Venetian Sunrise

It had been years in the making, as though she were the blank canvas and the blazing trail the work of an esteemed artist with dealers hollering, banging upon his door, demanding the finished piece. Adolphus had always been rather particular in his intervals of choice, his grotesque talent giving him leave to take his time but striking at her at times when his frustration had grown too much and an outlet needed to be found and invested in.

As a child, Cerelia had been put in a position she had not fully understood and his coaxing, velvet voice taught her that there was honour in a brand. He would often, at such times, tug at the collar of his shirt and reveal his own brand; scorched into his skin by unskilled hands. In the soft candle light she would be deigned a closer look at the runic-numeric Azkaban number he bore as a testament to his successes.

At her young age, naive and foolish, madly devoted to everything her father embodied, she had wished upon herself such a proof of honour. She often felt across her neck, even going as far once to blot on the runes and the numbers she envisioned herself with. Her tutor had caught her once, as she pranced about in her room. She’d been late to classes that morning and her cheek had smarted for a good hour after his discovery; though whether it was her lateness or what it was the numbers represented truly that had angered, Cerelia had never been quite certain.

One thing was sure enough though; her tutor was particular on that front: there would be no more romancing about Azkaban. He had made sure of that. He’d taken her there, unbeknownst to both of her parents. She had appeared foolish, a little girl in blue and white and soft gold curls, traipsing about behind the hard-faced scholar whose daily life revolved around her mind. But she had seen, she had learned and she had every right to fear.

Adolphus took her at times when his patience wore thin and his irritation with those about him had grown too great. His voice was lyrical in its approach to convince her to sit long enough to welt what he wished into her back. She had always felt utterly exposed before him with her dress often pooled around her middle, all sense of modesty far from her mind as the pain spreading through her sprang forth and dominated her consciousness.

As she had grown, so too had his anger and he delved into her with less precision and more in the way of wild abandon. Surly words from her tutor had seen the end to her love of Adolphus’ words on the matter. She cried out openly before him, enraging him further and so too ensuring her agony was prolonged. Oftentimes she would be picked from the floor by dutiful servants once her father had tired himself and slipped into her bed, only to be joined later in the night by Bastien who would apply gently a dittany and some healing salve – but always in vain. Adolphus would never allow her the joy of being healed.

Age had increased the fervency in Adolphus and the regularity of his desire to place her where he felt she belonged; below him, certainly, but utterly submissive to his wills. Adolphus never hurt her in any other way bar the emotional torment he exalted with his forked tongue. He had not the desire to cow her in any other way for his methods worked the way he wished.

Time gave way to the sliding, snaking scar that was embroidered with more tissue and delved into with artistry that was masterful in only him. It was the final fit of rage that saw the end to the whole charade and the sealing of her perpetual wound. The intermittent times in which he would indulge himself had been private between them. It was a servant that had provoked the fire and the lieutenants the Adolphus revered that had enflamed him. He had ceased such activities from that point on.

Of course, unless she asked for certain liberties; like Venice. Venice had provoked him Adolphus the red mist and she had almost not made it, his anger ripping apart much of what had been sewn together of her skin. The screams she had let free from her lungs had shaken Adolphus somewhat, it having been years since he’d rendered her quite as powerless as he had that night; and it had almost made him stop. Almost.

In the morning light, the scar so delicately pinned and unpinned seemed almost romantically done. Towards the edges there was violence in the method that was truly sinister. There was none of the swirling pattern of fiery skin and more of the rage that consumed Adolphus Avery. It was a trademark – his; his trademark. The artistry was there but very much, it bore the unadulteration of his passion. She was his. His to keep. His trophy. The last visage of his late wife that he held and no one was going to take that away from him.

Cerelia’s shoulder rose a little at the first touch of Augustus’ hot fingertip against her skin. She gave a low whine that was more an exhale of air than anything else. There was a fleeting disgruntlement about her but as she seemed to arrive at the conclusion that no pain would come to her, she seemed to move into Augustus’ touch. Her hands came curling about the pillow and she burrowed her head deeper into it, this time giving a rather more contented little noise.

The touch was eventually changed, replaced by gentle lips that broke through the thickness of her slumber. Her eyelids flickered, threatening to rise and release her eyes, but they settled once more and another exhale of pleasure flitted past her lips as she sank further into cushions. Her quickened breath and wearied responses paved the way for her eventual wakening but she had no conscious desire to greet the day as of yet and allowed herself to toil longer in dreamland; giving her body the chance to experience the tenderness of touch, something that particular pave of skin had never truly known.

A legacy. That was it. Well, certainly, it wasn’t just it. Or rather, a legacy wasn’t just. Often, too, it wasn’t just. Yet, wrapped in the very idea of it were the struggles- the aspirations- of being. And in the scars on people, Augustus recognised the legacy that was his favourite manifestation. There was just so much about people and the intensity of one with one another, and one with the universe, that was told through the physical creation of pain in a body. The intensity was what mattered. The scarring was never going to last forever, but the scars do. The scarring was the moment. The scar?

The legacy. Everyone has it. Everyone has attempted to make it. Why hide it, though? The scars that were left in the memory of one- in the heart of one- Augustus thought to be a pity. He wore his with pride. He wore his with worldly legitimacy that even he had to fight for to deserve from his brothers and the one man who could have made his life better, but didn’t. Cordelia had none of it when she came to him. She wanted to see none on him. She wanted none from him. But that was never her choice to speak of. And Augustus had no qualms against making her pay for the scars that were hidden in him; even as he loved her, in his own way. Cerelia, however-

Augustus sighed, feeling his lips rub against the beauty inscribed onto the girl’s back, taking his liberties as she continued in her slumber. The vulnerability of Cerelia’s body as it lay in trust against his charmed the rationality off the older man. He moved, ever so slowly, as his hand now reached to hold her, if only to gently pull her towards him, even closer. With his body, he held her protectively, guarding the lucid lines that snaked its dark aesthetic way through her body, marking her off as a prize. The warm breeze that found its way to the couple only filled Augustus with more giddy amazement.

