The Long Game:
When she wakes, she does not open her eyes.
The floor pitches and rolls in that way particular to water travel, and the air smells of brine and wet wood. The cot beneath her is hard and uncomfortable - certainly not her own bed. She remembers the sting of a dart in her back and so she keeps her eyes tight shut and her breathing smooth, even as her heart pounds in her chest. She listens to the room around her.
She has been abducted twice before, and knows how this game is played.
Her patience is rewarded – she can hear the scratching of a pen on paper somewhere in the room, and soon picks out the underlying noises of the writer – his breathing and movements, the rustle of his clothes. (She assumes it is a male. She hopes for it. A captor of her own gender will eliminate several possible plans of action.)
She does not know how long she waits before her captor obliges her silent wishes and leaves the room. Long enough to determine that the knives in her boot and waistband are gone, but the one between her breasts in the sheath clipped to her undergarments remains. Long enough to feel the heaviness of her eyes and the dryness of her mouth – a sedative, one she has felt the effects of before. One she has used on others herself.
When finally he leaves, closing the door behind him firmly, she moves to her feet slowly and carefully. The drugs make her head ache, but not unbearably, and she feels more awake every second. She finds herself still in her red party outfit and so she kicks off her boots. High-heeled and flimsy, they are useless for running and wouldn't last as a weapon.
Softly in her stocking feet, she shifts to the desk in the corner of the room, which contains only that and the small bed, and not much space besides. A search yields nothing besides her red mask in a drawer – he has taken whatever he was writing with him, and was not foolish enough to leave her a pen or another utensil that she might use. Most of the drawers are empty.
The door is locked, of course, and she had used ribbons to tie her hair for the party rather than pins, so she has no way of picking the lock. She considers ambushing her captor as soon as he walks in the door, but ultimately decides against it. She is neither bound nor injured, which means he will attempt to win her over with kindness first. She can use this.
So when he returns she is sitting on the bed, her knife still hidden in her shirt and hands clenched into fists on her knees, doing her best to look furious and distraught, but not so much of either that she appears dangerous. It is a careful balancing act – one she has practiced before, though not recently. Too calm, and he will grow suspicious of her; too frantic, and he will sedate her again.
Through the door walks a man – it is a man, she is pleased to see; far taller and slightly broader than her, but older. His hair is thinning and greying, and his wrinkles are making his already beady eyes disappear into his thin face. He is vaguely familiar.
His eyes brighten when he turns to see her awake. He takes a step forward and opens his mouth, and she lashes out immediately, standing up and wiping the pleased look from his face with a furious hiss. "How dare you!"
He stops in his tracks like she had slapped him. She stays near the bed, releasing her pent-up fear and fury while trying to avoid appearing like a physical threat.
"Do you realize who I am? What kind of trouble you just brought on yourself? I have to assume the answer is no, or you would never have been so foolish! What drove you to it, then – were you hoping for a ransom?"
He is shifting uncomfortably now, waving his hands about and attempting to interrupt. She isn't feeling charitable enough to listen just yet.
"Money cannot buy you anonymity, and how exactly do you expect to spend it when every city in the Isles will know your face? How do you even think you will make it back out of Dunwall with the ransom? My sisters are no fools, and this is not the first time we have faced this foolishness. Whatever you hope to gain from this, it isn't going to work –
"I did it to save your life!" He interrupts desperately, nearly shouting, and she stops, surprised. He takes advantage of the silence. "There was an assassin after you – the Masked Felon, the one the whole Watch has been hunting for. He'd learned of your…relationship…with the Lord Regent and sought to eliminate you to weaken him, using your party to cover his movements."
The back of her neck prickles. She'd had no love for Hiram Burrows – their relationship had been born out of loneliness on his side and pure politics on hers – but she had taken her role as his mistress seriously. Women connected to powerful men can always be used a weakness and so they had been careful, so very careful not to get caught, for this very reason.
