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The taste is sweet, fresh and pudding-like, like one of Miss Navia’s macarons. Lynette can barely taste the alcohol, but she can feel it pulsing in her head, which is a dangerous combination.
“It’s nothing like the local samples we tried the other day,” Freminet says. He’s sitting with his back against the wall, freckled face flushed with wine.
“That’s because it’s not local,” Lyney smiles. “These,” he says slowly, tapping the glass of one of the bottles, “Came all the way from Liyue’s dear wine-loving neighbour.”
“Do I even want to know how you roped someone into selling you this?” Lynette asks.
Lyney laughs. “You say that, but look at you.”
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“You know, you’re pretty drunk too, Lyney,” says Freminet.
Lynette takes another sip of wine, then flops her head on to Lyney’s lap.
“Uh-oh,” says Lyney softly, though he pats his sister’s head. The feeling of his hand is comforting, she thinks, as is the sight of Freminet giggling, chest hunched over in laughter.
*
When she and Lyney were brought to the House of the Hearth, they were like skittish stray animals; spending all their hours searching for — and indeed, waiting for — signs of danger, the inevitable disappointment. The shared dormitories for children under thirteen were split by gender, so once again she and Lyney found themselves separated at night. She slept lightly those first few months.
One morning Lyney pulled her to a quiet corner, scanning the empty room before murmuring to her. Lynette listened closely, then nodded.
“Just be careful,” Lyney whispered. “I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I could sneak out.”
—
Lynette turns her head to look up at Lyney’s face. His eyes are half-closed, humming to himself with contented drunkenness. It’s funny; back then, they had felt themselves to be old, just adults lacking in size and strength. But now, years later, her brother looks very young to her. She supposes she must look the same.
*
That night, Lynette stalked the hallways a handful of times, under the pretense of using the bathroom, but nothing happened. She did the same the following night, again to no avail. But on the third night, as she padded silently to the door of her room, she heard the faint muttering of a female voice in the corridor. Lynette waited for a moment, hand clasping the doorknob and counting her breaths to ten before slipping out.
They must’ve been a good thirty paces ahead already, but with her ears Lynette could still trail them. The footsteps ended at the laundry room. It had only one door, so Lynette hid behind the curve of the corridor. She could hear the whirring of the washing machine, and occasional flitting voices, but she was too far to make anything out. Heart in her throat, she padded around the corner. The door was ajar, light spilling out the crack.
Too close. Lynette made to hide back around the corner, but a voice interrupted her.
“No need to sneak around.” Lynette froze. The door to the laundry room opened and the Knave stood looking down at her. She wore soft-looking white nightclothes, her hair tied back loosely, her impassive face a little… sleepy?
Behind her, a child younger than Lynette sat atop the washing machine. He was the boy Lyney had spoken to her about, the most quiet and reticent of his dorm-mates. His skin was very pale and his bedhead of hair almost translucent, giving him the illusion of being a ghost. And from the way he sat tensed on the washing machine, gazing down at his socks, he seemed he would rather like to be one.
“Did you come to say goodnight?” The Knave asked absently, opening the door to the dryer and spilling the clothes inside into a laundry basket. “Freminet, give me a hand with these.”
The boy slinked down from atop the washing machine and to the laundry basket, his back to Lynette, as if hiding its secrets.
Lynette was more confused than ever, but there at least didn’t seem to be any danger here.
“You’re good at keeping yourself hidden,” said the Knave. “A very feline strength.”
Lynette wasn’t certain how to respond, so she said nothing, still piecing together the scene in front of her. She watched as the boy, Freminet, pushed the basket of folded laundry back atop the washing machine, then pulled from it a mass of folded white linen. He stood in the middle of the room awkwardly, clutching the sheets tightly to his chest, as if in hiding them he, too, could disappear alongside.