Slowly, though, in this way, he closed his eyes and began to inhabit a space beside Cerelia’s body, and the flowers that snaked their way through the seemingly clear black void of his mind. In a much gentler beat than the one that pounded against him the night before, the flowers began to dance in their path; so even as Augustus began to slip back into a half slumber, he got up and allowed himself to be carried away to a space where things moved with a law that he was exclusively unfamiliar with. There was nothing to grasp, nothing to claim, and nothing to make a legacy of. Nothing.

Often there was little solace to be found in the caverns that slumber provided. Sleep had become more of a trial, something to spark tears in the corners of her eyes. Driven by the fear of what lay in wait for her eyes to fall, many flagons of wine were drained through the long summer nights that would stretch out before her and leave her hot, sticky and uncomfortably weary by morning. The company of a few maids did little to bring rest to Cerelia’s heart and so she would often sit with a nakedness about her that was frowned upon, the chilled stone about her cooling the hot swells of her body, on the windowsill, the glass thrown away on their pivots, open and free to gather cool air from the river into her room. It always amused her the way the other girls would shed themselves of their own clothing and shiver, ignorant and without the fever that set Cerelia’s skin on fire.

In summers past, the maids lost their ability to be called as such. Their laughter made Cerelia feel queasy and she could not pretend to understand the jests they made. They waddled, thereafter, often complaining of an ache that Cerelia would never understand. One was spiteful enough to suggest Cerelia would be doomed to a string of impotent lovers and would never have the luck they had. That alone saw Cerelia banish them from her solar and for a time she took no more household staff and wandered about her rooms without false modesty. Soon enough though, the young women were returned and Cerelia grew testy and impatient with them, regularly exiling them from her rooms until such times as she could no longer keep them away.

In the nights she would leave them to their lovers and take to the smithies in the Vale. The one nearer the castle made it easier to climb and return to her room by daybreak and it was there that she first encountered the swords that mixed magic with physical might. The smithy was hesitant to divulge anything to her in the first instances but soon he began to teach her how to handle a long sword; something she took to with surprising deftness and grace for her side, he noted. By daybreak she would leave, often without the smithy even noticing, and tear back into the castle to grasp at the few moments she needed and would greet the day with disdain at the sight of the women that awaited her.

Sleep was avoided and not something that was to be indulged in. Even at Hogwarts it was rare for her to grasp at unconsciousness. She would listen instead to the whispers of Cordella and Gisele, entwined together and murmuring between kisses. She would then rise herself and make for a moment for their shared bed, wondering perhaps between them she could gain some rest. But she would leave instead and tread lightly into the common room where she would curl up before the crackling fire and daydream until dawn. Truly, the sleep she held upon the sofa was the rarest of times for true slumber without aid; without the tart potion running down her throat, poisoning that which threatened to hurt her and allowing her peace.

But that peace had to break at some point, this was clear as day. It was small at first, a wriggle of her toes and fingers. Then she began to stretch and little muffled noises left her lips. This did not rock her into wakefulness however and she turned a little, snuggling into the warmth that loomed behind her like some sort of guard dog. It was that foreign warmth that truly roused her though and she blinked, her eyelashes caught together by sleepy dust. She brought her hand up to her face, moving absent-mindedly closer to Augustus, and rubbed away the dust from her eyes. She yawned gently and dropped her hand back down, allowing it to rest against his chest; not that she realised it was his chest, mind you. It was then that she began to grow aware of Augustus’ heartbeat and she reopened her eyes, curious to find its source, knowing it was not her own weak flutter in her chest.

Glancing up, Cerelia’s eyes found Augustus’ hard jaw. She nuzzled into his neck involuntarily, giving a little grumble as the light began to dip against her cheeks, prying her into life. She wriggled a little, twisting her legs as she tried to get more comfortable, and cuddled down closer to Augustus. There was something vaguely childlike about the way she moved and whined, complaining of the light; yet it was endearing, also – desperately sweet. The girl’s hand came to rub at her eyes and once she’d moved the sleep from the corners, she left her palm to rest against Augustus’ chest, content to sleep as long as she was allowed and resigned herself back into dreamland with a contented sigh.

Who knew what it was? The demand of one skin for another’s warmth, the need for one’s breath against another’s skin, the desperation of one’s solace in another’s smell … The need for bodies, the want for touch. The seeming loneliness of one before an encounter that could be an answer to everything, yet will leave to become just a part of everything else. Yet, it was needful. One way, or another, bodies were meant to transpire. Transpire? Bodies were meant to transpire through touch. Everybody demands to be felt, and every body to be felt. With that, they become.

Without any falsified need to think about the meeting of bodies itself, Augustus breathed in the scent that would, in no time, draw him back to this one memory. Even with shut lids, he drew satisfaction from his body by the proximity of hers, feeling how he met her need for safety with his need for comfort. Mostly, though, he fooled himself into believing the potency of his body by the size of it against the petite frame of the girl. There was, he thought, power in his body by the very presence of hers. He could crush her with the sheer force in his possession, or he could contend with the choice of holding her with an illusion of safety instead with that same muted force.

Clearly, though, he felt no boundaries. The girl was asleep, and he felt free, on his own, to do what he can with his body, with hers. With mild surprise, he found the existence of his chest when she found her touch against it. Once again, the contrast between their bodies pleased him. With imagined power, Augustus thought that he had successfully shut down parts of his rationality that attempted to explain the reality of the situation. No, she was just Cerelia. There were no families, there was no age, there were no other considerations. She was Cerelia, she was a girl, and there was the smell of flowers. With that, Augustus smiled, feeling himself dance between sleep and consciousness.

