It was late in the afternoon when they finally emerged from the damask walls of the curtained bed. Sleeping sporadically through the rest of the morning, the day had worn into a breathy evening – sun-faded and breezy like familiar but clean linens. Kurt was tired and slightly disoriented by the irregular hours, but light and joyful for it.

De Sardet had dressed slowly, luxuriously, and sat at the crack of the curtains brushing her long hair. When she had seen that Kurt was awake, she had smiled at him warmly, her skin sunkissed by the last light of the day as it spilled through the now-open shutters. He crossed to her on his knees, the mattress shifting perplexingly beneath his weight, and took the brush. He took up the fight with her tangles and she dissolved into a delighted sigh.

"Easy Greenblood," he teased, "I'm an old man – you'll wear me out."

He kissed the nape of her neck and caught the rolling of her eyes and melancholy – but loving - smile, "You're a dirty old man, is what you are. I was just thinking of how my mother used to brush my hair."

He felt a shift in the mood, but not an unpleasant one. He kept at his work, the process as calming and soothing for him as it evidently was for her.

When he was finished, he lay the brush aside and she stood, turning to softly kiss his forehead. After a stretch and pop of her shoulders, she began the long process of braiding her tresses into something manageable. He watched for a few moments, drinking in the beauty of her, then dressed.

Kurt took his time, wishing to somehow stay longer in that perfect place. But after a short time he was ready – as was she – and they faced one another.

"… What now?" he breathed. Was it just for today? Or would she stay with him? She didn't catch the nuance of his question – the plea for more of her – or if she did, she chose to ignore it.

"I rather fancy some stew from that tavern by the wharf," his face betrayed his disappointment at the mundanity of her answer so she added, "The one with the kale in, and that fatty garlic sausage which dyes the broth red…"

"We can go for stew," he said, tentatively, his words sounding like an echo of when he'd been her tutor. Old routines – he reminded himself. With the exception of that morning, they'd resorted to a previous pattern of interactions where she would ask him something and he would consent. Or not. The result was the same though – he would need to ask her.

"I mean… What now? You're everything I ever loved…"

She laughed then, playfully shoving at him, "What are you talking about? You think I'm done with you?" She grabbed the collar of his shirt and kissed him, that increasingly familiar mischief dancing in her eyes, "Do you honestly think I could even imagine my life without you?"

He felt himself relax and nodded, "That's… good to know."

"Now can we go for stew?"

He laughed and offered his arm, which she took with something of a blush.

"For the record," she said, not meeting his eyes, "I love you too."

"I know – you said. In the basement."

"In an argument. It's… lesser, in anger, somehow."

Kurt shrugged, but didn't really know how to answer her. She didn't seem to need a response though, and they made their way into the increasingly familiar streets of San Matteus.

"Where next, then? After stew, I mean," he asked as they walked towards the sea. It felt to Kurt like seeing the city again for the first time, traversing those streets without the shames of his past shadowing him.

"I have a task to do for Burham which I've put off for far too long… Something about a missing expedition. I just… I couldn't face the thought of finding more corpses."

"When should we leave?"

"Tomorrow, first thing. Petrus will meet us on the road – he sent a messenger yesterday but I didn't much think you were in the mood for news…"

Kurt frowned, "Can I ask… what made you trust him again?"

She shrugged, "I have little family left. I'd be a fool to alienate someone whose eyes sparkle when he calls me his child… even if it is only religious metaphor. You take what you can get, I suppose."

"Did you tell your cousin of your… origins?" Kurt thought of Constantin's reliance on De Sardet – the way he sought out her approval in all things. A dark corner of his mind wondered at whether or not the prince's son would take a different sort of interest in the legate, if he knew they weren't related and tried to squash that line of thinking.

"I did," she smiled to herself, "He said it didn't matter – that I'd always be his sweet cousin."

"I'm glad," Kurt said, and meant it.

They arrived at the tavern and settled themselves towards the back. De Sardet ordered their soup and a loaf of bread, and when it arrived, Kurt watched her devour it with a speed that was almost inhuman. Then she asked for more, visibly trying to savour the taste this time. It reminded him the bacon he'd seen her wolf her way through.

"How come you eat like that? I thought you had all sorts of tutors to teach you how to look like a lady" he teased her.

"Petty rebellion, mostly," then she looked down, bashful, "and when I like something, I can't get enough of it."

Kurt gulped, visibly, and the legate laughed, flicking her eyes up to meet his. His mind flashed back to that morning in the bedroom and the way she'd stared at him then.

The exchange was enough to distract them both from the figure approaching the table. It was only as an elegantly arachnid hand set down on the wood that both Kurt and the legate snapped their faces up.

Instinctively, Kurt's fingers reached for his weapon, but he needn't have done so. The figure was apologetic in stature, and familiar, though for a second Kurt couldn't place her. Then-

"Lady…"

"Saintere," then she smiled, "Or it was. I suppose I can call myself Lady Jardine again now, if I so desire."

De Sardet sat back, assessing Kurt's conversation with the rather fetching noblewoman with what he read as a mixture of amusement and curiosity. He suddenly found himself flustered.

"Do you desire?… I mean… Your name. Should I call you Saintere or Jardine?"

"Call me grateful! Call me free! Your friend was as good as her word. I…" here it was their visitor's turn to falter, "I saw the two of you at the burning yesterday and … it didn't seem like the time to interrupt so I had one of my servants send for me when they saw you leave the house."

"You had a servant sit out all day and wait for us?" Kurt wasn't really sure what to make of that. Part of him felt deeply uncomfortable at the prospect.

"My residence is across the street. I couldn't believe the coincidence. But that's all by the by. I wondered if you would take something to your friend for me? A token of my thanks?"

"I would."

She reached into a deep pocket and drew out a small pouch, pressing it into Kurt's hand. He frowned at the size and weight of it.

"Something of my late husband's. You probably shouldn't look at it here, unless you're keen on a fight…"

And with that she left. Kurt and De Sardet exchanged a glance.

As soon as Saintere exited the tavern, the legate snatched the pouch from Kurt and peered into it. Her mouth formed a perfect 'o', mirroring the opening of the bag. She closed it and passed it back, nodding to it in a gesture which said 'open it'.

Kurt did so and saw an enormous signet ring in gold, set with a huge ruby. He made a noise that was half laugh, half cough, yet entirely incredulous.

"What did your friend do to earn that?" De Sardet sounded impressed.

"Sieglinde…" he tried to search for a euphemism but gave up, "She killed her husband."

The legate looked impressed, "You should probably get that back to her as soon as you can. That's not exactly walking-around jewellery."

Kurt felt a pang of anger. He suddenly knew the way the rest of the conversation was going to play out.

"We need to get that job done, though," he tried, knowing full-well what she was going to reply.

"I'll manage," she said, "Honestly. The others said they'd meet me outside the city when we were done here…"

But I don't want to leave you.

"What about me? I might need you to keep me safe," he tried to sound as though he was joking, as if he meant it in a corporeal sense. But the sheen of the morning had worn thin – cheap metal polished too much and left fragile. As much as she needed him to be her home, he needed her to steady him.

He knew she was about to refuse – knew she was about to deny him with a quick quip that he'd play back in turn.

But she didn't.

"Alright," she said, almost blandly, "Come with me. Then we'll take it to Sieglinde together."

Kurt didn't care about where they were, or that she'd got garlic sausage stew caked to the corners of her mouth. He didn't care what anyone thought of him. He placed both hands on the table and leaned over and kissed the Legate of the Merchant Congregation square on the mouth.