Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Furina stares at the ceiling of her apartment, watching dust motes dance in the beam of sunlight cutting through her half-drawn curtains. Another morning where getting out of bed feels like a monumental task. It’s been weeks since the trial—since the truth was exposed, since the flood, since she stepped down from her role as the Hydro Archon.

She isn’t having one of her truly bad days—the kind where she can’t summon the energy to leave her bed, where even breathing feels like a performance she no longer has the strength to maintain. But there’s a familiar heaviness settling into her limbs, a certain hollowness expanding in her chest that warns of worse to come.

Clorinde’s words from their last meeting echo in her mind: Don’t wait until you’re drowning, Furina. Reach out when you first feel the waters rising.

She considers doing just that, before she remembers—Clorinde will be occupied all day with duels. The thought of interrupting something so important with her melancholy makes shame burn hot beneath her skin.

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, Furina’s gaze falls on the letter sitting on her nightstand, half-covered by a book. The elegant wax seal remains unbroken, the parchment’s edges beginning to curl slightly after days of deliberate neglect. Neuvillette’s handwriting is unmistakable—precise, measured strokes forming her name in formal cursive that seems to accuse her of avoidance.

Official business requiring her consultation.

The mere thought of facing him—of confronting anything connected to her former duties—makes her stomach clench painfully. What could he possibly need me for now? Haven’t I given enough? The questions rise unbidden, threatening to drag her back under the covers—

"Absolutely not," she announces to the empty room, standing with sudden determination. "I need... a distraction."

Her eyes shift to the small box of sweets Navia brought during her last visit. That’s it—she’ll visit Navia. The Spina will be busy, of course, but her company has always been a comfort, a steadying force when Furina’s thoughts threaten to spiral.

Still, the decision to visit comes with no small amount of trepidation. After all, Poisson holds memories she’d rather not confront. But the alternative is staying here, alone with that unopened letter and her increasingly heavy thoughts.

One last glance at Neuvillette’s letter, still waiting patiently for attention she can’t bear to give it. “Later,” she promises, though she knows it’s likely yet another lie. 

She moves the book before leaving, now completely covering the letter under it—out of sight, if not entirely out of mind.

***

The streets of Poisson feel both foreign and uncomfortably familiar. Furina keeps her head slightly bowed as she navigates them, grateful that most residents today are seemingly too absorbed in their tasks to notice the former Hydro Archon passing by.

The Spina di Rosula's headquarters hums with activity—as it has every day since the flood. She slips through the entrance, keeping to the shadows as she makes her way toward Navia's office.

As she rounds the final corner, voices drift from the open doorway ahead. Furina recognizes Navia's warm, confident tone immediately—and then freezes at the sound of a second voice, one she's heard before. Lower, measured, with a precision that sends a fearful shiver down her spine.

“…the documentation should suffice. I appreciate your assistance in this matter.”

“It’s hardly anything compared to what you’ve contributed to the rebuilding efforts,” Navia replies. “Though I’m still trying to figure out your angle in all this.”

A soft chuckle follows—the sound so unexpected that Furina finds herself pressing closer to the wall, heartbeat turning erratic as she strains to hear.

"Sometimes pragmatism isn't as complicated as people assume it to be," the lower voice continues.

Furina peers carefully around the corner. Navia stands in the doorway of her office, arms crossed but expression open. Beside her, cutting a striking figure in her crisp suit, is Arlecchino—the Knave herself.

“Well, those reimbursement documents will definitely help us with the expenses,” Navia is saying. “Let me get them for you. I believe Lorenzo should have them ready.”

“There’s no rush—”

“Nonsense. You’re already here, and it’ll only take a moment. I’ll go get them myself.”

Before Arlecchino can politely protest further, Navia is striding down the corridor, moving so quickly she completely misses Furina pressed against the wall. She hadn't expected to encounter the Knave here—or, more accurately, she had hoped not to encounter the Knave ever again. Not after their tense tea parties, and especially not after that night.

She presses herself further into the shadows, fingertips cold against the wall. The rational part of her mind insists there should be nothing to fear from a chance meeting—especially in public. And yet… She remembers those strange, unsettling, sharp eyes and the way they had made her feel. She shivers once again.

Her weight shifts slightly, the wooden floor creaking beneath her foot—a small sound, but in the sudden silence, it seems deafening.

"Miss Furina," Arlecchino's voice cuts through the quiet, smooth and controlled. "What a pleasant surprise."

Furina freezes, her throat tightening. For a heartbeat, she contemplates retreat, imagines turning on her heel and fleeing back to the safety of her covers. Then, drawing on centuries of experience, she assembles her features into a mask of casual confidence and steps into view, though her fingers still tremble slightly at her sides.

The Knave stands exactly where Navia left her, but her posture has shifted subtly, her attention now completely focused on her.

“Knave,” she acknowledges with a smile, injecting brightness into her voice that she doesn’t feel. “I hadn’t expected to find you here today. Business with Navia, I presume? The Spina seems quite occupied these days—everyone rushing about with such purpose."

She punctuates her words with a series of dramatic gestures, drawing attention away from her face where the strain of maintaining her expression might show—one of her many tricks born out of necessity.

Arlecchino's expression remains neutral, but her eyes track Furina's movements with careful attention. "Indeed. The reconstruction efforts continue to require coordination across various parties."

"Of course, of course," Furina continues, her voice lifting into the higher register she adopts when performing enthusiasm. "The spirit of cooperation in times of crisis is truly inspiring, wouldn't you agree?"

The Knave hums, rather noncommittally. Throughout her performance, Furina is acutely aware of how Arlecchino observes her. Her gaze seems to take in every detail: the slight shadows beneath Furina's eyes, the tension in her shoulders despite her spiritedness, the brittle quality to her smile.

"You seem weary," Arlecchino says after a beat. "Have you been sleeping well?"

The sudden question—the insight, the casual way of asking, as though sincerely—catches Furina off-guard. She recovers quickly, tossing her head back with theatrical flair.

"Oh, you know how it is when inspiration strikes! An artist can hardly be expected to keep regular hours when there's work to be done," she declares. "I'm involved in a rather ambitious project at the moment—terribly consuming, but that's the price of brilliance, isn't it?"

Arlecchino studies her for a moment longer, something flickering in her expression. Rather than pressing further, she shifts the conversation.

"And what an artist you are indeed. I happened to witness your recent performance in The Little Oceanid," she says. "Truly captivating. I believe your directorial vision was particularly impressive."

Furina blinks, momentarily uncertain how to respond to praise from the Knave. Well, that’s a first.

"You... attended my show?"

"I did." Arlecchino inclines her head slightly, a gesture that manages to be both respectful and evaluative at once. "It was quite memorable. As expected of any venture involving you, of course."

Furina's practiced smile falters for an instant. Compliments were her currency, her daily bread—yet they felt odd coming from the Knave’s mouth. Unearned. Insincere.

She fiddles with her hat, buying herself a moment.

"You flatter me," she trills with a laugh, her voice pitched higher than intended. "I'm a rather humble artist, you see. I don't do well with such open compliments."

The corner of Arlecchino's mouth curves upward—not quite a smile, but something adjacent to amusement. "Humble as well? It seems none can match you in virtue, miss Furina."

Gentle mockery coats the words, yet it’s delivered with such polished restraint that responding with offense would seem unreasonable. Perhaps mockery isn’t quite the correct term—something more akin to polite teasing instead?

Before she can come up with a reply that doesn’t betray her fluster, Navia rushes back.

"Here we are," she announces, brandishing a folder. Her eyes widen slightly as she notices Furina. "Oh! Furina! I didn't see you arrive. Have you been waiting long?"

Furina turns to Navia with relief flooding her chest, grateful for the interruption. "Ah, not at all! I just arrived and happened upon your guest." She nods toward Arlecchino without fully looking at her. "We were just exchanging pleasantries."

Navia's gaze flickers between them, quick and assessing. "Well, perfect timing then. I've got what you need," she tells Arlecchino, handing over the folder. "Everything should be in order, but let me know if there are any issues."

"Once again, thank you for your assistance," Arlecchino says, gracefully accepting the documents. "This will greatly expedite matters.”

Navia grins, placing her hands on her hips. "And once again, after everything you've done to help with the reconstruction, I'd say I'm the one who owes you a favor."

"Consider it already repaid. You’re allowing my children to remain in Poisson until the situation at the House is resolved, after all."

"They've been remarkably well-behaved," Navia replies. "A credit to your method of upbringing, I suppose."

“Quite the flatterer, are we?” Something softens almost imperceptibly in Arlecchino's expression as the conversation shifts to the topic of her children. "But I'll be sure to pass along your compliment. Praise is a valuable resource in a child’s life."

Furina observes the exchange with a touch of intrigue. This version of the Knave seems… at odds with the calculating presence she remembers from their previous encounters.

With a final glance at Furina, Arlecchino prepares to leave. "I should be on my way. Until next time, Miss Furina."

The farewell holds no particular promise or threat, yet somehow the words feel inevitable—their paths will cross again, whether Furina wishes it or not. 

Or perhaps she’s simply overthinking, another symptom of the looming fog she's been fighting all morning.

The Knave departs with measured steps, the subtle scent of rainbow roses lingering in the air after her. Furina finally releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

"Well, that certainly was interesting," Navia says, eyebrows raised as she watches Furina's shoulders visibly relax. "Come in, won't you? What brings you to my office today?"

Furina follows Navia inside, sinking into the chair across from her desk with less grace than she'd normally allow herself. "Oh, you know. Just seeking some pleasant company. The apartment walls were beginning to close in a bit."

Navia's expression turns sympathetic. "One of those days, huh?"

"Not… quite yet," Furina admits. "But heading in that direction."

"Well then, I think I know exactly what we need,” Navia decides after a moment of deliberation. “I was planning to bake a fresh batch of macarons this evening anyway—why not start now? Nothing chases away melancholy like baking."

Furina's expression brightens genuinely for the first time that day. "Your recipe? The one you've been promising to teach me?"

"The very same," she confirms with a wink. "Though I maintain that the secret ingredient is simply… love."

"Hmph." Furina crosses her arms with mock indignation. "Everyone always says that. Well, I'll have you know nothing can surpass my love for sweets, so if that were true I would've mastered it already!" 

Laughter fills the room as Navia collects her things. "Come on, let’s go."

Twenty minutes later, Furina stands in the Spina’s kitchen, an apron protecting her clothes as she carefully measures almond flour. Thankfully, the methodical nature of baking has already begun to ground her.

"So," she begins, aiming for casual nonchalance, "the Knave. I didn't realize she was involved with Poisson's reconstruction efforts."

Navia glances up from separating egg whites. “She's been surprisingly helpful. Especially where we're temporarily housing some of her children. She’s been ensuring proper facilities, contributing resources. She's particular about the conditions they live in."

"How... unexpected.”

"People are often more complex than their reputation may suggest," she responds thoughtfully. Navia is plenty familiar with that concept, after all. "But speaking of unexpected things..." She pauses, measuring her with a glance. "Monsieur Neuvillette mentioned he's been trying to reach you."

Furina's movements become suddenly mechanical, her focus intensifying on measuring the sugar. "Ah, yes. He sent a letter a few days ago. I haven't had time to open it yet."

"It's about—"

"Actually," Furina interrupts, perhaps more brusquely than she’d prefer, "I'd rather not discuss this today, if that's alright." She forces cheeriness into her tone, gesturing with her measuring cup. "These macarons won't bake themselves, and I'm determined to master your technique this time."

Navia studies her for a long moment, but doesn't push. "Of course. Hand me the vanilla, would you?"

Furina passes the small bottle, shoulders relaxing slightly at the reprieve. The guilt about the unopened letter still nags at the back of her mind, but here in Navia's warm kitchen, focused on the precise science of pastry-making, she can at least momentarily keep the waters of anxiety from rising any higher.

***

Furina finds herself lingering outside the grand entrance of the Palais Mermonia, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she stares up at the imposing building. She's been here for nearly fifteen minutes now, unable to either enter or walk away. The massive doors—doors she once passed through daily without a second thought—now seem impossibly heavy.

"It's just a few books," she mutters to herself, fidgeting with her sleeve. "In and out. You might not even see him. In fact, you won’t. Why would you? He’s always so busy."

When she'd moved her belongings to the apartment, a few items had been overlooked in the chaos and rush of transition. Now they sit somewhere in her former chambers, collecting dust while she stands outside her former residence like a stranger.

Movement in her peripheral vision distracts her from her plight—a small calico cat with bright amber eyes slinking along the perimeter of the courtyard. Its coat catches the sunlight, patches of orange and black standing out against pristine white.

"Well hello there, little one," Furina coos, wilfully forgetting her anxieties. She crouches, extending her hand. "Oh, aren't you beautiful?"

The cat pauses, regarding her with wary interest.

"I won't bite," she promises, wiggling her fingers enticingly. "Come here, darling."

The cat takes a tentative step forward, then seemingly thinks better of it as Furina steps forward to meet it halfway, and darts behind a decorative shrub.

"No, wait!" She hurries after it, grateful for the distraction. "I just want to pet you!"

She circles the shrub, spotting the cat crouched beneath it. "I won't hurt you, I promise. Just a little scratch behind the ears? Pleeease? "

When she reaches toward it, the cat hisses sharply, backing further away.

"But I only want to be friends," Furina whines, inching closer despite the increasingly hostile warnings.

"You're overeager."

The voice behind her—measured, low, and unmistakable—freezes her in place. She straightens her posture, composing her features before turning to face Arlecchino, who stands observing the scene with mild interest.

"Knave," Furina greets coolly. "Do you make a habit of appearing from thin air, or am I simply fortunate?"

Something like amusement flickers in the Knave’s eyes. "Coincidence, I assure you. I have business at the Palais." Her gaze shifts to the cat, which has now emerged from under the shrub but still keeps a cautious distance. "Your current approach won't earn you any favors."

"And I suppose you're an expert on feline psychology?" Furina challenges, folding her arms across her chest.

"I wouldn’t say so," Arlecchino replies with a slight shrug. "But I do understand the value of respecting an animal’s boundaries."

Furina scoffs, nodding toward the still-wary cat. "Well then, I'd like to see you do better, if you're so knowledgeable."

To her surprise, Arlecchino accepts the challenge without hesitation. "Very well."

The Knave moves with deliberate slowness, maintaining a respectable distance from the cat as she crouches. Instead of reaching out as Furina had, she simply extends her hand palm down toward the ground, fingers slightly curled, and waits. Her posture remains relaxed, patient.

The cat watches her with obvious suspicion, tail twitching. But when Arlecchino makes no sudden movements, no attempt to close the distance between them, its ears gradually shift from their flattened position to a more neutral one.

After what Furina perceives as nearly an eternity, the cat takes a hesitant step forward, then another. It stretches its neck to sniff at Arlecchino's fingertips, whiskers twitching as it processes her scent.

