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Chapter Text

We were sitting together at dinner, at opposite ends of a too-large table, when I realised that my husband never had any intention of loving me.

He was talking to me about a new tea service he had acquired. It had been dug up from the ruins of a city in the East almost fully intact, with barely a chip or a crack. He told me that he would show it to me later and that I would revel in its filigree patterning and its delicate teacups with their dainty handles. His eyes gleamed with fervent excitement as he talked about the crockery. My husband’s cheeks even bore a slight blush.

I realised that the same look would come over his features when he talked about me, usually around a billiard table. He would get the same gleam in his eyes when he spoke about how I was one of the sole survivors after the destruction of the Marleyan city of Ordsa.

With a gleam in his eye, he would monologue about how I had flown across the sea to Breanumdaul and crashed into his life.

I realised I was no different from the tea set then. In fact, I was akin to all his collectibles: the Renaissance paintings, the painted fans, and the stuffed exotic animals with their bulging eyes. I was a precious thing he wanted to put on the mantelpiece, to be looked at and to brag about.

I was not a romantic person; I had not married the man I sat across the table from, Timothy Fevell, Duke of Lawnsmere, because I felt real affection for him. I had found him pleasant enough when he courted me. I was naïve and grieving and could not see beneath the mask he wore in public that hid his true nature.

I did not love him, yet I had, childishly, hoped that he loved me. Please forgive me, reader. I had only just turned nineteen when I married him and still thought a man’s love could protect you.

 I believed that love was the only reason he would take in a poor, untitled woman from across the sea. I knew that women like me were only meant to be mistresses or servants to men like him, to be used or despoiled, but always, eventually, cast aside.

So it was a shock when he proposed. So much so that it felt as if I had dreamt him getting down on one knee. It was a fairytale: a rich, affluent man assured me he would look after me forever and told me he would provide me with whatever I wanted. As someone who had lost everything, I could not turn him down. I did not turn him down.

We were married in a lavish ceremony, with all of Breanumdaulian society watching. I wore a gown so big it engulfed and hid my skinny frame.

I was still malnourished then from life in the slums and the barracks, and my ribs showed through my skin. I remember going back for slice after slice of the cream-filled wedding cake and vomiting it all up on my wedding night.

In the years after, I would occasionally look at the wedding photograph that hung in our hallway. I would look at the tall, elegant man with hair so blonde it was almost silver, arm in arm with the girl with big eyes swallowed by tulle and satin. I felt like I was staring at a different person.

I realised my husband did not love me a month into our marriage when the cruel words began. I realised he would never love me two years later as we sat at that large table. A decade on, we became acquaintances with separate bedrooms and lives drifting around his isolated manor house. He would speak to me only to chastise, punish, or remind me that I should buy a dress more fitting with the styles of the time.

We only really became a couple on special occasions and in front of a crowd. Our arrangement suited him; I suppose it suited me. It was better than the corpses I had left behind when I fled the destruction that had engulfed the whole world.

For my husband, my story was what made me interesting and precious. My life was a great conversation starter at a dinner party. He would leave out a lot of it. He would leave out how I starved, or how I was Eldian, the same race as the one that had destroyed most of humanity. He would leave out how I had been a child soldier fashioned into a weapon for the ambitions of old men.

He made me into an inspiration and an oddity for his friends to coo and gasp over, when I had just been a girl wanting to live.

I was young when it happened, although I was never really allowed to be. I was drafted into the Marleyan army at twelve.

They wanted small, light, preferably Eldian bodies to test and fly Marley’s newest invention, the airplane. We were essentially cannon fodder, and most of those I began training with did not survive more than a year. Our small regiment was drafted into wars and battles we barely knew anything about. We dropped thousands of bombs and tried not to think about who they were falling on.

My superiors said I had a talent for flying, but really, I think it was just good luck. For every mission I completed, the Marleyan authorities handed my family a box of extra rations. I had no doubt the extra food kept my parents and my three brothers and two sisters alive, and before every mission, I would pray I could survive the next. Perhaps someone was listening.

I was on the airfield when it happened. After almost seven years of flying, I knew my way around the engine of a plane and was checking it before I was set to fly across the ocean to drop bombs on some place I knew nothing about. The earth shook beneath me so much it made my teeth rattle.

I looked up, and there was a never-ending line of Titans on the horizon, with crimson bodies and steam rolling off them. Even from where I stood in the middle of that airfield, I could hear the screams. I did not hesitate; I clambered into my plane, taxied down the runway, and shot into the air. My intention was to go to my family. I did not know what I was thinking; there would have been nowhere for me to land. Yet I tried, flying faster than I ever had. I gritted my teeth as I pressed down on the yoke and stared at the horizon, willing the distance between me and the people I loved to disappear.

Of course, it was too late. The slums of Ordsa were some of the first districts to be destroyed. When I got there, they had been reduced to rubble, my family reduced to nothing. At that moment, I wanted to smash my plane and myself right into a Titan. It would be a pathetic revenge, yet it would be something, and I would be gone.

However, something buried deep, a kernel of self-preservation that had kept me alive so long, told me to turn around.

I flew for what felt like days with the Titans on my tail. I flew across sea and land and then sea again. I barely felt anything, only saw the sky and felt my hands pushing the controls that would keep me airborne. My gas supply ran out when I was across the sea, and again, I imagined nosediving into it. That end would be blissful, I thought; I would sink into the embrace of the ocean and go down with a smile on my face. But once again, something stopped me, and I carried on. I was gliding, running on fumes, when I spotted land on the horizon, and then I noticed I could no longer see Titans on my back. Using my last dregs of fuel, I crashed down in what would be my new home.

Time passed for me on that big estate. Days did not drag. As the years went by, I picked up hobbies. First, my husband encouraged me to take up insect taxidermy. He would source deceased butterflies and moths from God knows where, and I would pin them on a board and label them. It was horrifyingly boring. I persisted for one whole year, pinning delicate wings and arranging spindly bug legs, but one day, without ceremony, I stopped and put my tools away. My husband did not notice, and anyway, insect taxidermy had fallen out of fashion.

Over the years, my husband found new ways to be disappointed in me. One of his biggest concerns was that I did not remain waifishly, fashionably thin. The years and more food had revealed that my body was not naturally skeletal. I developed curves and flesh on my thighs, which my husband deemed unsightly and common. He thought my flesh incited too many unwanted looks and that I must try harder to shed it.

Yet I would not starve myself. I had felt hollowness in my stomach my whole childhood; I would not feel the painful pang of hunger ever again. He instructed our chef to feed me meals consisting mostly of asparagus and perhaps a sliver of fish on weekends. I would eat my paltry meals without a word and then creep down to the kitchen in the dead of night to fill myself with bread and meat. The midnight trips to the kitchen were my first acts of rebellion. These trips made my heart race and my chest ache with anxiety back then, yet they were nothing compared to what I did later. Nothing.

I will be honest with you, reader: my story is cliché. There are so many stories like it because people love to read stories like mine. They can gasp and groan at the scandal of it, the supposed wrongness of it. Yet stories like mine need to be told. I think my story should be told.

Chapter Text

My spade hit a rock lodged deep in the soil. The shock of it travelled up my arms, making them ache, my body just beginning to show the strain of over a decade of fighting. I shook my hand out to chase the dull throbbing away.

It was dawn. I liked to get out in the garden early, as it would get too hot to do anything by midday, although it was often bitterly cold in the evening in that godforsaken country.

The Lord of the house, with his idiotic moustache and eccentric suits, had given me a long list of tasks, and so I was forced to rise early and toil into the evening. Although I had to work hard, I was happy for it. I needed to toil and sweat and not think of anything ever again.

I managed to dislodge the rock and reached for it, taking it in my hands. With effort, I wrenched it out of the earth. It was at that moment that I heard a snapping sound behind me. I jerked my head up to see what, or who, had made it.

For a moment, I thought she was a ghost. Then she moved, and I realised she was flesh and blood, and not only flesh and blood, but the Lady of the house, with her mousy hair and wide eyes.

She was walking purposefully into the woods that skirted the manicured gardens behind the mansion. This puzzled me. What business did a highborn Lady have trudging into the woods, boots on her feet and the skirt of her nightgown held up?

Quietly, I followed her.

There were rumours about the Lady. Some of the staff said she was a little… odd. They said they had heard her screaming in the dead of night or that she sometimes did not speak for days on end. A few even said she was a witch, though I had seen no proof of that.

She strode with purpose through the trees until she came to an especially fine oak tree, its thick branches almost kissing the ground.

The Lady of the house looked it up and down, gathered her skirts, and climbed onto the first branch.

Slowly and methodically, she climbed higher. I noticed that she did not struggle or falter; she rose confidently until she was almost at the top. It seemed as if she had climbed before.

She sat for a moment, swinging her legs. Then she moved to push herself off the branch, which stood a good ten metres from the ground.

“Stop!” I screamed, breaking my cover.

Her head snapped up, and she looked straight at me.

We stared at each other for a moment. Her clear eyes hollowed me out and undressed me, making me feel horrendously exposed.

And then she sighed, as if defeated, and climbed down as carefully as she had climbed up.

“My Lady, what were you doing?” I asked, remembering to call her by her title.

She stopped before me and narrowed her eyes.

“Shouldn’t I ask what you were doing? Why were you following me?”

“I was worried for your safety, Ma’am,” I replied honestly.

“Are there any dangers in these woods? Any wolves?”

“No, my Lady.”

“No bears or feral pigs?”

“No. Just squirrels.”

“Then why would I be in danger?” she said, cocking her head to the side.

 “Well… Ma’am, you were about to fling yourself from a tree.”

She sighed again.

 “And you stopped me,” she said under her breath.

“To be frank, my Lady, you could still have done it. I wouldn’t have been able to stop you.”

“But you would be a witness,” she replied.

“I’m sorry, a witness to what? You would have survived the fall.”

“I know. I don’t want to die.”

I looked at her, puzzled. She would have broken a shoulder, or worse, if she had jumped from that height.

“Why then?” I asked, unable to contain my curiosity.

“The midsummer ball,” she said, almost matter-of-factly, before turning on her heel and walking back towards her palatial house.

I worked the rest of the day mulling over the odd encounter I had had with the Lady of the house. I knew it was the midsummer ball; the housekeeper had asked me to make sure the gardens were neat for a hundred or so guests, but why that should drive her to toss herself from a tree, I did not know.

After finishing my work, I trudged back to the hut that was my home, which stood just inside the forest that bordered the Fevell Mansion.

