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“It’s amazing you can rest like this,” says Clorinde.
Her voice doesn’t change, but Wriothesley doesn’t need to open his eyes to know the expression that must be on her face. The imagining of it in his mind’s-eye alone is enough to bring a smile to his mouth, when he says, “It’s a nice day.”
And it is, by most definitions. The sun in full radiance, a searingly blue sky, cotton-white clouds and the sticky stir of a breeze in his hair. A shadow falls over him, and Wriothesley smiles wider.
“Enterprising citizens are attempting to fry eggs on the pavement in the Court, while you are here in two layers of fur.” Now the notes of amusement and exasperation are blending together in Clorinde’s voice, fine as any tea; he thinks she’s looking down at him as she says it, impassive but for the telltale softness around her eyes. The one that says, this man is a fool, and the one that says, woe is me, to care for a fool.
When he opens his eyes, it’s exactly as he imagines. “Three layers of fur, actually,” gets an eye-roll from Clorinde, but the handful of (admittedly fast-melting) ice Wriothesley holds up in a handkerchief is an acceptable apology to decency. Fontaine has no love for this kind of weather, but Wriothesley does enjoy an unseasonably hot, humid day from time to time; there’s no greater contrast to Meropide.
“Come sit,” he says, patting the ground next to him. Clorinde wrinkles her nose, but obliges him.
A few moments later, she holds out a hand. Wriothesley pours her another handful of ice.
The cicadas are a neverending drone on the trees, and the melting ice drips steadily onto the soil, and the humidity sinks through his skin. Lazy, hazy, summer days, he remembers one of the Marechaussee Phantom complaining to Sigewinne, the Melusines much preferring water in liquid to gas form. Sigewinne had laughed back, insulated by the metal walls and deep ocean around her.
Clorinde stretches out her legs, leans back against the stone. “Have you been here all day?”
“Only since lunchtime,” he answers, willing his Vision into exerting an extra breath of frost around them. “Would you like an early afternoon snack?”
Clorinde lifts the cover of the picnic basket and peers inside. Wriothesley packed the basket himself, so of course he knows what’s there for her: one fruity trio, carefully plated up to survive the journey with the meringue intact. With an extra twist of lemon, the way she likes it, and some pate de fruit dipped in sour frosting on the side.
Her face stays expressionless, but her hands betray her. They’re already reaching for the cutlery inside, fingers curling around the hilt of the knife. In moments the fruity trio is a proper trio, sliced elegantly into three.
Wriothesley grins.
He declines his slice when offered, his lunch earlier plenty to sustain him, but does lick the taste of the dessert out of her mouth when she’s done. Thorough, unhurried, as if they possess far more than the single half-day they have. Today Clorinde’s lip gloss tastes like rainbow roses, her scent gunmetal mixed with something clean and sweet. Wriothesley’s more often been the cause of her laundry, not the solution, but the detergent is familiar: it’s the same one for her sheets.
When they break for air he finds the heat is getting to him after all, his Cryo Vision insufficient to cool the pounding in his blood. Clorinde is stifling laughter watching him shuck away the fur - but then she’s unbuttoning his shirt for him, so Wriothesley’s hardly going to consider that a loss.
“Wow,” he says, when she’s finished spraying him with sunscreen that she apparently just keeps in a pocket. In Wriothesley’s defence, the Fortress of Meropide is not particularly known for its window views. “Impressive.”
Clorinde smears additional sunscreen on his nose. “You know very well that tone only works on Neuvillette,” she chides.
Many things, actually, work on Neuvillette when the legal system of Fontaine is not at stake. Like sad blubberbeasts, and crying crabs, and surprise presents from Melusines during a long workday. Sometimes Wriothesley wonders at the size of his heart. Mostly he’s just glad to be in there.
“How is he?” he asks. “Busy?”
Clorinde’s eyes flick towards the Court of Fontaine, then stay in that direction. She narrows her eyes. “Not so busy,” she decides, as Wriothesley scrambles up to squint in the same direction.
His eyesight isn’t quite as good as Clorinde’s, but the Iudex has long legs, so he’s striding into view soon enough. Like always, Neuvillette makes no concessions to the weather, his formal wear impeccable despite the heat. If he hadn’t seen it with his own two eyes, he would wonder if the other had any ability to sweat at all.
As it is, Wriothesley has seen him gleam. It’s quite wondrous indeed.
“Come sit, monsieur,” he calls, when Neuvillette is in hearing range. “I brought soup. Though I warn you, it’s gone through Sigewinne’s inventive hands.”
Neuvillette’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “I am duly warned,” he says solemnly, taking the picnic basket from Clorinde. He takes a seat in between them, and the humidity plummets - down and down until the very air lightens, and it becomes merely hot instead of muggy.
Clorinde releases an audible sigh and burrows into Neuvillette’s side, seeking the dewdrop-cool quality of his skin. They slot together comfortably, so Wriothesley has no qualms joining in by making a pillow out of Neuvillette’s thighs. Neuvillette swaps the picnic basket for Wriothesley’s hand, his fingers smooth and cool in Wriothesley’s own.
Now it’s a really nice day.
He says as much, to Clorinde’s exasperated sigh. Neuvillette, very kindly, humours him, a thumb running soothingly over his knuckles. Wriothesley closes his eyes, basks in the sunlight of their presence, and lets his mind wonder.
Like he said, it’s a really nice day. Only a few things could improve it into an extremely nice day. Such as, for instance… it’s too hot for most kinds of dinner, certainly too hot for the roasts or open-campfire spits that he and Clorinde are masters of, so Neuvillette ought to be badgered into making his consommé. That has the side effect of being able to watch the Iudex in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up - something he and Clorinde can split and savour like a bottle of fine wine. By then the sun will have started to slip away, but the stone on the balcony will still be warm; a prime view. And after that, it would be a pity not to make use of Neuvillette’s ludicrously large bed, or the bath that puts most swimming pools to shame, and from there…
“How greedy, Your Grace,” says Clorinde, approvingly.
Wriothesley grins at her. They wait for Neuvillette’s judgement with the long ease of those accustomed to the courtroom, watch him deliberate Wriothesley’s thoroughly-ironclad logic.
Neuvillette, as always, never disappoints.