"The trick," Arlecchino murmurs, her attention never wavering from the cat, "is to let them decide when they're ready. Animals, like people, respond better when they believe they have a choice in the matter."

As if to prove her point, the cat bumps its head against her hand, a clear invitation. Arlecchino obliges with a gentle scratch behind its ears, eliciting a purr that seems disproportionately loud for such a small creature.

Within moments, the cat is pressing against her legs, its earlier wariness completely forgotten as Arlecchino lifts it into her arms. The cat settles there contentedly as she stands, purring louder.

"See?" Arlecchino turns toward Furina, presenting the now-docile animal. "Patience yields results."

Furina huffs, trying to mask how impressed she actually is. "It must be a Fatui agent in disguise. You staged this."

Arlecchino smoothly sidesteps the nonsensical accusation. "Would you like to try again?" she offers instead, taking a step closer.

She briefly debates playing hard-to-get—until she finds herself unable to resist, reaching out eagerly toward the cat's soft fur. The animal immediately tenses, ears flattening as it shifts in Arlecchino's arms.

"Ah—" Arlecchino catches Furina's wrist before she can make contact, her grip firm but not so tight it’s uncomfortable. "Sudden movements will only startle it."

Releasing her, she then holds out her hand, palm up. After a moment's hesitation, Furina places her own in Arlecchino's open palm.

"Gently now," Arlecchino murmurs, slowly guiding Furina. "Let it become accustomed to your presence before attempting contact."

The cat watches Furina's approaching hand, but it doesn't try to escape. When her fingers are inches away, Arlecchino pauses their movement, allowing it time to decide.

After a tense moment, the cat stretches forward to sniff at Furina's fingertips. Its whiskers tickle her skin, making her fight the urge to giggle or pull away.

"Good," Arlecchino murmurs. "Now, very slowly..."

She guides Furina's hand to the cat's head, where it makes contact with soft fur. The cat tenses briefly, then relaxes as Arlecchino demonstrates the proper pressure for Furina to use so as to not overstimulate it.

"Not so difficult, is it?" Arlecchino asks, her voice low and surprisingly close.

It begins to purr again, pressing up into Furina's touch. A smile breaks across her face before she can stop it—not the practiced, performative kind she so often wears, but something genuine and delighted. The rarity of it seems to catch even Arlecchino's attention, her sharp eyes lingering on Furina's expression for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

"Well," she admits despite herself, "I suppose your way does have its merits."

As she continues stroking the cat, she finds her shoulders relaxing slightly. The rhythmic purring creates a strangely soothing backdrop to this unexpected—and unexpectedly pleasant—encounter.

"What brings you to the Palais today?" she finally asks, curiosity overcoming her wariness. "More documents to collect?"

"I have a meeting with the Iudex shortly," Arlecchino replies. "We've been discussing Fontaine's future and potential areas for collaboration."

Furina's eyebrows lift in genuine surprise. "You're still meeting with him? I would have thought your business concluded after…" She trails off, letting the mention of the Gnosis go unspoken.

Arlecchino doesn't take the bait. "Our discussions have evolved beyond immediate crisis management. Freminet has been recovering some interesting artifacts during his dives, for one. Items of cultural significance displaced during the flood and the ensuing chaos."

"How convenient," Furina remarks with a hint of frost, withdrawing her hand from the cat. Its ears twitch at the sudden absence of contact. "A perfect opportunity for Snezhnaya to insert itself into Fontaine's affairs. I imagine the Fatui are quite pleased with your initiative."

Arlecchino's lips curve into a sardonic smile. "This is my job, after all," she responds lightly. "Though I'm less interested in what Fontaine can do for Snezhnaya, and more in what it can do for the House."

"Quite self-interested, are we?" Furina points out, surprised at the admission.

"Each individual is only granted so much influence over this world," Arlecchino states, her voice taking on a more measured, political quality. "I will not waste what little I possess on anything that does not matter to me."

Furina blinks. "Should you be saying this? Out loud?"

"My colleagues are already aware of my stance on the matter," Arlecchino replies smoothly. "And besides, I was assured you're only a humble artist these days, no? Surely this information holds no value to you."

She’s not sure how to take this turn in the conversation, this unexpected candor. There's something unsettling about Arlecchino's directness—the way she seems to navigate conversations without the pretense that Furina has grown accustomed to in her centuries. It makes her both easier and more difficult to talk to.

"Are you also here to see the Iudex?" Arlecchino asks suddenly, her gaze sharpening with interest.

The question sends a jolt of panic through Furina's chest. "What? No, not at all," she says, too quickly. Realizing her error, she composes herself, waving a dismissive hand. "My visit is entirely unrelated. Why would you even think that?"

"He often mentions you," Arlecchino says simply.

The statement hangs in the air between them. Furina stares, momentarily speechless. "He... mentions me?"

"During our occasional meetings, yes." Arlecchino strokes the cat's head absently. "Nothing too in-depth—just passing references. But frequent enough that I've gathered you seem to be often on his mind."

Guilt rises in Furina's chest, threatening to choke her. The still-unopened letter in her apartment seems to weigh on her conscience even from this distance.

"Well," she begins, unsure of where her mouth will take her. "I'm only here to collect some books I left behind. Personal items, nothing important. And Neuvillette is so very busy, as your very presence demonstrates—I'll have to visit him another time."

Arlecchino observes her without a word, that penetrating gaze seeming to peel away layers of deflection. The scrutiny lasts long enough that Furina begins to feel uncomfortably exposed, as though her every evasion has been noted and cataloged away.

Finally, after several minutes, hours—or, more likely, seconds—Arlecchino sighs. "You remind me of Lyney."

Furina opens her mouth, then closes it again. She frowns, unsure how to respond to the sudden comparison. Before she can formulate a reply, Arlecchino continues speaking.

"I should go. The meeting will be brief—half an hour at most." She carefully transfers the cat to the ground, where it lingers near her ankles. "That should be more than enough time for you to retrieve your belongings and leave, yes?"

“Huh?” It takes a moment, but Furina eventually understands—Arlecchino is going out of her way to tell her when Neuvillette will be occupied. "I... yes, that should be sufficient," she manages, confused.

Arlecchino nods once, straightening her already immaculate jacket as she turns to leave. "Until next time, Miss Furina.”

Furina watches her disappear into the Palais, left alone with the calico cat twining around her ankles and a peculiar sense of having been both exposed and accommodated. The realization that the Knave has just given her an opportunity to avoid an uncomfortable encounter with Neuvillette leaves her momentarily dumbfounded.

"What exactly are you playing at?" she murmurs.

The cat meows up at her, tail curling in a question mark.

"I don't suppose you have any insights?" Furina asks it wryly, reaching down to brush a finger across its head in a tentative imitation of Arlecchino's confident touch.

In response, the cat simply bumps its head against her leg, then trots off toward a nearby patch of sunlight.

With a deep breath, Furina turns toward the entrance. Time is ticking. Whatever game the Knave might be playing aside, she's just been offered a window of opportunity. The least she can do is take it.

***

Half an hour later, Furina finally makes her way home, a small stack of books tucked securely under one arm. Her mission at the Palais was successful—she'd slipped in and out without encountering Neuvillette, just as Arlecchino had implicitly arranged. The thought still perplexes her.

A smattering of applause draws her attention to a small gathering ahead. In the center of the modest crowd stands Lyney, flourishing his hands with practiced elegance, a playing card appearing from thin air between his gloved fingers.

"For my next illusion," he announces, his voice carrying a perfect blend of mystery and charm, "I'll need complete silence. What you're about to witness defies the very laws of nature."

Furina smiles, joining the audience in their hush of anticipation. Lyney begins an elaborate sequence involving flame and vanishing objects, and she finds herself clapping along with the others at each perfectly executed moment.

It’s nice to be in the audience, for a change.

When the performance concludes and the crowd begins to disperse, Furina approaches, her books balanced carefully in her arms.

"Bravo, Monsieur Magicien," she calls, offering a dramatic round of applause. "Masterful as always."

Lyney turns at her voice, his stage smile softening into something more genuine. "Ah, the illustrious Lady Furina herself! I'm honored by your attendance." He executes a perfect bow. "Though I must admit, I didn't notice you in the audience."

"I caught only the finale, I'm afraid," Furina replies. Her eyes scan the empty space behind him. "Where's Lynette today? I don't believe I've ever seen you perform solo."

There’s a brief tightening around his eyes, a subtle shift in his posture that would be imperceptible to most observers but speaks volumes to someone as versed in performance as Furina. He waves a dismissive hand, the motion just a touch too elaborate.

"Oh, who knows? Running errands, perhaps. Pursuing some mysterious task of her own devising. Breaking more dishwashers." He fiddles with his hat, avoiding her gaze. "What does it matter? I'm perfectly capable of handling the occasional show on my own. Lynette can do whatever she wants with her time."

“Uh-huh.” Furina observes him, recognizing the carefully constructed nonchalance for what it is. "You've had a fight," she states rather than asks.

"A minor disagreement ," Lyney corrects. "Hardly worth mentioning."

"Mmm." Furina narrows her eyes, then continues with just as much nonchalance. "Well, in that case, your performance was lovely—though perhaps lacking some of its usual... cohesion. The timing of the last trick seemed a half-beat off."

Lyney's head snaps up, a flash of genuine offense crossing his features. "I assure you, my timing was impeccable."

"Of course ," Furina agrees soothingly. "Still, I think you should stop being so proud and go apologize to her. Ultimately you may be fine on your own, but…" She softens her voice. "It’s just not quite the same. Don’t you agree?”

His shoulders slump, and after a moment of silence, he sighs.

"She's so stubborn sometimes," he mumbles, barely audible. "Would it kill her to be the one to apologize for a change?"

Furina waits, saying nothing.

Lyney adjusts his hat, squaring his shoulders as though preparing for a particularly challenging illusion. "I suppose I should go find her. In the end, it doesn't matter who was in the wrong." His voice takes on a quieter quality, stripped to bare sincerity. "I just want us to be together again."

"A wise decision.”

"Thank you for the push, Lady Furina," Lyney tells her with a grateful smile.

Furina shakes her head. "Oh, I did nothing at all. You would have reached this same conclusion eventually."

"That may be," he concedes, "but 'eventually' would have meant more time spent apart—and neither of us is particularly good at being alone." With a tip of his hat, he steps back. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a sister to find and amends to make."

Furina watches him weave through the thinning crowd, his figure soon disappearing around a corner. As she resumes her walk home, Arlecchino's words from earlier echo in her mind: You remind me of Lyney.

The comparison sits uncomfortably, like a costume that doesn't quite fit—or fits unerringly, confusingly well. She thinks of him just now—his elaborate deflections, the way he used performance to mask vulnerability, his stubborn pride—or insecurity?—keeping him from reconciliation until someone intervened.

…Is that how Arlecchino sees her?

She clutches her books tighter to her chest, the edges pressing against her ribs. Neuvillette's unopened letter awaits her at home, his precise handwriting forming her name on the envelope. He often mentions you. You seem to be often on his mind.

"What would the Knave even know? This is entirely different," she murmurs to herself, quickening her pace. "Entirely."

But even as she speaks the words, she can't quite convince herself they're true.

***

Three days after retrieving her books from the Palais, Furina sits at her apartment window, watching rain streak the glass. The weather matches her mood—gray and unsettled. Her gaze drifts to the letter, still unopened but now positioned prominently on her desk rather than hidden under an errant book.

A knock at her door interrupts her thoughts.

When she opens it, she finds Clorinde standing in the hallway, raindrops glistening on her shoulders.

"Clorinde? What brings you here in this weather?" Furina asks, stepping aside to let her in.

"A message delivery," Clorinde replies. "From Monsieur Neuvillette."

Furina stiffens. "I already received his letter."

"Yes, and failed to respond to it," Clorinde says, her tone gentle but pointed. "He's sent me as a more... persistent form of communication."

"I've been meaning to read it," Furina offers weakly.

Clorinde gives her a knowing look. "He suspected as much. That's why he asked me to deliver the message in person this time." She takes a seat at Furina's table. "He needs your help."

"My help?" Furina echoes, settling across from her. "What could I possibly have to offer now?" There’s a certain defensiveness coating the words that she doesn’t manage to rid herself of before they slip past her lips.

"There's a project requiring your expertise. He would like to discuss it with you directly. Tomorrow afternoon, if you're available."

"I'm not sure—"

"He mentioned that if you were reluctant, I should tell you it concerns certain items displaced during the flood. Items you should be familiar with, and that perhaps you might enjoy reconnecting with, given your new occupation."

This catches Furina's guarded attention. "What kind?"

"That's for him to explain," Clorinde replies with a small smile. "Will you meet with him?"

Furina glances at the unopened letter. Guilt and apprehension twist in her stomach, but beneath them stirs a flicker of curiosity. And besides, she does owe him a visit.

After a long moment, she sighs.

"Tell him I'll be there."

***

The following afternoon finds Furina pacing outside Neuvillette's office. The corridor is quiet save for the soft patter of rain against windows, most officials occupied elsewhere at this hour—precisely why she'd agreed to this time.

Before she can reconsider—though she nearly does—the door opens, as if he had somehow sensed her loitering outside.

"Lady Furina," Neuvillette says, his expression warming slightly at the sight of her. "Please, come in."

His office remains as she remembers—meticulously organized, austere yet elegant. Nothing extraneous, nothing out of place. So very like him.

"You've been difficult to reach," he remarks as she takes a seat.

"I've been busy," she replies, the excuse sounding hollow even to her own ears.

Neuvillette regards her briefly, then nods. "I appreciate you coming today."

"Clorinde mentioned you needed my help?" Furina begins, eager to steer the conversation away from her absence.

"Yes." He slides a folder across his desk. "As you know, the flood displaced countless items—some of significant cultural weight, particularly from the field of theatre. We've established a recovery program with substantial rewards for returning authentic artifacts."

As he speaks, Furina opens the folder to find images of ornate theater masks, antique props, fragments of costumes—all iconic cultural symbols that most Fontainians would be able to recognize.

Her fingertips hover over a picture of a gilded hand mirror, its handle carved into the shape of a diving mermaid. "I remember when this was commissioned," she murmurs, almost to herself. "The artist argued with the director for weeks about the angle of the tail."

Many of these she’d made use of herself, countless times across the years.

Neuvillette allows her a moment to familiarize herself with the contents of the folder, then continues. "The problem is that the reward system has attracted opportunists. We're being inundated with counterfeits, forgeries claiming to be ancient theatrical pieces."

"And you need someone to authenticate them," Furina concludes, looking up from the images.

He nods. "Someone with firsthand knowledge of these pieces. Someone who witnessed their creation, their use, their significance." His eyes meet hers. "Someone who lived through centuries of Fontaine's theatrical evolution."

"Me.”

"You. Your expertise is unmatched. No scholar can rival what you know."

