Marcel Therrien was having an excellent time. It turned out that it wasn't so bad being the eldest unmarried brother of a duke. He had taken genuine delight in watching the discomfort of his Very Serious Older Brother as he squirmed in the spotlight. But now that Erwin had been whisked away to see to his marital duties, it was Marcel's turn to shine. Every eligible young lady of Wulfbauer was being paraded in front of him. He was the first choice; the most eligible bachelor in attendance. Sure, barring a family tragedy, he'd never be a lord of his own land, but who didn't want to get closer to the Duke? Some men in his position, he knew, might complain, but Marcel was thoroughly enjoying the attention. With so many mothers vying for him to grace their daughters with a dance, there was no expectation he'd be able to spend more than one dance or glass of wine with any of them. What an excuse to flirt his way through the night without having to lift a finger! He was, in fact, just about to lead the very attractive – and, he'd heard rumor, not entirely ladylike – Lady Bronwyn Braedyn onto the dance floor when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

A very shifty looking servant was there, looking so awkward and uncomfortable that Marcel thought he was about to tip Marcel off that he'd sat in something unpleasant or else something else terribly embarrassing. And the look the footman gave him made it clear he wished to deliver his message away from the ears of the fair, young Lady Bronwyn. Giving ample apology and promising to find her again straight away, Marcel stepped side with the anxious servant.

"The Duke, er, m'lord, requests your presence," the man said, keenly avoiding making eye contact with Marcel while he did.

"The Duke? My presence? You must be joking. I'm quite sure my brother knows what he's – " but the earnest look of the young servant stopped Marcel from elaborating. "Now?"

"Right away, m'lord."

So it was that Marcel found himself being escorted up the stairs to his brother's bedroom on his wedding night. Maybe, he thought idly, fingering the bottle of strong wine he'd snatched on his way up here, Kristian's suspicion was right and Constance had turned out to be an evil witch, after all. Turned poor Erwin into a frog... But when the servant gingerly opened the door to allow Marcel to enter and then promptly scampered away, he found a much stranger scene before him...

There was his ever-serious, ever-stoic elder brother, the famed general, Captain Serious, the Duke of Wulbauer, stark naked sitting in the middle of a large, soapy tub. But at least he was clean! Constance, on the other hand, looked like she'd really been through the ringer. Disheveled and covered in grime with a skinned knee, she sat perched lightly in a window sill, wearing Erwin's blue-grey doublet thrown over what might have once been a white silken slip, but he was pretty sure was covered in soot? And the faces on them – you'd think the pair had come straight from a funeral!

Marcel's mouth opened and closed several times, but before he could find words the doors flew open and slammed shut again. "What the devil is all this about? demanded Kristian Therrien.

Kennins had moved his troops to the Aeling. They were burning the countryside as they went. Olive felt a rising anger in her stomach – but not only directed and Kenins and his men. How could they have been so stupid? Scratch that, selfish? Erwin and Constance both had become so absorbed in their own lives, spent so much time feeling bad for themselves about the necessity of marriage, that the had taken their eyes off target. Kenins. Of course he would make a move now. How had she not expected that?

Olive gazed down for a moment at her now empty palm, allowing herself a moment of unease that Silas had sent that message for Erwin’s ears, not her own. Was it a show of solidarity with the duke? Or did he not trust her not to do something rash? Rash or not, Olive’s head was already buzzing with reactive ideas. The should destroy the bridge across the Aeling, trap Kenins men. Silent figures skulking in the dark, sabotaging their supplies, poisoning their water, setting fire to barracks in the night, moved like shadows in her mind. No, she heard her own voice in her mind. No, those tactics can’t work here, now, against her own people. They can’t destroy bridges, roads. And another knowledge lurked deeper than that, that she wouldn’t be doing any of it. She might have been a rebel fighter once. She might have done all of those things. But now that she was back in this world, she was back to being confined as a woman. As a duchess.

She was snapped out of her reverie by Erwin jumping up and announcing his intention to march back downstairs. ”Wait a moment!” she snapped. ”You can’t march downstairs like that,” she waved at his half-naked, dirty, oily body, ”saying that your known rival is moving troops across the countryside. People will thing you’re drunk, or mad. Or worse they’ll demand to know how you know. And what will you say then? That now that you’ve married a witch, you get secret messages from mages out roving the countryside? That a little bird told you? We have to stop and think for a moment.”

Olive wrapped one of the blankets around herself, thinking. Something didn’t seem quite right about it. ”Why would Kenins burn the countryside? I don’t understand that. His tactic has always been making himself look like the more stable, reliable alternative to you. Unless,” her brow furrowed as an idea came to her. ”If I were Kenins… I would have mercenaries attack farms and fields. Make them look like raiders, or mages, or both. Then use that as an excuse to move my troops across the region, to secure it. And decry the duke’s inability to protect his own land. Say he’s too busy throwing a party while his lords’ lands burn.”

