Chapter XLIX

"Oi, Fei! Are you even listening?" Phinks barks at him.

The dark-haired thief casts his friend a sideways glare. "What?"

Phinks folds his arms across his chest. "See? You weren't listening at all!"

"Probably because you speaking nonsense."

"What now? Did you leave all your fucks to give back in the prison?"

Feitan grunts and turns away from his friend, looking towards the window and watching as the droplets make long lines across the glass. The weather is grey and overcast. He made sure to rise earlier than usual to watch the rain. Despite the cold weather, he wears a black tank top and baggy black pants. He cranes his neck upwards to the hotel across the street, where a certain couple have been staying for four days.

There is dim light in the room, as always. He should know, given the order to watch the surroundings and watch out for any spies. Shalnark has even installed and hacked the security cameras within ten blocks around the hotel. If spies come sneaking, they would be dead before they even know it.

There is movement in the room. Feitan narrows his eyes.

The curtains in the room slowly part, like mist ebbing away. There she stands: the little girl, peeping between the cracks when the Danchou must have ordered her not to. It would expose them, bring them danger. As usual, she is stubborn, pushing her luck against the dangers, and defying their Danchou. She traces raindrops on the glass. As soon as she appears, Danchou also appears, wrapping his arms around her torso, and nuzzles his nose against her hair.

Feitan scrunches his own nose at the display of intimacy—but it is not his place to interfere. It is not his place to voice his opinion against the match. The match itself is not half-bad, as long as she keeps herself in check—which she does not.

Valtiel smiles at Danchou and kisses him over her shoulder. Danchou smiles back and pulls her away from the window, drawing the curtains close again. Show's over.

"Oi, Fei!"

"I can hear you, idiot," he barks back, annoyed now. "What you want?"

"You've been staring into space for an hour already."

"No," he argues. "I reading a book."

"The hell you are," Phinks snorts. "You've been on that page with a cat for an hour already."

"It not a cat." Feitan picks up the forgotten book in his lap and holds up a picture. "It an Emphyrean panther, very rare and cost a fortune in underground auctions." It is he who snorts this time. "Dum-dum."

Phinks flares up and stretches himself across the length of the couch, using his arms as pillows. He gazes lazily at the chandelier and ceiling of the room.

"So, tell me about your vacation in the prison," he offers instead, tired of the constant silence. "I think you're the first one to spend the longest time alone with the little kid, aside from the trash clown. How was it?" He turns his head and smirks mischievously. "Anything juicy that happened?"

The other Spider rolls his eyes. "Nothing happened," he says. "Just two thieves in a prison."

A cackle escapes the blond's lips. "She still whiny like you always complain?"

"Once or twice, but she a big help during the escape." Feitan clamps his mouth shut and pulls the skull bandana higher over his mouth and nose. He really needs to shut up.

He would not tell the others what he saw in the prison. That heart-stopping, breath-taking—and quite literally as well—ability. It fascinated him, perked his curiosity. To think that the usually whiny Valtiel has made a useful ability, he could barely believe it. It would be wonderful to use it in the next job, to watch the others look dumbstruck.

Feitan smiles at the thought.

"What are you smiling about?" Phinks smirks at him.

He scowls at once. "Shut up."

The next morning, it is time to depart.

Five days. The Phantom Troupe has lodged in different parts of the city for five days. The Danchou would not take any more chances of endangering his beloved lady. He had five groups dispersed throughout the entire Zaban City and forever checking for Hunters and their spies. No one should come close, no one should escape a Spider's thorough examination. It paid off, at least; no one died during those five days. Now the Troupe can move freely.

Feitan is grouped with Shalnark and Phinks, as usual. As the group closest to the hotel, they are tasked to meet the pair in the hotel's lobby and escort them out of Zaban, to another city, where they could take an airship and escape to who-knows-where. It will be another few months, perhaps even a year, before the Troupe would gather again for another bold heist.

It is early morning, but the weather is still rainy and dark. The lobby shines like a summer morning, filled with the freshest lilies in their gilded vases.

"Here they come," Shalnark says.

Danchou is wearing a midnight black shirt and pants, his hair slicked back and the tattoo on his forehead showing. He leads the young woman by the waist. She wears a white top and light green overflowing skirt, almost brushing against her ankles. Both smile at the three of them, and Phinks and Shalnark step forward to greet them.

Feitan stands back, none at all enthusiastic for more talks.

Chrollo glances at his sullen quietness, before turning to the others. "Is everything prepared?"

