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"This unit does not generally stoop to the customs of laypeople," Pasqal reassures — himself, or perhaps his entire priesthood, as much as he does Constantia. Yet even as he speaks, there is a certain twang, a certain pluck of the copper wire, within his artificial voice... Something that can almost be read as nervousness.
"However..?" Constantia prompts gently.
Her attention is now fully focused on the Magos. She even pushes aside the seating plan that Master Danrok presented for her approval (juggling all the noble families of Dargonus, and the delegations from Houses Winterscale and Chorda, has been not unlike that old puzzle about the cabbage, the grox, and the grox-eating wolf-toad that used to frustrate her poor sister so much when they were children).
"However," Pasqal concedes, "The company of unit Solomorne has been most enjoyable, and data suggests that an official occasion such as the Magnae Accessio provides an optimal opportunity to... articulate that. Through means a layperson would understand."
"That is very wise," agrees Constantia. Her smile comes out tiny, and twitchy, and altogether awkward — but she trusts that Pasqal has logged enough of her previous face scans to determine that it is genuine.
"And if I may... Although I have mostly been an observer of dancing, not a participant — I have found that the pastime has a certain order to it. A regulated cadence that you might find comforting. Perhaps someone from House Gaprak might know a form of dancing that is amenable to tech priests? I could ask Clementia to arrange a meeting for you. They ought to be eager to assist, after what happened at Kiava Gamma."
She herself has been... most eager to assist. To compensate as best she can for her unworthiness — which has been looming ever larger on the horizon, as mere days remain before her ascension to a throne that was never meant for the likes of her.
Curiously enough, her companions all have been filing into Theodora's Dargonus study — her study now, she supposes, far too vast, ever-ablaze with far too much gilding — with various pleas to help with affairs of the heart.
First, there was Idira, in dismay over how to get Vigdis, who scarcely ever leaves the ship, to spend an evening with her. Then, there was Jae, who had just received an immortalium from Cassia and was at a loss how to respond.
"But surely, as a princess yourself, you would have at least a notion — " Constantia began, only to be cut short by a bark of nervous laughter.
"Ah, shereen, but Efreet is a much less sophisticated world! We flaunt our wealth and smother our loved ones in gifts beyond measure, yes, but we do it without a secret code! What if I gift Cass a bouquet of what I think are the finest, most fragrant flowers, but end up spelling out something like 'I wish you dead'? Now, wouldn't that be embarrassing?"
And now, here is Pasqal. Standing in front of Theodora's desk — of her desk — and letting his mechadendrites sway ever so subtly, to the tune of musings as to how he might dance with Solomorne.
"This unit finds it agreeable," he decides at length. "Your input is much appreciated."
"So is this chance to give input."
She gets up to give her most respectful curtsey to the esteemed Magos — who is well on his way out, but creates some rustling and clanking commotion in the doorway as he runs into yet another petitioner. Someone whose voice pins Constantia down like a twitching, fluttering, still living butterfly about to be trapped without air under unbreakable glass.
"After you, Master Haneumann."
"You avoided collision with this unit most nimbly. It shall be noted that the blessed implants within your obsolete flesh are functioning as intended."
"Ahem. Yes, I suppose you can say that. Thank you again for the maintenance. My knees truly have never felt better!"
"Of course."
After a few more remarks about how caring for implants is his sacred duty, and how the Omnissiah knows all and comprehends all, Pasqal departs. And Constantia is left exposed, flayed under that imaginary glass, one on one with her Seneschal.
"Lord Captain," he gives her his usual regulation salute, and she wills herself not to dwell on how handsome his weathered face looks, bathed in the subtle golden glow of the study's countless lumen-touched adornments.
Her... disgraceful dreams of him have been particularly frequent of late. The memories of all the times when the distance between their hands was scandalously short have been almost too much to bear. But, much as she advises her retinue on affairs of the heart, patient and diplomatic without fail, she knows full well that the only advice she could ever give herself is, "Stay away".
"Master Werserian."
She curtseys again; then, straightens into a rigid stance to mirror his.
He clears his throat and begins to rummage for something around his belt. His motions are a little clumsy — quite unlike him! He even has to unholster his bolter and lay it down on a little side table to better reach whatever he is looking for. At last, he reels it in, out of the depths of his pocket: a carefully folded sheet of paper.
"Once again, House Werserian is honored to be singled out during your acceptance ceremony," he says, handing the missive to Constantia with a deep bow. "I have written down the names of those of my kin whom you may find the worthiest of standing by your side as you take your vows. As well as their accomplishments. You can rest assured I selected them based on merit, not the, hm, degree of relation to my person."
It takes not an insignificant amount of concentrated effort for Constantia to puppeteer her hand into grasping the paper. For her fingers have suddenly turned into unwieldy blocks of ice.
So this is how it is. For all his deferential demeanor, the Seneschal still does not respect her enough to stand beside her in person. It should come as no surprise: she is, after all, a former Seneschal herself, except far less experienced, and forever tainted by her bastard birth. Yet the unseen pin still digs deeper into her heart's quivering flesh.
Perhaps he has noticed... All those lapses in her ladylike conduct; all those inexcusable extra seconds spent greedily devouring him with a not-so-subtle gaze. The reaching of fingers, the fluttering of lashes, the lowering of voice. By the Golden Throne, he must find her so lecherous, so debauched! Not at all a Rogue Trader that an officer of his rank and dignity would be honored to serve under.
