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A cold wind blows through the manor, bitter-frigid.
The foyer is stale, dust lingering in Lumine’s nose, making it itch. Her book bag is heavy underneath one arm. The suitcase slung over her other shoulder bites into the joint there.
“Odd,” she mutters. For a place so dark, it feels…familiar. There’s a ghostly inkling, a feeling deep in the base of her skull, that insists she’s walked these hallways before.
But she hasn’t. Lumine isn’t even from Snezhnaya, having come here from the south only for work.
“Ah, you must be the new girl.” Lumine turns to the grand staircase and meets the gaze of a man about her age. Not too young, round around the edges, the barest hint of lines pulling at the creases of his eyes. He wears a smile, wide, soft, musing. She recognizes him from the few public pictures she has seen.
He, too, feels familiar. Lumine thinks she would remember such wild and unruly, ginger hair, or the finery that he wears. A stable job with ample benefits— that’s what the listing had promised. Lumine is not new to temporary positions, but she had never seen one that offered exactly what it boasted.
Even the clerk at the office had regarded it with apprehension. But, later, when Lumine was called back to discuss it, they seemed settled, saying, “They were more than impressed with your resume, the owner of the manor himself all but demanded your presence.”
That, perhaps, should have been a red flag. There is a lot to say about reclusive men luring young ladies into their space, but Lumine isn’t young, nor is she ill-equipped. Former workers of Lord Tartaglia’s estate spoke only fondly of the man, and there seems to be very little turnover—this position only opened up with the death of her predecessor.
Still. Lumine regards the man warily. “I am Lumine,” she greets, head held high.
The man nods from where he stands at the top of the staircase. “Miss Lumine,” he repeats with a nod. “Is that all you brought with you?”
Lumine looks at her threadbare suitcase and bag. “Well, I didn’t think I would need much more than this. Was it not implied that every essential would be provided?” Belatedly, she realizes that maybe she shouldn’t talk to the Lord of the manor in such a way.
The man throws back his head in laughter. “You—you are not incorrect.” He clears his throat, his gaze sparkling. “Come on then, I’ll lead you to your room.”
Lumine pauses. “You, sir?”
The man pauses and looks at his wristwatch. “The rest of the staff is probably on lunch. But, really, I don’t mind. You’ll learn that I pull my own weight around here.”
She had heard that, too, from previous employees. Intriguing. Lumine steps closer and begins to climb the stairs, feeling oddly at ease. There is something about Lord Tartaglia that tugs her to him, that tethers her close and to the spot. His gaze is knowing, too knowing—but not untoward, not uncomfortable. Instead of wariness, Lumine feels heat rise to her cheeks as a deep-seated ache lodges itself into her breast.
Lord Tartaglia is a gentleman, holding his elbow out once she reaches the top of the staircase. “It isn’t far.”
“So then you will not mind if I don’t take your arm.”
He laughs again. “Anything is as you wish, Miss Lumine,” he replies, holding his arm out to direct her down the hallway instead.
The walk is short. Lumine finds herself close despite her better efforts, and once at her door, Lord Tartaglia pauses. His mouth parts as he considers something. Finally, he says, “If it is not too presumptuous to inquire, are you sure that we have never met?”
Lumine stills. A hot feeling strikes through her. She thinks of hands against her waist, pulling her close to a solid weight; of lips against her own, and soft, sweet murmurings of not her name, but—
“Starlight,” whispers a voice in her skull.
She has never once been called that, but that voice, that tone, that pet name rings through her mind like a crystal clear bell. That name is intimate, washing over her like a well-known balm. These halls, she knows them. That amused, glittering gaze of Lord Tartaglia, she knows too, and it isn’t because she’s seen a picture or two in the Steambird.
“I think I would remember meeting you,” she says.
He blinks. Considers this. “I—yes, you are right. Well. Settle in. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask Katya—ah. Miss Ekaterina.”
And then he’s gone, whisking himself down the dark corridor and around the corner.
