c: cocorrina

CHAPTER SEVEN

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TEN OF SWORDS

THE STAIRS THAT LED to the cellar of the Borgin and Burkes shop were narrow and winded, taking the form of the chipped seashells that Abraxas used to enrich his ships. With each tentative step, they grated underneath Irene's soles, the pitched sound reverberating throughout the hollowed dungeons. Dampness adhered to every inch of the perimeter, the murky ambiance of an underground establishment merging with the potent waft of the sewage ducts.

Her thoughts bellowed similarly—they whined like ruined pieces of an archaic clock, cogs that had not been greased and polished. Sovetskaya could barely focus on what was in front of her, her mind still on Tom Riddle's earlier words.

Dead. She was, supposedly, dead. In the ways that mattered, anyhow. It explained the vacancy in her abdomen, the perpetual sensation of desolation that had imprinted her existence. It was an indefinable coldness, a sense of being disengaged from sanity. Sovetskaya had no pulse, no heartbeat, and her limbs were frigid. If Riddle was right, though, then her state of existence had transmuted into something else, where it was not the electrical impulses inside her body that made her organs function, but the undoubted presence of death and sorcery. They pulsed through her system like a vital serum, keeping her viscera from succumbing to the frailty of mortality.

Perturbing, certainly, yet oddly enthralling in its own morbid, twisted way. Sovetskaya had questioned such things before, though she had deemed those thoughts to be absurd. If she could eat, sleep and breathe, then how could she be dead? Still, there was no denying the pale appearance of her skin which had, on multiple occasions, frightened the staff of her Manor and required extensive powdering. Her limbs had always been cold, clammy, as though there was no circulation to fully warm her up. Abraxas had complained of it. Tom had noticed it. More importantly, the rotten monstrosity inside her, the calamity that screeched for retaliation, for scheming—it was something entirely born out of death and darkness, though dimmed by her sturdy rationale.

Irene had assumed it to be the trauma of a near-death experience. They said such things left one hollow, with an abyss of nightmares to occupy one's thoughts, and that it was hard to recover. There had been a sullied grave in the muscle of her heart, a place where her soul had rested for the past six years, seeking to awaken from its fatal slumber. Now, with the newly acquired information, it seemed to metastasize into something new, with more parts machine than human. Each step felt light, tentative—she toyed with the laws of life and death, twirling on edges like a prima ballerina, too gracious to fall onto one side or the other. It was then that she discerned the true nature of her sorcery, a power she had shunned out of fear and resentment, and debated Riddle's words.

Indeed, it seemed more beneficial for her to train and harvest her innate gift. Irene was unconquerable in the eyes of the gods. Mrithun had blessed her with his protection, shielding her from the tragedy of the human race by bestowing her a second chance. She wondered how her sorcery could bend and twist, if there was a limit to it. Should she take the sword from underneath her cape and plunge it through her chest, would it kill her? Or, perhaps, Sovetskaya was truly immune to death? The borders of control became blurry, and she feared nearing them. She despised not being the one with all the knowledge, who could figure out such things.

Her eyes slid to Tom, who wandered ahead of her, his hands in his pockets and his demeanor wholly nonchalant. If he was fazed or curious just as she was, the thief did not show it. But something told Irene that he was wary of her—the slightest twitch of his jaw muscle, the harsh swallowing whenever she got too close, the tightened fists in his pockets. Tom Riddle loathed that Irene had what he coveted, and the sentiment extended to her existence as well.

I will train you, you will heal me, and then we will kill each other.

The words resounded in her mind with blunt force. Was it not absurd for him to believe he could kill Irene when she was already dead? Was such a thing possible and, if so, did Tom know how to do it?

The boy was sending her spiraling, and when they reached the entrance to the dungeon that kept the kidnapped crown prince, Irene was thankful for the distraction. She collected herself, patting down the ruffles of her skirt—a gesture which earned a bemused glance from Tom. Irene was unsure why she was preparing herself for the meeting. They had already won; they had captured the prince and managed to lock him down in Belov's shop. Still, it might have been a reflex—years of submission sculpted into her psychology. There was no outrunning trauma and fear, not for Irene.