The Knave flicked her hand. “Be on your way now.” Lynette watched with dawning understanding as the boy shuffled to the door, still not looking at her, face taut with embarrassment. “Oh, and,” the Knave turned to Lynette. “Do keep this to yourself. Children can be awfully cruel to one another.”
The next morning she and Lyney were on washing-up duty. “We had the wrong idea,” Lynette said quietly as she took a dripping plate from Lyney, careful not to let it slip from her small hands as she dried it. “Nothing bad was happening.”
Lyney breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “So what was it?”
As Lynette picked up a stack of dried plates, the image of the boy gripping his bedsheets, face crumpled with shame, came to mind. So she simply shrugged as she carried the dishes to the cupboard. “Maybe you can ask him yourself,” she called over her shoulder.
—
Lynette is the first to wake. She’s tangled in a blanket, laying on a beanbag she only half remembers sinking onto last night. She’s still tired, and a little queasy from the humid way the Liyue sun filters through the blinds, but she’s in a good mood nonetheless. Her brothers are asleep on the sofa, Freminet uncharacteristically sprawled spread-eagle, Lyney curled up by his legs. She tip-toes past them to the open kitchen area, formed of a little stove and some cupboards. She pulls out an old-looking but sturdy pan and fills it with water before carefully lighting the stove and opening what’s left of a bag of tea leaves.
The first time she’d ever tried tea was before coming to the House of the Hearth, back when she and Lyney had been staying in something akin to a squat house. They’d long left the legal system by then — after a string of disappointing foster placements ending with a couple who’d made an inexplicable hobby of belittling Lyney — and found themselves living in what could only be described as the underbelly of Fontaine’s underbelly, a scattering of less-than-legal half-houses whose inhabitants weren’t quite rich enough for the Fleuve Cendre.
Even for the two of them it had been difficult to adjust to; their ‘room’ that was really just the corner of a corridor enclosed in a thin curtain, or their neighbours who were unpredictable and often rowdy at all hours of the night.
These neighbours were kind to them, though, letting the two young children stay without asking many questions. Indeed, they often made an effort to help them in little ways, like the young man who sometimes shared eggs with them in the mornings, or the hazy-eyed woman who always made a point of greeting them warmly when they crossed paths.
She and Lyney had taken to practising their magic on the landing instead of on street corners when they weren't performing, after crass comments from strangers asking for different kinds of tricks.
On one of such mornings, as Lyney scooted her around the staircase into his vision for their newest magic trick, Egg-man poked his head around the corner of the corridor.
“Thought I heard you kids,” he waved. “Coming for breakfast?”
Lynette had always gotten the sense breakfast wasn’t a regular part of his routine, more something he did for their benefit, but she preferred not to think about it. She sat on one of the rusted kitchen chairs, swinging her feet as Egg-man fried the eggs — always with too much oil — watching her brother’s eyes darting around in the way they so often did.
After he’d put the food down in front of them, he turned back to his cupboard and pulled out a box of teabags. Lynette had smelt it before, a strong herbal note that made her nose twitch, and she watched him out of the corner of her eyes as he plopped a bag into a mug of boiling water.
Egg-man laughed quietly. “Want to try? It’s only green tea.”
Lynette glanced at Lyney, who nodded, before she took the steaming cup and tried a miniscule sip. Needless to say she didn’t get much of the flavour beyond a strange powdery note before she burnt her tongue.
Egg-man gently took the mug from her, which was already starting to sting her fingertips. He shook his head. “That was a bad idea,” he muttered, half to himself. “Sorry, kiddo. Maybe try again when you’re older.”
—
The eggs here in Liyue are bigger, such that when she clasps her hand around one it doesn’t quite fit in her palm. Once the water’s boiling, she puts two in the pot, and cracks two more open into a frying pan.
“Morning,” murmurs a voice round the corner.
Lynette jumps. “Oh, you startled me,” she whispers. “Sleep well?”
“Sorry,” Freminet whispers back, yawning. “Yeah… a little hungover though.”
