“So, I guess dueling is still a thing in this country,” Lucia said with an edge of sarcasm, the violet glow of the lesser moon casting her thoughts in sharp relief.
Talia was asleep in the carriage opposite her ‘wife,’ so Lucia was just thinking out loud. In the first fifteen minutes of the carriage ride from the Royce estate, Talia had collapsed into subconsciousness, leaving Lucia alone with her thoughts. So.
Lindell.
Bishop Inquisitor Henry Lindell, of the Cavaline Diocese. The very man who had taken the life of the Duke’s father, alongside his two co-conspirators. Lucia saw his unnaturally calm face in her mind’s eye.
Yeah, she could take him.
They had one week before the duel. As worked out with the Deacon Erasmus and his nominated second, Lindell himself, the duel will be held in eight days’ time on the ground of the Fallmire Estate. Lovely.
Soon enough, the carriage arrived at Fallmire house, and both Lucia and Talia were led inside by Talia’s manservant, both of them exhausted.
***
Lucia awoke to the pleasant sound of birdsong. The sun, seen through slitted, blurry vision, found itself barely held back from the room by scrumptious velvet curtains, though sunlight yet managed to crawl out along the walls. The demon, remembering what had passed the day before, wasn’t ready to meet the day. She yawned, turned over, adjusted the covers over her head, and fell asleep again.
She was awakened again by movement in her chamber. Stretching and adjusting the bedsheets over herself, she peeked out through her still-new eyes. They rapidly adjusted to the level of light in the room. The instinct to claw out every source of light after a long bedrest seemed to come ready-formed in her body.
“You’re up early,” she said to the still-indistinct shape of Talia, who had set something down on the endtable beside her bed.
“’Tis the habit of the Duke,” came a masculine, very-not-Talia voice. Richmond.
There was a moment of panic, a shifting of sheets towards a much more modest arrangement (as Lucia slept in the nude), and then another peeking out through hastily-positioned bedcovers.
Richmond had stepped away to preserve her modesty. At Lucia’s look, he bowed and said, “I apologize for disturbing you. The Duke has placed me at your disposal for the day. Would you care to break your fast?”
“Richmond?” Lucia’s brain was still catching up with her hammering heart.
“I apologize, as I have not formally introduced myself. I am indeed Richmond Dike, at your service. I am the Duke’s chauffeur and occasional steward of her Estate, when it pleases her.” The man’s emotions positively hummed within his frame, now that Lucia cared to look: a proper attitude of service settled like a light dusting of snow over a core of pure loyalty. Looking further into the man’s emotional core, that loyalty ran deeper than mere social duty. Interesting.
“Thank you. Can I, um.” Lucia gestured her arm from out of the pillows.
“Of course. The Duke has instructed me to present you with a set of traveling clothes, which she indicated should be more acceptable than last night’s evening wear. I also have a selection of casual wear which may be more convenient to wear about the house; though, of course, I expect today’s itinerary to include procurement of—ah, again, apologies,” He bowed and made for the door, cutting himself off. “I shall bore you with the details after you are able to make yourself more presentable.”
Talia’s faithful servant, Lucia thought after her chamber door clicked shut. And only servant. Who is this man?
She slipped from her pillow fortifications and wondered how much the man knew of Talia’s plans—and whether he approved of dueling. Pulling open the armoire, she saw the clothing Richmond had put there while she was sleeping. There was a decent traveling dress, though the colors were rather drab. The rest weren’t worth her attention. She almost regretted having to give back the clothing provided her by the Royces yesterday.
Almost.
She pulled on the light casual clothing laid out on the dresser, and recalled just how muggy the early spring days were here in the Pallian isles. The isles never received the snow of Revain or Eldam, which she thought was unfortunate … purely for aesthetic reasons. But, on the other hand, it made the country’s typical dress more comfortable and more naturally revealing. And both of those facts suited her—heh—just fine.
She tentatively pulled open the door, noting the squeak of the wooden hinge. Richmond waited just outside and snapped to attention when she waved him in.
Richmond set out a half-decent breakfast, and then placed a small, delicately carved wooden box upon the endtable beside it as she dug in. She looked at the small box as she ate, curious. Richmond sat in the desk chair, his fingers steepled in his lap as he watched her finish.