"Thank you, Master Werserian," she says out loud. "That is very kind. I shall review all the candidates post-haste. You are dismissed."
"Yes, Lord Captain. I will be awaiting your decision."
To whatever minuscule credit she yet deserves, she does not cry until he has left the room. She does not quite understand why she must cry over an utter trifle, and in such a slobbering, pathetic manner at that.
She thought she'd trained herself out of the habit long ago. Otherwise, she would not have lasted through a single evening of trailing after her sister as a hideous shadow to help highlight her beauty! The one time when she allowed herself this weakness was when she lost her sister, and the rest of the de Wahls, in the blaze that still crackles at the back of her skull and licks the voidship corridors when they enter the Immaterium. And that was a much more sensible reason to cry than... than this!
Is she really going to turn into a petulant child, wailing for something she was denied because of her own wicked ways?! Is she going to stand here, arms wrapped around her own shuddering torso, and choke back hiccups, while there are still so many preparations ahead of her?! Is she —
"Lord Captain, I beg your pardon, I forgot my..."
The bolter slips through the Seneschal's fingers and thuds down to the floor. She can feel his eyes on her, even as she hastily turns away, hoping in vain that her skill at concealing her eyes does not fail her now.
"Lord Captain?"
He won't leave. Emperor's grace, why won't he leave?!
She claws deeper into her shoulders, calling to mind all the tried-and-true techniques of making herself small.
"I will call for you when I have looked over your list, Master Werserian. No need to worry," she pushes the words out like the last dregs of paint from a tube.
"I am afraid that I have to disobey you here, Your Ladyship."
His voice sounds... closer now. Though she dares not turn around and look. Throne, her eyes sting!
"You are in distress. Did you receive a troubling vox? Who had the audacity — "
"It really is not serious, Master Werserian."
Her voice is so ludicrously thin that she feels her ears burn with shame. She must gather up these snot-covered pieces into her most needed, most reliable tool — her mask of propriety!
"I may have been... rather disappointed when you chose to delegate the role I envisioned for you... But I understand why you made this decision. Give me a few moments, and I will compose myself."
She'd better.
"You... You understand?" he mutters.
She is startled to realize that there is a crack in his voice, not unlike her own.
"I... I am grateful, Lord Captain. I truly thought that removing myself from your proximity at such a significant ceremony would be appropriate... But if you decide to punish me even further, I will accept your judgment."
She swerves on her heels, curls flying in front of her face. Yes, her eyes are still disgustingly puffy, and there are probably ugly blotches all over her throat and cheeks — but to the void with that! She has to make certain she heard him correctly!
"Whatever would I punish you for?! I was the one debasing myself before you, with my thoughtless behavior! You have every right to be appalled! All... All I can do is — "
She clasps her hands in front of her chest now. Another slip-up, is it? Well, in for a throne, in for a thousand.
"...Is curb my foolish feelings for you, and honor the trust we have been building as Rogue Trader and Seneschal, as comrades in arms... If that is not entirely destroyed."
His face — thankfully, not a blurry spot floating in the haze of even more tears — turns a deep crimson. Usually, that is a sign of barely contained righteous anger... But when he finds his voice again, he does not sound angry in the slightest. If anything, he sounds... Frightened?
"Lord Captain, please — it is my feelings that ought to be appalling! I have the weight of centuries on my shoulders; set in my ways, moving steadily towards the end of my life; long past any... any frivolities! When I had the first... stirrings of something that... that does not befit a man my age, I was determined to keep them pushed down, locked away... But then, after you showed me how you were going to run the Protectorate, after I was... frankly, awestruck by your resolve — after we started having those long conversations and walks, and developed our joint battle tactics... My — my willpower failed me, Lord Captain... I began to falter more and more often; with every glance, every touch, every dream... I couldn't — "
In his agitation, he has walked all the way towards where she stands. If she raised her arm now, her fingertips would meet his chest. And so they do, for she does just that, mindless as a servitor, hypnotized by the waxing glow in his living eye.
And he, just as unknowingly as herself, puts his hand over hers, fingers pressing into her frantic ungloved pulse.
"I couldn't either," she echoes after him, feeling the post-weeping blots on her face spread into a soft, comforting warmth.
"I shouldn't..."
"We shouldn't," he whispers, as he bends down, and all propriety in their entire world shrinks down to the last half an inch between their faces.
And then, even that is gone.
She — ever the ugly sister, ever unwanted, ever seeking answers in books about worthier people — nearly turns the kiss into an awkward shoving of lips and clicking of teeth. But he opens his mouth against hers, pours their breaths into one, and at the first gentle brush of his tongue, she begins to understand.
It is like stumbling clumsily into a river and then kicking off and beginning to swim. She allows the flow to take her, closing her eyes, melting into him. The pin is released, the glass panels is lifted; and when they break apart for air, it is the sweetest, deepest, freest breath she has ever taken.
"Please disregard the list, Lord Captain," he says hoarsely. "Much as I want this highest honor for my family, I... I also want to stand beside you. I always did. Which is...selfish, I know —"
She cups his cheek, indulging herself with the indignity of a giggle when he nuzzles against her touch and kisses her inner palm.
"I am very new to being selfish... But I do think we can brave this strange new world together. We have thus far, haven't we?"