"Not too fond of the cold?" Sicero asked as he slid in next to her and shut the carriage door.

"I'm fine with it, so long as I can be at home, curled up with something hot to drink and nice to read." Octavia secured her scarf tighter around her neck. All the warmth she'd regained in the Hall had been sucked from her body, even though she'd only been outside for a moment.

"That sounds divine. I can't remember the last time I've sat down and relaxed for more than a few minutes." He slouched and tilted his head up to the roof of the carriage, his face growing thoughtful. "There's always something to do, or something to worry about. My mind is always busy."

She knew that feeling too well. How could anyone in this village relax knowing their end was just one netherborne siege away? "You have the rest of the day free, don't you? A good book does wonders for a weary soul."

"I'll have to find one then. The books I own are for scholarly purposes rather than entertainment."

Octavia fished her poetry book from her bag. "You can borrow this one. It's one of my favourites."

Sicero took the book and turned it over in his hands, examining every inch of the leather binding before opening it. "Poetry?" He flipped closer to the middle, to where braided bookmark laid betwixt the pages. "Black Wings. You unfurl at night, curling and flaring like roses in full bloom. Black wings. You soar like the hopes of youth, carrying the burden of a better tomorrow."

Octavia's lips parted as she listened to him recite the poem. The lilt of his voice smoothed over each syllable, each word, each line and stanza, as soothing as a lover's touch. They rolled off his tongue, filling the carriage with a cadence gentle enough to lull a child to sleep.

He stopped midway, brows drawn. "Is something the matter?"

She slammed her mouth shut and looked away, her face burning. "No, I just. . ." She cleared her throat. "You have a very nice voice." She could feel his smile on her face, warm as the sun's kiss.

"Thank you." A moment of awkward silence ensued before he asked: "Is this poem about the Night-Blooming Rose?"

Octavia's heart sank at the question. He was sharp, she should've expected no less from him. Her tongue battled with a lie. "I suppose it could be. I love the cadence of it, and your voice really added a depth and richness to it." 

His smile brightened to a grin. "Perhaps I'm in the wrong line of work then."

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the florist shop. Blessed fate was shining down upon her. 

"Do you need me to come with you?" he asked, as she rifled through her bag for the notes she'd prepared.

"No, it's fine. I just need to drop off these notes." She climbed from the carriage and hurried up to the door, feeling Sicero's eyes burn into her back. He hates necromancers, she reminded herself. And he wanted to eliminate them along with the scourge. 

Octavia stepped into the shop, the bell dinging over her head. Arietta's father stood behind the glass case with a line of glass jars in front of him, and he put on a smile at the sight of her. "Miss Octavia, what brings you here?"

"I hope I'm not disturbing you." She returned his smile. "I came to drop off these notes for Arietta. I didn't want her to fall behind after missing so much class."

"It's no problem at all. Right this way." He led her through another door at the back of the shop, to a tiny hall. Hammering and the occasional sawing drifted from behind another door.

They took a flight of stairs up to a cozy living room. A decorative throw rug dominated the floor, surrounded by plush brown furniture. The air carried the same floral scent as the shop downstairs. Arietta sat bundled up on a couch in front of the healthy fire crackling in the hearth. A stuffed bear was beside her, one of its button eyes hanging by a single thread.

"Arietta, you have a visitor," her father said.

Arietta's head popped up as though she were awaking from a trance, grey eyes widening at the sight of her music teacher. "Miss Octavia? What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see you." Octavia took a seat next to her and set the notes on the coffee table, next to Arietta's opened flute case. 

The child's face was gaunt and her eyes framed by a shadow. She held a cup of tea cradled in her hands, it's strong medicinal scent making Octavia's eyes water.

"Can I offer you anything? Tea or cookies?" Eli asked.

"No thank you." Octavia said, and he nodded before disappearing into the hall. She put on a smile and turned to her student. "I haven't seen you in school for a while. So, I brought notes of all the things you missed. How are you feeling?"

"A little bit better." Arietta nodded to her open flute case. "I've been practicing, just like you told us to. I think I'll be able to play a whole song soon."

"I'm glad to hear it." As much as she wanted to stay and talk a while longer, she wasn't sure how long she could keep her composure. And she couldn't keep Sicero waiting. "I have to get going now, but I look forward to seeing you in class again."

"It was nice seeing you Miss Octavia." Arietta gave her a bright smile, grey eyes sparkling through the darkness around them.

Octavia's heart shriveled in her chest. "You too, Arietta." She barely held herself together as she thanked Eli and hurried downstairs. When she stepped back outside, she took a moment to breathe, to collect herself before going back to the carriage.

"How is Arietta?" Sicero asked. His voice was soft, gentle, not unlike the chime of her favourite bell.

"She's uh. . ." Octavia cleared the gravel from her voice. "She's in good spirits as always."

