The trousers had been a terrible idea, and Balthier had realized it not half a second after she'd pranced out from the shop's back room, looking gloriously thrilled. She paused before the long mirror that hung on the wall opposite the counter, twisting this way and that to admire the fit of the pants, the way they shimmered in the light.

He ought to have provided more specific instructions to the shopkeeper, he realized. Clearly, the man was a master of his craft with a particularly discerning eye, for the fit of the trousers was nothing short of indecent. They hugged her hips and conformed to the sleek lines of her legs as if she'd been poured into them, and Balthier felt a twitch coming on, a helpless spasm of the tiny muscles beneath his right eye, as if this last bit of business was too much to be borne.

But she was so deliriously pleased with them; there was the flash of a dimple in her cheek, the sweet, upward tilt of her lips, which she gave great efforts toward stifling only to have it burst forth again a moment later. She performed a little pirouette, and he was intensely aware that the low-slung waist of the pants really only reached her hips, exposing several inches of milky-white skin between it and the hem of her blouse.

He couldn't bring himself to sour her sunny mood. He was going to have to let her enjoy her new trousers even if it killed him.

She paused at the mirror, bending at the waist to tighten the laces of her boots, and he stifled a groan.

It likely would kill him.

She sauntered toward him, and her smile faltered as she approached, her pale brows drawing together.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You look…disturbed." She crossed her arms over her chest as she scrutinized him, and the motion pulled the neckline of her shirt down, providing a tantalizing glimpse of the shadowed valley between her breasts. Through sheer dint of will, he resisted the temptation to glance down.

"Fine," he said, in a clipped tone. "Just fine." Twitch, twitch.

Doubtfully, she frowned up at him, easing closer. "You don't look fine."

"Must be allergies." He gave a weak imitation of a sniffle. "Let's be off, then." And he turned on his heel and exited the shop, hoping she would at least give her farewells to the shopkeeper, thereby buying him a few moments to regain his shattered composure.

Lady Luck was not on his side; Penelo followed directly after. There was an effervescent bounce in her step as she approached, and she was busy cramming her discarded trousers into her bag, and thus did not notice the brief flicker of agony that crossed his face.

In true sunlight, the trousers were a hundred times worse. No, a thousand – they caught and held the light with all the shining brilliance of an oil slick, a rainbow of color dancing up and down her legs with each subtle movement. He'd never seen anything like it in his life, and the last thing he wanted was to be caught gawking at her backside.

He wasn't the only one. A group of men had poured into the street from the shop next door, and the two in front had staggered to a halt, arrested by the sight of Penelo's snakeskin-clad derriere, creating a miniature bottleneck in the foot traffic.

One of them mouthed something that looked suspiciously like good gods, while the other stared in mute rapture.

Penelo, blast her, remained utterly oblivious. Finally, she succeeded in stuffing the spare trousers within her bag and wrenched closed the togs that bound the flap. "Where next?" she asked.

"The tavern," he said. While her face remained averted, he cast a killing glance over his shoulder at the group of men who had not yet managed to shake off their stupefaction. Beneath his breath, he muttered, "I need a drink."

Her head popped up, expression perplexed. "It's morning," she said.

"It's evening somewhere," he growled.

"What does that have to do with –" She broke off with a sigh, as he had already begun striding quickly away. She jogged along to catch up with him, matching her pace to his, wending through the thick crowd.

Even the tavern was crowded, with patrons milling around, talking excitedly amongst themselves. Balthier caught a glimpse of Old Rohan tucked away in a bad corner, frowning over his whiskey. The old man did a double-take as he caught sight of them, his bushy brows receding into his hairline.

A rumble of gravelly laughter escaped him as they approached. "Didn't expect to see ye back here," he said. "Thought better of it, I take it?"

"Not at all," Balthier said. He fished in his own bag and retrieved a heavy book, placing it gently down on the table before Old Rohan. "We found the tomb, and more besides. The effects thereof are responsible for the chaos in the city."

Old Rohan looked doubtfully at the book. "Naw," he said. "There ain't no one who's made it through that jungle in hundreds 'o years."

Balthier shrugged. "It will require little external verification," he said. "There's a path straight there, now. There are expeditions being mounted as we speak. You'll have your confirmation in a few days at the most."

Old Rohan's brow furrowed in consternation. "I ain't much for readin'," he said. "This book here looks old enough, I reckon. It's got somethin' in it? 'Bout the king?"

