The supper was nearly ready to be served when Mattine and Owen returned to the manse through the harbor gate. The girl had to hurry to place her purchases and her special package from the temple in her bedchamber so that she could be present, as the Lord Atius expected, in the small hall (as she thought of it. The Braavosi had another name for the small dining chamber meant for family or more intimate gatherings and meals, but the Westerosi labels always stuck in the Cat's mind.) Mattine stood behind the wealthy man's chair, ready to pour for him. Typically, the wine was opened in the presence of all those dining and poured from cask or bottle into the serving pitcher. The usual routine seemed to be that a small cup was poured for Owen to taste and if a suitable amount of time passed and he did not begin to froth at the mouth or turn an unhealthy color or keel over, then it was served to the family. The food from the kitchen was prepared under the watchful eye of guards posted there, so in the manse at least, the Faceless guard was not required to taste the meal before it could be consumed by the family. The servants were often fed the same food, a luxury to be sure, and one that also served to prevent any of them from slipping any extra ingredients into the cooking pots.

Biro's eldest child still living in his house was a daughter, nearly of an age with Mattine, if the Cat had to guess about it. There were older sons who had married and had families of their own and there was a younger son, a boy of ten, also living at the manse, but it was this daughter, Biro's only acknowledged girl child, that interested Mattine.

The wealthy man's daughter reminded the cupbearer very much of Olive, though she was not quite so plump or buxom. She might still be growing, though; some ladies did continue to develop until they were five- or even six and ten. Late-blooming flowers Arya recalled overhearing Theon Greyjoy say to Robb once when discussing one or another of the young servant girls at Winterfell; a girl who the older boy insisted would someday turn into a beauty, justifying his attentions to her. By the time the wealthy man's daughter was done with her growth, she might possibly achieve the same soft, voluptuous, curved appearance as her half-sister boasted.

While the family settled into their meal and the nearly-Faceless cupbearer had a few moments of stillness (having already poured the wine), she considered the strange machinations of fate and wondered why the mysterious and unexplainable force had allowed one dimpled daughter to sit at table consuming expensive food and wine with her father while the other toiled over the less-expensive food and wine of others in an inn across the harbor from the manse, unacknowledged by the man from whose loins she sprang. For that matter, why had Arya Stark been born into privilege, a daughter of Winterfell and of the North, meant to be married off to forge some alliance or another for her house, yet ended up a Cat, serving a god she only learned of through chance, standing now in the small dining hall of a Braavosi manse, waiting to perform the will of Him of Many Faces (which, in this instance, meant sending a wealthy man from the world)?

Lord Atius' wife was rail-thin, giving her face a severe and gaunt appearance. With a little more weight on her bones, the Cat saw that she could be a handsome woman and had probably been a great beauty when Biro first wed her. Of course she was, else he would not have had her. Though the typical style in Braavos was for women to wear their hair in loose curls that cascaded down their backs (this likely evolved for the convenience of taking advantage of the naturally curly hair that was a prominent feature of the Braavosi), Biro's wife had her hair pulled back into an intricate style of knots and braids, wound all around the back of her skull. The front was plain, pulled away tightly from her face and oiled so that the black mane shone in the candlelight. The tightness of the knots and braids seemed to pull so harshly at the roots anchoring the hair over the woman's forehead that the Cat was amazed the wealthy man's wife tolerated it. It looked painful and only served to increase her dour appearance. But then, perhaps that was the effect she was hoping to project. Being the great lady of a great manse with a great many servants, she likely gave orders all day long and her face was one of a woman who was not like to be questioned or disobeyed. At least, that is what the Cat thought when she looked at her. In truth, the new cupbearer had not interacted much with the woman to this point and was not sure what her demeanor was like. It was entirely possible that the wealthy man's wife was pleasant and kind, despite her stern appearance.

"Atius, I will need to find another lady's maid," the woman said after slowly and precisely chewing a small bite of her fish and swallowing it down.

"Indeed, my dear?" the man responded distractedly. "What happened to the old one?"

"She won't be fit for service for a few days, and even then, it's the kitchens I'm sending her to. I had her scourged for looking at me insolently."

Not pleasant and kind, then.