Olive’s body arched into Erwin’s touch, her hands finding their way up to bury her fingers in his hair. At Erwin’s deft disrobing of her, Olive couldn’t help but smirk. A little too deft, she thought, and spared one moment to shoot him an amused look that seemed to ask, Does that normally impress? But it was soon washed away by the urgency of the moment, and her hands moved down to move his own aside, undoing the fastenings of his trousers herself. Once he was free of them, she pushed him into a semi-controlled fall back onto the simple straw mattress, landing straddling atop of him. Hands pinning down of his wrists, Olive smirked down at him and teased, ”Now is the point where I reveal I’ve been a devious rebel mage all along, just waiting to have the Duke of Wulfbauer at my mercy.”

She gave him no time to respond to the jest before swooping in to kiss him, deeply and demandingly. It was thrilling to just not think – about the war, about her duty, about the trouble in Wulfbauer, not even in this moment about their marriage – just to act and to feel. And this felt strangely, and exhilaratingly cathartic. After weeks of walking on eggshells around each other as the awkward tension anticipating the inevitability of this moment sat obstinately between them. But this felt far from the moment she dreaded. This felt almost illicit, and exhilarating. She pressed herself against him, his bare skin now hot against her own, and shifted to press herself against his sex. She was so desperate to be lost in this moment that she almost didn’t hear it.

A soft rapping against the glass window. Tak tak tak. Sure she was imagining it, she pressed herself harder into Erwin, not wanting to leave the heat of this one, singular moment to return to cold reality.Tak tak tak. Olive paused and although she was panting, she lifted her head up and went suddenly still. Listening. Tak tak tak. ”Wait here.” Then slowly, and reluctantly, she disentangled herself from Erwin and rose to her feet, tentatively crossing the few steps over to the small round window. She saw it even before she undid the window’s creaky old hatch and quietly pulled it open. A magpie, the night light shimmering off its black and white feathers. With the window cracked open, noise from the celebration below could still be heard. Music and laughter and drunken people talking far too loudly. But her eyes were only on the bird. Its small dark eyes returned her gaze, then it opened its beak and a small, speck of light – almost imperceptible – glided out of its mouth and into Olive’s outstretched hand. She stared down at it for a moment, then raised it to her ear.

Nothing happened. She clasped her hand tighter against her ear, cupped around the little floating speck of light. But nothing. Slowly, she drew her hand back down and stared down at it, troubled. Then she looked at Erwin and understood. Moving carefully with the little speck still hovering in her palm, its light gently pulsating, she made her way back to Erwin, kneeling down next to him. ”I think it’s meant for you,” she said plainly, her quiet voice betraying a flicker of annoyance. Then, without further explanation, she held it up to Erwin's ear, her hand cupped around it with the little mote of light in the space between.

At first, there was nothing. Then Erwin would be able to hear what sounded like the crackling of a blaze and a man’s ragged breath. He would hear them as the he, himself, were there. And when finally a voice spoke, it was one Erwin had heard only weeks ago. The mage he’d nearly beheaded in the Maze. Silas.

”Duke Therrien, I trust Olive will convey this to you. Roland Kenins has taken the occasion of your wedding and the absence of the lords loyal to you on their own land to move his troops across southeastern Wulfbauer.  My eyes in the air report his men have occupied all the land from Turgal to the River Aeling. Nearly a quarter of your lands. Where they meet resistance, homes and harvests are being burned. I am watching it with my own eyes this very moment. This message should reach you at least a day before word would arrive by horse. You must use the time to act swiftly. Act now.”

Olive's eyes widened in surprise – and maybe a touch of amusement – pausing in the middle of taking a careful sip of the rare spirit. Did he really just knock the whole thing back? She couldn't help a little snort of laughter. One of the lessons her father had made sure to teach her (another one her mother had not approved of a teenage girl being instructed in) was never to drink a proper spirit as like, in his own words, "backwoods tavern moonshine." But what came next made up for his mistreatment of such a prized, rare spirit. Olive openly guffawed at the terrible sequence of faces Erwin pulled as he forced down the drink. "You look worse than if that had been castor oil," she laughed, tears in her eyes. "Did you make the same face in front of all those people downstairs? I mean, I guess they can't depose you just because of that, but if they – "

But before Olive could finish, Erwin stepped forward and her teasing faltered as he crossed into her personal space. There was still a mirthfulness in the way she returned his kiss, though, reaching one hand up to the base of his neck while the other carefully holding onto her mostly full glass in the other. If someone had told her this morning that the day would take this turn, she would not have believed them for a moment. But the rest of the day felt a world away now. Like it had all been someone else's life. Certainly not hers. The present moment, the warmth of the spirit in her chest and of Erwin's bare skin, felt utterly divorced from those events. As if the two realities couldn't co-exist. Right now Olive wasn't sure which felt more surreal, but she knew which she preferred.

She broke the contact with a quiet "Wait," and she took another sip of the amber spirit before carefully moving to place the bejeweled glass next to its twin and the bottle on the stack of dusty old books. She hesitated for a moment, frowning at the precariousness of the ersatz drinks table, then decided to move the lot of them onto the floor. The delay only added to the energy she brought back to Erwin, hands on his bare shoulders as she pulled herself against him and pulled him into another kiss. Without breaking it, she did her best to leverage her comparatively small stature to steer them both towards the haphazard pile of blankets and the straw mattress.

