Francois found the night to have been good to him. A heavy weakness still leaded his legs and created a thick heaviness in his skull—a veil that served to separate Francois from the lingering fever that plagued him. It was nothing that he couldn’t handle. In fact, Francois could just imagine Fernand joking about hangovers that they have had which had been worse. That was, if Fernand had been at all in a jovial mood. Even when the brothers had been graced with privacy (not terribly hard, considering how thankful the majority of the staff was to avoid them), Fernand’s legs had been ailing him, so his mood had shifted expertly and eagerly into the stony-faced stoicism of Edouard. It didn’t make for very good conversation. Of course, there was no way that Francois could blame the man; he’d been in the costume before, and it hardly allowed for comfort.
As a result, Francois had taken to thought. It was much easier to think, now, despite the small bursts of soreness that would take him when he tried to move himself too ambitiously. Staring at his hands, flexing his finger, he questioned his own motives. He had been sure, the night before, that he had not been emotionally compromised when he had jumped in front of the poison dart…but now Francois wasn’t so sure that the excuse he had given Fernand hadn’t been anything but feeble. In truth, Francois wasn’t precisely sure…why. It was as if his body had moved of its own accord, reflexively. Part of him knew that Fernand had been right—he had been playing hero, but Francois didn’t want to admit that.
And Francois supposed it couldn’t be denied that this had turned into a remarkable opportunity. Why not take the credit? It would more likely keep them in their employer’s good grace—and the gods only knew that one didn’t want to fall out of Duncan Deamone’s favor. Besides, Francois thought, it doesn’t matter how I go about this. As long as the result is the same.
Deep in thought, the tan young man hardly heard the door open, his golden irises flicking upward only at the sound of the familiar voice. Immediately, Francois mirrored her trained smile, thanking his stars that he was coherent enough now to more easily control his thoughts and actions—and separate the two. It was with some satisfaction that he noted the abashed, yet subdued, way that she gazed upon him—more a girl than a Princess, but trying all the same not to blur those lines. Francois had to force himself not to chuckle. The girl-Princess and the boy-spy. How quaint.
The thought perplexed him as much as it amused him, but Francois did his best not to dwell on it as he calmly allowed Alarice to inspect his arm. They talked a little—nothing of much consequence. The progression of his health and his gentle flattery concerning the pleasure of seeing her again (and so soon), her official thanks toward his selfless actions and his courteous reply. But Francois had to admit…when he had proclaimed his willingness to take the assassination attempt in her stead, something in the Princess had seemed perturbed. Not that it was anything he could precisely place, and thus he filed it as inconsequential. After all, he doubted he’d be given any real reason to do so again in the near future. Her guards would be even more alert than before.
It was with thankfulness that surprised even himself that Francois hobbled off with Edouard to the bath that had been prepared for them. He shot one more smile over his shoulder at the Princess, after thanking her for her consideration, before disappearing after Ms. Kent. It wasn’t long before they were left alone to wash themselves—Francois found himself eternally grateful for the indifference (or outright aversion) of the staff. He certainly didn’t want some random women fussing over his bath—and he knew that as much as Fernand may have enjoyed it, he certainly couldn’t afford letting anyone see him out of disguise. Not that the fact stopped him from all but lounging in his own tub with an audible sigh, and inching his fingers underneath the wig and allowing his colorful locks—identical to Francois’—to come tumbling readily down his shoulders.
While Francois didn’t waste any time bathing, scrubbing himself thoroughly and efficiently and hardly taking the chance to savor the water, Fernand practically soaked, lazily content. Francois supposed that was easily enough for him to do—he wasn’t the one who had gotten poisoned, and who now had the increased pressure of having to remain in-character without the reprieve of disguise. But, despite his troubled thoughts, Francois could feel his muscles relax underneath the soothing waves of hot water.
Before too long, the duo was out and dressed—naturally, Fernand took longer to prepare himself, needing to dry his hair and re-implement his disguise. It was fortunate that the legs of the new pair of clothing that had been provided for him was long enough to cover the stilts of his modified boots. Francois had to concede that he felt better—levels better than he had all morning or all night. One didn’t realize exactly how grimy they were until they were clean again.
“Mr. Moreau, Mr. Edouard. I hope your bath was pleasant.”
The Princess greeted the two men the instant they had been escorted back to the room, and Francois’ smile was soft as they both silently expressed their thanks.
“I’ve taken more liberties, I’m afraid. I hope you will consent to stay until you’ve fully recovered and that the room is to your liking.”
As Francois followed Alarice’s eyes to observe the chances she pointed out to him, Edouard re-established himself to his position. His smile became a positive grin as he spotted a neat spread of movies resting on his bedside table. Taking the few steps that divided him from it, Francois ran his hand across them until they came to a stop upon one case—for no particular reason. He held it up just as she began to make for the exit. “I should…leave you to your rest, I think. Mr. Moreau. Unless there is anything else I can do for you?”
Francois held up the movie in response—The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Dramatic, but sweet. Nothing to overtly sentimental, and Francois wasn’t particularly a fan of comedy. “Stay and watch this with me? Movies are much more enjoyable with good company.”
The Princess seemed to hesitate for an instant, as if unsure whether or not she had the luxury of staying for a couple of hours, but then smiled, her eyes sweeping down to her dainty gloved hands before she answered in the affirmative. “Let me just inform my—”
She made a move to tell her dark-haired guard outside the door her wish to stay, but he nodded immediately. Efficient, Francois thought.
The Princess pulled a chair beside his bed as Francois sat himself back down upon it—his head thanking him for the reprieve from standing. Almost as soon as the movie began, large baskets of popcorn were swept into the room courtesy of the staff (naturally, Francois offered his thanks), and Alarice politely offered some to her guard, who took—Francois noticed—a large helping for himself. He made a mental note. Familiar, too.
Truth be told, Francois’ heart wasn’t really in the movie. He flashed a glance at Edouard, who returned it. Francois could feel the unspoken approval. Every chance to spend time with her only helped them. That said, he tried hard to pay attention—or at least appear to—but couldn’t help but watch as the fair young woman beside him silently pulled one thin glove from her hand and lay it upon her voluminous skirts. That was when Francois noticed a white kernel that had gotten lodged in her silken chocolate strands, and had to bite back a bemused chuckle.
“Pardon me, Princess,” he practically cooed, “but would you mind…holding quite still for just a moment?”
Gently, he reached forward and touched his fingertips to her hair, curling them around the stray kernel and sliding it down, her hair slipping through his fingers like water until only the popcorn sat in his hand. His eyes had remained locked with her glittering greens until the deed was done, and then he smiled, holding up the evidence. “One got lost.”
Her measured stare almost rattled him. “Mr. Moreau,” she breathed steadily, “Why did you jump in front of that assassin?”
It was a question…but it wasn’t. It was more than just a question. Francois had the feeling that his answer had the possibility to change their relationship as it was beginning to bud. He could feel several calculated responses spinning out through the gears of his mind.
And Francois decided to tell her the truth.
“Because I knew I could stop a girl from getting hurt when she hadn’t done a thing to warrant it.” He kept her gaze, but it softened indefinitely as he quietly admitted, “if I may be so bold…I would have done the same had you just been a stranger on the street, fealty or not. I can’t stand…permitting violence to go unchecked when I could easily do something to prevent it.”
Francois cleared his throat and broke his gaze away. He noticed his hands had drifted toward her own ungloved one as he had spoken, of their own accord, but brought them smoothly back to his sides before any damage could be done. “Forgive me,” he sighed, “I hope I hadn’t spoken too frankly.”