Chapter 4: A Downpour of Memories

To Corneille, the sanctity of the dining table was an unshakeable tenet. His meticulous reconnaissance of Waite had revealed a land where maize reigned supreme, a golden sea stretching across the fields, with wheat a secondary, though still significant, crop.

The local cuisine, however, was a perilous landscape for a palate like Dias’s. Waite offered soups of an almost spectral blandness, main courses that blazed with vibrant, almost aggressive, colors and a fiery dance of sour and spice, and beverages so cloyingly sweet they could likely quell a dragon’s roar with their sheer saccharine force. None of this was fit for Dias’s delicate constitution, nor would it aid in his recovery.

Thus, when first assembling their company, Corneille had harbored the sensible notion of including a skilled chef. Alas, the moment the words "State of Waite" were uttered – that accursed land whispered to be a place where men vanished without a trace, their bones ground to dust – every male culinarian of repute had recoiled as if from a leper’s touch, refusing the post no matter the glittering fortune offered.

Necessity had then driven Corneille to seek amongst the women. Yet, most with true culinary artistry were already bound by hearth and home, unwilling to forsake their families for a perilous journey into the unknown. And so, he had been forced to pivot: if the chefs of his homeland would not venture forth, then he would unearth a culinary talent within Merida itself, one versed in cuisines more palatable to a ducal stomach.

The cost of sustenance in Merida, however, was a king's ransom compared to the familiar prices of the Federation. A modest monthly meal contract for Corneille and Dias alone devoured six hundred dinars annually – a staggering sum when one considered that a freshly minted engineer, armed with a university degree, could expect a starting yearly stipend of a mere thousand dinars.

Dias’s startling transformation had now thrown a long, suspicious shadow over the very establishment that provided their meals. A new resolve hardened in Corneille: he would find, from within the ranks of his own loyal retinue, someone with the aptitude and willingness to be reforged into a chef worthy of a Duke.

Dias, blissfully unaware of these weighty concerns, found her appetite surprisingly invigorated by her new form. Indeed, were it not for Corneille’s ever-watchful eye and his anxieties regarding her digestion, she might have happily consumed a portion fit for a famished guardsman.

Until Cécile’s promised missive arrived, Dias remained a willing captive within her chambers. This self-imposed seclusion raised few eyebrows amongst the household staff; Corneille’s presence was their lodestone, the unwavering center around which their small world revolved.

In the main drawing-room, its heavy drapes drawn against the afternoon sun, Corneille convened his team leaders. First, with crisp precision, he outlined new configurations for the security detail, adjusting patrol routes and watch schedules with the practiced eye of a seasoned commander.

Next, his gaze fell upon the head of the diplomatic contingent. The news was grim: all the elegantly penned letters, dispatched in the Duke’s name to former allies and acquaintances, had met with a chilling silence. Not a single reply. A frown, like a gathering storm cloud, darkened Corneille’s brow. He understood the brutal calculus of power – how quickly the warmth of allegiance could turn to icy indifference when a patron’s star began to wane. Yet, the sheer, unseemly haste with which some of the late Duke’s most trusted connections had turned their backs stung with a particular venom.

Afterward, he bent his attention to the ledgers presented by the head of their small records team. Even with a retinue of modest size, Corneille adhered to the strict financial discipline he had always maintained: one individual to hold the purse strings, another to keep the meticulous accounts, and he himself, the final arbiter, to scrutinize every entry, every expenditure.

Angelica, for all her sins, had not entirely beggared her son. The allowance she provided was sufficient for Dias and his followers to maintain a semblance of ducal dignity in the expensive environs of Waite. But to accrue any meaningful savings, to build a war chest for the battles to come – that was a dream as ephemeral as morning mist.

This latest audit served only to extinguish the last embers of Corneille’s hope for thrift. To secure Dias’s future, to reclaim what was rightfully his, he needed more than careful stewardship. He needed to conjure gold from thin air.

"Well?" Corneille’s voice cut through the quiet attentiveness of the room. "Have any of you a spark of inspiration? A viable proposal?"

A chorus of voices, eager and varied, filled the chamber. The sudden swell of sound, a tapestry woven from earnest suggestions and fervent debate, drifted up the stairs and caught Dias’s ear. She crept to her door, easing it open just a sliver, her eye pressed to the narrow gap. Below, she saw Corneille, a figure of calm authority at the heart of the storm, his expression thoughtful as he listened, occasionally interjecting with a sharp critique or a word of measured praise. She could feel it, even from a distance – the palpable weight of trust and respect that flowed towards him from every soul in that room.

