"I'm nothing if not polite," Keir said, a low laugh escaping before he could stifle it. The sound surprised even him. He gestured for Artemisia to follow, turning sharply on his heel. They crossed the atrium, their footsteps swallowed by its vastness. As they climbed the staircase, the scent of old paper and candle wax thickened—an aroma that clung to every inch of the north wing. He breathed it in, cherishing its familiarity. As a boy, all pale limbs and quiet despair, Keir's only refuge was in the orphanage's library. The others swore he haunted it, a ghost among the shelves.
Upstairs, portraits watched from their gilded frames and rows of burgundy curtains muffled the world outside. Keir's expression stayed composed as he slowed before an arched doorway. "It's just through here," he said, fingers reaching for the brass handle. A shadow of thought crossed his face, gone before he turned to face her.
"In Eterna, you must know that truth carries little weight. It's not who you are that matters, but what others believe when they look at you. You could wear a crown and still be treated as a commoner if they decide that's what you are." He swung open the door and the scent of jasmine oil enveloped them. "Our work here will depend on illusion. To strike unseen, you must first be believed harmless. To kill without question, you must be trusted."
His fingers found her chin, guiding her face upward until the candlelight caught her eyes. Even shrouded in dirt and grime, Artemisia was beautiful. Beauty, he suspected, was her least dangerous trait. "So I don’t need your assurances," he whispered, his breath brushing her skin. "I need you adaptable. Besides," his thumb grazed her jaw, "do I look like a man who gambles?"
Keir released her and stepped aside. "Please, use what you need."
“Any insult is certainly blunted by your genteel choice of words,” was Artemisia’s response. His words were those of insults, but she doubted his intention was as such; not because of the good humor that was present, but because she doubted he had developed enough of an investment in her to put forth the effort to truly wound her. She followed him easily, shoulders at ease and her head often turned to gaze upon one feature of the home after another.
Artemisia noticed the scents, recognized them. Silently, she wondered what work Keir dedicated himself to within these walls–other than striking unlikely deals for unfortunate wretches like herself. She refrained from asking. She possessed no small suspicion that she would learn more about the bard from observation than she ever might by asking outright. These observations were as much her tools as poisonous blooms and tinctures, even if they were not the ones that had gifted her with a sort of infamy.
She was still as he faced her, her eyes set upon him. If he did not mean to intimidate her, then she would not cow like some begging dog. It was beneath her, and she doubted he was the type to gain any satisfaction from it on top of that. “And what reaps your trust, Lord Morozov?” she questioned, but he held her jaw between his fingers a moment later, rendering her silent. Her blood pulsed only slightly faster beneath her skin, palpable to his heightened senses–alert, attentive, but not necessarily fearful. He might sense the manner in which the ghost of his breath woke her nerves, lighting up the same synapsis in her brain that a prey animal possessed, though she neither fawned nor fled.
As he released her, she barely moved a fraction of an inch. “Am I to use it in privacy, or will you remain as an audience?” she questioned, lifting a brow. His speech had, of course, been impactful. But they were already on the same page.