"When we enter," began Tom, his voice low, "you must keep your composure. He has been heavily sedated—handy work of Nott as he enjoys experimenting with chemical substances and medicaments. I assume Thomas Lebedev should be recovering now, but he will be confused and agitated. Have you thought about what you want to say?"

"I have thought a great deal about the things I want to say to him, but most are improper for a lady."

Tom gave her a pointed look. He did not seem to enjoy her humor much.

Pressing her lips, Irene nodded, "The Koliada Festival implies that there will be ambassadors coming from neighboring countries. They will want to talk to you, and so we must extract information from Lebedev. We do not want to be blindsided on this—I must prepare you for whoever decides to have an audience with you."

The thief nodded, then pulled a long chain from his inner coat. A key dangled from it, and he inserted it into the lock before turning it rapidly. The door swung open, revealing a darkened cell. The waft of mildew and decay was prevalent, a stamp of the underground that never seemed to wash out no matter how much chlorine Niklaus poured on the floor. There were no windows, no opening save for the commonly locked door. Furniture was sparse, too, as though the Knights could not bother with the commodity of their captives, and Irene wondered if they treated them well enough to keep them alive, but nothing more.

In the center of the room, a shivering figure had pulled its knees to its chest, clothes soaked by perspiration and other bodily fluids. The boy looked weak, his cheeks hollowed and skin dry, and the signs of hunger and dehydration had begun leaving their marks on his godly profile. From the corner of her eye, Irene could see Tom's expression sour, and she wondered what he felt in that moment, seeing an identical copy of himself so weakened. Was this what awaited him if he did not break his curse? Possibly. There was no telling what agony it would bring to the thief, but gods knew he deserved it.

Unexpectedly, a small squeak broke the silence of the room, and a rat ran over the damp tiles, its small beak sniffing around as it approached the prince with interest. Thomas scrambled away from it, eyes wide with repulsion, and he grabbed a nearby grimmy pillow to swat the creature away.

Irene scoffed, "King of the rats—that is all you have left."

Terrified eyes snapped towards her, and Lebedev parted his lips in a silent plea, as though he expected the sorceress to free him. To him, the Countess had never been anything but obedient, forced to comply by the constant threat that loomed over her head. If he did not like the way she looked at him, the prince would cut down the import rates in her territory. If she spoke out of turn, he would make sure to punish one of her few servants. Thomas Lebedev was odious and too thick-witted to survive the next solstice. Therefore, Irene could not muster herself to pity the frail boy that cowered in front of her.

She relished it even. Relished in knowing it was her that stood above, for once. Many would have said that there was no point in stooping so low, in reaching their level, but Irene disregarded such thoughts. For too long, she had taken the high road, but what was the point in such a thing? Her world was cruel, dark, and twisted—no purity or virtue survived long enough to saturate the desecration.

Irene wanted to be a black swan for once—unpredictable, the one that they should have feared all along. She was required to play their game in order to win and, once she was in power, weed out their impurities one by one.

"You witch," seethed the prince, eyes bulbous. "My father should have finished what he started years ago! He should have ripped your throat out and buried you in an unmarked grave. That is what you pagans deserve, what you have always deserved."

Such words might have stung her once, instigated fear, even, but they were long past such sentiments. Irene had managed to gain the upper hand, and that made her senselessly fearless. She crouched down beside the broken prince, her auburn hair-do slightly tousled and her topaz eyes alight with retaliation.

"You will speak properly to me," Sovetskaya stated at once. She grabbed the boy's chin and lifted it. "And you will make sure to look me in the eye when addressing me. I have waited for this moment for far too long. Your constant abuse of power and resources has driven me to the point of undoubted bloodthirst, and you should face the pain you have caused. What your father did was create a demon bound to hunt him down, and I intend to make him suffer just as I did."