Lumine stands there, still holding her things. “Odd,” she mutters once again. “That man, this place, it’s all so odd.”
But not bad, not worrisome. No, Lumine feels more at home here, in these walls, than she has anywhere else.
#
“You’ll take him his tea, today.” The head of the house, Ekaterina, drops a tray onto the counter beside Lumine. “He isn’t picky, or anything, but you know how he gets when he’s…” Ekaterina waves ambiguously. “No one enjoys interrupting his workouts.
Lumine raises a brow, amused. “I’ve heard tell of these workouts.”
“More like working himself to the bone. He may be a retired military general, but—”
“He retired considerably early, no?” Their lord isn’t young, per se, but even early thirties is enough so to be a surprise.
Ekaterina hesitates, her expression unreadable. But then she says, “It’s the same sob story of many. Went to war. Fought. Came back damaged. Lives a life of luxury in his retirement. One could say that he’s haunted—haunted by what I do not know. That being said, he does occasionally offer insight when training new Fatui recruits.” Ekaterina says this with a little amusement. They all know that Lord Tartaglia enjoys molding new troops, just that he’s rarely asked to do so, his reputation preceding him.
“Don’t you usually bring this to him?” asks Lumine, her fingers tracing the edge of fine porcelain.
“Yes, but he requested for you to do so this time.”
Lumine hums softly, interested. “Oh?”
Ekaterina shrugs, pulling a tea kettle off of the kitchen flame and placing it on the tray. “Better you than me. He loves to talk, you know. I have work to do around here.”
“He loves to talk to you.”
“And you, apparently.” Ekaterina wears a grin. “Which isn’t a bad thing, I think. Our Lord is a good man, but he has few friends, even among the staff.”
Mostly because there are so few staff to begin with. To say that the estate runs on a skeleton crew is an understatement.
Lumine, though, isn’t turned off by this. Lord Tartaglia has been nothing but polite to her. He seems to care about his staff, and Lumine thinks that Ekaterina is more like a sister to him, than a head maid. There’s something there, something that lurks beneath the surface of this place. Lumine slotted right in, fitting naturally, like she belongs there.
“Is it good tea, at least?”
Ekaterina scrunches her nose. “No. Our lord could drink dirt steeped in water, and find it a delicacy, probably.”
Lumine laughs as she takes the tray, leaving the kitchen.
#
The tea is a gateway.
Lumine has already carved a space here in record time, but after that afternoon, Lumine finds herself called upon more and more. Innocent things, of course—tea, bringing him books from the library, even sharing a snack or two. Ekaterina was right. He seems a little lonely, but Lumine finds that she enjoys the company of Lord Tartaglia well enough. He is polite. He doesn’t treat her like the staff, he treats her like a friend, and Lumine finds their moments shared warm and fun.
The more she sinks into it, though, the more this place tugs at her. That familiarity has sunk deep into her bones. She finds that she doesn’t need directions to navigate the manor, she already knows. The paintings that hang in the hallways, Lord Tartaglia’s family, acquaintances, those too are recognizable to her.
It makes no sense. She should not feel this way, but she does.
And the dreams— the dreams. Lumine spends her nights in sleepy thoughts, warm against another; of “Starlight” whispered against her hair, into her ear.
She is not afraid. No, these things warm her, make her feel at home. Lumine wakes in the morning refreshed, that ache in her chest fuzzed with pleasure.
“What’s got your head in the clouds?” asks Ekaterina one day, brushing past her in the kitchen.
“I’m just…” Lumine swallows. “Have I ever told you that from the moment I came here, it has felt…familiar?”
Ekaterina pauses, her hand curled around a tea kettle, right before setting it over the fire.
“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” continues Lumine. “It’s just more than just an inkling. Perhaps it is that everyone is so kind here. But…”
“But?”
Lumine is not the superstitious sort, not like those in Snezhnaya. There is a hesitation in telling Ekaterina this; she is the type of woman to spit on a broom when Lumine sweeps in the wrong direction. Still, Ekaterina has become her friend. Ekaterina can tell her if she’s crazy.