"Your king turned out to be a queen," Penelo said, skirting around Balthier. "And she wasn't really evil so much as misunderstood."

Old Rohan squinted at her, his good eye narrowing to a slit as his gaze raked her. "Yer shammin' me."

She shook her head, her fair hair bobbing over her shoulders. "And we ran into one of your death adders, too." She jerked her head towards Balthier. "It got its fangs into him, but I killed it."

"Naw." The hand that wasn't clenched on the glass of whiskey drifted up to touch the scar bisecting his face. "Ye ain't got it in ye."

"Hm." She propped one booted foot up on the chair beside Old Rohan, presenting her snakeskin-clad leg for his inspection. "I've got a brand new pair of snakeskin pants that say otherwise."

Old Rohan choked, but unlike the younger generation of men who had been enamored of her body, he was focused solely upon the shiny snakeskin. His jaw worked as he tried to formulate a response, his beard quivering. "Never thought I'd see…" He swallowed hard. "Ye did do it, then. Can't hardly believe it. Ye two?" He managed a rusty laugh.

"We've come through worse," Balthier said. He slid into the seat opposite Old Rohan and signaled for a waitress. "You would hardly be the first to underestimate us."

The waitress came to the table, carrying two mugs of bitter ale. "This one's yours, sir," she said, handing one to Balthier. "And yours, miss." She extended the other to Penelo.

Penelo shook her head, slanting a chiding glance at Balthier, who had already swallowed down half of his. "It's far too early –"

"It's been purchased already," the waitress said. "From the lad over there, at the bar." And she nodded to the gentleman in question, who offered a brief wave to Penelo.

"For the gods' sake," Balthier snarled. He finished off the last of his ale, plunked the empty mug down on the waitress' tray, and snatched up Penelo's. Then he turned deliberately to face Penelo's admirer, lifted the mug in his direction, and took a drink. The waitress clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle, moving on to the next table, and Penelo stared at Balthier in open-mouthed astonishment.

"That was mine," she said.

"You didn't want it," he gritted out from between clenched teeth.

"It was still mine!"

Old Rohan coughed into his fist and mumbled something beneath his breath. "That earthquake – how do you reckon ye caused it?"

"Not us – the queen." Balthier resisted Penelo's attempts to free the mug from his hand. "Her spirit had been trapped in the tomb, her hatred for her tormentors all-consuming. When we at last convinced her to move on to the hereafter, she shed her hatred, and it resulted in a rather deep chasm running the length of the jungle from the tomb all the way into the grasslands. For those who might wish to explore the tomb, the jungle will no longer prove an obstacle." He drained the dregs of the ale and at last surrendered it to Penelo, who glared at him balefully. "Perhaps you might know where to locate some sort of historical society – we promised the queen that we would see to restoring her to her proper place in history."

Old Rohan's grizzled face twisted in thought, his wrinkled cheeks pulling in. "Ye'll want to head to the Old Town square," he said. "It ain't more 'en ten minutes walk from here. They got some gents what pay from time to time fer artifacts and such. Put 'em all up in a fancy museum what fer the people to look at. Big grey building right on the corner near the water, ye can't miss it."

"My thanks," Balthier said. He withdrew a wad of bills from his pocket, laying a few notes on the table in payment for the ale, and then extended another couple of notes to Old Rohan, who reached for it eagerly. "For the information," he said.

"Weren't no trouble," Old Rohan said, abashed. He shook his head ruefully. "Still can't believe it were ye," he said. "Never woulda thought."

"Well," Penelo sighed, as she dropped into a bar chair overlooking the Strahl's tiny kitchen. "I suppose a thousand gil is better than nothing."

"Darling," Balthier chided, "They're a preservation society. They're not fine art collectors; they collect history for the edification of future generations. You could hardly expect a fortune from them." He took the seat beside her, bracing one arm on the counter. "Besides, we didn't undertake the task for the promise of a reward, therefore anything gained is merely a bonus."

"Maybe," she said. "But a thousand gil? Really? That'll hardly pay for more than a few nights at an inn." She folded her arms on the counter, pillowing her head upon them. Her lips quirked in a wry smile. "They were happy to acquire those books, though, weren't they?"

Ecstatic would have been a more apt description. The society's docent had gone into veritable paroxysms of joy at the prospect of adding such books to the collection. And then he'd promptly scolded Balthier for touching such an ancient, fragile tome with his bare hands.

