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Hubert’s office at night is a marvellous nest of warm, buttery light and dark wood. Hubert, too, is unusually soft-looking here, as cozy as a well-kept secret. Light from his standing lamp paints champagne-gold strands in his hair. He’s seated on the sofa with his jacket off, his waistcoat off, and his shirt unbuttoned to the clavicles.
“Ferdinand, could you pass me the microfiber?” Hubert asks.
“With pleasure.”
After he does so, Ferdinand moves to sit right next to Hubert so he can admire him as he wipes the glass protecting his framed photograph of the Black Eagles. He reaches out to brush Hubert’s hair out of his forehead. Hubert pauses in his work, turning to face him.
Ferdinand lets his hand linger for a moment before trailing his fingers down to Hubert’s jaw, then his neck, admiring the rosy tint of Hubert’s pale skin, so much like the color of marble under a setting sun. Hubert smiles at him. The microfiber is quickly forgotten when Ferdinand surges forward to kiss him, catching Hubert’s soft, surprised laughter.
Then, when they break apart, Hubert opens his mouth, and no words come out. Instead Ferdinand hears a faraway sound that reminds him of fire. Hubert’s mouth widens, impossibly wide, his lips stretching around a dark and vast void. The sound gets louder. And louder. And louder, like the whistle of an approaching train. Somewhere from deep within Hubert’s throat, something goes RIIIIIING!
Ferdinand screams himself awake and slaps the ‘Stop’ button on his alarm clock.
He collapses once again on the sheets with one hand over his heart, feeling it thump with an undue sense of urgency. What a bizarre dream. At least it started out very nicely, he thinks to himself as he picks out his outfit for the day and rushes to the shower.
It is a little embarrassing that Ferdinand’s dreams of Hubert aren’t even just sex dreams anymore, and now range from fantasies of watching him clean his office to visiting Ferdinand's great-aunt back in Bergliez proper, but no one has to know that. Certainly not his closest colleagues, who are still convinced that all Ferdinand wants to do with Hubert is have a roll in the hay. The last thing he needs, he thinks as he boards the train to work, is for Linhardt to find out that Ferdinand would shave all his hair off for the chance to wake up next to Hubert.
When he gets to the office, only two people are at their desks: Dorothea, who uses the taxpayer-funded Wi-Fi to pirate television shows, and Linhardt, who gets dragged to the office early by Caspar every other day of the week, then proceeds to deal with it by dozing at his desk until lunchtime.
“E-mail server’s down,” Linhardt tells him when Ferdinand passes his desk. He has the seat of his custom chair at an angle more suited to a spa than a workspace, wearing a sleeping mask made out of pink floral-patterned fabric. “If you want to send anything today, make an intern do it. Physically. Analog is king again.”
“Noted, thank you, Linhardt.”
“Hubie’s on his way,” says Dorothea, putting down the phone on her desk. “He’s on the warpath.”
“What, at eight in the morning? How?”
“I think he keeps a coffin, actually, right next to the ground floor supply closet of every government building, so he just, like, takes a nap in the building where he’s planning to set someone’s ass on fire the next day. There’s enough space in the pantries and those places are always so mysteriously dark.”
“He cannot seriously plan to set a different person’s ass on fire each day,” Ferdinand protests.
“Ha, you wish you had exclusive rights to that treatment, don’t you,” says Dorothea, brightly. “Wouldn’t you just love to get your head in Hubie’s pubies—“
“Dorothea, that is awfully inappropriate—“
“Wish you had Vestra up your ass-tra—“
“You do know his mother is still alive? She’s the current head of the family. You cannot just say things like that,” Ferdinand says.
“Well, why not?” Linhardt has not removed his sleeping mask, but he is capable of turning his chair in Ferdinand’s general direction and stretching his arms out, twirling a pen in one hand. “Why can’t she say it, if it’s true?”
“It would be most pleasing to me,” says Ferdinand, who pauses upon hearing Linhardt mutter something suspiciously like Hubert’s dick would be most pleasing to you. He raises the volume of his voice. “It would be most pleasing to me if we could all act a little professional in this office, please, this is—this is the Ministry of Education, not a Garreg Mach locker room.”
“Yeah, if we were in a Garreg Mach locker room, you could just drop your towel strategically like,” Linhardt says, snapping his fingers, “that. Too bad the two of you were still stuck in the too-repressed-to-hatefuck stage back then.” He has shoved his sleeping mask up to his hairline, just so he can look Ferdinand in the eye as he says this.
Dorothea’s phone rings. Her eyes go wide right after she holds it to her ear and she slams the thing back down on the receiver. She squeaks, “He’s here! He’s in Meeting Room Four. Caspar told him to wait.”
“Ooh,” Linhardt says without inflection. “He’s not going to like that.”
“Right, we have…” Ferdinand estimates the distance between this office and Meeting Room Four. “We have thirty seconds to formulate some kind of response to whatever complaint he’s about to file. Why’s he here, Dorothea?”
He signals his spokesperson to walk with him. They fall into step like Pegasus Scouts.
“Unhappy about some press.”
“Yes, I know, that’s always why he’s here, but which article set him off? Which tweet? Which poor fellow in this office do I have to shield from his threats to confiscate puppies, or tie intestines in sailor knots, or whatever else his twisted imagination comes up with?”
“Uh, something about West Dagda. Don’t really know the specifics. Don’t know who did the deed. It’s eight a.m. on a Monday, Ferdie, my brain’s only awake enough to process smoothie choices.”
“What on Earth could he find objectionable about our conduct with regards to West Dagda? I had a perfectly good day out with Guntur yesterday! He seemed very happy. Was I wearing a bad tie?”
“I threw out all your bad ties,” Dorothea says, just as they reach Meeting Room Four.
“Including the family heirlooms.”
“First of all, I’d just like to point out how deranged it is to have ties as family heirlooms, so I was doing even your potential offspring a favor by getting rid of them, dear Ferdie—“
And then the sight of Hubert’s imposing figure silences them both. He’s facing away from the door, looking out the window, with his hands clasped together behind his back.
Ferdinand knows his tailor; he curses the master couturier daily. Fine black cotton slacks make Hubert’s long legs look even longer, and the contrast between his surprisingly wide shoulders and his slim waist is unfairly stark.
Slowly, Hubert turns around to face them. His lips are pressed in a thin, displeased line, which only makes his prominent cheekbones seem to jut out more. His pale eyes are narrowed, focused. Ferdinand gulps.
President Hresvelg’s Director of Communications asks, “Did you propose to the West Dagdan ambassador, Ferdinand?”
“I—what?”
He shares a baffled look with Dorothea.
“Why don’t you push your hair behind your ears so it doesn’t impede your hearing. Did you or did you not ask for Guntur Djohan’s hand in marriage yesterday?”
Ferdinand follows Hubert’s suggestion, just so he has something to do with his hands.
“No, I did not. I went riding with him, and practiced some archery, and then I introduced him to my favorite tea blends and gave him a few bags of them. That was it, Hubert, I swear. We didn’t even discuss anything as personal as marriage! Where did you get this idea?”
“West Dagdan internet,” Hubert says. “Apparently horse-riding and gifting special tea blends are traditionally engagement activities for certain West Dagdan aristocratic lines. It’s an old and rarely-practiced tradition, which was why, probably, Foreign Affairs did not brief you on it when he was appointed. Unfortunately, it’s a tradition that Ambassador Djohan’s family happens to honor.”
“He didn’t say anything of the kind to me.”
“I’ve been informed that this has somehow slipped the honorable Ambassador’s mind when he asked his staff to take photos of the two of you yesterday,” Hubert says with audible disdain. “I have also been informed that you did not bother to forward your itinerary to anyone at Foreign Affairs.”
“That’s ridiculous, it was a casual Sunday outing with an ambassador from a country we’re on perfectly good terms with! I don’t have to get Foreign Affairs to clear my social activities like some—some helicopter parent association,” Ferdinand splutters.
“Yes. Yes, you do. And because you haven’t done that, some of Djohan’s staffers have leaked the pictures; they have captured the West Dagdan imagination—which seems to be just about as fertile and vigorously lively as one of your mother’s prize horses. Several tabloids have already started running stories on it. I have asked some of our people at Foreign Affairs to translate a few key opinions.”
“You mean viral tweets,” Dorothea clarifies.
“Opinions of real West Dagdans. Which have received staggering amounts of engagement, Dorothea.”
To Ferdinand, Dorothea mouths: memes!
“A good number of these people are convinced that you’ll be wearing a shiny ring by Wednesday, and West Dagdan inter-ethnic marriage activists have started posting infographics about you,” Hubert says as he scrolls through his phone. “There is an op-ed in the works at International Policy Magazine on our trade agreements with this engagement kerfuffle as the clickbait hook. I have persuaded the editor to keep it well inside the works, and hopefully once we’ve sorted this all out with you it’ll be in the trash, where it belongs.” This is Hubert-speak for keeping the editor’s children in a glass tank and threatening to fill it with scorpions. “Well? Will it get sorted out?”