The fact that her captor knows this much hints at the validity of his story, and he truly seems to believe what he is saying.
"Why did you not inform the guards then, if you knew a murderer was in the house? Why kidnap me?"
"There was no guarantee that they would have done any good! You heard the tales, same as I. He made it past the entire Abbey to reach Campbell, and the best the watch had to offer couldn't save the Pendleton brothers." She had indeed heard those tales, and laughed at the Pendleton's misfortunes when they had gone missing. She isn't laughing now.
He is pacing now, agitated. "They couldn't stop him, but I could. I promised him I would keep you away from Dunwall forever; take you somewhere you couldn't cause him any trouble ever again. All he needed was your absence, not your death, and if I could offer him that to save your life, then I had to try."
"You had to try?" she echoes disbelievingly, "The whole city is terrified of this man and you step between him and his target? What benefit could you possibly get out of it? I have no access to money or influence here; I cannot reward you or aid you. Why risk it?"
He seems conflicted, stuttering and unsure of what to say, but before she can continue her questions he bursts out, "Because I love you!"
She blinks at him, nonplussed.
"It is too soon, I know this, but I cannot keep it in any longer," His eyes are now wide and fervent and fixed on her. "I have loved you since the day we met, Lydia, and my love has only grown stronger with each passing day. I couldn't stand the thought of your death, not because of a man like Hiram Burrows. I thought – no, I knew – that if I could rescue you him, from all of it, we could start a new life and finally be happy, together."
Ah. This explains quite a bit about the situation, actually. She has met her share of stalkers, though none have gone quite as far as this one. She doesn't even consider playing along with this.
"Oh, now I understand. Do you think you are the first man to try and own me, to demand my body in payment for whatever favor he thinks he has done me?" She bares her teeth at him, even if it only reveals a fraction of her true distaste. "Don't imagine I will submit simply because I am your prisoner, or because you think I owe you!"
"No! No, no, no, that isn't what this about at all!" He protests, and she raises an eyebrow at him. He flushes unattractively. "You do not love me as I love you – I know this. I do hope that we will grow closer with time, of course, but I would never be so without honor that I would force you into anything before you are ready. In time, you will see that we are meant to be together. I am only trying to help you, Lydia."
She resists the urge to laugh at him. Even if he is telling the truth, it is disturbing that he seems to think locking her in a cage is acceptable behavior simply because he doesn't plan to torture her inside of it. Everything about this man is disturbing. She fixes him with a sharp look, annoyed at the continued familiar use of her name. "And who, exactly, are you?"
He looks hurt, as though he expected her to recognize him on sight, but bows gracefully and says, "Lord Timothy Brisby, my lady. We used to dance at the old balls the empress held at the palace, before she died."
Ah yes. Now she remembers him. They had danced together only twice, just last year. He had held her too tightly and pulled her too close, like so many lascivious old men, and his eyes had wandered places they shouldn't have when he wasn't staring into her eyes unblinkingly. She had stepped on his feet purposefully many times in retaliation and had escaped as soon as possible.
Apparently, while she had done her best to forget him, a year had been long enough for him to build an obsession surpassing any she had dealt with before.
She sits back on the bed, crossing her arms and turning her head away from him. "You claim you are trying to help me? You told him you would keep me. You plan to lock me away like some stolen treasure and you expect me to be grateful for it?"
"I own land, on an island off the coast of Serkonos – a very beautiful estate, and you will be as free there as I can make you while still keeping you safe. It will not be the dank dungeon you are imagining, I promise." He seems to grow desperate when she continues to ignore him, crouching before her and grasping her hands too firmly.
"It was the only way, Lydia, I swear it! If I had not promised to take you away he would have killed you and I simply couldn't bear it." He shakes her hands in her lap, trying to make her look at him. "There was no other choice! Please, my love. I only had your best interests at heart."