With a gentle move, Irene unfastened her coat, allowing Tom to hold it for her. She was aware of his piercing gaze as he scrutinized her every move and drank in her words, the saccharin taste of hatred and wrath fusing into unconsecrated nectar. What he made of her at that moment, she cared little for. Sovetskaya could only focus on her goal, on the determined flare within her that was consuming her whole. She grabbed her needle sword and placed the tip against Thomas' chest, right over the heart.

"I have no time for fatuous banter, so I shall make this rather quick for the both of us. You are witless in the simplest, plainest way, and that makes you undoubtedly human and fearful. As such, death scares you. And if it does not, then it should scare you now, because I will hover it over your head like a prize and a curse. It can be your only escape or your worst nightmare. If you wish to decide which alternative you prefer, then you will cooperate with my partner and me."

Stricken by her words, Thomas Lebedev scurried against his metal bedpost like a frightened vermin, his hands gripping his tattered clothes. He was undoubtedly intimidated by her threat, but it was Tom's sullen demeanor that seemed to trouble him senseless. The thief had pulled a chair in the corner of the cell, crossing one leg over another, and his clasped hands rested neatly in his lap. A demoniac soul nested behind a holy mien, a juxtaposition of ill intentions and chiseled features, unsettling to the core. Tom was a reflector of the crown prince—a cold, seamless surface that distorted the truth and did not let any shortfall peek through.

"What do you want from me?" queried Lebedev, words wheezed and strangled. "There is nothing I can do from inside this cell."

"Save your pleas of release for ears which will listen," jarred Irene. "As empty as your head tends to be, you have knowledge of politics and castle relations that I find useful. You should thank whatever Heavens you believe in for such things; otherwise, you would have been dead long ago. I know that there will be ambassadors arriving at the Palace shortly, and I want to know any information that might prove to be useful."

"But, I—"

"And do not be shy with your knowledge, lest you anger me and I decide to take a finger for every lie you tell."

She felt domineering, of sorts, and unhinged, but it did not quite matter. Irene knew she had to intimidate the boy with empty threats, to fill his head with ghastly scenarios that would make a clod such as him tremble and untangle his tongue. Indeed, the Countess would have never carried out such acts of torture herself—grotesque and unladylike—but she did not doubt that Tom had a tendency for the subtle macabre.

Thomas Lebedev seemed to fall for her sham threats and began chattering as fast as a woodpecker. "An ambassador is coming from Samaritta to discuss import fees on textiles from Czermak County. I am expected to attend it alongside Anya, but that is all I know, I swear! She is the one that handles all of my private affairs and talks at the meetings."

"It seems as though the prince we captured is a mere puppet," stated Riddle in a calm manner, eyes studying the quivering boy. "And that his princess is the puppeteer."

"When will they be arriving?" inquired Irene.

Thomas shrugged, the gesture weak and tense. "Koliada is right around the corner, so they are expected in a fortnight at most. They are staying in the West Wing of the Palace and will be under Anya's gaze for most of their trip."

"What about the Emperor? Is there any assignment he gave to you that should be fulfilled by then?"

"Father does not give me much," Thomas winced, ashamed by his blatant incompetence. "He does not expect me to know much about politics and mainly has Anya and Vladimir do my work."

"That could be a problem," hummed Riddle, getting up from his chair and moving over to the Countess. "It seems as though the authority belongs to the prince's lackeys. If I overstep in any way, it will capture their attention."

His words were noxious, as though he despised the mere idea of others finding him incompetent. Tom was arrogant, autocratic, and had a tendency to believe he was the most brilliant person in the room. The thoughts he muttered he deemed to be facts and nothing more. Therefore, being labeled as brainless by the court and only having power on paper displeased him greatly.

"Or," began Irene, trying to be optimistic, "it could play to our advantage. Who would expect the idiotic, confused prince to overthrow his father? They would never believe you to be suspicious. Besides, it means all the attention will be on Anya and Vladimir. This allows us to carry out our affairs secretly."

