Kurt, despite De Sardet's best efforts to persuade him otherwise, attended the ball as her bodyguard.

"I can't go… with you," He'd protested, vaguely gesturing with his arms. He hoped the motion would somehow convey all the churning things he felt, but the legate's single cocked eyebrow told him he had been unsuccessful.

"You're more infuriating than I will ever be able to word," she'd countered, her tone flat with thinly veiled frustration. She hadn't pushed the point though, which made Kurt's stomach drop. After everything they'd been through, all that they'd said… after that kiss… was she tired of waiting for him?

Waiting for him to do what exactly, anyway?

He'd played a thousand scenarios in his mind. They were childish things – fantasies where he saved her from an enemy, or where she saved him, or where they'd been alone on the boat in that storm and had slipped between the sheets in the milky half-light of the morning... He'd thought at length about all the things he could do with her, for her, to her…

And yet, when actually confronted with her, he found himself floundering.

He stood and watched her now, from his place on the fringe of the room. She looked easy, natural, talking to De Courcillon. It was the first time he'd seen her relax all evening, the pair of them almost conspiratorial in their stance and gestures. Her eyes kept darting back to Constantin though, and where he sat on the governor's throne.

Kurt had to admit that he was doing a wonderful job of keeping up appearances. Someone had applied cosmetics to his face, but he looked no different from the vast majority of people in the room – his ever-darkening veins hidden with the thick layer of white lead face paint which had been so popular on the continent. And it was true – usually Constantin would have been dancing, and drinking, but he'd played a solo on the violin from where he sat and this had caused enough of a stir that no one seemed to notice that he was a subdued version of himself.

De Sardet crossed to her cousin now, the light from the lamps sparkling on the jewels which adorned her hair and the golden chasing on her ceremonial armour. The plates were outdated – inherited from the man she'd been told was her father – but they were exquisitely designed and had been reshaped to fit her lithe frame. Kurt felt a swell of pride at the shape of the chest-piece – it had retained the flat front that Lord De Sardet had worn, rather than rise in two twin peaks at the legate's breasts.

You might as well strap a target to your heart, Kurt had scoffed – mostly to himself – when various smiths had been asked to show the young legate designs for the plate's reworking, If the point of your enemy's sword you anywhere on your chest, those fake tits are just going to funnel it to its mark.

De Sardet looked ethereal and golden as she crossed the floor and even if he'd wanted to look elsewhere, Kurt wouldn't have been able to – no one could. The way her armour shone and her hair ornaments glistened transformed her into something other-worldly, celestial. The crowds parted when she moved, waves of silk and damask drifting aside to let her glide past. She knelt at Constantin's side, whispered in his ear, and he beamed at her, indulgent and loving. He seemed to say something – something teasing – and she shoved him gently, playfully.

He rose to shove her back and Kurt – knowing the things he knew – could see how she danced around the governor in such a way as to take his weight and lead him towards his chamber without it looking at all as though he were relying on her. The whole thing was so artfully done that for all the world, it looked like nothing more than a fraternal skirmish.

And then she was gone from Kurt's sight – into Constantin's private chambers – and it felt as though the light in the room had gone out.

"She's coming back, don't worry…" Siora smiled from beside him. Kurt almost jumped but managed to compose himself.

"I don't like that I can't see what's happening in there," he mumbled, hoping he came across as the concerned guard he was supposed to be.

"Rip is in there, just like you planned," she said with an easy shrug, then, "You know, I don't think there's a single person here tonight who doesn't want to be you right now."

"Eh?"

"Your job is to watch the most beautiful woman here," Siora smiled, "And the others might not have seen how you look at her, but I have. And I've seen how she looks at you…"

"What's your point?"

"She's tired," Siora began, glaring at Kurt as he opened his mouth to protest, "She lost her mother in coming here, and again when she learned the truth of who she was. She lost the family she was born to in the same breath that she found them. She stands now to lose her brother."

"Cousin," Kurt corrected.

"At this stage, the terms don't matter – they define for themselves who they are to one another. And the love I see there, I've only ever known for my sister. If De Sardet loses him, who else is left? The old man," she gestured De Courcillon, "And you."

Kurt fixed his eyes on the door, willing the legate to come return to the gathering.

"If you don't begin to give her the comfort she needs," Siora went on, "Then someone else will…"

He turned to Siora then, suddenly acutely aware of what she was saying. He remembered the way the legate had looked at her, clad in the fine ball gowns of that afternoon. He remembered the ebb and flow of conversations before the fire in which De Sardet had confessed to loving more than one women during her adolescence. His face must have given him away and Siora shook her head with a smile.

"I like you, Kurt. And I know how much she loves you. But not everyone here wishes you and De Sardet the peaceful life that I do…" she clapped his shoulder and nodded to the door, "This island is my home – your rules don't apply here. Go and dance with her – it's all she wants."