Shalnark puffs his chest out. "Sure thing! I already purchased your tickets for a morning flight to Allinga City. Oh! And Val, I got more of that little piece of information you were asking," he says, passing a little note and sparing her a mischievous wink.

Valtiel covers her mouth as she laughs demurely.

Feitan perks up on the sound. He glares from behind the group. It feels like this is the very first time he sees her as who she is—she has long, thick hair, shining like spun silver-and-gold. Her own golden eyes are round and bright, and her cheeks go rosy whenever she laughs. How she puts a small hand on Phinks's arm as she speaks, or how she pokes her tongue out at Shalnark teasingly and then clings even more on Phinks's arm.

His point is—she is a human being. She's not some lost little girl or Danchou's most treasured specimen anymore. She's no longer an experiment due to die in a few months. She's not one of Omokage's dolls.

Valtiel is human, just like the rest of the Spiders. She has her own thoughts and emotions.

The Danchou is taken, and so are Phinks and Shalnark, judging the way they tease and laugh at her for her overflowing skirts that might be soiled in the rain. She laughs again.

How come Feitan never noticed before? How come he never noticed that she has always been this light, this welcoming to everyone?

"I could tie it up to my hip like a laundry woman," Valtiel suggests.

"Ah, that's a good strategy. The Hunters are looking for a pretty girl," Phinks adds blankly. "They won't suspect a laundry woman."

"In any case, we should get going while it is still early. We can use the rain as our veil of escape," Chrollo says. Then he starts walking towards the entrance doors, hands in his pocket and caring less about everything.

The others catch up to him. Feitan ambles behind.

Shalnark has a black car ready at the front. The rain continues its downpour, heavy and unrelenting. With Feitan's sharp hearing, he could hear the low rumbling of the thunder, the impending flash of lightning across dreary skies.

Shal opens the passenger door, and Danchou, ever the consummate gentleman, bows low before the lady and takes the hem of her green skirts, saving her the trouble of having them watermarked and soiled.

She smiles at them both, her courtly knights, and gives Shalnark and Phinks her thanks.

A princess, with her handsome prince. Twelve knights-errant sworn to protect her. Good clothes and fancy foods. Feitan could just frown at it.

Then her golden eyes slide to where Feitan stands behind the group, scowling behind his bandana. He expects another smile, and there it is, reaching her eyes and lighting her face.

"Won't you say goodbye to me, Fei-san?" Valtiel asks, standing by the car with Danchou holding her skirt up in one hand and an umbrella over their heads in the other. "I imagine you will miss me after our escapades together."

"No, I won't," he says.

"Are you sure? But you cannot deny that you enjoyed my company at the least."

"I did not. For one thing, you annoyed me for days."

"But I entertained you," she pursues, very stubborn. "You know it."

Her smile turns into a smirk, and Feitan realizes that she is entrapping him into another verbal session, forcing him to speak more than he should and more than is necessary. Again, he clamps his mouth shut and makes a show of looking displeased.

Valtiel laughs. Shal and Phinks chortle at the exchange.

Chrollo shakes his head. "We should really go. It's wet out here," he complains. Everyone in the Troupe knows their leader would much appreciate a rainy weather spent indoors, with his books and a cup of coffee. Feitan shares the sentiment. "Say your goodbyes, Val."

She beckons Shalnark for a hug, and he steps easily into her arms, wrapping his own muscled ones around her petite form. He hugs her around the torso and squeezes. Next, Phinks gives her a quick, dutiful hug, barely touching her, and then steps away again, out of the rain.

When she turns for Feitan, he glowers. "I won't," he grinds out. "So stop it and get going."

Instead, she offers him that sly sidelong glance as she sinks into the passenger seat.

The flight is a menace.

Fourteen hours straight and the weather is relentless. The clouds are grey, almost black, and occasionally streaked with a purple flash of lightning. She shudders in her thin dress, very inappropriate for a weather like this. She turns away from the window and goes back to the book in her lap, one of Danchou's many thick omnibuses that he hasn't read yet.

Chrollo sits across from her, long legs crossed and his chin propped up on his palm. His head is angled somewhere to her back, towards the end of the airship's aisle. She fights the urge to turn behind, for surely, she knows what is happening.

The flight attendants are giggling, that's enough to know what is happening. It started shortly after the flight's ascent, when they were wheeling in the breakfast cart and offering more items to the passengers. Now, it is pushing towards dinner and the flight attendants are still giggling about which one gets to get close to their handsome passenger.

