Ennieux never properly met the original Horace. But she heard his voice. She'd gone in search of him the day before they were officially meant to meet.

Just as Ennieux eum-Creid was a coward notorious throughout the duchy she was meant to protect, Horace Gren was an oaf of a man whose only distinction was the coin he wasted. A lavish spender who caroused his days away at the capital, he'd been cut off by his father and dragged against his will to Varant.

The announcement was quiet and the scoffing was loud, because the engagement was laughable: two of the sorriest names in the empire paired together in a transparent bid to salvage deadweight.

A leech denied its bite—stuck on a hen in bridal white. With any luck, perhaps they could sire heirs of nobler stuff. If nothing else, the nobles chattered, the two of them deserved each other.

In aching silence, Ennieux hoped that the two of them really did—that cruel words might prove gently true, and that her fiance was just a lonely soul like her. All her life, her only company had been the phantom contempt of others.

Maybe, Ennieux thought, Horace was the same.

That's why she tried to find him before they were forced to meet under stifling formality, suffocated by an air of derision.

She just… wanted to talk.

Instead, she stood by the guest chamber, listening quietly.

"Feels like a funeral, doesn't it? Sorry man like me wed off t' an even sorrier girl." There was an ugly laugh which sounded as if it might break into sobs. "Could've just…hic… sent me to the northern wall you know. Shkipped—skipped the pomp."

Ennieux's heart dropped. That was…

"Enough with your wretched mewling, Horace," an icy voice rasped. "The eum-Creids are performing charity, accepting this marriage. Providence has granted you an honor which you didn't merit."

"Honor?" Horace mumbled, still laughing to himself. "Where? This empty bottle? Is my bride stowin' some away in her henhouse?"

His father growled, refusing to indulge the conversation any further. "My time is nearly gone, Horace. All of this is for your sake. Let this land's austerity chill all that rot out of you and face yourself plainly."

For all the pride propping it up, the viscount's voice was sagging with fatigue. "Learn to serve, son. You might claim the viscounty over your brothers yet."

"We both know… thash a lie…" Horace spat.

After a moment's bitter silence, Otto left his son with a final command. "You'll be introduced tomorrow evening. If you must soak your liver, then at least spare us your damn howling. Don't you dare get us thrown from this castle."

"And if I can't help but howl, father?" Horace chuckled miserably.

"Then take it somewhere no one can hear it!" Otto snapped. The viscount left the chamber, shaking his head.

As he left, he paused by the threshold. His gaze lingered where Ennieux had stood listening. But she'd already slipped away—plodding back to her chamber, eyes lowered so no one could see them damp and red.

Hours later, she caught wind that Horace Gren had stumbled out of the castle alone, bottle in hand. The servants' murmurs and the knights' clanking boots through the estate, her sisters' strained smile as she assured her there was nothing to worry about—all of it told Ennieux everything she needed to know. Her future husband had gone off in search of some ditch or gutter to drink himself blind.

What was it to her? The vile man could freeze to death for all she cared.

So she told herself, at least. Yet even as she muttered her indifference, the first flakes of snow began to fall.

And before she knew it, seized by a resolve startling even to herself… Ennieux slipped out of the castle. She descended into the city in search of him though she scarcely knew her way. The forest gave way to the main thoroughfare, where the gathering flurries veiled the knights combing the streets ahead of her.

Bundled up as she was, they neither recognized her nor spared her a second glance.

Ennieux struck off on her own course. Having wandered into the city without a plan, she couldn't do much more than bumble down the road, entering any building that looked like a tavern.

One after another showed no sign of the man.

The snowfall grew heavier. The winds grew harsher. The streets slowly thinned out, until they were so void of people that Ennieux began to sincerely question her impulsive decision. Only at her last stop before giving up—a small, squat place at the end of the main thoroughfare—did she catch words which gave her pause.

"I'd meant to walk up to Beacon Hill today, you know," a man said to the tavern-keeper. "Great little tipplers' spot."

"Great lovers' mound," the tavern-keeper shot back with a grin.

"'Cept for today, of course," the man laughed. "You won't believe it, but some gent in velvet I met making the rounds kept pressing me to take him there. Said he'd keep my mug full all day. If it weren't for this damn blizzard…"

"That's how they get ya," the tavern-keeper said.

Stepping trepidatiously out of the tavern, Ennieux's eyes fixed on the main gate at the end of the thoroughfare. Surely the man wouldn't be so stupid…

But what if he was? He'd… die out there.

