Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The green glitter of Benedikta’s costume, splitting the light. Her snarl. “Little lamb. You don’t fucking get it.”

Clive only knows what she said because he was there. The camera can only see the curve of her pale golden head, and the deep chevron of peachy material that imitates her bare back.

His temper, however, is on full display. “What the fuck,” he mouths. The sound can’t pick up his voice, but it's very clear.

Together, hand in hand, they sail out to the middle of the ice. Benedikta’s eyes are red through her eyeliner. In the audience gathered round, Hugo Kupka looms even while seated. He’s opening and closing his fists. He seethes.

Clive scrolls away before he has to watch the rest of that disaster. He messages Joshua, thanks.

A blue rounded rectangle bubbles up above the text box. You should come home. Take a moment to get your feet back under you.

Clive doesn't fight Joshua when he calls Rosalith 'home,' even though Clive has been living in a postage stamp flat in Oriflamme for nearly six years. Joshua lives in a posh downtown building overlooking the city, and commutes every morning by rolling out of bed and slouching towards his gleaming kitchen table. In the evening, for his sole meal, he orders a takeaway from somewhere and sends Jote to pick it up.

Fine, Clive texts back.

Three days pass in a sort of haze, during which he books a cheap flight. He drinks burnt coffee while he waits to board and plots revenge. Benedikta has not responded to anything. He pointedly ignores the flurried social media speculation. He does not want to see his name next to the words, fallen star.

His mother has not bothered to send her sympathies. There probably aren’t any.

He was going to retire after the Winter Chronolith Trials—hopefully after clinching that last gold, the one that has eluded him now for the second and perhaps final time. In 878, he’ll be thirty-three. Not impossible. But he wanted to be out before then, to avoid the heartache. And anyway he doesn’t have a fucking partner.

Is that really it, he wonders as he folds himself into economy. No one recognizes him, which is actually a relief. Is that really the end?

Joshua meets him at the baggage carousel. He's let his blond hair go longish. There's patches of coarse white and gray hair on his black jumper.

"Jill’s dog sheds ferociously," Joshua explains off-handedly. "As you no doubt know."

It's like being pinched awake. Clive stirs suddenly from the stupor he's floated in since Benedikta had her meltdown.

"Is Jill ...?"

"She is," Joshua confirms cheerfully. "I can invite her to dinner, tonight, if you'd like. Her, and of course—"

"No," Clive says, too quickly. “I mean, don’t—don’t bother her just yet.”

Somehow, Clive doesn't actually want Jill to see what he's been reduced to: a bitter, petty, mean-spirited failure. They haven't spoken properly in years, just waves and tight smiles across the ice. Clive followed her career on the aethernet like everyone else. She retired last year; not a shock. Most of the women who compete for IK are actually teenagers. Jill is twenty-five.

Joshua doesn't mention her again. He talks glancingly about work. He knows that Clive doesn’t follow. The drive to Joshua’s building is a whirlwind tour of “what’s changed since you moved to Oriflamme.” Shops have closed, the school was torn down and rebuilt. He summarizes the business about the abbey, which he's managed to get recognized as a historical site.

Joshua nods at the doorman, who pretends that the brothers aren’t being shadowed. Jote lingers several steps behind them, from the airport to Joshua's, allowing them a modicum of privacy.

"Paperwork and pestering," Joshua says lightly of his life's work.

Joshua hands him a folded menu from a restaurant nearby when they walk in the door. Green pill bottles and some medical equipment sit out on his counter next to his laptop, where the cursor blinks expectantly at the end of a half-written sentence. They watch a movie, agreeing mutually on the latest installment of an action film series, and eat too much food.

Eventually Clive feels guilty for this coddling. He is supposed to be the one taking care of Joshua—that was the promise he made—and he's barely subsisting himself. He’ll go to the gym tomorrow and—what?

He watches the credits scroll and numbly remembers Benedikta, unmoving and flat on her back, staring at the lights above her. The hush in the arena, the only sound in his ears the shushing of his blades on the ice as he approached.

Joshua falls asleep on the couch. Clive force-marches him to bed. Joshua is lighter than Benedikta, actually, and so much more biddable. He says good night to Jote, who is carefully counting pills into a plastic calender, and retreats into the guest bedroom.

His phone, which he left plugged in to charge, taunts him.

Jill skates women's singles. She skated. He doesn’t know exactly what happened. He’s ashamed that he never thought to wonder, much less ask.

Clive gives in to the siren call of curiosity and picks up his fucking phone. He types Jill Warrick Iron Kingdom into the search bar. He watches her latest free skate, which is a year and a half old.

She competently and dispassionately executes each element as if in a trance. Her expressionless face gives away nothing of her interior. The commentator notes that her artistry is lacking. She looks like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world, methodically landing every jump, her foot swinging in a businesslike check behind her. She places fifth. Her presentation score is not good, but the total elements are solid. It was a clean program.

The commentator calls her Haearann’s beautiful automaton.

A man shouts at her in another language before the audio fades to superimpose the commentator's speculation and patter. She doesn't cringe as she sits down in the box. She stares straight ahead in the kiss and cry. When she receives the score, she only nods to herself, applauding politely.

Clive stews guiltily. He could blame the war for losing contact with her, or the Iron Kingdom. But it was his fault. He changed. He was so angry.

He hasn't called, hasn't sent a single text to Benedikta since the Grand Prix. He was—is—so angry.

Clive sighs.

The last message Benedikta sent him was, You’re late, little lamb. The same date as the Grand Prix, eight hours before they hit the ice.

I’m sorry, he sends her, after midnight in Rosaria. He has no idea what time it is in Waloed.

Clive wakes up still wearing the same clothes he flew in on. Joshua is still in bed. Jote is already in the kitchen. She has an omelet for him, plated with parsley. Clive feels scrubby and crumpled next to her crisp bobbed hair and neat apron. He hasn't showered since before the plane. He hasn't shaved for longer.

“I’m going to Mann's,” he says.

“Should I call a car?” Jote asks without looking up from the cutting board. Joshua is going to pick around those red peppers, and they both know it.

"No," Clive says, running a hand through his greasy hair.

Market Street, trundling by from the back deck of the trolley, doesn’t look anything like he remembers. Clive still has the muscle memory of jumping aboard a moving vehicle, but instead of shoving change into a finicky slot, he scans a pre-loaded card that Jote gave him. A placard reminds him that he isn't permitted to ride on the step and jump off early at his stop. The car itself seems small and aged.

But when the trolley passes under Bewit Pedestrian Bridge, the old buildings bring him back a decade and a half. He leans against the railing, imagining for a moment his arm wrapped round Jill's narrow shoulders, crammed in with other Rosalithians and tourists, none of them the wiser as to who rode among them. Father charged him with making sure that Jill made it back home safe, though a security detail still followed them. It made her so happy to go on these excursions. Her face was so full of light.

Clive pulls the cord and gets off at the cross street of Mann's Hill Ice Rink.

It smells the same, vaguely sweaty and metallic, mixed with the astringent odor of cleaners and fuels. The lights buzz over head. Kids under ten scoot round joyfully waiting for their lesson to start. A woman in a white winter coat and knit hat blows a whistle, and the children skate over to her like a school of fish. Clive pulls the up the black hood of his sweatshirt and slouches under the weight of his backpack.

He goes up to the counter. The blonde lady minding it turns. She jumps, holding her hands to her chest.

"Oh! You startled me," she says, and that voice—

"Mrs. Murdoch?" Clive says, a little stunned.

Her open, pleasant face crinkles. Her eyebrows knit together.

"Oh!" she says. A smile breaks across her face. "Oh, Clive!"

To his astonishment, he tears up. He shrinks in on himself, pleased and shy while at the same time absolutely, unbearably guilty. He flushes.

"How are you?" he asks, unsteadily.

"You've grown so tall! Look at you!" Mrs. Murdoch says. She reaches for him, then draws her fingers suddenly back, curling against her palms. Clive is almost crestfallen that she doesn't pull him into a hug over the counter.

"Yeah," he says.

"Oh, please, you must come with me," Mrs. Murdoch continues. She fishes out a plastic sign, be back soon! and ducks around the desk.

She gestures giddily. She hasn't aged much, though it's been over ten years.

"You work here?" Clive asks.

"Come see," Mrs. Murdoch says. "Look!"

She leads him to a glass display case nestled in the center of the long hallway that leads to the gym, physical therapy, and locker rooms. Carefully printed out and matted on black cardstock are several photos and articles of notable skaters to have come out of the rink. He feels a little cold.

In pride of place, right in the center on a plastic plinth, high above the others, is a framed picture of him, 862 Winter Chronolith Trials, holding up the gold for men’s singles.

He’s only seventeen, still a year out from the final growth spurt that put him an inch over six foot. On his right side stands Rodney Murdoch, Mrs. Murdoch's husband—his first coach—smiling broadly. Clive’s eyes are somewhat unfocused. There is an empty place where his father is supposed to be.

Around this image, circling like will-o-the-wykes, are other snapshots of his career. Twins Championships, Triunity Trophy, Valisthean Grand Prix, a smattering of other comps. A headline notes that his military service will prevent him from competing in the 866 Oriflamme Trials. That year the roster was like a mouth with missing teeth; the fact that it was held anyway beggared belief. He looks young in that uniform, his face so smooth and round.

And then there’s Benedikta, posing above his head as he holds her aloft. She looks babyish, too, her hair still long enough to be knotted behind her head in a bun. He thinks they must both be twenty-three. Not so long ago, really.

Pairs had always been the future for him. Sanbreque seemed the logical path. The press around them had found that to be the most intriguing little question.

What is it like to compete for the empire, after the annexation? A foam microphone head shoving its way into his face. He flinches even now.

I just think about the program, he said, over and over.

What would your father think?

That he was proud of my achievements.

Benedikta only ever shrugs when reporters try to delve into her psyche.

Clive can see their coach, their former coach, standing in the background of a photo of himself and Benedikta setting up for a throw.

Tiamat scouted her in Waloed. Political strings were pulled. Clive and Benedikta were thrown at one another, and when enough heads nodded, Sanfed arranged for Benedikta’s visa and provisional citizenship.

Benedikta never really talked about being abandoned by her king and country. They just let her walk away.

"Fucking bleating," Benedikta says dismissively in his memory, wiping her nose with a tissue that she tosses carelessly in the bin.

Jill isn’t from Rosaria originally, either. Her photo has her flashing her silver with a sweet smile. Clive does the math; she was eighteen in 866, though he thinks she looks younger than that. The coach with her hands on Jill's shoulders is a tough-looking woman with her hair swept in a bun, not Imreann. Jill tilts her head in the woman’s direction.

We're just toys to them. Clive thinks of IK, Sanbreque, Waloed. To be squabbled over.

Mrs. Murdoch has put up a banner over the whole display that reads The Pride of Rosaria. There are some other athletes. Tyler Biggs is there, with his 854 gold in men's figure skating.

"Wow," he says aloud, for Mrs. Murdoch's benefit.

"We all cheer for you," Mrs. Murdoch says. "I'm so terribly sorry about what happened in Dhalmekia. Is she alright?"

Clive swallows. He nods, murmuring a quiet yeah. Dazbog Arena flashes before his eyes. In the bone-dry desert of Dhalmekia, it was extravagance like no other. Eventually they decided it was the pressure of competition. That's what the press release said, two short lines about how Benedikta was recovering and her privacy was important.

"If there's anything I can do, you know I will do it," Mrs. Murdoch says. "It's what Rodney would have wanted."

Tears press hard at the corners of his eyes. Absolutely not. Clive grits his teeth against them.

"Um," he says. "I'll think about it. I, uh—is there a toilet?"

He fucking knows where the toilet is. He knows Mann’s in his sleep. Mrs. Murdoch doesn't call him out on it.

“Down the hall," she directs him. "I hope I didn't overwhelm you, Clive."

"You didn't," he lies. "Thank you, Mrs. Murdoch."

"Hanna," she corrects. "You've grown so much. I'm so—so happy to see you again. To see you both."

"Right," Clive says tightly. He contends with the real threat of humiliating himself, in a new and exciting way, in front of his old coach’s wife. She always made him lunch. "Hanna."

He speeds to the bathroom, a single room stall. Clive locks the door and admits to the bathroom mirror something he has been ignoring.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “It’s fucking over.”

It's over. Thirteen years of his life, and just like this it's over. There is no revenge. The rep from Sanfed has already told him that without a partner, he is basically going to be quietly cut from their funding. This is probably his mother’s doing. She cannot tolerate a hint of embarrassment.

Tiamat's already making moves towards another pair, 'Leon and Sabine.' Sabine has the same tabloid cachet that Clive does, even, except her father, a Cardinal, isn't dead.

Instead of crying, instead of self-pity, instead of any of that—

He gets angrier. Fuck Benedikta, fuck Tiamat, fuck the Sanbreque Skating Federation. He holds himself back from breaking the mirror, or punching the wall. He runs the water as cold as it will go and washes his face until he's sure that he's got it under control. This anger propelled him. This soothed and nursed and sustained him through the hardest, shittiest nights of his life.

He opens the door. Standing, with her delicate hand ready to knock, is Jill.

Her pretty face scrunches up with concern for him. She’s wearing a close-fitting white jacket and blue leggings, all her hair stuffed into a white knitted cap. A whistle hangs around her neck. Her pink lips are shiny from chapstick. The sight of her, like a punch to the chest, knocks the wind out of him.

“Jill,” he says, hollowly.

“Sorry,” Jill says. “I—”

“No,” Clive says, abruptly. “No, I was just—”

“Oh,” Jill says. “Um.”

“Hi,” Clive says.

He looks like shit.

“Joshua said you might come back,” Jill says. “Last time I was over.”

“I flew in last night,” Clive says. He steps into the hall, hefting the bag still hanging over his shoulder.

“I didn’t realize you were here today,” Jill says. “I, um—I need, uh …”

Clive stumbles over his own idiocy. Obviously, she is not knocking on the door to see if he’s okay.

“Sorry,” he says, moving aside.

“I’ll see you in a bit?” Jill asks. “Are you here for a while?”

Does she mean in Rosalith, or at the rink?

“Yeah, yeah,” Clive says, nodding.

“I missed you,” Jill says, looking up at him through her lashes. Her eyes are the kind of blue they call gray. He thinks of the early morning sky reflecting off of still water.

His tongue swells up. His neck heats under his sweatshirt. The silence goes on a beat too long. Jill mumbles something else, smiles nervously, and then slips into the toilet. The lock clicks shut.

Clive contemplates bolting.

He waits by Hanna’s desk, heart racing. A mother and her son are staring unsubtly in his direction as he runs his hands through his unwashed hair. Hanna sorts them out quickly—the boy is there for lessons—and looks brightly at Clive, who still hasn’t ruled out simply leaving. He imagines the shitty lies that he will have to tell if Jill ever shows up at Joshua’s condo. His entire body feels like it’s ablaze.

"Are you alright, Clive?" Hanna asks.

“Jill teaches here?” Clive manages. Hanna’s smile widens.

“Yes,” Hanna explains. “Four days a week. The kids just love her.”

“Oh,” Clive says.

Jill blows through the waiting area, eyes alighting on Clive. He staggers under that same feeling of being pushed off balance. She stops just short. A hug from her would not be so bad, either, but she doesn't open her arms. He scolds himself for wanting to be held so much.

“I have a lesson for the next hour and a half,” Jill explains. “But maybe we could meet for coffee later?”

“I can wait,” Clive says aloud, to his surprise. “I’ll just be in the gym. I might take a quick turn out on the ice.”

“I would love that,” Jill says. She visibly tenses. “Unless you don’t want company.”

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” Clive says. Every single word out of his mouth is nonsense. “It’ll get me out of my head.”

He has no idea why he said that. Jill inhales. She puts a hand on his arm. She squeezes. Hanna clicks her mouse, focused intently on her computer monitor.

The gym is about what he remembers, without much of an update. The staring is getting more consistent. He can hear a bit of whispering. All Clive allows himself to think about is how many days he’s let himself off the hook, and how he’s going to need to get that back. He does not know for what, exactly. It's habit.

Rinkside, he hesitates to put on the boots. Their weight is both familiar, and not. Jill skates towards the opening in the boards where he sits, trying to force himself into action. Her students follow behind like ducklings, giggling.

“I haven’t told them who you are,” she says. “I just said you were a friend—if that’s alright.”

Clive shrugs.

“They’ll figure it out pretty quickly,” he says. It sounds arrogant, but in Clive’s experience it is the simple truth.

The trio of girls, between seven and nine, file off the ice and sit on the benches to pull off their boots. They glance his way, as they busy themselves with wiping the wet off their blades. One of the girls doesn’t bother. She stops, agape, and says, the question mark practically vibrating off the end of her sentence, “Clive Rosfield is your friend?”

“Yes. We used to come here all the time as kids,” Jill says amiably. “We learned to skate here.”

“You already knew,” Clive says. In his mind’s eye, he watches a little girl with a short gray bob race away. He feels the world suddenly slip out from beneath his feet, landing hard on harder ice. Clive points to Jill. “She just let me fall.”

“You didn’t tell me it was your first time,” Jill says. That could easily be a sparkle in her eye.

“Are you going to be in the Trials?” asks the same girl.

Clive appreciates her bluntness. He returns it, the sort-of smile dropping from his face. The media calls this expression his perma-scowl. He and Benedikta had never gone in for showy smiles. They have dramatic intensity. “No.”

“Oh,” she says.

It’s a freestyle session, but because it’s in the middle of the day, there aren’t many people. Clive guesses that Jill is teaching a group of fairly serious kids, the kind that take the sport as a part of their regular educational credits. The boy and his coach are practicing jumps in the corner, also winding down. It’s very common in Sanbreque, which he supposes is what Rosaria actually is. These three girls are clearly a part of the pack of under-tens he saw earlier.

“Could you pick up Miss Jill?” asks another one of the girls.

“Yes, but not on the ice,” Clive says.

“Why not?” the girl asks Clive.

“It’s dangerous,” Clive says. He glances sidelong at her. “But I could do it, with a little practice.”

Jill looks a little pink. “I sure you could.”

“So if you practiced, could you pick up Miss Jill?” asks the girl a bit more insistently.

“I definitely could,” Clive says. Jill doesn’t look any heavier than Benedikta. The coat obscures her actual figure, which Clive can picture maybe a little too well from the video last night. Her pale blue skirt whips around her hips in his imagination.

He finds a point on the bleachers and looks at that instead of trying to see through Jill’s fucking coat.

“You should, then,” says the girl. “It would look awesome.”

“Thank you, Aimee,” Jill says.

“Maybe Miss Jill could be your new partner,” suggests the third girl, helpfully. It's offered with the conviction of a child who is convinced the answer is right in front of these foolish adults.

Benedikta stands behind him, arms crossed. She lays in the center of the rink, one leg drawn up. The medics are bustling towards them. In the stands, Hugo Kupka is throwing a tantrum, full bore. Benedikta rolls over on the ice, her eyes unfocused.

You were right, she murmurs. She isn't talking to Clive. They don't agree about anything. He doesn't want me.

He exchanges awkward glances with Jill.

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Jill says.

"Can you do quads?" asks the first girl, Crow. "You're so tall."

"Yes, but I don’t in competition," Clive says straightforwardly.

"Why not?"

"I do what my partner does," Clive says.

Benedikta could land a quad toe roughly fifty percent of the time, mostly under-rotating. It galled her. They bristle and snap at one another, but Clive admits that their competitiveness was well-matched. Benedikta never let him quit. He never let her.

Until she did, obviously.

"Is she going to be alright?" asks the third girl, quietly.

"You guys," Jill says, sternly. "That's enough."

"Sorry," says Crow, who is not sorry. "Are you going to skate?"

"I was considering it before a group of ragamuffins came and grilled me," Clive says, crossing his arms.

"Cro-ow," whines Aimee, despondently.

"Aunt D!" says the third girl. She pumps her arm in a wave. A reddish haired woman in flannel and a canvas coat ambles towards them. "Look!"

Aunt D's eyes widen a little. Not everyone follows his athletic career. Hard to tell what she recognizes him as: two-time Chronolith medalist or—

"So are you still a prince?" asks Crow. Aimee kicks her unsubtly. "Ow! He's not going out there anyway."

"I was never a prince," Clive says. This isn't necessarily true, but he has no desire to open up the Book of High Houses and explain the intricacies of Rosarian ducal inheritance law to a kid.

“Hi, Dorys. Clive is an old friend,” Jill says.

Dorys pulls a mildly disbelieving face. He can hear holy shit echo between her ears.

“Can we stay a little longer?” Dorys’s niece begs. “Please please please! I wanna see him skate with Miss Jill.”

Jill sighs. While she explains that Clive is here the way anyone else is here, he puts on his skates. Crow questions him about brands, the fit of the boots, so on, until her ride arrives. He is surprised she doesn’t ask why he chose to put on the left foot before the right.

“I’ll join you in a minute,” Jill says, as an older man—Crow’s grandfather, he guesses—arrives towing a young boy messing with a handheld game system. Clive nods. When he assures himself that no one is barreling down on him, he steps out onto the familiar ice of Mann’s.

He’s disoriented by how quickly it snaps into place. Coach Murdoch might be standing over there. Feel that fire blazing behind you! Father, Joshua. Go, Clive! It feels like the most natural thing in the world to be out here, flying through the air. It hadn’t always been.

He hadn’t wanted to admit he couldn’t do it.

Jill catches up to him, gaining speed with a few long strokes. He hangs slightly back and follows her lead, just to watch her. Jill has control of her edges that neither he nor Benedikta had. Discipline and skill are a given at high levels in any sport. Clive is not sloppy by anyone’s measure. Jill’s precision is simply a cut beyond that.

An automaton.

He resolves not to ask her about IK, or why she isn’t training. Silver strands of her hair are flying by her ears. Whatever the kids are hoping for, they are disappointed. Clive makes a few rounds, not speaking, with Jill sailing in and out of his peripheral.

One of her kids—Crow, he thinks—breaks the rink rules and shouts, distantly as a mouse screaming at him, “Jump! Jump!”

He shares a glance with Jill. She shrugs sheepishly. Clive thinks to himself, Well, why not?

Clive sets up for a lutz, popping it last minute. Not quite right. He hears the exaggerated groan of a child rattle across the rink. Crow has no patience. He takes his time. It doesn’t do to rush these things. The third girl whose name he did not catch is lingering as long as she can. Aunt Dorys seems a bit harried. Never mind, he had better hurry up.

This second approach, he knows instinctively: Yes. He’s had a bit of a warmup. He can do it. He’s done it. The world sails by. The corner is clear. He taps the ice and launches into the air, rotating cleanly and quickly, three times. He’s showing off, a little, but this is also simply what he’s accustomed to. This is just what people do where he's at.

Crow hollers. Jill skates her way, shaking her head in admonishment. The third girl is grinning, throwing looks over her shoulder as she races to her Aunt D’s side.

The children don’t think he’s a failure.

He thinks that he’s going to break the lease on his flat in the capital, and move home. Joshua will let him stay at his place for a while (or forever), for as long as he needs. Maybe that last gold doesn’t matter. Maybe he can forget revenge, and rage, and all this impotent fucking frustration at what happened, and how it all turned out, and what the annexation, and war, and Sanbreque took from him when it took him.

And when Clive glances at Jill—her face at ease, gliding peacefully across the rink, a far cry from that frozen non-expression she wore for her free skate—he wonders, Maybe I should see if she wants to get that coffee.

“What are you thinking?” Jill asks, catching up to him as exits the ice.

“About how much I fell,” Clive says. “That first time you brought me here.”

“I felt terrible,” Jill says. “Why didn’t you say you couldn’t skate?”

“Because you would have changed your mind,” Clive says, truthfully, after over twenty years.

He saw Jill, holding her hands out for him, as he got his feet back under him. That moment when it clicked. That first moment when he realized that he could go fast, like something igniting within. Like it made sense.

“What?” Jill says with a puzzled laugh.

“You would have changed to something we could both do,” Clive says. “Instead of what you really wanted.”

“Clive,” Jill says, but whatever else she was going to say next, she second guesses. She falls silent.

In the lobby, as she plucks her car keys from her purse, Clive loses his nerve. It seems all too likely that Jill—beautiful, accomplished, and kind—might already be seeing someone. A boyfriend, or girlfriend, or someone. Clive will prod Joshua about it, hopefully without prompting any kind of suspicion on his brother’s part. Apparently Jill comes over often enough that her dog can dispense a thorough coating a loose fur on all of Joshua’s chic black clothes.

“I hear you got a dog,” Clive says, aiming for casual.

Jill smiles at him. It is unreserved, eagerly and happily given. The sight of it alone reddens his ears.

“Yes! Of course, you’ll want to see him! I’ll bring him by Joshua’s soon,” Jill says. He supposes she remembers how much he enjoyed having a dog, when he had one. “How long are you in town?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Clive says. “I hope you don’t mind me coming by. For while I'm here.”

“Not at all,” Jill says. “We’ll have time to catch up. I’m so happy to see you again, Clive. Really.”

He holds that fluttering in his chest on the trolley ride home. He wanders around downtown Rosalith, hood up, revisiting the old haunts, and remembers going here, and here, and here, with Jill trailing behind with his dog on a leash, a shaggy puppy named Torgal. She begged to play with him whenever she could.

Clive doesn't know what happened to Torgal after Father died. It was chaos. All of it was best left in the past.

Joshua is sat on the couch when he gets back, silhouetted by the early winter sunset in the floor-to-ceiling windows of his apartment. He commands a breathtaking view of Rosalith from this vantage. He's ignoring it for his laptop. Joshua brightens when he sees what Clive has balanced on his hip as he shuts the door.

"Molly's!" Joshua exclaims. The laptop snaps shut, and Joshua springs to his feet.

Clive sets the box on the gleaming kitchen counter, beside the induction stove. Trusting that it isn't on is difficult.

"Jill loves these ones," Joshua notes, picking up a powdered snow ball. A bite sends a puff of white sugar directly onto his black T-shirt. A blink, and he has jam smeared all over his mouth.

"You're a mess," Clive says, handing him a cloth napkin from a drawer. It seems too nice for the purpose, but Joshua simply has Jote take them out to be laundered.

"You're one to talk," Joshua says. He shrugs.

"I saw Jill today," Clive says. "At Mann's."

Joshua pauses. His serious expression is at odds with all the jam and sugar.

"You went to Mann's?" he asks. "Are you going to ..."

Joshua trails off.

"I haven't made any official decisions yet," Clive says, at last. He knows the truth. It's time to accept it. "But I think I'm going to retire."

Joshua exhales heavily. "I'm sorry, brother," he says softly. "I know this isn't how you wanted it to end."

Clive looks down at his fists, pressed against the smooth countertop. He picks out an apple fritter, a Molly's specialty. He's not in the mood to think about nutrition. Like a fucking child, he supposes that he imagined glory would work some sort of magic and heal all these fucking wounds. Like it would bring back Rosaria. Or Father.

"It's not," Clive says, gazing past Joshua into the sun reflecting off the white towers. He hopes the brightness will drive away the grief, a lamp to scour away shadows. Night falls anyway.

Clive makes no announcements, but Benedikta does. Two weeks after the Grand Prix in Dazbog, she makes an official statement to Skate Valisthea’s news blog.

"'After an extraordinary career, full of opportunities and triumphs, I am officially retiring from the sport,'" Jill reads for him, perched on the bench in the gym. He has no deep desire to see the comments section for himself. "'I extend my thanks to my partner, Clive, for always pushing me to the limit of what was possible. His support has been invaluable, and I will be forever grateful to him. Love you, little lamb.'"

"'Fuck you, Clive,'" Clive translates, rubbing his jaw.

“Why does she call you that?” Jill asks.

Clive comes to Mann’s almost every day, at least for an hour or two. He helps Hanna clean, uses the gym. His finely maintained skills atrophy. Sometimes, after Jill’s last class, they’ll skate together—this is the highlight of his day—but it’s nothing more intense than circling the rink. He has not yet asked her to get coffee. The best he has managed is actually through Joshua’s standing dinner invitation. Tonight, they will order three takeaway entrées and use real silverware.

“Benedikta was raised on a sheep farm,” Clive explains. “If she hated something, it became a sheep.”

Jill blacks her phone screen. Her hands fall into her lap.

“Clive,” she says. “I feel a bit of a hypocrite, right now, since I forbid the girls from asking but … you and Benedikta Harman didn’t get along, did you?”

Clive usually dreads this question, but Jill is more concerned for him than morbidly curious. He can tell.

“No, not really,” Clive says.

He struggles to find something more to say. Jill doesn’t pressure him in any way, which makes it somehow more imperative that he tell her. He hasn’t even discussed Benedikta much with Joshua, who hasn’t asked at all. Out of respect for Clive's privacy, most likely.

“She and I … we were matched because we complemented one another,” Clive says. “It wasn’t about us, but about what we could do, together. If that makes any sense. We resented that, or at least I did. And so I resented her.”

He laces his fingers together loosely in his lap so he will stop plucking at the stray threads on his sleeves. Their contentious relationship is well known. Every so often, someone speculates that they are hatefucking, and Benedikta's actual boyfriend loses his mind. Hugo is ten years older than Benedikta, and wealthy as sin, which seemed to satisfy Benedikta's only requirements in a lover. Dazbog was his gift to her. Sometimes, when Clive is at his lowest and bitterest, he wonders if there isn't some truth to the rumor that Hugo Kupka paid their way. To him, Clive was only ever an accessory to Benedikta's career. Even Benedikta's real skill occasionally seemed incidental to the plan that Kupka had for her.

“After the war, I just …” Clive shook his head. “I couldn’t do anything to Sanbreque, or Sylvestre Lesage, or anything. But I could be mad at her. I shouldn’t have been, but I was. And I think, most likely … it was that way for her, too.”

Jill presses her lips together.

“It was that way for me,” Jill says.

She hasn’t mentioned IK at all in the time he’s been coming to Mann’s. He holds his breath.

“After the annexation,” Jill says. “I just … I was adrift. I didn’t have you or Joshua any longer. But I had the sport. I put my all into it. I thought, maybe, if I was good enough, Sanbreque would let me compete for them, like they let you. Fund me, that sort of thing. But they didn’t want me.”

She makes this speech while staring straight ahead.

“But the Iron Kingdom sent a representative,” Jill says, and a hint of bitterness creeps into her voice. “To make me an offer. At the time, it seemed the only way forward. I couldn’t tell you if it was a mistake or not.”

Jill wraps her arms around her middle, hunching down as if she were suddenly cold. Clive barely resists the urge to put his arm over her shoulder and pull her to him.

“I’m sorry,” Clive says. It is all that is possible to say.

“It’s over now,” Jill concludes, after a silence where Clive could have imagined her saying something more, or different. He doesn’t push.

“What did you want to show me?” Clive asks.

Jill sets her phone aside. The tension slackens. She stands up, stretching.

“Just a little choreo. I was thinking something like this,” Jill says. Her voice is light, but more focused on the work. She demonstrates a few moves in her trainers, squeaking across the gym floor. “For Crow. This … and some kind of transition, maybe, two foot, waltz …”

She skips around the floor, sketching the moves lightly in the air, barely lifting off the ground. She’s wearing her hair long and down, tied off in a loose tail that slips a little further down with each revolution until it falls off.

“Oh,” Jill says, not quite annoyed.

“I’ve got it,” Clive says, pushing off the bench to one knee, but Jill is already bending down.

Her fingers close over her scrunchie, and Clive’s fingers close around hers. They are both still. Jill raises her head slowly. Her lips part. The fine bones of her hand tense under his touch.

Clive has a horrible vision of leaning forward to kiss her, and watching her recoil. By now he's learned that she's not seeing anyone. The relief was quickly tempered by the realization that if he wanted to ask her out, he could. His current cowardice has no convincing excuse. He can hear her stumble over the words, I don’t—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—

Hearing her apologize to him for his projecting his stupid little daydreams on her would end him. It would also end this, this balm on his wounded ego, this retreat and respite into what feels like it could eventually become contentment in the face of all this fucking disappointment and failure. Clive leans back on his heels, and puts up a mental guard. Imagining kissing her is how he’s been getting to sleep at night.

In the moment, he is so sure of rejection that all he can think of is how to cling to what little comfort he still has.

“Sorry,” he says. They both stand up. He backs off. “Show me again?”

Jill walks him through the start of a short program for a juvenile competition. Crow. He focuses on that, exclusively, driving out everything else.

“Crow is serious,” Clive says, crossing his arms. “More serious than Aimee or Heidemarie. You need to push her harder.”

“I don’t want to discourage her,” Jill says. "She's just turned eight."

“I’d be more worried about boring her,” Clive says. “She wants the challenge. She’s chasing it.”

“Speaking from experience?” Jill asks teasingly.

“If she doesn’t take to it,” Clive says. “You can bring the difficulty back down. But I bet she will.”

Jill chuckles. “I might be too nice to coach. I just want to see them fly.”

They debate a little more on Crow’s capabilities and what would constitute a challenge. Jill designs something just out of the girl’s current reach. Clive can tell that she is nervous about putting together something Crow might not be able to do, but Clive has a feeling. Hanna pokes her head in to remind Jill to lock the back door after herself.

“I will,” Jill says. She turns back to Clive. “Do you want a ride?”

“Don’t you need to go back to your apartment to get your dog?” Clive says. “I like the walk. I’ll see you tonight.” He hesitates before adding, “I’m looking forward to it.”

At the stop, Dion calls him back at last.

"I found someone," Dion says, direct to the point. "Or rather, Mathieu and Terence did. When can you move?"

"That fast?" Clive asks. He's not arguing, but it seems ... well, it's soon. It hits Clive just how quickly his whole life has altered.

Benedikta, lying on the ice. It feels like a dream he might any moment awaken from.

"There are a lot of people looking, apparently," Dion says. "Has Anabella tried to call you?"

"No," Clive says. "Should I be worried?"

"Hard to say. She's been making pointed comments. Olivier wanted to know why you weren't at the state dinner."

"He notices me down in that little corner?"

"I couldn't say," Dion says. A loud rumbling, probably a car, passes by.

Clive blows out a sigh. "I'll book a flight. Can Terence do something with my furniture, too?"

Terence, Dion's boyfriend, works for a nonprofit, housing the unhoused. "Likely. I'll ask. You're really leaving, eh?"

His life in Oriflamme was so transient. So ephemeral. There's nothing Clive wants to keep, except a few mementos and some clothes.

"Yeah," Clive says. "Sorry."

"I'll miss my great ally," Dion says. "But perhaps it is for the best that you move to Rosalith. Are you moving in with Joshua?"

"For now." He'd rather not, but he has no real money of his own. Finding a job, when he is really just qualified to do one thing, is a daunting prospect. He doesn't want to live on Joshua's charity, but he might not have a choice for a while yet. "I'll message you when I book a flight back. How soon is soon?"

Ideally, Clive will be able to vacate his flat by the end of next week for the next tenant to pick up his lease. Terence will sort out the paperwork.

Clive nods at the suit posted in the hall outside Joshua's door; the suit does not nod back. Joshua is in a work meeting via video call at his kitchen counter, with a trendily frayed red blazer thrown over his ordinary black jumper. Clive glimpses a colorful pattern and red hair on the screen before ducking away to shower. He catches the last little bit.

"... as with Kanver and Dhalmekia, which is our precedent," Joshua says.

"We won't get anywhere without the vicereine on board, and you know what she's like," says the woman. Clive recognizes Martha Goldenstable by her voice and the headband, which is a little bit of a meme.

"I'll handle her," says Joshua. Clive shuts the bathroom door, and the rest is soon drowned out by running water.

Clive has a guess as to what this cryptic conversation is about. He pulls off his T-shirt. Joshua has been good about not bringing it up while Clive's been here. He assumes, rightly, that the subject will be painful. Clive leans over the sink and tries to empty out his brain. He tries to scrub it clean of thoughts in the shower.

When he emerges from the guest bedroom, which may soon turn into simply Clive's bedroom, Joshua double takes.

"You look nice," Joshua says, awed. "Are those real trousers?"

Clive has been living in sweats for as long as he's been here. Joshua's eyebrows somehow reach new heights as a thought clearly sparks behind his eyes.

"Oh," Joshua says, drawing out the oh. "You've been going to Mann's for more than just something to do."

Clive grunts. He can't think of a comeback fast enough. Outside the door, there's the sudden clack clack clack of animal paws, and a woman's voice, Jill's voice, saying, "Torgal! Slow down!"

"Torgal?" Clive repeats. Joshua's revelation is forgotten.

"What?" Joshua says, clearly puzzled, opening the door in advance of Jill's knock. "She didn’t—”

A hound, a massive gray wolfhound bursts through the door. Clive barely has time to shout. Two equally massive forepaws meet his shoulders. A tongue drags across his face, chin to cheek to forehead.

"Torgal!" Jill cries, half-outrage, half-laughter. “Torgal! Down! Clive, he hasn’t hurt you, has he?”

“You named your dog Torgal?” Clive says. The sudden deluge of doggy affection is enough to crack the perma-scowl. It feels strange to smile so big.

“No, I didn’t—oh, I’m so sorry,” Jill says. “Torgal! Down! I know! Yes, I know, it’s him—Founder, Torgal—”

The hound is huge. Clive coaxes him down to all four paws, scratching the scruff of the hound’s neck. He takes in the white star, the eyes, the cheerful jowly grin.

“You didn’t tell him?” Joshua says, obviously confused.

For a moment, Clive can’t follow. Then he looks at the hound again. He looks at him. His breath catches.

“No,” he says, going between Joshua and Jill. “No way. Torgal?”

Clive can’t remember the last time he properly laughed, but he does now. He kneels down; Torgal inserts his snout directly into Clive’s face and gives him a decisive washing. Torgal’s massive tail beats the air. If a little bit of moisture sneaks out the corner of Clive’s eye, he is able to subtly wipe it away by wrapping his arms around Torgal’s neck and burying his face in the wolfhound’s fur.

“It’s really you, isn’t it?” Clive says, amazed.

“Why don’t we order,” Joshua says, ushering everyone to his laptop. “And Jill can explain.”

Joshua pulls up the aethersite. He fills in Clive’s order, because Torgal will not allow Clive to leave his side. A giddy energy suffuses him. Torgal! He knew the breed was long-lived—it was Mother’s great objection—but he never expected—he never thought—

“I was surprised, too,” Jill says, seated at the edge of the couch. Her legs are tucked neatly beneath her. She rests her cheek on her fist. “I don’t know where he was before, but for the last few years, he was a pet for someone's godson. They moved to Twinside, recently, but Torgal wouldn’t get on the plane, he was unmanageable. The godson—his name is Goetz—he said the poor creature couldn’t bear to leave home, and it wasn’t right to make him. Joshua told me that someone was looking to rehome a dog. When I moved back last year, I was terribly lonely.”

Clive is sat directly on the floor, where Torgal has him trapped. If Clive ceases petting him for too long, Torgal shoves his nose in Clive’s face. He barks, once, right in Clive’s ear, to demonstrate why he absolutely must remain the center of Clive’s attention.

“Did you know?” Clive asks Joshua, who shakes his head.

“Not in the slightest.” Joshua chuckles. “You should have seen my face.”

“And neither of you—”

Jill flushes. The pink in her cheeks is pretty. “I assumed Joshua would have told you,” Jill says, managing a dry, prodding tone.

“I thought she would have mentioned it,” Joshua says. “Since the two of you have reconnected so closely.”

Jote enters with the food, and Jill rises immediately to help her. Clive glares hard at Joshua.

When Jill returns with the food and doles it out on the coffee table, Joshua says, “Did you notice? Clive showered.”

“I did,” Jill says, not unkindly. She smiles at Clive. “It looks good on you.”

“Are you two ganging up on me?” Clive asks, feeding Torgal a scrap.

“Only a little,” Jill says.

“Absolutely,” Joshua says.

Clive grunts. But the grin seems to float back to the surface.

This feels, more than anything, like coming home. There are a few faces missing. He'd like to see Uncle Byron again, though he's summering in Twinside. There's time. Joshua dodges the topic of his work, but listens with avid interest to stories about Jill's students, and the weird things Clive has been finding in the bathrooms and locker rooms.

"Lost and found must be a nightmare," Joshua says, just as Torgal gets up and pads patiently towards the door. He glances expectantly back at Jill.

"Ah," says Jill. "That time already. Excuse me, gentlemen. Nature calls."

Jill gets up, and shakes the wrinkles out of her skirt. Joshua, perhaps not as subtly as he might have done, kicks Clive in the thigh. Clive flashes a scowl. Joshua jerks his head towards the door, and communicates via fraternal telepathy, you should go with her, you bloody idiot.

Clive swallows. Joshua huffs.

"Clive, why don't you go with Jill?" Joshua says.

He had no way of knowing Clive wasn't going to do it. He wasn't. But Joshua could not have possibly known. Clive grimaces, but stands up in a flash when Jill turns back.

"You don't need to," Jill says.

"It'll be nice to be out in the air," Clive says, feeling mildly foolish. Joshua leans back on the couch, proud of his mischief.

Though they've been chatting and joking all event with Joshua as third, for some reason conversation dries up as they file into the slim little elevator with a massive dog. Clive breaks the silence first, somewhere in the gap where the floors temporarily stop appearing on the elevator's display.

"I'm going back to Oriflamme," he says.

"Oh," Jill says.

"Not for good," Clive says hurriedly. "I've decided to stay with Joshua, for a while, until I can find my own place."

"Oh!" Jill says, but this time it sounds pleased. The fluttering returns. "Sorting things out?"

"Yeah," Clive affirms.

The elevator doors roll open. In this part of downtown, the places for a dog of any size to relieve himself are minimal, but Jill already knows of a small dog park nearby. She asks easy questions about Oriflamme—though she was there in 866, she reveals, with a curl of her upper lip, that she wasn't permitted to leave the IK compound.

“Imreann thought it would distract us,” Jill says, letting Torgal off to go hunt up a likely spot to go.

“Is he as bad as he seems?” Clive asks. He settles beside Jill on a bench.

Jill heaves a sigh. She stares straight ahead, at a sandwich shop across the dog park green. Clive is reminded, eerily, of the video of her free skate. “Marleigh—she was my real coach, for the most part—protected me from as much as she could. But he … he didn’t care, if you were in pain. You had to finish the program. Then you could go to medical.”

“An idiot, then,” Clive says, reflexively. Anger, hot as a lick of fire, springs up from within.

“He thought it would weed out the weakest of us,” Jill says. “We were just bodies to him. And when they broke, he threw those bodies away.”

There’s a finality there. Clive holds off. Jill doesn’t need to tell him. Not if she doesn’t want to. Torgal is sniffing a promising corner of the park.

Her delicate brows furrow. Her jaw grows firm.

“He told me that I was too old,” Jill says at last. “If I hadn’t achieved greatness by now, I was never going to.”

“You medaled—”

“Silver,” Jill supplies, instantly. “No glory for the Iron Kingdom in anything but gold.”

“You’re a beautiful skater,” Clive says. "You have such control."

"I had to have," Jill says, simply. She withdraws.

Torgal disregards the promising corner and moves into a bush. He lifts a leg.

"We don't have many pairs," Jill says, after a time. "Men's figure skating was never much of a thing there. Too much associated with the feminine."

Clive has fielded a few comments of that sort, from Mother particularly. He heard them most loudly as a teenager. He ignores them now.

"I was always jealous," Jill continues. She casts a glance his way. "I wanted to try it. But there was never an opportunity."

"I'm going to retire," Clive says. Jill startles, her gray eyes going wide. It's only the second time he's said this out loud. He's not at all certain of what his mouth is doing right now. It feels right. "But I don't want to just stop outright. If ..."

Clive hesitates. Jill is hard to read, sometimes. Her lips are thin. She visibly swallows.

"If you would like," Clive goes on, awkwardly. "You and I could ... I don't know. Do something. Practice a little. Not to be competitive, or to push anything, just ..."

"Like when we were kids," Jill says. "Pretending to be Isabelle Carl and Cid Telamon."

The memory of sitting together in front of a CRT television, rewinding the tape and squinting at the tiny feet of tiny figures, hits him hard. Clive and Jill watched that performance, over and over. Father found it amusing, but he indulged Clive's request to find a copy of the 854 Trials. He can see the choreography. More than that, he can imagine doing it, now, all the elements.

He remembers the hold on his imagination that free skate program had. As a kid, as a teen, it had been hard to express what appealed to him about the idea of skating pairs.

"Exactly," Clive says.

"I'd like that," Jill says, quietly.

Clive has no concrete long-term plans. Once he's scrubbed his existence from Oriflamme, which currently serves to occupy his mind in the same vital way that training did, he's going to have nothing. School? A job? Coaching? He doesn't know. He doesn't feel particularly qualified for anything.

A tiny peek of the future unveils itself, like the corner of a curtain lifting up to reveal the room beyond. Suddenly the idea of moving past the obsession with training for Trials, with glory, with some kind of sick redemption, seems actually possible. Not just possible—something that he might want to do. He thinks, heart pounding, that Jill might be in that room beyond the curtain, waiting for him.

"Do you want to try it?" he says.

"Try what?"

He doesn't know. "I don't know," Clive says. Jill’s students, quizzing him that first day, pop into his head. "A lift."

Jill sucks in her cheek. “Are you—can you?”

Habit has made him keep up his off-ice training routine, even if it isn’t nearly as intense as it was. Tiamat would be proud. Or not. If he pulls something doing dumb shit like this, it’s not like he doesn’t have time to heal now. There is no pressure. He’s free.

“Sure,” Clive says. He grins. It feels strange. “A baby lift.”

“You mock me,” Jill says. But she stands up, setting aside her purse and Torgal’s leash. “What do I do?”

“Stand there,” he says. “Like this. I put my hand here—and you take this one—”

As Clive puts his hand under Jill’s armpit, he realizes that laying hands on Benedikta and touching Jill are very, very different. Years of partnership have inured Clive to Benedikta. He could see, from a remote perspective, that she is objectively beautiful. Sexy, even. But to him, she was only Benedikta, and her body is to him the way his own body is—a tool from which he expected results, utterly separate from libido or desire. He is certain that Benedikta views him the same way.

The moment Jill takes his hand, his own skin begins to buzz. He is so close to her.

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” Clive says.

Jill obeys. Even though this is not something he would ever do now—in his mind he sees Hanna's young nephew, Oscar, who has taken to following Clive everywhere, practicing this with Shirleigh, one of the older girls at Mann's—he still remembers what feels right and wrong. His body memory carries him through while his mind is distracted by Jill’s floral shampoo drifting to his nose. He pulls his hand away to correct her position.

“Arm straight,” Clive says. “Then from a jump—”

“I know,” Jill says with a smile.

Jill coaches, of course she knows. She didn’t do them, but she wanted to.

“On three?” he finds himself saying. “One, two—”

Jill can’t keep her arm straight for more than half a second, though he gets beneath her hop. She’s briefly airborne, no higher than his shoulder. Her legs flail. She collapses against him, laughing. He is holding her in his arms. She slides back down to the ground, her body against his the entire way.

She laughs. Her face glows with a radiant joy that he has not seen in years. The innocent little crush, which he has been quietly tending for the past few days, stands up and takes Clive by the throat.

“Again, please,” Jill says, gleefully.

“Of course,” he says.

This time, she holds it. Her arm trembles—she hasn’t trained for that kind of strength, so she doesn’t quite have it. But Jill’s no weakling. She extends her legs. When she lands, she breaks apart from him, bouncing.

“From a lutz,” she says.

That’s all she needs to say. She skips backward and whirls, facing away from him. She hops into an off-ice version of the entry, and he catches her. Up she goes.

It’s easy. It’s group one, but more than that, she makes it easy. It feels right. It feels like he can trust her, the way he trusts his own body.

When he first met Benedikta, he had hoped for—something. He didn’t need or want romance, which struck him as a mildly insulting way to interpret pairs, though it did really happen on occasion. At the time, he’d been seeing someone, so he was overeager to underplay that tabloid angle to assure Biast that Clive was only interested in him. When they broke up anyway, for other reasons, he basically gave up on dating.

"What do think for our—our thing?" Jill asks. Her cheeks are flushed. "Our fake program?"

His brain stalls. Her hand is on his shoulder, and could slide, without trouble, to the nape of his neck as he leans into kiss her. Her lips are soft, and open for him happily, and she sighs.

The recoil. Her wide eyes, not shocked, but guiltily apologetic. I'm so sorry, Clive.

He hasn’t kissed her; he only imagined it.

He freezes, because the imaginary kiss could still become real if he isn’t very, very careful. Jill’s eyes shine excitedly.

He wanted a real partnership. The meeting of energy, of like minds, scheming together and devising plans deep in the night. Understanding, with and without words.

Benedikta let their choreographer make all the decisions, interjecting only when she thought an element did not show her off to advantage. She did not care to know Clive's opinion about anything.

"I have no idea," he says. He had let the choreographer make all the decisions. Tiamat had called all the shots. Sanfed had organized all other aspects of his life. He just did it, mindlessly. Not a single thing happened on his own terms.

"I'd like to know what you think of this," says Jill. "If you don't mind ..."

Joshua has put on a show, one of his guilty pleasures when Clive gets back. Top ten historical mysteries. He perks up, craning his head to look for Jill and Torgal.

"Jill says goodbye," Clive says.

"You two took your time," Joshua says, but he sounds as satisfied as a cat with his claw in the cream.

"We were talking," Clive says. He does not stay to be questioned. "Night."

It's impossible to miss Joshua's little smirk. But as soon as Clive's eyes are finished rolling, he returns mentally to Jill. Her enthusiasm; her brightness. He holds that image of her, her smile, in his mind, as if he thinks it might burn into his eyelids. He falls asleep, reliving the softness of her hair as it brushed against his fingers by chance.

The trip back to Oriflamme is uneventful. As Clive disembarks the plane, an Imperial courier appears to quietly collect him. He is accompanied by two grim looking suits in dark glasses.

Clive knows exactly why they are here and who sent them.

"You're advised to dress to meet the St. Berenice Hotel Café dress code," says one of them, helpfully, as if he has the appropriate attire stashed in his carry-on.

"No," Clive says.

The pinched grimace on Mother's face, as he is marched towards her table, is worth it. He has had his fill of cringing to this woman. Six-year-old Olivier, kicking his heels against the floor, has his head buried in the crook of his elbow.

"Can I go to the fountain, Mamma?" Olivier whines. "This is boring."

"Take him," Anabella Lesage directs a nearby lady-in-waiting, a dark-haired woman Clive doesn't recognize from last time. His mother goes through them quickly.

"Yes, ma'am," the woman says, dropping a curtsey.

This pageantry is very like his mother. She wears an elegant black high neck blouse and a draping eggplant silk jacket over matching trousers. No jewelry except a hairpin, which he knows is an antique piece, and her wedding bands. She has no particular smile or scowl for him. She looks at him like he is a sudden downpour that she's counting on being over soon.

"Stubbornness is unbecoming," she says, eyeing his filthy jeans, his torn hoodie. It contrasts with the grand piano in the corner, the lacy chandeliers overhead, the neatly decorated tables, all as pretty as the cakes set upon them. In the center of each is a single wyvern's tail in a crystal vase.

"I make it work," Clive replies. He sits down across from her. "What is it that you want, Mother?"

“Are you leaving the city?” she asks.

“I’m living my own life,” Clive says.

“On Joshua’s gil,” Mother points out. Her voice is light and musical.

He holds his tongue.

“Because you, yourself, have nothing,” Mother says, a statement of fact. “You had the remnants of a successful career, punctuated by a few honors here and there. Then sudden, colossal failure.”

“Like yours, Mother?” Clive retorts, tiredly. He leans forward. He may as well have one of these tiny sandwiches while he’s here. Cucumber. It's crunchy.

Her lips twitch.

“The Waloeder girl is gone,” Mother says. “What are you going to do?”

“Whatever I feel like.”

Mother sits up, shoulders back. Her finely made up brows are very slightly furrowed. A fine bone porcelain cup clinks against its saucer somewhere behind him. “Don’t be a child. You could take a commission in the army. You had an excellent record as a soldier.”

The idea of going back into the military makes the bile rise up in the back of his throat. “No.”

"There are many others who would leap to take your place."

"What is this about?"

"I don't want any more embarrassment," she snaps. "This business—it's disgraceful, shameful. I could overlook it before. But now people are starting to talk."

Clive raises his chin. "Then stop listening. What is this about, Mother?”

“It’s about you,” Mother says. “And the burden you insist on being.”

He takes it, and puts it deep inside, and it stays there. A hot coal, burning in the sorest part of his heart. Never going out.

“Is this the conversation you want to have?” Clive says. “Because if so, I’m leaving.”

“Fine,” Mother says. “You’re retiring, correct?”

“That remains to be seen,” Clive says.

“Don’t be so recalcitrant,” his mother chides. “You don’t have any hope for Trials.”

“Why am I here, Mother?” Clive asks. “I won’t ask again.”

Mother glares at him. She turns the handle of her tea cup neatly to one side, and huffs.

“You’ve been paying attention to your brother’s latest little project, I assume?” Mother says. She is not asking a real question. “Since it affects your little world. Former world. My apologies.”

Clive doesn’t give her a real answer. He waits, silently.

“It means a great deal to him,” Mother says. “And ordinarily, I’d have no issue putting my stamp on it and sending it through. But, you see—I worry that Joshua doesn’t necessarily see all the details. He is a big picture thinker, like his father. Ramifications are not his forte. And why should they be?”

Mother folds her hands in her lap.

“I want your assurances that you won’t do anything that will give Joshua cause for concern,” she says. “That you won’t embarrass him, as you are uniquely positioned to do.”

He holds her gaze for several moments. Clive wants to stand up and rattle the silverware. He wants to walk away. It is his mother’s turn to wait, and she’s waiting for him to realize that if he doesn’t give her the answer she wants, she is going to hamstring all of Joshua’s hard work. It's Joshua's big dream. To her it is nothing.

But it’s not just Joshua’s dream. It’s Martha Goldenstable’s. It’s Rosaria’s.

Or what’s left of it.

Joshua in his trendy blazer. I’ll handle her.

Clive used to imagine, before that first gold, before serving his mother’s new country with distinction, before coming back from hell and remaking himself entirely, that somehow it might be good enough. It was never going to be.

He wishes he knew what turned her against him. Why she’s like this. What he hasn’t done to make her at least nod her head. He wants, alternately, to invent new accomplishments just to see if he can luck into something that pleases her, or take all his achievements and rub them spitefully in her fucking face. He swallows his pride.

“I won’t,” Clive says.

Olivier never comes back from the fountain. The goons drop him off at his soon-to-be former flat. Clive is cleaning his bathroom, hours later, when Joshua messages him. The cheerful ding is audible from the main room, where Clive has it on to charge.

Hope packing up is going well, it reads. Good news over here.

Clive sits at his rickety kitchen table for a long time. There are cardboard boxes full of his pots and pans. Terence has given him a link to what food he can pass on and what he has to throw. He isn't looking forward to sleeping his own cold bed. His flat is quiet and lonely.

Another message pops up at the top of his phone. It's Jill. He breathes in.

How is Oriflamme? Torgal misses you terribly.

It takes Clive thirty minutes to text back, It's fine. Can't wait to be home. Tell Torgal I miss him, too.

He hits the send button without looking at it, and sets his phone face down on the table. He wipes his hands on his dusty trousers.

Jill designed a simple program for them, eschewing the high base values that Clive is accustomed to. She is not prepared for that kind of thing. She wants only to fulfill a little dream of hers, long left by the wayside. They are doing this for the joy of it.

Clive only wants to skate with her. He wishes … but it’s too late for anything like that.

The phone dings again. He picks it up instantly.

It’s from Benedikta. Call me.

The fluttering goes still.

Clive sits and stares at that green button a long time before he hits it. Benedikta answers after the fourth ring. He wonders if she made him wait. He doesn’t say a word.

On the other end of the connection, she inhales. She’s probably smoking, a habit that Tiamat despised. She did it, Clive thinks, because it made no sense.

“Hey, little lamb,” Benedikta says, all the way on the other side of the Twins.

“Harman,” Clive says. “You sound tired.”

“It’s morning here,” she says. She shifts. He can hear her clothes rustle. Something rustling. She sighs.

“You wanted me to call,” Clive tells her.

“What are you sorry for, exactly?” Benedikta asks.

He forgot that he sent that.

“I don’t know,” Clive admits.

"You felt sorry for me?"

"No." He won’t lie to her. Clive exhales. “I should have been better.”

Benedikta is quiet on the other end. “I hate that about you,” she says. There is no venomous sting to those words. She’s resigned. “I wish you were more of a shit, Rosfield, so I could hate you in peace.”

“Sorry about that, too,” Clive says.

He hears her chuckle.

“Sorry I fucked you over,” Benedikta says.

“Just a little,” Clive replies, rubbing his temples with thumb and index finger. But even this is without a snap.

“I heard Tiamat gave up on you,” she says.

“How much salt do you plan to rub in, Harman? I don’t have all night.”

She laughs huskily. He can hear her taking another drag. He can see her do it, with that affected, sexy deliberation. It irritated him, once, that she tries so hard to be alluring. He waits. He hasn’t relaxed with her so much he’s going to rise to her bait.

“Have you heard of Cidolfus Telamon?” Benedikta says, blowing out smoke. He can almost smell it.

“Of course I have.”

He has no idea where she’s going with this. After gold at the 854 Stonhyrr Trials, Cid Telamon went on to coach for over a decade. His great triumph after his own career had been Ruzena Dalimil and Gerulf Ravenswit, for Waloed. He took them to Trials twice, medalling both times.

“He was my teacher,” Benedikta says. She sounds sad. “Here in Waloed. Like a million years ago.”

Cid Telamon. Fuck. He went back to the Continent a few years ago, and when he came back, there was all sorts of speculation. Then nothing.

"I didn't know," Clive says.

"I was his charity case," Benedikta says. Her voice holds a mix of resentment and sentimentality. “He never made me pay fees. He never asked for anything. And then I got good, and I abandoned him. I owe him.”

This sideways shit is exhausting.

“Benedikta, it’s been a fucking long day,” Clive says. “It’s been a fucking long month because of you. Just say it. Please.”

“If you want to keep going,” Benedikta says. “If you need a coach. I know he’ll do it. Just tell him I asked, and he’ll do it. Because I know you’ll keep going. It’s not like you to quit.”

Benedikta has always found ways to punch him in the gut.

“I might have said the same about you,” Clive says.

“Hugo proposed,” Benedikta says. “Before we went out on the ice at the Dazbog Grand Prix. He said we would schedule our wedding for after Trials. I thought, I don’t want to go, then. And then I realized I didn’t want to do it any of it anymore.”

Benedikta has always, always found new, harder ways to punch him in the gut, over and over again. He bites down on his tongue. He forces down a weird, shaky laughter that threatens to burst out.

He has not watched any of the footage. He imagines it must seem very strange: Benedikta Harman, in the middle of her short program, skates away from her partner, Clive Rosfield, lies down in the center of the ice, and refuses to move. Medical comes out to collect her on a stretcher.

She had been shaking. Benedikta did not get nerves like that very often, and if she did, it was always possible to bait her out of it. He had tried.

“I would have thought you wanted that,” Clive says. “Benedikta, he built you a fucking arena.”

“He built a doll house for a doll,” Benedikta says. “He never really wanted me. And neither did you.”

That hangs between them. It’s not pleasant to realize these kind of things about oneself.

“I’m sorry,” Clive says.

She's quiet, so quiet. She wants to hear him say it. It's time to accept the whole truth.

He says, "It’s true. I didn’t want you.”

He had been angry. Benedikta, a mere prop to haul around, to lift up, to throw. He used her to climb ranks, because she had the skill he needed, because she could match him in ways no other woman in Sanbreque’s near-literal stable of skaters could. He did not care about her ideas, or her problems, or her loneliness. About her as a person. They are silent, together, on the line, for a long time.

Finally, Benedikta says, “I’ll tell Cid you’ll call. I think you two will go well together.”

His phone pings in his ear. When he glances at it, he sees that Benedikta has messaged him a number.

“Wait,” Clive says.

He can hear her breathing. He exhales himself. This is too little, too late.

“What are you going to do?” he asks.

There’s a pause. Then she chuckles. “Go into TV,” she says. “I had some headshots done.”

“Do they say good luck for that?”

“I don’t know,” Benedikta says, musing.

“Good luck.”

“Look at us,” she says. There’s a heavy layer of mocking sarcasm coated over each word. “This is so cute. We’re like friends now. Good luck with your new partner.”

Clive scoffs, on instinct. “What?”

But Benedikta has already hung up.

Her last words itch. He can’t think of what she’s talking about. She can't mean Jill. How would she know anything about Jill?

He is, to his eternal chagrin, a semi-public figure. He does occasionally appear in tabloids and gossip sites, photos of him and Benedikta leaving rinks in scrubby athletic wear, standing too close to one another. Vicereine’s Son Shacking Up With Who? And a picture of Biast, his arm unselfconsciously around Clive’s waist waiting in line at a cafe, not realizing that they were being spied on. He left because of it. He didn't want to be watched and picked apart. Clive didn't blame him, once he got over the heartbreak.

As a rule, Clive does not search himself. He does not read comments. He ignores it all.

He types Clive Rosfield new partner into the search bar. Photos populate in an eager line. The captions identify her accurately as Jill Warrick, formerly of IK, formerly of Rosaria, formerly of NT. Sometimes the fishwraps call her the ‘thrown away princess.’ He found her alone once, hidden away and crying, having overheard the staff repeating it when they thought she was elsewhere.

What do you want to do? Let's go somewhere fun.

He scrolls. Picture after picture. Standing together outside of Mann's. Walking around with Torgal. Joshua lives in a building populated by various other Rosarian people of note. Celebrities, rich people, so on. The photographers buzz around like flies. He puts his hood up and ignores them. He wasn't thinking. He finds a blurry night-time shot of himself, lifting Jill in the air at the dog park taken from a distance. Her smile is beatific.

The text attached to the image reads, Could One Man’s Trash Be Another Man’s Treasure?

Clive tries really hard not to throw his phone into the fucking wall.

Rosalith becomes home. One month becomes two, and two become a third. Six months go by. Clive blows his savings on a twelve-year-old white Ambrosia (which runs great, by the way, Joshua just doesn’t know how to take care of a car) and uses it to run other people’s errands when he’s not at Mann’s.

Hanna occasionally reminds him that he could coach. Oscar is basically his shadow now. Accepting coaching fees is a step further than he’s ready to go just yet. Acclimating to his life after preparing for years to compete at Trials, to win gold at Trials, is a little like inching into cold water. He’s got a few more months of anxious apprehension left before he’s ready to go further than his knees.

Hanna lets Jill and Clive use the rink after closing, to avoid the eyes of the public and their phones. Recording other skaters is against the rules of Mann’s, but Crow found a video of them together, taken from the perspective of the boards, practicing footwork together, one of their rare, on-ice practices.

What Jill has devised—it is all her—is not a program like he would have done with Benedikta. Jill has paid no attention to required elements. She does not care about points. It is her, dreaming out loud. She wants two different lifts. A death spiral. She wants to do a side-by-side jump, though they have mutually decided that since there's no need, they won't try a throw—Jill presses her lips together, but Clive has no desire to toss her on the ice so she can risk a concussion or worse for what amounts to a whim.

"The twist is pretty," she remarks.

"Hm," Clive replies, taking a drink from his water bottle rather than answer directly.

Slowly, gradually, the contentment creeps in. Joshua talks about Clive’s going to university, which he skipped between sport and soldiering. Clive thinks he wouldn’t mind continuing his education, but doesn’t know exactly what would be worth his time. He revisits one of his old favorite bookshops—miraculously, it is still in business—and picks up a trilogy of hardcovers. He saves aggressively, after that initial splurge, eyeing flats in a less prestigious part of town, where he can afford the rates. Joshua is far less enthusiastic about this.

“I don’t mind you rattling about,” Joshua says. “I missed having my brother.”

“You can’t possibly want me camping in your guest room forever,” Clive says.

Joshua crosses his arms, settling back into the couch; they are watching, half-watching, an old feastday film from childhood, about a daring man who defends a skyscraper from bad guys by wiggling around through the vents. Outside, Rosalith is dressed in a crisp white robe of snow.

“I suppose your little brother’s place might be somewhat off-putting,” Joshua observes.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Clive says, daring Joshua to explain himself.

Joshua gives a careless one shouldered shrug. He asks about Jill every day, obviously waiting to hear that Clive has gotten up the nerve to ask her out.

A few times, when their wandering conversations, after work or during their informal practices—both of them are so highly trained that even these take on a greater focus and regimen than might be expected of two people with absolutely no intentions of bringing their program anywhere to anything—she’s gazed up at him, smiling and tucking her hair behind her ear, and made him think that perhaps she might be waiting for him, too.

Whatever he’s waiting for isn’t clear. Despite telling the two people closest to him in all the world that he was going to retire, he’s made no official announcements. He pays no attention to the chatter. He stonewalls the patrons at Mann’s curious and brave (or rude) enough to ask. He ignores it all.

It is impossible to believe that, after being the focus of his life for so long, when the Trials finally happen, they sneak up on him as completely as this peace has.

The opening ceremony is on the TV when Clive gets back from a continued learning class, where he’s collecting credits to transfer later, to somewhere. Joshua paces his living room. The Gilbard Sport Complex, as viewed by a drone from above, fills the screen. The eight Chronoliths are arrayed on platforms, up-lit in their respective colors. He’s missed the bulk of the opening ceremony. The commentators are going on about Kanverian culture.

“What’s wrong?” Clive asks, setting down his backpack. It’s got books in it, not boots.

“Nothing,” Joshua says.

It clicks.

“It’s today,” Clive says. “Isn’t it?”

“It is,” Joshua says.

Joshua declined to go to the Trials, though he received an invitation from Martha. Clive wonders if maybe he should leave the room.

He sits down. Everyone did, everyone heard the whispers, everyone followed the drama of it, hoping for it or deriding it or saying it would never be allowed, it would never happen. He ignored it, and would not answer press questions about it.

I try to focus on just the Trials.

The CTC president, Eugen Havel, accompanies the pair of them. He salutes the Kanverian leaders, and thanks them for their hospitality. He begins a speech nearly identical to the others he had made many times before. Clive heard him speak once when the mics were turned off, and was surprised to hear the word fuck drop somewhere every third or fourth sentence. After that, it was hard to take the pre-written formality seriously.

It’s easier to think about that, right now.

“The Trials are a time of Valisthean unity,” he says. “Even as athletes compete for their nations, we are reminded that, in times of uncertainty, the spirit of unity has brought us together in peace to compete honorably and fairly. The pride we bear in representing our respective nations is reflected in our conduct.”

Havel goes on and on in this vein.

Joshua, perched on the arm of his sofa, strokes his chin.

Martha is in the line-up of committee of officials, wearing a green pantsuit, fluffy white coat, and one of many iconic headbands. It amazes Clive how quickly that kind of structure can be torn down. In the morning, the stadium will be set for events.

The ceremonies conclude, and the screen is taken over by the channel hosts, Natalie and Konrad. They comment on the athletes filing off the field, noting briefly the two new faces in the Sanbrequois lineup.

Clive tries not to react. He knows Joshua is watching.

“And speaking of changes,” Natalie says, casually segueing. “The Chronolith Trials Committee has released a video statement concerning nations eligible for the Trials. Let’s take a look.”

The graphic swoops across the screen. Martha stands at a podium. The back wall is draped with the banners of the different countries—including a new one. Clive’s hands go cold as he stares at the banner of the Imperial Province of Rosaria behind Martha’s shoulder. She was a competitor, once, but Summer Trials. Choquestrian.

Behind her, smiling, is the Vicereine of Rosaria, and the Empress-Consort of Sanbreque; Mother loves to collect her flowers. She stands beside Martha, so that the whole world knows whose beneficence is truly responsible. She wears an elegant black silk dress and a tiara that glitters in the flood of light. A rose is pinned to her shoulder.

Martha leans slightly forward, towards the array of microphones affixed there.

“As the world witnessed fourteen years ago, my beloved home, Rosaria, suffered a terrible loss,” she says. “One which shook Valisthea to its core, and forever altered the map. Though the Duchy that I grew up in is no more, Rosaria is still strong. We still dream of glory and triumph. We are still Rosarian."

She strikes the lecture softly with her fist.

"This is why I am proud to be able to say that, thanks to the tireless advocacy of both His Grace, Joshua, Duke of Rosalith, and the Vicereine, Anabella Lesage, my home country will henceforth compete in the 878 Chronolith Trials as its own entity, the Imperial Province of Rosaria, in respect for its traditional distinction from Sanbreque."

Clive is a thousand miles away from his body. Martha keeps talking. He doesn't quite hear.

He knows that Joshua has been working towards this for some time now. Years, in fact. Among the other former Rosarian athletes, competing for Sanbreque, there has been chatter for months, as rumors trickle through.

His mother takes the podium.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling. The diamonds of her tiara glitter in the camera flashing. “My late husband, the Archduke, had a special place in his heart for the Trials and the ideals they represent. Thanks to the indefatigable work of my son, Elwin’s legacy will …”

Joshua mutes the television.

It takes a long time for Joshua to say anything.

“There’s a special exception,” Joshua says. “For Rosarian athletes who represented Sanbreque from 862 to today.”

“I know,” Clive says.

It was inescapable. He was going to get that last gold, and then it was not going to be his problem. People would ask him, Are you disappointed that you couldn’t …?

And he’d say, I did my best. That was all I could do.

“Are you really going to retire, Clive?” Joshua asks. There’s no ameliorating lightness in his tone. “You still go to Mann’s almost every day. You still train. And now—”

“And now what?” Clive snaps.

“You could compete for Rosaria again,” Joshua says. “Like you wanted—”

“Yes, for the Imperial Province of Rosaria,” Clive says. “My fucking dream.”

“It’s what we can get, Clive,” Joshua shoots back.

He has his own temper, equal to Clive’s. He merely has a better hold on the back of its neck. He swallows his pride and he gets shit done. He bent his head, an obedient little boy, and that’s why he’s a duke and Clive is nothing.

That isn’t fair. Joshua was ten years old. He was only ten years old.

Father’s dead! Clive! He’s—he’s—

Clive puts his face in his hands.

He had genuinely believed he was at peace. But sometimes he looks at Cid Telamon’s number in his phone, and he can’t make himself delete it. He is stuck, neither here nor there. Living in Joshua’s home, training in Jill’s rink. He exists entirely on the terms of others, and all he can do is pretend he doesn’t see it.

“It’s a step,” Joshua says, swallowing hard. “It’s something.”

“I know,” Clive says. “Fuck, I know, Joshua, I—”

His eyes feel hot, heavy. When he inhales, he shudders.

“Clive,” Joshua says. His hand comes to rest on Clive’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Clive says. “I’ll be back.”

He’s sitting in his car in Mann’s back parking lot. It’s open. There’s something Hanna calls a disco session going on right now, where she lowers the lights and plays pop music on the speakers while people, mostly teenagers, skate around in circles. Clive wants no part of this. He doesn’t want to be seen by anyone.

But just being here is comforting.

His phone dings and he looks at it, just in case it is Jill. That's new habit he's developed, courtesy of the crush that has not abated even a hair. If anything, it has gotten more powerful.

Are you okay? Your brother asked me to check on you.

Clive sinks in on himself.

I'm fine. Sitting outside Mann's listening to the hits.

I'll meet you there?

You don't have to.

I want to, Clive.

In about twenty minutes, there's a knock on his car window. He gets out. Jill shivers, her arms extended straight down, her cuffs pulled over her hands. Footprints in the snow track from her car to his.

Clive imagines putting his arms around her, and bringing her into his embrace. He's been told he runs hot.

"Do you want to go in?" he asks.

"Unless you want to stay out in the cold," she says.

She lets them in the back. Jill has a key, he doesn't. The music thumps through the building. People are chattering happily. Jill and Clive slip into one of the rooms in the gym area, where people practice off-ice. It's predictably empty.

"It feels weird not to be there," Jill says.

She's not talking about the disco.

"Yeah," Clive says.

She circles the floor, shaking out her limbs. She has her hair wound up in a braid, pinned to the back of her head. She stretches. She is so kind to him, it hurts.

"Do you want to practice?" she asks.

He nods, gratefully.

Jill takes the lead, as she usually does. "Let's warmup a bit and try the first lift again."

The whole time they have been 'training', Clive has treated as if it were real, for Jill's sake. Though Jill directs them, Clive enforces their progress. It’s different doing it for oneself, and he lacks the perspective of a coach, however familiar he is with the day-to-day process. He does not have Tiamat's technical eye. But he has lost relatively little of his ability, or so he likes to think. It is akin to training with an injury. It's lighter. He is still healing.

Today, the muscle has torn off the bone again, and it's suddenly so hard. Because it does feel real, or as real as it can without the relentless calendar or the proper direction of an actual coach. This is a comfort, being able to put his head into how to do something with his body. How to pick up Jill, maneuver her gracefully and in motion, up and over his shoulder. It feels familiar. More than that. It feels, as they discuss some point or another between themselves, as they solve some little problem, as Jill says, “What if …”, like it should have felt, this entire time.

Jill springs up, and he sends her further, holding her by her hip. It is not a particularly exciting entry, but that was never the point. She takes a star position once there. The movement is not quite so smooth as if he were on skates as opposed to his shoes, but they travel together across the squeaky gym floor before he gently guides her downward. Her leg swings out as she lands.

“Good,” she says, standing up straight.

He nods. “Good.”

"Again?"

"Again."

They do it again, and then a third time. Then a fourth. That last effort, Clive feels the strain. Jill huffs as she hits the ground.

"Break?" she says, and he nods.

He didn't bring his water bottle, or anything more than his clothes. He steps out into the hall to find the drinking fountain. When he returns, Jill sits cross-legged on the ground, bent over her hands, pooled in her lap. She has unpinned her hair. She usually has it stuffed in a hat or up off her neck somehow. Unbound, it flows down to the small of her back.

These days, every so often, he's able to forget that she is gorgeous.

"Are you okay, Jill?" Clive asks, and she jumps. A tear falls down her face.

His heart falls into his stomach. She wipes her eyes quickly with the heel of her palm.

"Sorry," she says. "Sorry. I'm alright."

"You're crying." He crosses the room. He kneels beside her. He can't quite touch her.

Jill smiles. She can't hold his gaze for longer than a second.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s …”

“You can tell me,” Clive says.

He does not know what she will say. He only wants to do something. He takes her hand in his, his thumb resting on the pulse point of her wrist. She lets him. She opens her mouth to speak, and the only thing that comes out is a broken little cry. She bites down, gritting her teeth.

“Jill,” Clive says, eyes wide. “Jill, what’s—”

“I’m angry,” Jill growls. “I’m just so angry, Clive, I—”

She cuts herself off, because fresh tears have begun to fall. Her shoulders are shaking.

“I should be there, right now,” Jill says, viciously. She scrubs at her face furiously with the hand Clive is not holding. She grimaces. “But they didn’t want me.”

The thrown away princess.

No glory for silver.

She references, on occasion, something Marleigh told her. But everything else about IK has a curtain drawn over it. She doesn’t broach a number of topics for his sake. He does the same for her.

"I'm sorry," Jill says. "I know that it's--this is hard for you, too. Your mother."

"She wanted to make sure I wouldn't embarrass her," Clive says. "Before she would allow it."

Jill looks up. Clive swallows. He hasn't told Joshua this. Joshua would go off, half-cocked, on the warpath after Mother. Jill simply understands.

“I’m angry, too,” he says. “I wanted to end on my terms. And instead they just did it for us. It wasn’t our choice, it was just over.”

"I didn't know what to do, after," Jill says. "I felt powerless. I had been a body for so long. Just a tool."

An automaton.

"I'm sorry, Jill," he says.

“I wish, sometimes,” Jill says, after a time. “That I could prove them wrong. That I could even have the chance.”

Clive wonders that he couldn’t see it. Obsessed with his own problems, his own pain. His own peace. Him, wondering if he ought to take her to dinner. Never knowing what lay beneath the surface. He wishes that he could give her that chance.

It comes together in his head. This whole time, he's been afraid to get back up. He's ignored this, like he's ignored everything else.

The truth, the real truth, is that he doesn't want to give up yet. He doesn't want to retire. He wants one more chance, too.

“What if you could?” Clive says, suddenly.

Jill’s breath catches. She laughs, stunned. “What?”

Clive briefly wonders what the fuck he’s saying.

“What if you could have one more chance?” Clive repeats. "At the Trials?"

Jill’s gray eyes, shining with tears, meet his directly. Her lips press together. Music pulses through the walls. Her jaw tenses. Her hand turns in his, and her fingers lace between his fingers. She squeezes down hard. Her brow is set. Determined.

“I’d take it,” she says.

He waits until tomorrow morning, when it’s a decent time in Kanver.

Joshua is still in bed. He didn’t ask where Clive was last night. Clive will have to have a pretty serious conversation with him later today, but that’s only if Benedikta is right. Jill, weeping furious tears. Holding her hand. A second chance. A third, in his case, depending on where one started the count.

The phone rings, echoing in his ear for what seems like a aeon.

A gruff voice answers.

“Who’s this, then?”

“It’s Clive Rosfield,” says Clive, undeterred. It seems arrogant, but the fact is that everyone in the sport knows his name.

“Who?”

“Benedikta might have told you I was going to call,” Clive says.

He hears the click of a lighter, and an inhalation. Clive knows now where Benedikta learned that habit.

“So I might recall. Though she texted me who knows how fucking long ago. What’s this about, Clive Rosfield?”

“The Trials.”

“Little late for that, seeing as they’re on. Even if you hop a flight, oh, now-ish, you’re still going to miss the first group.”

It’s deeply unfortunate when a coach thinks he’s funny.

“I’m talking about the 878 Trials,” Clive says, tersely.

“Yeah? And what are you going to do there?”

“Me and Jill Warrick are going to fucking win gold,” Clive says.

There’s a pause.

“Alright,” says Cid Telamon. “I don’t know about you, your lordship. But she might be worth muddying my boots for.”

Chapter Text

They miss their connecting flight in Nysa. Clive sits in the waiting area with his head in his hands. Jill uses their meager voucher to buy them half a lunch.

"Are you okay?" Jill asks softly.

Clive accepts a bottle of water from her.

"Yeah," he says. “Just tired.”

They spend two hours watching the sun boil the tarmac as the planes roll in and out. He can feel the desert sun on his neck in the temperature controlled airport. Clive closes his eyes and puts his hood up. He pretends to sleep. Jill taps his elbow when they call their boarding group, and it's time for Clive to wedge himself into the back of the plane with her. He's a row behind Jill. It’s tight in the plane. Jill stumbles on something and he steadies her with a hand. Clive regrets, as he always does, the part where he goes away somewhere.

Jill chats amiably with the older woman beside her about Octoland. There were no seats together with a window when they booked. He told her he didn't mind sitting apart. She can watch the desert pass beneath them and catch the sea sparkling in the sunset as they land; she mentioned once that it was her favorite part about flying, the part that IK and its regulations didn't try to take away.

"Oh," says the lady. "I love it, though at my age—”

She laughs rather than finish that sentence.

"Oops," says the man trying to scoot in. He smells strongly of gysahl. Maybe he doesn't fly well. Clive squeezes out into the aisle to permit him past.

The lady glances up at Clive. He put her luggage in the overhead bin just a few minutes earlier, right after he did Jill's.

“You should take her,” the lady says to him, as if imparting momentous advice. She turns back to Jill. “Your boyfriend should take you.”

Jill's face is slightly flushed.

"It's on our list," Jill says.

That's technically true.

At the taxi stand, Jill fiddles with the handle of her carry-on. "Sorry I didn't say anything," Jill says. "I thought it would be better just to go along with it.”

"Hm?" Clive says.

"To Kalina," she says. The name means nothing to him, but then she adds, "That you weren't, you know ..."

"Oh," Clive says. He shrugs, hopefully with a casual air. "People assume. I don't mind."

"Good," Jill says. Her relief makes his heart sink at least half an inch in his chest. “I know you don't care for the attention."

He rubs his neck, which is hot to the touch. "It just gets old."

His imagination spun out all sorts of scenarios for this trip, but the reality is that they are both jangling with nerves and too tense to talk much at all. The conversation almost always returns to the ice, and once it is on the ice, it stalls, because they can't go further until they know if this crazy plan will actually be viable.

At the hotel, the concierge discreetly raises an eyebrow when she figures out that they have booked separate rooms. When they walk past the hotel restaurant, now serving dinner, Clive wonders if this is their chance to have a proper conversation.

But Jill blows by, spotting an open elevator. She's yards out, Clive trailing, when it begins to rapidly close. The only occupant, a blond young man in a black and orange jacket, startles out of a reverie.

"I got it!" he shouts in a distinct accent, lunging forward. His arm trips the sensor, and the jaws open back up to allow Jill, and then Clive through.

Jill holds her key card to the green light for the guest floors and pushes 12. She turns to Clive.

"Seventeen," he says, but it's already lit up.

"Just made it," says the blond man. "Good thing, this is the only one really working."

"Oh?" Jill says. She smiles politely.

"We'll keep that in mind," Clive says. There's no reason to bristle.

The blond man blinks at him, and Clive flinches on the inside. But then he says, "Oh, fuck me, you're Jill Warrick. Fuck, sorry, didn't, ah, didn't mean to double name you, Jill. Um, Miz Warrick."

Jill's smile turns real. She holds out her hand. "Jill is fine. You're Gav Whitwood, right?"

"Aye," he says, sheepishly. They shake.

"You did well," Jill says. “You should be proud.”

Clive has no idea for what. He has never heard of Gav Whitwood.

"Aw, thanks," Gav says. He is young, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two. "Still feels like a fuckin—um, a dream."

"It'll stay that way for a while," Jill says.

"You on vacation?" Gav asks. "If y'don't mind my asking."

"Something like that," Jill says.

The LCD panel turns to 12. The elevator dings and the doors roll back. Jill turns to Clive.

"I'll text you?" she asks.

Maybe we should get dinner.

"Okay," he says.

“Night, Clive,” she says.

The doors snick shut when Gav realizes who he's alone in the elevator with. "Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, Clive Rosfield?" Gav snaps his head in the direction that Jill went, except now she's a few floors down. "What're you doing in Kanver?"

Clive stares at the LCD. He strides forward as soon as the doors roll open. Gav follows him, close behind. Of course they are on the same floor.

"Good work,” Clive mutters, hurrying to his room.

As soon as the door is shut, he stands in the dark and guiltily thinks about what an asshole he was. Gav is young, probably newly inducted to this echelon; a quick search on his phone reveals that yes, Gav Whitwood podiumed in men’s singles at Twins Championships, and competed in the Trials just a few weeks ago for the Northern Territories. He isn’t from the same territory as Jill; quite a bit further south, bordering Sanbreque. No medals; Clive observes with a critical distance as what was obviously meant to be a triple toe gets fumbled into a double. Nerves get the better of him after that. He chokes, and he falls on the second jump of a combination. Not enough momentum. G. Whitwood sinks down the roster into the tenth place.

It’s too late to go back and explain, or be nicer, or more patient. He’s so sore from being prodded again and again with the same questions that even a friendly tap on the shoulder makes him draw back with a snarl.

What are your plans? Are you going to compete for IPR? Why did she quit? What did you do? Are you going to keep going? Did you replace her already?

He imagines someone asking if he and Jill are fucking, and it makes him burn. He worries about what his face will do, what he’ll reveal. He’s not a good liar.

For a moment, he pictures her in the room with him. Unzipping his jacket, pushing him backward onto the bed with one hand on his chest, climbing atop him, leaning down for a kiss. He wonders if giving into the fantasy will help purge these feelings or make them worse.

His phone dings in his hand.

I hope you get some rest tonight, Jill messages. See you in the morning.

He re-reads the same section of the book he brought three times. The characters and action blend together. He can't remember what happened in the first book. Clive closes his eyes, turns off the bedside lamp. He kicks off his shoes in the dark.

He turns over, reaches for his phone. It opens, bright and glaring, to her text again. He’s been laying here, awake, for two hours.

They are about to embark on a yearslong slog of training, comps, running the circuit, qualifying for this so they can qualify for that so they can snag a Trials slot for Rosaria. No—the Imperial Province of Rosaria. IPR, not ROS. Clive can only wonder if Benedikta’s assessment is right. Cid Telamon is renowned. If he works out for them, he can get them to Trials. If Cid turns out not to be the right fit, Clive and Jill will be at sea again. Their dream will sink rapidly and irrecoverably into those churning waves.

Clive stares through the floor to ceiling window at the spires of the famous guild buildings. Wavering palm trees stretch their silhouetted fingers across LED billboards. The sea beyond is a black velvet blanket, spangled here and there with reflections of the city's lights. He has dragged Jill here. He can tell that she is as nervous as he is. Doubly so. Clive’s comeback is merely unlikely. Hers will be unbelievable.

He sits up. He slumps forward, digging his hands into his hair.

It would be nice to feel her cool, graceful hand running across his back, smoothing the folds from his black t-shirt. When they share a little moment, solve a problem, sneak a glance, whatever, he feels like things could be good, actually. That feeling is addicting. It creates a deficit between them, one that he is conscious of every time she smiles at him and makes him feel like a normal man, one who is not so angry or feels so alone.

He gets out of bed.

At the bar, he orders the cheapest beer on tap and lets it grow warm, untouched, as he hunches over the glass. It is still somehow thirty gil. When he shows the bartender his new Rosarian ID, she tells him a long story about how the Auldhyl Docks are haunted by the ghosts of seven sailors. She has a mogcast. Clive gives a noncommittal answer, she huffs, and he's on his own again.

The bar is built in a circle, placed on a raised platform a few steps up from the main hotel throughway. From here he can see the revolving glass doors and the sleek concierge desk, which is mostly unoccupied. Outside, in the hotel's dropoff, a black town car rolls up to the curb. A staff member appears instantly. Clive leans his forehead against his fist, counting the bubbles clustering along the glass.

When he looks up, Hugo Kupka is staring him down. He is as massive as ever. He's in elegant but casual shirtsleeves. The suit jacket thrown over his arm probably cost as much as Clive's car. A gold ring gleams on his thumb. His whole face, whole body, says I will crush you.

Clive is not in the fucking mood.

Kupka walks directly towards him. His voice is deceptively soft.

"Rosfield," he says. "What are you doing here?"

Clive sighs. He does what his mother would do; he simply turns away, unwilling to lower himself to this petty conversation.

Hugo sets his fist down, hard, on the bar counter, rattling the metal container of lime wedges. The bartender's cheerful smirk falls off her face, and she backs away. Clive faces Hugo full on.

"If you have something to say to me, get it over with," Clive says.

"What did she say to you?" Hugo growls.

"I don't know what you mean," Clive says.

"Benedikta," Hugo says, slowly, as if Clive is stupid. "You turned her against me."

"Sounds like she broke up with you," Clive says.

"I gave her everything," Hugo says. "Everything she could ever want. I saved her. I even saved you for her."

Clive touches the outside of his left thigh, and feels the smooth-pebbled texture of the scar there, through the fabric of his trouser leg. It looks like he's casually scratching an itch.

In 870, he put a hand down during their triple throw, overbalanced by Benedikta’s weight. The cold, smooth-scratched surface of the ice. The skin on his thigh, as hot and painful as if it is actually burning. Despite skating what was obviously not a clean program, they made it to the podium. He stopped reading comments after the Ran’dellah Trials. He never wants to see the word overscored ever again.

Benedikta, ripping the bronze from her neck as soon as they were away from the press. Her stony silence in the van back to the athletes' accommodations. You don't get it, little lamb.

Clive breathes in deep.

"You won't see that kind of mercy from me again," Hugo says. "Do you think you can just start over without her? Do you think I'd allow it?"

"Is that a confession?" Clive says.

Hugo snorts. He draws back. "It's a warning."

It has always been easier to let Hugo get the last word in. Clive does that with Mother, too.

When Hugo walks away, Clive hears the little droplet sound of a phone ending a video recording.

"Sorry," says the bartender. She's got her phone held low beside her hip. "Thought things were 'bout to get rough."

Clive shrugs. "Can I get another?"

He pays another thirty gil for another beer he isn't going to drink. When it gets warm, he goes back to his room, and closes his eyes. He wakes not remembering when he fell asleep.

"Do you think we'll be able to visit the rest of the park?" Jill asks, as they turn down Tonberry Drive.

"Maybe," says Clive.

The gates are presided over by green creature itself, raising its lantern as it does in the opening credits of literally thousands of films. The Octocentury Valisthean Studios film lots and studio buildings sprawl on one side of the street, extending for miles, but the taxi turns into the drop-off lane for the theme park on the other side.

They are surrounded on all sides by families, excited children, even a few people, like them, in their mid-twenties. Clive and Jill stand out among this set, wearing their dark, close-fitting training clothes in the muggy morning sun.

Cid waits for them where park-goers are congregating in long queues for entry. He’s a few years older than he was in his last public appearance. His hands are shoved into the pockets of a dusky purple jacket with a prominent logo across the shoulder, Kanver Institute of Science & Engineering. His creds dangle on a lanyard around his neck, along with a few keys and a moogle charm. Someone has scribbled a lightning bolt mustache across his Octoland ID photo in permanent black marker.

“So this is what we’re working with, eh?” Cid says. “Jill Warrick and Clive Rosfield.”

“That’s us,” Jill says.

“Well, well. Go on,” Cid says. He brings his hands together with a resounding clap and rubs them together. “Introduce yourself whilst we walk.”

He guides them to an employee entrance. Clive and Jill sign in as visitors and are given paper temp badges to clip to their jackets. They follow Cid through the back of will call, and then into the theme park proper.

“I knew it would be big,” Jill says, as they walk down the ‘Octoville Main Street’, where animatronic varieties of the iconic tonberry, along with other cutesy creatures, occupy the windows and balconies of the fairytale buildings. “But this?”

The little boy in Clive that missed out on Octoland—Mother found it common and vulgar—is gawking on the inside. West leads to rides and a towering water slide; east leads to the Magitek Wars franchise section, where the airship from the first film (technically the fourth) juts its nose into the air at an angle. He angles his head, trying to get a better look through the gates, which are built in the fluted, futuristic style of the Magitek universe. It’s the Invincible, but from the part before it gets destroyed by—

Clive's phone buzzes in his pocket, distracting him from his distraction.

"Joshua?" Clive says. "What is it?"

Torgal barks directly into the phone.

"—down! Sorry, Clive," Joshua says, struggling to restrain or distract a massive wolfhound. "Down!"

Another series of barks. Jill smiles.

"Hi, boy!" she says brightly. "Are you being good for Joshua? Not eating too much of Jote's bacon, I hope?"

"Eh?" says Cid. "I knew you were good people, Jill."

Joshua huffs. "Good boy," Joshua says briskly, at a remove. His voice returns to its ordinary volume as he brings his phone back to his face. A faint crunching is audible.

"Getting lots of treats, I see," Jill observes fondly. She left new antelope bone in plastic wrap in the cupboard for whenever Joshua decides Torgal has been an extra good dog. Clive doubts that's the real criteria.

"Right," Clive says. "Joshua, what's going on?"

"Mother found out about your trip to see that coach," Joshua says. "Or, rather, she knows you're in Kanver with Jill, and she wants to know why."

"What did you tell her?" Clive says.

"You took Jill to Kanver for her birthday," Joshua says.

"She believed that?" Jill’s twenty-sixth birthday is in about a week. Mother often acts like he is the poor cousin in an old-timey novel.

"No," Joshua says. "She was very much put out. I—"

"What's going on?" Jill asks.

"Mother," Clive says.

"Oh," Jill says.

"Oh?" says Cid.

Clive puts Joshua on speaker. Torgal barks again, at an ear-shattering volume.

"—honestly!" Joshua exclaims.

"Sounds like quite the dog," Cid observes. "I had one like that, once."

"He's a fine hound," Jill says.

"What's his name?" Cid asks, conversationally. Jill has no time to answer.

"Clive!" Joshua says. Another bark. "Jill. Listen! I'm going through the transfer process. I think we're in trouble if we don't play this very, very carefully."

Joshua is taking care of the bureaucratic part of the transfer. He is familiar with the maze, in part because he had a hand in creating it. So did Mother.

"Right," Clive says. He holds up a hand, so Joshua can speak.

"If Mother calls you, don't tell her anything," Joshua says. "Not yet. This could easily end up mired in the court for years, which would serve her just as well as an outright rejection, if she decides she is against this."

"We're returning Rosarian athletes," Clive says. "Surely there's a provision for that?"

The fond smile has fallen off of Jill's face. Cid rubs his chin.

"The provision is straightforward enough for you," Joshua says. "But Jill—Jill, are you there?"

"I am," Jill says. "It's me, isn't it?"

"Father exercised ducal prerogative to grant you perpetual asylum," Joshua explains. "It’s sort of embarrassing, but I can't tell if this means you have citizenship or not. He wasn't always as thorough as he should have been about following through. I want this ironclad before we take it to the CTC."

