Chapter 21: Moist

In the hushed sanctity of their next magic lesson, Dias, her brow furrowed in concentration, posed a question that had clearly been weighing on her mind. "Teacher," she began, her voice earnest, "how might I endeavor to increase the very wellspring of my mana, its ultimate capacity?"

Through the concealing gauze of her veil, Mélusine observed the young Duke, her student. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift had occurred. Initially, Dias had approached the study of magic as a mere means to an end – a desperate gambit to cure her debilitating affliction. Now, however, Mélusine could sense it: a new, more potent desire, a nascent hunger for power itself, had taken root in the fertile soil of the young Duke’s heart, its tendrils beginning to unfurl. Out of a profound and paternal respect for the absent Corneille, Mélusine resolved that she would not actively nurture this burgeoning avarice in her apprentice. Yet, out of a genuine and growing appreciation for Dias’s keen intellect and unwavering spirit, neither would she outright deny or condemn it.

Thus, she merely, and with a carefully measured neutrality, answered the question directly posed. "A 'Wanderer' in the arcane arts, such as yourself at present, need do little beyond the ordinary. Diligently practice the foundational spells, allow the mana to flow freely and naturally within your corporeal form, and your inherent capacity for holding that energy will, with time and consistent effort, gradually and imperceptibly increase."

"And will it," Dias pressed, her eyes alight with a fervent curiosity, "continue to grow thus, endlessly, without limit?"

"Nay, child," Mélusine replied, "It will not. It is ultimately, and inexorably, constrained by the limits of your own innate talent, the unique magical signature with which you were born. That inborn talent, that divine spark, determines the theoretical upper limit for any 'Wanderer.' All their diligent efforts, all their tireless practice, serve merely to allow them to reach that preordained, and often frustratingly finite, ceiling."

"Which means," Dias deduced, her mind racing with the implications, "that those who are known as 'Adepts,' and indeed, the even more formidable 'Masters,' must possess other, more potent, methods… It must be the domain-exclusive magic!"

Mélusine inclined her veiled head in a gesture of acknowledgment. "Indeed. It is the domain-exclusive magic, the deeper, more arcane mysteries, that allows a witch to shatter the mundane limitations of her innate talent, to continuously, and often painfully, surpass her former self, to ascend to new and ever more breathtaking heights of power."

Dias, her curiosity now a burning flame, leaned forward. "Teacher," she asked, "what manner of magic do you employ to augment your own reserves of mana? Could you, perhaps, speak of it in a… general fashion… without, of course, revealing any sacred, domain-bound secrets?"

"Love," Mélusine replied, her voice a soft, almost melancholic, breath.

A silent, bewildered question mark seemed to hang in the air between them.

Mélusine, her gaze distant, as if looking upon some long-forgotten, bittersweet memory, elaborated. "A witch of the 'Lovers' domain, such as myself, after establishing a profound and exclusive romantic relationship with one, and only one, cherished lover – the longer she remains utterly and unequivocally physically faithful to that chosen individual, the more her own innate mana capacity increases. Although the 'reward,' as it were, granted by such unwavering fidelity on any given day is, perhaps, infinitesimally small, almost imperceptible, over the long, slow passage of years, of decades, it accumulates, like grains of sand upon a timeless shore, into a truly vast, almost unimaginable quantity of power. If, for instance," her voice dropped to an almost reverent whisper, "this sacred bond of fidelity can be maintained, unsullied and unbroken, for a full fifty years, that witch, by that devotion alone, can attain a mana capacity comparable to that of even the most formidable 'Rex Nemorensis.' Love…" she concluded, a faint, almost wistful, smile touching her unseen lips, "is quite… extraordinarily grand, is it not, my young apprentice?"