“I know these halls, I know the people here. It’s as if I’ve been here before, as if I’ve always known…” Lumine sighs. “I’m losing my mind. I really did need a change before coming here.”
Ekaterina finally sets that kettle over the fire. “For what it is worth, it is not such a strange thing. Snezhnaya holds power. There are old things that lurk here, especially in this estate, which is built over ley lines. I think the question is whether it bothers you.”
“No.” Lumine’s answer is immediate. “I… It is nice being here. I’ve come to care for everyone.”
“Especially our lord.”
“I—”
“No need to explain. Lumine, he is a good man, despite the rumors.”
Right, those. The media paints a dark picture of a military man, ruthless on the field. And perhaps they aren’t incorrect; there is a hollowness there on some days. Lord Tartaglia is not always in a good mood. But he is, at his core, a man of loyalty, a man who loves his family, both those related, and found.
“His tea,” says Ekaterina, cutting through her thoughts.
Lumine smiles as she takes the tray and walks those familiar steps to his office. Today, he doesn’t work out; today he is tired, and has paperwork to muddle through. The moment she steps in, though, it is set aside as he beckons her closer.
“A treat,” he says with a smile as Lumine drops into the armchair next to him.
This has become routine to them. They will share tea and swap stories. It is in moments like this that Lord Tartaglia’s exterior cracks slightly, and Lumine gets a peek into the man below. It’s been weeks of this, months of this, of leaning into him, of feeling this kinship that they share.
Lumine has felt this before. Lumine knows this, and judging by the way he leans closer and seeks out her presence, Lord Tartaglia does too. His words are quiet, careful, and he never pushes, but he enjoys that warmth all the same.
“Lord Tartaglia,” she says, “have you ever…”
He tilts his head when she pauses, waiting patiently.
“From the moment I’ve come here,” continues Lumine, “it’s as if I’ve known this place, as if I’ve known you. I cannot explain it. I cannot—”
“Starlight,” he calls her, and everything comes to a standstill.
Lumine leans forward in her chair. Warmth bleeds through her being as it clicks into place. He’s just called her that name from her dreams. It’s his voice, she then realizes; it’s always been his voice, that soft tenor curled with affection. It is different, just slightly. It is not exactly the same, but it is there, a needling thing that transcends time and space.
“That name—”
“I do the hiring here,” he says to her. “The moment I saw your picture in your resume file, I—” Lord Tartaglia pulls at his face. “It was presumptuous of me to bring you here, but I had to know. And the moment that I saw you, I knew you. This estate has been in my family for centuries, but it’s been empty for generations. That last man to live here was—”
“You,” breathes Lumine. “You and I. We—I cannot explain it, but—”
There is more to her dreams, of course, more things that she has chosen not to dwell upon. She doesn’t see two people as she sleeps, she is one of them, and the response to being called starlight is always—
“Ajax,” she calls him. “Ajax.”
Oh, this feels right. Lord Tartaglia laughs—he laughs in a way that she’s never heard him laugh before, pure and genuine, a crackling sort of thing that softens the air.
The tea goes forgotten as he sweeps close. “Starlight,” he calls her again, and Lumine knows that this is meant to be, that this once was, and they’ve found each other again. Ley lines, said Ekaterina. This place is old and strange, she’d said. Lumine wonders what sort of lives they’ve lived before this, what they did to be able to come back here, to this point.
“Call me that again,” he requests, cupping her cheek, brushing a thumb over the arch of it.
“Ajax.”
He smiles again and at that moment, Lumine realizes that this is him, that he wears no mask for her. When he dips closer, she lifts her face to meet his mouth. They kiss, a clumsy, unpracticed thing, but it’s right, it’s just perfect. They laugh against each other, knees knocking together, his palm warm against her face.
There is no rhyme or reason to it, but Lumine does not care.
This is her home, Ajax is her home. She is beyond the moon to have found him again.