"Fuck," Clive mutters. Jill's expression has chilled to impenetrable neutrality. "We'll figure something out. Thanks for the warning."

He doubts Mother will actually call. She seldom does, even when she is angry with him. There is no reason for her to be angry with him. Clive can take Jill to Kanver for her birthday if he likes.

"Do you know how she found out?" Joshua asks.

"No," Clive says.

"Damn," Joshua says. "Well, for now assume she only knows you're in Kanver. Try not to let on what you're doing there."

"Alright," Clive says. "Thanks."

"Good luck, Clive," Joshua says. Torgal barks one more time, right in Clive's, and presumably Joshua's, ear. "Ah—Tor—!"

Clive hangs up before his ears start ringing.

Cid has his arms crossed, all his weight on the back foot as he considers this obstacle. His brow is furrowed.

“Well,” he says, at last. “Problems, problems.”

“I posted a video of the city flying in,” Jill admits. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It shouldn’t matter what you post,” Clive says, keeping a leash on his anger. “Don’t worry about it. Mother’s not an issue right now.”

“But she might become one?” Cid says.

“Is that a dealbreaker?” Clive asks.

“I think it might make the prospect more attractive, actually,” Cid says. “I love sticking it to the man. Or woman, I suppose. I’m not picky.”

Though Cid swears he's taking them through a shortcut, Clive is certain it would be quicker if had just walked through the thoroughfares crowded with theme park guests. At least then they’d get to see the attractions, as opposed to mildly outdated offices and fluorescent lights in drop ceilings. Cid explains that he has been working at the Ice-konic Octocentury Arena almost since he got back from the Continent, where he was ‘sorting things out.’ He choreographs the ice shows here.

Clive sneaks a glance at Jill as he holds up the red velvety rope between two stanchions as they cut through to the entrance of the arena. Clive has mostly let Cid do the talking, replying now and again when there is something to say, but Jill has been utterly silent. Her face is drawn and worried. Cid holds open the door, ushering them within.

“Come along now, kids,” Cid says. “Adventure and romance await on the ice.”

He’s quoting the decal banner that scrolls across the top of the entryway like a marquee. Figures in colorful costumes skate across the glass. Clive has never been in an ice show, though he knows many people do it in the off-season for a steady source of income.

It is blessedly cool inside. The ice is accessible through a curtained off set of double doors. An opposing hall, big enough for a resurfacer, leads down to what Clive assumes are dressing rooms and some kind of loading dock for bigger set pieces or equipment. These secret places are always so mundane, compared to what happens in front of the audience. Cid directs them to a launch point, at a corner between rows and rows of seats, where they drop their skate bags and get ready.

“Easier than yelling at you from afar,” Cid says as he reappears from some back room with his own skates. “How are you there, Jill? Been a little quiet.”

Jill smiles. Clive does not.

“I’m fine,” she says.

Clive stands up abruptly, a few inches taller for being on blades. He offers his hand to Jill, who pulls herself up. They pick their way through the seating and to the ice. Cid takes their guards for them, and follows shortly after.

“Warm up,” Cid directs. “Do what you need to do, then let me see how you two skate together. Get a sense of where we’re at here.”

Clive does a few rounds, loosening up considerably. This was Benedikta’s first coach, the one who delivered her from a sheep farm to the Royal Academy on a figure skating scholarship. Benedikta never mentioned him, or anything about her life before the academy, though she never misses—missed—an opportunity to needle Clive about his relative late start. There is almost certainly another world where he never moved on to skating and became a gymnast.

He probably doesn’t know Jill in that world. She is frowning. She does a pair of waltzes, one after the other. Clive catches up to her just as Cid says, "Show me some of your footwork!"

Clive reaches for Jill's hand. They sync up, Clive copying her stroking with his own. Eventually it stops being copying. Jill is aware of him as he is aware of her. She relaxes a hair at his touch. Her face is clouded. When they come round to the right direction, Clive squeezes her hand.

Whenever he goes away inside, he always wishes that someone would pull him back. He is so angry, so bitter, so unpleasant in those moments that he understands why people 'give him space,' but it is the last thing that he wants.

Jill smiles at him, just a flash, before she goes into their sequence of steps. His heart beats faster, not just from the exertion. The clouds part, and there is the moon, glimpsed only for a second amid the storm.

They execute the steps that Jill choreographed for them. At the end of the sequence is a lift they compromised on in place of what Clive knows would be a twist. Benedikta loved to fly. The only thing she ever praised him for was the fact that he is tall and strong enough to hurl her over ten feet in the air.

"You practice any throws?" Cid asks when they come back round to him.

"No," Clive says.

"Shame," Cid says. He points vaguely. "Do that same thing again. I'm going to follow this time. Try not to hit me.”

Cid shadows them from a distance of a few yards. There is no music, but Clive can hear the song Jill chose in his head. After five or six months, he knows every bar by heart.

“Get ready, Jill,” Cid calls out. “Alright, and up—”

Jill takes off, Clive’s hands guiding her into the air by the hips. He sees only the back of her neck, where she has bound her hair into a tight knot ringed by a silver plait.

“You know what goes there,” Cid says when they land and coast to a stop. "We'll not try, not yet, but you don't have it and you need it."

Clive does know, but he doesn’t like it. Jill nods.

“Let's see what else we're missing,” Cid says.

Cid eventually coaxes the whole program out of them. The digital clock tucked by the entryway ticks up an hour, then two, as Cid instructs them to do this and that. The preliminaries have all been skipped, apparently, but whatever Cid is scheming, he is keeping it to himself.

“The bones are good,” Cid says, after he tells them to wind down. They remove their skates in the seating area again, wiping away the wet and packing them away. “I’ll be honest. There’s no hope for this season; the good news is that everyone’s coming off of Trials, and everyone expects you to be missing, what with all the nonsense about Benna. My plan is to get you ready for a run at next year’s Twins.”

“You’re going to coach us?” Jill says. Her face is still red.

“Well, assuming you can swing my fee,” Cid says wryly. “Why not?”

Money is something that he and Jill have broached only once. Training, especially without the support of a federation, is expensive. Joshua has the trust fund, and Jill has an inheritance from her grandparents and her coaching job, but neither of them can outfit four years of training. Sanbreque is not going to help, obviously. IPR will not be able to offer a stipend until they have some promise of being able to compete in Trials, or at least Championships. Sponsorships are common, but they would be trading on past glories. It is a problem they will have to solve soon.

Focus on the dream. The rest will follow.

Father was never as thorough as he ought to have been. He was a big picture thinker.

Cid eyes them both, hands on his hips. “One second.”

He disappears again and this time returns with two paper tickets.

“Come and see the show tonight,” Cid says. “See if you can spot me.”

Clive frowns. They will be back tomorrow, early, for one more session with Cid—the real session, not this getting-to-know-you routine—before they have to get back on a plane to Rosalith and resume their ordinary lives in addition to training. Clive has to figure out if he’s going to drop out of the classes he just signed up for.

“It’s for kiddies, so it doesn’t go past eight,” Cid says. He taps his temple. “Think about it. What says ‘vacation to Kanver’ more than a visit to Octoland? Post all the photos you like. You can leave your stuff with me. Mummy dearest need not know a thing.”

Joshua's cover story will make a lot more sense if there are pictures of them together here. Mother, if she is looking, likely won't waste anymore time than she must subjecting her delicate eyes to garish cartoon characters.

And Jill wants to see the park.

“Why not,” Clive echoes, accepting the tickets.

Cid carries away their skate bags over his shoulder and tells them to behave with an irritating waggle of the eyebrows. Jill rolls her eyes at Clive. The tickets go into a zipped pocket on the inside of his black jacket, and they leave the quiet of the empty rink for the bustle of Octoland.

Jill spins on her heel to face him, once they are in front of a map kiosk.

“Is there anywhere that you would like to go, Clive?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Wherever you’d like to go.”

“Clive,” she says. Her gray eyes meet his. She is solemn. “We’re in Octoland. Are you sure there isn’t some place you would like to go?”

Clive exhales.

They spend four hours going over every inch of the Magitek Wars section of Octoland. Clive refuses to try and get a picture with the actors playing Madu and Crandall (“they’re for the children,”) but they do stop and clap for the expert sword-fighting show that the actors perform on the hour. Their blades light up with LED runes and hiss when they make contact with one another. The dialogue is ripped straight out of the second film. He knows it all by heart, but he’s surprised to see Jill mouthing along with Madu.

“I was obsessed with these movies, too,” Jill reminds him, grinning.

There’s a film museum with all the props and costumes, and a mock village from the latest television show. They wobble away from the featured ride, and wander into the gift shop. Jill holds firm, but Clive buys a keychain with the rebel insignia.

“See,” Jill says, smugly, as he fights it onto his key ring, which actually only has key fobs on it now. “I knew it.”

“Yes, alright,” Clive allows. A smile sneaks towards the corner of his mouth. “Now, is there somewhere you’d like to go?”

“I’m getting a little hungry,” she admits. “Cid mentioned a restaurant, didn’t he?”

“There’s a map,” Clive says.

The Fat Chocobo is located conveniently by the arena. She clasps her hands behind her back as they walk. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, you know.”

“What’s that?”

“When we were younger,” Jill says. “You have always been so kind and thoughtful to me, I just wanted to repay the favor. Somehow.”

This topic makes his stomach flip around.

“I’m just too stubborn to give up,” Clive says. “Or too proud.”

“That’s not always a bad thing,” Jill says, smiling. She sighs, and the smile slips away. He wants to go chasing after it. “This business with the transfer—”

“We’ll sort it out,” Clive says, firmly dismissing any thoughts about Jill's lips. “They can’t keep you from representing Rosaria.”

“Your mother has never much cared for me,” Jill notes.

“Joshua knows every kind of attorney under the sun,” Clive says. "They will find a way."

“He said it might take years.” Jill is staring straight ahead, with that hollow expression again. “Years of training, and money, and time, and we won’t even know if I’ll be able to do it—if I’m just going to burden you, Clive, maybe you should find another—”

Clive takes both of her hands in his, one at a time. He holds them tight.

“If it isn’t you by my side, it’s no one,” he says. The vehemence in his own voice surprises him.

Jill’s eyes are enormous, luminous. She presses her lips together. She looks away, blinking fast. Maybe it was too much.

“Sorry,” she says weakly. “I’m just—nerves. It’s all happening so fast.”

They file into the Fat Chocobo, which is half families with young children battling over chocobo nuggets and packs of young uni students on holiday rowdily ordering pitchers of beer. Clive and Jill are tucked into a two-person booth tiny enough that his knees brush hers when he stops thinking about keeping to himself. Jill smiles politely at the waiter, and orders for them. Clive keeps his face pointed down.

The words bleed away. The eponymous Fat Chocobo sits over the door to the kitchen, which is suspiciously egg-shaped. The menu is primarily omelets. Surrounding their island of awkward silence is noise and shouting and the whirligig light and color of Octoland. Jill laces her fingers together across the red dinette countertop. Clive leans on one elbow, his other hand toying with the specialty drink menu.

“I already told him thank you,” Jill says. “But would you let Joshua know how grateful I am—for everything? Not just the hotel, but all the rest. I barely remember coming to Rosaria. It feels like home. Strange to think that it mightn't be.”

“You were so young,” Clive says.

“Six years old,” Jill says.

Clive hears his father's most serious voice, speaking his most ubiquitous sound bite. Most people have forgotten where it comes from. The innocent cannot ever be our enemy.

Jill and her mother came to live with them that summer. Clive was nine. The Northern Territorial Unification War appears in his memory as a series of press conferences, cameras and microphones, standing with Joshua and Mother off to one side while Father talked about peace and aid. Mother, muttering about sneaks and savages in private. Jill is not a princess anymore, but that doesn’t stop people from thinking of her as some sort of lost heir.

Her mother never divorced her father; she lives in Port Isolde with a boyfriend, believes profoundly in the power of astrology and auras, and sends Jill an animated greeting card for every season. Geir Warrick quietly waits out his exile in southern Waloed, one of many dethroned fieflords who might have become king and failed; he is just the most famous. Jill has not spoken to him in several years.

"We barely understood what was happening," Clive says.

“It was easier to shut it all out, wasn’t it?” Jill says ruefully. She hesitates. “You were the reason I got serious about training, you know.”

Clive can’t keep his eyebrows from shooting straight up. “You’re joking.”

Jill merely smiles. She shrugs.

“You’re the reason I even started,” Clive says.

“Perhaps,” Jill says. “But seeing you put your all into it—I thought that I understood why you did that, even afterward. I felt the same, at the time. I watched all your competitions. I always prayed for you to win.”

Clive focuses on the gray shapes impressed into filthy scrap of gum on the floor. The forms look like the treads on a shoe.

Those years were not good. He woke up, trained, studied just enough to get a set of barely passing marks on his exams, trained some more, screamed inconsolably into the void, trained even more. He injured and reinjured himself, infuriating every doctor that tried to treat him. Clive went into the 862 Trials only two years distant from the worst day of his life. He stood on the podium as the speakers intoned Sanbreque’s Hymn to Highest Holy. He bent his head for the medal, posed for pictures, and gave interviews using a script that is branded into his mind. The teenage boy speaking in video clips might as well be a separate person.

My father always said, ‘focus on the dream. The rest will follow,’ and it did today. I know he’s proud of me. I am very grateful to Sanbreque Skating Federation and to my mother, for their unshakable support. This victory belongs to all of us.

He remembers shutting the door to his dorm room, falling face first into the pillow, and weeping until he could not breathe.

He doesn’t remember why he didn’t talk to Jill.

He sees her, waving excitedly across the Norvent parking lot, wearing the IK jacket with the decorative fur collar. Sanbreque didn’t discourage it. He just didn't do it. When he switched to pairs, his schedule was simply different, and the likelihood of chance encounters reduced down to zero. He did not try to change that. They had been so close.

"I am scared," Jill says, when he fails to say anything else. “I want to see this through."

She reaches out and touches his hand. Fine bumps rise up across his flesh. Pleasant shivering teases his whole body, inside and out.

“But if it doesn’t work out,” Jill says. “I don’t want this—between us—to be over.”

His heart beats a touch faster. “Yeah?”

Jill nods. Her fingers weave through his. “I missed you, Clive.”

Clive wants to say, I missed you, too. He falters over the deceit, because the only reason they’re here, right now, is that no one told him she was working at Mann’s. He had not wanted to answer for how he had treated her. How he had forgotten her, ignored her, avoided her.

“I’ve got your food right here,” says the waiter. They break apart. His gleaming name tag reads Kwehnneth! “Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” Jill says. Her cheeks are bright pink. She tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear. She clears her throat. “After all, Joshua is the closest I’ve ever had to a little brother, and you've always looked out for me, so I—well, I—”

“Oh,” Clive says.

With a few words, she has cut the legs out from under him. All this agonizing, and she—

She is fully red now. “I apologize, that’s—that was presumptive of me.”

“No!” Clive says, sharply. He breathes out, steadying himself, controlling his face. “No, Jill—no, of course, you—you were there all the time, like family, and, I—”

Her eyes open wide. Her mouth slackens, and then shuts tight. She shakes her head hurriedly.

"You're like that, too," she says hurriedly. If she is giving him an out, he's grateful for it. “Though I know I could never take the place of Joshua to you.”

“Jill,” Clive forces himself to say. “I’m honored.”

He is humiliated.

It is a good thing he has never asked her to coffee, or to dinner, or to bed, because the answer would have been I’m so sorry, Clive, I just don’t see you like that and he would have retreated, ashamed, furious with himself for being so fucking blind, so obsessed with his own problems, so led around by his dick. He would not have been able to look her in the face again. He would have thrown her away.

“Really?” Jill says, sounding so sweet and hopeful. Her voice weakens on the second syllable.

“Yes,” Clive says, because it is an honor.

Jill has been so kind to him, when he needed kindness; she has been there, when she did not need to be; she is so thoughtful, and brave, and talented, and kids like her. It angers him that no one has ever grasped how good she is, how strong her skating skills are, how fluid and intuitive her artistry is when she is not stifled by fear. She has been in a cage, and people have stood there wondering why she doesn’t soar.

It’s a relief, to be angry. He understands anger.

"How's everything tasting?" asks Kwehnneth, brightly, from nowhere. Both Clive and Jill jump in their seats.

"It's really great, thank you," Clive says. He doesn't remember what he ordered. It is sitting untouched in front of him. He hasn't even had a bite.

Cid's tickets take them upstairs to a box. The box is not empty. Inside is an older woman dressed in black, with a brooch pinned to her oversized turtleneck. She stands beneath a very tall, very broad, very nervous young man in a beige button-down shirt. Cid is with them. He has the head of his full-sized, incredibly fluffy moogle costume tucked under his arm.

"What's this, then?" says the woman in black. She clicks something in her hand. It's a lighter of the fanciest kind. There is a goat embossed in the silver.

"Well, now, these two are Clive and—" Cid never finishes his sentence.

"Ohhhh," cries the young man. He stands up, smiling. "Jill!"

"Goetz!" Jill exclaims.

"Nan! Nan, it's Jill!" Goetz says, hopping in place.

Jill hurries past a bemused Cid and embraces Goetz on tiptoes, even as Goetz bends down.

"Same Jill you gave the dog to?" asks the woman in black.

Clive takes one look at her and decides that if he assumes that her name is Nan, he will not make it out of this room. One of her eyes is not like the other, an obvious prosthetic. There is not a lot of nonsense about her.

"How's he doing?" Goetz asks. Jill whips out her phone.

"He's with Joshua," Jill explains.

"Wait," Cid says. "The dog? As in my dog?"

"He weren't your dog," says the woman, bluntly.

"I gave him to you, to look after!" Cid says. "You gave him away?"

"Ohhh, he's so happy, Nan!" Goetz coos. "Lookit this one."

The woman Goetz gets to call his nan nods appreciatively at Jill's phone, which is reeling off an endless carousel of Torgal photos.

"He's his own dog, far as I'm concerned," she remarks. "Looks satisfied."

"Do you know them?" Cid asks, disbelieving. "Charon?"

"By reputation only," Charon clarifies.

“Torgal knew Jill straightaway,” Goetz says. “He was her dog first, see.”

"Torgal was my dog first," Clive says.

“You’re fucking with me,” says Cid.

"It's true," Jill says.

“How’s that possible?” Cid asks. "He was my dog."

“You got Torgal from Cid, Nan?” Goetz asks.

“Aye,” Charon says. She clicks the lighter. If she could use it to light up in here, she obviously would. “When he fucked off to the Continent.”

“That was necessary,” Cid protests. “I didn’t fuck off, I traveled with distinct purpose—”

“—left me with the dog, didn’t you?” Charon says dryly.

“How can the dog be your dog?” Cid asks. “Are we talking about the same dog? Big wolfhound?”

“Clive,” Jill says. “Do you think Torgal knew that it was Cid? When Joshua called?”

It's a thought. "All that barking, I suppose?"

“Whoa, now. Let’s take a second to jump in the time machine, and revisit the part where Torgal is your dog, Jill,” Cid says.

"Torgal was my dog," Clive says. "When I was a boy. My father thought it would be good if I did something other than think about Trials."

It was Clive's major triumph over Mother's tyrannical hold over the affairs of their house. He was just turned fifteen, and Father had been suggesting that there was more to life than skating.

It was likely he meant that ought to Clive go out and talk to girls (or boys) his own age, but Clive had struggled to relate to other teenagers during his school years, when he still spent them in an actual school. They seemed alternately too silly and too worldly; they did not read the same books or watch the same films, or at least they didn't admit to it; they were interested in meeting up and doing nothing for hours, which Clive couldn't do and train at the same time; and the fucking title, as usual, was both an uncrossable chasm and an irremovable yoke. Jill is three years younger than him, but that was alright because she wasn't too old for Magitek Wars yet.

For a moment, Cid looks like he's about to ask how Clive lost him. Jill crosses her arms. Cid does some quick, and obvious, math.

After Father's death, Clive was untouchable by normalcy. He always seems to find ordinary life a little too late.

"And you're sure?" Cid says instead. "Same dog?"

"Torgal certainly is," Clive says.

"I'll be damned," Cid mutters.

"But he's mine now," Jill adds.

"Enough of that," Charon says with absolute authority. "What's this, then?"

"Charon, Clive and Jill," Cid says. "Clive and Jill, Charon Toll, the best agent in the business."

"Gets you nowhere," Charon says mildly.

"Clive and Jill here are going to be big," Cid says. "But they need a little assistance."

"Do y'then?" Charon says, looking critically at the pair of them. "Your brother is an alright sort, I guess. And Jill comes with excellent references."

Cid checks the clock down below. "Fuck me. I'll be back after the show." He plops on the moogle head and departs, the bobble whacking the door softly.

"I’m so happy to see you, Jill," Goetz says cheerfully.

Charon is Goetz's godmother, not his grandmother, but the difference seems negligible. Goetz knows exactly who Clive is.

"Your free skate last year was lovely, we saw it at Skate Sanbreque," Goetz says, surprising the hell out of him. "'Control' was so dramatic, it really stood out. I'm really sorry you couldn't take it to Trials. Is, ah, Benedikta going to be alright? It was so scary, watching her lie down like that."

He is not shocked by Goetz's familiarity anymore. It happens that Cid gave him a few lessons when he was younger, and this sparked a lifelong love for the sport, though he explains that he much prefers to watch other people compete. He's too afraid of falling.

"She wanted to pursue a career as an actress," Clive says. He struggles for something neutral to say about Benedikta. “She seemed herself, when I talked to her last.”

"Oh, good," Goetz says. "I'm glad she's doing what she wants. I liked the two of you together, but I'm sure to like Jill and you just as much."

Charon flicks her lighter again and again, not allowing it to catch. "So you two making a run of it?"

"Yes,” Jill says. “If everything goes according to plan, we hope to compete in the next Winter Trials.”

Charon settles into her seat as the voice of the gods indicates that the show is about to start. “Hm,” she says. “Cid and his big plans.”

They are both exhausted by the time they get back to the hotel—Cid’s ‘over at eight’ ends with him taking them on a tour backstage to meet the rest of the cast. Jill hits it off with everyone, in her quiet way. Clive half-dreads the inevitable reaction, and half-resents when it doesn’t happen. He supposes that Cid’s presence had dulled the celebrity effect somewhat. Goetz is known, and beloved, by everyone. Clive spends the entire meet-and-greet feeling like such an arsehole.

He is such an arsehole. He wishes he knew better what to do or say.

“Tired?” Jill asks, gently.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Me, too,” she says. For a moment, he thinks she is going to add something, or say something more.

He imagines a world where she does. Where she nestled against his shoulder, warm and content. When they get to the hotel, they go to the same room. He puts his arms around her, satisfied, in the same bed.

She doesn’t. She wishes him a good night again as she gets off on the twelfth floor.

On the seventeenth floor, Gav stands at the ice machine with his fingers knotted behind his head. He swears under his breath.

“Here,” Clive says. Some machines are easier than others. He gestures for Gav to stand aside.

Clive fits the bucket under the dispenser the right way. Ice pellets rain down from the opening when he presses the right button.

“Oh, thanks,” Gav says. He fidgets with his hands.

“Sorry about last night,” Clive says. He doesn’t add, it was a long flight or I was tired. There is no good excuse. He was a prick because he couldn’t think of anything else to be.

“Uh, no worries, eh?” Gav says brightly. “Um.”

“What is it?” Clive asks.

“Nothing,” Gav says, and then follows up with, “just …”

Clive puts his hand on his hip and waits. When he doesn’t walk away, Gav takes that as permission to keep going.

“I, uh, you know, really respect you and your career, like,” Gav says. “I just wanted to know, uh …”

Clive regrets—just a little—his resolve to be a better, nicer, more caring person. “Yes?”

“What made you switch?” Gav asks, all of the words coming out at once. “I mean, you were top top. You coulda kept going in singles, but …”

Whatever he expected Gav to ask, it was not this. It’s sincere. Clive scowls. It deserves a proper answer.

“Are you thinking of moving to pairs?” Clive asks.

“Maybe,” Gav says. “I dunno. Just that you were so good solo, and then you … I don’t want everyone to think, he couldn’t hack it here, y’know?”

Clive sighs. “I do know, actually.”

In 866, a few weeks after the Trials, Clive was shot in a conflict near the Nysa Defile. He was very lucky. He has shut out most of that year mentally. These two sentences are the limit of what he allows in discussion. The way everyone doubted his comeback still stings. But by then, Belenus Tor effectively ended the war between Sanbreque and Waloed, the Cardinals negotiated peace with King Barnabas. Clive was left wondering what all that suffering was for.

He went into pairs, barely older than Gav, hoping for the realization of a dream. What he got was Benedikta.

“I advise you to ignore everyone and do what you want,” Clive says. “I wish I had.”

Just like your father, so bold and proud. Such high ideals, but you don’t care what you ruin by clinging to them.

“It seems a mite harder than that,” Gav says.

Clive manages a weary smile. “It is.”

“I reckon.” Gav scratches the nape of his neck. “Uh, thanks.”

That seems like the cue to end the conversation. Clive is genuinely exhausted, but something doesn’t sit right. He stops.

“It was the story in it,” Clive says.

Gav hesitates. “Eh?”

“The story that you tell in the performance,” he clarifies. “I liked the idea of being one of two people telling a story together. If you do go into pairs, don’t settle for just anyone they introduce you to. You need to connect with your partner, or your life is going to be needlessly hard.”

“Right,” Gav says, nodding. He’s probably thinking of Clive and Benedikta’s infamous antipathy. It is too late to go back in time and ask Benedikta what they said to her to get her to agree to partner with Clive Rosfield. Gav grins. “Right. I’ll be thinking about that. Thank you, Clive. Uh, can I call you that?”

Clive feels a little less like an absolute arsehole as he returns to his hotel room. He showers, reads another two chapters, checks his phone in case Jill has sent him any kind of good night text. She has, in fact, sent him a picture they took together in front of the unpleasantly realistic King Tonberry statue. Her smile is pretty. She looks happy. She wants to know if this picture would be okay to post.

He tries hard to quash any less-than-brotherly thoughts.

Looks good to me, he messages back.

Thanks! I really felt like a child again today. It was wonderful just to spend time together outside the rink. We should do it more often. She’s appended a blushing smiling face to the message that Clive cannot divine the meaning of.

The inside of his chest is tender. He did this to himself. 

In some way, it is a relief. The urgency to tell her his feelings relents. It is in fact now preferable to keep them quiet, until gradually, hopefully, they shift into what they should be.

Sure, he says. I’d like that.

Cid puts them on the plane back to Rosalith tired and sore. They each have a list of corrections a mile long. The first thing they need to do is develop a triple throw. After that a lift with an exit worth looking at, and then the triple twist. Jill has never done anything like it. Clive keeps his apprehension to himself.

After that, it’s really quite simple, actually; they just need to be better than everyone else. Cid’s contract keeps him in Kanver for a while longer, but once he’s free, he’ll fly to IPR and work with them consistently. Crow is overjoyed when they tell her she doesn't have to take videos of them in secret anymore, but only on Jill's phone. Cid is prompt and exact in his technical criticism.

Jill's actual birthday is much more subdued. Clive gets her a box of snowballs from Molly's and the three of them watch her favorite Magitek film, the standalone where the entire star-studded cast tragically dies.

"I love these," she admits, trying to eat the snowball without a making a complete mess of herself. Clive wars internally about whether or not he should say something about the smudge of confectioner's sugar on the tip of her nose.

“You have something here, Jill,” Joshua says, gesturing. His entire mouth is a single smear of jam. “When is Cid flying in?”

“Six weeks,” Clive says.

In that time, Jill and Clive carry on as usual. Jill is determined to get into the air. By the time Cid gets here, she wants to be able to execute a proper throw jump. They work their way towards it, on and off the ice, everyday.

Cid and Joshua meet on a video call, along with their agent, all huddled around Joshua’s laptop in his kitchen.

“Hello, Charon,” Joshua says warmly.

“Your Graceness,” Charon says.

“You could have mentioned you knew Clive’s brother,” Cid grumbles.

Charon represents some of Martha's friends who play for the Eastpool Guardians, a hockey team. It is a grand coincidence that Cid has chosen to take personally.

“I’m turning over a new leaf,” Charon says. “You seemed so puffed up, seemed mean to let on and spoil your surprise.”

Torgal stands up at the table and barks, his tail thumping powerfully against Clive’s legs.

“They treating you nice, Torgal?” Charon says. Her affect is as straight and humorless as a hypodermic needle.

Neither Clive nor Jill have ever had much more than token sponsorship. Their federations paid the majority of their expenses. Charon tells Clive not to worry his pretty head about money. She has some potential sponsors lined up already.

"Make no mistake," Charon says. "Sorry, Jill, but they are interested because of your boyfriend here."

Joshua raises his eyebrows. Clive says nothing, heart knocking against his ribs. He scowls, the easiest expression to fake. Jill doesn't react.

"I understand," she says.

"They're going to be great, Nan, just you wait," says Goetz in the background. His head floats on a bland gray background. His enthusiasm gets even Clive to crack a smile. "When are you going to start training?"

"Five weeks," says Cid, "once I break free from the bloody moogle."

"Aw," says Goetz. "You're the best Nektar."

"Thank you," says Cid, sounding genuinely pleased. "Jill, how's that throw?"

The next thing Cid insists on is a proper manager. Joshua takes no offense. Otto Steward conveniently lives in Port Isolde, and is a close personal friend of Cid's. Clive and Jill take the train down to meet him face to face. They sit down in a quayside office with Otto, a gruff man with a desk lined with photos of him and a floppy haired teenager who turns out to be his son.

"So you both going into acting or what?" Otto says from his side of the desk.

"Beg pardon?" Clive says.

"No," Jill says, carefully. "Is that what Cid told you we were here for?"

They explain.

"Cid," Otto growls.

But despite a 'no more athletes' policy, Otto takes them on as clients. When Jill asks why, he says, "One, I owe Cid a favor. And two, you think I'm going to pass up managing Jill Warrick and Clive Rosfield?"

This he says while nodding at Clive. He launches into a well-rehearsed lecture about signing in with their management agency, what they do, what they provide. Clive fixes his gaze on Otto, trying hard to follow. Sanfed didn't actually care what he thought, and IK was much the same, so when Otto asks if Clive and Jill have any suggestions, they both come up blank.

"Right, so," Otto says, slapping the desk briskly. "Let's talk about your aethernet presence."

There are no notes for Jill, who is doing exactly as she should. Her passion for travel and food are charming and relatable. She posts occasional tips and tricks. Clive is actually holding the phone for some of them. Her most popular post by far is a set of videos and photos of their trip to Octoland. The last one is the pair of them together. Jill is smiling; Clive looks like he is thinking about it. Jill averages ten to fifteen comments per post, but under this one there are one hundred and twenty-six.

Otto grunts. "Interesting."

He doesn't bother to look at them. Clive sits back uneasily.

Clive has a verified Stolas account that hoots whenever he appears in a competition or on television. The fact that Clive has no other significant activity doesn't bother Otto in the least.

"Good," he says. "Starting from a clean slate. We'll have Desiree manage it if you like. You can approve her posts. You'll need it, especially if you go with private sponsors."

The utility of the public eye is obvious. Joshua also has an official Stolas account that he posts Rosarian historical tidbits to, along with other ducal obligations like memorials and announcements. Otto offers Jill a cup of tea while Clive surrenders the keys to his aethernet existence to a bubbly young woman named Desiree.

"It will all go through you first," Desiree promises. "Unless you want to manage it yourself, of course, some people do like that. It would be good if you could provide some ideas or personal photos that you would be fine with sharing. That will keep it authentic!"

There is nothing authentic about a managed account peppered with sponsorship posts. He can't think of a single thing from his real, personal life he'd like to subject to scrutiny.

"Maybe something from our trip to Octoland," he suggests. "That seemed to do well for Jill."

"Did it?" Desiree says. She's been taking notes on one phone, but she pulls another from her colorful tote bag and looks up Jill's account on that. "Hm. Maybe."

"What is it?" Clive asks.

Desiree purses her lips. "Well—"

"I'd appreciate your opinion as a professional," Clive says.

"It's not that," Desiree says. "I mean—what's the difference between that post, and all the others?"

Clive hesitates.

"When do you start training?" Otto asks Jill, as they return from the office kitchenette. They carry matching Star Ruby Mgmt tea mugs.

"Well, we're training now," Jill says. The first time Clive threw her and she fell, he called a break they didn't go back from. He's improved since then. "But we'll start with Cid in about a month."

Since they are in Port Isolde, they visit Jill's mother. She embraces Clive, and whispers something in Jill's ear that makes her blush. Jill's accent, utterly Rosarian under ordinary circumstances, gets shaky on certain words and phrases when she speaks to her mother. When Jill tells her that she is going to try for Trials, she gets solemn.

"Creag Loisgte changed you, my dear," Jill's mother says. "Every day I ... You've only just begun to heal. Your spirit is still fragile." She reaches over the tea things to touch Clive's hand. "You, too. I was thinking of your father just the other day. I can't imagine what he would say about this business. Have you dropped by to see your uncle?"

"I had no idea he was in town," Clive says. Uncle Byron flits across Valisthea as he pleases. He comes from Port Isolde the same way the wind comes from the North.

"Darling, could you get the moonstone? I want Jill to take it with her," Jill's mother calls to her boyfriend in another room. There is some grouching audible as he gets up from his chair. "You should see him! Such good energy can only help."

Clive talks them through the gate, using a couple of keywords he knows will incense Uncle Byron. He roars down the drive, booming about fakers; then he laughs aloud, claims he couldn't recognize Clive outside of 'that sparkly getup of yours,' and pulls him into a gigas hug. Uncle Byron won't hear of them leaving without dinner. Clive silently consults Jill with a glance as Rutherford goes to inform the staff that they will be using the good plates. She makes a comment about looking forward to Byron's excellent wine cellar.

"A manager, eh?" Uncle Byron says. "Sounds very official."

"Now all that's left is to get to Trials," Jill says. Her smile is warm and a little impish.

"I've not kept up with Joshua's efforts," Uncle Byron admits. "Rosaria is meant to be representing itself, the next go?"

The next Trials is the Summer Trials, to be held in Stonhyrr. The Rosarian team is likely to be thin.

"That's right," Jill says.

"The time will go by so quickly," Uncle Byron muses. "It seems not so long ago that Elwin told me you started ice skating, just out of the blue! Now look at you. Never thought this would be the thing, did we?"

"You did flit around quite a bit as I recall," Jill remarks, tilting her head to one side.

"Never found a sport he wouldn't try," Uncle Byron says fondly. His fork hovers over a bit of antelope steak. “I often wish I had been more involved—afterward, you know.”

“Mother doesn’t make anything easy for anyone," Clive says.

There’s a gap in the conversation large enough for Anabella Lesage to loom.

“I had no desire to get the business tied up in her power plays,” Uncle Byron says. He shakes his head, staring at the salt. “But I can’t help but think perhaps I could have done more.”

Rutherford appears at Uncle Byron's elbow. He leans down. "The Twinside account, sir."

"Bother," Uncle Byron mutters. He stands up. "Sorry, sorry. Terrible manners. Forgive me, Jill?"

Jill smiles. "Of course."

The two of them are left alone in the dining room, surrounded by the trappings of Uncle Byron's immense wealth and Rutherford's very modern taste. Jill pours herself a little more wine.

"He does have good energy," she says. "Has it really been so long?"

"I haven't seen him since Phoenix Gate," Clive says, turning the rosemary potatoes into a mash.

Clive had been, as usual, somewhere else. Hiding. Joshua had been there in his place. Joshua, speckled with blood, tears in his eyes.

Father's dead! Clive—

The body. Nysa Defile. Did Father have time, as he had time, to think, what is going to happen to them if I die?

"It was such a terrible day," Jill says. "I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was, that your father died. I'm so, so sorry, Clive."

Clive is accustomed to the well-meaning but impersonal condolence. Jill knew Father. She is actually sad that he is dead. He is not a sound bite or a picture or an outdated concept to her. He is not a symbol to rally behind. He is not a martyr.

I am, and always will be, only a man, like any other.

Joshua has long since forgiven him for that day. Clive has not forgiven himself. Joshua, ten years old, forced to choose between the brother he loved and the mother that was his world. What were the ideals of a dead father to a frightened, grieving little boy?

Jill's eyes soften. She reaches for him, touches his elbow. The slight pressure is an anchor.

"Sorry," Clive says. "I'm sorry I never ..."

That was the day they lost contact. Mother took them both to Sanbreque. Jill stayed in Rosalith with her mother. He could have sent a letter or called or something. He could have found her. He went away instead.

Elwin always said you were a fine athlete. It will show unity. You're nothing now, so remember that. You chose to be nothing but a burden.

Jill says nothing. Her fingers trace down his arm, to his wrist, and weave between his fingers. She holds his hand. She pulls him back.

"And I've returned!" Uncle Byron says, bursting around the corner. "I apologize."

They break apart. Jill drinks her wine. Clive picks up his knife and fork.

“Keep me updated on the training this time, will you, my boy?” Uncle Byron says. “What’s this you’re working on? A throw? Are you mad, Jill?”

No, Jill is determined. They take it to the ice a few days later. She falls twice, unable to stick the landing. Each time she skids along the ice, swiveling back up to continue on, Clive’s heart starts pounding. A concussion, bruised or broken bones, something. She barely pauses each time, trained not to lose her momentum. The third attempt she lands with a wobble. She pumps her arm. Clive allows a smile.

The girls cheer from the boards. Crow shouts, “Now do it again!”

Dorys, who is in fact one of Jill’s good friends, is holding Jill’s phone as she records. Hanna normally does it, but she has been occupied by an inspection that she assures them is going well.

“Break?” Jill suggests.

“Let’s,” Clive says.

Dorys plays them back the video. Jill edits it quickly, but hits save, not post.

Otto wants them to start now. Joshua wants them to wait. They've compromised. Joshua’s arranged a meeting with a solicitor from a firm that handles these kinds of cases. Other people have changed countries before, even after competing. Clive doesn’t allow himself to think about it too hard.

Jill instead posts a picture of a sandwich and soup she made. The caption reads delicious! and that same blushing smiling face along with a pale blue heart.

They have all decided that Clive should hold off until they actually start training; that's fine, because the idea roils him with dread. Desiree prods him daily for content ideas, of which he has none. He does not make cute sandwiches, or have an adorable dog. Charon keeps losing out in sponsorship deals, because even though he is Clive Rosfield, etc and so on, apparently they see his absence and decide it's not worth their time. Or something.

“Gil for your thoughts?” Jill asks. He is staring.

“How do you know what to share?” Clive says, because he has to say something.

“Oh,” Jill says. “Just whatever I feel like. There aren’t actually very many people interested. It’s mostly bots.”

All those comments on the Octoland post.

“Ah,” he says.

“There were more, when I was still competitive," Jill adds. "But I had more trolls when I had bigger numbers."

Jill lands the throw jump again and again. Each time, she is cleaner, more precise. It isn't about perfection—Cid wants her to be able to do the element, before he starts tearing it apart. He likewise doesn't want her to pick up too many bad habits.

It is far too late for Clive, Cid adds, but he'll fix what he can.

At the end of their session, she is able to glide from his hands into the air with something approaching ease. When he watches back the video, he is startled to think that it's them, out there, executing that move. They look like that. Benedikta and he were always trying to go harder, sharper, faster, higher than the other; to goad one another on, yes, but also out of spite. Benedikta wanted to fly, but sometimes, it seemed, to get away from him and everyone else who had ever held her down.

Jill wants to fly, for the joy of it. She wants him to fly with her.

Clive drives home. The headlight of the Ambrosia is out again. There's something wrong with the wiring, he'll need to take it in. He sits in the garage of Joshua's building, practicing breaking it to Joshua that he is not going to continue his education after all. He submitted the withdrawal paperwork earlier today. Joshua will have words.

But as soon as Joshua sets eyes on him, he says, "Do you have a suit? With a tie, for preference?"

Clive has one for the occasional TV appearance and the various formal functions that dotted his life in Sanbreque.

"Why?" he asks.

"Quinten Gaultand is in Rosalith this week," Joshua says. "I've already called Jill."

Clive decides to dodge the more obsessive part of his brother's personality (and the questions, just in case Joshua remembers when Clive is meant to start class), and retreats to the shower. His phone, sitting on the sink counter, buzzes obnoxiously just as he turns off the water. It is Desiree, once more. It's her her job, he reminds himself.

He sighs as he stands dripping wet on the mat. He towels off and sneaks half-dressed back to the guest room. Joshua, uplit by his laptop screen, sits in the dark on his sofa, surrounded by open file folders. Jote has the night off; when she's not around, Joshua stops trying to look like he makes healthy choices.

Maybe, Clive thinks, as he stretches out on the bed, he can just take his cues from Jill. She always seems to know how to present herself.

He closes his eyes. He would like Jill to be right here, right now, actually. Her head lying on his shoulder, her hand spread out on his bare chest. These flickers of her come and go. He misses the enjoyable fluttering feeling of being attracted to her, without the complication of knowing that she does not consider him a part of the legitimate dating pool.

Clive justifies looking up Jill as research. Her Stolas feed has only a few photos of her; disappointing, but it makes sense. Her latest post is a congratulations to a former teammate who competed at Trials.

There’s no one he cares to congratulate. Clive did not make many friends in Sanbreque. Dion and Terence were exceptions; they introduced him to Biast, actually, hoping to lure him into leaving his self-imposed isolated loop of sleep, train, comp. It worked, for a while. He had thought that Biast, witty and subversive, would not care about the obliterating laser-focused gaze of the gossip machine.

Clive quells any urge to look him up. Biast moved on a long time ago, another artist-type, with a neat little mustache.

Mogstagram is the one mostly for pictures. This is what she put the Octoland photo on. Desiree begs him to either set an account up, or let her do it. With great reluctance, Clive goes through the irritating process of setting up a Mogstagram account.

Almost immediately, he gets a message from someone with the username ifitwerentforthatmeddlingmid, accusing him of posing as Clive Rosfield.

I am Clive Rosfield, he shoots back, and figures out how to block them. With some effort, he prevents almost anyone from sending him any kind of message. He goes back to stalking Jill.

There’s that picture of a sandwich. The sunset against the Rosalith Castle towers. Torgal, Torgal, Torgal. There is a strange apathy in the observations of strangers. He doesn’t know anything about what numbers would be good, but the likes seem a little low.

He scrolls down to the Invincible. He stops. The last photo is of her and him. A passerby offered to take their picture. His arm is around Jill; his hand rests curled around her waist. It does not look very brotherly. He wasn't thinking about it at the time.

With some apprehension, he taps read more comments.

What he reads seems unfair to him. Here is Jill, putting herself out there for the whole world, and the world does not seem to care. She is an amazing skater. She is a wonderful coach. She can cook well and her dog is cute, and the thing that gets their attention is that he’s in the fucking picture.

She may as well not even be there, for all they care.

Before he can think to regret it, Clive hits follow.

Quinten Gaultand arranges to meet them in a sleek indoor pavilion of a downtown highrise. Joshua and Clive arrive together, Jote shadowing them discreetly.

"You seem a little distracted," Joshua observes.

"Hm?" Clive says, looking up from his phone.

"Jill!" Joshua calls out. He raises an arm.

Jill has her hair down, loosely bound and shining in the sun. Her prim, high-collared white blouse and dark blue slacks suit her perfectly.

"Sorry," Jill says. "Torgal sheds so much. I basically used the whole roll."

"You look lovely," Clive says before he can think better of it.

He'd rather not look at Joshua's face right now.

"Thank you, Clive," Jill says. She stands a little straighter, smiling warmly.

"Shall we?" Joshua prompts.

Quinten has a sober expression and a bone-dry sense of humor. He looks like he might be someone’s middle-aged father. As soon as he lays out Jill’s case, he reveals himself as the most cutthroat person that Clive has ever met, including his own mother.

Clive begins to hope.

“You were right to have concerns,” Quinten says, in that slow, measured tone. Clive can picture Quinten giving this speech, right before incinerating a red shirt. “One expects that the Archduke intended to elaborate on Jill's citizenship as necessary, without leaving a detailed order. Without that, we will be arguing, in essence, on what his intentions were.”

“But there is an argument to be made, yes?” Joshua adds.

Quinten hums. “Are we assuming that there will be a challenge to Miss Warrick’s application for transfer?”

Joshua checks Clive’s scowl, as if he can interpret it. “Our mother is unpredictable.”

“I disagree, generally,” Quinten says, folding his hands in front of him. “But I take your meaning.”

Jill keeps frowning. Her brows come together fretfully, over and over again. Quinten takes a portion of the interview to interrogate her about her childhood, her time in the Iron Kingdom, her family. Clive is surprised to learn that her grandmother is Haearanni, on her mother’s side.

When Quinten concludes, he sets down his pen. Jill is stiff, at attention. She listens closely. Clive wishes it were appropriate for him to reach for her.

“I’d like to submit this case for initial review in about two weeks,” Quinten says. “If you happen to come across a document that conveniently outlines Elwin Rosfield’s grand plans, by all means, send it along. But I would anticipate the vicereine’s opposition, on the grounds that Miss Warrick lacks a sincere connection to Rosaria. Indeed, this has already happened to a few early attempts made by would-be Rosarian athletes for the Summer Trials. What Her Highness thinks of these people, it is not possible to say—however, there does seem to be a broad trend.”

“We’ll appeal, of course,” Joshua says.

“But of course,” Quinten replies. “I would love to find evidence of a bias. That would quite simply make my day. But we shall just have to wait and see what we are given.”

Jill nods, murmurs a quiet, “thank you.”

Perhaps Joshua isn’t quite satisfied yet, because he says, “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Gaultand …” while Jill stands to excuse herself to find a washroom. When she doesn’t return right away, Clive pushes away from the table. Neither Quinten nor Joshua pay any attention.

Clive finds her standing in a modern, boxy hallway, one foot on the step above and one below. One wall is glass, looking out onto Cressida Memorial Garden, as noted on a nearby plaque. Jill has her hand on a brass railing. Her eyes are closed. Jill is so restrained, so subtle in her moods.

“Jill,” he says.

She startles. “Sorry,” she says, hand flying to her breast. She presses it against her heart. “Is everyone waiting?”

“No,” Clive says. “The opposite, in fact. I think Quinten and Joshua will be at it a while. Are you alright?”

“I think so,” Jill says. “I will be. I have to have faith.”

“Three weeks until it really starts,” Clive says.

“I keep thinking that I'll wake up, and it will have been a dream,” Jill says. She brushes the hair from her eyes, subtly thumbing the corners.

He reaches for her elbow, to ground her, as she grounds him. Jill, at the same moment, raises her arms to gather her hair in a tail in her hands. Clive's palm comes to rest on the high, neat silken waistband of her trousers. She gasps. Clive pulls away; she does, too, after a beat, too quickly after lingering too long. Her heel, or something, strikes the low step awkwardly. She stumbles backwards.

He catches her, one hand on her hip and the other, the nearer, looped around her back. Her chin tips upward. Her eyes are wide; her lips part. Her forearms rest against his chest, her hands on his shoulders. He thinks so much about being held by her that nothing prepares him at all for being the one holding her, like this, so close.

Jill makes no effort to separate. The opposite. The tension of her limbs melts away.

Doubt floods his mind, but this time—

He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore.

He pulls her into an embrace.

“Whatever happens,” he says, into her hair, into her ear. “I’ll be here to face it with you.”

She swallows hard. Her arms slip around him. Her breath warms his neck as she sighs.

“Whatever happens,” she repeats. She holds him tight.

Whatever this is, it goes on. Clive doesn’t know or care for how long.

“That was just what I needed,” Jill says, as she pulls away. She sniffles. She brushes something away from his lapel. “Thank you.”

“Anything,” he says, softly.

He has been so selfish.

“Do you think they’ve noticed we’ve gone?” Jill asks.

They haven’t. When they get back, Quinten is explaining what they would need to prove that Anabella Lesage is misusing her position as Vicereine to benefit herself and target her rivals.

“But even if you manage to gather all that,” Quinten is saying. “Judges come rather cheap in Oriflamme.”

“Can that really be true?” Jill says as she takes her seat. Joshua barely blinks. “Is it really so corrupt?”

Quinten favors her with a long, slow smile. “Oh, yes. Occasionally, someone gets themselves caught. One assumes those are sacrificial in nature.”

Joshua scoffs. He looks fearsome. He is not going to be deterred. Justice will, eventually, prevail.

Clive thinks, uneasily, that his mother has quite a bit of money to burn.

Afterwards, Joshua sends an anti-climactic group text informing them that the paperwork has been submitted to the CTC and Viceregency just as they are about to hit the ice, followed by a casual inquiry after dinner for Clive. Jill spends their session prone to staring into space and lapsing into silence. The tension can’t hold forever.

The day after that, she is herself again, if a bit more subdued. It is so momentous, what they have done, that it seems as if the reaction should be commensurate; instead, it’s almost as if nothing at all happens.

To make up for that, Hanna gets them a cake from Molly’s. Good luck, Clive and Jill! is scrawled across the buttercream frosting. Her beaming smile travels from Clive to Jill and back again.

“I’m so happy you two found one another!” she says. “It's fate.”

Clive has no idea what to say to this. Jill hunts for the paper plates they keep for unprepared birthday parties.

"I can't find the forks," she says. “This is so kind of you, Hanna.”

Hanna points to another cupboard. "It is nothing, really."

Oscar leans in the open door, bracing his gangly teenage arms against the frame. Clive feels like he's looking into his past. "Aunt Hanna? I don't know what to do with one of them. It's addressed to you."

"I'll have a look," Hanna says. "Clive, would you put the kettle on?"

He nods, reaching for the electric kettle. Hanna follows Oscar out into the hall.

"I should take a photo first," Jill mutters.

"For Stolas?" Clive asks.

"No," Jill says, grinning slyly. "For us. For our memories."

His skin heats. "Right," he says.

She snaps a picture of the cake. She looks at him. “Can I get one of you with it?”

Clive stands awkwardly beside it as Jill struggles to find an angle that will include both him and the message. He smiles, or tries to.

“It looks like I’m torturing you,” Jill teases. She pockets the phone in her white jacket. “Don’t worry, I’ll end your misery.”

She holds out her hand for the knife and cuts a corner piece for him. He’s surprised she remembers.

“I won’t post it,” Jill says, cutting another, smaller piece, and then another. “I know you prefer your privacy. Do you know what you’re going to do for Desiree?”

“Not at all,” he says.

Desiree was overjoyed by his Mogstagram account, though she rebuked him mildly for not letting her get it verified first. She calls once daily, her chirpy voicemails reminding Clive to send her literally anything. She gives him helpful ideas. The latest one was baby pictures. No.

“Jill,” he says, frowning. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about something.”

“What?” she says absently, as she lays out one final plate for Oscar. “Maybe take the rest home for Joshua and Jote?”

“That picture of us,” he begins, uncertain of what he means to ask.

“I can take it down,” Jill offers.

“No, that’s not—I was just wondering why it seems so—”

“Popular?” she says, sheepishly. “It’s not something I didn’t expect. You’re famous, mysterious. Handsome.”

He has been very good about keeping it back these past few days. When she calls him handsome, the fluttering returns again, full force. Every part of him would like to hear more of that, thanks.

“They think we’re together,” Clive says, as quickly as he can do naturally.

Of the now one hundred and fifty-three comments on that post, the vast majority of them all ask one thing, worded over a hundred different ways. Jill has not responded to a single one.

“Yes,” she says. She lowers her lashes. She breaks apart the cake with the tines of her plastic fork.

He hesitates.

"I try not to engage," she says. "It—it must be awkward, for you."

Hanna walks in, shaking her head. "Jill—Clive—Clive, would you—I don't like to ask but do you know anyone, or does your brother, perhaps, who practices property law?"

"No," Clive says. "Not personally. I can ask Joshua. What's wrong?"

Hanna shows them a letter. "I don't understand it," she says. "Everything was fine."

On official letterhead, Fang Group informs the current tenant, etc. etc. Clive reads it twice. It's as if it's written in another language.

"The new owners think the building needs to be renovated to meet current standards?" he asks. It is as if he is asking the piece of paper.

"I think that's what it's saying," Hanna says. "But I don't understand why. The inspection seemed fine."

Clive and Jill share a look.

"Is this the same inspection from a little while ago?" Jill asks.

Hanna nods. "They didn't say anything was wrong. The facility is older, but ..."

Clive reads the letter for the third time. “Let me take a picture to show my brother.”

Despite Clive’s better judgment, Joshua takes one look at the letter and calls their mother. He holds his phone between them as they sit facing one another on the couch. Jill is pacing. When Mother answers, she stops dead. It doesn’t even look like she’s breathing.

“Joshua!” Mother says brightly through speaker. “You don’t usually call so late.”

“Mother, Clive and I were just concerned about Jill’s application for transfer,” Joshua says. His eyes dart between Jill and Clive.

“Oh, that,” Mother says. She makes a dismissive noise. “I recused myself, of course. You could have warned me, darling boy. The look on my face … It’s entirely in the hands of the committee. I’m certain they will take in all the facts, and allow Rosarians to compete for Rosaria.”

When she is like this, it is impossible to tell how much she means and how much she doesn’t. Joshua’s lips pinch together. Jill’s face is solemn.

“I have great hopes for them,” he says, matching her casual tone. “Clive and Jill have been training hard at Mann’s until now.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Mother says. She sighs. “Clive is acting erratic, don’t you think? Do try to rein in his worst impulses. He listens to you, Joshua. Do you think this new Continental coach of his is a bad influence?”

Clive flicks his hand across his throat.

“Right, well,” Joshua says. “Jote is telling me that dinner is served. I love you, Mother.”

“It’s always so wonderful to hear from you,” Mother says. “You are my world.”

Joshua hangs up. He casts a glance over his shoulder. “Sorry, Jote. I didn’t mean to involve you like that.”

Jote shrugs from her perch at the dining table, where she is sorting Joshua’s spring schedule.

“That wasn’t particularly conclusive,” Jill says. She wraps her arms around herself.

“Mother knows about Cid,” Clive says.

“Not terribly surprising,” Joshua replies. “I couldn’t tell if she had a hand in it or not. If it were her, she’d probably shut it down entirely. Raze the earth. That’s Mother’s style. ”

Joshua is right. Clive brings up the image of the letter on his phone again. The logo tickles his memory.

Jill heaves a sigh. She slings her bag over her shoulder. “I ought to go home.”

“I don’t get it,” Clive murmurs to himself.

“Good night, Joshua,” Jill says. “Good night, Jote. Clive.”

You don’t get it, little lamb.

Clive stands up. “I’ll walk you down,” he says. He checks for his phone.

In the elevator, Jill says, “What is it?”

Clive grimaces. “Can we take a detour?”

When they get downstairs to the courtyard, he calls Benedikta. She doesn’t answer the first time. He calls again and again. Jill watches with a frown. He texts Benedikta, You fucked me over, you owe me. It looks strange under his apology.

The next time he calls, she answers.

“What?” she snaps. “Cid not enough for you?”

“Fang Group,” Clive says. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Benedikta says, acidly. She’s annoyed.

“It’s a property management company,” Clive says.

“Then why did you call me?” Benedikta says, exasperated with him. He can see her shoving her fingers through her blonde hair.

Fine. He cuts straight to it. “Is it Kupka’s?”

“I have no clue,” Benedikta says. “He had a million of them. Why?”

“I saw him in Kanver,” Clive says.

Jill’s eyes widen.

Benedikta snorts. “No doubt that was pleasant.”

“He blames me for you leaving him,” Clive says.

“Oh dear,” Benedikta says. Her patience, which always runs short, is coming to its end early. “When you see him next, tell him I said yours is bigger. It’ll be funny.”

Clive rolls his eyes. "How's your television career, Harman? Going into comedy?"

"Yes, we're waiting for the pilot to get picked up," she says. "Good catching up with you, Rosfield."

Benedikta hangs up. Clive exhales. Jill clutches her purse, frowning deeply.

“Clive,” Jill says. “Are you suggesting that Hugo Kupka bought Mann’s so he could take it away from us?”

Do you think you can just start over without her?

Do you think I’d allow it?

Clive has done so many pointless interviews. He's always mentioned Mann's, fondly, as the place he started. Clive doesn't know if he's meant to know what's going on, or if he's supposed to assume he is being struck down by mere bad luck. He doesn't even know if Kupka knows that he skates there now. This could easily, easily be a coincidence. The deals Charon can't seem to finalize. Coincidence.

"No," Clive says. “So he could take it away from me."

They stand there, in silence. Hugo Kupka is worth somewhere around six hundred and fifty billion gil. He has a grudge against Clive.

The weight of that realization settles heavily on them. All their enemies are actually his enemies. Jill has never been the problem. They only care about him. He is the burden. It was never her.

"Jill, I ..." Clive swallows. "If ..."

Jill seizes Clive's hands and clasps them in between hers, one on top of the other. She raises her chin fiercely.

"I'm not afraid," she says. "If it's not you, it's no one. And anyway, you're too proud and stubborn to give up. The Clive I know would never do that."

Jill's face blazes under the courtyard lamps. She squeezes his hands tight. She pulls him towards her.

More than anything, he wishes he could kiss her.

"And we're not alone," Jill continues. "You don't have to deal with this on your own, Clive."

She breaks away from him, digging in her bag. She produces her own phone. He swallows.

"Jill—" he says. "Wait, I—"

Jill stops in the midst of searching through her contacts. Her striking gray eyes, set off by her dark, dense lashes, meet his. Her delicate brows are set so ferociously.

She is angry for him. She is going to fight for him.

The fluttering, which has never truly ceased, not once, not ever, grows stronger and stronger. It fills up his entire chest, flowing out into his limbs, makes every part of him hot and tingling. His head feels light. His feet cannot possibly be touching the ground. He feels as if he is going fast, his stomach whirling giddily at the speed. It is the reverse of falling. Guilt can't stop it, fear can't stop it, he can't stop it.

"Jill," he says, weakly.

She softens, for him, because he needs it. "What is it, Clive?"

He can't tell her. It would ruin—

"I," he says, and manages to stop that.

Fuck. Fuck.

"I never slept with Benedikta," he says, as if that is crucial for her to know.

"I didn't think so," she says, baffled by that bit of weirdness but too good to say it.

She brings the phone to her ear as it is ringing. There is a vague answer on the other end.

"Cid," she says. She reaches out for Clive's hand again. "Something's happened."

Cid isn't shocked at all. He hums thoughtfully to himself, after they explain.

"Well," he says, clearly for their benefit. "I was wondering when old Hugo would make his move."

The week before they were meant to start training with Cid, Clive and Jill sit in Jill's surprisingly minimalist flat and get on a video call with the whole team. Normally, they would do this with Joshua. Today he's joining the call from the clinic parking lot.

Cid is smoking in what looks like his back garden. "Alright, everyone," he says to the team he has assembled for them. "Thanks for being here today. Good plans change all the time. That's what's happened here. Seems that our Clive has a bit of baggage to sort through."

Cid runs out the situation with Kupka. Quinten's face hardly twitches.

"Hard to prove," Quinten opines. "And effective."

Clive wishes he didn't sound so impressed.

"No surprise there," Charon says. "You have a look about you. Are there no other rinks in Rosaria? I seem to recall a few."

There are, including one used for the Trials in 846. That one, Phoenix Indoor Arena, is also under renovation, but for another reason entirely. He has been ignoring those rumors.

"Assuming that Clive is right," Quinten says, "the goal is minimizing the collateral damage wrought by a motivated party with functionally unlimited resources."

"Not to fret," Cid says. "I know a place that is virtually unassailable."

"And where's that?" Clive asks. He's learning that in order to hurry Cid along, it is best just to take the bait.

"Bennumere," he says, with lazy jazz hands.

"Very clever," Joshua says, sitting up in the backseat of the town car. He is the only who seems to understand.

"Thank you," Cid says.

"I don't see ...?" Clive trails off.

"Everything around Bennumere University is a Triunity historical heritage site," Joshua explains. "If you want to move a single brick, you need to get the sign off from no fewer than three different cultural heritage committees, and they all hate one another. It's impenetrable."

"And they have ice," Cid says, triumphantly. "For the university. It's regulation, if a bit old-fashioned."

"I reckon you'll need money, though," Charon interjects. "Seeing as Cid, the madman he is, wants you to up sticks and go to the middle of nowhere."

Clive has just gotten used to living in Rosalith, but he has no distinct attachments. It'll be harder for Jill, who has students and a flat with a lease and Torgal sleeping at her feet. They are seated together on her worn, dog-furred couch. He barely fits behind the coffee table, and in order to appear together in the shot, they have to lean close.

"Any luck in that regard?" Cid says, cocking his head.

"As it happens, yes," Charon says. "Finally found one who hasn't disappeared on me. Bloody embarrassing."

"We won't have to sell our souls, will we?" Clive asks.

"I doubt it," Charon says. "It's your uncle."

Nothing could be more surprising. Clive sits back.

"Is that allowed?" Clive says. Joshua can only do so much, due to his rank. Everything he has done skirts the very edge of personal interest. But Uncle Byron ...

"Why not? You've both abdicated," Charon says, flinging out the single word that altered the course of Clive's life forever. "Private citizens have the right to engage in a little nepotism if they like."

"I see," Clive says.

"He's not likely to give in to Kupka or your mumsy wumsy, so if I were you, I'd take it," Charon says bluntly. "Otto can figure out how to spin it."

"Leaving it to me, are you?" Otto gripes. "Of course."

"You're the best at what you do," Cid says. Otto ignores this.

"Seems to me that there's two courts," Otto says. "Quinten's, and mine. Court of public opinion could put a lot of pressure on the vicereine."

No one thinks for a second that Anabella Lesage will allow the committee to make any decision that is not her own. But Mother cannot tolerate embarrassment or gossip of any sort.

"Keeping it under wraps only serves her agenda, not ours," Otto says. "Jill and Clive are Rosaria's fucking sweethearts. Be a shame if they can't compete because of bureaucratic nonsense. We'll push that."

Jill stiffens beside him. Clive doesn't say a word.

"Any advantage we can get," Quinten allows.

"That means you, Clive," Otto says, singling him out. "You need to quit your foot-dragging."

"I understand," Clive says. He glances at Jill. "Tell her I have some ideas at long last."

Off-camera, there is a tiny, high-pitched "yay!" Otto's jaw tightens.

"Good," he says.

"Work's cut out for us," Cid says. "I want to stay on track. You two think you can get to Bennumere next week? It's going to be rough."

"I think so," Jill says, more confidently than Clive feels.

"I'll get the paperwork sorted," Charon says. "You'll be needing those funds sooner than later. Don't worry, Quinten, I'll keep it all above board."

"I appreciate it," Quinten says. "It will make things easier."

"Clive, what are you going to do about school?" Joshua says. "I suppose you could try and transfer to Bennu—"

"It won't be a problem," Clive says quickly. "I withdrew."

Joshua shows a glimpse of his Rosfield temper. "Clive!"

"Nothing like family," Charon observes.

"We'll sort that out later," Cid says.

"Tell him to unblock me," says a girl's voice from out of Cid's video.

"No," says Cid. He is holding someone back. He stubs out the cigarette quickly. "You did it to yourself."

“Speaking of family,” Charon remarks in a low tone.

"I think we're done here," Quinten says. "Good luck." He disconnects.

"Clive, call Desiree," Otto says. "Good luck, Jill."

"Unblock me, you great lummox," insists the girl's voice. "You know just how many fake Clives are on Mogstagram? I've been doing you a favor."

"Tweenagers," Cid says, with a long-suffering shrug.

"Unblock me—!"

Cid's video cuts into black.

Charon gives no sign off. She merely ends the call. Clive doesn’t even know when she left.

"We're going to talk," Joshua says, seriously. "Clive. This is your world now, but it won't always be."

"I'm sorry, Joshua," Clive says. "It just got lost in everything."

Joshua sighs. "I'll see you when you get home."

He also disappears. Clive and Jill sit alone in her living room, which smells of flowers and dog. Jill twists her hands in her lap.

"He's right, you know," she says.

"I know," Clive says.

They sit in silence. Torgal ruffs quietly in his sleep.

"Lots to do," Jill says.

"Yes," he says. He can't think of anything else to say.

"I spoke to Hanna," Jill says. "She has some savings she can fall back on. She might have to sell off part of the business. I think you can imagine who has made an offer."

Clive grits his teeth. He does not know how he will be able to look Hanna in the face.

"I know," she says. "But it isn't your fault."

He can't think of a single thing to say. If he wasn't such an arse. If he wasn't such a failure. It is hard not to feel like he is poisoned, and poisoning everything around him with his endless mistakes.

"We're going to win," she tells him. "Against all of them. It will be our victory. Just like you said."

She works her fingers between his. He lets her. He wonders if she can feel him holding back.

"I couldn't do this without you, Jill," he says, quietly.

It's true. None of this would be happening if it weren't for her. This glimmer of hope exists because of her. She is a beam of moonlight, guiding the weary traveler through the endless night.

He steadies himself. "But we need to talk about something."

"Yes?"

"People," he says, as if they somehow exist separately, in another world, "think that we're seeing one another."

She grows solemn. "I know."

"What should we say?" he asks.

Jill lets him go. His hand closes on empty air. After a moment of contemplation, she says, "Whatever we say publicly, people are going to assume what they like. We will never get ahead of it."

She's probably right. He nods.

"As I said, I try not to engage," Jill says. "I don't want to make things difficult for you. So whatever you want to do about it, I will back you up. It's a good idea to be united. I know you see me as something of a little sister, so—"

"I don't," he says, before he can stop himself.

Jill looks up, stunned. She recoils, as if slapped.

"I—" Clive flails, reaching and reaching. This is what comes of telling the fucking truth. "When we were children—that is to say, you are my oldest friend, Jill. I didn't have very many, so—you're, you're dear to me, but not a—not quite a sister."

She hides her wounded expression. He can fucking see her do it. She swallows hard and smiles.

"Then that's exactly what we'll tell them," Jill says.

The insane scramble to get to Bennumere, to find a place to stay as they look for more long term accomodations, to set things in order, to find new coaches for Jill's students, to decide that Torgal is definitely coming with them—

All of that happens in the space of a single week. Clive loads up the Ambrosia with the things that he knows he will need more or less immediately, and plans on sending for the rest. It's a mixture of luck and laziness that means most of his possessions are still in boxes from Oriflamme.

"This time, my boy," Uncle Byron says, when he calls. "I am not going to stand to one side. Whatever you need. You and Jill.”

Joshua says much the same. His involvement, now that he has brought Quinten into the fold, has come to an end.

“I’ll hold Mother at bay,” Joshua promises. “I’ll miss having you here all the time.”

“Keep the guest room free,” Clive says, smiling.

"I will," Joshua says. "And we haven't finished talking about school."

Bennumere is a quaint town at the triple border between Sanbreque, Rosaria, and Dhalmekia. Clive listens to the Bennumere episode of Maeve's Mystery Mogcast on the drive there. It was the site of an impressive battle many centuries ago that resulted in the Triunity Accords, which generated a lot of wailing ghosts longing for revenge or lost lovers. Jill is enchanted by its fairy tale charm.

They get settled, Clive in a cheap motel outside the town limits and Jill in a bed and breakfast she has apparently known about for ages. She and Clive take a photo together in front of Bennumere University Activity Center, available for their use because Cid, as usual, has worked it out with someone. The students, they learn, call it the hideaway.

"Why, I wonder?" Jill says. She rolls her neck.

"I have no idea," Clive admits.

They stash their bags in a corner of the gym. Along the length of the wall is an enormous mirror and a barre, probably for the dance classes advertised all over the hideaway. Every surface has a patina of grime. The old floors creak. The celebrated bricks are exposed in certain places. The tall windows are composed of wobbly squares of glass.

"You'll find out soon enough," Cid says, all but winking. “I recommend you call out before you go poking round in some of the deeper shadows.”

Jill tuts lightly and goes on stretching.

“Before you know it,” Cid goes on. “A year or more of your life is going to pass. I can tell you what you’re doing right, and what you’re doing wrong, but you two are the ones doing it. I want you to shut out all that nonsense and focus. You have a team behind you; let them deal with it. But there’s no point to the team if you both don’t deliver.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Clive says.

Jill nods.

Cid rubs his hands together. “Alright, then. Let’s talk about twists.”

For the first time in several years, Clive uploads a personal photo to his official Stolas account.

It’s of Jill. He’s caught her smiling in the sunshine. Strands of her hair flutter around her face as she whirls around to look back at him. Clive is visible in the mirror, taking the photo, as is Cid, standing with arms crossed. They are tiny compared to her.

Time to fly.

Chapter Text

Announce changes for 875 in this thread please. Starting off with the big one:

Jill Warrick / Clive Rosfield (IPR) to Cidolfus Telamon. Training base Bennumere, IPR, Sanbreque.

Clive reaches into his jacket pocket. On the bottommost bleacher, Jill fights her shoes onto her feet. She is speaking, inaudible for all the chatter around them as the team gets ready to take their place on the ice. The dark shape in his hand is his phone. He thought it would be Joshua, once again calling to bully him into continuing his education.

He can't see the smile falling off his face, but he remembers what it felt like. He turns towards where the camera is positioned, somewhere near the walkway to the locker rooms.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

Clive—

He can see the shape of his name in Jill’s mouth. She reaches for him as she rises to her feet—he didn’t see that, in the moment, he didn't know—but she pulls back before her fingers can so much as brush his elbow. He walks behind the boards, Go! Go! Bennumere Behemoths! painted on the divider between the clear plexiglass. Young men in their very early twenties skate by in hockey gear.

Jill stands there for several seconds. Her face is nothing more than a smudge of pixels, unreadable, unknowable.

Someone has tagged him in the comments.

Trouble in paradise? suggests rockman16, in the caption.

Blocked.

The hammering rattle gets noticeably worse as the night wind whistles through the place where the sash doesn’t quite fit into the casement. August makes a face at it.

“Oh, hell. Blackthorne is going to be properly put out,” August mutters. “He thought he had it fixed for sure. Sorry ’bout this.”

“It’s alright,” Clive promises. “I’m the one who tried to open it.”

August and his husband rent Clive an attic flat, with a massive window that looks out onto the lake boardwalk. The rate is reasonable because there isn’t an easy way to draw the curtains over the whole of it, despite some obvious DIY attempts by Blackthorne. The house is old and oddly built, and it resists any and all improvements. Clive tells himself that, actually, he likes the light.

After August thumps back down the side stairs to the main house to give Blackthorne the bad news, Clive puts a kettle on the shiny, newly-installed kitchenette stove and makes himself a cup of the chamomile from the sampler pack that Jill’s mother gave him for Solstice. The swooping cursive note helpfully explains that garnet she included in the tin is to help him focus his passions and awaken him to emotional truths. Don’t Drink!! is scribbled hastily beneath.

He takes the cup of tea to bed and hammers his way through the fourth book in the series he’s reading. The late spring wind rises off the lake and clatters the glass in the panes. He got his wish; it isn’t so oppressively stuffy in here anymore, he thinks, as a curl of cold air blows over him.

He closes the book. He huddles over the cup, contemplating emotional truths.

The weird video is the least of his worries. He is not afraid of the person who is always trying to remind him that he is watching. Clive finished the phone conversation sitting in the driver’s seat of the Ambrosia, his fingers gripping the leather of the steering wheel as he listened to Mother’s latest demands.

When he closes his eyes, even for a moment—

—Joshua, ten years old, weeping lines into the blood freckling his cheeks.

—the sharp biting sting in his thigh as his eyes adjust from blazing light to darkness.

—every eye in the High Houses on him, waiting, waiting for—

Clive reaches for his phone, because it’s good at emptying out those thoughts. An image of Jill appears, the first in the photo album he was sifting through for likely posts. He looks at her for a while. She’s skating backwards, picking up speed. Her arm extends in a graceful arc. It’s exported from a video, which he watches again. Cid’s voice is clipped off at the end, “Good, Jill! Now—”

Consider it a favor to me.

I’ve already done you a favor.

Clive, really. Churlishness? This is important. With Stonhyrr approaching, it’s critical to maintain a balance.

He reluctantly opens the calendar app and counts the weeks. This will be his fifth trip back to Oriflamme this year.

Joshua probably doesn’t know about Mother's latest request, or else he’d be ringing relentlessly. He’ll find out soon enough, a prospect that inspires dread. Joshua loves him, but he’s taken to lecturing Clive whenever possible. Clive understands his behavior is infuriating. He doesn’t feel like owning that right now.

If he does, he’ll also have to own that his skating career eats at Joshua from the inside out. Going against Mother at every turn is taking a toll. Joshua has been looking more and more haggard in their video chats, with purplish smears below his eyes. He blames it on a new treatment, patting the center of his chest with resignation.

Clive is going to have to remember he put the tea on the floor in the morning. There is no nightstand; he’s been meaning to get one. He lays down. He hasn't told Cid or Jill. Let them rest. He can bear this alone for one night.

Elwin always said you were a fine athlete.

Taking the circlet from his head with numb, shaking fingers.

Only a man, like any other.

Standing beside his mother at the ceremony will be hell.

Joshua, kneeling to accept the ducal chain from then-Cardinal Lesage, heavy on his thin, shaking shoulders.

Mother's flashing eyes. Standing up from the sofa, reaching to pull aside the black drape to speak to the press. That withering look on her face.

It should have been you.

Clive stares at his phone, at Jill’s name, at their previous history. She is probably asleep by now. Their last conversation, from two days ago, was in response to picture of the moonlight gently skimming across the lake. The mountains rise up in the misty distance, framed by her balcony herb garden.

Pretty, he sent, after writing and deleting, writing and deleting.

Isn’t it just? she replied, within heartbeats.

He couldn’t think of something worthy enough to send to keep it going. He has nothing that would justify waking her after midnight, when they both need sleep. He’s just selfish. He wants to talk to her until he feels better.

Clive gives up and sets his phone back on the stack of books piled up to one side of his mattress. No nightstand, but he's been reading a lot.

He rolls over. He lays awake. He thinks about his mistakes. He thinks about what he's going to do.

He thinks about how much he wants to hook his arm around Jill and feel her inch towards him. Her leg thrown over his leg. He wants her graceful hands to stroke the underside of his jaw as she murmurs words of comfort. She’s hard muscle and sinew in some places, and pillow-softness in others, and the combination fires his very powerful imagination in ways he isn’t ready to admit either.

He snatches three or four hours of sleep, just as the dawn overtakes the night. Clive lurches out of bed and forces himself to the hideaway for practice.

Cid lies in wait, watching as the Ambrosia rolls to a stop. He’s swapped his Kanver Institute jacket for a Bennumere branded one, zipped to mid-chest in a jaunty way. He coaches the students, too, not just Clive and Jill, as a member of Bennumere's sport faculty. They are still his focus. How Cid manages to bend everyone around him to his will is astounding.

He stubs the cigarette away in the only available public ashtray—the school is trying desperately to curtail both cigarettes and vaping, so Cid is banished to the back parking lot when he wants to sin against his lungs—and marches over to Clive.

“Jill’s inside warming up,” Cid says. "Also, you’re late.”

“I noticed,” Clive says. He hikes his skate bag higher up on his shoulder.

It is a clear, beautiful blue-skied spring morning, cool in the shade and warm in the sunshine. Tiny birds hop along the concrete, looking for fast food crumbs left behind by students. His mother’s threats feel less pressing by the light of day.

“Let’s go in,” Clive says. “I only want to explain this once.”

"Shit," Cid says. "That good, eh?"

He and Cid slip into the hideaway, Cid still reeking of tobacco. The clockwork in Cid’s head is obviously ticking away. Clive scans the case of trophies—hockey, football, every other team sport that Clive bounced off of as a boy—as they pass, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. This back hallway leads to the rink more directly than the front door, which for some reason diverts into a circuitous path leading to the university’s community garden, the so-called backyard.

Clive stashes his stuff under a bleacher. Jill circles the rink one more time before sliding up to Cid and Clive. Rule #4 on the placard beside where she’s standing reads Refrain from speaking to anyone behind the boards when you are on the ice. Clive has never seen anyone pay attention to that rule.

“Is everything alright?” Jill asks. She’s flushed.

After last night, it’s a little difficult to look directly at her.

“No,” Clive says, ducking his head. “Sorry for disappearing yesterday.”

"It's alright," Jill says. She wipes her nose with a tissue. She leans over the boards to toss it in the bin.

“Alright,” Cid asks, catching up. "Enough anticipation."

Jill furrows her brow. Clive puts a hand on either knee. He swallows.

“My mother wants me to participate in the athletic showcase for the Remembrance Ceremony this year,” Clive says.

Jill inhales. “Oh, Clive.”

“The remembrance whatsit?” Cid says, tilting his head back. He plants his hands on his hips.

It’s easy sometimes to forget that Cid is Continental, and that most of his life in Valisthea was spent in Ash. Obviously, the mutual decision between two nations, long ago, to cease fighting and coveting each other’s lands, and go back to coveting the lands of the North and Dhalmekia, does not rate remembering for some.

“It’s a holiday commemorating the traditional alliance between Sanbreque and Rosaria,” Clive says.

It’s one that Mother takes especial care to celebrate it as publicly as possible. There are some who think that Rosaria and Sanbreque should have always been joined, and she likes to make their voices loud. They use the Remembrance as their key argument. There is a small component that celebrates Chronolith Trials athletes. Clive hasn’t participated for nearly a decade.

“That’s a little fucked, I’d say,” Cid observes. “What did you say?”

“That I would run it by you and Jill,” Clive says.

There is, of course, only one answer that Mother will accept. She never just asks unless she already knows what the answer will be.

“Ah,” Cid says. He crosses his arms.

Jill presses her lips together.

Cid pulls out his phone. He does a little tapping. He arches a brow. “This is the same day.”

Their planned debut is Hawk's Cry Cup, one of the possible challenger events where they can pick up the first set of minimum scores to get them into more elevated comps. It’s far out enough that they haven’t even submitted documents for it. They are waiting for Jill's certificate. IPR needs to clear her to compete for the regular season, too, something that is theoretically faster and easier. It still hasn’t happened.

“I noticed that, too,” Clive says.

“Interesting,” Cid says, and doesn’t elaborate. “Well, I’m not about to lie down and let Her Imperial Majesty run me over. Go ahead, let her know you’ll be there. I’m going to contemplate our next moves a bit.”

“What about Hawk's?”

“There’s another option, as you’ll recall,” Cid says. He glances at Jill. “Sorry, Jill.”

“It’s fine,” Jill says. Her face is impassive. “We have to, so we will.”

Cid reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a purple CD jewel case. The hideaway’s A/V room is even more tragically outdated than Mann’s. At least Hanna had a computer.

She did, in the end, have to sell. Renovations stalled mysteriously. The building stands empty. Hanna runs a skate shop now.

“In the meantime—practice as usual,” Cid says, gesturing with their music in his hand. “Don’t think this is going to be an easy day just because neither of you got any fucking sleep.”

Clive puts on the boots and gets out onto the ice. Jill trails behind him like an afterimage. Sometimes she will shoot ahead when he slows, and he will be treated to the sight of her gliding away. Her eyes focus on something far in the distance—but if it’s fixed in the future or the past, he cannot tell.

A loud crackle followed by a slightly unpleasant humming signals that Cid has turned on the speakers. The music begins. Jill meets him in the center.

There is no one else on the ice today. Sometimes the students come to gawk.

He meets Jill’s eyes. Her expression is somewhat hollowed out. She places her fingertips just under his jaw. He can feel the fuzzy static of her proximity, not her touch.

It isn’t going to be good. He knows the moment they start. They run through from beginning to end.

“Jill,” says Cid. His deep voice carries across the ice. He hasn’t come out onto it with them today.

The hip again, Clive thinks. He puts his hands on the small of his back, reflecting on his own pains. His back was fucked by the time he was twenty, long before the war got to him. Stubbornness.

“Yes?” Jill says.

Cid gives Jill a correction on her position in the air. Imreann has stamped his mark on all her jumps. Jill listens closely, committing it all to memory.

“Again?” Jill says, nodding at Clive.

Clive cracks his neck. “Alright.”

They setup. Clive can hear the music in his head. He can see Jill thinking, preparing, fixing. Then she’s aloft, leaping up, aided by his strength—but once she’s gone, he can’t do anything but follow. She lands harder than she ought to. Clive winces.

“Again,” Jill says.

They do it again—“Again,” Jill demands—and then set up for a fourth. His hands are on her body, and her body is in the air. She flies from his fingertips. Jill lands from the throw, wobbling. She grimaces, her leg swings into a check. Clive goes into the transition, even knowing that Cid is going to call it here.

"Again," Jill says, frustration marring her brow. “I can keep going.”

"No," Cid says. He skates alongside. "That's enough attempts. You're not going to get it perfect today."

"I can do it," Jill insists. "I've done it."

"I know," Cid says. "But you're not going to get four tries in competition, are you? That’s the difference between me and him. You aren’t going to win this one, Jill."

Jill fumes.

“Save your knee for the ceremony,” Cid says. “I reckon you’ll need it, should you be allowed on the ice.”

She skates to the boards without another word. Cid sends them off on a break. Clive knows better than to prod Jill when she's well and truly annoyed with herself. He checks his phone, instead.

Three missed calls, and a text from Joshua that says As your liege lord I command that you call me back at once.

Clive resolves to do it later tonight, when he has had time to think of how he's going to dodge Joshua's needling questions.

He drops his phone back into his bag. Jill cradles her brow with her hands. He goes to sit beside her.

"Hey," he says, judging that the worst of the mood has passed. They seldom last beyond the first flare of frustration.

"Hey," Jill replies. She drops her hands. Her face is paler than usual. Her lips curve downward at the corners. She rubs her eyes. "Sorry."

"You've not done anything wrong," Clive says.

Jill states at the floor between her skates. "I can't even focus."

Her back is bowed. It would be too much to touch her shoulder. Clive waits. Jill won't hear consolation in these moments. He understands that, perfectly. He doesn't push.

"I hear him in my head," Jill says quietly. "I simply don't want it enough. If I did, I'd have done it already, or I wouldn't have stopped until I did."

That isn't true dies on his tongue.

"I'm sorry," Jill says. Her voice is as thin as a shadow. "Your mother is using me to force you to go, isn't she? Is she even going to allow me to skate with you?"

"I don't know," Clive says. It would be tiresome to have to choreograph a solo exhibition on top of training for competition. He wouldn't put it past her.

Jill clenches her fist. Clive's own anger is curiously muted. He must be exhausted, because the safeguards he puts up mentally are failing again. Jill's lips are hard and tight, and he can't stop himself from imagining kissing them until they go soft. He swats that stray thought away a few times. It's tenacious, despite the circumstances.

Cid thumps the boards as he comes to a sudden stop.

"Back at it, you lot," Cid orders. "I've had a bit of a think."

"Oh?" Clive says.

"That's right," Cid says. "Forget Hawk's. This is your new debut."

I don’t know how I feel about Jill replacing Benedikta. They are pretty dissimilar. I think Jill is a bit wooden compared to Clive. You can tell he really cares about the emotional part of the program.

I kinda cant believe that their a thing. jill is very much an imreann girl. She doesnt have the power ot keep up, and she has a LOT of bad habits

No doubt Clive is the better skater.

I actually disagree with this. I actually think she’s a lot cleaner. Clive really relies on muscling through things, he gets sloppy, overcommits, relies on total bombast sometimes. Jill honestly has better skating skills over all even if she is weaker in musicality/artistry.

870 was stolen from her imo. Winter’s Bound is an incredible free skate. They are a perfect match.

She missed so so much of that season

i’m sorry but no way. she looks absolutely dead inside. No musicality whatsoever. the only thing it has going for it is that 4T+3L and that has all the classic imreann problems

God I miss Benedikta, is her show any good?

He hasn’t been good since 865. Never should have switched. Honestly his pairs career is a fucking joke. Clive Rosfield is so overhyped, he can't do those jumps anymore.

Fact is that Clive is one of the most awarded skaters ever. No one has beaten his Trials scores as a single skater and Harman/Rosfield were one of the most technically accomplished pairs ever. Ran'dellah was a crazy fluke, and they still medaled. If Harman didn't have that breakdown, they would have dominated the 873/874 season just like the rest of them. They could literally do things no other skaters could.

Hasn’t aired yet

Torgal drags his feet as they pass the sausage vendor. Jill shakes her head. Clive pities poor Torgal; on a better day, Jill would be more indulgent. She tugs his lead gently. His claws dig into the boardwalk.

"Oh, no you don't," Jill mutters. She is still in a bit of a temper. "Leave it, Torgal."

Torgal huffs. He passes the vendor by reluctantly, eyeing the sizzling grill with open longing.

Clive chuckles. "Life's unfair, isn't it, boy?"

"He's got a thighbone at home, it can't be too unfair," Jill says.

It's Clive's turn to shove his hands in his jacket pockets and sigh. The vacationers are not here in force yet; that will come later, says August, after the students leave for summer holidays. Clive hardly remembers anything about it from last year.

“I need to show you something,” Clive says, even though he doesn’t see it improving anyone’s mood.

They’re walking along the boardwalk, as they do most days after practice when it's nice like this. Cid is tough on them, he pushes them, but he doesn’t want the same unquestioning obedience that Tiamat expected, or the sacrifice of mind and body that Clive suspects Imreann demanded of Jill. He wants them to participate in their own careers.

Cid also wants them to have a life outside of skating. He's very firm about that.

Clive struggles with that particularly. Joshua has hinted, consistently, that he ought to take his remedial credits and transfer them to Bennumere. The fact that Joshua can’t imagine Clive being rejected from this prestigious institution shows a particular assumption of privilege that Clive doesn’t feel like challenging.

And anyway, the students that huddle on the greens, and dash around with their earbuds falling out, live such alien lives to his that he can't imagine being one of them. They look so young. He's almost thirty, ancient. Sepulchral.

“What is it?” Jill asks. She tucks a lock of silver hair behind her ear. Her open, contented expression swaps for one of growing concern. “Another one?”

“Yeah,” Clive says.

He shows her the video. He’s taken to saving them, even when he blocks the senders.

“That was yesterday,” Jill says, once she’s seen it. Her frown is deep and thoughtful. “That’s you taking your mother’s call, isn’t it? Has Cid seen this?”

“Not yet,” Clive says. “I dropped enough shit on his head for one day.”

She huffs. “Clive.”

The lecture is there. He can hear it already. Jill grinds her teeth to keep it in.

"It’s unfair that she can just ring you up and order you about,” Jill says, instead.

"She is the empress," Clive says, even though that role is largely ceremonial.

She wields more real power as the vicereine, though even that is only as much as the cardinals will permit. Mother will never admit that her role is that of a useful figurehead. It was the sacrifice she made to keep what mattered most to her.

"Why not last year?" Jill asks.

"She was hoping I'd retire," Clive says.

"And before that?"

"She didn’t really want me to continue onto pairs," Clive says.

His mother's lip curls every time she utters the phrase the Waloeder girl. He has never heard her say Benedikta's name.

The uneasy peace among the few nations of Valisthea is enforced by its relative isolation. The bitterly unpopular war between Sanbreque and Waloed ended under one year in a supposed stalemate, and when it was done, strong efforts were made to show that all was well. Sanbreque made concessions. Waloed made gestures of good will.

And when Sanfed's preeminent pairs figure skating coach went to look for a partner for the empire's most heroic son, freshly recovered and ready to return to the sport for new challenges, it was Benedikta, their star and one of the king’s special favorites, who was sent back over the strait.

Jill stops. They are on a span over the water, looking out onto the marina nearby. Blackthorne and August have a small boat moored out there, the improbably named Gotterdammerung.

“She didn't want Benedikta to perform?" Jill says, puzzled. “That’s …”

“It makes sense to her,” Clive says. “Everything is appearances to Mother.”

“Why does she care so much?” Jill asks. “It seems so petty, to interfere like this?”

“The Chronolith Trials are one of the few things that the cardinals allow Mother to have power over,” Clive says.

Torgal is sniffing a join in the railing and the boardwalk. Jill leans out over the water, watching the tiny fish cluster around the timber jutting up from the lake. An older man casts a line a little further down.

“How did you manage it the first time?” Jill asks. “If she was so against Benedikta?”

“She couldn’t refuse,” Clive says. “I had just been appointed to the Order of the Wyvern. There was a lot of news coverage. It was bad optics to say no.”

The story that the media had seized immediately was one of a hero pursuing his own personal dreams, after bravely walking (hobbling) into a mess to usher a group of noncombatants, mothers and children, to safety—all while injured. He can still hear the red-haired Curaga medic telling him that he was going to lose his leg if he didn’t fucking sit down and let her treat him. She’d tie him to a chair if she had to.

Clive runs his hand along the scar. The Curaga Project is the only organization he has ever attached his name to. The medic didn’t care if he was Dhalmekian, Waloeder, Sanbrequois, Rosarian ... she healed him anyway. He owes her his entire life. He never thanked her. He never got her name. It was such chaos.

"I see," Jill says. "Well, what are we going to do?"

“About the ceremony? Or the video?” he asks.

“Either,” Jill says. “Although I don’t think we can do much about our stalker friend, at the moment.”

“I suppose not,” Clive says. “Though I have no idea what he thinks he’s fucking doing.”

There is no one to report this stuff to. No one is going to believe him when he says that Hugo Kupka is being a freaky little pest. Cid seems to think that this posturing will be the limit of it. Clive tries to consider Kupka just a more irritating version of the celebrity gossip factory, which is also watching.

“I’m sorry about that,” Clive adds.

“It’s his doing, none of yours,” Jill says. “I’m with you, Clive. No matter what.”

Torgal noses Clive's side with a low woof from deep within his canine chest.

Jill smiles. “Torgal, too.”

“Thank you, boy,” Clive says. He kneels down to give Torgal’s scruff a good scratching, and chuckles as Torgal’s wide, wet tongue slobbers over his cheek. He pushes Torgal back a hair. “I appreciate your support. Perhaps we should we get you that sausage, after all?”

“I think not,” Jill says, flatly.

Torgal barks twice, loudly, and they both wince. Some students cast glances their way, but quickly lose interest. Clive and Jill are ordinary people here. For the most part, these kids are too young to recognize him.

It’s a relief. He knows eventually it will be over. He will have to face going back under scrutiny—not just in the limited capacity of social media, safely tucked away in an obscure little college town, but properly, in front of cameras, standing dutifully behind his mother to remind all the world that Clive Rosfield chose to fight for Sanbreque.

“You’re not alone, either, Jill,” he says, looking up. “Not anymore.”

When she smiles at him, he sees exactly the same thing in her face that he feels in his own heart. She’s not ready yet, either, but here comes the future, barreling straight at them at full speed.

“I know,” she says, softly. “I knew I would have to face it sooner or later.”

Jill’s frustration. Again. Again! That single word carries so much.

Her expression is small and tight, gazing out over the water at something unseen. He doubts that she is thinking about the future. He knows that look only too well. Her eyes scan the water and the sky; she looks anywhere but at him.

He wonders, sometimes—

He wonders if she’s afraid, too.

“Jill,” he says.

“I know, Clive,” Jill says. But she doesn’t turn in his direction. She doesn’t see him here at all. “I know I’m not alone.”

He swallows down something unpleasant. It is only his due. He knows that she doesn’t want to own it right now. He knows.

Clive doesn’t push.

Two calls from Mother in one month; an absolute record. A lifetime high score. Clive briefly considers going out to buy tickets for the lottery.

He listens patiently, bristling all the while, as she explains her deep disappointment. She was hoping he would do something reminiscent of ‘Away’, though she doesn’t know that it’s called that or what she’s really asking.

“I don’t have time to develop that,” Clive says.

“Isn’t it already done?” Mother asks.

“It doesn’t work like that, Mother,” Clive replies testily. Oil snaps in the pan as he adds the protein. “Fuck.”

Mother sniffs. He gives up on holding up his phone with his shoulder and puts her on speaker. He sets the phone down on the kitchenette counter.

“I know that you have your heart set on this partnership, Clive, but really, the ceremony is about Rosaria and Sanbreque—”

Clive hopes Cid knows what he’s doing.

“Jill and I are going to do our short program,” Clive says. “As a preview. It’ll be exciting for the fans.”

“I don’t know what the difference is,” Mother says. “Short or long, the certificate hasn’t cleared.”

“If it doesn’t,” Clive points out, “then there’s no reason I ought to show up anyway.”

Clive has already agreed to appear. His name has already been published. Desiree has noted a lot of chatter about it. It’s his big return, after ten years of absence. As it turns out, he still has fans and the draw of the Rosfield name is apparently still quite strong. Otto waited until then to send along the paperwork and riders and whatnot. Mother called shortly after.

“Clive,” she warns. “This is foolishness. There will be consequences.”

“Do you think I give a shit?” Clive retorts. The chocobo steak sizzles in the pan. “What do I have left that you can still take away, Mother, if you take away that?”

There’s silence between them. She sighs.