"You have a tendency to idealize your plans, but I am not sure if you are rational."

"Once you come up with a better plan, we will consider that. Until then, you should play your part, stay silent and be pretty."

Nostrils flaring, Tom shot her a scathing look, one meant to burn her senseless. Still, Irene was too focused on what lay ahead to give him any attention. She leaned against her sword, lips pressed tightly as she stared at the captive prince, and scrutinized his expression for any telling that he could have been lying. Lebedev avoided her stare, pulling his knees closer to his chest and trying to sit as far away from the Countess as possible. Their interrogation seemed done for the time being, though they would return to ask more questions when the time came. Therefore, Irene grabbed her coat from Tom, then gestured that they should leave.

The last thing they saw before the cell door closed was Thomas Lebedev's quivering form.

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Upstairs, Niklaus and Theoden had commenced a hot and cold game, where the shapeshifter had to move through the heaps and stacks of ancient objects to find something that the Chaos Sorcerer desired. The intriguing part, though, was that Nott would change into different animals, using his senses to track said artifact. When Irene entered the room, he was sniffing the floor in his dog form, ears piqued in interest and tail wagging from excitement.

"He is fairly adorable," commented the Countess, earning an uncourteous snort from Niklaus.

"Until he urinates on your carpet, that is."

Books toppled over in one corner, and Theoden emerged from the mess, his ears pink with indignation and chagrin. He pointed an accusatory finger at his friend. "I have never done that, you prick."

Belov brushed away his comment, focusing his attention on the bootlegs spread out over his counter, where he crossed down every transaction that had been fulfilled. His strickenly white hair fell over his marred forehead as he leaned to get a closer look. Even without asking, Irene knew that Niklaus should have been wearing glasses, his eyes barely adjusting to the dim light of the chamber. The Chaos Sorcerer's writing was tiny, cursive, and looped, making it difficult to distinguish similar letters.

Before she could comment on it, the front door opened and slammed against the wall. Aisha stepped inside, her braided hair wet from the heavy snow and expression contorted into a heavy glower. She threw her coat over the hanger and did not bother to stop and pick it up when it slid down to the floor.

"Never ask me to run a deal for you again, Belov, or I swear I will cut your balls up and feed them to Theoden in his wolf form."

"Keep Niklaus' balls away from me, please," stated Nott, then went back to searching through the stacks.

Tom, who had not been giving them much attention until then, suddenly turned away from the bookcase he had been studying. "What happened?"

"I will tell you what happened! Your bloody client refused to pay the due price. Kept asking for a discount, right? But, of course, I did not want to give him one, because what do I look like? Some cheap, dimwitted merchant? He threw a fit and attracted the attention of a nearby guardpost. Allerick's kirpan, we all know those soldiers have nothing better to do than squabble with the locals, so it came as no surprise when they tried to intervene. But when you have a hit placed on you, as I do, they tend to recognize you easily in your thieving uniform. The stupid silver mask gave me away almost immediately."

Aisha moved through the room like a typhoon, flaring with vexation. She walked into the antechamber, her voice slightly muffled as she continued to speak.

"They knew, then, who I was and what I was doing there. Go figure, there are not many bandits who run around with funny-looking silver masks. A member of the Knights of Walpurgis—you should have seen the way their greedy eyes fell on me. Drool could have formed in the corner of their mouth, and I would not have been surprised." She returned to the room with a glass of water, then downed it in one go. "So, they chase me down, right? Follow me all down to the aqueducts, and I have to jump into the bloody sewage system to escape them. It smelled like shit down there, and I ruined a perfect pair of trousers, sinking my ankles deep into whatever I was in. And I lost my favorite katar, the one that ran under my wrist and had a pressure-activated blade."

"I will buy you another one," hummed Niklaus, barely glancing up from his accounting documents.

"You better," snarled Aisha as she took a seat by the window. "And I would be worried if I were you, by the way."

"Why is that?"

