Chapter Text
The fire had burned low in the hearth, reduced to embers that cast dying shadows across the modest apartment. But Rover barely noticed the growing darkness, nor the cold. Her attention remained fixed on the pages before her – some scattered across her desk, half written; others off to the side, neatly stacked. Still more were crumpled into balls of discarded ideas, littering her desk and falling to the floor around her chair like snow.
Outside her window, thick flakes drifted lazily through the lamplight, dusting the cobblestone streets of Raguuna with white.
The city had transformed into something magical over the past few weeks, preparing for the Stellaris Festival with an enthusiasm that felt almost desperate after the hardships of the previous year. Garlands of evergreen and red berries adorned every doorway. Shop windows glowed with warm lights and festive displays. Even here, in her small loft above the Masked Reverie, Rover had tried to capture some of that spirit.
A small tree stood in the corner, decorated with simple ornaments she'd collected over the years; nothing expensive, yet each one a memory.
A string of mala beads from Sanhua. “To keep you grounded, even when you’re far from home.”
A bright loong scale she’d gathered with Jinhsi in their youth, climbing the mountains of Jinzhou in search of dragons.
Paper snowflakes she’d crafted with Chisa on the floor of their dorm at the Startorch Academy, each one unique in size, shape, and color.
Lights were draped over the mantel, their soft glow reflecting off the few pieces of colored seaglass she'd arranged there.
It wasn't much, but it was hers.
If only she felt the same way about the work in front of her.
How long had she been sitting here? The cold dregs of tea in the cup beside her offered no answers, only a vaguely bitter reminder that she'd forgotten to drink it hours ago. Her back ached from hunching over the desk, her fingers cramped from gripping her quill.
But she couldn't stop, not yet.
This scene, at least, was nearly complete. A scene for Cristoforo's play, though every word had come from her quill, every line of dialogue from her imagination, every theme from somewhere deep inside her ribcage. She'd poured herself into it the way she always did, hoping that maybe this time, it would feel right.
But it didn't.
Cristoforo’s story – about a wealthy aristocrat who, upon finding himself alone during the Luminaria season, hires his servants' families to come celebrate at his grand estate – rang hollow.
And she feared there was no saving it.
Rover read over the latest scene she'd just written.
In seeking to capture the magic of the season, the aristocrat was hosting a grand celebration, surrounded by people paid to be there, laughing at jokes they didn't find funny, admiring decorations they didn't care about…
She'd tried to inject some pathos into it, some moment of realization where the character understood what was missing in his own life…
And she had, despite how forced it felt, despite knowing how much Cristoforo would hate it...
He'd told her, repeatedly, that the play was about the aristocracy maintaining their traditions and standards even in difficult times.
He didn't want change or growth or messy, human emotions. He wanted elegance, refinement, something that would impress the Poet's Society and secure his reputation as Raguuna's premier playwright.
She’d tried to suggest themes of genuine connection, of learning that love couldn't be bought or performed. And he'd dismissed every idea with a wave of his hand and that particular smile he wore when he thought she was being charmingly naive. As she knew he’d dismiss this one.
Rover pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes until she saw stars. Maybe she was being naive. Maybe this was just how the business worked. Cristoforo was the established playwright, after all, the one with connections and credentials and the name that opened doors.
And she was... what? Just a fledgling writer from a school no one in Raguuna cared about, if they’d even heard of it.
She was just the hand that wrote the words he spoke.
A hand that would never be credited.
That has not yet been credited, she reminded herself.
Maybe once the Stellaris Festival was done, once Cristoforo's play had been performed, things could return to normal.
A knock on her door, three sharp raps, pulled her from her thoughts. Rover stood quickly, smoothing her clothes and running her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt to look presentable. When was the last time she'd checked herself in a mirror… had it been this morning, or yesterday?
"Coming!" Rover crossed to the door, painting a bright smile on her face as she opened it.
Cristoforo stood in the hallway, snowflakes melting on the shoulders of his black and red wool coat. He was handsome in that sharp, refined way that had first attracted her to him – strong jaw, bright blond hair swept back into a loose knot over one shoulder, eyes that sparkled like chips of emerald in the light. But right now, those same eyes looked cold as the frost outside.
"Cristo!" She stepped forward to embrace him, arms outstretched. "I'm so glad you're here, I was just finishing–"
He brushed past her and into the apartment, already shrugging out of his coat. "Why is it so cold in here? You should keep the fire higher, Rover. The temperature affects the quality of the ink, you know. If you have time to decorate," he looked around at her decorations, frowning, “you have time to warm this place up properly.”
She let her arms fall to her sides, and closed the door. "How was your day? Did the meeting with the Society go well?"
"It would be going considerably better if it wasn't for those damned street performers." He draped his coat over the back of her reading chair and turned to face her, irritation clear in the set of his shoulders.
Rover blinked, confused. "Street performers?"