It was not an unpleasant space, but it was small and contained little more than a bed, a stove, and my tools. I left my muddy boots by the door and went to light the stove to heat some stew I had made the previous day. As I sat eating, my mind went back to the Lady of the house in her nightgown, climbing up the tree.

It had been such an odd sight. I had only seen her a handful of times since being hired at Fevell Mansion, and then she had always been bound up in silks, her hair pinned high. Each time, she had been looking at her feet.

Seeing her stride through the woods, her hair loose and her nightgown crumpled, seemed almost wrong. Witnessing her like that felt like seeing something I should not have.

Suddenly, I felt compelled to walk. I put down my empty bowl, shrugged on my coat, and left the hut.

The big house glowed across the lawn. Every room seemed lit with golden light.

Like a moth to a flame, I walked towards it, oddly compelled.

Back then, I was still getting used to the way society functioned in Breanumdaul. I had experienced class divides in Paradis, of course; I had always known the poor were sacrificed and used by the rich. But the divides here were something new, even for me.

The rich there lived in opulent wealth unlike anything I had ever seen. They seemed utterly separated from ordinary people and, to my knowledge, preferred to live in secluded manor houses like the one where I had been hired as a gardener.

Through the window, I saw brightly coloured figures moving about. They were dressed in odd costumes, some with gauzy wings, others with pointed ears. One man even wore a replica donkey head.

I crept closer and crouched behind a buddleia bush. From the shadows, I scanned each window, searching for the Lady of the house.

After a little while, I spotted her. She was dressed as some sort of mermaid, all blue drapery and scales. I could tell she was uncomfortable with the clinging fabric around her stomach, as she kept covering it protectively with her arms.

She was talking to a woman beside her, whose hands flew animatedly as she spoke. The Lady of the house smiled and laughed. She looked happy, which made it even more puzzling considering the way she had looked that morning.

The man with the donkey head came up behind her and placed a hand on her waist, not lovingly, but in the way someone shows what belongs to them. The Lady of the house kept her smile bright, but I saw her eyes flicker, her body curving slightly away from him. I could not hear what they said, but they continued chatting.

Then, rather abruptly, the donkey-headed man, who I presumed was the Lord of the house, took his hand from her waist and sidled off. The guest she had been speaking to followed him.

For a moment, her Ladyship stood alone, looking exactly as she had that morning: panicked. She looked as though she were stopping herself from screaming or crying or both. I could see her shallow breaths and the slight tremor in her fingers.

Then, suddenly, it was as if a veil fell over her features. She composed herself, adjusted her hair, and moved back into the throng of the party.

I knew then why she had tried to throw herself from that tree.

Chapter Text

The day after parties, I always found it difficult to leave my bed. I would lie prostrate and exhausted under my covers, feeling as if part of my soul had been drained from me.

Even though I had been my husband’s wife for a decade, even though I had attended countless soirées, dinners, and balls, I still felt like a fraud. I didn’t understand my husband’s friends: the socialites, aristocrats, industrialists, and actors.

As the years passed, I became good at mimicking their responses to one another. I copied their laughter, their hand gestures, the intonation of their voices, and even what they wore. But I always felt they possessed something I never would.

It was an inner assurance, I thought; a confidence and an ease. I had no ease. I could just about put on the mask of a highborn lady, but it was agonising to try to keep it on.

Maybe I was going mad, because the morning before I woke up possessed by the idea that I should break my legs. I didn’t want to stand in that room, trussed up in a fish costume, feeling judgmental eyes on me. I didn’t want to talk to other lords and ladies about their misbehaving servants or their stocks. I was tired of it all, and I thought that if I had broken bones, my husband might let me stay in my room.

The new gardener ruined my plan. I hadn’t noticed him as I walked through the woods or climbed the tree. He looked oddly familiar, with his straight nose and thin face. His features were different from those of the others, with their silver-blonde hair and high cheekbones. He looked like he was from home. I shook my head at the thought. I knew that almost everyone in Marley had been reduced to dust.

The week following the party passed without incident. I did what I always did: I read and sewed and slept. One night at dinner, my husband commented that my ankles were becoming thicker.

And then, what my husband swore was his favourite silver candlestick went missing. My husband had many candlesticks: antique candlesticks, gold candlesticks, ceramic candlesticks, even candlesticks shaped like two parrots. When he arrived at dinner, he was crimson-faced and angry, his usually meticulous blazer rumpled. Something was amiss.

“Have you seen it?” he barked.

“Have you lost something, my love?” I replied sweetly, as a good wife does.

“My silver candlestick, you know, the one that once belonged to an Eldian king.”

I wasn’t precisely sure which candlestick he meant, as I said, he has many, but I nodded all the same.

“When did you last see it?” I asked.

“I don’t recall, but when I looked in my silverware cabinet, it was gone.”

“Perhaps it is being cleaned?”

He looked at me then as though I were the most idiotic, brain-dead woman that had ever existed.

“You know no one washes my silverware without my permission,” he bit out. I saw a tiny globule of saliva fly from his mouth as he reminded me.

“I bet it was one of the servants,” he began. “No, it must be.”

He yanked every single one of the service bells, making sure they created a ringing cacophony around the dining room. Lizzie, the kitchen maid, was the first to heed the call.

“Yes, my lord,” the teenage servant said shakily.

“Bring everyone to the dining room, everyone who works in the house and on the grounds.”

Her eyes widened; she nodded once and scampered off.

My husband made all the servants line up in the hall, shoulder to shoulder. The maids trembled in fear and the footmen held their chins up to counter the shame of it. Always dramatic, my husband walked down the line once, and then again, peering at each servant. I noticed how the gardener met his glare with defiance, so much so that my husband was the first to look away.

“Just come forward; you know what you have done,” he drawled.

The servants looked at him blankly.

“You know what you have done,” he pushed, his voice cracking in the middle.

Again the servants looked at him blankly.

“You know what you’ve taken,” he screeched, his eyes bulging. The servants still said nothing.

I walked over to the scene and stood before the servants.

“My husband’s silver candlesticks have gone missing. Has anyone, perhaps, cleaned them recently?” I asked. “How about you, Beth?”

Beth, the head housemaid, shook her head.

“I’m afraid not, my Lady, and I know his Lordship doesn’t let us shine the silverware without his permission.”

“Thank you, Beth,” I said and moved back. My husband glared at me and returned to tower before the line of servants. He stood before one of the footmen, Charlie, and stared down at him.

“I bet it was you, boy. You’re always sneaking around.”

To his credit, Charlie didn’t falter and met the Lord’s eyes.

“I am doing my job, sir,” he said simply.

I could see my husband’s face getting redder and redder.

“If no one comes forward and my candlestick is not returned, you will all be punished. I will dock all of your pay.”

This warranted a reaction from the servants. Their shoulders slumped, a few mouths fell open. One person gave a different reaction. The gardener moved his hand to brush his soft brown hair from his eyes, and I saw it twitch.

I didn’t react, and finally my husband dismissed the servants and summoned me to come back to finish our dinner as if nothing had happened.

We sat back down in silence. Our dinner had gone cold, so he rang the bell to have it heated once more.

“What was that?” he asked as he sat sawing at a now warm chunk of beef.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my love,” I replied.

“You interfered with my disciplining of the servants,” he continued, his voice still dangerously calm.

“I just told them what had been taken. I’m sorry.”

He got up then and moved down the room with his meal in his hand.

“The person who took my candlesticks would know what has been taken,” he said as he moved slowly towards me.

“Never interfere with my disciplining again,” he said as he tipped the entire plate of hot food over my head.

Meat, potatoes, green beans, and hot gravy dripped into my hair and down my neck, scalding my skin. But I didn’t flinch; I knew weakness made my husband angrier.

“I won’t,” I said softly, gritting my teeth as I felt my ears burn.

“Good,” he said, and walked out of the room, leaving me alone, food now staining the silk of my dress.

I bathed as usual that night, washing the food out of my hair, then I returned to my room. I waited until the house was quiet and still and the servants had all gone to bed.

I slipped on my boots, crept down the corridors, and out the front door. I picked up speed as I sprinted through the garden, paranoid that I had been seen. I stopped at the little cottage on the outskirts of the woods and rapped softly on the door. I waited, and then heard a faint shuffling sound before he opened it. His hair was rumpled, his sleep shirt askew; he looked at me questioningly from the doorway.

“You took the candlestick,” I said accusingly.

He looked surprised for a moment, then smiled a little and gestured for me to come in.

Inside the soft warmth of the cabin, he motioned to a chair by a small fireplace, and I sat down.

“How did you know it was me?” he asked.

“You twitched.”

“Damn. Was I really that obvious?”

“To me you were. But my husband doesn’t suspect you.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because he has enough candlesticks,” I replied.

The gardener sat down on the edge of a small, battered table and crossed his arms.

“I just hope he doesn’t blame the other servants,” he said after a pause.

“It’s alright. I have a plan,” I replied.

He arched an eyebrow at me quizzically.

“He has one that looks just like it stored in the attic. I’ll put it in another of his silverware cabinets tonight. He won’t know the difference; he’s not as discerning as he thinks,” I explained.

“But… Why? Why do you want to help a servant, my Lady, a servant who stole from your home?” he asked, straightening up, as if suddenly remembering my title.

“My husband would have you arrested. And I don’t think you deserve prison for taking some of my husband’s useless tat.”

He nodded. “Thank you. I have a debt to pay. The candlestick has paid off some of it.”

“I see. How much money do you need to pay it off?”

“Let’s say five years of work would do the trick,” he replied sadly.

“Then let me find more things for you to sell. My husband forgets most of what he buys.”

“But again, why, my Lady? You don’t know me. You don’t know why I am in debt.”

I thought for a moment, leaning back in my chair.

“You look like you are from my homeland,” I replied honestly. Because he did. He had the same sharp chin and brown eyes as the people I had grown up around.

“Where is your homeland?” he asked.

“Marley. But I am Eldian,” I said without thinking. My husband had told me never to reveal my roots, and I clapped my hand over my mouth, eyes wide with shock.

He moved slightly toward me; I think he almost reached for my shoulder, but thought better of it.

“So am I,” he said softly.

“From Marley?” I asked.

“No, from Paradis.”

My eyes widened. He was from that island, the island from where the boy who rained down terror on all of humanity had come. He was one of those island devils I had been taught to despise. Yet, despite grasping for anger or hatred, I could not feel it towards him at that moment. He was just a man standing before me, not monstrous at all. He was just a man who had stopped me flinging myself from a tree.

“I should go,” I said after a moment.

“Yes, you should,” he agreed.

“I will bring you some more things.”

“Are you sure? You don’t need to help me.”

“No. I should repay you. I don’t think I would have enjoyed breaking my leg.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” he said with a grimace.

