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moonshine-nightlight · 8 months

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Nothing's Wrong with Dale - Part Twenty-Eight

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing’s Wrong with Dale Chapter 28

[Part One][Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5][Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two][Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four][Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] Part Twenty-Eight [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

If you had thought that the relatively good note that last gala in Connton ended on was a sign of things to come, you would have been wrong. Despite his more jovial turn at the end of the night, Dale’s melancholy in the garden persisted far more than that last mood. If anything he’d been more distant, with hints of a frustrated temper that worries you in its reminder of the man you’d no longer thought you’d have to deal with. You can’t tell what is causing the mood, though you know of many potential culprits.

It could be the investigation. Early the last morning in Connton, you’d seen Dale conversing in the stable loft with a pair of rough-looking folks. From their serious, almost sharp demeanor, and their nondescript brown clothing, everything about them screamed mercenaries. Dale was crouched in the shadows and you almost didn’t recognize him. In fact, you were fairly certain you weren’t supposed to be able to as nothing of his physical features were discernible beyond the vague outline of a person, but his eyes were glowing bright blue with white pupils. The way they had reflected briefly with the light of the single swinging lantern had made you think they belong to a cat at first. The mercenaries certainly looked respectful of his obvious inhuman appearance. When Dale was playing his own contractor, he must be pretending to have demonic enhancements.

You don’t think they noticed you—you hurried on your way quickly enough—having only been up this early to accept the box of herbal ingredients you’d ordered from a local shop. Still, it worried you because the mercenary angle of the investigation wasn’t expected to move forward quickly enough for them to need to meet again so soon. Not that you’d had a chance to speak with Dale about it, or could admit to what you saw in mixed company.

Between the trip back to the Northridge estate, settling back into the estate, and then preparations for the wedding, you’d not had a single moment alone with him. One of his grandparents was always present. They spoke only of wedding matters in the company of others and pressed him for updates on the investigation when alone, which he refused to grant. This left you without any new notes on the situation either.

Dinner the last couple nights had been pleasant, with Dale spending an acceptable amount of time with family. However, nearly all wedding guests had arrived by now–with no sign of Great Aunt Deborah to the Northridges’ collective relief. Dale had elected to spend the majority of his socializing with the friends with which he’d traveled abroad. Even if it did result in him getting rather more drunk than he usually had.

You take a sip of your own wine and gently chide yourself that he isn’t that bad—and certainly not as bad as some of the others. However, you want to spend that time with him. You want another private walk in the garden. You want his hand in yours. You want his support with your family—who you were weathering, but primarily on your own. It still irks you to have talked more with his relatives and your own than with him or even much with his friends these past nights. He’d given cursory introductions, but seemed intent on socializing with them without you.

Perhaps he knows you’d not get along. Perhaps he is trying to afford you more time to speak with your family, to reestablish yourself as an adult with them. You’d thought you’d made your appreciation of his support clear, but maybe he just thought you only needed him to smooth over the beginnings of conversations and not throughout? Perhaps he is attempting to gather information for the investigations on either Eastmont or the Heiress. Maybe he’s trying to verify the people he excluded from the list were proper. If these friends of the original Dale are more likely to open up with only their old friend and not his new, wallflower fiance, is that so unreasonable?

Dale hasn’t discussed any of this with you and you hate how your mind jumps to the conclusion that he’s avoiding you when it’s as likely that he was simply too busy to take the time. Because that guess is too close to your other fears. That perhaps he has made other plans. That maybe getting back into the world of demonic mercenaries is tempting. Or maybe he can see now that noble life came with its own dangers. Or all the pretending was making him realize he’d be playacting as Lord Dale for the rest of his time here and he isn’t sure he wants that anymore.

A body bumps into your own, startling you out of your reverie and your spiraling thoughts. A baron you barely recognize says, “My apologies,” as he hurries over to catch a servant’s attention. You sigh as you finish your own glass of wine and look for something lighter to drink for the rest of the evening. If you’re already this nervous, with so many anxious thoughts tumbling around in your mind, the clearer you can think the better.

Grandmother had left for the evening, with your blessing and thoughts on one of the dessert dishes for the chef you’d hired for the wedding. Your mother had followed her. Your father had retired early with the grandchildren. Callalily and her husband had been with some of Dale’s more distant relatives all day because Callalily could and would find a way to expand her social network anywhere.

You’d better join Marigold, her husband, and the artistic circle they had accrued before Douglas charitably drew you into his circle of military compatriots. You’d sacrificed last night to that group, wanting to see the sibling you knew the least—and you think it had been worth it—but your lack of personal experience often left you feeling like an outsider or plain confused. With the way your mind is intent on gnawing at itself this evening, you’d best avoid them. Unless you see Dale join them of course—he’d made a few comments when he was there last night that worried you in the attention they received.

At this rate you were going to leave your wedding only to immediately fall asleep for a week. But until then, where is Marigold? Had she gone to inspect the gardens and the statues within? The sun was setting, but there was still plenty to see by for all the servants would start lighting the torches soon. Accepting a glass of iced tea, you walk along the side of the room with doors out to the gardens, trying to see if any groups are out there.

You think you might have spotted a handful of people in a courtyard, when a hand on your arms startles you. You turn abruptly enough to have to adjust your grip on your glass to keep from spilling only to find Callalily.

Before you can say anything, she links arms with you and begins to walk away from glass doors outside. “I have been meaning to speak with you,” she leans in closer to add, “in private.”

“Oh?” You furrow your brow, but gesture her into the nearby alcove, decorative screens blocking most of the view into the great hall. This unoccupied musician storage room is as close to a separate room as you are going to find without leaving the area entirely. Is Mother doing something again? Has one of Callalily’s children broken a vase? She has been alluding to her and your other married siblings giving you some sort of advice which could be nice, but where are the others? And is a dinner in the great hall with so many people around truly the time for such a thing?

“Yes,” Callalily replies, glancing around, before adding, “about your fiance.”

Ice shoots through your veins. Has she seen something? Did he do something in front of her? Callalily was clever and sharp, able to pick up on nuances others missed with ease, not to mention her memory. Why hadn’t you thought of it before? Simply because no one in Dale’s family hadn’t noticed enough discrepancies to make them suspicious, beyond Grandfather’s now put-to-bed worries about you, did not mean no one would. You swallow. “What about Lord Dale?”

“Are you certain…” Callalily begins before stopping. Callalily never pauses like that, as if she is hesitating. You rack your mind for any time that she might have been alone with Dale and seen something you cannot explain away—that she has not already dismissed as a trick of the eye. However, she doesn’t look frightened, merely apprehensive. Has Dale made some other sort of mistake? “I am aware that you are looking forward to marriage and your independence from our parents. However, is there a possibility you might be acting with some rash or willful blindness regarding the betrothed you’ve chosen?”

You need a minute to parse what she’s said, it's so far from what you were expecting. It sounds as if she knows nothing of his true nature instead she’s suggesting... When you finally comprehend her words without your fears overshadowing them, you blink in shock. “Excuse me? Are you suggesting I choose a different fiance? You believe I should sever my engagement?”

Instead of immediately correcting you, she only looks apologetic. “I am only saying that this will affect the rest of your life and it’s important—”

“—Important I give the decision a due amount of thought?” you finish for her, parroting back her words from when she questioned your choice of school and later questioned focusing your studies on administration rather than medicine despite always attempting to impart upon you the importance of making your own choice free from others influences. “I cannot—.” You can’t believe she would ask you something like this, that she would still doubt your ability to make decisions for yourself. And to ask this now, of all times. “I do not know what is worse, that you think I have not already done so or that you think I’m fickle enough to change my mind three days before the wedding.”

“That’s not what I am saying!” she protests.