"That Troupe of Fools, or whatever ridiculous name they've given themselves." Cristoforo moved to her fireplace, warming his hands over the dying embers, not bothering to add more wood. "Haven't you heard? No, of course not. You never pay attention to politics."
She opened her mouth to protest – to say that she'd been busy, that she'd been working on his play – but the words died in her throat as he continued talking.
"They're the talk of Raguuna this season. Every society gathering, every salon, someone is praising their fresh perspective or their authentic voice." He said the words like they tasted as bitter as the tea on her desk. "The Poet's Society is even considering allowing them to submit a proposal for the Stellaris Festival’s main stage. They could be chosen to headline! Can you believe it? As if the grandest stage in the city should be handed to anyone with a tambourine and a dream." He rolled his eyes.
Rover moved closer, trying to understand his agitation. "I thought you said the Society already favored your play?"
"They did. They do." He sighed, turning to face her fully. "But the headlining performance sets the standard for what constitutes serious theater in Raguuna, it determines the bookings for the entire year. To even consider giving that honor to those... rapscallions..." He shook his head, disgust clear on his face. "The Montellis are sponsoring them, did you know that? Carlotta personally vouched for their artistic merit. But then, Carlotta always did have questionable taste."
Rover bit her tongue. She knew exactly why Cristoforo had such disdain for Carlotta's judgment; the Montelli Executor had turned down his advances not long before he and Rover had started seeing one another, and he'd never quite forgiven her for it. But mentioning that now would only make things worse…
"Perhaps,” Rover ventured, trying for a soothing tone, moving to his side, “Schwarzloch is only doing so to appear progressive, for the sake of public perception.” She laced her fingers through his. “Perhaps there’s no need to worry about the Montellis or who they choose to associate with. After all, Carlotta isn’t a writer, and I've been working so hard on your newest play. I think you're going to love what I've done with the latest scene."
Some of the tension left him, and he lifted his other hand to cup her cheek. "My dedicated muse. What ever would I do without you?"
The touch made her heart flutter despite everything. This was the Cristoforo she'd fallen for, the one who looked at her like she mattered, like she had something worth saying.
She gestured toward her desk. "Come see. I finished the feast of Luminaria scene, adding some moments where you can really see his internal struggle, where he starts to understand his performance isn't filling the void like he thought it would–"
"Rover." Cristoforo's voice was patient, almost indulgent, as he moved past her to examine the pages. "We've discussed this. The play isn't about internal struggle or void-filling or any of that low-brow nonsense. It's about maintaining grace and tradition even in isolation."
"But don't you think the audience might connect more if the character shows some growth? Some realization that–"
"I don't need the character to grow. I need him to be elegant, and enduring." He scanned the pages, his frown deepening. "Some of this dialogue is too... earnest, too seeking. He already has everything, he shouldn't be seeking anything.”
Except he doesn't have everything, Rover wanted to say. He's alone and empty and trying to buy something that can't be bought. That's the whole point.
But arguing with Cristoforo about his vision only led to hours of circular conversations that left her exhausted and doubting herself.
"I can revise it," she said quietly.
"Please do. We’ll want the tone adjusted for when I present it to the Society." He set the pages down, dismissing her work with the casual ease of someone who'd never doubted his right to do so.
Rover forced herself to smile. "I understand."
Cristoforo turned then, his expression softening into something like affection. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box, long and thin. "I brought you something, you know, for being such an inspiration."
Rover's breath caught. He so rarely gave her anything tangible. His time was precious, he always said, and his attention was the greatest gift he could offer. But this...
"Cristoforo, you didn't have to–"
"Open it." He pressed the box into her hands.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in more velvet, lay a delicate necklace. A chain of silver feathers, each one intricately crafted, caught the dying firelight and gleamed.
"Oh," she breathed. "It's beautiful."
"Each feather represents one of my, of our, successes." He lifted the necklace from the box, the feathers chiming softly against each other. "My first play at the Society. The commission from the Grand Marshal of Mingting. The summer performance that ran for six weeks. All of it, captured here."
Rover's heart swelled. She'd written every word of those plays, poured her soul into every character, and finally, all of her hard work was being recognized.
"Turn around," he said softly. "Let me put it on you."
She turned, lifting her hair as he fastened the clasp at the nape of her neck. The feathers settled against her collarbone, cool and smooth. His fingers lingered there, and she felt him lean in to press a kiss just below her ear.
"There," he murmured. "Now you look like you belong to something greater."
Rover turned to face him, one hand coming up to touch the delicate feathers. "Thank you. I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything." His hands settled on her waist, pulling her closer. "Just keep inspiring me the way you do. Keep being my muse. Keep writing the way only you can write."
Heart swelling, she pressed her lips against his. Cristoforo returned the kiss, his hands moving over her with a practiced familiarity as he walked her backward toward her bed.
She reached for his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, but he caught her wrists gently.
"Let me," he said.