This, she thought with a pang of wistful longing, was the image she had always held in her mind’s eye: herself, as the Duke of Alva, surrounded by loyal retainers, their voices joined in spirited discussion, their purpose united. Yet, no bitter envy, no fearful suspicion, tainted her observation. She knew Corneille. Knew that these burdens of command, these endless meetings and strategic deliberations, were a heavy cloak he wore out of duty, not desire. The "Duke of Alva" that resided within Pierre Corneille would far rather be lost in the pages of a well-thumbed novel, a steaming pot of fragrant White Peony tea at his elbow, the long afternoon hours melting away in blissful, scholarly solitude.

"If you find no joy in the trappings of a great lord, and no solace in the act of killing," a much younger Dias had once asked, his childish voice piping and clear, "then why, Pierre, are you even here?"

They had been by the ornamental pond in the ducal gardens, the late afternoon sun dappling the water. Children, in their innocent directness, often wield questions like daggers, piercing through adult pretense. Dias had been curious, and so, with a child’s unthinking honesty, she had asked.

Corneille, then little more than a youth himself, his features still softened by boyhood, had answered with a quiet gravity, "Because, little Duke, I am bidden to be."

"But can you not simply… refuse?"

"If I were to do only those things that bring me pleasure," Corneille had explained, his voice gentle as he lifted Dias, who had ventured precariously close to the water’s slick edge, and carried him to the cool, shadowed safety of the nearby pavilion, "then I would forfeit the right to do the things I truly cherish. Life, young Dias, is often a matter of such exchanges." He had smiled then, a rare, fleeting expression. "Fortunately for you, it is a lesson you shall likely never need to learn."

Now, years later, a glimmer of understanding, a faint echo of Corneille’s quiet burdens, touched Dias’s heart. She closed her door with a soft click, the grand History of Federation Art she had intended to peruse now seeming frivolous, almost insulting. She pushed it back onto the heavy oak shelf. In its place, she drew forth two slimmer volumes: An Introduction to the Waite Tongue and A Primer on the Tumultuous History of Waite.

As she did, a folded sheet of parchment, tucked neatly between the pages, fluttered to the floor. Dias retrieved it. It was a set of meticulously crafted study notes, penned in Corneille’s strong, clear hand – a concise distillation of the essential knowledge the Duke of Alva would need to navigate the treacherous currents of this new, alien land.

Though a warrior forged in the crucible of battle, Corneille was also a man of keen intellect and surprising erudition. His summaries were not to be dismissed lightly. A wave of warmth, profound and comforting, washed over Dias as she traced the lines of his familiar script, a tangible reminder of her friend’s unwavering, often unspoken, care. She hugged the book to her chest, the rough paper a welcome pressure against her heart.

Softly, in a voice so tender she barely recognized it as her own, she whispered to the empty room, "Pierre, my dearest friend, your unwavering kindness will not be squandered. One day, I swear it, I will find a way to repay this immeasurable debt."

The intricate machinery of the Toledo household continued to turn, its routines a comforting rhythm in a world suddenly thrown off-kilter. Corneille composed a formal letter to Anne de Longueville, expressing his sincere gratitude for her timely assistance. Following this, he dispatched his calling card, accompanied by another carefully worded missive, to the Merida legation of the Trastámara family – that once-mighty royal house whose restoration was the fervent dream of the Royalist faction. In it, he offered profound apologies for the Duke of Alva’s unfortunate inability to pay his respects in person, and humbly proposed to wait upon them himself, as the Duke’s proxy, at their earliest convenience.

Anne’s reply arrived on stationery so fragrant it seemed to perfume the very air around it, accompanied by a small, stoppered vial containing a potion of a deep amber hue, purported to possess remarkable restorative properties. The Trastámaras, too, responded with gracious understanding, extending a cordial invitation for Corneille to join their company for a leisurely countryside excursion planned for the tenth day of April.

Corneille, in truth, cared little for their understanding, or lack thereof. His political compass, if he possessed one at all, spun wildly, unmoored by conviction. His allegiance to the Royalist cause was a matter of cold, hard pragmatism, a calculated gamble in a game where the stakes were impossibly high.

Dias, it was true, was a Duke in name only, his power a hollow echo. But were the Trastámaras, a family stripped of their ancestral throne, their imperial glory a fading memory, truly in a position of greater strength? It was a question that offered no easy answers.