"Because I escaped, but I never said your associate was as lucky. How long do you think it will take before he sells you out for his own freedom? A few hours, perhaps? Minutes? He might not know you are one of the Knights, but he has seen all of us masked and running around your business enough times to put two and two together."

It was almost like a wave of current ran through the room, and all three men snapped their heads up at once, their expressions varying from concern to downright fury. Tom stood up from his seat, moving towards the window rapidly and glancing outside.

"You should have killed them," he stated coldly, glowering at Aisha for her incompetence.

"In broad daylight? During the Koliada Festival? I would have been lucky if the whole street did not jump me."

Niklaus closed his bootleg, then kneeled to the floor, dislodging a wooden plank and stuffing his records underneath. His whole demeanor had shifted. Gone was the careless elegance that seemed to cling to his every move, replaced now by an alertness that made the hair on Irene's arms rise.

"If they come here, they could find the prince," he spoke rapidly, passing through the chamber to gather any objects that could have been labeled as contraband and hide them.

Two-way cabinets, pots with false bottoms, drawers with secret compartments—it was as though the whole shop was being turned inside out, revealing all of its well-kept secrets. In a way, it reminded Irene of the matryoshka dolls that her mother used to collect. They still lined the nightstand in her parents' chambers, though they had gathered dust and cobwebs, left to rot in reminiscences and grief along with everything the Count and Countess had left behind.

Theoden aided Niklaus, filling his arms with books that held prohibited information and rushing upstairs to hide them. Irene assumed that they all had chambers on the second floor, which meant that they could prevent the authorities from stepping foot there. It was Mirzemlan law that all personal property not affiliated with any commercial sector was off-limits for the guards. This had been established four years ago when a group of drunken officers had rushed into a woman's home and beat her up under the pretense of using the law. How deplorable it was that the authorities abused their powers as such, making victims of bystanders due to their obscene thirst for authority. The people they should have protected became nothing more than sacks of meat for their punches.

"Grab this," wheezed Nott as he shoved a few books in Irene's hands. "Go out the backdoor. Tom will show you where to go through, and be quick because once they arrive here, everyone will be interrogated."

"Should I be worried?" queried the sorceress as Riddle grabbed her coat and helped her with it.

His fingers moved to clasp it over her neckline, and Irene felt the precise spot where they skimmed over her skin. She wondered if the coldness of it bothered the thief. It did not show on his face, certainly, though Tom seldom unveiled his emotions. It was as though he did not possess anything but anger and vanity.

Vacant eyes lifted to meet her own, "They will not be able to convict Niklaus of anything as long as we hide every piece of evidence. He pays a good enough sum to ensure that most of his partners and affiliates keep their mouths shut. They will not get any witnesses, and with the lack of solid proof, they will not be able to convict him."

"Perhaps, I should stay and help."

"You will do no such thing, lest you desire to be incarcerated due to your foolishness. Just because you are dead, Sovetskaya, does not mean they cannot kill you entirely. All they have to do is find a way to block your magic, and with Vladimir Dolohov under their control, it would not take long for them to figure such a thing out."

Tom did not waste time, and he bid goodbye to the Knights, telling them to keep the guards away from the cellar before pushing the backdoor open and pulling Irene into the falling snow. The weather was avenging—it scraped at Sovetskaya's skin and dampened her clothes. The two strode through the back alley, ignoring the inquisitive looks they received from locals. Above their heads, the tall buildings of Vespagrad pricked at the sky, windows pushed open and elderly women peeping outside with interest. Clothesline ran from one balcony to another, garments hanging despite the snowfall, and crows settled on them, pecking at the threads.

"Block my magic?"

"Precisely. Some bleed red; you bleed sorcery. Either way, something fuels your body. The moment they find out how to take that away from you is the moment you die. Now, I am only telling you this so that you can manage to keep yourself alive until our agreement is met." Tom stopped at a bifurcation, glancing towards the uphill intersection, where three guards were questioning locals. "We cannot go through there. I took a servant's carriage here to ensure I was not followed, but it is hidden North, and that way is blocked. Where is your buggy?"

