Chapter 5: The Intermediary

The moment Corneille stepped across the threshold, his eyes were ensnared by the gown Dias wore. It was a creation of deepest crimson, the color of heart’s blood or a king’s ruby. Lines of spun gold, slender and precise as sunbeams, traced a path from the elegant neckline down to the delicate sweep of the ankles, lending the garment an almost sculptural depth.

Dias, in a gesture of newfound shyness, had tucked her pale, smooth arms behind her back. This, however, served only to draw the eye to the cincher at her waist – a band of rich leather adorned with the golden butterfly of her ducal sigil – and, more strikingly still, to the undeniable, softly swelling curves of her bosom, a new geography that could not be ignored.

A wave of heat washed over Dias as she felt Corneille’s gaze upon her, a silent scrutiny that stretched each passing second into an agonizing eternity. A fierce, competitive spirit, a part of her that had always yearned for his approval, now desperately craved a word of praise. Yet, a deeper, more profound shame whispered a bitter counterpoint: for a man to be lauded for such… feminized beauty… was this not a dishonor, a betrayal of her true self?

"For a humble physician, subsisting on a standard stipend," Corneille finally observed, his gaze lingering for a moment on the borrowed jewels that glittered at Dias's throat and ears, "such opulent adornments are far beyond her legitimate means. One cannot help but shudder at the thought of the… clandestine enterprises she must engage in to afford such trinkets."

Dias sank onto a nearby chair with an abruptness that spoke of her inner turmoil, her silence a heavy cloak. The sudden movement sent the sapphire teardrops at her ears dancing, their facets catching the light, and caused the delicate pearl necklace to slide askew against the crimson silk.

A ghost of a smile, fleeting and unreadable, touched Corneille’s lips. He moved to stand behind her and, taking up an ivory comb from the dressing table, began to gently draw it through her long, golden hair.

Dias knew, with an intimacy forged in shared boyhood, that her friend harbored a particular fascination for hair. She recalled a sun-drenched afternoon, long ago, in the vast, echoing space of the ducal bathhouse. There, amidst the steam and the scent of oiled cedar, two boys, stripped bare of pretense and attire, had, in a burst of youthful candor, confessed their most peculiar, most secret, preferences to one another. She simply hadn’t fathomed, then, that his appreciation would extend even to her hair, now that it cascaded down the back of a form so utterly, so bewilderingly, changed.

Soon, as she watched her reflection in the polished surface of the looking-glass, Dias noted the surprising dexterity, the almost professional grace, with which Corneille’s strong hands moved, weaving and coiling her tresses. "Pierre," she asked, her voice a soft breath of astonishment, "where did you acquire such skill in this… womanly art?"

"Long ago," he replied, his voice a low murmur, "I honed my craft upon the hair of my elder sister."

"Your sister, Pierre? You have family?"

A single dark eyebrow arched in mild surprise. "Ah, it seems I have been remiss in sharing the chronicles of my own house. Did you, perchance, paint me in your mind’s eye as a foundling, a solitary soul without kith or kin?"

A faint blush warmed Dias’s cheeks. "...My apologies."

"It is of no consequence," Corneille said, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. "It is well enough as it is."

"What… what became of her?" Dias ventured, her voice threaded with a delicate caution.

"My sister," Corneille began, his tone carefully devoid of inflection, "was a phenomenon. A prodigy touched by the gods themselves. And I, her younger brother, envied her with a fierceness that consumed my youth. No matter how relentlessly I toiled, in any arena where our talents might be pitted against one another, I could never hope to eclipse her brilliance. In the small world of our homeland, I was seen as little more than her shadow, my existence a mere footnote to the grand narrative of her 'masterpiece.'"

"The elders, the gossips, the so-called wise ones – they spoke of it so often, so insistently, that she, in her innocence, came to believe their pronouncements. She began to 'tend' to her 'hapless younger brother,' the one who could do nothing right. And that sentiment, born, I truly believe, from a genuine desire 'for his own good,' slowly, insidiously, metastasized into an all-consuming need to control."

A small, choked sound escaped Dias’s lips.

"I revered her," Corneille continued, his voice a low, steady cadence, "and I was utterly terrified of her. Before the bond between us could curdle into something even more… regrettable, I fled. I stumbled, more by chance than by design, into the brutal, unforgiving life of a mercenary. Now…" He paused, the comb momentarily still in her hair. "Now, I believe I see it with a measure of clarity. She bore no true malice, my sister. It was merely the crushing weight of her own perceived responsibility, and the vast, unbridgeable gulf that separates a genius from the common clay of ordinary souls, that transformed her love into a thing of painful, suffocating burden."

