𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐎 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 , which are stifled by the glass dome and sent scattering back like shrapnel. The press of bodies branched and teemed around them, and the rumble kept breaking overhead. If it were any other voice, Matthieu could’ve hardly located it in the din. But this was no stray court bird, was it? He could pick Rosalind from far worse crowds than the Opera. He had, too, plenty of times back when they ran together. No—ran implies a certain verticality. It went over differently with them, with bruised lips and limbs lying down.
In their whatever-the-blight, in that thing of bitter highs and titanic lows they’ve held up until their hands bled, her voice became a tell. He knows that singsong rage it draws from, the slight hitch it gives when it runs away from under her. When the parade of her own designs swells on an emotion she could not control—which is, incidentally, all but the barest of them.
A long way back, eight years. It still seemingly gave her the right of it: cornering him with a snide gotcha, a switchblade smile carving her pretty mask. She needn’t have bothered. If she’d known him at all, she would’ve gleaned as much. He’d never take point on such easy bait. Matthieu turns to her, and his brow knits a moment too long. His tongue prods his cheek like trying to recognize her, pin down the place of this lovely mouth and coming up short. It’s a lie, sure enough, and an unfair one at that. Foul sportsmanship, maybe, but no less than deserved.
It’s more effective than the sting she just tried on him. Cracks at his ancestry, which is to say, the lack of it, were run of the mill. They’ve always been, in fact, ever since his first standing in court. It’s what seeded his legend, ten fathoms and five graves deep: the Chevalier from nowhere, the man of the rabble, vulgar and carnal and always on the prowl. A man perhaps too much like the beasts he cuts down. They gorged on it, of course; each courtier to the last. After all, it’s why Rosalind spread her legs for him. It’s why most of them did. Perversity had a lure of its own, he reckoned, and the dirtier the fuel, the harder the fire spread.
He smirks, pondering whether she could do with a reminder. In the end, he only cocks his head, distantly amused. “That’s quite cheap, Mademoiselle de Villiers. A horrid time? Surely Her Highness’ own starling warrants more confidence.” He looms nearer, bracketing her body from the crowd. So close up, it’d be nothing to look her in the eye, but he still doesn’t do her the favor. His eyes smolder low, almost disinterested, trained on a joke just out of her reach. “I’m here on the Empress’ behalf, actually. Have a summons to deliver. Oh, don’t fuss. I know my place too well. I would not go around nobility’s essence by enjoying all your art. Hope that puts you at ease enough to watch the second act, hm? Without agonizing over me, that is.”
𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐉𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 and all else that glitters, but leave Rosalind her pride. Spare her proof that once, she conquered Matthieu as he overrules the wills of men. One sweep of his silver blade, and the fates swoon, give into the cruel slant of his mouth and decide that for Matthieu, for Matthieu alone, they will give him this: mastery over death, the final say on life. This man — this vessel filled to the brim with the Empress’ command until there is no room left for his soul, his honor — once drove Rosalind mad with desire. A single smile could send her into a frenzy, have her gasping and pushing aside all propriety for his warmth.
Eight years. It should sting less after so long, but pride is a curious thing. Most of the time, Rosalind believes the thread has fallen slack, if it hasn’t been severed completely. She thinks of him as one thinks of childhood: it fills her with whimsy and a nostalgia that holds her at an arm’s length, as if she is no longer the girl driven wild by the lash of one man’s spiked tongue. She smiles, even remembers the times Matthieu bested her or Rosalind bested him — but then he falls under her line of sight and Rosalind is feline again. She hisses. She kneads the earth with her claws. The thread is pulled taut and it tugs Rosalind back to her original sin. Her pride, a snake that swallows itself.
Matthieu denies Rosalind her due (attention which completes her, which satiates her, which redeems her), and her glare sharpens to the prick of a needle. She does not misremember the years of crawling under his skin, making a home of his arrogance and licking at the flames of his temper until he snapped to make her bleed. Once, Rosalind drove Matthieu mad; and now he stands at the side of the Empress, prestige to his name and the mark of ascension on his breast. Did he not mock her for dreaming of the same? Is she misremembering his condescension, his disinterest when she boasted of her plans, her future?
He stole it from her, as did the woman he beds now. It is illogical, but that is besides the point; Rosalind’s ego is furious, and her pride forgets nothing. He pretends to forget her, and it’s a game that Rosalind should recognize but it’s been eight years; she’s forgotten his old tricks and they smart and unstitch the wound. Rather than howl in pain, Rosalind glowers and digs her heels in.
“Cheap — wouldn’t you know?” she scoffs. A low, inconsequential blow, the kind that has never ruffled Matthieu before. If anything, he enjoys being reminded of his humble beginnings, and perhaps he does; she can’t fathom why. There are plenty of places for those who came from nothing, but there are only so few seats among Val Faim’s court; she will tear apart whoever she can to take hers back. “Her Highness’ starling sounds the same every week. Flawless, beautiful, sure,” Rosalind recites the praise of the crowd as if recalling the different names for excrement, “but hardly anything new.”
He draws close and Rosalind refuses to do him the honor of leaning away. She takes it as a challenge and responds to it in kind, chin jerking up and leaning in. He won’t meet her eyes, and it undoes her. It slices through her clean like his blade, and Rosalind snaps her jaws like a teething pup. “I wouldn’t debase myself to agonize over Her Highness’ personal errand boy,” she says through gritted teeth. “Why should my night be ruined by the likes of you?”
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