Alicia is exhausted to the bone as she slumps down on the steps. Oliver looks at her with a raised brow. She just sighs and rests her chin on her palm, watching his precise fingers work through Viktor's messy locks. The boy waves at her and Alicia smiles back at him.

"I didn't know you were a barber, Oliver," she remarks, gaze following the hair that falls to the ground.

"My mother used to cut all of our hair when we were younger," he says with a shrug, focusing on his task as Alicia's eyes move to his own haircut, his dark brown hair curled over his forehead, the underside always cropped short and maintained.

"Is that why your haircut is so awful?" she asks, flashing him a grin as he chuckles softly.

"No, Alicia, my haircut was to stop lice in the trenches. Guess I've gotten used to it now."

Alicia pouts, a little disappointed not to have irked him even a little bit as he always gets under her skin.

"Alright, kid." Oliver brushes the hair from the boy's shoulders before setting his scissors down. "Now you look suitable enough for Sam's party." Viktor tugs his fingers through his now short hair, smiling up at Oliver, his scar giving him a lopsided grin. Oliver muses the boy's hair, his features soft as he looks down at him. "Go on then." Viktor leaps to his feet and jogs towards the stables, turning around to give them a quick wave before disappearing.

"And here I thought you were meant to be the bogeyman of the Commons," Alicia says with a small smile, watching Oliver place the scissors and comb back into a meagre satchel.

"Do you need a haircut too, Alicia?" he asks, getting to his feet and brushing off his pants.

Alicia tugs at her messy braid as she stands, narrowing her eyes at him. "I don't know if I should take offence to that."

"Just keep it out of the hands of the Greys," he says, Alicia's eyes widening.

"I hadn't even thought of that," she mutters, frowning.

"Come on." He grabs his satchel and takes the steps to the street, Alicia walking beside him. "Are you going to Sam's party tonight?"

"Party?" she questions with a raised brow. "Another one?"

"It's for her birthday," he replies. "Galya is insisting, and the people of the Commons love to celebrate just about anything. It does them good."

"Right," Alicia murmurs, not too thrilled about seeing Sam again. With her secrets bubbling so close to the surface, being around the princess isn't an ideal situation to put herself in. "Well, I hope you have fun and wish Samantha a happy birthday for me."

"Ah," he says, his chin dipping as he looks down at her. "You're avoiding her."

Alicia buries her hands in her coat, watching her boots as she kicks a rock. "No, I'd just rather spend time alone."

"That doesn't strike me as particularly true."

Alicia just shakes her head and lets out a breath, knowing he speaks the truth. Alicia has grown accustomed to being alone, but that doesn't mean she doesn't miss running through the streets with her brothers or learning to handle horses with her pa. She misses having Kieran to whisper all her secrets to or Adrian to play cards with. She misses a lot of things, but she won't let herself yearn for them. She's not the girl she once was.

"People are still wary of me," she says, a lame excuse and she knows it.

"There's only one way to change that." They step onto the porch of the general goods store, and Oliver opens the door for her.

"What would you like for lunch?" Alicia doesn't miss the side-eye he gives her, but he doesn't deny her the change in topic.

"You don't have to keep cooking, you know."

Alicia gazes around at the store, her eyes landing on Grayson behind the counter. "I want to."

"Grayson," Oliver greets, handing the satchel to the blond man behind the counter.

"Mr Narovich," Grayson replies, glancing between them as he stashes the satchel behind the counter. "Can I help you with anything else?"

"No," Oliver says, turning on his heel, gesturing back towards the door.

"Yes, there is. I need ingredients."

"You're not living with me to be my maid, Alicia."

Alicia looks at him, stares at those piercing silver eyes and tries to see past his cold exterior. She sees nothing but granite staring back at her, unyielding and impossible. "Why am I living with you?"

"I want you to consider Sam's party at the tavern."

Nearly reeling from the subject change, Alicia stares at the space between his shoulder-blades as he passes her and pushes through the door and back out onto the street. "Why am I living with you, Oliver?" Alicia asks with a sigh as she follows him outside.

