Kurt had all but carried the legate form the palace to her house. Her arm had remained hooked through his, but the further from prying eyes they drew, the more she leaned her weight against him, her steps growing uncharacteristically clumsy and slow.

Martha had been waiting for them at the door, exasperation plain on her face.

"I warned you, m'lady. I said to you this afternoon that if you exerted yourself this evening you'd end in a fever-"

"I know, Martha," De Sardet's voice was apologetic, "But he's my kin – what else was I to do? Constantin needed me."

Martha made her displeasure known in a series of grunts as she and Kurt helped to remove De Sardet's ceremonial armour and various hair ornaments.

"I've fetched your nightclothes-" Martha began, but De Sardet shook her head.

"Thank you, but I need the travelling bags."

The room had fallen silent then and everyone but the legate froze. When things did begin to move again, Martha eyed Kurt with such cold fury that he began to suspect he should arm himself.

"Gretchen," he cooed softly, "We don't have to go now…"

"We do," she asserted, "I'll be fine. There's a whole satchel full of elixirs I keep forgetting I have. I'm sure one of them will do some sort of good…"

But she hadn't sounded convinced. At that point, Kurt had begun to suspect that if the legate had looked away for more than a heartbeat, Martha would have made damned sure he wasn't able to go anywhere.

Sitting in the carriage as they were now, bumping their way towards San Matteus, he wondered if he'd ever be able to show himself to the housekeeper again... Meanwhile, apparently completely nonplussed by the entire exchange, De Sardet unscrewed one of the many phials that Petrus and Courcillon kept plying her with and sniffed at the opening.

"Kill or cure, I suppose," she mumbled, then downed the contents in one. She shuddered, but whether it was from the taste of the substance or some other effect, Kurt couldn't tell.

"Here," he said gently, and tried to move so that she could lay with her head on his lap.

The benches of the carriage were heavily padded, but short and thin. De Sardet was too tall to lay easily on them without curling her legs to her chest, and then the seat wasn't wide enough to hold her. After a few moments of fidgeting, Kurt moved across to the bench on the other side of the chamber and wedged himself into the corner, his back against the partition between themselves and the driver.

He swung one foot up onto the bench and beckoned the legate to come and sit between his legs. She did so, leaning her back against his body.

"Mmm…" she sighed and closed her eyes, finally at rest. Kurt could feel her soft cheek pressed against his and frowned, feeling how hot and clammy she was. He wanted to wet a cloth and lay it on her forehead to cool her, but to do so would have meant disturbing her slumber – what little of it she stood to have in a rocking carriage, anyway.

He felt her shoulders slowly relax against him, and her body melt into his. He could already feel the spikes of numbness creeping into the leg which lay along the carriage bench, but he resolved to stay still, to give her every chance to enjoy the sleep she so desperately needed.

They remained like that for a long while, the hour and the heat from her body causing Kurt to drift in and out of slumber himself.

At one point she woke, sitting bolt upright and calling desperately for him into the dark.

"Sshh…" he whispered softly, "I'm here. I've got you."

She lay back down against him and sighed a deep murmur of relief, before falling back into her fitful slumber. Her cheek rested against his again and he felt a deep relief that it was cooler, less clammy. He pulled her in to him and stroked her hair, as much for his own comfort as for hers.

An hour or so later, as dawn began to seep through the curtains of the carriage door windows, De Sardet sat up and stretched. She glanced back at Kurt over her shoulder and a surprised little laugh bubbled from her lips,

"Hah! I'm still alive!"

He shoved her, a little harder than he'd meant to, "Bloody hell, Greenblood – you sound like that was a genuine concern!"

She flushed a little and tried to shrug off her earlier exclamation. "It hurt a lot more than I was trying to let on," she muttered, "But at least now we know that the satchel full of potions are worth lugging around. Do you have those pomegranates?"

He ignored her attempt to change the subject and nodded to her shoulder, "Can I see?"

By way of an answer, she pulled at the neck of her chemise to reveal the cut below. Sure enough, the scar was still visible, but the wound was remarkably neat given how recent it was – the edges having closed into one pink ridge.