She wonders idly if that last claim is just another lie, or if his mind is so far gone that he actually believes this is best for her. She lets him wait for a few more seconds before she slumps her shoulders in apparent resignation and turns back to meet his overeager eyes.
"Well, I suppose exile is certainly preferable to death. I am…grateful…that you did not let me die. Do you…will I at least be able to write to my sisters?" She looks up at him through her lashes, to all appearances fragile and distraught, but attempting to make the best of her situation.
If he truly knew her, loved her, as he claimed, he wouldn't fall for her submissive act for even a second. It stopped working on her sisters decades ago, when they were still children. Even her few suitors, who never stayed for long, learned quickly to be wary when she became too agreeable.
"Well…it would be bad if he knew I let you make contact. He is still out there, you know and I promised…Perhaps in a while, when everything has calmed down a little, but right now it's too risky, you understand?"
And again, if he actually knew her, he would know that her sisters are closer to enemies than family. They will be far more pleased if they never hear from her again, and the feeling is mutual – not that she believes he would ever let her write them, no matter what he says. But he has bought her act, and that is what matters. She nods her head despondently in response to his question.
His smile is pleased as he pats her shoulder, with just an edge of condescension to it – a kind master comforting a worried pet. No doubt he hopes that he has started to win her over. Her fingers itch to carve that smile off his face with her knife.
Patience.
She does not know how the crew would react to her without Brisby's presence. She must have more room to maneuver before she can show him what a grievous mistake he's made.
They remain at sea for two more days which she counts by the meals Brisby brings her. She puts off her captor's attempts at conversation with claims of exhaustion and a reaction to the drugs, and stays curled in the bunk for almost all of it – the sedative does take several hours to wear off completely, but by the evening of the second day she is tense with suppressed energy.
The salty wind in her face as Brisby leads her outside is a relief after the cramped quarters of the cabin, and she takes a deep breath of it to bolster herself against the disturbing feel of his hand on her arm. They are docked in a small, sheltered cove, and she can see a large house on the closest hill to them, no more than a few minutes' walk away from the water.
The crew she sees moving around the deck is rough, far more reminiscent of pirates than merchants, and she feels validated in her decision to wait rather than killing Brisby. She could handle them, of course, but such things were better done from a position of power.
"Do you own this ship as well?" she asks carefully, not sure which answer would be better for her in the long run. He laughs nervously and waves a hand as he ushers her off the boat.
"No, no, we simply have a…business arrangement. The Captain has agreed to take me as a passenger when I wish it, and I receive a small share of the…profits they make while at sea."
They are pirates, then, or near enough. She can definitely work with that. She favors Brisby with a wide-eyed look. "Oh? And how did you manage to secure the allegiance of such men? I cannot imagine it was easy!"
He puffs out his chest like a bantam rooster. "Oh, it was dangerous, certainly! But this cove, you see, was an excellent bargaining chip. It offers protection and shelter for the ships inside and it is rather difficult to find without a map or a guide. I allow them to use my servants to get things to the markets, as well. It was a bargain they couldn't refuse."
He grins at her proudly. She makes appropriate noises of approval in response and quietly folds the information into her growing plans.
There is a carriage waiting for them, despite the short distance between the docks and the house, and Brisby does not release her arm until they are both in the carriage with the doors latched. She does not know whether it is out of possessiveness or fear and does not particularly care. Letting him touch her so without permission is taking all her self-control – she has killed men for less.
He chatters the whole ride up to the house, apparently needing only the vaguest of acknowledgements from her to continue speaking. She does keep some small amount of her attention on him and so learns about the grape growers that live nearby on his land who earn him a great deal of his income.
The must pass a wall to reach the house – and what a wall it is. Higher than two men together with spikes along the top and built out of thick stone; the sight is daunting. The gate – wooden and nearly as thick as the wall itself – is open when they reach it, but she hears mechanics turn as they pass through and glances back to watch it close. This, then, is how he planned to keep her in. It would have been difficult to get through, had she planned to escape that way.
