Penelo hovered at the edge of wakefulness, hoping that when Balthier returned she would be able to sink back into sleep once more. He'd risen a few minutes before, and his pillow had already cooled. Now the heat of his body was leeching from the place he had once rested, and she shivered a bit, mourning the loss.
The low hum of the Strahl's engines began, and moments later she felt the list of the ship as it escaped its moorings, slipping free from the bonds of the earth to lift into the sky. As the Strahl left behind the low light of the Aerodrome, the early morning sunlight pierced the slats in the blinds, carving shafts of bright light across the room.
The ship leveled out and straightened, having achieved a proper altitude – a sure sign that Balthier had plotted a course and engaged the autopilot, which meant that he'd soon be returning. She couldn't hear his footfalls over the Strahl's engines, but she did hear the squeak of the door hinges.
He climbed back into the bed, nudging her over to reclaim his pillow, and she dragged the rumpled covers up to her chin. But he settled back against the pillows, making a place for her within the circle of his arms, and she went with a vague sense of disquiet at how easily he draped his arm around her, how well her head fit in the crook of his shoulder. It shouldn't have been as comfortable as it was – or at least, she didn't think so. She had never liked sleeping with Raen like this.
But she liked it too much with Balthier, liked that he pursued her restlessly if she turned in her sleep, chasing her across the covers and only settling down again when he could slide his arm across her back as if to reassure himself that she was still there. She liked that his hands tended to fist in her hair, rubbing it in his fingers as if it were fine silk cloth. She even liked his soft snoring, the rhythmic rumble in his chest rather like the purr of a large cat.
It was worrisome. She didn't know how she ought to react, what she ought to think.
Instead she turned her face into his chest in an effort to blot out the persistent light that struggled into the room through the blinds, and murmured, "Where are we going?"
"Archades," he said absently, prying loose her tight grip on the covers to straighten them. "I've got some unpleasant business to attend to. Darling, relax," he chided. "It's early yet; go back to sleep."
She made a frustrated sound in her throat, her shoulders drawing tight with burgeoning anxiety. "I don't know how I'm supposed to act," she said on a pitiful wail. "I don't know what you want from me."
His palm settled between her shoulder blades, rubbing away the tension. He bussed a kiss to the top of her head and with his free hand he caught her hand up, worked his thumb between her clenched fingers and massaged her palm until her hand went lax, then laid it flat on his chest and covered it with his own. His heartbeat beneath her palm was soothing; she found herself unwittingly relaxing, her legs sliding along his, her cheek pillowed comfortably on his chest.
"Just you," he said softly. "Just be you."
Most of the day had rushed by in a blur. Penelo felt off-balance, in a state of more or less constant surprise.
Balthier was swaggering again, and he had surrendered the last of his anger. He had also managed to extract from her, in a moment of weakness engineered entirely by him, a promise that she would refrain from soliciting kisses from anyone else.
She didn't know what she had expected out of the morning – she was accustomed to leers, critiques on her performance, and snide comments.
Balthier wanted only her companionship. He was content to sit beside her at the bar, drinking coffee and making idle conversation, but nothing that delved too deeply, as if he were aware of her apprehension and sought to allay it with old, familiar patterns, and the rhythm of their light, comfortable chatter soothed her shot nerves.
He touched her on occasion, tiny little indicators of familiarity – tucking her hair behind her ear when it fell into her face, laying his palm on the small of her back or his hand over hers on the bar for just a second or two. At first she had started with surprise, unaccustomed to it – but gradually it had ceased to seem quite so strange, and though it always caught her attention, it no longer startled her as it had initially.
At the tail end of the evening and midway through her second glass of sweet wine, a chime had sounded on the deck, alerting them that the ship was rapidly approaching Archades. Balthier had made his way to the deck to guide the Strahl into its descent, and before she was even fully aware of it, she had trailed along behind in his wake, dropping into the seat beside him.
She liked to watch him fly; he took a sort of pleasure in it that went beyond mere enjoyment – the way his hands gripped the yoke brought to mind other things that made her shiver and pat her cheeks to ward off the blush that threatened.
She curled into her seat, clutching her glass of wine in both hands, watching the city rush toward them through the glass of the windshield. It had expanded over the past few years, it seemed, and the streets were thick with throngs of people and cabs hurtling around. There was a kind of organized chaos to it, but she didn't relish the thought of entering it herself at the moment. The Aerodrome loomed on the horizon, and the Strahl dipped toward it, zipping through the open air and nimbly coming to land at its assigned dock.