Olive looked up just in time to see Erwin’s quizzical look regarding the spear. Tucked away in the corner, she’d almost forgot it was there. In response, she offered an awkward shrug and she tried to balance the bottle and two glasses. ”One of the stableboys and I decided we were going to run away and slay ogres. I thought it was prudent to practice a bit first. Let’s just say a lot of the sacks of grain storage ended up with mysterious holes. It’s amazing what you get away with when you’re an only child.” Of a duke. But she left that part out. ”But in my defense, I was just a kid.” She didn’t dwell on whether or not it would be any comfort to think of a child running around with a dangerous weapon as opposed to a teenager who still believes she can become an ogre hunter. But somehow she still wanted to set the record straight.

Carefully, Olive set the bottle down on one of the stacks of books while balancing the two now half-full glasses. ”Well, I’m not going to force you, but it was your idea,” she told him as she handed one of the glasses to Erwin. Though not large, it was heavy for its size, made of a clear crystal and adorned what looked like actual gems in reds and oranges forming distinct patterns. Once Erwin had his glass, Olive raised hers to her nose to smell its complex, peaty aroma and was hit by a wave of nostalgia. She remembered her father drinking this in his study, letting her try just a bit when she was a teenager. The peaty smell of the spirit mixed with the smell of the fireplace. For a moment, she was transported back into that happier past, when her familial home was full of just that: her family. And the worst thing she had to face was common prejudice, which felt daunting then but seemed almost quaint now.

As the heaviness of it set in on her, she looked back up and saw Erwin, and decided she didn’t want to think about the past right now. Moving a step closer to him, she extended her glass. ”To the end of a very, very long day.” She paused, then added, ”Well, I suppose we still have to get ourselves out of this situation, back to your actual quarters and, well, clean. So, I guess, to a breather during this very, very long day.”

"My fault?" Olive retorted with a snort of laughter. "I'll just shove you back in that shaft then, shall I? I told you that you wouldn't fi-" but her defense and the chortle of laughter accompanying it was cut off when Erwin pulled her tight against his oily, pasty chest. "That was completely uncalled for," she grumbled, slightly muffled as she was smushed against him.

When he released her, she stepped away enough to try to brush off whatever paste and, worse, oil had transferred onto her. "I don't know if I'm getting rid of any of it, or just spreading it around..." She shot him a baleful glare, full of mischief, that threatened for a moment to grab another jar and strike again. But it was only a fleeting mask for her profound amusement at the situation. When she did reach out, it wasn't to retaliate, but to start to unbutton his now thoroughly disgusting shirt. She did this matter-of-factly; nonetheless, she felt much more aware of doing it than she might have even half an hour earlier. It elicited a feeling in her stomach now she wasn't quite sure how she felt about. She pulled a face, grimacing, at the sound when she pulled the oil-soaked shirt off of him and when she threw it to the ground it landed with a distinct splat. "I don't think that was doing anyone any good anymore." She watched the shirt where it lay, as though it might jump up and smother her, then gestured out of the little store room. "Come on."

She led Erwin down the long attic hall, unfortunately passing back through the now fairly large puddle of castor oil. Olive tip-toed through it, careful to also avoid the shards of broken pottery. Past the opening they'd first come through, to the far side of the narrow passageway. Here it didn't join another corridor, but turned around a little corner and narrowed into what would very aptly be called a crawl space. Olive stooped down into cramped space and, after a few meters, pushed aside a musty, tattered old tapestry. The crawl space opened up into a small nook that bore the distinct impression of a childhood and adolescent hideout. The space could only be described as cluttered. Several haphazard stacks of books on a wide variety of topics, taken at some untold earlier date and never returned to their library of origin. Some, Olive knew with a small feeling of guilt, belonged to the university in Uthlyn. An old, worn celestial globe bore constellation names in some obscure and little known script. Next to it a small brass telescope that almost certainly should have been better housed. Scattered letters, sketches, what looked like drafts of essays, and some esoteric set of cards littered the little space. Atop a simple straw mat was a nest of blankets made of heavy wool or faded old quilts (one, in fact, bore the genealogy of the Carwicks up to Olive's grandfather). In the corner a longbow and a quiver of old arrows were stashed next to a spear that looked suspiciously like it belonged with one of the suits of armor in the great hall. Much of the assorted mess had a thick layer of dust on it, but some things showed signs of more recent habitation. There was a small round window in the far wall. Olive glanced at the stub of candle left on its sill and, momentarily, to the stables below. As children, and then again in the last months, lighting that candle had been a signal to Valerian to sneak out and meet her up here. She felt a small chill but pushed the thoughts away.

Instead, Olive turned to Erwin and offered a little shrug. "At least we can hide out for awhile until our lovely guests are more likely to have gone to bed. And any remaining will be too drunk to see straight." Those last words gave her pause and she suddenly looked around. "Speaking of, somewhere here..." She didn't finish the thought, instead she started feeling around the wooden planks of the wall until she found the loose one that wobbled under her touch. Carefully pulling it back, Olive reached into a dark little crevice of the wall and pulled out a half-empty bottle of amber liquid. Even Erwin might recognize it as an extremely prized and rare spirit. A treat even for a duke. "Gosh, I stole this from my dad years ago," she said, blowing the dust off the bottle and carefully uncorking it. She sniffed it gingerly, but her initial hesitance melted away into a bright smile. She reached back in and produced two small, jewel-encrusted glasses (almost certainly also out of place) and awkwardly balanced them in the crook of her arm while pouring with her other hand. "Well, since you proposed a drink anyway. This ought to still be better than whatever Marcel foisted on you."