You’ve always given her the benefit of the doubt, that she worries about you and only wants what’s best for you. This is so far beyond that. Angry frustration fills every line of your body as you resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. You take a deep breath and say, with as little emotion as possible and as much fake patience as you can muster, “Then what are you saying?”

Callalily falters for a split second before straightening her spine with renewed confidence. “If new information comes to light, then it is necessary to change one’s course of action. There are always legitimate reasons to delay or reconsider important decisions. You are allowed to change your mind.” Her voice gentles at the end and you hate it more than you did the self-righteousness of the beginning. And at the heart of it, all she is saying, in more general words, is exactly what she claimed not to be saying.

You take a deep breath. “I am allowed such a choice. You are not wrong that such a thing is possible. But you are still advocating that I break my betrothal, or at least my wedding date.” You pause, to give her the chance to dispute you, but she keeps her lips pressed together. “Do not act as though doing so would not have far-reaching consequences. Do not act as though I shall do so on the word or suggestion of one other person, no matter how I care for you.” Your stern voice breaks, no matter your attempt to keep up the facade. “I do not understand why you are proposing such a course of action. Has something happened, Callalily? Why are you saying this to me?”

“He does not seem trustworthy,” Callalily says urgently, stepping closer. “The rumors that I’ve heard just since coming here have me concerned. He does not seem worthy of your hand.” That should be flattering to hear, that she thinks so highly of you, and in a manner it is, but it also fills you with worry about what she has heard, what secrets she might be edging around. Simultaneously, you’re embarrassed that she thinks you so ignorant as to not have known any of this yourself. “I’m starting to doubt why Mother and Father even entertained the notion of an engagement with Lord Dale. He is not right for you.”

You don’t even know what to say in the face of such vague accusations. The comment regarding your parents is both surprising and not. Callalily’s faith in your parents decisions always corresponds with if they are in concert with her own—if they agree, it is because they are intelligent, logical parents worthy of respect and if they do not… You’ve no idea what rumors she might have heard otherwise, and her concerns might be more valid with the original Dale, but even in that case, you had committed to this course of action and she’d not have swayed you then, at least, you hope not. “Well, I appreciate your concern, sister,” you try to politely brush her off because the worst thing is when she digs her heels in, “however it is unnecessary in this instance. So let us return—”

“Do not “sister” me,” she hisses. You wince, perhaps you overstepped with your more casual dismissal. “My concerns are valid. You’ve not even heard them out.”

“Fine,” you reply stiffly, trying to hide your fear and weariness with having to defend your choices to the person who most advocates you making them. “Name them. What has you so convinced I should not marry? Has he threatened you? Me? Did you catch him with a lover?” You are careful to name the events least likely to your mind, in order to guarantee her negative response. You know they also give away how fed up you are with having to discuss this, but you find yourself beyond caring at this point. If she wants to do this, it shall be at least as unpleasant for her as it is for you. “Please enlighten me.”

Callalily’s expression vacillates between shocked at your anger and annoyance at your continued downplaying of her worries. “I did not have to stumble upon him with a lover to know he’s taken them before.” You want to point out that many nobles do. That you’d known he had done so. That at least he had been discreet enough that there were no children or even solid evidence of who his lovers were, which is far more than can be said for others. “He’s left a string of them as he traveled and left all dissatisfied with how the affair ended. It appears he prefers to make promises of permanence and position and then break any such vows.” You can believe that of the original Dale. The only reason he had been honest with you in the beginning is because he thought you a guarantee. “Not only to his lovers, but to his proclaimed friends as well. Many were thought to have been guaranteed a position in his household only to have such promises broken with ease.”

That final comment might actually be due to the change in Dale, how you have decided together to choose those deserving of such positions and not simply how politically advantageous bringing in certain people might be. You don’t know how many such promises the original Dale had made, nor how many this Dale has broken. The prospect worries you, could that be why Dale is spending so much time with his friends and why he is in such a tense mood these days? Regardless, you can tell Callalily none of this and so you try hard to keep your expression neutral.

It must be working because Callalily frowns at your lack of response and continues before you can rebut any of her concerns. “Then there are the rumors of his interest and experimentation with the Depths, no matter Northridge’s reputation of staunch opposition.” Your eye must twitch at that, or something else gives away your trepidation with this topic. Callalily’s mouth flattens into a grim smile. “I’ve heard from multiple sources about his study of such subjects and his interest in performing such rituals. Any man who seeks the aid of the Depths, against his family’s wishes and without an obvious need, cannot have good intentions. He falls victim to the lesser vices too: gambling, drinking, spending freely on vanity.”

She holds up a hand and counts off on her fingers, “He’s ambitious, selfish, a liar, and a cheat. He’s not to be trusted or relied upon.”

You wait a few extra seconds to see if there is more before you reply. “I appreciate your concerns, however—”

“However, you’re not going to listen, are you?” Callalily’s hands are on her hips and she purses her lips together in frustrated dismay. “I thought only Marigold was this hard-headed. I thought you knew better, I thought you couldn’t be swayed by a handsome face or—”

“That is enough,” you snap, unable to keep the words in any longer. “Is this a discussion or a lecture? I have let you voice your concerns and if you’re not satisfied with my acknowledgment, then I’ll take my own turn to speak now.”

“Very well.” Callalily snaps. “Go on, what do you say to this?”

You’ve no idea where to start and decide to simply go through in the order she did. After a sip of your drink, you begin, “Firstly, I did do my own research in my prospective spouse as I of course considered this decision very seriously indeed. While my contacts and methods are not your own, I do have some.” While Callalily’s were likely other nobles, foreign officials and the like, you had grown close with your servants—maids and nursemaids alike who cared for you in your illness and you’d continued the habit at school. If your maid, Martina, hadn’t had to help her family, she’d have come with you to Northridge. She’d truly retired from being lady’s maid when you went off to school. She’d apprenticed under a nurse and completed her training, but had agreed to be your maid once more, if only until you were betrothed.

“Clearly they weren’t skilled,” Callalily cuts in to diagnose, “if they did not return with similar information.”

“They did,” you correct, because that was in their report, “baring I assume any information that’s related to Dale’s activities from the last two months, of course. The difference is my context for such information and my personal experience with him. Beyond that, you’ve never grappled with the choices I have.”

“Excuse me?” she looks offended, pressing a hand to her chest. “I am married. It was a decision I made with Mother and Father, but I was the driving decision maker, not them, not societal pressure, nor anything except my own drive for my future.”

“And that cannot be what I have done,” you cannot help but allow a certain sardonic edge to enter into your voice at her implication, “what I am doing.”

“You—”

“No,” you interrupt, ignoring her startled expression. “I believe it is time you listened to me, properly for once.” You take a deep breath while she waits, eyes a bit wider than before, for you to do so. “You were the second oldest, with intelligence, a talent for language, and more confidence in society than I’ll ever have. And robust health, of course. Your options for marrying, for how to spend your days—your vision—none of those are mine.” You can see she knows you can want different things but that she’s still not facing reality when it comes to your opportunities. You swallow and continue, “Mother and Father did their best to keep word of my ill health minimal, but they did not try so hard when I was young. Not until I was older did they begin to believe I’d live to be an adult who had to worry about marriage prospects. They expected me to die young or at least not to outlive Aunt Katherine’s age.”

Callalily pales at your statements and rushes to reassure you, “That’s not, no one wanted—”

“I’m not discussing what they wanted,” you reply gently. “I am stating what they believed to be true.” When she still looks as though she will protest, you ask her outright, “Are you going to say they did tell you as much? That I was born in a fragile state, too late in Mother’s life and with the fits just like Father’s little sister. She was twelve when she died.” They had believed you would do the same. No matter how they tried to hide it, you can barely remember a time in your life you did not know that death chased you far harder than it did others, haunting your every spasm. “You should have seen how Father looked at me from eleven ‘til I went three months without a fit, when he could look at me at all.”

