Chapter Text
Brant had been awake for... well, he wasn't entirely sure how long.
Long enough to watch the grey pre-dawn light filtering through the round window shift to gold. Almost the same shade as Rover's eyes, though without their depth, or the way they shone when she smiled.
Long enough that he'd memorized the pattern of her breathing, the gentle rise and fall, the small catch between exhales.
Instead of getting up – as he'd promised himself he would, as he absolutely should have done – he'd stayed exactly where he was, basking in the feeling of lying next to her.
It was selfish, indulgent, and probably crossed a line that shouldn’t have been, not when she was still technically with someone else. But the moment felt too peaceful to disturb, every sensation far too intoxicating to resist. The trust implicit in how completely she'd relaxed against him. The simple fact that he was wanted, even if this quiet closeness was all she'd ever want from him.
Whatever pain came later, this was worth it.
He felt her stir against him, that subtle shift from deep sleep to gradual consciousness. Her breathing changed first, losing its even rhythm, becoming more aware. Then her body went rigid, a sharp, sudden jolt as realization crashed over her. Where she was. Who she was with. What this might look like to anyone who knew.
Will she pull away? Brant wondered, keeping his own body still despite the tension coiling in his chest. Will she panic? Will she regret this?
He waited, hardly daring to breathe, giving her space to react however she needed to. His heart hammered against his ribs – surely she could feel it, pressed against him like this – but he forced himself to remain motionless.
For a long moment, she stayed frozen, her head still on his chest, her hand tightening its grip on his shirt like she was anchoring herself. He could practically feel her thinking, processing, deciding.
Then, so slowly he might have missed it had he not been paying such careful attention, the tension melted from her body. She shifted closer instead of away, pressing more fully against his side, and released a soft sigh that sounded almost like relief.
Something warm and dangerous bloomed in Brant's chest, spreading through his veins like wine.
He started rubbing small circles on her shoulder with his thumb, unable to help himself, needing to acknowledge this moment somehow, needing her to know he was here, that he too was content, more than content.
She tensed immediately, her head tilting back to look up at him, eyes wide and startled in the morning light. "You're awake?"
"Yeah," Brant said softly, his voice rough from sleep and an emotion he wouldn’t dare name. "Have been for a while. You looked so peaceful, and I… I was comfortable, too, so I..." He shrugged, the movement slightly restricted by her weight against him. "I didn't want to disturb you."
Her expression cycled through several emotions in quick succession, surprise and embarrassment and delight all tangled together. She tucked her head back against his chest, hiding her face from view. "Thank you," she murmured, the words muffled. "For staying. I know you said you'd go to the crew's quarters, but I'm... I'm glad you didn't."
Who wouldn't want to spend all night holding you, Rover? Who wouldn't choose this over common sense?
Brant squeezed her shoulder gently, then let his hand drift up to play with the ends of her hair, like dark silk between his fingers, softer than he'd imagined. "You need to stop thanking me for everything," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "You're making me feel like I’m some kind of saint when really I'm just... I’m quite selfish, you know?"
She laughed softly against him, the sound vibrating through his chest in a way that made his heart skip. "You're not selfish. Yesterday was... it was such a great day. One of the best I've had in a long time."
The admission made that warm feeling in his chest burn brighter, but he fought to keep his response casual, switching to safer conversational ground before he said something foolish, like I want to make sure every day for the rest of your life is as great as yesterday.
"What was your favorite part?" he asked instead. "Meeting the kids? The snowball fight? Watching me get thoroughly defeated by a superior strategist?"
Rover was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was thoughtful, almost shy. "As much as I loved meeting the children, and as fun as the snowball fight was... I think the gondola ride was my favorite part, honestly."
Brant blinked, genuinely surprised. "Really? The boat ride?"
Had I known that, I would've... What? Offered to take her out sooner? That felt too much like a date, too presumptuous when she was still sorting through things.
"Really." She shifted slightly so that she could look up at him again. "I enjoyed our conversations. Talking about writing and stories and art. Nobody..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Nobody talks to me like that. Like my opinions actually matter. Like I have something worthwhile to say about these things."
How many times has he dismissed her thoughts, her insights, made her feel small and insignificant? How many others did the same?
It wasn't right.
