INTERMISSION
/
It's all rather a blur, when she can stop to think about it.
She was officially decreed Empress weeks before ceremony powders and paints touched her face and stylists coifed her hair. When she blinked at the still-dark of morning now, servants bustling around her with anxious formality, she thought of kneeling in simple black trousers and blouse on the floor of the hearing room, staring at lines in the white marble.
It was unprecedented, whispers pressed into her skull from everywhere—a monarch leaving no brothers, no sons, and an unwed daughter of age to be crowned. But she was the heir, the only heir and as the sun set on the day of her father's passing, there was no choice but her or war. She wondered, with a twisting lip, how long it took them to decide, or remember she was Empress by blood without their hand-wringing.
Her outfit was grander now, a billowing thing of black, and they added every frill her mourning would allow. The venue was brighter when she stepped onto the stage erected in the Dunwall Tower courtyard, autumn sun beaming into her eyes. The audience was greater, politicians and socialites and those of the great families spaced nearest the front, going quiet as she crossed the stage. The crowd of them stretched to the very edges of the yard. Not a peasant or servant to be seen.
She glanced down, and found a pillow marking where she was meant to kneel, ornately embroidered as any cloth that ever graced the Tower. She settled there, hands lightly over her knees, symbolic supplication as new bodies came up beside her. Simple electors was all she needed—witnesses to the crowning, a court official to mark it for the annals of history. Instead she had the Prime Minister of the Parliament, a balding and long-nosed man she barely recognized, and the High Overseer, horribly dignified with ice-white mustache. It had been simpler before, her and Cole, a few advisors and Parliament officiates—but these men could hardly give up the clout of a coronation, she supposed.
"Jessamine Kaldwin, first of her name," the Minister said, as his official had before, "of noble birth and blood, do you accept the weight of the Empire's crown?"
"I do," she said with a tip of her head. The chill of Winds whipped about her, and she gritted her teeth not to shiver.
"Do you swear to guide her, to keep her from strife and harm?"
" With all the wisdom of my fathers before," she said again, and she could feel Cole's commanding presence to her right, a pillar of steadiness.
"Do you swear to protect her borders from enemies within and without?"
"With my life," she finished once more.
Adulation rose with her as she stood, all delicate claps, and the crown was heavy when they set it upon her head. She was Empress, before and now, in silence and in cheers—and the world only seemed to pick up speed.
/
"—our eternal gratitude."
The sudden absence of the man's voice was enough to shake her from her reverie. She blinked at where he stood before her, stiff in the shoulders and pleading in the eyes. A representative from the Fisherman's Guild, asking for funds to repair the docks at—where was it again? Clavering? No, that was the Engineer's Guild, and about the bridge. The waterfront?
Reluctantly she glanced toward the straight-backed man at her left, tilting to catch his attention. Her treasury advisor, who leaned close and murmured 4000 coin in her ear.
The room remained impressively silent as he shifted back—every shade and color of the Empire seemed to fill the foyer, well-wishers and petitioners, grievances and requests falling at her feet. It irritated her to have him here, his fixed gaze and quiet voice, and though he only spoke when spoken to she knew word of her choices would reach the other advisors in time. So she hated even more asking him these things, about the state of her coffers, things she should know but was too tired to think on.
"4000 coin," she repeated. The man thanked her profusely and offered tidings of great joy at her ascension, the hundredth in as many hours. Murmuring filled the room and she sighed quietly, shifted against the ache of her stiff back before beckoning the next person forward.
A representative of Draper's Ward pledged undying allegiance to House Kaldwin, and implored her for funds to revitalize the district. A slight and nervous man asked that the highroad to Whitecliff be renovated in time for the Overseer's yearly pilgrimage—she answered that for herself, pledging surveyors to assess the road's wear, and the treasurer looked at her oddly from the corner of his eye. Small delegations arrived from Redmoor, Driscol, even Alexin and Caulkenny, smiling and bowing and praising her rise, thinly veiled requests for funds following after.
She preferred that, however, to other words.