Balthier killed the engines, and the ambient noise of them faded into the dull roar of city sounds – the honk of cabs outside, the whoosh of other vessels arriving and departing, the distant, monotone announcements over the intercom system. He glanced over at her, reading in her expression her reticence to venture forth into the city.
"I've got to pay a visit to my solicitor," he said. "Would you prefer to remain here?"
"Yes," she said on a sigh of relief. "I mean – it's so loud."
He chuckled, amused. "All right, then. I don't know how long I'll be, so don't feel obliged to wait up." And, as if it were an old, ingrained habit, he brushed his lips across her cheek in an absent farewell, and turned to leave.
Her skin sizzled for a solid minute afterward. And the moment she knew he had gone, and the ship's dock had retracted once more into its hull, she flipped on the communications system and hailed the Galbana.
The line had hardly had the opportunity to connect before Vaan's furious voice screeched over the speakers, turning the air blue with a steady stream of expletives. Penelo had never heard anything like it – and she'd spent the last three years stuck in a tavern that catered to only the lowest, least sophisticated sorts.
She cleared her throat and tried to interject, "Vaan."
He hadn't heard her over his own racket; his foul language continued unabated.
"Vaan." She tried again, exasperation coloring her tone. And then again, "Vaan!"
His voice died away mid-sentence, clearly puzzled to hear her voice instead of Balthier's. But he recovered swiftly, launching into a rapid-fire barrage of questions. "Penelo? Are you all right? Do you need help? Has he kept you from calling? Where are you?"
Penelo pinched the bridge of her nose, heaving a sigh, wondering if she ought not to have bothered calling after all. "I don't need help – I'm just fine. Balthier hasn't kept me from doing anything."
"But he wouldn't let me talk to you! He was supposed to help find you and return you!" The petulant tone of his voice shredded her nerves, and a surge of irritation swept through her.
"Return me?" she snapped. "For the gods' sake – I'm not property to be returned!"
"It was part of the deal," he insisted, oblivious to her irritation. "He wasn't supposed to keep you!"
"I'm not being kept!" She slapped her palm on the dash in frustration. "Vaan – put Fran on."
"Why?" he asked, suspicion in his voice. "What do you have to say to her that you can't say to me?"
She gritted her teeth, snarling, "I want to talk to Fran. In private."
"Is this about Balthier?"
"Now, Vaan!" This had been a huge part of why she had not wanted to return to her previous role aboard the Galbana – Vaan could never let anything go, and he would press and press until she snapped.
A tense silence spun out, broken only by the faint static over the line.
At last, Fran's voice echoed forth from the speakers, pitched low as if to prevent prying ears from overhearing. "He has gone."
Penelo sighed in relief. "How did you manage that?" she asked.
"It was simple enough. I merely tossed him into his room and wedged a chair beneath the door handle," Fran replied.
Penelo threw back her head and laughed. Vaan had met his match in Fran, who had no patience whatsoever for his stubborn tenacity. She solved problems as they arose, in the quickest and most effective way possible – and she had learned well enough how to manage rash young humes.
"You could always have him tossed in jail again," Penelo suggested, only half-joking. "I mean, with Vaan out of the way, you could come back."
There was a brief hesitation. "Is that what you want?" Fran asked, finally. "Do you wish to strike out on your own?"
Penelo curled up in her seat, drawing her legs beneath her. "It's not fair for me to just barge in and take over. The Strahl is your home, too," she said. "Why does it have to be one or the other?"
"The Strahl has but two rooms. Where would you stay?" Fran asked. And when Penelo failed to provide a response, she murmured, "Ah, I see."
Penelo made a strangled sound in her throat, twisting her fingers in her lap. "I just…I don't think I understand him very well," she said. "You know him better than anyone, don't you?"
"Presumably not as well as you do," Fran said dryly, and Penelo was profoundly thankful that Fran could not see the wave of heat that flooded her face.
Penelo shifted uncomfortably. "He told me that…that five years ago…"
"That he harbored some affection for you?" Fran inquired.
"Not exactly how he phrased it," Penelo muttered. "I don't understand why – and I certainly had no idea."
"He would not have wished you to," Fran said. "You were a complication he could ill afford."
"A complication?" Penelo repeated, vaguely insulted.
Something of her chagrin must've leeched through in her voice, and Fran sighed. "You were very young," she said. "And he was…unprepared, as yet, to shoulder the ramifications of his fascination with you. There was so much else at stake."
