aghavni
—

in which she finds roses falling out of fashion

hat did Manon do?”

Aghavni's sharp, disbelieving laugh scraped a cloud of white sugar off the crust of a custard tart hovering two tantalizing breaths shy of her awaiting mouth. Crowned with a melting swirl of lemon cream, the tart was surely the finest creation Talan — the local baker's son, who'd recently forayed into the decadent world of sugar-trimmed confectionary and cakes prettier than her jewelry box — had conjured that morning.

Briefly, she wondered what the boy would think of her if she shoved the whole delectable thing into her mouth like a heathen, invoking the blithe ignorance she’d learned to wear like an extra ruby pin in her hair, frivolous and disgustingly aristocratic — 

Until the impulse shattered at the feet of the eternally fatalistic question of: what would Father think?

Father would think me incapable. Her smile cooled into a mild grimace. Slowly, with what seemed like great effort, the tart eased back down to its little porcelain plate. “You saw her carrying a child - an unconscious child - into her room.”

Her gaze stayed stubbornly fixed on the loose thread fraying off the edge of the embroidered tablecloth. She wasn't good at controlling her eyes; they always gleamed a feverish green after bouts of frustration or anger or distress, no matter how smooth she kept her brow, or how aloof she curled her lips. A fault she attributed entirely to the whims of the Weaver. He never did like his creations too... created.

To her statement (which was really a question, hoping to be denied), Talan only nodded, albeit hesitantly. The hesitation was for the young director's sake than from any real doubt. He knew what he'd seen, even when he'd been balancing two stacks of cake boxes on his shoulders and appeared, to any who'd passed by the Scarab's back entrance, otherwise occupied. That was the secret of the laboring class. Your shoulders, your strength — talent, too, if you had it — might be theirs to command, but your mind never was. It belonged solely to you; did your bidding, saw what you made it see, and the high-born, the well-endowed, were always quick (or eager) to forget it.

And what Talan had seen, was the Red Rose dragging a child's unconscious body into her red rose room.

“When did you see this?” The red fan at Aghavni's side unfurled with a snap, and closed again with an even louder snap. Open, close. Open, close. It reminded the baker of a cat's twitching tail, counting down the seconds until it was time to pounce. 

“This morning when I was delivering the cakes to the Lounge. Which was,” Talan frowned as he looked towards the small wooden clock hanging above the bread oven. “About three hours ago.”

“Three hours. I see.” She wished she didn't. “Well, I suppose I'll have to go check if the kid is still alive.” She hoped he was.

She glanced mournfully at the tray of pastries. There were plenty more still waiting to be glazed, and a heaping tray of pudding browning in the oven. She could sample them all later, piping hot, when the Scarab's nightly schedule of incidents brought her a scandal less outrageous than the one Manon had served up on a golden platter.

The infamous Red Rose never did anything unless she knew she would be the unquestionable best at it. And though her father might've appreciated the woman's talents, Aghavni was beginning to find roses, quite simply, falling out of fashion.

Manon was going to pay.
- - -
“D-did… Did V-Vreis send you?” Aghavni paused at the rose insignia door, sighed, and pushed it open. The plate of still-steaming custard trailing besides her (topped with fresh cream — Talan had insisted on her taking it, to "ease the poor child's heart") wobbled as she slipped into the dimly lit room.

“No.” She glanced curiously over at August, before shoving the custard towards the small pale boy. “Whoever this Vreis is, would he offer you such a treat? I assumed you'd be hungry.” Hesitantly, she added: “It's custard. And it's not poisoned — I'll have a piece of it if you're worried.” Wouldn't blame you for suspecting, after what you've been through.

Aghavni knew, painfully well, how it felt to wake in a dark room, with not a clue how you'd gotten there. Greeted only by the inquisitive frowns of men you'd never seen, wondering more and more, heartbeat by heartbeat, if waking had been a mercy or a curse.

“You're in Denocte. In the White Scarab.”