed the room to meet her and Imogen met her half way.

What’s most interesting, though, is that Imogen’s eyes never once leave hers. Never flick to the mural behind her, just stay completely trained on Laudna’s, fixated, as if she was scared that she’d look away and miss something. Attention so rapt that Laudna felt like she could lose herself in it.

“I came as soon as I could,” Imogen said through one heavy breath. “I couldn’t wait.”

“But don’t you have—”

“That’s not as important as this. Laudna, I—” Imogen’s eyes broke from Laudna’s and finally landed on the back wall. On the mural—the very thing that had inadvertently brought Laudna to Imogen’s doorstep. Her jaw slackened, eyes a little wide.

Laudna twisted her fingers around themselves, an ouroboros. Her hair was mercifully tied back—she’s glad, otherwise she may have pulled it out entirely had she been able to fuss with it. She dug her nails into the fleshy part of her thumb and felt like she needed a cigarette. Not that she smoked. But anything to diffuse the crusade of emotions that washed over her in violent waves.

Imogen’s expression gave nothing away. Laudna took in her face, the set of her shoulders, cross-referenced it with every facet of Imogen she could call forth. Lips slightly parted, breath heavy, blinking fast and heavy.

Did… she like it?

Laudna’s fingers twisted into another knot.

It was an easy revelation, one that felt as open as the Apogee Parlour: that Laudna didn’t care about the Reunion, or the reaction of whoever would be doing the reuniting: it was Imogen and Imogen alone.

How long had it been that way?

Too long, maybe. Always, perhaps.

“Laudna, this is…” Imogen turned to her. Took her hands, broke the cycle. Imogen’s eyes flicked between their now-joined hands and the painting. They were standing so close, so close that Laudna could hear the softness of Imogen’s slowly levelling breath. “You’ve rendered me speechless. Really.”

Laudna felt the succour of relief and it was like honey over an aching throat, then, the sweet point of elation.

“You like it?” The words were timid, creeping towards zealous.

“Laudna, how could I not?” Imogen ran her thumb across Laudna’s skin in one fell sweeping motion. A heat surged from the contact. “It’s wonderful. You’re wonderful.”

Laudna wanted to say so many things, but none of them quite made it out of her mouth. She wanted to thank Imogen. For hiring her, for believing in her. For being so dearly hospitable when she didn’t have to be. She wanted to bask in those words, that Imogen thought she was wonderful—to take a mental picture of the moment and live in it, to pick apart each syllable and tell each why it was perfect. She wanted to—gods, she wanted to kiss Imogen.

Laudna wanted to kiss Imogen Temult, her client, and she didn’t feel one bit guilty about it.

“Well, I couldn’t have done it without you,” is what she settled on. “You’re very capable.”

Imogen’s eyes were like starlight. “I couldn’t have made this whole thing into a reality if you hadn't been here.”

Over the last couple days, Imogen (along with a few of those favours she must have called in) had practically remodeled the entirety of the Apogee Parlour. Between clever furniture arrangements and the colour scheme and the decoration, it had pulled together perfectly. And there, right at the focal point, was Laudna’s mural.

And while maybe Laudna wouldn’t have quite put those drapes right there—she had to concede. It was lovely. Imogen had designed this place perfectly.

“You’re gonna come right?” Imogen asked suddenly. “To the reunion? You’ll be there?”

Laudna felt her thoughts stutter to a stop, puttering out like the dying battery of her Mini Cooper. “What?”

“I know that— I know you were plannin’ on leavin’ and goin’ back to the city once you’d finished up but. You could stay?” Imogen looked two steps away from hopeful, her eyes asked a question her words didn’t. Laudna wasn’t sure which she should listen to—which she should respond to. She looked so vulnerable then, like her eyes were curtained in thin ice, shining in the winter sun. “Just—just for the day, if you’d like.”

“I’m… invited?”

“You’d be my plus one.” Imogen squeezed her hands and then abruptly loosened her hold. “My… date. If you’d wanna be my date, that is. I’m not gonna lie to you, Laud, I’ve been drivin’ myself near crazy over here ‘cause I can’t figure out if you— if you’re feelin’ this too.”

If Laudna… what?

Feeling?

“I’ve been feeling,” Laudna added helpfully. Laudna was feeling many things, actually. And somehow every one of them felt completely like a colour that no one had never seen before, like some new phenomenon not yet recorded. All of it boiled like butter in her chest, turning brown like caramel. It was almost like all of the words Laudna could have used got lost on their way out. Or as if, in their struggle to escape, gotten stuck together. Interlocked until they became something unrecognisable altogether and, when Laudna tried to pull them apart, they ripped like soggy paper. “What do you mean?”

Because there was so way that Imogen… That Imogen could…

“I mean. Like, can I kiss you? After what you said a couple nights ago, I can’t tell if it’s alright or not, anymore.”

Laudna blinked. “Alright.”

“Alright?” Imogen looked as if she hadn’t entirely expected her to say yes. Shocked and a little… amazed? “Alright. So I will.”

Imogen looked as star-struck as Laudna felt. Her tongue darted over her lips and she took a sharp breath that shook, as if she was scared. Laudna wanted to reach out, to smile and tell her that there’s nothing for her to be scared about, that Laudna wanted this too. That she was just too emotionally stunted to say it without mulling it over, letting the feeling be ground down like pigment in oil until she had paint. Something she knew, something she could use.