I may or may not die from too much eye-twitching. Valtiel sighs and rubs the sleepiness out of her eyes. She's wary that if she naps, she'd somehow find Chrollo entertaining the flight attendants, pretty as they all are.

"Is there something wrong?" An innocent voice asks from across her.

She tilts her head to the side, watching him thoughtfully. It has been almost a year since she last travelled with him like this, only the two of them. It has been so long that she has forgotten his natural charm to draw everyone in, especially with those dark intense eyes and gentlemanly heartthrob persona he dons for the public.

At that last part, she wrinkles her nose in annoyance.

"Sweetheart?" Chrollo tries catching her attention. He shifts just so, angling his head towards his sulking companion.

She tucks her knees to her chest and buries her nose back to her−his−book about ancient Aramayan legends and myths.

The words are very archaic, but she thrives off the colorful pictures and depictions of Aramayan gods. They are masterfully done, illuminated like the manuscripts back in the museum, the images showing off the—

"Darling?" he tries again, his voice lowering into a husky whisper.

"Yes?" She finally relents, exasperated.

"Is the book not to your liking?" is his first guess.

"I like the book very much, thank you."

"Have you come to the part where they are debating the name of their Aramayan god? I read many arguments touching that topic before, but the scholars are basing the name geographically," he explains with that innocent smile plastered again. "Another eastern and western debate."

"It is a matter of opinion," she agrees. She hopes this conversation would distract her. "It doesn't really matter which name is used, does it?"

"For someone with a grand knowledge about languages, you must believe it matters, to the people mostly."

"God is god. Whatever his name is, these people worship the same god. Why does it matter if his name is different in the west, or in the east? He listens to their prayers and answers those he deems worthy, whatever name they call him."

She shrugs, not very enthusiastic about religion. "Besides, given our kind of world, there are thousands of other gods who do the exact same thing. Bring rain and sunshine. Answer prayers. Punish the bad people."

Chrollo tilts his head, his smile growing. "Bad people, you say? Tell me, my dearest, are we being punished?"

She blanches at her wrong choice of words. Of course, she should not speak of bad people in front of the leader of the Phantom Troupe, who is more than 'bad'. It is a vague term yet somehow still a simple term. Bad—childish and without depth. It doesn't fit the Troupe at all.

He chuckles at her reaction. "For one thing, I do not believe we are being punished," he says levelly. "In fact, I do believe we are blessed, one way or another."

"Blessed?" The Phantom Troupe is blessed? It is an impossible notion.

"We are thriving, are we not? The successful missions all the time, good health and lives." Shadow falls across his features, but his smile is constant, keeping the ghosts of his past at bay. "And I have you," he adds, basking at the sight of her cheeks growing rosy. "You are a blessing to me."

"Of course," she mumbles, sinking deeper into her seat.

"So!" He breaks into a cheerful grin. "What are you glowering about for the past ten hours?"

"I am not glowering."

"Yes, you are. I know when you glower and I know that look when something displeases you," he argues, very stubborn. He leans back on his seat and regards her with those dark eyes. His hair is still slicked back, and he wears the darkest clothing imaginable. When he smiles, her heart flutters and her cheeks grow ever warmer.

Valtiel goes back to the book. "It's nothing. It's not my place to complain."

"Not your place?" He blinks. "To complain about what, Val?"

"It's nothing," she says again.

Chrollo studies her from where he sits. It is unlike her to be so annoyed without his provocation. Has he unknowingly done something to upset her? He keeps staring at her frown until her own eyes betray her, stealing a quick glare at the group of flight attendants in the back of the airship. At once he understands. He chuckles even.

She raises an eyebrow, as if to question his amusement. In answer, he rises from his seat and slumps down next to her, wrapping his black overcoat over her shoulders.

He leans down to press a light kiss behind her ear. At the gesture, he notices the flight attendants stop giggling, shocked and murmuring to themselves. He hides a grin and peppers Valtiel with more kisses—on her temple, cheeks, hair.

"What do you think you're doing?" she hisses in an undertone, her elbow nudging him away.

"I'm sorry," he breathes in her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "Of course, it is your place. Whatever you have in mind, you must tell me. You must not, even for a moment, be distressed. You are my dearest little love."

He inclines her chin with his fingers, hoping for another delicious kiss. She frowns and elbows him again. He draws away with an amused laugh.

"You're such a bastard sometimes," she mumbles.

"I know," he agrees with a smile. "Isn't it great?"

