AN: Crossposted from ao3, which is the primary upload site for updates.
There is material in here that gives this story the M rating, please be advised that this could include items of a violent or sexual nature, and explicit language. We are adults writing for an adult audience. Mind the rating and the above warning. You have chosen to read this fic at your own discretion.
Artemisia Nott doesn't even flinch when explosions begin to erupt across the village known as Southron-by-the-Water. Instead, she retreats into the shadows of the nearest alleyway, palming her wand as she moves; it seems the meeting she had with the owner of Otis Apothecary is canceled.
She doesn't fear the Death Eaters that are terrorizing this village nor the Order of the Phoenix members fighting against them. Her last name should be enough of a deterrent for the Death Eaters. Still, she would like to not give an over-zealous Order Member an opening they would take because of the same family name.
"Little girl," a dark voice sing-songs around the bend behind her. "Little girl, don't you know that dangerous things hide in the shadows?"
Glancing over her shoulder, Artemisia glares at the hidden figure. If there's one thing that annoyed her more than anything, it was being called "little girl". Something about it grates on her nerves.
"Yes," she answers bluntly, "however I'm likely more dangerous than anything in this little village."
The dark shadow pauses and chuckles, vanishing, and then reappears right behind her, tangling her wand wrist in long sleeves and holding. "You are very cute. 'Likely' will get you tangled up in something very… precarious." He flexes his fingers around her wrist before stepping around Artemisia, leaving her line of sight with a brief flash of the silvery mask of the Death Eater and dark robes. "Run along now, Miss Nott."
He steps onto the main road and throws an explosion of dark green smoke upwards, filling the sky with the sign of the Dark Lord, and moves further down and out of her line of sight. With a bitten-off curse, Artemisia apparates away. She will not stick around for the Aurors or the Order to appear and accuse her of setting off the Dark Mark. The Aurors might simply take her into custody before being bought off by her father, but the Order will ruin her reputation and the carefully crafted persona of a person uninterested in the war.
She apparates a few more times just in case before appearing near the Leaky Cauldron about 15 minutes after the Death Eater had thrown the Dark Mark into the air. There's nothing she can do now that her contact has either been scared into silence or murdered in the crossfire of the Order and the Death Eaters She makes her way inside, nodding curtly to the bartender before she exits out the back into Diagon Alley proper. Her unobtrusive entrance was rather spoiled as a tall man ran into her going around the first corner, swearing and catching her before she could fully stumble, righting her and then drawing back slightly, his hand still on her elbow courteously.
"Ah, I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't mean to bowl over you like— oh, it's you. Hi!"
Solomon Prince stares down at her, a charming smile crossing his face and holding valiantly against her glare, tanned from spending whatever time he has abroad, very much recently returned and the talk of many of Artemisia's acquaintances.
"Prince," Artemisia replies with a slight glare.
She straightens but doesn't step away. He's the one who walked into her after all. Tilting her head back to look him in the face, "what are you doing here?"
"What does anyone have to do in Diagon," He dips his head with a flourish and wave beyond the immediate crush at the entrance of the Alley. Not towards the bank though, she notices, but beyond it, to the entrances further back for residences and the less traveled stores. "What brings you here?"
"School shopping, obviously," she says with a roll of her eyes.
Tired of Prince hovering over her, Artemisia steps around him and heads further into the Alley. She pulls out her shopping list as she does, ignoring him when he falls in step with her.
"Miss Nott, needing to come shopping with the plebians," he clicks his tongue with a mournful shake of his head. "How sad."
He keeps pace with her, mostly quiet after the last sniped comment and not purchasing anything off the school shopping list. When she approaches Twilfitt and Tattings, he seems to catch sight of his fellow Hufflepuffs, (of which Artemisia knows vaguely herself), and bounces off to thump them on the back with much gusto. It seems the summer had produced enough gossip to share that she was able to enter, finish her robe fittings, and enter Slug & Jiggers Apothecary before he caught back up to her.
She's busy focusing on filling her potions kit, checking items meticulously off Slughorn's obscenely decadent required list when Prince decides to make himself known again. "You're in the advanced class? Interesting. Slughorn's not got a good line on a proper supplier for the dittany." She jumps and then ignores him until his long fingers grab the package off the counter and another bag from the ground where she had rested it while browsing. "Come on then, Nott. We've got a date."
