3. Dramatics

"Can anyone tell me,"Laurent de Rue said, fifteen minutes after the lights went on in the House of Onyx, "why a courtesan from the House of Gold is standing outside in a full mourning veil?"

Sabre, walking through the common area with tea, froze in the doorway. Margritte and Nanette immediately went to the windows, pushing against each other and getting tangled in the violet curtains, and Rose climbed on the couch to look over both of them.

"It's Crystelle the Magnificent," Rose said. Sabre backed a step into the kitchen. "Look, that's the big diamond they always wear. Are their gloves spiked?"

"I wouldn't put it past them," Yves said, from where he was leading a curious country lord up the stairs. "Tell me what it's about when I come down again. Crystelle's a riot."

"They look like they want to start one," Laurent said, going to the window as Sabre put down the tea set on the kitchen counter as quietly as possible. "And they're going to scare away customers looking like they're attending the wedding of a man they probably murdered."

"Oh, they wouldn't. They'd hire someone else to do it."

Sabre slipped out the side door from the kitchen, emerging into a dark, stuffy summer night in Duciel. The rosebushes crowded thick around him as he skirted the side of the building, and he peered around the corner to find that Rose was right—Crystelle was indeed standing under the lamp in front of the House of Onyx, looking mad enough to spit venom.

And it was all Sabre's fault.

He hadn't meant it. He'd been at a party between the house lords and some of the higher-paid courtesans, drinking yet another glass of wine and skirting around the usual questions on whether he planned on "lending his services" to the House of Onyx again. Crystelle the Magnificent, who from rumor on the street had gone by that name since the age of nine, had been carried into the room on a massive silver dinner plate, naked save for a fabric leaf on a golden chain and a headpiece with an enormous pair of deer antlers covered in crystals. They'd gone to Laurent and Absolon, another former courtesan from the House of Gold, and thrown their arms around them both.

"Darlings! You look dreadful. Absolon, my love, my precious, look at your eyes! What has responsibility done to you?" Diamond rings glittered on every finger as Crystelle patted Absolon's cheeks. "And Laurent. Always a delight to see old friends. It's a good thing I'm the only one of us who has aged gracefully, or I'd have to push you down a well."

Laurent had given them the pleasant, empty smile that Sabre took to mean that they hadn't been friendly when Laurent was in the House of Gold, but that was politics in the pleasure district. No one ever admitted to hating each other if they could help it, and their threats were always treated like flirtation.

Then Crystelle had descended on Sabre.

The trouble was, they really were charming. They held themselves with the air of someone on the cusp of some great new discovery, and had gone from speaking quite earnestly to Sabre about his family theater school to grabbing him by the hands and dragging him over to a painting.

"Don't you feel like you can leap into it?" they had asked. "I fucked the painter, you know—for free, but don't tell anyone. I like to think I'm a patron of the arts. He did a scandalous one of me being fucked by satyrs. I met him through a sculptor who used to steal doorknobs, believe it or not. Do you want to know how?"

"I don't think it would be wise to steal a doorknob at a party—" Sabre tried to say, but Crystelle had just called Absolon over, who smiled wryly and admitted he too knew the doorknob trick.

"We always thought you'd marry that sculptor," he'd said, as Crystelle popped the handle to the bathroom free. Crystelle had let out a cry of horror.

"Matrimony? The only bondage I'll allow involves rope and occasionally metal," Crystelle had said, and handed Sabre the doorknob. "There, a gift. I like you, Sabre. How on earth did a man like you end up with a little snake like Laurent?"

"Oh, no," Absolon had said. "Don't, Crys, he'll take it seriously."

"He's my husband," Sabre had said, his bemused smile disappearing. Crystelle had sighed and stepped forward, laying a hand on Sabre's arm.

"Poor thing," they'd said. "Has he even managed to put you under? I could, you know. I don't even need to be a dominant for it to work. Why don't we find a quiet little nook and you can tell me all about how mean old Laurent neglects you, hmm?" They'd glanced toward the stair, head tilted so the antlers in their headpiece quivered.

Sabre had laughed. "No, thank you." He'd stepped aside, and Crystelle had stumbled, banging their headpiece against the door frame. A number of people had turned to look, and Absolon covered his eyes with a hand. "I sincerely doubt you could put me under, but I'm sure you have other qualities that someone else would appreciate. They just don't appeal to me."

He'd been mortified in the way he always was when he had to navigate an awkward conversation in public, but he hadn't thought much about it afterward. Not until now, with Crystelle standing in front of the House of Onyx with a mourning veil that reached past their six-inch-high stilettos.