"My dear Vorena, you cannot keep..."

"Atius, I am certain the girl was planning to steal from me. When she helped me put my pearls on, she touched them in an astonishingly covetous way. When I made mention of this, she gave me a most insolent look. An insubordinate servant who plans to steal from me will not be tolerated," the woman replied in a matter-of-fact way that brooked no argument.

Not pleasant or kind, but definitely paranoid.

"Honestly, Atius, with the trouble you've had with your servants, I would think you would be more understanding," Lady Vorena finished, giving the new cupbearer a sour frown as she said it. Mattine could feel the woman's eyes passing over her, appraising her and finding her distasteful. Perhaps it was because the new servant looked so much like the old one, or perhaps it was a look that would have been given any pretty, young thing chosen to serve the master's wine. The Cat made a vow to avoid Lady Vorena as much as possible, as being scourged was likely to interfere with the plan the assassin was formulating.

"Yes, well..." the wealthy man began, clearing his throat several times as he cast about for a way to change the subject. "We should discuss Lidia's nameday and betrothal."

It was a shrewd move and clever distraction that the man had provided, as it caused his daughter to leap into the conversation immediately, drawing her mother's attention away from her father and his cupbearer and into the happy planning of the celebration. As the cupbearer drifted noiselessly around the table refilling wine glasses, she absorbed all the details that were being discussed and suppressed the tiny, malicious smile that the Cat felt twitching on her lips. In ten days' time, the manse would be awash with the Braavosi elite, friends from the upper echelons of the Iron Bank, the wealthiest of the well-respected merchants, and the Sealord himself, as it was his son that Lidia was to marry. The betrothal announcement was to take place at her nameday feast, making the affair doubly special. Everything was to be the finest, from the food to the decor to the dishes used to serve the guests. It was sure to be a truly memorable night for the well-respected patricians of Braavos.

Truly memorable indeed.

As the talk surrounding the details of the festivities drifted to the planned entertainments, Lidia's eyes lit up as she suddenly remembered something and she then made mention to her parents that she had overheard some servants saying that The King's Fool had pulled into port recently. The dimpled daughter very much wished to attend one of the mummers' shows. The last time they had been in port, she was only a small girl but recalled how her father had brought her to see the entertainment and how she had been held up on the shoulders of one of Lord Atius' guards so that she might better see. She let out a wistful sigh as she recounted the memory. It was less-likely that the girl had a care to see traveling mummers and more that she wished to relive a happy memory, the Cat realized as she studied the girl's face.

She is about to be married to the son of a prominent man. She wishes one last, childish diversion before she must behave like the good-daughter of the Sealord of Braavos, the cupbearer thought to herself.

Lady Vorena unsurprisingly voiced slight disapproval but her husband seemed to think it a fitting thing for a girl who would soon no longer be a girl to do. Lidia clapped delightedly and her smile was bright and genuine. And so like Olive's. The Cat wondered if her Lyseni brother might be planning to take the tavern wench to the same show. How strange it would be for the two sisters to come face to face. The cupbearer wondered if there was any way to arrange her own accompaniment of Lidia to the newly arrived mummers' performance. It would give her another chance to leave the manse and meet with her brother, or maybe Jaqen. So that I might trouble him for more supplies from the waif's stores, she thought. Only that. The Bear's words writhed in her mind, fighting hard to be considered, but she fought harder to push them away. That's because you're in love with him, she heard the Lyseni acolyte saying to her in the market despite her efforts to quell the memory.

"Pah!" the cupbearer said quietly. The sound wasn't loud but it drew a sharp look from Biro's wife and the Cat was forced to cover her utterance with a small cough and a look of apology.

Bloody Bear, saying stupid things and distracting me from what's really important.

The girl allowed Mattine to completely descend over her once again and she pushed out all the thoughts that might interfere with her ability to be a convincing cupbearer equipped with Faceless skills. She needed to hear all that was being said, to study every gesture and nuance, to know what was behind each face so that she could glean the details she needed to weave a believable reason for her to be where she needed to be and do what she needed to do in order to accomplish her task. Vaguely, she wondered if her Lorathi master ever found himself distracted when he was engaged in the work of the order. Somehow, she doubted it. She knew she must learn to master the ability to concentrate completely, despite the distractions she encountered. She must be more like Jaqen.