Artemisia feels her eye twitch at his presumptive manner, whirling around and glaring up at him. This is different from her previous glare because she puts some extra venom in it. Her hand itches to pull out her wand and hex him in the face, but she has a slim remaining modicum of restraint over herself. It wouldn't do to cause a scene over Prince being his typically annoying self.
"Give me back my supplies," she grits out.
"Your list is done, I've seen you ticking things off." He takes a couple of steps back out the door, into the street, and grins at her, a wicked edge to it that she's not sure she's ever seen him have while in school. "I'll get you lunch, my treat."
"Take me to Fleet's," she spits out spitefully, stalking out after him.
Fleet's is one of the most expensive places in the Alleys and is smack dab in the middle of Whimsic Alley. Prince is the last of his family with the family name Prince; his cousin Severus Snape isn't worth counting given that his mother was disowned for marrying a Muggle. The House of Prince can't afford frivolous spending, which she would think Fleet's is. Artemisia doesn't feel any guilt for suggesting it, given that, hopefully Prince will take the hint and fuck off for once in his life and stop harassing her.
Prince does not take the hint and does not fuck off the way she would prefer. Instead, he takes her arm and swans down Diagon, past Knockturn, and around the far corners into the quiet Whimsic Alley and to a secluded door with Fleet's printed in an understated font.
"Table for Prince, please. And tell Mac that it's always great to see him."
The host smiles at them blandly, escorting them to a secluded table before leaving them with a quiet "enjoy your meal."
Artemisia settles in her seat, not even glancing at her menu to stare at Prince. "Prince, what the fuck?" That grin is back, with a much less sharp edge. Artemisia had wanted to humiliate him, drive him away and force him to leave her the hell alone. Instead, she's gotten a mostly silent shadow while shopping and is currently being treated to dinner at one of the most premier and exclusive establishments in the district. And he's smiling about it.
"Did you not want to actually eat here? We can go somewhere else if you want."
She blinks at him in disbelief before throwing her calculations to the wind. If he wants to play this game she'll play. "Here is fine," she replies lazily, leaning back in her chair and ignoring the menus that appear at the edge of the table. "Order for me."
Artemisia is completely baffled when Prince leans forward and summons the wait staff, ordering quickly with items that aren't even on the menu from what she knows of Fleet's, and lounges back on his own chair, bright and almost glowing while she watches him.
It's like a cat with the cream and the canary.
When the server returns, there are two glasses of a thicker golden liquid, and she's about ready to scoff and leave when the scent of honey reaches her nose, and she pauses, eyeing him. There's not enough time to question before the main comes out and she's served a plate of roasted beef, roasted root vegetables, and a delicate sauce coating them all. He's sitting there with his own plate, chicken instead of beef, and sipping the mead. She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously then picks up her fork to start eating. The roasted beef is delicious, just as good as the ribeye she had when her father brought her here after passing her OWLs.
They eat in silence for a while, the only sound being the slight clanking of their silverware and the murmurs of the diners around them. Nursing her mead after finishing her meal, Artemisia settles back in her seat lazily as she thinks over why the name Mac sounds familiar in conjunction with Fleet's. She doesn't think it's because of Fleetwood Mac, no matter how much it amuses her to think a Prince would know a muggle band.
(Is it hypocritical that she knows the band even though she's a Nott? Maybe. But she doesn't care. Music is music.)
"You know the Head Chef," she says in realization.
He nods, twisting his glass between his fingers. "Mac and I have a long friendship. He and I spent way too much time mushroom hunting and raising creatures to find truffles for us to not be friends." Another slow sip and then "and the music was always a bonus."
"Music?" she questions before she can help herself. She buries herself in her glass of mead, silently berating herself. Prince is the type of person, you give an inch, he'd go a mile. But she can't help it. She loves music. That infuriating grin was back on his face again, and Artemisia was going to hex it off one day, she promised herself. Prince clears his throat, his glass waving gently in the air, encompassing the ambient music.
"Smuggling in records from the US when Mac came back from visiting family over the summer and sharing this. Shared passions, but we both agree that we're terrible at making it. Instead, we get to expose people to it." Artemisia sat and realized that the music was actually… Fleetwood Mac. Maybe some changes in tempo, but it's Fleetwood Mac.