One would think she'd be better able to cope with the prospect of death. As a necromancer, she lived on that line between life and death, between today and tomorrow, gazing at both sides of the human experience. She'd seen the nether, she'd seen the eternal gardens where souls went to slumber, and she'd seen the ashen pits where the netherborne lived.

But seeing children suffer was one of the few things she could and would never grow accustomed to—no matter how many times she saw it, no matter how many years she would walk this world. Arietta was a grim reminder that she couldn't save everyone.

Silence reined in the carriage, and Octavia clasped her hands together, refusing to look at Sicero. 

He held out a neatly folded handkerchief–pristine, white with fine gold embroidery. "She's a resilient girl, Octavia. Have some faith."

Octavia traced her finger over the embroidered S and along the swirling lines and leaves. What a priestly thing to say. "Do you ever worry?"

Sicero quirked a brow. "About what exactly?"

"That one day you won't be able to save everyone. That the netherborne will overrun the village, and there will be nothing left?" Silence followed her questions, making her stomach flutter, so she blathered on. "I know it's strange for me to ask, but sometimes I feel powerless. Like there's nothing I can do except sit and watch everyone scream and run and fight." More silence ensued, and she clenched her fists on top of the flute case. She didn't know what came over her, why she'd asked him these things.

Perhaps because her search for the nightwalker was getting nowhere. Perhaps because even after a month, she was no closer to ridding this village of the scourge than she was when she arrived. Perhaps because she was stumped and helpless and out of options.

"Yes," Sicero finally said. "Every night when I go to bed I worry that I'll wake up to death." He shook his head. "Hope is the only thing that carries me these day. Things may seem grim, but one day we'll rid this world of the scourge the necromancers brought upon it."

Octavia felt a laugh bubbling up her throat, but no mirth was coming with it. Conviction and hope in the face of adversity was something to be admired. But conviction and hope– much like the priests –wouldn't be enough to stop the netherbone from destroying Hedalda. "Do you think you'll be alive to see a world free from the scourge?"

"I don't want to just see it. I want to be instrumental in making it happen. That's why I came to Hedalda, I want to show the Prefects that we can eliminate the scourge if we push back instead of cowering in the Divine City."

Oh Sicero, you poor, naive man. She'd met many like him, those who wanted to be heroes and fight the scourge with nothing but wit and bare hand. But when it was time to be the hero, they couldn't rise to the occasion. Sicero, as level-headed and competent as he seemed, wouldn't be able to handle the worst of the scourge. 

The carriage lurched to a stop in front of the Cathedral. They climbed out and made a mad dash into the warm respite of the building. The vestibule was just as splendid as she remembered. Pious men and women had expensive tastes. 

Octavia followed Sicero into the south wing again, and down the same corridor that led to the kitchen. But this time they followed it much farther.

Sicero knocked on the blue door at the hall's end. "It's me," he said before opening it.

Octavia's mouth fell open at what lied beyond the door. Reams upon reams of textiles lined the walls. Everything from cotton to lace to silk in a wide variety of colours. At the back of the room was a man sitting at a desk loaded with notions, humming a familiar tune as he stitched together a jacket like the one Sicero wore.

"That's the stargazer's requiem," Octavia said.

The man looked up. He seemed young, perhaps around the same age as Sicero, and his sleepy, black eyes coupled with the lines on his face made him look bored. His gaze lingered on Octavia for a moment before cutting to Sicero. "My Lord. Are you here with another ridiculous request?" His voice was low and raspy, akin to the sound of sandpaper on wood.

"No, I actually think this one will be to your liking." He placed a hand on Octavia's shoulder. "This is Octavia, the village's music teacher. She needs a dress for the winter ball."

The clothier set aside his work and stood, twisting the fat gold ring on his middle finger. "All right, let me see you."

Octavia handed her bag to Sicero and stepped forward.

He circled her, hands in his pockets. "Are you fond of black?"

"I am, but I'm fine with other colours too." She wasn't about to hear another lecture about her attire.

"I wouldn't tell someone with an appreciation for the arts to deviate from their preferred style." He hummed the requiem again, his low voice adding a unique sound to the song. He turned away and pulled down bolts of fabric and lace. "You know, that song was written by a necromancer."

A chill slithered down Octavia's spine and settled in her feet, freezing her where she stood. "Was it? I'm surprised to hear you humming it then. I was under the assumption that everyone here hated necromancers."

"They make beautiful music so they can't all be bad, can they?" He retrieved a long, white measuring tape from his desk. "Now, we have a bit of a dilemma here. I can't get proper measurement from you with all those clothes on."

"We can come back another time then," Sicero said. "I didn't give her adequate notice, so it's my fault."

"Well, I don't mind taking this off if that's what you need," Octavia said.

As she reached for the laces in front of her dress, the High Priest cleared his throat. "That won't be necessary."

"But the Winter Ball is in two weeks isn't it? I don't want the clothier to feel rushed. It's fine, really. I've had clothes made before, I know what it entails."