I would happily spend the rest of my life listening to you, Rover. Every thought, every opinion, every wild idea.
"You always have worthwhile things to say," Brant said firmly, meaning every word. "About writing, about everything."
She made a small sound – not quite agreement, not quite dismissal – and changed the subject. "What about you? What was your favorite part?"
Brant considered lying, choosing his little magic show for the kids, or their snowball fight… especially the part where Rover had stolen his hat and tossed a wink over her shoulder as she walked away. But that wasn't quite the truth.
"Watching you tell the children your story." The words came out quieter than intended, weighted with a sincerity he couldn't hide. "You had a vision, and you brought it to life for them. They hung on your every word, completely captivated." He paused, making sure she heard this part. "But I also liked how you took elements you'd created for something else, and made them entirely your own."
"You don't think it felt too close to... the other play?" She asked, a hint of worry creeping into her voice. "Too unoriginal? I did change some things, but..."
"I think it was perfect," Brant said without hesitation. "Besides, what's an original idea anyway? One could argue that nothing is truly original; we're all influenced by everything we've ever watched or read or heard before, even unconsciously. What matters is what you do with it, how you transform those influences into something that speaks your truth. And you did that, beautifully."
Her gaze softened. "Have I ever told you you're very wise?"
"Have I ever told you you're brilliant?" he countered, unable to resist.
He watched color bloom in her cheeks, watched her start to formulate some deflection or dismissal…
And a sharp knock echoed through the cabin, shattering the stillness.
"Brant!" Roccia's voice called from the hallway. "Carlotta's here. Says she needs to discuss the Stellaris Festival with you. It’s about your performance piece."
Rover's entire body went rigid against him, her eyes flying wide with panic. "Oh no," she breathed, the words barely audible. "Roccia. Carlotta. Everyone's going to think… they're going to assume…"
"Hey," Brant said gently, catching her chin with his fingers and tilting her face up until their eyes met. "Relax. No one here is going to judge you. They all think you're amazing." He smiled, trying to ease the anxiety radiating off her. "Trust me, you could probably commit a minor crime and they'd help you hide the body."
Though privately, Brant thought with a dark humor he'd never voice aloud, if everyone's already going to assume something happened, isn't this rather a waste of an opportunity?
No.
He released her chin before he could get drawn in by those eyes again, before he did something foolish.
You are not kissing her. You are not doing anything with her. She's confused and heartbroken, and she needs a friend right now, not someone taking advantage.
If he were alone, he'd slap himself for thinking it yet again.
She laughed shakily, some of the tension easing from her shoulders as she shook her head. "If you consider hiding a body a minor crime, I'm beginning to wonder about the real reason you got banned from Huanglong," she teased, a hint of her usual playfulness returning.
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "You're going to bring that up at every opportunity, aren't you?"
"What can I say?" Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "It's rather thrilling, knowing I'm consorting with a wanted criminal."
"I never should've told you that story," Brant muttered, though he couldn't quite suppress his smile.
"But I'm glad you did," she said softly, flashing him one of those brilliant smiles that made his chest ache. "I like knowing things about you. Not just the performer everyone sees on stage, but... the real you."
The sincerity in her voice caught him off guard. He wanted to tell her that he felt the same way, he wanted to know everything about her, every story and scar and secret hope she'd ever harbored. That knowing her felt like the most important thing he'd ever do.
But before he could find the words, she was already pulling away, her reluctance visible in the slow, hesitant way she disentangled herself from his embrace.
"I should get going," she said, her voice carrying genuine regret. "Let you get to your meeting."
Brant nodded, standing up from the bed. "I should see what Carlotta wants. She doesn't usually show up this early unless it's important."
He left her to change, heading to the galley where Carlotta waited with her usual impeccable composure, perfectly put-together even at this ungodly morning hour when most sensible people were still asleep.
They exchanged brief pleasantries as Carlotta settled at the long table, a familiar leather folder open before her, her fingers trailing across pages with the kind of focus that confirmed this wasn't a social call.
He busied himself preparing coffee, focusing on the ritual of it – the rich, dark scent of the grounds; the familiar weight of the pot; the steady drip of water – anything to give himself something to do while his mind caught up with reality.
A few minutes later, Rover emerged from his cabin wearing the same clothes she'd arrived in two days ago, sleep-soft and messy and beautiful.
