Archive of Our Own

It was the end of a beautiful summer and the weather was perfect. At the Loveridge estate, the doors of the ball hall had been thrown open to allow a refreshing breeze to reel through the room. Lady Amira Loveridge and her three cousins were sitting in the adjoining garden, so that Amira could watch Sorin train from behind the blind of a book of poetry. She was sixteen-years-old to Sorin's eighteen, and she had made no secret of her infatuation with Aiden Longshore, who was her pretended distant cousin and Sorin's present persona. The two of them had exchanged little more than pleasantries over the season, but Sorin liked her well enough, and her attention was flattering.

Sorin paused in their forms and peered into the reflective wall that ran the length of the hall while they caught their breath. A summer of outdoor diversions had brightened their golden hair, and their sleeveless training tunic bared the tanned skin of their arms and upper chest. After months of eating and sleeping so well, their thinness had become lean muscle and they glowed with youthful vigour. Most of their hair had escaped its tie, so they leaned their sword against the wall and scraped it back into a low ponytail, then patted themself with a cotton towel. They smirked to themself when these actions merited a chorus of giggles from the garden, and waved goodbye when Lady Amira and her small coterie took their leave shortly after.

They had just finished their practice when someone appeared at the garden door. With afternoon brightness at his back and his face in shadow, it took them a moment to recognize that it was Talent Knowing, watching them with his arms crossed over his chest.

“You’re back,” said Sorin, unable to keep their surprise from showing. They were out of breath from the last of their forms, which felt embarrassing. They set down their water cup and hung their shortsword on the weapon rack.

“Arrived yesterday evening, but you weren’t about.” He met them in the middle of the room and Sorin looked him over up close. He was well-rested and freshly bathed, his jaw shaved of its usual stubble, and they were relieved to see that he looked uninjured in the aftermath of his solo job. He was dressed in day fashion that was befitting his noble persona, and the blue embroidery on his wrapped shirt brought out his eyes. His thirty-fifth birthday had passed while he was away, but he could convincingly play the part of a younger man, and to them he seemed more handsome than ever.

“We overnighted on a stag hunt. Only just returned this morning.” They tried and failed to hold back what they said next. "You said that it would take no more than two months. It's been three." Since he had taken them on as his student, they had never spent such a long span of time apart. Sorin's fresh delight at the comparative freedom had cooled within days. Over the last few weeks, they had missed him very much.

"Missed me, did you?" His tone was mocking, but gently so, and he was smiling.

"I've been hardly aware of your absence." They tightened the tie around their hair and rolled their shoulders. "But I'm ready to move on."

He looked them over in appraisal. "Well, your time here hasn't done you any harm." Sorin went still as he stepped in close and reached around the back of their head. The pinch and release of him tugging the tie from their hair made a shiver run down their back. They shook out the loosed waves as they tried to recall what they had just been talking about, but watching him slip their hair tie into his pocket had them unaccountably flustered.

Ah, yes, their summer spent in the lap of luxury.

"I've been using my time wisely," they reported. "I've kept up my drills, and the tutor says my dancing is much better now. I'm the best shot on the hunts, everyone says so. And I accomplished the tasks you left for me. It all went smooth."

"Good." Given their cover story as half-brothers, it was a bold move when he cupped their cheek in his hand and kissed their mouth. It was a chaste thing, just a brief press of lips, but the heretofore unprecedented level of intimacy was a great surprise to Sorin. When he pulled away, their face felt hot and they had to work to maintain a neutral expression.

“Speaking of drills… I hear you ran off your rapier instructor within three weeks."

His tone took on an edge, and the weather vane in Sorin's head that tracked the changes in his temper spun. They shifted their weight from foot to foot, caught out. "He was a stiff old ass, and he couldn't tell me anything that I didn't already know." They added a bit of flattery, in the hope of maintaining his accommodating mood: "You're a better teacher, anyway."

Their mentor didn't respond to the flattery, but there was an amused gleam in his eye. He loosed the ties at his wrists and rolled up his sleeves. "If you're going to make such haughty claims, your rapier work had best be much improved." He pulled two of the lightweight practice rapiers from the stand and tossed one to their offhand, which they caught easily. "En garde, my Sparrow."