The house is extravagant, even among the noble houses she had visited in Dunwall. Brisby shares points of interest, and assures her that the servants have been ordered to treat her with the upmost respect as he ushers her through the halls. The few servants she sees all avoid her eyes. She wonders if it is out of pity.
Her room is as lavish as the rest of the house, as expected, with deep carpets, a fireplace, and a bed even larger than her own at home. She smiles and nods as he shows her around, though the clothes in the wardrobe that appear to be exactly her size make her hackles rise. One of her servants likely slipped him the information for a little coin on the side.
"Well then," Brisby claps his hands, beady eyes running over her possessively whenever he looks at her. "I shall leave you to settle in. Tomorrow, you will join me for breakfast and I shall…"
She does not want to drag this out another day, and so she grits her teeth.
"Please!" she interrupts, forcing some desperation into her voice, trying to look woebegone and defeated. "Do you have to leave?"
He stops in surprise, but the look her gives her is undeniably hopeful. "You would like me to stay?"
S he ducks her head. "It is just that…well, I have always lived with my sisters, and we did not leave home often. Yours is the only face I know, and I do not wish to be alone in a strange, new place."
She meets his eyes then. "And if I am to stay here, at least for now, we should get to know each other, I think. I felt too weary to speak with you before, and you did save my life, after all. Perhaps we could have some wine and simply…talk?"
His eyes gleam with delight as he agrees. She is sure her own eyes would show something far darker if she let them.
He calls for wine with a rope near the door, likely attached to a bell elsewhere in the house, and it is delivered by a rather frail-looking old man. Brisby pours them both substantial glasses, draining a third of his before she has even taken a sip, and she smiles inwardly as she begins the conversation.
She starts with him, and he happily obliges her, speaking at length of his life and qualities. She steers the conversation to his family – dead, thankfully – and then to the house, refilling his wine glass time and again, occasionally with wine from her own glass, as she affects the same air of drunken easiness that he gains.
When she judges him relaxed – not full drunk yet, but careless enough for this – she finally asks him about the servants.
"Most of them were just island children, or old beggars," he tells her, slurring ever so slightly as he ambles over to stand in front of the fireplace. "The desperate make the best servants, you know. Too scared of going back on the streets to argue with anything you want to do, or how much you pay them."
"But surely some are better than others," she presses, "You must have a favorite."
"Oh, old Curtis is a cut above the others, of course. You saw him, the one that brought the wine." He smiles at her loosely, relaxed with wine and warmth. "He's been with me since I was a boy and he was the only one who followed me here."
And there it is, the information she was looking for: which of the servants would be too loyal to be swayed with promises and coin. Only one is far better than she had dared to hope for. She has what she needs.
She could wait, she knows. Her virtue, such as it is, is probably safe for a few more days at least, and she could get more valuable information from Brisby with a little time and finesse. She considers for a few short seconds.
No. Her patience is spent. Brisby is looking at the fire rather than her when she reaches past the ruffles of her party shirt and draws out her knife, and so he is not expecting it when she rises from her chair, strides up to him, and stabs him right in the gut.
His face is shocked, betrayed even, as though he has any right to be, and the sight of it ignites such a fury that she kicks his feet out from under him, forcing him to the ground, and stabs him again, and again and again and again. She loses herself in it and when she finally stops, the body is nearly unrecognizable. The carpet squelches under her feet as she stands, and she knows from experience that it will need to be replaced entirely.
She stands there with his blood dripping down her face, and she laughs.
Life is about to become a great deal more fun.
Business comes first, of course. She rings for the old manservant and stabs him in the neck as soon as he walks through the door. She watches dispassionately as he gargles blood, but closes his eyes with her fingertips in a small display of respect when he stops moving. His death isn't personal, after all – his only fault was loyalty.