She turns pages in the folder, recognition coming to life in her eyes as she takes in more and more. Many bring memories flooding back—performances she'd watched or been a part of, artists she'd known personally, moments of Fontaine's cultural flowering she'd witnessed—or even guided—herself.

"This mask," she says, tapping one picture lightly. "It was part of a set. There should be six others, one for each role."

"We've only recovered four so far.”.

She remains silent, her fingers lingering on the picture.

"I understand your reluctance to engage with anything connected to your past," Neuvillette says softly. "Which is why I've structured this role carefully. You wouldn't be in the spotlight."

"How would it work?"

"I would provide you a private workspace here in the Palais—secluded, comfortable. Items would be brought to you for assessment, and you would determine their authenticity." He clasps his hands on his desk. "The staff assigned to work with you would be discreet professionals, there solely to facilitate your work."

Furina closes the folder, conflicted. Part of her—a part she’d only recently discovered, the one that has found real, genuine enjoyment in theatre—urges her to offer her assistance, to help preserve this important aspect of Fontaine’s history. Another part fears what returning to the Palais, even in this limited capacity, might stir up within her.

"Surely there are experts who could be trained to spot forgeries."

"There are—plenty," Neuvillette acknowledges. "But they would take months to achieve what you could in a few weeks. Meanwhile, irreplaceable artifacts may be lost or damaged."

Furina hums in consideration, fingers tracing the edge of the folder.

"I won't be making public appearances," she clarifies. "No… speeches, no ceremonies."

"None are planned," he confirms. "Your role would be entirely behind the scenes."

She suddenly remembers the Knave’s words, about Neuvillette mentioning her often. About her being on his mind. Looking at him now, she sees not the stern judge who once sentenced her, but a fellow guardian of Fontaine. Someone who, like she once did, carries the weight of responsibility for this nation's future—along with its past.

"Very well," she says finally. "I'll help."

Subtle relief immediately floods Neuvillette's features, his posture relaxing minutely. "Thank you, Lady Furina. Your contribution will be invaluable."

They discuss logistics—schedules, security clearances, the arrangement of the workspace. She finds Neuvillette's thoroughness reassuring.

"I'll have everything prepared for you to begin next week," he says as their meeting concludes.

Furina rises to leave, then pauses. This would be as good a time as any to ask, she supposes. "Neuvillette?"

"Yes?"

"I heard you've been meeting regularly with the Knave."

If he's surprised by the change in topic, he doesn't show it. "She has been surprisingly cooperative in our recovery efforts. Her network has helped locate several significant pieces. You may… come across her, on occasion," he adds carefully.

Furina stiffens, her fingers curling slightly into her palm. "And you trust her motives?"

Neuvillette considers this, his gaze carefully neutral. "I trust that her interests on this matter align with Fontaine's welfare for the time being. That's sufficient for now," he says. Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, "She seems interested in theatre. Perhaps that's what drives her." 

“Does she?” Furina’s voice stays steady, though a flicker of something—curiosity, apprehension, or perhaps surprise—flashes briefly across her face.

"She's shown unexpected knowledge about Fontaine's theatrical traditions. How certain historical productions affected their evolution and so on."

“...I see."

That may not be so odd, when she thinks about it more carefully. The Knave had been a remarkably skilled conversationalist during their tea parties, well-versed in all manner of subjects. It had been quite pleasant—when the topic didn’t stray to Furina’s many failings, of course.

She pushes thoughts of the Knave out of her mind, cursing herself for even bringing her up.

She leaves Neuvillette’s office with a farewell less stiff than the one she'd rehearsed in the mirror that same morning, and finds that the rain has finally stopped when she steps outside. Sunlight breaks through thinning clouds, catching on puddles that reflect the sky.

Perhaps Neuvillette needed this more than she’d realized—and so did she.

***

Furina is examining artifacts in a private room of the Palais Mermonia, sorting through a recent batch of recovered items. Neuvillette has given her this space to work undisturbed, though the room sometimes fills with historians and passionate hobbyists who volunteered to help with the recovery efforts—whom she may occasionally indulge in reward for their steadfast assistance.

Today, the room buzzes with activity as she shows off a tarnished stage crown. Her audience watches with starry-eyed fascination.

"This was worn during the closing performance of 'The Mermaid's Lament'," Furina declares, turning the crown to catch the light. The gems—glass rather than precious stones, but artfully crafted to shimmer under carefully-constructed stage lighting—still retain traces of their original brilliance despite years of storage and recent water damage. "The lead actress nearly fainted from the weight of it! The final scene had to be redesigned so she could remove it dramatically before the crucial monologue."

A young historian leans forward, notebook clutched eagerly in his hands. "Was that Marielle Dufort? My great-grandmother saw her perform once!"

"Indeed it was!" Furina's eyes light up, pointing at him. "Marielle had the most extraordinary ability to—"

Her voice catches as she notices a figure in the doorway. The Knave stands there, carrying a wooden crate, her expression unreadable as she observes the scene. She recovers almost instantly, continuing her anecdote with barely a pause.

"—to convey entire worlds of emotion with just the slightest change in her posture. When she fell to her knees in the final act, clutching this very crown—" She goes on to demonstrate with a graceful, practiced movement.

The small crowd hangs on her every word, oblivious to the subtle slip in her speech. She continues regaling them with theatrical stories for several more minutes before Arlecchino clears her throat.

"I believe these require immediate attention," she announces, placing the crate on a nearby table. "Freminet mentioned concerns about further deterioration."

The historians finally notice her, exchanging nervous glances at her presence. Her reputation precedes her, the fear it evokes undiminished even despite her recent contributions to Fontaine's recovery.

"Perhaps we should continue tomorrow," one suggests, already gathering papers.

"Yes, we've taken enough of your time today, Lady Furina," another adds quickly.

Within minutes, the room empties, leaving Furina and Arlecchino alone with the artifacts. Furina's animated smile fades, replaced by a careful, demure neutrality as she sets the crown down. She positions herself so the large table remains between them.

Once the door clicks shut behind the last of her momentary guests, Furina exhales—her posture slumping, then quickly straightening as she catches herself. 

"Thank you,” she says after a brief moment of silence, not quite looking Arlecchino’s way. “Not that I was struggling, of course. And I do understand why they would take the time to ask for the occasional lecture. They would not be in this line of work if they were not passionate, and it is a rare opportunity, so—” She catches herself rambling, as if she has anything to justify to the Knave. She clears her throat. “But anyway, efficiency is paramount with so many items still awaiting authentication—so thank you."

Arlecchino nods, graciously ignoring Furina’s strange behavior. “Freminet sends his apologies for not delivering these personally.”

"Understandable. I know he gets flustered around... well, me," Furina replies, beginning to unpack the crate, keeping her hands busy. She extracts a delicate porcelain mask, examining it with expert eyes. "His finds have been remarkably authentic, unlike some of the obvious counterfeits others have tried passing off. A few ordinary objects mixed in, of course, but that's to be expected with water damage making everything look older than it actually is."

“He has a careful eye,” Arlecchino acknowledges, a faint note of pride in her tone.

As they work in relative silence, Furina finds herself tracking Arlecchino's movements from the corner of her eye, calculating the distance between them as they circle the table. The Knave moves with an economy of motion that Furina can't help but notice—no wasted gestures, nothing for show. It's the opposite of her own theatrical nature.

Or perhaps that, too, is its own kind of performance? Not a show meant to placate or reassure, but one designed to unsettle—power asserted not through presence, but restraint.

She uncovers a simple wooden mask, half-damaged by water. Unlike the ornate pieces she’s been enthusiastically describing all morning, this one is undecorated—practical rather than artistic. Her fingers trace its edge, lingering longer than necessary. Something about it holds her attention, though she ultimately sets it aside without comment.

Arlecchino watches her carefully. "Another ordinary object mistaken for an artifact?"

Furina starts slightly at the question, having grown tense in the silence. "Not at all," she replies, picking it up again. "An authentic mask, just… nothing particularly significant. These were made by the dozens."

Arlecchino’s eyes return to the paperwork she’d been filling—a record of Freminet’s finds. "You seem familiar with it."

Furina turns the mask in her hands, grateful for the attention shifting back to the object. “These would crack if the actor’s expressions were too animated beneath them.” Her voice softens. “They couldn’t keep up with the emotion. I’m surprised any survived—the material is quite flimsy.”

Arlecchino doesn't look up. "Uncomfortable to wear, I imagine."

"Terribly," Furina agrees, her shoulders relaxing a fraction as the conversation remains on neutral ground. "And they limit peripheral vision. Makes it easy to miss important cues."

They move through several more pieces, Furina providing context for each. Her tone shifts from theatrical flourishes to measured, technical commentary, adapting naturally to her new audience of one. Gradually, her focus drifts from Arlecchino’s proximity to the artifacts themselves.

Arlecchino eventually uncovers a box of playbills, all featuring the same character portrayed by different actors across the years. She lays them in chronological order without comment.

Furina notices the pattern and steps closer, momentarily forgetting her caution. "The Drowned Queen," she breathes, touching one of the older programs. "One of Fontaine's longest-running tragic heroines. Oh, we haven’t had a major rendition of her story in ages."

Arlecchino studies the progression of images. “The costume barely changes.”

“But the performance does,” Furina replies, unexpectedly fervent. “Each actor brings something new while preserving the essence.”

Arlecchino taps a particular playbill, reading the note beside it. “This one performed the role for nearly twenty years.”

Furina leans in, now standing closer to Arlecchino than she has all afternoon. "Ah, Claudette. She once said she would sometimes dream as the Queen, not as herself."

“Did she?” Arlecchino asks, her tone inviting elaboration.

Furina’s fingers linger on the faded paper. “Some roles… they get under your skin. Become part of you, once you play them long enough.”

Arlecchino places another artifact beside the playbills—a small silver ring once worn by the character. “And the performer becomes part of the role.”

Furina hums. She picks up the ring, turning it slowly between her fingers. “Sometimes the role becomes so familiar you forget you’re playing one.”

Arlecchino’s eyes flick to her, gaze steady but unreadable as she listens. “Does that happen often in theatre?”

"Oh, more than most would admit.” Plenty of prominent actors had offered such confessions when asked to explain the secrets of their art. Plenty more had as well behind the scenes—seeking advice from her, as though she had any to give. "The best performances are the ones where you lose track of the boundary."

Arlecchino watches her, now with undivided attention. "And afterward? When the performance ends?"

Furina hesitates, staring at the mask still sitting on the table. She suddenly realizes how unguarded she'd become without her noticing—how close they're standing, with no obstacles in between.

Was this still about theatre?

"I should organize these by period," she says eventually, gathering papers and retreating to her side of the table. "It's getting late."

The Knave doesn't press. She helps pack away the artifacts, her movements swift and efficient. Then, as she prepares to leave, she pauses at the door.

"You know, the children at the House put on performances sometimes. Nothing elaborate—just games, really. But there's something refreshing about watching them play without concern for audience or expectation."

Furina doesn't respond, unsure what she is really saying.

"Perhaps you'd like to see it sometime," Arlecchino offers—then leaves before she can answer.

Alone in the room, Furina’s shoulders drop—relief and tension mingling in equal measure. She picks up the mask again, troubled by Arlecchino's observations. The conversation has left her shaken—reaching places she had not meant to reach, stirring questions she had been trying not to ask.

She thinks of her dramatic retellings before the crowd, then of the more focused explanations she had reserved for Arlecchino. A foundational notion instilled early in her life: different performances for different audiences, each tailored to their tastes.

But had all of today been a performance?

It was unsettling, the way the Knave looked at her. That piercing gaze, that unwavering focus. The unfamiliar act it drew from her—if it was even an act at all.

And more unsettling still was how easily she'd forgotten to be afraid.

***

The recovery team gathers in the Palais Mermonia's grand hall to celebrate their final authentication. The room buzzes with excited chatter, voices bouncing off the high ceiling and creating a dizzying cacophony as Furina confirms the last artifact's authenticity—a delicate opera mask with mother-of-pearl inlays that somehow survived the flood.

"It's official," she announces with a grand, sweeping gesture. "The collection is complete."

Applause erupts across the room. Glasses raise in celebration, cheers filling the space with a swelling crescendo that presses against Furina's eardrums. 

She edges toward the refreshment table, eyeing a tray of macarons arranged in perfect symmetry. She's planning her escape—just a few sweets and she'll slip away before anyone notices. The treats gleam under the light, promising momentary sweetness before she can retreat to the solitude she suddenly craves.

From across the room, she spots Arlecchino leaning against a wall, observing the celebration without participating. Their eyes meet briefly before Furina quickly looks away, her fingers instinctively tightening around her glass. 

She's unsure what to make of the Knave’s presence. She hasn't spoken to her since their encounter in the authentication room, when she revealed more of herself than intended. She doesn't know how she'd feel if the Knave approached her here, surrounded by others who see only what Furina allows them to see.

A museum curator approaches, champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his glass as he extends it toward her. His cologne is too strong, clashing with the sweet scent of desserts nearby.

"Lady Furina, we were hoping you might say a few words." His voice carries a suffocating reverence. "It's been too long since we've heard one of your speeches."

Others join in, surrounding her with eager expressions, bodies pressing closer, tightening the space around her. The heat of too many people, the mingling scents of perfumes and wines, begin to close in.

She never did like crowds.

"Oh yes, please do!" A woman in a blue gown clasps her hands together in anticipation.

"Remember that impromptu speech at the Opera, a few months ago?" Another voice chimes in, its tone rising with enthusiasm. "You had everyone captivated!

"I remember being moved to tears," adds an elderly man. "Such eloquence cannot be taught."

And yet it was—self-taught, even.

Furina's smile remains fixed as she glances around the circle closing in on her, feeling the walls of expectation rising. Her mouth goes dry, the champagne in her hand suddenly too heavy. She catches Arlecchino watching from the periphery, those keen eyes missing nothing. The weight of that gaze makes her nervous, though she can't articulate why.

"I'd be delighted," Furina hears herself say, her voice slipping into its performance register—slightly higher, more musical, with perfect enunciation. "But only a short address, nothing too elaborate," she adds with a flawless laugh. "After all, tonight belongs to all of us who worked on the collection."

They clear a space, stacking crates to create a makeshift platform. The wooden edges look rough beneath the polished lacquer—temporary, unstable. As Furina approaches this improvised stage, her heart begins to race in a fluttering rhythm that feels foreign in her chest. The familiar sensation of all eyes turning toward her—something she's experienced countless times across centuries—suddenly feels overwhelming, as if each gaze is pressing into her skin. Her palms grow damp, gloves clinging uncomfortably to her fingers.

She stands before them, glass in hand, as the room quiets in anticipation. The silence presses against her ears like cotton wool, muffling everything except the rapid thud of her own pulse. The glass trembles almost imperceptibly in her grip.