Nevertheless, in his reply to the Trastámaras, Corneille wove a tapestry of feigned emotion, his words dripping with profound gratitude and almost delirious joy. He even, with a cynical precision, added a few artfully placed drops of saltwater to the parchment, a subtle mimicry of heartfelt tears.

This particular brand of artifice, this mastery of the well-placed lie, was a skill he had learned at the knee of Angelica herself. The Duchess, a woman whose indolence was matched only by her cunning, had, in her own way, tutored the earnest young mercenary in the delicate dance of social correspondence, the precise cadences of courtly flattery, and the proper formatting of ducal decrees. Then, with a sigh of feigned weariness, she had promptly delegated the entirety of her reply-writing duties to his capable, if somewhat bewildered, hands.

"Corneille," the Duchess had once drawled, her voice a silken murmur as she lifted a delicate porcelain cup to her lips, inhaling the cool, clean fragrance of White Peony tea, "attend me well. When a letter arrives reeking of perfume, or artfully stained with tears, you are to believe not a single word of its contents."

"The performance, my dear boy, is always too… pronounced. Paper has no intrinsic need to carry the scent of a courtesan’s boudoir, and the world, believe me, has little genuine cause for such an endless deluge of tears."

The young mercenary, his brow furrowed in honest perplexity, had dared to question. "My Lady, I confess my confusion. If this is indeed a universally acknowledged truth, why then do you command me to douse our own stationery in expensive perfumes, and to meticulously apply saltwater to simulate the tracks of tears?"

Angelica’s hand, cool and surprisingly strong, had rested for a moment upon Corneille’s dark hair. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was uncharacteristically devoid of its usual languid mockery, tinged instead with a profound, almost desolate, weariness. "Because, my loyal Corneille, the Duchess of Alva is a player upon the grand stage of vanity and ambition. And upon that stage, falsehood is not merely a useful tool, it is the very coin of the realm."

Her fingers had tightened almost imperceptibly in his hair. "Mark my words, Corneille. If ever fate should lead you to tread those treacherous boards, you must learn to sheathe your honest heart in a carapace of insincerity. You must cultivate a soul of iron, a will of stone. For if you do not, if you allow even a sliver of your true self to be exposed, then pain, relentless and unending, will become your constant, tormenting companion."

Memories, like a sudden, unbidden squall, crashed over Corneille, drenching him in their icy spray, then receded just as quickly, leaving him shaken and cold. He stared at the elegantly penned letter in his hand, the carefully crafted lies gleaming wetly on the parchment. "Yes, Angelica," he murmured to the empty room, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Yes, I have indeed come to know that pain."

Cécile, true to her word, proved to be a whirlwind of efficiency. On the fifth day of April, a Waite carrier pigeon, its feathers ruffled from its journey, fluttered through the open window of Corneille’s chamber. It bore a surprisingly large, securely wrapped parcel. A hastily scrawled note, affixed to the rough twine, read simply: "Open with Dias."

Corneille carried the parcel to Dias’s room. Together, they carefully unwrapped the outer layer, revealing two smaller, individually bound packages within.

"What is all this cloak-and-dagger?" Dias wondered aloud, her curiosity piqued.

The first package yielded a small, earthenware jar of ointment, its surface cool to the touch, and a neatly folded sheet of instructions. The ointment’s potential adverse reactions were starkly listed as: "Unknown." There were, however, no known allergies or problematic interactions with other medications. The prescribed dosage was a single spoonful, to be diluted in water at a precise 1:20 ratio. It was to be ingested half an hour before its intended effect: the temporary reversion of Dias to her male form.

"A remarkably… direct medicine," Dias observed, carefully unsealing the jar and cautiously sniffing its contents. "No foul or unnatural odor. With any luck, it will not be too unpalatable."

Corneille then unfurled the contents of the second package. It contained another letter from Cécile, and, to Dias’s utter astonishment, a complete ensemble of women’s clothing, including the most delicate and intimate of undergarments. The attire was of an understated elegance, exquisitely crafted from fine fabrics, and was accompanied by a selection of tasteful jewelry, a small vial of perfume, and a pot of tinted face powder. The jewelry, Cécile had emphasized with a series of underlined warnings in her letter, was merely on loan. If any piece were to be misplaced or damaged, it would require compensation at its full, and undoubtedly exorbitant, market value.

The doctor’s letter went on to explain that she had successfully secured the services of a reliable and discreet governess, who would be arriving, in Cécile’s company, that very evening. She concluded with a firm instruction: Dias was to be wearing the provided clothing upon their arrival.

"Wear… women’s garments?"

