Calla's tent brimmed with color.
"Kell!" Calla exclaimed, appearing from the back of the tent the moment they arrived, as if summoned. Her blue dress exploded at the waist and at the shoulders, the hem of it brushing the floor. She sounded extremely pleased to see Kell. When she turned to Holland, looking him up and down, he got the feeling that she was learning more about him than he'd like her to be. "Holland Vosijk."
He gave a nod.
After studying him for a moment, Calla looked back at Kell. And then back at Holland. Her expression was unreadable.
"Come in," she said eventually, waving them in. She fixed Holland with a sharp look. "You don't have long."
Kell appeared baffled by this comment, throwing Holland a questioning glance, but Holland shook his head once and gestured for Kell to follow Calla in first. Somehow Holland was certain she was speaking of Holland's Heart Sickness. Given the increasing frequency of Holland's coughing episodes, she was right: he didn't have long. The first leaf hadn't arrived yet, so he had longer than two weeks, but beyond that he could not be sure.
The thought failed to give him any sense of urgency.
Kell gazed at him for a moment longer, and then he turned followed Calla in.
Holland could see why people came to Calla for something to wear. Every possible surface was covered with fabrics of every color and texture imaginable, and on the walls hung countless dresses and suits, flowing blouses and tight skirts, sharp coats and pressed shirts. Some shimmered, some seemed to glow with vibrancy; some hung heavy and others looked lighter than air; some appeared seamless and others deliberately patchwork. It seemed impossible that someone could walk in to buy something and walk out without something impeccably matched to both them and the event they were attending.
Kell caught Holland looking around and gave him an amused smile. "This isn't the kind of shop you browse," he said.
Holland raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
Calla emerged from the back again, this time with something draped over her arm. It appeared to be made of white fabric, but it had a gentle sheen to it: less distinct than a shimmer, but not dull like a wool or cotton suit would have been. It had an ethereal quality to it.
"This is for you." Calla pointed to Holland, and then to the back of the tent from which she had come. "Go change."
Holland blinked, shooting Kell a look. Kell had the audacity to look entertained by Holland's bewilderment. He raised an eyebrow and gestured for Holland to follow Calla's instructions, as if Holland had been asking for Kell's permission. A protest against this insinuation rose in Holland—the nearly unfamiliar desire to tease Kell—but he just stepped forward and accepted the suit from Calla's outstretched hands.
The back of the tent was as minimal as the front of Calla's space was chaotic: there were a couple areas closed off by hanging cloth which clearly were changing rooms of a sort. The small, stall-like space inside was empty, but for a bench and row metal hooks on the wall to the right of the hanging fabric door and a mirror on the wall to the right of it.
Holland hung the suit up first, then turned and tied the door shut with the little tassels attached to the sides of the doorway for that purpose with his fingers.
He pulled out his handkerchief and coughed.
It was a long and violent coughing fit. Whether this was because he had been fighting it for the entire time he'd spent with Kell this morning in the Arnesian markets or because the sickness was getting worse, it was hard to tell. Holland looked down at his blood-soaked handkerchief and the several flowers that had emerged, fully formed, from his throat. It could have been both.
He shook out the handkerchief sharply.
Instead of scattering across the floor in a burst of petals, the roses disappeared. The blood faded from the white cloth.
Holland nodded with grim acceptance and turned towards his suit.
Though he had never held strong opinions on clothing, this particular piece seemed far too much: the nearly imperceptible changes in shade, a gentle darkening from the shoulders to the bottoms of the pants; the irresistible draw of the light-catching fabric. When Holland unfolded it, curiously, before removing his clothes, he found it had thin red accents: the stitching around the buttons, the cuff-links in the pocket, the bowtie. Not eye-shocking, solid red, but a kind of styling that appeared light and gauzy.
Holland doubled over in another fit of coughing.
Calla was too good.
When he had finished coughing, he removed his white coat, and then unbuttoned his shirt slowly, methodically. As if he was waiting for some reason to change his own mind.