"Dream is my favorite from this album," Prince admits before hiding behind his mead again.
"It's mine as well," she admits grudgingly in a quiet tone. It wouldn't do for someone of her breeding to admit to liking a muggle band for all that most of the Wizarding World doesn't realize they exist. She glances at the rest of the diners reflexively before a small chuckle across the table draws her attention back her unlikely dining companion.
He pouts at her once he sees that she's watching. "Not trusting little old me? After the lovely afternoon we've been on together? That's fine; I wouldn't either." He slipped a wink at her and finished his glass, leaving a small pouch on the table behind. "Regardless, this was fun, Nott. You stay here, I have another engagement that I need to tend to. Order dessert, drink more of the delicious bottle of mead, and listen to Fleetwood Mac. I'll see you on the train back to school maybe."
With a nod, Prince disappears towards the back, and Artemisia cannot see where he vanished through the plant decor. She feels a little off-kilter by the rather abrupt exit, but that's Prince to his core; show up, annoy her, leave as fast as he arrived.
Huffing a little in annoyance, she signals the server for another glass of mead and settles back to listen as the music changes to another familiar song slowed to be palatable for the Wizarding World's sense of taste. The server quietly deposits her glass on the table before removing the other dishes from the table and leaving again just as unobtrusively as before.
Solomon Prince resolutely doesn't fidget in place as he listens to the Dark Lord speak; his mentor, Antonin Doholov, taught him better than that. He notices that he's the only one who's not fidgeting, which slightly surprises him. Most Death Eaters, most purebloods, were taught by their families and mentors to control themselves in public.
The Dark Lord's presence is commanding as he wraps up the information portion of their mission and orders them to raid Southron-by-the-Water. Southron-by-the-Water is known for its strong Light connections and heavy anti-Creature stance. The Dark Lord wants them to infiltrate the village. The team for this mission will be split in half. One half causes chaos as a distraction, while the other half breaks into prominent members' homes to steal any information they can access.
There are to be no deaths this time. The Dark Lord only wishes to cause chaos and gather information. The deaths will come later when they can strike the most terror.
"Dismissed," the Dark Lord commands.
"Yes, my Lord," Solomon murmurs and bows along with the others before leaving the manor to disapparate.
Solomon arrives at the edge of the village, half hidden behind a tree, and casts a glamour that affects how he's perceived. The glamour won't let any onlooker see more than one feature before blurring their perception of the rest. The silver Death Eater mask comes off, and he identifies the first house he is to infiltrate as the rest of the group descends on the unsuspecting population in the middle of the day.
Spells are flung across the roads, dust kicking up as people come to windows and then run from the park, screaming as the way is blocked. Solomon twists down an alleyway, finding the catch to a side window before tumbling through. He heads directly for the desk in the room, digging through the papers on the desk and carefully duplicating everything he can get his hands on.
'Carefully now,' he reminds himself. It's all important, regardless of what's on them, and Antonin taught him the best spells, ensuring that he knew them forwards, back and in the dark. The papers shiver, sliding to the side, and a perfect duplicate settles into a neat stack. Solomon slides them all together into his satchel, twisting the window closed behind him as he tracks carefully around the neighborhood.
The next house he needs to hit is a little further down, and he's able to get inside unseen and unimpeded. Unfortunately, this house takes longer to search as it's bigger, and the occupant actually locked their information away. It creates a rather tricky challenge before Solomon makes a victorious noise when he finally breaks into the desk and makes copies of the information before re-setting the locks. He sneaks out and waits in the shadows a beat as he watches a fellow Death Eater engage someone in a duel.
When the duelers pass him, he makes his way to the third house and proceeds into that one. The routine of breaking in and pilfering continues for a few more houses before he notices the battle is picking up. He swears under his breath when he sees Bilius Weasley apparate into the town, followed by his cousin Valerian.
The Order of the Phoenix is here.
He clicks his tongue before backtracking. No one has sent up the Mark, and he will wait for most people to leave before he does it. It's been a relatively successful mission, and he only needs to report back to Antonin with his hard-won information before he's to take what his mentor has called: "An actual summer break Solomon, for Merlin's sake, you're too thin. I need to have my mother force you to eat."