She spends the night working, beginning with dragging the two bodies down to the ocean and disposing of them. She is petite and it is back-breaking work, but she has faced it before and knows enough tricks to make it easier. The ruined carpet follows them to the sea floor, and she has the blood trail in the halls cleaned before any servants stir.
The key she takes from Brisby's body fits a great many locks, the most important of which are the one to the mechanism that controls the gate to the outside, and a chest in his room, containing his will and the deed for the land as well as a sizable amount of gold. She does not bother to read either of them. She does not have as many contacts in Serkonos as in Dunwall, but it will not be difficult to find someone to make some passable forgeries.
She faces the servants next, and once it is morning she asks the first one she sees to gather all the others. She stands on the steps of the main hall, placing herself above them. Their faces are wary and confused, and none of them have spoken to her yet.
"Lord Brisby left on a trip just this morning," she informs them, ignoring the murmuring this ignites, "and so I will take over running the household in his absence."
The whispers grow louder, the servants talking among themselves. This is definitely not what Brisby told them to expect, she knows. One louder than the others rises above the crowd, "He just got back and now he's gone and run off again?"
"Yes, it is unexpected, for all of us," she agrees, silencing most of them, "but we shall have to make do. Now, if you have any complaints about the way things are currently run, speak now. I expect a great many things need changing."
Suddenly they are all much more willing to talk with her.
She is brusque, but fair as they discuss duties and pay with her, and by the end of it most of them seem very pleased indeed with the changes she implements. They will not question it when Brisby never shows up again. A few here and there still look at her a bit askance when they think she isn't looking and she marks their faces in her mind. She may have other uses for them in the future.
No one mentions the missing manservant. She doesn't know if they have even noticed, nor does she particularly care. She learns that there is a town a few days travel away and immediately sends some of them with a list and her measurements. She'll wear rags before she wears anything Brisby prepared for her.
The growers are even easier to handle when approached – they do not care who holds the coins as long as they are paid, and they already have an acceptable system in place for selling the goods and delivering the gold. She leaves them to it.
She leaves the ship for last, but approaches the Captain much the same way as she did the servants. He reacts with far less grace to her claiming of Brisby's responsibilities.
"My men will not take orders from a woman," he informs her curtly. He does not even do her the courtesy of looking at her. She pushes down her instinctive reaction.
"I am not asking them to. They will take orders from you, as they always have. I am merely offering you the same arrangement that you enjoyed with Lord Brisby."
"Well, that's with Lord Brisby, isn't it, no matter whether he's here or not," he scoffs. "I don't see where you need to come into it at all."
She keeps her voice light and airy as she replies, "Lord Brisby is, in fact, no longer with us."
That, at last, makes him look at her. His eyes are narrow and calculating as he considers her. "Is that so?"
"I'm afraid it is." Her demeanor of sympathy is entirely insincere. "But there is no reason anything has to change for you or your men. Free travel and a small share of the profit in exchange for safety."
He hems and haws for a while longer, but she knows he will not be willing to give up the protection the cove offers, and killing her would alarm the servants. At best, he would lose all of them as they fled, and his men would have to brave the markets. At worst, they would alert the authorities, and he would lose the cove.
He won't risk it. She has the advantage here and they both know it – they reach the only acceptable conclusion eventually.
"I'm glad we could come to an agreement." She offers him a wolfhound's smile, all teeth and no warmth, and feels his wary eyes on her back the whole way up the hill.
She spends a month in the house, turning it inside out and rearranging it to her liking. It has a passable music room already, perhaps prepared with her in mind, and she can imagine the additions she might make to it later. Perhaps one of the servants will even have some talent, if she is lucky.
And yet, even as she revels in the freedom from her sisters and the court, as she takes time to play music and read and just relax, she begins to feel discontent. Bored. There are no parties or plots here to hold her attention. She finds herself eyeing a few of the more annoying servants and debating whether or not any of the others would notice them missing, if only to break the monotony.
