Penelo was fairly certain that if she were to ask Balthier to jump off a bridge, he would simply ask her which bridge she had in mind. He had, in the space of an afternoon, acquiesced to her every request without even the hint of an argument. He'd agreed to continue to employ fifty people he might see on average once or twice a year just because she had asked it of him.
She had expected at least abit of resistance, and at most a grace period of a month or two while the servants sought other positions. But he had agreed to keep them on without condition, prepared to support the livelihoods of so many people indefinitely.
He had not expressed this to them, but Penelo was sure that the eavesdropping maid had indeed seen to it that the news spread like wildfire. The staff had been perhaps overly attentive, eager to serve any need before it could even be conceived of – much less voiced. And Balthier had seemed, for the first time that she could recall, a bit out of his element with so many people hanging on his every word and focusing all of their attention on him.
But he had suffered it well enough, and at the very least he had seemed to enjoy dinner – though most especially he had enjoyed the moment when Prestwick had informed him that he was now the owner of an extensive and extremely valuable collection of wine awaiting his inspection in the wine cellar.
They hadn't even made it through half of the house before it had gone past time to retire for the evening. She was almost certain that the purpose of their trip here had been about little more than his desire to thumb his nose at his father's wife – to revel in that which had been denied to him in his youth. But she wondered if his curiosity might've been piqued enough to merit further exploration in the morning. It was one thing to see one's possessions itemized on a sheet of paper and quite another to hold them in your hands.
And she…she wanted him to have the opportunity to do so; to take ownership of everything that should have been his all along. To reclaim the home that should have been his, to make his own mark on it and scrub out the taint of malice that lingered. It might even prove cathartic – there had been a few moments during the evening when she had seen shadows of the past shading his eyes, the haunting image of the boy he'd once been peering out through them. He was still outside looking in, and he didn't have to be any longer.
He deserved the home and the family that had been denied him as a child. Perhaps when the ghosts that stalked the empty halls of the house had been exorcised, he would have healed enough to find those things.
Balthier tossed restlessly in his bed, staring up at the gilt-accented ceiling, waiting for the soft sound of footsteps to fade from the hallway. That was one of the pitfalls in owning a house so overrun with servants; one could reliably expect that there would always be one of them about.
Inconvenient, as Prestwick had placed Penelo in a separate room. He had been prepared to argue that, when Prestwick had shown her to hers – but she'd cleared her throat with a subtle shake of her head just as he had opened his mouth to protest, making it clear she did not wish to be embarrassed in front of the servants.
Seven doors separated them; he'd counted carefully. And now he was obliged to wait until the household settled, until he could slip out the door and down the hall unobserved.
It was a strange thing, how quickly he had acclimated to her sleeping beside him; his bed was cold and lonely without her. He missed the pressure of her head notched against his shoulder, her hair tickling his chin. He missed her arm draped over him, missed her legs entangling with his – he even missed her tendency to warm her cold toes on his calves.
He missed her.
Blast it all – enough was enough. He thrust back the blankets, grabbed his trousers from the chair he'd tossed them in and pulled them on with rough impatience. The well-oiled hinges of the door gave not the slighted creak as he eased it open, peering out into the corridor to scan for any lingering servants.
The hall was deserted. Light fixtures affixed to the walls had been turned low, draping the hall in clinging shadows. The lush carpeting beneath his bare feet betrayed only a whisper of sound, and he crept down the hall slowly, keeping to the center of the hall where the shadows were thickest. He counted off the doors as he passed them, and breathed a sigh of relief as he made it to Penelo's room unseen.
The knob gave easily beneath his hand, and he slipped inside without a sound, twisting the lock as he closed the door behind him. In the darkness he could only see the vague outline of the bed, and he moved quietly toward it, feeling for the edge of the blanket so that he could slip beneath it.
He heard the whisper of her skin sliding across the sheets as she turned, giving a sleepy murmur of welcome. She was warm and pliant, and as he slipped his arm beneath her, she shifted to tuck her head against his shoulder just as he had grown accustomed to.
"Did I wake you?" He pressed the words into the soft tangle of her hair.
"Mm, just a bit," she said on a yawn. "These sheets are silk – d'you think all the sheets in this house are silk?"
"With what I have spent on maintaining it for the last several years, they had damn well better be."