Dias found himself nodding in solemn agreement with Mélusine’s sentiment. Yet, a small, disquieting voice in the back of her mind whispered that what her enigmatic teacher so eloquently professed, and what she actually, demonstrably, practiced in her own solitary, veiled existence, were two entirely different and perhaps irreconcilable things. Why, she wondered, did Mélusine so passionately extol the virtues of romantic love, yet so steadfastly, almost fearfully, avoid seeking any such companionship for herself? Dias, with an effort, curbed her burgeoning curiosity. An innate kindness, a gentleness of spirit that often allowed her to perceive the subtle, unspoken truths that eluded the more pragmatic and often more cynical Corneille, made her sense that Mélusine’s layers of mystery, her carefully constructed walls of emotional restraint, were merely a defensive response, a coping mechanism, born of an unfamiliar and undoubtedly intimidating new environment. As they had grown more familiar, more comfortable in each other’s presence, although Mélusine had not yet seen fit to shed her concealing, all-enveloping attire, Dias felt, with a growing certainty, that she had begun to truly understand the essential nature of her enigmatic teacher’s character: beneath the somber black robes and the ever-present, impenetrable veil, there hid a kind, almost tragically naive and profoundly lonely witch… though, she conceded with an inward sigh, being so utterly and so determinedly single for so prolonged a period had, perhaps, rendered her personality just a trifle… peculiar.

Dias did not share her dawning and rather poignant discovery with Corneille. The crushing, relentless weight of responsibility, the constant, gnawing fear for Dias’s safety, had, she knew, forged Corneille’s worldview into one of deep, almost ingrained, suspicion. He would, Dias knew with a certainty that saddened her, surely not believe such a… charitable… assessment of any witch in Waite.

The intense mental exertion of his magical studies always left Dias with a ravenous, almost insatiable, craving for sugar. As if summoned by her very thoughts, Corneille entered the study just then, bearing a silver platter laden with glistening, artfully cut fresh fruit. Dias, her mind still wrestling with the arcane principles of mana manipulation, reached out a hand, its fingers still faintly stained with ink, towards a particularly tempting slice of ripe melon. Corneille, with a swift and almost reflexive movement, gently slapped her hand away. He then, with a practiced and paternal care, speared the desired piece of fruit with a small, silver toothpick and with a faint, teasing smile, offered it directly to her lips. Dias, without a moment’s hesitation, opened her mouth and accepted the sweet offering, her expression one of perfect, unthinking naturalness. In the long, weary years of her past, when she had been so often, so cruelly, confined to the suffocating stillness of her sickbed, Corneille had frequently, and with an unwavering gentle patience, "fed" her in precisely this manner. Now, after "he" had become "she," although she was no longer bedridden, no longer an invalid, the deeply ingrained and mutually comforting habit of Corneille "feeding" her had, by some unspoken, mutual consent, remained.

This simple, ordinary scene of quiet, domestic intimacy, however, caused Mélusine’s unseen eyes to burn with a sudden, unbidden, and surprisingly fierce pang of envy. Just as she was sinking into a familiar, melancholic reverie, her mind desperately seeking escape from the harsh, lonely realities of her existence in the comforting, if ultimately illusory, realms of her own vivid daydreams, Corneille, his expression uncharacteristically serious, approached her.

"Mademoiselle Mélusine," he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very air around her, "I have something of considerable import to discuss with you. Something… very important indeed."

A guilty, almost terrified Mélusine nearly slid from her chair. In her humid, clandestine, and increasingly elaborate fantasies, she and this… this magnificent, infuriating barbarian – this flagrant, unrepentant exhibitionist who so brazenly, so gloriously, disregarded every sacred tenet of male virtue, who exuded an almost palpable, intoxicating sensuality with his every breath, his every movement – had shared a great many… profoundly unspeakable… and deeply, deeply satisfying… imaginary encounters.

Corneille, his brow furrowed with a faint, almost imperceptible concern at her sudden, flustered movement, reached out a steadying hand and gently, yet firmly, righted her on her chair. His body, she noted with a fresh wave of dizziness, was warm, almost radiating heat, and carried the faint, yet distinct and undeniably alluring scent of vanilla. As Mélusine inhaled Corneille’s unique, intoxicating aroma, she felt her head begin to spin, her heart accelerate to a frantic, hummingbird-like rhythm, her limbs grow heavy, weak, almost useless.