He tried to disappear around the corner again, but the bushes rattled, and Crystelle turned to glare at him.

"You!"

"Oh!" Sabre grinned nervously. "Oh, hello. I was just going inside."

"I have come with a message," Crystelle said, stomping toward him. The front door opened, and Sabre saw that Rose, Nanette, and Margritte had also opened the window and were half hanging out of it to look. Crystelle whipped out a wooden box and dumped what looked like dust all over the garden gate.

"Why did you just throw dirt in our yard?" Sabre asked.

"It's ash," Crystelle said, "from the bridges you burned."

"Oh, I like that," Margritte said, and Rose hushed her.

"It was all a misunderstanding," Sabre said, "I assure you. And you were the one who insulted my husband."

"Of course I insulted your husband!" Crystelle cried. "I respect him too much not to! But you damaged my reputation. I don't mind rejection, but diminishing my skills in front of my peers, at the most important event this season? I will have justice."

Sabre knew it would be easier just to apologize, but he couldn't stop himself. "Don't try to seduce someone who isn't interested and perhaps your reputation would have remained unscathed."

"I can't look," Nanette said.

Crystelle raised an eyebrow. "I could have been a friend to you, de Rue."

"This is completely unnecessary and I'm honestly lost," Sabre said.

Crystelle tipped their chin up. "I refuse to leave until I am satisfied."

"Fine," Sabre said, and turned to go back into the house through the kitchen.

When he peered back into the living area, only Nanette's feet were in the window, while Rose and Margritte held her up by the waist, and Laurent was pouring himself a glass of wine.

"I can explain," Sabre said.

"Oh, no, Yves just opened the window in a wedding veil," Nanette said, as Crystelle let out a cry of outrage on the street outside.

Laurent drained half of his glass in one go and gave Sabre a dry look. "I hope you can explain, Sabre, because if you really did insult Crystelle the Magnificent, you have no idea what you just unleashed."

* * *

Crystelle the Magnificent had showed up at the House of Gold with no references, no finesse, a loud voice and a fantastic outfit. They'd sailed into the parlor reserved for guests, not courtesans, especially not ones without a house contract, in a blur of silk and smelling like citrus and sugared candy, a look in their eyes that said, if you don't hire me, I will burn this house to the ground.

Then, they'd pretty much said that—out loud, in the interview. And Julien had hired them, which had seemed to a bemused Laurent and a deeply amused Absolon that it was some reaction to Laurent's recent sudden and unexpected eradication of his own house debt. Oh, it was possible for courtesans to pay off their debt, but often, the more popular you were, the harder it became. Laurent had some theories on why that was, and once he and Rose were out of this house, he had some ideas.

Because Laurent also had a plan, and that plan rested entirely on the old House of Clay, a letter from Isiodore de Mortain he'd kept safe in a false bottom drawer in his room, and an inked zero next to his name in the house register–-Laurent de Lune, because Julien was the worst sort of tyrant, the completely unoriginal kind who came up with wildly embarrassing names for his courtesans. He hadn't even gotten to appreciate the zero for all that long, as Julien had only begrudgingly let him look at the entry for about three seconds.

It was a good thing he had only the so-called "Farewell Week" left in his tenure as a courtesan. Laurent didn't think he could maintain the facade of a perfect, submissive whore anymore. The whore part, he didn't mind, but the submissive act was running on fumes. So it was with the air of a courtesan who'd made his debt that Laurent had met Crystelle, and perhaps he hadn't been in quite the right frame of mind to play pretend and act as if life in the House of Gold was one sexy slumber party.

Besides, he'd assumed that they wouldn't be hired. People needed to be vetted, and the process was a lengthy one, as Julien preferred to take in younger apprentices. They didn't take clients until they were of age, of course, but it was both easier to make a courtesan malleable when you had enough time to get them in the right mindset, and the debt would be harder to repay when you had so much tacked on that couldn't be, until the courtesan was of age.

Crystelle wasn't the right age, though Laurent had a feeling they were older than they pretended to be or even looked. They were too much, just in general, for a man who believed that courtesans, like children, should be seen and not heard. Laurent smiled briefly at them with the same false smile he'd perfected over his time in the house, and figured that was the last he'd ever see of Crystelle. Instead, he and the other courtesans watched with ill-concealed shock as they'd simply…moved in.