Before he makes it back to his predetermined apparition point, a slim figure from further down the alley catches his eye, and Solomon slows, eyes wide in surprise, as he sees Artemisia Nott. She's a Slytherin from his year and the target of Solomon's affections... He slows his steps, biting his lip and then grinning. He had had plans on how he was going to treat Artemisia, in the hopes of possibly persuading her to be more… agreeable towards his flirtation. The plan wasn't technically supposed to start until they were back at Hogwarts, but plans change.
Besides, she doesn't need to know that it's him flirting with the darker edge. He slides the silver mask back on and follows Artemisia back into the shadows. "Little girl," he calls out. "Little girl, don't you know dangerous things hide in shadows?"
After Artemisia left the village, Solomon apparates back home, ditching his mask and the imposing dark robes. It was definitely an impulsive decision, but the temporary tracking charm would only last an hour. Solomon only needs an hour to engineer an encounter with her when he's himself and not as one of his Lord's Death Eaters. Antonin would likely be furious when Solomon didn't immediately return, but the Dark Lord wasn't expecting the information until the next meeting.
He shrinks the packet of documents and shoves it into his breast pocket before tracing the charm. She's in Diagon Alley, so he apparates to the closest Apparition point and rounds the corner. He doesn't expect to literally run into her.
"Ah, I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't mean to bowl over you like— oh, it's you. Hi!''
As he exits Fleets, Solomon can't help the smug grin. He was finally able to spend some real time with Artemisia! It's only taken six years to get to this point, but it looks like his plan will work. He apparates midstride to Antonin's house, the grin still on his face.
Antonin barely glances up from his mess of papers spread across the table that nominally was the coffee table in the center of his living room. "You're late, brat."
Solomon can't help the smirk spreading into a grin. "Antonin, I did the thing." He pulls the papers out of his breast pocket, passing the folder over.
"Which thing?"
"With Artemisia!"
Antonin does sit back, taking the folder slowly and watching Solomon. "You were on a raid and just happened to run into Artemisia Nott."
Solomon is still grinning as he shrugs. "That I did," he chirps. He sprawls out lazily on the couch next to Antonin, tapping a beat on his knee. Antonin watches him with a calculating gleam in his eye, which he tries his hardest to ignore.
"That isn't the only thing that happened," he comments. "You're too cheerful for that. Did you finally fuck her?"
The grin slid into a bit of a pout as Solomon thought about how wildly successful he'd have to be to achieve that. "Nope. I took her to Fleet's. She tried to call my bluff, and I raised the stakes."
"You got domestic. You're an actual puppy."
The pout slides back to the grin, beaming at Antonin. "You like puppies."
Antonin's eyes go heavy-lidded as he reaches out to cup Solomon's chin. "Do I?" he purrs.
Solomon flushes, pink crossing the bridge on his nose, and he can feel heat crawling up the back of his neck. Antonin's voice is lethal. "Yes."
Antonin's gaze is sharp, cutting into Solomon's mind slightly. Solomon's brow furrows as he keeps Antonin out, pushing up a little on the couch, his hand braced against the back. "I like puppies who fetch," He shakes Solomon's chin gently, lifting the folder a bit. "And I like puppies who come when they're called."
Solomon swallows, pushing a little into the hand on his face. "I'm here! I have the papers, and I wasn't caught!"
"And you were late. I don't know if you get a reward this time." His face is dangerously close now, thumb warm against Solomon's lower lip and pressing gently, dragging down slightly. Solomon lets his eyes drop to Antonin's lips, then snaps back up to his eyes. Antonin's eyes darken then he pulls away, leaving Solomon cold as he settles back in his seat and opens the folder.
"Sort through this for me, brat," Antonin orders coolly.
Stifling a whine at the retreat, Solomon slumps in his seat with a pout. "Yessir," he grumbles irritably.
"What was that?"
"I said yes. Sir." He slides to the ground in front of the coffee table, legs crossed, and grabs the folder from Antonin's grasp. He flips through and adds it to the various stacks already spread, reaching for a quill to make notes. There's a long pause and then a deliberate exhale before Antonin stands and leaves the couch in the working area for the kitchen, clattering around and leaving Solomon.