"Your father was a great man," said a woman from Alexin in a heavy accent as she rose from her knees. Jessamine felt a twisting in her chest. "The Empire will feel the weight of his absence for many years to come."
Jessamine gritted her teeth, fighting to keep her lips straight. She nodded stiffly and looked overhead, a silent sign of dismissal.
The woman offered it as a formality, Jessamine thought, watching her carefully shaded eyes as she turned away. But there were others, more sincere—a man from Dabokva offered his condolences, fidgeting with nervous hands. Some wept. She fixed a pained smile onto her face and nodded, twisting her fingers in the sides of her trousers. She heard more requests, kept her eyes pointedly averted from the treasurer, tried to focus and think through her exhaustion—
"The Emperor's loss was a great tragedy for the Empire, your Excellency," said a slight man from Pottershead in a worn suit that may have been the only one he owned. She barely registered his face. "We all—all feel the weight of his loss. But I—I have no doubt in my heart that we can expect as much from you. Er, Excellency. Forgive me."
She stared at him for a long moment, teeth sinking into her lower lip. The silence stretched, air seeming to thicken where it hung around the crowd. He grew more anxious by the moment, shrinking like an animal away from a whip. After too long a she swallowed, breathed shallowly, forced a quiet, "Thank you," before gracefully slouching to the right.
Cole knew his signal well. With straight shoulders and one expert stride he stepped in front of her, giving her space to rise and retreat down the hall. "That'll be all. Audiences will start again tomorrow, as scheduled," she heard him say, his voice fading as she viciously rubbed the heel of her hand against her eye.
/
"I'm sure it will calm soon, my lady," Delilah said, thin fingers expertly weaving a plait out of Jessamine's hair. "And you are doing well, truly."
"Mmm," Jessamine said with closed lips and eyes. She had seen Delilah only sparingly in the last few weeks, and though the girl's presence here—perched on the edge of the bed, far from prying beggars and disastrous well-wishes—was certainly gratifying, she doubted even a tremor could shake her from her fatigue. "Have you seen the work of many other Empresses?"
"W-well, no," Delilah answered shyly, and Jessamine felt the plucking of her fingers speed. "But I, I think it is a fair thing to say all the same."
Jessamine chuckled, and felt her friend relax. "I'm sure you will become accustomed to it in time," Delilah said more confidently. "And when you have—to hold the whole of the Empire like that . . ."
Delilah stilled, and when her voice reached Jessamine's ears it had taken on a certain tone, soft and dreamy. "I can just imagine."
As those fingers returned to their work and quiet misted through the room, Jessamine opened her eyes, brow furrowed.
/
"Two years," Sokolov muttered with a scoff, as if he were the one made to feel the weight of it. Jessamine eyed him from the edge of her gaze, and when he dauntlessly failed to notice she sighed, sinking into her chair.
She wasn't free from blame of course. She was in full mourning yet and was not meant to receive any guests, particularly a craggy-faced bachelor with the likeness and manners of a hog farmer. Yet she had made it clear to her advisors that the royal tutor would be on the short list of those welcome in the Tower, so her suffering now was her own doing. Still, it was much better than the alternative.
"Yes," she answered, massaging the corners of her eyes. "Another eight months for full mourning, a year after for half."
He chuckled dryly. "One would think they'd be tripping over themselves to marry the Empress off, not cloister her."
She felt a headache pressing on her brow, too heavy to rub away. She could only sigh in answer.
/
She glanced wordlessly down the table, a sea of parchment spread out before her, and the writing there blurred long before she took in more than a few letters.
It was not fit for her to be courted in mourning, to that they all showily agreed. But they said in their stuffy, palm-muffled way, it was never too early to begin preparations. So they sat at the long meeting table with books and scrolls and papers spread between them, bickering at length, and she once again gazed over the family names and seals. Naughton. Inchmouth. Brokle. Mulville. Carberry. Pendleton and Carmine were missing at least, which was a comfort—small as she felt in this whole process, she had made a great point of that.
