Nicolas kept Camille company, perched on a plain wooden stool while his sister fretfully paced her chambers. She'd been muttering to herself for an hour now, every now and then clutching at her scalp in vexation.

"A method which rekindles marriages every single time?! Who would believe such a thing?! Only a fool such as me!" Camille wailed.

"Was it not Lady Renea who shared this stratagem?" Nicolas asked.

The knight crossed his arms, less from stoicism than from not knowing where else to put them.

"Of course Lady Renea, blessed with such… innocence… would believe such a thing!" Camille cried.

Nicolas frowned. Had she not just said only fools would believe it?

Camille sat upon her mattress, holding her head in her hands. "I can rectify this. I'll make haste to the promenade and find mother—you, you can find father! We'll tell the both of them that it was nothing more than a jest gone wrong."

"If their meeting has gone as terribly as you're imagining," Nicolas said, his words slow and considered, "then they're surely already returning to the castle."

"Then we'll find them in the castle!" Camille blurted. "Come—help me gather some flowers! Surely there are a handful of goldenvows in the forest! This evening can be saved yet!"

Nicolas scratched his head, at a loss for how to reassure his younger sister. She was not prone to such outbursts, and he had no practice in soothing them.

"...Take a breath, Camille," Nicolas said. "Imagine… that you are at the northern wall instead."

"What?" Camille blinked.

"...Nevermind," Nicolas said. "That makes little sense."

A beat of silence followed as Camille continued to stew in her worries. Unsure of what else he could do, Nicolas rose from his stool and, stiffly, joined her at the edge of the bed, looping his arm around her shoulders in a tentative hug from the side.

"I don't think… you need to worry," Nicolas said. "I truly believe mother and father will enjoy their evening."

"How do you figure that?" Camille sighed, head slumping against her brother's shoulder as if she'd run out of energy.

"Because… father loves mother dearly," Nicolas said.

"Is that so?" Camille asked, voice full of doubt. "I have never heard him say it once."

"He is not one for words," Nicolas said.

Camille arched a brow.

"Then what of mother? Does she love him?" Camille asked listlessly.

"…I'm not certain," Nicolas said slowly. "But I believe she wishes to."

While their two children prayed for the best, one parent was swiftly approaching her worst.

"Another mug for myshelf—if you'd be sho kind!" Ennieux called out to the mulled wine vendor.

"A third?" Horace blinked, taken aback. "I'm not certain that's… such a good idea. Er, perhaps I could finish this mug for you."

He hesitated, then with slow, deliberate care reached for her mug, hoping not to provoke her. But his hand was briskly slapped away.

"Nonshense!" Ennieux reprimanded him, drawing her mug back protectively. "Heavensh…! You act as if I cannot hold my drink! I am perfectly—fine."

She sat ramrod straight as the vendor shrugged and retrieved her cup. He'd surely seen worse drunks in his time, but likely none of such noble station. Seemingly adamant to prove Horace wrong, Ennieux held her hand out with all the imperious delicacy she could muster, wrist arched high and fingers fluttering daintily as she received the freshly topped off cup.

With an abundance of poise, and just a dash of smugness, she raised the sweet-scented mug to her lips and promptly hiccupped—bonking her nose on the rim. Wine splashed down her bodice.

She frowned at the stain, then slowly lifted her gaze back to Horace. "...A deliberate jesht I asshure you," she declared with a steady dignity.

Across the plaza, Ailn and Renea watched with increasing concern as Ennieux slipped further into dignity-risking inebriation. They weren't the only ones who'd noticed. Her silver eum-Creid hair made her impossible to miss, and already the reclusive younger sister of the late Saintess Celine had set the plaza abuzz with whispers, comporting herself less than nobly.

"I-is this really the right thing to do?" Renea stammered.

"As long as we keep following Bea's vision, it's… probably… worth it in the end," Ailn said, rubbing the back of his neck. "If her doodles are right then they'll drink a bit longer, then find dinner. See?"

There was a drawing of Horace and Ennieux eating skewers with big smiles on both their stick figure faces.

"Maybe a little liquid courage helps set the mood," Ailn shrugged.

"I just—she's really this drunk after two drinks?" Renea gawked. She bit her thumb anxiously before taking a sip of the wine she'd fetched to steady her nerves. "I suppose I've never seen her drink before…"

"She's even more of a lightweight than I'd expected," Ailn agreed. Then he paused, and arched a brow. "How much have you been drinking yourself, exactly?"

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"This is my first mug tonight," Renea replied defensively.

"I meant in general—look, nevermind. There's something else I'm concerned about," Ailn said, redirecting Renea's attention to a certain figure sitting near the center of the plaza.

It was Ashton ark-Chelon, a chessboard set on the table before him, whose pieces he calmly pondered, unbothered by the plaza's rising din.

"Young master ark-Chelon?" Renea squinted. She looked around the plaza. Normally, the presence of such a high ranking noble would cause a stir. But Ennieux seemed to have drawn most of the attention to herself. She whispered to Ailn worriedly. "What's he doing here?"

Then she gasped. "Do you think he's plotting something? Some kind of political maneuvering? Maybe he wants to derail their date…?"

"We're the ones who paid the mulled wine vendor," Ailn frowned. "I don't know what he's doing here. But… he's not who I'm most worried about."

With a sigh, Ailn shifted Renea's gaze once more, this time to a table at the far edge of the square, where two figures sat watching Ashton through opera glasses with ostentatious flair.

They were, of course, Safi and Ceric—hot on Ashton's tail.

"Looks like our hunch was right, Ceric," Safi whispered. "Ashton is using his powers somehow! Just look at how drunk Renea's aunt is acting! Two and a half cups of wine and she's acting like it's rush week!"