The vane was still spinning, but the wind was blowing in a direction that thrilled them. The split second that they had settled into their starting stance, Talent lunged forward and the match began. The months of exercises had readied them; their limbs moved without Sorin needing to think about where to put them. They flourished a circular parry and took an advancing lunge of their own.

It was a dance as much as it was a spar, and the ringing of their blades at beat was music to Sorin's ears. The challenge was invigorating, and in the back of their mind, they were relieved to find that Talent still knew how they would move after their time apart. Even when he put them on their back foot and pressed forward, their heart was singing. Their teacher really was an incredible swordsman, and his offence was astonishing for its precision and economy of energy. Their own movements quickly grew more desperate, and they were barely getting their rapier up in time to parry, but they were doing it. He was not holding back, and yet they were holding their ground.

"Getting sloppy,” he said, flashing them a sharp grin. "Where's that youthful stamina?"

Because he'd drawn their attention to his face, they caught the fraction of a moment when his focus flickered, his thoughts split between the match and something else. It was the thinnest of opportunities, but wasn't that what he was always telling them? Think later, move now. When they tried a feint, he fell for it. His full attention slammed back into the match and he blocked them with successive parries, but it was too late. He was on the back foot now.

Sorin should have seen the danger, but their heart was singing louder than their head was judging, and in this moment they had become spindrift, air and water in perfect flow. When they boldly struck the middle of his blade with their own and created an opening, he opened his mouth to say something—which is when they pommelled their rapier for extra reach and contacted the capped tip of their sword to the centre of his chest.

They came to a stop and pulled back. Pieces of their hair were stuck to their neck and forehead with sweat and their breath was coming hard, but their victory had them smiling wildly. Their gaze lifted from the clean hit to Talent's face. When they saw the lightning-strike anger in his eyes, their smile dropped with their rapier. They were not salt spray on the wind, they were a clumsy thing of overheated flesh and blood. They had forgotten themself, and now they were in trouble.

They had the presence of mind to hold onto their weapon, so when he charged them and swung his rapier like a sabre, they were able to throw theirs up in an artless block that prevented a blow to their face. They realised that they had fallen for a ruse when they felt a tug at their hip, but they spun away too late to keep him from pulling their dagger from its sheath on their belt. They backed away as he advanced, swinging his blade with such force that their arm weakened with every parry. The mediocre training blades trembled with misuse as they cracked against each other, again and again.

Finding the wall at their back, Sorin could go no further. Out of desperation, they attempted to kick out his knee and dodge to the right, but he sidestepped and blocked their escape. With an easy twist of the dagger, he disarmed them of their sword and it spun across the floor. He forced them up against the wall with their own dagger against their throat.

"Not bad." He was breathing hard himself now. They could smell his subtle cologne, and fennel toothpowder on his breath, and the sour salt of his perspiration. "But you got overconfident. Dropped your guard. Now, convince me to let such disrespect slide."

"It wasn't disrespect," they said, voice strained. They felt very aware of the pulsing artery in their throat and of the honed edge against their skin. "I just wanted to show you. To show you what I can do."

He laughed. "You can land a point on me in play, you mean. Winning a mock match isn't much to boast about."

Their temper flared like coals blown over. "I can do more than that," they snapped. They could see that he enjoyed this combination, their fire and their fear, but so too were they aware that they could easily overstep. They must be smart about it. "I've drawn your blood before, and I'm only getting better. Soon, I'll be as good as you are."

He tilted his head fractionally and slid the flat of the dagger across their throat. The cool metal dragged against their heated skin. They licked their lips and took in a shaky breath.

"It sounds like you have it all figured out," he said, watching their face closely. "In that case, what do you need me for?"

The threat there was more dreadful than any dagger. The fight drained out of them. "I... That's not..."

The pressure against throat lessened and his expression grew cool with disinterest. "If you think you're ready to go your own way, perhaps this is where our paths diverge."