Her laugh was muffled against his shoulder. She traced an idle pattern across his chest, delicate whorls with just the tips of her fingers stretching out into smooth strokes with her whole hand, until she was petting him like a cat.
"I thought for sure you weren't coming," she said at last. "It got so late."
"At first, I waited for the staff to settle for the night so as not to be caught in the corridor. And then I grew tired of waiting." He managed a one-shouldered shrug, careful not to jostle her about. "It's my damned house, after all – I'm at liberty to sleep wherever I please."
"There's got to be at least fifty rooms in this house," she said. "You didn't have to choose mine."
"Ah, but I'm the master of the house, and as such, I'm entitled to the best. All the other rooms were inferior." He was going to have to purchase a set of silk sheets for the Strahl. He was indifferent to them, but Penelo liked them very much indeed – she kept sliding her legs across them, enjoying the sensation of the slippery silk against her skin.
"Oh? You inspected all the other rooms?" she asked, doubtfully.
"I didn't need to." He caught her hand and arranged her arm to drape across his chest as he liked it, and swept his free hand down the smooth slope of her back so that she nestled closer to his side. "I knew you weren't in any of them."
From anyone else, it would have sounded like a line. But he had no need of them; he wasn't trying to lure her into bed with him – he'd already gone and crawled in with her. His right arm tucked around her, his fingers curved over her hip. His left arm bracketed hers across his chest, his palm cupping her elbow to hold her in place. She felt the swift rise and fall of his chest on a deep, satisfied exhale. For all appearances, he was on the very verge of falling asleep.
So he'd woken her for no reason other than to take up space in her bed? Irked, she draped her leg over his, only slightly mollified when he shifted to accommodate her. And yet, nothing – he truly just intended to sleep. She slid her knee up, gliding her leg along his thigh.
His breath hitched in his chest; his fingers contracted on her hip. Feigning a scandalized tone, he said, "You wicked girl – what in the world do you think you're doing?"
"Well…there was a funeral today. I thought you might be in need of consolation?" she offered.
A laugh rumbled in his chest. He half-turned, readjusting to slide his arms around her, nudging his knee between hers. "May it be on your head, then," he said, scraping her hair aside to drop a row of kisses along the curve of her throat.
"May what be on my head?" she asked.
But he was nibbling on her earlobe, and his fingers were sliding down her belly, and she almost didn't hear him when he murmured, "I was trying to be considerate. So let it be on you to make explanations to the staff when you bring them running."
She managed a shaky laugh. "I'm not that loud, surely."
He braced himself on his forearms and pulled away just a bit, arching a brow as he smiled down at her in patronizing affection. "You'll have your answer soon enough."
"Would you hurry?"
Balthier suppressed a snicker as Penelo paced fretfully before the door, knitting her fingers together. The sun was newly risen, but she was already dressed and ready to depart. In her mad scramble to escape the house before the majority of the servants had taken up their posts, she had all but shoved him out of bed, thrusting his bundled clothing at him. Apparently she had made a pre-dawn search of the surrounding rooms in order to locate the rest of his clothing.
"I thought you wished to explore the rest of the house," he said, in as innocent a tone as he could manage, keeping his expression carefully neutral.
She tugged a hank of her hair over her shoulder, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "We've probably seen most of it. I'm sure we have."
"Darling, we've not set foot in the east wing yet," he said. "And there's the wine cellar, yet, besides – perhaps I'd better summon Prestwick for a tour."
"No!" she gasped, her cheeks heating as she turned on him in horror – which faded into fury the moment she realized he was laughing at her. A sound of aggravation scraped out of her throat; she crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at him. "You are such an ass."
He shrugged into his vest, working the togs as he crossed the room to approach her. "I did warn you," he said. "Servants of his caliber are trained to come running at the slightest sound – and you, darling, do nothing by halves." He bussed a kiss to her forehead. "Although I quite enjoyed seeing you stammer over an explanation wearing nothing but a sheet."
"He had a key," she grumbled. "I didn't have timeto dress." Hopefully, she glanced up at him. "Do you think he believed me?" She'd managed to cobble together a spur-of-the-moment excuse, claiming occasional nightmares.