He’s drumming his fingers on the table idly. It’s extremely distracting.
“Yes, I’ll head over to the Embassy and talk to Guntur right away. Can we get a car, Thea?”
“I’m sure they’ll spare one,” Dorothea says, already pressing her phone to her ear.
“Hubert,” says Ferdinand, “does Edelgard know about this?”
Hubert’s hand freezes. He closes his eyes and starts massaging his temple with it, which makes Ferdinand surer than ever that it should be illegal for Hubert to do things with his hands in general. There are fingers and then there are fingers. Ferdinand wants to lick them.
“She thinks this is hilarious,” Hubert sighs, once he’s done raising Ferdinand’s blood pressure and his hands are resting on the table again.
“That’s good, isn’t it? That it’s so ridiculous it’s funny to her?”
“Let me worry about the President's reactions. Your responsibility, at the moment, is to prevent yourself from provoking any more of them. Is that clear?”
“As the first dew of spring,” Ferdinand says. He exhales heavily. “I understand this is the part where you threaten me.”
Hubert raises one of his thin eyebrows. “Threaten you?”
“Oh, you know, you’re going to chop me up and feed me to your mother’s pet snakes, or you’re going to slip so many laxatives into my food that my brains will come out of my bowels, or, or, you’re going to send me to Varley and have me squished into cheap wine.”
Dorothea snorts, then tries valiantly to hide her laughter in a flurry of coughing. It’s an admirable effort.
Hubert’s expression of neutral displeasure curdles into a real frown. “I wasn’t aware taxpayers paid you to take creative writing classes.”
“These are real things you’ve said to my aides, Hubert,” Ferdinand says patiently. “I have a list. It’s printed out on very nice stationery, the thick kind, back in my office. On my desk. Do you want me to get it and read it out to you, so you can pick how you’d like to punish me for tarnishing Adrestia’s image?”
The list exists, although he’s exaggerated the bit about the stationery, and Ferdinand doesn’t keep it because he wants Hubert to be held accountable for putting the fear of the Presidential Office into his aides. But Hubert really doesn’t need to know that.
“I’m not here to punish you,” Hubert says slowly. Dorothea coughs up another storm. “I am here to straighten out a misunderstanding—Dorothea, do you need a moment? A Ferdinand-sized glass of water, perhaps? A doctor?”
“She’s fine,” Ferdinand says hastily.
“Actually.” Oh, death, here comes death, Ferdinand thinks. Then she spares him. “I need to take Ferdie back to the office for a moment; there are some important dossiers on Ambassador Djohan I need to show him. Do you mind?”
Hubert glares at her. “Be back in five minutes or fewer.”
Dorothea has a hand over her mouth for the entire thirty-second walk back to her desk. Once she reaches it, a fit of silent laughter overcomes her, and she has to place one hand on her desk to steady herself. Fuming, Ferdinand crosses his arms.
“It was not that funny.”
“What was?” Linhardt rises from his chair and walks towards her.
“Ferdie asked Hubie if he wanted to punish him,” Dorothea whispers, once she’s stopped gasping for air. “And gave him options.”
“You’re taking my words out of context! I was standing up for my staff!”
Linhardt goes, “Did the other sort of staff—“
“—Stand up for Hubert, oh, incredibly mature, Linhardt, how witty, aren’t you a clever one.”
“Wow. Sarcasm. Someone’s all wound up,” Linhardt says. He walks away from them both to head towards the pantry, where he will probably spend the rest of the morning chatting with Caspar. When he leaves, two of their interns walk in, looking incredibly eager to please in their shiny ties and shinier shoes.
“Good morning, Florian, Avery,” Ferdinand greets them, before immediately sitting down behind Linhardt’s empty desk so he can make himself look busy. To Dorothea, he says, “We should go back.”
“Hold on. I’m just going to check my e-mail for a second, I’m waiting for Ingrid to get back to me.”
“What, our e-mail servers are back up?”
“Oh, no, no. She knows they’re busted. She promised to send the files to my personal Loogmail.”
Ferdinand peeks over Linhardt’s monitors to see the interns peering at him like particularly eager chihuahuas. He can practically see their ears perking up.
He quickly looks down again to avoid them and clicks the browser, finding that Linhardt has his e-mail open. Ferdinand sends Dorothea a little message before they go; maybe it was a little funny, but the interns don’t have to hear it.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]when will vestra be up my ass-tra in the fun way :(
Linhardt von Hevring
Senior Advisor to the Adrestian Minister of Education
Unfortunately, Dorothea is no longer at her desk by the time he sends it.
“Ferdie, what are you doing? Come on, let’s go, or Hubie will have both of us for breakfast, and I’m certainly not going to—“
“Yes, let’s go, let’s not keep him waiting,” Ferdinand hisses, elbowing Dorothea as he falls into step next to her, gesturing with his head towards the interns.
“Sorry!” she whispers. “I didn’t see them!”
“No problem. What are they doing here so early, anyway?”
“Oh, like you were any better when you started out. Maybe Hubie’s training them to spy on us. Maybe he keeps a few smaller coffins in the basement; junior coffins for junior vampires.”
They arrive at Meeting Room Four to find that Hubert has closed up the shutters of the meeting room’s windows and turned on the television. On the massive screen, Guntur Djohan is answering a journalist who has cornered him near a supermarket. Ah. The man has diplomatic immunity against Hubert’s murder face, Ferdinand remembers. That must be why the words coming out of his mouth don’t form an endless stream of no comment no comment no comment.
“No, Minister Aegir and I are not engaged, we are just very good friends,” says the little image of Guntur on the screen. He is visibly sweating and as red as a stubbed toe.
“Flames, he’s very bad at making it seem like he’s not hiding some secret affair.” Dorothea sounds faint.
“At least he is denying it,” Ferdinand says.
One of the journalists: “A betrothal between the two of you would be a triumph for inter-ethnic marriage activists in West Dagda. Are you calling off the engagement because of pressure from certain West Dagdan groups?”
“There was no engagement in the first place. The Minister never proposed to me,” Guntur insists, in a tone that makes it seem like there was obviously an engagement at some point. “I have never engaged in intercourse or romantic relations with Minister Aegir.”
Dorothea groans. “How is this guy an ambassador? How do people trust him with international negotiations?”
“No idea. Perhaps he killed the real Guntur Djohan and wore his skin to Enbarr. I do hope ‘practicing archery’ wasn’t a euphemism, Ferdinand,” says Hubert icily, oblivious to Dorothea’s wide-eyed look.
“We’re friends! We engage in enjoyable activities together! As friends! Oh, I should go over there right now.”
Dorothea’s phone rings. She answers it and utters a quick thanks so much. Then she looks at Ferdinand.
“Well, the car’s here, but you probably shouldn’t be seen at the Embassy.”
“Maybe I could use the back entrance?”
“Ferdinand. If anyone forwards me a pap shot of you sneaking in through the back door of the West Dagdan Embassy, I will take those princely facial features off your head one by one, with my bare hands, and stick them on the walls of the Adrestian Museum.”
“Oh, now you have a threat for me,” Ferdinand mutters.
“Find a neutral location,” says Hubert, “that does not give any impression of secrecy, intimacy, or grandeur. Have Djohan meet you there. Straighten it out and do whatever you have to, and, flames of Ailell help me, make sure Djohan keeps his mouth shut.”
“I shall do that right away, then,” Ferdinand promises.
Outside the meeting room, once Hubert is gone, he asks Dorothea, “Do you ever get the urge to salute when he gives orders like that?”
Dorothea shudders. “Oh, yeah, it’s really creepy. I have to hold my arm down to keep it from going up.” Then she says, “Guess we found the poor fellow you have to shield from the death threats. Congrats.”
“And what a threat. He said princely, didn’t he? Princely facial features?”
“Seriously, Ferdie?” Dorothea adds, in an undertone, “Knowing Hubie, that probably just means he’d like to chop your head off and present it to the masses, not that he thinks you look like someone out of the Faerghan Fables.”
“You’re probably right,” Ferdinand says sadly. “Well, off I go, then.”
“Ferdinand.” Linhardt approaches them, holding a colorful piece of paper. Ferdinand squints at it. “Intern Two printed out one of the infographics. Look at all these fun facts. Ferdinand von Aegir, champion of equal access to quality schooling, voted Hottest Cabinet Member by the readers of Enbarr Digest.”
“Oh, that’s a good picture,” Dorothea says, passing the print-out from Linhardt to Ferdinand.
It is a good picture. It’s a close up of him on a horse, his hair streaming behind him like a flaming banner. He looks heroic with his riding posture and his favorite jacket on. Shame the effect is rather diminished by the numerous smiling yellow hearts on the poster.
“It is, isn’t it? Caspar’s getting Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee over there to print out all the funny and cute things from the news to stick on the walls. He says this place is putting him to sleep and I think the interns need something to do that they can’t screw up.”
