The sound of the sea had become a quiet constant.
Waves folding into themselves, over and over—steady enough to disappear if I didn't listen for it.
My room felt… mine.
Not entirely, but enough.
I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. I wasn't sure what time it was.
Didn't care.
After a while, I stretched and got up, moving to the window. The latch clicked softly as I pushed it open.
Wind rushed in.
Salt.
Cool against my skin.
"What a sight," I said, squinting slightly as the light hit my eyes.
The horizon stretched wide, the water catching the morning in broken pieces. The air moved differently here—lighter, but insistent.
"Knock, knock."
The sound pulled me back.
"Yes, Miss Alvie," I replied, straightening my nightwear before opening the door.
She stood there, one arm loosely folded, a few sheets of paper tucked beneath it. A strand of hair had slipped free from her bun, resting against her cheek.
"Good morning," I said.
Her eyes moved past me, briefly scanning the room before settling on the open window.
"Morning. Do you like the sea?"
"…Yes," I answered, glancing back at it. "I grew up somewhere without much water."
It sounded flatter out loud.
Like an explanation that didn't explain anything.
"I see," she said.
A pause.
Then—
"It's time to eat."
I followed her down the hall.
The building was quiet. Our footsteps echoed faintly against the stone floor, swallowed quickly by distance.
The dining room was already set.
The table was too large for just the two of us. Only a small section had been arranged—two plates facing each other, close enough to avoid raising our voices.
"I hope you don't mind the late breakfast," she said as she took her seat.
"Not at all."
I waited.
She picked up her cutlery.
I followed.
The braised beef came apart with almost no effort. It barely held together on the fork before giving in.
I took a bite.
Warm.
Rich.
The kind of food that made you aware of how long you'd been eating poorly.
The mashed potatoes sat untouched on my plate.
I tried a small portion.
Soft.
Too soft.
I went back to the meat.
The carrots were sweet, glazed just enough to catch the light.
"Do you not like mashed potatoes?" she asked.
I paused mid-motion, then looked up.
"Not exactly. I've never been a fan."
She smiled faintly, lifting her glass.
"I see."
She didn't press.
Didn't comment further.
We continued in silence.
The only sound was cutlery against porcelain and the low hiss of the gas lamp. Its light pooled softly over the table, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.
I saved the cream puff for last.
The shell gave way easily. Sweet cream settled on my tongue—light, almost too delicate.
"You can have mine," she said.
I hesitated, then reached for it.
"Thank you."
She watched me for a moment, then returned to her wine.
Afterward, we sat for a short while.
Then—
the courtyard.
I stood waiting in uniform, the fabric still unfamiliar against my skin.
The sea breeze didn't reach this far in. The air felt still.
"Good. You're here."
I turned.
Miss Alvie approached at an unhurried pace, now holding a cup of coffee instead of papers.
"First—good work on your first mission."
My hand moved before I could stop it, brushing my shoulder where I had been stabbed.
Phantom pain.
Sharp.
Gone.
She noticed.
Said nothing.
"After you've experienced that," she continued, "you learn something important."
She sat.
Crossed her legs.
Took a sip.
"You do not need to see someone to be attacked."
I wasn't sure if this was a lecture.
Or something else.
"We failed to capture the mage," she added after a moment. "But the destruction of the facility was… acceptable."
Acceptable.
I swallowed.
"You will also notice changes," she went on. "Small ones. Relief when you return to your room. Satisfaction in survival."
She stood.
Walked toward me.
Slow.
Measured.
"We refine those."
She reached for my hand.
My body reacted before my thoughts did.
My heartbeat jumped.
Too fast.
My vision narrowed—edges dimming, focus snapping to where she touched me.
I tried to pull back.
Couldn't.
"And just like that," she said quietly, "you wouldn't notice when I kill you."
Something cold pressed against my forehead.
I looked up.
A gun.
I hadn't seen her draw it.
My breath hitched.
Sound dropped out—replaced by a dull, heavy thudding in my ears.
My hands trembled.
No control.
"Adrenaline spike," she said, almost conversational. "Forces the body into tunnel vision. Heart rate increases. Fine motor control collapses."
She lowered the gun.
I didn't realize I had fallen until I felt the ground against my back.
"You become a weapon," she continued, "with no aim."
Her arms were around me.
At some point.
I didn't remember when.
"I might have overdone it," she murmured, one hand moving slowly along my back.
Grounding.
My breathing came in uneven pulls.
My arm jerked once.
Then again.
Eventually—
it slowed.
When I came back fully, she was seated nearby, sketching.
Like nothing had happened.
"How are you?" she asked without looking up.
"…Better."
My hands still shook slightly as I took the tea she had prepared. It was warm—almost too warm—but steadying.
"We'll end with discussion," she said.
I nodded.
"You should think of your emotions as functional entities."
Her tone shifted—lighter now.
Analytical.
"The names you gave them are… charming. But we can refine them."
She placed the sketchbook on my lap.
I looked down.
Rough drawings.
Not precise—but intentional.
"The furious birds," I read quietly. "The worried deer. The scared cat. The laughing jackass. The weeping willow. The astonished eel."
I glanced up.
She watched me this time.
Waiting.
"Rather than shadows," she said, "give them structure. Behavior."
She tapped the page lightly.
"You can even… load them into your actions."
A small pause.
"Into your bullets."
Practice came after.
Less talking.
More doing.
The weapon still felt unfamiliar in my hands—weight slightly forward, grip colder than I expected.
She adjusted my stance once.
Didn't repeat herself.
By the end, I managed something.
Laetitia fractured—
not cleanly, but enough.
Shapes broke off.
Small.
Unstable.
Bird-like.
A dozen of them, briefly holding form before scattering.
My arms ached.
My head felt heavy.
I still had questions.
About the necromancer.
About the facility.
About why something "not inherently evil" had to be erased completely.
I didn't ask.
By the time we were done, I only wanted one thing.
My bed.
The sea.
Silence.
Archivist.
Operative.
Now—
something else.
Not quite either.
I lay back later, staring at the ceiling again.
"Zookeeper," I muttered under my breath.
It didn't sound right.
But it wasn't wrong either.