Corneille’s voice remained a calm, even flow, yet Dias, attuned to every nuance of her friend’s being, could sense the profound, aching well of regret that lay hidden beneath the stoic surface. She bit down hard on her lower lip, a sharp pang of empathy, of shared sorrow, tightening her chest.

After a moment, her thoughts, like scattered leaves, settled back into the present. Dias looked into the mirror and saw that her long, blonde hair had been swept up and artfully coiled at the nape of her neck, a style both elegant and practical. She tilted her head from side to side, a flicker of surprised admiration in her eyes. "It looks… it looks remarkably well, Pierre. Much better than my own clumsy attempts."

"You shall maintain it thus for now," Corneille instructed. "Once our… guest… the governess, has taken her leave, I will unbind it for you. Until that time, however, you must give thought to your assumed persona. I require the details, so that our narratives may align seamlessly."

At this, a spark of genuine animation, a flicker of her old enthusiasm, ignited in Dias’s eyes. During those long, weary years confined to the suffocating stillness of her sickbed, she had found her sole escape in the vibrant, boundless worlds contained within the pages of novels. She had devoured them, either reading them herself when her strength allowed, or listening, rapt, as others read them aloud. Though but fifteen years had passed since her birth, she had, in the fertile landscape of her imagination, lived a thousand lifetimes, experienced a thousand adventures.

Alas, Corneille, with a pragmatism that often bordered on the romantically obtuse, promptly and decisively vetoed her more… flamboyant and fantastical suggestions. Instead, he laid down two unwavering, non-negotiable principles for the construction of her new identity:

• The Principle of Unblemished Propriety: Whatever character she chose to adopt, it must, under no circumstances, bear any taint of violence, vulgarity, or unseemly behavior. Dias’s own gentle nature, her inherent innocence, would render any attempt to portray such a role a transparent and unconvincing charade, riddled with fatal flaws.

• The Principle of Singular, Defining Attributes: Dias’s assumed persona must be distilled down to one or, at most, two complementary and non-conflicting character traits. Complex, multifaceted personalities, he explained with a logician's precision, required a substantial scaffolding of supporting narratives, a wealth of carefully constructed backstory. They, quite simply, lacked the luxury of time to weave such intricate, time-consuming tapestries.

"This," Dias ventured, a note of uncertainty in her voice, "sounds remarkably like the stringent requirements of classical drama. Yet, I have been given to understand that the newer, more… exuberant, romantic style of theatre is currently mounting a rather spirited challenge to these old, restrictive conventions?"

"That is so."

"And you, Pierre? You harbor a preference for the classical forms, then?"

"It is merely," Corneille said, a shadow of some unreadable emotion flickering in his eyes, "a matter of… shared experience. Now, if you please, focus. Your persona."

At precisely half-past the hour of eight that evening, as the last vestiges of twilight bled from the sky, Cécile arrived. She was not alone. Accompanying her was a figure so completely swathed in black that she seemed less a person and more a mobile patch of deepest night. This was no mere turn of phrase. The newcomer was enveloped from head to toe: a dark, voluminous headscarf, a heavy veil that obscured every feature of her face, a flowing black gown that whispered with her every movement, and long, elegant silk gloves that concealed her hands. She was an enigma wrapped in shadow, a study in deliberate obscurity. And yet, rather incongruously, a faint, sweet, and utterly captivating fragrance of ripe peaches clung to her like an invisible aura.

Corneille, ever the pragmatist, took the initiative. "Allow me to make the introductions. This," he said, gesturing towards Dias, "is Théresias. She hails from the distant city-state of Corinth. The daughter of a prosperous sea merchant, she was tragically separated from her family during an… unfortunate incident at sea. She is, for the present, under my protection and care."

The "foreign maiden," Théresias, executed a demure, almost timid, curtsy, her form half-hidden behind Corneille’s reassuring bulk. Her hand, small and delicate, rested lightly on his waist as she offered a shy, fleeting nod to the two guests.

This display of reticence was no mere performance; it was an echo of Dias’s true nature. With those she knew and trusted, Dias could be vivacious, her laughter quick and easy. But in the presence of strangers, she tended to wilt, her natural exuberance dimming like a snuffed candle. This inherent shyness was a recurring complication, often compelling Corneille to assume a more dominant, more theatrical, role when orchestrating their various deceptions and plans.