“Fantastic, pass my thanks on to Caspar, these interns do like to feel useful. I,” he says, while pushing the poster back into Linhardt’s hand and looking away from it, “am going to ask Guntur to meet me at St. Indech’s Gardens. I will be back. Soon.”
“Have fun. And try to avoid proposing to any other foreign diplomats before lunch,” calls out Linhardt, as Ferdinand makes his way to the escalators.
In the car, Ferdinand cannot help but scroll through Instagram. The infographics are all over the place. Many of them are in Standard Dagdan, so he has very little idea of what they’re saying, but the activists have chosen good pictures of him, mostly. None of them feature him wearing one of his bad ties.
“Did all your rehearsing before leaving the office, eh, Minister?” asks the driver, a cheerful woman named Ethel.
“Excuse me?”
“Usually when I drive some minister off to damage control, they’re practicing lines in the car, reading from some piece of paper. But you seem to have done most of your homework early.”
“Well, I…”
Ferdinand pauses. He’s been on more than his fair share of these damage control rides, although he’s usually not the one with the problem. But on all these occasions, the relevant official has always had a piece of printed paper from Hubert with all the words they’re meant to say to prevent having to make clarifications about their clarifications.
Hubert means to throw him to the wolves. Unacceptable. Ferdinand calls him immediately.
“Yes?”
“Why didn’t you write something up for me to say?” he asks. “Is there some other scandal you want my mistake to overshadow, so I’m free to make verbal missteps for the press to capitalize on?”
“You are not a child. You can speak at your own press release.”
“You never let anyone ‘speak at their own press release’. Except Edelgard.”
“Just handle it, Ferdinand,” says Hubert, and the line goes dead. Ferdinand sighs as he puts his phone back into his pocket. It’s probably an arms deal, he thinks, or something about state surveillance. It’s probably too bad and too serious to be overshadowed by his stupid diplomatic gaffe, but Hubert plans to strip him naked and parade him through town anyway. And not even, as he had said to Dorothea, in the fun way.
To Ethel, he says, “It really has been nice knowing you, Ethel. You always brighten up these car rides.”
“Well! It’s my pleasure, Minister. Really. It can’t be that bad, can it, whatever you’re going to say, if you’re allowed to say it at St. Indech’s Gardens?”
“Let’s hope so, Ethel. Let’s hope so.”
Ferdinand’s phone beeps. It’s a message from Hubert: Lunch after, at Willem Hall?
He texts back, I will see you there.
By the time he’s done fielding questions, Ferdinand has whipped himself into a state of righteous indignation; by the time he makes it to Willem Hall, he’s just about ready to engage Hubert in single combat. The man is sitting at one of the window-side tables in a dark gray shirt and a well-tailored waistcoat. When Ferdinand arrives, he looks up and catches his eye immediately like some kind of fire-control system has been installed in his brain. Ferdinand is undeterred.
“Look here,” Ferdinand once he’s sitting down and holding the menu, “I know I was only playing into your hands by answering that last question, but I don’t care. If you think you can manipulate me into taking the heat off whatever press meltdown you’re dealing with today by making me speak out for something I truly believe in, then you’re right! But I will not allow you to be smug about it.”
“Ah, yes.” Is Hubert smiling at him? Oh, why must he be so handsome when Ferdinand is trying to make a stand? “‘Being with the one you love—building a future and maybe a family with them—is a human right, regardless of where you come from or what your ancestry is,’ was it? I saw the clip as soon as it went up. I thought you might say something along those lines.”
“Well, I won’t apologize for it. You’ll have more work to do, no doubt, but I don’t care. I won’t help you.”
Hubert does not stop smiling. “You do not have to apologize for anything. It was a good statement.”
“Um.” Ferdinand had not expected this reaction. And being praised by Hubert makes him so happy that it is actually a little upsetting. “You aren’t going to tell me I just cost us years of negotiations, or that I should not comment on matters of, ah, other countries’ constitutional courts?”
“‘Education Minister Expresses Humanitarian Hopes for West Dagda Court Rulings’,” Hubert reads from his phone screen. “‘Ferdinand von Aegir was quick to say that this is not a matter of power politics or national interest to him, but a matter of people’s rights to live, and love, and be loved.’ Hardly scandalous or bad press. I haven’t heard any panicking noises from Foreign Affairs. The President would be displeased with me if I kept you from expressing your beliefs all the time, Ferdinand. There’s a reason she appointed you.”
The server comes to take their order. After he has left, Hubert says, “By the way, there was no other scandal. Stop jumping at shadows.”
“Excuse me, Hubert, for making reasonable predictions based on your past behavior.”
“Yes, my behavior,” says Hubert, clearing his throat. “I’d like to apologize. I was unnecessarily hostile this morning.”
Ferdinand leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “I wasn’t aware you considered any level of hostility unnecessary.”
Chuckling, Hubert says, “I suppose I deserve that. Well, this whole mishap with Djohan—”
“That one, I will apologize for. Very sorry for not checking with Foreign Affairs, I’ll be more careful next time.”
“No, no, I was just a little troubled by it, that is all. The first thing I thought when I heard of it was, ah, if you were in some sort of relationship with Djohan, surely you would have shared that knowledge with me.”
The server arrives with their appetizers. Ferdinand hopes Hubert will attribute his smile to the sight of carpaccio and not the warm feeling in his chest.
“Oh, yes,” says Ferdinand, “I would have. Honestly, I don’t know whether I should feel a little offended at the fact that you’d doubt this! Or that you’d believe I actually proposed to him, even if it was for about five minutes.”
“In any case, I’m glad that’s over with. You have more important things to worry about. How much have you prepared for that meeting about the K-12 curriculum changes, with the Teachers’ Association?”
Ferdinand grins at the question and moves to take out his tablet.
“I’ve read all three proposals and drafted my responses. Actually, I was wondering what you might think about this one part…”
The rest of the Monday actually goes quite smoothly after the Accidental West Dagdan Proposal Incident. Naturally, this means that an hour after Ferdinand comes in on Tuesday, it all goes to hell.
“Ferdinand,” Linhardt says, popping his head into Ferdinand’s office just as Ferdinand finishes his review of a new Ministerial Decree from Domestic Affairs, “I just received a call you might want to hear about.”
“Come in, then.”
“Just a moment.” Linhardt ducks out the door again. “Dorothea, could you get over here? I’m going to need a witness for this.”
In she comes, Linhardt trailing just a little bit behind her. Ferdinand looks up at them.
“Well, what did you want to tell me?”
Linhardt says, “So I just received a call from a teacher at St. Cethleann’s School for Girls.”
“Yes, go on.”
“Last name Arnault, first name Rachel. Daughter of Dorothea Arnault, no familial relation to this,” Linhardt says as he gestures to the Ministerial Spokesperson to his left, ”Dorothea. She helps her mother check her e-mail every Tuesday. And it turns out Sister Dorothea received a very interesting message in her inbox yesterday morning, from my personal e-mail.”
Ferdinand’s stomach sinks. He holds up a hand, signaling to Linhardt to stop speaking.
“Dorothea, what’s your Loogmail?”
“Dorothearnault at Loogmail dot com.”
He takes a moment to process this.
“…There’s only one ‘a’ in the middle?”
“Yes, Ferdie.”
Ferdinand’s stomach practically drops out of his body and hits the floor like a badly-flipped pancake. “Cichol’s balls,” he moans.
“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you swear in five years,” Linhardt says. “Anyway, Rachel looked up other Dorothea Arnaults in Adrestia and she was, quote unquote, very concerned about the way people at the Ministry of Education are conducting themselves and speaking about distinguished and honorable members of government.”
Dorothea frowns. “Distinguished and honorable? Lin. What was in that e-mail?”
“I’ll give you a hint. Something that rhymes with ‘best-ra up my mass-tra', followed by 'in the fun way'.”
“No,” says Dorothea, horrified. “No. Oh, Ferdie.”
“So you understand why the faculty members at St. Cethleann’s are, quote unquote, disturbed and shocked.” Ferdinand has pushed his face into his hands, but from the gaps between his fingers he can spy how Linhardt is looking between him and Dorothea. “Bets on when Edelgard will announce the reshuffle? Starting at fifty volks and a year-long subscription to The Derdriu Review?”
“Stop that. This is still salvageable.”
“No, Dorothea, I don’t see how it is,” Ferdinand says, muffled.
Dorothea walks up to Ferdinand’s desk, pries his hands off his face, then looks meaningfully at Linhardt. He stares back at her. She raises her eyebrows. He mirrors the gesture. She starts wiggling her eyebrows, and Linhardt, whose facial muscles do not allow him to do the same, resorts to raising and lowering them rapidly like he’s making his eyebrows jump rope. Then he turns to Ferdinand. He doesn’t put his hands on his hips, but if he were anyone else he would have.
“I want a Dominictech heated travel pillow, glasses with UV-blocking lenses, plus this pair of cleats Caspar’s been eyeing lately. Oh, and three extra days off each month.”