Laurent, who'd wanted nothing more than to finish out his week and think about his and Rose's future, had found himself with far more free time than the others, given his "Farewell Tour" was only to include clients he himself wished to entertain, and that there were a precious few who he genuinely liked. Crystelle was clearly determined to both make a name for themselves and take the top earner's spot in the house–there was no subtly at all in their attempts to ingratiate themselves. Absolon told Laurent, in a voice torn between amusement, awe, and irritation, that he'd found Crystelle measuring the windows in the top earner's room, breezily informing Absolon that they wanted to have some specialty curtains made, and "by the time they're ready, I'm sure this will be myroom, darling. Don't be put out, just look at me. If you want to move out, though, I'm sure I'll deal with these…interesting…shades you have here."

They'd seemed to take both a personal interest and a maliciously cheerful dislike towards Laurent—or maybe not, it was hard to tell. Crystelle was constantly saying things like, "Oh, Laurent, you're so delightful, if only I could toss you into a moat," or "Oh, Laurent, how do you manage to wake up with your hair like that every morning, hmm? Why, I bet you'd have your hair curled in that fashion if you were smothered with a silk pillow in your sleep!"

Laurent had no idea if Crystelle was insulting or complimenting him, which was very confusing. They were surprisingly kind to Rose, though, so Laurent let the death threats delivered in syrupy promise and silky, vague menace slide. When he'd made his grand announcement the day he'd left, his and Rose's things in a hired carriage out front, Rose in a new traveling gown with a pretty paste jewel brooch, Crystelle had shrieked at him.

"You're becoming a House Lord? Why on earth would someone like you do that? No, I simply will not have it, La Lune!"

"It's Laurent de Rue, now, actually," Laurent said, waving the sealed parchment with his newly-approved lordship etched on the paper and signed by not only Isiodore de Mortain, but the king himself. "Even if I wasn't a lord, I wouldn't be La Lune. It's not a real name, you know."

Crystelle stared at him, and that's when Laurent had seen it—the first hint of whoever they were under the posturing and the dramatics. They had a look he recognized all too well, steely determination and a certain kind of coldness.

"They made you a noble?" Crystelle said, staring. "You?"

"Me," Laurent said, giving them a half-bow. "Laurent de Rue, peer of the realm."

Crystelle's eyebrows went up. "They gave you a lordship and a title that means of the streets? And you're happy about it?"

"I appreciated the irony," Laurent said, "even if it's not quite true. I was on my back on silk sheets most of the time, but there's already a Lady de Soie and she might not appreciate a new member of the family."

As he turned to leave the House of Gold behind him for good, Crystelle grabbed his arm. "You," they said, in a voice that was low, venomous, and yet still clung to that tendril of sweetness like a poison, "are a sellout, and you have to know he won't let you get away with upstaging him."

"I'd like to see him stop me," Laurent said, pulling away. He was finished letting people touch him whom he did not want to do so. Then, he paused. "What makes you think I have any intention of upstaging him? I'm simply taking my sister and living my life." If Crystelle, a newly-arrived courtesan, knew about Laurent's plans for the House of Clay, that might be a problem. But how could they? If Laurent could trust anyone with his secrets, it was Isiodore de Mortain.

Crystelle had leaned in, and in a voice that was nothing like their brittle, cheerful prattle, said softly, "I thought you'd been here long enough to learn you never trust a noble or their gifts, La Lune. A lordship is just another bauble that they don't care about enough to want to keep, which means it isn't priceless, or meaningful, or even sentimental. It's a thing they buy you with, and that's what they've done." They clicked their tongue, much like Julien, earlier in the office. "It's a good thing it doesn't matter a whit to me where you and your hair end up."

He still wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not.

Laurent hadn't seen much of them after that. He'd been too busy with a little sister who needed a tutor and friends her own age who weren't apprentice courtesans, living in an apartment over a flower shop that felt like a palace after years of cramped quarters. Laurent had no memory of where he'd lived before he'd woken up one morning in the House of Gold with years of his life already signed away to Julien, but there was something oddly familiar about the way the light would filter through the window in their small apartment, a tingle at the back of his mind like an itch he couldn't scratch when he washed up their supper dishes at the small sink. He wasn't at all a chef, but all his money had to go to the purchase of the House of Clay, and that meant figuring out ways to feed him and Rose.

As much of a whirlwind as those weeks had been, he always thought of them fondly in the years to come, sitting at the chipped wood table with the colorful flowers from the shop below in a vase in the center, helping Rose with her homework. If nothing else, the tutors at the House of Gold had done their job with her—she was clever and bright, and since she too was now a noble, the official adoption papers being the final gift de Mortain had presented on their last evening together, she would have to speak like one. Other than a tendency toward preferring plays and Katoikos melodramas over schoolbooks, Rose was doing just fine.