Kurt turned in time to see De Sardet slip from the door, composing herself as she did so. She did look tired – or at least, had done in the heartbeat he'd seen her before she'd reprised her usual role as legate. She paused, slipping a roll of parchment into her belt before looking around the room. Her eyes settled on him and she made her way across the floor.

Kurt remained rooted to the spot. This time, the other guests didn't part for her. Her path seemed to snag on one after another. She made polite conversation with them each in turn but he could see her impatience – that uneasiness he'd come to notice more and more.

Siora's words rang in his ears.

He moved towards her, waiting until she'd finished her conversation with her latest admirers before approaching.

Finally, at her side, he saw that she was even more radiant than she'd seemed earlier. There was a sheen to her cheeks, a glassy shine.

She was feverish.

"Kurt," she smiled, measured and calm and gentle, "I've secured a wagon for San Matteus. You and I will leave tonight, take care of our business, and the others will meet us on our way home…"

"You need to rest," he growled. She waved his concerns away with her thin, strong fingers and that imperious voice.

"I need some pomegranate, actually…" she crossed to a table where a huge array of fruit had been displayed. Kurt suspected it was there as a decoration as no one else had touched it. Still, she took two of the neat, blush spheres and handed them to him, their little crowns spiking at his palms like a physical manifestation of the legate's social standing.

"Pomegranate? Really?"

"When I was small, I always thought the rubies on this comb looked like pomegranate seeds," she said, gesturing one of the fine, sparkling objects which adorned her hair, "so my mother would make sure that every time she wore this comb, she would have pomegranate on the menu. It was like a secret code between us."

She picked up a third fruit and tucked it into a pouch on her belt.

"There now… we can leave, if you're ready," she smiled at him but he shook his head. It felt like everyone in the room was watching him, burning disapproval through his armour and into his bones. It helped, strangely enough. Kurt felt his habitual need to defy rise within him and it made him bold.

"No, not yet. I promised you something… I said that on our safe arrival I'd dance with you…"

"You don't have to. Not if you don't want to."

"I want to."

There was music playing – a dance already in progress. They could have joined the couples waiting at the side of the room, but she grasped his hands as soon as he'd finished speaking, as though afraid he'd change his mind.

And there, right there in the middle of the room, she pulled him as close as their respective armours would allow and swayed against him.

"I spoke to De Courcillon," she said softly, so that only he could hear. He felt clumsy with all eyes on him, but she didn't make to do anything other than shuffle from side to side.

"Oh?"

"I said that I was going to commit some sort of terrible indiscretion with a member of my staff, and asked what was the lowest rank acceptable."

"Bloody hell, Greenblood… you didn't."

"I did. I believe I said, 'Sir De Courcillon, I'd like to bed my bodyguard. At which point would Constantin be required to relieve me of my duties?'" she was teasing him, her eyes bright and joyful. But there was something else there too – something beyond the secret she was holding. And Kurt suddenly realised that it was pain – pain in her shoulder, and feverish skin. He shifted his grip, made to stop their slow parody of a dance, but she gripped him tight and gave one firm shake of her head.

"You need to rest," he said again.

"And I will. That's why we're taking a carriage," she said, "But I have a gift for you first."

"Aye?"

"Well, apparently bedding a member of the Coin Guard is poor form," her eyes twinkled, "But, there have been cases of ladies of rather high standing taking up with royal knights…"

Kurt said nothing, failing to see where she was going with this.

"There haven't been any royal knights since Serene joined the Congregation of Merchants, but apparently the role does still exist. So now you're one," she stopped and pulled out the bit of paper she'd stashed on her belt, handing it to him with a smug smile fixed to her face.

Kurt stared blankly at it.

"Obviously I had to get my cousin to sign it, which is why I took such a long time putting him to bed," the smile flickered bitter-sweet, "but when I told him why I wanted you promoting he was very keen to help…"

The seal was there, and Constantin's signature. De Courcillon had allegedly witnessed the signing as his own mark footed the page.

"How did you actually manage this?"

"Don't make me tell you," she pouted, "I rather prefer my story."

He stared hard at her and she sighed, "Fine. It was actually Petrus who thought of it. He and Constantin and Courcillon met with Sieglinde earlier and she happened to mention to them that we would no longer be able to purchase your services via the guard. I merely asked that I was the one allowed to deliver the news."

"I…don't know what to say," his eyes had fixed on the part about a fixed pension for the rest of his life, and the prefix of 'Sir' to his name without it demanding a rigorous training regime.

"You don't have to say anything, Proud Warrior," she teased. But her face was closing off again, "Just…"

Her voice trailed off and her eyelids flickered. She swayed a little to one side.

"Greenblood," Kurt stepped forward and her eyes snapped open again. She steadied herself and with the same glorious artifice he'd seen earlier, she managed to make it look as if she'd had a little too much to drink and was struggling to hide it. The curious eyes around them seemed sated and De Sardet reached for Kurt's arm, hooking hers through his.

Aloud, she said, "Come, Sir… I believe I'm too deep in my cups to be of any further good to my cousin. Do escort me home."

To him she said, "I do need rest."