Callalily has no notion of how to response. She places a hand on your shoulder, trying for some sort of physical comfort, “I...”

When nothing further escapes her mouth, you try for a smile. “I’m not saying this for pity, Callalily, I’m saying this because you act as though I was not the one who lived through it. As if I was not the one in pain, not the one who was dying. As if I slept through those years.” You’ve never been able to understand that belief. As if, despite certain medicinal efforts, you were in some sort of un-rememberable haze during those times. It was your life, your body.

You straighten as you proclaim, “Well, I did not. I was very aware. My dreams were not your dreams, but I did have them. As it is, I’ve been quite successful, for a given metric of success as I have achieved most of them by. I can walk across a room without worrying I’m going to hurt myself. I can run and ride and dance.” You remember counting steps and keeping track of days and pushing yourself to grab every tiny chance to live. How hard and easy it had been to achieve some of those goals once you began the upward climb to recovery. “I have been able to leave our country estate and attend to school and participate in galas.” You gesture to the ball beyond you.

“At the school that I wished to attend, even if it wasn’t the one you still believe I should have gone to, I was finally able to dream beyond even that.” It had taken some time, your dreams so distant for so long, that you had felt lost once you were there, life overwhelming in a manner you were unaccustomed to. “I do not want to become a diplomat as you are, or an artist, or a knight. An academic or a physician do not appeal either, although I know you think I should become a doctor.” She had said as much in her letters and in person. You have explained that you enjoy the topic and taking care of yourself, but you do not wish it for a career. She thinks it is Mother’s influencing pushing for a more traditional noble life or your own insecurities and fears holding you back. You simply do not want it.

You’ve tried to persuade her you are not settling or giving in or whatever else she believes. You want her to listen so badly this time as you say, “I spent too much time with Asher in his study. I enjoyed my administration classes too much. I was on an estate too long. My wish is to aid in the running of a fief, even if I’m fifth born. Even if the rumors of my sickness were so persistent that the first few potential suitors I was introduced to thought I’d died years ago. I begged Mother for the extra health reports.” You’d hated them, hated how invasive they were and how skeptical the doctors were. You had feared them telling you the illness would return or that you were unfit to be married. However, in the end, you’d needed their assurances to the contrary nearly as much as your prospects had. “Our parents increased my dowry in response to my wishes.” They had still managed the process and it had been what they were hoping for, to see you follow the most traditional path, but why shouldn’t you have encouraged them when it was in service to your own ends?

Callalily did appear to be listening, or at least she made no further motions to interrupt. You feel bolstered by that and say, “There were others we considered. True, not many, but a handful. I’ve no desire to do the socializing and connection forging a new baron would require,” you begin covering the reasons you turned down the few you’d had even a single conversation with. Perhaps it's disingenuous to mention these who you’d no formal discussion about marriage, but they were people and families that had been tangible enough that you recall your reasons of rejection. “I’ve no desire to shoulder all the administration a collegiate heir would ask. I’ve no desire to raise another’s children, never sure of my own future if they move against me. I might not run as cold as Mother likes to believe, but I do not want to spend months in the snow. I do not want to move somewhere I cannot speak the language fluently.” At the last one, you can’t help but give her a pointed look to remind her that you don’t have her facility with language, to reiterate that you want different things.

You take another deep breath, because now you must discuss Dale—without giving voice to any of the changes that have happened with him. “Lord Dale, even with his concerning reputation at times, did not come with such obstacles. Many take lovers prior to marriage, do you think me ignorant?” You are aware she thought you on the naive side, but you need her to remember that you’ve been an adult for years now and do not require such coddling. “He was discrete with those matters, as I am certain you cannot identify them all. Not to mention, they are liable to spin such affairs to have faults that are his rather than their own.” Callalily reluctantly nods her agreement at that.

At least, having connections with who you did meant you were more confident that she might be in the main point. “I made certain he’d sired no bastard children, through my medical contacts.” You can see she hadn’t considered that you might have such advantages, but you’ve no desire to dwell on this topic. You need to confront her concerns with his personality head on before you lose steam. “He’s on the arrogant side, spoiled to a degree given how his grandparents raised him after his parent’s untimely death,” you quietly acknowledge with a glance to ensure you are still alone in your alcove, before continuing, “but many heirs are. As for gambling, he plays cards, yes, but he has no concerning debts I could find. He’s not violent with his friends nor his servants. He’s not a drunkard, if we’re wanting to discuss vices. Did you truly find anything to support such activities?”

“No,” Callalily admits. “You are correct, there was nothing to obvious excess that I discovered in my minimal investigation. However, his research into concerning topics…” She trails off, obviously allowing you to have the floor back.

You’re grateful she’s letting you, that she seems far more interested in a true discussion than she had originally. It’s still more than you’ve perhaps ever said at one time to her and naturally it is on the most complex topic in your life. “As for his academic interests,” you say carefully, “I’ve spoken with him and am aware of his stance on such matters. He disagrees with the rigidity of his grandparents’ laws and actions. In the manner of many rebellious youth, he had pursued the opposite. Now, he seeks to ensure he knows enough to protect himself and Northridge. He has moved on from his more careless experimentation, to my knowledge.” Whatever else he does now, it cannot be more careless, that’s for certain.

“And the broken oaths?” Callalily asks, sterner and more skeptical after your most recent answer.

You sigh, wishing you’d had the foresight to realize how this would appear from the outside. “As for certain promises made to his friends, after he discussed them with his grandparents, myself, and the steward, some were retracted due to unsuitability. It is a sign of the better judgment of the study room rather than the rash wishes when traveling and drinking. It is expected, to change one’s mind in light of the advice of trusted advisors, is it not?” you can’t help but add, echoing her original point.

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t disagree. You’ve provided a rebuttal to the majority of her points, right? You take advantage of her still rather open mood to attempt to state as clearly as you can where you stand. “My desire is to marry Lord Dale and be his lady of Northridge. I’d thank you to respect my decision. It’s already been made.”

She frowns, but it's more thoughtful and resigned than angry or frustrated which you hope is a good sign. “I see. You certainly have an answer for everything, do you not?” She sighs heavily, but you think you hear only defeat in the sound, not her preparing for another fight. “I had no idea you were so aware of how concerning we all found your condition, nor had I thought since your recovery of what else your illness might still cast a pall over. I think you are still—well, I suppose that’s only my view, is it not?”

“I can continue speaking, explain further,” you offer, but your voice gives away how wearing you find the concept. “You might eventually make a point I haven’t considered.”

“No,” she replies, shaking her head and glancing back at the still bustling grand hall. “I’ll not put us both through that. Not here, not now—though anything you want to confide in me, I’d hear,” she offers with a small smile. “I suppose the only question I have left to ask is: has he been treating you well? Not only in public, but in private?”

She’s sincere in her question and you appreciate the feeling of familial support it gives you. You know if you answered to the contrary, she would help you break such an engagement. The prospect makes you feel safer, even if it is unnecessary. “Yes, he has.”

“Even so, some do not reveal themselves until time passes,” she warns, but you can tell it’s for the sake of it, out of general protectiveness, not doubt in you.

That lets you answer her calmly instead of defensively, “I’m aware. I have contingencies for that outcome, should it occur.” She raises a brow at that, but you’ll not discuss that here. You’ve no notion how she’d see you medicinal protections. “I cannot wait for the clear, perfect, future—I can only grasp what is in front of me.”

“I suppose that is all any of us can do,” she agrees. Then she ventures a more tentative observation, “You have appeared weary and tense over the past few days. I thought he might be the cause.”

You blink in surprise, you hadn’t thought she’d notice. So much for hiding those feelings, you think ruefully. “I’m not one for all these parties and socializing, no matter how I used to long for them. They are more enjoyable in theory, or in moderation.” You smile sheepishly. “Truthfully, I will be pleased after the wedding, when we can stop having them so frequently.”