"I think they'll soon have more books than just the ones we've given them. Enough, certainly, to shed light on ancient history, and to restore Anora to her proper place." He twisted in his chair to face her. "What's troubling you?"

Another heartfelt sigh followed. "I hate being dependent upon the goodwill of others," she admitted. "I was hoping…well, I was hoping that the treasure we found would fetch a high enough price that I wouldn't have to…burden you any longer."

His brows drew together. "You're not a burden."

She managed a bitter chuckle. "But I am. I always seem to be – I was a burden to Ashe, and now I'm a burden to you. The cost of everything comes from your pocket."

"You think I begrudge you the price of a few new outfits?" He sounded offended, as if she had attacked his honor.

Another laugh. "It's not a few, Balthier – dear gods, do you think I didn't see the size of that package? It must be at least six."

It was ten, but he was hardly going to admit to that now. "You honestlybelieve six outfits to be excessive?"

She fixed him with a reproachful look. "When I was a child, I never had more than three at any given time. Of course I think six is excessive. Look, I know you were raised in the lap of luxury," she said, "but I'm used to economizing. I'm comfortable with it. I could never be comfortable spending a fortune on closets and closets full of clothing."

There was a sudden hint of tightness at the corners of his mouth, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "Where did you get the impression," he asked, "that I was raised in the lap of luxury?"

She blinked. "Weren't you? I thought that your father was wealthy."

"Oh, he was," he said, in a biting voice. "He was that, indeed. However, I did not share in the benefits of his wealth."

She frowned. "Why not?"

There was a moment of tense silence, as thick and dense as cement, as he considered what to say in response. His jaw was stiff and unyielding, as if he regretted the impulse that had made him correct her for her misapprehension, regretted that now she sought an explanation that he wasn't entirely certain that he wished to give.

But at last he sighed, and unclenched his jaw against the words that were locked within. And he studied her face, searching for signs of judgment as he let them free.

"Bastards are seldom welcome in noble households." Though the words were even, they lacked inflection, as if he had spent years acclimating himself to them, inoculating himself against the pain they caused until he could recite them by rote, without thought or feeling.

Her face crumpled in sympathy. "Oh," she said. "I'm so sorry – how cruel. He abandoned you?"

"Until my mother died, and there was no one left to care for me." He stretched out his arm, reaching across the counter to snag a bottle of wine, plucking the cork from the bottle deftly. He was still somewhat shy of sober, owing to the two ales he had poured down his throat just an hour or so earlier, but the words spilling from his throat required something to soothe it against the bitter burn of them. And now that they were coming at last, he found he could not stifle them. "Her name was Vianne. She was an opera dancer, and very beautiful. She had a short-lived affair with my father, resulting in my birth. Of course, she could hardly afford to support the both of us on such a meager salary, so she applied to my father for aid." He took a deep drink. "He told her to go to the devil."

He felt Penelo's small hand touch his shoulder, her fingers curling as if she were bracing the both of them. As if she were encouraging him to speak, not to satisfy her curiosity, but because he needed to.

"But you were his son," she said.

"He had two already by his wife, both of them grown. He had no need of an illegitimate son. Then," he clarified, with a sour laugh. "But the same year my mother died, he lost the both of them to the fruits of their excesses. One was caught bedding the wife of another nobleman and died at the point of a pistol, and the other accrued massive gambling debts, and was found, bound and gagged and bloated beyond recognition, floating in a river."

She made a soft sound of realization. "And then," she said, "you became valuable."

"That's right," he said. "I was eight years old, and I would've been taken to a workhouse had he not read my mother's obituary in the papers." He took another drink and offered the bottle to Penelo in the interests of courtesy, but she shook her head. "I didn't want to go with him," he said. "But he told me he was my father and he wanted to take me home with him. I had no other option, and so I went."

She drew in a swift breath. "But, his wife –"

He laughed. "Very good. You're cleverer than I was. Than he was, even. She shrieked at him like a common fishwife when we arrived." He shrugged. "I can hardly blame her; what woman wishes to house the proof of her husband's infidelities beneath her own roof? And so I was shunted off to school more or less immediately. I was never allowed to come home for holidays, for it was never my home to return to."

Her brow furrowed. "I can't imagine turning my back on an innocent child," she said soberly.