"No," they said, their voice not much louder than a whisper. They looked into his eyes, so that he could see their sincerity. "Please, I want you to teach me. I still have so much to learn. I just got carried away. I didn't mean to offend you, or to hurt you."

At that, he pulled the dagger away from their neck and slid it back into its sheath on their belt. "Oh, Sorin," he said softly, looking upon them with fond exasperation. He was still very close, and though they breathed easier now, they were not out of the storm yet. "You're no more capable of hurting me than you are of disappointing me. You are the ideal student. Do you know why?"

They were dazed by fatigue and the sudden shift from outrage to praise, but they desperately wanted to keep him on this new path. They made their expression agreeable and shook their head, wordlessly inviting him to explain.

He smiled a gentle smile, the one meant for them alone, and tapped his finger against the pommel of the rapier that he still held. "Because there is never a moment when you aren't striving for improvement. When you fail, you examine why. When you stumble, you retrace your steps. And when you learn your lessons, you remember them. Isn't that right?"

Sorin agreed.

"Then one more lesson today, for my eminently teachable protege." He stepped back, putting a small distance between their bodies, and passed them the practice blade. "Break it."

Sorin saw the danger then, but there was nothing else that they could do. They pressed the tip of the thin blade to the floor and used their boot heel to apply pressure until the very end snapped off. They intuited what was coming as they passed it back, but they drew themself up and set their shoulders, determined to bravery. His countenance was carefully controlled again now, his tone patient.

"The lesson is this: When you lead the kind of life that we do, no moment is free of danger." When he stabbed the broken blade into the top of their thigh, they pressed themself to the smoked glass behind them, but they didn't cry out. Neither did they let themself look away when he leaned in and continued the lecture at a lower volume.

"A ballroom is just as easily a battleground. A blunted weapon can be made to bite." He applied greater force and twisted the blade, just once. Alongside the messy pain of tearing skin and flesh, Sorin felt the sickening scrape of metal against bone, and they cried out then—a weak and desperate sound that they muffled with their palm. When he pulled the blade free, they slumped with relief.

"Remember this, Sorin. Victory is never a given, nor is mercy granted to ones such as we. There is no fairness for liars and thieves. Playing by the rules only puts you at a disadvantage, so you must be as ruthless as the world is. Do you understand?"

Sorin nodded, their lips pressed together and their eyes wet with tears. He searched their face, reading every twitch of pain and spasm of emotion there. When he dropped the broken blade, their blood speckled the floor.

"Good. You know that I don't like to repeat instruction." He sighed and pushed his hair back from his face. "Clean this up and tend to yourself. Our host expects us both at dinner."

He left the way that he came. Sorin could have dropped to the floor in exhaustion, but they had work to do. They tied a towel around their upper leg, wiped the floor clean, and set the weapons rack to rights before they left the hall.

Dinner hadn't been too bad, except that Sorin had worried that they would bleed through their clothing. They hadn't, and the more difficult task was making their way back to their bedchamber afterwards. Going up the staircase re-opened the wound, and at the top, two indulged house dogs jumped up on them in demand of affection. They winced in pain as paws and hard heads grazed their injury, but couldn't deny the beasts a vigorous patting each.

It was a relief to finally be alone in the privacy of their bedchamber. Sorin tugged off their boots and trousers, then braced against the wall to peel their makeshift bandage away from their thigh. The wound was still leaking blood, even hours later, and they weren't sure how best to tend it. If it was a neat slice they would stitch it, but this was a deep puncture and the surrounding flesh was badly bruised. Perhaps they should cauterize it? A part of them yearned to go to Talent, because he would know what to do. But there was a lesson to be learned here, and the thought of crawling back to him for help in this made them feel heated and defiant. Better to suffer it alone than show weakness in that way.

They were just wondering if the tip of the poker for the chamber's fireplace was the right size to cauterize the wound when they heard Lady Amira quietly announce herself at the door. They were ready to tell her to come back in the morning, but she didn't knock. She just let herself in and shut the door behind her. Sorin scrambled to hold their pants in front of their leg.