The Lorathi assassin found he could not concentrate completely on what his sister was saying to him. He was ruminating over the details he had so recently learned from the Westerosi boy regarding the attack on his apprentice. While he was thinking on what the acolyte had told him (and also, what the boy had not told him), it was made apparent that he had missed some question the waif was asking him because all at once, he became aware of the deafening silence in the passageway when it was abruptly interrupted by the woman's tiny foot stamping. The tap-tap-tap of her sole on the dark stones of the floor echoed down the corridor in which they had recently paused to speak.

"Brother, what distracts you?" she demanded. "It seems you have heard nothing I have said!"

"A man offers you his sincere apology, sister." In truth, he had not heard what his sister had told him. Exasperated, she repeated herself.

"Several vials were taken from my stores, along with a mortar and pestle and some fairly rare dried flowers and plants. When I asked the acolytes about it, the Lyseni boy told me his sister had asked for the things and he obliged her by bringing them to her earlier today."

Jaqen shrugged, saying, "The girl must plan to use a poison that she must make." There could be good reason for making the poison in the manse. It could be that the waif's stores lacked the particular brew his lovely girl needed and therefore she was left with little choice but to make it herself. It could also be that she needed the concoction to be fresh, as some poisons degraded quickly and only had a short time between the making and the usage of them, elsewise they were rendered impotent and became of no more use than water sprinkled over food or in wine.

"Indeed," the woman agreed. "The vials and plants that were missing will make poison. They will make the Tears of Lys."

The Lorathi narrowed his eyes. It was a costly poison, and rare. So rare, in fact, that its use would be immediately traced back to the temple, should it be identified as the cause of the wealthy man's death. There was an unspoken rule that this particular mode of death was not used in Braavos, as the Faceless Men relied on the good will of the city and the authorities therein to operate. The rules were simple: kill with impunity, just don't get caught. To be caught would be to cause a scandal of untold magnitude and it would embarrass the Sealord and force his hand. A war between the Braavosi authorities and the Faceless Men would be disastrous both for the city and for the order. Even the Iron Bank would be affected and that could conceivably be disastrous for the whole of the world. Atius Biro was very prominent in the city and if his death were definitively laid on the steps of the House of Black and White, well, the consequences did not bear thinking about.

"Surely she would not..." Jaqen started, and then his voice trailed off. Would she?

"You would know, I suppose, since you know her better than anyone, brother. Well, better than anyone but the principal elder, perhaps."

At her words, the Lorathi assassin's heartbeat quickened. This was the second time his sister had made reference to the elder and his relationship with the girl. The comment seemed to be made in passing, but there was an economy of words typically employed among the members of the order that made it unlikely that the woman was speaking casually. What was she trying to tell him? He knew it was useless to ask. If he did, he would only be given a passive look and told that she didn't know what he meant. That's what he would have done in her place.

"A man will discuss this with his apprentice, and soon. She is surely aware that she must tread carefully on this assignment but still... A man will speak with her."

The waif nodded and then said, "Valar morghulis, brother" before continuing on her way down the corridor.

"Valar dohaeris, sister," the Lorathi murmured as he headed in the opposite direction, toward his chamber. He needed to change his clothing. He would be paying a visit to his apprentice tonight. Jaqen felt a strange pang at the thought, and he wondered at that. Perhaps he was merely excited by the prospect of solving the riddle of how to bypass a contingent of household guards and the high walls of the manse in order to speak to his apprentice on the matters of discretion and caution.

Lady Vorena and her children had retired after eating their fill in the small hall but Lord Atius had stayed behind to have another cup of wine before retiring to his solar. He told his wife that he needed to review some papers that he had not had the time to get to earlier in the afternoon. As long as he was drinking, Mattine was expected to stay by his side, ready to serve.