He shifts a little, still grumpy and elated in turn. Antonin had a way of making him feel on top of the world and like he fucked up at the same time. He'd sat and crafted the plan for Artemisia with Antonin! He knew Solomon could do this kind of work. However, he still ended up without even a kiss to show for his efforts, either from Artemisia or Antonin!
Solomon pouts again at the thought. Another clatter in the kitchen makes him wipe the pout from his face, shifting his expression into a bored one, deliberately focusing all his attention on the parchment in front of him. If Antonin wants to ignore him, then he'll ignore him in return! See how he likes that!
Another soft clink of something and Antonin rounds the corner of the couch again, placing two mugs of tea on the table, one in deliberate reach of Solomon and the other for himself, and settles, taking up the notebook he'd been working on when Solomon had come into the flat. Solomon ignores the tea and ignores Antonin, only occasionally sneaking peeks from the corner of his eye, getting the names on the paperwork organized. The dates for various creature drops written on a separate column for the Dark Lord to mull through and strategize. The air fills with the rustle of parchment and scratch of quill before Antonin's hand drops to the back of Solomon's neck.
"Your tea is cold..."
Solomon blinks his dry eyes rapidly as his focus is pulled away from the paperwork. He glances at Antonin out of the corner of his eye before shrugging his shoulder to remove the hand on his neck. "I'm not thirsty," he snaps.
The hand returns, gripping harder now and tangling in the hair to pull his head back, and Solomon is off balance and falling against Antonin's legs, hands unavailable for him to catch himself. Antonin looks frustrated, causing a thrill of spiteful pleasure to zing through Solomon, and hidden behind that is fondness? Maybe?
"Brat," he sighs, shaking him once, twice, and causing warmth to slide down his spine. "Puppy, you need to take care of yourself if you're going on raids."
"Said I'm fine, Antonin." He tries to get free and just struggles, unable to get his hands against the carpet or the table or Antonin for leverage.
"Solomon, drink your damn tea."
"Fine," Solomon grumps. Antonin releases his hair but keeps his hand on the back of his neck. Solomon can finally straighten up, setting the paperwork on the coffee table and picking up the cup of tea. He presses a finger on the rune against the bottom that instantly re-heats it and takes a sip.
It's not the usual thick Russian tea that Antonin typically serves in his apartment, but a mellow and lulling Chamomile cut through with honey instead of jam. It's perfect for removing the remainder of the honey from the mead away, clearing his mind, and feeling the weight of Antonin's hand resting in place.
"You worry me, brat," Antonin says as he sips the tea. "I don't want one of my puppies returning hurt or worse, not at all. Understand? No being late without reason. Or without telling me."
Solomon sets his tea aside and twists so he's on his knees facing Antonin and staring up at him. "Alright," he promises quietly.
"You say that," Antonin pulls him up a little, getting him to kneel up and his hands coming to brace on Antonin's knees. "And I just know you're going to get into trouble."
Solomon grins, leaning forward and stealing a tiny tease of a kiss, just enough to satisfy and stoke the heat growing in him, Antonin's eyes turning dark. "But you like that."
"Are you sure?" Antonin rumbles, one hand gripping his chin and dragging his thumb along Solomon's bottom lip.
"Yes," he replies in a breathy voice, anticipation rising within him. "You like it when I'm like this." Merlin, he's been looking forward to this ever since he got the assignment. This is a chance to let go, to not have to be in charge all the time.
"This is something new," Antonin corrects him. "You on your knees is gorgeous, though, puppy." He leans forward, drawing Solomon to meet him halfway in another kiss. Solomon sucks in a tiny breath, swaying into the kiss and trying to move closer between Antonin's knees.
The hand on his neck stops him, and he whines, grumbling when Antonin stops kissing him. "What, come on!"
"Ah, ah," Antonin tuts. "You don't get a reward."
"But, Antonin—," Solomon's protest is cut off by a sharp look from Antonin.
"How can I know you've learned your lesson if I reward you for not doing as you're told?" Antonin questions, his thumb idly rubbing circles at Solomon's pulse point.
The arousal from the point of contact over his throat was insane. Solomon feels ready to buzz out of his skin if Antonin didn't do something about it. The man just laughed, moving it away and leaving him swaying towards Antonin. "Aw, poor puppy," he teases, watching Solomon as he flushes and then hides his flamingly hot face against his hands. "You can show me how good you can be if you don't touch yourself, not finishing, before you see me again."
