She had gone to San Matteus without him.

"Please," she'd said, "If you were worried enough to abandon me for Constantin's safety before there was something sinister going on amongst the guards, then it's even more important that you stay with him now."

He couldn't fault her logic – couldn't argue his way out it this time. To do anything other than what she said would be to confess all he felt, and he wasn't about to do that. He was going to have to remain with the governor until he could find someone as good as Reiner to guard De Sardet's cousin.

When he'd braced himself for taking care of Constantin, Kurt had expected to preside over the now almost obligatory hide-and-seek amongst the taverns, whoring, gambling… the usual things Constantin got up to under his father's gaze, but the young governor was subdued. He did his work well enough, though Kurt would often see him gazing out of the window with vacant eyes.

He had managed to find someone to relieve him for chunks of day and night, and he used this time to sleep intermittently, using the rest of his hours to search for someone to replace him. He had finally settled on a young woman who went by the name of 'Rip', when a messenger appeared, announcing that the legate was returning soon, and state rooms should be prepared for visiting dignitaries at the palace.

Kurt found himself restless, aimless, as he waited for her. What he had seen as Constantin's willingness to buckle down and work, he now saw as lethargy as the world slowed to a crawl around him. He set about changing the guard roster so he wouldn't appear on duty for Constantin.

Which was when he noticed that Rip's name wasn't there.

It took a lot of digging, a lot of bribery, and a lot of bloody noses, but he eventually found out where she'd gone.

Kurt waited for De Sardet in the sitting room at her little house – if the messenger was to be believed, and nothing had befallen the party on their travels, she should be home soon. The servants weren't especially keen on the arrangement, but as the legate had introduced him as an official resident, they accepted that he would remain there for the time being.

He paced a lot, set up a little worktable by the stairs, and tinkered aimlessly with the weapons he found stashed throughout the boxes. But he remained agitated, irritable. He got the strange impression that the housekeeper hated him less because of it, which made him pricklier still.

At length, in the twilight shadows, he heard a key turn in the lock, and watched as a dishevelled, tired, woman dragged her feet through the portal and stood for a long moment, simply drinking in the moment of quiet and stillness that coming home afforded her.

He felt dreadful then, about to bring what he was upon her. He desperately wanted to be swallowed into the floorboards so that he could vanish without intruding on her rest. But this… this was important.

"Greenblood…" he croaked. She didn't jump, so she must have seen him there as she entered. She looked across at him, her face having mostly healed now.

"Kurt," she nodded, with a tired, fond smile, "The steward at the palace said I'd find you here."

She peeled off her cloak and hung it by the door, sitting in the chair and unlacing her boots.

"I found the camp. Where Reiner was… trained," he tried to temper his tone to her mood, to fit his words around the way she was feeling, but he heard the venom in his voice nevertheless and noted the hardness in her eyes as she looked up.

"Then we go there," she began refastening her boots.

"I don't mean-"

"I do. We can't afford to lose more good people to something like this. And if we get there sooner, maybe we can save someone who would otherwise have been lost."

They stared at one another for a long moment, aeons worth of conversations passing between their gaze.

"At least eat something first," Kurt growled. She sighed, nodded, and watched as he called for the kitchen staff without taking his gaze from her. They remained, locked like that, until the housekeeper appeared. It was as though her presence broke a spell, and time seemed to crash back in around Kurt and the legate.

"Some coffee, please, and something hot and greasy to eat," De Sardet delivered the instruction without baulking, but Kurt couldn't help noticing the way her cheeks shone at the indulgence.

"Bread, and bacon, ma'am?"

"And sausage… and any mushrooms you might have to fry. And onion. And tomatoes."

"We have no tomatoes, and only dried mushrooms, ma'am."

"Dried or not, I'd very much like to eat them," she said with a smile.

The housekeeper went about her task then and the strange, frozen stillness returned to the room.

"How… how was San Matteus?" Kurt asked in an effort to keep time fluid.

"It was not uneventful. I seem to have acquired a new friend… who isn't so new, as it transpires." She sounded bitter, slightly.

"Greenblood?"

"Hm?"

"You seem… troubled."

She sighed – an exhausted breath that heralded surrender, "He knew my mother, apparently. His name is Petrus – a priest."

"Isn't… I don't mean to…" Kurt floundered slightly, trying to figure out how to word what he wanted to say.

"You're right," she said, her tone carefully bland, "My third name is Petra."

Kurt made sure his face was equally bland, "Do you think-"

"I don't know what I think… besides I have too many names," the ghost of a smile, "I am impressed you remembered more than one of them, though."

The door opened and the housekeeper brought them their food. Kurt watched De Sardet devour what was there with a mixture of adoration and revulsion. She ate as though she hadn't in days - grabbing at shreds of uncut meat and pushing them into her neat little mouth with joyful relish. She was messy, her fingers dripping with fats and juices. Kurt had seen her eat at the tables of kings – delicate and tidy – but here, with him, she was honest and corporeal.

He picked at his own food, conscious of himself, suddenly.

"Why do you greenbloods have so many names?" he asked, trying to make conversation.

"Lots of people say it's so we can give one to each lover and never get found out," she smirked as he felt his face contort, "Personally, I make a point of never bedding anyone that can't list all seven."

Kurt coughed, incredulously, and she nodded to his plate, "Are you going to finish that?"

