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It’s the witching hour, and ironically, Izetta can’t sleep.
The bed’s too big. The mattress is too soft; she’s drowning under the thick blankets. She’d thrown open the windows a while ago, hoping to feel the breeze, but it’s still nothing like sleeping in the open air.
She sighs into the darkness. She should be grateful, that they’ve given her such luxury to live in - but it just doesn’t fit her. She feels like a stray dog brought into the warmth out of pity: sees in her mind’s eye the muddy pawprints she’s leaving everywhere.
She flips onto her front, then onto her back, then front, and still doesn’t reach the other side of the bed. And somehow, that’s the last straw. With an extended groan, she rolls all the way off the bed and thumps onto the carpeted floor.
Even that’s soft.
Maybe a bit of exercise, to walk the nerves out of her until she’s too exhausted to do anything but sleep. Izetta winches herself upright and heads for the door.
Of course, she gets terribly lost.
It’s not really Izetta’s fault. The castle is a maze of rich tapestries and stern paintings looking down their noses at her; the only paths she knows are the ones Lotte and Finé have guided her down, to the meeting room and to the castle’s entrance. Lotte had told Izetta to call her if she needed anything or wanted to go anywhere.
Now that she thinks about it, the three days since her arrival have been the laziest she can remember, people waiting on her hand and foot.
A shiver crawls her skin. She wants to be useful, wants to have a purpose. Right now, she’s only a burden.
She walks a little faster to nowhere.
It’s only when a hand claps onto her shoulder that she squeaks, startled out of her thoughts.
A castle guard looks down at her uncomfortably. “Is everything alright, Lady Izetta?” she says, removing her hand. “Do you need something?”
“N-No, I was just… I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d take a walk.” Heat creeps along Izetta’s cheekbones. “Sorry,” she tacks on, feeling like a fool. “I’ll go back now.”
She pivots to do exactly that, then remembers again: she has no idea where she is. She turns back. The guard jumps to attention, and Izetta winces at the movement even as she asks, “Um, where am I? And h-how do I get back?”
“Princess Finé’s rooms,” the guard said; and as if on cue -
“What is it?”
Izetta jumps. So does the guard. They look at each other guiltily as Finé continues, voice muffled by the wooden door, “Is something the matter, Baumann?”
“N-no,” the guard says loudly, stiff as a wooden board. “Only Lady Izetta.”
“Izetta?”
Izetta’s hand lifts in an unconscious wave. “Hello,” she says, happy and guilty at the same time. Finé’s awake, and her voice lifts at the mention of Izetta - but Izetta’s probably keeping her from her sleep. “I, um, got lost. I’ll just… go back. Sorry.”
She turns smartly on her heel - “Wait,” Finé says, and Izetta jolts to a stop, as if Finé’s soft voice is a fishline and the hook is buried between Izetta’s shoulderblades. “Izetta…”
“Yes, Princess?” Anyone else, Izetta would have braced herself for a rebuke. But what would Finé want from her?
“…Never mind, Izetta. Go get your rest.”
Izetta’s ears prick. Was that a waver in Finé’s words? Her feet carry her unbidden to right before the door, her knuckles rap gently against Finé’s door, and for some reason, she says, “May I come in, Princess?”
Silence stretches taut and fragile as a spiderweb. Izetta can feel the guard staring at her. She’s about to blurt sorry, I didn’t know why I said that, I’ll stop bothering you - but Finé says, further from the door than before, “Yes, you may.”
So Izetta takes a deep breath and lets herself in.
She’s never been in here before. The door leads to a small sitting room, decorated tastefully with flowers; Izetta’s gaze lingers on them, and she takes mental notes on Finé’s preferences. (Sunflowers - hasn’t changed since they were young.) To the left, a wardrobe with its door flung open: dresses blur into each other in the dim gloom of night.
The door to the right opens into a spacious bedroom. A bed, just as luxurious as Izetta’s, takes up most of the space. At the far end is a balcony, the curtains drawn back.
Moonlight spills over Finé, sketching a crisp shadow behind her; it turns her long, unbound hair silver-pale. Her nightgown ripples around her ankles in the breeze. She stands with her back to Izetta, gazing out over her country, unreadable, immovable.
Finé looks, Izetta thinks, like something mystical that would flit through her mind in the wobbling moment between sleep and wakefulness.
Izetta didn’t come to - to ogle the princess, though. With a thick swallow, clearing away her hesitation, she says quietly, “Princess? Are you all right?”
Finé’s shoulders draw towards her ears. “Yes,” she says, and the lie cracks her voice. “…No.”