She smiles back at that admittance. “I see. My apologies, for my presumption. I did not mean to insult you. I was only worried for you.”

“I know.” You place your hand over hers on your shoulder and give it a squeeze. “I thank you for your concern, truly, but please do not broach this topic again,” you plead, eyes darting beyond her once. You try for a casual attitude as you say, “I’ll have no rumors about my wedding being called off, thank you very much.”

“Of course, of course,” she hurries to reassure you. “Let’s rejoin the others.” You follow her out of the alcove and back towards where the majority of guests are congregated, past a few of the now open doors to the gardens. “I don’t think we’ll stay too late tonight—I’ve far too many letters to write in the morning, but I believe I saw Asher—”

Wherever Callalily might have seen Asher, you don’t find out. A commotion in the courtyard directly outside catches both your attention. In one of the courtyards off the grand hall, a knot of courtiers your own age are gathered. The shouting appears to be coming from one particularly drunk figure if the way they are swaying is any indication. The air has the sudden awkwardness of a group who had been having fun only for the tone to abruptly turn serious and uncomfortable. A small circle of space is forming around him, revealing another figure as well. One you recognize all too well.

“Dale,” you say quietly, immediately changing course. Callalily is only a step behind you as you cross the paving stones to the group. The setting sun and the newly light torches cause light and shadow to dance in the wind and by the heights, you hope that's all that’s causing it.

“…believe what I am hearing with these ears,” the drunk man is saying. He tugs on one of his ears for emphasis even as the other clutches his goblet. He turns to another and asks, “Can you Millie?”

“I heard it as well, Willie,” a woman sounding near as drunk as him replies. “Said he required an individual with a greater range of skills. A person more ree-lie-able.”

Willie scoffs. “For how long have you found me so inconsistent, Dale?”

“Wilhelm,” Dale’s voice is easily heard above the chatter around them. He’s clearly trying for calm reason, which you know won’t work on someone who’s clearly had as much as Wilhelm has, but you’re glad he isn’t upset. “You have had too much of your own gift and—”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he gives an exaggerated and very low bow you hope he can’t recover from. Unfortunately, despite a half step to the side, he straightens once more with only a mildly more exaggerated sway than before. “How inconsiderate of me.”

You slip through those forming the loose circle, recognizing them as various members of Dale’s traveling party. You come up on his left and murmur, “Lord Dale,” to warn him of your presence as you slot yourself next to him. You can’t help the hand that skates down his side, checking however briefly that he’s still in one piece and with no shadow tendrils to speak of. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, sana,” he replies, his dark eyes meeting yours for a second before they fix back on Wilhelm. They’re not even glowing, which is a profound relief, even if this lighting might excuse such a thing more than others. “Everything is fine.” His tone is still light enough, if anything it contains an apology for you having to join him in dealing with this problem.

You relax at his attitude, hoping that this is routine enough that this group won’t think it out of the ordinary. That it can be quickly handled.

“Is this your doing?” Wilhelm accuses and you look over at him to see him not glaring at Dale any longer, but at you.

You nearly step back in surprise, but Dale’s strong arm wrapping around your back helps you find the support to stay where you are. You’re still not sure what the argument, if there is one, is even about—let alone why he might think you’ve anything to do with it. “Excuse me?” You finally place the name and hesitantly identify him as, “Lord Wilhelm of Aliers, yes?”

“As you rightly must know!” he slurs back before gesturing emphatically with what must be a nearly empty goblet of wine given how careless he’s being with it. “Do not play coy with me!”

You think you were introduced to him the first night you were back on the estate along with the rest of his family, but you’ve not had a true conversation with him. “I do not know—” you try to protest before he cuts you off.

“Are you manipulating Dale into abandoning his friends?” He takes a step forward and Dale’s grip on your upper arm tightens. “Whispering in his ear until he betrayed his oaths?”

You open your mouth and then shut it, no notion of how to respond. What is he even talking about? Dale answers in your stead, retorting, “There was no oath to betray and you are well aware of that.”

“There might as well have been,” Wilhelm hisses and you finally remember that he had been one of Dales’—original Dale’s—choices for a position in the Northridge household. A training master of some kind until this Dale had reconsidered the intelligence of such a choice. Wilhelm takes another step closer. “How dare you, you meddling little pest.”

“Watch your tongue,” Dale’s voice has lost the mild veneer of humor he previously had. “Apologize to my fiance this instant.”

Before you can try to diffuse the situation as if it might be a misunderstanding, Wilhelm takes another gulp of his drink, which evidently was not yet emptied of its contents, and says, “Not a chance. I want, want an answer.” He draws his sword with a surprisingly clean motion and points its wavering tip at you. Even yards away, you do not appreciate the threat. “Is this your doing? Are you the reason he’s all, all, yeah? Did you convince him to abandon me and give my promised posting to another?”

“I did noth—” you try to protest.

“My betrothed has nothing to do with us or the posting,” Dale interjects, pulling you closer and now with his own sword in hand. You’re aware of the circle of space has grown around you. Wilhelm’s other friends don’t appear particularly inclined to reign him in, most just watching for the skeptical. You think you see two exchange coin. “And you shall apologize for the grievous insult you have paid to us both.”

Wilhelm notices his goblet is empty and that Dale’s own sword is drawn, in that order, causing his scowl to deepen. He shoves his cup into someone’s hand with a brisk order to fetch him another before walking closer to Dale into the growing space around the two arguing nobles and yourself. “Are we going to settle this properly? Or do you not care for such activities these days either? Domestic and cowardly, eh?”

You almost want to laugh at the idea of either of those words describing either Dale, but the tension and possibility of a genuine fight keeps any such more light-hearted responses frozen in your chest. You glance up to see Dale’s darkened expression. You feel the tension in his body as he says, “Do not push me, Wilhelm. I will answer you if you continue to do so and you shall not appreciate the result.”

“No,” Wilhelm cries, “it is you who will regret their actions.” And then he charges at the pair of you. Dale releases you, thrusting his cane into you hands and pushing you behind him in the same motion. You stumble into the steadying hands of his valet as he baits Wilhelm away from the spot you’d been standing. You absent-mindedly thank Mr. Murray for keeping you on your feet after the abrupt motion, but you can’t take your eyes off the fight.

The two circle each other after that charge fails and luckily for you, Wilhelm seems to have forgotten you exist. “There’s no need for this, Wilhelm,” Dale says, obviously still trying to talk his friend out of this fight. Wilhelm doesn’t even seem to hear him. Even drunk he proves to be an expert swordsman as he manages several near blows. You can see why Dale considered him for swordsmaster, despite his obvious weakness for drink. He manages a strike that gets past Dale’s guard. Luckily Dale is able to step back so it does nothing more than cut his vest.

It's obvious he’s unhurt, but you watch as Dale’s whole demeanor focuses, as he finally stops trying to prevent this fight. He’s graceful and controlled compared to Wilhelm’s swaying, fast movements. You can’t help but admire the picture he creates as he moves. You don’t fear he’ll get hurt, only what he might reveal, and surely a single duel such as this is nothing compared to the tournament. If you worry for anyone, it’s Wilhelm as his skill might force Dale to answer back more strongly than he wants to given his friend’s condition. Although, perhaps they are no longer quite that close.

In the end, Dales doesn’t bother trying to best a swordsman of such caliber, even if he’s soused. Dale seizes the first opening he sees and presses in bodily, catching and tilting the sword points to the left and locking hilts. Wilhelm sputters something about a foul while trying to get free only for Dale to send both rapiers clattering to the floor. Unfortunately with it gone from his hand, Wilhelm seems to remember how to use the rest of his body and he kicks out at Dale’s knee.