I moved toward the door, and he followed, opening it for me. I was about to walk back to the house when I remembered.

“I don’t know your name,” I said as I stepped into the early morning light.

“It’s Jean,” he replied. “And what’s yours? They only ever refer to you as the Lady of the house.”

“It’s Niamh,” I said, feeling the shape of the name I so rarely spoke.

“Niamh,” he said softly, before taking one last look at me and shutting the door.

Two years into our marriage, I asked my husband whether we should have a child.

“Why would we need a child, my love? Are you not happy? Am I not enough?” he said, not even bothering to lift his eyes from his newspaper.

“No, my love, you are. It’s just… is that not what’s expected?”

He put the paper down.

“It is. But children are so… messy. So unpredictable.”

“Well, alright. I’m sorry I asked.”

He peered at me over the edge of the paper.

“I forgive you, dearest,” he said with a sigh.

I went through the day feeling as if I had done something deeply wrong, and Harriet, my lady’s maid, noticed that I sighed a lot.

That night, as I settled into bed, a small knot of anxiety pressed deep in my chest. There was a knock at the door. My husband entered my room in his pinstripe pyjamas.

“I’ve heard you’ve been sighing all day. Is it about the child?”

“No.”

“Then why are you sighing?”

“I thought I said the wrong thing.”

He sighed and sat down beside me.

“Do you want a baby that badly?”

I didn’t really know. I did and I didn’t. I had loved my now long-dead younger brothers and sisters. I had loved singing to them and pressing my nose against their scalps and inhaling their strange baby scents. Selfishly, I wanted someone who was mine, to numb the loneliness that clawed at me from the inside. Yet I also knew only I would love my child. My husband wasn’t capable. They would be a prized collectible to mould and shape in his hands, just as I was.

Of course, I didn’t tell him that. I didn’t want to irritate him with mixed messages.

“Pull back the covers and open your legs,” he suddenly commanded. My mouth gaped open, but I did as I was told. He looked me over once and then climbed on top of me.

Afterwards, I wondered what all the great poets had written about. It was quick and functional. I felt very little when he went inside me, just a slight prodding and jabbing. It was tolerable. I didn’t cry; I just lay there and stared at the ceiling.

I didn’t get pregnant, and my husband never slept with me again.

Oddly, I thought about that night as I walked back from Jean’s cottage. I thought about how, when my husband was inside me, he had called me by another name. “Henrietta,” he had groaned into my neck, only once.

Henrietta was the name he had given me when we first met. He didn’t like Niamh; he said it sounded too plain and unadorned, unfit for his wife. And so I was rechristened Lady Henrietta Fevell, a name fitting of my station.

The name my father had chosen for me, the name my mother called when dinner was ready, the name my little sister practised writing for hours to make me a birthday card, faded into nothing. It existed only in my head.

When I first came to this place, I was content to change and leave behind the horror of my past. But as the years passed, I tried to hold on to what I had once been. Sometimes, at night, I would whisper Niamh over and over into the darkness.

I didn’t know why I had given the gardener my real name. For years, I hadn’t told anyone. Perhaps because he was Eldian. Perhaps because he had spoken to me not as an object to be displayed or kept shiny.

Chapter Text

I didn’t like that she wanted to help me. I didn’t know why she was trying to be kind.

I had gotten myself into a bad situation, and I knew I had to get myself out. I slumped down in my chair and undid a few more buttons on my shirt. It was still odd to be there, in that strange, divided country, working to neaten the gardens of a rich man. It was not a career move I had envisioned for myself. And to be frank, I hadn’t known my roses from my pansies when I arrived. I needed money, a job, and to escape, so I took the work I could get.

For the first time, I had run from my life and responsibilities. I had indulged the part of myself that was cowardly and selfish and put my own life first.

The person I was a decade ago, the one who had stood between the destruction of the whole of humanity, had not disappeared, but he had been worn down.

After The Rumbling, I did what I believed was my duty. I completed diplomatic missions and saw the extent of the destruction caused by someone I had once deeply cared for.

I saw all the death and came to the wrong conclusion. An idea had crystallised inside me: that the only way forward was to arm ourselves against any possible threat, to protect Eldians in Paradis at any cost.

I did not know then that our enemies weren’t across the sea. They were inside our government.

I diligently and loyally trained soldiers because it was the only thing I really knew how to do. They were children, as I had been, and I taught them how to maim and kill, just as I had been taught.

Years went by, and I followed orders, truly believing I was protecting the ones I loved.

Then came the migrant repatriation order, which sought to send the newly settled migrant population of Paradis off to work for rich men across the sea. The people fought back; there were riots, and then there were executions. I watched as children I had trained killed their neighbours at the order of the Jaegerists in government. It was not what we had fought for, and I realised I had picked the wrong side.

It was a bright, beautiful day when it happened, and I was out with a small cohort of new trainees, showing them how to tack and saddle a horse. Most weren’t older than thirteen and were still wide-eyed, anxious, and so small.

I was demonstrating how to fix a bridle using my horse, Silver, as an unwilling model when a sweating general jogged over to where we stood in the practice paddock.

“We need backup to control the rioting,” he said, panting as he gestured to the new recruits.

“They’re new. They haven’t even picked up a gun yet,” I countered, annoyed he had even suggested it.

“It’s an order, Captain,” the general replied.

“They can’t fight,” I pressed.

“We don’t have enough military police. They’re needed to repress the foreign scum,” he screeched, his face turning red.

“No,” I said calmly.

“No...? Captain Jean Kirstein, I will report you for insubordination.”

I couldn’t find it within myself to care about his threats. In fact, a part of me welcomed them.

I turned to the new cohort. Their eyes were round and intrigued as they watched the scene before them.

“Don’t fight in a war against our people,” I told them. “Go if you want, but men like him will gladly see you die. I wish I’d seen it sooner.”

Then I walked away, leading Silver from the training paddock.

I could have stopped there. I might have been disciplined for refusing orders, maybe even spent some time in a cell. But I couldn’t stop. Years of watching my homeland turn into a cesspit of cruelty and repression at the hands of power-hungry men had built up in me.

That night, I went to the migrant district and to the neighbourhood committee, the so-called rebels. I told them exactly where the military police kept their weapons, handed them my key, and told them they could do anything they liked with them.

I didn’t particularly want more violence, but I knew I didn’t want lethal weapons in the hands of those whose only incentive was to crush their own people.

The rebels wanted the people to live. They wanted to protect themselves and each other.

When the weapons store was raided, I knew they’d know it was me.

Only a handful of people knew its location or had a key, and I was the only person to quit my job that week. Besides, I was always considered to have treacherous tendencies for the part I played in stopping The Rumbling.

I could have stayed. I could have fought on in Paradis. But I didn’t. Instead, I fled to a place I knew they wouldn’t think to look.

It was extortionately expensive to travel to Breanumdaul, especially as I didn’t want to be detected. I managed to find someone I knew was a trafficker, but who could get me out. He charged me an eye-watering amount, which he expected to be paid in full. I knew he would find me and murder me if I didn’t come up with the money. Yet I accepted and sailed across the sea and away from my life.

It seemed an odd moment to start thinking about my own self-preservation, especially as I knew, and had known, so many willing to lay down their lives for the safety of their neighbours.

But I just wanted to live. Even if life was miserable. Even if work was hard and humiliating. I wanted to live, and so in the space of weeks I went from being a well-respected captain to a gardener on the other side of the world.

Niamh found me two days after she had confronted me about the candlestick. She had beckoned to me with a small wave from across the garden, and I had followed her into the woods.

“Here,” she said, thrusting a strange painted plate into my hands. I didn’t take it.

“You didn’t need to do this,” I said quickly. She ignored my words.

“It’s a painted plate from the East. My husband has four with basically the same design.” She still held it out, so I begrudgingly took it.

I noticed that a small smile played at the corner of her mouth when she passed the plate over. She enjoyed stealing from her husband.

“You don’t like your husband, do you?” I asked.

“No,” she said bluntly, with no emotion, just stating a fact.

“Why did you marry him then?”

Her face crumpled a little at my question, as if she were ashamed. Briefly, she turned away and looked deep into the green of the forest, as if she were searching for something. An answer, maybe. A justification?

“I was a girl who had just escaped the destruction of everything. He offered me something,” she finally said.

I nodded. I knew what people who had all love ripped from them would accept to feel any semblance of warmth.

She looked so sad then, her warm brown eyes large and searching. I felt compelled to change the subject.

“What did he do to become so rich?” I asked.

She sniffed.

“It’s mostly family wealth. He also occasionally gets some work from the government, but I don’t know about it. He doesn’t tell me. His father was the Prime Minister, you know. That’s how he has a title.”

I nodded.

“And does he have a lot of friends in government?”

She narrowed her eyes at my questioning but answered anyway.

“Yes. There’s always a minister or two here for a dinner party or a soirée. Why?” she asked.

“No reason. I just find this society strange. I know I’m just a gardener, but I want to understand it.”

“It’s best if you don’t. It’s ugly when you look beneath the façade,” she admitted.

I could believe it, from what I’d seen. My fellow servants hated their master. They hadn’t kept that a secret when I arrived.

The footman, Charlie, had told me he was a cruel, changeable man who had no qualms about docking their pay for any perceived misdemeanour. He said the master threw regular grand parties where drunk guests would make all manner of messes for the servants to clean up.

The Lady of the house didn’t even attempt to veil her disdain for her husband or the society she lived in. She was a strange woman, I thought. Maybe the other servants had been right.

“Thank you for the plate. I must say again, you don’t need to help me.”

“No…” she began, and suddenly looked shy, and I wasn’t sure why.

“I said I would help. And… My husband has too much stuff. It’s like doing a spring clean,” she stuttered.

“Alright,” I said, still a little unconvinced.

“Tell me if you need anything else after you sell the plate. I think it’s worth a decent amount.”

“I will,” I vowed, giving in to the help I knew she wanted to give.

She nodded, turned on her heel, and walked quickly away from me. As with climbing trees, she was sure-footed as she strode through the forest.

I watched her back, straight and tension-filled, for longer than was probably proper.

Chapter Text

My husband told me his mother would be visiting in a few weeks, and I was filled with a familiar sense of panic and dread. I felt bad for even feeling unease about her, because Gardenia Fevell could not be critiqued. She was a good philanthropist.

Since I had been married, she had arrived sporadically at her son’s house, demanding the best rooms and four quail eggs for every meal. After she settled in, the lectures would begin. I would learn which poor, injured horses she was sponsoring to put out to pasture, and which stray dogs she was building a shelter for. And then, of course, there were the orphans. From the moment she sat beside me in one of the drawing rooms, a cup of peppermint tea on her lap, she would talk about the orphans.