"Friends and colleagues," she begins, her voice carrying clearly across the room. "What an extraordinary journey we've undertaken together."

She starts with confidence, genuinely thanking everyone for their dedication. The words flow automatically, well-crafted phrases about heritage and preservation sliding from her tongue with well-oiled precision.

"Each artifact recovered represents not merely an object, but a thread in the tapestry of Fontaine's cultural history—”

The audience hangs on her every word, their faces upturned and attentive. Furina feels her rhythm establishing itself, the familiar cadence of her public speaking voice carrying her forward.

"What makes these pieces truly invaluable is not their material worth, but the stories they contain," she elaborates, warming to her theme. "The costume authenticated today was worn by Bellini herself during the premiere of La Lamentation de la Lune, a performance witnessed by only a few thousand souls, all now dust for centuries—well, apart from me."

She pauses to let the room chuckle, exceedingly familiar with the routine by now—but as she goes to continue, something within her falters. The sea of faces before her seems to sway, then blur at the edges, like figures in a fog. Colors become too vivid, then drain into soft, indistinct shades.

"The dedication you've shown," she pushes on, "has ensured that Fontaine's artistic legacy will endure for generations to come—"

Her voice catches on a breath that suddenly won't come. For a split second, time fractures. She's standing before the Court of Fontaine centuries ago—faces blurred, the silhouettes in dated fashion overlaying the modern gathering—then snapping back to the present with such force that vertigo grips her. The shift makes her dizzy, reality seeming to tilt beneath her feet even as she stands perfectly still. Cold sweat forms along her spine, making her shiver.

Her words become less elaborate, more stilted, though the audience doesn't seem to notice the difference—they never do. Why would they notice now? They see only what they expect to see, what they want to see. 

The glass in her hand feels increasingly precarious. The weight of this whole project suddenly seems immense—not just preserving history, but her history. Her failures. Her deceptions—all so deeply entwined with Fontaine that they can never truly be extricated from it.

Through the blur of faces, Arlecchino remains in sharp focus at the periphery, as if she exists at a different frequency than everyone else. Those eyes see everything—the tremor in Furina's hand, the slight stiffness in her smile, the too-rapid blinks as she fights to maintain composure. She feels stripped bare, transparent, as if the Knave can see straight through her performance and into the trembling, nebulous core beneath.

Or is she turning paranoid? Catastrophizing? Projecting her own fears onto Arlecchino’s inscrutable expression? Does the Knave truly see through her, or is this anxiety born from centuries of hiding? 

The uncertainty only increases her panic. Her chest constricts, lungs refusing to fill completely no matter how deeply she tries to breathe. Words continue spilling from her lips, automatic and disconnected from her racing thoughts.

Arlecchino shifts suddenly, moving toward the exit with a determination that draws Furina's gaze despite her fragmented attention. The Knave slips out without explanation, disappearing just as Furina reaches the conclusion of her speech. She doesn’t know what to make of it—relief, or abandonment? The absence of those perceptive eyes creates a strange vacuum, both releasing pressure and creating a new tension.

"And so," she hears herself conclude with a fluid elegance that betrays none of the chaos inside her mind, "let us raise our glasses not to the end of our work, but to its continuation—to the preservation of Fontaine's cultural soul for all time!"

The audience applauds as she steps down, her legs unsteady. The sound of clapping hands begins to distort, stretching and compressing like waves crashing against her ears. She forces yet another smile, nodding at the endless congratulations while edging toward the door, every muscle tense with the effort of appearing normal.

"So sorry to leave early," she says. Her lips feel strangely numb as she shapes the words, her face a mask she can no longer feel. "A prior commitment—simply cannot be delayed. Do enjoy the rest of the evening!"

She slips into the hallway, the cool air of the corridor a relief against her flushed face, though it does nothing to ease the pressure building in her chest. Her heels click rapidly against the floor as she searches for sanctuary, the sound echoing like a countdown. She turns into a secluded antechamber she remembers from centuries past—a small room where musicians once waited before they took to the stage, its existence nearly forgotten as such performances have now long moved settings away from the Palais.

The door clicks shut behind her. Alone at last, Furina's composure crumbles like a paper façade in rain. Her breath comes in rapid gasps, shallow and insufficient. Her vision tunnels, the ornate moldings of the room's edges blurring into darkness as the center brightens too intensely. She presses herself against the wall, the cool surface grounding her momentarily before her knees give way. She slides down to the floor as the room spins around her.

Her heart hammers against her ribs with such force she fears it might break through. She can't get enough air, each breath catching painfully in her constricted throat. Her fingernails dig into her palms as she tries to ground herself, the sharp pain providing momentary focus before being swallowed by the overwhelming tide of panic. 

It’s alien, confusing, terrifying—she who has controlled every aspect of her presentation throughout her entire life, now unable to control her own body's responses.

Distantly, she realizes how miraculous it is that this is her first panic attack after centuries of existence. Perhaps she's never truly allowed herself to feel enough real emotion to reach this point until now—and what a terrible thought that is. 

Had she been so rigidly controlled, so flawlessly performed, that she’d never truly felt anything deeply enough to pierce her own defenses? Or has the loss of her role stripped away protective layers she never recognized she relied on?

And why now? 

Is it Arlecchino's persistent gaze, so clearly seeing something even Furina herself can no longer detect, buried beneath layers of performance that have long since melded with her real self?

Is it the weight of history assembled in that room, her history, reflecting back at her from every restored artifact? 

Or simply the exhaustion of performance finally catching up after centuries without rest?

And besides—does it even matter?

The room wavers around her, her vision tilting slightly. She struggles to remember how to breathe normally, but the rhythm eludes her—each inhale too shallow, too frantic. Her fingertips tingle with pins and needles as hyperventilation sets in. A strangled, pained sound escapes her throat—not quite a sob, not quite a gasp—

"Breathe."

The familiar voice cuts through the chaos in her ears. Furina's head snaps up, vision clearing momentarily with the shock of another presence. Her gaze locks onto Arlecchino’s figure kneeling before her, maintaining a careful distance. The Knave's expression is composed but alert, her posture suggesting readiness rather than alarm.

Furina tries to speak—tries to ask why Arlecchino's here, how she found her—but can only manage a choked sound, her lungs refusing to cooperate. The words tangle in her throat, trapped behind the constriction of panic.

"Five things you can see,” Arlecchino says.

Furina stares at her, lost.

"Tell me five things you can see in this room," Arlecchino repeats more firmly. There's something in her tone that shines through the chaos, an authority that demands compliance without aggression.

"I—" Furina gasps, the single syllable requiring tremendous effort. Her gaze darts around frantically before settling on Arlecchino's face. "You. Window. Chair. Tapestry. Dust."

Each word comes easier than the last, her focus shifting outward instead of spiraling inward.

"Good," Arlecchino acknowledges with a slight nod. "Now, four things you can hear."

Furina struggles to focus, closing her eyes briefly as she forces herself to listen beyond the thundering of her pulse. "My... heart," she begins, voice shaky. "Your voice." Her breathing slows marginally. "People… outside. The clock on the wall."

She finally recognizes the exercise and its purpose—an intentional redirection of her attention away from her panicked mind. The realization that Arlecchino knows exactly what to do brings a flicker of curiosity that momentarily displaces her fear.

"Three things you can feel," Arlecchino continues, her cadence measured and patient.

"Floor. Cold. Vest... tight." Furina manages, the crushing pressure in her chest easing bit by bit.

"Two things you can smell."

Furina draws a shaky breath through her nose, then coughs. "Dust. Cologne... yours?"

Arlecchino nods. Then, she extends her hand, palm up—an invitation, not a demand. "One thing you can touch."

Furina hesitates, staring at the offered hand. The Knave's expression remains unreadable, but there's nothing threatening in the gesture. Slowly, almost despite herself, she pulls off her glove. Then, she reaches out, her fingers trembling as they make contact with Arlecchino's palm.

"You," she whispers.

Arlecchino’s hand is rough, calloused—scarred. Not the soft touch of an aristocrat, but the hand of someone familiar with weapons. The texture surprises Furina—though perhaps it shouldn't.

With her free hand, Arlecchino pulls out a handkerchief from her pocket, offering it to her. It’s only then that Furina realizes her cheeks are wet with tears—when had she started crying? She takes it, wiping her face while maintaining her grip on Arlecchino, reluctant to lose the warm, grounding contact.

Her breathing steadies, the tremor in her hands gradually fading. Her pulse slows, her mind begins to clear—and then, without warning, reality crashes back with sobering clarity. 

She drops Arlecchino's hand as if burned, pressing herself against the wall. The panic recedes, but in its place rises mortification and suspicion.

"Why—Why are you here?" she demands, her voice hoarse. "How did you find me?"

Arlecchino settles back on her heels, giving Furina space without moving away entirely. "You were in distress during your speech," she explains, her tone matter-of-fact. "I thought you might need assistance afterward, so I positioned myself near the exit."

"You were waiting for me to fall apart?" Furina asks incredulously, wrapping her arms around herself.

"I was waiting to offer help, if needed," Arlecchino corrects without defensiveness. "You rushed past before I could speak, so I followed. You seemed panicked."

The confirmation that Arlecchino saw through her performance sends fresh alarm through Furina. Her carefully maintained façade, perfected over centuries—so easily transparent to this woman after mere weeks of observation.

"Why are you watching me?" She hears her own voice rising in her ears. "Why can’t you leave me alone? Everywhere I go—you're always there, always watching me with—with those eyes, always observing, always—" She gestures sharply, frustration mounting. "Do you enjoy it?" she continues, her words tumbling out faster now. "Seeing the great Lady Furina reduced to this? Is this what the Fatui sent you for? To document my weaknesses? My downfall?"

Arlecchino doesn’t react. Her composure only heightens Furina's agitation—she can't tell if her words are even making an impact, can't read anything behind that measured gaze.

"Answer me!" she insists, her voice cracking. "If you're going to witness my humiliation, at least have the decency to explain why ! "

There's something in the Knave’s eyes—a subtle shift that Furina can't quite interpret. Is it hurt? Confusion? Understanding? Calculation?

Which, if any at all?

"I…" the Knave starts, but the words don’t come.

She seems to have none to offer.

"I want you to leave," Furina finally decides, summoning whatever dignity she can muster from her position on the floor. "Now."

Arlecchino exhales, but she doesn’t protest. "Is there someone I should send to you before I go?"

The question catches Furina off-guard, interrupting her anger and mortification. "...What?"

"If I am to leave now," Arlecchino elaborates carefully, "I need assurance that either you won’t be alone, or that you're certain you will be alright." Her gaze is direct, challenging her dishonesty. "Panic attacks can sometimes recur in waves."

Furina pauses, the oddly practical nature of the question cutting through her defensive posturing. Arlecchino had guided her through the panic attack with practiced ease, as if she'd done it before—perhaps many times. Had she used this technique with children at the House? Or was it knowledge gained from personal experience? Her breath hitches slightly as she lowers her gaze, unwilling to meet her eyes for just a moment longer.

Still, she forces herself to inhale deeply, actually taking the time to assess herself rather than just dismissing Arlecchino out of pride. The worst of the attack has passed. Her breathing has steadied, the room no longer spins, and while she feels drained, the acute distress has subsided.

"I'll be fine on my own," she concludes eventually, her tone weary. "This has... never happened to me before. I don't think it will happen again… immediately."

Arlecchino studies her face, searching for truth in her features. "The aftermath can be exhausting," she tells her. "You should rest when possible."

Seemingly satisfied, she rises to her feet in one fluid motion. She walks to the door without another word, her steps unnervingly silent against the marble floor. At the threshold, she pauses, her hand resting on the ornate handle—but she doesn't look back before slipping out.

The door closes with barely a sound.

Alone again, Furina experiences an unexpected hollowness. The panic has subsided, but something else takes its place—an unfamiliar weight in her chest that feels strangely like regret, or guilt. She takes a slow, steadying breath, feeling the silence press in around her. It's quieter now, but…

She hadn’t expected to feel worse after Arlecchino’s departure, not when her presence had been a source of anxiety for weeks—and yet the room feels emptier, less sure. Fragile. Somehow less safe than when Arlecchino was present.

"...Wait," she whispers, too late to reach anyone’s ears.

She looks down at the handkerchief still clutched in her hand. In one corner, a bold red "P" is embroidered with meticulous stitches—the threads slightly raised against her fingertips, worn smooth in places as if frequently touched. Opposite it, the symbol of the House of the Hearth, executed with the same precise craftsmanship. Furina runs her thumb over the initial, wondering about its significance. A family name? A title? Something personal to Arlecchino that she's never shared publicly?

She should return it, she thinks. But that would mean seeing Arlecchino again, speaking to her, having to face those terrifying, sharp eyes that seem to cut through centuries of performance to something real underneath—something even Furina herself can no longer identify with certainty.

She tucks the fabric into her sleeve, rising unsteadily to her feet. Her legs tremble slightly, the aftermath of adrenaline leaving her muscles weak and quivering as she moves to the small window, desperate for fresh air.

Outside, evening has fallen over Fontaine, the city lights beginning to twinkle against the deepening blue. Somewhere among them, Arlecchino moves through the shadows, once again carrying the knowledge of Furina's unmasked self—carrying the memory of a moment when pretense fell away, leaving only truth in its wake.

She presses her fingers against the cool glass, watching her breath fog the pane. The handkerchief in her sleeve feels impossibly heavy for such a small thing.

"What do you see when you look at me?" she whispers to the absent Harbinger. "What even is there left to see?"

Chapter Text

Furina sits across from Navia at their usual corner table—the one with the slight wobble that nobody else wants but which offers the best view of both the harbor and the street. They've claimed this spot as their own in the months following the flood, making it a ritual sanctuary of sorts.

She nods along to her friend's words, the rim of her teacup pressing against her lower lip without actually taking in any liquid. Her attention drifts between the city outside and something much farther away—something now days distant and still unresolved. She hasn't seen the Knave since that night at the Palais, when everything had fallen apart and she was left alone to piece herself back together.

"—and the items clearly never even reached the courthouse site!" Navia says, her voice rising with excitement at her retelling. She'd been detailing the Spina's latest venture since they sat down, though Furina struggled to follow along.

Her fingers slip into her pocket, seeking the now familiar texture of fine linen and precise stitching—the handkerchief with its enigmatic "P" embroidered in bold crimson thread. The fabric has softened further with her constant handling, conforming to the shape of her fingertips.

"And then we found the entire shipment of marble just sitting in his basement," Navia concludes, her shrewd eyes now studying Furina's face behind her sunglasses. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

Furina snaps to attention, nearly spilling her tea in her haste to appear engaged. "Oh! I—of course I was listening! The case with the missing—" she falters momentarily, "—building materials! The audacity of some people knows no bounds, even in these challenging times of reconstruction." She straightens her posture and unleashes a cascade of apologies, each more elaborate than the last. "My attention wandered for only the briefest moment, I assure you—though that’s entirely unforgivable when you're sharing such riveting developments. Ahem—please, continue! I am completely and utterly focused now."

