The tension was so thick between them that Penelo felt that had she had tried to violate the respectable distance Balthier kept between them as they walked back to the inn, she might've been bounced off like a ball against a wall. It appeared to be only empty air, but it might as well have been three feet of solid steel.
She hadn't managed to banish the scarlet flush from her cheeks for more than a few seconds at a time, because every time she glanced over at Balthier it came raging back. What had possessed her? For that matter, what had possessed him? By the firm set of his jaw, and by the way he studiously avoided so much as a stray glance in her direction, she was fairly certain he was wondering much the same thing.
"What were you doing in town?" She asked, but her voice managed to tremble over the words, high and unsteady. Again the flush rolled back in full force.
He did not look at her, and it was several seconds before he deigned to answer, during which time Penelo had once again drawn back into the relative safety of silence.
"Posting a letter," he said finally, and his voice was bored, bland, disinterested. Penelo envied him his composure.
As she had never had occasion to either mail or receive any letters, somehow it had never occurred to her that he might have someone with which he wished to correspond. And that he would choose to do so now, when it was of utmost importance that they keep their movements and location a secret, utterly baffled her.
"A letter? To whom? A...friend of yours?" This time her voice did not quaver, and she inwardly congratulated herself.
"Sky pirates do not have friends," he said, hissing the word as if it were a curse.
"That's ridiculous," she chided, as they crossed into the side street on which their inn was located. "Even if you don't count us among them, Fran is your friend."
"Fran is my companion," he replied easily. "My partner. It suits our purposes to travel together, and I trust her with my life. But I have no need for friends. I don't care for people insinuating themselves into my life. I prefer to remain free of complications and intimate relationships." He eased the door of the inn open silently, lowering his voice so as to not be overheard. "In the future, do remember that."
Then he was gone, leaving her at the foot of the stairs, before she could muster the courage to call him out on the lie.
And it wasn't until later, when she was sinking into the steaming bathwater that had been delivered up to her room that she realized he had neatly evaded her questions, and to whom he had written was still very much a mystery.
Through the wall separating their rooms, Balthier had heard the maid knocking on Penelo's door, had heard buckets of water splash noisily into the copper washtub, repeating the procedure she'd performed for Balthier only ten minutes prior. Next she would direct Penelo behind the privacy screen that surrounded the tub so that Penelo could hand over her clothing for cleaning and drying.
He imagined Penelo stripping off her wet clothing, stepping into the tub, sinking down into the heated water, her skin pinkening, her fair hair darkening to liquid gold. He imagined her sighing, stretching her legs over the edge of the tub, wispy curls of steam rising around her, limbs lax as the heat soaked into her muscles. He imagined the water lapping over soft curves, filmy soap bubbles lovingly clinging and turning silky skin slick and slippery. He imagined himself stroking back her sodden hair, fingers lingering caressingly at the nape of her neck, massaging away the tension that lingered. He imagined her, languid and relaxing into his soothing hands. In this fantasy, she had been waiting for him, expecting him. She arched her back, pressing into his touch, welcoming the sensation of his hands on her. In this fantasy, they were silent, as if they had been lovers for a long, long time, and words were no longer necessary between them. As if meaning could be conveyed entirely through the brush of his fingertips across her cheek, the tilting of her head as she exposed more of her skin for his exploration. As if their communion surpassed physical intimacy and approached the spiritual.
No. Somehow his imagination had gotten the better of him. He did not want that. He had never wanted that. Moreover, he could never have that, even did he so desire it. Which he absolutely did not. At all. With anyone.
He sloshed water over his face, attempting to banish the sensuous images that arose behind his closed eyes. When that failed, he opened his eyes, surveying the room in a futile attempt to forget them, to replace the forbidden and exciting with the mundane and ordinary, rubbing the scented soap between his hands and scrubbing them furiously through his hair. In his carelessness, the foamy lather slipped down his forehead, into his eyes, stinging. He cursed, splashed his face again, rinsed his hair, scowled. Sniffed. Bloody lavender. What self-respecting pirate wanted to go around smelling of a blasted flower garden?