To my mother-in-law, orphans were a social ill, a product of irresponsible mothers and drunken men. Yet, saint that she was, she felt it was her duty to aid those who had the misfortune to be born to such lowly humans. Those were her words. My husband, whom I had told in the early days about the slums and my many brothers and sisters, warned me not to tell her the truth.

I was a merchant’s daughter in her eyes, still lowly, but not that lowly.

Sometimes I thought I would have preferred to be hated by my mother-in-law, but I wasn’t. In fact, she was very happy to have me as hers. As with her son, I was a curiosity, a thing to talk about at brunch. I was an orphan through no fault of my parents, and she revelled in it.

She arrived at the house in her lilac silk scarf and feather-adorned hat a few days later and wrapped her arms around me first, then her son.

“Hello, my sweet girl,” she cooed, planting a powdery kiss on my cheek.

“Hello, Mother. I trust your journey was pleasant?” I asked in my best sickly-sweet voice.

She moved to her son, whom she also kissed on the cheek.

“Oh, you know. My arthritis makes travelling ghastly. But I had to see you both,” she said, smiling, her lipstick cracked at the sides.

At dinner that night, my husband desperately tried, as he always did in front of his mother, to make me look bad.

“Timmy, she’s fine,” his mother said after he had gone on a tirade about my midriff. “In my day, a little fat was no bad thing. And anyway, she doesn’t carry it in her face. People won’t notice her body if they’re looking at a pretty face like hers.”

I shifted in my chair, my hand going to my belly as if to shield it while they talked about me.

“I’m just saying she’s lazy, Mummy. If she played tennis or something, she might be considered a real beauty,” my husband said.

“She should walk more,” Gardenia agreed. “A few laps around the garden a day, and she’ll be almost as thin as I was at her age. How about it, dearest?” she said, turning to me.

“I can start walking,” I said meekly.

“Good girl,” she replied.

Her son looked over at me with a forkful of pheasant halfway to his mouth.

“Yes, good girl,” he mouthed.

I was glad to retire to my room that night. Gardenia had demanded we drink coffee after the meal and then listen to her play the piano. My head rang from the wrong, dissonant notes she had played. Finally, she declared she was tired and left us.

I lay on top of my eiderdown, watching the moon shine through the gap in my curtains. I used to make wishes when I first came to this house. They were childish things; I wished my husband would love me, or at least like me. As the years passed, I wished to fit into the life I had chosen, for confidence, and for the things I saw others had and I did not. About a year ago, I started wishing for someone to talk to. I thought that was surely not too much to ask.

Gardenia and I had breakfast together the next morning, and then she decided we should walk around the garden. The climate in Breanumdaul was a little odd: cool in the mornings, blisteringly hot at midday, and almost freezing in the evening. Exercising was best done early.

We walked around the lawns, my arm painfully encased in her manicured claws. By the topiary, she asked the question she always asked but I dreaded.

“When are you and my son going to give me a grandson?” she said, tightening her grip.

“It has never happened for us,” I said, adding a sniff so it seemed as if I were remorseful.

“But are you really trying?” the older woman pressed.

“Yes,” I lied.

Gardenia sighed.

“I will send you my doctor. You must have a hostile womb, dearest. It’s evidently not my son’s genetics. His father got me pregnant on the first try.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Well, you’re getting old, dearest. You need all the help you can get,” she said, patting my arm.

“If we can sort you out, I’m sure you’ll give me a grandson by next autumn. Can you do that, dear?”

“I can,” I gulped.

We continued past the ornamental pond with its endlessly circling koi fish. Suddenly she stopped in her tracks. I looked where she was looking. The gardener was uprooting a small shrub that had started to take over, grunting with the effort. His shirt was slung over a nearby tree, and his skin glistened with sweat. For a moment we both watched him. I followed the lines of his shoulders and waist with my eyes, paying special attention to how his sweat-dampened hair clung to the nape of his neck.

“It’s a shame,” my mother-in-law said beside me.

“What is?” I asked, steering her away from Jean before he saw us.

“That men like him, the help, can be so pleasing on the eye,” she said. “It’s an anomaly, you know. His mother probably did all manner of poisonous things to her body when she carried him.”

“How do you know that?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Oh, child, I know. Why would he be the help if he didn’t have irresponsible parents? If they were good, hardworking citizens, he wouldn’t be here, digging in the garden.”

We finished our walk and returned to the house. Gardenia said she wanted to play the piano for a while, and so we parted.

I climbed the stairs, but instead of going to my room, I went to the guest room. Gardenia’s items and clothes had already been laid out and put in the wardrobe by the maids, so it didn’t take me long to find something suitable that she wouldn’t miss. I crept out with the cold press of a gold-plated hairpin grasped in my fist.

That night my husband came to my room for the first time in three years.

“She still wants us to have a child,” he said the moment he entered, still in his well-pressed suit.

“Yes. She wants me to see a doctor,” I replied, putting the book I had been reading down, a sliver of anxiety curling in my stomach.

“Well, she’s right. You didn’t get pregnant after that time.”

“No. But I’ve heard that sometimes it takes more than once,” I replied carefully.

He scrunched up his nose.

“I would prefer not to again,” he said finally.

“I would prefer not to as well,” I agreed wholeheartedly.

“But I cannot bear to disappoint Mummy anymore,” he said, pacing the room, scratching at his chin.

Suddenly he stopped and turned to me.

“Why don’t you find a nice man to get you pregnant for me? I could ask my friends. They’ve talked about wanting you before; I’m sure one of them will.”

I stared at him, loathing burning inside me. I hated him, hated that I was trapped with him, hated that he had the power to make my life more miserable than it already was.

“Let me choose,” I said quietly.

“I don’t care who it is. Just make sure it’s not obvious I’m not the child’s father.”

“You really want me to do this?” I asked, because I had always thought he didn’t want his most prized collectible touched by anyone but him.

“To make my mother happy, I would let every man I know have his way with you, Henrietta,” were his final words as he shut the door and left.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I felt too warm, too agitated after the conversation I had with my husband. I knew that I did not want to feel the clammy hands of my husband’s friends on me. They were cruel men like he was. I would rather die. Yet I did not know what my husband would do if I didn’t follow his order. In our first year of marriage, I had cried nightly, unable to contain the grief I felt for my family and my home. My husband found all my tears deeply irritating, and so, as punishment, he instructed the servants to deny me food. For a week, every time he heard me cry, he would prolong my punishment by a day. The nights were the worst. I would clutch my stomach in agony and bite into my pillow so he would not hear my wails. Finally, he allowed me to eat. A ball was coming up, and he didn’t want his wife to faint and embarrass him further.

I sat up in bed, gripped with a sudden idea. Once again, I crept across the garden to the cottage in the woods. I knocked once, and he answered almost immediately.

“What is it?” Jean asked from the doorway. He didn’t look like he’d been sleeping.

I held out the gold-plated hairpin to him. He stared down at it.

“I thought we said I’d find you if I needed more money?”

“It won’t be enough,” I said, thrusting the pin into his palm.

“All right,” he said, looking slightly puzzled. “Would you like to come in?”

I nodded, followed him inside, and sat again on the chair by the fireplace.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said, my voice sounding a little manic.

Suddenly I felt self-conscious, which was warranted; I had knocked on his door hours before dawn to give him my mother-in-law’s stolen hairpin. My hands tangled in my lap as I waited for him to reply.

“Neither could I,” he said, taking his place at the table.

“My mother-in-law is visiting,” I began.

“Oh, and what sort of woman is she? I’m sure I can guess.”

“She is almost more horrifying than her son,” I said honestly.

“That seems hard to believe. I’ve heard what the other servants say about him.”

“My husband knows he is cruel. Gardenia Fevell thinks wholeheartedly she is good. That’s what makes her so terrifying,” I explained.

He smiled sadly, his eyes full of kindness and warmth. It was as if he wanted to understand.

It was that look that ratified what I thought I must do. I gulped, trying to push down the sudden knot of anxiety forming in my chest. I stood and walked toward him, his eyes following me the whole way.

“What is it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I… need,” I began, my voice cracking before I gulped and looked at the floor.

“What is it?” Jean asked again, genuine concern on his face.

“It’s… embarrassing.”

“Tell me what you need,” he pressed.

I shifted, took a breath, and asked.

“My husband and mother-in-law want us to have a baby. But he doesn’t sleep with me. He doesn’t care who the father is, and… well. I thought that you might—”

“You want me to be the father of your child?” he interrupted, his eyes hard, his voice unable to disguise his utter disgust.

“I just… I don’t want the father to be one of his friends. I don’t want them touching me,” I said, a tremor in my voice.

“And you’d be all right with a near-stranger touching you? You’d be all right making someone a father who will never get to hold or care for their child? Who would have to watch them be raised by a man like your husband?” he said angrily.

I supposed I deserved that. It was selfish to ask, yet the alternative was so horrid I knew I had to. When my husband had said he would allow me to choose the father, I had thought only of him. I had only thought of the man who spoke to me like I was human.

“I’m sorry,” I said, worried I had lost the tiny spark of friendship between us that I believed was forming. “I just didn’t know who else to ask.”

Embarrassingly, my eyes started to water, and shame heated my cheeks.

The anger faded from his face, and he stepped closer until there was barely any space between us.

“Do you want a baby, Niamh?” he asked.

I looked away from the quiet concern in his eyes.

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’d like there to be one person in the world who loves me, although I guess even with a child that’s not guaranteed,” I admitted through sniffs.

He gently took my hand in his. I turned my face to meet his, forcing myself to look into his eyes.

“Niamh, I can’t. I understand why you asked, but I can’t. I don’t think I’ll ever want to bring a child into this world,” he said, with the kind of gentleness that was utterly new to me.

I nodded.

“Don’t have a child because they want you to, Niamh,” he continued.

I shrugged.

“I’ve never really had a choice about much in my life,” I admitted.

“Then make the right choice about this,” he said gently.

Chapter Text

It was unseasonably hot in the days after Niamh had asked me to be the father of her child. It became unbearable to work even hours before noon, which meant I toiled late into the evening. I'd come home with tired eyes and aching muscles and drop almost immediately into a dreamless sleep.

She didn't visit me again. It was probably for the best. When she had stood in my cottage, eyes pleading and nervous, I had been ready to do anything she wanted, give her everything she needed. She might have been a strange woman, but she was Eldian, and seemed so utterly alone in that house.

Of course, I could not do what she asked. It was abhorrent what he was asking her to do, truly disgusting. As I dug in the soil and trimmed shrubbery that week, I thought endlessly of how easy it would be to put a blade through Timothy Fevell’s head.