He could give her everything he'd wanted when he'd knelt so desperately for Julien that day so many years ago, and if anything, that was the real treasure he'd brought with him from the House of Gold—a family. He had someone who loved him, who played dice with him and cheated and pouted when he called her out on it, who had her own room but still crept in to "tell him a story" when it stormed, to throw her arms around him and hug him when he came home from yet another meeting.

As the House of Onyx slowly came to be, Laurent kept tabs on his old associates. Absolon, he would have dearly loved to hire, but Absolon was clearly the current darling of the Pleasure District, and would likely not give that up for an upstart lordling's new establishment. Besides, Absolon was not the right fit, as lovely as he was and as good at seduction as Laurent knew he could be. But maybe, when the tides made their inevitable turn and someone else was moving into the top earner's rooms, Absolon would come to him, and he was one of the people Laurent wouldn't turn away, even if he had to find him a broom closet instead of a proper room.

Crystelle wasn't exactly popular, but they were a bit of a novelty, which made Laurent angry in a way he couldn't quite express. He'd see them sometimes, out in the market, paying children to hold the back of their voluminous gown so it didn't drag on the street, which Laurent suspected they'd only worn so they could give a few coppers to the children for their work. Once, Laurent and Rose had woken up early on a snowy winter morning to serve stew and warm bread to the citizens of the lower city who were struggling to make ends meet, and he'd spotted someone familiar expertly slicing bread a few tables over.

The way they wielded a knife seemed too perfect, too precise, too familiar to Laurent. It reminded him of the easy, casual familiarity with which Isiodore de Mortain handled a sword. He would probably cut bread like that, too, if he ever did such a thing, being the second-highest ranked noble in the country. While Laurent thought him a better man than most, he still had a hard time imagining Isiodore smiling at small, dirty, hungry children when handing over soup and pretending to pull a copper from behind their ears.

Even with their hair pulled back in a simple low ponytail much like Laurent's own, he knew it was Crystelle the Magnificent. Crystelle had met his gaze across the room and nodded, once, and Laurent had nodded back.

Other than that, any information came from stories told to him by his courtesans, clients, or a deeply amused Absolon at their weekly—then monthly—tea dates. He had no idea if Crystelle ever did displace Absolon as top earner before that title had gone to Gabriel La Nuit. Once, he'd strolled by with Sabre and had seen the salon in the House of Gold had new curtains, and it'd made him smile to remember that story of Crystelle measuring the rods years ago.

And now, Crystelle the Magnificent, courtesan, shit-stirrer, soup-kitchen attendant, gown-carrier-employer and whatever else, was dumping dirt on the steps of his house and shouting at Yves, who was laughing wildly. Laurent finished his wine and immediately poured another one, as he came back from his meandering about past and present courtesans in a dominance battle, both submissives, in fashionable clothing that was still absolutely ridiculous and unnecessary for this situation.

"Please explain to me why—no, no one can explain that—please explain to me –" Laurent found he couldn't actually finish that sentence. "Why is this happening?" If it sounded a bit like a whine, well, there was only one solution, really—more whine, and more wine. "I haven't been on their bad side since the summer lantern festival three years ago."

"Oohh," Margritte said. "I remember that! They left you those darling little people fashioned out of corn stalks."

Laurent stared at her. "Those were intended to represent me."

"And they did, if you think about it," Margritte said, calmly. "The cornsilk is very similar to your hair."

"The figurine had a nail through its neck with a red ribbon meant to simulate blood tied around the end of it," Laurent reminded her.

"I know, because you wouldn't let me keep it and it was so well-made." Margritte gave a bored shrug. "We all get on Crys' bad side occasionally, my lord. Why wouldn't we want to, if this is what we get?"

From outside, as if on cue, Crystelle the Magnificent began to sing, or do something that was supposed to be singing, because it sounded more like musical notes dragged through the mud, wrung out on spikes, beaten like dirty rugs and thrown in a soiled rubbish bin. Crystelle could sing, so they were a deliberate choice, and it was going to cause problems sooner rather than later. They had a party of young nobles coming to the house in an hour, with the majority of the courtesans booked to entertain them. This needed to be solved as quickly as possible, before things escalated into a realm of absurdity better left for one of Rose's plays.

"Sabre, come with me," Laurent said, dominance heavy in his voice, so much so that Sabre winced and gave a slight nod, gaze shifting to the floor. He refilled the wine glass one last time, nearly to the top, and headed toward the stairs. Sabre, seemingly aware he'd angered his dominant, got to all fours to crawl.

It helped, but not enough. Laurent climbed the stairs to their bedroom and Sabre followed, like a submissive being led to some tower prison. Honestly, that might be preferable for a bit, at least until Crystelle took themselves back to the House of Gold.