“Of course,” she says. “It’s all about you. Fine. Fine.”

“Thank you,” Clive says.

“You are so very much like him,” Mother says. Clive considers hanging up, but there’s always a chance that he’ll piss her off too much that she’ll be obstructive out of pure pique. “If I could give you a bit of advice.”

“Sure,” Clive says. He picks up the tongs to flip the steak.

“Believe it or not, I admired your father,” Mother says. “Even though it was—different—in those last years, I always respected his ability to separate his true feelings from his duty. He never allowed indulgence to have power over him.”

Anger seizes up his throat for ten full seconds. It’s good, because otherwise Clive would set the whole plan on fire. He stomps on his temper. He breaks its teeth. Yeah, he’s mad, but asking his mother if she really just suggested that Clive is only doing all this because Jill is having sex with him is not going to be conducive to any goal he has.

It’s times like this that he is grateful that they aren’t actually sleeping together.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clive says acidly. “Sorry, it’s burning.”

He ends the call.

Two days later, Otto notes that they’re good to go in a brisk ae-mail. Cid rubs his hands together, and says that it’s time to take the next step.

Joshua sends him a video link (it’s you! appended to a ten second clip of a grumpy dog with a black mop of fur sliding across a slick marble floor) but what he ends up watching is the ad.

A grisly murder. A dark past.

Two serious looking men shine a torch across a dismal, cement-walled room. The older one, who is appealing in a non-standard way, looks frightened; the younger, more conventionally attractive one scowls manfully at something only they can see. They are dressed in old-fashioned clothes, with ties and hats.

“Are you boys looking for answers?” drawls a woman’s low, sultry voice.

The too-familiar back of her golden head fills the frame. She glances slowly over her shoulder. Her eyelashes are silhouetted by an artistically strong backlight as she takes a cigarette holder from her dark red lips. Her feather boa slides from her shoulders to reveal a no-doubt plot-relevant necklace gleaming prominently on her sternum. She clearly knows the answers, and she's going to make revealing them an extended tease.

Cut to the young hot actor—probably her love interest. He is having an epiphany, and it’s unpleasant. In his hands is an open box that the camera cannot see inside of from this angle.

Some secrets should stay buried.

INTELLIGENCERS. Coming this fall. Only on ATL.

The Greatwood Line cuts a silver stripe through the lush green Sanbrequois countryside, en route to Northreach. Cid interrupts the conversation every so often to swear that he sees a fafnir in the trees. Jill and Clive never manage to turn in time. Torgal is back in Bennumere, being spoiled by enthusiastic pet-sitter August (and being even more spoiled by Blackthorne, who staunchly pretends he isn’t all that fond of dogs.)

Eventually, even Cid runs out of things to say and goes to pace the aisles, lamenting, as he does, the dearth of smoking cars. Clive tries and fails to get further into his book. Jill leans her head back, watching the forest tear by. She exclaims briefly as the trees fall back and the grassy meadows of central Sanbreque take over. To the north, Oillipheist Bay sparkles in the midday sun.

Jill takes a few pictures through the window. Clive gives up on his book at last. He can see Claireview Station coming up on them. Cid has found a designer, Hortense Gardien, who works out of Northreach. In a few hours, Clive is going to be measured and pinned within an inch of his life.

Sanfed had their own costume designers. He never thought much about what he wore before, so long as it didn’t hinder him. He didn’t have much say otherwise.

Cid, on the other hand, clearly expects him to have an opinion. In Jill’s big boxy tote bag, she has brought a little sketchbook. Jill is chary about sharing her drawings with anyone—Clive didn’t even know she could draw until she showed him her sketches, though he as soon as she did, he finds he can remember her doodling rather competently in her notebooks as a child—but somehow Cid found out and has encouraged her to bring them along to show Hortense.

Cid returns, and collects his suit jacket, which he left slung over the back of his seat. Even a proper suit can’t make Cid look formal, though he's cultivated a sort of rogueish style. He hasn’t bothered at all with a tie.

“Alright,” Cid says, checking his phone. The broad grin of a blonde girl—Midadol, Cid’s thirteen-year-old daughter—lights up the lock screen. “Running a bit late.”

The train pulls in. People crowd around the luggage bins, trying to get at their bags. Cid claps Clive on the shoulder, tells him to take care of it, and bounds off the train to have a smoke at long, long last. Jill shakes her head.

“Incorrigible,” she murmurs.

The three tiers of deep shelves are swarmed by people. They part for Clive, tall and broad, and Jill trails in his wake. Unlike Cid, and even Jill, to an extent, he has not dressed to stand out in Sanbreque's fashion capitol. People naturally get out of his way regardless.

"Young man, could you ..." says an older woman. She points to a lumpish patchwork bag stuffed on the top tier, far in the back.

"Sure," he says, handing it to her. He is a little surprised by how heavy it is.

From the other compartment, a young boy in a funny hat and a sash pinned with all sorts of badges blazes through the crowd. He crouches and then leaps to the highest tier, dangling from it and kicking his legs. He chants--or puffs--a sort of nonsense rhyme.

"Jackin!" mutters the older woman following him. His mother, Clive assumes.

A young woman with cloud-white hair slips beside Clive, reaching for her own bag. She favors him with a flirtatious smile. That happens sometimes.

"My bag's right there, Clive," Jill says, a bit forcefully.

There is a resounding crack. The top tier collapses under Jackin's weight. An employee, perched at the steps, shouts a sudden obscenity. Jill jumps back, but Clive lurches forward and snatches the boy away from falling luggage. The white-haired woman seems frozen in place; Clive reaches out and snags her by the elbow, pulling her clear, too. More luggage slides towards them. He curves around the boy and woman and lets the wheels of someone’s roller bag stab him unmercifully in the shoulder.

“Ow,” he mutters.

“Clive!” says Jill. She pushes forward through the stunned bystanders and clears the blockage with the help of the foul-mouthed employee.

“Jackin!” says the woman with him—his mother, Clive assumes. “You could have been—thank you, I don’t know what would have—”

She bites her lip. She shakes her head.

“He just—like that!” says one of the gray-bearded men at the sidelines, miming grabbing something and pulling it back.

“Are you hurt?” Clive asks. He looks between the boy, Jackin, and the white-haired woman.

“No,” says Jackin.

Clive dials back the scolding he was about to deliver. The boy is badly shaken.

“That was a foolish thing to do,” Clive says. “You’re lucky you didn’t get seriously hurt, or hurt someone else.”

“We are going to talk on the way home, Jacky,” says the woman. She turns nervously to the employee.

“Thank you,” says the white-haired young woman. Her color is high. She has her hand pressed to her belly. “You saved me.”

He tugged her a few inches backward so that someone's wheelie bag didn't smack her in the face. Clive tries to think of a way to say it was nothing without sounding like an absolute dickhead.

“What’s happened?”

Cid rapidly re-ascends the train steps from the platform, leaning on the railing. The employee forgets the woman momentarily, opening his mouth to, one assumes, inform Cid that he can’t reboard.

“Some bags fell,” Jill says, bluntly.

“More than the bags,” Cid says, appraising the broken shelf. “What’s this? Cardboard? No, they didn't anchor it right. Typical Sanbrequois workmanship.”

“My name’s Leyla,” says the young woman. She grins, her lips pink and glossy.

“I’m going to ask everyone to step back,” says the employee. The other passengers are murmuring and chattering. Some even try to slide forward, to try and wrest their bag from the mess. “Please—”

“Founder,” Clive utters under his breath. And then, much louder, “Everyone back! ”

That startles the gathering crowd enough to make them move. The employee looks at him with obvious gratitude. His name tag reads Bertrand.

“Let’s get everyone their stuff, now,” says Bertrand. “Ma’am, is this yours …?”

He struggles to prize the nearest passenger’s bag from between the fallen shelf and the one beneath it. Jill braces her shoulder beneath it and lifts. Clive steadies the bulk of it—it’s long and broad—and one-handedly fishes out the bag. Cid hops off the step, making room for people to exit. It’s slow work. Leyla accepts her duffel bag, and slings it over her shoulder, throwing one more lingering look at Clive.

Eventually, it gets sorted. Jill lets down the shelf slowly. It cracks a little more. Clive hands Jill her roller bag, which she hauls down to stand with Cid. Bertrand meets them there on the platform.

“Thanks,” he says to Clive and Jill. “I’m so sorry. If you don’t mind waiting, I can get you a voucher or something for the dining car, if you’ll be taking the return trip?”

“Don’t mind if we do,” says Cid.

Leyla sidles up to Clive once he hops off the bottom step to the platform. “I just wanted to say thank you again,” she says. She giggles.

Clive tries hard not to think about how close this is to his meet-cute with Biast. The row of pots at the gallery. Chivalry isn't dead.

“Not a problem,” he says, kindly but firmly. “Be safe, okay?”

“Clive,” Jill says, appearing at his side. “Let’s go.”

Leyla’s brow wrinkles. “Oh—”

Clive can see her tally it up behind her blue eyes. It's the wrong conclusion, but not an unwelcome one.

“Nice to meet you,” Clive says, resolutely sticking to his decision last year to not be (as much of) an antisocial arsehole anymore.

He still lets Jill loop her arm in his as they race after Cid. They catch up just as he’s managed to parley the dining car voucher into a taxi ride to the hotel. He eyes Jill's hand, curled around Clive's arm. Jill slips away as soon as she realizes.

“Some perks to being the big hero, eh?” Cid remarks as they all pile in.

Just met Clive Rosfield on the train and he saved me from being absolutely crushed by other ppls shit!!! If he did not have a gf, I’d be on him like a fucking rash!!!!!!! Those eyessss

Clive’s vision of his immediate future proves uncannily accurate. They are going to make a mannequin to his measurements. When he was younger, he thought he’d be skinny forever. Then he started training to toss a full-grown woman in the air. They release him, noting down some final details. He shrugs on his jacket once more, warding against the AC chill of the workshop.

The Storehouse is a wide open warehouse space with eight enormous worktables and a high, long row of windows that allow in an abundance of natural light. A set of stairs lead up to a set of lofts. Office chairs and computer monitors suggest that up there is the business part of the business.

Down here, Hortense Gardien reigns.

She and Jill are currently at one work table, examining the sketches Jill brought. Hortense is not without her criticisms. Jill accepts these stoically.

“You’re certain? Not something more daring?” Hortense says. She pulls another sheet and begins to sketch herself. “Like this? This bit would be sheer.”

Clive leans over. Hortense has iterated Jill’s design to include a deep neckline. Clive decides to look at that pane, over there. It’s more blue than the others around it. Jill’s high-necked silky blouse clings to her body in a way that makes his fingers want to squeeze something. He grunts.

Cid crosses his arms, regarding this second design.

“Could you skate in that, Jill?” Cid says. “It is sort of a romantic piece.”

“It’s more innocent than that,” Jill says. Despite Hortense’s frank analysis, she has lost quite a bit of her reticence. She’s involved. It’s a side of Jill he associates with her foodiness and wanderlust. She is full of hidden talents. “Not quite romance. More like a promise.”

“What’s the song, now?” Hortense says.

“‘A Prayer to Metia,’ from the movie My Lady,” Jill says.

Hortense, who has been until now aggressively straightforward with a slightly ghoulish sense of humor, holds her heart and sighs. “Oh, that’s a good one. I see now. Something more girlish, then.”

It's a fond memory, the three of them, bickering over movies. Not Magitek Wars, again, Clive! Whenever it was Jill’s turn, she always wanted to watch a costume romance, preferably with knights and ladies with ribbon favors.

When Jill hesitantly suggested the soundtrack for them, he watched My Lady with her again for the first time in years. Clive privately dismissed them as mere 'kissing' movies—his early teenage years were an agony of confused feelings towards certain classmates, and sinking his whole life into sport was a way to avoid acknowledging that, actually, there were some aspects of romance and relationships that might, in fact, be more than a little interesting—though he would never have said so to Jill's face.

He still finds the movie to be cheesy and silly. The book has far more depth.

A door on the far side of the warehouse floor opens audibly, hidden behind a folding dressing screen. There’s a receptionist desk on the other side, though when Clive, Jill, and Cid arrived, no one was seated there.

“Sorry,” says Hortense. “We’re busy—”

“Even for me?” says Isabelle Carl, peering around the screen.

Everyone stops. It's really her.

She is a surprisingly small woman. Her knee-length blue dress with a ruffle at the bottom veers more elegant than girlish. She wears her gleaming brown hair in the chignon popular in Sanbreque. Isabelle and Cid lock eyes. All is still. Jill puts her hand to her mouth, but Clive finds he can’t even move.

He wishes, once more, that he had done anything more than shower and throw on his father’s old leather jacket. Biast told him once that it made him look sexy and dangerous. Currently, he feels scruffy and tired-looking.

“Hullo, Belle,” Cid says. He holds out his arms, as if he isn't stunned to see her here before him. “How long’s it been?”

Isabelle favors him with a smile.

“Shockingly long,” Isabelle says. She closes the gap, her heels clicking loudly against the cement floor. Cid ducks down so that Isabelle can greet him with a brisk trade of kisses to the cheek.

She does not have to shout. Clive imagines that most people hang on her every word.

“Funny meeting you here,” Cid prompts.

“I apologize,” Isabelle says. “I heard you would be visiting. I wanted to say hello, introduce myself. Catch up a little.”

Clive supposes that of all people, Isabelle Carl has the connections to know what every atelier is doing in all of Northreach. All of Sanbreque, even. He hasn't much followed her post-Trials career, but even he knows that she is the final and most influential arbiter of style and fashion in Sanbreque. In all of Valisthea, maybe.

She turns that sultry gaze onto Clive. His scalp prickles. Is he expected to do the same as Cid? He has never been good at these kinds of greetings. He never knows what to do.

“Good afternoon,” she says to the pair of them. Her eyes move on to Jill, who offers her hand to shake. Isabelle grasps it delicately with both of her hands.

“Jill,” says Jill, businesslike.

“And the strong, silent one here is Clive,” Cid says, coming round to thump him on the back.

It’s normal to want to throttle one’s coach, but usually Clive is on the ice when those dark impulses rise to the surface.

“Oh,” Isabelle says, with a low, musical chuckle. “I see. I like this."

It takes him too long to realize she is talking about his father's jacket.

"Thanks," Clive says, trying hard to stay cool and detached.

He's too late. Isabelle is already sidling to the table where Jill's sketches are strewn about.

"How charming," Isabelle murmurs.

"Thank you," Jill says stiffly.

"They're yours?" Isabelle asks. When Jill nods tersely, she then asks, "May I?"

Jill steadies herself. On the outside, to someone who didn't know her or spend so much time near her, it would look like she was simply standing there with her arms held close.

"Certainly," Jill says.

Isabelle rifles through each. Hortense watches Isabelle with arms crossed, but Cid becomes uncharacteristically antsy.

Cid, of course, was the man of the pair. It would have been natural to have wanted to emulate him. 'Histoire' had been a pivotal program for Clive. He watched it again and again, along with the interview that followed after. Clive remembers reading about the dissolution of their partnership with disappointment.

I want to thank my partner and friend, Cidolfus, for his endless support and understanding. Nothing would have been possible without him.

Clive wonders what he'd do if Benedikta walked into the room. If she wanted to catch up. Neither he nor Jill have ever asked about Isabelle. Cid has not volunteered a thing about their real relationship.

"Think I'll have a smoke," Cid announces.

"This one," Isabelle says, holding up the one that Hortense wanted to alter.

In the drawing, Jill—or a slender cartoon of her—wears a high-necked, form-fitting dress. It transitions in a gradient from black to white to a teal blue at the hem. The bell-shaped sleeves transition to a simple white. They are cinched at the elbows by some kind of blue detail Clive doesn’t know a name for.

“Yes?” Jill says.

“Is there a match?” Isabelle asks.

“Um,” Jill says. “Yes. It’s for the short program, the one we'll be previewing at the ceremony.”

“It’s lovely,” Isabelle says. She accepts the companion sketch.

This one is of Clive. He can’t accept that his shoulders are really that broad, so Jill must be doing some stylistic exaggeration. Jill was particularly self-conscious about showing him any drawings of himself, so he hasn’t looked at many. This one is the opposite of hers—white gradually deepening to black. The accent color is instead a deep red, starting around his neck and echoed on his hands.

Isabelle frowns.

“Clive,” she says. “Would you come here?”

He’s been hanging around the periphery. He comes forward, unsure of what to expect. He looks at the sketch.

“Could you do it in this?” Isabelle asks.

Clive scans the costume. “Yes. Er—no—”

Jill’s mouth tightens at the corners. “Oh—”

She realizes at the same time.

The gloves.

In singles, it doesn’t much matter. It’s a choice. Lots of people like gloves because it looks cool, or because they get cold. But Clive relies on being able to feel her. He has to trust his grip.

“It’s important to consider the needs of each skater,” Isabelle notes. She glances at Clive. “But this is the standout pair. I certain of it.”

“Alright,” Hortense says. “We’ll chop off those hands and feed ‘em to the dogs.”

Luckily, this only means redesigning the costume.

Cid lingers long enough to watch this. He pulls out a pack and slides a cigarette, unlit, between his lips. He rubs his silver watch with his thumb. He takes a few steps back, and then slips out the door.

“What have you got for the free?” Isabelle asks.

“Three choices,” Hortense says. “All of them could be it, I’d say.”

Once more, they turn to Clive.

“Which one is your favorite?” Hortense asks. She lays them out in front of Clive.

One is black, one is red, one is white. They all look fine to him. Jill’s face gives away nothing of her own preferences. He picks one at random.

“Black,” Clive says, handing it back.

Jill’s tongue pokes out from between her lips. “Black,” she says. “The color of eternity. It cannot be stained, it cannot be sullied. Unchanging, unwavering.” She meets his eyes. “Just like our resolve.”

Sometimes, Jill will say things like that—beautiful, mystical, lyrical. She really sounds like her mother, then.

“Our resolve to win,” Clive says.

“A poetic sentiment,” Isabelle says.

“It matches the music, too,” Jill says, with a smile.

“It is a difficult goal to keep unsullied,” Isabelle says. “Trials, I mean. It’s been a long time, but I still remember the sacrifices, the compromises I made. It’s selfish, how much one must train to compete. All-consuming, if one wishes to compete at the highest possible level. It leaves so little time for the rest of the important parts of one’s life.”

It is the important part. That's depressing.

“I do sometimes wonder what my life would have been like without it,” Jill admits. “It’s too late to give up now.”

“But not too early to consider a second career,” Isabelle points out.

Jill turns pink. “It’s a hobby.”

Clive suspects that Jill is probably just good with her hands.

“And you?” Isabelle says.

His mouth dries up.

“Er,” Clive says. Clive Rosfield, wit and charm incarnate.

He’s got to say something. He cannot bear the idea of telling Isabelle Carl that when he is not skating he reads eight fantasy novels a week and avoids calling his brother.

“I’m going back to school,” he says. “Or—um—I’ve been thinking about it.”

Jill’s eyebrows shoot straight up.

“Oh?” Isabelle says. “To study …?”

“Literature,” Clive says, because it comes out first. Fuck him.

“How delightful,” Isabelle says, smiling warmly.

Fuck. Him.

Joshua will be thrilled, anyway.

Cid returns, but not for long; Hortense bats him away, claiming that the smell will get into the materials. He idles by the door, more awkward than Clive has ever seen him. He seen Cid caught off-guard, blindsided, even deceived. Cid never seems phased by the tribulations life throws his way. He simply adapts.

It's unsettling to see his own feelings on Cid's face.

At the end, the three women devolve to looking at previous designs from a collection Hortense did last year, and then into a deeper dive, huddled around a table, speaking fluently about seasons. Hortense has a binder that she leafs through.

Isabelle checks the time—not by bringing out a phone (she hasn’t looked at one this entire time), but by glancing at a delicate gold watch on her wrist. She pushes away from the work table. Cid flinches.

“Tatienne will be sending out the search parties and the dogs,” Isabelle muses. “My assistant. It was wonderful to meet you both. Jill. Clive. Thank you for your indulgence, as always, Hortense.”

“This was lovely,” Hortense replies. The two women embrace.

Clive suffers another moment of indecision (is he meant to hug her, too?) that resolves itself when Isabelle clasps his hand with both of hers. My Lady has him wondering if he’s meant to kiss her hand or something; she pulls away before he can bat that idea into the trash heap where it belongs. She does the same to Jill.

“It was an honor,” Jill says. “For both of us.”

“I’m certain the honor is mine,” she replies.

“It was good to see you, Isabelle,” Cid says, trailing after her into the little entry way. He leans in to embrace her lightly.

“And you,” Isabelle says. They meet eyes. Whatever passes between them is only between them.

Isabelle takes advantage of his bending down to whisper something close in Cid’s ear. Cid grimaces guiltily.

Once again, Clive thinks of Benedikta.

In the taxi back to the hotel, Cid is largely silent, rubbing his chin and watching the industrial part of Northreach slide into touristy oldtown.

“Do you mind if I get off here?” Jill says, perking up. “I can find my own way back.”

“Is this ... ?” Clive asks.

“The Northreach street market,” Jill says, matter-of-factly.

“Open all year round,” Cid adds. “You ought to flit about while you can. When we get back to the hideaway, I’m going to put you through it.”

“Clive—” Jill says, about to say something like, If you don’t mind—

He doesn’t.

“I’d be happy to,” Clive says. He tries to remember August's instructions. He should have asked for it a text. "I was meaning to visit, too."

When the taxi stops at a street corner, he and Jill both get out.

“You two behave yourselves,” Cid warns, as he always does. He sounds a bit more like himself. Clive grunts, wondering why he was ever worried.

It’s a short walk to a covered market, replete with stalls and stalls of trinkets and farm-fresh veg. Locals and tourists alike mill about; Clive notes that the tourists are mostly carrying paper cups of coffee bearing the Bahamucks logo. When they pass the flagship store, there is a line that winds around the block.

Jill breezes past this trap and buys a hand pie and a coffee from a smaller stall. The sun is getting low, but there's an hour until sunset proper.

“Where do you want to start?” Clive asks.

“Here’s good enough,” Jill says.

She does a few poses in front of a long lane of stalls. She asks Clive to snap a few more pictures as she browses a stall selling macramé plant hangers (and as she buys one). Clive does so on her phone and his—Desiree will be extra squeaky if he doesn’t at least try to keep up—and then trails behind her as she ambles the market for her own amusement.

“Look,” she says, drawing him to a stall that sells candles and perfume. She tries a scent and offers him her wrist to sniff. “What do you think? You’d have to put up with it.”

There’s a part in the choreography where his head rests on her shoulder. The day one shampoo ran out and she switched to another, he noticed.

“It’s nice,” Clive says.

“I’ll pack that up for you, miss,” says the stallkeeper. She glances at Clive—it takes him a moment to realize that she’s expecting him to pay, for some reason.

Jill clears her throat as she takes out her own wallet.

While Jill pays, Clive wanders slightly ahead. He still has his own task to complete. Luck is on his side, as he picks up an intricately formed silver bracelet.

"What’s this?" Jill says, coming up from behind.

The jewelry vendor rounds the table. "Handcrafted by local artisans," he says. He passes Clive a little laminated card detailing the artist, who designs each collection on a different mighty beast.

Clive snaps a photo to send to August. To his surprise, a reply comes back at once.

It's perfect! Let me know what I owe you.

"I'll take this one," Clive says.

"It'll look perfect on you," the vendor says to Jill.

"Oh," Jill says, stunned. "Clive, you don’t—"

"It's for my landlord," Clive says without thinking. He fumbles. That sounds awful. The vendor is staring. "Sorry, for his husband—"

That sounds even worse.

But Jill understands. "Is Blackthorne taking up silversmithing, now?"

Whenever Blackthorne gets into something new, August gifts him with ‘inspirational examples.’ From Blackthorne's behavior, Clive would have thought that this would only make Blackthorne's depressive nature worse, but August swears up and down that he is actually delighted. Jill seems to get it. Now that Clive thinks of it, she and Blackthorne are similar in that way.

"His birthday's coming up," Clive says. "August asked me to see if there was anything in the Northreach market that might suit."

"They are so sweet," Jill says. "Have you given a thought your birthday?"

Thirty looms. "Not really," Clive says.

They seem as unlikely a match as Clive has ever seen, but perhaps something of August's sunny nature tempers Blackthorne's fouler moods.

They push on from the vendor’s stall as soon as the package is wrapped up. Clive sends August the amount; within a few moments, he hears the alert for an electronic deposit, the reverse of what usually happens. The busy stalls are interesting to peek at, but after his errand is complete, Clive has little interest in buying anything else.

“They’ve been married for over a decade,” Clive says, continuing from before. “So clearly something is working.”

“I’m a little envious,” Jill admits. "They seem so at ease with one another. It seems nice."

Clive prickles involuntarily. These days, the number one comment on Jill's posts is where's your boyfriend? It takes all of Clive's will not to reply, I'm taking the fucking picture.

There's too many reasons to list why responding like that is a stupid idea. Desiree has advised him not to, besides.

“Huh,” Clive says. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, the brown paper bag with the bracelet dangling from his wrist. Jill, of course, can do as she pleases. His heart throbs in his chest. If she started dating, he could probably handle it.

“Not that there’s any time to actually see anyone,” Jill says, quickly. “Isabelle was right. Trials is all-consuming.”

Relief so profound he feels like an absolute eel. But she's right.

I’m sorry, but I don’t want this anymore. Biast. Brigitte, before him. I never see you, Clive.

“It’s hard,” Clive agrees, not trusting himself to look at her, or do anything but nod and stare at the ragged cobblestones.

“Isabelle is exactly as I imagined her,” Jill says, as she rubs a little more of the scent into her skin.

Clive grunts. He doesn't mind her changing the subject. He looks at a stall selling silver tea sets, and wonders if that would have been better. His reflection distorts in the mirror surface of the pots. He can see her lean forward to examine him in his periphery.

“You seemed a bit—” Jill selects her next word with care. “—flustered.”

Clive grunts again.

“Are you really going to study literature?” Jill asks. A smile hangs just on the corners of her lips.

“I am now,” Clive says, defeated.

Jill snorts.

“It seems that Isabelle Carl has done what even Joshua could not,” Jill teases. She's grinning; though slight on any other woman's face, on hers, it's astounding. “Starstruck into going back to school. He’ll be livid that he didn’t think of this.”

Clive doesn't even know how he's going to start that process. The skating season is staring him dead in the eye.

“I was surprised,” Clive argues. “It was surprising. Even Cid was surprised.”

Jill hums gleefully. Clive finds that he actually doesn’t mind being the object of this unmerciful teasing.

“Listen,” Clive says. He adopts a mock-stern tone of his own, to contrast her playful one. It is so rare that this side of Jill comes out these days. She tells him that Ironholm and Western Cup don’t weigh on her, but it’s not true. He can make a fool of himself if it will make her laugh. “If your biggest teenage celebrity crush just turned up one day wherever you happened to be, you’d be surprised, too, Jill.”

But instead of rolling her eyes at him, or laughing, or making a witty comeback, Jill’s cheeks turn pink. She brings her palm to her face. The good humor evaporates.

Jill presses her hand to her lips.

“I suppose I was,” Jill says, at last, with the finality of a woman who has made a decision.

It takes him a moment. He thinks that he had no idea she liked Isabelle that much, though it makes sense—she had a great deal to say to her, they talked for hours. Clive isn’t like that at all, though he remembers, cringing, being fourteen years old and practicing in the mirror what he might say if he ever got the chance to speak to Isabelle—

Those soft gray eyes meet his.

He forgets, sometimes. But people still recognize his face on the street. People know his name. They did it today, even. He showed up one day at Mann's, a bolt from the blue.

“Oh,” Clive says stupidly.

“Sorry,” Jill says, turning pinker. “That could have been better done.”

“No,” Clive says.

Am I too late? he wonders anxiously.

“I didn’t know if I ought to mention it,” Jill says.

Why me? He wants, badly, to know everything.

He doesn't think of himself as attractive, exactly, but he knows that he is. He's fit and tall and people have a lot to say about the color of his eyes. Does Jill agree? She never makes comments on his looks. She never says anything about it.

Leyla, from the train. Jill, short and brusque, her arm linked with his. Her hand, reaching for him.

“It’s fine,” Clive says.

I thought that—

He has not forgotten Jill’s pained look, swiftly concealed, when he told her that she was not like family to him. She has not had many people in her life to call her own. Guilt gnaws.

Because there’s Jill, at nine years old, asking him to help her write a letter to her father in Ash. There she is, receiving it back, unopened. How quickly that news tore through the staff.

Poor mite. Really is the thrownaway princess, isn't she?

But sometimes, at night, when he's at his loneliest, and (honestly) his horniest, he thinks about that moment in The Fat Chocobo. He thinks about how she only said that Joshua was like a little brother to her.

"I hope that doesn't change anything between us," Jill says softly.

Clive is ripped back to their conversation so fast he struggles to follow the original thread. The only thing that's clear is that he has been an idiot.

"Of course not," Clive says at once. "Jill, I—"

"It's alright, Clive," she assures him. Her face is closed off, turned away. She checks her phone. "It was just a childhood crush, I promise. Should we head back to the hotel?"

If she doesn't want to talk about it, he won't push. She never pushes him, and it seems—wrong—to try to push her now, when she is already pulling away. He doesn't know what would make the situation better. Not him panting after her like a dog, that’s for sure. They walk back together as the sun sets. Jill is mostly quiet, withdrawn into herself. Her playfulness is gone. He doesn't know how to get it back.

Making a fucking fool of himself doesn't seem that funny anymore.

Cid works them hard when they get back to Bennumere. He doesn't talk about Isabelle.

Days and weeks bleed past them. Jill doesn't bring up their conversation in the Northreach market except to ask if Blackthorne liked the bracelet.

"It threw him into a creative rage for three days," Clive says, as they break in between runthroughs. His landlords' garage hummed and buzzed with the sounds of silversmithing for the full feastday weekend. "August considers it a resounding success."

Jill smiles, hiding it politely behind her hand. "That's wonderful."

On the surface, it is all the same.

One week out from the ceremony, Cid tells them he needs them to skate like gods; and that they have the rest of the day off, to recover. Recently, Jill has been finding reasons to dart home right after practice.

Clive has started filling out the transfer application in the void in his free time, which involves staring at his laptop screen and thinking about how to answer the very rational questions Bennumere has about his academic goals and history. Why is there a break in his education? What are his career goals post-graduation?

Every time he looks at describe any personal hardship(s) which you have overcome, he shuts down. The easiest part is actually filling out the veteran business.

Clive, putting away his skates, imagines another six hours of that when Jill approaches him.

"I have a surprise for you," Jill says. "Have you ever been to the Tub and Crown?"

The Tub & Crown is the college pub, proudly the oldest pub in the entire Triunity. Maeve recently released an episode about haunted buildings in Valisthea, where it was included as a side story in her greater narrative. A set of vengeful schemers supposedly lurk in the corners, inviting the unsuspecting to dice games, with their very souls as the stakes. He's never been inside.

He follows Jill into town, leaving their cars behind in the hideaway lot. She clearly intends to be evasive about his surprise, and dodges his every question expertly. After the mess in Northreach, Clive is more than willing to let her have her secrets. He has been telling himself that if she was still interested, she would have said so then.

It's fully possible that he's just a coward.

The nature of the surprise comes clear as soon as they walk in and Joshua, in a hat and sunglasses, stands up from the waiting area. He is gaunt and skinnier than Clive remembers. Jote sits next to him in a brown coat over a rather ordinary green T-shirt and a Molly's box sitting on her knees. Clive supposes that outside, there are two black cars with special permits, subtly parked nearby. The staff looks a bit nervous.

"Happy birthday, brother!" Joshua says, drawing him into a sudden hug. Every rib, every ridge of bone.

"Eh?" Clive says.

Joshua slaps Clive's back, grinning. "You forgot."

"Happy thirtieth," Jill says warmly.

They sit down and have dinner. Joshua is constrained by a new set of dietary restrictions that pub food struggles to meet. He jokes about it—"Jote has promised to let me smell the cake, at least!"—but Clive can tell his brother is frustrated by his limitations. Joshua leads most of the conversation, asking about training and life and the trip to Northreach.

"Isabelle Carl," Joshua says, thoughtfully. He grins. Clive suddenly knows what he is recalling, right now. "Didn't you—"

"No," Clive says.

"What?" Jill says.

"Clive wrote Isabelle a letter," Joshua says, the goblin that he is.

They are all four crammed in a booth. The band has just finished playing, and they are packing up their instruments as students break out into the Behemoth fight song. Jill's thigh is mashed against his. Jote could almost pass for Joshua's latest girlfriend, though Clive realizes abruptly that Joshua hasn't dated anyone for about two or three years.

"A private letter, I might add," Clive interjects.

Jill presses her hand to her lips. She is valiantly holding back a smile.

They enjoy a bit more banter and conversation before they dole out the cake. Joshua swipes some frosting, after all. Jill bids them goodbye, citing Torgal, and leaves Joshua and Clive to catch up. Jote stands, and slips away to the bar. She has eyes on Joshua, and could get to him quickly. The balance of doing her duty versus allowing Joshua a bit of breathable privacy has always been one of Jote's strengths.

"So," Joshua says. "Anything else that's new?"

His brother's unsubtle prodding makes him squirm. Joshua notices everything, it seems, though on occasion his conclusions will miss the mark.

"No," Clive says.

Joshua boos him, groaning loudly. Even Jote, scrolling through her phone at the bar (or appearing to do so), glances up.

"What?" Clive says, defensively.

"You two!" Joshua says. He lowers his voice. "How is that neither of you has made a single inch of progress?"

If he tries to hit Joshua with the line, we're just friends, I feel nothing but deep and sincere friendship towards Jill Warrick, they will end this perfectly good night with a trip to the ER for Joshua's broken hand. Jill will have questions.

"I don't know," Clive mumbles. He struggles internally. "What do you mean, neither?"

"I mean you're both emotionally challenged," Joshua says before deciding his tone is too sharp. He huffs a sigh. "I shouldn't be commenting on Jill, or her feelings, but honestly, Clive, if you can't see what's in front of you, I am at a complete loss."

He gasps sharply. Joshua hunches forward. Clive startles, reaches for him.

"Joshua—"

Joshua holds up a hand. He presses his fingers to his heart. Jote crosses the room.

"Sir," she says. Clive only rarely hears her speak. She has a soft, firm voice. Her eyes are fixed on Joshua's face.

"It's alright, Jote," Joshua wheezes, after a moment.

Clive thinks to himself, the new treatment isn't working.

"Right as rain," Joshua says, exhaling.

"Should you be traveling?" Clive asks.

"I missed you," Joshua says. It is not an answer. "Bennumere isn't as far off as Oriflamme, but it damn well feels like it."

Clive smiles at the observation, which is meant like a joke, but his unease grows. He is here to train for Trials. He spent years apart from Joshua. He never noticed before.

He never noticed how his life looks so desolately empty from the outside. From the inside, even. No friends, no family. There is a wall between him and Jill now, one he is afraid to try and breach. He—feels so deeply—for her and Joshua both, and they are so far away. He has been so, so alone since Phoenix Gate.

His memory around that time is smeared. The sports psychologist called it trauma, and made a recommendation to another specialist, whom Clive never went to see. Sanfed considered its duty towards his mental health done, and did not force it further. Mother certainly did not want him to admit to weakness where anyone could hear.

All he had was the sport. That first year, he had been the dark horse. Afterward, there was an unbroken stretch between 859 and 865 were Clive simply dominated every competition where he stepped out on the ice. He did nothing else but win.

Everyone in the figure skating world knows who Clive Rosfield is. It's not arrogance. He is better than everyone else. He has a jumble of medals in a box somewhere that proves it.

He doesn't know what it got him. It didn't make him happy.

"I'll try to come visit more," Clive says. Joshua's schedule, somehow, is more engraved in stone than his own.

"Nonsense," Joshua says, sounding more and more like himself. "You're training. Besides, next week, we will be suffering together with Dion, like old times."

"You should rest, sir," Jote says.

Clive can't make himself nod. He doesn't push, either.

He says, "Like old times."

Underneath the carousel of photos and a single video that Clive took of Jill dangling the macramé plant holder in front of her and envisioning it in her flat, a stream of comments fills the white space.

What are you doing in Northreach?

when do tickets go on sale

Btf I am so excited for RC!!!

Are you two dating?

Where’s Clive?

That looks like such a fun date!

i don’t understand the website when do tickets go on sale

they aren't dating

Um, they clearly are.

tickets for RC winter showcase have been sold out for weeks, sorry.

The Emperor of Sanbreque, Sylvestre Lesage, presides over the first third of the Remembrance Ceremony. The young woman in black responsible for mics skips over Clive with an apologetic nose scrunch. Jill and Cid are already at the arena.

Every member of the Imperial family is present in this big square tent that serves as a green room. Wade grins at Clive, starkly contrasting with the somber security personnel present. Clive is not considered a principal these days; that was the first thing to go. He’s only obliged to have security detail during public events. He's always assigned Sir Wade.

The orchestral notes of the Hymn threads up to the pavilion. Oriflamme’s elite in attendance rise with a hushed rustle of silk and taffeta. Decorative ladies’ hats make the garden look like a box of bright-colored candies. Sylvestre, in Imperial regalia, leads the procession. A flutter of clicks resounds as pictures are taken. Clive takes up the last spot. While Anabella, Joshua, and Olivier have foldable, velvet lined chairs, Clive and Dion will stand, slightly behind the three of them. Clive focuses on maintaining a neutral expression, and not yawning. Big white clouds tumble overhead in the clear blue sky. The marble pillars gleam, each with its own ceremonial guardsman posted.

It is a gorgeous day to celebrate the happy annexation, his mother’s great political sleight of hand: turning Sanbreque’s invasion into something other than what it was.

Her tiara glitters in the sun. She beams an adoring smile at her second husband as he speaks. She holds Joshua’s hand on one side, and Olivier’s in the other, symbolizing in herself the force that unifies the noble lines of Rosaria and Sanbreque.

Clive dislikes his mother as a person, disapproves of her many self-serving choices, and resents her for her actions against him personally. Joshua considers her nothing worse than a problem to be managed. Would he forgive her for what she’s done, though, if she was as devoted to him as she is to her favored sons? The answer eludes him.

The pomp of the Remembrance Ceremony eventually concludes.

"I'll see you at the gala," Dion whispers, as they file back to the tent and the guests rise to be escorted to the Whitewyrm Gardens for tea and refreshments and to rub elbows with one another. Joshua is too preoccupied, as he has a pair of the most coveted elbows in all the Empire. Jote, nearby, nods a promise to let him know that Clive has gone.

Wade whisks Clive away to a waiting car. Perhaps it is different for Joshua or Mother, who can command certain comforts by dint of their rank, but these events are strangely unglamorous from his perspective. The waiting rooms are bland and beige. The garages stink of petrol fumes. Traffic is as bad as he remembers.

The Penitent’s Arena parking lot is choked with cars and camera trailers. The architecture of the arena is closer to that of a cathedral than a sporting event space, though the modernized inside looks the same as most other rinks Clive has been in.

“This way,” Wade says cheerfully, though Clive knows the venue back to front. The sweeping halls are choked with black boxes on wheels, each stamped with the logo for Lukahn, the music act who will be performing after the venue reset following the showcase.

The long hall to the dressing rooms bustles with bodies. The stage manager checks over her list and tells him that Cid and Jill are on the ice and that room over there is their dressing room.

It's like returning to the life he lived before Dazbog.

"What do you think about the vending machine back there?" Wade says, thumbing slightly down the hall.

"The green-flavor Flan Prince always gets stuck," Clive warns.

Protocol says Wade shouldn't let him alone like this, but the vending machine is only ten feet down the hall, and it isn't like Wade's going to watch him change into costume. He knows how Clive feels about the shadows that tail his brother constantly.

Two young men, early twenties, loiter nearby.

"I don't see the big deal," one murmurs to the other, who snickers.

Clive doesn't recognize either one. He assumes they are not important. He’s done this shit too many times to be riled. He passes by without acknowledgement, and hopes that it makes them really mad.

The dressing room is a utilitarian gray square, with a clothing rack, a full length mirror, and boxy loveseat. A door opens to a tiny private toilet and shower. Exactly as he left it. Jill and Clive are apparently meant to share, because she’s already taken out her costume and left it on the back of the loveseat.

Benedikta would have rioted.

Clive starts by stripping off the suit. Jill has been quietly buzzing with anxiety for days, having not performed on the ice for an audience for well over three years.

Unzipping the bag, Clive recalls how seeing this—her costume, her dream—come to life seemed to cheer her, at their test fitting. The scar tissue on his leg flares up hot as he stands there in only the trousers, the shirt as fluttery and light as a shadow in his hands. Her face lighted up from within to see something she had conceived of made real.

A sharp rap breaks his reverie.

"You decent?" asks Cid.

Decent enough for Cid. "Yeah," Clive says.

The door opens. "You hurry up, now," says Cid. “Want to get your warm up in, eh?”

Jill, digging through her tiny white pocketbook, freezes when she sets eyes on him. Cid, behind her in the hall, isn't even looking in his direction.

"Anything good in there?" Cid calls out, striding away.

"The Flan Prince's stuck!" replies Wade, irritably.

"Lemme see," Cid says.

Jill is fastened in place. Her gray eyes take him in, all of him, lingering on his bare chest. She shivers, suddenly, and steps within. She shuts the door hard behind her.

The skin on his back feels remarkably hot.

"Sorry," Jill says, in a rigidly normal voice. She takes two steps past him, snatches her costume from the rack, and ducks into the adjacent bathroom.

He pulls the shirt over his head. It looks fine; he looks fine. He would give a lot to know what Jill thinks. He tries, a little, to do something about his hair, and fails.

On the other side of that door, Jill is taking off that cute gray suit, and shimmying into that tight little sparkly skirt.

In the hall, Cid is muttering to himself. He gives the machine a thwack.

“Any change?” Cid asks as Clive approaches.

“Do I look like I’m carrying change?” Clive says, gesturing to the sleek, spangly costume.

“I’ve got—” Wade pauses as he sorts out the gil coins in his palm. “Three fifty-three.”

Cid collects the lot of it, and feeds it into the machine. He keys in a selection. The coil releases a bag of Super Spicy Bombkings; the candy is heavy enough that when it hits the Flan Prince’s cardboard backing, it is knocked free.

“All them years of engineering school were good for something after all,” Cid says, pleased with himself.

“Y’know, you’re alright,” Wade says, tearing open the snack cake with his teeth.

Jill emerges from the dressing room as Wade and Cid get into the weeds of comparing the different flavors of Flan Princes. Her long hair is coiled in a tight bun just above the nape of her neck. She smooths down her skirt.

“Feels real, doesn’t it?” Cid says, hand on a hip.

“Frighteningly so,” Jill replies.

“There won’t be any judges,” Clive says. “No one is scoring us.”

“That's right, no one cares at all,” Cid agrees. “Let’s get down to the ice.”

The early access VIP seats are all filled. A buzzy murmur, accented here and there by there he is! fills the arena. There is no banner draped from the box the Emperor and the Empress occupy when they attend any sort of event in this space, so Clive assumes that his mother will be elsewhere for the broadcast. It’s very much like her to dangle a sword over his head and then not deign to show up.

The slow sick hum of stage fright quiets a little. He’s not immune to it. There’s always a fear that whatever in him that he channels to perform won’t come when he calls. It’s always better, though, when Mother forgets him.

A set of Sanbrequois single skaters file out onto the ice to warm up. They are younger, newer, shinier. It’s the marina meadow at Bennumere overlooking the lake, filled with students, all over again. He grimaces. One of the two young men who were snickering in the hall is among them. The other is standing with a young blonde woman with her hair pulled tight into a bun decorated with some sort of flat, tiny hat that is a part of her costume.

“That’s your old coach?” Jill says softly.

Behind them, Georges Tiamat stands with his arms crossed. He peers at the skaters on the ice already, appraising them. He is here to make sure that they perform to the highest possible standard. This is not just an exhibition. It’s part of Sanbreque’s glorious celebration of athletic and artistic prowess. Clive will compete for IPR, if Jill's certificate comes clear.

But by being here, he is showing all the empire that despite the traditional distinction, he still belongs to Sanbreque.

Adrenaline hits him hard in the gut.

“Yeah,” he says.

A buzzer indicates that the first group warm up is over, and now the second set of skaters can start theirs.

“I’ll take those,” Cid says, collecting their guards.

Jill raises her hand against the bright overhead lights. Her jaw tightens, seized by the same sudden panic. Clive swallows and holds out his hand. He tries to envision anything good about their imminent performance.

Another cry raises up as they pick up speed and go into the footwork sequence that they prefer to start warmups with. The other pair that will be performing before them—Clive does not remember their names, only that the girl’s father is a Cardinal—is also skating. The young man from the hallway seems determined to make a nuisance of himself.

He and Jill sketch the ice with a half-drawn pattern, leaving out the hardest parts, or leveling them down extensively. There is a collective gasp when he lifts Jill for a twist that never completes. He sets her down on the ice. More utterances. He focuses on Jill; she focuses on him. By the time the warmup is over, they are halfway normal.

Cid doesn't give them notes as he hands them their guards. He says instead, "Time to show them you mean business."

Jill seems heartened. Clive pulls his jacket back on, heading towards the backstage.

He slows. There's a small window in the door, wherein he can see a familiar shape, a crisp black suit worn by a man with an earpiece. The door swings open, and an Imperial courier stands, examining his watch.

Wade intercepts them. His tone is low and serious.

“Is there a situation?” he says directly. He is a different person.

“The vicereine would like to speak with Mr. Rosfield,” the courier says.

Clive remembers then, with painful clarity, the moment just before getting on the ice for the Ran’dellah Trials. He had not seen her since shipping out. Before then, even. Enlisting. When she told him that for once, despite himself, he was really helping.

He had not thought that anything would touch him the way that Phoenix Gate had, but he had been woefully naïve. War was simply different.

Wade waits for Clive’s signal. Cid has his arms crossed, likely considering what sort of clever move to make next. He’s honest about Clive’s habits, good and bad, but for all his jibing, Clive has never felt that Cid was anything but on his side, and right now, Clive is so grateful for that he takes back every little petty complaint he’s ever had about Cid.

“You alright with this, lad?” Cid asks, as if the courier and his companions aren’t even there. “It’s just now doors.”

Clive sees the interior of the Dhalmekian National Stadium. All those people. Their eyes. Somewhere behind him, as noisy chatter echoes across the arena, he hears, there he is! That's him!

The temperature seems to drop. His hands go so numb as to feel disconnected from his body. The surface of the ice as he sends Benedikta up into the air. Falling, himself.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Benedikta was furious. He never forgot that. When she was shaking with nerves, when she was crying her eyes out in the Dazbog dressing room, he had not forgotten that she had chosen to pour her venom into his wounds when he needed a partner the most, and so he had nothing for her. Not a single scrap of sympathy.

Did mummy make you sad? Fuck you.

“I haven’t seen your mother in ages,” Jill says. Her voice is pleasant-sounding. “Is it alright if I come, too, Clive?”

“Sure,” Clive says.

The courier doesn’t protest. He bows his head. “Miss Warrick. Please come with me.”

Cid says, "Shoes first."

Clive is fine with making his mother wait a bit. The courier watches with hands folded in front of him. Wade follows close behind as they wind up a flight of stairs to the Imperial box. At the top, Jill slips her hand into Clive’s.

Mother stands with her back to the glass divider. Both Jill and Clive endure a brief search by the security at the door. Wade is obliged to wait outside. She flicks a single glance at Jill over her shoulder. Another at their joined hands, as she turns to face them.

If she says a fucking thing about Jill, he won’t care that she has their fate in the palm of her hand.

He can’t be weak and small and scared if he’s fucking angry.

“My dear girl,” Mother says, clasping her hands together in front of her. “You look well. Privacy, please?”

She’s not addressing Jill, but security. They file outside, closing the thick glass door. The box features a pair of exalted theater seats, a bar, a table laid with refreshments that will be tossed as soon as his mother leaves. They have a perfect view of the ice below.

“I’m glad you’re here, too,” Mother says. She gestures to Jill; she doesn't look at her. She sidles forward. She has changed from the highly formal gown she wore to the ceremony into a lavender dress that contrasts the black ribbon she wears looped beneath a brooch bearing the Rosarian crest. “It will be easier.”

“Easier for what?” Clive says, bluntly.

Mother drops all pretense of pleasantry. Clive wonders why it wasn't left to some media assistant or other to brief them. The vicereine's time is valuable. She doesn't squander it on him.

“To hear the news,” Mother says. “From what I understand, the committee is going to reject the transfer.”

Jill freezes in place. Clive thinks about breathing. That big fucking window certainly is a box. One, two, three, four. Thank you, Sanfed-appointed sports psychologist.

“What do you mean, ‘from what you understand?’” Clive manages to ask.

"You're taking a very unwelcome tone with me," Mother says. "You have already proven that you're untrustworthy in the extreme. You said you'd quit all this nonsense almost two years ago, and here you are. You've involved your poor uncle. Really, Clive, it's as if you want to be as selfish as possible."

"You asked me to be here, and here I am," Clive says. “Have we really been rejected?”

Mother sighs. She shakes her head, lamenting his delusions.

"If you must pursue this madness, why not simply compete for Sanbreque again? You've worn the Imperial crest for years," Mother says gently. "It would be best for everyone."

"And Jill?" Clive says. "What about her?"

"It seems unnecessary to discuss that now," Mother says.

Clive squeezes Jill's hand back. She hasn't yet let him go.

"I thought you didn't have anything to do with it," Clive says.

Mother wrinkles her nose. "Of course not. But remember how much the Waloeder girl struggled. It ended so badly. I would think you'd have more of a care for her."

She won't even say Jill's name. She never said Benedikta's. Clive thinks, even if I let go, she already thinks the same as everyone else.

"Is that why you rejected me?" Jill says.

His mother nearly jumps. It is as if, to her horror, the furniture has begun to speak. Clive takes a petty satisfaction in watching his mother remember Jill's existence.

"I have nothing to do with that process, either," Mother says coldly. She stares a hard line into Clive's eyes. "I find it very strange that you think I care about a little sport that no one except a freakish cult pays attention to outside of Trials."

"Then why are you trying to stop me, Mother?" Clive asks.

His mother fumes. He can tell. She goes still and silent, just like he does. She is very angry. She’s going to hurt him now.

"Everyone always thinks you're their hero," Mother says.

He knew that this was coming.

Jill stiffens. Clive holds her back. Mother won’t fling her poison on Jill, no matter what happens. He won’t allow it.

"Their young lord marquess," Mother says. "They think you're their lost heir, instead of the one who burdened poor Joshua with leadership at such a tender age. You abandoned your brother his fate—and for what? Trials? Every opportunity to do the thing that's best for everyone, and you insist on this?"

Clive has heard it all before. He breathes deep. He has to think about the program. The ice. Last time. Mother will finish her tirade. It's easiest to let get get in the last word. He is stronger than last time, and this time, this time he has--

"That's enough," Jill says.

"How dare--" his mother says. She realizes how close to losing her equanimity she is. "Show some respect for those who raised you."

"It was so lovely to see you again," Jill says briskly.

She dips a mocking curtsey, and drags Clive from the room. Wade struggles to keep pace.

“She did all of that on purpose, didn’t she?” Jill says as they march down the hall, every word encased in ice.

“Likely,” Clive admits.

He’s lost most of what he gained in the warmup

He feels keyed up and twitchy. Too tightly wound. He's angry. Mother's words play on repeat, fuzzing each go-round like the CD player at the hideaway.

If he goes out there like this, he is going to endanger Jill.

“Clive,” Jill says. “You mustn’t listen to her.”

He has heard some variation of this from Joshua many, many times.

“No,” Jill says. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t--” Jill's brows are in a harsh line. She tries again. They are stopped in the middle of a corridor. Wade stares at the brickwork, because he is unfortunately trapped here with them. “You’re not selfish. Hardly. And you’re not a burden. Don't believe any of those lies.”

He knows that. He knows.

“I know,” Clive says.

Jill bites her lip. He can tell that she wants to do more. Shake him. Make him get it.

He gets it.

You don't get it, little lamb.

In Mother's perfect world, Clive retired from skating in 865. He served his country (Sanbreque) with honor, and then he either stayed in the army as a toy soldier for her, or did something otherwise useful, unspecified, also for his country (Sanbreque). Forcing his way back to the sport had not been something she anticipated or welcomed. She did not appreciate Joshua's attempts at gaining 'traditional distinction,' and presumed they were inspired by Clive’s complex feelings regarding his career. She did not approve of his trying to skate pairs again, after failing to find a partner the first time. She had been so relieved.

The second time, Mother had been prepared to strip every privilege, use every weapon she had against him. It had only made him angrier, more tenacious, more willing to do whatever it took to get to Ran'dellah in 870. She had been there, in a VIP box, observing from afar. Clive was beyond believing he would earn her approbation, but he had thought that she would at least see it as a victory she could collect for herself.

He thinks now that if something is not her will, it is not her win.

It's Mother's style to burn it all to the ground.

Jill opens her mouth. She wants to say more, but when he meets her eyes--

The tension in her, a coiled spring, ready to release, collapses.

"What are we going to do, Clive?" she says.

"I don't know," he says. And then, "I don't want to hurt you."

Jill's eyes widen. "Is it that bad?"

He doesn't know. Benedikta wouldn't ask. She would simply expect him to get the fuck over it.

He wishes he could just get the fuck over it. He should be able to. He's sick of this. His anger eats him from within. His dreams seem paltry and small and not worth the cost. The rest of his life exists as if in an alien interdimensional realm, far away from wherever the fuck he is.

"I don't know," he says.

Wade pretends to be fascinated by a corkboard with schedules and out of date notices. Cid comes round the corner, a storm brewing across his face.

"I take it mum didn't have much comfort in her," he says darkly.

"No," Jill says.

Cid surveys the pair of them. There is not a lot of space for three adults in this narrow hall. Wade has his hands on his hips, scowling at the floor.

"What're we looking at, then?" Cid says.

Weeks, months, years of work. Wasted.

"Anabella has all but promised us that the transfer is not going to go through," Jill says.

Cid chews on that thought.

"It's a desperate move," Cid determines, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Quinten will appeal quick as you like. So nothing's final. It just gets uglier from here if you keep fighting her. She knows that."

His mother is bluffing. Could it be true? But even so ...

"There's more," Clive says, begrudgingly. He prepared himself for the humiliation of explaining, but Cid already knows.

"Ah," says Cid. "She got in your head. Can you do it?"

"I don't know," says Clive. "Maybe. But I don't know if I'm willing to risk it."

"Is Jill?" Cid asks.

He's been afraid to ask. Even more afraid of the answer.

Jill is brave. If disaster happens, that won't be a comfort.

"I trust you," Jill says. Her eyes are clear and bright. "I'm rattled, too. I don't want to give up. I certainly don't want to let her win. But if you need to walk away, Clive, I'll walk with you."

Can he? Clive stands there. He feels their staring eyes. He feels their expectations. He feels their hopes being pinned to him with a sharp prick of the needle. Their hero.

He can't answer.

"I reckon I'll give you the benefit of my timeless wisdom, then," Cid says, crossing his arms. "If we walk away, there'll be consequences. Might be possible to come back from them. Somehow. I'm a pretty clever bastard when I put my mind to it. The real problem, though, isn't whether or not you go on the ice right now—it's here."

Cid points to his own skull.

"You don't sort this out, there's nothing else that any of us can do," Cid says. "You've been stuck in place for a long time now, relying on the same thing that got you through the rest of it. But when it gets turned against you ..."

Cid doesn't need to finish that sentence.

Mother is right. Clive is selfish. This is his doing. His mad wish to end his career on his terms, to get revenge on the people who rejected him, who thought he couldn't do it, who didn't want him to. He's dragged Jill here, and now he's too much of a coward to go out there. He promised her a dream, and now he's going to let her down. He's infuriated at himself. His body trembles with rage.

How expertly his mother is able to turn his own anger against him. He can't skate like this.

Trials is a difficult dream to keep unsullied.

Joshua, clutching his heart. The half-filled application, balanced on a stack of books. Jill, sorting through her drawings on the train, pausing every so often to stare at one or other.

Clive doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t really care about school. His future is utterly hidden from him. If he doesn’t have Trials, he doesn’t have a reason to do anything. If he doesn’t have his anger, he doesn’t even know why he is here.

Why? Why keep going?

“Clive,” Jill says.

Jill’s face, shining above him in the street lamp, the very first time he lifted her from the ground. Her expression of joy, and knowing that he had done something to make her happy like that, when she had been lost and sad. Those months, when it was just them, and he did all this because they wanted to. Because they wanted to do something, something beautiful, the thing they had both once dreamed about, together. Because it felt right.

Because it felt good.

"I can do it," Clive says.

"Are you sure, Clive?" Cid asks.

"I am," he says.

Jill says nothing. She doesn't need to. He can see all her feelings in her eyes. Comfort and concern. Belief and bravery.

"Get your skates back on," says Cid.

There's no time to try the ice again; he and Jill trotting around like fools will have to do. They watch the full-rink monitor on one wall, as the other skaters are announced in anticipation of their programs. The adrenaline comes back. He and Jill don't speak. They are here, watching; they are in their heads, doing.

Sabine le Duc and Leon Coeur are the couple that Tiamat, who is standing right there, has chosen to replace Clive and Benedikta. Sabine is younger, probably just eighteen. Clive is going to be seated with her father at the gala dinner. Leon has the unearned confidence of someone who has just turned twenty. Clive remembers being that young. His back twinges. The announcer gives out their names and their honors won on behalf of Sanbreque, which culminate (Clive thinks—it’s hard to understand the echoey voice from behind the speakers) with a bronze awarded at the last Twins Championships, the one that Clive and Jill just missed.

They are pretty good. Their music is upbeat and fast. They perform admirably. Cid nods appreciatively. He nudges Clive at one point and says—

“Don’t,” Clive interrupts.

“I can see where the habit started, that’s all,” Cid says, one shoulder shrugging.

Tiamat’s brow wrinkles, possibly perceiving the criticism.

“Hush,” Jill murmurs, watching avidly.

Then it’s time.

Cid gives them one last piece of advice—“Don’t fuck it up, now,”— and then they are through the doors and behind the tall black drape that divides them from an arena full of bright eyes and camera lenses. The man on the comms ushers them forward. Clive breathes deep. There's a final stab of doubt.

He wonders what Benedikta was thinking, tears drying on her cheeks, as she laid down on the ice.

Jill holds out her hand to him.

Suddenly, Clive is sitting on Jill’s couch again, scratching between Torgal’s ears and watching the credits roll on My Lady.

Jill is insisting, They don’t know if they’ll be together if they cross the bridge, it’s heart-wrenching. It's a beautiful line. He’s asking her if she’s brave enough to believe in what they have, despite the odds they have yet to face.

And Clive, replying with, I can’t take his extremely late forties haircut seriously.

I cannot take the girl’s outfit in The Ninth Element seriously, either.

That film is art.

Is it, though?

The tension in his back comes loose. He can breathe. He reaches for Jill. The man in the headset draws back the drape, and they duck under. They sail out onto the ice, hand-in-hand.

They do a quick lap as the announcer gives their names. There is noise, the steady noise of shouting and applause. Jill Warrick and Clive Rosfield. They do not give details about Jill’s or Clive’s status.

Jill’s awards are not mentioned. Clive is lauded only as having earned gold, once, at Trials. Their music is announced. Clive and Jill circle to the center of the ice. They face away from one another. Clive reaches back back behind, over his shoulder, reminiscent of reaching for a sword. His other hand is raised as if to shield Jill from something. Behind him, he knows from having watched many phone videos (taken by Cid, intent on pointing out some detail), Jill gazes over her shoulder at him.

She circles around to him on a cue. They join hands.

Jill, when she had a chance to choreograph her dream, only specified elements and moves; things she wanted to do, but was never able. Between the two of them, she is often quite stiff, but precise as a blade. It’s not that way in real life: Jill is kind and friendly, if a little remote, and he’s the one who is surly and silent.

They must seem like an odd match.

At first, he is aloof; Jill follows him, keeping apace sometimes and drifting away sometimes, but always lingering near, where he can watch her. There is distance between them.

In the book, Clive remembers saying, she follows him because she’s afraid for him.

It seems like she’s always afraid in the book, Jill says.

Jill chases after him; Clive pushes forward; she catches the skate of his extended leg as he catches hers. Together, they whirl around one another before breaking away, separately. They skate, equidistant, not quite aligning, until—

The jump. Jill can jump as well as Clive can; the lady can keep up with the shield perfectly well; their tone changes, Jill is no longer chasing him; maybe, he’s no longer running away.

Jill speeds to shoot ahead of Clive. They reach for one another. They miss, and Jill spirals around him.

I want to do this Clive, Jill says. I’m not afraid.

He reaches for her waist. Jill picks the ice, leaping high up into the air, and when she’s at the apex, he lets go.

Jill twists, high in the air. He catches her, at speed, and sets her down, like glass, her leg high behind her. The relief—the surge of exultation—that sound, the applause, like birds flying—Jill’s eyes are shining—

The tone changes again. This time, they don’t artistically miss one another. When Clive reaches for her, when her body threads around his, he pulls her in close. They are done fighting themselves, and each other. They are united, as they spin side by side.

The music swells as delicately as a soap bubble. They skate another arc across the ice, looped around each other. There’s something more than relief. This is not merely being content. This does not creep in.

Jill takes off from her forward edge; she whirls in the air over Clive’s head, legs extended gracefully, and then she takes a dancer’s pose for one rotation after another. She alters her position. Her body, like his, is in motion.

Jill rolls down his shoulders, his chest, and he sets her down again, so delicately that he can only hold onto her hand. They have only a moment more, and yet it feels like that moment is endless. His strength, however, is not.

He believes in her, Jill says. That’s why. He trusts that she can be strong enough to survive on her own.

Clive reaches for Jill again.

And she believes in him, too, she adds.

Jill spins through the air, and lands, perhaps a little harder than she’d like—but she lands.

From here, they extend into the step sequence. They’ve already reached the apotheosis of the story. Clive thinks about what is left. Putting down the book, and wondering what would happen to them now—with nothing, no future, no ambitions, just each other. Would that be freedom?

He’s lived so long in the shadow of a brilliant dream. Each time he tries to leave, it tempts him back.

That he can be strong?

Jill shakes her head. That no matter what happens, no matter what tears them apart, or stands in their way, she believes that they will find a way.

At the end of the death spiral, as Jill rises upright, Clive lets go. Jill skates away. She turns back, reaching for him.

It isn't a romance, is it? he remembers asking.

She shook her head, gazing out at the water as Torgal devours the sausage from the paper napkin in her hand. *No. Not yet.*

Her color is high, she's breathing hard. She seems stunned. Wide-eyed.

The music ends.

They did it.

A smile, bigger than any he’s seen on her before, spreads across Jill’s face. She skates across the ice, arms open. She reaches for his hands, but Clive pulls her into an embrace. Her blades leave the ice as he spins in place. She laughs, a real laugh.

It's the promise of one that could be.

Their program, start to finish. They seem small on screen. The camera can't see their nerves, or their fears, or the problems that they are going to face after this moment is over.

Once in a lifetime performance from Warrick/Rosfield. Would never have put them together.

"I've never had a dress this nice," Jill says, struggling to get into the car. The Storehouse has loaned her a midnight blue evening gown. The high collar precludes a necklace and Jill never pierced her ears, so her hair is the only silver she wears.

Wade, handing her in, looks a bit misty-eyed. A taxi horn blares. They are not moving quick enough for the hotel pickup area.

"I remember when you were small, miss," he says. "Where do the years go, I ask you?"

"Please," she says. "Jill."

The solemnity of the early morning speeches is gone, eclipsed by the sparkle and opulence of the Remembrance Ceremony Gala. It's as close a thing to a ball as his mother can contrive, with a guest list containing every notable in the Empire.

"They're going to pounce," Clive warns Jill, as they roll to a stop.

"Exciting," Cid says, his arm thrown over the back of his row of seats.

The entry is a long carpeted stretch of blue, stamped at interval with the Imperial crest. Wade hands the keys to a subordinate serving as valet. Security proliferates. Ahead, Clive can see Joshua, stylishly decked out in red, speaking with the press. By his smirk, Clive can tell he just said something he thinks is witty. Regardless of the truth, both of the women with press badges laugh. Jote, for once, is wearing the stereotypical black suit and earpiece. There is a slight protuberance beneath her suit jacket. Her expression is neutral.

A series of clicks batters Clive as he gets out, followed by Jill. She winces.

Cid splits off from them almost instantly, diving into the fray. He seems more than at ease in his formal wear and in this elevated scene. His time in Waloed likely was not so different from this parade of spectacle. Cid was also one of the king's favorites, once upon a time.

"Clive!" says a woman. A man with a camera mounted over his shoulder follows her. They approach fearlessly, the first to stake a claim. "What's it like to be home for the ceremony?"

"Rather famously, I'm from Rosalith," Clive says. The woman's broad TV-worthy smile flickers.

Jill leans towards the microphone that has seemingly forgotten her. "This is my second time in Oriflamme. It's lovely."

"What's in the future for you?" she asks Clive.

"Trials," Clive says.

"We're training for a run at the Trials," Jill says.

"Would that be a homecoming for you, then?" the reporter asks shrewdly.

Mother would want him to say, though my heart is with the Empire, I wish to honor my late father by competing under the banner of the Imperial Province of Rosaria.

"Yes," Clive says.

Over her shoulder, another gleaming town car slows at the curb. The man who exits commands the attention of everyone there. The woman blinks, then thanks Clive for his time (she doesn’t look at Jill) and gravitates as quickly as she can in her heels to cluster with the rest of them around Hugo Kupka.

“Let’s go,” Clive says.

Inside the reception hall, which is as big as a few houses, staff in livery float between islands of notable people chatting with one another. The arched ceiling is painted with Greagor and her seventy-seven companions, drifting ethereally through the sacred heavens. Electric candles twinkle in the chandeliers.

The dust cloud of hangers-on follows Kupka everywhere, and makes him easy to dodge. Clive escorts Jill to an indoor garden with a fountain full of frilly golden fish. They accept flutes of champagne from a member of the catering staff. Clive can't sit casually on the fountain's marble ledge, but Jill can. In that dress, she really looks like a princess.

"We did it," Jill murmurs.

"Yeah," he says. Words can't encompass the feeling. It doesn't matter that there's no score.

Their first victory, together.

Clive’s phone buzzes discreetly.

“Joshua?” Clive mutters. Jill sits up straighter, her dreamy mood falling away.

It’s Dion, actually.

Please come get your coach.

Dion stands at a small side door to the private wing of the castle. His arms are crossed. Beside him, shrugging with a certain carelessness, is Cid.

“I was looking for someone,” Cid says.

“They aren’t back there,” Dion asserts, arms crossed.

"Agree to disagree," Cid says blithely.

His stepbrother, Dion, has the same delicate beauty as the painted angels above their heads; in actual fact, he is the biggest and most uncompromising hardass Clive has ever met. His friendship is the best thing that ever happened to Clive in Oriflamme.

“Don’t let him escape again,” Dion instructs Clive. His demeanor changes entirely when he sets eyes on Jill. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“The same,” Jill says. “I’ve heard so much about you and Terence from Clive.”

“Next time you’re in Oriflamme, we should all have dinner together properly,” Dion says. He has shown little to no curiosity about the true nature of Clive and Jill’s relationship. Whatever he assumes, he keeps it close.

Terence and Dion were ‘just friends’ for an obscenely long time, basically all of secondary school and a bit of university. Clive stood nearby, arms crossed while Dion paced, unimpressed with Dion’s hesitation. Clive had been feeling very worldly about romance at twenty-four, having just found the balls to ask out Brigitte, the pretty young nanny he chatted with at Splendent Heart Park sometimes while her charge was playing on the swings. Eventually Terence had to ask Dion.

The reversal is humbling.

“I would love to,” Jill says. “Have you ever been to a restaurant called Yvan’s? I’ve heard a lot of mixed reviews about chauncer’s stew. The people who love it are obsessed.”

Dion and Jill chat politely about Oriflamme's tourist destinations. Clive pulls Cid to one side.

"Who were you looking for?" Clive asks.

"A mutual acquaintance," Cid says evasively. He scans the room. "Not to be, I'm afr—"

Cid cuts himself off. Cid is always crackling with an internal energy, scheming and plotting, eternally in motion. Clive follows his gaze.

Across the marble floor, in a fuschia gown with a big pinned up train, Isabelle delivers a response to the same woman who did not acknowledge Jill. Her languid, half-lidded eyes sweep in their direction. Isabelle places her hand on the woman’s wrist—graces, more like—and pardons herself. Two spots of pink appear in the reporter’s cheeks.

Isabelle glides towards them at the measured pace of someone who has no need to hurry.

Cid swallows audibly.

“Hello again, Belle,” he says. “Fancy meeting you here?”

“Imagine,” Isabelle says. She is only the final word on style. She leans forward. Cid kisses her cheek again, just as before.

Clive experiences a deep terror, as he struggles to negotiate expectations once more. Isabelle merely touches his hand.

“I was at the showcase,” Isabelle says. “It was a beautiful story.”

Clive is fourteen again, scribbling out drafts of a letter he will never send. Dear Ms. Carl, I think the story is the most important part, too.

“Thank you,” he says, sincerely.

“I, uh,” Cid says. “I’m sorry, Isabelle. For all the … shite. At the end.”

The change in tone is so abrupt that Clive wonders if he ought to leave. Isabelle’s smile drops from her face. Her eyes are sad.

“Oh, Cid,” Isabelle says. “I understand.”

“I was an arse,” Cid goes on.

“Yes,” Isabelle says.

“Sorry for that,” Cid concludes.

“I forgive you,” Isabelle says. “I’m almost grateful for it, believe it or not. I wouldn’t have left if you hadn’t been an absolute boor.”

Though there’s an upward lilt on that last word, suggesting a lightening joke, Cid seems uncomforted.

“We wouldn’t have had the time that we had,” Isabelle says. “It was painful in the moment. But I’ve had many years to come to peace with all that pain.”

Clive has always been sensitive to stories. Their patterns comforted him both as a boy, battered by sudden, incomprehensible blows (Father’s assassination, Coach Murdoch’s stroke) and then later as a man, scarcely recovered from any of it. He senses now that he has witnessed the resolution of a story that began years ago, that dragged on and lingered. He doesn’t know any of the details. He recalls how Isabelle spoke of the all-consuming nature of Trials—of how little it left behind—and makes a guess.

Joshua, clutching his chest.

I missed you.

“That day in Northreach,” Isabelle says. “I didn’t know if I would go or not. I worried that it would just bring it all back.”

“Yeah?” Cid says.

“It did,” Isabelle says, “and yet I didn’t mind. There were good memories, too, Cid.”

“Aye,” Cid says, softly. “There were.”

“And I had the opportunity to meet your new skaters,” Isabelle says, folding Clive back into the conversation effortlessly. Her eyes capture Clive’s. “I very much look forward to your progress this year.”

Clive can’t stop himself clenching his jaw. “That’s unfortunate.”

Isabelle’s elegant brow furrows. “I don’t understand?”

“Clive and Jill are the victims of circumstance,” Cid says. His thumb massages a circle into his forehead. He sighs, before launching into the short version of the explanation.

“Oh,” Isabelle says at the end. “Is that all?”

Cid, once again, understands well before Clive even has an inkling.

“Ah,” Cid says, rubbing his chin. “You wouldn’t mind, then?”

Isabelle’s cool smile returns.

“Of course not,” Isabelle says. “You see, I, too, may have had just the slightest ulterior motive.”

The pair of them pose together in front of a stone wall criss-crossed by shadows. Clive's arm curls loosely around Jill's waist; he’s seated while she stands in front of him. Her torso faces away from the camera; her head is turned so she is gazing solemnly over her shoulder. She pulls a man's suit jacket around her glittering gown, as if she is cold, as if he has draped it around her. The camera is a voyeur, interrupting a private moment between the two of them. Clive glares stormily at the interloper.

In fact, there are at least ten or twelve other people in the room. Clive is scowling because they eventually gave up trying to make him smile. They told him it looked slightly unsettling. He has dramatic intensity, anyway; it’s what people expect. At the top, four iconic letters weave artfully around Jill’s head:

V E I L

Fall Issue, 875

CLIVE ROSFIELD & JILL WARRICK

Like Fire and Ice

It's not Mother who delivers the news. A third call from her would be absurd. It's Quinten, via a dry ae-mail informing Clive and Jill that the IPR Athletic Committee has approved their application for transfer. Clive imagines him sharpening his knives before lovingly packing them away after a job well done, just like the creepy main villain in Benedikta's show. Cid submits the paperwork for Western Cup. Accepted.

"She's seething," Joshua says over a video call. "'Your brother embarrassed me. I have nothing to do with that decision, and now everyone is acting as if I'm the wicked stepmother.' She wants me to look out for you."

Clive is trying to make more time for these chats. Training is going pretty well. In two weeks, they hop a plane to IK. Cid is juggling new students and old as the hopefuls give up their dreams and new skaters pick them back up.

"How so?" he asks.

"She all but called Jill a harlot," Joshua says. He's pretzeled on his couch, the sun setting the sky afire with washes of orange and gold behind him. His cheek rests on his palm. "She's hypnotized you with her rouged knees."

Joshua has also been watching Intelligencers. Apparently, the period detail is really quite accurate.

The stalker videos have cooled down a little. It seems too much to hope that Kupka has given up. Clive made a glancing aside to him in the interview, when he was talking about Benedikta's meltdown.

She was very brave to walk away from some truly overwhelming expectations. It had to be drastic, or no one would have listened. And doing what she did, she gave us both something neither of us had ever had before: an actual choice.

People very much read into that.

The garage has been silent since Clive got back from Oriflamme. Weeks of Blackthorne quietly moping. August turns off the edge trimmer and waves at Clive as he gets out of the Ambrosia.

"Good practice?" August asks brightly.

Clive nods, digging his skate bag out from the passenger seat and slinging it over his shoulder. There's just a week before their first real comp, and the intensity has dialed up significantly. It will drop off soon, as they conserve their energy and preserve themselves from injury. He cuts through the garden to his own entrance, separate from rest of the house.

A tinny clang sounds from the garage. It repeats a few times, pauses, and then starts again.

"Ah," Clive says.

"Don't fret," August says. "He's got a curfew."

"I wasn't worried," Clive says. "Well, not about that. Is he feeling better?"

August chuckles. He kneels down to pluck out a few weeds growing in his morganbeards. "Yeah, all that's sorted out. Sometimes all it takes is a little push."

Clive lingers. Their old house is set among a row of others, built when the neighborhood was mostly wealthy Rosarian vacationers from Lazarus. Clive's flat is renovated from a servants' quarter. August and David Blackthorne bought it a few years ago, after leaving behind Blackthorne's high-stress career at Dravozd Bank.

"How do you know ... ?" Clive asks.

"When to push?" August shrugs. "To be honest, these days, I just do it. It's better. A moment's discomfort spares us a lot of bellyache."

Clive tries and fails to put his objection to this wisdom into words. August tosses the weeds in his compost, unaware of Clive's mental anguish. Clive trots up the stairs, to make dinner and maybe get in a few more sentences on his personal statement. The deadline is fast approaching. He repeated that stuff about literature in the interview, so now he has to make good on it.

He still hasn’t bought a table or desk or anything like that, so he sits cross-legged on his bed and keeps his laptop cool by balancing it on two hardcovers. Clive types a few words and deletes half of them. Rinse and repeat. Hours pass. Dusk comes down, slow and silent. Little, if any, progress. Midnight lurks around the corner. This is probably good enough to send. He is probably not meant for academic success.

Jill has started bringing her sketchbook with her to practice, and doodles on break. She wore that perfume today, the one she bought in Northreach. It’s his favorite now; he doesn’t know if she knows that or not.

He shuts the laptop. Its blue-white afterimage remains, long after he pulls the duvet over his shoulders and tries to sleep.

The bright sun dims, leaving him blinded for a moment. A little boy, seven or eight years old. His little arms quake from the effort of holding them straight out. Behind him is evidence of an ordinary life. Clive approaches slowly. He takes a cue from the poster.

That’s Ruzena Dalimil, he says. She’s really cool, isn’t she?

A loud, loud crack throws him straight out of sleep.

“Fuck,” Clive gasps. He swallows his whole heart back down. It’s the window. The godsdamn window. Fuck.

There goes Blackthorne’s good mood, Clive thinks.

It’s close enough to dawn that Clive just starts his day. Summer has been lingering into autumn, and it’s still warm. He’s gotten into the habit of bringing a book and a coffee to the backyard before the first practice of the day. Footsteps crunch on the gravel. Clive expects to see Nigel or Martelle, ready to putter around or make observations, but instead it’s Jill.

“Hi,” she says. “Do you mind?”

“No,” Clive says. “Not at all.”

She sits down at the picnic table, across from him. He reads and re-reads the same line. When he looks up, it slips out of his head entirely. He closes the book.

“Sorry,” Jill says. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No,” Clive says.

It’s such an obvious falsehood that they sit in awkward silence for several seconds. Clive runs his thumb along the softly furred corner of his paperback.

“I sent in my application this morning,” he says.

“Oh?”

“For spring term,” Clive clarifies. “Too late for fall.”

“We’ve got to run the gauntlet, anyway,” Jill says, smiling.

“I’ll start after Twins,” Clive says.

“Do you think we’ll make it?” Jill says.

“I do.”

Another lapse. Sometimes, he and Jill will talk for hours, unhindered and unblocked. They pick apart movies and politics and laugh at stray observations that stay funny, days or weeks afterward, when the original conversation is all but forgotten. And sometimes, it’s like this. Neither of them moving forward.

Sometimes, it’s better to push. A momentary discomfort.

“I wanted to ask you about something, Jill,” Clive says. “If it’s—”

“What is it?” Jill says.

He hesitates even now.

“Do you remember, in Northreach, when I—”

“Oh,” Jill says. She folds her hands in front of her. “I do. It’s a bit embarrassing, but it was all true.”

“I don’t mind,” Clive says. There’s more. He marshals his courage. “I—”

“I know,” Jill says quickly. “You’ve always been really good about it.”

He’s puzzled. “What?”

“Oh,” Jill says. She’s flushed to the roots of her hair. “I must have been like a duckling. Following you everywhere. I was absolutely in love—you know how that age is. You were so impressive to me. But after everything that happened, the last thing I wanted was to make you deal with me, too, on top of everything else that happened and—”

Jill cuts herself off. Clive needs to push through this.

“I missed you so much,” Jill says, making a second attempt to articulate whatever it is she is trying to say. “When you surprised me at Mann’s, I suppose I … I don’t know. It was like living out a daydream. I wasn't in a good place. I wasn't happy. I was so empty inside. I … I hoped a little, that maybe the heavens had a plan for us. But … I … Clive, I …”

She gets shy. There’s a place for him to say it. After everything, this quiet moment, the kind he likes the best, where it is just him and Jill, is the moment. It’s now. It’s now—

“I want that, too, Jill,” Clive says. It’s as if someone else is momentarily using his voice. “I have feelings for you. I have for a while. I think I might—”

The shock on her face is enough to make him stop dead.

“Oh, Clive,” Jill says. His name is small and hollow in her mouth. “I—”

The creak of the door from the hideway startles them both. Clive barely has time to understand what just happened.

Standing there, of all possible people in the world, is Gav Whitwood in a Bennumere-branded hoodie.

“Sorry, uh,” he says. “I saw yous and thought—uh, is Cid Telamon round? Er—just Cid, I mean? Sorry for interrupting.”

Jill turns to Clive. She is in agony. He would do anything to take that pain away from her.

“We can talk later,” Clive says gently.

They are never going to.

To Gav, Jill says, “He’s probably in his office. I’ll show you.”

It doesn’t feel that bad. He doesn’t feel much of anything right now, but it doesn’t feel as horrendous as he thought it was going to.

Rejection, as it turns out, is something he can live with.

Jill sends him a meticulously worded text later that night. She’s not ready to be in any sort of relationship. There are things she needs to work out for herself. He’s always been so wonderful. She hopes that he understands why she can’t return his feelings right now.

He posts a video of their practice that day. Within moments, reactions roll in.

Looking forward to this season!

Love you guys

Amazing!

He sends her reassurance. Of course he understands. It’s alright. He reminds her that their resolve is unwavering. It can't be stained, it can't be sullied.

Gods I wish someone would look at me like that.

No matter what happens, it's her, or it's no one.

Nothing has changed, he adds before he hits send.

They are the last group on the ice for the free skate because their score for the short program is nigh untouchable. After the magnificence (and towering budget) of the Remembrance Ceremony, an ordinary comp is shockingly mundane. Cid and Clive share a hotel room that connects to Jill's. They are the biggest names here. IK, IPR, and the two western Territories are the ones who submit competitors to Western Cup.

Clive keeps Uncle Byron and Joshua updated via text. No matter how many times he explains it, Uncle Byron cannot grasp how scoring works.

Their group number is called for warmup at last. Clive and Jill draw a lukewarm cheer from the audience. IK is cold towards the pair of them. The loudest voice belongs to Gav, whose free skate yesterday earned him third place in men's singles. He is whooping at a volume to call the dragons home.

Clive waves at him. Jill breathed slowly. Her black costume shimmers with silver stardust as her breast rises and falls. They march to the opening in the boards.

"Time to stomp on them," Cid says blithely. He collects their skate guards. "You can do it."

Leon points at Clive with two fingers, his eyes to Clive's. Clive has no idea what this means. A challenge, probably. Sabine smacks him lightly.

Even if he and Jill flub their way through this, their base scores alone are going to outstrip most of the other athletes. Everyone knows it. This comp is just a short stop for them on their season career. The destination is Twins Championships. They have everything they need at last. Now all that's left is to do it. 

Clive gets out on the ice first. Jill stares at someone, high in the stands. He holds out his hand to her, to draw her back.

"'Ready, my lady?'" he asks. 

Her eyes return to his. She knows. She nods. She exhales pure nerves. 

"Ready," Jill replies. 

Jill Warrick and Clive Rosfield, IPR. Coached by Cidolfus Telamon.

Warrick previously competed for the Iron Kingdom in women's single skating. She holds the 866 Chronolith Trials silver medal, and has medaled three times at Twins Championships as a single skater. This is her first year skating pairs.

Rosfield previously competed for Sanbreque. He holds the 862 Chronolith Trials gold medal in men's singles skating and the 870 Chronolith Trials bronze medal in pairs skating. He holds the current Twins Championships record as both a single skater and a pairs skater with a previous partner. This is his first year partnering with Warrick.

Their free skate is set to 'Forevermore.'

Chapter Text

Jill holds the phone out, collecting them both in the frame. Behind them is the fragmented crystalline art installation, origin, that currently occupies pride of place in the lobby of the Ark International Arena. There's a long-winded explanation from the collective that is responsible for what is ultimately a poorly executed plan dressed up to look cohesive. Behind them a maze of pipe and drape obscures the mundanity of skaters and their teams collecting credentials and paperwork.

They've already got their creds, big square laminated name tags with ATHLETE printed below their names. Jill tips her head towards Clive’s. She is always so careful to stay just out of too close, for his sake.

His hair has grown wild and he struggles with shaving consistently. He looks a little tired in the picture.

"Is that good?" he asks.

"Yes, I think so," Jill says. "Do you want to take one?"

He never remembers to do his publicity homework. People clamor for his attention. He doesn't ignore them out of spite; he's just a shy person.

"Sure," he says. Jill dutifully poses for that one, too.

Banners draped down the walls announce the 876 Twins Figure Skating Championships. There was never any doubt they would be here.

That would be too arrogant for a caption. Something like, We made it! would be better, as if it wasn't foregone. Maybe a heart or two at the end. Or a little snowflake and fire emoji. People have really taken to the fire and ice idea.

Whenever she asks, he says that he's fine with it.

He swipes through the pictures before she hits post. He doesn't care about social media, but it matters to her, and so the pictures matter to him enough to give them a glance over. He's a kind man; the grownup version of the kind boy that noticed if Jill wasn't at the dinner. He hasn't changed much.

Except his hair really is everywhere today. It gets caught in his long, dark lashes. It used to be tidy, though she doesn't mind this rogueish disarray except where it obscures his brilliant eyes

Don't, Jill thinks. She folds her hands tightly in her lap.

"Looks good to me," Clive says, handing her phone back to her.

Warrick/Rosfield are pretty much the favorites here. I think the Kasjloks have a shot at silver, Le Duc/Coeur bronze.

I remember hearing about them last year and thinking no way. Rosfield can come back from anything it seems. Warrick has developed so much it's crazy.

I know! She's really bloomed.

So you think they're really a couple?

They're basically guaranteed to win.

"Fuck me," mutters Cid. "So he did come."

Jill follows his gaze into the stands, where Hugo Kupka sits like a king in a cordoned off zone. He drums his ringed fingers on the arm of his chair. He chats amicably with an obvious sycophant, a slender, pale-haired man. His age is difficult to place.

"Of course he did," Clive mutters. His scowl deepens.

“What’s wrong?” asks Goetz, wringing his hands.

“Clive’s archnemesis is dead ahead,” Charon remarks blithely. “Bad blood between you two, isn’t there?”

Clive grunts.

Clive has his flaws: he’s stubborn and contrary. Jill believes Clive when he says he didn’t sleep with Benedikta. But she can also see him refusing to confirm or deny, just to torment Hugo Kupka in even the smallest, pettiest way. Clive’s fury over the stunt with Fang Group has not backed off an inch.

Jill feels just as guilty over the situation as Clive, but it seems absurd that such a wealthy, influential man would care about a pair of figure skaters as much as he does.

"Who?" asks Clive.

"Sleipnir Harbard," Cid says. "Skinny chap."

"Who?" Clive repeats.

"He's the Waloeder version of Martha," Cid explains.

"What's he going to do?" Clive says.

“Wheel and deal,” Charon says.

She and Goetz are their special guests. Goetz is over the moon to be in their camp for Twins Championships. He whines nervously, a low, “ohhhh,” that goes on and on.

“It’s alright, Goetz,” Jill says, placing a hand on his arm.

Cid frowns. "I don't know what he’s up to. That's what I'm worried about."

"I'm serious," Charon says. "You only cozy up to a rich man if you want his money." She raises an eyebrow at Clive. "Isn't that why Harman did it?"

Clive exhales. Pomade and he are fair weather friends at best. The fine dark tendrils across his forehead are even wilder than before.

"Your group's up," Cid says.

They file out onto the ice after the Dhalmek brother-sister pair, Eloise and Theodore Kasjlok. Goetz knows them well. She loops her arm around Clive’s; he whips her around by the hand, letting her fly loose. He catches up instantly; she mimes cupping the back of his head, her hand floating a mere inch from his hair. He picks her up, he throws her, she lands, and she doesn’t buckle. They circle the rink.

She tries not to feel the gaze of IK on her.

On heavy practice days, she can do that throw jump cleanly eighty percent of the time. She repeats it as many times as she can in three two-hour sessions a day. She would do it more if Clive would agree to it. She limits herself because it is his body that bears the strain of hers.

Don't you want to win?

It’s the Kasjloks first. Theodore is fairly young, even younger than Gav, but where Gav likes cartoon characters and horsing around, Theo sits and broods. He reads in his off-ice time, like Clive, but the titles of the books are much weightier. This is their first run at trying for Trials. Kupka has been pouring money into Dhalmekia’s ice sports, making up for years. Even Ruzena Dalimil had to go to Waloed to train competitively. 870 saw Ran'dellah host Trials, but the mountain events had to be held further north, at a location shared later by Kanver.

"Just have to outskate the lad," Cid says, helpfully.

"Oh, they're both very good," Goetz notes, worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

Clive seems unfussed. “Thanks for the tip.”

He and Cid have long since settled into a pattern of cutting repartee. It soothes both their nerves. Neither would ever admit to it.

Cid is a coach they can rib a little. He has never yelled at her, not once, although his disappointment cuts right down to the bone. He has given so much of himself to them that she feels guilty if she gives him any less.

The Kasjloks’ music is a warhorse called 'O'er Shifting Sands Lie,' which Cid called brave. They don’t swap out the triple throw lutz, which they did at Skate Sanbreque, and Theo doesn’t pop the side by side triple. It is clean.

Eloise cocks a hand on her hip as soon as the song comes to its end. Theo wears the same stormy expression that Clive is prone to, and Jill can almost hear him muttering a string of self-criticisms, exactly as Clive does on his way to the kiss and cry. Eloise sits back on the bench, coolly removed, sipping from her water bottle. She flashes the sticker for the camera—it’s a bright red chocobo, the mascot of their primary sponsor. Her brother, with his hard, eager eyes, sits up ramrod straight.

No deductions. Theodore punches the air. Eloise applauds politely.

“Remember,” Cid says. “Even life’s smallest obstacles are just another reason to grow and change. Hopefully for the better. Now get out there. It’s only Twins, y’know.”

“Thank you,” Jill says.

"You can do it!" says Goetz.

"Don't fuck it up now," Charon says dryly.

They skate to the center and stand there awkwardly as their names and region are given out. The first notes fill the arena. They hold their pose for a few bars.

Where ‘Prayer’ is a promise of romance, ‘Forevermore’ is an oath of fealty. It's about always being able to return somewhere, no matter how far you had gone away or how long you had been away. It's about homecoming.

It’s not about romance, Clive stressed carefully. Not everything has to be romance.

At the time, Jill worried that he could see through her. It seemed to her that he was carefully preparing her, his not-sister, for a set-down as gentle as any he executed on the ice.

It’s lovely, Jill remembers saying.

They reach for one another. His hands are strong. He levers her into the air as she leaps, high, high, high above his head. The world whips around her, and yet she feels only a kind of elated, audacious, buzzy high. His powerful hands catch her, his fingers dig into her waist.

She cups the back of his head as she touches the ice again. She looks into his brilliant eyes, his black hair whipping across his cheekbones as if his gaze is meant only for her. The arena blurs into a wash of gray stadium seats filled by fast-moving smudges of color. There is a tiny scar by his mouth that he got from being stupid about jumping around the benches at Mann’s. Coach Murdoch was livid.

Clive lifts Jill into the air. Whirling this high, she can catch glimpses of the looming figure of the man in the box. He has something in his hand—a drink, maybe? A whisky, like her father used to drink—as he watches the comp. No doubt wondering what else he can take from them.

Jill hadn’t been able to think of anywhere else to go but Mann’s. Coaching and lessons were reliable sources of income. She liked children. Hanna smiled when she turned up; she'd been running the rink for years, following her husband's death. It was wonderful to see Jill again. Jill flinched on the inside.

It's wonderful to see you, too. I missed you, too.

Jill flips around Clive's shoulders, perhaps not as gracefully as some of the women who have been skating pairs for years. She is so accustomed to skating on her own. She lowers her skate to the ice, and imagines having a place to return to.

hearteyesasta posted a five thousand word deep dive on Hugo Kupka and Benedikta Harman’s toxic relationship on ValFSGossip the day after Dazbog, mentioning Clive only when Kupka’s jealousy needed highlighting. Jill read the whole thing. She hadn’t wanted Clive, her Clive, to have changed so much that he'd drive his partner from the sport. She was awake all night, reading every comment. Only Torgal’s steady whine for his morning walk tipped her out of bed.

Sometime that night, Joshua texted her that Clive was back in town, staying with him. Did she fancy coming by for dinner this week?

She did not know if she was brave enough to go. She envisioned making a fool out of herself. She feared losing the comfort of her imaginary idol. She worried about giving into the temptation.

Because, ultimately, she did.

Clive reaches for her again.

The throw.

She takes off.

She has a dim view of her weepy, needy teenage self. She tries hard not to wallow in self-pity. She was a girl with a crush on a famous boy well out of her reach, hardly uncommon. It was not special, that for a short while, when they were kids, she had known him and he'd shown the ordinary amount of tolerance that an older child would for a younger one. Her crush, which would flare up like allergies in the season between a breakup and a new relationship, is a remnant from another era of life.

But in the brief flash of time between the door opening and connecting the face to the name to the memory, she thought, oh, hello, who's this?

When she lands, she hits hard. The pain jolts up her leg and she folds, off-balance, her palm scraping along the surface of the ice.

Why? Why? Why?

Pain, white, get up, get up. Don't you want this? What are you doing?

Why are you even here, if you don't want it?

Isn't this what you want?

Why did we take you, give you a chance, if you aren't going to do what you're mean to?

Lying in the hospital bed in Stonhyrr, her knee in ruins, in shreds, thinking, how am I going to get to Trials like this?

Clive hauls her up to her feet as if he meant to do just that all along. He loops his arms around her, spinning her, moving around her. She claws back her lost momentum. There's one moment where his hands travel down her arms. He squeezes her wrist.

The air combs through her hair. The arm of the camera boom lowers when she does, following her movements, flung out on one skate, her body parallel to the ground. With the final revolution of the death spiral, Clive draws her up into an embrace.

