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The Pretender 

Tilly had been in a foul mood all evening. When the group returned to the hotel and went their separate ways, she’d gone for a bath, hoping it would take the edge off. But the soap smelled heavily of lye, and the water had been lukewarm at best. There was something about the city that made her feel like she couldn’t get clean. Like she would never be clean again. She scrubbed and scrubbed until her skin was red, raw and sore, and it pained her scalp just brushing a comb through her hair.

She shelled out an extra a few coins to have her dresses laundered, leaving her to wander back to her room in her shift and stays and her mother’s old silk wrapper. While pretty enough, it was little more than a glorified housecoat.

She returned to their shared little room and took one look at the narrow lumpy bed and decided she wasn’t nearly tired enough yet, despite the fatigue of the day weighing on her shoulders. Instead, she sat on the low stool by the window and pulled her mother’s lute out of its case.

She spent a long moment running her fingers over the discoloured grooves along its edges. The places where the decorative gold gilt filigree and precious stones had been plucked out and scraped away so she could feed her family. She dashed away the burning hot tears that filled her eyes and looked around. The overwhelming swell of melancholy left her feeling listless and lost.

If she had been home, she’d run down the back steps to the ramshackle stable, barefoot and take Rain and ride off bareback into the twilight. Crossing the fields, up to the top of the hill where she could watch the stars reflected in the sea as it stretched clear across the horizon. Until the wonder and beauty of the world washed away all the bad things that threatened to drown her from the inside out.

But she was not home.

Because home was gone.

And she had sold that beautiful grey mare to afford safe passage for the twins to Caspia.

Suddenly, the cosy little room felt stifling and her stays felt too tight. She tried to catch her breath, but it felt as if her ribs were on the brink of crushing her lungs.

She had to get out of there.

She took the stairs faster than she ought to, but she came up short when she saw who else was in the common room. 

Ichor sat with her back to the room scribbling away in one of her books. Tilly gave her a wide berth as she made her way to the bar. 

“Good evening, Miss Tilly, will you be playing for us?” Mr Stravos, the innkeeper, asked brightly. 

“Not tonight,” she said sweetly, giving him a practised, tired smile. “Just feeling a little claustrophobic. I was hoping maybe I could get a glass of wine and practice down here for a bit? If it’s not too much of a bother?” 

“Of course, of course.” He assures her. “Not a bother at all!” The man fusses over her for a few moments and Tilly swallows down her bad mood to better play the part of a silly, eccentric bard. She’s perfected the act. Just enough posturing and etiquette to make people believe she’s acting above her station. Just enough sway in her walk to seem flirty and inviting and just enough lilt in her overly accented voice to give off a flair for the dramatic. It’s a carefully curated pretence. 

She pays for her drink and settles in one of the nicer chairs. If she closes her eyes she can pretend she’s sitting in the parlour playing a new piece her governess had taught her for her family. 
She plucked away at the song she’d been slowly writing when her grief and loneliness felt like it would drown her. Tilly was lost in the melody she was crafting. It was nice to play just to play, when the song was the magic itself and not a byproduct of a spell. The soft susurration of feathers brings her back into the hotel’s common room and her eyes fell once again of Ichor. Settled on the Viera’s slight shoulders was a beautiful tawny owl. 

Regal and watchful.

‘Good,’ Tilly huffed to herself. ‘At least now she has someone to watch her back.’ She thinks a bit uncharitably taking in again how Ichor had positioned herself with her back to the room. 
‘She’s so wrapped up wanting more power but doesn’t know the first thing about how to survive at the top.’ Tilly thinks scornfully, but the thought is curiously met with another.

‘You have the means to help her.’

The little voice in her head sounds suspiciously like her mother and governess, and Tilly can feel her sour mood finally fading into a chilly resolve. 

Before she knew it she’d made her way over to stand before the wizard … who hadn’t looked up yet. Either she was lost in her own little world and hadn’t noticed Tilly’s approach or Tilly was being ignored. She suspected it was the latter. 
With a frustrated huff, she smacks an open palm onto the table, upsetting the knickknacks scattered around, the wizard finally pausing their scribbling. 

“I word of advice, Miss Ichor,” Tilly drawled, not bothering to sweeten her tone as she usually would. She wasn’t going to pretend with someone who didn’t know the rules of The Game. “You should probably learn how to manage your resources more carefully, especially if you wish to one day manage those of an entire nation.” 
Ichor finally looks up then, dark eyes blank and disinterested, only her twitching ears giving away any hint of emotion.
“The Crown doesn’t beg.” 
Tilly straightens up slowly, displaying all the noble bearing drilled into her by her mother and governess. When she removes her hand and walks away, she leaves behind a small pouch of 150 gold coins.