It was a Friday when I finally decided to trudge into the nearest village to sell the stolen hairpin.

With the other items, I sold them almost immediately, but oddly, I couldn't let it go. A few times in the evening, before sleep claimed me, I would trace its curved edges, feeling the engraved petals of the flower design at its head.

Fernbrook was about an hour's walk away, so I made sure to complete my tasks in the garden as soon as possible so I could arrive before dark.

The people of Breanumdaul were steadily leaving rural villages, so Fernbrook was a quiet place. There was one pub, a butcher, and a general store and that was about it. I was still finding out about Bremendalian society back then, but knew enough to gather that half of its population had been killed in The Rumbling. The majority of those killed were the urban working poor in the south. This had led to a problem for the rich: there was no one left to work.

The first thing they tried was to force farmers and agricultural workers into cities by stealing their land and claiming it as theirs. Even then, there weren't enough workers, so they looked across the sea, to Paradis and its migrant population.

As I walked to Fernbrook, I thought about how, despite a catastrophe that had eradicated most of humanity, the rich and powerful still wanted the same things. They still wanted to control, maim, and luxuriate in their hoards. You would think that after losing so much, they'd maybe want to share their wealth, but no. They only gripped onto it more fiercely.

I arrived at the half-abandoned village a little before sunset. I had made the acquaintance of a man who dealt in, as he put it, “fine goods,” which was short for “stolen goods.” He had introduced himself as Jeremy, a name which didn’t suit him and made me wonder if it was actually his, at the local pub. I surmised that he would be there that night.

I entered the pub, which was surprisingly packed, considering the population of the village had been so depleted. At the bar, I ordered two pints of stout and looked around the dingy room.

Jeremy was sitting in a booth in a coat that looked like it had belonged to a Marleyan soldier, feeding a crow that was perched on his shoulder.

“Good evening, Jeremy. Can I sit here?” I asked.

“Ah, young Jean. Have you met Ruby before?” he said, gesturing to the crow.

I hadn’t.

“No. Nice to meet you, Ruby.”

“Squwaaak,” said Ruby.

“I have something to sell,” I said, holding out the gold hairpin for Jeremy to examine.

“Oh, that is nice,” he said, taking the hairpin in his thin fingers and bringing it to the light.

“How much?” I said, getting straight to the point.

“I'll give you 30 crowns.”

“40.”

“35.”

“Done,” he said, taking some scrunched-up notes from his coat pockets and handing them to me.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the notes. It wouldn't be enough to pay my debt, but with the other stolen items, I was getting closer.

“Well, I'll probably have something else for you soon,” I continued as I stood up to leave.

“Go on, let's have another pint,” Jeremy said, patting me on the back.

I thought for only a second. It was already dark outside; I would have to walk home in it either way.

“It can't hurt,” I said and sat back down.

I wandered home, zigzagging down the road back to Fevell Mansion.

In my drunken state, I started thinking about things I shouldn’t. I thought about ink-black hair and sad eyes, and what it feels like when someone tells you that you will always be second to a corpse. I thought about the times when I had been hopeful that my love would be returned and how easily I had accepted any scraps of affection I had been given.

I realized that, in that, Niamh and I were alike. She had come to me asking for something bad, but had thought I was the best choice.

I didn’t think I had shown her much kindness; in fact, it was she who had shown me kindness, yet the little I had given her made me worthy in her eyes. Worthy of being a father.

I had told her I never wanted to bring a child into this world, but that wasn't exactly true. A very secret part of me had always wanted to be a father and to have the normal, good things that others had. Yet I had only ever wanted those good things with one woman, and she had made it finally, and brutally clear, that she did not want those things with me.

I stopped and swayed in the middle of the road and willed myself to stop thinking, as it would do no good. Clutching at my sides, I vomited all over the road, not just because of the drink, but because I wanted to purge myself of the bad memories that I usually would not allow myself to look back on. With my sleeve, I cleaned my mouth of bile and continued to shuffle down the road.

Chapter Text

My husband reminded me the next day that I must be the perfect hostess at that night's masquerade ball. When he passed me in the corridor, he dug his elbow sharply into my ribs and reminded me that it would be a prime opportunity for me to find someone to impregnate me.

I stared at him, wanting to bark that I wouldn't be his breeding mare. But instead, I stayed silent, nodded, and scampered away. I knew my husband's friends were repulsive, but perhaps someone new would turn up at the masquerade ball; someone less lecherous and cruel.

I dressed carefully that night so as not to disappoint. My dress was a soft butter yellow, encrusted with crystals; it was tight at the waist and hugged my hips. After Harriet arranged my hair into pinned-up curls, she placed a matching mask on my face. I peered at myself in the mirror, seeing, as I often did, a stranger looking back.

My husband liked to make an entrance, so we entered the ball arm in arm with the other guests assembled in the hall.

“You should dance today,” my husband, who had decided to don a jester mask, hissed in my ear as soon as the music started.

“Yes, my love,” I said obediently.

I kept to my orders and was spun and led around the dance floor by an endless parade of ghastly men whose breath smelled and who stepped on my feet. I was about to try to find a place to hide when a man in an owl mask that covered his whole face offered his hand to me. I took it, and he swept me onto the polished dance floor.

The man I danced with was slim but broad-shouldered, and even through the fabric of his shirt, I could feel his sturdiness. His hand at my waist felt equally uncompromising; commanding but gentle.

Ever so slightly, he leaned in, and I smelled soil. It was not unpleasant, but deep and earthy and combined with the odour of freshly washed linen. No one smelled like that but him. I looked into the deep brown eyes of the gardener behind the mask.

He blinked once and spun me away from his body.

I looked down at his black silken shirt and trousers and realised they had once been worn by my husband. I frowned.

“Jean?” I said as soon as he held me close again.

He shrugged.

“Might as well take advantage of a masquerade ball for the free food and wine.”

“In my husband's clothes?” I breathed.

“You said he can't keep track of what he has, and, anyway, I'm sure it looks better on me.”

The shirt did look better on him, so much so that I was glad of the mask as it kept my blush hidden. He adjusted his grip on my waist, making me aware of his fingers even more acutely. What would it be like for them to stroke my face, I thought. What would it be like for him to drag them up my spine?

Suddenly the song ended, and Jean stepped away, releasing me from his warm grasp. I felt cold air on my skin where his hand had just been.

“Well, I'm going to get some more wine,” he said, giving me a tiny bow before walking into the crowd.

I watched his back disappear, almost oblivious to my husband calling my name. I finally realised and spun around to move to his side. As he often did, he gripped me possessively around the waist, digging his fingernails into my side.

“Henrietta, this is Augustus Brent,” he said. “He's high up in the opposition party, but, well, he has some ideas that are more aligned with ours and also always has great cigars on him, so I invited him along tonight.”

Mr. Brent bent and took my hand, kissing it. As he straightened up, he looked deep into my eyes.

“Enchanted,” he said softly.

Augustus Brent was unquestionably handsome, with light Breanumdaulian hair. Yet in contrast, he had dark eyebrows and eyelashes, giving him a roguish air. And he was looking at me like he wanted to eat me whole.

“Well, I'll leave you two to get to know each other,” my husband said with a sly grin.

Augustus Brent danced with me once, then twice. After that, he guided me to take a seat and have a glass of punch.

“You know, I have always loved the colour yellow,” he said, subtly fingering the skirt of my gown.

“I've been told it is my colour,” I replied.

“I cannot believe that any colour is not your colour, my Lady,” he said softly, a glint in his eye. It was clear what he wanted, and I did not know him well enough to be completely repulsed.

“Would you like to go somewhere more private?” I heard myself ask.

He nodded eagerly.

I led him up the stairs and through to the back of the house, where I hoped we would not be interrupted. Steadily we crept along the halls. His hand snaked into mine. I gripped it, trying to calm my nerves.

Carefully, I prized open the door of my husband's study, which was as far away from the party as possible. I opened it only partway before slamming it again.

“Actually, I'm feeling a little faint,” I said, pressing my palm to my head dramatically. “Can you get me a glass of water?”

Augustus looked a little peeved but begrudgingly nodded and went in search of a drink. I breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door again.

I was just in time to see Jean begin to lower himself out the window. Locking the door behind me, I charged over to where he was trying to escape.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

He pulled himself up to look at me, sighed, and hefted his weight back over the window frame to stand before me.

“You know you don't have to steal; I can do it for you,” I continued.

“I wasn't stealing,” he said sheepishly.

“You just came here to have a dance, some free food, and skulk around my house then?” I asked skeptically.

“What if I was? What are you going to do? Tell your husband?”

“No, you know I would never.”

“Who was that man with you?” he asked, suddenly changing the subject.

“A politician. Augustus something,” I replied.

“Ah. He's handsome.”

“Handsome enough.”

“Handsome enough for what?”

“You know what for, Jean,” I replied.

His eyes widened as he realised.

“So you're going through with it.”

“As I said, I don't have much choice.”

“Hmm,” he said, looking down at his shoe in obvious dismay.

“Maybe it's what I want,” I countered.

“You want to bring up a child here, in a house like this?”

I stared at him, shook my head once, and turned away. I didn't know what to say. I knew deep in my bones that I wanted to be a mother. I wanted to care and love and want to die for someone. Yet… yet I knew my desires were so selfish. My eyes started to itch with tears.

“Just go,” I said, wanting Jean to never again look at me with concern in his dark eyes.

He did as he was told and moved toward the window again. As he went to hitch his leg over the sill, something dropped out of his pocket. Instinctively, I moved to pick it up, but he caught my wrist when my fingers closed around it.

“Don't look at that,” he said gruffly.

“What is it?” I asked. I could see faint lines and markings that marred the paper. It looked like a blueprint.

“Nothing. Let it go.”

“No. What is it?” I repeated, my heart beating at the strangeness of the situation.

“Let it go and let me leave,” he said commandingly.

But oddly, I knew that I could not be swayed. I needed to know what was on those papers.

“No,” I said again and tightened my grip.

He stared down at me, the window framing his hardened face. I stared back, as unrelenting as he was. Jean loosened his fingers. I unfurled the paper and held it to the light. It was a blueprint. I looked closer and saw there were dormitory blocks, toilet blocks, and canteen blocks. In the centre was a large square simply labelled “Industry.”

“It's an industrial labour camp,” Jean said quietly.

“They want to push as many workers into a small space, force them to work long hours, and keep them on site so they can be worked as hard as possible. This is the Bremendalian government's idea of how to continue to industrialise quickly.”