Lynette’s head swims a little as she flips the egg in the frying pan. “Tell me about it. Is Lyney up yet?”
“No, but…” Freminet yawns again. “Sorry. I’d say he’s had enough sleep.”
“Thank you for making breakfast, Lynette,” Freminet says, gathering a forkful of scrambled eggs.
“Mhm. Thanks Lynette.” Lyney dejectedly traces the rim of a cup of coffee.
Lynette sighs. “You really shouldn’t have overdone it last night, Lyney.”
“I’m fine!” Lyney says, spearing a boiled egg with a fork. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
Lynette looks at him as she takes a bite of her pastry, the dark circles under his eyes shining at her as he takes a sip of coffee. It’s mean, but Lynette can’t deny it is a little funny seeing him hungover. And anyway, she thinks, he’ll live.
*
The first time she can remember Lyney actually being ill was at the squat house. In hindsight, it had been nothing more that a bad strain of that year’s flu, but Lyney was bedridden with a fever and Lynette had never seen him sick enough not to posture. Back then they had been truly glued to one-another. Without him she was both terrified and aimless. What was she supposed to do with her day? Herself?
Lyney hadn’t been able to bring himself to eat solid food, so Lynette had run to the shops with what little change they had. When she’d gotten back, out of breath with a small carton of orange juice tucked under her arm, Egg-man had been standing at the top of the landing.
“Your brother’s still not feeling well?” He’d asked.
Lynette had nodded, gazing at her shoes as she climbed the steps, the back of her neck sticky with sweat. If she’d looked up, she would’ve seen the eyes she felt watching her as she climbed the staircase. As it was, she didn’t see his face until she reached the last step, his expression relaxed as he pulled her into him with one easy gesture.
At the time she hadn’t even thought to move, or struggle, simply freezing — she then understood the phrase — like a deer in headlights. Egg-man held her against him for a few minutes, running his hands over her body before — as if aware this would be his last opportunity — giving her a final tight squeeze before dropping her.
All Lynette could do was slink away, her mouth feeling like sandpaper.
She and Lyney left that place soon after he recovered. And in the whirlwind of those years that followed, tea had been the last thing on her mind. It wasn’t until a few years into joining the House of the Hearth that the thought would come to her again. There were stacks of the stuff in the higher shelves of the kitchen, various types of black and herbal teas. Though the older children also often made it, Lynette only really cared for when Father — every evening when she wasn’t away — would brew some sort of berry-based tea that turned a deep red in the water.
Father must have noticed her watching with curiosity, but Lynette had made it a matter of pride not to ask for any, and Father quite strictly held the children to the rule of if you don’t ask for it, you won’t get it. So for months, Lynette had loitered around Father as she made her tea in the evenings. Archons knows what Father had thought of it; though she supposes she must’ve long gotten used to the strange eccentricities of children.
This song-and-dance continued until shortly after she turned twelve, soon after returning from that particularly demanding mission where she had received her vision. Perhaps it was out of pity, or congratulations, but in one of Father’s rarer moments of softness she casually called to Lynette over her shoulder, “Would you like to try some?”
For some reason she thought of Egg-man then. She pursed her lips and tried to shake the thought out of her mind, then nodded at Father, who poured a little tea from the cup she had brewed into a second glass before topping it with cold water.
It had tasted bitter, and there was too powdery a note to it for Lynette. But, she’d thought, this was something she could get used to.
—
“So, what’s the plan for today?” Freminet calls from the kitchen counter, where he’s fiddling with the broken shutter of their kamera, its second injury so far this trip.
Lynette is sifting through the kamera film, snapshots of markets and tea-fields; close-ups of mundane items shot in an attempt at being artistic which, looking at now, Lyney had probably been right in saying was a daft idea.
“We’ve only got two full days’ left in Liyue,” Lynette calls back. “It might be nice to visit some of the mountaintops.”
Lyney groans from where he lays on the sofa, arm covering his eyes. “Archons, please, no hiking today. Have mercy.”