In the stall over, Holland could hear similar sounds of fabric rustling against itself, light shuffling. Kell, it must've been, changing a few feet away, taking off his remarkable coat, the white shirt he wore underneath, the black pants. Scars and skin. Holland thought about it until he couldn't breathe. Then he placed his folded clothes on the bench and took the suit down from the hooks.
The fabric was unimaginably smooth and comfortable, gliding over his skin. He should've expected it at this point. It fit as if tailored. He should've expected that, too.
Holland buttoned up the vest, fixed his cuffs, straightened his bowtie, turned to look in the mirror, and froze.
It wasn't that it didn't suit him; on the contrary, it felt as if she had pulled out the most eye-catching parts of him, distilled them into the most concentrated essence of him, and woven it seamlessly into this, specifically for him.
He had never worn clothes that made him feel more naked when he wore them than when he didn't.
But whether or not it felt as if he was literally wearing his heart on his sleeve, Holland had to admit he looked better than he thought was possible, especially in his condition. The tones of the fabric made him look less sallow. He was simply pale. The sharp lines of the suit fit him perfectly and drew more attention to his cheekbones and less to the hollows of his cheeks. His hair looked jet black and striking.
It looked like he had a good figure when he wore this piece. Or maybe Holland simply had a good figure.
"If you're done, you can come out," Calla called with detectable impatience, after Holland had stood looking at himself for a long time.
Holland considered staying in, but he got the feeling that Calla knew very well he was done, so he took in a deep breath. He swallowed, tasting blood, and pushing the roses down to the best of his ability. It still felt as if an animal was digging its claws into the flesh of his throat; swallowing still stung with enough pain that his eyes watered faintly.
He blinked hard.
And stepped out.
He saw Calla first, still staring at him with a critical eye.
And then he saw Kell.
And he did not see anything else, because once he saw Kell, that was it. There was nothing else—there couldn't possibly have been anything else in all of Red London. In any world, really.
Kell was in red—of course it was red—this vibrant kind of red that would look garish on anyone else. It was something about him—the way he squared his shoulders, or the instinctive lift of his chin—which made him a match for this vivid shade; Kell managed to overpower, by an inch, a color that would have overpowered anyone else. The cut made him look somehow taller. The shirt he wore underneath—it looked like silk—was a clean, understated white. So were the buttons down his front.
Kell was stunning, more so than usual. But that wasn't what stuck Holland on the spot.
What froze Holland in his tracks was the expression on Kell's face: Kell looked how Holland felt. Stunned, hungry, as if pulled by a magnetic force. The intensity of that feeling in Kell's sharp eyes immobilized Holland on the spot; he feared if he tried to take a step, his legs would give out. He felt weak all over, he felt breathless, he felt timeless.
They were only two arm's lengths apart, perhaps, treacherously close.
Kell stepped a little closer, half a step. Holland tried to react somehow—it would be the most sensible thing to step away, but it seemed unfathomable to him at moment; he could react verbally, but his vocal chords didn't seem up to the task; he would at the very least like to raise an eyebrow, but his face felt frozen as the rest of him, stuck in its usual impassive expression. As long as Kell was looking at him like that, he knew, he wouldn't be able to do so much as twitch a finger.
And so he just stood there, feeling thrillingly alive, entirely inactive, as Kell lifted a hand up, in the direction of Holland's face.
That's when Kell's expression shifted—alarm, discomfort—and Kell turned sharply, whipped out, a handkerchief, and began coughing aggressively.
Without Kell's arresting gaze on him anymore, Holland found he could move. He politely averted his gaze, trying to breathe in as quietly as he could. He felt as breathless as if he had just fought Kell, rather than simply looked back at him. Thorns clawed at his throat with every inhale, petals pushed against the back of his mouth with every exhale.
Kell's coughing died down, and there was a gentle swish of fabric, the clean after-tingle of just-used magic blooming in the air for a moment between them.
"Bowtie," Kell rasped lowly. "Crooked."
Holland knew that it had not been. He turned back to Kell, about to ask what it really was—Kell must've once again been harboring ulterior motives—
"Did I get you right?"
Holland startled so severely that Kell shot him a concerned look.