The lady Cécile had brought, taking her cue with an almost theatrical flourish, introduced herself as "Mélusine." Her tale was one of scholarly dedication leading to unfortunate penury: her relentless pursuit of magical knowledge, she claimed, had entirely depleted her personal savings. She now found herself in urgent need of a generously compensated position to sustain her modest lifestyle and continue her arcane studies.

That chosen alias, Corneille mused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, is… laden with implication.

Mélusine. The name resonated with a host of conflicting, often lurid, legends that varied from one corner of the Federation to another. "Succubus," some whispered. "Twin-tailed Mermaid," others claimed. "Castle Builder," "Serpent Witch" – the epithets were many and varied. Yet, a common, rather unflattering, thread ran through most of her fabled exploits: upon discovering that her own father had seduced and then callously abandoned her mother, Mélusine, along with her equally vengeful sisters, had purportedly abducted the errant patriarch and thoroughly, and most profitably, relieved him of his accumulated wealth. Later, in a separate but equally dramatic episode, when her own husband had broken a sacred vow and dared to spy upon her in her true, presumably monstrous, form, she had, with similar efficiency, divested him of his fortune and vanished into the mists of legend.

Corneille regarded the veiled Mélusine, a silent, appraising look in his eyes. He could feel, with an almost physical certainty, an equally intent, equally assessing, gaze directed at him from behind the impenetrable barrier of black gauze.

"Monsieur Corneille," a voice, melodious and surprisingly youthful, emerged from beneath the veil, "Doctor Cécile has already been most forthcoming regarding the… exceptional innate aptitude of Mademoiselle Théresias. We may, therefore, if it pleases you, dispense with the customary, and often tedious, assessment rituals."

The veiled head tilted slightly. "Permit me, however, to pose a question of my own. In what particular direction, what arcane discipline, do you wish this promising young lady to be… cultivated? And to what ultimate pinnacle of proficiency do you aspire for her to attain?"

"My ambitions for her are… modest," Corneille replied, his voice carefully neutral. "I desire only that she achieve a robust state of health, and that she acquire a reasonable, and entirely sufficient, capacity for self-preservation in these… uncertain times."

Mélusine inclined her veiled head in a gesture of understanding. "Very well. Your stated requirements do not, I am pleased to say, exceed the modest scope of my own humble capabilities. I can, therefore, accept this position with a clear and untroubled conscience. As for the matter of remuneration… would the standard, prevailing wage for a governess of my… particular qualifications… be deemed acceptable?"

"It would."

Contracts of employment and binding oaths of confidentiality were duly produced, signed, and sealed with the appropriate ducal and personal sigils. Mélusine then, with a delicate cough, posited one final, rather significant, request. She expressed a desire to take up temporary residence within the ducal manor itself. Furthermore, she insisted that her presence within its walls be kept an absolute secret from any and all outsiders. And, most crucially, she stated, with an air of quiet finality, that she would, under no circumstances, remove her veil in the presence of any other living soul. The reasons for this, she added, were to remain her own, strictly confidential.

This, Corneille found, was a sticking point. The manor, he knew from bitter experience, was not inviolable. It had been breached before. The thought of allowing a witch of such profound mystery, of such unknown power and intent, to reside within its walls, unobserved and unaccountable, was a risk that sat ill with him, a knot of unease tightening in his gut.

Both Corneille and Mélusine then, as if by unspoken accord, turned their gazes upon Cécile.

"Oh, by all the blighted moons!" Cécile exclaimed, throwing her hands up in a gesture of theatrical exasperation. "Do I look like a professional negotiator, a broker of delicate arrangements? I am a physician, not a diplomat! You two are, without a doubt, the most exasperatingly particular individuals I have had the misfortune to encounter in a decade. It is a minor miracle in itself that I have managed to bring you both to this point, to a place where your… unique and rather demanding needs might conceivably be met!"

She spread her hands wide, a gesture of weary resignation. "As you are both no doubt aware, the vast and bewildering tapestry of Waite’s magical arts is, by ancient and often arbitrary historical convention, categorized into twenty-two distinct and often jealously guarded domains. A witch’s primary affiliation, her very identity within our society, is determined by the specific domain of magic to which she dedicates her life’s work. Our dear Mélusine, here, belongs to the domain of 'Lovers.' However," Cécile paused for dramatic effect, "she currently finds herself… unencumbered by a lover. A state of affairs, I might add, that is considered remarkably… unorthodox… within the 'Lovers' domain, and one that has brought a considerable measure of shame and embarrassment upon her esteemed family. Consequently, her family, in their infinite wisdom, has resorted to a rather… predictable, if somewhat forceful, course of action: they are attempting to arrange her marriage."