After four more hours of suffering the flight, the weather, and the constant giggling and chittering of the flight attendants, it is time to leave the airship and travel for another half an hour towards Allinga City. The most populous city in its state, Allinga has more than one hundred libraries, including one massive public library.

They check in one of the hotels, taking a large suite with creamy yellow walls, curtains, carpets—everything. Chrollo sighs and runs fingers through his raven hair, and then slumps face first onto the bed.

Valtiel, rolling her eyes at his childlike attitude towards the bleak weather, takes it upon herself to be the mature one—for once, she should pat herself on the back—in this relationship and puts away their things. Mainly books, as usual. Pens, which are Danchou's most favorite. Clothes, however, are scarce and expendable. They could come in and out of a store with a handful of clothes stuffed in the Spider head's jacket.

The next morning, the weather is no better. Chrollo makes sure they are dressed for the day: two layers of coats, knee-high boots, and a scarf for each of them. He has endured the strong urge to sneer at the bleak weather as they make their way across the city, aiming for the bookstore Shalnark listed in the note. Despite his queasiness, he keeps staring out of the window. It never rains in Meteor City like this, only once a month, perhaps three times in a year. The weather back home is always adequate.

The cab stops in front of a small shop. Small enough to be wedged between alleyways, too insignificant for anyone to notice at all. If Chrollo were to walk in the street, he would have missed it. It looks more like a hastily patched-up shack, with blue awnings over the door to ward off the downpour. He has his misgivings about the place, senses heightened to the max, as he pays their cab fee—Valtiel has insisted that they pay—and follows her into the darkened store.

Complimenting its poor exterior, the interior is filled with creaky floorboards and dusty bookshelves. Most are empty of books. If there are books, they are few and far in between. Chrollo doubts this place could be a bookstore. More like an attic, if he has to be honest.

Valtiel approaches an old man in the corner. He sits behind the counter, silent as a shadow.

"Good morning," she greets cheerfully enough for her and the Troupe leader. "I am looking for this book." She hands him Shalnark's note.

The store owner barely glances at the handwritten note. "Should be on Aisle 8, left side."

"Thank you," she answers, voice still cheerful in this dreary, dead place. She checks for the signboards hanging from the ceiling, the words almost erased from time and neglect. The aisle to her left, to the farthest corner of the room—and the darkest part as well.

She proceeds to review the bookshelves. So few books. Others are on the edge of falling apart. Perhaps a glue would help secure them in their binds. On the other end of the shelf, the Danchou keeps guard, a bloodhound on a scent.

Then she finds it. A book of Toryuhun legends and folklores. Something basic and easy, if she could only read the words. She flips through the pages and reads the unfamiliar words. There are pictures to help her understand: dessert and portable round tents, with thatched roofs and wooden walls. She beams at the discovery. One step closer to understanding Feitan.

She returns to Chrollo's side. "All well, Danchou?"

He takes her hand. "It's nothing, though I do feel wary. It must be the rain dulling my senses."

He takes her back to the counter and fishes out a thick wad of cash to the store owner. It is very unlikely for him to pay, especially that kind of money, but he is in such a fever to get out of this dark place.

The store owner snatches up the money like a magpie and says no other words. Not even a word of thanks. He watches as the couple hasten to the door, as the young man hides his companion from the owner's gaze and shuts the door.

The ride to the public library is a quiet one. It is the grandest building within a several meter radius. All white marble columns and stairs, vaulted ceilings and golden chandeliers. Bookshelves line every inch of the main reading room, the first room to encounter after the lobby. Chrollo takes a momentary break in his guard to admire the architecture and the massive collection of books. If he could slip for just a moment, he could get anything he wants.

Valtiel is just as impressed, though less as discreet as him. She tugs at his hand and leads him upstairs, towards the third floor, where they could have a bird's eye view of the reading room.

"Do you think you can influence this kind of space?" Chrollo asks as they both look down on the collection of benches with students and scholars hunched down to their works.

"If it is within 30 meters, it can be done," she answers, catching his train of thoughts.

"For ten seconds, right?"

"Is it not enough?"

"It's more than enough," he confirms, a hand to his chin. "With you and me working together, we can decimate through whatever they would throw at us." Then he smiles, dark eyes gleaming under the chandelier's soft light. "That is, if they are not using Nen. Your ability is weak against weapons and Nen attacks, isn't it?"

"Restrictions have to be made," she sighs.

"No need to worry." He presses a hand to the small of her back. "I am here to assist you, always."