Her heart thumped wildly. She hadn't stepped beyond the city's walls since she was a child. She glanced all around, but none of the castle's knights were anywhere near. The realization left her stomach hollow.

"No sane soul's going to venture out there tonight, miss," the gatekeeper chided her as she drew near the gate. "Hey! Miss!"

Perhaps it was because she'd heard of her own cowardice just one too many times that day. Perhaps the bitter ring of her popular sobriquet—Lady eum-Cluck—had stirred something raw and restless in her squawking heart.

Perhaps, just that once, she wanted to prove everyone wrong.

Ennieux ran out the gates, the whipping flurries stinging her cheeks and burning her eyes. The world outside the walls was a howling blur of white, the full force of the blizzard now upon her, its winds so intense they drove her back with every step.

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It felt like an eternity before Beacon Hill finally rose before her. Lo and behold, a poshly dressed man lay sprawled in the snow, his precious jugs of drink strewn all about.

The man was barely conscious. Frozen stiff. His glassy eyes drifted upward, and her chest tightened with an ache she couldn't name. Fate had played a bittersweet prank on both of their hearts, and Ennieux knew none the better.

Even so, she reached for his hand.

So many years later, Ennieux stood atop that same hill—surrounded by people, yet all alone. Her gaze swept through the crowd, then once again drifted down the path which wound up the hill. An expectant hush had already begun to fill the air, as if everyone somehow knew: the fireworks were soon to begin.

Was he really coming…?

All around her the crowd shifted, waiting for the first spark, while she held herself tighter and braced against a familiar ache.

"There's… still a little time," Ennieux murmured to herself. She tried to hush her prickling thoughts. A little down the hill, she'd noticed a tree sparsely claimed, its view of the city less direct. Perhaps if she stood there, she'd be easier to find.

She made for it, slipping through the crowd and pressing against the tide of last-minute stragglers.

"Ah!"

Two children jostled past, and Ennieux felt the tin circlet she'd won slipping from her head. Not exactly fond of it, yet unwilling to scorn what another had treasured, she reached after it, twisting awkwardly to keep it from falling.

Instead, it was the goldenvow she'd tucked in her hair which fluttered free, brushing her shoulder before it tumbled to the ground, where it was trampled beneath a passing foot.

"...Ah."

Quietly, Ennieux waited for the surge of people to pass, before she gathered up the trodden petals. She took them with her to the tree, where she sat and waited for the fireworks to begin. And after a lonely minute…

The hush through the crowd deepened. Every eye turned skyward. As if on cue, a whistle pierced through the silence, a streak of light racing above the city. A second followed close behind, both bursting into red and green showers that cracked the air and lit the night.

But Ennieux did not lift her gaze. Her eyes still lingered on the battered petals in her lap, her mind on the frayed threads of her marriage—wondering, softly, if there'd ever been any real hope to mend things.

Perhaps their quarrel in the plaza had been the end of it. There'd been moments in the night where the distance between them seemed to soften. If only they'd kept getting along like that—if the evening had just gone a little differently…

Then again… it might simply have been too late. All those years, they'd never found their way to each other. How could they now? Perhaps they'd squandered their last chance to reconcile long ago.

Or maybe… she'd just ruined everything herself. Carelessly handling what was precious until it slipped through her hands. Trying in vain to gather what had already been trodden.

'The only one who's ever acted untoward in this marriage is you, Ennieux!'

The petals cradled in Ennieux's hands began to tremble, and her vision started to blur. She bit down on her quivering lip, trying to hold back everything inside.

"I just… wanted someone to talk to…"

There was no one to listen as she spoke her loneliest truth into the night air, and Ennieux couldn't help herself any longer. Her head sank down to her shoulders and she started to cry.

She didn't notice the quiet approach of footsteps over the fireworks' distant crackle. The faint rustle as someone sat beside her was covered by her hitching breaths. Ennieux couldn't see through her tears. And she didn't realize anyone was there until a small bouquet came to rest in her hands.

"Oh…" Ennieux sniffled, as her vision began to clear. "G-goldenvows… For me?"

"I'm sorry I'm late, Ennieux," Horace said gently. "I… spent too long gathering these. I wanted to bring you something special."

There was a thunderous roar overhead, and through the sky a scatter of blue. Bea gazed up with wide eyes. "They're so loud!"

Sophie's brow furrowed, silently gazing at the small child who'd pattered over, balancing her stuffed animal on her head as if he'd otherwise miss the view.

"Should you not be with your parents?" Sophie asked uncomfortably. She glanced toward Sigurd and Ciel, as if asking them to reclaim their little girl.