He chuckled. "No," he said. "I can assure you that he did not, though he would never be so uncouth as tell you so." He caught her shoulders, gently reorienting her to face the oval mirror hanging on the wall beside the door, and he drew one finger down her throat, pointing out the love bite just above her collar.
She drew a swift, infuriated breath. "You did that on purpose!"
He had, actually, but she hadn't seemed to mind very much at the time. Clearly she was of the opinion that what passed in the night ought leave no reminders come the cold light of morning.
Frowning, she rubbed her fingers over the mark as if it might scrub away beneath the pressure. "Maybe he didn't notice," she said.
"A butler, in a household like this one? He's trained to notice such things." Poor dear; he sincerely doubted she was ever going to be able to look Prestwick in the eyes again.
She made a dismayed sound, her lips compressing into a firm line as she narrowed her eyes at him, and he foresaw a lecture in his not-too-distant future if he did not tread lightly.
"For the gods' sake, Balthier – how long does it take you to dress?" she huffed.
"I'm nearly done," he said, as he buttoned his cuffs. Beneath his breath, he muttered, "Imagine – sneaking out of my own house like a thief in the night."
She rounded on him with a glare. "If you hadn't crawled into my bed, it wouldn't be necessary!"
She was really quite beautiful when she was in a temper; her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed – though he didn't expect that she would appreciate such an observation at the moment. "Need I remind you that you were the instigator? I would have been perfectly content simply to sleep."
For a moment she fell silent, her brows drawn together, pensive. "Why?" she asked at last.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why?" she repeated. "That's – that a bit strange, isn't it?" She had gone back to knotting her fingers again, and chewing on her lower lip nervously. "I mean, why would you come to my bed just to sleep? Isn't that a little…strange?"
She was afraid, he realized abruptly. Afraid that he would give her an answer she was ill-equipped to handle, one she wasn't prepared to contend with just yet. A sliver of disappointment pierced him, but he forced it down and countered her question with deliberate nonchalance. "Not particularly," he said, turning to face the mirror, running his fingers through his hair to scrape it into some semblance of order. "I've simply grown used to your presence, and this house is damned drafty."
He didn't miss her relieved exhale, and fought to stifle a wince. It was only natural for her to be gun-shy, given her history – but telling himself that did little for his bruised ego.
Awkwardly she cleared her throat. "We really should get going," she said at last, turning towards the door. Before she could reach for the handle, there was a sharp rap on the door, and she leapt back, startled. "Oh, no," she whispered, backing away.
He coughed to disguise a laugh; the horror on her face was priceless.
"The window," she gasped, in a burst of inspiration.
"Oh, come, now," he chided. "Surely you're not serious." But she had already zipped across the floor, and was occupied with twisting the latches and shoving up the heavy pane.
"Miss? Will you be wanting breakfast?" A maid's voice, muffled by the thick wooden door.
Penelo had already slung one leg over the sill, gesturing frantically for Balthier to follow as she climbed over and ducked out of sight, and the rapid patter of retreating footsteps rose through the window. Balthier pressed his fingers to his forehead, heaving a sigh of exasperation. She'd likely be halfway down the drive before he caught up with her.
The poor maid still knocked, waiting to be admitted. He took pity on her and opened the door himself. "Lottie, isn't it?" he asked the startled maid. "You needn't concern yourself with us," he said. "No breakfast necessary. We're just leaving."
"Oh," she said. "I'll fetch Prestwick, sir – he'll want to give you a proper send off."
He coughed into his fist. "That won't be necessary. It's going to be a rather unconventional exit," he said, holding the door wide enough to reveal the open window.
"Oh," she said. "Oh, I see." But her brows furrowed, and her lips pursed as she eyed him askance, clearly doubting his sanity. "Good day to you, then, sir."
And Balthier closed the door again with an aggrieved sigh and headed for the window.
He caught up to her on the main thoroughfare, just outside the gates. "I hope you're happy," he said. "By now I'm certain they all think I've gone completely mad, sneaking out of windows when there are perfectly serviceable doors about." A sharp wave summoned a cab; it veered toward them, pulling to a halt at the curb.
She had the good grace to give him a sheepish smile as she climbed into the cab, sliding across the seat to free up a space for him. "I'm sorry," she said. "You probably think I'm an incurable coward."