Aware of the sudden stiffness on his posture, Olive thought she perhaps she ought to apologise. Tell him what they both knew, anyway, that someone had to do it eventually. Erwin after all, and much to Olive’s initial surprise, had been the one to say he wanted a proper marriage, not one of mere political convenience. (Though some of her skepticism about that remained, even if she believed Erwin believed it.) And if it was a boundary they would have to cross eventually, Olive would rather it be her who pushed them over that line. She hated the idea of being the bashful, demure, and passive bride. If she wanted to keep hold of it, she knew she would have to exert her own agency every chance she got. Why should this be an exception?

Of course, that made it all sound much more calculating than it had been. To her own surprise, in that moment of playful and competitive teasing, it had felt natural. With anyone else, it would have been the natural escalation. With Erwin it was somehow different, both because he was Erwin Therrien and because he was now her husband. But any opening that felt less stilted or less forced seemed like one to take advantage of. However, his initial response, that tension, even if he didn’t break her kiss immediately, made her wonder if perhaps she’d misjudged the moment, or overstepped the boundaries of their fragile friendship.

So it was her turn to be surprised when he pulled her to him and roughly kissed her. Her first thought, now that she was pressed against him, was that he felt very gross. The oily paste coating his shirtsleeves was cold, slimy, and somewhat irritating against the bare skin of her arms and shoulders. But then her arms were around his neck, pulling herself closer to him, and despite herself (or was it?) she felt herself grow flush. It was as if committing to this moment might purge some of the tension and awkwardness that had grown between them since Erwin first, under great duress, proposed.

After what felt like an extremely long moment, or maybe two, Olive broke away from the kiss without pulling away from him. She looked up at him, her palms pressed still against the slick, oily back of his neck, her expression overly-earnest. ”I still think the ‘ghost strategy’ is our best bet for getting you out of here.” She only just managed to keep a mask of faux-seriousness shrouding her obvious mirth. ”There’s still a few more jars. We can make it a bit more convincing.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, ”You are really extremely gross right now, by the way. Maybe more of a ghoul than a ghost, now that I think about it.”

The sound of Erwin’s coughs were drowned out by barely controlled fits of laughter from Olive. She had to clasp a hand to her face to keep from snorting at the sight of him. Talcum could make enough of a mess at the best of times, but combined with the oil, it stuck as a thick white paste to Erwin and a fine dusting where he was still dry. Even his salt and pepper hair was now white. The sight of him – the serious stoic military man, the suave womanizer, even the weary duke – like this was just too much. Olive’s ribs ached half-stifled laughter.

”I think we found your cover,” she managed to get out, still talking through the hand clasped over her mouth. ”Everyone’s had enough to drink that I think if anyone saw you in the corridors now, they’d swear they saw a ghost!”

Her words, though not terribly funny in and of themselves, set her into another fit of laughter. It was mixed now not just with the objective hilarity of Erwin’s current state, but with the abject absurdity of the day. Of the entire situation. Here they were, behaving like children, like they never had – not together – in their youth. As though it were all a game. And it was, in a way. And it wasn’t. And maybe part of her laughed now because, despite the surrealness and the seriousness of it all, it just felt good to laugh for a change.

Finally pulling herself together enough to feel a bit sorry for the coughing, wheezing Erwin, she stepped forward and reached an arm out to steady him. Then she wet her thumb on her tongue and carefully wiped away the powder from around his eyes, and then from his mouth. She paused, her thumb lingering on his lips. The laughter had left her feeling light and almost, for a moment, carefree. Buoyed and perhaps emboldened by the levity of the moment, she lifted herself up on her toes to close the distance between them and kissed him.

At Erwin's argument that a drink of the castor oil would only end with him spending the entire night alone in the privy, Olive simply shrugged to say that that sounded rather like an Erwin problem. Nothing to do with her. It was, of course, a nonchalance that came with what had been a thoroughly unserious suggestion.  On what was turning out to be the most serious and unserious night of her life. Their current misadventures almost put out of mind all the very serious indeed things that had transpired earlier in the day.

Perhaps buoyed by that fact, Olive did not do the reasonable thing and laugh off Erwin's challenge, did not suggest they call it a truce and find the most inconspicuous route out of the attic. Instead, she raised an eyebrow at his finger pointing and his doubling down on his initial threat. Well, very well, then. He was asking for it.

In a flash, Olive flung the bottle hard onto the floor at Erwin's feet where it shattered on impact, pale yellow oil and clay shards ricocheting off the stone floor and splattering loudly between Erwin and Olive. She didn't wait for the shattered pot shards to hit the floor before she sprang away, dashing down the dark attic hallway, leaving a slick, spreading pool between Erwin and where Olive stood.