She stepped back, watching as he carefully removed his waistcoat, laying it over the back of her reading chair where it wouldn't wrinkle. His shirt followed, each button undone with deliberate care. Even now, even in this moment that should have been about passion and spontaneity, he was meticulous.
Rover tried to not let it bother her. This was just how he was, he was careful with his things, he was mindful of his appearance…
When he turned back to her, she reached for him again, wanting to run her hands along his back, press her lips against his throat, to feel something other than this careful choreography he seemed to always insist that they perform. But he was already pulling her shirt up and over her head in one smooth motion.
The collar caught on the feather necklace, and Rover felt a sharp tug against her throat, the delicate chain biting into her skin for just a moment before it pulled free. She gasped, one hand reaching up.
"Careful," Cristoforo murmured, though his hands were already tugging at her pants. "You don't want to damage it."
The necklace.
Not her.
He guided her back against the mattress, positioning himself above her, and Rover pushed the thought away, reminding herself that he did care for her, and this was proof of that, wasn’t it?
She pulled him into a kiss, and his lips met hers briefly as he pressed inside her quickly, too quickly. Rover bit her lip to stifle a cry at the discomfort, her body not prepared for the sudden intrusion.
"Cristo, wait," she said as he pulled back. "We always skip right to–"
But he was already moving, already finding his rhythm with the same efficient, detached precision he brought to everything.
Rover willed herself to relax, to open up to him. She tried to match his movements, to find some angle that might bring her pleasure, tried to lose herself in the physical sensation the way she used to.
But it was like trying to catch smoke. Every time she thought she felt something, it slipped away.
She ran her hands along his sides, feeling the lean muscle beneath his skin, the warmth of him that should have been comforting.
Her nails scratched lightly at his back, hoping to provoke a groan of satisfaction.
She arched beneath him, changing the angle, trying to pull him deeper, trying to make this into something that resembled intimacy.
Nothing.
Rover closed her eyes and tried to disappear into her own head, the way she always did when things got too uncomfortable. She counted the thrusts, wondering distantly if he would last longer than last time.
Probably not.
When he finished, he barely made a sound – just a quiet exhale and a slight stiffening of his body, a subtle jolt of his hips – before rolling off immediately. The mattress shifted as his weight left her, and Rover felt the cold air of the room rush in to fill the space where his body had been.
He was already reaching for his pocket watch on the bedside table before she'd even caught her breath, frowning slightly before setting the watch back down with a soft click.
"Will you stay?” She asked softly, already knowing the answer. “Just for a little while?"
"I can't. You have work to do." He said, already standing and buttoning his shirt. "The Society wants to see our latest draft by tomorrow evening, so we’ll need that scene revised."
"And its tone adjusted," she said quietly, pulling the thin blanket over herself.
He glanced at her, and she saw the flash of impatience in his eyes before he smoothed it away. "You know what I mean. Your raw material is always excellent, Rover. It just needs a touch more refinement for the audience we're trying to reach."
He finished dressing, checking his reflection in the small mirror by her door. Satisfied, he crossed back to the bed and leaned down to kiss her, a brief press of lips against hers. His fingers found the feather necklace, straightening it as he pulled back.
"Thank you," he said, "for tonight. For the scene, and... for this."
Rover felt her throat tighten. "Will you credit me this time? Surely it’s time for–"
Cristoforo paused in the act of shrugging on his coat. "Of course. I'll make sure you're mentioned in the program notes."
"The program notes," she repeated. Not as author, not even as co-author. Just… a mention, somewhere in the fine print that no one ever read.
"It's the best I can do," he said, and his tone suggested he thought he was being generous. "You understand how the Society is about credentials. They need to see established names. But, I promise, the people who matter will know about your contributions. In fact,” he paused, and she could see the gears turning in his head, “how would you like to accompany me tomorrow evening?"
She should’ve been excited, thrilled, even, to attend a Society meeting. Instead she simply felt tired.
She wanted to ask why, when her name wasn't good enough, when her work was only valuable when published under his.
“I’d love to,” she said instead, forcing a smile she didn’t feel.
“Perfect, I’ll pick you up around 8,” he said, straightening his coat. “And do at least try to appear elegant, my dear.”
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut softly behind him, his footsteps fading down the stairs.
The apartment suddenly felt colder, emptier, despite the festive decorations she'd hung with such hope.
Rover rolled onto her side, facing the dying fire, her desk, the snowfall through the window… and tried to ignore the ache in her chest.
Somewhere out there, people were celebrating together, laughing. And she was here, alone.
She closed her eyes, but sleep did not come. Instead, she lay there in the darkness, her hand absently drifting to the silver necklace, feeling its cool weight against her skin, wondering – not for the first time – what exactly she was doing with her life.
The fire burned down to ash, the snow kept falling, and somewhere in the distance, she swore she could hear music, lively and joyful.
Nothing like the refined compositions Cristoforo preferred. But the kind of music that sounded like it came from people who actually meant it.
She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, and tried to sleep.