"To encourage her, shall we say, to embrace the joys of connubial bliss and find a suitable partner, they have employed a veritable arsenal of persuasive tactics. These have ranged from gentle, reasoned discourse to tempting offers of material benefit, from subtly veiled threats to heart-wrenching emotional appeals. Eventually, when all else failed, they escalated their efforts to outright, and rather relentless, moral blackmail."

"Unfortunately for her well-meaning kin," Cécile continued, a glint of amusement in her eyes, "our beloved Mélusine appears to be possessed of a moral compass that is… uniquely her own. Or perhaps, more accurately, she is remarkably, almost admirably, devoid of conventional morality altogether. In any event, that particular tactic proved to be singularly ineffective."

"You paint me with such a dark brush, Cécile," Mélusine’s protest was a mere whisper, a silken murmur from behind the concealing veil, yet it carried a faint note of reproach.

"Be that as it may," Cécile pressed on, thoroughly undeterred, "Mélusine, quite understandably, grew increasingly concerned that her family might, in their desperation, resort to more… direct, and potentially irreversible, measures. Such as, for instance, her waking one fine morning to discover an unfamiliar, and presumably highly eligible, young man sharing her pillow. And so, she fled. We share a certain… colorful history, Mélusine and I. She sought sanctuary with me. Alas, I could offer little in the way of true, lasting protection. She was living in a state of perpetual, nerve-shredding trepidation, shedding her beautiful hair at such an alarming rate that it was becoming a significant domestic inconvenience… a truly dreadful bother to sweep up each morning, I assure you!"

"My deepest apologies," Mélusine murmured, her voice barely audible.

Cécile fixed Corneille with a pointed stare. "And then, my dear warrior, I thought of you. This is the official residence of a foreign Duke. Mélusine’s family, for all their influence, would surely exercise a degree of caution, of diplomatic restraint, before attempting any… untoward actions upon these sovereign grounds. Furthermore," her gaze flickered over Corneille’s powerful frame, "you possess more than sufficient strength to guarantee her personal safety, should matters unfortunately escalate."

"Even if all that you say is true," Corneille countered, his voice a low rumble of displeasure, "this arrangement effectively places me in a position of open antagonism with Mademoiselle Mélusine’s rather influential family. The sensation of being perpetually watched, of knowing that one is a marked target… it is, to put it mildly, an exceedingly unpleasant prospect."

"All things of value, Corneille, come with a price," Cécile retorted smoothly. "It is precisely because Mélusine’s need for sanctuary is so desperate, so acute, that she is, shall we say, inclined to overlook certain… minor irregularities in the arrangement. Moreover, let us not forget the crux of the matter: her mastery of the magical arts, and her proven pedagogical abilities, are both of the very highest caliber. She is, without a shadow of a doubt, the ideal mentor, the perfect guide, to initiate Dias into the mysteries of Waite’s magic. If you allow this opportunity to slip through your fingers, do you honestly believe, in your heart of hearts, that you will find a more suitable candidate in any reasonable span of time?"

Cécile then turned her formidable gaze upon the veiled Mélusine. "And you, my dear, I know, are understandably… resistant… to the notion of taking up residence in the household of a strange man, of accepting a man’s protection. In the rather… unique… cultural landscape of Waite, such a circumstance is often, and unfairly, interpreted as a sign of weakness, of incompetence. But, my dearest Mélusine," Cécile’s voice softened almost imperceptibly, "when weighed in the scales against the fundamental need for personal safety, for survival itself, considerations of dignity and societal perception must, alas, often take a secondary place. I can personally vouch for Corneille’s integrity, for his unwavering character, and for his formidable capabilities. Besides," a sly, knowing smile played upon Cécile’s lips, "his attentions, as you may have already discerned, are entirely, and rather endearingly, fixated upon the well-being of young Dias. He is not, I assure you, a man inclined to take undue advantage of another’s vulnerability. If you decline this offer, this sanctuary, can you, with any degree of certainty, say that you will find a more reliable, a more powerful, protector? If such an individual truly existed, my dear, you would not have sought refuge with a humble physician like myself in the first place, now would you?"