"That's not until right before I go back to school!" The indignation rushes through, warring against the arousal. "You can't—"
Antonin's gaze assures him that, yes, he did expect that.
Solomon snaps his mouth shut as the indignation dies a quick death. "Fine," he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Are you not able to do it?" Antonin questions.
And the indignation is back. "I can!" he snaps.
Antonin smiles at him, half dazzling at the intensity. "Good puppy," Antonin gives him another soft, chaste kiss and turns to the papers again. "You've gotten a lot done. Anything we can take to our Lord yet?"
Solomon blinks again and slides back onto the couch cushions, calming the throbbing traitor in his pants with a few deep breaths. "N-not yet," he says, voice steadying as he continues to talk. "I know we have some leads towards the Ministry employees that are supplying information about key votes, but I'm not sure who."
Antonin hums. "Mark the parchments that have that information. Our Lord might be able to glean something from it that we miss."
Nodding, Solomon snatches up a quill and sets about doing that. After he's done with that, he reaches for the next batch. The two fall into companionable silence as they work. Solomon loses track of time as he focuses all his attention on the information in front of him.
A brief touch to the top of his head draws Solomon back to the present, Antonin's voice humorous. "Solomon, enough. Go to bed."
Solomon blinks, glaring at him. "I've got this." A yawn cracks his jaw, belying his words and Antonin laughs, hauling him upright.
"To bed, puppy. At least my guest bed, if not to your own."
Solomon suppresses another yawn and lets Antonin lead him to the usual guest room he sleeps in. They stop at the door and before he goes in, Solomon is seized by a wild and bold thought. He grasps Antonin by the lapels of his robes and pulls him in for a quick kiss before stepping back into the room and leaving Antonin on the other side of the threshold.
"Goodnight, Antonin!"
Several weeks after the late lunch at Fleet's, Artemisia rubs her temples, attempting to fight off a headache. The numbers don't make any sense. How did Father fuck up their books in a few short months? She sighs in frustration and sets the paperwork aside with the intention of coming back to it later that night.
"Artemisia, are you done with the books? You need to speak to the Princes about the Ashwinder ash," Father tells her coolly.
"Nearly," she replies, "when do I need to meet them?"
"In an hour."
"Pardon?"
He harrumphs, waving a hand at the stack of mail sitting on the desk. "It's in the stack of correspondence. There's a new source, and they've been asking for quite some time about it. The insolent pup, always demanding things as if we haven't had a contract with the Princes for centuries. If I was dealing with his grandfather still..." He continued to grouse while Artemisia stares at the basket of letters. It hasn't been touched since Artemisia left between Easter and coming back for the summer and the headache throbs in a dull warning.
"Why can't you do it?"
Father stops mid grumble, swinging to look at her askance. "You are the one who does all of this," he waved a hand again at the mess, the books, the correspondence, her desk in the lovely study that is hers and she feels the threads of her temper slipping between her fingers. "Your school work isn't that important, this demands your attention now!"
Artemisia deliberately sets aside her quill and then rises to her not-so-considerable height. "Father, I may be the person who does 'all this'," she says mockingly, "but there is only so much I can do when you don't do your own part and you let it pile up so much when I'm gone."
Her father stared her down, glaring and straightening himself to still tower over her. "I am your father," he says loudly. "You do not understand what I do for your ungratefulself and for your brother. Be thankful I allow you to have a hand in this business."
The silence rings between them and then his scowl lessens, glancing at his arm and turning away. "I am being summoned. Attend to the Princes, and for Merlin's sake, don't let them know you are actually attending to this in person. It would be unbecoming." Father strides away, disappearing down the hall to attend to the Dark Lord. She breathes out a growl of frustration before picking up a figurine on her desk and hurling it at the far wall. The resulting shatter is far less satisfying when she has to turn and immediately start sorting through the correspondence.
Picking up the letter from the Princes and skimming the information within makes the headache rise again with a vengeance. The letter is from four days ago. She suppresses another growl of frustration then hurries from her study and to her room to change into something more discrete than what she's currently wearing.