He stops walking and she staggers to a halt to prevent herself from running into the back of him. He turns, his gaze intense as he regards her. "Because your name is Alicia Zalana, and you're a liar."

Alicia draws herself up to her full height as she looks him in the eye, wondering where he could possibly be going with this. "What is it you're accusing me of lying about? Because Galya already confronted me about my nobility."

"Your nobility is obvious. But that's not the secret I'm talking about. There's something else."

Tilting her chin up, she regards him like she might any vulture within the palace. How they loathed being denied their gossip, like they had a right to know every dirty secret someone was trying to keep hidden.

Alicia had a lot of dirty secrets to keep hidden beneath the soil.

"And what of your secrets?" she asks. "A mercenary who served the Ronavics. Or was it the grand duke you served? People don't appear to like that man much out here."

Slipping his hand into his pocket, Oliver keeps those sterling eyes on her as he pulls out his container of cigarettes and clicks it open. The silence between them hardens Alicia's spine and has her teeth sinking into the inside of her cheek, but she doesn't baulk.

She's faced men meaner than him. Meaner and more powerful. They're all made out of flesh and bone and they all come apart just as easily.

Alicia stares at him as he sets the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, lights it with a match, then slides the items back into his pocket.

"The Ronavics work for the grand duke," he states, blowing smoke towards her.

She already knows. It was their men that shot her pa in front of her. "And you did too. But you were recruited specifically."

A small smile curves his lips, clearly finding her prodding amusing. "Tonight at the tavern," he says, turning and walking again. "I'll see you there."

She opens her mouth to reply, but closes it again, knowing arguing with him is pointless. She was raised in a family of stubborn males. Instead she glares down at her boot as she digs her heel into the dirt, wondering how annoyed he'll be when she doesn't show up.

Alicia is flipping through one of Oliver's many books taken from his dusty shelf in the sitting room when a knock sounds on the door, echoing through the house that sits silent apart from the hearth crackling before her.

Night has fallen and with it comes the trickle of noise from the tavern up the road, the sounds of music and laughter beckoning her. Or maybe warning her away.

Closing the book, Alicia stands and approaches the door with a sigh already forming on her lips. "Oliver isn't here..." she says, but trails off as she opens the door and finds Sasha staring at her, blowing a strand of blonde hair from her eyes as it slips from the knot atop her head.

"You're really saying no to free whiskey?" the woman asks, planting her hands on her hips.

Alicia opens her mouth, but no excuse presents itself, Sasha's dark green gaze expectant as she waits for her. What can she say? She's a corrupt noble, a woman of greed and money, of bitterness and deceit. These people find joy in a joyless land while she can only find suffering. Her place isn't here, it never will be.

But her place has to be here because she exiled herself and there's no turning back. Here she stands with one foot in both lives, uncertain or unwanting to cross over.

"Well?"

Alicia wraps her arms around herself and lowers her chin. "Sam and I have had our disagreements. I wouldn't want to ruin her night."

Sasha rolls her eyes and turns around, glancing down the street towards the tavern. "You know, my daddy never liked Sam. Always thought she was usin' this place for her own gain." She tilts her head to face the other end of the street. "I suppose I don't blame him."

"You don't like Sam either?"

Squinting her eyes, Sasha peers down the dark and shadowed street.

"What is it?" Alicia asks, following her gaze.

"Nothin'. And no, I don't care for Sam." She spins around on her heel to face Alicia again, forcing her to meet her moss green gaze. "But I don't care for a lot that goes on 'round her besides the horses. Which is why I'm getting some free whiskey and you should too."

Alicia smiles but shakes her head. "I can't. Sorry."

Sasha shrugs. "Don't say sorry when you don't mean it. I'll catch you later, lady." Her boots thud on the porch as she leaves, a trail of mud left in their wake.

Alicia lets out a sigh, steps back, reaches for the door, but pauses as her gaze goes to her right, the wall casting deep shadows across the street.

