On the seventh day, after falling asleep despite his best efforts, Able woke with an excitement he couldn't contain. He tried, of course, to not get his hopes worked up, as he could not know where the day would lead. At the same time, he felt he had made it, he had survived his trial, and help would finally be here. Lark would finally be here.
His excitement proved justified in the late morning when an enforcer dropped by the records room to inform him he had a visitor at the gate. He still had to keep it under wraps, of course, just in case he was wrong, but it slipped right out of the bag when he saw the figure in the dress and wide floral hat. Fortunately, he had a good hundred yards of walking to get his stupid smile under control.
A pony—Able thought he recognized it for one of Laughter's—was tied beside the wagon shed, and Lark stood not far from it. His skirt was the sort that flared out when the wearer twirled; Able could tell this because Lark kept twisting his hips to make it do just that. Able recognized his suitcase, open with the contents spread around, sitting on the backboard of one of the wagons, and all of this was attended by a broad-chested but balding enforcer. It was unclear whether he was more perturbed with Lark's appearance or the fact that Lark had thoroughly charmed his guard dog, which sat attentively every time Lark reminded it he didn't want its muddy paws on his ensemble and received a scratch behind the ears in reward.
"Houser," he snapped to attention, "this-this...person says that you...sent this letter? And these are your clothes?"
"Yes, and thank you," Able accepted his letter back from the lawman's hand. "I presume everything's in order?"
"If he was supposed to unpack your luggage, yes," Lark put in mildly.
"It's security protocol, sir, I can't—"
"I understand," Able gestured to his bedraggled appearance, "and is it clear? As I'd really like to change."
"Yes," he said after a quick pause. "Yes, very good. Come." This was to the dog, who readily followed the enforcer back to the guard house.
"Bye, Brute," Lark said airily as he fluffed the shimmery scarf draped around his shoulders. He saw Able's look and clarified, "What? The dog's name."
"Oh," Able went to the backboard and began fitting his clothes back into his bag. "Thank you so much for bringing these."
"But of course," Lark sidled over to lean against the wagon. Able thought he seemed a little anxious just before he noticed a dark green bundle he did not recognize. He unfolded it to discover it was an overcoat.
"What is this?"
"You said you were cold," he said softly, averting his gaze to his fidgeting fingers.
"Lark, I can't pay you for this," Able wasn't protesting, exactly. He simply didn't know how to accept a gift of this magnitude.
"You can pay me by not losing your nose and fingers to the frost. Go on—let's see! I was guessing at your measurements."
Able removed his jacket and considered the stains and smell of his shirt before removing that as well. He noticed Lark had averted his gaze to the grounds and didn't know how worrying he should find that as he quickly pulled the fresh shirt on before he took a chill. The coat easily slid up his arms and perched on his shoulders like it belonged there, which was not something he would have thought of any of the clothes he'd ever worn before.
"Looks like I got it pretty close," Lark rubbed his chin and walked about Able with a frown. "Might be on the small side. Cross your arms?"
Able did, "Feels fine." He also worked his arms in a circle.
"I had wanted you to be able to wear a jacket under it," Lark grumbled and came around to pick at the front of the coat.
"I'm sure the thinner ones will fit," Able soothed and shrugged a bit to see if the coat would slide. It continued to sit where it was. "I'm no expert, but I think the fit's just about perfect."
"Yeah?" the brown eyes raised from where Lark had been buttoning the coat. Able cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"It is also surprisingly tasteful and low-profile."
"Sur—hey," Lark growled, but to suppress a laugh. "Low-profile is not what's called for in a 'landlady.'"
"I think you are one flower-besotted hat beyond your standard landlady," Able chuckled.
"This hat is everything," Lark huffed.
"It certainly has everything."
"Okay, it might be a bit much-y," Lark allowed, "but, it's a parasol day, see, but have you ever tried riding with a parasol?"
"Of course not."