The kitchen girls had come and gone, clearing the table and tidying the chamber so that it would be ready for the family to break their fast on the morrow. They left only the wealthy man's cup and the pitcher still half-filled with wine. A few moments after the last of the servants left, the house seemed to grow very quiet. This is what made it sound very loud indeed to the cupbearer's ear when the wealthy man cleared his throat. The Cat looked at the back of the dead man's head from her post a few steps behind Lord Atius' right shoulder as she waited expectantly for whatever pretext he was planning to use to try to get her in his bed tonight.

Just one more night, she thought. Then he won't be so interested.

"Mattine, more wine," he called to her, holding up his goblet for her to see. The cup was really an exquisite thing with its gleaming silver stem seemingly created from vines twisted together and the curving fingers that rose from the top of the stem beaten and worked into the shape of pointed flower petals which served to hold the glass bowl in place. It had been quite costly, the girl was sure. For the price of the set of the goblets the family had used to drink their supper wine, the wealthy man could have taken care of his bastard daughter or son quite nicely. For life.

"Yes, my lord," the girl returned, lifting the pitcher from the table where it sat along the wall behind the wealthy man. As she crossed the floor of the chamber and approached her master's side, she saw him move his cup further from the edge of the table. So that's his plan, she thought. He meant to make his cupbearer lean across the table, in front of him, to pour his wine. Would he grab her? How disappointing. She had hoped his plan called for more subtlety. She had, after all, taken care to show how naïve and oblivious Mattine was to the more sophisticated ways of the world.

When the cupbearer reached the table, she leaned across it to retrieve the goblet so that she might fill it as requested. Just as her fingertips brushed the silver stem of the cup, she felt Lord Atius place the soft palm of his hand flatly against the bare skin of her lower back. His hands were too soft for a man. The girl gave a shudder that she could have chosen to suppress but she felt it might be to her advantage to show it. She knew that with Biro's natural arrogance and his mind clouded by lust, he was like to see the small shiver as evidence of his cupbearer's enjoyment of his advances rather than proof of the cringing revulsion it actually was.

The Cat knew it was time to give the wealthy man a bit of encouragement; some indication that she found him as desirable as the cupbearer's sister once did. He would be less likely to be suspicious of her or question her motivations in the days to come if he believed that he was awakening a lust in her. And so it was for this reason that she did not jerk away or cry out in alarm when Lord Atius slowly moved his palm over her back, tracing the ridges of her spine with his fingertips, travelling higher and higher. Mattine sucked in a small, barely audible breath and Biro was delighted at the sound, as well as at the goose prickles that rose on her skin.

The useful thing about goose prickles is that one set looks very much like another and it is not completely possible to say with certainty whether they have arisen as a consequence of sensuous desire, abject fear, or a sort of intense awareness of the fact that one may very soon find oneself using an expensive goblet as an instrument of death. It would actually do quite nicely, the assassin thought, though its value would be rather diminished in the process. The source of her goose prickles remained a mystery, and so the man determined for himself the likely cause of them. He decided that it was the girl's pleasure at his expert touch that drew them from her skin and it was for this reason that when Atius Biro saw the changing flesh on the back of his cupbearer and asked her in a disgustingly knowing tone if she felt chilled and she was able to answer in a soft voice that no, no, she felt quite warm, as a matter of fact, that he believed wholeheartedly in her sincerity.

I ought to be a damned mummer, the Cat thought wryly.

They were frozen in this strange tableau, Mattine bent over the edge of the table, reaching for a goblet and her master slowly stroking the exposed flesh of her back, moving his hand ever higher. The girl was just about to say something suitably subtle to her master that might give an indication that she welcomed his touch when she suddenly felt him pull on the ribbon that held her gathered neckline together and then the upper part of the dress fell away from her neck and chest and onto the table over which she bent. The girl squealed in surprise (the Cat was only mildly surprised at the behavior, mostly because it was occurring so early in her tenure as cupbearer, but Mattine was absolutely shocked) and grabbed at her dress, clutching it to her and stepping away from the table, knocking over the wine pitcher as she did. It was a purposeful distraction and one she felt was likely to result in the cooling of Lord Atius' ardor (wasted wine would dampen the mood of many a man). The red liquid stained the front of her gown and spread over the table but did not touch the wealthy man. This did not seem to matter to him, however. His eyes, just a bare instant before full of nothing but lust, now showed only naked rage.