This is meant to be home. All Jill can feel is disappointment.

She hates how Cid merely nods when she sits down in the kiss and cry. She hates how tightly Clive clasps her hand in both of his. His thumbs rub across her knuckles. She closes her eyes. She should be so good that she doesn't need this consolation.

The deductions feel like slaps across the face.

Jill knows she will see negative GOEs on the throw, the spin, and interpretation of the music. At least.

She failed them.

Clive holds her hand, and doesn't let go.

Clive takes point. He keeps his arm locked around her shoulders, and answers every question.

Obviously, we wanted to be at the top of that podium, and we didn't get there this time. I'm proud of the program we skated, regardless, and proud of us for placing, especially among this level of competition. To even compete at Twins is a very high honor. We're going to take what we learned and gained this season, and we're going to use it for—

Pause. Scroll. Top comment.

What does he see in her?

Torgal hops up on the bed, flops down, and snuffle-sighs. He noses her when this doesn’t produce immediate adulation. She chuckles, scratches his chin, sighs herself.

Clive has class this morning, so she gets to sleep in before they go and plan their programs for the season with Cid. Once she asked Clive why he could live like an ordinary man when he was who he was. He shrugged.

Mother wanted to frighten me, She started taking things away. Security, money, privileges, all that. I learned to do without.

Geir's remoteness is nearly preferable. Jill watched the abdication on the news with her mother. The transfer of the dukedom to the appointed son. Jill lived by sensing the mood of a room. When Clive took the ducal crown from his head, she realized that he had done something that no one expected.

Her phone on the pillow jingles with a text.

Clive’s sent her a song. This?

She listens.

It’s alright, she sends back. But I don’t feel anything.

A no then.

There is nothing accusatory or resentful. She hears him chuckling at her ambivalence.

Jill sits up. She stretches, suffering all her normal hurts. Her knee complains unhappily as she swings her feet to the floor.

She could go to the Shelves, get a cup of coffee, and start her doodling for this year's costumes for Hortense. She could take Torgal for a walk around the boardwalk. It's still too cold for most of the swimmers, but there are always a few boats out on the water.

Bennumere is a beautiful town, full of interesting nooks and holes in the wall. Jill has lived here, intermittently, for nearly two years, and she's still working out new secret corners. She is not quite an outsider anymore. But neither does she feel connected to this place. It would be nice to settle here, but it wouldn't feel right. It never really does.

Torgal yawns, his big lolling pink tongue depositing a big helping of drool on her sheets. She bought a new bed instead of carting the old one across the country. Jill pretends that she got a king because Torgal likes to sleep at her feet, and she can't refuse him. The floor is cool under her toes as she dresses for the day.

In the mirror that serves as her sliding closet door, her imagination briefly allows her a glimpse of a man's broad shoulders turning over, his black hair contrasting against the pillows. He mentioned it so many times, not quite complaining that Joshua's guestroom bed was toothpick-narrow.

I’m going to roll off it one of these days.

Can’t have that, she rejoined effortlessly.

“C’mon, boy,” Jill says, ushering her shaggy gray beast from his resting place. “Let’s have our walk.”

She plays her final five choices on loop on the walk. Her final three on the drive over. She liked them, when she chose them. She doesn’t know why they don’t speak to her still.

Clive is sitting in the benches when she arrives, watching as Cid and Gav practice a tricky combination. Gav is training quads, and it isn’t going well.

Despite having each landed them as singles skaters, quads aren’t in the stars for them. Clive has admitted privately to Jill that he probably can’t do them any more. Between his age and his injuries, and the fact that there is not a great enough gain in points to justify the effort, the bombastic days of pure athletic achievement are simply behind them.

Personally, she worries that after coming up with ‘Prayer,’ she has no good ideas left.

There is someone seated beside Clive, though from this angle, all Jill can see is a dark blue cardigan and white hair. Wrinkles bunch up her brows.

“Look who I found,” Clive says. Harpocrates leans over, peering around Clive.

Then a blur in a colorful jacket launches at Jill.

“Miss Jill!” Crow whoops. Her embrace is something of a body check.

“Crow?” Jill gasps. There is no breath left in her when Crow, who is so much stronger and taller than Jill remembers, gives her another robust squeeze.

“Grandad got a job teaching here!” Crow says. “Can you coach me again?”

Cid waves a short salute at her from the ice as he whirls past.

She brushes the hair from her eyes. There’s wetness on her fingertips.

“Oh—yes,” Jill says. “For you, of course.”

Crow whoops. Cid cackles from the other side of the ice.

“I missed you so much, Miss Jill,” Crow declares. “So, so much.”

Her feed: an interesting play of light across Bennumere’s brick thoroughfares; the boats, bobbing with their colorful hulls and flags in the marina; fruit and veg in their cardboard boxes, lined up in the farmers’ market stalls; Torgal sniffing the STOP sign that students slap their custom stickers across; her at the empty hideaway, posing in the gym mirror with two fingers by her cheek.

Day in the life, she calls it. She lists out context for each photo. For that last, she notes, I’ve missed coaching a lot!

Liliane, the twins’ lifelong nanny, accompanies Crow to most practice sessions. Tett lies horizontal in the stands, his game system parallel to his eyeballs. He executes the button presses with brutal precision.

She and Crow catch up on what Crow’s progress has looked like since Jill left for Bennumere. She’s so much more focused than the giggling little girl she left in Rosalith. Crow has developed all her doubles; in a year’s time, she’ll be ready for more. She only loses her steam after an hour, as she grows frustrated with Jill’s again.

Again!

“Argh!” Crow says—enunciated, just like that, the whole word argh.

Jill skates alongside her, lips tight. Crow is so close. Jill was ten years old when she got serious, and she hadn’t been skating for nearly as long as Crow. Crow’s eager for the challenge, isn’t she? Doesn’t she know? If she’s going to stay serious? Hasn’t anyone told her?

“You’ve got to want it,” slips right out of Jill’s mouth.

Crow slows down, circling her. Waiting for the next thing to do. She doesn’t seem to have noticed anything at all amiss.

You don’t have any other dreams. There’s nothing more important than Trials. There is nothing more you want than this.

You chose this.

"I do want it, Miss Jill," Crow says, uncertainly.

"I know," Jill says. "I know. Let's take a break for five, then practice skating skills for a bit instead of jumps."

Crow groans.

"Skating skills are important!" a man's voice calls across the ice. Crow perks up immediately.

Jill feels her entire body strain to get closer to him, a flower turning her petals towards the sun.

Clive is wearing jeans and a Bennumere hoodie and probably the T-shirt he slept in. Crow skids eagerly in his direction.

"Are you going to practice?" she asks eagerly.

"No," Clive says. "But I am going to think really hard about my life choices."

He brandishes a ring-binder with a few slips of colorful paper flapping about within. Crow sticks out her tongue.

"Drink water!" Jill advises Crow, as she bounds off to the bathroom.

Clive chuckles. "Glad to see you at it again."

"I fear I've lost the touch," Jill says with an unhappy huff. She presses the backs of her hands to her eyes.

"Unlikely," Clive says with his casual confidence.

"And what of your day?" Jill asks. "How did your quiz go?"

"Best not to speak of it," Clive says. "It’s only now that I recall that I got my equivalent by the skin of my teeth. Listen to this, Jill.”

They hover over his phone. He plays her a track at a quarter-volume. Even so low, she knows that this is the song. She can feel what he was searching for when he described his concept for the story of the program. It reminds her, very much, of ‘Away.'

‘Away’ is famous. It is the performance, the unbeatable record that Clive set at his first Trials. Gav is even weirder about it than Jill.

She has no delusions. That kind of performance is a once in lifetime thing. They won't be doing anything of the sort together. His face throughout—he looks so small, so young—is a mask. There is no dramatic scowl, or his rarer cocky smirk. Just hollowness. Just a boy whose existence hinges on the ice beneath his blades and nothing else.

If they can get halfway to that, they will win gold.

"It's perfect," Crow says, her cheek flat to the boards. She has somehow managed to sneak onto the ice. Jill can't help but agree. Crow snaps upright as soon as Jill glances her way. "Miss Jill—uh—"

"Yes?" Jill asks.

"I really want it," Crow says. "The jump, I mean. I want to try again. I know I can do it right this time."

Jill's mouth goes dry.

"Oh," she says, standing up, straightening her jacket. "Very well. Let’s try again."

He is in the FS news cycle once more. A rising star for IK failed to perform to standard during Twins, and Waloed took the gold. Her tear-streaked face, as she strikes her final pose, says everything it needs to. She knows what will happen. It's over.

She's going to disappear into Haearann's machine, broken and discarded. People will shake their heads, muttering, what can be done?

She's never going to say anything.

Their federation is so backward, Imreann can get away with murder. It’s so blatant.

It's because his skaters always podium. They're all gagged in IK.

The hospital bed in Stonhyrr. The representative from VSU. The pot with the blue and white orchid curling up and over a green stick. Her mother's pendant, cool and smooth in her hand.

Would you like to say anything?

No, I'm fine.

Her mother’s frown. The representative’s stone-faced scowl. There is no inquiry that goes anywhere.

Those Imreann girls never talk.

Not even the ones who can.

The drive to Lostwing is long and dull. Clive recommended a mogcast to her, to pass the time, but he could not come with her. He’s already swamped by readings. He has to take a few science credits as well, and his professor, who has told all the students to call him Owain and is perhaps unhealthily obsessed with distillation, is demanding a strange thing called “lab time,” which Clive has never encountered in his life.

He seems overwhelmed. Jill tries not to find his observations on the ordinary affairs of everyday existence too amusing.

Liliane waves in the parking lot. Crow has her costume on already, under a windbreaker that makes a loud shuffling sound with every dramatic movement.

“Miss Jill!” Crow says, bouncing across the sidewalk to the curb. “Look!”

She points to the big white marquee sign in front of the rink. Orabelle Skate Cup. Jill smiles. Her enthusiasm is infectious. It’s Crow’s first regional competition. Jill wants her to get some experience, because Crow is at the age where she might still decide the competitive circuit is not for her.

They collect their documents at an ordinary plastic folding table, skirted by a blue tablecloth printed with the emblem of Sanbreque. Crow is in one of the middle groups; she doesn’t seem to have any nerves whatsoever, honestly more giddy than anxious. She zips away during her warm-up.

“Don’t worry, Miss Jill,” Crow assures her with the blithe confidence of a child. “I’ve got this. I really want it.”

Jill flinches.

“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” Liliane says to Jill, surrounded by the discarded backpack and skatebag and a packet of emergency hair grips. “She’s come so far.”

Jill can only smile and nod, because it’s true.

“How’s she doing?” Jill asks in a low voice. "Since the anniversary is coming up.”

Liliane sighs. Her smile wilts. “I suppose we haven’t had much time to talk about it yet. Tomes and I are going to take the twins to visit the place where we scattered them. This helps. Tett feels it more, I imagine since he has fewer distractions.”

“Right,” Jill says.

Crow does a quick jump, before her eyes snap back on Jill. She waves. Liliane waves back.

Jill remembers how Marleigh’s approval meant the world to her, in the absence of her mother and father. Jill smiles and gives her a thumbs up.

Crow beams, and skates away.

“She loves this,” Liliane says. “It’s all she talks about. She wants to be just like you and Mr. Rosfield. It was a big decision, you know, to leave Rosalith, but there’s nowhere for her to train anymore.”

Jill keeps her face utterly still. “Is that so?”

“Maybe in Eastpool, with the hockey team,” Liliane says. “They haven’t closed that up yet. But you’re in Bennumere.”

Crow had another coach in the interim. Jill still watched the videos Crow sent, but the bulk of the responsibility passed to another one of the Mann's coaches, Sybil. At least until Mann’s closed its doors.

“It’s you she missed the most,” Liliane adds. "She adores you."

Jill keeps the smile plastered on.

Crow’s program is clean. Her joy lights up the room, brighter than the house lights overhead. There is not a proper kiss and cry here for this event, which is not recorded—it’s only the intermediate portion of a junior regional—and they wait for their scores together rinkside. Crow claps and bounces when she receives top marks. Jill refrains from cautioning her that she could still sink in the list with each other competitor.

She never does.

“Do you think I’m going to win?” Crow asks in the hotel corridor.

Liliane hushes her. Jill says, “I think you have a fair shot.”

Jill posts a series of photos depicting her adventures in Lostwing. The creepy looking neighborhood. The Vintner of Blood museum, the natural conclusion to that mogcast. A plate of street food, fried fish and greens. The outside of the rink. A pair of skate guards lying discarded on the ground by the bleachers.

Congratulations to my student for winning her first competition of the season! So proud. Heart eyes.

Spent some time poking about town, Jill messages Clive. She sends him the pictures she didn't post, her and Liliane and Crow at a restaurant, pictures from the exhibits, the exterior of the exact kind of musty used bookshop he likes to linger in and browse.

Joshua is deeply jealous of that museum.

She wonders if he’s on a call with Joshua now. She envies their closeness.

Another notification pops up. A random DM. She doesn’t like to read them—why’s Clive not there? ad nauseum, or scams—but she taps anyway.

I'm so happy for you, Jill, it reads.

It's a joke. Her turn to be plagued by Kupka's harassment campaign, which so far has ignored her entirely. She taps on the icon and sees that she's already following this user. The photos are years old, the last one posted in 866, ten years ago when Mogstagram was new and confusing.

Congratulations to my student! below an over-filtered image of young Jill in the compound, holding up her silver medal.

Jill goes cold.

She posted this.

She made this account, because Marleigh didn't know how.

Show me how to do it. I want to be hip.

Jill types out, I missed you.

Her thumb hovers over the send button for a long, long time.

Another photo from practice, this one of the lift they are still struggling to develop. The exit is finicky and awkward, and worst of all, unexciting. When she’s above him, all she can think about is keeping her pose.

So thrilled to talk about our music! she’s written in the caption. We’re setting our programs this season to ‘Find the Flame’ and ‘To Sail Forbidden Seas’!

"The point totals are higher if it's here," Jill says.

Cid looks skeptical. "Can you do it, though? Twins."

She's not about to lie to Cid. Clive is in the empty men’s locker room, rapidly taking a quiz on his laptop that he almost forgot about. Jill could be forgiven for looking like a student herself: the table in the hideaway break room is littered with notebooks, Jill's scribbles of choreography, wrappers of that one snack Cid laments as being too good for his own good. His insulated mug, which Jill suspects him of never washing, is close to hand. They've just gotten off the call with Victor Kostnice, a choreographer, another transplanted Dhalmek that Cid worked with extensively during his time in Waloed.

"You'll be tired," Cid adds. "That's nearly three minutes in."

"I know," Jill says. "It's a weakness, but no more so that any other jump I have to make. Clive can do it. It's no different than the layout in 'Control.'"

"You always make your singles jumps," Cid says. "I'm not fussed about them. Alright. How about this question: do you want to skate this?"

Jill feels her eyebrows launch upward to the moon.

"It matters," Cid says.

Jill pictures the ice. She sees an orderly procession of elements. The free skate is the bigger problem. The short, which she has already abbreviated to 'Flame,' is fine. Clive is driving that one. He connects with the music; she connects with him. 'Seas' is murky. Rather than develop this one, she wonders if it mightn't be better to refine ‘Forevermore;’ except then she'd be carrying a program she failed to execute when it mattered most.

"It seems fine," Jill says. "I suppose Victor didn't seem that enthused."

"Victor isn't on the ice," Cid says.

"If we develop it, we can find the excitement that way."

Cid takes a sip from his dubious mug. His argument, if I use it everyday, it never actually gets dirty, does not hold much water with her. It seems the feeling is returned here.

"We've got to sort out the throw," he says. "When Clive gets done, we'll talk about focusing on that for a few weeks. If we think that's solid, we work on this program. Debut it at Ran'dellah."

Ran'dellah is host to a new international event, Cerdra's Trophy, that will see the debuts of numerous other skaters’ new season programs—including Gav’s, who she can hear from in here. It's Kupka's push, of course. Creating winter in the desert is expensive. No one else could do it.

Crow is desperate for an international comp. She’s only eleven; those two or three years will fly by and she’ll be competing in juniors. Jill sat down with Harpocrates and Liliane, mapping out what she felt would be a good, if conservative, trajectory for Crow to master her triples by fourteen. Jill wakes up in the morning, feels her aching joints, and wonders how much of this pain and discomfort Crow can be spared.

“We can be study buddies,” Gav says as he walks in, elbowing Clive.

Clive’s grin is little more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it’s there. The tension in Jill’s shoulders unclenches a half-inch.

“Alright,” Clive says. “But only because I need that credit.”

“Ah, no love for poor old Gav,” Gav says, shaking his head. He waves at Jill, catches a nearby chair, and drags it over to sit at their table in the meager hideaway kitchenette. “And after I reminded you about what’s her name’s quiz!”

“Helena,” Clive says mildly. He picks up the electric kettle, finds it empty, fills it under the tap. He puts it on to heat. “Tea?”

"He would have forgot," Gav says to Jill, as if she didn't realize.

“Yes, please,” she says, smiling at Gav and speaking to Clive.

“I’ll take a top-off,” Cid says. “Clive, what do you think about ‘Seas?’”

Clive has his back to them. He and Jill keep their supply in a little box she picked up last year at a junk shop in Port Isolde.

“We can fine-tune it as we practice,” Clive says.

“Don’t know what Clive would do without me,” Gav says, with a lofty sniff.

A year has passed since he last called either of them by both of their names. Jill likes him a great deal, as it turns out. He has a cheerful attitude and the personal bravery necessary to poke fun at Clive. Clive is perfectly capable of hurling a few zingers of his own, often to devastating effect. Gav is always pantomiming a direct shot to the heart, begging Jill to tell his ma he loves her and that the one-liner that finally got him was a good un. This time, Clive merely scoffs.

“I’d say that was dumb luck,” Clive says.

“Or is it so clever, it only looks dumb?” Gav counters.

“There’s no point to that,” Clive says. He fills Cid’s filthy mug with hot water direct from the kettle. “Do you want a cup?”

“Aye, I will, thanks much.” Gav leans with his elbows dangling over the back of his chair. He shakes a single finger. “The point is being clever when no one knows you’re being clever, so you can be even cleverer.”

“If no one knows you’re being clever, and it’s the same result as being foolish, isn’t that the same as being foolish?” Clive replies. To Jill, he says, “Milk?”

“No, thank you,” Jill says, and he passes her a plain white cup that smells strongly of bergamot.

“I’m clever all the time and no one ever seems to make note,” Cid laments. He cracks his neck. “Alright, Gav. Your turn through the wringer.”

“I just got my tea,” Gav says, astounded.

“Shame,” Cid says. He marches Gav out the door and down the hall, toward the ice.

“Well?” Clive says to Jill, sitting down beside her. He spins a notebook around to face him.

Jill breathes in the steam. There’s no point in concealing this from Clive.

“I’m second-guessing my choice,” Jill says.

“I like ‘Seas,’” Clive says. “It’s got energy.”

“It feels frenetic,” Jill says, critically.

“It’s hard to say,” Clive says at last, “how a program will do in competition from practice.”

“Diplomatic,” Jill remarks. He hasn’t disagreed.

“Well,” Clive says.

They both chuckle at one another. It isn’t clear why that’s funny; something in his tone, perhaps. Whatever it is, she understands. He is the son of an Archduke; he is rarely actually diplomatic; something like that. Jill sips her tea.

It’s nice to see how his spells of good humor last longer and longer. He’s so much more at ease than he was nearly three years ago. Jill has nothing more to say, no witty rejoinder or repartee. She doesn't feel the need.

Clive has never viewed her quietness as a flaw.

"We'll figure it out," he says, after a time.

She almost feels like they might.

Clive holds her in his arms so she is spilling over the bulwark of his hand. Her leg is extended high to one side. (Clive casually calls this a développé and naturally his technique is perfect. Sanbreque has never shown its mark on him so clearly, not that she would ever say so.) He is about to whirl her around with her lower foot trailing across the floor of the hideaway gym.

Then camera cannot see her trembling as she struggles to hold the position. It cannot hear Cid hollering helpful tips like, "pretend you're giving me a good kick to the jaw, all the way up, now."

Greagor they are so cute <3

You can't see her finger in that photo, do you think there's a ring?

They need to just announce it. Everyone can tell!

"'What's one more class?'" Clive mimics Cid under his breath. "I still have a thirty page reading to do, Jill."

"Oh no," Jill says, hoping to convey the proper amount of sympathy while also teasing him just the slightest bit. Her heart is still beating fast from the dancing. Cid wants them to learn an Ashen dance called the waltz. "Is school not going well?"

"School was a mistake," Clive says darkly.

The class they are in is nothing more elite than the local community center, with a mish-mash of older couples enjoying their weekend date night coupon, singles looking for 'activities' to use as a cover for their real business of flirting with one another, and people who earnestly just want to dance. The room is musty, the barre is broken, and there is a large stain on the drop ceiling in one corner. The instructor has an unbearable attitude and a slightly over-forced Ashen accent.

Jill loves it.

A blonde woman, younger than Jill, edges forward through to the corner where Clive and Jill have stashed their stuff, pushed by her friends. "Hi," she says to Clive. Jill doesn't like to think ill of other women, but neither does she care for being invisible.

"Hello," Jill says evenly. Clive partners with Jill as often as possible, but there's a shortage of men, and he is easily pressed into doing his duty.

"Um," says the young woman, glancing at Jill. The wallpaper has begun to speak, of course she's confused. Her attention reattaches to Clive. "I was wondering, would you be interested in getting a drink with me and my friends? Maybe a bite?"

"Sorry," Clive says. "Not tonight."

He looks to Jill for a lifeline.

Jill has no right to intercede. It would look like she was staking a claim. There's just enough muddle between them to allow for moments like this; but Clive is a grown man. He can speak for himself.

"I have to go home and read," Clive says.

The truth has never sounded more unconvincing.

"Oh," says the young woman. She glances at Jill again. "Right."

She retreats. Clive has already slung his backpack over his shoulder, ready to bolt.

"Shall we?" Clive says to her, as if what just happened signifies nothing.

"Let's," Jill says, holding up her keys.

Going down the community center steps, Jill gasps. A pain shoots deep into her leg like a needle.

"Jill," Clive says, alarmed. He reaches for her.

"I'm alright," Jill says quickly. "Just a twinge."

Anyone else would believe it. Clive is paranoid about her, and has been since Twins. It doesn't help that his instinct for when she is actually in pain is uncanny. He guides her down the rest of the steps with his hand ghosting just behind the small of her back, wary of a fall.

"Sorry about about Mathilde," he says.

That must be the blonde's name.

"It's alright," Jill says. "You could have gone."

"I'm not really one for Cakes & Ale,” Clive says, naming a popular new bar that his classmates are always badgering him over. “There will be more opportunities to shoot down tomorrow.”

“Is it so bad?” Jill asks.

It makes sense. Clive is usually the most attractive person in any room he occupies. 

“Yes,” Clive says, grimacing. The Ambrosia makes a little kweh as he unlocks it and tosses his bag on the passenger seat. “Night, Jill.”

“Good night, Clive,” Jill says.

Jill swallows down a queasy bitterness. The cool evening breeze is little comfort. People really do throw themselves at Clive. She has no right to this jealousy at all. He isn’t hers. The sun doesn’t belong to anyone.

And anyway, she told him no.

They train. The weeks pass. Clive turns thirty-one, and they go to Rosalith this time. Clive spends a lot of time with Joshua and Jill goes back early for Crow and to let the brothers have that time. The heart condition that has plagued Joshua his entire life has taken another turn. Joshua doesn't like to discuss it.

“Still a mistake?” Jill asks, when she meets up with Clive at the Shelves, back in Bennumere. This café is conveniently near the lecture hall where Clive is trapped most mornings for two or three hours at a time. He had an afternoon class today, the only one that wouldn't rearrange itself for the sake of gold medalist Trials athlete and former prince, Clive Rosfield.

“Thank the Founder I actually did the reading,” Clive says. It’s all he says.

Clive is always tired these days, straining to hold down a grueling training schedule and a semester of academically rigorous coursework. Professor Ninetales accepts no excuses.

“You don’t have to come with us today,” Jill says.

Clive snorts and gets up to toss his cup into the black plastic container, next to a pair of forks with coffee cake crumbs clinging to the tines. “Hardly. I’ll have my Torgal time, thank you.”

He follows her back to her flat. He parks behind the wineshop; somehow, Clive has managed to trade a few favors for a parking spot in front of the Reserved Parking Only! Violators WILL Be Towed! sign. He complains about how Cid bends the world to his will all the time, as if he does not have the same unspoken power. He loiters in her tiny foyer as Torgal joyfully bounds into his harness and trots proudly before them.

“It’s the market today,” Clive says. “Do you want to pick up a pie for supper?”

He would readily ask that question of Joshua. There has never been any broken-hearted sulking, no bitter brooding. It’s been over a year.

If anything, she has been the one who has acted awkwardly, strangely, uncomfortably. It was a long road back to this.

“Sure,” Jill says. “Your turn to choose.”

“Ham,” Clive says without hesitation. Torgal barks in agreement.

They take a long, leisurely turn around the boardwalk. The sun sets later and later these days. Clive bats away any discussion of school—“in three weeks, finals. Then freedom.”—and Jill has no deep desire to continue to question the wisdom of 'Seas.'

“They renewed Intelligencers,” Clive shares. The pie swings in a paper bag on his wrist.

“Is it strange to watch Benedikta on TV?” Jill asks.

“I skip through the love scenes,” Clive admits. “But she’s in her element. Vamping around.”

Jill encourages Torgal to pee on his favorite bush. Back at her flat, Clive fetches the plates while Jill undoes Torgal’s harness, pours the expensive kibble in his bowl that he will try very hard to reject in favor of a bit of ham pie that Clive will inevitably feed to him, and tops off his water.

“The new episode is out,” Clive mentions, talking about a different show, this one about a plucky young woman wandering a wasteland in search of her father.

“Is it?” Jill is enjoying the story, but if Clive wasn’t over every week to watch it with her, she wouldn’t remember to keep up.

They dish up the pie, their treat for the week. Clive sits on one end of her couch, holding the back of his head with one arm thrown over the cushion. Jill tucks her legs underneath her. She eats around the buttery crust, spearing the shreds of ham with her fork. Torgal begs silently from the floor. They watch the characters in the show stumble through their problems. The protagonist delivers her cutesy catchphrase just as she shoots a ravening zombie in the head.

Jill pauses the credits before the recommended for you can play.

“Should you be headed home?” Jill asks.

“Overstayed my welcome, have I?” Clive says.

“No,” Jill says, feeling her cheeks flush. “I assume you have homework.”

Clive sticks out his tongue. Jill is horrified by her own schoolgirl giggle, which slips out before she can even think to stop it.

“Sorry,” she says.

“No, I’ve an essay that wants writing,” Clive says, tiredly. “Can’t say I’m not looking forward to the semester leave.”

Jill hums. She reaches for her phone—Clive is capable of letting himself out—but he gets on the floor to rub Torgal’s belly for a few more minutes. Torgal rolls over, his tongue flopping this way and that. She allows them their time together, drawing up her legs in the sofa to check her Mogstagram. The unanswered DM lingers, a red bubble in the corner. It has been there for nearly two months.

“You alright?” Clive says.

She didn't know her face had changed.

“Yes,” Jill says. It's inconvenient how Clive can read her so well. He frowns. “No,” she amends. “I suppose not.”

Torgal pants happily as Clive’s scratches travel across his belly. Clive briefly uses both hands.

“What are you thinking of?” Clive asks.

"'Monsters,'” Jill says.

Clive frowns.

“It was the short I skated through half of the 869 season,” Jill explains. “I was meant to take it to Trials.”

“Oh,” Clive says.

The gasp and the hush of the crowd. Someone yelling for the medic. How the ice felt more real than the pain. How she didn't even feel herself hit it. The world moved, not her. How she got up again, again, again.

No, I want it! I can do it!

Perhaps Clive has seen the footage, which focuses luridly on that single tear sliding down her cheek as she gets up to take her wobbling final pose, just before she crumples to the ice one last time. Imreann turns his back on her as medical rolls her by on the gurney.

Shocking finish to Warrick's career, remarks the commentator. It actually took another two years before she was dropped from the team.

"Clive," she says. "Do you think I'm doing the right thing for Crow?"

"What? Of course you are," he says immediately. "You're a great coach. You really care. She won Orabelle, she's ecstatic to have you back."

Everything sounds so self-pitying and ridiculous. Clive could praise her coaching until he died, and she would still struggle to believe it was true, and not some delusion she had encouraged by mistake. If she really cared for Crow, she would tell her to quit, to put her skates on Mogbook Marketplace, and do something that wasn’t going to churn her out.

"What brought this on, Jill?" Clive asks.

Jill blacks out her phone. She draws her knees up, wraps her arms around them. Surely the truth won’t be a mistake. She resolves to keep it as close to the surface as possible.

"An old coach of mine contacted me," Jill says.

Clive stiffens.

"No!" Jill says, realizing at once what he assumes. "No, it was Marleigh."

"Oh," Clive says. Then, cautiously, "what's wrong?"

"They dismissed her not long after I got silver in 866," Jill says. She wills herself to say the rest out loud. "It was my fault."

She can't look at him, so she can't see his face.

"How so?" he asks, in a very neutral voice.

She regrets her characterization of the situation. It sounds so dramatic, as if Jill conspired against Marleigh. It is nothing so interesting.

"Mogstagram was still quite new," Jill says. "I made her an account, helped her post photos. The federation didn't like that she was talking about her work publicly. It turned out to be in violation of the contract, I think."

He is going to say it wasn't her fault.

"That's not your fault, Jill," he says.

Clive sounds the way he does when he is angry on her behalf, but does not want to sound that way. He holds back the emotion the way one holds back a ravening dog.

"I know that," Jill admits. She plucks at a loosening thread in the seam of the couch cushion and makes the flaw slightly worse.

Clive sighs. "Sorry," he says. "I know."

He probably does know.

She can feel, sometimes, when he is about to do or say the exact right thing. She envies his instinct for rightness, for goodness, for kindness. She has no such inner compass. The path she chooses first is always wrong.

"How do you feel about talking to her again?" Clive asks.

"I don't know," Jill says. "I missed her so much, but ... afterwards, it was as if I couldn't even say her name. I was ashamed. I told myself that it was what I had to do, that another was making the decisions and I could only abide by them."

Clive doesn't reply immediately. When he does, he says, "I'm sorry, Jill."

She doesn't need to cry. There is no need for a display. She is irritated that this still bothers her. It’s been years.

"Whatever you choose to do, it's going to be alright," Clive continues. "Crow is over the moon to have you back. To be honest, Jill, I think that Marleigh likely just wants to have you back in her life again, too.”

He’s still lazily scritching Torgal behind the ears.

She wants to explain, and then she wants to be held and understood. She wants him to tell her she’s not the monster she sees herself as for the path she chose when she was twenty-one, or for the path that she is choosing now.

He is already burdened by the guilt he feels when his mother lashes out at Joshua for his actions. Clive could bear Kupka’s grudge match easier if he was the only one to suffer from it, but he’s not. There's an entire cycle of skaters in Rosaria that won't be able to follow him because there's nowhere to train.

What if you could have one more chance?

If she really cared about him, she would have said no.

“Present awkward circumstances aside,” Clive says quietly, when she can't manage a word. “I’m happy to have you back in my life. It doesn’t surprise me at all that others feel the same way."

"I'm happy, too," she says. She pours every ounce of sincerity that she can scrounge into those words. It doesn't feel like enough.

They sit in her living room as their present awkward circumstances compound further and further. She ought to turn off the TV. It embarrasses her that she’s left the bedroom door open, where the bed that is too big for just one woman is plainly visible. Clive’s eyelids are heavy. She imagines taking him by the hand, guiding him within.

In her flight of fancy, she gets into that bed with him. He wears nothing but that small, sly grin with the little gleam in his eye, the one he adopts when he has one of his own schemes in mind. There is so much room to play and indulge one another. She knows a great deal about what it feels to have his hands on her body, and hers on his. She would like to know even more.

Then he would rest. She would lay her head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat grow slow as he eased into slumber. The dawn would find them together, at peace.

He stands up, groaning a little as his knees pop. “I really have got an essay to write,” he explains. The tension leaches from between them.

“Of course,” Jill says. She stands to put the pie in the fridge. She'll nibble on it for the next two days.

“Good night, Jill,” Clive says at the door.

“Yes,” Jill says. "Next week?"

"Let's," he says.

His footsteps diminish the further he gets. Outside, the Ambrosia comes to life, one headlight flickering on a little after the other to illuminate the brick walls of the lot behind her flat. She waters her window herbs as he drives away. She brushes her hair and teeth, tidies up, tends to odd chores.

Her bed is empty, enormous. An expanse of lonely pale sheets. She lays down and remembers exactly how she felt the moment she realized that none of her dreams would ever come true.

It is worse, she thinks now, when they do anyway, just when she least deserves it.

Clive wears a lot of the same clothes to foil the paps, the same black and red athletic wear day-to-day. He does this even though Bennumere hardly has the same population of celebrities as Oriflamme, or even Rosalith. It’s a habit. These days, it is his less-scrupulous classmates who sell these pictures to the big gossip mags. Jill doesn't. She isn't used to it. They use her to tell the difference between days.

This one is of Clive and Jill leaving her flat together, with Torgal between them, headed towards the market. The pair of them talking and laughing.

Secret royal engagement! promises the blurb below the link.

Clive, given the chance, will grouchily remind everyone that he was never a prince, that’s not how it worked in ducal Rosaria, he was a marquess with an honorary holding.

As if that matters to them, he mutters, deeply annoyed. Jill really is a princess, of course, though only on paper. The whole thing is darkly amusing.

Who do they think they’re fooling?

Everyone, as it turns out.

The federation chose another skater to replace her for the 870 Trials, so this is the first time Jill has ever been to Ran'dellah. The domes and green gardens and brightly-colored plazas fill both her eyes and her photo album on the flight in. Cid takes a call in their hotel lobby, hissing into his phone, “what do you mean, 'it just deleted itself?' That isn't something that just happens.”

Jill tries not to eavesdrop. She retreats to her room in Byron's townhouse as soon as they arrive. The first day of Cerdra's is a blur. The second is all nerves. Jill hops around like a sparrow to warm up.

“Shit,” Clive says, leaning forward on his knees. He stares up into the boxes.

Jill snaps out of her self-pitying spiral. Their short program scored well, but not astoundingly so. She peers at a familiar looming silhouette.

“He must really love ice sports,” Jill says, flatly.

Clive snorts. The pure acid in that single sound could eat through stone.

Cid, harried and scowling, pushes through the doors and crosses the walkway towards them. His suit is rumpled. Their group gets called for warm-up, and Cid gives them his typical pep-talk (“it’s only the debut”) before sending them out on the ice.

Jill and Clive weave among the other skaters. Theo and Eloise sail by, businesslike. Leon and Sabine push and bat at one another, clearly in the midst of a small tiff. Leon keeps trying to pick a fight with Clive. Clive has yet to notice.

‘Seas’ never smoothed its choppiness. She and Clive execute it cleanly, but Jill feels uneasy and disappointed with herself.

The judges agree with her. They fall to third on the roster.

She looks like she's lost out there.

Really? It doesn't look to me like she's even thinking. Was prayer a fluke? Forevermore was better, even though it had its flaws

Forevermore was just too much. She doesn't have any passion in her skating.

That's because warrick doesn't have any emotions at all.

Literally thought she could ride rosfield to victory lmao

They've two days left in Ran'dellah. The exhibition following the trophy is being delayed, and Byron wants them to appear at a charity function. In the downtime, Ferda, a retired judge, meets them in a cafe that Jill picked out and goes over their performance with a critical eye.

"From my perspective," he says. "It doesn't excite. It is meant to represent a struggle of some sort—I struggle to determine its character.”

“It’s a internal fight,” Jill says. She’s stealing from ‘Flame,’ which is about accepting hard truths.

“Hm,” Ferda says.

“Maybe we can revise it with Victor?” Clive says.

“If the flaw is inherent in the program, changing minor aspects of the choreography isn’t going to matter,” Jill says.

“It’s a good program,” Clive argues.

“No,” says Ferda, damningly. He sips his thimble-sized cup of thick black coffee. “I’m afraid I agree with Ms. Warrick in this case.”

She winces.

“Well, worst case,” Cid interjects, after a lengthy, thoughtful silence. “You two develop a new program. How do we fix the mistakes of the past?”

“That, I can’t help with,” Ferda says, giving a shake of his head. “The judging these days has gone in a strange direction. It’s hard to … predict, shall we say.”

Clive scowls.

“I’ve always loved your ominous pauses, Ferdy,” Cid says, patting Ferda’s elbow.

“Ruzena found them infuriating,” Ferda says. The smile on his face is hollow.

“I expect she did,” Cid murmurs.

Cid coached many others, but Ruzena is the legend. Jill saw her in 866, when she was brave enough to sneak out of the IK compound to watch her and Gerulf Ravenswit perform their iconic version of ‘Shifting Sands.’ Clive idolized Isabelle Carl. Ruzena was Jill’s.

My age gives me insight that a young sprig might not otherwise have. That hard-won wisdom informs my skating.

Jill, twenty-eight, understands that quote better than she did at eighteen. Ruzena Dalimil passed away in 867, in a car collision in Waloed. Her partner survived. He coaches in Waloed, a part of the academy.

Cid left for the Continent not long after that. He has fewer quips than normal as he embraces Ferda and thanks him for his time.

In the taxi back to Byron’s townhouse—it is the size of a mansion, occupying most of the block—Cid says, “I’ve got to catch a flight to Kanver tonight.”

“Is everything alright?” Jill asks.

“It will be,” Cid says with a sigh. “Mid just dropped out of the Institute.”

“Again?” Clive says, tactlessly.

“Think it's going to stick, this time. In her defense,” Cid says. “They’re all snotty little shits. Be in bed by ten, or I’ll turn you both into oglops. You have the exhibition in the morning.”

Hortense has loaned her a drapey white suit for the charity gala that they are attending with Byron. The ensemble was worn by the model as just trousers and jacket. Jill is not ready to share her bare sternum with the whole world, so Hortense was kind enough to pair it with a halter-necked blouse made of sheer layers of blue-silver silk. Her hair hangs loose to her waist, bound at the end to keep it from whirling around everywhere.

“That suit really—well—suits you, doesn’t it, Jill?” Byron says as she descends the main stairs into the foyer of Byron’s Ran’dellah townhouse.

“Thank you,” Jill says.

Clive doesn’t say anything, but his eyes don’t leave her, either.

Somehow, Hortense has figured out how to make the open collar of his black tuxedo elevated enough to pass muster. It certainly breaks a number of rules, but Jill expects that, between his fame, his natural charisma, and his exceptionally good bone structure, Clive will get away with it.

The press badges in the plaza outside the Dzemekys Club make her nervous. Byron and Clive accept the presence of the cameras as a simple fact of life. They pose at the entrance for two or three shots while Byron greets a business acquaintance. A popular singer snares the attention of the great bright eye of the machine, and they are allowed to pass through the club’s storied threshold without further issue.

No one stops Clive to check his invitation. A man in dark glasses merely nods.

Jill cranes her head to see the chandeliers for herself, the seven mezzanines that ring the interior of the grand ballroom, and, of course, the extraordinary indoor fountain that spans over one hundred feet and reaches twenty feet deep. The sound of moving water is incredible, almost more beautiful than the music of the small orchestra playing on the stairs on the other end of this spectacular room. Elegantly attired men and women mingle around it as staff glide between the islands of conversation. Clive guides her gently with one arm around her shoulders as she gapes.

It is very rare that Jill gets to experience marvels more than once. She never takes anything for granted.

“It’s amazing,” Jill murmurs.

“I used to hide behind the balustrades and watch Father and Mother at the state dinners,” Clive says. “They always led the dancing.”

“A Rosarian tradition?” Jill says.

“Triune, I think,” Clive replies. He sighs. “To promote unity.”

"Ah, I see Byron Rosfield has brought his nephew," says a Dhalmek man in a tuxedo, beelining towards them. He holds out his hand for Clive to shake. Jill is simply invisible. She doesn't mind this time. "Order of the Wyvern, eh? Seems merely the least Sanbreque could do. They hardly deserve you. Ignac Kretov, by the way. Whetstone."

Jill assumes this is the name of his company.

"Clive," Clive says. It's perfunctory.

"I just want to say that your bravery at Zirnitria is what inspired me to involve myself with Curaga," Ignac Kretov adds. "'The innocent cannot ever be our enemy.' Quite right."

"The medics and staff trained by Curaga are brave every day," Clive says. This is his stock phrase that he gives it to the press regularly. "I simply helped them do their job. As I hope to continue to do.”

Clive mentioned once that his job in the army was basically to drive trucks around. She has only ever learned of the incident from the news and Clive's brief explanation of his leg injury. Shot with a small caliber pistol by a civilian, who later fled. IK was neutral during that conflict, and NT allied for the most part with Waloed. Imreann believed too much global awareness would disrupt training.

"Spoken truly," says Ignac. "Of course, I have made many sizable contributions, particularly to the auction; can't have your uncle showing me up."

Clive lifts his brows. "Do you know my uncle?"

Ignac looks entirely shocked. "Has he never mentioned ...?" He blinks, and then focuses suddenly on someone behind them both, just now arriving. "Ah, but here's someone you must meet."

The hairs on Jill's neck stand up.

"Hugo," Ignac says, blissfully unaware. "Look who I've found."

When she turns around, Hugo Kupka strides towards them. His expression is politely indulgent. He extends his hand to Clive.

"We've met, actually. Clive," he says. "It's been some time."

The tension between the two men is excruciating. Ignac's brow furrows. Nuance must be a challenge for him. At last, Clive accepts Kupka's proffered handshake.

"Hugo," Clive says. "How's the single life?"

Jill doesn't think people fully appreciate the fact that Clive has the same teeth in his mouth as Anabella Lesage.

"I manage to occupy my time," Kupka replies. "I find events like this very meaningful. As I recall, you have a very personal connection to this cause."

"I do," Clive says.

"One moment," Kupka says. "Forgive my poor manners. You must be Jill."

Jill straightens. This man destroyed Hanna's livelihood. Blocked skating for innumerable children and would-be competitors. He hounds Clive weekly with barrages of bots and paid users and videos collected from myriad sources.

"I know," Jill says. "Clive has mentioned you once or twice."

"I was at Cerdra's," Kupka says. "Rather stiff competition this year for you, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Ignac asks, out of courtesy. Jill can hear his disinterest in the sport.

"It speaks to the health of the sport," Clive says. "Genuine competition will always bring out the best in any true athlete."

"Well-said," Kupka says. "Though it goes without saying that in an event like your own, both partners must be equally matched. If one disappoints, they both do."

Jill does her best not to flinch. Clive is stoic.

Ignac, oblivous, interjects, "How are renovations going on the old crypt they call an arena?"

"I was told that Phoenix Gate was the seat of Rosaria's sporting complexes," Hugo says casually. "But I saw no throne there. I tore most of it down."

Clive is going to hurl himself at this man. He is going to rip him limb from limb.

Jill abruptly raises her arm and points. On the other side of the fountain, smattering of people have coupled up to dance. Jill behaves as if it has just now caught her attention.

"Oh, look, Clive! Sorry, Mr. Kretov, Mr. Kupka, but I really must borrow Clive for a moment,” she says. “There's something I've been very much looking forward to."

Kupka actually smiles at her.

"Of course," he says. "By all means."

"Do you dance? Really?" Ignac asks Clive.

"Oh, very well," Jill answers for him. She loops her arm through Clive's and whisks him across the tiles.

It is a few moments—and a few turns around the dance floor—before Clive's gritted teeth and iron grip loosen. He heaves a sigh.

"I suppose I ought to be leading," he says at last.

"Whenever you're ready," Jill says.

There's a slight stumble as they transfer roles.

"Thank you," Clive adds.

"'Murder at fancy gala' is the premise of a movie I want to watch, not an event I'd like to live through," Jill says.

"Alright, alright," he says.

Kupka towers over Ignac, right where they left them. The two men are still chatting amiably. Kupka accepts a glass of wine from a staff member. The server laughs at something he says. There is no mercy in that man. It is unsettling to see him behave this way.

"I wonder what Benedikta saw in him," Jill murmurs.

Clive hesitates. "Once, I would have said the money."

"And now?"

"I think for a while, she genuinely believed that he loved her," Clive says, quietly. "For herself. The gifts, the attention, all of it ... I imagine she saw that as proof that he treasured her."

Somewhere, in the past, there is a little girl laughing on the back of a silver chocobo.

"Do you know what happened?" Jill asks.

He shakes his head.

"No," Clive says. "Only that at some point she realized that she had been mistaken."

Jill dislikes how much she wants to say, it was like that with my father. There's no reason to share that right now. She and Clive have much more pressing problems.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue,” Clive adds. “Did you really want to dance?”

“I don’t mind,” Jill says. “A bit duller than the choreography I’m used to.”

The corner of Clive’s mouth tugs upward, teasing a grin. He lets go of her waist. Jill unfurls instinctively, passing gently under his arm in a twirl. He catches her again.

“That’s not anything like in class,” Jill accuses.

“I’m not worried about that,” Clive says.

The class is not to add anything to their repertoire. It is not about embellishing choreography. Cid wanted to improve their ‘synchrony and such,’ phrased exactly like that. Jill’s musicality is often not where it should be. A low stakes environment, unlikely to see her injured, where she can practice being in tune with both Clive and the music, is all Cid was looking for.

It reminds Jill of those early weeks, just messing around on the ice. She feels foolish, sometimes, thinking about her naiveté. Going out there and playing pretend like a child. Jill doesn’t bother leaning back or plastering the manic show smile the instructor is always reminding them to wear. She adjusts her pace as Clive does.

“Right in the chin,” Clive whispers, drawing momentarily close to her ear, and when they turn, she extends her leg upward, as she would on the ice.

Clive simply picks her up. Her stomach flips giddily. He takes three steps to spin them both and when he sets her down, she folds right back into the rise and fall of the dance on the ground. She’s blushing. A series of startled gasping tells her that no one was expecting anyone to really do anything impressive. Her heart races.

“Again?” Jill asks before she can think better of it.

He had been planning on retiring. He spent hours with her, indulging her fancies, just like he used to. Did it mean something? Did it not? Did she want it to?

“Do you want to show off?” Clive says, conspiratorially.

Why not? She was a teenage girl, weeping rivers into her pillow. Why not me? Just this once?

“Step,” Jill says.

“On three?” Clive says.

At the highest point of the music, she vaults into the air; Clive guides her upward, spinning with her above his head; she laughs; there’s another reaction, a bigger, louder gasp; she doesn’t go into a second pose, she merely has her legs extended in an upside-down V; Clive looses one hand and delivers her to the floor, catching her into the classic waltz pose.

Spontaneous applause ripples around the room. They’ve drawn a little bit of a crowd. The music, like their dance, comes slowly, softly, to a halt. Clive finishes in a pose reminiscent of the final pose in ‘Seas.’

There is so much of ‘Seas’ that Jill dislikes. Though it is inspired by her internal conflict—trying, as she has been told again and again, to channel her emotions into art—the wires in her are connected badly or something. It isn’t working. She isn’t Clive. She can’t transmute her pain into a character, much less a program that will get a judge excited to see it.

Clive favors her with a smile, smug and pleased with himself. He doesn't care about a score.

She only ever wants things that will hurt her, or that don’t want her, or that she doesn’t deserve. But perhaps she might still sort out her feelings. Perhaps she might figure out a way to redeem herself in her eyes and clear the way. And in the meantime, this, every little bit of this, is something that she will treasure.

I want more, she thinks.

“Bravo! Brava! Well done, well done,” Byron says, clapping the loudest of all. “Clive, my boy—you’ll never guess who I’ve just run into. You must come say hello.”

Jill breathes deeply. Everyone seems to be saying that, but it is just a big party.

“I’ve secured one of the parlors—you know, they are shut tonight? I can only imagine why,” Byron says, with a knowing chuckle.

“I want to get the name of this last song,” Jill says to Clive.

Byron gives directions; upstairs, through those doors, to the right, unmissable. Jill nods, promising to catch up.

It takes only a moment's conversation. With the song secured in her notes app, Jill makes for the stairs. She cuts through a grove of potted trees by the magnificent Club Dzemekys fountain, hoping to avoid the cluster of people ganging up around a table set with a guitar played by some famous musician.

Fingers close around her wrist. The hard edge of a ring cuts into her flesh. Jill schools her reaction.

Kupka lets her go.

"Mr. Kupka," Jill says.

"Just Hugo," he corrects. "Our conversation was cut short earlier."

"Was it?" Jill retorts calmly. She can control her emotions. She reaches for the sliver of ice buried in her heart. She can't feel anything. She can't be made angry. She can think. She adopts a pleasant expression that she doesn't think he believes even a tiny bit. "Sorry."

"Of course," Kupka says.

He leads her, hand hovering at her back, into a niche. Another smaller fountain, decorated by colorful mosaic tiles, occupies this corner. Pillars line the walls, holding up the mezzanine above, and the fronds of leaves act like curtains.

"I can tell that you don't trust me," Kupka says. "Rosfield has likely painted a very unflattering picture of me for you."

A thousand petty, catty lines leap into Jill's mouth and she swallows all of them. Actually, he doesn’t think much about you at all will feel good. It will accomplish nothing.

"I'd rather cut the overtures short," Jill says, hopefully not too bluntly. "He hasn't reminisced very fondly about you, no, but I'm capable of forming my own opinions."

Kupka regards her with new interest.

"That's gratifying to hear," he says. "Jill, I'd like to make you an offer."

More or less as she expected; the billionaire using money to get his way. He can't shut down their training facility. He can't close their boot shop again, since Goetz took his hobby into the realm of business and started Tollboot. He is getting desperate.

"And what's that?" Jill says.

"Skate for Dhalmekia," he says, simply.

She crosses her arms. "And abandon Clive?"

"I've done my research, Jill, I know what you're capable of," Kupka says. "You're a cold-blooded, rational woman. You could have put an end to old Drustan Imreann's career. The VSU would have ousted him at last with your testimony, following that disaster at Reverie. But you knew that wouldn't get you back to Trials, didn't you? No one else would take you after that. You did what you had to. A pity that you miscalculated how grateful Imreann would be for saving his wrinkled skin.

"I'll take you there, Jill. I'll deliver you to Trials. I'll give you anything you want. All you have to do is decide to act in your own best interest."

If he had driven a knife into her chest and twisted, it would not hurt her heart so much. Jill keeps a death grip on her composure.

"How long do I have to decide?" Jill asks.

Hugo chuckles. "As long as you like. You can even talk it over with dear Clive. I'm very patient. My family were hunters, you know. There's a proverb I always think of—the hare can outwit the trap and the snare, but the lion's teeth are always right behind."

He offers her his hand in a mockery of sportsmanship. She sees no good end to refusing him. Her tarnished honor can bear one more scratch. His hands, like Clive's, are very strong.

He's gloating. He thinks he is making a deal.

So she’ll negotiate.

"I'll have to consider very carefully," Jill says. "Clive is still the top-ranked skater in Valisthea. Money can't buy skill. And I've already gone through the hell that is switching national representation. I can't spend another year in suspense."

Kupka scoffs. "I promise you that it doesn't need to buy skill. And I should hope that my lawyers have sharper teeth than Gaultand. It's a non-issue."

She thinks, he couldn't be. It's absolutely insane.

"Good to know," Jill says. She turns on her heel and walks away. She forces herself not to run.

Judges are rather cheap, Quinten remarks placidly in her imagination.

Her gut feeling against his word, his money, his attorneys, his empire.

She lost this round before she even knew it had started.

The upstairs room that Byron has found for this meeting is in a room sparsely decorated with more plants and another indoor water feature, this one long and rectangular. Clive sits on a long sofa, leaning slightly forward on his knees.

"And you know Clive—not one for stinting on the theatrics," Byron says, concluding some tale. "Ah, Jill. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes," Jill says. She forces herself to breathe.

A woman is beside Clive on a sofa, with her hands clasped over her cane. A middle-aged man stands nearby, holding a slim black briefcase. He reminds Jill somewhat of Rutherford, with his studied neutral expression and his upright carriage.

“Jill, this is my great-aunt Ariane,” Clive says, for Jill’s benefit.

“How do you do?” asks Clive's great-aunt wryly. She offers her hand to Jill to clasp in a delicate ladylike way. “Lady Ariane Wellesley.”

“Jill Warrick,” Jill says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Ariane Wellesley is bird-like, with startlingly smooth, clear skin for someone Clive calls his great-aunt. Her deep red gown is absolutely encrusted in jeweled details. Ariane pats the sofa on her other side.

Jill sits. Kupka and his schemes will wait.

"The Wellesleys are quite as old as the Rosfields, with perhaps more sense," Ariane says without being asked. "My sister, Cornelia, married Marcus Rosfield, young Clive's great-grandfather's cousin. A love match. I could never condemn her, although it was not done in those days. Though she was therefore of a rather remote branch of Rosfield, Annie got a dispensation to marry young Elwin anyway. Like as not, it wasn't truly necessary—but I've never known that girl to do anything by halves. I imagine it is rather the same with her son. All that gold. We all must have a reason to be, one supposes."

Jill does not dare to fit a word into this speech. That Clive’s labyrinthine family tree is full of cousin marriages is not surprising—Joshua makes wry asides to it all the time, patting his heart—but Jill reels at hearing the Empress of Sanbreque referred to as Annie and that girl.

Lady Ariane regards Jill. She has the same intensity of presence as Clive.

"You don't speak much," Lady Ariane notes.

"No, my lady," Jill says.

"I imagine you are accustomed to such quizzing," Lady Ariane says.

"You don't have to let her bully you, Jill," Clive interjects.

"What a coarse young man," Lady Ariane says, not missing a beat.

Clive snorts. There are shades of Anabella Lesage's casual snobbery in Lady Ariane's words and bearing, but Jill senses that instead of being outraged by Clive's insouciance, she finds it proof that he is worthy of her respect. Jill doesn’t dare believe that the same behavior from her will win the same result.

"Yes, my lady," Jill admits.

"How formal you are," Lady Ariane says. She alters the order of her hands on her cane. "You know, Elwin was quite in love with Annie. I think she was in love with him, too. She made such lavish gestures to him. He hoped that she would change, you see, for love; but in the end I think we can all see that her character is quite fixed."

The following lapse indicates to Jill that she is now obliged to make an observation.

The poor hare, Jill thinks.

"Change comes from within," Jill says. "I'm certain it's possible to want to change, for the love of someone. But unless one truly wants it—"

I really want it, Miss Jill! Crow declares, pushing herself back up to her feet.

Jill swallows, stumbling momentarily.

"—I doubt it will actually happen."

"Diplomatic," Lady Ariane says.

Clive shrugs at her from over Lady Ariane's shoulder. Jill cannot help but smile; she turns her head down, allowing her hair to partly obscure her face.

"Did I say something amusing?" Lady Ariane asks.

"Only a joke between myself and Clive, that's all," Jill says. "It's nothing, really."

"Might I ask why you're here tonight, Aunt Ariane?" Clive says, changing the subject. "Moral support?"

Lady Ariane favors him with a smile. "Pecuniary, actually. I have some interest in becoming a donor to you pet project; also, Ronnie asked a favor of me some time ago and as I am in town, I thought I would deliver the news personally. Not that I was expecting that Mr. Kupka to be present this evening."

"What does Kupka have to do with this favor?" Clive asks. He spares a questioning look at his uncle. "Uncle Byron?"

“I have two nephews, you know,” Byron says. “Joshua mentioned something about a Fang Group a while back. My inquiries have been mostly fruitless. Thus I asked Lady Ariane for her assistance.”

Lady Ariane smiles tightly.

“I haven’t the foggiest as to what mischief you’re planning,” she says. “I rather think I don’t wish to know. Rockford will explain.”

Rockford clears his throat. Everything was impenetrable; then, this year, a minor bureaucratic error required the re-listing of a public address, and several similar empty companies suddenly, and very temporarily, listed the same address. After a long search with only that clue as a candle in the murk, Rockford turned up the actual agent charged with managing the activities of the companies, including Fang Group.

“He and his shockingly ugly suits are very real,” Lady Ariane says, examining her nails. “I don’t have the power to go further than that. Not legally, anyway. But the evidence is there, for a doughty soul with a subpeona in hand.”

“Thank you,” Jill says. “This is more than we could have expected.”

Lady Ariane sniffs. “Yet it’s hardly enough to point a finger with, is it?”

“No,” Clive says. “It’s not. Even if I knew what I meant to do with it. Hanna is happy again. If I were to pursue this, it would be about my revenge, not justice for her.”

Lady Ariane’s fingers tighten on the head of the cane. Her stiffly imperious expression softens. “You sounded very much like your father, just then.”

Clive grunts. He has nothing to say to that. Jill wishes she could reach over and take his hand.

“You see, Clive,” Lady Ariane continues. “There’s something I’ve wanted to make right for some time now.”

“Oh?” Clive says. He seems a million miles away. No doubt he is imagining shoving Kupka down the stairs.

“Your mother, of course, was quick to claim the great pieces of our family collection,” Ariane says. “However, there is a little of mine that I would like to go to you and to Joshua. It would make me quite happy to see it on a younger pair of hands, so on and so forth.”

Jill has never seen Clive wear any jewelry other than his ear cuff. It seems a part of him, almost not worth mentioning. He is fidgeting at the very thought.

But Lady Ariane is not looking at Clive, is she? Rockford opens the case that he has been carrying. Inside, there is a flat black velvet box.

Inside that lies a heartstone ring, sparkling in the light.

Jill founders for how to explain. Clive’s eyes cut to Jill’s. He shakes his head.

“Thank you, my lady,” Jill says, hesitantly. “But—”

“Call me Aunt Ariane,” she says. “Go on.”

“Thank you, Aunt Ariane,” Clive says, carefully maintaining eye contact with Jill.

There is only one finger it fits on, which is the finger that Ariane seems to expect. The sparkle of the jewel is stunning.

Red, she thinks. For passion unbridled, unrestrained.

Ariane accepts an embrace from the pair of them. Jill resolves during the keynote speech to give it back to Clive when they get back to the townhouse. The auction is followed by a performance given by a famous Dhalmek opera singer. Jill keeps her hands low as she applauds, to conceal the ring. Kupka drops a staggering 200 million during the portion where donors are encouraged to give freely, without a prize to win.

He meets Jill's eye across the sea of people. He smiles at her.

She is not going to be able to use him. There is no cleverly manipulating evil men, she ought to know that by now. The odds are so profoundly weighted towards him that a rematch of wits will be end in another defeat, because against corruption and power, cleverness is useless. It is worse than being a fool.

Clive never tries to compete with them. He looks the rich and powerful gods of their world in the eye and says fuck all of you.

A young man subtly approaches Kupka after the aria ends, and leans to whisper in his ear. Kupka stands and follows the messenger through to the foyer. Though the plan is to leave unobtrusively before the singer's encore, Jill begs off, saying, "There's something I have to do."

Clive furrows his brow, but whispers, "We'll be waiting."

Jill breathes in deep as she catches up with Kupka, tucked in a similar niche to the one where they had their previous tête-à-tête. Jill keeps her head high. Kupka moves to dismiss the messenger. Acne still pebbles the young man's cheek.

"That won't be necessary," Jill says. "My answer is no."

Kupka is not at all disturbed. "We'll table it for now."

Jill has spent her whole life biting her tongue.

"You can't stop me or Clive, no matter how much money you throw around," she says. "You can't buy me. I'm not a replacement you can just purchase."

The pacific expression of tolerance that Kupka has worn all night falls off like a mask where strings have just been cut, revealing pure, raw rage. Hugo Kupka seizes her with both hands by the wrists. He squeezes hard.

Jill tries to escape and can't. The hare. She experiences a shock wave of real terror.

"You," he says, in a soft and dangerous voice. "You are not a replacement for Benedikta. You are not half of what she is."

His rings hurt. Jill jerks her hands down sharply, distantly recalling the self-defense courses she took from the ducal security service when she was twelve years old. All her strength shakes him for a half second. He renews his grip, even harder this time on her fingers, and staggers her. A searing pain slices through her knee, bringing tears to her eyes. She tries not to gasp. The messenger is gone. No one is watching.

"You are, at best, a little toy I'm going to break so Rosfield can't play with you anymore," Hugo says. Her ring grinds unpleasantly against his own, and he scoffs. "Oh, is this what changed? I'll show you what happens to those who cross me."

So many things happen in the space of an instant that Jill remembers only a furious blur, even just a second later. Clive’s wordless roar. The impact of his body against hers. He breaks Kupka's grip, inserting himself between her and Kupka. He is incandescent with rage. The messenger reappears, hands behind his back at the wall.

"Cross you?" Clive says, not quietly. "I'll kill you!"

"Rosfield," Kupka sneers. "Always playing the hero. You are nothing, and you'll have nothing. I wonder how many losses your fiancée will stand before she realizes that she is never going to wear another medal."

"Don't ever lay hands on her again," Clive snarls.

They are not well secluded. Most people are still listening to the baritone's final notes, some as deep as the Dzemekys Fountain. But there are a few, lingering out of either concern or intrigue, watching this play out.

"Let's go, Clive," Jill begs. She feels so tired. "Let's just go."

Clive wraps an arm around her. He all but carries her to the car awaiting them. He’s seething. Whatever happens to Hugo Kupka, Jill doesn’t find out. She shivers in her seat.

“Uncle,” he says to Byron, as Rutherford drives them away. “I think I actually do want those documents from Aunt Ariane.”

There is only one video of the altercation. It is from so far away that Clive and Kupka are as small as her fingernail. Impossible to say who filmed and uploaded this. Clive wrenches her away. She goes over the moment again and again. She wishes she had been more forceful. As they walk away, she leans hard on Clive, favoring her good leg.

When Jill goes back to watch it again, after a long shower spent with her eyes closed under the fall of water, a gray box with a shrugging cartoon moogle says, Sorry, kupo! This content has been removed!

Her hair isn't dry yet when Clive knocks on her door.

The strong, clean lines of his body, highlighted by Hortense's tuxedo, are now softened by ratty old athletic wear. The black of his T-shirt fuzzes into gray. He's washed the product bravely keeping his hair neat-ish and it's wild again. She could curl that bit over his eyes around her finger.

"Sorry," Clive says. "For being a caveman, earlier."

Her knee aches, even two hours later. Kupka actually frightened her, actually hurt her. So few people have ever fought for Jill that she should be better at defending herself.

"It's alright," she says. "I think Kupka is trying to bury it. He didn't behave so well, either. Oh—"

She returns with the ring. She tries not to think very hard about how she's left out the lineless pale beige undergarments she wore under the suit across the bed. Clive can probably tell she isn't wearing a bra under her Magitek sleep shirt.

"Right," Clive says. Jill drops it into his hand. "Sorry about that, too. I know we decided not to engage—"

What a word choice.

"—but I think, considering what Kupka is capable of, we had better make an announcement of some kind, for clarity. About us."

"I doubt it will stop him from doing anything he has planned," Jill says. She bites her lip. She toys with the brass handle of the door. "I'm sorry for that. I shouldn't have goaded him."

"What happened?" Clive asks.

"He offered to pay my way to Trials," Jill says. She struggles to voice the rest. "Clive, I think he's bribing the judges. At least some of them."

Clive doesn't say, that's insane, they'd be caught. Why would they do that?

Instead he goes quiet. He stares past her ear, seeing some other room.

He says, so softly she can hardly hear, "'You don't get it, little lamb.'"

“Come in,” she says.

Jill opens the door, waving Clive through. He paces the rug as Jill turns the lock. Clive fidgets with the ring in his hands.

"Kupka was going to give Benedikta a gold medal at Trials," Clive says. "She knew. This whole time, and she let him."

"I don't understand," Jill says. "Why does he care so much about figure skating? Of all things?"

"He doesn't give a shit about the sport," Clive says. "He wanted the marry her after she was done. It was his perfect plan. A dollhouse for a doll."

A little toy I am going to break.

"And you ruined his play," Jill says.

"I didn't do a fucking thing," Clive says. "Benedikta would never listen to me. But that doesn't really matter, does it? If he believes it, it's real."

Jill sits down on the bed with a thump. Air whooshes out from under the thick coverlet.

"Clive," Jill says. "What do we do? He's bought the judges."

"Money doesn't buy everyone," Clive says. "He couldn't buy you."

He sits beside her. He sighs.

"You didn't do this, either, Jill," Clive says. "We have to speak to Cid. And Quinten Gaultand. After that ... I'm not going to stop skating, no matter what happens. We're going to Trials. I swear that to you."

Clive pounds the coverlet with his fist. He leans forward. His fingers brush Jill's hand, placed right beside his. Their eyes meet.

They are sitting so close.

Jill says, "We need to talk to Otto, too. About the stalker videos. And the announcement. It's going to be a strange to have to say it out loud."

Clive pulls his hands back into his lap. "Right."

The awkwardness increases.

"Jill, do you— he says, facing her.

"Clive, I was—" she says, in the same moment, facing him.

They are sitting so close. She can feel his weight shift the mattress. His brilliant eyes meet hers. Then they drop to her mouth. His lips part.

To fall back into the pillows and cushions would be a matter of seconds. To meet in a ravenous kiss, even less. She takes the ferocity with which he seized her from Kupka and gives it to his lovemaking. Instead of leisurely domesticity, it is raw, desperate need. She has never been wanted like that, not by any of her handful of exes, not by anyone. It would feel so good. She would lie back and let his desire set her every inch aflame. She wouldn't mind being consumed. Not if she could feel wanted like that.

She understands Benedikta Harman a little better.

"Go ahead," she says.

He exhales. "No," he says. "Never mind. It wasn't important. You go."

Clive has a will of iron. She won't be breaking it tonight. "I know this sounds kind of strange, all things considered," Jill says.

"Yes?" Clive says. He leans back on his palms. He subtly moves one hand from an unfortunately discarded piece of clothing.

"I have an idea for the redoing the free," Jill says.

She stands up, reaching for the offending garment and bundling it up to deposit out of sight, on the other side of the bed. She stands up, both to get her phone and to shrug on a Bennumere hoodie, for modesty's sake. She queues up the music.

"Alright," Clive says. "What's the song?"

"It's called 'Priceless,'" Jill says.

Byron took a beautiful photo of Jill and Clive at the gala. Jill is midair, descending, her face illuminated by joy and subtle amber lighting. Clive gazes up at her. In this frozen shard of time, he is laughing and happy. A single second of his joy is worth so much more to her than she could have ever imagined. It is like gold.

It is her memory to keep. The world doesn’t get this one.

They can hear Torgal barking as the taxi drives up. Clive swipes the card as Jill fights her way from the craterlike backseat The door to the Blackthornes' house bursts open and a massive wolf hound bounds out at top speed.

"Did you miss me, boy?" Jill coos.

A surly man with long black hair stands in the door, crossing his arms. "I'll say he did. Whined all day and night. Unending, like."

"Good evening, Blackthorne," Jill says. He doesn't use his given name, which is his personal quirk. Even his adoring husband calls him Blackthorne instead of David.

"Jill," he says. "How'd it go?"

"Not as well as we hoped," Jill says. She kneels, letting go of her luggage to wind both her arms around Torgal's neck. He stinks like a corn chip. She breathes in deep.

"Disappointment, eh?" Blackthorne notes.

Clive drags his roller bag up each decorative garden step, thump thump thump. He fishes his buzzing phone from his jacket pocket. He frowns at the screen.

"What now?" he mutters. He answers with the phone held in the palm of his hand. "Hello, Mother."

Jill goes still.

"That ring has been in the Wellesley family for two hundred years," says Anabella Lesage, directly, "and you gave it to that scheming little savage. That is not your place and I demand that you return it to its rightful place, at once."

"Are you fucking serious?" Clive says.

Blackthorne, to his credit, merely raises an eyebrow and says nothing.

"Enough," Anabella says. "Always with that filth spewing out of your mouth. Your father never humiliated me like this. He knew exactly where her kind belonged."

Jill recoils. Everyone thinks she and Clive are having sex already, everyone thinks she is fucking him to get to Trials or worse. Fucking, that word, just like that.

"No, that's enough, Mother," Clive says. He presses on inside so he's not having an out-and-out row with his mother in the Blackthornes' front garden. Jill follows, with Blackthorne lingering to shut the door. "Don't you dare say another fucking word about Jill."

"You are going to regret tying yourself to her," Anabella sneers. "Her own father left her behind. They think only about their best interests, I hope you know. That ring is for blood—"

"It was my ring," Clive growls into the phone. "And if I gave it to Jill, it's her ring, and I'd like to see you fucking try to take it back."

"So it is true," Anabella says, exactly as if she has caught Clive out.

Clive breathes hard. She can see the thoughts crank, tooth by tooth, cog by cog. If they deny that there's something between them, Anabella will go for the throat. Jill realizes with a chill that Anabella would happily go after her for theft of ducal property.

"What do you think?" Clive says coldly, and hangs up.

Blackthorne clears his throat. "Nasty mother-in-law, there."

"She isn't winning any awards," Clive mutters. "Some lady-in-waiting probably saw it on the aethernet."

"How?" Jill says. "I hid that ring so carefully."

The crush of her fingers in the grinder of his rings. Jill winces. Clive's eyes widen.

"Kupka," Clive says. "Kupka saw it."

Jill feels herself pale. Her fingertips tingle numbly. "But that means that—"

"My mother is in league with Hugo Kupka?" Clive says, pulling his hand down his face. "A Dhalmekian billionaire and the Empress of Sanbreque are conspiring together to fuck over her son the figure skater and his partner?"

It sounds insane.

"Kupka, like the billionaire Kupka?" Blackthorne says. "I did things I wasn't proud of when I was with Dravozd, but compared to him, I've lived the life of a fucking saint."

Jill breathes deep. She thinks about what she knows of human nature and Anabella Lesage.

"We need to call Cid, right now," Jill says.

She doesn't particularly want to involve Cid while he's dealing with the fallout of his daughter's school troubles, but he's the only one who has the connections they need to do something about this.

"If I can do anything," Blackthorne says. "Give us a shout. Not that I know what that would be."

Clive and Jill retreat back outside to Clive's flat. He still doesn't have any furniture, just piles of boxes he's yet to unpack. It's neatly kept, just not very homelike. Jill doesn't dare sit on his bed. She paces until Clive puts himself in her way. He rarely looks nervous. He does now.

"Jill, I hate to do this, especially after what we decided in Ran'dellah," Clive says. "But I think there's a real chance that my mother is going to go after you using the ring as a pretext. She did something similar to Biast."

Jill's skin prickles when she hears about either of Clive's two exes, the virtuous Brigitte, who is now a children's therapist, and Biast, the brilliant and sexy contemporary artist. Jill has dated and slept with more people by far, but her romances were always short-lived and seldom came with deeper feelings. Both of Clive's relationships were long-term commitments where he was in love.

"What happened?" Jill asks. She has gone out of her way not to know.

"He was making a lot of art critical of the Empire at the time," Clive says grimly. "And he made something about how he saw her treat me. She threatened him with a libel charge. The threat leaked to the media somehow, and suddenly he wasn't merely subversive. They said all manner of shitty things, but chief among them was that he was manipulating me with sex to further his career. It was devastating. It crushed him."

Her jealousy suddenly feels petty and small. There is unprocessed emotion in Clive's voice. She feels like a bristling envious monster; she feels herself be stained by her shame.

"He didn't want that anymore, so," Clive concludes.

"I see," Jill says.

The whole situation is absurd. Why? Why won't anyone leave Clive alone, why won't they let him be happy? She stews guiltily.

He should hate her, at least a little.

"My mother didn't come out of that situation blameless. As long as she thinks that we are actually engaged," Clive says, "she won't dare try again. I could just give her the ring, but I suspect it isn't about that. She'd still go after you for merely having it pass through your hands."

"But if I'm your fianceé," Jill reasons.

Clive finishes it out. "It belongs to you."

"I don't want to lie," Jill says. "That's inviting trouble. But is it enough to just go on as we have done? Letting people believe?"

"My mother will never ask a question with an answer she doesn't like," Clive says. "She won't dare prod. We can let it go until after Trials, and then we can just ... publicly break up and you can return the ring to me formally."

He struggles to articulate that last part, which tells her that he is just as reluctant to enter into a deception as her. The window, which dominates this massive room, rattles loudly as an evening breeze blows past. Jill uses it as an excuse to turn her head. She swallows. Clive reaches into his jacket pocket.

"Alright," Jill says.

"This is yours, then," Clive says.

In his hand is the heartstone ring. Heartstone; the other, more romantic appellation for the rarest of all jewels, the red diamond. It is obvious to her now that Anabella Lesage would want this for her own collection, as opposed to allowing it to fall into the hands of her son's scheming little Northern whore.

"I recognize how very awkward this is," Clive says, attempting a tortured approximation of levity.

Jill spares him the task of both asking and sliding the ring onto her finger a second time. It fits perfectly. It gleams red as a drop of fire on her hand. Despite the situation, she thinks they ought to have new costumes, for a new program. She can see the designs coalescing in her head.

"Of course I'll marry you, Clive," Jill says lightly, returning the effort at handling their circumstance with humor and grace. "Now let's call Cid and give him the bad news."

It doesn't take long for hawk-eyed gossip blogs to pick out the Wellesley ring on Jill's finger.

I knew it, reads the triumphant top comment.

Liliane rubs Crow's back. Crow is hunched over, shaking with tears, arms wrapped around her shivering body.

"I did it," Crow wails. Jill shoves her fingers into her hair, pacing the length of the hotel room. Liliane frowns sympathetically at Jill. "I did perfect. Why not? Why?"

"I know," Jill says, knowing all too well.

I figured it might escalate, Cid said to them. He exhaled, no doubt a cloud of smoke. Jill's nose automatically wrinkled. His type always escalates, especially if you try to be above his nonsense. He wants you to know he's screwing you, so to speak.

What do we do? Jill asked.

I don't know exactly, Cid said.

Can we fight? Clive wanted to know. My aunt—

Even with auntie's evidence, that's hardly a smoking gun. A development tycoon known for his arenas buys up some ice skating rinks to renovate ahead of 878. Cid laughed darkly. It makes perfect sense. You need real evidence. Hard to get it, legally. He makes sure of that.

Has the man no weaknesses? Jill asked, frustrated. She rubbed her wrists on instinct.

Aye, he does, Cid said. And none of them are answering my calls at present. Be prepared. He's going to go after our nearest and dearest soon.

Jill's fist tightens. She imagines battering Kupka's face. Violence repulses her, but for him, she would make a fucking exception.

Crow's face in the kiss and cry haunts her. She had been so thrilled to make it to nationals. There is no way her free skate is going to make up for her short program score, which is baffling. Jill wants to protest, or insist on an inquiry, or something. She knows it will be useless. Even if they change the score, it will mark both her and Crow as trouble makers. Jill breathes out. She sits on the hotel bed, mussing up the smooth white coverlet with her weight.

"I wanted it so bad," Crow murmurs through a veil of tears. Her eyes are rimmed with bright red.

"I'm so sorry," Jill says. She folds Crow into a hug. "I'm so, so sorry."

The cityscape of Stonhyrr, twice the size of Oriflamme or Rosalith, dazzles Jill. It is a silver bracelet, laid down on its side, shining in gorgeous sunset colors as they set down on the other side of the bridge. The sun spangles the water with gold leaf ripples. Jill takes at least fifty pictures. It gets her mind off of her situation. If Clive could get through Ran'dellah, she can get through Stonhyrr.

Reverie is the first of the Grand Prix events this time. By some miracle, they have a free to compete with. 'Priceless' will be debuted here. There has been no time. Furthermore, they don't much want to risk their overall standings by tempting Kupka's wrath. But while he has Storm in a chokehold, Ash is Cid's old stomping grounds, and his cachet may well prove useful in keeping things honest.

"That, or someone might take the money and then report it for me," says Cid.

"Do you think?" Clive asks.

"Not really," Cid says.

"No one is that dumb," says Mid cheerfully. Her neck pillow frames her smiling face like a ruff. She is fourteen, and has recently shot up like a sunflower.

Clive snorts. "I'll never unblock you at this rate "

"Unblock me!" Mid demands, kicking his shoe as they get on the moving walkway.

"Never," Clive vows.

Jill smiles behind her hand. The ring weighs down her finger. Mid spares her a gleeful grin.

Cid doesn't seem fussed that Mid has dropped out, though this means she is adrift for the term. Jill doesn't mind Mid tagging along, and neither does Clive. He falls easily into the role of an older brother to an exceptional child. Joshua was accelerated through his schooling as well.

"Heard all kinds of stuff about this place," Mid notes. "Dad, have you really met the king?"

"Aye," Cid says. "He's an odd one, old Barney."

The hotel is an older building, with a charming café in the first floor. Jill is admiring it when Cid hands out the key cards.

"You and Clive," Cid says casually. "Mid and I are one floor below."

Mid snickers. Jill doesn't say anything. Clive merely says, "Thanks."

They drag their luggage into the elevator. Mid chatters about her TV show; she's watching an old sci-fi series Jill loves, about explorers traveling the stars aboard the ship Enterprise. Jill makes general replies. Clive liked Magitek more, and brings up the traditional rivalry between franchises to take shots at Mid and amuse her.

A xylophone tune drifts up out of Jill's coat pocket. She checks it as Clive opens the door to their room.

"Harpocrates?" she says, rolling her bag over the threshold, from the ugly hall carpet onto a brief tile square. "Is everything alright?"

Clive frowns.

"Well, yes," Harpocrates begins, "insofar as we are all blessed to have our health. But I seek a little counsel, Jill, most especially because this is a subject on which you have the most experience. You see, we've been contacted by a federation about Crow. We were all quite shocked."

Sanfed or IPR?

"That could be good," Jill says. According to Cid, on the Continent skaters simply pay membership fees to be allowed to compete at all levels. In Valisthea, skaters need to be invited by the broader national organization, and are granted varying levels of support after passing their tests. "Which one?"

"That's the trouble," Harpocrates says. "It's the HRSF."

Haearann Royal Skating Federation. IK's proper name.

"As I understand, the skating there is quite high level, and that their invitation are rare," Harpocrates says. Concern creeps into his voice. "Crow is quite animated. She says that you were a skater under this HRSF. In addition, the terms ... is it common, for a child to be approached by ... a sponsor?"

"Not really," Jill says hollowly.

Clive is watching her face intently.

"Any guidance would be most appreciated," Harpocrates concludes. "This is quite an extraordinary opportunity, and yet I find myself distinctly ill at ease."

Jill paces to the window, phone at her ear. "Anything that seems too good to be true likely is."

"Quite so. Yet Crow—"

"Keep Crow as far from IK and the federation as you can," Jill snaps. She breathes, inhale, exhale. "Sorry."

"I see," Harpocrates says.

"Don't make any decisions until I get back," Jill says. "Please, please, trust me when I say that HRSF is not the right fit."

Harpocrates hesitates. "Jill," he says. "I did do a little research. This Imreann fellow ... it seems that he has a reputation for, bluntly, rather abusive behavior. How is it that he is still permitted to coach? And why is his federation interested, suddenly, in my granddaughter?"

"I'm sorry," Jill says. "I'll—I'll explain when I can. Just don't. Please, promise me that you won't consider anything."

"I won't," Harpocrates says. "I trust you, Jill. You would never allow harm to come to us."

They exchange an incredibly stilted goodbye. Jill collapses to the foot of the bed. She inhales, cupping her hands around her mouth in horror.

"Jill," Clive says. "What's—"

"He's going after Crow," Jill whispers. "He's got everyone in his fucking pocket and he's going after Crow."

"What the fuck," Clive says.

Kupka is really going to bully a little girl and kill her dream because Jill dared to cross him. A grown man with all that fucking money. He's going to drive her from the sport, because Benedikta fucking Harman doesn't want to be his girlfriend anymore. Jill rubs her wrists.

"He's using Imreann," Jill says. "It's my fault."

"Jill—"

"I had a chance to end him and I didn't," Jill says.

Clive shuts his mouth.

This has stayed locked inside for seven years, and now it's coming out. Clive should know. She's kept this secret for long enough. Or maybe she's merely grown tired of carrying it. She finds a spot in the view of the city from their window to focus on as she speaks, the long bridge. She can't bear to look him in the eye.

"He was so angry. He said that I wouldn't ever make it to Trials again, I didn't want it badly enough. That if I had, I wouldn't have gotten so hurt," Jill says. "He tore off my necklace. I got scared, so when I finished crying I sent an anonymous tip to the VSU. I thought, he'll never take me back. I'm broken. This is it. So I might as well take him with me."

Clive lets her alone. He knows there is more. But in between these speeches, she has to recover herself.

"I don't know what I thought would happen. They sent someone to interview me, not because of the tip, I suppose, but because it was all over the aethernet, even the local news. I shouldn't have gotten up to finish the program. The doctors said that was what did the most damage, the fact that I kept going through the pain. But it was what he had trained me to do. I think—I think I was more upset that he was so angry at me because I had only done what he wanted. It happened a lot. Girls breaking. It had just never happened to me."

She is no longer in control of her words; they tumble out everywhere. If Clive were to interrupt, she might be able to halt the momentum. He doesn't. He doesn't. She goes on and on.

"I thought that it didn't matter anymore. I was going to stop him from doing it to anyone else, I wasn't going back anyway. But he—he found out somehow. He spoke to me again." Jill swallows. "He was probably afraid. He told me if I only kept my silence, he would wait for me to recover. He said that if I spoke, no one would take me afterwards—not the Territories, not Waloed or Dhalmekia, certainly not Sanbreque. I only had one chance to go back. He never offered that to anyone else. So when the representative came to investigate, I said it was all fine."

It's out now.

"Obviously, he lied, too." Jill has no right to feel so angry—she knew the kind of snake she was dealing with, she doesn't get to feel betrayed. "He let me recover, sent me back into competition. But gradually I realized that he couldn't allow me to stay. I was never going back. I gave him years of my life, I broke my body, I sacrificed my honor and my integrity, and it didn't get me a thing. Isn't that wretched? Because he didn't make me do any of that. I wanted to. I wanted to get to Trials so badly that I damned myself on my own. By the time I was done, I was so numb to what I was doing I couldn't feel anything at all."

They told her she was too old. Twenty-three, and too old. A year in Rosalith, feeling like a void. Playing pretend for Joshua and her mother and the circle of acquaintance that she somehow deceived her way into acquiring. Digging through the wreckage, trying to salvage anything that came close to feeling.

She dares, at last, to look at him. She flinches.

He is angry. The muscles in his neck and jaw are taut. His strong hands are in fists. Clive drops down beside her, and seizes her in a fierce embrace. Her chin juts into his shoulder. His hand cups the back of her head, around her back. Her heart is racing so fast she can hardly breathe, but the sense of relief is nearly intoxicating in how fast it sets in, how good it feels.

Forevermore, she thinks.

She didn't understand it before. She does now. Something inside, broken so long ago she had forgotten what it felt like to be whole, is suddenly mended. She braces herself for pain or shame or guilt but it never comes.

The tears do, though.

When it's over, Jill sniffles in an ugly way. Clive lets her go long enough to find the complimentary tissue box. She blows her nose and realizes for the first time something important about where she is sitting.

"He's not going to get a scrap of pity from me," Clive says. She doesn't know if he's talking about Kupka or Imreann or both. "No pity, and no mercy. He's never going to touch you or anyone else ever again. I'll bite off his hands before that."

Kupka, then.

She can think more rationally now. "If we perform well tomorrow, his hand moving things around will be more obvious. So far, my less-than showing has concealed a lot of his machinations."

"Your showing has been fine," Clive says. "On your worst day, you're head and shoulders above the rest. Believe me, Jill, it has never been you."

It's kind of him to say so.

"All the same," she says. She discreetly blows her nose again. She sighs. "Clive, there's only one bed in here."

He blinks. "Oh, shit."

"Dare we ask for a double?" Jill asks.

"I don't know," Clive says. "I suppose I should have foreseen this."

"Me, too," Jill says. "I sort of expected to share with Mid."

"It makes sense why he'd book the rooms this way," Clive admits. "I don't have much, ah, experience in things like this."

Despite herself, she cracks a smile. It stretches strangely across her lips. She stands up, venturing to the other side of the room.

"I think this couch folds out," she says, experimenting with a quick tug.

Hotel beds are never comfortable, but the distinct bar down the narrow center of the fold-out couch mocks them.

"I'll take it," Clive says at once.

"Don't be ridiculous," Jill says. She wishes that her voice wasn't still thick from weeping. "I'm smaller, I'll fit better."

"Perhaps we can trade nights," Clive says.

Jill scoffs. "Are you joking? That's a torture rack. Your poor back."

Years of lifting and jumping and thumbing his nose at physics have taken their toll on him, too. His last few doctor's visits have been negotiations with what treatment ought to be and what regulations will allow. This close to competition, Clive would rather suffer than get penalized, so while he never admits it, he is always in pain.

"I'll take it," Jill says, forcefully. "It makes sense."

"We'll see," Clive says.

is it just me or did Warrick get really good since cerdra’s?

wtf are these judges on. Literally outrageous underscoring on Rosfield, that was not on my bingo card at ALL. I’m watching the spin I cannot for the fucking life of me figure out where the deduction is coming from?

jill comes out of pose too soon.

I feel like clive and jill have been consistently underscored the whole season? Am I tripping?

This is some boshit fr. Kasjlok sibs did not outskate them. Le duc/coeur didnt either.

Wow! She looks so pretty! You can really tell she’s finally connecting with the music.

Though pain throbs through Jill's knee like a knife inching its way through the gaps between her bones, it is nothing compared to the giddy high of skating a nearly perfect program. She feels light enough to take flight. Sensation overwhelms her, in a good way. The air is cool on her skin, and wherever Clive touches her, his warmth lingers. They join hands in the kiss and cry.

"How do you feel?" Clive asks, as they file back to change, Jill bound for the women's locker rooms and Clive for the men's.

"I wanted to venture around Stonhyrr later today, but I think I need to stay off my feet," Jill laments.

They part ways, Clive going on, and Jill turning left. She'll save the shower for the hotel. Eloise Kasjlok approaches her from one side as she heads for the door. Jill zips up her jacket.

"Hi," Eloise says. "You know, we switched to Tollboot around the same time you did. Goetz and I good friends. It's a shame we haven't had much time to talk."

Jill smiles. "Yes, he mentioned."

Eloise mirrors her smile. Her close cropped hair is elegantly styled. She toys with one of the simple gold hoop earrings she wears.

"I merely wanted to ask—do the results seem odd to you?" Eloise inquires directly.

"Ah," Jill stumbles. She rarely falters.

Probably they should have made a plan for if anyone asked. She doesn't intend to do the dirty work of concealing Kupka's scheming for him, but what she says now will probably matter for future investigations. Her reputation is already damaged in that regard.

"I recognize that the sport is rather cutthroat," Eloise says, no doubt sensing the reason for Jill's reticence. "I don't hesitate to seize advantages. But if I might ... I'd rather win on my terms, rather than have victory handed to me. You aren't the only one to see a pattern."

"I appreciate that," Jill says. "Just ..."

"I know," Eloise says. She mounts her hands on either hip. "The minute this breaks, it's going to upend the whole season, at least. Believe me. I'm angry, and so is my brother. Others too. All of the honors we've won this year are poisoned with the knowledge that we didn't really earn them."

"We don't know that," Jill says.

"And we never will," Eloise replies.

In the lobby, sunshine breaking out from behind a swathe of pale autumn clouds turns the deep gray carpet a shining white. The pavement outside is still wet from the morning squalls coming off the sea. It is a shame that Jill isn't going anywhere, because Stonhyrr in mid-autumn is calling out to her to explore, just like the song.

Clive and Cid are having a quiet conversation with solemn faces. Not out of the ordinary for Clive, but almost alarming on Cid.

"I expect you had a interesting talk with Theo?" Jill guesses.

"Yes," Clive confirms. "He's getting obvious."

"Making him real fucking mad seems to have worked in our favor," Cid says. "I'll have Quinten prepare a statement for us. And warn Otto, whilst I'm at it. He always gets a little fractious when I forget to warn him."

"Can't imagine why," Clive mutters.

The gravity of the situation weighs down Jill's previous buoyancy. The hard part, as usual, is that she doesn't know exactly when everything will change, only that it will.

"I'm going back to the hotel, then," Jill says. "It's as good a place as any to ride out a storm."

"Hopefully Mid hasn't flooded the bathroom," Cid says, but he's looking down at his phone, rapidly typing. With one decisive stroke, he hits send. He breathes out. He grins at Clive. "Don't keep her up too late, now."

Occasionally her phone buzzes and bings with photos and messages that Gav obligingly sends to their group chat. Cid has taken his daughter to the Gungnir Museum of Science and Technology. Clive stays with her, reading in the window seat as she edits the video of the flight in.

When Cid and his daughter get back, they join the pair for dinner. Gav is out with the younger skaters, with the assumption that he will be on his best behavior; he still has his free tomorrow, like Clive and Jill.

Mid notes the buzz leftover by the Summer Trials, held months before. Sanbreque made a record-making showing, as evidenced by Anabella's relative silence; she's been busily lavishing her exemplary athletes with knighthoods and honors.

Rosaria did not medal at all. Clive hasn't said much about it.

Cid brings out his phone every once in a while and sends off a text; when Mid leans over to snoop, he waves her off like a mosquito.

"No, no, you," Cid says.

"Aw," Mid pouts.

No one mentions Kupka. Jill thinks about all the stadiums and arenas and complexes he must have poured money into in Ash. Sleipnir Harbard, the king's Lord Councillor of Athletics, hovers by Kupka's elbow in her imagination, grinning slyly.

She wonders what he knows. Honor melts when money rains down on it. Harbard doesn't care about them. He might well determine that a bribery scandal is best handled quietly—or silenced, all together.

She is so preoccupied that she forgets all about the single bed. Her weariness overwhelms her. She sags with resignation at the sight of the fold-out before she can stop herself. Clive shuts the door with a click.

"I'm going to take that horrible thing tonight," Clive says.

"No," Jill says, her temper making her snappish. "Clive, you don't need to be a martyr for me."

"Alright," Clive says, with the same irritable fatigue. "Fine. How about this. We're both adults in control of ourselves; certainly we can share a bed."

Jill's mouth goes dry. She nods. "You're right."

They take turns in the bathroom. Clive has seen her in her nightclothes before. He's seen her without a bra. Her cheeks pink in the bathroom mirror reflection. They trade places. She has her underwear hidden in the center of the bundle of trousers and blouse that she wore to dinner, stowing it in her luggage, exactly like last night.

Her hands knot together in her lap. She takes off the ring, and sets it on the nightstand. The shower runs on the other side of the door after a long silence, and Jill stares sightlessly at her phone.

Water is rolling down his skin, right now, through his hair and down his shoulders. Droplets are freckling his chest and abs, growing heavy before sliding down further.

Jill snaps a mental rubber band against her brain.

The faucet squeaks. The water ceases to flow. He reappears, damp and clean-smelling. He's trimmed his beard so it lies close to his skin. Jill made an offhanded comment about how she thought it suited him over two years ago. He's yet to go back to being completely clean-shaven.

"Would you like to read a bit?" Jill says, using solicitude to cover her nervousness.

"Do you mind?" Clive says.

"No. I have some edits to finish up still."

He digs in his bag, and brings a colorful hardcover to bed with him. He slides his long legs under the covers. Clive hunches over it, turning the page every little while. Her edits are finished in fifteen minutes. Another five sees them queued up, ready to go. Jill noodles on her phone a little longer, watching videos about mimett spice lattes, popularized in the city.

"That's the chapter finished," Clive says.

"I'm done, too," Jill says, setting her phone aside to charge. She licks her lips. "This is alright, isn't it?"

Clive sets the book aside. "I think so. Are—are you okay with it? Really?"

"Having slept on that thing myself, I can't in good conscience allow anyone else to do the same," Jill says dryly, and they both manage a little chuckle.

"I'm second-guessing this whole plan," Clive says.

"Sharing a bed?"

Clive looks down at his hands, folded in his lap. "Letting people think we're engaged."

"Oh."

"I'm tired of putting all these awful burdens on you, Jill." He massages his temples, the bridge of his nose. "My mother especially. The more I think about it, the more ludicrous the whole situation is. It's an insane thing to ask, and it's already had a consequence that you had to pay."

Jill draws up her knees. She hugs them to her chest. She snorts. "I could have easily asked for a different room if I cared that much. If anything, I'm most upset about how her behavior affects you."

"It's how she is," Clive says.

"It's wrong. I know you don't want to talk about it, so I'll simply say that I think she's wrong. She always has been."

Clive rubs his cheek and chin, perhaps growing used to the absence of a quarter-inch of beard. She watches his throat move. After decades of silence, the words must be dense and heavy. Clive never, never talks about his mother.