It was Calla.
Holland wasn't used to being caught by surprise; in fact, it very nearly never happened at all. He paid too much attention; he forced himself to stay constantly alert—Kell's ability to distract him to the point where he didn't notice Calla's return disturbed him faintly. He hadn't noticed Calla's footsteps, which, muffled by the carpet or not, he should have immediately tracked. He hadn't even noticed her pull aside the curtains that partitioned off the back of the tent from the front. She stood there still holding the curtain open partly with one hand, letting in a flood of light and color.
Even on his worst days—sitting on the floor with his head leaned up against the side of his bed, breathing slowly; days where he felt absently like he should cry, but instead the feeling sat heavy in his chest, aching; days where he returned to White London with a message but stayed in Makt, retracing his worst memories—a corner of his brain relentlessly attended to his surroundings.
Holland scowled faintly in Kell's direction, and Kell looked away.
Calla was looking them up and down again, still with a critical eye. As if there could have possibly been a wrong stitch on either of their pieces; Calla would be the only one not struck dumb by the sight of the two of them, Holland was sure. He had to admit it even about himself: Calla had made picked for them nothing but the absolute best.
"We seem to match," Holland observed blandly.
Calla appeared marginally impressed that Holland dared make that comment out loud. "Yes."
"You got me right," Kell volunteered.
Holland opened his mouth to speak, and then he turned sharply and strode out of the tent.
There were roses in his throat, and he couldn't breathe.
— — —
PastIt's been two weeks.
Since Holland shut the door in Kell's face, covered the door in wards, and instantly fell back against the door, once again feeling exhausted as soon as he leans his weight against something else. He slid to the floor, breathing heavy, feeling dull. It reminded him strongly of sitting on the dusty ground, looking up at bare branches, and never intending to get up.
He's missed Kell.
It's almost a surprise, missing Kell. It shouldn't be; he'd known he'd miss Kell from the moment he closed the door. Just as he'd known Kell wasn't going to come back with his meals, and that Kell was going to carry that grudge for a disproportionate amount of time—Kell was far more predictable than he'd probably like to think.
But to understand the idea of missing someone and the experience of truly missing them are so entirely different that they can hardly be considered related concepts at all.
The things he expected to miss about Kell: the reliable invitation conversation, which he didn't even engage in; Kell's own unmistakable brand of kindness, woven from softened tones, careful questions, and acting casually normal in such a pattern as to be incredibly comforting; Kell's striking good looks.
The things he really has ended up missing about Kell: the odd sound of his elbow knocking on his door; the scent of his magic in the air, crisp and lively; the sheer tumble and rush his stomach went through when Kell pushed open the door and Holland saw him for the first time in a handful of hours, or however long it had been since his last meal; the simple awareness of being able to count on Kell's support if he wanted it—something he hadn't realized came as such a solace until he didn't have it anymore. It left a detectable empty space, below his rib cage and above his stomach.
He has started coughing up roses more often, then, even though previously it has seemed as if they're triggered by Kell's presence.
Today at noon, he picks up the written notes that Rhy has left for him, enclosed in white envelopes and carefully labeled Makt in Rhy's slivery handwriting on the front. He pricks his finger and watches the blood well up with detachment, then etches the proper symbol onto the stone wall outside.
"As Tascen."
And he's in White London, standing over the rune in the room adjacent to the throne room.
Hearing the chattering in the throne room, he discerns there must be some sort of council being held and murmurs a healing spell over his finger quietly.
The Queen must hear him, because there's a sharp word and the voices in the throne room fall silent for a moment, then shuffling, several sets of footsteps on stone fading away. Then silence.
"Holland, stop lurking."
"Your Majesty." Striding into the throne room, he hands over the letters Rhy has left: one in a crisp white envelope that looks like serious business and another with curling script printed on the front, and feels weightier, thicker. There's a spot of blood on the corner of it, from Holland's finger. Holland watches it as he hands them over.
"I hope I didn't interrupt anything important."
The Queen smiles in polite dismissal of his half-apology and accepts the two letters. "If I wanted to keep you waiting, I simply would have," she says. Kell knows it's true. "It was only a handful of guards, inquiring about you, in fact."