"Carlotta," Rover said pleasantly, approaching the table with only the slightest hint of nervousness betraying her composure. "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you at Cantarella's party. You looked quite different with the mask."
Carlotta's smile was knowing, amused, utterly unreadable in that way she'd perfected over years of navigating Society politics. "That's rather the point of the masks, isn't it?" She gestured gracefully with one hand. "The fun of becoming someone else for an evening, of shedding expectations." Her gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. "Though I must say, your own disguise was quite effective. I didn't place you until later, when I saw you on Cristoforo's arm."
The casual mention of Cristoforo landed like a stone in still water, rippling outward with uncomfortable implications.
He didn't like the way Carlotta had said it – on Cristoforo's arm – like Rover was an accessory rather than her own person. Didn't like the way Rover suddenly looked small and uncertain.
"Yes, well..." Rover glanced toward Brant, then looked away. "I should be leaving now," she said quickly, already moving toward the door, her earlier ease replaced by something that looked painfully like retreat.
Brant stepped around the counter before she could reach the exit, unable to let her go like this. He pulled her into a hug that definitely lasted several beats too long to be casual or strictly platonic, but it felt right, full of all the things he couldn’t say out loud.
Rover melted into the embrace immediately, her arms coming around his waist, fingers gripping the back of his shirt. He felt her exhale against his chest, and allowed himself one indulgent moment to press his face into her hair, to breathe in that vanilla and lemongrass scent that was becoming achingly familiar, to memorize the exact feeling of her in his arms.
Reluctantly, he released her and stepped back.
"I'll see you around?" he asked, hoping he sounded casual rather than desperate.
"Yes, I should hope so," Rover said, her voice soft, her smile shy. "I'm, um, I'm going to be writing more. At Margherita's, in the evenings, if you ever have time to stop by."
"You can count on it," Brant said, meaning it with every fiber of his being.
He watched her leave, then turned back to Carlotta, who was watching him with an expression that suggested she'd seen entirely too much.
"Well, I knew you'd been distracted lately, and now I understand why."
Brant ignored the comment, focusing instead on pouring coffee for both of them – black for Carlotta, cream and sugar for himself – then settled onto the bench across from her with a resigned sigh.
"What are you playing at here, Brant?" Carlotta spoke again, voice sharper this time. "I told you to be careful around her, that getting involved would only cause trouble."
Brant shrugged, trying to project an indifference he didn't feel, wrapping his hands around his mug. "Maybe some trouble is worth it. They're taking a break, anyway. She said she’s asked him for space."
"Really?" Carlotta's eyebrow arched. "Because that's not what's circulating through the Society. And you'd know that if you’d bothered to attend any of the meetings lately."
"What's being said?" The question came out sharper than Brant intended.
He wasn't typically an angry person; he performed a range of emotions on stage, certainly, but to feel genuine anger? That was rare for him. But over the past few days, he’d felt it flare on Rover’s behalf, numerous times.
"That they had a minor disagreement," Carlotta said with a delicate wave of her hand, the gesture dismissive and telling all at once. "Creative differences, a clash of artistic styles… the usual drama, nothing serious. Certainly nothing that would suggest they've actually separated."
Brant clenched his jaw hard enough to ache. "He's lying. Controlling the narrative so she looks like the unstable one if she dares contradict him publicly. He's probably hoping she'll come crawling back so he can continue exploiting her talents without giving her any credit." He lifted his mug to take a sip, to stop himself from saying more than he should.
But something flickered across Carlotta's expression; understanding, perhaps, or confirmation of a suspicion she already harbored. Nonetheless, she merely sighed, pressing two fingers to her temple as if warding off an impending headache.
"Look, I'm not here to speculate on their relationship troubles or whatever the two of you are choosing to do together." She paused meaningfully. "But this–" she gestured between Brant and the door Rover had just walked through, "–it looks bad, Brant. You might be relatively new to Raguuna and the Society, but your reputation is not. And if word gets around that you're involved with another member's partner, it could cause significant trouble. For your career, for the entire troupe's standing within the Society."
Of course. His reputation. The thing that followed him like a shadow no matter how far he traveled or how much he'd changed.