Reaching to the side, Alicia grabs her coat off the hook by the door and slips it over her shoulders before leaving the house. Curiosity urges her forward while common sense tries to drag her back to the warmth of Oliver's house.

But something about what Sasha said doesn't sit well with her. She doesn't like Sam, her father didn't either. How many others don't? How many exiles hate the royal family and will do anything to get any sort of revenge against them? And Sam is the only royal they can reach.

Reyna made her promise to find Sam, what honour would she be doing if she stood by and let people hurt the princess?

Drawn like a moth to flame, Alicia finds the spot in the wall she's searching for and brushes her hands against the wood. In a crack, Alicia pulls out a note and her gut plummets.

A part of her hoped she wouldn't find anything, that whatever encrypted letter she'd found before was just a bad joke. But now...

She shoves the note in her pocket next to the other one, refusing to part with them for fear of anyone finding them. Closing her eyes, she realises she has to tell someone what she's found, but she doesn't want to be involved. Perhaps she can drop them in Oliver's room, pretend it wasn't her who found them. No, that's childish. She'll go to him in person in a public place where he can't corner her and interrogate her again.

Making up her mind, Alicia begins trudging up the street towards the tavern, her resolve wavering, but she keeps her hand clamped around the letters to remind herself she has a mission.

Alicia stands outside of the tavern, listening to the upbeat tune of fiddle and drums, laughter spilling into the street each time the door is opened. She stays outside, feeling like an intruder, like an outsider once again.

Swallowing the dryness in her mouth, Alicia treks up the steps and inside, nerves twisting in her gut as she feels like she's stepping into that forsaken palace for the first time all over again.

The noise within is a cacophony, swelling with the added cello, people dancing and laughing. Alicia stays close to the wall, trying not to lose herself in the crowd of swirling skirts and stomping feet.

Alicia lets out a breath and presses her head against the wall, trying to settle her scattered nerves. She has no reason to be nervous. She's an exile just like these people, and she's helped them. They don't know who she is and they have no reason to look so closely at her.

"You look like you could use this." A glass of whiskey is passed to her and Alicia starts as she looks up at Oliver who leans against the wall beside her, watching people dance.

She takes the drink after uncurling her fingers from around the notes in her pocket. "Thank you," she murmurs, taking a much-needed gulp of the liquid courage.

Alicia allows herself a moment to admire his grey woollen suit, his crisp white shirt buttoned to his throat. Even the brass buttons on his waistcoat shine in the light of the lamps.

"How many suits do you own?" She can't help but suddenly feel self-conscious about her muddy black boots and the incredibly wrinkled black coat she hardly ever takes off, paired with her crimson scarf. She did manage to change into a relatively clean navy shirt after working at the stables, but she didn't have plans to come here, to be seen by so many people. The reminder of that turns the corners of her lips down.

"My father was a tailor," he replies, the rough timbre of his voice changing slightly. He glances down at her as though that answers all of her questions. Instead of speaking further, he takes his silver case of cigarettes from his pocket, offering one to her as he slides one along his lower lip. She declines, sipping at her drink instead.

"My father was a fool," she says. "He put all his money into horses and then had no idea where to go from there. He lost it all before I was even born. That's what you get for having aspirations with no sense."

"Seems he managed to make it work," Oliver remarks and Alicia huffs, smiling even with the hurt in her chest.

"You could say that." She looks down at the whiskey in her hand, swirling it around, reminded of the long nights trying to pry the bottle from her pa's grip. She vowed never to touch the stuff, yet another promise broken. "Oliver, I—"

"Alicia!" a loud voice calls and she looks up as Sasha pushes her way towards them, a drink sloshing in her hand. "Free whiskey!" She clinks her glass against Alicia's, nearly shattering both with her force. "I thought you said you weren't coming."

"I wasn't. I just came to..." She glances at Oliver who raises his brow at her.

"Ah," Sasha says. "You came for the captain here. He is quite handsome, isn't he?" She winks like Oliver isn't standing right before her.