It was a cutting remark, perhaps, but not entirely untrue. Ennieux was still rambling about her ability to hold her drink. Yet she struggled to hold her mug in the most literal sense, as she sloshed it about while Horace patiently tried to take it away.

"Perhaps—he channels his powers through the dialectical movement of his pieces," Ceric said, stroking his beard.

Ashton, after several contemplative minutes, finally captured a white piece with Black's queen.

Both Safi and Ceric's opera glasses swung sharply over to Ennieux and Horace, just as Ennieux's stubborn defense of her mug accidentally bopped Horace on the forehead.

"I think you're right, Ceric!" Safi cried incredulously, taking the coincidence as irrefutable proof.

Their opera glasses swiveled back to Ashton who, without hesitation, reached across the board to play White's recapture.

In the very next moment, their lenses caught Horace finally managing to pry loose Ennieux's mug.

Safi gasped. "He's playing both sides!" She stood up in a jiffy. "We've got to launch a counterinsurgency, Ceric—before he reaches checkmate!"

The pair dashed off through the plaza in search of vendors, while Horace, having at last secured the mug, sighed as Ennieux immediately tried to reclaim it.

"If the wine is striking you so swiftly, I'm merely suggesting it might be wiser to return to the castle," Horace tried to reason with her.

Of course, she could have simply gone back to the vendor for another mug. But that didn't seem to occur to Ennieux, whose swipe at his hand carried almost a playful air.

"I am here thish evening to enjoy Old Town," Ennieux huffed. "Not languish in the castle as I usually do! What harm ish there?!"

Horace cast a wary glance around the plaza, well aware they'd been making a scene for a while now. But that wasn't the most worrying part.

Just what was Ashton doing here? Earlier, Horace had been too preoccupied with Ennieux to register the presence of ark-Chelon's heir apparent. Only when he and his wife began drawing more eyes did Horace finally catch sight of him in the crowd.

…And then there was the young Lady Fleuve, flitting from stall to stall with her companion.

Something very strange was going on, and Horace felt as if he and Ennieux were specimens under a lens.

That was when a young girl ran up carrying a basket. With a little hop, she placed it on the table before the wine vendor could shoo her away.

"Warm loaves for the couple!" the girl said with a toothy grin.

"...From who?" Horace frowned.

"Some lady gave my ma silver," the girl shrugged. Then she ran off back to one of the stalls across the plaza, weaving through the crowd to rejoin her mother.

"Oh! It'sh quite soft," Ennieux said, taking a delicate nibble. Even in her drunken state, she didn't fail to cover her mouth.

The sudden appearance of bread did little to calm Horace's nerves. That said, it would put something in Ennieux's stomach and perhaps steady her.

Before long, however, a small tin tray of roasted chestnuts appeared, carried over by a young man with a sheepish smile. "These're sent for you. Some morsels to tide you both over, I 'spose."

"An entremet!" Ennieux chirped, brightening even further. She plucked one out of the tin, cracking it with surprising nimbleness before popping it into her mouth. "How perfec'ly shweet!"

"More?" Horace gaped. He squinted into the crowd, his suspicion beginning to kill his appetite. There was nothing comforting to him about these anonymous offerings. But he had to admit the introduction of food seemed to have raised Ennieux's mood considerably.

And perhaps it was just a little charming: the sight of his wife happily eating chestnuts like a squirrel with an abundance of hauteur.

"...Ah," Horace breathed out softly.

A breeze swept by, sharp with the chill of a Varant summer night, a memory from decades ago stirring. He was caught by it. His guard slipped. And Horace let himself do what he so rarely dared, gazing at his wife for a long, still moment, making no effort to hide his affection.

"W-what is it?" Ennieux looked up from the chestnuts, feeling Horace's gaze. She brushed the corner of her lips, perhaps thinking there was a crumb on her cheek.

Was it the wine? Or the cold? Her cheeks were suddenly rosy.

Horace didn't know what to say. He'd held his feelings back for so long, that it was unthinkable to voice them now. How absurd would it be to call his wife beautiful for the first time, after more than twenty years?

Yet she waited. And when no words came, her gaze slipped to the side in disappointment.

What arrived instead was more food: a cream pasta with the scent of lemon, heaped into a bread trencher. This time it was brought by a young woman with a pretty face.

"I 'ave 'eard there is a lovely couple, enjoying this fine summer night!" She placed it between them.

"Pasta seems as grand a meal as any," Horace mumbled, covering up his earlier silence.

"...It certainly carriesh… a delicious scent," Ennieux said. Her tipsy drawl went flat. "Thank you."

"Now, now, don't sound so down, the both of you!" The young woman gestured toward the trencher, unsure of their mood and sounding flustered for it. "This 'ere's a dish fit for a palace's table! So long as you mind its 'umble receptacle."

Realizing they'd unintentionally put her on the spot, Horace tried to throw her a lifeline. He noticed calluses on her hands. "Did you make it yourself?"

"Why yes I did, milord. Ten years, I 'ave been at the craft. I'll 'ave you know there's no chateau whose pasta has such a velvet quality as mine, so silken on the tongue that it melts. And the sauce, you see… the… sauce…"

The young woman beamed at Horace, starting her explanation with gusto. But she trailed off, as she looked into Horace's face.

"The sauce?" Horace gently prodded her.

"Ah! Yes, right! The sauce, which, you 'ave the lemon, which bites through gently, with the soft pasta, soft on the tongue, and um…"

The woman turned redder and redder, suddenly losing her words, while Horace simply stared in confusion.

Watching this exchange, Ennieux barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. But she couldn't stifle her sigh, nor the sharp crack of a chestnut shell as she broke it open.

Slipping the chestnut into her mouth, she leaned back, one arm folding across her chest, while the other propped up her head as she chewed in silence.

Horace, for his part, did not understand why her scowl had returned.

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