That reputation had been earned years ago, when he'd been young and foolish and more in love with the idea of being wanted than with any of the numerous women who'd approached him after performances. The novelty had worn off quickly, painfully so, when he'd realized they just wanted to sleep with a handsome young actor so they could say they had, not because they wanted to stay.
Not because they saw him as anything more than a conquest, a story to tell their friends over a glass of wine.
He'd learned that lesson the hard way. And had stopped playing the game entirely.
"Carlotta, you know that was years ago," Brant said, unable to keep the defensive edge from his voice. "And that's not me anymore. I'm not that person." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Besides, Rover and I, we're not doing anything, I swear. She literally just slept here. In my bed, yes, but we didn't… but nothing happened."
The words felt inadequate even as he said them, failing to capture the intimacy of holding her while she slept, the tenderness of waking up beside her.
Carlotta held up one elegant hand, silencing him before he could dig himself deeper with explanations that only made things sound worse. "I don't need the sordid details, Brant. What I need is for you to focus. The Society's membership dues are expensive, exorbitantly so. I'm paying them because I believe in your talent and your potential to create something truly special that Raguuna hasn't seen before. But even my recommendation and financial backing won't save you if word of this gets around." She paused, letting that sink in. "What's more..."
She slid the folder she'd been reviewing across the table, and Brant recognized the pages immediately.
"What you're planning to turn in to the Society for the Stellaris Festival..." Carlotta shook her head. "Look, I know this is your first year as a member, but surely you understand we can't use this. It's from two years ago, and you've already performed it countless times across Rinascita."
"But it's one of our best pieces–" Brant started.
"That's not the point, and you know it." Carlotta's voice was firm, brooking no argument. "Yes, it speaks to the season beautifully. Yes, audiences love it. But we need something fresh. Something new that showcases what makes Brant Tern and the Troupe of Fools special, what justifies your membership in the Society. We simply cannot offer up something old, something audiences have already seen a dozen times.”
Brant winced, knowing she was right. He'd been lazy, coasting on past successes instead of pushing himself creatively.
"I'm giving you one week," Carlotta said, her voice allowing no room for negotiation. "That's cutting it closer than I'd like, admittedly, but at least it's not completely last minute." She paused, taking a deliberate sip of her coffee before adding, almost as an afterthought, "And as far as I know, Cristoforo still hasn't submitted his piece at this point, either."
Brant couldn't help the small, satisfied smile that tugged at his lips. No doubt because he's struggling to finish it on his own, now that he doesn’t have Rover to do the actual work.
The thought was petty, perhaps, but he couldn't bring himself to feel guilty about it. Not when he'd seen firsthand how Cristoforo had diminished her, taken credit for her brilliance while keeping her name hidden.
"At this point, I don't even care if it's an adaptation of a classic fairy tale or fable," Carlotta continued, setting down her mug with a soft thump against the table. "Or if you take an old favorite from your repertoire and update it substantially to fit the Luminaria season. Just give me something I can actually present to the Society judges with genuine pride rather than apologies and explanations."
The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air: Don't embarrass me. Don't make me regret investing in you.
She stood, slipping on her coat, leaving the folder with his rejected play on the table as she headed for the door.
"I believe in you, Brant," she said, pausing. "But belief only goes so far."
"I'll get you something," Brant said, forcing a smile. "Something worthy of the Society."
Carlotta's expression softened marginally. "I know you will. You always do." Then, quieter, but somehow sharper: "I know I can’t tell you what to do with your personal life, but, be on your guard. Remember, she's ultimately Cristoforo's, whether you like it or not."
That anger was back. "She's her own person, Carlotta. She’s not his possession."
"Of course she is," Carlotta agreed smoothly, not at all put off by his tone. "But she's also been a standing member of the Society for years, and his partner for even longer. That's not insignificant." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice carried a warning he couldn't ignore. "It's not outside the realm of possibility that she could be using you for her own gains; revenge, perhaps, or leverage in whatever power struggle they're having."
The words landed like stones in a pond, heavy, sinking, the ripples spreading outward.
No, Rover couldn’t be… she would never…
But before he could formulate a response, she was gone, her footsteps fading up the companionway to the deck.
Moments later, Roccia emerged from wherever she'd been hiding, sliding onto the bench across from him with an expression that suggested she'd heard far too much.
