"And I fell from the pedestal
Right down the rabbit hole
Long story short, it was a bad time
Pushed from the precipice
Clung to the nearest lips
Long story short, it was the wrong guy
(...) No more keepin' score now
I just keep you warm (keep you warm)
And my waves meet your shore
Ever and evermore"
- Taylor Swift, "long story short"
/
"What … how did you find me?"
For a moment, the look in Esteban's eyes took Hortensia over forty years back in time. The way he jumped up from his chair, blinked at her with open astonishment, then quickly hid his face with a deep bow, reminded her so much of his sixteen-year-old self that she could almost forget the intervening years had ever happened. But there was a certain stiffness in the way he straightened up from that bow, the white streak in his hair was spreading, and the bones of his face were sharper than ever. Even his clothes did not fit him the same way.
He looks like a man who's spent a year as a fugitive, Hortensia thought acerbically. What did I expect?
"This was always your favorite spot for brooding," she said, to answer his question.
It had been their favorite spot once, though she would never admit as much out loud. They were on a balcony that faced the sea, with reclining chairs and a sunshade from which to watch the sun trailing sparkles over the water. It would have been lovely to watch if she didn't have more important things to do - like talk to the most confounding man in the history of Avalor.
"I did tell Armando to say I was not at home."
"Armando? Pft! I can tell when he's fibbing. I just went past him. And the guards have standing orders to let me in."
"Hm. I should have a word with General Nuñez."
"Don't bother. The boy knows me."
" … To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Doña?"
"I'm here about your spring wardrobe order," she said. "You've upset Ignacio, and we can't have that. You know how dramatic he can be."
Ignacio was the in-house tailor for the men's wear department at the Emporium. Until recently, Esteban had always appeared in person to order new clothes - turning the whole department upside down with a flurry of critiques and instructions before he was satisfied - but this year he had sent Higgins instead, with a list of measurements on paper and an order to "leave it at the tailor's discretion". Ignacio, upon hearing this, had thrown his hands in the air and wailed: "Unbelievable! You never know where you are with that man!" Hortensia would have reprimanded him quite sharply for talking about a customer in that tone, if she didn't know exactly how the tailor felt.
"It was not my intention to cause any trouble … any more trouble, that is," said Esteban, with a rueful tilt of his head. "Please convey my apologies."
"Don't apologize, you fool," Hortensia snapped. "Eat something!"
"I beg your pardon?"
She'd put her foot in it now. She hadn't had the right to comment on his health like this since their breakup (if ever). One would think that, with all the imaginary arguments that had been swirling around in her head as she marched along the Via Mercado, she would have hit on something more appropriate to say. Never mind; she was committed now, and her only option was to charge forward headfirst.
"Here. And here. Look at this." She pulled the list of measurements from her purse and slapped it down on the little table between the folding chairs, which in happier times used to hold agua fresca and snacks. She jabbed at the offending numbers, written in Higgins' surprisingly pretty cursive, with her folded fan.
"I haven't sold clothing for this long without knowing human proportions. Now that I see you, it only proves me right. You're underweight, that's what. I mean, no wonder, after everything … But I'm telling you, if you order new clothes for the shape you are now, they'll never fit you when you get better - and you darn well ought to get better. Also, what is that you're wearing - a cravat or a dish rag?" She pointed to the limp piece of fabric tied haphazardly around Esteban's throat. "For the love of Avalor, man, have some self-respect."
There - a spark of annoyance in his eyes. This was the Esteban Flores she knew. But he snuffed it out immediately, twisting his face into a bitter smile that she considered much worse.
"This is true," he said, tugging the cravat. "I haven't much of it at the moment … but you see, it was thinking too highly of myself that caused all the trouble in the first place."
"Oh no, no, no." Hortensia smacked her fan into the palm of her free hand. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to punish yourself when the ones you hurt the most already forgave you. We all heard that speech the Queen gave us in the courtyard, when she told everyone what happened? You … "
For the first time, the inner fire that had driven her all the way here burned out as she remembered that day. Esteban and Elena had both looked pale and shaken, leaning on each other, white light radiating from Elena's magical dress. Later that evening, after the coronation ceremony, Esteban had bowed to Hortensia as if nothing had changed, so she had pretended likewise, dancing with Julio Guzman as if it were any other party. They had all been so desperate to move, to laugh, to shake the Four Shades' magic out of their bones. But she couldn't forget, and by the look of him, neither could Esteban.
"You gave your life for her - you … you turned to stone," she faltered. "Isn't that enough?"
Esteban looked away from her, gripped the handrails of his chair, and … flickered.
Literally flickered, like a candle flame, except that the light outlining him was green instead of golden. So he hadn't lost his magic along with his lightning-bolt staff after all. Hortensia's instincts would have been to either get away from there or yell at him to stop, but she had seen Wizard de Alva talking Queen Elena through her incidents often enough to know that was not the way to deal with emotion-magic. One should keep one's voice low and even, and say only reassuring things. She almost reached for his shoulder before pulling back with the terrifying thought that her hand might fall right through.
