heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

"Wysteria? Who is—?" Lady Paget's attention slides past Ellis' shoulder to Wysteria who has, if her own sense of the heat in her face is true, gone fundamentally scarlet in his shadow. "Oh yes of course. Miss Poppell, you might have introduced yourself so. It's a very charming little name."

"Be that as it may," Wysteria blurts out in an artificially pleasant tone. She has pasted on a smile where she stands at Ellis' elbow, all effected sunshine and good humor. Ha ha ha, yes what a hilarious misunderstanding. "I'm afraid the Warden speaks the truth. I was sent at the behest of his Commander to—to deliver new confidential orders. We must had East. Er. Confidentially."

The tempo of the harp rises just slightly, perhaps in anticipation of some further request. Lady Paget's lips have pursed, a hand lifting to draw fingers beneath her chin as Wysteria speaks.

"Confidentially."

Each syllable drawn out in cool tones. Behind her, the three maids exchange looks. Ellis straightens, squaring his shoulders in unconscious recognition of approaching danger.

"I've taken advantage of your kindness long enough, Lady Paget. If I stay much longer, it will be impossible for me to leave."

Flattery is not exactly Ellis' forte. But it is the nearest to it he can get while remaining truthful. After all, it has grown near impossible to leave. He continues on briskly: "If you'll indulge me just a little longer, I'd ask that you spare us rooms for one last night, and a replacement for my—associate's garment, we will be on our way at first light."

The barest trip over identifier. But the sting of Wysteria's slap had been instructive enough. Ellis refrains from any overt declarations while Lady Paget's pursed lips grow more pronounced as she examines them.

It might be prudent under such circumstances to lower one's eyes and give the dense rug under one's feet a thorough study. Why look at the finely woven flowers and leaves; how elegant the pattern and color palette of the piece is; and so on and so forth, all in the pursuit of ignoring the fact that one is about to be utterly destroyed upon the point which they currently stand. Wysteria, halfway shielded by Ellis' elbow, does no such thing. She merely becomes a rigor mortis inflicted version of herself—smile baked on and eyes charmingly bright even as the flush of mortification rises higher up the back of her neck to lay ownership to the entirety of her scalp. The sum of her movement is to absently twitch back her skirts, as if the damage done to them might be concealed by doing so rather than underlined.

(Spoilers: it's the latter.)

With the animal grace of a predator, Lady Paget's attention swivels to one of the maids behind the divan.

"I trust something can be arranged for dressing Miss Poppell properly. The length of the hem will have to rise, of course."

Wysteria's silence is a clear indicator that this is a conversation gone poorly, though Ellis has yet to divine the exact shape of the trouble.

But he is aware that he is outclassed in this arena. It is much like standing in a room full of traps, and trying to decide whether he would rather be blasted off his feet or bludgeoned by something heavy.

Nevertheless, he has come this far in the conversation. A brief sidelong look gleans nothing, and he cannot reach for Wysteria, despite wishing to, so—

"Lady Paget, I could only ask that you give us the equal of what she's lost in our pursuit of your companion."

To his credit, Ellis spares only a single, narrowed glance towards the cat. The sentiment is perhaps mutual, as he receives a baleful look in return.

"I have told her of how kind you've been to me during my stay," is a very careful prompt. "That should extend to my fellows, aye?"

Kindness is only slightly pointed. But still, it is a deliberate reminder. On her divan, the lady herself sighs over it. The cat affects the sort of yawn that bares far too many teeth to be innocent.

Wysteria's attention, here, finally lowers to her hands before her. She has evidently been picking faintly at her nails and the cuticles now are a little worse for the wear thanks to the hard treatment. It is only prudent to gently shove the rest of them back in an attempt to tidy the look of the whole hand, and by then the conversation in the room has flowed along fully without her so that by the time Lady Paget says,

"Miss Poppell—"

She jumps. And blinks directly up at the woman on the divan. "Yes, your Ladyship?"

"I said do you have a preference of color, or shall I select something myself?"

"Oh." Then, promptly: "No, your Ladyship. I quite enjoy all of them. Colors, that is." A flickering glance toward Ellis reveals very little save that the back of his neck is a little flush, and then she realigns her attention once more to the the older woman draped across the furniture.