Irene pointed towards the general direction of where she had told her coachman to go, and Riddle drove towards it. She followed him swiftly, balancing the volumes of banned text in her hands and trying not to let another vehicle trample her. The sorceress could feel danger looming about, glimpsing over her shoulder and taunting in her ear. The woeful deity hummed as Irene and Tom ran through the twists and turns of Vespagrad, ignoring the indignant shouts of passersby that they pushed out of the way.

The trail of sea life became more potent as they approached the docks, though they were not yet far enough from the Borgin and Burkes shop to have escaped the brigade. Irene crouched between the crates of imported goods and gestured for Riddle to walk behind quietly. Her tongue hardened in her mouth as the sound of waves crashing against the shore increased, but Sovetskaya tried to focus her attention on the destination. Right by the port, her carriage was pulled near a zevack station, and the coachman leaned against the buggy wall as the creatures drank water infused with chicken blood. Irene waved her hand slightly, catching his attention, then gestured towards the buggy and indicated to him to bring it forward.

As soon as it was close enough, Tom grabbed the door and swung it open, ushering Irene inside. He closed it behind them, and took the volumes from the sorceress' hands. Opening the inner compartment of the benches, Riddle hid the contraband carefully. He turned towards Irene, who had sat down, and gave her a perturbed look. His curls stuck to his forehead, dampened from the snowflakes and glistening in the poor light. Dawn-tinted lips parted slightly, and eyes flashed with the cold determination of a bandit. To see him in such a natural state was startling, almost as though deviousness was innate to Tom, and adrenaline clung to his cheeks in vermilion patches as blood rushed to his face.

"Get in there," he gestured towards the compartment underneath the bench. It was fairly large, running underneath the buggy, and perfect for smuggling items through the territories. Irene had used it multiple times to move around the Main Boulevard undetected and hide her weapons.

"Excuse me?"

"We must pass the guard outpost and head North so I can collect my carriage. We cannot be seen leaving this premise, and they will most likely check the vehicles. So, get in."

"You must be deranged if you believe I am letting you lock me in a compartment. If you could have it your way, you would leave me there until I asphyxiated."

"I doubt it would kill you."

"Doubt? So, you are not even sure?"

"Countess, I do not have time to squabble with you."

Irene crossed her arms over her chest as the coach began moving, its gait wobbly on the paved streets of Vespagrad.

"You get in, then," the sorceress stated.

"I will," Tom had reached the point of exasperation, bordering downright murderous thoughts. "We both must. Otherwise, we will be held for questioning, and this is not the environment either of us wants to be caught in."

Sovetskaya gave him a flabbergasted look, eyebrows pinched in surprise. "Surely, you do not mean we could both fit in there."

Riddle held the bench upwards, stepping inside and laying down. It was as though he was entering his own coffin, and Irene allowed that image to flutter her heart for a second. How delightful it would have been for him to simply wind up dead, thrown to the side of the road.

Settling himself in, Tom did not wait for her to protest again. He grabbed the Countess' hand and dragged her forward as Irene squealed at the contact. The boy pulled her over his own body, then closed the overhead door. Inside, it was dark, the only light coming from the small crack between the sofa cushions and the wooden board.

With baffling indignation, Sovetskaya felt the way every part of her body was pressed against the boy's, the space confined and uncomfortable. She could feel Riddle's breath on her icy cheek, hot and bothersome, and the way his fingers gripped her wrist and the side of her abdomen in an effort to keep her steady. Flustered, Irene parted her lips to voice out her uneasiness, but Tom simply raised a finger to his mouth, signaling her to stay quiet. Due to the lack of personal space, the digit came right between them, touching her lips just as much as his and underlining the noxious proximity of his face.

The carriage pulled to a stop, and through the heavy wooden sides, Irene could barely distinguish her coachman's voice as he talked to the guards, muttering something almost inaudible. Clamorous steps sounded around the perimeter, followed by the screech of the buggy's door as someone pulled it open. The wind howled, hitting the sides of the vehicle and having it sway.

