Ships Passing in the Night [1]

Arabella could recount the number of times she'd left the manor in her childhood on one hand.

Her father had told her that everything she needed would come to her- that there was no reason to leave. Dr Harland would come to visit when she caught a bug; whatever clothing she needed could be sewn by a travelling seamstress; 'We can watch the fireworks from the balcony, Arabella. The view is just as excellent!'

She knew better now. He hadn't been keeping her comfortable. He'd been keeping her hidden.

And so this place, this town that had always been a short ride away, struck her with strange, uneasy doubleness as she walked its cobbled streets with Aubrey at her side. It was familiar, yet not. Corners turned into corridors she knew. A window, a market stall, a crooked roofline. Each one scraped at her memory. Of being marched along, bare feet hardly able to keep herself upright as the gallows stood imposing down the path.

The sound of jeers rose unbidden in her ears.

Before she knew it, she was in an alley, palms braced against the wall as bile scorched her throat. She retched hard onto the stones, body shuddering. Aubrey moved quickly as she shielded her mistress from the curious glances of passersby, though her own face betrayed her shock. Arabella dragged air through her nose in sharp, steadying breaths. Her ears rang. Her eyes squeezed shut against the flash of rope and shouting.

"Miss," Aubrey murmured, tentative. "Shall we return-"

"I'm fine," Arabella's voice cracked as she wiped at her lips.

"...Miss Lockhart, I highly suggest-"

"I said, I'm fine," Arabella held out her hand blindly. Aubrey pressed a handkerchief into it without a word. With what remaining pride she could muster, Arabella dabbed at the corners of her lips and forced herself upright. Her body trembled, but she locked her spine straight. Her gaze slid to the mouth of an alley a stone's throw away. She swallowed dryly, the burn of bile still in her throat. "We'll continue," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "That way."

Aubrey's silver eyes slid uneasily to the damp cobblestone leading further into the backstreet that Arabella had gestured toward. Somehow, even at midday, with the town square bustling with carriages, the path forward seemed like a separate world entirely in how the shadows clung to the cobblestone. Aubrey did not voice anything, but Arabella noted the subtle downturn in the corner of her lips. They had spent the last day, too, wandering around the back alleys of the Earldom in search of Arabella's goal. A goal that Aubrey had chosen not to question as anything more than a sheltered girl's sense of adventure.

Arabella led the way down the winding road, and before long, she stopped in her tracks as she spotted a hanging sign with two familiar words.

'The Hound'.

The pub stood towering and dingy; nothing more than a drab hole in the wall of aged brick and cloudy glass. It looked every bit as seedy as Arabella had pictured it —a breeding ground for illicit activity.

Aubrey's brow furrowed, "Miss, this can't possibly- hold on- Miss Lockhart?"

Arabella had already sauntered through the doors. Aubrey, after a brief pause of bafflement, hurried after her.

The interior of 'The Hound' was sparsely decorated and dimly lit. Its wooden stools, lined up against the ale-stained bar, seemed long overdue for replacement, and the faded forest green-painted walls appeared to be peeling. With each step Arabella took, the floor below creaked, and she could feel the heel of her boots sticking to it with every step. The few people present took notice as Arabella sat primly at the bar, on the afformationed creaking stool, trying desperately not to wrinkle her nose at the stench of stale smoke and old beer lingering stickily in the air. Aubrey, with a look of both regret and dread, opted to simply stand behind her, eyes glancing to the exit every few seconds.

The barkeep, a burly man in a stained waistcoat, approached. He took a moment to take in the young lady before him, dressed in a heavy navy blue cloak, the hood hardly covering the auburn curls that peeked out from beneath it.

"We don't serve children here," he huffed out gruffly. A tone screaming, 'you're not welcome.'

Arabella frowned, hands folded over one another, trying her damndest to avoid touching the tacky bartop, "A pint of Winter's bite, please." She continued pointedly. "And promptly. I'm parched."

Aubrey opened her mouth as if to object, which Arabella quickly shut down with a glance over her shoulder. The barkeep's eyes flicked only briefly in surprise before he returned to his previous rigid stare. Arabella remained steadfast, her frown deepening as the silence stretched.