“Are you blackmailing me?”
“Of course I am,” Linhardt says. “I’m not an idiot.”
“We have been friends for over twenty years,” Ferdinand says.
“Which is why I’m not asking for a new high-power microscope and the KN-6000 centrifuge.”
“Look, I will just own up to it, this really isn’t necessary—“
“Ae-YEHR!”
That, they all know, is the voice of the man who has arrived to execute Ferdinand on the spot, no trial or defense opportunities given, like a Knight of Seiros from the days of the Inquisition. Their heads snap towards the door.
“Hell of a pronunciation guide,” Linhardt mutters. “I think Intern Two was still getting it wrong yesterday, so that’s really helpful of Hubert, actually.”
“Thea, for the love of Sothis, put your hand down.”
“Is no one going to open the door for him?” Linhardt again, unconcerned.
Dorothea, lowering her arm from a perfect salute: “Maybe if we don’t invite him in, he’ll have to stay outside.”
“Not helpful. He’s perfectly capable of verbally eviscerating me and-slash-or convincing Edelgard to order a reshuffle from outside this room.”
The door opens, much more gently than Ferdinand had expected it to. This, it turns out, is because Hubert himself had not opened the door.
“Intern One,” Dorothea gasps at the sweating, trembling, pale-faced twenty-three year old who quickly releases the doorknob upon seeing her, “you little turncoat.”
“I think the boy has good instincts,” Hubert says with relish as he steps in and closes the door behind him, right in Florian’s face.
“Let his mother go, Hubie.”
“I assure you that I have not—in any way, shape, or form—threatened your precious intern’s person or family members. Ferdinand has been very clear about his displeasure with my conduct towards his staff yesterday.”
This time it’s Linhardt who starts coughing.
Hubert frowns. “Is there something going around in this office?”
“Linhardt is just choking on his own saliva, happens to the best of us,” Ferdinand says quickly. “Can I help you, Hubert?”
Hubert places his phone on Ferdinand’s desk and spins it around so that Ferdinand is seeing the screen the right way up. And in doing so, he forces Ferdinand to look at his elegant hands again as he deftly handles his phone—oh, this is ridiculous. This has gone so far out of hand that it could win gold at the Garreg Mach Annual Javelin Throw Competition.
“Have you seen this?”
Ferdinand doesn’t close his eyes and stick his fingers in his ears, but it’s a close thing. He peers at the text on Hubert’s screen and prepares himself for the most humiliating hour of his life.
“Aegir’s Ex-Amour Speaks Up: Not Surprised By Minister’s Commitment Issues,” Ferdinand says, reading the headline out loud. “What? Oh, Goddess, it’s Ozzie.”
The media isn’t a circus, Ferdinand realizes. It’s a gladiatorial ring. And he’s the one getting fed to a lion.
“Ozzie?” Linhardt has stopped coughing.
“Oswald von Ochs. I dated him for some time. Eight-ish years ago, I think?”
Dorothea snickers and says, “Ha, that trainwreck.”
“The trainwreck talks,” Ferdinand says, holding Hubert’s phone up. “For those who have never had the displeasure, let me tell you: dating Ferdinand von Aegir is like dating a Fódlan Standard op-ed. He won’t commit to any long-term vision, he’ll insult your intelligence by assuming you can’t put together the most basic of facts, and he’ll hide everything that matters in order to please his political masters. I’m not surprised he would cover up a relationship with Guntur Djohan and walk back an engagement,” he quotes. “Oh, that’s great, that’s—I didn’t hide anything from anyone, I just refused to come to some of his parties with the St. Cichol-themed strippers. You all knew I was dating him, didn’t you?”
“Yep,” says Dorothea. Linhardt is nodding. Hubert, too, answers in the affirmative.
“He’s accusing me of using him for sex, what on Earth—you know, for some time there I really thought I loved him, I did. He never said anything about long-term commitment when we were… That’s not important. That was years ago! And, for the record, you all remember that he broke up with me.” Catching the murderous look on Hubert’s face, Ferdinand sighs. “Look, the timing of this is just awful. Hubert, there is no chance you could wait to yell at me and make me deal with this the day after tomorrow, is there? I mean, tomorrow…”
“Cabinet meeting,” Dorothea says.
“Exactly, and I still have to prepare for that. I don’t want to show up empty-handed.”
“Like I said yesterday: you have more important things to worry about.” Hubert takes his phone back. “I’ve appraised you of the situation now, so do not talk to any journalists. None. Or you are all going into the same blender as this Ochs idiot and not coming out until you’ve been so finely puréed that you could pass for store-bought tomato sauce.”
They all trail after him as he walks out of the office. The three of them stand by Dorothea’s desk and watch as Hubert leaves, but not before he takes several seconds to loom ominously over Florian when the poor child bumps into him. They heave a collective sigh of relief when he has exited their shared field of vision.
“Do you think he stays up at night to come up with those?” Linhardt wonders idly, leaning on the doorframe of Ferdinand’s office. “Or is it just some kind of Sothis-given talent, like in the old legends? Like a Crest for imagining strange ways of inflicting bodily harm?”
“He doesn’t know,” Ferdinand says, awed. “About the e-mail.”
“I guess Sister Rachel Arnault hasn’t called anyone else yet in the time it took for him to march over here, although we should expect that to change.”
“So Hubie’s angry for you, not at you.” Dorothea seems to be reading Oswald’s interview on her own phone. “That’s pretty sweet actually, don’t you think? Aw, Ferdie, maybe you do have a shot with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Death-Glarey.”
“Thea, please,” Ferdinand says, avoiding her gaze and tucking his hair behind his ear. He tries not to smile. He fails miserably.
A look of dismay slowly overcomes Linhardt’s face, like a flood rising in a residential district.
“No, don’t tell me,” he says. “This is not happening. You like him. You have feelings for him, of the non-sexual kind. You’re the Minister of Education. You’re supposed to be of sound mind and capable of good judg—”
“Linhardt, you are not going to say anything I haven’t already said to myself the first time I realized the full extent of my predicament.”
Linhardt stares off into the distance, in the general direction of the interns, and sighs. “Get well soon, Ferdinand.”
Yesterday this would have sent Ferdinand into a catastrophic level of panic. Now, it’s really just keeping him at baseline level.
“Do you think we should tell him? Wouldn’t it be better for him to find out from us?”
“Don’t get any ideas, it’s not your name on the line. It’s mine. With my luck and your reputation, people would probably think you were covering for me if you confessed.” He makes a little shooing motion. “Go back to work or whatever. Prepare for the meeting. Let me know if you need any advice, but if you don’t, and I hope you don’t, I’m going to recover from Hubert’s visit with a nice little nap.”
Then his eyes widen as he gazes at some point behind Ferdinand. Turning, Ferdinand sees Caspar walking towards them, looking extremely upset. His usual cheery smile is almost literally upside-down and his eyebrows point towards the bridge of his nose at perfect forty-five-degree angles.
“Linhardt, if you wanted to experiment, you should have talked to me about it first,” he says, loudly enough that even the interns from the floor below theirs must hear. “Also, Hubert? Seriously? I talked to you about Hilda! I can’t believe you’re going with Hubert over Hilda!”
“Crap. Just—just get back to your office, Ferdinand. Caspar, I can explain…”
Dorothea scuttles off back to her desk and puts on her headphones. A wise woman. Ferdinand returns to do the same, and very resolutely does not think about how, if Caspar already knows, then Hubert must have found out by now. There goes years of friendship, he thinks sadly. One more thing for Edelgard to be embarrassed on his behalf about. Sighing heavily to himself, Ferdinand goes to read a dossier on sports funding in inner city schools. At least there’s some hope there.
Ferdinand manages to get a lot of work done before lunch, although he does suffer from the occasional vision of Hubert disdainfully reading out the accursed e-mail with varying levels of disgust and disbelief. At eleven-thirty he receives a text from Edelgard that just reads Could you please have a talk with Linhardt, which makes Ferdinand feel like he’s back in Garreg Mach and she’s just caught him in the act of helping Claude replace Hubert’s toothpaste with craft glue.
He imagines this is what children in horror films feel when they sit in their closets, just waiting for the ghost to come and eat them alive. When the clock hits twelve-fifteen he decides that he cannot live like this anymore and picks up the phone to ring Bernadetta.
“Hello, Bernie,” he greets her, as innocently as he dares.
“Not Bernie,” says the voice on the line.
“Oh! Ah, Byleth. Why are you answering Bernie’s phone?”
“Bernie’s feeling a little overwhelmed this morning. She called for back-up.”
“The First Lady of the Adrestian Republic is receiving Hubert’s calls…?”
“Petra’s helping too,” says Byleth, a little defensively.
In the background, a voice goes, “Yes, I have understood, and I am telling you to be fucking off!”
Ferdinand blinks.
“I see.” Only Bernadetta will have the insight he needs. “May I please talk to Bernie, Professor? I need to consult her on something.”