Lady Paget with her calculating eyes studies both of them. Then she turns to her cadre of maids and tells the shortest one, "Go along and prepare a second room for Miss Poppell. See that she's made comfortable and something suitable is provided, yes? And then I will see the both of you,"—her face tilts back to them—"At dinner."

How simple indeed.

As they are shown from the room, Ellis still keeps Ser Pouncival in his periphery, right up until the drawing room doors are closed behind them.

And so it is the pair of them along with the short, round-faced maid. Whether or not she's relieved to be out of the parlor is difficult to say, but before anything is said, Ellis requests, "A room beside mine please, Sophie. It will make it easier when we depart if I'm not knocking on doors up and down the halls in the early morning."

Considering the size of the house, it's impossible to say who would be disrupted, but Sophie raises no specific objections. If there's a long look of assessment preceding her agreement, well—

There's still agreement.

Which is how Wysteria is gifted a suite of rooms for her own use, with several dresses laid out across the bed and all the assorted items for a bath set by the fire for her. There's a parlor with plush sofa and polished mahogany tables, and a silver tea service set out along with a little plate of scones. All if furnished in cream and gold, without a single cat hair to be spotted.

And notably a door which leads out to a balcony which stretches all along the upper level of the house so it is easy enough to cross between Ellis' rooms and her own. If one were so inclined.

She is, in fact, not inclined. And so the next time they see one another, it is while they are being shown to Lady Paget's dining room. The dress which she has selected is a pretty dark lavender, and not at all in keeping with her usual colors or style. It has pretty little petal-shaped details at the sleeves and along the bodice, and in deference to the occasion of taking a fine meal in a fine house, Wysteria has dispensed with the high collared shirt she wears so frequently. The dress is also, objectively speaking, far nice than the one mauled by Ser Pouncival. But at dinner, Lady Paget is all brisk albeit a little backhanded approval—'Oh, very good Miss Poppell. I'm pleased to see you have good taste after all. Oh, what a dreadful scar,' and so on, all said in the kindest tones so as to make it fully impossible to tell whether she is being genuine or just every so faintly cruel.

Wysteria supposes that it's very possible to do both at all once, and throughout the dinner she is all sunshine and good cheer: bright polite humor, and laughter and smiles, sweetness and air and light fit to please any lady and very unpleasantly feigned for anyone more familiar with Wysteria's patter and typical level of exuberance. To an untrained eye, she is in high spirits. To a trained one, she is a picture of misery as they make their way through dinner, and then through an hour in the drawing room where Wysteria must beg not to be given the opportunity to delight them on the harpsichord (for her playing is very bad), and even during the short walk back to their rooms.

Have you ever had an evening go so uniformly poorly?

And then, not ten minutes after their respective doors have closed behind them: a delicate tap-tap-tap at the balcony door which leads into Ellis' room.

How aware is Ellis that the evening is going poorly?

Aware enough that the tap on the door is answered so very promptly that it implies Ellis had been standing on the opposite side of it, hesitating over whether or not to impose on her.

He takes her hands in his own instead. There is no particular greeting other than their linked hands and Ellis drawing her into the room. The balcony door remains open, for the moment.

Though Ellis has presumably inhabited this suite for weeks, there is hardly any evidence of it. A trunk is open at the foot of his bed. A pair of boots is set by the chair at the fire. But whatever else Ellis might have brought with him is contained out of sight. With the bed made so impeccably, he might as well be as newly arrived to this room as Wysteria is to hers.

Ellis refrains from telling her she looks beautiful. It feels like an unwelcome thing, considering the misery of dinner. Instead, this—

A quiet attempt to reel her in to him, to hold on to her if she'll allow him.

If she is caught off guard by the instantaneous opening of the door, all that it means is that Wysteria hesitates long enough to be effectively drawn in across the threshold and pulled in close to him.

There in that narrow little space against his shoulder she says, "Oh, what a hateful woman," with real vehemence. "I have never disliked someone so thoroughly. I hope that terrible creature she calls a cat scratches her somewhere delicate."

It's a very uncharitable assessment of a woman who has quite literally fed, clothed, and boarded her with no advance warning. And yet, she is in a uniquely uncharitable mood all bristling and hot with temper in the net of Ellis' hold on her.

Despite Ellis' rather tepid opinion on Lady Paget, (Lonely still feels correct, in spite of everything) no objections are raised.