His fascination? She had the dizzying sense that Fran thought she was imparting some great and revealing knowledge, but Penelo only found herself more puzzled that she had been to begin with. "I don't understand what you mean," she said. "What ramifications?"
"The usual sort, I should expect, that result when one finds that which they seek," came the oblique response.
Doubtful, Penelo said, "You can't be serious. He certainly wasn't seeking me." She managed a rusty laugh, and continued, "He was after the promise of a reward, with the added benefit of revenge against his father."
Fran said, "That was only the whim of a moment, a task undertaken for the glory and adventure in it. Perhaps he did not seek you, but I would consider him twice over again as fortunate, for you found him instead."
Penelo found that exceptionally difficult to believe. Fran seemed to be under the mistaken apprehension that Balthier's heart had been engaged somehow, and just the thought of it seemed ludicrous. And yet, his own words resounded in her head: I chose you. Just three simple, ordinary, devastating words.
She shook her head as if to clear it, absently murmuring, "I always thought I annoyed him somehow."
"You did," Fran said. "Only…not for the reasons you might've imagined." A few beats of silence, drawn out until it screamed in Penelo's ears. "Have you learned all you wished to know?" Fran inquired finally.
No, not at all – she rather thought she had acquired more questions than answers. The bits of Fran's version of the past jumbled in her mind, throwing her thoughts into chaotic disorder. And so, in a desperate bid to reclaim the space inside her own head, she said, "Yes, of course. I've got to go – please tell Vaan to knock it off."
And she cut the line, and left the deck for the kitchen, in search of another drink.
Balthier returned in the early hours of the morning to find Penelo slumped over the bar, her head pillowed upon her folded arms, with an empty bottle of wine placed near her elbow. Her brows were drawn together, her lips compressed into a fractious pout as if she found no solace even in sleep.
He picked up the bottle of wine, examining the label plastered across its face – she'd opened this one herself, which meant she'd gone through probably a bottle and a half all on her own.
Shaking his head ruefully, he brushed at her tangled hair. "You're going to feel that tomorrow," he said. "What in the world were you thinking?"
She stirred, grumbling something unintelligible as she hid her face in her folded arms. Balthier disposed of the empty wine bottle – she'd likely have conniptions if she ever learned that the bottle she'd chosen had been worth somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy thousand gil – and then carefully scooped her off of the chair.
She woke with a start, clutching at his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh even through the starched linen of his shirt. "Oh," she said on a weary sigh. "You're back." She blinked as though her lashes were weighted, as if it took considerable effort to keep her eyes open.
"Good of you to notice." He had thought she would protest his manhandling, but she only laid her head on his shoulder, yawning. "You ought to have been asleep by now."
"I was."
"In a proper bed." He had expected to find her fast asleep, preferably in his bed. And he wondered if perhaps she just hadn't been certain where she ought to go – she might have been looking to him for some sort of guidance. "Have you any idea of what time it is?"
"Have you?" she challenged. "I had drinking to do; that's why I didn't go to bed."
"So I saw." He shifted her to flick off the kitchen lights, not missing the sigh of relief she had given as the darkness had pressed in around them. "Care to enlighten me on what provoked your desire to polish off an entire bottle of wine by yourself?"
"No," she said primly, turning up her nose. She either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared that he had opened the door to his own bedroom. But she certainly did notice when he dropped her unceremoniously upon the bed – she bounced, gasping in surprise.
She cast a sulky glance up at him, thrusting herself up on her elbows, preparing to throw her legs over the side of the bed and rise. He pressed her back down, palm flat upon her chest. "Stay there," he said. "I don't care to test your equilibrium at the moment."
She looked as if she wanted to argue, but apparently she either thought better of it, or perhaps she simply deduced that he would win regardless, and so she gave it up, dropping her head back upon the pillow. He retreated to the washroom, rifling through the cabinets for the spare potions he kept on hand.
When he returned, she had clasped one hand to her forehead and the other draped over her stomach. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, her mouth twisted into a grimace.
"The wrath of grapes, I take it?" And if his voice was just a bit amused, well – she had gotten herself into this, after all.
She cracked one eye open, narrowed it in a fierce glare at him. "Just for that," she grated irritably through a tight throat, "I am definitely aiming for your pillow if I vomit." But she couldn't hold the peevish expression for long – she groaned miserably and gasped, "Everything's spinning."
And he sighed, crossed to the side of the bed, and fished her left leg out from beneath the tangle she'd wrought of the covers, pulling it over the side of the bed and setting her foot firmly upon the floor.