“Fine. Bernadetta,” Byleth says. “It’s Ferdinand.”
He hears the sound of fabric rustling and the phone being passed around.
“Hi. Hi, Ferdie-werdie.” Bernadetta’s voice is a little breathless.
“Busy morning?”
“Well, um. Hubert’s locked himself in his office and told me I’m not supposed to forward any calls to him unless the Almyran army comes marching in with guns and wyverns.”
That’s it, then. He definitely knows.
“He’s… Dealing with the e-mail, then? The one sent from Linhardt’s account?”
“T-the Ass-tra Declaration?” Splendid. It has a name. Ferdinand starts drafting his resignation letter in his head: Serving as Adrestia’s Minister of Education has been the greatest honor, and I hope the next person on the job manages to keep their thoughts about the Director of Communications to themself, no matter how difficult the task may seem at times… “I don’t think he knows, actually. He hasn’t marched off to your building while muttering Linhardt’s name ominously under his breath, so I think. Um. I really think he’s in the dark about that. But Bernie’s feeling like a beaver holding back a river with her bare tail, Ferdie! Journalists keep calling to ask about Hubert’s butt!”
“Oh, Bernie, I am so, so sorry.”
“T-t-tell Linhardt that Bernie knows his secrets. All of them! And Bernie has a blog.”
“Please don’t air out Linhardt’s dirty laundry on the internet,” Ferdinand says. “Hubert would never take it out on you, but the rest of us are fair game. Also, Linhardt didn’t send that, actually—“
Bernadetta squeals.
“Don’t tell me! Plausible deniability, plausible deniability, plausible deniability…”
“Right. Erm. Thank you, Bernie, have a good lunch. Good day to Byleth and Petra too,” Ferdinand says, and hangs up.
In the terms of that unfortunate horror film metaphor, Ferdinand thinks, he is still safely in the closet. For now.
He walks outside the door and contemplates taking the interns out for a nice lunch before he gets booted out of office. Just outside, Linhardt has moved his chair to Dorothea’s desk and the two of them are currently peering at her monitor.
“Ferdie, Ferdie look, it’s all out!” She beckons at him with one exquisitely-manicured hand. Ferdinand takes a few seconds to stare at the picture of Hubert in riding gear that an intern has printed out and stuck to the wall, next to the horrifying words HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL'S GREAT ASS-TRA? in huge red letters.
“What’s out?” Ferdinand asks, tearing his eyes away from the reminder of his terrible lapse in judgment.
Linhardt says, “Ozzie von Ochs’ sins. Every parking ticket, every time he’s blacked out and vomited all over himself at a party, every off-color joke he’s ever made… Wow, I didn’t know you could do that with vacuum cleaners. Close that page, Dorothea, that photo’s about to give me an eye infection.”
“You have to feel a little sorry for the man. Do you remember that one time, back at Garreg Mach, when Edelgard and Dimitri got into that weird fight—“
“—and Hubert constructed a timeline of every unfortunate haircut Dimitri’s ever had from ages four to twenty-one? With full-color photographs? Wish I could forget.”
“Right,” Dorothea says, “but that was—even for Edelgard, see, he usually just picks one angle and runs with it, but this is just carnage.”
“This is carpet-bombing,” Linhardt whispers. “This is poisoning the water supply with uranium.”
“Rusalka Times even has his rude texts to his grandmother, look!”
“Who sends rude texts to their grandmother? Ferdinand, do you have a type, and is it ‘complete monsters’?”
Ferdinand squints at the screen. “That’s dated after our break-up.”
“Oh, so breaking up with you turns people into bigger monsters, that’s not much better. Please don’t dump Hubert. I don’t think I can deal with the Immaculate One stomping in here to yell at me about media strategy.”
“I shall endeavor not to do that,” says Ferdinand. “Oh! Avery, Florian! Would you like to have lunch? At Willem’s Hall?”
“They have names?” Linhardt asks.
“Of course they have names, Linhardt, don’t be abominable. You two have fun with that. I would like to enjoy some pasta and conversation with the bright young minds of the next generation before this all comes crashing down on us.”
“Linhardt says ‘remember the deal’!” Dorothea yells as Ferdinand, with Avery and Florian walking on either side of him, makes his way to the lifts. “I want a Gautier éclair for my silence!”
Ignoring her, he turns to the interns, who quickly look at their phones in an attempt to seem like they weren't watching him interact with Dorothea and Linhardt. He will have to ask Dorothea to train them to do better than that if they want to survive here. With that noted, he asks, “How are you liking it here so far?”
“It’s, um, it’s alright,” says Avery.
“Mr. Vestra is terrifying,” says Florian.
“Best get used to that,” Ferdinand tells him. “You can’t escape him, as long as Edelgard's in office. You could get yourself transferred to Defense if you want to see some four-star generals come to meetings looking like they’re about to face Seiros’ judgment.”
“W-we like Education, sir,” says Avery. “My friend at Defense says the printers are all jammed over there.”
“Very glad to hear that!” The lift doors open, and Ferdinand ushers them in. “But I have to ask you to please stop printing out pictures of Hubert. There is only so much I can protect you from.”
After lunch and a quick check-in with Bernadetta (“Um, the situation hasn’t changed!”) Ferdinand gets even more work done. He has closed the shutters of his window so he can pretend Anna Valette from Fódlan News Three isn’t sitting right outside with a camera crew. He has downloaded a browser extension to block every mention of Ozzie or Hubert in his searches. He has asked Avery and Florian to take all pictures of Hubert down from the office walls; he is pleased to discover, upon leaving his office to go to the toilet, that they have done so with impressive haste.
Then, at four-thirty, Caspar knocks on his door to disturb his peace.
“Ferdinand, there’s a Ms. Beckendorf for you. From the Teachers’ Association.”
Ferdinand frowns. “I didn’t set up any appointments with… Oh, alright, send her in. It could be important.” Before Caspar goes, he says, “If she turns out to be a journalist, be prepared to sound the fire alarm. I’ll come out and say something stupid about fruits.”
“Got it.”
Beckendorf is a severe-looking woman in red spectacles and a pair of sensible heels. When she comes in, she shakes Ferdinand’s hand firmly, showing him a bland smile. Ferdinand is wary. But he smiles back, gesturing at her to take a seat.
“Well, Ms. Beckendorf, how can I help you? The Teachers’ Association is one of our most important allies here at Education, and Chairwoman Wandtke’s suggestions the other day were most insightful. I cannot wait to bring them to the cabinet meeting tomorrow. Is there something else you’d like me to consider?”
“Actually, Minister, this is not official business.”
“Ah.” Ferdinand prepares to signal Caspar.
“But I’d like to thank you for your help.”
“My… Help?”
“Yes. Despite today’s revelations about the conduct of your advisors,” she says, and Ferdinand has to duck his head in shame, “I feel the need to express my gratitude to you. I am aware that it is probably a cynical ploy to strike back at Oswald von Ochs, but at the same time, you have made such a difference.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Beckendorf, I don’t quite catch your meaning.”
“There is no need to pretend, Minister. I know you must have helped.”
“No, Ms. Beckendorf, I assure you that I have no idea. Truly. How have I helped you?”
Beckendorf peers at him suspiciously. Then, having decided he has passed some test he was unaware she’d been administering, she visibly relaxes in her chair.
“I know it has been some time since you were last in contact with Mr. Ochs,” says Beckendorf, “so you may not be aware that he has gone on to have, ah, several dalliances. And several of these have resulted in children. Three of these dalliances, in fact. One of which was with my sister, who was devastated when Mr. Ochs denied her child support. It turns out that he has refused to pay child support for all three of the children he’s had out of wedlock, citing the unavailability of personal funds.”
“That’s absurd,” says Ferdinand, who knows that Ozzie von Ochs has the equivalent of a small country’s GDP stashed in Srengi banks.
Beckendorf smiles thinly. “Quite. My sister has always feared the press and the costs of a lengthy legal dispute, which was why she decided to keep quiet and raise Marielle herself. With my help. Just a few hours ago, however, attorneys from Nevrand Charon arrived to say they would be willing to take her case and fight for her right to receive child support. When I asked them how they thought we would pay for their services, they said it’s all been taken care of. You understand how this all seems too good to be true.”
“Of course, of course.”
“I looked up the lawyers to make sure they were indeed from the firm, which they were. My sister tracked down Mr. Ochs’ other two past lovers who had his children; they informed her that they received similar offers. I told them not to say anything else to the lawyers before I’d confirmed that this wasn’t some kind of plot by Mr. Ochs to somehow put my sister in an even worse position. I thought it must have come from you, Minister. Three lawsuits at the same time would surely drag his name in the mud, especially when the charge is dodging parental responsibilities. Plays quite well against the commitment issues thing he’s accusing you of, hm? But if it wasn’t you, I must tell my sister to refuse the lawyers. I can’t have this weasel of a man put her through anything else.”