"Me." Holland says this flatly. That is almost entirely guaranteed not to be good.
The problem with Holland is that he has never had the luxury of being unknown; he cannot drop his name and his past and disappear inside a title the way the Queen has. It isn't unusual in the slightest to obscure one's name; everyone has a weakness hidden in their past. For Holland, that's Talya. Or perhaps Alox. In some ways, it's all sixty-seven of the people he's killed, every single one. Plenty of his kills can be traced back to him, if people want revenge. If anyone asks for the most powerful magician in White London, the answer will invariably be him. If one ever wonders how the Dane twins hung onto the cold throne with clawed hands for so long, they will land again and again on the same man: Holland Vosijk.
The Queen catches sight of something in his expression and shakes her head. "They aren't out to hurt you. They've been wondering about your health. And where you go after you deliver these letters."
Kell, Holland almost says. I go back to Kell. But he knows what she means: the days he wanders the slowly healing streets of Makt, where does he go then?
And he doesn't want to answer that. He goes to where he remembers the shards of Alox falling, scattering around him. He goes to where Talya broke his heart and he pushed a knife through hers. He goes, sometimes, to the grove of trees where he'd been ready to die and remembers the way he could feel his life leaving him.
The throne room, though cleaned and polished up, may as well be one of these locations: here is where he bled out on the floor, clutching his stomach, looking up at Astrid Dane; here is where he was thrown against the wall and cracked his ribs; here is where he knelt, trying not to scream, as he was carefully carved up.
"Home," Holland answers. Because it is his home; it has always been his home. Happiness has always frightened him. It feels unnatural. Talya's knife, Alox's burning fists—they are home.
The Queen only nods, already opening the envelopes with a flick of her knife. "And your health, Holland? They're not the only ones who have noticed you're under the weather."
It's clear what she's really saying: Holland, with a reputation like his, wandering the city alone when his health is visibly waning… he's practically begging for an attempt on his life.
Granted, anyone who tries will find their knives efficiently turned back on them, and against a hundred men Holland could come out unscathed, but it still isn't ideal.
"Sick," Holland answers shortly. Not getting better, he thinks about adding, but the words stick in his mouth, stuck on the tip of his tongue. He should tell her that he's not getting better—in fact, he should tell her that he's going to get worse. And then he's going to die of it.
It's useful information for her: she'll be able to set up cross-world communication with Kell, instead, establish a routine before Holland died, not after. But for some reason, Holland wants to keep it to himself a little bit longer.
The Queen eyes him shrewdly, pale pink mouth a tight line, suspicious but not pushing. "I hope it gets better."
Holland nods, once. He breathes out.
The Queen seems to let it go, returning her attention to the letter in her hand. "Did you know about this?" she asks, holding up thicker envelope. She holds it as if she isn't sure how she feels about it.
He glances over it curiously; he doesn't read the letters he's charged with delivering. With all the time he spends with Rhy and Kell, he gets the news soon enough. Or—he used to.
"A cross-world celebration at the royal palace in Arnes?" The Queen passes it to him when it's evident he doesn't know what she's talking about.
Your Majesty, Queen of Makt, it reads, King Rhy Maresh of Arnes invites you personally to stay in his palace in Red London…. a ball thrown in celebration of your coming…. His Majesty hopes this event will provide an opportunity for more efficient diplomacy than can be conducted through the regrettably slow avenue of the post.
Holland says dryly, "He's very fond of referring to himself in the third person."
"Seems rather ungrateful of your services," the Queen comments in mock-offense. "I thought the exchanging three letters a week was perfectly efficient."
Holland tries to smile. "He just wants an excuse to throw a party," he musters.
The Queen doesn't bother with all the envelopes, the fancy paper, the pretentious calligraphy.
She prints neatly on the back of the invitation, where the Arnes' crest is stamped in red ink, Yes.
"You're going to be at that ball," she tells Holland; an order, not a request. "I hope a bit of life will improve your miserable health."
