v—stamp.
noun. an instrument for stamping a pattern or mark, in particular an engraved or inked block or die.
rating T
characters: Hadrien de Rosier, Ottoline de Rosier, Janlenoux de Courcillant (he's there but shh no one's supposed to know)
word count: 688
desc: he's in the closet.
Hadrien was the only person in the household who was aware of his sister's…proclivities.
He had heard the hushed giggles of Ottoline and who he could only assume was her childhood beau in the halls of their manor the previous night when the idea sparked in his head. Not the first time, of course, he had made a habit of embarrassing his dear little sister whenever he got the chance. But she rarely snuck Janlenoux into their home, knowing how their elder brother—Dior—disapproved of him as a match. Though he should’ve expected it, what with Dior being absent for a few nights while he visited his wife’s family across the way.
Hadrien went the extra malm to add a few extra gil to the sentries pay that week to keep their mouths shut, lest they tattle on Ottoline. But his gesture was not necessarily one of pure-hearted good will. He expected some kind of entertainment in return.
After all, she had no idea that he was aware of her tryst.
He stood with an ear pressed to Ottoline’s door, corners of a blank letter twirling between his fingers. The hushed exchanges were enough to indicate that they were awake.
And he knocked. “Sister?” He managed, concealing the bubbling laughter that followed when her panicked gasp could be heard through the wood. Hysteric whispers and rustled sheets followed, and finally—silence.
“Yes?” She called back after a humorously long minute, in a perfectly rehearsed tooth-rotting tone.
He turned the knob, peeking into the space swathed in golds and tones of deep rhotano blue, eyes landing on his sister seated all too perfectly in bed with her perfectly smoothed hair and nightgown positioned perfectly on her shoulders. She even went so far as to force a smile on her face.
“Good morning, brother, what is it that you need?” that sickeningly sweet timbre.
“I have a missive I must send but I seem to have misplaced my—erm—what is it called?” He held up an unsealed envelope, naught but a blank sheet folded into its pocket. As he paced closer to her bed, feigning his forgetfulness, he could see the angry panic simmering behind her expression.
“A stamp?” She blurted.
“No, not a stamp…”
“a seal?”
A slow smile, slower syllables. “Yes—seal. A wax seal. That’s what I need, do you have one?”
She exhaled, went so far as to push back the sheets and hop out of bed, crossed the room to her desk (muddled with a myriad of loose papers and forgotten pens).
As she fiddled through the mess he glanced about the room, at the floor that bordered her bed. No stray articles.
Then to the potential hiding spots.
Not behind the curtains, Janlenoux wasn’t so foolish. Not under the bed, she had a decades worth of items crammed beneath there; it was difficult to believe he’d attempt to slot himself between them in the minute they had to scramble. Then to a mysteriously long lump of what should be pillows that lined one edge of her bed. He raised a brow at that.
So, he strolled. Slowly, gingerly. And took a seat atop the lump.
Pillows indeed.
“What are you doing?’ She asked when she turned, seal in hand. Her grip looked a little too tight, he feared the wood might snap.
Hadrien shrugged, ran his hands across the quilted satin. “Is this new bedspread?”
“No, it’s not—here’s your seal—” she pulled him up, forced the item into his hands, pushed him towards the door. “I need to get ready, so I must ask you to leave.”
He fought against her alarming strength, stopping her with a raised hand. There was the wardrobe, closed—but with a peek of bronzed gossamer seeping from the crack. She would not let her dresses, so carefully crafted, get caught in the wood—potentially ruined.
He leaned down to her height, gestured for her to move in closer, as if someone else might hear. Had to hold back his chuckle as he asked, “he’s in the wardrobe, isn't he?”
“Get. Out.”