“Culo!”

With a start, Augustus jerked his head up, weighed down by the body of a blonde against his chest. Quickly, though groggily, he searched for the source of the sound, or voice. Yet, he knew that whoever it was, had scampered off. They had seen whatever there was to be seen from, quite possibly, the balcony, and ran away in whatever feeling that the revelation of the sight gave to them. Mildly concerned, more from the lack of security than the fact that he was seen in such a manner with the Avery girl, Augustus frowned, squinted from the sunlight that streamed into the room from the balcony, but settled his head back down with Cerelia’s again. He turned his head and looked at her sleeping form.

Augustus watched the peace that decorated Cerelia’s face. A fleeting smile lit his face, before he shrunk back into the safety of his weary skin and bones, embarrassed that he should enjoy holding her, and being held by her, this much. A breeze continued to caress their bodies, despite the heat that danced along with it, and Augustus noticed bits of the girl’s hair, as they encountered the pirouettes of nature. He sighed against the smell of strawberries, now, as he admired the colour of her hair against the light, unwittingly discovering its difference against that of Cordelia’s. Inevitably, he wondered about the times when she had held on to him, even as he had pretended not to care, and not to love. He could not understand, now, why it ached him to think of the past. He did not care, did he? Why, now, then?

It was, perhaps, how he missed being held on to. The weight of another, bearing into him, and the symphony of her breathing with his. It was possibly one of the greatest ironies of his life, that he should have felt the need to hold back even his embrace, when that alone was all that he craved as a boy. Raghnall did not believe in expression of any sort that betrayed the opinions of one’s heart. There was to be no betrayal of emotions for his sons, to his sons, and by his sons. The times when Kaeleigh actually snuck a cuddle with her child, then … Augustus could not think of other happier memories from his boyhood.

Curious, Augustus flexed the muscles on his body, whatever that was left, to feel the girl’s hold of him. Satisfied, he smirked and turned to face the ceiling again, ready to fall back to another bout of slumber, before he heard the first dews of Cerelia’s voice fall upon the surface of the morning. And then, like this, the spell was broken. Yet, no damage was done. Instead, it lingered upon the skin of the two bodies, and gently persuaded Augustus out of mist of sleep. With a conscious effort, he tried not to show surprise at the lack of address to the discovery of their waking bodies. Instead, he smiled at the girl, as his body began to relax against the back of the settee.

“Personally, I begin my mornings with some good old Absinthe. Wakes me up right. But, is breakfast included with coffee?” He held a cheeky grin before getting distracted by the curve of Cerelia’s shoulder. Yet, even as he should find himself there, he didn’t. Instead, he watched it with a sort of detached desire, confused by the change that filled the air. It didn’t help that Mattia’s words came back to haunt him. Augustus turned to look towards the balcony, as if it would help clear his mind. Yet, he was pulled back into the room, next to her, close to her, as images of her scar flashed in his mind, seducing him with its red cry. The scar had seemed to vary its vibrancy. He chased it even after it was out of sight.

Augustus stood up, and stretched, realising that he still had clothes from the night before on him.

“I’m, uhhh” He paused as soon as he it dawned on him how his offer was going to work out, or what it might imply. Yet, he could not help himself.

“I’m going to have a bath. You’re welcome to join me.” The words sounded strange to him. Why did he ask, and not merely demand? It wasn’t like him to ask a woman- but as he turned his head back to look Cerelia in the eye again, Augustus nodded, and made for the bathroom.

Under the warmth of the Venetian sunrise, Cerelia felt a feeling settle into her stomach; an odd, weightless feeling that she couldn’t, as much as she wanted to, attribute it to the alcohol she’d ingested with shocking frivolity the night prior. Beneath the light the sun gave and Augustus’ all-seeing stare, and in the encompassing calidity of his embrace, Cerelia felt light and happy. It was a feeling that made her want to linger there, crawl back into him and claim his embrace for as long as his temper would allow. Yet it was a feeling that Cerelia realised would need to be quashed; if only for propriety’s sake. She was no one to demand such things and swallowed back such a question before it even so much as graced her tongue. He was Augustus Rookwood. She ... she was nobody. It was improper, they were improper, and she was a fool.

This burgeoning realisation did not stop Cerelia from smiling at Augustus though. She frowned a little at his admission and tsked at him. She began to wonder whether Augustus drank anything but Absinthe and didn’t doubt that it was the case. Her mother had always been keen on having a warm drink in the mornings while her step-mother preferred to continue drinking. Cerelia couldn’t blame the latter of the two women. Certainly, it was a wonder Talia hadn’t adopted a similar coping mechanism. But then, Adriana was not a strong woman – Avery or not – and her daughter needed even more admonishment than her. Cerelia could not say she was an angel either. In fact, they were all at fault. Perhaps the only one that was content with going without the zing of alcohol in his veins was Bastien; and Katarina for his Rookwood comparison. It was all rather strange really; quite ironic, in fact.

“Coffee comes with breakfast, Absinthe comes with lunch,” Cerelia retorted without skipping a beat, her brows softening as her easy smile returned in place of her frown. That was what it was. It was an easy smile. It wasn’t forced or more of a grimace than anything else. It was an easy smile; one which made the old wives’ tale of it taking fewer muscles to smile than to frown actually feel palpable and real to her. It was something different. Certainly, had Gisele been with her, the girl would have taken her temperature and joked that Cerelia was dying. Smiles were a rarity in the blonde, and rightly so, but she felt breathless and giddy being able to smile so much and glad that of all people to give them to was someone who had been unflinchingly kind to her since they had joined forces.