Navia laughs at her monologuing. "Save the grand apology for someone who doesn’t know you quite so well. Your mind has been somewhere else since we sat down." She taps her spoon against her coffee cup, thoughtful. "Though I'm curious what has you so entranced."

Furina relaxes slightly, grateful for Navia's familiarity with her tendencies. Few people in her exceptionally long life have earned the right—or the ability—to see past her façades, even partially. For Navia to be one of them… it’s extremely fortunate, to say the least.

"Nothing of consequence," she lies, withdrawing her hand from her pocket and deliberately wrapping it around her teacup. "Just… preoccupied with the remaining reconstruction efforts. You know how it is."

Navia nods, allowing the deflection as she shifts the conversation. "You know, the Fatui have been surprisingly helpful... though I suppose it benefits them to have Fontaine functional again. International trade, diplomatic relations—all that practical self-interest."

Furina's fingers twitch around her cup, creating small ripples across the tea's surface.

"How is everyone involved in that?" she asks, striving for nonchalance. She stares into her cup for a long moment before adding, "Is Arlecchino still participating?"

The question surprises even herself—she hadn't planned to ask it, hadn't consciously formed the thought before it escaped her lips. 

Navia's eyebrow lifts slightly. "The Knave? She's been less present lately. Focused on House matters, from what I hear." 

A flicker of disappointment crosses Furina’s face before she can hide it. She'd hoped to hear more—what specific projects the Knave was working on, whether she'd mentioned their encounter, any detail that might explain the absence that had stretched longer than Furina had anticipated—even as she herself had demanded it. The realization that she wants this information bothers her almost as much as not receiving it.

While she's distracted by her own ruminations, she nearly misses the way Navia's eyes narrow. "Why do you ask?"

Heat rises to Furina's cheeks. "Ah, only professional interest," she rushes to say. "All parties involved are worth keeping track of, especially those with considerable resources and ambiguous motives. Plus, we did work on that project together for a while, so—"

As the words leave her mouth, she realizes she's still saying too much, overcorrecting when she should aim for poise. She stops abruptly—too late—leaving an awkward silence that communicates more than her elaborate explanation would have. 

"Anyway! I think we've given that particular Harbinger quite enough of our valuable attention," she announces with an exaggerated sigh, fluttering her fingers as if physically brushing the topic away. "There are surely more delightful topics to discuss."

Navia hums, stirring her coffee slowly. "Actually, I hear the gala to celebrate the completion of that project of yours is next week. Will you go? I heard they’ll hold an exhibition, and the pieces you authenticated will be the centerpiece."

Furina's fingers tense around her cup, her mind immediately flashing back to her last semi-public appearance. To the suffocating press of attention, to the rising panic—to Arlecchino's low, steady voice, cutting through it all and guiding her back to stability.

"I avoid such events now," she says, forcing lightness into her tone. "They're tedious without the obligation of godhood forcing my attendance." She sips her tea to conceal her expression. "Besides, I've already seen all those pieces up close during authentication. I’ll let everyone else enjoy them."

Once again, her hand drifts to her pocket where the handkerchief sits, an unconscious gesture she's repeated more times than she'd care to admit since that day. She only realizes she's doing it when Navia's sharp eyes track the movement. Her hand swiftly darts back to her cup.

"I should get going," Navia says later as she gathers her belongings. "I'm meeting up with Clorinde soon. But before I forget—I did see the Knave in Poisson briefly yesterday." She pauses, watching Furina carefully. "She seemed preoccupied. Didn't even notice me watching her, or at least didn't comment on it. Quite unusual for her."

"She must have a lot on her mind, considering her position," Furina replies, her voice measured despite the unexplained tightness in her chest.

“I’m sure she does,” Navia agrees.

After her departure, Furina remains at the table. Now alone, her fingers find the handkerchief again. She wonders what occupies the Knave's thoughts so completely these days, so much so that she’d lose track of her surroundings. Then, with a flash of irritation, she chastises herself for caring at all. 

Why does she care? Hadn’t she been the one to request—no, demand—space? Wasn't this precisely what she wanted?

She brings the cup back to her lips one last time before preparing to leave.

Her tea has gone cold.

***

Furina sits across from Neuvillette, her posture impeccable as she delivers her final report. Throughout the weeks-long project, she has maintained a strict professionalism—exactly what was required of her, nothing more. The catalog between them represents hundreds of hours of examination, research, and documentation: a comprehensive record of Fontaine’s rescued cultural heritage.

“Your expertise has been invaluable,” Neuvillette says. His eyes move across the detailed descriptions, the precise dating methodologies, the historical context provided for each item. “The gala next week will serve as a fitting conclusion to this recovery effort.”

He looks up from the catalog, studying her for a moment. “I assume you won’t be attending.”

"No, of course not," Furina confirms with no hesitation. "Formal events are... tedious now. Without obligation, I find quieter settings preferable."

It's the same line she'd given Navia earlier, and while not untrue, it conceals the heart of the matter—the suffocating anxiety of being surrounded by expectant faces, the weight of attention pressing against her skin, the lingering fear of another moment where control slips through her helpless fingers.

"That is understandable,” he concedes. “Though I wonder if you might miss witnessing the culmination of your work."

"I've seen these pieces more intimately than anyone attending will," she counters lightly. "I could describe each with my eyes closed. The exhibition holds little novelty—and I could say worse about the gala."

Neuvillette graciously decides not to press further. "The Knave might be attending," he adds after a moment's pause. "She expressed interest in seeing the final presentation."

Furina’s fingers freeze on the catalog page she'd been idly turning. The paper crinkles softly under the pressure of her fingertip. "Did she?"

She tries to sound merely curious, but the slight uptick in her voice betrays more interest than intended. Why would the Knave attend such an event? Her duties surely don't extend that far.

Neuvillette nods, seemingly oblivious to her reaction. "Her knowledge proved surprisingly extensive. I will admit I was concerned at first, but I heard your collaborative sessions were productive."

Her mind flashes back to the early days of the project, when the Knave often lingered after delivering each new batch of pieces for authentication. Her insights about historical theater techniques, her precise observations about construction methods used in antique props, her seemingly genuine curiosity about the finest details of the craft. The memory of working side by side, heads bent over a delicate costume, Arlecchino's voice low and thoughtful as she pointed out and asked about distinctive stitching patterns—

"We made efficient progress, that’s true.” She can't deny they worked well together, despite her reluctance. She finds herself adding, "She has an eye for detail that proved useful."

"She mentioned that you provided insights that would have been impossible for anyone else to offer. She seemed impressed."

She blinks, surprised not by the compliment but by the fact that Arlecchino had spoken about her at all. "Did she, now? How... unexpected."

“She does have a tendency to subvert expectations,” he remarks thoughtfully. He offers no elaboration, though it leaves Furina wondering about his private dealings with the woman. What have they been discussing since the flood?

As their meeting concludes, Neuvillette rises and extends his hand. "It's been good working with you again, Furina."

The awkward note in his voice doesn't escape her notice. They're both still finding their way through this new dynamic, former colleagues now finally attempting to reconnect in this new capacity. It's uncharted territory, but not entirely uncomfortable.

"Likewise, Neuvillette," she responds, accepting the handshake with a genuine smile. "I'm glad some things have changed, but others remain the same."

She turns to leave, but hesitates briefly at the door. "I'll... consider the gala. No promises."

His eyebrows lift slightly, but he only nods. "The invitation remains open.” His voice turns softer, then. “Feel no need to push yourself, Furina."

Her own voice softens when she replies, "I won't. Thank you, Neuvillette."

The corridor outside his office stretches long and quiet, her footsteps echoing against marble floors. Now alone, she slows her pace, taking a moment to herself.

She withdraws the handkerchief from her pocket, no longer needing to hide the gesture from watchful eyes. In a gesture born from habit rather than intention, she runs her thumb over the raised threads of the embroidered “P”.

"She seemed impressed," Furina murmurs to herself, testing the words as if they might reveal additional meaning when spoken aloud.

She's told herself repeatedly to discard the handkerchief, or at least pass it along to someone who might return it to its owner. Instead, she keeps it close, something she can't explain even to herself.

Is it a reminder of vulnerability? Evidence of compassion from an unexpected source? A tangible connection to someone who saw through her performance when everyone else remained comfortably deceived?

Arlecchino will be at the gala.

The thought alone sends a ripple through her composure—Arlecchino will be at the gala, along with countless attendees hungry for gossip, their eyes eager to dissect her every move, their whispers ready to weave new narratives about the former Hydro Archon's fall from grace.

She remembers Arlecchino's voice guiding her through the worst moments of her panic—"Five things you can see"—and finds herself repeating the exercise now. The handkerchief between her fingers. The setting sun painting gold across the corridor. A portrait on the wall she's passed countless times without noticing. The polished floor reflecting distorted versions of her uncertainty. Her own reflection, waiting for an answer.

Her breath steadies with each tally, a delicate calm settling over her. She carefully folds the handkerchief, aligning its edges before returning it to her pocket.

It's time to decide what to wear.

***

The day of the gala, Furina stands in the center of her bedroom, surveying the disarray surrounding her. Discarded outfit options lie scattered across her bed—formal gowns and tailored suits in various states of consideration, all rejected earlier when she had no intention of attending the gala. Now she examines them with fresh eyes, finding each somehow lacking.

She hasn't attended a formal event since before the flood. What had once been routine now feels foreign, and the question of what to wear now feels… significant. Who is she expected to be? What image does she even want to project?

Nothing feels right. Nothing feels like her—but then, who is “she” now?

She drifts toward a seldom-used section of her wardrobe, her fingers hovering momentarily before sliding open the panel. Inside hangs a dress she had commissioned not long after the waters receded. Something about its design had captivated her then—a gradient of deep blues fading into white, with delicate golden accents tracing patterns across the fabric. It reminded her of... someone. Someone both intimately familiar and yet utterly foreign.

She removes it carefully from its hanger, the fabric cool against her fingertips as she holds it against herself before the mirror. The darkening blues complement her complexion, the cut flattering without being ostentatious.

It looks right, objectively speaking. Different from her usual style—though perhaps that's appropriate now that everything has changed. Her fingers work automatically as she puts it on, finding that it conforms perfectly to her figure—yet somehow feels wrong, as though it belongs to someone else.

No... that's not quite it.

The problem doesn't lie in how the dress fits her body, she realizes, but rather in how she fits within the dress. She watches her reflection with a strange sense of disconnection—as if she's waiting for permission to inhabit a skin that has always been hers.

Perhaps she'll grow into it. Perhaps that's precisely what she needs—a mold to fit into, guidance through this transformation, a hand to steady her as she navigates these uncharted waters. It’s not another performance, no. Just... clarity.

The dress may feel uncomfortable for now, but she'll grow into it—won't she?

She reaches for her jewelry box, selecting pieces with unusual hesitation. Is this bracelet right? This necklace appropriate? Would she have worn them? 

As these questions tumble through her mind, her gaze falls upon the handkerchief resting atop her vanity. When she readies to leave, she lifts it, running her thumb across the embroidered "P" before tucking it into a hidden pocket sewn into the dress's seam. 

At her door, she pauses, palm pressed against the cool metal of the handle. Attending means eyes upon her again, expectations, scrutiny. It means encountering the Knave again after their last uncomfortable interaction.

She thinks of those eyes—those sharp, perceptive eyes that seem to strip away pretense. She recalls the Knave's cologne—a note of rainbow rose lying beneath, perceptible even as dust had filled her nose. She remembers that hand—rough and calloused, its strength barely concealed behind that unexpected gentleness.

The warmth of the Knave's touch had spread through her like water seeping into parched earth, awakening dormant things, kindling a hearth into life within her core. And how sharply that warmth had withdrawn when she pulled away—how that nascent flame had crystallized into frost as she allowed alarm and fear to overtake her. How the frost had lingered long after Arlecchino left.

If they were to meet again tonight—no, when they meet again tonight—will that same spark—

She catches her breath quickening, her free hand unconsciously pressing against the spot where the handkerchief rests against her side. Anxiety threatens to creep up her spine—a familiar visitor, arriving with its retinue of doubts and hesitations. But she takes a deep, centering breath, steadying herself as she had been taught.

Five things she can see: the handle beneath her fingers, the polished floor, the light from the window, the edge of her dress, the glint of her bracelet.

She straightens her shoulders and opens the door, head held high.

It's about time she stops being afraid of the Knave.

No—it's about time she stops being afraid of what the Knave awakens within her.

***

"—and then after the mimic swallowed the NPC, I rolled a natural one!" Navia says, fanning herself as if the memory alone is too much to bear. "It was terrible—I really thought it was going to be a TPK."

Furina hums, nodding along to the story. "Truly shocking," she replies, though her attention has already begun to drift across the hall, searching for a figure that has yet to materialize.

Clorinde stands beside them, her posture easy but unyielding. Her gaze moves slowly across the crowd, pausing now and then when someone stares too long, as if to challenge them to make a move. The ever-loyal guard dog, even now that she is no longer required to be.

She'll have to thank her properly. A new dice set, perhaps, when she finds the time.

Navia leans in slightly. "You haven't laughed once. That's how I know you're plotting your escape."

Furina tilts her head, expression light and surprised—for once, she really hadn't been. Still, she plays along. "What a grave accusation. Do you have evidence?"

"The way you've been scanning the room for an escape route since we got here, for one."

Furina scoffs. "Please, as if I'd need an escape plan. I can improvise just fine—and it's not like anyone is forcing me to be here."

Coming to the gala had been her choice—her responsibility, no one else's.

She shifts in place, the fabric of her ill-fitting dress now feeling constricting against her skin. Against her best hopes, it seems a few hours haven't been enough to grow into it quite yet, and the crowd's curious gazes have only served to deepen her discomfort.

She misses her suit and shorts.

Her fingers brush against the hidden pocket where the handkerchief rests, a small comfort in this sea of unfamiliarity.

Her friend raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Right. So if you're not looking for a hidden passage… maybe you're looking for someone? Expecting company, perhaps?"

Furina clears her throat, her gaze skimming away. "Conjectures. I'm simply admiring the scenery. It's been some time since I've attended one of these affairs," she lies, smooth as ever.

Her façade may be wearing thin—even to eyes less sharp than the Knave's—but that doesn't mean she'll stop wearing it.

She wouldn't know how to.

She surveys the crowd again, tracing the outline of each figure before dismissing them with growing disappointment. The Knave's continued absence carries a stark disappointment with it—all that courage and determination, and the star of the show didn't even deign to step onto the stage?

"I think I'll sample the buffet," she announces suddenly. She needs space to process her chagrin—and sweets to comfort her through it. "Save my place in this riveting conversation, won't you?"

