Sorry for the delay, I was focused on other things.

A little more character development in this one. I fully intend Marceline to be a smarmy bitch, so if she comes off like that (especially to others!) I know I'm on the right track.

June 14th

For the first hour since returning to her cell, Marceline had dug at her cuticles until her thumbs turned puffy and red. The inside of her lip had been chewed so hard it blistered, her tongue flicking over the sore ridge in her mouth. Two of her pillows had their stuffing spill out like loose flour around her legs, her nails slicing the fabric from her anxiety and adrenaline.

The second hour comes. Then the third. At the fourth hour she became bored and laid on her cot, counting the stones in the ceiling from end to end, noticing holes here and there in the chipped mortar. She crossed one leg over another. She swung a foot and periodically cracked an ankle. She jutted out her lip, looking down and seeing the ugly blister from her anxious worrying of it. She wanted to sigh at the sight of the split, puffy skin and how it marred her appearance, but a blister is the least of her concerns.

Marceline waited for the inevitable storming of her cell with swords drawn from their scabbards and rusted bayonets pointed at her naked throat. Shackles would dangle in their filthy hands, ready to chain her feet and wrists to the stone ring in her cell, leaving her akin to an exposed, writhing caterpillar in need of a leaf to hide under. No more privileges, they will tell her. No more incidences of her running around and alerting the prisoners to her existence. No more treats and letters, and most importantly (!) no more tattling from a young man who wants to know why the Bastille's only female prisoner is poking around the men's cages.

A day passed.

Then two.

Thomas, her jailer, did not arrive for his shifts. She asked the other marshals who visited her where he is, whether something has happened to him. They rolled their shoulders, or frowned, or spared her a sideways glance. None of them answer her; whether it's because they are unused to hearing her speak or unused to seeing her at all she cannot say.

Her blister healed. Her reddened thumbs returned to their white hue. Breakfast, lunch and dinner is delivered and her small bowls of water for cleaning and drinking are taken away without a single suspicious glance thrown her way. She braids and unbraids her hair, watching the light skip across the shards of glass from the broken mirror at the back. Seven years of bad luck, and not enough wood to knock on.

Nothing comes after all those hours of waiting. Marceline watched her cell door, wondering. Unlike the lower cells with open cages, hers was sealed by a wooden door with an iron lock. She was surrounded by an enclosed stone encampment, roomy yet damp with the June heat. Unlike the calottes she cannot hear the whistling wind or the occasional shouts of carriage drivers trying to tame misbehaving horses. She doesn't miss the stench of the Seine and the tanneries, but she does miss how the breeze wrapped around her like a blanket, comforting her in a way no human touch could.

Unlike the rooftop cells, there is only a small opening in the door for the garde françaises to peer inside. Aside from Thomas, who would strike up conversations with her, the other guards delivered her supplies without a word to spare. Snaggletooth and Lazy Eye were content enough to hear Thomas' reports, but here and there they'd sneak up to the door, eyes peeking through rusted iron bars to see the sorcière sit with her chin on her knees, toying with her loose braid or adjusting the diamond snowflake on her finger. Whenever she looked up to meet their gaze, they'd swiftly walk away, boots thudding down the corridors to harass the men below.

Maybe they learned from the first encounter not to touch things that didn't belong to them. Maybe they stood back and waited for her to rake her claws over some other unfortunate's face. Or, maybe Thomas had convinced them she wasn't all that bad; she just needed to be left alone and treated as if she didn't exist, though it was harder to do than she realized. All her life Marceline revelled and bathed in the attention she received from others, smiling her icy smile and strutting her way down streets a full head (literally and figuratively) among passersby. Now, with the situation reversed, she could not find room to complain. It gave her time to think about her life, her future...an escape, if it was decided by de Launay and her mysterious benefactor that she was to stay here indefinitely.

In a way, Marceline thinks the geôliers are covering for her: they rattle the cages of the male prisoners, delay their feedings and refuse to give them their letters. It has been 12 days since she arrived, and the past three days have not settled well among three of the most notorious inmates, with the most vocal and defiant one being the half-breed. One night he protested and argued with the marshals enough that they moved him to another cell in another tower so his provocative attitude could simmer and evaporate like the morning dew under the June sun.

That had been days ago, or so she thought. Marceline was initially confident the prisoners had forgotten her little excursion. But she did not let go of the breath she had been holding for days, because the minute she did, her expectations would fly back in her face like an enraged murder of crows. It was smart of her to do so, because the three she did not want to provoke the most had not forgotten, but had simply pushed it to the back of their minds. It was likely they were simply waiting until they gathered enough evidence to convict her, and away from the Bastille she will go.

For now, though, she could not shake the feeling she was not alone in her tower. Like the film that forms when steam meets frosty glass, she could not wipe it away without leaving streaks. So she stops and listens, attentive, and waited for the jailers to go through their rounds.