"Oh," she said, in a surprised tone, "That's…actually better."
"Mm." He plucked the cork from the potion, caught up her hand and pressed the tiny bottle into it. "Drink it – you'll regret it in the morning if you don't." He considered that for a moment, and concluded, "You'll likely regret it in the morning anyway, but it can't hurt."
She threw back the liquid like an old pro well-acquainted with swilling shots. But then, working in the tavern as she had been, she had probably had to be. He took the bottle she held out to him, tossing it into the wastebasket. With no small amount of effort – and quite a bit of bellyaching from her, as she hadn't relished the thought of moving – he managed to wrestle her out of her clothing and beneath the covers once more.
"You haven't asked what kept me," he said as he crawled into bed beside her.
"I didn't want to pry," she said. "I figured if you had wanted me to know, you would have told me."
It was a perfectly reasonable, rational, polite response. He could hardly be upset that she had elected not to stick her nose into his business – but he wanted her to pry. He wanted her to be curious…to care.
He folded his arms beneath his head and said, "My solicitor sent a message while we were in Balfonheim. My father's wife has passed on, and so it became necessary to arrange a swift funeral."
"Oh." Her lips pursed as if to hold back an unwise comment. After a moment, she risked it anyway: "Honestly, I'm not sure if I should be offering sympathy or congratulations."
He chuckled. "Bit of both, I suppose."
She rolled onto her side to face him. "Will you go to the funeral? I mean – just because you have to arrange for it doesn't mean you have to attend."
"I think I'd like to see her consigned to her grave for myself," he said. "Just to assure myself that she really is six feet under, and will trouble me no more."
Her fingers tapped out a muted rhythm on the mattress. "Would it be okay if I went with you?"
He lifted a brow. "You're volunteering now, when you have yet to discover the magnitude of the hangover you'll likely experience tomorrow?"
She wrinkled her nose, waving her hand dismissively. "I've had them before; I'll be fine."
Thatwas doubtful, but he was hardly going to turn up his nose at her offer. "Then, yes," he said. "I would like that very much."
She was not fine. The sunlight pierced her eyes with the force of an icepick, and the city noise coalesced into a roar that made her ears ring. Every turn of the cab set her stomach pitching in a new direction, forcing her to grit her teeth against a wave of nausea. And Balthier could only sit across from her, smiling placidly.
"I did warn you," he said. And he had, several times – and she'd disregarded him every time.
"I was –" She broke off abruptly, with a small sound of distress as the cab zipped around a tight corner, throwing her up against the wall, "– trying to be supportive."
"Yes, well, you look like you're about to be supportive all over my boots." He fished in his vest pocket, and she heard the faint clink of tiny glass bottles – and when he pulled out the potion, she snatched for it desperately.
It didn't really do much for the nausea, but it certainly dulled the sharp pain of the light and noise to a manageable ache. "I can't believe you stuff your pockets with potions," she said. "Not that I'm not grateful."
"I don't, typically," he said. "But then, I can't recall the last time I traveled with someone so prone to mishaps. I thought it would be best to be prepared."
Blast him, he was enjoying her discomfort. That smug smile lingering at the corners of his mouth – she was tempted to give in and ruin his boots after all. But the cab lurched to a halt, and Balthier's smirk faded as he glanced out the window.
"It would seem we've arrived," he said, in an inscrutable voice. He passed over the fee to the driver, and a mantle of stalwart forbearance settled over his shoulders. "Let's get this done with, shall we?"
Penelo shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun as she stepped out of the cab, pleased to note that they'd left the clamor of the city behind them for the more subdued peace of the countryside – she hadn't realized quite how long they'd been riding, but it had been long enough for the paved city streets to give way to a cobblestone path that cut through rolling hills covered with lush green grass.
The cemetery was large and sprawling, dotted with tombstones and monuments, its well-maintained lawns peppered with hedges and trees and the odd bouquet of flowers left here and there, tributes from grieving relatives.
"My father's sons are interred here," Balthier said. "She would wish to be near her children, I think."
"That was kind of you," she said. Given the history between them, she was frankly surprised that Balthier had been moved to such consideration.
"I'd just as soon as tossed her into the nearest alley like so much rubbish," he said. "But the plot was paid for already." But though the words were meant to be unfeeling and callous, the undertone that bled through suggested he was not as indifferent as he seemed.
On instinct she slipped her hand into his, and after a heartbeat of surprised silence, he clasped his around hers. In the distance, Penelo could see a freshly-dug plot of earth in the shade of a massive willow tree, and an ornate mahogany coffin resting beside it. There were rows and rows of chairs set out, presumably for mourners – but there were only a handful of people in attendance.