Then, one day, an idea strikes as she watches from the hill as the sailors prepare for another departure. She would never have been allowed, back in Dunwall. Perhaps that is what makes the idea so appealing.
"I wish to join you on your voyage," she tells the Captain once she locates him.
He frowns at her. "Got somewhere you need us to take you?"
"No. I would like to experience life out on the ocean," she explains bluntly. His refusal is just as blunt.
"Bad luck to have a woman sailor." He tells her, apparently believing it himself from his serious expression. She tries to keep her temper in check.
"But woman are fine as passengers? Treat me as a passenger then, simply one without a set destination just yet."
She expects that it is not her arguments, but the large bag of gold that she slides across to him which gains her his reluctant agreement in the end.
She leaves the household with instructions and takes to the sea. The Captain's predictions come true to an extent; most of the crew nervously avoids her, on the Captain's orders, most likely, except for the ones who are far too bold. For them, she makes a clear example of one, and the rest back off to a safe distance, though she knows they are still watching. None of them mention it to the Captain.
She has another idea a few days in, and takes a blade to her hair. She is no beauty, never was, and with her hair short and her breasts bound under her shirt, she passes for a rather androgynous boy.
The effects are almost immediate. Once the crew get over their surprise and initial distaste, she finds her efforts rewarded. They are busy enough that they don't bother to separate her out from the ship's boys in most cases, and she learns quickly, joining the crew in their work despite not truly being one of them.
She finally gets to see action when hears a call she does not recognize from the Captain and the sailors start rushing about the deck.
"They've spotted a target," one of the boys explains to her, perched next to her out of the way. "You should probably go below decks. It's going to get messy."
She does not dignify that with a response.
The chase is just as exciting as she'd hoped it would be, men shouting and whooping as cannons fire and the ship shakes from enemy hits. She finds herself pressed to join the powder monkeys, dragging bags of gunpowder up for the cannons.
Hooks are thrown and suddenly the men are grouped together, ready to board. She slips in among the chaos, carrying a sword and pistol she'd brought with her since the beginning for exactly this moment. Then she is over the railing and into a sea of blood and chaos.
She stabs and slashes and fires with abandon, dodging swords by a hairsbreadth and almost mistaking friend for foe on more than one occasion. She does not attempt to cross swords with anyone, knowing the disadvantage her smaller size and strength cause, and instead utilizes her greater speed to strike and leap out of reach before anyone even sees her coming.
She finds herself laughing at once point and doesn't remember when she started; she only stops when she uses her teeth to rip into an unarmed man's arm in his attempt to choke her from behind. The satisfaction she feels when she spins around and blows his brains out across the wall behind him is indescribable.
When the enemy finally surrenders she is drenched in blood, none of it her own, and she gets wide-eyed looks from the crew members who notice her as she makes her way to her cabin, leaving the Captain to sort out the details of their windfall. She pays no attention to any of them, her mind somewhere else entirely.
For the rest of that voyage, and the days she spends in the house while the ship repairs, she replays the battle over and over in her mind. And each time, her blood stirs in a way that makes her nearly breathless.
The next time she insists on joining the voyage, the Captain does not argue with her. Neither do the crew. Some look fearful, some look approving, but she ignores them all just the same.
She cares not for their opinions and she does not need their approval.
She falls into a pattern, joining the ship out on its raids and spending the rest of the time in the household, checking the finances and fixing what needs to be fixed. Even as the coin comes in, and luxury with it, she finds herself restless when she remains on land for too long. It is good for a respite, but she eventually finds her feet carrying her back to the docks.
She has few chances to play music on board, and even fewer to meet fellow musicians, but the pirates have their own celebrations with all the singing and dancing one could wish, even if it is not as refined a party as she is used to. She can sing as loudly and brashly as she wants without concern for propriety and she takes it upon herself to bring new instruments aboard and play along, just to keep in practice.