The Cat sensed that his hand was about to fly. She saw the arc of the blow, tracing it with her eyes even before it had begun and she knew she could avoid it. The girl could have easily dodged or intercepted the man's hand before it made contact with her cheek . She could have beaten him, quite literally, to the punch. If she had not had a care for the precise fulfillment of Mattine's last wishes, she could have even ended the man's life then and there by shattering the globe of his ostentatious wine glass and then jamming the sharp edges of the silver flower petals at the top of the stem through his skull and into his brain. But she did none of these things because these were not skills Mattine had reason to possess. Lord Atius was going to strike her and she was going to have to take it. Things were setting up too nicely for her to risk ruining her plans in the avoidance of a simple slap. Unfortunately, it was the back of his hand that the man used and as she saw it coming, she had time to think, Oh, hells! before she had been knocked to the ground, her lip broken and bleeding as her cheekbone throbbed.

Mattine would cry out and so the Cat cried out and tried to work up a small sob. She tasted the salty metal of blood in her mouth and wondered just briefly if her true face would bruise or would it only be Mattine's (I'll ask Jaqen the next time I see him, she decided.) She chanced a glance at the wealthy man who had stood up from his seat. The anger seemed to have evaporated from his eyes in an instant but it had been replaced with a coldness and for the first time, the Cat wondered how willing a lover Hellind had really been.

"Clean this mess up," the lord commanded as he stepped past the quaking girl on the floor clutching her loose dress to her breast, and then he was gone. A moment later, after the girl had risen and was tying the ribbon at her neck into a triple knot, the Faceless guard entered the room quietly. Though her back was to the door, she knew he was there as she felt the subtle change of the pressure in the room but heard no steps or creak of hinges. Only a Faceless Man could enter a room so silently.

"Are you alright?" the handsome man asked her quietly.

"I'm fine. He hits like an old woman," the Cat laughed bitterly, wiping the blood from her swollen lip as she turned to face him. "Shouldn't you be guarding him instead of asking me questions?"

"Outside of the house, I am always with him. Inside, the responsibility rotates," the man explained as if he thought she was really interested in the schedule the guards kept while their master slept.

And maybe she was, come to think of it.

The girl moved to the table to clean up the spilled wine and the guard walked over to her, remarking on the state of her dress. The Cat looked down at her wine-stained layers and sighed. She supposed she would have to wash it out tonight, but she had planned to work on her special version of the Tears of Lys after the kitchen was quiet. She had need of some of the cook's equipment and did not want to have to explain to anyone how she planned to use it.

The handsome man reached for her face, making an assessment of her injuries as he tilted her head so that he could get a better look at the damage.

"The cheek will be discolored for a while and there's already some swelling, but if you get a cool cloth on it, you can reduce that a bit," he advised mildly. "The lip could use some salve."

Her tongue darted over her swollen, bloodied lower lip as she considered the Faceless master's advice. She'd had worse; much worse. The Cat didn't have time to play maester to herself. If she didn't get her potion concocted tonight, she would have to find other ways to dance around the dead man's advances. One spilled pitcher of wine was enough to taste the back of his hand across her cheek and mouth. She did not like to think what his answer to a second spilled pitcher would be. The cupbearer quickly cleaned the wasted wine and then carried the pitcher back to the kitchen to rinse it out, leaving her Faceless chaperone to his own devices. She did not have time for his concern; there was work to be done.

It was a few hours before sunrise when the Cat returned to Mattine's bed chamber. She carried a single narrow taper with her, the candle casting a small circle of light around her, mostly useful so that she did not trip over anything immediately before her. The chamber she had been given was a small cell in a part of the manse where no one else slept and likely had been meant originally to be some sort of storage area but at some point, a bed and desk with a chair had been placed within it. The Cat wasn't complaining—the privacy allowed for her to engage in... activities not included in the duties she was brought to the manse to perform. She suspected that privacy was the reason she was given this cell. It would certainly be easier for a lord to visit his paramour in her own bed if there were not others sleeping a few feet away from her. The other servants shared rooms she knew, and slept on the other side of the house, below the kitchen. The family, of course, slept upstairs but still on the opposite side of the house from her own bed.