“Wait,” Ferdinand says, “Ms. Beckendorf, wait. Before you say anything to your sister, I must make a call. This is related, I promise you. Is that alright?”
“I’ll wait, Minister.”
Ferdinand rings Bernadetta.
“Director of Communications’ office, how may we be of help?” answers Perra.
“Good afternoon, Petra, may I please talk to Hubert? Yes, I know what he said to Bernadetta about the Almyran army, but this is urgent. And personal.”
“It is your cremation ceremony,” Petra tells him, but she passes him on to Hubert anyway.
“Ferdinand.” Ferdinand takes a deep breath. “What is it? Did Anna Valette crawl through the vents to harass you about Ochs?”
“Erm, no. She is still outside.” He glances at Ms. Badernet then shields his mouth and the receiver with one hand. “Did you hire Nevrand Charon to sue Ozzie for child support, Hubert?”
“Yes.” Hubert answers him like it should be obvious.
“And who’s paying for it? Please tell me it’s not the state. I will have pieces of you pickled and mailed to the taxpayers.”
There is a brief, shocked silence. This day is really getting to Ferdinand.
“I would never do that,” Hubert says, sounding genuinely hurt. “I am paying for it, of course; do you think I’ve spent all these years spending my salary on cannabis and cocaine or whatever it is pop stars sing about in music videos?”
Ferdinand feels like all his blood has turned into champagne. He cannot help but smile.
“Right. Apologies, Hubert, I didn’t mean to accuse you of corruption, I know you would never… It’s just been two very strange days. I don’t know what came over me.”
“It has been quite strange,” Hubert agrees. “It’s fine, Ferdinand. I suppose that means my work is done and I’ll be able to sit back with a good glass of wine while Shamir grinds that attention-seeking maggot into financial oblivion on the six o’clock news.”
“…You sound entirely too thrilled about that. But yes, your work is done. I’ll join you, in fact, once I’m done with the drafts for tomorrow.”
“Excellent. I have a bottle of that Gloucester vintage you’re so fond of.”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful. Thank you, Hubert. Have a good day.”
Ms. Beckendorf clears her throat. Ferdinand hangs up.
“The offer is genuine,” he assures her. “I can, ah, sign some letter if you need to have it for your records, Ms. Beckendorf, should something—“
“No, no,” she says. “Enough of your personal affairs have been the subject of media scrutiny this week, Minister. I would hate to potentially provide them with more ammunition.”
“Oh. Thank you. Well, all the best to your sister and Marielle, Ms. Beckendorf. And good luck with the suit.”
Caspar opens the door for her, with Dorothea standing next to him and faking a conversation on her phone. Once Ms. Beckendorf has left, Ferdinand says, “Caspar, Thea, if you don’t want to be caught eavesdropping, you should pretend not to know when the conversation has ended.”
“Who says we didn’t want to be caught?” Dorothea smiles at him. Ferdinand doesn’t like that glint in her eye. “So our pal Oswald’s getting totaled, then?”
“I should assign you to train kindergarten teachers in the art of juvenile rhyming, Dorothea. Your talents are wasted here.”
“I’d like that. Kindergarten classrooms are probably quieter than this office has been lately. And small children are definitely better than you and Hubie at expressing their affections.” Her phone goes ping. “Petra says Hubie’s coming. ETA thirty seconds.”
Ferdinand balks at her. “Thirty seconds? How often does he make these visits? One would think that much warping would kill a person.”
“I have a theory,” Linhardt says, “that he walks, but he always gets Bernadetta to warn people ten minutes after he’s already left, just so he can maintain the illusion of speed.”
“Well, his legs are very long, so it stands to reason that he walks very quickly, too.”
Dorothea makes a face. “Could you stop being a lovesick puppy for five seconds, Ferdie? I get that you’re having a moment, but the rest of us still have to see it, and we really do not like that.”
“I think it’s nice that Ferdinand’s happy.”
“You’re outvoted, Caspar, by Linhardt and I.”
Then, like a sharply-dressed and worryingly opaque storm cloud, Hubert materializes before them. However, he is not looking at Ferdinand. He is not looking at Caspar, or Dorothea, or Linhardt, or the two interns who have started typing madly at their desks even though Ferdinand has only assigned them light reviews of recent bills.
“What in the name of all seventeen Willems,” he says, pointing at something on the wall behind Linhardt’s desk, “is that?”
Slowly, cursing his luck and apologizing to the Goddess for every one of his sins, Ferdinand turns. There’s a life-sized printout of Hubert on the wall, wearing a subtly pinstriped suit that haunts Ferdinand in the late hours. He’s standing casually on the sidewalk, one lovely hand holding a sleek black umbrella, all his angles highlighted with geometric precision by the late afternoon sun. Ferdinand has missed it entirely thanks to Beckendorf’s revelations taking up all of his attention. Caspar must have put it up while waiting for his fruit-themed signal.
Caspar grins. “Oh, hey, Hubert! Just making use of those massive new printers we got last month. Do you like it? Of course you like it, it’s you! Got it from this funny article—“
“Caspar,” Dorothea hisses, making a slashing motion in front of her throat with her hand.
“—‘Hubert von Vestra, Unlikely Sex Symbol’. Pinned tweet on The Adrestian Watcher’ s profile. Un-like-ly! Ha, need some ice for that burn, Hubert? Our ice machine’s working now, the one in the pantry—“
“Caspar! He doesn’t know!”
“Oh,” says Caspar, the realization dawning. “Oh, shit.”
“He doesn’t know what, Dorothea,” Hubert says dangerously. The rapid-fire click-clicking of the interns’ typing provides a soundtrack entirely in accordance with the hysterical laughter bubbling up in Ferdinand’s chest, and Dorothea actually recites a profanity-laden stanza from one of her favorite poems as Hubert waits, arms crossed, for somebody to explain.
“I suggest you Loogle ‘Vestra’ and ‘St. Cethleann’ on your phone,” she finally tells him. Linhardt drops his head to his desk.
Caspar, getting up and running off in the direction of the toilets: “You’re on your own, Linhardt, sorry!”
The three highest-ranking officials in the Ministry of Education wait, with mortified anticipation, as Hubert taps on his smartphone screen and reads whatever it is he’s found. His barely-there eyebrows climb higher, higher, and higher on his forehead, until it looks like they’re about to achieve some long-awaited reunion with the rest of his hair. The typing sounds continue from the interns’ corner. Ferdinand is starting to think that they should get a choir and organ to set the mood.
Then, in one swift motion, Hubert locks his phone and shoves it in his pocket. He stalks over to Linhardt’s desk, drawn up to his full height, like a very angry sapient obelisk. Dorothea shrinks backwards. The interns have stopped typing, and are now holding each others’ arms as they look on in horror.
Linhardt, however, still hasn’t raised his head from his desk.
“Please spare me the Vestra Torture Mad Libs,” he says, his voice muffled against hard plastic. After a second of silence, he looks up, leans back in his chair, and meets Hubert’s glare head-on. “Yes, the e-mail was sent from my personal account. No, I have not made any further statements to the press, nor have I engaged with any of the related content or discussions. Yes, I will follow your instructions on how to handle it and if I deviate from the plan you can make me dance naked in front of a firing squad before they riddle me with more holes than a piece of Hyrm cheese. Does that cover it?”
“I would like,” Hubert says softly, sending shivers up Ferdinand’s spine, “an explanation, Linhardt.”
“I mean, it’s pretty self-explanatory, isn’t it. But I’m not attracted to you sexually,” Linhardt says. “No offense. I’m sure some people are. Not me, though.”
“Are you attempting to convince me that wanting ‘Vestra up your ass-tra in the fun way’ has absolutely nothing to do with sexual attraction?”
“This line of inquiry is inching dangerously close to harassment, but yes. It’s really just academic. You know that I think research is fun.”
“Academic.”
“Precisely what I said.”
“You have an academic interest in having some unspecified part of my family placed in a very specific part of your body.”
“There are scientific disciplines, you know, dedicated to this stuff. Some zoologists stimulate the animals they’re studying manually to observe how they react to touch. I could send you some papers, if you like, about dolphins and apes. They’re very illuminating.”
Ferdinand wants to hide under Dorothea’s desk, but her grip around his arm is so tight that his hand is going pale from blood loss.
Linhardt, who could stare down Sothis and walk away, continues to speak. “I always found your habits and patterns interesting, back in Garreg Mach. Purely from a behavioral standpoint of course. Now that we’re colleagues, it seems like it would be unprofessional of me to express my curiosity in any context related to our jobs, which was why I used my personal account to send that e-mail to what I thought was Dorothea’s personal address. I am allowed to send personal messages in this country, aren’t I?”
“If I find more information indicating that my sexual activities are the subject of office gossip—”
“Academic inquiry.”
“—no, Linhardt, this is not academic inquiry, and I am telling you that the next time you compare me to an animal and offer to send me papers on the sexual practices of dolphins, I will take your—“
“—it’s not pornography, Hubert, it’s legitimately interesting research—“
Ferdinand cannot bear to listen to this any longer. He clears his throat; both Linhardt and Hubert fall silent. In the background, Dorothea is saying, “Oh, Ferdie, no.”