"I'll start looking around," she says, offering him the book from the store. She starts walking away, her hips swaying despite the thick layers of coats. Chrollo has his eyes on her movements, perking up his interests and tempting his desire. "I shall be working on this section, Danchou."

He lets her do as she pleases. The third floor is only a few yards wide, with less bookshelves dominating the walls but more computers. Less students, too, working on their research papers. In this space, with little effort, he could calculate where she goes without having to use En.

Taking the seat nearest to the railings that overlooks the floor below, Chrollo immerses himself in the new book, Valtiel's book of legends and folklore, a little sneak-peek to a Toryuhun's lifestyle. He finds out that they lived as nomads in a desert, travelling in great numbers with their belongings and provisions atop burly camels. Feitan's ancestors had lived as nomads—did he live as one before Meteor City?

He looks up when he senses Valtiel's approach. More than that, he senses another presence. Not stalking her, but with her. His gaze darkens at the prospect of having someone else with her. What has she done now? Whom has she befriended now, at a time like this?

Then he sees them, emerging from the corner of the bookshelves and making their way towards him. He straightens in his chair, already glaring at the young man who accompanies his beloved.

Auburn-haired with an easy smile, he is a bespectacled librarian in a modest polo shirt and pants. He is chattering with Valtiel, and she listens to every word, head turned towards him so she could not miss a single detail.

Chrollo keeps watching: the pair stops at the end of a bookshelf, still deep in a conversation. He studies her body language, her smiles and eager nods encouraging the other man to keep talking. He realizes then that this must be easy for her—to attract attention. Worse still, he realizes that it was him, Chrollo himself, who gave her lessons how to win over a man's attention, how to use her eyes and her smiles as invitations to implicated pleasures and to promises, how to come forward as a woman and then run away as a desirable yet unattainable trophy.

He frowns at himself. He never should have taught her how to do it. He never should have sent her to play with their clients back then. Now, his lessons come as naturally as she breathes.

Valtiel finally tears her attention from the librarian and strides towards his table. She slides a book across to him, another book related to Toryuhun culture.

"Who was that?" he asks in a demanding tone. He barely glances at the volume before him.

"Jeremy, I think, or was it Jonathan?"

"You don't remember?"

"No." She laughs, sitting on his right. "He told me so many stories I forgot his name."

"And what, pray tell, was he blathering about?"

"That he knows where the blind author lives and he had been his professor in university," she reports, still elated from her previous business with the librarian. "Though I know and trust Shal-san's information, I wanted to hear from someone who knows the author on a personal level. We should go ahead and visit him as soon as we can, Danchou. It would be wonderful to meet teacher-and-student on the same day."

"In this weather, darling?" He sighs, ears perking up at the faint flash of lightning.

"Oh, you are such a sour old cat!" she exclaims, still in good humor.

His bad temper of watching her flirt with another immediately melts away. He drapes an arm around her shoulder and grins. "You call me sour and old? In the same sentence? You are wicked." He taps her nose and she beams like a little girl.

She shakes her head. "But you are old," she presses, biting back a laugh when he all but pouts.

He clicks his tongue as if to correct her. "No, I'm older than you, but not old," he says. "Only three years older, and I think it is a good balance."

"Between an old and young generation?" she suggests, teasing.

"Absolutely not." He kisses her on the cheek. "Shall we head to this author's house now?"

"Let's go then." She disentangles herself from his arms and picks up the books.

"Ah, before that, can I get something for myself?"

"Do as you like," she says. "It's not that I can stop you from stealing, right?"

"You know me well enough." He puts his hands in his coat pockets. "Give me three minutes."

Chrollo keeps that sweet smile on his face, until he ducks into a corner and hides himself between thickly stuffed shelves. There are no more than ten people on this floor, he has counted and made sure no one added in the list, and slips away, towards the far back. He finds the librarian, typing away in his laptop, whistling a cheery tune. He stops before the other man.

The librarian looks up to smile at him. "What can I do for you?"

"May I borrow this?" Chrollo picks up a ballpoint pen from the pencil holder.

"Hey! Aren't you the one with Miss—"

Valtiel blinks when Chrollo comes walking back to her. She counts three books in his left arm, while his right hand is in his pocket. She meets him halfway. "That was fast," she tells him. "You usually take half an hour to four hours to pick a good book. There is nothing in between."

He chuckles. "Am I that bad at choosing books?"

She nods and leads them down the spiraling marble staircase. "A complete menace," she confirms. "We should hurry up, Danchou. We have to be home in time for dinner."