Before beginning her work with the supplies gathered for her by her large brother, the girl had scrubbed at her wine-stained gown briefly, removing only some of the red mark left there by the spill, but she had been more interested in completing her task of creating her poison than in doing laundry and so the gown remained in a decidedly sorry state. She sighed, determining that she would have to try again to clean it, now that she had finished with her more pressing business. The Cat could not care less if the awful dress was stained or ruined, but she would need to make it presentable if only so as not to attract unwanted attention from Biro or his wife for her disgraceful appearance on the morrow.

The Cat thought of the concoction in the tiny vial she now carried in her palm and quickly fell to her knees, slipping the glass container under her mattress, using the crossing ropes that held the mattress in place as a sort of strap to secure it there. The apprentice decided she must come up with a name for the stuff. Its much stronger cousin was called by the terrifying epithet of Tears of Lys but as no one was like to cry over the effects of her version, that simply would not do. Privy of Lys was not elegant enough and Vexation of Lys didn't sit well with her either. Watery Bowels of Lys might be accurate but was a bit much to scratch on a label (the vial was so very small). She would have to think on it more later. She had created the less-potent poison the waif had lectured her about avoiding recently, and then, unsure if even that might be too strong for what she had in mind, the girl had remembered the heated discussion at the supper table with the members of the order over the efficacy of half-strength poisons and watered the stuff down further, to (not surprisingly) half of its strength. She resolved to test one drop of it on Atius the next day and monitor the effects. She could adjust the dosing from there.

Titrate to effect, she recalled the waif saying to her once, though the tiny woman had been speaking about Sweetsleep at the time.

The memory made her smile, as did the memory of the half-strength poison debate. She had asked the Bear to bring her a vial of Sweetsleep drops when he brought her the other supplies. She had diluted this, just as she had diluted the... Colic of Lys? She did not intend to use the Sweetsleep to deliver the gift to anyone in the house but having a substance that could guarantee drowsiness could have its uses and she felt it better to be prepared and have it available, in case she ever had need of it. The acolyte was convinced that diluting the stuff to half-strength would guarantee that a drop would have more natural appearing effects; a slower and gentler onset of sleep which would be less likely to garner suspicion than would a head dropping suddenly into a bowl of broth in the middle of supper. She slipped her newly-weakened vial of Sweetsleep between the mattress and rope, next to the vial of… Cramps of Lys?

While pleased that all was going according to plan thus far, the cupbearer was less pleased to find that the triple knot she had tied with the ribbons that held her gown on was much easier to create than to release. She had her arms bent at the elbow on either side of her head, picking furiously at the tight knot behind her neck with her fingernails, short as they were. She should have known that this would be a harbinger of her Lorathi master's arrival in her room, but since the manse was well-guarded and there was already one Faceless master within the walls of Lord Atius' house, Jaqen was honestly the last person she expected to see come through her door just then.

So, of course, he did.

He wore the face of one of Biro's household guards, a man the Cat had seen a few times around the manse, usually monitoring the door that led from the garden into the house, but there was no doubt that it was Jaqen once he spoke.

"Lovely girl, if you cannot manage even this simple sack of a dress, then a man may soon insist you simply go around naked to save yourself the time."

"What are you doing here?" the Cat hissed, still struggling futilely with the knot, covering her surprise at her master's arrival with convincing irritation.

The room was dim and Mattine's hair was hanging over her cheek, hiding the worst of her injuries, but just the same, she turned her back quickly to her master and offered him the knot she knew he would take from her anyway. She recalled his command that she return to him unharmed and she did not wish to engage in a debate with her mentor just then about how differently they each interpreted that order. Without a word, the Lorathi strode over to his apprentice and deftly worked the ties until all at once, they fell away.

"Is there a reason a wealthy man's cook is dressed as a wealthy man's whore?" Jaqen asked lightly, placing his hand on her bare shoulder for a brief moment before using his warm palm to slowly trace the line of her arm to her fingertips. "This mode of dress is not practical in a kitchen, a man believes. It leaves too much flesh unprotected and prone to burns."

The unprotected flesh which Jaqen stroked formed goose prickles once again, only this time, the cause was quite different than that which resulted in the phenomenon while in the wealthy man's presence.