"Didn't go well, did it?" she asked, though it was clear she already knew the answer.
"No," Brant grumbled, dropping his head into his hands, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. "Not particularly."
"Well," Roccia said, amusement dancing in her words despite the situation, "was your night with Rover at least worth the lecture?"
Brant's head snapped up, eyes wide with theatrical horror that was only partly feigned. "Roccia! How can you even think such a thing?"
"Relax, I'm only joking." Roccia rolled her eyes, her affection softening the gesture, taking the edge off the teasing. "I know nothing happened. You're far too much of a gentleman for that, even in situations where you probably shouldn't be."
"And just what's that supposed to mean?" Brant asked, though he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear the answer.
"It means," Roccia said, reaching across the table to pat his shoulder, "that maybe someday you'll let yourself actually pursue what you want instead of martyring yourself on the altar of what you think you deserve." She stood and headed off toward the deck. "Now go work on that festival piece before Carlotta decides we need to set sail and flee yet another city."
The comment landed harder than Brant wanted to admit. He sat there for a moment after she'd gone, staring into his coffee, watching the cream swirl in lazy patterns.
What you want instead of what you think you deserve.
Was that what he was doing, holding himself back because some part of him still believed he didn't deserve someone like Rover, someone who looked at him like he mattered?
Brant pushed the thought away – it was too complicated, too raw to examine properly when he had work to do.
He returned to his cabin, coffee in hand, confronting the desk that sat buried under scattered papers, half-finished scripts, abandoned ideas that had seemed promising at two in the morning but withered under the scrutiny of daylight.
He sighed, sinking into the chair with a weariness that had nothing to do with lack of sleep for once and everything to do with creative exhaustion.
Carlotta was right; he'd been distracted, unfocused, his usual creative energy scattered like leaves in the wind. And it was entirely because he'd been too busy thinking about Rover, pining over her like some lovesick protagonist from one of those romance novels she liked to read, from the very moment they'd met at Cantarella's party.
He was content to run through performance after performance, reenacting pieces he knew by heart. But sitting down to create something new, pulling original material from the ether and shaping it into something meaningful, something new? Every time he tried, he found himself staring off into space, his mind drifting inevitably back to her.
To the way she seemed to unfold a little more each time he saw her – brighter, more vibrant, more authentically herself. How she talked more freely now, revealing the humor and honesty she'd kept hidden, the playful streak that emerged when she felt safe enough to tease him. The competitive fire in her eyes during their snowball fight. The vulnerability when she'd told him about Cristoforo's treatment.
And now, last night, the trust implicit in asking him to stay, in falling asleep against him like she belonged there.
His gaze drifted helplessly to the bed, to the quilts she’d pulled back up and smoothed into place. They were still slightly rumpled, still holding the shape of where they'd lain together. He could almost see her there still, curled on her side with his patched whale clutched to her chest, her breathing deep and peaceful.
Carlotta's parting words resurfaced, unwelcome and insidious, sliding into his thoughts like poison: It's not outside the realm of possibility that she could be using you for her own gains.
It was a ridiculous notion, surely it was. One Carlotta wouldn't have even entertained if she actually knew Rover.
On one hand, he couldn't entirely blame Carlotta for her suspicion. She had history with Cristoforo, understood the darker currents of Society politics, had probably witnessed enough manipulations and power plays to make anyone cynical. It made sense she'd be wary of anyone connected to him.
But on the other hand, what kind of exhausting way was that to live? Assuming the worst of everyone, seeing manipulation in every kindness, letting cynicism diminish every genuine interaction until nothing felt real anymore?
And honestly, if Rover were trying to use him for some calculated purpose, wouldn't she have been more forward about it, or more strategic? Instead, she kept trying to fade into the background, to make herself small and unobtrusive, apologizing for taking up space as if her presence were an imposition rather than a gift.
But when he drew her out of those shadows she habitually hid in – when he asked questions and actually listened, when he made it clear her thoughts mattered – she offered everything so freely. Her perspective, her ideas, her brilliant mind that saw connections and meanings he'd never considered. Her whole self, unguarded and genuine in a way that felt too honest to be manipulation.
Her ideas...
The story she'd told the children. The wealthy man visited by three spirits. It had been beautiful, meaningful, entirely hers in a way the plays bearing Cristoforo's name could never be.