"Then you are a kinder woman than she," he said. "Do you know, Cidolfus never stopped believing he could turn me to his cause. To my mind he had no reason to believe it; we seldom spoke. But believe it he did, up until the very last moment – and so he never wrote me out of his will, and I inherited everything when we slew him." He hunched his shoulders. "I ought to take a perverse pleasure in it – the woman who practically threw me out of her house is now dependent upon me for her living. Everything she has belongs to me, every luxury she enjoys is at my will alone."

She tilted her head, interested. "And do you? Take pleasure in it, I mean."

He heaved a sigh. "I allow her to live in that house, and when she sends scathing letters demanding money to me through my solicitor, I pay it – and I feel nothing."

"But why? You don't owe her anything."

"She was as badly used as my mother," he said. "I can't fault her –"

"I fault her!" Penelo cried. "You were a child. You don't owe her an apology for having the audacity to exist!"

And he stared at her as if he could not quite comprehend the meaning of the words. For a long moment, he only stared. And then, at last, he managed a chuckle, shaking his head. He collected her small hand from where it was still perched on his shoulder, grasped it in his, and brought it to his lips.

"I indulge myself with luxuries because they were denied me in my youth and now I have the means to acquire them. I don't intend to stop anytime soon, so you would be better served to stow your objections," he said. "I am familiar with burdens. She is a burden. You, however,are in no way a burden to me. I shall be very displeased if you ever again so much as think it." He pressed a kiss into her open palm and curled her fingers closed, as if to keep it safe. And then he reached out, cupped her face in his hands, and leaned forward to brush his lips briefly just across her forehead.

Her breath shuddered out; she was arrested by the warmth of his hands on her face, the gentle caress of his lips. "Balthier –"

"How is it," he asked, his voice a low rumble, "that you always seem to know precisely what to say?"

"I-I don't," she said, alarmed by the husky sound of her own voice. "It was nothing, just common sense –"

"Not so common, then, if I failed to divine it." His cheek brushed hers, and she caught a dizzying whiff of his aftershave, smooth and spicy. "Penelo, I would very much like to kiss you right now."

Oh. She fidgeted, squirming on her chair. "I'm…not sure that's a good idea," she said.

"Perhaps not. And yet, I am asking anyway." There was a brief hesitation, and his fingers stroked across the curve of her chin. "Understand me, darling – I am asking."

She should have been apprehensive. Or – more apprehensive. She should have knocked his hands away, scrambled off the chair, run for safety. But…she didn't feel unsafe at all. His hands stroked instead of grabbed; he had made no demands. And he patiently awaited her response, contenting himself with the smooth slide of her cheek against his. His breath warmed the skin just below her ear, coaxing a shiver from her.

"Maybe…just one." She didn't recognize the sound of her own voice; it had gone weak and thready.

He chuckled; she could feel his smile against her cheek. "No maybes, pet. Yes or no – I told you I wouldn't decide for you."

Frustration welled; she was painfully aware of the heat of her own skin, the way she couldn't quite keep still, the way her flesh sizzled at just the lightest caress of his fingers as if he'd left a trail of fire in his wake. With a disorienting sense of shock, she realized it was arousal – he had, with just a few touches, managed to make her feel something she'd never felt with Raen.

Lightheaded, she groped for his arms, clutching them with her hands to stabilize herself. The heat of his skin seared her fingers even through his shirt. "Yes, but…just one," she said in a whisper.

"Mmm." His sound of satisfaction was breathed into the fine hairs behind her ear, and then his hands cupped her face, tilting it up, and her eyes closed.

His lips brushed hers in a feather-light caress, barely more than a whisper of sensation. And then his hands fell away from her face, and the heat of his body evaporated.

"I think," he said, "even if nothing more should come of this, I will cherish that expression for all of my days."

She opened her eyes, perplexed – but he had already shaken off her hold to rise, taking the empty wine bottle into the kitchen to dispose of it.

And she was still perched on the edge of her chair, bereft of the warmth of his touch, feeling uncomfortably like she'd received an electric shock. He'd played her for a fool.

She shoved herself out of her chair, indignation rising to the forefront. "What the hell was that?" she snapped.

"A kiss," he said, in a thoroughly unrepentant tone of voice, as he bent over the trash can, setting the bottle in carefully lest it crack into shards. "Why?" he asked, when he looked up at last. "Were you expecting something different?"

Her lips flattened into a firm, furious line. She slammed her palm on the counter; the sound cracked through the air, and her hand smarted, but at least it vented a bit of her anger. "You know what I expected."