"What?" Alicia reels back. "No, I didn't. Well, I did, but..."

"So, you admit it." Sasha throws her head back and cackles and Alicia just frowns at her, words pressing against the backs of her lips.

Not only can she not say she's betrothed because she's not anymore, but she can't tell the woman she came here to give Oliver encrypted notes. Not when Alicia doesn't trust her. She doesn't trust anyone in this place.

Including Oliver.

"I think I've had enough for one night," Alicia says, backing away from the both of them, from all of it. From the music, the dancing, the laughter, the smiles, the world that she can never be a part of because of where she came from. Just like when she first stepped into the palace. A girl from the slums didn't belong there either and all the vultures in that place knew it, and they skinned her alive because of it.

How many times was she left sobbing and alone in her room? How many sneers did she endure? How many crude remarks and spiteful slurs did she swallow and smile at?

She thought it would all be worth it eventually, but even that hope was taken from her. She didn't fit in there and she's learnt her lesson. No amount of enduring will be worth it because everything will be reduced to ash eventually. The Commons doesn't deserve her suffering.

"Alicia, wait."

He follows her but she doesn't want him to. She turns. Depositing her glass on a windowsill, and makes her escape, but crashes into someone. She mutters an apology but it costs her precious seconds.

"Alicia." His fingers curl around her elbow and he pulls her back, twirling her around so her hands are pressed against his chest and her hips are against his, sending an unexpected warmth swirling in her belly. "Look at me."

"No," she says, glaring at the knot of his tie like it's offended her. Frustration burns in her stomach. Frustration at herself, at the world, at the many mistakes she's made and continues to make.

Why is she still holding on? She kept the map and the journal that could ruin her. She continues to try and help a place that won't survive the dead, the flu, and the other exiles. She's intent on protecting the daughter of a dead woman. Why does she keep insisting on walking the same path?

Fingers touch her chin and then her gaze is being dragged up to meet with Oliver's. "What happened?"

"Sasha, she—"

"No, something brought you in here. What happened?"

Alicia shakes her head and shoves away from him, needing space to breathe and collect her thoughts, to right her mask and choose her words. "I'm not a child you need to protect, Oliver."

By the tightening muscles in his jaw, Alicia knows that was the wrong thing to say, but she doesn't back down, not again. "Fine," he says as he crushes his cigarette beneath his heel.

"I just—"

"I'll let you get back to whatever you were doing."

What she was doing. Reading his books alone in his house, wondering how she exists when there's nothing tying her to this world. But those thoughts are shattered when someone beside them collapses. Alicia stumbles back as the man splutters, rasping breaths choking from his blood-coated lips. She stands in shock, watching as the man convulses. Then Oliver is there, dropping to his knees and rolling the man onto his side. He retches, blood splattering the floorboards, and people scatter with shrieks and cries.

Alicia moves forward, her breath unsteady, but Oliver turns his head, seeing her advance.

"Stay the fuck back!" he shouts, his voice abrupt, near stopping Alicia's heart as she stumbles to a halt. The fervent look in his eyes constricts her throat.

Sam shoves past her, keeping her distance from the blood. "Is it the Ruga flu?"

"Yes," Oliver replies. "Get the doctor and get everyone out."

Sam spins on her heel, her gaze sharp. "Alright, everyone out!" she calls. "He's going to be alright but please return to your homes." The people in the tavern rush out without argument, fear of the harrowing sickness chasing them through the door.

Alicia looks to the man on the ground, moaning in pain, Oliver making certain he doesn't choke on his own blood by keeping him on his side. But even Oliver is wary, distancing himself as much as he can while still helping him. Alicia has already seen what the sickness does to people. This place will fall like everything else and there's not a damn thing she can do to save it.

Turning away, Alicia wraps an arm around her churning gut as she goes. She doesn't look back, the memory of her brother's sickly pallor in their house in the slums stuck in her mind, lingering like a bad stench. She was only young at the time, but she still remembers his eyes, a hazel mirror of her own, and they begged for a quick death.