Kell would've made me if you didn't. But of course, Kell isn't speaking to him. That is, Kell might enter a room, nod a hello in Holland's direction or something of the sort, or ask him to pass the map at his elbow, but nothing that counts. If Kell was going to drag Holland to the ball, Holland would've already heard of it by now.
Just the other day, Holland had strode into the throne room, intending to pick up the letter Rhy had written up for the Queen of Makt.
Kell had been there.
He hadn't expected Kell to be there; Rhy's was the voice he'd heard as he approached, speaking of a celebration: what sort of spirits would Rhy be able to get away with without being scolded for being an irresponsible host?
Only his lifetime of suppressing every tell kept Holland walking forward as if nothing was wrong. He kept his eyes on the throne, where Rhy was sitting forward eagerly, gesturing and grinning, clearly making infeasible suggestions only to provoke Kell.
Predictably, Kell stood with his arms crossed, with a near-perfect expression of annoyance, except that the corner of his mouth kept twitching, and he gazed at his brother with the sort of love that no amount of annoyance—real or otherwise—could ever temper.
Holland breathed carefully in and carefully out. Looking at Kell, it was as if breathing too deeply would make his heart ache.
"A celebration?" Holland had asked. Any celebration Rhy Maresh was throwing was certain to not be his scene—but speaking would force Kell to look at him. Kell's eyes always followed whoever was speaking, a sort of trained, ingrained politeness.
As expected, Kell's chin lifted and he cast Holland a look. His smile dropped off into a real frown. "Nothing that concerns you. Letters are on the table."
Rhy, who'd turned to look at Holland as he spoke, turned back again to stare at Kell at the flat tone of Kell's voice. "Sorry," he began to say to Kell, "I thought you—?"
"Leave it."
Rhy raised his eyebrows, said nothing.
Holland gave a nod. The letters were always on the table, unless Rhy was still finishing them, in which case they were on Rhy's knee. "Come with me?" he offered. A blatant olive branch.
Rhy's head swiveled back, as if he was watching a sport's match.
Kell's frown had deepened into a scowl. "I have things to get done."
Holland didn't bother with getting offended. He just swallowed hard, let that sink in his stomach settle. "Busy," was all he'd said, with a wry smile. It wasn't unlike the one Kell would wear when striking up a conversation with Holland: the silent acknowledgment of a battle lost as soon as it was started.
"Perhaps." Holland accepts the letter from the Queen of Makt, places it back in the envelope for good measure, bows, and walks out of the room.
Once outside the palace, he stands on the steps and gazes back up at it: mended for functionality more than appearance, it looks imposing, but uneven and jagged. Two armed guards stand on either side of the door, likely all strong magicians—there were more emerging from the woodwork every day.
He wonders whether they'll be enough for whoever tries a coup, because there is inevitably going to be a few attempts on the Queen's life. Though he has never before been able to put his faith in anyone who has sat on the throne for this long, he finds himself hoping these four men are enough.
Holland pricks his finger and watches the blood well up. He doesn't need to wait for there to be a very large amount of blood to begin drawing runes, but he does anyway. He watches, and he thinks about that clearing in the grove of trees, out on the edge of the city.
And, without really making a decision, he pushes his fingernail against the drop of blood beading at the fingertip of his index finger, breaking the surface tension. It runs along the shape of his fingernail, the red thinning as the blood spreads.
He blows lightly on it. The blood disappears. The pierced skin heals.
Holland turns and heads in the direction of the grove.
When he gets there, he stands at the base of the same tree and looks up.
Leaves cluster, youthfully green, on the pale branches above his head, obscuring the light. The sun that does reach the ground forms pointed shapes, like stars close up.
Holland lays his hand against the bark, like he might be able to feel something left over from that day.
He doesn't, of course. It's just a tree.
Somewhere in there, he stops thinking about how his magic left him as he breathed out, and he starts thinking of how White London breathed his magic in. And he thinks about hearing Kell saying his name, four times, and asking him What are you doing.
Once again, he pricks his fingertip precisely, watches the blood well up. He draws the rune right on the bark of the tree: "As Tascen."