Sprinting down the hall, Olive threw herself sharply to the right, disappearing into the same little storage cell where she'd found the castor oil. It wasn't the only thing in here. Searching as quickly as she could in the dim light, she grabbed a squat clay pot stoppered with a broad cork lid. Scratched into the clay was the label: Talcum Powder. She threw aside the cork lid and, knowing Erwin would likely be close behind her, pressed her body into the shadows lurking around the small door to the cell. Ready to empty the pot's contents as soon as Erwin arrived.

”’The occasion called for it,’” Olive snorted, unable to suppress a skeptical smirk. ”Who are you trying to convince? Yourself, or me?” There was no malice in the question; Olive looked thoroughly amused. Maybe, even, a little sympathetic. After all, she certainly hadn’t abstained from having a drink to get through the night thus far, and she certainly wouldn’t turn one down to get through the rest of the night, either. Still, she couldn’t help herself. Lowering the bottle to a non-threatening position, she regarded it thoughtfully for a moment, before flashing Erwin a knowing, teasing grin. ”Though if you want to spend the night alone – relieve yourself from your ‘husbandly duties’ as I’m sure Grace would say,” she added with an eyeroll, ”this is probably the only drink you need. I can pour you a glass,” she laughed, ”if you like.”

It was, perhaps, a little too forward. But Olive wanted to see how he reacted. After all, this whole thing had been his idea (well, no, that she doubted; but he’d been the one to bring it to her). They might get away with avoiding the issue tonight, but they wouldn’t be able to put it off forever. They may as well acknowledge it.

"Or, you can keep up the threats," she added after a moment, smirking a bit again, "and we can see who's faster. The oil-slick, probably drunk former general who can't even fit through a single passageway, or the spritely, mostly dry former guerrilla fighter, who actually knows where she's going."

Olive was still grinning broadly at him and at his obvious disgust at the oil. To be fair, she hadn't intended to the castor oil to put him in this embarrassing predicament. It just seemed like the most obvious solution without having to bring in help. But she had to admit, now that it was done, it was frankly hilarious and she didn't exactly regret it. At his threat to march back downstairs, though, her eyes widened and her smile faltered a little.

"Oh god, you're right, they're all still downstairs, it isn't even that late, I guess," she said, laughing now a little nervously. As if it couldn't get any more absurd. "How on earth are you going to get back to your quarters without being seen?" But something else he said made her sit up a little, propping herself up on her elbows, and regarded him with an amused curiosity. "'One drink and he's lost his mind?'" she repeated. "The famous teetotal Erwin Therrien? Falling back on liquid courage? I don't know if I should be flattered or offended. I can't be that intimidating."

That was, before Erwin smeared the now sooty and grimy castor oil across her fast. Her eyes flashed with faux-fury and she performatively wiped the oil from her cheek, flicking it onto the ground. "Oh, but I can be," she warned him, reaching out to grab the discarded clay bottle labeled 'Castor Oil' and wielding it threateningly, "this thing isn't empty yet."

Having put all of her weight into hauling Erwin out, when he finally budged – and with the oil rather slickening her grip – Olive lost her footing and stumbled backwards, landing unceremoniously on her bottom. She had no time to react to that, however, before Erwin clambered out of the opening, dripping in oil and covered in grime, looking more like some sort of swamp ghoul than a Duke. She had to clasp her hands over her mouth to stifle her guffawing laughter at his appearance. The laughter escaped when Erwin hauled himself into the passageway, knocking into Olive, who landed on her back on the cool stone floor. Absolutely in stitches.

Several times she tried to pick herself up and say something to him, but fell back, shaking in stifled silent laughter each time. It wasn’t just at Erwin in his current state, but a culmination of the whole absurd day. A release, at least a little, of all the tension that had accumulated on the day of her wedding. No, their wedding.

Tears of laughter gleamed in the corner of her eyes when she finally came out of it and looked over at Erwin. She didn’t bother to get up, back still flat against the floor, her cheek pressed a little against the stone as she turned her head to Erwin. ”I must say, my lord,” she started, barely keeping it together, ”you look very stately. Very dashing. The noble duke decked out in lavish finery. An inspiration to all from the earnest peasant to the lordliest of lords. It’s just a pity your people can’t see you now.”

"Angsar's balls," Olive swore, the curse not quite masking her amusement, "I told you you'd get stuck."

Even as she chided him, though, she chuckled as she reached down to grab his hand. However, Erwin was still far enough away that Olive had to lean fairly far forward into the opening to grab his hand. It made leveraging her own weight to pull him up somewhat tricky and, as each tug was met with considerable resistance, she ended up being pulled down more than he was pulled up. After a few minutes of trying this way, she let go and frowned down at him. "Maybe I should get your brothers. Between the three of us, I am sure they could manage this better than me."

Without really clarifying if she was joking on that point or not, Olive disappeared from Erwin's view. As tempted as she was – as funny as it would be to embarrass him like that – Olive was now, she knew, in Erwin's corner. She could hardly make a joke from the other Therrien's at his expense. Plus, what would she even say? How could she possibly explain such a situation? Instead, she wandered to where she knew less commonly used supplies were stored in the attic cells. Squinting in the dim light, she felt her way around a shelf of bottles, periodically bringing one back into the hallway to try to decipher its label in the dim light. After some effort, she shrugged at a bottle labeled 'Castor Oil.' "Well, I guess that'll do," she muttered to herself, creeping back to where Erwin waited.