"Not incurable," he said. "But you are a bit…straight-laced, perhaps. I have every confidence that you will outgrow it in time."
She shot him a baffled glance, uncertain of his meaning.
"Destination?" the driver asked.
"The Aerodrome," he said.
She touched his sleeve. "No, please – before we leave, I'd like to visit with Larsa."
He sighed. "Is that really necessary? I don't relish the thought of a lecture on the perils of piracy from a boy ten years my junior."
"Destination?" the driver asked again, his voice tinged with impatience.
And Balthier made a fatal mistake: he looked at Penelo. Blast it, she had figured him out somehow – she cast those big eyes up at him, wide and guileless, just the hint of a plea in them. Her lower lip thrust out in an entreating pout; her fingers curled upon his sleeve in mute appeal.
"The palace," he heard himself gritting out to the driver. The cab lurched into motion, pulling away from the curb and out into the rush of traffic, and Penelo released her thrall on him, settling back into her seat with a satisfied little wiggle.
"Thank you," she said. "I asked a lot of Larsa yesterday; I think I owe him a bit of an explanation. And I think I'd like to see how Yulia is getting along."
Balthier stewed in his irritation, resigning himself to losing every battle with her for the foreseeable future. "It's early yet," he said, "We'll likely be turned away at the gate. Aside from which, Yulia is safely ensconced within the palace – what could possibly have gone wrong?"
Contrary to Balthier's expectation, they weren't only admitted to the palace despite the early hour, but they were in fact rushed through a maze of corridors directly to Larsa's private sitting room. It was as if the entire staff had breathed a sigh of relief at their arrival.
"Thank the gods you've come," the harried maid tossed over her shoulder. "They're going to kill each other, I just know it."
Penelo cast a puzzled glance over her shoulder at Balthier, but he only shrugged, as lost as she.
In the distance, there rose a commotion – a steady rumble of sound that coalesced into a roar, punctuated by the shattering of china. The maid cringed, wringing her hands.
"He's been asking after you, miss," she said. "He was all kind and polite, up until His Majesty said he didn't know where you were. Can't take 'no' for an answer, that one." She had to raise her voice to compete with the din, and though the words from within were muffled through the thick walls, Penelo knew very well the voice.
Vaan.
She froze, torn between fight and flight, steadied only by the gentle pressure of Balthier's palm upon the small of her back. He had recognized Vaan's voice, too, it seemed, for he bent to murmur at her ear, "Might as well get it over with, hm?"
It might be for the best in the long run, but it was a conflict she neither wanted nor needed at the moment, and anxiety knotted in her stomach. It was too late to run; the maid was flinging open the doors, and the muffled words from within instead rang clear as crystal.
In the midst of the chaos, only two of the room's four occupants had noticed the doors opening, and Penelo's surprised gaze flitted to each of them in turn, arrested by the scene playing out.
Vaan faced Larsa, who was placidly sipping from a tiny porcelain teacup. "Don't give me that; you're the godsdamned emperor – you know everything!"
"How dare you speak to him in that tone of voice!" Yulia plunked her fists on her hips, fixing Vaan with an icy glare.
"What're you going to do about it – throw another cup at me? You couldn't even hit me the first time!" Vaan sneered.
"I wasn't aiming for you, you ill-mannered lout! I assure you, had I wished to hit you, I would have done!" Yulia eyed the remaining parts of the tea service resting on the low table between them as if sizing up future projectiles.
So Yulia had been responsible for the crash earlier? Oh – the mysterious they to which the maid had referred hadn't been Vaan and Larsa, but Vaan and Yulia.Penelo found herself impressed.
Fran sat upon a sofa, thoroughly disenchanted with the animosity flying about the room. She made a gesture towards Balthier and Penelo that might've been welcome, but could just as easily have been warning to flee while the opportunity was available.
Larsa set down his cup. "Ahh, Penelo, Balthier – good of you to join us. As you can see, we are having a…minor disagreement."
Vaan's head whipped around, his face gone dark as a thundercloud. "Where the hell have you been?" he snapped at her. "And you –" He made it only three steps toward Balthier before Fran snagged him by the collar and flung him unceremoniously onto the sofa.
"Have you learned nothing?" she chided. "Do not start brawls that you have no hope of winning."