After the brief pause, the barkeep continued, quieter but no less intimidating, "I advise you to leave."

"I'm here to deal," Arabella spoke matter-of-factly.

Raising her left hand delicately, she presented to the barkeep her left index finger: The ring she had woken with when she returned to that past that had since been glued there, covered in incomprehensible runic scrawl. She raised a brow at the man as he squinted at the seemingly simple golden band. Another long silence stretched out, and she spoke again, her voice losing all sense of patience. "Believe it or not, I am a customer. So I reiterate. A pint of Winter's bite. Quickly."

The barkeep looked to her, to the ring, and back again before exhaling sharply through his nose and turning away slowly. He made his way out from behind the bar, spared her one more glance, before disappearing up a set of creaking wooden stairs to the second floor.

Without wasting a second, Aubrey grabbed Arabella's shoulder, leaning forward in a whisper, soft but deathly serious, "Miss, I insist we leave. This is no place for you."

Arabella didn't bother turning her intense gaze away from the stairs, "I'm not leaving, you know I won't. So stay or leave without me."

Aubrey grimaced but stood back upright.

The barkeep returned after exactly a minute (Arabella had counted each second), and with a brief nod, gestured for her to follow him up the same stairs. Arabella stood only to be anchored by Aubrey's hand on her wrist with a firm shake of her head 'no'. Arabella shook her head back and freed herself before ascending the steps and opening the wooden door that the barkeep gestured to.

The stench of acrid smoke met Arabella the instant the door closed behind her, thick and clinging, curling into her lungs, and she was certain she'd found the right place.

A woman sat sprawled behind a broad mahogany desk as though it were her throne. One hand held a half-burned cigarette, its ember glowing with each unhurried drag, while the other flicked lazily over a letter. Her boots, propped atop the polished wood, gleamed with such care that the contrast to the haze of the room was jarring. Not a speck of dirt marred them. Slowly, she lifted her gaze. A fall of short, chestnut hair swept across the leather strap of an eyepatch, revealing only one honey-brown right eye- sharp, assessing, as if it had already sized Arabella up.

"...Hm. Thought the Lockharts were in mourning."

The words landed like a casual knife. Arabella stiffened before she caught herself, forcing her composure into place. A fact she'd quickly discovered in her past few days outside the manor was that no one seemed to be able to match her face to her name. Most seemed to assume she was the travelling daughter of a merchant or noble based upon her clothes and demeanour, not the daughter of the late Earl. But of course, this was Katherine she was dealing with.

Standing taller, Arabella stepped further into the room; the door shut behind her, leaving just the two of them. Carefully, like approaching a tiger's den, she sat in the seat opposite without breaking eye contact, "We are."

A non-committal hum came from Katherine as she tilted her head. A slow stream of smoke rose from her lips before she asked evenly, "...Who told you about me?"

"I needed your services. So I did my research."

Katherine's one visible eye narrowed into the embodiment of a sarcastic 'sure'. Nonetheless, she held out a hand, palm upwards, "Let me see it."

Arabella blinked for a moment before realising she was referring to the ring on her finger. Her gaze dropped down to the gold band, stalling. In all honesty, she still hadn't the faintest idea what power, if any, the incomprehensible scrawl of runes of the ring held. To her, it was little more than a convenient excuse, a key to pry her way into the office of the woman before her.

Arabella slowly lifted her hand to Katherine, showing off the ring as she had to the barkeep downstairs. Katherine's eyes flicked over it, and for the briefest moment, something like recognition passed across her face before she masked it. She looked back up, voice cool and sharp, "Where'd you get this?"

Arabella bit her cheek, buying time, before forcing out a vague omissive lie, "My family imports runic items from Nyotari. Surely you, of all people, would know that."

Katherine gave no sign she'd even heard the barb. Instead, she reached across the desk, taking Arabella's hand into her own fair one without hesitation. She turned it slowly, eye narrowing as she studied the band. The etchings curled unevenly, disappearing beneath the gold only to reappear again, fractured and incomplete.

When she finally spoke, her voice was flat, "Let me guess. It doesn't come off, and you don't know where it came from."