Lucia considered him again. He exuded the patience of a military man. Maybe that’s where he had met the Duke of House Fallmire before her … how should she say it, in noble-speak? Her elevation.
“At ease,” she said, testing the waters, and the man did relax a fraction. She grinned in satisfaction. “You were saying earlier?”
The succubus sensed a small worm of suspicion rising in him, which was fair enough. She wasn’t sure if he knew she was an actual demon, but a strange woman showing up overnight as the new consort to the Duke would raise anyone’s eyebrow. She should really check with Talia regarding him.
“I’ve been instructed to chauffeur you into the town of Foxbridge today, where you should find all you need to outfit your wardrobe with the town’s tailor. We have sent word ahead and you are expected, though the schedule is at your convenience, of course. Should you require anything else, the town should have everything you need.”
“We shall see,” Lucia said, standing and stretching, feeling out the fit of her clothing. She looked down at the box Richmond had set next to the breakfast tray.
“Ah, this,” said Richmond as he popped open the lid of the box. Inside she saw the sliver gleam of a heavy ring.
“The signet of the Lady Fallmire,” he explained, gesturing for her to take it. “We had them minted shortly before your summon—eh, your arrival, but there wasn’t a good time to present it,” he added as Lucia took it in her hand, weighing it and examining the reversed insignia engraved on it. A stylized F surrounded by thorns. Subtle.
And she didn’t fail to catch his verbal misstep. So, Richmond did know who she was. Talia had trusted him with that information, which told her a great deal.
“Very good,” Lucia said, her promised authority in this House settling on her. “You have the skill to take down dictation, right?”
“Of course, though I apologize if I cannot measure up to professional standards of speed. I was never formally trained.”
“Oh, you’ll do. Now, let me see to my toilette and we’ll hit the town. We have a Noble House to raise.”
***
The ride out from the Fallmire estate was uneventful, doing little to keep Lucia’s mind off the duel, even with Richmond’s commentary. Three days had passed in her current contract, and her summoner was already courting violence. That was a worrying sign.
Foxbridge, when they arrived an hour later, distracted her more. “Rustic” and “quaint” were words that came to mind—not that Lucia would willingly use them. “Small” and “dismal” would come to her lips more quickly, though it was an improvement over the country surrounding the estate. The various buildings looked lived in, which Lucia realized was something missing from Fallmire. Duke or not, Talia was a ghost in that house.
The stone bridge into town looked nice. Rustic and quaint.
They stopped in front of one of the many small buildings clustered around the main—and from what Lucia could see, only—street through town. She let Richmond open the door for her, before the manservant returned to the carriage.
A small chime rang out, and she heard a scramble from the back. Then, barely three seconds inside the shop, an explosion of motion fired from the back room.
“Oh, my Lady, come in, come in! Sit down here. Oh! I didn’t expect you for another hour at least, dead gods damn that messenger boy. He’s never on time. Oh! Let me take that from you, would you like a glass of tea? Of course you would, black or green for you?” By the time the breathless, doting woman had calmed her whirlwind around Lucia, the demon was seated in the center of what she could now, with the benefit of stillness after the storm, see was a cozy room bursting with color. Clothing and bolts of cloth filled out every space and corner.
“Black tea?” the succubus said uncertainly, and the tempest bustled away, but she was back before Lucia could take a breath. The woman rammed a saucer and teacup into the demon’s hands. She’d set up a small tray beside her seat with a tiny bowl of cream and a saucer with sugar cubes. Lucia carefully took a cube of sugar and dropped it in the tea; it smelled delicious.
She took another look around the shop, and at the woman she assumed was its owner. The tempest simpered over her newest charge. “I’m Madame Florence, at your service, my Lady Fallmire. Or would you prefer I use your given name?”
“Uh, yeah. Lucia is fine.” The tea was expertly prepared; it almost made Lucia relax. She continued her inspection of the woman and noticed the shop’s explosion of color had also caught her in its expertly tailored blast. An airy, many-hued dress of several translucent layers in bright spring colors danced above a thrumming body filled with anxiety and excitement.