Dias stared at the pile of silk and lace as if it were a coiled serpent. Though her body had been so cruelly altered, she had, for the past few days, clung to the familiar comfort of her usual masculine attire. To her, it was an unshakeable, self-evident truth that she should dress as a man.

A look of profound, almost comical, distress washed over her face. She turned a pitiful, pleading gaze upon Corneille. He sighed, a sound of weary resignation. "Even with individuals we deem trustworthy, Dias, it is often wise, particularly in matters of such… delicacy, to present an appearance that allows them the… courtesy of plausible deniability, should they choose to exercise it."

"But surely… there can be some small measure of leniency?"

"I, Dias, can afford you leniency. These others… they do not share our long acquaintance, nor our understanding."

"Mmmph," Dias emitted a small, choked groan of pure misery.

Corneille picked up the garments, his examination thorough, his touch surprisingly gentle as he assessed the quality of the fabric, the neatness of the stitching. He did not even overlook the fine cambric of the underthings. Then, he held the main gown up against Dias, his brow furrowed in concentration as he gauged the fit. It was, he noted with a flicker of surprise, a perfect match.

Clearly, the ever-resourceful doctor had utilized the opportunity of the medical examination to obtain Dias’s precise measurements, and had subsequently procured attire of an impeccable fit.

"You should try them on," Corneille said, his voice carefully neutral.

"I do not wish to be… paraded as a girl," Dias mumbled, her gaze fixed on the offending clothes. "But… I also do not wish for all of Pierre’s efforts, all his sacrifices, to be for naught. Oh, this is a torment!"

A long, heavy silence descended upon the room. Finally, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken miseries, Dias steeled herself. She reached for the buttons of her tunic, her fingers fumbling slightly. But before she could undo the first, Corneille’s hand shot out, his fingers closing gently but firmly around her wrist. She looked up, her eyes wide with confusion. "What now, Pierre?"

"Wait until I have departed from the chamber before you… disrobe."

Dias blinked, a flicker of her old, easygoing nature surfacing. "But Pierre, you are hardly an outsider."

"You are a young woman now, Dias." The words were spoken softly, yet they carried an undeniable weight.

Dias froze, her eyes widening further. Then, a flush of hot, angry color stained her cheeks. "I am not!" she retorted, her voice sharp with indignation.

Corneille’s expression remained steady, his gaze unwavering. "In spirit, perhaps not. In the flesh, undeniably so. Dias, I understand the turmoil you endure. I can, and will, continue to regard you as the friend I have always known, as a man in all the ways that truly matter. But others? They will see only what is before their eyes. And objectively speaking," his voice softened almost imperceptibly, "you are… strikingly beautiful. Your current lack of awareness, your innocent transparency… it is a vulnerability that could be… exploited. You must learn to guard yourself, Dias. And that lesson begins with the cultivation of… prudent habits."

"But… Corneille will protect me," Dias said, her voice small, a childlike faith shining in her eyes. "Surely, there is nothing to fear as long as you are near?"

A complex emotion, a mixture of profound warmth at her unwavering trust and a sharp, disquieting unease at her almost blind obedience, tightened Corneille’s chest. In that moment, he felt a strange sense of dislocation, as if he were the one whose very essence had been altered, his mind suddenly assailed by a host of unfamiliar anxieties, of protective instincts he had never known before.

"I will take my leave now," he said, his voice a little rougher than he intended. "Call for me when you are… presentable." As he reached the door, he paused, then added, the words feeling strangely inadequate, almost superfluous, "Dias… between us… nothing has changed. We are as we have always been."

A silent, questioning look was her only reply.

The feminine attire gifted by Doctor Cécile, for all its apparent complexity, proved to be surprisingly straightforward to don. Dias, with a few fumbled attempts, managed the task on her own. Once dressed, her first instinct was to summon Corneille immediately. But then, a strange, inexplicable whim, a flutter of an emotion she could not name, stayed her hand. Instead, she found herself turning to the tall, silvered looking-glass, her reflection staring back at her with an almost unnerving stillness. She began to adjust the fall of the fabric, to smooth a non-existent wrinkle, to tuck a stray strand of hair into place. She fussed and preened, her brow furrowed in concentration, until, at long last, she could find no further fault, no imperfection to correct. Only then did a slow, almost shy, smile of undeniable satisfaction touch her lips.

The smile lingered for a few heartbeats. Then, it froze, a look of dawning horror replacing it.

Gods above, what in the blazes am I doing!

Dias clapped her hands to her burning cheeks, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.