Cerelia rose a moment after Augustus, feeling silly for just continuing to sit there, and immediately her hands reached for the blanket, yearning for something to do and busy herself with. She folded the blanket with deft fingers and tossed it over the back of the settee before beginning to plump the pillows once more, as though somehow the answers to all that had transpired would lie in the overly embroidered but delightfully soft bits of stuffed fabric. Cerelia knew the answers wouldn’t be there – she’d have to be truly naive – but it didn’t stop her from looking and she nigh jumped when Augustus spoke again and she flushed upon reflex, her embarrassment clear as day.

The girl remained stationary for a few moments, fearing for a moment what he would say. The reality of his words shocked her more than what her treacherous brain was coming up with and Cerelia felt her knees quake, threatening to buckle beneath her in shock at such a request. Cerelia would not decline; again, she had no right. The girl could only do but look at Augustus, her cheeks thoroughly scarlet by this point, and she managed a shaky smile before allowing herself to collapse back upon the settee once the door of the bathroom had clicked shut behind him.

“Oh, god!” Cerelia bent over and put her head between her knees as her chest began to heave. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to cast her mind back to the night before. What had transpired to cause such a change? It had only been a day. Wait, would he had offered this if they hadn’t gone out and drunk so much? But then, if they hadn’t she would have been up before him and besides that she had her own ensuite. Most obviously, Cerelia’s thoughts weren’t helping her panic and though something within her was tugging at her, telling her to run and jump into the steaming hot water, get bubbles in her hair and laugh heartily as the jets tickled at her hips...she couldn’t. She didn’t know how.

Lifting her head, Cerelia ran her fingers through her hair until the roots ached and she could no longer steady herself. Cerelia released slow breathes from her lungs in an effort to calm herself but in the end it was her decision to make the breakfast that Augustus had asked for and the coffee she’d offered that truly began to calm the girl. As she rose, her foot caught the outstanding leg of the coffee table and Cerelia lurched, landing with a resounding thump on the embroidered rug – a testament to her frayed nerves. She was graceful. She didn’t trip and fall on her face. She’d caught herself, one consolation, but it was not the point.

Cerelia wrenched open her eyes and dragged herself up onto her feet again, grateful for the sound of the water running in the bathroom, hoping that it would be enough to mask the sound of her fall. The girl rubbed at her exposed knees, frowning at the redness that had appeared on her skin, and rubbed her hands before shakily padding across the apartment to the kitchen which she had asked to be stocked with food the morning before when the room service had arrived. The hotel had complied with her wishes and Cerelia was delighted to find eggs, bacon, sausages and all the other things she needed to make a half decent breakfast for Augustus. The girl flicked on the kettle as well, deciding she’d have tea rather than coffee, and pushed herself up onto the counter, rubbing absent-mindedly at her wrists; a nervous twitch.

In the end it was the breakfast that truly did it. Once the bacon and eggs were on the go and the sausages were in the pan with the bacon, Cerelia began to cut up fruit from the bowl beneath the window. All of it was ripe and as Cerelia cut the juices squirted out all over the place, making it necessary more often than not for her to bring her wrists to her mouth in order to stop the route of the juices there, lest they left her arm all sticky and actually make the bath necessary.

The nerves that Cerelia had managed to claw back settled her stomach and such calm did not make her jump when she heard the floorboards creak. The hairs on the back of her neck jumped to attention regardless and Cerelia froze in her movements, the chopping of the fruit coming to an end. The girl looked down into the shining blade, finding herself staring back. She bit her lip and angled the blade a little allowing her to see behind her, though the figure was not entirely distinguishable. Cerelia’s heart began to hammer against her chest when the sound of the water in the bathroom ceased; it wasn’t Augustus. Cerelia nibbled on her lip and pushed at the strawberries she’d been chopping up, busying herself so as to appear ignorant to the form drawing closer to her.

The hand falling on her shoulder did make Cerelia jump and she made a grab for it as soon as the adrenaline began to coarse through her veins. Her fingers screwed around the cuff of the shirt and she dragged the person with surprising strength, towards the chopping board. Then, with a fluidity of movement that her fragility would not have suggested would have come with ease, Cerelia plunged the knife through the soft material of the shirt, skimming the wrist of the man, and embedding it into the thick wood of the chopping board.

“Angelo!” Cerelia took a step back, her hands skimming across the knobs of the stove as she backed away. She had enough sense to turn the hobs down but only slightly as she did not linger long enough to really pay attention. The girl jumped at the feeling of the counter on her bare back. Angelo’s eyes were clouded with an emotion other than anger, one that made Cerelia’s blood run cold in her veins, freezing out the still coursing adrenaline. Her fingers raked through her hair and she looked at him despairingly before asking, “For goodness sake, why did you creep up on me? Why on earth are you here?”

Angelo sniffed and cast his derisive eyes towards the bathroom. Cerelia blinked, feeling the terror of what awaited her bubble back up in her throat. She wasn’t shy. Not about ... well, not about that. At least, she didn’t think she was. But then, if she wasn’t then why couldn’t she even think about it without feeling a warmth in her belly and a heat in her cheeks that laid stark not only her curious desire but also her innocence and embarrassment at such things. She wasn’t quite the unflinching woman that her step-mother had tried to turn her into. No, Cerelia was still hesitant on that front – certainly not easy-loving like her cousins –and the thought of Augustus...

“Are you sleeping with him?” Angelo’s hiss broke Cerelia from her thoughts. She stepped forward, her eyes knitting together with confusion at his question. Her hand reached the hilt of the blade and she meant to remove it but stalled when she felt Angelo’s breath hot on her neck and ear. “Better yet, did you like it? Did you like that dirty Death Eater smacking into-”

Cerelia cut him off when her hand connected to his cheek and she scrambled back as she watched his face cloud with a fury that she had never seen in Angelo before. “H-how dare you?!” She spat at him, her face bearing the expression of an injured pup. Angelo chuckled at her, shaking his head as though he knew something that she wasn’t privy to. “How dare you speak about Augustus like that...about me like that? Who do you think you are?”