“Rotten cheater,” he spits as Dale grunts and tries to stay on his feet. “Why are you—”

Whatever he’s trying to say is cut off by the whole body check Dale gives him, turning his shoulder into Wilhelm’s chest to knock him back. Wilhelm stumbles, trying to stay standing, but Dale follows him. Wilhelm manages to dodge first one punch and then the next, but the third hits him square on the side of the head. His eyes roll back as he drops like a stone.

Someone catches him before he can hit the ground and Dale’s eyes dart around, as if looking for another threat to handle. You finally look away from Dale’s form and notice that the one who caught Wilhelm as he fell wasn’t one of his friends, but your brother, Douglas. In fact, as you look around you, very few of the original group is still present. Callalily’s whispering in the ear of one woman who is being escorted out by Callalily’s husband, who you don’t even recall joining you out here. Callalily walks over to another lingering couple after sending you a wink.

“I apologize for the spectacle,” Dale says to the dwindling group at large. He focuses on Douglas and adds, sounding bewildered at how quickly everything escalated, “He’d been in pleasant spirits earlier.”

“Clearly he ended up deep in the unpleasant ones in the meantime,” Douglas replies with a cheeky grin. “You two,” he looks right at the remaining couple who are currently tending to the drunk woman, “Millie”. They look startled to be addressed while the woman you finally identify as Millian of Sunston pouts at her empty goblet. “Would you be so kind as to guide me to his,” he jostles the still unconscious Wilhelm, “rooms?” Despite that his words are technically a question, Douglas makes it clear there is only one answer he expects. He’s always been rather good at that. Being taller than even Dale helps. “I think it best we aid these two in sleeping the night's events off in peace.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” the woman replies, grateful enough you don’t think she even noticed the implied threat. “My apologies, Dale, for my brother. He—no, no. I apologize profusely for his misbehavior and offer no excuses. We could give none that would be adequate.”

“Peace, Helena,” Dale says, sounding tired. “I should not have encouraged him to enjoy himself so in order to compensate for changing my mind regarding his posting. Regardless, his actions are not your own.”

“Nor yours,” she replies with a self-deprecating smile, “As he has proven himself worthy your reluctance in one foul swoop. I appreciate your understanding his disappointment manifesting itself as it did.”

Dale nods, uninterested in making the night’s ordeal into a longer affair with more obvious recompense as is his right as the challenged noble, the winner of the informal duel, and the owner of this home. For all her feigned confidence, Helena seems relieved at Dale’s easy agreement. You walk over to them, handing Dale his cane back. His eyes are as intent as they ever have been as he looks you over, even though you were not even in the fight. Once secure in your well being, he turns back to Helena. “Please do impress upon him my intolerance of slights aimed at my bethrothed, if not at myself. He’d be wise to apologize.”

“Of course,” Helena reassures him before meeting your eyes. “I beg his pardon and apologize in his stead tonight, my lady. He should never have said what he did and he would never have said them, if not for his overindulgence.”

“I understand and accept your apology,” you reply formally. “We all are aware of how too much fine wine can befuddle the mind and confuse the tongue.”

Millian scoffs at the word ‘confuse’ and Helena and her friend take the opportunity to hustle her away, leading Douglas to sling Wilhelm over his shoulder and follow.

As soon as they are back inside, you notice everyone else in this courtyard has gone as well, only Dale’s valet waits for you within the grand hall’s doorway and Callalily’s district purple and gold dress is evident through the glass window to the right. Grateful you’ve no more audience, you turn to Dale, reaching to trace the cut scored along his vest from Wilhelm’s rapier. “Dale, are you alright? Truly?”

Dale catches your hand in his own larger one. “I’m fine, sana,” Dale says, trying for a smile, but not quite reaching one.

Your disbelief must show on your face because he wipes his free hand down his face and sighs. “I am only tired, as we have discussed.” His thumb absentmindedly strokes the back of your hand, both comforting you and sending a pleasing tingle down your arm. He looks contrite as he says, “I apologize for instigating such a scene.”

“It was no more your fault than Lady Helena’s,” you say, aiming to reassure him. You hope he can tell you’re referring to both his handling of the situation tonight and his decision not to give the swordsmaster posting to Wilhelm in the first place.

You think he understands you, some of the tension in his shoulders dissipating. And yet, he still looks more upset than you’d like from the night’s events. He shakes his head lightly. “All the same, my apologies for the trouble I’ve played a hand in causing.”

“Dale, there’s nothing you’ve done that warrants apology,” you say as sincerely as you are able to.

He gives another small smile in function, if not in sentiment, and lets go of your hand. Reluctantly, you pull it back to yourself, unable to reach back out after he’s pulled away. You glance back inside the hall and try for a smile yourself, hoping to get everything back into a more typical mood. “Shall we return?”

“I’m more tired than I expected after that confrontation,” Dale confesses, shoving his hands into his pockets. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll retire for the night.”

You’re tempted to say that in fact you will not excuse him. You want to demand to know what is weighing so heavily on him these past few days, to shoulder the burden in some way. The most you can likely do is listen to him and he won’t even allow that much. All you need to do is wait three more days, you remind yourself. In three days, you’ll be married and finally alone with each other. You can finally have an honest, private conversation and start your partnership together. You can wait that long. You can. “Of course,” you allow, however reluctantly, “have a restful night.”

A sardonic smile crosses Dale’s face and you think he’s going to make a quip about his tiredness or how much sleep he requires, but then it fades. Do demons get nightmares? Is something else contributing to his exhaustion beyond the galas or the investigation? He looks up at the now dark night sky for a moment before he looks back down at you. He opens his mouth and you think he’s actually going to confide in you. In the end, all he says before walking away is, “I wish the same for you.”

[Part Twenty-Nine]

#my writing #story part #story: nothing's wrong with dale #nothing's wrong with dale #dale #slow burn #monster bf #monster romance #arranged marriage #osha compliant #terato #exophilia #its a long one - the longest one might say #my sister had no opinion about my choice of college and/or major #why do you ask? lol #don't you lov it when people think they know what you want and who you are and what u like better than u do urself?#good intentions #just a bit late #hope theres not too much monologing #hiding in the corner with ur sibling not-yelling at each other #on this 3 days before my wedding #gotta admire a man who can knock out a drunk dude harassing you #douglas also thinks he's funny #chap 2 of 3 brought to you by my week long vacation with all my siblings that just happened #can you tell?#stay tuned for the next chapter with more sibling shenanigans #let me know what you thought!

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moonshine-nightlight · 1 year

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Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Twenty

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale - Chapter 20 - MoonshineNightlight - Original Work [Archive of Our Own]

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5] [Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] Part Twenty [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

Your turn catches Breighton’s attention and you both move to allow Dale and Grandfather into the loose circle that your group has formed.

Greetings fly around as everyone is introduced yet again while you hope this is enough of a disruption for the topic of conversation to change.

You haven’t even had a chance to hear about anything truly new and interesting about medical studies from this world yet.

“Lord Dale,” Dr Louisa says, a glint in her eye you don’t trust. “We were just discussing demonology laws. Given my area of study and given Northridge’s historically rigid stance on the laws forbidding any practice or study of the Depths, I was curious as to what your opinion on the matter was. Or yours as well, Lord Northridge, if anything has changed in that regard.”

You nearly have a heart attack at her bold question. Was the fact that only Grandmother was specifically warned against made her think that meant Grandfather is a more amenable target? Didn’t she realize the original warning was for her own benefit, not Grandmother’s? Your eyes dart to Grandfather and you brace yourself for whatever he’s going to say—you doubt Dale will be able to speak first.

Grandfather frowns sternly at Dr. Louisa, looking at her as if she had asked his opinion on the merits of running around naked with an unsheathed sword in the muck. “My stance has not changed, if you mean to say that Northridge should permit such activities within our lands or that any of the laws written by Lady Northridge should be repealed.” There’s no give to his words, no gentling them or self-consciousness. As if he had been asked if he still thought it was water in the river and couldn’t understand why that was a question in the first place.