Stunned, I scanned over the page again. There were numbers by the squares labelled dormitory blocks.

“Two hundred… does that mean people per block?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“I believe so,” he said.

“But what workers will they get? There's a labour shortage here.”

“From Paradis. Our government wants to exchange our migrant population for Breanumdaulian coal.”

I sat down. I knew nothing about any of it. And then I realised.

“Why are these plans here? And why did you have them in your pocket?”

“Look at the bottom of the page,” Jean said softly.

I looked and saw my husband's signature, spidery and sharp.

“He's a contractor. He will arrange its construction. These papers are a copy of the ones he was made to sign.”

I felt vomit rise in my throat.

“And… why do you know this?”

He turned away from me for a moment and stared out the window before he told me.

“Niamh. I am here to spy on your husband and his friends.”

Chapter Text

She stared at me with her searching grey eyes, her mouth slightly open.

“What?” Niamh asked.

“I’ve been collecting information about your husband and his friends since I’ve been here.”

“But… My husband barely goes to the city. He says politics are boring.”

“He obviously doesn’t trust you, then. Your husband has been funding all manner of schemes for many years, including forcing people from their land,” he said softly.

She sat down and looked at her crystal-encrusted gown.

“So… all of this?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“And you… Who are you spying for?”

“The rebels back in Paradis. The government was forced to stop the migrant repatriation scheme last year, but we know they’re just waiting for a better way to suppress the people. Breamendaul’s leaders want to help, and we need to know what they’re planning.”

“So you’re not a gardener?” she asked, her eyebrows raised. I laughed, almost forgetting for a moment that I had told her my secret.

“No. I have no idea what I’m doing. I mostly just dig.”

“I see,” she said.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I said quickly.

Admittedly, I felt guilty keeping such a secret from her, as I felt we were becoming friends. Of course, I knew it was a risk to tell, but I still felt uncomfortable lying to a woman I was, undoubtedly, beginning to like.

“Why would you? I am the wife of the man you are spying on.”

And I wished she wasn’t.

“Yes, but I trust you. We’re friends,” I replied.

Her face seemed to flush a little at my words, and she looked away from me. Suddenly, there was a loud knocking at the door, which cut through the leaden silence.

“Damn, that must be Augustus,” she said, panicked, turning to me, her face stricken.

“I don’t think I can face him.”

“All right, let’s go,” I said, gesturing to the window.

Niamh moved to it and peered down at the trellis that was going to be our escape route. With a determined look, she moved her hands to her gown and yanked the hem up to her mid-thighs. I tried not to look at her round, shapely legs as she tied the fabric in a knot in front of her.

“Ready?” I asked.

“Ready,” she said.

I stepped through the window and found my first foothold on the trellis. Then I held my hand out to her. She took it and stepped over the windowsill. Slowly, I climbed down. I might have worried about Niamh if I hadn’t seen her climb before. The frame ended a few feet above the ground, so I jumped to the floor. She made her way down easily, but I still held out my hands to help her with the last part. Niamh didn’t take them but placed hers on my shoulders. When I felt her weight, I caught her waist and set her gently down.

She looked up at me, her face illuminated by pale moonlight, and said, “Thank you.”

I nodded and stepped away.

“I will keep your secret, Jean, with one condition,” she said as we stood in the shadow of her house.

“Sounds very reasonable,” I said solemnly.

“You tell me what my husband is doing,” she answered, a look of pure hatred in her eyes.

“I’ll tell you whatever I find out,” I promised.
She gave me a sad smile, untied her skirts, and walked back towards the party.

I crept back to my hut, my head reeling, and threw the mask I had acquired in the village onto my bed, then tore off the shirt I had taken from one of Lord Fevell’s many overflowing wardrobes. I felt too hot even though the night had been cool, and my head was starting to throb.

It hadn’t been part of the plan for anyone else to know about my mission, and certainly not the wife of the man I was meant to be spying on. I sighed and threw myself down on the bed.

I had been running when she’d found me. She hadn’t said much about herself, only her name, Neem, that she was the daughter of migrants and that she was with the Neighbourhood Committees. I’d been waiting at the docks for a boat, any boat, when a hooded figure approached me.

“Jean Kirstein. I hear you’re running,” the small woman with dark eyes said.
I looked up at her questioningly, wondering how she had found me when I’d only told one person I was leaving.

“Don’t worry. I’m with the rebels. Thank you for the keys to the weapons store.”

I shrugged. It truly was the least I could do.

“So. We thought that if you’re running, you might do something for us. Do you know where you’re going?”

“No. I just needed to get on a boat,” I replied honestly.

“Well, I think you should get on a boat to Breamendaul.”

I chuckled at her absurd suggestion. Why would I go to the country that wanted to work Paradis’ migrant population to death? She wasn't deterred by my badly-disguised frown and continued.

“We need to know what they’re planning over there. We have so little intelligence, and we need to be able to prepare for whatever they throw at us. You know the Jaegerists won’t hold off on the migrant repatriation plan for much longer.”

What she said made sense, yet when I had decided to run, I had also decided that I wanted to seek peace. An isolated island sounded nice. I thought I could maybe become a sheep farmer or a lighthouse keeper.

“I know your record, Jean. In fact, I knew one of your friends, Reiner Braun. He said if there is one man who can be trusted to act with honour, it’s you.”

I stared into her dark eyes. There wasn’t a hint of hesitancy in them. They were the eyes of someone utterly willing to trust me. What had my friend been saying to her, I wondered.

“I will do it,” I said, knowing that if I didn't, guilt would eat me alive.

“Thank you,” she replied, smiling and grasping my hands in hers.

“Now take this. It’s a list of names and addresses of government ministers and big investors in Breamendaul. Get a job at one of their homes. On the back is an address for where to send any information you find out.”

I nodded at her words and put the piece of paper in my bag.

“Thank you,” she repeated warmly. “I knew a man like you would be on our side.”

A man like me, I thought; a man who had made so many wrong decisions in the decade since the Rumbling.

“I will do what I can,” I said solemnly.

She smiled at me again, pulled her hood over her head, and scurried away.

I had planned to be a coward and run, but, as always, fate seemed determined to thrust me onto the path of a hero once again.

That had been many months before I found myself climbing out of the window of a manor with the Lady of the house. While I had already broken in and snuck around a few times, that night was the first time I had found anything substantial. The masquerade had afforded me an opportunity to understand the links between Timothy Fevell and some of Breamendaul’s politicians. I had been right to come to Fevell Mansion; the rotten man seemed to know everyone and had been whispering with at least six ministers and a former prime minister that night.

I reached underneath me to take the blueprint from my pocket, intending to copy it and then return it that same night so Fevell wouldn't know it was missing. It was ripped slightly at the corner.
I put my hand to my temple and rubbed it in frustration, trying to chase away the ache there. I needed to think. It must have ripped when I tried to prise it out of Niamh's hands. I would have to copy it well and keep the original, though I didn't have the right green ink to do it with.
I sighed. I’d have to make a trip to the village, or break into the house again.

Slumping down on my bed, I started to regret my choices. I could be on a nice island, doing God knows what like Reiner, I thought. I could be tending to sheep. A sigh escaped my mouth and I repeated those same few words I had been saying since I had taken on the mission: “You're not done, Jean; you're not done yet,” I whispered into the dark.

Chapter Text

I had taken my mother-in-law’s advice and taken up walking. After breakfast, I would do three laps of the garden: down the steps, across the lawn, by the topiary and around the fountain, then repeat. As with most things in my life, my walks followed a predictable, monotonous pattern.

Well, until the gardener beckoned me to join him in the woods.

“Can you find me some green ink?” he said, a day or two after we had climbed down the trellis. He looked a little ruffled, his jaw unshaven, and there were dark circles around his eyes again. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Why?” I asked.

“We ripped those blueprints. I need to make a decent copy so your husband doesn’t realise they’ve been taken.”

“I see.”

“Can you get me some?”

“Yes. I’ll bring you some tonight. Are you all right?” I said, peering at him closely. He looked pallid, and I noticed his hand was shaking slightly. Jean shook his head, then stopped abruptly to run his fingers through his hair.

“It’s nothing. I’m just worried your husband will find out his blueprints have been taken.”

“As I’ve said, he’s not the most diligent. He didn’t notice that the candlestick I swapped for the one you stole wasn’t the original.”

Jean didn’t look convinced.

“I’ll bring the ink tonight,” I continued.

“Good. Thank you. See you tonight, Niamh,” he replied.

He moved to turn away but quickly turned back.

“I mean it, Niamh. Thank you,” he said, looking back at me with such aching sincerity that it made my heart spasm.

“Well. I think we’re in this together now,” I replied.

The rest of the day dragged. I felt every one of its minutes. No book or embroidery task could occupy my mind from my task or the thought of speaking with Jean that night. His secret had not filled me with dread as it probably should have. Of course, I was appalled by my husband, but I already knew the depths of his cruelty. I knew that he would do anything to increase his power and his hoard, and so knowing he was not only cruel to me and the servants was a shock only for a moment.

Instead of dread, I felt a warm, good feeling taking root in my chest. For the first time in years, I shared something with another living soul. Camaraderie and friendship had allowed me to survive when I was a pilot. They never lived long, but I had struck up friendships with a handful of other young women at the barracks. There was Emily, and Saoirse, and Geraldine — all friends who had helped make life a little more bearable as we set fire to the world.

All of them are gone now, whether shot down in some pointless war or lost in the wreckage of the Rumbling. When I thought about them, I thought about how young we were, how we had bombed cities before we’d had our first kisses.

Now, Jean and I were bound together in a way I hadn’t been with another soul in a decade, and I couldn’t help but relish it. Maybe I really was mad.

The green ink was easy to acquire. Calligraphy had been in vogue a few years before, which had prompted my husband to firmly suggest I take it up. It was as boring and as finicky as the bug taxidermy, and I was happy when it went out of fashion. But it did mean I had a plentiful supply of coloured inks at my disposal, and I slipped a green one into my pocket before dinner.

My husband was unusually friendly at dinner that night, which was strange. He hadn’t told me he’d acquired any new special antiquities, which was usually the only reason he expressed joy in my presence.

“You know, I do think that we are progressing as a society,” he said to me between bites of a goat’s cheese tart.

“Really?” I asked, as innocently as I could.

“We’ve got a great bunch in government — really top fellows. They want this country to pull itself up; they want to build more, strive for better.”

I didn’t ask who would be doing the building, but of course, I knew.

“Honestly, I know nothing about industry. How do you think all of these great things are going to come about? I’m sorry if I’m wrong, but isn’t there a labour shortage?”

My husband smirked at my question.

