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Dear Gucci. This is a letter. You said to write to you but Mother said I cannot send any communications until my penmanship and spelling improves so I am recording this instead because I told you I would write to you even though you said that kind of thing doesn’t matter. I don’t think it does either but I don’t want to tell Mother that.
Sovereign gave me a recording device and he said he would get it to you so Mother wouldn’t find out. I expect she will anyway. She always finds out and then I get in trouble, even though I didn’t even do anything. That’s how she found out about my penmanship in the first place. It isn’t my fault if I can’t spell all the horribly long words the tutors want me to write down. That should be their fault for not teaching me properly. I bet if you were in the lesson with me I would be able to learn to do whatever they ask. You always have a much better way of explaining things, much better than any of my silly old tutors. I’m sure once I’m allowed to go to school with you I’ll be just as smart as Mother is.
Not long after the fall of Cruciat, teams from Millennium Break were sent through to search the wreckage of the palace and the other fine homes there for information and other resources that might help them to turn the tide of future battles in their favour. Few things were discovered that were of major strategic interest, though the more scholarly members of Millennium Break found some value in old maps and portraits, and there was usually something of interest in any old books or hard drives that were recovered in a good enough state. For those that weren’t, morale could still be improved by smashing them or tearing them to pieces as the bombs had done to the palace.
After that time came the rebuilding - the structures cleaned out and repurposed, the more broken down places taken apart entirely to rebuild. It was only then, hidden away inside a skirting board of one of the now-crumbling seaside villas, that a series of recordings were discovered.
They passed from hand to hand, traded between people who viewed them as curios of a time gone by and those hoping to discover a hidden gem of history or a secret Kesh code. Most were not able to listen to them at all, the recording method too outdated for their new tech and too niche for their old tech. Those who could find a way were usually disappointed - instead of Curtain messages or courtly intrigue were the mundane ramblings as a young girl, her voice unpleasantly high pitched and often wince-inducingly close to whatever microphone she’d been using.
Still, they were unique enough not to be destroyed entirely and so they passed from person to person, from trader to amateur historian, from collector to hobbyist, until they finally reached the hands of one Alise Breka.
Dear Gucci. This is a letter. I hope you are well. I haven’t sent off the first recording yet. Sovereign had to go away to do a job for Mother, some boring diplomatic thing, but he said he would take the recordings with him when he gets back. I’m sure it will be soon. He promised it would be.
Mother left as well today. She said there was something that needed her direct attention. That usually means someone is in trouble, but at least it means she is cross with someone other than me for a change. And it means I can go out in the garden again. The staff here don’t care if I do, or if I climb a tree or get my dress sandy or anything. There’s a very big tree here and you can almost reach the roof from it. I bet if you were here we could figure out a way to get up there properly.
Alise knew the recordings for what they were right away, of course. That wasn’t the tricky part. She might not be considered a leading expert in Kesh history, but she was quite familiar with Gucci Garantine. She had come close to making Gucci a heroine in one of her novels several times, but then some other more urgent idea had come up, or a plot had never materialised properly in her mind, or Gucci herself had gotten wind of it and had requested that Alise focus her energy elsewhere.
Which, she had, of course. She didn’t intend to get herself killed over one of her protagonists real-life counterparts being too easily recogniseable. That being said, she had done her cursory research - early life, schooling, the scandals and victories that might help shape a narrative. You couldn’t do that with Gucci as the focus without learning about her close association with Clementine Kesh.
The same was true of Clementine, really, although perhaps it stood out more in her life since the anecdotes with Gucci were the few that didn’t make her seem decidedly unpleasant. She still seemed a little unpleasant in the stories that included Gucci, but it was usually tempered by some mention of Clem listening to Gucci when she ignored everyone else, Gucci bringing out some kind of good humour in Clem when Alise might have thought Clem was utterly lacking in it.
That was even more true nowadays, which was part of the problem. If the recordings had been of anyone else Alise would have listened to them, made any notes she wanted to for her own reference, and then given the recordings to them. If it had been anyone else, Alise could have expected the person to be, perhaps, a little embarrassed that their personal recordings had been discovered and maybe a little grateful to her for returning them.
The Witch in Glass was unfortunately not so reliable and even less so since she’d had the Iconoclasts around her. She was as likely to thank Alise as she was to summon her hideous paint creatures to tear Alise apart.
And so she decided to give them to Gucci instead. She was the intended recipient after all.
Dear Gucci. This is a letter. Sovereign is still away. Mother came back last night but then she left again. The staff said some cousin of mine was supposed to come here, but now they won’t come because Mother isn’t here but I don’t care. I don’t even know them. Besides, when I asked if you could visit Mother said we shouldn’t allow visitors anyway.
I’m still trying to figure out how to get on the roof.