"Of course not, that would be stupid," his emphasis was such that Able refrained from chuckling. "So the hat was the next best thing. And it does the job," he added, touching the brim, "picking up the breezes just so..." Lark trailed off and looked at Able a moment longer while inhaling, then looked away and deflated.
Able had no idea what he was on about, but he definitely recognized the feeling of trying to talk about something important with someone who neither understood nor cared to. And actually, now that the breeze ruffled his hair as it carried along the scent of alyssum from the half-completed gardens, maybe he did have an inkling as to what Lark was on about. He reached for his—no her elbow and, cupping it gently, asked:
"Would you care to walk the grounds?" And then, knowing this was intensely stupid yet sensing it might help, he offered her his arm. Lark had looked at his face in surprise when he first touched her arm, and now was looking at his arm with that same surprise.
"Yes," she said after a second's hesitation. "Yes, I would." She slid her arm into his.
They walked. Lark didn't know where to put her hand at first, so Able took it upon himself to guide it to his bicep, and even then she couldn't decide how tightly she was supposed to be gripping. At the same time, Able found himself relaxing. He knew how to escort a lady—had learned all manners of etiquette in his time in the Circle of Knowledge. Furthermore, he liked etiquette, even when the rules were undoubtedly silly, they were still a chart on hand to help him navigate the seas of humanity. Perhaps he was unwieldy with them, but it seemed to him a shield you had half a grip on was better than no shield at all.
"Say, was Steadfast Buckler from Kettlebrook?" Able felt this a safe conversation topic while enforcers were still in earshot.
"Yes," she nodded. "Furniture maker, mostly, but he also made the fastest toboggans."
"...what's that?"
"Haha, a sled without runners, silly. Are you about to ask me what a sled is too?"
"No," Able huffed. "It's a transport for over snow."
"Very good!" Lark laughed. "He'd make these little ones that were ostensibly meant to haul your gear after you so you didn't sink into the snow from carrying it on your back, but truly, the best use for them is riding downhill and trying to be faster than the other kids without smashing into a tree."
"Since you've thankfully avoided breaking your neck, you'll be invaluable to me if you'd check my notes from the camp."
"Sure, I can do that," she nodded, tapped Able's hand, then pulled away. He let his hand fall then turned to face her.
"I liked that," she frowned. "And yet I...I kept thinking it might be demeaning." She rubbed her temple.
"All right," Able nodded and, for want of anything safe to do with his hands, slid them into his pockets. "It just seemed to me that you..." but he didn't know how to finish that sentence.
"Not at all," Lark picked up quickly. "No one has ever gone so far as to treat me like a lady before, and I thank you for that. I really do. I just...the whole time I couldn't shake the feeling that ladies are so often ill-used. That I—not that you..."
"It probably doesn't help that we're not in a safe place." They were, however, between the blooming and empty flower beds to the south of the manor house, far from the paths traveled by the castle residents as they went about their business, and probably as safe as they were going to get. "Your cousin doesn't seem to think he's in a safe place either."
"I'd ask if he's worse than I remember, but you wouldn't know how that was," Lark scratched her arm idly and looked to the mansion as though she could see inside.
"He's looking at the world through wounded eyes."
"Oh, so you are a writer," Lark tossed him a grin. "It's an easy trap to fall into. All of us do it from time to time."
"But most of us don't take up residence in the hole."
"Well? You said you were going to see what you think. So what do you think?"
"I think," Able took a breath, "Adeptsby is on the verge of collapse...or revolt. If Reeve has any sense, he'll send most of the indentured home before winter and move the garrison to Aimsby."
"Be cruel to send them home for winter."
"What?" Able was surprised.
"None of them have had the chance to prepare for it!" Lark spread her arms wide emphatically. Able thought of the snow, thought of frozen ground.
"...right. He should pay them from the grain stockpiles then, first. That was one thing Adeptson was wise enough to follow through on, which I suppose suggests a one in ten chance he'll actually find a reasonable argument convincing instead of labeling it crown-sponsored sabotage. And no, those are not odds I like."