"I always used to wonder what was wrong with me," he says. His voice does not make it to the end of the sentence. Jill waits. Eventually, he says, "Sorry."

"It's fine," Jill assures him. "Parents can be difficult."

She doesn't insist. He has carried so much for her that she would gladly bear up anything for him. But there have been so few meaningful choices in his life, outside of the single one that defined him forever, that she won't pressure him at all.

"That's right, your—" Clive stops himself.

Jill bites the inside of her cheek. "Yes. It's alright. He hasn't contacted me. I don't know if he knows I'm in Ash, actually."

Whatever Clive thinks about Geir Warrick, he keeps mum.

"He's more south, anyway," Jill says. "He's got a villa on the Shadow Coast. It's supposed to be beautiful seaside views, that sort of thing. I've always wanted to go."

"I've never been," Clive says. "I've seen so much of the world, but I've never been able to enjoy it much."

The conversation, stymied at the point where it ought to have naturally gone, runs out of steam.

"Are you nervous for tomorrow?" Jill asks.

"Not especially," Clive says. He glances at her. His eyes are so bright, so clear. She wants to take that little smile and keep it very safe. "Are you?"

"Strangely, no," Jill says. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She reaches for him. It is the most chaste of touches, her fingers resting on his shoulder. Comradely. She banishes the word sisterly from her lexicon.

They stay like that, connected, for several heartbeats. He leans towards her. She swallows.

Her back feels tight. Her jaw, too.

He pulls back.

"I am, too," he says, softly. The smile flickers away, blown out like a candle flame. He fidgets nervously. "Best get some sleep."

The tension bleeds away. "Yes."

Clive reaches for the lamp. "Good night, Jill."

"Good night, Clive."

She supposes that, eventually, she does manage to fall asleep. When she wakes up, Clive's gnarled bare feet are jutting off the edge of the couch.

The free is pushed back an hour, another hour, another hour. The technicians who operate the cameras are the most annoyed at having their time wasted. The manager for the building, identified by her purple blazer, is talking animatedly with the representative from the Royal Athletic Commission.

"They've subbed in the three alternates, and they're looking for more," Cid says, tossing his gross insulated mug from hand to hand. "Fun, fun."

"Are we going to get to skate?" Clive asks. "When will we know?"

Cid shrugs.

The event is postponed, which is usually interpreted as cancelled. The gossip machine revs its engine. Eloise and Theo Kasjlok cross their arms and look solemn—

—but absolutely guiltless.

That evening, a notice is posted to Skate Valisthea.

The integrity of scoring and judging is the backbone of the skating community. VSU takes the recent allegations of bias in the Reverie Cup event very seriously. An independent investigation is currently being conducted.

As the Reverie Cup is a part of the Grand Prix event series, all efforts will be made, following the conclusion of the investigation, to continue the event at a date no later than ...

Essentially, they can either go back to Bennumere just to get on another plane to return to Stonhyrr, or they can spend the next week, maybe two, in Ash. Cid has kicked open the doors to the academy and its ice for them to train on, should they prefer to stay.

"Of course," Cid says. "Time to find something to take pictures of until they make an announcement."

There is no chance of a reschedule for a week, partly because of hockey and partly because of a music festival. The intrigue goes deeper in the meantime. The image of a man in a garish suit becomes very familiar to everyone in figure skating, because this is the patsy who takes the fall. In Jill’s head, she hears Quinten’s words echoing, one imagines these are sacrificial in nature.

King Barnabas, a venerable old man in his seventies, makes a speech promising that the Stonhyrr Trials are exactly what they are meant to be: fair contests of athletic skill and merit, completely unconnected to this minor scandal. The Lord Councillor, Harbard, promises a thorough review. Many unscrupulous people are ousted from their jobs and banned from the sport for a minimum of three years.

Jill stays away from social media. She thanks the athletes who have reached out to her for their support, and gives the line that Otto wrote for her about trusting in the Waloeder investigation. Already people are asking about Cerdra's. About Twins.

She tells Dorys that's she's doing okay. We're taking the train down to the coast.

Sounds lovely, Dorys texts back.

"Great Greagor's gash! Look at the size of it!" Mid declares. Cid ignores the pointed glares of their fellow passengers as his daughter goggles at the Angry Gap.

“It’s an engineering marvel,” Cid agrees, interpreting the sentiment accurately.

Clive keeps reading, glancing every so often out the window to appreciate the deadly drop below. Jill takes a video as they travel across it, catching Cid’s explanation of the extraordinary structure that spans the chasm, a gossamer thread of spider’s silk between them and doom. Gav puts his head between his knees and counts backward from one hundred.

Pandemonium reigns at Wolfdarr Station, but eventually they charge through the bustling crowd and get to yet another hotel. This time, Clive and Cid take two doubles with Gav suffering on a rollaway, and Mid and Jill share another room. They spend the day poking around the city of Eistla. Mid is sweet, boisterous, and happy to chatter to Jill about her projects. Jill enjoys her energy.

“There’s a bit of a spring in your step,” Clive observes, hanging back from the others. Gav and Mid make faces on either side of a set of statues of serious-looking old men poring over maps in the town square. Cid has his phone sideways, snapping pictures.

“Is there?” Jill says. “I suppose I feel a bit lighter.”

“Any reason?” Clive asks, leaning against the stone wall beside her.

Cid begs Gav and Mid to be serious, to just take a nice photo like nice kids. He laments their chaos in ever-more grandiose verbiage as they grow progressively sillier and sillier.

“I know that nothing has really changed,” Jill says. “We still have all the same problems we did before. New ones, too. I can’t even think about Twins.”

“If they’ll even have it,” Clive says.

“I think they will,” Jill says. “For Trials.”

A number of things contribute to the selection of representatives for Trials, but standing in Twins Championships is the most weighted metric.

Mid shrieks with sudden laughter. Jill chuckles.

“I love to see them in such high spirits,” Jill says. “It must be hard for Cid to have Mid so far away at university.”

Clive puts his hands in his jacket pockets. “Not so far soon.”

“True,” Jill notes. “Clive … would you go with me, if I went to visit my father? Or tried?”

“Of course,” Clive says. “Say when.”

The morning they plan to take a car down to the coast, Cid reports that Reverie will conclude in five days. They’ll return tomorrow afternoon, practice on the Badbach ice, and then compete at last.

“Harbard himself vetted these new judges,” Cid notes, leafing through a proper newspaper at the hotel breakfast table. “Doesn’t look good, I suppose. Have fun."

The plan is rather simple: go there and try to talk her way in. If she can’t, they will spend the rest of the day walking along the rocky beach.

“This mogcast is so gruesome,” Jill remarks as they pull up to the villa gate. There is no security guard, only an older intercom box and number pad.

“What?” Clive says. He’s driving; in Ash, they drive on the wrong side of the road, which doesn’t seem to both him much. Jill is afraid of forgetting. “Oh. I suppose I wasn’t actually listening. I’ve heard this one. Do you want me … ?”

The property does not look extensive, but it is entirely fenced in. The smell of the sea rises to her nose with the breeze. She can hear it, distantly, too. There is a beach nearby, with crying gulls and crashing surf. Jill admired the big ocean ships in the strait as they drove down the coastal highway.

“No,” Jill says. “I can do this. It’s enough that you’ve come with me.”

“I’m here,” he says. “Always.”

It heartens her. She gets out and walks the short distance to the intercom, bending down to the receiver to speak. She presses the button. After a few moments where her breath does not come at all, she hears a man’s gruff, Northern voice say, “Who’s this, now?”

“My name is Jill Warrick,” she says, enunciating. “I’ve come to visit my father, Geir.”

There is silence. There is more silence. Then the other side buzzes to life, and she hears that same man’s voice say, “Go away.”

Nothing else.

All this way, and he won’t even fucking speak to me, Jill manages to think, before she forces herself to go cold. No tears. This isn’t worth crying over; it’s been over twenty years, anyway, so what was she expecting? Open arms? Joyful reunions? A damned apology?

“Jill?” Clive says. “What happened?”

“He doesn’t want to see me,” Jill says coolly. She shuts the car door, buckles her seat belt. She didn’t even try to get in on the Ashen driver’s side first. She’s learning.

“To the beach, then,” Clive says.

“Sure,” Jill says tonelessly.

She sets her phone to navigate to what she assumes is the nearest beach access. She stares out the window, out at the ocean, as they head back north. The tall cliffs are imposing and picturesque. The sun shines on the water.

She tries very hard to go numb again. It has all been so good, so sweet, so joyful, that she has forgotten about pain and the reminder hurts so much. She feels every raw second of it.

This was why, she thinks.

Clive turns off the road. He turns to her. "Let's take a walk."

The waves roll noisily inward, smashing into white foam and retreating. The sound drives out thought and feeling. That appeals greatly.

"Alright," she says, with a sigh.

Her feet crunch on the pebbles. Clive walks beside her with his hands in his pockets. Shallow streams feed into the sea. A slim white waterfall cascades in a jagged line down the cliffs. Clive spots a garuda hawk. They step over and around crab claws and sand gil and clam shells and beach-goer trash. The weather is dodgy, so they only see a few others, flying kites or walking their off-leash dogs in the distance.

"Torgal would love this," she says after a hour of not volunteering speech. Clive never, ever minds her quietness. "All the smells."

"You wouldn't be able to keep his nose out of anything," Clive replies.

Jill wraps her arms around herself. They come up on an inlet too deep to easily cross. The sun is drifting inevitably to the horizon. They need to head back soon to rejoin Cid and Mid and Gav.

Right now, Mid is probably making a smart little comment at Cid, secure in the knowledge that Cid will never abandon her. He traveled miles to go and get her. It doesn't matter how far. He will always be there.

That girl, he grumbles within Jill's hearing, just as he was leaving Byron's townhouse for the airport. She's still so young, she thinks she has it all figured out.

Jill stares at the water in the inlet, shifting silkily with the tide. Clive has his back to her, respectfully giving her space. Having spotted one garuda, he is looking for the flock; they are the only bird of prey that does that, mostly to hunt mountain sheep.

She shouldn't need anything. Not consolation, not comfort, not sympathy. She knew what she was doing had a chance to blow up in her face. She ought to be used to this kind of humiliation.

Twenty years to forget what it felt like to have a letter that she had written placed back into her hands, unopened. Clive had been there, too, to dry her tears. She puts her face in her hands.

Even the tears feel the same.

“I’m sorry,” Clive says. “Parents can be difficult.”

A laugh slips out, small and strangled. She wipes her face with her palms.

"This is the second time he's rejected me," Jill says thickly. "I think I was a fool to expect that it would be any different."

"Maybe he's the fool," Clive says. "It’s his loss."

“I wish he would just talk to me,” Jill says, letting her hands drop to her sides. “Even if it was just to say that he never wanted to see me again. So I could stop hoping.”

“If I had to make a guess,” Clive says. “He’s ashamed. He’s ashamed of himself, and afraid to face you. He’d rather hide forever than admit that he failed to be the person he should have been.”

“I suppose I know how that feels,” Jill mutters. The words leave the nasty taste of self-pity on her tongue.

“So do I,” Clive says.

The wind blows off the sea. She turns. His hair whips wildly across his face.

"I told myself I didn't remember why I never tried to find you again," Clive says, "but the truth is that I was ashamed. For thirteen years, Trials was all I knew. I was so obsessed with gold and glory that I scarcely considered the lives of those around me, much less my own. Surely, you were better off without me. And the longer I went, the more ashamed I was."

He makes fists of his hands, held by his sides. He can't meet her eye.

"I'm sorry for that," he says. “If he can’t say that, then I will. I’m sorry. I wish I could do it again. I wish that we could have been partnered from the very beginning.”

Jill blinks. She swallows.

“I applied to Sanfed when I was fourteen,” Jill says. “Right after you won men's at Trials. I knew that eventually you’d want to switch, and I wanted to be there. But they wouldn’t accept my membership.”

“Jill,” Clive says. His brow furrows, shadowed in the light of the setting sun.

“When Haearann made its offer,” Jill says. “I was so young and hurt. All I could think of was being so great that they would be sorry that they passed me over. But the harder I pushed myself, the further everything seemed to slip away from me. And every time I failed, I let another little piece of myself go colder and colder, until I couldn’t feel anything at all."

She steels herself. She has to turn away. She can't bear to look at him as she says it, out loud, at last.

"I was willing to do anything to have another chance at winning. That was all that mattered to me."

Her fingertips lose feeling. This is the truth; this is important. Even if he leaves, he needs to know why.

"Clive, when you showed up Mann's, all I could think about was maybe I had another chance at revenge after all." She shakes her head ruefully. "Wouldn't that be incredible, rising to the top with you, just like how I dreamed as a girl? I was just another person using you to advance my own will. No better than your mother, or Imreann, or Kupka."

"You're nothing like that, Jill," Clive says.

The light of the sun has faded almost completely. The moon rises, a pale raft adrift across the endless expanse.

"I keep thinking that if I really cared about you, I would get you as far from this world as possible," Jill says. "Every time, it lures me back—just to realize I really am at the mercy of powers so far beyond me that it feels like there's nothing for it but to give in. All I've done is force you to do something to make me happy—"

Clive's arm winds around her shoulders from behind. He folds her into an embrace. She sinks into him, too surprised to deny the comfort that she has always craved. Her heart takes off at a rabbit's pace, knocking its feet against her ribs so hard she feels dizzied.

"That's what I want to do," he says. The words are hot against her ear. "That's why I do it. You try so hard to carry it all on your own; you've never once realized that it would be an honor to carry it with you."

Jill shifts in his arms, turning to face him. She can't think of a thing to say in return. She doesn't trust herself. That's fine. He isn't done.

"Think of everyone who loves you," Clive says. "Crow and the girls, Dorys, Gav, Mid. We are better for having you in our lives. These past few years have been the happiest of my entire career. Not winning honors or record-making. Being with you, Jill. You."

He cups her cheek with one hand. He wipes away the single hot tear currently creeping down her face. She swallows. The gulls and the waves are gone, she can no longer hear them. She can no longer see the water or the cliffs high above or the evergreen scrub clinging to the rocks. She can only see his face.

"Jill," he says. "I am here, with you, always. I want to compete in Trials with you because I want the entire world to see what I see in you. I don't care about Kupka or Sanbreque or any of it. It isn't about romance. I don't need it. But my feelings for you haven't changed."

Everything can be taken away so fast, in only a moment. Jill has led a life of transition, hurtling from one situation to the next. There is no home to return to. Constancy has never been for her. She shouldn't need it; she shouldn't crave it. She has always thought that way. She would rather feel nothing than know this emptiness.

She covers his hand with her own. Her fingers weave through his.

"Neither have mine," she says. Her face feels strange. "But I'm ready now."

He leans forward. The rest of the world returns. Warmth rushes through her limbs. She clings to him, she lets herself be borne up by his strong hands, at the nape of her neck and the small of her back. She pulls away for a moment, to catch her breath. They laugh, startled by the power of that first surge, which has left her lips tingling. Then she returns to him for one more kiss.

And then another; and another.

While they wait for the train, Clive says briskly that he's going to pick up some snacks at the little shop tucked in the station.

"Flan Prince, purple flavor!" Mid says. "You can only get them in Ash. Oh, and a pack of gum for Gav, and a newspaper. And a T-shirt that says, I 'heart' Stonhyrr."

"Hey!" Gav protests, realizing that she is taking the piss out of him.

"Surely we can get a novelty T-shirt in the actual city of Stonhyrr," Cid notes. "You never get snacks, Clive. Defiling the temple, all that."

"It's ironic," Mid explains.

"Well, maybe I want them now," Clive says. "I'll get the cake and the gum. Anything else?"

Mid opens her mouth.

"Anything reasonable?" Clive amends swiftly.

Jill folds her hands over the handle of her luggage, smiling. Clive returns with two opaque black plastic bags. One he hands to Mid, who exclaims over the shirt ("they had one?!"), before her father lovingly prods her to divvy out the goods already.

As Mid tugs her ironical souvenir over her head, Gav and Cid argue over the other Flan flavors. Jill hides her amusement behind her hand, glancing over to Clive. She catches him shoving the other bag discreetly into his own luggage. She smiles. Her heart still feels like it's whirling in giddy circles.

For whatever reason, he goes a little pink.

The cheering cools. Jill assumes her starting pose, head tipped slightly downward, eyelashes fluttering on her cheek.

There was enough time to practice another day before the rescheduled free. Jill found it strange to skate on ice without boards, which the Badbach ice is known for, a facility meant purely figure skating. Clive drew an enormous crowd; Mid helpfully informed them of an absolute waterfall of videos and pictures of Clive and Jill running through their program. They were both so tired that they simply fell into bed together, without argument.

Jill concentrates on picturing each element executed perfectly. She thinks of the music flowing through her.

Or she tries.

Yes, they were exhausted. No, that didn’t stop them. Not entirely.

His hands drifted experimentally over her, beginning at her neck, massaging his way downward until he found his way under her top. She tangled her legs with his, pressed her body up against his.

You’re a little excited, she said, running her tongue over her somewhat swollen lower lip.

Can you blame me? he replied, holding her close. But that was as far as either of them went.

They open with a choreographic sequence that leads inexorably to the first element, the triple twist.

Eloise is a lovely woman, principled and upright while also being absolutely ruthless. Theo is surprisingly and sharply funny, in a grouchy sarcastic way, despite his self-seriousness. And they are developing a quadruple twist. They’ll probably have it for Trials.

Life’s little challenges, as Cid says.

She lands, guided back down from her journey into the air by Clive’s hands. He leads her into a motion reminiscent of the waltz they played at in Ran’dellah, intertwining in a brief dance lift before splitting apart to circle the ice and rejoin, hand in hand for the real element, a lift that sees Jill travel up Clive's body.

Not a pose. An embrace. An emotion. A memory.

She doesn't have the same perspective as Clive. She doesn't linger over stories, but she remembers feelings forever. They stay deep within her, haunting her and holding her. There was a time that pain and shame ruled her life, and rather than feel those things, she went numb. She forgot why she had started skating, and why she had dedicated her life to it. Everything emptied out into a mad, desperate drive to get to Trials, to make herself worthy of something she coveted without remembering why.

The big white lights hanging from massive cables above speed by. They are all that Jill can see as she arches her back into the pose. Clive’s hands dig into the flesh of her waist and thigh.

Jill returns to the ice again. Her mind is clear and calm. Her body knows what to do. She senses Clive like a magnetic needle, bending in his direction. He is the bright star in the heavens; she knows where to go and what to do without thinking. They trace patterns in ice. She knows that—now!—the take off, the triple-double-double, that satisfying unity of sound as his edge lands in the same moment as hers, again and again.

She knows what she wants now. It isn’t the Chronolith Trials at all.

What do you want to do? Let's go somewhere fun.

The ink on the envelope smudging in her fist from all the tears. He came and found her. His hand, outstretched. He’s always been kind to her.

Have you ever been ice skating? I used to do it all the time. I was really good.

Oh, sure, of course. Loads of times. Let’s go.

She has spent years, wondering what she did to deserve someone like him in her life.

Jill clasps his hand, and is drawn into the spin, clinging to him as he clings to her. She is smiling as she comes out of the pose, gliding just ahead of him, looking back, her costume trailing behind her like tongues of liquid flame. The fabric is the exact same color as the heartstone ring, an exceptional match from the tireless Hortense.

The cameras will no doubt pick it out on her finger. She doesn’t care. If Anabella Lesage marched into Vidargraes Arena and ripped it from Jill’s hand, it wouldn’t matter.

Anabella is a fool. With time, Clive forgets cruelty. She can understand how badly he wants his mother to come to the realization that she was wrong, and become the person she always should have been. Jill is far less forgiving. She would throw the ring in her face, gladly, because here, in her arms, right now, she holds the real treasure.

He lets her go, and she flies through the air. Her knee will always been a little weak. Jill is not what she was when she was eighteen.

The audience breaks into a cheering roar as she hits the ice, springing back up, leg extended. She can hear them, like the tide, somewhere just out of sight. She can feel their emotions, emanating from them like warmth from a fire.

And better than that, she can finally, finally feel her own.

The final pose is an embrace. This is the clip that circulates: the look of relief on Jill’s face, Clive’s ardent expression, their foreheads pressed together. They’ve decided to keep their displays of affection in public to a minimum, in keeping with their decision not to confirm or deny, but in this moment, it seems right that Clive takes her hand in his and kisses her knuckles.

Their short program is rescored by the new judges, from the videos. The adjustments are made. The scores are altered.

“Next up is Twins,” Cid tells them, trying to be serious but failing utterly. “Don’t get complacent.”

“Never,” Jill vows.

There is a long stretch between now and the medal ceremony, as the men's free skate concludes—all the remaining events are crammed into one day, to accommodate the camera crew and arena schedule, which is densely packed. Skaters glut the halls and the boards. Jill receives a friendly embrace from Eloise and Theo. Clive shakes their hands.

"We're coming for you," Theo warns. Though he's probably in earnest, his tone is what passes as playful for him.

"Next time is real," adds Eloise.

Cid gets a text, likely from Mid, and goes off on his own without a word. After that, he'll be supporting Gav. They are on their own. Jill and Clive are meant to give some sort of interview in a cordoned off area in the lobby, where a camera and an interviewer are cycling through the competitors.

Jill checks her phone briefly, assigning hearts and thank yous to people who have messaged her. Dorys has texted a long string of strong arm emojis, followed by a flame and snowflake.

Thank you! she sends.

Clive extends his arm, suddenly stopping her.

The lobby is a long room studded with support pillars. The interviewing area is a small enclave of couches, discreetly positioned behind a cluster of pillars, with the camera looking out onto window of the city street. Sitting on the couch is a dainty teenage girl with a smile occasionally twitching across her face.

Beside her is Drustan Imreann.

"It can be very much like chasing a shooting star," Imreann says, in response to a question. "The window for success is narrow. The regimen is strict, but I would never ask any athlete to do what they did not already want to do."

No words are enough. Nothing could express her anger.

"How do you plan to go into Trials?" asks the woman, offering the microphone to the pair of them.

The girl being interviewed is only a few years older than Crow. Jill remembers the training regimen perfectly well. Seven in the morning. Gym, ice, choreo, physio, gym, ice. Seven at night. Every day. Again. Again. That girl is one of only five women in Valisthea who have landed a quad toe loop in competition. Four from IK, one from Waloed.

Benedikta Harman was the second. Jill was the first.

The girl leans forward, but Imreann is the one who speaks.

"It requires psychological toughness, to compete at the highest level, a mind like a diamond, as well as physical strength and endurance," Imreann says. "Earning a medal requires a great deal of sacrifice."

"How would you know?" Jill says.

The interviewer on the couch and the girl beside Imreann both jump. Imreann is taken aback for a half second. He rolls his eyes.

"I'm otherwise engaged, Miss Warrick," Imreann says. She has not heard his voice say her name in years. "Address me properly, if you have something to say."

They were all meant to call him Lead Coach Imreann. In Haearanni, the word for 'leader' has acquired the same connotation as 'father.'

"No," she says. "Your regimen is abuse. It was always abuse. You made us think we were doing it for ourselves and that it was our idea, but it was always yours. All our sacrifices were for you. "

Imreann scoffs. "Do you think you could achieve what you achieved without me, pushing you?"

He focuses a moment on Clive, behind her. "Do you think you could have done what you did, without devoting your life to it? Is it any wonder you fail to achieve the same heights you did when you only had the sport? Go on. Do you think you could do what you did now? Certainly not."

"I know you're never going to own it," Jill says.

"Everything was to get you to Trials," Imreann says. "I remember that day. Your feet were covered in blood, you could barely stand. It made me sick to my stomach, watching you do it, but you chose to get up."

Fury.

"You abandoned me," Jill says. "I did everything you asked me to. I sacrificed everything I was to get what I thought I wanted—but it was really all for you."

"Careers end," Imreann sneers. "You would be nothing, had I not plucked you from the bin where Sanbreque cast you. I made an exception for you, and you failed us."

"You don't even care what happens to us when it's over," Jill snaps. "You're a monster."

"And yet I'm still here, laden with gold," Imreann retorts.

She will never get through to him, but there's someone else here that she might still be able to.

"It's not worth it," Jill tells the girl beside him. "You're only a diamond until he manages to make you crush yourself into dust. He's a weak, pathetic man, and the only accomplishments that he has are yours. They aren't his medals; he only pretends they are."

Imreann stands up. Clive stands behind Jill, his hand on her shoulder. Cid appears at her elbow, from nowhere. Imreann stops dead. He realizes, suddenly, that the camera is still pointed at him.

"Mean one, innit he?" Cid mutters. He smells like cigarette smoke.

"Alright," mutters the interviewer to her camera op.

Jill turns on her heel. That's enough press for her, thanks.

There's a big gaggle of onlookers now. Among them, right by the massive glass double door, stands a woman. Her blonde hair peeks out from under her hood. She is scowling. There is a gray smudge near her eye. Runny mascara, maybe.

Jill doesn't bother to think about why Benedikta might be here. 

She doesn't care how long it's been, or what the results will be. She doesn't care. She's going to call Quinten tonight.

She's going to give her report, a long last.

Jill pulls the medal over her head and sets it in the slim gray box they gave her for travel and storage. Clive thunks down his medal on the desk and then scoops her up with an arm around her waist. He kisses her and kisses her.

"Jill," he breathes. He swallows.

She sneaks her hands under his jacket, runs her hand up his bare back and enjoys how he seems to melt under her touch. She licks her lips.

"Yes?" she says.

"I don't expect you to just immediately just fall into bed with me," Clive says, running his thumb along her cheek.

"Neither do I you," she says, smiling. "But I would rather like to."

The smile drops off her face.

"Oh," Jill murmurs. "I haven't been—well, I wasn't expecting to ..."

"Ah," Clive says, understanding her. He flushes. It's cute to see him turn shy like this. "I, uh, bought condoms."

It's her turn to pull back in surprise.

"The snacks," she says, making the necessary connections. "Mid's souvenir?"

"I needed to distract her," Clive says.

"Clever," Jill says. "And no one knew."

“Less of a fool than I was," Clive says as he leans in. "The wisdom of age, I suppose."

She kisses him before sending him off to fetch the black plastic bag and its contents.

He kneels down before her and makes her see stars. She takes him into her arms, slots his hips between her legs. She gasps as he enters her, as he loses himself in her, as he moans her name into her ear. He breathes heavily, exhausted. His hair is wild over his brow, stuck here and there by sweat.

Without thinking, she brushes it gently from his eyes.

Jill bites down on the toothbrush as she uses both hands to reply to Quinten. He warns her that the process is going to be long and arduous, and may not end the way she wants it to. That’s fine. She rinses her mouth out and packs up her remaining toiletries.

“No gala,” Clive says, zipping up his luggage. “Thank the Founder. Do you want to hunt down a mimett spice latte before we head to the airport?”

“You remembered,” Jill says with a smile. “Just let me finish something.”

“Fuck,” Clive says, staring at the ceiling. He sighs. “I forgot to post.”

“Distracted?” Jill teases, opening up Mogstagram.

She works her way down the queue, mostly ignoring and blocking, until she gets to the last unanswered message.

Jill breathes in deep. It’s time. She’s ready. She’s going to choose a different path—a better path. Starting now, she is going to be the person she wants to be.

Hi Marleigh! It’s been so long. I missed you.

She hits send.

It’s so good to hear from you Jill!

First of all, congratulations on Reverie! That competition especially must feel like a redemption of sorts. When it happened, I was so terrified for you. I’m so happy to see you recovered and achieving your dreams. I know it was a long, hard road. I’m so proud of you for making your own way, but there are no words to express how much I wish I could have been able to be there with you when you needed me.

As for me, I’m doing well. I moved back to Rosaria. If you’re ever near Stillwind, please give me a shout. I would love to have you (and Clive!) for tea.

I look forward to watching you compete at Twins. You have everything you need already. And then next stop—Rosalith Winter Chronolith Trials.

Remember that there isn’t anything you can’t do it if you want to do it. I believe in you, Jill. I have missed you, too.

One year later, the ugly (vaguely phallic) art piece is still up. It might cost more, money and effort both, to take it down than to leave it; that has to be the explanation, because it is a purple-tinted eyesore.

“Hey,” says a young man. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”

Clive puts his hands on his hips. He is mostly not a dick these days, but for Leon, he will make a fucking exception. He considers first if it is even worth it to engage. The payoff seems likely to be slim.

“I just want you to know that I earned my scores,” Leon says. “No one helped me out.”

“Sure,” Clive says, and walks away.

Skaters zip across the Ark International ice bundled in their practice clothes. Jill is already warming up, getting ready to go out with their group. Leon sulks in the back. Sabine is openly snubbing him. Tiamat confers with another one of the Sanfed coaches. Clive wonders if any of them remember reviewing Jill’s application.

He wonders if they regret their decision now. Without Kupka’s hand on the scales, Leon and Sabine sank down to sixth at Reverie, and never recovered during the remainder of the Grand Prix series. The Waloeder couple eagerly took their place at the third spot. The discrepancies were alarming. Waloed has vowed an in-depth ethics review. VSU is pushing for the same on Storm, but without a single figure like Harbard mandating it, the initiative is stalling and encountering obstacles.

Not surprising.

Somehow, the scandal hasn’t even come close to brushing Hugo Kupka. Things are fine for him. Benedikta has recently been seen filming in Ran’dellah. It's only a little infuriating. Clive hasn’t given up yet on seeing Kupka get his just desserts, but right now, there are other things taking up his time.

Jill rolls her shoulders as he approaches and favors him with a smile that makes his heart squeeze. They still aren’t kissing in public—why start now, if they’ve been ‘together’ this entire time?—but that doesn’t mean that Clive isn’t constantly fighting the temptation.

He never thought he could be this lucky. Everyone ought to know that he is this lucky.

“Leon keeps trying to pick fights,” Jill observes.

Clive shrugs. “Let him,” he says.

They spend a half hour on the ice before Cid joins them, tailed by Goetz. Several other skaters—including Eloise and Theo—wave to him and call out his name in greeting. Goetz blushes madly.

“I have some news, once you’re done,” Cid says. “How’s it looking? Feeling confident?”

“Yes,” Jill says.

“Good,” Cid replies. “It’s just Twins, you know.”

Leon swoops by, leering. Clive rolls his eyes. That’s the third time. Leon leans into a spin on his own. Sabine squawks angrily and pumps her legs, putting distance between herself and her partner. Clive would say that they aren’t destined to last very long except that he knows that he and Benedikta suffered one another for far longer than they should have.

“You up for a run through on ‘Flame?’” Cid suggests.

Odd how ‘Flame’ became the weaker of the two after they re-did their free. He sucks down a little water and he and Jill take off.

They loop around the ice, weaving around the other skaters. The first half of their short program goes off without much interference, but Leon is there, in the way, spinning and spinning and generally being a fucking nuisance. He and Jill loop around, getting back into position, roughly.

Jill sets up for the throw jump. There’s no Leon, being a pest. The ice is clear. She leaps into the air as he hurls her—

He stumbles, his edge catching on a deep imperfection, some kind of divot—

That spinning, Clive thinks, as he stumbles.

Jill hits the ice.

There is a crack; a loud, loud crack.

Chapter Text

“Oh, Founder, that’s him,” one hisses at the others. She elbows her nearest companion.

Clive doesn’t know where these people came from. They might also be staying at this hotel. The carry-on in his hand twists awkwardly as he drags it across the cobbles to the taxi stand. He focuses on not making eye contact.

“Where’s Jill?” says one of the fans, loud and direct. “Is she still at the arena?”

“Are you going to be able to compete?” asks another.

“What about Trials?”

“I hope she’s okay!”

That last catches like a hook. These people don’t know them, and he owes them nothing. Guilt brings him to a halt anyway, and tugs his head in their direction.

It’s a group of mostly women, which is unsurprising. They stand there in red and black jackets, though someone has managed to find a coat that is half flame-red and half ice-blue. The woman asking if Jill is okay has a distinct accent that sounds just like Martha Goldenstable.

Clive shoves the bag in the backseat of the cab and squeezes in after it.

“You famous or something?” asks the driver. He pulls out into the street.

“Yeah,” Clive says.

Clive tips well when they arrive at the hospital, twenty wordless minutes later. The slow doors and chemical smells and medical beeps and buzzes are familiar from childhood. He makes his way upstairs to sign back in as a visitor. The older lady passing out the name tag stickers simply waves him in.

Cid is pacing the hallway, phone in hand. There’s no sly smirk on his face. No secret plot cooking in his skull. He looks like a middle-aged man who has had a stressful day.

“Are you alright, lad?” Cid asks.

Focus on the dream.

Sometimes, Clive can see things—memories from his past—clear as if he were watching them on a screen. It’s normal.

Right now, he can see everyone stopping and staring. The expectation that Jill is about to spring up, embarrassed and irritated, but fine.

The way that something within grew slowly panicked when she doesn’t. The terrifyingly gradual onset of a well-lit reality. No, no, no. It can’t happen again. She isn’t moving. The thudding of the passing seconds. Cid is the one who thinks to shout for the medic.

“Lad,” Cid says, from five feet away.

“What?” Clive says.

“Stop pitying yourself for a while and remember what’s important to you,” Cid says. He sounds annoyed.

That’s more like it. The lash, always, to words of comfort.

“You’re right,” Clive says, snapping out of it. He can breathe. He can face what happened. “We need to withdraw.”

“Aye,” Cid says. “And that means there’s only one path forward. Jill needs to be part of that conversation. I’d say go back to the hotel and get some rest, but I know you’re not going to listen to me.”

“Would you?” Clive retorts.

Cid slides his phone into his pocket like he’s holstering a weapon and pulls out a fresh pack. He starts thumping it against his hand.

“Fuck no,” he says.

That night, Clive makes one more mistake.

He sits upright in a plastic bucket chair and watches over Jill in the dimness, faintly illuminated by the LED lights of equipment and the wan glow of his phone. He writes a terse ae-mail to the event coordinator, telling her that no, he’s not going to be attending Mother’s latest farce next week due to a personal medical emergency.

When he’s done sending all the group texts—Joshua and Byron, Gav and Mid, Goetz and Charon, Hanna and Marleigh, Jill’s mother and her boyfriend—he opens Stolas out of pure habit. He scrolls past the results from the short program so he doesn’t have to read Leon’s name.

A video loads. He spies a tiny red and blue jacket where the fans gather to watch the warm-ups and practices. There’s Jill, setting up for a throw.

He has time to think, of course someone was filming.

“So this right here,” says the doctor. Jill has deep circles under her eyes. “You’ve torn it before?”

“Yes,” Jill says without emotion. “What’s the timeline for recovery?”

“That’s not question I can answer with accuracy,” the doctor replies. “Six to nine months, typically, with surgery. But it’s my guess that it was already under serious strain.”

Clive and Cid stand to one side as the doctor explains things to Jill. They both know exactly what that means. The doctor leaves after answering a few more of Jill’s questions, wishing her luck. Cid crosses his arms.

“Some déjà vu,” Cid remarks to the air in the room.

Jill lies back in the hospital bed. Her hair sits like a badly-fitting wig on her head. It crackles with unwashed product.

“The last time, I didn’t make it back for Trials,” Jill says. “Do we have any hope?”

“You need two things to make 878 a realistic goal,” Cid says. He holds up one finger as he paces the short width of the hospital room. “Make a full recovery.” Second finger. “In time for the first Grand Prix event.”

Clive puffs out one cheek. They were going to qualify at Twins, favored as they were to podium. There’s no host benefit for IPR. The CTC chose Rosalith for 878 prior to the distinction, and so Sanbreque gets that slot for reasons that must seem rational to someone. Of the eight positions available for pairs, five are awarded at the previous year’s Twins. The final three are reserved for latecomers and underdogs and people who were too shitfaced to get on the fucking flight in time.

“Fuck,” he says.

“Seems very familiar, doesn’t it?” Cid says dryly.

“Oh.” Jill’s voice wavers as she struggles to put thoughts together. “You and Benedikta dropped out of Twins that year, too. I can’t recall why.”

“We never gave a reason,” Clive says. There’s no venom in him anymore. He just feels tired when he thinks of Benedikta and how he treated her. “She and Kupka were fighting again, so she went home to Waloed for a little while, and she ... she wouldn’t have been able to compete, anyway.”

She sounded like shit on the phone. Slurring and sniffling. The conversation had been sixty-two seconds long, and ended with you bastard.

Cid scratches his nose. “Well, then.”

Benedikta is probably a completely different person for Cid. It’s impossible to imagine her interacting with someone she actually respects.

Clive, who she mocked and belittled at every opportunity, fought with Tiamat to save her sorry arse. There was no time to find someone else. He needed her. They were going to redeem themselves with a competition that, five years ago, was rebranded and redeployed as Grand Prix Dazbog, held in the shiny new Dazbog Arena.

Clive looks at that moment with new eyes. He gets it now. If she had done anything less than blow up their entire world, Hugo Kupka would have found a way to save it.

I even saved you for her.

“Kupka and my mother,” Clive says, quietly.

Jill touches her bare finger. The heartstone ring is back with Clive, zipped in his pocket. “It baffles me how the world can be so corrupt and yet no one does anything.”

“It’s inconvenient,” Cid says. “There would be consequences. It’s easier to keep your head down, especially if you have a lot to lose and little to gain.”

“You’ve known for a while,” Clive says.

The great machinations of power stopped being Clive’s concern when he chose to give up his claim on the ducal crown.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Cid replies. “Suspected, shall we say. Tried to do a little snooping when I got the chance, but no joy. As to whether we should be worried … well, Hugo is distracted, and Clive’s got Mummy in a psychological stalemate. You’re going to that banquet of hers, yeah?”

“What? No, I’m not leaving Jill,” Clive says, annoyed.

“Lad,” Cid cautions.

“Clive,” Jill says. She reaches for his hand. “They haven’t renewed my provisional for Trials yet.”

“She wouldn’t,” Clive says, even though he knows that she would.

“You really going to make that bet?” Cid says. “Quinten says it’s nearly through committee again. He’s been pushing hard, but the best strategy is to keep her distracted until it’s too late for her to step in. Particularly if she thinks it might not happen ...”

That assumes that Mother pays attention. Jill squeezes his fingers.

“I’ll be okay on my own,” Jill says.

“Fuck,” Clive mutters.

“Back to the matter at hand, if I may? This season, I propose we bring back ‘Prayer’ and ‘Priceless,’” Cid says. “Your two strongest programs. Update ’em, spruce ’em up, carry them to Trials.”

“I need to get back on my feet to do that,” Jill says ruefully. “I’m going to need surgery, aren’t I?”

“Like as not,” Cid agrees. “I’ve got a promising contact for a surgeon who has the chops.”

Jill slumps backward into the bed. They wait patiently.

“You said you had news for us,” Jill says, after a lapse. Clive had forgotten that entirely.

“It pales,” Cid says. He hooks his thumbs in his jacket pockets. “VSU is going to investigate Cerdra’s. The fall guy was a Dhalmek and he had contacts amongst those judges, including the technical. Everyone’s suspect now. The president is going to resign this week, I can smell it. It’s going to be a bloodbath.”

No response. Jill’s gray-smudged eyelids are a thin shield against the migraine that currently appears to be waging an assault on her brain.

Clive struggles to grasp the ramifications. This means that the incident in Waloed is no longer exclusive to Ash, and it’s international. Like many athletes, Clive knows there’s a rotten core to the institution of professional sports. He just always considered himself above it. It never mattered to him who made money, so long as he could compete.

“Clive,” Cid says. “Jill. I, uh—I should also add that we could also not go ahead with Trials.”

Clive scowls. “We won’t get another chance.”

“Aye, aye, that’s true,” Cid concedes. “But it’s an option, and we should acknowledge it, at least. If the cost is too high, maybe.”

Jill sits up. She shakes her head. “I don’t want to just give up—ah—fuck—”

She raises her hands to her temples. Her voice breaks into a whimper.

“Perhaps we can discuss this later,” Clive says quickly.

“Aye,” Cid says, fidgeting. “I’ll go sort out the details, shall I?”

Jill breathes heavily. Cid seems ashamed for having pushed her so far. They both know how completely Jill can hide her pain. By the time she admits any weakness, it is already intolerable.

“Good idea,” Clive says.

“Rest up, lass,” Cid tells Jill. “It’s been a shit day.”

He leaves them alone in the room. Clive holds Jill’s hand with both of his. He pretends he doesn’t see her tears even as he wipes them away.

“I don’t want to give up,” Jill says.

“No,” Clive says.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s alright,” he says.

“I don’t want you to go,” Jill confesses. It’s that bad. “I know you must, but I don’t ...”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Clive lies. He wonders if they’ve already cancelled tomorrow’s flight.

Jill’s face eventually softens as sleep loosens pain’s grip on her. He can feel Jill’s weight in his fingertips, leaving his hands. He can hear her skull striking the ice. He can see the light in her eyes, the light that he can’t help but chase, go dim.

He pulls out his phone. He writes another ae-mail to the coordinator.

Sorry for the false alarm. Things are actually in better shape than I thought, so I’ll be able to attend as planned.

Lucky me.

He deletes that last bit.

Uncertain path to Trials for high profile pairs skaters amid scandals

By Skate Valisthea

Twins bronze medalists Jill Warrick and Clive Rosfield withdrew from this year’s Twins Championships due to injury.

Warrick and Rosfield surprised the skating world in 875 with their unexpected debut as a team. They have medaled in every competition they have appeared in, receiving gold in Reverie Cup last year after revision, and bronze in Cerdra’s Trophy, which is currently undergoing investigation. Valisthean Skating Union is considering a mass ethics inquiry following a judging scandal last year at Reverie Cup where it was discovered that several of the judges were accepting bribes in order to adjust scores.

Despite Warrick’s knee injury, they are widely anticipated to compete in the Rosalith 878 Chronolith Trials, representing the Imperial Province of Rosaria by traditional distinction. Rosfield is the eldest son of the previous Archduke of Rosaria, Elwin Rosfield, who was assassinated in 860, and Anabella Lesage, Empress-Consort of Sanbreque and Vicereine of Rosaria.

Clive counts the long slender chains of bubbles streaming upward in the flute he’s holding. He tries not to breathe on it too hard. This is an 864, a standout year. Servers pass out others just like it among the guests ahead of the speechmaking. His white tie attire is strangling.

You always choose to wear such tasteless clothes. Your father’s bearing, and you waste it.

His mother alights the elegantly decorated stage in the middle of the banquet hall, trailed by ladies-in-waiting and Dragoons. The drapery is as perfectly fluted as carved marble, adorned by fronds of fresh wyvern’s tail. Her swishing two foot train that fades from black to deep purple, weighted with thousands upon thousands of gil in jet beadwork and embroidery, is particularly tasteful.

“Esteemed guests,” Mother says to the sea of important faces. “Allow me to welcome you to the sixteenth annual Imperial Banquet for the Recognition of Merit. I will begin with a toast ...”

Clive obediently presents his mother with the glass she will use as a prop for the next fifteen minutes. No, a professional assistant will not suffice for this duty. Mother absolutely needs to humble him publicly. She needs to do it for two rehearsal days, the main event, and a brunch the following morning.

Everyone seated at the front of the two long, sumptuous banquet tables has a title or a knighthood. Further back are the lesser, but usually wealthier, guests. Mother will never acknowledge them, though they may believe otherwise. The white columns soar high above, supporting the dizzying frescoes of saints mounted among the clouds. Chandeliers hang from shining, freshly gilded medallions.

Sabine le Duc sits sour-faced next to her father, the High Cardinal. Joshua begged off, citing his poor health and the strain of travel. In reality, he’s playing ad hoc emotional support to Jill, in Rosalith.

Tomorrow is Jill’s consultation with the surgeon. Cid didn’t mention that her methods are still in clinical trials. Neither Jill nor Clive have heard of her. Jill says she has nothing to lose by participating. She says her headaches are getting better, too.

Clive nearly misses his cue. Dion, who has also been pressed into service, prompts him with a slim flat case containing something Clive is very familiar with.

“It is with immense pleasure that I will now call to the stage this year’s recognized,” Mother says.

A man, roughly Cid’s age, is first to bend his head. Clive carefully loops the ribbon over the man’s thinning pate. He is some kind of astronomer.

When he lifts his head, he puts his fists together. He mouths something. Something something Rosaria. Clive tries not to let his surprise show.

The next recipient is a footballer who retired last year (Gav actually teared up a little, I know he’s Sanbrequois, but talent’s talent), and the next after that is a fine artist who had a significant hand in the restoration of Whitewyrm’s many aging art pieces.

“For outstanding achievements in journalism, the Empire formally recognizes Dame Isabelle Carl, Editor-in-Chief of VEIL Magazine,” Mother reads out from the next vellum card, also passed to her ceremonially by Dion.

Isabelle rises from her seat, as far from the front as possible. Her pale blue gown drifts around in her clouds of chiffon. She bestows a smile on Clive as he performs his duties.

“For outstanding achievements in athletics, the Empire formally recognizes Lady Sabine le Duc, Mademoiselle d’Oriflamme,” Mother reads next. She pauses, regarding Clive unsubtly. “An especial honor, as I understand.”

Sabine is brave enough to look Clive in the eye. She doesn’t beam or smile as the High Cardinal’s thwacking applause carries distinctly over the rest.

She and Leon went on to win Twins gold, edging out the Kasjloks by a single half point. This win, and perhaps some others, have earned them Imperial recognition. Clive imagines that this is meant to be humiliation.

All he knows is that it’s a good thing Leon is not here to receive his accolades, because the Dragoons would be hauling Clive out of here in cuffs.

There’s an endless parade of honorees. Clive goes numb as they progress through the alphabet. His mother leads the room in a final adulation for the recognized before sweeping off the stage. The press corner bursts into a cacophony of clicks as they try to snatch a usable photo of the empress and her least favorite son together. Liveried staff carry away the lectern and the other props.

“Sir,” Wade says, presenting him with his phone when Clive splinters off. Mother does not look back as she is escorted by Dragoons to another room.

“The portrait gallery,” Clive murmurs.

The gallery is open to the public during these events. Clive prefers it to the ballroom where most people will go after the ceremony and dinner service, where he can tuck himself unobtrusively under the glower of cardinals and emperors long gone.

Wade regards Clive with concern at a respectful distance. Pity has a certain itch.

A pair of heels strike the marble in long, slow strides. Wade gives a nod and Isabelle draws near. She joins Clive in admiration for the brushwork on the fat ruby link necklace some Cardinal wore for his portrait, two hundred years ago. Or something.

Eventually, he says, “Congratulations.”

“It was a long time coming,” Isabelle says smoothly. She doesn’t feign modesty. “Thank you. May I ask—how is Jill?”

“We have hope,” Clive says honestly.

Isabelle was in it, once. She knows. He need explain very little.

“That’s enough for Cid to hang his hat on,” Isabelle says. “And you?”

“What?” Clive asks.

“What about you?” Isabelle repeats. He gains no clarity. “How are you doing?”

Fifteen-year-old Clive would have practiced some braggadocio to impress her with how well-adjusted and capable he was. At thirty-two, he is too exhausted to do anything other than put the best face on the truth. Now is not the time for his ongoing wrestling match with self-recrimination.

“I’m fine,” Clive says.

Isabelle tilts her head. She places a hand on his upper arm. She steps closer, so she can speak in tones that are meant only for him.

“Take care of yourself, too,” Isabelle says. “Perhaps that feels impossible right now. But it isn’t wrong, to hurt because someone you care for is hurting. I think it very human.”

Clive wonders how bad a liar he is that when he says he’s fine, someone feels the need to give him heartfelt advice.

From the far end of the corridor, a young woman says, “Clive Rosfield?”

It’s Sabine. Her tone parts the meager crowd. A medal sits on the smooth pink satin of her gown. Her hair is pulled back tight, with two curly wisps sprouting beside either ear. She puffs up like a cartoon character and marches in his direction.

“Clive Rosfield?” she repeats. His skin prickles as it senses the oncoming storm.

All eyes, living and painted, seem to find him.

“That’s how you say it,” Clive says. 

Sabine stops just ten or so feet short. She inhales deep, as if about to lift a great weight and heave.

“I’m here to render justice,” Sabine says in deadly earnest. She tears off the medal and holds it out by the ribbon. “This should be yours, by rights.”

He supposes that she means well.

“Thank you,” Clive says, with as much sincerity as he can muster. “But I insist that you keep your honors.”

“I could not,” Sabine protests.

Curious onlookers pretend not to be watching. Clive feels more tired than embarrassed.

“You can, and you should,” Isabelle says, coolly. “I suspect that surrendering this particular medal is a gesture meant only to ease your conscience.”

Heat flashes across Sabine’s face, then shame. She stares at the medal in her hand as if she expects it to wriggle like a wet rat. She grimaces as she puts it back on.

“We had an injury,” Clive says, quietly. “And we had to withdraw. It happens.”

“Perhaps,” Sabine says. Her cheeks turn red in patches. She isn’t used to being rebuked, he can tell. She lacks the rage, though, that marked Benedikta’s response to being dressed down. That’s a strength of character that he did not expect from her. She raises her chin. “But not to you.”

Sabine waits to allow that bit of drama to sink in. When it fails to elicit the response she wants (a startled gasp?), she huffs and whirls on her heel. She departs in a shushing of pink satin like the final passes of rain and wind.

“Full of spirit, that one,” Isabelle murmurs.

“Sorry, I seem to have snared you both in my intrigues,” Clive says. He includes Wade with a nod.

“Hazards of the occupation,” Wade says.

“Cid did worse regularly,” Isabelle confides, with the wave of a hand. “You’ll have to try harder to shock me.”

“He always has a scheme, doesn’t he?” Clive agrees. It’s meant to be conversational, but Isabelle wraps her arms around herself pensively.

“Yes, he always has done,” Isabelle says. She draws closer. Wade adjusts his earpiece and discreetly puts some distance between them. Isabelle gestures. Clive leans in. “Clive—if I may give a little more unsolicited advice—Cid has a gift for getting people to co-sign his madness, but you needn’t go along with his grand plans simply because he wants you to.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Clive says. “Cid is going along with our plan. We asked him to come out of retirement to be our coach.”

The look in Isabelle’s eyes says otherwise.

“You may believe that,” she says. “I did, for a long time. He is a clever man. He’s also an angry one, however well he hides it. He sees how things are and he can’t help himself.”

Clive studies Isabelle’s face. He’s not a good liar, supposedly, but he fancies that he’s rather good at sniffing them out.

“What happened between you two?” Clive asks, finally. “He never talks about you.”

“I’m not shocked,” Isabelle says. “I chose my real life, instead of his dream. He was furious. He asked me, do you want to do something that matters? Or do you want to spend your prime years trapped in a cancer ward, with nothing to show for it in the end but heartbreak?”

If you hadn’t been such a boor.

“That doesn’t sound like him,” Clive says.

“And yet it was,” Isabelle says, evenly. She allows no uncertainty. “I used to wonder if perhaps he had done it on purpose ... but now I rather think that he was simply lashing out at me. I don’t regret my choice.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Other than you asked?” Isabelle places her hand on his bicep. She smiles. “Because I think you deserve a choice, too. And he thought you would listen to me, after that business about studying literature.”

The extent of Cid’s reach borders on the absurd; his audacity receives mail at that address.

“Oh,” Clive says, feeling himself go red.

“Clive,” Isabelle says, seriously. “Whatever you do, it should be your choice, not what you think will make people happy, or impress them. I know Cid well. He plays a very long game. But he’s no longer the same man who drove me away. He’s trying to redeem himself, I think, for who he was. It matters to him, that you want to do this, not anyone else.”

Clive remembers the night that Benedikta called him from Waloed. And then I realized I didn’t want to do it any of it anymore.

Benedikta gave him Cid’s contact. But even though Clive let it marinate for months, Cid picked up right away. He agreed, right away. Clive, so arrogant, thinking everyone knows my name, didn’t even question it.

“How do you know he’s still playing a game?” Clive asks.

Cid, always knowing what’s coming around the corner. He’s seldom surprised by anything.

Isabelle laughs.

“He hasn’t changed that much,” she says.

Clive wishes he could send a letter to his teenage self. No, you will not always be a twig. Yes, one day you will spend an entire evening with Isabelle Carl, and she will even laugh at most of your jokes.

He’s made arrangements to stay at a hotel nearby—he will never spend another night in Whitewyrm, ever again—but at the moment he’s gone in search of Dion, who wanted to speak to him before he left. He wanders the private family wing while Wade fetches the car. Security becomes less critical once the event is over.

Olivier is sitting on the floor of the opulently desolate parlor that serves as a sort of common room, Mother’s single concession to the need for a livable space that is not just for show. The TV is blasting some kind of squealy, fast-paced cartoon.

“Why are you awake?” Clive says. His phone tells him that it’s one in the morning.

Olivier looks aghast. “Why are you speaking to me like that? Mother says that I should tell her when people are disrespectful.”

Clive reminds himself that Olivier is only just ten years old.

“It’s late,” Clive says. “I imagine you have school in the morning?”

“Mother says I don’t have to go to school,” Olivier replies, unfazed. “I have tutors, now. They teach me when I want them to.”

“That explains a lot,” Clive mutters.

“You’re pretty boring,” Olivier says. He goes back to his tablet.

When Olivier was born, Clive was already twenty-two. He wanted to be an older brother to Olivier, regardless of circumstance, the way that he was a brother to Joshua and even Dion. He feels guilty about how little he likes the boy. It shouldn’t be Olivier’s fault; he’s just a child. He could still change.

“Get up,” Clive says. “You’re going to bed.”

“I don’t wish to,” Olivier replies, not even looking up.

“Does that matter?” Clive says.

“You’re so annoying,” Olivier says. “I’m going to tell Mother that you were rude to me again.”

Clive marches across the room and takes the tablet.

“Hey!” Olivier protests.

“You want it back?” Clive says. “Follow me.”

He can easily outpace a kid, even just walking fast. Olivier races after him, trying to jump and tear the tablet back out of Clive’s hand, high above his head. He still remembers when they moved Olivier to Joshua’s old bedroom suite. Clive opens the door and points. Olivier protests in high-pitched sputters, and is shocked when Clive simply gives him the tablet back.

“You’re a kid,” Clive says. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m telling Mother!” Olivier shouts, clutching the tablet to his chest. “I don’t have to do what you say!”

“Then don’t,” Clive says, frustrated. “It’s not for my sake.”

Olivier looks past him with enormous eyes. “Mother! Clive is being rude to me!”

Clive turns. His mother stands there, with her hair in a plait down her shoulder. Her loose mauve robe trimmed with black ribbons drags across the marble.

“Go to bed, Olivier,” Mother says, briskly. She holds out her hand. “No one likes to hear that tone.”

Olivier shuts up. “Yes, Mother,” he says. He doesn’t even fight. He gives her the tablet. The door shuts behind him.

Clive fought all the time. The light doesn’t go out underneath the door, but neither does Mother really care.

“I want to discuss brunch,” Mother says.

“I’m actually looking for Dion.”

“Dion? You’ll see him tomorrow.”

There’s no arguing. He thinks of Jill. Mother leads him to her personal sitting room, where he has stood only once or twice before. It is as beautiful and impersonal as she is. He knows better than to sit on the lounge or any of the gorgeously upholstered chairs. The tablet sticks out, ugly and awkward, on her lovely gilded desk.

“You didn’t tell me you were acquainted either with Dame Carl or Lady Sabine,” Mother says. She doesn’t sit, either.

He doesn’t mention the cover issue or the interview or even the fact that Cid and Isabelle were partners. It’s pointless. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t care.

“What does that have to do with brunch?” asks Clive, tired already of guessing what way this encounter is going to go.

“It’s imperative that you not cast a poor light on your father’s legacy in the upcoming days,” Mother says. “All I ask is that you behave in a way that befits your station.”

“Alright?” Clive says. “I hadn’t planned on anything else, Mother.”

She sighs. “Clive, frankly, you have a history of making promises and then breaking them. Remember when you told me you were retiring? And then you went and found that coach behind my back?”

He already knows that saying I never told you I was retiring will make him sound petulant, like a child. She’ll scold him for being so focused on semantics. He remembers promising not to embarrass her; he knows what the subtext was.

“What are you trying to say?” Clive says, exasperated. “Just say it.”

“You always do this,” she mutters.

You always do this, Clive thinks.

“Sorry,” he says, even though he hates to give ground. “Could you explain?”

“All I wish is for you to show some discretion,” Mother says. “Your fiancée is a nice girl. I can only assume what promises you’ve made to her.”

Clive ignores the fact that last year, Mother all but called Jill a whore and a thief, and threatened to have charges brought against her. Mother will never own it. That episode is gone, vanished from her memory. Bringing it up will only be evidence of Clive’s own unwarranted grudges against her, which will make her even more of a trial to deal with.

“I’ve been discreet,” Clive argues. He and Jill been scrupulously chaste in public. He makes sure of it.

Mother looks at him like he’s fucking stupid.

“Were you discreet, tonight?” Mother asks, archly. “Carting that common magazine woman around on your arm?”

“Isabelle?” Clive says, stunned.

“So you are on intimate terms with her,” Mother say, triumphantly.

Usually, this is when he gets angry. Mother, making her demands and insinuations. Clive, railing against her out of pure spite. It’s never worked. They’ve been trapped like this since he was a teenager. He thinks about Jill, relying on her to keep his temper.

Jill wouldn’t put up with any of this. She’d say her peace and leave.

“Isabelle is a professional acquaintance,” Clive replies though his teeth.

“As your fiancée was?” Mother counters. “Is that how you justify it?”

“I would never do that to Jill,” Clive says, but it doesn’t matter.

He knows it doesn’t matter. Nothing he says to her matters.

“You are the custodian of your father’s legacy,” Mother says. Her voice is like a hammer, because he needs to be put in his place. She gets crueler and crueler the more he fights back. “More than I could ever be. More than you were prepared to be. The least you can do is not give into his filthy vices. Making me stand there and smile as he paraded them in front of everyone. You can’t imagine the shame of it. But at least he didn’t have the gall to lie to my face.”

All Clive can do is breathe. “I’m not lying.”

“And Lady Sabine? Is she a professional acquaintance, too?” Mother says with a sneer.

“Yes!” Clive says, fatigued. He doesn’t know how to explain Sabine’s stunningly inconvenient crisis of conscience. “That’s it.”

Mother raises her chin. “I’m sure you even believe that. But she’ll find out soon enough that though your ideals shine so brilliantly where everyone can see them, all you really think about is yourself. Especially not now that she may not have any further use to you. Is that why you’re sniffing around Lady Sabine? Looking for yet another replacement, now that her partner is gone—just like how you replaced that Waloeder girl?”

“Benedikta,” Clive says. “And you chose her for me.”

They stare at each other. He feels like he’s screaming at a brick wall.

“You are so much like your father,” she says at last, bitter as acid. “It’s like he’s standing in front of me. I did my duty. All you do is run.”

He hasn’t done anything wrong. He knows that he hasn’t. He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with her. She’s always like this. She needs him to be small, so she cuts him down to size. But it doesn’t matter how good he is, or how meekly he submits. It doesn’t make a difference.

“Fuck your brunch, Mother,” Clive says.

As soon as he’s out of that room, he marches towards the grand entrance, down the sweeping stairs. The saints watch him go with painted indifference. The lamps in the outer courtyard blast away any and all starlight. Only the half-moon is strong enough to punch through.

“Are you alright, sir?” Wade manages, half-jogging to meet him.

“Fine,” Clive says, wiping at his eyes.

Wade doesn’t bother with advice. He leads Clive to the car, parked in the special waiting zone. Not a word. It doesn’t matter.

Pity has an itch.

He hates how everyone can see what Mother does to him. Nothing ever changes. She’ll never change. She’ll never touch his arm and tell him it’s human to be upset, or that he should choose whatever makes him happy. She doesn’t care. She isn’t his mother, she’s a fucking caricature.

Founder, she thought he was cheating with Isabelle.

He gets mildly chastised by a text from Dion.

Did you leave?

Yes.

Three dots trill for a good long while, and then Dion gives up. Clive is so tired.

Housekeeping has left a towel behemoth on his bed. It’s so ludicrous. He stuffs his suitcase haphazardly with all his shit and forces it to zip shut. He’s going to leave as soon as brunch is over. If he even goes. His eyes feel tight. He should go, and prostrate himself to atone for his outburst. Of course I was wrong, Mother. The dress suit lies abandoned in a garment bag for the fucking Imperial courier to collect.

His phone dings again. Clive almost doesn’t care what Dion has to say, but he looks anyway.

Good night, Clive, says the little bubble. I miss you. A blushing smiley face.

He holds the phone screen to his lips. By the Flames. He needs her.

Jill answers on the first ring.

“Clive,” she says warmly.

He breathes deeply.

“Hi,” he says.

“Clive?” Jill says. She hears it at once, of course he can’t hide it. “Are you okay?”

He sits down on the bed and stares at the moon, glowing over the bay. Half of it is sunk into shadow.

“I’m fine,” Clive says. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Hardly,” Jill says. “What’s happened?”

Clive rubs his eyes. “Can’t fool you, eh?”

“Clive.”

He hesitates.

“Isabelle was there,” Clive says. “She wanted to talk to me about … about Cid. Mother made some assumptions about our conversation, and ...”

“Oh,” says Jill.

“Does it bother you?” Clive asks, head bowed. Jill found his teenage crush amusing, once. That was before they got together properly.

“What? Your mother? Of course it does.”

Clive swallows. “I mean, me and Isabelle.”

“What happened with her?”

“She wanted to warn me that we don’t have to go along with Cid’s master plan,” Clive says. “And afterwards, she and I took a walk around the gallery ... to be honest, I avoided my responsibilities to the other guests.”

“Well, you didn’t want to be there. You don’t hide that well. She was being a friend.”

“And she defended me against Sabine, I suppose.”

“Sabine? Sabine le Duc? What did she do?” He can imagine Jill’s puzzled brow. Maybe this should be a video call.

Clive falls back on the bed, phone pressed to his cheek, arms splayed. His bare feet are planted on the carpet.

“Sabine tried to correct ‘a grave injustice’ by giving me her recognition medal,” Clive explains.

“A Sanbrequois award?”

“I doubt she was thinking of that implication.” His eyes close. He focuses on picturing Jill in the black. “I miss you.”

“And I you. It sounds like a mess. Do you suppose she knows something about the investigation?”

“No?” Clive says, though he isn’t really sure. He assumed Sabine was talking about Twins, and the fall. “It’s possible, I suppose. She seemed somewhat guilty.”

“We’ll bring it up with Cid,” Jill determines. “Since he has the grand plan. I doubt it’s anything. And no. It doesn’t bother me, because there’s nothing to be bothered by. I trust you, Clive. All I ask is that you not judge me too harshly if I ever meet the actor who plays the knight from My Lady.”

He manages a chuckle. That man is seventy, minimum. He’s aged excellently, according to Jill. Clive wants to lay his head in her lap, and let her count the growing number of silver strands in his own hair.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” Clive says.

His chest aches. He realizes uncomfortably that he is overreacting. He always realizes that, once he calms down.

“Clive,” Jill says. “Is it too much?”

He can take it. He can take a little more.

“I can cope,” Clive says. “I don’t think it’s even me she’s attacking. It’s my father.”

“What about him?” Jill says.

In his memory, his father is the one who loved him. He doesn’t want to qualify that with a list of his father’s very real sins.

“He was unfaithful to her,” Clive says. “Quite a lot, actually.”

“I thought they separated.” Jill, obviously, is familiar with marriages that can’t end, for political reasons. Her mother will never go back to Geir Warrick, but she cannot divorce him without significant effort and even greater consequences.

“She didn’t want to. It still causes her pain, I think.”

Mother married very young. Nineteen. She glows in the wedding coverage. She clings fondly to her new husband, laying her claim on him in every photo. Her pregnancy is not yet visible, but later there will be speculation over how protectively she holds her hand, diamond ring on display, over her slim belly.

“Anabella doesn’t need you to make excuses for her,” Jill says.

Jill is probably frowning. She keeps shifting because she can’t get up and pace.

“I know,” Clive says.

Jill doesn’t say, do you, though?

That long silence is her looking at the same moon he is.

“Clive,” Jill says at last. “I know there will be consequences, but I would really like you here tomorrow. And I don’t want you there anymore.”

“Are you alright?” Clive says. He pushes up to sitting.

“I’m frightened,” Jill says. “And angry. At my younger self, mostly, for thinking I was indestructible.”

“Imreann made you do that.”

“No,” Jill says, allowing no argument. “I won’t give him everything. He made a reward of hurting myself, but I chose to do it. And now I can choose not to.”

“Jill,” Clive says.

He can see her smile. Rueful, weary. Brave, despite it all.

“If the doctor tells me that there’s no hope,” Jill says. “It would help if you were with me, Clive. So we could face it together. It won’t matter if I don’t have a provisional if I can’t make a recovery in time.”

He needs no convincing. Mother wants him to show his loyalty to Jill? He’ll do just that. He’s probably already done the damage. It’s freeing.

“Then we’ll meet it together,” Clive says. “I’ll be there. I promise.”

“Just one more night of only dreaming about you,” Jill says. He can hear her smile.

The horned monster within, which has been fast asleep until this moment, pricks an ear.

“Good dreams, I hope,” Clive says. He’s going home to her tomorrow. But he wouldn’t mind a little bedtime treat. “Should I ask what you’re wearing?”

Her favorite nightgown is pale blue with narrow straps. It reveals a lot without showing much. But sometimes she puts on a pair of silky shorts and a T-shirt that she stole from him, instead, as if daring him to take it back. Both are very sexy, in different ways.

There’s a ding in his ear. Dion, finally getting back to him.

We can talk tomorrow at brunch.

About what? Clive wonders briefly. He’s going to have to tell Dion he’s not going to be there.

“You caught me as I was about to get into the shower,” Jill says in a velvet voice that means she’s very ready to play along. “I’m not wearing anything at all.”

“You’re not, eh?” Clive says. 

Dion will wait. This really should have been a video call.

An Imperial courier stops him at the gate. The perspective of the video is from somewhere behind the priority boarding line.

“Are you detaining me?” Clive asks, his voice distinct. The attendant’s eyes are bugged out, not that it’s visible from this angle.

“No, sir,” says the courier. Hard to hear him. “I lack that authority.”

“Then get out of my way,” Clive says.

From behind the phone, someone murmurs, the balls on him.

Clive arrives in Rosalith pissed off. Joshua rolls his eyes. “What exactly did you expect, brother?”

Joshua has been conducting an aggressive damage control campaign, basically from the moment that Mother determined that Clive was not where he ought to be. Jote drives them directly to the hospital from the airport.

Jill’s face floats in his mind. The idea of holding her in his arms is doing the hard work of keeping Clive chill.

“She’s probably thinking of Father’s indiscretions because of the memorial,” Joshua says, distracted by the problem of their mother’s rage.

“Right,” Clive says.

Mother is serving brunch alone to the honorees right now. Dion is with Sylvestre today. Olivier is probably kicking his heels against the table and rattling the tea out of the teacups, complaining that it’s so boring.

“We’ll sort it out,” Joshua says, sensing that Clive’s patience for Mother is thin.

“Right,” Clive repeats. He knew she’d be angry. It’s hard to care.

Jote expresses no opinions as she silently turns into the lane for the parking garage. Joshua splits off.

“Give Jill my love,” Joshua says. “Even if I didn’t have my own appointment to keep, the dukedom and I would just get in the way.”

Jote is joined by another set of Shields from a black car parked nearby. Joshua shoves his hands into the pockets of a black peacoat, the collar popped straight up. He shivers, even in this windless, stuffy garage. His golden hair lies flat and lank against his head.

Dietary restrictions, lifestyle changes, bottles upon bottles of pills. He’s so thin. His humor has gotten darker. His temper is shorter. He’s more evasive. He welcomes Clive’s problems because they distract them both from his own.

“Good luck,” Clive says.

Joshua shrugs. His crooked grin says that he doesn’t want to lie outright, but he will if he has to.

Clive follows sign after sign on his way to the clinic. The receptionist does not know what to make of him. Jill’s already meeting with the surgeon.

“What’s your name?” she asks, absently.

“Clive Rosfield,” he says.

“Uh, what?” she says, startled. She blanches. “Oh, um, sorry. Rodrigue?”

She summons a nurse passing by in the corridor behind her desk with a wave of her hand. He stops to lean in to converse in professional whispers.

“Just a second, Mister, uh, Rosfield,” she says. She gestures to the waiting room. “Have a seat.”

Rodrigue disappears behind the other side of a wavy partition that reads Rosalith Orthopaedic Surgery Specialists. Clive examines the fish in a decorative blue tower.

“Mr. Rosfield?” says nervous voice. “I’m Rodrigue?”

It’s almost like he’s asking Clive to confirm it for him.

“Just Clive,” he replies, tired of hearing his famous surname.

Clive’s memories of his own most significant medical procedures—excluding one—had him imagining a utilitarian gray room with one backless rolling chair and for some reason a mustard-colored cushioned couch with metal arms.

Instead, Jill is surrounded by plants and neatly framed posters of plants. Smack in the middle is a diploma certifying the ability to practice medicine, conferred by the University of the Southern Isles. Books with complex titles are silhouetted against a window that takes up the entire wall. The familiar black-and-white images of Jill’s knee are on a screen, turned so it faces Jill. The unoccupied ergonomic computer chair drifts slightly.

“She stepped out for a moment,” Jill explains.

“Oh,” Rodrigue says, possibly alarmed. “Have a seat, if you’d like? I’ll go and perhaps …”

He walks out of the room, dangling the limp tail of that sentence behind him.

Clive sits down beside Jill in one of the two blue and white chairs opposing the desk. He takes her hand in his. It’s fine with him that the doctor is not in.

“Jill,” Clive says.

“You came,” she says.

“Of course,” Clive says. “Sorry. There was a delay in Amber.”

“Never mind that,” Jill says

“So?” Clive asks. “Any hope?”

“Some,” Jill says.

A shadow moves, light to dark. A woman, standing in the doorway. A flash of red hair and leather. Heat. The dust is full of light.

Where are the rest of them?

“She’s a good candidate,” says the doctor.

“Clive,” says Jill. “This is Dr. Esuna.”

What are you going to say? When they ask?

Scoffing. A surprising amount of blood. The heat and the pain. Nothing feels real.

“Clive,” he says, although it’s unnecessary.

“Tarja,” she corrects. She stares Clive in the eye. “I know.”

It’s her.

The scream reverberating in his ears. The little boy, so fucking tough just a second ago, is crying and shaking.

That someone shot me, and they got away.

That sharp nod. Her red hair is dirty and hacked short.

Her hands around the boy’s shoulders. You can tell us where they are. We need to go. He’ll help you if you let him. Let him.

Jill draws a long, slow line between the two of them with her eyes.

“Do you two know each other?” she asks cannily.

Clive doesn’t know how to answer that question, so he waits for her to do it.

He’s going to help you. He’s famous for being a good person.

“I don’t know,” says Dr. Tarja Esuna, archly. “Do we?”

“Obviously we do,” Clive says.

“You weren’t expecting me,” Tarja asks. It’s more of a statement of fact.

Clive laughs. Nothing’s funny. “Absolutely not.”

Jill’s hand pulls away from his. It’s a fist on her thigh, now. “Clive, what’s going on?”

Tarja crosses her arms.

He touches the scar through his trouser leg. Small, slightly puckered. Ugly. Jill, asking, is this it? and pressing her lips to it in a kiss.

“Jill,” Clive says. “This is the medic who gave me by life back.”

Tarja snorts. “That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?”

After his mother, there’s not a tongue sharp enough to get through this thickened skin. Her comment bounces off him. Oops, all scars.

“From the conflict?” Jill says, starting to piece it together.

“Yes,” Tarja says. “The war.”

Tarja’s turn to laugh darkly. She rounds the room, taking a seat in that rolling chair on the other side of her desk. She leans back, legs crossed. “I’ve been wondering how this would go.”

“Will you still treat Jill?” Clive asks.

“Do you want me to?” Tarja asks Jill, shooting her question straight past Clive.

It’s frustrating how people think he needs to be put back into his place. He wishes he could explain. He doesn’t think he’s a spoiled lordling, but he worries sometimes that’s what a spoiled lordling might think. People gape with their mouths open when he passes. His first day of class, a cloud of students followed him from place to place. He signs up for Vivian Ninetales again and again, even though she is notoriously brutal, because she doesn’t permit anyone to congregate outside her lecture hall.

Tarja waits for an answer. Only her hand shows her nerves as it drums along the glass top of the desk.

“I never knew who you were,” Jill says. Her voice weakens. “I don’t think I could repay you for what you’ve done, even if you’d let me. But I can tell you how grateful I am, that you helped him, when he needed it. Thank you. From me.”

They are both stunned. Dr. Esuna blushes. So does Clive. He knows from experience that it was nothing is impossible to say without sounding like an absolute dickhead.

“This procedure was influenced in part by that incident,” Tarja says instead.

Clive thinks of how he gives interviews. Shop talk is a fortress, remote and impersonal.

“Yeah?” he says.

“There’s sometimes a bit of real truth in folk medicine,” Tarja goes on. “It takes years to tease it out and make it viable.”

What is that?

A poultice I made out of fucking plants. Hold still.

He was ready to let her do anything to get the burning to stop, even though her poultice did fuck all for the pain.

Curaga doesn’t have money for painkillers?

And she looked him dead in the eye and said, no, it doesn’t.

“A trial to get me to Trials,” Jill muses.

“Maybe,” Tarja says. “There is no guarantee.”

She explains the surgery, which takes no time at all. Longer is the explanation of recovery and physical therapy, during which Tarja will continue to directly treat Jill. There are questions and answers. Clive doesn’t say a word. He’s here to support Jill, not speak for her. That he’s lost in a labyrinth of his own thoughts and memories hardly matters.

A near-miraculous recovery. Clive didn’t know how to explain it. He knew that his solo career would never reach the same heights. He wasn’t seventeen anymore. But he could still skate. He could go after the other dream. A blessing.

And after all, winning gold hadn’t done shit to make his mother love him or forgive him. If she was going to call him selfish, then let him be the greediest little bastard. In the interview after being inducted into the order, he said he was looking forward to continuing his career by switching to pairs. His mother had no time to react.

He made her stand there and smile.

“Best case,” Tarja says. “It might be possible—possible—to fully recover in under twenty weeks.”

Jill’s eyes sparkle with hope. “That would get us more time to train. We could do it.”

“That’s a little like fixing a window purely to throw more stones at it,” Tarja says, flatly. “But if that’s your goal, then yes. If you actually follow my program.”

“I will. I want to try,” Jill says, undeterred. “I’ve got to try.”

Clive tries not to think about bright skies, dust clouds billowing in the rearview mirror, the little boy and his mother and the two babies wailing. The old woman, who told him the story about the boats on the river when she was a girl. How scared he’d been.

He knows her name is Tarja now. Tarja puts the boy in front with him. He knows the way.

Sanbreque is the bad guys, right? We’re your enemy.

His father, behind a lectern bristling with microphones. Jill’s hair, at six, is still dappled with patches of the same pale butter-blonde that her mother maintains into her fifties. Father puts his hand on Jill’s little shoulder as he says, the innocent cannot ever be our enemy.

“Let’s get you scheduled,” Rodrigue says to Jill.

“Yes, let’s,” Jill says, following him to pour over a calendar app on the tablet he has in his hands.

Tarja circles back around her desk as Clive stands up.

“Why don’t we agree not to mention it again after today,” Tarja says, quietly. “Make things simple.”

“Alright,” Clive says. “I realized only later that I never asked your name.”

“I wasn’t thinking about manners, were you?” Tarja says.

“Yeah, well.” Clive stuffs his hands into the pockets of his father’s leather jacket. “I never got to say it. Thank you.”

Tarja stares at a diagram of a plant, arms crossed.

“If you had told me I’d have joined forces with a Sanbrequois soldier that day, I would have laughed,” Tarja says. “Not that Curaga ever distinguished between lines. It just never happened. Sanbreque never went where I went. They didn’t care. But you did.”

Clive’s turn to fall awkwardly silent while someone recounts his so-called heroism.

“You made sure we all got out,” Tarja says. “Why’d you do that? For the thanks? The medal? The order they gave you?”

“I thought I was going to be court-martialed,” Clive admits.

He wouldn’t have put it past them. Bleeding, white knuckles, kids screaming. He couldn’t think about what was going to happen to him afterwards. He would take whatever punishment he had to.

Clive puts the lid back on that memory before his heart rate can go up again.

“I just had to,” Clive says.

“And it was the same for me.” Tarja scoffs. “That it ended up leading to the biggest breakthrough in my career,” she adds, “is neither here nor there.”

He and Jill spend the rest of the afternoon in the hospital Bahamucks, reading through the pre-procedure pamphlets and ringing their family and friends with the news.

Cid sends them to voicemail, but Jill’s mother picks up before the first ring is done. She asks dozens of questions. When? Where are you staying for the recovery? When are you going back to Bennumere? What about poor sweet Torgal?

Torgal is with the Blackthornes. He has been since they got on the plane for Twins. But it’s no trouble, August declares.

“We’re rather fond of him,” August says. “But he misses you fierce.”

“I’ll only be able to travel about four weeks afterwards, and even then, I need to come back for treatment,” Jill says. “I miss you too, boy.”

Torgal makes a snuffle-wuffling noise.

“Why don’t we drive him up?” August offers.

Blackthorne makes the start of a protest, and August hisses, “well, I want to see the volcano!” before August mutes his phone to have a brief but productive argument.

“We’ll see you soon,” August says cheerfully, when he unmutes. Torgal barks. His thumping tail is very much audible. “Listen to that! Jill, do you have any recommendations for good bed-and-breakfasts stashed away?”

“Where’s he going to stay, though?” Blackthorne mutters. Torgal whines. “The castle?”

Not quite.

“I’ll have Rutherford open the house in town,” Uncle Byron announces before Clive can even hint at it. “Rutherford! Call the gardener! I can’t imagine the state it’s in.”

The house in town is a mansion in the castle neighborhood, and features a fountain out front that tourists absolutely love. The property values are better left a mystery. There’s only one member of Clive’s family more delighted by this turn of events than Uncle Byron.

“It’s perfect,” Joshua declares. Clive gets in the front of the town car with Jote because the three of them back there gets a bit too cozy. “I’m mostly in the castle these days. Less of a commute.”

“And how did your appointment go?” Clive says pointedly, so Joshua knows that it’s his turn to be pinned to the wall like a specimen and quizzed over.

Joshua chuckles. Jote is stone-faced.

“The usual,” Joshua says mock-lightly. “I’m meant to avoid sources of significant stress the same year that my city hosts Trials.”

“Joshua,” Jill admonishes.

“I promised I would tell you if it got very bad,” Joshua says. “We’re not there yet. I swear it.”

“Joshua,” Clive echoes, in a different tone. “If—”

Jill’s phone rings.

“It’s Cid,” she says.

“By all means,” Joshua says.

We’re not done here, Clive thinks.

“Hello,” Jill says, holding the phone in the palm of her hand. “We’re all here.”

“I expect you’ve sorted out the operation?” Cid says, no preamble. “Good. New problem. Just got off the phone with Quinten Gaultand.”

Joshua, who was leaning casually with one hand behind his head, sits up. Clive can see his alarm in the mirror. He mouths a word that is probably damn or even blast!

“Fuck,” Clive says, going direct for the hard stuff.

“Aye,” Cid says. “Fuck. Jill’s renewal just got rejected, rather soundly.”

“Any reason given?” Joshua says.

Stress, Clive thinks.

“’Jill Warrick’s petition to be considered for the honor of representing the Imperial Blah Blah of Rosaria as a person of extraordinary ability has been denied, as the committee wishes to prioritize the talents of citizens, and safeguard against opportunistic nationality switches which dilute the meaning and sanctity of the Chronolith Trials,’” Cid says, no doubt reading from an ae-mail. “Get this, ‘in keeping with the wishes of the final Archduke of Rosaria, Elwin Rosfield.’ It smells, obviously. Gaultand actually sounded kind of thrilled, so take that for what it’s worth.”

Mother doesn’t think she will face consequences, obviously. She got mad and decided, once more, to punish Clive. He should have seen that coming. He provoked her, and now he’s got the gall to act surprised.

Joshua scowls. “This is nonsense. Jill’s as Rosarian as we are.”

Jill hasn’t said a word. Her face is scrubbed clean of emotion. She looks numb.

“I’m not out of tricks yet,” Cid says. “But I reckon you may have poked the dragon a mite too hard this time, Clive.”

Fuck. Clive rubs his brow. “Indeed.”

“Damn it, Mother,” Joshua says, peeved.

“Stress,” Clive says, finally, out loud.

“I know, Clive!” his little brother snaps. Clive looks away. “Don’t think I don’t know.”

“We’ll manage,” Clive says to Jill. He communicates to her with his eyes in the rearview that this is not her fault. It’s not. “We’re going to figure something out.”

“That’s the spirit, lad,” Cid says.

But even for the cunning Cidolfus Telamon, the problems are starting to pile up.

Uncle Byron’s house in town isn’t ready just yet, so Jill continues to lodge with Hanna. Hanna orders pizza and they pretend like nothing is wrong for a few hours. Cid tells a charming story about his handful of run-ins with Rodney Murdoch, and the other Rosarian skaters of note.

Jill’s mother will hop on a train tomorrow afternoon to help Jill prepare for her surgery. She’ll stay afterwards, to help her recover. The tether that connects Jill’s mother to reality has always seemed tenuous to Clive, what with her crystals and her astrological readings, but when Jill gives her the news, she becomes very grounded. Her voice over the phone is solemn.

“Elwin asked me, once, if I ever wished to be naturalized,” she says. “I said I would be a Northerner until my last breath, and he respected that. I think he meant for you to decide for yourself, when you were old enough to know what it meant. Obviously …”

Obviously, Father had not meant to die.

Cid suggests that they just ignore it until they can do something about it and goes back to assuring their hostess that his old bones can handle another night or two on her world-class sofa. Jill struggles to her feet, leaning on her crutch and Clive. She bids Hanna and Cid good night. It’s barely six in the evening.

Clive has never been in this part of the house. He’s twelve years old again, just now getting serious about skating. His competition is all the kids who have been doing it since they were three. People tell him he’s got real talent, but he only believes Coach Murdoch, who tells him that he could be better. Father has told him to respect both the Murdochs’ generosity and their privacy. He must conduct himself in a fitting way.

He wants nothing more than to live up to Father’s expectations. He looks down at his half-eaten ham sandwich when Coach Murdoch leans down so his wife can kiss his cheek absently, because it seems too intimate to watch.

Jill winces when Clive’s weight dents the mattress, and again as he gingerly shuffles his body alongside hers. The bed squeals ferociously as Clive adjusts his arms around Jill. Cid is watching a How It’s Made marathon in the next room. It clicks up a few degrees louder.

Clive’s nose comfortably nuzzles the nape of her neck. His arms are looped beneath her breasts. Their legs fit together, bent at the knees.

This is what he needed. He sighs.

“What?” Jill lifts her head and inadvertently jostles herself. “Oh, oh.”

“Careful,” Clive murmurs.

They float together in the quiet dim. The faded quilt scrapes Clive’s bare arms with tiny, grainy pills. It’s chilly where he’s not cuddling Jill, and the hair rises up with tiny bumps all over his flesh. Jill strokes his hand, wrist to fingertips.

“I should tell Marleigh,” Jill says, after a long time. He assumed that she’d fallen asleep. Probably she has wandered down a twisting path in her own brain, as he has.

“She would like to hear from you, I’m sure,” Clive says.

Jill lies there a little longer, tucking his hand against her breast.

“Clive?” she says. “Do you—do you think I’m Rosarian?”

“Do you?” he asks in return.

“I don’t know,” she says. She sounds small and sad. “Yes. And … no. It doesn’t feel—right—trying to define my identity as such, anymore. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Do you ever wish that you could have competed for the Territories?” Clive asks.

She laughs, just once. It answers a lot with very little.

“My only connections to the Territories are my mother and a handful of memories, and some little trinkets and foods and such,” Jill says. “It feels thin, most of the time. It feels silly to call myself a real Northerner. I grew up in Rosalith, I spent my early adulthood in Creag Loisgte. Now I live in Bennumere. It’s rather self-pitying, but I don’t much feel like I belong anywhere. That’s who I am, in my head. An outsider.”

Clive squeezes her more tightly.

“I never knew you felt that way,” Clive says, softly.

“Didn’t you?” Jill says. She shifts to face him. It’s a struggle, for her and the box spring alike. “You always came to find me, eventually. When I’m with you ...”

She touches his hair. Her fingers trace along his cheek. Her eyes are the soft color of the late winter afternoon sky. Their lips brush in a kiss. He leans in to take it deeper.

The metal wailing of the bed jolts them from romance. Shuffle, click, click. Then the bread is packaged and sent to the distributor, where it will be shipped to your local grocery.

“Shit,” Clive mutters. “That’s, uh.”

“Prohibitive.” Jill smiles sheepishly. Clive makes a slightly exaggerated disgruntled sound, and she begins to snicker.

“Sounds a lot like my back,” Clive remarks.

“Or my knees,” Jill rejoins. Clive tries not to grimace. “Oh—do you think it’s too late to call Marleigh?”

They both squint at the clock, which is a plate depicting a large fluffy cat sitting amidst a garden of pink cabbage roses. Slender brass arms read approximately seven thirty-ish. Hard to tell, without numbers.

“Probably not,” Clive says. Then, he groans. “Fuck, I forgot Dion. He texted before I left Sanbreque.”

“Give him a ring,” Jill says, reaching for her own phone.

Clive ventures into Hanna’s garden, which is a neatly kept rectangle of grass. A raised vegetable bed stands quite empty for the winter.

“Sorry,” he says when Dion picks up. “Busy day. Is now a good time?”

“As any,” Dion says. He doesn’t mince words. “Stepmother is rather put-out.”

“I did notice,” Clive says dryly.

“Are you alright? She hasn’t done anything?”

Clive shrugs, even though Dion can’t see it. “Nothing that I can do anything about right this moment.”

“You should know that Father is pretty much done listening to her complain about you, so you may have some peace.”

Comforting. Clive stays out of Sylvestre Lesage’s way at all costs.

“You wanted to talk?”

Dion clears his throat. “Ah, yes. Just wanted your advice.”

“Sure.” Clive kicks over a rock, revealing the wet underside.

Dion hesitates. That’s unusual for him. “What—or perhaps I should ask—when did you know that you wanted to marry Jill?”

Clive stops himself from saying, what are you talking about about? just in time. Dion mistakes his fumble for something else.

“My apologies if that’s too personal,” Dion says. Clive has never heard this kind of rambly nervousness before from Dion, who is a splendid tower of pure politician’s son. “Or—did Jill ask?”

He and Jill have decided to stick to the truth, as close as they can. He will just have to compare notes with her afterwards.

“No, I asked,” Clive says. That’s true. The scheme was his idea, anyway. Does that sound convincing? “Um, I, uh, just knew that I wanted to marry her, and she said yes.”

Yes, very convincing.

“Could it be so simple?” Dion muses.

It’s a fucking blessing that Dion is too wrapped up in his own nerves to notice Clive’s.

“Are you thinking of asking Terence?” Clive prompts, ushering Dion away from the topic of Clive and Jill’s engagement.

“I am,” Dion says. “I’m just—well—I’m afraid.”

“You’ve been with him for nearly ten years. You’d know best, but he seems rather committed to you, Dion.”

“Ten years is a long time to go without assurances.”

“I honestly don’t think he needs any,” Clive says. “Terence doesn’t strike me as that kind of man.”

“What if he says no because he doesn’t want to be a consort?” Dion says, bleakly. “You know how it is. It would put him under Stepmother’s power, in a way. Family functions and such. What if he says yes because he loves me, and then he’s miserable? I keep thinking, maybe I should just stop stringing him along.”

Clive feels a sympathetic pang. “Listen. That’s his choice to make, isn’t it? I won’t say that it isn’t hard when—if it ends up being too much. I’ve been there. But it’s his decision. All you can do is ask, and hope.”

Privately, he doubts such things intimidate Terence. He’s the only one who seems unbothered by Mother’s tantrums and machinations. He is somehow even more iron-willed than Dion. He appears softer-spoken and more empathetic, and so people underestimate him. Terence is a man who fights; the only thing that would discourage him is if Dion himself said please—don’t.

“You’re absolutely right,” Dion says with a thick swallow. “If it’s not too personal, did you and Jill talk about marriage? Before you proposed?”

“Er—” Fuck. “No?”

“You just knew,” Dion says, distracted enough that it could be to himself. “That’s right. Of course.”

“I’m happy for you, Dion,” Clive says. He tries one more tactic. “You pried your head out your arse at last.”

Luckily, Dion laughs. He recognizes that phrase, borrowed from his own mouth one night years ago at a new art gallery opening. It didn’t work out, but Clive is grateful that someone tried to push him out of his social death spiral.

“Thanks,” Dion says dryly. “Well done on your excavation, too. Jill’s lovely. Give her my regards. I’ll pray for her swift recovery.”

They exchange their goodbyes. Clive tips his head back. The moon is a little more occluded by shadow. It’ll be a crescent when Jill goes in for her surgery. Metia Station winks red beside it. Poor Dion, though; of course, as a prince of the realm, he will not be able to escape a televised cathedral wedding. Perhaps he and Jill and Joshua can do something small to celebrate privately.

His thoughts drift in long slow arcs.

He hasn’t really talked to Jill about anything like that, because they’ve been together—in reality—for less than a year. He’s still renting from August and Blackthorne, because he’s not yet brave enough to suggest that he move into her (fully furnished) apartment over the wineshop. But their path has never been the normal one of coffee dates that advance gradually into bigger commitments. They are not normal people, for better or worse.

They began with a binding partnership. They started with the dream. It was the rest that followed.

Sometimes, thoughts are like jumps. There is a long lead up. He skates backwards, facing away; he gains the inevitable momentum; he makes that extraordinary leap, spinning and spinning and spinning, and then—

It lands.

“Oh, fuck,” Clive mutters, eyes widening. “Oh, fuck.”

He tears back into the house. Cid frowns as Clive pushes past while dye is being added to the raw silicone.

“Lad?” Cid manages.

Jill cranes her head. She’s watching Mogstagram reels on her phone. Clive shuts the door. He stands there, staring at her. She blinks at him.

“Is everything alright?” she ventures.

“I have an idea how to get your provisional,” Clive says hurriedly. “But it’s insane.”

He sits on the bed with her. Jill struggles upright. The bed complains bitterly. He takes her hand in his.

Her throat moves. Her lips part.

“I understand completely if this is unacceptable to you,” Clive says. “This isn’t exactly how I wanted to do it, but—”

She meets his eyes.

“Clive,” Jill says, gracefully interjecting into the hitch where he can’t quite finish his sentence. “My mother will be here tomorrow. Marleigh is going to come down on the weekend. And Torgal will be here, and the Blackthornes are bringing Mid, too. Hanna and Oscar. Dorys and Chadwick and Heidemarie.”

“Jill?” He can barely breathe.

“Do you think,” she says seriously, “that Harpocrates would be willing to travel with the twins? At the very least, I would want them to know that they were welcome. And Goetz, and his godmother. Is there anyone you would wish for?”

His eyes sting.

“Jill, are you certain?”

She smiles so beautifully. “Clive, this has been the longest week of my life and I’m sick of being separated from you. I think we’ve earned a little elopement, as a treat.”

Jill curls a bit of his hair around her finger. She caresses his jaw. He feels lucky to know this touch.

“Our relationship is ours, to be conducted on our terms, no matter what the rest of the world may think,” Jill says. “So it’s a bit like calling her bluff, isn’t it?”

They would not be the first couple in pairs to do this, not by a long chalk. It has happened twice in Sanbreque in recent cycles. But even though they’ve only been keeping things ambiguous for reasons that make less and less sense, it’s such a serious step that no one would ever suggest it.

“Now,” Jill says, prodding him. “Who’s on your list?”

He swallows.

“Joshua, obviously,” he says. “Uncle Byron. Aunt Ariane won’t show, but she’ll want an invitation. Probably ought to tell Gav. Give him an opportunity to turn up. I don’t know if Dion or Terence will be able to get away, but—if they can—”

“Of course,” Jill says.

“Joshua would kill me if I had a judge do the honors,” Clive says. “Just flat murder. Flames would shoot from his eyes.”

“We shan’t disappoint him,” Jill replies. She grips his hands in hers. “This was really just staring us in the face the whole time, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Clive says, nodding. Jill laughs, but something glitters in her eye. “It feels as though we’re forgetting someone.”

She leans towards him. Her lips are a breath away.

“Cid,” Jill adds, as her eyes flutter closed. “We’re forgetting Cid. Do you suppose he planned this, too?”

It takes four days for everyone to arrive.

Joshua takes the news strangely. He has a little unclaimed time at breakfast, so that’s when Clive arranges for a private audience with the duke, his own baby brother.