Compliments are her appearance are similarly tabled, out of concern that the origin of the dress in question will sour her on any kind of appreciation. Instead, his response is initially limited to the circular press of his palm to her back, rubbing circles there rather than trying to dissect exactly what he might say in response.

"We'll be gone tomorrow," he reminds. "And if there are to be further dealings with her, they will be the responsibility of Diplomacy Division."

What can be more of a comfort than reassurance that they've seen the last of this woman?

Here, she draws abruptly back—not free of him or the loop of his arms, but certainly far enough to give him an interrogative look. So much for put on cheer or miserable silences.

"You're very cool about the thing. Don't pretend you weren't cross with her when we earlier stood in her drawing room."

"I was cross."

Less for his own sake and more for Wysteria's clear mortification. Ellis had underestimated it, or overestimated Lady Paget's ability to be welcoming. Nevermind the mistake of thinking a single cat would be more easily dealt with.

"But it's over now."

In which it applies so broadly to the situation: the dinner, his stretch of servitude, the need to make nice with Lady Paget. Ellis' annoyance has more or less dissipated to make space to shift his attention to Wysteria.

"Over!" There is a firm note of protest in it—a firm objection to the whole concept that anything might be over. Not while they are this evening still in the lady's house! Sleeping in her rooms! Dressed in her clothes!

"You know, I find it very unreasonable how quick you are to forgive. It would suit everyone far more if you— Well if you were to nurture just the slightest evidence of a temper. It is very difficult, you know. To always be the only unreasonable person in the room."

Frankly, it's inconsiderate.

"No one's said you're unreasonable."

Maybe Ellis hadn't caught the entirety of insults, intentional or otherwise, passing back and forth across the table tonight, but unreasonable hadn't featured among them. His hands shifts, moving from her back to her biceps where he can rub his hands soothingly up and down. Lightly, so as not to damage the detailing of the sleeves.

"I don't care to think of her," he tells her, tone a little coaxing. "I've other things I'd rather pay mind to."

Chief among them, Wysteria herself.

"'Other things.'" This habit of echoing his claims like the interior of a cave will evidently be a theme for the evening. "What other things could you possibly be so concerned with? Not the Lady's cat, or what Commander Flint will say. Mister Stark will find some means by which to excuse you, I'm certain. Or even what Lady Paget may or may not give Riftwatch in return for a number of hard weeks in her service. It is very unfair, Mister Ellis. That she should keep you for so long. If I'd known before you left, I might have sent you with something. A half dozen books we might have discussed in the evening, or at least something sweet. I know I'm not the only who who's fond of those checkered shortboard cookies. Or I might have kissed you once or twice more, or—"

Or, or, or. That pretty imagining of him saying goodnight to her in the blue tinged garden of the Hightown house at night.

"Or anything at all. Oh, let me see what's been done to your poor face."

This, all temperamental bluster as she raises a hand to take him by the chin. She turns her face to examine the scratch she has left behind on his cheek.

The only response in the midst of Wysteria's winding recitation of complaints is a small smile, one that sparks and stays throughout despite how similarly he feels.

Had he known he'd be gone so long, he might have been more thorough in his leaving. He likes to think he would have managed a more appropriate goodbye. But who could have foreseen the promise of a few days work dragging on so long?

Rather than make mention of this, he submits to the examination, the catch and instruction of her fingers tipping his head to all angles to catch the light. His hands drop from her arms to her hips, settling as he observes her scrutiny.

"It's hardly noticeable," he reassures. They both know Ellis has survived worse injury than a scrape. It's a miracle Ser Pouncival did not do worse in the course of their struggle. It will mend. He hardly feels it now.

His hands flex at her hips. Ellis draws in a breath, looking at her, before clarifying, "The only thing I care to think about is you."

A little fond, a little amused. What else would he think about? The sting of that moment outside the drawing room is set aside, just as the question of what might be said to explain his abandonment of the Lady Paget or the scrape on his face. He's missed her. He would rather have spent these past weeks in Kirkwall with her than anywhere else.

"Don't be charming," she tells him, quite strictly indeed. And wipe away that smile, you terrible man; why can he never be fully cross furious about anything? "It's very dreadful when I'm in such a poor mood. Don't you know that good suitors are meant to compliment and agree with their lady's temperament?"