Discussions of family merits echoed around her head. The Donlans had great influence in the northern part of the continent and trade relations in Tyvia, but whispered sympathies with Morley. The Boyles were a prominent house, but lacked sons of any sort. The Seerys were perhaps the most promising, and though rumors of the youngest son's proclivities were oft-murmured of at court they weren't a great impediment, all things considered.
Her heard swimming with their voices, vision fuzzy with the sight of their books, Jessamine turned her gaze to the ceiling. None of them spoke to her, and she was not at all surprised.
/
She almost missed the delicate cough that followed her into her quarters. A yawn in her mouth and hands in the midst of bringing down her hair, she paused, turning toward the sound. A servant stood in the doorway (small, not the great entry of the royal apartments, because as heavily as everyone hinted, she couldn't—), hand extending to present a letter. A set of pleasantries and the envelope rested in Jessamine's palm, neatly folded and unblemished, as if it had not traveled far. Her name on the front, in his hand.
Confused, she peeled the paper open, and at first thought it blank. Only after the final fold did she find words looking back at her; a single, short line of them. But it was enough.
My sincerest condolences it read, and she could hear it in his voice, and most joyful congratulations. Yours, Corvo Attano.
It was enough. As she silently refolded the parchment, pressed at the wax with the pad of her thumb, it was enough to drain what little vigor she had left.
/
4000 coin for the Festival of Steers in the northwest quarter of Gristol. 600 coin to repair a footbridge between Driscol and Baleton. Great adulation from the Cotter clan of Fraeport. 900 coin for the apothecary of the Oracular Order along the road to Karnaca.
Jessamine blinked tired eyes, focusing on a fuzzy space above the Tower doors and resisting the urge to slump. Her advisor didn't wait for her glance any longer, leaning close to her ear before the petitioners could even bow their heads. Droning his answers like a worn audiograph, she sat lost in thought of piled accounting ledgers she couldn't decipher (numbers trading places on the page, jibberish that mocked her until she wanted to tear out her hair), apartments shut up and cold, a letter set firmly aside and buried because she could not stand to think on it. So she murmured answers and nodded vaguely, feeling so very drained.
He seemed just another body for a moment. As a miniscule town noble and her giant of a bodyguard stepped away, the quiet clicking of his shoes made no impression as he stepped forward. "Your Majesty," he said as all the others had, bowing just the same. His next words, however—"Please pardon my forwardness, but I don't suppose you remember me?"
She blinked, once, twice, as if her eyes needed to adjust to him. She found a cream-colored suit, chestnut-red hair, a thin nose, and perhaps a dusting of freckles. "Mister Perth," she said with a touch of surprise, sitting up straight. "Welcome."
The room seemed to hush, and if she had the inclination she might have taken note of Cole's gaze, feeling it on the side of her face. William stood straight-backed and quiet, as if expecting her to say more and not wishing to interrupt. She cleared her throat. "And what do you come to request of the crown?"
"I come only to offer my congratulations, Your Majesty," he answered. "And perhaps to give you a more favorable impression of me. I don't suppose our meeting brought you much joy, given all that followed."
Jessamine felt a twinge at that, but it was duller now, worn down by daily friction. His smile was soft, apologetic even, and she felt slight tugs at the corners of her mouth too. "Thank you," she said.
She didn't feel the fog of incredulity and murmurs around her. She only saw the widening of his gentle smile and the slow bow of his head. He turned away, bleeding into the crowd, and the world seemed to color in his stride.
/
He came again the next day, standing silently to the left of the dais, but just as soft and bright to draw her eye. The advisor cleared his throat to catch her attention, pulling her back to a request for lumber subsidies for the lands at the foot of the Redmoor bluffs. If her focus ever stayed put on the slew of requests, today was not the day for it. Even as she answered, her gaze drifted minutely, ever to the left.
It was silly, she knew—he did not speak that day, or the next, or the next after that, and she knew little about him but his prowess for dancing and quick-witted jokes. But, perhaps—she glanced again, caught a hint of that light-colored suit in time to see his smile grow, his head politely dip.