Angelo’s smirk made Cerelia’s heart thump harder against her ribcage and she felt the familiar force of anger rise within her. Her eyes widened a little and she found herself looking around, expecting her father to appear out of an alcove, as though he’d been there all along. Cerelia’s hands gripped for something to hold and, much to her later curiosity, she found the hilt of the knife. She brought it down a little, causing Angelo to jump and lose his arrogance and he spat out what it was she needed to hear.

“I climbed through the window earlier! I expected you to be awake! I expected you to be dancing about, dreaming of everything and nothing ... eating, drinking ... while he was somewhere else... whoring about or something! But no, needless to say... I did not. What I found was you wrapped up in him as though he was the greatest thing since ... since...I don’t even know! Don’t worry, anyway. I knew it was a mistake to let you come here. I sent a bird to your grandfather. No doubt he’ll be here soon enough to take you home. Your bastard father should have gone instead. This kind of business is no place for a woman like you!”

Cerelia’s whole face changed at his admission and she allowed her hand to slip, pressing the knife down into Angelo’s hand. The man gave a shout and she reached up, smacking him again across the cheek before grabbing at the scruff of his collar. She drew herself up to him, her face as close to his as she would allow and in the eyes that Angelo had once admired, he saw the kind of person his brother had once told him not to cross: a Pureblood, but not just any Pureblood; one with a mind to do anything and hurt anyone to get what it was that s/he wanted. Angelo swallowed back the hard lump forming in his throat and he blinked at Cerelia as she glared at him, one hand straying back to the hilt of the knife.

“Tell me you are joking,” she hissed at him, her face softening a little, as though waiting for the joke to be revealed. Angelo’s eyes strayed for a moment to his hand and he blanched at the sight of blood spurting from the cut that the blade had made. Angelo’s eyes dipped back to Cerelia and he opened his mouth to provide some sort of explanation but the words did not come. Cerelia’s eyes widened, realising exactly what it was that Angelo had done. She released his shirt and stepped back, the betrayal beginning to sink into her bones and a new kind of panic beginning to brew in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t leave, not now. How could she when she’d worked so hard to prove her worth to them all? Angelo had ruined it.

Cerelia lifted her eyes back to Angelo and the man paled even further, a shadow of his usual exuberant self. A shout ripped from his lungs as he felt the knife cut deeper into his skin and his eyes began to water, rendering him unable to meet Cerelia’s dispassionate gaze.

“Cerelia please!” His voice grew strange and leapt in tone, heightening towards that of a boy. “I did what I thought was best I ...”

Angelo’s words were cut short by a blood curdling shriek. Cerelia brought down the rest of the knife and cringed as the blade cut through the bone and cartilage in his wrist. Cerelia did not move to look at the hand that thudded to the floor. She could see enough on Angelo’s face to tell of the horror that she had wreaked upon him.

“Write another letter,” Cerelia hissed, her hands clawing back at the collar of Angelo’s shirt. “Do you hear me? Write another sodding letter and tell my grandfather that you’re a liar – because that’s what you are – and your last letter was a mere delusion of grandeur. Now get out of my sight.” Cerelia twisted her arms and let go of Angelo, sending him careering to the floor. He wrestled forward, groping awkwardly for his fallen hand but stopped when Cerelia’s foot came down on the remaining one. “I suggest you go, Angelo. I do actually want you to write the letter. I told you: get out of my sight!”

Angelo scrambled to his feet as best he could and fled. Cerelia watched him go, amused to watch him leave through the suite door, and exhaled the breath she did not know she’d been holding when the door slammed shut. She brought her hands to her face but tore them away at the feeling of a hot liquid against her cheeks. Cerelia turned a little and backed off at the sight of the blood spread across the sideboard.

Cerelia bit her lip and called for her wand with a quick extension of her arm. The wand found her fingers and with a few spells, the room was clear again and everything – including the breakfast – put back in its proper place. Cerelia dropped her wand thereafter and quickly washed her hands and face as best she could. Then she tore up the hand from the floor and stuffed it into one of the drawers, doing well to forget that it was actually a hand and tore from the kitchen – the bathroom being the safest place she could think of in that moment. Yet she did pause – if only for a second – and rang down for room service. Breakfast from her was certainly off the menu now.

The girl burst into the bathroom without thinking of any further consequences and turned, pressing her back up against the door as she brought her hands to her chest, willing her heart to settle. She looked over to Augustus, surprised to find him already in the bath, and managed a small smile. “I...uh,” She paused, not really sure how she was going to explain herself. “I ordered room service,” She admitted, deciding to go by that first. She’d deal with the hand in a minute. She wasn’t entirely sure how. How did you broach such a subject with someone? Surely he’d heard?

Cerelia nibbled on her bottom lip and crossed the room, reaching for one of the soft sponges the hotel staff had left at the sink. She glanced at herself in the mirror and scowled upon seeing a streak of red in her hair. She reached up, grabbing at it, but decided only a wash would get it out. She took a bar of soap from one of the packets also and made her way back over to the bath. She put the soap down on the edge but dropped the sponge, oddly satisfied to see the way it immediately began to immerse itself in the water.