Navia exchanges a knowing glance with Clorinde, but neither presses further. "Of course. We'll be here."

Furina moves through the crowd with purposeful strides, accustomed to the way it instinctively parts before her. She's always been a figure meant to be seen—consumed—rather than approached. The dessert table offers momentary sanctuary—a destination with purpose, a reason to stand alone without appearing abandoned. Her fingers hover over an intricately crafted pastry when she detects a presence at her side.

"Lady Furina," a voice intrudes, its owner a nobleman she should probably recognize but can't be bothered to recall. "What an unexpected pleasure to see you at an event like this."

She turns, offering the smile reserved for such moments—warm enough to appear genuine, distant enough to discourage familiarity. "The pleasure is all mine, I'm sure."

Two more figures join him, their eagerness barely concealed beneath their veneer of politeness. They speak at her, not to her, asking questions that don't require real answers, making observations designed to elicit reactions they can later transform into gossip.

This isn't new, of course. There have always been bolder types among her admirers—those unsatisfied with just consuming from a distance, intent instead to claim a piece of her for themselves.

But since the flood—since her "fall from grace"—those admirers have multiplied exponentially. Now she is no longer untouchable, but approachable. Now she inhabits that liminal space between human and divinity, between being just another face in the crowd and someone larger than life. Among her peers, and yet still peerless.

"I heard you were magnificent during the project closing," one says. "I wish I could've been there for your speech."

"Ah, nonsense. Just your run-of-the-mill rambling from yours truly," she replies with well-rehearsed haughty humility, hoping the interaction will conclude as quickly as it began.

The nobleman continues with increasingly transparent attempts at flattery when something peculiar happens. His eyes widen slightly, focus shifting to something beyond Furina's shoulder. His companions follow suit, alarm seeping into their expressions. Words falter, trailing into uneasy silence.

"If you'll excuse us, Lady Furina," he manages finally with a nervous bow. "I believe we're needed elsewhere."

They retreat with such obvious haste that Furina finds herself momentarily bewildered. Only as they scurry away does she turn, following the trajectory of their gaze.

There, between gaps in the milling crowd, stands Arlecchino.

The Knave of the House of the Hearth remains perfectly still amidst the flowing movement of the gala, like a stone in a river that forces the current to part around it. She is severe elegance personified in tailored formal attire, her posture military-straight, her gaze direct and unwavering as it meets Furina's from across the room.

Oh. So she was here after all.

And she had been watching—watching closely enough to direct a glare of such potency at Furina's unwanted company that they had scattered like startled pigeons upon sensing it. 

How considerate, she thinks, something disorientingly close to fondness threading through her thoughts.

A waiter passes between them, silver tray held high, momentarily severing their connection. When the path clears only seconds later, Arlecchino has vanished, leaving only the impression of her presence behind—like the lingering note of a piano key struck once and left to resonate.

Furina blinks, scanning the crowd with renewed urgency. Surely the Knave couldn't have disappeared so completely in the span of a heartbeat? Yet the space where she stood is now occupied by strangers engaged in idle conversation, with no sign of where she might have gone.

Without much thought, she abandons her half-eaten dessert, moving with newfound determination into the swirling patterns of the gathering. Each step carries her deeper into the crowd, her eyes seeking that distinctive silhouette with an intensity that surprises even herself.

What drives this urgency? Why does finding the Knave feel so imperative? She was terrified of her only a few short weeks ago, so why does she now search for her presence so insistently? These questions flutter at the edges of her consciousness, but she dismisses them. There is no time for questioning.

As she navigates the grand hall, weaving between clusters of attendees and pausing occasionally to scan for any glimpse of the Knave, Furina catches sight of Navia and Clorinde. They have moved to the dance floor, Clorinde leading as Navia follows, a look of undisguised adoration illuminating both their features.

The sight brings a smile to Furina's lips. She has clearly taken too long in her absence, but she feels no resentment—only a gentle satisfaction at witnessing her friends' happiness, their easy certainty in each other. It stands in stark contrast to her own confused yearning, this nameless thing that propels her through the crowd with such single-minded focus.

Her hunt takes her through reception halls and conversation alcoves, past musicians playing compositions she commissioned lifetimes ago, beneath archways she remembers from when they were newly constructed. The minutes stretch into nearly an hour, until eventually she has to make peace with reality—the Knave has likely departed, that brief moment of connection across the room the only exchange they would share tonight.

Disappointment rises, filling spaces within her she hadn't realized existed until they ached with absence. She is about to abandon her search entirely when familiar voices catch her attention.

"Lady Furina!" Lyney calls, his expression bright. Lynette stands beside him, offering a more reserved but equally genuine smile. "We were wondering if we might encounter you this evening."

"Ah, the prodigious twins," Furina responds, her warmth authentic despite her preoccupation. "You both look marvelous. I trust the night finds you well?"

"Well enough," Lynette answers. "Would be better somewhere else, though."

"Speak for yourself," Lyney counters good-naturedly. "I find these events absolutely delightful. Almost as entertaining as our own performances, wouldn't you say?"

Their banter washes over Furina like a balm, momentarily soothing the restlessness that has driven her all evening.

The conversation flows naturally, pleasant and unremarkable—until the question that has been nestled beneath Furina's thoughts finally emerges, wrapped in carefully constructed nonchalance.

"Is your father here tonight, as far as you know?"

The twins exchange a glance—one of those wordless communications that exists in the liminal space between thought and language, a shared understanding cultivated over a lifetime of connection.

Is that one myth about twins and telepathy true, actually?

"Father?" Lyney repeats. "Yes, she's here."

"Ah, I thought I might have seen her earlier," Furina begins. "But she must have left early, since I can't seem to find a trace of her now."

Another look passes between the twins—stop doing that!

"That's... weird," Lynette says finally, her tone carrying echoes of her father—precisely in that way that implies skepticism toward flimsy excuses. "She should still be at the gala. We were with her just now, after all."

"Oh." The syllable escapes her lips before she can come up with an explanation to justify her interest—or her confusion. She'd looked all over the grand hall; how could she not have caught even one glimpse of the Knave, if she really is still here?

Lynette regards her curiously. "Did you want to talk to Father?"

"I—" Furina starts, then stops. She waves one hand in a vague gesture, buying time. "Well, that is to say—"

Lyney's eyebrows rise with each stuttered syllable, his interest clearly piqued by her uncharacteristic fluster. Furina inhales, steadying herself. What is she nervous for? She’s just asking a question—one she even has reasonable cause for.

"I have something of hers," she admits finally, her fingers finding the outline of the handkerchief in her pocket. "That I've been meaning to give back."

The twins do not press further, though their eyes remain inquisitive. After one last glance at her brother, Lynette steps closer, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper:

"Eyes on the dance floor."

Before her words can be questioned, the girl dissolves into the crowd with appropriately feline grace as the orchestra begins a new arrangement. Baffled, Furina turns her attention to Lyney, who only laughs.

"I think she's been looking for an excuse all night. I'll have to find a way to thank you later," he says, as if that explains anything.

"I—what?"

He shrugs, then tips his hat as he does when preparing to say goodbye to a delighted audience. “Now, now, Lady Furina, this is not the time. If you dawdle you may lose your chance. As my dear sister said—eyes on the dance floor.”

The music swells, a sweeping waltz filling the grand hall, and the dance floor blossoms with movement. Following Lyney’s advice, Furina scans the dancers with growing confusion until—

There.

Lynette and Arlecchino, dancing together.

So this had been Lynette’s solution, her way to draw the Knave from whichever shadow she had decided to inhabit. Despite avoiding Furina all evening, Arlecchino seemingly could not refuse her daughter this one simple request.

Furina observes from the periphery as she walks closer, hesitant to intrude. Lynette looks subtly delighted, a reserved joy softening her features as she follows her father's lead. Arlecchino, for her part, seems content in granting her daughter's wish, her severe expression unusually gentle.

The Knave murmurs something Furina can't quite decipher from her distance.

Lynette’s ears stiffen slightly before relaxing once again. She glances away—evidently embarrassed—and gives her father a short, indignant nudge in retaliation.

The Knave only grins—wait, what? She can do that?!—in clear amusement.

How ordinary. How endearing. A father teasing her daughter, one too mature to escape self-consciousness entirely, yet too young to abandon the yearning for such moments of parental connection.

The music ebbs and flows, and with it, Furina's resolve. When the final notes fade and the dancers begin to separate, she hesitates a moment longer. Then her eyes meet Lynette's across the space—a silent encouragement, a permission granted without words.

And just like that, something settles into place inside her—a performer recognizing her cue.

"Lord Arlecchino," she says as she approaches the pair, a hand extended, her most charming smile assembled on her face. "May I have the pleasure of your next dance?"

Arlecchino turns, surprise flashing briefly in her expression. Furina savors the reaction—a small victory, for a change.

"Miss Furina," she acknowledges, voice cool and controlled. "I'm afraid I must decline. My attention belongs to my daughter tonight—"

She pauses, glancing to where Lynette had been standing only moments before, only to find the space empty. Her daughter has vanished with impressive stealth, leaving no trace behind.

Arlecchino's gaze returns to her. "I see," she says, taking in Furina's unsurprised expression. "This encounter was orchestrated, then."

Something in her tone carries not quite accusation, but perhaps reluctant appreciation for the maneuver. Furina offers a small shrug in response, neither confirming nor denying, allowing her smile to speak for itself.

The orchestra begins tuning for the next piece, filling the momentary silence between them. With a resigned exhale that nonetheless carries fragments of curiosity—or perhaps apprehension—Arlecchino finally accepts Furina's still-outstretched hand.

"Very well," she concedes, her fingers warm against Furina's palm—just as they had been in that secluded antechamber.

Together, they move toward the dance floor as the first notes of the next piece begin to rise through the hall.

"Would you like to lead?" Arlecchino asks as they take their positions, a hint of dry amusement coloring her words. "Since you've been taking charge of our encounter thus far tonight."

Furina blinks, caught off guard. "I'm surprised you would know how to dance in any role besides leading."

"I do lack practical experience following," Arlecchino admits. "But I feel confident I could manage it, should the situation require. I have a rather reliable partner, after all."

Furina considers this for a moment, weighing her options. "I think," she decides finally, "that you should lead, Knave." A mischievous smile plays at her lips. "Simply because you're taller, and no other reason."

Arlecchino nods in agreement, adjusting their stance with efficient movements, one hand finding Furina's waist while the other clasps her hand.

The dance begins normally enough, Arlecchino's lead precise and technically flawless, if somewhat reserved. Furina follows with the ease of centuries of practice.

She had intended to use this opportunity to "corner" Arlecchino, to finally speak with her properly after days of stewing in her thoughts. Yet now, with the Knave's attention within reach, she finds herself strangely wordless. What should she address first? Why Arlecchino has been avoiding her? The handkerchief still nestled in her pocket? An apology for their last encounter?

Her earlier confidence dissolves into an unfamiliar shyness, a kind of nervousness that feels foreign in her body—that she thought had been stripped from her within the first years of her existence, replaced by a shameless scramble for survival under that persistent, relentless spotlight. The silence between them stretches on, punctuated only by the music and the synchronized rhythm of their steps.

Gradually, Furina becomes aware of the attention gathering around them. Eyes turning their way, conversations pausing as more of the attendees notice who has taken to the floor. She hasn't danced publicly in some time, and everyone seems eager to witness this moment, though she offers nothing particularly extraordinary. Her mere presence creates its own gravity, pulling focus inexorably inward.

She continues dancing perfectly—mechanically, her movements carried by muscle memory rather than intention—while dread inches up her spine. There's that familiar sensation of being watched, dissected, analyzed by countless pairs of eyes. The music seems to recede, replaced by the gentle rustle of whispers at the edges of the ballroom.

Look at her... is that really... after all this time...

Her smile remains fixed, the practiced curve of her lips never faltering even as she feels herself growing distant from her own body. The ballroom begins to blur at its edges, the crystal chandeliers above multiplying in her vision.

Her fingers tense against Arlecchino's shoulder, her other hand clammy within her partner's grasp. Unlike last time, she now recognizes the approaching storm of anxiety, the tightening in her chest, the shortening of breath. She knows the signs—how the room will soon feel too bright, too loud, too close. How the faces around them will blur into a single judging entity. How—

"Focus on me."

Arlecchino's voice cuts through the growing haze, low and commanding. She squeezes sharply at Furina's waist, demanding her attention.

Then, without warning, she executes an unexpected turn. Furina rushes to follow, her experience carrying her through with only minimal hesitation. She looks up into Arlecchino's face, bewilderment clearing the fog of panic, and finds those piercing eyes focused entirely on her—fully present in a way they hadn't been just moments before, when the Knave had been carefully avoiding her gaze.

"You wanted to dance, didn't you, Miss Furina?" Arlecchino continues, deliberately varying their steps. "Then focus on me—and only me. Nothing else."

"What are you—" The question dissolves unfinished as Arlecchino continues her improvisations, demanding Furina's complete presence. Her world narrows, the watching eyes receding to the background as her attention is stolen over and over again.

"You wanted this dance," Arlecchino repeats firmly. "So be present for it."

Each time Furina's awareness begins to drift outward toward the crowd, Arlecchino introduces something new—a different pressure against her waist, a shift in direction, a change in tempo that pulls her back from the precipice.

Eventually, Furina's bewilderment transforms into something else—a tentative curiosity that unfurls within her chest. If Arlecchino can introduce variations, then perhaps...

She initiates a slight change in their trajectory, a small rebellion against Arlecchino's established pattern. The Knave's eyebrow arches fractionally, but she adjusts without hesitation, following Furina's lead.

Emboldened, she introduces more complexity, testing the boundaries of her partner's adaptability. Each innovation is met with competent response—not quite the fluid grace of a trained performer, no, but somehow far more captivating.

Time loses all meaning, stretching and compressing between them. The spectators recede until they exist only as distant light at the periphery of consciousness. All that remains is their dance.

All that remains is the Knave—Arlecchino's eyes on her, no longer instilling fear, but rather assurance. No longer contributing to the growing anxiety, but rather halting it in its tracks, grounding her in the moment—keeping her safe from the leers of others.

Furina is enjoying herself, she realizes suddenly. Not performing enjoyment, not calculating the appropriate display of pleasure to maintain appearances, but experiencing it directly, purely—a sensation so unfamiliar that it takes several heartbeats to identify. It's startling, to find this genuine delight in a setting that has only ever brought her grief before.

Her body tells its own story as they continue, revealing truths she herself had not yet been granted the opportunity to recognize. Where once her form had been maintained with relentless precision—honed through endless private rehearsals, every movement calculated and perfected before ever being witnessed even by the eyes of her fellow performers—now there is a new, contented softness.