She felt a touch of warmth pluck at her cheeks and turned her eyes straight, like a schoolchild caught peering where she should not. Yet she could not help the cheer it brought to her face. Just a little thing, a few shielded glances between faces in the crowd, a bewildered cough from her left and silence from her right—yes, just a small thing. That was all.
/
She felt more than heard his approach, turning from where the parlor fire warmed her face to find him silhouetted in the doorway like a monolith. Oddly unsettled, she sat up straighter. "Yes?"
He seemed unsure what to say, clearing his throat and rubbing a great hand over the back of his neck. "Are you sure . . ." he started, voice gruff with lack of use, trailing off an instant later.
She narrowed her eyes, peering at him in the dark. "What is it? Cole?"
He stood still and silent a pained moment longer, then let his arm drop, waving dismissively as it fell. "Nothing. Forget it," he said, and with two heavy steps her disappeared from view, the glass door creaking with his departure.
She blinked in confusion, felt a chill down her neck despite the fire. After a moment she shook herself, shrugged it away, turned her eyes back to the letter in her lap—The house of Perth formally requests an audience with Her Imperial Highness Jessamine Kaldwin the First on behalf of William Loughlin Perth...
/
"Apprenticeship?" she blurted far less gracefully than she would have hoped.
Delilah shone as if by some internal sun, smile stretching her heart-round face. Sokolov sat back in his chair, running a hand over his beard—it had grown into something of a scientific marvel over the last near-year—and nodding silently along. Delilah was vocal enough for them both, voice a chirp as she took Jessamine's hands over the parlor tea table. "Yes! Oh, my lady, isn't it wonderful?"
Jessamine nodded dumbly, remembering after a moment to curl her fingers in Delilah's own. Snow drifted past the windows in the hall, thick and white and misting the glass, but if not for the fire in the hearth Delilah could have likely warmed the Tower all on her own. "Of course," Jessamine said. "Though you, a painter—I had no idea."
Delilah blushed charmingly, demure gaze dropping to the floor. "I kept it a secret," she answered. "Only Mister Sokolov knew, truly. Though I never expected him to take interest!"
Sokolov chuckled at that, plucking a flask from his coat pocket. "Our young Delilah is quite the talent, my lady. I said myself she is wasted as a baker."
If the girl's small frame could hold a drop more light, his words filled her up, and the gaze she turned toward him was nothing short of reverent. Jessamine felt a twitch at the corner of her mouth, resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "And will you remain at Dunwall Tower?" she asked instead.
"Briefly," Sokolov answered. "We will be departing for the Gristol northlands soon, and after that, our destination remains to be seen."
She kept the smile fixed to her face, hoping the sinking in her stomach did not rise to her eyes. She looked to Delilah, the admiration and joy in her glowing complexion. Taking a thoughtful breath, Jessamine gave the girl's hands an encouraging squeeze. "Congratulations," she said.
"Thank you, my lady!" Delilah replied, giggling lightly, all disbelief and delight and—something else, Jessamine realized when the girl met her eyes. Happiness, of course, nearly child-like excitement, but something that touched the corner of her eye and curled her mouth. Something victorious and haughty. Something smug.
It slid from her gaze in an instant as she turned a grin toward her new mentor. Jessamine stared, shook herself mentally as Delilah drew her hands free.
"I'm happy for you both," she said gracefully, wondering—their eyes on each other, Delilah murmuring something only he could hear—if they heard her at all.
/
Again a gathering. Again the books and scrolls. The discussions and squawking about the best family, the superior son, a hundred names bandied back and forth with little consensus all around. Again she sat at the head of the table, quiet, ignored.
She tapped a rhythm against the tabletop, long since giving up on appearing interested. (The disapproving looks she got were not so frequent or compelling to make the effort worthwhile.) She listened to their droning as she listened to winds and foghorns on the river, looking at the papers before her with glazed eyes. Yellowed parchment and curls of ink, Doreey, Clark, McVean, Per—
Her fingers stopped their tapping, and after a moment's pause they reached across the table, plucking a book from a cluster of its brothers. Perth, it read, and with it in hand she sat back, eyes alighting across the page.
As she read, drinking in the family history, she failed to notice the room go silent around her.