"Miss Amira!" They quickly lowered their voice, aware that the other guest chambers in this wing were occupied. They tucked themself beside the dresser in an attempt to hide their lower body. "What are you doing?"

"I know, I should have… What are you doing? What's that?" Her eyes fixed on the bloody fabric resting on top of the dresser.

"It's nothing." They almost fell over from the pain when they tried to lift their injured leg to step into their pants, but caught themself on the edge of the dresser. With the abrupt movement, a fresh trickle of blood dripped off their knee onto the floor.

"It's not nothing. You're bleeding! What on earth happened? Is this from the hunt?" She approached for a better look, wide eyes swinging between the bandage and their leg. She was dressed for bed in a robe over a night gown, with her feet in silk slippers and her hair in wrapped braids.

"Training accident," they mumbled. Not their best deception ever. In their defense, it hurt badly to press their palm against the wound hard enough to stop the flow. "You shouldn't look, my lady. The blood…"

She gave them a scathing look. "I'm a woman, Aiden. I've seen plenty of bloody bandages, and I'm not such a blushing flower that the sight of bare legs is going to send me into a fit. Sit down and let me help you."

Lady Amira's girlishness had given way to clear-minded competency, so Sorin sat. They watched her take stock of what she had to work with (the remainder of the clean linen that they had nicked to make bandages from, the near-full jug of water and the pat of soap on the wash stand) and get to work. She used their dagger to cut more bandages from the sheet, lit additional candles for light to work by, and cleaned the wound with a lather of soap. She was as gentle as she could be, but it still hurt badly. They did their best to hide that from her.

"You know," the young lady said, "when I first came in here and saw the bloody bandages, I thought that I'd discovered an altogether different sort of secret."

Sorin coloured faintly. "You thought that I might be a woman in disguise as a man."

"Or a man who happens to have monthlies," said Amira lightly. She had them stand with their foot in the washbasin, to catch the bloody lather while she poured water over their wound. "That's not unheard of, you know. Self-made men and women."

Their skin prickled with discomfort at the topic. To Sorin, gender was inextricably tied to the performance of disguise, and the fluidity of their form was just another way to shape themself into a role. "Yes, I know. There's nothing wrong with that."

"But that's not what you have been hiding." Amira's dark eyes flicked up to their face, and Sorin became aware that they had underestimated her perceptiveness.

"No," they said, giving her a practiced smile. "I haven't been hiding anything, except embarrassment at botching my training so spectacularly. It takes a special kind of foolishness to hurt yourself the way that I did, and I very much appreciate your help. You are very kind."

Amira patted their wound dry, guided them to sit on the edge of the bed again, and knelt before them. She bandaged their thigh more neatly than they could have managed and secured it with thin dressing pins, cleverly affixed between layers of linen so that Sorin wouldn't be poked. Once finished, she gazed up at them with a compassion in her look that made them instinctively tense. "Aiden, I'm about to ask you something that is too bold by far, and may offend you awfully."

"My lady?"

"Did your brother do this?"

Sorin felt themself pale. "No," they said. "I'm afraid that you have the wrong idea."

Amira fiddled with a spare length of bandage. "I heard that you two sparred together this afternoon."

As if summoned by the drumming of their heart, they heard their mentor's voice in their head: Keep it light. Self-deprecate. The best lies are detailed, but not overly so.

They let themself look sheepish, and chuckled lightly in amusement at their own expense. "We did spar, and I did get hurt then, but it was my own doing. I broke the end off of the training sword without realising it. It was just a foolish accident, born of carelessness."

"You didn't have any accidents all summer, but nearly as soon as your brother returned..." She looked up at them, her silence awaiting Sorin's participation. They only looked back at her, their face carefully arranged to reveal nothing of the turmoil inside of their head.

"I just worry," she finished. "Forgive me."

Gods, thought Sorin, she doesn't believe me. Perhaps she saw something, or heard something from a servant who did. They didn't let themself panic. Instead, they leaned towards her and warmed their smile. "I appreciate your concern. I assure you, this was my own doing. My brother is good to me. If I had only listened to his advice, I would not have had my accident at all, and you would not be losing rest for helping me."