The marshals came on schedule, bringing food for her as well as any items she requested that morning: the horsehair toothbrush, chewing mint for her breath, some ginger for an upset stomach. She thanks them, making sure to be extra sweet and amiable, even though her extra toothy grin puts the gardes on edge rather than please them. When her cell door was closed, she strained her ears for the sound she waited for and yet didn't expect: a second clinking of plates and a muffled grunt as another cell door was opened.

So it was true, then: the half breed was brought to Bazinière Tower as punishment for fighting with the guards. No doubt his mentor was fuming in his cell at his protégé's miscreant behaviour; every hour lost in training will be made up with longer gruelling hours and exercises. If the half breed was pleased with the rest given to his body, he showed no sign of it: he bickers with the guards who promptly threaten to take his rations away. He humphed and accepted his situation without a word.

One night - last night, maybe - Marceline is sure she hears him sigh and mutter to himself about how bored he was and how he wished for writing utensils. Still he tries to communicate with an Élise, and Marceline suspected that this is the woman this man is heartbroken over. She knows the half-breed murdered a noble, but who that noble was she does not know yet. Clearly, the murder held importance to this woman, since the man was trying to reach out to her and mend the bridge he sent crumbling into the river.

It doesn't stop Marceline from wondering why he was placed in the same tower as her. Unlike her, who fought and scratched and would have escaped were it not for the sacks and jute string around her limbs, he was marched to his new cell without a word, smart enough to realize he couldn't bicker his way to a better situation and bitterly content he was only being relocated rather than being tossed off the roof. The only time he spoke was when food was brought to him or when the nights stretched on and his own conversation kept him company.

While she was thankful his love and attention was for another woman, she could not help but suspect the jailers put them together in the hopes they would enjoy some 'action' - mainly, and obviously, sex. They were both young, near the same age, and physically fit, and she being the only female in the prison is an incredible draw. Perhaps they thought the half-breed, lovesick and eager for attention, would see her and be provoked into actions he otherwise might not do.

If de Launay heard about this, though, the entire fortress would come thundering down in the storm of his rage. He is under enough pressure as it is; he needed nor wanted no more scandals and a clandestine, steamy love affair would not help his case in the slightest. The feudal torture chamber would no longer be seen as a force of order and control, but a Gothic brothel mocked in salons across the country. It certainly would cause frenzy among the papers at home and abroad; those pornographic magazines seized by the government would enjoy a surge of new readership with a sultry, nude witch on the front cover.

However, Marceline isn't entirely ungrateful for his company despite the crude matchmaking. From his voice alone (on the occasions when he spoke) the half-breed sounds attractive. Why wouldn't he be? She did not forgot the subtle purr in his voice when he sassed his mentor, how it rolled out and lowered an octave when he became angry. She found his low voice enjoyable and oddly soothing. She hummed to herself whenever she imagined it, even allows herself a girlish giggle. She knew he sparred with his cellmate, the older man with the beard and exposed chest. She remembered the lines like fissures in his forehead, the deep set of his frown as he traced her dust trail in the dark. He is older, sure, but he was not sick either. Both of them are fit and athletic, intelligent and with their wits about them. But the half-breed was the only young one there, and it was not hard to imagine him being a decent lover with the woman he cried out for in the night...

Ah. Foolish thoughts. But she was lonely. Even casual conversation would help. Marceline found herself sighing audibly.

In the lower cells there was a man who'd play melodies on his violin. She recognized La Folia; it gave her a little trill in her heart whenever she heard it. It reminded her of the time her mother had taken her to the opera, and she, writhing and frustrated for not being able to see over the audience's heads, sat on her mother's lap and let the tune lull her to sleep. The melody reminded her of how her mother stroked her hair, a dark ink against her mother's platinum white hair, as her fitfulness gave way as the music cast her away to another place. While it did not lure her to sleep in her adult years, it eased her mental troubles. It took her back to an easier time, a simpler time.

Simple, she mentally scoffed. The irony of that statement was too great to put to paper, let alone words.

Occasionally, she'd hear different tunes from the violinist, some she was surprised to hear. When Marceline was bored, she tended to whistle, and she'd whistle whatever song would be on her mind at the moment. They'd come out horribly out of tune at first, choppy and resembling the squawks from a mother hen, but once she remembered the notes, she could whistle whole three-to-four minute songs without missing a note.

It wasn't an issue, then, that her whistles carried outside and the violinist decided to copy the notes. No doubt the other prisoners were piqued by the new tunes. They weren't on the level of Mozart – nothing could – but, after all, the French took to Mozart's bold new approach, whereas the Austrians stuck up their noses.

Maybe that's what she needed to do now: add some music to fix her boredom. She pursed her lips, thought of a tune, and began to whistle.