"Close your eyes and mouth," she instructed matter-of-factly upon her return, waiting only a moment for Erwin to comply before uncorking the bottle and pouring the pale yellow oil contained inside down the shaft, trying to pour it around Erwin as much as possible. "Don't worry. It's just what they make soap and things with. Alright, let's try this again."  With that she clasped his hand again with both of hers before leveraging herself to best advantage and throwing all her strength into one hopefully final pull.

Olive gave a surprised laugh, practically gaping as Erwin stripped down to his shirtsleeves and actually prepared to follow her. Particularly since she genuinely wasn't sure he'd be able to manage it or not. Starting her shuffling climb upwards, amusement clear in her voice, she called back down, "You know, I was really just showing off. And curious if I could still do it. If you get stuck, don't blame me!"

Still laughing softly to herself, Olive began the ascent up the stone shaft. She very quickly decided that this had been easier both as a relatively fearless youth and, critically, dressed in more than just a slip. But she could still manage it without too much fuss, only pausing – momentarily – when Erwin said 'my wife.' While part of her acknowledged that that was, indeed, reality and there was no reason to beat around the bush about it, another part of her still cringed and wondered if he really had to say it out loud. Especially when they were so thoroughly distracted. "You know," she started, choosing rather to reflect on the past rather than the very real present, "I think this is the first time you haven't told me off for an idea like this. I rather thought you would."

Once, Olive could scale up and down this passage in a matter of minutes, but it was nearly ten she guessed before she reached the opening into the long attic passageway. She pulled herself up and quickly dusted herself off. Not that it did too much good. The soot and grime wasn't going to be removed that easily, and her elbows and knees were both a bit bloody from the contact between her bare skin and the roughhewn rock. Well, she thought to herself, she was a duchess now. She didn't have to explain to anyone why she had skinned knees. The passageway was long and narrow, dimly lit by small round windows at either end. In one direction, the passage appeared to simply meet another, perpendicular route. On the other, however, one could just see from this vantage the small candle in the window, and the silhouette of haphazardly stacked books and other trinkets.

Olive's attention, though, was below, and once she'd collected herself, she peered curiously into the opening to gauge Erwin's progress.

"Well, I never fell all the way down to the kitchens," Olive shrugged. "It was a bit tricky when we first found it and I was small, but by ten or so it wasn't a problem. Anyway, from the attic passageway it's easy. But from here..." she shuffled past Erwin back to the passageway. She hesitated for a moment to assess the space again, then reached out first with her hand, leaning her body in until it reached the other side. "[/b]...you have to brace yourself."[/b]

With that said, Olive carefully maneuvered herself into the vertical passage until she had her shoulders braced against the far side of the shaft and first with her feet on the lip of the opening, and then gradually she got her legs in and kept herself upright by wedging herself by pushing with her knees on one side and shoulders on the other. She wasn't sure why she was doing it, exactly. It seemed easier than just... being alone together. But it wasn't only that. Maybe on some level she also realised that sharing something like this was developing another kind of intimacy.

She gave him a self-satisfied grin from the grate opening. "I can try to show you the way up to the attic if you want, but it might be a bit embarrassing if your guards have to come pull you out if you get stuck," she laughed. "And probably raise more than few questions."

I think I’d prefer that you stay.

Olive’s gaze dropped to Erwin’s hand as it took hers, aware of the earnest resolution in his eyes even as she looked at their hands. She felt something skip then tighten in her stomach. It wasn't a bad feeling, but... she wasn't sure what it was. This is real, she thought, as surreal as it felt. At his next assurance – that tonight needn’t be anything more than a ‘good night’s rest’ – she looked back up at him. She wondered what would feel stranger, having sex with him now (carrying out her ‘wifely duties’ as Grace had called it, before Olive had shouted her out), or sleeping in the same bed with him without crossing that other boundary of intimacy first. She honestly didn’t know. So she just nodded dumbly.

But it was only a moment before his expression changed and he asked about the passageway and Olive’s own lit up and a grin broke across her face, bright and almost beaming. ”Well, only one way to learn more,” she answered, pulling him by their still interlocked hands over to the grate. She released it, crouching down, to remote the grate and was greeted by a cloud of dust and soot. But with a resolute tug, she was able to pull the grate out and leaned it against the wall next to the now-exposed hole. That would probably leave a mark, but Olive wasn’t concerned about that now. She waved away the cobwebs before moving to all fours and leaned forward, her head and shoulders disappearing into the darkness of the passage.

She reemerged, dusty and coughing a little, but gestured for Erwin to take a look.  The ‘passage’ was a vertical shaft whose inky depths stretched upwards and downwards to unknown depths. It was made of rough stone block, maybe a bit less than two feet in each direction. ”The trickiest part, from here, is getting in – without plummeting into the kitchens, that is. But it looks scarier than it really is.” And as he reemerged, he’d see the clearest reflection of the young, mischievous girl Erwin had been tasked with keeping out of trouble that he’d seen since she’d returned to Wulfbauer. ”Do you want to see?”