They reached out a hand to help her rise, which she accepted. They held her hand for longer than necessary and brushed their thumb over her soft skin. "I do appreciate your help, Miss Amira," they said, injecting just enough fondness into their countenance to make her feel special.

"You are always welcome to my help," she said, the blush on her face glowing in the candlelight. "May I ask you two more questions, Aiden?"

The young lady was as persistent as one of her father's hunting hounds. Sorin saw no way around it. "Of course you may," they said, freeing her hand. "Please ask anything you like."

"Have you ever had such an accident before?"

They looked down at their bandaged thigh. Talent did put his hands on them—shaking them by the shoulders, grabbing their wrists, things like that. Once, he had gripped the back of their neck to keep them from rushing ahead, as if they were a pup he could scruff into obedience. But even in the early days of their mentorship, when Sorin still had it in their head to try to kill him, their teacher had only ever disarmed and restrained them. Any hurts that he bestowed upon them were insults more than truly damaging. They had been harmed worse and more lastingly during scraps with other street kids, when they were Sparrow.

"No, nothing quite like this before."

"Do you think you'll have another accident like this again?"

Sorin considered this question with care. Before today, they had hurt Talent worse than he had ever hurt them; he still bore a scar from one of their attempts on his life. Now, they would bear a scar from him, which made them even. So too would the eventual scar on their thigh serve as a reminder of the new understanding between them: I can hurt you worse. I could have this whole time. I choose not to. If nothing else, Sorin could be certain that Talent never bothered with violence when the threat of it was enough to get the job done. With all of that in mind, it was a relief that they could answer this last question honestly.

"No, I don't."

Amira was quiet for a beat, then folded the strip of linen and placed it on the dresser. "I'm relieved to hear it. Thank you for indulging me."

"Miss Amira." Sorin knew that they should be ushering her out as quickly as possible, but they were unable to stop themself from asking the question on their mind. "That your thoughts went to such a dark place... Is all well with you?"

She looked surprised, and touched by their concern. "I might be sheltered, but I'm not entirely naive. I know that there are harms done between spouses, and abuses levied on children by their parents, and other such distortions of familial bonds. I even witnessed such a thing last summer, between one of the house maids and her son. He is still employed here as a scullery boy, and I saw to the villain's dismissal myself."

Seeing her expression of wholesome pride in recounting this act of justice, Sorin smiled.

"As for my father, I no more fear him than I do Old Ged," she said, referring to the oldest house dog, who slept in front of a fireplace all day and shared Amira's bedchamber at night.

Sorin thought this might be foolishness on her part, to believe so entirely that her father would never harm her. After all, her father was still a lord, and the whims of powerful men might shift as easily as springtime weather. They would not disabuse her of this belief, though. It was not their place. All they said was, "You are lucky to be so well-loved."

She smiled in open fondness. "My father is not very affectionate in manner, but he cares for me in his own way, and he has never denied me anything that I have asked for." Her expression grew thoughtful, and they saw from the direction of her gaze that she was recalling something. She pulled her attention back to them and her smile returned.

"I'm happy that we could meet, Aiden. I understand that you were without a home for some time before you came here. I hope that this place will become a new home to you."

Sorin felt that they had done a profound disservice to Amira and to themself by believing there was little more to her than romantic poetry and youthful whims. They wished that they could somehow do the summer over with the knowledge that they had now, so that the two of them might be true friends. But Talent was back, which meant that it was time to move on. They would never see her again, and that was the way it should be.

"Thank you. You're a good woman, Miss Amira, and I have always felt welcome here."

Amira bid them to rest and heal before taking her leave. They waited to see if she would kiss them, and a part of them wanted her to. If she did, then they could repay her at least in some small way, and leave her with something sweet to remember Aiden by. She did kiss them, but only through the sweet touch of her lips to their cheek—a gesture that Sorin could only imagine felt sisterly.

Sorin got a couple hours of sleep before Talent came to them. He was dressed in dark clothing and his flexible leather armour, and he wore his rapier and main gauche at his belt. He woke them with a hand on their shoulder and a whisper in their ear: "Time to work."