Watching her breath misting through half-lidded eyes, she curled into her jacket as a bright-orange sunset painted the sky beyond the river. The first warm winds of spring plucked at her cheeks (it had been a long winter, she thinks, too tired to remember properly just now), still too chilly for anyone to think to find her out here. The guards would chance it soon enough, but for a bare moment of quiet she could relax . . .
She heard steps on the path, her nose wrinkling as they crunched softly across the frosted stone. Sinking further into her jacket and closing her eyes, she was just beginning to swear dejectedly in her mind when something landed with a pat on the table.
Sokolov was there when she looked up, barely bothering to acknowledge her as he sank into the iron chair opposite. His hand drifting from the thin but lumpy parcel he had laid down, he cleared his throat and gazed into the distance. When he gave no indication he meant to speak she looked away, toward the sunset, accompanying him in silence.
It was only after several minutes of quiet—which, truth be told, she hardly minded—that he tellingly cleared his throat. "I've heard the news," he said, and if she were a different person she might have called his tone dismissive. She knew him better, of course.
"That quickly?" she asked with a slight smile.
"You hear all sorts of things when you listen to servant babble." He turned, nodding shortly in a show of great respect. "Congratulations are in order, it would seem."
"And you? Taking on a new apprentice and traveling the world. You deserve congratulations yourself." He hummed in answer, gave a slight shrug. "And I had been thinking of inventing a position for you," she said, tapping her chin in mock thought. "Royal Philosopher, Royal Scientist, Royal Canvasman, something like that."
"Quite the shame," he said with a chuckle, running a hand over his beard. It shifted down to the parcel, pushing it across the table, swayed artfully to indicate it. "I thought I'd best provide my gift early, under the circumstances."
Grinning lightly, Jessamine plucked the envelope up, feeling its slight weight. She thought to note the sort of gifts Emperors and Empresses were accustomed to, grand offerings of gold and jewels and fine silks. But no—for him, this was quite kind.
"Take care with it," he said as she pulled the parcel open. "It's quite delicate."
Tilting the paper, she let the contents fall into her open palm: a triangle of crudely cut wood accented with metal, like something strung together by a child. She raised her eyebrow, giving Sokolov a peculiar look.
"Don't underestimate this treasure, my lady," he said with a shake of his head. "It's a powerful good luck charm. Put it to good use."
Chuckling, she slipped it back into its paper home, setting it aside as they watched the sun sink beyond the horizon. She made sure to pick it up as the air grew too dark and cold and drove them inside, Sokolov directing her to hold it just so. (She rolled her eyes, made sure to bear it in front of her with enthusiastic delicacy as they ascended the foyer stairs.) He halted at the library doors, excusing himself for the guest quarters. She smiled, bid him goodnight, and was just passing through the sitting room door when he cleared his throat, stepping up beside her.
"You are different, Jessamine Kaldwin," he said, his voice low. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
She stopped in place, blinking at him with furrowed brows. His mysterious tone disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced with a nod and a bid goodnight. She watched him go, his form vanishing behind the polished wood walls of the entryway.
As she shook herself, turned and climbed the steps with slow feet, she thought she felt the package vibrate oh-so-slightly against her palms.
/
"My lady?"
She jumped at the sudden sound, fingers tightening against the sheer curtain they held before relaxing again. Beyond the window she could still see the ship headed toward the waterlock, laden with crew and supplies, closer than it had been when she drifted into thought. Turning, she smiled lightly at William, feeling the warmth of his hand where it rested against her shoulder. "This shall be quite a venture," he said, squeezing delicately. "Are you nervous?"
"No," she said, curling her fingers over his. She felt the tightness of the ring against her knuckle, still an odd weight, though she was growing used to it. "Excited. I've always wanted to return to Serkonos."
"Just there?" he said with a chuckle. "I'm sure Tyvia and Morley will be very disappointed."
"They will be new," she answered. "But an Empress must never fear."
She felt the hum and nod of his quiet reply, the slight tightening of his grip, the warmth at her shoulder—her prince, at her side as she looked onto the waiting horizon.