This is discrete, she thinks to herself, more so than waltzing into the front door of the Prince Laboratories and Greenhouses as myself. It didn't mean the effect was the most discrete that she could have made it. The smoke effect that obscures her face was anchored to the earrings sitting unfamiliar and heavy in her ears. The skirt tangled around her ankles in a manner that made Artemisia feel as though she would fall on her face at any moment. A necessary evil, given that anyone who would be seeing her wouldn't think that Artemisia Nott was the woman in the elaborate outfit. She loathed skirts, loathes that her father insists that any type of pants are 'unladylike and ill becoming of you. Can't look like a weed if you're going to catch any kind of attention.'
She hums quietly, the melodies from the distant afternoon at Fleet's tangling and bringing a modicum of peace back in. It wasn't the greenhouse manager's fault that her father was a waste of space and manpower, but there was very little that she could do during the school year. It was letters and many, many owls and sleepless nights at school that meant the whole family stayed afloat and she wishes that she only had to deal with this today.
Artemisia settles more comfortably against the far wall of the back office, waiting for the manager to arrive so they can discuss business. She flicks a glance at the clock on the wall, frowning slightly as the large hand ticks closer to the 5-minute mark. It's unusual for Kieran to make her wait this long.
The door opens, and Artemisia focuses her attention on the man walking into the room. Her eyes widen in surprise when she sees who's walking in.
"Sorry for the wait, Miss Absinthe. I hope you weren't waiting too long," Prince says charmingly.
She's caught off guard enough to be face-to-face with that smile when she isn't prepared for it. She's used to seeing him in class, not as part of her father's Ashwinder schemes! She's quiet long enough that he continues on, offering his hand for a shake.
"Mister Kieran was called away unexpectedly, and I'm the only one available right now. Your employer, Mister Nott, had told me that there was possibly another avenue of the fertilizer you have been importing for us?"
Blinking a little in surprise, she quickly pushes it away and shakes his hand on autopilot then quickly gets down to business, explaining a new opportunity with a group in India.
Prince motions towards the chairs in front of the desk as they discuss business. Artemisia explains everything professionally, retreating into her professional mindset. She definitely didn't expect to see him today, she's never seen him here all the other times she's come here to discuss business! Legal or otherwise!
Prince keeps his eyes focused on her face, darting a little around as he can't pierce her shadow veil, and then devotes more attention to the notes he takes of their conversation. As they bargain, he becomes more sharp, focused on the conversation and catching most of the concessions and slipping his own in, and being caught in at least one of the requirements that Artemisia wants from this new contract.
"Blast it, woman, alright you have the better of me," he smiles, very boyish, and rakes his hair back while reading over the final terms. "For quarterly amounts of 'winder fertilizer, Nott Shipping will receive a third of the flowers hybridized and produced with the Hellfire Roses for exclusive distribution outside the United Kingdom, and in its Commonwealth. You drive a far harder bargain than Mister Nott, he's very lucky to have you."
He signs the terms, passes it to Artemisia, and then sits back, watching as she reads the contract and nods, signing below his own name.
"Would you care to work for me?" Prince's voice is deeper, slightly rough from their negotiations and intent.
Artemisia is very glad the veil conceals her face because she has a feeling she's gaping unattractively. The silence stretches between them as Prince steadily watches her.
"No," she finally says before adding belatedly, "thank you for the offer though."
The smile shrinks a little, becoming less exaggerated and looking like how she sees him smiling at school. "A pity," he says, standing and offering her a hand up. "You must have a great deal of loyalty to someone else in your empire because I know Aesop Nott does not inspire this level of passion," he waves at the contract, duplicating it and handing it to her. "You should see about finding a way out, some place where you'd be better rewarded for this work."
He's escorting her to the atrium where her return Portkey is lying on a side table, and she takes it from him as he offers the ribbon to her. He doesn't release it immediately, giving her one last inscrutable look. "You really should think about my offer, or anyone's Absinthe." Then he lets the Portkey go and activate.
Landing in the receiving hall of Nott Manor, Artemisia immediately deactivates the veil concealing her face and shoves the hood off her head. Her fingers twitch with the urge to burn the contract letter in her hand, but unfortunately, she needs it for her records. She stalks from the receiving hall, her magic flaring around her wildly in annoyance as once again she's leaving a meeting with Prince feeling wrong-footed.