"I suspect the reason for it is that a wealthy man plans to make me his whore," she answered with a nonchalance she did not feel. Her master was robbing her of her concentration.

"Hmm," was all he said in response. The apprentice wondered if she was only imagining the sudden tension in her master's hand or if it was really there.

"Besides, I'm not his cook, I'm his cupbearer," the girl added belatedly. She stepped away from Jaqen, hoping her mind would become clearer if she placed a littler distance between them. Clutching her stained gown to her breast with one hand, she walked to the small trunk at the foot of her bed and threw open the lid with the other hand, pulling her master's favorite shirt from the messy pile of clothes within the box.

"His cupbearer?" the Lorathi mused. "Indeed."

"I hope you don't mind that I kept this," the girl stated with insincere concern but she did not wait for her mentor's reply before slipping the soft, white garment over her head . Once the hem of the blouse had settled over her thighs, she allowed the stained dress given her by Atius Biro to fall into a puddle around her feet.

The Cat heard Jaqen's soft sigh and she mistook it as being caused by her master's irritation with her for never returning the blouse, so she turned Mattine's gaze upon him and gave him a wicked grin, meaning to playfully provoke him. Rather than vexing him further as she had expected to do, she read sudden alarm in his face and could not fathom what had caused it. The shirt was not damaged, only a little wrinkled, and though Jaqen was fastidious, he was not so concerned for his clothes that a few wrinkles in a blouse he wasn't even wearing would cause the look she saw on his face just then. Still, her master was across the chamber in an instant and then his hands were on either side of her false face, thumbs lightly stroking her chin.

"Lovely girl," he whispered, his eyes piercing hers, "who has done this to you?"

"Done?" she questioned and then remembered her split lip and swollen, bruised cheekbone. "Oh! That…"

Jaqen drew her closer to the lit taper on her bedside table and made an examination of her false face in the light. She winced slightly as he probed the swollen cheekbone and then tugged at her lip to see if the laceration continued into the inside of her mouth.

"Does it look bad?" his apprentice asked him. "I haven't seen it yet."

The Lorathi did not answer her but instead, demanded his own answer.

"A man would know who did this."

"Atius Biro," the Cat replied, and then, remembering the potion she had only just brewed (Dysentery of Lys?), she smiled maliciously and told her master not to worry, Lord Atius would pay for his actions, and soon.

"Just so," Jaqen seethed in his quiet, dangerous way. Someone who did not know him well might miss the suggestion of threat in his voice, but his apprentice was well acquainted with the intensity of his understated fury. The assassin could feel himself trying to split in two again in that moment, just as he had done once before when his lovely girl had played at seducing him. This time, though, he fought to keep himself together because he was not certain that his Faceless, restrained part would be the dominant side. He feared that if he allowed himself to split in two, it would be Jaqen H'ghar who took control, and then a wealthy man would be very shortly murdered by the Lorathi's hand. Slowly.

Very Slowly.

The master assassin was not guarding his face as well as he ought, for his apprentice grabbed his arms near his shoulders with her small hands and shook him a little, pulling him back from his savage thoughts and telling him that it was her place to do what needed doing, not her master's.

"I was sent here for this," the cupbearer reminded the assassin. "This is not your assignment. This is my task, and I will do it."

"A lovely girl may recall that a man was opposed to this plan from the first," Jaqen reminded her grimly.

The Cat snorted and replied in a laughing voice as she indicated the injuries to her false face by trailing her fingertips lightly over them, "I've gotten worse than this within the walls of the temple, and at the hands of my brothers and masters, if you'll remember. I've had worse than this at your hands." Here, she thought of her bruised neck, the result of her mentor teaching her the lesson of obedience and caution. The Lorathi recalled it as well but he knew that his... instruction was different than this wealthy lord's abuse. Jaqen knew how far he would go and what he would do and what he would not do. He did not have to worry that his corrections would cause any real harm to his lovely girl. He meant only to equip her with the skills she would need to survive in the world. He only wanted to keep her safe and alive. He had no such assurances from Lord Atius.