Yes, Dorothea. Yes.
“Hubert, please do not threaten Linhardt with dismemberment, or disembowelment, or castration,” he says. Linhardt frowns at him, sensing that his new neck pillow and Caspar’s shoes are slipping out of reach. “Linhardt did not send the e-mail. It was me.”
Hubert looks like he’s been bludgeoned with an anvil. The silence that falls over them is almost as awkward as that one time Caspar tried to hit Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd with a ‘your mom’ joke.
Hubert is the one to break it, naturally.
“This is preposterous.”
“But it’s true! Yesterday morning, when Dorothea and I slipped away for a little bit, I meant to send Dorothea a little joke, and I did it via e-mail so the interns wouldn’t hear that vastly inappropriate comment.” Mournfully, Ferdinand glances at Avery and Florian, who are half-rising over their desks and poorly hiding their interest in the conversation. “So, yes, it was me. I’ll apologize, on television, and I’ll draft something for social media, and you can stop yelling at Linhardt.”
“You will not do that,” Hubert says. He turns to Linhardt. “Do you care about the damage done to your reputation by this scandal?”
Linhardt says, “Absolutely not.”
“Take the fall. I cannot have the Minister of Education admit to typing those words on national television—or worse, Twitter. You, however? The press forgets things in five seconds if they’re not attached to some memorable name. Apologize anyway.”
“What!” Ferdinand squawks. “We cannot just lie to the public about this.”
“Oh, grow up, Ferdie, it’s a dumb e-mail,” Dorothea groans, right as both Linhardt and Hubert snap, “Yes, we can.”
Hubert, having fully recovered from his moment of shock, is back in business mode and efficient as ever. Although he does make his way behind Linhardt to tear down the photo on the wall with a frankly unnecessary amount of force. On the way back in front of Linhardt’s desk, he makes sure to trample on the pieces.
“Linhardt, I will e-mail you the apology script and make the necessary media appointments. Do not, and I repeat, do not make any contact with the media without my say-so. This goes for everyone here—yes, to the overgrown zygotes at those temporary desks who are making a piss-poor attempt at pretending not to eavesdrop, you too.”
The interns visibly cower backwards as Hubert pivots in their direction and marches towards them.
“The second I hear anything I haven’t personally authorized about this, I will have you strung up by your undergarments so quickly you’ll think you were born with them fused to your skin.” As he makes to leave, he turns back to the senior officials. He looks straight at Ferdinand. “I will see you in my office at six, Ferdinand. We need to talk.”
Hubert disappears as quickly as he had materialized earlier. The ringing silence he leaves behind is that of a freshly-bombed village, with smoking ruins crumbling into nothing where there were once houses, shedding ash on blackened bodies in the streets.
Then, like a lone survivor gazing up to the sun, Dorothea turns to Ferdinand and asks: “So is he going to fuck, marry, or kill you?”
“All three in quick succession, I think,” Linhardt says. “Don’t look so excited, Ferdinand, it’s unbecoming of your post.”
Dorothea, Ferdinand, and a few of the other people at the office end up watching Linhardt’s apology on Meeting Room Four’s television. The cameras catch him in front of the Ministry building, where he delivers Hubert’s script with the most deadpan tone imaginable, thus ensuring that the internet will prove Hubert wrong and turn Linhardt into a meme. Although, given that Linhardt always seems amused by his illustrious and well-connected parents’ reactions to bad press, he may be doing this on purpose.
“He seems calm,” comments Avery.
Dorothea says, “Of course he’s calm. We’re Garreg Mach alumni. Every single one of us spent four years apologizing to the clergy.”
Ferdinand frowns. “I don’t recall doing a lot of apologizing.”
“That was because you were a total narc back then, Ferdinand,” says Dorothea, who now works as an actual government spokesperson. She pats his hand. “It’s okay, you grew out of it. Late bloomers are still deserving of love.”
At five-thirty, Ferdinand puts on his coat and takes a good, long look at the empty office. The remains of Paper Hubert litter the floor next to Linhardt’s desk. A few pictures of Ferdinand are still up near the interns’ desks, with the interns’ task reminder sticky notes plastered between them. Dorothea has not thrown away her empty éclair box, so Ferdinand does it for her. She has set up a picture of Ozzie in an oversized diaper—from his hazing days—as her screensaver. What a mess.
And, he notes wryly to himself, it is only Tuesday.
Linhardt and Caspar may have gone home, certain that Ferdinand will compensate them for Linhardt’s part in shielding him from public ridicule; Dorothea may have gone home, armed with all the new shows she’s pirated at the office; the interns may have gone home, to go get drinks that will help them forget about the whole Hubert-filled day; but Ferdinand’s Tuesday is not over.
He checks his reflection in Dorothea’s full-sized mirror and fixes his hair. Once he’s satisfied with it and on his way out the building, he does what he should’ve done the moment Linhardt told him about the e-mail: he calls Edelgard’s personal number.
“Hello, Ferdinand,” she says in her usual soothing register. “It’s wonderful to finally hear from you, after spending much of these two days hearing of you.”
“So you know everything, then.”
“About which hot-button issue? Your overnight transformation into a West Dagdan internet sensation? Oswald von Ochs and his three secret children? Or the reason my aides have spent the day whispering heated arguments to each other while waving around pictures of Hubert?”
Ferdinand sighs.
She continues: “The development of the Ochs issue is really quite fascinating. I have seen at least two thinkpieces on Sreng’s status as a tax haven, although I haven’t had the time to read them. If this culminates in actual reforms in Srengi banking, I might have to nominate you for the presidency myself.”
“Please don’t. Not over this, at least.”
“I’m sure I’ll find some other excuse.”
“Oh, Sothis. Edelgard, I didn’t call you to talk about work,” Ferdinand says. “How much has Hubert told you?”
“Hm, he texted me a few hours ago. E-mail actually sent by Ferdinand, please advise,” she quotes.
“And did you? Advise?”
“Just a little bit. Although I hope you’re not seriously thinking that I would tell you anything about our private conversation.” Every year Edelgard grows more effective at making Ferdinand feel like an errant schoolboy. “Besides, he’s my Director of Communications, isn’t he? I simply told him to communicate. He was sparing with the details, anyway, so I couldn't exactly provide any strong recommendations. Perhaps you could tell me the whole story.”
Ferdinand tells her. About Beckendorf, about Hubert storming Education, about his confrontation with Linhardt and his subsequent request to see Ferdinand in his office.
“I see,” says Edelgard, once Ferdinand has stopped talking. “Six p.m. So that is in… Fifteen minutes, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m on my way to the Palace right now.”
“And you are calling me because?”
The words tumble out of Ferdinand in a rush. “I was feeling somewhat optimistic after the initial exchange, but now that I have had time to think about it, I cannot tell whether or not he hates me now, and I would love to receive some assurance from the person who knows him best that I will leave Hubert’s office with my soul still firmly attached to my body.”
“I know he won’t kill you,” Edelgard says.
“How?”
“We’ve never talked about possible replacements, for one. Well, there’s Dorothea, but she doesn’t want the job, and she’s only to inherit it in the event that an enemy of the state or some freak accident ends your life.”
“I’m sure Hubert counts himself as a freak accident,” Ferdinand says darkly.
She laughs.
“Please calm down, Ferdinand. I asked Hubert to keep you alive back in Garreg Mach, and I have never rescinded the order. So you’re perfectly safe.”
Ferdinand has no idea what to do with this frankly rather sinister-sounding bit of information. Then again, he tells himself, Hubert and Edelgard’s relationship has always been unique.
“If you don’t hear from me by eight,” he says, “will you come to my rescue?”
“I’m certain that won’t be necessary. But alright, Ferdinand, if that makes you feel better. Good luck.”
Ferdinand pauses to take this in.
“Good luck? Edelgard, why would I need luck?” No answer. “Edelgard?”
But, as he discovers by looking at his screen, the President has already hung up on him. Besides, Ferdinand has arrived at Enbarr Palace.
“Well then,” he says to himself, squaring his shoulders. It is time to face the music. It can't be that bad, he reasons, if Edelgard is sure that he'll walk away from this encounter with his life.
Over the many, many years they’ve known each other, Hubert has removed Ferdinand’s coat plenty of times, and Ferdinand’s traitor heart has always made it a bigger deal than it really is. This time, however, he finds his feeling of elation entirely warranted. Hubert is noticeably gentler than usual as he pulls the fabric off Ferdinand’s shoulders and then his arms, but he does it with enough pressure that it is impossible for Ferdinand not to track the location of his hands. Ferdinand shivers when Hubert’s pointer and middle fingers brush his wrist.
After hanging up Ferdinand’s coat on the coat rack, Hubert guides him to the chair in front of Hubert’s desk. Ferdinand settles in, still unsure about what he’s in for.