But Penelo had likely gotten soap of the same scent, and it would suit her, delicate and floral. Something at once earthy and ethereal. In the world, but not of it, as if existing on a higher plane, flirting only rarely with the lower world occupied by mere mortals. She was a walking, breathing contradiction. So simple in her goals, so complex in her motives. She fascinated because he could not read her, could not place her neatly into this category or that, because she so readily defied categorization, because her desires were so pure and simple, because she appeared so delicate and fragile, but ran the gamut between selfless and ruthless. Because she always meted out kindness when it was due and justice when it was necessary. Because she was vicious when cornered, but forgiving of slights against her. Because she saw the best of what he might have been, and somehow did not find him lacking despite what he had instead become.
That was why he had kissed her, he realized. Not because she was convenient, or even because she was pretty. It was because of her easy acceptance of all that he was along with all he was not and could never be. It was because she had no interest in changing him, no plan to mould him into her own creation, no scheme to trim away his faults or sand off his rough edges.
Even Fran had shaped him, tethered him, tamed him, tempered his all-encompassing rage into cool detachment. Fran had saved him from himself, but she had also, as if he were a seedling, metaphorically tied him to stakes, training him in the direction she wished him to grow, pruning away the bits she deemed unnecessary. Penelo existed not to whittle away the unwanted pieces, to mask the ugliness, but to complement, to fill the empty spaces, lending her grace and gentility in generous counterbalance.
She was inquisitive; she did not do it to aggravate, he knew, but to understand. If he had told her he had written to his father, he knew there would be no judgment. And if he had confessed the sins of his past, the sins he planned still to commit, she would sit silently and listen. Just listen. But it was enough that he judged himself and found himself wanting. He would not burden her with his past. He could not provide her with yet another tie to bind him. Already he chomped at the bit, already she held more ties than she knew. And for both of their sakes, he needed to keep it that way.
Penelo had not slept well. She supposed years of sleeping on makeshift pallets in Lowtown with the other street children had ruined her for a genteel life. The silence had been deafening, she had sunk into the plush mattress to the point of immobility and felt suffocated by the thick, downy coverlet. And she had been plagued by dreams that did not bear thinking of in the cold light of day. Dreams that made her squirm and flush in remembrance, that had jolted her awake, breathless and sweating, shocked at their indecency.
She had finally given up the futile undertaking of sleep at dawn, risen to splash her flushed face with water, and found her clothing neatly folded and waiting for her. The maid must've already made her morning rounds, because the fire was freshly stoked and a light breakfast of flaky pastries, jam, and tea was waiting for her at the table.
She lingered in the room a while, managing a few bites of her breakfast, certain that she would be the only one up so early, as surely the rest of them would be making the most of what might be their last night spent in such luxurious accomodations. Their goal loomed closer, and they were soon to enter enemy territory, which necessitated the utmost discretion. No taverns or inns from here on out would be considered safe enough to pass the night within.
At last the sun had risen up over the roofs of neighboring buildings, and Penelo knew it would soon be time to meet the others downstairs. She gathered up the last of her belongings and shoved them into her bag, taking one last longing look at the room as she opened the door. She regretted that she had been unable to fully enjoy her brief stay.
The door next to hers opened and Balthier stepped out into the hallway just as she did. At once, and to her indescribable embarrassment, her face flooded with color. She froze, unprepared to face him.
His face revealed nothing; he regarded her with disinterest, as if they had only a passing acquaintance. Her embarrassment gave way to shame, then self-loathing. She was an idiot to let their previous encounter weigh on her as it did; a fool to be so affected by it, because he clearly had not been. He had probably had scores of women throw themselves at him, and if she were wise, she would not be counted among them. To infer meaning into what had passed between them would be a very grave mistake.
She rallied, collected the tatters of her pride, her high color fading, straightening her shoulders resolutely. She looked him in the eye, gave a brief, dismissive nod, and turned her back on him to head down the stairs.