“We could get a carriage up,” she says. “I more just want to see the view.”
“Done!” Freminet beams, handing Lynette the now-fixed kamera. “All ready for some mountaintop photography.”
Lynette turns the kamera over carefully, thinking. It’s already approaching midday, so if she wants a nice shot of the city below her, she’ll need to take it from a mountaintop with their backs to the sun. But what she really wants to show Father is a shot of the skyline.
“Do you remember the first time we saw the sky in Snezhnograd?”
Freminet sits next to her. “Of course. Hard to forget.”
Lynette fiddles with the kamera more, suddenly embarrassed. “What do you think Father liked best about it?”
Freminet considers the question quietly. Their first time outside of Fontaine was when the children of the Hearth had all been taken to Snezhnaya, ostensibly to improve loyalty to the Tsaritsa. It had been exciting, as well as freezing; mornings of stuffy training drills the younger children struggled not to laugh at, afternoons of playing just about every game in the snow they could think of. By evening they would be exhausted, defrosting around the Snezhnayan heating machines.
“I think… part of it was the silence. She did go to see it by herself.” Freminet says.
This is true; in those evenings, after the children had collapsed into bed, Father would quietly slip out. Lynette didn’t dare ask her about it; she had no authority to pry into Father’s affairs. Still, when Father would return, often around half an hour later, face pink from frost, Lynette had the impression these trips had little to do with work.
“I always got the sense there was something special about it,” Lynette says.
Freminet nods. “That’s true… there are a lot of places with nice views where you can be alone.”
It had ended up happening by pure coincidence. Two of their younger siblings had gotten into what was at the time quite a serious argument — though Lynette couldn’t say what it was about now for a million mora. Lyney had been playing peacemaker, as he often did, trying to quietly negotiate with them in their room. Lynette had little capacity for that sort of thing, so she simply quietly sorted the coats and shoes that had been flung by the door in anger on the way in.
It was then that Father had appeared, shoes already on and coat wrapped tightly around her.
“Are they still arguing?” she’d asked with a sigh.
Lynette flushed. They had tried to keep it from Father but, being Father, she’d known. Her siblings’ loud hysteria and theatrics may also have been a tiny hint.
When Father unlocked the door, she held it open for Lynette. “You’re welcome to join me if you’d like some silence. It’s quite the trek for a child, though.”
Quite the trek had been quite the understatement; Lynette was by no means out of shape, but it took all her effort to trail behind Father’s long strides on that snowy hillside, and Father had never made a habit of going easy for their benefit.
At one point, though, nearing the top, Lynette did stumble, and Father fell back the two or so paces to catch her shoulder with a firm hand. Something about the moment made Lynette’s stomach swim, and she wished it would last a second longer. But just as quickly she had slipped, they fell back into step — though Lynette could have sworn Father’s pace had slowed ever so slightly.
Their destination was the top of a large hill to the back of their accommodation in Snezhnograd; a rare break of snowy plain in the industrialised city. The aurora was visible from almost anywhere in Snezhnaya — the children had craned their necks at the sky from every which place on their first few nights just to drink in the glowing colours.
But the sight from here was different; without the pollution of city lights and reflecting only the snow-field below, the lights seemed ever more bright, consuming, radiant and vaguely imposing. Lynette didn’t realise her mouth was hanging open in wonder until she felt a snowflake land on her tongue. When she glanced at Father, her expression was as composed as ever, but there was a strange look in her eyes. Whatever it was, Lynette understood that she was witnessing something important to Father.
“Maybe it was just the colours,” says Lynette, unconvinced.
They’ve shown most of the photos they took to the rest of their family, but Lynette quietly slips her favourite into Father’s desk. She’s placed it between two glass panels, edges encased in a picture frame of golden cor lapis.
It’s a shot of the sky from the mountaintop at sunset, but in the distance, clusters of city houses are visible, absorbing the light and reflecting it back.