“This is real?” Joshua says, picking apart an egg-white omelet. A neat pile of veg is forming on the edge of the plate. They’re in the old private parlor in Rosalith castle, where the three of them used to play board games and watch movies.

“Yes,” Clive says. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“Jill wants to do this?” Joshua says, leaning back with one arm thrown over the chair. “She’s alright with it?”

“Yes, of course,” Clive says, irritably. “Founder, Joshua. Haven’t you been angling for this for years?”

Joshua purses his lips. He gives in with a sigh. “I suppose I wanted something better for you and Jill.”

Clive has no idea what the moueing is all about.

“So you’ll do it?” Clive says, worried despite his assurances to Jill.

“It’ll be best if we use the family apodytery,” Joshua says, businesslike. “Small and intimate. And we don’t need to file anything to use it, since it’s closed off to the public, and you’re actually family.”

There won’t be much of a reception, either. The day after the wedding, Jill undergoes the operation meant to repair her knee and so at the appointed hour, she’s got a print-out in her purse with the rules she needs to abide by. She wears sensible shoes, leans hard on Clive, and is precluded from having to stand when Joshua walks in, decked out in the robes of state and the circlet of his office.

Behind them are gathered as many of their friends and loved ones as possible to collect on short notice. Dion and Terence are present via a phone that Crow and Tett are holding more or less jointly. Dion argues, perhaps rightly, that Mother would notice his sudden flit to Rosalith so soon after Clive’s, and ask inconvenient questions.

It takes about ten minutes. Jote presents them with the marriage certificate. They sign, with Cid and Hanna serving as their witnesses. The final stroke of the pen is Joshua’s. They are bound, in the eyes of the Imperial Province of Rosaria, in legal matrimony. Jote whisks it away to be dutifully filed.

The photo that they choose to post is one that Crow took on Jill’s phone, like old times. They walk hand-in-hand, very slowly, out of the apodytery as Shields clear the way for the Duke of Rosalith. Tourists gape openly. The cobblestones are slick from a brief rain. Gav is cropped out slightly, holding the umbrella aloft. Jill takes two hours to write the caption, paring it down until it is what they have always told the world they are to each other—

My oldest, dearest friend.

I never see photos of him smiling!

Omg it’s happening

it’s probably so she can keep/get her provisional for trials

is this real??

Is she ok after Twins? That fall was nasty.

They got engaged last year idk what anyone expected? Like this is how engagement works you get married at the end

nooooooo

SUCH a long time coming! So happy for you two!

just a bit sus

It’s an open secret in the FS community that they’ve been dating quietly for years. So yeah. It’s real.

Clive, Jill’s mother, and Marleigh go with her to the hospital in the early morning for check-in.

Jill fills out a form, another form, and a third form. She slips off her ring and entrusts it to Clive. In return, she receives a bracelet listing her name and date of birth. Jill is still Jill Warrick. There’s no difference except when she lists his name and phone number listed as an emergency contact and she scribbles the word husband in the line for relationship to patient.

“I’ll be back,” she says. “I promise.”

He kisses her again in front of other people, which feels extravagant after the pains they put themselves to before. Clive wants to say something more, but the nurses are congregating and things are moving quickly. She deserves more than a parting shot a few moments before she goes under. He squeezes her hand and lets go.

Things are going to be alright. Things are going well. All their problems that can be solved are being solved.

He’s been here before.

Nothing is going to happen to Jill, he tells himself.

Marleigh sits next to him in the waiting area with a paper cup of complimentary tea steeping in her hand.

“Nerves,” Marleigh says. “They get the best of the best of us.”

Marleigh was a coach, but after that, Clive has learned, she retrained into social work, and then got licensed as a counselor. She has to be fairly hard to rattle, if she went toe-to-toe with Imreann.

“Indeed,” Clive says, neutrally.

“Jill’s a brave girl,” Marleigh says. “A bit hard on herself, sometimes, I think you’ll agree.”

Clive and Jill hunched over a phone, watching back one of Crow’s videos of them (“Wow, Miss Jill!”); and where Clive saw a beautiful combination, faultless to his eye, Jill paused, zoomed, and sighed.

“Yes,” Clive says, in a rather different tone. Yes, Jill is exactly like that, but fondly.

“I don’t want to assume too much familiarity,” Marleigh says. “I’m a stranger to you. And if my guess is anywhere near the mark, people probably think they know you because they see you on the television and such.”

“Yeah,” Clive says, and then because he’s only given her monosyllabic responses, he adds, “though Jill’s told me rather a lot about you.”

“Ah,” Marleigh says. “Perhaps you have the upper hand?”

“I don’t know about that.” Clive checks the time on his phone. Jill’s been gone for less than five minutes. She’s probably not even in the room yet. “I’m just glad that everyone came.”

“For the wedding?”

Clive can’t fight off the encroaching blush. “For this. For Jill.”

“How are you feeling?” Marleigh asks.

“Fine,” Clive says. He winces. Back to monosyllables. “As I can be.”

He doesn’t get to find out what kind of wisdom Marleigh will dispense to his fine, because the phone in his hand vibrates. A new number, but with the Imperial prefix.

“I have to take this,” Clive says, rising.

He removes himself into a large open mezzanine that looks down on the pavilion below. The temptation to let it ring out is powerful.

“Hi, Mother,” Clive says, just to see what will happen.

“Clive,” says his mother. “How is she?”

“Who?”

“Jill,” she says. “Your wife.”

What the fuck is going on, Clive thinks.

“Joshua told me that she’s in surgery,” Mother says. “You didn’t tell me her condition was so severe.”

He can’t say, I didn’t think you cared.

“Well, it is,” Clive says. There’s a subtle rumble in his ear.

Cid is calling. Not now. He dismisses the call. Later, he texts from the drop down of pre-written options.

“Clive,” Mother says. “What do you expect? You cut me out of everything.”

You don’t want to be involved. You hate Jill, you think she’s a sneaky little Northern savage that I’m cheating on.

“But I forgive you,” Mother says, seriously. “My children are my whole world. You’re my eldest, Clive. My first born.”

He doesn’t want to deal with her right now. She wants him to buy in to this fantasy of hers that the rotten core is gone, but he knows it’s still there, throbbing like a heart. Implicit in her forgiveness is the assumption that he has always been at fault.

Clive knows he hasn’t been a perfect saint. But he doesn’t want her forgiveness if she’s not going to own what she’s done to him.

“Jill is expected to make a full recovery,” Clive says. “She’s just gone in.”

“Do let me know what I can do to help,” Mother says. “I’m tired of this, aren’t you?”

He wants to scream, or maybe cry. Of course he’s tired.

“Alright,” Clive says.

“Goodbye, Clive,” she says. “You know, you can come home for more than just the formal occasions. I rather think we will have some good news from Dion and his boyfriend soon, hot on your heels. Take care.”

She actually sounds sad. Clive doesn’t want to think about it. She doesn’t really care about Dion, either. He knows that she doesn’t.

“Take care, Mother.”

He slips his phone into his pocket and leans over the glass partition. He counts the tiles below. He feels sick to his stomach.

“Clive?” says Marleigh.

She holds her phone with one hand over bottom half, though that’s not where the receiver mic is. She’s frowning, two big lines like parentheses around an unspoken question.

“Yeah?” he says.

“It’s Cid.” She offers him the phone.

“Hey, lad,” buzzes Cid’s small voice. “Sorry, I know you’re at the hospital. I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important.”

Clive brings the phone to his ear, slightly puzzled. “What is it?”

“So, like I thought, the Cerdra’s investigation’s gone and kicked over some rocks and all the little creepers have come running out from underneath.”

“Kupka,” Clive says, under his breath.

“Er, try that again.”

Clive scowls. He isn’t going to say my mother out loud. “Sanfed.”

“Third time’s the charm. Warmer.”

“Cid,” Clive growls.

“Leon Coeur,” Cid says.

Clive has avoided thinking about Leon very successfully up until this point.

“He was bribing judges?”

“Gods, no. He was on the take.”

“Cid, by the Flames—”

“Alright, I get it, listen: Leon was small potatoes. He met with an associate of our fall guy on numerous occasions, did dinner, the works. Couple others, too, as it turns out, but our Leon ran squealing first.”

“How do you even know this?”

“He’s gone direct to the networks to get ahead of the rest and now he’s singing like a bird to stay out of the cage. It’s breaking now.”

Well, that’s why Cid is bugging him with this. Clive has ignored most everything since Twinside. He liked a few wedding day post congratulations, and then left the rest to Desiree. She’s been commanding his online presence ably since Twins. She even sounds like him.

“Why?” Clive wonders aloud.

“My guess is that he’s realized what kind of mire he’s sunk his dainty foot in and is scrambling madly to shake off the filth.”

“Descriptive.”

Clive doesn’t think Leon is that smart, but Sabine might be. She might have distanced herself ahead of a scandal, but her guilt—and self-righteousness—seems real. It’s dangerous to break up a partnership before Trials, but if there was a reason to do it, that would be it.

“What this means for us,” Cid goes on to say before Clive can detail that thought, “is that the last season is about to be investigated in its entirety. Eugen Havel has called for an ethics review across all the federations. Rumor has it that he might even ask for the Twins results to be discarded.”

Clive closes his eyes. Shit.

“Is everything alright?” Marleigh asks, knowing that it’s not.

The pool entering Dazbog would go from whoever is left, a pack of stragglers and nobodies, to the regular season stars. Teams skating their absolute best, after a full off-season of training. New, bombastic programs. The Kasjloks’ fucking quad twist. Eloise is tiny, and springy twenty-four year old Theo can fling her into space.

“Not really,” Cid says, answering Marleigh’s question direct.

Clive drags his hand across his face. He’s got a good start on a proper beard going, so something will have to be done about that.

“We’ll figure it out,” Clive says. “We’ve come too fucking far not to.”

“Get a start on that clever plan, Clive,” Cid says. “We’re going to need it.”

“Isn’t that why we have you?” Clive says.

“You did such a bang-up job the last time, I thought maybe you’d want to keep going.” There’s a snick of a lighter failing to catch. Clive hopes that he’s all the way out in the street, for Hanna’s sake. “But as much of a twat as Leon is, he doesn’t have the wrong idea.”

“Cid,” Clive says. As angry as he is at Kupka, they have nothing. “That’s a non-starter.”

“Maybe not,” Cid says. “But I’ll leave that choice up to you. It’s your fight, after all.”

“I think I’ll focus on skating better than everyone else.”

“That’s the ticket.”

He hangs up. Mid does the same thing. No goodbyes. Clive hands the phone back to Marleigh. Cid must have gotten her contact at the wedding, though the why puzzles him—

“Cidolfus up to his tricks again,” Marleigh murmurs to herself. Her eyebrows bunch in the middle.

The shock must be evident on Clive’s face, because she chuckles.

“Ruzena was a friend,” Marleigh explains. Her nostalgia is obvious; so is her well-worn grief. “She and Cid were peas in a pod. Gery, too, to some extent.”

“Oh,” Clive says, embarrassed that that kind of nuance slipped past him. He was thinking about the clock and when Jill could eat her last powdered sugar snow ‘daisy,’ Molly’s latest iteration on the old classic.

Marleigh skated for Rosaria in a year that saw the duchy very nearly sweep the podiums. Isabelle and Cid, CDM, were outliers. Father had thought that Clive’s obsession with 854 was about Rosarian pride, and, at the prickly age of twelve, he wasn’t about to correct him. There was a time when Rosaria almost always medaled in the ice sports.

“I knew that when Jill signed on with you and him, she’d be in good company,” Marleigh says. “Cid put his whole heart into getting Ruz and Gery to Trials. Dhalmekia was a non-presence in the sport back then, and Waloed was nearly barren. Nothing could have been more unlikely, but he built programs to make it happen. Got the king himself involved. Now Waloed is one of the dominant forces.”

“Cid is a dreamer,” Clive says.

“And what’s more—his dreams come true. It was exciting to hear that he had finally come back.”

“He did it because of Jill,” Clive says. She might be worth muddying my boots for.

Marleigh smiles. “I’m sure he saw a team in you that would make a mark.”

Once again, something seems to be staring him in the face. He can’t get enough distance to make it out. Cid, taking them to Trials. Sticking with them, though all the obstacles. Leaving his happy contented life, skating in an ice show and keeping the guard rails high on his genius daughter’s unorthodox education.

“I think I might take a walk,” Clive says. “Clear my head.”

“Alright,” Marleigh says. “I’ll call if anything happens.”

He paces the hospital complex grounds until rain drives him back indoors. Jill’s mother frowns at her phone, scrolling through her news app. Clive slumps in the chair, arms wrapped around himself. Drops slide down the windows.

Leon Coeur joins the list of people who just get away with it. Clive wants to think that the divot in the ice was meant for him because he doesn’t want to be responsible for what happened. He doesn’t think that Leon wanted to hurt Jill. It just happened that way.

He remembers that moment in high definition. Jill, already sinking into her competition mode. Cid sitting up in the arena seats, on his phone with a storm brewing across his face. Leon, being a petty little shit. Even Sabine was irritated with him.

Clive inhales. He had assumed it was a fight—but a meaningless one, the kind that he and Benedikta had all the time. What if—

“Warrick?” Someone in scrubs leans out of the slow-drifting door. “Family of Warrick?”

Clive stands up.

“Hi,” Jill says. Her eyes are hazed over with pain medication.

“Hi,” Clive says.

“You came,” she says. She smiles.

“Of course,” Clive says. “You think you can walk?”

“Out of here, I can,” Jill says. She makes a face.

“She’s, um, not allowed to put any weight on it for—” Rodrigue checks his notes. “Two weeks?”

“Right,” Jill says. She giggles. “That.”

The real, proper Jill resurfaces some hours later, just in time for the switch in pain meds. Rodrigue educates both Clive and Jill’s mother in the pain management schedule and some other details about her recovery.

“How are you feeling?” Clive asks, as they wheel her to the car.

“Hurts a bit,” Jill replies, wearily.

Every bounce and bump makes Jill wince, but she grins when Torgal comes dancing across the foyer. His tail beats the air. He knows, somehow, to treat her more delicately than usual.

Rutherford generously forgoes the tour of his many improvements so that Jill can go directly to the bedroom that has been kitted out for her recovery. Jill’s mother opts to “let you two have a moment to renew your aetherial connection,” and presses a quartz into Clive’s hand before going to investigate the magnificent kitchen.

“In style,” Clive notes, taking in just how seamlessly Rutherford has managed to combine the necessary medical amenities with his modern aesthetic, and then blended with the three hundred year old building. Clive sets the quartz on the window sill, amid the trinkets carefully selected to add liveliness and color to the room.

“I married well,” Jill says. Torgal sits dutifully beside her. He’s so big she needn’t reach to scratch his ears.

“Oh, did you?” Clive digs through her purse, which he has been carrying slung over his own shoulder. Her charger must be buried in the bottom.

“What happened while I was out?” Jill asks.

Clive hesitates. He sets the purse on a dresser. He doesn’t know how to approach the subject, or if he even should.

“You and Mum are being evasive,” Jill says, matter-of-factly. “What now?”

“Tarja said rest,” Clive says.

“I can certainly lie here and hear bad news.”

If she opens the browser on her phone, the algorithm will deliver the pertinent facts directly to her. She looks disheveled and impatient. Silver hair pokes out from the plait crowning her head. Torgal’s tail sweeps the floor.

“The investigation just got a lot bigger,” Clive says.

He explains everything. Jill sits with her phone nestled in her lap and absorbs each word, pausing here and there to ask questions.

“If we had something to move forward with, maybe,” Jill determines, just as Clive did. Aunt Ariane’s documents support foul play; but they fit very neatly with the man who has already been arrested. Without something new, there’s nothing connecting that to Kupka, or anyone else.

“Cid wants to,” Clive says. “I trust him, but I don’t at the same time, if that makes sense.”

“We have heard an awful lot about his devious plans in recent days,” Jill says. “Marleigh regaled me at our elopement.”

“So I’ve come to understand.” Clive crosses his arms. Torgal puts his head on Clive’s knee for a therapeutic scritch. “But I can’t help but wonder if we just do nothing.”

The idea makes his whole brain feel dirty for some reason.

“It doesn’t sit right,” Jill says unhappily. “But nothing might actually be the cleverest thing we could do, if we simply want to get to Trials. Let the world sort out its own business.”

Clive lies down on the bed alongside Jill’s elevated one. He rests his head on his arms.

“The investigation into Imreann’s conduct has stalled, you know,” Jill says, at last. “In the meantime, they’ve just found another to replace him. Nothing has changed, substantially, for any of the girls who replaced me.”

“Just parts in a machine,” Clive murmurs.

“I don’t think it will end well for Leon, though,” Jill says. “He’s not important enough to save or spare.”

“No,” Clive says. “His career is over. Sabine is already looking for a new partner.”

“Is that what she told you?”

Realization is a stone, slipping heavily into his stomach. He sits up.

“No,” he says. “No, my mother told me that. She was acting strange.”

“How so?”

“She wished you well.”

“That is out of character.”

“She’s worried, perhaps. The news coming out—”

“She could be connected,” Jill says, drawing lines from point A to B. “She wants you on her side, or to at least appear that she’s on yours. So she’s taking a different tack.”

She could have always been that way. It just didn’t benefit her. He can’t be angry about that right now.

“Something is happening in Sanbreque,” Clive determines. “But it’s the exact same thing as Kupka. We have no proof. Just a few implications here and there. I don’t even know who we’d contact.”

“Infuriating,” Jill murmurs, waking her phone screen with a touch. She’s exhausted and hiding it. She probably wants to leave off the intrigue and watch her videos for a while. She throws her head back into the pillows. “And I’m at one percent.”

“Here,” Clive says, and scoots off the bed to look for her charger again. He scowls as he turns out the purse. “Did you put it in your suitcase?”

“Maybe?” Jill says.

No, she didn’t. Clive surveys the entire contents her her bag—they’ve been living lightly, on what they brought from Twinside—and fails to see a charger. Jill’s is a different connector than his own.

“Oh,” she says, at last. “I think it must still be in Hanna’s guest room wall.”

“Perhaps Rutherford has an extra,” Clive says. “I’ll have him send one up while I run to Hanna’s.”

Clive borrows the car against the chance of rain. He regrets it as soon as Rosalith traffic hits, and he watches the trolley sail by unimpeded in its own lane. By the time he arrives, it’s already dark and wet, and he has to park far down the street. He’s damp and shivering when he rings her bell.

“Sorry,” he says. “That took a little longer than I thought.”

“It’s only been getting worse,” Hanna says, brightly. “All the stadium construction has really clogged up the downtown streets. I’ve just made a little supper. There’s extra—how quickly one grows accustomed to cooking for so many people!”

Clive takes the hint and follows Hanna within. She’s clearly pleased to have him stop by. Oscar lives with his parents in Eastpool now, because that’s where the rinks and coaches are, and so she’s mostly on her own. She dishes up some vegetables, and goes to fetch the charger, returning with it coiled neatly in her hand.

“How’s Jill doing?” Hanna asks.

“Better than expected,” Clive reports. “Even the doctor is impressed.”

Hanna presses her hand to her heart. “That’s wonderful. I wish I could have gone to be there for her—just—”

“We know,” Clive says.

The memory is still too raw. It was sudden, and then slow.

“He would be proud of how far you’ve come,” Hanna says. “How hard you’ve always tried.”

“I never wanted to give up,” Clive says. He shifts his food around on his plate.

“It’s a great sacrifice, to do what you do,” Hanna says sadly.

“Well,” Clive says. “Not so much for me, I suppose.”

Hanna frowns. “It’s your life, Clive.”

“Yes, but ... Jill just underwent surgery. I feel rather selfish, actually, to put her through that,” Clive confesses. He wishes he could suck the words back into his mouth. Hanna doesn’t need to hear his self-pity. That’s not what’s important to him.

“You’re not selfish at all,” Hanna says, obviously puzzled. “Not in the slightest.”

“There are things you don’t see,” Clive says.

“I’m certain that’s true,” Hanna says softly. “But, really, Clive—why in the world do you think you’re selfish?”

Because he is.

Jill is lying in a bed with her knee in a brace. Uncle Byron is spending God’s know how much, outfitting them and footing the bill so that Clive can compete. Joshua works tirelessly, circumventing their mother and taking on her vitriol while also paving the avenues by which Rosaria can claim even a crumb of independence. And despite his best intentions, Clive only makes a difficult situation worse by constantly pushing the boundaries.

“I just am,” Clive says, weakly. Listing it all out is too humiliating.

“How?” Hanna says, sincerely confused. “Clive, do you remember—when the janitor at Mann’s had that emergency, and you took over?”

“It was only for a few weeks,” Clive says. The lost and found escapades entertained Joshua greatly. He was just grateful for something useful to do. A raft in the sea of purposelessness.

“Or how you found that lawyer for me?”

Clive hunches down under the weight of guilt. “Hanna, I ... I make everyone around me give up so much for my dream. I don’t mean to, but it happens anyway.”

Hanna gazes at him. Her lips are pressed thin and tight. The fine wrinkles are starting to show around her mouth and eyes, even more so when she is sad. His mother would find the lack of perfection to be vulgar.

She touches his shoulder. “Oh, Clive. You really believe that, don’t you?”

He really doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“You worked so hard, every day,” Hanna says. “I think whatever you chose to do, you would always stand out. But I remember what you were like after His Grace passed. He was so passionate about the Chronolith Trials. It was heartbreaking. You gave everything you could to fulfill his dream.”

His father’s face. Love and pride. Focus on the dream. The rest will follow.

“And then when you had done that, you kept competing, even after Rodney passed and the big Rosarian clubs merged with Sanfed,” Hanna goes on. “You showed them that Rosaria wouldn’t be forgotten.”

He remembers being an angry, lonely boy, and growing into an angry, lonely man. He remembers shame and despair. He remembers clinging desperately to something that made him feel worthy of breathing.

“And you gave up 866,” Hanna says. Her jaw tenses. She breathes out. “I was so scared for you, every day—”

It will show unity.

The eager young faces he’s scrubbed from his mind. Their own prince, beside them. The revulsion he feels, for even being a small part of that—

“I abandoned Rosaria,” Clive says. “I abdicated. I let the annexation happen.”

Hanna shakes her head. She seizes his hands.

“It’s perfectly clear to me that the duchess threw away Rosaria’s sovereignty so she could preserve her own titles, rather than cede an ounce of power to the common people of the duchy. Only you thought to do that—a child, who never should have had such a burden placed on his shoulders. It shames us all that we accepted that.”

Standing before the High Houses. Taking the circlet from his head.

I’m going to abdicate, Clive.

That summer’s day in the study. Clive had been so worried that he was going to have to hear the sex talk again, because Joshua had just figured out that Clive had yet another hopeless crush on a boy in the skating group and was being a little menace about it.

The nobility must end. You deserve more than to be an heir to chaos and corruption.

At fifteen, Clive was just awakening to his parents’ humanity, and found that he did not want to know about it. He did not want to think of his father as only a man, like any other. He wanted a little more time to be a teenager, self-absorbed by the problems attending his first terrifying forays into romance. A selfish child, thinking only of himself.

I want something better for you than what exists now.

“And then when you went back, to skate pairs at long last, you couldn’t even choose your own partner,” Hanna says. “You and poor Benedikta Harman were so ill-suited, but the politics of it—right after the war—you did your best to make it work, and you got so far despite it!”

Benedikta, lying down on the ice. Throwing away her entire world, with all of its conveniences, so that she could build something else on her own terms.

“You aren’t selfish, Clive,” Hanna says. “Who told you that you were?”

He can’t say it. He can’t say it. No, no, no.

But he knows.

“Oh, Clive,” Hanna says. She stands up, decisively. “Just one moment.”

Hanna crosses the kitchen. Her steps are light and quick on the stairs. Clive can hear her travel further and further, until the sound is muffled and indistinct. He traces the grain of wood and the whorls of the knots.

He sits at Hanna’s table, staring at her vegetable medley, and thinks about how he needs the comfort of knowing that everything is his fault, so all the suffering can serve him somehow. It needs to be the truth. If he gives it up, he doesn’t know who he is. If he believes that he is the reason, he can change himself. He can do better. He can become worthier and more deserving.

“Clive,” Hanna says, with something bundled in her hands. “This was Rodney’s.”

Where are the words? Not in his mouth. Not in his brain. Clive inhales.

“I can’t—”

“I know you can’t wear it to Trials,” Hanna says. Her sorrow is old and deep. She smiles, at peace with her pain. “But I want you to have it, anyway. So you can have one of your own.”

“Hanna,” Clive says. His hands reach for it. There’s a strange heaviness to it. It doesn’t feel real, even as the zipper scratches his knuckles. “Are you certain … ?”

“I am,” she says. “It was the greatest honor of his life to be able to compete, and then to usher a new generation to follow him. The Chronolith Trials bring people hope. You and Jill bring so many people hope. Every time you defy the odds, it’s like Rosaria itself rises again from the ashes. I can’t tell you how much that meant to me—to us—when everything seemed so bleak.”

A hand passes over his life and adjusts the frame so that it slides into place, right for the first time in all these years of wrongness.

Jill and he are not dolls in a dollhouse. They are not pieces in a machine. People like Kupka and his mother are not beyond retribution. It’s not pointless. There is a reason to try.

He stands up and draws Hanna into a sudden hug. She gasps, a little startled, and then she hugs him back. She squeezes him tight, even. She laughs.

“I’m so sorry,” Clive says into Hanna’s hair.

“Oh, Clive,” she says. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Spring is coming. He can tell by the sun shining on the puddles in the garden. Crocuses and daffodils prod green sprouts from the garden beds. Jill gets herself outside by force of will. Her leg extends in front of her, immobilized in a brace. The pile of colorful yarn in her lap turns gradually into a blanket, square by square. Mid has already claimed it the finished product.

Clive tosses the squeaky toy across the gravel. Torgal bounds, skids, seizes the toy, and races up and down the walk before he even considers bringing it back for Clive to throw again. This time, it falls from his jaws as he gives a mighty bark, giving a tiny wheeze when it hits the ground.

Two men approach the gate from the street. They bear a strong resemblance to tourists. One waves enthusiastically. The other does not, with whatever the dark opposite of enthusiasm is. Clive goes to the small gate and inputs the code.

“Some digs,” Blackthorne says, unimpressed.

Torgal circles him and August at a cheerful clip before picking up the toy and pushing it into Blackthorne’s hand.

“Ah, you,” Blackthorne mutters, and gives it a throw.

“Jill,” August says. “You holding up?”

“I’ll mend,” Jill says with a weary grin. “How was the volcano? Any demons?”

“Oh, a right big one,” August says.

“Let us bop it on the snout,” Blackthorne adds.

“The demons are so friendly,” Jill says.

They chat. August does the heavy work of describing where they’ve been and what they’ve been up to. Jill asks insightful questions, having been to the volcano multiple times. It was the number one special field trip that the IK girls got to do each year.

Blackthorne stands to one side, tossing and tossing.

“I reckon we’ll be losing your tenancy,” Blackthorne says, unfussed.

“I reckon so,” Clive says.

“Ah, well,” Blackthorne says. “Married life ain’t bad.”

“No,” Clive agrees. Jill laughs at something August says as she rips out a row.

“Never thought it would be for me,” Blackthorne says, gazing at August. “Being a sour old bastard and all. Glad to be wrong.”

Torgal returns the toy and plops down. His entire body huffs. His tongue bristles with dirt and specks of gravel. He sighs happily.

“Not to fret, though,” Clive says. “I have a replacement lined up.”

“Do you?” Blackthorne says.

“Oh, that’s wonderful news,” August interjects, having had half an ear turned towards their conversation. He turns back to Jill. “I don’t quite understand, are all the results from last Twins really worthless?”

Within the figure skating community, major pillars of the sport have simply been dissolved. No one knows what will happen. Without, Clive senses that people have a dim idea that ‘big things’ are going down in a niche sport known for being pretty, but not what they are or why. He’s seen a lot of the same punny headlines.

“While Twins rankings are going to be preserved, VSU has decided to discard the results for Chronolith Trials qualifications,” Jill says. “That means that the Grand Prix is going to determine who goes on to Trials.”

“This is connected to that fixing case, yeah?” Blackthorne says. “Sounds like busy days in the CVRS, eh, August?”

“I can only imagine,” August says.

“Were you Cursebreaker, August?” Jill asks, intrigued. Her eyes flick briefly to Clive.

“Aye,” August says. He shares his own knowing look with Blackthorne. “Day-to-day’s not quite as thrilling as in the movies, but it had its moments.”

Blackthorne chuckles, running his hand under his chin.

“If we wanted to report something about the case,” Clive says. “How exactly would we go about doing that?”

August’s cheerful demeanor slowly shutters as he realizes that they are serious. He glances between the two of them. “You mean it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Clive says, meeting Jill’s eyes. She nods. “We do.”

They crack the spine of Jill’s fresh new passport on the flight to Boklad. It takes several weeks for August’s contact to get back to them. It moves slow. Me, too, Jill says.

The office is a rather dowdy looking complex, with an unobtrusive sign in front. Metal letters recessed in the concrete spell out Intercontinental Bureau of Criminal Investigation - Central Valisthea Research Section.

Quinten Gaultand waits for them inside. He rises.

“Congratulations,” he tells Jill. “However belated.”

“Thank you,” she says. “We’re very happy.”

“Oh, I imagine so,” Quinten says, bloodlessly. “It simply sailed through this time. I will nod when I think you should answer, and shake my head when I do not think it worth your time.”

Clive supposes that’s simple enough. The gravity of their decision weighs down a little more heavily. Cid supports them, but he’s dealing with Mid’s shenanigans once more. They don’t need him holding their hand.

An intern has brought Jill a cup of milky tea and Clive a sludgy coffee that he is coming to regret. Aunt Ariane’s documents sit in a yellow folder. The videos are saved on a tablet Mid found for cheap.

One of the agents, a handsome square-jawed man with slicked-back black hair, meets them in a conference room. The beige carpet calls back to an earlier era. Clive thinks he hears a real fax machine sawing away in the background noise. The agent has a strong handshake and a sober expression.

“Nikola Rymasov,” he says, holding up the badge on a lanyard around his neck. “Call me Cole. I have a couple of questions regarding some incidents you had with Hugo Kupka.”

Champion figure skaters make their on-ice return after making off-ice relationship off-icial!

By Asta Beldam

For ValisTea Daily Entertainment News

Figure skating eikons Jill Warrick and Clive Rosfield are aiming for Trials this week at Grand Prix Dazbog, after an injury put their bid for pairs gold in double jeopardy! The heat is on as this season is widely speculated to be their last shot at receiving the top honor.

Earlier this year, Warrick and Rosfield put the rumors to bed—the marriage bed, that is! After an absolutely arduous will-they, won’t-they-puhlease-admit-they’re-dating, fire and ice melted hearts in a swoon-worthy royal wedding. The only thing missing from their happily ever after? Trials gold, of course!

The newlyweds have been seen flitting back and forth between their home in the quaint town of Bennumere and big city Rosalith as they prepare for the ultimate test! Can love prevail? Or will shooting for the moon cause these two stars to flicker out?

”But the house was completely empty. Not a soul stirred within ... Inquiries later proved that the building had stood empty as it slowly decayed for nearly twenty years, ever since the passing of the previous tenants. So who, exactly, was sending the messages? And how?”

The music transitions gradually from a creepy slow-droning violin to a poppy, peppy jingle.

”All this spine-tingling sure does make me hungry! Maintaining a healthy, delicious diet is made easier by MoreBowls: pre-portioned meals ready to cook, delivered straight to your door ... “

“Not fucking MoreBowls,” Clive mutters, trying to scrub past the sponsor ad.

“It looks like a child’s playset,” Jill says, tugging on Clive’s arm.

He pulls the earbud out and leans over to see out Jill’s window. Dalimil sits incongruously in the Velkroy, yes, like a collection of colorful dollshouses in the sand. The long strip of lavish hotels and casinos dominates the city. The rest of it, residential and old town, cuts into the sandy rock terrain in a dull brown checkerboard pattern, following the pale blue-green thread of the river.

The plane veers, preparing to land. Clive sort of hates this ludicrous city, what with all the associations it holds for him, but seeing anything through Jill’s eyes washes off some of the cynical patina it may have accumulated. He can at the very least appreciate the spectacle.

“There’s our hotel,” Jill says, pointing out a gleaming white building surrounded by a terraced fountain.

As soon as the light and trill of the fasten seatbelt goes off, Clive stands to grab their carry-ons. Both are down in the aisle beside him before Jill can wriggle out of the window seat.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

She grins. “Fine. Looks like we’re moving.”

Cid meets them in the Bathhouse. He is smoking unrepentantly while seated at a slot machine, The Wisdom of Ramuh! The digital display features a 3D cartoon of a wizardly man with a flowing white beard and lightning shooting from his eyes. Below that, someone has defaced the machine with black marker: is knowing when the fuck to stop. Cid’s got a printed slip in his hand.

“This place isn’t half bad,” he says, holding up the little scrap of paper. “Drinks on me.”

“Aren’t drinks free?” Clive asks.

“Not anymore,” Cid laments. “How was dodging the paps?”

Just two weeks ago, roughly five months after her injury, one of Crow’s semi-sanctioned practice videos hit the aethernet by semi-accident. Eloise sent him a link to a repost.

Is this real? Eloise asked. Should I be worried?

The media is driving itself in circles with speculation. Otto has been stroking his chin, biding his time, making his plans. Neither Clive nor Jill want to make any public moves before they qualify.

At the end of every appointment, Tarja says the words risk of permanent damage with a dire inflection. They restrict everything. Practice, workouts, anything that might strain Jill’s body. There is no more again.

“Fine,” Clive says. “Is Gav here yet?”

Cid hooks a thumb over his shoulder. Clive peers around the slot machine pillar. Gav is slouched so low he’s nearly on the floor.

“I don’t think I’m meant for this,” Gav groans. The slot machine is still flashing zeroes.

“Oh, Gav,” Jill says, from behind her hand.

“Can I have that drink?” Gav asks miserably.

“No,” Cid says, scandalized.

“You offered it to them!”

“I knew they wouldn’t take it,” Cid says.

“Well, this is fun,” Clive says dryly, tugging his suitcase away towards the elevators. “We’ll leave you to it, shall we?”

“Good luck,” Jill says to Gav. He makes a mournful little moan.

Cid holds out his arm as Clive attempts to slip between this machine and another, Titan’s Treasure Trove. The glowing yellow crystals growing in Titan’s body unnerve Clive slightly.

“Clive,” Cid says. “Don’t look, but it seems the fan club is out in force today.”

“You can’t just say, ‘don’t look now,’” Clive complains. Jill pretends to adjust her shoe.

“Those three there?” she says under her breath. “I suppose we’ll just hide in the room.”

Clive angles his head away. “Didn’t you want to see the fountain show?”

“It’s probably best that I don’t overtax myself,” Jill says.

“Right,” Clive says, though that’s not agreeing.

“Time to create a distraction,” Cid says, standing up.

He salutes casually with the paper slip before striding in the direction of two photographers who are pretending to take pictures of a bored looking young man standing off to one side. Gav waves miserably.

As Clive and Jill scurry towards the elevator bloc, they hear a indignant shouting, followed by Cid’s distinctive voice apologizing profusely, if not completely sincerely.

“We can still try to catch the show,” Clive says, as they wait for their elevator.

Jill shrugs, but her eyes drift down the hall back towards the grandiose entrance.

“It’s alright ... Clive,” she says, shifting suddenly from indifference to alarm. “That boy—I mean, the young man there—no, don’t look—”

But it’s too late. Rubbing his chin some fifty yards distant is a young man with bright eyes and a red vest, worn fashionably loose. He winks at Clive.

“Who was that?” Clive asks once they’re sailing upwards to the twenty-fourth floor.

“I can’t be certain,” Jill says. “I think he works for Kupka.”

“Not surprising,” Clive says. “Kupka owns the hotel.”

“What?” Jill says, startled. “Why are we staying here, then?”

“He owns all the hotels,” Clive says.

Their room is a boxy gray king bed fitted into an alcove. There is a bathroom the size of a mouse’s thumbnail and a cramped nook where a desk and black leather chair gasp for breathing room. Jill forces her luggage into a closet and flops on the bed.

Clive shucks his jacket and shoes to join her. Together they lie on their backs diagonally across the scratchy covers.

“Well,” he says. “What should we do instead of sightsee?”

Jill rolls nimbly to her side to straddle him. She holds back her hair with one hand as she leans down to kiss his lips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jill says, working her way down his neck. “I’ve got a lovely view.”

His energy, depleted after a long day of travel, miraculously returns to him. He winds his arms around her. Her breath tickles against the tender skin of his neck. He gasps as her hands sneak under his shirt; her touch leaves him tingling. He pushes up onto his elbows so she can drag the T-shirt up and off of him.

“You don’t mind not leaving the hotel?” Clive asks, breathlessly.

“I don’t mind not leaving the bed,” Jill says.

Her lips drift down his chest. He knows perfectly well where she’s headed. He moans, eagerly thinking of what he will do for her in return.

As Jill’s hair brushes softly down his belly, he finds that his mind is turning stubbornly towards his anxieties. If they don’t place in the top eight, their journey will end. Oh, fuck. He soothes himself by emptying out his mind of everything except for the first touch of Jill’s tongue on his—

There’s a hammering on the door.

“Not now, Gav!” Clive says raggedly.

Jill huffs. She will never say that she’s annoyed, but she’s annoyed.

“It might be Cid,” she says, resigning herself to being sensible.

Another pounding. Jill stands up. She smooths and combs out her hair with her fingers, undoing the tie that holds it in a tail at her nape. Clive casts about for his shirt, which has to be somewhere. He fixes his trousers and a few other things. The door shudders. Cid is not normally this pushy. He can deal with a little extra skin.

“What the fuck,” Clive says, flipping the latch.

Benedikta stops herself, just barely, from striking him in the chest.

She’s older. A sequined green dress clings to her body. She pulls back, fidgeting instead with a little golden clutch. She slinks back, eyeing him with suspicion. Her lips are bright red.

“What the fuck,” Clive repeats. Jill hovers warily.

“Am I interrupting?” Benedikta says, eyeing his bare chest. She probably can’t help that sneer.

“Yeah, you are,” Clive says.

“Whoopsie,” she says, utterly without contrition.

“Are you stalking us?” Clive asks.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Benedikta says. “I asked the front desk.”

“We signed in under a fake name.”

“Same one as always, Mr. Underhill,” Benedikta says. “Besides, they know better than to say no to me.”

“Why are you here?” Jill asks.

Benedikta gives her a long, slow appraisal. “I didn’t think that was real.”

“Answer her,” Clive says.

“I hear Hugo’s being a cock,” Benedikta says. One hand sits on her hip. The other beats the clutch against her thigh irritably.

“To say the least,” Clive retorts.

“What were you doing in Stonhyrr?” Jill asks, suddenly.

Clive turns to Jill, abruptly. “What?”

“After we won gold,” Jill says. “I saw her at Vidargraes.”

“That’s my business,” Benedikta snaps. “Why do you keep going? Why don’t you just quit?”

“What do you mean?” Clive says, astounded. “You gave me Cid’s number.”

“Yeah, but you actually called,” Benedikta says. “You chose to keep doing this shit. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Clive says. “Why were you in Stonhyrr?”

“That’s—”

“Harman, if you don’t start explaining yourself—”

“Hugo bought my studio!” Benedikta spits.

Clive stares at her. His stomach sinks. Benedikta has been hanging around Ran’dellah for a reason. He almost feels sorry for her.

Jill touches his arm. She nods.

“Alright,” Clive says, standing aside so Benedikta can enter.

Jill takes the bed, while Benedikta plants herself in the bathroom doorway. She wraps her arms around herself. Clive stands on a tiny square of tile that pretends to be a foyer and waits for a fucking explanation.

“Why are you here?” Clive asks.

“I don’t want to be controlled,” Benedikta says. “Why did you keep going?”

“What does that mean, Harman?”

“With skating,” Benedikta says.

“No,” Clive says. “Being controlled.”

“You’re getting nowhere,” Jill interjects. “Clive, just tell her. And then you—” She stares levelly at Benedikta. “—answer him. I don’t want to be glowered at for any longer than I have to be.”

Benedikta serves Clive a sidelong glance. “She’s a better coach than Georges.”

Clive supposes that for once they agree.

“I was fucking angry,” Clive says. “I knew I wasn’t done. Neither was Jill. So we kept going.”

Benedikta’s eyes flick across his face, searching for some secret sign. Her lower lip thrusts out in a pout. It’s a habit of hers that he knows well. It is hard to know things about someone and to go on hating them, but they managed.

“Someone is trying to persuade me of something,” Benedikta says. “He’s been trying for a while now.”

She doesn’t have to say his name. Cid, distracted and phone-bound all through Reverie. Cid, disappearing all the time at odd hours throughout the comp. Cid, making his cryptic hints. They are so commonplace that Clive stopped reading into them long ago.

He plays a long game.

Clive and Jill don’t have enough evidence to do anything but go on record. The video of Hugo threatening Jill has been scrubbed completely. Cole says that the messages and videos were likely never Hugo Kupka personally. Bots and paid users, most likely, instructed to pelt Clive with taunting replies and DMs. Cole is sympathetic, but they don’t even have proof that Hugo Kupka has even looked in Clive’s direction. It is his word against that of a man who owns an entire city. So Cid has been working on another solution.

Benedikta runs her fingers down the doorjamb. “Hugo could make things hard for me. There’s no incentive.”

“So you want incentive?” Clive says. “I don’t have any. My brother’s the duke, not me.”

Benedikta looks down her nose at him. “I don’t need anything from you. If I wanted that, I could have it simply by batting my lashes.”

“You tracked me down,” Clive says. “You want something, Harman.”

Her eyes are hard. Benedikta is beautiful in a way that does not entice.

“I don’t want to be controlled,” Benedikta says. “Not by Hugo, not by Cidolfus. I’m sick of being at the mercy of someone else’s plan. But whatever I choose, I’m trapped in their games. I can’t get out.”

“And what does that have to do with me?” Clive asks.

There it is again. That look. There is always something he is missing. Something too deep or too close for him to see. The spoiled, arrogant lordling. The noble, dutiful prince of Rosaria. He is never who he thinks he is. He’s tired of it.

You don’t get it, little lamb.

“Because you’re free,” Benedikta says.

He jolts. That’s not true. It’s never been true.

“How am I free?” Clive says.

Benedikta sweeps her arm. She encompasses the whole room in the gesture.

“Look around. You’re here,“ Benedikta says. “Exactly where you want to be. You did it on your own. How?”

She’s serious.

“I didn’t do anything in my own!” Clive says. “Jill is right here. So many people brought me here. Even you helped me. Fuck, Benedikta. Did you make a TV show on your own?”

He thought he was over this, but as it turns out, he’s actually not. He’s acknowledged what he did wrong between them. Now it’s her turn to listen.

“I did everything I could to save our partnership, even when it was well beyond saving,” Clive says. “Everything.”

“You just do whatever you want,” Benedikta says. “And damn the consequences.”

Clive laughs sharply. “More like the consequences damn me. I’ve paid for every choice I’ve ever made, right and wrong. But I made them because I would rather deal with the consequences than give up who I am. Maybe we could have built something better between us. You didn’t want to. You trapped yourself.”

Benedikta’s hands are fists. She might actually hit him. Instead, she sniffs hard—she’s at the verge of hot, angry tears—and looks away.

“Are you happy, Cidolfus?” she mutters. “Is this what you wanted?”

Clive doesn’t pursue that. He doesn’t care. Whatever revelations she has, she can have them in her own. Jill scoots off the bed, and takes his hand.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Jill says, coldly.

Benedikta raises her head. One of those tears falls down her cheek.

Benedikta, lying on the ice.

“I never want to see you again,” Clive says. “It’s too late for us. But it might not be too late for you. Take care of yourself, Harman.”

She wipes her eyes. Her smile, as usual, is full of deadly venom.

“We’re never going to cross paths again, Rosfield,” she says. “Thanks for everything.”

Benedikta walks out without closing the door behind her. Clive is forced to follow her.

Down the corridor, by the elevator bloc, is the same young man from before. Clive grips the door handle. Benedikta doesn’t look back. The elevator doors slide open. Hugo’s intern or assistant or whatever trails her with a hand ghosting near her mid-back.

Benedikta’s phone flashes white as she draws it out of the golden clutch. It doesn’t matter who she’s calling, Cid or Kupka. He knows that it’s over between them. It was too late four years ago. Whatever she chooses to do, he wishes her as well as she deserves.

When he turns around, Jill’s embrace is waiting for him. Jill strokes his hair. They don’t need speech.

He lifts his head to look into her eyes. She kisses him. Perhaps it was meant to be chaste comfort. Who knows. Probably he should be irretrievably turned off, but he isn’t. He cups the back of her head and pulls her deeper into that kiss.

Jill sighs. Her fingertips press into his back. Clive’s phone buzzes and sings a jarring ringtone, but Clive simply silences it. Cid’s plans will keep.

Their clothes fall away. Jill gasps; her fingers tug at his hair; he crawls back up her body and they kiss each other, slowly and sweetly, until something inspires Clive to push her down into the stiff mattress. She urges him onward with his own name, hot in his ear.

They hold each other, afterward.

He does his assigned reading while lying on her couch, with Torgal sleeping peacefully on the floor beside a pristine dog bed. They trade dinner duty every other night after spending long hours at the hideaway. They walk Torgal around the boardwalk, lamenting the diminishing summer sunshine as the season turns towards autumn. Jill’s sketchbook is full of scribbly cartoons of him dramatically scowling at flowers and hearts.

The gossips exclaim giddily over their whirlwind wedding, or decry them as scheming opportunists determined to game a system. Clive falls asleep peacefully each night to the glow of Jill scrolling at the lowest brightness and can’t remember how he lived before.

This life is so starkly different from the one he led four years ago. There is nothing special about what he likes the most. He is an ordinary married man, knocking on the door of thirty-three.

“Jill,” he says. “Where do you see us, after this is done?”

“I don’t know,” Jill says. “I think I want to coach. Balance out the Imreanns of the world. But these days ... the Twins seem so small. I’ll need some space to spread my wings.”

She runs her knuckles down his stubbly cheek. She sneaks another kiss.

Tomorrow, he’s going to chase the old dream again. If they make, they make it, and he will face that when it comes. It isn’t his dream.

He wanted to prove himself to his mother, and when he couldn’t do that, he wanted instead to spite her. He wanted to redeem himself; he wanted to make his sacrifice worth it. He didn’t want to give up. He didn’t want to admit he couldn’t do it. The dream was his father’s. The dream is Rosaria’s.

Hanna, standing on tiptoe to kiss her husband’s cheek. Clive, dreaming about what it would feel like to have with someone else what they had with each other. Conceding a little more with each year, until he began to believe that it would never be for him.

“But you are home to me, Clive,” Jill says, softly. “I want to make so many memories with you.”

There’s a space, there. Neither is brave enough yet to name what’s there, between them. But it feels good.

“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do,” Clive says.

They might have underestimated their draw. They struggle against the camera flashes on the way in. Clive’s eyelids sparkle on the inside for two or three minutes as he walks in the arena, where every seat is filled. It’s a Trials year like no other.

“Good luck. I’d like a chance to beat you honestly,” Theo says as they march back to the ice, following the young Waloeders.

Cerdra’s, when it was finally rescored, saw the Kasjlok siblings take gold properly. It’s fair. ‘Seas’ had flaws they couldn’t overcome.

“It’s only the qualifying event for the 878 Chronolith Trials,” Cid says. “Have fun and be yourself.”

“Thank you, Cid,” Jill says, handing him her guards. She skates a loop out onto the ice.

Jill Warrick and Clive Rosfield, representing the Imperial Province of Rosaria.

If Jill is scared, she dares not show it. He takes comfort in her peaceful certainty. She assumes the opening pose for ‘Prayer.’ The nerves he’s been holding at bay surge into every limb.

They’ve done this all before. He’s the knight, learning to trust her. She’s the lady, learning to be brave. They miss one another, neither of them quite ready for the next step until they are.

He reaches for her. His hands grip the taper of her waist. She leaps, he lifts.

He lets go.

There is a part of him that never forgets. Crack. The body, lying on the ground.

She lands. She’s fine. Her eyes shine.

He’s fine.

He knows then that everything will be perfect. He barely hears the audience. He is in his own world with Jill. He knows where she is, and where she will be at every minute. They hit every cue and land every jump, and with each successful element, he grows more confident that things will be just fine.

The music ends. He’s breathing hard. The story is over, but Clive can see where their path extends into the future, far past the final words and credit roll. When he looks at Jill, he wonders if she can see it, too.

They’re married now, so fuck discretion. He places both his hands on the back of her neck, thumbs brushing away the tears from her eyes, and kisses her smiling mouth. She kisses him back.

“That sounds like a record,” says one of the MCs, anchors from a sports channel, when the score is ready out. “Is that a record, Natalie?”

“That’s right, Konrad, and our other competitors are now looking to beat that. Jill Warrick, earlier this year was considered down for the count, but as you can see, she’s in fine form today ...”

Cid claps smugly in the kiss and cry. Jill is pink-cheeked and gorgeous. Her hands come together in flurries of applause.

“We did it,” she says, gleeful as a child. “We did it!”

He kisses her again. The cameras are going wild. He hopes they enjoy the show as much as he likes putting it on.

Cid says, “alright, alright,” and ushers them towards the media corner. He pulls out his phone, unlocking it with a flick of his thumb. He frowns.

“What’s this, now?” he mutters to himself. “You two go ahead.”

A woman in a black polo directs them to a trio of cushions. Jill shrugs on her jacket. The teenage Waloeder girl giggles excitedly, shaking her partner’s arm. He bats her away. The partner won’t look at either Clive or Jill.

“I’m Edda,” says the girl. She’s probably about seventeen. If Jill and Clive hadn’t been allotted to the first groups for lack of season standing, she’d never be in here with them. “I’m such a big fan!”

“Stop embarrassing us,” says her partner curtly.

“Nice to meet you, Edda,” Clive says, extending his hand.

Jill fumbles as she lowers herself onto the cushion.

“I’m fine,” Jill says immediately.

It’s not true.

“So,” says Natalie, sweeping in before Clive can say anything to the contrary. “We’ll do a quick interview, and then you’ll rotate out as—or, um, if—the scores change.”

The camera man counts down with his fingers from five.

“And here we are, off the ice, with top contenders Jill Warrick and Clive Rosfield,” Natalie says in a bright artificial tone. It’s for the camera. “We all love a comeback story, is that what’s happening here?”

Jill squeezes his hand.

“Yes,” Clive says, quickly. “And no. We’ve always been here. We never gave up. We’re very happy with our performance today, and very grateful to everyone who never gave up on us, even when things looked dire ...”

His mouth knows the script. Jill’s smile is impenetrable. He knows her too well to believe it.

“This is also your first competition as a married couple,” Natalie asks, shrewdly aiming at the human interest aspect. “Is that any different?”

“Not really,” Clive says. He’s not paying attention.

Natalie hides her irritation behind her own fortress of a smile. “Alright, back to you, Konrad!”

Cid reappears. “Testing,” he says, tipping his head in that direction. Not a surprise.

Clive offers his arm to Jill. She walks without evidence of a limp until they are in the small corridor that leads to the testing station. She breathes in. Her brow knits together.

“It’s not good,” Jill admits.

“Shite,” Cid says. “I’ll get Tarja on the horn.”

“I can make it,” Jill says. She exhales again. 

“Happens,” Cid says. “We’ll manage.”

The testing station is weirdly empty. Usually there’s a skater or two waiting to be handed a cup and sent off to the toilet or to be jabbed, and a technician to direct people as to which one they should be doing.

“I’ll go look,” Cid says, poking his head in a door. He disappears down another corridor.

Clive eases Jill to sit in one of the metal bucket chairs.

“You can say if it hurts,” he says.

“I can bear it,” Jill says.

The door creaks. Clive looks up, expecting the technician.

Hugo Kupka delicately closes the door. Clive stands up. He will tear this man to shreds while wearing this sparkly costume if he fucking has to.

“Congratulations, Rosfield,” Kupka says. “You’ve made it this far.”

“It was a team effort,” Jill says, icily reminding him that women can and do speak.

Kupka doesn’t bother to acknowledge her. Now that she’s useless for his plans, she goes back to being an ornament.

“Trouble in paradise?” Clive suggests, acidly. “You only show your face when Benedikta breaks up with you.”

“She’s on her way to Waloed,” Kupka says evenly. “She wants to be with family for the premiere of season two.”

It’s insane that he still falls for that.

“Nothing like the old sheep farm,” Clive says. “Do you really think that’s where she is?”

“Are you admitting to knowing otherwise?” Kupka asks blithely. He aligns the desktop monitor to the keyboard with a touch.

“No,” Clive says.

He’s not going to ask. Kupka is just going to have to give in to the temptation to monologue if he wants to tell Clive about his new plan to be a shit.

“I’d like you to explain something to me,” Kupka says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out his phone. He makes a few flicks across the screen, and then turns it towards Clive.

It’s a video of Benedikta, the green glitter of her dress flashing. The back of her golden head is burned into Clive’s mind. She’s standing before a hotel room door. Clive is standing within, shirtless and disheveled in an unmistakable way. Benedikta walks in. The audio is not good, scratchy and stumbly. He can just make out the word cock. Repeat.

“There’s nothing to explain,” Clive says.

“I don’t believe you,” Kupka says.

Actually, Clive thinks, he’s right.

There is something happening behind the scenes. Kupka is being deceived.

“What do you have over Benedikta that she needs to go back to you?” Kupka says.

“Nothing,” Clive says, startled.

What would he do if he thought someone was hurting Jill?

He’d destroy them.

“I’m willing to overlook the past,” Kupka says. “What do you want?”

He’d beg. He’d do anything.

“Just name it,” Kupka says.

“There’s nothing I want from you,” Clive says. “And there’s nothing Benedikta wants from you, either.”

He pities Hugo Kupka. His whole body bristles with disgust. He wants to eject this empathy from himself. He hates this man, now and forever.

“So now you admit it,” Kupka says. “You drove her from me.”

“You joking?”

They all jump at the deadly lightning strike of Cid’s voice. He stands there with one hand on the doorframe. The other is in his jacket pocket, casually stretching out the Bennumere logo. The amicable mask has been lowered. The real Cid Telamon is a middle-aged man who has had it up to here.

“Clive didn’t have anything to do with it, you knob,” Cid says. “Benna has been trying to get away from you for years.”

“Cidolfus Telamon,” Kupka says, reining in his temper. He regards Cid warily. “Benedikta has mentioned you fondly.”

Clive and Jill share a glance. They are no longer characters in this drama; they are bystanders to the real story, which has been happening around them without their knowledge this entire time.

“Funny,” Cid says. “That’s not how she talks about you.”

“What do you mean?” Kupka says. He’s buying himself time to think. Clive struggles to keep up himself.

They reached out to Cid. They brought him in on this. Benedikta gave him Cid’s contact because she felt guilty.

You really think that?

“I mean that you’ve been blaming the wrong man for your troubles,” Cid says. “It was me all along, Kupka. I’m the one who told Benna Harman she should leave you.”

There is a moment where Clive thinks that Kupka will simply kill Cid with his bare hands. The hatred is so palpable that it is hard to gaze upon it and breathe at the same time. Kupka’s eyes narrow.

He catches Jill, trying to sneak out her phone. He glances disdainfully at Clive, who is now nothing.

“It didn’t work,” Kupka snarls.

And then he leaves.

Clive kneels beside Jill. He touches her leg.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“I think it’s getting better,” Jill says. “I didn’t catch anything. I’m sorry. If I’d been faster ...”

Cid approaches slowly. He has fixed the face they know best back into place, and that man looks embarrassed for roping them into his intrigues.

“Not your fault,” Cid says. He clears his throat. “So, this is the reserve area. Real station is down that way, and also, you don’t have to do it again. Pretty humbling to fall for that, but it’s always the basic shit, isn’t it?”

He’s grumbling out of habit. That motor mouth is nerves.

“Cid,” Clive says. “I think you owe us an explanation.”

“Aye,” Cid says. “Well. No time like the present. What do you want to know?”

Is it really so simple?

“What is it that you want?” Clive asks.

“To get my skaters to Trials,” Cid says. He tries to turn on the careless grin and it flickers and fails. He just looks tired. “And have that actually mean something.”

“Surely Kupka hasn’t been ...” Jill can’t quite make herself say it out loud. “The whole time?”

“No,” Cid says. “Far as I can tell, Kupka’s only been an active nuisance since 867 or thereabouts. And before last year, it was far more subtle.”

“When he met Benedikta,” Clive says. “And when she left him.”

“I told her ... “ Cid says, but he doesn’t finish. “Anyway. When I took you two on, I knew there was a chance it would get personal, and he’d get reckless. And that would open him up, so to speak.”

The frame pulls out. More of the picture comes into focus.

“Like Leon,” Clive says aloud. “They’re using us to get to him.”

“And him,” Jill says, “to get who?”

Clive can easily see Sleipnir Harbard, calling twenty-two year old Benedikta over to meet a rich, powerful, older man. Meet our rising star. Waloed was barren. Kupka made it a setting worthy of a jewel. And then when her value to them was wrung out, they offered her to Sanbreque to squeeze out a little more.

“You built Harbard a system to achieve dreams,” Clive says. “And he used it to use people and then throw them away.”

Cid smiles grimly. “Figured me out, I see.”

“You didn’t tell us,” Jill says, “because ... ?”

“I’m not a mastermind,” Cid says. “Whatever I pretend. If there’s an opportunity, I don’t dither, and if I can help an opportunity along, well ... but I’m done using people for my own sordid ends.”

“So what now?” Jill asks.

“Can you skate, Jill?” Cid asks in return. He puts the monitor ever so slightly askew.

“I think so,” Jill says. “I had better talk to Tarja, so she can tell me to do so at my own peril.”

“Jill,” Clive says. “We don’t ...”

“I know,” she says. “But I want to. I want to look back and know that I did everything I could.”

She takes his hands in hers.

“Are you alright, Clive?” Jill asks. “You don’t like to see me hurt.”

Jill, lying on the ice. Jill, crying in the corner.

“No, I don’t,” Clive says. “But I believe in you.”

Jill turns to Cid. “What happens if we compete in Trials?”

Cid blows out a sigh. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Havel and Capitaine are doing whatever they can to re-legitimatize VSU. I doubt we’re going to see any more fixing; that’s too hot for anyone to touch. If you compete, it’ll be fair.”

“And Kupka?” Clive says.

“I doubt CVRS is going to just let him go,” Cid says. “But barring some dramatic nonsense—and believe me, I’ve tried—it’s not going to be us that gets him.”

August, sitting in his own garden with a cup of tea, said much the same when they recapped the meeting with Cole.

I doubt any one of us regular folk will get him. It’s a thousand little things piling up that make a case. The grand reveals are for TV, I’m afraid.

The three of them sit with the realization. It is hard to let go of something like that. There are things that are so far beyond them, they might as well be untouchable. There are dreams that not even Clive Rosfield can achieve. Not on his own.

“Back to the arena, then?” Cid says. “I’ll bet Natalie is champing at the bit.”

In the end, Jill is right. Tarja asks some probing questions, though there’s very little she can determine over the phone.

“Probably it’s swelling due to stress,” she says. “But if you’re not underplaying what you feel, you might be able to do your long program.”

“It’s called the free skate,” Jill says.

“Right,” Tarja says. She looks over Jill’s shoulder, where Clive is hovering. “And then she has to rest.”

In the morning, Clive and Jill get up to go to the gym ahead of the competition. A new episode has just dropped. He listens to Maeve’s latest morbid historical tidbit so he has something to text Joshua about later.

The second day of competition is just as packed as the first. Perhaps more so. As Clive and Jill sneak towards the backstage door, he spots a blue and red jacket and a sparkly sign. He has security wave the group over.

“Founder,” says the young woman with the sign. She’s the same age as or maybe a little older than most of Clive’s classmates at Bennumere. “Are you serious?”

“I remember you from Twins,” Clive says. “We appreciate your support.”

“Thank you so much for not giving up on us!” Jill says.

“No way!” she exclaims, posing for the photo. “Go Cliji!”

“Move it along,” says Cid says to the pair of them, as the fans giggle and swipe through the pictures they just took. “Thanks, thanks.”

“Cliji?” Clive says, once they are safely out of earshot, in the long corridor that goes to the dressing rooms.

“They’ve been using Cliji for us since Kanver,” Jill says, picking a careful path down the long concrete ramp.

This time, they are in the final group. In a little under an hour, they will know whether or not they will be going to Trials. They’ve come a long way from their misunderstanding in the Fat Chocobo. He never could have guessed that all this would come from that trip. Even the mogcast he listens to.

Thought things were ‘bout to get rough.

“You alright, lad?” Cid asks, grinning crookedly. “Not another gripping realization?”

“Maybe yes, actually,” Clive says.

It’s been over four years. But he gets out his phone. Maeve’s Mystery Mogcast’s contact page invites him to get in touch with the other side!

He’s got a little time. Cole asked for anything they had.

Hi, he types in the text box. My name is Clive. Been listening from the beginning, me and my little brother love your show. This is kind of a long shot, but do you remember ...

They get called for warm-ups just as he hits send.

“You’ve made a record today,” Natalie says, perched upright on her cushion. Her ankles are elegantly crossed. “What are you feeling right now? The both of you? After the extraordinary year you’ve just had, it must feel rather vindicating.”

Clive leans into the mic Natalie is holding out for him.

“It was a very challenging year,” Clive says. “We’re both grateful to everyone who has been there for us, who came to support us during our lows and to share in our joy during the highs. Just a deep gratitude.”

Natalie clearly finds this reply to be too canned for her liking, but Clive has been giving dull, safe answers to the media for aeons. She won’t be breaking through today. Theo shakes Clive’s hand.

“Good show,” he says.

“We’re coming for you,” El says with a smirk. “Now that the playing field is suitably evened out.”

Gav is just down the walkway, working out his nerves by acting a bit of the fool for Edda, young Waloeder girl.

The other MC, Konrad, approaches Natalie with his phone. He shows her something. She beckons the camera guy back over, and approaches Clive again.

“Clive,” Natalie says, obviously off the cuff. “This will be your first Trials year with a new partner; could you give us your thoughts on the difference?”

He wrinkles his nose. “What?”

His stomach ties itself into a hard, sudden knot.

The video. He can only imagine his mother’s reaction. Cheating on Jill with Isabelle or Sabine would at least be comprehensible to her. With the Waloeder girl? Fuck.

“Pardon,” Cid says, pulling Clive backwards by the arm.

“Clive is actually a remarkable partner,” Jill says, sliding into the empty air in front of the microphone. “Benedikta always admired how determined he is, and I feel the same way.”

“What’s going on?” Clive asks under his breath. “Did Kupka release that video?”

Cid snorts. “Kupka’s not in a position to be releasing much right now.”

He hands Clive his phone, currently loaded with the banner for the Voice of Ran'dellah. Clive can’t process the headline for a full ten seconds, even though it fills the whole screen.

Multi-Billionaire Hugo Kupka Expected to Face Charges, Detained at Ceratina International Airport.

Chapter Text

An interior. A slow push on the empty Mann’s Hill ice. The boards. The seating. The big overhead lights and the scoreboard for local and kids’ hockey matches. The stillness invites expectation.

Wide on the majestic upper balconies and pillars of Phoenix Gate. The spectacle. Its cool magnificence. The LED adverts that ring the ice. The banner, the whirling carousel of sponsors and slides on the big screens.

A Haven Productions film

The familiar warmth of the hideaway. Chatter. That's Jill's voice. She is some distance away, talking soft.

“I think—then up—”

“That's it!” That's Cid. He clears the leftover smoke from his throat. “Aha. That's good. We'll keep it.”

“The Chronolith Trials are a light,” Clive says. His voice is clear, mixed so it sounds like he is standing just there. “They pulled us out of the darkest parts of our lives. It feels like a blessing to have that kind of purpose.”

With support from the Imperial Province of Rosaria Athletic Committee

“Yes!” Jill exults. She is all the way across the ice. The angle is low. “Alright. Next one?”

“But they are also a temptation,” Clive says. “Leading us back into their shadow, again and again.”

The screen cuts to black as Clive’s skate carves into the ice, just in front of the camera.

Otto shuffles through a sheaf of printouts. Desiree hovers. Her hands obviously itch to just—if she could only—that one—

“Just the Moongazing thing next week, eh, Jill?” says Otto.

“That's right,” Jill says.

“What's that?” Otto says, cupping his hand around his ear.

"I said, that's right, Otto," Jill says. She struggles to lean in closer so that the microphone on Clive’s laptop (which is ‘piss’ according to their young expert) can pick her up. "Just that.”

In the background, Torgal moans pitifully. Jill resumes Torgal’s absent-minded head-scritching. Torgal’s eyes go half-lidded and his tongue dangles out one side of his mouth. They were like this when Clive walked in with the computer for today’s meeting and looked too comfortable to roust. Clive needs no more than a sliver of the cushion to perch on, anyway.

“There’s still a lot of buzz,” Desiree whispers loudly. She might legitimately think she’s being discreet. “Kupka.”

Hugo Kupka has been charged with fraud, bribery, racketeering, and corruption, all in connection with Cerdra’s Trophy. The news anchors are pretty fucking breathless about it, and the gossips are even worse. The Dhalmekian government is involved, which makes people think it's worse than just a sports thing. It probably is. There have been rumors about the Reverie scandal, suggestive of a closer connection, but nothing ever materializes.

“Clive, Jill,” Otto says, flipping through some more pages. “You ain't doing spots, and you're skipping the GP final today, so, bluntly, there's nothing I'm really doing for you 'cept spinning my wheels.”

“It’s really for the best,” Jill says.

Even the Moongazing Foundation Gala is a favor. Like many of the children the foundation serves, Jill understands what it is to be uprooted through no fault of her own. Terence wants the foundation to be internationally focused; Jill is a perfect choice for that.

“It’s alright if there’s a lull,” Clive says. “Might be nice, for a change.”

Cole Rymasov called the day after Dazbog and apologized. Kupka is being charged for the crimes that can be tied to him. It can be bruisingly, cruelly obvious what is happening and why—but if it cannot be proved, then there’s no case. Sorry.

So Clive broods.

At the very least, Kupka will face a consequence—and for the serious shit that he’s done, too, the shit that has done damage to multiple people. 

“I get it,” Otto says, but it’s clear that for professional reasons he doesn’t exactly like it. “Alright, alright. I think we’re done here.”

“Have a good day!” Desiree says, poking her head in to wave vigorously. The Boiling Sea rolls in and out behind them, framed by the window, framed by the video call border.

“You, too,” Clive says. They drop out of the call.

Jill rests her head on one hand, her elbow jutting out over the arm of the sofa. She regards him fondly, in silence.

“What?” Clive says, rubbing his chin.

“You have that face,” Jill says.

“And what face is that?”

“The face of a man who is looking to find his next problem,” Jill says.

“We don’t have any problems,” Clive says.

“Any pressing problems.”

She is talking about Imreann’s defamation suit. Ah, the classic, said Quinten Gaultand, as if remarking on a football play. He told them to expect a settlement. He’ll likely prefer to keep things quiet, after all.

“Let’s take a walk before you find it,” Jill says.

“I’m not looking for problems,” Clive argues. He goes hunting for Torgal’s harness instead.

Out on the boardwalk, Torgal gets his nose into a discarded popcorn bag from campus movie night before Jill can slap him with a drop it. Clive ferries the bag to the nearest bin, which is stuffed to brimming with multi-colored syllabi and a single calculus textbook that has fuck this!!! scrawled in black marker on the cover. Clive has been granted a special circumstances reprieve by the university in the lead up for Trials, but he's not looking forward to the pile of maths requirements waiting for him on his return.

They turn onto their own street. Ondrej wobbles atop a ladder as he eases the screws from the sign above his wineshop. Clive doesn't have the leash, so he lopes ahead. Ondrej juggles the screwdriver as one hand strains to keep the sign in place. Clive reaches up just as Ondrej's awkward grip on the sign fails and catches it.

"Oh, Clive," Ondrej says, breathing a sigh of relief. He inches his way down. Heights are not a strong suit, apparently. "Just in time."

"Taking this down?" Clive asks, puzzled. He's always liked this early-century vintage look, so he'll be sad to see the sign go.

"Things change," Ondrej says with a shrug. "I've a new one to put up …"

Clive takes the hint. "Let me help."

Jill is in their kitchen upstairs fixing snacks when Clive turns up with the old sign under his arm. He catches her taking a quick photo of her snack options with her phone. Jill always remembers that the Mog eats first.

"You kept it?" Jill asks.

Clive sets the sign against the table leg.

“Yeah,” he says. “I always liked seeing it. It meant I was going to see you.”

Jill passes him a plastic snap container to put in his skate bag. "If there's not a good place on the wall, I suppose we can just move house. It’s getting a bit cramped here, anyway.”

“You’re okay with putting it up?” Clive says. A weather-beaten old-fashioned shop sign doesn’t exactly match her cool, clean, ultra-sleek minimalism.

“You like it,” Jill says, as if there was no other reason necessary. “And it’s the first time I’ve seen you even think about decorating.”

Clive mentally flips through the various places he’s lived since Rosalith—the compound in Amber, Whitewyrm, the flat in Oriflamme when he first started fighting with Mother, really fighting, hotels upon hotels, Joshua’s guest room. Even his studio above the Blackthornes’ was blank of most personal touches.

But there is, he thinks, an exception. He glances at the chic white shelf that Jill was using to hold a single potted plant and a choice selection of photos. It currently bows under the weight of Clive’s collection of doorstopping fantasy novels. He glances meaningfully back at her, eyebrow raised.

“Those do not count,” Jill says patiently. “Let’s stop and get the hardware on our way home. Just because Cid's not here doesn't mean we get to slack.”

They get to the hideaway right about the time the first groups for pairs are going to go on in Kanver. Gav posts a photo of himself chomping on a bronze in the group chat.

Well done, Clive texts.

Gav replies with a long line of popping champagne bottles and smileys in party hats, and a gif of a popular character from a Continental animated TV show screaming and ripping off his clothes in a burst of light.

"He did it," Jill says fondly. "Lots of buzz on Stolas."

"Is there?" Clive says absently, pushing open the doors to the ice. Clive hasn't looked at social media for several days.

"Miss Jill!" Crow says from the bleachers. She waves furiously, using her entire small body.

Beside her, Harpocrates sits with his hands stacked atop the head of his cane. Clive expects to see Tett furiously pressing buttons on his game console, but instead he is lying on his back along the bleacher with a hardcover book open over his face. His arms stick straight out like the body in a whodunnit. Kids never stint on the drama.

Crow bounds up to Jill, chattering excitedly about the women's singles results from the grand prix final. She drops numerous hints that she will be ready for international events next year, until at last she gives up on discreetly prompting her coach.

"I'm going to skate for IPR," Crow says blithely. "I know I did Sanbreque for regionals, but Granddad has gone up and down the handbook, there's nothing that says I can't go from Sanbreque novice to IPR juniors."

"No Sanfed for you?" Clive asks, teasingly. HRSF’s offer was rescinded quietly after Jill’s confrontation with Imreann.

Crow sticks up her nose. "I don't like the style, it's so samey. And anyway, there are like two other girls in IPR and I'm better than them, I'm guaranteed to compete."

"No one is guaranteed anything," Jill says sternly, nipping this arrogance in the bud.

Clive discreetly looks away. He sounded just like that once. He wanders over to Harpocrates and Tett, leaving Jill to reel in Crow’s ambitions on her own. Tett heaves a massive, gloomy sigh that flutters the pages of the book. Harpocrates smiles mildly.

"Good morning, Clive," Harpocrates says, patting the bench beside him.

There's a sizeable, possibly resentful gap between him and Tett that Clive slots in perfectly. Clive peeps the title of the book. It's a children's classic. Clive appreciates it now, but as a boy, it came off a bit dry and old-fashioned. Likely that twenty years have only dried it out further.

"For school?" Clive guesses.

"No," Tett groans.

"We're going on a 'screen-cation'," Harpocrates says eagerly. He probably came up with that himself. Clive recalls that Crow didn't have her phone in her hand like usual.

"Books are paper screens," Tett complains. "What's the difference?"

"Research shows remarkable differences between screen-based content and—"

"Toilet," Tett says, abruptly sitting up. He stalks off.

Harpocrates frowns. Clive isn't that surprised, and he's certainly not offended.

"I was pretty awful," Clive says.

"I observe that you did improve," Harpocrates notes. "And so I dwell in hope."

Clive heads to the gym with Jill. Elsewhere, the grand prix final event is concluding. The Kasjloks are overwhelming favorites to win, since Clive and Jill are in Bennumere, and Sabine and her new partner are still struggling to find their rapport. The other day, Clive accidentally opened his phone to a “for you” news page and was treated to a serious FS article about how the Kasjloks were the underdogs, trying to topple the reigning duke and duchess. Someone's notion of cleverness.

Today, Jill allows herself a healthy handful of agains, before making a clean run-through of the free skate. Crow holds Jill’s phone aloft, recording it from what she has decided is the best vantage, standing on a specific bench while Harpocrates cautions her not to fall.

The first time Crow saw them execute this program cleanly, she would not stop yelling for five full minutes. Now she slouches, anticipating each move by memory. ‘Priceless,’ the gem in their crown, is starting to get a bit dull, too. Stress and chaos and scary odds should not be normal, but without those, Clive can’t help but wonder if he’s working hard enough.

“How are you feeling?” Clive asks, dropping the final pose.

“Fine,” Jill says. She floats elegantly on the ice. “Not just—fine. I mean it.”

“Everyone said ‘medical miracle’ after I got hurt,” Clive says. He heads to the boards, where his water bottle and a box of tissues await him.

“Tarja’s professionally unable to say the word miracle,” Jill replies. A strange mood passes across her face. It’s hope, hiding beneath Jill’s front of pragmatic rationality. “Clive … I think I can push myself again.”

They come up on the boards. Clive uses Crow as the excuse not to respond immediately.

“How does it look?” Clive asks. They exit the ice, pausing only to slide on their guards.

Crow swipes at something on the screen. “Fine.”

Jill chuckles. “You aren’t breaking your ‘screen-cation’, are you?”

“No!” Crow says, emphatically. “Gav keeps calling you. It’s annoying. I’m trying to take a video.”

“Let me see,” Jill says, holding out her hand. Crow surrenders the phone promptly.

(6) missed calls from Gav Whitwood is in the bubble across the top of her history. A text pops up as Clive peers over her shoulder. Call me!!! ASAP

Jill wastes no time.

“Is everything okay?” Jill asks as soon as Gav answers. “What’s going on?”

“Just a sec, I’ll send youse the video,” Gav says. He sounds distracted and physically distant. He’s speaking into the phone as if the speaker is on, even though it isn’t.

Another text pops up with a cheerful bell chime. Jill taps, and the video fullscreens. It's a video that Gav took, not official footage. Clive recognizes Eloise and Theo out on center ice. A voice of god announces them in a ripple of sound. Distorted music tests the capability of his phone's puny speakers.

"That's not their free music from Dazbog," Jill says immediately.

“Have you watched it?” Gav asks.

“No, how could we?” Clive says, nettled.

“Just a second, Gav,” Jill says, more patiently. “We have it on now.”

Neither is that their opening pose. Clive begins to calculate in his head. The Kasjloks gave a solid, clean performance that earned them their slot and a definite second place. Jill and Clive simply did better, given their parameters. Gav tracks them across the ice. They close in on the first element.

"Fuck me," Cid's voice murmurs off-screen as Theo bends his knees.

They do what they've been threatening to do all season. When Eloise lands, it is impossible to miss the triumph in her pose. She and Theo flow seamlessly into the footwork. They are now the first couple to land a quad twist in competition in Valisthea. Clive follows the rest of this new program, remotely assessing the changes. There is more to it than that flashy addition, which is what will make the rounds on social media as the digestible accomplishment for those who don’t particularly follow figure skating. But he’s impressed. He’s proud of them. Theo works like a dog to do what he does.

At the same time, a mental sinkhole opens up beneath Clive.

"You don't want to know what the score was," Gav says. "Or—well, you do, probably, and you'll find out. Short of it is that they beat the record you made in Dazbog."

"No shit," Clive says.

A distinctive voice cuts through the general cacophony in the arena where Gav is. This time, it’s live.

"Is that Clive and Jill? Are they with Mid?" Cid asks.

“No, Mid’s not here,” Jill says. “Is everything alright?”

“Not particularly!” Cid says brightly. Cid is never sunnier than when he is freaking out. “Listen. We’ll chat about the Kasjloks, but I need to ask a big favor of you both.”

Fifteen minutes later, Clive and Jill climb the cement steps into the Executor Building. Like the rest of the campus, it is a red brick box with long skinny windows cut into its sides. White brick caps each tapering window like a fall of snow on a series of spires. Clive knows exactly where he is going. Jill tails behind him. Mid seldom listens to Clive—she has picked up her father’s habit of ribbing Clive mercilessly—but Jill’s opinion matters to her.

Vivian Ninetales turns sharply in his direction. She paces in front of a beige metal bookshelf, visibly creaking with multiple editions of the same meaty texts. She wears a purple blazer over her usual brown houndstooth waistcoat and trousers, which is her actual personal style and not just a persona. She has her hands on her hips. As usual, she is scowling fiercely.

"Hello, Clive," Professor Ninetales says. She nods to acknowledge Jill. “Midadol broke into my office and gained access to my computer. Her father is out of the country, I understand?”

They all turn to look at Mid, who sinks deep into the chair opposite Professor Ninetales’ desk.

“He’s in Kanver,” Clive says. “For a competition.”

"I was just doing my homework," Mid says, huddled over her drawn-up knees. Clive knows that she's lying, because if she were telling the truth, she'd be unbearably smug about it.

“You committed a serious invasion of privacy," Professor Ninetales says.

"I wasn't even looking at your stuff," Mid says. "It's nice and quiet in here."

“I ought to take this higher,” Professor Ninetales says. “But Cidolfus is a colleague. I’ve agreed to entertain the ‘damn good explanation’ he has promised me exists.”

"Mid," says Jill.

The pure disappointment in Jill's voice wilts Mid even further. She disappears behind her arms.

“I didn't think she'd be back so soon,” Mid says.

“Mid, you’re going to get yourself expelled again,” Clive says.

“Again?” the professor echoes.

“No fair, that doesn't count, I dropped out," Mid says, poking her head out of her adamantoise shell at the barest prospect of correcting someone. “At least I really did something wrong this time!”

"Oh, so you were mucking about on the professor’s computer," Clive says. "Why?"

Mid's lower lip sticks out. Her glower is pugnacious. "Why what?"

Clive thinks, how does Cid do this? Every fucking day?

"Why'd you do it if you knew it was wrong?" Clive says. "Mid, you're better than that."

"You won't believe me," Mid says.

"Try me," Clive says.

Professor Ninetales hasn’t said a word. Mid unfurls her legs and sits up, addressing the professor directly.

“I lied. I was looking at your stuff, because your specific grading portal has an exploit, and an absolute shi—ton of the students are using it to get around the quiz deadlines. So I thought … why don't I just close it for her?”

Clive can't help but think it's better that he had no idea that exploit existed last term, much less how to use it. He doesn't want to know if he would have succumbed to temptation or not.

"So you couldn't just tell her?" Jill says, gently.

"That, uh, didn't occur to me," Mid says, finally—finally!—appearing to be chastened.

Jill exchanges a glance with Clive. Mid is a genius. She's also not quite sixteen years old.

“You can include that in your apology,” Professor Ninetales says, hands on her hips. “Two thousand words minimum.”

“That’s so many!” Mid complains.

Jill coughs.

“Yes, professor,” Mid says. “I’ll get on it, then?”

“Due today. I’ll consider the matter closed, so long as there is no further vigilantism conducted in my office,” Professor Ninetales says.

“Today!” Mid exclaims.

“Best get started,” Jill says flatly.

Mid has already recovered the inner spark that makes her both insufferable and also, Clive begrudgingly admits, charming. This is the same charisma that Cid employs regularly, repackaged into a spunky teenager straight from an after school TV drama where everyone learns a valuable life lesson. Even though she's still in trouble, she seems relieved as Jill herds her out of the office.

“Sorry for taking up your time,” Clive says to Professor Ninetales.

“Clive—might I have a word?” Professor Ninetales says.

“Alright,” Clive says. He turns briefly to Jill, arranging with a few gestures to meet her at the hideaway. “What is it, professor?”

“I think it’s appropriate at this point for you to call me Vivian.” The professor—Vivian—finally sits down. She gestures. Clive obediently takes up the seat that Mid has only just vacated.

Vivian is actually a bit younger than Clive, though the same very early gray hair gene as Jill’s has turned her hair silver. She reminds him of the many Sanbrequois coaches who expected absolute excellence with no excuses, except with the ability to actually impart her knowledge without hammering her students into copies of each other.

“I wanted to encourage you to return for the next term,” Vivian says briskly. “Of course, you must do what you think is best. But it would be a shame to lose you before your education was complete.”

That's a shock. Clive has only ever been ambivalent, at best, about school, and he suspects that Bennumere feels exactly the same about him. There is no doubt in his mind that the Rosfield name on the application weighted things in his favor in what metrics dictated acceptance, because Clive’s grades have been wanting his entire life.

“You typically undervalue your insight,” Vivian adds when he struggles to formulate a proper response.

“Ah,” Clive says, buying himself a few more seconds to flounder.

“That is reflected sometimes in your work.”

His highest grade ever in her class was solidly middle ranged. Interesting argument, but conclusions are ill-supported, written in the margin with red pen.

“I admit that I have never followed the Chronolith Trials,” Vivian says, settling into the fact that he is not going to be an active conversant. She shifts into her mildly combative lecturing mode. “They reek of sanitization. ‘Sportswashing.’ A method of distracting the populace from the sins of the host nation, while pretending that the Trials are nobly apolitical.”

“Rosaria isn’t even properly a nation,” Clive argues, forgetting himself.

He hears himself. He closes his mouth. Vivian is unperturbed by his interruption. She waits to see if it will continue.

“Then who benefits from the spectacle of holding it there?” she asks, at last.

Joshua and Martha Goldenstable strove endlessly to bring the distinction into existence. But IPR competing under its own banner actually gives Rosaria a nebulous legitimacy as an independent region, viewed separately from the Empire.

As with Kanver and Dhalmekia, which is our precedent. Joshua’s voice, drifting out from a void.

Mother had made Clive's retirement a tacit prerequisite to allowing that to happen. Maybe that was what she was meant to gain.

Clive is so accustomed to Mother's ultimatums that they don't feel as immense as they should. How easily he can forget that his decisions can accidentally affect so many others. What he had viewed as a private power struggle has consequences for people he's never even met.

Clive’s turn to sink into this chair and feel ashamed.

“It is very rare,” Vivian says carefully, “to have in the class someone with your perspective. I understand that there are ramifications for certain observations you might make. Might I observe, however, that your story is not well-understood. When no narrative is given, people will happily substitute their own.”

Yes. He's familiar with that.

Whatever is on his face is uncomfortable enough that Vivian clears her throat. “Well, that's certainly enough pontificating. I just want you to know—you could return here, if you wanted. Despite being prone to certain rhetorical flaws, you are an engaging writer. There is potential.”

Vivian sounds almost reluctant to bestow that praise. It might be physically hurting her.

“Thanks,” he says. He can tell that he’s being dismissed. He rises to his feet. “I appreciate your insight, professor.”

She smiles, hesitantly. Clive realizes, then, that her terseness is not disdain. So many nights, spent lying awake, thinking about what a dick he was to everyone, for no reason. Clive knows, with acute, painful specificity, what it is to be socially and personally awkward outside of a sphere of absolute mastery. It is easier to simply stay there, alone, surrounded by the thing you are good at.

“Vivian,” he says, correcting himself.

Jill’s coaching session is coming up, so she's in the gym with Crow. Harpocrates sits placidly on the benches, eyes gently closed. Mid scribbles madly in a spiral notebook. The sun has risen enough that streamers of light stretch across the ice. Clive wends his way over to Harpocrates as two other skaters, guys from the hockey team Clive is on pretty good terms with, take the time to run their drills.

“Should I go look for Tett?” Clive says.

“No, I think not,” Harpocrates says. He opens his eyes with a crinkling smile. “He is quite done with me at the moment. When he is ready, he'll return. He is not likely to get up to mischief.”

Clive, who remembers the great tea swap of two months ago, disagrees.

“I suppose you sorted everything out?” Harpocrates asks.

“Yes,” Clive says. “We got to the bottom of it.”

“Very good,” Harpocrates says, and settles back into his peaceful meditations.

There is a book in his skate bag, but when he digs it out, he finds his concentration is not there. He's also, unfortunately, been activated in the part of his brain that takes apart what he reads; it’s telling that it's Vivian's voice he hears critiquing the sentences and the world-building.

It's a pure comfort read, one of the better Magitek Wars Universe novels. He read this book (and its many, many sequels) until each word was burned into his head. Rereading them as an adult has become a project of his.

“Harpocrates,” Clive says. “Maybe you …”

Harpocrates knows what's best for his grandchildren. Clive runs his thumb along the spine of the book. He has a lot of fondness for the text, but it isn’t like this is the same copy from his actual childhood. All of those books disappeared after Father’s death, along with Torgal, and all the other things that Mother found objectionable about Clive.

“Ah—something about Tett, I presume?” Harpocrates says kindly. “I do value your wisdom, too, Clive. Go on.”

“Maybe you could meet Tett a little closer to where he is,” Clive suggests, conscious of the presumption.

“Ah,” Harpocrates says. “I think I take your meaning.”

Afterwards, Clive goes to fuel up on Jill’s curated assortment of snacks in the break area, in anticipation of their second session, even though it seems a little pointless to skate after the Kasjloks’ grand prix final with no new plan. Far worse problems have cropped up before, but this one leaves Clive strangely fatigued.

He needs to cut that shit out. Joshua has worked himself to his limit and probably beyond, securing IPR’s distinction, and risked his health to oversee, personally, the preparations for Trials so that as little of the corruption and rot could seep in as possible. He has already revised many of the deals that Kupka brokered, uncovering multiple lapses in oversight that simply sailed by in committee. Joshua’s direct approach has drawn many comparisons to him and Father. Even the Cardinals have been taking notice. In the past few years, Joshua has proven he is more than an empty title. Pundits have been floating Joshua’s name for Cardinal of the West, in the upcoming election, where before they had written him off as a boy with a landmark preservation hobby.

It’s madness to think that anything less than gold will dishonor that. But maybe Clive is mad.

He has a back-up book on his phone, this one decidedly geared towards adults. A hot guy with a sword and an insatiable desire for revenge is about his speed right now. The world-building is just good enough that Clive wishes it was a little better. He finishes a chapter just as Jill walks in. She makes a direct line for the tea cupboard.

“He’s mixed them up again,” Jill says, sighing as she hunts for her new green tea.

“How was it?” Clive asks.

“It’s just a matter of qualifying at this point,” Jill says. “She has her heart set on IPR.”

“Atta girl,” Clive says. He snaps the plastic snack container back together.

Jill turns on the kettle. She stares at the LCD numbers as they tick up with a dull roar.

“Clive,” Jill says. “Would you call Cid?”

There’s only one thing she could possibly want to talk about. He sets his phone in the center of the table and lets it ring. Cid picks up immediately.

“Give it to me straight,” Cid says. “Did they kick out Mid?”

Jill blinks. Clive clears his throat.

“Didn’t Mid—” Jill says, but stops. Obviously, Mid did not. “She was meant to call you.”

“We’ve sorted that out,” Clive adds. “Everything’s fine.”

Cid makes a sound of profound, unintelligible relief. “Thank fuck. Alright, if that’s all—”

“Cid,” Jill says, quickly. “Eloise and Theo are going to take gold.”

“Aye,” Cid says. “We expected something like this. They’re younger.”

“I don’t want to resign myself to an expiration date,” Jill says fiercely.

She measures out her tea into the metal strainer. She leaves it in her mug on the counter and goes to sit down across from Clive. The kettle picks up steam.

“The sport shouldn’t just be the province of children who haven’t had their bodies wrecked yet,” Jill says into the phone. “That sort of thinking destroys longevity. Their careers end almost as soon as they begin to develop their own artistry or personality. I want more for them than that—and for myself.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kettle begins to screech in earnest. Jill stands to pour her tea. Clive’d bet anything Cid is staring at the concrete beneath his feet, searching out a new master plan from between the cracks.

“You sound like Ruzena,” Cid says.

More silence. Cid doesn’t talk about Isabelle, and she’s alive and accessible. He definitely does not talk about Ruzena Dalimil.

“The points aren’t even that much more,” Jill says, letting Cid off the hook. “It’s just flash. Tarja says I’m healthier than ever. I don’t want to give up, not if I don’t have to.”

Cid blows out a sigh. He’s probably watching a palm tree bend in the breeze.

“I’m with Jill,” Clive says, realizing that he’s not said a word.

“Right,” says Cid. “Then we’re not giving up. Oi! Gav!”

A distant what?

“Expect us home before dinner,” Cid adds. “We need to get cracking.” Cid covers the phone speaker, so that he can yell, top volume, “Gav, get your shit!”

“Any direction for us?” Clive asks.

“Aye,” Cid says. “Start thinking about what we’re going to do with all your experience. Gav, I swear—oh, much obliged, Edda—”

“Goodbye!” says a little voice.

Clive remembers Edda from Dazbog. The other Waloeder team that competed wiped out on the ice, leaving a gap in the score wide enough for Edda and her sullen partner to squeeze through to the grand prix final alongside the team favored to score higher.

“See ya round,” Gav says. His voice comes clear. “What?”

“We’re getting on a plane,” says Cid. “Tell Mid she’s grounded forever.”

Gav squawks. “Aw, what about the gala—”

Cid hangs up, leaving Jill and Clive to stare at one another. Another daring plan. This all feels so familiar.

Clive feels so tired.

“There’s your problem,” Jill says, at last.

“My problem?” Clive says.

“Our problem,” Jill corrects herself.

Cid is not able to get a flight until early morning the next day, despite his prodigious talents at finessing establishments. Jill and Clive are sketching out ideas to pitch to Cid when he arrives—he is coming direct from the airport to the hideaway—when Harpocrates gently ushers Crow into the break room. Tett is livid beside his grandfather, glaring daggers at his twin. Crow holds out Jill’s phone to her.

“I’m sorry, Miss Jill,” Crow says, mouth fixed in a pout. “I lied to you.”

“You broke screen-cation rules,” Tett hisses viciously.

Under Tett’s arm is a Magitek Wars hardcover, with the paper bookmark already positioned a few chapters in.

“Jill’s not wrong,” says Cid, in voice over. “It is flash.”

The three of them, in the gym. Jill is draped backwards over Clive’s shoulder. She rolls down his arm, guided by his other hand on her waist. Cid gestures. He says something inaudible. Jill jumps up again; Clive heaves her aloft; but her arm, perhaps it goes here—

“Flash that judges pay attention to, more’s the pity.”

Cid, slunk casually in a chair. His fingers form a bridge suspended over his lap. The background is a gym, with racks of weights and all the lights artistically turned off except the ones shining on his face, and the one that limns his graying hair with white. He shrugs. He's having a marvelous time being cryptic for the camera.

“The Kasjloks roll in with that kind of story trailing behind them, people will have certain expectations. People act like it doesn’t affect scores, but judges are people, too. When that happens, you need two things to fight that kind of fire: a really bang-up fucking performance and more fucking fire.”

“It tells a better story,” Clive murmurs, back in the gym. Jill nods.

“But at that point,” Cid says, cutting back to the dark weight room. “What part of the story hadn’t been told yet?”

The children are supposed to be quiet backstage. Clive is pretty sure they aren't even trying. They are all in matching black velvet jackets with glittery star lapels, and none of them are older than Crow, most ranging well below that. They are huddled along a wall of levers and ropes with complicated knots. Onstage, the violinist trips a complicated path down the melody of the piece she is performing.

“Ooh, look!” one says as Clive follows Jill down from the green room. “That's him.”

Another kid glances dismissively in Clive’s direction. “He's just a guy.”

True.

“That's Jill Warrick,” says one of the girls to the other. Clive expects her to follow up with a tidbit of gossip, maybe about the wedding, but instead she adds, “she just had surgery this year, with an amazingly perfect recovery, I read about it in Panacea …”

The girl gets through about half the details on Jill's specific procedure before the other child groans, “Kihel.”

“You're popular,” Clive whispers in Jill's ear. He rubs the small of her back with his thumb.

“Am I,” she says vaguely, staring at the sliver of stage visible through the marching rows of curtains that block audience sightlines. Moongazing Foundation is projected on a blank screen behind the violinist. Tiny black boxes shoot golden light into the folds of the curtain.