Jaqen continued to inspect his apprentice, pushing up the long sleeves of her blouse (his blouse) and turning her arms to look for bruises and scratches; pulling the neck of the shirt down lower, first in the front and then in the back to assess the state of the skin there; pushing Mattine's thick curls first one way and then the other to bare each part of her neck and assure himself that she had suffered no other injuries other than the ones he had already seen. The Cat endured his examination meekly and in silence. When it seemed that her master had finished, she spoke.

"Surely you don't think me so weak that a little blood and bruising will deter me?" the girl asked her master gently, a hint of worry in her voice. She needed for him to know that she was always in control and that she did not require rescue. "I didn't have to let him hit me, you know..."

"Unharmed means unharmed."

"How would you respond if I commanded you to return to the temple unharmed as you were preparing to leave for your next assignment? And should I berate you if you happen to return to me… or, rather, to the temple, with a scratch on your arm or a broken toe?"

Her master did not comment on her small slip of the tongue but told her, "A girl does not give a man commands. She is the apprentice. A man is the master."

The Cat knew Jaqen only spoke out of his concern for her well-being and so she struggled to stay calm and not lose her temper as they talked. He means no insult. This isn't about him doubting my skills, she told herself. He's just worried.

"Jaqen," the girl began softly, taking his hands in her own and looking into his eyes. She wanted him to see her and to listen to her and to understand. "These wounds are nothing. They are less than nothing. They were a calculation on my part. They bought me much more than they cost me. Please, be at ease."

The Lorathi knew his apprentice was scolding him, in her way, because he had trained her for this and for worse. Much worse. He knew she was capable of taking care of herself and he should not be so worried for her. His lovely girl was chastising him, for she did not care to be thought of as weak.

And he did not think her weak. The assassin knew his apprentice could tolerate pain and was nothing if not brave. He knew she had a particular armor, slowly developed over time through circumstance and chance; an armor that protected her against the emotional trauma sometimes associated with physical abuse. Rather than breaking her, this sort of treatment from the wealthy man would only strengthen her resolve. The Cat did not know how to back away from adversity and danger. She only understood charging ahead, no matter how foolhardy it might seem to others. Why, then, did seeing the blood dried upon her false lip and seeing the darkened, swollen mark on her false cheek bother him so much? He understood that she was fine and yet he still burned with rage inside. He felt driven to do terrible things to this wealthy man.

Fearsome things. Painful things. Deservedly horrific things.

Had his lovely girl shed but a single tear, a thousand household guards could not have saved Atius Biro from the wrath of Jaqen H'ghar. Had she but whispered the lord's name in his ear, he would have required nothing more in order to drain the life from the man and would have done so with a glad heart. Had she but asked it of him, he would have burned the manse to the ground without a word and then dared her Kindly Man to question him about it. It was as if Jaqen could feel Arya pulling him to her; as if she were emitting an inescapable force that drew him nearer and nearer to her. He wondered if this was more evidence of the magic of the old gods; if he, like the steel of her knives, obeyed her will and whim unconsciously, moving and bending only as she desired, powerless to resist her. He sensed that his heart was somehow becoming bound to hers, and he knew this was a dangerous thing and he knew it would displease the principal elder and he knew that it would weaken him, and weaken her in some ways as well. He understood that this would introduce fear into their lives, for neither man nor woman can fear losing something that each does not already have.

Love was weakness. Possession was weakness. Obligation was weakness. Identity was weakness. Jaqen had only just begun to understand what it was to have something; to feel something; to cherish something; to be something (or, more precisely, to be someone). Now, it was quickly becoming apparent to him that the problem was not that he now had her; it was that she had him. And then suddenly, he knew what it was to be owned; to be possessed; to surrender dominion over oneself to another.

He knew it was folly.

And he did not care.

"What have you done to a man, lovely girl?" he murmured, dropping his face into her hair as he wrapped her in his arms. He whispered his lament against the top of her head, and she did not understand his meaning. When he spoke, his voice was weighted with the despair of a man who is lost; thoroughly, desperately, frighteningly, irrevocably lost. "What have you done? What have you done? What have you done?"

Shattered—Remy Zero (From you, one look, just one look, and everything is shattered. From you, one word; towers burn and fall, fall apart)