Gucci was at the end of a very long day. Every day where she had to deal with Clem was a very long day, but then, there wasn’t anything new about that. Clem wasn’t made more frustrating now that her eyes were hidden behind sage or that she now sent droplets of oil paint scattering as she gestured, just more dangerous.
She should probably be grateful that Clem still listened to her at all, but it was hard to be after hours upon hours of trying to convince Clem to move her Iconoclasts away from the more populated areas. It wasn’t like asking them to move to the area of woodland Gucci had sectioned off was so much of an ask. Thisbe had even gone through with a small team, making sure that the area was clear of any wildlife or plants they might need in the future and leaving most of the area intact. Plenty for the Iconoclasts to devour, but of course Clem didn’t want to go into the area Gucci had asked her to, the second Clem became aware that was the plan she wanted to go to the area of the wood that was right next to the area they’d cleared, for seemingly no other reason than that she could sense that Gucci would prefer she not do that.
So, they’d discussed it, or rather Gucci had tried to discuss it like an adult but Clem had sulked and whined until Gucci felt like screaming, but since she had to be the adult, she just politely requested that they reschedule their discussion. Clem had, thankfully, agreed, which was a very double-edged sword. For one thing, it meant that Gucci would have to have the same discussion with her again in a week’s time. For another it meant that, when that time came, Gucci knew she’d tell herself that Clem agreeing to table things meant that she could be reasoned with.
That was the trick of Clem, it always had been. It wasn’t one she even did on purpose, which was worse. If it had been a ploy, even a clumsy attempt at manipulation, Gucci could have brushed it aside, but it wasn’t. Clem agreed because she genuinely thought it was up for debate. Clem agreed because she really thought Gucci could be talked around to her point of view. Clem agreed because… Well. She agreed Gucci asked her to.
That was the trick of Clem, too. Just when Gucci had finally managed to convince herself that Clem was just as horrible as the world thought, irredeemable, more wild monster than sentient entity, more of a destructive force than a friend, Clem would do something entirely reasonable. She’d help the Break’s forces in protecting civilians, or offer up a place for them to rest safely. She’d agree to provide aid, or pull back the Iconoclasts as though she could truly control them. She’d insist on better padding for Gucci’s chair in the meeting room. She’d remember how Gucci took her coffee without having to be reminded.
She’d remembered that afternoon, in fact. Black, no sugar, but a teaspoon of hot chocolate powder in the second cup. She’d mixed it for Gucci herself.
And then, of course, she’d launched back into complaining that people were trying to order her around instead of conceding to Gucci’s very reasonable offer.
And now she had a package from Alise Breka, of all people. Gucci rubbed her forehead, trying to press away the headache that she could feel beginning to build. At least it wasn’t likely to explode, even if she wasn’t in the best mood to review propaganda.
Dear Gucci. This is a letter. Sovereign still isn’t back yet. I went into- I happened to pass by Mother’s office when he called through, and he said he didn’t know when he would be back. That’s a lie, obviously, because he and Mother always know exactly where everyone is and how long they’ll be there. I think it must be an extra punishment from Mother for going outside so much because the staff said I ought to stop or she’ll be cross with me. I think they are more worried that she’ll be cross with them.
I am getting a lot of freckles from the sun here but I don’t care. You have a lot of freckles too, and I think yours look very nice.
Gucci paused before she’d gotten half way through the first recording, her chest almost too tight to breathe. The Clem on the recording was so young, before they’d even been at boarding school by the sound of it, all the way back when Crysanth had insisted on private tutors and Gucci only saw Clem during garden parties and gatherings to celebrate Kesh victories and holidays. Way back when, when Clem had just been the strange, bossy little girl that none of the other girls liked, who’d seemed to hang onto Gucci every word, as long as Gucci was looking at her when she said it.
It had made Gucci feel very grand, when they’d been children. If one of the other girls ever disagreed with Gucci, Clem would get very haughty about it, looking down her nose at them, her posture a copy of Crysanth’s even if she’d been disagreeing with Gucci only moments before. Her cheeks would get all pink and blotchy and her eyes would flash with anger and, sometimes, if they were standing close enough together, she would reach out and take Gucci’s hand.
Clem’s hands were very soft but she always had very sharp nails, pressing marks into the back of Gucci’s hand. She used to hold Gucci’s hand like she was clinging on for dear life.
And then she’d go away, for months at a time, and Gucci wouldn’t hear from her at all. Clem always promised to write, but she never did. Even now, she was terrible at keeping up with that kind of thing, more likely to send a messenger with a short verbal message than she was to respond to an email. It had always seemed to Gucci like it was just another way that Clem kept you on the hook without meaning to, a product of Clem’s lack of interest in having any kid of relationship with anybody, a product of Clem’s belief that every person in the world should be at her beck and call without her doing anything in return. Once you were out of sight, you were very much out of mind.