"Hey," she said, "Hey. It's okay. You're safe. I didn't mean … We can talk about something else if you prefer … Just don't go anywhere, okay? Just stay right here."
A little detached voice pointed out how pitiful she sounded, but she could be embarrassed later - when Esteban wasn't in danger of fading away to spirits-knew-where.
"I thought I could do it … " Esteban's voice faded in and out, like the rest of him. "All my life, I … I really believed I could deal with Ash and Shuriki and their sort, and … and keep them away from the people I loved. I thought … if I could only have control, I'd be safe. I couldn't see … wouldn't see … that I had become the very threat I feared, until … until it was too late."
"It's not too late," Hortensia retorted. "We're still here, aren't we?"
This time she did reach out, and found Esteban's velvet-clad shoulder reassuringly solid, if thin, under her hand. He reached up and squeezed her hand before letting go.
"Look, I know it's not the same thing … but when I was Magister, I used to think the local merchants were grateful for my leadership." She sat down in the chair next to him, finding it easier to confess when they were looking in the same direction rather than into each other's eyes. "Until I lost the election. Turns out the same policies that kept us alive in the Shuriki Era don't really hold up in a free Avalor. I was a collaborator too, remember? I know a thing or two about becoming the threat I feared."
She remembered her damehood ceremony, the year of her tenth election - how burning cold Shuriki's wand had felt when the sorceress queen had tapped her on both shoulders, as other monarchs would with a scepter or sword. Back at the Emporium, her staff had all congratulated her and started calling her Doña, but none of them had been able to look her in the eye. Becoming Esteban's social equal had been the hollowest victory of her career. And after all, he hadn't treated her one bit differently.
"I didn't know you felt that way," said Esteban. "You've always seemed so … "
"Confident?"
"To put it mildly, yes."
"Well, so did you," she said. "To put it mildly."
"I'm not. Most of the time."
"Yeah … me neither."
They shared a sardonic look across the balcony, silently acknowledging how much they knew about each other that they'd never admit to anyone else.
"Speaking of the magisterial election, that reminds me … are congratulations in order? For you and Señor Guzman, that is."
"What are you talking about?"
"I saw you together. At the Coronation Ball."
"Ugh …" Hortensia hid behind her fan. "Seriously? Can't I kiss my dance partner on the cheek without people jumping to conclusions?"
"He's a good man." Esteban forced a smile. "He could make you happy."
"He's too good a man. I'd make him miserable," she shot back. "He'd try to reform me, like he does with all our magisterial traditions, and it wouldn't work. So you can stop matchmaking, thank you very much, especially when you look like you have a toothache every time you say his name. Anyone would think you were jealous."
She peered over the lace edges of her fan to wait for his reaction. It was beyond anything she had expected.
He glowed.
Not literally. Not with a magical glow as he'd done a few minutes earlier. But the way his face flushed, his eyes focused like a jaquin's about to take flight, and he sat bolt upright in a chair meant for lounging, made him seem lit up from the inside out.
"And if I were jealous?" he demanded. "Would that matter to you? Still, after all these years?"
"Sure, it would matter. It'd piss me off, because you've got no reason to be."
She closed her fan with a snap and put it away. This, she realized at last, was what she'd really come here to say. It had nothing to do with Ignacio the tailor and his artistic temperament, or even with her standards for customer service. She was here for one reason only: because the measurements had brought it home to her, in a language she understood, just how much Esteban had suffered during his exile.
She couldn't lose him again.
"Look … I know it was just a fling to you, back then. And I know it's been forty-four years and - shut up, let me finish - " As he looked indignant and showed signs of interrupting. "For a couple of old folks like us, it's probably too late … but it was only ever you, Esteban Flores. Whatever happens, I want you to know."
His amber eyes brightened with a fierce joy she hadn't seen since they were teenagers, but rather than the pride she expected, it was tempered with humility. He looked down and away, hesitated, and finally stood up from his deck chair to perch on the edge of hers.
"Hortensia … " It was the first time he had called her that in forty-four years. "I ended it because I wanted you as far from Shuriki's court as possible. I was selfish and cowardly, and I underestimated you … but you are the first and only woman I have ever loved. Can you forgive me?"
With no Takaina crystals in her system, she couldn't turn her dress white or break any curses, but Hortensia understood why Queen Elena had referred to forgiveness as the most powerful magic. From this moment, her life would never be the same.
"I do," she said. "And … I'm sorry too. I held that grudge like nobody's business."
"This is true."
"Hey!" But she was too happy to be offended, and he knew it.
"Also," he moved closer, tipping the chair until he was all but hovering over her. "'Old folks like us'? Speak for yourself. I do not consider myself old."
"Oh yeah?" She reached for his dish rag of a cravat, which had the one advantage of being easy to tug. "Prove it."
He proved it so convincingly that she lost track of her schedule, and returned to the Emporium with her lipstick worn off.
Her employees, needless to say, knew better than to comment.