21st of Thira

"Most valuable targets," Arramy mumbled.

I glanced at him. He was stretched out on one of the deck loungers, lolling on his back, a bolster pillow under his head and his elbow crooked over his eyes. I, on the other hand, hadn't been allowed to sit down since he pounded on my cabin door before dawn. I gave him a beady-eyed glare but bit my annoyance off short. It wouldn't do any good to snap at him. He would only snap right back and make me do another round.

"Head, shoulders, chest upper right, chest middle, groin, knee, ankle," I recited, rotating a bolt into the firing mechanism hidden beneath the fabric of my sleeve, my fingers telling me when the grooves on the shaft had clicked into the spring-loaded pins. 

"Good."

I steadied my arm and took aim. Two quick taps of my thumb against the trigger mechanism sewn into the palm of my glove, and a slender six-inch steel bolt shot through a metal barrel hidden in the cuff of my jacket. A split-second later the bolt thunked neatly into the 'forehead' of the man-shaped outline Arramy had painted on the wall below the observatory deck stairs. There was a bright flash and a puff of smoke as the incendiary tip exploded on impact, and another hole blossomed in the paneling. 

"Good," Arramy said again without looking. "Take a break."

With a sigh of relief I shrugged out of the confines of the velvet jacket designed to hide the bolt thrower, unstrapped the firing mechanism and the slender reel of bolts, and dropped all of it on the deck. Then I tipped my head back and rolled my shoulders, glad of the early spring breeze tugging at my hair. The farther north we went, the cooler the air had gotten, but it wasn't anywhere near as cold as it had been on our last trip to Lordstown. Winter's bite was melting away, and the sun had been quite warm all afternoon. I was sweating far more than a lady should.

Braeton came trotting down the stairs from the observation deck, then. "If you two are quite finished ruining the woodwork, would you please bathe before coming up for dinner?" He gave both of us a wide berth on his way to the stairwell aft of the cabins. "You reek," he called over his shoulder, disappearing belowdecks.

Arramy moved his elbow and glared after Braeton, upper lip lifted in a snarl.

"He's right. We do have an odor," I said, starting off down the promenade.

Arramy got to his feet. "You have an odor. I smell like a man."

"So... men smell like dirty stockings and Best's Bicarbonate?" I asked, turning to give him a sly grin as his long stride brought him even with me.  

He deadpanned, "Better that than hair tonic and Talver's Personal Balm."

"Ah, but that's cheating." I stopped in front of my personal lounging nook. "Anything smells better than Talver's Personal Balm."

"I rest my case."

Chuckling, I ducked through the flap in the insect netting, and glanced back at him. He was lingering at the railing, watching me leave. I rolled my eyes, then couldn't keep my grin from growing as I crossed my lounge to my cabin door. "Take a bath!"

He dipped his head, and I got a glimpse of that rare smile before he about-faced and headed toward his own cabin.

I sobered. I hadn't been pretending to laugh. That had been happening more and more often, lately. Laughing with Arramy on one breath, and on the next deliberately lying to him because of a slip of messaging paper and the word of a street urchin.

With a weary sigh I pushed the door open and rang for Ina.

~~~

Ina surveyed the product of an hour's hard work and smiled, obviously pleased. "Oh, you do look a picture, Miss."

I squinted at the young woman in the mirror. She squinted back at me. She was me, but a me from another lifetime. She had the same self-aware posture that came from being told repeatedly not to slouch, the same tilt to her head that came from countless lessons in poise. Her hair was coiled into an intricate knot of gleaming curls at the back of her head, and her lips were painted a soft berry pink that complemented her sun-kissed skin. This was the girl who had organized Whimsies for her father with no idea what was really going on beneath all the lace and glitter. If I didn't look closely, I might almost have convinced myself that the last three months hadn't happened.

But I did look closely, and I could make out the suggestion of bruises still yellowing my throat. And yet again, I was wearing something that wasn't mine. This time it was a sleeveless burgundy silk dress with black gossamer overlay that shimmered and winked with jet beadwork. The diamond and ruby jewelry sparkling at my ears and in my hair could have paid the wages of seven men. The ensemble was gorgeous, but it was only a tool in Braeton's arsenal. So was the girl wearing it. That much had become perfectly clear the closer we got to the Continent.

Ina handed me a pair of black full-length gloves and I pulled them on. Then I gave myself a last, grim once-over in the mirror, took a deep breath, and steeled my spine. Right. You can do this. It's only dinner. 

~~~

But it was never 'only dinner'. Not anymore. I walked into the dining room to find the table shining with high-polished silver and overflowing with food. Braeton had ordered a full formal meal laid out, with service for five courses, including gelle dishes.

Arramy arrived a moment after I sat down. He took one look at all of the forks lined up beside his plate and snorted. Then he sat down across from me, pulled the chair next to him around, angled his own chair to face it, and rested his left leg on the empty seat cushion. Frowning, he leaned over to peer at his plate, studying his napkin as if he weren't sure whether to pick it up or dissect it.

Braeton shook out the ornate dove-fold in his napkin with a practiced flourish and draped it over his lap while giving Arramy a cool lift of an eyebrow.

Arramy ignored him and began building an elaborate fortress out of his silverware. He topped it all off with a flower from the centerpiece, and glanced at me from beneath his lashes, dry amusement glittering in his eyes, the hint of a devilish grin tugging at his lips. He was playing the barbarian on purpose, rubbing in the fact that I had to be prim and proper and he didn't. I couldn't even give in and roll my eyes. Insufferable man.

Dinner began with a small parade of dipping breads and sauces to whet the appetite.

"So," Braeton said when we were halfway through the first course. "Where are you from, Miss Malastrian?"

"Odynne, in the Drydalle precinct. Do you know it?" I asked, automatically adopting the slight twang of East Tetton.

Arramy's gaze flicked toward me. He had already finished off the broiled fish and was pushing a lemon rind around his plate with his knife, drawing designs in the champagne sauce.

"Unfortunately, no," Braeton said smoothly. "Do you know the Kleyn-Malastrians of Airdunne?"

I looked down at my food, feigning shyness to hide the lie. "I have not had the pleasure, sir," I murmured. "I am not often in Airdunne." Better to deny any acquaintance than claim it and then have to keep track of falsehoods – or worse, find out the people in question were at the party. That had been yesterday's lesson.

Braeton's smile appeared, white and sharp. "That is unfortunate. The weather is quite charming this time of year. Might I bother you for your salt cellar? Mine seems to be empty."

He was starting with something simple today, which made me suspicious. There was an array of identical porcelain condimentaries in front of me, but I knew what they all were. I didn't even have to think about it. I picked up the second cellar from the right and offered it to him.

"Thank you," he said, smiling faintly.

Arramy eyed the two of us, disgust and boredom plain on his face. He opened his mouth to say something, and I gave his foot a warning nudge under the table. I did not feel like starting the whole meal over again. He stared at me for a moment, but then sat back with a heavy sigh and began fiddling with his paring knife.

I stifled a breath of relief.

Three courses, a mint gelle, and two glasses of after-dinner wine later, and Braeton finally decided I had practiced table conversation enough, placed his napkin on his plate, and got to his feet. Then, just like every other evening since we had left Nimkoruguithu, he held out his hand.

It wasn't a request. It wouldn't be a request at the party, and it wouldn't be a request when we reached the continent. We had to seem natural together, accustomed to each other. Overly familiar. And just like every other evening when I touched my fingers to Braeton's palm, I had to resist the urge to look at Arramy.

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