"Nobody in here, comrade," called out a baritone voice. Shoes squeaked like little mice as the guard hopped inside the carriage, his whereabouts uncertain.

Irene held her breath and wondered if she was making any sounds or if her deadly state had altered that as well. Was it only her blood that had changed, replaced by something primordial, an element of the universe that was channeled by death? Or, perhaps, every organ in her body was only mimicking the necessary movements. Underneath her, Tom slightly moved, turning his head to try and peek through the small opening of the bench.

"What is this?" the perplexed mumble of the guard broke through. "Who does this bag of jewelry belong to?"

Tom's hold on her waist tightened, almost accusatory, and a small puff of frustration left his lips, tickling the girl's cheek. If her heart had been functional, it would have, mayhaps, salted from its cage, shredding through ribs and tissue. A haze of conjecture settled over Irene's mind; Riddle's scent—a perplexing mixture of apple and cedarwood—was the only thing she could sense, almost noxious and delirium-inducing. Regardless, to the paranoid sorceress, poison had become a delicacy in more ways than one.

"The Countess must have left them there," told the coachman, who had come to assist the guard and try to get him to leave. "She sent me down to the docks to look for Baron Malfoy, but he was a no show. I shall go to his Manor, now, if you are done."

The guard hummed, then the jingle of the jewelry purse being tossed from one hand to another sounded through. "You ought to place this somewhere safe, though. Hoist that bench open for me. Most carriages have a compartment under both sofas to store luggage."

"This one might not," tried the coachman, his voice croaky.

"Nonsense."

Irene held her breath, hands resting on Riddle's chest, and with stupefaction, she realized his heart beat at a steady pace. He was unphased by the possibility of being discovered, ultimately collected, almost robotic. This inhumane quality was a flaw and a strength, having Tom appear to be some half-demon breed. The thief simply twisted his head, glancing through the crack again as the coachman came up the stairs of the carriage and approached a bench. The creaking noise of hinges broke through the small space, yet the cover over their head did not lift. The man had opened the other storage space.

"There," he muttered, barely concealing the relief in his voice. "Is that all?"

"Certainly, comrade. Now, be careful on those streets. Got word from my superior that the Knights of Walpurgis have been spotted in some of those shady alleyways not far from here. Would be a shame if they stole your lady's treasure."

With that, the guard left.

Soon enough, the buggy was moving steadily again, and Irene plopped open the trap door, coming up for air she did not need. She pulled herself out, settling on the floor of the vehicle, and shot Tom a nasty stare. Nevertheless, the boy simply stood in his coffin-like space, one arm hanging over the edge leisurely, and curled an eyebrow at her.

"You are flustered."

"I am vexed, is what I am. You are so entirely improper for dragging me in there with you. What would have come of my honor, should that guard have found us?"

"You have no honor, Countess. You are a sly, deceiving being, and though you wish to present yourself as naught more than a proper damsel to the court, it would be best if you realized it is entirely in your disfavor."

"You insult me far too often for my liking."

Tom scoffed, "I care little for your likings, wants, and needs."

He lifted himself from the compartment, dusting himself off. Then, he took a seat on the sofa opposite Irene, legs crossed and gaze aloof. It was admirable how easily he shifted between boggling commodity and elegance, as though both sides of him were so carefully rehearsed they had become natural. He was an actor, in a sense, as far as playing a particular role went. Both a prince and a pauper—Tom became the story itself, a prototype of duality. He moved between two masks, two identities that bought him benefits and became tantamount to each other.

"Where are you headed to?" he inquired, gazing at her with intent.

"Malfoy Manor."

A smirk threaded his face, "Wonderful. It was time I got to meet Abraxas Malfoy."

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Hi! Sorry that it took so long. Decided to post this today because it is the anniversary of TSD and yesterday was my birthday lol. Hope you liked it.