Each time she hears the call she has a sword and pistol strapped on, and she makes it a mission to be the first border over the rails for every ship they take. She fights like a whirlwind across the deck, never in one place for long, laughing and snarling in equal measure.
She takes injuries of her own, though nothing too crippling, and she views them as an unfortunate necessity. She does not let it discourage her from going right back out to the water the next time she feels the urge.
She has blood in her teeth and wind in her hair and her heart is at peace in a way she never knew was possible.
It is when she returns from one of her trips to sea that she finds the servants gathered in the main hall of the house, paper passing between hands and gossip in the air.
They move to give her space as she joins the fray, though the conversation continues without pause, and she approaches one of the maids that she is beginning to recognize. "What is happening?"
"News from Dunwall, my Lady," the maid tells her, "They found a cure for the plague."
This catches her attention. "They?"
She's been busy enough lately that she's paid little attention to news of the other Isles, and the pirates only care about the ships, not the city politics. They had never landed anywhere near Dunwall while she was travelling with them. She only now thinks to wonder what happened in Dunwall after her departure. Somehow, she doubts Burrows is the one behind this recent development.
"The Royal Physician, and another scientist. I don't remember his name. They can save even the really sick ones now. The Lady Emily has made it a crime to kill anyone because of the plague, even the mad ones. Everyone's brought in for treatment instead."
Lady Emily. So Burrows had indeed lost his precarious rule, and the Kaldwins had returned to the throne. Lydia wonders idly what dark fate Burrows met.
"I heard she took her mother's old bodyguard," another main gossips. "I suppose that means he didn't kill Empress Jessamine after all, but still. I'm not sure that was her best choice, considering what happened to the last Empress he protected."
One of the older servants frowns. "Ain't he the one that was runnin' about attacking people in that skull mask? The one on the wanted posters they put on all the ships?"
"They say he's been pardoned," one of the boys pipes up. "Anything he did, it was all to protect the Empress, they say, the new Empress anyway, and so she writ him a pardon, all official an' everything."
"Wasn't even necessary, really," the cook snorts as she starts to head back towards the kitchens. "He took out all the important men as that masked felon, didn't he? Who's left to challenge him on anything?"
Corvo Attano. The Masked Felon. She'd been so focused on Brisby, she'd forgotten about the man who'd put her in that situation in the first place.
And to think, she'd heard the guests at the party tittering about that mask before she'd even seen him, about a man bold enough to emulate the most wanted criminal of their time. She herself had thought him tasteless, another brash noble looking for attention using the exploits of someone more interesting. He'd played them all for fools. He'd played her for a fool.
An urgent message for you, he'd told her, and she'd taken his word and gone to the cellar, like an idiot, like the stupid, vapid, unthinking little girls she always scorned at court. And he'd gotten a dart in her back before she'd even made it to the bottom of the stairs.
Perhaps he thought he was being kind, giving her to Brisby rather than outright killing her. She can even understand why he might need her out of the way. These thoughts do not help. She thinks of the shining Lord Protector, safe and righteous and happy in Dunwall with his new little Empress, all the while knowing exactly what he'd condemned her to.
Something dark and unpleasant curls inside her.
She considers revenge for a short moment. She knows better than to start a fight she cannot win, and between his actual deeds and the whispers of witchcraft that had sprung up as soon as he'd made it through the Abbey of the Everyman without a soul seeing him, she knows this is not a man she wishes to draw the attention of.
Still, there are always ways to make it work without too much personal involvement. Mercenaries. Poison planted by an inside man. Assassins – she's heard tales of the Whalers' powers. She could pit witch against witch and enjoy the show.
But no. Her power here is still new, and not so secure that she can afford such a costly pet project – certainly not one with such high risk involved. She will let his crimes against her person pass.
For now.
Filled for a prompt, and running on the hope that Lydia has enough money to buy her way past sexism to get on that ship...
She basically ended up as a sociopath here, but going from what the Heart told me, I don't think it's too inaccurate.