It is not at all the worst scratch on him she's ever witnessed. But it's different, you see, as she placed it there herself. That must make it stand out very bold on his cheek, a thin red line drawn out from his lip to slash up off his cheekbone. She frowns at it, and then more specifically at him.

"Could we not sneak away in the night, do you think?"

It is the last sullen and petulant thing she will say to him this evening. Purposefully, anyway.

A minor ah of acknowledgement, though the instruction passes without comment. There are points where Ellis does consider his deficiencies, all the ways in which he is not the sort of suitor Wysteria might have chosen for herself. But that is a far off consideration on this night, when there are more immediate matters to think on.

"Aye, we could. But we'd have to sleep on the ground if we did, and I've none of my gear to make it a comfortable thing."

As comfortable as sleeping on the ground ever was.

"She'll not rise to see us off," he adds, for no reason at all. "Lady Paget favors a late start to her days."

Her hand springs away from his face with all the haste of snatching fingers back from a hot stove.

"Then I should leave you so you so we might immediately go to bed and so rise very, very early and see this place well behind us. If we're very diligent about our riding—and I brought with me that flaxen colored gelding who is so reliable—, then we may reach Kirkwall almost in time for the last ferry."

The emphasize the point, she begins to extract herself from between his hands—

And she is caught up in his arms, escape momentarily curtailed.

"You should stay," Ellis counters. "I've missed you."

And he'd trade off any measure of sleep to keep her nearby.

"Will you sleep here? With me?"

Being caught clearly surprises her. When has she drawn back and found herself even so much as curtailed? It prompts a little sound of surprise, her hands briefly hovering in that ill-defined fraction of space between them—

She colors promptly. It's a full red flush, hot in the face and up the back of her neck, and is almost instantly obscured by the intercession of her hands pressing over her own cheeks.

(It is one thing to say 'Stay' and to contrive to sleep in the same bed, or to funnily circle around the idea. It is another thing to say it aloud. To be direct. To—)

"Oh." And then, "Oh, but if Lady Paget were to somehow find out—"

It's a momentary curtailing. Enough to stop the momentum, with Ellis' hands settling back to a loose grasp at her waist once he's sure Wysteria means to stay long enough at least for him to make his case for it.

"Lock your door. I'll lock mine. We'll rise early and be gone before the household is any wiser."

And for all her blushing, Ellis tacks on—

"I'll sleep on the floor, if you like. But I'd rather be in the same room with you than spend more time apart."

For a moment, it looks very much like she will find her way to further protests. Mister Ellis, a lock means nothing at all to the servants of a fine house. Mister Ellis, it is perfectly boorish to make you sleep on the floor after
brutishly scarring your face. Mister Ellis—

She is still blushing when she catches Ellis by his collar with both her hands. She surges up to him. Or she pulls him down to her, or some combination of the two, and so kisses him abruptly.

He has not yet kissed Wysteria properly since she'd arrived at the estate.

Yes, he has thought of it at length. But their earlier attempt was foiled partly by open doors and partly by a murderous cat. And even though he's been considering the possibility of it for hours now, even having asked her to share a room with him for the evening, Ellis is caught entirely off guard by the swerve from objection to action.

Ellis bends to the clasp of her hands at his collar, to set his arms back around her more securely. The initial clumsy lack of response is remedied quickly. He kisses her back, having coaxed her back in close to him.

He's missed her. Every line of his body repeats that truth.

She's missed him. Which matters because she rarely misses anyone at all. Not even Alexandrie who is such a delightfully shameless gossip. But he is such fine company, and she has become very accustomed to his presence as her side, and to having his attention, and she has even once or twice in the weeks since his departure found herself thinking with fondness about the terrible scrape of his beard when he kisses her cheek.

There is some bristle like this too, of course and under her hands as they move from his tunic collar to Ellis' face. The fact that he bends in answer doesn't do much to diminish how fierce that impulsive kiss is.

When she has imagined him kissing her in that moonlit garden, it has always seemed a deliberate and quiet thing. This is not that at all. It is rushed and bursting with some wanting thing, as demanding as it is sweet. And after, blurted out against his mouth with all the enthusiasm of something who is certain they know the correct answer to a question:

"I love you. You should know it. I know you don't wish at all to marry me, but it makes no difference. I will anyway."

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