A group of men stalk out from under the red lamp that marks the door to the stairwell. Terence and the stage manager lead the charge. Their pace is fast and anxious. Trailing behind is Dion, solemn-faced in his white tuxedo jacket. The fourth is the dragoon serving as Dion’s security detail. He nods an acknowledgment to Wade, who stands five privacy-permitting steps away from Clive and Jill.

“I have people looking,” says the stage manager, when he becomes audible.

“Children,” Terence says. “Has anyone seen His Highness, Prince Olivier?”

The children blink at Terence. Kihel, the girl who improbably read the paper that Tarja published about Jill’s and a few other patients’ recovery, raises her hand.

“He was with us for the extra rehearsal this morning,” she says, hesitantly.

Clive and Jill drift over to Dion. He has his arms stoically folded behind his back. Dion would never deign to show an emotion in public.

“What's going on?” Clive asks quietly.

“Olivier has vanished,” Dion says.

“Olivier is involved?” Clive says, because that is news to him. They were here for the rehearsal yesterday, which emphatically did not include the younger prince of Sanbreque.

Dion sighs.

“Did you see him after that?” Terence asks. “Did he say anything?”

“No,” Kihel says, shaking her head. “He didn't really want to talk to any of us.”

“Stepmother requested that Olivier be given a part in the pageantry,” Dion explains in an aside to Clive and Jill. “He was going to recite a hymn before the choir.”

“When did she come up with this?” Clive asks.

“This morning.” Dion pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“None,” Clive says.

“How can a prince just disappear?” Jill asks.

“It's happened before,” Dion says. “He throws a tantrum at his detail, and then he'll walk away. No one will discipline him.”

Clive is familiar with the practice, actually. Clive was prone to running away, usually in the direction of the rink. Hiding, as usual, in the place where he felt, if not the happiest, then the safest. Father never disciplined him for it either.

Olivier doesn't have a place like that. He just has Mother.

“Where's Mother supposed to be?” Clive asks.

“The Imperial Box?” Dion guesses. “You don't suppose …”

“Go,” says Jill, to Clive. She gives him a swift peck. “I'll stay here with Terence.”

Dion and Clive race ahead, with Wade and the dragoon meant to follow them dangling behind like strings on a kite. They circle the theatre's lavish interior. Terence has arranged for the corridors dressed in blue and purple flowers, with one big white dahlia serving as the moon in each arrangement.

They turn the corner into the upper echelon and narrowly avoid colliding with two people about to enter their box. Clive opens his mouth to briskly beg their pardon.

Sabine's eyebrows go up. Clive’s mouth shuts. She curtseys at him hesitantly. She glances at the man she's with—her father, in his ecclesiastical robes, flanked by triple the security that Clive and Dion are currently assigned—and then back at Clive.

“Your Highness,” says the duly elected Cardinal of the North, somewhat stiffly.

“Your Excellency,” Dion says.

Clive doesn’t remember if he was meant to bow or not, and Dion walks off so fast that he doesn’t have time to contemplate the nuances. He isn't a peer anymore, so probably. Dion marches onward.

They clear the security for the corridor leading to the Imperial Box, which encompasses a whole suite of rooms designed for the comfort and security of Imperial family and their associates while viewing the many significant cultural events held here. Wade and the dragoon stand with their hands folded in front of them as Clive and Dion are escorted from the antechamber.

“Greagor willing, he is here,” Dion mutters.

His anger manifests as two closed fists. That’s as emotive as he’s going to get with Mother’s people about.

They are permitted to enter. Lo and behold. Olivier is sitting on the floor beside Mother. She strokes his hair absently while he swipes a tablet screen. Dion and Clive are announced; His Highness, Dion, Second Prince of the Empire of Sanbreque, and Mister Clive Rosfield, of Rosaria.

Yes, he definitely should have bowed. A small voice in his head asks, well, why start now?

Mother favors both of them with a sparkling smile. Clive keeps his head high.

“Clive,” she says. Olivier slumps. “Dion. Is it time for Olivier’s big moment?”

A muscle in Dion’s jaw bulges. Beside Mother, in the seat reserved exclusively for the Emperor, is the man who opened the jaws of the holy dragon and swallowed Rosaria alive.

“Hello, Dion,” Sylvestre says.

Clive calculates how much injustice is being served to Dion right now. The tally is never going to be made right. The only time to challenge Mother’s actions is right when she is in the midst of doing whatever careless, thoughtless, self-centered thing she is doing, when she has the least opportunity of flatly denying it. Dion’s success rate is better than Clive’s because Dion can sometimes count on the support of the sole person in the world who will check Mother when she gets too bold.

But only sometimes. Clive avoids the details, but he knows that Dion has fallen in Sylvestre’s esteem lately. A subtle hand gesture is the total greeting that Sylvestre gives to either Clive, his stepson, or to Dion, who is of his own blood. Sylvestre watches the violinist trill a flourish. His expression is completely inscrutable.

“Indeed,” Dion says, instead of why didn’t you tell anyone he was right here? Why didn’t you send him back?

Either she knows what she is doing and does it on purpose, or she doesn’t notice or care at all, and both of those answers are infuriating.

“Go on, darling,” Mother says blithely. She shoos Olivier towards his half-brothers. “Dion will take you to the stage. Gracious—the concerto is almost over. You had better hurry, Dion. This is cutting it rather close to the bone.”

“Do I have to? I don’t want to anymore,” Olivier says.

“It will be good for you to be seen by your adoring public, my dearest boy,” Mother says.

“But I don’t want to,” Olivier whines. He hugs the tablet to his chest. Mother smiles.

“Be a good son and do as you are told,” she says, implacably.

“Let’s hurry, now,” Dion says through gritted teeth. It’s clear he would like to grab Olivier by the scruff of the neck and march him downstairs.

Clive makes to follow after. Mother hums.

“Clive,” she says. “Won’t you stay? To watch your wife give her little speech?”

“What a wonderful suggestion, Anabella,” Sylvestre says.

Clive would rather not. Dion and he arranged for a pair of small bouquets, one for Jill and one for Terence, to present to them after their respective speeches. Just small posies that say, yay, you did it! Clive was looking forward to surprising Jill with hers.

Hopefully Dion will take point. Clive sits down on a bench meant for the guests.

“The Chronolith Trials are approaching,” Sylvestre says. “Tell me; how do you rate your chances against Sanbreque, this time?”

Clive hasn’t thought about Sanbreque as a real threat for months. “The honors will go to the best athletes.”

Sylvestre pats Mother’s hand. “Hear that?”

Mother laughs. It is not her real laughter. She is humoring Sylvestre for some reason.

Father is pretty much done listening to her complain about you.

Clive feels an ocean of psychosocial nuance close over his head. Jill would navigate these waters better. There’s something going on here, that’s as much as he can guess.

The final notes fade, and the theatre applauds for the celebrity violinist, whose mononym Clive only vaguely recognizes from her residency in Kanver. Terence walks on stage. His face is enlarged by two crisp screens on either side of the proscenium. He clasps hands with the musician as she beams. He thanks her for her contribution to the foundation and describes how thirty percent of the donations go towards underserved children's education in the arts.

“Now I'd very much like to invite to the stage Trials silver medallist, Jill Warrick, to say a few words,” Terence says, extending his arm stage right.

Jill emerges from the wings, smiling and gorgeous. She kisses Terence's cheek with perfect casual familiarity. She whispers something, perhaps encouragement, in his ear. Terence abruptly embraces her. He holds his hand to the center of his chest as he pulls back.

They made it, Clive thinks.

“Good evening,” Jill says, addressing the room with warmth and easy familiarity.

“It's a terrible shame you chose not to have a proper wedding,” Mother says.

Sylvestre does not chime in this time. He takes apart a nearby floral arrangement. The small blue and white roses are cast on the ground. He twirls a wyvern tail idly in his hand.

“When I was a girl, my entire life fell apart,” Jill says. “Everything I knew was gone.”

There is no safe reply.

“We thought it would be best to keep the ceremony quiet,” Clive says.

“All I wanted to do was hide,” Jill continues, pacing the stage.

At the time, it had seemed expedient. Part of a gambit.

Jill pauses. She gazes out at the audience. “I felt so alone. Abandoned by those who should not have. Despised by those who did not care to understand what had happened to me. I thought all I could do was give up and surrender myself to my fate.”

“I commend you for your discretion,” Sylvestre says mildly. He is not really listening to Jill. He examines the wyvern tail, so he is not looking at her, either. “With such lives as ours, it is a sad and unavoidable necessity to have a certain amount of circumspection.”

“Too true,” Mother says.

Below, Jill says, “But then one day, when I was at my lowest—when I thought that none of my dreams would ever come true—someone asked me if I wanted to ‘do something fun.’”

She looks up, towards the Imperial box. She shines like a diamond under the spot. She really is a princess.

Clive remembers thinking that, as he helped her out of her hiding place, and presented her that silly monogrammed handkerchief to dry her tears, and told the driver to take them to the ‘nearest ice skating rink, please.’ He had no idea what it would lead to.

“That’s all it takes, sometimes,” Jill says. “That act of kindness changed everything for me.”

“Perhaps you might demonstrate a similar sensitivity, Anabella,” Sylvestre says.

Mother’s face is frozen in a simper.

“All I do is for Sanbreque,” Anabella says. “And this family.”

“The Moongazing Foundation is built upon this principle,” says Jill. “That kindness transcends borders and backgrounds; that when we look upon the moon, we are not alone; and through joy and play, we can bring hope to those who need it most.”

“What a beautiful sentiment,” Sylvestre remarks blandly.

He brings the wyvern tail to his nose to inhale its perfume. Then he casts it aside. The Emperor rises to his feet.

A number of things happen all at once. Four dragoons close in, along with a young woman who Clive mistook for a lady-in-waiting. She is apparently a liturgical aide, because she immediately unlooses a golden thurible. It trails a thread of incense smoke with each careful swing. The aide is probably the same age as Gav. She keeps her head bent as Sylvestre passes.

“And now, without further delay,” Jill says. “I invite the beneficiaries of the Moongazing Foundation—and his Imperial Highness, Olivier Lesage—to the stage, to perform a hymn to Greagor.”

This year, Mother will be fifty-two, and she looks ten, perhaps fifteen years younger than that. She maintains her beauty religiously. It is not just for vanity.

Sylvestre Lesage departs, leaving mother and son alone with each other.

“You know, there were hardly any nods to the Imperial family or Sanbreque or even great Greagor in the rehearsal. It was as if it were deliberately excised.” Mother shakes her head. “I had to step in. As I’m going to have to step in if Dion continues to draw this out.”

Clive weighs the benefit of knowing where she’s going with this, versus willingly and knowingly taking the bait to her schemes.

“Draw what out, exactly, Mother?” he says, warily.

Mother folds her hands gently into her lap. “His courtship, if you can call it that. It’s gone on long enough. Dion must marry him. With the election year fast approaching, Sylvestre simply can’t have any more embarrassments. I’m sure you agree. You have better insight than I on how likely that is.”

The children assemble, ushered on by Terence. Olivier approaches the microphone. He has a gilded psalter in his hands. He squints at it before slowly beginning to read.

Clive refuses to let anything slip. He makes a small sound of acknowledgment.

“He’s doing so well,” Mother says. “I am truly glad that you found one another. Now this can all end like it’s supposed to, like a fairy tale, where everyone gets exactly what they deserve. But I wish she hadn’t made it sound like the whole world was against her. She simply didn’t have a connection.”

Clive’s heart rate picks up speed. It’s hard to stay aloof. He’s going to regret this.

“A connection to what?” Clive says. “Rosaria?”

“Goodness,” Mother says. “I’ve learned my lesson there. No. Of course not. Sanbreque.”

I applied to Sanfed when I was fourteen. Jill, still a child. Still unbroken.

“What do you mean?” Clive says, not caring anymore.

But they wouldn’t accept my membership.

“Perhaps it was always meant to be,” Mother says, with a shrug.

“What do you mean by that, Mother?” Clive says, again, as if it will do any fucking good with this woman.

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Mother says. She forces the conversation elsewhere. “I’ve decided I’m not going to attend the ancestral communion. It will be far too painful. Perhaps you don’t have a care for my feelings, but it’s true.”

“Sure,” Clive says. “My wife needs me.”

He stands. She’s not going to stop him. She has done all the damage she wants to do this evening, and then some.

Clive and Wade arrive back of house just as the children finish singing. Clive misses all but a few snatches of Olivier’s droning, stumbling rendition of the hymn. The older girl, Kihel, performs the solo part in the choir, and though she is very much an ordinary child and not a professional, there’s something clear and unpretentious about her delivery that makes the performance moving. It is unfair that she and the other children have been made to share the stage with Olivier.

Olivier, who has a special trust partly furnished by the citizens of Sanbreque.

Dion, standing in the shadows, has two bundles of flowers in his arms. He makes the beginnings of a bow, but Jill touches his arm. Her smile glows in the semi-darkness. She whispers something in his ear as she accepts the bouquet of daisies. Then her eyes alight on Clive.

“They're beautiful,” Jill says, holding out her hands.

He doesn't want to be angry. He wants to be with Jill.

“White for faith,” Clive says, clearing his throat. He got the color stuff from Jill's mother. It is hard to think of her as Mum, which was what she told him he could call her. He has never been so familiar with a woman that she became ‘Mum.’ “In your friends, in you fam—”

Jill seizes Clive by the lapels and pulls him into a kiss. The kids filing backstage ooh loudly.

On the other side of the red, people are shuffling loudly to their feet. There will be a mocktail hour in the cathedralesque extravaganza of the lobby, where the children will mingle with their particular heroes—for the most part, celebrities, actors, athletes, and people who have made their careers in technology glamorous.

The performances and speeches are all well and good. This sort of thing has nothing to do with the children, actually. It’s where important people go to be seen by other important people. Clive tries to feel less cynical, but the anger is getting in the way.

“Are you alright?” Jill asks. She frowns.

He swallows. “Later.”

Terence breaks away from Dion to go and shepherd the children. Dion tugs at his cuffs. He slides his hand into his pocket.

Jill retrieves her phone from Wade while Clive is distracted. She unlocks it, swiping through her missed notifications.

“Oh,” she says, hooking Clive's hand with her fingers. “Let's go. Guess who's made the guest list.”

It's Cid. He toasts a piece of shrimp cocktail at Jill under the massive lobby chandelier.

“How?” Clive asks.

“He’s my plus one,” Otto says, appearing from the side. His fizzy non-alcoholic drink is garnished with an leaf of drakesmint. “Since you two are going to get serious. Thought I’d see what we have to work with.”

“And?” Jill says.

“Nice speech,” Otto says. “A little saccharine, but cute. Childhood sweethearts. Maybe that’s our storyline. Might play okay for TV.”

They’ve been doing the Rosarian sweethearts thing since the beginning. It doesn’t have legs.

“You didn’t say a word,” Clive accuses. He’s feeling restive. “How long have you been here?”

“Said I'd be in Sanbreque,” Cid says. He elbows Otto. “And no, mate, you're my plus one.”

“I’ve never been on TV,” Jill says. “Not off the ice.”

“It’s an experience,” Otto says neutrally. He scuffs Cid’s shiny shoe. “Bollocks. You rang me up, Otto, d’ye think you can get an invite to Clive and Jill’s Moongazing nonsense—”

“You implied Northreach,” Clive says, not to be put off.

“Northreach came to me,” Cid says. He spreads his arms wide to greet someone approaching from behind Clive’s shoulder. “Belle! Look, it's Otto. A blast from the past.”

Isabelle, in a deep blue evening gown trimmed in golden details, joins their informal circle. She embraces Jill and then Clive.

“Congratulations on your conquest, dear,” Isabelle murmurs to Jill, loud enough to get a snort out of Otto. She greets Cid with a pat on the shoulder when he leans in for a cheek kiss. She turns to the man beside him. “Otto. It's been too long.”

“Done well enough for yourself , haven't you, Dame Carl?” Otto says.

Clive’s never heard Otto go so smooth before. It knocks him out of his mood temporarily. Isabelle grants the grouchy old bastard her most charming smile.

“Please,” she says. It’s more like a purr. “I’m still Isabelle for you. Cid, did you lure me here for a reason?”

“Aye,” Cid says. “Where’s your date?”

“I’m here,” interjects a newcomer.

“Philippe,” Isabelle says. “My escort for the evening. Have you met Clive and Jill, yet? Formally?”

“No,” says Philippe. He holds out a hand to Clive and then Jill. “How do you do?”

“Hey,” Cid says, pouting.

“And Cidolfus,” Isabelle appends without blinking.

“Very well, thank you,” Jill says. The warmth in her reply is carefully measured.

Philippe Capitaine, the interim VSU president. Isabelle places a manicured hand on Philippe’s elbow. Cid, the architect of this social edifice, glances at Clive. Maybe he’s waiting for the scandalized guilty conscience. They are are making contact, directly, with the guy in charge.

People have a perception of Clive Rosfield as being upright and honest. But while he tries to live his life in a way that lets him sleep more nights than not, the only reason the Clive gets to chase his dreams is because he has his own billionaire, funding his way forward. He’s in the same tier as Olivier, whatever the other odds against him are. He’s aware of it. He shrugs.

“I’m aware of what’s going on,” Philippe says. He also has a public image of being upright and honest. If there’s any truth to that, Clive can only assume that taking charge over the pit of vipers has been a nightmare for him. “I assure you both that Eugen and I are striving for a fair competition for everyone involved. To that end, I can’t say more than that the investigation is ongoing.”

“Say we had something to submit to your investigation,” Cid says. “Who do we contact so it gets seen and not tossed in the bin?”

“Me,” says Philippe grimly. “Send it directly to me.”

Clive doesn’t know what VSU will do. They can barely handle the backlash involving Imreann.

“We’re being approached,” Isabelle says, but it isn’t a warning. A smile plays across her lips.

Terence leads Kihel by the hand towards Jill. “Miss Warrick, if I could be so bold as to impose—”

“It’s no imposition,” Jill says. “My name’s Jill.”

“Kihel Downs,” says the girl. “Um, I’m not really a figure skating fan.”

“I heard you earlier,” Jill says patiently. “Did you want to talk about Tarja?”

Kihel clasps her hands in front of the big silk bow that the girls wear as a part of their choir costume. She nods eagerly. “Yes, please. I’m going to be a doctor.”

“I would have asked her to come,” Jill says, partly to Kihel and partly to Terence. “What would you like to know? I’ll do my best.”

Terence extracts himself. He peers over his shoulder at some of the other children knotted together in a black velvet clump in the center of the room. They all look too nervous among the adults to go and do what Terence has arranged for them to do, which is meet their personal heroes, insofar as it is possible.

Clive does his best to look approachable; Terence walks past him, guiding the boy he’s escorting to Otto.

“You’re Otto Steward, aren’t you?” Terence says. “From Star Ruby?”

“You serving papers?” Otto says.

Isabelle rolls her eyes. Philippe takes the break in conversation to loop his arm through hers and suggest they head to the open non-alcoholic bar.

“Er, no,” Terence says. “Would you mind having a chat with Honza?”

“Yeah?” Otto says.

“Yeah,” says Honza, with identical energy.

The boy actually has a startlingly clear and practical vision of being in talent management, fueled in part, from the sounds of it, by an obsession with a humorous adult animated show he’s probably way too young for. Cid tags along with Isabelle and Philippe with just a few questions, thanks much. Terence returns to the flock.

Which leaves Clive.

He’s fine standing conspicuously on his own. Dion is doing the same thing, silhouetted by a tall window of multiple square panes, many of which show how old they are by the warps and the drops in the centers of the glass. He acknowledges Clive’s approach with a nod and a tip of a glass flute. Wade hangs back, greeting the dragoon with a subtle nod.

“If I haven’t yet thanked you,” Dion says as Clive draws near. “Thank you.”

“Lucky guess,” Clive says.

Dion takes a sip of non-alcoholic sparkling wine. Through the window is a view of the theatre’s outdoor pavilion. The broad expanse of marble is liberally anointed with milk-white statues and subdued frescoes that span length of several entire walls, depicting the various saints and spirits that preside over the arts. LED strips, hidden by cultivated blankets of ground cover, illuminate their holy visages. The smudged and distorted figure of Terence in reflection guides another child to a potential mentor. The moon flits in and out behind the clouds.

“So,” Clive says.

“She could have sent a courier,” Dion says darkly. “She knew the schedule. I updated it promptly, at her special request.”

If Mother failed to receive any such communication, it is the fault of an intermediary. Dion will get nowhere pursuing this.

“She could have,” Clive agrees.

Dion’s fingers pinch the stem of the flute. He stares hard into his own furious reflection. “Terence has been working for a full year on this event. It’s meant to transcend borders, it isn’t exclusively for Sanbreque. The hymn was utterly inappropriate. I thought at least Father would understand.”

Clive can’t think of a single word to say. He doesn’t. Dion doesn’t have many people who will simply listen, other than Terence.

“What did he think?” Dion asks. “Did he say anything?”

“About what?” Clive says.

“Olivier’s hymn,” Dion says, as if it is the most obvious answer to this very simple question.

There’s a moment where Clive wonders, should I tell him?

Father, his own father, standing at the boards in a red and black wool coat. Suits in every corner. Shouting, that’s it Clive! as he lands a triple lutz for the very first time. He won Junior Twins that year, but he remembers that single moment better than standing on the podium.

“He didn’t stay to watch,” Clive says.

Dion throws back the last of the wine that will not get him drunk. “I see.”

There has to be something that justifies Dion’s devotion to his father, but Clive doesn’t know what it is.

Dion slips his hand into his jacket pocket. He grips something tightly.

“You gave me some very good advice, Clive,” Dion says, finally. “But I’m afraid I will not be able to take it just yet. One day, perhaps. When I am brave enough to deserve it.”

Clive studies the gilding of the window frame. Like many things in Oriflamme, its opulence astounds and awes until a closer look reveals the decay.

“Dion—” Clive says, but is not able to finish because he is suddenly mobbed by a group of children. Even the unflappable Dion is startled by all the yelling. Wade intercedes before Clive can blink.

“Proceed in a orderly manner,” Wade says, firm but gentle.

Terence runs his hand through his hair. His expression is bewildered. Beside him is a dragoon, stiff-necked and without affect. Beside and slightly ahead of the dragoon, Sabine le Duc is pointing directly at Clive. She looks shocked.

“You’re in trouble, you know,” says a boy with messy dark hair. Honza. He lifts his chin smugly. “El and Theo are after your gold.”

“Children,” Terence admonishes, somewhat half-heartedly. To a one, they ignore him completely.

“That’s called competition,” Clive shoots back. “I encourage them to make the attempt. Plenty have tried.”

One of the other kids shoves his shoulder, muttering shut up, Honza. Dion nods at Clive, excusing himself silently. He smiles at Terence but no more than that. He vanishes in the crowd as best as someone with a detail can.

“Is that all you have to say?” says Honza.

“We have a plan.”

Honza blows the messy fringe out of his eyes. “Sure, sure, you’re going to swap out the free last minute.”

“How do you know that?” Clive says. They haven’t made the announcement yet; it’s one of the things that Otto is tossing about for a unifying storyline. It’s a big, drastic step. Full of drama.

“That’s what you did last year,” Honza says.

“What are you? Men’s singles?” Clive says.

“Yeah, I’m gonna be the first Dhalmek man to win gold,” says the kid. “Are you going to do the short, too? You gotta, don’t you?”

They do, in fact, gotta.

“That obvious, eh?” Clive says.

“It is the natural next step,” Sabine remarks. She has her hands folded. She forces her shoulders and chin up high.

“Yup,” Honza says. “If you want gold one more time before you call it quits.”

One of the girls, a little younger than Honza, huffs. “Honza, you’re gonna make him mad.”

In their last session, Clive folded before Jill, to an old twinge in his back. His turn for the don’t push yourself lecture. It is strange to think how dire it was at Twins. It hasn’t even been a year, and Jill is absolutely fine. She’s still talking to Kihel.

That story has been the same for a long time. Retirement seems inevitable. This was to be their last shot—before Clive’s chances ran out, before Jill’s body broke. The stakes have always been the same. One last hurrah.

I don’t want to resign myself to an expiration date.

Jill comes alive when they talk about their plans. Training for their new programs, with their new ideas, has once more brought out the spark in her. She’s excited for Trials. She’s not going to simply give herself over to her fate.

“It’ll take more than that to offend me,” Clive says dryly. “I thought you were interested in what Otto does.”

“I’m thinkin’ about my post-skating career,” Honza replies. “I figure I’ll do two Trials cycles and then start my own management business.”

Clive tries not to think about how Honza has a clearer view of his future than he does. He glances at the girl. “Are you a skater, too?”

“Nope,” she says. “Women’s gymnastics.”

The third kid, a boy that can’t be more than nine, raises his hand eagerly. “Table tennis! What’s the village like?”

“Like living in a dollshouse,” Clive says.

“I had nicer dollshouses than what they passed off as accommodations in Ran’dellah,” says Sabine, unable to resist the traditional complaints. It’s well-known that all the corners get cut in the village.

Clive and Sabine jointly answer the questions of the handful of Trials hopefuls for a full half hour, until the kids all realize at once that the table of refreshments includes a flaming dessert that everyone wants to see but only Honza is brave enough to put in his mouth.

“I apologize for that,” Sabine says, in a low voice as the children rush away. She bites her lip. “And—about the recognition medal, too. It was misguided of me. I did not think things through.”

It never mattered, compared to the other shit that was going on at the same time, but Clive’s not about to say that. She’s trying. That’s miles past what most people at her rank do.

“I’m guilty of that myself at times,” Clive admits.

Being better is a long process. He spent a long time being an irritating, self-absorbed arsehole.

“Have a good evening, my lord,” Sabine says, forgetting that he gave up his titles.

As Sabine retreats to her father’s side, Clive searches the room for Jill. Kihel has joined the other kids in exclamation as Honza tells them about the flaming omelette gloriuse, a subject on which he is now an expert. Jill catches Clive’s eye. He tips his head. Jill veers in his direction as Otto makes a remark to Honza that Clive can’t quite make out.

“Should I be concerned about being replaced?” Jill says in a low tone.

Clive scoffs. “Hardly.”

“You seem better.”

He grimaces immediately. They drift about the room at an ambling pace. “Sorry. Mother.”

“Ah,” Jill says. “Dare I ask?”

Clive doesn’t want to say no.

“Let’s take a turn round the courtyard first,” Clive suggests.

Fewer ears.

It’s freezing fucking cold in the theatre’s courtyard, which is why it is empty. Wade stands near the door, with sightlines on all comings and goings. When Jill shivers, Clive whips off his jacket and settles it on her shoulders. He envies the statues their lack of nerve endings. The full moon lingers high in the sky, nestled among the clouds.

“Well?” she says, shivering.

Best get this over with fast. Clive’s breath turns into a small cloud.

“Do you remember when you applied to Sanfed as a girl—”

“And she arranged things to shut me out?” Jill says, plainly.

He had forgotten that Jill already connected this long ago. Confirmation of it, then, is a meaningless gesture. There’s nothing anyone can do about the past, and there’s nothing Jill can do about it now. He’s so fucking helpless.

She shrugs, resigned to the truth. “I imagine she phrased it in such a way to hurt you.”

“Yeah, she did,” Clive says.

“I’m not surprised by that, either,” Jill says.

“I was better at handling her before,” Clive says, out of nowhere. The admission startles him. “When I was angry all the time.”

Jill is silent, thinking of her next words. Clive can tell they are not going to be easy, to say or to hear.

“You've changed so much from the day that we met in Mann’s,” Jill says.

“You,” Clive says, but she shakes her head.

“Not just because of me,” Jill says. “Your brother, Hanna, Gav … even Cid. Your world was so small. I know—because mine was too.”

Jill does know. She always has. It’s not like Mother makes a reward of pushing people away, it’s just so much easier. But he’s still the one making that choice. Like Jill, he can choose differently.

“I can’t blame her for pushing everyone away—” he starts to say.

“That’s not what I mean, Clive,” Jill says, gently cutting him off. “I don’t think you were better at handling it. You were just used to it. And now you're not.”

His mother’s smooth, smug expression. Her casual barbs. Her threats. Her cruelty.

Father, speaking softly to a woman that left in the seconds before Clive pretends to have just come round the corner. He had never heard Father speak like that to anyone. It twisted him up inside, seeing the back of her crested uniform jacket. He didn’t know why.

And Mother—his untouchable, unbreakable mother, who will never admit fault or weakness, who will never agree to change, but will—sometimes—pull back the shield to reveal her ability to feel real human emotions like anger and pain.

The worst part of Clive assumes that this show of vulnerability is a pure tactical decision. His mother has actually been wronged by those who should have done right by her. A small part of him frets. Maybe this time she’s really reaching out. He’s so grateful to those who forgave him when he was at his worst.

“I know,” Clive says.

Jill takes his hands in hers. “You're still that same boy who gave so much of himself to everyone else.”

She gazes at him so ardently. Her eyes shine with emotion. He can tell that she wants to push. He wonders if he wants her to.

“Did I ever tell you what I did after they rejected me?” Jill asks, when he makes it clear that this is once more a bridge he cannot cross.

“No.” Clive assumed the topic off-limits.

“I went back to Mann’s, where it all started,” Jill says. “I couldn’t bring myself to get on the ice. I couldn’t see what the point was. But then I remembered all the times we went there, just us, before you got serious. I had never seen you smile so openly anywhere else.”

Chasing after Jill, struggling to stay upright, thinking he’d never be any good at this, laughing as he fell and slid. Jill, who had been skating beautifully since she was three years old. Holding out her hand to haul him up. She was stronger than she looked.

“It brought you so much joy,” Jill says. “I didn’t want to give up until I had my chance to skate with you again. It made me so happy to share that with you. But that wasn’t why you liked it, was it?”

Mother disliked the sweatiness of gymnastics. She found dance, especially the modern dance he was particularly drawn to, to be common and vulgar. She shut all the doors with reasonable pretenses. But when he found skating, there was no stopping him. Father took his side this time. And so for hours, every day, Clive could escape to the rink and be surrounded by Coach Murdoch and Hanna and everyone else on the team who supported him.

And slowly, gradually, she figured out how to take that, too.

“I expect Anabella to treat me poorly,” Jill says. “I hate her, and she hates me. But when she pretends that perhaps, if you just do this one little thing, she’ll love you like she should—I can’t forgive that, and I won’t. She’s angry that you’ve walked away and found people who care about you, who don’t trick you into thinking you’re the most selfish person on earth just because you do what makes you happy.”

The instinct to fight back is strong. You’re wrong.

He has been trained his whole life to fight back like that. He’s not even sure what he’s fighting against. He goes back and forth over the same ground, doing better some days and not so much others. It is painful to look over his life and see a sorry tale of sin and suffering.

“You aren’t alone anymore,” Jill says. “That’s the way life should be. You taught me that. I’m so glad that you didn't give up because of her, Clive.”

He doesn't give up, does he? It’s almost a flaw. Hopefully it’s not too awkward for Wade to pretend not to watch as Clive pulls Jill into a fierce embrace. She holds him close.

A flaw is often a strength pulled inside out, he thinks. It is, for some reason, Vivian's voice speaking in his head. The difference in viewpoint is what makes the story compelling.

“Let’s go back in,” Clive says, breaking away.

“You’ve got that face,” Jill observes.

“Well, I’ve an idea,” he replies.

The lobby feels like walking into an oven. Clive is fine with that. Let him bake. Wade rubs his hands vigorously. Jill lets out a sigh.

It doesn’t take them long to spot Otto, who steps in just as Sabine pulls Philippe Capitaine to one side. Philippe doesn’t disguise his irritation well. Sabine speaks passionately, punctuating some statement with a fierce poke of her finger into the unsuspecting air. Isabelle laughs at Otto’s smooth interjection. Philippe looks even more aggrieved. Sabine takes no notice. Isabelle daintily places her fingertips on Otto’s wrist.

“I do love the theatre,” Cid remarks, appearing from behind.

“Poor Philippe,” Jill says. She has not given Clive back his jacket. She doesn’t seem to have any intention of doing so soon.

“I thought Otto was married,” Clive says. “His son’s mother?”

Clive doesn’t know the woman’s name, though Gaute occasionally shows up at the office. Otto seems at peace with Gaute’s general haplessness.

“Divorce finalized last year,” Cid says, sipping what looks suspiciously like a Dr. Pepio decanted into a fancy wine glass. “Good riddance to her, I say. Now, what intrigues did you get up to without me?”

Jill scoffs. Clive casts a quick glance around out of pure habit. He recognizes many of these people, either from public engagements he’s done in recent years or from his collection of screens, but there are just as many strangers. Mother’s couriers or ladies-in-waiting are ears she can plant everywhere, and they cycle in endlessly.

Beside the balustrade that leads to the upper level, Terence stands alone. This is the first time tonight Clive hasn’t seen him accompanied by one or more children. He stares at the phone in his hand. He brings it to his ear. Clive watches his face. That frown.

Several seconds pass.

Terence puts the phone away. There is no expression on his face, just a hollow stare. No answer.

“You with us, lad?” Cid asks.

Something is wrong. Clive can't do anything about that now, no matter how much he wants to. It hurts to just look away from that.

I don't want this anymore. I'm sorry.

“Yeah,” he says. “Listen. I think I know what the storyline is.”

“Don’t keep us in suspense, now,” Cid says.

“For so long, the story has been that this is our last chance,” Clive says. “One last hurrah, and then it's over. We’re too old, too injured.”

There's a spark in Jill's eyes. She blinks. She understands at once. Cid's not far behind.

“You can't go on forever,” Cid says.

“No,” Clive says. “But we're the ones who get to decide when we're done.”

“Clive,” Jill says. Her voice thrums with excitement. She's reining it in. She studies his face. “Are you certain?”

Her apprehension is apparent. But Jill doesn't push.

For a little while—once Trials is over—he will be able to go home, to their flat above the wineshop. That idea comforts him. He wants to put up a proper set of shelves, big sturdy ones that don't look like they’re seconds away from snapping under the weight of all his fucking books. But—just like Jill's current set—he can last a bit longer. He has to, so he will.

In some ways, that's his job. It’s his duty in their partnership. For whatever reason, that makes it easier to ignore everything else.

“Yeah,” he says. “This isn’t the end. We’re going to come back.”

Her eyes search his. She wants to believe. He has to convince her.

“I promise,” Clive says, with all the conviction in his heart.

The days of media blitz, leading up to Trials.

“It's The Evening Oar with Demetrius Obolus! With special guests—actor and comedian, Rowan Green! Twinside Times bestselling author, Edita Mikkelburg! And Trials figure skaters, Jill Warrick and Clive Rosfield! And now it’s your host—Obolus!”

Obolus pops out from behind a curtain while the live studio audience goes nuts, as per the cue card. In real life, the studios at 1000 Needle Plaza are absurdly small and as densely packed as a quasar. Lights bristle from trusses and hoists overhead. The pace is manic. Everyone has an ego. Everyone is the best at what they do, even the guy with the cue cards.

“Alright, alright, ye landlubbers,” Obolus says, snickering to himself. He thumbs his chin while the audience is instructed via cue card to settle down so he can launch into his opening monologue. “Ah, listen to that? It's the spirits a-singing. Greagor loves an election year. Blessed be the emperor incumbent, eh?”

Skip directly to Jill and Clive’s portion of the interview. Jill wears a vintage menswear look, specifically in shirtsleeves, and Clive spends most of the evening trying to figure out ways to subtly hint that maybe she could wear this look more often. Hortense has once again styled Clive in black leather and athletic shoes with a first and last name. He would never dare to sweat in these. They are seated close together on the couch, facing Obolus at his desk as he fucks around with blank index cards and tosses them softballs until he gets to the question that Otto stipulated in their agreement.

The artifice of these shows is insane. The perfectly set up anecdotes. The effortlessly spontaneous laughter. The world expects Clive and Jill to chase their elusive final gold, and then ride off together into the sunset.

“What’s next for you?” Obolus asks. “Any retirement plans?”

Jill laughs. Clive reclines on the couch in the way that the stage manager swore up and down looks natural. He kept fucking up the answer in the pre-taping, so it’s Jill who leans forward coyly.

“Who says we’re going to retire?” she says, gray eyes sparkling

The response and mad burst of speculation is predictable. Clive exists as a public figure outside of the FS world, so hinting that he is considering not retiring, after all, invites opinions from every magazine and news blog.

Within the FS sphere, he is either regarded as a delusional old man or a greedy top athlete who is going to stay the course and deny the youth their laurels because he can't share a podium. Jill is a scheming harlot who complains incessantly and baselessly about the people she wasn't good enough for.

They release portions of their new program and music. El and Theo take it in stride, ribbing them (read: Jill and Desiree) playfully over socials. But the story is taking root.

Clive and Jill aren't done. This is not the end of a journey.

Jill is at the farmer's market getting that artisan bread she likes when Dion calls. Clive answers, thoughtlessly putting his finger between the pages to hold his place in his book. The hot guy with the sword is waffling about over his dueling love interests, hot vampire guy or hot wizard guy.

“I wanted you to hear it from me,” Dion says immediately. “And not a news outlet. I've ended things with Terence.”

“Dion!” Clive says. The abruptness of that statement is chilling. “Why?”

“It’s a private matter,” Dion says. “Thank you for your concern, but I'd prefer to not discuss it.”

Clive laughs. It's a shock reaction. “You're joking. Dion, you—”

“Thank you, Clive,” Dion says curtly.

“You can't let Mother do this to you,” Clive says. “She can't control everything. You—”

“I won't run away from my duties,” Dion says. “I know that's an alien idea to you.”

Clive recoils. His temper wakes.

How dare you.

Because Clive knows what Dion means. But the abdication was the hardest thing Clive ever did in his life. Everyday he wonders if it was the right thing to do. He has never satisfied himself with an answer.

“I apologize,” Dion says, weakly, after silence. “I—I merely wanted you to know.”

Clive inhales. He forces his fury to kneel. “Dion, you're making a mistake. But I think you know that.”

“It's not a mistake if it gets him clear of it,” Dion says. Emotion leaks into his voice.

All the times that Jill has been targeted because of Clive. The abuse heaped on a Mogstagram carousel. Her endless provisional citizenship struggles. Mother, enraged, threatening legal action over a ring. And before her: Biast, being obliterated by the machine. Brigitte, agonized and humiliated while Clive and Mother lay into another fucking shouting match, that’s not her name. Get it right!

Clive, ardently believing that love could make all of that tolerable. Becoming resentful when it didn't.

“I'm sorry,” Clive says. “I'm so sorry.”

“I just wanted you to hear it from me,” Dion repeats hollowly. He retreats into the armor he has worn all his life.

Mother rings twice, on different days following the Obolus spot, once around dinner and once while he’s at the gym. Clive watches the number, different both times except for the prefix, pulse on screen until the ringtone stops.

Jill is not entirely right. His mother has never promised to love him. Not even once.

In 865, as things fell apart—

You don’t understand what I’ve had to do to make up for your ‘mistake.’

He knows what the subtext is supposed to be. He’s supposed to see that she’s unhappy and in pain. He’s supposed to see the aide and draw the right conclusions. He’s supposed to go back, and try to talk things out, so he can go along with her schemes and plans.

She’s giving him the opportunity to show that he is selfless enough to put aside his anger in order alleviate the pain of someone who is suffering, who has made sacrifices for him, because it’s the right thing to do.

He’s supposed to be a good enough person that he agrees to be tool for her to use.

Not this time.

The aeroport. This time, a luxury VIP waiting area. Clive draws too much of a crowd. Wade will pick them up when they arrive in IPR. So much time spent in these places.

Jill sits down beside him. He closes his book.

Two days before the Trials begin, across the stretch of carpet.

Chapter Text

Strong, pale morning light makes getting the white balance difficult—or something like that. There’s some hushed bickering. Clive and Jill are directed to ignore this, as they hunt out the IPR office in the Trials compound. They’ve been up since before five in their not-very-subtly branded athletic wear the first in today’s series of back-to-back costume changes.

Since they landed, Clive’s days of wandering about unimpeded and unrecognized (and definitely unaccompanied) have temporarily been paused. He travels with an entourage of, at minimum, four or five people, not including Jill or even Wade. It takes time to shift.

Rosalith itself is different, too, remade top-to-bottom for the Trials, and stuffed to bursting with tourists and attendees. Half the city exults in the life and money that has been infused into its businesses and restaurants and cultural attractions, each of which vie for the gil in these visitors’ wallets. The other half grumbles and wheezes, its ageing infrastructures creaking as too many people cram the buses and streets, and force out the locals. The ugly parts are, of course, are assiduously hidden.

The shot Famiel gets is of Clive and Jill, getting out of the shuttle that takes them to the welcome offices for the nations. Athletes pack the plaza. A newly constructed pair of dormitory buildings gleams just beyond a green space with a fountain.

“Ah,” Cid says. “Breathe that clean air.”

He pats his arm. Mid has been distributing helpful literature around the hideaway about the long-term effects of smoking and tobacco use. Cid has her stashed at Uncle Byron’s house in town. Hanna is staying there, too, with her nephew—she moved recently to be nearer to Oscar’s family in Eastpool, having cut her last ties to Rosalith. Next year, Oscar’s partner, Shirleigh, will be sixteen, the minimum age to compete in seniors. It’ll be odd to have Rosarian rivals, but not unwelcome.

Jill walks up to the map kiosk. She draws her finger down the key.

She has her most pleasant non-expression on her face. She'll smile as soon as someone really looks at her. She was like that when they were kids, too. Whenever they had to do public appearances, she was always on what seems to him now as an emotional standby. This has been an unintended consequence of shooting the documentary.

“I think it’s back here,” Jill says, tracing the map to a corner.

“Where’s mine?” Gav asks. His backpack clinks with various pins. A reserve of vinyl stickers to trade peeks out of his pocket.

Sanbreque and Waloed have queues out the door. Cid clucks his tongue as they pass Waloed’s office. Standing amid a group of Waloeder athletes is a slim man with white hair down to his shoulders. He makes deliberate eye contact with Cid. His smile has a mocking quality that makes him immediately irritating.

“Cidolfus, old friend,” Sleipnir Harbard says. “Good to see you.”

He’s not nearly as young as he looks from afar, Clive realizes. Sleipnir Harbard is closer to fifty than thirty. His odd hair color, a white snow-blond, lends him an uncanny agelessness. Edda waves at Gav. Her partner glowers at them with his arms crossed.

“You old snake,” Cid says, in the kind of tone that walks a line between playful jibe and genuine accusation. “What are you doing here?”

Sleipnir grins. He keeps his fangs, should he really have them, hidden. “Keeping things honest, of course. Integrity is the cornerstone of the Chronolith Trials, after all.”

“Good to know,” Cid says.

Sleipnir seems not to mind the camera riding on Halek’s shoulder. He touches Cid’s arm.

“It was a moment of extraordinary joy to see you return to your work,” Sleipnir says. “His Majesty remarked upon it, in fact.”

Name drops like that are always on purpose.

“Should we go ahead?” Jill asks subtly. “So you can catch up?”

“No, I had best keep an eye on you both,” Cid says. “Since there’s something to worry about, eh, Harbard?”

“Ah,” Sleipnir Harbard says, bringing his hands together. “We are never the same after tragedy, are we? Go. And good luck to your athletes. There are no hard feelings between us, Cidolfus.”

“None at all,” Cid says, throwing a sloppy little salute. He turns on his heel.

“This way,” Jill says.

Gav breaks off to join the other Territorials midway. Cid has a grin plastered to his face. Harbard’s needles hit their mark.

IPR, despite being the host nation, has its office neatly tucked behind a hedge. Martha Goldenstable chats amicably with the receptionist. She is also here, presumably, to keep things honest. No one wants their athletes anywhere without someone keeping an eye on them.

Clive hefts his bag a little higher on his shoulder. Harbard’s country hosted the Summer Trials, and now those are being scrutinized. Several athletes have been pushing back on the scores they received.

Vivian’s words echo. Sanitization. Sportswashing.

Who would benefit from the corruption everyone wrings their hands over, and yet perpetually seems to seep into every corner of the sporting world? Hugo Kupka is under a nominal house arrest, awaiting his trial. Eugen Havel has condemned him to an extent that feels nearly farcical. Havel is also a Dhalmek, and his country and home associations benefit directly from Kupka’s extravagance; from a cynical angle, it seems almost like Havel is implicating himself with his ferocious blustering.

Martha pulls Jill into a big hug. One strong arm hooks around Clive, too. The air exits his lungs in a sudden puff.

“Good,” Martha says. “You made it. And you brought the crew.”

“Famiel Rill,” says Famiel. “Dusk and Dawn.”

That’s the name of the other documentary that Famiel directed, which was nominated for a few awards but won none of them. He mentions it on the hour. He’s not shy about saying that Clive and Jill are his money-making popcorn venture so he can secure funding for his ‘big, meaningful stories.’

“Let’s have the swag, shall we?” Martha says, walking past Famiel’s hand to collect two black and red silk bags. The crest of IPR is embroidered in shiny black thread. “And the opening ceremonies uniforms, too. In here.”

Famiel gestures to Halek and Marnek to pick up the pace.

They follow Martha into a room that reminds Clive of Hortense’s Oriflamme atelier, which opened last year. Headless wooden mannequins model the uniforms, which are in shades of black and red. Jill plucks at the laces running down the sides of the jacket they will wear through the Trials.

“Does it look a bit like a corset to you?” Jill muses.

A little, actually.

They break apart into separate changing areas. Clive does some careful stretches. He unzips the jacket a bit so he can breathe in.

“Clive?” Jill calls from the other side of the changing room door. “Could you come out for a minute?”

“Sure,” Clive says. He rolls his shoulders again. “It’s just a little tight in the chest—”

“Surprise,” Joshua says.

Clive crosses the room and folds Joshua into a hug. It feels like his arms keep closing down forever. Threads snap.

“How?” Clive says, astounded.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Joshua says. He glances at Famiel, who is quietly directing Halek to get a particular angle. He freezes when Joshua makes eye contact. “It’s alright. Jote, would you please sort it out?”

Jote bows.

“We generally take the ‘begging for forgiveness’ route,” Famiel informs him.

“I can tell,” Joshua remarks. He turns back to Clive with a genuine, if weary, smile. It’s as if he isn’t being filmed at all. “I wanted to be here. I missed everything else. I won’t be missing a single event you compete in.”

“All two,” Clive says, since there’s no team event for IPR.

“I know of at least one little girl with big dreams regarding women’s singles,” Jill adds. “Crow, my student. She has her heart set on IPR next cycle.”

The next cycle will not take the Chronolith Trials back to Rosalith, but the stress of fielding the team and shielding them from Mother will still fall on Joshua’s thin shoulders. Clive has learned enough from observing Hortense that he knows his brother’s suit is cut so that he looks sleek, not gaunt.

“And with her, we’ll be able field enough to fill a team,” Jill says. Although she blows cool air on Crow’s breathless out-loud daydreams, Jill is prone to having them herself. They have gone from is it even possible? to of course we’ll do it again.

Joshua’s smile alters. Joshua’s cheeks are pink and blotchy. He coughs discreetly into his arm.

“It’s not contagious,” Joshua reassures them. “Let’s enjoy this moment, shall we?”

“Your Grace,” Jote says.

“I can’t stay, unfortunately,” Joshua says. “But Clive, would you go down into the crypts with me tomorrow?”

Clive will be among the athletes who walk the opening ceremonies. This includes a number of Rosarian traditions, among which will be an ancestral communion. Unlike the Sanbrequois holy days, there is no set schedule for the communions; they happen whenever Rosarians require the wisdom of their forebears.

Long ago in the days of swords and sieges, that usually meant before going into battle. The duke, or occasional duchess, descends into the crypts to commune with a specific dead relative, and then returns to give a rousing speech to the Rosarians who gathered above.

Elwin Rosfield is that ancestor, now. He is no longer a symbol that might inspire Rosarians to protest Imperial rule. He is instead a fond memory of an era that appears in films and TV as bright poppy colors and nostalgic hit songs. His assassination is now considered the inevitable precursor to annexation, and the fulcrum of the complex tragedy that is the Empress’s star-crossed life. The communion is being feted as a quaint Rosarian tradition, showing the local color and culture. Rosarians simply love their elaborate tombs.

The reason for Clive's abdication is forgotten, or footnoted. He always just wanted to skate, actually.

“Are you certain it won’t cause issue?” Clive says.

“I can’t see that it would,” Joshua says. “Uncle Byron went down, too, sometimes. You’re Father’s son, as well. He would have wanted to be here most of all.”

Father wanted to do many things. He gave up most of them, for decorum or perception of impropriety. When he barred Clive from a certain competition, it was usually because he had a hand in the nonprofits holding it up, and the lower level competitions could not often sustain the burden of the Archduke’s visits. Joshua gets around the restraints of his station by sneaking. Father did everything, as much as he could, high-mindedly in the open.

Jote has the details, and she imparts them to Wade, who will be driving them here and there. She gives him a special access badge to wave around. Clive retreats into the dressing room to put on the closing ceremony outfit, which is also far too tight. A seamstress is summoned. By the time they are done, Joshua has vanished, and it’s time to be whisked off to the media rooms to give interviews and be photographed and filmed doing poses in slow motion in front of themed backgrounds.

It’s a relief to be able to retreat into their room in the village. They unpack. Jill is quicker than Clive, who gets distracted by a book that he brought with him. She sighs as she digs into his bag. A blood-red sleeve flops out.

“I know I can't wear it,” Clive says, quietly. “But I wanted him to see how far we came.”

“Let’s get some disappointing food from the cafeteria,” Jill suggests, setting the bag aside and spreading out over the cardboard beds they’ve pushed together. “I want the full village experience this time.”

Clive sits down beside her and walks his fingers across the strip of bare belly revealed by her T-shirt riding up.

“Or,” Clive says.

“Let’s not destroy these poor things before opening ceremonies,” Jill says, laughing. She rolls to a sitting position.

“But this is the part of the village experience that I missed out on,” he says in a low voice.

Some people use the village to party non-stop, especially once their events are done. Clive was either too young or too taken to ask for an invitation to the orgy. His authentic Trials experience has mostly been anger, dissociation, and stress.

“Well, then,” Jill says, suddenly quite eager to change that.

Jill leans in for the kiss. Her lips are soft. As he lowers her back down, he thinks that the cardboard mattress is not as bad as people make it out to be.

There’s a knock on the door. It's a bad joke at this point. It can't be Gav. Surely he's learned.

“Clive? Jill? You in there?” Gav calls. “Cid’s looking. He wants to have a meeting, in the rink.”

Jill’s eyes roll up towards the ceiling.

“We’ll be there in a moment,” Jill says.

“We can stop by the cafeteria,” Clive consoles her.

“Or we could hurry straight back,” Jill rejoins dryly.

Gav is trading stickers and pins with some speed skaters when Clive and Jill emerge to hop on the shuttle with him. Wade isn’t here—the security for the Trials compound has been deemed good enough to pass muster, so he’ll return for the journey to and from Phoenix Gate for opening ceremonies and then the communion. Famiel and his crew are scheduled for the communion as well. Right now, they are interviewing Martha.

The shuttle turns the corner. Clive grits his teeth as the view dredges up memories.

Everything about this place has changed, but he still keeps trying to find the spot. There’s a photograph that gets used a lot, showing the angle that it happened. The steps are the same. The hedges and greenery are all new, and there’s a fountain that glitters in the wintry sunset. It’s supposed to snow soon, but today it is just cold and gray.

Jill sneaks her hand into Clive’s without comment.

Martha huffs and puffs as she climbs the white stairs to the athletic commission offices. “Out of shape!” she mutters. “Who’d thunk.”

Wide view of the actual building, built in the Baum style (which Joshua never fails to mention). Big masonwork arches stretch over the pavilion. Martha, again, this time from behind. She walks through a set of glass doors. Directly inside the lobby is a display featuring the biggest Rosarian names in athletics, not all of them Trials athletes.

“Here they are,” Martha says, stopping to admire the faces of those who drove her to become what she is.

“Lots of folks thought, well, this is the son of the archduke—’course he’s going to win!” says a second Martha, this one fitted with a proper lav. Below her, the title: Martha Goldenstable - President of IPRAC (Imperial Province of Rosaria Athletic Committee).

“Elwin Rosfield had just partnered with the CTC to do training programs, all over Valisthea, not just Rosaria—in Dhalmekia, in Waloed, all over. Lots of money, truly astounding numbers. So the opinion at the time was, ‘well, he’s just paid for his son to win.’”

She snorts.

“Then Clive debuted ‘Away’ for the 860 season, for the first time. And all those doubters went away, too.”

The shuttle drops them off in a garage with an elevator for the athletes. Everything in here is so new that the plastic still kind of smells. A sign has fallen from its mounting. This way to locker rooms, propped up against the vinyl baseboard. A guide takes them through a detour, apologizing for the construction.

Joshua mentioned this once. He hadn’t meant to. One wonders where the money went. Then he waved a hand and asked Clive to forgive him for whinging.

The guide takes them out through the main entrance, which is complete. High towering columns hold up a glass dome. An extremely long orange bird flits through the space, suspended by thin steel cable. There are a few people in high-end business casual gathered in the lobby already, headed to the VIP stairs. The space feels vast. They hear Cid’s voice well before they see him.

“This is the second time today, actually,” Cid says. He faces someone standing behind a pillar, hands on his hips.

Clive prickles. Beside him, Tiamat strokes his chin thoughtfully. Some sort of meeting among coaches. Clive slows his pace.

Mid perks up from the couches as they approach.

“Just through here,” says the guide, pointing to the big doors that stand propped open. No one is on the ice at the moment. The drone of the resurfacer explains why.

“Dad’s got his fans, too,” Mid says impishly.

“What are you doing here?” Clive says, hands on his hips. “Where’s security?”

Mid snickers.

“Dad’s gonna take me to the Sagespire once he’s done bossing you lot,” Mid says. The full name is the Sagespire Museum of Flight and Aircraft. Clive liked it, too, as a kid, even though Mid is probably a bit too old for the interactive exhibits.

“I wanna go,” says Gav. “Maybe Edda wants to go too?”

“I’ll text her,” Mid says.

“Can I invite m’baby sister?” Gav asks, pulling out his own phone.

“Yeah, she’s cool!” Mid says. “And Shirleigh’s here, so her, as well.”

“Better open it up to Oscar, then,” Gav says, leaning into his big brother mode as to include everyone.

“Clive,” Jill says. She tugs his sleeve, pulling him away from the party planning.

“Yeah?” he says, absently.

Cid steps to one side to permit the person behind the pillar past. A stylish young man with his hand resting on the sling bag he wears across his chest slips through. Every part of his casual ensemble screams stupid money. Even the green beanie sitting jauntily over his black hair probably has a four-figure price tag.

“Ah,” the young man says. His voice is smug. The acne has since cleared. “Ruzena’s heirs.”

“Aye, I reckon you could say that,” Cid says, rubbing his chin.

“L’ubor Dalimil,” he says. “No relation, though. It’s like Smith in Dhalmekia.”

“Clive,” Clive says. His last name is also common, in its way.

“And you must be Jill Warrick?” L’ubor says. He shakes their hands. “I’m a fan. Of course, I’ll be rooting for Eloise and Theodore Kasjlok come the events. Hurrah for the home team and such.”

There’s a moment where Clive can see Jill weighing whether or not to confront him. Clive hasn’t done it—he can’t say whether that’s a good idea or a bad one. The last time they saw L’ubor, he was with Benedikta in Kupka’s hotel. He’s not an intern, that’s for certain.

“Wonderful to meet you,” Jill says. “I didn’t know this would be a meet and greet.”

L’ubor chuckles politely. “Oh, no. I’m representing my employer, Mr. Hugo Kupka. I was keen to see the facility I handled so much fucking paperwork for. Ruzena Dalimil, you see, was a formative influence. When I heard that the Cid Telamon was here—”

“Laying it on a bit thick, eh?” Cid interjects.

“I take opportunities wherever they crop up,” L’ubor says merrily. “I imagine, however, that I am quite in the way of your practice! And besides that, the wicked can never truly rest. Lovely to meet you both.”

L’ubor excuses himself. Gav and Mid don’t look up from their phones and their busy planning session until Cid says, “Oi! Gav!”

As Gav jogs their way (with multiple digressions as Mid shouts out more names to add to the ever-expanding list), Tiamat uncrosses his arms.

“Hello, Georges,” Clive says bluntly.

“You made it back,” he says. “Well done, then.”

The sentiment is about five years too late. But the bitterness and resentment were actually all on his side, the entire time. Georges Tiamat was only ever following orders. Clive was never anything more than just another athlete in his charge.

“Thanks,” Clive says.

That’s all that needs to happen between them. Tiamat nods at Cid. He retreats into the icy cavern of the practice space. The resurfacer motors into its backstage home. Skaters congregate at the boards, waiting to be let back out. Among them is Sabine. She waves at Clive.

“See you round,” Tiamat says.

When he’s out of earshot, Clive asks, “What was that about?”

“He wanted to complain to me about my sending him Benna,” Cid says with a sigh. “Not the first, certainly.”

“And L’ubor Dalimil?” Jill asks.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Cid admits. “Reckon Kupka is keeping tabs on us. He mentioned Ruzena most likely to let me know he’s aware of certain bits of ancient history.”

“Harbard mentioned her, too,” Clive notes.

Cid shrugs, hands in his jacket pockets. He’s got on his Bennumere gear, rather than show partiality to either NT or IPR. “No one forgets anything, sadly. Now go warm up. Especially you, Gav. You’re just two days out from when everything stops mattering.”

“Aye aye, cap’n,” Gav says. He whirls around to face Mid. “Oh, and what about—”

“And stop inviting people!” Cid says. “I’m not bloody Miss Ifrizzle! I'm not taking the whole damn class on a field trip!”

They spend two hours on the ice, mostly greeting other skaters and acclimatizing. It doesn't feel terrible to have the air rushing against his face. People stare a bit. Cid spends the most time with Gav, leaving Jill and Clive to sort themselves out.

Clive no longer cringes when Jill goes flying. They do some skating, but conserve their energy and efforts. Tomorrow will be a nonstop (and occasionally literal) parade from one place to another; to simply do the thing that he has spent so long doing with the person he has waited his entire life to do it with is nice. The first flutters of excitement tickle the inside of his chest.

They made it—they actually made it. The part of Clive that shies from vulnerability allows him a moment of giddy wonder.

Practice does not go long. However good Jill is feeling, they still need to protect against injury, and the best way to do that is to limit the opportunities for injury to happen. It’s a careful balance.

“You're smiling,” Jill says, as they exit the ice.

“Am I?” he replies, touching his cheek.

“I think it's scaring people,” Jill says dryly, nodding to someone behind them.

Sabine stares at them as she glides gently to the boards. Her mouth pinches. No doubt she's restraining some thought that must be expressed.

Jill fetches another guide back down to the shuttle parking. There’s a short wait for the next bus. Begging off early means that they are alone at the bench that serves as a stop until—Clive isn’t that surprised—Sabine comes striding out of the elevator.

“Pardon—Clive—Miss Warrick—” Sabine begins.

Jill regards her patiently. Clive swallows.

“Yes?” he says, holding his phone flat between his palms.

Her eyes bounce nervily between the two of them. She does whatever mental dance that gives her courage. Both her small hands with their white- and blue-tipped nails become fists.

“I’ve made up my mind,” she says. “I don’t know if it will do any good, but I must speak. There was a man here earlier. He spoke to your coach and mine—”

Where, Clive thinks, the fuck is she going with this?

“L’ubor,” Clive says. “Dalimil. Yes. We met.”

“Yes, well.” Sabine's boldness collapses in the face of having to actually stand by what she's about to say aloud. “And you know he's in the employ of Mr. Kupka?”

Jill and Clive share a glance.

“Whatever it is,” Clive says firmly, “trust that I will hear you to the end.”

“Leon knew him,” Sabine says. “Mr. Dalimil, specifically, not Mr. Kupka.”

“Perhaps this ought to go to Capitaine,” Jill suggests. “We don't have any especial authority.”

“It isn't about that!” Sabine says. “Though the president has certainly made his feelings about ‘meddling’ perfectly plain to me. And Papa has no intention of listening to anything I have to say. But I must say something, you see, because Mr. Dalimil was at Whitewyrm!”

Clive attempts to divine what is meant to be shocking about this.

“Beg pardon?” he says.

“Alright,” Jill says. “Perhaps—from the beginning?”

“They seemed merely friends,” Sabine says. She picks up speed, perhaps concerned that they will send her away before she is done. “Although, sometimes not. Leon occasionally did not realize when he was being talked down to. Mr. Dalimil didn't ever talk about his work in my hearing—I found out today, which was why I felt it so imperative—”

Sabine swallows. Clearly she has taken Clive’s fumbling for being stunned silent. She gains some fortitude.

“Leon felt the difference between our stations very keenly. We are all the same in Greagor’s eyes, of course, but he would always boast about having powerful friends, I suppose, to impress me. It was nothing terrible—just annoying,” Sabine says. “I even believed that Mr. Dalimil could be one of those. Especially in light of Leon’s admissions to the Tributary.”

The Tributary broke the Cerdra’s scandal, though the parts with Leon were ultimately not flattering to him. Clive handled Leon prior to the incident at Twins by walking past him. His opinion started on the ground and then cratered. It’s still validating to hear even his own partner was sick of his shit.

Famiel occasionally hints at being associated with the Tributary, which is internationally renowned, but generally demurs when pressed about the specifics. Clive figures he’s puffing that up, too.

“But then Kupka was detained?” Clive guesses.

Sabine nods. “Prior to Twins last year, we were invited to a private luncheon for prospective nominees for the recognition.” She holds Clive's gaze. “Held by the Empress herself.”

Clive rubs his thumb along the strap of his skate bag. His heart begins to race.

This is the connection between Mother and Hugo Kupka.

“I’d always admired the Empress—she seemed so strong, such grace under adversity, such a role model for young women—but when we went, it was clear that Leon wanted to show off his familiarity. I thought she must be indulging him. She encouraged him. ‘Win by whatever means necessary. If there is no way, you must make a way.’ That kind of thing.”

“And after?” Jill asks.

“I haven’t spoken to Leon since Twins,” Sabine says, with a hint of defensiveness. “But at the recognition brunch following, the Empress said something—odd. She congratulated me on shaking off the chaff. Nothing more. But she had been so flattering to him. Even more so than to me, which was surprising; everyone knows about her partiality to the aristocracy.”

This is probably what Clive sounds like to other people when he casually refers to his brother, the Duke of Rosalith.

“You suspect that she flattered Leon’s ego for a purpose, and then when he was no longer of use, discarded him?” Jill says.

“Leon was talking about Trials, sponsorships, shutting you out, as if it were guaranteed,” Sabine says. “And then … poof.”

She pop-flicks her fingers open. His efforts to salvage his reputation were for nothing. His infamy burned out his career like it was a match. He's gone now, quietly enveloped by obscurity and obsolescence.

“Why tell me?” Clive asks.

Sabine wrings her hands.

“I like to think that I am outspoken,” Sabine says. “But the dame’s assessment is not wrong. I want to assuage my guilt, for being a part of something that was not right—and doing nothing meaningful to fix it. I can’t stand that.”

Clive goes back and revisits every interaction with this girl. His patronizing judgments. He really is Mother’s son.

“It’s harder than it looks on TV,” Clive says, feeling old and tired.

He has enough sense to realize that there is a witness here, in Sabine, that might—what, reveal his mother for the witch that she is? Comments and implications, set beside a set of disparate actions.

“Father is always saying that corruption is endemic,” Sabine says.

“Could L’ubor have been there by coincidence?” Jill asks. “For some other reason?”

“It’s possible,” Sabine says. “But before, he never once mentioned his employer or even what he did. Today he made a point of it.”

They hear the burr of the hybrid engine and the thunk of the tires over the speed bump before the shuttle appears through the cement archway.

“If it should come to it,” Sabine says. “I will stand by what I have said.”

“What about the cardinal?” Clive asks.

She lifts her chin. “He shall have to deal.”

Jill and Clive load up on the shuttle bus. The ride back to the village complex is silent. Clive could not pretend to talk about anything else. Neither does Jill. The driver is merciful. He grunts instead of attempting small talk.

In their room, Clive goes into the en suite bathroom (being the duke’s brother comes with perks) and tosses cold water on his face. He stares into the drain. Jill stands in the open bathroom door and waits.

“Mother changed her tune when the news about Leon broke,” Clive says, at last.

“What he said likely worried her,” Jill says. “There’s a line to be drawn between her and Kupka.”

“A line of gil,” Clive mutters.

“Almost certainly.”

Sanitization.

Who benefits?

The desire to run screaming to Philippe Capitaine, Eugen Havel, Cole Rymasov—but none of those men can really help. Clive tells himself it’s good, actually, that they are playing by the rules.

If Mother did the same, they’d be winning.

“You have that face,” Jill says, leaning into his side. She gazes at him in the mirror.

“Just trying to sort out what problem I can actually do something about,” Clive says.

There is someone, actually. He is the same person who has countered and fought Mother on her own battlefield for years, taking his meager victories wherever they present themselves. Clive wishes that he was capable of handling these problems, instead of every time requiring the help of someone else. All he can do is make begging phone calls. He gave up his real power for a dream.

Focus on the dream.

His father, working his gloves onto his hands, nodding to his ducal guard. The Jotes of yesteryear.

He had to go, now. Clive begged and begged to stay on the ice. Mother didn’t want him there, anyway. She would pick him apart. It was just annoying, not anything terrible. He could take it, but he hated it. He liked it here, where he could hide and play pretend.

Joshua could be the cute kid who gazed adoringly at his parents. He didn’t mind. They both loved him. It made sense that Joshua was the child they focused on and made the favorite.

Jill puts her arms around him. Her cheek presses against his shoulder. He expects her to say something more, but she doesn’t.

The silence highlights another his shortcomings. One that would be simple, and easy, to fix. He suspects that Jill is still waiting for him, as she always does. The longer he lets it go, the shittier he feels. There needs to be a reason that he’s put it off, and he can't think of one.

He bends to kiss her, instead.

The next morning, Jill wakes him with breakfast in a compostable to-go box and a steaming paper cup. Apparently he didn’t wear her out enough to warrant sleeping in.

“How was the cafeteria?” Clive asks, accepting the coffee first.

“Everything I dreamed,” Jill replies.

Wade collects them at a pre-arranged pick-up, and drives them, somehow, through the dense maze of Rosalith’s streets. Steam rises off the metal tubs in street vendors’ mobile stands and displays. People bundle by on foot in the direction of the Phoenix Gate Sports Complex.

Clive checks his phone. His personal feed turns up a photograph of Cid, clad in a T-shirt printed with various aerocraft and the text, This is my only plane shirt. Cid’s been caught mid-lecture, gesturing at the scale model. A crowd, composed of Mid and a passel of her friends and some complete strangers, listens with rapt attention.

As they wait among the other Rosarian athletes, siloed off in their own waiting area, Clive realizes that there are only fourteen other people here. These are the people brave or resilient enough to make the arduous effort to represent IPR. There are no young ones. Only older athletes whose memories are their motivation. They are remote and respectful towards Clive. He suffers under the weight of their regard. They give him space.

Snow falls lightly as they march across the stadium. A tiered stage has been constructed at the northern end of the Phoenix Gate Stadium. The eight Chronoliths—massive structures which represent one virtue each—stand behind it. Each of them glitters with LEDs in their respective colors.

At the stage’s elaborate top tier, a singer in a black-furred robe and a tether attached to her back sings On the Wind Borne. Clive is ushered to a special athlete's seating area. Jill clings to him. The artistic portion pantomimes the Scourge of the Gods and Founding, and lasts until the winter sun sets.

Speakers walk in and out. Eugen Havel reiterates the same old speech about integrity, with a special emphasis on how the CTC intends to preserve that integrity. He never says the words bribery or scandal. Martha speaks. Former athletes speak. Clive can only hope that eventually they will run out of people to have speak.

The last one is Joshua, attired in the ceremonial dress of the Duke of Rosalith. He ascends to the platform. He will open the Trials formally, and greet the athletes to the Imperial Province of Rosaria.

His face fills the massive screens arrayed around the stadium, as big as a god himself.

“Welcome, athletes,” he says. “Welcome to the Imperial Province of Rosaria.”

Following opening ceremonies, there’s meant to be a period of jubilation and camaraderie. Instead, he and Jill quickly change and cut through a long concrete corridor to a garage to get into another car, bound for the castle. Wade struggles to enter the castle grounds, held up by a mysterious difficulty that is resolved after a half hour of waiting for no clear reason.

The balcony from which Joshua will speak is spotlighted by two massive cannon-like fixtures, and the courtyard, which will allow a small crowd of VIPs, is studded with black-wrapped platforms. Men and women with headsets fiddle with their camera setups. Wade flashes credentials at security, and they are let into the throne room.

Three men push through the crowd of badges to meet them, loaded up with cameras and hard-shelled Leviathan brand cases, spotted with stickers.

“This’ll be good for the narrative,” Famiel explains without being asked. Clive has no idea how he wormed his way in, but the point is valid. “Pretend like we aren’t here.”

Before he can protest, a woman singles out Clive.

“You're here, my lord,” the woman, probably a staffer, says. She wears a formal, modest black gown and loud black heels. “Follow me, please. The timeline is tight.”

When the door to the antechamber is thrown open, Mother half-rises from her seat. The staffer bows. She is obviously a lady-in-waiting, actually. The room is outfitted like a small parlor, though Clive immediately notes that there are only two chairs at the elegant tea table.

Mother's eyes flick to the camera crew. Famiel bows. Marnek and Halek do their best, laden by their baggage.

“Remove them,” Mother says. “This is a terrible breach of security.”

Famiel squawks in protest as the ducal guard closes in. He has mentioned the ‘mildly invasive’ security vetting process he and his crew endured many times. Clive stares his mother in the eye.

This was meant to be too painful. Guess not.

“I assure you, I have passed every background check and a few extras, too, you know, for fun,” Famiel says, holding up his hands. The UnDG slowly herds them towards the door. “We have been directed by the duke to film this moment. Your Majesty! Please!”

Mother’s eyes narrow in a brief display of distaste and probably disbelief. Unthinkable that a peasant would dare address her.

Clive is torn between adding something to corroborate and knowing that he will probably make things worse.

“There is a rigorous approval process,” Famiel adds. “His Grace believed that there was momentous historic value—”

Mother raises a hand. Famiel falls silent. Marnek and Halek surrender their gear to the UnDG. Though they allow themselves to be escorted, Famiel persists. Wade steps aside, stoic. His face is impenetrable.

“I was assured that this was cleared with His Grace,” Famiel says desperately.

“Joshua, once more making decisions with stars in his eyes,” Mother says, flicking her hand. She wears black and no jewelry, now that he can appreciate details like that. Grief is what gilds the lily. She glares at Clive. “He needs our support more than ever, not needless spectacle and complication.”

She wants to talk about something else, Clive guesses. Famiel’s presence threw her.

“Sure,” Clive says, refusing to be pulled off balance. “Where is he?”

“I sent him ahead when you failed to arrive on time. Joshua must make the communion alone,” Mother says, affronted. “Your father never invited another when he descended.”

“There’s nothing against it in the book of high houses,” Clive says.

Mother waves a dismissive hand. “It isn’t done. You shall stay with me, and we can proceed to the reception as a family. It will be good to announce the news with you beside him.”

It's a fucking trap. Clive swallows.

“What news?” he asks.

Famiel dances away from the UnDG with his hands up. “Now, maybe we can contact that one lady—Jote, was it?”

“He's going to reinstate the old programs,” Mother says. “Like Elwin wanted. A beautiful, fitting tribute to his father.”

“Lady Jote is with His Grace,” the UnDG says.

“Is there no way to contact her?” Famiel asks.

Wade coughs discreetly. When Clive glances his way, Wade tips his head towards the door.

“I have had enough of this incompetence!” Mother exclaims.

Famiel goes ashen.

Jill slips her arm around Clive’s lower back. She gives him a squeeze.

“Anabella, would you indulge me while we wait?” Jill says. She lets go of Clive and sits at the parlor table. Mother’s eyes flash angrily.

“You shall show proper deference,” Mother says.

“Of course,” Jill says, without bothering to show any. She holds out her hand. The heartstone ring gleams red on her finger. “I appreciate Clive’s notions of romance, but secretly, I’m a bit worried about it. May I ask …”

That’s enough to make Clive brave. He sends a mental communication of affection and gratitude to his beautiful, devious wife and partner. Then he spins on his heel and heads for the door.

“Clive!” Mother exclaims.

Clive says, “If I have to wait, then I’m going for a piss.”

Mother recoils at the word.

“Clive—” Mother says. “Clive! What are you doing? He’s—”

“On second thought,” Famiel says, and scurries after Clive.

Wade shuts the door. The UnDG steps aside.

“What?” Famiel says, stupidly. Marnek and Halek lift up their gear.

“They let us keep it, chief!” Halek says.

“I serve at the pleasure of His Grace,” the UnDG says placidly. “I have orders to placate Her Majesty, but not obey her. Lady Jote arranged for the permissions for the camera crew. His Grace is taken with the idea of a record of this period. They have permit to film in this area of the castle.”

“I told you,” Famiel hisses. He squares up with Clive. “You better not actually be after a piss.”

“No,” Clive says archly. He turns to Wade. “Is there another way in?”

“There is, but I’m afraid I don’t know it,” Wade reports. “Luckily, I know exactly who does.”

The tombs have a grand entrance reserved for state burials—the last time it was opened, Father was to be interred—and the antechamber where Mother chose to lie in wait is the direct access route, but there are multiple side entrances and exits. Too many sieges and invasions by too many belligerent neighbors in antiquity. Joshua loved those stories as a kid.

Wade escorts them back down into the throne room. Clive tenses as he expects some one or other of the people fussing and fretting to catch him and knock him back to the Empress like a returned tennis ball, but no one even looks up. Wade flashes his creds again, and they are outside in the courtyard.

“This way,” he murmurs.

He leads them off to one side, veering from the pavement to a graveled path that leads deeper into the assortment of outbuildings that Clive recalls only vaguely. He and Joshua were forbidden from playing here. They are hidden from view behind a long ornamental hedge.

Behind them, heeled shoes clack loudly down the stone steps.

“My lord?” says a woman’s voice. Not Mother—the lady-in-waiting.

Wade picks up the pace. The far wall is punctured by a small wrought iron gate, which is chained and locked. There’s another courtyard beyond it, this one more orientated towards service entries and gardener’s sheds. A building like a tiny turret is in immediate view, with a service door glancing to one side.

“My lord!” The clop of shoes gets louder, then stops just on the other side of the hedge. “My Lord Rosfield—you have been requested—”

Wade picks up a rock and leans through the bars. He makes a throw, striking the building at the base, missing the door entirely.

“Hey!” he hisses. “Hey! Miss Goditha!”

The lady-in-waiting, frustrated, tries shouting into the night again. “My Lord Rosfield, the Empress herself requests that you return to her at once—”

“Fuck me,” Famiel groans. “C’mon, lads.”

Famiel marches around the hedge that hides them. Marnek and Halek both give Clive a little wave. Halek shifts his camera rig on his shoulders, straightening up.

“You—” says the lady-in-waiting. Her surprise is audible.

“Gave you the slip, too, eh? Don’t you fret, love. We’ll catch up,” Famiel says at the speed of lies. His Mysidian accent dials up to seventeen. “Think he went out to the garden thingy there, come along now, we’ll corner him …”

Clive listens intently as the shoes clop away, trailed by the shuffle of Famiel and his crew. Wade tries another rock.

“Miss Goditha!” he says, daring to raise his voice above a whisper.

The service door opens. A woman, about Uncle Byron’s age, peeks out. She wears a thick woolen coat with the old Rosarian ducal crest on it. Clive didn’t know that anyone was allowed to wear that still.

“Wade?” says the woman named Goditha. She peers at them in the darkness. The site lighting here is not as extensive, probably to discourage people from poking around the closed-off sections. Her face pops in sudden recognition. “My lord marquess?”

Clive is embarrassed by the fact that he doesn’t remember this woman at all.

“I’m simply Clive these days,” he says.

“Of course,” Goditha replies. “Wade, what is this?”

“We need a route into the tombs, ma’am,” Wade says.

“A what?” Goditha’s hand floats to the base of her throat, which is bound up in the red scarf of her uniform. “I thought the young duke made the necessary arrangements …?”

She is apparently one of the handful of vault-keepers remaining. There are still a few great treasures that require round the clock surveillance. The role is largely ceremonial, but it is bestowed for life. Goditha has probably held this title for years, quietly enduring.

“Clive must somehow join his brother below,” Wade explains. “But the vicereine has decided to inflict herself again.”

Must is a strong word. Goditha instantly turns sour.

“Oh, her,” Goditha mutters. She undoes a ring of keys from inside her coat.

Mother never bothered to endear herself to the staff.

The rhythmic strike of the shoes returns. Clive slips inside the gate, making room for Wade to follow. He shakes his head.

“Listen, love, I can guarantee you are wasting your time—” Famiel says loudly.

“Desist,” snaps the lady-in-waiting.

“Ma’am,” Wade whispers, “if you would be so kind as to lock the gate with me on the other side?”

Goditha hurriedly locks the gate. Clive hesitates for a breath, and then darts behind the door. He tries very hard to shut it without slamming.

He stands in a small room with tiny desk. Opposite the entry is another door marked Stairs. A laptop with the identifying sticker, G. Griffin - VAULT, sits on the desk.

Outside, he can hear Wade quizzing Goditha on where Clive has disappeared. I don’t know, sir; the gate’s shut for the evening, sorry. The unfamiliar woman’s voice informs Wade that he is in serious trouble.

Clive presses his ear to the door, but their voices become muffled and indecipherable. The doorknob clicks and turns. Clive hurriedly pulls back before he can fall on Goditha.

“She’s gone,” Goditha reports. “And so is your man. I suspect it will be a long wait before Wade can get free of the dowager's dogs. You needed access?”

“If that goes against your duty—” Clive says.

Goditha shakes her head. “It certainly does not. Besides that, the young duke made the necessary arrangements.”

Clive did not know there were necessary arrangements. Joshua (or, more likely, Jote) must have handled that.

“There will be consequences if you help me,” Clive adds. He feels obligated. “I’m sorry.”

“Of course there will be,” Goditha replies. Her full height is not much, but she draws herself up to her limit, chin held high. “That’s how bullies force everyone into playing their games. Don’t fret over Wade. He knows what he’s about. We all do. This way, young man.”

They march down the stairs, which are cut steep and narrow, the way they did it for some reason all those years ago. Clive’s nose is overwhelmed by the musty stone smell characteristic of the deep old places in the castle. It feels small, heavy, close. The lights, which are imperfectly installed, seem far too dim.

The stairs rise up again. Goditha unlocks the door at the top with both a badge and a key, and Clive follows her into an ordinary service hall.

“Not quite a secret passage,” he observes.

“Oh, no,” Goditha says, chuckling. “Not quite.”

The UnDG intercept them a little way down the corridor. “Eyes on Mythos,” one of them intones into a radio. “Proceeding to you. Over.”

“I must return to my post,” Goditha says.

She bows over her fists, stacked one on top of the other. Clive suddenly recalls that the keeper of the vault is a knighthood.

“Rise, Lady Goditha,” Clive says. “I’m not a marquess any longer.”

“Yet I remember my duty to you,” Goditha says. She unbends. “Just as you remembered yours to your father.”

The weight of the circlet, as he lifts it from his head. She doesn't owe him deference for that, for something he had to do. He can't explain the nuance, but he knows it to be true.

The ducal guard leads him to his brother. The air remains stale and unmoving. Joshua stands in the center of a wide circular room, flanked by a man with his long hair tied neatly at his nape. The long red robes of his office flow from Joshua’s shoulders to the floor. He heaves a sigh the second he sets eyes on Clive.

“They found you,” Joshua says.

“Sorry,” Clive says.

“Mother surprised everyone. I was about to send in Jote, but this works, too,” Joshua replies, shoving his fingers through his hair. “Wait until we’ve descended to go wide with the all clear.”

Jote bows. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“My brother will be with me, Cyril, and he’s the picture of health,” Joshua says. “I’ll try not to expire on my way back up.”

“Is that why you invited me?” Clive asks.

“Not entirely,” Joshua says with faux cheer.

Impossible not imagine Father, joking with his UnDG attendants before the stone double doors swing wide and permit him entry into the tombs of his ancestors.

They are forced to stop as Joshua catches his breath three times. After the trouble of getting here, Father's resting place is still and mundane. The sculpture of a helmet from another era adorns his tomb. Father is here, and not here. Joshua ignores Clive's proffered arm and kneels on the stone. Clive joins him.

After a few moments of contemplative and respectful silence, Joshua says, “What would he think of this?”

The world in which Father lived—

“I couldn’t say,” Clive murmurs. “Nothing good.”

“He’d be appalled,” Joshua says. “He’d make a speech about it.”

“He and Mother would have a row,” Clive agrees.

Joshua snorts. “He and Mother would have a divorce.”

“She’d never allow it.”

“It was going to happen once he abdicated,” Joshua says. He shrugs at Clive’s reaction. “They were separated for most of our childhood.”

The separation was never discussed. “She told me she wasn’t coming to the communion.”

“She told me the same,” Joshua says wryly. “She’s got some manner of scheme, or she wouldn’t be here.”

“To take credit for the programs, maybe?” Clive suggests.

Joshua looks askance. “The what?”

“She was talking about programs,” Clive says. “Like the ones Father implemented.”

“There’s no such thing,” Joshua says, furrowing his brow. “Are you sure? I can't see her allocating money into something that’s not—”

Abruptly, he snaps his mouth shut.

“Never mind, I’m being a fool,” Joshua says, shaking his head.

But that's already too late.

Jill, casually, cheerfully speculating about their next run and expounding on Crow’s plans for her future. Joshua, unable to meet her eye.

It can end like a fairy tale.

The sudden chill of something extinguishing within him.

“Joshua,” Clive says, carefully. “Is there going to be another cycle after this?”

Joshua plucks at the robes of ceremony pool around him. He sinks within their folds.

“The cardinals are reviewing the special distinction,” Joshua says. “I'm sorry. I thought that if we could make it worthwhile … but we just couldn’t get enough athletes to return. We didn’t take a single medal in Stonhyrr. It’s a rather expensive experiment, as it turns out. Money rules everything, you see.”

Who benefits?

“It’s about the money,” Clive realizes aloud.

Kupka’s only been an active nuisance since 867 or thereabouts.

That would be right after the war. Benedikta Harman, bitterly abandoned in an enemy country. But Kupka followed her to Sanbreque, where somehow he crossed paths with Anabella Lesage. Kupka can get anything he wants in Sanbreque’s territory. He's proven that any number of times.

“What are you saying, Clive?” Joshua says.

“I think she’s taking money from Kupka,” Clive says.

Joshua hesitates, because the next breath will change the conversation. There is no going back. They will no longer be two brothers discussing their difficult, narcissistic mother and her wounded ego. It will be magnified to the scale of thousands, hundreds of thousands. Millions.

“Do you have evidence?” Joshua asks solemnly.

It’s the Duke of Rosalith asking him that question now.

“Maybe,” Clive says, painfully aware of how little he has. “Sabine le Duc connected her to Leon, and Leon to one of Kupka’s cronies. It’s a thread.”

“Your Leon is far too small for Mother to bother with,” Joshua says. “There are almost certainly greater connections facilitating that singular incidental one. Smoke, fire. But will Miss le Duc stand by it?”

“It’s Lady Sabine, I think. And yes.”

Joshua stares fixedly at the crest adorning the stone helmet. He calculates the political angles wordlessly.

“If those plans are real, Mother’s been keeping them fairly quiet,” Joshua says, breathing fast and somewhat shallowly. “Possibly she’ll debut them as some sort of surprise gift to me, so that she can be heartbroken that the distinction will not be recognized next Trials. The money will then be quietly reapportioned elsewhere.”

“To her?” Clive says.

“To Sylvestre’s reelection campaign would be my guess,” Joshua says. “He’s not running unopposed this year. If he is not emperor, she is not empress.”

“What do you bet that the money itself is flowing from Kupka?” Clive says, cold to his fingertips. His hands become fists on his thighs. “And that he sent his lackey to remind her that she’s beholden to him?”

“Fuck,” Joshua says, and then he begins to cough.

“Joshua!” Clive exclaims. He reaches for his little brother.

Joshua bends in half, hand pressed to his heart. He opens his mouth. He holds up a hand.

“I’m—” Joshua says, and then devolves into a cough.

“Joshua!” Clive exclaims again. Stupid.

How could he forget?

“—fine,” Joshua rattles out.

“We need to get you back upstairs,” Clive says. He grabs Joshua, flinging his little brother’s arm over his shoulders.

Joshua is lighter than Jill, but this time he fights. He struggles to pull free.

“I can—walk—”

“Prove it, then,” Clive says.

All those visits to the clinic. Clive has respected his brother’s privacy, as Joshua respected his, but when he looks at his little brother, he sees the ghostly image of a little boy in a white room. Father, sitting Clive down to explain how sometimes, children like Joshua are born needing a little extra help.

As soon as Clive and Joshua are in shouting distance at the top, Clive calls out for Jote, and within seconds, the Ununiformed Ducal Guard swarms them. The route back into the castle is far more direct this time. They walk through one door, and suddenly they are in another antechamber, a different one. This one is more practically arrayed with plain tables and chairs.

Jote helps Joshua into one such chair. Cyril opens a bag of medical equipment. Joshua instinctively offers his arm for Cyril to wind a black velcro cuff around.

“It's getting worse,” Clive says.

“Yes,” Joshua admits. “It is. But I must be here for this. It doesn't get better with rest.”

“Rest will slow the progress,” Cyril interjects with authority. The badge he wears around his neck reads Dr. Burns. “And improve the likely outcome of any procedure.”

Joshua shrugs with one shoulder, the one not being handled. “The most I can hope for is a few months before I can no longer duck the surgeon. Mother—ah—doesn’t know how bad it is.”

Clive bites back everything he'd like to say.

“I know what I'm doing, Clive,” Joshua says with a steely undertone. “I need to stay in this. If I let up for even a moment, Mother is going to sweep in and 'pick up the pieces', and you know exactly how that will end.”

“Alright,” Clive says, though it kills him. “What can I do, then?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Joshua says. “And, if you can—win us gold.”

Jill swirls the tail of her silver hair on her finger and pin it in place, to go out on the ice. Red letters on black read IPR across her back. Other skaters whizz by, the sound exaggerated by the cavernous practice rink. The ring of an unseen phone.

Another angle on Jill, wide. She crouches by her bag, ear to her cell.

“Hi, Tarja,” Jill says. There’s a beat of muffled quiet. “Yes, it’s all fine.”

She rubs her knee.

A short clip of Gav and Clive. Gav is obviously feeling his nerves. Beside them, in a dark patch across the screen:

The first day of Trials.

“No, actually, something different,” Jill continues. “Somewhat last minute, too. I was wondering if you’d be willing to …”

Jill’s casual on-the-phone voice fades.

“Our memories are really all we have,” Jill says, to the proper camera in her own living room. She wears a neat waistcoat belted at the narrowest part of her waist with a hand-forged silver clasp. She smiles wanly. “And so you have to live, knowing that you will carry with you everything you do for the rest of your life.”

An innumerable number of Gav’s immediate relations descend upon the stands. Gav once described himself as ‘the quiet one.’ That makes sense now.

“What does that mean?” asks Gav’s father when they call the group number, booming over the raucous chatter of his brood. “Is it Gav’s turn?”

“He's going to warm up,” Jill says patiently.

“Then he's on?”

“Then he's on.”

Gav's little sister has formed a set with Mid, Shirleigh, and Edda. The four of them chatter endlessly. Edda is the only Waloeder on this side. When Gav zooms past, the roaring of Gav’s somehow not-even-extended family makes the benches rattle. Clive’s comparatively feeble shouts of encouragement are drowned out by Gav’s dad’s. Now Clive knows where he learned it from.

“Where’re they going?” Gav’s dad asks Jill.

“The warmup’s done,” Jill says. “Now they’re going to take turns on the ice. This is the short program.”

“Is his routine pretty good?”

“I should think so. I helped choreograph it, after all.”

“Oh ho,” Gav’s dad says cheerfully. “Is he on now?”

“No,” Jill says. “First it’s Kanver.”

“Don’t want to go first, yeah?”

“It doesn’t make a difference,” Jill says serenely, even though no one wants to go first.

The ‘man’ from Kanver is actually seventeen. He thinks he’s better than he actually is, which is normal for seventeen-year-olds. The confidence reads well with the judges, which will be bad for Gav. Gav’s skating is clean and effortless when he’s mucking about, but gets stiff and self-conscious in competition.

Kanver kid gets a decent score that he is gutted to receive. Clive doesn’t even pay attention to the heavy hitters in men’s singles anymore, and he knows Sanbreque and Waloed are going to blow past that number without blinking.

Cid puts his hands on Gav’s shoulders. He says something. Clive can almost hear it: it’s just Trials, mate. Clive’s heartbeat pounds in sympathy as Gav gets on the ice. His name is announced, along with his achievements. That bronze in the grand prix.

“C’mon, Gav,” Jill whispers. “Don't get in your own way.”

The music leads him up to a double-triple that looks like it was lifted out of a dream. Even Gav looks surprised that he landed it. He transitions with a little pump of the arm that makes the crowd laugh. Gav’s little sister is on her feet, howling louder than any of them by the time Gav lets go of his final pose.

“Is that good?” Gav’s dad asks Jill eagerly. “Is he going to the kissing cry?”

“I think so, yes,” Jill says, as she applauds madly. Gav’s dad cups his hands around his mouth and whoops.

Gav’s face appears on the screens high above as he and Cid await scores. The judges give their pronouncement, and the graphic changes in a flurry of visual effects as Gav shoots up the roster to the top. No one is more shocked than him. A stunned, slack-jawed expression fills up the screen as he holds his head.

You’re joking, he says to Cid, who laughs and shakes his head.

By the end of the event, he’s slid back down to fourth—Sanbreque and Waloed take their top spots as if they are owed them—but Gav seems overwhelmed by his improvement. From bottom to here. NT has not had many competitors rise up since the devastation of the civil wars. Gav’s family rings around him, laughing and swearing loudly. Happy tears glisten on Gav’s mum’s cheeks.

“You didn’t give up, love,” she says. She holds his face in her hands. “You made it back. You showed them what the Territories are made of. We’re all so proud of you.”

Cid waits until they’re done giving their congratulations to pull Jill and Clive aside.

“I’ve got some time for you on ice tonight,” Cid says. “Won’t be long now.”

Tomorrow will be Gav’s second event, and ice dance’s. Then pairs, followed by women’s singles. Cid’s right.

Jill comes back to their dorm room to find Clive sitting, cross-legged on the bed. He's reading the fifth book in the hot guy with a sword series. The whiplash between love interests is getting old.

“Are you alright?” Jill asks. “You’ve not left the room since we got back.”

“Mother has her couriers lurking,” Clive says. “Spotted one on the way back from the arena.”

Jill’s pleasant expression—she’s just back from going to see Tarja and pass off some of her extra friends-and-family passes into the events—drops off her face like a stone.

“Do you know what she wants?” Jill asks.

Clive swallows. “I have a guess.”

“Is it about Kupka?” Jill asks straightforwardly.

“Yeah,” Clive says. He doesn’t know what else he can say. It’s not entirely his decision. He knows that he knows too much.

She sits on the bed beside him. Her cool hand slides down the back of his T-shirt. It feels like a crime to feel comforted by her touch. He’s hiding so much from her.

“I’m keeping secrets from you,” Clive says. “Sorry.”

“I know,” Jill says. She runs her thumb along the base of his thumb. She laces her fingers in his, as if for a lift. “Every time I think about it, I want to cry.”

“About the secrets?” Clive asks.

Her sigh lets down the weight of mountains.

“Why it always has to be you who takes on these burdens,” Jill says.

Clive cringes, because it’s such an arrogant, self-aggrandizing thing to think. He doesn’t have to be the one. There are other people doing what he’s trying to do, surely, and more effectively to boot. People who are obliged to demand justice, who have the tools to exact it.

He is just a guy.

“You can cry, if you like,” he says, trying to lighten the dismal mood. “Scream, shout. Shake it all about.”

“I think I’ll just repress it for a few more years,” Jill says. “Until my trauma crystallizes. Then we can have it set in my replacement ring.”

Jill’s finger is bare. She seems unbothered by the sacrifice.

Gav bounces off the walls that evening at practice. Clive warns him off of coffee in the morning. He’s a wreck anyway on the shuttle ride over.

“I’m gonna fuck it up,” Gav mutters. They rock over a speed bump. “No, no, remember what Nazaire said … c’mon, Gav, picture it, picture the jump … oh, fuck me, I’m gonna fuck it up …”

Waloed’s leading skater is miles ahead of everyone. That man has gold clinched, barring a catastrophe or doping drama. The real competition is between Waloeder’s number two and Sanbreque’s top man. Gav probably won’t podium, but he’ll do better than dead last.