Then, behind him, Hubert leans down, placing his hands on Ferdinand’s shoulders and enveloping Ferdinand in his body heat. He speaks in Ferdinand’s ear.
“Part of my job,” says Hubert, “is preserving the dignity of the government. You have made that very difficult for me today.”
Is it just Ferdinand’s imagination, or do Hubert’s hands linger for a moment on the base of Ferdinand’s neck when he withdraws? The night chill replaces them as Hubert walks to the space between Ferdinand’s chair and the desk. He rests against the desk, crossing his arms. The look on his face could clear an entire neighborhood of pests.
“If I had found out about the e-mail the normal way, I would have thought, not Education. Not where prim and proper Ferdinand is, not him. Imagine how I felt when you told me that the source of the problem,” he says, leaning down menacingly and putting his hands on the arms of Ferdinand’s chair, “was you.”
The scent of cedarwood and musk hits Ferdinand like four shots of mead. He holds Hubert’s gaze, refusing to back down on principle. Also, he hopes looking at his eyes would prevent Hubert from noticing how their proximity is affecting Ferdinand.
“You know what kind of people cannot be trusted with personal communications, Ferdinand? Drunks and toddlers. And you know what is done to drunks and toddlers who misbehave, don’t you?” With every word, Hubert speaks more and more quietly. “We put them," he murmurs, reaching out with two fingers and flicking them downwards as though to close Ferdinand's eyelids, "to sleep.”
Excruciatingly slowly, Hubert straightens up and brings his hands behind his back again. Ferdinand exhales, inhales, and musters a few ounces of indignation—both at Hubert’s conduct and at his own inappropriate reaction.
“Hubert,” he says, matching the whisper-soft volume of Hubert’s voice, “I sincerely apologize for all the trouble I’ve put you through today.” He takes a deep breath. “I realize that I haven’t apologized for the indecorous and offensive nature of the message itself. I am deeply sorry for it, but I think that threatening me like this is not…”
Ferdinand trails off when Hubert ducks his head suddenly. His shoulders start shaking, and he raises one hand to cover his face.
“Are you laughing?”
“You should have seen the look on your face,” Hubert says, as level as ever, having recovered from his little fit. He makes his way behind his desk and sits down on his chair. “Consider guest-starring at one of those Srengi variety shows Bernadetta likes, Ferdinand. You would make an excellent addition.”
Ferdinand sighs with equal parts relief and annoyance.
“Did Edelgard put you up to this?”
Hubert weaves his fingers together, resting his chin on them. “She said that you would believe the displeased-enough-to-kill-you act. But she didn’t push me to try it, if that’s what you’d like to know.”
Ferdinand grumbles, “For a moment there I thought you were going to try to garrotte me.”
Hubert raises an eyebrow. “Try?”
“I would fight you off.”
Smiling, Hubert says, “Of course you would.”
“In all seriousness, I did worry Edelgard was going to announce a reshuffle.”
“She would not fire you for a two-day media feeding frenzy where you didn’t end up being revealed as the absentee parent, tax evader, or lecherous gossip, especially when you’ve done three years’ worth of exemplary work,” says Hubert. “Even though you were responsible for the last one, mind.”
“For the record, I did not come up with the pun,” Ferdinand says defensively.
“I guessed as much. It’s not your style.”
“But I really am sorry. Not in the PR sense, Hubert, but to you. That e-mail was horribly vulgar, and the, ah, public discussions about you today must have made you very uncomfortable.”
Hubert ‘hmm’s.
“When I told Edelgard about it, she reminded me at least fifty percent of this administration believes I take firstborns hostage, commit murder whenever I please, and habitually throw underperforming public servants in some kind of secret prison,” he says, shrugging. “She joked that if people must think of me as dangerous, some of them might as well think of me as desirable as well. Strange as it is to say.”
Ferdinand, who is familiar with this state of mind, just nods.
“Always a silver lining.”
“Not quite. But of course you would see it that way. In any case, perhaps my reaction this afternoon was a little over-the-top.”
“So the message itself, that doesn’t bother you, does it? At all? We can simply move on from that, and act like it never happened?“
“Well, it was just one of those little jokes you share with Dorothea, wasn’t it?” Hubert makes a dismissive gesture with one hand. “You never know with Linhardt. But if it’s you and Dorothea, then she must have started saying something facetiously, which turned into a running joke. Obvious, if one actually knows the both of you.”
Ferdinand wonders whether Hubert is pranking him again.
Hubert asks, “Shall I fetch the Gloucester?”
“What. No. I meant—Hubert, please stay seated.” He leans forward, looking Hubert in the eye. “That just now, that whole act, you didn’t do that because you knew…?”
“I knew what?”
“My position on the matter of the e-mail.”
“Your position? This is not a debate on the Assembly floor, Ferdinand. I assure you, it’s not at all necessary to issue a formal retraction. Let me pour you some of that wine. I think we both deserve to be a little intoxicated after today’s events.”
Ferdinand throws his hands in the air with disbelief. Hubert seems to have a blind spot the size of a horse.
“Oh, this is ridiculous! What I mean is that you could be pouring sparkling grape juice from a daycare refrigerator, Hubert, and I would still feel intoxicated in your company. That is my position on the matter,” Ferdinand declares. Huffing, he sits back in his chair and crosses his arms. “There. I have communicated.”
“Yes,” Hubert says faintly, again with the freshly-bludgeoned look he’d had on his face in Education, “you certainly have.”
The reality of what he just said—and can’t take back—hits him. This is Hubert, who still refuses to call Edelgard anything other than ‘President Hresvelg’ when anyone who wasn’t in their cohort of Black Eagles is present; who has never hugged even Bernadetta outside a private residence; who was once so embarrassed by the idea that Dorothea and Petra planned to throw a surprise birthday for him in the office, he scheduled a full day of meetings outside Enbarr the moment he found out about it. (Edelgard cancelled all of them, and Hubert ended up thanking Dorothea and Petra quietly in a hidden corner of the party.)
“Ah. I see how it is. You were trying to preserve what was left of my dignity by giving me the chance to treat it as a complete joke,” Ferdinand says, laughing sheepishly as he gets up and walks to get his coat, which he decides to put on outside so he can leave the room as soon as possible. “All so we can still salvage our professional relationship and continue to work together. Thank you, Hubert, I’m sorry I ruined your efforts. I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for how you handled the Ozzie business as well, that was wonderful and you are a wonderful man. I hope you have a good night, and please tell Edelgard—“
He stops when he feels fingers grasp his wrist. So that's what it feels like, Ferdinand thinks, to have Hubert hold on to him. How nice.
“Wait. Ferdinand, wait.”
Ferdinand turns to face him. On a day when words have repeatedly failed them, spun them in circles, and turned them into entertainment for the masses, it is only fitting now that it’s the look on Hubert’s face that tells Ferdinand everything he needs to know.
This, too, Ferdinand remembers, is communication: Hubert’s hand coming up to cup his cheek; Hubert’s little inhale when Ferdinand leans up to meet him; the way he pulls Ferdinand closer, gently but firmly, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
He doesn’t realize he has dozed off on Hubert’s office couch, half-dressed, until he’s woken up by the sound of knocking. No bad dreams this time, and when he wakes up, still hazy from satiation, Hubert is actually there, his lap proving a surprisingly comfortable place to rest one’s head. He is playing with Ferdinand’s hair as he reads something on his tablet. What an excellent end to the beginning of his work week.
“Hubert, Ferdinand, are the two of you in there? May I come in?” Edelgard calls out from just outside the door.
They look at each other.
“I asked her to rescue me,” Ferdinand whispers, “and forgot to tell her not to bother.”
“You cannot be serious.”
Ferdinand smiles sheepishly in apology. Hubert frowns down at him. From this angle, it's very endearing.
“We won’t be a minute, Edelgard!” Ferdinand yells as he gets up, punctuated by the sound of Hubert slapping his own forehead. They scramble apart and madly try to gather up the items of clothing scattered on the floor: their shirts, waistcoats, belts—
“Please don’t rush to get decent on my account,” Edelgard says through the door. “I just want your guarantee, Hubert, that the next time I walk into this room, it will be very clean and I won’t have to worry that I’m sitting on traces of Ferdinand. Or you.”
Hubert, rushing next to the door, says, “Understood.”
“Thank you. And congratulations. I’ll see you tomorrow, Hubert. Good night, Ferdinand.”
When the sound of her footsteps fade away, Hubert is already looking in the direction of the pantry door, behind which Ferdinand knows is a fully-stocked supply closet. He wonders if now is his chance to test Dorothea’s coffin theory.
“Well then,” says Hubert, resting one hand at the small of Ferdinand’s back—so casually, so like it belongs there, that Ferdinand might just be going dizzy with joy. “Would you like to help me wipe down everything in this office?”
“Hubert von Vestra.” Ferdinand grins at the little smile Hubert gives him. “You are literally making my dreams come true.”