Corneille, entirely misinterpreting her rather… dramatic… physical reaction, nodded slowly. "Ah," he said, his voice carefully neutral, "so you are, as I suspected, already well-informed of the matter."

"You… you misunderstand me, Monsieur," Mélusine stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

"Very well," Corneille conceded, though a flicker of doubt still lingered in his eyes. "Be that as it may. Your… esteemed family is, at this very moment, taking rather decisive action against you. This is a piece of intelligence I chanced to gather at the recent charity gala. Her Imperial Highness Isabella herself vouches for its absolute, unequivocal veracity."

"..." Mélusine sat, frozen, her mind a chaotic whirl.

"What," Corneille pressed gently, "are your thoughts on this development?"

"I… I do not wish to return to them," Mélusine whispered.

"Then there is no problem," Corneille stated, his voice firm, reassuring. "You may, of course, remain here, under my protection. I have signed a formal contract with you, Mademoiselle. And until the stipulated date of its expiration, I shall, without fail, honor our agreement and continue to provide you with sanctuary within these walls."

Dias, at that moment, excused herself to attend to a call of nature. Corneille, too, was about to return to his own chamber to review some urgent dispatches when he felt a light, hesitant tug on his sleeve. He turned, his expression questioning, to look at Mélusine, who had, with a surprising boldness, detained him. "Is there… something further, Mademoiselle?"

"...Thank you, Monsieur Corneille," she said, her voice small, almost childlike. "Thank you for… for sharing that vital intelligence with me. And also… I… I must offer you my sincerest apologies. I confess, I… I held certain… unfair prejudices… against you before. Now, however… now, I believe that you, and indeed, young Monsieur de Toledo as well… I believe you are both… truly good people."

A rare, almost boyish, grin touched Corneille’s lips. "And here I had thought, Mademoiselle, that you might perhaps be inclined to praise me for possessing such… exemplary male virtue."

"...That," Mélusine said, a faint blush rising beneath her veil, "is an entirely separate, and rather more… complex… matter. I still maintain, Monsieur, that you should, perhaps, endeavor to dress more… decorously… when in the presence of ladies. But I am, nonetheless, equally, and most profoundly, grateful that you have chosen, out of what I can only perceive as genuine goodwill, to inform me of this… impending danger."

"And how can you be so certain, Mademoiselle," Corneille inquired, his gaze suddenly sharp, appraising, "that I did not make a carefully calculated decision based purely upon considerations of my own self-interest?"

"Because," Mélusine replied, her voice gaining a surprising strength, a quiet conviction, "my sixth sense, Monsieur Corneille, is… unusually acute. The different emotions, the subtle emanations from other people… they register upon my senses with a distinct, almost tangible, feeling. And right now, Monsieur Corneille, from you, I sense only a faint, yet undeniable, warmth – a warmth that, in my experience, is always, and without exception, a clear and unambiguous sign of true, unfeigned goodwill." She pressed her hand, with a gesture of unconscious sincerity, to her chest. Her loose, voluminous robes, in that moment, tightened almost imperceptibly across her bosom, accentuating, for a fleeting, breathtaking instant, what could only be described as a truly… magnificent highland. In terms of sheer, impressive scale, she was, Corneille noted with a detached, almost academic interest, fully on par with the equally well-endowed Anne de Longueville. Yet, being, as she was, a few crucial centimeters shorter than the statuesque Anne, the overall visual impact, he conceded, was perhaps even more… strikingly dramatic.

Corneille, with a deliberate effort of will, averted his gaze. Mélusine, he had learned, was exquisitely and painfully sensitive to the prolonged stares of others; it was best, he had decided, not to inadvertently provoke her delicate sensibilities.

Mélusine, however, her own senses preternaturally sharp, suddenly became wary, her entire body tensing. "Monsieur Corneille," she said, "you... you have grown cold. The warmth… it is gone."

