Gaston exhales slowly through his nose.
Of course she did.
He finally turns from the fire.
Dashiel hasn't moved from the window. Firelight paints one side of her face in amber while the other remains in shadow, her expression unreadable.
For a long moment neither of them speak.
Behind his ribs, the presence shifts.
Curious.
Not restless. Not hungry.
Interested.
It coils tighter in the hollow spaces of his chest, attention sharpening in a way that feels almost… focused.
"Good," Dashiel says at last.
The word lands with quiet certainty.
"If the attraction is real," she continues, "then we don't have to fabricate half the performance."
A pause stretches between them.
"But that also means we acknowledge it," she says. "And control it."
She pushes away from the window and walks back toward the center of the room.
"But that makes it more dangerous. Not less."
She gestures lightly to the space between them.
"So we drill," she says. "Not just the backstory. The proximity. The touches. The looks. Until it's second nature."
Her eyes study him carefully.
"Until I don't flinch," she adds quietly, "and you don't overwhelm."
She says the last word with deliberate precision.
Then the moment passes.
"Starting now."
Her tone shifts back to business, though something quieter lingers beneath it.
"Ashton Plowfield is from the Southern Provinces. His family manages vineyards and recently came into a modest inheritance. He wants to invest in 'the future of arcane science' to raise his family's standing."
She gestures toward herself.
"And he's brought his systems analyst—me—to evaluate the Conservatory before committing funds."
Dashiel steps closer, stopping roughly two feet away.
Closer than is strictly professional.
"Your turn," she says, voice dropping slightly. "How does Ashton address his aide when he wants her attention across a crowded room?"
Gaston softens his posture slightly, letting warmth enter his voice.
"Sabrina," he says easily, letting warmth enter his tone. "I have something I need to discuss with you."
Dashiel—Sabrina—meets his gaze.
The heat in his eyes doesn't make her look away.
Instead, something subtle shifts.
Her posture softens a fraction. Her shoulders relax. A faint, knowing smile touches her lips—not flirtatious, but aware.
She steps closer.
"Yes, Mister Plowfield?" she asks quietly.
Her voice lowers, attentive.
Her eyes flick briefly to his mouth before returning to his.
A tiny motion.
Perfectly calculated.
Good, Gaston thinks. She's not just reacting.
She's building the character.
"Better," Dashiel says, dropping character. "The name works. Simple. Believable."
She tilts her head.
"But your posture is still all Gaston Rudrick."
She steps around him slightly, studying his stance like a tutor correcting a student.
"Ashton is from the provinces. Comfortable with land and ledgers, less so in a room full of glittering nobles."
She demonstrates, straightening her own posture.
"A little too straight. Like he's trying not to slouch."
She glances back at him.
"Try again."
Then she slips smoothly back into character.
Sabrina steps forward and reaches out, adjusting the imaginary lapel of his jacket. Her fingers brush lightly near his collarbone.
Professional.
But the touch lingers half a second longer than it needs to.
Behind inside him, the presence stirs—curious about the contact in a way that has nothing to do with the mission.
"You had something to discuss, sir?"
Gaston stiffens his posture slightly, adopting the rigid bearing she demonstrated.
He clears his throat.
"Ahem. Yes."
He leans just a little closer.
"This place is impressive, isn't it?" He says. "Do you think it's worth the investment?"
His lips feel strangely dry.
Dashiel notices.
Her eyes follow the motion as he wets them.
Her breath catches—just slightly.
A real reaction.
She weaves it into the performance without missing a beat. Her hand slides down from his lapel, fingers trailing along the front of his imaginary waistcoat before falling away.
"The facilities are… certainly impressive, sir," she murmurs.
She takes a small step back, leaving a narrow pocket of charged air between them.
Her gaze dips toward the floor briefly, as if collecting her professional thoughts, before returning to his. A faint flush colors her cheeks.
"The donor tour will reveal more about their long-term viability," she continues. "The projections in their prospectus are… ambitious."
She breaks character and steps back another pace, exhaling slowly.
"Good," she says.
Her voice has returned to normal, though it's slightly huskier than before.
"The physical tells were perfect."