They dressed and armed themself with haste, shedding Aiden Longshore like an outgrown garment. They pulled their bag from its hiding place and checked that the forged documents were still inside, picked up their violin case, and closed the chamber door behind them.

Mentor and protege parted ways at the servant staircase. Each had their own tasks to attend to, and they moved through the estate like shadows synchronized at a distance. Talent would make his way to the lord's office, to plant correspondence implicating Loveridge in the theft of his own gold for the purpose of fraud, and hit the treasury before meeting Sorin for their getaway.

For their part, Sorin slipped the forged documents and a golden ring into the belongings of the household steward, grabbed provisions from the kitchen, and hurried to the stables. The thrill of being on the job helped them ignore the pain in their leg, and as they worked they did not let themself reminisce about their time at the estate, so that pleasant memories would not snag them anywhere. This place was not their home and there was never any chance that it might have been. Getting sentimental about leaving would only slow them down.

Talent took longer at his part than expected. Sorin watched the darkened windows of the grand manor for light or movement, and kept their ears pricked for any sound of activity. They were just starting to think that they should go looking when he arrived, a compact treasury chest in his arms. They helped him secure it to the third horse, which would carry nothing but the chest, just in case a pursuit caught up to them. If they were forced to abandon the gold, then so be it. It was only a bonus atop the larger score at the heart of Talent's plan, anyway.

The lord's horses were fine creatures with smooth gaits, but riding was still bad. By the midday break, Sorin's whole upper leg was throbbing and blood had seeped through Amira's bandage to blotch their pants. Talent helped them off their mount and sat them on a fallen tree on the roadside. They felt weary, a touch shaky, and queasy at the thought of food.

After he had seen to the horses, Talent passed them their water flask and watched while they drank. When he observed them so closely, Sorin sometimes fancied that he might be able to see their thoughts. They hoped he couldn't, because they were remembering the kiss from the day before and feeling strangely about it. When he turned to retrieve something from his saddlebag, they self-consciously wiped their mouth dry.

What he pulled out of his bag was a small mahogany box. Sorin had seen it before, when they had sneaked into the lord's office to pilfer examples of his handwriting and make copies of certain financial records. Talent passed it to them. It had the Loveridge crest enscrolled on the lid and there was a small lock on it. "Open it," he instructed.

They teased the lock into agreeableness with a tiny half-diamond pick. Resting inside were two crystal bottles, cushioned snugly by velvet. Sorin ran the pad of their thumb along one of the bottles and felt an impossible resonance through the cut glass—the hum of magic.

They looked up at him in undisguised excitement. "Are these...?"

"Potions," he confirmed, "which heal all sorts of injuries. Worth a pretty penny, but Loveridge is wise enough to know that this sort of magic is worth paying for." He sat down on the trunk beside them and took the box onto his lap. He held one of the bottles up so that the jewel-toned liquid within shone in the light, then put it in their hand. "Drink this one now, and we'll save the second."

Sorin hesitated, aware that this was a test but unsure of the correct answer. If they accepted the potion, was that showing weakness or prudence? The potions were valuable, and more difficult to find in this part of the world than in a town that hosted a proper mage, or in a city with a university. Before they could ask if he was certain that they should have this, Talent rested his hand lightly on the knee of their injured leg. Hot and angry pain radiated from the wound.

"You're hurting," he said. He was looking at them in that way of his, with an insight so finely honed that you didn't even feel it when he opened you up to look inside. "You don't need to be. You've learned your lesson, haven't you?"

If they had been compelled to tell the whole truth, then Sorin would have admitted that they were only just realising that there was more to this moment, some secret lesson hiding in the shadow of the obvious one, and that they didn't fully understand yet. All they said was, "yes."

"Then drink it down. We have plenty more riding ahead of us, and it won't do to have you grimacing and groaning all the way there."

"I've not been groaning," they protested. They broke the seal around the stopper and raised the potion to their lips. It was both sweet and bitter, and like nothing else that they had ever tasted before. It hummed down their throat and they shuddered in strange frisson as its magic spread throughout them.