“We have plans, my dear. Plans that will make us very rich.”

“Then I’m interested,” I lied.

“You should be,” he said, putting down his knife and fork. “It’s going to be magnificent.”

Once again, I waited until the house was utterly silent before slipping out, green ink clutched in my hand. I knocked once on his door, and he answered almost straight away.

“I have it,” I said, “and my husband said something strange today.”

He looked even paler than before, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and his eyes bloodshot.

“Jean?” I asked, concerned, watching him sway slightly in his doorway.

He gulped, mouthed “thank you,” and gestured for me to come in.

I handed him the green ink, which he set on the table beside a large piece of parchment and the original blueprint.

“All right,” he said, placing his hand down on the table to steady himself. “Let’s get this done.”

Shakily, he began to trace the lines he’d already made on the parchment in pencil. I could see sweat dripping from the effort of keeping his pen up.

“Jean… are you?” I began.

“I’m fine,” he said, adjusting the pen in his hand.

“What did he say?” he continued.

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

“Oh! Yes,” I said, completely forgetting for a moment that I had information to pass on.

“He said that he and those in government have a plan to solve the labour shortage. I mean, we know that. But I think he meant they are planning something that would let them get their hands on the migrants in Paradis.”

“Hmm,” Jean said, almost inaudibly.

His eyes flickered, and he stumbled backwards, almost spilling the ink all over the copy. Thankfully, I caught it and moved to his side.

“Jean?” I asked, worried now.

“It’s fine, I’ve just got a cold,” he said groggily.

“You think?” I said, placing my hand on his elbow to steady him.

“I’m honestly fine. I just need some water.”

“I’ll fetch it for you, but please, just go to bed,” I told him as commandingly as I could. To my surprise, he obeyed me, staggering over and collapsing on top of his eiderdown.

I got him some water and brought it to him.

“I’ll finish the copy and put it back.”

He groaned from the bed, discontentment scrunching up his features.

“You do nothing but help me,” he said miserably when I passed the water over. “How can I repay your kindness?”

I contemplated saying that all he had to do was keep talking to me, but I knew he might think I was strange. Instead, I shrugged and settled into one of his wooden stools to trace the lines of the copy with green ink.

Chapter Text

I hadn't been sick since I was a child. I had been injured, yes, maimed, yes, but never sick. I cursed the strange climate of that godforsaken land as I drifted in and out of consciousness that night. In my half-lucid state, I watched Niamh working on the copy, her long hair dragging over the page. I noticed that when strands caught the firelight, they burned gold.

She wanted to help me too much, I thought. She was too ready to betray and steal from her husband. Perhaps my cover had been blown and she had been sent to spy on the spy, I thought. Maybe she was relishing the thought of telling her husband everything I was trying to do each night. Yet even in my confused state, I knew that was ridiculous. If our enemies had found out I was spying on them, they would have simply killed me.

No. Niamh was just kind. She had seen someone who needed help, which I had to admit I did, and she had helped. But why then was it so hard to accept it?

That thought followed me as I drifted into a deep, fathomless sleep.

I woke up feeling not exactly good, my head still throbbed, but a little better. I turned over. Niamh was sprawled over the table, sleeping. The finished copy lay beside her. Her hands were clutching the top of her head as if she were shielding herself from something. I could see her fingertips were stained green. As I watched her, I still could not help feeling sore with guilt.

Slowly, I lifted myself up, my head spinning only slightly, and walked toward where she slept. My hand reached out to touch her hair, almost on instinct. I stopped it abruptly.

“Niamh,” I said softly. She did not even stir.

“Niamh,” I repeated, louder.

With a start, she woke and lifted herself from the table.

“What time is it?” she asked, her eyes wide with panic.

“I think just after dawn,” I replied. At my words, she slumped back down on the table.

“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll get a bit more sleep. I seem to sleep well on your table.”

“Don’t do that, Niamh. Sleep on the bed.”

She looked up at me, a blush creeping over her nose. For a moment, I thought she would say yes.

“Oh no. It would be safer if I left now. I can replace the blueprint before anyone is up,” Niamh said as she lifted herself from the table.

“If you think that’s best.”

She nodded, took the paper, and moved to the door.

“Don’t try to work today,” she said as she stood on the threshold.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to get away with that,” I said truthfully.

“I’ll make sure no one notices,” she said, giving me a reassuring grin before stepping out into the dawn light.

I stayed home that day and rested for what felt like the first time in my life. Through training, then in the scout regiment, and later while training the next generation of soldiers, I had always been moving relentlessly. There had never been a day when I could lie listlessly on my covers. Birds sang, and I noticed that the light shining through my window could make even my dreary hut look sacred at times.

The next day was swelteringly hot, even in the early morning. My task for the day was to plant a line of new saplings that the lord of the house wanted to grow into an orchard. About halfway through, I realized I had run out of string to tie the young trees to their wooden supports. As I walked to the store where my tools were kept behind the manor, I happened upon the lord of the house.

He was furiously polishing what looked like an ornate metal clock. He was rubbing it so hard that I could see sweat beading on his brow.

“Your Lordship, you know if you get a bit of lemon and salt on that, it will clean easier,” I said carefully.

The Lord of the house looked up from his work and then dragged his eyes from the top of my head to my feet.

“Is that right? And how do you know that? You’re the gardener, aren’t you?”

“I was a soldier. We used it to clean our equipment when we had some to spare.”

“You were a soldier?” he asked, a glint in his eyes. “Where?”

“Marley,” I lied. “I was fighting far away when the Rumbling happened.”

“How interesting,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on me with an unnatural focus in his pale blue eyes.

“My wife is from Marley. She was a pilot in their air force. She flew all the way here when the Rumbling happened.”

He had an odd look on his face when he told me, as if he were relishing the act of imparting that information.

“I see,” I said, trying to keep my face impassive, though I realized I knew almost nothing about the woman who had, not two nights ago, slept in my hut.

“I am so interested in your country. I try to get my hands on any antiquities from there that I can find.”

“I see,” I muttered again.

“There is something so thrilling about holding something that was owned by a people who are mostly gone.”

Timothy Fevell smiled a sadistic smile.

“Yet here you are. Another relic of the past. I will have to introduce you to my friends. They are history scholars like me.”

I lowered my head as I had learned to.

“I would be happy to, sir.”

“Splendid. How thrilling. I will admit my wife’s tales have become tiresome. It will be great to hear new material,” he said gleefully.

I bowed and walked away, thanking every god that Timothy Fevell was an idiot.

Chapter Text

The days were getting hotter, and I knew that meant I would have to endure my husband's annual grand picnic.

It was one of the biggest events on our calendar, an opportunity for guests to nibble on finger sandwiches, drink sparkling wine, and for high-society ladies to faint from heatstroke and be fawned over. I found myself surrounded by the women that the rest of society would consider my friends. They were the pretty, well-dressed wives of politicians and businessmen who tolerated me because of who my husband was, and because they wanted to keep receiving invitations to his parties.

I didn't feel any particular hatred toward them, only cold indifference. They weren't like my husband or his friends, whom I hated with a burning passion. No, they were mostly women who were also bullied and abused in their homes and who had been offered little else besides becoming wives and mothers. We were all ornaments, one way or another.

“You know, I heard that the Eldians back on that island marry brother to sister,” said Lady Elizabeth Bingham to the rapt audience of my supposed friends, who were sitting prettily on a floral picnic blanket.

“I've heard that too!” said Nancy Thistlewaite, the heiress to the Thistlewaite coal company, as she chimed in with a sandwich between her pale fingers.

“Do you really think that's true?” I asked.

“Well, they've stopped all diplomatic missions abroad, so it's not like we can ask them,” Elizabeth replied.

“Hmm,” I murmured quietly.

I was too hot, sitting on that blanket in my starchy white dress and hat so large it obscured my vision. I fanned myself frantically, wishing I could run inside and plunge into a cold bath.

“You know, I've always wanted to go to Paradis,” said Nancy dreamily.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, I want to see where the titans came from and where he was born,” she explained. “I mean, aren't you from across the sea from there? You flew around the world, didn't you ever feel curious?”

I didn't know what to say to her. So much of high society in Breamendaul seemed to have a morbid obsession with the Rumbling. They saw it as an oddity, not an atrocity. Thousands of their own people had died, yet because the rich were largely unaffected, they still saw it as an interesting subject for the dinner table. It was a story to them, an area of interest.

Suddenly I was chokingly hot, the bodice of my dress digging almost painfully into my chest.

“I'm going to get more sparkling wine,” I told the women as I staggered up.

I walked past the aristocrats sprawled on the lawn, waving and smiling as I went. My breath was becoming quicker, and it grew harder to disguise it. Almost not soon enough, I reached the other side of the manor where I would be out of sight. My smile fell from my face as I hurriedly popped open the buttons at the side of my bodice. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Is there a reason why you're undressing out here, Niamh?” a voice asked from behind me. I whipped around to see Jean standing in the shade of a tree, a pair of secateurs in his hand.

“It's just the heat… and the party, and…” I stammered.

He dropped the secateurs and walked toward me, a look of concern on his face.

“I just hate it,” I said quietly.

“Come, let's sit. Follow me,” he said, beckoning me toward the tool shed.

We entered the dingy shed. Jean placed two buckets on the floor for us to sit on.

He didn't say anything for a while, just sat in silence, cooling off in the darkness of the shed.

“I didn't know you were a soldier too,” he said finally. I opened my mouth once, but no sound came out. It was no secret, yet I had hoped I would be able to tell him at the right time, when we knew each other better.

“Did one of the servants tell you?”

“No, your husband.”

“He spoke to you?” I asked, a little surprised.

“Yes. I told him I was a Marleyan soldier. I think he was quite happy to tell me you were one too.”

“Yes, he likes to do that,” I said gloomily.

“It doesn't bother me, you know,” he said, shifting slightly on his bucket. “That you fought for Marley. I know you probably didn't have a choice.”

“No… not really. My family would have starved if I hadn’t.”

“I knew someone who was like you. A warrior, actually. He was… he is still one of my closest friends.”

I looked up at him and noticed his eyes soften with affection. That look made me hopeful.

I didn’t want to ask. It was childish and cloying and would probably irritate him. Yet I needed to know. I needed confirmation.

“Jean… are we friends?” I asked.

“Of course,” he replied quickly.

I couldn’t help it, but I smiled at that.

“Friends and accomplices.”

“Friends and accomplices,” he said, grinning.

Chapter Text

The first time I was summoned to the drawing room of the Fevell Mansion, I was told to take my shoes off. None of the other men in that room had their shoes off; I was the only one standing on the carpeted floor with holes in my socks.