“Lucia then! Oh, but this must be so exciting for you! You came in with the Duke only last night, of course; how is the capital this time of year? You sailed in from Ennia, did you not? Oh, I’ve heard so many stories of Eldam, the crystal spires, the festivals of light … is it true the port freezes over and they have to put steel prows on their ships? My Marten, why, they told me—”
“I, uh, don’t really want to talk about my home,” Lucia managed to cut in. She weaved a tragic edge into her voice.
The woman was silent for a moment, eyes downcast as she expertly read the implication. “My deepest apologies, my Lady.”
“Don’t worry abo—I mean, think nothing of it.” Lucia took another long draught of her tea. She leaned into her anxieties over the duel as she spoke. “It’s no matter, I just want to keep looking forward, you understand?”
“Of course,” Florence said, as if Lucia had revealed a deep, hidden wisdom. “But you hear so many stories … and the Duke has her own set of rumors to her name; but of course, you don’t want to get into it, that is perfectly all right.”
“What do you know about the Duke?” said Lucia, suddenly interested in what she would hear. Salacious tales of high adventure, no doubt?
“Oh, you must know her far better than I—”
“You, uh, misappresta—no, misapprehend me. I want to know what rumors speak of my wife, of course; the first step to stamp out the many lies that spread themselves, uh, abroad, is to find them out.”
Within this woman Florence, a sudden hesitation spun out. Almost instinctively, Lucia siphoned that emotion away. The woman’s frame relaxed instantly. “It’s alright,” the demon said, eyes gleaming. “I won’t hold any of it against you.”
“Of course … of course. Well, they say she was a pirate, don’t they?” (Lucia choked on her tea.) “She sailed under the most cruel of Pirate masters before she became a Duke and all, and rose in the ranks to rival the dreaded Captain Fallmire. I know she killed the wicked captain and became a privateer of the commonwealth, but of course they say she didn’t do it for money, or even for the prestige of a Duchy from Parliament. No,” and now the woman Florence leaned in closer, the satisfaction of deep gossip on her face. “They say it was for vengeance.”
“Do they, now?” Lucia couldn’t keep the smile from her own face.
“Oh yes, oh yes, and I got this from old Barlam who runs the post down the street, of course. He gets his stories direct from Hawthorpeshire of course, the local Times office, but they say the dread Captain Fallmire killed the Duke’s lover.”
“Mmm,” Lucia said, drinking in the rumor. If even a fifth of this was true, the succubus had married well indeed.
“Oh, yes. The Duke joined Fallmire’s crew when they rescued her from being marooned on the island of Lost Souls—”
“Of what?” Lucia said.
“Oh, the legendary isle itself,” said Florence, hands sweeping out for effect as if she could conjure the island here and now. “Right, well anyways she joins up the crew, and Fallmire falls for the Duke right then and there. The Duke refused to join the captain in her bed, of course. She was loyal, heart like ice.”
Lucia said nothing, remaining in imperelous—no, impervious … Damn it. Imperious silence. Okay, her smile broke out for a fraction of a second, but still. The woman was an excellent distraction from her current anxieties.
“And so, the Duke rose the ranks of her crew. Then, something like a year later, she shoots the Captain herself in the back and burns the entire ship to the ground. And she took the name Fallmire for herself; it caused quite a stir in Parliament during the induction ceremony, even the papers say so. But you were there for that, weren’t you?” Florence finished.
Lucia nodded. “Indeed, you heard correctly,” pointedly not confirming which rumors were true.
“Oh, there are so many stories about why she took the name, but even Barlam said he doesn’t know for sure, though—”
“I think I know,” said Lucia quietly, spinning out her own version of the tale in her mind. Florence adjusted her seat beside Lucia, her eyes fixed on her.
“The Duke was the Parliament’s woman from the start,” Lucia said slowly. “Sent as a spy, you know? Only, don’t spread this around, we keep it secret for her own protection you see,” though Lucia counted on the woman to do just the opposite. “She was an honest woman, and she promised the Captain she would always uphold and defend the Fallmire name until the ending of the world. You know, to get into her pants, pillow talk, that sort of thing. She did some seduction of her own. But my wife, the Duke, she never breaks her oath, even one as small as that.”