"I simply told them I wasn't interested," Sabre said, from where he was making his careful, graceful way up the stairs behind Laurent, "and not to insult you. I won't apologize for that, Laurie. You're my husband. No one insults you around me and gets away with it."

Laurent turned his gaze to the ceiling and rolled his eyes. "I'm sure they didn't insult me."

"They called you a snake!"

"Margritte called Yves a snake for convincing a client to commission two of her toys," Laurent said, pushing the door open. "You've lived here long enough, Sabre, you should know that whores don't show affection the same way other people do."

He took a healthy gulp of the wine as Sabre crawled into the bedroom, then shut the door, and instead of doing what he wanted, which was to spank Sabre or string him up on the hooks on the ceiling and go at him with the flogger until they were both in a better mood, he went to his desk and sat down, the wine gently pushed to one side as he reached for his quill. "The thing you need to know about Crys is that, like most whores, they're more than they seem. Let's just say you can trust their offers of friendship, if nothing else."

"If only someone would have seen fit to tell me that before," Sabre said, a little stiffly.

Laurent turned and gave him a look. "Voice restrictions until I'm done with this letter."

Sabre's mouth snapped shut, but he looked annoyed. Good. Laurent snapped his fingers and pointed. "Come here, all fours, so I can at least be comfortable while I write this."

Usually he enjoyed the way Sabre could crawl like a graceful, deadly large cat in times like this. Now, he just wanted him to get there, quickly, to get this over with. There was some kind of commotion going on in the hall—Yves, probably, who was as attracted to drama as a moth was to a flame, and had about as much sense. Laurent was used to that, if nothing else, so he simply stacked his perfectly-shined black leather boots on Sabre's firm back and got to work.

When he was finished, he read over the letter, nodded decisively, and signed it with a flourish. He affixed his personal seal to it, waited for the wax to dry, then removed his boots from Sabre's back. "Here. Take this to Crystelle and stay on voice restrictions. They'll understand if you touch your throat and shake your head. Don't read it. I'll tell you what it says when you get back. No speaking under any circumstances, Sabre de Rue, I don't care whose left hand you are. You're my husband and my submissive and this is how I'm handling it."

Sabre took the letter, looked askance at Laurent, then nodded once and looked down. He looked as if he were going to crawl again, so Laurent said quickly, "You can walk. Get back here before I finish this wine. Oh, and Sabre? Come back with the bottle."

In case he couldn't mitigate the chaos, he could just drink his way through it. Less ideal, but it would get the job done. And if it worked, Sabre might need a glass or two himself, when Laurent explained why he'd just told Crystelle the Magnificent that they'd hire them for an evening's engagement in the de Valois suite in the palace.

Thinking of Crystelle in the palace—he might have to send Sabre back down for more wine.

* * *

Delivering the letter to Crystelle was troublesome enough. Yves was gleefully letting his client debauch him in what probably was supposed to be a wedding dress against his window, which Crystelle had taken as a personal insult given their mourning veil, and Margritte was so engrossed in the resulting drama that she was letting her client fondle her tits in the common area so she could look through the window. That was causing an issue in the stairwell, since several clients were realizing exactly how big Margritte's bosom actually was and were too hypnotized to leave the doorway without bashing into each other.

Crystelle leveled a cold look at Sabre as soon as he came out, and their eyes flashed when he touched his throat.

"Well," they said, snapping the letter out of his hands, "at least someone knows why you're in trouble." They read the letter quickly, lips pressed together in a tight line, then shoved it into the front of their bodice. "Tell your keeper that I accept, but I am not yet satisfied. You may go."

Sabre almost hesitated just out of spite, but he had a feeling that would get back to Laurent. Instead, he turned on his heel and stalked back into the house, where someone must have reminded Margritte that the living room was not for fucking. Only Nanette was left, dressed in a chainmail costume while a lady in a violet gown fanned her face.

"I feel as though we missed something," the lady said, as Sabre headed back up the stairs with the wine bottle.

"Oh, it's always like this," Nanette drawled.

Laurent was still at the desk when Sabre slunk in, looking no less irritated than before, and Sabre got to his knees before he could give the order.

"Kneel at my side, Sabre," Laurent said, and watched as Sabre crawled to his side. He passed Laurent the bottle, but Laurent just set it down on the desk and turned to face Sabre, his expression grim.

"Tomorrow," he said, tipping Sabre's chin up with a finger, "you and I will have Crystelle the Magnificent brought to the de Valois suites in the palace for an official assignation. As it's short notice, it will cost nearly a third more than an hour with them in the House of Gold, which will raise Crystelle's esteem to the court." Sabre opened his mouth to object, and Laurent slipped two fingers over his tongue. Sabre closed his mouth around them, well aware how sullen he looked. "You're still on voice restrictions, I recall."