It was an odd way to show dominance, I thought, but the rich were a strange bunch and I evidently couldn't be trusted to clean the muck off my shoes.

“So, young man, tell us about your time in the Marleyan army,” a man with a handlebar moustache and pockmarked skin asked me as soon as I arrived.

“Bloody brutal,” I said. “When we fought... we would use our fallen comrades' bodies as shields.”

Niamh had coached me as well as she could in the structure and ranks of the Marleyan army, along with some cultural particulars. She had been thorough, but had been clear that what her husband and his friend wanted was to be entertained; they didn't want the truth. It seemed almost laughable to tell an embellished lie when my own story was so full of horror and heroism. If only they knew who I really was, I thought, they would eat their hats with excitement.

The men shook their heads in mock despair at my anecdote about the bodies.

“And what guns did you use?” the Lord of the manor said, quickly breaking the very brief moment of contemplation.

I spoke and spoke about guns and killing and planes and campaigns.

Niamh and I had contrived a character we knew would impress them. I was to be an elite professional soldier, mostly doing covert missions to undermine regimes and orchestrate coups. She laughed as she suggested it, the unusual sound of it ringing around my hut.

It seemed to work. Fevell's friends listened to me with rapt expressions.

“Why did you decide to come here?” asked a short man with a very noticeable bald spot.

I stopped for a moment, almost losing my composure.

“Well, it seemed that you're doing all right over here; there weren't many places I could go. They closed the border in Paradis a long time ago,” I said after a brief pause.

“You wouldn't have wanted to go there,” said the same man.

“No, it's full of Eldian devils,” I replied.

“Yes. It's no surprise the government can't even keep control of its own population.”

I nodded my head in mock agreement.

“That's good for us, though,” Fevell said, and the rest of the men nodded.

“A weak government will make it easier for us to take what we need,” he continued, his eyes bright and shining.

“Just need to get Burrell on board with the plan,” the man with the handlebar moustache said.

“We will, old friend. We will,” the Lord of the house said as he grasped his friend by the shoulders reassuringly. “He's coming to dinner in a couple of weeks; we can convince him then.”

I watched the conversation as impassively as I could, yet inside my head I was screaming to ask what those evil men could be planning. What fate had they in store for Paradis?

The Lord dismissed me kindly enough from the drawing room so that he and his friends could go to dinner. They'd obviously had enough entertainment for the night.

“You are an interesting fellow,” he said, catching my arm before I left.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, ignoring every instinct to shrug his clammy hand off me.

“Yes. I might get you back for my parties. Would you like that? I mean, as long as it doesn't interfere with your job.”

“It shouldn't,” I said.

“Good. I will summon you when you're wanted. Oh, maybe you should talk to my wife. I would love to hear you reminisce about your good old days in the army,” he said with a grin.

I bowed low to show my agreement, and walked back to the garden where I belonged.

That night I got paper and ink out and wrote to Neem back in Paradis. I didn't write much. I'd already sent off the copy of the blueprint and really didn't have much to tell. All I knew was that those men were plotting a way to get their hands on the migrant population in Paradis and that Burrell was the final decision maker. It was almost not enough to put in a letter. I sat back, frustrated that while I had made progress it didn't feel like enough.

A soft knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts. It could only be one person.

Niamh had been coming to sit and plot with me most nights since she copied the blueprint. I didn't know how she snuck out so regularly without being caught, but she seemed confident that no one ever saw her enter my hut.

“Hello,” she greeted me. “Look at what I've got!”

Niamh held out a cream cake with a strawberry.

“Is this for me?”

“Of course. Cook was going to throw it out, but it's good, I promise. I had one on my way here.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking it.

She settled in her usual seat by the fireplace and looked at me expectantly.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Didn't you just have a little mothers' meeting with my husband and his friends?”

“Oh... yes,” I said, momentarily distracted by the cream cake.

“And how did it go?”

“Who is Burrell?” I asked. Her face changed. Where she had been all lightness, she now looked stony-faced.

“Bartholomew Burrell,” she said quietly. “He's the finance minister.”

“Ah, so they need to get at his purse. They are plotting something but need his approval.”

She nodded.

“He's coming for a dinner party soon,” I continued. My words made Niamh's eyes widen slightly.

“What is it?”

“His wife, Katherine, died last year. They said heart failure, but it's an open secret that he killed her.”

Niamh's hands were balled into fists on her lap as she spoke.

“I knew her. She was only twenty-two and sweet enough. He's a monster, Jean.”

“I see,” I said.

“Well, they're all monsters, but if they're having a hard time convincing him, it's probably something particularly awful. They see ordinary people as lower even than their wives.”

Suddenly, I had an urge to take Niamh far away. Maybe I could. We could bolt across the sea and back to Paradis, or go anywhere. We could run a dairy farm or something. For a moment I allowed myself to imagine it. Niamh would laugh more and I would rest; it would be perfect.

Yet I knew there were those who still needed me. In fact there was an entire population whose lives might hinge on what I did. I knew I could not be a coward again.

“I heard your husband is leaving to play golf tomorrow. Do you want to do something?” I asked.

“Wouldn't it be a good time to snoop around his office?”

“We can do that after,” I replied.

“All right,” she said.

“Meet me at the edge of the woods at sunrise then. I'm going to take you to my favourite place here.” 

Chapter Text

I walked through the forest with Jean and pretended that I was not someone’s wife. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up, and it was hard not to notice.

I conjured up a version of myself where nothing bad had happened. No war. No Rumbling. No marriage. Walking through the dappled light of the forest with a good man was normal to this other woman, average, not a shining moment I would cherish and cling to like a lifeboat in a storm.

“Where are we going?” I asked after a while.

 “A place I found when I first got here. You’ll like it,” he said, grinning.

We walked for a little while longer until we came to a break in the trees. I heard water falling, and then we were there. Some sort of natural good luck had created the perfect sunken bathing spot. The river flowed over jagged rocks into a deep pool, so clear I could see the bottom.

“You can swim, yes? Sorry, I should have asked, but it would have ruined the surprise,” Jean said.

“Yes... I can swim,” I said a little distractedly as I walked toward the pool. The sun shot rays deep into the water, making the pebbles at the bottom seem to sparkle. Moss and trees looked to be slowly encroaching on the pool’s edge as if they wanted to submerge in its depths.

“Good. Well, fancy a dip?” Jean said expectantly.

I nodded. I wanted to.

Jean smiled and started to unbutton his shirt.

Reader, I will be honest, I didn’t often see anyone undressed. The style of the time was for men to be covered, buttoned up, and contained, so there was something dangerous about Jean’s unbuttoned shirts and rolled-up sleeves. As I tried not to watch him shrug off his shirt and trousers, I realised how easily he inhabited his own body. He did not hate or hide it; he used it as a tool. My body had been a burden to me and my husband for years, and I envied Jean as much as I admired him in that moment.

“You might have to wear a few less clothes if you want to swim,” he said as he stood in front of me.

My hands went to the buttons of my dress, and I began, a little shakily, to unclasp them.

He didn’t watch. He turned his back. Slowly, I hauled my dress over my head, folded it, and placed it on a rock. I stood only in my slip and swallowed nervously.

“Do you want to go in first?” Jean said, his back still turned to me.

“No. Let’s go in together,” I said, moving to his side.

“Alright,” he said, shooting me a warm smile, “so jump just there, where you can’t see the bottom.”

I followed the line of his pointed finger to the spot and nodded again.

“Alright. Are you ready?” he said as he took my hand in his.

“Yes,” I said excitedly.

We both plunged in at the same time. He kept his hand locked in mine even when we surfaced.

I felt a smile tug at the corners of my mouth as we treaded water side by side.

I looked at Jean, really looked, taking in his wet hair and brown eyes and the crinkles of age around his temples, and I laughed. I let it burst out of me and fill every part of me, and he started laughing too.

“What’s funny?” he asked when we finally managed to stop.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully.

We swam unhurriedly in the pool for a while. Jean liked to duck under the surface and feel along the bottom, pulling out smooth, coloured pebbles with pretty patterns for me to look at.

I preferred to float on my back and stare at the sky. The water caught me, embraced me, and allowed me the weightlessness I always seemed to crave in those years. Finally, Jean said he was hungry and lifted himself out of the pool to lay a blanket on the grass beside it. On it, he laid out the bread and cheese I had robbed from the kitchen, and the tomatoes he had acquired from the garden.

I joined him, first sitting on the grass to dry off. We sat in the heat, munching on our picnic and letting the droplets dry on our skin.

Eventually, we moved to the blanket, lying side by side but not touching. I was drifting into a hazy sleep when he started talking.

“You know, I wish I had done more of this.”

I looked over at him. He was facing the sky, his eyelashes bleached light at the ends.

“I could never stop. Even when I had the opportunity. I never rested, never was still. And now, well, I feel like I’ve been missing out on something. Maybe I’m getting old.”

“Perhaps,” I replied.

He turned on his side to peer at me.

“When you were young, did you ever dream of anything?”

I didn’t have to think hard about it.

“I wished to never be hungry. For my family to never be hungry,” I said.

“I see,” he said softly.

“I don’t know much about Paradis, but it can’t have been much better.”

 “Well, I was definitely loved. There were often food shortages, but my parents loved me very much,” he replied.

 “I was loved,” I said softly, “and I loved.”

“I’m sorry,” he said equally softly. “I’m sorry about your family. I’m sorry about what he did.”

“It’s alright. What could you have done?”

 He sighed.

“A lot more,” he finally said. “I should have seen it coming.”

“How?”

“I knew him. I fought him at the end, but years before I should have seen the signs.”

My eyes widened in shock. “You helped stop it? The Rumbling?”

“As I said, I tried.”

“Then you did enough. How many countless people stood by and let it happen? You know, here in Breanumdaul, the rich knew it was coming, yet they did nothing to tell the farmers and workers in the south. Nothing.”

He rolled back onto his back to stare at the sky again.

“If I could go back, I could have stopped him.”

“We can’t go back, Jean,” I replied and laid my hand softly on his arm in what I hoped was a comforting gesture.

He looked at my hand for a moment, as if examining my fingernails. Then he lifted his eyes to my face. I don’t know why he looked at me like that; it was as if he wanted something, something I didn’t know how to give. I stared back, taking in his warm brown eyes, his straight nose, and still-drying hair.

My heart thudded in my chest as time slowed, as I felt the grass tickle my ears, as I heard birdsong much louder than before. Then I couldn’t hold his gaze any longer. Embarrassed, I released my hand from his arm and rolled over.

As I stared at the strands of grass now pressed to my cheek and swore I could feel his gaze on my back.