He continues reproachfully, “A very audacious question, but I suppose given the foolhardy nature of your studies, unsurprising. Studying the intersection of materials from the Depths with an eye towards our medicine, except in how to counteract their poisonous effects, is the height of arrogance and recklessness. Northridge’s laws remain the gold standard and if everyone were wise enough to adopt them, then the violence and grief in the world would suffer a great blow.”

Dr. Louisa blinks back, clearly not having expected such a definitive and blunt dismissal of her entire field. Teresa pulls her goblet up to her mouth in a poor attempt to hide her grin. “I see,” is all Dr. Louisa manages.

Hopefully, that puts an end to her desire for drama or debate on the topic and you can finally move on.

Unfortunately, not everyone shares your opinion. Kenneth asks, seemingly unable to resist stirring the pot further, “And you, Lord Dale?”

“Hm,” Dale gives his head a little shake, as if bringing himself back to the conversation. “Oh.” The thoughtful frown on his face deepens as he rubs a hand on his chin. He gives Grandfather an apologetic look before he shakes his head. “I’m afraid I do not entirely agree.”

Grandfather turns to give Dale a look of parental skepticism, the kind given when a child expresses an opinion the parent feels they cannot be qualified to speak on. “No?”

Is that a good attitude for Grandfather to have or a bad one? You’re not sure. It’s not suspicious at least.

“No,” Dale repeats. Is it only because of your knowledge of his nature that you see in his eyes when he makes the decision to truly present an opinion other than agreement on this, most delicate of topics. Does it read merely as bracing one’s self to a parent to the others? Or is it only you who can tell what placing his glass down means?

Dale opens his mouth, closes it with a frown, before he begins again, “I understand the motivation behind the laws Grandmother championed at a national level and agree with the vast majority of them.” His voice is careful and firm, but you see him fiddle with a cufflink before continuing, “However, if I am being honest, I feel Northridge’s ban is ultimately to our own detriment.”

This is a risk and you don’t know why Dale is taking it. Obviously, since he’s a demon you assume he must have a less than glowing opinion of Northridge’s stance, but why press that now? Now, when Grandfather had finally backed off? He’s clearly being careful with his words, but why say them at all?

When Grandfather opens his mouth to object, Dale barrels onward, obviously having committed to this conversation, “I certainly do not think the danger is not real or present, however, a complete ban prevents us from truly understanding that danger and prevents us from learning best to counter and deal with such a thing, if it were to arise.”

Your thoughts race with each new word out of Dale’s mouth. Is he trying to test the waters? To see if Grandfather will bend? And to what point? What is he planning? For the first time in a while, you let your worries about what Dale has planned overwhelm your worries for what others have planned for him. What does he want? Why is he still here? Is trusting in him the biggest mistake you’re ever going to make? Why is this the line he’s walking, that he’s pushing?

“Banning the knowledge and materials needed to summon or create portals is what keeps us safe from the very danger they present,” Grandfather scolds.

“What about the Fallridge fire ten years ago?” Dale counters. He glances at the group, likely seeing unfamiliarity with this incident. His eyes end their scan on you and he elaborates, “While home from school, a student tried to use substandard ingredients and whatever notes he could sneak into Northridge to open a portal. The result killed him and everyone within the block.” He turns back to Grandfather. “Let alone the others who died when those firesprits ran loose and no one knew how to seal the portal or banish them?”

You wince at the description of the incident, though you’ve heard similar stories before about summoning mistakes, or those who were summoned correctly but with the intent of causing harm. It does sound like a larger death toll than usual, especially if no one had the supplies or training to put an end to the incident or the demons.

It’s also an interesting angle for Dale to come at this from. You were worried he’d just suggest a repeal to the bans, that having such strict laws is holding the fief back, as you’re certain the original Dale had thought. This Dale though… he’s certainly not trying to downplay the danger demons can present, if anything you think having such trained personnel would only make it hard for him to remain undetected. Why is he going there with this argument? Just hoping to propose stricter protection in order divert suspicion?

“And how bad could it have been if he’d done so correctly?” Grandfather snaps back, but he looks uncomfortable. “What about all the other disasters that the ban prevented from happening?”

Dale looks disappointed in Grandfather’s answer although you think it's a fair question to ask. “Firstly, you know I cannot prove a negative. Secondly, there are plenty of other fiefs that do not have bans who also do not have constant accidents like this. Thirdly, his warding is what failed which means if he’d done so correctly, it is less likely anything would have gotten through. And finally, having trained responders in the guards and our own schools to help combat such an accident could only have helped in this situation.”

Of course, that’s also a fair response. Your own fief, as best as you can remember it, has the same laws as the country as a whole and have not had significant incidents—at least, none that you heard of. While you were never particularly involved in anything regarding the running of your fief—that was your parents and brother and sister-in-law—they did frequently discuss such matters in front of you, having forgotten you were in the room in the first place. You’ve heard of accidents like that once or twice, but always handled competently by the city guards and put to rest quickly.

“A singular occurrence is not enough to call for a solid and successful policy to be re-written or repealed,” Grandfather replies, folding his arms. You can see he’s not willing to concede this point.

Dale folds his own arms in response and you hope he knows what he’s doing because this seems incredibly risky. You’d just gotten Grandfather to fall back from his investigation and now Dale is possibly bringing that back into focus. At least, you feel relatively comforted by the fact that so far, Dale is only discussing policy and law, nothing personal. “What about the incident in Hallen five years back? Or the diplomatic incident with Fief Sularia? They still refuse to talk to any of us. Our mining caravans are more vulnerable to bandits who use demons as they cannot hire any with sufficient knowledge to defend them.

“And even myself.”

Well, there goes that. He has to go and bring up his own experience. You try hard to stop your nails from digging into your arm as you wait for what he’s going to say. “Someone from the family Vitoron attacked me for the fact that his entire family, save himself and his older sister, were worked to death in the mines because of a book they possessed and work they did outside the fief, where it was legal.”

You glance at Breighton to see if she has any insight into this specific incident and see her face has paled.

“What?” Grandfather’s look of frustrated discomfort melts into something truly startled and worried at the last point. “You never said anything of the sort happened.”

“I knew how you and Grandmother would take news of such an occurrence,” Dale replies smoothly, no hint of apology for keeping this from them in his expression. “And while I don’t blame the laws for his actions—revenge against me, who did not write or enforce the laws or actions taken against his family when I was all of nine—what did concern me was that I had no means of defending myself or knowledge of what he was even attempting,” Dale replies, his mouth grim.

“So yes, I did look into demonology.” Dale juts out his chin. “Ignorance is not safety.” For the sake of the sun, you hope this is Dale’s try to convince Grandfather that any odd behavior or demonic knowledge came from before he returned to Northridge, not his accident, but why now? You’d both already hid any reactions to his clumsy unmasking attempts that he’d finally started to truly back off. This seems like a step backwards, like it will make Grandfather more suspicious, not less—or at least anger him. Maybe he was just trying to act as authentic to the original Dale as possible, hoping that would sell the deception?

But is this public argument before he even officially inherited be what Dale would have done? Quite frankly, you didn’t know him well enough to guess. You can only hope this Dale knows what he’s doing.

When Grandfather looks shocked at Dale’s admittance, Dale’s frown deepens. “You trained and taught me to protect myself and Northridge. You expect once I have the opportunity that I would neglect to learn to protect myself from what is potentially the greatest one?”

“Those tools and knowledge are double-edged blades—poisonous ones at that,” Grandfather says, obviously settling on parental outrage. His face is hot with anger, though you expect it is also to cover up embarrassment at Dale’s public disagreement. And it's not as though you don’t think he believes what he’s saying about the danger.