Balthier was both amused and impressed. Her face had shown a riot of emotions, for in her youth she did not yet understand the value of concealing one's thoughts, but she had grown up a bit in a scant few seconds, composed herself before his very eyes, and regained her former confidence. Now he need not fear that the truth would reveal itself on her face, nor risk censure from the rest of their party. Provided she could maintain her nonchalant facade, no one would be the wiser.
As he watched her retreat steadily down the stairs, he arched a brow and murmured, "Bravo, dear girl."
In the downstairs common room, Penelo found Ashe and Basch already waiting. Ashe sipped tea with a careless grace that Penelo was certain she could never have managed, and Basch stood guard near the door, ensuring their privacy. Penelo took a seat on the plush sofa near the window. Balthier appeared moments later, and this time she neither blushed nor faltered at the sight of him. She turned her attention to the window instead, giving the illusion of being interested in the local scenery.
Fran entered moments later; Vaan brought up the rear, as Penelo had expected, looking displeased. Penelo surmised that Fran had likely had something to do with getting Vaan, who had never been an early riser, out of bed and downstairs in a fairly timely manner.
Basch stuck his head out into the hall, and, satisfied that no one lurked nearby, closed the door and latched it. He spoke in low tones, and the rest of the party took their cue from him.
"We're going via the Aerodrome," he said.
"Has two years in that dungeon addled your wits?" Balthier said incredulously. "We want to remain inconspicuous."
"And we will," said Ashe, placidly, setting down her tea cup. She folded her hands in her lap. "We shall travel in pairs so as not to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. We might attract suspicion should we travel as a group, but not if we split ourselves into smaller groups. So many people pass through the Aerodrome every day, I suspect we will be highly unmemorable. Furthermore, no one will expect us to travel by airship. It will cut down our journey significantly, and give us the element of surprise. The sooner we make Archades, the less prepared Vayne shall be."
Fran indicated her approval with a nod. "There is merit to such a coup," she acknowledged. "Better to strike unexpected before the enemy can rally their defenses."
"Never been on an airship before," Vaan put in. "Sounds like it'll be fun."
Penelo had never been on one either, but she couldn't rightly say she was looking forward to it. She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if some information was being withheld, a vague sense of unease that she could not shake.
"Well," Basch said, addressing Balthier. "Will we find your face gracing a Wanted poster in the Aerodrome? Currently, your notoriety is our biggest risk, as the princess is still widely thought to be dead."
Balthier sighed, pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "No," he said finally. "I am not infamous in Balfonheim. Nor will my presence present a problem in Archades, due to...certain circumstances." He did not elaborate. Nor did Basch press for an answer, but the two men stared one another down, posturing silently for supremacy, authority.
Ashe rose, dissolving the crackling air of discord by clearing her throat gently. "If we are all in agreement, I suggest we set out at once. We will take separate flights, at half hour intervals, and reconvene in Archades. Balthier, as you are familiar with Archades, would you please suggest a meeting place?"
Balthier hesitated briefly. Finally he said, "Draklor Laboratory." Ashe's eyebrows rose in silent inquiry. Tightly, he continued, "We will have business there, I assure you." He stalked over to a desk in the corner of the room, rifled through a few drawers and withdrew paper, pen, and ink. He spent a moment, drawing a hasty map of the city and the path from the Aerodrome to Draklor Laboratory, then handed it over to Basch.
"It is accurate to the best of my memory," Balthier said. "It has been many years since I was last in Archades."
Basch studied the map for a moment, then passed it off to Ashe, who briefly examined it, then retired to the desk to sit and copy it. Basch withdrew a pouch from his traveling bag and counted several gold coins into his palm before passing the gil over to Balthier.
"That should pay for your travel and food along the way," he said.
Balthier slung his own bag over his shoulder. "Fran, let's be off," he said.
"No," Ashe said. She rose, tapping the edges of the sheaf of papers against the desk to straighten them into a neat pile. "You cannot travel with Fran; the two of you are too well known together. I will not be traveling with Basch for the same reason." She pursed her lips, as if considering the problem. But Balthier's stomach clenched and he knew that she had already decided; she was merely enjoying the thought of him squirming like a worm on a hook. He waited for the death knell, the felling blow. And it came, cheerful and decisive.
"You'll take Penelo."