Arabella's breath caught before she could stop herself. She recovered fast, masking her surprise, "How did you know?"

Katherine didn't answer. The faintest curl touched her mouth, though it was nothing close to a smile. She let go of Arabella's hand, settling back in her chair, cigarette between her lips again. Smoke coiled lazily in the dim light as she exhaled. "I don't do appraisals," she said, tone cutting. "Not for free."

Arabella felt her stomach twist, barely containing her grimace.

Katherine went on, unhurried, as though already bored. "Not that it matters. The runes are nonsense anyway. Counterfeit work, probably. You've been swindled."

The words landed like a dismissal. A final exhale of smoke.

Arabella pressed her lips together, forcing herself not to rise to the bait, "I'm actually here for a different service."

"Of course you are," Katherine muttered, her eye already focusing back on the letter in her hand. "And what 'services' could you possibly seek from me, 'Miss Lockhart'?"

Arabella took a long while to phrase her next words, "I'm looking for someone."

"Someone?" Katherine sighed.

"...Yes," Arabella raised a delicate finger to tuck a curl behind her ear before she eyed Katherine carefully, gauging her reaction to her next words. "Alistair Aurum de Villiers."

Katherine's expression remained even; in fact, her one good eye hardly blinked, not even the slightest twitch of her lips. Arabella withheld her disappointment. Silence followed, and Arabella frowned as she leaned forward to continue, "White hair, violet eyes. Unmissable." Her hands clasped tightly together. "I know you know who I'm speaking of. I also believe you're... acquainted. Well enough to know his whereabouts. I want to meet him-"

In one swift motion, Katherine crushed her cigarette against the mahogany desk. The hiss of burning tobacco snapped Arabella's mouth shut. After a beat, Katherine looked up, expression completely neutral, "Does big brother know you're here?" Her tone was light, mocking. "Somehow, I doubt he'd be thrilled to learn his darling sister spends her weekends peeking around different pubs. Picking fights. Asking for trouble."

Arabella wasn't surprised. Of course, Katherine had eyes everywhere. Still, she noted- no confirmation, but no denial of Alistair, either.

She steadied her voice, "I don't think he'd be happy knowing a black market runes dealer runs operations in his Earldom. It may make him so unhappy that officers would arrive by the hour." She folded her hands in her lap. "There. Now we both have secrets."

Katherine tilted her head, slowly, vertebrae cracking in a methodical roll, before letting out a dry, humourless laugh.

"Ha."

The scrape of her chair on the floor made Arabella flinch. Then she realised, standing, Katherine towered over her. Her tailored black suit and coat that hung open on her shoulders like a cape only served to provide a broader, more intimidating figure. A looming shadow of a woman.

"Let's say you're not entirely mad, "Katherine murmured, leaning forward, one brow arched. "What exactly are your intentions?"

Arabella's pulse thudded. She'd thought about this moment endlessly as she formulated her plan. She planned to win Alistair's trust, to offer him her knowledge of the future, and guide his already-brewing ambitions carefully into motion. But now, under Katherine's razor of a gaze, words snagged in her throat.

"I believe we can help each other," she said, forcing herself to be calm. "I... Katherine, I-" Her throat tightened, remembering the prison cell, the scent of strong cigarette smoke wafting her way, and an air of sorrow from across her. "I know you care for him. I intend no harm. I only want to help him."

For a flicker of a moment, Katherine's composure finally wavered. A sliver of something like unease passed through her eye.

Then it was gone.

Arabella gasped as a hand seized her arm and wrenched her toward the door with ease. She stumbled protesting, but Katherine didn't slow, her expression storm-dark.

"Whatever you're trying to do," she said, voice low and edged. "You're in over your head."

Arabella yelped, struggling, "W-Wait! Just listen- Katherine, please-"

"Can't have kids in here," Katherine's scowl cut like a blade. "Bad for business."

The door slammed shut in Arabella's face.

"...I need a smoke."

Arabella lifted her head, sluggish from days of silence, to the woman tossed into the cell opposite hers the night before. For months, she'd prayed for company, anyone but Cecil. By now, a year into her sentence, she knew better. Wishes only soured with time.