It was the best she could do at the moment, but Lucia was still proud of her own dramatic flair. It would help soften the blow once news of the duel leaked out, as the succubus knew they certainly would.
“Oho, oho!” The woman couldn’t keep the excitement from her face. “Oh, but your secrets are safe with me, my dear. But to be such a woman … you are a lucky wife.”
“I count my blessings every morning,” Lucia said, waggling her eyebrows a bit—causing the tailor’s own to widen. Luckily it was only at this moment Richmond decided to enter the shop. He leaned beside the doorframe.
Madame Florence spluttered. “Oh, yes, right, ah, good. Mm. But oh, my apologies my Lady, you aren’t here to trade gossip—”
“No apologies are needed, my good woman.”
“Oh, but let me get your measurements and we’ll proceed. I know you need a full wardrobe, so we’ll see what we have in the shop and within a week I’ll have some more clothing ordered direct from the Black Harbor that I’ll be able to tailor to you in preparation for the spring season.”
“Sounds perfect.”
The tempest named Florence, calmed for a moment by the sacred exchange of gossip, resumed her circular torrent. Lucia found herself measured every which way, with a storm of questions about her personal preferences answered each in their turn. Then, Florence began grabbing a number of dresses, slips, outdoor wear, riding wear, and several more classes of -wear; each was slipped onto Lucia, was deemed imperfect in some way, and was piled around her seat according to some eldritch organization scheme.
Time flew.
It wasn’t until the piles had been officially sorted into “yours to take” and “mine to fix”, and the tempest named Florence had called in her partner for the dreaded accounting, that Lucia began to consider Florence in a new light.
“Actually,” she said, as Richmond had begun to count out silver on the counter. “Hold that for now.” Florence’s partner, who had introduced themself simply as Marten, blinked in mild affront. “Could you bring me parchment, quill, ink and sealing wax?” she asked Marten.
“Of course,” they said, shooting a quizzical look Florence’s way.
“My good woman,” she turned to Florence who looked up a bit uncertain. Lucia decided not to stir any particular emotions in her—yet. She placed her hand on Florence’s wrist. “My Duke has had … oh, just a terrible time putting together her noble household, and it has fallen to me to put everything in order. I was wondering if you and your shop could be put on retainer as the official clothiers of House Fallmire—with all the benefits that would entail.” She saw Marten return with everything she asked for, and she nodded for them to pass the parchment, pen, and ink to Richmond.
Her servant in turn hurried to take down her dictation—though putting it into more official terms, no doubt. “We’d receive from you everything a noble house would need for clothing each season, with tailoring services as needed. And for that service, we would be able to provide a yearly stipend of . . .” she drew out the reveal, looking to Richmond as she almost heard a drumroll in her mind. “Would one thousand per annum be suitable? I am not as experienced in the coin of this country.”
“One thousand would be appropriate, I think,” Richmond ventured. “Guaranteed direct from the Commonwealth Banking Trust, yes?”
Lucia nodded, and Richmond scribbled another line on the parchment. Marten and Florence both had gasped at the number. Lucia went on, all official sounding, “One Thousand Pounds Gulden, plus any additional expenses above expected cost … something like that.”
“My Lady, how could I ever—” Florence sighed.
“You know your craft, Madame,” said Lucia. “Finding you is an unexpected windfall for me and my House. You will find yourself busy, though certainly not beyond your ability, from what I’ve seen this morning.”
“But a thousand—”
“Is that not enough?” She raised an eyebrow at Richmond and held back a delighted laugh.
“Oh, it is more than enough, why, we haven’t—”
It was Marten who stepped in and cut their partner short. “It will be acceptable,” they said quickly.
“Excellent.” And she motioned for Richmond, who presented the still-drying parchment, along with a quill.
“Sign here, as owners of this clothier. Full names, please.”
And they did. Lucia pulled out the Fallmire signet ring, and impressed it in the circle of hot sealing wax. It was done.
“Now,” she said. “My House is also in dire need of a cook, a team of maids, and a gardener, to start with. Is there anyone here in town you would recommend we speak with?”