She notices her breathing growing heavier, feels the burn of exertion in muscles that once knew only perpetual readiness. In the months since the flood she has abandoned those solitary practices—those rehearsals that were themselves performances for an audience of one, critical and unforgiving. The realization should bring shame, perhaps, this evidence of her diminished capacity, and yet—

There is something intoxicatingly liberating in this limitation, in showing off this shameless disregard for perfection. Each labored breath feels like permission to exist fallibly, to inhabit a body that can tire, that can struggle, that can feel. The sweat gathering at her temples, the quickening of her pulse, the gentle ache beginning in her calves—these sensations arrive not as failures but as gifts, testament to her newfound freedom to be human.

Arlecchino notices—of course she does, those eyes miss nothing—but offers no judgment, only the slightest adjustment to accommodate Furina's changing capacity.

They finish with a flourish that comes from Furina's inspiration and Arlecchino's execution—a spinning movement that sends Furina outward before drawing her back, ending with her dipped in Arlecchino's steady hold, both of them momentarily frozen in perfect counterbalance.

The music fades, but Furina remains caught in the moment, her breath coming in audible gasps that would have mortified her former self. There is a strange elation pulsing through her veins—a fevered energy bordering on delirium. Her focus remains fixed on Arlecchino's face, the rest of the world still a distant blur beyond the boundaries of their shared space.

"That was..." she begins, searching for words to contain this unfamiliar experience, finding her extensive vocabulary suddenly and inexplicably lacking.

Around them, the hall gradually reasserts its existence—the soft murmur of impressed voices, the subtle movement of bodies shifting to observe them more closely. Furina registers distantly that people are approaching, drawn by the spectacle, but before they can reach her, Arlecchino's gaze hardens, sweeping the room with silent warning.

The protectiveness of this gesture—this small shield erected against the world's intrusion—strikes Furina as absurdly endearing. A bubble of laughter escapes her, genuine and unguarded, carrying notes of an almost childlike delight.

What does it matter? Why should the audience matter? What claim do any of these people have to their persons?

On this stage—on this dance floor, in this grand hall, inside this building, in all of Fontaine—no, of Teyvat—in this moment, there is only the two of them: Arlecchino and Furina. Nothing else.

"Are you glaring at them?" she asks, incredulity and amusement mingling in her voice. Her hand sneaks past Arlecchino’s shoulder and to her cheek, a gentle demand for her attention. "How very gallant of you, Knave."

Arlecchino's eyes soften as they return to her. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself," she states simply, as if the motivation requires no further explanation. She guides Furina upright as she speaks, her palm remaining steady and warm against the small of her back.

A decision crystallizes within Furina, then. Before hesitation can take root, before the well-known patterns of overthinking can reassert themselves, she reaches for Arlecchino's hand.

"Knave," she declares with a boldness that feels true for the first time in her endless life, "you're coming with me."

Without waiting for agreement or refusal, she pulls Arlecchino away from the center of the floor, away from the watching eyes and approaching figures—figures she can hardly bring herself to pay any attention to. 

Arlecchino allows herself to be led, following without resistance as Furina navigates them through the crowd and beyond, into the cooler air of deserted hallways where the sounds of celebration fade into distant echoes.

"Where exactly are we going?" she inquires after they have traveled through several corridors.

"Somewhere private," Furina answers, her gaze flitting from doorway to doorway as they move through the building's quieter regions. "Somewhere we can talk." She continues her assessment aloud, words spilling forth as she peeks into each chamber they pass by. "Perhaps here? No, too exposed. Or there? Too formal, it doesn’t feel right. Hm, maybe..."

"You seem to be in quite the good mood.”

Furina pauses mid-step, then turns to face Arlecchino.

"Is that what this is?" she asks, the question directed as much to herself as to Arlecchino.

"Is it not?" Arlecchino questions back, her head tilting slightly. "What else would you call it?"

Furina hums, considering this. "Mania, perhaps," she suggests finally. "Or some peculiar state of heightened reality where nothing feels quite solid except..."

Except you, she doesn't say. She does still have some sense of shame.

Arlecchino regards her skeptically, prompting Furina to continue:

"Well, you can hardly blame me for the confusion," she elaborates defensively. "I don't think I've experienced a proper 'good mood' in five hundred years. This is entirely new territory for me—" Her words halt abruptly as her gaze catches on an archway beyond Arlecchino's shoulder, her expression brightening. "Oh, of course! The gardens!"

With sure steps, she guides them through winding corridors until they emerge into the private gardens. Her eyes fall on a small gazebo at the end of the stone path, nestled among the meticulously arranged flower beds and ornamental fountains.

"Perfect!" she declares, leading Arlecchino up the few steps to the sheltered space.

There is a stone bench inside, but she bypasses it entirely, settling instead on the edge of the central table. She pats the space beside her invitingly, but Arlecchino remains standing, maintaining a careful distance.

"I must say," Furina begins, breaking the silence that had settled between them, "you surprised me tonight. Where did you learn to dance like that?"

Arlecchino posture straightens slightly. "You flatter me—I'm no dancer of your caliber, I assure you. I was simply drawing from applicable experience."

"Oh?" Furina leans forward, interest piqued. "Then it's not an exaggeration when people claim fighting is not all that different from dancing?"

"It is—for the most part. The comparison oversimplifies both arts."

"How so?"

“In most cases, a fight concludes in mere instants—the time it takes for the more experienced combatant to identify vulnerabilities and exploit them." Her eyes meet Furina's. "Unless, of course, they wish to prolong the encounter for their own amusement."

"Then you were playing with me?" Furina questions, eyebrow arched, but the curve of her lips reveals no offense.

"Not at all." Arlecchino's response comes quickly, unexpectedly earnest. "There is another scenario the comparison fits more appropriately: when two fighters of comparable skill encounter each other."

She gestures subtly with her hand. "Such encounters still wouldn't match the duration of our dance, but the dynamic—the careful observation, anticipating movements, responding to the subtlest shifts in balance or intention—in that way, dancing and combat share common ground."

Furina tilts her head, unconvinced.

"Perhaps a demonstration would be more enlightening than my explanation." With a swift flick of her hand, Arlecchino manifests a dark red, faintly glowing sword. She extends it toward Furina, hilt first. "Here."

Furina hesitates, eyeing the weapon cautiously. When her fingers finally close around the handle, she finds herself pleasantly surprised. "It's... warm. I thought it would burn."

"Go on," Arlecchino prompts, taking several steps back. "Try to hit me."

"Huh?" Furina blinks rapidly.

"I said—"

"No, I heard you perfectly well!" she interjects, grip tightening nervously on the sword. "There's just no way I'm going to—I mean, not that I doubt your abilities, but if you were to get hurt—"

"It's dulled at the edges," Arlecchino assures her with a hint of amusement.

"Oh." Furina tests the blade with her thumb, confirming that indeed, paper would pose more danger. She slides down from her perch on the table, adjusting her grip on the dummy sword.

Her first swing is tentative—a sweeping arc with more flourish than threat. Arlecchino sidesteps it effortlessly.

"I see you're proficient in stage combat," she observes as Furina readies another attempt. "Very dramatic. Entirely ineffective in actual confrontation, but visually compelling."

"Well, forgive me for never having enlisted in the Fatui training program," Furina retorts, launching another attack that combines unnecessarily elaborate spins with surprisingly quick follow-through.

Arlecchino evades each strike with fluid economy, yet Furina notices something—a certain performative quality to her movements that seems calculated for her benefit rather than practical necessity or habit.

"That arm positioning would get you killed in seconds," Arlecchino comments as she executes a particularly dramatic maneuver. "But it does frame your face rather nicely for an audience."

"Is that a compliment or criticism?" Furina huffs, a strand of hair falling across her eyes as her next strike comes closer, determination beginning to override caution.

"Merely an observation.” Arlecchino shrugs. “With a talented partner such as yourself," she continues between dodges, voice steady despite Furina's increasingly persistent attempts, "you can see how this skill proves useful in contexts beyond combat."

Furina pauses mid-swing, the words 'talented partner' momentarily registering as mockery—but Arlecchino’s expression holds no ridicule.

"You mean because I telegraph my intentions," she realizes aloud. "In performance, that's deliberate—it’s necessary to communicate with an audience. You're used to reading much subtler cues from unwilling participants."

"Precisely." Arlecchino confirms. "Which makes you exceptionally easy to read on a dance floor—your body communicates with remarkable clarity. An invaluable quality in a dance partner—"

Taking advantage of the distraction posed by their conversation, Furina launches one final, surprise assault, coming closer than before—but still missing as Arlecchino executes a swift evasion that ends with them face to face, mere inches apart.

Well—it seems the Knave has recovered from that lapse in awareness Navia had witnessed in Poisson, after all.

"I yield," she declares with a laugh, her breathing quickened. "Your point is well-made."

Arlecchino takes the weapon back, dissolving it into wisps of crimson energy that fade into the night air.

"I must say," she begins as they return to the gazebo, Furina resuming her seat on the table while she remains standing, "I was surprised to see you in a dress tonight."

Furina glances down at herself, smoothing the fabric across her lap. The garment still doesn't feel quite as she hoped it would—doesn't grant her the assured confidence she had been searching for, nor the solidity of identity she craved, but… somehow, she finds herself not caring quite as much anymore.

Whether it’s a direct consequence, or perhaps just happenstance, she finds it no longer feels so wrong against her skin, either.

"Is that so unusual? I do prefer the practicality of shorts, but it didn't feel that long ago since the last time..." she muses aloud.

"Perhaps you had a phase some fifty years past. I wouldn't know."

"Hmph." Was that a jab at her age? "Well, I suppose I should take you at your word. You’re always watching me, so you'd know."

Arlecchino's composure falters momentarily, the silence that follows charged with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

"Oh, don't be so nervous," Furina teases with a grin. "I'm not chastising you—this time."

When Arlecchino still seems at a loss, she allows the conversation to lapse into silence for a few moments. She draws a deep breath, savoring the garden's fragrance as she gathers her thoughts. The frantic energy that propelled her through the dance has settled into something quieter—a warm satisfaction that sits deep in her bones. 

That dance was exactly what she needed, it seems.

"Why have you been avoiding me tonight?" she asks eventually.

Arlecchino frowns. "I wasn't aware that you had been looking for me."

Furina stares at her, dumbfounded. "There's no way. I couldn't catch a glimpse of you after we saw each other across the room. You must have been watching me to evade me so effectively."

"Ah." Understanding fills the Knave’s eyes now, though the confusion still doesn’t leave them entirely. "I did notice your search, but I assumed it was directed elsewhere—perhaps toward Miss Navia or the Champion Duelist. That seemed the more probable explanation."

"More probable than me seeking you out right after our eyes met?"

"Given how our last encounter concluded," Arlecchino replies carefully, "I believed you had made your preferences quite clear. I was attempting to respect your wishes by removing myself from your path."

 Furina squirms at the reminder of their previous parting. Of course it would come up. "About that… I should apologize—"

"You have nothing to apologize for," Arlecchino interrupts with a shake of her head. "Your reaction was entirely justified. You had every reason to distrust my intentions, to fear my presence. It was presumptuous of me to assume that our few cordial conversations granted me the right to intervene in such a delicate moment. I was..." She hesitates, looking away. "Overeager."

Memories of a stray, mistrustful cat hiding from Furina's own well-intentioned—if overzealous—touches flash through her mind—memories from only a few weeks prior, but that now feel like an eternity ago.

"Are you saying you regret helping me through my panic attack, then?"

A significant pause follows, Arlecchino's gaze distant as she considers the question. "No," she admits finally, almost reluctantly. "Even knowing the outcome, I would have acted the same. You were in distress, and I was the only one who recognized what was happening. If that meant you never wished to speak with me again... I would have accepted that consequence."

A soft laugh escapes Furina, remnants of her earlier elation coloring the sound. "I think I'm starting to understand you."  

"...Are you, now?" The Knave says the words slowly, cautiously—as if Furina’s understanding is somehow worthy of wariness.

How silly. What's so bad about being seen?

"Mhm." Furina nods, meeting her gaze directly. "You know, you're right in thinking that I was scared of you—that's why I lashed out. But I wasn't afraid for the reasons you might think."

"No?"

"Hmm… or maybe they're connected. What I mean is that I didn't think you would... I don’t know, attack me or anything like that. Like you almost did that night."

Arlecchino's posture tenses at the reference to her attempted theft of the gnosis, but she remains silent, allowing her to continue.

"At least, that wasn't what frightened me in the moment." Her fingers trace abstract patterns on the table's surface as she continues looking for the best way to explain herself. "What terrified me was how you were looking at me. Through all my façades and barriers—ones I put up so instinctively that even I can't always tell when they're in place—as if they were mere glass, transparent to your gaze."

She pauses, a flicker of that fear rising again—though it’s muted now, dulled by the still lingering high of the dance. It feels like a distant memory, though it wasn’t that long ago. "Since that moment at Navia's, when you pointed out my exhaustion. When you likened me to Lyney, or during our conversation about theater... throughout it all, it felt as though you were perceiving something even I couldn't fully see, and that scared me." Her voice quiets. "It scared me how you could look past the makeshift mask of personhood to the… formless, confused, terrified mess beneath."

Silence stretches between them as Arlecchino processes this confession. When she speaks, her words are stiff and measured.

"Then I truly must be the one to apologize. I did not intend to expose you in such a manner. I was too forceful in my approach, despite knowing you've only just started to adjust to vast changes in your life. That was an error in judgment on my part—"

Her laughter cuts through Arlecchino's solemnity. The Knave blinks, clearly taken aback.

Oh, Furina must seem utterly inexplicable tonight.

"No—that's not..." Her words catch on the trailing giggles. "See, the strangest part is... I think I actually liked it."

Arlecchino only stares at her—not that Furina can blame her.

"That might have been the most terrifying part, actually," she goes on. "But the truth is, I did enjoy it. I think Clorinde and Navia see through my performance at times... but they never challenge it like you did. They let me wear my masks, probably believing they grant me comfort—and they're not entirely wrong.

"But..." Her gaze drops briefly before returning to Arlecchino. "I hadn't realized how desperately I needed someone to truly see me until you did. And yes, it was scary. Being truly seen is terrifying enough, but being seen by you ..."

She shakes her head, a rueful smile playing at her lips. "I had no idea what you wanted, what purpose that perception might serve. So I pushed you away. But in the days that followed, I realized something crucial—and I haven't been quite as afraid since."

Throughout her monologue, Arlecchino watches her carefully, intrigue simmering in her eyes. “And what revelation brought about this change?" 

"Well, you see," Furina begins, her expression now turning mischievous, "I realized that you truly do embody your title."

"...Pardon?"

"'Father,' I mean." Furina's smile widens. "Ultimately, you really are just a dad, aren't you?"

Arlecchino blinks, her eyebrows drawing together. There’s a moment of silence before she responds, her voice level but with a clear hint of skepticism. "I'm... not sure I follow your reasoning.”