"It looks…" but his voice trailed off, and he felt relief choke his words. She would be fine – absolutely fine.

"It feels good," she confirmed, "I should have thought to use one of those phials before the ball. I could have worn a pretty dress for you after all."

"You didn't need a dress to be pretty," he said, before he could stop himself, "You outshone everyone else in that room."

"That wasn't me – that was all the gold!"

"Who else could have afforded all that, though?" She rolled her eyes at him and he smirked.

"I'd trade it all for one of those pomegranates you stashed for me."

Suddenly, she seemed to remember the one she'd grabbed for herself. She withdrew it from her bag with the sort of reverence and pride reserved for trophies and jewels, then she pulled out her knife and split the shell.

Juice dripped from the flesh and onto her hands, her fingers sticky with the sweet liquid. Tenderly, almost reverently, she used those strong, nimble digits to fold the flesh of the fruit from its clothing. Clumsy from exhaustion, she worked too quickly, and the ruby seeds spilled out across her knee. She glanced up at Kurt, embarrassed slightly, but not too embarrassed to laugh at herself.

"You… uh…" he gestured her face and the layer of pomegranate juice freckles which shone in the early light.

She smeared the cuff of her doublet across her cheeks but missed some. Habitually, Kurt licked his thumb and scrubbed at the remaining marks. He brushed her lip gently as he moved his hand away and she kissed the pad of his digit. They stared at one another, almost startled by the exchange.

Then Kurt leaned over and kissed the place where the most juice remained. He moved back, just a hair, and licked his lips, tasting the sweet fruit on them. Tentatively, she reached up, spreading the soft liquid from her fingers onto the contours of his mouth. Then she kissed it off. Again, they stared at one another in a state of slight disbelief.

Kurt realised that his heart had all but stopped when she'd revealed her wound to him, but now – his lips almost on hers – he felt it begin to beat again, the relief of her recovery a very real, very corporeal delight.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again," he growled. He could feel her breath on his mouth, sweet from the fruit.

She moaned, barely a sound, but he felt it through her lips where they brushed oh-so-slightly on his.

He was dully aware of the cobbles beneath the wheels and the increase in the noise out with their carriage. He fought his senses though – he desperately wanted to remain in that place. Outside of that moment the reality of where they were and who was waiting for them was a sort of pain he didn't want to revisit.

"I've been thinking…" she purred, as though reading his mind. She sounded breathless and as she spoke, her lips tickled his, "If we don't want to implicate ourselves, we're going to have to employ a third party…"

"I can't ask you to make that kind of… investment," he all but moaned himself as he said investment – such a delicious word, all at the front of his mouth so that he kept brushing hers.

"I know," and here she smiled, normally something he loved to see, but the expression teased her mouth away from his and he had to fight the desire to bite at her, and nibble her back to him, "but Petrus reminded me of a certain… authority… we could set to work."

"The mad inquisition?" Kurt half-smiled, half grimaced. Inquisition – another delicious word. A less delicious concept, though.

"I have a note from Petrus which should help… convince our friend Aloysius…"

"That sly old fox…" Kurt caught the little gasp in De Sardet's throat as he said fox and he pushed her back against the wall of the carriage, teasing at her lower lip with his teeth.

"I think you misheard me, Your Excellency," he growled, "I said fox, not fuck."

"Wishful thinking," she grabbed at his collar and pulled him closer still, biting back at him, "But we're here, Sir. The carriage has stopped moving…"

Kurt slumped backwards and thumped a fist against the carriage wall, forgetting himself. In response to the hammering, the driver rushed around to open the door and De Sardet laughed, loud and musical, fully herself again.

"Oh, sweet Captain," she chuckled, "So eager to leave the carriage."

She stood then with her usual grace and all but skipped from the vehicle. Kurt trudged after her, dragging the satchel of seemingly miraculous potions with him.

They would have much work to do finding Hermann, but it was just the two of them, and that prospect in and of itself filled Kurt with a hope he hadn't felt in years.

Sir, she'd called him. A title that was truly his.