"Did you want another, then? I'd be happy to oblige." There was the hint of a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth; he was enjoying her sharp flash of temper.

"No!" She withdrew her hand from the counter, fisted them both at her sides. "Don't…don't toy with me," she said. "I don't play those sorts of games!"

"Darling," he said soothingly, "I assure you, I meant nothing of the sort. Only yesterday you looked at me as if you expected the worst sort of treatment – you expected me to treat you like he did." He folded his arms over his chest. "It is my hope that you will see that it will not happen. Anything that does happen will be your choice – it won't be the result of coercion. And it certainly won't be qualified with maybe."

"I don't want anything!" Her voice soared, infuriated.

"Well, not now, certainly. You're in too much of a snit."

"I'm not in a snit!" But she was certainly shouting as though she were. With raw sound of irritation, she scowled at him. She didn't know exactly why she was so very angry – but surely it had something to do with thwarted desire. He had deliberately misled her, and she still…ached. And he knew it, curse him. He knew precisely what he had done, and he wanted her to admit to it, to admit that he had affected her.

Well, he could go to hell – she would not be manipulated.

With a muttered expletive, she turned away and stomped down the corridor, slamming the door of Fran's room behind her, but his low, silky rumble of laughter had followed her down, and echoed afterwards in her ears.

She was painfully aware that she had been sulking, taking refuge in the privacy of Fran's room. It had been an hour or more, and she had only been sitting and brooding, staring at the brown paper-wrapped package at the end of the bed, the one that surely contained the clothing that Balthier had insisted upon purchasing.

She hadn't been able to bring herself to open it yet, fearful that her pleasure in the new things would weaken the depths of her fury.

And then there came a short, sharp rap at the door, and Balthier called her name, his voice muffled through the thick wooden door.

"What?" she snapped in response.

His even reply followed: "You have a decision to make." There was something in his tone that suggested a degree of hesitance, as though he would rather not have made the offer, that he was not certain of what her answer might be.

She felt her breath hitching her chest, dragged her knees up to loop her arms around them, and asked, "What is it?"

A heartbeat of silence. "Fran called," he said at last. "I neglected to tell her the name of the tavern in which you were found, and she and Vaan stumbled upon it. Vaan is now fully aware of where you are, and apparently he is furious."

She drew in a breath, reached for a pillow, and hugged it to her chest. "And?"

"And they are on their way to Galina as we speak," he said. "So now you must choose – do we wait for Vaan, or do we leave before they arrive?"

Oh – he thought that she would choose to go. That she might see Vaan as her savior, that, in her current fit of pique, she would leap at the chance to escape him.

She chewed her lower lip, said, "Fran probably wants to return. Vaan's got to be on her last nerve by now."

Through the door, he said, "Fran called while Vaan was otherwise occupied for the purpose of warning you – she is committed to wrangling Vaan if you would prefer to remain."

She suspected that he was attempting to modulate his voice lest he be accused once more of manipulation. And she realized that, in point of fact, there had been no real reason for him to even have informed her of Fran's call. She had not overheard it; she would've been none the wiser if he had merely set a course and sailed away. Instead, he had brought to her the information, laying it out in front of her to choose as she would, regardless of his own interests. And she knew, then, that he would not try to stop her if she chose to go, would not attempt to change her mind or cajole her into staying. Even for all his faults, he held steadfastly to at least that small bit of honor – pirate and thief he might be, but he would not betray the trust she had placed in him.

And she did trust him. He had never been anything but honest with her; she knew precisely where they stood, because he had told her explicitly.

"By Fran's estimation, they will arrive in approximately two hours. You have time yet to decide," he said.

"No," she said. "I've already decided." She dug her nails into smooth surface of the pillow, carving divots into the plush softness and wishing desperately that she could peek into the future for just an instant to see whether or not she'd come to the right decision.

And there was nothing from the other side of the door, no sound at all – just a heavy silence fraught with tension.

"I want to go the Paramina Rift," she said. "It's been ages since I've last seen snow."

Still nothing. But then, she hadn't clarified her choice of companions.

So she said at last, as if it were an afterthought, "Vaan hates snow."

There was a small sound from the corridor, as if he had muffled a chuckle. He said only, "All right, then." And then there was the sound of his boots on the wood floor as he retreated, and moments later she heard the purr of the engines, and felt the Strahl shift as she alighted into the sky, bound for elsewhere.