Corneille, in that moment, had not been thinking of Mélusine at all. His mind had, in fact, been replaying his rather… unsettling… conversation with Isabella Trastámara concerning another, far more dangerous, matter: the enigmatic and potentially catastrophic threat known only as the "Emperor Killer." He had sought Isabella’s counsel, her wisdom, on this deeply troubling issue. And Isabella, her eyes glittering with an almost unholy amusement, had replied that the "Emperor Killer" was, in all likelihood, a meticulously crafted plot by the ever-treacherous Tri-State Alliance, designed for the sole purpose of her own assassination. If she, Isabella, were to die, the Royalist cause would lose its most potent, its most iconic figurehead, and their already precarious situation would become even more… desperately untenable. According to the information gleaned from Sabina Curias, the "Emperor Killer," whatever its true nature, was already, at this very moment, somewhere within the borders of Waite. But what was it? A preternaturally powerful assassin? A cursed artifact of unimaginable destructive potential? A heavily armed, clandestine military group? A slow-acting, insidious curse? Even Isabella, with all her vast resources and her network of spies, lacked definitive, verifiable intelligence. She was certain only of one chilling fact: witches from the "Justice" domain, those self-righteous, fanatical purveyors of their own twisted brand of retribution, had been responsible for transporting the "Emperor Killer" into Waite. Isabella firmly believed that Sabina Curias, in her cryptic warning to Corneille delivered via Anne de Longueville, had been attempting either to subtly indebt Corneille to her, or, more chillingly, that she genuinely believed the "Emperor Killer" was already present, lurking unseen within Corneille’s own immediate sphere of influence, though it had not yet, for whatever reason, drawn his direct attention.

"So, Monsieur Corneille," Isabella had concluded, her voice a silken, predatory purr, "I would most strongly advise you to examine your life, your associations, your every waking moment, with the utmost, almost paranoid, thoroughness. For the next time you come to seek an audience with me, if you should, by some unfortunate mischance, happen to lead this 'Emperor Killer' to my very doorstep, I confess, I shall find myself in a most… vexing… quandary. I shall not know whether to implore you, with my dying breath, to 'save your sovereign,' or to have you immediately, and with extreme prejudice, arrested and executed as an assassin." Isabella, of course, had been jesting, her words laced with her customary, cruel amusement. Yet Corneille, a man whose very existence depended upon navigating the treacherous currents of such deadly games, knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that he must take her words with the utmost, deadly seriousness.

Mélusine’s seemingly innocent talk of a "sixth sense" had, for a fleeting moment, sparked a tiny, disquieting ember of suspicion within him. But his mind quickly, almost instinctively veered in another, more potentially profitable direction: Mélusine, he now realized, was almost certainly telling the truth. If her intuitive, preternatural sixth sense was indeed as remarkably acute as she claimed, it would undoubtedly, he knew, prove to be an invaluable, perhaps even indispensable asset in the perilous and increasingly complex, matter of the Tower of Precepts. Should he, then, attempt to exploit her somewhat… naive… and surprisingly trusting… personality? Should he endeavor to gain her complete confidence, to subtly, yet inexorably draw her into the intricate and undeniably dangerous, web of his own carefully laid plans?

Looking at the once-again wary, almost fearful, Mélusine, Corneille asked, his voice carefully neutral, "And now, Mademoiselle? After this… do you still perceive me as a 'good person'?"

Mélusine hesitated for a long, charged moment, her unseen gaze fixed upon him. Then, with a quiet and almost defiant resolve, she replied, "Yes, Monsieur Corneille. I do. You… you could have so easily, so blatantly, used this vital intelligence to bargain with me, to extract some further concession, some benefit for your own cause. You could even, perhaps, have used it to… threaten me, to coerce my further cooperation. Yet, you chose, instead, to inform me directly, without preamble, without condition. That, Monsieur Corneille, whatever your hidden complexities, whatever shadows may lurk within your soul… that, in my estimation, is undeniably the act of a good man."

"Perhaps," Corneille countered, his voice still carefully devoid of inflection, "I merely surmised that you were already aware of this impending threat. Perhaps I judged this information to be outdated, no longer of any true, strategic value?"

"You promised to protect me," Mélusine stated simply. "And you added no… additional, self-serving conditions… to that promise."