“There..uh.. Giovanni’s brother... he was here earlier. He ...” Cerelia fumbled with her words as her fingers began to grope for the side of her makeshift skirt. She nibbled on her bottom lip again and looked at Augustus hesitantly. “I might’ve ... I mean, I cleaned up... I just ...” Cerelia exhaled hesitantly and tugged at the skirt, guiding it down over her thighs to let it fall to the floor. She stepped out of it and kicked it to the side before reaching for her top, currently not fazed by the increasing nudity that she was displaying. “I ...” Cerelia allowed herself a moment to gather her thoughts as she tugged the top over her head and she paused, allowing it to drop to the floor with the skirt before running her fingers through her hair; her underwear the last barrier of decency left. “I might’ve been a bit rash... I, but ... I ... he wrote to my grandfather and he told him what he saw and I ... well I ...” Cerelia gestured lamely towards her own hands and made a cutting motion over her wrist. “And I cut off his hand and it felt like poetic justice more than anything else but his hand is in a drawer and room service is coming and I really feel as though ... Oh sweet Merlin I don’t even know...”

Cerelia’s hands found the back of her bra and she decided that she’d throw caution into the wind; the day could not get any stranger. She couldn’t bring herself to find any sense of guilt for what she’d done. She’d looked, fleetingly, but couldn’t find it for the life of her. She freed herself of the rest of her underwear, trusting on her long hair to keep her modesty intact, and she quickly climbed into the bath, delving beneath the bubbles as far as they would take her without putting her face in the water. Cerelia brought her wet hands to her hair and felt her cheeks warm a little as she set her eyes back on Augustus.

“Jesus...” Cerelia slid herself into the bath, submerging herself as fully as she could manage. She jumped a little as she felt her legs graze against Augustus’ and her shy smile emerged once more. “Sorry... God. I cut off his hand.” Her hands went to her face and she dropped herself down into the water, submerging herself fully and lingering there until she could no longer breathe and her lungs began to burn at her, begging for air. Cerelia rose with a flourish then, gathering deep breaths of air before pushing her hair back away from her face. She noticed the blood leaking into the water and groped for her hair, groaning audibly when she found more lurking. She rubbed at her neck, gaining a watery substitute to Angelo’s blood on her fingers and she looked up at Augustus, finally at loss of true words that could not even orchestrate ramblings.

Cerelia grabbed the sponge from between her legs where it had fallen to the base of the bath and rubbed it at her hair, grumbling mostly to herself about everything and nothing. She still didn’t feel the twang of guilt she was waiting for. Her worry was rooted in Bernard taking her away rather than him scolding her for her violence towards his little spy. If anything, Bernard would applaud her, having believed for so long that she was more an Eberhardt than an Avery; and truly, Cerelia had believed it too until Adolphus’ temper had shined through her.

“I always thought ... I always felt....my father... he ... he had a rage within him that I could not ever have within me and I... Angelo he was so spiteful he ... he never ... he ... he wanted my grandfather’s scorn... he wanted...” Cerelia dropped the sponge and looked at Augustus hesitantly. “And I... I just saw red I ... he crept up on me and I panicked and I had him pinned to the chopping board and I just pulled it down and it was so sharp and I ...” She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and dropped her gaze to the water. Surely he wouldn’t mind. He was a Death Eater. He’d done worse, seen worse. But that didn’t help her or reassure her. If anything she felt all the more foolish, thinking that perhaps he would think her foolish. Cerelia peeked up at Augustus again and smiled slightly. “You will never be bored around me I think,” She joked before reaching for the bar of soap. “If room service are quick... you might yet get that cup of coffee too.”

The silence in the bathroom was almost too much to bear. One way, or another, something was done to mute either what was to be left out from beyond the bathroom, or to hide whatever that was to be kept in the bathroom. The rising voices and sounds of the Venetian morning were out. Yet, Augustus walked over to where there was a window to bring the glow of nature’s light in, and watched the streets bustle on without being able to hear any of it. Frowning slightly, he turned away from it and walked towards the bathtub.

The silence was filled with the flow of water, on its way to fill the tub. Yet, Augustus felt his mind stray to the scent of flowers, and the softness of … He shook his head. More than anything, he was confounded. Preferring instead to amuse himself with the look of Mattia’s face at Cerelia’s work, Augustus chuckled to himself, feeling absent-mindedly for the water, and jumping slightly at the heart. Yet, he stuck more of his hand in, feeling the burning sensation, and relishing in the pain it brought him. A replacement for Absinthe, he thought to himself in amusement.

Quickly, he let loose the clothes that he had slept in, and proceeded to soak his body in the burning sensation of the bath, even squeezing his eyes shut when it hit him where it hurt most. Yet, he continued, taking pleasure in the pain. Taking a deep breath, Augustus buried his face into the comfort of the heat, held himself beneath the surface of the water, and felt his body lose itself to the world it found beneath and away. The burning sensation spread across his face, and he felt it choke him where his neck was. Slowly, he let time tick by, fighting against the struggle that his body was putting up against his mind. Finally, he allowed it. With speed, Augustus shot up beyond the surface of the water, and gasped for breath.

Before he could catch another breath, the door opened. A gush of cold wind blew in, but was shut quickly enough, and Augustus shot a look in the direction of it, before he found Cerelia, who had a curious expression on her face. He raised an eyebrow in question, but it was barely necessary. He smirked in amusement as she began to waffle on, more distracted at the ease it took for the girl to slip out of her clothes than what she was actually trying to tell him. That is, until she got to those words. Alarmed, more out of surprise than anything else, Augustus stared and blinked at the girl for awhile. He could not decide where to focus his mind on – the fact that there was a stray hand in the kitchen, or that Cerelia had removed every piece of fabric from her body. Both were equally appealing.

“There is hand in the kitchen.” Augustus repeated, for the sake of amusement.

“This day can’t get any better.” What from? He frowned and shrugged off the thought.

“No, I don’t think I’d ever get bored of you.” He chuckled.

“Well, not when you have body parts lying around in the house for me to find.” Then, seriously, he continued. “We did nothing. There’s nothing Angelo has proof of.”