"Did you not want to watch with me….?" Bea asked, peering up at her innocently. Her little body wilted with disappointment, the toy atop her head wilting in kind.

"I did not say that," Sophie said, avoiding the truth as artfully as she was capable of. "I merely wondered what brought you here. Near me. Away from them."

Another firework shot up with a crackle—a red flare splitting the night. But Bea paid it no mind, instead taking her time to give her new aunt a thoughtful answer.

"I wanted to watch with you," Bea said softly, "'cause it looked like you weren't having fun. Do you not like fireworks, Aunt Sophie?"

Had she betrayed something without knowing? Sophie reached for her face unconsciously.

"Platopus told me that," Bea said. She gave it a little bob to make it nod.

"Platopus spoke, did he…" Sophie replied.

"Platopus says lots of stuff. I thought he was just silly… 'cause he says too much. But then I listened more," Bea babbled. Her arms wiggled as if tired. "Um… b-but he really, really needs somebody to hold him…"

The toy lifted off of her head in a tiny plea.

Sophie sighed, clearly trying not to roll her eyes as she reluctantly took Platopus into her hands.

"He likes… to sit on people's heads," Bea dutifully informed her, sounding a bit embarrassed about her companions' imposition.

Thinking she was doing a better job of hiding the sour look on her face than she was, Sophie took a full ten seconds to assent to the little girl's counsel.

Slowly, surely, yet none too cheerfully, Platopus found his way atop the Saintess's head.

"Platopus seems possessed of a most tiresome energy," Sophie said, voice forcibly flat.

"Yeah… It's 'cause his house used to be a cave," Bea said. "He used to have fun looking at shadows all day… but then 'cause he watched them so much, he thought the shadows were real, so he didn't wanna leave—"

Sophie's brow only creased further as her gaze lingered indifferently on the golden firework bursting overhead. "Shadows? Should a cave not be totally dark?"

"No, 'cause someone made a big fire outside his house," Bea said, frowning hard.

Sophie looked baffled. "Was he being persecuted?"

"No, that was Hawkrateez—" Bea puffed her cheeks.

The Saintess and the little seer were at something of an impasse.

For a long while, Horace and Ennieux sat beneath the tree, silent as they watched the fireworks. The sky glowed and dimmed in turn, colors blooming and fading with each crackle overhead. Chatter and cheers drifted over from further up the hill, where most of the crowd enjoyed the display.

The night had grown old, and so too its chill. But it was, at the very least, warmer than when they'd first met.

"I'm sorry for how I acted in the plaza, Horace," Ennieux said quietly. She held the goldenvows closer to her heart. "...These are truly lovely. Thank you."

Horace stole a lingering glance before dropping his eyes away. "The fault was mine, Ennieux. I spoke poorly. And besides that, I…"

He hesitated, his words fumbling at first. "There's just… so much I've never said. To you. For so long. I thought I was sparing us both when–-really, I've just… been a coward."

Ennieux blinked. Then she laughed, her voice cracking a little bit as she spoke. "A coward…? Were you?" A giggle slipped out, tangled with a sniffle. "I should know a thing or two about cowardice. We could have commiserated, if only I'd known…"

It was then Horace noticed the tin circlet sitting atop Ennieux's head.

"The Saintess's circlet?" Horace asked.

"I possess a gift for… ring toss," Ennieux said flatly.

"...You make it look good," Horace said honestly. "You're likely the only woman who can."

She stilled, slow to process what he'd said. Yet, as a firework burst in the sky, her face reddened and matched its crimson glow. Her eyes flicked toward him, then away, creased with suspicion as though searching for the jest.

"Please don't make fun of me," Ennieux whispered. "I've—had my fill of humiliations tonight…"

"I'd never," Horace murmured. "I truly think you're beautiful. More beautiful than anyone I've ever known."

Ennieux's eyes slowly drifted back with an upturned gaze.

Their shoulders touched. And though Ennieux flinched—she didn't pull away. The night had worn them down enough for longing to overcome discomfort, and with each fireworks' flare they'd drifted closer without realizing.

"Ennieux, I…" Horace swallowed.

It took him a long time to summon the courage for what he was about to say. A minute perhaps, or even two—yet against the silence of twenty long years, it felt like a single held breath.

"I ought to have said it sooner, Ennieux," Horace said. "That I'm in love with you."

There was quiet. Though the fireworks continued to roar across the way, between them there was only a hush.

"...S-sorry?"

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