How would she feel if he...
But no. No. That was her story, her creation. He couldn't write it; he'd be no better than Cristoforo.
Focus, he told himself firmly, turning back to the blank page with something approaching desperation. You have one week to write something brilliant. Stop mooning over a woman you can't have and just do your damned job.
But the page remained stubbornly blank, and his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed on golden eyes and that shy smile and the question of whether she'd really meant it when she said their conversations were her favorite part of the day; whether right now, at this very moment, she was sitting in her own apartment thinking about him the way he couldn't stop thinking about her.
The late morning sun was surprisingly warm for the season, turning the snow along the street edges into grey slush that sparkled wetly and would surely freeze again come nightfall. Every home and shop and restaurant was decked in Luminaria decorations – evergreen wreaths thick with pine scent, garlands wrapped with ribbon in silver and crimson. Strings of paper lanterns crisscrossed overhead from streetlamp to streetlamp, waiting to be lit at dusk, and window displays burst with the deep reds and burnished golds and the rich forest greens that spoke of midwinter celebrations.
Rover took the long way back toward her apartment, letting her feet carry her through Ragunna's winding streets while her thoughts drifted helplessly, pleasantly, back to the past two days.
I woke up next to him. The reality of it hit her anew with each remembered detail. In his bed. With his arm around me. With my head on his chest.
Her stomach twisted into complicated knots that were equal parts giddy anticipation and gnawing anxiety.
Cristoforo and I are taking a break, she reminded herself firmly, as if repetition would make it feel more legitimate, less like she was betraying something even though technically she wasn't. And we only slept. We didn't do anything. He didn't try anything at all.
The thought spiraled immediately into more dangerous territory.
Why didn't he try anything? Why hasn't he at least tried to kiss me yet?
There'd been that moment in his cabin the first night, but then he'd left so quickly… Did he not find her attractive? Was he truly just being kind?
But no. The evidence didn't quite support that interpretation, did it? He'd encouraged her to lean against him in the gondola, had carried her to his cabin, had rubbed gentle circles on her shoulder when he realized she was awake instead of immediately extricating himself. Had even admitted he'd been comfortable.
He chose to stay as much as I chose to ask, she realized. He wanted to be there.
And there were other moments too, weren't there? The way he'd played with her hair while they talked, a casual intimacy that had made her heart race even while making her feel more settled, more at peace. How he'd smiled at her when she'd complimented him and immediately turned it back around – Have I ever told you you're brilliant? – like praising her was as natural as breathing.
Something had shifted between them. Maybe it had happened that night in his cabin, or during yesterday's adventures, or perhaps it had been growing all along and had finally reached a point where neither of them, or at least she, could no longer deny. Even knowing it was probably inappropriate, probably complicated everything in ways she hadn't fully thought through.
But she couldn't regret it.
It was then that she realized she might have lied to him that morning. The gondola ride wasn't actually her favorite part of yesterday. Or if it was, it was at least tied with the moment she'd fallen asleep listening to his heartbeat, feeling safe and wanted and like she belonged exactly where she was, more than she'd ever felt in Cristoforo's pristine apartment with its expensive furniture and careful arrangements and his cold distance.
As she walked through one of the more modest shopping districts near the docks, close to where the night market set up each evening, passing families laden with Luminaria purchases and street vendors hawking seasonal treats, suddenly she realized…
I want to get something for Brant.
Something to show him what these last few days had meant to her. What his friendship – if that's what this was, though it felt like so much more – had done for her.
But it couldn't be just anything. It had to be personal. Meaningful in a way that showed she'd been paying attention, that she saw him as clearly as he seemed to see her.
She surveyed the shops, those displaying clothing and souvenirs, common gift items like scented candles and warm winter scarves, but nothing felt right.
Then she spotted it; a small, slightly shabby storefront, its weathered sign reading "Gifts from the Sea" in faded, salt-stained paint that looked like it hadn't been refreshed in a decade.
Inside, the shop was cramped and cluttered in the best possible way, every surface covered with maritime oddities that spoke of distant voyages and strange discoveries. Shells from tropical waters she'd only read about in books, preserved specimens floating in jars of liquid, tarnished navigational instruments whose exact purposes she could only guess at.