Laurent started fucking Sabre's mouth with his fingers, pressing down on his tongue and teasing his gag reflex. It was making it hard for Sabre to focus, and he caught himself rocking his hips forward before he snapped back to attention.

Laurent smiled. He withdrew his fingers and wiped them on Sabre's cheek. "One thing you should know about Crystelle is that they don't make offers of sex to the nobility, and they certainly don't offer it for free. If they wanted you alone, it was for another reason. You're Adrien's left hand, Sabre. What reason, do you think, would someone feign interest in another person to get them alone? You may answer."

"To kill them, I suppose," Sabre said, "or to get information. But I don't see why they didn't just say that?—"

"Voice restrictions unless I say otherwise, Sabre. Of course they didn't say why. We'll find that out tomorrow. But Crystelle isn't just a courtesan, and they aren't just their…dramatics, either. If I'm wrong, I will gladly eat my hat, brim and all, and you can hold it against me as long as you like. If you're wrong, you can make up this headache of an evening to me when Crystelle has had their say. Do you agree?"

Sabre nodded.

"Do you believe me?"

Sabre shrugged a shoulder, and Laurent rolled his eyes. "We'll see. And you should prepare yourself for tomorrow. If Crystelle is going to the palace, no doubt they'll insist on making an entrance."

That, at least, was absolutely correct. When Sabre had dragged himself through his duties at the palace and had stiffly followed Laurent into his suites, dressed in his formal clothes with his hands fisted in his lap, a page came running to bang on his door as though a cyclone were whirling through the palace.

"Someone delivered a giant egg to the palace," the page said, breathless and wild-eyed. "Except it was made of like, paper? And it cracked? And this person came out and it was their highness and they recognized me and they wanted me to tell you that they're coming and you should be sorry."

Sabre took a moment to translate the child's excitable babbling. "Their highness?"

"That's what we call them, your grace." The page was grinning. "All the kids in the lower city, I mean. They're always so pretty and they act like a queen anyway, and they, you know, do stuff."

"Stuff like…"

The page shrugged. "They call it holding court. They sit on the fountain and all the grandmas come up and tell them what's been happening since they've been gone, and then next thing you know, someone's fixed the roof that's always leaking or the kids in the Park Street gang have new shoes or—they're here, oh, gosh. Hi!" The page turned away from Sabre altogether and started waving frantically at someone down the hall, and Sabre turned to find Laurent quietly drinking tea in the smuggest manner Sabre had ever seen.

"This doesn't mean anything," Sabre said, and Laurent smiled into his teacup.

"I think I'll enjoy myself immensely when this is done," Laurent said, just as the page swung the door open again.

Crystelle did, to their credit, live up to their name. They were in a cape stitched with bits of mirror and glass, casting spots of light all over the wall and floor at their back, and they wore a semi-transparent bodysuit studded with crystals. Their heels looked like glass, but it was probably an illusion—no one actually walked around in glass shoes—and their hair was also studded with bits of diamond and crystal.

They handed a coin to the page, who blushed and bowed before closing the door. Then they looked imperiously at Sabre.

"Well? Take my cloak and tell me how beautiful I am."

Sabre bit down a sigh and helped unpin Crystelle's mirrored cloak. "You do look nice."

Crystelle narrowed their eyes at Laurent. "I assume his appeal is in his honesty."

"He also cries quite well," Laurent said, and Sabre, despite his irritation, shivered. Laurent knew exactly what it did to Sabre when he started talking about him like he wasn't there. "And he has other skills."

"Mm." Crystelle shook out their hair, which glittered. "Anything else? Stand in the middle of the room, boy, I don't like to strain my neck."

Sabre gave them a sharp look—something about their tone had shifted, and he could see that Laurent had noticed, too. He made his way to the middle of the room, and Crystelle circled him like a panther, brows lowered.

"De Rue. If I asked you to leave the room, would you listen through keyholes like the enterprising little scorpion you are?"

"Oh, assuredly," Laurent said. "Tea?"

"No, thank you." Crystelle kept circling. "When did you start, boy?"

"Start?" It took Sabre a moment to realize Crystelle was talking to him. "I don't understand."

"This." Crystelle moved closer, then stopped. "There, look at your feet. You're bracing for a fight. Someone taught you how to stand so you don't fall. They had to teach you early, if you do it instinctively. Was it your father? A tutor?"