"I am merely," Corneille retorted, "upholding the terms of our legally binding contract."

"I trust," Mélusine said, her voice soft but firm, "my sixth sense."

Corneille shook his head, a faint, almost pitying, smile touching his lips. "That answer, Mademoiselle, if you will forgive my saying so, is… somewhat childish."

"I am twenty years of age this year, Monsieur Corneille! I am not a child!" Mélusine exclaimed, a flash of indignation in her voice. "I simply do not understand, Monsieur! Does the very concept of 'trust,' of simple, unreserved belief, make you so… profoundly, so inexplicably… resistant?"

"Because, Mademoiselle," Corneille replied, his own voice suddenly laced with a profound, almost sorrowful, weariness, "your… friendship… your innocent hopes… they are, I fear, destined to find no true, equivalent reciprocation from me. Moreover, we can hardly, in good conscience, claim to possess any deep, or indeed, even superficial understanding of each other. Your judgment of my character, therefore, however well-intentioned, is, I regret to say, remarkably, perhaps even dangerously, rash." With the "shining examples" of Cécile, Anne de Longueville, and Isabella Trastámara so fresh, so vivid, in his recent memory, Corneille found it increasingly and almost painfully difficult to believe in the very existence of a truly, genuinely, purely kind and innocent witch anywhere within the treacherous, beguiling borders of Waite. He infinitely preferred, he had decided, to conduct his dealings with these enigmatic and often predatory creatures on a purely pragmatic, "exchange of benefits" basis. That, he had found, was by far the most… straightforward, and ultimately, the least… emotionally entangling… way.

Mélusine nodded slowly, a dawning understanding in her eyes. "Yes," she said, "Yes, I see. If one persists in concealing one’s true identity, one cannot, it is true, ever hope to forge a genuine friendship. Monsieur Corneille, I… I am…"

"I apologize, Mademoiselle," Corneille interjected, his voice suddenly sharp, his expression uncharacteristically, almost comically, alarmed. "But please, I implore you, stop right there. You are not, by some unfortunate mischance, about to divulge to me the... intimate secrets of yourself, and indeed, of your entire noble family, now are you?"

Mélusine tilted her veiled head to one side, a gesture of innocent, almost childlike, confusion. "Is there… some problem, Monsieur? I merely wished for you to perceive my sincerity, my good faith. And with such… pertinent information… in your possession, you would, of course, be far better equipped to… protect me."

"Mademoiselle Mélusine," Corneille said, "I am an outlander. I am a man. And to your… esteemed family, I am, and always will be, an utter, and absolute, outsider. From a magical, and indeed, from a societal perspective here in Waite, I bear what can only be described as a triple negative designation, a trifecta of undesirable attributes. As far as my limited understanding of Waite’s rather… unique moral code extends, it is considered perfectly normal, indeed, almost expected, for a witch to engage in spirited and often rather ruthless contention with her own family. But for a witch," his gaze hardened, "to betray intimate family secrets, to divulge classified, dynastic intelligence, to someone like me – someone who bears such an undeniable, and frankly rather inconvenient, triple negative designation – that, Mademoiselle, would, by any standard, be universally and irrevocably branded as an act of the basest, most unforgivable 'treason.' And even if, by some miracle, you were to thereby obtain the solitary, unencumbered life you so desperately and perhaps understandably desire, with your reputation in absolute, unsalvageable tatters, you would, I assure you, find it utterly and completely impossible to move freely, to exist with any measure of peace or security, anywhere within the borders of Waite. At that point, Mademoiselle," he concluded, his voice heavy with a grim finality, "would you then, perhaps, seriously intend to accompany Dias and myself back to the relative, if somewhat mundane, sanity of the Federation?"

Mélusine, her veiled face unreadable, slowly, deliberately, raised a slender, gloved hand and, with a gesture that was both surprisingly impish and deeply, profoundly, poignant, made a V-sign with her fingers – indicating, with an almost heartbreaking clarity, that yes, indeed, she harbored precisely such desperate, and perhaps ultimately futile, thoughts of running away.