The air smelled of salt and age and something vaguely medicinal – preservation fluid, probably – and dust motes danced lazily in the sunlight filtering through grimy windows.
An older man with weather-beaten skin and a grey beard sat behind the counter, poring over a ledger, barely glancing up as the door chime announced her entrance.
Rover browsed slowly, running her fingers over the smooth curves of polished shells and the rough texture of dried coral. She examined bleached bones of uncertain origin and a collection of shark teeth arranged by size. Fascinating, all of it, but nothing that felt quite right for Brant.
That's when she spotted them – a collection of fossils clustered on a back shelf, covered in a thick layer of dust, clearly long forgotten by both proprietor and customer alike.
She remembered the fossils on Brant's shelf in his cabin, arranged with the same loving care some people reserved for expensive porcelain or family heirlooms. She hadn't gotten a chance to ask him about them, about why he collected such things, whether it was their history, the myths and stories associated with their origin, or something else entirely.
She moved closer, crouching down to examine them properly.
Most were simple ammonites, their spiral shells pressed flat into dark stone. But one caught her eye, different from the others, stranger. She picked it up carefully, blowing away accumulated dust to reveal the specimen beneath.
It was small, only slightly larger than her palm, the stone itself a deep grey-blue that reminded her of storm clouds gathering over the harbor. Preserved on its surface was the delicate skeleton of some ancient creature. A long, graceful neck curved into a compact body, and an even longer tail wrapped around itself in an elegant coil, as if the creature had curled up to sleep and simply never woken. It looked almost like a tiny dragon frozen in stone, caught in an eternal moment of rest.
A yellowed tag tied to it with fraying string read in faded, spidery ink: Plesiosaur. Found in the ash-choked waters off the coast of Guixu, Huanglong. Believed locally to be the hatchling of a "sea dragon."
Huanglong. The place Brant couldn't return to.
Rover turned the fossil over in her hands, utterly enchanted. This felt right. This felt like something he'd treasure, not because it was expensive or impressive or from some exclusive shop, but because it was interesting. And because it told a story, multiple stories, really. The story of an ancient creature, the story of the voyage that discovered it, the story of myths about sea dragons. And it came from a place that held significance for him, even if he could never go back.
"How much for this one?" she asked, approaching the counter with the fossil cradled carefully in both hands.
The man roused himself enough to squint at it, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "Ah, one of those fossils? They've been sitting there for years, honestly. Picked 'em up from a merchant who needed quick coin." He waved a dismissive hand. "Tell you what: Do me a favor by taking it off my hands. How about five shell credits? Sound fair to you?"
It was more than she'd hoped to spend, but less than she'd feared. And absolutely worth it to see Brant's face when she gave it to him.
"I'll take it," she said, counting out coins she probably should have saved for rent or groceries or any of the dozen practical things she needed money for.
The man wrapped it carefully in brown paper, then placed the package into a small paper bag and handed it across the counter with a kind smile. "Hope whoever you're giving it to appreciates the oddity. Not everyone does, you know."
"I think he will," Rover said softly, clutching the bag like it contained something far more precious than a bit of ancient stone.
She stepped back out onto the street, the afternoon sun warm on her face despite the lingering winter chill, and turned toward home with renewed purpose.
She was just a block or two from her own narrow street when she nearly collided with someone emerging from a milliner's shop.
"Oh, I'm so–" she started automatically, then froze as recognition hit.
Phrolova stood before her, wrapped in a burgundy coat with fur trim that probably cost more than Rover's entire wardrobe combined. Without her mask, her features were sharper than Rover remembered, calculating eyes lined with kohl, and a smile that never quite reached them.
"Well, well," said Phrolova, her voice carrying that particular tone of condescension disguised as friendliness. "Out doing some Luminaria shopping, are we? How festive."
Phrolova's gaze dropped to the paper bag in Rover's hand, and something knowing flickered across her expression. "Gifts from the Sea? Rather an unusual choice. Nothing in such a place would interest Cristoforo, that's for certain." Her smile widened. "You wouldn't be buying something for a certain captain now, would you? Right after your little argument with Cristo? That's... bold of you."
Instead of the guilt or shame Rover might have felt days ago, she felt only annoyance.