Olive's smile grew watching Erwin's somewhat unexpected reaction. Had she seen him laugh before? Maybe once or twice, but surely mirthlessly. But this, amazingly, seemed genuine. Genuine, but perhaps borne out of sheer exhaustion more than anything else. Watching him, it occurred to her that, however she was feeling, Erwin might be having a harder time with this than she was. At least in this moment. So absorbed had she been in her own thoughts, what she was giving up and for whose benefit, that she hadn't really stopped to think much about how Erwin might feel until now. Once she'd (yes) resigned herself to this path, she'd set about to adapting. She'd had to adapt to worse. And, in a way, this was easier than the limbo she'd been in before. There was still a strangeness to it, without any doubt. She felt in her entire body the tension of it. But watching Erwin she thought he seemed nervous and, despite his laughter, unhappy. "It's okay," she said after a moment, gentler now, "you don't have to say anything.".

We have plenty of time, she thought with a dark humor, but kept that to herself.

When he finished, she stood and carefully felt through her hair for any remaining pin. "This is why I had it all cut off at university," she complained, half to herself, "what a bother. I ought to have let Grace finish it, but you wouldn't believe what she was trying to – " Olive had started to laugh, but caught herself as she turned to face Erwin. Erwin Therrien, her husband. The rest of the story stuck in her mouth, and she swallowed.

She regarded him for a long moment, searching in his features for some sign of what he wanted. Finally, she reached out and brushed back a piece of his hair that had fallen out of place, her motion slowly deliberate, and cautious, as if experimenting with touching him life that. "You know, behind that grate over there," she said, a bit conspiratorially, motioning to a polished brass grate just visible in the Duke's quarters, "there's a little passage that goes up to the attic, and then to all over. It's how I used to sneak in here as a kid. I even used to sleep up in the attic sometimes," and several nights more recently, stolen time with Valerian. "I built a little hideout for myself, I guess. Anyway, I think I could still fit," she offered with a rueful smile that masked whether or not she was joking or serious. "I could leave you in peace for the night and no one would be the wiser. If you wanted."

Dimly, she was aware that these half-jokes didn't amount to much more than Erwin's pitiful attempt at small talk.

In the mirror, Olive saw his gaze linger on her back, but as he didn't say anything, she similarly remained silent and was grateful for it. Instead she just said, "Thank you" and sat silently on the stool while he worked. Strangely, something about the moment did actually feel, well, intimate. A grown man, an army officer, a duke, taking the time to pluck pins from her hair. Not even questioning why her maid had not finished the job. Though she suspected Erwin might already understand that particular point and, she hoped, sympathized. It had been a long day for everyone. Or at least for the two of them.

Those thoughts flitted through her mind as she sat patiently, silently, furtively watching Erwin's reflection. Whatever Erwin might have read in her realization that it was him, and not Grace, at the door, Olive was genuinely relieved to finally just be alone with him. Would she rather be alone? It wasn't a question she dwelt on; why bother? She'd agreed to the situation she found herself in now. But that didn't mean she wasn't a little nervous, a little self-conscious about all that that entailed.

For all that, though, when Erwin did his best at – what? making conversation? – Olive couldn't help but laugh. A bemused, or maybe amused, smile crept onto her face and she looked up to meet his gaze. "Oh gosh, I really hope I don't make you so uncomfortable that you feel that you need to force small talk, Erwin."

Time stopped when Erwin slid the ring on her finger. Olive stared down at it. Somehow she hadn’t prepared herself for this moment. The finality of what it meant struck her like a cold blow to the stomach. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back. She’s really gone. You’re wearing her ring. The ring she wore your whole life. Now it’s yours. It was followed by a wave of bitter regret. Why had they fought so much? Why had Olive bristled at each touch, rebuffed each word? Yes, she had been a very different child and grown into a different woman than perhaps what her mother had wanted. But looking back now, from here, Olive couldn’t help but feel that she’d been profoundly unkind to her. Is that how all children feel, she wondered, when they find themselves finally, irrevocably adults?

She was snapped out of her reverie by, of all things, an embrace from Lord Burrows. ”Well done, my dear,” she heard him say, his normally curmudgeonly manner uncommonly tender, ”your father would be so proud.” Before she could quite recover from the shock of it, she was in the arms of Lady Rosengard, sobbing something about her mother. And when she finally emerged from that, she saw the procession of nobles and guests assembled to come and congratulate the newly weds in ones and twos. Olive played her part, politely returning embraces, hand clasps, kind words and thank yous as the line wound its way around the Great Hall towards them.