She nods thoughtfully.
"The rigid posture reads as noble anxiety. The dry lips and leaning in read as attraction overriding protocol." Another small nod.
"We can work with that."
She returns to the armchair and pulls the robe tighter around herself as she sits.
"We drill that dynamic for an hour each day until the gala."
Her gaze shifts to the fire.
"In between, we finalize the layout from memory. I'll sketch what I remember from the schematics."
She taps the armrest lightly.
"We need to identify the exact two-minute window in the tour when I break away—and exactly where you'll be positioned to provide cover."
She studies the flames for a moment.
"And you should use that bath," she adds without looking at him. "You smell like smoke, blood, and taxi upholstery."
She glances back.
"That's not a noble scent."
Gaston snorts quietly. He heads into the bathroom and strips off his clothes, letting the hot water wash away the lingering grime of the night.
The shower is quick. When he returns, he's wearing only silk pajama pants, his chest still faintly damp.
He crosses to the bookshelf beside the bathroom door and presses a hidden catch.
A concealed panel swings open. His father's old liquor stash.
Gaston pulls out a bottle and two glasses. He wipes them quickly on the edge of his towel before pouring. Then he settles into the other armchair, stretching out comfortably.
He offers one of the glasses to Dashiel.
"This," he says, "is the good stuff."
Dashiel watches Gaston's efficient movements—the shower, the discovery of the hidden stash—with an analyst's eye. When he handed her the cleaned cup of amber liquid, she takes it without hesitation. Her fingers brush against his in the transfer.
She sniffs the liquor once, then takes a small sip. Her eyes close for a second as the taste registers. It's smooth, complex, and undoubtedly expensive. "Better than The Cog," she agrees quietly, taking another sip. She holds the cup in both hands, staring into its depths.
The fire pops softly. The room is warm now, the earlier chill completely gone. Gaston sat across from her in nothing but his pajama pants, the firelight playing over the lines of his torso—the scars from old training, the lean muscle of someone who has had to fight for everything.
Dashiel's gaze flicks over him once, brief and assessing, then returns to her cup. She doesn't comment on his state of dress. It's as if she's filed it under 'relevant data' and moved on.
"Three days," she repeats, as if confirming the timeline more than reminding him. "We should sleep in shifts regardless of what you said. I'll take first watch. You need real rest."
She looks at Gaston then, her expression serious.
"That suppression you're doing... it's not restful. Your mind is fighting a war while your body sleeps. You'll need your wits about you."
"It's nothing but mental discipline. You've had a traumatic last couple days, rest. I assure you, the wards are active and Sevrin knows what he's doing. No one will get in without us knowing."
Dashiel's eyebrows lift slightly. "The wards are active, you sure?" She sets her cup down on the small table between the chairs and closes her eyes, focusing. After a moment, she opens them. "I can feel it. A low hum in the stone. Old magic. Rudrick family signatures." She looks at you with renewed assessment. "You're full of surprises."
She picks up her cup again and drains the last of the liquor, a faint shudder running through her at the strength of it.
"Fine," she concedes. "No watch. But if those wards so much as flicker, I'm awake."
She stands, places the empty cup back on the table, and moves to the large bed. She pulls back the covers on one side—the side farther from the door—and slips underneath, still wearing the embroidered robe. She turns on her side, facing away from you and toward the wall, a compact silhouette in the grand bed.
"Don't stay up all night thinking," she says, her voice muffled by the pillow. "The best preparation now is sleep."
Dashiel's breathing slowly evens out behind him.
Sleep comes quickly to her.
Gaston remains in the chair a few moments longer, staring into the dying fire.
The house settles around them with its familiar groans and sighs, the faint hum of the reawakened wards threading through the stone like a distant heartbeat.
Safe.
Protected.
Secure.
Behind his ribs, the presence stirs. Not restless.
Not hungry.
Watching.
Its attention drifts toward the bed where Dashiel sleeps, then back to the dying fire. A slow, thoughtful curl tightens in Gaston's chest. Interested.
Gaston exhales slowly and rises from the chair. Three days.
The presence coils deeper inside him. Amused.
As if it already knows how the next three days will end.