"Well," Lark twisted her hips to make her skirt twirl again while she furrowed her brow thoughtfully. "What else is there?"
"...I met Constance Driver."
"Ah," she raised her eyebrows. "And she made you very nervous, I see."
"She has this effect on you as well, I think."
"I...wellllll, I don't really like to tangle with Constance, no. Really don't like."
"What exactly does she have on you?"
"Uh, my identity?"
"So that's why you're in such a rush to blow it."
"I'm not in a rush," she snorted. "It's a risk. It's a risk, and I'm willing to take it. I don't want to think about how mad it'll make Constance, but..."
"I take it she wants Adeptsby to fall."
"Exactly, she does, to weaken my sire's regime. And she doesn't care what happens to the people here. My problem is I do."
"Problem?" Able raised an eyebrow. "That's a problem?"
"I'm not really a big picture person," she shifted uncomfortably.
"Well, I am something of a big picture person, and I would never call it a problem," Able said firmly. He knew, with a tremor of dread, that he was about to be called on to back that up, yet still he felt deeply that Lark needed to hear it. Feelings were going to get him killed.
"You will when I say I still want to do something about it."
"Yes, I know that's where this was going," Able sighed. "But there's 'risk,' and then there's 'suicide.' Lark, you go in there, and it is just you. Just you and two hundred seventy-four men at arms. I am exactly no amount of back-up."
She raised an eyebrow, "I'm not sure that many people would fit into that building."
"You know what I mean."
"And you know?" Lark grunted, "I have lost count of how many operations I've undertaken. Well lost count of how many opponents I have bested, and don't even have a clear idea of how many at a time I've managed to handle. And since no one can enlighten me, I'd assume no one else could keep track either. And yet, I daily run into folks that doubt my ability? What the hell."
"I think," Able replied carefully, "that we don't understand how it's possible for you to be as good at fighting as you are."
"Yeah?" Lark tossed a sideways glance, but then lightened her tone, "well, from my perspective, I don't understand how everyone else is as laughably bad at it as they are. But I'm sure you never have that thought about anything, yeah?" She elbowed Able in the side.
"We all have our particular talents," Able allowed with a quirk of his mouth.
"And mine ain't singing."
"And mine isn't cooking."
"Oh-ho!" Lark pealed with laughter, and Able studiously looked ahead of himself to not get caught up staring at that beautiful smile. "The way you eat? What would you call that, taste-deaf?"
"Ageusic. Although I'm not—"
"You know I was only asking because I wanted to know," Lark was laughing again.
"Really? Then you'll want to hear that aguesia refers to lack of being able to taste, as deafness means unable to hear. Since I have some sense of taste, we'd need to be specific as to what I am unable to taste."
"Fashion-aguesic," Lark replied, and Able had to admit he was impressed she hadn't even missed a beat.
"Hey, it's your coat, and you know you love it on me."
"Not half as much as I love that you know a random-yet-specific word off the top of your head like that." Able felt his face warm.
"Is this you trying to butter me up so I agree to this insane plan we both know damn well I am going to agree to anyway?"
"Able," Lark's smile faded, "if you don't want to..."
"I don't want to. We're talking about a highly volatile situation in which thousands if not tens of thousands of people are about to have their lives destroyed if not lost. In all probability, the only change appealing to Adeptson will make is adding our bodies to the count."
"I have to at least try," Lark murmured, bringing an echo from twelve years past to Able's ears.
"Famous last words," he sighed and rubbed his face. He would not take on the role of his mother in this reenactment.
"Okay, stop acting like you don't have a choice."
"I don't have a choice, Lark," Able huffed. "I have an arbitrary internal moral compass just like yours. So."
"So," her smile glimmered back—no, glowed a little differently this time. "We're doing this?"
Able heaved a long sigh, "Yes."