“All tools are. All knowledge is,” Dale retorts, sounding the most like his old self since the accident—but even in his anger, there is a restraint, an attempt at sounding measured that the original Dale never thought to exercise. “I’ll not leave myself vulnerable out of fear or the misguided arrogance that I can successfully remove the threat entirely. I’ll not be held captive in my own home.”

“Dale,” Grandfather looks stricken by that statement. “That’s not the purpose of our laws. That does not mean that there are not degrees of danger. One can be warned against poisons without sampling them and hoping you survive.”

Is Dale trying to use the original Dale’s thoughts and motivations to justify laxing the laws in Northridge so that later he can take advantage of not having to hide so much? Is now the time for that? Your eyes go to Breighton, who looks grave as her eyes dart between her father and nephew, her lips firmly pressed together.

“Can they? In Northridge?” Dale asks, resigned, as he picks up his goblet once more, eyes focusing intently on the liquid within like it might hold the answers he seeks. “Because from where I’m standing everything is banned, including how to protect oneself.”

“There should be nothing to protect yourself from, if everyone would simply listen to reason and stop inviting venomous snakes into their homes or playing with fireworks indoors,” Grandfather snaps.

“But they won’t,” Dale says, the frown set deeper in his face, his countenance dark. “They’re never going to.”

“There is no safe way to engage with demonoloy or summoning,” Grandfather says, a cord on his neck standing out. “I don’t know what you thought you learned or what benefits you think you gained with that knowledge, but you’ve only put yourself in unnecessary danger.”

Dale opens his mouth to respond, his eyes snapping, but Grandfather refuses to let him. “I will not hear anything more about this and you’ll not mention anything of the sort to your Grandmother. She has worked far too hard and for far too many years to keep you safe to hear you’ve disrespected her efforts in such a manner—to say nothing of the disrespect to the memory of your parents.”

Dale had pressed his lips together when Grandfather mentioned Grandmother, looking away, but at the mention of his parents, he snaps back to attention. Taking a step towards Grandfather, Dale says, heatedly, “You may disagree with my decisions, but do not suggest I did so out of disrespect. That I did not do so because of what happened to them, not despite it.”

“Father,” Breighton’s voice cuts through the tense silence, her hand landing on Grandfather’s shoulder. The other landed on Dale’s. “Dale. Now is not the time nor place for such a discussion. I know that neither of you would disrespect Remmy or Qiana and you know that about each other too. This is a celebration of a betrothal, not a magistrates court. No laws are being rewritten tonight. And no one is going to get Mother involved in this either. Yes?”

Grandfather looks as though he wants to disagree, but then he finally looks away from Dale to meet Brieghton’s eyes. Whatever he sees there, makes him deflate. He bows his head slightly. “Yes.”

“Yes,” Dale echoes after a similar look from Breighton. He looks more annoyed than Grandfather, but also more cowed.

Grandfather sighs, looking tired. “I know your intentions are meant for the best, Dale. That whatever you’ve done is because you felt it warranted. I am aware you have felt trapped in Northridge in the past, but that has never been our intent. We have only ever acted for your safety and wellbeing.”

“I know,” Dale admits before downing the rest of his wine glass. “I did not mean to imply otherwise.”

Breighton lets go of both of them at those words, seemingly aware that's as close to an apology either of them will get. She turns back to the group, who have, out of politeness or discomfort, given the Northridges’ space. They closed their circle to talk quietly amongst themselves while the family argument between their hosts resolved—no doubt listening, but at least pretending for propriety that they were not.

Before she can say anything to smooth your return to more calm conversation, a sudden noise makes you wince and look around, eyes a bit wild, at the sound of a threat when you are already so tense. Instead, your gaze lands on the balcony overhead where the instruments for the musicians had been left. Multiple people are up there and seem to be setting up to resume performing. One of them gives you an apologetic look before returning to her cello.

Breighton has snagged Teresa’s elbow, who steps aside easily so Breighton can say to the rest of the group, “It looks as though the music will be starting up again momentarily. Was someone going to fetch us when the Governor’s study room was ready?” She directs the question to Dr. Louisa, who had originally went to see about it, but there is that same sharpness Breighton occasionally has that betray, despite her mild words, the fact that she remembered exactly who instigated the argument.

“They were supposed to come to me,” Dr. Louisa replies evenly, her voice calm and giving no hint that she might be concerned about Breighton’s ire—except the wary look in her eyes. You don’t think she regrets what she pushed for, but she’s at least aware it had consequences and that Breighton will not forget.

You wish you could send Dr. Louisa the bill for the next batch of ingredients for calming and sleeping teas you’ll have to order after this conversation. This betrothal has made you work through your store at an unprecedented rate–the only other times you came close was during final exam periods. That’s not all her fault, but tonight certainly is.

“However,” Dr. Louisa continues. “I propose we head over now regardless. Perhaps we can intercept a messenger.”

“Why don’t we wait in the chess room?”Alent speaks up. “I know the Governor always has it prepared, for all there’s not much to amuse oneself with there. We can let someone know we’ve relocated there to wait. It’s directly off this hall.” He begins to purposely move in that direction and the others follow.

Julion catches the attention of a maid to tell her we’re moving while Breighton purposely steers Grandfather to the other side of the group from both Dale and Dr. Louisa. Since he’s met Kenneth before that seems like the safest move. You nod in response to her look and heard Dale towards Teresa—the least intimidating member of the party—for distraction.

You wind up in step with her and you’re grateful when she picks up the conversation right away, asking Dale what universities and colleges he’s visited throughout his travels. That leaves Grandfather up front, with the other members of the group in the middle, and Dr. Louisa just ahead of you, Dale, and Teresa who are pulling up the rear.

As you make your way through the rather crowded hall, conversation getting louder as the musicians who are ready begin to play once more, you start to feel claustrophobic. The only benefit to being somewhat of a main attraction at these events is that usually there’s more open area around you. Now that you’ve got to cross the entire hall and everyone’s caught up in the gala, which is in full swing with the music returning, that’s not true. You’ve never wished for that extra attention and therefore space more.

After the pair of you are jostled by a hurrying woman, you start to remind Dale to use his cane, for it often seems to slip his mind at these events, but then you stop. You don’t want to come across as ordering him about—that’s one of the reasons Grandfather was suspicious in the first place. Nor do you want to seem overly fretful—or draw too much attention to his continued balance problems.

Of course, him tripping reminds people of that as well. Still, you’re not going far and the cane is in his belt, if he needs it. If he needed it, he’d use it. You’re just looking for something to do, some way to offload some of the tension still causing you to hold yourself tight.

You can’t say you contribute much to the conversation between Teresa and Dale. Between the noise of the crowd, your own nervousness, and the fact that you haven’t traveled much yourself, you feel strangely out-of-place, like an impostor despite this whole event technically being held for you. Like someone’s going to catch you and Dale in your lie at any second. It’s the most uncomfortable you’ve felt at one of these events after going to so many the past few weeks.

Reaching the chess room and entering the mildly cooler room feels like a relief. Since nothing has happened yet, each minute that passes feels like it's lifting the weight slowly from your shoulders.

As you all rearrange yourself around one of the tall tables, Dale catches his foot on a too long tablecloth and stumbles. As the other closest person, Dr Louisa reflexively steadies him, clasping Dale’s hands and forearms as she helps him regain his balance.

Dale smiles ruefully, saying, “I thought training would be the time I needed my cane the most, but alas, the opposite appears to be true. My primary instances of near falls have all been while walking at my leisure, rather than during anything rigorous.”

You quickly move in to offer your own hands to aid him in stabilizing his balance and something dark catches your eye. Does Dale have ink on his hands? How odd, neither of you did any paperwork today.