She turns and faces Izetta. Tear tracks cross her cheeks like silvery scars - her eyes are red - worse, the worst, she smiles bravely at Izetta as she says, “I’ll be all right. I promise. Just…”
“Princess,” Izetta whispers. She doesn’t know what Finé sees in her face - but whatever it is, it makes Finé’s smile twist at the corners and her eyes close, fresh tears escaping.
“I’m sorry,” Finé whispers. She sways towards Izetta, but her feet stay rooted to the ground.
That’s all right. Izetta can fly, after all; and for Finé, she’ll go anywhere.
With the sleeve of her nightgown, Izetta carefully brushes at Finé’s cheek. “Don’t be sorry,” Izetta murmurs. Her heart is in her throat (she shouldn’t be allowed, not with her), but the look Finé gives her is part wonder and part relief, so she swallows it back down and repeats, “Don’t be sorry, Princess. You’re allowed to feel bad.”
And with a sob barely louder than the first drops of spring rain, Finé closes the distance between them with one step and buries her head against Izetta’s neck.
She cries in silence, the only sound the hitch whenever she draws another breath in, throat clicking drily. Her fingers wind in the back of Izetta’s gown until Izetta thinks the wrinkles will never leave.
Izetta tucks her cheek against Finé’s hair and makes quiet soothing sounds and rubs Finé’s shoulders, and horribly, she is glad that she’s the one to do this.
The shoulder of Izetta’s gown is damp by the time Finé’s shudders finally die down to the occasional shiver. “I’m sorry,” Finé says again when they separate, her gaze downcast. “I didn’t mean to… cry all over you.”
“I don’t mind,” Izetta says, because it’s the truth. Finé looks up at her. Her eyes look a little lost, uncertain in a way Izetta hasn’t seen before. Daringly, Izetta takes Finé’s hands in hers and leads her towards the untouched bed. They shuffle across the carpet, feeling their way through the dark together.
Finé sits against the headboard, settles into the quilt obediently and watches in silence as Izetta pours a glass of water from the pitcher by the bed. She murmurs a quiet thanks; when Izetta finishes pulling the curtains closed and turns back, half the glass is gone.
Caring for, helping, being useful: these are things Izetta wants to do and be. She smiles at Finé, and like a ripple-smeared reflection in a pool, Finé manages a wobbly smile back.
Izetta sits at the edge of the bed and says softly, “What are you thinking?”
Finé’s thumb runs over the glass’s rim over and over. “My father. What he would do, if he were in my place - no, what he would do if I hadn’t taken his place.”
Responsibility isn’t something Izetta’s had to shoulder - not on Finé’s scale, at least. Few other people do. Even so… “I think you’re doing a wonderful job,” she tells Finé. “I think he would be proud.”
Izetta’s never met the Archduke of Eylstadt. But no one could possibly not be proud of Finé.
For a second, Finé looks like she’s about to cry again. Izetta stammers and backpedals. “I-I mean, that’s just what I think! That you’re already good enough, and you don’t need to worry! Then again I don’t know much about this kind of thing and - “
“Izetta,” Finé interrupts. Izetta’s mouth clicks shut. Finé shuffles to the side of her enormous bed and lifts the quilt. Her smile is a little shy, a little self-deprecating.
Izetta blinks. She points at the space, then herself. Finé nods. “Are you sure?” she can’t help asking.
Instead of deigning that with a reply, Finé flaps the quilt invitingly.
Finé is all soft angles and long limbs; she tucks herself against Izetta with a satisfied sigh. Izetta swears she can feel her pulse where the delicate veins of Finé’s elbow rests against Izetta’s waist.
“I heard you couldn’t sleep too,” Finé says. The words ruffle Izetta’s hair, and she shivers just a little bit.
“It was too big,” Izetta confesses. Yes, that was it: too big entirely for a small witch who’d grown up without any space to call her own.
“Mm.” Finé sounds tired. “You can come here whenever you want, you know. If it helps. Thank you for helping me too. Goodnight, Izetta.”
Then Finé presses a kiss to the top of Izetta’s head and falls asleep in seconds.
Izetta lays very, very still. She swears her heartbeat will wake Finé up. When she’s sure Finé’s asleep, Izetta carefully, carefully draws one of Finé’s slender hands up to press the palm against her lips. A kiss for a kiss, she tells herself.
Finé whuffles against Izetta’s hair. The tiny, undignified sound unknots something in Izetta’s chest, and all of a sudden, the tension drains from her muscles until she feels like she’s melted in Finé’s embrace.
With Finé’s quiet not-quite-snores in her ear and Finé’s knobbly knees against hers, Izetta closes her eyes. For the first time in the three days since she’d been brought here, she sleeps unmoving through the rest of the night.