"I don't see how that's any of your business," she said coolly, meeting Phrolova's gaze without flinching or looking away.
Phrolova's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose slightly, as if surprised by the pushback from someone she'd clearly expected to cower. "It is, in a way. Cristoforo's been in one of his moods since your little tiff, and I've had to deal with him personally. You know how he gets when things don't go his way – sullen, distracted, rather uncooperative when it comes to collaborative efforts." She sighed and rolled her eyes. "It's exhausting, frankly."
"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Phrolova. Truly." Rover's tone made it abundantly clear she wasn't sorry at all.
Good. Let someone else deal with Cristoforo's moods for once. Let his precious Society companions see exactly how insufferable he can be when he doesn't get his way.
"He's welcome to apologize to me when he's ready to do so sincerely."
Phrolova tilted her head, her expression shifting to open amusement. "I'm sorry, I thought you just said you were waiting for Cristoforo to apologize to you. I must have misheard."
"No," Rover said firmly. "I don't think you did."
Then she stepped around Phrolova and continued toward home without another word, without waiting for permission to leave, without apologizing for ending a conversation she hadn't wanted to have in the first place.
Her heart pounded against her ribs, hands trembling slightly with residual anger and something that felt startlingly like triumph.
She refused to let Phrolova – or anyone else, for that matter – ruin this day. Not when she had the memory of waking up in Brant's arms playing in her head on repeat.
Upstairs, her apartment greeted her with its familiar silence. The Lottie Lost plushie sat on her bed where she'd left it. Her desk stood empty, its blank surface full of possibility rather than the crushing obligation.
Something about that settled her, soothed the lingering tension from her encounter with Phrolova. This was her space. Her desk, her work, her choice about what to create and when and why and for whom – even if it was for no one but herself.
She lit the fire in the small hearth, coaxing reluctant flames to life with kindling and patience until warmth began spreading through the room, chasing away the accumulated cold. She made herself proper tea, the crushed leaves steeped carefully in water heated to exactly the right temperature, filling the air with a subtle comfort.
Then she settled at her desk with her favorite quill, the one with the slightly crooked nib that had broken in just right and now fit her hand like it had been made for her, and began to write.
The story. The one she'd told the children at Egla Town, the one that had made Brant's eyes light up with genuine interest.
The words flowed easier than they had in months, maybe years. No second-guessing every phrase, no imagining Cristoforo's voice picking apart her word choices, no carefully calibrating everything to sound sophisticated rather than sincere.
Just her story, told her way, for reasons that mattered to her.
Outside her window, Ragunna's streets grew quiet as afternoon shifted into evening, the sky deepening from pale blue to indigo. Lanterns began flickering to life along the waterfront, their warm glow reflected in the harbor's dark water.
Rover stood and carried her tea to the window, looking out over the city that had become home, down toward the docks where she knew Brant's ship was moored.
Was he thinking about her, too? Or had he already moved on to other concerns – Carlotta's demands, his performances, the dozen responsibilities that came with captaining a troupe?
She wondered what it would be like if he were here right now. Would he walk up behind her, wrap his arms around her waist and rest his chin on her shoulder? He seemed like the affectionate type, naturally warm and caring because that's who he was at his core.
"You deserve to be with someone who sees all of you and thinks 'yes, this one, exactly as she is.'"
Someone like you, she thought again, her reflection soft in the darkening window glass. Someone exactly like you, Brant.
She'd told Phrolova that Cristoforo was welcome to apologize, but she hadn't really meant it. Didn't expect or even want an apology because it wouldn't change anything fundamental.
Distance was supposed to make the heart grow fonder, wasn't it? But she didn't miss him. Didn't miss the careful way she had to present herself around him, the constant self-editing, the feeling of walking on eggshells while trying to anticipate his moods.
Instead, these past two days away from him, she'd laughed freely, breathed easier, remembered what it felt like to just be.
Perhaps it was time to properly end things.
And even if Brant wasn't interested in her that way – even if these feelings blooming in her chest were one-sided, and he saw her as nothing more than a friend who needed help – well… still she deserved to be loved for who she was rather than what she could provide.
She returned to her desk, but instead of returning to her story, Rover pulled out a fresh sheet of stationary and an envelope, and began writing a note to Cristoforo.