She strides towards the main entrance doors, the Spider head ambling at her heels. "And your books are smudged with blood," she adds nonchalantly. "I hope you didn't hurt yourself picking just three books."

He offers an enigmatic smile. "I cut myself with a pen, that's all."

At once, her radiant mood vanishes. "Then take more care," she says, voice colder than the weather.

Their blind author lives in a shabby old mansion, more appropriate in a cemetery than in a grand city like this. The lawn is grey and withered, the iron gates rusting and one hanging askew from its hinges. The flagstone pathway is deep beneath a combination of rainwater, mud, and grass. If they are not in such an unpleasant mood, Chrollo might find the place intriguing at least.

Instead, he is both amused and curious at the turn of events. It could be his fault, this kind of change in mood. But really, how could anyone blame him? Anyone who is not Phantom Troupe is an enemy, even a cheerful librarian. And anyone who is an enemy deserves to die.

Besides, that young man should not have breathed in Valtiel's general direction.

He leads her across the drenched pathways, ankle-deep into the mud. They take shelter under the poor condition of the porch's roof. He sighs at the wetness and the coldness, and knocks on the wooden door.

A woman answers. Her bright hazel eyes peep from beneath custom-made reading glasses. She looks between the couple and says in a meek voice, "Yes?"

"Good day," Chrollo greets in his most charming voice, and Valtiel almost snorts at the blatant fakeness. He ignores her and focuses his attention on the other woman. "We are here for Sir Giraud. We were told by one of his former students, now a librarian at the public library, that we could find him here."

"That must be Jericho," the woman says. She opens the door wider, but still hesitant of the two guests. She takes a step forward. "May I know your names?"

Chrollo glances at Valtiel, but receives no acknowledgment. "My name is Chrollo," he says, amiable enough, and gestures to his companion. "This is my friend, Valtiel." He dares to pour oil into an already blazing fire. Perhaps it would thaw out her coldness for him.

Valtiel shivers in her coat and says, "May we speak with Sir Giraud, please?"

"I am not supposed to admit strangers."

"We only have a few questions," Valtiel takes the reins. She pretends shivering in her coat, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed.

It is written all over the woman's face. She feels guilty to leave these two under the pouring rain. She fidgets by the doorway, like some confused little bird.

Chrollo stops himself from smirking—Valtiel has this young woman on the ropes.

"My name is Bianca," she answers after a moment's hesitation. She studies them both behind her strange glasses. "My father is upstairs," she says, opening the door for them.

"Thank you," Valtiel murmurs.

"You are very kind," Chrollo adds, stepping into the dim-lighted living room.

"Please. Have a seat. Make yourselves comfortable." Bianca has light purple hair and bright hazel eyes behind dark purple reading glasses. She wears a simple beige dress with an apron.

She draws her guests further into the living room, towards the couch set and the untouched blazer. "I will fetch you something to eat and drink, and then I will inform my father. Please excuse me."

Polite enough, she bows to the pair and disappears.

The Spider head sighs and leans back into the couch. The place is dark, reminding him of a medieval castle, with stonewalls and floors, wooden chandeliers, and candles. Befitting an author's house, the place is littered with bookshelves dominating the wall to his left, while to his right is an imposing wooden desk with a clutter of books, scrolls, and quills. He hums as he remembers the smudge of ink on Bianca's left cheek.

Valtiel, on the other hand, keeps to herself. Instead of looking around in wonder like she often does in a new place, she sulks in the couch across the Spider and averts her gaze. She looks everywhere but at him, relaying that she is in a bad mood with him and no amount of his smiles would soothe her.

Usually, silence between them is peaceful. Now, it is suffocating and Chrollo understands that it is his doing. That, indeed, he is to be blamed. He tries to catch her eyes but she turns away.

He decides that the silence has been long enough. He moves to rise from the couch—when Bianca returns with some baked scones and steaming tea. At once, he sinks back to his seat.

Bianca smiles and bends before him, serving the snacks. "These are all I can prepare for you."

"They're wonderful," Chrollo tells her, and he sees the shy flicker in her eyes.

"M-My father would see you now," she says, fidgeting again.

"I'll go." Valtiel stands abruptly. She walks past Bianca and still does not look at Chrollo as she orders the Phantom Troupe leader, "You can stay here," as if he is no more than a dog.