“I’ll make sure of that,” Augustus continued, then smirked at a muted thought.

“Besides, we could always remind him of the fatality of his other hand, or legs, even, should there be any unpleasant business done, on his part.” Augustus chuckled, then reached for the girl’s hair, rubbing off where it had become darker from the stain of Angelo’s blood. Silently, he continued to stroke at the smoothness of Cerelia’s hair, watching, and waiting.

“The rage … your father … there’s nothing to be ashamed about.” He leaned in closer towards the girl, then reached for the part of her arm that still had the slight stain of crimson. Gently, he stroked it, as admiring the show of the colour on her skin, than helping with the ridding of it.

“Tell me, Cerelia … how did it feel?” He watched her curiously. “How did it feel, the blade that split his flesh, the blade that crushed his veins, crushed his bones?”

The conscience allotted you the time necessary to go into shock. It was never a set number of hours, minutes or days but eventually, the events would catch up with you and the near-miss or unfathomable mistake would come back to haunt you. Of course, it was never clear otherwise the surprise would be, well, not much of a surprise at all.

As Cerelia Avery sat in the scalding water of the bath, her skin reddening beneath the unforgiveness of the water lapping about her body, she found herself waiting for those moments where her chest would heave and her head would ache with the gravity of what she had done; but it didn’t come.

Cerelia’s breaths remained even and her gaze steady on Augustus, her body unfazed by his stare, even stirring beneath the weight of it; in a manner that was entirely foreign to her. She felt the embarrassment in her belly but knew that beneath that there was something else, an odd desire to allow him to see her that she could not explain, an earnest want to feel his caressing gaze upon even the softest skin of her privacy.

The young raven pressed herself back against the porcelain of the bath and relaxed into the heat that it provided, closing her eyes for a moment and allowing herself the joys of relaxation. She did not often indulge in baths though she most honestly wished she did. There was always a great rush in the Vale – a rush to be here or there, to greet her father or aid her uncle in the great hall, dealing with the smallfolk who were desperate for aid. To merely lay and enjoy the heat of the water, the company of another was a great joy indeed.

Opening her eyes at the sound of Augustus’ voice, a small smile graced Cerelia’s rouge lips once more. She sat herself up, feeling the water rumble at her the small of her sore back as she moved; but she did not complain. Her hands found her neck once more and she rubbed upon finding the coarse skin. It occurred to her briefly that perhaps she should hide herself from Augustus’ gaze, as though protecting the scar superseded the protection of her modesty, of her reddening breasts and scalded womanhood; no, to hide one and not the other seemed strange to her. Yet, to reveal either was stranger still.

“Angelo is loyal to my standard but he is not at my call,” Cerelia sniffed disdainfully, wondering if ever she would have spies and sworn wands at her beck and call. “He is my grandfather’s man. I do not know how Angelo’s aspersions will affect him. I am not his favourite granddaughter, unhelpfully.”

Cerelia allowed herself a smirk and shook her head, knowing it to be all too true. Had she been Magdalena it would have been different. He would have indulged her, allowed her the affair regardless of the truth of Angelo’s tale, and brought her home, his tongue awash with praises for her legs and their ability to spread wide at appropriate intervals. Certainly, Cerelia was not without such charms – or at least, that was what she consoled herself with – but instead of acting the part of the silly whore, she deigned to allow herself a certain standing; certain particulars.

So naturally, instead of bearing herself in the hope that perhaps favour from House Rookwood would find itself in House Avery, she bathed with one of the former’s sons. But of course, being the daughter of his least cherished son, to do even this was nothing short of treachery. Bernard’s pleasure would wane knowing it was Cerelia, not Magdalena or Maxine. Whatever the truth of Angelo’s words, she would suffer the consequences for it.

“I do wish for him to write again,” Cerelia responded lightly, optimism in her voice. “That is why I left the other one.” She laughed before beginning to rub the soap she held against her palms with a mind to cleanse herself fully.

Cerelia stalled, waiting for Augustus as he brought his hand up to her. She tipped her head forward to meet his prying fingers and smiled as he touched at her white-blonde hair, darkened golden by the humidity and the damp, with a tenderness that she did not expect of him. Her soap-slick hands found his arm and she rubbed across the inner plain that was spotted with freckles, burns that had scarred rather than healed (caused by magic, she did not doubt), and the odd softness of the stretches that seemed misplaced for the roughness elsewhere dominated; yet it was those areas she treasured as she brought her fingers over his skin.

Dipping her hand into the water, Cerelia turned her palm and captured a little of the liquid heat to pour over Augustus’ arm. She drizzled the water through the gaps between her fingers and lowered her hand to his skin, rubbing it clear and clean of soap, dirt and particulates of nature. The raven looked up again, breaking her concentration as Augustus spoke to her. She smiled for the briefest of moments and lowered her gaze as she brought her fingers across his arm, from his wrist to the crease of his elbow and back again, lingering on the freckles and the pale lengths of scars, the blotted scarlet of burns. It was all laid bare before her eyes, hers alone in the safety of Venice. He could have been any man, and she any woman, each other theirs. If only, she thought for a fleeting moment.

Cerelia considered his words for a moment as her fingers continued to move over his arm. She blinked as he took from her the actions she had coveted but allowed a smile as his calloused fingers traipsed across her own skin, the feeling tickling at her nerves; dripping renewed fire into her belly. She relaxed her shoulders and loosened herself, leaning further towards him as her legs glided up, looping past his body as he inspected her skin and the ruby that stained the porcelain that reigned unabated over her body but for that which broke its path.

“It is something I did not wish for,” she confided, lifting her eyes from his fingers. “I wanted an evenness of being...not a sleeping dragon.” One of her prettier smiles danced gently on her lips.