"Mostly Isiodore de Mortain," Sabre said, "but my father taught me the basics of swordplay, if that's what you mean. He said he could never stand up to Isiodore?—"

"I thought your submissive was honest," Crystelle said, and Sabre felt heat pool in his cheeks.

"I spoke the truth. What does any of this have to do with you insulting Laurent at that party?"

Crystelle stopped circling. "Isiodore de Mortain is a swordsman of leisure. He can kill if he must, but he has no reason to do it personally unless he has no other recourse. You can see it in his eyes. No matter how skilled he is, he will never be the best. Now, look at you." They took Sabre's chin in one hand and tilted his head to the side. "How many died by his hand, Laurent?"

Laurent went quiet. The air of Sabre's suites was deathly still.

"Enough," Sabre said. "I killed enough."

"And you've seen death," Crystelle said. Their voice was low, almost gentle. "Your own, on the gallows. The best swordsmen know their death when they see it, Sabre. That's why so few nobles can ever be truly great. They are protected from death, coddled by the wealth they're born into. Your father was an exception."

"You—" Sabre felt like his breath had been knocked out of his lungs. "You knew my father?"

"I also know you," Crystelle said, and Sabre was suddenly twelve again, sitting on a garden bench with his father during one of the endless, deeply boring parties his neighbors threw at the start of spring. Their next door neighbor had hired a pair of swordfighters from the lower city to duel for bets, and when they suggested Arthur de Valois call the points, he'd taken one look at the duelists, bowed, and politely declined. Sabre could just see the flash of swords and a flicker of bodies through the crowd, but he dutifully sat by his father instead, feeling a little let down.

"I don't see why I shouldn't watch," he said.

"It isn't a competition," Arthur said. "And it's hardly fair. Harrison, the older one—he was good in his day, but if he doesn't retire soon, he'll be dead by the end of the season. It's why we're putting a stop to it in council this year."

"A stop to what? Swords?"

"Dueling," Arthur said, "or duels for money. You know, in Queen Solange's time, some nobles had a habit of going into the lower city and throwing money in the street to see a fight break out. This is just the official version, dressed up for a garden party."

There was a shout from the crowd, and Sabre watched as the older duelist, Harrison, was carried out by the winner. Blood was pouring down Harrison's left arm in rivulets, and Arthur let out a disgruntled sound and got up.

"Stay put, Sabre."

Sabre sighed. Arthur walked out through the same side door as the duelists, and Sabre waited a good five seconds before following. He found them in the alley between their houses, with Arthur and the other duelist helping Harrison bind his wounded arm. The other duelist was young, with dark brown hair tied back out of their delicate face, and they didn't look like they'd even broken a sweat.

"Sorry I didn't say hello," Arthur was saying. "They would've wanted an exhibition if they knew."

"Which would work out fine," the other duelist said, "if you didn't forget who you are every time you picked up a goddamn sword."

Arthur smiled at them. "Can't help it. I just don't want a repeat of last time. You'd think I was skewered through the heart the way they carried on when you nicked my sleeve at the Beaucourt ball."

"Yes, well, you're a noble. Your life means something."

"Can you two stop flirting for one fucking second?" Harrison asked, and they laughed.

Sabre pressed himself against the wall and snuck back into the garden. When his father returned, he looked almost bored—just as respectable as any noble father—but Sabre wondered why he would be on such close terms with the kind of people that others hired to stab each other at garden parties.

"Who was the other one?" he finally asked, when he couldn't take it anymore. "The duelist who won?"

Arthur shrugged. "The best swordfighter in Staria, or they are until the next one comes along. Which is why we need to pass this measure fast, eh?"

But they hadn't, in the end. Arthur de Valois had died before the council could vote one way or the other, and the measure disappeared among a slew of others in the wake of his passing, only to be dragged back up by Adrien almost a decade later.

Now, Sabre looked into the eyes of the best swordfighter in Staria, and found himself choked by all the questions he'd never had the chance to ask.

"Perhaps he thought you could be a proper noble if you didn't love the sword as he did," Crystelle said, "if love is the right word. I'm not certain there is a word for what we were, then. But there would be moments when he wasn't a noble at all—and he would talk about you and your sister. I would like to speak to the Sabre who isn't a noble, right now. Would you need a sword in your hand for that to happen, like your father?"

"No," Sabre said, softly.

"Then this is what I need," Crystelle said, and kept Sabre's chin up, meeting his gaze. "The king is renovating houses in the lower city. An honorable venture, but that means he's discovering that several lie empty. I hear that they're considering turning them into gardens, which is a very…noble…idea to have. Gardens are lovely, but there are also at this moment four gangs of children who depend on those empty houses for shelter. Where will they sleep, do you think? In the rosebushes?"