When they lowered the emptied bottle, they caught a flash of genuine emotion on Talent's face and knew it to be relief. Before they could tease him for worrying about them, he moved his hand up their thigh and pressed his thumb into the spot that had been a wound. Sorin flinched on instinct, but there was no spike of agony; there was no longer any pain there at all. They couldn't have explained why that disappointed them, and they wondered if hurts healed by magic left scars behind.

"There we are," he said, lifting his hand from their leg. "Now you'll be fit to function when we arrive. That's important, since your pretty face and quick hands are going to be key to our next job, and we'll need to start right away."

Sorin smiled at the complimentary words and his good mood. Drinking the potion had been the right thing to do, and they were heartened to hear that he had worked them into the next job in a crucial role. After their efforts over the summer, he must know that he could entrust them with more. With greater trust would come greater expectations, which they would rise to meet. In turn, he was revealing more of himself. His raw anger in the ballroom, his concern for them now, the glimpses of affection… These were feelings that no one else in the world had allowance to witness. The two of them had become closer for their time apart.

"Now, let's eat something and hit the road. We have some hours on any pursuit, but we need to keep moving, and we should pick up the pace."

Clouds passed in front of the sun as Sorin's uplifted mood suddenly dropped. They kept themself from frowning, but did risk a question. "I thought we got away without raising alarm?"

"Nearly, but not quite," Talent said, sounding unconcerned and only slightly annoyed. "The darling daughter stumbled upon me at work. I can only guess as to what she was doing in her lord father's office at such a late hour. Unfortunate that she was out of place, but it was an easy enough thing to deal with her."

Guilt and anxiety stirred up within Sorin as they stared down at the mahogany box. This is what Amira had recalled during their last conversation, that her father had potions of healing in his office. He has never denied me anything. She had gone looking for them so that she could give one to Aiden.

"You didn't hurt her—?"

"Contain yourself." Talent shot them a sharp look and his tone became short. "I was practically gentle. Her little ladyship was bound in curtain pulls and silenced with a silk scarf. She'll have been found by a chamber maid within a few hours."

Sorin could see it clearly in their mind's eye. Amira easily overpowered—restrained and gagged—left to worry exactly how much danger she and her father were in. She was not the first person that Sorin and Talent had left in such a position, and she wouldn't be the last, but they found that their view on the tactic had changed all at once. Even if she had not been physically harmed beyond discomfort, there was fear and shame in being so treated. Would she blame herself for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Would she ever feel entirely safe in her home again?

As they ate, Sorin turned the situation over in their head. They felt strongly that this was not how the job should have ended. If they had it their way, Amira would have woken to her lady's maid inviting in the morning sunshine. She would have assumed that Aiden was sleeping through breakfast and only realised that he was gone later, perhaps never understanding the true extent of the grift that had taken place. For Amira, Sorin wished the gentler unkindness of a disappearing act that left her wondering and unharmed. For themself, they wished that her good opinion of Aiden could have remained with her.

But wanting things that you could never have was foolishness of the highest order. They would not be a fool in that way, nor would they rock the boat by sharing their opinions on things already passed. They needed Talent, and things had felt precarious since their reunion. The kiss, the lesson, the gift of the potion—it was all they could do to keep up. Clearly, the dynamic between them was changing. Sorin would need to dedicate themself to their education, and to understanding what it meant to be Talent Knowing's student and working partner both. So, they must push down these feelings that curdled in their gut, lock away their memories of Amira, and move on. If they could be a perfect student, then one day, they would have learned everything that their mentor had to teach them. They would truly be his equal, and then...

Sorin didn't know what would come after that. They only knew where they were right now. They were climbing back onto a beautiful horse, pain-free and newly appreciative of the last blaze of summer around them. They were riding along a country road beside their mentor, with stolen secrets in their bag, a job well-done behind them, and the next adventure ahead. The landscape was lovely, the birds were singing, and in only a handful of days it would be their birthday. Talent had even promised them a party this year.

Best to keep their eyes forward, then. The past was only shadows, but the future was as bright as you made it. It had to be.