"As you wish." He settles back in his seat and watches, equal parts still amused and helpless, as Valtiel asks Bianca for directions towards the mansion's upper floors. If it had been a stranger who snapped at him like that, Phinks would have snapped her neck for that disrespect. Thank god Phinks is not here, and thank god Valtiel is not a stranger.

She leaves Chrollo's side, thinking it more as a respite. She follows Bianca towards a darkened hallway, across empty rooms, and to the flight of stairs in a corner. Better the darkness than to remember what Chrollo has done—whatever he did in the first place. He is uncontrollable once he has set his eyes into anything. She is right after all: she cannot stop him from anything at all.

Not that she wants to control him. There is no controlling the Troupe leader. But what else has to be done, when Chrollo goes on his merry way stealing and murdering all in one breath? She understands the need to be safe—an utmost priority between them—but hurting an innocent is beyond her comprehension. Sure, she killed people before, they were hardly innocent people.

Bianca leads her to the last room on the second floor. "My father is in here," she whispers, opening the door and peeping inside. Then she turns to her again. "He is an old man, please understand that his senses are dull and way beyond his years."

The room is warm and glowing orange from a blazing hearth. Silhouetted between light and shadows is an ancient man in a wheelchair, warmed by his blanket and a blue shawl around his shoulders. Despite her moving soundlessly, the man perks up and inclines his head.

Sightless blue eyes blink at her. "Come, child. There is no need to be wary. I know you're there."

Her previous annoyance with Chrollo melts at his kind, grandfather-like voice. She remembers her own grandfather, Elder Ryence from Meteor City. She tiptoes towards the old man and kneels on the carpet in front of him. "My apologies for the unexpected visit."

"Bianca told me you are here to ask about my work."

"I am. I am here about Toryuhun." She observes this frail old man and feels sorry for his small, delicate hands, for the splotches on his skin, and for the blue eyes that see only darkness. Somehow, it makes her feel gracious for her own eyes. "I have a friend whom I think might be a descendant of the Toryuhun lineage."

"Extraordinary," Giraud exclaims, though his voice is shaking. "I had thought the Toryuhun died a hundred years ago. Their blood dried out after so many intermarriages with other cultures."

"How could you be so sure they died out? What if they're in hiding?"

"The Toryuhun are proud people, my child," he explains. "For centuries, the Toryuhun married only members of their clan. Too proud to share what they called the blessed blood to other, lesser people. They roamed the deserts, they were kings of sun and sand. They raided weaker groups and added them to their growing clan. These newcomers became their slaves, for their blood is lesser, less insignificant."

"Then what happened?"

"Oh, their luck ran out. They stumbled upon the territory of rivalling warlords. Desert people who have done nothing in their lives but raid and travel are nothing against men with armors and infantry, soldiers mounted on armored horses." Giraud shakes his head. "This time, they were the weaker blood. Their men were slain, their women captured and made into breeding mares, their children left to die in the sun. The slaves were taken, too, and forced into labor camps to build the empire that it is today."

"Which empire is that?"

"Have you heard of Kakin?"

"Yes," she whispers, hearing her own terror in her small voice.

"The old warlords of Kakin destroyed the kings of the desert. Then the empire had long periods of warring between states, royal brothers waging wars against each other. Brother against brother. Cousin against cousin. Amongst the chaos, a small part of the Toryuhun lived. Some intermarried across continents. The ancient blood thinned. Dried out. I am happy to hear that a descendant of such ancient culture is a friend of yours."

She laughs slightly, peeping up at his smiling face. "Oh, he is a proud man," she says. "He would never admit that we are friends. More like partners, I think, but the term is not very suited between us. He is grumpy and he would never speak unless spoken to. I believe he is more comfortable speaking in his native tongue than the common one that we use."

"Is this the same friend that remained downstairs?"

"No, sir." She is amazed at his sharp perception. An old, blind man tucked away in this room on the upper floors. Bianca may have told him, but something tells her that it is his wise years that allowed him to sense Chrollo, even at this distance. "My Toryuhun friend is somewhere else. The one downstairs, he is… He is another one of my friends…"

"You have many friends," he notes with a chuckle. "A charming girl."

"Would you tell me more about your works? Not just Toryuhun, of course! I heard from your student that you also researched about the Khaned people of the south? Oh! And about the daily lives of the swamp people in Shekim, too!"

Giraud chuckles again. "Very well, then, I shall tell you. Stop kneeling on the carpet and grab some stool. There are lemon cakes on the table if you'd like." He turns his wheelchair towards the coffee table and chairs near the fireplace. "What about your other friend? Is he all right downstairs?"