Gucci looked down at the player on her desk, a heavy silver thing with wide black and green buttons that Alise had sent with the recordings. She let out a breath, pressing the green button until it clicked, the recording springing back into life. Clem’s much younger voice filled the air, giving a meandering report of the villa’s garden as seen through her window, getting distracted by a seagull she could see perching at the top of the fence, interrupting herself to ask Gucci if she remembered finding some feathers the last time they’d seen each other, how they’d thrown them into the little artificial stream that had run through the greenhouse of the manor they’d been visiting, racing them to the pond.
I’ll have to try and get out later to see if it leaves any feathers for you, said the Clem of the past.
She’d almost forgotten Clem could talk like that. But that was her and Clem all over, wasn’t it? Just when Gucci was at the end of her rope with it all, Clem found another length.
Dear Gucci. This is a letter. I figured out a way to get on the roof, but then I fell off. Can you believe they built this place so that the tiles just slide right off? It seems like very shoddy workmanship to me. It hurt a lot but they gave me some medicine so it feels okay now.
Mother is not here but someone must have told her because she called me after they finished putting the cast on and she was very angry with me. She said I behaved in an unbecoming way for a member of House Kesh and that when she got back we would have a long discussion about it. I don’t think it is unbecoming to try and do new things, but when I tried to tell her that she said those were foolish thoughts to have and asked me who told me that. Don’t worry - I didn’t tell her that it was you! I know it was sort of a secret. I mean, you didn’t say so, but it must be. Things that make my mother angry are always secrets.
But I don’t mind getting in trouble about it all this time.
It was the strangest thing, but then, it always was with Gucci. First Gucci was barging in while Clem had been relaxing, stomping around and demanding Clem corral the Iconoclasts into some dreadfully pokey area of damp woodlands, then she was declaring that she’d run out of time to discuss things, and now she was back again. Not to concede the point, no, that would be far too simple, but to continue their discussion. She had maps this time, she had video footage.
The woodland looked quite nice in it, really but-
Clem huffed a breath, leaning forward on the table to deliberately drip paint onto the map screen, making the areas where the paint dripped warp, static obscuring the text. Gucci glared at her and then - and this was Gucci all over - reached out and took Clem’s hand. If Clem was still a living human being, her heart would have stuttered in her chest. As it was, flowers bloomed out from the painted sage leaves across the approximation of her face.
Well, that was-
That was a dirty tactic. That was so unfair. That wasn’t allowed.
But then, that was Gucci all over too. Always pushing the boundaries, always crossing a line. Always taking Clem’s hand when she didn’t expect it.
“Clementine,” said Gucci, her voice with that strange tilt to it, amusement curled around a stern tone.
No one else ever said her name like that. Few people had ever called her by that name at all, really, and fewer all the time, but no one had ever sounded like that when they said it. She swallowed, letting her fingers curl around Gucci’s, the warmth of Gucci’s skin making the paint melt against Gucci’s palm.
“Fine,” said Clem. “Fine, I’ll… I’ll see what I can do. But no promises.”
Gucci nodded. She squeezed Clem’s hand, not pulling away ever as she sat back a little. But then, that was Gucci all over, too. Just when you thought for sure she was about to leave, she stayed.
Dear Gucci. This is a letter. Or maybe it isn’t, since I don’t know how I will send any of them to you. We are supposed to leave soon and Sovereign still isn’t back. I will have to hide them here somewhere before Mother gets back because the staff will find them and give them to Mother if I put them in my suitcase. I thought about hiding them in my dolls, but they found me when I was cutting one open and I got in trouble. Mother said my tutor told her that the lack of direct physical education is making me destructive and so she has finally agreed to rowing lessons. Now I’ll get to have rowing lessons with you!v I should have cut up my dolls ages ago.
I’ll make sure to put these letters somewhere safe until I can figure out a proper way to send them to you. I wouldn’t want you to think that I didn’t write after I went to all this effort, or that I didn’t think about you- Not that I think about you all the time, of course. I’m sure everyone who meets you must think about you. You’re very interesting. I mean, I think about you the same amount that you think about me, or I hope so. Do you? That’s probably a silly thing to ask in a letter. I try to ask you in person sometimes but it never comes out properly and we always end up in some silly argument.
Not that I mind arguing with you. I would rather argue with you forever and ever than talk to most people for even five- No, for even two minutes. I quite like arguing with you. I hope we do argue with each other for- for the rest of our lives. And that’s going to be a very long time, I think.
Somewhere, across the Twilight Mirage, Alise Breka sat down to write. She had a good idea this time - childhood friends, secret yearnings, lost letters. It was just close enough to the real thing to keep people guessing without tipping over into libel. She’d leave out the tangle of Russian sage and oil paint, but, perhaps, she’d leave in what she’d heard about leashes. That part of it was very compelling.