Then you remember: Dr. Louisa’s gloves. Your hands clench around on his own, his fingers instinctively curling around yours. She said they revealed the stain of a demon when coming in contact with them in the flesh or the possessed.

Shit.

Dr. Louisa seems preoccupied with her discussion with Scholar Callipan and has already dismissed her contact with Dale, but who knows how long this effect lasted? She had said not long but what did that mean?

Dale doesn’t seem to have noticed your grip on his hand is far tighter than it should be, which is smething. He also doesn’t seem to have noticed what’s happened because now that you’re paying attention, you can see his other palm as he returns it to his side. There are dark, rich blue deepening to black smudges blooming where Dr. Louisa’s gloves touched him. And he’s making no move to hide them.

You need to either alert Dale so he could be extremely careful himself or get him away from Dr. Louisa so she can’t notice. Ideally you want to find some way to cover up his hands, though you’ve no idea how to subtly encourage Dale to put on gloves without anyone else noticing. Plenty of the others overheard her explanation of Dr. Louisa’s gloves and you didn’t want to alert any of them.

“Excuse me?” You turn to see a maid just inside the entryway. She curtsies and says, “Dr Louisa?” Dr Louisa nods, taking a step forward to identify herself. “The Governor’s study is now available for your use.

“Wonderful,” Dr Louisa says before turning to the others, “I know we only just arrived here, but let us relocate once more.”

“Yes, let’s,” Kenneth agrees. “There will be more room there and there’s a manuscript on the Governor’s shelves that I’m certain will support my point.”

“If you think it will aid in your case,” Julion says and gestures out of the room, “you’re welcome to attempt to locate this tome. I cannot wait to hear about how you misremembered which book or see that it will show I am correct.”

“This is far too academic for me,” Grandfather says and you risk looking directly at him, having avoided doing so since the argument. He seems more or less back to his usual demeanor, for all his gaze skitters over you and Dale relatively quickly. Good news for now, though it does nothing to calm you down. “I believe I shall return my wife’s side.”

Everyone murmurs their farewell to him and your mind races to come up with a similar excuse to leave the group without having to follow Grandfather—that seemed far too risky.

Another note from a violin pulls at your attention and inspiration strikes. “Lord Dale, would you care to indulge me with a dance? I adore this song,” you say, hoping your smile seems sincere to the others as well as Dale.

He turns to look at you at your words and so do quite a few of the others. You’re suddenly aware that you’re still holding one of his hands in both of yours, covering his palm as thoroughly as you can since you haven’t been able to think of a way to subtly grab the other. Do you look too simpering or clingy, holding on to him like this? You try to remind yourself that Dale is your fiance, that this is well within the bounds of acceptable contact and of acceptable social requests.

Dale looks mildly surprised, but his eyes dart to the musicians and to the paused scholars. While it feels far longer to you, it's truly only a few seconds before he smiles. “Of course, my lady.” He nods to the others, “Please excuse us. We shall endeavor to rejoin you later.”

They all murmur their farewells and none seem to take second glances at Dale or his hands. A few look mildly amused by your hold on him or perhaps your request. Someone makes a joke to his husband about how they used to dance when they were newly married.

Still, you don’t feel the steel rod of tension melt from your spine until you’re on the dancefloor, one of Dale’s hands clasped in your own and the other firmly pressed to your waist. You hope that between the dance’s movements, the lack of the more educated audience, and then your hands covering each other will help mask any sign of Dr. Louisa’s little test until the effects dissipate.

While you’re starting to relax, you stumble as the dance picks up pace. Dale’s hold on you is strong enough that you don’t fall out of step too badly. You try to recenter yourself in the moment, in the dance, before you make a more obvious mistake when Dale asks, “Are you quite alright?”

“Hm?” You look up to see him looking down on you, concern in his expression. You feel some heat in your cheeks as you rush to reassure him, “Oh, yes, I’m fine.” He still doesn’t seem aware of what happened and while you’re glad that means whatever the darkening effect is, it doesn’t hurt, it does mean he’s likely confused to some degree by your desire to dance and then inattention to the movements of it.

Before you can make an excuse, he looks almost guilty as he says, “I hope I didn’t upset you back there. I hadn’t meant to start such an argument with Grandfather.”

Your fingers tighten briefly around his at the reminder, but you try to smile back at him. “I did not think that was your intent.”

“But you do think it was poorly timed,” Dale deduces.

It’s one thing to still be hesitant in large groups, but you have been making strides with being more honest with Dale. “Perhaps, with such a sensitive topic, at a party, with an audience before… Now, was not the best choice.”

Dale sighs, looking out over your head as you turn. “You’re probably right, though I struggle to think of a good time.”

“I doubt there will be, but there will still be better ones than now.”

“You are right, I simply couldn’t resist the opportunity,” Dale replies. He looks back down at you. “Poor judgment on my end, but I grow weary of so much talk around things, vague allusions to topics that can’t be broached because of propriety, time spent with nothing much to show for it.

“It’s been a long few days,” you reply, rather relieved to hear him say as much. “A necessary stepping stone, but a tiring one, especially with these galas thrown into the mix alongside the meetings. I’ve never met or talked to so many new people in my life.” In fact, the act of dancing without having to listen intently and worry about what you say is welcome. You feel yourself settling even further, away from the danger and, while not truly alone, at least currently only expected to converse with Dale.

Dale actually lets out a short laugh at that pronouncement. You cautiously meet his eyes and smile shyly when you see he’s truly not laughing at you, but with you. “It has been rather a marathon of meetings and galas, hasn’t it?” Dale agrees. He gives you a smile that says he’s happy to be in on the secret. “I’m pleased to help you escape whenever you’d like, provided you don’t mind my own company.”

Your smile widens, this is what you’d been wanting—a friend, a partner, an equal who helps you as you help him. “Of course not,” you reassure him, “it's not the same sort of thing at all.”

“No?” he asks, sounding amused.

“Oh!” You blanch at how that might sound and rush to clarify you don’t mean to discount his company, “I didn’t mean that as an insult, rather the opposite, I promise.” Aside from still being very aware of Dale’s physical presence and his attention when alone with him, most other sources of tension and worry that usually tug on you are less.

In fact, the remaining danger seems to be the way he makes the rest of the world fade away, makes you want to lean on him in this dance, far closer than it requires. To spill your thoughts even though there’s no call for it. To ask him the many questions of who he really is and why he does what he does that stay buried so that you can still claim ignorance. Because you are still afraid of what the answers might be.

“No insult taken,” Dale replies, sincere enough that you believe him. He spins you around in time with the music and that must be why you feel lightheaded when he pulls you back. He continues, confiding, “I rather feel the same. There is so much to remember and a chance to breathe is appreciated—well, so to speak.”

You puff out air as the pair of you spin out and away, taking more jumping steps with the music. You briefly trade partners for the next portion of the dance before you’re spun back together. The dance slows enough for you to allow you to attempt to manage your panting.

“Yes,” you agree, out of breath, but enjoying yourself despite the exertion. There had been so many years when you couldn’t have managed more than the first few steps before needing to sit down and you always get a thrill when you remember you can truly dance now. Beyond that, so much close attention on talk and connections and names—the simplicity of dancing in terms of deep thought is making you feel almost fluttery without the weight of concentration. “Dances such as these do rather discourage conversation by virtue of leaving you with little breath to do so.”

“Was that not your plan to avoid conversation with me from the start?” Dale asks, his tone nearly as arch as his eyebrow.

You’re relieved that by now you can tell when he's teasing you. Your cheeks are hot from the exertion, not from said teasing, you reassure yourself as you try to toss back, “You overestimate me, my Lord.”

Dale laughs as he spins you away from him. You trade partners in a whirl of motion before he catches hold of you once more. He tilts his head down in order to speak close to your ear—his words for you alone, “I don’t think I do, my Lady."

[Part Twenty-One]

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