The blonde grew solemn for a moment and her lower lip, blush coloured in the hues of scarlet springs, slipped between her teeth as she weighed her words carefully; unnecessarily, too, if one considered the candidness of her tongue about the Rookwood man.

“There is great shame to be had when such malevolence hurts those we should instead love.” She murmured, tracing the collarbone over which skin was tugged taught and secure; a throwback of Azkaban that he had not quite shirked. “You never quite forget the first time you hear your mother cry, do you?” Cerelia swallowed and brought her hand across, finding the other collarbone waiting, jutting outwards in a similar manner to its brother. “And on hearing that you feel the first twinges of hate upset your stomach ... an- and suddenly you’re wrought with a feeling that should never burden a child for their own kith and kin.”

Cerelia sighed out a shaky exhalation of air and brought her hand to rest on Augustus’ shoulder as she fought to steady herself and temper her feelings; to no avail.

“I remember the nights when she would scream because he sought to expel his untold fury. They’d sing songs in the Vale...merry little rhymes that told truths: that a son to Talia’s breast would not keep Adolphus from striking her, would not ward him to a harlot or bring him to blows with an equal man. It is said that on waxing moon nights, even in the lowliest of grottos, her voice can be heard over scuffed cobbles and through even the thickest of wool coverings.” Cerelia’s voice had lowered to a mere whisper, she realised.

It occurred to Cerelia that Augustus must have known much of this. There were times when their families had broken bread and shared numerous flagons of wine over one occasion or another. She could remember times when she played with Katarina and Kendall, her brothers already men grown... not children who played beneath the feet of their elders. Of course, such obstinacy changed Kendall too until he remained seated and it was just Katarina with whom Cerelia could play with after meals. Steely eyes would watch them, mired here and there with the softness of a caring woman or the worried edges to the saucer eyes of the slaves who would hurry the girls to bed as though they might yet hurt themselves upon the unforgiving tiles of the great hall.

Adolphus enjoyed his games and certainly enamoured himself with the pain he caused others. He would sit with his hand around the back of Talia’s neck, smoothing at the skin peppered with his favourite work. She would cringe as he moved his fingers over her. Her cheekbone would glisten red and bloody, her excuse being her clumsiness. Cerelia could recall the way Katarina’s mother would smile placidly and admonish Talia, her tone playful, for her left feet; but they all knew. It was written in the way they all shifted and the way Augustus steadied his gaze. Adolphus’ men would smirk into their goblets while further down the table, Goyles would recline further into their seats, exchanging worried glances, the Yaxleys would chortle duly and the Macnairs would remain silent, interested in their food.

Of course then, they would have to dance - the youngest or the prettiest – either excluding Cerelia or including her; both to invoke humiliation in her stomach. Cerelia would weave as deftly as she could to the music the slaves were instructed to play and she would watch out of the corner of her eye as her mother struggled with her food and the way the servants were quick to replace the meals with port, whisky, wine, and absinthe. Her cousins would move about her, lithe and quick on their toes, their laughter glistening through the air in time with the music as they moved over the amber tiles. They’d be laughing at her, naturally, for the left feet she held also and the untruth of the matter; all the matters.

Leopold and Claus would watch with the idleness of scorned brothers until they grew bored and their wives would whistle away the daughters they coveted so. Of course, the boys would try to linger but they too were pushed off to bed where they would talk as though they were knights, ready to storm any castle and protect the one they, for the night, called home. Once the children were gone, Talia would be friendless but for those she called kin who protected her from nothing bar perhaps the perils of money – or the lack that the Vale possessed. Then in silence she’d play the trophy, drinking for the sake of unconsciousness that an addled, drunken mind would present her to. Adolphus would admonish her, raise her up again as his equal and tear her down – all with words and the gentle stroke of his roughened fingers against her patchwork skin.

“I felt like him.” She admitted finally. “I felt ...this power that you can’t ... you can’t get from a wand because they were my hands, my strength...” She snorted a little at that, casting a derisive look down at herself. Her alabaster skin and sinewy limbs did not conceal a hidden strength of muscle, that she was sure of. “And...and there was blood anywhere and I didn’t care...I didn’t...I should’ve felt guilty... I should’ve apologised. I shouldn’t have done it. But I did and I didn’t ... it didn’t matter. Part of me wanted to take his other wrist and carve that separate from his palm, to feel through the metal as the bone and skin and vein and muscle and nerve severed, never to be sewn back again. Then something else... perhaps his treacherous tongue...his drifting eyes...his wanton ...”

Cerelia stilled herself and closed her eyes for the merest of moments, encouraging calm within herself. She let her hand fall around Augustus’ collarbone again but this time she took the soap from where she had left it in the water, glad that none of the currents their bodies had made carried it away. With one hand she managed to rub off as much of the soap as she could manage before dropping it with an audible plop! back into the water. Cerelia’s hand then went back to his collarbone and, with an endearingly transfixed look on her face, she began to work the soap into his skin as best she could. Then, when she was done she siphoned some water into her hand and washed him clean.

“It’s not for me.” Cerelia murmured, a smile coy on her lips. “But it seems as though such a temperament is my birthright; better than some others that come with my name, I suppose. So, better to embrace it than to leave it lying in wait, frothing to burst at any time, hmm?”

In the kitchen lay the true evidence of Cerelia’s mettle. It appeared as though the tide was turning and great change seemed to be upon the horizon. What rose from the nest of Avery was not a bird, no. It was neither a raven nor a rook nor a sparrow and certainly no hawk or fiendish creature of the skies. What rose was a fox, lithe and agile and certainly quick to anger. Yet, at the same time, the fox was soft and kind, with a gentleness that had carried through from the little raven she’d been before. Indeed, the tide had changed. But what it would it bring with it? That was what they all had to wait and see; a wave they would ride out in time.