She found she couldn't carry a note at first. Not too disappointing - the blister on her lip hadn't entirely healed and her tongue liked to focus on that more. She tried out a few songs she remembered, going with easy tunes at first before moving into more complex ones. Once she thought she had a whole song mapped out, she sputtered, and her little singalong went awry.

She winced at what she heard. It sounded pretty damn awful, and no amount of correction mid-tune would fix it. Her tongue just couldn't get over the little mound of split skin, and it irritated her that this little piece of flesh couldn't obey her brain. Eventually, she blew out a raspberry, and stuck out her tongue.

"Fils de pute,(Son of a bitch.)" she muttered. She sighed again, a little on the dramatic side. She tried pursing her lips again, preparing for another practice round, when the conversation she hoped for, yet didn't expect, came slithering into her cell like a snake coiling around her ankle.

"That's not a very nice thing to say."

Marceline thinned her lips, glancing towards the door. She thought she'd been hearing things for a moment, but no, the half-breed is talking – and he's talking to her. How had he managed to hear her mutter in the first place? It was under her breath, barely audible even to her own ears. Her whistling, of course, could be heard – it probably could've been heard outside, what for all the God-awful noises tumbling out of her chapped lips – but not that. He had terrific hearing, or he must've waited until the silence settled before speaking.

"I'm not a nice girl, so don't expect me to say nice things," she said. She tongued her blister again. Stupid thing. If only you obeyed me.

"Oh? Here I thought pretty ladies always had something nice to say." His tone was easy and carefree, like he didn't care – and wouldn't care - about her clipped tone which tried to cloak her surprise.

"Do pretty ladies make men scream as if it was their first name day?" she challenged, seeing the bait and taking it. "Careful. I might take your finger too."

"A pleasant offer, but I'll have to decline. You didn't answer the first part, however."

"First part of what?"

"Whether or not you're a pretty lady."

You're a charmer, aren't you? She thought. I'm sure a lot of women throw themselves at your feet.

"You don't know what I look like," she said. "So the first part cannot be answered."

"Cannot, or will not?" There was a slight hint of cheekiness, the sort that picks on nuances and exploits them. From the sounds of it, he looked forward to verbal debates like these.

She was candid to entertain him in that endeavour.

"It's neither subjective or objective. You've never seen me, so you can't solve the latter. The former is only based on your imagination, and since you haven't seen me, subjectivity goes as far as your opinion does."

"How very verbose. But you're still wrong."

"Oh? Care to tell me?"

"I have seen you. In your nightgown. The day you were brought here, you were tied up in flour sacks. Your chest was exposed – and no, I didn't see the part you're thinking of. You're not an old dowager, that's for sure."

She narrowed her eyes at a man who cannot see her. If they were face to face, she wouldn't so much as bat her eyes; a game face was the way to go, all cold steel and immovable. Since she cannot be judged, she is free to make as many faces as she likes.

She mentally confesses he is already starting to irritate her. The ease with which he enters conversation and how quick he finds faults is impressive and revealing.

He noted her pause, and she thought she could sense a smile. "You're not saying much. Did I offend you?"

"You're a clever one," Marceline conceded. "Can you deduce my age?"

"I thought it was impolite to ask a woman's age."

"Only to dowagers selling their daughter's maidenheads," she said. "Go ahead, take a guess."

He hummed to himself, thinking. "From the sounds of it, you're probably not even out of your maiden years." He paused. "Are you even an adult?"

Marceline laughed at that. She laughed a long, hearty one, and it surprised her new cellmate as much as it did her. She finished it in a dramatic gasp.

"No," she said. "I'm legal."

"Legal?"

"I'm above eighteen. I'm twenty."

"Ah, so you are near my age."

"Are you surprised a fair maiden like me is in the Bastille?" She slipped her fingers through the bars, peering through her tiny window. She didn't know where the half-breed was, and his voice echoed off the mortar which made it difficult to pinpoint. She blew a piece of hair out of her face.

"There's a clue," he said instead. "You're fair skinned."

"I thought you said you saw my chest. You'd know my décolletage showed my sternum."

"Must've forgot."

"Short memory you have." She smirked. "Must not be skilled in the observational department."

There was an aggravated humph, followed by footsteps. Clearly, he was trying to get her in his field of view so he could have an easier time skewering her.

Let him, Marceline thinks. This was the most fun she's had in days. He challenged her first, after all.

"Are you insulting me?" It sounded more like a statement than a question. "To think I wanted a pleasant conversation with a member of the fairer sex."

"I told you I wasn't a nice girl," she singsonged with sugary sweetness. At least, she intended it to. Instead, it comes out mocking and harsh, the sugar turned to acid with a single curl of her tongue. "So that was your first mistake." She smiled to herself, her incisors showing through her lip. A dear shame he couldn't see them.