In fact, she spent much of the rest of the day playing her part, feeling as though she were little more than part of some student production back in the University in Uthlyn. Only on a grander scale. She wasn’t doing these things as herself, as Olive, as Constance Carwick, simply acting out the desired role of the audience: Constance Therrien, blushing bride, newlywed wife, Duchess of Wulfbauer. It had nothing to do with her at all, really. The only time the illusion broke, that she became acutely aware that this was real and most certainly involved her actual life was when the couple mounted snow-white horses and rode slowly, so slowly, through the streets of the town to be congratulated by their people. It was during this exercise – riding at walking pace through the town, mounted high above the crowd – that she became painfully aware that if a single disgruntled soldier, or covert agent of the Church, or any number of actors decided that they would not stand to see a mage Duchess, sent a bullet or a bolt or an arrow soaring through the air, that it would not be only Constance Therrien who’s life be snuffed out, but hers as well. She half expected it as they proceeded through the town, pushing down rising panic in her stomach at each new turn, impossibly vulnerable atop the milk-white mare. Even a mediocre marksman would have no trouble. But it didn’t come. Each turn only brought smiling children, hoisted up in their fathers’ arms to pass her a flower, or an old man reaching up to clasp Erwin’s hand. Then, incredibly, without incident, they were back at the Keep.

For the rest of the day’s festivities, she became Constance Therrien again. It was easier. Constance Therrien could be gracious, happy, demure. Protecting the real Constance underneath. But as the day wore on and gradually became night, the guise wore thin, became more wearisome to keep up, and she was relieved when Lady Rosengard pulled her aside and told her it was time to go upstairs. She didn’t even think about the implications of that instruction. She simply followed Lady Rosengard to the antechamber adjacent to the Duke’s quarters that had, once, been her mother’s dressing room. She looked down again, almost guiltily, at the ring. Grace and two maids were waiting for her. She gratefully let them help her out of the weighty and constrictive dress, glad to be free of it.

Now that she was, though, she found herself increasingly impatient to be alone. If only for a moment. It already felt increasingly impossible to sit patiently still while Grace began to undo whatever she’d done to Olive’s hair, when – to her horror – Grace attempted to broach the topic of a wife’s duties. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and in a flare of temper she knew she would later regret, she dismissed Grace and the bewildered maids from her presence. It turned out she regretted it sooner rather than later, though. Sitting in a simple white slip in front of the mirror, she began to unwork her hair herself and quickly found that whatever Grace had done had involved an unreasonable, she decided, number of pins. The ones she could see were easy enough to remove herself, but there remained an untold number in the back she could not. Swearing each time she pricked her finger on one, she was ready to properly swear at Grace when she heard someone approach at the door.

”Grace, I thought I – “ she began angrily, but stopped when she saw his reflection in the mirror. ”Oh, it’s you.” The anger had dissipated from her voice, replaced with relief, but also trepidation. She gazed at Erwin for a moment in the mirror, forgetting for the moment about the scars exposed by the slip, then turned on the stool to face him. ”Can you help me?” she asked, plaintive and a little embarrassed, and gestured helplessly to the few pins she had been able to extract. ”I think Grace must have used a hundred of the bloody things.”

Constance felt like a marionette as she was shepherded through the Keep to the Great Hall. Not least of all because it was so awkward to move in the long, formal dress. In the name of saving expenses and her own profound lack of interest in dresses, Olive had insisted on simply altering her mother's wedding dress. It was a choice she thought prudent, but one which she quickly regretted when she remembered how much more of a taste for these things her mother had. The entire thing was embroidered with gold thread and freshwater pearls from her mother's native Castavar and fit with whalebone. The result was a dress that was painfully constrictive and weighed a ton. It was fine for Lady Rosengard and Grace to insist that it was beautiful, stately, and whatever else, she thought darkly to herself, they didn't have to schlepp the awful thing around, struggle to breathe despite the whalebone, or worry about tripping over its overly long tresses.

She managed to distract herself with these thoughts as they made their way to the Great Hall, filtering out the chatter of her escort; at least some of which was probably directed at her. Arriving in the portal to the Great Hall, however, dragged her rudely back to reality. She felt her body freeze and for a moment was unsure if she'd be able to actually, physically go further. She felt Lady Rosengard squeeze her shoulder. "Don't worry, Constance. It's perfectly normal to have nerves at this point." Then with a smile Olive thought was a little too maternal, Lady Rosengard lowered the lace veil over Olive's face and, when a gentle one didn't do the trick, gave her a rather forceful nudge to move forward when the music began.

Constance felt carried by some supernatural force from the portal to the altar where the priest waited in the center of the hall, excruciatingly aware of all the eyes on her and only dimly aware of the fact that, from the other end of the Hall, Erwin was making the same journey. When she found herself face to face with him, she managed to muster a small, fleeting smile. It wasn't the smile of a demure bride, but closer to that one soldier might give to another, a quick gesture of reassurance, before they rode into a hopeless battle. As the priest spoke through the rote liturgy of the ceremony, Olive's gaze remained steadily on Erwin, albeit obscured by the lace veil. She wasn't looking at him, however, so much as searching for something in him. Some sign of what her future would be. Because again she felt like she could hardly breathe, and not only because of the clench of the whalebone and certainly not out of the excitement of a blushing bride. But with each word the priest spoke, she felt her agency slipping out of her grasp. And maybe she was looking for a sign in Erwin, that it didn't have to. She also couldn't help but wonder, watching him, if his features would ever feel familiar to her. Something she could call her own. Her partner. Her husband.