But before Laudna could even begin to voice any of that, Imogen reached forward and took Laudna’s face into her hands. Her fingers hooked around her jaw and finally, like fucking fireworks, Imogen kissed her.

Her lips were chapped and a little wet but it was perfect because—holy shit, Laudna was kissing Imogen.

Imogen!

Laudna pulled away. “I didn’t mean to call you my sister. You’re nothing like a sister to me—Imogen, I would love to be your date. Not friend-date.” A beat, and then, “Are you sure?”

Imogen broke into a smile, the very epitome of the sun: it made Laudna feel warm—warm enough that Winter’s Crest couldn’t be around the corner. “I’ve never been more sure of anythin’ in the world, Laud.”

When Laudna leaned in to kiss her again, Imogen didn’t hesitate.

The Reunion

The Apogee Parlour looked different with the lights off. The darker lighting made the imperfections in the walls seem invisible and made the atmosphere tangible. In Laudna’s opinion, anyway. But, Imogen insisted, it wouldn’t be the same without the people. A constant thrum of conversation, people fluttered from one table to another carrying drinks or something from the buffet table or danced.

No one there knew that it was Laudna that painted the entire back wall, just as no one knew that it was Imogen who had planned the whole thing. Similarly, no one knew if Bertrand fucking Bell was in the room, no matter how many people they asked.

It was, Laudna supposed, everything she’d assumed a reunion would be.

Well, aside from the fact that they’d apparently been a band? The group that this reunion was for—a group name, ‘The Mighty Nine’, was being thrown around. It was bizarre, sure, and Dorian—a face Laudna recognised from the bar—looked a little disappointed when his set was cut short.

Though, if she was being honest, Laudna hadn’t been paying much attention to that: to the chatter, or the music or swathes of people. She was much too focused on Imogen and how beautiful she looked in that dress.

Even despite the chaos and what felt like hundreds of people in one room, Imogen was still only looking at Laudna.

Up on the ‘stage’, in front of the mural, a muscular woman with white hair plucked at a harp. A beautiful, flowing melody that dipped and swayed.

Imogen offered her hand to Laudna and she didn’t have to think before she took it.

Imogen draped her arms around Laudna’s shoulders and her eyes closed as they swayed, a couple steps back and forth, the gems of her earrings glistening in the low light. Her hair was half back, the top section pulled into a twist—like a crown around her head. Laudna wanted to touch it—had wanted to since Imogen had picked her up from her hotel, still did really—but her hands remained dutifully on Imogen’s waist. The corset beneath her fingers was embroidered, a design too intricate to come alive beneath Laudna’s touch.

“What do you think this means for us?” Imogen asked gently, eyes opening. Her voice was almost lost in the crowd, lilting and soft in the scaled notes of the harp. Another one of their secrets. Imogen looked up at her through a fan of dark lashes, not quite insistent, but curious.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re leavin’ tomorrow?” Imogen asked.

The thought of it made Laudna’s chest feel taut, like someone had squeezed her into a dress three sizes too small.

“I don’t think so,” she admitted. “I don’t want to go back.”

“You gotta?”

“I don’t suppose so, no.”

There was nothing stopping her. Laudna had no roots in the city. A home office and far too many oil paints, perhaps, but nothing that couldn’t be folded away, packed into the back of her car and taken elsewhere.

Laudna had no family, no friends, no connections. Nothing was keeping her in the city anymore. How long had she stayed out of… faux necessity? She’d been living in some fugue since Deliah’s passing, as if her cage had been unlocked and she’d chosen to stay inside.

“I’d like to stay,” she said. Her voice dropped as low as Imogen’s had been. “For you, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Imogen raised an eyebrow, a tease framing her lips. “And if I would?”

“Then, I’d go,” Laudna said, too honest.

Imogen’s face softened, the smirk having dropped into something much more tender.

“You’ve always got a home here in the Heartmoor.” Imogen took a hand from Laudna’s shoulder to rest it on her jaw. She shifted her palm, ever so subtly, and Imogen’s thumb worked a gentle line from her lip to the hollow of her cheek. “Plus, I got a spare room.”

Laudna hummed. She thought about slow mornings with Imogen and a shared laundry basket and a collection of mugs that was theirs.

“Or I could help you find a place, for now. There’s a bunch of cute lil’ apartments. Maybe we could check if there’s one nearby that craft store we went to? Somethin’ local?”

Imogen sounded like she had about a thousand ideas and she was already sowing the seeds of each, letting it take root in her mind, little seedlings for Laudna to choose from.

“Both of those options sound wonderful.” Laudna allowed her eyes to close as one of the rogue strobe lights passed over her face. “Let’s think of that tomorrow, alright? For now, I just want to… For now, I’d like to be with you.”

“Yeah,” Imogen agreed. Laudna didn’t even have to open her eyes to know that Imogen was smiling. “I’d like to be with you too, Laudna.” She paused. “I’d like to kiss you again, can I?”

Laudna had accepted this job on a whim. A whim that landed her in the arms of what may just be the most beautiful girl Laudna has ever known, whose warmth shines radiantly, even now, in the dark light of the Apogee Parlour. The very same room in which they’d met those weeks ago.

“You don’t have to ask anymore,” Laudna said softly, a little fast. And then, smiling, “I’d like that very much.”

Imogen didn’t hesitate. She didn’t have to anymore.