He shook his head – too startled by her bluntness to talk – and she took his plate, mopping at the grease which haunted it with what remained of his slab of bread. When she was finished, she wiped her hands on her breeches and blushed when she noticed he'd seen her. She stood then, brushing off her jacket and patting her hair to make sure it was all in place. She seemed to shrug at it, as though it was unsatisfactory but she didn't have the energy to deal with it now.

"Have you packed?" she asked him.

He patted his pack by the door and she nodded, crossing to the kitchen again and calling for various supplies to be brought up to her for their trip.

"Where… is the camp?" she asked, softly, "How much food are we likely to need?"

She crossed to the little work-station he'd fashioned and spread out a map, scanning for place names and stabbing her finger at the village he'd mentioned. She adjusted her instructions to the kitchen accordingly then began to talk him through their route, tracing the path with her nail. He was aware that he was close to her, felt his skin beginning to prickle at her proximity. When she turned to look at him, her forehead grazed his chin and they laughed, awkward and clumsy.

"Constance Ilaine Petra Elizabeth Susanne Agnes Gretchen," he said it like a mantra – a rosary – and it was as though she stopped breathing. Time froze again and it was as though her skin was magnetic. He inched closer to her, his mouth barely a hair from hers. He fought it, with everything he had, trying to break free from her traction. He saw her close her eyes, part her lips…

He turned his head and stepped back. When he had centred himself within his own skin again, he dared to glance at her and felt his heart break at the hurt on her face.

"Kurt," she whispered, moving towards him, reaching out. He took another step back.

"It's not right, Greenblood. I just… I can't…" he wasn't sure he'd spoken loudly enough for her to hear, but she looked as though he'd slapped her.

"I'm…" her shoulders fell and she resumed the carefully rehearsed part she played for everyone else. Kurt felt as if he died a little inside, "I'm sorry, Kurt. I shouldn't have taken advantage. I know that this is going to be… difficult."

She flicked her eyes to the map when she said 'this', and the reality of what he was about to do came crashing around him. He felt as though he was choking in that moment – a mess of unspent desire and unwanted futures pressing in on his bones from all sides.

"I'll ask for Siora to come with us," De Sardet was saying, brisk and sensible, "I'm sure she'll help carry some of the supplies. Do you have space for some food in your pack?"

"Greenblood," he tried, hearing the wheedling plea in his voice. He wanted her to understand, to know how he felt, without compromising her position. Her face had hardened when she looked up at him, and there was an edge to her voice that he'd never heard before.

"He wasn't my father. The man my mother married, I mean - I've no idea about the priest," she almost spat the word, "They think I don't know, but I saw them change the paintings of De Sardet to match my own face. One day, he'd be smiling down at me, and the next he'd be different – the twinkle gone from his eye. It was like his likeness knew they were deleting him. It's ridiculous – I never met him, but I loved him. I loved the stories they told of him, and the way he was always smiling in all the rooms of the house. It made it seem… friendly. I began to feel sorry for him, and eventually I just felt guilty that his erasure had been done for my supposed benefit."

Kurt stared, unsure of what he was supposed to say.

"I'd sort of settled on a romantic tale – to explain where I come from. I spent hours imagining who my father might have been, and what wonderful things he might have promised my mother. Or sometimes, De Sardet was the hero, stealing my mother from an earlier match. I knew it was all nonsense, of course, but it was comforting nonsense and that was enough."

There was a creak of the door, then packs of dried meats, wrapped cheeses, crackers and apples were laid on the table by the housekeeper. She retreated from the room with her head down and the look on the legate's face told Kurt that she knew her staff had heard. Defiant, chin high, she continued.

"Since we arrived here though, I feel as though… I feel as though it was all a lie. There's something in the earth here. Something that speaks to the very core of me. Siora says she's bonded to the island and that's why there's a mark on her face. Perhaps I'm bonded too. Perhaps I belong here – was always supposed to come here."

She locked her eyes with his and in a clear, unwavering voice, she said, "Don't you dare put me on a pedestal, Kurt. Don't you dare – for one moment – think I'm better than you. I'm a bastard at best, a changeling…" she teased at the collar of her shirt, eyes on his with lips moist, and he saw how her skin glistened and blushed, beneath the cotton, "You can see what I want. The rest is up to you."

Agitated, she began to sling things into her bag. He almost laughed when he noticed she left the heavy things for him – out of spite, he was sure, rather than through any pretence at inability or weakness, or opportunity to force chivalry from him. That defiance, that fire…

He checked himself. Whatever she said about her origins – whatever she said she wanted – she remained his employer, and he was but a coin guard.

In protest to her rude, hasty packing, he lay his own share in his pack with quiet, slow reverence. His movements became something of a meditation and he found comfort in the way their wills clashed – a comforting reminder of their earlier relationship.

His fingers grazed the message he'd received at the barracks, and for a moment he considered opening it. But if it had been important, they'd have followed up by now, and with where they were going, he didn't want any more on his mind.

By the time they'd completed their preparations both he and the legate had reached a reluctant, unspoken truce. It was better this way, Kurt thought, suddenly. All that needed to be said had been said. All that remained was to move on, to forget… then things would return to usual.

"I prefer Gretchen," she said as she closed the door behind them, "Just so you know. I was called Constance 'for Constantine', presumably Petra for the priest… the other names all belong to various dead relatives. Gretchen was the only one I could never place so I claimed it as mine.

"Gretchen?"

"Gretchen." She confirmed.