"You're wrong again."

She paused. He was unperturbed and there is a lilt of smugness in his tone, like he knew something she didn't. She slipped her fingers away from the bars and curled them at her hips. "On what?"

"I didn't make a mistake here. You did. I'm only here because of you."

"You're here because you started a bitch fight with the guards," she spat. "Who's at fault, again?"

"It's still you," he said. "Because if you hadn't sneaked into the Liberté tower I wouldn't be here, talking to you. You'd still be a ghost. Now that I know what you sound like...," he drew it out like pulling a loose thread from an ill-sewn shirt, enjoying the sight of the fabric falling apart in front of him. "...that's not easily forgettable. Young and haughty. You're not a dowager's daughter yourself, are you? It'd be terribly ironic if you were."

Oh you are good. Goddamnit. And he has to be good, of course he is, because her flip-flopping veneer is blatantly obvious to someone paying close attention, and he was someone who picked up on the slightest change in someone's inflection. Her veneer gives way to a steadier emotion: irritation. However, she isn't stupid enough to let it bubble to the surface and show him that he's won; she let it roll around in her mouth and throat, letting it overpower the taste of blood in her cheek.

Another idea comes to her, one that could be considered cheap and dirty, but she wagered the half-breed wasn't averse to using the same tactics himself. So, she puts the idea to words.

"It takes a bit of bribery and money to get a place in the Bastille," she started, "and being a dowager's daughter would be a nice package for de Launay. Unfortunately, though...I'm not a dowager's daughter. Even if I was, it's still better than being charged with the murder of a member of the First Estate."

She let it sink in, letting the insults flow out of her as her anger was replaced with his own. She can feel the change in the air, the way the pauses are prolonged and where exhaled air comes out in aggressive, choppy movements.

"I am not...," he growled, "a murderer. And you are one to talk. Who the Hell put you in here, anyways? Did you chew off a man's cock after you were done with his fingers?"

She smothered her mouth to suppress her giggles. Look who's turned the tables.

"Pardonnez-moi," she said after the giggles pass, "but...that's what you're in here for, isn't it? Murder? How did you do it? Did you stab him in the back, or did you watch his eyes go black when you plunged your sword in his gut?"

She heard his muted cry of rage. "Come here and say that, salope (bitch)!"

"That's not a very nice thing to say! I thought gentlemen always minded their manners!"

If he was ready to unleash a hailstorm of insults at her, Marceline did not get a chance to hear it. Her cell door suddenly rattled and unlocks, and there stood the cook, Henri, eyeing her with a disapproving face.

It was obvious he heard the whole encounter. His eyes were half lidded, jaw firm and set. It also looked like he was fresh from the kitchen: there was flour and soup stains on his apron, and his sheared head glistened with sweat. He shook his head at her.

"Troublemakers, the both of you," he muttered. "If I didn't know better, you were les limiers (bloodhounds)." He stepped aside and into the corridor, tilting his head when she did not follow straightaway.

Marceline blinked at this development. "Wait. Where are we going? Are you taking me back to the calottes?"

"You deserve it," she heard the half-breed say. She was about to give a sarcastic retort of her own, when the cook shook his head again.

"Non. I have a better use for you, and it doesn't involve you enraging the métis Autrichien." He motioned for her to follow him outside, eager to quell the fight.

She was hesitant, more so because the half-breed would be waiting to get a glimpse of her face and her body so he could continue his fight. She entwined her fingers, eyes flicking in both directions before settling on the cook.

"Ah...where is the métis Autrichien? I don't want to -"

"What, have him see you?" the cook cut her off. "Too late."

The cook moved to her right flank besides, and with a brisk pace they make it to the exit. Marceline kept her eyes forward, not too bold and not too meek, and didn't think about looking to her right. The cook had moved there for a reason; as it turned out, the half-breed was on the right side of the cell block, and only the stone corner blocked him from view.

Marceline could feel his penetrating gaze at her back, hooking into her skin like a harpoon on a whale's hide. Her teeth poke at her blister again, and the taste of copper fills her mouth. It felt like his gaze was magnetic, drawing her back to her starting point so they can resume a fight with no clear solution. She wanted to feel bad – she did act poorly and the man had not been cruel to her - but she couldn't. And she wouldn't. A sense of smug self-fulfillment slithered through her veins, and once she and the cook enter the courtyard, she was nearly skipping with excitement.

The half-breed tried to cheat, and she cheated him. Now round two would commence. One part of her curiosity had been sated, and some of that wit she'd enjoyed hearing had been heaped on her plate, but there was still more to test, to discover. Who would be the victor in this new game of theirs? Who would get tired first?

So long as de Launay didn't become aware of the situation, it was anyone's game.