"Are we early?" she asked as they approached.
"No," he said, reading her question as the confusion over the paltry attendance that it was. "To the best of my knowledge, she had few friends. I didn't wish to waste my time tracking down mourners, so I posted an announcement of her passing in the papers, along with the time and location of her service. The few that are here must've read of it."
There was a couple in the front row, sitting so stiffly that neither of their backs touched their chairs, and when the man turned slightly and Penelo caught a glimpse of his face, a surge of fury caught her by surprise. She knew her fingers had tightened on Balthier's to the point of pain, knew that he was looking down at her, baffled.
"I'd rather sit in the back, if you don't mind," she whispered. And then, to defray suspicion, she managed a half-smile. "There's more shade."
He didn't believe her, of course – but he nonetheless directed them to the back row, all the way to the end, in the deep shade of the nearest willow. And Penelo sat rigidly, wishing she had not come after all.
A few moments passed in utter silence, but at last the clergyman who had been waiting in the wings checked his timepiece one last time and decided that no one else would be coming. He shuffled to the front, pulled a crumpled packet of papers from his pocket, and began to drone on about the deceased woman and her passing.
Balthier heaved an impatient sigh, and his right knee jogged up and down. "I ought to have known," he murmured. "Most of the people who've come are just as hateful as she was."
"Oh?" Her throat was tight, her fingers were twisted in her lap.
"Mm. You see, that man there," He gestured to an elderly man in the third row, whose richly-embroidered coat and towering wig marked him as nobility. "That's Lord Venwitt. He's in debt up to his eyes, and still he spends his family into the poorhouse for the sake of maintaining his wardrobe." He gestured then to a lady a few rows in front of them. "Mrs. Elodie Langlow," he said. "She once claimed a title, but it was revoked due to her mistreatment of those in her employ. She's been exiled from court these past four years, I believe." And then he jabbed a finger toward the couple in the front row, and Penelo stiffened. "Asraen Trensom and his wife, Yulia."
"His wife?" The words escaped before she could snatch them back and swallow them down.
"I knew him at school; he's the third son of a minor lord and enjoyed nothing more than reminding me of my illegitimacy –" His voice died abruptly as his head snapped toward her. He said, "Asraen. No, tell me truly. Him?"
She ducked her head, heat suffusing her face. "I certainly didn't know he was married."
Balthier blew out a breath. "Oh, yes," he said. "Quite married. And by all accounts, terribly unhappily. Rumor has it that her father misled him as to the size of her dowry, and he's made her suffer for it ever since. Quite the shame; she's always been a good sort. He's only a third son, so he would have needed to marry well or risk having to actually work for his living. That's likely why he targeted you – your money could have kept him comfortably for some time."
She heard the burgeoning anger in his voice and knew that he was dangerously close to causing a scene. At a funeral. And so she placed her hand on his and said, quietly and firmly, "Please. It's not necessary."
"I beg to differ," he said. And he smiled, for the clergyman was wrapping up his speech, and the cemetery employees were taking their places to lower the coffin into the dirt. Balthier patted her hand. "There's going to be a scene anyway, darling."
She made a rough sound of frustration. "I wish you wouldn't."
"Oh, not me – him." He muffled a vengeful chuckle with one hand. "You see, my father's wife was Asraen's godmother. And if he's still got pockets to let, as I suspect he does, he's here for one reason only: to see what she's left to him."
Penelo's brow furrowed. "But how could she leave him anything? She didn't have –"
"Precisely. She could leave him nothing because she owned nothing. And watch here: he'll be making an inquiry to the clergyman as to who is handling her affairs." The ruthless satisfaction in his voice gave Penelo pause, and she knew he was looking forward to the inevitable confrontation. His hand lifted from hers, curling into a fist as if imagining plowing it through Raen's face.
Just as Balthier had predicted, Raen and his wife approached the clergyman, offered their hands for him to clasp, and then Raen leaned in, whispering a discreet question. The clergyman's eyes scanned the crowd, moving back through the rows until at last his gaze settled on Balthier.
As the clergyman gestured toward Balthier, Penelo slouched in her seat, attempting to escape notice by tucking herself out of line of sight, sheltered by the ridiculously high hat of the woman seated before her.
"He's scowling," Balthier whispered to her in a voice filled with vindictive delight. "Come, now, you should enjoy this – believe me, it's going to be fun."