"So you want us to…make orphanages?" Sabre asked.

"Oh, yes, that always works." Crystelle rolled their eyes. "I'll give you the names of a group of people who would be willing to run shelters on neutral grounds, and you will do your magic in council. Is that possible?"

"With Adrien, yes." Sabre frowned. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because a courtesan asking political favors of the prince's best friend will go over swimmingly," Crystelle said, and glanced at Laurent. "Darling, really. He's sweet, but you need to teach him how things work here."

"He's getting there."

"I suppose you can just collar and muzzle him and lead him around like a pretty bauble," Crystelle said, and patted Sabre's cheek. "I'll give you the names. Now…" They shook themself off, and it was as though they were putting on a costume, the person they once were slipping away into their shadow. "You will feed me chocolates, and I will tell you all the rumors I heard about your dear, sweet Laurent when he left the House of Gold."

"Wonderful," Laurent said with what sounded like real amusement, as Crystelle draped themself over a chair. "I can't wait."

* * *

Despite all the dramatics that led up to it, the evening ended up being far more enjoyable than Laurent would have thought at first.

They did indeed lounge about with Sabre—at first bemused, then a bit less so after a few glasses of expensive wine and truly excellent chocolates, feeding them to Crystelle and laughing at their wild stories about life in the House of Gold. Laurent, who rarely talked about his past with anyone who wasn't Sabre, found he could enjoy revisiting some of the stories from his past. Crystelle made up a few wild tales and repeated some that Laurent knew were absolutely fabricated—he'd made them up himself.

Crystelle was every bit the performer during the rest of the evening, but as entertaining and genuinely enjoyable as it was, he couldn't stop thinking about the Crystelle who'd spoken to Sabre about threats and politics. This was, he realized, his life now. People who seemed to be as cut-and-dried as an overdramatic whore turned out to be spies, and come to think of it, was it really that much different than it had been?

When Crystelle left, it was with more than a few priceless baubles from the de Valois suite: some jewelry that Sabre said must have belonged to his mother, a pair of cufflinks that belonged to some distant Valois relation—not his father, Laurent knew those were at home on their dresser. They'd taken a painting that Sabre said wasn't worth anything, but Crytelle found entirely too delightful to leave hanging up in a suite that no one used more than a few days a month. It was a portrait of a man who looked vaguely like former noble-turned-pirate Xavier de Sartre, smiling too widely to be an official portrait, entirely naked save a vase he was holding in a very particular place.

"My father told me that when he left and ran off to Diabolos, he had that painted and sent a copy to my father and Isiodore," Sabre said, smiling a bit. "I asked if he sent one to the king, and apparently, and if you look very closely at the landscape over Emile's hearth, you can see a very, ah, indistinct shape of a naked de Sartre in the background. It was a wedding gift."

He didn't seem to mind parting with the painting, though, and when Crystelle left, they kissed Laurent and Sabre both, full on the mouth, with tongue, and gave a hearty, amused laugh when Laurent asked if they'd like a job. He'd been serious, but Crystelle clucked their tongue and bopped him on the nose the same way Rose did to Duke Pawsington.

"Darling, I can't possibly, but you know I appreciate it. I have reasons for staying at the House of Gold." Crystelle's smile went a little sharp, their voice briefly going back to the strange, controlled coldness of earlier, when they'd been discussing politics with Sabre. "And I might have, let's call it a longstanding engagement with a client who would prefer I stay there and keep an eye on things until a certain change in management is achieved, if you take my meaning. And then, I think I'll retire to the country." They winked.

Laurent smiled. "The offer's open, if you'd like."

"I know that, you underhanded snake, and thank you for knowing that's a compliment," Crystelle said, with a pointed look at Sabre.

Sabre blushed, but Laurent caught a glimpse of a wicked smile as he bowed deeply. "I've learned my lord husband thinks so, and that's enough for me."

Crystelle laughed, and that was that. They went on their way, with a small fortune in slightly out-of-fashion jewelry and a nude painting of a disgraced former noble that was now going to hang in a whorehouse. If there was a better way for this evening to end, Laurent couldn't think of what it could be.

Actually, no. There was definitely a better way for this evening to end, and it involved Sabre on his knees, hands behind his back, crying prettily as he choked on Laurent's cock. Then, Laurent would sprawl wantonly in that nice, big bed and let Sabre fuck him, controlling him until Laurent decided he'd begged enough to be allowed to come.

That would be the perfect end to the evening, and Laurent had a feeling that Sabre would agree.