The clothier looked at the High Priest and flicked his hands towards the door. "Get out."

Sicero gave him a look. "Excuse me?"

"I know you're not hard of hearing, my lord. I said get out. This is my domain in which I do my work. And right now you're being a hindrance." He walked to the door and opened it before gesturing again for Sicero to leave.

The High Priest made a slow exit, backing out the door. "I'll be right outside."

Octavia felt a little bad for him as the clothier pushed the door close in his face. It was no trouble if he'd stayed, she had on undergarments that were more functional than revealing.

"Let's get your measurements." He helped Octavia out of her dress and methodically measured her from head to toe, humming all the while. "So, how long are you going to keep up this farce?"

Her heart rate redoubled, and a hot wave of fear crashed over her, making her knees weak. "I don't know what you're—"

"You're too smart to be playing so dumb." His voice was low enough to only be audible to her. He peered down at her, hooded eyes like menacing, black storm clouds. "What are you doing here, necromancer?"

Octavia swallowed, feeling like a mouse caught under the paw of a cat. Damn it all. She would would have to leave, or risk being dragged into the Divine City and thrown to the feet of the prefects just as Quintus had predicted. It was her fault for being so short-sighted. She should've planned for this.

"I've rubbed shoulders with enough of your kind to know a necromancer when I see one." He wrapped the tape just a tad too tight around her waist and its edges threatened to bite into her skin.

"I am not your enemy. I swear it." Her voice was hoarse and an octave higher than usual. A moment of silence, thick as winter fog, passed between them and a cold sweat broke out on Octavia's face. He only needed to tell Sicero, and she would be ruined. Everything she'd worked so hard to accomplish would be gone. Just like that.

"I know." He exhaled long and hard through his nose and released her. "If you had come here to destroy us, you would've done so when you arrived. We're half dead already."

Octavia didn't miss the bitter edge in his voice. She'd heard this sentiment and seen faces like his many times. People who were at their wits end and would rather be done with this world than share it with the netherborne. She glanced over her shoulder, back at the door, wondering if Sicero was eavesdropping. 

"Don't worry about him. What do you need?" he asked.

She could only open and close her mouth, shock rendering her vocal chords useless.

"You're here to eradicate the scourge, yes? If you haven't managed it by now you must need help."

"Yes, but—"

"Are you all right, Miss Octavia?" Sicero's voice came through the door, making them both jump.

The clothier scowled. "She will be out in a moment, my Lord." He marched over to his desk and rifled through a drawer. "Here. Write to me; seal it with this and give it to Pilar."

Octavia looked down at what he'd pressed into her hand. A wax seal. She'd have to use the dress as an excuse if anyone became suspicious.

"Let me help you back into your dress," he said, a little louder than was necessary.

Octavia stepped into her dress, and the clothier helped her lace it up.

"You can come back in now, my lord. Octavia, I'll need to see you four days from now for a fitting, then three days after that for another fitting. Please don't forget." He tossed his tape around his neck and picked up the jacket he'd been stitching.

Sicero stepped inside, glanced between the two of them without saying a word and passed Octavia her bag.

With as much discretion as she could manage, she slipped the seal into a side pocket. "I promise you I won't. How much do I owe you?"

The High Priest cleared his throat. "Actually, that won't be necessary. The—"

"I'm already living at the residence for free. I need to contribute my fair share to this village somehow." And owing the clothier money would give her another excuse to keep communicating with him.

The clothier gave a small smile. "I'll give you the bill when you come for your first fitting. Until then." He turned away resuming his methodical stitching.

"Thank you, sir," Octavia said, inclining her head in a small bow.

"You can call me Claud." He flicked a hand towards the door. "Now go. Leave me to my work."

Octavia followed Sicero out of the workshop, and they made the long walk back to the carriage. The clouds were finally breaking up, painting the western sky a range of oranges, yellows and pinks. She closed her eyes and tilted her head up to the warm rays. The hairs on the back of her neck raised up, and she cracked an eye to see Sicero staring at her, his gaze warmed by the sun.

"Is something the matter?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

He stuffed his hands his pockets and smiled, the warmth in his gaze intensifying. "You're beautiful."

Heat crept up her neck and into her face, and she looked away. "Thank you." Dear gods, now she was the coy one. "I should get home. I have to find a song for the children to play."

"Of course." He opened the carriage door for her.

Octavia nodded her thanks and climbed in. A swath of with fabric on the seat caught her eye. "Wait, your handkerchief."

"Keep it," Sicero said with a smile, before waving the carriage off.

She watched him disappear into the Cathedral and slouched in her seat. Her mentor would've had choice words for her had she witnessed this.

"Shove the tiger, Octavia," Morrigan would say. "But don't be surprised when it bites you."

And Octavia would stick her tongue out at her mentor's back as she walked away. She brought the hanky up to her nose. It smelled like him–those sweet spices. And just as she was about to indulge in the scent, her mind gave her an important reminder.

He hates necromancers.