Yulia's face had flushed an alarming shade of red upon coming to the realization that she had been overheard shouting like a harpy; she squeaked out a welcome and sank into her own chair, folding her hands in her lap.
"Would you care for tea?" Larsa offered. "We, er, seem to be down a cup, but I can ring for more."
Yulia grew redder still, looking for all the world as if she wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor and disappear. She ducked her head to hide her face, tugging nervously at her sleeves. For the first time, Penelo noticed that the gown Yulia wore was quite old – the elaborate embroidery wasn't a part of its initial design, but rather a clever camouflage to disguise the fact that it had been patched and repatched over and over to prolong its use. Raen had always worn the best that money could buy, but it seemed he didn't feel the need to keep his wife in a similar style. Yulia had been left to fend for herself, just as Penelo had.
"No need," Vaan said in a clipped tone. "We're leaving. Come on, Pen." He shoved himself off the sofa, readjusting his vest.
Even as Penelo opened her mouth to refuse, Balthier slung his arm about her waist to draw her closer to his side and said firmly, "No." Penelo cast him an ireful glare.
"Excuse me?" Vaan growled.
"I said no," Balthier said. "She's staying. You don't speak for her."
"You don't either!"
Penelo shrugged out of Balthier's hold, agilely evading his grasp even as he reached for her. "Neither of you speak for me," she snapped. "Good gods – what's gotten into the both of you?" She retreated a safe distance to stand beside Fran, her self-righteous pique earning her a consoling pat on the shoulder from the older woman.
"Men," Yulia sniffed disdainfully, casting Penelo a sympathetic look in the solidarity of sisterhood, or perhaps simply out of loyalty to Penelo for having rescued her from a disastrous marriage. "Always blundering about, heedless of anyone's interests but their own. Well, I would prefer not to bear witness to a brawl if it is all the same to you." She rose to her feet, shaking out her skirts, fixing Balthier and Vaan with a contemptuous look. "Perhaps if you could have simply asked, instead of…of making dictatorial decrees, it would have elicited a more favorable response." She waved a hand to indicate Penelo, who scowled at both men, her fury scrawled across her face, searing the air.
Balthier, at least, realized that he had made a critical error. "Darling, I didn't intend…"
"Darling?" Vaan hissed in a scathing voice. "You bastard. If you've so much as touched her –"
Penelo made an ugly sound of rage in her throat, throwing up her hands in disgust as she stalked toward the door. "Go on, then, and kill each other. I don't give a damn, and I'm sure as hell not sticking around for it either. Yulia, do you mind if join you?"
"I'd be delighted." Yulia dimpled at Penelo, scurrying across the room toward her.
"Fran, will you come as well?" Penelo asked.
Fran cast Balthier a vaguely pitying glance, shaking her head in silent rebuke. "Blood is so difficult to remove from one's clothing," she sighed. "I suppose I should prefer to remove myself from the line of fire."
Larsa heaved a sigh, massaging his temples. "Where are you going?" he asked, clearly wearied of the morning's dramatics, "And what I am to do with these two in the meantime?"
Penelo gave a casual shrug. "Bury the loser; imprison the winner on murder charges. It makes no difference to me. We're going shopping; I'll return Yulia when we're through."
"You can't just leave," Vaan grumbled, oblivious to the steel-stiffness of Penelo's spine, the irritation that had her clenching her fists at her sides.
"Watch me," she snarled. And she turned on her heel and stomped out of the room, the furious click of her boots on the tile breaking the overwhelming silence. Yulia and Fran followed swiftly on her heels.
Balthier blocked the door before Vaan could charge off after them. "Let her go," he said. "She'll be back. Best if we let her calm down a touch; she'll not be pleased to have her wishes disregarded again."
"Oh, like you know her so well," Vaan sneered.
"I do, actually," Balthier replied. "Better than you, that much is certain. You might have known her longer, but you haven't seen her in three years. She's not the same girl you knew. She won't blindly follow on your command any longer – and if you continue to push her, you will lose her."
"I'll lose her?" Vaan scoffed. "You think you won't?"
Balthier considered for a moment the raw fury that had burned in her eyes just moments ago, the anxiety with which she had questioned his intentions earlier in the morning. He managed a self-deprecating chuckle, and he said at last, "I never had her to lose."