She waves her hand in casual dismissal. "Oh, he can do whatever he likes."

Where the hell is Valtiel?

He pores through his leather-bound book and turns for Bianca and her desk.

She sits on her desk and he flips through the pages. All in silence, but he also feels her constant shy stolen glances. Perhaps it is his pale face illuminated by the glowing fire that makes him irresistible. He could not tell. Moreover, he does not really care what she sees in him. He wants Valtiel back by his side so they could go home, talk about their problem, and slip into bed.

He keeps noting those purple-rimmed glasses, the way the lenses glimmer with some sort of incandescent lights. It cannot be the light from the fireplace, he observes. The reflection in her lenses is multi-colored, a rainbow, and not the orange glow. At once, he is intrigued and approaches her.

"What are you reading?"

She stammers, a shy young woman, perhaps even shyer than Valtiel herself. While his lady is used to male attention, this one is more reserved. "Not reading, but copying my father's works."

Enter the handsome smile and the sly tilt of his head. "Oh? I thought he is blind?"

"He is, but he dictates his verses and poems to me, and I write them all down to this little notepad here. Then, when everything is settled, I will copy my scribbles to a finer paper and write them with a better hand."

"Indeed?" He chuckles, earnestly curious. "And this has been going on for how long?"

"Fifteen years," Bianca answers. "But he lost eyesight about twenty years ago. My sister used to write and make copies, but she married and left the house."

"And yourself?" He sits across her, dark eyes boring into the purple glasses. Her eyes flit up and down again from his face to her work. She blushes at his intense staring. "You are not married?"

"Someone has to care for my father."

"You can care for him as a married young woman."

"Perhaps."

"Yet you are not," he presses.

"Not yet, at least."

Chrollo knows where this dull conversation is going. Plus, he is already bored. He has to change tunes so that this young woman stops her shy peeping at him and that he could go home already. So he heightens his charms to another notch.

"You have interesting reading glasses. May I try them on?"

"They're not…" She starts, but then shakes her head. His stares feel as if he is looking right through her very soul. Those big, round eyes, very intense and mysterious. She removes her glasses.

"I think they're incredible," he commends. He makes a show of narrowing his eyes at her, teasingly, and she laughs. He tries for the nearest book and flips through the brittle pages.

Suddenly, the glasses seem to flare into life and the lenses glow with different colors.

He feigns innocence. "How…?"

"Aren't they very useful?" Bianca smiles wider, leaning closer to him across the desk.

"Very much so. I never thought this would be possible."

"Me neither, but they are useful in situations exactly like this."

"May I ask you a favor?" He blinks behind the lenses, the multi-colors reflected in his dark eyes.

"Of course," she says, the fool he thinks she is.

Beneath the desk, his right hand conjures his Bandit's Secret. His smile is all but ready to enchant her, and she is taken. He thinks, as three hours and forty minutes have passed already, that Valtiel would never fall for that kind of smile. If anything, she would squint her eyes for lies.

He takes her right hand, their eyes locked together in a heated stare, and guides her palm on top of the book. Her small hand barely fits. He feels the surge of aura from her to his book. The glasses vanish and the white aura amassed in them pours into Bandit's Secret.

Valtiel arrives just in time to see him holding Bianca by the wrist. Her golden eyes flicker from the other woman's confused face, to the Spider leader's calm demeanor. She nods once and trudges out of the door without another word.

Chrollo chases after her. He is officially done for.

So, this is it then. He makes peace with his maker. This is how I die.

Author's Notes:

Jealous Val: *sulking*

Jealous Chrollo: *murder*

Ah, yes. Peak relationship goals between these two.

Happy New Year, everyone! Hopefully, your new year started on a high note. Mine went pretty uneventful—lots of working. Y'know, pretty boring adult stuff, though I'm glad I was able to update for this month. Fingers crossed that I can update the next chapter so much sooner!

*ElaizaElric - Yaaaass, my friend, you nailed it! This "someone else" in indeed Rhanion from way back when! Kudos to you for being the only one to catch that reference! Hugs and kisses!

*Kojima Miharu - Thank you so much for always leaving a review! I really appreciate it! Yes, Danchou seems to be a bit more attached than Val is. It will not make their separation pretty once Val finds out the truth. Thoughts and prayers to Chrollo. 🙏

As always, thank you for reading, everyone! Hoped you enjoyed it, and take care always! 💜

P.S. Please don't forget to check out my Illumi smut "Little Red". 🙈