The woman looked worse for wear: split lip, bruises blooming purple and green across her pale skin. She let an unlit cigarette dangle from her mouth, eyes closed, head tipped back against the stone wall like she had all the time in the world.

Then, without warning, she spoke again, "...The former Earl Lockhart is doing well. Not that you asked."

Arabella's tired eyes snapped back to alertness. Her throat scraped raw as the words clawed out of her, "You-!" she lurched forward, dirty fingers wrapping against the rusted bars of her cell. "What do you mean by that?! Tell me what you meant!"

A tired laugh escaped the woman as she pushed a tuft of short brown hair from her face, revealing the ruin of her left eye: lid sagging, scar jagged and pale, the hollow beneath it empty. Old damage, unlike the fresher bruises mottling her skin.

"Calm yourself," her nails tapped against her knee, slow and steady. "Earl Lockhart- well, he's no Earl now, is he- he's alive. Living quietly offshore. Dingy life for a former noble, but better than death."

Arabella's breath hitched. Cecil had told her Layton had been stripped of his title and exiled. Because of her. She'd thought of him every day since, prayed that it was a lie. She'd lived with that miserable thought for a year.

"How... how do I know you're telling the truth?" she whispered, though it sounded more like a plea.

The woman smiled faintly, bitterly, "He paid me the last of whatever he had to come here. 'To prove her innocence,' he said." Her good eye flicked up to the ceiling. "Didn't need proof myself. I already know you didn't kill Al."

Arabella bit her lip and furrowed her brow, chest tight. Tears stung her eyes, "...How stupid. What the hell was he thinking?"

"He wasn't," The woman gave a humourless huff. "Neither was I for agreeing. Doesn't matter now- I'll be taking it to the grave tomorrow, so don't fret." For a while, silence. Then, the woman spoke again, "...Did you see the body?"

She asked the question in hesitation, a tone that Arabella found, despite their brief acquaintance, unfitting of such a woman. 'The body.' So detached. Arabella almost considered it crass until she saw the way the woman turned her face, the way her hand clenched around the useless cigarette.

Arabella almost couldn't bring herself to answer. But she swallowed and forced the words out, "...He looked like he was sleeping." A lie. She'd never forget the blood from his lips, eyes faded, expression slack and drawn into frozen agony. "...He looked peaceful."

The woman let out a dry laugh, half-scoff, half-strangled.

"Sure he did."

Arabella frowned, sensing her lie afforded zero comfort, "...He was strange. And bothersome."

"That sounds about right," the woman nodded, shaking her head.

"...But he was not a bad person," Arabella finished, softly.

The woman stilled for a good while. The cigarette hung forgotten. After a long pause, she smiled- barely there, tight and pained. "...That also sounds about right."

For the first time in a year, Arabella felt the weight in her chest ease. The silence between them was almost... companionable. Arabella exhaled, voice soft, "Miss... I-"

"'Miss'?" The woman scoffed, amused despite herself. She arched a brow. "Katherine."

A short laugh tumbled from Arabella, foreign in her own throat. "...Right. Katherine." She shook her head, blinking away tears. "Thank you. For telling me he's alive. As long as my brother is well... I can keep going."

With a sigh, Katherine pushed back from her desk, letter still in hand, and crossed to the window overlooking the darkening backstreet. She rubbed her temple as she watched Arabella Lockhart stumble out, the black-haired maid at her side, Ronan shoving the door shut behind them.

"First him, and now this," she muttered under her breath.

Alistair's letter was headache enough. He insisted Trisha's burial be in Nyotari, and like every matter tied to him or Trish, she couldn't bring herself to refuse against all logic. And now, shameless as ever, he dared to ask for more. Always more.

She could handle liars. She'd built her life on sniffing out falsehoods, reading every twitch and tremor. But Arabella Lockhart... she couldn't place the lie. And that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

The girl had called her Katherine.

No one outside of Trish or Al had spoken that name in years. She'd buried it long ago, locked it away.

And worse still- she knew Alistair's name. His real one.

Katherine's gaze narrowed back to the view outside the window, focusing in on the disgruntled noble girl beneath. A flicker of unease slid cold through her chest, though her expression hardened against it.