This is obviously not the encouragement Gav needs right now, so Clive keeps it to himself.

“You’ll do fine,” Cid says. “Remember what you decided. That’s happening no matter what, so just enjoy this part for what it is.”

“Right,” Gav says numbly.

Clive has no idea what this cryptic exchange is about. Gav’s dad quizzes Jill about the exact same things as yesterday. The theme from a spy movie, Kingsfall, fills the air with tension and drama. Gav approaches the first combination—just do it, don’t think, just do it—

“Is he doing it?” Gav’s dad asks. He grabs Jill's hand on one side and Gav’s mum's on the other and anxiously forces both to meet in front of his chest. “Is he doing it?”

Jill laughs.

“Aye, he’s done it!” Jill exults.

Gav’s momentum survives the first hurdles—and then never stops. His confidence in his training and his body has changed, for the better, maybe even without his, or anyone else’s knowing.

Because Gav’s story has always had to be a funny story. Most of his siblings can send money back to their relatives in the village he comes from. And what's Gav doing? This thing that his family only half understands? Why does that matter? Isn't it kind of a joke, that little Gav’s doing this silly kid's hobby like a professional?

He gets ahead of it that way. Yeah, it is a kids’ thing! And so his skating never progressed past that shield against disappointment, however much he wanted it to.

Gav breathes hard, arms spread wide in the final pose. His mouth hangs open. He brings his hands to his face and wipes away tears as he skates to the opening in the boards. Cid hands him a pair of guards and a tissue. He blows his nose. The camera catches him in the moment where he doesn’t know whether to hand Cid back the used tissue or not.

“Aw, Gav,” his older brother says. But he’s not laughing. He looks anxiously at the graphic above, waiting for the number to pop up.

They proceed to the kiss and cry, the dilemma solved by a woman in black who holds out a little bin. Gav looks stunned as the scores are read out. Cid thumps him across the back.

“Is that score good?” Gav’s mum asks fretfully. She gasps as the graphic updates. “Oh, look—”

G. Whitwood takes its final spot, directly below the top.

“Yes!” Jill says. “Yes! He’s guaranteed a medal! All that’s left to determine is which one!”

That should have been gold. Clive, conditioned as he is for stories with perfect, happy endings, feels let down somehow.

“A medal for the Territories!” Gav’s mum exclaims. “Oh, Gav!”

“That’ll be the first Trials medal for NT in any skating discipline for absolute ages,” Mid informs her friends.

A drift of snowy pale hair across the arena catches Clive’s attention. Sleipnir Harbard. He speaks rapidly to the Waloeder skater before he sets out onto the ice. Clive tells himself that it's just meaningless encouragement. Martha has dispensed loads of platitudes on them this week alone.

The Waloeder skater is less interesting to Gav’s family, who wait to see where their son will fall. Gav’s dad works Jill for details on why Gav’s performance was remarkable and cool. Clive finds himself hunting for certain faces in the mixing of the crowd below. He is brought back to the action on the ice when the crowd shudders collectively.

“What happened?” Clive whispers.

“He stumbled,” Jill says. “Good recovery, though.”

The Waloeder is panting when he's done. It was a good program, a good performance. But was it better?

Harbard is standing just over there. The judges make their last review. They give the score.

“Did he just take silver?” Gav's dad asks.

Harbard reacts slowly. His applause is polite. The smile is forced out. His eyes are sharp.

Clive wonders if that's the face of a man who purchased something, and did not get his money’s worth. Kupka, evidently, is picking sides and playing them against each other.

“He did!” Jill says.

Mid and the girls give an ear-piercing scream. Gav's mum begins to weep into her eldest son’s burly shoulder.

“Silver!” Gav's dad says, awestruck. “Silver! Our Gav!”

Clive wonders how he could have forgotten that second place at Trials means second place in all Valisthea.

Harbard disappears. The Waloeder keeps his eyes fixed on the ground.

On the top of the podium, the Sanbrequois waves and mugs for the cameras. Clive scans the crowd as the Hymn begins to play.

There is Harbard. Under the archway that leads to the lobby. He is speaking to a stylish young man with dark hair. They aren't even hiding it.

Well, why would they? Kupka didn't.

L’ubor wags his finger. Harbard simply walks away.

Clive and Jill stand beside a specific blue food truck in the Chronolith Plaza. Molly’s, with white flowers under the logo. Jill has a blue and white plaid paper boat filled with pastry.

“This is necessary,” she says to the camera.

“Mm,” Clive says, and nothing else.

Day of the first pairs event.

A scribble on the sheet that Clive spies over the arena manager’s shoulder says Security strictly enforced!! and is underlined multiple times. This ought to mean that Joshua will arrive any second.

Clive has been awake for ages. He paces the hallway. Soon, patrons will be allowed to enter. No word yet.

“Sorry,” says the manager. “I’ll be sure to call when they give me the go ahead.”

“Thanks,” Clive says.

He crosses the vast lobby space, partitioned by empty stanchion paths, to rejoin Gav and Jill.

This afternoon, Gav’ll be moving out of the village. His family has plans to do touristy things in Rosalith. Gav is pretending to pinch himself.

“It feels good to end it like this,” Gav says.

“Right,” Jill says. Her hand curls loosely around her water bottle. Her costume peeks out from beneath her jacket. Her hair is gathered and pinned up with sparkling rhinestone pins. She smiles at Clive, asking her question with her eyes.

Clive shakes his head. “You’re retiring?”

“Not quite!” Gav says. “I’m doing it. I’m gonna switch, like you.”

The main doors open. For a moment, Clive—but Joshua would never walk in the front door. It’s the Waloeders and their full contingent. Three pairs, their coaches, and their various assistant coaches. Edda spots the three of them and waves cheerfully.

“Hey!” Gav says, waving back.

Jill makes a wondering noise, hm? with an audible question mark. Gav just laughs.

“Someone warned me once to be choosy about a partner,” Gav says, waggling his eyebrows in Clive’s direction.

More skaters—Eloise and Theo, Sabine and her partner—arrive with bags and entourages. The buzzing of nerves and anticipation, which Clive has been able to ignore by prioritizing other concerns, lands on him at last and begins to gnaw.

So mundane and yet so unreal. This is another apex point of his career, but it’s just another day in his life.

Alone in his Oriflamme flat. Trying not to cry into the sink at Mann’s. Doing odd jobs for Hanna. Torturing himself with a crush on a pretty lady who was nice to him. Those unhappy days seem so long ago.

As they pass into the heart of the arena, Jill touches Clive’s shoulder.

“He's going to come,” she says.

Her presence, as always, pulls him back.

When Cid turns up, he smells vaguely of shame and cigarette smoke. Famiel and his crew scurry like ducklings behind him. Cid’s in his fancy coach suit, though the tie has been lost long ago to time and space. Famiel begs Clive and Jill to go back out on the ice so he can get some B-roll. He trails after them as they walk down the corridor to the green rooms, and exchange hugs with Theo and El.

“May the best team win,” Theo says solemnly to Clive while Famiel records.

Between them, Eloise is clearly the one who plays the game. One day, she’ll probably become a coach in the vein of Cid, or become the top of her chosen field, like Isabelle. Theo is the one who cares purely about the sport. He vocally dislikes the mud of FS politics, but he’s not afraid to be her extra backbone. That trust is why they’re so successful.

“You have anything profound you’d like to say?” Famiel asks as the green room empties out.

Eloise and Theo have gone to do a bit for their sponsors. Elsewhere, events have been going for hours. Jill sits in the corner and coordinates with Tarja over the phone.

“Not particularly,” Clive says.

“You’re not giving me anything,” Famiel complains. “C’mon. It’s all Trials this, Trials that. Blah, blah, blah. It’s boilerplate. We even got your mum on film! And there was nothing. You owe me for that, by the way.”

“They didn’t confiscate your camera,” Clive says. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Shh,” Famiel says. “No.”

“You’re recording right now,” Clive observes.

“Editing is magic,” Famiel tells him pointedly. “Real feelings, please. Big stories. Don't be afraid of what people think.”

He bristles and keeps himself from correcting Famiel. When he imagines seeing his thoughts on a screen, it is not actually what strangers think that bothers him. That's never been the issue.

If he says something his mother doesn’t like, that has consequences.

“Ask me when it’s over,” Clive says.

The difference between the camera and reality is mostly to do with touch and scent. The sweet comfort of Jill’s perfume. The grounding scrape of her costume against his hands and neck. The cool air. Anxiety in the stomach. There are other things the camera cannot catch that Clive remembers because he was there.

In the top left corner, a graphic lists a numeral one beside DHM and the top score. Below, IPR. They begin at zero.

“This has been a long road for married partners Warrick and Rosfield—Rosfield, famously, the oldest son of the former, and last, archduke of Rosaria, Elwin Rosfield …”

“Do we see Joshua, Duke of Rosalith, in the ducal box?”

The broadcast and media standard is to give Joshua his full title, and then refer to him as His Grace afterward. Clive is just Rosfield.

“No, I don’t think so. His Grace is Rosfield’s younger brother, having taken the title following Rosfield’s abdication in 860, when he was just ten years old. That’s a bit of Rosarian history for everyone at home.”

“I remember that day,” says the commentator.

The other commentator quickly interjects, “And looks like they’re taking to the ice. Rosfield’s made a reputation for himself as a maverick, since then. A bit unpredictable.”

Seven gray circles. Clive and Jill, entering the ice.

IPR — J. Warrick / C. Rosfield — Fire and Ice Theme from “The Ninth Element.”

Clive and Jill skate wide, opposing loops. They meet in the center. Jill skates a few feet ahead, so that Clive is behind her. Clive shakes out his hands. They take on the artistic poses dictated by choreography, arms held straight out. Jill’s palms face forward, fingers splayed up to the ceiling. Clive’s are held palms up, slightly cupped.

The striking beat of the music startles the audience. Jill and Clive snap instantly into motion. Jill takes off at breathtaking speed from a total stop, arms wheeling. They mirror one another perfectly. Clive lifts Jill briefly from the ice by looping his arms beneath hers. For a moment, she appears to hover over the broad white surface. When her skate touches the ice, she spins around effortlessly to face him. She does not lose a second of speed. They break apart, whirling, whirling, just enough distance between them.

They jump.

“Perfect execution. The judges are looking for synchronicity between the two skaters, which Warrick and Rosfield have always had to spare.”

The first dot in line turns green. The number ticks up.

“That was their triple lutz single jump. Looks like the judges agree.”

“Not long ago, Warrick was considered a long shot after a bad fall forced her to withdraw from both the 874 Trials and the 877 Twins Figure Skating Championships. This is a second redemption for her, and for Rosfield, who lost his partner just ahead of 874, following a disappointing showing in 870. After so many misses, this has to be a triumph for Warrick and Rosfield, regardless of the outcome today.”

This is their story, recapped in a few lines for an audience that may or may not know the details. It has been rinsed of the context which might dirty a simple inspirational sports narrative, from which a clear-cut, easy-to-digest, friends-along-the-way type of happy ending will inevitably be extracted. Famiel is not wrong. It’s a cookie from the cookie cutter machine

They fly across the ice, arms and legs interlocking. Clive grasps Jill’s wrist, and draws a circle across the ice with her blades before once more breaking apart. The horns build up to a high point. Clive slides behind her.

“This is Warrick’s trouble spot, the triple throw—”

Clive grips her waist. Jill lifts off the ice, spinning beautifully—she lands—the little green dot appears, and their score goes up. In every watchback, the decimals tick ever so slightly down as the judges inevitably review the element and downgrade for Jill’s buckling knee.

And she lands hard. She always does, and always will. No matter what she says, she is thirty years old, not twenty, and her body has borne its share of pain and injury. Willpower only goes so far. Miracles don’t actually exist.

Yet the number doesn’t shift. It ticks a few decimals up, in fact, and then settles. Near maximum.

“Brilliantly done,” remarks the commentator.

The music pounds its brutal tempo relentlessly, but they have learned how to keep up with it. Jill whips around him once more, hitting each pose in the transition in tandem with him before flying into the spin; and then, in place, each phase, leg extended, bent in attitude. They slow, lock eyes. Another moment, and they meet again. They are in motion, again. They lock hands.

“Look at that lift.”

Jill catapults once more into the air. Once, years ago in a dog park, she could not hold the simplest pose—now, she does so, stone-faced, while Clive spins across the ice. They transition into a new pose, and then another, along his back until Jill’s skate touches the ice. They speed backwards, weaving around one another.

Jill circles him again, in what he has come to think of as her protective barrier, the choreographic motif that highlights this performance. The music anticipates another highlight. Clive seizes Jill once again by the waist. The horns blast, and he sends her flying, nearly horizontal, before catching her again.

The green dots fill the graphic.

“Rosfield is known for letting the music dictate choreography; he has stamina in spades, and he isn’t slowing down.”

“Warrick is his perfect match here.”

He’s actually running on fumes, but no one needs to know that. If he just doesn’t let on, they’ll never figure it out. Clive and Jill unwind into the step sequence, shadowing one another across the breadth of the ice. The ‘restful’ part of the program, before they join hands once more for the final element, the death spiral. Clive guides Jill around him one final time before lowering her down to the ice.

When she draws back up, Clive curls his arm around the smallest part of her waist. Jill’s head dips back.

The music ends. There are no yellows or reds. There will not be any downgrades. Clive will go into the kiss and cry thinking about his lackluster step sequence, or how Jill slipped on the way down from the lift, but when the judges announce the score, they will shuffle DHM one space below on the roster.

“Nearly flawless,” says the commentator.

“Rosaria rises from the ashes,” says the other, awed. “What a story.”

“We’ll be right back,” says the first.

Noise, people, cameras. It’s a mess. Famiel keeps a lens trained on Clive and Jill as they exit the kiss and cry. There are no more events for them today; women’s singles are in motion now, swapping spots with the pairs teams. Cid glances down at his phone.

“Hold on, then,” he mutters. Cid wanders off.

“I think that’s enough,” Famiel says. “Alright, boys. Let’s call it. You’re not planning on doing anything else that’s interesting, are you? Got any insights to share?”

“No,” Clive says.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Famiel says, pointing. “My sister’s in town for work, so I’m off tonight.”

The cameras pack up. Jill wants to stay for women’s singles, and Clive has no objections to that plan. Before, Clive just walked away. The prospect of staying for the events and being social extends before him like a winding road after he's already exhausted, but Jill’s happiness grants him reserves of extra strength. His big plan is to simply sit and clap.

Clive steps into the uniform trousers over his costume and swaps the boots for shoes. He doesn't care that he's in public. It’s not like anything shows. His brain is elsewhere. He slings his bag over his shoulder.

Tarja waves from their allotted bloc of seats. Beside her is a young girl—Kihel, from the Moongazing thing—who chatters excitedly. Beside her is a woman he does not recognize. She looks too young to be Kihel’s mother, though there is a vague resemblance. Beside her is an empty seat. Below that row, Jill’s mother, Jill’s mother’s boyfriend, Hanna, Oscar, Shirleigh, and Gav are sitting and laughing. Jill’s mother—Mum, Clive begs himself—wiggles out of her seat.

“Absolutely beautiful,” Jill’s mother says. Mum. She sniffs. “Your souls are so intertwined.”

“Thank you, Mum,” Jill says, embracing her.

Clive catches a few people pointing and goggling at him as he ascends the stairs.

“You, too, love,” Jill’s—for Founder’s sake, it shouldn’t be so hard—mum says, and tucks Clive into a hug.

Mum’s boyfriend shakes Jill’s and Clive’s hands. Hanna takes her own hugging tour. They receive the love of their family and friends and then slide into their seats. Clive checks his phone, hoping for something from someone.

“I don’t think Joshua came,” Clive says, low and confessional.

“Didn’t he?” Jill asks. Her eyes flick upwards to the ducal booth. No banner has been unfurled.

Gav leans over the empty seat in front of him. He’s looking out into the bowl of the lower level at something going on with the Waloeder camp.

“Hey,” Gav says. He frowns. “Is Edda crying?”

Clive’s phone chimes in his hand. He’ll see what’s going on with Edda in a minute. This could be Joshua.

It’s not.

“It’s my mother,” Clive says.

“Oh, dear,” says Hanna.

Jill puts her hand on Clive’s forearm. In a glance, she makes him understand that she doesn’t like it, but she gets it. Mother can’t be trusted.

Joshua, coughing into his arm delicately. Joshua, crumpled in half, clinging to the table with tears running down to his chin.

I won’t be missing a single event you compete in.

“I’ll be back,” Gav says, climbing over the seat to get around that way.

Clive stands on the small square landing, staring at his phone. He gathers the nerve to answer.

“Thank Greagor,” his mother exclaims. “I was afraid you wouldn’t answer. That would have eaten up more time.”

“What’s going on?” Clive says, just shy of a demand.

“Your brother needs you,” Mother says. “It’s urgent. I dare not say more. I’ve sent Dion ahead with a car. He should be there by now.”

“Dion’s in Rosaria?” Clive asks, not necessarily to receive an answer.

“Clive,” his mother says. “Whatever disagreements you and I have had, this is far more important. You must come. At once.”

She is not likely to explain. She will just insist, endlessly, until his will to resist her breaks. Clive closes his eyes.

“Alright,” he says.

“I’ll take care of that,” Mum says, reaching for their bags. “Material items will only encumber you.”

Clive is meant to summon the Shield to accompany him to wherever he needs to be in the building, but that will take forever. Wade is on paid leave, too, so it will just be some random Shield. Clive is fine braving the lobby on his own. It’s the shortest way to where he needs to be, a black car in special VIP space outside the arena.

Almost in the same instant that Clive and Jill set foot outside of the main event space, people shout, point, cry out. A hundred phones leap into his face.

Is that Clive Rosfield?

Dion is nowhere to be seen. Jill grabs Clive’s wrist and doesn’t let go, hauling him through the bodies, elbow out.

“Clive!” someone says. “What do you think of the Waloed thing?”

“The what?” Clive says. “Reverie?”

That’s old news, that’s what he thinks. His own phone buzzes. He sees Cid’s name, and the beginning of the text, you two need to ...

Jill apologizes, no, sorry, we’re in a rush. Someone asks for a picture. Someone asks if they’re going to win gold. Someone—

Two dragoons carve a pathway. Dion stands at the other end, silhouetted in the glass. Outside, whorls of snow circle the bare branches of the trees.

“Let’s run for it,” Clive mutters to Jill, though it’s more of a hurried walk.

“Jill?” says a man’s voice. “Are you alright—”

“Clive,” says Dion. “I have a car waiting. We need to go—”

His mouth, caught in the middle of a word, hangs open. Dion’s bearing is perfect, even when he is shocked. His eyes go soft and sad. He forces himself to direct his whole body in Clive’s direction, because just over there, Terence has his hand up. He’s got a bag of merch dangling by his side.

A raft of people drift between the two of them. Terence’s expression is not easy to read. Dion is not meant to be here. If he planned to reach out, it was not like this.

“I’m fine,” Jill calls out. “Keep Tarja company for me. She doesn’t know anyone else.”

Dion’s chin rises a fraction of an inch.

“I was instructed that only—” Dion says.

“I’m going,” Jill says firmly.

“Either we both go,” Clive says. “Or we both stay here.”

“Very well,” Dion says.

It’s an incredibly awkward car ride to the castle. The click of the seatbelts is the only sound for a long time. Rosalith moves slowly past the windows. Traffic this time of day has just begun, and it is only exacerbated by the ongoing Trials.

“What are you doing in Rosalith?” Clive finally asks.

“I landed this morning,” Dion says like the report of a drum. “Your stunt with the communion had Stepmother in a fury. She railed at Father for hours before she saw reason and decided to forgive you.”

It’s no less than he expected.

And?” Clive asks.

Dion crosses his arms. “The cardinals are peeved that this petty matter has risen to their ears. The Cardinal of the North in particular believes that Stepmother is using her position to involve Sanbreque in a family feud.”

True.

“As you can imagine, this is not the show of restraint and circumspection Father would prefer,” Dion says.

“I wager it isn’t,” Clive mutters darkly. He cracks his neck.

“For now, it is Stepmother who is annoying everyone the most, but if you continue to provoke her, her arguments will start to bear weight,” Dion warns him.

“We’re not afraid of Anabella,” Jill says stiffly.

Dion is not Jill’s favorite person right now. She and Terence grew surprisingly close while they planned for the Moongazing event. Terence’s own background is that of impoverished nobility who gradually slid into normalcy. When Clive broke the news to her, she was not surprised in the least.

The snow comes down around the towers of the castle in tiny flecks. Cloud cover makes the time of day unknowable. The car sails through the slushy streets, unimpeded thanks to its special markings which allow it to drive in restricted lanes. For the second time this week, Clive returns to Rosalith Castle.

“Where?” Clive asks. He unclips the seatbelt.

“The Greagorian chapel,” Dion says.

“Alright,” Clive says. It’s freezing out here in the courtyard. “Let’s hurry, then.”

The Greagorian chapel is an odd place for Joshua to choose to hold a meeting—it’s not exactly a low traffic area, and besides that, as far as Clive’s aware, Joshua’s interest in Greagor (and the Founder, to be honest) is purely academic and related primarily to his real passion of old architecture, which has distorted Joshua’s sense of time scale. The chapel was built seventy or so years ago; Joshua still calls this the ‘new part’ of the castle.

Dion ushers them in through the smaller door, set off to one side. The lintel is chased with stone big lizards. The big iron-bound doors used for official mass are shut. Dion marks himself with the water in the basin out of pure habit. Clive scans the room for Joshua.

Olivier pops his head up over the back of a pew and scowls at them. Mother closes her psalter. She sets it aside.

“Good,” she says. “Dion, take Olivier and Jill to the rose parlor. I would like to have a private moment’s conversation with Clive.”

Jill's hand grips Clive’s.

“If she goes, I go,” Clive says.

Mother draws back. “This is a matter for family alone.”

“Jill is family,” Clive says. “Don’t you remember?”

“I must insist,” Mother says coldly.

“You don't want a witness, do you?” Clive asks. It's rhetorical. Mother's fury compounds.

“Always with your accusations,” she says. She gestures to Olivier. Her eyes train on Dion. “Take him.”

Dion blusters with outrage. “Isn't there a nanny?”

“Isn’t there a single child in this family who understands his place?” Mother snaps. “You are dancing on your father's last nerve. After that horrible story about your fiancé—pardon, he wasn't even that! Ten years, stringing that poor young man along. People are saying that I had something to do with your indecision. But blood will show, won't it? It is wreaking havoc on your father’s public image. You can do this little thing, and be grateful to your betters.”

Clive is sick of this.

“You're not better than anyone,” Clive says. “You’re the one who is always miserable.”

“How dare you,” Mother says. Her upper lip curls. “Did you really come here to insult me?”

“I came here because I thought Joshua needed me,” Clive retorts. “I’d have nothing to do with you if I had my way.”

“Always with these attacks,” Mother hisses.

“I don't want to be here,” shouts Olivier. He runs towards Dion, arms out. “I don't want to be here, Mother!”

Dion suddenly unlocks his limbs from where they were frozen with rage. He shambles backward, warding Olivier off.

“Get away,” Dion commands.

Olivier begins to cry, a wail that fills the chapel to the fresco above their heads. Dion’s face is a rigid mask. He’s horrified. Olivier reaches for him again, reverting to the behavior of a much younger child than he is. Dion turns on his heel and flees.

Jill touches Clive’s arm. He nods. She strides over to Olivier, and takes his hand.

“Let's go,” she says quietly.

Olivier allows Jill to drag him from the room. Her presence manages to calm him enough that that his racking sobs turn to sniffles. The small side door weighs itself shut.

“Was that so hard?” Mother asks the silence between them.

That’s not worth answering.

“Where is Joshua?” Clive asks.

“Pulling a thorn from our side,” Mother says.

So he's fine. Clive was careful not to mention anything that could have tipped her off. Does she mean her and Joshua when she says ‘our’, or is that the royal ‘we’? Clive wonders how he fucking fell for it. Probably because she sent Dion. Clive is mad until he remembers that Dion doesn’t have someone else right now to fall back on.

She's alone, Clive thinks. So we have to be, too.

“You were meant to be the duke,” Mother says, retreading her favorite grievance. “You were meant to follow in your father's footsteps and yet you threw away everything for a foolish dream.”

“There's no place in the world for the aristocracy,” Clive says. “All it is, is corruption and greed—”

Mother scoffs.

“That! Oh, that! Your father's nonsense!” Mother says. She stands up from the pew. She stalks the aisle. “Greagor save me. Elwin never understood the wider ramifications of anything that he did, and neither do you. You have no idea what it really takes, do you? A child! Forever a child, playing games with your little girlfriend.

“It's time to enter the real world, Clive,” Mother continues. “I’ve made it simple. We can all have what we want, which is a far more generous proposition than any you've offered me. I've arranged everything. It will be a perfect ending. Everyone will get exactly what they deserve.”

“You don't care about what anyone else wants,” Clive says.

Mother folds her hands in front of her. She breathes out, as if she is the one dealing with a trying, tantruming child.

“Joshua will be making his statement quite soon,” Mother says with exaggerated patience. “This is a delicate time. People will draw erroneous conclusions if we are not exceedingly careful.”

“Why? Because you’re fucking over Rosaria?” Clive says, aloud. “As usual?”

“How dare you,” Mother says, raising her voice. “Another crass accusation, just like the ones you always hurl at me—all so you can evade your own duties and make me into some sort of monster. You are selfish, selfish child, parading around as some sort of brave, martyred hero! You even believe it.”

Clive reaches down inside, where the little fire is contained. He burned himself in it whenever he needed motivation. He has come to believe that if something hurts, then he is doing something right.

Jill, under the moonlight.

He looks hard at his mother. She could have done anything, and she knows it. He sees so many of his own traits in her. Strengths that push well into flaws. They are not so different. Every time she looked into the abyssal depths of the end, she said I won't give up, and kept going.

But when she sees those things in him, enjoying the success and happiness that she should have had, that she will never allow herself to know because she can't ever admit to her mistakes and her failures and how her actions have irreparably hurt the people around her, because she's afraid that the pain will make it true—

She can’t ever be better, because she will never choose to change. She’s trapped in a blighted hell of her own making. Her character is quite fixed.

Clive pulls back. This drama between them is personal. He could lay out an array of real wounds that she has inflicted on him.

But their actions have further-reaching consequences. He looks at the desolation she has wrought in the landscape; how many people’s lives she has carelessly destroyed in the process of trying to control his, and make her own more bearable.

He decides which of those things matters more to him.

He needs to end this conversation. He needs to find Joshua. He needs to make her mad.

“You just want to go on playing dress up as empress,” Clive says. “You're the selfish child.”

“You don’t know anything.” She throws the psalter at Clive. It lands at his feet and skids across the marble. “All you have are those scant few honors, the ones I arranged for you to have! Do you think you did that on your own? I've had quite enough of your little fantasies, Clive. This is the final one I’ll bear witness to. It’s time for you to show your gratitude.”

Clive doesn't understand what he's hearing. You don't get it, little lamb, except on a different scale.

“What does that mean?” is all he can manage.

“Think of what would have happened if Sylvestre had changed his mind because you failed to perform,” Mother rants. “What fools we would have looked like. He might have walked away from our deal. I couldn't allow that! So I took pains. Elwin left everything so open. I took that wreckage and made it into our salvation.”

Rosaria's slow decline from prominence. The dismantling of its programs.

Where does the money go?

Sylvestre, asking him how he rated his chances against Sanbreque.

His own naïvèté. The best athletes will win.

The funds in flux. Being drained and surrendered to someone who will give Mother exactly what she wants.

He's seventeen. For the past two years, Trials is the only thing that has given his life meaning. He was a good skater before, but now that he lives in a wasteland, he is—he had to be—the best.

Every day is the worst day of his life, but soon he'll make it all up and be worthy again. A champion. On his own terms. His life, for at least a few seconds, will have meaning again.

Clive and Jill have struggled for so long, against such odds. Clive’s interview with VEIL made glancing insinuations about the nature of Kupka’s and Benedikta’s relationship. The people who know just enough are fairly certain that Kupka is behind the scandals, and that he targeted Clive out of rage, jealousy, hate. Nothing can be either proved or prosecuted, but people fill in the rest on their own, anyway.

When Clive and Jill get gold, it will be the perfect ending. It will mean that everything is as it should be, at last. That fairness and justice win in the end.

He is still a boy who loves fantasy stories. Gold is the only way that this story can possibly end happily.

Gold means that you win.

“Now do you understand?” Mother says. “You can be a good boy and do as you are told—for once—or you can ruin the lives of everyone around you out of pure spite for me. It’s your choice.”

Mother waits expectantly for her triumph. The heartstone ring gleams red on her finger. She always gets everything she wants.

“Why?” Clive asks, weakness seeping into his voice. “Why do you do this?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” says his mother viciously. She brushes past him. She leaves the psalter on the ground, abandoned. “You’ve wasted enough time as it is. Joshua needs us.”

For the first time in eighteen years, Clive enters the grand suite of rooms that forms the ducal office. He is numb on the inside. Portraits, mostly of the dark-haired men and women who are his ancestors, gaze solemnly at him. Jote permits them within.

Mother ignores her, striding past towards the centerpiece of the room, a broad, glossy desk, carved from a chunk of marble. Sitting behind it is Joshua. He lifts his head from his hands.

“Mother—” he says. His eyes widen slightly. “Clive. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—”

“Clive understands perfectly, my dear boy,” Mother says smoothly.

Joshua looks exhausted. He coughs lightly as he shuffles aside a small leather folder containing a printed document in small type.

“Mother,” Joshua says. “Would you be so kind as to handle the basic remarks? This will not be easy.”

Clive fights off the sudden rise of something hot and angry in his throat. Joshua treats her so gently. Doesn't he know?

He does. He does know.

Mother's favoritism isn't a favor. Joshua has his own way of handling her. A smarter way, probably. He flatters her and sends her to do things that distract her and make her feel important.

“Of course,” Mother says, blooming under Joshua's attention.

She exits through a gilded door. Further down the hallway, if he recalls rightly, is a handy press conference room, with a backdrop at the ready. Jote bows as she passes.

“Joshua,” Clive manages. How can he tell his little brother what their mother has done? “What's going on?”

Joshua drums his fingers across the desk.

“It’s about to officially break, anyway,” Joshua says. “Early this morning, Hugo Kupka’s absolute army of jurists submitted evidence alleging that Sleipnir Harbard has been engaging in serious corruption and racketeering at the behest of Barnabas Tharmr.”

Clive breathes out. Barnabas Tharmr, king of Waloed.

Joshua rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. He pulls the file back towards him and squints at the tiny font.

“Including something about the broadcast rights to the last Summer Trials—I’ve only read half this report, but I take it that Kupka quietly bought a broadcast company three years ago and bribed the CTC officials to be awarded the contracts for the Trials.

“But now Kupka claims that was directed by Tharmr, who also wanted certain other benefits for Waloed. Hosting rights. Certain results. His lord councillor, Harbard, managed that specifically. Harbard wanted to know why they weren't honoring their deals, particularly for Waloed’s premier events, and apparently he was careless enough to ask in front of a wire.”

L’ubor smirks in Clive’s imagination.

“And the ethics review?” Clive says.

Joshua’s smile is not a smile. His skin is so fine. The freckles on his cheeks are shaded over by heavy dark circles.

“The one prompted by Harbard himself? Yes, that's looking suspicious now.” Joshua coughs a little. “Pardon. Harbard is long gone, by the way. Diplomatic immunity allowed him to get on a plane bound for Stonhyrr. But the athletes are caught in the crossfire.”

“What does that mean?” Clive asks.

“The CTC is trying to protect itself,” Joshua says. “That's really the extent of what I can say ”

The CTC will have to act quickly. They have already damaged their reputation and credibility. Why should nations give them money, if they are going to play favorites and engage in criminal activity? Eugen Havel, spouting big, tough words about integrity? They will have to come down hard, even though justice for those types will move like a glacier. It won’t touch the likes of Harbard for a long time, if ever. No, the people who will suffer will be much smaller fish.

Edda’s crying.

Clive laughs. It's a single, sharp bark. “She's disqualifying Waloed.”

Joshua closes the leather folder. His brow furrows. He breathes in slowly and deliberately. “Clive—what do you mean by that?”

Clive clamps his hand over his mouth. He needs to stop laughing.

Nothing will appear to be wrong.

Waloed will be forced out. IK is in disarray and disgrace. Kanver and Twinside are too small, and Dhalmekia is under Kupka’s thumb.

And when IPR’s distinction folds, everyone will agree that they did their best, and that Rosaria actually did get a fair shot. Their own marquess even got a medal. It’s no one fault, just like with the annexation; it will appear to the best thing for everyone at the time. Mother will shush and shame any who object.

Kupka did not bring Mother into his schemes. Mother brought him into hers.

The bleakness he feels is countered by a sense of disbelief. Nothing is funny. The scale is humorous, perhaps. Everything is so huge and yet the reaction is puny. How the fuck is this happening? Won't anyone stop it? Won't anyone say anything?

No, Clive thinks. They are too afraid.

“Mother,” Clive says, finally managing a single word.

“She's in league with Kupka, for certain, but this very much reads like him saving his own skin,” Joshua says.

Clive shakes his head. “No. Kupka is her pawn, not the other way round. She’s removing her rivals.”

“What would he even get from her in return?”

“I don't know,” Clive says. He thinks of Mann’s. Fang Group. The construction, half-done and poorly done, and all of it expensive. “Free reign over Rosalith?”

“To do that, she'd need to lapse—” Joshua cuts himself off.

There's no need to finish. Whatever Mother needs to fold up and discard, she will be able to do so once Sylvestre's safely ensconced in his imperial office for another eight years. The distinction is likely only the first thing on the list.

“She's going to give him Rosalith,” Joshua says, horrified. “Rosalith. I should have—there have already been motions to end the protections on historical sites, and some of the cultural centers—the cardinals literally just shut off funding for the vault yesterday—fuck.”

His brother so rarely swears that Clive is shocked. Joshua stands up so suddenly that Jote jolts towards him.

“Your Grace,” she murmurs.

Joshua ignores her. He begins to pace. “He's going to knock down everything and put up cardboard. We need a shield. What did she say to you?”

“Joshua,” Clive says. “Stress.”

“What did she say?” Joshua demands, ignoring him, too.

Clive exhales. “She told me that I could either go along with her plans, or I could go fuck myself. She was rather more poetic about it.”

“And what are those plans?” Joshua says. “Please, Clive.”

“The thing that Kupka is accusing Harbard of,” Clive says. “Fixing things so they turn out the way that she wants. She implied that she’s been doing that since—since my first Trials.”

Joshua wheezes. “Of course she did.”

“Joshua—”

“I'm fine,” he snaps. “I have to be. She can't be allowed. She can't just shred everything.”

He holds his chest. He grunts, for a moment only able to focus on breathing.

“Your Grace—” Jote says. She touches her earpiece. “Your Grace, they need you.”

“Alright,” Joshua grinds out. “I’ll be there soon.”

“You can’t go out there like this,” Clive says. “Joshua.”

“I must,” Joshua replies. “I must be out there fighting. No one else can.”

“It shouldn't be all on you,” Clive says, flinching. Just a man, like any other. “You shouldn't be Rosaria's last line of defense.”

“Well, it is, and I am,” Joshua says hoarsely.

He is about to say more. He doesn’t get the chance. Joshua abruptly coughs. It’s ugly, ragged; sharp like a break and wet like blood.

He coughs and coughs. Anyone paying attention can hear at once that things are very wrong within Joshua’s chest. Joshua's fist on the desk is the only thing that keeps him from crumpling all the way onto the plush black and red carpet.

It goes on for such a long time.

Jote kneels beside him, offering him a slim glass of water that has been sitting patiently nearby. His face is red. His eyes shine, shot with pink veins. He makes deep, dragging sounds as he breathes in and out. The coughing gradually subsides. Jote coaxes him to take a sip, holding the glass against his lips. She offers him a cloth napkin from the void she carries around with her that she will send out to be discreetly laundered.

They exist wordlessly in the tension for several seconds. Joshua won’t look at Clive.

Jote hooks Joshua’s arm over her shoulder. She rises from a crouch. Clive positions himself beneath Joshua’s other arm. He and Jote guide Joshua back to the chair. Joshua is still, head bowed, for several tense seconds.

It’s your duty to look after each other.

It was easier, before Father died. When Clive was the big, strong brother, the one to whom the burden of rulership would naturally fall. He’s still the more prominent Rosfield, as far as the public is concerned. Joshua does boring administration and preservation work; Clive appears on the covers of magazines and on screens in short clips saying pithy, meme-able phrases. Joshua fights tirelessly for the people. Clive merely entertains them.

“I just need a moment,” Joshua says. He closes his eyes.

“You’re in no fit state,” Clive argues.

“You can bend everyone else around you to your will,” Joshua says. His eyelids crack open ever so slightly. He stares at a detail on the carpet. His hand makes a fist upon his knee. “But not me.”

“And what happens when you go out there and have an attack?” Jote says. “I just won’t is not a serious plan.”

It's the most he's ever heard Jote say at once.

“Mother will try to sideline you at any sign of weakness,” Clive says.

“And what’s this?” Joshua croaks. “No. I know, I know. I just …”

“It isn’t fair,” Clive says. “I know.”

Joshua falls silent. He holds his hand to his heart and rests. Vague words are audible in the silence, from Jote’s earpiece.

“Shall I delay them, Your Grace?” Jote inquires, stoically returning to form.

“Yes,” Joshua says wearily. He meets her eyes. He holds her gaze. He swallows. “Thank you.”

Clive casts his eyes down, pretending that it will serve as some kind of privacy screen. Jote splits away, walking towards the window as she slings out some impenetrable jargon over her comms. Clive only catches Joshua’s code name, Margrace, in the jumble. In her hands, she has out a sleek, nondescript black phone.

“We can leave it to Mother,” Joshua says, slouching down even further. He spins out a plan, even under duress such as this. “That’s the simplest solution. She’ll have control over the presentation and the narrative, however. Or Dion, maybe …”

“She’ll ask questions,” Clive says. “She’ll want to know why you didn’t appear.”

“So how do we ward off the attack?” Joshua asks. He’s being sincere.

Mother doesn’t ask questions about things she wants to ignore. Clive gazes out the winow. The sky is already growing dark, even just this early. The snow has not slowed. It drifts downward, unconcerned by the problems of the flesh and blood.

Clive’s own existence is an endless trial for her to endure. He is always dragging the spotlight onto himself.

Their feud makes for great television.

“You let me be your shield,” Clive says.

The camera doesn't see Clive on the other side of the drape. Does his mother know that it's him and not Joshua back here? His heart pounding, even though he is absolutely certain of himself. It’s going to be bad. He's going to be punished. Perhaps rightfully so. He doesn’t care.

Jote slips out to the other side of the curtain. Clive hears the shifting of the press in their seats, the clicking of camera gear, the slight murmuring and muttering of an impatient audience.

“Thank you for you question. My son, the rightful duke, is of course the correct person to deliver further remarks,” says Mother. “I cede the floor to him.”

Jote’s hand stirs the drape. Clive waits for her signal. She ushers him through as soon as Mother retreats. He feels the nerves everywhere—neck, fingers, toes, stomach, groin—but he shivers them off like Torgal after a swim.

“Holy—” says one of the reporters.

It's so strange to be here, in Father’s place. Clive, standing behind him as he spoke. Willing his nose not to itch. Flinching in the brightness of the big umbrella-shaped lights.

On camera, the angle is unflinching. His hair is still a crunchy, sweaty mess from the short program. His costume peeks out from the unzipped half of his jacket.

“Hello,” he says, leaning down. “My name is Clive Rosfield. You might know who I am.”

Hands shoot up. The boldest member of the press simply says, “What would your father think about the current situation?”

I can't protect you if you do this. You'd be forfeiting everything.

I know.

“My father believed that the Chronolith Trials brought the best of all nations together,” Clive says. “He'd probably make a speech about that.”

A sudden nervous chuckle spreads across the room. There's a scuffle from behind the curtain. The hiss of his mother's voice, too low to make out the words.

“What's your opinion, Lord Rosfield?”

“Not a lord,” Clive says. “Last I checked.”

Another chuckle.

And Jill? Can you make that decision for her, too?

Jill's gray eyes, so full of light. A little less than a year of marriage. The best and happiest months of his life.

Her dream, the one that she has fought for zealously for her whole life. Weighted against the hopes and dreams of hundreds, maybe thousands of people he may never meet, many of them kids.

I must.

He has to have faith that she will forgive him.

“I think you've been asked to make Waloed a convenient villain,” Clive says. “But they are far from the only ones betraying the intent of the Trials.”

Then there’s no going back.

“Could you explain that comment?” asks a woman with white hair and a distinct accent. Clive only knows it's her because he remembers seeing her. A woman in a loose ponytail holds this camera beside her, so neither of them are in the shot. “Are you saying Harbard is not the only conspirator?”

A muffled shriek. Jote stumbles through the drape, grappling with Anabella Lesage. They both stumble. Clive reaches out, to try and catch his mother.

“Don't touch me!” she snaps, shoving him away.

The room devolves into chaos. Dragoons corner Clive, and force him from the room. No one will see this for a long time. The feed blacked out far earlier, so only the people here have access to the footage.

“Let's go,” says the white-haired woman to her op.

And then, “That was the turning point. In that room. They shut down the feed, the online comments. She tried to bury it.”

She appears, in a studio. Behind her are blank computer screens and consoles with dials. She is the face of investigative journalism. Shula Ceaseless - Chronicler Award-winning Journalist.

It turns out that Famiel uses a pseudonym for his own work as a weak gesture against nepotism; but in this instance, he makes no bones about exploiting his sister for the story.

“That’s how we knew that something was wrong.”

The golden clock on the mantle ticks to eight. Clive stirs for a dull thunk against the door. He lifts his head from the bundle of his jacket as the door opens and forces himself up from the creaking antique sofa. A snowy white night peeks in from behind the draping silk curtains of this little sitting room they’ve stashed him in. This, rather than acquiesce to the Empress’s demands that he be arrested and jailed.

“What?” Clive asks blearily of the door. It opens. He stares.

Jill rushes towards him.

“I’m fine,” Clive says, embracing her gratefully. “They took my phone.”

“I expected as much,” Jill says.

Clive rests his face in the crook of her neck. He breathes in his favorite scent in the world.

“Clive, my boy!” Uncle Byron bellows.

Clive just has time to stand before Uncle Byron flings his arms around him in a hug. His feet leave the ground.

“Uncle—” Clive manages.

“I wasn’t about to leave you on your own in here,” Uncle Byron says thunderously.

Behind Uncle Byron, there are two more Shields. These are the fellows who have stood watch over his door, preventing his removal or escape. Now they stand aside, heads bowed as Dion enters the room.

“The cardinals have finished discussion,” Dion says. “And they have made their judgments. Father, in particular, is deeply unhappy.”

It’s no less than Clive expected.

“And?” Jill asks. Her eyes are fierce.

“The Cardinal of the North argues that Stepmother is misusing her position,” Dion says. “Joshua explained in a memo that there was some manner of miscommunication between you two and Anabella, yes?”

Nodding might technically be perjury.

“Yeah,” Clive says, anyway.

“Stepmother has been asked to remove herself to Whitewyrm,” Dion says. “In the meantime, Father would rather not deal with the fallout of outright banning you in the wake of the business with the Waloeders. That’s off the record, by the way.”

“That’s it?” Clive asks.

“Don’t look a gift ’bo in the bill,” Uncle Byron says.

“Stepmother herself was reluctant to bar you from the Trials, once she calmed down,” Dion says. “Although she believes that some consequence must be meted out. They’ve decided a sizable fine will suit.”

Uncle Byron lets out a singular ha. “Is that it? So you can compete!”

Being allowed back on the ice is such a surprise that Clive didn’t even think to prepare for it. Going against Mother should have precluded the possibility, but it seems that the hand of the gods is once more shielding Clive from the consequences of his actions.

He mistrusts it at once. If Mother argued for it, then alarms go off. Don’t touch, stay clear. The thing he spent years striving for is now an emblem of danger.

How is this always how it ends? How does Mother manage to make it all a poison?

Jill takes his hand. “Cid will have a plan.”

“Right,” Clive agrees. Even though he just woke from a doze, it was fitful and restless. He’s exhausted, and yet now he’s worried about getting the solid eight-to-ten hours necessary for competition.

Dion stands aside, expecting them to pass him by without further comment. But Jill stops. She addresses him directly.

“I invited Terence,” Jill says. “It had nothing to do with you. Tarja is a friend of mine, and she agreed to do a favor for me on his behalf. That’s all.”

Dion flinches. He finds a place on the floor and stares at it. His hands tense at his sides. “I see.”

“I made a mistake, once, you know,” Jill says. “But Clive forgave me my stumble.”

“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid,” Dion says stiffly.

Jill shakes her head. “It’s not. I promise.”

“I …” Dion begins. Emotion batters at him from within, struggling to surface. “I’m sorry.”

He flees.

Uncle Byron insists, rightly, that they cannot return to the village. Instead, Cid will meet them at the house in town, bringing with him whatever they need. Rutherford is dispatched with a list after presenting Clive with a new phone that he happened to have ‘lying around.’

The possessions they left with Mum magically find themselves in the room that Clive and Jill are installed in. Clive struggles to load up his data and preferences on the new device—he knows for a fact that he’s never getting the old one back—as Jill lays beside him on the bed. Her eyes are closed. She breathes softly.

Clive doesn’t remember forgiving Jill for anything. He doesn’t remember her doing anything that needed forgiveness.

“Poor Olivier,” she murmurs. “I think I understand.”

“Do you?” Clive says, tapping no, I don’t want to receive thousands upon thousands of junk subscription ae-mails.

“Geir liked to be loved,” Jill says. “But it could only be on his terms.”

Clive gives up on the phone. “Jill—”

She lifts herself up onto her elbows. Her long silver tail streams over her shoulders, the single fashionable plait bound up in it falling to the bedspread. “You don't have to tell me everything. I can reason out that Anabella is very likely puppeteering things from the shadows. But I don’t quite understand why she wants you to win this time. I thought she tried to sabotage you in 870.”

The sigh that issues from his lungs is twenty or so years in the making.

The lens through which his mother views the world is so distorted. He doesn't pity her anymore. He's so tired of her.

“Jill—I’m sorry,” Clive says.

“What?” Jill says. “Why?”

His new phone makes an ungodly loud sound. He turns it all about looking for the volume control.

“Well, at least it works,” he complains. “Cid’s here.”

Cid hauls their suitcases across the polished flooring. Rutherford shuts the door and says nothing about wheels on the wood. Clive tries not to think about what kind of haphazard mess is inside either of those cases.

“Alright, then,” Cid says, rubbing his hands together. “Catch me up.”

He navigates with confidence to the downstairs kitchen where Clive and Jill spent many nights in the weeks that Jill recovered. The chef has left everything prepped and in place for tomorrow’s meal. Clive is careful not to touch anything that looks professional. He sits at the island block in the middle of the room and recounts the events of the day. Cid helps himself to the fridge and well-stocked pantry while Clive gives the high level. He tries to leave our everything that Joshua said that might be considered sensitive. Jill is quiet throughout. Even Cid seems to have little to say.

“How much of this did you foresee, by the way?” Clive asks, when he’s done.

“Fucking none of it,” Cid replies. “Are you joking? You’re a bloody mad man.”

“You just seem so unflustered,” Jill says.

“’Cos I’m used to you two lunatics,” Cid says. “So. What’s the play? What does your gut say?”

Clive takes note of the items arranged over the kitchen island. The fancy knife block. The unassuming sugar bowl. Cid has assembled the fixings for some kind of sandwich.

“It feels like a trap,” Clive says. “And yours?”

Cid shrugs. “Mine thought we were clear of the mischief. To reiterate, I’m not psychic. This is proof of that.” He gestures at Clive with a jar of mustard. “And I didn't properly respect the fact that your mother is just as bloody stubborn as you.”

“Noted,” Clive says.

Cid cuts the sandwich on a diagonal. He sets down the butter knife he scavenged from the shining dishwasher.

“Never told you why I said yes to this adventure, did I?” Cid says.

“No,” Jill says.

“Jill,” Clive says at the same time. “You said she was worth muddying your boots for.”

Jill double takes.

“That was a part of it,” Cid says. “Pure curiosity, too. It had been too long since I touched the stove. Had to see if it was still hot.”

“And what's the stove in this context?” Clive asks, because he knows Cid wants him to.

Cid stares at the sandwich and sighs. “The stove is hope, lad.”

A phone chimes. It’s Cid’s this time. He checks it briefly, dashes off a text, and then sets it face up on the counter. Mid’s name appears at the top as she sends a reply. Cid clears his throat. The sandwich on the plate before him is Mogstagram-perfect.

“We knew, y’know,” Cid says. His voice is distant, hollow. “We knew, even back then, that Barnabas Tharmr was up to no good.”

“We?” Jill says. “You mean Ruzena?”

“Aye,” Cid says. “She was braver than me. She pushed. She was ready to take a stand. We were going to make it right. Do something big. And then she got into that fucking car.”

The pain in his voice. The unanswered questions. How that loose thread must have dangled in the wind for years. Clive is too familiar with that horrible word, why.

Why did it have to happen?

“It was just an accident,” Cid says, at last. “But I didn't want to stay in Waloed anymore. Benna didn't take that very well, y’see.”

For the first time, Clive does a little obvious math.

Ruzena competed in 866 Trials, one of the few Waloeders brave enough to do so. She gave an interview on it, which is famous, about forcing Sanbreque to respect the supposedly apolitical stance of the Chronolith Trials. Nations, coming together, to promote the ideals of peace.

She died soon afterward, perhaps a year. He’s never given that coincidence much thought. She was notable because she was a skater in his discipline, and a very good one, but she was both a Dhalmek and a Waloeder, and so there was little overlap with her and Clive’s circles, which were already constrictively small. Clive read about the accident in the news.

Not long afterwards, Tiamat was dispatched to Waloed.

One plus one equals two.

“You,” Clive says.

Years of painful partnership, jostling against a poor fit that occasionally caused real injury to one another.

“Aye, that’s right,” Cid says. “Me.”

It was me, all along.

Clive works through the chain. Kupka, in Sanbreque, meeting Mother. Mother, inducting an unscrupulous businessman into her schemes. He had always thought that his mother allowed their partnership to make a picture-perfect alliance, for the optics or whatever, but in fact, she had hated Benedikta. Looking back, it's clear that Mother only ever tolerated her for one—or six hundred and fifty billion—reasons.

You're such a bastard, Rosfield. You’re all such bastards.

Crying on the phone. Drunk and angry. She had just been shown the truth. That was how she had Cid Telamon’s most recent number to give Clive.

“So when I called,” Clive prompts.

“I felt guilty?” Cid finishes. He spreads his hands wide. “Well, maybe a wee bit. Not a day goes by when I don't wonder what would’ve been if I’d been half the man Ruzena thought I was. But, on the other hand …”

His phone chimes again. Cid glances at the text. He nods to himself, replies with a few taps. Then he blacks the screen.

“You had Mid,” Jill says.

“Just tied up the adoption papers, in fact,” Cid says. “Four years spent sorting that mess. Isabelle—she was right, y’see. I was afraid that I'd lose too much time, if I had to pay the price for my actions. No matter how noble. Here I thought she was selfish, but when my turn came round ...”

“I don't think that's selfish,” Jill says, quietly.

Cid bites the inside of his cheek. “Ah, well.”

Out of sight, there is a clatter, the squeaking shuffle of boots, and Rutherford’s cool, “welcome back, Miss Midadol,” all of which heralds the arrival of said daughter like a bolt from the blue. She rolls straight into the kitchen. Cid slides the plate in her direction across the smooth marble block.

“Thanks, Dad,” she says, reaching for the sandwich. Mustard leaks onto her thumb. “Literally famished.”

“How's Edda?” Cid asks.

“It's such boshit,” Mid says. “They won't let her compete. She's been pulled. Everyone on her team has. The Waloeder guy who got bronze has to give it back, too! Gav’s refusing to go to the new medal ceremony. Are they gonna let you skate?”

“Yeah,” Clive says.

“Double boshit, then,” Mid says.

Cid glances at Clive. Clive isn't offended. She's not wrong.

“You’re going to do it, then?” Cid asks. His eyes draw a line from Clive to Jill.

Jill waits for Clive. It's a long, hard think.

“I suppose so,” Clive says.

Jill’s lips twitch, but she doesn't say a word. Cid claps. Mid struggles with more mustard oozing from between the lettuce. She mutters a truly filthy curse to herself.

“Best get some rest then,” Cid says.

Clive and Jill scavenge the leftovers from the supper served earlier and retreat upstairs. Clive struggles to transfer his settings and data from the cloud to the phone for a half hour longer and then abandons the task. Jill sets aside her phone the same moment he does. She turns off the big light and leaves them in the soft warm glow of a single bedside lamp.

“What's social media look like?” he dares to ask.

Jill shakes her head. “Carnage.”

“Ah,” Clive says. He slumps, elbows over his knees.

“Do you think you'll be able to sleep?” Jill asks.

He rubs his chin. “I'll manage.”

Jill crawls towards him. She rests her cheek on his shoulder. There was once a time where he laid awake at night and longed for her to wrap herself around him like this. It's as good as it was in his imagination. Jill runs her fingers down his thigh, cresting his kneecap. He wills it not to tickle so bad.

“You’re still wearing the costume,” she observes. It’s under the uniform jacket and trousers.

“I keep forgetting to change,” Clive confesses. He swallows. “Jill, I’m sorry. I risked everything—”

“I know why you did it,” Jill says. “I understand.”

Clive sighs. He presses his lips to the crown of her head.

“I very nearly consigned everything we worked for to the flames,” he says. He doesn’t know why he’s insisting.

He supposes that he just wants the lash. Cid would let him have it.

“I know.” Jill kisses his shoulder. “Can I try something?”

“Yeah,” Clive says.

She kisses his neck, and his jaw. Her nose brushes the ear cuff he’s worn since he was a teenager. She holds his face in both hands and presses her lips against his. She reaches for the zip on the jacket, and gently pulls it down. Jill helps him out of it before unhooking the fluttery silky material of the costume. Her cool hands run across his shoulders, bringing up shivers. He worries that he’s covered in two or three layers of sweat—from nerves, then honest athletic exertion, and then new, different, possibly worse nerves—but she doesn’t seem to mind. He fidgets, feeling strangely unsettled despite her work to the contrary.

“It's alright,” Jill says.

“What?” Clive murmurs.

“I can see it, sometimes,” Jill says.

“My ‘looking for a problem’ face?” Clive says, meaning it for a joke.

“I can see you trying to make everything right for everyone,” Jill says. “Except yourself.”

It stings to watch her gray eyes grow wet with tears.

“That's just who you are,” Jill says. “I’ve always known that. You see that things are wrong, and you want to do something about it, no matter the cost.”

Clive swallows. He reaches for her. His fingertips graze her cheek.

Jill doesn’t really push. Not him. Her touch is tender and gentle, always. Even should he disappoint her. She catches his hand. He can feel her trying to smile. The fluttering movement of her cheek beneath his palm. Her eyes. Her fragile smile. He cradles it, terrified that in the next few moments it will break.

“Do you see it too, Jill?” he asks softly. “If we go out there like everything’s normal, they’ll get away with it. It’s playing her and Kupka’s game by their rules.”

She nods.

“We can tell Capitaine or Havel. But assuming they believe us, even an ordinary investigation will take a long time,” Jill says. “We learned that from Imreann. Kupka has the gil to drag out an investigation as long as he likes. He’s still in control, with his lackey doing his bidding on his behalf.”

“Maybe Joshua …” Clive says. He cringes.

“He’s not well,” Jill says, simply.

“I don’t know if we have any other choice,” Clive says. “Jill … this may well be our last chance at gold after all. There might not be an IPR next cycle. I promised you, Jill—”

So many things that he promised her. He wishes that he could save her dream for her, and do everything else at the same time. There's a clever scheme to be concocted, one that will encompass all their goals neatly. He wishes so much … but he has never had a single wish magically come true in his life. It is just him, trying as hard as he can.

Jill kisses his hand.

“I know,” Jill says. She sweeps the hair from his eyes with a touch. “But it’s alright if you break your promise to me, Clive. I already forgive you.”

He hates that.

He walks a careful line. He never, never wants to be the kind of person who thoughtlessly relies on the sacrifices of other people. If he devotes himself to service, then there is no way he that he will ever be anything like his mother.

Yes. It works just like that.

She leans down to kiss him again. Her hands trace down his arms, gently setting his hands by his sides. She strokes his wrist. “May I?”

His heart gives a little twist.

“Alright,” he says.

Even now, it’s hard not to be conscious of wanting something too badly. Maybe that feeling will never go away.

Her palms work across his muscles, pressing more deeply every time she passes over them. He stops feeling like trash. Though he sort of expects—something—to happen, it doesn’t. Her touch is so soft. His eyes flutter shut. He means to continue conversation, he really does. In a moment, though.

He's been so tired for so long. Only now can he rest. She lies down beside him.

His partner, in everything.

“What I truly want, Clive, is for you to do what you think is right,” Jill says. “Not just what you think I, or anyone else, wants. You.”

“Even if means the end of me?” Clive asks.

“Yes,” Jill says. “Even, then.”

Clive fiddles with the new phone some more while they wait. Jill has her hand pressed to her mouth. The early morning is dark and cool-toned. The faded gray of the sky in the big salon window just barely begins to lighten. Cid paces the entirety of the floor plan with his phone to his ear.

“Yeah,” Cid says. “Got it. I'll let them know.”

He hangs up.

“Capitaine says that he's taking the appropriate steps,” Cid says. “Whatever that means.”

It means that, maybe, someone, somewhere, will eventually receive a slap on the wrist. Clive isn't naïve of the way that things work: he understands why the process must be thorough and clear. But the way that it ends up being implemented is so broken that cynicism has become a baseline.

They’ve chosen to send Capitaine the video of Kupka at the bar in Kanver and some other things Clive has cobbled together. Mid jogs in, eyes glued to her own phone screen.

“Found it,” she sing-songs. “This what you’re lookin’ for, Jill?”

Three tiny figures. Kupka, looming over Jill. Clive forcing his way between them. He cringes. He looks ridiculous, swaggering around like that. As if he, a man with a dodgy back, is going to throwdown in a gala.

“That’s the one,” Jill says. “How did you manage to find it?”

Mid shrugs. “I could explain it, but …”

“Alright, girl genius,” Cid says, chastising her. “Send it over. Once I'm done, I still have to do the withdrawal.”

“You got it, Dad,” Mid says. She flops backwards onto the sofa between Clive and Jill.

Jill stretches. She fights the elastic off the end of her scruffy silver plait. “Alright. I need fix my hair.”

“Why, is it broken?” Mid asks. Jill snorts.

“I need a mouse,” Cid mutters to himself, as he heads back to the suite of rooms allocated to him and his daughter.

“I’m going to call Mum, too,” Jill says. She stands, leaning down to peck the crown of Clive’s head.

Clive sighs, suffering through another loop of data sync failed.

Mid has the gall to snicker loudly. She holds out her hand. “Let the master have a go.”

Clive surrenders his phone willingly. “Knock yourself out.”

“No thanks,” Mid says. “You nervous?”

The substance of their action comes down to submitting paperwork. Clive is more afraid that they will have made a big deal out of something that goes out with a weak little puff. Perhaps he ought to be used to anticlimax, because it happens virtually all the time.

“A little,” Clive admits.

“What’s the craziest thing you've done? Dad tells me, if it ain't that, it ain't that bad,” Mid says. She scrolls through something.

There's some sense in that.

“The abdication, most likely,” Clive says.

“The what?” Mid looks up. Her lips form an O. “That was you.”

“You forgot?” Clive says, a little amused. It takes his mind off the impending withdrawal, anyway.

“I weren't even born yet,” Mid says. “Nothing ought to make you nervous after that one.”

By the Flames. Well, that's true.

“Is that why you pull all your stunts?” Clive says, batting it right back at her.

“Eh?” Mid says.

“Dropping out of Kanver.”

“Oh, right,” Mid says. She lets the phone fall into her lap. She leans back. Her feet kick rhythmically on the floor. “Well, that was different. Dropping out wasn't so hard. I've done that loads of times. Deleting everything was the hard bit.”

That's right. Clive has never been clear on what actually got Mid expelled. He often assumes that everything she does is high above his head, though that's a dangerous thing to do. She’s only a kid.

“It was just a bit of fun,” Mid says. “I made this little thing, to help me follow my favorites on socials. Keep tabs on all your fakers. That kinda thing. But it was really good at what I made it do. Like—scary good.

“Then the Institute got contacted by someone, looking to buy access. Stupid money, like. I said no. They thought it was a cutesy project, up ’til they didn’t. And then I realized I had made something that could really hurt people.

“I had the patent, ’cos no one paid a kid much mind. But patents run out, eventually, or get challenged. And I figured that the Institute would just engineer a copy … so I deleted it all, and destroyed the backups. And that kicked up a proper hornets’ nest.”

“Why?” Clive asks. “If it was your project?”

“I backdoored my way into the Institute’s private archives,” Mid says, wincing. “I guess that's what the prof calls ‘vigilanteeism.’ But they wouldn't listen! All they cared about was how much money they could sell it for! I weren't about to make it easy for them. That's not how my Dad raised me.”

The High Houses. Mother, coaching him. He exhales.

You are the Archduke of Rosaria, now. You must do your duty to your country.

Lifting the circlet from his head. He wanted another world. He wanted more than chaos and corruption. It didn't work out that way.

Elwin Rosfield, silent in his tomb. Clive, wondering if Father ever suffered for being less than righteously perfect and good.

Focus on the dream, his father said. The rest will follow.

“He’d never give up,” Mid says, confidently. “I’ve got to live up to that.”

“I get it,” Clive says. He means that.

Mid passes him back his phone.

“Here you are,” Mid says. “You got to talk to the carrier, it's to do with the security on Byron's business phones, that's why it ain't working. I had call for the one he gave me. It's fucking annoying.”

Clive scowls. “Wait, you knew that? Then what were you—”

Mid pops to her feet. “Ta, Clive!”

He opens to Mogstagram as she bounds away. An unwieldy red number greets him. It's open to the blocked users list, which is now missing a name.

Well, he won't take that victory from her.

Social media is carnage. Accusations. Messages of support. Diatribes and essays. Simple threats and ordinary spam. It's such an enormous quantity of attention that it seems almost meaningless. He closes the app and thinks.

Withdrawing from the Chronolith Trials will be a rebuke, but the message will be muddied by everything else shouting at the same time. The Trials themselves will go on, sweeping him and Jill gently under the rug. There will be nothing except their absence.

His father wouldn't worry about that. If no one else in the world would do it, Father would. Clive knows that. He knows.

Cid, sighing as he stares at a sandwich he made for his daughter. Regret in every word.

And right now, the whole world is waiting for what Clive, the eikonoklast, will do next.

He doesn't have Joshua’s new personal memorized—Jote changes it dutifully—but Clive remembers the private numbers she gave him to contact her in an emergency. Jote answers after two rings.

“Sorry. I know it’s early. I need to talk to Joshua,” Clive says immediately.

“Alright,” Jote says. “Clive? Is this one of Mr. Byron's phones? I'll need you to submit a request to—”

“Maggie,” says a familiar, muffled voice. “Just give it here.”

There's a shuffling sound.

“Clive?” Joshua says. He yawns. “What is it?”

“Uh,” Clive says. He's distracted by the recollection that Jote has a first name.

Among other implications.

Joshua chuckles. His voice is hoarse, slow, and slightly thick. “I'm at the clinic. Try not to let on.”

“What would help?” Clive asks. “Would still gold help?”

There’s a pause.

“Clive,” Joshua says.

“What would help the most?” Clive repeats. “I’m not afraid. I make headlines. I have their attention right now. I won’t be able to hold it forever. But while I have it …”

Someone’s weight drums a quick rhythm down the stairs.

“What about Jill?” Joshua says. “Clive. This could have consequences that affect you both.”

Jill turns the corner, one hand ghosting along the finial. She slows. Clive smiles at her briefly. She returns it.

“She knows, Joshua,” Clive says. “She understands.”

“I hate the idea of you throwing your life away,” Joshua says. “I don’t want you to think you have to do this for me—”

“I don't. I want a better world,” Clive says. “For everyone. Joshua, please. For now, I have their attention. And while I have it …”

Joshua breathes too shallowly into the receiver of Jote's phone.

“Something big,” Joshua says. “Unmistakable in its meaning, but not combative. Symbolic, flashy protest. I can use that as a springboard to demand a wider investigation—but Clive, make no mistake. This will end your career. They will destroy you completely. You will be dust.”

“I'm fine with that,” Clive says. After the abdication, nothing scares him. “Anything else?”

“As televised as you can make it,” Joshua advises. “Unignorable.”

When Clive hangs up, Cid is hovering over Jill's shoulder with his laptop balanced along his arm.

“So are we withdrawing or no?” Cid asks. “I’m getting dizzy, here.”

Jill raises her chin.

“No,” Clive says. “We’re not giving up.”

The bright flash of the ice. Bodies crowd the strip beside the boards. The arm of the camera jib, sweeping over the arena. The shift of the ads on the LED strips. Clive and Jill, stoically waiting, cordoned off by Shields. There is no camaraderie from the other skaters.

Things are already strange. Sabine le Duc withdrew this morning, along with a few Sanbrequois women’s singles skaters. Noticeable holes in the roster make things go fast. There simply aren’t very many competitors left.

The score is read out for Theo and Eloise Kasjlok. With all their levels and flourishes, they have made pairs history. Clive’s scowl deepens. Everything he does is riddled with unintended consequences. He's about to foul their victory with his own agenda.

“Get that,” Famiel says from behind the camera op. He jogs ahead, entering the frame. Editing is magic, after all.

“Hey!” someone yells.

Famiel flashes the special badge he begged off of Jote. Banners flutter from the ducal box, Sanbrequois blue and gold, Rosarian black and red. Security strictly enforced.

“Alright,” Cid says, phone in hand. “She’s in place.”

“Hey, Clive,” Famiel says. “I was chatting with my sis, and I'm starting to think there’s another film we ought to be making—”

“Are you ready?” Jill asks. She glances down, at the bag she has stashed beneath her bench.

Clive nods.

“Real Chronicler bait, you know,” Famiel says, oblivous to the tension around him. “So I was thinking—”

“It’s just Trials, lad,” Cid says. “That’s all it is. When you get right down to it. Even this.”

Clive pushes past Famiel. The camera struggles to keep up. Famiel flails his arms.

“Hang on, hang on,” Famiel says. “This is a high tension moment! Don’t you have anything profound or meaningful you’d like to say? Something you’ve been holding in for a while?”

Clive stares at Famiel. His eyebrows are dark bolts across his face. But that pause is enough.

“Yeah,” Clive says. He turns. “Yeah, there is.”

He holds his arms out to Jill. It’s a struggle to keep a focus on his face, because he isn’t speaking for the camera. It’s for her. He draws her close, forehead to hers. Their noses touch.

It’s too faint for the microphone to pick up and his face obscured, but he remembers what he said.

He was there. It's his memory.

I love you, Jill.

She smiles so beautifully. I know. I love you, too.

It’s just for them. Their kiss is the only thing they share so that the entire world can see. Clive pulls away. The camera stumbles clear of him as he leaves behind Jill.

“Uh,” says Marnek (or possibly Halek.) “Wait, uh—”

“Wait!” Jill says.

She crouches by her bag.

“Wait,” Jill repeats. She's a flurry of motion.

A whipsaw motion. Clive stops; back to Jill. A flash of red in her hands.

“We’re all here with you,” she says, fervently. “All of us. You aren’t alone.”

It is an old design, one of the last of its kind.

So you can have one of your own.

He puts it on, one arm after another. Jill does not go with him. Famiel swears. Someone grabs at Clive. Cid slides between them, hands up, “no, you don’t,” while Clive pushes free. People begin to shout, overwhelming the just-barely-adequate sensor on the camera mic.

Clive skates out to center ice, a single figure in a vast expanse.

Black on red. ROS.

It must look strange. He holds his fists out before him, one stacked on top of the other.

He lies down.

The sheer noise, tidal in its magnitude, washes over him. There is no going back. He lies there until someone decides that he needs to be pulled off. Clive forces himself to his feet. The opening is being choked with bodies. Shields, officials. Cid and Jill are not in sight, but Jote is.

Clive blows by the officials outfitted with skates, so as not to be seized by them. He aims for the part of the entrance where Jote is. Feet and bodies jumble away once they realize that Clive is wearing blades.

Jote herds him through. She’s not without her allies. Other UnDG, not immediately recognizable for the lack of uniform, form a thin phalanx around him as he rips off the boots. He manages to shove the right shoes onto the right feet as Jote wards off any who approach.

“This way,” Jote says.

They force their way through the crowds. Most people flatten themselves against the walls, but in the corridor that descends to the garage, they are forced to stop. An Imperial courier bars the way. He is backed up by a set of dragoons.

“We’ve been instructed to escort Mr. Rosfield from here,” says the courier.

“Show me your credentials,” Jote says immediately.

It’s just a stalling tactic. Clive glances around for another way, but there is none. Just back to the arena.

Nothing combative. He needs to cooperate. For Joshua.

“It’s alright,” Clive says to Jote.

“Let him pass,” roars the sort of voice that doesn’t allow itself to be ignored.

Charging down the corridor from the rear is Dion.

“Your Highness—” says the courier, but Dion won’t have it.

“By order of the Emperor, I command you,” Dion says.

“This comes from the empress-consort—”

“And my father countermands it,” Dion says, his temper flaring. An avenging spirit, descended from the heavens to smite evil. A dragon, stirring from a long sleep. “She has done enough to Sanbreque! No more!”

Jote bows swiftly to Dion, catches Clive by the wrist, and pulls him onward. Clive looks back. Dion meets his eyes, blazing with fury. He nods him on. Jote and Clive outstrip their companions, slamming through doors and a stairwell.

The barrier that controls the in- and outflow of traffic is just in sight. Over there is the station where Sabine made her confessions. And over there, as they cross the garage, is the—

Jote's arm shoots out like a bar, holding Clive back. Ahead, baffled security personnel cringe under the demands of another dragoon.

“Fuck,” Clive mutters.

It will just be awkward for Joshua if he's detained by Sanbreque. It will have consequences for Dion, too, who has more to lose. Sacrifices. Clive readies himself for the eventuality.

“Mr. Underhill!”

He turns. L'ubor Dalimil hangs halfway out the door of an SUV in the outgoing lane.

“What exceptional timing,” L’ubor congratulates himself.

Clive’s feet turn to stone. He can't possibly be serious.

“You can stand there agog, or you can get in,” L’ubor says. “I think you'll prefer my hospitality to theirs.”

L'ubor shrugs in the direction of the dragoon, who has not yet realized Clive is here amid the general bustle. Jote looks to Clive.

Fuck it. He wants to know. Every avenue out of this mess is bad, so why not take the opportunity as it presents itself? He channels his inner Cid, and decides to act as ridiculous as the situation warrants.

“Let's go,” Clive says.

Jote hews close. She must think she can control the situation, because she doesn't waste a second contradicting his decision. She ushers Clive inside the car, and heaves the door shut after herself.

“Dare I ask how you happened to be right there?” Clive asks. He hunches down, in case the just-barely-legal tint of the windows proves to be just revealing enough.

“Are you doubting the legitimacy of our chance encounter?” L'ubor asks. He seems nearly bored as he passes through the garage gate.

“Yes,” Clive says.

“I left as soon as it was obvious what you were about,” L'ubor says. “It behooves me to be a little ahead of the curve.”

“Clive?” Jote says. “Who is this?”

“Hopefully a friend,” L'ubor says.

“He's Kupka's deputy,” Clive says.

L'ubor shrugs. “So it seems.”

“This is him?” Jote says.

“Don't be deceived by my youth,” L'ubor says with a grin. “I've come very far despite humble beginnings. Now, where am I going?”

“Why help me?” Clive asks.

“How do you know this isn't a trap?” L'ubor asks mildly. He rests his cheek against his fist. He guides the car with two fingers at a lazy six o’clock.

“You'd be even more evasive and cryptic,” Clive says bluntly. “Trust me, I'm familiar with your type.”

“Ouch,” L'ubor says. “Let's call it morbid curiosity, then. I want to know, before anyone else, why you did what you did.”

He wonders if this is going to be packaged into a report that Kupka sends somewhere to someone. Best keep it simple.

“Because the Chronolith Trials are a fucking sham,” Clive says. “All those people have spent years of their lives, training and sacrificing, and the rich and powerful use their dreams like a fucking toys they get to play with.”

“So a tantrum is going to fix that?” L'ubor asks.

This mocking cynicism. It's the kind used to provoke people.

“I'm not interested in playing your games, either,” Clive says coldly.

“Marked difference between a player in a game and toy,” L'ubor observes. He takes a third left turn. “But I take your meaning. Trust is a valuable commodity in my line of work. I need to make an offer on yours. Do I have a destination yet?”

“Founder’s Square,” Jote says.

This is the kid who snapped Harbard and the fucking king of Waloed. He can believe that was at Kupka's direction, and at his mother's behest. But it all happens because L'ubor Dalimil gets out on the ground and does the dirty work.

“What offer could you possibly make?”

“Did you know,” L'ubor says, taking the red light to tap Founders square carelessly into his metnav, “that by absolutely blowing up your reputation and career, you have saved your own skin?”

“From what?” Clive asks.

“I have a tidy packet of evidence ready to deliver to CTC headquarters, laying out the case that you have been colluding Harbard since 862, for your personal enrichment and to pad your career with all sorts of honors,” L'ubor says. “In fact, that's what I'm meant to be doing now.”

There is a drawn out silence, broken only by the click of the turn signal. Clive doesn't know what he's meant to feel. It's a joke. That can't be real. She wouldn't go that far.

He doesn't know why he thinks that. He keeps touching that place in his heart, wondering if this time it's going to burn.

Yeah. Each time. It's never gone out.

“Are you going to?” Clive asks.

“That's a very interesting question,” L'ubor says. “Which is why I’m so curious as to why you made that specific choice to do the one thing that could have saved you.”

Beside him, perched on the edge of the buttery leather upholstered seating, Jote has her eyes and thumbs on the screen of her device. She looks up only to peer at street signs. She makes no attempt to interject or insert herself into the discussion.

“I didn’t know,” Clive says. “But I couldn’t be a part of it any longer. Neither could I merely walk away. If it’s really so corrupt and broken, then it ought to be torn down to the foundations and rebuilt.”

“And if you yourself ruin the dreams of all those who yearned so exquisitely to compete this year?” L’ubor says. “Some of which may never get another chance?”

“Even if the entire world hates me,” Clive says, “I’d be fine with that if it made things even a little bit better for those who come after.”

“And should you actually manage to raze the earth, you do know that the institutions built atop the wreckage will be just as prone to the same old flaws, yes?”

“That’s a weak excuse,” Clive says. “We try. That’s what people do. We try again and again, hoping for a better result than the one before. No matter the consequence. We have to follow the dream, and have faith that, somehow, the rest will follow this time.”

It’s L’ubor’s turn for silence. The monument that marks Founder’s Square, a massive wedding cake structure of curlicues and flourishes, appears on the far end of the boulevard.

“Holy fuck,” L’ubor utters, stunned for fucking once. “You’re actually like this, aren’t you? You didn't do it for the honors.”

“What honors?” Clive says, tired of the assumption that there has ever been any benefit to doing the shit that he does. “Were there supposed to any?”

“I wager not,” L'ubor says. “It's only afterwards, isn't it?”

“We can get out here,” Jote murmurs.

Clive reaches for his seatbelt.

“Hold on,” L’ubor says. He fights his way to a side street. The car slides into three minute loading space. He throws the brake. “Hold on. Listen. Kupka is the worst thing to come out of Dhalmekia for a long time.”

Jote’s gaze is intense.

“Quickly,” she says.

“He’s surrounded by all manner of sycophants willing do his bidding,” Clive replies.

It’s pointed.

“Imagine that money put to better use,” L'ubor says. “I could do that. I’ve been trying to remain unseen, unsuspected. Position myself to be there when it all falls down. But all the cleverness that I can muster seems to get thrown out in fucking discovery.”

Rockford, presenting them with the most tenuous of links. Minor bureaucratic errors. Little crumbs. No one will ever be able to cobble those together.

“That money is a chain,” Clive says. “Why do you care?”

L’ubor laughs hollowly. “Because someone’s heroics made an impression on me as a child, apparently. It seems that self-destruction is the new trend. As you and Miss Harman have so capably demonstrated. Time to let her run amok. I know she wants to.”

“I’m getting out now,” Clive says, done with both intrigue and insults.

L’ubor touches a button. There’s a beep and a clunk. Jote flicks the door open. She tips her head, indicating that Clive should go first. It’s shockingly cold. His shoes crunch ice-crusted snow. L’ubor rolls down the window. Clive shouldn’t have worried—the black is almost entirely opaque, only vague shapes visible within.

“Hey, Clive,” L’ubor calls out. “One more thing.”

Clive, shivering, awaits whatever parting one-liner L’ubor is going to lay on him. Instead, L’ubor extends his hand. Jote inserts herself between L’ubor and Clive, but there’s no need. It’s just his thumb and forefinger in a right angle.

Heat. Light and dark. He never thinks about that day if he can help it. It fills him with horror. How could this be allowed?

The little boy. His skinny arms, quaking madly. The gun goes off. It is a horrible mistake.

Blood between his fingers. Gritting his teeth to get through it. That little boy, crying.

I'll help. It's going to be okay. I promise.

“Pow,” L’ubor says softly.

He rolls up the window and drives off.

“This way,” Jote says.

Eventually, Clive is shuttled to a discreet, high-end hotel where he is given a card key for room held under the name Jayne Redwing. He keeps finding tags on the dark clothing he was given by the UnDG guy at the safe house or whatever it was near Founders’ Square. Clive is struck by how much the UnDG blends with the environment. He never knew they were there.

Jote walks him to the door. Jill is the one who opens it.

“Clive!” She rushes him. He opens his arms. They stagger, locked in an embrace, into the room.

“I’ll return in the morning,” Jote says, dutifully ignoring the show. “Contact me at once should you require anything. Joshua will want to know about that conversation.”

That’s somewhere between an apology and an statement of fact. Jote has been in the background of his brother’s life for years now. She bows.

She is not so perfectly remote as he thought her. She seems relieved to not have bad news to give the duke.

Joshua. He’s never heard her slip before.

Maggie.

Best not to dwell. It is Joshua’s business. People assumed all kinds of things of him and Jill.

“Of course,” he says. “Thank you, Jote.”

Clive lets her shut the door before he goes back to simply holding Jill. Her perfume is mixed with the sweat of fear, which only makes him squeeze her tighter.

“What’s happened?” he asks.

“It’s bad,” Jill says into the crook of his neck. “Anabella has taken to denouncing you publicly. She’s insinuating the most awful things.”

“I was warned,” he says grimly. “You were right to wonder.”

The explanation doesn't feel good. Jill holds his hand over the stiff white coverlet. The word why sitting unspoken in his aching chest. It burns.

“That’s beyond forgiveness, Clive,” Jill says.

“I know,” Clive says.

For now, there’s nothing that can be done. They hide. Clive gets an hour or two of sleep before he wakes up, heart racing. His leg blazes with phantom pain like a jabbing needle. Jill stirs.

“Clive?” she murmurs.

“Sorry, sorry,” Clive says, holding his head.

Jill can sleep through most anything, including the television. Clive begs his adrenal glands to quit. He jumps from channel to channel. He wishes that he had a book of any kind, but the soporific of TV with the volume low enough that he needs subtitles will have to do. He nearly clicks past a familiar golden head.

Benedikta’s face fills the screen. The guide tells him that this is the finale episode of Intelligencers, season two. He's already seen it. He hates the fact that she is a good actress. She leaves just enough to the imagination.

He has no idea what Benedikta thinks of any of this. He leaves it. His eyes get dry and heavy. He wonders if her character is really dead. They don’t show the inside of the box, so maybe not.

At seven in the morning, just as Clive enters an exhausted trance, Jill’s phone begins to buzz obnoxiously.

It’s not a number she recognizes. When she answers, Joshua says, “Clive—if you get contacted by anyone—don’t give a statement.”

“What’s going on?” Clive asks, blearily.

“I can’t talk long. They’ll very likely ask about Benedikta Harman, too.”

What the fuck? Clive jolts. “Benedikta?”

Can Joshua see … no. Clive should have expected that. Lying down was her move. He knew that. He was counting on people drawing that specific connection. Kupka, and all that.

“Are you alright, Joshua?” Clive asks, wakening enough to be worried.

“I’m fantastic, actually,” Joshua says. Clive and Jill share a look. That's not sarcasm. “You should probably have a look at the headlines, if you haven't. Talk soon.”

Jill dutifully opens up her news app, with the intent to search. She doesn't have to.

“Oh,” she says.

“She had everything,” says Cole. He reclines, hands folded, in the same conference room that he took Clive and Jill’s statement. His voice continues, even when he disappears from the screen. His full name and title appear beneath him. “Names, dates, lists, numbers.”

Members of the press have to walk fast to keep up with her long, sexy legs as she walks out of a courthouse in Boklad. She wears sunglasses and a dress with a slit cut high up the side. She scowls.

“Does the have anything to do with the events at the Chronolith Trials yesterday afternoon?” someone else asks. Their words are so muddled by the ambient sounds that there has to be a caption.

She turns. Her disdain makes the heart stop. At thirty-three, she no longer has a trace of girlish uncertainty. She can live on her own, and she prefers it. The attention of strangers is enough to sustain her. She knows that now. Hired security keep anyone from getting too close.

“Because he was right,” Benedikta says. Her voice is silky, but her lips curl into a snarl. “And I owe him.”

The tease of a secret there makes the journalists froth. In the absence of answers, they will make her more beautiful, more tragic, more noble than she really is. She knows that, too.

They shout as she slides into a car. Her refusal to elaborate makes them even more desperate for her. Cameras flash in the reflection of her sunglasses.

Good for her.

“It was comprehensive, assembled from very close, very high up in the organization,” Cole says. Voiceover. “So pretty quickly, we discovered how extensively Kupka had been lying to us.”

Late winter scrubs thick gray clouds across the sky and white caps along the churning gray water. Off screen, a shelf is half-constructed in the middle of the room. Bits of styrofoam cling to the boards.

“VSU has decided that a ban of six years is appropriate to the situation,” Quinten says, glancing down at his notes. “‘Clive Rosfield will be hereby suspended from activities and participation in events associated with the Valisthean Skating Union for no fewer than six years, to be reviewed, etc.’ All told, it's shockingly lenient.”

The fines were not, but Uncle Byron takes such perverse pleasure in footing those that Clive doesn't protest too much.

“And Jill?” Clive asks.

“Ms. Warrick’s case was reviewed separately,” Quinten says. “As she did not actively participate, her suspension period is only one year.”

Clive touches Jill's hand. She accepts the news with stoicism.

“Now,” Otto says. “Quick review of future plans—we got that writing credit sorted out for the title, so we’re looking at a premiere date for the film. But—once again—the calendar is looking a little bare.”

“Can’t be helped,” Jill says.

“You'll be seeing me less,” Clive says.

“Makes sense,” Otto admits. “When's graduation?”

“A year, provided I don't fail out,” Clive says. He's gotten the spring reading list, and it's massive. At least he doesn't have to think about daily training.

“Good luck to you,” Charon says. “Jill, I reckon you'll be the face of it from now on. You up for that?”

“I am,” she says.

Torgal harrumphs. He’s been very patient with them.

“This time, the process should be much easier,” Quinten says. “Even with your notoriety. I’ll send the relevant updates.”

“Well, if that’s all—” Otto says, or begins to say.

Cid hops back into frame and unmutes himself. “Sorry, what’d I miss?”

“It’s over, mate,” Otto says.

“Damn,” Cid mutters. “How’s Isabelle? Is she there?”

Otto shrugs.

“Oh, she’s lovely!” says Desiree, from off-screen. “But she’s—”

Otto’s quadrant goes black. So does Quinten. Charon lingers.

“How does it feel, Jill?” she asks, rolling the lighter through her fingers.

“Strange,” Jill says. “Like starting from the beginning.”

“I reckon,” Charon says.

“Does it ever get easier?” Cid asks miserably. “I think I’m losing it, Charon.”

“Nah,” Charon says. “Even walking past a bar is a bloody nightmare. Six years on. But it’s for Goetz, he won’t quit nagging.”

Torgal lets loose a proper bark.

“Alright, boy,” Clive says, rising to look for the leash.

“We had better go,” Jill says. “Goodbye!”

She hangs up. They leave Charon and Cid to commiserate about how much they both miss cigarettes.

Torgal trots around the damp boardwalk, slowing hopefully by the cafe. Jill nudges him forward. People occasionally slow and whisper to themselves. A phone or two point in Clive’s direction. They turn up their hoods against a sudden burst of drizzly rain. The wineshop’s new sign flaps in a gust. They shake off the wet in the doorway. Clive towels off Torgal until he fluffs up. For his troubles, Torgal swipes his big tongue up too much of Clive’s face.

“Torgal, that’s foul,” Clive complains. “What are you eating, boy?”

“His elder dog diet kibble, if he’s any sense,” Jill replies from the kitchenette. She snaps a photo of her snack pack. “Are you going to stay?”

“I thought I’d come cheer you on,” Clive says. “Just for the first real day.”

After that, it’s schoolwork for him. Clive does not know what anyone expects him to do with calculus, but apparently he’s going to learn it after all. Mid’s offered to tutor him. He reckons he needs the humbling.

Cid is there when they pull in the parking lot, gazing forlornly at the spot where the butt bin used to sit. Only discolored circle on the ground remains. Jill hurries inside to change and warm up, but Clive veers over.

“Are you alright?” Clive asks.

“It’s a sign that we’re collectively moving on from the sins of the past,” Cid says. “It's a good thing.”

Clive grunts. He pulls down his hat.

The children aren’t fooled by his paper-thin disguise. Crow and Tett loll in and around the bleachers, and will until Jill is out there. Crow takes her duties as videographer seriously, now that she’s witnessed Famiel’s crew in action. Screen-cation is over, so she uses her own little phone, outfitted with a special lens. Tett lies on his belly, scribbling longhand in a notebook. Harpocrates raises his cane in greeting.

“Shall I be discreet?” Harpocrates inquires.

Clive chuckles. “It’s almost not worth the effort.”

“It will die down soon, I expect,” Harpocrates says.

Once the cardinals are chosen, he means. Clive concerns himself with that for a different reason; Joshua has suddenly become coy about whether or not those rumors about seeking the cardinalship are true.

“It’s odd to be retired,” Clive says.

“Well, not to boast,” Harpocrates says, puffing up. “But I wouldn’t know.”

“You won’t be joining me for cribbage club, then?” Clive asks.

“I could be persuaded.”

Not every problem has been solved. Almost none of them, in fact.

The CTC collapsed in on itself almost instantly. Fingers are still being pointed. Eugen Havel resigned immediately, followed by a glut of officials. The whole institution lies in pieces. Sanbreque and Waloed are disgraced. Both nations are said to be facing suspensions, but it’s to be enforced by faceless question marks, so who knows what will actually happen. Philippe Capitaine stands alone, a single tree left unfelled by the axe.

The fact that Kupka almost entirely ignored his own countrymen has turned into a mixed blessing. Despite L’ubor’s pessimism, he’s come off as an unlikely hero by disconnecting himself willingly from the power and privilege of Hugo Kupka’s money. He’s gained a following, though it’s too early to know what he’ll do with that.

Mother, for now, continues to hold the title of vicereine. What remains of her real powers have been suspended by the cardinals. Sylvestre has publicly retreated from their marriage, trying to save himself. Gossips shiver ecstatically over the word divorce, and helpfully note that the Emperor can dissolve any union made in a Greagorian church on a whim. He may not have very long to do that.

Anabella and Clive may never speak to one another again. He doesn’t know anything about Olivier, and for now, that's fine. Dion knows that Clive is okay. They spoke briefly over the phone, but obviously he is dealing with the fallout in Sanbreque.

Jill keeps in regular contact with Terence. Her quiet faith gives Clive hope that one day, maybe, they'll find their way back.

“Granddad,” Tett calls out. “What’s a fancy word that means ‘sad’?”

“Melancholic,” Harpocrates says promptly.

Tett’s tongue pokes out as he tastes that word.

“‘He was super melancholic,’” Tett mutters to himself. He copies that out in his notebook furiously. “‘Because his entire family was dead or evil …’”

Harpocrates favors Clive with a smile. He nudges him gently with his elbow.

“Yeah?” Clive says.

“I have you to thank for this,” Harpocrates says, in a low voice. “If not for your timely intercession, Tett may never have discovered such a healthful outlet.”

Clive is surprised by a flush of embarrassment. I

“Er—that’s great,” Clive says. “I don't know if I can rightly take credit for that.”

“Ah, but you can,” Harpocrates says. “I was so concerned with Tett’s well-being that I did not consider the most important thing of all in a child's activity: fun. I am most grateful for the correction.”

Clive studies the space between his feet. The grooves in the bleachers. “You're welcome.”

Crow’s little voice whoops. Clive looks up. Jill skates in a wide circle over the surface of the ice. She does a few turns. Her arms extend as she drifts. When she passes, she waves to Clive.

“Little longer,” Cid calls to her, eyes glued to his phone.

Clive excuses himself briefly. He half-jogs down to the boards. Jill sweeps another round and then coasts to a stop in front of him. They ignore the sign. Everyone does.

“Did you want me?” Clive asks.

Jill looks sheepish. “No. Maybe. It’s going to be very strange.”

“Only at first,” Clive says.

“Are you alright with it?” Jill asks. She sighs. “Just—it was because of you. If not for you, it would have been no one. But now—”

“It’s alright,” Clive says. He cups her cheek. He leans close. Their foreheads touch. “I understand. You want to keep going. I want that, too.”

“Thank you, Clive,” Jill murmurs. Her lips hover, just a breath away from his.

Gav clears his throat as he ducks through the door from the men's lockers.

“Sorry,” he says, cringing. “Uh, sorry, I’m late.”

Clive and Jill break apart. Jill strains to hold in her snicker. Her hand hides her mouth. Clive shakes his head. He rejoins Harpocrates, and they watch as Gav learns to get less shy about flinging Jill around on the ice.

It is strange, but it’s right. Jill doesn’t want to quit. Not yet. She has things she still wants to prove. When Clive graduates, they’ll move to the Territories, and begin the process there for acquiring the privilege of representing NT. Jill isn’t afraid of what anyone will say. Gav is thrilled. Cid talks about touring the Continent while VSU gets its shit together. Clive wouldn’t mind tagging along to play supportive husband, but he’s done skating competitively.

He wants to move on.

That evening, Clive and Jill finish puzzling out the shelf. She makes supper while Clive sorts the books by series and author. She plays him a selection of new music that she’s thinking of. Torgal begs for a bit of salmon and is flatly denied. Jill wears one of his Bennumere T-shirts to bed, elevating something boring and normal to cute, hot, sexy. She cuddles next to him, watching her videos. She wants to make a meringue dessert for Gav’s family when they visit.

“Maybe I should get a lamp,” Clive says, setting his book to one side.

“I think so,” Jill agrees. “Are you done already?”

“Yeah,” Clive says.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do next. His life extends before him, the exact path of it hidden from him. It could take him anywhere. He could do anything.

“Will you be up a little longer?” Clive asks.

“You know the answer,” Jill says. She is not exactly embarrassed by it, but sometimes she gets sucked in.

Clive inches his legs out from beneath Torgal. He whines a little in his sleep. When Clive returns, he has his laptop. Jill tilts her head, curious.

“It’s just an idea,” Clive says, not quite self-consciously. “It could be fun.”

“Good.” Jill smiles. She leans over to kiss him before returning to the meringue.

Clive opens the word processor.

The hideaway, again. The gym. Dust motes float in the air. The windows. Clive and Jill, from head to toe in the mirror. They are small in the frame. This was filmed so long ago.

“You want to do that song?” Clive says. He bends over Jill’s phone.

“Yes,” Jill replies. “I think it’s fitting. This is what started it.”

“We didn’t know where our dream would take us,” Clive says, in voiceover. “Or what it would ask of us by the time it was over. We had to follow it through.”

They skate together, appearing together one last time on the ice. The music plays. Slow and melancholic. Jill likes this song still, but now it can make her cry. ‘My Star.’ They will never skate to it in competition, but that’s beyond the point now.

Clive catches up to her. His hands brace around her waist. They bend.

“But where one journey ends …”

He throws Jill, high in the air. She spins, soaring—and just a heartbeat after the apex, just before she begins to fall—

The title, on black. Final Fantasy.

The credits roll.