"The way you prodded me about my wellbeing when I was clearly exhausted, your attempts to reconcile me with Neuvillette as if we were squabbling siblings like Lynette and Lyney, how you persistently tried to draw me out of my shell..." Furina's eyes brighten with amusement as she suppresses another chuckle. "Is that not similar to a father guiding a child's growth?"

Arlecchino's nose wrinkles slightly in what might be the most genuine display of distaste Furina has ever witnessed from her. "I would have to disagree—and in fact, I take considerable offense at that analogy."

"Do you?" Furina asks, surprised. Perhaps it wasn’t the most apt for the circumstances, but to go that far?

"I have never thought of you as akin to a child, Miss Furina. Not for one moment." The words hold a firmness that catches Furina off-guard. "You are far older and more knowledgeable than I will ever be, and I would not demean you in this way."

"I wouldn't say it's demeaning ..." Furina sways slightly where she sits, looking up at the gazebo's ceiling. "After all, it's true that I don't have much experience being a person, so to speak."

"Even so," Arlecchino counters, taking a single step closer, "I would not think of you as a child. You may lack experience in some aspects of life, but I trust you to be capable enough to take charge of yourself—even as you may need more guidance than most."

Moonlight filters through the lattice, casting shadows across Furina's features as she absorbs the words. She isn't quite sure how she's meant to react, but she does find herself appreciating them—the way Arlecchino refuses to think of her as anything less than an equal.

"Careful," she quips to mask that momentary vulnerability, "or I may start thinking you're a fan."

"I am," Arlecchino says simply—as if discussing the weather, and not revealing something that runs completely counter to Furina's understanding of their dynamic.

The directness of the response throws Furina for a moment. Her fingers still on the table's surface. "...That wasn't the impression I was given over our tea parties."

"Not then I suppose, no."

Curiosity draws Furina forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she leans closer. "Then, when did you change your mind about me?"

Arlecchino doesn't answer immediately. Her gaze drifts toward the distant lights of the gala as she considers her words.

"After the flood. I sought out the Chief Justice—to understand exactly what had transpired." Her attention returns to Furina. "He confirmed to me, without elaborating on specifics, that if Fontaine still stands it's only thanks to your continued efforts over the centuries."

"And you believed him?"

"He had no reason to lie at that point," Arlecchino explains. "And I already had your insistence that you were working on matters weighing on my mind." She pauses—perhaps returning to the memories of that meeting. "So yes, I took him at his word."

"Even without any evidence?" Furina presses.

Arlecchino's response comes without hesitation. "Are my children's lives not evidence enough?"

Furina studies her face, searching for any hint of manipulation or calculation. She finds none.

"...I thought you would be more pragmatic than that."

"Well, I'm deeply sorry to disappoint," Arlecchino retorts with the barest hint of a smile.

The night air drifts between them, and with it, any lingering tension fades into nothingness.

How disarming, the Knave has turned out to be. How surprisingly pleasant and easygoing. How unexpectedly safe, and yet ever so dangerous—with the way her precise reassurances and carefully-delivered praises feel real in a way such words never have before, making Furina crave her company all the more.

"Knave," she calls after some time, breaking the tranquility. She reaches into the concealed pocket in her dress and extracts something delicate—a handkerchief that Arlecchino recognizes immediately. Furina extends it toward her. "One thing you can touch," she quips playfully, echoing the Knave’s own words.

Arlecchino accepts it, her fingers brushing momentarily against Furina's. "I didn't think you would keep it."

"Me neither." Furina's smile turns wistful. "But it kept reminding me of you, how I wasn't happy with how we left things... Oh, and there's also the matter of the 'P.'"

Arlecchino tilts her head. "The 'P'?"

"The 'P' !" Furina gestures emphatically at the handkerchief. "The one embroidered in the corner!"

"Ah, of course.” Arlecchino turns the fabric in her fingers, finding the offending letter. “I almost forgot about it."

"It's been eating at me," Furina continues, her excitement building. "What is it for? There's no P in your name, so did it belong to someone else?" Her eyes widen with sudden inspiration. "Oh! I know! Perhaps one of your children, who left it behind after leaving the nest—"

She continues speculating, theories growing increasingly elaborate—perhaps a lover from Arlecchino's mysterious past, or a token from a secret mission, or evidence of a hidden royal lineage. Throughout it all, Arlecchino simply watches her with growing amusement.

“No, no, the first theory holds the most water, after all. It must’ve been a child’s belonging—”

"Your conjectures are backwards, Miss Furina," Arlecchino interrupts finally.

"Oh?"

"It did not belong to a child—unless, of course, you would consider that to be myself. This was a gift to me from a fellow Harbinger." Arlecchino runs her thumb over the embroidered letter, a momentary distance in her gaze suggesting memories revisited. "Something to celebrate my rise in status, I suppose. Rosalyne never did need much reason to lavish us with presents, so long as it could serve her own ego."

"Then, the 'P'...?"

"It is, in fact, my own initial. Or it used to be, rather. Arlecchino was not always my name."

Furina dramatically gasps at the revelation, pressing a hand to her chest in theatrical shock. "You mean to tell me you weren't born Arlecchino? Oh, you simply must tell me your name now. I insist!"

The suddenly-unnamed Knave hums, contemplating her request—though the time she takes to process it is brief enough for Furina to recognize it was never truly in consideration. "Perhaps another time."

"Another time?" Furina echoes with a raised eyebrow. "Presumptuous, are we?"

"Is this meant to be another farewell, then?" Arlecchino asks, her expression returning to neutrality. Her posture straightens, and Furina can't quite tell if she’s picked up on the jest or if she's seriously considering it. Perhaps both.

"Hm..." Furina slides down from the table to stand face-to-face with Arlecchino—though she must now tilt her head upward to meet her gaze. "No, that's not quite what I had in mind. In fact, I have a favor to ask you—no, a demand. An order, even."

"Oh?" Something shifts in Arlecchino's stance—not quite tension, but heightened attention. "And what makes you think I'll follow it?"

"Call it intuition. As I said, I'm starting to understand you."

"Then go on," she challenges, "let's put this intuition to the test."

Furina stands taller—as tall as that is—adopting the imperious bearing she once wielded as Archon. "Knave," she begins solemnly, "I demand that you be my friend, effective immediately."

The words fill the space between them, lingering in the air as they’re being processed. Eventually, Arlecchino arches a brow, regarding Furina with an expression caught between surprise and amusement. "I will admit, that's not the outcome I expected from tonight."

"Is that a refusal?" Furina retorts, her playful tone barely masking the undercurrent of genuine apprehension.

Rather than directly answering, Arlecchino's gaze shifts to the garden beyond the gazebo. "I would not make for a good friend, Miss Furina."

"Why not?"

She does not reply, as if the silence itself is answer enough.

"Well—yes, forget I asked," Furina continues, waving a dismissive hand. "I do understand that perspective. But still! I believe I can work around your... limitations."

Arlecchino lets out a bemused, yet unmistakably amused huff. "How very magnanimous of you."

"Of course, of course," she agrees with ostentatious smugness. “It's the least I can do, to offer my companionship to those who so clearly sorely need it.” 

Arlecchino pauses, allowing the playfulness of the moment to dissolve before speaking again. "If you truly wish this from me, then I won't refuse. I only want to ensure you know what you're getting into."

"Tell me, Knave," Furina asks, stepping closer, "do you enjoy scaring people off? Is that why you're always cultivating that aura, delivering all your lines so ominously?"

"...Unfortunately that is simply the way I speak. But I do find occasional amusement in it, yes."

"Then, I will not give you that satisfaction!" Furina declares, her eyes bright with determination. "We shall henceforth be friends. The best of friends, even!"

"Surely Miss Navia and the Champion Duelist would have a better claim to that title than I do, no?"

"Perhaps," Furina concedes, "but it's good to have competition, don't you think? Keeps everyone on their toes."

“You do make a brilliant point.”

“Oh, you will soon learn that's always the case, my dear Knave.”

Arlecchino hums, the sound low and thoughtful, entertained by Furina's infectious enthusiasm. "There is something I've wondered about," she begins when the dust has settled, "if our newfound status as friends would allow you to indulge my curiosity."

"Hm?" Furina perks up. "The Knave has questions for little old me?”

“Plenty,” Arlecchino confirms. “Your role in solving the crisis, for one. As I’ve already mentioned, while I believe the Iudex’s words, he didn’t grant me enough to shed light on the situation.”

The playfulness in Furina’s expression falters, a flicker of something more guarded overtaking it. "You want to know how I saved Fontaine."

"Only what you're willing to share," Arlecchino clarifies. "I understand some matters may be... sensitive."

Furina considers this, head tilted thoughtfully. The idea of sharing her story feels… novel. She steps away, moving toward the edge of the gazebo. Her fingers find the railing as she gazes out at the moonlit garden.

"You know," she begins slowly, "I've never actually told anyone. Not the full story, at any rate. Bits and pieces to Clorinde and Navia, certainly. Neuvillette and the Traveler are aware, through their own ways. But I’ve never told it from beginning to end."

"Then perhaps you’ll find it’s a story worth telling," Arlecchino suggests, "when you're ready to share it."

Furina turns back to face her, her expression unexpectedly resolute. "I think I might be. Though I warn you, it's neither short nor particularly uplifting."

"I didn't expect it would be."

"Of course not," Furina agrees with a wry smile as she makes her way to resume her perch on the table. "To think I’ve spent centuries telling other people’s fantastical stories, yet when it comes to my own true experiences..." She pauses. "Well, perhaps that’s precisely why I should share it. I might enjoy having control over the process, for a change."

Neuvillette had been considerate, and the Traveler had been helpful—but she had not been the one to make the choice to relay her story to them.

Arlecchino nods, drawing herself to attention.

Furina takes a deep breath, steadying herself. "It all began when I was fifteen..." She pauses deliberately, eyes turning playful, "minutes old."

One of Arlecchino's eyebrows rises.

"I stumbled upon my mirror self—whom you would know as the Hydro Archon, Foçalors—and she entrusted me with a mission, Fontaine's fate hanging in the balance."

"...Quite irresponsible," Arlecchino remarks, "to impose such a task on a newborn."

"I know, right? But I accepted it wholeheartedly. You see, I was very advanced for my age. I believe I would be considered what is nowadays called a 'gifted child' in Sumeru?"

Arlecchino makes a displeased sound, her mouth thinning into something resembling a scowl.

"No? You disagree?" Furina inquires, intrigued by the reaction.

"Not on the matter of your capabilities," Arlecchino clarifies, "rather with the program. I find it misguided—it rarely, if ever, is beneficial to the children enrolled."

"Huh. An insightful perspective."

"Regardless," Arlecchino continues, "this is beside the point. Continue."

Furina arches a brow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. "You're giving me orders now?"

"...You may continue, if you so wish."

"Hmph. I don't know that I do anymore."

Silence stretches between them. Furina maintains an imperious expression, though internally she's simply testing boundaries, curious how far this newfound dynamic might extend. Eventually, Arlecchino reluctantly speaks up:

"...Please, continue. I would like to hear more."

"Pfft—hahaha!" Furina laughs, unable to contain herself. "You're easier to tease than I thought you would be."

Arlecchino sighs, a sound caught between exasperation and resignation. "This is a privilege most could not earn in a lifetime. I suppose it's fitting you would be granted it, as you've lived multiple."

"Here you go now, calling me old," Furina protests with mock indignation.

Arlecchino's expression shifts, as if already reconsidering this friendship.

"I'm joking!" Furina assures her quickly, reaching out to tap her arm lightly. "Don't go rethinking our arrangement already."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she responds dryly.

Furina's smile softens into something more earnest. "In all seriousness, I would like to tell you the story. Properly. But perhaps not all of it tonight." She gestures toward the waiting building. "People will start to notice our absence soon, and I'd rather not have Navia organizing a search party."

"Not an unreasonable concern, knowing the young lady.”

"But!" She hops down from the table. "Now that we're friends—" she emphasizes the word with evident delight, "—we'll have plenty of opportunities for me to regale you with tales of my heroic sacrifices and daring exploits."

"And I look forward to each and every one,” Arlecchino returns graciously with a slight bow of her head.

"Well then," Furina straightens her shoulders. "We've been gone long enough. Shall we make our grand return, Knave?"

"After you, Miss Furina."

As she leads them back toward the brilliant lights of the gala, Furina becomes aware of something peculiar—a small smile that refuses to fade from her lips, persistent and unbidden. This wasn't how she had envisioned their return to society—it was supposed to be two actors retreating to their respective stages, slipping once more into the comforting confinement of familiar roles. That moment of quiet understanding beneath the gazebo's latticed shadows was meant to be merely an interlude, a brief respite in the grand performance that had become her existence.

Yet, as they exchange farewells and promises to see one other again, as she watches the Knave drift back toward her waiting children, and as she herself returns to her concerned friends—her wonderful, patient, irreplaceable friends—that newly discovered peace refuses to dissipate like stage fog after a final bow.

Perhaps she had interpreted it all wrong. What transpired between them wasn't an interlude at all. It wasn't a momentary abandonment of masks before the inevitable return to pretense. It was something else entirely.

It was a prologue. A prelude. The opening notes of a new—

No.

Even these metaphors feel insufficient, inadequate for the subtle transformation unfurling within her. They still speak the language of continued performance, of boundary between truth and representation.

Then, perhaps... something more akin to an epilogue? A curtain call?

It may have been long overdue, but realization finally fully settles within her, down to the marrow of her bones: the show is over. Five centuries of uninterrupted performance, concluded not with thunderous acclaim or tragic finale, but with quiet recognition in a moonlit garden. And now, at long last, she gets to go home.

She gets to set aside her masks—not discard them, for they remain pieces of herself—but to choose when and how to wear them, rather than hiding behind their comforting contours out of necessity. They might now become instruments of joy, of understanding, of empathy, rather than desperate defense—selected with purpose rather than donned in fear.

In their place, she's found something else to return to after each day's exertions. She has a home—not a cage—where safety is real, not an illusion carefully maintained. She has companions who know her, see her—truly see her—and remain steadfast by her side.

And, in an unforeseen, bewildering twist of fate, she now has the Knave—Arlecchino—to anchor her when the seduction of performance grows too enticing, when old habits threaten to crystallize once more into confinement rather than choice. Someone who sees through artifice not to judge, but to witness.

As the ballroom lights engulf her, Furina thinks of water—how it carves new paths when old channels no longer serve, how it transforms and adapts while remaining, essentially, itself. She has been river and sea and rain, but perhaps now she might simply be herself: undefined, evolving, free to flow where she wishes.

The thought carries her across the threshold, back into music and light, her steps lighter than they've been in centuries. Behind her, the garden keeps its secrets, cradling the memory of two unlikely friends finding recognition in each other's eyes—a memory that, like water, will continue to shape the landscape of her days long after this night has passed.